Necroscope IV: Deadspeak

by Brian Lumley

Chapter 12

   

  12

  First and Second Blood

  As Faethor finished, so there came a cabin announcement: the plane was now descending towards Athens. Harry said:

  Faethor, in another ten to fifteen minutes I'll be on the ground and into the bustle of the airport. I've noticed that you've been growing weaker - your voice - and put it down to distance and the sun full on the ruins of your house. Soon I'll be on my way to Rhodes which is more distant yet. So this is probably my last chance to say a few things.

  You have something to say? (Harry pictured Faethor raising an eyebrow. )

  First. . . I owe you my thanks, Harry told him, but second, I can't help but remind myself that without you in the first place none of this - Thibor, Dragosani, Yulian Bodescu, and now Janos - would ever have happened. OK, so I'm in your debt, but at the same time I know you for the black-hearted thing you have been, and for the monsters you've spawned in my world. And I'd be a liar if I didn't tell you that in my opinion you're the biggest monster of them all!

  I consider it a compliment, Faethor answered, without hesitation. Is there anything else you require to know?

  A few things, yes, said Harry. If you destroyed Janos so utterly, how come he's back? I mean, what trick did he work - what dark magic did he leave behind him - to bring him back into the world? And why did he wait so long? Why now?

  Is it not obvious? Faethor sounded genuinely surprised by Harry's nai'vet6. He had seen the far future and laid his plans accordingly. He had known I would put him down, that time when I returned to the mountains. Yes, and he knew that if he came back in my time I would find a way to do it again! And so he must wait until I was gone from the world. Time is but a small thing to the Wamphyri, Harry. As to how he worked this clever trick:

  It was those accursed Zirras! Aye, and I know it was them, for I've had it from my own faithful few, who mutter in their graves much like other men. I'll tell you how it was:

  Long after me and mine were gone from the castle on the heights, certain of Janos's own returned and placed his vampire ashes in a secret place which he'd prepared against just such an eventuality. For he'd learned other magicks in my three hundred years' absence, of which this was one. He'd had Zirra women in his time, that bastard of mine, and sown his seed far and wide. The three-fingered son of a son of his would one day feel his allure and go up to the old castle in the mountains. . . but it would be Janos who came down from it! So he planned it, and so it has come to pass. . .

  And all the treasure he'd looted from ancient tombs, did you never find it? Harry pressed. Didn't you search the place, your own castle?

  I searched a little, Faethor answered. But have you not listened? The treasure was elsewhere, buried again or sunken in the sea, until this later time when he could have it up.

  Of course, Harry nodded, I'd forgotten.

  As for searching the place in its entirety: no, I did not, not every hole the dog had digged. I no longer felt that it was mine but that he had fouled it. I could smell him, even taste him, everywhere. The castle had his mark on it, where his despicable sigil was carved into the very stone: the red-eyed bat, rising from its urn. He had used the place and made it his own, and I wanted no more of it. Shortly, I moved on. As for my own history after that time, that does not concern you.

  So the castle still stands, Harry mused in a little while. And in its roots. . . what? Does anything remain of Janos's 'tomb-loot', his experiments with necromancy? I wonder. For after all, it appears that's where he came from in this most recent resurgence. . . And Faethor knew that Harry was thinking of another castle in the Carpathians, but on the Russian side, in a region once called the Khorvaty and still called by some Bukovina. For that had been Faethor's home, too, upon a time, and what had been done there and left there to scream and fester in the earth had been monstrous; so that Harry knew there was a grave peril in certain ruins.

  I can understand your concern, the vampire told him, but I think it is unfounded. For my place in the heights over old Halmagiu and Virfurilio is no more. It was swept away, all in a magnificent thunder, in the October of the year 1928.

  Yes, I remember that, Harry answered. I heard it from Ladislau Giresci. Apparently it was some sort of explosion, possibly of methane gas accumulated in the cellars; which, if they were as extensive as you say, seems feasible. But if Janos's - remains - came through it, who is to say there weren't other survivals?

  But as I have explained, said Faethor, Janos had made provision. Whatever else perished when that house went down, he did not. Perhaps his Szgany had taken his ashes from there to some other place, only returning them later when the house lay in ruins, I don't know. Possibly they did it when the castle became the property of another. Again I cannot say.

  What other? said Harry.

  Faethor sighed, but eventually: There was one other, aye, he finally said. Listen and I'll tell you about him:

  During the 15th, 16th and 17th Centuries, and even to the 18th, the supposed civilized world had grown more aware of so-called 'witches' and the 'Black Arts'. Witches, necromancers, demons, vampires, and all such creatures -real and imagined, guilty or innocent - were harried by relentless witchfinders, 'proved' by torture, and destroyed. Now, the true vampire was ever aware of his mortality and of the one Great Enemy of all his kind, called Prominence! And the 16th Century especially was not a good time for a person to be found too old or different or reclusive or even noticeable. In short, while anonymity among the Wamphyri has ever been a synonym for longevity, it was never more so than in those dark and doomful 16th and 17th Centuries!

  Now, in the middle and to the end of the 17th Century the witchfinders were active in America, and from a place called Salem was driven a man called Edward Hutchinson. He obtained a lease on my old house in the mountains and dwelled there. . . far too long! He was a diabolist, a necromancer, and possibly a vampire. Perhaps even Wamphyri! But as I have hinted, he was imprudent; he lived too long in the one place and made himself prominent.

  He studied the history of the house and took for his own several grand pseudonyms: as well as Edward he was wont to call himself 'Baron' or 'Janos' - aye, and even 'Faethor'! And finally he settled for 'Baron Ferenczy'. Now this, as might well be imagined, was what brought him to my attention. It offended me; likewise his occupancy of the castle, for I had thought me that one day I might return there myself, when things were different and Janos's taint faded a little with the years. The Wamphyri are territorial, as you know. And so I vowed that at a time of my choosing and as chance permitted, then I'd square these things with this Hutchinson.

