Never Just One Apocalypse
Page 17
Golding and Sam exchanged glances.
“These laws must be made by demons,” Golding mused. He turned on his blinker and prepared to take their exit off the highway.
“See, that’s what I want to tell all my friends online, only I can’t tell them that,” Mike said. “It’s kind of frustrating.”
As Golding slowed down on the off-ramp, Mike seemed to perk up. “Oh, I just thought of something. You could probably make a fortune if you used magic to make a console that could play any game.”
Sam turned around to look at the teenager. “What are you talking about?”
Mike’s eyes flashed with animation as he thought about the scheme in his head, the game in front of him forgotten, temporarily. “Okay so you could take a whole bunch of old game consoles, one of each, and throw them in a cauldron together, right? Then do whatever you need to do to make the magic work, like ‘add Arrowroot for binding’ or whatever, I don’t know how that works, but it’s always something like that, you just need the right plant or rock or whatever. Then you’d have this monster super-console that could play any game ever released. If you made a bunch of those and sold them, you’d be set for life.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Sam said as Golding turned into a dimly lit parking lot.
Mike was nodding to himself, pleased with his plan.
“Sure, the execs at the big gaming companies wouldn’t like it, but they all probably have demons on their boards of directors anyway, right? And those demons wouldn’t want to get into a fight with one of the big shots from Court. So you’d be fine. In fact, if you don’t do it, it’s like leaving money just sitting there on the table.”
Golding parked and began to get out of the car. He spoke to Sam over his shoulder.
“With all due respect, I think it’s possible that Mr. Trepkowski here would make a better overlord than you.”
“I don’t think there was ever any doubt,” Sam agreed, closing his door. He had an urge to tell Golding not to preface comments to him with niceties like ‘with all due respect,’ but bit his tongue; now wasn’t the time.
Mike had put his laptop in his red backpack, which also had a few changes of clothes and toiletries.
“You know they’re going to go through your bag, and they’ll probably take your laptop,” Golding warned.
Mike shrugged; clearly, his computer wasn’t necessary for what he planned on doing. “Doesn’t matter, as long as they give it back.”
“What if they put some kind of a virus on your computer and start spying on you?” Sam asked, quietly. He wasn’t very knowledgeable about hacking, but he was pretty sure that letting someone else have your computer was a bad idea.
“Oh, I hope they do,” Mike said with a grin. Sam was puzzled, but as they’d reached the door of the building, and Golding was already buzzing in on the PA system, he didn’t have time to inquire.
It was a beige, bland professional building; the kind one expected to be filled with offices for psychologists and insurance agents, and plenty of half-dead potted plants. Golding pressed a button and waited, looking around furtively.
“Nervous?” asked Sam.
“I didn’t exactly leave here under the best of circumstances,” Golding whispered.
Finally, someone answered Golding’s call.
“Yes, who is it?” said a smoky female voice.
“It’s John Golding. And I’ve brought…guests.”
After a few moments, a tall, dark-haired woman threw open the door. She was thin and pale, both wrists covered up to the elbow in thick gauze bandages. She was also furious.
“John, are you out of your mind? Do you know what they’re going to do if they find you here?”
“As I said, I’m not alone,” said Golding. He moved to the side so that the woman could see Sam, standing behind him. Mike gave her a little wave.
Apparently the woman recognized Sam, because she looked like she was about to be sick. She put a hand to her mouth, her already pale skin taking on a sickly hue.
Taking no notice of her reaction, Golding walked past her into the hallway. Feeling awkward, Sam followed, with Mike behind him. Golding walked past the main elevator to a smaller elevator around the corner. He pushed the button and frowned.
“Taryn, could you please unlock the service elevator? We need to get downstairs.”
The woman seemed to gather her composure, but her thin frame was still trembling. “Listen, it’s true that Julius and Ormond feed in the city, everyone tells them not to, but they do. Maybe Alyssa does too, I don’t know her. But Helena never does! Helena obeys the law!” she said, then burst into tears.
