The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  That confrontation had ended badly.

  Bobbi was fine, thank God, but there’d been quite an ugly fracas before the dust settled. Kroun had been present, caught a stray bullet, and died.

  Apparently.

  The shooter was also dead, and I was left with a nasty mess: two corpses, a shot-up flat, and me desperately trying not to go over the cliff into the screaming hell of full-blown shell shock.

  By the grace of God, Escott’s right fist, and Bobbi holding on to me like there was no tomorrow, I did not fall in. It had been a near thing, though. I was still standing closer than was comfortable to the edge of that dark internal pit, but no longer wobbling. Given time I might even back away to safer ground.

  As I’d sluggishly tried to work out the details of what to do next, Kroun picked that moment to stop playing possum. One minute he was flat on the floor with a thumb-sized hole in his chest, the next…

  Well…it had been interesting.

  It took hours to clear the chaos at Bobbi’s. I saw to it she was driven to a safe place to stay, then arranged to disappear the dead gunman. For this, I got some reliable if wholly illegal help involving the kind of mugs who are really good at guaranteeing that inconvenient bodies are never found.

  Before the cleaning crew arrived, Kroun made himself missing. Temporarily. He hid out in the back of the Nash until the fuss was over.

  That I was no longer the only vampire (that I knew about) in Chicago hadn’t really sunk in yet.

  Since we each had secrets to keep, we’d formed an uneasy alliance out of mutual necessity, and there was no telling how long it might last. I had fish of my own to fry and didn’t particularly want to be looking after him—but he needed a favor, and, God help me, I turned sucker yet again.

  I didn’t want to think just how badly this could end.

  KROUN seemed to doze. He’d not asked about our destination. I took it for granted that he wanted a ride away from the trouble and a chance to get his second wind, figuratively speaking. He had some serious healing to do; it might as well be in the company of someone who understood what he was going through.

  He took notice when I made a last turn and pulled into the alley behind the house. Escott and I hung our hats in an elderly three-story brick in a quiet, respectable neighborhood. Not the sort of place you’d expect a vampire to lurk, but I’m allergic to cemeteries.

  “What’s this?” asked Kroun, blinking as I eased the car into the garage.

  “Home. I’m all in. You’ll have to stay the day.” Maybe he had plans, but I wanted ask a few hundred questions, but later, when my brain was more clear. Right now it felt like street sludge.

  “There’s no need. I found a bolt-hole for myself,” he said. “I got time to get there if you call a cab.”

  “At this hour?” I set the brake, cut the motor, and yanked the key. The ring felt too light.

  “Cabs run all the time now, Fleming. It’s a big burg, all grown-up.”

  “That’s just a rumor…ah…damn it.” I searched my pockets.

  “Something wrong?”

  “The house key’s back at my nightclub. Left so fast I grabbed the wrong bunch.” The wrong coat, too. Along with the Nash—which was Escott’s car—I’d borrowed his overcoat. He wouldn’t thank me for the bloodstains.

  I cracked the door, careful not to bang it against the wall of the narrow garage, and got out. Kroun did the same, moving more slowly. Something must have twinged inside, for he paused to catch his breath, which was an event to note. Like me, he wasn’t one for regular breathing. His reaction had to do with pain.

  He’d left a dark patch on the center back of the seat, a transfer from a much larger stain on the back of his coat. It’d been hours; his wounds would have closed by now. The blood he’d leaked should be dried. Must have been the damp. The heavy air smelled of snow, but not the clean kind out of the north. This had a sour, rotting tang, as though the clouds were gathering up stink from the city and would soon dump it back again.

  Going easy on his left leg, Kroun limped across the patches of frozen mud and dingy snow that made up the small yard, then stalled halfway to the porch. He began to cough, a big deep, wet whooping that grew in force and doubled him over. It sounded like his lungs were coming out the hard way. I started toward him, but there’s nothing you can do to help when a person’s in that state. The fit comes on and passes only when it’s good and ready to go. Spatters of blood suddenly bloomed on the untracked drift in front of him.

