The Doman was not what I expected.
First of all, he wasn't old. Or at least he didn't look old: late twenties to early thirties, to all appearances. Instead of black and swept back from the requisite widow's peak, his hair was brown and wavy and parted on the left. His eyes were grey-blue with flecks of brown—chameleon eyes, but open and friendly at this particular moment. The nose was not the thin blade of flesh I had imagined in a vampire leader: it was long but rounded, rather, with a slightly predatory bent that reminded more of an owl than a hawk. Beneath it, he wore a neatly trimmed mustache—nothing heavy, sinister, or possessing handholds for twirling.
Taken separately, none of his features seemed to suggest inhuman qualities and their sum did nothing to suggest a vampire warlord.
No tuxedo or evening wear here, either: he wore a pair of black slacks and a silk shirt of shimmering purple. The Doman stood just over six feet and had a slender physique that seemed more sinuous than powerful. Stefan Pagelovitch was not a fearsome sight, at all. He seemed pleasant and rather young for such implied responsibility. I tried to imagine him wearing a cape. Failed.
Then we shook hands and I felt the subtle power that radiated from the man as the chilled flesh of fingers and palm enveloped my own.
"Welcome, Mr. Csejthe, and enter. You are my honored guest."
"Thank you, Mr. Pagel—"
"Please: Stefan." The cold grip of the Doman's hand drew me into the room. "It will be so much better if we put aside such formalities. May I call you Christopher?"
I allowed myself to be led toward the table. The room was dark, its only illumination coming from a pair of flickering candelabras on the dining table and the mixture of city lights and moonglow that trickled in from the open terrace on the far wall.
As we were seated, I noticed that there were others in the room, as well. Across the table sat a hirsute, barrel-chested man. He was seated next to a blond woman whose flesh revealed by her décolletage was so pale as to seem an additional source of illumination in the pervading gloom. Both studied me intently as Dr. Mooncloud sat to my right and the Doman took his place at the end of the table, to my left. At the other end of the table sat a man and a woman of incomparable beauty. Dark, lean, with black, curly hair and a clean aquiline profile, he looked like the cover model for countless romance novels. His companion had red hair, blue eyes, and a face so flawless that it—well—defied comparison to anything else. Both embodied the kind of physical perfection that evoked neither lust nor jealousy, so far removed was it from competition or attainment.
Introductions commenced.
The perfect pair were Damien and Deirdre—no last names were offered.
The round, fuzzy guy turned out to be Lupé's brother, Luis. "Can't stay long," he growled, nodding curtly. "I must look in on my sister, again."
The white-on-white blonde in the black dress was introduced as Elizabeth Bachman, " . . . better known to countless viewers as Lilith, TV's late-night scream queen and horror movie hostess," Pagelovitch explained. "Elizabeth has been a Saturday night staple here in Seattle for the past ten years, but just last year several of the major markets have picked her up in syndication. Perhaps you've heard of her?"
I smiled a cordial smile and shook my head. "I'm afraid I haven't."
"I look somewhat different on television and in all of my public appearances," Bachman said. "I wear a long, black wig and lots of eye makeup." Her voice matched the black velvet of her dress—low, throaty—sounding of whiskey and cigarettes and ten thousand barstools.
"Ah," I said, "sort of a cross between Morticia Addams and Elvira."
Her expression twisted and, for a moment, I was reminded of Kirsten's first taste of sweet and sour sauce.
For a moment. . . .
And then I bundled that memory back into the black trunk of forgetfulness.
Bachman recovered with a smile, saying: "Elvira may call herself the 'Mistress of the Dark,' but I am the Queen of the Damned. And my dresses are more daring. . . ." Her mouth formed a poutish little moue.
"More daring?" I echoed weakly.
"I shall be very happy to prove it to you." She smiled again, showing teeth this time. Some of them were pointed.
"I invited Elizabeth here to meet you, Christopher." The Doman was regarding us over the rim of a crystal goblet. Claret-colored liquid caught the light from the candles and bloodied his face. "I understand you are in broadcasting. I thought Elizabeth would be the ideal person to help you settle into our circle. Her contacts will make it easy to find just the right job." He turned to Bachman. "Perhaps you already have a position in mind, my dear?"
She licked her lips and the smile grew. "Oh, yes, I'm thinking of a position just this very moment. . . ."
"Stefan," Dr. Mooncloud said, "there is something we need to discuss before Mr. Csejthe leaves this room."
"I should think there are a number of things to discuss, Doctor." He took a sip from the goblet. "Just what did you have in mind?"
"Mr. Csejthe's status."
"Status?" Luis Garou was curious.
