Strange City

by Anth

  "One moon ago."

  "One moon? One month?

  "Yes."

  "Why didn't you die also?"

  "Last standing. Escaped to spirit."

  What do you mean, escaped to spirit"?'

  Reached. Step sideways into spirit world."

  Bruckner smiled once more, "So you retreated to a spirit world where they couldn't get you?"

  "No. Retreated and ran. They are there also, Blights."

  "So the corruption is in the spirit world also?"

  Yes."

  I want you to go back farther in your memories, to your childhood, I'm speaking to Daniel now Daniel?"

  "Yes?" Charles said, in a childish voice

  "When did your mother die. Daniel?"

  "She's not dead."

  "What about your father?"

  "He's not dead."

  "Daniel, did your father ever hit your mother?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure?'

  "Yes. Why?"

  Bruckner looked a bit annoyed. Never mind Daniel, have you ever done anything bad? Anything you wanted to forget and never remember?"

  Yes."

  What is that? Can you tell me?"

  "I let my pack die," Charles said, in a deeper voice.

  Bruckner looked annoyed again. "Is this Holds-Their-Songs now? Can you think of anything else? Any other bad things?"

  "No/'

  "Tell me about the spirit world. Have you been there recently?"

  "Yes, in my dreams."

  "What about now, under hypnosis?'

  "Yes. I'm here now. You are too."

  "I am? Where am I? Where are we?"

  "in a Chimera A dream realm."

  "Why? Why are we here? Why am I here with you?"

  "You created it. The hypnosis"

  "But I thought you went here in your dreams? They happened before I hypnotized you."

  "Those were different places."

  "is there anything else here with us?"

  Charles was quiet for a moment, as if thinking. Then he let out a low growl. "Yes—(Is here. It followed me."

  "Here? In the dream realm with us? Can you see it?"

  "No. Sense it. Smell of Wyrm," Charles' voice was deeper, more menacing.

  Bruckner squinted and stared at the couch and reached over to the lamp on his desk, which he pivoted and pointed toward Charles. Bruckner's eyes widened; Charles had grown larger. He was bulking his muscles up. stretching out. his feet hanging over the edge of the couch, Bruckner had seen contortionists before, but never this convincing. Charles was growling and thrashing his head about.

  Bruckner began writing notes. He stopped for a moment, confused when a shadow moved across the wail. A shadow cast from behind him. He turned around and barely suppressed a scream.

  Shuffling across the room on all fours, toward the couch, was a hideous beast, a siimy thing with spiked fur and huge fangs. Its fingers were razor-sharp talons and it eyes gleamed with a greenish light. It ignored Bruckner and appeared to be sneaking up on Charles

  Bruckner stared in shock and dismay. As it got closer to Charles it drew back, about to strike. Bruckner shook his head, trying to clear it, and snapped his fingers

  Instantly, Charles woke up—but the thing was still there, it leapt at him. screaming. Bruckner yelled in horror as it landed on Charles and began to claw chunks of flesh from his torso. Charles screamed— and the scream became an animal howt of rage as his body instantly grew to almost twice its size, now cov­ered in fur. His head was that of a wolf.

  Bruckner sunk low in his chair, trying not to be noticed.

  The werewolf and the shambling thing tore into each other The thing seemed at a disadvantage now, no match for the towering werewolf and its jaws. In seconds, it screamed and disappeared, like wisps of smoke in a breezy room

  Charles—Holds-Their-Songs—stood panting and catching his breath. He turned to look at Bruckner; the psychologist was whimpering in the chair, curled up in a fetal position. Holds-Their-Songs shifted back into human form and waiked over to him. Bruckner didn't seem to notice him; he just stared at the wall.

  I'm sorry," Holds-Their-Songs said. "But thank you i know who I am now. I had forgotten. The pain of my loss drove me to forsake my birthright. But I am a Galliard, and it is my duty to remember the songs of those who fall in the battle against the Wyrm. You have helped me remember them today."

