Blood Groove (2 page)

Joe tapped on the lounge door and opened it. “You decent?”

“Much as I ever am,” Patricia said.

“Everything’s running right now, so we should have basic toxicology screens pretty soon. I’m going to get something to eat, if that’s cool. You want anything?”

She stood and stretched. “No. I’ll probably be down in the morgue when you get back.”

“Hanging out with the guest of honor?”

“Sometimes you spot new things if you keep looking. Have fun, but be back in an hour.”

“Yes, massah,” Joe said. Patricia merely sighed.

For reasons she couldn’t really pinpoint, Patricia wanted to read the rest of this story in the room with what was left of poor Baron Zginski. Sure, it was morbid, but she was a pathologist, and she’d done her thesis on historical murders. Besides, being a black professional woman in Memphis, she knew just how strong provincial resentment could be; she felt like she and Zginski had something in common. Had anything really changed between 1915 and 1975? Different was still different, and still feared and hated.

She closed the door, buttoned her lab coat against the cold, and dragged a chair next to the coffin.

As promised, I returned to Passelwaithe the following evening with two security measures. One was quite obvious—I brought along an army signalman and his broadcasting apparatus. Passelwaithe was too wrapped up in itself, and this connection with the outside world
would prevent any hysterical mob violence. The experiment served two masters: it provided the scrutiny needed to insure justice was done, and it allowed the military to test aspects of their latest equipment with a broadcast of such absurdity that no spy could take it seriously.

The other measure was insurance against a possibility so outlandish I chose to keep it my secret.

By prior arrangement, Dr. Jermin would escort Baron Zginski into town, and the tavern would be set up for our purposes. When Signalman Reynolds and I arrived, quite a crowd had already gathered outside the low building, trying to peer through the closed blinds and locked doors.

At the sight of the gathered masses, Signalman Reynolds immediately perked up, straightened his uniform, and put on his best winning smile. The image of Mercury on his cap badge accented his jaunty air. The group clustered outside the tavern was exclusively female, and all frowned with desperate concern. The women and girls of Passelwaithe had gathered there to learn what fate their bitter, jealous men had in store for the handsome stranger who had brought excitement into their isolated and dreary lives.

The women parted ranks to let us through. I noted another curious detail: a full third of the women wore neck kerchiefs or scarves, an unlikely fashion and certainly not due to inclement weather in this warm Welsh summer. The bescarved women all looked pale and drawn, as if recovering from some wasting illness.

Reynolds lugged his portable wireless unit into the tavern, where the unruly menfolk clustered in little grumbling knots. Baron Zginski sat in the corner, in a large isolated chair, as if either a prisoner or some sort of exhibit. He seemed unmoved by the open hostility
around him, and perhaps even a bit amused. Dr. Jermin stood nearby, and I nodded to him as we entered.

Signalman Reynolds established communication with his unit and confirmed the broadcast connection. Magistrate Toomley called the assembly to order, and I stood before them to make my opening pronouncement.

‘Gentlemen of Passelwaithe, tonight we shall enter the modern age together. This is Signalman Reynolds of His Majesty’s armed forces. He shall supervise the broadcast of this proceeding, so the entire outside world will be aware of what goes on here. And I shall aid you in dispelling this superstitious nonsense once and for all.’ A few dissident grumbles were heard, but most said nothing.

Toomley banged a judicial gavel on the bar counter. ‘I hereby open this meeting of the Passelwaithe Town Council. Our first item of business is the charge against Baron Rudolfo Zginski of being a vampire. Sir Francis?’

Dr. Jermin had provided me with a list of the most vitriolic accusers. ‘I call Arvel Walker as my first witness,’ I said.

I will refrain from boring the reader with a detailed account of the witnesses against Zginski. Enough to say that, to a man, they presented evidence not of supernatural evil, but of very mortal jealousy and resentment. My irrational misgivings of the previous night faded with each man who spoke.

