Original art by Rob Pegler.
Chapter 1
A few years ago in Roseburg, a vampire got mugged. I mean, that's what it's come to.
It happened in the Meadows, on one of the walkways near the museum. A girl was out walking just after dark, and this vampire—an outcast, one of those scraggly little scavengers that the clans won't take in—was stalking her. She led him down through the Bicentennial Walk, and just as he was getting ready to make his move, four boys came out of the bushes with bats and hammers and blindsided him. Didn't kill him, they just beat the unliving shit out of him, took his jacket and boots. Knocked his fangs out, too. The girl joined in.
They used to be masters of the night. Terrors lurking in the shadows. People in this town used to huddle in their beds while the vampires came out to play. But it seems like the more they entrenched themselves, the more their let their numbers swell, the more they became just another reality of urban life. They formed themselves into clans, established their territories and their chains of command, concerned themselves with mundane matters like money, real estate, city politics. They started to have their own street gangs, their own dealers and fences and hookers, their own outcasts and misfits. They went native, got themselves bogged down in the human world.
Roseburg now has the largest ratio of vampires to humans in the world, from the most powerful clan boss to the lowliest outcast. Most are still feared, a few are dreaded. Some just get jumped for their boots.
But they still need hunting.
My name is Meliad. I've been hunting vampires—among other things—for more than sixty years. Truth be told, I work more in a support capacity and leave most of the actual hunting to my employers, but I'm a lot more experienced at it than they are so I've got a lot of support to offer.
Right now, I work for Gabriel Pope.
The window shattered outwards, into the alley. It was three storeys up and the shards of glass came down like a crystal rain, spinning and tumbling their way towards the dirty cement below. By the time they were halfway to the ground, the body coming through the window had already hit the fire escape on the far side of the alley, grabbing the railing with pale bloodied hands. He was over the railing when the glass hit bottom, shattering again into thousands of smaller pieces, and before they'd stopped dancing on the cement he was running, powering up the diagonal ladder that led to the next landing. He paused briefly to look back, fierce red eyes gazing at the blackness of the empty window frame.
He grinned wildly, all fangs and spittle, and launched himself upwards.
Gabriel Pope came through the window a second later. He was six feet and two inches of lean muscle, but the window was a tall one and he barely had to pause on his way through. Most people would have paused anyway, jumping out a third-story window, but Gabe just planted his foot on the sill and took off into space. He lacked the agility of his quarry but it was a short jump, not more than six foot two itself, and although he only managed to grab the fire escape with one hand and hung there for a second, three floors above the cement where the glass was settling, he quickly got a grip on the railing and dragged himself over. Barely noticing that he'd torn his pants and gashed his shin on the landing, he started up the ladder in pursuit.
Now, sixty plus years is a long time to be in any job, so as you'd expect I've picked up a few things. I know a lot about how vampires operate, how they act and how they think. I know what scares them, what hurts them and what kills them, and a few things that do all three. I also know the things that don't do any of the above. And more importantly, I know the things that people think they know. The misconceptions and rumours, the legends and the lies. The things that are only half-true.
For your information and personal safety, I present them to you. Eleven little bits of incomplete or misquoted vampire lore that could use a little clarification. Eleven myths about vampires.
The fire escape was old and noisy, and he knew from the ruckus above that he wasn't more than two landings behind, but vampires are fast and this one had a good head start. Once he made it to the rooftops he'd be harder to catch, quicker over short distances and able to jump alleys a lot wider than six foot two. Gabe had to either stop him or slow him down, and to do either one he had to get a clear shot.
He was one landing from the top, legs burning and hands stinging on cold hard metal, when he heard the vampire scrambling over the stone parapet onto the flat roof of the building. Throwing himself forward as hard as he could, Gabe reached the last ladder and practically jumped up it, rolling over the stone blocks, boots striking gravel. The vampire was already fifteen metres away, halfway to the other side, and as Gabe caught his balance he was reaching for a weapon. He had plenty to choose from—the leather harness strapped around his torso was hung with just about everything you could ever want for vampire-killing and a few things besides. But the target was out of throwing distance and still moving fast, so when his hand came up it was holding a revolver.
The revolver was old, an heirloom in fact, but still in excellent working order. No sooner was the running vampire lined up in the sights than the muzzle was spitting out a .455 calibre bullet, the hollow point filled with iron, that streaked across the rooftop towards the vampire's back.
This isn't so much a myth as a misrepresentation, but it's first on the list because it's one of the things everybody knows—or thinks they know—about vampires. They don't get any older and they can survive injuries that would kill most humans so, if we're to believe the hype, they never die. That's probably the biggest selling point for vampirism—nobody aspires to a nocturnal lifestyle and a severe garlic allergy, but being young and strong and pretty forever? Now that's a sales pitch.
Except it's not true. Yes, it's theoretically possible for a vampire to keep going indefinitely, and the smart or lucky ones can last for decades or even centuries past a natural human lifespan. But it seldom works out that way. "Forever" is one hell of a long time, and the life—or unlife—of a vampire is a pretty rough road. As tough as they are, they can be killed and, in the end, they almost always are.
For one thing they can't survive direct sunlight, so just being outside is fatal to them more or less fifty per cent of the time. Add the fact that they're a naturally ambitious and competitive species who know a lot about administering violence, and their survival rate gets even slimmer. Wars and blood feuds are as natural to them as not breathing, as is killing each other for personal gain. They respect seniority above all else, which means the easiest way to get ahead in vampiric society is to make sure you're the oldest vampire in the territory, and there's really only one simple way to do that. And then there's us—the hunters, picking them off wherever we can.
I hate to spoil the fun, kids, but the pitiful irony is that most vampires probably would have lived longer if they'd stayed human.
The bullet took the vampire across the left side, cracking a rib and tearing out a chunk of flesh. He went down hard, his left shoulder striking first before the rest of him caught up, and his momentum kept him sliding for almost a foot, face grinding into the gravel.
Gabe was already up and running by then, because a wound like that was just an inconvenience to a vampire, iron-tipped bullet or not. He needed to catch up before the beast recovered.
The vampire was already getting up—too quick, much too quick—one foot under him, scrambling around to meet the hunter coming in for the kill. Gabe got a image of a broad craggy face, bloodied from the fall but still grinning, and red hair butchered short, but it was the clawed hand swinging up at his face that held his interest. The silver baseball bat strapped to the back of his harness was already out of its sheath, coming around in a diagonal downward swing, and when it met the vampire's arm coming up the impact almost stopped them both dead. The arm came off worse, muscles and tendons bruised by the impact even as the skin was scorched by the silver's touch. The vampire let out a yell, but the grin wouldn't budge from his face. Pushing off with his front foot, he came up from a kneeling position and stumbled backwards as Gabe recovered, moving forward to attack again. The vampire ducked, still off-balance, almost falling over, as the bat cleared the top of his head by a few inches. He righted himself and kicked, catching Gabe in the hip, hurling him to the ground.
The vampire straightened up, poking at his new bullet wound. He was big and stocky, a little shorter than Gabe, flabby to the eye but solid enough to take a beating. The sleeves were ripped off his t-shirt, the white-on-black design stained red with someone else's blood. His jeans below were dark blue and ratty. He wore no shoes, and his feet looked like he'd walked through a dump that day. His arms and neck were a mess of old scars. Some of them looked self-inflicted.
He was giggling under his breath as he prodded his side, the fabric sticking to the wound. "That fucking kicks, man." He was still giggling when Gabe lunged again, the fat end of the bat thrusting out to slam into the vampire's chest. The blow connected but he caught it in both hands, holding it firmly at his chest even as smoke began to wisp between his fingers.
"Whoooooooo!" he screamed, still gripping the bat while his hands blistered and burned. "Fuck yeah!"
Gabe frowned, but didn't have time to ponder the crazed behaviour of the undead. Still gripping the leather-bound handle of the bat, he turned sideways and drove his knee upwards, striking the silver shaft and knocking it free of the creature's hands. The bat bounced up to glance off the vampire's chin, distracting him long enough for Gabe to draw his gun again. The vampire twisted just in time, and the bullet that should have hit his chest sheared across his upper arm instead. His hand was already whipping out to send the gun flying, and before Gabe could recover the vampire's other hand caught him with a backhander that sent him reeling.
The grin had finally slid from the vampire's face, replaced with an indignant snarl. As he lumbered forward to follow up his assault on his sprawled opponent, he glanced to his right and saw a darting figure in green, four feet away and closing in. It was a girl, tall and lithe, wearing a green woolen coat over brown slacks. She ran on bare feet, moss-green hair whipping out behind her as she came. Her right arm was already swinging around towards his chest, and clutched in her hand was a long, sharp wooden stake.