"According to all we know so far—second-hand lab reports and two days' observation on the road getting here—Mr. Csejthe is in transition. Apparently stuck in mid-transition." She gave the Doman a meaningful look. "Did you know that he entered the premises without invitation or hesitation?"
The room became very still.
"Mr. Csejthe," Pagelovitch was suddenly very attentive, focusing with an intensity that was at odds with his relaxed manner of a few moments before, "did anyone invite you to enter this building?"
I was struck with a sudden case of laryngitis: I shook my head.
Mooncloud cleared her throat. "Neither Lupé or myself had offered the specific invitation, yet, but since we were headed for the door, the implication—"
He cut her off with a gesture. "It would make no difference."
"So, like, everyone—" I had recovered the upper registers of my voice and was still fishing for the lower "—who comes to your—um—nightclub, here, has to have an invitation to get through the door?"
"Not the human clientele," Bachman said. "Only the wampyr."
"So I am still human."
Mooncloud steepled her fingers. "But not fully human."
The Doman leaned forward. "The question is: How much?"
Mooncloud shrugged, but an aura of tension fairly crackled about her diminutive shoulders. "You have my initial report based on the blood tests and lab work I intercepted. Mr. Csejthe's appetite for solid food has declined. He's showing an increasing sensitivity to solar radiation. His night vision continues to improve and his strength has already passed human norms for his frame and musculature. While he can still tolerate and even draw nourishment from ordinary food, blood has an increasingly potent and revitalizing effect on his system."
"That's nothing," I said modestly. "You should see me touch my nose with the tip of my tongue."
Deirdre laughed, a short, musical, merry sound. It was also the only sound from that end of the table so far this evening.
"He no longer casts a shadow and his reflection is barely visible in a mirror," Mooncloud continued. "But I would be hard-pressed to classify him as either alive or undead without further lab work." She shot a look at Bachman. "Which I intend to start first thing tomorrow."
The blonde's eyes reflected pinpoints of candle flame as she studied me again. "What fascinating possibilities that raises."
"Precisely my point." Mooncloud turned imploring eyes on the Doman. "We know nothing, yet, of how his condition was contracted or from whom. . . ." Her gaze swept back to the blond woman and hardened. "It's very crucial at this point that his system not be exposed to further contamination."
"Well!" Bachman's outrage seemed more theatrics than true indignity. "I like that! Contamination!"
Pagelovitch nodded slowly. "Perhaps not the most diplomatic of terms, Doctor, but you are correct. His current status must not be violated—for scientific and ethical reasons, as well."
"Ethical?" The word in Bachman's mouth was even more distasteful than "contamination."
I was tired of sitting on the sidelines. "And what does that mean?"
"No doubt you believe the fantasies of pen and film that brand us as creatures of the night—without conscience or scruple," the Doman said. "But we live by a code of necessity and we acknowledge certain responsibilities for what we must do."
"Dr. Mooncloud explained how you're careful to keep your existence a secret," I said, making a cursory effort to keep the irony out of my voice, "and how you've set limits on your population growth in regards to the food supply."
"It's not just a question of available resources nor a desire for safety that drives us to keep our numbers down." Pagelovitch continued calmly. "And we are not always successful in our efforts to do so. The fact is, Christopher, that we do not fully understand how the condition is passed along to some and not to others."
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the redhead had stopped eating and was staring at her plate with an almost stricken expression.
"Why do some humans sicken and die over a long period of time while others expire in a single night?" the Doman was saying. "It is not, I assure you, tied exclusively to blood loss. Why do some find resurrection while still on the coroner's slab while others—in those countries that do not practice embalming—lie in their graves a full month before sundering their coffins to crawl upwards through the dark earth?
"There are many variables that we cannot explain. The good doctor here has hopes that your particular condition may be the key to unlocking some of these many mysteries."
Everyone was staring at me, but I particularly felt the weight of Damien and Deirdre's gaze from the far end of the table.
"And she does not want—" Pagelovitch smiled at Bachman, showing his own pointed teeth "—contaminated blood mixing with your own until she knows everything she can learn from its present condition."
"I think I understand the scientific angle here," I said. "But you said there was a moral angle, as well."
"Yes, I was getting to that. The Code of the Grave—" he gave a short, deprecating laugh "—just as there is a Code of the West. We have standards of conduct for our little society of nightdwellers. . . .
"That code places a heavy responsibility upon the hunter. Once I have taken you for sustenance, you become my responsibility until certain conditions are satisfied. If you live, I must see to it that you are unable to betray my existence or the existence of the greater community to which I belong. If you die, I must see to it that your death does not provide the same betrayal through physical evidence. And if you rise from your grave, I must mentor you, bring you into the Community. Or see to it that you are destroyed for the same reasons that I just spoke of."
