Destiny of the Vampire (Adventures of the Vampire Book 1)

by P. D. McClafferty

  Wrigley and Wambach were ashen faced but bowing gamely to the noisy crowd, while the daughter was nowhere to be seen. The man in the dark robe had also disappeared.

  “Fuck!” Max cursed, getting to his feet.

  Shy pressed closer to him. “What’s wrong?”

  “There was what I believe to be a real vampire in the audience. A ruthless vampire can make a mundane his slave by biting them and then giving them a single sip of his blood. More ethical vamps kill those on sight. I believe that he was going after the young Gypsy woman.” He pushed through the crowd, heading for the backstage door.

  “You!” A deep, heavily accented voice shouted from the other side of the closed backstage door. “Let go my sister!”

  Using his foot as a battering ram, Max crashed through the cheap wood door in time to see the thin robed man casually lift a human mountain and fling him across the room, where he smashed through the sheetrock wall and into the adjoining dressing room. Clouds of dust and mildew filled the air. Intent on his upcoming victory, the robed man turned back to the girl, who was struggling weakly on the floor. Her shirt had been ripped open, but Max was relieved to see her pale skin unbroken.

  “Now…” the robed man hissed, reaching for the girl.

  Max felt his control slip away—behind his lips, his own fangs grew larger, in preparation for battle. The room went red. “I don’t think so, asshole. You aren’t going to turn this one into a slave.” He stepped forward, reaching out with his right hand.

  The robed vampire whirled just as Max’s hand encircled his neck, and the hood fell back to reveal a frightened white face. Thin to the point of emaciation, the young man had a shaved-bald head, and his facial skin had been whitened with theatrical makeup, with darker coloring applied at cheekbones and deep-set eyes to give him a sinister Nosferatu look. The vampire beat at Max with hands that had thrown the burly youth across the room—to no avail. Max held the vampire, his feet dangling a half meter off the floor, and squeezed his neck. The vampire’s heels punched holes in the wall then jerked in a spasm. Bones crunched as the vampire’s neck came apart, and the man in Max’s hands let out a long gurgling sigh as he died.

  Max dropped the limp body, wrinkling his nose at the smell of recent death… and urine. The young vampire had soiled himself in his dying throes. The red tinge was fading from his vision as he turned, but not quickly enough. The young woman on the floor pressed back against the wall, her hand over her mouth, biting back a scream. Even Shyilia took a hurried step backward, her eyes widening.

  “We were a little busy when we fought the goblins,” she said thoughtfully, “and I never had the chance to actually see you in a fighting rage before. I see why the goblins ran away. Do you know that when you are angry, your eyes actually glow red?”

  Max snorted a laugh. “The goblins were too busy to appreciate it. We should go, Shy.”

  The young woman was pushing herself to her feet, rubbing a hand-shaped bruise on her arm where the young vampire had gripped her. “Who are you… what are you, and what do you mean ‘goblins’? What strange language was that woman speaking?” She looked at the body on the floor. “And who was that?”

  “That, young lady, was a real vampire who was about to turn you into his slave.” Max looked down at the body with disgust. “That idiot was a rogue and deserved what he got.” He turned to follow Shyilia out of the small backstage area, to discover that the wild congratulations at the end of the magic show had transformed into a roaring party. Someone was passing out beers from a stack of cases, and another college-age lad was busy lighting a joint in air that was already blue with sweet smoke. Max nodded to the back door.

  “Wait!” the voice of the almost-victim called out. “Who are you? You lifted the cannonball for my father, didn’t you?”

  Max closed the door behind him and pushed his way through the crowd.

  The four-kilometer walk back to the hotel was long and dark, especially when they cut through the wooded and mostly abandoned JFK Recreation Center. Max stopped once, frowning, to study their backtrail.

  Shy looked about nervously, her sharp elfin eyes probing the darkness.

  “What is it?” Max growled low in his throat, turning back toward the distant hotel.

  “I thought I heard footsteps behind us, but they’re gone now.” The elf whispered.

