Chapter Three
Give
me monsters. . . .
Crazy-quilt
renderings of mismatched flesh with bolted necks stalking through
mazed corridors. Demonic beasts of hunched fur and poisoned
talons slavering in steaming pits and crawling forth, unhindered
by pentagrams and mystic seals. Lunatic shapes that caper and
gibber and reach out for you in ways that suggest that there are
worse things than death and you can take a long time in getting
there. . . .
I'll
take monsters any day. Or night.
Because
monsters can be run from. Or fought.
But
how do you escape when that monstrous, stalking doom is part and
parcel of your own anatomy? When it pursues you through the
looping corridors of veins and arteries, and nests in the four
bedroom chambers of your own heart?
For
months my dreams had been scored to background threnodies and
funereal winds moaning like a macabre Greek chorus. In time the
wailing had changed and I recognized the voices as they took on
new tonal qualities.
The
sound of my own blood.
Singing.
A
vast, choral paean of the Dies Irae reverberating through
my body: Day of Wrath. . .
There
had been no solace in waking up. In time I had discovered the
nightmare requiem was but a reflection of my waking reality:
shadows were gliding through my bloodstream like sharks turned
loose to hunt in a watery theme park. . . .
But
now I awoke feeling somewhat rested for the first time in months.
Lying in the dark confines of the makeshift bed, I listened to
the drone of tires on pavement and then reached out to feel the
wooden walls that enclosed me like a coffin. Surprisingly, the
panic signs of claustrophobia were absent and I felt rested-a
sensation that had eluded me for the better part of a year, now.
The sun, I could tell through some arcane faculty, had set nearly
an hour before.
There
was a knock on the wooden barrier to my side.
"Yes?"
The
ceiling lifted up, swung away on side hinges like a casket lid.
Dr. Mooncloud reached down, offering her hand. "We're almost
there."
She
helped me climb out of the rectangular storage space that had
been adapted for my sleeping facilities, then closed the
cushioned lid that converted the area back into a padded bench
seat. The storage area had served as sleeping space for a dozen
such recovery missions, she had explained just before sunrise.
"Hungry?"
she asked now.
I
groaned.
"Admit
it, now. You are feeling much better since we introduced
hemoglobin into your diet."
I
had no ready-made answer to that.
"Well,
you're still in transition so we're not exactly sure of your
needs and tolerances. If you had completed the transformation,
you could go for days-weeks even-between feedings. As it is,
we'll have to trust you to be honest about your hunger
pangs."
"Please-you
make me sound like a-a-" I fumbled to fit a word to the
feeling.
"Predator?"
"Specimen.
It's all been animal blood, so far. Hasn't it?"
She
nodded. "And diluted."
"Just
don't switch me over to-to-"
"The
human stuff?" The thought seemed to horrify her.
"Certainly not before I get you into the lab!"
So
much for the subtler nuances of the Hippocratic oath.
The
Winnebago coasted to a standstill, backed up and came to a dead
stop.
"We're
here," Garou's voice crackled from the intercom.
It
looked like a castle.
Especially
if you'd never seen a real one.
The
building across the street looked more like a scaled down
fairytale palace that had been airlifted out of Disneyworld and
dropped into the far end of Seattle's business district. The
crenelated walls rose two stories above street level with twin
gate house towers. A recessed keeplike structure rose another two
and four stories, respectively. There was even a water-filled
moat between the sidewalk and the castle proper, overshot by a
wooden drawbridge that looked fully capable of supporting a
Sherman tank. The word "Fantasies" in blue neon
calligraphy was hung above the portcullis in the main archway and
strobed off and on like a torpid firefly.
Additional
contrast to the weathered stone was provided by expensive,
late-model automobiles that lined the street and studded the
parking lot like colorful gems.
"Parts
of it are real," Mooncloud remarked as she took my arm and
started for the crosswalk at the corner. "A good portion of
the stonework was recovered from an ancient ruin and shipped over
from the old country, stone by stone, and reassembled here."
I
smirked. "The old country?"
"Of
course, some adjustments were made in reconstruction," Garou
said, hanging back to activate the vehicle alarm system. The RV
chirped and she hurried to catch up. "Front door or
back?" The light changed and we started across the street.