"The responsibility to the Community," I said.
The Doman nodded. "But not just that. If I am responsible for your infection, I have a moral obligation to you, as well. More so today than a century ago."
I responded with my eyebrows.
"A century ago most victims would end up in a pine box under six feet of earth. While those circumstances might seem daunting to most mortals, it is the egg from which most of us are hatched. We come into our greater strength cracking that wooden shell and clawing our way to the surface. But there are limits to what even augmented strength and iron fingernails can do when locked inside a steel casket and a concrete grave liner. Imagine if you will the fate of a newly resurrected vampire sealed for an eternity in such a prison. It is a horror that might befall any of us and so we are all committed to seeing that it happens to none."
I repressed an unexpected shudder.
"Which brings me back to the point. Although I am not responsible for your present condition, I am responsible for having you brought here. Under those circumstances and, as I am Doman over this demesne, I must assume certain obligations for your welfare. Which brings me to a very important question. Do you wish to join us?"
I cleared my throat. "Uh, as I kept trying to tell Dr. Mooncloud, I was quite happy with the job I had and—"
"No, my friend, you do not understand. Your lot is now cast with us. Even were I to release you from our enclave you would just be killed or acquired by another Doman. As it stands now, you are already being hunted by at least one other enclave. And they want you so badly that they have been careless."
"Three disappearances and a homicide by the time we got to you," Mooncloud said.
"One of the disappearances has since reappeared," Luis amended. "Or at least the body turned up."
"Mutilated and drained of blood," Bachman added. She shook her head and made tch-tch noises. "Sloppy."
Pagelovitch scowled. "But at least there were no evident fang marks and the authorities are more inclined to blame Satanic cults than look for evidence of vampires." He shook his head. "Still, through no fault of your own, your existence has already threatened our anonymity. This carelessness worries me. But all that I can do for the moment is deal with your presence here. What I am asking you, here and now, is: Do you wish to complete the Transformation? To become as we are?"
"Stefan! We don't even know if or how that could be accomplished!" Mooncloud protested. "And his value to our research in his current state—"
"I am not asking about possibilities!" the Doman rumbled. "I am questioning his desire. Can the transformation be reversed?"
She shook her head. "Even if such a thing were possible, I wouldn't know how."
Pagelovitch turned back to me. "I speak to you now, ignorant of the scientific principles in this matter. I speak to you, rather, out of moral obligation before you leave this room. I do not know whether your transformation is at a standstill or just progressing very slowly. If progressing, I do not know if we can hinder it further. I do believe that it is within our power to accelerate and complete the Transformation. If that is what you wish. The question is: what do you wish?"
Everyone was still looking at me.
"Well, I don't want to die."
Mouths smiled, teeth glinted, laughter erupted.
"My dear Mr. Csejthe," Bachman said. "If you remain a mere mortal, death is eventually inevitable. As one of us you can cheat death."
" 'One short sleep past, we wake eternally,' " the Doman added. " 'And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!' "
I forced a smile. "I think you misappropriate Donne's meaning."
He smiled in return. "A man of letters, Christopher? I thought the last had died out early in this century."
" 'The good die first,' " I quoted back, " 'And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust / Burn to the socket.' "
"Coleridge?"
"Wordsworth."
He frowned. "Really? I suppose Lyrical Ballads . . . ?"
I shook my head. "The Excursion. Though I can see your assumption with their collaborative work."
Pagelovitch nodded. "Sam was an acquaintance; I never met Bill. Probably accounts for my neglect . . . but I digress. Elizabeth put it more succinctly than any of the poets: you can cheat death."
I stared past him, at the uncertain darkness outside the window. " 'Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath. / And after many a summer dies the swan.' "
He smiled. "If you're citing Tennyson to say that you can only postpone the inevitable, you still beg the question. Who wouldn't bargain for one more summer? Or ten?"
"What price would you pay to live another century?" Bachman chimed in. "Or ten?"
"There are, however, certain tradeoffs," Mooncloud murmured.
"Well, assuming I have any real decision in this process, I'd like to put it off just a little bit longer. I mean there's no hurry, is there?" I was still smiling, but it felt more like a grimace.
The Doman nodded. "Fair enough. Dr. Mooncloud's lab work may help you make a more informed choice when the time comes. In the meantime, I must caution you to share blood with no one." He turned to Bachman. "I trust this is clear?"
She smiled sweetly.
I looked at Mooncloud. "Um, share blood?"
