Necroscope: The Plague-Bearer (4 page)

For while speaking to him—unaccountably and without Mike realizing it, yet startling him and shocking him at the last—the Francezcis had somehow contrived to approach him by moving over the floor in a rapid yet deceptively flowing, indeed effortless fashion. Until now, suddenly, they were at point-blank range!

Mike had fallen back a short pace; he tripped on one of the groping figures on the floor and barely managed to maintain his balance. But despite his sudden confusion—the rising tide of unaccustomed anxiety, uncertainty he felt welling deep inside—he had retained sufficient control to continually shift his aim from one Francezci to the other and back again, taking no chances but covering both of them, despite that it seemed they were unarmed.

And it was during one such split-second shift, with his gun in motion, swinging halfway between the brothers, that Anthony had grown bored with the game and acted to end it. As for Mike: He hadn’t even seen the other move—it had happened that fast! But in that single, blurring, unbelievable split-second, Mike’s gun hand had been grasped in slender but vise-like fingers, the safety catch on his automatic had somehow been applied, and the weapon itself had been taken from his fist with such force that he’d felt certain his hand must be broken!

What had happened, Mike wondered? Was something wrong with him? Had he suffered a stroke, passed out or something, if only for a second or so? And what had changed—what was
different
—about the Francezcis? Their eyes in the gloom were now…what, feral? Yes! Luminous as a cat’s eyes at night, they flared sulphurous yellow in the twins’ vilely grinning faces, like small lamps burning on Mike. And the monstrous
looks
of the brothers; their features, changing; the way their lips writhed back from scarlet gums—gums that tore as they sprouted terrible teeth!

Or was it possible that these anomalies were simply hallucinations, delirious illusions, symptoms of whatever was wrong with him? Was he still entirely conscious and not nightmaring? And if so, how was it that the men he had so severely injured, indeed crippled,
were already rising to their feet!?

By then survival had been uppermost in Mike’s mind, and he had fumbled with his jacket’s sleeve at the cuff, squeezed it, and tried to close his fist on the ugly blade that sprang into view…only to find that his fingers were still numb, unable to obey him. And his knife had clattered to the marble floor.

And finally Mike had felt himself staggering. Incapable of keeping pace with or even comprehending what was happening to him, he might well have lost consciousness, collapsed from the sheer shock of it—had he not been held effortlessly upright by Anthony on one side and Francesco on the other, their slender but amazingly powerful hands like crutches in his armpits. And when one of the brothers—but which one he couldn’t have said—had clapped a handkerchief soaked in some kind of anesthetic over Mike’s nose and gasping mouth, he had been utterly incapable of doing anything about it.

So that darkness had swiftly followed…

Following which time had lost all meaning to Mike. He had felt there were periods—moments, at least—when he was awake, but mainly he had slept; he had slept, nightmared, and dreamed scarlet dreams. The brothers Francezci: their rabid, grinning faces dripping blood!…the biting pain that Mike felt whenever one of them, sometimes both of them, were near…the burning pain in his throat, beneath his jawbone, sometimes in his wrist…the drowning sensation, of swirling into oblivion, spiralling away like a spider down a plug hole.

He had been in a box—no, a coffin, in a cavern—a place that was sometimes lit, more often in darkness…and Mike had sensed something nearby that tossed and seethed and lusted. But lusted for what? Perhaps for him? And he’d felt empty and tired…so very tired. So tired indeed that later he would remember thinking:
Is this death? Surely this is how death feels!

But three days later, when Mike had woken up, he’d finally come to understand his error: that his initial weariness wasn’t death but merely the prelude to undeath! At which the brothers had told him how it was going to be from now on…

They had been genuinely impressed, even the Francezci brothers, impressed by Mike’s so-called skills, his killer instinct: that he had tackled two of theirs and so damaged them as to incapacitate them however temporarily. A pair of bodyguards, vampires, albeit it “common” vampires, downed by a mere man—an entirely
human
being! And when he had learned what they were, those two, then he had understood what Francesco had meant with his words: “With his brain ruptured, he would be very definitely dead—as good a way as any to kill such as him…”

“Such as him:” an undead creature of the night. In fact two of them, laid low by Mike but by no means permanently. And that was how they had recovered, or begun to recover, so quickly: by reason of a certain “something in their blood,” with which they had been “reborn, recreated,” by the Francezcis—just as Mike had now been recreated by them.

