Knowledge is power. So wrote Hobbes in Leviathan.
In Of Heresies, Bacon said: Knowledge itself is power.
But perhaps André Gide said it best when he wrote: "Education, c'est délivrance."
If education was, indeed, freedom, the Doman's library was the place to form my escape plan. I began my studies the following evening and, aside from regular evening visits from the two-tailed cat, I worked undisturbed until Saturday night.
"Looking for a cure?"
I glanced up from the tumbledown fortress of books that encompassed me at the library table. "At this point I'd settle for a little sanity."
Taj Mooncloud sorted through the sprawl of volumes that had slid to the far side of the table. "The Golden Bough, Crosland's English adaptation of Valeria and Volta's The Vampire, a couple of Montague Summers' better known works, The Natural History of the Vampire by Masters—my goodness, even a translation of the Malleus Maleficarum! You're looking for sanity, here?"
I said nothing and she wandered over to the microfiche reader that I had left on for cross-referencing.
"Traité sur les Apparitions des Espirits, et sur les Vampires, ou les Revenants de Hongrie, de Moravie—"
"First edition, Paris, 1746," I appended. "But I'm really more interested in a rather recent work." I lifted the bound manuscript I'd been studying and turned it so she could read: Vampirism and the Subconscious Mind: The Id Unbound. By Dr. Taj V. Mooncloud, Ph.D., M.D., S.D. "I'm impressed: Doctor of Philosophy, Doctor of Medicine. . ." I cocked an eyebrow. "S.D.?"
"Doctor of Shamanism."
"You're joking."
"I never joke," she answered coolly.
"Well." I hefted the book. "I'll bet there're no copies in the Library of Congress."
"No, and more's the pity," she said, pulling up a chair across from me. "Ten years of semicooperative national and worldwide research and we know more about the AIDS virus than ten centuries of scholasticism on the subject of vampirism."
"We still don't have a vaccine for AIDS," I said, unsure of whether I was undermining or underlining her point.
"Bad enough that we can't utilize public facilities, personnel, or funding efforts in our research," she continued, "but it's difficult to secure cooperative information from the other enclaves, as well."
I tapped the manuscript. "You seem to have made some substantial leaps beyond anything else I've read."
"Theoretical leaps. We have a Magnetic Resonance Imaging device, an electron microscope, substantial lab and diagnostic facilities . . . but it's a drop in the bucket compared to the resources we really need—not to mention the statistical base!
"The bulk of the books you have there were first published before the turn of the century, some before the turn of the last century, and more than a few from before even that. They're such a hodgepodge of myth and third-hand stories that you can't be sure of the truth even when they seem to validate your own findings. . . .
"But you," she reached across the table and between two stacks of books to grasp my hand, "may help to change all that!"
"The missing link," I said.
"Oh, don't say it that way! It sounds so—so—"
"Guinea piggish?"
It took her a moment to find her smile. "Exactly."
"Oink, oink," I said.
She tossed my hand back at me. "Guinea pigs don't go 'oink, oink.' "
"I guess someone will need to coach me."
"Obviously, after that stunt you pulled at the pool."
"Ah, which brings me back to my research." I thumped the manuscript back open to my last bookmark. "I need to know all kinds of stuff. About mirrors and garlic and crosses and holy water—"
"You need someone to coach you," she said.
"—and why this stuff works the way it does. I mean, I used to be a great swimmer! What happened to me?" I flipped to the beginning of her manuscript and then back to my last marked passage. "I've skimmed the first part, here, where you venture several theories about the physiological changes that take place in the human body."
"It's really a brief summation of another paper I published earlier."
" 'Published'?"
"Within the underground network that ties all the enclaves together to some degree."
"Yeah, well I noticed that you skipped a lot of the empirical data and just highlighted the conclusions. But it still begs the question on certain aspects of vampiric lore. I see how the physiological changes in body tissues may alter mass, augment strength, prolong longevity . . . but what about holy water, the crucifix, requiring invitations to cross thresholds?"
"Keep reading."
I glanced at the three-inch-thick remainder of unread pages. "I'm in a hurry."
"So am I." She glanced at her watch. "All right. Quick overview. The virus—and immediately we are in the realm of theory, here—the virus seems to enter the cells and combine with the DNA to reprogram the strands of code."
"Like genetic engineering."