  I couldn’t help but stare at the stuff. The smell had filled the car, but I’d successfully shoved it aside. This was fresh, dark red, almost black against the snow. He wasn’t the only one with a problem. Mine was less obvious. I waited, holding my breath, unable to look away.

  Waited…

  But—nothing.

  Nothing for a good long minute.

  Couldn’t trust that, though.

  Waited…

  And finally took in a sip of air tainted with bloodsmell…

  Dreading what must happen next…

  But no roiling reaction twisted my guts.

  No cold sweats.

  Not even the shakes.

  It was just blood. A necessity for survival, but nothing to get crazy over. No uncontrolled hunger blazed through my gut, not even the false starvation kind that scared me.

  So far, so good.

  I relaxed, just a little.

  Cold, though…I was cold to the bone…but that was okay. It wasn’t the unnerving chill that left me shivering in a warm room, but the ordinary sort that comes with winter. I’d thought I’d lost that feeling.

  Kroun’s internal earthquake climaxed, and he gagged and spat out a black clot the size of a half-dollar. He hung over the mess a moment, sucking air, and managed to keep his balance. My instinct was to lend him an arm to lean on while he recovered, but he wouldn’t like it. I didn’t know him well, but I knew that much.

  He’d made a lot of noise, perhaps enough to wake a neighbor. I glanced at the surrounding houses, but no one peered from any of the upper windows. The show was over, anyway. Kroun gradually straightened, his face mottled red and gray. He kicked snow to hide the gore.

  “You okay?” I asked. I’d have to stop that. It could get irritating.

  “Still peachy,” he wheezed. When he reached the back porch, he used the rail to pull himself along the steps. He looked like hell on a bad week. “No house key, huh?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  He fished a small, flat case from the inside pocket of his tattered, filthy overcoat. A couple of nights ago it had been new-looking, but an explosion and fire had turned it into something a skid-row bum would have tossed in the gutter. Kroun might well have been rolling in that gutter. His craggy features were gaunt now, his hair singed—except for a distinct silver-white streak on the side—and when I inhaled he still stank of smoke and burned rubber. He opened the case, revealing a collection of picklocks. “Lemme by.”

  “No need,” I said—and vanished. Into thin air. I was good at it. Didn’t think twice.

  “Shit!” Kroun hadn’t expected that.

  His reaction was muffled to me. My senses in this state were limited, but it did have advantages, like getting me into otherwise inaccessible places. Damn, I felt smug.

  “Fleming? You there?”

  I’m busy. I pressed toward the door, sensing the long, thin crack at the threshold, and slipped in. Though I could have passed right through the wood, this path of least resistance was less unsettling. Going solid again on the other side, I unlocked and opened up, gesturing Kroun in.

  He looked like he wanted to say a lot of things, but held back. I thought I understood his expression: an interesting combination of annoyance mixed with raw envy. It only flashed for a second, then he pocketed his case. “Nice trick.”

  “Just a way out of the cold. C’mon.”

  He stepped into the kitchen, and I locked the door again for all the good that would do. Even the dumbest of Chicago�
�s countless thugs knew how to break and enter in the more conventional sense, though none of them had any reason to do so here. Quite the contrary. I’d gotten into the habit of thinking that way, though. Blame it on the scurvy company I kept.

  “Phone?” he asked.

  “The wall by the icebox.” Actually, it was a streamlined electric refrigerator that looked out of place in the faded kitchen. I dropped my fedora on the table and shrugged from Escott’s coat, folding it over the back of a chair. “But you can stay here. It’s safe.”

  “I don’t think so.” Kroun wasn’t being impolite, just preoccupied as he crossed the room, got the phone book from a shelf, and flipped through it looking for cab companies. He found a page, running a finger down the columns of fine print.

  I flicked the light on. Habit. We could both see well enough in the dark.

  He murmured an absent-sounding noise and stared at the listings. “How many of these companies have the mob on them?”

