The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “We know what you mean,” said Bobbi, and that made him smile.

  “I’m glad to hear she doesn’t hold anything against you or Alex—or vice versa.”

  “It’s not her fault that Leighton’s a … well, that he’s the way he is, and we all know that. She’s better off without him, if you ask me,” he said, unknowingly echoing Adrian’s opinion from four months ago.

  Christmas was only a week away and we were at Alex Adrian’s house to pick up Bobbi’s present.

  “Anyway, it should be a success. She’s got a head for the business, knows everyone worth knowing, and has the two best artists in the country to supply her with goods.” Evan had aged a little in the last few months but was looking better tonight. He said he had a date coming by later, so apparently old habits were asserting themselves again and I was glad to hear it.

  “Well, here’s luck to all of you.” Escott raised his glass and indulged in a sip, and the others followed his example. I kept out of sight in the back and faked it.

  Adrian walked in and managed a smile. It was faint and a little self-conscious, but sincere. He still wore his wedding ring, but had dropped his habit of twisting it at about the same time he’d broken his painting block. “It’s ready for view,” he announced.

  We followed him back to the studio. All the lights were on, blazing against an organized explosion of colors from every wall. Adrian was a busy man again, as much in demand as ever, but he’d found time to fulfill one private commission, and I was anxious to see it.

  Bobbi’s face was lit up with pride and excitement as Adrian flipped back the dust cover from her portrait.

  Evan had promised that Adrian would do a painting that would knock our eyes out and he hadn’t exaggerated one bit. Bobbi’s vibrancy, beauty, and sensuality crackled off the canvas like electricity from a summer storm. It was the kind of painting that made you realize why people loved art for its own sake, but then it was by Alex Adrian, and I had expected nothing less than a masterpiece.

  The one thing I didn’t expect to see was myself in the painting as well.

  “What gives?”

  Bobbi laughed at my puzzlement, and now I understood all her suppressed excitement. “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

  Jeez, I never know what to say at happy surprises and started mumbling I don’t know what idiocies.

  “I think words are not necessary at this point, old man,” Escott chided.

  He was right, so I grabbed Bobbi and lifted her high and spun her until she shrieked for me to stop. Then I gave her a kiss and we looked at the painting again.

  As in his original sketch, Adrian had her reclining on a low couch, loosely wrapped in some timeless white garment that clung to her figure. She looked like a slightly worldly angel about to become more worldly than heaven might want to allow. One hand rested along the top back of the couch and was covered by one of my own. I loomed over her in sober black, but he’d somehow managed to make me look ghostly and ethereal in comparison.

  The background was dark, neutral chaos with my figure emerging out of the swirling non-pattern. Where my hand touched Bobbi’s I was quite solid and real. It should have looked ominous and threatening, but did not. This was what he’d seen that night months back in the garage when I dived out of thin air to save his life. He’d said it had been beautiful and here he’d found a place to record his vision.

  I held my hand out to him. He seemed surprised at the gesture, but shook it and finally smiled again. This one had more confidence.

  “How do you do it?” I asked.

  He decided to answer with more than a deprecatory shrug. “We’re artists. We see and understand more than most because we’ve had to look at ourselves first—and accept what we find there whether we like it or not.”

  “It still doesn’t make us any easier to live with,” added Evan. He stood back a little from the painting and compared it to the models. “I’m not sure I understand your symbolism, Alex, but it’s certainly one of your best.”

  “There’s no symbolism,” Adrian assured him, keeping his face supremely deadpan. “I only ever paint what I see.”

  FIRE IN THE BLOOD

  1

  I was in the process of tearing away the top half of Olivia Vandemore’s silver-spangled evening gown when Escott abruptly opened the basement door and called my name.

  “Are you down there?” His voice was necessarily pitched to carry through a brick wall.

  “In a minute,” I growled back.