"Right. And it produces rapid mutations in the cells and tissues so that entire systems become both more efficient and yet develop built-in redundancies. At the same time these changes create new vulnerabilities, new weaknesses to replace the ones that human flesh is heir to."
"Sunlight," I said. "Garlic."
"Like porphyria," she said.
"Wooden stakes?"
"Wooden stakes, iron lances, silver arrows—it makes no difference as to whether you're alive or undead: one through the heart and you ain't never getting up out of your coffin again."
"Crucifixes?"
"Ah, now here we enter the realm of the subconscious. Are you aware that there are certain codicils to the use of holy relics?"
I nodded. "Basically two that I've run across, so far. One source claims the effectiveness of the crucifix is dependent on the faith of the wielder. Other sources indicate that the cross only works against vampires who were devout Christians in their former life." I cocked an eyebrow. "Which is it?"
Mooncloud shrugged. "We do not know for sure. There is actually enough anecdotal material to support both theories, but we simply have not had enough opportunity to apply rigorous scientific testing. But the common thread that runs through both theories is—"
"Belief," I finished for her.
"Yes. Belief. And it is the same with so-called holy water."
"So what are you saying? That these basic scourges of the undead are psychosomatic at their core?"
"Something like that." She looked around and then got up and walked over to the door. After checking the outer corridor, she closed the door and walked across the room and around the table to sit beside me. "The virus has a variable range of effects on each person who contracts it," she continued in a lowered voice. "And that extends to the mental and emotional adjustments each must make, as well."
"I suppose some have a more difficult time than others?"
"An understatement, Mr. Csejthe. Insanity is the byproduct more often than not. Sometimes quickly. Sometimes a psychosis that grows over the years, the centuries. Sometimes all higher thought processes are lost and the virus reduces its host to a mindless animal. In other cases the madness manifests in subtler and more cunning forms."
"So," I cleared my throat, thinking about my own recent state of mind, "why are some affected and others immune?"
She stared at me for a long and discomforting moment. "You don't understand," she said finally. "The virus affects the brain. In every case. The differences only lie in the severity of the psychosis, the amount of time involved in the alteration of the individual's brain chemistry, and how resistant you are to your particular brand of dementia."
"So, you're saying that insanity is inevitable?" I didn't like this at all.
"By your definition? No. But every functioning human being is heir to various mental aberrations—most of us just fall into the so-called normal range. Haven't you heard that there isn't one person who couldn't benefit from a little analysis?
"But the virus does seem to work most frequently in lowering the mental barriers between the conscious and the unconscious areas of what we call the mind. It makes the host more susceptible to certain forms of suggestion, irrational belief systems, perhaps even racial memories."
"So," I steepled my fingers, "if I were a devout Catholic and I woke up in my coffin shortly after my funeral, I would have an incapacitating terror of crucifixes, communion hosts, and holy water?"
She nodded. "The Church has deeply ingrained prejudices concerning vampires and the Powers of Darkness."
"Apparently it works both ways." I thought about the power of the mind over the human body. About how a few, special test subjects under hypnosis would display bruises, cuts, burns, various bodily stigmata produced by a belief in an injury that only existed in their minds. Was it any great leap to imagine a vampire's belief that he couldn't cross another's threshold unless specifically invited to do so?
"What about mirrors?" I asked. "Why don't vampires cast reflections?"
"That's a little more difficult to explain."
"Try."
"I'm not sure you're ready."
"Try anyway."
"Well," she hunched her shoulders. "As I said, the virus affects the brain, alters the brain's chemistry—possibly reconstructing certain neural pathways in the process. This is difficult to prove as there are no remains—ergo, no brain—to dissect following a wampyr's death."
"Cat scans? MRI's?"
She shook her head. "Electromagnetic radiation, whether it's in the visible spectrum or not, is harmful to vampiric flesh. Which reminds me, you should probably avoid using microwave ovens or sitting too close to the TV."
"You're kidding."
She wasn't. "Under these limitations, we can only postulate."
An unpleasant thought occurred: "Or open up a vampire's skull while it is still alive." Or undead. Or whatever.
Mooncloud squirmed. "Vivisection of the undead has been—documented. But, even without such extreme proofs, the evidence of changes to the brain are undeniable."
"So you're saying that the absence of a mirror image is due to the psychosis?"
