Paranormal After Dark

by Rebecca Hamilton

  Not taking her eyes off of the thing, Kim took her compact back out and shoved a spark of power into the glass.

  “Hey,” she said. “It’s me again.”

  “Kim?” said the voice from the other end. “Whatchoo got?”

  “I found something. I think it might be a vampire. Been down here a long time. Should I try to get it out of here or just let it burn?”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Looks like a mummy. Can’t tell the sex. Tried to get me, but can’t seem to move real well. My guess is Duran was keeping it for a pet or something, then forgot it was down here.”

  There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then, “Let it burn. Put it out of its misery. Just knock it out first, or something. Be the kind thing to do.”

  “’Kay. I’ll see you in a few.”

  She hefted her flashlight and stepped down to the lowest stair.

  One flat, red eye rolled up to look at her. There was no intelligence there, but it took in her stance, and there was a flash of recognition, the same way a beaten dog recognizes a broom. The eye shut so it couldn’t see the blow coming, and the crispy face turned down, pressing into the grimy floor.

  “Oh, honey,” Kim whispered.

  The fire flickered along an empty rib cage and leaped to the mummy’s tattered khakis. It whimpered.

  “Oh, honey,” she said again. She cinched up her necklace, bringing the little cluster of religious medals up closer to her throat, shoved her flashlight into the waistband of her pants, and shook out her milagro bracelets. Then she slapped out the fire that was creeping up the mummy’s leg, threw its arm over her shoulders, and dragged it up the stairs.

  It was a man, she decided. He had had enough time to develop a week or so of stubble before his body lost the extra energy it needed to grow hair, however long ago that had been. He had also had plenty of time to lose his strength and, by extension, his substance, and he weighed far less than he should, even as a dry husk. She had no problem carting his sixty or seventy pounds down the hall and out into the sunlight.

  It seemed to take him a few seconds to figure out that he was upright and pressed tight against living flesh, but there was no pulse point within easy reach, and he barely had the strength to stand; twisting out of Kim’s grip to get at her throat was out of the question, even if the thought crossed both of their minds. That didn’t stop him from struggling weakly, making sorry little noises that were lost in the rumble of growing flames behind them. They reached the outer door just as an orange glow was beginning to creep up the stairs from the cellar.

  Kim grabbed the doorknob, tripped over the draft guard, and sprawled face-first onto the concrete outside. Her mummy went down with her, but the second the midday sun hit him, he shrieked and recoiled like a late-night television monster, shielding his face with his forearms as well as he was able. It wasn’t even so much a shriek as a reedy whistle, a higher-pitched version of the hiss and the whimper, like he was scared to be too loud and risk catching someone’s attention.

  Nothing burst into flames or went up in smoke, but it was still sad to watch – coming out of the darkness only to be burned by the light. Kim wriggled out of her blue jean jacket and threw it over his head, and he went still and silent. Hiding, she guessed. You can’t see me if I can’t see you. Even at their worst, vampires were cunning, but cunning didn’t necessarily translate to spatial reasoning.

  “You stay there,” she said, and she went to complete her job of arson. Four more buildings were starting to smoke by the time she got back to find that he hadn’t moved. She wasn’t surprised.

  Somehow, she got him through the hole in the overgrown fence, through the parking lot of the law offices behind the storage place, over the drainage ditch, and into the passenger seat of her El Camino. He sat still for a moment, pulverized left hand pulled up beneath his chin, then shook the jacket off his head and stiffened, squeezing his eyes shut. Kim wondered how long it had been since he had last seen light.

  “It’s okay,” she said sweetly, using the same tone people use on cornered animals. She put a hand on his arm and could have sworn she felt his brittle skin jump beneath her touch, a tiny, nervous motion born of the certainty that she was going to hurt him.

  “It’s okay, baby. I’ll get you all fixed up, okay?”

  He turned his head toward her voice and leaned over, lips drawn back to expose his teeth. It wasn’t an attack. Actually, Kim thought it felt more like a request, the hurt animal sniffing suspiciously at an offering of food. Either way, it was inconvenient.

