Blood Lite II: Overbite (14 page)

“Perhaps you will be satisfied with simply googling, sir.”

“Whatever.” Harkman sat back and picked up his second whiskey with a sigh.

The research had gone well, and Harkman had even managed a few hours of sleep in the early morning. Torg and he joined the Turners in their handsomely appointed library the following evening at seven. As well as their hosts, whiskeys were waiting.

“I have learned much from the magical, um, Internet,” said Harkman. “It is a fantastical tool I’m sure I will utilize much in the future. For one thing, I believe I know who the mysterious person who lived in your home prior to the two of you was.”

The Turners looked intrigued. “Please tell,” said Marianne.

“He was a doctor, a German fellow whose experience dated back to the Second World War. As it happens, he gained some notoriety when he cooperated with the Nazi SS in a variety of Eastern European concentration camps.”

The surgeon started to open his mouth.

“No.” Harkman shook his head. “This was not the infamous Herr Doctor Mengele, though he might be considered something of a disciple. Your dweller here fortunately did not experiment upon Jews and Romany, Catholics and the retarded, parents and children. He restricted himself to animal testing with the ambition of someday adding the strength and durability of the beast to the physique of human soldiers. He didn’t get far, but he did torment and use up a considerable supply of test primates.”

“Ah,” said Torg. “Monkeys.”

“Indeed,” Harkman said. “Many indeed. Our good doctor escaped the allies at the end of the war and found a new home in Argentina. It was from there he migrated to the Crescent City after a time.”

“‘The visitor from the south,’” quoted Marianne Turner.

Harkman nodded. “Indeed,” he said again. “Not only did he take up residence here, but he began using the deeper cellar for his unholy research. No one can say how many primates perished in what you doubtless suspected might once have been slave quarters. I believe much blood must have been mopped up by the previous doctor.”

Samuel Turner looked a bit queasy.

Harkman fixed the surgeon with a keen stare. “Did you, sir, experiment on primates in medical school?”

“I did.”

“As did I,” said Harkman, “in my graduate school days.”

Samuel Turner appeared uncertain about how to interpret this.

“You’ve seen apes at the zoo,” said Harkman. “You know how they express displeasure. I believe that is what is happening in your cellar. You may require several rites of exorcism. The spirits of the departed test subjects are not completely moved on. They retain a genuine anger and desire to express their feelings. They hated the departed bad German doctor with an abiding passion. They’re not so happy with you or me either.”

“You mean—” said Samuel Turner

“Yes,” said Harkman triumphantly, “
polterscheists
.”

Torg rolled his eyes in the direction of the ceiling.

Marianne Turner cast her glance at the floor.

Enos Harkman looked rightly proud of himself.

The Halloween War

BRIAN J. HATCHER

I pulled into the Hunt Valley Marriott’s parking lot a little after one p.m., lucking into a parking spot near the front entrance. I grabbed my overnight bag and headed inside. One of the smokers sitting on a bench near the front entrance called out “Great costume!” He meant it. Walking around in broad daylight is something I could get used to.

A family of three waited by the front desk. Dad checked in while Little Daughter swung at the end of Mom’s arm. She looked at me and smiled. “Mommy!”

Mom smiled and nodded. “He sure is tall, isn’t he, honey?” she said.

Dad received the key card for their room from the front desk clerk. His eyes widened when he saw me. You can never tell how an adult will see you. “The convention?” he asked.

I nodded. Holding the Conclave here, during the same weekend as a horror convention, allowed us to blend in with the crowd. “You?”

“We’re only here for the night. We head to DC in the morning. Forgive me for staring, but you’re a professional, aren’t you?”

“In a matter of speaking,” I said

“Frankenstein, right?”

“What gave me away?”

“Don’t get me wrong. Your makeup is really creative. You didn’t go for the obvious. It’s just that, when I was a kid I was a big reader. Still am. TV and movies never interested me as much as a good book. Believe it or not, my first experience with the Monster was right out of the pages of Shelley’s book. I was eight years old the first time I read
The Modern Prometheus
. Must have read it a dozen times since. And it’s weird, but I swear you look just the way I pictured him as a kid. Exactly like him.”

“I take that as high praise. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. We’re going to head up to our room before the craziness starts. Enjoy your convention.”

“And you have a safe trip,” I said.

“Bye-bye, Frankenstein,” Little Daughter said, and I waved at her. They headed down the hallway to the elevators.

I wondered what I’d looked like to that man. It didn’t matter. I looked exactly the way he wanted me to. That is, after all, what I’m supposed to do.

