1 Blood Price (21 page)

Her hand went to her throat and the tiny gold crucifix her grandfather had given her at her first communion. If Norman “the geek” Birdwell thought he was procuring her as a late night snack for his undead master, he was in for a bit of a surprise. She patted her purse and the comforting bulge of a squirt gun filled with holy water. She wasn’t afraid to use it either and she’d seen enough vampire movies to know what the effect would be. Holy water wouldn’t affect Norman, of course, but then Norman wasn’t much of a threat.

“When I started this, I wanted to change to the fourteenth floor,” Norman told her, managing to get his keys in the lock in spite of his trembling hands.
I’m actually bringing a girl back to my apartment!
“Because the fourteenth floor is really the thirteenth, but they didn’t have any empties so I’m still on nine.”

“There’s a lot of psychic significance in the number nine,” Coreen muttered, pushing past him into the apartment. The entrance way, with its coat closet and plastic mat, opened into one big room that didn’t appear to contain a coffin. An old sofa, covered in a handmade afghan, was pushed up against one wall and a blue, metal trunk served as a coffee table. Tucked over in a corner, by the door that led to the balcony, was a square plastic fan and a tiny desk buried beneath computer equipment. At the other end of the room, stove, fridge, and sink made a half turn around a chrome and vinyl table with two matching chairs.

Coreen’s nose wrinkled. The whole place looked spotless but there was a distinctly funny smell. Then she noticed that every available flat surface held at least one solid air freshener; little plastic mushrooms, shells, and fake crystal candy dishes. The combined effect was somewhat overpowering.

“Can I take your coat?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise of the stereo in the apartment upstairs.

“No.” She sneezed and dug a tissue out of her pocket. “Do you have a bathroom?” All the beer seemed to have suddenly passed through her system.

“Oh, yes.” He opened a door that led to both a walkin closet and the bathroom. “In here.”

She’s freshening up!
he thought, almost dancing as he neatly hung up his own coat.
There’s a girl in my bathroom and she s freshening up!
He cleaned the apartment every Thursday just in case this happened. And now it had. Wiping damp palms against his thighs, he wondered if he should get out the chips and dip.
No
, he decided, trying to settle himself in a nonchalant position on the sofa,
that would be for later. For after
.

Coming out of the bathroom, Coreen had a look around the huge closet. Still no coffin; it looked like she was safe. Norman’s clothes were hung neatly by type, shirts together, pants together, a gray polyester suit hanging in solitary splendor. His shoes, a pair of brown loafers and a pair of spotless sneakers, were lined up toes to the wall. Although she didn’t quite have the nerve to check his dresser drawers, Coreen figured Norman as the type who’d fold his underwear. Tucked into one corner, looking very out of place, was a hibachi perched across the top of a plastic milk crate. She would have investigated the contents of the crate except the smell behind the smell of plastic roses seemed to originate from that corner and, mixed with the beer, it made her feel a little ill.

Probably some lab project he’s working on at home
. Her mind produced a vision of Norman in a long white coat attaching wires to the electrodes in the neck of his latest creation and she had to stifle a giggle as she came out into the main room.

She didn’t like the look that crossed Norman’s face as she perched on the other end of the couch and she began to think she’d made a big mistake coming up here. “Well?” she demanded. “You said you had something to show me, something that would prove the existence of the vampire to the rest of the world.” If he wasn’t Renfield, she had no idea what he was up to.

Norman frowned. Had he said that? He didn’t think he’d said that. “I, I, uh, do have something to show you, but it’s not exactly a vampire.”

Coreen snorted and stood, heading for the door. “Yeah, I bet.” Something to show her indeed. If he showed it to her, she’d cut it off.

“No, really.” Norman stood as well, tottering a little on the heels of his cowboy boots. “What I can show you will prove that supernatural forces are at work in this city. It can’t be a very big step from that to vampires. Can it?”

“No.” In spite of the whiny tone, he really did sound like he knew what he was talking about. “I suppose not.”

“So won’t you sit down again?”