  He gave a self-mocking little chuckle. “Who would, or could, be following us?”

  When the waitress finally brought it to the table, the steak he’d ordered rare was cooked past well done, all the way to gray. Speaking through clenched teeth, Max turned to Shyilia. “Please continue with your meal. I won’t be a minute.” Picking up his plate, he headed for the kitchen to the waitress’s hissed protests.

  The double door banged open, and a fat man in a greasy white apron—the chef, Max assumed—took a threatening step forward. “What do you think you’re—” The steak Max had thrown hit him in the chest, driving him back a step.

  “Listen, bozo, and shut the fuck up. You’re lucky I’m not going to make you eat that piece of rubber you served me in lieu of a rare steak.” Glancing about the kitchen, his eyes fell on a newly delivered side of beef, still waiting to be carved. A small stainless pot sat under the beef to catch the dripping blood. With a long carving knife, Max slashed off a five-centimeter-thick half-kilogram chunk of raw meat. Tossing it on the grill, Max counted only to five before he flipped it, to do the same on the other side, then slid it to his plate. He drizzled thick red blood from the pot of drippings onto the meat and looked up as the waitress slid to the floor, unconscious. “Now this is a rare steak,” he murmured with real satisfaction.

  The chef, the same color as his white apron, backed up and into the edge of the hot grill. With a yelp, he looked down at his burned bum, and when he looked up, Max was gone.

  Shy patted her lips with her napkin as he sat, and eyed the outrageous slab of meat that drooped over the edges of his plate. “Are you going to eat all that?” she asked, although she was well aware of his odd eating requirements.

  Max refilled her wine then topped his own. “Probably. It has been a very long day, and I warn you, I will probably sleep until noon.”

  “That’s quite all right,” the elfin woman said with a smile. “I have a credit card, and the mall is just next door.”

  Max just sighed and picked up his knife and fork. The coppery blood he’d poured on the steak had a different taste and quality than either human or goblin blood. He popped a bite of raw meat into his mouth and chewed slowly, thinking of ambrosia.

  It was early in the morning, two days later, when Max and Shyilia strolled into the gun shop.

  Azzaam smiled as he stood. “Ahhh, my friend. It is good to see you.”

  Max laughed. “It sounds like you got more than you expected for the stones.”

  The Iraqi man showed white teeth. “With inflation, I was able to get half again what the stones were worth—four million for the emerald and five for the ruby, since it was higher quality.” The smile widened. “I may be able to retire after this adventure. All of the equipment you required was available, mostly new, and all for just under three million.”

  Max slapped him on the shoulder. “I like to see my friends get ahead. How did you do with the team?”

  “Even better. Although they don’t believe it’s really you, they are willing to meet and listen to your offer. After I told them the amounts involved, the money definitely interests them.” His smile faded slightly. “For that much, Xia told me that she would be willing to believe in elves and fire-breathing dragons.” Shy gave Max a startled look, which wasn’t lost on Azzaam. “The team will be here tomorrow or the next day.”

  Max nodded his approval. “That sounds very good, Azzaam.”

  “I thought it might.” The Iraqi man gave a deep breath. “Now, I believe
, we should have that little talk I spoke of earlier.” He touched a button on his desk, and a slim Middle Eastern man in his early twenties stepped out of a back room.

  “You have a back room?” Max asked, startled.

  “My son will watch the store. I have a basement warehouse and a subbasement in this building. The lowest level is an adequate bomb shelter for anything short of a direct hit with a nuke, and there is a private conference room there that we can use.”

  “Very nice,” Max complimented the man as they entered the cement stairwell leading down.

  Shy looked perplexed. “Nuke?”

  Max sighed. “You know what fireworks are, don’t you? Small rockets that go up and explode with a bang and a shower of pretty sparks.”

  “Yes. My father used to have fireworks every year on the anniversary of his coronation.”

  Azzaam gave the young woman a long, speculative look.

  “I like fireworks very much,” she said.

