“Very well. Remember the dream then. Only the dream.”
She sighed and surrendered, sinking back against cushions. Rozokov almost left her there but then remembered that, even in this neighbourhood, there might be predators abroad without his courtesy and so he carried her into the house and left her on the black leather sofa to sleep.
On his careful way back to his own territory, he tried to regret her . . . but could not. He had been too long with only hypnotized whores and unconscious winos to whom he was not even a dream. He had gone so long without hearing his own name on another’s lips that he had almost forgotten it. He had confused caution with inertia, fear with prudence. It was time to change. It was time to act.
Some night soon.
Everything That Rises
She says one day soon
you and I will merge
Everything that rises must converge
From the Diary of Ambrose Delaney Dale
15 September 1898
It succeeded—this plan that I have spent all summer orchestrating has finally succeeded! The prey has eluded me, it’s true, but now I know his name and his face. There is nowhere he can run now.
They all came, all those I had reason to suspect. The ruse of a social dinner, in aid of broadening the membership of our city’s business association, seemed to have deceived them all.
It was maddening at first. They all passed every test I had devised. All entered without being invited—but perhaps written invitations suffice. All appeared in the mirrors I carefully placed about the foyer and dining salon. Some arrived with wives, overdressed and as respectable and ordinary as any merchant wives. All ate the fowl, despite the heavy dose of garlic in the sauce. None cowered before the crucifix I set on the mantel, or the crosses woven into the pattern of the tablecloth. They seemed an average selection of foreign businessmen, some pompous and loud, some quiet and careful, some charming and astute.
As the evening wore on, I had almost given up in despair and was prepared to send away Collins, who stood guard in the hallway in the guise of a servant, and the men he had hired. I left the parlour and proceeded to my study, confident that Collins would follow me to receive his instructions.
The door was open when I arrived and I knew at once that I was not alone. I had not made this room off limits, of course, and so a fire burned low in the fireplace, casting a faint, flickering light that let me see the man standing in the shadows by the far wall. He was staring at the shelves of books there. I had time to realize that those shelves housed my collection of occult volumes—and that the fire could hardly have shed enough light for any normal man to read the titles there—when he turned around.
As his eyes flared red, I knew that he was the one I sought. Once recognized, it came as clear as day and I wondered how I could have looked at that narrow face, those pale eyes and not have seen it immediately.
But as I knew him—he knew me!
I could see by the sudden light in his eyes that he realized that I knew the truth. For a moment, we stared at each other, then he moved, lunging at me more quickly than I would have believed possible.
There was a thunderous sound in my ears and the smell of cordite in the air. The creature’s forward motion reversed, and he staggered backwards, clutching at his chest. I could see the white front of his shirt start to darken.
I heard Collins swear behind me and feared for a moment that we had both been wrong . . . that an innocent man was dying in front of us.
Then the vampire spun around and dove for the window, crashing through the glass and out into the gardens beyond. “Go after him!” I shouted at Collins and, to his credit, the man did not flinch, but hurled himself across the room and out the same window. Outside, I heard him shouting for his men.
Almost instantly, there was a babble of voices behind me. Henry, Elizabeth, the guests . . . clamouring to know what was happening. I managed to placate them with stories of a prowler and that set them off into tales of crime in the city and much head-shaking and tongue-clucking about the sad state of the modern world. Fortunately, Elizabeth persuaded them to return to the dining salon to do it.
It is now almost dawn. Collins has not returned. I have begun to think perhaps he will never return. That is inconvenient . . . but not an insurmountable setback. There are plenty of men like him in the city, who for a fee will believe any lies I choose to tell them. If Collins does not return, I will hire someone else today to begin the search of the vampire’s property.
I have not slept. I cannot sleep.
It is very hot here in the study, despite the broken window. My head pounds incessantly and that strange, tight feeling in my chest has come back. To think that in a while none of these things will trouble me!
I hear Carstairs at the door, no doubt with breakfast. Maybe this pain will go away after I eat.
Chapter 24
The death of Philip Campbell Jr. was a tabloid publisher’s dream. “Millionaire’s son dies in Horror House,” screamed the headlines. Young and handsome, Philip’s image stared out from every front page. The cult-killing case was regurgitated in nauseating detail in inner spreads. The building’s absentee owner, who had found the body during an inspection, reluctantly submitted to interviews again.
The next day Martin Rooke read the details the papers didn’t print. The police didn’t know much. Philip had died of internal injuries and a broken neck suffered in his fall from the third-floor landing of the infamous “Horror House.” His blood alcohol count was too low to qualify as legally drunk, but he had definitely been drinking. No one knew why he had gone there. He’d been with friends until 10:30 on Saturday night, but that was the last time they’d seen him. Police were questioning restaurateurs and shopkeepers along Yorkville Avenue in an attempt to trace his movements.
And the coroner had asked them to examine the death scene again. To find the blood that was missing from Philip’s body.
The next transmission brought more news. Campbell had been seen at 11:00 in a café, in the company of a young woman. An hour and a half later he was dead. The young woman was described as dressed in a black dress and wearing a hat and glasses with snap-down sunshades.