  “I didn’t mean right now,” she clarified, and put out a hand to push him back, but he had convulsed again, body tight, eyes rolled back into his skull. Somehow, Kim didn’t think it was because he had accidentally gotten a faceful of Our Lady of Częstochowa.

  She strapped him in, slammed the door, and watched from outside until the spasm passed. It was hard to tell on that desert of a face, but it looked like he might have been trying to cry.

  A siren started dopplering toward them from the direction of the freeway.

  Kim pulled out her mirror again, dialing a different metaphysical number this time.

  “Look,” she said, before the person on the other end had a chance to respond, “I know this is going to sound stupid, and I promise lots of yelling time at a later date, but I really need you to raid a blood bank for me.”

  “What the hell did you do?”

  “Later! Just meet me back at my place and bring as much as you can carry. This will probably take gallons.”

  She snapped the compact shut and dove into the driver’s seat. Red and white lights flashed between the trees a few streets over. She threw the El Camino into gear and puttered away, minding the speed limit carefully. The mummy in the passenger seat pressed himself against the window, eyes still shut tight, and let the light fall on his face. Under the dirt and between the cracks, his skin was bone-white. He let out a shuddering breath.

  Kim’s place was a second-story apartment near the university. The building was too expensive for most students, but apartment 214 had sent five tenants packing in two years, which meant that the building manager was open to haggling. Kim got it for less than half the usual rate.

  “Vic!” Kim called as she unlocked the door. “Vickie, could you get the lights? I’m gonna be falling all over stuff, gawd. Gotta take some time to clean...”

  There was a small amount of resistance as she tried to get the vampire through the door, but dragging apparently counted as an implicit invitation, and he fell through with a tiny metaphysical pop.

  The lights inside flicked on, exposing the obstacle course of textbooks, pizza boxes, laundry, shoes, loose papers, extension cords, and knitting material. Kim cleared the couch of debris and deposited her unexpected houseguest on one end. He made a feeble attempt to get back up, and she pushed him down, and he stayed.

  “Shower would be good,” she mused. She shot a look at the smears of grime that had appeared on her jacket and wrinkled her nose at the smell of very old dead things. That could probably wait until he was able to shower himself. The end of her couch wouldn’t get any nastier if he sat there a little bit longer. Besides, rescuing a vampire from a hole in the ground did not create any obligation to bathe him.

  She fingered the milagros on her bracelet and wondered whether she was too compassionate for her own good, but the potentially dangerous man on the end of the couch did not make any move toward her. He looked up once or twice, desperately hungry, but he seemed to have learned his lesson the first two times and didn’t show his teeth, as much as sitting still visibly pained him.

  “The boys will be here soon,” Kim told him, even though she knew he was in no condition to understand. “We’ll get you all nice and reconstituted. Then we can talk. I mean, unless you decide to eat me. Not that you will. Actually, if you’re getting any of this, you should probably wait a few minutes and hear us out before you eat anyone. I think we’re on the same side, for the momen
t.”

  He turned a dull, red eye on her and blinked once, slowly.

  “Plus, I did just save your butt. It would sort of be nice if you could refrain from chomping me or my friends.”

  He turned his face away and curled up into a tight ball, drawing his knees up to his chest and giving her his back. Kim took that as assent.

  Vickie drifted through the wall between the kitchenette and the bathroom, pausing in the middle of the stovetop to pull her hair back. She rolled her eyes at Kim.

  “You did something dumb, didn’t you?” she demanded.

  Kim grinned and nodded cheerfully at the ghost. “Probably. A vampire followed me home.”

  “What in the hell? If you die, you’re so out of here. I’ve got exclusive dibs on this place.”

  “Psh. Whatev. You haven’t gotten rid of me yet.”

  Vickie flounced out of the stove, passed through the kitchen counter, and stood in the middle of the coffee table, fingering the faint, dark mark that encircled her throat.

  “He’s freaky,” she said. “Why would you even?”

  “As you like to point out, I’m dumb. Do I have to have a reason?”