"No. There are other mental changes, as well." She looked back at the door, again. "Have you ever noticed how the Doman rarely has to summon someone he wants to speak with?"
It took me a moment to understand the question. Then I remembered how Suki had shown up unexpectedly to finish my initial tour of the castle. "Telepathy?"
"Not just telepathy, but other psionic talents as well. You've read about the vampire's ability to cloud men's minds? Or dominate them?"
"So the vampire either consciously or unconsciously blocks the perception of his reflection in the mirror? For himself and anyone else within mental range?"
Mooncloud clapped her hands. "Very good, Mr. Csejthe! I had to explain the concept to Stefan twice before he could grasp the basic theory. You are—"
"If one more person says that I'm a quick study, I'm going to belt them!" I propped up my chin with my right hand. "So, are the vampire's psionic abilities standard equipment or wild card?"
"Wild card. Which brings us back to the conclusion that this is a mutative viral agent. While there is a set range of effects, different hosts manifest different degrees of strengths and weaknesses."
"So why have my mutations stopped?"
"Well, they haven't. Exactly."
I leaned forward. "Well, what have they? Exactly?"
"Well, in some areas, such as strength, reflexes, and the enhanced spectrum of your five senses, the mutation seems to be going forward—although it has slowed recently. In other areas, such as the development of fangs and anticoagulants in your saliva, you don't appear to have even begun the processes. Strange, though—"
"What?"
"You have developed rudimentary clotting sacs. . . ."
"What?"
"They're small sacs that form beneath the tongue that exude a clotting agent when the vampire is done feeding. It closes the wound and speeds healing."
"How nice."
"Not if you're suckered in by Hollywood's version of the mythos. All those movies where the vampire bites the victim's neck and the victim survives? That's all poppycock. The most potent clotting enzymes won't seal a torn jugular vein in time. A vampire goes for the throat with the intent that his victim not survive. Otherwise, he must feed on the less volatile blood vessels. This would especially be true in your case." She glanced at her watch. "I have a meeting with Stefan."
"Just one more question, Doctor."
"Yes?"
"Why?"
"Why?" she echoed.
"Why? Why am I turning into a vampire and why am I stuck halfway in between?"
She rose from her chair. "That's two questions. And I still don't know the answer to either." She walked around the table and paused by the door. "During our next session, I'll use hypnosis to regress you to the time you passed through Weir. Perhaps the answer lies there."
"Why can't we just do it all at once and get it over with?"
"The Doman insists on being present, now, and he can't make time until tomorrow night."
There was something in her eyes. "And?"
"And your blood pressure goes through the roof every time we approach that period under hypnosis," she said reluctantly. "We're spacing the sessions out to give your body a chance to recover."
She yanked open the door and Elizabeth Bachman practically stumbled into her arms.
"There you are, Chris," Bachman gushed as she pirouetted around Dr. Mooncloud. "I've been looking all over for you!"
"Me?" I looked at Mooncloud who offered a warning glance as she turned and headed out the door.
"You! It's time we checked you out for that position I was thinking of!"
"I thought the Doman was dead set against my leaving the premises," I said as we exited the elevator.
"He doesn't want you leaving the building unescorted," Bachman answered, slipping her arm through mine. "We've made some security arrangements and he's approved them."
"Security arrangements?"
"The Doman believes New York still wants to acquire you, but Damien and I should be more than enough to handle anything unhuman that might come along. And in your enhanced condition as a—what? Semi-vampire?"
I shrugged but silently promised to bite the next person who used that term.
"You should be able to handle anything human, as well." She smiled. "You nearly hospitalized a busboy and two of the cooks the other night. Deirdre is still sporting a shiner and, wonder of wonders, you actually gave Damien a split lip!" She laughed. "I'm sure you can take care of yourself if you're really threatened.
"Besides, since you're here, you no longer pose a threat to the greater Undead community. There's no logical reason to want you dead—no 'un' attached."
"So what do they want?"
"They probably want to recruit you for their own research purposes. Which means they wouldn't want to actually harm you."
"You sound as if you wouldn't mind."
She hugged my arm even tighter. "Oh, I'd mind! I want you all to myself, remember?"
Sigh.
"Anyway, cars come and go from our underground garage all the time. We'll take a limo with tinted glass so no one can see who's inside."