  But chance never did permit; no, for I had my own existence to look to, and the world was ever abustle and full of change. And so for two hundred years and more this foreign man lived in the castle I had builded, while I in my turn lived alone in my house in Ploiesti.

  As I have said, he made himself prominent in some way, perhaps in several. Certainly he would soon have been summoned to Bucuresti, to make account of himself, if not for that titan explosion which finished him and his works forever. But as for Janos: I can only assume he lay in his jar or urn in a secret place, and waited for his time and a certain three-fingered son of the Szgany to find and rescue him.

  Myself . . . I went back there once - in 1930, I think -do not ask me why. Perhaps I desired to see what remained of the place; I might even have lived there again, if it was habitable. But no, Janos's touch was still on the stone, his taint in the mortar, his hated memory in the very air of the ruins. Of course it was, for Janos himself was still there! But I did not know that.

  But do you know, I believe that in the end Janos had been closer to his Wamphyri sources than I might ever have imagined? For however cursory my exploration of those ruins that time in 1930, nevertheless I found evidence of works which. . . but enough. We are both tired, and you are not giving me your best attention. Stil
l, nothing will waste; you know the bulk of it; the rest will keep until another time.

  You're right, said Harry, I am tired. Nervous exhaustion, I suppose. And he made himself a promise that between Athens and Rhodes he'd sleep.

  And he did . . .

  . . . But coming awake just before the landing, and as Harry stepped down from the plane into the blasting sunlight and made his way with the other passengers towards customs, he could feel inside that something was very much amiss. And his heart speeded up a little when, beyond the barriers in the arrivals area, he saw Manolis Papastamos and Darcy Clarke waiting for him; for it was written in their faces, too, that something was wrong. For all the sunshine and warmth, still they looked cold, pale, sick.

  He looked at the two of them where they waited, searched their faces for an answer, and almost snatched back his forged passport when it was handed to him. Then he hurried to them, thinking: There's a face missing, Sandra's, but that's only right for she'll be in London now. . . won't she?

  'Is it Sandra?' he said, when they were face to face. They looked at him, then looked away. And: Tell me about it,' he said, curiously calm now for all that he felt very, very ill.

  And so they told him about it. . .

  Twenty-one hours earlier:

  Darcy had escorted Sandra to the airport outside Rhodes and stayed with her until she was called forward for her London flight - almost. But at the last moment he had been obliged to answer a call of nature. The toilets were a little distant from the boarding gates, so that coming out he had to run the length of the terminal in order to wave her goodbye. By the time he'd found a vantage point, the last of the passengers were already climbing the gantry steps to the aircraft's door. But he waved anyway, thinking that perhaps she would see him from her window.

  After the plane left he drove back to the villa and began packing his things, only to be interrupted by a telephone call from Manolis at the police station. It had been Manolis's idea that when Sandra was out of it Darcy shouldn't stay on his own. The Greek policeman had rooms in an hotel in the centre of town; Darcy would be welcome to stay there. But before driving out to the villa to act as Darcy's guide to his new lodgings, and because it happened now and then that flights were late, Manolis had thought to call the airport first and ensure that Sandra was safely away. And he'd discovered that she wasn't away at all but had missed her flight.

  'What?' Darcy couldn't believe it. 'But. . . I was there. I mean, I was in the. . . '

  'Yes?'

  'Shit!' Darcy gasped, as the truth hit him.

  'You were in the shit?'

  'No, in the bloody toilets,' Darcy groaned, 'which in this case amounts to much the same thing! Manolis, don't you see? It was my talent working for me - or against me. Against that poor girl, anyway. '

  'Your talent?'

  'My guardian angel, the thing that keeps me out of trouble. It isn't something I can control. It works in different ways. This time it saw danger around the corner and. . . and I had to go to the damned toilet!'

  Now Manolis understood, and knew the worst of it. They've taken her?' he hissed. 'The Lazarides creature and his vampires, they have drawn the first blood?'

  'God, yes!' Darcy answered. 'I can't think of any other explanation. '

  In his native Greek, Manolis said a long stream of things then; curses, Darcy supposed. And: 'Look, stay where you are and I'll be right there. '

  'No,' Darcy answered. 'No, meet me at that place where we ate the other night. Christ, I need a drink!'

  'Very well,' said Papastamos. 'Fifteen minutes. . . '

  Darcy was into his third large Metaxa when Manolis arrived. 'Will you get drunk?' he said. 'It won't help. '

  'No,' Darcy answered. 'I just needed a stiffener, that's all. And do you know what I keep thinking? What will I tell Harry? That's what!'

  'It isn't your fault,' Manolis commiserated, 'and you must stop thinking about it. Harry is back tomorrow. We must let him take the lead. Meanwhile, every policeman on the island is looking for Lazarides, his crew and his boat - and Sandra, of course. I made the call and gave the orders before I came here. Also, I should have the complete background information on this. . . this Vrykoulakas pig by morning! Not only from Athens but also America. Lazarides's right-hand man, called Armstrong, is an American. '

  Darcy looked at Manolis and thought: Christ, I thank you for this man!

  Darcy wasn't a secret agent, nor even a policeman. He'd been with E-Branch all these years not because his talent was indispensable to them but simply because it was a talent, and all such weird and esoteric powers had interested them. But he couldn't use it as the telepaths and locators used theirs, and it was useless except in special circumstances. Indeed, on several occasions it had seemed to Darcy that his talent used him. Certainly it had caused him grief now and then: as during the Bodescu affair, for example, when it had kept him safe and sound only at the expense of another esper. And Darcy still hadn't forgiven himself for that. Now there was this. Without Papastamos to take control and actually, physically, do something. . . Darcy didn't know what he would have done.

  'What do you suggest we do now?' he said.

