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Chapter Sixteen

"What is that?" Mooncloud had opened the motel room door and maneuvered two crutch-steps into the room when she noticed that I was pointing an odd-looking handgun at her.

"It's a Splatmaster Rapide Semi-Automatic paint pistol," I answered, studying her through the weapon's three-power, cross-haired scope. "It's used in war games and fires paintballs for marking hits on human targets."

"I know what it's used for," she snapped, standing perfectly still. "Why are you pointing it at me?"

"This is a test," I answered. "This is only a test. . . ." I pulled the trigger. Pffthok: the paintball left a ragged wet mark on her slacks, just above her right knee.

"What did you do that f—" She stopped in midroar and reexamined the stain. "It's not paint."

I shook my head. "It's water."

"Water?"

"Tap water."

"Tap water?"

"For the test." I holstered the pistol and sat back down in front of the cluttered desk. "It's very simple, though a bit time consuming. I took a paintball and used a syringe to suck out all of the paint. Then I used another syringe to inject the tap water. Finally, I used a wee bit of sealant to plug the leak and—voilà!"

"And, instead of tap water," she guessed, "you plan to reload your paintballs with holy water." Her smile fell a little short of amazed admiration, but she said, "How clever you are, my dear Christopher. Excuse me while I get a towel." She turned on her crutches and went back outside.

"I don't think that was such a good idea," Lupé remarked from the bed. "Nor very sporting considering her broken leg."

"Aah, it was good for her. . . ." I picked up a virgin paintball and inserted the hypodermic needle. "The doc needs a little loosening up. And she can hardly argue with the effectiveness of my little demonstration." The door opened behind me. "Right, Doc?"

"Granted, it's a novel approach," I heard her say as I excavated the paint from the plastic spheroid. "But one should always apply the KISS criteria when attempting any approach to a problem."

"Kiss?" Lupé wanted to know.

"Yeah, K-I-S-S," I said, squirting the paint back out of the syringe and into the plastic lined wastebasket. "It stands for 'Keep It Simple, Stupid.'"

"You said it," Lupé laughed, "not me."

I looked up and saw Mooncloud's reflection in the mirror that hung above my desk. She was leaning on the armrests of her crutches and brandishing a toy rifle outfitted with green and yellow plastic tanks and a tangle of connecting tubes.

"The Super Hoser Ten-Thousand-S," Mooncloud explained, "has a full tank capacity of nearly four-and-one-half gallons. It can shoot a continuous stream of water nearly forty feet for a duration of eight seconds per burst."

"Where did you get that?" I asked, turning very slowly and trying not to make any sudden moves.

"Kiddie Kastle. There was a sale on all squirt guns and water pistols." She smiled and slide-cocked the damn thing. "This is a test," she said.

I dived out the chair, rolled once, and then threw my superhuman reflexes into jumping up and running for the bathroom.

I almost made it.

Bassarab's timely rescue and financial backing had given us a momentary shot of confidence. False confidence, perhaps, as one of our foes had survived staking and decapitation: all our high-tech firepower might not mean a thing when our paths crossed again. After loading a dozen paintballs with holy water, I pulled out my laptop computer.

The database on vampire legends was growing and the list of remedies becoming more complex and contradictory. Still, there was something that tugged at the back of my mind—some foreign bit of fable that resonated to our most recent encounter.

I finally found it under the Malaysian grouping. "Here we go," I announced. Mooncloud came over and adjusted the screen for a better look.

"What's it say?" Garou asked from the chair she had aligned with the failing air conditioner.

"According to this," Mooncloud said, "there are a number of Malayan legends and stories that tie in to the vampire mythos. You've isolated seven different manifestations: the polong, bâjang, pëlësit, langsuir, mati-anak or pontianak, and the pênanggalan."

"That's it," I said, "the last one."

She studied the information. "The pênanggalan's head separates from its body and goes flying off in search of its prey. After it feeds its head returns to its body before sunrise."

"Sounds like our boy."

She scrolled down the text and frowned. "Maybe not. Look here: the head leaves the body voluntarily and strands of guts and entrails dangle down from its neck while it flies about. Don't remember voluntary and I don't remember guts."

"Maybe."

She hit the page down key then scrolled backwards a half screen. "Here's more. Pênanggalans are always female, never male."

"Who knows what gender this thing is."

"And, finally, the biggest telling difference: the pênanggalan's body remains inert."

"Inert?"

"Inanimate—totally helpless—until the head returns to rejoin the body at the neck. We saw this thing running away with its head tucked under its arm."

"Well, if it's not a pênanggalan, then what is it?"

She shrugged.

"Look, up until now I've bought into this RNA/DNA, Virus A-Virus B, and Recombinant Virus C crap. But no amount of medical biobabble can explain a thing that can get its head chopped off and then gallop off like some refugee from a Washington Irving story!"

"Yet, you have seen it and you do know that it exists," she snapped back. "So, like it or not, you've got to deal with its existence!"

"And find a way to kill it," Lupé added.

"If it can be killed."

"Oh, it can be killed."

I looked at Lupé. "You're so sure?"

"We'll run down the list. If necessary," she bared her teeth, "we'll experiment."

I sighed and pressed a sequence of keystrokes. "Okay, from the top. We start with Albania and the sampiro. The approved method of disposal: a stake through the heart."

"Next," Garou called from her chair.

"Ashantiland," I read. "Species: asanbosam. Method of disposal: unknown."

"Unknown? You're sure?"

"Hey, I've had just enough time to scratch the surface, here. Check back with me after six months of intensive research and I might have a few more answers. Which brings us to the Austrian vampyre. My notes indicate that we must read scripture while destroying all images or portraits of that thing and be sure to use pentagrams in the process."

"What does that mean?" Mooncloud pondered.

"Sounds like we should take some Polaroids the next time we run into that creepy bastard," Garou said.

"And pentagrams?"

I shrugged. "I'm the novice here. I just transcribe the information. I leave analysis to the people with actual field experience."

"Next."

"Bavaria: nachtzehrer. Place coin in mouth, decapitate with ax."

"The coin sounds like a modification of old burial practices," Mooncloud said. "I doubt if it would have made any difference."

"Which brings us to Bohemia and the ogoljen. Best bet: bury at crossroads."

"Real practical," Garou mused. "I can just see the two of us holding that thing down while you rent a jackhammer and tear up the intersection at First and Main. Next."

"British Columbia: the kwakiytl. Means of disposal: any."

"Obviously not our man."

I paged down. "Two different species from Brazil: the jaracaca and the lobishomen. Both fit in the unknown category. Two more from Bulgaria: the krvoijac and the obours. To dispose of the first you must chain it to its grave with wild roses—"

"Ah, days of vine and roses. . . ."

I ignored Garou and continued: "The second requires witchcraft, burning, or bottling."

"Bottling?"

"Highly unlikely, totally impractical, and I'll explain later if you insist," Mooncloud said. "Keep going, Chris."

"Well, that throws out the polong of Malaysia, as well: my notes say it must be caught in bottle of special dimensions."

Garou muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy." I kept going.

"China: the p'o. Lightning strike or burn the body to ashes."

"He didn't look Chinese," Garou offered.

"Chinese vampires are actually demons and don't resemble anything human in the least," Mooncloud explained. "Next to a p'o, our boy looks like Norman Normal."

"Crete: kathakano. Boil head in vinegar."

"Gee," Garou said, "I wish we'd known that the night before last."

"Denmark," I continued, "the mara. Use knife blade which has been blessed and/or consecrated."

"Maybe we should check this thing's passport."

"Maybe you should take this business a little more seriously," Mooncloud admonished.

