by Jeff Seats
The shock, joy, wonderment, and thankfulness of the moment quickly dissipated. Now it was back to business. Cole straightened and put her ‘commander suit’ back on. She let her hard gaze fall upon Sergeant St. Jean—all starch, and polish. He lost the smile and felt the heat from her eyes burn into his.
“I, um, I . . ..”
Liz stepped between the two. “Sorry, ma’am. The surprise entrance was my idea.” Liz grinned weakly.
St. Jean touched Liz’s shoulder and gently moved her to the side, exposing himself to the wrath of Cole. “You’re right to be mad, ma’am. We were all just so happy to find Agent Adams alive, and she was so happy to see us that we thought a little diversion would help ease the hurt of losing Agent Terry and Craig. In hindsight—”
“In hindsight, I should loosen up more.” Cole cut in with an apologetic smile.
“What I said still stands, Commander. We want to get Vlad.” The sergeant said with determination and a sense of deadly purpose. “Ma’am, you can lock us up for eternity if you want to but there’s no stopping us. We are going after Vlad and any other vamp who gets in our way and erase them.”
“Ultimatum?” Cole asked.
“If that’s how you want to read it. I prefer to call it a promise we four made to ourselves and our friends,” St. Jean responded. “You can lock us up on the dark side of the moon for all I care, but AFTER we finish.”
Cole considered what she had just heard. “St. Jean. Huh? You know, I don’t recall what your first name is. Don’t think that I ever knew it.”
“Well, I don’t think that it’s very important right now, considering. It’s in my personnel file.”
“And that is back in the HR office in D.C. If I‘m going to be bullied into letting you run around the countryside like vigilantes, I think I should know the name of the bully. NOW.”
St. Jean’s face flushed immediately. He looked around the room. All eyes fixed on him. Even his friends, his team, were looking at him squirm.
“Hey, yeah. What IS your name there, sarge?” Chris Okada asked.
The others chimed in as well.
“Yeah, come on.”
“What is it? Ronny?”
“Don’t be so bashful.”
Taking a deep breath Sergeant St. Jean, former marine recon, the oldest member of this action team, afraid of nothing, closed his eyes and exhaled. “Norbert.”
“Ohh,” Matt Ortega let out.
A little snort shot from Torri Ellingson’s nose, choking back a laugh.
Commander Cole maintained a straight face while everyone else in the room couldn’t help but laugh.
“Stupid, goddamned family names—Norbert Gaylord St. Jean. Happy?”
The room erupted.
“Thank you—Norb,” Cole said with a wink. “If I’m to let you hunt vampires then I need you four to become agents. Your time as CSC muscle is now over. It’s time to start putting those brains to work. But not before a little bit of classroom time. And I believe that the rest of you still have work to do around here, or am I wrong?”
The room began to empty as the gathered filed out.
“Welcome home Agent Adams,” Cole said to Liz. “But you have some explaining to do. My office. Now.”
««« ‡ »»» COMMANDER COLE SHUT the door firmly as she entered the office behind Liz, signaling there was going to be some serious talking going on. Cole touched the dimmer control and raised the overall lighting level in the dim space; causing Liz to shade her eyes.
“Sorry ma’am, but do you think you could keep the office a little bit on the dark side?” Liz almost pleaded.
Cole stepped behind her desk and looked at Liz, studying the younger woman whom she had assumed was dead. “There’s something about you that I can’t put a finger on. You seem healthy enough, but you look a bit pale. How do you feel?”
“Um, the lighting?”
“Sure. Sorry. How’s that?” Cole asked as she complied with the request.
“Thanks. Generally, I’m fine.” Liz answered, rubbing her smarting eyes. “At least I think I am.” She smiled weakly.
Cole scrutinized her subordinate, trying to ferret out the truth. “We were able to watch you and Craig go after the master sergeant into the tunnels. Saw the fight you had with his niece. Watched Craig with Vlad . . . and you . . ..” She paused, not wanting to scrape at the still-raw trauma of Craig’s death. “We watched your fight all the way up until you confronted Vlad. Then something went wrong. We lost visual. After Vlad threw you down the feed went dark. The body cam had to have been damaged when you hit the ground.”
