"The teeth must be filed flat."
Weidenreich's eyes went wide. "I can't do that."
"You can, and you will."
"But—"
"You can and you will."
"I—I can, but—"
"No buts."
"No, no, there is a but. Andrews will never be fooled by filed teeth; the structure of teeth varies as you go into them. Andrews will realize at once that the teeth have been reduced from their original size." Weidenreich looked at Brancusi. "I'm sorry, but there's no way to hide the truth."
The Others lived in the next valley. They proved tough and resourceful—and they could make fire whenever they needed it. When the tribefolk arrived it became apparent that there was never a time of darkness for the Others. Large fires were constantly burning.
The tribe had to feed, but the Others defended themselves, trying to kill them with rock knives.
But that didn't work. The tribefolk were undeterred.
They tried to kill them with spears.
But that did not work, either. The tribefolk came back.
They tried strangling the attackers with pieces of animal hide.
But that failed, too. The tribefolk returned again.
And finally the Others decided to try everything they could think of simultaneously.
They drove wooden spears into the hearts of the tribefolk.
They used stone knives to carve off the heads of the tribefolk.
And then they jammed spears up into the severed heads, forcing the shafts up through the holes at the bases of the skulls.
The hunters marched far away from their camp, each carrying a spear thrust vertically toward the summer sun, each one crowned by a severed, pointed-toothed head. When, at last, they found a suitable hole in the ground, they dumped the heads in, far, far away from their bodies.
The Others waited for the tribefolk to return.
But they never did.
"Do not send the originals," said Brancusi.
"But—"
"The originals are mine, do you understand? I will ensure their safe passage out of China."
It looked for a moment like Weidenreich's will was going to reassert itself, but then his expression grew blank again. "All right."
"I've seen you make casts of bones before."
"With plaster of Paris, yes."
"Make casts of these skulls—and then file the teeth on the casts."
"But—"
"You said Andrews and others would be able to tell if the original fossils were altered. But there's no way they could tell that the casts had been modified, correct?"
"Not if it's done skillfully, I suppose, but—"
"Do it."
"What about the foramen magnums?"
"What would you conclude if you saw fossils with such widened openings?"
"I don't know—possibly that ritual cannibalism had been practiced."
"Ritual?"
"Well, if the only purpose was to get at the brain, so you could eat it, it's easier just to smash the cranium, and—"
"Good. Good. Leave the damage to the skull bases intact. Let your Andrews have that puzzle to keep him occupied."
The casts were crated up and sent to the States first. Then Weidenreich himself headed for New York, leaving, he said, instructions for the actual fossils to be shipped aboard the S.S. President Harrison. But the fossils never arrived in America, and Weidenreich, the one man who might have clues to their whereabouts, died shortly thereafter.
Despite the raging war, Brancusi returned to Europe, returned to Transylvania, returned to Castle Dracula.
It took him a while in the darkness of night to find the right spot—the scar left by his earlier digging was just one of many on the desolate landscape. But at last he located it. He prepared a series of smaller holes in the ground, and into each of them he laid one of the grinning skulls. He then covered the holes over with dark soil.
Brancusi hoped never to fall himself, but, if he did, he hoped one of his own converts would do the same thing for him, bringing his remains home to the Family plot.
Necros
by Brian Lumley
Brian Lumley is the bestselling author of dozens of novels, including the Necroscope and Vampire World series, and his Titus Crow and Dreamlands series, both of which take place in H. P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu mythos. He's also written more than 100 short stories, which have been collected in numerous volumes, such as the vampire-centric A Coven of Vampires, and recent releases The Taint and Other Novellas and Haggopian and Other Stories. Lumley is a winner of the British Fantasy Award, and in 1998, he was named a Grand Master by the World Horror Society.
It raised eyebrows when twenty-six-year-old Playboy model Anna Nicole Smith married eighty-nine-year-old oil tycoon J. Howard Marshall. It seemed such a shameless example of a relationship built on mutual exploitation rather than mutual affection. But is that really so different from most relationships? Is it the case, as one character in this story ponders, that "all relationships are bargains of sorts"? Maybe so, maybe not. But in the case of this story, most definitely so.
1.
An old woman in a faded blue frock and black head-square paused in the shade of Mario's awning and nodded good-day. She smiled a gap-toothed smile. A bulky, slouch-shouldered youth in jeans and a stained yellow T-shirt—a slope-headed idiot, probably her grandson—held her hand, drooling vacantly and fidgeting beside her.
Mario nodded good-naturedly, smiled, wrapped a piece of stale focaccia in greaseproof paper and came from behind the bar to give it to her. She clasped his hand, thanked him, turned to go.