I looked up and saw the color drain from Lupé's face. "You think I don't want this thing dead?" she said through clenched teeth. "Come up with a plan and I'll carry it out." She got up and walked to the door. "This thing tore Luis apart and I've sworn a blood oath to kill it! I'm not afraid to die trying, if that's what it takes! Perhaps it is the rest of you who should be taking this a little more seriously!" She walked out and slammed the door.

Mooncloud looked at the ground. I stared down at the LCD display. After awhile I began reading again.

"Greece: the brukulaco. Cut off the head and burn it. Also native to Greece, the vrykolakas. Celebration of mass followed by disinterment—remove heart and burn with incense, fill mouth with holy water."

Mooncloud made no reply, so I kept going. "Germany: drakul. Place coin in mouth, cut name from shirt, break corpse's neck, pin to ground with stake, burn body to ashes."

Still no response.

"Grenada: the loogaroo. Method of disposal: unknown. Guinea: the owenga—also unknown."

Mooncloud finally spoke. "How many on your list are unknowns when it comes to disposal?"

"Let me resort." I pressed keys and a new list appeared:

Species/(Country) Method of Disposal  

Otgiruru (Hereros Land) Unknown

Baital-Pachisi (India) Unknown

Bhût (India) Unknown

Hánh Sàburo (India) Unknown

Hánt-Pare (India) Unknown

Hántu-Dor Dong (India) Unknown

Jigar-Khor (India) Unknown

Mah'ânah (India) Unknown

Pênangal (India) Unknown

Pisâchâs (India) Unknown

Rákshasa (India) Unknown

Vetala (India) Unknown

Civateteo (Mexico) Unknown

Bruxsa (Portugal) Unknown

Baobhan Sith (Scotland) Unknown

Vampiro (Spain) Unknown

Mooncloud whistled as she followed the rising list. "If our quarry is any of these, we're screwed. What's left?"

I did a quick count. "Twenty-seven, counting the pênanggalan. But I think we can also eliminate the mau mau of Kenya, the ramanga of Madagascar, the pëlësit of Malaysia, and the moroii of Rumania—apparently they can be dealt with as if they were ordinary human beings." I squinted at the display. "Although it is recommended that the pëlësit be buried with a cat when the process is concluded."

"How many left on the list require incineration?"

I rekeyed the list into another subfile.

Species/(Country) Method of Disposal 

Pamgri (Hungary) Burn body to ashes

Vampir (Magyar) Stake through heart, burn body

Romanati (Rumania) Body removed to remote place, hacked into pieces and cast in fire where every piece of flesh and bone must be incinerated

Vieszcy (Russia) Destruction by fire or execution with a gravedigger's shovel

Vlkoslak (Serbia) Cut off toes, drive nail

through neck. Burn body to ashes

"Fire sounds like our best bet but I noticed a couple of variations on the stake method. How many other listings suggest some form of nailing or impaling?"

I opened and processed another subfile.

Species/(Country) Method of Disposal

Oupire (Hungary) Iron bar through heart, decapitate with ax

Vampir (Hungary) Stake through heart, nail through temples

Vryolakas (Macedonia) Pour boiling oil on, drive nail through navel

Pênanggalan (Malaysia) Impale head on Jenyu leaves, destroy body or keep head and body separate for 24 hours

Strigoiul (Rumania) Remove heart, cut in two; garlic in mouth, nail in head

Zârne ti (Rumania) Iron forks driven through the heart, eyes, and breast of an exhumed female vam- pire; grave considerably deepened and corpse buried face downwards

Upierczi (Russia) Appear from noon to midnight only; oaken stake through the heart with just one blow; exorcism

"All right, what's left?"

"Mostly preventative burial measures." I opened another subfile.

Species/(Country) Method of Disposal 

Dearg-dul (Ireland) Pile stones on grave

Langsuir (Malaysia) Hair and nails must be cut short and clippings stuffed into hole in back of neck

Mati-Anak or Pontianak Put hen's egg under (Malaysia) each armpit, needle in palm of hand, glass beads in mouth, use charm

Upier (Poland) Bury face downwards with willow crosses under chin, armpits, and chest; decapitate, mix blood with flour to make bread that frees victims once eaten

Gierach (Prussia) Put poppy seeds in grave

Neuntoter (Saxony) Bury with lemon in mouth

"Sounds like immolation is our best bet. Anything left?"

I scanned the remaining notations.

Species/(Country) Method of Disposal  

Mulé (Gypsy) Ambush with thorns and gun

Bâjang (Malaysia) Drowning

Vârcolac (Rumania) Breaking the thread they climb on to banish them to another part of the sky

Vampyre (Yugoslavia) Rituals performed by dhampir 

"Dhampir," I mused. "I wonder what a dhampir is and if we could get in touch with one?"

"Unlikely," Bassarab answered, giving us a start. "The dhampir is the son of a vampire. I know of only three who still might be living and none of them reside in this hemisphere, much less this country."

I eyed the door behind him, wanting to ask how he'd managed to enter without our noticing. I imagined mist pouring through a keyhole and decided not to raise the question.

"The sun is down." Bassarab unlocked the door and opened it with a flourish: it squeaked noticeably. "It is time to travel."

A quiet, smooth ride is the last thing one expects from an automobile over sixty years old. But Bassarab's '31 Duesenberg glided over the uncertain surface of US 69 like a ghost, the silken response of suspension and the purr of the antique V-12 motor giving the lie to the speedometer's insistence that we were topping eighty miles an hour.

Even more hair-raising was the fact that we were doing this in complete darkness: it was a moonless night with nothing but empty fields to either side of the highway and the only light emanating from the car were the tiny LEDs indicating that the radar detector was on and sweeping the road ahead for county mounties.

Lupé, following behind in the Ford Bronco, had also extinguished her headlights, but where she had the advantage of night vision similar to my own, Victor had to wear a light-amplification device that looked like a cross between a starlight scope and virtual reality headgear. It was not a reassuring sight and I made sure my seat belt was securely buckled.

We had just passed La Cygnes Lake and off to our left was Marais des Cygnes Massacre Park, commemorating the mass murder of Free-staters by Confederate sympathizers. A few miles ahead, just past Pleasanton, would be the Mine Creek battlefield. A land rich in the heritage of violence. I thought about the bloody footnote we were about to contribute to that history and tried not to feel overweening pride.

"What the hell am I doing here?" I whispered.

Bassarab stared straight ahead, his face cloaked in shadow. "You are fighting back. As every man must who would rule those about him."

"I don't have the slightest interest in ruling anyone," I said.

"Then you will be ruled. A man either rules those about him or they, in turn, will rule him."

"I don't believe that."

"Then you are a fool. A man may hold another's fate in his own grasp and then grant the other the 'gift' of choice. But he must first have mastery if he is to have his own freedom."

" 'He is weakened by every recruit to his banner,' " I murmured; " 'Is not a man better than a town?' "

"Your Emerson had the truth of it. His essay on self-reliance would have served me well when I was Voivode of Walachia."

"But is a prince and warlord really free of obligation?" I asked. "As a ruler, isn't there a plethora of responsibilities to those you rule?"

He bowed his head. The silence was so long that I felt the question had been dismissed. And then he spoke.

"I was born in an uncivilized time, in a primitive province, and raised to the throne under savage circumstances. By modern standards my people were barbarians. We were civilized only by comparisons to those who wished to enslave us. There was only one way to resist the armies and provinces that surrounded and outnumbered and sought to master us; we had to conquer such barbarians by becoming even more barbaric than they."

