Underground Vampire

by David Lee

  CHAPTER 29

  The invitation appeared in the mailbox along with the two bills and advertising circulars for dry cleaning, hardware and cell phones. Engraved paper so thick he thought two sheets were stuck together, feeling as solid as life should be but wasn’t. To receive something so substantial was an occasion to stop and consider; after all, even Christmas cards in December were e-mail disposable.

  Something so substantial implied premeditation. Such a thing meant that the sender wanted something, undoubtedly money, probably charitable. But no one with any sense would send an expensive request to him. His charitable endeavors began with the mandatory Girl Scout cookies from cops at the station and ended with the Christmas Knights of Columbus’ turkey raffle.

  He turned the heavy envelope over in his hands, noting the lack of a return address. It didn’t make any difference, of course, his name and address were written in a hand he knew well and a hand that had been trained long ago and refined when such things were important and worth doing well or not at all. The stamp was framed in the upper right corner exactly 1/8 of an inch from the edges so that the black and white Man Ray showed nicely in the cream matting.

  He carried it into his houseboat with the other contents of his mailbox. The advertising circulars he dumped into the trash under the sink. The utility and phone bills he opened at the counter, checked the amounts due to see if they looked reasonable and then extricated the envelopes provided, tore the stubs from the statements and dumped everything else into the trash.

  He wished he had some cool Man Ray stamps as he fished American flag stamps from the junk drawer next to the knife drawer. The mail handled, he took the invitation into the living room, sat on the couch across from the flat screen, put his feet on the coffee table and gently rubbed his thumbs across the paper. Closing his eyes, he focused his attention the way he learned in meditation until the touch of the paper against the skin of his fingers was all there was.

  At first the paper felt smooth to the touch and his skin slid across the surface. Then a whorl nicked a bump and he could explore minute variations in the topology. He traced Himalayas transverse across the envelope to the Ganges of broad nibbed ink, setting out his name and address in rivers, streams and tributaries as formulated by the aesthetics of classical penmanship.

  He listened for sounds of the papermaker pressing slurry into molds and delicately touched an edge with the tip of his tongue tasting molecules of plants and linens with a faint overlay of a romantic blue moment.

  Opening his eyes he considered the envelope again and, turning it over, inspected the flap, which was glued to the paper tight with no opening for a finger to slip in and open. Removing his feet, he centered the envelope on the coffee table and went to the kitchen where he located his three and a half inch paring knife with the particularly sharp point. Returning, he slit the flap along the upper seam, careful not to cut the enclosed correspondence, as if she would insert the paper with the fold up, risking such a disaster. Inside was a single sheet of stationary folded precisely in the middle fitting snugly into every bit of available space, so that to extract it took a moment as he maneuvered the page back and forth to free it from its bed.

  The invitation requested his presence at dinner on Saturday the next at seven o’clock P.M. at the address he knew well on 2nd Avenue; Formal Dress.

  Arriving at the designated address five minutes before the requested time, he waited in the hall then knocked upon the door at the appointed time. The door was opened by a man wearing a white shirt and black trousers and black shoes. He was ushered into the apartment, which had been converted to an elegant restaurant featuring a single table set before the window with the best view of the Sound.

  The waiter handed him a small heavy glass. “I’ll tell Arabella that you’ve arrived.” As the waiter disappeared on his errand, he walked about the apartment he thought he knew admiring the flowers and decorations and a view that looked new. Poking his head into the kitchen he glimpsed a chef busy chopping and saucing.

  She arrived fashionably tardy. He was sipping his aperitif, Lillet, when she came in. She was wearing a red dress with black heels. At first impression he mistook the dress for a rain coat; it was double breasted with a belt about the waist that she’d tied in a knot as it didn’t appear there were belt loops. The red was beautiful and bold, the way a Ferrari is red. The shoes were ankle wrap pumps in suede. Her hair was done differently, a wild mass of waves and curls framing her face and spilling over the upturned collar of the dress. “The shoes are black suede,” she said, explaining that it was a trench dress made especially for her by a New York designer for a special evening.

  She made him stand by the window so she could inspect him. The tuxedo was put together at the Italian atelier in Belltown favored by Arabella, so he knew it would pass muster. Critically, she had him turn about admiring it with a practiced eye.

  They decided on another aperitif and stood together as the waiter filled their request, watching the ferry and a tremulous moon shimmering in its soft wake. They spoke of nothing, commenting on the view as if they hadn’t seen it hundreds of times, because it never looked quite like it did this night. The chef appeared murmuring about the dinner, so he escorted her to the table where the waiter held her chair and he took her hand and seated her, then took his own.

  The waiter disappeared and they took a moment to admire the table, which he knew she had set because she would not leave the focal point of the evening to another’s eye. The centerpiece was of unknown flowers, mostly yellows and reds, in a deep blue vase. Somehow when he looked across the table her face was perfectly framed between the blooms and for once it wasn’t annoying to have something between them.

  The charger was blue matching the vase, the plates were gold rimmed and the silver was arrayed on each side, each piece perfectly spaced from the other. Dinner proceeded, the courses rolling out in perfect tune with the rhythm of the evening until they reached dessert and the chef appeared. They discussed the meal, congratulating him on the preparations and the wine pairings. Then he and the waiter were excused and they departed, leaving Jesse and Arabella to eat the chocolate confection that he’d made.

  Afterwards, she said she would like to dance and they did in the living room that had been cleared in case this moment should come. On the turntable was a perfectly preserved Etta James album cued to ‘At Last’ and they swayed in the room to luscious strings and lyrics that said what she avoided.

  Later, he wrestled with her complicated red dress until she untied the belt and undid the fastenings. He slipped the dress off of her shoulders and they stood for a moment in the dark. He told her that the evening was perfect, the best of his life, and that he loved her, and she said she knew that he did and that she loved him. Then, she crossed to her desk, opened a drawer and handed him the key to her apartment, saying, “I want you to have this and, if anything should happen, I want you to move in and live here.” And when he started to protest, she touched his lips, saying, “It would make me happy to know that you are here if anything should happen.” “Why, what is going on?” he demanded, but it wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have this evening, so she said she wanted to have a perfect evening and led him down the hall to the bedroom.

  CHAPTER 30

  The clear light fell softly on her face, enough to warm her skin, enough to suppress the People of the Night. Viscous and resilient, thick to push through, the air felt like rain to come, maybe tonight, but this afternoon the clouds were white against the blue. She turned her face to the sky, watching eagles circle Portage Bay high in the sky, savage crucifixes black against the infinite blue. She marveled at the sight of so many in the middle of the City. Hopefully, one would strike, plucking an unsuspecting salmon from the water, carrying it to the dense stand of pines over by the houses, tearing it to bits to feed her eaglets.

  The park north of the University was a welcome escape from the days and nights on Seattle’s streets and alleys. Malloy’s message pr
omised a plan to end this grind and retake her life. The longer this went on, the more likely that Jesse would be injured or killed in the guerilla warfare and that she could not allow.

  She watched as the familiar clump of trash by the dumpster shook itself into a slightly different position. Ratman had arrived early and found a spot where he could observe the comings and goings.

  She’d picked the park on Jesse’s suggestion; it was ideal for the meeting. Outdoors in the sunlight it would be impossible for most Vampires to linger. The grounds were tidal marsh lands with wooden walkways meandering on stilts above the ground. The paths wandered about, intersecting, then spinning off to another vantage point, a wonderful place to admire the flora and fauna of this particular ecosystem.

  No one could go cross-country without sinking to their armpits in the mud. Anyone approaching on one of the boardwalks would be visible long before they arrived. She looked around surveying the parkland, making a mental note to thank Jesse. It was the perfect place for the meeting, public yet anonymous. The only company worker bees and retirees out for a stroll on a beautiful day, sitting on benches to eat lunch out of a bag.