  'What can we do?' the other answered. 'Until we have word of them - until we know where Lazarides and the girl are - we can do nothing. And even then I will need authorization to move on this creature. Unless . . . I could always claim I had the strong suspicions of the drug-running, and close in on him even without authorization! But it will help when we know all about him, tomorrow morning. And Harry Keogh might have the ideas, too. So for now - ' he shrugged, but heavily and with obvious frustration,' - nothing. '

  'But -'

  "There are no buts. We can only wait. ' He stood up. 'Come on, let's get your things. '

  They drove to the villa, where Darcy found himself oddly reluctant to get out of the car. 'Do you know,' he said, 'I feel completely done in, "knackered", in common parlance! I suppose it's emotional. '

  'I suppose it's the Metaxa!' Manolis answered, drily.

  But as they approached the door of the place down the garden path, suddenly Darcy knew that 'it' was neither. He grabbed the Greek's arm and whispered hoarsely, 'Manolis, someone is in there!'

  'What?' Manolis looked at him, glanced back towards the villa. 'But how do you know?'

  'I know because I don't want to go in. It's my guardian angel acting up, my talent. Someone's waiting in there for us - for me, anyway. My own fault. I was in such a state when I came out that I left the door open. '

  'And now you're sure someone is in there, right?' Manolis's voice was a mere breath of air as he brought out his pistol and fitted a silencer to the barrel, then cocked it.

  'God, yes!' Darcy in turn breathed. 'I'm sure, all right. It's like someone was trying to turn me around and boot me the hell out of it! First I didn't want to get out of the car, and now, with every step I take, it gets stronger. And believe me, whoever it is in there, he's deadly!'

  'Then he's mine,' said Manolis, showing Darcy his gun. 'For this too is quite deadly!' He reached out and touched the door, which swung silently open. 'Follow me in. ' And he turned sideways, crouched down a very little and stepped inside.

  Darcy's every instinct, each fibre of his being, screamed RUN!. . . but he followed Manolis inside. He wouldn't let it make a coward of him this time. There were two too many people on his conscience already. It was time he showed this fucking thing who was boss! And-

  Manolis put on the light.

  The main living-room was empty, looked just as Darcy had left it. Manolis looked at Darcy, cocked his head on one side inquiringly and gave a small, questioning shrug. 'Where?' his whisper was so quiet as to be a mere shaping of the lips.

  Darcy looked around the room, at the beds grouped in the centre of the floor, the tapestry on the wall, a
pair of ornamental oil lamps on a shelf, a suitcase of Harry's under the bed he'd never used. And the doors, closed, leading to the bedrooms, which likewise hadn't been used. Until now. . .

  Then his eyes went back to Harry's suitcase, and narrowed.

  'Well?' Manolis shaped his mouth again.

  Darcy held a finger to his lips, crossed to the beds and slid Harry's suitcase fully into view. The lid was open; he lifted it, took out the crossbow and loaded it, and stood up. Manolis nodded his approval.

  Darcy crossed to the bedroom doors and reached out a hand to touch the first one. His trembling fingertips told him nothing except that he was scared half to death. He commanded his feet to carry him to the second door, and went to touch that, too. But no, that was as brave as his talent would let him be. NO! something screamed at him. FOR FUCK'S SAKE, NO!

  Gooseflesh crawled on his arms as he half-turned towards Manolis to say, 'In here!' But he never said it.

  The door was hurled open, knocking Darcy aside, and Seth Armstrong stood framed in the opening. Just looking at him, apish, threatening, no one could have mistaken his alienness, the fact that he was less, or more, than a mere man. In the subdued lighting of the room, his left eye was yellow, huge, expanded in its orbit, and a black eyepatch hid the right eye from view.

  Manolis shouted, 'Stay where you are! Stand still!' But Armstrong merely smiled grimly and came loping towards him.

  'Shoot him!' Darcy shouted, scrabbling on his hands and knees. 'For Christ's sake shoot him!'

  Manolis had no choice for Armstrong was almost upon him - and he'd opened his mouth to display teeth and jaws which the Greek simply didn't believe! He fired twice, almost point-blank; the first into Armstrong's shoulder, which served to snap the big American upright, and the second into his belly, which bent him down again and pushed him back a little. But that was all. Then he came on again, grasped Manolis by the shoulder and hurled him against the wall. And Manolis knew where he'd felt such strength before, but knowing it didn't help him now. His gun had been sent flying, and Armstrong -and Armstrong's teeth - were coming for him again!

  'Hey, you!' Darcy shouted. 'Fucking vampire!'

  Armstrong was dragging Manolis to his feet, lowering his awful face towards him; he turned to face Darcy; and Darcy, aiming at his heart, pulled the trigger of his crossbow.

  That did it. As the bolt went in the American released Manolis and smashed back against the wall. Gagging and choking, he sought to grasp the bolt and draw it out. But he couldn't. It was too close to his heart, that most vital of organs. His heart pumped his vampire blood, and that was the source of his hideous strength. He gurgled, coughed, staggered to and fro and spat blood. And his left eye glared like a blob of sulphur seared into his face!

  Manolis was on his feet again. As Darcy fumbled frantically to reload his crossbow, so the Greek tried a second time and pumped four carefully aimed shots into the stricken vampire. But now the bullets had more effect. Each one drove Armstrong like a pile-driver backwards across the floor, and the last one hurled him against a window which shattered outwards, showering glass, broken louvre boards and Armstrong himself into the night garden.

  Darcy had loaded up. He stumbled out into the garden, with Manolis right behind him. Armstrong lay flat on his back in the remains of the window, alternating between flailing his arms and tugging at the hardwood bolt where it transfixed his chest. But he saw Darcy approaching and somehow sat up!

  Darcy took no chances; from no more than four feet away he sent the second bolt crashing through the vampire's heart, which not only served to stretch him out again but pinned him down and kept him still.

  Manolis, his mouth hanging open, came forward. 'Is he . . . is he finished?'

  'Look at him,' Darcy panted. 'Does he look finished? You may believe in them, Manolis, but you don't know them like I do. He's not finished - yet!'