He raised his head and looked at me. "And it worked. Time and again we turned back the invaders with inferior forces. Armies that should have overwhelmed us, engulfed us, slaughtered us to a man—fled, Mr. Csejthe! Turned tail and ran! Killed each other to get away! And do you know why?"

"They feared you," I said.

"Feared me? My own people feared me and I was their protector! What the Turks and Mongols felt at the mere mention of my name was beyond terror! For many, beyond sanity: the rumor of my arrival was enough to cause husbands to slay their wives, mothers their children, warriors to cut their own throats! Only death offered mercy and true safety from the unspeakable cruelties of the Devil's own son!

"My hands," he said, lifting them like black claws in the darkness, "were stained with the blood of hundreds, thousands of acts of unnecessary cruelty! Unnecessary except that it put overwhelming forces to rout and saved my country when nothing else could!

"All of the unspeakable tortures and deaths by impalement, all these horrors committed while I was still a mere mortal, heir to the life and frailties of flesh and blood, were for my people. Do you think I burned my own people alive for my own enjoyment? Do you believe that I erected a forest of bodies on stakes and poles to win the admiration of anyone? My most loyal officers, even my own family, plotted against me even while I was staining my hands and my very soul to preserve them against enemies who could not otherwise be defeated!

"So do not presume to question whether I understand the responsibilities of a ruler! I know better than any man what obligations, what debts crouch in the dark nights of the heart like deranged and leprous beggars!"

"And . . . New York?" I prompted when the silence had grown long, again.

"I was the fool then," he answered bitterly. "I had been a prince. I thought to be one again. But with the passing of the centuries I had forgotten the responsibilities of sovereignty and remembered only the glory. And with the passing of time, the world had changed, and I had changed, as well.

"But not in the same directions. . . .

"Savagery remains, Mr. Csejthe. But it is a subtle, artful savagery now. The barbarians at the gate wear three-piece suits and sport fifty-dollar manicures. Warlords no longer defend countries and provinces but little plots of land designated as 'turf.' Their kingdoms have boundaries and borders that run down the middle of neighborhood streets and cut through the centers of playgrounds, parking lots, and old tenement buildings. Tribute is paid in pharmaceuticals and stolen goods.

"And honor . . . bah!"

"What about honor?" I asked.

"The strong will ever prey upon the weak," he answered quietly. "But there are those who cannot drink from the well without poisoning it for others. Who cannot take their needful prey without savaging half the flock and scattering the rest. When one is voivode, he cultivates his allies and makes war upon his enemies. He does not confuse the two. He demands tribute from those he conquers but does not destroy his own possessions once they are in his hands. . . ." He stared out the window.

I cleared my throat. "Speaking of allies, why won't you let us contact the Doman of Seattle?"

"He is not my ally."

"But I don't believe Pagelovitch is your enemy, either. And since New York seems to be your mutual enemy, isn't that grounds for an alliance?"

He brooded over that. "I have my reasons," he said finally.

"But couldn't you let Dr. Mooncloud telephone, just to let him know that we're all right?"

He shook his head.

"He wouldn't have to know anything about you or where we are. Just a simple message saying we're alive and well. How could—"

"No! As I said, I have my reasons."

"And I have my concerns."

"Your only concern, right now, should be about what you are here to do."

"Yeah? Well, why don't you make it easy on me: just what am I here to do?"

He stared at me. "My mistake was walking away without cutting off the head of the serpent that had plotted to take my place. I had assumed they would leave me alone once I had left New York for them to squabble over as they saw fit. I had forgotten that your enemies are not only whom you say they are, but whom they say they are, as well."

"And my enemies?"

"Whom do you say they are?" he asked mildly.

"Why should I have enemies? I've done nothing to anyone."

"Mortal men are your enemies: they'll hunt you down and dissect you if they think your body holds the secret of eternal life. The wampyr are your enemy: they'll hunt you down and destroy you if they think your existence poses a threat to their own secret existence. The Doman of Seattle will add you to his stable of kept creatures. The Doman of New York will take you apart to learn your secrets and hope that you can tell them where to find me. If you would live free, then all of these are your enemies."

"Swell." We were past the town of Prescott and nearing Fulton; Fort Scott was maybe ten or fifteen minutes ahead. "So, if they're all my enemies, I'm back to my original question: what am I doing here?"

Dracula turned and, as he looked at me, I felt a palpable force flow emanating from his eyes. "Serve me in this task and I will reward you with what you want most."

"And what is that?" I asked, fighting to keep my will independent from any external control.

"Your freedom. The opportunity to live your life on your own terms."

"Why?"

"Why do I do this? Because of the blood-bond. Because we both want the same thing."

"No, I mean: why does Dracula need the help of anyone else, particularly a man who is not fully wampyr?"

Before he could answer, the CB radio mounted under the Duesenberg's dashboard crackled to life.

"Breaker eleven, breaker eleven," Lupé's voice announced, "this is the wolf calling the bat. You got your ears on, good buddy?" 

Bassarab scowled and Wren reached over for the mike with an ill-disguised smirk. "This is the bat, pretty mama; come back."

"He's sounding," she answered, barely waiting for the invitation to talk. "I can hear him—faint, but up ahead!" 

"Who's sounding?" Bassarab wanted to know. Victor relayed the question into the microphone.

"Luath!" she cried, the volume of her voice distorting the words. "He's still on the trail! And I can still hear him!" 

I looked at Bassarab. "The cu sith," I said.

Bassarab nodded, a thoughtful expression on his long, ancient face. "To answer your last question," he said slowly, "I need you because I suspect that the task before us will be more difficult than Dr. Mooncloud and her associate may imagine. That, to achieve our goals, both of us will have to die. . . ."

A sign flashed past, proclaiming Fort Scott was just another five miles up the road.

"My God," I whispered, "it's the old Tremont House."

The building was located at the corner of State and Wall Streets, at the north end of town and just a mile from the historic landmark that gave the town of Fort Scott its name. Three stories high, it had a mustard-colored, stucco-over-brick exterior that looked younger and newer under the actinic wash of the streetlamps. Closer inspection revealed that it had been closed up for a long time. The boards over the windows and across the doors looked as old and weathered as the wood frames they were nailed across.

Over its one-hundred-and-twenty-some year history it had served the city as a grand hotel and housed a variety of businesses, including the Eagles Lodge, the People's College, and a Greyhound bus depot. According to local rumor it had even been a bordello back in the sixties.

Now it was daynest for the undead.

We parked at the end of the block and gazed back up the hill. "So, what's the plan?" I asked as we huddled between the Bronco and the Duesenberg.

Everyone looked at me.

"Well, do we go in and get them or wait for them to come out?" This wasn't really such a stupid question, was it?

"I will need a closer look," Bassarab announced abruptly. He pulled at his black duster, wrapping the long coat around himself like a cape, and strode up the street.

"A reconnoiter is definitely called for," Lupé agreed, and began disrobing. A moment later a large, grey canine form was loping toward the hillside nest in Bassarab's wake.

Mooncloud crutched over to me while Wren opened the rear boot on the Duesenberg. She whispered: "I don't like this."

"Hey," I said, "we're about to attack a bunch of immortal creatures who can't be killed or even hurt in most of the conventional ways, who are superhumanly strong and highly motivated to kill and hurt us back—what's not to like?"

"I'm talking about Bassarab," she hissed, pulling on my arm. We moved away from Wren as he began unloading equipment.

"What are you complaining about? I'm the one who had to ride with him."

She pulled me farther away. "This mission is possibly the most difficult and dangerous one I've ever undertaken and that was before these guys—" she jerked her head toward the antique auto "—came along and complicated everything."