And as Francesco had explained it to him down there in that deep cavern, after releasing him from the narrow crate where he had lain for three days and nights, “Oh, it has its advantages, Mike, but it also has certain disadvantages, naturally. For example: You are no longer your own man but belong to us; you are ‘in thrall’—as the saying goes—to the Francezcis. And for once and for
always,
throughout the rest of your life, you will obey us or suffer the consequences.

“As for the advantages: You were strong, but now you are so much stronger! Your five senses, while they were very acute for a mere man, are now twice as sensitive…which is ample justification for what you said of our two men—our ‘boys,’ as you had it—who would certainly have had your measure had you been any less self-sufficient, less talented. You took them by surprise, yes, but that is no excuse; needless to say we were
disappointed
with their efforts. It seems they had grown soft in our service, slow and careless, and far too sure of themselves. But then again, they were the least and most recent of our thralls, who you won’t be seeing again…at least, not as they were.

“So then: stronger, faster, more aware—with all of your passions doubled and redoubled, which you’ll use sparingly, and never indiscriminately—you are now a great deal more than you have ever been. And you will live…oh, a
very
long time! For you are undead, Mike, and will feed on the lives of others. But you must always remember: You can never show the world what you are. You will keep your name, your identity, of course, and you will ever retain the guise of an ordinary man; for anonymity is synonymous with longevity. But only let men see the real you—let them discover you for what you are—and they will hunt you down as others have been hunted before you.”

Then Anthony had spoken up. “Mike Milazzo, while you were a ‘made man’ in America, now we have
re
made you! But just as your American bosses had rules, so we have them in addition to those my brother has spoken of. First of all, you can
never
make more like yourself. The blood is the life, it’s true, and for sustenance you may take what you need as you need it, but
never
drain a man—or girl—to the last drop! Kill someone like that and you make a new vampire; but one without understanding, ignorant of the dangers, who may bring retribution to your doorstep. And for the same reason you may
never
use our name nor even mention it! Make no attempt to avoid us, or try to escape our influence by flight; don’t even
consider
such treachery. We have familiar creatures superior to the weaklings you dealt with, thralls who will track you down to the ends of the earth and either destroy you or return you here, to us. And Mike, there are other ways—far more painful, lingering ways—to kill such as you than by shattering your brain with a bullet!”

As Anthony paused, then Francesco—grinning at Mike, glaring at him through blazing eyes—had nodded knowingly in agreement with his brother, before adding: “Oh yes! Indeed there are
other
ways! And now you must come with us, for there is someone who may wish to meet you—and something we want
you
to meet.”

Still dazed and unsure of his whereabouts, his condition—in fact praying, even a hoodlum like Mike, praying he was still asleep and nightmaring—he could only obey and walk unsteadily between the twins, across the floor of the great cavern towards what seemed to be the wall of a well. But it wasn’t a well, and halfway to it Mike had felt once again that sensation of something stirring, seething, lusting: something in the pit. And to his enhanced vampire sensibilities it seemed he could even hear a voice, growing louder and ever more demanding:

For me? Is he for me? A girl would be better, but I am ever hungry and my needs are great. For what you have given me…I am grateful, certainly, but you
promised
me a girl!

Worse still, Francesco had at once
answered
what the terrified hoodlum had hoped or prayed was only his imagination, only a voice in his disordered head:

“Yes, father, and I will deliver, but I need a little time. As always, there are difficulties to be overcome. However, this one is not for you. He is one of ours, a new one who displays a degree of promise, but who yet needs convincing of the requirement for the strict rules that regulate our organization—and more especially of the penalties for disobedience.”

Oh, indeed?
had come an answering grunt, sounding more than a little disappointed.
Is it so? One of ours, freshly made?
But a moment later:
So be it. Perhaps I can ‘rise’ to the occasion, eh? Oh, ha-ha-ha!