  The last fragile strap gave way under feverish, brutal hands. A terrible shriek of pure horror rushed from her perfect coral lips and echoed throughout the dank stone passages.

  “Jack?” He was coming down the basement steps.

  Her warm, white body writhed helplessly on the carved stone altar—an altar stained black with the blood of uncounted victims hideously sacrificed to slake the unholy thirst of …

  “Jack?” He rapped a knuckle experimentally against the wall of my inner sanctum.

  … Sabajajji, the Spider God.

  I hit the period and debated whether to turn it into an exclamation point. A quick look through the other pages confirmed that I hadn’t used one for some time now, and it seemed appropriate for the scene. The reader was going to be far more concerned with the upcoming description of Olivia’s writhing body than my punctuation. I backspaced, tapped the apostrophe key, and rolled out the sheet, adding if to the stack of deathless prose next to my portable. Further excitement would have to wait until after I found out what the hell Escott wanted.

  “I was working, you know,” I told him, emerging wraithlike from the basement wall and solidifying. It’d taken a couple of months, but he’d finally gotten used to such stunts from me—at least on those occasions when he expected it. This time he’d expected me to be behind a bricked-up alcove in his basement, so it was hardly worth his notice.

  “Sorry,” he said, his nervous fingers absently jingling his key ring. He was wearing his hat and coat.

  “Something up?” I asked, tying my bathrobe. I’d started writing as soon as I’d woken up and hadn’t bothered to dress.

  “I believe so. I may have a job for us and thought you’d like to come along and meet our prospective client.”

  This wasn’t his usual method of work, which was being a private detective, though he preferred to be called a private agent. Most of the time he’d have some job already in progress and only asked me in if he needed extra help. I always tried to keep a low profile and rarely saw the client. The fewer people who knew about me, the better.

  “I’m kind of in the middle of something,” I hedged, reluctant to be dragged away from Olivia’s impending sacrifice and last-second rescue. “Or are you getting a fishy smell off this one?” Sometimes he’d have me come along to watch his back.

  “Such niceties of personal judgment are most difficult to ascertain, especially since I’ve had no actual contact with the client. I can positively state that the gentleman is determined, if nothing else, and possessed of some degree of consideration, in that he was kind enough to send his chauffeur over to make sure I did not miss his requested appointment.”

  I followed the cant of his eyes up the basement steps to the hall door. As he spoke, the doorway—the entire doorway—was blocked by the presence of a uniformed Negro. He was built like an industrial-grade refrigerator. Escott couldn’t really say anything in so many words, but this was definitely one of those times when he wanted someone to watch his back.

  “So, what’s the client’s name?” I asked, all interest now.

  “Sebastian Pierce,” he said.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He was quite a large noise in Chicago some twenty-five years ago. After making a fortune from various investments, he then retired to enjoy it.”

  “We should all be so lucky.”

  “And this is his chauffeur, Mr. Griffin.”

  Griffin nodded once at me. “Good evening, sir.” The amused look on his face
indicated that he’d noticed the pajamas and bathrobe.

  “Good evening,” I returned, and tried to look dignified in spite of the unconventional surroundings. Maybe Escott had told him I was checking the furnace. “What time’s this appointment?”

  “Eight o’clock. We can just make it if you hurry.” Escott turned and trotted lightly up the basement steps, pausing only a moment at the top so Griffin could vacate the doorway. He hardly made a sound. Maybe Escott wanted me to cover him, but who the hell was supposed to cover me? I gave an inward shrug and followed. For the time being Olivia would just have to wait at the altar.

  Escott and I started rooming together a couple weeks after the night I woke up dead on a Lake Michigan beach. He owned a three-story brick relic that had been a bordello in less innocent days. It had plenty of space and we’d both agreed that it offered me more privacy than a hotel. We shared the bills and I had two rooms upstairs with my own bath, but when writing, the basement was my exclusive territory. The intervening floors served as soundproofing, so the clack of my typewriter in the wee morning hours didn’t disturb what little sleep his insomnia allowed him.

