by Jim McDoniel
The creature jumped up and then . . . stood there, unmoving. The humans watched it, also not moving. Catherine’s lungs began to burn with the effort and finally let out an audible exhale. Simon tensed, ready for the creature to attack, but nothing happened. Only then did he, too, begin breathing.
Simon barked something in Cantonese and pointed toward the cave entrance. The woman turned and, with her arms outstretched, hopped, literally hopped, into the water. Catherine could not help but laugh.
“Don’t get too excited,” the boy told her. “I doubt the chicken blood will survive the river.” They stood and watched as the head of the creature went up and down in the water, until it disappeared completely.
“Let’s go,” Simon said finally. Catherine noticed he pocketed all twelve needles on his way out.
When the pair returned to the shoreline, they found Yulric in deep conversation with the creature, now free from thumbtack and paper. All three vampires turned to them as they climbed up the bank.
“This is Xie Yu Mei,” Yulric said. “The only intelligent jiangshi I have encountered in my time.”
The woman, whose skin they could now see was pale and green, uttered something Catherine did not understand. Beside her, Simon responded, and while she could not understand the words, the way he was fingering his small hatchet made it clear that threats were being exchanged. Before they could come to blows, though, Yulric stepped between them and rattled away in Cantonese. Reluctantly, the Chinese vampire nodded and rather than attack outright, she flung the thumbtack at Simon’s feet. Clearly, this was not over.
“Let us return,” Yulric said. The vampires began to walk away, or hop away in the case of Yu Mei.
“One second,” Catherine called. The group halted, annoyed.
“I’ll be right back,” she told them and ducked into the dense foliage. She really had to go.
Chapter 23
Amanda wasn’t really sure where she stood on the subject of heaven. Her parents had never been religious, and while she had clearly discovered supernatural forces at play in the world, somehow she had never given much thought to the possible positive implications of this fact. Of course she told her brother that their parents were in heaven looking down on them, but that was just what you tell kids, even ones as naturally cynical as Simon. Whether such a place was real, she more wanted to believe it was true than actually felt it was.
That said, if heaven did exist, she imagined it looked exactly like the set of The Phantom Vampire Mysteries.
“I can’t believe I’m here.” Amanda giggled as she stood within a row of back-lot buildings that made up the small town of Devil’s Cross.
“You can go anywhere you want,” Nora told her. “Just . . . not too far.”
“Oh my God! That’s Sandhya Amavasya’s shop,” the human turned to her guard/guide. “Is she really a ten-thousand-year-old alchemist, like on the show?”
“Sandhya? No, she’s just a vampire,” Nora replied.
“Huh. Oh! Is that—” Amanda ran across the empty street. Nora walked behind her, an amused smile on her face. This was the first time she’d seen their guest happy about anything since her meeting with the Doctor.
Amanda danced around a twisted willow. “It’s the tree. The tree!”
“Yes, it is,” Nora agreed.
“Take my picture. Take my picture.” Amanda posed against the side of the trunk while the vampire took a photograph with her phone.
“Can you send that to me?” Amanda requested.
“Already done,” Nora replied, hitting a few buttons. She didn’t put the phone away, assuming there would be more pictures to come. “Where to now?”
“Where’s the graveyard? I want to visit Phantom’s crypt,” Amanda answered.
“That’s actually inside the soundstage,” Nora said. “This way.”
She led her friend back through the streets, stopping for more photos in front of Berwyn’s motorcycle and the petrified statue of Carmilla. Finally, they turned at the bend in the road, where, behind some matting and a thick copse of pines, one of the studio buildings hid. Nora ushered Amanda inside the soundstage where most of the interior sets were housed. They passed through Sasha’s bedroom, which held no interest for Amanda, and the Sanguine Noir bar, whose operational beer taps the pair indulged in, until they came to the residence of everyone’s favorite fictional vampire ghost.
It, however, was not empty.