“Did you see that I stabbed him?”
“No. Your bodies were too close to see much of anything.”
“I stabbed him, ma’am. Think I got him good, which is why he tossed me aside. He had to focus on getting the dagger out.” Liz closed her eyes trying to remember. “After I plunged the stake into Vlad’s chest, things start to get fuzzy. I really thought I stuck it into his heart, but—I don’t recall anything after that. St. Jean says they found nothing in that chamber that could have been Vlad, so I have to assume he’s still alive.”
“Or he went and died somewhere else in those tunnels. Poisoned rats do that.”
“Or that, yes. I buried that knife deep into his rib cage. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a pile of sludge down there, but the action team did an extensive search, probing even into areas I’m fairly certain I did not go into, and they still found nothing.”
“Tell me about Alex,” Cole said.
“Yeah, what about Alex? You sent him to help? I thought that he couldn’t be a part of the CSC.”
“And he’s not. Never can be. But sometimes ‘The enemy of my enemy’—”
“Is my friend. I get it.”
“So, tell me. How did he help you—or did he?”
Liz took a moment to gather her thoughts. “That is the question, isn’t it? Did Alex help me? Well, I’m alive.” She weighed that statement, then continued. “And I guess that is a good thing. But it all depends upon the type of ‘alive’ I am.”
“That’s something you’ll have to tell me because you’re talking in riddles.” Cole sat up straight, alarmed. “You’re not a vampire, are you?” Then she realized that it was the middle of the day and sat back. “Of course you aren’t. I’m no good at Pictionary either, so you’d better spell it out for me.”
“No. Not a vampire—but not a human anymore, either.”
“Here we go again.”
“Sorry, but if you think you’re confused, then you gotta understand that this is my life here, and I’m just coming to grips with it.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you can about Alex.”
“Okay, let’s see. I made it out of the tunnels and to the car. You called. I threw up more than once. Then I woke up on the bed in my hotel room. I guess I drove, I don’t really know. But Alex was there in the room, too.”
“I told him where your hotel was.”
“Then he had me drink—a glass of water with several drops of his own blood mixed in.” Liz showed her injured wrist and shook her head. “Vlad gave me a nasty scratch with one of his claws. My dizziness was the result of vampiric toxin being absorbed into my body. The process of turning into a vampire had already begun.”
“And Alex fed you his own blood diluted in water to—to help you transition? But you just said that—”
“Right. I’m not a vamp. His blood was a quick fix to get me over the hump until the other ingredients arrived.”
“Holy water and human blood.” The pieces started to fall into place though Cole should have had it figured out earlier. “That’s why he asked me to help get access to the church and blood bank . . . the Nostrum.”
“Yep.”
“I thought that was pure quackery. An old wives’ tale.”
Liz spread out her arms in a “here I am” gesture. “Guess the old wives’ weren’t all full of shit. And see my wrist? Almost all healed.” Liz closed her ey
es and put her hand up to her forehead.
Cole opened the desk drawer near her right hand and removed a Smith and Wesson .44 Special and placed the stainless steel revolver on the desktop, barrel pointing towards Liz. “So, are you all right?” asked a concerned commander. She placed her hand close to the gun handle.
Liz darted her eyes to the gun then raised them and gave Cole a firm look. “Do you see me as a threat?”
“You say you aren’t a human, BUT you aren’t a vamp either. I assume that means that you can’t ever get back to being a pure homo sapien. On the other hand, why shouldn’t I end you now before you turn? Or should I also assume that the Nostrum is keeping you from becoming a vampire?”