  Armstrong was mainly still but his fingers twitched, his jaws chomped, and his burning yellow eye followed them where they moved about him. His eyepatch had been dislodged and an empty socket gaped black in the light from the wrecked window.

  Darcy said: 'Watch him!' and hurried back inside. A moment later he was back with a heavy, razor-honed, long-bladed cleaver, also from Harry's suitcase. Manolis saw its silvery gleam and said:

  'What?' His upper lip at the left drew back from his teeth in a nervous grimace.

  'The stake, the sword, and the fire!' Darcy answered.

  'Decapitation?'

  'And right now. His vampire is already healing him. See, no blood. In an ordinary man your bullets - any one of them - might have killed him with shock, let alone damage. But he's taken six and he isn't even bleeding! Two bolts in him, one right through the heart, and his hands are still working. His eyes, too. . . and his ears!'

  He was right: Armstrong had heard their conversation, and the loathsome orb of his left eye had swivelled to gaze upon the cleaver in Darcy's hand. He began gurgling anew, his body vibrating against the earth, the heel of his right foot hammering robotically into the dry soil of the garden.

  Darcy got down on one knee beside him and Armstrong tried to take hold of him with a spastic right hand. But he couldn't reach him, couldn't make his limbs work properly. Froth, phlegm and blood welled up in the vampire's throat. His right hand scuttled a little way towards Darcy like a spider, until the arm it dragged got too heavy for it. He tried a third time, then abruptly fell back and lay still.

  Darcy gritted his teeth, raised the cleaver -- And the membrane in the back of the cavity of Armstrong's right eye bulged and erupted, and a finger, blue-grey and pulsating, wriggled out onto his cheek!

  'Jesus!' Darcy fell back, almost fainted, and Manolis took over. He fired at Armstrong's face, pulling the trigger of his silenced gun until the nightmare finger and face both were so much pulp. And when his magazine was empty, then he took the cleaver from Darcy's rigid fingers, and took Armstrong's head, too.

  Darcy had turned away and was throwing up, but between each bout he gasped, 'Now we . . . we have to burn the . . . the ugly bastard!'

  Manolis was up to that, too. The lamps in the villa weren't just ornamental after all. They contained oil, and there was a spare can of fuel in the kitchen. By the time Darcy could take control of his heaving stomach, the remains of Armstrong were burning. Manolis stood watching, until Darcy got hold of his arm and took him off to a safe distance.

  'You can never tell,' he said, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. 'There might be a lot more in him than just that godawful finger!'

  But there wasn't. . .

  'I hope you didn't leave it like that,' said Harry. 'The oil couldn't have burned all of him. '

  'Manolis got a body-bag,' Darcy explained. 'We took him to an incinerator in the industrial part of town. Said he was a mangy dog that crawled into the garden to die. '

  'The heat of that incinerator would calcine his bones down to powder,' Manolis added.

  'So, we took second blood!' Harry growled, but with such uncharacteristic savagery that the others glanced at him in surprise. He saw their looks and turned his face away. But not before Darcy noted that his eyes were more soulful - or soulless - than ever. And of course he knew why.

  'Harry, about Sandra,' he started to explain yet again.

  But Harry cut him off. 'It wasn't your fault,' he said. 'If anyone's it was my fault. I should have made sure personally that she was out of this. But we can't think about her now, and I mustn't think about her - not if I want to be able to think about anything else. Manolis, did the information you were waiting for come in?'

  'A great deal of information,' said the other. 'Almost everything, except that which is the most important. '

  Manolis was driving his car, with Harry and Darcy in the back seat. They were approaching the centre of Rhodes New Town where Manolis was quartered. It wasn't y
et 6:00 p. m. but already some tourists were out in their evening finery. 'Look at them,' said Harry, his voice cold. "They're happy; they laugh and dress up; they've had a blue sky all day and a blue sea to swim in, and the world looks fine. They don't know there are scarlet threads among all that blue. And they wouldn't believe it if you told them. ' And to Manolis, abruptly: 'Tell me everything you've learned. '

  'Lazarides is a very successful archaeologist,' Manolis began. 'He came into prominence, oh, four years ago, with several important finds on Crete, Lesbos and Skiros. Before that. . . we don't have much on him. But he does have Greek nationality, and Romanian! This is very odd, if not unique. The authorities in Athens are looking into it, but -' he shrugged,' - this is Greece. Everything takes time. And this Lazarides, he has the friends in high places. Perhaps he purchased his nationality, eh? Certainly he would have the monies for it if the rumours are correct. Rumours? They abound! It is said that he keeps - or sells to unscrupulous collectors - at least half of the treasures he excavates; also that he is the - how do you say? - the Midas! Everything he touches turns to gold. He only has to look at an island to know if any treasure is hidden there. Why, even now men of his are digging in an old Crusader castle on Halki!'

  Harry nodded. 'I understand all of that, and I'll tell you about it later. Go on. '

  Manolis turned left off a busy street into an alley, then left again into a tiny private car park behind his hotel. 'We'll talk inside,' he said.

  He had good spacious rooms; apparently the proprietor owed the local police a few favours, and Manolis was collecting; as he talked he prepared cool drinks, but low in alcohol. For a Greek he was sweating profusely. Darcy mentioned it and again Manolis shrugged.

  'I am the criminals,' he explained. 'Pardon: a criminal. I am a murderer, and it concerns me. '

  'Armstrong?' said Harry. 'You never performed a more worthy act in your entire life!'

  'Still, I did it, and I am hiding it, and it bothers me. '

  'Forget it!' Harry insisted. 'You may be doing it again, and sooner than you think. Tell me more about Lazarides. '

  Manolis nodded. 'He is purchasing an island. Well, a rock, in the Dodecanese off Sirna. Amazing! I mean, what is that for an island? One small beach and a fang of rock jutting from the sea? But he plans a house there, on a great ledge on the rock. Again, there was once a Crusader tower there, a pharos. What he will do there is anybody's guesses. There is no water; everything will have to be brought in by boat; he will be one very lonely creature up there!'

