Necroscope 4: Deadspeak

by Brian Lumley

  So the castle still stands, Harry mused in a little while. And in its roots … what? Does anything remain of Janos’s “tomb-loot”, his experiments with necromancy? I wonder. For after all, it appears that’s where he came from in this most recent resurgence … And Faethor knew that Harry was thinking of another castle in the Carpathians, but on the Russian side, in a region once called the Khorvaty and still called by some Bukovina. For that had been Faethor’s home, too, upon a time, and what had been done there and left there to scream and fester in the earth had been monstrous; so that Harry knew there was a grave peril in certain ruins.

  I can understand your concern, the vampire told him, but I think it is unfounded. For my place in the heights over old Halmagiu and Virfurilio is no more. It was swept away, all in a magnificent thunder, in the October of the year 1928.

  Yes, I remember that, Harry answered. I heard it from Ladislau Giresci. Apparently it was some sort of explosion, possibly of methane gas accumulated in the cellars; which, if they were as extensive as you say, seems feasible. But if Janos’s—remains—came through it, who is to say there weren’t other survivals?

  But as I have explained, said Faethor, Janos had made provision. Whatever else perished when that house went down, he did not. Perhaps his Szgany had taken his ashes from there to some other place, only returning them later when the house lay in ruins, I don’t know. Possibly they did it when the castle became the property of another. Again I cannot say.

  What other? said Harry.

  Faethor sighed, but eventually: There was one other, aye, he finally said. Listen and I’ll tell you about him:

  During the 15th, 16th and 17th Centuries, and even to the 18th, the supposed civilized world had grown more aware of so-called “witches” and the “Black Arts”. Witches, necromancers, demons, vampires, and all such creatures—real and imagined, guilty or innocent—were harried by relentless witchfinders, “proved” by torture, and destroyed. Now, the true vampire was ever aware of his mortality and of the one Great Enemy of all his kind, called Prominence! And the 16th Century especially was not a good time for a person to be found too old or different or reclusive or even noticeable. In short, while anonymity among the Wamphyri has ever been a synonym for longevity, it was never more so than in those dark and doomful 16th and 17th Centuries!

  Now, in the middle and to the end of the 17th Century the witchfinders were active in America, and from a place called Salem was driven a man called Edward Hutchinson. He obtained a lease on my old house in the mountains and dwelled there … far too long! He was a diabolist, a necromancer, and possibly a vampire. Perhaps even Wamphyri! But as I have hinted, he was imprudent; he lived too long in the one place and made himself prominent.

  He studied the history of the house and took for his own several grand pseudonyms: as well as Edward he was wont to call himself “Baron” or “Janos”—aye, and even “Faethor”! And finally he settled for “Baron Ferenczy”. Now this, as might well be imagined, was what brought him to my attention. It offended me; likewise his occupancy of the castle, for I had thought me that one day I might return there myself, when things were different and Janos’s taint faded a little with the years. The Wamphyri are territorial, as you know. And so I vowed that at a time of my choosing and as chance permitted, then I’d square these things with this Hutchinson.

  But chance never did permit; no, for I had my own existence to look to, and the world was ever abustle and full of change. And so for two hundred years and more this foreign man lived in the castle I had builded, while I in my turn lived alone in my house in Ploiesti.

  As I have said, he made himself prominent in some way, perhaps in several. Certainly he would soon have been summoned to Bucuresti, to make account of himself, if not for that titan explosion which finished him and his works forever. But as for Janos: I can only assume he lay in his jar or urn in a secret place, and waited for his time and a certain three-fingered son of the Szgany to find and rescue him.

  Myself… I went back there once—in 1930, I think—do not ask me why. Perhaps I desired to see what remained of the place; I might even have lived there again, if it was habitable. But no, Janos’s touch was still on the stone, his taint in the mortar, his hated memory in the very air of the ruins. Of course it was, for Janos himself was still there! But I did not know that.

  But do you know, I believe that in the end Janos had been closer to his Wamphyri sources than I might ever have imagined? For however cursory my exploration of those ruins that time in 1930, nevertheless I found evidence of works which … but enough. We are both tired, and you are not giving me your best attention. Still, nothing will waste; you know the bulk of it; the rest will keep until another time.

