Underground Vampire

by David Lee

  “Is there anything else you haven’t told me about our relationship?” he asked, smirking a bit now that he was in control.

  “Don’t push it,” she said, “and it’s not a relationship.”

  “Ownership, right?” he replied, drawing it out into a long sarcastic comment.

  She flashed off, appearing fifty feet down the corridor, “Are you coming?”

  Jogging after her Jesse gave her a loud, “Yes ma’am.”

  “I could learn to dislike you very easily.”

  “My only thought is to serve.”

  “Good, start serving, stop talking.” She barked and when he replied, “Ouch,” she immediately softened it with, “please,” and he smiled at her as they continued down the walk, she on the right, he on the left.

  CHAPTER 27

  Entering the Square, Arabella relaxed. It was apparent that their arrival was a total surprise. They swept down the middle of the street, weapons casually displayed. Vampires gaped open mouthed as the Queen, surrounded by her Guard, came out of the side passage. The fact that she had avoided the main boulevard was not lost on the onlookers, who stood as one as she approached, some bowing in the European tradition while the more recent American-bred Vampires began clapping at her entry, picking it up as she marched down the middle of the avenue.

  Arabella grudgingly admired the old girl as she paraded along, her elegance, grace and dignity; she walked alone, even though her guard was on each side, very much the unconcerned, absolute ruler out among her subjects. When she reached the Olympia, unctuous toadies wheeled a horrendous gold gilt chair through the front doors, positioning it at the top of the stairs. Not quite a throne, it was nonetheless the most ornate baroque chair one could imagine, suitable only for a moment such as this, Arabella thought.

  “Nice chair,” chimed in Jesse. “Maybe you could get one, put it in the living room, just for me.”

  “Hideous, isn’t it,” she replied, speaking without moving her lips like a ventriloquist.

  The Queen assumed her throne, for there really isn’t another way to describe it, assuming the regal pose and attitude reserved for those who truly believe they were born to rule. A line quickly formed and shuffled forward. She greeted each in turn as the loyal subjects they were, dispensing smiles of appreciation and nods of encouragement, as if there wasn’t a revolution in progress and Vampires weren’t being slaughtered in the streets.

  If any harbored fantasy of lese-majesty they kept it to themselves, either because of her overbearing personality or, more likely, because of the guard lurking about. Unlike the Swiss Guard in pantaloons and funny hats guarding the Pope, her guard was combat ready, some with protective body armor others with swords, all searching the crowd the way a lion examines the brush for a newborn wildebeest.

  Arabella watched as Ismaeli wandered over from his post outside Blood Simple and got into the long line. The Guard stiffened as he approached, no doubt envisioning some of the old blood and gore right there on the front steps of the only 5-star Vampire hotel in the world. He shot a broad wink at her and shot the manly nod to Jesse, who responded with the locker room nod that guys who know and like each other adopt.

  The courtesies over, Arabella sat back as the Guard casually inched closer to the line, acting like they had nothing better to do, while everyone else in the Square inched back out of the kill zone in case anything untoward started. Stepping forward, Arabella whispered, “Sit tight,” to Jesse and the Indian then strolled across the Square to the line where she casually took the arm of the giant Tongan.

  “Ah Miss Arabella, come to kill me on this fine day?”

  “Not today my friend and not tomorrow, either, I hope.” She smiled the full beautiful smile that made Jesse’s heart beat a little faster and said loud enough to be heard throughout the square, “I’m here to pay my respects to the Queen; will you be my escort?”

  “Of course,” the Tongan bowed, “it would be my pleasure.” So together they stood in the line, ignoring the Guard compressing around them, as confident and calm as only the innocent can be. Upon reaching the Queen, Arabella actually curtsied, which Jesse thought was quite admirable considering the top she wore over her skin tight black leggings was kind of short so when she went down it really showed off her legs and butt.

