The Darkening Dream (16 page)

Sarah edged closer.

“That guy’s certifiable,” Anne said over Sarah’s shoulder. “I don’t know why I agreed to come.”

“Because you didn’t trust Emily with us loons,” Sarah reminded her.

Sam shook the man several times, but he seemed only half aware of his captors. If he was insane, Alex’s vial of holy water shouldn’t hurt him. Sarah splashed the contents onto him.

The man began to writhe and shriek like he’d been soaked with acid.

“Fiery tears of the son, it burns, it burns! Forgive me, master, forgive me, I perform putrescent, puerile!”

Nothing seemed physically wrong with him, but he kept contorting. Vampiric hysteria? He might not be undead, but he thought he was. Alex kicked at his scrabbling legs.

“Where’s this master now?”

“Nicolai never betray the master, the master is lengthy life, fountain of forever! Forsake the rising son, what is left, only perilous promises.”

Sarah almost felt sorry for him.

Sam knelt on his chest, pulled a silver cross from his pocket, and held it an inch from the man’s face.

“Tell us!” he said.

Nicolai squirmed.

“Lictor of the lamb, nail of the Nazarene, keep it away! Close to Collins Cove, or Cove Collins close, far from his Caliphate, close to his crypt. Nicolai met the master on the wide water, the master needed him, needed his life, and promised eternal returns.”

Sarah felt dirty, although it wasn’t like they were actually hurting him. And more importantly, it seemed to be working.

Nicolai spat in Sam’s face, grabbed Alex’s leg, and bit down on his ankle. Alex yelped and jumped back, and when Sam relaxed his guard to look, the man wriggled out from underneath him and ran off into the deepening gloom.

Sam started after him.

“Let him go,” Alex said. “We got what we came for.” He hopped around, flexing his foot.

Sarah had to go to him. “Are you okay? Is his bite dangerous?” He smelled sweaty and pungent.

“He didn’t break the skin.”

“If he did?” Emily said. “Would you turn into a vampire?”

“I don’t think so,” Alex said. “I’d guess this master fed on Nicolai during his journey across the Atlantic. On a boat, there’d be nowhere for a vampire to run, and overhunting might draw unwelcome attention. I’m surprised the thing didn’t kill him.”

“Well,
I
might.” Sam wiped his face with a handkerchief. “His spit smells like dead rat!”

Sixteen:

Housecall

Salem, Massachusetts, Saturday night, November 1, 1913

F
OR THE HUNDREDTH TIME,
Parris studied the peeling wallpaper of his dingy second-floor bedroom. One of these days he should turn his talents toward something more lucrative. He’d inherited some money from his grandmother, but neither his religious calling nor a predilection for exotic spell components helped the funds last. He crushed another roach as it sallied out from under the bed to cross the worn oaken expanse.

About an hour after midnight, too restless to sleep, Parris heard a tapping at the window.

Mr. Nasir hovered outside in the blackness between houses. Parris saw only his pale face and the claw prodding the cheap bubbled glass. Nasir smiled and waved as if they’d encountered each other on an afternoon stroll. The hand, however, looked older than the manicured pair that had rested idly on the pub table last week; instead, the fingers were ashen and unnaturally long, like the legs of a grotesque crab, the nails pointed and yellow.

Parris unlatched the window and slid the bottom half up.

“You called?” Mr. Nasir said.

The lead coffer housing the Eye was under the bed. Even the Painted Man shouldn’t be able to see through that, so this morning Parris had taken the object out and beckoned to it. Apparently, the vampire had gotten the message.

Parris leaned out the window. The creature clung to the dark wood like some huge spider.

“Would you be so kind as to invite me in?” the vampire asked.

So that particular myth was accurate, or so Mr. Nasir wanted him to believe. Parris wasn’t overly concerned for his safety. If this ancient predator wanted him dead, there was little he could do about it.

“Come in, Mr. Nasir.”

Parris blinked, and the other man stood inside, unpleasantly close. Had he shut his eyes for more than an instant? Parris’ nose twitched at the smell of spice and decay. Mr. Nasir’s feet were bare, the gnarled pale toes at least five inches long, the thick talons scratching the cheap floor. The creature looked twenty years older than when Parris had seen him last. His wavy black hair was shot through with gray, his face creased with deep lines.

Parris frowned and settled into the room’s only chair.

“You don’t look well,” he said. “Did something happen?”

“I’m merely hungry. I flew here from Boston and didn’t have a chance to feed.”

“You may sit on the bed if you wish.”

“This place must be cheaper than a radish.” Parris startled and nearly toppled off his seat. The vampire perched on the edge of the cot, one leg crossed over the other. Parris hadn’t even seen him traverse the room.

“So you’re ready for our venture?” Mr. Nasir asked.

“I was this morning, when I signaled the Eye. Alas, I assume we’ll be working nights.”

Mr. Nasir chuckled. “I like that you have a sense of humor.”

Parris twitched. The vampire stood in front of him, pale face inches away, a cold hand on his shoulder.

