Underground Vampire (10 page)

“And, if we do this for you?”

“Then I will rid the Underground of
them; that is what I will do for you.”

He nodded his assent, dropped to
his hands and knees and scuttled off through the hole in the wall, the only
sound soft thumping as he ran off through the duct work hidden in the walls.

“What’s going on,” said Ortega,
“and while you’re at it, who is that guy?”

“He’s raising an army,” she mused,
ignoring Ortega.

“It’s worse than we thought,”
moaned Finkelstein.

“They’ve created a secret army Underground,
subsisting on rat blood; they must be insane,” she said. 

“Vampires, of course, now this all
makes sense,” he mocked, still waving his gun around, “I suppose that’s what
you are, right?”

Suddenly, she was in front of him
with her hands at his throat, “Yes, I am.”

Incredulous, he stared at her and,
mouth gaping, inadvertently pointed the gun at her.

“Would you please stop waving that
gun around,” she said, “you might shoot Finkelstein.” 

Turning to Finkelstein, she
gestured towards the door and windows, “you’ve got to secure this; they could
be coming at any time.” 

“Don’t worry,” he replied, “we are
safe here.  None may enter without an invitation, and we are protected by
our prayer; our belief protects us.”

“They will be different; they are
not subject to the same restrictions.”

“So how did you get in,” asked
Ortega, “I mean, let’s see your invite,” he snickered. 

“His great-grandfather issued the
first invitation, after him his father, then Mr. Finkelstein gave me entry,”
she said, formally bowing her head to Finkelstein who acknowledged her with a
bow of his own.

She watched Ortega try to do the
math in his head.

“One hundred and twenty-three years
ago,” she said.

 “I was getting there,” he
shot back, “Just give me a little time.”

“Well,” she sweetly replied, “Maybe
you should take lessons from Ratman, you could both improve your counting
skills.”

“That makes you what,” he sneered,
“a hundred and fifty years old?”  

“A little more,” said Mr.
Finkelstein.

Unable to restrain himself, he started
laughing, “Am I on camera now?  Enough of this, no more fairy
tales.”  He looked around the room trying to discover a hidden camera,
pulling the furniture out and looking behind the old bottles on the makeshift
bar.

“This is who you want me to work with,”
she growled to Finkelstein. “At least the last time they were grownups.” 

“He‘ll be fine once he calms
down.  Maybe you should show him something, a little demonstration,”
pleaded Finkelstein.

“Magic for the ignorant.”

“Think of it like a training exercise,
so he understands what we’re up against,” said Finkelstein, desperate to keep
the two of them together, “just this once, for me, please.”

Turning toward Ortega she said,
“Shoot me,” like she was saying one ice cream please, a nice polite voice.

 “Are you crazy? I’m not gonna
shoot you,” he replied not at all calm. 

“Finkelstein, shoot me,” she held
out her .45 by the barrel so that he could take it by the grip. 

“Where would you like it,” he
inquired, “stomach, chest?”

Ortega started to pull his weapon
and Finkelstein casually pointed the .45 at him saying, “Put your gun on the
floor, we really don’t have time to explain and I think a little demonstration
will help.  You know, a picture’s worth a thousand words and all
that.  Go ahead set it down, that’s good, now kick it away and back up to
the wall, wouldn’t want you interfering.”

Once Ortega was back to the wall,
Finkelstein turned and put a round through a blue glass bottle perched on the
edge of the old bar where Ortega was standing.  The sound was deafening in
the basement room and glass shards ricocheted off the wall and ceiling. 
Ortega could see a hole in the wall behind where the bottle had stood.

“See, it works,” said Mr.
Finkelstein.

Nonchalantly, Arabella said, “Chest
please,” and undid the buttons of her black silk blouse, dropping it from her
shoulders to her waist, exposing herself to the men.  She pulled her arms
back thrusting her chest towards Finkelstein, who aimed and fired a round
directly between her breasts.   She staggered back as 400 foot pounds
of force slammed into her, going down to a knee.

Ortega’s eyes bulged and he
shouted, “You’ve killed her,” as he dove to the floor for his gun.