"As I remember it, we'd lost our transportation, our weapons, our equipment, supplies, and pretty much our self-respect before these guys came along. I should think you would feel a little more gratitude, Doctor."

She turned away, her arms stiff against the metal tubing of the crutches, and grunted. "He won't permit us to contact Stefan. He insists that we do things his way. And he won't discuss strategy with us until the last minute. And maybe not even then." She turned back to me. "I don't trust him, Chris. Even if he is who he says he is. Maybe I trust him even less if he is the real Dracula." She grasped my arm. "I've sworn my allegiance to Pagelovitch—no one else. And the Doman has always allowed me to run my missions my way. I won't take responsibility for the lives at risk, otherwise." She glanced back at Wren. "So if and when push comes to shove, you're gonna have to decide."

"Decide what?"

"Whether you take orders from him or from me. If I give the signal, Lupé will neutralize Wren and I'll take down Bassarab myself. I hope I can count on you."

"To take orders from you?"

She looked at my face and was not reassured. "You'd side with him?"

"What if I side with me?" I asked quietly. "What if I decide to follow some orders of my own?"

"Chris, he's the one responsible for your condition! Directly or indirectly, he's the cause of your wife and daughter's deaths!"

"You're missing the point." Now it was my turn to steer her a few feet farther from the Wren. "That day I drove through Weir and saw a column of smoke—well, it was the last day that my life was my own. I was summoned into that barn. And ever since that moment, I've been sleepwalking through an ongoing nightmare."

"We've tried to help—"

"Oh, yeah!" I snapped. "I was abducted, kept under house arrest, and basically told how my life was going to be from now on!"

"I thought you understood the reasons for—"

"Your reasons," I said harshly, "not mine. I'm not ungrateful and I do understand the necessities as you and the others saw them. But I'm through taking orders. From now on, I'll cooperate when it's the obvious and meaningful thing to do." I curled my fingers into a fist. "But it's my life," I said, thumping my chest. "Such as it is. And it's long past time for me to start taking responsibility for it again."

The gesture was obviously meant to be conciliatory. But, as she laid her hand upon my arm, I felt a surge of resentment. "We need you, Chris. And you need us." A sense of manipulation there. "Think of the research—"

"Since you are so fond of research, Doctor, let's try something right now. Look in my eyes."

"What?" She looked up at me, startled but unafraid.

"I'm a member of the Master Race now. Maybe a half-breed bastard by analogy, but definitely something beyond human." I smiled, feeling hollow. I looked into her eyes, forbidding her to look away. "You, Taj, are merely human."

A puzzled frown tugged at her lips and forehead. "Why are you talking this way?"

I swallowed, the taste of ashes was in my mouth. "Kiss my feet."

"What?"

"It's very simple, Doctor: I want you to get down on your knees and kiss my feet."

The frown was fully formed, but her eyes were still clear. "And why should I do such a thing?"

"Why? Because I command you," I said in a reasonable tone. And all the while forced the image of her compliance to the forefront of my thoughts. "You will obey me because I wish it. Because your will is no longer yours, but mine."

"I-I don't understand. . . ." Now there were clouds gathering in her eyes. She trembled a bit.

"It's not important that you understand, Taj. It's only important that you obey me. Kiss my feet."

"I don't want to." Her voice was shaky and her eyes were starting to unfocus.

"It doesn't matter what you want, my dear. It only matters what I want." I pushed at the image in my mind, made the mental image of Mooncloud drop to her knees. "Get down on the sidewalk and kiss my feet."

The woman in front of me slid the crosspieces from under her arms and, gripping the stems of the crutches, lowered herself to one knee. "No," she whispered.

"Yes." I pushed the mental image further, felt the bile rise in my throat. "Do it!"

The other knee came down. "Please," she whispered. The crutches clattered to the ground on each side of her.

"I can make you do it," I said. "You can't resist my will."

"Please. . . ." She was swaying on her knees and suddenly fell forward, arms rigid and hands splayed, catching herself before her face landed on the sidewalk.

"Taj," I said, speaking gently but holding the command in unyielding mental subjugation, "say 'uncle.' "

"It's the virus," she grunted through clenched teeth. "It's already begun to affect your mind—your personality—"

That wasn't the reason I was doing it, but I released her, anyway.

"You bastard!" she said, red-faced and struggling to pull herself back up on her crutches. "What the hell did you do to me?"

"Research, Doctor. Vampires are supposed to have the power to cloud men's minds, to dominate another's will. To bind mental slaves and hold them in thrall. I wanted to see if I could do it. I think I can." I easily intercepted the slap aimed for my face, held her wrist in my grasp. "Do you agree or do I need to repeat the experiment and carry it out to an undeniable conclusion?"

"Yes, damn you!" Her eyes were no longer clouded; the fear was gone, replaced by anger.

"Hell of thing, research," I remarked, still holding her wrist in my grasp. "And a hell of thing when people can control you, make your decisions for you." I released her wrist. "Well, what have we learned here, Doctor? I've learned that my brain chemistry is, indeed, changing. What have you learned?" I turned and walked back toward the Duesenberg.

"I thought we were friends, Csejthe," she called to my back.

I stopped. "I thought we were friends, too," I said quietly. "But tonight I realized that you would still be my keeper." I walked on over to the Duesenberg and found Bassarab already returned and in conversation with his chauffeur.

"Problem?" he asked as I approached.

"Nothing I can't handle," I said. "Didn't notice your return."

He shrugged dismissively. "Didn't want you to." He looked about. "Where is the lycanthrope?"

My turn to shrug. "I don't know, I'm not her keeper." My temper was short tonight.

"You need to remedy that."

And getting shorter. But before I could open my mouth, Lupé trotted up.

"Black limo and tan Chevy van parked on the side street to the west. Arkansas plates on the van." The wolf paused, lifting her hind leg to scratch at something behind her ear. "No loose boards on the ground level. Try checking the fire escape."

"And only one is presently home," Bassarab added. "The rats say that he may be sleeping. I think that we can take this one easily enough and then await the return of the others." He buckled on a belt and scabbard. A richly ornamented sword hilt protruded from the wooden sheath. "Come. Let us hasten before the others return."

I hoisted a miniature flamethrower up and onto my back while Victor helped fasten the shoulder harness across my chest. Burning—burning should work. Of course, so should decapitation and a stake through the heart. So buckling on a web-belt with twin holsters was not really a matter of overkill: the two Splatmaster Rapide Semi-Automatic paint pistols that I slid into their leather scabbards were a logical if less than reassuring precaution under the circumstances. When I looked up, Mooncloud was cocking her second crossbow and Wren was loading the airbow with a fresh CO₂ cartridge. A barbed spear with an ash shaft was just showing at the barrel's opening, already locked into firing position. Over his shoulder was a bag filled with wooden stakes. Lupé was going empty-handed as she hadn't any. Hands, that is: she had elected to remain in wolf form.

"Follow me and move quietly," Bassarab ordered. "I will go in first, followed by Victor, and then Mr. Csejthe. Doctor, your crutches will be a liability in close quarters. You will remain outside to help the wolf-bitch guard the outer perimeter."

Lupé growled softly.

"Rats, huh?" I said as we started down the street toward the ancient structure. "The rats told you how many people are in the building and what they're doing?"

Bassarab nodded.

"Telepathy, right?"

Bassarab nodded again.

"Boy am I just brimming with confidence, now."

"And why is that?" Lupé rumbled.

"Because," I murmured, "they always say: 'It's not just what you know but who you know that counts.'"

"Mr. Csejthe. . ." Bassarab remarked.

"Yes?"

" . . . shut up."

