by Andy Maslen
We drove back to Bloomsbury, arriving in the middle of the night, Lily at the wheel. I sat in the back with Caroline. We had lain Shimon and Jim’s bodies in the loadspace and I felt their presence all the way back as a heavy weight in my chest
By the time Lily returned from parking the car, Caroline had lapsed into silence. Not the catatonia of someone struggling to make sense of an event beyond their comprehension. No. She knew enough of the lamia and their ways to be mentally prepared for the events of that night. It was her emotional readiness that was lacking. She had been with us so short a time before the ruination Peta Velds visited upon her, that all she had seen was success. Success destroying David’s laboratory in Norfolk. Success rescuing her dear one from the clutches of that evil creature. Success fighting off three female lamia with me and destroying one herself. Then to have to face up to the grotesque reality we’ve all, as cutters, confronted. Well, she needs time to process all of it. I judged it best to let her stay with us as long as she needed. For the first few days, I expect little, and I am sure I will be rewarded with exactly that.
But what of our dead?
In each city where a cutter family operates, we have established links with priests, vicars, imams and rabbis. Not all of them. But each of the major religions has long maintained a watching brief on our activities and helps when they can. Senior figures within each tradition appoint trusted men – and women, from time to time – to work with us when we need them. They know what we do. And whilst the mythmaking around the efficacy of religious symbols against lamia is only a romantic notion dreamt up by film-makers and novelists – especially that parasite Stoker, now, thankfully, dead – they help us bury our dead. So it was that we were able to give Shimon and Jim the respect in death due to all who fight on the side of light. Shimon was a Jew and he received the appropriate rites from his people. I sat Kaddish for him along with a rabbi in north London.
I had never discussed religion with Jim. There wasn’t the time, or the opportunity But he wore a small, gold crucifix beneath his undershirt and bore a tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his right shoulder blade, so we assumed he was a Catholic. Lily contacted our friend in that church and Jim, too, was interred with all due ceremony. Even though he had not received the last rites, the priest assured us that God would receive Jim into His kingdom. He quoted Saint Thomas – Ah! Dear, sweet Tomas, how I miss you! – “Considering the omnipotence and mercy of God, no one should despair of the salvation of anyone in this life”. And he told us to continue to pray for the repose of his soul.
48
Talk of the Town, the New Yorker, 21st March 2011
THICKER THAN WATER
Recently, a modestly paid writer sat down with a genuine one-percenter in one of Manhattan’s newest cocktail bars. Surveying the extensive drinks menu with eyes that widened progressively as they took in the prices, and grateful, therefore, that her host was paying, she selected a Vodkatini. Boring? Perhaps, given the bewildering array of classics (with or without a twist), new contenders and just plain out-there drinks on offer – Durian daiquiri anyone? Smells like a devil; tastes, apparently, like an angel. But in her experience, the fastest and most reliable way to judge the skill and potential longevity of a mixologist, and the establishment they work for, is to ask for this most traditional of all mixed drinks. Her drinking partner was Morgan Hearst, the boss of Hearst Capital, a secretive – he says, “private” – hedge fund.
Hearst opts for a Negroni. “I like the old favourites, too,” he says, sipping the burnt-orange concoction from a rocks glass garnished with a fan of orange slices. “They’re timeless. That holds great appeal.”
The writer’s Vodkatini is flawless. Grey Goose vodka, chilled down to a gloopy viscosity that suggests something engineered rather than distilled. Lillet vermouth sprayed onto the inside of the martini glass from an atomiser. And a garlic-stuffed olive skewered through its heart on a freshly cut sliver of birch wood. The writer offers her host a sip, but he wrinkles his hawk like nose and declines, preferring, he says, to stick with his Venetian classic.