  “Good.” Max continued in a flat voice. “Imagine a firework rocket that is very powerful and can be launched to travel many thousand leagues.”

  Shy frowned.

  “And multiply the bang at the end by a million.”

  “Ten million!” Azzaam blurted.

  Max continued. “One nuclear weapon could be launched from the other side of the world and would destroy this city and all the people in it.”

  Azzaam held the door, and Shyilia entered the conference room in a stunned silence.

  A large teakettle sat in the center of the conference table over a small flame heater, and narrow-waisted teacups were set around it. The Iraqi man poured the tea and handed the small cups and saucers around.

  Max took a long sip and smiled. “I like the cardamom in your tea.”

  Azzaam sipped and set his cup down. “You always did, Maximilian. It is good to see your tastes haven’t changed.” He shot Max an askance look. “Now, I believe you owe me a story.”

  Max looked at the calendar on his watch and blinked in surprise. “I didn’t realize so much time had passed.” Taking a breath, he began. “It all started three months ago when Anita—you remember my former wife, don’t you?” Max paused as Azzaam nodded. “She and I were traveling to Romania to trace my heritage for the family tree she was building.”

  “I remember meeting Anita.” Azzaam snorted a laugh. “A woman of singular determination, if I remember correctly. How did that turn out?”

  “Not so well. I found out later that my grandparents and parents did a very good job covering their tracks.” Max shook his head. “While Romanian food is good enough, I suppose, the food in our bed and breakfast was terrible. One evening after Anita went to bed, I decided to make a foray to the local McDonald’s for a real meal.” To his left, Shy groaned, and he could picture her rolling her eyes. “It was while I was walking home that I came across the two witches and the six thugs.” Max shrugged. “One of the idiots shot me at point-blank range in the chest with an old Makarov, nine millimeter.”

  The Iraqi man blinked. “How did you survive that, my friend?”

  Max gave him a bleak smile. “I didn’t… however, before I died the final death, one of the two women, both of whom were vampires, turned me, as the saying goes. My body, for all practical purposes, died. I was examined by a Romanian doctor and declared dead. Somewhat later, I woke in the morgue, and that’s where my story really begins.”

  Max hesitated when there was a soft knock on the door and a pretty teenage girl entered, bearing a tray of fresh kleicha cookies before setting the tray on the table and bowing herself out. Azzaam poured more tea. “That was my eldest daughter, Shaafia. Please continue.”

  “It was a long walk to the house of the witch, but I found that it didn’t bother me all that…”

  Max talked steadily for two hours, being interrupted only occasionally by Shyilia to explain more salient points of the story from her point of view.

  Afterward, Azzaam sat back and studied the two. “I almost wish that I hadn’t heard your story, Maximilian. It brings up too many philosophical dilemmas.”

  Max chuckled. “You old fraud—you love a mental challenge, and this is one of the best.”

  Azzaam’s dark eyes sparkled. “I see now why you asked for a team that were open-minded.” He tapped his lips with a single finger. “Show me something, Maximilian. My heart knows what you said is real, but my eyes are another matter.”

  Max held up a hand, and a small flame gyrated from finger to finger, then at a small twitch from Max, it dropped to the slightly scarred wooden conference table, where it left a centimeter wide, five-centimeter-long burn as it tracked across the wooden top. The flame disappeared with a pop at a wave from Max’s hand. “The burn will serve as a reminder long after we’ve gone.”

  Azzaam stared at the burn for a long moment before he turned to the closed door and called out, “Shaafia, will you please bring in the bottle of Arak, three glasses, and a pitcher of water?”

  The girl arrived a moment later with the bottle, pitcher, and glasses on a small tray, then she collected the tea service and empty cookie tray. “Father,” she said respectfully, “there is a woman upstairs who is asking to see you. She said her name is Xia.”

  Max blinked.

  Azzaam smiled. “Very well, Shaafia, please bring her down, along with one other glass. I wouldn’t want to be a poor host.”

  The girl smiled. “Yes, Father.” She turned for the door.

