They Thirst (51 page)

"Just a minute," Silvera interrupted. "What do you mean by 'transformation'?"

"The creatures we saw in that barrio tenement were neither corpses nor
vampir,"
Palatazin said. "They'd been bitten and drained and protected from the light as much as possible, though in that transitory stage I don't think the sun is as painful to them as it is later. When the last of their humanity dies within them, they awaken. Some sooner than others, I think. And they awaken thirsty. When they drink their first blood . . . then they're complete." He glanced over at Gayle again, then back to the priest. "Somewhere in this city, somewhere close to their Master, they must be hiding by the hundreds. It would have to be somewhere secure from both sunlight and intruders. I think it's probably in an abandoned building . . . possibly a warehouse or factory. Someone would have to lock them away at dawn and return to let them out at dust. .."

"A human?" Gayle asked.

"Yes. I don't know what part Roach—Walter Benefield —plays in this, but he could be the human pawn used by the
vampir
king."

"The king?" Silvera's eyes narrowed. "You mentioned something about a master. Is that the same thing?"

Palatazin nodded. "The vampires see their Master— their king or maker or whatever you choose to call it—as a kind of savior figure. He commands their respect and loyalty, and they will do whatever he says."

"All right," Silvera shrugged. "Supposing I believe all this about vampires and caskets and kings. How can you be so certain they're being commanded by
anyone?
Couldn't they exist without a leader?"

"This is simply my opinion," Palatazin said, "but I think they need a strong guiding hand, an intelligence to lead the collective body. If the vampire king is destroyed and there's no one able to take his place, the resulting confusion might cause them to fight among themselves or to make mistakes. They might stray too far from their hiding places, for instance, and the sun might catch them out in the open. I don't know. But I want you to think about this: If the vampires feed just once every night— creating others of their kind by totally draining them and instilling that terrible hunger—then they're doubling in number every twenty-four hours. Some of them may feed three or four times in a single night. Again, I don't know. I'm speaking from things I've read and from the legends of my homeland. But of one thing I am certain—if we hope to stop them, we must destroy the king."

There was a long moment of silence in which they could hear the wind hooting around the house. Gayle peered uneasily out the window at the scudding gray clouds.

"Destroy," Silvera whispered. His throat felt dry, and he couldn't think beyond the memory of that graffiti in the alleyway just outside his window—Follow The Master. "How?"

"I'm not sure," Palatazin said grimly. "I can only suggest the methods used in Hungary, stakes and decapitation. The stake must pierce the heart, and decapitation both rids the vampire of his hypnotic gaze and . . . prevents regeneration."

"Regeneration?" Gayle asked sharply. "I thought they were like . . . ghosts or something."

"No. Unfortunately, they're very solid. They can be wounded, but if they haven't fed for a while, they won't bleed because evidently the blood is absorbed quickly into the tissues except for a reservoir within the heart. When they've just fed, their victim's blood would seem to circulate through the veins, and in that case they'll bleed until their regeneration ability heals the wound. I don't know whether they all have that power or not. I remember . . . in Krajeck, when my father touched me after he'd come back from Mount Jaeger. He was so . . . terribly cold. I think human blood warms them, keeps them supple and young in a way we can't understand. Whatever it is, it's the devil's work. Hungarian tradition suggests that they fear fire as well, and their eyes may be their weakest point. Blinding them would make them momentarily helpless, though whatever other senses they might have I dare not imagine."

"You talk about them as if they're another race altogether," Silvera said.

"They are. Their powers are superior to ours. They can move faster, and they're stronger as well. They can live forever as long as they can feed on human blood." He looked from Silvera to Gayle and back again. "God made mankind," he said. "And Satan made the
vampir."

Silvera leaned back. He was working the knuckles of his hands, aware of the spreading numbness.

"Please believe me," Palatazin said. "I know they're here."

"It's all so . . . strange. I mean, people have learned to scoff at such things. Anyone in this day and age who says he believes in vampires is, forgive me, considered insane . . ."

"The world may change, Father. But you and I both know that Evil remains constant. I think that for many years the
vampir
have worked quietly in this country, taking a village here, a town there. All very quietly. Now they want much more, and they feel strong enough to reveal their existence to the world, knowing it will soon be too late for us to fight back."

"Fight back," the priest repeated, his brow furrowing. "How do we? If you're right—and I'm not ready to say you are—what do we do?"

"We find the vampire king," Palatazin said. "And we do it quickly."

"Jesus!" Gayle whispered.

Palatazin's gaze darkened. "I think I know where their Master may be hiding. There's a castle up in the Hollywood Hills somewhere that once belonged to a horror-film actor named Kronsteen. He had the thing brought over from Hungary, and I imagine the vampire king would find it to his liking."

"Orlon Kronsteen?" Gayle said. "I remember reading about his murder, back in the early seventies, wasn't it? My boyfriend Jack . . ." she stopped herself, her face going pale. "A . . . guy I used to go with was . . . a documentary filmmaker. He wanted to do a film on the homes of old movie stars, and I think he mentioned something about that castle. It's supposed to stand on top of a cliff, isn't it? I think Jack . . . my friend said he drove up there a few years ago. He may have spent the night, knowing him . . ." She smiled painfully, her eyes clouding over. Which surprised her because up until that moment she'd never really admitted to herself that she cared anything for him. Her smile began to slip.
Too late now, kid,
she told herself. No amount of caring would change him back from what he became.

"Kronsteen's castle," Palatazin said. "That's where I have to go, though God knows I don't want to. If there was any other way . . . but there's not. So now I have to ask you the question, Father. Will you go with me?"

Silvera tensed. An avalanche of thoughts began to tumble through his brain, gathering force and speed.
I'm not ready to believe this but
—
Madre de Dios—
what if its true? I've got to tell the people in my parish, I've got to help them get to safety. How can I make them understand? Stakes, caskets, vampires hiding in a castle? Surely this is some kind of wild nightmare! Help him. You should do as he asks. No, my parish comes first, I'm dying. I need time, so much time. What should I do? I don't want to die. Oh, God, I don't want to . . .

"I would like to go today," Palatazin said, "while there's still light. If you choose not to go, then I have another thing to ask of you. But in any event, I'll understand your decision."

Silvera realized the palms of his hands were cold with sweat.
What if this man is right?
he asked himself.
I've never been afraid of anything, never! No,
he heard the calm voice echo at the back of his brain.
No. You're afraid of dying before your time. You're afraid of that cold, dark place where God is going to send you because you've done nothing for Him in this world but chase some dope pushers and squeeze a few hands because that was expected of you. You weren't called to the priesthood; you drifted into it after everything else in your life went bad. So what is it going to be?
"I . . . I'm going to have to say no," he said, trying to keep his hands from shaking. "I have the people of my parish to think of. If you're right, I'll have to find some way to . . . protect them. I'm sorry."

Palatazin looked at him in silence for a moment, then nodded. "All right." He stood up, opened the closet door, and brought out a cardboard box filled with short wooden stakes. "I bought these this morning," Palatazin said. "Ash stakes, two feet long. There are two dozen. I also bought a good strong hammer. I don't know if I'll ever get to use them, but. . . I'd like for you to say some words for me. Just. . . whatever you can. Will you do that?"

"Yes. Of course." Silvera stared at the cardboard box.

Then he said, "I'll pray for you." Palatazin nodded, clasped his hands together, and closed his eyes. Silvera bent his head and began to pray out loud, asking God to guide Palatazin's steps and to shield him from danger. But as he was praying, he was writhing inside. He felt as if his soul were shrinking, and very soon there would be nothing left at all. He suddenly thought of himself years ago, a punk kid in the drunk tank at the police station in Puerto Grande, a cramped place with obscene drawings on the walls and puddles of urine on the floor. He and two friends had been thrown in there, stinking drunk on tequila, after a fight with some sailors at the Navegar Club down on the docks. The sailors went to the hospital.

