And a hundred yards away they were bagging her father’s remains. The last of her family was dead, gone. No one left to mourn her but Carl, and he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure he cared any more. How screwed up was that?
There would be plenty of mourning, however. Eighteen dead. Four, maybe even as much as five minutes, and eighteen dead. No way to hide that shit, and even if he could, Carl wouldn’t.
By all rights he should have died. He’d gotten himself right and properly spanked by a twelve-year-old girl and a nun. If they’d been human he might have had to surrender his man card.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know who had saved him, but he was damned if he could figure out why anyone in the Blackbourne family would bother. It was a kindness to say he was not exactly on their list of people who deserved anything like decency.
He refused to reassess his opinion of the clan. There was nothing good about them. They weren’t human and they weren’t good people. They dealt in drugs and human misery and they did it without hesitation.
Also, one of the assholes was currently suing him.
He’d managed to get his rain slicker out of the truck, along with his badge and his gun. Too little and too late. He was soaked head to toe, his gun was useless and dead things didn’t give a good goddamn if he was the sheriff.
“It could have been much worse, you know.” The voice caught him off guard. It shouldn’t have, but he wasn’t really used to seeing Andy away from his house.
Andy looked at him from under an umbrella. The rain was still coming down hard – and he suspected that meant floods in the near future, one more joy to consider – and the old man stared at him with warm, expressive eyes.
“Jesus, Andy. I hate this.”
“I know.” The man started moving, knowing full well Carl would follow him. “I’m sorry for your loss, son.”
“We weren’t married any more.”
“I’m old, you damned fool, not senile.” He led Carl away from the cemetery, only stopping when they’d reached the funeral home. The rain still fell hard, but the sound was lessened as soon as they stepped within the protection of the building. Under a lot of circumstances most of the funeral home would have likely been sealed off, but there was an active investigation going on, and Dale and Wendell Boatwright, the brothers who ran the damned place, were currently waiting in the morgue. It was now their turn to be put in their final resting places.
Andy very fastidiously shook off his umbrella as he closed it. “I know good and damned well you two weren’t married any more. I also know you were still carrying a torch for her despite all common sense.” The man shook his head. “You have no idea how many sad sacks like you I had to counsel when I was teaching classes. Perfectly good students who went straight into the outhouse as soon as their girlfriends or boyfriends ended things.”
Carl had no idea what to say, and so he said nothing.
Andy continued in the silence. “It’s neither here nor there, Carl. My point is, I’m sorry for your loss. And before you go putting this on yourself, and you will, you need to remember that it could have been much worse.”
“How do you even know about this?”
Andy waved his hand, dismissing the question. Then he answered anyway. “Decamp called me. Filled me in on what was going on. I do believe the man was puzzled as to why I wasn’t attending the funeral until I explained to him that not everyone is kept in the loop by the younger generation.”
“Younger generation?”
“Don’t be fooled. Decamp is older than he looks. He’s just well preserved in comparison to me.” A quick scowl. “You are remarkably good at trying to change the subject, you know.” Andy reached into his overcoat and pulled out a sandwich bag. From inside the bag he retrieved a half dozen sheets of paper. “These are notes that might be of assistance to you. Old legends about the sort of uneasy spirit we discussed previously.” He looked over the edge of his glasses at Carl, once again managing to both be shorter than the sheriff and to simultaneously manage to look down at him. It wasn’t a condescending gesture, merely a matter of the diminutive man’s presence. “There are a few notes regarding what might or might not be of use at dispelling them, a couple of references with regard to possible methods of protection. This is really more Decamp’s forte than mine, but a man likes to be of assistance.”
“Well, thank you, Andy.”
“You know your daddy used to do this sort of thing to me too. He’d just pop up with asinine questions pertaining to old legends and then he’d be on his merry way. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I was always talking to Crowley.”
“Andy. You know I don’t want to cause you any troubles.” It was an automatic response. Andy made him feel like he should apologize.
“And if you were being a problem, I’d have told you to leave me be a long time ago. Same with your father. He was a nice enough man, but he always cheated at poker.”
“He did not.” Carl couldn’t keep the shock out of his voice.
Andy sniffed. “Either he cheated or he was a very lucky sonofabitch.”
Carl felt a smile play at the corners of his mouth. Profanity from Andy was as rare as snow in August.
Andy looked him up and down and then patted his arm. “You know where I am should you need to talk about anything. In the meantime, you’d do well to remember that you are an elected official and not the king of the county.”
“I don’t follow.”
“You aren’t wearing a crown, boy. You are not responsible for the lives of your citizens. You are merely a civil servant. If you can’t stop every crime, it doesn’t mean you aren’t doing your job.”
Carl nodded and felt the bands crushing his chest ease just the smallest amount. “Thanks, Andy.”
“Quit thanking me, Carl. It makes me feel like I should be doing something nice and I hate being nice.” A blatant lie if there had ever been one.
“Let me give you a ride home.”
