I saw Michael Jordan once. It was at a Bulls game in Chicago—back during his first basketball career when he could defy gravity like nothing I'd ever seen.
But tonight that memory was fully eclipsed and I had seats up front and center court.
Air Dracula.
The old man took two brisk steps and flung himself into the night sky. The fire escape was at least twelve feet above the broken sidewalk and he caught the top railing coming down. That was the first miracle. The second was that it didn't come crashing down: the rusted out remains of iron grillwork hung lopsidedly from the second story and its drop-down ladder had long since dropped down and disappeared. Silently, he scrambled over and into the boxy metal basket like some great condor returned to its stony nest. Then he locked his feet through gaps in the ironwork and hung downward, extending his hands to us.
I boosted Wren up to where his master could pull him the rest of the way and then made my own leap. I made it without too much effort, the major difference being that I had to grab hold on the way up instead of down. I guess I wasn't thinking my "happy thought."
The window was open, but the old man hesitated. He looked back at us. "One of you will have to go in first," he said softly.
I looked at Wren. "Nerves?" I murmured.
"He's a vampire," Wren whispered. "He has to be invited across the threshold."
Oh. "Then who invited the Brady Bunch inside when they got here?"
"Vampires don't need invitations into empty and abandoned buildings." He nodded toward the dark interior with his head. "But now that they're here, it's no longer empty and abandoned."
Dracula gestured toward the dark depths on the other side of the casement: "Mr. Csejthe, under the circumstances, I suggest we stake first and ask questions later."
Wren went in first, extended the invitation to Bassarab, and I followed close behind after shuffling my feet and fighting a strong urge to guard the window from the outside. Was it because I was coming close to requiring my own invitation? Or simply that common sense and basic survival instincts were pointing me in the opposite direction?
Mercury-vapor streetlamps glared through the second-story windows, throwing blue-white swatches of dazzling light across the empty room. My night vision couldn't compensate for vast differences in light and darkness every few feet, and I had to grope in the wake of my companions. I hoped the blind weren't leading the blind.
We passed through a doorway and into a trash-littered hall that ran the length of the building, punctuated by doors on either side. I reached out to try one and the old man stopped me with a gesture.
"My sources tell me there is only one and that he is on the floor above us."
Rats.
We moved on down the hallway and found the stairs going up. As I grasped the banister railing with my left hand, I drew one of the Splatmaster Rapide paint pistols with my right. We started up the stairs.
Bassarab's feet seemed to drift above the step surfaces as he ascended. Wren placed his feet at the very edge of the treads and used the railing to take more of his weight. Although I tried to step lightly, I planted my foot in the middle of a tread.
It squeaked.
Wren looked back at me and mouthed a four-letter word. Bassarab sailed up the stairway like a runaway balloon and disappeared into the dark at the top of the stairs.
A series of bumps and thumps ensued from the third floor. No point in being quiet, now: as we thundered (and squeaked) up the rest of the stairs, a squalling sound erupted and then bubbled away.
"A stake, Victor!" Bassarab commanded as we erupted onto the third floor. A prone body squirmed beneath his right foot, its heels slamming against the blood-slimed floor, making thudding and spatting noises.
Victor started forward, pulling a sharpened dowel from his satchel. He slipped at the edge of the growing pool of blood, his feet flying out from under him like some madcap comedy involving a banana peel. He fell flat on his back, shaking the floor and rattling the windows. The bag full of stakes went flying like a great canvas milkweed pod spilling wooden spores.
Now I caught sight of the head. It lay some four feet beyond the squirming body, connected to that spreading crimson tide by its own burgundy estuary. Its angle was such that I couldn't see if its eyes were open or closed, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it retained some horrible imitation of life tied to the severed body that writhed under Bassarab's foot.
"Csejthe! Damn you, man! Come here and help me!"
Victor was still stunned and woozy, trying to get up on hands and knees but unsure of his directions: left, right, up, down? Holstering the Splatmaster, I retrieved one of the scattered stakes and stepped carefully toward the grisly tableau, not wanting to slip. Not really wanting to go forward.