After the testimony, I established that Dr. Jermin had that very day, and on numerous other occasions, seen Baron Zginski moving about during the hours before sunset (the very reason I’d arranged for the good doctor to be Zginski’s escort). Although the tradition varied a bit, most authorities agreed that vampires
stayed motionless and inert whilst the sun hung in the sky, and that a glimpse of its cleansing light would be enough to destroy them.

I reminded the assembly that several witnesses had testified that the Baron easily crossed streams and rivers. In folklore, running water formed an impenetrable barrier to vampires.

Finally it was my turn to question the Baron himself. First I asked him to eat some garlic, which he did. Then I held a mirror up to him, which clearly cast his reflection. I sprinkled holy water on him; it caused no damage. The Baron was calm, confident, perhaps even amused by these bits of folklore, as any normal man would be. Still, something in his demeanor struck an odd chord.

Nonetheless, I went ahead with my most theatrical test. A virgin white mare was brought into the room. If Zginski had been a traditional vampire, the horse would have become quite violently agitated. She merely looked around the room and waited patiently to be led away.

The crowd was silent. They were forced to confront the real root of their resentment, Zginski’s wealth and handsomeness, and this did not sit well. As Toomley asked meekly if anyone had any other evidence to present, I surreptitiously studied Zginski, attempting to identify what about him disturbed me so.

Suddenly I isolated it. The man was
not breathing
.

Impulsively I took his wrist and felt for a pulse. By the time he yanked his arm away, I’d learned the truth.

‘Great guns!’ I ejaculated. ‘He
is
a vampire!’

The room collectively gasped. Zginski regarded me with a look of superior disdain. ‘Whatever,’ he said calmly, ‘are you on about?’

Dr. Jermin leapt to his feet. ‘Heavens above, Colby, are you certain?’

I met Zginski’s cold, lifeless gaze. ‘Beyond any reason,’ I said, and before he could respond, withdrew my revolver and fired point-blank into his chest.

The report rang out, silencing all in the room. Zginski remained in the chair, eyes wide, then looked down at the smoking hole in his expensive waistcoat. Before he could react, I turned to the assembled roomful of gaping Welsh mouths and said, ‘As you can see, he has been shot point-blank and yet does not bleed, nor has he registered any pain.’ Facing Zginski, I concluded, ‘Your concealment was almost perfect. But now you have been exposed.’

Zginski smiled weakly and started to speak. Then, with no warning, he leapt to his feet, his face twisted into a mask of fury and animal intensity. He grasped me by the throat in a grip of iron, his eyes blazing with demonic power, and pushed me against the nearest wall.

‘Fool!’ he hissed. ‘No one need have died this night, if not for you! Now I shall slaughter them all, and you shall be the first!’

His arrogant confidence proved his undoing. While he flaunted his im mense physical strength, he failed to note the second security measure as I produced it from within my waistcoat. He did notice, however, when I plunged it into his heart above the still-smoking bullet hole.

Instantly he stumbled back, clawing at his chest. It took mere moments for him to collapse and, at last, expire on the floor, his body frozen in twisted agony.

I glanced at Signalman Reynolds. He was as pale as Baron Zginski’s now-lifeless corpse.

I knelt by the fallen vampire. Protruding from his chest was a golden cross, a crucifix found by Richard the Lionheart on his first crusade to the Holy Land, blessed both in Jerusalem and later in Rome. A metalsmith
monk in a distant cloister had reshaped it into a thin-bladed dagger for me, and it had proven too sharp indeed for the luckless continental nosferatu.

Patricia put the manuscript aside and pulled on surgical gloves. She leaned over the coffin and examined the spot where the cross entered the withered tissue. The damage was so slight it was barely visible: just a tiny, thin slit where the blade parted the flesh. She took the handle in two fingers and gently pulled the cross from the corpse. It slid away easily, although she felt a little tingle when it finally pulled free, like a tiny arc of electricity just strong enough to pierce the rubber gloves. When she looked back, the injury had vanished into the folds of the wrinkled, dry flesh.