At Sam’s confused expression, Golding explained. “She thinks you’re here to punish the vampires who are breaking your rules by feeding on people without permission.”
“Oh,” Sam responded, taken aback. He felt bad that the thin woman was so distraught, but the idea that there were vampires preying on people in his city didn’t sit well with him. “Don’t worry, I’m not here for that. Not tonight, anyway.”
“Can you let us down, Tar?” Golding continued. “I promise you, we’re here to talk. No one gets hurt—unless Liddell wants it, I suppose,” he concluded dryly.
Steeling herself, and drawing herself up to her full height, Taryn walked past Sam and to the control panel. A small key attached to a chain on her wrist unlocked the elevator for them. As the door opened, Golding turned back to her.
“Thank you, Taryn. I wish I’d gotten a chance to say goodbye, before. It’s good to see you again, and looking so healthy.”
Sam had to flick an eyebrow at that.
This is her looking “healthy”? What does she normally look like?
The pale woman just shook her head. “I hate you, John,” she said quietly.
The three men got into the elevator. Golding pushed a long series of buttons, and they were on their way to the basement.
“Is there a massive subterranean lair down here?” Mike asked. He sounded excited; Sam couldn’t help but notice that when his emotions were running high, Mike started to sound a bit like Jay.
Golding made a so-so gesture. “I don’t know about ‘massive,’ but it is a big basement. Normally five vampires live here, sometimes as many as nine.”
When the doors opened, it was like peering into darkness. Only the faintest blue light, coming from special bulbs on the ceiling, illuminated the hallway.
“Why’s it so dark in here?” Mike asked, whispering. There was no real reason to whisper, but the darkness seemed to invite it.
Golding stepped out of the elevator and began walking at a good clip; the other two followed him, their eyes adjusting to the light. Sam dropped his disguise spell, because having a layer of dark color superimposed over his eyes was making it even harder to see.
“Alphonse Liddell has the worst case of sun sickness I’ve ever heard of; even artificial light bothers him. So they keep it as dark as possible,” Golding said, keeping his voice low.
“Is he even older than Eugene?” asked Mike.
Sam was unnerved; the very idea of someone being older than Eugene was disconcerting.
“I don’t know, and certainly don’t ask him,” said Golding, brusquely. “It’s very impolite to ask a vampire about that.”
They passed through a living room, full of antique furniture. It was hard to see much of anything in the dim blue light, but the old furniture made strange, pointy shapes that seemed to echo a different time. The only nod to modernity was a giant big-screen TV along one wall. One figure—it was impossible to tell male or female in the dark—was sitting in an oversized easy chair near the screen. At the sight of them, the vampire made a shocked noise and ran out of the room, almost a blur.
“Well, now Liddell knows we’re here,” Golding mused.
“How could he tell who we—” Sam started, then put a hand in front of his face. The light from his undisguised eyes made the skin of his palm glow a faint pink. “Oh. Right.”
“This is the Throne Room, for lack of a better word,” Golding whispered. “They don’t call it that, but that’s what it is.”
Golding picked up the brass knocker and knocked three times, hard. A tall, sour-faced vampire in a suit opened the door, glaring at Golding like he was a bug that needed squashing.
“John,” he said. Somehow he made the common name sound like a curse. “To think that you would come back.”
“Evening, Julius,” Golding said, respectfully. “Is Mr. Liddell in this evening?”
Julius looked past Golding to Sam, and knitted his brows. Sam wondered if he was trying to figure out if he could get away with ripping Golding’s head off in Sam’s presence.
“Now, please, Julius? As you can imagine, the Master doesn’t have time to waste here.”
Oh yes, the Master has so many important things to do. Mainly ordering more pizza for a ravenously hungry fairy.
