by Ryk E. Spoor
“You may be right. Very well, Jason, let us go.”
The night was still fairly young as we got into my new Infiniti. Verne nodded appreciatively. “Moving up a bit in the world, my friend?”
“The only advantage of being attacked by ancient werewolves is that the interview fees alone become impressive. And the publicity for WIS has made sure I’ve got more work than I can handle, even if I do have to turn down about a thousand screwballs a day who want me to investigate their alien abduction cases. Not to mention that the government groups involved in the Morgantown Incident investigation would rather use me as a researcher than an outsider.” I gave a slightly sad smile. “And age, plus being hacked at by werewolves, finally caught up with old Mjölnir.”
“He served you well. Have you named this one yet?”
“Nope. I was thinking of Hugin or Munin—it’s black and shiny like raven feathers.” We pulled out of his driveway and onto the main road into town. We drove for a few minutes in silence.
“I was not deliberately changing the subject,” Verne said finally. “I understand how you would find it hard to imagine me being disturbed by anything. I was thinking about how to answer you.”
I was momentarily confused, then remembered my earlier comment. At times, it was disconcerting to talk to Verne; his long life made time compress from his point of view, so a conversation that seemed distant to me was recent for him. Sometimes he forgot that the rest of us don’t have his manner of thinking.
“You have to remember that one with my…peculiarities rarely can have an actual long-lasting home.” Verne continued. “So instead, one attempts to bring one’s life with one in each move. Rather like a hermit crab, we move from one shell to another, none of them actually being our own, yet being for that time, a place of safety. Anything that enters your house, then, has the ability to encroach on all those things you bring with you—both physical and spiritual. Workmen are things beyond my direct control, especially in a society such as this one.”
“Are you afraid they’ll find out about you?”
Verne shrugged, then smiled slightly, his large dark eyes twinkling momentarily in the lights of a passing car. “Not really. Besides the fact that Morgan would be unlikely to miss anyone trying to enter the basement, the basement itself contains little of value for those seeking the unusual. The entrance to the vault and my true sanctum sanctorum is hidden very carefully indeed, and it’s quite difficult to open even if found. And my personal refrigerator upstairs is secured very carefully, as you know well.” Verne referred to the fact that I’d installed the security there myself. “No, Jason. It is simply that my home is the last fading remnant of my own world, even if all that remains there are my memory and a few truly ancient relics. The mass entry of so many people of this world…somehow, it reminds me how alone I am.”
I pulled into my new garage, built after werewolves nearly whacked me on the way to my car, and shut off the engine. “I understand. But now you’re reaching out to this world, Verne. You’re not alone. If something in your house concerns you, come to mine. I mean it. You were willing to die to protect me and Syl.”
“And you revived my spirit, Jason. In a sense, I had let myself die a long time ago; only now am I becoming what I once was.”
The kitchen was warm and well-lighted—I like leaving those lights on—and the aroma of baking Ten Spice Chicken filled the room. I was slightly embarrassed by Verne’s words, but at the same time, I knew he meant them. Our first meeting had struck a long-dead chord in him and during our apocalyptic confrontation with Virigar, I’d discovered just how much he valued friendship…and how much I valued him. “I’d offer you dinner, but it’s not quite to your taste.”
“Indeed, though I assure you I appreciate both the thought and the scent. I may be unable to eat ordinary food without pain, but my sense of smell is undiminished. Do you still have some of my stock here?”
“Yep.” I reached into the fridge and pitched him a bottle, which he caught easily. “I never imagined I would overlook a bottle of blood in my fridge any more than I would a can of beer.” Sliding on a potholder, I reached into the oven and pulled out the chicken, which was coated in honey with a touch of Inner Beauty and worcestershire sauce, garlic, cilantro, pepper, cardamom, cumin, red pepper, oregano, basil, turmeric, and a pinch of saffron. I put that on the stovetop, pulled out two baked potatoes (crunchy the way I like ’em) and set the microwave to heat up the formerly frozen vegetables I’d put in before leaving for Verne’s.
By the time I had my place set, my water glass filled, and the chicken and potatoes on the plate, the veggies were done and I sat down to eat. Verne had poured his scarlet meal into the crystal glass reserved for him and he sat across from me, dressed as one might expect a genteel vampire to dress: evening clothes, immaculately pressed, with a sharp contrast between the midnight black of his hair and jacket and the blinding white of his teeth and shirt.
“I haven’t asked you lately—how’s the art business going?”
Verne smiled. “Very well indeed. Expect an invitation from our friend Mr. Hashima in the mail soon, in fact; young Star is recovering nicely, and he will be having an exhibition in New York in a month or so.”
“Great!” I said. “I’m looking forward to it. I was a bit concerned, to be honest—it seemed that he was hemming and hawing about doing anything with you for a while.”
Verne nodded, momentarily pensive. “True. There were some oddities, some reluctance which I do not entirely understand…but it is none of our business, really. What is important is that he and I are now enjoying our work together.” He leaned back. “In other related areas, I’m sure you saw the news about Akhenaten being returned to Egypt, but thus far the archaeological world is keeping the other treasures quiet while they’re examining them. Most of the truly unique artworks are already elsewhere, and I confess to feeling quite some relief. As their custodian, it was something of a strain, I came to realize, to ensure their preservation along with my own whenever I was forced to move.”