  Rising from the curtsey, Arabella turned, placing her hand on Ismaeli’s arm, saying, “Your majesty,” oh, how the Queen liked the silly pomp, “I’d like to present Ismaeli of the patrimony of Llewellyn; you may not have met him yet.” The introduction was a risk on her part as Llewellyn had been made by Oliver, so technically Ismaeli was of the traitor’s line. But to mention that name in these circumstances would have been gauche if not dangerous if the Queen decided to make a statement and remove someone’s head.

  Beaming, the Queen leaned forward, apparently inspecting the geometric patterns inscribed on the giant’s beautiful brown scalp, and began chatting about how long it had been since she’d been here and how she’d have to make more of an effort, especially as there were so many faces that were new to her. If there were ever an invitation for those who hadn’t yet done so to announce their fealty and publicly acknowledge allegiance this was it, and the reception line grew longer as young Vamps streamed out of the bars and restaurants anxious to be counted on the right side.

  Around the edges, the Guard kept careful score, noting those who didn’t rush to kneel or did so without appropriate enthusiasm. Seemingly oblivious, the Queen received them all, fixing their names, faces and lineage in her memory for the times ahead. She was probably deciding who to terminate, thought Arabella, but so long as she wasn’t on the list it was a good day.

  Looking up the Queen scanned the audience and, signaling to Ismaeli, called over the crowd, “Summon Jason and tell him to bring his friends.”

  Everyone flinched, wondering what was coming next while discreetly trying to move away in case Vampires bursting into flames was next on the agenda. No one wanted to die because they happened to be standing near someone the Queen decided to kill and become collateral damage. Ismaeli gave a formal little bow and returned to the front door of Blood Simple, where he whispered into the hidden microphone then stood, along with everyone else in the square, waiting for Jason.

  Finally, the lacquered red door of Blood Simple opened and Jason appeared, heading a procession of Vampires all immaculately dressed in tuxedos wearing the shiniest shoes Jesse had ever seen. Their appearance caused a stir in the plaza and the line dissolved as they drew near. Members of the Guard blatantly pulled stakes from under their jackets and formed up on each side, ostensibly escorting them but looking to Jesse like prison guards. As they reached the first step, Prunella flashed from the side stopping Jason with an upraised hand.

  Smiling, the elegant albino announced to all, “We come to pay our respects.” He then bowed in the theatrical manner he loved without it being an affectation. The handsome thugs slowly followed his example and began to bow, although it was apparent that they hadn’t been bowing much lately. One, a swarthy dark Italian obviously not Northwest Nordic was particularly slow and managed more of a short head bob than the required bow displaying deference and humility to his Clan Leader. As he raised his head to look the Queen in the face, Prunella appeared in front of him saying, “I think you can do better than that, why don’t you try again?” as if she was helping a newcomer at ballet. “That’s the best I can do,” he replied. “Maybe you can demonstrate the proper subservience for me, it seems more your style.”

  He was fast, very fast, and as she raked her fingernails across his throat he pulled back so that the first cut just severed his windpipe, the air whistling from his lungs pink misting his front, obscuring the stake she drove into his chest, so that he looked down in complete surprise at the wood jutting from his starched white shirt. He collapsed to his knees looking up at the Queen, who gazed down remarking, “Jason, this one isn’t very respectful,” as he turned to ashes on the stones in the middle of the square.

/>   “Any others,” she asked, “any others need some lessons in manners and etiquette?”

  Jason and his gang, for that is what they were, turtled into an impenetrable mass, stakes and blades magically appearing as they retreated toward Blood Simple. The Guard harried them every step of the way, unable to penetrate the hedgehog defense. Vampire battles are normally a series of individual combats as Vampires flash about the area, appearing and disappearing in a confusing jumble. To stand still is to die, as an enemy may flash to your front or side or back to stake your heart or slash your neck.

  By turning turtle, a beleaguered group can stand shoulder to shoulder, back to back, a dense, impenetrable mass that no attacker can penetrate. Forced to confront the turtle head on, the two sides hacked and slashed at each other. If the attackers succeeded in removing a defender from the turtle, the soft underbelly would be exposed and they could attack the group. The turtle, by massing the point of attack, concentrates on mowing down everything in its path. Tactics developed by Greek hoplites and perfected by the legions of Rome are very effective for this type of warfare, unless someone happens to have a modern firearm.

