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  The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Carmichael, Jimmy and Double-T don't answer."

  His relaxed demeanor vanished. "What? Which post were they on?"

  "Number one—the private road entrance."

  "The line down?"

  "No sir, it's ringing, they just aren't answering."

  He glared at me, then flicked his gaze to the window, as did I. So we were both watching when it happened.

  The huge gates were barely visible, distorted shapes through the wind-lashed storm; but even with that, there was no way to miss it when the twin iron barriers suddenly blew inward, torn from their hinges by some immense force.

  "What the fuck—" Carmichael stared.

  Slowly, emerging from the howling maelstrom, a single human figure became visible. Dressed in black, some kind of cloak or cape streaming from its shoulders, it walked forward through the storm, seeming almost untouched by the tempest. I felt a chill of awe start down my spine, gooseflesh sprang out across my arms.

  Battling their way through the gale, six men half-ran, half-staggered up to defensive positions. Stroboscopic flashes of light, accompanied by faint rattling noises, showed they were trying to cut the intruder down with a hail of bullets. Even in that storm, there was no way that six men with fully automatic weaponry could possibly miss their target, especially when it continued walking towards them, unhurried, no attempts to dodge or shield itself, just a measured pace towards the mansion's front doors.

  The figure twitched as gunfire hit, slowed its pace for a moment, was staggered backwards as all six concentrated their fire, a hail of bullets that could have stopped a bull elephant in its tracks. But the figure didn't go down. I heard an incredulous curse from Carmichael.

  The figure raised one arm, and the three men on that side were suddenly slapped aside, sent spinning through the air as though hit by a runaway train. The other arm lifted, the other three men flew away like rag dolls. The intruder came forward, into the light at the stairway that led up to the front door, and now there was no mistaking it. Verne Domingo had come calling.

  He glanced up, seemed to see us, even though the sheeting rain and flashing lightning would have made that impossible. The winds curled down, tore one of the trees up by the roots, and the massive bole smashed into the picture window, showering both of us with fragments of glass.

  I felt Carmichael's immense arm wrap around me and a gun press into my temple. Verne came into view, walking slowly up the tree that now formed a ramp to our room. He stopped just outside of the window. "Put the gun down, Carmichael," he said, softly.

  "You . . . whatever the hell you're doing, you just fucking cut it out, or you can scrape up Wood's brains with a spatula!" Carmichael shouted.

  I wondered why the heck Verne wasn't doing something more. Then it clicked for me. "Come on inside, Verne," I said. "We were just talking about you."

  With my invitation, I saw a deadly cold smile cross his face, one that showed sharper, whiter teeth than I'd seen before. "Why, thank you, Jason. I do believe I shall."

  The two thugs charged Verne; with a single backhanded blow he sent both of them tumbling across the floor, fetching up unconscious against the back wall.

  Carmichael's hand spasmed on the gun.

  Nothing happened. I felt, rather than saw, him straining to pull a trigger that had become as immovable as a mountain. Verne continued towards me. "Put my friend down now, Carmichael," he said, in that same dangerously soft tone.

  Carmichael, completely unnerved, tried to break my neck. But he found that his arms wouldn't cooperate. I squirmed, managed to extricate myself from his frozen grip, and backed away.

  Now Verne allowed Carmichael to move. Deprived of me for a hostage, the huge man grabbed up the solid mahogany chair and swung it with all his might.

  Made of wood, the chair was one of the few weapons he could've chosen that might have been able to hurt Verne. But to make it work, he also had to hit the ancient vampire, and Verne was quite aware of what he was doing.

  One of the aristocratic hands came up, caught the chair and stopped it as easily as if it had been a pillow swung by a child, and the other whipped out and grasped Carmichael by the neck, lifting him from the ground with utterly negligible effort.

  "You utter fool. Were you not warned to leave me and mine alone? I would have ignored you, Carmichael. I would have allowed you to live out your squalid little life without interference, if only you had the sense to let go. Now what shall I do? If I release you, doubtless you shall try something even more foolish, will you not?

  Purple in the face, Carmichael struggled with that grip, finding it as immovable as though cast in iron. He shook his head desperately.