My
attention was momentarily caught by a flash of white: a face at
the rear window of what looked like, by God, an authentic black
and white 1931 Duesenberg parked halfway down the block.
"Back,"
Mooncloud decided. "Not that it makes any real difference, I
suppose."
We
were halfway through the crosswalk when another car came out of
nowhere, bearing down on us at better than sixty miles an hour.
There was just enough time for us to dodge left, see the
headlights track our escape route, change direction, see the car
adjust to follow, and then I found myself being flung across the
road with inhuman strength. A red GTO careened past, narrowly
missing Mooncloud and myself. Garou was not so fortunate, having
lost her advantage in throwing me out of harm's way: the grille
caught her with a dull, smacking sound.
Once
again time seemed to slow perceptibly and I stared in horror as
she tumbled across the hood like a broken rag doll, striking the
windshield and rebounding in a starburst of shattered glass. Her
body was tossed off to the side where a parked car broke her fall
back onto the street.
I
stumbled to my feet, barely aware of the strips of abraded skin
that flapped from my tattered hands, elbows, and knees. There was
no pain, yet; just a disturbing sense of disorientation-that time
was out of sync. And a feeling of rage that flashed white hot as
I saw her bloodied corpse crumpled between a green Lotus and a
grey Mercedes-Benz.
Mooncloud
wobbled to her knees, looking slow and stunned. I turned and saw
the GTO brake, performing a skidding turn in balletic slo-mo. It
was coming about, the driver preparing to make another pass.
Hazed
by fury, I ran toward it, sprinting across the asphalt like a
noseguard locked in on the opposition quarterback. An old joke
flitted through the back of my mind-something about dogs chasing
cars and what would they do if they ever caught one? I shook my
head, hands balling into fists.
The
muscle car was fully turned now and beginning to accelerate, but
it still seemed to be jerking through successive frames of
sluggish film. It must have been a trick of perspective for I
seemed to be moving twice as fast as the automobile. In ten
subjective seconds we would meet.
And
then what?
In
my fury I had insane visions of plowing through the car's front
end like it was so much breakaway cardboard or vaulting the hood
to smash feet-first through the windshield like in an old Chuck
Norris movie. . . .
The
headlights were just a few feet away when sanity finally
prevailed. There was more than enough time to pirouette and
sidestep, the fender caressing my pants leg as the car motored
past-plenty of time remaining to reach through the driver's side
window. I tore the lap belt and shoulder harness apart like crepe
paper and yanked the driver out through the open window.
The
car continued to meander down the street as I spun the man around
to face me. He reached for something-a weapon, most likely. Time
was still dragging so there was plenty of time to intercept his
wrist. But I didn't do that. I gave in to the rage, instead. I
slammed my fist into his face, distantly surprised at how easily
bone and cartilage gave way before my knuckles. The man went limp
in my grasp, blood literally bursting from ears, eyes, mouth, and
the cratered remains of a nose.
Now
the car snapped into high speed, veering off to the right and
smashing into a Coupe de Ville parked near the corner of the
intersection. The madness was fading and I tossed the driver's
corpse aside without even looking at his face. There was no
point, anyway: not even his own mother could recognize him now.
"Taj?"
I called, like a man waking from an uncertain sleep.
"Over
here." She was kneeling beside Garou's body. "Come help
me."
I
walked over in a daze, the adrenaline rush suddenly gone. I knelt
beside her, feeling all dead inside, again. Was this part of
the transformation? I wondered. This past year I had felt my
emotions flicker and die, one by one, until anger, alone,
remained. It was the one true passion that I still recognized;
everything else seemed like so much window dressing.
Mooncloud
had turned the body over onto its back. Garou's face was bloody,
her eyes disturbingly open and staring. Gently, I reached down
and drew her eyelids closed with my fingertips.
"Get
your grimy fingers out of my eyes!" Garou snarled. I fell
over backwards and landed on my rear. Undignified maybe, but I
had some consolation in the fact that my jeans were still dry.
"She's
alive," Mooncloud explained gently.
Duh.
"As
if it's not enough to get both legs broken along with crushed
ribs and multiple skull fractures," Garou's
"corpse" groused, "I have to suffer the indignity
of this cub trying to poke my eyes out like some kind of Three
Stooges routine." She turned her head and spat out a
mouthful of blood. "Where's the perp?"