“I have a perfectly good car. I drove it over here. I drove with the windows closed and the doors locked. I’ll be just fine.” Carl could hardly force the man to let him drive. Besides, he was still going to be tied up for a while. The GBI was coming in for additional statements. Too many people killed and the jurisdiction was up in the air. In this case the situation was being taken away from him and he wasn’t about to protest it.
“Then be safe. All right?”
“I always am, Carl. I’m too old to be foolhardy.” The old man headed out into the rain, stopping exactly long enough to unfurl his umbrella before he stepped out into the night.
Carl watched him go and shook his head. He was damned tired. Still, he felt better for seeing the old man. Sometimes comfort came from the damnedest places.
* * *
“So let me get this straight,” Decamp said. “You find out there are vampires in an old church and you and your sheriff buddy get a can of gasoline and burn the place down.”
Griffin said, “We couldn’t just leave them there could we?”
“No, I suppose you couldn’t.”
Decamp, Griffin, and Charon were seated in Decamp’s study. Griffin suspected Decamp had shelled out some serious cash having this part of the interior of his Victorian-era house rebuilt so the study ran the length of the house. Three walls were lined with shelves, all crammed full of books and papers. The fourth wall, the one behind Decamp’s massive desk, held an impressive display of hand weapons, everything from a matched pair of Uzi machine pistols to a matched pair of flintlocks. After several visits to Decamp’s home, Griffin had realized the display wasn’t always the same. Decamp was rotating weapons out of some larger collection.
Griffin said, “It’s not like Carl and me are experts in dealing with vampires like you are, and we couldn’t reach you.”
“You’re right, Griffin, and I’m not really blaming yo
u. I’m just frustrated. If I had been able to catch Cotton unaware, I might have been able to destroy both he and his followers quietly.”
“Using something like you did at the churchyard?” Charon said.
“Something like that.”
“What exactly did you do?” Griffin said. “And can you do it to the rest of them?”
Decamp shook his head. “Like I told you there, I used a low-level spell. More of a charm really, for holding evil spirits in place.”
Charon said, “Folk magic. Like in the Long Lost Friend.”
“Just like that, yes. And I doubt I can use it again. Cotton is aware of me now and he can protect his flock from that sort of thing.”
“He’s that powerful?” Griffin said.
“He is. He’s what we call a master vampire. He’s had decades to build his powers.”
Griffin said, “You spoke of a low-level spell. Don’t you have any higher level ones?”
“You have to understand how what we call magic or sorcery works. Do you remember how I told you the Great Old Ones only have limited power on earth because our reality is naturally resistant to supernatural forces? Same thing applies here. Oh, there was a time, back before recorded history, when the Old Ones still held sway, where magic of all kinds was possible. When the Old Ones were cast out, the fabric of our reality changed. Creatures like Cotton and like the Moon-Eyes are remnants. Relics of a bygone age.”
“So spells are out.”
“Not entirely. But I’m going to have to do some serious research. Which reminds me.”
Decamp got up from his desk and walked to the closest bookshelf. Unlike the others, which were open for inspection, this one had two heavy wooden doors and a serious looking lock. Decamp slid a key from a pocket and unlocked the bookcase. He swung the doors open and the musty, but not unpleasant scent of old books rolled out. Griffin smiled as he saw Charon crane her neck to get a look at the contents of the case. The young woman loved books.
Most of the books were massive and leather bound. There was also what looked like scrolls in a square compartment. Decamp lifted a heavy tome out of the case and plopped it on the desk. Much to Charon’s disappointment, he then relocked the case.
Charon said, “Wait, was that a copy of Unspeakable Cults in there?”
“Shush,” said Decamp. “This is the one we want now. A book of lore and spells dealing with vampires.”
Charon’s eyes grew wider still. “Jesus, Carter. Is that the Ruthvenian?”
“Yes, one of the few surviving copies of the original edition. I only know of two others, both in the possession of a colleague of mine.”
Griffin said, “Here I go again with the questions but what’s the deal with that book?”
Charon said, “The Ruthvenian is sort of a vampire bible. It’s a compendium of knowledge gathered over centuries. But it also has summoning spells and such. To tell you the truth I thought it was a myth like Alhazred’s Necronomicon.”
“Oh that one is a myth is it?” Decamp said.
“What are you saying?” said Charon.
“A subject for another time. Right now we’ve got to figure out what to do about Lazarus Cotton.”
Griffin said, “You think he’ll be making another run at us.”
“Almost certainly. Cotton wasn’t expecting the sort of opposition he ran into at the funeral. He’ll be more wary now, but he has to deal with you and Carl. You’re a continuing threat to his existence. He’s already called in some other master vampires. And that’s hardly the worst he can do.”
“These master vampires are that much worse than the others?” Griffin said.
Decamp said, “You and Carl have been lucky. You’ve mostly dealt with vampires who have been recently turned. An older vampire can do things you wouldn’t believe. You usually wouldn’t even see them coming.”
“Where is Cotton calling these things from?”
“Cotton has been at this for some time. We know this isn’t his first church. He should have some other followers somewhere.”