"Here, man; plant it here." He withdrew his sword from the corpse's side, where it had pinned it to the floor, and pointed to the center of its chest.
"Why isn't it dead?" I moaned, falling to my knees beside the decapitated vampire and positioning the stake over its sternum. One unkillable vampire was bad enough. . . .
"It probably is," Bassarab said. "But wampyr are like psychic lawyers. If there is a metaphysical loophole, they will find and exploit it. There is safety in following the old traditions to the very letter.
"Drive it home!"
I leaned on the wooden shaft. This wasn't like sliding a thin sliver of metal into soft, yielding flesh. I had to punch a blunt wedge of wood through the bone that conjoined the ribcage over the heart. That took considerable force. I had the physical strength to do it. The mental and emotional strength were something else altogether.
"Hurry!" I could feel Bassarab's eyes boring mental holes through the back of my brainpan, trying to overshadow my will with his.
I added more weight to the stave, but it wasn't sufficient to break through the sternum. I looked back at Victor. "I need the mallet!"
Then the corpse grabbed me, its cold and bloody hands tearing at my arm and side. It was the best motivation I could have asked for: I swung the stake up and back and then smashed it down, burying it in the thing's chest. The headless vampire went rigid, trembling like a plucked string. And then it burst like a meaty bubble, heaving steaming entrails and gobbets of flesh in all directions.
"Jesus!" I cried, causing Bassarab to flinch. "What happened to smoke and ashes?"
Bassarab scowled, trying to regain his composure. "It has been a long time."
"What?" I stood up, wiping the gore from my face and eyes. "It's been a long time since you had one blow up on you?"
"A couple of centuries ago," he said, leaning upon his greatsword, "I fought against an Egyptian sorcerer. He had a small army of cutthroats and brigands. A few were mercenaries, most held in thrall that they might willingly die at his behest. He had some art: many fought like demons and more than a few had to be killed twice. Several, three times."
I suddenly noticed that while Bassarab's clothing was still beslimed with blood, his face and hands were clean and dry. I imagined skin pores like hungry little mouths and repressed a shiver.
"They were wampyr. But unlike any that I have seen before or since. Until tonight."
"Then, the other. . ."
He shook his head. "From your descriptions, that one. . . ." He shook his head again. "I do not know: perhaps it cannot be killed."
"I don't believe that," I said, echoing Lupé's sentiments. "Everything can be killed—somehow—in some way."
"Ah, you are so sure." Bassarab sighed. His sword was as inexplicably clean and dry as his skin. "A month ago you were so sure that there were no such things as vampires."
My face spasmed into a frown. "Let's look around for clues or something so we do a little better than guessing in the dark."
We tossed the place but came up with next to nothing: a couple of sleeping bags, a set of car keys, a Kansas map, and a small, leather journal. The journal was probably full of clues but the handwriting was a crabbed script in an unknown language. "Not French, Spanish, German, or Latin," I said, handing the notebook to Bassarab.
"Not Rumanian," he mused, flipping pages, "or Russian, or anything Central European."
"A code?"
He shook his head. "Would still be recognizable as some language character set."
"Arabic?" Wren asked, looking at the writing over Bassarab's shoulder.
"Maybe. Could be Middle Eastern. . . ."
I peered at the twisty script. "Turkish?"
"Bah. I do not know. That was a long time ago. When the others return, I will . . ." he smiled " . . . make one of them read it for us."
"You do that." I palmed the keys. "I'm going downstairs to kick some tires." As I turned toward the stairs, a dog barked down the street.
"Someone is coming."
I frowned. "A telepathic dog, right?"
"No. It is the bark of a wolf. Garou."
"Time to rock and roll," Wren said, shoving stakes back into his bag.
I drew both Splatmasters, cocked them. "Time to bite the hand that bleeds us."
"Bah! You young people!" Bassarab made a face as he led us back down to the second floor. "You watch too many movies."
We didn't move quickly enough: company was coming through the fire escape window as we reached the second floor. Even as Bassarab closed the distance with inhuman quickness, I was firing both CO2 pistols. It was the monster that Lupé had driven the tree trunk through. One of the projectiles caught it in the side, splashing holy water.
