by Ryk E. Spoor
“Still, I thank you, Jason,” Verne said.
His hand on Tai’s arm, the two disappeared into thin air. I jumped at that, but my mind was distracted by the fact that I’d seen a new and different sparkle in Verne’s eyes.
Vampire tears are just like ours.
CHAPTER 34
Reunion Jitters
“Guess who!”
Two soft hands covered my eyes in time with the words. To my credit, I managed not to jump, though she probably knew how much she’d startled me anyway.
“Madame Blavatsky?”
She giggled. “Nope.”
“Nostradamus?”
“Do you feel a beard against your neck? Try again!”
“Then it must be the great Medium of the Mohawk Valley herself, Sylvia Stake!”
The hands came away as I turned around.
“You guessed!”
“No one else has a key to this place, and Verne’s voice is two octaves lower and his hands are five sizes bigger.”
Sylvie was looking good this evening: her black hair was styled in tight ringlet curls pulled back by several colorful scarves, and she was wearing a low-cut dress with a long skirt—one of her gypsy outfits—and a big over-the-shoulder bag that was handwoven with enough colors to supply a dozen rainbows. “Oh, is that the only difference?” she said, leaning forward.
Sylvie makes me nervous. She’s not the only woman I’ve ever dated, but I never got this nervous around any of them, or anyone else for that matter. Syl has always assumed that all women make me nervous, and she has always enjoyed flustering me. Leaning forward in that dress did not help matters. “C’mon, Syl, cut it out. I can’t take the games today.”
She switched gears immediately. “Sorry, Jason. You seem tense; I thought a little joking around might help alleviate that. Plus I’ve been away so long.”
“It’s not like I fall apart when you go away, you know.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
I turned back to the computer screen. “Sorta business, sorta personal.”
“Verne.” It was a statement, not a question.
“How did you know?”
“Just a feeling.”
“You know, it’s tough to hide anything from you. A guy came in the other day and asked me to find his father who he’d been separated from for years. It turned out that his father is Verne.”
“Well, that’s wonderful . . . isn’t it?”
“I dunno.” I pointed at the screen. “Verne didn’t recognize his face, but said something about recognizing his ‘soul,’ and then the two of them went off to talk together. Verne seemed to think he’s bona fide, but I have to wonder. Even if he is the real McCoy, that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have something nasty up his sleeve.”
“Jason, it’s not like you to be this paranoid.”
I told her about the cold gaze. “That started me thinking. I wouldn’t worry if that was all, but because of that, I decided to run a background check on this guy, and I don’t like what came up.”
Syl looked at the screen. It showed a front-page story and two photos in a Vietnamese newspaper from several months ago. The first photo was of a Vietnamese wearing a business suit and standing in one of those typical “ID Photo” poses; the other showed a blond-haired, sharp-featured young man with a cold, angry expression.
“If you color the hair black,” I said, hitting the command as I spoke, “that guy’s a twin for ‘Tai Lee Xiang,’ the man who is claiming that Verne is his father.”
“What does the story say?”
“Says that the unnamed subject—the blond guy—here killed the man in the picture while escaping from a maximum-security hospital for the criminally insane. Doctor Ping Xi, the dead man, was very important, apparently.” I hit a few more controls and another newspaper headline appeared. “A couple of days later, the blond guy killed a colonel in their army, and he’s been hunted ever since. International warrants, the whole nine yards.”
“You don’t really think even a madman would be a threat to Verne, do you?”
I chuckled slightly in spite of myself. If I looked out the righthand window, I could see out one of the two girders left standing from the warehouse that Verne single-handedly demolished while killing Virigar’s brood of werewolves. “It does sound a little silly, doesn’t it? But this guy isn’t an ordinary killer. According to this story, the colonel was practically torn apart.” I felt a spike of ice form in my chest as I spoke, and remembered a particular clearing in the woods.
Sylvie paled suddenly. “You don’t think . . .”
“. . . Yes, I do think. We’d better get over there.”