  'An aerie,' said Harry, 'or the next best thing. He still desires to be Wamphyri!'

  'Eh?'

  'Forget it. Goon. '

  Again Manolis's shrug. 'He keeps a small private aeroplane, a Skyvan, on Karpathos. There is a runway there now. He uses the plane for trips to Athens, Crete, elsewhere. Maybe even to Romania, eh? Which means that sometimes his boat may be found off Karpathos. Don't worry, I have a man on it. Every day tourists fly out to Karpathos from Rhodes. They, too, use a Skyvan. It is the flying matchbox! But very, very safe. The pilot will look for Lazarides's boat. I expect his call any time. . . '

  'Anything else?' Harry was still very cool, very pale. He didn't seem to have been touched by the sun.

  'About Armstrong,' said Manolis. 'Five and a half years ago he and some American friends went on a trip somewhere in Europe. . . that's all I know about it, somewhere in Europe. There was an accident, a fall in the mountains or some such, and some people were killed. Armstrong survived but he didn't go back to America. Instead he ended up here, in Greece, and applied for the Greek citizenship. The next thing we know, he's working for Lazarides. '

  'And that's it?' Harry's gaunt, almost vacant expression hadn't changed.

  That's it,' said Manolis. And: 'Oh, one other thing. I now have the authorization to chase this Vrykoulakas dog to hell, if I can find him!'

  Darcy nodded. 'We didn't sleep much last night. Manolis spent a lot of time phoning Athens. We pushed the drugs side of this thing just as hard as we could. So now we can use all the force that's necessary to apprehend and search Lazarides and his lot. '

  'If we can find them,' Harry echoed Manolis.

  'Well, two or three of them we can find, for sure!' said the Greek. 'On Halki, where they're digging in those ruins. '

  Again Harry's nod. "That will be as good a place as any to start, yes. I'd like to see this fang of rock in the Dodecanese, too. All right, and now I'll tell you what I've discovered, and you'll see for yourselves how it all fits together. But I warn you now, it's an incredible story. '

  He told it all and they sat fascinated to the end. 'And so now I have my deadspeak back,' he finished off, 'which is one step in the right direction, at least. '

  'You are the cool one,' Manolis told him. 'I thought so the first time I met you. You talk about steps in the right direction, and all this time Sandra, your lover -'

  'Manolis,' Harry stopped him. 'No man has lost more than I have. No, I'm not being a martyr, I'm just stating a fact. It started when I was a kid and it hasn't stopped yet. I've lost just about every person I ever loved. I've even lost my son in another world, to another creed: this same damned creed, vampirism! And the more you lose, the more hardened you get to it. Ask any habitual gambler. They don't play to win but to lose. They used to play to win, but now when they win they just go right on back to the tables. '

  'Harry,' Darcy took his arm, 'ease up. '

  But Harry shook him off. 'Let me finish. ' And he turned back to Manolis. 'Well, I used to play to win, too. But it's a hell of a game where all the cards are stacked against you. You want me to cry over Sandra? Maybe I will, later. You want me to go to pieces, to show that I'm a good guy? But what good will I be in all of this if I go to pieces? I loved Sandra, yes, I think. But already it's too late to do anything about it. She's just one more thing that I've lost. It's the only way I can look at it and still go on. Except now I may be starting to win again. We may be starting to win again. Not Sandra, no, for she's dead. And if she isn't, then she'd be better off. I know this Janos Ferenczy now, and I know what I'm talking about. You call me cold, but you don't know how I'm burning up inside. Now I'll ask you to do me a favour: stop worrying about how you see things. Stop worrying about Sandra. It's too late. This is a war and she was a casualty. What we have to do now is start hitting back, while we still have a chance!'

  For long moments Manolis said nothing. Then: 'My friend,' he said, very softly, 'you are wound up very tight. You bear a great weight on your shoulders, and I am a great fool. I cannot hope to know what it is like for you, or even anything about you. You are not the ordinary man, and I had no right to speak the way I did or think the things I have thought. '

  Harry sat very still, just looking at the Greek; and slowly Manolis watched the Necroscope's soulful eyes turn to liquid. Before they could spill over, Harry stood up and kicked his chair away, and went unsteadily to the bathroom. . .

  Later:

  'What I hate especially about this,' said Harry, 'is that he's laughing at us - at all of us, at Mankind - and perhaps at me in particular. It's his vampire ego. He calls himself Lazarides, after the Biblical Lazarus, raised up from the dead by Christ. Depending on your beliefs that's a blasphemy in itself. But he doesn't stop there. Just to rub it in and make his point he calls his boat by the same name! He dares us to discover him, yells: "Hey, look, I'm back!" He breaks the first rule of vampires and makes himself prominent, in several ways. And I think he does it deliberately. '

  'But why?' said Darcy.

  'Because he can afford to!' Harry answered. 'Because people no longer believe in vampires. No, I don't mean us but people in general. In this day and age he can afford to be prominent, because to a point he's safe from the masses. But he also does it because he knows that the people who do believe
- and they are the ones he's chiefly interested in, the dangerous ones, you, me, E-Branch, and any other friends - will go up against him. '

  'You mean he . . . he wants a showdown?'

  'Oh yes, for he's seen the future! That's the thing he was best at, and it's how he thwarted Faethor. He knows we have to have a showdown, so he's guiding events his way, to give himself every advantage. He'll use my own devices against me, and against anyone who is with me. He has Ken Layard, and so can locate any one of us more or less at will. He crippled Trevor Jordan so that he'd be no use to us; and he's taken Sandra not out of spite or greed or lust but the better to know me, because then he'll not only know my strengths but also my weaknesses. As for last night: he sent his thrall Armstrong to test you and possibly destroy you, so as to deny me the use of one of my last crutches. '

  'But if he can see the future, wouldn't he know we'd get Armstrong?' Manolis used his policeman's logic. 'In which case, why simply sacrifice him like that?'