  You’re right, said Harry, I am tired. Nervous exhaustion, I suppose. And he made himself a promise that between Athens and Rhodes he’d sleep.

  And he did …

  … But coming awake just before the landing, and as Harry stepped down from the plane into the blasting sunlight and made his way with the other passengers towards customs, he could feel inside that something was very much amiss. And his heart speeded up a little when, beyond the barriers in the arrivals area, he saw Manolis Papastamos and Darcy Clarke waiting for him; for it was written in their faces, too, that something was wrong. For all the sunshine and warmth, still they looked cold, pale, sick.

  He looked at the two of them where they waited, searched their faces for an answer, and almost snatched back his forged passport when it was handed to him. Then he hurried to them, thinking: There’s a face missing, Sandra’s, but that’s only right for she’ll be in London now … won’t she?

  “Is it Sandra?” he said, when they were face to face. They looked at him, then looked away. And: Tell me about it,” he said, curiously calm now for all that he felt very, very ill.

  And so they told him about it …

  Twenty-one hours earlier:

  Darcy had escorted Sandra to the airport outside Rhodes and stayed with her until she was called forward for her London flight—almost. But at the last moment he had been obliged to answer a call of nature. The toilets were a little distant from the boarding gates, so that coming out he had to run the length of the terminal in order to wave her goodbye. By the time he’d found a vantage point, the last of the passengers were already climbing the gantry steps to the aircraft’s door. But he waved anyway, thinking that perhaps she would see him from her window.

  After the plane left he drove back to the villa and began packing his things, only to be interrupted by a telephone call from Manolis at the police station. It had been Manolis’s idea that when Sandra was out of it Darcy shouldn’t stay on his own. The Greek policeman had rooms in an hotel in the centre of town; Darcy would be welcome to stay there. But before driving out to the villa to act as Darcy’s guide to his new lodgings, and because it happened now and then that flights were late, Manolis had thought to call the airport first and ensure that Sandra was safely away. And he’d discovered that she wasn’t away at all but had missed her flight.

  “What?” Darcy couldn’t believe it. “But… I was there. I mean, I was in the …”

  “Yes?”

  “Shit!” Darcy gasped, as the truth hit him.

  “You were in the shit?”

  “No, in the bloody toilets,” Darcy groaned, “which in this case amounts to much the same thing! Manolis, don’t you see? It was my talent working for me—or against me. Against that poor girl, anyway.”

  “Your talent?”

  “My guardian angel, the thing that keeps me out of trouble. It isn’t something I can control. It works in different ways. This time it saw danger around the corner and … and I had to go to the damned toilet!”

  Now Manolis understood, and knew the worst of it. They’ve taken her?” he hissed. “The Lazarides creature and his vampires, they have drawn the first blood?”

  “God, yes!” Darcy answered. “I can’t think of any other explanation.”

  In his native
Greek, Manolis said a long stream of things then; curses, Darcy supposed. And: “Look, stay where you are and I’ll be right there.”

  “No,” Darcy answered. “No, meet me at that place where we ate the other night. Christ, I need a drink!”

  “Very well,” said Papastamos. “Fifteen minutes …”

  Darcy was into his third large Metaxa when Manolis arrived. “Will you get drunk?” he said. “It won’t help.”

  “No,” Darcy answered. “I just needed a stiffener, that’s all. And do you know what I keep thinking? What will I tell Harry? That’s what!”

  “It isn’t your fault,” Manolis commiserated, “and you must stop thinking about it. Harry is back tomorrow. We must let him take the lead. Meanwhile, every policeman on the island is looking for Lazarides, his crew and his boat—and Sandra, of course. I made the call and gave the orders before I came here. Also, I should have the complete background information on this … this Vrykoulakas pig by morning! Not only from Athens but also America. Lazarides’s right-hand man, called Armstrong, is an American.”

  Darcy looked at Manolis and thought: Christ, I thank you for this man!