  “You know, that’s not a good excuse.” Vickie grinned, flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, and retreated to the bedroom. The vampire watched the ghost go with a detached expression. Kim watched him watch Vickie.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  He tucked his head back down against his knees, and there was a knock at the door.

  Kim got up and tiptoed closer, putting her hand on the doorknob and pressing her eye to the peephole.

  “Password?”

  “Oh, lay off! You expect me to remember a different one every day? Bull corn.”

  She pulled back the bolt and opened the door.

  “Hey, Zeb.”

  Zeb was a beanpole of a cowboy, clad head to foot in worn denim and black leather. He removed his straw Stetson before stepping in, boot heels clacking on the tile just inside the door. A bulging backpack squished as it hit the floor. His hat went on top of a pile of books, and his jean jacket went on top of it, and he hooked his broad, blunt thumbs behind his belt.

  Kim frowned at the backpack. “Is that it?”

  “Coyote’s bringing the cooler up the elevator. I came up first to scout things out. You better have a damn good explanation for this, Kimmy.”

  Zeb loomed up to stare at the filthy lump on the couch, who didn’t move.

  “I found him at that Rocky Heights place,” Kim said. She picked up the backpack and unzipped it. A plastic sack fell out and splatted on the floor, the liquid inside wobbling. “He’s seriously bad off. Don’t have any idea how long he was in there, but he can barely even walk. You can bet Edith and Tony’ll want to hear about this. If we can get him fixed up and up to Amarillo, and he can witness against Duran…”

  “He talkin’ any?”

  “Not a peep. Too dry.”

  “You know as soon as he’s got some muscle back, he’ll go for the live stuff.”

  Kim shrugged. “Probably. If he does, me and Coyote can take him down. If we can’t, you can shoot him until he cuts it out. He’ll recover.”

  “Couldn’ta just burned ‘im?”

  “He’s a witness. Probably the last witness they’ll need. I mean, indiscretion is one thing, but pulling this kind of stuff on one of his own kind… I know they don’t have a lot of lines, but Duran’s crossed pretty much every one they do have.”

  “You sure that’s it?”

  Kim rolled one shoulder. “Okay, so I might have felt sorry for him, too.”

  Zeb muttered something about bleeding hearts bleeding so much they get brain damage, and the elevator pinged down the hall. An older man strode out, dragging a rolling plastic cooler.

  For a man called Deaf Coyote, he looked remarkably like an aging hippie – baggy blue jeans with the knees worn through, hemp sandals, outsized tie-dye t-shirt in shades of blue and green, and a long gray braid falling to his waist. He was also five and a half feet tall, tops, and leaning on an aluminum cane. He dragged his cooler to Kim’s door, rapped once on the doorframe with the handle of his cane, and strode in.

  Sharp black eyes took in Kim, took in Zeb, and took in the lump on the couch.

  “Told you to torch it,” Coyote growled.

  Zeb took a seat on the corner of the coffee table, the corner furthest from the end of the couch.

  “Kim thinks Tony and Edith will want to talk to ‘im,” he said. “Assumin’ he comes around without killin’ anyone. And assumin’ he ain’t lost his mind.”

  “You know what they say about assuming.”

  “Thought had crossed my mind, yeah.”

  Kim made a rude noise and rolled her eyes. “Or we could get this show on the road and find out for sure one way or the other. And anyway, even if he is completely off his nut and never speaks again, he’s still technically an innocent bystander. I brought him here, and nobody’s doing squat to him except in self defense. Got it?”

  Zeb and Coyote looked at each other and shrugged in unison.

  Kim shoved a few strands of dark hair out of her eyes and nodded. She grabbed the backpack from the floor and scooped up the plastic sack that had fallen out.

  “’Kay, guys. Stand clear.”

  Coyote backed up against the wall and held his cane like a bludgeon. Zeb stood and backed up with him, hands hovering at his belt holster like an Old West gunslinger.

  Kim sucked in a sharp breath and, carefully, using a slow underhand swing, tossed the bag of packaged blood. It hit the vampire’s knee with a soft bloop and bounced off. He didn’t move.

