Voice of the Undead

by Jason Henderson

  And why not? Icemaker had been able to float off the ground and turn the air to ice—was it so hard to imagine vampires could learn to do all kinds of things that normal men could not?

  Alex listened as the droning went on, repeating the basic idea several times, freedom through doing what I say. He had to admire the gall in that kind of doublethink.

  “My assistant is going to give you the tools. What you want to do now is take this knife,” said the voice. Alex felt his eyes grow wide as one of the girls stepped forward. Elle held out one of the silver daggers. At the edge of the knife table was a silver box, and now Elle opened that as well, revealing many, many more blades.

  The girl—a senior, by the look of her, with shoulder-length strawberry hair—took the knife and stared blankly.

  “The person you see before you is one of those who has kept you in thrall, one of the rule makers, the slaveholders, the barriers to your freedom.”

  Oh, boy. Alex looked at the man and wondered if in fact this guy was anything at all like that, a cop or an administrator. Probably not, and it didn’t matter in the slightest, because this sleepwalking teenager was about to stab him.

  “That’s enough,” Alex shouted, bursting through the trees. Elle hissed at him as he went for the knife first, smacking the redheaded girl’s hand. She barely registered the knife flying from her hand, but then dropped to the grass and began to look for it again. Alex pushed her back, sending her falling.

  The voice was still talking, now taking on a repeating refrain: “Freedom through sacrifice, freedom through sacrifice, freedom through sacrifice.”

  “Sorry, Al, but you’re not invited,” said Elle, and she grabbed him by the collar, dragging him back. Alex smashed against the table that held the iPod and it toppled over with the speakers, still playing. The voice went on as he grunted in pain, crunching his ribs against the table. He rolled forward, kicking at her.

  “Freedom through sacrifice, freedom through sacrifice, freedom through sacrifice.”

  Alex picked up the table and swung it at Elle and she bashed it aside. Then she moved lightning fast and had his collar. She reared back her head, showing her fangs and driving toward his neck. Alex grabbed her chin, pushing, feeling the iron power of her neck muscles. He brought up his knees and caught her in the midsection, and as she fell back he reached through the seam in his backpack and drew out his stake, feeling the wooden handle and threading of silver that ran along its length.

  He became aware of movement around him—the girls gathering close. The silver box clattered and they were groping for the knives that fell out on the grass.

  “Freedom through sacrifice, freedom through sacrifice, freedom through sacrifice.”

  Alex lunged at Elle when suddenly someone had him by the wrist and yanked him back, throwing him to the ground.

  Alex’s head smacked against the leg of the chair where the “sacrifice” still was trying to break free, and he tipped the chair over, allowing the man more protection, he hoped.

  Then he looked back as a pair of legs came down around his and he saw glistening steel raised up high and ready to sink home.

  It was Minhi.

  Alex thrust his hands forward, grabbing her arm and her shoulder. “Minhi, no—”

  Minhi was staring at him but not hearing his words. She was lost in Freedom through sacrifice, freedom through sacrifice, and because she was so athletic, she was already a little stronger than Alex. In the near distance, over the silent footsteps of the girls and the knives, over the voice of Ultravox, he heard Elle laughing.

  Alex used all his strength to roll with Minhi, trying to push her away without doing any damage, but she came back at him, zombielike, raising the dagger.

  “Minhi, it’s me,” Alex said, as Minhi slammed him back against the toppled table.

  “He’s the vessel,” said Elle. “He is the one.”

  “Minhi—” Alex said, catching her wrist. She was bearing down with the knife. “Wake up!” he shouted at her. There were others gathered around, because Elle had told them he was the one now, and they were waiting their turns.

  Minhi was very close, and she drove her knees into his ribs, bringing the knife down slowly. “Minhi, wake up. It’s me.”

  He remembered the snowstorm and the other night’s helicopter rescue. “Take my hand,” he said, using his other hand to reach for her free one. “Minhi, take my hand,” he said again, and he felt the tip of the edge of the knife press down against his chest.