Neither one of us had to voice the thought that had simultaneously occurred to us. Werewolves. If Virigar knew something about Verne’s background . . . how very easy to have one of his people change into some form with a good background story.
Pausing only to grab a few pieces of equipment, we headed for the car at a dead run.
CHAPTER 35
A Test of Trust
“Good evening, Master Jason,” Morgan said, opening the door.
“Evening, Morgan,” I answered, glancing around. There was still lots of clutter around from the work that was being done on the house. “Verne around?”
“He and Master Kafan are in the library at the moment, sir.”
I opened my mouth to ask who Master Kafan was, then remembered Verne calling Tai Lee Xiang “Raiakafan.” “Thanks, Morgan.”
“Your coats, sir, Lady Sylvia?”
Though impatient, I didn’t show sign of our concern. Neither did Syl; we both knew that if Tai Lee were a werewolf, giving any hint that we suspected him could be fatal.
The library was much neater than the other areas of the house. I remembered that Verne pushed the contractors to finish that room first and to clean it up each day; he valued the library more than just about any other room. Verne and Tai were sitting together, bent over what looked like an atlas, with other books scattered about the table. Both looked up as we entered.
“Jason!” Verne rose. “I did not expect you. And Lady Sylvie.” He took her hand and bowed deeply over it.
I felt a tinge of jealousy as Syl developed a slight blush and thanked Verne for his courtesy. She once was scared stiff of Verne, but that seemed to be a thing of the past now.
Tai nodded to me and stood up at a gesture from Verne. “Tai, please meet my good friend, Sylvia Stake,” Verne said.
We’d hoped for a setup like this. As he reached out, his attention focused on Syl, I pulled my hand out of my pocket and flung what was in it at him.
Neither of us saw everything that happened. From Syl’s point of view, Tai suddenly disappeared. I, on the other hand, saw a blur move toward me and felt myself lifted into the air and slammed into a wall so hard that the breath left me with an explosive whoosh and red haze fogged my vision. I struggled feebly, trying to force some air back into my lungs.
The pressure on my windpipe vanished as my attacker was yanked backwards. “Raiakafan! Jason! What is the meaning of this?” Verne demanded.
“I saw him move and the characteristics of his motion strongly implied an attack.” Tai’s voice was level, cold, and flat, like a robot rather than a living being. “I moved to neutralize him.”
“No one ‘neutralizes’ a member of my household or my friends.” Verne stated flatly. “As to Jason’s action, I am sure he will explain himself . . . immediately.” The last word carried considerable coldness with it.
“Urrg . . .” I gurgled, then managed to gasp, pulling precious air back into my lungs. “Sorry . . . Verne.” I studied Tai carefully. Yes . . . I could see traces of the stuff. It had definitely hit him. Hell, he’d charged straight into it. Obviously, he didn’t realize what kind of an “attack” it had been. “In a way, Tai is correct. Under the right circumstances, what I did would have been considered an attack. A lethal one.”
Verne’s eyes narrowed, fortunately showing more puzzlement
than anger; we’d been through enough together that he knew I’d never do anything like this without good reason. “And just what circumstances would those have been?”
Syl answered. “If Tai had been a werewolf, he’d be dead now.”
Tai blinked, brushing away the silver dust I’d thrown in his face.
Verne’s expression softened in comprehension. “Ahh. Of course. You could hardly be blamed for such a suspicion, Jason. Without knowledge of the extent of my senses, you had no way of realizing that I know this is the real Raiakafan, no matter what his outward seeming. And he has confirmed his identity in other ways.”
“According to what you told me,” I said, “a werewolf can foil even your senses.”
“True,” Verne admitted. “But there are other things that mere duplication of the soul and body cannot achieve, such as the memories that would have to be derived from . . . well, from someone supposedly dead a very, very long time. You still seem unsure, Jason. Please, tell me what troubles you.”