I checked in and planned to head up to my room to rest. Some of the convention attendees congregated in the hotel bar, and I spotted Dewey in the center of the bustling crowd, people scrambling to get their picture taken with him. Dewey basked in the attention. Not that long ago, he was the avatar of a nearly forgotten serial killer in a truly forgettable 80’s slasher movie. In
Library of Blood
, disgraced librarian Dewey Decker stalks and kills a group of teenagers who, as kids, failed to return books to the library. Pure camp. But Hollywood, in the grip of remake fever, took a chance on a remake of
Library of Blood
and wound up with a surprise hit on their hands. Dewey was a star again, bigger than ever. It’s why he’d been chosen to represent the True Monsters at this year’s Conclave. How quickly things change. Not even a year ago, had Dewey walked into that bar, he would have been invisible. Literally.

Dewey stepped away from his adoring public and parked himself in front of the bar. At his left arm sat a girl in a purple corset that hardly covered her breasts and a pouffed black lace skirt that hardly covered her butt. To Dewey’s right, a stocky biker guy started chatting him up. Biker Boy wore a
Phantasm
T-shirt and horror movie patches on his jacket. I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a costume. I pushed my way through the crowd until I got close enough to hear them talking.

“So, Dewey,” asked Biker Boy, “what do you like better? The original or the remake?”

Dewey finished his pint of Blue Moon. He fished the orange slice out of the glass and bit into the rind. “Why choose?”

“Yeah, well, I think I can guess. You’re dressed up like the new guy.”

“They were both effin’ brilliant,” Dewey said.

“Hey, you want another Moon?”

“You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar.” Judging by the empty glasses, Biker Boy had been buying for a while.

Dewey patted the girl on the thigh. “How you doin’, hon?”

“Still half a beer left.”

“How’m I supposed to take advantage of you if you don’t hurry up and get wasted?”

“Ask,” she said. She gave him a look. You know the one.

I wasn’t trying to cock block Dewey, honest. It just happened to be the moment I decided to butt it. “I see you made it,” I said.

“Hey, Frank,” Dewey said. “Pull yourself up a chair.”

Biker Boy freaked when he saw me. “Dude! You look like someone shoved you through a plate-glass window. Awesome! You and Dewey got the costume contest on lockdown.”

At least I could tell how Biker Boy saw me. “It’s not about winning contests,” I said. “It’s all about the love.”

“I hear ya, brother. Must have taken you forever to do those scars.”

“Not as long as you’d think,” I said. “Dewey, step out with me for a minute.”

Dewey slid off the bar stool. The girl wrapped her arms around him. “You’re coming back, right?”

“Soon as I’m done,” Dewey said, “I’m booking right back here. Maybe later we’ll go someplace private and you let me check
you
out.”

She giggled when he said that. Swear to God.

Conventiongoers packed the lobby, so Dewey and I went outside to talk.

“Unbelievable,” I said.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little innocent flirting. And guilty flirting, that can be fun, too.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Have you seen Dracula?”

“You can forget about him. Minute he got here, he and Vlad Tepes hightailed it to An Poitin Stil. Irish pub down the road.”

“They’re probably deep in shepherd’s pie and Guinness by now.”

“You going after him?” Dewey asked.

“No point.” Dracula and Vlad had crossed enemy lines and become friends. Can’t blame them for ditching the Conclave. Funny thing is, if we’d just put the two of them alone in a room, they’d come up with a fair and amiable agreement that would benefit both sides. No fighting, no need for the annual Conclave. Of course, fair and amiable was something neither side wanted.

“What do we do?” Dewey asked.

“Guess it’s just you and me.”

“So Dracula gets to skip out?”

“When you have his seniority,” I said, “we’ll see what you get away with. I have more seniority than Dracula and I still go.”

“Yeah,” Dewey said, “but you love it.”

“We have a duty.”

“Yeah, well, I better get back before my bar stool or my Goth chick gets cold,” Dewey said. “I have an evening of watching you and Rasputin browbeat each other all night long to look forward to. If I’m going to get through that, I’ll need to get good and drunk.”

“Rasputin’s not coming.”

“Am I the only one who can’t catch a break? Who’s negotiating for the Real Monsters?”

“They won’t say. Thinks it gives them some kind of edge, but it’s not like they’ll change their playbook.”

“Or that we’ll change ours. The Conclave’s just a pointless circle jerk. The True Monsters lay down the law, and the Real Monsters rattle sabers. Everyone complains about shit that no one has any control over. Then we all whip out our dicks. Anyone’s grow since last year? No? Okay, see you next year.”

“The Conclave holds the Real Monsters in check. You realize what would happen if they held influence over the Darker Places? Ever hear of the Dark Ages?”

“That was a million years ago. We got it back, and nothing’s changed since. This year’ll be just like the others. Boring as hell.”

“Trust me,” I said, “the last thing you want is the Conclave to get interesting.”

I walked Dewey back to the bar. I made him promise, twice, that he’d be on time for the Conclave. I figured I’d have to go looking for him anyway. He cozied up to his chippy, and I went to my room.