  Suddenly he had a sense for why he had seen his sister’s hand through the snow, or seen the chopper through the haze of Ultravox on the train. Because lies are fog, and truth could burn through it. Right?

  He slipped his fingers through hers. “Minhi, take my hand!” he shouted, and then he saw it, a blink, and the pressing stopped. He saw her blink again. “Wake up, it’s me,” he whispered.

  All at once Minhi gasped. “Alex?”

  “Yes, can you get off me, please?”

  She sprang off him like a rabbit, falling back, scrambling backward. Alex took the knife as Minhi dropped it and turned to the man in the chair. Alex had just reached the ropes binding the man when Elle hit him like a freight train, and he tumbled sideways with her.

  Wasn’t the first time he’d fallen with a knife, and his father’s words echoed, Keep the knife away from you always. If you begin to fall, remember where it is, and keep it pointed sideways. In the microsecond he was falling Alex realized the tip of the knife in his hand was pointing toward his own ribs, and he twisted his hand out, landing hard on the forest floor.

  The knife caught Elle in the side and she shrieked, spinning back in pain.

  He returned to the task of freeing the man. He cut the binding ropes, saying, “Run, the road is that way.” He waved in the general direction of the road. One of the girls was about to plunge a dagger into the man when Minhi, shrieking, grabbed her and pulled her away. The man scurried into the distance, gone, sure to have a tale to tell that no one would ever believe, ever. Alex tossed away the knife and grabbed his stake from the ground, looking around frantically for Elle. But she was gone.

  Minhi kicked one of the girls away. She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “Alex, what’s going on?”

  The glazed-eyed girls were drawing closer. The voice of Ultravox still droned, “Freedom through sacrifice, freedom through sacrifice, freedom through sacrifice.”

  “They’re asleep, just don’t hurt them,” Alex said.

  “They’re not going to play that nice,” Minhi responded as they backed up against the overturned tables.

  Alex felt someone grab him by the shoulder and he spun, stabbing at his attacker—Elle—with his stake. He connected at the chest but she was able to shrink back. Alex reached into the pack and drew out a glass ball. He hurled it at her, catching her square in the forehead. The glass sphere of holy water burst and she screamed as it burned her forehead and dripped down her body. She fell back, crawling.

  Elle wouldn’t stay down long. She never did. But they had twenty sleepwalking assassins to deal with. Alex thought again of the flash-bang and yanked one from his pack, pulling the pin. “Minhi, cover your ears,” he said. Then he shouted, “Wake up!”

  He threw the flash-bang into the air as hard as he could and covered his ears just before it went off, but his ears rang anyway with the concussive force of the sound. Brilliant light shot through the clearing as the explosive noise reverberated, and he waited a second as the echo died down.

  He looked back hopefully.

  The glassy-eyed horde continued approaching, some of them reaching down to grab extra knives from the silver box.

  Well, that’s disappointing.

  On and on the voice of Ultravox played and they pressed in.

  Alex looked back at the iPod in the grass and leapt for it. “That’s enough,” he said, and he snatched it up, ripping its cord loose from the speakers. Abruptly the voice stopped.

  And so did the horde.


  “Wake up!” he cried. Minhi was next to him, panting. The girls stood still, as if suspended on invisible wires.

  And then Alex realized they were receding, turning, the ones in the back first, followed by the ones closer to him. Suddenly he remembered Elle and he turned with his stake at the ready.

  But Elle was gone. And in a moment, so was the pajama horde, shrinking back into the distance.

  Alex stood in the clearing next to Minhi. Suddenly she was hugging him. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, hugging her back awkwardly. “We have to go.”

  They followed the horde as it moved in the same antlike procession as before, through the woods and back to LaLaurie. Minhi clutched at Alex; he put his arm around her, though he was watching the girls pad their way silently, sleeping, even as they passed through the doors. One or two of them carried keys, surely on some unholy order, and Alex watched them unconsciously unlock the doors and enter. On up to their rooms, where, one and all, they returned to sleep.