Without a word, I pulled out a printed copy of the pictures and articles I’d located and handed it to Verne, who read them in silence, then closely studied the picture, carefully comparing it with Tai. Finally, he handed them back.
“As we expected, Raiakafan,” he said. “I am of the opinion that we must tell them everything.”
That dead-black gaze returned; I saw Syl shrink back from it and it took some effort not to do so myself. “Are we sure?”
Verne waited until the strange young man was looking at him, then answered. “Jason has risked his life to protect me. He has rekindled the Faith that was lost. And the Lady Sylvia is his best companion, a Mistress of Crystal, and born with the Sight. If I cannot trust them, then I cannot trust you, and if you cannot trust them, then I am not who you believe.” His words were very strange, half-explanation, half-ritual, spoken in a measured, formal manner that sent a shiver up my spine; that alien accent had returned once more.
Tai studied me again with less iciness than before. Finally, he nodded. “As you wish, Father.”
Verne relaxed, and so did we. The last thing any of us wanted was conflict. Whatever was going on here, it was obvious that Raiakafan, or Tai—whatever his name was—had some real problems in his life, and these might affect Verne.
“Morgan!” Verne called. “Send in refreshments for everyone.” He turned to us. “Make yourselves comfortable, Jason, Lady Sylvie. This will be a long and difficult story, but a necessary one, for I see no other way around it but that I—that both Raiakafan and I—will need your help to solve the difficulties that face us.” Morgan came in, bearing a tray of drinks, and returned a moment later with two trays of hors d’oeuvres. Verne took a sip of his usual and frowned faintly. “How to begin though . . . ?”
“How about using the White King’s approach?” I suggested. “Start at the beginning. Go on to the end. And then stop.”
Syl and Verne chuckled at that; Kafan (I’d decided to use Verne’s name for him) just looked puzzled. Verne smiled sadly, his eyes distant. “Ahh. The beginning. But it’s always hard to mark the beginning, is it not? For whatever beginning you choose, there is always a cause that predates it. But it is true that for most great things, there is a point at which you can say, ‘Here. At this point, all that went before was different.’ Perhaps I should start there . . .”
“No, Father! It is too dangerous—for them.”
Verne sighed. “It would be too dangerous not to tell them, Raiakafan. Jason works best with maximum information. But you are correct, as well.” He turned to us. “Before I proceed . . . Jason, Sylvia, I must impress upon you these facts.
“First, that much of what I am going to tell you contradicts that which is accepted as scientific fact.
“Second, that these contradictions—though they be global in scale—were nonetheless designed; that it was intended by certain parties that the information I possess would never again be known to a living soul. My own continued existence is due as much to blind luck as it is to my own skill and power.
“Third, once you have been told these things, you potentially become a target for the forces that would keep these things secret . . . and so will anyone to whom you reveal these things. And the forces behind this are of such magnitude as to give even Virigar pause, so powerful that the mightiest nations of this world are as nothing to them.” He gazed solemnly at us. “So think carefully; do you still wish to involve yourselves in these matters? I will think no less of you either way, I assure you. But once I speak, there is no going back. Ever. Even my ability to hide memories will not save you. These forces will never trust that a memory is completely gone; instead they will ensure it by killing the one who has the memory.”
Verne’s deadly serious warning made me hesitate. He had shown similar concern when Virigar had come, but at that time, there was no doubt that the Great Wolf’s forces were directed exclusively towards him. Now, he was speaking of forces about which he had little knowledge and, yet, were so fearsome as to warrant the most frightening warning he could give me. Not a reassuring thought.
I remembered our recent conversation when Verne had abruptly changed the subject. “What we discussed once before—who you were, where you came from . . . the fact you’re not, exactly, a vampire . . . that’s part of it?”
“It is,” he said.
Syl replied first. “I want to hear the truth, Verne. I believe we were meant to hear it. If not, I would not be here.”
I nodded. “I didn’t think I’d be able to befriend a vampire and never get into trouble. We might as well know what’s really going on. Seriously, Verne . . . if you have troubles on that scale, you’re going to need all the help you can get someday.”
