Best New Vampire Tales (Vol.1)
Page 22
“You’re not getting it, kid,” Jonah said. “It’s not human. It’s a creature. A monster. A goddamn demon from Hell, I tell you!” He was yelling now, and his voice got louder, and he waved the gun as he hollered. “Now you grab that stake, pick up that sledge, and drive it through his cold black fucking heart!”
The gun was certainly big. Rogan backed into the walk-in and numbly picked up the items. Behind him, he heard the captive growling. He turned to see the naked guy struggling vainly against his steel bonds, snarling and hissing at him, eyes wild. A man, yes, but after a month like this, it had truly become a creature.
Then it opened its mouth and bared its teeth and Rogan’s jaw dropped.
It had huge fangs, almost like a saber-toothed human.
That kind of alteration is popular these days, he told himself.
“He’s scared now,” Jonah said gleefully. “He knows the Big Stake is here. And he can see your aura. He knows what you are.”
Rogan looked at the creature’s face, and their eyes met. The creature ceased its growling and hissing almost immediately and, like a docile puppy, relaxed and went completely blank.
Briefly, Rogan’s mind filled with a flurry of disjointed images—people he didn’t know, places he’d never been, sounds he’d never heard. It was like a confusing dream replayed at high speed. He shook his head to clear it, but never looked away from the thing’s eyes.
“What’s wrong with him?” Rogan whispered.
“You’re what’s wrong with him!” Jonah let out a rollicking laugh. “You’re a Sabbatarian of the highest order. He’s fallen to you. All you have left is to stake him. It’s like pounding a nail; you just line it up and hit it on the head. I’d do it for you, but I don’t think you quite believe any of this yet. So I have to keep this gun pointed at your head until you do it. Once you do, you’ll see.”
The phantasmagoria of images kept flying through his mind. Faces, voices, and smells; things, ideas, and feelings. They weren’t his. They made no sense. Rogan shook his head. “I can’t do it. You’re going to have to kill me.”
Behind him, Jonah sighed. “Are you really going to make me threaten you with Delia? Are you really going to make me blow a hole through her belly? I’ll do it, Rogan. So save your own ass, save your wife’s, and save your unborn child’s.”
“My unborn child?” Rogan echoed.
“I hired the best private detective. She found out Thursday at Dr. Weatherbee’s. I guess you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t,” Rogan said. Why hadn’t she told him? Why would she have kept it from him? How could she have considered keeping it from him?
“So stake him now, or I’ll fucking kill them both,” Jonah snarled, and Rogan heard the hammer cock back on the weapon.
He hadn’t separated his eyes from those of the entranced captive. Slowly, he moved forward, on legs of rubbery iron, as if guided by some part of his being not under his conscious control. He dropped to his knees beside the chained man and positioned the stake. All the while, the man watched him.
When Rogan raised he sledgehammer high, the prisoner seemed to break out of his reverie: a light humming sound, less than a growl but more than a whimper, floated up. Rogan wavered, even as the strange, alien pictures in his mind seemed to spiral around crazily.
“Don’t let him get to you,” Jonah said. “You just imagine Delia with her womb ripped open and your baby without its head, and the rest will be easy.”
And it was. Rogan brought the sledge down with a strangely alien might, and in that one strike the stake plunged straight through the man’s chest and clear to the concrete beneath. The man let out a gut-twisting howl of pain and tightened against its bonds, arching its back. Rogan leaped up and back, crashing into the wall. At the door to the walk-in, Jonah whooped in celebration.
The man still howled in agony, and as Rogan watched, transfixed like a deer in the headlights, its white skin rapidly darkened, blackening like a pig cooking on a spit. Then, just as suddenly, his body collapsed in on itself. Rogan watched in utter horror, even as the last echo of the creature’s howling died off, as the remains crumbled up and turned to gray dust.
“Congratulations, Mr. Mallory,” Jonah said, lowering the gun and tucking it in his belt. “Your first vampire kill.”