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Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Sixteen

"What is that?" Mooncloud had opened the motel room door and maneuvered two crutch-steps into the room when she noticed that I was pointing an odd-looking handgun at her.

"It's a Splatmaster Rapide Semi-Automatic paint pistol," I answered, studying her through the weapon's three-power, cross-haired scope. "It's used in war games and fires paintballs for marking hits on human targets."

"I know what it's used for," she snapped, standing perfectly still. "Why are you pointing it at me?"

"This is a test," I answered. "This is only a test. . . ." I pulled the trigger. Pffthok: the paintball left a ragged wet mark on her slacks, just above her right knee.

"What did you do that f—" She stopped in midroar and reexamined the stain. "It's not paint."

I shook my head. "It's water."

"Water?"

"Tap water."

"Tap water?"

"For the test." I holstered the pistol and sat back down in front of the cluttered desk. "It's very simple, though a bit time consuming. I took a paintball and used a syringe to suck out all of the paint. Then I used another syringe to inject the tap water. Finally, I used a wee bit of sealant to plug the leak and—voilà!"

"And, instead of tap water," she guessed, "you plan to reload your paintballs with holy water." Her smile fell a little short of amazed admiration, but she said, "How clever you are, my dear Christopher. Excuse me while I get a towel." She turned on her crutches and went back outside.

"I don't think that was such a good idea," Lupé remarked from the bed. "Nor very sporting considering her broken leg."

"Aah, it was good for her. . . ." I picked up a virgin paintball and inserted the hypodermic needle. "The doc needs a little loosening up. And she can hardly argue with the effectiveness of my little demonstration." The door opened behind me. "Right, Doc?"

"Granted, it's a novel approach," I heard her say as I excavated the paint from the plastic spheroid. "But one should always apply the KISS criteria when attempting any approach to a problem."

"Kiss?" Lupé wanted to know.

"Yeah, K-I-S-S," I said, squirting the paint back out of the syringe and into the plastic lined wastebasket. "It stands for 'Keep It Simple, Stupid.'"

"You said it," Lupé laughed, "not me."

I looked up and saw Mooncloud's reflection in the mirror that hung above my desk. She was leaning on the armrests of her crutches and brandishing a toy rifle outfitted with green and yellow plastic tanks and a tangle of connecting tubes.

"The Super Hoser Ten-Thousand-S," Mooncloud explained, "has a full tank capacity of nearly four-and-one-half gallons. It can shoot a continuous stream of water nearly forty feet for a duration of eight seconds per burst."

"Where did you get that?" I asked, turning very slowly and trying not to make any sudden moves.

"Kiddie Kastle. There was a sale on all squirt guns and water pistols." She smiled and slide-cocked the damn thing. "This is a test," she said.

I dived out the chair, rolled once, and then threw my superhuman reflexes into jumping up and running for the bathroom.

I almost made it.

Bassarab's timely rescue and financial backing had given us a momentary shot of confidence. False confidence, perhaps, as one of our foes had survived staking and decapitation: all our high-tech firepower might not mean a thing when our paths crossed again. After loading a dozen paintballs with holy water, I pulled out my laptop computer.

The database on vampire legends was growing and the list of remedies becoming more complex and contradictory. Still, there was something that tugged at the back of my mind—some foreign bit of fable that resonated to our most recent encounter.

I finally found it under the Malaysian grouping. "Here we go," I announced. Mooncloud came over and adjusted the screen for a better look.

"What's it say?" Garou asked from the chair she had aligned with the failing air conditioner.

"According to this," Mooncloud said, "there are a number of Malayan legends and stories that tie in to the vampire mythos. You've isolated seven different manifestations: the polong, bâjang, pëlësit, langsuir, mati-anak or pontianak, and the pênanggalan."

"That's it," I said, "the last one."

She studied the information. "The pênanggalan's head separates from its body and goes flying off in search of its prey. After it feeds its head returns to its body before sunrise."

"Sounds like our boy."

She scrolled down the text and frowned. "Maybe not. Look here: the head leaves the body voluntarily and strands of guts and entrails dangle down from its neck while it flies about. Don't remember voluntary and I don't remember guts."

"Maybe."

She hit the page down key then scrolled backwards a half screen. "Here's more. Pênanggalans are always female, never male."

"Who knows what gender this thing is."

"And, finally, the biggest telling difference: the pênanggalan's body remains inert."

"Inert?"

"Inanimate—totally helpless—until the head returns to rejoin the body at the neck. We saw this thing running away with its head tucked under its arm."

"Well, if it's not a pênanggalan, then what is it?"

She shrugged.

"Look, up until now I've bought into this RNA/DNA, Virus A-Virus B, and Recombinant Virus C crap. But no amount of medical biobabble can explain a thing that can get its head chopped off and then gallop off like some refugee from a Washington Irving story!"

"Yet, you have seen it and you do know that it exists," she snapped back. "So, like it or not, you've got to deal with its existence!"

"And find a way to kill it," Lupé added.

"If it can be killed."

"Oh, it can be killed."

I looked at Lupé. "You're so sure?"

"We'll run down the list. If necessary," she bared her teeth, "we'll experiment."

I sighed and pressed a sequence of keystrokes. "Okay, from the top. We start with Albania and the sampiro. The approved method of disposal: a stake through the heart."

"Next," Garou called from her chair.

"Ashantiland," I read. "Species: asanbosam. Method of disposal: unknown."

"Unknown? You're sure?"

"Hey, I've had just enough time to scratch the surface, here. Check back with me after six months of intensive research and I might have a few more answers. Which brings us to the Austrian vampyre. My notes indicate that we must read scripture while destroying all images or portraits of that thing and be sure to use pentagrams in the process."

"What does that mean?" Mooncloud pondered.

"Sounds like we should take some Polaroids the next time we run into that creepy bastard," Garou said.

"And pentagrams?"

I shrugged. "I'm the novice here. I just transcribe the information. I leave analysis to the people with actual field experience."

"Next."

"Bavaria: nachtzehrer. Place coin in mouth, decapitate with ax."

"The coin sounds like a modification of old burial practices," Mooncloud said. "I doubt if it would have made any difference."

"Which brings us to Bohemia and the ogoljen. Best bet: bury at crossroads."

"Real practical," Garou mused. "I can just see the two of us holding that thing down while you rent a jackhammer and tear up the intersection at First and Main. Next."

"British Columbia: the kwakiytl. Means of disposal: any."

"Obviously not our man."

I paged down. "Two different species from Brazil: the jaracaca and the lobishomen. Both fit in the unknown category. Two more from Bulgaria: the krvoijac and the obours. To dispose of the first you must chain it to its grave with wild roses—"

"Ah, days of vine and roses. . . ."

I ignored Garou and continued: "The second requires witchcraft, burning, or bottling."

"Bottling?"

"Highly unlikely, totally impractical, and I'll explain later if you insist," Mooncloud said. "Keep going, Chris."

"Well, that throws out the polong of Malaysia, as well: my notes say it must be caught in bottle of special dimensions."

Garou muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy." I kept going.

"China: the p'o. Lightning strike or burn the body to ashes."

"He didn't look Chinese," Garou offered.

"Chinese vampires are actually demons and don't resemble anything human in the least," Mooncloud explained. "Next to a p'o, our boy looks like Norman Normal."

"Crete: kathakano. Boil head in vinegar."

"Gee," Garou said, "I wish we'd known that the night before last."

"Denmark," I continued, "the mara. Use knife blade which has been blessed and/or consecrated."

"Maybe we should check this thing's passport."

"Maybe you should take this business a little more seriously," Mooncloud admonished.