Once again, not exactly a myth. It's more of an over-specification.
There are all kinds of ideas flying around about stakes. They have to be made from certain woods or metals, they have to be blessed or come from a particular tree, they have to go right through and pin the vampire to the ground. Then there's the legends which say that staking isn't enough, you have to burn him or dismember him or cut off his head with a gravedigger's shovel. And so on.
There are grains of truth in all of this, but what you need to know breaks down thus: To take out a vampire you have to kill the heart, kill the brain, or sever the connection between the two. Decapitation is your most reliable method—even breaking the neck will get the job done if you cause enough spinal damage—but hitting the heart is usually simpler. As for the stakes, that was probably just a matter of practicality—a few thousand years ago, a sharp wooden stick was the easiest stabbing weapon to come by. It's true that certain substances do more harm to vampires—silver or iron especially—but as long as you do enough damage to the weak spots, it doesn't really matter what tools you use.
Some of us still like to use wooden stakes, of course. But we have our own reasons.
The vampire reacted instinctively, bringing a forearm up in a blocking maneuver. It stopped the woman's blow just short of his chest, and he let out a little hiss as the sharp point of the stake pricked the skin just over his heart. His other hand shot up to snap around her slender wrist, twisting and dragging it downwards. The woman let out a short cry, more angry than hurt, as she was dragged off-balance. Just before her knees hit gravel the vampire grabbed a handful of her hair and twisted her head back. A second later his craggy face filled her vision, fetid breath filling her nostrils. He inhaled deeply.
"Dryad," he breathed, as if recalling a familiar and welcome scent. "I've tried dryad."
The dryad's delicate mouth twisted into a snarl, and the vampire just had time to remember she still hand a free arm before her bony elbow slammed up into his groin. He doubled up and staggered backwards, almost falling over. The dryad fell forward, catching herself on one hand as he released his grip. "Keep trying," she spat.
Before he could recover she was on her feet, coming in fast. He swung a clumsy claw to fend her off, but only managed to turn the stake aimed at his chest. It caught him in the side instead, going in deep. Roaring like a bull, he swung back at elbow that caught the dryad across the forehead and she spun away from him. She kept her grip on the stake as she fell, wrenching it downwards to snap off in the wound.
By then Gabe was on his feet again, catching up the revolver as he advanced across the roof. Burnt, battered, gunshot and with a chunk of wood in his side, the vampire began to realise the odds were not on his side. Flashing the charging man a sharp-toothed grin, he turned and launched himself into a jump, clearing several metres of gravel and coming down awkwardly on the parapet at the other end of the roof. He barely kept his balance long enough to jump again, springing out into empty air.
Nope.
I mean, there are legends. Supposedly there's a breed of South American vampires called Civateteo who can "ride the wind," but nobody's ever confirmed that they exist. There's also stories about vampires who can turn into animals, or have animal characteristics, like the Baital or Chupacabra. But it's all speculation. There are currently nine known species of vampire around the world, and as far as we know not one of them can fly under their own power.
But jumping? Oh, hell yes. They sure can jump.
Even before he reached the edge of the roof, Gabe knew he wouldn't be able to follow. There was a wider street on this side of the building, and no way down the five storeys to the ground. He got to the parapet just in time to see the vampire hit the wall of the four-storey building opposite, almost twenty metres away. He took the brunt of the impact on his left arm and shoulder, dropping almost a whole floor to the long balcony beneath him. He fell as he landed, rolling awkwardly on the cement, and as he scrambled back to his feet Gabe saw him tucking his left arm in, as if it were dislocated or broken. Gabe raised the revolver in both hands and fired off two rounds, but the vampire was already crashing through a set of French doors behind him, vanishing into the darkness of the room beyond.
"Shit," said Gabe, with feeling.
Holstering the gun, he turned and started back towards the green-haired dryad, painfully rising to her feet. "Still with us, Mel?"
Meliad looked back at him through her hair, gingerly rubbing the red mark on her forehead where the vampire's elbow had connected. "Him," she growled, "we don't like."
Gabe glanced back towards the parapet. "I've got a feeling we're going to like him a lot less," he agreed. "Have to catch him first, though."
"Don't worry." Mel straightened up, brushing her hair back, and raised her other hand. She was still clutching the jagged broken end of the stake. "I got him."
A harsh white light fell across her face. Turning to squint into it, she found herself staring at a shaking flashlight from the fire escape. "Show me your hands!" barked a voice.
Mel sighed and turned away from the light, still rubbing her forehead. "Show him your hands, Gabe."
"Police!" the voice yapped. "I'm not gonna tell you aga-"
Gabe raised his hands. "Get that light out of my face, for Christ's sake."
The flashlight wavered, then slowly lowered. The pink breathless face of a Roseburg police officer stared out from beneath his cap, Glock held up in his other hand. "You're Pope, right?"
Gabe nodded wearily, still showing his hands. Behind him, Mel had sunk into a crouch.
"Uh . . ." The officer glanced back down the fire escape, clearly troubled by something. "We just . . . Inspector Cobb's on his way. He told us to secure the crime scene, and . . . uh . . ."
"Where's your partner?" Gabe asked.
"Back at the apartment," the cop told him, a gaunt look on his face. "He's, um . . . he was throwing up." He shook his head, as if trying to shake something out. "Look, Inspector Cobb said if you're still here, you need to wait. He wants to know what's . . . um, he wants to talk to you."
Gabe looked back over his shoulder. "Mel?"
Mel was sitting on her haunches, head bowed, eyes closed. She was still clutching the broken stake in her right hand. "I got him," she said softly. "He's still moving. Heading north."
Gabe chewed his lip. "Cobb's got half an hour," he told the cop. "Show me the crime scene."
Now, this one's just plain dangerous. A lot of people, even ones in the business, have met a sticky end because they assumed that the home is sacred and vampires can't cross the threshold without a "come on in." The truth of the matter is, your house may be your castle but unless it comes with a moat full of holy water, a vampire can break in just like any other prowler. The only reliable way to keep vampires out of your house is to have the ground consecrated. There are rituals you can perform yourself but it's best to have the job done professionally by a priest, rabbi or shaman. After that no vampire will be able to set foot on your patch without a charm given freely by you and with your blessing to enter.
In the old days people tended to be more devout—not to mention superstitious—and worked a lot harder at protecting their homes from the Things That Went Bump. It's possible that's where the "home is sacred" thing came from. But these days, they can break into most houses any time they want.
The second cop was in the hallway outside the apartment, gun in hand, leaning against the wall. His face was ashen, and he looked as if he was going to fall over. He didn't say a word as Gabe walked past him, passing through the splintered doorframe and into the apartment. Mel paused to whisper a few words to the cop, then led him away down the hallway to join his partner. He went without protest, dragging a shaking hand over his face.
Gabe had stopped in the living room. He'd passed through this room earlier, but that was at a run, with the laughing vampire ahead of him. The broken window to the alley was on the far side of the room. Here there was a lounge suite, plasma screen, photographs. A small kitchen area, meticulously tidy. Toys on the floor, beside trails of bloody footprints.
The master bedroom was down a short hall on his left. He'd glimpsed it, briefly, before giving chase. The door was ajar, and blood was smeared down the blue-painted woodwork. Looking around, he noticed the two other doors on the right side of the living room. One was painted bright yellow, a smiling paper clown hanging on the outside. One of the clown's legs had been pulled off and was sitting face down by the sofa. There was more blood on that door, a lot of it. The footprints led away from the door, towards the other bedroom.
Gabe leaned over, hands on his knees, letting his head drop. "Aw, fuck."
"My sentiments exactly."
Gabe lifted his head, and saw a brown corduroy coat by the door. The man inside it was about sixty, stocky, with a leathery face under a rumpled fedora. Gabe put the description together in his head. "You must be Cobb."
The old man walked into the room, hands in his coat pockets. His eyes were already moving, taking in details. They stopped on the yellow door with the mutilated clown.
"Yeah," he sighed, his face registering no emotion. "I must be."
Not exactly, but this idea does have some basis in fact.
According to vampiric folklore, their earliest ancestors were a hybrid of humans and other beings from beyond this physical plane. Exactly what these other beings were and what they wanted is the subject of much wild speculation, but the first vampires—whether they were just bastard offspring or deliberately reared for some purpose—were about the most demonic creatures the world has ever known. Winged, clawed and probably horned, they were hideous bloodthirsty beasts the like of we haven't seen in millenia, and we're better off for it.
