Blood Groove

by Alex Bledsoe

  BLOOD GROOVE

  BLOOD

  GROOVE

  Alex Bledsoe

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  BLOOD GROOVE

  Copyright © 2009 by Alex Bledsoe

  All rights reserved.

  Book design by Ellen Cipriano

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bledsoe, Alex.

  Blood groove / Alex Bledsoe.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “A Tom Doherty Associates book.”

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7653-2196-1 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 0-7653-2196-3 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7653-2308-8 (trade paperback)

  ISBN-10: 0-7653-2308-7 (trade paperback)

  1. Vampires—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.L456B55 2009

  813'.6—dc22

  2008046456

  First Edition: May 2009

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To the memory of

  Duncan Browne (1947–1993).

  His album Streets of Fire (1979) was the

  sound track to the writing of this novel.

  SPECIAL THANKS

  Valette, Jake, and Charlie

  Grace West

  Marlene Stringer and Barbara Bova

  Tom Doherty and Paul Stevens

  Theresa R. Simpson, for help in re-creating 1975 Memphis

  Don Breithaupt and Jeff Breithaupt, whose books Precious and Few: Pop Music in the Early ’70s and Night Moves: Pop Music in the Late ’70s were invaluable references in recalling what songs came out when

  And Lin Browne

  NOTE

  The first poem quoted in chapter six is “Blake, Chapter 74” by Martin R. Delany (1812–1855).

  The second poem is “The Misanthropist” by James Monroe Whitfield (1822–1871).

  You can’t know what’s going on if you’re asleep, I bet ya.

  —“I Bet You,” Funkadelic

  BLOOD GROOVE

  CHAPTER 1

  Memphis, Tennessee, 1975

  “SHIT,” SAID PATRICIA . It was an understatement.

  “Yes, ma’am,” her assistant Joe agreed, and scowled at the musty odor, strong despite the morgue’s chill.

  The body inside the enormous coffin had the unmistakable look of someone buried alive. The limbs twisted in the folds of dry, brittle clothing; the jaw hung open in an eternal cry of despair. But the knife driven through his heart, still gleaming after more than half a century, was what held their attention.

  It was solid gold.

  Joe moved around the casket taking photographs. The hum of the flash recharger echoed in the silent room. Patricia took a magnifying glass from the table and leaned into the coffin to examine the knife.

  “Careful,” Joe said. “One wrong move, we’ve got nothing but a big ol’ pile of dust.”

  “Not after only sixty-some-odd years,” she said good-naturedly, but he had a point, and she forced herself to be extra cautious.

  At first she thought the knife was some ceremonial dagger, but a closer look showed it to be a crucifix, with an inscribed three-inch crosspiece and, visible between the ribs, a base sharpened to a point and flattened into a blade. The artwork was exquisite, with tiny Aramaic characters strongly suggesting a Middle Eastern origin. It was out of her area—she taught pathology—but she still knew impressive workmanship when she saw it.

  “Christ on a stick,” Joe said, and wrinkled his nose as he took the film from his camera. “So that’s really a”—he made an exaggerated frightened face—“vampire?”

  “No, it’s a crime victim,” Patricia said. “See the knife? He was murdered, allegedly by Sir Francis Colby, sixty years ago.”

  Joe put the camera aside. “And they want an autopsy done on him now? Is that Colby guy still alive or something?”

  “No, he died quite some time ago. I’m not sure why the museum wants it, but it should be interesting as a technical exercise. You don’t see many corpses like this.”

  “You mean ones that might rise from their coffins?”

  Patricia scowled at him. “Did you read anything past the first paragraph of my memo?”

  Joe rolled his eyes. “Yes. This is the corpse of Baron Zginski, the only man to have ever been legally proved to be a vampire. His trial was one of the first live broadcasts ever in Europe, but no recordings exist, and the various transcripts don’t agree on details.”

  “You can read, then.”

  “But why are we cutting into him now, after all this time?”

  She shrugged. “Professional courtesy. Someone at the museum wants to know the cause of death, and since we’re part of the state system, they don’t have to pay us extra. And you don’t get experience with a body in this condition very often, so if you’re serious about your education, you’d do best to shut up and pay attention.”

  She ran her hand along the coffin’s firm, expensive wood overlay. The casket looked like a bulky version of a standard coffin, but they’d had to use a forklift to move it from the Colby Archives warehouse into the medical school’s morgue room to examine it. Under the paneling the coffin was solid metal, probably lead.

  “He looks . . . dried out,” Joe observed. “Not decayed. Mummified.”

  “Until the rubber dry-rotted, there was an airtight seal on this thing. The fluids drained out of the body while it was sealed, and when the rubber started to go, they evaporated.”

  “He does look like he has fangs,” Joe pointed out.

  “Just slightly enlarged canines,” Patricia countered. “My grandmother had teeth just like that and she wasn’t a vampire, either.”