"It is part of their vampire lovemaking," Lupé's brother offered with an undertone of distaste. "They sometimes like to bite each other. Suck—"
"Thank you, Luis," Bachman interrupted icily. "I think you forget your place."
Garou scowled but ducked his head submissively. "I must go and see to my sister, now." He pushed back from the table and left the room hurriedly. As he exited two men entered bearing covered trays. Dinner was served.
Mooncloud, Deirdre, and myself were the only ones served solid food, a point the doctor underscored quietly by explaining that once the transformation was finished my digestive system would no longer tolerate anything but blood. "Anything else will make you sick," she said.
"One of the tradeoffs," I observed.
"One. . . ."
After dinner the Doman invited me for a stroll along the castle "battlements." The others were pointedly not invited and said their goodnights as a formality. Obviously, for everyone concerned, the night was yet young.
July in the Pacific Northwest was a bit cooler than in the Midwest and I was surprised to see a light fog hazing the more distant lights of the city.
"A quiet night," Pagelovitch said, leaning out upon one of the upthrust merlons in the crenelated half-wall. "Unlike the New York demesne, where the city's turmoil provides the perfect cover for night predators. I work hard to preserve a peaceful coexistence with the Living in my realm. Do you know how that is done?"
I hazarded a guess: "Blood banks?"
He laughed, the sound of it falling somewhere between polite and weary. "Yes, yes, blood banks. One of the more obvious ploys to serve the needs of the midnight community. Vampire fiction has reduced such stratagems to a clichéd gimmick but it is still a useful and mostly harmless way to attend to our needs."
"You have your own, I take it?"
"Yes, with several outlets. And our personal withdrawals are minimal compared to what is returned to the medical community at large. We are very philanthropic in this area, but—" his smile faded, "that is not what I meant by my question."
"How you rule over a community of vampires?"
He nodded. "Rule is a most apt description. And not just over vampires, Christopher. There are other creatures—perhaps I should say 'beings'—who are assimilated into our community, as well."
"Like the knockers."
"Like the knockers. And the leprechauns. And at least a dozen others—well, you'll be meeting some of them in the days ahead. Their safety and prosperity depends upon the laws that have been set up to govern our community." His voice hardened. "And my ability to enforce them."
"Dr. Mooncloud explained some of that."
He nodded, still looking out over the city. Surveying his domain. "You are my guest—for now. It is my hope that, in time, you will assimilate into our community as a contributing member, whatever your value to our medical and biological research now. But it is essential that you understand this: that I will deal harshly with anyone—anyone—who becomes a threat to any portion of our society, here. Do you understand?"
"I think so."
"Then understand that your sworn allegiance means little to me at this particular moment. Your ignorance of us and our ways could make you a greater risk than any desire to do us actual harm. That is why you will not leave this building again until I deem that you are ready."
I didn't like that. But outside of a hot bath and shave there hadn't been anything about the past couple of days that I had particularly liked. "So, I'm a prisoner for now?"
"A guest."
"For how long?"
"As long as it takes." There was a warning edge to his voice.
" 'After three days, fish and guests begin to smell,' " I recited.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Dear Abby," I qualified.
He shook his head. "Ben Franklin: Poor Richard's Almanac. And he said 'stink.' "
"Ah. Of course."
"Now we are even."
I hadn't realized that anyone was keeping score. "Not as long as you are making the rules."
Pagelovitch sighed. "This is for your safety as well as ours. I want you to become acquainted with us and our ways while we learn more about you.
"But I must also warn you: the fact that we are a mutually dependent community does not mean that we are all one big happy family. There are those who will use you for a variety of purposes if they see advantage for themselves. Elizabeth is but a mild example of the appetites to be found among us. I have warned her that you are not to be harmed—but that may not stop her from anything that you, yourself, agree to."
"Nice friends."
"That is precisely the point I wish to make, Christopher: we are not all friends. We are allies—which is a different thing altogether.
"Come, let me give you the tour." We followed the parapet around the corner and descended a flight of stairs. "Tell me, are you comfortable so far?"
"The accommodations are excellent."
"I speak of the process of your Becoming. Have you experienced the bloodlust, yet? Taj says that you have not cut the new teeth."
"No fangs, although my appetite has been fluctuating as of late."
He looked at me sideways. "Christopher, there is appetite and then there are appetites. You killed a man this evening."
Since it wasn't a question, I felt no obligation to answer.
"Have you killed before?"
We came to a door which he opened, ushering me inside and down a corridor. "Personal question," I said.
"You will be asked a great many personal questions over the next few days. I ask, however, because tonight's impulse—" he gave me another look "—it was an impulse?"