  'A test,' Harry answered, 'like I said. He wouldn't see it as a sacrifice. Vampires have no friends, only thralls. And anyway, Armstrong was only one of Janos's players; he has plenty more. Ken Layard, for example, who can do anything Armstrong could do and a lot more. But I understand your question: why provoke a skirmish you can't win, right?'

  'Right. '

  Harry shook his head. 'The future isn't like that,' he said. 'It isn't easily read, never safely, and there's no way to avoid it. And, it must always be remembered, nothing is certain until it has happened. There was a man, a Russian esper, called Igor Vlady. I met him once in the Möbius Continuum. In life he'd been a prognosticator, he read the future. And when he was dead he kept right on doing it, eventually to become a master of future and past time. Where all space was an open book to Möbius, all time was Vlady's playground. Incorporeal, he wandered the timestream forever. Vlady told me that in life he had always held his own future inviolable: he wouldn't read it, felt that to do so would be to tempt fate. He didn't want to know how or when his time would come, for he knew that he'd only worry about it as it loomed ever closer. Eventually, in a moment of uncertainty and fear, he broke his own rule and forecast his own death. He believed he knew from which quarter it was coming, and fled to avoid it. But he was wrong and fled into it! He was like a man crossing railway tracks, who sees a train coming and jumps to avoid it - into the path of another train. '

  Darcy said: 'You mean, Janos can't trust what he reads of the future?'

  'He can trust it only to a point. He sees only the wide scheme of things, not the fine details. And whatever he sees, he knows he can't avoid it. For example: he knew Faethor would destroy him, but saw beyond it to a time when he'd be back. He couldn't stop Faethor and didn't really try to, for the inevitable was by definition inescapable, but he could and did make certain of his return. '

  Manolis had kept up with all of this as best he could, but now he began to feel something of the hopelessness of it. And he asked: 'But how can you even think to beat this creature? He would seem to me. . . invincible!'

  Harry smiled a strange, grim smile. 'Invincible? I'm not so sure about that. But I'm sure he wants us to think he is! Ask yourself this: if he's invincible, why does he concern himself with us? And why is he so worried about me? No, Igor Vlady was right: the future is never certain, and only time can tell. And anyway, what difference does it make? If I don't seek him out, he'll only come looking for me. ' He nodded. 'A showdown, yes, it's coming. And for now Janos is pulling the strings. We can only hope that in his manipulations he'll overstep himself and make the same mistake Igor Vlady made. . . and step in front of a train. '

  At 8:05 p. m. the call Manolis was expecting from the pilot of the Rhodes-Karpathos Skyvan materialized; it transpired that Jianni Lazarides's aircraft, piloted by a man in his employ, had taken off at 3:00 a. m. from the Karpathos airstrip, destination unknown, with Lazarides himself aboard - accompanied by a man and woman answering Sandra's and Ken Layard's descriptions!

  Harry had steeled himself to expect something of the sort and wasn't so badly shocked, but he was puzzled. 'How do you mean, destination unknown? Wouldn't the aircraft require some sort of clearance? Didn't he log himself out, go through customs, or whatever they have to do?'

  Manolis gave a snort. 'I say again, this is Greece. And Karpathos is a small island. The airport is . . . a shack! It has only existed for a year or two, and wouldn't be there at all if not for the tourists. But, did you say customs? Hah! Someone to stamp your passport if you're a foreigner coming in, maybe, but not if you're Greek and going out! And at 3:00 in the morning - why, it amazes me that anyone has even bothered to remember the time so precisely!'

  'Stymied,' said Darcy. 'He could have gone anywhere. '

  Harry shook his head. 'No, I can find him. The problem is, it may not be so easy for me to go where he's gone. We'll jump that one when we reach it. Meanwhile, I have to speak to Armstrong. '

  That caught both Manolis and Darcy off balance - for a moment. Darcy was the first to recover, for he'd seen the Necroscope at work before. 'You want us to take you to him?'

  'Yes, and right now. Not that I think time is any longer of the essence, for I don't. Wheels have been set in motion and everything will eventually come to a head, I'm sure. But if all I had to do was sit twiddling my thumbs . . . I think I'd go mad. '

  Manolis had caught up. 'Are you saying you're going to speak to a dead man?'

  Harry nodded. 'Yes, at the incinerator. That's where he is and where he'll always be, from now on. '

  'And. . . and he'll talk to you?'

  'It doesn't trouble the dead to talk to me,' said Harry. 'Armstrong's no longer in thrall to Janos. He might even be eager to square things. And later, tonight, then there's someone else I must try to reach. '

  'Möbius?' Darcy wondered.

  'The same,' Harry nodded. 'A vampire tangled my mind and took away my deadspeak, and it took another vampire to put the mess to rights. But the one who caused the damage was also a great mathematician: my son, who inherited his talents from me. And while he was in my mind he also closed certain doors, so that now I'm' innumerate. Well, if Faethor could do what he did, maybe Möbius can restore that other talent of mine. If so, then Janos gets a real run for his money. '

  The incinerator was still working. A young Greek labourer on overtime shovelled timber waste into the red and yellow maw of a glaring, roaring beast, while overhead, smoke shot with dying sparks billowed blackly from a high chimney. Darcy and Manolis stood to one side watching the stoker at work, and Harry sat on a crate a little apart from them, his strange eyes staring and almost vacant. His mind, however, was anything but vacant, and the Necroscope's every instinct assured him that Seth Armstrong's spirit was here. Indeed, he could hear its moaning cries.

  Armstrong, Harry said, but softly, you're out of it now. You've been released. Why all the sorrow?

  The moaning and sobbing stopped at once, and in another moment: Harry Keogh? Armstrong's dead voice was full of astonishment and disbelief. You'd talk to me?

  Oh, I've talked to a lot worse than you, Seth, Harry told him. And anyway, it's my guess you were just another victim, like so many others. I don't think you could help what you'd become.