“Oh!” cried an African American woman in a bra, who rolled over and fell behind the sarcophagus in the middle of the room.
“Haha! Hey, Nora. Amanda,” greeted a shirtless and abashed Phantom, sitting up from the same plinth.
Nora fumed. “Interrupting. Something. Are we?”
“What? Of course not, I was just running lines with . . .” Phantom trailed off, obviously having forgotten the name the girl had given him. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see the crypt,” Amanda admitted, apparently caught between the mesmerizing sight of Phantom’s abs and the very clear distress Nora was feeling.
Phantom brushed his long hair back from his face. “Well, here, let me give you the grand tour.”
The girl reappeared on the far side of the room. “Sorry about that,” she said nervously. She had just managed to get her shirt back on, and it was inside out.
“Thanks for helping me, uh, run lines,” Phantom said.
“Yeah, no problem,” she replied, making a hasty retreat from the set. “I’ll see you on the set, er, Nora.”
Nora glared at the woman until she disappeared through the door.
“So, a tour . . . ,” Phantom began.
Nora spun on him. “Who was that?”
Phantom shrugged. “Just a PA. We were going over notes.”
“What notes? We’re not in production,” she spat at him. “Ugh. And on the set, no less.”
“Please,” he whined. “Like you’ve never got it on on the set.”
“Ew. No,” Nora replied. She turned away, trying to control herself. “I can’t believe you.”
“What? What can’t you believe?” Phantom retorted. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem? My problem?” Nora was now in his face.
“Yes, Nora,” said Phantom. “Your problem. After all, it’s not like we’re together . . .”
Anymore. The word hung there in front of the pair of them. Again, a moment passed between them as they stood far too close to each other, their fiery words urging them toward the fiery passions. Phantom leaned in, ready to give in to this desire. Nora, however, rocked backward. She had been down this road with him one time too many.
“Come on, Amanda. Let’s go,” she said.
There was no reply.
“Amanda?”
The vampires glanced around the crypt set. They were completely alone.
“Dammit!” Nora cursed. She sprinted off at an unnatural pace. Within seconds, she was outside the building, searching the grounds. She managed to catch up to Amanda, chatting with the PA, trying to follow her out.
“Amanda,” she said, appearing in a blur in front of the human. “Going somewhere?”
“Oh hi.” Amanda smiled. She made a big show of being surprised to find herself almost off the studio grounds. “Sorry. Katie and I were talking about her job, and I guess I lost track of where we were going.”
Nora gestured back toward the main building. “After you.”
“Bye, Katie.” The human waved. “Her name’s Katie by the way. So, did you and Phantom have it out?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Nora replied.
“Well, of course not.” Amanda laughed. “You’re sober. But of course we can fix that.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Nora said, eyeing the gate.
“Put someone else on the door if you like,” Amanda suggested as they walked back to her apartment. “But honestly, there’s no point. I wouldn’t miss hearing this for the world.” That was her fifth
escape attempt.
Chapter 24
“So what brings you to Ghana?” asked Raquel Gutierrez, the American doctor with the impossibly gorgeous smile.
“We’re collecting stories,” Catherine answered as she followed the woman through the small village to the huts where she and her fellow Peace Corps volunteers were staying.
“Stories?”
“Folklore,” Catherine responded.
“Mommy is the preeminent folklorist for the Miskatonic University,” Simon said, trying very hard to sound like a normal child, despite his use of the word preeminent.
“I’m compiling folktales from all over the world,” Catherine explained. “Iraq, China, Tibet, India . . .”
“Sounds like you’ve been productive,” said the aid worker.
“Actually, we’ve run into a bit of bad luck lately.” Catherine laughed. Their last two trips had come up empty. Tibet, especially, had been frustrating for their undead companions. At least in India, the Brahmarakshas had been slain proper, like a vampire should be. The Preta, though, had merely refused on moral grounds and disappeared in a puff of karmic redemption.56
“Well, I hope you have more luck here in Ghana.” Dr. Raquel smiled.