"Won't that arouse suspicions if Fantasies is actually staked out?"
"You watch too many cop shows. I use this particular limo every Saturday night."
We arrived at my door. "Should I dress formal or casual?"
"Invite me in and I can help you select your wardrobe."
I smiled and chucked her gently under the chin. "Ah, but then we'd only end up being late, wouldn't we?"
She sighed. "True. Dress casual. I'll meet you in the garage in ten minutes."
Whew. I let myself in as she walked on down the corridor.
My night vision had developed to the point that I almost forgot to turn on the lights. Visual acuity into the infrared and ultraviolet spectra, however, makes for poor color coordination when you're dressing.
I was belting on a pair of tan Dockers when I noticed the piece of paper lying on my bed.
It was folded, with my name written on the outside. Inside was a note, written in a shaky, ballpoint scrawl: I had to decipher as much as read it.
Darling—
It said.
Kirsten and I are alive! There is no time to explain right now! You are in danger!
The people you are with are not your friends! Destroy this note when you have finished reading it! Tell no one that you have further cause to believe I am alive!
You must escape!
I cannot come to you, again; you must come to us! When you do, our friends will help us start a new life!
I love you, darling, and Kirsten misses her Daddy! You must try to get away, soon!
Love,
Jennifer
Below that, in a childish scrawl was:
I love you, Daddy—please come soon!
Love,
Kirsten
I looked around wildly and ran through the rooms, throwing open closet doors as if I might find—what? More messages? Evidence of its authenticity? My dwindling rationality? Only the solidity of the paper in my hand had any palpable reality in this terrible moment.
But the message rang a false note.
I stared at the handwriting, trying to remember if there was anything distinctive about Jenny's style. A year had passed, my memory dimmed, and Kirsten might be a year older in her own still-developing penmanship. . . .
A cold chill had permeated my body and now I felt the first flush of a white-hot core of anger. Jenny never signed her notes to me as "Jennifer." It was always "Jenny" or, more frequently, "Jen." If this was a trick, a false lure, it was unimaginably cruel and sadistic.
If it was, I would find out who—and kill them.
If—
I opened a dresser drawer. I refolded the note and slipped it inside one of the socks at the bottom of the pile.
Destroy the note? Not bloody likely!
I dressed in a furor, visions of carnage playing in my head.
If—
But, if it were true, then maybe I was in peril from the people who claimed to protect me. . . .
The Doman had warned me about the bloodlust, the appetite for violence.
He had neglected to mention the paranoia.
I should have expected the first assault.
Damien was up front, driving. Bachman pressed a button and suddenly a tinted glass partition slid up between the front seat and the passenger area where we were sitting.
"I like a little privacy," she said, snuggling next to me.
"Ms. Bachman—"
"Call me Liz." She pouted. "You've probably heard all sorts of nasty little stories about me by now. Well, some of them are true—the best ones, anyway." She smiled. Her teeth were very white, very sharp. "They've probably tried to scare you away from spending time with me because they think I'm a bad influence." She squirmed a little closer, a feat I hadn't thought possible. "Maybe I am. But you strike me as the kind of man who knows his own mind."
I had nothing to say, my mind was still on the note in my room.
And upon the deadness of my own heart.
What if? Jenny and Kirsten were a year dead in my mind, less than six months in my heart. But, searching my feelings, I was troubled to find that resurrecting their bodies might prove easier than resurrecting my feelings. I still missed them. But the passion had evaporated at some point, leaving only a hollow shell of longing. This, more than any other aspect of my transformation so far, marked me for the monster I was becoming.
Bachman leaned into my thoughts, her breath warm upon my neck. I flinched.
"Don't worry, I won't bite—yet," she said. "We'll keep your precious blood pure for awhile longer. But there are other things I can do for you in the meantime. . . ."
"Such as?" I regretted the words even as they were coming out of my mouth.
"Oh . . . well, for instance, you need someone to show you the ropes. I know the ropes. I can show you some rope tricks, as well. . . ."
She saw the expression of distaste on my face and moved back a bit. "Chris," she said in a more sober voice, "you are coming into a condition of power. It is a power I have, as well. I can teach you how to deal with it, how to wield it. How to profit from it. Your unique status also gives you potentials for power that none of the rest of us have. I can help you exploit it."
"How?"
"You need a friend."