  Her eye kept drifting back to the cross. If it was real . . .

  She forced her attention back to the moment. “Okay, we’re pathologists, time to pathologize. Let’s cook some tissue samples and see what really made everyone think this Baron Zginski was a vampire: porphyria, anemia, or just plain psychosis.”

  “There’s no chemical test for psychosis.”

  “Your point?”

  “It’s nearly six o’clock.”

  “You have a date?”

  He looked down. “No,” he said pathetically.

  “Well, you do now. With a Bunsen burner.”

  “I’m your T.A., not your slave,” he said.

  Patricia’s eyes widened in mock outrage. She was the only black on the school’s faculty, and one of only three women. But she’d worked with Joe long enough to know he had no idea how appallingly insensitive his remark, intended as a joke, might be. Maybe someday this would change, but now, in 1975, she decided to simply treat it as intended.

  “All right, all right, I’m going,” Joe said, and went t
o gather the test tubes.

  Two hours later, while Joe prepared the tissue samples in the lab, Patricia went into the empty teacher’s lounge, poured the last of the god-awful coffee, and settled onto the green vinyl couch. The museum curator had been kind enough to send along Sir Francis Colby’s original documentation on the Zginski case, in which Colby had been prosecutor (and executioner, as it turned out). She opened the folder and read the first yellowed, handwritten page.

  16 June 1915

  Passelwaithe nestled amongst the Welsh hills, almost cut off from any sign of civilisation. Were you to stand in the centre of the town square and look in any direction, only green hills and grey sky would greet you. The people were equally isolated, aware of the modern world but preferring to exist in the superstitious nether regions of their ancestors. Magic still existed in Passelwaithe, or at least the belief in magic persisted.

  I journeyed to Passelwaithe in response to a cryptic summons from one Arthur Jermin, the local physician. He’d been referred to me by Professor Alistair, and his letter described a problem so unusual I was unable to resist. I arrived just before sundown, as requested. It was a relief to be away from London, after the zeppelin air raids at the first of the month. Here in Wales, no trace of the ghastly war could be found.

  The town seemed to be deserted as I climbed from my motorcar. Usually the sight of the great rumbling beast, technology’s dire imitation of the horse, drew entire populations. I lit a cigar and waited to be noticed, one foot rakishly on the running board; that is, as rakish as a man my age could be.

  In a few moments another man, as middle-aged and portly as I, literally skulked towards me, checking frequently behind him. Finally he stood erect and made an effort to reclaim his dignity. ‘Sir Francis?’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘And you are Dr. Jermin?’

  ‘Quite. Come, let’s get inside, in case—’ He caught himself before giving away too much, and I followed him into the nearest building.

  A typically Welsh choice, it turned out to be the local pub, and the entire male population of Passelwaithe filled it. Dark, muscular men with faces like battered gargoyles, they gazed upon me with an expectancy almost religious in its intensity. Dr. Jermin stepped forward.

  ‘We have only a few minutes of safety left to us, lads,’ Dr. Jermin announced. ‘This is Sir Francis Colby, the eminent spiritualist. He’s here to rid us of our problem. Is that not correct?’

  ‘I must know this problem first,’ I demurred.

  ‘It’s that devil, the Baron!’ one man cried.

  ‘Aye, Baron Zginski!’ echoed another.

  ‘And who is Baron Zginski?’ I demanded.

  ‘A vampire,’ a man in a cleric’s collar stated. ‘An unholy being who survives on the blood of the living. And he’ll be the ruin of us all if he’s not stopped.’

  Having been briefed somewhat by Professor Alistair, I was not entirely surprised. The grip of superstition was still firm in Passelwaithe. Indeed, they knew me only as a spiritualist, not understanding that my primary mission was to expose fraud and misinterpretation.

  ‘True vampires,’ I said carefully, ‘are not native to this land. They exist only in isolated central European districts, or in books by Irish theatre managers. How is it one may be found here?’

  ‘He came to us as a rich immigrant,’ Dr. Jermin explained, ‘claiming to have been disenfranchised by the war, and to have barely escaped with his life and fortune. That was six months ago. Since then, our wives and daughters have begun exhibiting strange behaviour. Our young men are disheartened and morose. And all due to this . . . this foreigner!’

  A grumble of assent rose from the gathered menfolk.

  I understood all too well the dynamic at work here. ‘Tell me, is this Baron Zginski a young man?’

  The priest nodded. ‘He appears young, yes. And handsome as the very devil. Yet rumours say he is centuries old.’

  I considered my words carefully. This young, rich Continental European was clearly such a threat to the stolid males of Passelwaithe that they’d inferred supernatural origins to his attractiveness. Inwardly I was amused, but to all appearances remained deadly serious.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘if this Baron is all you say, we must proceed with caution. Vampires are the devil’s own tricksters, and—’

  ‘Very little gets past them,’ a new voice said.