  Max nodded his approval. “Are all your children so proper?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t insulting Azzaam.

  The Iraqi man frowned. “Of course. Why should they not be polite?”

  Max snorted a laugh. “It’s un-American, Azzaam. American children are supposed to be rude, vulgar, and unappreciative. It says so in the book.”

  Azzaam scowled for a second or two then—after he worked out the mental convolutions—smiled widely. “Thank you, Maximilian. I am very proud of my children.”

  Xia Chéng stepped through the door a few moments later and stopped. Her eyes, which seemed to vary between sapphire and Prussian blue, depending on her mood, scanned those seated at the table. They came to rest on Max, and it wasn’t until he was standing that he realized he’d moved.

  “Hello, Xia,” he said gently, his eyes taking in the tight leather pants and nearly form-fitting leather jacket she wore that accented her narrow waist and taut breasts. “Still riding the BMW?”

  Her laugh was low and throaty. “I upgraded to a Ducati Multistrada 1200 S.”

  Max nodded. “Nice ride.”

  A former Chinese national before she decamped to work for the other side, Xia Chéng had worked with Max’s team for his last eight years. Of moderate height, Xia wasn’t quite what Max would have called supermodel beautiful, although the difference was in quantity and not quality. Her shining black hair was cut in a shoulder-length bob, and her shoulders were wide for a woman. Her face bore an innate luminosity, like the moon floating above the Yangtse River on a soft spring evening, setting off the sapphire chips that were her serious eyes. A Rhodes scholar, she spoke with a subtle trace of Oxford perfection. He’d never bothered to look up the year of her birth, and she didn’t appear to have aged a day since he’d known her.

  “It’s been a long time, Xia, and you’re looking well.”

  She moved a step closer to him, in effect excluding the others in the room, and he could suddenly smell her favored floral perfume. “It was at the Emirates Palace, Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates in 2004, wasn’t it?” she asked sotto voce. “We spent our entire bonuses in two days, but it was worth it.” Her head cocked to the side as she studied him as a robin would study a juicy worm. “You’re looking… unexpectedly good, especially for a dead man.” The edges of her warm pink lips twitched with suppressed laughter. A subtle and bril
liant woman, Xia preferred a warm pink lipstick to a more garish color.

  Max blushed and swallowed just as Shy cleared her throat, her face tight with anger. Azzaam was grinning.

  “Ahhh,” Xia continued, “I see now you weren’t talking about that. Pity.” Her eyes sparkled. “The last time I saw you was when you retired in 2010, and you were looking a bit… shopworn.” Her eyes turned to Shyilia. “You appear to be from… out of town.” Xia had a flair for understatement.

  “I am an elf,” Shyilia hissed, knowing that Max had taken steps to ensure that she could be understood by anyone listening.

  “Of course you are, dear.” Xia smiled.

  Max stepped in to prevent bloodshed. “Xia, this is Crown Princess Shyilia Iangwyn, jewel of the throne of Ideryn and next in line to rule the elfin lands on the world of Aeyaqar. This is where we will be conducting our operation, if you should choose to come along.”

  The sapphire eyes glittered dangerously. “Without a doubt, I’m coming, Maximilian. The pay is exceptional, the chance of adventure appealing, and it just so happens I’m out of a job.” Her eyes slid back to him. “And you know how to throw a party.”

  “Xia, there is a real fire-breathing dragon to deal with,” he said softly.

  She opened her mouth to make a caustic quip, saw Max’s eyes, and closed it with a snap. “I believe you’re serious.”

  “As death, Xia. Aeyaqar is an insane asylum of a world, and unfortunately, I now fit right in.”

  “Explain.”

  “While Anita and I were in Romania, I was shot and then turned into a vampire. I died.” He took a deep breath and began a concise but greatly abbreviated description of everything that had occurred to him since that fateful night in the alley.

  Azzaam took the stunned pause to pass around small glasses of milky fluid—arak mixed with water. He lifted his glass. “Fe sahetek!” He drained his glass, and his dark eyes watered.