There was a note beneath the official report. “Street musician killed in car accident on June 10th—friend claims he spent last hour with ‘weird’ woman in black. Autopsy reports slightly lowered blood level, but nothing conclusive. Checking it out.” Rooke snorted. He wasn’t sure whether he was pleased by the report or not. He didn’t care whether Philip Campbell Jr. had been killed by a woman in black or a transvestite in pink chiffon. It was the grey-haired monster he needed. But the blood loss was important.
Had it started recruiting its victims through others, using women as the lures? It was a way to hunt without exposing itself to the city’s eyes. There was nothing in any of Roias’s reports to indicate that it could do that—but Roias had badly underestimated it from the beginning.
It couldn’t still be in the “Horror House”; the police had searched that thoroughly. But maybe it hadn’t gone far. Rooke sketched a brief note to himself. There were strings that could be pulled to allow a search of abandoned buildings to find fire code violations. One of Havendale’s construction subsidiaries could handle the credentials; Thompson’s men could handle the searches. And the city councillor with half a million in Havendale kickbacks in a Swiss bank account could handle the formalities. Would handle the formalities.
Rooke glanced out at the last reflection of the setting sun, a band of flame across the gold-plated windows of the Royal Bank Building. It was almost time for his report to Althea. At least this time he had something to say.
He used the computer and made the leads sound as positive as possible, outlining the action he was taking and daring to estimate a capture within two weeks. It was his longest report in a month. It got the same reply he always did, two words shimmering on the screen in silent accusation:
/> FIND HIM
There was no argument for that, no discussion. He was dismissed. Rooke sighed and erased the text.
At least the lab transfer had gone off without any major screw-ups. And he’d managed to keep the expenses down, what with switching the halon system in the lab to sprinklers and keeping the modifications to the upper storey at the bare minimum of Althea’s requirements. It still meant more than one hundred and fifty grand out of his pocket, but it could have been worse.
He needed a drink. That, and noise, and live bodies to keep his mind off the mechanics of recapturing the dead. He glanced at his watch. There was time to head out for a beer and still be back here before the computers spit out the next batch of stolen data cross-referencing Campbell’s death.
Out of the shadows of the towers, the heat clung to the concrete of the city, even as the last edges of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon of buildings to the west. He lit a cigarette, inhaled smoke and car exhaust, and walked towards Queen Street. As they always did now, his eyes flickered over everyone who passed, ignoring the uniforms of suits or leather, and looking for the signs of a memorized skull beneath the placid faces.
At the corner of Queen and John, he waited for the light to change, wondering if he wanted a beer at the Rotterdam or a margarita at Santa Fe. His gaze drifted over the streetlight pole beside him. It was covered with paper posters, layer upon layer plastered over each other. Did people really pay to see bands called Barbie Goes to Hell? Did they enjoy it? And that one—was it a band ad or a real notice? The poster showed a sketch of a woman’s face, angularly lovely and oddly unreal, surrounded by blunt, dark hair. The caption below said, “Have you seen this woman?” He skimmed the handwritten text. Missing since April . . . seen in July at Queen and John . . . anyone having seen her, call . . . Ardeth, please call home. That’s an odd name, he thought, wondering why it sounded familiar. He glanced back up into the handwriting, found the full name. Ardeth Alexander. Then the light changed.
He was halfway across the street when it hit him. There must have been something else that Roias must have lied to him about. But now he knew who the weird woman in black was. He knew who had lured Campbell into the death house. And he knew how to find the vampire. One of them, anyway. And either one would do.
Chapter 25
“Sorry Sara. Nothing at all.”
“Thanks anyway, Danny. Let me know if anyone calls.”
“You know it.”
She hung up the phone, turned off the bedroom light and stepped back out into the living room. Pete, Derek and Steve were sprawled on the floor amid a litter of pizza boxes and beer cans. Mickey sat with his back against the couch, a little apart from them. They were getting along, as far as she could tell, though she knew that the band members were curious about Mickey’s motives. Getting into her was one thing—and her business. Getting in the band was another.
She had some misgivings about his motives herself. He’d arrived at The Gold Rush that night a week ago with the poster scheme, promising that an artist friend of his could do the sketch, they could get them printed up cheaply, and he’d distribute them when he did his regular midnight postering runs for one of the clubs. After that one clumsy overture in the diner, he never mentioned joining the band again. He never played for her, not even when she left her own guitar lying around the living room of Ardeth’s apartment. She never invited him to, for fear her artistic judgment would end up ruining the tentative friendship she could feel developing between them.
“There’s only one inning left,” Tom was saying, watching the television. “The Jays are gonna make it.”
“In your dreams,” Derek retorted cynically. “They’re gonna choke. They always choke. It’s the unwritten rule of Canadian Sports—to join the union, you have to choke.”
Baseball, Sara thought in disgust, wending her way through the outstretched legs and beer cans to retrieve her empty glass and head for the kitchen. She was pouring herself another glass of wine when there was a sudden ragged cheer from the living room. She looked up as Mickey came in. “The Jays scored?”