  Bruckner showed no response whatsoever. Don't worry; I know you won't remember this your­self. The Chimera is gone now. it was only a tempo­rary creation. The Banes won't bother you anymore. It was me they wanted."

  Bruckner began to slowly rock back and forth in the chair, still not responding.

  Holds-Their-Songs took the tape recorder and removed the tape, putting it into his pocket. He took the doctor's notepad and tore out the pages with the sessions notes. He looked at them for a moment and shook his head.

  "Possible Oedipus Complex? Is that all the Wyrm is? I'm afraid not, doctor." He crumpled the notes, putting them in his pocket, then walked out the door, closing it quietly behind him.

  Five hours passed, and it was dark before Bruckner finally came to his senses. He looked about, confused, stood up and stretched. He looked at his notepad for a clue as to why he fell asleep so early, but there were no notes for today; only the last notes he had taken when his patient Charles had claimed to be a were­wolf. Bruckner couldn't suppress a strange shudder. He shook his head and walked over to his desk.

  He should probably go ahead and file commitment papers for Charles, just in case His problem was obviously deeper than amnesia. Any fool who thought he was a werewolf certainly had bigger troubles than a small-time psychoanalyst like Murry Bruckner could fix. Perhaps Edward Gorrel, over in Utah, could handle this. Bruckner recalled he had mentioned a case with a supposed "wolfman" once.

  Christ, Bruckner thought, what if this was becom­ing a common psychosis? What could possibly trigger such a wide-scale derangement in modern society? It doesn't matter, Bruckner decided. That's for the experts to determine. I'll just take the small cases, thank you,

  He walked over to the window and looked out On the street below a man was walking a large dog, which began barking as it passed the building. Bruckner shuddered again. He hated dogs.

  Damned smelly, dangerous brutes.

  Power

  by Don Bassingthwaite

  The telephone's shrill scream startled Emily enough that the scaipel she wielded with deli­cate precision skipped wildly. The cold blood of the dead man on the table trickled out over her fin­gers. She pursed her lips with frustration and reached for something with a broader mouth than the simple, institutional water glass that stood ready on the edge of the table.

  Her fingers closed on a stainless steel basin. The falling blood struck the metal with a sharp, almost musical patter as she stripped off her latex gloves and strode across the room. She got the phone on the third ring.

  "Morgue."

  "Miss Grange ..."

  "Doctor."

  "Sorry, Dr. Grange. This is John, upstairs. There's someone here to see you."

  'What does he want?" She glared at the dead man on the autopsy table. The flow of blood was slowing already—he had been dead almost too long. She picked up the phone and walked back toward the body, the extension cable slithering over other sheet-draped tables. "I'm not expecting anybody."

  "He says if s family business."

  Emity cradled the telephone receiver between her head and shoulder and used her free hand to press down on the corpses belly. Under the pressure, more blood spurted into the basin. "Tell him to use the usual door."

  She heard lohn repeat the information. There was a new voice in the background, one with a French accent, lohn spoke into the phone again "He doesn't know where it is. He's a distant cousin."

  A grimace struck her face. 'Is he tall, black hair, gold-rimmed sunglasses? Wearing a jacket with an orchid in the button-hole?"

  "I don't know what
kind of flower he's got. .."

  Of course not, Emily thought. She moved her hand to the body's chest and pressed again.

  ".. . but that sounds like him"

  Damn. "Tell him where the usual entrance is. I'll be waiting for him." She hung up without waiting for a response. Leaving the telephone balanced on a nearby body, she picked up the basin and carefully poured its contents into her glass. Then she settled down to wait

  It had been twelve years since Emily's Embrace, and her abrupt reassignment to night-shift forensic patholo­gist in the San Francisco Medical Examiner's Office. Twelve years as a vampire, and in that time, she had gotten to know almost all of the Kindred in San Francisco. There weren't that many vampires in the city who had French accents. Only one would have the nerve to identify himself as a "distant cousin," a member of one of the Clans that lingered on the fringe of the Camarilla. And he had come himself—his 'business" must be important. The visit was almost welcome. Very few Kindred regularly came to the Medical Examiner's Office in the Hall of lustice. Even fewer came to her domain in the basement of the north wing. Most vam­pires sent their retainers when they had business with Emily, and the business was always the same.