I looked up and saw the color drain from Lupé's face. "You think I don't want this thing dead?" she said through clenched teeth. "Come up with a plan and I'll carry it out." She got up and walked to the door. "This thing tore Luis apart and I've sworn a blood oath to kill it! I'm not afraid to die trying, if that's what it takes! Perhaps it is the rest of you who should be taking this a little more seriously!" She walked out and slammed the door.

Mooncloud looked at the ground. I stared down at the LCD display. After awhile I began reading again.

"Greece: the brukulaco. Cut off the head and burn it. Also native to Greece, the vrykolakas. Celebration of mass followed by disinterment—remove heart and burn with incense, fill mouth with holy water."

Mooncloud made no reply, so I kept going. "Germany: drakul. Place coin in mouth, cut name from shirt, break corpse's neck, pin to ground with stake, burn body to ashes."

Still no response.

"Grenada: the loogaroo. Method of disposal: unknown. Guinea: the owenga—also unknown."

Mooncloud finally spoke. "How many on your list are unknowns when it comes to disposal?"

"Let me resort." I pressed keys and a new list appeared:

Species/(Country) Method of Disposal  

Otgiruru (Hereros Land) Unknown

Baital-Pachisi (India) Unknown

Bhût (India) Unknown

Hánh Sàburo (India) Unknown

Hánt-Pare (India) Unknown

Hántu-Dor Dong (India) Unknown

Jigar-Khor (India) Unknown

Mah'ânah (India) Unknown

Pênangal (India) Unknown

Pisâchâs (India) Unknown

Rákshasa (India) Unknown

Vetala (India) Unknown

Civateteo (Mexico) Unknown

Bruxsa (Portugal) Unknown

Baobhan Sith (Scotland) Unknown

Vampiro (Spain) Unknown

Mooncloud whistled as she followed the rising list. "If our quarry is any of these, we're screwed. What's left?"

I did a quick count. "Twenty-seven, counting the pênanggalan. But I think we can also eliminate the mau mau of Kenya, the ramanga of Madagascar, the pëlësit of Malaysia, and the moroii of Rumania—apparently they can be dealt with as if they were ordinary human beings." I squinted at the display. "Although it is recommended that the pëlësit be buried with a cat when the process is concluded."

"How many left on the list require incineration?"

I rekeyed the list into another subfile.

Species/(Country) Method of Disposal 

Pamgri (Hungary) Burn body to ashes

Vampir (Magyar) Stake through heart, burn body

Romanati (Rumania) Body removed to remote place, hacked into pieces and cast in fire where every piece of flesh and bone must be incinerated

Vieszcy (Russia) Destruction by fire or execution with a gravedigger's shovel

Vlkoslak (Serbia) Cut off toes, drive nail

through neck. Burn body to ashes

"Fire sounds like our best bet but I noticed a couple of variations on the stake method. How many other listings suggest some form of nailing or impaling?"

I opened and processed another subfile.

Species/(Country) Method of Disposal

Oupire (Hungary) Iron bar through heart, decapitate with ax

Vampir (Hungary) Stake through heart, nail through temples

Vryolakas (Macedonia) Pour boiling oil on, drive nail through navel

Pênanggalan (Malaysia) Impale head on Jenyu leaves, destroy body or keep head and body separate for 24 hours

Strigoiul (Rumania) Remove heart, cut in two; garlic in mouth, nail in head

Zârne ti (Rumania) Iron forks driven through the heart, eyes, and breast of an exhumed female vam- pire; grave considerably deepened and corpse buried face downwards

Upierczi (Russia) Appear from noon to midnight only; oaken stake through the heart with just one blow; exorcism

"All right, what's left?"

"Mostly preventative burial measures." I opened another subfile.

Species/(Country) Method of Disposal 

Dearg-dul (Ireland) Pile stones on grave

Langsuir (Malaysia) Hair and nails must be cut short and clippings stuffed into hole in back of neck

Mati-Anak or Pontianak Put hen's egg under (Malaysia) each armpit, needle in palm of hand, glass beads in mouth, use charm

Upier (Poland) Bury face downwards with willow crosses under chin, armpits, and chest; decapitate, mix blood with flour to make bread that frees victims once eaten

Gierach (Prussia) Put poppy seeds in grave

Neuntoter (Saxony) Bury with lemon in mouth

"Sounds like immolation is our best bet. Anything left?"

I scanned the remaining notations.

Species/(Country) Method of Disposal  

Mulé (Gypsy) Ambush with thorns and gun

Bâjang (Malaysia) Drowning

Vârcolac (Rumania) Breaking the thread they climb on to banish them to another part of the sky

Vampyre (Yugoslavia) Rituals performed by dhampir 

"Dhampir," I mused. "I wonder what a dhampir is and if we could get in touch with one?"

"Unlikely," Bassarab answered, giving us a start. "The dhampir is the son of a vampire. I know of only three who still might be living and none of them reside in this hemisphere, much less this country."

I eyed the door behind him, wanting to ask how he'd managed to enter without our noticing. I imagined mist pouring through a keyhole and decided not to raise the question.

"The sun is down." Bassarab unlocked the door and opened it with a flourish: it squeaked noticeably. "It is time to travel."

A quiet, smooth ride is the last thing one expects from an automobile over sixty years old. But Bassarab's '31 Duesenberg glided over the uncertain surface of US 69 like a ghost, the silken response of suspension and the purr of the antique V-12 motor giving the lie to the speedometer's insistence that we were topping eighty miles an hour.

Even more hair-raising was the fact that we were doing this in complete darkness: it was a moonless night with nothing but empty fields to either side of the highway and the only light emanating from the car were the tiny LEDs indicating that the radar detector was on and sweeping the road ahead for county mounties.

Lupé, following behind in the Ford Bronco, had also extinguished her headlights, but where she had the advantage of night vision similar to my own, Victor had to wear a light-amplification device that looked like a cross between a starlight scope and virtual reality headgear. It was not a reassuring sight and I made sure my seat belt was securely buckled.

We had just passed La Cygnes Lake and off to our left was Marais des Cygnes Massacre Park, commemorating the mass murder of Free-staters by Confederate sympathizers. A few miles ahead, just past Pleasanton, would be the Mine Creek battlefield. A land rich in the heritage of violence. I thought about the bloody footnote we were about to contribute to that history and tried not to feel overweening pride.

"What the hell am I doing here?" I whispered.

Bassarab stared straight ahead, his face cloaked in shadow. "You are fighting back. As every man must who would rule those about him."

"I don't have the slightest interest in ruling anyone," I said.

"Then you will be ruled. A man either rules those about him or they, in turn, will rule him."

"I don't believe that."

"Then you are a fool. A man may hold another's fate in his own grasp and then grant the other the 'gift' of choice. But he must first have mastery if he is to have his own freedom."

" 'He is weakened by every recruit to his banner,' " I murmured; " 'Is not a man better than a town?' "

"Your Emerson had the truth of it. His essay on self-reliance would have served me well when I was Voivode of Walachia."

"But is a prince and warlord really free of obligation?" I asked. "As a ruler, isn't there a plethora of responsibilities to those you rule?"

He bowed his head. The silence was so long that I felt the question had been dismissed. And then he spoke.

"I was born in an uncivilized time, in a primitive province, and raised to the throne under savage circumstances. By modern standards my people were barbarians. We were civilized only by comparisons to those who wished to enslave us. There was only one way to resist the armies and provinces that surrounded and outnumbered and sought to master us; we had to conquer such barbarians by becoming even more barbaric than they."