The voice had “echoed” like a belching blast from an alien abyss, and finally Mike had known the truth: that while it was indeed in his mind, it was not of his making; that it had been
put
there by some fearful Other! And though he had tried to dig his heels into the rough floor of the cavern, still the Francezcis had dragged him to the pit, where its electrified grill had been raised up on its gear, leaving a gap of just eight or nine inches.

And as the three had arrived at the rim of the pit, so its grotesque occupant had come surging up the shaft, and Mike had known the true meaning of horror! He might have struggled free but the Francezcis had held him as easily as they might hold a child, letting him gaze with eyes that only half believed what they were seeing—until the pallidly pulsing mass of the
thing
in the pit had ejected through the gap between the wall and the grill an assortment of clattering bones, flensed to a gleaming whiteness.

At which Mike’s already slack jaw had dropped more yet. For among that pile of debris he had seen a pair of polished, human skulls,
and he’d known at once, instinctively, who they and the rest of the bones had belonged to!

“Just one of many penalties of failure,” Francesco had told him then. But Mike could never be entirely sure that he’d heard him correctly. For at that point his stunned mind had been shutting itself down, while his shuddering body was already totally uncooperative; so that without the brothers to keep it upright, it would have crumpled like an empty sack to the cavern’s dusty floor…

Thus Mike Milazzo had become an agent in thrall to the Francezcis, one of their local watchers—a spy not only on those Old Men of Sicily he’d once called capos but on the world in general—an errand-boy, runner, and talebearer; and, but only very occasionally, to ensure that he kept his edge and remained practiced in thuggery, a brutal enforcer when the brothers had need of such. And for a while—a matter of weeks, almost a month—Mike had stayed within their guidelines, obeying their rules to the letter.

But a leopard may not change its spots, and being just such an animal—not merely a predator but a carnivore and a drinker of blood at that—he’d soon found the restrictions placed upon him frustrating, even demeaning. He had new, superior muscle to flex, and yet was on a leash; with teeth sharp as knives, still he was muzzled by masters he never saw, who contacted him where and when they wished and other than that were less than shadows to him. Why, for all Mike knew he might never see the Francezci brothers again! He would be in their service, always, but never more in their presence…at least he could always hope not!

And finally he had surrendered to his nature: his “pure instinct,” as Anthony had had it…but in fact an instinct that was anything but pure. And the guidelines and rules had at once flown right out the window.

As a result of which:

Here Mike was in his car where he’d brought it to a momentary halt, staring across the stony, barren roof of the plateau, at the low, dark, sinister silhouette of Le Manse Madonie where lamps glowed a dull yellow above the gate in the high perimeter wall. Here he was in answer to his second “invitation,” in fact a command, which he dare not refuse; and as before there was no excuse for the things he had done.

And remembering all too clearly what those things were: how he’d let enhanced passions rule and used them indiscriminately, and how he had used a name he should never use, Mike shuddered. He shook like a leaf in a gale however briefly, uncontrollably, and waited until the tremors ceased before slipping his car into gear and starting it rolling along the narrow, weedy, badly weathered track to Le Manse Madonie…

This time Mike didn’t have so long to wait; or rather, the brothers were waiting for him! And there was little or no preamble when all three of them got seated at the same table in the same room as last time. But once more there were others in the room: Francezci thralls who, for the moment, remained in the shadows. Mike was fully aware of them, however, detecting their presence with heightened vampire senses. He hadn’t seen them—not even with night-penetrating eyes, for just like him they were expert at hiding in the gloom—but he could smell them and hear their breathing, and every slightest rustle of their clothing.

As to their purpose there, these bodyguard vampires—especially now that Mike knew the brothers’ nature, their strength and near-invincibility—that was a nagging concern that raised his apprehension to almost insufferable heights. Perhaps it was simply that the twins didn’t want to dirty their tapering, long-fingered hands on such as him. But in any case that was all the time Mike was given to wonder and worry about it, for no sooner was he seated than Anthony was rebuking him with undeniable accusations: