inherit the earth

by Hunter

  Hunter, it proclaimed.

  Two things caught Jake’s attention as he thumbed through a worn copy of Ambrose Bierce’s “The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter, ” distracting him from the novelty of holding that excessively rare volume for the first time. The first was that there was something odd about the young, too-pretty man three tables away. Without understanding exactly how he knew - maybe flashbacks to Phaedre — he knew he was watching a vampire.

  The man was scanning a large leather-bound book, older and finer than most of the other works up for auction. The vampire stared at the old book with a blend of fascination and intense concentration, his head cocked to one side as if listening for some far-away voice to read to him aloud.

  The second thing was that a woman was moving stealthily up behind the vampire, eyes blazing with crazy light and one hand pressed firmly down into a purse large enough to conceal a watermelon. Her stealth was forced - her gait uncomfortably tight. Jake could sense her terror - and her anger - from across the room.

  Placing the Bierce back among its fellows on the auction pre-viewing table as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself, Jake moved to the end of the table and strode quickly around the comer, darting into the aisle behind the woman and moving abreast of her — then past with a sudden motion. No time for thought. No time to wonder if she would attack anyway, slamming a stake or some other weapon into his back for interfering. No time to wonder if the vampire would kill them both.

  Jake stepped forward, jostling the vampire from his reverie and at the same time placing himself directly between the would-be stalker and her prey. The woman’s eyes grew wide and all color drained from her features. Jake watched her, assessing the danger of the moment before shifting his attention to the more imminent danger of his sudden companion.

  “Sorry, ” Jake muttered, moving slightly away from the man along the table.

  There was no immediate answer. The vampire watched with cold, distant eyes that saw through more layers than Jake could erect.

  “I knew she was there, ” the vampire said at last. “She loves me. ”

  Jake glanced down at the volume the man held. It was bound in deep brown leather, reinforced at the spine and comers. The pages were gilt-edged, and the single page Jake could see past the vampire’s tight grip was yellowed and covered in tight, even script. Hand-scribed. Older even than Jake had thought.

  A sudden sound from behind, books tumbling to the floor amid audible gaps, and Jake turned. He saw the woman, abandoning all attempts to conceal her agitation, turning gracelessly and lurching toward the door, banging into tables and pushing people out of her way in frantic haste. Security guards were already converging, uncertain whether to recover the valuable books from underfoot, or give chase. Jake shot a final glance at the slender undead, then pushed away from the table and hurried toward the door. He was careful to avoid both the books on the floor and the hands reaching to recover them.

  The auction house fronted a large brownstone building on the comer of an alley, just two blocks from the main streets of the city. Streetlights glowed dimly, competing with the fading illumination of twilight. The shadows were long and weak, shifting with the motion of the clouds and the distant passing of the last of the city’s day-workers dragging home. Too late for business, and too early for the night.

  The woman was disappearing around the corner into the alley as Jake slid out the front door and gave chase. She was moving more quickly now, and it was all that Jake could do not to lose sight of her as he dodged into the alley. There was no moon, and with the streetlights left behind the darkness of the alley was sudden and complete. The sharp clatter of footsteps and heavy breathing echoed, then grew silent, and Jake cursed. There were garbage cans and small dumpsters lining the alley, dark alcoves and doorways. The woman could be anywhere.

  “Where are you? ” he called out softly. “I’m not here to hurt you. ”

  There was no answer. Jake hesitated. He didn’t even know for certain why he was following the woman. He knew nothing about her, or about the vampire he’d left at his back, and very suddenly the folly of that last act crept into his mind. He knew he could protect himself - or he believed that he could -but what if he had no warning? What if this vampire was different somehow? What if the vampire just shot him? No reason they couldn’t do that.

  “Okay, ” he called out a little more loudly. “I don’t know if he followed me. I don’t know why you were going to kill him, but I saw him too. I don’t like the idea of wandering around in this alley without knowing where he is, or even why I’m here, so I’ll give you a choice. ”

  As he spoke, Jake moved cautiously forward. “I’ll come in and you talk to me, tell me why you were going to kill him, who you are, and I’ll tell you who I am, and how I know what he was. Then we’ll get out of the darkness, and out of this alley, and into somewhere with more light and a crowd before he decides to come looking for us. ”

  There was a soft scrape of leather on gravel and Jake tensed. No way to know how she would react. Then his mind juxtaposed the sounds and directions and his heart began slamming harder. Had the sound been behind him? Was it her, or was it him?

  “Damn, ” he muttered, shifting so his back pressed to the nearest wall of the alley.

  Shadows wavered and he saw a dark form melt from the deeper darkness beside a dumpster. “You know what he is? ” she asked.

  It was the first time that Jake had heard her voice. Light, wavering, but with an intensity backing her words. Jake sensed her strength, and as she drew nearer, very slowly - cautiously - he sensed her anger as well.

  “You know what he is, and you stopped me? ” “I don’t know you, ” Jake answered flatly. “I don’t know him. I know what he is, but I don’t consider that enough of a reason to kill him. He says you love him — maybe you could change my mind. ”

  The woman hesitated. It was obvious that what Jake was saying was not registering as he’d expected.

  “Love him? How could I… I was going to kill him, ” she said, leaning heavily against the metal side of the dumpster. “I was so close… ” “He knew you were there, ” Jake replied. “He knew you were coming for him. Who is he? ” “How could he have known T’ she asked. “He didn’t see me. Two more steps, and I’d have ended it all. ”

  “He saw you, ” Jake repeated, taking another step forward. “He told me he saw you, just after you turned and ran away. ”

  Now the anger flared in her eyes.

  “You stayed and talked to him? You stood there and you knew what he was, what he can do, and you TALKED to him? ”

  She was moving very suddenly, stalking him, and Jake found himself backpedaling into the nearest wall.

  “I don’t know you, ” he repeated. “I don’t make it a practice to stand by and watch when another person is killed.

  Her syllables were clear and staccato. “That. Was. Not. A. Person. He is already dead. ”

  “I know that as well as you do, ” Jake replied, inching away along the wall as she continued to step closer. “Probably better. ”

  Taking a leap of faith, he stopped backing away and stretched out a hand in greeting. “I’m Jake - they call me Bookworm. ”

  She hesitated. She did not take his hand, but she looked a little less inclined to stick the stake through Jake’s heart.

  “Bookworm? ” she said softly. “Bookworm55? ” It was Jake’s turn to hesitate - and blink. “Yes, he said, managing a small smile. On line, I am Bookworm55. ”

  “I know you, ” she said. “I’ve seen your posts. I should have known. ”

  Without a word, the woman turned away and began walking toward the entrance to the alley, leaving Jake to stare after her receding back. “Wait! ” he called out. “Wait, what did you… ” What happened next happened so quickly that Jake wasn’t certain, later, of any particular detail. One moment the woman was walking away from him, the next a dark form melted from the shadows, closing on her with astonishing spee
d. The vampire moved so swiftly that by the time Jake registered that something was wrong, the woman had been struck across the back of the head, tossed over one shoulder like a child, and the two were steadily ascending the sheer brick face of the alley wall.

  With a curse, Jake launched himself forward, but he knew he was too late, too slow, and at the moment was wondering if he was too stupid as well.

  “Wait! ”

  His words had no more effect on the vampire than they’d been having on the woman. The vampire reached the roof above, tossed the woman over the ledge and disappeared behind her without a backward glance. Jake raced to the mouth of the alley and sprinted along the street, watching the rooftops, but there was nothing to see, and the only light available was the mellow, too-dim brilliance of the street lamps.

  A moment later, he stopped. Nothing. There was nothing he could do - they were gone.

  It was one of those moments. Stunned, silent, Jake turned away from the world. He wanted to scream. He wanted to reason with faces he barely knew and names he couldn’t even guess at. He wanted them to come back and explain to him what had just happened, and why. He wanted to die.

  “It’s my fault, ” he whispered. “She was going to kill him, and I stopped her. ”

  Jake turned back to the auction house suddenly. The one link he had to what had just transpired was beyond those doors. The streets were seldom kind to him. Outside he felt vulnerable, particularly out of his own territory -but inside were the books. Jake hurried inside, letting the doors close him off from the shadowed darkness once again.

  The auction had begun, and Jake nearly panicked. He had to know the exact volume the vampire had held. The viewing was over, and he felt sweat suddenly trickling down the back of his neck. The crowd had slipped into the rows of folding, leather-upholstered chairs and only the few suited attendants moved from table to table, gathering each piece to be held for the perusal of those gathered.

  Book auctions catered to a sedate, but intense crowd. There was a competitive nature to it all, a hunt. Jake wondered for a moment why everything in his life had suddenly been relegated to variations on that theme.

  He glanced across the room and breathed a little easier. They hadn’t auctioned the items on the vampire’s table of choice, having started with a small lot of Victorian romances. Ignoring the few annoyed glances that shot his way as he re-entered the room, Jake took a seat near the back and watched carefully.

  He tried to concentrate, but the woman’s eyes haunted him. Her words rang in his ears. “I should have known. ”

  Known what? That he would get her killed? That seemed to be the fear they all had - Jake had heard the words often enough - and seemed to be the reality of the moment. Why had the vampire said she loved him?

  “Sold to number 510 for three hundred and fifty dollars, ” the auctioneer’s voice rang out.

  Jake watched carefully, and slowly the attendants worked their way from table to table, drawing ever nearer to the faded leather volume the vampire had held. Jake had managed to narrow it from those surrounding it by the color of the binding. It was lighter than most leather, and despite the volume’s obvious age, in remarkable condition. Finally his moment came.

  “This next volume, ” the auctioneer began slowly - almost hesitantly - “is a very unique antiquity. Hand-scribed and bound, we have dated it to the mid 1700’s. I have to say, I have never seen its like for workmanship, or content. The author, Benjamin Scyther, is not known to me. He writes of life on a plantation in California, but no California I have seen nor heard of. This is either a very finely crafted fantasy, or the ravings of a madman. In either case, it is a fine specimen of early craftsmanship, and elegantly hand-lettered. I will ask that we start the bidding at $100. ”

  Jake hesitated. He knew his funds were limited, and he didn’t want to appear to eager and send some other collector into a feeding frenzy. The room was silent. Jake scanned the others quickly. Nothing. Something was making this obviously rare book unappealing to the crowd. Even the auctioneer seemed loath to touch it. Slowly, Jake raised his hand.

  “Number? ” the auctioneer’s voice rang out -too loud, suddenly - difficult to make out over the pounding in Jake’s head. His pulse. The sudden rush of blood nearly toppled him, but somehow he managed to scrabble in his pocket and fish out the printed square with his number on it. 316. He raised the card silently.

  “We have one hundred dollars, ” the auctioneer droned. “Am I bid a hundred and fifty?

  Jake listened, but somehow he had detached from the moment. He listened, but had another bid, he could not have raised his hand again. Images rushed about his mind, whirling away before he could pin them in place and create a pattern that made sense. He saw dark figures slipping up the alley wall, and behind those, watching him, the vampire’s eyes. He heard her words, echoing, “I should have known. ”

  “Sold for one hundred dollars to the gentleman holding 316. Next we will move on to a beautiful five volume set of The Life of George Washington, By Washington Irving..

  Jake staggered to his feet, shaking his head and pressing the palm of one hand to his forehead. For a moment, he nearly lost his balance, but he managed to catch himself on the back of his chair.

  Without a word he turned and exited the hall, moving to the foyer beyond where the cashier’s window waited. It would be a few moments before the attendants got his auction record to them. He needed the time to catch his breath.

  Thinking back, he realized that it was the auctioneer’s words that had sparked the strange sensations. The story behind the book — the name. Scyther. Benjamin Scyther. Fantasy? Somehow Jake doubted that - at least not fantasy when your world had already shifted into an alternate side of life - not when the monsters surrounded you and there was no escape.

  Jake took a deep breath and stepped up to the counter. The woman took his number card without a word, glanced at it and then at her records.

  “Cash or credit? ” she asked.

  Jake fumbled the wallet from his pocket and tugged it open. Inside was all he had to his name, for the moment, Two hundred forty dollars.

  “Cash, ” he answered.

  The girl nodded again and slid a receipt book toward him for a signature. “That will be one hundred and six dollars, ” she said, smiling.

  Jake signed the paper with a shaking hand and slid the pad back across to her. The girl took the money, rose, and moments later she returned with the book in hand, wrapped carefully in tissue and brown paper. Jake stared. There was something about that book, something more than what he’d seen when the vampire held it. There was something - emanating — from beneath the wrapping.

  “Are you okay? ” the girl asked.

  Jake realized with a start that he’d been staring at the book, watching her approach, and that she was standing across the counter, holding the book out to him. No way to know how long he’d stood there like an idiot, and Jake had just about hit his limit of strange shit for one night. He reached out, took the book, and nodded.

  “I’m fine, ” he said - almost whispered. “I’ll be fine. ”

  He took the book, turned, and walked out into the night. As he went, soft voices whispered in his ears. “Not all fantasy is make believe. ”

  • • • •

  To: Vitalis

  From: Bookworm55

  Subject: Call for assistance

  Okay, I’m logging on from a hotel room in San Valencez, California. Tonight is either the worst of my life, or a close second to the one where I lost my legs. All this time I’ve gone on and on about how we need to understand the others, take time to be sure before attacking -and killing. All that time I’ve been called a fool - told that I would get someone killed.

  That may have happened tonight. Nothing that I’ve seen, or done, has prepared me for this, and I need help to try and make it right, and to be certain of just what I’ve done. I met a vampire tonight — don’t know his name. I also met a woman — one of us — who knew me by th
e name Bookworm55, but did not give me her name. She was stalking the vampire at a book auction, and I stopped her.

  I could see what he was, but he was harming no one. He was reading a book at one of the tables, and I saw her stalking him. I knew neither of them, and I couldn’t just stand by and watch. Next thing I know, he — it — is smiling at me, and the woman is headed for the alley outside.

  To make a long story short, I followed her, tried to talk to her — it wasn’t going well, and then he took her. Just like that, out of nowhere, he smacked her on the back of the head and hauled her up to the rooftops before I could get close enough to try and stop him.

  I need to know her name. I need to find her

  - to help if I can. I need to find this vampire and, if I have helped it to kill, I need to make that right.

  The only thing I have is the book that fascinated him. When I first saw it, I had odd visions

  - and when I held it in my hand, the voices spoke. “Not all fantasies are make-believe, ” they said.

  I need to know her name.

  One last thing… the vampire said that she loves him

  • • • •

  The book was in incredible condition. The leather binding was thick and ornately tooled, the gilt on the page-edges unmarred. Even the paper was the extreme of style and elegance. The book would not have been owned by a poor man, or even an ordinary man. It spoke of royalty and private binderies, craftsmanship of a level that only the cultured could experience.

  The first thing that bothered Jake was the price. For what he paid, he knew he might have expected to buy a few pages of hand-illuminated manuscript. He might also have found an older first edition, or a leather bound reprint of one of the classics. For a book like this the price should have been higher. So much higher, that something had to be wrong. Of course, he’d known that since the auction, but with more time to think about it, he could almost feel a line, reeling him in. Still the pages called out to him.

  Benjamin. Scyther. The name was penned beneath the frontispiece, a hand-drawn ink rendering of slender young man with almost girlish features, dressed royally, but darkly, turned just so - peering out at the reader over one shoulder, as though obscuring something from sight. It was hard to tell if the name was a stylish illumination, or the signature of the artist. There was something haunting in that illustration, something in the man’s expression, or the turn of his lip… the depth of the eyes.