  As it happened Jesse brought a gun, a big one, to this knife fight.

  Vampires frown on the use of guns. It’s considered very bad form, the loud noise attracts attention; guns lack elegance; they allow anyone, a newly made Vamp without much power, the ability to attack an ancient and more powerful Vampire. While the bullet most likely won’t kill, it staggers and shocks, allowing a lesser status Vamp the opportunity to close and stake a more powerful opponent.

  Bullying his way to the front of the melee, Jesse calmly emptied the full clip from the .45 into the front rank. The loud noise and shock from Jesse’s breach of manners froze the combatants until the Indian took the opportunity to remove the maître d’s head, restarting the festivities. Arabella stepped into the vacancy, her katana slashing and hacking at the interior of the turtle. Jesse and the Indian stepped into the breach, one on each side, protecting Arabella’s flanks.

  Arabella, never one to miss a golden opportunity, calmly decapitated first one and then another from the first rank as they gave ground. Clouds of ash from the disintegrating Vampires blew through the air, obscuring the scene for a moment, allowing Jason the time he needed to organize the second rank, pulling their comrades back from the slashing blade and blazing gun and finally retreating through the door of Blood Simple.

  The Guard flashed to the door, attempting to batter it down by brute strength. “Can’t be done that way,” the sonorous voice of Ismaeli opined from the side as the Vampires collapsed to the ground injured from the impact. Several of the Guard flashed to him, stakes at the ready to put him down. “Heat treated stainless door, too strong for even Vampires to knock down,” he said.

  “How do you know?” barked Prunella, taking control of the situation.

  “Ismaeli put it in and he did a damn good job,” said the Tongan, breaking into a deep laugh. “Even I can’t break that door down.”

  “Ismaeli, you didn’t fight?”

  “No, Miss Arabella, not today, not against the Queen.”

  “Kill him,” ordered Prunella, cleaning up loose ends.

  The giant stood calmly, taking no steps to defend himself, as the Guard edged into striking distance.

  “No,” said Arabella, nonchalantly stepping next to him, her sword still at hand, “I think I want him,” she took a moment to appraise him then, turning to face Prunella, “never had a giant Tongan before.”

  Prunella flashed into Arabella’s face snarling, “You seem to be scooping up all the available men these days, Arabella. Are you sure you can handle them, you’ve been alone so very long?”

  “She may have him,” pronounced the Queen, still lounging in that hideous chair, completely unruffled by the events. “Arabella, you will stand surety for his actions.”

  “Of course,” said Arabella, dipping her head towards the Queen.

  “What a wonderful outing,” said the Queen, rising from her chair, “couldn’t have been better, really must do this again.”

  Toadies and sycophants scurried about agreeing with her. Hotel staff rushed out with brooms and dustpans as if Vampire slaughter was just another day at the hotel.

  Stepping past Prunella, Arabella slipped her sword into its sheath and, beckoning to the giant Tongan, whispered low so that only Prunella and those close could hear, “You should be careful with that mouth of yours, Prunella, one of these days it could get you into trouble.”

  They made a strange parade leaving the square, first Arabella nonchalantly strolling down the middle of the street, followed by Jesse his gun in his hand, then the giant Indian fixing each of their faces in his memory, then Ismaeli who had somehow managed to scoop up several stakes and a sword from the ground. As they disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel he was busy stowing the arsenal under his jacket. Arabella walked without noticing the crowd, unconcerned as she had her own personal army watching her back.

  CHAPTER 28

  Beneath the City in a room as fusty and gloomy as only the Victorians could imagine, Oliver swooned, for that is the only way to describe how he’d thrown himself across the overstuffed brocade couch, and hated, for that is the only way to describe how he felt about everyone around him. He disliked their stupidity and he deplored their ill considered actions, but most of all he hated the look of them.