  "Oh? And should I trust you? The world would be better off with you dead. Certainly for daring to strike in such a cowardly fashion I should have you killed."

  "No, Verne."

  He looked at me. "You would have me spare him?"

  "Sure. Killing him will force the cops to investigate. You haven't killed anyone yet, have you?"

  He shook his head. "No. Battered, unconscious, and so on, but none of his people are dead, as of now."

  "Then leave it. I think he's got the point. It's not like he'd be believed if he told this one, and he can't afford the cops to come in anyway; even if they tied something to you, they'd also get stuff on him."

  Verne gave an elaborate shrug, done as smoothly as though he was not actually holding three hundred pounds of drug lord in one hand. "As you will, then. I, also, prefer not to kill, even such scum as this." He let Carmichael drop. "But remember this well, Carmichael. I never wish to hear your name again. I do not ever want to know you exist again. If you, or anyone in your control or working for you in any way, interferes with my life or that of my friends again, I shall kill you . . . in such a manner that you will wish that you had killed yourself first. Believe me. I shall not warn you a third time. This is your final chance."

  Carmichael was ashen. "I gotcha. I won't. You won't ever hear from me again, Domingo, I promise."

  "Good." Verne turned to me. "My apologies, Jason. It never even occurred to me that you might be in danger. Let me get you home."

  Outside, the storm was already fading away, as though it had never been.

  14

  "How did you find me?"

  Verne and I were comfortably seated in his study. He smiled slightly. "I have always known roughly where Carmichael lived, just as he always knew where I lived. Once I arrived in the general area, it was simple to sense your presence and follow it."

  "Thanks."

  "No need to thank me, Jason. It was my fault entirely that you were involved. I should have realized that once he found my household impenetrable, he would look for anyone outside that was connected to me."

  "Maybe you should, but so should I. Heck, you hadn't had anyone 'outside' connected to you for so long that I'm not surprised you sorta forgot."

  "For far too long, but I thank you for your understanding."

  "You think he'll keep his hands off from now on?"

  Verne gave that cold smile again. "Oh, yes, I assure you. I was not concerned with the niceties of civilized behavior at that point, Jason. I made sure that he was, shall we say, thinking very clearly. He knows precisely what would happen to him if he ever crosses me again. And as you pointed out, the authorities won't believe him even if he tells his story, nor would it do him much good if they did."

  "So how did your interview with Sky go?"

  "Excellently well," he replied, offering me a refill on the champagne, which I declined. "Your casual evaluation was, as far as it went, accurate. Mr. Hashima is a true artist, a dedicated one, and highly talented in several ways. I will have no qualms about supporting him fully. He is naturally a bit cautious—I do seem to him to be a bit too good to be true—but I am sure that we shall get past this minor difficulty."

  I sipped, appreciating the unique taste that a real champagne offers. "And the antiquities?"

  Ve
rne grinned, a warm smile that lit the room. "As usual, you and Morgan are right. I shall be donating, or selling, many of the items in question to people who will both appreciate them and be willing to place them on proper display. Some discreet inquiries have already elicited several interested responses, and I expect several archaeologists to visit in a few weeks in order to authenticate, insofar as is possible, the artifacts and prepare a preliminary assessment. I have already decided to send Akhenaten, at least, directly to Egypt. Let the Sun Pharoah return to his home." He raised his own red-glinting glass in salute. "My thanks, Jason, again. You have indeed found something that I shall enjoy doing, something which will contribute to the world as well. And you have given me your friendship, which I value perhaps even more."

  I managed, I think, to keep from blushing, although I do tend to do that when praised extravagantly. "It was my pleasure, really. Well, aside from being kidnapped, but that wasn't completely in your control. I just hope he has bad dreams about you whenever he goes to sleep."

  "I assure you, your hope will be more than adequately fulfilled, Jason," Verne said, with the expression of someone with a small secret.

  "Why?"

  "As I implied, I was quite capable of hearing his thoughts when I extorted certain promises from him, and discovered one quite serendipitous fact." He paused for me to urge him to finish, and then said, "Many people are afraid of various things, real and otherwise.