But there'd been another man in with them, an old man in tattered, dirty clothes with scabs all over his face. He had moaned for most of the night, twisting and turning in his bunk as if fighting off something that was coming down from the ceiling to smother him. Toward morning Silvera, a brash teenager with needle marks on his arms and a hunger for violence, realized the old man was dying. He'd sat on the floor, one of his eyes black and swollen and several teeth loose, watching that old man fight death. It was a brave struggle but a hideous mismatch. Silvera had found himself wondering where that man had been, what he had seen of the world, who he'd loved, and what he'd done.

Across the cell Silvera's friends slept, snoring like young bulls. He'd crept closer to that bunk, listening to the old man's hoarse mutterings as if they were radio transmissions from another world. ". . . he knows he should pay me that money, all of it like I asked . . . what am I gonna do? . . . sure, sure,
amigo,
you and me gonna tear this port apart . . . now that Giselle is a fine piece of ass, take your money and give you the best . . . the best . . . ohhhhh shit, that stuff'll fuck your head up . . . said I was gonna kill that bastard . . . dolphins. I love to watch them dolphins when they come flying up from the water . . . anchor's fucked up, won't hold a rowboat . . . WATCH THAT CABLE, DAMN IT! . . . one more drink,
amigo,
that's all I'm asking . . ."

Just before dawn the old man had opened his eyes and turned his head to look at the boy sitting beside him. He'd stared at Silvera for a long time with the whiskey-swollen slits he had for eyes. He coughed several times violently, and Silvera saw the flecks of blood on his lips. The old man had reached out and gripped his hand with a leathery, four-fingered paw.

"Padre,"
the old man had whispered. "Help me . . . make it easy for me. . . please . . ."

"I . . . ain't a priest," he'd said. The grip had tightened.

"Padre.
. . . I'm a sinner . . . I don't want to die!" A tear squeezed from one eye and trickled down through the dark folds of his face. "Help me. . ."

"How? I can't. . . do anything."

"Yes, you can. You can. Say something for me . . . some words . . ."

The man's grip was about to crush Silvera's hand. His eyes glistened, but the spark of life within was rapidly dying.
"Please,"
the old man whispered.
Me pray to God?
the boy had asked himself.
Shit, that's a laugh! Me on my knees like a peon, simpering and crying?
But the old guy was almost dead, he was drying up right there, so maybe he should at least try. But how to do it? What to say? "Uh, God," he said softly, "this man . . . uh, what's your name?"

"Gulf Star," he whispered, ". . . sailed on the Gulf Star. . ."

"Uh, yeah. God, this man sailed on the Gulf Star and I. . . guess he's a pretty good man." His knuckles cracked under the pressure of the man's grasp. "I don't know anything about him, but he's . . . uh, sick and he wanted me to say some words for him. I don't know if I'm doing this right or not, or if You're able to hear me. This man is really in bad shape, God, and I think he's going to . . . awwww, this is a lousy place for any man to be. A lousy place to die, God. Shit, what am I doing talking to myself!"

"Go on . .." the man insisted. "Please,
padre."

"I told you I ain't no fuckin' priest!" he said sharply, but he knew the man hadn't heard. He was smiling, muttering some kind of prayer over and over again. "Okay," Silvera went on, looking at the ceiling. "If this man's got to die in this place, make it easy for him, God. I mean, don't let him suffer or anything like that, all right? Just. . . lay him down easy." He looked down at the old man. "That's all. I don't know anything else to say."

The old man was silent.

From across the cell his friend Chico lifted his head. "Hey, Ramon? Who you talkin' to, man?"

Father Silvera finished his prayer for Palatazin and then crossed himself. "I hope you're wrong," he told the cop. "But if you're not, God go with you."