But natural selection did its thing, and the monsters of old are long gone. What we know as "vampires" today are actually a sort of mutated spinoff, humans infected with a supernatural virus the monsters tainted your race with a long time ago. But are they evil, I hear you ask? Short answer: yes. To the extent that most of them are callous killers— and to be fair, they wouldn't last long otherwise—you can safely refer to them as evil beings.
But don't make the mistake of thinking the evil in them comes from some demonic influence. Whatever darkness dwells in the heart of a vampire, chances are it was already lurking down there when they were human, just waiting for a chance to blossom. Most vampires are only as bad as their existence demands. A lot of them only kill for survival. Some revel in the chase, make sport of it. Others barely give it a second thought.
Every now and then, though, you meet one of the special ones. The ones that even other vampires stay clear of.
The ones that turn slaughter into an art form.
It was twenty minutes later. The hallway was full of people, mostly cops, mostly there to keep the neighbours and photographers out. The few people inside the apartment were detectives and forensic investigators. Gabe and Mel were the exception.
They were standing by the broken window, watching the cops work. Cobb stood alongside them, nearer to Mel. She and the inspector hadn't spoken when she'd come back in, but Gabe had seen them touch hands. There was clearly some familiarity there, but this wasn't the time to think about it. He was watching cops put blood-soaked nightclothes into bags.
"He came in through the front door," Cobb nodded, looking at the splintered frame. "Didn't use much force, just pushed it until the lock broke. They all that strong?"
Mel turned and slowly sat on a cream-coloured armchair, near the TV. "Some of them are stronger."
Cobb grunted, and pointed towards the blue door. "I'd say he went to the parent's bedroom first. Didn't kill them right off. Tied them up first. Husband to the radiator, wife to the bed frame. Then he went to the kids' room."
Mel turned her head away, not wanting to look at the yellow door. The lab rats were going in and out of there, carefully, trying not to upset any evidence. Through the door, they could see blood on the walls.
"It was quick," said Cobb. "Well, relatively. Made a hell of a mess. Didn't drink any, though." Cobb glanced at Gabe, noticing the lack of expression. He hadn't seen a face like that on a man so young before, and it bothered him. Putting it aside, he turned back to the blue door. "Then he went back to the master bedroom. Looks like he did the wife first, took his time about it. Made the husband watch." He scratched his jaw. "Killing him was an afterthought." He looked around the living room. "Did you notice the mirrors? Broke every one in the apartment. They don't like mirrors, right?"
"No," said Gabe. "They don't."
"It's a bad one," Cobb went on. "I've seen their handiwork before, but this . . ." Leaning back on his heels, Cobb pulled his hat off and brushed back his thinning hair. Mel looked up with a frown, as if recognising the gesture.
"What are we thinking?" she asked.
"We're thinking . . ." Cobb looked up at the ceiling. "We're thinking sixty-three."
Mel closed her eyes. "I was afraid you'd say that."
Gabe looked around at both of them. "Sixty-three?" he frowned. "What? Sixty-three what?"
"Nineteen-sixty-three," Cobb explained. "There was a farm, down by Farwater. It's a textile factory now. Anyway, the farmer had a family. Wife, son, two daughters. They were Dutch, I forget the name, but-"
"Groesbeck," said Mel, looking at the floor.
"Yeah. Anyway, it's the same damn thing. Front door broken, parents tied up in the front room. They found the daughters side by side on the kitchen table. One of them . . ." Cobb faltered, his eyes moving over the detectives and investigators in the living room, the crimson-stained evidence bags. "Look, we're going through the motions here," he said, matter-of-factly. "But I already know how this is going to go. Unsolved, filed away. Sixty-three again." He looked up at Gabe. "You can find him?"
Gabe nodded towards Mel. "She can."
"Good." Cobb slipped his hat back on. "Go kill the fucker."
Chapter 2
Dominic and Holly had a routine.
Every afternoon at four, six days a week, Holly would arrive at the bar on Pavilion Street to start her shift. Dominic would already be there, having started at two. For the next eight hours they would serve drinks, fill bowls of nuts and mop up spilled beer, while Dominic tried to think of a way to tell Holly how he felt and Holly tried to think of a way to tell Dominic she wasn't interested. This would continue until they closed up the bar at midnight, at which point Dominic would give Holly a ride home, where her boyfriend would usually be waiting for her.
They'd been doing this for four months now.
Tonight didn't look like being much different. Ten past twelve found Holly standing in the small parking lot behind the bar, searching for a cigarette, while Dominic set the burglar alarm and worked the four different locks that their boss' paranoia had seen installed on the back door. As he got the padlock at the bottom in place, she was still rummaging through the canvas bag that hung on a long strap around her shoulders. She looked up as Dominic's hand appeared, holding a soft pack of Blue Royals. She took one with a half-hearted smile, keeping her eyes on the ground as he lit it for her. He fished one out for himself as they started across the lot to where he'd parked his Volvo, mainly to avoid speaking for the moment.
He'd already decided that before he dropped her off tonight, he was going to tell her. This was an extension of his earlier vow to tell her before closing time, made after he'd failed to make good on his intention of telling her as soon as she arrived for work. In a brief moment of steely resolve, he considered bringing it up as soon as they got in the car. But no, that would be weird, too out of the blue. It was a twenty minute drive to her place, giving him plenty of time to work up to it. Get to chatting during the trip and steer the conversation that way. Besides, there was probably something more poetic about saying it in the car outside her building, with her asshole boyfriend waiting for her upstairs. And if she threw it in his face—which he'd considered as a strong possibility—he'd rather she do it right before getting out of the car than have to sit there with it hanging in the air for . . .
Dominic stopped walking. Holly was no longer beside him.
Turning around, he saw her standing about ten feet behind him, arms folded against the chill. She was staring in the direction of the salon on the other side of the lot. There was an arched brick doorway at the back of the building, and as he followed Holly's gaze Dominic saw a huddled shape crouched underneath it. The man had his head down over his knees, and seemed to be cradling his left arm.
Glancing at Dominic, Holly started towards the doorway. He opened his mouth to protest but she was already on her way, calling out, "Hey! You okay?"
The man in the doorway lifted his head slightly.
Holly was about ten feet away from him now. Dominic had broken into a slow trot to catch up.
"Hey, man," said Holly, moving closer. "Are you hurt?" Her hand was already back in her jumbled bag, searching for her cellphone. "Do you want me to call-?"
Dominic barely saw the huddled man move and suddenly he was there, six feet from the door and right in Holly's face, right arm lashing around to grab her by the hair. She squealed and went into a crouch, trying to pull away, and Dominic was breaking into a run when the man turned and threw her, sending her crashing into the door underneath the arch. Dominic let out a yell as he saw her tumble to the ground, and the man seemed to notice him for the first time. A beefy arm shot out, catching Dominic in the ribs, and pain exploded through his torso. He started to fall but the man already had him by the neck, the same arm catching by the collar and wrenching him back off the cement. He came up retching blood and trying to scream, and he caught a lurching glimpse of Holly, lying crookedly on the ground with her long black hair across her face, and he felt teeth around his throat.
One of the more basic myths. If a vampire bites you and you live, you become a vampire. Simple.
Of course, there are all kinds of more complicated theories on this. You have to drink vampire blood after being bitten (or before), or it has to happen at a certain time or in a certain place or in a certain way. Back in the medieval days they had all kinds of ideas about unwed mothers and angry spirits and people who died unbaptized. Actually the simpler theory is closer to the truth, but it's a tricky process.
As powerful as the vampire virus is, it's also unstable. Something in its nature makes it burn itself out pretty quickly, and it can only take hold if your vital signs are weak enough. In short the vampire has to drain enough of your blood to leave you susceptible—"biting deep," as Vincent Price put it—but leave you with enough strength to ride out the transformation. Most people who are drained don't make it either way. In those cases where vampires try to deliberately turn people, there's about a forty per cent success rate. It almost never happens by accident.
Dominic was dead in less than ninety seconds. His heart stopped beating a full twenty seconds before the vampire stopped drinking. Neither of them knew it, but the vampire had saved him from a much longer and more agonizing death, with one end of a shattered rib puncturing his stomach. He hit the ground face-down, concealing the jagged mess to which his throat had been reduced.
