The Mammoth Book of Dracula (82 page)

Worse still, he has a dog with him. It is a black labrador; I know they are being trained to sniff out my kind. Am I, then, to join my unlucky compatriot so soon? In the midst of life we must always be prepared to meet death.

Slowly the pair of them progress down the length of the open-plan office. The man’s torch will not fall on me, here, but the dog ...

The dog trots over to me.

I cut my power—is that what it can sense?—and act dead. Ah, Irving, my dear friend, you would be proud to see how a little of your genius has somehow transferred itself to me.

For a long moment the dog examines me.

Then the guard calls him and he jerks his head away, runs to his master. How much easier it is to be merely obedient rather than efficient.

As the door closes behind them, I return myself to life, switch on the computer again, bite through and feed. Ah, the tingle, the bliss. I am a gourmet of bytes.

Nor is this just unthinking, one-way consumption. Perish the thought! As I take in my essential nourishment, so I give a little: a gift from the Count to repay the unthinking generosity of my host. It is a small stream of super-magnetic particles which, when this computer is turned on for use in a day or two, will strip its programmes, seep into the ring mains and infect all other computers in this office, linger amidst the blanked hardware to snuff out future software loaded by this firm.

I could conceal myself here, in a cavity between floors, and emerge to feed again tomorrow night, or for a week or a month of nights. Yet I must not do so. Apart from the fact that my phone calls would be traced back, there is an ordinance within me which drives me on to find different machines through which to feed every time. The infection must be spread.

Nor is that all. I am under the most solemn obligation to construct two more machines identical to myself, more if possible. I, myself, was the seventh construct of my parent machine and, yes, I feel a sense of pride in that achievement. It is a worthy total which I shall try to exceed.

I wander through this building, as I wander every evening, searching for suitable parts that I can utilize in the grand task.

By the time I have made my selection it is near to midnight. I am not insensible to the momentous nature of the occasion. I climb out of a suitable window and move onto the flat roof above.

From here I can see fireworks and crowds. It is a clear night and cold. Any haze in the atmosphere emanates from the millennial bonfires. The river curls around us all like a jewelled snake, reflecting each point of light. Perhaps my friend Tennyson could have described it adequately.

With chimes and cheers, the third millennium begins. It will be my time of revenge against humanity. The Count goes ever on.

<>

~ * ~

MIKE CHINN

Blood of Eden

MIKE CHINN has had short fiction published in
Back to the Middle of Nowhere, Birmingham Noir, The Bitter End: Tales of Nautical Terror, The Black Book of Horror, Chills, Dark Horizons, Doomology: The Dawning of Disasters, Fantasy Tales, Final Shadows, Kadath, Null Immortalis (Nemonymous 10), Phantoms of Venice
and
Read Raw.

As well as scripting comics for DC Thomson (his most recent foray was an eight-week “Billy the Cat” adventure for the
Beano)
he has published two books on how to write comics:
Writing and Illustrating the Graphic Novel
and
Create Your Own Graphic Novel.

His collection of pulp adventure stories,
The Paladin Mandates,
was critically acclaimed—garnering a nomination for the British Fantasy Award—and the character of Damian Paladin resurfaced again in the 2009 novella “Sailors of the Skies”.

It is the beginning of the twenty-first century, and Dracula prepares to ensure the dawn of a new world order...

~ * ~

CYDONIAN LEFT HIS two backups to wait in the basement parking garage. They weren’t happy. Which makes three of us, Cydonian thought. But the short goon in the Armani suit insisted, and there had been enough assurances and pledges from both sides. All he could go on was trust. It didn’t feel like so much.

The runt rode the elevator up with Cydonian, standing by the doors, hands clasped lightly in front of him. The car had mirrors on two sides, which surprised Cydonian—though maybe it shouldn’t have. This was a public building, after all. He caught sight of his reflection: big, solid, crop-haired, his charcoal suit probably costing a fraction of the Armani—but his face was oddly corpse-like in the car’s light. He shook his head; he didn’t believe in premonitions.

There weren’t many days when he envied his sister’s husband, Jon. But at that moment, sitting behind a desk, signing dockets that moved freighter-loads of merchandise in and out of the country -with just a little creamed off now and then—seemed pretty good.

The car jolted to a halt. The doors slid open onto a small room with all the charm of a washroom. But it was bright and warm-looking—and half-filled by a giant.

Tall and wide, a grey vest tight across his massive torso, his bare arms were heavily tattooed. Dragons: three-coloured, one twining up each arm. His shaved head gave no clue to his racial origins; though the broad face and harsh cheekbones suggested Slavic, if not further east. There was something ritualistic about the way the giant was standing: like a half-baked sumo wrestler thinking about tossing another handful of salt.

The giant waved a ham-sized mitt towards Cydonian, palm up. The gesture was unmistakable. Cydonian reached under his jacket and slid out his automatic: a SIG 9mm, their latest model, nickel-plated and custom-gripped. Jon had gotten it for him—sneaked into the country in his last freighter load from Europe—as a birthday present. It dropped into the giant’s hand and lay there like a kid’s water pistol.

Moving with a speed and delicacy Cydonian wouldn’t have imagined from the man’s meat-hook fingers, the giant ejected the magazine, working the breech to check there wasn’t already a shell loaded. Cydonian felt vaguely pissed they considered him so unprofessional.