  Kim straightened. She blinked.

  “Hey,” she said.

  The lump on the couch turned his head fractionally toward her voice but did not look up.

  Zeb cleared his throat and rubbed his thumb across his chin. “Might be he can’t smell it through the latex.”

  That made enough sense. Kim cast about for a moment, then bent and snatched a pencil stub from beneath a small drift of yellow sticky notes. She poked a hole in the corner of a second bag and squeezed out one tiny, glistening drop of red. It quivered on the surface of the plastic and began to roll off toward the floor.

  A shiver rippled through the shriveled body, lightning-fast, starting in the ridge of his spine and crawling outward through his limbs. His head snapped up, and he locked huge, despondent eyes on the bag in Kim’s hands.

  Peripherally, Kim caught the crackle of Coyote’s knuckles as he tightened his grip on his cane and the soft click as Zeb drew back the hammer of his revolver. The vampire began to unfold from his tense ball, and rather than wait for him to get any closer, Kim tossed the second bag. A few drops pattered onto the carpet, and a knobby hand flickered out to catch the offering. He fumbled it, uttered a frustrated hiss, and snatched it up from where it had fallen on the couch.

  “Left-handed,” Zeb observed, as though that made some difference. “What happened to it?”

  “Hit him with my flashlight the first time he came after me,” Kim explained. “Grabbed me, and I bashed him, smashed his hand. It’ll heal when he gets a little juice back in him.”

  But the vampire didn’t juice up. He dropped the bag and tumbled off the couch, landing half on a pile of textbooks. A low rattle escaped him as a spasming diaphragm forced air through his constricted throat. His right hand tightened, and the fingertips twisted for an instant into gleaming black talons. After a moment, he relaxed, pulled himself up, and made another grab for the bag. And his back arched, and something snapped loudly, and the rattle faded into a dry gulping noise. There was a thin film of dust on the carpet, where skin had torn away and crumbled into ash.

  “Holy hannah,” Zeb breathed. “What in howlin’ Hades was that?”

  Kim bit her lip and folded her arms, making her milagros jingle.

  “Did the same thing when he tried to bite me earlier,” she said. “I figured it was maybe self preservation. You know, don�
��t tick off people who could kill you if you can’t even walk.”

  Coyote shook his head. “They won’t pick on things stronger than them, but they’re more likely to play possum than try and... this. My money says this is Duran’s doing. Post-hypnotic suggestion.”

  “Come on. He’s a freak, but there’s nothing can stop a starving vampire from feeding. Definitely no mind tricks.”

  “Depends on how long he’s been working on it, doesn’t it?”

  Kim thought about that, keeping one eye on the quivering mass that was huddled half under her coffee table. She couldn’t decide whether a vampire unable to feed made her job easier or harder. The bagged blood oozed onto her couch. The past five minutes had generated a full week of cleaning. She huffed.

  “It fits with his MO,” Coyote pressed. “He likes taking people down a notch, breaking their strength. You can’t do a lot worse to a vampire than keep him dry. If it’s even possible, you can bet he’d be the one to figure out how to do it.”

  She bit her lip. “And Tony and Edith would absolutely flip. They’d be down here tearing his head off before you could sneeze.”

  Coyote nodded. “Exactly. And that’s a good thing.”

  Kim ran her tongue over her teeth, and the silence began to lengthen. There were several different possibilities.

  The first was preferable. They would fix up the vampire, who would be rational and polite, find out exactly what had happened to him, pass the report on to Tony and Edith of Amarillo, and stand back and watch while Sebastian Duran was summarily executed.

  Of course, it was also possible that they would fix up the vampire, who would turn on them in rage and fear, and they would have to kill him. They would pass the report on to Tony and Edith, but without solid proof, they might stay on the job for months longer.

  Or they could fix him up and find that he was nothing but a gibbering, shattered wreck incapable of communicating. They could ship him to Amarillo anyway, and that would probably be enough, but possibly not.

  Or they could find out that he was actually in league with Duran, and the hypnotist would show up and murder everyone.