 Arabella righted herself and
shook her shoulders.  Observant Finkelstein turned his face to preserve
her modesty, while Ortega openly gaped at the dime-sized hole perfectly
positioned between the curves of her breasts.  As he stared, the wound
began to close and sealed itself till there was only a small drop of blood to
mark the spot.  With her fingertip, she wiped the drop from her pale white
skin; holding it to her lips, she daintily licked her fingertip.  Looking
directly into Ortega’s eyes, she slowly buttoned the blouse, starting at the
bottom and working her way to the line of her bra, where she stopped.

“Never look directly into a
Vampire’s eyes,” she said, “and if you do manage to shoot one, shoot again and
again, a head shot is best.”  She blinked, severing control, and he
slumped, released from the connection. 

Ortega pointed his gun at her
saying, “Be careful lady, this is a real gun.”

“Go ahead,” she said, unbuttoning
again and pulling her top down, “just don’t put a hole in my blouse; it’s
French and I really like it.”

“You are both crazy,” he said,
absent mindedly waving his gun, “I’m not shooting you.  What is this, some
trap?”

She walked up to him and stood toe
to toe, “No tricks, no traps, just the truth, Detective Ortega.  Do you
want the truth or do you want to go home and be safe?”

“Make up your mind, Detective, I’m
getting chilly standing here,” she whispered. 

He looked down at her bare chest
and stood mesmerized by her and frozen at the weirdness of the scene.  Off
to the side, he watched Finkelstein close his eyes and begin mumbling in a
strange language as he bobbed his head towards the wall.  He felt
Arabella’s hand cover his and lift up the gun until it pointed at her chest.

“Go ahead,” she whispered, “if you
are afraid look into my eyes and I will help you.” Lifting his face from her
chest he felt her eyes on his and remembered too late not to lock eyes with a
Vampire. His felt his finger squeezing the trigger of his service revolver as
he fought the impulse, willing the movement to stop.  For a moment, the
pressure on the trigger lightened then, from a distance, he heard a bang and
the gun kicked in his hand and Arabella lurched backward. 

She seemed to stumble and went down
on one knee, her hands at her chest, “Damn, she said, “you got me in the same
damn spot as Finkelstein; that hurt.”  She stood and, once again, he
watched as the hole in her sternum sealed itself.  He stared at her,
unable to look away. 

Finally, she said, “you’ve looked
at my breasts enough, show’s over,” and began buttoning her blouse. 
“Sorry, Rabbi, didn’t mean to be crude,” she said, looking over at
Finkelstein. 

“It was necessary,” Finkelstein
replied, “to get his attention.”

“Yeah, well you’ve got it now,”
said Ortega, walking around and waving his gun, “I’m really paying attention
now.”

“Good,” she said, “but why don’t
you put the gun away before you shoot Finkelstein, him we need.” 

“That is a good idea,” said
Finkelstein, “unlike our friend,” bobbing his head toward Arabella, “I don’t
think I would recover from a gunshot, right?  Please.”  Ortega holstered
his gun but continued to stare at Arabella.

“In very simple language, one of
you, explain to me what is going on,” said Ortega. 

Arabella and Finkelstein exchanged
a glance then, after an imperceptible nod from her, Finkelstein said “Why don’t
you sit down and I will tell you a story.” 

“No stories,” barked Ortega. 

“Sit,” ordered Arabella, “sit and
learn.” 

Ortega hunched over on an old
rickety bar stool while Arabella brushed the dust from a banker’s chair,
grumbling all the while about Finkelstein’s lack of housekeeping. 

“So how are you two connected?”
said Ortega.

“We each seek the same thing, each
in our way,” replied Mr. Finkelstein, “I seek origins through the study of the
ancient texts, she through scientific research.”

“Getting anywhere?” asked Ortega.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Finkelstein
launched into his explanation, “Two scholars breathed life into a golem.
Unfortunately, they decided to keep it and the Golem escaped, mating with
daughter of man.  The progeny was the first Monster,” lectured
Finkelstein, “the Vampire Adam, if you will.”

“Golem,” said Ortega, “What’s a
golem?”

Ignoring his question, Arabella
said, “I’m attempting to isolate the factors that cause the change, hopefully
to reverse it.”

“Vampire assassin by night,
humanitarian by day?”

“What happened to the first one?”

“The surviving scholar, his partner
had been eaten by then, managed to erase the first letter, killing the Golem,
but of course by then it was too late.”