With a grimace, Julius fully opened the door and swept his arm forward, beckoning them into the room. Like the living room, Liddell’s room was filled with a mix of furniture of indeterminate vintage, but it seemed like a safe bet that everything was at least 150 years old. At the back of the room was a raised floor, a stage-like area, and positioned on the stage was a large hard-backed chair. Sitting in the chair was the small figure of an old man, with a long gray beard. His bald spot glowed in the blue light, but he nevertheless had long hair; a white ponytail rested on one shoulder. He was wearing a dated outfit, with breeches and a cravat, yet still somehow gave the impression of being current. Whereas Eugene tried to downplay his presence with shabby clothing and a humble façade, Liddell looked every inch the old, powerful vampire.
His deep-set, piercing blue eyes took in Sam for a moment, and despite the fact that Sam knew he outranked the vampire ten times over, it was intimidating.
“Welcome to my home, Master of our fine city,” Liddell began in a gravelly voice. It sounded like every syllable hurt his aged throat to utter. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, although I do wish you had called first. Then we could have arranged a more…proper…reception.”
Sam’s first instinct was to apologize, but he caught himself in time.
“Are you saying I’m not welcome to go wherever I want in my own city? Whenever I choose?” he said. He hoped he sounded confident without crossing the line into total pomposity.
Liddell held up a hand, consoling.
“Of course not. I merely wish I had advance notice so that I could have accommodated you in the style to which your standing merits, that is all.”
Golding met Sam’s eyes with an approving expression that seemed to say, that was good, keep going like that. Julius came to stand beside his master, still glaring at Golding like he wanted to skin him alive. Sam wondered what had gone on between the two of them between these very walls.
“I’ve no interest in formalities. I need information, and I’ve been told that you—”
Golding cleared his throat.
“Master, please forgive the interruption, but would you not prefer to present the gift before getting down to business?”
“Oh yes, the gift,” Sam said blankly, a little shaken that Golding had interrupted him. It must have been really important to present the gift first.
Sam put a hand on Mike’s shoulder and pushed him forward.
“As a gesture of…friendship, I offer this human from my entourage. He is very young, and his blood has yet to be tasted,” he said, using the phrase Golding had instructed him to say, though the words tasted bitter and gross in his mouth. Sam could tell from the stiffness of Mike’s back that the boy was uncomfortable, but that was hardly a surprise.
Liddell spread his hands out slowly, a small smile playing upon his thin, cracked lips. “As a mere servant, I could not possibly accept such a magnanimous gift. To honor your intentions though, I will entertain the boy for three days, no more, but then I must return him to you.”
As much as the pageantry annoyed Sam, he was relieved to hear Liddell honor his part of the script. “Very well then. I’ll have someone pick him up in three days.”
Liddell put a hand on his hollow cheek and leaned his head sideways slightly, considering. “You bring me a child that smells of plastics,” Liddell said dryly, then narrowed his eyes. “And yet…may I take a closer look at him?”
Sam flicked his eyes to Golding, who gave the subtlest of nods.
“Of course.”
With effort, Liddell rose from his chair. His posture was such that he was practically bent over even while standing. Using an elegant ivory cane, he stepped off the raised platform and walked up to Mike. Mike took an involuntary step back, but then caught himself and ceased moving. The aged vampire walked close to the boy, so he was only inches from his collar, and breathed deeply through his nose.
“Plastics and peanut butter and sugar…but, beneath that…” he put a gentle, mottled hand on Mike’s face; the boy’s effort not to recoil was visible, even from the back. “Beneath that…parchment? Dried in the sun, for hours. Fingers, stained with ink, so stained the nails are always black…”
Sam looked again to Golding, who shrugged; he had no idea what Liddell was talking about.
Suddenly Liddell laughed, and the sound was like giant pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. Mike did recoil then, but Liddell had already removed his hand and began stepping away.
“You don’t know what it is you offer,” he said, smiling. “Boy, what is your surname?”
“Trepkowski.” Despite his obvious discomfort, Mike kept his voice strong and even.