The vampire staggered away from the corpse, wiping the back of his hand across his gory mouth. He sighed as he felt the warmth flooding through his stomach and chest, into his limbs, soothing his throbbing wounds and building his strength. The cuts and bruises would be gone by morning, as if they'd never been. The bullet wounds would take longer, but only a day or so, and might leave faint scars. But the arm, now that he was getting his strength back, needed seeing to. Moving to the wall, he turned and rested his back against the bricks while he gingerly tested the extent of the damage. His left shoulder had been badly dislocated by the impact, but nothing felt broken. Inhaling deeply, he gripped the shoulder in his other hand, held his breath, and pushed.
A loud bellow burst out of his mouth and bounced back off the walls around him as the bone ground its way back into the socket. Catching himself as his knees sagged, he slumped against the wall and let out a long sigh, carefully moving his arm around. It ached, but in an hour he wouldn't notice it at all.
Pushing away from the wall, he looked around the parking lot as if he'd forgotten something. His eyes wandered over Dominic's prone body without as much as a pause, and finally moved back to rest on Holly.
Aha.
He moved over to her, rubbing his grazed jaw—it no longer hurt, but still itched—as he looked the unconscious girl over. She was a little skinny, but her neck was long and delicate and she had skin the colour of buttermilk. He smiled, blood still caking on his lips, and took hold of a slender ankle to drag her out of the doorway. He wasn't hungry any more, but feeding on the stiff behind him had put the fire back in his belly, and he wanted something to play with. Rolling her onto her back, he took a moment to brush her hair back out of her face. It was jet black, straight and silky, and long enough to reach her shoulder blades. He remembered another girl, even younger than this one—ten years ago, maybe more—with hair like that. Hers had been longer, though, tied into a braid. He'd used it as a leash.
Smiling at the memory, he pushed the girl's jacket open and unceremoniously ripped the front off her shirt in a long jagged strip. Her bra was red, and that made him happy. He paused to admire the pattern on the lace.
Then he stopped, and slowly lifted his head. Someone was watching him.
He rose to his feet, half-turning to scan the parking lot behind him. And there, standing a few feet away, was another girl.
The vampire blinked. Some nights he couldn't find a sow for anybody's money. Now they were jumping out of the woodwork at him. He loved being back in the city.
He turned and moved towards her, studying her. She was tiny—five one at the most—with curly blonde hair cut just above her jawline. Her eyes were big and impossibly blue. She wore a sleek black coat over a dark blue suit. Her hands were in her coat pockets, and she was looking up at him without a hint of concern. Dominic's corpse on the ground beside her didn't seem to ruffle her one bit.
He stopped a foot away from her, looking her over. She gazed up at him—like sapphires, her eyes were—with a hint of a smile.
"Hello, Abel," she said.
The vampire smiled slowly. "Hey," he said with a grin, "I know you-"
They hit him from behind, dark-suited figures dropping from the roof of the salon. The first fired his taser as soon as he landed, hitting the vampire in the small of the back. The charge kicked in instantaneously, sending fifty thousand volts of electricity through his body. The vampire staggered, letting out a hoarse gasp, but was already lifting an arm to swat at the wires connecting him to his assailant. Quickly recovering as the darts ripped out of his back, he launched into a stumbling run before the man with the taser could reach for another weapon. The last thing he saw was the vampire's wild grinning face before a clawed hand caught him in the throat, ripping through flesh and tendons and arteries, almost tearing his head clean off. As the man fell . . .
Take your pick. Turn to dust? Burn up into ash? Melt? Explode? Leave a good-lookin' corpse? I've heard 'em all.
To understand what happens to vampires when they die, you have to understand what happens when they un-die. When you become a vampire you . . . stop. Your blood sticks, your heart freezes on its last beat. Your muscles and organs stop relying on things like oxygen, water and nutrients, and are directly stimulated by the demon virus that's infected you. Most importantly, you cease to age. Vampirism effectively puts you into a limbo state, suspending you between life and death for eternity—or, to refer back to Myth #1, until somebody pushes you the rest of the way.
And when that happens?
It all catches up. All the months and years since your "death," all the rotting and degrading and decomposing you've been missing out on, it all happens at once. The same way you can tell how old a felled tree was by counting the rings, you can get an idea of how old a dead vampire was by how much of him is left ten seconds after you put the stake in.
Well, nobody ever said hunting the undead was pleasant.
The vampire blinked, staring through bleary red eyes at his fallen opponent. The man with the taser was wasting away, flesh disintegrating, skin stretching over crumbling bone. Which meant . . .
His grin grew even larger, even wilder. He was being attacked by other vampires. What fun!
That was the thought in his head before two more attackers moved in, firing their tasers at almost the same moment. The electrodes caught him in the chest and hip, and he dropped, twitching, to his knees as the charge kicked in. Head swimming, he looked up to see the blonde girl moving toward him. He struck out blindly, and she hissed as his hand dragged down her arm, ripping away her coat sleeve, nails tearing long strips of flesh. The girl sneered and lifted her other arm to swing a downward punch. The vampire's head snapped around almost one hundred and eighty degrees as her small fist hit him like a sledgehammer. He slumped to the ground, finally laying still.
The men immediately closed in around him, producing shackles to bind his wrists and ankles. One of them lifted his head to drag a leather gag into place. The blonde woman turned away, examining her torn arm. She seemed more concerned with the damage to her coat than to her skin.
"You alright, Miss Volka?" one of the others called.
The woman turned, blue eyes turned to red as the glamour dropped. "I'm fine," she replied, without much conviction. "Make sure he's secure, then bring the van around." One of the men hurried away.
"What about Paulo?" asked the other.
The woman looked towards the pile of old bones that the dead vampire with the taser had become. "Careless," she muttered. "Make sure you bring his remains back to the house. Alexei will want them placed in the crypt."
The other vampire nodded. "And them?" His eyes indicated Dominic's body, and the still form of Holly near the doorway.
The woman barely spared them a glance. "Bring them along, too. We shouldn't leave evidence lying around." She was staring at the red-haired vampire in the shackles, still twitching in his sleep. "People will be looking for him."
"He stopped?" asked Gabe.
Mel nodded from the passenger seat, the broken stake in her hand. "A couple of miles north. Feels stronger. I think he's fed again."
"Shit." Gabe applied a little more pressure to the pedal. The dusty grey G-Series picked up speed, its elderly but well-maintained engine revving loudly. They were still moving more or less north, but using the van meant they had to follow as best they could on the jigsaw streets of downtown Roseburg while the vampire could cut straight across rooftops. Gabe hoped the extra speed would still allow them to head him off somewhere.
Something else was nagging at him, too. As he ignored a red light to drive straight across an empty intersection, he put it into words.
"So, how do you know Cobb?"
Mel shrugged. "He worked with your dad sometimes. Your grandfather, too."
Gabe nodded. That was the answer he'd expected—his father's journals had already told him that much. "It's just, back in the apartment, it seemed like you knew each other pretty well."
Mel glanced sideways at him. "Well, I've known him a long time. Met him in 1963, during the . . . Groesbeck thing. He was barely in uniform then." She was silent for a moment, watching the lamp-posts slide past. "Anyway, after he became a detective we worked together quite a bit."
Gabe nodded, his eyes on the road. "Uh-huh."
Silence reigned for two more lamp-posts, then Mel let out a sigh.
"We dated for a year. In '67. Of course, it wasn't called 'dating' back then. You kids and your slang . . ."
"You went out with a human." Gabe sounded shocked and impressed at the same time, like a kid who'd just found out his mother used to date rockstars.
"Well, you've got to try these things," Mel replied. "Anyway, it was a rough time."
Gabe caught the tone in her voice. 1967 was the year his grandfather Jericho had been killed. He decided to change the subject.
"How close are we?"
Mel bowed her head over the chunk of stake. "He's moving again. Turned west. But . . ."
"What?"
Mel opened her eyes. "I think something's happened to him."
Scarbrook was one of those suburbs that made you feel like you weren't quite good enough to live there. Not actually a gated community, it was nonetheless a broad expanse of large, expensive houses on sprawling lots, surrounded by high fences that made them little compounds unto themselves. It was the domain of big, loud, well-tailored men who ran their own businesses but fell just short of being truly wealthy, and their stunning wives who drove BMW's to the supermarket and worked hard at looking good in their tennis clothes. Vampires usually avoided it like the plague. It was the kind of neighbourhood that actually noticed when people went missing.