Kafan studied us for a moment, and then smiled very slightly. “They are strong friends, Father.”
“They are indeed.” Verne leaned back in his red-cushioned chair. Light the color of blood flashed from his ring as he folded his hands. “Then, my friends, I start . . . or, rather, Raiakafan, would you begin? For what I must tell them, although more dangerous, is less immediate. Your story comes first. Mine is important to explain your own.”
Kafan nodded. Turning to us, he began.
CHAPTER 36
Fleeing From Frankenstein
He looked around and smiled, satisfied. Despite his oddities, the village accepted him. His children were growing up strong and healthy. His wife took care of them all. In a country torn apart by civil war, his village had managed to keep itself isolated and secure. Untouched by the strange devices of the outside world, unimportant in the political maneuverings that dictated rule in one part of the land or another, the village looked much the same as it did two hundred years ago.
He shivered, suddenly, as though chilled, despite the bright sunlight streaming down on him. The village and his home seemed to him now like a veneer, a fragile layer of paint laid over something of unspeakable horror. But he knew that the real horror was what lay in his past. He had escaped that, hadn’t he? Years gone by now . . . he must be safe, forgotten, thought dead and lost forever. Surely, they would have come for him long ago had they known . . . wouldn’t they?
The wail of a child demanding attention came from within the house, a sound that could simultaneously raise frustration, warmth, and concern in a parent. But he could hear something else in the cry, as could any who knew what to listen for: the sound of the past. It was the reason he could never, ever be sure they were not watching and waiting, though with his utmost skill and caution he had stalked the dense mountain forests and found not a single trace of intrusion. Genshi, his sister, and two brothers were reason enough for them to wait.
Kay put a hand on his shoulder. “Tai . . . you aren’t thinking about that again, are you?”
Tai turned and gazed at his wife. Several inches taller than he, willowy, with skin the color of heartwood, she was the only proof (aside from himself and his children) that there was an “outside world,” different from the one the village
knew. Kay was a strange woman by anyone’s standards, which was fortunate, because no other woman could possibly have accepted what he was, let alone married him. He had long thought that her arrival to this village had been more than coincidence; it had felt like destiny. She had belonged to an organization she called “Peace Corps.” The aircraft carrying her and a number of other workers had crashed in the mountains. Kay had become separated from the other survivors in a storm and wandered for a long time in the wilderness. Had she not been trained in survival, she would have died. Instead, when Tai found her, she was using a stream as a mirror, cutting her hair in a ruler-straight line as though working in a beauty salon. Her civilized, calm, utterly human demeanor even in the midst of a complete wilderness captured Tai instantly. He brought her to the village and by the time she had recovered from her ordeal, she didn’t want to leave. She had no relatives or friends elsewhere; it was here that she felt she belonged.
“What else?” he answered finally. “I can’t help it, Kay. You weren’t part of it; little Tai is too young to remember it. Only Seb remembers. Seb and me.”
“We’ve been over this again and again, Tai. They’ve had all the time in the world to find you. If they wanted you back and thought you were alive, they’d have gotten you long ago. They have no reason in the world to believe you’d be able to survive out here and fit in; you’d either have died on your own or been killed by a frenzied mob from their point of view. Stop worrying. Maybe someone caught up with them and they don’t even exist anymore.”
Oh, all the gods of all the world, let that be true. Please let that be true, he thought.
“Maybe,” he said aloud.
He followed her inside, feeling better. Kay had been sent to him from the skies above; surely that was a sign in itself.
The children were inside—the two youngest, Genshi and Kei, on one side of the table; the two others, Seb and little Tai, opposite them. Not for the first time, it struck Tai as a strange coincidence that even though the older children had a different mother, all four were much darker-skinned than their father. Tai and Genshi, in particular, looked very similar . . . if you ignored the difference that Genshi, unlike his older siblings, could not hide. Kei had been born without it, looking very much like a copy of her mother.