Underground Vampire (24 page)

There being no further evidence,
the Magistrate retired to dine and deliberate.  After considering the
evidence produced by each side, the arguments made and reviewing the relevant
precedents, he resumed the proceedings, pronounced Petru guilty, condemned him
to death, denied as untimely Petru’s application for stay pending appeal, and
ordered that sentence be carried out forthwith.  The prosecution requested
a brief continuance to torture the condemned to secure additional information,
which was granted in the interests of justice.  He was burned with hot irons,
an eye was gouged out and noxious chemicals were forced up his nose, burning
holes into his face.  The judge admonished them to be careful, as the law
required that the condemned be cognizant of his destruction.  It appearing
that no more useful information could be gleaned since they had inadvertently
destroyed Petru’s tongue, rendering speech impossible, the Judge decreed that
the sentence be carried out forthwith.

There being no other business
before the Court, they stripped Petru’s clothing from his frame, exposing his
pale white flesh to the crisp early morning chill, and spiked his arms and legs
to the towering and sympathetic Cedar tree.  It had rained during the
night and into the proceedings, so the emerging light was soft and beautiful. 
The air hung heavy with the primitive odor of decomposing vegetation.  The
sun rose, its rays penetrating the gloom like shafts of light illuminating
faces in Flemish art. 

It had been so long since Petru had
seen the day that the slightest light affected him and his skin began to steam
in the early morning glow.  As the light bathed his naked body, he erupted
into bubbling pustules, which burst spewing foul odors into the glorious
morning.  The sun was weak, which Oliver had hoped for when he chose the
spot, and took several hours to bring Petru to a sufficient temperature for
spontaneous ignition. 

As Petru suffered Oliver watched,
enjoying the spectacle, reliving again his own agony in the coffin.  He
understood that Petru’s death would not release him from his agony, that his
damage could only be resolved by forgiving, but he would never admit it to the
damnable Doctor.  Hate became him and he enjoyed it and would never let it
go. 

At the penultimate moment when
Petru steamed and bubbled, writhing in agony, Oliver approached him.  The
sun was bright, shining directly into his face, painting his naked body with
angry red welts.  Overhead, a minion shielded Oliver with a golfer’s
umbrella brightly paneled in red and green and yellow.  Oliver had saved
this for the end, a last torture to inflict upon poor Petru so his death would
have no meaning.  Leaning close he whispered in his ear so no one else
could hear, and at his words Petru lifted his head and strained at his
bonds. 

“Yes,” whispered Oliver, “I have an
agent in the Mansion, an agent who told me how to capture you.”

With what was left of his strength
Petru managed a sibilant hiss, “Who?”

Laughing in his face, Oliver
replied, “She gave me you and she will give me Arabella and then I will take
the Queen, you have failed in your duties.”

Petru went berserk chained to the
tree but it did him no good and, finally, he burst into a glorious pyrotechnic
green-tinged flame, hissing to the end.  He smoldered down to a cone of
silvery ash and the ring she’d gifted him on the night she turned him, a symbol
of their bastard love. 

Oliver carefully swept up the
remains, funneling the fine dust into a stopped cloisonné bottle purchased for
the purpose.  The ring he slipped on his finger as a permanent keepsake of
the wonderful time he’d spent with dear old Petru.

Driving back to town, he stopped in
North Bend to mail a package containing a short note and an exquisite bottle
addressed to a mansion on Highland Drive, Seattle, Washington.  The note
was addressed rather formally to Her Royal Highness, Queen of the Vampires, and
asked only, “Are you missing anything?”  It was signed “Your devoted
subject, Oliver.” 

“Can’t have this getting to Seattle
before us,” Oliver said to his driver, “I expect she will really be upset.”

 Her Royal Highness, for she
affected such titles when vexed, sat at one of the rear windows of her mansion
surveying the cityscape below.   The strict symmetry of her classic
Georgian reinforced her sense of order and ritual.  Three stories tall
with a full basement she occupied the first and second floors, with the
servants, retainers and guards housed in quarters on the third floor and her
personal humans stored in an addition off the pantry.  The basement housed
the furnace, water heaters and machinery to support her life in the style she
required and expected.

Somewhere down there were those odd
creatures who maintained the communication and computer systems.  She
never saw them. The only time she thought of them was when something didn’t
work; she would send a servant down and then whatever it was that hadn’t
worked, worked.  Come to think of it she wished everything worked as
well.  She was glad she never saw them.

 At the exact center of the
front of the house was a paneled door topped by an elaborate entablature
supported by pilasters. No one approaching from West Highland failed to stop
and appreciate the edifice as they climbed the imposing stairs.  Once
inside, old and polished dense oak planks stretched through the house with pocket
doors on each side of the grand hallway opening into the formal rooms.  A
boxed staircase rose through the center of the house affording a view from the
ground floor straight up to the top and, coincidentally, providing an easily
defensible position from above. 