Utopia Lane was the longest street in Scarbrook, bisecting it like a spinal column. It was also the street with the largest houses, the highest fences and the most expensive cars. The other streets throughout the suburb all seemed to flow into it, both geographically and metaphorically. People in poorer neighbourhoods often dreamed of living in Scarbrook, but people in Scarbrook dreamed of owning a house on Utopia Lane.
Number 33 was the exception to this rule. At first glance it looked much like the other houses—a big, modern three-storey affair, gleaming white on landscaped grounds surrounded by a high wall made from irregular blocks of white stone. But if you watched the house for a while—or worse, lived next door—you noticed things. Like the gentlemen in dark suits wandering the grounds. The black vehicles that came and went at odd hours. The fact that the residents were never seen in daylight.
Utopia Lane being what it was, Number 33 was the subject of intense gossip, none of which was uttered out of doors. The popular theory was that the family who lived there were associated with organised crime. As appalled as the neighbours were, many of them found the idea terribly exciting.
It was a little after one in the morning when the black van pulled in through the front gate, cruising around the curving driveway and into the large garage. The garage was big enough to hold four such vans, and by an interesting architectural quirk it seemed to be sunken into the ground, lower than the rest of the house. The doors rolled shut behind the vehicle with a quiet hum.
Marina Volka alighted from the passenger side of the van, moving around the front to the other side. A short flight of steps and a large oak door joined the garage to the rest of the house, and it was here that Alexei was waiting for her. He was a tall, thin character, with lean features and pale delicate hands. He wore a stylish charcoal suit, and apart from his short white hair he looked no older than she was. His crimson eyes moved to her left arm as she approached. "You're hurt."
"Just a few scratches," she assured him, but his eyes were already on the van.
"And Abel?" he asked.
Scowling, Marina motioned to the driver standing nearby. He turned and rolled the side door open, and there—shackled, gagged and closely watched by two other vampires with guns -lay the bruised and blood-spattered heap of the captured vampire.
Alexei moved forward, brushing past Marina on the way, and ran a slender hand over Abel's rough scarred face. "Abel, Abel . . ." Alexei sighed. "What have you been up to?"
"He's killed one human for sure," Marina reported. "We'll probably hear about others." She lowered her eyes. "He killed Paulo, too."
Alexei turned his head slightly. "Oh, Paulo. That is a shame. Arrange to have his remains taken to the crypt, will you? We'll hold a memorial tomorrow night."
The captive twitched and grunted, and the guards tensed in response. "He'll be waking up soon, Mr Volka," one of them warned.
"Of course." Alexei looked back at Marina. "The cellar is ready. It won't be comfortable, but it should hold him for a couple of days. At least until we can arrange transportation back to the farm." He gently patted Abel's face. "Make sure he's safe and secure."
Marina looked towards the far end of the garage, where a heavy steel trapdoor was set into the floor. "Whatever you say, Alexei."
Alexei smiled, a little sadly. "I do wish you'd call me 'father,' Marina."
Technically, this is true. Vampires are perfectly capable of sex—not to mention rape—and indulge just as much as humans do, if not more so. But although they can still produce viable eggs, female vampires can't carry a child to term. The embryo usually dies in the first eight weeks. The longest vampire pregnancy on record was three months, and ended in a spectacularly messy miscarriage. Whether the virus kills the baby or the mother's undead body just isn't capable of nurturing life, we're not sure.
But vampires are social creatures—some of 'em, anyway—and they seem to like forming themselves into family groups. Maybe they're pining for the living families they left behind. Anyway, it's fairly common practice for older vampires to deliberately turn humans and then "adopt" them, taking them in as proteges and referring to them as their "children." The arrangement has a practical side to it, since it allows the newly-made vampire to survive under their "parent's" protection until they're savvy enough to get by on their own. It usually works nicely until the adopted son or daughter gets ambitious, or the parent gets paranoid.
Vampire family gatherings generally get pretty wild.
Abel was already waking up by the time they got the steel trapdoor open. He started kicking and thrashing as they lifted him, and it was all they could do to heave him into the darkness below. As they quickly swung the trapdoor shut and sealed the locks, they heard him breaking his shackles.
"We should have just finished him off," one of the vampires growled.
"No arguments here," Marina replied. "But Alexei won't hear of it. In fact, I wouldn't even let him know you're thinking it." She stopped to check her injured arm. The gashes in her skin had closed up and were already beginning to heal over. "Fetch an urn for Paulo's bones. And throw those other bodies in the-" A noise from the van caught their attention—a muffled cry, and the sound of body bumping around. "What's that?" Marina frowned.
"The girl," one of the others reminded her. "She's still alive. Don't worry, I cuffed and gagged her on the way."
Marina rolled her eyes. "That's all we need." Thinking for a moment, she gave a tiny shrug. "Just throw her in the cellar." She turned and started towards the door that led into the house.
The other vampires stared at each other. "With Abel?"
"Yeah," Marina replied absently, still walking. "Might keep him quiet for a while."
She paused at the door. They still hadn't moved. "You heard me."
She passed into the house, toying with the bloody mess that her coat sleeve had become. She'd have to throw the damn thing away. Behind her, she barely registered Holly's cries turning to muffled screams as she was hauled from the van and dragged across the garage floor. As she started up the steps to the second floor, dragging the ruined coat off, Marina faintly heard the trapdoor close again.
Chapter 3
"It's gone," said Mel. She squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating hard. "Wait . . . no, it's gone. Lost him."
Gabe was already slowing the van down. "You sure?"
"Yeah." Mel raised her head, brushing her hair back. "He must have pulled the stake out." She tossed the broken end onto the seat between them.
"Shit." Gabe turned the wheel, pulling the van over to the side of the street. They stopped outside a large two-story house, tastelessly built in a sort of mock-hacienda style. The letterbox alone was big enough for a small child to sleep in. "Can't be too many places for him to hide in this neighbourhood." He gazed down a long street lined with large and expensively tacky houses. "Maybe we should just go door to door."
Mel was staring out the window. "Hey—are we in Scarbrook?"
"You tell me."
Mel dropped back into her seat. "Aw, no way . . ."
Gabe looked sideways at her. "What?"
Mel was rubbing her eyes. "Oh, you son of a-"
"What?"
"Start the van," Mel sighed. "I might know where he's going."
The van came to a halt on the east side of Utopia Lane, two doors down from Number 33. Shutting down the engine and killing the lights, Gabe leaned over and rummaged around on the shelf under the glovebox, finally coming up with a pair of night vision binoculars. Beside him, Mel had sat up and was unbuttoning her coat.
"I see one guard on the gate," Gabe reported, peering through the binoculars. "Probably more inside the grounds, but we should be able to get over that wall. House that size could be a whole nest, but in a neighbourhood like this-"
"Ten," said Mel, unbuckling her belt.
"What?" Gabe frowned, still scanning.
"There are ten vampires in there," said Mel. "Three occupants, three household staff, four guards." She dragged the heavy belt off. Two stakes, a combat knife and a compact 1911 handgun with a spare clip were hanging from it. Carefully folding it up, she tucked it on the shelf that Gabe had taken the binoculars from.
Gabe was staring at her. "What are you doing?"
"They won't let me in the gate with weapons," Mel explained. She'd drawn her right leg up and was pulling up her pant leg, awkwardly unbuckling the trio of throwing knives strapped to her ankle. "Believe me, I've tried." Pulling a switchblade from her coat sleeve, she placed all the knives on the shelf next to the belt, pulled her coat around herself and popped her door open. "Wait here."
Gabe practically sputtered. "You . . . excuse me?"
Mel was already out of the van, holding the door open. "I know the people here. I'm going in to have a snoop around. You sit tight and I'll-"
"The people here?" Gabe's voice was growing dangerously loud. "What the hell are you-?"
Mel leaned forward, giving him a sharp look. "How long have you been in Roseburg, Gabriel? Since your zit-popping days, I mean? About six weeks?"
Gabe fell silent.
"There's some shit you don't know," Mel snapped, keeping her voice to a harsh whisper, "and some other shit you might have to learn to accept. Things aren't always clear-cut in this town. This house is one of the murky spots."
Gabe glanced at the house, and gave her a hard look. "There's going to be a conversation about this."
Mel held his gaze. "Count on it." She started to close the door and then stopped, as if remembering something. Pulling out her collar, she reached under her left arm to extract the .357 Derringer tucked into her bra strap. Gabe stared as she dropped it onto the passenger seat and swung the door closed.