* * *
Rogan sat, mystified, on the L-shaped sectional sofa in Jonah’s spacious living room. “You were telling the truth,” he said.
At the adjoining kitchen counter, Jonah was pouring coffee. “I’m not as crazy as I look, you know. For the record, the gun isn’t loaded. Regular bullets don’t do much against these types, so I have little use for it. And I wouldn’t have hurt you or Delia. I just had to make you understand.”
“How many vampires are there?” Rogan asked.
He still noticed the garlic smell of the house as Jonah joined him and handed him his coffee, but somehow it was comforting. “Hard to say. They’re generally limited to big cities and really remote areas. Makes them harder to track. But they’re out there, feeding on us.”
“Turning us into vampires,” Rogan finished, but Jonah shook his head.
“More Hollywood. It’s quite the reverse. To become a vampire, you have to drink their blood—and lots of it. If a vamp wants a new child, he force-feeds a regular guy and in a few hours: new bloodsucker. The older the vampire, the faster the process.”
“You have my attention,” Rogan assured him. “When we first met tonight, you said you needed me. You said ‘He’s too powerful for me’ and that only I could stop him. Why?”
“Remember how it calmed down when you looked into its eyes? First it was terrified, but once you had its gaze, it was entranced.” He busily packed tobacco into an ornate wooden pipe as he talked. “You have the power—just as I do, just as my forefathers did. We were all born on Saturday, which is almost a requirement to be a vampire hunter. Without the gift, you’re just a badass packing weapons and hoping you’ll win. The vampire I speak of won’t fall to any badass, and not to just any Sabbatarian.”
“Who is he? And if you’re a Sabbatarian, why can’t you handle him?”
Jonah lit his pipe and puffed blue smoke as he settled back on the sectional sofa. “The origins of vampires are unknown—we don’t know where they came from or when the first one appeared. Likely it was as a result of renunciation of religion on the part of the first one—for instance, most people think the power of their religion can best a vampire. Truth is, it doesn’t matter how powerful your faith is; if you’re holding a Christian cross up against a vampire who was Jewish before he was transformed, you’d better go get a Star of David instead. It’s about what his faith was, not what yours is.
“The older they get, the more powerful they become. Thus, the harder they are to kill, and the harder they are to mesmerize if you’re a Sabbatarian. Now this vampire I speak of is called Gantu. He’s the oldest I’ve ever known, and I’ve dedicated my life to hunting him. We’ve met fifteen times and I’ve almost died all fifteen times. It’s always been a stalemate. I know, as I approach the close of my life, that I no longer have a chance against him. I’ve always been a capable Sabbatarian, but he’s always withstood my power. Now, as my strength winds down, his is stronger than ever.
“Gantu is incredibly powerful. I’ve watched him withstand direct sunlight and end up with nothing worse than a few blisters, when other vampires explode into fireballs. It’s a wooden stake through the heart or nothing, followed by decapitation and cremation—he won’t just crumble to dust like that baby you skewered. The only way I can achieve that is if a Sabbatarian of your caliber helps me. You have the power to mesmerize him, but even you can’t hold him and attack. But we can take him down together.”
At the end of his spiel, his pipe was only smoldering, so he relit it. Rogan said, “Why is it so important that Gantu be killed?”
“It’s important that all vampires be killed, but he’s the worst. In addition to empowerment with age, they create more vam
pires the longer they’re around. It’s a gang mentality—the children follow their sires. Younger vampires start making too many followers; the older ones take them out. Now, to give you an idea of Gantu’s capability, the one you staked tonight is a few years old at best. The strongest I’ve taken out was twelve hundred.” He lowered his pipe, leaned toward Rogan, and said, “Gantu is eight thousand years old.”
Rogan felt his jaw drop. “How do you know?”
“A Sabbatarian can see it during his mesmerism. You probably had weird images going through your mind when you dealt with the one tonight—yes?”
“Just fleeting pictures, really … disjointed and confusing.”