  Darcy wasn’t a secret agent, nor even a policeman. He’d been with E-Branch all these years not because his talent was indispensable to them but simply because it was a talent, and all such weird and esoteric powers had interested them. But he couldn’t use it as the telepaths and locators used theirs, and it was useless except in special circumstances. Indeed, on several occasions it had seemed to Darcy that his talent used him. Certainly it had caused him grief now and then: as during the Bodescu affair, for example, when it had kept him safe and sound only at the expense of another esper. And Darcy still hadn’t forgiven himself for that. Now there was this. Without Papastamos to take control and actually, physically, do something … Darcy didn’t know what he would have done.

  “What do you suggest we do now?” he said.

  “What can we do?” the other answered. “Until we have word of them—until we know where Lazarides and the girl are—we can do nothing. And even then I will need authorization to move on this creature. Unless … I could always claim I had the strong suspicions of the drug-running, and close in on him even without authorization! But it will help when we know all about him, tomorrow morning. And Harry Keogh might have the ideas, too. So for now—” he shrugged, but heavily and with obvious frustration,”—nothing.”

  “But—”

  “There are no buts. We can only wait.” He stood up. “Come on, let’s get your things.”

  They drove to the villa, where Darcy found himself oddly reluctant to get out of the car. “Do you know,” he said, “I feel completely done in, “knackered”, in common parlance! I suppose it’s emotional.”

  “I suppose it’s the Metaxa!” Manolis answered, drily.

  But as they approached the door of the place down the garden path, suddenly Darcy knew that “it” was neither. He grabbed the Greek’s arm and whispered hoarsely, “Manolis, someone is in there!”

  “What?” Manolis looked at him, glanced back towards the villa. “But how do you know?”

  “I know because I don’t want to go in. It’s my guardian angel acting up, my talent. Someone’s waiting in there for us—for me, anyway. My own fault. I was in such a state when I came out that I left the door open.”

  “And now you’re sure someone is in there, right?” Manolis’s voice was a mere breath of air as he brought out his pistol and fitted a silencer to the barrel, then cocked it.

  “God, yes!” Darcy in turn breathed. “I’m sure, all right. It’s like someone was trying to turn me around and boot me the hell out of it! First I didn’t want to get out of the car, and now, with every step I take, it gets stronger. And believe me, whoever it is in there, he’s deadly!”

  “Then he’s mine,” said Manolis, showing Darcy his gun. “For this too is quite deadly!” He reached out and touched the door, which swung silently open. “Follow me in.” And he turned sideways, crouched down a very little and stepped inside.

  Darcy’s every instinct, each fibre of his being, screamed RUN! … but he followed Manolis inside. He wouldn’t let it make a coward of him this time. There were two too many people on his conscience already. It was time he showed this fucking thing who was boss! And—

  Manolis put on the light.

  The main living-room was empty, looked just as Darcy had left it. Manolis looked at Darcy, cocked his head on one side inquiringly and gave a small, questioning shrug. “Where?” his whisper was so quiet as to be a mere shaping of the lips.

  Darcy looked around the room, at the beds grouped in the centre of the floor, the tapestry on the wall, a pair of ornamental oil lamps on a shelf, a suitcase of Harry’s under the bed he’d never used. And the doors, closed, leading to the bedrooms, which likewise hadn’t been used. Until now …

  Then his eyes went back to Harry’s suitcase, and narrowed.

  “Well?” Manolis shaped his mouth again.

  Darcy held a finger to his lips, crossed to the beds and slid Harry’s suitcase fully into view. The lid was open; he lifted it, took out the crossbow and loaded it, and stood up. Manolis nodded his approval.

  Darcy crossed to the bedroom doors and reached out a hand to touch the first one. His trembling fingertips told him nothing except that he was scared half to death. He commanded his feet to carry him to the second door, and went to touch that, too. But no, that was as brave as his talent would let him be. NO! something screamed at him. FOR FUCK”S SAKE, NO!

  Gooseflesh crawled on his arms as he half-turned towards Manolis to say, “In here!” But he never said it.

