by Ryk E. Spoor
"You mean you bit her? But you said that was fatal!"
He nodded. "Other vampires had tried it; they had all died along with their intended prey. I found out why." He shook his head slowly. "The power was . . . incredible. No younger nosferatu could have survived it."
I thought about that for a moment. "Then in a way you, also, drain souls?"
"Yes and no. There is a linking and exchange, usually, of energies. However, in the case of something like combat, it can become a direct drain, and against a werewolf or something of similar nature, it must be. As it was, my body fell into what you would call a coma for several days as my system adjusted. I was fortunate; we were underground in one of these abandoned buildings' basements; had that not been the case, I would have faced the irony of dying in sunshine on the morning of my triumph. But survive I did, and I find that I am stronger for it." He smiled, the predatory grin of the hunter. "It is fitting that their attempt to destroy me would only strengthen me; it is . . . justice."
We nodded, then Sylvie spoke. "What did you mean when you said Jason had changed the world?"
"Is it not obvious, my lady?" He gestured at the lights of the city, silhouetted against the darkening sky. "For centuries humanity has wondered if there were others out there, beyond the sky; but always they were secure in their science and civilization, knowing that here, at least, they ruled supreme. The Others—vampires, werewolves, and so on—hid themselves away, not to be found by the scientists who sought to chart the limits of reality, and so became known as legend, myth, tales to frighten children and nothing more. On this world, at least, humanity knew that it was the sole and total ruler of all they could survey.
"But now they know that is not true; that other beings walk among them. And this is not one of their stories, a book to be read and then closed, to disappear with the morning light." Verne shot a glance at me. "You recall, my friend, how you spoke about the horror stories, the Kings and Straubs and Koontzes?"
I thought for a moment, then I remembered the conversation he meant. "I think I see."
"Yes. You were disturbed by their stories showing such titanic struggles, and yet no subsequent stories ever referred to them; as though such power could ever be concealed. But this is the true world. The genie cannot be replaced in the bottle. Even your government has realized the futility of a cover-up. Winthrope speaks on the news of these events to an incredulous nation, and scientists gather to study that which is left. The world changes; we have changed it. For good or ill, the world shall never be the same."
He fell quiet, and we gazed upward; watching as the stars began to spread—like silver dust—across the sky.
Viewed in a Harsh Light
28
"I must thank you, Jason," Verne said, surveying the mound of equipment assembled in his dining room. "The advice of an expert is always appreciated."
Verne had decided to fully enter the coming twenty-first century, adding telecommunications and computers to his formidable range of resources. I grinned. "No thanks needed. Advising someone on what to buy is always fun, especially when you know that the person in question doesn't have a limited budget." One of the workmen looked at me with a question in his eyes. "Oh, yeah. Verne, how many places are you going to want to be able to plug in a PC? I mean to the phone lines." Extra phone jacks were a good idea; cable didn't yet run out to Verne's house, so at the moment that was his only option, and even when it did I didn't think it was a bad thing to have extra hookups for the phones.
"Ah, yes. I would say . . . Hmm. Morgan?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Are any of the staff likely to need such access?"
Morgan smiled slightly. "I would say most of them, sir." While Verne was modernizing, he was still not quite grasping how much of a change it was going to bring to his household.
Verne sighed theatrically. "Very well, then." He turned to the workman. "You might as well rewire the entire house, first, second, and third floors, and put two phone jacks in every bedroom and study, as well as one here in the living room," he pointed, "and another three in my office, marked there."
Ed Sommer, the head worker, smiled broadly, obviously thinking of the money involved, and glanced at the plans. "We'll write up a work order. What about the basement?"
"No need for anything there."
"Gotcha."
Sommer cut the work order quickly—I'd recommended his company because of their efficiency, despite the fact that they were the new kids on the block—Verne signed it, and we left the rest of the work in Morgan's hands. "Coming, Verne? Syl's out of town on a convention and I'm up for a game of chess if you're interested."
He hesitated, the light glinting off the ruby ring he never removed. "Perhaps tomorrow, Jason. All these strangers in the house are upsetting."
"Then get away from them for a while. Morgan can handle things here. Besides, how could anything upset you?" This was partly a reference to his vampire nature—I'd kinda expect a man who's umpteen thousands of years old to be comfortable everywhere—but also to his constant old-world calm approach, which was rarely disturbed by anything except major disasters.
"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 a bit up 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 wanting 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 finally caught up with old Mjolnir."
"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 couple 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 on how to answer you."
I was momentarily confused, then remembered my earlier comment. It was sometimes disconcerting talking to Verne; his long life made time compress from his point of view, so that a conversation that seemed quite distant to me was still extremely recent for him, and he sometimes forgot that the rest of us didn'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, may be encroaching on all those things you bring with you—both physical and spiritual. Workmen and such 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 in my upstairs room 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 is my memory and a few truly ancient relics. The mass entry of so many people of this world . . . somehow it once more reminds me how alone I am."
I pulled into my new garage, built after werewolves nearly whac
ked 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. I had let myself die in a sense 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; 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 some, 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. . . . 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 thought I'd get to the point that I wouldn't notice a bottle of blood in the fridge any more than I would a can of beer." Yanking on a potholder, I reached into the oven and pulled out the chicken, coated in honey with a touch of Inner Beauty and worcestershire sauce and 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 there 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 usual in the manner one expected 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; 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 working 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 have to be concerned about 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 risk eliminating one of my major reserves of wealth in case some disaster occurs."
I couldn't argue that. "But let's hope there aren't any 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 for us it was more an excuse for staying and talking. Neither Verne nor I tended to feel comfortable "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. "Perhaps the first thing I need to do to answer you is to clarify something. 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 of any sort. To me, my abilities were a blessing, a gift, not a curse. I am not driven by those impulses that other, more 'normal' 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 just go with the obvious assumptions, Jason. And by doing so, I minimized the 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." His smile faded. "Your friend Elias . . . he was of a type which, 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 even seeming to see the board. When he finally answered, his voice was softer, and touched with a faint musical accent unlike any I had ever 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; because I did not die. I rose and staggered onward, 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 ruins. But in the moment I would have despaired . . . She came." He moved again.
I could hear the capital letter in "She" when he spoke. "She?"
"The Lady Herself." The accent was stronger now, and I was certain I'd never heard anything quite like it. Not even really 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 suddenly. When he spoke again, the accent was gone, replaced by the faint trace of Central European I was used to. "I'm sorry, Jason. No more."
"Too painful?"
He looked at me narrowly, his eyes unfathomable. "Too dangerous."
"To you?"
"No. To you."
29
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 in fairly casual style, but that wasn't much indication of his job or resources; people come to WIS in different guises than their coworkers usually see.
"Okay, Mr., um, Xiang—that 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's some kinds of work I might do once in a while, but don't consider worth much. Finding old girlfriends, enemies, and so on was one of those. "What kind of a someone?"
"My father."
Okay, that was more interesting, maybe. "Your father? Okay. How'd you come to not know where he is? A family argument?"
He squirmed again, then stood up, pacing in the short distance a
vailable. "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 right—but the word "long" was clearly emphasized.
"What do you need to find him for? Just a family reunion?"
"Why do you need to know?" he countered, slightly annoyed.
"I don't necessarily need to know, as long as there's nothing illegal involved, but any information can sometimes help." I had to put in that clause about "illegal" somewhere—it wasn't at all unusual for people to try to use 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 had to go on. "I'll need everything you can possibly 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, not other things."
Interesting case. "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 the sort to be 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 do the job. You . . . feel like an honorable man to me, 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."