“You can’t tell me you’ve emptied that vault?” I asked in surprise.
He laughed. “Hardly, my friend. There are pieces there I keep for beauty’s sake alone, others for historical value, ones which are personally important, and so on. And even of those I would consider selling or donating there remain quite some number; it would be unwise for me to either flood the market or to eliminate one of my major reserves of wealth in case some disaster occurs.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “Let’s hope there are no more disasters. I’ve had enough of ’em.”
“To that, I can wholeheartedly agree.”
We finished dinner and went to my living room, where I set up the chessboard. Playing chess was fun, but it was more an excuse for us to get together and talk. Neither Verne nor I were comfortable with just talking; we had to be doing something.
“So,” I said after we began, “what did you mean about ‘letting yourself die’ a while back?”
Verne took a deep breath and moved his pawn. As I considered that position, he answered. “I should clarify something, which I should have done some time ago. I am not a vampire.”
“Huh?”
“Or, perhaps, I should say not a vampire in any ordinary sense of the term. True, I drink blood and have a number of supernatural abilities and weaknesses. But these are not the result of being infected by a vampire. For me, my abilities are a blessing, a gift—not a curse. I am not driven by those impulses that ‘traditional’ vampires must follow.”
“So why didn’t you tell me this before?” I decided to continue with the standard opening strategy. Getting fancy with Verne usually resulted in my getting roundly trounced in fifteen or twenty moves. “It does explain a few things—I remember thinking that you seemed to hesitate at times when talking about vampires. But why dance around the subject?”
Verne smiled. “It was much easier to go with the obvious assumptions, Jason. And by doing so, I minimized t
he chance of anything being learned that I wished kept secret. And it was much simpler. The word ‘vampire’ can be applied to any one of several sorts of beings, not merely one, and—for the most basic purposes—calling me a ‘vampire’ was and, to some extent still is, sufficient to the moment.” His smile faded. “Your friend Elias…he was of a type that typically go mad as they gain their power, until they have grown used to it. They were made in mockery of what I am.”
“And what is that?”
He hesitated, not seeming to see the board. When he finally answered, his voice was softer, and touched with a faint musical accent unlike any I had heard. “A remnant of the greatest days of this world, my friend. In the ending of that time, I was wounded unto death, but I refused to die. I would not die, for there were those who needed me and I would not betray them by failing to reach them, even if that failure was through death itself.
“Perhaps there was something different about me even then, or it was something about the difference between the world that was and the world that is now for, certainly, I cannot have been the only man to ever attempt to hold Death at bay with pure will. I did not die; I rose and staggered onward only to find that my solitary triumph had been in vain.” I heard echoes of pain and rage in his voice, tears he’d shed long ago still bringing a phantom stinging to the eye, a hoarseness to his words.
“Of those who had been my charges, none remained; and all was in ruins. But in the moment I would have despaired…She came.” He moved again.
I could hear the capital “S” in “She” when he spoke. “She?”
“The Lady Herself.” The accent was stronger now, and I was certain I’d never heard anything like it. Not even close to it. The accent was of a language whose very echoes were gone from this world. Then it was as though a door suddenly closed in his mind, for he glanced up quickly. When he spoke again, the accent was gone, replaced by the faint trace of Central European lilt I was used to. “I’m sorry, Jason. No more.”
“Too painful?”
He looked at me narrowly, his eyes unfathomable. “Too dangerous.”
“To you?”
“To you.”
Chapter 33: Who’s Your Daddy?
The man sitting across from me was small. Oriental, handsome (at least that’s what Syl told me later; I’m not much of a judge), average-length hair just a bit shaggy. He was dressed casually, but that wasn’t much indication of his job or resources; people come to WIS in guises that are different from what people normally see.
“Okay, Mr., um, Xiang—right?—okay, what can I help you with?”
Tai Lee Xiang shifted uncomfortably in his chair, obviously ill-at-ease. “I’m trying to locate someone.”
Locate someone? That didn’t sound particularly promising. There is some work that I do once in a while, but that I don’t find interesting, such as locating old girlfriends, enemies, and so. “What kind of a someone?”
“My father.”
Okay, that was more interesting, maybe. “Your father? Okay. How do you know he needs finding? A family argument?”
He shifted again, then stood up and began pacing in the small space available. “It’s…hard to explain. I didn’t have any argument with him. It’s…I’ve just not seen him in a long time.” His voice was heavily accented—Vietnamese, if what he told me was true—but the word “long” was clearly emphasized.
“Why do you need to find him?”
“Why do you need to know?” he countered, slightly annoyed.
“I don’t need to know, as long as there’s nothing illegal involved, but any information can help.” I always toss in the word “illegal” with potential clients—it wasn’t unusual for people to try using Wood’s Information Service to get info they had no business getting.
He frowned at me, then shrugged. “I am new in this country, and he is my only living relative, aside from my children.”
