An Unattractive Vampire (15 page)

“Very good,” said the Englishman, not believing that last bit at all. “And did you see where it went?”

“No, my lord,” Karos answered sheepishly. “The coward fled too quickly.”

“Indeed?” hissed the elder vampire. “Perhaps next time you shouldn’t make it flee so fast.”

“Er, yes, my lord.”

The man rubbed his eyes in frustration. “Is there no way to track it?”

There was a disheartening pause from the young vampire; however, when he spoke again, his voice sounded hopeful. “There might be a blonde, I mean, a
lead
, I can follow.”

The Englishman’s eyebrow raised. “Well, by all means, Master Karos, follow your ‘lead.’” He hung up and immediately scrolled through the contact list on his cell phone until he came across a specific name. It was a name that most would have killed to have in their phones. They would have pressed Send with extreme excitement. There would probably have been ecstatic screaming. The elder vampire, however, did not relish this call. It was dangerous. It was also necessary.

After two rings a voice answered. The voice was strong yet sensitive, soft yet sultry. It was everything that begins with the letter
S
. It was the kind of voice that beckons the brain of every woman with its understanding while simultaneously beckoning to her less brain-related parts, as well, with its mystery. It was, in essence, a siren’s call. “Hello?”

“Phantom,” said the man. “I have a job for you.”

• •

Outside the club, Yulric Bile brooded atop a garbage dumpster. A part of his brain, the part that had kept him unalive for over a thousand years, screamed at him to move from this exposed and vulnerable location. Another part of his brain, the one with a higher learning curve for this new world, told it to shut up, since there was no way any of the vampires would go anywhere near garbage. Not in those shoes, certainly.

Things had not gone according to plan. Any plan. He had played out a dozen different scenarios in his head, and in none of them did he end up a soaked mess, hiding among refuse. He had no answers: nothing to tell him what exactly vampires had become or how they had become what they were or who he should kill for it. Without that, he was back where he started: sitting on a couch watching TV until something better came along. He did
not
want that, no matter how interested he was in the identity of the father of Caroline’s secret love child.

Yulric heard sirens in the distance,
³⁷
announcing the arrival of Authorities. While the hungry, animal parts of his brain longed for the chase that only the discovery of two decimated bodies could bring, rationally, the vampire knew he wasn’t ready to face a force with frenzy-sicks: the CSIs, FBIs, and other letter combinations he’d learned from TV. And as they would
definitely
check dumpsters, it was time to move. With the ease of a spider, he scuttled up the wall and onto the roof of the neighboring warehouse. From this vantage point, he could see everything: the big red truck with rubber-clad Authorities, smaller white cars with blue-clad Authorities, the shirted vampire talking into a phone, Amanda, everything.

Amanda. The young girl stood, inappropriately dressed for the cool night air. Surely, she was not waiting for him. Why would she, after all? She loathed him, as well she should, and what he felt for her involved words used only to describe tapeworm infestations. But there she was, naively expecting him to walk out the front door, right in front of Authorities.

Foolish girl,
thought Yulric. He walked away from rooftop’s edge. After a sound best described as
squelching
, a large bat flew off into the night.

It did not fly far.

The peregrine falcon is the fastest animal on earth. Reaching speeds of two hundred miles an hour, it is known to dive-bomb its quarry from perches high in the air, catching them unaware. This makes them very formidable birds of prey, despite being smaller in size than hawks or eagles. After the use of pesticides resulted in population endangerment, many major American metropolitan areas teamed up with conservation groups to introduce these raptors into their cities as a means of pigeon control. Here, among the towers and spires of the modern city, the falcons have flourished.

None of this was known to Yulric before he transformed himself into a big, juicy, and comparatively slow-moving target.

Several blocks away, something large and Yulric-shaped, going terminal velocity, landed with a crash on a parked Ford Contour. The vampire pulled himself out of the resulting twisted, economical wreckage. Nearby, others among the cost-efficient herd, ones he had not even touched, honked loudly and flashed their lights to raise the alarm against him.