  I couldn't, oh I couldn't! the other answered, with obvious relief. For five and a half long years I was just a . . . a fly in his web. He was my master; I was in thrall to him; nothing I did was of my own free will.

  I know, Harry told him, but they like to pretend it is. I suppose that even knowing it's a lie, still it's the one salve to their conscience: that you are theirs of your own free will.

  Conscience? Armstrong's spirit was bitter. Don't make me laugh, Harry. Creatures such as Janos Ferenczy never suffered such common complaints!

  You're glad to be free of him, then? So why the remorse? You're as on
e with the teeming dead now. Which, as so many of them have told me, isn't as bad as you might think.

  Oh? said Armstrong. And do you honestly believe the dead will wish anything to do with me?

  Harry thought about it a moment, then said: Two of them, at least, that I can think of. And probably more. What of your parents, Seth?

  He sensed the other's nod. Dead some time ago, yes. But. . . do you think. . . ?

  I think that when you've got yourself together, it might be a good idea to try and reach them, said Harry. As for the Great Majority: who can say? Maybe they won't come down on you as hard as you think. Certainly I can put in a good word for you.

  And you'd do that?

  Why don't you ask the dead about me, said Harry, when the time comes? I think they'll tell you I'm not such a bad sort. But until then there's a favour you could do for me.

  Armstrong's thoughts turned bitter again. Nothing for nothing, eh? Even here.

  No, you've got it all wrong, Seth, said Harry. Turn me down, it will make no difference. I'll still ask them to go easy on you. You're dead and burned away, and as all the rest of them know, you can't be any more punished than that.

  What is it you want to know?

  Janos has gone now, Harry told him, out of Rhodes, probably out of the islands. And he took the woman - I suppose you'd say my woman - with him. I want to know where he is.

  She's the bait in his trap, I suppose you know that?

  Oh, yes, I know. But I'd go after him anyway.

  Then go to Romania.

  Harry groaned. It was the worst possible scenario. I've just been to Romania, he said. It won't be so easy a second time.

  Nevertheless, that's where he is. His castle in the mountain heights over Halmagiu. He said you were his only living enemy and the greatest possible enemy, and that when he met you it must be there, on his terms and in his territory. He read it that way, and that's how he'll play it. But Harry. . . I hope you didn't love that girl.

  Don't! Harry gritted his teeth, shook his head, rejected the unthinkable pictures Armstrong's words had conjured. Instinctive reactions to something he'd hoped would not be mentioned. Don't tell me about that.

  Armstrong was silent, but the Necroscope could sense his sympathy and even his . . . remorse? And suddenly Harry knew. He'd suspected it might be so, but had tried to keep it out of his mind. Until now. It was you who took her for him, right?

  Armstrong was sobbing again. It changes everything, doesn't it? he said. But it was a statement of fact, not a question. Yes, he got into her mind, and I took her to him.

  Harry didn't rave, didn't curse, but simply stood up and walked away, with his head down.

  Darcy and Manolis came after him, looked at him and at each other, and asked no questions. Behind them the incinerator's furnace hissed and roared, and a man sobbed rackingly, but only Harry Keogh could hear him.

  And despite his promises, Harry didn't care. . .

  Later, back at the hotel where Harry had arranged for a room of his own, he tried to contact Möbius. He reached out his Necroscope's awareness to a place he knew well indeed: the graveyard in Leipzig where August Ferdinand Möbius's mortal remains had lain buried for one hundred and twenty years, but from which his mathematician's and astronomer's immortal mind had gone out to explore the universe. And:

  Sir? said Harry, showing his usual respect. August? It's me, Harry Keogh. I know it's been some time since I was in touch, but I'd hoped I could talk to you again.

  He waited but there was no response, just an aching void. It was about what he'd expected: the man who had taught him how to venture into and use an otherwise entirely conjectural fifth dimension was out there even now, doing his own thing along the Möbius way. Harry couldn't tell how long he'd been away, or even hazard a guess as to when he was likely to be back, if he would be back.

  But if Harry was ever to achieve a balance of power with Janos, Möbius was his one hope. And so he kept trying: for an hour, then two, until finally Darcy came knocking at his door. 'Any luck?' he said, when the Necroscope opened the door for him.

  Harry shook his head. And perhaps surprisingly, in the circumstances: 'I'm hungry,' he said.

  They all three ate out, at a taverna of Manolis's recommendation; and there, during the course of their meal, Harry outlined a possible course of action as he saw it:

  'Manolis,' he said, 'I need to get into Hungary. Budapest initially, and from there to Halmagiu across the border. That's a distance of about one hundred and fifty miles. Once I'm in I can travel by road or rail; I'll be a "tourist", of course. As for getting across the border into Romania, I'm not sure. I can work on that when I get there. How long will it take to fix me up with documentation?'

  Manolis shrugged. 'You don't need any. Your English passport says you're an "author"; it has a Greek entry stamp; quite obviously you are the genuine tourist, or perhaps the author doing his research. You can simply fly to Budapest via Athens. Tomorrow, if you wish it. No problem. '

  'As simple as that?'

  'Hungary is not Romania. The restrictions are less severe. In fact Romanians are fleeing to Hungary every day. When will you go?'

  'Three or four days,' Harry answered. 'As soon as we're finished up here. But as I've said before, where Janos is concerned time is no longer of the essence. I believe he'll simply hole up in the Transylvanian mountains and wait for me. He knows I'll come eventually. '

  Manolis looked at him, and looked away. Time not of the essence,' the Greek mumbled, shaking his head a little.

  'All right,' said Harry at once, a harsh, unaccustomed edge to his voice, 'and I know what's bothering you. Look, I'll try to explain as simply as possible. And then for Christ's sake and mine both let's drop it! Either Janos has already vampirized Sandra or he hasn't. If he hasn't, then he's keeping her as his ace in the hole, in case I come up with something unexpected, in which case she'll be a bargaining point. But that's only the way I hope it is, not the way I think it is. And if he has changed her. . . then given only half a chance I'll do my level best to kill her! For her sake. But right now if I concentrate on Sandra to the exclusion of everything else, then obviously I won't be able to think straight. And we all of us need to think straight. Now, I know you think I'm a cold one, Manolis, but is everything understood?'