He took a step toward her and she took three steps back. “No. Thanks. I’ll stand.” She could feel her grip on her temper slipping. “What do you have to show me?”

Norman drew himself up proudly and, after a little fumbling, managed to slip his thumbs behind his belt loops. This would impress her. “I can call up demons.”

“Demons?”

He nodded. She’d be his now and forget all about her dead boyfriend and her stupid vampire theory.

Coreen added a conical hat with stars and a magic wand to her earlier vision of Norman and the monster and this time couldn’t stop the giggle from escaping. Nerves, as much as anything, prompted the reaction for despite his reputation she almost believed he spoke the truth and was ready to be convinced.

Norman had no way of knowing that.

She’s laughing at me. How dare she laugh at me after I was the only one who didn’t laugh at her. How dare she!
Incoherent with hurt and anger, Norman dove forward and grabbed Coreen’s shoulders, thrusting his mouth at hers with enough force to split his upper lip against her teeth. He didn’t even feel that small pain as he began to grind his body, from mouth to hips, down the soft yielding length of her. He’d teach her not to laugh at him!

The next pain forced the breath out of him and sent him staggering backward making small mewling sounds. Tripping on the edge of the trunk, he sat, clutching his crotch and watching the world turn red, and orange, and black.

 

Coreen jabbed at the elevator button for the lobby, berating herself for being so stupid. “Calling up demons, yeah, right,” she snarled, kicking at the stainless steel wall. “And I almost believed him. It was just another pickup line.” Except that, just for a moment, as he grabbed her, his face had twisted and for that moment she’d been truly afraid. He almost hadn’t looked human. And then the attack became something she had long ago learned to deal with and the moment passed.

“Men are such bastards,” she informed the elderly, and somewhat surprised, East Indian gentleman waiting at the ground floor.

At the door, she discovered that one of her new red leather gloves had fallen out of her jacket pocket during the scuffle and was still in Norman’s apartment. “Great, just great.” She considered going back for it—she knew she could take Norman in a fight—but decided against it. If she got the opportunity to close her hands around his scrawny neck, she’d probably strangle him.

Shoulders hunched against the wind, she stomped out to her car and soothed her lacerated feelings by burning rubber the length of the parking lot.

 

As the pain receded, the anger grew.

She laughed at me. I shared the secret of the century with some stupid girl who believes in vampires, and she laughed at me.
Carefully, not certain his legs would hold him, Norman stood.
Everyone always laughed at me. Last one chosen to play baseball. Never wearing quite the same clothes as the other kids. They even laughed when I got perfect marks on tests
. He’d stopped telling them all about it eventually; about the A plus papers, about the projects used as study aids by the teachers, about winning the science fair three years in a row, about reading
War and Peace
over the weekend. They weren’t interested in his triumphs. They always laughed.

Just like
she
laughed.

The anger burned away the last of the pain.

Knees carefully apart, Norman shoved the trunk up against the wall, then grabbed the afghan off the sofa and hung it on the half dozen hooks he’d put over the apartment door. The heavy wool would trap most of the odors before they could reach the hall. For the rest, he opened the balcony door about two inches and used one of the mushroom shaped air fresheners to keep it from slamming closed. Ignoring the sudden stream of cold air and the increase in noise from above, he pushed the fan up tight against the crack and turned it on.

Then he went into the closet for the hibachi and the plastic milk crate.

The tiny barbecue he set up as close as he could to the fan. He built a pyramid of three charcoal briquets, soaked them in starter fluid and dropped in a match. The fan and the high winds around the building took care of almost all of the smoke and, as he’d disconnected his smoke detector and the four that covered the ninth floor hallway, he didn’t worry about the small amount of smoke that remained. He let the fire burn down while he got out the colored chalks to draw the pentagram.

No-wax tile flooring doesn’t hold chalk well, so Norman actually used chalk pastels. It didn’t seem to make a difference. At each of the five corners of the pentagram, he set two candles; a black one nine inches high, and a red one six inches high. He’d had to cut them both down from twelves and eights and had discovered that a few of the blacks were actually dark purple. That hadn’t seemed to matter either.