"I thought the Doman and his people are all my friends," I baited.
"You can't be too sure of who your friends really are, my dear Christopher."
Damn straight.
"For example—" she lowered her voice "—Mooncloud and Garou are two that you must be especially careful of."
"Oh?" I lowered my voice to match hers. "Why?"
"The Doman suspects that at least one among us is a warlock."
"Warlock?"
"An oath-breaker, not a male witch."
"I know the etymology of the word. You're saying the Doman suspects a traitor?"
She nodded. "A double agent, possibly working for the New York enclave. And, very possibly, more than one."
"And he suspects Taj and Lupé?"
"He doesn't speak openly of this to anyone. He would be very angry if he discovered that you had been told of this. I'm telling you because I think you have a right to know. I'm telling you because this knowledge may save your life someday. I'm telling you this because, all flirting aside, I want to be your friend. And the day may come when you have to make a split-second decision: if you don't know who your friends are by then, it could be too late!"
"So tell me about Taj and Lupé."
She did.
There wasn't much to tell, all in all.
Just that both Luis and his sister were outsiders and recent additions to the Doman's "family." Both were less than enthusiastic about some of the demesne's policies and Lupé, especially, was considered to be somewhat of a malcontent.
Dr. Mooncloud was not only a medical doctor, she confirmed, but an Amerind shaman or witch doctor, as well. What tribe? Bachman wasn't sure. All existing paperwork and records regarding the good doctor—including her birth certificate and social security number—were not only contradictory but apparent forgeries, as well. And most damning of all: the opportunity to join them as a fellow vampire had been proffered on more than one occasion and Taj Mooncloud had turned them down each time.
By the time we pulled into the TV station parking lot, Liz Bachman had only provided me with rumor and innuendo. But then, hard evidence would have made this conversation moot long before it ever began, anyway.
The tinted glass partition came down as the limousine pulled into a reserved parking slot.
"We weren't tailed," Damien announced, watching me carefully in the rearview mirror. "The coast appears to be clear but I'll walk you to the door, anyway."
"Fine," my companion said. "We can't be too careful these days."
Amen to that.
Elizabeth Bachman reclined on the red velvet couch in a pose reminiscent of Theda Bara's Salome. Bara wore surprisingly little in that 1918 film and, in much the same tradition, neither did Bachman.
Her long black gown was ankle-length but slit to the hip and then some, displaying long legs that scissored invitingly. "The neckline" should have been renamed "the waistline" considering where it finally ended up. Bachman's bosom played hide and seek among the thin swatches of fabric as she moved, spending more time seeking than hiding. It was all I could do to keep from calling out: Alley, alley oxen-free-o.
The long black wig covering her blond hair, together with the black dress and Nefertiti eye makeup conspired to imitate Morticia Addams and Elvira, as I had suggested a couple of nights earlier. But only for a moment. Both were caricatures that spoofed that yin and yang gestalt where sex and death meet on common ground.
Elizabeth Bachman was the real thing.
The floor manager cocked his head listening to the voice in his earpiece. "Okay, people: coming out of commercial in three—two—" He mouthed "one" and stabbed a finger at camera two.
"Well, darlings," Bachman cooed, pouting toward the lens of the middle TV camera, "I hope you enjoyed tonight's Creature Classic: Robot Monster. If you think it's the worst movie ever committed to film, then you must tune in again, next Friday night, when we scream—I mean, 'screen'—the most horrible horror movie of them all. Yes, maybe you've seen monster movies that left you badly frightened . . . but next week we'll be showing the movie that won the Golden Turkey Award for being frighteningly bad! I'm talking about Plan 9 From Outer Space! That's right, the film that was so awful it killed Bela Lugosi! Find out why on the next episode of 'Lilith's Strokes of Midnight.'
"Goodnight, my lovelies!" She blew a kiss. "Sleep tight! Don't let the vampires bite!" She opened her mouth to show her fangs and hissed at the camera. The hiss turned into a sultry laugh and she ran a long, red fingernail down her chest, leaving a small trail of blood between her breasts.
The floor manager drew a finger across his throat indicating the microphones were now dead. "Cue the music," he said and pointed to camera three. The red active light winked on above camera three. "Rolling credits," the floor manager announced. "Fade to black in three—two—one! All right, folks; we're clear."