  Chapter 19

  Alex slapped the purloined Scholomance device down on the conference table, right in the center of the u in Talia Sunt. He had come to HQ immediately after dropping off Minhi, calling Sangster along the way.

  “What have you got there?” Armstrong said, picking it up.

  The door opened and Sangster came in, wearing a sport coat and chinos and looking like he was called into meetings in the middle of the night all the time. He tossed his jacket over a chair and sat next to Alex, gazing at the small white device in Armstrong’s hands from across the table.

  “It’s an iPod,” Alex said. “Basically, I think.”

  Armstrong turned it over and pitched it to Sangster. It was about the size of a deck of cards, with no video screen but ports for speakers and USB. Unlike the Apple device it resembled, it had only one button.

  “Elle left it behind when I disrupted her sacrifice, or whatever it was. Her directed killing.”

  “That was unwise of her.” Sangster looked at Armstrong. “Let’s have Monty look at this.”

  They headed out the door and down the carpeted halls until they came to an area Alex had never seen, a large bay of computers and screens and what looked like a studio mixing board.

  A man with scant amounts of yellow hair and one arm looked up at them as they entered his area. He was wearing earphones and watching a screen where Alex could see various lines representing sound. The lines were pulsing, and Alex realized he was listening to music.

  “Monty!” Armstrong called, and the balding man nodded distantly.

  “What is it, I’m listening to—”

  Armstrong tugged the earphone jack out of the mixing board and the room filled with techno. “I have actual work for you.”

  The guy looked at Sangster, Armstrong, and Alex, and rolled his eyes. “This is work. Look at this.” He pointed at the screen, indicating a low, fluid line that ran below the others. “See that little line down there? It’s a conversation. I’m listening to some recordings we got last week in Geneva. Got some stuff on your Ultravox. Not much, though. Vampires, man, they go into town and talk. Don’t believe the hype; they do drink wine.” He slid a lever and the volume receded. He turned to Alex. “Hey, you’re the Van Helsing kid.”

  Alex nodded. Sangster said, “This is Monty Crief, he’s a communications intelligence specialist with—another agency, but we’ve got him for Ultravox.”

  So that was what they were calling the operation, Ultravox, a whole rolling chain of events captured under one name. “What is that?” Monty said, suddenly interested. Sangster tossed the device again and Monty snatched it out of the air with his one arm. “Cool.”

  Alex said, “About an hour ago a vampire from the Scholomance played whatever is on that thing for a bunch of girls in the woods. It told them to kill a man, and they almost did it.”

  Monty was plugging in the device. He tapped the button and the voice of Ultravox began to play. “Freedom through sacrifice, freedom through sacrifice.”

  “Gotta admit, that is one mellifluous voice,” Monty said. He started bringing up other windows.

  Armstrong picked up a file off the desk area of Monty’s station and flipped it open, showing Alex a pencil sketch based on the person he had seen on the train. “This is the person you saw. This is Ultravox.”

  “Have you matched him with anyone?” Alex asked.

  “Not yet. So far this is just a guy in a peasant shirt.”

  Sangster looked at the picture. “If I didn’t know better I’d think we were fighting Ernest Hemingway.”

  Alex thought of the Icemaker adventure. “Do you think we might be?”

  Sangster said, “It’s tempting, but no, Hemingway was not a vampire. Did some work for us, once, but that’s a whole other thing.”

  “I’m running this through the database,” said Monty. “Should just be a moment.”

  Alex was surprised. “You have a database of all the vampires’ voices?”

  “No,” Monty said, “but there are a lot of elements out there that work their mojo through sound. There’s a Malaysian vampire that sings, a whole clan of Benedictine monk/sorcerers in Germany that use chants, and on and on. As in life, there are people who deal in sound.”

  Alex turned back to Sangster and Armstrong. “Here’s what I don’t get. The voice told them to kill the guy, okay? And Elle brought a box of knives and laid them out for them. But why were the girls even there?”