He watched her through the windscreen as she walked nonchalantly across the street, hands in her coat pockets, and approached the guard on the gate. They exchanged a few words, then Mel slipped her coat off and stood with her arms out while the guard frisked her. He found her cellphone in her hip pocket, examined it and passed it back. Apparently satisfied, he spoke into a walkie-talkie, unlocked the gate and dragged it open. Gabe saw her smile at the vampire as she entered.
He picked up the binoculars from the seat beside him, tracking her in nightvision green as she made her way up the driveway, approaching the house like a dinner guest. A second vampire had appeared, meeting her halfway to escort her up to the house. He finally lost sight of her as she was led around the trees on the front lawn.
He sat for a while, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, turning things over in his head.
"Screw this," he finally said, and opened the driver's door.
"We weren't expecting you tonight," said Simon, as he escorted Mel towards the front door. He was a tall vampire in a dark green suit, who served as a sort of major-domo for the staff at the Volka house. "Haven't seen you in months."
Mel's blue-green eyes were moving as she walked, scanning the grounds around her. Her gaze paused as it passed over the garage. "Well, something's come up."
Simon kept his eyes on the path. "Really."
"Everything alright here?" Mel suddenly asked. She glanced back towards the guard at the gate. "Your boy Thomas seemed a bit on edge. More than usual, I mean."
"There's . . . been an accident. Paulo died."
"Oh. Too bad."
Simon held the door for her as she entered. They passed into a large anteroom, connected by doorways to several of the ground floor rooms. Simon closed the front door and led on down a broad hallway to their left. "Mr Volka is understandably upset," he was saying, as they rounded a corner. "Paulo was with us for over thirty years. If he seems a bit out of sorts . . ." He trailed off, realising Mel wasn't behind him. She'd stopped at a door near the corner and was opening it, pushing her way through.
"Uh, Miss Meliad?" Simon blurted out, hurrying back. "You can't-"
Mel held the door open just long enough to take in the room beyond. She saw the black van, side door open. A large metal urn was set behind it. Even as Simon caught up to her she caught a glimpse of the steel trapdoor at the far end of the garage, a door beyond it, and a single vampire in a suit looking up at her in surprise. Then Simon gently but firmly drew her back by an arm and closed the door.
"I understand that you and Mr Volka are . . . well acquainted, but this is still his private residence. You can't just go randomly opening doors."
Mel stood abashed under the scolding gaze. "Sorry. I was just looking for . . ." She feigned embarrassment. "I have to go."
Simon frowned. "Go?"
"Yeah. You know." She lowered her voice. "Powder my yin-yang?"
Simon raised an eyebrow. It had never occurred to him to wonder if dryads even had a yin-yang. With a quiet "Of course," he turned and led her down the hallway, past the stairs to the nearest bathroom. "Please be quick," he said as she slipped inside. "Mr Volka is waiting."
Mel kept smiling until the door closed behind her. The room was compact, gleaming white and seemed identical to any well-maintained human bathroom, except it held no mirror. Lowering the toilet lid, she sat on the edge and produced her cell phone. For several seconds her thumb danced over the keys, then pressed SEND. Then she stood up, raised the lid, flushed the toilet and opened the door. Simon's impassive face awaited on the other side.
Mel smiled up at him. "That's better."
Gabe's boots hit grass in the northeast corner of the grounds. He'd used the ironwork fence of Number 35 to get to the top of the wall, then entered Number 33 a hundred metres from the gate, where there was enough greenery to cover him. Quickly moving into the shadow of a large tree, he scanned the area around him. The house loomed large and white, picked out by floodlights along the front edge. A path led around into the darkness behind the main structure. There were several lights on, but he couldn't see anyone inside. Apart from the guard on the gate, there was no one in sight.
He raised himself into a poised position, ready to make a dash for the shadows on the side of the house. He was about to make his move when a loud ding-dong noise burst out of his jacket. Momentarily startled, he dropped back into cover and fumbled for his cell phone. Shielding the backlight with his hand, he saw a new message from Mel.
celar trpdoor back of garage
door in SE corner, 1 guard
DONT KILL ANY1
Gabe grunted and stuffed the phone back in his pocket. "Definitely going to be a conversation," he muttered, and started out for the house.
Alexei Volka greeted his guest in the study, a tidy but cosy wood-panelled room on the top floor. "Meliad," he sighed, as Simon ushered her in. "What a delight." Mel leaned foward, looking up at the ceiling as he air-kissed her on both cheeks. "Hello, Alexei."
"You look delicious," Alexei beamed. "Figuratively speaking. Look, Tobias, Mel is here."
Across the room, a tall and handsome youth in a silk shirt and fashionable jeans was leaning back on a chaise-lounge, a small leatherbound book in his hands. "Hello," he called, without looking up from the page.
"You must forgive the boy," said Alexei. "Apparently Monsieur Dumas is more interesting than you are."
"I've always thought so," Mel confessed. At Alexei's direction she sat in the comfortable leather-padded chair in front of the desk. Alexei seated himself behind the desk as Simon, in the background, discreetly leaned on a small table near the door.
"So." Alexei's face spread into a broad smile. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Mel crossed her legs, pulling the flap of her coat over one knee. "We're looking for a vampire."
Alexei spread his hands. "You've come to the right place." Mel and Simon both joined him in polite laughter. Tobias glanced up from his book and offered a half-smile. "But when you say 'we,' I assume you mean yourself and your new employer?"
Mel nodded. "Gabriel Pope. Lazarus' boy."
"Oh, I know who he is. Made quite an impression already."
Mel noticed his tone. "Stepped on your toes, have we?"
Alexei gave a shrug. "Officially my family's loyalties are with the Khranitelya clan. Though in real terms, that simply means they get a discount. I make myself useful to anyone who can pay for it. That's how I survive and prosper. Our friend Moorden wasn't my best customer, but he was a customer."
"So was Lazarus," Mel reminded him.
Alexei's expression shifted to one of mild disdain. "He never bought anything substantial. All he ever wanted was information. Paid peanuts, too."
A slow smile came to Mel's lips. "You're still here, aren't you?"
Alexei looked past her, exchanging glances with Simon. "You say you're looking for a vampire?" he asked. "Anyone I know?"
"I hope not," said Mel, an edge to her voice. "He's an animal. Slaughtered a family downtown about three hours ago. Husband and wife, two little boys. He took them to pieces."
Alexei was shaking his head.
"Last trace of him was right here in Scarbrook, less than thirty minutes ago. And since this is the only vampire-friendly house in Scarbrook, I thought I'd best-"
"You know my family's customs, Meliad." Alexei regarded her with a cold stare. "I haven't taken human blood in over a century. Marina and Tobias have never even tasted it. And I enforce the same rule amongst all those who work for me. We feed on the same livestock as humans do. If you're looking for a killer, you're in the wrong house."
Mel looked sideways at Tobias, who was watching the exchange with wide crimson eyes. His gaze immediately went back to the book in front of him.
"Now," Alexei went on, with forced pleasantness, "is there something else I can help you with?"
Mel shifted in her seat and gave him a smile. "How about my history homework?"
Alexei frowned.
William was the youngest of the vampires employed by the Volka family, which was probably why he always got the dirty jobs. After they'd locked up Abel and . . . the girl, he'd been left by himself to keep an eye on the cellar trapdoor. It was already an uncomfortable assignment, standing there in the gloomy garage knowing that that . . . thing was lurking just beneath his feet. But then there were the noises coming from beneath the trapdoor, muffled but horrible noises, noises he didn't want to think about. So he'd slipped out the back door and was standing in the cool night air, looking over the lawn, and not thinking.
He was not thinking especially hard when a strong and businesslike forearm caught him across the neck. He staggered, and two more blows drove him to his knees. William tried to rise, prepared to defend himself, and came face-to-face with a large white cross. It was a celtic cross with a circlet, printed in white on a black background, which turned out to be a t-shirt.
William shied away in horror.
Actually, this one's more or less true. But it needs some clarification.
First, it's not just the Cross. They also don't like the Crescent Moon or the Aum or the Triskele or the Star of David. They're not fond of holy relics, consecrated water, incense or communion wafers either. They're so averse to anything holy that, not only do these artifacts repel them, they physically harm them on contact.
Why? Well, one of the more widespread—and inaccurate—beliefs is that a religious emblem only works against a vampire if the person holding it has faith in God. Not only is this wrong, it's also kind of a moot point—coming face-to-face with a vampire tends to be a faith-affirming experience. Another idea is that the emblem only works if the vampire believes in it -which is closer to the truth, but also wrong.