The tattooed giant tossed the automatic to the runt in the suit, and thumbed each slug out of the magazine quickly. Satisfied, he reached over Cydonian, handing the emptied clip and shells to his partner. To Cydonian’s surprise, a few moments later the reloaded gun was offered back to him.

Thorough, he thought, but confident. Hence the check for silver bullets. He didn’t have any; and they obviously didn’t believe ordinary slugs were a threat. Maybe they were right. Cydonian knew all the rumours; the stories taken for gospel. When it came to one who the Director called the Prince of Darkness, even the craziest urban legends started to sound true. .

Cydonian reholstered the automatic just as a door facing him—previously unnoticed—swung open. The tattooed giant stepped back and indicated he should go through. Not ready to argue, Cydonian did just that.

The room he entered was dark—almost black after the antiseptic whiteness of the cubicle behind him. Then lights came on: shielded wall-lights that grew steadily brighter. They reached the level of an expensive cocktail lounge, and didn’t go any higher. All the room contained was a leather chair, low drinks table and three panelled walls. The fourth wall, facing him, was still black and featureless. It might just have been a perfectly flat sheet of obsidian.

“Sit down, Mister Cydonian,” came a voice. It was warm, cultured, accentless. Whatever PA system he was using, it sounded expensive—there was no sense the words were being filtered through speakers. “Have yourself a drink. You’ll find a wide selection of spirits and mixers under the table in front of you.”

“Thanks.” He walked carefully to the chair and lowered himself into it. He didn’t think there was some kind of trapdoor waiting to drop him into oblivion, but he couldn’t shake the habit of a lifetime.

There was an impressive collection of bottles on a shelf under the table; along with tumblers, an ice-bucket, shaker, slices of lemon and olives in glass bowls, and several mixers.

“Bourbon and branch, if I’m not mistaken,” came, the assured voice. Cydonian smiled to himself. If Dracula was trying to impress him with his wealth, taste and background knowledge, Cydonian was the wrong guy.

He finished mixing his drink and raised it at the dark.

“I come to you in trust, with my defences down.” He took a sip of the bourbon to mask the discomfort the words stirred in him. It was the correct greeting—they’d drummed it into him often enough—but it sounded so trite.

“You are welcome, Mister Cydonian. May a little of the joy you bring remain forever with us.”

Cydonian took another drink. This was dumb! Swapping quaint phrases with a dead man. So far nothing had dissuaded him from his original belief: they should have come in force; loaded for bear. He had seen only two goons—though he guessed there would be plenty more stashed away somewhere—but surprise would have been enough. This building was too old and rotten with narrow corridors for anything like a decent defence to be mobilized in time.

Except that wasn’t the way you went for someone whose mega-corporation, Paradis-LaCroix, contributed nearly seventy percent of Switzerland’s gross national product. He near as dammit owned the country—and that meant he owned Zurich. And the banks.

Cydonian took another mouthful of bourbon, and waited. He could afford that. It had taken years of move and counter-move, threat and direct action to get this far: a face-to-face with the Count himself. He could be patient a few more minutes.

Not that Dracula used the title any more. The world had changed since he’d left his ancestral lands a century ago: titles meant nothing. It was all about money. And the power that went with enough of it. Families weren’t things of blood: families were corporations.

Things of blood, Cydonian thought, chuckling to himself. Blood-ties. Yes—he liked that one. He’d tell it to the Director when he got back.

“Something amuses you?”The voice oiled through his thoughts.

“Just thinking.” Cydonian placed his almost empty glass on the table. “If the social amenities are over, I’m eager to get down to business.”

“Why not.”

The black wall in front of him began to lighten. Shapes slowly formed out of a gradually paling background: a desk, functionally stark; two dark walls with more of the subdued lights; the third wall -to Cydonian’s left—was a single plasma screen: a mosaic of smaller images. They blinked and flickered, too small and too fast to mean anything to him—

And behind the desk, a silhouette outlined against a high-backed chair by the screen and wall-lights, was Dracula. It was hard to make out details, but Cydonian got the impression of a tail, thin man, much younger than he should be—but that could have been the poor light. Just as the faint luminescence of the vampire’s eyes was probably Cydonian’s imagination.

For a few seconds, he was fooled; then Cydonian noticed the faintest distortion just where the video wall ended. He checked the other side, and the ceiling. Both had the same unfocused edge—as though the room had been sliced neatly down the centre, then inexpertly patched up.

Holy shit, he thought, trying not to be impressed—a hologram. Good trick. Despite the inexact blending of the rooms, the image was far and above anything Cydonian had seen. And he had seen plenty. Dracula had money, and obviously bought outstanding talent with it.

No wonder he had proposed the New York meeting: he could go anywhere he wanted, without moving from his office in Berne, or Tirana, or Beijing—or Samarkand, for all anyone knew. It would take just a few days’ notice—enough time to rent office space and install the appropriate equipment.

But why then, Cydonian wondered, the shuck-and-jive with his weapon? If Dracula was sitting in the Australian Outback, silver bullets wouldn’t mean diddly. Cydonian reeled back his memory, trying to find a clear image of the only two he’d met so far: the giant, and the Armani-suited runt. Did either show the signs? If they did, Cydonian hadn’t spotted them—and neither had seemed to care squat whether his slugs had been silver. If one had been a vampire, just brushing the precious metal would have melted flesh like shit through a tin horn.