I
was trying to get my legs back under me. "I guess I killed
him."
"Great!"
Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
"It
would have been better if we could have interrogated him."
Mooncloud looked around. "We need to get her inside."
I
was dubious. "Should we move her? Internal injuries-"
Garou
clutched my arm in a weak grip, her own arm sagging at a funny
angle. "I'm a lycanthrope, you idiot. I'm already starting
to regenerate." She coughed, a wet ragged sound. "But
I'll be more comfortable inside, in bed, and off the
street."
"Plus
we'll need to make a few alterations in the evidence of tonight's
events before the authorities arrive." Mooncloud turned to a
child who had just appeared from behind the Mercedes.
"Mordecai, the driver is over there." She pointed at
the crumpled body back down the street. "You know what to
do."
As
Mordecai passed by I saw that my first impression was wrong: this
was no child but an old dwarf dressed in livery and a fool's cap.
The little man placed a couple of stubby fingers in his mouth and
blew a shrill and complicated whistle as he hurried toward the
corpse.
I
gathered Lupé Garou into my arms as if she were some oversized
rag doll. As I stood, I saw the cover of a manhole rise from the
street and several more diminutive figures emerge. I turned to
Mooncloud. "What-?"
"Knockers,"
she answered curtly. "Let's go."
"Yeah.
. . ." Garou's voice was weak and I had to bow my head to
listen. "The mines below the sewers are full of 'em. The
Doman almost named the place after 'em. Can you imagine?"
Her smile was cut short by another cough and Mooncloud's
announcement that we were going in the front door. I nearly
dropped her as her body squirmed, shifting in my arms,
reassigning mass and shape and flowing into the form of a great,
bloodied wolf. Now her clothing hung loosely from her lupine form
and Mooncloud quickly pulled it off, stuffing the tattered
material in her purse.
"Come
on, don't dawdle!" She tugged at my elbow as the great
wooden doors, strapped and bound with iron bands and large oval
rings, began to swing open. "Make way!" she yelled,
pushing through the gathering crowd. "Had a little accident
out here! Coming through. Some guy just hit a dog and lost
control of his car!"
"My
Caddy!" a new voice shrilled. As the man pushed past, I
looked back and saw that the body of the driver was already back
behind the wheel of the GTO. There was no sign of the knockers
and Mordecai was standing on the sidewalk, looking like nothing
more than a curious spectator. Mooncloud was moving deeper into
the castle's interior and I had to hurry to keep up.
The
entry hall split three ways, opening up into a dark, cavernous
room between two outer passages. As we passed the inner portal
and started down the left corridor I glanced in at what might
have once served as a king's great hall. The darkness was studded
with pinpoints of candlelight denoting constellations of tables.
At the center of the great room was a nucleus of light, revealing
a stage bordered by a vast, circular bar. I caught a glimpse of
the dancers on the stage and suddenly understood Garou's sardonic
comment regarding the knockers. Then I was past the portal,
trying to keep up with Mooncloud as she continued down the outer
hallway.
Antique
elevator doors opened at the end of the corridor. Inside the
filigreed iron cage was a tiny apparition perched atop a high
stool. The man couldn't have topped three feet if standing erect
and looked even smaller folded in on himself as he sat. His red
hair, beard, hat, and spats formed a Christmasy contrast to his
green frock coat and breeches. Tiny dark glasses bridged his
face, delicately spanned between oversized ears and nose. He
cocked his head as they stepped aboard and sniffed delicately.
"Fräulein Mooncloud?"
"Yes,
Hinzelmann. We need to go down straightaway."
He
pulled a lever that closed the doors, then pulled another and the
cage started a smooth descent. "It is Fräulein Garou, is it
not?" he asked, continuing to stare straight ahead. "Is
she hurt badly?" Genuine concern leaked through the
formality.
"Not
so badly that I won't be taking the stairs in a couple of
days," the wolf growled. I nearly dropped her, again.
"Hinzelmann,
this is Mr. Csejthe."
The
little man nodded gravely without turning. "Herr Csejthe, guten
Tag."
"Mr.
Hinzelmann, sehr angenehm," I managed.