  "It turns out that Mr. Carmichael's greatest and most secret fear . . . is vampires."

  I laughed out loud. "Well, I'll drink to that!"

  Photo Finish

  15

  When I can't talk and can't act and can't work . . . I drive. I cruised down the various highways—the Northway, then part of the Thruway, 787, back to I-90—the windows wide open and the wind roaring at sixty-five. Even so, I barely felt any cooler; for sheer miserable muggy heat, it's hard to beat the worst summer days of Albany, New York, and its environs, which unfortunately includes Morgantown.

  How long I was out there driving I wasn't sure. For a while I just tried to follow the moon as it rose slowly, round and white. It was the flashing red lights that finally drew my attention back down to earth.

  No, they weren't chasing me—I wasn't speeding; there were two police cars up ahead and flares in the road. I slowed and started to go around them; then I saw a familiar, slender figure standing at one car. I pulled up just ahead of the squad car. "What's up, Renee?" I asked.

  She jumped and her hand twitched towards her gun. "Jesus! I didn't even hear you come up."

  That was weird in itself. "Must be something pretty heavy if you didn't notice Mjolnir pulling in."

  She gestured. "Take a look if you want. Just don't go beyond the tape. We're still working here."

  I went down the steep, grassy embankment carefully, finally pulling out my penlight to pick my way down. Despite the moon it was pitchy dark, and the high, jagged pines blocked out what feeble light there was; at least it was cooler under the trees. The slope leveled out, and the light from the crime scene started brightening. The police had set up several portable floods and the area was almost bright as day. I stopped just at the tape.

  At first it just looked like someone had stood near the middle of the clearing and spun around while holding a can of red-brown paint. Then one of the investigators moved to one side.

  A body was sprawled, spread-eagled in the center of the clearing. The green eyes stared sightlessly upward and the mouth hung open in a frozen scream. His throat had been torn out. The charcoal-gray suit was flung wide open, the white shirt now soaked in red-brown clotting blood where his gut was ripped open. My stomach gave a sudden twist as my gaze reached his waist.

  Something had torn his legs, still in the pant legs, off at the hip; then that something had stripped every ounce of meat off the bones and laid the bones carefully back, to gleam whitely where the legs had been.

  I got my stomach under control. A few months ago I might have lost it, but since then I'd watched a vampire fry under a hundred sunlamps; that's about as gross as it gets.

  Still, it was an ugly sight, and I felt pretty shaky as I climbed back up the hill. "Jesus Christ, Renee! What kind of a sicko does things like that?"

  She shook her head. "That's what we'd like to know."

  "Who was he?" I asked.

  "ID found on him says he's a Gerald Brandeis of Albany, New York. ID also says he's Morgan Steinbeck of Hartford, Connecticut. His last ID says he's Hamilton Fredericks of Washington, DC; also says he's a Fed."

  That got my attention. "Fed? What kind of Fed?"

  She glanced hard at me. I made a zipped-lips motion. I may not be with the police, but they make a lot of use of my agency and I've done them a lot of favors. Renee in particular knew she could trust me. She nodded. "Okay, but make sure you keep it zipped. His ID says he's NSA, Special Division. Occupation is just 'Special Agent.' His Hartford ID makes him an insurance investigator for Aetna; the one for Brandeis gives him IRS status."

  I whistled. "One heavy hitter, that's for sure. Was he carrying, and if so did he get off any shots?"

  "Answer is yes to both." She pointed inside her squad car. I glanced in, could just make out a Beretta 9mm. "Smell indicates it was fired just recently and we found three shell casings. With all the blood around we haven't been able to tell if he hit anything offhand. We're trying to find the bullets, but in that sandy- soiled forest chances of getting all three is slim."

  A blue-flashing vehicle pulled up; the medical examiner's office. He got out and nodded to me, turned to Renee. "Your people done?"

  "With the body, yeah. But ask the other officers to direct you, we're nowhere near finished with the site yet and we don't want anything here messed up." The ME gestured and he and his assistants started down the hill.

  "How'd you get on to this?" I asked Renee.

  She looked uncomfortable. "Someone called us."