  Cover up the mistakes, Hide the stray evidence that popped up from time to time when a vampire lost control and killed someone. Provide death certificates that listed a more mundane cause of death, and make sure the body was disposed of cleanly. She was an important link in the Masquerade. The Prince had praised her work.

  Her fingers tensed on the glass and she had to set it down before she broke it. The Princes words were empty. She deserved more than this! Her domain was the Medical Examiners Office, her subjects the Medical Examiner, the other forensic pathologists, and a few of the regular police, No one respected what she did. She was a lackey, a convenient service to be used when it was necessary and ignored the rest of the time. The other Kindred shunned her. Some important link! This was not the future a bright, ambitious medical school graduate had seen for herself. It wasn't even the future a more mature forensic pathologist, forty-eight but still ambitious, had seen in the first weeks after her Embrace by Clan Ventrue.

  The sudden sound of the door buzzer wasn't enough to surprise her this time. "Come in, lean-Claude, the door's unlocked."

  "Can't you come out?"

  Emily ground her teeth in frustration. "My equip­ment is in here." She pushed herself to her feet and began preparing another autopsy table, There was a burst of obscene French from the corridor. She smiled coldly. "I'm waiting."

  The door burst open. Two large men staggered into the room Between them, they bore a bundle wrapped in a blood-stained sheet. She motioned them to put it on the table. "[ean-Claude?" she called.

  The vampire rushed into the room as though pass­ing through the doorway was some kind of torture. He had a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, as if he smelled something bad, and his eyes darted wildly around the room. He dismissed his servants with a curt gesture. They filed silently out of the room and closed the door behind them. Only when they were out of the room did he remove the handkerchief from his face. How can you stand this place?"

  "It's necessary. And you get used to it," she replied tightly. "If it bothers you so much, don't breathe.

  "I'm not. But the smell is still . . , everywhere! It sticks to everything. I'm going to smell like a corpse when i leave!"

  "You get used to it," she murmured, More loudly, she said, "You're the first Setite I've had come to me."

  lean-Claude frowned, the expression creating deep furrows in his handsome face. "The Followers of Set," he muttered with something that sounded like shame. "do not normally seek out the services of others."

  "Not normally?"

  "I would prefer you to keep my visit here to your­self." He pulled back the sheet to expose the corpse he had brought. "He was one of my followers."

  It was the body of a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, the ragged remains of his clothing plastered to his body with blood. He had been hand­some, she supposed. His skin was deeply tanned, his muscles tightly defined, his remaining features clean and classical. But his death had been ugly. His body was almost a tatter of slashes, scratches, and bites. One of the deeper puncture wounds had probably destroyed something vital before he could die from loss of blood. Blood still seeped from some of the cuts. The body was fresh. The blood would be fresh, barely cold, still with the tang of life . ..

  Emily realized that she was licking her lips. The giass of blood she had drained earlier stood nearby. She grabbed it and drank deeply. The blood was stale, the death older, but it would serve To keep her mind on the task at hand. lean-Claude was staring at her with a look of disgust on his face when she lowered the glass.

  That was revolting. How can you drink dead blood?"

  He looked as if he might throw up. Emily considered taking another drink to see if he would but thought better of it. She set the glass down before turning back to the corpse "You didn't come here to discuss my feeding habits. What happened to him?"

  "A ... ceremony got out of control at the temple." He shrugged. "My other followers attacked him.'

  "What with?"

  "Knives. Pieces of broken glass. Their teeth and nails. It happens occasionally With some drugs, a group can turn ugly like that." Jean-Claude snapped his fingers for emphasis.

  Emily pulled the blood-soaked sheet away from the body completely, "[f this happens occasionally,' I'm surprised I haven't seen you in here before."

  "Most times it doesn't end in death. I try to make sure of that. A dead follower is of no use to me. This time it happened too quickly He was dead in seconds." He shrugged again. "What can you do with him?'