It stopped, clutching at its ribs where the black material was soaked. The expression on its face was not one of pain or fear, however, but one of puzzlement and uncertainty.
Then it straightened, raised its hand to its face and licked the moisture from its fingers with an inhuman smile. The process of elimination, I thought, and felt my bowels turn to water.
I dropped the useless Splatmasters back into their holsters and tried to light the nozzle of my flamethrower. The igniter didn't immediately spark. That gave it time to take two steps forward and one step back as Victor's airbow planted a barbed shaft in the middle of the creature's chest. It started to pull on the stake and then noticed Bassarab.
>>AhH, TePEsH, I HaVE fOUnd yOU. . . . <<
The thoughts uncoiled in my mind like insolent serpents.
>>ArE yOu noT tIRed Of ruNniNg?<<
"Bey the Jackal," Bassarab spat. "Now, Bey the Lackey. Are you not tired of running errands for others?" He stepped in, swinging. Perhaps it was because he had the look of an old man and the monster hadn't anticipated his inhuman speed: the sword came up and around; the creature had barely enough time to throw up a hand to block the deadly arc. Fingers flew like an explosion of pink maggots as the blade skimmed along the top of its palm.
>>BEy THe DeAThLeSS<<
it mocked, seemingly oblivious to the mutilation. >>Or hAVe YoU FOrGOtTeN?<<
"Tonight the hunter is become the hunted!" The blade flashed again, but this time the thing Bassarab called Bey was ready. It clapped its palms to either side of the blade with inhuman speed. Twisted. Bassarab turned his sword in the same direction before his opponent could use his momentum against him.
>>HoW WilL tHESe Few mIsFIts gIve yOU adVaNTagE wHen wHOLe ArMIes faIlEd YOu cEntuRIEs AgO?<<
"Stand still and find out," the old vampire taunted back.
And then I had a clear shot. I pressed the trigger on the wand's pistol grip and doused the creature with an arc of flame. Fire raced across the air between us as if running up and over an invisible arched bridge, and then fanned out across the monster's body.
The thing shrieked like a maiden aunt who had just caught sight of a peeping tom. And then it lurched at me, lumbering across the room like Johnny Storm on Thorazine. I stumbled backwards, still pumping liquid napalm at it. Instead of deterring it, the fuel only served to make it more dangerous as it trudged toward me.
I suddenly found myself backed into a corner, walls wedging my shoulders into zero maneuverability. I slapped the quick-release catch on my chest harness and shrugged off the fuel tanks as it closed within four feet. Then Bassarab swept up from behind and whirled the great sword blade: the creature's blazing cranium toppled from its fiery shoulders like a broken matchhead. I rolled along the wall as its legs staggered and momentum carried it toward the corner and crashing down upon my abandoned flamethrower.
It was a good time to leave.
Unfortunately there were a couple of vampires between us and the exit, with more coming in through the fire-escape window.
Fortunately, these were your garden-variety vampires: wooden stakes and holy water—even fired by Splatmaster Rapides—took their toll. I effectively blinded three with headshots while Wren moved in to deliver the coup de grâce.
I missed my fourth shot.
Elizabeth Bachman hesitated on the threshold, considered the carnage unfolding before her, and didn't find the odds to her liking. She seemed remarkably solid for one presumed to be discorporated and, as recognition lit my eyes, hers widened as well: she looked at me and hissed, showing inch-long incisors, and then moved backward through the window. That's when I missed my fourth shot. And I didn't just miss: the projectile burst against the ceiling a good three feet short of the window and a couple more to the left.
I fired a second time as she rolled backwards through the casement and down onto the fire escape, but my aim was even worse. My hands were shaking as I started across the room. There was a shout from Bassarab and I looked back in time to see the back half of the room ablaze. Something stirred in its flickering, crimson depths.
Something man-shaped but lacking a head.
I wanted to stay, but there was nothing more that I could do. The remaining fuel in the flamethrower's tanks would be nearing the combustion point at the center of the inferno. And I had bigger fish to fry.
She was already on the ground by the time I was out on the fire escape. Lupé moved to intercept her and Bachman dealt the werewolf a backhanded blow that slammed her into a light pole and rattled the mercury vapor bulb into stuttering darkness. Then she ran toward the limo.