  Today she’d worn a camel skirt with sleek boots to her knees and a dark blazer over a cream blouse. A nice bag and her aviators completed the professional out-for-a-break-from-the-office look. Ratman sidled past; his wafting odour reminded her of how badly he needed a bath. Perhaps when this was over she would at least make him change his clothes, she thought, as the disgusting rubbish pile collapsed to the ground near a bench.

  Malloy entered from the University side, all grandfatherly in his baggy chinos and golf shirt, carrying a bright green cardigan in case of a breeze off the water. Ever professional, he sauntered along with the Field Guide to the Birds of Western Washington in one hand and lunch in the other, a retiree keeping his mind occupied and body exercised. He even peered up at the eagles, opened the book and studiously flipped pages. She wanted to scream ‘they’re eagles’ but left him to his craft.

  The Indian and Jesse came in together, two buddies in their plaid shirts, jeans and boots, crossing the walkways like experiencing nature was a competition. Jess was imposing but the Indian was that and more, so that casual walkers unconsciously moved, ceding him right of way, which he accepted as his due. He wore his hair loose and it was black against the blue sky. As the battles wore on, the pretense of modern culture had dropped from him till he was a warrior from another time.

  She watched Jesse take his accustomed position, watching the flanks and covering their backs. The two had become a potent combat team, seamlessly fitting into Vampire battle. Although she would never say it to Jesse, she was grateful that he and the Indian had become battle brothers if not friends, allowing her the freedom necessary to lead the team without worrying about her lover in the melee. She wanted to talk about their future, if they had a future but the middle of a campaign wasn’t the time. She didn’t want him becoming any more protective of her than he already was and taking risks on her behalf. She had enough emotional conflict suppressing fear for his safety while doing her job.

  She started a slow walk to the spot where the benches were set on a little point perfect for watching shore birds hop about, pecking long skinny beaks into the mud for god knows what they eat. Sun shy, Prunella would appear when everyone was in place to minimize her time in the light. Prunella preferred the dark and suffered depression from prolonged sun exposure, the other reason Arabella was happy with this spot.

  True to form, Prunella appeared from the gloomy depths of a stand of big leaf maples and energetically crossed to the benches. Instantly annoyed at her elbows and ass angles, Arabella silently inventoried Prunella’s wardrobe and, feeling better, greeted her, “Nice color, Prunella, wherever did you find that shade of black? It really accents your pallor.”

  It was no secret, and hadn’t been for the three centuries she’d served as Captain of the Guard, that Prunella despised her name and demanded to be addressed as Pru. The Queen, equally despising the American informality of abbreviations and nicknames, addressed her by her forename. Arabella, despising Prunella and her name, never missed the opportunity to address her loudly and formally as Prunella, somehow garbling the pronunciation so it came out Prune Ella. One evening, she added Mae to the end, reducing the bar at Blood Simple to tears of laughter, cementing their enmity, an enmity encouraged by the Queen who preferred that her lieutenants hate each other. It was, she knew, childish and immature, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Thank you, Arabella, nice disguise. Nordstrom’s salesgirl?”

  Satisfied, they proceeded together to the benches, two friends meeting to enjoy the beautiful day. Behind them, the rubbish pile by the dumpster, ruffling in the breeze, disappeared into the shadows. Confident that Ratman had identified Prunella, Arabella knew she would be tracked throughout the Underground by the constant unseen eyes of the horde.

  “Ladies,” said Malloy, gesturing to the bench he was on. The Indian and Jesse just looked at Prunella till Arabella said, “Why don’t you two sweep the area in case someone’s paying attention.” Acknowledging the unspoken order, they stood and, after a moment, divided the area between them and set off.