The cross rested in her hand, solid and heavy, the sharpened end stained black with sixty-year-old blood. She held it under the illuminated magnifier, studying the wealth of detail carved into the soft metal. This was a genuine piece of art, and would make a magnificent display in the university museum. She placed it carefully in a plastic bag, sealed it, and put it on the nearest examination table. It looked even more unreal and majestic against the cold, flat stainless steel. She removed her gloves and turned to the final page of the manuscript.

I was charged with murder at the official inquest, but had two factors in my favour. One was, of course, a roomful of witnesses who supported my claim of self-defence. The other was the report of the official examination by Dr. Jermin, establishing that the rate of decomposition in Zginski’s body was consistent with a body that had actually died at least thirty years earlier. No one could explain that, of course, but neither could anyone dispute it.

How could Zginski have been a vampire, and yet
passed all the classic tests? I can only assume that vampires, like other creatures, are capable of evolving and adapting.

Baron Rudolfo Zginski was understandably refused Christian burial in the local cemetery. As there was no identifiable next of kin, I claimed the body and stored it in my cellar. I sealed it in an iron coffin, grounded through a lightning rod. I considered burning the body, which is the only way to be thoroughly certain a vampire cannot return. Yet Baron Zginski was such a singular character, I could not bring myself to do so. He had learned to mimic human behaviour to an astounding degree, and forced me to rethink many things about which I was previously certain. I knew that as long as the cross remained imbedded in his heart, the world was safe.

Patricia’s heart raced with excitement. This could be her academic ticket out of this backwater college if she could identify some rational, physiological explanation for the events Colby described, something that showed the face of prejudice in 1915 Wales as clearly as she knew it in 1975 Tennessee. After all, vampires didn’t exist, so it simply couldn’t be that.

She looked up with a start. An overpowering odor suddenly filled the room. It was no chemical she could identify, or any organic process she recognized. She jumped to her feet and peered into the morgue’s darker corners, looking for a spilled bottle or leaking container. Then she gingerly approached the air-conditioning vent. The smell did not grow stronger near it, which was a relief. The danger in any educational environment was that some careless or stoned student might accidentally mix two harmless substances into something lethal, and if those fumes got into the ventilation system it could hurt a lot of people.

The odor was, in fact, the scent of
recomposition
. Its unique tang was reminiscent of ripening fruit, meat being warmed over a slow fire, and blood pulsing from an open wound. It was the olfactory by-product of a process so rare that only a handful of people in all human history had ever witnessed it, although none had survived to document it. The fumes themselves were harmless; it was what they heralded that uniformly proved lethal.

The smell began to fade almost at once. Patricia sighed with relief; whatever it was, it was neither extensive nor, apparently, dangerous. Probably the residue of some cleaning chemicals mixed by accident in the garbage elsewhere in the building. She turned her attention back to Colby’s manuscript.

She smiled as she straightened the pages. She could only use excerpts from Sir Francis’s narrative in her professional paper. Whatever his other skills, one thing was painfully obvious.

Sir Francis Colby couldn’t write worth a da—

F
AUVETTE WATCHED THE
moon watch her.

Despite the summer heat, the night wind blew cool and damp off the Mississippi River, ferreting pathways through the crumbling remains of the old cotton warehouse. When it finally reached her and traced its chill across her skin, she felt it the same way the river felt rain.

She stood only partially in the shaft of moonlight, and the beam seemed to vertically bisect her. She studied her reflection in the window’s intact panes. Vampires didn’t cast reflections in the movies, but in real life—she almost laughed at that—they did. Nothing had changed; like the face of the moon, nothing about her
ever
changed. Her shoulders were still soft, her breasts still small with dark nipples, her belly still just a bit plump where the baby fat had never gone away. And her face, big brown eyes and dark straight hair, was still that of the fourteen-year-old virgin she’d been when she’d died forty-five years earlier, just after the start of the Great Depression.