Hearst is known to many for his wealth. Wealth for which the adjective “fabulous” might have been invented. Known to be ruthless in business, he’s attracted his fair share of criticism, not least in Congress. But he’s on the PR trail this month for a different reason. A charity, no less. Asked by the writer to explain, his eyes, notable for their long lashes and dark-brown, almost black, irises, widen with what can only be genuine enthusiasm.
“We’re going to find a cure for Reiser-Strick Syndrome,” he begins, leaving his interlocutor baffled. “I know,” he continues, “why not go for one of the big killers? Coronary heart disease, leukaemia, cancer? Truth is, we do give to those causes, generously, I might add. But so does everybody else. They’re drowning in funds. The problem isn’t cash, it’s the science itself. But there are these other conditions that maybe don’t affect so many people, but if you suffer – or a family member, a child, perhaps, does – then they’re just as bad. Only they don’t get the funding. Reiser-Strick’s like that. A real Cinderella condition, if you know what I mean?”
Hearst finishes his Negroni and signals the bartender for a second round, motioning to the writer to drink up. Then he explains the condition that has attracted his attention, and opened his wallet. It’s a chromosomal disorder that involves hypersensitivity to sunlight. Sufferers are under a self-imposed curfew from dawn to dusk, or must wait for days when the heavens are thoroughly obscured by cloud if they’re to avoid catastrophic cellular breakdown that causes them literally to bleed to death.
“A cousin of mine from England lives with RSS,” he says. “She’s over here, staying with me for a while. We’ve decided to join forces to look for a cure.”
With that, he checks his watch, a Patek-Philippe that looks as though it cost more than the writer makes in a couple good years, finishes his Negroni in a single pull, and rises from his red-velvet upholstered seat to a towering six-foot-five. He kisses the writer’s hand, a surprisingly Old World gesture for a titan of the Manhattan finance scene, and departs.
The writer is left feeling mildly woozy, either from the alcohol or the gentleman’s divine manners
49
Hunt Book of Ariane Van Helsing, 19th April 2011
Velds, we think, is in New York. I have been in contact with Frederick Arnold, and he reports sightings. Not one hundred percent certain, but as he put it, “good enough to lock and load”. I bade him be patient. Caroline must be involved in the destruction of Peta Velds. She has awoken from her grief, at least enough for her to kill lamia and to badger me about traveling to Manhattan to finish off what we started. I told her, yes. I also told, her, as I told Frederick, patience.
Without their “mother” close by to protect them, the lamia remaining in London have become lethargic. They must come out at night to feed still, but their reflexes and senses seem blunted. There is a psychic connection between them and Velds that has been either weakened or broken altogether. They are easy targets, and Lily, Caroline and I have despatched at least forty since David’s death. Scant compensation for his loss, I know.
If Velds now resides in the bosom of the New York family, then we face a double threat. Not just her, but the ancient one who rules there. Morgan Hearst.
50
Caroline Harker’s Journal, 23rd May 2011
Ariane and I arrived in Manhattan yesterday. Frederick met us at the airport and brought us to the cutter house on the Upper West Side. The place is vast, at least five storeys. He has a big team: six men and four women. All between twenty-five and forty-five. They look as though they get good value from whichever gym membership they’ve taken out.
Since Peta Velds killed David, I have felt hollowed out emotionally. My memory of the days and weeks after that dreadful night is hazy. Ariane and Lily kept me fed, warm and, I think, occupied. I spent a lot of time dipping crossbow bolts in salcie usturoi. So much so, that whatever happens to me in this life or
the hereafter, I think I shall never get that oily, garlicky stink out of my nose. They were away a lot. Reconnoitring during the day, and hunting at night. They’d come home at four or five in the morning, grim smiles on their blood-spattered faces, quivers full of red-tipped quarrels. They tell me I helped them. I can’t remember.
But that was then. Somehow I have found a way to separate out my grief at losing David from the daily necessities of living, and of tracing down that bitch, Peta Velds. Compartmentalising, I think the popular jargon has it. I am here for one thing, and one thing only. Once she is dead, nothing more than a red stain on the ground, then I will go away and grieve properly.