Oh, how he hated cars.

Yulric fled into an alley, away from the heads that were poking out to check on their property. He did not know where he was. He did not know where he was going. All he knew was that there were far too many ways of being caught in a city of ten thousand. This, according to the girl, was a city of eight million, with businesses open all night long and lights that never went out. He was vulnerable, exposed. He needed to find shelter fast.

The vampire headed north, the direction from which he and Amanda had originally come, and when he spotted an underground tunnel, he ducked inside. It quickly became apparent, though, that these were not mere sewers or crypts. They were well-traveled paths, which not only required payment but were also under constant observation. An attempt to enter through the turnstile without paying or understanding what a turnstile was resulted in him being stopped. Trying to bribe the Authority into letting him pass only compounded his troubles, and he was forced to bid a hasty escape. However, where Yulric himself had failed, a large pack of rats skittering suspiciously in unison went completely unnoticed. And so, the vampire found his way into the New York subway system.

Several electrocutions and one bone-shattering impact later, he abandoned the New York subway system.

He emerged out of these deadly underground caverns of gigantic linked cars into brightest day. Failing to dissolve into nothingness, Yulric opened his eyes and gaped at this tremendous display of bottled lightning. Everywhere he looked, TV screens advertised everything from theatrical productions to underwear to banks. So atrociously illuminated was this area of the city that, high above, the night sky became a wash of feeble gray with barely a visible star to be seen.

Even as the vampire marveled at the power of electricity, he became aware of the dangers of his location. The streets were filled with a ubiquitous species of yellow car, one that honked loudly and was less inclined to stop for pedestrians. The sidewalks were filled with humanity. Wealthier, less accepting humanity. The kind of humanity that would notice a hideous man in rags and call over Authorities to deal with such a one. Reluctantly, he turned away from the lights and made his way into the darkness.

It was only a matter of blocks before he found himself in much more comfortable environs. Gone were the massive television screens and crowds, replaced by trash bags, graffiti, and rats. There was still a persistent sense of being watched, but it was a sensation Yulric was more accustomed to, caused not by ever-present video cameras but by eyes behind blinds and figures in doorways. The first time someone tried to mug him, he knew he was safe. And when his would-be assailant told him the name of this neighborhood, he almost laughed out loud. How appropriate that his journey would lead him into the very Kitchen of Hell.

There, stooping beside the blood smear that had been his unsuccessful robber, Yulric licked his fingers and considered his next move. In a few short hours, the sun would rise. He was reasonably sure he could find shelter, but for how long would he need it? Would he remain in the city? The vampires he had encountered were sure to return eventually, and even if they didn’t, there must be others. The question was, how much could he really learn from a three-year-old?

Yulric caught a dull glimmer out of the corner of his eye. He turned, expecting to find another ostentatious display of electric light, but instead was surprised to find a simple red glow emanating somewhere northwest of him. There was something familiar about it. And comforting, in a way only an undead mass murderer could appreciate. It called to him. Standing once more, he drifted in its direction. He followed it across several blocks, weaving between tenements and through dark alleys, somehow never losing sight of its glimmering. Finally, after crossing a large abandoned lot, he found himself in front of a shabby bar with two fixtures glowing on either side of its door. One was a neon sign, hanging against trash-bag-covered windows and promoting a popular brand of beer, which, according to Amanda, tasted like watered-down urine.
³⁸
The other was a dull, infernal radiance emanating out of the crude, grinning face carved into a turnip.

The vampire eyed this makeshift lantern suspiciously. He didn’t know how hellfire had come to rest within this overlarge root vegetable, or how that had in turn come to rest outside this bar, but he couldn’t help but feel it had been left here for him. Was this a trap or an invitation? There was only one way to find out. Yulric stepped inside.