"Ach,
it is nice to meet a young person with manners these days.
Csejthe . . ." he ruminated, ". . . from Hungary?"
I
shook my head. "Frontenac."
"Frontenac?"
"Kansas,"
I elaborated. "Just next to Pittsburg, no 'H'."
"Pittsburgh-no-'H'?"
"Pittsburg,
Kansas-with no 'H' on the end of Pittsburg. It's right next door
to Frontenac." He looked blank so I added, "It's where
I'm from."
"Ah!"
A light dawned in his eyes. "Ich bitte um Entschuldigung-I
mean originally."
"Oh.
Originally, Kansas City. Missouri not Kansas."
The
light dimmed, nearly going out and the little man grunted as the
elevator came to a stop. "But your family-of the Nadasays,
perhaps?"
"Perhaps,"
Mooncloud agreed as the doors opened. "There is much that
Mr. Csejthe doesn't know, yet-particularly about himself."
"Another
knocker?" I inquired as the doors closed behind us and we
continued down a corridor hollowed out of solid stone.
"A hütchen."
"A
what?"
"A
German home sprite."
"Oh.
Of course."
"Do
I detect a note of sarcasm, Mr. Csejthe?"
"More
like sixteen bars with coda." The rattle of small-wheeled
casters drew my attention up the corridor. A young woman dressed
in a samite gown was pushing a gurney toward us. A textbook
Nordic beauty, she had pale blue eyes and wore her white-blond
hair piled in coils upon her head. "Human?"
Mooncloud
shook her head.
I
sighed. "Of course not."
"Weisse
Frauen."
"Weisse
or weise?"
"One
of the White Ladies," said the wolf.
"Hush,"
Mooncloud scolded. "No unnecessary talk or movement till
you're more regenerated." She turned to me as the gurney
arrived. " 'White' or 'wise' serve equally when dealing
with the Fainen women. Where did you learn German?"
"My
great grandfather. I picked up a smattering when I was a
toddler."
"You
seem to have kept up."
"I
live in what used to be called the 'Little Balkans' area of
Kansas." I shrugged. "Or did live, anyway. . . ."
"They
called down and warned us," the pale woman said as I gently
laid Garou's lupine form on the gurney. "Surgery is prepared
and ready."
"Thank
you, Magda." Mooncloud took my arm. "Take her on down.
Tell Dr. Burton that I'll be along in a moment." She led me
off down a side corridor. "I've got to go tend to Lupé, but
we must get you settled, first." We came to a cross corridor
and she called out: "Ah, Basa-Andrée!"
There is no excellent beauty, Francis Bacon wrote, that hath not some
strangeness in the proportion. Perhaps, but I'd warrant that
Frank never imagined strangeness in every proportion. It was
shuffling toward us now in the form of an old and very ugly
crone.
"How
is the little one?" it-she-rasped in an ancient, rusting
voice.
"I
think she'll be fine eventually, but I must tend her for now.
Basa," she pulled me forward, "this is Christopher
Csejthe. He's the one we were sent to recruit."
Basa-Andrée
clasped gnarled, lumpy hands together. "Ah! Welcome, honored
guest! Please allow me to show you to your quarters." She
looked me up and down. "I will draw you a hot bath and see
that you are provided with fresh clothing." To Mooncloud:
"Leave him to me, dearie. You just run along and I'll see
that he's ready for his audience with the Doman."
Mooncloud
smiled gratefully. "Go along, Chris; I'll be by to check on
you later. You're in good hands, now: Basa-Andrée is one of the
chamberlains."
I
leaned over and whispered, "She's not human either, is
she?"
She
shook her head. "Aguane."
"Of
course. Don't know why I didn't see that immediately."
The
old woman cackled as Mooncloud took her leave. "Come with
me, dearie. Stefan has decreed that you are to be shown every
courtesy." She cackled again as she started off down the
corridor. The grasp of her hand was like weathered iron and I
tottered behind her, trying to keep up.
My
quarters turned out to be a six-room suite that rivaled any hotel
I'd ever visited save for the fact that there were no windows and
the walls were dressed stone. The aguane showed me through the
various rooms, explaining that the kitchenette would be stocked
as soon as my dietary needs were understood and as for the
closets. . .