Fact is, there are opposing energies in the world and they tend to manifest themselves around certain objects. Vampires—evil or otherwise, killers or not—are kept in their limbo state by a virus born of darkness. Holy emblems, acting as conduits for a purer energy, are the antithesis of their existence. It doesn't really matter who believes in what, any more than it matters whether the snow believes in the sun. Either way, you'll still end up with a puddle.
Tearing his eyes away from the awful thing before him, William managed to find his voice again. He was opening his mouth to put it into use and raise the alarm when a steel-capped boot swung out of the darkness and caught him in the left temple. The lawn lurched past him for an instant before the path swung up to strike him in the other side of his head, which was when he blacked out.
Gabe crouched next to William, pulling his jacket closed over his cruciform shirt. He already had a knife in his hand. Looking down at the fallen vampire, he thoughtfully tapped the flat of the blade against the cap of his boot. It made a gentle ringing sound.
With a deep sigh, he put the knife away.
When William came to about ten minutes later his keys were gone, he was hog-tied with a silver chain, his tie was stuffed into his mouth, and a small metal cross was stuck into the ground a few inches from his face.
"History?" said Alexei Volka.
"Local history," said Meliad. "Births and deaths."
Alexei looked blank. "I'm . . . sorry. You've lost me there."
"We think," Mel went on, "that the vampire we're hunting is the same one who killed the Groesbeck family."
Alexei Volka had been in business a very long time, and had a poker face that would have put a mannequin to shame. Nonetheless, Mel caught the tiny flash in his eyes before he spoke. "Groesbeck? Doesn't ring a bell."
"It ought to." Mel's poker face was less practised, but almost as unreadable. "You know I love a paper trail, Alexei. Keeping tabs on your business interests is one of my ongoing projects back at the office." She steadily held his gaze. "Helps me to verify the information you give us. The Groesbecks were murdered in 1963. The following year you bought their farm at auction, and built a textile mill on it. It's still one of your major industrial interests. Up until tonight, that never seemed significant."
Alexei bristled. "Are you implying I had something to do with-"
"No," Mel countered. "I just assumed you'd remember the name."
He sat back, waving a delicate white hand. "It was a long time ago."
"That it was. You didn't know the Groesbecks, then?"
"No."
She shrugged. "Me neither. Seemed like a nice family, though. Two daughters, late teens. They . . . died badly."
Alexei stared her down. "That's regrettable. But as I say, it was a long ti-"
"They had a son, too."
Alexei froze.
"Nobody ever saw much of him," Mel recalled. "Troubled boy, by all accounts. Spent a lot of time in the cellar."
"Simon," Alexei hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes still on Mel. "Take Tobias to his room."
"Sir, I-"
"Now."
Tobias dropped his book, staring at Mel as he was bustled towards the door.
"Thing is," Mel went on, seemingly oblivious, "they never found the boy after the killings. The police thought he'd been kidnapped. Others had different theories." She heard the door close behind her. "He was twelve at the time. His name was Abel. Ever meet him, Alexei?"
Alexei Volka glared at her across the desk, slender hands clasped tightly in front of him. Then he did something which, in all her years of hunting, she'd never seen a vampire do.
He began to cry.
Gabe lowered himself to the cellar floor as quietly as he could, easing the steel trapdoor shut behind him. As soon as he was down he drew his silver baseball bat from the sheath on his back, scanning his surroundings.
The cellar was about half the size of the house, dimly lit by a few hanging bulbs. The floor and walls were cement, the weight of the building supported by a network of vertical wooden posts. Gabe could dimly see a door in the south wall, another to the west. There was junk scattered around the floor, or piled up on old workbenches along one wall. Somewhere in the shadows, a radio was playing though an old tinny speaker—"Sugar Shack," by Jimmy Gilmer and the Fireballs.
Gabe was standing on something. He saw a canvas bag with a long strap under his boot, dumped open, items tipped out on the floor. They looked like the contents of a woman's handbag. Near the bag was a jacket, ripped all the way up the back. He turned to see a bare inner sprung mattress, probably off a queen-size bed, dumped down on the cement floor. There was a grubby wool blanket, bunched up and discarded, poking out from underneath, and an overturned chair nearby. Torn clothing—women's clothing—was scattered around it.
Holly was lying crookedly across one corner of the mattress, half on the cement floor. As Gabe drew closer he could see her breathing, but she seemed to be out cold. She was almost naked, except for a pair of torn black stockings bunched around her ankles. Her red lace brassiere was wrapped around her neck, and Gabe could see the marks where it had been used to choke her. He counted four bites, one of them on her right breast. He checked for a pulse and found it slow but steady. She hadn't been drained, at least not enough to turn or kill her, but her body was covered in marks and bruises. There were several claw marks, one of them raking all the way down her torso. Her face, half-covered by tangled black hair, was badly beaten and beginning to swell. Her left arm lay twisted, and seemed to be broken. Her thighs were smeared with blood.
"Want the leftovers?"
The voice came from behind him. Gabe didn't turn around, but leaned over to gently brush Holly's hair back out of her face. "She's still alive," he observed.
"Yeah," came the reply, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'm not done with her yet."
Gabe stood up, slowly turning. Abel Groesbeck was leaning on one of the posts nearby, wearing nothing but his dirty jeans. He had fresh scratch marks on his face and chest. He was smoking one of Holly's cigarettes, and held an old transistor radio in his other hand. "Sugar Shack" was still crackling out of the speaker.
Gabe took a step forward, deliberately placing himself between the vampire and the girl.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "You really are."
Abel snorted, his laughter punctuated with little puffs of smoke. He absently tossed the radio away, and it hit the cement with a loud crack. The back came off, spilling wires, and the music abruptly died. Putting the cigarette in his mouth, he pushed himself away from the post. "S'pose I'll have to start on you, then."
They moved at the same time. Gabe drew his revolver in one smooth movement, finger already on the trigger. Abel's foot shot out, catching the overturned chair on the floor and sending it tumbling through the air. Gabe half-ducked, the chair striking his shoulder and ribs. Before he could recover, Abel was on him like a charging bull.
Mel didn't have a handkerchief on her, and wouldn't have offered it if she did. She just sat and looked on while Alexei Volka leaned on his elbows and sobbed into his hands. She found herself unmoved.
"What's the connection, Alexei?" she asked flatly. "Abel's been missing for decades. You own his family's land. Then he resurfaces, up to his old tricks, and we track him to your house. Is he one of yours?"
Alexei slumped back in his chair, wiping his face with both hands. "Aaahhh . . . He . . . he is mine. I . . . knew his mother. Groesbeck's wife."
Mel absorbed this, her eyes widening. "Oh, you're kidding me."
Damphir.
Vampire females couldn't bear children, that much was true. But the males often turned their attention to human women as well. The damphir were an odd breed, alive but infected. They grew fast, but aged slowly. They had the strength of vampires and the vitality of men, the mix making them somehow stronger than either one. They were wild things, prone to insanity. Most of them didn't live long, murdered as children by one parent or the other. Some killed themselves. The rest . . .
"After he . . ." Alexei looked down at the desk. "After what happened to his family, he went missing. Ten years or more. I finally tracked him down, sent him to a safe place in the country. We've kept him there ever since. He's fed on pig blood and . . . we've tried various things. Sedatives. He does well, most of the time."
"Most of the time."
Alexei avoided her eyes. "He's escaped four times. The latest was three nights ago."
Mel closed her eyes. "Oh, you stupid . . ."
"He's hurt people," Alexei admitted, regaining his composure. "Women, for the most part. There were deaths. I regret every one, but . . . what can I do?"
"Well, let's see . . . have you tried killing him?"
Alexei looked up at her, eyes wavering. "He's my son, Mel. The only real child I'll ever-"
"Oh, cry me a fucking river."
Outside in the hallway, an alarm went off. Alexei looked up sharply as it blared through the house. "What's that?"
Mel was still staring at him. "Long overdue," she told him. "That's what that is."
Gabe got one shot off before Abel reached him, the gun booming like a cannon in the confines of the cellar, but didn't even know if the bullet connected. He managed to twist out of the way and the charging shoulder that could have smashed ribs only glanced off his hip, sending him tumbling. He had to drop either gun or bat to check his fall and lost the bat. Rolling over it as it clattered to the floor, he came up awkwardly on his knees and brought the revolver up at Abel's back. The damphir darted sideways and the bullet took a chunk out of a wooden post instead. Abel sprang in from the left, one beefy arm sweeping downwards, jagged claws slashing across Gabe's forearm. He cried out, losing his grip on the gun just long enough for it to slip from his hand. He reached for it but Abel's leg swung up in a kick, making him roll out of the way. As he righted himself he saw Abel sweep the gun away with his other foot, sending it skittering along the floor towards the far wall.