  “They all pay dues. The hotels, too. Shocking, ain’t it?”

  “Cripes.” He put the book back. “It’s as bad as New York.”

  To his former associates in crime, along with everyone else, Whitey Kroun was supposed to be dead. Not Undead, which none would know about or believe in, but the regular kind of dead, and he wanted to keep it that way. He did not need a cabby remembering him and blabbing to the wrong ears. There were ways around that, but Kroun must have been considering the trouble and worth of it against the shrinking time before sunrise.

  He was clearly exhausted. He’d barely survived getting blown up, gone into hiding God-knows-where for the day, and only hours before had taken a bullet square in the chest. The slug had passed right through, ripped up his dormant heart, maybe clipped one of his lungs before tearing out his back.

  My last twenty-fours hours hadn’t been even that good. We both needed a rest.

  “Spare bedroom’s up the stairs, third floor,” I said. “All ready. Just walk in.”

  Kroun frowned. “Is it lightproof?”

  “The window’s covered. You’ll be fine.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  “I have a place. In the basement.”

  He gave me a look. “What? A secret lair?”

  That almost made me smile. “It’s better than it sounds.”

  Not by much, but it sure as hell wasn’t a claustrophobia-inducing coffin on the floor of a ratty crypt like in that Lugosi movie. Just thinking about a body box gave me the heebies. My bricked-up chamber below was a close twin to any ordinary bedroom, being clean and dry with space enough for a good arm stretch. I kept things simple: an army cot with a layer of my home earth under oilcloth, a lamp, a radio, books to fill in the time before sunrise, no lurking allowed.

  “Room enough for a guest?”

  “I can only get into it by vanishing.” That was a lie. There was access by means of a trapdoor under the kitchen table, hidden by expert carpentry and a small rug. I just didn’t want Kroun in my private den. Since he was unable to slip through cracks I was pleased to take advantage of his limitation. Just because we had vampirism in common didn’t mean I should welcome him like a long-lost relative. He’d sure as hell not tipped his hand to me about his condition.

  “You maybe got a broom closet?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but you wouldn’t like it.”

  “I could.”

  “C’mon, Whitey, no one knows you’re here—”

  “Gabe.”

  “Huh?”

  “My real name’s Gabe.” His eyes were focused inward. “Mom’s idea. Gabriel. Hell of a name to stick on a kid. Got me in a few fights.”

  Now why had he told me that?

  He got a look on his face as though wondering the same thing. Maybe he was dealing with his own version of shell shock. Well, I wasn’t walking on eggs for him. “Okay. Gabe. No one knows you’re here, and no one’s looking for you. The cops are still sifting through what’s left of that car. By the time they don’t find your body in the ashes, it’ll be tomorrow night and you can start fresh.”

  He seemed to return from memory lane. “You get day visitors? Cleaning lady? Anyone like that?”

  “Nobody.”

  “What about Gordy’s boys? Strome and Derner?”

  “They know not to bother me with anything until tomorrow night. No one’s gonna find you.” There was no point telling Kroun to lay off being paranoid; the kind of stuff he’d been through would leave anyone twitchy. I understood him all too well.

  “That won’t discourage my pals in New York. First Hog Bristow gets dead, then me.”

  “Chicago’s rough,” I admitted.

  “They won’t blame the city.” Kroun frowned my way so I’d be clear on who would be held accountable. He had good reason. Bristow’s death was the mug’s own stupid fault, though at the end I’d done what I could to help him along. Anyone else would consider my actions to be self-defense, just not his business associates back East.

  Whitey—or was I to call him Gabe now?—Kroun had been my ostensible guest and looking into the Bristow situation when another mobster tried to take him out with a bomb. Kroun’s apparent, and very public, demise had happened right in front of me, on my watch, and that made me responsible. The big boys he’d worked with in New York were bound to get pissed and react in a way I wouldn’t like. Maybe I should try faking my death, too.