Candles lit, he knelt before the now glowing coals and began the steps to call the demon.

He’d bought six inches of the eighteen karat gold chain at a store in Chinatown. With a pair of nail scissors, he clipped off three or four links and let them fall into the glowing red heart of the charcoal briquettes. Norman knew that the hibachi couldn’t possibly deliver enough heat to melt even that little bit of gold but, although he sifted the remaining ash every time, there was never an answering gleam of metal.

The frankincense came from a trendy food store on Bloor Street West. He had no idea what other people used the bright orange flakes for—he couldn’t imagine eating them although he supposed they might be a spice. The half handful he threw on the heat ignited slowly, creating a thick, pungent smoke that the fan almost managed to deal with.

Coughing and rubbing the back of one hand across watering eyes, he reached for the last ingredient. The myrrh had come from a shop specializing in essence oils and the creation of personal, signature perfumes. Ounce for ounce it had been more expensive than the gold. Carefully, using the plastic measuring set his mother had given him when he moved out, he dribbled an eighth of a teaspoon over the coals.

The heavy scent of the frankincense grew heavier still and the air in the apartment picked up a bitter taste that coated the inside of Norman’s mouth and nose. The first night he’d tried this, he’d almost stopped with the myrrh, had almost been unable to get past the weight of history that came with it. For centuries myrrh had been used to treat the dead, and all those centuries of death were released every time the oil poured over the coals. By the second time, he could shrug aside the dead with the knowledge of worse to come. By this, the seventh calling, it no longer distracted him from the task at hand.

The sterile pins, identical to the ones the Red Cross used to take the initial drops of blood from donors, he’d bought at a surgical supply house. Usually he hated this part, but tonight the anger drew him through it without pause. The small pain spread down from his fingertip until it joined the throbbing between his legs and the sudden sexual tension almost threw him out of the ritual. His breathing ragged, he somehow managed to maintain control.

Three drops of blood onto the coals and as each drop fell, a word of calling.

The words he’d found in one of the texts used in his Comparative Religions class. He’d created the ritual himself, made it up out of equal parts research and common sense.
Anyone could do it
, he thought smugly.
But only I have.

The air over the center of the pentagram shivered and changed as though something were forcing it aside from within. Norman stood and waited, scowling, as the smell of the burning spices gave way to a fetid odor of rot and the beat of his neighbor’s stereo gave way to a sound that throbbed inaudibly in brain and bone.

The demon, when it came, was man-sized and vaguely man-shaped and all the more hideous for the slight resemblance.

Norman, breathing shallowly through his mouth, stepped to the edge of the pentagram. “I have called you,” he declared. “I am your master.”

The demon inclined its head and its features shifted with the movement as if it had no skull beneath the moist covering of skin. “You are master,” it agreed, although the fleshy hole of a mouth didn’t adapt its constant motion to utter the words.

“You must do as I command.”

The huge and lidless yellow eyes scanned the perimeters of its prison. “Yes,” it admitted at last.

“Someone laughed at me tonight. I don’t want her to ever laugh at me again.”

The demon waited silently, awaiting further instruction, its color changing from muddy-black to greenishbrown and back again.

“Kill her!” There, he’d said it. He clenched his hands to stop their trembling. He felt ten feet tall, invincible. He’d taken charge at last and accepted the power that was his by right! The throbbing grew more powerful until his whole body vibrated with it.

“Kill who?” the demon asked.

The mildly amused tone dragged him back to earth, shaking with fury. “DON’T LAUGH AT ME!” He stepped forward and, remembering just in time, twisted his foot at an awkward angle to avoid crossing the pentagram.

The demon’s answering lunge brought them almost nose to nose.

“Hah!” Norman spat the word forward even as he retreated back. “You’re just like them! You think you’re so great and you think I’m shit! Well, just remember you’re in there and I’m out here. I called you! I control you! I AM THE MASTER!”