by Mike Resnick
“Just a minute,” said Mallory, staring intently through the window.
“What is it?”
“This wasn't a wasted trip after all,” said the detective, pointing to a poster showing a skeletally thin black-clad man and promising that the noted European poet Aristotle Draconis would make one of his rare public appearances at Madison Round Garden at eleven o'clock on All Hallows' Eve.
“Where to now?” asked McGuire as the little vampire and Mallory emerged from the elevator on the ground floor and walked to the exit.
“We've got almost two hours to kill before this Draconis shows up,” answered Mallory. “There's no sense wasting it. You're a vampire. Where would you go to hide?”
“That's a very broad question,” said McGuire as they emerged into the cool night air. “Would I be hiding from the police—and if so, the vice squad or the fraud squad? Or from another vampire? Or maybe I'd be hiding from Harry the Book, who's been trying to collect what I lost at Jamaica yesterday. And of course I always hide from overly aggressive redheads called Thelma, because you never know which one might turn out to be the one I made some silly promises to when dazzled by the midday sunlight. Or I could be hiding from the AAA Ace Credit Company. Or…”
“Shut up,” said Mallory wearily.
“Yes, sir.”
“You sound like you spend you entire life in hiding.”
“It's not easy being an unemployed middle-aged vampire,” said McGuire defensively. “I know, from the outside it looks like it's all blood and bites, but the general public has absolutely no idea.” He stifled a manly little sob and wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve.
“Is there any way to convert back into a normal human being?” asked Mallory.
“One of them?” demanded McGuire with an expression of absolute contempt.
“Sorry I asked.”
“I apologize,” said McGuire. “It's hardly your fault that you're not at the top of the food chain.”
“Getting back to business,” said Mallory, “where are we likely to find a kid who's been bitten once or twice, hasn't joined the glorious ranks of the vampire brigade yet, and—now, I know this is difficult for you to come to grips with—doesn't want to be a vampire?”
“Doesn't want to?” repeated McGuire. “One of the insane asylums, of course. Bellevue, probably.”
“I don't believe I'm getting through to you at all,” said Mallory. “At least you were trying to be helpful before.”
“Helpful is my middle name,” said McGuire. A pause. “Actually, Oglethorpe is my middle name, but I've never been very fond of it. Perhaps if I'd actually known any Oglethorpes…Still, I suppose it could be worse. Could be Frothingham.”
“Shut up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where would someone go if he didn't want to run into a vampire?”
“Ah!” said McGuire, his face brightening. “You mean, where would a prey animal hide?”
“Right. And make it within a mile of Seymour Noodnik's grocery store.”
“What were you doing there in the first place?” asked McGuire.
“Picking up some stuff to eat.”
“Like ripe young girls with bulging jugular veins?”
“Calm down. I was going to put the kid up at my apartment, and since I'm almost never there, I figured I should lay in some supplies.” Mallory grimaced. “I haven't bought any milk in about three months. How long does it stay good?”
“Not that long.”
“Just as well,” said Mallory with a shrug. “I don't think my refrigerator's working anyway.”
“So where do you spend your time?” asked the vampire.
“Mostly at the office. It's just a block from where I live—well, on those occasions that I live there.”
“Well, that makes it easy enough,” said McGuire. “As far as the kid knows, you're his one protector. He'll gravitate to your apartment or the office.”
“His aunt is a protector, too, and he knows her far better,” Mallory pointed out. “Why would he choose me?”
“Because Colonel Carruthers could be stalking through the middle of Central Park with her trolls,” answered McGuire. “At least he knows where to look for you.”
“Oh, shit!” muttered Mallory, suddenly heading off. “I know where he'll be! Come on!”
“Your apartment or your office?” asked McGuire, his little legs moving rapidly to keep up with the detective.
“He's never been to either. He doesn't know where they are. He'll be at Winnifred's apartment.”