Charon said, “Carl’s friend Andy said he saw Cotton’s father at a tent revival a long time ago and that he was a preacher too.”
“Andy would know,” said Decamp. “But more than likely it wasn’t Cotton’s father, but rather Cotton himself. He probably falsifies his own death every few decades and continues as his own son.”
Griffin said, “Why does he do it? I mean, why be a preacher? It’s not like he needs to make a living.”
“Well keep in mind I’m speculating here,” Decamp said. “I’ve never met Cotton, but going by his actions, the revivals, the churches, I think the man seriously believes he’s doing God’s will. Otherwise he wouldn’t have stayed at it this long.”
“You mean he doesn’t know he’s a blood sucking monster?” Charon said.
“Monster is in the eye of the beholder,” said Decamp. “He wouldn’t be the first zealot to justify his actions in the name of religion.”
Griffin said, “But he obviously isn’t turning everyone he meets into vampires. There would be thousands of them.”
“For the most part he seems to be choosing specific folk and bringing them into his church. But make no mistake. He possibly has created thousands of vampires over the decades.”
“You mean there are that many of them out there?”
“Yes, but most keep a lower profile. A vampire doesn’t have to kill a victim to feed on them and if they don’t die, they don’t turn.”
“Judging from his actions at the funeral I don’t think Cotton’s worrying much about a low profile.”
Decamp said, “No and he’ll probably be worse once he realizes fully what you and Carl have done.”
“What do you mean? Looks like most of his flock got away, though I can’t see how.”
“Charon found a report that Cotton’s previous church in Florida also burned. That may have been an accident or an attack, but in any case he probably lost his entire congregation. Chances are he took steps to keep that from happening again, probably a tunnel, but he may not have been aware of all the facts.
“As you’ve seen, some of the legends about vampires are true and some aren’t. That’s partly because there is more than one kind of vampire. But one thing that does seem to hold true for all of them is that they must rest in soil from the place where they were turned. In the case of Cotton’s followers that place seems to have been the old church. The sanctuary was acting as a sort of communal coffin where all of them could rest together.”
Griffin said, “We destroyed the church, but the soil is still there.”
“Yes, but you destroyed it with fire. And fire purifies. The vampire host can’t rest there now. And if they can’t rest they begin to deteriorate.”
“That’s why the ones at the funeral looked like they had started to decompose,” Charon said.
“Precisely. And they will continue to deteriorate until they quite literally fall apart.”
Griffin said, “Then all we have to do is wait them out.”
“I doubt it will be that easy, Griffin,” said Decamp. “Cotton won’t be happy about what you’ve done and he’s already called in some old friends. No, we have to consider ourselves at war with this group of vampires. We’ll have to go on the offensive.”
“We? You dealing yourself in, Decamp?”
“I did that when I got out of the car at the funeral.”
Griffin said, “Glad to have you. You can keep me from making the kind of mistakes I made with that shovel.”
“You had the right idea but the wrong material. Wood is movie stuff. You have to go further back into folklore. An iron stake driven through the heart would have stopped him.”
Charon said, “Iron? You mean like the fey folk?”
“There are places where the legends of the alfar and the vampire cro
ss. Iron seems to do the trick in either case.”
“Alfar?” said Griffin.
“Old Norse for white or light, corrupted to alf or elf. The fair folk. Faeries.”
“The things I fought weren’t faeries. They didn’t sparkle like fucking Tinkerbell.”
“No, but as I said, folklore suggests some connections.”
“Okay, so add iron to fire and decapitation as ways to kill them. What else?”
Charon said, “Pursuivant’s Vampiricon suggests garlic for repelling them.”
Decamp nodded. “It won’t kill them, but they seriously don’t like it. We should all probably get a lot of garlic into our diets. We need any edge we can get. I’ll put together a list of things we can use against them and see if I can find some weapons for you and Carl.”
“How do we find Cotton and his crew?” Griffin said. “I doubt he’ll be hanging around the remains of the church.”
“Cotton has to sleep in the soil where he was turned as well, which means he probably has a coffin somewhere. The other master vampires too.”
Charon said, “An honest to Dracula coffin?”
“Indeed,” said Decamp. “We’ll have to find out where Cotton rests if we want to carry the fight to him.”
“Doubt we’ll have to worry much about that,” said Griffin. “He’ll probably come to us again soon enough.”
“You’re probably right,” Decamp said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jolene Blackbourne stared at the sheriff ’s house and frowned. She was not at all happy about this. Things were not going the way she wanted them to go, and if there was one elemental truth in this world – at least as far as Jolene was concerned – it was simply that when she wasn’t happy, the rest of the world would know about it sooner or later.
Lament meant to play with Carl Price. That was really very annoying, because as far as Jolene was concerned both he and Wade Griffin were her toys to play with.
For now she’d let it go. She thought about telling him what had happened to his wife, thought about telling him that Lament had killed her to mess with his mind, but instead she decided to wait. Let Lament have her games. She could think she was in control for now.
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