The interior of the bar bore little more charm than the outside did. The tobacco stains on the walls were actually an improvement on the vomit-green wallpaper, which was peeling at the edges. Of the five uselessly circling ceiling-fan fixtures, only three actually had lightbulbs in them, and these looked as if they might go at any second. The molding and pool tables were scarred with innumerable scratches from what looked like vicious attacks, and the stools and tables showed signs of having been mended multiple times. The clientele was rugged, hairy, and had a look about them, as if the bottom of the bottle wasn’t nearly far enough down for their liking. Also, to a one, they smelled like wet dog.

Yulric nearly burst out laughing. What were the odds he would wind up at a werewolf bar tonight?

All eyes, and more importantly, all noses turned toward him as his gaze scoured the bar. Yulric paid them no mind. In his experience, werewolves came in two types: self-loathing moralists and French/German psychopaths.
³⁹
He could tell by the quality of the alcohol being served that there were no French or Germans here. Immune to the confused sniffing of the sad-eyed lycanthropic beings, as they tried to place his odor, a combination of death, decay, and the pine fresheners Simon often slipped into his pocket, Yulric searched the room until finally, in the back of the bar, he spotted eyes that not only gleamed with cunning and mischief but that he vaguely recognized: an unusual occurrence for an immortal and one that was never a coincidence.

Yulric used a small sapphire to buy two of “whatever he is having” from the bartender and made his way to the end of the bar, where his quarry was engaged in a question-answering contest on the television.

“Nice to see the old ways are still remembered,” the stranger said, finishing his current glass in a single gulp. Yulric frowned at the sound of the man’s accent. Or rather, his brogue.

This was an Irishman.

Yulric did not like the Irish. Like most English, he’d always found it better to kill them rather than deal with them. The two general rules for when you absolutely had no choice were, first, never let them talk, and second, never let them drink.
⁴⁰
Here he was about to do both.

The man raised his new glass. “Cheers,” he said and took a drink, letting some of the beer spill down his long, scraggly beard. Or was it all the beer? Now that Yulric was closer, there was something not quite there about his new acquaintance.

The man’s attention turned back to the TV as a new question appeared on the screen:

The movie
My Fair Lady
was based on the play
Pygmalion
, written by what author?

1. Oscar Wilde
   
2. Irving Berlin
   
3. George Bernard Shaw
   
4. Bertolt Brecht
   

“George Bernard Shaw, an Irishman,” he answered, pressing the letter
C
into a small device on the table. After thirty seconds, the television proclaimed him correct and awarded him one thousand points. “It’s been a while,” said the Irishman.

“Has it?” replied Yulric, still not exactly sure where he knew the man from.

The Irishman clutched at his heart in mock surprise. “I’m hurt. Though, to be fair, we weren’t properly introduced the last time. Jack’s the name. Stingy Jack to my friends, if I had any.” He gave a little bow. “And you are?”

Yulric paused. Names had power. Even the young vampires knew this, christening themselves with ridiculous pseudonyms as an expression of their new found strength and independence. What this mysterious barfly was doing was testing to see how desperate the vampire was.

With a sense that playing along was his best bet, the vampire admitted his name. “Yulric.”

“Yulric? Very uncommon name, Yulric. Almost as if it came from another age.” The Irishman looked back at the TV. Little animated words bounced across the screen, announcing the break the game was on. “So, Yulric, what brings you to these parts?”

“I seek a story,” Yulric said carefully. He was playing to the Irishman’s vanity. The ability to twist language into any shape one desired, to create worlds with words, was an Irish trait, a leftover from the races of fairy folk who had once ruled their island. They called it the “gift of gab” and those possessing it could never resist employing it. The trick was goading them into telling the tale you wanted to hear.

“A story?” The Irishman sipped his beer. “I know many stories. What kind would you like to hear?”

“How about a vampyr tale?” Yulric replied. Metal screeched across wood as several chairs were pushed out, and once again, all eyes turned to the newcomer. While werewolves and vampires had gotten along famously in Yulric’s time, these days, the two couldn’t stand each other.

“Well, that certainly got everyone’s attention.” Jack laughed. “What say, everyone? Would you care to hear a vampire tale?”