I vaulted the iron railing, dropping ten feet to the ground and landing rather gracelessly on my right ankle: I went sprawling. It felt like I'd stepped on a flare gun: a burst of white-hot pain shot through my foot, ricocheted up my leg, and exploded in my knee. I wasn't quite sure whether the sound I'd heard as I landed was the snap of bone or merely the pop of overextended cartilage. It was obvious, however, that I wasn't going to catch Bachman on foot.
I wasn't the only one drawing that conclusion. Lupé had spun about and was loping toward the Bronco. Mooncloud was there, ahead of her, sliding behind the steering wheel. As Bachman gunned the limo's motor and peeled away from the curb, Lupé was leaping through the Bronco's passenger window, already sliding through the first stages of transmogrification toward human form.
A moment later I was standing alone, watching twin plumes of exhaust line the street toward the highway. Then I remembered the car keys I had pocketed, upstairs, just minutes before, and a Chevy van with Arkansas plates parked just across the street.
There was a bang like God's own starter pistol and battering rams of flame smashed out all the windows on the second floor. Great: now every cop in the city would be here inside of five minutes. Time to make like a mule train and haul ass.
I took a step and pain blossomed in my ankle like a fiery flower, rolled up my leg like a serrated yo-yo. So what. Even if it was broken, it couldn't be that bad—not to a man who had awakened to a new life on an autopsy table, whose throat had been cut from ear to ear and "lived" to tell about it.
I fished the keys from my pocket and began hobbling toward the van.
The Chevy drove like it was on autopilot, gliding over the highway like a hockey puck slapped-shot toward a shadowy goal. I stretched both legs over to the passenger side of the floor, relying on the cruise control to handle the accelerator. The brakes I trusted to fate.
What was I doing? There was no hope of my catching up to Bachman or Garou. And even if I did, what could I hope to accomplish with only one good leg to maneuver on? So, what was I doing?
Going home.
I felt curiously light-headed. Going home?
Back to the house.
The house? But why?
Someone's waiting for you.
Someone— Bachman?
Come and see—
And then I was bumping over railroad tracks, announcing that Pittsburg was just ahead. I swung my legs back over and nearly missed the brakes in time to cut left on Atkinson Road. Another left turn and I was on Hugh, headed back north, just three blocks from. . .
. . . home. . . .
I cut the lights, shifted into neutral, and killed the engine: two blocks, now.
One block.
A right onto Cedar Crest and barely rolling. The van glided over to curb in front of my house and stopped as if docked by remote control. Houston, do you copy: the vampire has landed.
Now what?
Go inside.
I opened the door, jumped as the ignition buzzer sounded. Palmed the keys and eased myself out and down, onto the pavement. Pain sank its razored teeth into my ankle as I brought my left foot down, but it wasn't quite as bad as before. Either my tolerance was increasing, or my altered genetics had vastly accelerated the healing process. Even so, I wasn't going to be running the four-forty before sunrise.
I limped around the van and into the front yard. There was a snapping sound to my right and I whirled, only to be confronted with the wind-whipped remnants of yellow, crime-scene tape that struggled to free itself from the evergreen bush where it was anchored. "cene—do not cross police crime sce" it warned, flinging itself toward my face.
I had been told I was presumed dead in the explosion and fire that swept through the radio station on the night of my abduction. So why had my house become a crime scene in the interim? And if the police had been to my house and I was presumed dead—or even if I wasn't—wouldn't it now be locked up tighter than a drum? I patted my pockets: no house keys. I hadn't expected to end up here when I had fled the Doman's castle just a few days before.
Then I saw the light.
A dim glow from the back bedroom on the second floor illumined the glass in the first two front windows on the left. A shadow climbed across the hallway ceiling like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly.
Somebody'd been sleeping in my bed.
The police tape snapped at my head as if trying to regain my attention. Do not cross. . . .
Yeah, right: like I'm gonna climb back in the van and go running back to my two best buddies, Bassarab—assuming he was still alive—and Pagelovitch.
I stumbled across the lawn, humming "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" under my breath.