“That doesn't make sense,” offered the vampire. “He left Noodnik's quite some time before you and I visited your partner, and he hadn't shown up.”
“That's because I'm not a stranger to Manhattan, and I'm not looking into every shadow to see what might be lurking there ready to pounce on me,” answered Mallory.
“I don't know…”
“I've been waiting half an hour for you to come up with a better suggestion. Have you got one?”
“No, but…”
“Shut up.”
“Yes, sir,” said McGuire.
They'd gone about two blocks when a goblin stepped out of the shadows, blocking their way.
“Encyclopedias?” it asked in its sibilant voice. “Nice cut-rate encyclopedias, only been read by half-blind little old ladies?”
“Weren't you just selling dismembered corpses or something like that an hour ago?” said Mallory disgustedly.
The goblin wrinkled its nose dismissively. “A drug on the market. And speaking of drugs on the market, how about—” it lowered its voice conspiratorially—“a bottle of (get this!) children's aspirin.”
“Go away.”
“You're right, sir,” said the goblin. “You haven't been a child in days now. Any fool can see that.”
“Yeah, I think that pretty much defines both the situation and the speaker,” said Mallory. “Get out of my way.”
“Subscriptions!” cried the goblin. “Look! Colliers! Argosy All-Story! Mating Habits of the Tree-Dwelling Wildebeest!”
“Bats,” said Mallory, “count to five and if he's still blocking my way, bite him in the neck.”
“How about a correspondence course on seven ways to prepare goblin for Thanksgiving?” offered the goblin, backing away.
Mallory began walking again. “Let's go.”
“Banned eight-millimeter movies!” shouted the goblin after them. “Candy Barr! Joan Crawford! Linda Lovelace! Arnold Stang!”
Mallory stopped and turned. “Arnold Stang?” he repeated.
“I was just kidding,” said the goblin. “But it got your attention, didn't it?”
“Bats, kill him,” said Mallory, starting off again.
“Deep Ear! The Bratislavan Stallion! Behind the Mauve Door!”
“Uh…I don't know if I've ever mentioned it,” said McGuire, softly enough so the goblin couldn't hear, “but I'm terrified of goblins.”
“Just you, or all vampires?” asked Mallory.
“Just me. How do you think I got to be forty-seven?”
“Figures.”
“The Devil and Arnold Stang!” yelled the goblin just before they passed out of earshot. “Half price! And I'll toss in a two-month supply of vitamin H!”
“Is there a vitamin H?” asked McGuire. “I've been feeling run down lately, and…” He paused and looked up at Mallory. “I know: Shut up.”
They walked another block in silence, and then Mallory peered ahead and slowed down.
“I don't like the looks of this,” he said.
“It's just a few cops and an ambulance,” said McGuire.
“That's not an ambulance,” said Mallory, and as they got closer McGuire could see a spavined, ancient horse harnessed to a wagon. “That's the death cart.”
McGuire shrugged. “People die. No reason to take any notice of it, especially on All Hallows' Eve.”
“Don't you recognize where you are?” snapped Mallory. “That's Winnifred's building.”
“It is?”
Mallory pulled out his license, held it up, and elbowed his way through the small crowd of humans, goblins, gremlins, elves, and unidentifiables. A moment later he was looking down at the lifeless body of Rupert Newton.
“You know him?” asked a cop.
Mallory nodded. “Yeah. What happened?”
The cop shrugged. “We got a call that there was this stiff on the street, and this is what we found.”
“Vampire?” asked Mallory.
“He's got a couple of holes in his neck, but they're not fresh. We'll schlep him off to the morgue and let them worry about it. You wanna come down and make an official ID?”
“Can I just do it here?”
“If you could, I wouldn't ask you to come down there. Don't give me a hard time; this is All Hallows' Eve. If the worst that happens is that we trip over a few dozen bodies between now and morning, we'll be ahead of the game.” He paused. “You know where the morgue is?”
Mallory nodded.