He raised his head and looked at me. "And it worked. Time and again we turned back the invaders with inferior forces. Armies that should have overwhelmed us, engulfed us, slaughtered us to a man—fled, Mr. Csejthe! Turned tail and ran! Killed each other to get away! And do you know why?"

"They feared you," I said.

"Feared me? My own people feared me and I was their protector! What the Turks and Mongols felt at the mere mention of my name was beyond terror! For many, beyond sanity: the rumor of my arrival was enough to cause husbands to slay their wives, mothers their children, warriors to cut their own throats! Only death offered mercy and true safety from the unspeakable cruelties of the Devil's own son!

"My hands," he said, lifting them like black claws in the darkness, "were stained with the blood of hundreds, thousands of acts of unnecessary cruelty! Unnecessary except that it put overwhelming forces to rout and saved my country when nothing else could!

"All of the unspeakable tortures and deaths by impalement, all these horrors committed while I was still a mere mortal, heir to the life and frailties of flesh and blood, were for my people. Do you think I burned my own people alive for my own enjoyment? Do you believe that I erected a forest of bodies on stakes and poles to win the admiration of anyone? My most loyal officers, even my own family, plotted against me even while I was staining my hands and my very soul to preserve them against enemies who could not otherwise be defeated!

"So do not presume to question whether I understand the responsibilities of a ruler! I know better than any man what obligations, what debts crouch in the dark nights of the heart like deranged and leprous beggars!"

"And . . . New York?" I prompted when the silence had grown long, again.

"I was the fool then," he answered bitterly. "I had been a prince. I thought to be one again. But with the passing of the centuries I had forgotten the responsibilities of sovereignty and remembered only the glory. And with the passing of time, the world had changed, and I had changed, as well.

"But not in the same directions. . . .

"Savagery remains, Mr. Csejthe. But it is a subtle, artful savagery now. The barbarians at the gate wear three-piece suits and sport fifty-dollar manicures. Warlords no longer defend countries and provinces but little plots of land designated as 'turf.' Their kingdoms have boundaries and borders that run down the middle of neighborhood streets and cut through the centers of playgrounds, parking lots, and old tenement buildings. Tribute is paid in pharmaceuticals and stolen goods.

"And honor . . . bah!"

"What about honor?" I asked.

"The strong will ever prey upon the weak," he answered quietly. "But there are those who cannot drink from the well without poisoning it for others. Who cannot take their needful prey without savaging half the flock and scattering the rest. When one is voivode, he cultivates his allies and makes war upon his enemies. He does not confuse the two. He demands tribute from those he conquers but does not destroy his own possessions once they are in his hands. . . ." He stared out the window.

I cleared my throat. "Speaking of allies, why won't you let us contact the Doman of Seattle?"

"He is not my ally."

"But I don't believe Pagelovitch is your enemy, either. And since New York seems to be your mutual enemy, isn't that grounds for an alliance?"

He brooded over that. "I have my reasons," he said finally.

"But couldn't you let Dr. Mooncloud telephone, just to let him know that we're all right?"

He shook his head.

"He wouldn't have to know anything about you or where we are. Just a simple message saying we're alive and well. How could—"

"No! As I said, I have my reasons."

"And I have my concerns."

"Your only concern, right now, should be about what you are here to do."

"Yeah? Well, why don't you make it easy on me: just what am I here to do?"

He stared at me. "My mistake was walking away without cutting off the head of the serpent that had plotted to take my place. I had assumed they would leave me alone once I had left New York for them to squabble over as they saw fit. I had forgotten that your enemies are not only whom you say they are, but whom they say they are, as well."

"And my enemies?"

"Whom do you say they are?" he asked mildly.

"Why should I have enemies? I've done nothing to anyone."

"Mortal men are your enemies: they'll hunt you down and dissect you if they think your body holds the secret of eternal life. The wampyr are your enemy: they'll hunt you down and destroy you if they think your existence poses a threat to their own secret existence. The Doman of Seattle will add you to his stable of kept creatures. The Doman of New York will take you apart to learn your secrets and hope that you can tell them where to find me. If you would live free, then all of these are your enemies."

"Swell." We were past the town of Prescott and nearing Fulton; Fort Scott was maybe ten or fifteen minutes ahead. "So, if they're all my enemies, I'm back to my original question: what am I doing here?"

Dracula turned and, as he looked at me, I felt a palpable force flow emanating from his eyes. "Serve me in this task and I will reward you with what you want most."

"And what is that?" I asked, fighting to keep my will independent from any external control.

"Your freedom. The opportunity to live your life on your own terms."

"Why?"

"Why do I do this? Because of the blood-bond. Because we both want the same thing."

"No, I mean: why does Dracula need the help of anyone else, particularly a man who is not fully wampyr?"

Before he could answer, the CB radio mounted under the Duesenberg's dashboard crackled to life.

"Breaker eleven, breaker eleven," Lupé's voice announced, "this is the wolf calling the bat. You got your ears on, good buddy?" 

Bassarab scowled and Wren reached over for the mike with an ill-disguised smirk. "This is the bat, pretty mama; come back."

"He's sounding," she answered, barely waiting for the invitation to talk. "I can hear him—faint, but up ahead!" 

"Who's sounding?" Bassarab wanted to know. Victor relayed the question into the microphone.

"Luath!" she cried, the volume of her voice distorting the words. "He's still on the trail! And I can still hear him!" 

I looked at Bassarab. "The cu sith," I said.

Bassarab nodded, a thoughtful expression on his long, ancient face. "To answer your last question," he said slowly, "I need you because I suspect that the task before us will be more difficult than Dr. Mooncloud and her associate may imagine. That, to achieve our goals, both of us will have to die. . . ."

A sign flashed past, proclaiming Fort Scott was just another five miles up the road.

"My God," I whispered, "it's the old Tremont House."

The building was located at the corner of State and Wall Streets, at the north end of town and just a mile from the historic landmark that gave the town of Fort Scott its name. Three stories high, it had a mustard-colored, stucco-over-brick exterior that looked younger and newer under the actinic wash of the streetlamps. Closer inspection revealed that it had been closed up for a long time. The boards over the windows and across the doors looked as old and weathered as the wood frames they were nailed across.

Over its one-hundred-and-twenty-some year history it had served the city as a grand hotel and housed a variety of businesses, including the Eagles Lodge, the People's College, and a Greyhound bus depot. According to local rumor it had even been a bordello back in the sixties.

Now it was daynest for the undead.

We parked at the end of the block and gazed back up the hill. "So, what's the plan?" I asked as we huddled between the Bronco and the Duesenberg.

Everyone looked at me.

"Well, do we go in and get them or wait for them to come out?" This wasn't really such a stupid question, was it?

"I will need a closer look," Bassarab announced abruptly. He pulled at his black duster, wrapping the long coat around himself like a cape, and strode up the street.

"A reconnoiter is definitely called for," Lupé agreed, and began disrobing. A moment later a large, grey canine form was loping toward the hillside nest in Bassarab's wake.

Mooncloud crutched over to me while Wren opened the rear boot on the Duesenberg. She whispered: "I don't like this."

"Hey," I said, "we're about to attack a bunch of immortal creatures who can't be killed or even hurt in most of the conventional ways, who are superhumanly strong and highly motivated to kill and hurt us back—what's not to like?"

"I'm talking about Bassarab," she hissed, pulling on my arm. We moved away from Wren as he began unloading equipment.

"What are you complaining about? I'm the one who had to ride with him."

She pulled me farther away. "This mission is possibly the most difficult and dangerous one I've ever undertaken and that was before these guys—" she jerked her head toward the antique auto "—came along and complicated everything."

