Red Eye - 02 (7 page)

Redlaw nodded.

“Just a few ounces of moulded metal,” said Tchaikovsky. “The small piece of ore it originally was could have ended up as part of a car, or a piece of scaffolding, or the leg of a desk chair. It just happens to have been forged into an item of neck attire, an icon of a particular shape. What makes it in any way special is the person wearing it. When John Redlaw holds up that crucifix to ward off a vampire, it isn’t the crucifix itself that repels, it’s the faith of the man whose hand it sits in. You empower it, or the Lord through you. And that,” he concluded with a slight apologetic bow, “is my rather longwinded explanation for how a nest of vampires can survive in what was once holy ground but is now simply vacant urban real estate. Forgive me, the habit of sermonising is hard to break. You haven’t come to learn about any of that.”

“No.”

“We’re down in the crypt for demonstration purposes,” said Tchaikovsky. “Today, as you can see, you can’t swing a cat in here. A month ago you could have. Several cats. I had to buy these bunk beds—military surplus—and I’m cramming people in as tightly as possible, but we’re at capacity. I’ve even had to institute a rota system, like they did with the crew’s quarters in galleons of old, sailors sharing berths, sleeping in shifts, so that everyone gets somewhere to rest. And the reason for that is—”

“New arrivals. Fresh intake.”

“Precisely.”

“They’re coming in from elsewhere.”

“From all over New York state, New Jersey, even up in New England. Fleeing to the city. Drawing together. Seeking safety in numbers.”

“Because they’re scared. Because someone
is
busy killing vampires.”

“Just so.”

“I heard reports.”

“This is the proof of it, Mr Redlaw,” said Tchaikovsky. “Right here. More and more of them turn up each night. They follow scent trails and word of mouth and find their way to my door, and I take them in, as is my rightful duty, and give them succour and shelter. Someone has begun targeting vampires in this country, systematically unearthing nests and eradicating them.”

“Who?”

“This we don’t know. It could be civilian vigilantes, like your Stokers.”

“They’re not ‘my’ Stokers,” Redlaw snapped.

“Figure of speech. But I must say it seems better organised than that. There’s a distinct pattern and consistency to the attacks. They began in New Jersey and have been progressing steadily northwards through that state, heading this way. That doesn’t seem like the actions of a civilian lynch mob. That, to me, smacks of planning and direction. It even, I daresay, looks a bit like herding.”

“Driving the vampires into a heavily populated area,” said Redlaw. “In which case, besides the ‘who’, there’s also the ‘why’. This isn’t just some spontaneous upsurge of anti-Sunless sentiment. There’s an ulterior motive.”

Tchaikovsky regarded him with something like respect. “You’re genuinely concerned, Mr Redlaw.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Precious few humans care for, let alone about, vampires. In fact, hardly any. Fear is the commonest response, with revulsion a close second. Both understandable in their way, if not pardonable. However, it’s almost unheard of to come across a man who actually, sincerely puts a premium on vampire welfare. And an ex-SHADE officer, no less. What could have brought about this Damascene conversion, I wonder?”

“Not so much Saul to St Paul as poacher turned gamekeeper. No, make that gamekeeper turned conservationist.”

“And this change of heart was prompted by...?”

“Events. Circumstances.
Force majeure
.”

“You don’t reveal much about yourself, do you? The Redlaw cards are played very close to the vest.”

“That way I’m more likely to win the game, aren’t I?” said Redlaw. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go back upstairs.” The smell in the crypt wasn’t getting any more bearable. On the contrary, Redlaw was beginning to feel nauseous. Even the shallowest of breaths was drawing more of that noxious miasma into his body than he would have liked.

“Of course, of course,” said Tchaikovsky. “Forgive me. I just felt a visual illustration of the situation would be more effective than any words of mine. We can leave. Children? Make room.”

The crowd of vampires who had followed Tchaikovsky and Redlaw down now parted to let them through.

Near the entrance to the staircase, a hand shot out from one of the alcoves and seized Tchaikovsky’s sleeve.

“Father,” said an imploring voice. “Please. I’m so hungry. I can’t remember when I last ate. I feel empty. I’m begging you, feed us. Feed us again.”

Redlaw’s hand crept under his coat, making for the Cindermaker. He was all too conscious of being a living creature, the only one in a building full of Sunless. Prey among predators. A meal on the hoof. The pumping of blood in his veins beating as loud as a dinner gong.

For all his pretensions to wanting what was best for vampires, Redlaw could never forget that they didn’t necessarily reciprocate the feeling.

“It’s been so long,” the vampire continued. He was of Latino extraction, his ochre skin now a sallow, sickly yellow. “I’m so weak. I hurt inside.”

“I know, Miguel, I know,” said Tchaikovsky soothingly. “There will be food soon, I promise. When have I ever let you down? Please just be patient.”

Miguel sank back into his alcove with a disconsolate sigh. Here and there, other vampires echoed his plea with yelps and soft mewling cries.

“What
do
you feed them on?” Redlaw enquired as he and Tchaikovsky climbed the spiral stairs.

“The usual. Any vermin that can be scrounged up from the street. What else?”

“Must be difficult. So many mouths.”

“Hard as hell, but we get by. Jesus fed five thousand with next to nothing. I’m not Him, but I do my best.”

“You’re not tempted to...?”