"It wasn't premeditated."
"Which brings me to my point. The change is altering the chemical balance of your body. Hormonal changes, mood swings, shifts in brain chemistry—violence will become an increasingly natural response to situations involving stress. The subtler emotions recede. Passion rules—primarily as anger, even hate."
"What about compassion?" I asked suddenly. Thought upon the growing deadness of my heart this past year. "What about sorrow?"
"You are becoming a predator. Compassion will have no place in your altered nature. Sorrow? You will no longer feel emotions in the human spectrum. Your thoughts and feelings are being cleansed of the muddle that mortals are heir to. You shall feel only that which is sharp and keen, a conscience honed from fire and steel."
Perhaps that had already happened. For the past year my closest friends had chided me for not being "in touch with my feelings." Like feelings were something I should want after burying my wife and daughter.
"And then there is the bloodlust," he continued. "And a whole spectrum of appetites and emotions that bridge the gap between the living and the undead." We passed through a small antechamber and then through another doorway into a darkened observation room. A row of glassed windows looked down into the main room of the castle, providing us with an excellent view of the nightclub's inhabitants and their activities.
"Topless dancers," I mused, watching the silent gyrations on the stage below. "I wonder what Bram Stoker would have made of this?"
"Were he astute, he would have remarked on the benefits for the hunter leaving the jungles behind to open his own private game reserve."
"And 'Tits-R-Us' . . . ?" I gestured.
He shrugged. "One of our lures."
I nodded. "The best bait always wriggles on the hook." I could feel the tension building between us but it only inclined me to push a little more. "And is Fantasies the slaughterhouse or merely the holding pen?"
"I suppose it is a natural question," he said after a moment's silence, "but I'm beginning to take exception to your tone."
I shrugged. "Must be those mood swings you just warned me about."
"Still, I would remind you of your status as guest here—"
I held up my hand. "Words like 'guest' and 'host' are all very nice," I said, "but hardly appropriate under the present circumstances."
His face tightened. "Perhaps when your transformation is complete, when your very survival is hostage to blood and secrecy—" He checked himself and visibly relaxed. "But until then you have every reason to be angry and distrustful. Forgive me: I must try to meet my definition of host even if I do not meet yours." He lowered himself into a plush chair situated near one of the windows.
"This castle and its environs serve a variety of functions. Here we provide home and shelter to the society we call the Underworld. Here we transact business that pays for the physical necessities of our community. Two hundred years ago our kind had to live in abandoned buildings and neglected crypts. We could only obtain the necessities of existence through brutality and murder." He gestured toward the darkened room below. "Today we can engage in mutually beneficial commerce with humankind to address our needs. We do not kill unless we are forced to. And we do not take from the unwilling."
"Sounds downright charitable." I lowered myself into the chair across from him.
"We provide services and entertainment for humans. They assume the occasional half-glimpsed oddity on the premises is part of the special effects that we've woven into the ambience and the product. Hence, our name: Fantasies. For the entertainment we provide, we acquire currency and resources for our own needs. We provide shelter and such benefits that our people cannot or dare not obtain from the society of humankind.
"One such example is the hospital facility underground where Ms. Garou is now being cared for. In addition to a multifunctional surgery and various treatment rooms, we have a laboratory and research facilities, an extensive library, a gymnasium and pool—"
There was a knock at the door.
"I've summoned one of my assistants to finish your tour, Christopher. I think it's best that I get back to work before the night is too far gone."
That was curious: at no time during our after-dinner stroll had I seen him pick up a phone, use an intercom, or relay a verbal message through a third party. The door opened and a young Asian woman entered.
"Suki, this is the man I told you about," my "host" said. She looked me over and I reciprocated. I would have described her as tiny up until this evening—before I had seen Hinzelmann and the knockers. She was small and delicately formed but still sized and proportioned in the human range. Blue-black hair, sheened like a starling's wing, dropped in a straight flow to her shoulders. She wore a red silk dress with a mandarin collar and a coiled dragon in green embroidery over her left breast. Jade earrings tinkled like emerald wind-chimes as she bowed to me. There was nothing subservient in the act, and her eyes, as they came back up to regard me, betrayed amusement mixed with cool appraisal.
"I'd like you to give Mr. Csejthe the basic tour, make the requisite introductions, and answer all reasonable questions before tucking him in." The Doman turned to me. "I'll catch up to you tomorrow." He extended his hand. "Whether you believe me or not, I do have your best interests in mind as well as our own."
I took his hand and shook it in observance of the social amenities. "Perhaps. But you must understand my need to exercise my own autonomy."
His nod signified acknowledgment of my statement. Not agreement.