  I’m up so late and only after dark because I’m a vampire.

  Just like the folklore says, I drink blood for sustenance—usually at the Union Stockyards every other night, depending how active I am. The cattle there don’t seem to mind. Human blood has its own special appeal, but like most people, I keep my nourishment separate from my sex life.

  I don’t have any aversion to crosses, garlic, or silver, though I do have a problem with wood and crossing free-flowing water. I can’t turn into a bat or wolf, but can disappear, float around, and even walk through walls if required. Most of the time I use doors—it’s less conspicuous.

  During the day I’m stretched out on a fairly comfortable folding bed that has a layer of my home earth sewn up in a long, flat sheet of oilcloth. The bed is in Escott’s basement, hidden behind a fire-resistant brick wall that he’d built himself. The tiny room beyond is located exactly under the kitchen, and Escott had thoughtfully fitted a trap into the floor there for emergencies. It was well hidden by his carpentry skill and a throw rug. I don’t have a coffin. I hate coffins.

  The room’s pretty stark, but during the day I don’t notice much of anything. It has an air shaft to the outside, electricity for the work light and radio, and a photo of my girlfriend Bobbi for decoration. My typewriter rests on a wide shelf attached to the wall. I enjoy the privacy when writing, but do my real living in my rooms on the second floor. There I keep my clothes and a comfortable scatter of magazines and books, and succeed in pretending that I’m no different from any other human. But the bed in the corner was for show only, and no mirror hangs over the dresser.

  Tonight I picked out a plain dark silk tie to go with my second-best midnight blue suit. It was conservative without overdoing it, though next to Escott, I always look a little flashy. He feels the same way about double-breasted suits as I do about coffins and wouldn’t be caught dead in one.

  Escott and Griffin were in the parlor. Griffin was sitting on the edge of the big leather chair, his visored hat on one massive knee. He stood up smoothly as I came down. I couldn’t figure his age, he had one of those thirty-to-fifty faces. Escott got up from the sofa and led the way out, locking up behind us. A minute later we were driving away in a shiny new Packard with Griffin at the wheel.

  “Any idea where we’re going?” I murmured to Escott, though there was a glass divider between the front and back.

  He opened his mouth, shut it, and shook his head once, looking slightly embarrassed. “I asked all the usual questions, but Mr. Griffin deigned to answer only the most basic: the name of his employer and the time of the appointment.”

  “Nothing else, huh?”

  “If his purpose was to inflict bodily harm upon my person, I think it would have happened by now. At least he had no objections to my request to have you along.”

  “If you feel so trusting, then why bring me at all?”

  “I’m merely applying your own philosophy of not taking chances. Mr. Griffin did give me the impression that he wouldn’t have been at all pleased had I refused his request to come.”

  He had a definite point there. I was much stronger than I looked because of my changed condition, but Griffin was not someone I’d cheerfully go up against just to see what happened.

  “My belated apologies for dragging you from your work. How is it progressing?”

  “Just peachy.” I had a fanciful mental picture of the editor of Spicy Terror Tales breathlessly awaiting my latest contribution to the slush pile. Several years of background in journalism notwithstanding, my literary career at this point had been anything but lucrative, so my partnership with Escott was a financial necessity. Vampires spend money like everyone else.

  Griffin drove to a quiet street with only one open business at this hour, a bar called the Stumble Inn. He parked in front, got out, and opened the car door for us.

  “You’ll find Mr. Pierce at the last table on the left,” he told us.

  “On the left,” repeated Escott, as though such meetings were normal for him.

  Griffin gently shut the door, folded his arms, and leaned against the Packard, causing it to tilt a little. It was a freezing night, but he seemed to be as indifferent to the cold as I. He was breathing regularly, though, which meant he was human, after all. That was a relief.

  We went inside. The bar lined one long wall and the man behind it had his ear pressed to a radio that was giving out with more static than program. The place had tables, but no booths, and as promised, only one customer in the back on the left.