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” Tchaikovsky said over his shoulder, with some asperity. “You know as well as I do how unwise that would be, to say the least. There’ve been vampires in America for longer than you think, Mr Redlaw. Not many, but their presence here predates the recent diaspora out of eastern Europe by several decades. And how have they managed to survive? By staying well below the radar. By refraining from doing the one thing that would be guaranteed to bring swift, brutal retaliation down on their heads.”

“Surely there’s been the odd human victim.”

“I don’t doubt it, vampire nature being what it is. Nevertheless, they’ve been careful. And with numbers on the rise, it’s more vital than ever that that caution continues. We can’t have the sort of public backlash here that there’s been in France and Spain, or even your own fair country. America shouldn’t be like that. This is the land of opportunity, after all. Famously welcoming to all those who fetch up on its shores. A nation forged and bolstered by immigration. I’m certain that, in time, vampires will become as accepted a part of American life as any of its other diverse component factions—but only if we abide by the rules and don’t rock the proverbial boat.”

“You’re an idealist,” said Redlaw.

“Merely someone attempting to put into practice the teachings of our Lord. Even if the world we find ourselves in nowadays is one that Jesus Himself would scarcely recognise...”

T
CHAIKOVSKY SHOWED
R
EDLAW
to the door of the church much as though he were a minister seeing the last parishioner off the premises after a service.

“I feel it was destined that you and I should meet, Mr Redlaw,” he said at the threshold. “Don’t you? Do you not feel that you were guided here?”

Redlaw looked noncommittal. Destiny, the hand of God, a foreordained universal plan—these were things whose reality he was having trouble acknowledging at present. If the Lord truly was steering him through hardship and humiliation towards some ultimate goal, then that goal was a mysterious one indeed. Right now, divine purpose could easily be confused with vindictive spite, God bullying one of His staunchest supporters simply because He felt like it and He could.

“I’ll be in touch,” was all he said by way of reply.

“And I,” said Tchaikovsky, “will keep my ear to the ground and try to discover more about these attacks. If we pool information and resources, there’s a good chance we can do something to prevent any further mass killings, and perhaps even end this campaign before it gathers momentum.”

“That’s the general idea,” said Redlaw, disappearing off into the snow-thickened darkness.

CHAPTER

FIVE

T
HREE BLOCKS, NO
more.

That was how far Redlaw walked before he sensed he was being followed.

Someone was dogging his footsteps through the city. He was 99% sure of it.

One block further, and suspicion hardened to absolute certainty.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t alter his pace. He kept walking, trying not to exhibit any self-consciousness, acting natural even though it felt as if he had picked up an anchor and was dragging it along behind him. That was the trick when being tailed. You mustn’t let the person tailing you know you knew they were there. That way, you gained control. You, not the other, led the dance.

Whoever it was, they were sticking to the shadows, hugging the side of buildings. Redlaw collected glimpses every now and then, casually turning his head a little and at the same time swivelling his eyes as far round in their sockets as they would go. There, at the periphery of his field of vision. A figure on the other side of the street, dim through the fizzing static of snow. Travelling at the exact same speed as him, but moving with studied nonchalance. Artless stealth. Straining with the effort of looking as if they
weren’t
following.

Who?

A vampire?

Had Tchaikovsky sent one of his flock after Redlaw to keep tabs on him? To make sure he wasn’t going straight to the authorities or some sinister ally to report the whereabouts of several dozen vampires?

Redlaw wouldn’t have put it past him. There was something a little too slick about the shtriga, a little too accommodating. Redlaw didn’t trust him, so why should Tchaikovsky trust him in turn?

He paused in front of a technology store and feigned interest in all the smartphones, e-readers and tablets on display in the window. Several of them were streaming the broadcast from a rolling news channel. The headline was ‘Big Freeze Continues,’ and an anchorwoman attempted to furrow her botulism-stiffened brow while she listened to a live report from beside a freeway where drivers were spending the night trapped in their snowbound vehicles.

Redlaw focused his gaze not on that but on a laptop whose webcam was relaying an image of the street outside. He himself occupied most of the screen, but past his elbow he could see clear across to the pavement opposite.

And there, lurking, was his pursuer. The person was skulking behind a Toyota people carrier, peering out every so often round the edge of the windscreen. Watching what Redlaw was up to. Waiting for him to move on.

The camera resolution wasn’t sharp enough for Redlaw to make out much detail at this distance. He could see that the person was bundled up in winter wear, with a woollen watchcap drawn down tightly over the head, but the features were a fuzzy pale blur. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman.

He carried on.

At the next crosswalk he changed over onto the same side of the road as his pursuer. He stepped smartly round the corner, out of sight. The entrance to a 24-hour grocery store beckoned, and he darted in. Loitering at a spinner rack, he perused a bewildering range of chewing gum flavours—
liquorice-watermelon?
—but his attention was really on the view through the window.

Soon enough, the person in the woollen watchcap hurried by outside, looking confused and anxious. Redlaw made a beeline for the door, oblivious to the Sikh cashier who called out from behind the grille of his bulletproof booth, “Sir? You’re not buying? Is there something special you’re looking for? Condoms, maybe? We have plenty. All styles and colours.”

Back out in the cold, Redlaw was now the tailer, not the tailee. He followed the stranger for a couple of hundred yards, making assessments. Height and body shape said female. The posture and gait were not those of a vampire. She looked young, perhaps in her mid-twenties. Black jeans. Big clumpy boots.