  Manolis shook his head. 'Not cold,' he said, 'just very strong. I simply needed reminding, that's all. You see, Harry, some of us are not so strong. '

  Harry sighed and nodded. 'I think you'll do,' he said. He picked up his glass of rich red wine.

  Darcy said: 'So, three or four days before you head for Hungary, right? And between times? You think it's time we took on the rest of them, right?'

  'That's exactly what I think,' Harry answered. 'Janos has men, or vampires, at his dig in Halki. It's possible there are others on his island, and there's also the crew of his boat. Which makes quite a few of them, and we don't yet know how dangerous they are. I mean, if they're all vampires then they're all dangerous,- but there are vampires and vampires. Janos is . . . one hell of a vampire! By comparison the rest of them won't be too hard to handle. No harder than Armstrong was, anyway. '

  'Jesus!' said Manolis, crossing himself. 'You don't think the American was hard enough?'

  'Oh yes I do,' said Harry. 'I was just thinking out loud, remembering some of the things I saw on Starside. But right here and now. . . Manolis, you've seen how effective a crossbow firing hardwood bolts can be. So what can Rhodes supply in the way of special weaponry?'

  'Crossbows? I don't think so. Next best thing: spearguns!'

  Harry started to shake his head, then stopped and narrowed his eyes. 'With steel spears, right?'

  'Steel harpoons, yes,' Manolis nodded, and he wondered what Harry was thinking. The Necroscope didn't keep him in suspense.

&
nbsp; 'Do we have silver-plating facilities? A factory or plant that can put a sheath of silver on a handful of harpoons?' Manolis's eyes opened wide. 'Certainly!' he beamed. 'Very well, let's buy ourselves two or three high-performance spearguns. Can we leave that to you?'

  'Tomorrow morning, first thing. I am the spear-fisherman and know these guns. The best model is called "Champion", Italian manufacture, with single or double rubbers. Using a single barb, with a metal flap that opens on making a strike. . . they will be quite as effective as your crossbow. '

  'Rubbers?' Darcy Clarke wasn't much for water sports.

  Harry explained: 'These guns use rubber hurlers for propulsion. They're pretty deadly. Slow to load, though, so we'll need single, powerful rubbers. Manolis, better make it half a dozen guns. And Darcy, I think it's time you called in extra help. I don't think it will be too difficult to find three or four volunteers from your lot back in London. '

  'E-Branch?' Darcy answered. 'They're just waiting for the word! I'll bring in the blokes from the Bodescu job. I can get on it just as soon as we're finished here. '

  'Good,' Harry nodded. 'But it might be a good idea to get it started even before they get out here. I think our first priority has to be Halki. We know there are only a couple of Janos's creatures there. And actually, we don't yet know that they are "creatures"! They could be men pure and simple, dupes in his pay, who don't know what they're working for. Well, I'll only have to see them to know them. Manolis, how long will it take to get those spears - er, harpoons - silvered up?'

  'By tomorrow night?'

  'And how long to Halki?'

  'In a fast boat,' Manolis shrugged, 'two hours, two and a half at most. It sits in the sea only a few miles from the island of Rhodes, but fifty miles down the coast from Rhodes Town, where we are now. Halki's only a little place. A big rock in the sea. One village with a couple of little tavernas, one short road, some mountains, and one Crusader castle. '

  'Tomorrow's Wednesday,' said Harry. 'If you can fix us up with a boat and a pilot by Thursday morning, we can easily be there before midday. So that's what we'll aim for. Between times, is there any chance of taking a look at this "fang of rock" that Janos is buying in the Dodecanese?'

  Manolis shook his head. 'That would take the best part of a day. I suggest we do Halki Thursday morning, and go straight on to have a look at Karpathos and this bay close to the airport where the Lazarus is laid up. Incidentally, both Halki and Karpathos lie in what used to be called the "Carpathian Sea"! This vampire, he likes to feel at home, eh?'

  Harry nodded. 'I fancy it's a coincidence. A funny one, but a coincidence anyway. But I agree with you on the rest of what you said. And in any case, we should have reinforcements from E-Branch by Thursday evening. Friday will be soon enough to take a look at Janos's 20th-century aerie. '

  Harry's large steak, rare, without vegetables, must surely be cold by now. He hadn't yet touched it and the others had long since finished eating. He shrugged and ate anyway. It was a long time since he'd tasted meat so rare and bloody. In fact he couldn't remember the time. And the deep red wine was good, too. And to himself, wrily: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!

  Maybe Manolis was right and he was a cold one after all. . .

  A message was waiting for them back at the hotel: a Sister at the asylum has requested that Inspector Papastamos call her back. Manolis did so immediately. He spoke on the phone in his usual rapid-fire Greek, with long pauses between each burst, while Harry and Darcy watched his face going through a variety of expressions: from wary and inquiring to astonishment, then disbelief, and finally sheer delight. And at last he was able to translate the message back to them.

  'Trevor Jordan is much improved!' he almost shouted, his face a huge smile. 'He is conscious, talking, making sense! Or at least he was. They made him take food, then gave him a shot to put him down for the night. But before he slept he said he wanted to see you, Harry. They say you can see him first thing in the morning. '

  Darcy and Harry looked wonderingly at each other, and Darcy said, 'What do you make of it?'

  For a moment Harry was bewildered. He frowned and scratched his chin. 'Maybe. . . maybe distance has put him beyond Janos's reach? I had thought his condition was permanent - that his mind had been tampered with, like mine - but maybe Janos isn't up to that. Maybe he isn't that good. Hell, who cares? Whatever it is, it sounds like good news to me. We'll just have to wait until the morning to find out.