New York is famous for its pace, its energy, its 24-hour culture. How these confident Manhattanites would react to the presence of vampires in their midst, I can’t imagine. Though having watched the antics of a couple of street performers yesterday, acting out a protracted drama involving a pith-helmeted hunter and a “savage” in leopard-skin and tiger-tooth necklace, I suppose many would just assume it was more entertainment laid on for their pleasure, watch the show, toss a few dollars into a cup and depart. But it is not just the residents who behave differently. So do the cutters.
We used pistols in our doomed attempt to kill Peta in Docklands. Ariane still prefers edged weapons. She says it’s for the silence. I suspect she simply doesn’t trust anything too mechanical when it comes to tackling lamia. But Frederick Arnold and his people don’t merely trust them, they love them. Each of the cutters carries two about their person at all times. The Glocks that we had in London, and an assortment of other makes and models that I wearied of trying to remember after an hour with Frederick’s armourer, a black woman in her thirties with a ferociously athletic build and blue-black tattoos on her shoulders. Her name is Angela, so appropriate given her lifelong mission to wipe out evil. She has adopted me and makes sure I am not left alone too often or for too long.
I asked Frederick over a bottle of wine not long after we arrived in New York, whether they had ever had any trouble with the police here. Carrying concealed weapons and so forth. He laughed.
“Where do you think we get them from?” he asked me with a grin. “The NYPD has always known about the lamia. How could they not? But for reasons of operational efficiency and public relations, they outsource the job to us. For a modest fee per kill, naturally.”
“Naturally,” I replied, thinking how wonderful it is that even the job of slaying vampires in America is folded into the mechanisms of private enterprise.
Tonight we are voyaging to the Bronx on a hunt. Ariane and I will accompany Frederick and three of his team. Apparently there is a small nest of lamia, four or five, who have infested a condemned apartment block. I am looking forward to it.
51
NYPD Incident Report. Reporting officer A. GUZMAN 05/24/2011
CLASSIFED: TOP SECRET
FILE: PROJECT OMEGA
Transcript of action captured on cell phone by Antwan Jackson, 17.
Location: 1936 Hering Avenue, Bronx
Date: 05/24/2011
Time: 10.21 p.m.
Four African-American children, aged approximately 6-11, playing basketball. Beyond chain-link fence, four humanoid creatures approach.
Voiceover: Yo, yo! What the fuck are they?
Creatures all Caucasian. Bald. No body hair. Extreme musculature. Two male, two female. Three spring at fence and climb. Creatures hissing. Claws on fingers and toes aid climbing.
Kids on court screaming. Running for gate.
One more creature, female, appears at gate. Lower jaw dislocates. Kids stop. Run back to centre of court. Huddle together.
V/O: Get the fuck out of there, man! Those white things look evil.
Creature at gate rips it free of hinges, steps onto court. Kids screaming.
V/O: Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit!
Creatures climbing fence reach top. All have dislocated lower jaws. Fangs and feeding funnels clearly visible.
SFX: Gunshots. At least 20. Handguns.
Three creatures on fence fall backwards, talons on feet entangled in fence links, hang upside-down. Writhe spasmodically. Explode into clouds of blood.
V/O: Fuck, man. What’s happenin’?”
Creature in centre of basketball court halts. One kid (oldest-looking) picks up basketball and throws it at creature. Hits it on side of face. Shouts. “Fuck you asshole!”
Six people enter court. Spread out. All dressed in black. Silver glinting at throats and wrists. Armed with handguns.
Creature crouches, claws outstretched towards kid who threw basketball. Springs.
SFX: Gunshots. Too many to count. 50+.
Creature sprawls at kids’ feet. Kids run. Creature jerking, shaking. Liquefies.
V/O: Go, go! Get out of there!
Man leaves group. Approaches A. Jackson, gun extended. Hand out. Speaks.