  The door was hurled open, knocking Darcy aside, and Seth Armstrong stood framed in the opening. Just looking at him, apish, threatening, no one could have mistaken his alienness, the fact that he was less, or more, than a mere man. In the subdued lighting of the room, his left eye was yellow, huge, expanded in its orbit, and a black eyepatch hid the right eye from view.

  Manolis shouted, “Stay where you are! Stand still!” But Armstrong merely smiled grimly and came loping towards him.

  “Shoot him!” Darcy shouted, scrabbling on his hands and knees. “For Christ’s sake shoot him!”

  Manolis had no choice for Armstrong was almost upon him—and he’d opened his mouth to display teeth and jaws which the Greek simply didn’t believe! He fired twice, almost point-blank; the first into Armstrong’s shoulder, which served to snap the big American upright, and the second into his belly, which bent him down again and pushed him back a little. But that was all. Then he came on again, grasped Manolis by the shoulder and hurled him against the wall. And Manolis knew where he’d felt such strength before, but knowing it didn’t help him now. His gun had been sent flying, and Armstrong—and Armstrong’s teeth—were coming for him again!

  “Hey, you!” Darcy shouted. “Fucking vampire!”

  Armstrong was dragging Manolis to his feet, lowering his awful face towards him; he turned to face Darcy; and Darcy, aiming at his heart, pulled the trigger of his crossbow.

  That did it. As the bolt went in the American released Manolis and smashed back against the wall. Gagging and choking, he sought to grasp the bolt and draw it out. But he couldn’t. It was too close to his heart, that most vital of organs. His heart pumped his vampire blood, and that was the source of his hideous strength. He gurgled, coughed, staggered to and fro and spat blood. And his left eye glared like a blob of sulphur seared into his face!

  Manolis was on his feet again. As Darcy fumbled frantically to reload his crossbow, so the Greek tried a second time and pumped four carefully aimed shots into the stricken vampire. But now the bullets had more effect. Each one drove Armstrong like a pile-driver backwards across the floor, and the last one hurled him against a window which shattered outwards, showering glass, broken louvre boards and Armstrong himself into the night garden.

  Darcy had loaded up. He stumbled out into the garden, with Manolis right behind him. Armstro
ng lay flat on his back in the remains of the window, alternating between flailing his arms and tugging at the hardwood bolt where it transfixed his chest. But he saw Darcy approaching and somehow sat up!

  Darcy took no chances; from no more than four feet away he sent the second bolt crashing through the vampire’s heart, which not only served to stretch him out again but pinned him down and kept him still.

  Manolis, his mouth hanging open, came forward. “Is he … is he finished?”

  “Look at him,” Darcy panted. “Does he look finished? You may believe in them, Manolis, but you don’t know them like I do. He’s not finished—yet!”

  Armstrong was mainly still but his fingers twitched, his jaws chomped, and his burning yellow eye followed them where they moved about him. His eyepatch had been dislodged and an empty socket gaped black in the light from the wrecked window.

  Darcy said: “Watch him!” and hurried back inside. A moment later he was back with a heavy, razor-honed, long-bladed cleaver, also from Harry’s suitcase. Manolis saw its silvery gleam and said:

  “What?” His upper lip at the left drew back from his teeth in a nervous grimace.

  “The stake, the sword, and the fire!” Darcy answered.

  “Decapitation?”

  “And right now. His vampire is already healing him. See, no blood. In an ordinary man your bullets—any one of them—might have killed him with shock, let alone damage. But he’s taken six and he isn’t even bleeding! Two bolts in him, one right through the heart, and his hands are still working. His eyes, too … and his ears!”

  He was right: Armstrong had heard their conversation, and the loathsome orb of his left eye had swivelled to gaze upon the cleaver in Darcy’s hand. He began gurgling anew, his body vibrating against the earth, the heel of his right foot hammering robotically into the dry soil of the garden.

  Darcy got down on one knee beside him and Armstrong tried to take hold of him with a spastic right hand. But he couldn’t reach him, couldn’t make his limbs work properly. Froth, phlegm and blood welled up in the vampire’s throat. His right hand scuttled a little way towards Darcy like a spider, until the arm it dragged got too heavy for it. He tried a third time, then abruptly fell back and lay still.