“Try one who’s been around a hundred years. The older they are, the clearer the flurry of information becomes. I’ve met up with Gantu many times, and although my attempts at mesmerism always failed, I’ve gained new insights every time. I’ve seen memories of him feeding on humans as far back as predating the Great Pyramid of Giza. I’m pretty sure he was in Mesopotamia as early as 6000 B.C.”
“Damn,” Rogan breathed, shaking his head. “So he’s beyond just being really powerful. How do we find him?”
“I know right where he is. I’ve meshed with his mind enough over the years. I can track him—almost like he’s wearing a homing beacon.”
Rogan swallowed the lump in his throat. “So what’s the plan?”
“I track him. You hold him. I kill him.”
He hadn’t touched his coffee, and now he tipped it back and downed it. “I need to sleep on this, Mr. Byrne. I need to go home and be with my pregnant wife … and think this through.”
Jonah said simply, “The baby thing was bullshit.”
He felt his neck heat up with anger. “You son of a bitch.”
“Don’t get all pissed off. Delia’s not worth it. See, that private detective I hired really is the best. I didn’t go looking for it, but your wife’s been screwing around on you.”
He looked at the one-eyed man incredulously and shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
“I’m not going to play guessing games, Mr. Mallory,” Jonah snapped, “and I’m not going to hold your hand. She’s banging a guy, does so most weekends. Where do you think she went tonight?”
“Shopping with her sister,” Rogan said weakly, even then remembering all the odd excuses she’d had for being late.
“Well, I’ll tell you what. On your way home, stop by 1340 East Riverdale Drive. In the meantime, I have all the evidence you need to make sure she doesn’t screw you over in divorce court.”
* * *
Her BMW was there, right where Jonah had said. He only had to wait forty minutes. She left the house, her fling in tow. They smooched on the front porch, groping each other and probably confessing their mutual love.
He didn’t even cry. Somehow, he was anesthetized to the pain after the night’s happenings.
When he got home and confronted her, she lied through her teeth until there was no getting around it. Then she cried and bawled and begged forgiveness, and of course tried to blame it on him a half dozen different ways. The evening culminated in her packing her bags and heading to her sister’s—or wherever.
So much for perfect Saturdays, he thought.
* * *
He filed for divorce that Monday. A phone call to Jonah had all the pictures and evidence needed sent to his lawyer, so at least that was easy. Jonah called on Friday to check on things.
“I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” Rogan said.
“In all fairness, I was doing it for me,” Jonah said. “But I know if someone caught my wife cheating I’d sure as hell want to hear about it.”
“It’s more than that. You’ve opened my eyes to a lot of things.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Shall we get together tomorrow?”
“What for?”
“It’s Saturday. Our power day. The best day to hunt down an ancient vampire.”
It seemed like late night B-moviedom to Rogan, but the excitement was too intense. “Sounds good.”
* * *
The house was strangely empty without Delia, but he didn’t miss her. He sat alone in his living room, drinking a double Scotch on the rocks, listening to Billy Joel singing that she could ruin your faith with her casual lies and that she only reveals what she wants you to see. That didn’t help.
Last weekend, he’d driven a wooden stake through the heart of a vampire and watched its body disintegrate. Tomorrow, he was going hunting for an ancient vampire to attempt the same. He was a real-estate agent; this wasn’t his thing. He’d given up partying years ago, most of his life when he’d married Delia, and even his motorcycle when he knew he’d gotten too old for that sort of thing.
The doorbell sounded. It was nine o’clock, too late for company. Delia, perhaps, after more of her things. He sighed and set his drink on the coffee table, strained to get to his feet, and plodded into the foyer. He unlocked the door and threw it open.
The man there was tall, handsome, pale as a ghost, with long, black hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore a black trench coat and black leather boots, and his gloved hands were clasped before him. Rogan felt the coils of terror tightening up in his gut, preparing to spring.
“Good evening, Mr. Mallory,” the man said, and Rogan realized the man’s eyes were red. “My name is Gantu. We must talk.”