“You swear to serve our order faithfully, and not divulge our secrets?” he said.

“In exchange for the grimoire, I do.” Parris felt a tingle in his limbs. Such oaths were not sundered lightly.

“As soon as we retrieve the missing artifact, the book is yours.”

“Then tell me what we seek.”

“Long ago, it came to our attention that the Archangel Gabriel had left a certain artifact in mortal hands,” Nasir said. “One of the Painted Man’s ancient comrades has spent centuries trying to locate it, and several decades back he succeeded, only to have it snatched from under his nose.”

A second Egyptian? “In the tavern you mentioned a horn.”

“A ceremonial ram’s horn, about this size.” The vampire held his hands a foot apart.

“Doesn’t the archangel want it back?”

Mr. Nasir’s laugh sounded like a cat’s screech. “This from the man that who just agreed to bargain with a Duke of Hell.”

Parris’ adam’s apple attempted to find its way to his stomach. Truth be told, angels and demons usually left the mortal realms to their own devices.

“So you think the angel’s horn is in Salem?”

“The Painted Man believes so.”

This time Parris saw him move. Nasir drifted across the room to the window, more gracefully than any dancer, then paused at the open casement.

“Get dressed. We’ll continue our discussion downstairs in fifteen minutes. I might grab a bite to eat while I wait.”

Mr. Nasir was nowhere to be seen when Parris descended the staircase into his foyer. But a few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

“Sorry,” the vampire said when Parris let him in — notably without a second invitation. “I had to walk a few blocks to find what I was looking for.”

He wore his boots again. The white was gone from his hair, as were the lines from his face. He seemed flushed with energy, if not exactly youth.

“What was that?” Parris asked, unable to help himself.

The smile grew no less horrifying with familiarity. “I settled for a Chinese boy. He was fresh enough, but a little sour. I’ve never been further east than Persia. I’m not sure I could tolerate the diet.”

Parris himself had barely been past Hartford, Connecticut. Only that one trip to New Orleans — and that had certainly been worthwhile despite the rich southern food that had lashed him to the toilet for a week. A connection occurred to him.

“That evening, when we first met in my church, I’d just conducted a young boy’s funeral service. Was that your handiwork?”

“What can I say? You’ve found me out.”

Charles’ death had caused Parris no small amount of trouble. Consoling bereaved congregants was tedious.

“Why’d you make such a spectacle of it?” he asked. “I assume he was just one of many, but that murder created quite a stir in the community.”

“I was instructed on the manner. The Painted Man said it would stir the Horn from hiding.”

“How?”

The vampire shrugged, an oddly human gesture. “The Egyptian paints with many colors, but the work is always masterful.”

“You know only that it’s in the city?”

“I’ve heard warlocks are good at finding things,” Mr. Nasir said.

“Yes, but I’ve got to have something to work with. Do you have anything strongly associated with the Horn?”

The vampire’s long fingers convulsed like an albino tarantula. “Indeed. While the Painted Man’s lackey bungled the Horn’s retrieval, he did recover a fragment of its golden decorations.”

“That should serve. Can I see it? I’ll need at least a week to prepare a spell.” Formulations had already begun to swirl in his head.

“I have it in my treasury,” Nasir said. “I’ll send for you Friday after next.”

Seventeen:

Pride and Prejudice

Salem, Massachusetts, Sunday, November 2, 1913

S
ARAH USED ALL THE LEVERAGE
eleven years of friendship afforded to convince Anne to help with her plan. Two weeks had passed since the Charles-vampire had been killed, and she and her best friend still hadn’t really made up. Sarah couldn’t remember this ever happening before — at least not for so long.

“I can’t believe you got me in trouble with Mom like that,” Anne said as they walked east from her house. “Now I have to pretend to be writing a paper on the Salem witch trials.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I didn’t mean to stir things up.”

Mrs. Williams was one of those ladies who knew everyone in town, so Sarah had invented a local history paper as pretext for finding a gossipy Collins Cove resident to interview. She hoped whoever they spoke to could tell them something about the neighborhood’s newest undead resident.

“All this craziness only leads two places,” Anne said, “the asylum or an early grave. And this pie is heavy.”

Sarah took her turn with the cardboard box. Like her own mother, Mrs. Williams didn’t believe in calling on someone empty-handed.

“This might be the first time I’ve
ever
lied to Papa. I’ve had my share of big league omissions, but nothing like this. If I have to sneak out at night again, he’s going to start thinking I have a secret lover.”

Anne raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you? I see the way you and Alex look at each other.”

At least they were talking about normal things. Sarah elbowed her.

“We aren’t all as lustful as you.”

Anne bent over in mock pain. “That’s hitting below the belt. Particularly from an old maid like you.”

Sarah didn’t like that expression. “You’re nine months older than me and I don’t exactly see a ring on your finger. Besides, I’ve told you before, Alex isn’t Jewish. He is, however, a gentleman, and very smart.”

“I knew it!” Anne said. “You do fancy him. Are you going to wait for your parents to betroth you to some old rabbi?”