  Once they were about their duties, Malloy launched into an analysis of the attacks and deaths attributed to Oliver, displaying an encyclopedic knowledge of the sewers of Seattle, all slathered with a strategic overview until even Arabella, who suspected it was all bullcrap, found herself inexorably drawn to his conclusion. Prunella, daughter of the British Empire, took a while longer but eventually succumbed to Malloy’s silver tongue.

  The plan he proposed was simple to execute and potentially devastating to Oliver. His analysis of the attacks, intelligence gleaned from interrogation of captured Vampires and his knowledge of the Underground pointed to limited avenues available to Oliver’s people. Choke those spots and he would be hemmed in Underground with access to topside blocked. Then they could concentrate on those limited avenues and lure them out for a final showdown. The plan required coordination of above and below ground forces to bottle him up, necessitating cooperation between Arabella’s commando group and Prunella’s palace forces.

  There were predictable questions about tactics and Prunella squabbled about command and control, but Malloy glossed over objections and questions saying that the Queen had approved the plan and chosen them to implement it. Prunella voiced Arabella’s question, “Why they weren’t meeting with the Queen?” but Malloy tersely said she wasn’t available since Petru’s death and he would be delivering her orders. Besides, he said it was imperative that the plan remain totally secret.

  The meeting over, Prunella walked away, followed by a mound of trash, and the Indian and Jesse completed their rounds. As Malloy ambled off munching on his lunch, she told Jesse and the Indian what happened.

  “Since when is Malloy in charge?” said Jesse, watching the pudgy shape amble off.

  “Since he showed up and said he was,” replied Arabella.

  “Why the sudden secrecy?” asked the Big Indian.

  “They don’t trust someone.”

  “Who?”

  CHAPTER 31

  Prunella came out of the tunnel and into the gloom. Overhead, traffic rumbled across the bridge. Leaving the mansion, she’d dropped into the tunnels not far from home, ostensibly checking the troops. She’d flashed up and down tunnels and corridors, jinking unpredictably to throw off anyone taking an interest in her whereabouts. Twice she’d abruptly reversed, sensing watchers. Finally, she ducked into an abandoned drainage pipe off a utilities junction near Westlake. Emerging, she waited off to the side; anyone following would have to come through or lose her.

  Patient, she waited in the light rain until a slight scratching sounded from the pipe. Round concrete, the pipe was a perfect sound chamber focusing the slightest sound, amplifying and directing the waves towards her. Poised, she gathered for the strike. From the pipe scurried two sewer rats, disgusting creatures. Seeing h
er they stopped, whiskers twitching. Then one, afraid no doubt, turned and ran back into the tunnel while the other bolted into the brush. Satisfied that no one followed, she continued along the canal confident she was alone.

  Meetings were dangerous. The game was dangerous, but for an ambitious girl risk was unavoidable; the trick, as she saw it, was keeping her lies straight. Eventually, there would be a winner and a loser and she intended to be a winner, which meant there had to be a loser, a lot of them, in fact. Over the last few decades she’d made a list and added to it when circumstances suggested she would be better off with someone else dead.

  The Town car rolled to a stop next to a stand of blackberry brambles. Two taps of red brake lights and the motor shut off and the car stood, a reassuring block of Detroit rectitude. She waited a moment before approaching from the front looking into the compartment, reassured at Jason’s albino visage in the sea of black leather. He held his hands open in the universal sign of all clear as she stepped past the impressive grill. Jason pressed the button unlocking the passenger side door. Ignoring him, she strode to the back right rear and rapped her knuckles on the window. After a moment, he unlocked the rear door and she pulled the door open, careful to stand behind the massive door as she swung it open. After satisfying herself that nothing unpleasant lurked in the back seat, she shut the door, opened the front door and slid into the front seat of the cavernous Lincoln.

  “Feeling paranoid?” laughed Jason.

  “Yes.”

  Jason made no reply except to keep his hands visible on the steering wheel. She held hers in her lap. Both measured distances and angles in case negotiations should falter and discussions by other means become necessary.

  “Malloy has been able to track your activities and has an idea where you are going next.”