by Kit Colter
“Yeah,” Erin said, though she had no idea what she was really asking for. A library that cost one hundred dollars just to get into?
“463 Paseo de Peralta, Santa Fe. It’s a huge pink stucco called the Scottish Rite Temple,” Marissa said. “If you head down St. Francis Street, turn right at the box mural of a blue whale. I think it’s a blue whale. Anyway, make sure to go in the back door.”
“Alright. Thanks.”
“I’ll be able to talk longer tonight. Try eight o’clock. I’ll be home. And tell the book-keepers I sent you.”
“Okay. I’ll try to call you later then.”
“You do that,” Marissa said. “Bye now.”
Erin listened as Marissa disconnected the call. Then she scrolled through the contacts to her mother, who was famously bad at keeping track of her phone. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to lie convincingly over voicemail, she composed the following text: Got out of hospital early. On way to Las Cruces. Want to stay for a few days. See you soon.
She’d pretend Isaiah hadn’t told her that her parents were on the way. In truth, they were probably already in Phoenix. This would buy her some time though. They’d turn around and head to Cruces, and she could go to Santa Fe without dealing with any questions she couldn’t answer yet. Erin stuffed her cell phone into her backpack and jammed the car into gear, feeling suddenly exhausted. She had a seven hour drive ahead of her, her iPod was dead, and every radio station between Phoenix and Santa Fe could qualify as a form of torture. Not to mention the cops might be after her.
Chapter 7
Erin turned her head from one side to the other, stretching, stuffed three sticks of gum into her mouth, then stepped out of her car and started walking across several yards of concrete to what appeared to be an enormous, pink stucco castle. She made her way around to the back, took a deep breath, and stepped through the door. Inside, there was a second set of glass doors six feet away and concrete walls at both sides. A woman wearing a grey business suit was seated at a large desk.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, scrutinizing Erin’s bruised face.
“I’m not sure,” Erin said slowly, looking around.
The woman waited.
“You have books in there?” Erin asked.
“That depends,” the woman said.
Erin scowled and counted out a hundred dollars, then placed fifty on the desk.
“Yes, we have books,” the woman said.
“What kind of books?” Erin asked.
“That depends,” the woman said.
Erin sighed. “One hundred to get in?” she asked.
The woman nodded.
Erin placed the other fifty on the table.
The woman didn’t touch it.
“Fifty and fifty makes one hundred,” Erin said.
“Yes, it does,” the woman said. “You need fifty more.”
“How exactly does that work?” Erin asked. “I already gave you fifty, and I just gave you fifty more.”
“Yes, you gave me fifty for information,” the woman said. “Now you have to transfer one hundred dollars to the Scottish Rite Temple for entry.”
“I gave you fifty dollars to tell me there’s books in there?” Erin asked in irritation.
The woman nodded.
Erin clenched her jaw and counted out another fifty. Placed it on the table. The woman counted the money, placed it in a drawer, and smiled.
“Go on in,” she said pleasantly.
Erin gave her an annoyed look and pushed through the glass doors. She stopped on the other side, thinking she ought to ask for a refund. The place looked like a giant filing cabinet. Stacks and stacks of metal drawers. Files splayed out over half a dozen tables. There was a long wooden counter to her right with a computer and a bell. She eased over to it, leaned across the counter to look, then hit the bell.
Nothing.
She glanced over her shoulder, frowning. There were two other people in sight, both seated with an array of files spread across the table around them.
Erin turned and hit the bell again.
Nothing.
She bit her lip and drifted over to one of the standing walls of metal drawers. Each had a number on it. She pulled open one of the drawers and stared down at dozens of cramped files and papers. Slipped her hand into one and pulled out a poorly photocopied sheet of paper. Something about Arrowroot.
Great. One hundred and fifty dollars to learn more about herbs.
“Good god,” Erin moaned, closing the drawer and walking back to the counter. She reached out to hit the bell, but someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to see a short, middle-aged man glaring at her.