  “Will your pals be sending someone here to deal with me?” I asked.

  “Count on it. Unless Derner or Gordy can head them off.”

  Derner was my temporary lieutenant when it came to the nuts-and-bolts operation of mob business. His boss, Gordy Weems—a friend of mine and the man usually running things in Chicago’s North Side—was still recovering from some serious bullet wounds of his own. I’d been talked into filling his spot until he was back on his feet. He couldn’t get well fast enough for me. I had to be the only guy west of the Atlantic who didn’t want the job. “Gordy stays on vacation. Derner and I will look after things, no problem.”

  “If you say so, kid.”

  Kroun had a right to his doubts. Running a major branch of the mob was very different from bossing an ordinary business. For instance, firing people was murder. Literally.

  Another coughing bout grabbed Kroun. He tried to suppress it, but his body wasn’t cooperating. He made his way to the sink and doubled over, hacking and spitting. When it subsided, he ran the water to wash the blood away. There wasn’t as much as before; he must be healing.

  I inhaled, caught the bloodsmell…and again waited. Nothing happened, no tremors in my limbs, no urge to scream, no falling on the floor like a seizure victim.

  Very encouraging, but instinct told me I was still rocky and not to get overconfident.

  “Cripes, I hate getting shot,” he muttered.

  “It’s hell,” I agreed.

  He cupped hands under the water stream and rubbed down his face. “You’ve been through this, too?”

  “Not if I can help it. But whenever I catch one, I always vanish. When I come back, I’m tired, but usually everything’s fixed.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  He gave no reply.

  “Didn’t the one who gave you the change tell you anything?” I was very curious as to who had traded blood with him, allowing him the chance to return from death. When had he died? How long ago? He’d dropped no clue as to how long he’d been night-walking. He could be decades older than me in this life or months younger.

  That streak of silver-white hair on the left side of his head marked where he caught the bullet that had killed him. Who had shot him and why? How had he dealt with his dark resurrection? The lead slug was still lodged in his brain, and the presence of that small piece of metal was enough to short-circuit his ability to vanish. It also prevented rejuvenation, kept him looking the same age he was when it happened. Instead of seeming to be in his twenties like me, he outwardly remained in his forties.

&n
bsp; But Kroun wasn’t sharing confidences. Making no answer, he twisted the water tap off and dried with one of the neatly folded dish towels Escott kept next to the sink. In the harsh overhead light Kroun looked even more gaunt than a few minutes ago. The coughing fit had sapped him.

  “You hungry?” I asked. He had to be. He’d lost plenty of blood tonight. It would put him on edge, maybe make him dangerous. That was what it did to me.

  “A little, but I can hold out till tomorrow.”

  I went to the icebox. In the back were some beer bottles with the labels soaked off, topped with cork stoppers. The dark brown glass obscured what was inside. They represented an experiment that had worked out. I pulled a bottle and handed it over. “It’s cold but drinkable.”

  He eyeballed it. “You’re kidding. You store the stuff?”

  “Only for a few days. It goes bad once the air hits. Like milk.”

  He took the cork out and sniffed it. “It’s animal?”

  “Yeah.”

  He shot me a look. Checking. Appraising. “Good.”

  Damn. That angle…and he’d thought of it first. “Hey, you don’t think I’d…”

  “What?”

  The son of a bitch. “I don’t take from people.”

  “Sure you do. Your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not food.” I felt myself going red.

  “No. There have been others who were, though.”

  “Where the hell do you—” I nearly choked.

  He tilted his head. “Yeah?”

  I shut down, because I was within a hair of knocking his block off, and that wouldn’t accomplish anything. He was guessing, goading me for information. And had gotten it. “How do you figure?”

  “The other night…in Gordy’s office.”

  When Kroun first clapped eyes on me. “But you didn’t know about me right away.”

  “No, I didn’t. There was a point in the proceedings, though. You put on a face I didn’t understand at the time, but afterward I got it. You were looking at me, at the whole room, and realized you were in charge.”