“Hey, kid. I’m gonna need that phone for a minute.
A. Jackson brought in for debrief at 1 Police Plaza. Told saw unlicensed movie production team. Video downloaded from phone then deleted. Mayor’s office informed. Bounty of $40,000 requested, authorised & paid to F. Arnold.
52
Morgan Hearst’s Journal, 25th May 2011
I lost four children last night. Idra survived the attack. Recently, Arnold and his infernal cutters have upped their game and we have taken to posting lookouts rather than letting everyone feed at the scene. She fled at the first shots. Poor thing. She felt each of her siblings’ deaths as if they were her own.
Arnold surveils us. But we are not passive. Maybe in some of our other locations, the O-One have become lazy or complacent. Here, we pride ourselves on being proactive. So, we operate counter-surveillance measures against him. Each confrontation is an opportunity to gather intelligence about him and his people, their methods, their equipment, their tactics. When she was calm again, Idra gave me a description of the cutters.
Arnold was there, of course. He enjoys his work. Too much, I sometimes think. His background in the military has given him a taste for killing. A very refined taste. He was accompanied by three of his team. We have already identified them and Idra was unable to supply anything of value in relation to these three. But.
On this attack, they were joined by two strangers. Both women. From Peta’s description, I recognised one. She is Ariane Van Helsing the head of the London cutters. But the other woman is unknown to me. Idra said she was tall, fit. Strong-looking. Broad shoulders. Wide hips. Both were adept with the pistols. I am having dinner with Peta this evening. I will ask her if this second woman rings any bells.
53
Tasting Menu – Banquet in Honor of Peta Velds, draft submitted by Cushing Caterers, 26th May 2011
Cocktails
Corpse Reviver | Bloody Mary | El Diablo | Zombie | Death Flip
Amuse Bouche
Espresso cups of red cell foam
Appetizers
Plasma jellies § Heart carpaccio | Deep-fried blood sausage
Entrée
“Un Homage à Vlad Țepeş”
Dessert
Mousse au sang
Liqueurs
25-year Reserve du Patron | Absinthe | Sang de la Vierge
54
Morgan Hearst’s Journal, 26th May 2011
My dinner with Peta was pleasant. Her European manners are a refreshing change from the New World “Hey Buddy-isms” we are forced to mimic. Chef excelled himself. Apparently, he saw a chocolate fountain in the window of a confectioner’s in Midtown and took his inspiration from there. I told Peta about the events of last night. She was sympathetic, naturally. No family head can hear of the loss of another’s children without a pang of regret. And, if we’re honest, just the tiniest frisson: Brr. They could have been my children. But she masked the latter emotion well enough.
I told her about the women Idra had described to me. She confirmed that the first was undoubtedly Van Helsing. Her taste for black leather alone is enough to mark
her out. So the bitch is hunting outside her own back yard. Well, she’ll have to pay for that. I’ll see to her myself. Recently I have developed a new feeding technique for those who have especially displeased me. I explained it to Peta. It seemed to delight her to judge from her smile as she dabbed at her lips.
When I described the second woman, Peta’s eyes flashed so dark I thought the frenzy was going to hit her. Then they cleared. Her voice was thick with anger.
“I know who she is. Her name is Caroline Harker. She’s the widow of that scientist I told you about.”
“The boy genius?” I replied.
“Yes, the boy genius!” She actually snapped at me. I guess this is a personal thing. “We could have been free to hunt in daylight had she and her friends not blown my facility into atoms.”
I tried to reassure her. With our money and our combined resources, we can find another geek and shower them with toys until they solve the mutation. I’ve even got the media on my side now. That silly cunt from The New Yorker wrote our meeting up as if I were one of the philanthropy crowd. But Peta was not to be consoled so easily.
“It’s not about the money, Fred. He was different. One-of-a-kind different. Once-in-a-generation different. An Einstein of gene theory. A Hawking. A Leonardo da-fucking-Vinci!”