“I’m sure we will,” Catherine said, admiring her dimples. “You haven’t heard of something called an Adze, have you?”
“Ugh, the Adze,” the doctor groaned. “My older patients won’t shut up about it. They go on and on about how it’s feeding on the children, making them sick. You try and tell them that it’s just malaria, but you’re only a doctor and they heard it from their great-grandmother, who saw one once.” A heavy sigh managed to wipe away much of her frustration, returning most of her smile. “Still, good for you. I’m sure they’ll enjoy having a willing audience.”
There was a clatter from behind them as a pair of volunteers dropped the heavy wooden box they were carrying.
“Careful with those,” Catherine called back. The volunteers looked back at her glumly, having carried the heavy container all the way from the bus.
“Do you always travel with so much gear?” Raquel asked, glancing at the three long boxes.
Catherine shrugged. “I’ve collected a lot of stories.”
“If that’s what failure looks like, I’m not sure you can afford much more success,” the doctor joked.
“Not without a forklift,” Catherine quipped back.
She and the doctor shared a good laugh. She saw Simon cringe, then he returned his gaze to the local villagers; all were staring at him, the only child to be seen.
“This is where you’ll be staying,” announced Dr. Raquel as they came to a small two-room hut.
Catherine took off her sunglasses, revealing her dead eye with its small black pupil. The aid worker, catching sight of it, visibly flinched and turned away, toward the village. “I know it isn’t much, but out here, it’s all there is.”
“That’s okay,” Catherine assured her. “I’ve been promised a Spanish villa next.” When she emerged, she’d put on her sunglasses again. She saw the doctor’s relief. “Bring the boxes inside.”
The American college students lugged the three sealed boxes into the small wooden structure and then fled before being asked to do anything else. After all, they’d come to Africa to help real people, not other Americans.
“Well, thank you, Dr. Gutierrez, for all your help,” said Catherine.
“Raquel, please,” the doctor insisted. “If there’s anything you need, please, let me know.”
“I definitely will,” Catherine replied.
• •
The night was dark in the village, which occupied a small clearing cut out of the forest, always on the verge of being reclaimed. Small windmills provided electricity, but mostly that was used to power small refrigerators and televisions. Charcoal lamps and candles lit homes, but times being what they were, shutters were kept closed despite the heat. And so the only light one could count on was what little moonlight made it through the canopy, and the occasional firefly.
Blink and flash. Blink and flash. The small insect lazily flew through the still air. Blink and flash. Blink and flash. Its progress was slow, but fireflies aren’t known for being in a hurry. Blink and flash. Blink. It landed on the sill of the only open window in the village, that of the new arrivals, the folklorist and her son. Without any seeming purpose, it crawled inside.
On the far side of the room, the small boy slept, despite several hours of careful instruction on proper slumbering technique. Around him hung several layers of mosquito netting. The firefly let out a barely audible chirp that amounted to a chuckle. It used its head to lift the nets and ducked inside. It crawled up the leg of the cot, across the legs of the boy, and over the legs of an illustrated Buddha on the reincarnation book that lay open on the bed,57 until finally it arrived at its ultimate destination, the boy’s outstretched thumb. With fiendish relish, the small insect cleaned its mandibles in preparation for its sanguine meal. Thus distracted, it did not notice the forefinger coil up beside it.
A flick sent the surprised bug reeling onto the dirt floor of the hut. It fluttered its wings to right itself just as a jar came crashing down around it. The firefly’s glow began to pulse. It became brighter and brighter. Then, the room flared white. The jar shattered with a tremendous crack! Simon reeled back, shielding his eyes. When the radiance subsided, he was faced with an elderly, feral, hunchbacked man with black chitinous claws.
“You should have let it alone, little boy,” the creature growled with a smile. “Now I will eat your heart and liver while you watch.”