“Fair enough.” This actually sounded interesting. Finding a man can be a relatively easy thing, or almost impossible, depending on how much information you have to go on. “I’ll need to know everything you can tell me about your father. The more I know, the easier it will be to find him.”
He looked somewhat embarrassed and uncomfortable again. “I…I can’t tell you too much. I have…memory trouble.”
“Amnesia?” I was surprised by this little twist.
“Um, yes, I think that’s what they called it. I remember some things well, other things not so well.”
This was getting interesting. “Okay. Can I ask why you chose WIS for this job?”
“I saw the reports on the werewolves…” he began. I already knew the rest; the “Morgantown Incident” was a great piece of advertisement. I was wrong.
“…and of all the investigators out there, only you seemed ready to search for someone…unusual.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me there’s something out of the ordinary about your father?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
Tai Lee looked at me. “I can’t tell you any more unless you agree to take the job. You…seem like an honorable man, which means if you agree to do the job, you won’t talk about it to other people if I don’t want you to.”
He had me pegged right. I thought a moment. “Nothing illegal involved in this job?”
“I know of nothing that would be illegal in finding my father, no.”
“Very well, then. I agree. I’ll find your father, if it’s at all possible.”
His nervous fidgeting subsided almost instantly and he visibly relaxed. “Thank you.”
“So what can you tell me about your father? Skip the description for now—I’ve got a computer program we’ll use later to construct the best picture. Tell me some facts I wouldn’t gather from his appearance.”
“That is where my memory is weak. I can only tell you five things about Father.”
“Shoot.”
“Excuse me?”
“That means, ‘go ahead, let me have them.’”
“First, he is not my natural father. I was adopted. He is not of Oriental blood, but I think is a Westerner instead.”
Well, that weakened one approach. Obviously, there’d be no link in appearance between father and son, and not necessarily one of immigration, either. “Next?”
“Father is a priest. Priest of…um…nature? I’m not sure the term…?”
This was interesting. “You mean of the earth itself? Not Shinto or something of that nature?”
“Yes. The world’s spirit?”
“Our word for that is generally ‘Gaia.’”
“Yes! That is it.” He nodded, recognizing the word. “Father also had a ring that he wore, which he would never remove.”
“A ring?”
“A big, wide, heavy gold ring, with a very large red stone— a ruby I think—set in it.”
I blinked for a moment. “O…kay.”
“Something wrong?”
“No, nothing. Go on.”
He hesitated. “This is the…weird part.”
“I’m ready.”
“No, I mean, really strange. Please believe me when I tell you this is not a joke, okay?”
I studied him carefully. “I believe you’re not playing a joke on me. You seem too serious to be able to joke about it at all.”
“Thank you.” He had tensed up again; with my assurance he relaxed once more. “All right…my father didn’t eat; instead, he drank blood.”
I stopped dead in mid-keystroke. What were the odds? Drinking blood? A red ruby ring that never came off?
Tai could tell I was shocked. “Mr. Wood?”
“What was the fifth thing?”
“What?”
“You just recounted four facts about your father. What’s the fifth?”
“His name…the name he was using then. His name was V’ierna Dhomienkha a Atla’a Alandar.”
It was impossible. But it had to be. I stood up. “Excuse me for a minute; I’m going t
o check something.”
“What? Mr. Wood, what is it?”
“I’ll be back in a moment.”
I stepped into the back office, grabbed the phone off the hook, and punched in Verne’s number.
“Domingo Residence, Morgan speaking.”
“Morgan, this is Jason. I need to speak with Verne.”
Morgan’s voice was puzzled. “But, Jason, you know that Master Verne is never awake at this time. It’s barely two o’clock.”
“Then wake him. This is important!”
There was a long pause—even longer to me, sitting on the other end of the phone waiting. Finally I heard the familiar voice pick up at the other end. “Jason? What is the emergency?” Tired though he was, what I heard most in his voice was worry. “It isn’t the Wolf, is it?”
Jesus, I should have realized that was the first thing he’d think of. “No, no. Nothing that bad. Maybe…not bad…really…at all. There is a guy here looking for his father.”
His tone was slightly nettled. “And how does this concern me?”
“Because of what he told me about his father: that he wore a ruby-colored crystal and gold ring, which he never took off, and that he drank blood.”
There was dead silence for several moments. “Interesting coincidence to say the least, Jason. But I have no children.”
“He said he wasn’t a natural child of this man—he is adopted. He also said that his father was some kind of priest of nature, and he gave his father’s name. I’m not sure quite how to spell it, but it sounded a lot like yours…”
In a whisper almost inaudible, I heard, “V’ierna Dhomienkha a Atla’a Alandar i Sh’ekatha…”
“Holy crap,” I heard my own whisper.
“That name? He spoke that name? But…that is impossible.” Verne’s voice was at the edge of anger, laughter, or tears—I couldn’t tell which—and hearing the strain in his voice was more upsetting than I’d imagined. “I am on my way, sun or no sun.”
I hung up and stepped back into the office. Tai Lee Xiang looked up at me. “Mr. Wood?”