Vampire society endlessly quibbled
about the house, with some questioning whether the use of nine pane windows on
the servants’ floor deprived the home of authenticity and others detecting
elements of Colonial Revival in the columned porch.  Since many of the
Vampires had known the original architects of the various genres, their
arguments were spirited, consumed with minutia unappreciated by even the most
fastidious architect.  

One evening as an argument grew
heated and threatened to spill over into a duel over the propriety of certain
decorative elements, the Queen opined that she preferred to reside in a
Georgian house because it was the way things were supposed to be.  There
were no more arguments about the style of her residence.

This morning she sat in one of the
less formal rear rooms.  This one was the tea room, a second floor space
across from the sitting room where she received visitors and conducted
business.  Conceived as a sunroom, the bright airy feeling had been stifled
by the heavy tint applied to the windows.  The Space Needle, unpleasant as
always, marred her appreciation of the clear day, reminding her once again of
the detestable Eiffel responsible for that abomination in Paris.  What was
it about World Fairs, she mused, that spawned large undressed ornaments that
came to symbolize the Cities that were forced to endure them?   Today
Mt. Rainier appeared, startling gawping tourists as if it was a giant toadstool
sprouted overnight, prattling on as if it were an apparition at Lourdes. 

Back to the Space Needle, she
thought again about how she could knock the damn thing over, a plan which not
one of her so called advisors had ever supported or even, she was sure, taken
seriously.  Even Petru, her most loyal retainer, had merely acquiesced by
bobbing his Ichabod Crane head and murmuring in his idiotic language, a tongue
that even the present day inhabitants of his wretched land could not
understand. 

She was doubly vexed at the sights
out her window with the failure of Petru to return from his nightly excursion
into the city.  He had begun his nightly visits to the City since the
troubles started, but was always back to give a report in the morning, fetching
her tea, describing his evening.  Now, he had been gone for three days without
a word and she’d endured his replacement’s miserable efforts long enough. 

The imbecile still could not
prepare the tea correctly and he’d been training for forty-six years, she
groused to herself.  How hard could it be to properly select the leaves,
heat the water and bring the pot to the correct temperature; you’d think any
idiot could measure leaves and pour heated water gently over the leaves,
brewing the proper strength.  Clearly, he could not learn or perhaps
Petru, dear Petru, was incapable of teaching. 

All her thoughts inexorably
returned to him.  Something had gone wrong; there was no way around
it.  He had been gone for three days without a word; the last time he’d been
absent that long was when she’d sent him to fetch the assassin, another who’d
been missing the last few days.  Perhaps the two events were connected;
could Arabella be connected with her Petru?  That thought vexed her as
much as the missing Petru.

Uncertainty, there was too much of
it, she would have to simplify her life for the sake of her digestion. 
Her combat squads were experiencing resistance.  The rebellion, for that
was what it was, she admitted to herself when she was alone, even if no one was
allowed to say the word in her presence, had coalesced into a nasty, perverted
guerrilla war, hiding in the labyrinth that was under Seattle, attacking from
abandoned and forgotten sections of the Underground, dissolving into the maze
of passages before her forces could come to bear.  The warfare was
inconclusive, draining on resources.  Her losses were mounting through the
constant ambushes, and she’d had to reorganize her forces to shore up the
patrols. 

The truth was, her police were more
of a civil force adept at bullying Vampire society into submission than meeting
a determined foe.  Psychologically, they were unprepared for an opponent
who not only resisted but actively took the fight to them.  Her forces’
violent suppression of any resistance, real or perceived, had led to several
instances of Vampires loyal to her or at least not in opposition being severely
injured or killed.   Her commanders lobbied to impose a curfew and
permit the unannounced searches of private residences, an expansion of police
powers sure to offend much of society.

 If she could maneuver the
resistance into a decisive battle, she could crush them with her superior
forces but that option was highly unlikely.  Oliver, her dear Oliver, was
proving to be an adept general; she should have cut off his head when she had
the chance.  He had obviously thought long and hard about strategy and
tactics while he’d been down there chewing on his concrete casket. 

This time she would not be
lenient.  This time she would take Arabella’s advice, his head would be
removed, his heart would be cut out and all his parts would be burned. 
Perhaps his followers would be given a chance to dine on his heart before they
suffered the same fate.  Already her stomach felt better, contemplation
almost as satisfying as the deed, almost but not quite.

Petru’s customary execution of
captured traitors attracted great notoriety, and attendance at the public
exposures was impressive.  Petru had managed to open a shaft to the upside
so that the miscreants could be staked out in the Underground Square.  It
was so thoughtful of him to arrange it so she could attend without much
travel.  She had, of course, attended the executions and had personally
approved the verdicts. 

Despite the efficiency of the
proceedings, though, she could not shake the feeling that the crowd was not
enjoying the display with its customary zeal.  Many of the Vampires
exhibited restraint when there should have been joyous approval.  If
anything, the executions seemed to have stiffened the resistance and, since
realizing that, she’d taken to private punishments, which, of course, she
attended, as was her duty, although the executions were becoming tedious
affairs, satisfying to the sadists but offering little encouragement to anyone
else. 