  He stood up as we came close, a Call, weedy-looking man with a lion’s mane of wavy white hair, brilliant blue eyes, and a monumental nose. His handshake was dry and firm.

  “Well, I thought there’d be only one of you, but I don’t mind the extra company if it’ll get the job done,” he said in a soft, gravelly voice. “I’m Sebastian Pierce, which one of you is Escott?”

  “I am (Charles Kscott, Mr. Pierce. This is my business associate, Jack I’leming.”

  “Pleased.” He nodded at me, then turned back to Escott as we sat down together. “English, are you? Is that a London accent?”

  “Yes.”

  Pierce found it amusing for some reason and asked if we wanted a dunk. I declined, but Escott said he’d have whatever Pierce was having, which amused him even more.

  “Don’t know as you’d like it, since it’s only sarsaparilla. I got stinking drunk once in my life and swore never to repeat the experience.”

  “Sarsaparilla will be fine.”

  Pierce signed to the bartender, who brought over an open bottle and a glass, then returned to hunch over his radio.

  “You think I’m some sort of lunatic, Mr. Fleming?” he questioned, reading my open-book mug correctly.

  There were deep-set humor lines all over his face. It had been well lived in for the last sixty years or so, but they’d been good years. “I must know a hundred stories about what happens to the guy who walks into a bar and asks for what you’re drinking,” I said.

  “Nonsense, you’re only old enough to know two or three of those at 11ie most.”

  I was in my mid-thirties, but looked a lot younger. I didn’t bother to correct him and only shook my head a little.

  “I happen to own this place,” he said, moving his half-full glass around in smeary circles with long, flat fingers. On one of them, a huge ring made from chunks of cut-up gold coins winked happily in the dim light. “It’s usually busier, but tonight I wanted some privacy, so Des here shooed out the regulars for the time being. Griff will make sure no one-else comes in.”

  That was for damned sure.

  Escott sipped his foamy drink without visible harm. “You mentioned a job, Mr. Pierce.”

  “Yes.” He pulled out a photograph of a fancy looking bracelet. It was covered in diamonds and some darker stones arranged in a spiral pattern. I
f the picture were life-size the bracelet would be about an inch wide. “I was in Paris before the war and had this specially commissioned as a gift to my wife for our fifth wedding anniversary. It was and is unique, and as you can imagine, quite valuable, both in terms of hard cash and soft sentiment.”

  “What is it made of?”

  “Diamonds and rubies on platinum. When my wife died some years ago, I put all her jewelry in the safe until our daughter came of age. Mar- ian had her twenty-first birthday last month and took charge of it all, according to her mother’s wishes.”

  “And this piece?”

  “Has been stolen. I want it back, but quietly. I don’t want publicity, and 1 don’t want the police.”

  “Have you an idea who took it?”

  “Oh, yes. Marian’s best friend Kitty has a boyfriend. Now, Kitty is a little doll, but it’s a sad fact that the sweetest girls can hook up with the most rotten men, and that’s the case with her and Stan. He can put on a smooth kind of charm and generally fool those too young to know better, but it’s all show. I’ve met his type before and they’re always out for whatever they can get away with. Anyway, the two of them were over at our house for a Christmas party last week and I expect that that’s when the bracelet was taken.”

  “But you’ve no proof?”

  “Nothing I can go to the police with, but I wouldn’t go to them, anyway.”

  “A week is a long time, Mr. Pierce.”

  “I only found out about it today.”

  “He may have pawned or fenced it by now.”

  “You think you’ll be able to trace it if he has?”

  “There are no guarantees, but we can try, if he is the culprit. Who else was at this party?”

  “Myself, Marian, her current boyfriend Harry Summers, Kitty Donovan, Stan McAlister, and the servants who were working that night. They’ve been with us for years, though. It was Marian’s maid who first told me about it.”