  Armstrong folded her arms. Her freckles showed in the dim light. “Could it have been back-masked or something, into a public announcement?”

  “They don’t do PAs that way at LaLaurie,” Sangster said, shaking his head. “But I see where you’re going.”

  “I don’t,” said Alex. “Clue me in.”

  “There could have been a posthypnotic suggestion sent to these girls,” Sangster explained. “A message telling them to get up in the middle of the night and meet in the woods.”

  Alex was looking at the file in the folder. The voice of Ultravox still haunted him, and in his mind he could hear it turned on him as opposed to the message on the iPod, which was meant for the pajama horde. It will never get better than this, Ultravox had said.

  “Only girls were there,” Alex said, trying to focus on the task at hand, despite his distaste for the sound of the vampire’s voice. “There are boys at LaLaurie now, but only girls went into the woods. Why would it be just girls?”

  Sangster shrugged. “I don’t think we have an answer for that yet.”

  “Would this message have to be explicit?” Alex continued his questions. “I mean, as explicit as ‘get up at one and go a mile into the woods?’”

  “Maybe. Could be a virus,” said Monty, who had put on a pair of headphones but could still hear them. He was sorting through several long lists of files, each bearing incomprehensible names.

  Sangster had never heard of this. “A virus?”

  Monty looked back, tapping a button to pause whatever he was listening to. He rubbed his forehead, clearly trying to dumb down his explanation as much as he could. “Like a computer virus. A whole set of instructions enclosed in a string of words, a magic spell, if you will. It could be in any language; if someone good—and we gotta assume Ultravox is good—he could create a posthypnotic virus that would include the instructions. All that would be left would be to inject it into the targets.”

  “It could be a teacher,” Alex said. “A plant at LaLaurie. Or Glenarvon.”

  Monty held up a finger, shushing them, and unplugged his headphones.

  They heard a voice on an old, crackling recording. “You are going to do something now, not for me, but because you want to.”

  “That’s him,” Alex said.

  Monty played the two recordings simultaneously, and the two droning recordings swirled over each other on the screen. “This recording was made in 1937 in Washington, D.C. It is the only known recording of Jonathan Fre
ne.”

  “Frene,” Sangster whispered, staring at the name that Monty brought up on the screen. A dossier followed, but there was no picture. Alex saw time lines running back hundreds of years. “Frene was a voice man?”

  “You’ve heard of him?” Alex asked.

  Sangster held up two fingers. “Two ways. One, Jonathan Frene is a name that pops up in vampire events a lot in the past couple hundred years. Assassinations, mainly. And second, he was seeded into a story by Algernon Blackwood, a writer and one of our agents in the first half of the twentieth century. He suggested a psychic vampire; that’s someone who can suck out your will. Blackwood may have mislabeled him.”

  Armstrong was looking over the dossier on the screen. “Sometimes Frene went by Cracknell.”

  “That’s familiar,” Alex said, puzzled, then whispered rapidly, “Cracknell, Cracknell.” Something recent. White embossed words on leather.

  It’s a theory book, he heard Sid say.

  Alex racked his brain. “Did Frene write any books himself?”

  “Not that I’m familiar with,” said Sangster.

  Armstrong peered at the screen. “There’s a long letter he wrote to one of the clans in 1901 listed here. Says it got passed around a lot. It was called The Skein.”

  “The Skein,” Alex repeated. “Oh my God.”

  “What?”

  “Sid found a book at the bookstore in Secheron on writing when we were looking for materials for the Pumpkin Show. It was a writing book, you know, for making stories. It was called The Skein, with some kind of subtitle.”

  Sangster looked visibly saddened. “The Skein was never really published. Sid has been using this book?”

  “Yes, and when he reads his stories the audience practically swoons. He’s competing regularly now. I think he has a shot to win.”

  Armstrong snorted. “There’s your virus,” she said. “So what do you know about this Sid?”