Simon took out two specially prepared syringes from beneath his pillow. One was filled with DDT; the other with antivirals. “Try.”
The door to the next room swung open.
“That will not be necessary.” Yulric motioned for the hunchback to join him. “Adze, it’s been too long. We have much to discuss.”
Chapter 25
Phantom Studios offered tours to the public four times a day, every day. Tourists, mostly black-clad teenagers with their embarrassingly normal Midwestern parents, came through on a bus that ushered them around various points of interest, including the Devil’s Cross back lot, the sets, the production building, the writers’ shed, and the actors’ apartments. On an alternating basis, one of the actors came out, under an awning that protected him or her from the sun, and took pictures with his or her adoring public. Then the bus took the visitors back through the main gate, where they departed and, with their unnecessarily angst-ridden teens mollified, continued with their vacation.
The entire thing moved like clockwork. You could set your watch by it, which, incidentally, Amanda had done.
“Five, four, three, two . . .” She took off running across the floor of the spacious apartment. It took her several seconds to cover the ground, which, fortunately, she had accounted for. She sprinted full steam through the already open balcony doors, stepped once onto the ottoman she had set out there, stepped another time onto the railing and leapt. There she hung, in midair, staring at the bus, which—thank God—was underneath her, and waiting for gravity to do its thing.
This was so stupid, she thought as eyelined eyes went wide and camera phones flashed. Then she came crashing down into the aisle of the double-decker tour bus.
The riders erupted into applause.
“I didn’t know there was going to be a stunt show,” said a mother in a Minnesota Twins hat. The black-haired boy next to her rolled his eyes with the practiced motion of adolescence.
Amanda waved and posed and took pictures with reluctant Goths, who secretly wanted to have their picture taken with her but would never admit it, until the tour came to an end outside the gates. Then she exited with the rest of them and faded into the obscurity of Los Angeles.
She didn’t have any money; that was her main problem. When the vampires had taken her from home, they had neglected to grab her purse on their way out. So before she could buy a plane, train, or, m
ost likely, bus ticket that would take her back, she had to come up with cash. She had considered grabbing one or two things from her room to pawn, but they might have thrown off her balance on her run. This led her to her current course of action—looking for a nightclub.
It was Tuesday, not the best night for clubbing, but this was Los Angeles; there was always someone with money who wanted to get drunk and dance. Amanda followed the streets, listening for the telltale thump of dance music, watching for the understated blacklit signs, which heralded the abundant use of strobes within. It wasn’t that difficult. Once she ended up on Hollywood Boulevard, she found several within walking distance of each other to choose from.
The club she settled on was called Bastion, strictly because it was the kind of insufferable establishment that went out of its way to make sure you didn’t know it was called Bastion. The sign out front was black with a thin black scrawl that presumably spelled the club’s name. The cards handed out by the staff were also black with the thinnest outline of a chess castle in purple—no name, no address, no phone number. If you didn’t already know how to find Bastion, you shouldn’t be anywhere near Bastion. If you came up to Bastion and called it Rook or Castle or Chess Piece, you shouldn’t be anywhere near Bastion. The club was exclusive and the guest list at the front had only three names: a dollar sign, sunglasses, and the number ten. If a man or woman wasn’t rich, famous, or smoking hot, they were not Bastion material.
Amanda ducked into an alley a few blocks away so that she could partially undress. Underneath the T-shirt and sweats she had worn for maneuverability during her jump was a cute number she had borrowed from the apartment’s nicely stocked guest closet, a little black dress. Very little. It actually didn’t fit very well, but that was kind of the point. There was going to be too much leg and too much cleavage to turn away. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and gave it a bit of a tussle. Taking a few makeup necessities out of the pockets of her sweatpants, she did a quick and serviceable makeup job. She wished she could have found a way to carry some high heels out with her but decided flats would be fine. Nobody would be looking at her feet.