  They stood around the edges of the room coloring like chameleons to blend with the florid wallpaper he’d chosen to match the thick Persian rugs and the heavy brocade furniture. Thank God, he thought, the windows were fake so he needn’t endure the light the few times he was awake during the day. Heavy velvet drapes swagged across the windows reinforced the sense that the air itself was thick as molasses.

  “Tell me again,” he murmured in the tone of one who suffered continually from the failures of fools, “make me understand why you thought it was a good idea to publicly challenge her when she was surrounded by her Guard, and that bitch, Arabella, was with her, and everyone who is anyone was there to witness your humiliation.”

  “We didn’t mean to challenge her; we were only trying to get close to her on the off chance an opportunity would present itself,” answered James Patrick Murphy, the unlucky Vampire who happened to be standing in his line of sight and felt compelled to say something out of nervousness.

  Covering his eyes to spare himself having to look at the miserable miscreants assembled in the room, “I see, a spur of the moment thing. And who thought this up, I mean, which of you had this sudden inspiration?”

  Looking about, James Patrick Murphy noticed that while he stood still everyone else must have stepped back for he was all alone and lonely.

  “We all did, I guess,” was what he came up with after a moment of reflection.

  “Did it occur to you that she was baiting you to start something, something that she could finish, something public that would make us look bad?”

  James Patrick Murphy, an Irish Catholic boy made in the street celebration following the Seahawks improbable victory over the New Orleans Saints, had not yet lost the respect for authority ingrained in him by his parochial education and felt compelled to provide a response. “We all did Sir,” he replied, falling back upon the proven stratagem of spreading the guilt evenly over the entire fifth grade class.

  “Ah,” breathed Oliver, “a collective act of insanity then.”

  Some at the back of the room, those behind the drapes possessing a keener understanding of the dialectics of collective guilt producing a synthesis of collective punishment, sought to distance themselves from Mr. Murphy’s thesis by boldly asserting the antithesis, “We only sought to pay our respects lest she think we were insulting her,” and “We thought it best to act as if we were loyal so no suspicion would fall upon us,” and, most ingenious of all, “We told everyone to behave, if the yearlings misunderstood it is they who should suffer, not us.”

  James Patrick Murphy, still pos
sessed of a sense of right and wrong founded on a belief in an absolute truth, didn’t realize that both his philosophy and the dictates of revolution require punishment for failure. Naïve, he believed in any event that punishment would automatically and inevitably fall only upon the guilty. He was about to learn that failure requires blood, and often it is politic to sacrifice an innocent who carries no freight, has no powerful friends and won’t be missed.

  Unfortunately for James Patrick Murphy, his maker had tired of him soon after the celebration died down, the Queen would not accept him into the Clan as he was a bastard in the truest sense of the word and he was too young, without much power, to serve as a fighter in the upcoming struggle. In short, he was the perfect candidate for the education Oliver felt necessary for the morale of the troops.

  Wiser heads, recognizing inevitability, slipped forward binding James Patrick Murphy’s arms and forcing him to his knees before the couch. All he could think of as he stared at the brocade was how it reminded him of grandma’s couch in the clapboard house on 79th Street, where he spent family holidays before he became a Vampire. One of the more senior Vampires grabbed his hair, forcing his head back to expose the throat, wanting to get this over with before Oliver decided to expand the lecture to include more demonstrations.

  Having the hapless youth on his knees, the terror of comprehension coming to his eyes, rejuvenated Oliver from the lassitude he’d suffered since news of the debacle reached him. Reaching out, he resisted the impulse to slash the innocent life from the offered throat, instead slowly crushing the larynx and arteries so that James Patrick Murphy strangled, losing consciousness as his brain shut down from a lack of oxygen. To make the point indelible, Oliver staked the chest, producing a mound of dust and ash on his carpet, which one of the other yearlings vacuumed, erasing all sign of the problem and restoring equilibrium to society.