“We got four more to collect. Figure we'll be there in an hour.”
“Got you,” said Mallory, stepping back as the cops moved forward to lift Rupert and put him in the cart.
“I'm sorry,” said McGuire, as the death cart headed off down the street and the crowd began dispersing.
“Something's wrong,” said Mallory.
“I know. You client is dead.”
Mallory shook his head. “He's not my client. He's Winnifred's nephew. And that's not what's wrong.”
“What's wronger than being dead?” asked McGuire.
“The kid was running for his life,” said Mallory. “He was scared to death of Aristotle Draconis, who is the guy who nabbed him in the neck and started him on the road to vampirism, right?”
“Yeah?” said McGuire, trying to see where the detective was leading him.
“Well, if the cop was right, he wasn't killed by a vampire,” said Mallory. “No fresh bite marks.”
“Sometimes shock and fear will do it,” offered McGuire.
“Is that your personal observation?” said Mallory sardonically.
The little vampire shifted his feet uncomfortably. “I believe I read it somewhere.”
“There's another problem, too.”
“What is it?”
“This Draconis is a European. He nailed the kid on the boat during the cruise over, but he could no more find a stranger at night in an unfamiliar city of seven million than you could.”
“I beg your pardon!” said McGuire, drawing himself up to his full if unimpressive height.
“Damn it, Bats! You know who we looking for, you live in the city, and you didn't come up with a damned thing. Draconis is a stranger, he's probably got some handlers from the reading—I'm sure they paid his way across and want their money's worth—and he's got to be on stage at eleven. What if he actually caught the kid and couldn't find his way back? He has to figure the kid has told at least a friend or a relative what happened to him. I've been looking at this wrong. I figure that either Draconis hasn't given the kid a thought since he landed or else right now he's damned near as scared as the kid was.”
“Scared?” repeated McGuire. “Of what?”
“I won't know that until I talk to him.” Mallory sighed. “In the meantime I'll get over to the morgue, ID the body, and see what did kill him. It's always possible the cop was wrong. The fact that there are no marks on the neck doesn't mean somebody didn't drain his varicose vein.”
“What a disgusting thought!” said McGuire. He paused and considered it. “But tasty.”
“All right,” said Mallory, stopping and staring down at the little vampire. “I don't know what I'm up against, and I have a feeling that I need all the protection I can get.”
“Borrow your partner's Nitro Express,” suggested McGuire.
“I can't walk through the streets of Manhattan carrying a high-powered rifle.”
“Why not?” asked the vampire. “Hundreds of others do every day. Maybe thousands.”
“Forget it.”
“It's forgotten. But this is a very confusing conversation.”
“I want you to think,” said Mallory. “What are vampires most afraid of?”
“High cholesterol levels?” asked McGuire uncertainly.
“Come on, Bats,” said Mallory irritably. “This isn't a school quiz and it's not a trick question. If a couple of vampires—let's stretch credibility and suggest that they're even more fearless than you—were coming at me, what one thing could hold them at bay?”
“Nothing. We're a pretty brave, gritty lot.”
“There is nothing that every vampire fears?” persisted Mallory. “Crosses, garlic, anything?”
McGuire shook his head. “Not really. You have to understand: I'm much more sensitive and emotional than most of my kind.”
A black cat shot out of the shadows and crossed their path.
“Omygod, omygod, omygod!” cried McGuire in panicky tones. “Let's turn around and go a different way.”
“It's already crossed your path,” said Mallory. “Any damage is already done.”
“What are you talking about?” shrieked the little vampire. “It has claws, hasn't it? And teeth! And it can see better in the dark than a bat can!”
Mallory's eyes narrowed.
“And vampires don't like that?”
“We positively hate it! Let's turn down a side street. It might come back.”
“There might be another one on a side street,” suggested Mallory.
“You're ruining my digestion, and I haven't even eaten anything!” wailed the vampire.