  I could tell there was something bothering her. "Someone who found the body?"

  She shook her head.

  "Then what? Come on, Renee."

  She shrugged. "The station got a call from someone at 7:40 p.m. who claimed to have left a body at this location. The operator said it sounded male, but kind of deep and strange. He didn't stay on long enough to trace."

  "That is weird. I'd assume he didn't give a name."

  "You'd assume wrong." Her face was grim. "He gave a name, all right.

  "The name was Vlad Dracul."

  16

  Red liquid swirled warmly in the crystal glass, throwing off crimson highlights. Verne Domingo sipped. I swallowed some of my ginger ale, noticing how little I was affected these days by the knowledge that Verne was drinking blood.

  "Why doesn't it clot?" I asked idly.

  "Heparin, my friend. A standard anticoagulant."

  "Doesn't that give you any problems?"

  His warm chuckle rolled out. "Not in the least, Jason. Nor does anything else within the blood. Disease and toxins cannot harm me. It does change the taste somewhat, and on occasion I do need some fresh blood; but that, too, can be arranged. Enough of these pleasantries, Jason. Tell me what is bothering you."

  "An awful lot of things, really. This has been the kind of day that makes me think I should have just slept on to tomorrow." I put the glass down and fiddled with my keys. "I really don't want to bother you, either. I guess any problems I have would seem pretty insignificant to you anyway."

  "Perhaps not, my friend." He took another sip. "I am many centuries old, that is true, and such a perspective makes many mortal concerns seem at best amusing conceits. But the affairs of the heart, and the concerns of a friend, these things are eternal. Those . . . immortals who lose sight of their basic humanity become as was your friend Elias Klein."

  Klein had been a damn good cop who also turned out to be a vampire; he'd tried to frame Verne Domingo for the killings Elias was responsible for, and when I'd gotten too close to the truth he'd gotten me to go
after Domingo. Fortunately for me, though Domingo was indeed a drug runner, he also had a code of honor and knew what the real score was. With his help I'd finally figured out that Elias was behind it all. Elias almost killed me before I trapped him in a tanning booth.

  He put the glass down. "Truly, Jason. I am interested. It is a rare thing for me, remember, to again think of, and take part in, the ordinary things of humanity."

  That much was true. "Well, first, I had to give a speech to a bunch of high school kids on information science. That wouldn't have been so bad except that one of them had seen that 'Paranormal Investigators' ad that Sylvie put in the psychic journals. I had my fill of Ghostbuster and Buffy jokes long ago."

  "Understandable. Go on."

  "Then I get back and Sylvie wants to talk to me." I hesitated.

  He smiled. He probably meant it to comfort me, but the kindly effect was slightly offset by the sight of his fangs. "I can guess, my friend. The affaire d'amour, eh? And you are, I have noticed, a bit uncomfortable with the subject."

  I stared carefully at my drink. "That obvious, huh?"

  "Quite." He raised his glass and drank. "A word of advice, if you will take it? Women are indeed different from men in many ways; but both like things that are certain and predictable. If you do not intend a romantic involvement with the young lady, then comport yourself accordingly. I know you, my young friend. You are attracted to her, but at the same time I can sense that you are, to put it bluntly, petrified at the thought of such an involvement. When she demands a decision, she is not telling you to either become involved with her or she will leave; she is telling you to treat her as either lover or simple friend, not something of each. It may be easy for you to behave as your impulses lead; it is hard on her."

  I stared harder at my glass. That was a cutting analysis. I hate having to see myself like that. But he was right. "Sylvie . . . she's different from everyone else. It's strange, really. You intimidate me a lot less than she does."

  Verne laughed. "Now that is odd, my friend. I agree, most certainly, that the lady is different. She has a Power which is rare, rarer even than you or she realize, especially in this day and age. But for a man who has dueled one of the Undead and emerged the victor, a talented young lady should hardly be a great threat." His smile softened. "It seems to me that, just perhaps, the reason is that she is more precious to you than any others because of this talent—she sees within the souls of those about her, and thus you know she accepts what you are more fully than anyone else living could. To a bachelor such as yourself, she is indeed a grave threat."