Liddell shrugged slightly, like that was the wrong answer.
“What about your mother? Her maiden name.”
“Cohen,” said Mike, after a pause. Liddell nodded slightly.
“And your grandmother, her family name?”
Mike had to think about that for a moment.
“Uh…Rosentheil, I think.”
Liddell frowned at that, then shook his head. “Oh well, it matters not. The names may not be right, but this is a descendent of the scribes of Old Israel—not just a Levite, but a Kohanim, the priest class. Descended through the patrilineal line, as tradition dictates, but also the product of generations of Bat Kohen, daughters of priests: a thoroughbred. Quite hard to find these days, after that nasty business in Europe a few years ago,” he said, laughing again. With renewed vigor, he climbed back into his chair, then looked at Sam with an amused expression.
“Given your exceptional generosity…perhaps inadvertent generosity, but no matter—I am truly in your debt. Anything you ask, if it’s within my power, I shall provide.”
Sam hadn’t been prepared for Liddell’s reaction to Mike. If the kid was some kind of special commodity to vampires, then leaving him at the Liddell compound for days was even more dangerous than he’d anticipated. But it was too late to do anything about it now.
“I need to know about Arcane Phantasms,” Sam said bluntly, too irritated at this point to feign politeness. “How they’re summoned, how to stop them.”
Liddell’s eyebrows raised at that. “Interesting. It’s been many years since I’ve spoken of them. Is some damned fool trying to summon them again?”
“I’m asking the questions,” Sam said sharply.
Liddell put up his palm again, his default gesture of appeasement. “Of course, forgive me. I was merely curious.” He settled himself in his chair, getting into a more comfortable position, and continued. “I cannot tell you how to stop them; there is no way. However, to summon the magic beasts of yore, you need blood from a member of every race, to undo the pact that was created to prevent them ever coming into the world again. But more than that, you need an object.”
“What is it?” asked Golding breathlessly, then paled, realizing he shouldn’t have sai
d anything. He was supposed to let Sam do all the talking unless spoken to.
If Liddell noticed or cared about Golding’s impudence, he gave no sign. “A tablet, iron. The actual object upon which the pact was sealed. If you put a drop of blood from every race on the tablet, you can summon the Phantasms. Furthermore, if you destroyed it, they could never be summoned again.”
At Sam’s surprised reaction, Liddell quickly corrected himself. “That is to say, they could not be summoned again with that particular spell. The would-be Sorcerer would have to start the process from scratch, and perhaps that knowledge has been lost? You’ll forgive my ignorance on this point; even with all my reading, there are limits to what I understand of magic. I can only conceive of it academically, not practically.”
“I see,” said Sam, finally starting to feel that, perhaps, coming to speak to Liddell had not been an absolutely terrible idea. “So destroying the tablet might not make it technically impossible to summon giant monsters, but it would make it so much more difficult that it may as well be impossible. Hmm.”
He stood for a moment in thought. One nice thing about ostensibly being in charge was that he knew no one was going to rush him to speak. After a moment, he sighed.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me where this tablet is?”
“I wish I could,” said Liddell, his tone conveying genuine regret. “For hundreds of years, it lay at the bottom of the Dead Sea; that much, I know for sure. But it is no longer there, and I do not know where it has been taken.”
“Right,” Sam sighed. “It would be entirely too convenient for me to be able to just find the damned thing and smash it to pieces.”
Liddell blinked slowly. “Smashing it to pieces would not work; it could always be put back together again, after all. No, to destroy it, you’d have to curse it out of existence. Nothing less would suffice.”
Golding leaned over and whispered in Sam’s ear.
“If separating it into pieces doesn’t destroy it, then we have to consider the possibility that it’s hidden in several pieces. Parts of it could be hidden all over the globe, for all we know.”
Sam barely suppressed a groan at that. For one brief moment, it had seemed like a solution was in sight; now they were practically back right where they’d started.