“You’re disrupting,” he said forcefully.
“Yeah, well, I just paid one hundred and fifty bucks to disrupt so get used to it,” Erin said irritably.
He scowled.
“You work here?” she asked.
“That depends.”
Erin reached one hand toward the bell in a warning manner.
“Yes, yes, I work here,” the man said.
“I need some information,” Erin said.
The man rolled his eyes. “Naturally.”
“I need info on ghosts, demons, and vampires.” She frowned.
The man’s gaze locked on her bruised cheek. “What’s wrong with your face?” he asked.
“None of your business,” Erin said. “You’ve got info on that stuff, don’t you?”
He nodded. “How did you find this place?” he asked suspiciously.
“Oh, yeah, Marissa sent me,” Erin said.
He appeared even more suspicious. “Marissa?” He arched one brow.
“Yeah,” Erin said. “Call her and ask.”
“Fine, then.” He swiftly raised a wooden slat in the counter to get to the other side. He pulled open a drawer and retrieved a booklet of several sheets of paper stapled together. “Here’s your concordance,” he said. “It will tell you where to search.” He pointed at the first page, placing his finger on the number ten, then sliding it over to the words Chandria Lien. “We’re organized by topic, not origins, so please keep that in mind while you’re searching. Don’t ask us for help more than twice an hour. This counts for once; you have once more until three o’clock.”
“So, what do you have in here? Is this all mythology?” Erin asked.
“What isn’t mythology?” he asked.
Erin arched one brow and waited.
The man frowned. “No, it’s not all mythology. Or what civilized society considers mythology. What we have is mythology, history, theory, biographical accounts, instructions, stories, scientific studies, government records and just about any other type of information you could want involving the occult.” These last two words he said with noticeable exasperation.
Erin nodded and started to turn away. Hesitated. “Anything on the Owl Man?”
The man sighed. “Do you mean the Moth Man?”
“Never mind. What’s your name?” Erin asked.
He frowned in distaste. “My name is Gregory. Do not call me Greg. Don’t call me anything other than Gregory, and I’d rather you not call me at all.”
With that, he whirled around and disappeared through a doorway behind the counter. Erin stood there for a moment, irritated, then gazed down at the stapled pages in her hand. Dandelion. Some foreign word she couldn’t pronounce. Demeter. More unfamiliar words. Demon: 4-72. Erin looked up, then started walking. She noticed there were numbers on the side of the drawer walls. She stepped into a hall-like walkway between walls 3 and 4 and scanned the numbers printed on each drawer: 46, 47, 48, 49, 50.
Erin walked to the other side of wall 4 and kept searching.
Erin jumped in fright as something came down on her shoulder. She whipped around to see a thin man in grey slacks and a white button-down shirt. He had a loosened tie hanging from his neck and thick rimmed glasses riding the bridge of his nose.
“Hi,” Erin said tensely.
“Oh, sorry to
scare you, miss,” the man said, leaning down and picking up the stapled bunch of papers Erin had dropped. He handed them to her, and the gesture reminded Erin of someone coaxing a bird nearer with a handful of seeds. The man pushed his glasses up on his nose, then stared at her. He seemed to be looking for something.
“Am I in your way?” Erin asked.
The man stepped closer. “Sorry. Sorry for staring, I mean. I just ...” He was measuring something about her, cataloguing. Erin was waiting for him to ask if she was Cherokee—the usual question she got from strangers who couldn’t stop staring—when he said something completely unexpected. “You’re psychic, aren’t you?” The words were barely above a whisper.
“No. Not really.”
He smiled, nervous and victorious at the same time. “Oh, yes, you are. It’s written all over you.”
Erin glared at him.
“Excellent,” he breathed, still staring. “Splendid.”
“Do you want something?” Erin asked.
“And you’re looking for information on demons and vampires,” he said. “Sorry, I overheard you at the counter. But you are looking for information on those things?”