“Of course,” said Ortega, “what
happened?”

“That first made others, by mistake
and indiscriminately at first, resulting in the Vampire society existing
today.”

The Rabbi paced between them,
morphing with each step from skid row barkeep to a lecturer in ancient
languages and the history of the Western World, until he stopped in front of
the hunched over Ortega and said, indicating dramatically, “You see before you
a stylish woman dressed in the fashions of today who can apparently withstand a
gunshot wound to the chest without any effect, someone who is able to heal
herself before your eyes from what should be a fatal wound.  You are
confused and perhaps afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” blustered
Ortega. 

“That is because you are ignorant,”
replied Finkelstein. 

“I’m not stupid,” barked
Ortega. 

“No, you are not,” replied
Finkelstein, “but you are ignorant and if we are to move forward you will need
to develop precision in your thinking.”

“I think he might just be stupid,”
commented Arabella from the sideline; “he does look like the dunce on that
stool.” 

Ortega stiffened. 

“This is not helpful,” shushed,
Finkelstein, “I have a lot of history and we don’t have much time.  Our
studies predict an attack within a week, so it is imperative that Mr. Ortega
receive his education and be trained as your assistant immediately.”

“Oh no you don’t,” said Arabella,
standing so quickly Ortega didn’t see her move, “I am not working with him.”

“I’m not anybody’s assistant,
especially not hers,” rejoined Ortega, coming to his feet. 

“Excellent,” said Finkelstein, “we
are making progress.  Sit, sit, both of you sit; I have more for
you.”  Over the next hour Finkelstein recounted the history of the
Vampires, the emergence of the Queen as the Vampire ruler of Seattle and
Arabella’s position as enforcer for the Clan.

“You expect me to believe she’s a
four hundred year old Vampire who has been working as a hit man, excuse me,
woman, for warring Vampire Clans and has retired to Seattle, like everyone
else?  Say, you’re not from LA are you?”

“No, of course not.  France
originally,” she primly replied, obviously trying to placate the dullard and
help him along with his education. “Pay attention”.

Jesse continued his flawed
summation, “Ok, and here’s the best part, a local Vampire has risen from the
dead, gone rogue and is starting a civil war against the leader, a Queen of the
Vampires no less, who lives in a mansion on Queen Anne Hill.  Now this
one, swinging his arm back to Arabella, wants to hunt him down and what, bring
him to justice?” 

“No, we are going to drive a stake
through his heart, cut off his head and burn it,” Arabella replied.  “You
have a minimal attention span, are you ADHD?”

“Of course,” snarked Ortega,
ignoring her last remark, “and you need the assistance of the Seattle PD to
further your private assassination plot.  And,” continued Ortega waving
his arm at Finkelstein, “our local skid row bar keep rabbi’s family has been in
the Vampire murder business for the last century and will be providing
technical support as needed.”

“Yes, I think you understand the
basic outline of the situation,” beamed Finkelstein, smiling happily at the
apparent consensus.  “Perhaps we should move on to tactical considerations
now that the strategic mission has been defined and accepted by the relevant
parties.” 

Ortega looked at him like he was
speaking Chinese; Finkelstein, in an attempt to clarify his comments, said,
“You two being the relevant parties, if you know what I mean.”

“Actually, I neither want nor need
his help,” Arabella snarked.  “At best he will be a hindrance, at worst a
liability and he will most assuredly get himself killed.” 

“I can take care of myself, lady,”
he said. 

“We’ve already established that you
are ignorant, why are you lobbying so hard for stupid,” she snapped back.

“I’m getting tired of this.”

Attempting to placate him,
something she wasn’t all that interested in, “All I really need from you is to
keep an eye on SPD; I’ll do all the field work; you don’t have to be involved
in the hard work.”

Well good, I thought for a moment
you wanted something serious but now I understand it’s no big thing, spy on the
department while you assassinate people,” sarcasm dripping from him he leaned
back against the bar.

“Not people, Vampires.  The
streets are gonna get a little bloody; I’ll go alone and do what must be done.”
Acknowledging her future evaporated her anger, “It wouldn’t be right to involve
you; I apologize for Mr. Finkelstein, he was only trying to help.”