“Yeah.” He leaned against the wall, watching her.
“You’re not into baseball, are you?”
“Not much,” he confessed.
“Neither am I. But . . .”
“But the band is.”
“The guys are. And it’s noise. I need noise here.”
“So that’s why they’re always here.” Sara laughed and sat down at the kitchen table.
“It’s not the only reason. But, well, I spent a few bad nights here when I first moved in, just after Ardeth disappeared. I don’t know, maybe I think if I keep a bunch of drunk, pizza-eating Jays fans around the place long enough, she’ll get so outraged she’ll come back and throw us all out.”
“Nothing from the posters yet?”
“No.”
“It’s only been two days. Give it time.”
“I hope so. I hope she calls. I hope she’s not angry I’m staying here.” She contemplated the bottom of her wineglass for a moment, as he settled into the chair across from her. “I haven’t unpacked. I just put all my stuff in a heap on her floor, just like I always did.”
“So you can pack up and go when she comes back?” Mickey asked. “You think she’d throw you out?”
“She never did before. She wanted to sometimes, but she never did. Of course, she never gave me a key either. I had to get the one I have now from Carla. But now . . .”
“She’s changed.” She nodded.
“Ardeth and I . . . we weren’t exactly friends.”
“Ever?”
“I don’t think so. But we had a good time together sometimes and usually we could be civil the rest of the time.”
“I have an older brother. He’s an engineer. At a family gathering he punches my shoulder and asks me when I’m going to get a real job. We probably say about twenty-five words to each other all day and five of them are ‘How was the trip down?’” Mickey told her and she laughed.
“We usually managed more than that. Not much more, mind you. She,” she paused, “I always thought I was supposed to live up to her somehow. The typical kid stuff, you know ‘Mother always liked you better.’”
“Did she?”
“I don’t think so, not really. Ardeth said once that she thought Mom liked me better, so who can tell. It got worse when our parents died. Ardeth started to act as if she were my mother. Sometimes it was like we spoke different languages—so that even if we meant the same things, it all came out sounding like a reason to fight.” She tilted her chair back, looked up at the ceiling, then back down at the glass twisting in her fingers. “One time, when we were just kids, I was in a school play. It was some Greek myth or something. We had these white sheets we had to wear as Greek gowns. Ardeth loved that shit, mythology, history, anything old and dead—she loved it. So she found a book that had designs of Greek jewelry and she made me this necklace. She made it from papier mâché and painted it up in gold and blue and red. I suppose it was probably pretty sad—Ardeth’s strong point is her mind, not her hands. But I felt like the Queen of Olympus in that thing. Because it was the first thing she ever really gave me—the me that was just learning to sing, that was just starting to really be me. I wore it every time we did that play. I kept it for years. Because it meant that, at least once.” Her voice broke and she stared harder at her hands, blurry behind her tears, “she must have liked me.”
“Sara . . .”
“Jesus, I’m sorry.” She tossed her head back, blinked up into the light as if the electrical heat could dry her tears. “I thought I was over this. I sound like a fuckin’ Disney film.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to say ‘fuck’ in a Disney film,” Mickey pointed out and Sara laughed, harder than the joke warranted, and let the laughter explain her tears and flushed cheeks when the band put their heads into the kitchen to announce
that, due solely to their moral support, the Jays had staved off the dreaded Canadian choke syndrome for another game.
“Well, now that we’ve one again consumed your food and watched your TV, we’d better be going. See you at the Rush tomorrow night,” Tom said. “We’re heading downtown, Mickey. You want a ride?”
In the sudden silence, Sara felt Mickey’s eyes on her, waiting for a sign of what she wanted. What do I want? If she asked, they’d all stay, let her sleep with them in a heap of covers and pillows on the living-room floor, like they’d crashed on so many floors before. If she asked, Mickey alone might stay, might drive Ardeth’s ever-present memory out of the cold bed in the next room.
She said nothing.
“Sure,” Mickey answered after a moment. The chair scraped on the floor as he stood up. In the empty kitchen, she wiped her eyes and listened to the rustle of leather jackets being pulled on, the ritual banter of the band as they prepared to leave. She waited until she had heard them open the apartment door, until it was too late to call them back with any dignity, before she got up and went out to the small entrance hallway.
They were already on the way down the hall, pausing to wave and mouth goodbye in an exaggerated concern for silence, mocking her insistence on not ruining Ardeth’s reputation with her neighbours. It was almost funny—she who had hosted lease-breaking parties that summoned squad cars insisting on silence.
Mickey hung somewhere between the apartment door and the exit and when she appeared, he drifted back to her doorway. “You’ll be OK alone?”
She looked at the closing door at the end of the hallway. “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
“If you change your mind, I can bike back up here.”
“To sleep on my couch?” The question came out sharp and jagged, studded with memories of Tyler, and false comfort promised by other arms.
“Whatever. Whatever.” He met her gaze squarely, while she considered the angles, considered what it was he really offered. And what he wanted in return.
The Night Inside Page 21