The hot shower felt wonderful. I stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around my waist. Steam fogged the large mirror, but I know what I look like, at least when others aren’t looking. People forget that in the book I’m self-taught, well read, and rather intelligent. But still, I’m an avatar. I’m whatever anyone needs me to be.

Dewey was right, though. I do enjoy the Conclave. It gives me intellectual stimulation I don’t get anywhere else. But I also understand what’s at stake.

I set the alarm clock for 10:45 p.m. and called the front desk for a wakeup call, just to be sure. That would give me enough time to dress and track Dewey down before midnight. I stretched out on the bed and went over my strategy for the Conclave as I drifted off to sleep. I didn’t expect any surprises, except for the one.

Who would represent the Real Monsters at the Conclave? What were they planning?

Dewey waited for me in the conference room, leaning back in a chair at the head of the table. “You’re late.”

I set my briefcase on the table. “The conference doesn’t start for another ten minutes.”

“I meant, late for you. Admit it. You were looking for me in the bar.”

“I thought, on the slim chance your lady friend hung around, you might have gotten detained.”

“Slim chance? Hardly. I left her sleeping in my room.”

“You’re kidding.”

“What can I say? Horror con girls are the best. First they want to prove they’re creepier than you are, then they want to prove they’re kinkier.”

“You can stop right there.”

“First thing she asks me when we get to the room is, did my library have any good books on tying knots?”

“Can we stop talking about this now? Please?”

Dewey couldn’t stop smiling. “I love horror conventions.”

“As do I,” said Elizabeth Bathory as she walked in. “Boys here are such easy prey.”

Elizabeth looked as if she had just stepped out of a tub of steaming virgin blood. Sticky rivulets trickled down her indiscreet flesh. Her bare feet stained the floor where she walked. Her velvet robe, trimmed in ermine, provided little modesty and her ludicrously ample breasts threatened to fling it open at any moment.

Elizabeth snaked an arm around Dewey’s shoulders. “But I grow tired of boys.” Her voice was unadulterated Garbo. “Perhaps you’ll show me what a True Monster can do.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said last time,” Dewey said. “Emphasis on
said
.”

Elizabeth flashed a poisoned smirk. “Ah, but this year, I may feel a little more generous.”

The Real Monsters had Dewey’s number, and sent Elizabeth to distract him. I wanted Dewey distracted as well, so, thanks guys. Although an avatar, she was also a Real Monster. The image she projected was not how anyone wished to see her but how she wished to be seen. The reasons for this made the Real Monsters both pitiable and dangerous.

“I guess Vlad Tepes won’t be joining us,” I said to Elizabeth.

“His love of Irish stew, I will never understand.”

“So, who are we waiting on?”

Elizabeth’s smile dripped honey and venom. “No one. Here comes our negotiator.”

With a thousand guesses, I would’ve never picked Osama bin Laden. But there he was. The avatar of Osama bin Laden to be more accurate, with over a decade of hatred and fear to play off. I think I would have preferred the real one.

Elizabeth and Dewey sat down. Bin Laden walked up to me. For a moment I thought he wanted to shake hands. “Before we begin,” he said, “I have something to say.”

“Okay.”

“We’ve a long evening ahead of us, so I want you to understand, as they say, where I’m coming from. I don’t like you. I loathe all so-called True Monsters. I loathe what you are. I loathe what you stand for. Most important, I loathe the damage you cause. Since you can no longer inspire fear, you instead choose comedy. You have become jesters and fools and make light of the darkness. That makes you dangerous, because you steal from Humanity what it desperately needs most.”

“And what’s that?” I asked.

“Fear. Fear of government and police, fear of each other, fear of their own mortality. Fear makes Man noble. Without it, they would annihilate themselves. One day they will, unless I stop you. And I will. I shall drive your influence from the Darker Places until not even a memory of you remains. I just thought you should know that.”

“All right, then,” I said, then took my place at the table.

“What did he say?” Dewey asked.

“I really like this guy,” I said. “He’s gonna make my job so much easier.”

Bin Laden sat next to Elizabeth on the other side of the conference table. Elizabeth not so subtly let her robe fall open. Unimpressed, I opened my briefcase and pulled out a few file folders. “I assume everyone’s seen this year’s movie grosses.”

“Do I look like a movie producer?” bin Laden asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“Movies grosses?”

“You know why we’re here, right?” I asked. “The Real Monsters have complained about the amount of media representation they’ve received since the Conclave started. Keeps us arguing for hours.”

“You think I care about such foolishness? I’m sure it amused you to waste Rasputin’s time with such pointless debate. But I am not Rasputin, and you will not play the prattler with me.”

“Fine,” I said, “if you have something else you’d rather discuss, be my guest.”