Her attention was suddenly arrested by something she saw across the road. She started, cursed vividly, harshly, and despite my meager knowledge of Italian, I picked up something of the hatred in her tone. "Devil's spawn!" She said it again. "Dog! Swine!" She pointed a shaking hand and finger, said yet again: "Devil's spawn!" before making the two-fingered, double-handed stabbing sign with which the Italians ward off evil. To do this it was first necessary that she drop her salted bread, which the idiot youth at once snatched up.
Then, still mouthing low, guttural imprecations, dragging the shuffling, focaccia-munching cretin behind her, she hurried off along the street and disappeared into an alley. One word that she had repeated over and over again stayed in my mind: "Necros! Necros!" Though the word was new to me, I took it for a curse-word. The accent she put on it had been poisonous.
I sipped at my Negroni, remained seated at the small circular table beneath Mario's awning and stared at the object of the crone's distaste. It was a motor car, a white convertible Rover and this year's model, inching slowly forward in a stream of holiday traffic. And it was worth looking at if only for the girl behind the wheel. The little man in the floppy white hat beside her—well, he was something else too. But she was—just something else.
I caught just a glimpse, sufficient to feel stunned. That was good. I had thought it was something I could never know again: that feeling a man gets looking at a beautiful girl. Not after Linda. And yet—
She was young, say twenty-four or -five, some three or four years my junior. She sat tall at the wheel, slim, raven-haired under a white, wide-brimmed summer hat which just missed matching that of her companion, with a complexion cool and creamy enough to pour over peaches. I stood up—yes, to get a better look—and right then the traffic came to a momentary standstill. At that moment, too, she turned her head and looked at me. And if the profile had stunned me. . .well, the full-frontal knocked me dead. The girl was simply, classically beautiful.
Her eyes were of a dark green but very bright, slightly tilted and perfectly oval under straight, thin brows. Her cheekbones were high, her lips a red Cupid's bow, her neck long and white against the glowing yellow of her blouse. And her smile—
—Oh, yes, she smiled.
Her glance, at first cool, became curious in a moment, then a little angry, until finally, seeing my confusion—that smile. And as she t
urned her attention back to the road and followed the stream of traffic out of sight, I saw a blush of color spreading on the creamy surface of her cheek. Then she was gone.
Then, too, I remembered the little man who sat beside her. Actually, I hadn't seen a great deal of him, but what I had seen had given me the creeps. He too had turned his head to stare at me, leaving in my mind's eye an impression of beady bird eyes, sharp and intelligent in the shade of his hat. He had stared at me for only a moment, and then his head had slowly turned away; but even when he no longer looked at me, when he stared straight ahead, it seemed to me I could feel those raven's eyes upon me, and that a query had been written in them.
I believed I could understand it, that look. He must have seen a good many young men staring at him like that—or rather, at the girl. His look had been a threat in answer to my threat—and because he was practiced in it, I had certainly felt the more threatened!
I turned to Mario, whose English was excellent. "She has something against expensive cars and rich people?"
"Who?" he busied himself behind his bar.
"The old lady, the woman with the idiot boy."
"Ah!" he nodded. "Mainly against the little man, I suspect."
"Oh?"
"You want another Negroni?"
"OK—and one for yourself—but tell me about this other thing, won't you?"
"If you like—but you're only interested in the girl, yes?" He grinned.
I shrugged. "She's a good-looker. . .."
"Yes, I saw her." Now he shrugged. "That other thing—just old myths and legends, that's all. Like your English Dracula, eh?"
"Transylvanian Dracula," I corrected him.
"Whatever you like. And Necros: that's the name of the spook, see?"
"Necros is the name of a vampire?"
"A spook, yes."
"And this is a real legend? I mean, historical?"
He made a fifty-fifty face, his hands palms up. "Local, I guess. Ligurian. I remember it from when I was a kid. If I was bad, old Necros sure to come and get me. Today," again the shrug, "it's forgotten."
"Like the bogeyman." I nodded.
"Eh?"
"Nothing. But why did the old girl go on like that?"
Again he shrugged. "Maybe she think that old man Necros, eh? She crazy, you know? Very backward. The whole family."
I was still interested. "How does the legend go?"
"The spook takes the life out of you. You grow old, spook grows young. It's a bargain you make: he gives you something you want, gets what he wants. What he wants is your youth. Except he uses it up quick and needs more. All the time, more youth."
"What kind of bargain is that?" I asked. "What does the victim get out
of it?"
"Gets what he wants," said Mario, his brown face cracking into another grin. "In your case the girl, eh? If the little man was Necros. . .."
He got on with his work and I sat there sipping my Negroni. End of conversation. I thought no more about it—until later.
2.