"Gotta fight like a man, son," Abel called with a grin.
Gabe's eyes flicked darted towards Holly, lying broken on the mattress nearby. "Tell her that."
Abel came at him again, laughing out loud, swinging a roundhouse punch. Gabe ducked beneath it, and heard the post behind him splinter as Abel struck it. He came back up, knife in his hand. It caught Abel in the stomach, driving in to the hilt a few inches left of his belly button. An ear-twisting shriek cut through the air, but Gabe had only a second to appreciate the moment before an arm like a fence post crashed across his back, smashing him to the floor. Head swimming, he was dimly aware of Abel's dirty bare feet stumbling away, a torrent of curses streaming forth as he clutched at the knife in his gut. Falling back against another post, he grabbed the handle in a shaking hand and yanked it loose, roaring through gritted teeth as blood spilled down his left leg.
He looked up to see Gabe coming towards him, slower and weaker, but no less focused on his opponent. Abel pushed himself up, wielding the knife in a red-stained hand. "I'm gonna fuck you up for that one, faggo-"
Gabe's arm came around, and Abel only saw the silver bat attached to it an instant before it struck his left hand, burning flesh and smashing knuckles. The knife went flying, and Abel dropped heavily to one knee. Gabe was wavering on his feet, still dazed, but quickly brought the bat up in both hands, raising it above his head. Before it could descend Abel launched himself forward, wrapping an arm around the man and lifting him from the floor, and the bat tumbled away again. Gabe was already making up for it, hammering on the damphir's head and shoulders with firsts and elbows. He fought to shake himself loose, knowing that if Abel got him into a bear hug his ribcage would be crushed like a beer can. In desperation he grabbed two handfuls of hair, and went in with his teeth. Abel swore and spat, blood trickling down his neck as Gabe's teeth bit down just below his cheekbone. With a sudden jerk he flung the man away from him, but Gabe was ready and managed to land more or less on his feet. As Abel charged again Gabe snatched up the fallen chair and swung it around to catch his opponent in the gut. Both of them crashed to the floor, the chair bouncing away.
Gabe got up first, only just. He caught Abel by the neck as he rose, driving one, two, three punches into his face. Abel punched back, aiming for the body, but struck with his broken hand and couldn't deliver much force. Gabe swung again, but Abel was faster. Blocking the punch with his left arm, he lashed out and snapped his right hand around Gabe's throat.
And lifted.
William's wrists were still smarting from the chain when Simon pushed the shotgun into his hands. Thomas was already in position by the trapdoor, armed with a taser. They looked around as Marina rushed into the garage, barefoot and hastily-dressed. "Is he out again?"
Simon shook his head, drawing a nickel-plated Beretta from his jacket. "Someone's in there with him."
"What?"
"Somebody jumped William and got into the cellar. We heard shots."
Marina cursed. "Give me that," she snapped, grabbing the shotgun away from William as she passed. After fumbling about for a moment, he grabbed a chain hanging on the wall. They surrounded the trapdoor, weapons poised, as Simon crouched to work the locks. He'd unfastened the first catch when a voice from the door said, "Leave it."
Marina looked around. Alexei stood at the foot of the steps, hands folded in front of him. His shoulders sagged, and though his face was as youthful as ever, he suddenly looked very old. Meliad was standing behind him.
"Alexei?" Marina replied, a faint stammer to her voice. "Father, I-"
"He said," Mel growled, "leave it."
Stars were exploding in Gabe's head as his feet searched for a floor that wasn't there. He grabbed and punched at the arm holding him by the throat, but it was like a steel girder. Through the blood rushing in his ears, he heard Abel speak.
"I like you, man. You're cool."
The cellar went sideways, floor swinging up to imitate a wall, and one of the vertical posts caught him in the back. The impact went through every bone he had, spine and skull hitting wood at the same time. He dropped to the floor in a tumbling heap, trying to decide whether he'd felt a rib crack.
"Still gonna kill you, though."
Gabe coughed as Abel's vile foot caught him in the side. It was a half-assed kick, but still threw him a couple of feet across the floor. He landed face down, jarring his elbows on the cement floor. Still fighting to breathe, his right hand was moving almost of its own accord, searching for anything that could serve as a weapon.
"Then I'm gonna drink your blood . . ."
Abel's voice was somewhere above him, out in space. He looked up through blurry eyes, to see a tiny landscape of disordered shapes before him.
". . . and then our little Holly here's gonna make me feel aaaalllll better."
Gabe's eyes focused on the tipped-out contents of Holly's bag. A shiny blue cell phone, snapped in two. A red leather wallet, cards and receipts spilled out on the floor. A hairbrush, long black hairs tangled in the bristles. Mascara and lipstick. He couldn't tell if she was wearing any, too much blood on her face. Mints in little yellow wrappers. A well-chewed pencil. Tampons. A screwed-up lottery ticket. Not her lucky night. Coins. Lip balm with the cap missing. Cigarettes lying about like fallen trees. No lighter. A flat metal case, fallen half open on its side. Set inside was a cracked makeup mirror.
They don't like mirrors, do they?
Then Abel's cold hand was on his neck, and the floor was dropping away, and Gabe was lifted up and turned around in midair until he saw the craggy grinning face in front of him, and he swung one leaden arm around and shoved the mirror straight into it.
And Abel screamed.
This one, more than any of them, couldn't be more wrong.
Nobody thinks much about mirrors these days. They're just a household item, hanging on the bathroom wall. But once upon a time . . .
Why is it bad luck to break a mirror? Why did people once cover up all the mirrors when someone in the house was dying? Why didn't they let their children look into a mirror until they were a year old? Why is there a mirror in Snow White, or the legend of Mary Worth?
A mirror reflects light, and that's all most of you see. But the rest of us—the mystical and monstrous ones, the fairies and the fiends—we see what else it reflects. We see what's behind the mask. Our souls staring back at us, stains and all. To us, a mirror also reflects the darkness.
Vampires have a reflection, alright. And in all my years, I've never met one who could bear to look himself in the face.
Gabe held on, even as Abel let go of him and his feet came down sharply on the cement floor, even as the damphir tried to pull away. He slapped his other hand over Abel's forehead, pulling his head back, dragging his eyelids open. He held the mirror in the creature's face even as a clawed hand raked down his back, tearing his shirt and drawing blood. Abel's scream turned into an anguished wail, the sound of an animal in pain. He was still trying to drag his face away from the mirror, but it was too late now. He was transfixed, eyes locked on his reflection, at the thing looking back at him. He dropped to his knees, arms falling to his sides, all fight gone. His voice trailed off into a piteous whimper. A tear ran in a jagged line down one side of his face, tinted pink with blood.
Finally Gabe released him, and he slumped over onto his side. The mirror bounced on the cement beside him, shattering into tumbling slivers.
Gabe fell too, coming down on his hands and knees. He was down for almost a minute, breathing hard, trying to shake out the cobwebs. Finally, dragging a shaky foot under him, he forced himself to stand up. Ignoring the hoarse weeping sounds coming from Abel's throat, he made his way across to Holly. He pulled the blanket from under the mattress and shook it out, then gently lifted her and wrapped it around her, laying her back on the mattress. Then he walked across the room to retrieve his gun.
Abel was lying in a foetal position when Gabe returned, shivering and twitching, glazed eyes staring dully at the floor. Placing a boot on his shoulder, Gabe pushed him over onto his back. Then, without ceremony, he aimed the revolver and shot Abel twice in the head.
It was colder outside than when they'd arrived. Dawn was still an hour off, the chilliest part of the night. Mel stood by the gate to the Volka house, wide open now, pulling her coat around herself. She was tired, and beginning to realise how far from home she was.
She looked up as Gabe walked slowly down the driveway, limping a little. He was a mess, but had fared better than some. Holly, still wrapped in the dirty blanket, was cradled in his arms like a small child. He passed Mel without looking at her.
"Tell your friends in there," he said, "they've got twenty-four hours to leave."
Mel watched him walk on towards the van parked down the street, then her eyes turned to the house. Alexei was watching from the garage door.
And here's where it gets murky.
Vampires are predators. Humans are their prey. That's how it's always been.
Some fight it. Some swear off human blood. Some avoid contact entirely, live wild and feed on game. Some do the opposite, try to emulate humans, live among them. Not all of them kill.
Not directly, anyway.