  She picked up a clipboard and pen. "Usually, I can list the death as a suicide, but I don't think that's going to work this time. I'll have to cali in the next-of-kin, have them identify the body, then convince them it was a mugging or something. We'll cremate the body afterwards," She tapped the pen against her teeth in thought and nodded to herself. "That should work. What was his name?"

  Jean-Claude glanced down at the bloody body. "Does it matter?"

  "Yes, it does. I have to put a name on the death cer­tificate and I have to find his next-of-kin. Who is he?"

  "[ don't know."

  "[ find that difficult to believe."

  "He was a new recruit to the Temple." He picked up a flask of distilled water. Emily was surprised to see that his hand was shaking. "Someone brought him in for the first time last week A lot of my followers try to maintain their anonymity. I usually let them for a while."

  "Did he have any ID on him?"

  "Someone stole his wallet."

  Emily was tempted to throw the clipboard down in frustration. She held on to it. lean-Claude was ner­vous, desperate for her help. She might be able to gain something useful out of this transaction, "Then who did he come with?"

  "I don't know. Ail my followers ran. They're loyal to the temple, though. They won't tell anybody about it."

  "I don't care about your followers! Isn't there any­thing you can tell me about him?"

  "No!" lean-Claude snapped back. "That's why I need your help! I don't know who he is. I don't know who brought him, but if anyone is looking for him and can connect him with the temple, I'm in trouble! I need you to cover for me, you blue blood ..."

  "That's enough." Emily straightened and glared at him coldly. Internally, she glowed warmly with victo­ry. "Don't forget that you do need me. Its going to be a little more tricky, but we can still do it. You'll owe me, though. There's going to be a little bit of confu­sion tomorrow morning, We have an unidentified body next door ready to be cremated. One body under a sheet looks a lot like another body under a sheet, especially when the toe tags have been mixed op."

  "And the death certificate? The next-of-kin?"

  "The death certificate will be very ordinary, It will say that he died from a stabbing during a mugging" She shrugged exaggeratedly. The body is found on the
street and brought in late. I make some prelimi­nary notes and then leave the autopsy for the day crew. Some idiot cremates the wrong body, we sack him, and I'm forced to fill out a death certificate based on my notes The next-of-kin won't matter at all, although I'm sure they'll turn up eventually."

  "Someone could still trace him to my temple."

  "We say that the body was found somewhere dark and nasty but not too far from somewhere with lots of people. Somewhere he could have wandered or been lured away from. A night-club strip. I have some influ­ence with the officers who patrol a suitable area. They'll remember finding the body and they'll have the reports to prove it," She smiled reassuringly.

  "But what if he wasn't the type to go to a night club?"

  The smile wavered but didn't disappear, "[ean-Claude, if he was the type to go to your temple, he was probably the type to go to a night club occasion­ally. Even if he wasn't, I suspect that he would have lied about where he was going anyway, If he told any­body at all. Relax. It will work,"

  lean-Claude looked relieved. This stays quiet?"

  "It's foolproof. No one will ever find out. lust remember—you owe me a favor."

  "Absolutely! Emily, I could kiss you!"

  "A favor is fine."

  "Anything! My temple is at your disposal!" He vir­tually danced out the door.

  Emily watched him go. When he was out of sight, she permitted her smile to grow wider and more predatory, lean-Claude was not the most powerful or widely respected vampire in San Francisco. Most of the Kindred loathed him, in fact, but he did have con­nections. And a favor owed was a favor owed. This was her chance to reach for a bit more respect from the other Kindred. This was what she deserved!

  Her eye fell on the corpse lean-Claude had brought, and she smiled again. If she was only going to incinerate it, she would be a fool to let the blood go to waste. She dipped her finger in the blood and touched it gingerly to her tongue, testing for the taint of vampire vitae. Not long after her Embrace, another vampire had tried to trick her into a Blood Bond by putting his own blood into a corpse. She certainly wouldn't have placed lean-Claude above suspicion of doing the same thing.