Liz pulled out a flask-sized bottle from her coat pocket. A clear liquid with a pink hue was visible in the glass container. She unscrewed the cap, placed the bottle to her mouth, took a big swig, exhaled, and grimaced at the bitter taste setting it on the desk in front of her. Then the look on her face changed as she coughed and gagged on the fluid. Quickly Liz reached down, grabbed the trash can, and brought it up to her mouth as it fought to keep the Nostrum in her stomach. A few sketchy seconds passed then Liz gingerly set the waste bin back onto the floor and wiped her mouth with a corner of her scarf. She smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m new at this.” She again leveled her gaze at the commander. “So to answer your question, Yeah. I guess you could assume that. As I long as I keep drinking this vile brew.”
Cole relaxed a bit and sat back in her chair pausing to think. “No urges to bite someone?” She probed. “Or the desire to drink blood?”
“Ma’am, the only craving I have is for a shot of whiskey, no, a double.”
“You actually think that this solution is permanent?”
“If I don’t believe it, then you may as well shoot me now ‘cause I don’t want to be one of them.”
Cole made a quick move reaching for the revolver. Her hand hovered over the handle as though she were making a big decision. Then she grabbed the black grip and very deliberately returned the gun to the drawer and shut it with a determined thud. “So tell me about it.”
Liz exhaled not quite sure what Cole was going to do. “I have to learn the proper dosage and then, when, and how often I will need to take it. One thing I do know for sure, I have to drink this stuff at least once a day. Like a diabetic on insulin.”
Cole leaned across the desk and reached for the open bottle. “May I?”
Liz nodded.
Cole looked at it then took a big sniff. “Whoo! Gotta like garlic.”
“Over time I’m supposed to be able to regulate just how much garlic and wolfsbane I will need per dose, according to how I feel.”
Commander Cole could only look at Liz with sympathetic eyes. “So, what does all this mean for you?”
“Alex’s familiar told me that I would have no blood cravings like that of a vampire, as long as I drink the Nostrum. I will maintain a limited ability to eat human food, though experimenting to find which ones work for me will be a very painful and uncomfortable process. And then, of course, there is the issue of life itself.”
“Yes. You are alive, and I’m happy about that.”
“Not just alive—purt near immortal.”
THE SUN HAD set behind the west hills, and though the last of its light lingered, it wasn’t anything for a vampire to fear. Especially for one as old as him. In this twilight moment, Alexei strolled by many homeless who had planted themselves along the curbs or in some ungated alcoves of Old Town for the night—begging for money, making deals, passed out, livers shot, or just disoriented by what life had dealt them. Aside from the misery of those clinging on to society’s fringes, it was a pleasant, early spring evening, and the sidewalks were full of the luckier half of society in pursuit of the best happy hour fare.
When Theodore Roosevelt was president, this city had recreated itself from a frontier village to a major seaport in the Pacific Northwest. Then it coasted along until the Second World War when it saw another boom. Then coasted again, awash in postwar prosperity, plateaued, coasted again. Now, it was recreating itself one more time. In such periods of rapid growth, the old and established residents always see those from elsewhere —people who are drawn to its vitality—as a threat to the status quo. His brother saw these new arrivals as perfect marks—new to town, no local connections to question where they were, or where they might have gone. University towns were good in this way as well though their smaller populations made it hard to hide one’s nocturnal compulsions creating the need to keep moving so as not to attract attention.
These were old concerns Alexei had not considered for a very long time but was coming to grips with in his new reality. And the cities of today? A far cry from before the treaty. Probably presenting many of the same challenges and opportunities in which to hunt as those he had been accustomed to. He thought wistfully of New York when Theodore was police commissioner. Talk about a homelessness problem! But undeniably an ideal place in which a vampire could gorge itself.
Vladimir had the perfect situation in a city packed with the types of humans that could have fed him and his nest for years with no one caring—the dregs of society, the unwashed masses, the immigrants that poured in on a daily basis. But his tendency towards living life in excess brought the attention of society upon him, and thus the eyes of the law. The vicious way the victims had been killed created a cycle of fear that was said to rival Jack the Ripper in London. This sensational comparison only fueled Vladimir, whose killing spree acquired the tag line: The Night Stalker Murders. With the cross-hairs of vampire hunters firmly trained on Vladimir’s heart, he had to flee.