Less
than two minutes after we had entered the suite, two brownies and
a leprechaun (or so Basa-Andrée identified them) had bustled
through the door. The tour was sidetracked as they subjected me
to a thorough series of measurements and detailed questions
pertaining to fashion preferences, fabrics, and which side I
"dressed" on. One of the brownies even held up a color
chart and pronounced me a "dramatic winter." Then they
were bustling back out the door and apologizing that it would be
close to an hour before they could return with a complete
wardrobe.
"Now,"
the old crone cackled, "how about a nice, relaxing, hot
bath?"
The
bathroom was spacious, with a great sunken tub that could
comfortably accommodate three with room to spare. As the steaming
water neared the top, recessed jets turned on, swirling my bath
into a bubbling jacuzzi.
"I've
taken the liberty of laying out a variety of toiletries and
shaving implements," the old chamberlain said, turning the
taps to the off position. "If you have any grooming needs,
just utilize the house phone to make your needs known."
"Great."
I squinted at the reflective panels of glass. "How about a
special mirror that will enable a semi-vampire to shave
himself?"
She
grinned, displaying teeth that looked like a two-hundred year-old
picket fence. "I think we can come up with something that
will satisfy. . . ."
I
lay back with my eyes closed, letting the heat from the water
sink into my cool flesh. It was the first time that I could
remember feeling warm in days. Relaxation gave way to sleep and I
had a most curious dream.
In
this dream I was still lying back in the tub, my arms and legs
drifting in the bubbling swirls of heated water. A woman's head
poked above the water's frothy surface. "So what would you
prefer?" she asked, her green hair swirling about with the
currents. "A trim, a full shave, or a compromise where you
keep the mustache?"
"Full
shave," I murmured, bemused by the turn this dream was
taking.
She
rose up halfway out of the water to reach for the shaving
implements that had been laid out on the side of the tub. Now
there was no question that I was dreaming: not only was this
green-tressed woman both bare and beautiful, but her lower body
seemed to be occupying the same space as my own. Had she been
real, I would have felt her weight upon me, legs straddling my
sides. Instead, she seemed to have no substance below the
waterline: her waist seemed solid enough, but the pale flesh
below her navel seemed to bleach toward transparency, her hips
disappearing and reappearing in the roiling froth of the water.
An interesting effect, I thought. Almost as interesting as the
effect of her bending over me. . . .
And
then I was distracted by the sensation of cool lather against my
hot, sweaty face, surprisingly solid fingers smoothing it down my
cheeks, beneath my chin, across my jaw and throat.
The
shave was pleasant.
The
"aftershave" even more so.
I
awoke to the fact that the waterjets had been shut off. I opened
my eyes with the memory of the watery barber fresh in my mind.
Instead, I was treated to the sight of rheumy, yellow eyes that
bulged from an ancient, leathery face: the aguane.
I
repressed an impolite scream.
"The
Doman sends for ye, lad," she cackled. "I would'na keep
himself waiting any longer than necessary." She handed me a
large towel and turned to go. At the doorway she paused.
"Nice shave." Her mouth stretched into a gap-toothed
grin and she disappeared around the corner.
I
put a hand to my face: it was true, I was now clean-shaven.
And
the closets were now full of clothing, shoes and boots arranged
in two military lines across their floor areas.
I
dressed in a daze, scarcely aware of my surroundings as I
examined the pink patches of new skin on my elbows, hands, and
knees. Gone were the oozing wounds from my ungraceful slide on
the asphalt from just an hour before.
Gone
was the life I had known just four days before.
Less
than a week ago I had figured on a short future with long medical
bills. Now? Well, dead was dead, but undead? At the very least
there did seem to be some physical advantages.
There
was a knock at the door as I finished tying my shoes. It was Dr.
Mooncloud, who had managed a change of clothes and some fresh
makeup.
"How's
Lupé?" I asked.
"Fine.
She'll be up and around in no time." She offered her arm.
"Shall we go? The Doman is having us for dinner."
"An
interesting choice of words," I observed as we exited my new
quarters.
"Until
the Doman makes any decisions concerning your fate," she
answered, "the ambiguity is apropos. Don't embarrass me
tonight."
"Don't
worry," I said. "I'm just dying to make a good
impression."