“Thank you, Bats,” said Mallory. “You've finally been a help.”
“I have?” asked McGuire, blowing his nose on his sleeve.
Mallory nodded. “You've told me what kind of weapon I ought to have with me.”
“Me? Really?” asked McGuire, his chest puffing up proudly. Suddenly he frowned in confusion. “What kind?”
“The inefficient kind,” admitted the detective, “but it's the best I can do on short notice and limited information.”
“Where will you find this weapon?”
“Unless I miss my guess, it'll be sleeping on top of the refrigerator in my office,” said Mallory.
Mallory opened the door to his office and turned on the lights.
The first thing McGuire saw was the pair of Playmates (on which Winnifred had meticulously drawn undergarments with a Magic Marker) tacked to the wall behind Mallory's desk. Then there was the photo of Flyaway parading to the post; it was getting difficult to distinguish his features after the hundreds of times Mallory had thrown darts into it. There was the omnipresent Racing Form on the detective's desk. There were the fresh-cut flowers and the copy of Byron's poems on Winnifred's desk. But there was no Felina.
“Thank goodness she's gone!” breathed McGuire with a sigh of relief.
“No one else would put up with her,” answered Mallory. “She's here.”
“Now, you're sure she doesn't eat vampires?” asked McGuire nervously.
“Only when I'm hungry,” purred a feminine voice from atop the refrigerator in the next room.
“Only when she's hungry,” repeated Mallory.
“Is she hungry now?” asked McGuire, stepping hesitantly into the room while peering into shadows and corners.
“I'm always hungry,” said the voice.
“That's it!” said McGuire. “Nice knowing you, Mallory, and I'm sure you'll get your man. Or bat. Or whatever.”
He turned and started walking toward the door, but Mallory reached out and grabbed him by the back of the collar, pulling him back even as his short legs kept moving.
“Calm down,” said the detective. “Felina, get over here.”
“Beg me,” purred Felina.
“I don't have to,” said Mallory.
“Oh?” said Felina, puzzled. “Why not?”
“Because I'm on a case and I'm in a hurry, and if you don't
come here right now I'm leaving, and there won't be anyone around to feed you.”
“I'll just eat your friend.”
“He's coming with me.”
“And vampires taste terrible!” added McGuire urgently.
“Oh, all right,” said Felina, and suddenly ninety pounds of feminine fur and sinew flew through the air, cartwheeled across Mallory's desk, and landed on her feet right next to him.
“He doesn't look very tasty,” she opined, staring at McGuire. “Were they selling the runt of the litter?”
“His name is McGuire,” said Mallory, “and he's working for us. I don't want you hurting him.”
Felina walked once around the little vampire, who eyed her nervously.
“I can't hurt him?”
“That's right.”
She studied him for a long moment. “It'll take all my skill, but I can do it.”
“Do what?” asked McGuire uneasily.
“Kill you so fast it doesn't hurt.”
“I don't believe you were paying attention,” said Mallory, keeping his grip on the vampire's shirt as he tried to race to the door. “He's a friend. You will not hurt him. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Felina.
“Good.”
“No,” said Felina. “Maybe. Perhaps. Possibly.”
“Let me put it in terms you understand,” said Mallory. “You hurt him and there's no milk for a week.”
Felina studied the vampire, her pupils mere slits. “Even a little one like this could last more than a week.”
“All right, then,” said Mallory. “No milk for a month.”
“It's not fair!” pouted Felina.
“Believe me, if things work out the way I think they will, there'll be plenty of things for you to hurt.”
A huge happy smile. “You promise?”
“I said I think so.”
“And I can play with them as long as I want?”
“Within reason.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means until I tell you to stop.”
She sniffed unhappily. “You always ruin everything.”
“We're wasting time,” said Mallory. “Felina, this is McGuire. Bats, this is Felina. Felina, you don't hurt him; Bats, you don't suck her blood. Has everyone got the ground rules straight?”