Looking around at the few buildings that still existed from that time, Alexei understood why Vladimir had fled here. Long before the time of mass media, his brother was able to resume his hunting with impunity. Of course, Vladimir loved Portland. It was, and still is, a cornucopia for the dramatic tastes of one such as his brother.
Alexei paid no attention to where he was walking; allowing the flow of the crowd to direct him. He had gotten wrapped up in the sights and memories of a time long-past. At a street corner, he stopped and surveyed his surroundings. It was totally dark now, dark if one didn’t take into account the glare of the LED street lights. An unfortunate 21st century addition to cities. He liked the moody quality of gaslight that cast a warm glow on the ground in a ring around the shade of the lamp post, then faded out after several feet into the beautiful darkness of black shadows.
The old buildings around him were mostly new since his last visit to Portland when he had to come to pry Vladimir loose and drag him to the reservation. Yet they had a comfortable quality that made him feel as though he knew them. Alexei stopped being a tourist for a moment and found himself in front of the corner entrance of a bar the sign identified the establishment as Jake’s Crawfish. The interior of worn wood and nicotinestained walls lined with pictures and artifacts of an earlier time appealed to him, a place that could have been around back then, so he entered and sat on a stool at the bar. The raspy/husky voice of Louis Armstrong played over the sound system; confirming he had entered the correct establishment.
Moments later a silver-haired, man wearing a white jack and sporting a black bow tie approached Alexei. He placed his hands on the bar in a friendly welcoming way. Not many would notice the two dots, a tattoo, applied in the webbing of his fingers between the thumb and pointer finger looking like a snake bite. But then, they weren’t there for just anybody to notice.
The bartender’s engaging smile drew all focus away from anything else except his sparkling eyes. “Name’s Pete,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “What’ll you have?”
Alexei’s eyes shifted from the smiling face down at the two dots and back up to Pete’s eyes. Recognizing the tattoo, Alexei returned the smile, allowing just the tips of his fangs to show below his upper lip.
Pete winked.
“I think I have just what you’re looking for.” The barman turned
, opened the cooler behind him and reached into the very back past the chilled glasses and the bottles of craft brew. He returned to Alexei with a dark green glass bottle and presented it. The handwritten label was uninterpretable, A halandók véres szívébl.
“From the bloody heart of mortals,” Alexei read quietly. “Hungarian.”
Pete pulled the cork out and smelled it to check if the contents had turned. Satisfied, he poured a dark, rich-looking red liquid into the wide-mouthed Bordeaux-style glass and set it on a napkin in front of him.
Alexei swirled the liquid around and took a sniff. “Nice.”
“It’s a blend but I believe you’ll find it to be an excellent vintage—Mr. ah . . .?”
“Alexei . . . Rurik.”
Upon hearing the name, Pete gave a low bow of recognition, a gesture of deference indicating he knew who was sitting in front of him, the Khan of all the families. And while he was merely a familiar, he knew royalty when it showed up in his bar.
Alexei signaled for Pete to lean in close, so he could say something in private. “There is no more Khan. Those days are gone. Follow whom you will.”
Pete winked in acknowledgment and poured a bit more into the glass, pretending to be working.
A middle age woman, sitting a couple stools away, looked at the drink in front of Alexei. “I thought that you weren’t supposed to chill red wine.” She said in a tone that grated on Alexie’s ears.
Re-corking the bottle, Pete said, “This is quite special and old. Refrigeration is the only way to store it so it’ll keep.”
The woman’s eyebrows arched up. “Really? That special, huh? Can I order a glass?”
Pete replaced the bottle in the cooler. “It’s reserved for special customers.”
“What’s so special about him?” she asked, looking at Alexei. “No offense.”
Alexei looked at her as he swirled the red liquid around in the glass and smiled pleasantly. “None taken.”
The woman picked up her glass and took a sip. “I don’t know anything about red wine. I’m a white zin kinda gal if you can’t tell. Oh, Pete, could you drop a couple more pieces of ice in my wine?”