“Yeah,” Erin said.
“Yes. Wonderful.”
“Excuse me,” Erin said, glaring at him, then turned back to the drawers to find her number.
“It’s that one right there,” the man said, pointing up and to the right, then adjusting his glasses again.
Erin turned to face him. “What do you want, mister?”
“Oh, you must be so confused. I’m acting strangely, aren’t I?” he said, though he seemed rather amused by this.
Erin nodded slowly.
“You see, most of the people who come in here are just archaeologists, historians, or theorists. A few career mystics. Maybe a hobby researcher or two. Sometimes, sometimes a real seeker. But, well, the psychics are just never interested. Not interested at all. Not in this. Ghosts, sometimes. Maybe demons. Just a little, a very, very little.”
Erin wondered about the easiest way to blow him off. This guy was absolutely crazy—and wasting her time.
“When I saw you, I knew you were psychic,” he said. “And then when I heard you wanting to know about demons and vampires.”
“Yeah?” Erin asked.
“Well, that just never happens,” the man said. “Historians come in looking for information on specific deities, rites, and all that.” He gestured at the drawers. “You see, so much of this information is straight out of stolen texts. They’ve got all of them, back in the vault. The originals. Hundreds of years old.” He loosened his tie a little more, then flattened the shirt button closest to his collar. “Anyway, psychics come in looking for information on other things—mostly what other psychics did and thought. But you ... and I know all about it. I’ve spent months in here. Just to know all about it.”
“All about what?”
He glanced over his shoulder rather dramatically, then lowered his head. “Vampires,” he said, then turned his attention to the pages in her hand. “If you go by that, all you’ll find is mythology. And I guess mythology is good, but it only goes so far.”
“They have more?” Erin asked, suddenly interested.
The man nodded. “Much more.”
“Where?”
“I’ll show you,” the man said, gesturing that she follow him. Erin waited a moment, a little uncomfortable, or a lot uncomfortable, but the lure was too great. Besides, what could happen in a library? Or whatever this was.
She followed the man past aisles five through twenty, pale fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. She noticed three other people as they went, then stopped at number twenty-one. It was the second to last wall in the library.
“You see, this place is run by mystics,” the man said. “So, they went and shoved all the government files back here where no one would find them.” He ran his fingers over the number thirty-two and opened the drawer. “The whole thing’s a wretched mess,” he said, already thumbing through the files. “But I’ve been through all of it. I know it like the back of my hand.” He pulled out two files from the middle and one from the back, then knelt and opened another drawer. Pulled out a file. Stood and stepped to the right, rolling onto his toes as he pulled out two more files.
“That should do it for now, I think,” the man said, then sat down on the floor, gesturing that Erin do the same. She knelt, hands on her knees as the man paged through the first file.
“Bla ... Bla, bla, bla ... Andromechyten-sa ... You probably don’t care about that ... Bla, bla ... Bla ... Found it. Read that, now.” He handed her the papers.
Erin took them, moved into a cross-legged position, and started to read. Some technical stuff she didn’t understand. Then, some—
“See, don’t you get it?” the man asked, barely able to contain himself. He looked at her, waiting for her to say something. She guessed he wanted her to make an exclamation of profound realization.
“Not yet. I haven’t gotten to read it yet, bu—”
“It’s a parasite,” the man went on, taking the papers from her hand and sliding his fingers over several lines. “A parasite. That’s it. Just—”
“What’s a parasite?” Erin asked.
“It,” he said importantly. “It.”
“It?” Erin asked.
“It. The thing. The thing that makes them vampires,” the man struggled. “It’s not some magical nonsense. It’s science. Scientifically explained. It’s not even a disease. A parasite. Excellent. Splendid.”
“Alright, slow down. Tell me about the parasite,” she said, trying a different approach.
He smiled. “Ingenious thing, really. It’s been around since, well, since a long time. That’s what the report says, back on page six I think. Or page seven.” He started turning pages.