As the cameras were trucked back and the crew began dismantling the set, he turned to Bachman. "Lizzie, the director wants to see you in the booth."
She nodded, pulled the black-tressed wig off, and crooked a finger at me. "Come on, honey. Time to get your foot in the door."
I followed her up a half flight of stairs and over to a small room that housed a switching console and a soundboard. The switcher and the soundman were on their way out as we entered.
The director was a small, snakelike man with receding black hair that looked even less substantial as he wore it slicked back and gathered into a questionable samurai-do. His face was pinched and predatory, and his pencil-thin mustache didn't do anything to detract from the Ratso Rizzo effect.
"Liz, baby!" His voice was friendly and a shade deferential, but his cold and beady eyes gave the lie to his smile and tone. Oily was the operative term here, and this guy would make the Exxon Valdez look environmentally safe.
"Jonny, I want you to meet Chris Csejthe," Bachman said, grasping my arm and pulling me forward.
"Gesundheit." Ratty sniggered and offered his hand. I took another step forward, but he turned the gesture into an offhand wave and turned back to Bachman.
"Lizzie, hon; the blood thing was a nice effect—very realistic." His eyes traced the scarlet thread that wended its way down her torso. Just now it was disappearing beneath the nadir of her décolletage.
"Thanks."
"But that's just the problem. . . ." His gaze remained at half-mast. "You know the station manager and the sponsors raise hell when you go too far. You're supposed to get prior approval before you pull any of those kinky special effects." His eyes seemed to be calculating the continuing path of the trickle beneath the black material.
"Now, Jonny," she purred, "you know it's my kinky special effects that have given this dead-end time slot a higher audience cume than most of your prime time shows. It's what gives me the power to do the show live and the clout to drag all your sorry asses in here at midnight every Friday to assist me." Her voice hardened. "Assist me, capeesh?"
Now his eyes were back up where they belonged and her voice and demeanor softened. "I would like you to hire Mr. Csejthe for my crew," she continued.
"Your crew?"
Her expression seemed to exert an even greater calming influence on the ratty little man. When he opened his mouth again, his tone was more respectful but he said: "Sweetheart, you know I ain't got any openings at the moment."
Bachman started to speak, hesitated, smiled, and then suggested that I be given an employment form to fill out—just in case.
The little man swallowed and nodded, and in no time we were back in her dressing room where she began removing her makeup.
"It's so hard to get good help these days," she sighed as she traced the black eyeliner with an industrial-sized Q-tip. "Did you see any crew position that you particularly liked?"
I shrugged. "Other than writing scripts, the only job I might be qualified for here would be sound man." I jammed my hands into my pockets and watched her closely. "And that position is already filled."
It was her turn to shrug. "There's always some kind of turnover on the night crew. I wouldn't be surprised if Harry—that's the sound guy—were to just up and take off for parts unknown this very week." She lined up twenty cotton balls next to the cold cream jar and began scrubbing at her shaded eyelids.
I decided that I wouldn't be too surprised if Harry were to suddenly up and disappear, too.
Bachman pouted when I announced that I was going to wait outside in the limo with Damien; she was just getting ready to change.
It was a short, well-supervised stroll from the backstage door to the parking lot and the waiting limousine where Damien was keeping watch.
If anything, I mused, Damien's real purpose here tonight was probably to insure that I didn't try to make a break for it. But, I tried not to think on that. Or on the note I had found in my room this evening. Instead, I intended to enjoy the moment and a hundred feet of outdoor sidewalk with no one breathing down my neck for a change.
I paused as the heavy security door banged shut behind me and savored the night air. But only for a moment: an inversion layer was trapping light wisps of fog close to the ground and, with it, the perfume of a thousand cars, trucks, and busses. Still, it was an outdoorsy smell, and while I took care to breathe less deeply, I still enjoyed the change from the filtered and conditioned air of the Doman's forced hospitality.
As I turned and caught sight of the dark, brooding silhouette of the waiting limo, I caught another scent on the night air. Cigarette smoke. It suddenly occurred to me that, after many years of abstinence, I could take up a long denied and guilty pleasure again with no fear of lung cancer or emphysema.
Suck blood, blow smoke . . . trade-offs.
"Hello, there."
I turned toward the voice and found the source of the cigarette smoke.