It was tiresome, all the capturing
and executing, the morning report where her commanders touted the tally and
assured her they were winning, that Oliver’s forces could not sustain the
losses, it was just a matter of time.  Oh and by the way, in the war of attrition
she had lost this many Vampires but the body count was in her favor, just a
little longer and victory would be hers.

Knocking the tea cup across the
room, she fixed her attention on Petru’s replacement and as he snapped to, she
ordered him to, “Find Arabella and have her present herself forthwith.” 
Scampering out the door, she thought he exhibited a bit too much relief to be
out of her presence and resolved to pay more attention to her staff, perhaps
rot had set in and some pruning was necessary about the home.

Standing in the doorway observing
her snit was her personal favorite lady-in-waiting, Prunella.  One of the
originals, Prunella accompanied her from Europe, a comforting sight in these
turbulent times.  Like all the old guard, she was as much warrior as
servant, and the Queen knew her power and security rested as much on the
incorruptibility of her praetorians as on her own ancient strength.  

Beckoning her in, she looked with
interest at the parcel Prunella held before her.  Her lawyers handled all
contact with the official Human world.  Long ago, to ensure loyalty, she
had turned one of the partners so that she would always know what they were up
to; lawyers had a distressing habit of double-dealing.  Consequently, no
mail of importance came to the mansion.  Other than the daily advertising
trash, which was unavoidable, her post box was cheerfully free of
correspondence.   What did appear was inspected, shredded and burned
by an unseen minion.

To receive a package here was
unsettling; to have it hand addressed to her with no return address suggested a
communication from the People of the Night, a suggestion with several
unpleasant possibilities.   Anticipating her unasked question,
Prunella said, “It has been scanned and does not appear to contain any
explosives.”  While they would undoubtedly survive the blast, the
explosion would bring nosy attention from the Human police; her staff was
working overtime as it was to contain the fallout from the ongoing war. 
“It appears to be a vase or perhaps a statue,” Prunella said, placing the box
on the table.

“Open it then,” the Queen
commanded, “Let’s see what we have.”

Without hesitation, Prunella
carefully slit the wrapping with a fingernail, then sliced open the box without
intruding into the interior so that the wrapping tissue was undisturbed when
she removed the top. They both inspected the contents, something carefully
wrapped in expensive paper with a card tucked on top. 

Lifting the card between two of her
long spiky nails, Prunella opened the envelope, removed the card and placed it
on the table before her Mistress without glancing at the contents.  After
a moment, Her Royal Highness tilted her regal neck to read the card.  She
then reached into the box and removed a truly exquisite vase.  She set the
vase on the table with the card before it and for a time said nothing, only
contemplating the objects as if they were some sacred symbol.

Finally she rose, gathering the
vase in her hands, and instructed Prunella to assemble the staff for an announcement. 
Without saying more, she swept from the room across the hall into her private
chambers awaiting word that all were present on the ground floor.  She
placed Petru’s remains on a shelf in her bed chamber and had the maids dust the
vase daily in memory of his service. What more could she do?

When summoned, the household staff
assembled in the square at the bottom of the staircase.  The meetings were
rare as, after a hundred years, even the densest trainee learned his duties and
performed them to expectation.  Most of those present recalled the last
time they’d met as a group when Oliver all those years ago had first challenged
authority. 

They watched as she descended from
her second floor study dressed in boots and black pants sleek as seal skin and
a black sweater, all covered by a long black coat rather like the dusters evil
cowboys wore in Italian westerns.  She held a vase about ten inches tall
embellished with ornate cloisonné work, probably Japanese in origin.  She
walked into their midst holding the vase high, proclaiming, “Petru is dead,” in
a voice that they knew meant this wasn’t over, in fact, it had just started.

 They stood impassive and
shocked.  Killing Petru suggested power and organization, it also made the
threat personal since any of them could be next. The Queen looked out over the
massed servants; these were her most loyal retainers and her personal
protectors.  Really a Praetorian Guard, they had all been made by her,
many in Europe and most had long age. They would follow her commands without
question and, she believed, would die before turning on her or giving up in
battle. 

But, like an enormous fortune, its
power lay in having it, not in spending it.  So long as it was in
existence, her enemies must respect and fear its power.  Used
indiscriminately, the Guard might be defeated or wounded and her aura
diminished.  History was full of powerful countries that recklessly wasted
dominant armies by committing them to battle.  Inevitably, her Vampires
complained about maintaining expensive fighting forces that didn’t actually
fight, not appreciating that having an army was better than using it. 

 “Prepare yourselves,” she
announced. “I want to revenge myself.”

“Of course,” said Prunella,
“when….”

But, before Prunella could finish her
statement the Queen screamed, “Now, I am going now.”

The astonished household staff
instantly sprinted off to their quarters to change into combat gear, to the
armory for swords and stakes then back to the main hall to fall into
formation.  They left her presence as maids and butlers, gardeners and
cooks, secretaries and handyman and returned as a mobile combat group prepared
to deal with whatever their Mistress had in mind.