“I don’t care what page it’s on,” Erin said. “Tell me about the parasite.”
“Oh, page eight.” He frowned, appearing confused and disappointed. “Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, the parasite—well, everyone has it. Kind of. It’s just a different strain. It’s transferred through bodily fluids, much like your common diseases, I suppose. And, hmm, yes, this is the good part.”
Erin waited.
“Everyone has what?”
“Well, mitochondria, of course.”
“Mitochondria?”
“Yes. In biology class, they act like mitochondria are just part of the body. Part of the cell. But that’s not true. They’re parasites. They have their own DNA. Their own life cycle. In humans, they pass from mother to baby during gestation. The science community likes to act like they are part of the human body because we can’t survive without them, but it’s nonsense. They live inside each of our cells. They power the cells as part of a symbiotic relationship.”
Erin stared at him.
“Well, there’s another strain of mitochondria. A super strain, you could say.” He frowned at Erin’s expression. “It’s a tiny parasite. You’ve got to imagine it to get this. So, go on, imagine it, just tiny.”
“Uh, alright,” Erin said.
“Well, this is harder to explain that I thought it would be.” He pulled off his glasses, cleaning them, then slipped them back on. “Imagine I got bit by a vampire tonight.”
Erin nodded.
“Let’s just say the parasite passed from the vampire to me through, say, his spit,” he said. “Though really, if I’m going to get bit I rather it be by a female. So, yes, go back and say it’s a female vampire that bites me.”
Erin nodded again, trying not to let her bewilderment show.
“She bites me, but she doesn’t kill me,” he says. “In that case, my immune system will fight off the parasite, and I’ll be fine.”
Erin listened.
“However, if she killed me, of course my immune system would shut down and there would be nothing to fight off the parasite,” he continued. “Now, the parasite’s a fairly interesting thing. I haven’t quite figured out exactly
how it works. Mostly like regular, human mitochondria, but stronger. And it’s in every single cell, so it’s capable of enforcing systemic—body wide—changes on the host. So what it does, is it goes to the brain and acts to force it to create extra hormones, steroids, that sort of thing. It’s got something funny about it. Sort of an electrical charge, like the electrophorus electricus—the electric eel.”
Erin tried to remember what she knew about electric eels. It wasn’t much.
“The parasite uses that electrical charge, if I’m correct, to manipulate and jump-start the brain. The brain, in turn, causes the body to resume functioning—usually within twenty minutes of brain death, if the reports are correct. It’s all very complicated, but that, I believe, is the gist of it. The catch, and listen closely, is that the parasite so greatly expends itself, as well as the host’s body, that it and the body will die if human blood isn’t consumed within twenty-four hours of the change.”
“Why blood?” Erin asked.
“Protein in the blood. It’s the Rh protein, or antigen D, specifically. Almost no other animal has it, and the parasite needs it to live. But this parasite is a little different. A little better. Because its host is its life, it doesn’t use the protein from its host’s blood; if it did, it would kill its host, and thus itself. Instead, it drives its host to consume the protein from the blood of other sources. Namely us. Ingenious, though, isn’t it? Sustaining its own host. Taking care of it, even. Watching out for itself. No other parasite does that. Others drive their hosts into the ground. Consuming. Reproducing. Going and going until they kill their host, and thus destroy themselves. But this one, it can survive for ... well, forever. Because of one single mechanism. The mechanism which prohibits it from harming its host. It’s really quite ingenious.”
Erin thought it over.
“Excellent. Splendid.”
“They’re immortal, then?” Erin asked. “Vampires?”
The man nodded. “I can’t say for sure. All of this is in theory. But it’s all from government studies. And from the look of this, and how the parasite works, I’d say yes, indeed, they are.” He stared at the papers for a moment, mumbling to himself, then made an odd gasping noise and slapped the side of his own head. “What am I doing? I’m forgetting the most important part here.”