A hooker or a stagedoor groupie or maybe both, was loitering just a few yards away, smoking the last of a cigarette. Taking one last drag, she dropped the butt on the sidewalk and ground it out with an ankle-top boot with a three-inch heel.
As she moved toward me I experienced that curious sensation again where time seemed to perceptibly slow and all my senses seemed abnormally heightened.
Although it was still summer and the night had started off balmy, this was the Pacific Northwest and around two-thirty in the morning. The brunette was wearing a black leather jacket, but it gaped open to reveal attire more appropriate for warmer weather or private parties. Hooker, I decided as she sashayed toward me in slow motion. She was dressed in biker-chic, wearing a black leather miniskirt that matched her jacket down to the handcuffs-motif and a black, lacy bra that seemed at least one size too small. My skin was prickling now; I felt flushed and feverish.
It was happening again! That same hormonal surging that I had felt the night before last while watching the dancers, was back and steadily building into a tidal wave of hunger. I had never been the kind of man to gawk when an attractive woman walked by, but now I was staring shamelessly. At the swell of lace-capped bosom, at the flash of sleek legs disappearing up into the shadowy hollow of leather, at the twitch of firm abdominals with the winking eye of a navel peeking over the top of the silver-chased belt buckle. Looking at these sliding, shifting, quivering expanses of smooth flesh, I was nearly overwhelmed by the need to touch, to taste. . .
Dear God!
It wasn't sexual hunger that was causing my body to ache and burn and throb. It was a hunger for elemental sustenance, pure and simple! I no longer saw an attractive member of the opposite sex coming toward me but food—warm and succulent, firm and tasty.
It was the bloodlust that the Doman had warned me about.
My nostrils flared, picking up the scent of perfume. But underneath I smelled the more compelling aroma of musk and sweat and blood that is the natural fragrance of the body. Saliva began to pool in my mouth.
And then I remembered that I had no fangs. Even if I wanted to give in to the maddening urge to open her throat and drink, I had no means of doing so!
The ache pulsed through my body, ice-picked into my brain. I turned with a sob and ran for the sanctuary of the limousine.
There was a shout behind me. But I was nearly blind and deaf now, all my senses turned inward, focusing on an aching emptiness demanding to be filled. I stumbled against the side of the car and yanked on the passenger door. As the door flew open rough hands grasped my arms and shoulders. I was wrestled away from the car, but not before the dome light came on, illuminating a grisly scene. The rotting remains of a human corpse occupied the driver's seat, held upright by a large wooden stake that transfixed the sternum with the point emerging from the rear of the upholstery.
I managed to shrug off one of my attackers and was just turning my attention to the other two when the hooker in leather stepped up and pushed a potholder for chicken cacciatore in my face.
At least that was my impression just before my head exploded and my eyes turned inside out. Then my legs fell off.
All that I could feel now was the viselike grip of other hands pinning my arms behind me and the hailstorm that had suddenly opened up inside my head.
There was a sensation of movement, though I could not have said whether it was up, down, forward, sideways, or backward. Slowly, my eyes started to pop back into their rightful position and I began to distinguish alternating yellow slashes against a black background. Parking slot lines on blacktop, I decided as we finally reached our destination: another limo on the far side of the parking lot. The trunk lid was popped open and I was heaved up and into the car's cavernous boot. After a lifetime of conventional transportation I was getting two limo rides in one night—how lucky can a guy get?
I moved my head a little, praying that it wouldn't roll off my neck again. Good news: it didn't and, looking down, my legs still appeared to be attached to my body. I looked back up in time to see the sweep of approaching headlights illuminate the trunk lid.
"Here," said a female voice, "if there's trouble, you know what to do. The Doman says we either bring him in or see to it that Pagelovitch doesn't get him back."
There was trouble: all hell broke loose just ten seconds later. There was screaming. There was yelling. There was the sound of things breaking: metal things, glass things, flesh and bone things.
Then a man was bending over me, a switchblade in his hand. Cleverly, I countered with a forearm block. Stupidly, my arm refused to obey my brain and merely twitched.
Then the man was gone, propelled up and over the trunk lid by a white-gloved hand upon his shoulder.
But not before he had brought the blade around in a sweeping arc, slicing through my throat.
As I was drowning in my own blood, I looked up into an increasingly familiar face just before the darkness rolled up and over my own.