He was sure his face had gone as white as Gantu’s. He was two rooms away from the nearest phone, and Jonah was a twenty-minute drive at best. As it was, Rogan knew he’d never outrun the ghoulish figure, much less get the door closed.
I’m a Sabbatarian, he thought frantically. I have the power.
Boldly, he locked eyes with Gantu, and for a brief moment he thought it was all for nothing, that the ancient vampire was too powerful even for him. But as he stared deep into those red eyes, Gantu faltered, teetered back a half step, and tried to look away. Rogan could feel the vampire’s inability to break the gaze.
He can’t look away! I’m doing it!
Gantu breathed heavily for a quick breath. “Please, Mr. Mallory … I know who and what you are. The fact is, I concede that you can overwhelm me with your Sabbatarian powers. But you can do no more than hold me. Once you break your concentration, I could kill you in a second.”
“Then I’ll hold you until dawn,” Rogan said through gritted teeth. Images fluttered through his mind, at the periphery of his consciousness. It was starting.
Gantu curled his lips. “Mr. Mallory, I have twenty times your strength and endurance. Your power is great while you’re in fine shape, but it’s getting late and you’re very tired. I, on the other hand, have only been awake a few hours. I can do this all night as well. I am willing to bet you will falter in your concentration before I will—and far before dawn. One slight moment when the shroud of sleep attempts to grab you, and you are mine. And if you do manage to hang on, I’m not quite as worried about the sun in my old age. I suppose I’m overdue for a tan.”
Rogan felt panic start to wash over him, but he fought it back. No time to give in. The scattered images were getting stronger, more confusing.
“I could have come in here and simply killed you,” Gantu said. “I rang your bell. I come here under a flag of truce. Please, let us stop this for now. You’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
* * *
The past week had been strange enough; now, the very vampire he was to hunt tomorrow was sitting in his living room, thanking him for the Scotch.
“A very nice place you have,” Gantu said. “I suppose a real-estate agent has the pick of the lot.”
“I have the most powerful vampire on Earth drinking whiskey in my living room and talking about my architecture,” Rogan said. His voice was shaking; he could hear every word warble. His mouth was dry and sticky with nervousness.
Gantu looked down at his drink in surprise. “I’m terribly sorry. If you’d like, I’ll stop drinking.”
“No, please drink … whis
key,” Rogan said hurriedly.
Gantu laughed. “You’ve certainly been hanging with Jonah Byrne. He has you believing what a terrible bloodsucker I am. Well, he’s right, to a point, but there’s a lot you don’t know. For instance, while we require blood, it need not be human.”
“You’re saying you don’t kill people?”
“Certainly, we do. But not to extreme, and then only those who deserve it.”
“How do you come to such judgments?”
“When I find a dozen men gang-raping a woman in an alleyway, a logical judgment presents itself,” Gantu said icily. “I am very selective, sir; as are most of us. And I assure you that when a vampire goes off the deep end, we work to end his tenure immediately. It’s bad for our kind to have careless vampires on the loose.”
Rogan’s head swam. He half expected werewolves and zombies to come storming in the house next, followed closely by a warlock or two. “So how do you survive?”
“In addition to blood, I prefer Chinese.”
“Chinese … people?”
“No … food, Mr. Mallory. Chinese food.”
“I thought vampires didn’t eat.”
“You watch too much television, sir,” Gantu said with a smile. “And, I suspect, listen to Jonah Byrne too much. He’s not what he claims to be.”
“He claims to be a vampire hunter, and so far he looks like exactly that.”
“But he claims to be ridding the world of evil vampires. What he is doing is crusading against our kind—obliterating us, one at a time. He’s a Sabbatarian, like his ancestors, misguided in his belief that we are all abominations. He believes it’s his duty to rid the world of us. We would prefer that not to happen.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Gantu downed his drink. “I want you to simply not help him, for starters. He’s not long for this world, you know; soon, the cancer eating at his insides will claim his life, and none of this will matter. His family line will end, and there will be no more Sabbatarians hunting us.”