  A dashing, debonair young man stood in the doorway. Of medium height, slender, with raven-black hair and moustache, he dominated the room with his blazing eyes. The royal blood of Europe clearly flowed in his veins, and he stood for our inspection as if he were used to such scrutiny. His clothing was more appropriate for a Parisian salon than a Welsh pub, but he wore it with ease and flair.

  ‘Sir Francis Colby, I believe?’ he said in a light Eastern European accent.

  I stepped forward. ‘Indeed.

  Baron Zginski?’ ‘Baron Rudolfo Vladimir Zginski,’ he said with a bow. ‘At your service. I understand my neighbours have some rather unusual ideas about me.’ Each man at whom he gazed directly immediately turned away.

  ‘Some concerns, I believe,’ I said in as conciliatory a tone as I could muster. ‘I’m certain at the root it’s mere misunderstanding.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Zginski said. He had none of the pomp of royalty, but rather an unassuming quality that was most endearing. ‘When I heard you were to visit, I thought between the two of us we might clear this whole thing up. Your reputation for discovering the truth in such matters is spotless.’

  ‘Devil,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Incubus,’ came another voice.

  Zginski smiled. His teeth were quite white, quite even. He said, ‘I am open to any suggestion you make, Sir Francis. I wish only to live in peace with my neighbours, in my adopted country.’

  ‘Very well. I suggest, then, that at this time tomorrow evening we meet here as a judicial body. We shall, Baron Zginski, put you on trial for the crime of being a vampire. Because of my experience in such matters, I shall act as prosecutor.’

  Zginski clearly understood my meaning. ‘And I shall defend myself, Sir Francis,’ he said with a slight smile, ‘with the mere truth.’

  ‘Is there a magistrate?’ I asked Dr. Jermin.

  A white-haired gentleman announced, ‘I am the magistrate. Alun Toomley.’

  ‘Very well. I shall return at this time tomorrow evening, at which time we shall meet here to settle this. Oh, and incidentally—while I shall abide by any ruling you make, sir, I shall take steps to insure no prior prejudice will be allowed to operate. Baron Zginski will be judged on the facts alone.’

  Baron Zginski nodded his assent and departed. Conversation resumed around us, low and bitter and menacing. I motioned Dr. Jermin to join me at a table.

  ‘This is not an example of Christian charity,’ I said quietly. ‘That young man is rich, handsome, and, I assume, unmarried. That is why your village menfolk feel threatened.’

  ‘I thought so at first, too, Sir Francis. Yet why would a rich, handsome bachelor pick such a tiny, out-of-the-way village? Why not London, or Glasgow?’

  ‘Perhaps he has different priorities,’ I said.

  Jermin considered carefully before he spoke. ‘Or perhaps he was aware that, in all of the United Kingdom, no village has as large a population of women. I’ve lived here for forty years, and attended births for nearly that long. In that time, daughters have outnumbered sons almost three to one, and the isolation we face here has kept most of them unmarried. If I were a young, handsome rich man, this would be an ideal location. And if I were also a vampire . . .’

  I finished my pint of bitters. ‘Your fingers clutch at the proverbial straws, Dr. Jermin. Vampirism is a superstition, nothing more. Tomorrow night, we shall prove it.’

  ‘I thought you were to be the prosecutor.’

  ‘And I shall be. I shall submit Baron Zginski to every test of vampirism I know. And when he passes them all, we shall have settled this nonsense. Ag
reed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Jermin said reluctantly.

  As I drove from Passelwaithe, two things impinged on my consciousness. One was Dr. Jermin’s description of the male-to-female ratio in the village; it was, indeed, an ideal situation for a male creature that fed on living blood.

  The other was a moonlit glimpse, nothing more, of two figures on a hill, clutched in an embrace. One was a slender, dark-clad man, as Baron Zginski was. The other was smaller, paler, and unmistakably feminine. The second figure seemed to have swooned in the arms of the first.

  At the time, I convinced myself they were merely lovers meeting for a tryst. Subsequent events would prove otherwise.

  Joe tapped on the lounge door and opened it. “You decent?”

  “Much as I ever am,” Patricia said.

  “Everything’s running right now, so we should have basic toxicology screens pretty soon. I’m going to get something to eat, if that’s cool. You want anything?”

  She stood and stretched. “No. I’ll probably be down in the morgue when you get back.”

  “Hanging out with the guest of honor?”

  “Sometimes you spot new things if you keep looking. Have fun, but be back in an hour.”

  “Yes, massah,” Joe said. Patricia merely sighed.

  For reasons she couldn’t really pinpoint, Patricia wanted to read the rest of this story in the room with what was left of poor Baron Zginski. Sure, it was morbid, but she was a pathologist, and she’d done her thesis on historical murders. Besides, being a black professional woman in Memphis, she knew just how strong provincial resentment could be; she felt like she and Zginski had something in common. Had anything really changed between 1915 and 1975? Different was still different, and still feared and hated.