"As I remember it, we'd lost our transportation, our weapons, our equipment, supplies, and pretty much our self-respect before these guys came along. I should think you would feel a little more gratitude, Doctor."

She turned away, her arms stiff against the metal tubing of the crutches, and grunted. "He won't permit us to contact Stefan. He insists that we do things his way. And he won't discuss strategy with us until the last minute. And maybe not even then." She turned back to me. "I don't trust him, Chris. Even if he is who he says he is. Maybe I trust him even less if he is the real Dracula." She grasped my arm. "I've sworn my allegiance to Pagelovitch—no one else. And the Doman has always allowed me to run my missions my way. I won't take responsibility for the lives at risk, otherwise." She glanced back at Wren. "So if and when push comes to shove, you're gonna have to decide."

"Decide what?"

"Whether you take orders from him or from me. If I give the signal, Lupé will neutralize Wren and I'll take down Bassarab myself. I hope I can count on you."

"To take orders from you?"

She looked at my face and was not reassured. "You'd side with him?"

"What if I side with me?" I asked quietly. "What if I decide to follow some orders of my own?"

"Chris, he's the one responsible for your condition! Directly or indirectly, he's the cause of your wife and daughter's deaths!"

"You're missing the point." Now it was my turn to steer her a few feet farther from the Wren. "That day I drove through Weir and saw a column of smoke—well, it was the last day that my life was my own. I was summoned into that barn. And ever since that moment, I've been sleepwalking through an ongoing nightmare."

"We've tried to help—"

"Oh, yeah!" I snapped. "I was abducted, kept under house arrest, and basically told how my life was going to be from now on!"

"I thought you understood the reasons for—"

"Your reasons," I said harshly, "not mine. I'm not ungrateful and I do understand the necessities as you and the others saw them. But I'm through taking orders. From now on, I'll cooperate when it's the obvious and meaningful thing to do." I curled my fingers into a fist. "But it's my life," I said, thumping my chest. "Such as it is. And it's long past time for me to start taking responsibility for it again."

The gesture was obviously meant to be conciliatory. But, as she laid her hand upon my arm, I felt a surge of resentment. "We need you, Chris. And you need us." A sense of manipulation there. "Think of the research—"

"Since you are so fond of research, Doctor, let's try something right now. Look in my eyes."

"What?" She looked up at me, startled but unafraid.

"I'm a member of the Master Race now. Maybe a half-breed bastard by analogy, but definitely something beyond human." I smiled, feeling hollow. I looked into her eyes, forbidding her to look away. "You, Taj, are merely human."

A puzzled frown tugged at her lips and forehead. "Why are you talking this way?"

I swallowed, the taste of ashes was in my mouth. "Kiss my feet."

"What?"

"It's very simple, Doctor: I want you to get down on your knees and kiss my feet."

The frown was fully formed, but her eyes were still clear. "And why should I do such a thing?"

"Why? Because I command you," I said in a reasonable tone. And all the while forced the image of her compliance to the forefront of my thoughts. "You will obey me because I wish it. Because your will is no longer yours, but mine."

"I-I don't understand. . . ." Now there were clouds gathering in her eyes. She trembled a bit.

"It's not important that you understand, Taj. It's only important that you obey me. Kiss my feet."

"I don't want to." Her voice was shaky and her eyes were starting to unfocus.

"It doesn't matter what you want, my dear. It only matters what I want." I pushed at the image in my mind, made the mental image of Mooncloud drop to her knees. "Get down on the sidewalk and kiss my feet."

The woman in front of me slid the crosspieces from under her arms and, gripping the stems of the crutches, lowered herself to one knee. "No," she whispered.

"Yes." I pushed the mental image further, felt the bile rise in my throat. "Do it!"

The other knee came down. "Please," she whispered. The crutches clattered to the ground on each side of her.

"I can make you do it," I said. "You can't resist my will."

"Please. . . ." She was swaying on her knees and suddenly fell forward, arms rigid and hands splayed, catching herself before her face landed on the sidewalk.

"Taj," I said, speaking gently but holding the command in unyielding mental subjugation, "say 'uncle.' "

"It's the virus," she grunted through clenched teeth. "It's already begun to affect your mind—your personality—"

That wasn't the reason I was doing it, but I released her, anyway.

"You bastard!" she said, red-faced and struggling to pull herself back up on her crutches. "What the hell did you do to me?"

"Research, Doctor. Vampires are supposed to have the power to cloud men's minds, to dominate another's will. To bind mental slaves and hold them in thrall. I wanted to see if I could do it. I think I can." I easily intercepted the slap aimed for my face, held her wrist in my grasp. "Do you agree or do I need to repeat the experiment and carry it out to an undeniable conclusion?"

"Yes, damn you!" Her eyes were no longer clouded; the fear was gone, replaced by anger.

"Hell of thing, research," I remarked, still holding her wrist in my grasp. "And a hell of thing when people can control you, make your decisions for you." I released her wrist. "Well, what have we learned here, Doctor? I've learned that my brain chemistry is, indeed, changing. What have you learned?" I turned and walked back toward the Duesenberg.

"I thought we were friends, Csejthe," she called to my back.

I stopped. "I thought we were friends, too," I said quietly. "But tonight I realized that you would still be my keeper." I walked on over to the Duesenberg and found Bassarab already returned and in conversation with his chauffeur.

"Problem?" he asked as I approached.

"Nothing I can't handle," I said. "Didn't notice your return."

He shrugged dismissively. "Didn't want you to." He looked about. "Where is the lycanthrope?"

My turn to shrug. "I don't know, I'm not her keeper." My temper was short tonight.

"You need to remedy that."

And getting shorter. But before I could open my mouth, Lupé trotted up.

"Black limo and tan Chevy van parked on the side street to the west. Arkansas plates on the van." The wolf paused, lifting her hind leg to scratch at something behind her ear. "No loose boards on the ground level. Try checking the fire escape."

"And only one is presently home," Bassarab added. "The rats say that he may be sleeping. I think that we can take this one easily enough and then await the return of the others." He buckled on a belt and scabbard. A richly ornamented sword hilt protruded from the wooden sheath. "Come. Let us hasten before the others return."

I hoisted a miniature flamethrower up and onto my back while Victor helped fasten the shoulder harness across my chest. Burning—burning should work. Of course, so should decapitation and a stake through the heart. So buckling on a web-belt with twin holsters was not really a matter of overkill: the two Splatmaster Rapide Semi-Automatic paint pistols that I slid into their leather scabbards were a logical if less than reassuring precaution under the circumstances. When I looked up, Mooncloud was cocking her second crossbow and Wren was loading the airbow with a fresh CO₂ cartridge. A barbed spear with an ash shaft was just showing at the barrel's opening, already locked into firing position. Over his shoulder was a bag filled with wooden stakes. Lupé was going empty-handed as she hadn't any. Hands, that is: she had elected to remain in wolf form.

"Follow me and move quietly," Bassarab ordered. "I will go in first, followed by Victor, and then Mr. Csejthe. Doctor, your crutches will be a liability in close quarters. You will remain outside to help the wolf-bitch guard the outer perimeter."

Lupé growled softly.

"Rats, huh?" I said as we started down the street toward the ancient structure. "The rats told you how many people are in the building and what they're doing?"

Bassarab nodded.

"Telepathy, right?"

Bassarab nodded again.

"Boy am I just brimming with confidence, now."

"And why is that?" Lupé rumbled.

"Because," I murmured, "they always say: 'It's not just what you know but who you know that counts.'"

"Mr. Csejthe. . ." Bassarab remarked.

"Yes?"

" . . . shut up."

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