Of course, I should have been in Italy with Linda, but. . .I had kept her "Dear John" for a fortnight before shredding it, getting mindlessly drunk and starting in on the process of forgetting. That had been a month ago. The holiday had already been booked and I wasn't about to miss out on my trip to the sun. And so I had come out on my own. It was hot, the swimming was good, life was easy and the food superb. With just two days left to enjoy it, I told myself it hadn't been bad. But it would have been better with Linda.
Linda. . . She was still on my mind—at the back of it, anyway—later that night as I sat in the bar of my hotel beside an open bougainvillea-decked balcony that looked down on the bay and the seafront lights of the town. And maybe she wasn't all that far back in my mind—maybe she was right there in front—or else I was just plain daydreaming. Whichever, I missed the entry of the lovely lady and her shriveled companion, failing to spot and recognize them until they were taking their seats at a little table just the other side of the balcony's sweep.
This was the closest I'd been to her, and—
Well, first impressions hadn't lied. This girl was beautiful. She didn't look quite as young as she'd first seemed—my own age, maybe—but beautiful she certainly was. And the old boy? He must be, could only be, her father. Maybe it sounds like I was a little naive, but with her looks this lady really didn't need an old man. And if she did need one it didn't have to be this one.
By now she'd seen me and my fascination with her must have been
obvious. Seeing it, she smiled and blushed at one and the same time, and for a moment turned her eyes away—but only for a moment. Fortunately her companion had his back to me or he must have known my feelings at once; for as she looked at me again—fully upon me this time—I could have sworn I read an invitation in her eyes, and in that same moment any bitter vows I may have made melted away completely and were forgotten. God, please let him be her father!
For an hour I sat there, drinking a few too many cocktails, eating olives and potato crisps from little bowls on the bar, keeping my eyes off the girl as best I could, if only for common decency's sake. But. . .all the time I worried frantically at the problem of how to introduce myself, and as the minutes ticked by it seemed to me that the most obvious way must also be the best.
But how obvious would it be to the old boy?
And the damnable thing was that the girl hadn't given me another glance since her original—invitation? Had I mistaken that look of hers—or was she simply waiting for me to make the first move? God, let him be her father!
She was sipping martinis, slowly; he drank a rich red wine, in some
quantity. I asked a waiter to replenish their glasses and charge it to me. I had already spoken to the bar steward, a swarthy, friendly little chap from the South called Francesco, but he hadn't been able to enlighten me. The pair were not resident, he assured me; but being resident myself I was already pretty sure of that.
Anyway, my drinks were delivered to their table; they looked surprised; the girl put on a perfectly innocent expression, questioned the waiter, nodded in my direction and gave me a cautious smile, and the old boy turned his head to stare at me. I found myself smiling in return but avoiding his eyes, which were like coals now, sunken deep in his brown, wrinkled face. Time seemed suspended—if only for a second—then the girl spoke again to the waiter and he came across to me.
"Mr. Collins, sir, the gentleman and the young lady thank you and request that you join them." Which was everything I had dared hope for—for the moment.
Standing up, I suddenly realized how much I'd had to drink. I willed
sobriety on myself and walked across to their table. They didn't stand up but the little chap said, "Please sit." His voice was a rustle of dried grass. The waiter was behind me with a chair. I sat.
"Peter Collins," I said. "How do you do, Mr.—er?—"
"Karpethes," he answered. "Nichos Karpethes. And this is my wife,
Adrienne." Neither one of them had made the effort to extend their hands, but that didn't dismay me. Only the fact that they were married dismayed me. He must be very, very rich, this Nichos Karpethes.
"I'm delighted you invited me over," I said, forcing a smile, "but I see that I was mistaken. You see, I thought I heard you speaking English, and I—"
"Thought we were English?" she finished it for me. "A natural error. Originally I am Armenian, Nichos is Greek, of course. We do not speak each other's tongue, but we do both speak English. Are you staying here, Mr. Collins?"
"Er, yes—for one more day and night. Then—" I shrugged and put on a sad look, "—back to England, I'm afraid."
"Afraid?" the old boy whispered. "There is something to fear in a return to your homeland?"
"Just an expression," I answered. "I meant, I'm afraid that my holiday is coming to an end."
He smiled. It was a strange, wistful sort of smile, wrinkling his face up like a little walnut. "But your friends will be glad to
see you again. Your loved ones—?"
I shook my head. "Only a handful of friends—none of them really close—and no loved ones. I'm a loner, Mr. Karpethes."
"A loner?" His eyes glowed deep in their sockets and his hands began to tremble where they gripped the table's rim. "Mr. Collins, you don't—"
"We understand," she cut him off. "For although we are together, we too, in our way, are loners. Money has made Nichos lonely, you see? Also, he is not a well man, and time is short. He will not waste what time he has on frivolous friendships. As for myself—people do not understand our being together, Nichos and I. They pry, and I withdraw. And so, I too, am a loner."
By Blood We Live Page 64