Necroscope 4: Deadspeak (15 page)

The hour must be ten, and Janos had said he would contact his American thrall about then. Well, and he would … in a while, in a while.

He poured a little wine for himself, good and deep and red, and watched the way his glass turned to blood. Aye, the blood was the life—but not in a place like this! He would sup when he would sup, and meanwhile the wine could ease his parch. What was it after all but the plaguy unending thirst of the vampire, which one must either tame or die for? Or at least, tame within certain limits … And Janos wasn’t shrivelled yet.

The whore had heard the chink of his glass against the bottle. Now she looked across, her surly mouth pouting; she, too, had a glass, which was empty.

Janos felt her eyes on him and turned his head. Across the room she took note of his straight-backed height, dark good looks and expensive clothing, and wondered at the dark-tinted spectacles which shielded his eyes. But at this distance she could not see how coarse and large-pored was his skin, how wide and fleshy his mouth, or the disproportionate length of his skull, ears and three-fingered hands. She only knew that he looked powerful, detached, deep. And certainly he was not a poor man.

She smiled, however unprettily, stood up and stretched—which had the desired effect of lifting her pointed breasts—and crossed to Janos’s window-seat. He watched her swaying towards him and thought:
Of your own free will.

“Will you drink it all?” she asked him, cocking a knowing eyebrow. “All to yourself … all
by
yourself?”

“No,” he said at once, his expression remaining entirely ambivalent, “I require very little … of this.”

Perhaps his voice surprised her: it was a growl, a rumble, so deep it made her bones shiver. And yet she didn’t find it displeasing. Still, its force was sufficient that she took a pace to the rear. But as she drew back so he smiled, however coldly, and indicated the bottle. “Are you thirsty, then?”

Was he a Greek, this man? He knew the tongue, but spoke it like they did in some of the old mountain villages, which modern times and ways would never reach. Or perhaps he wasn’t Greek after all; or maybe he was but many times removed, by travel and learning and the exotic dilution of far, foreign parts.

The girl didn’t normally ask, but now she said: “May I?”

“By all means. As I have said, my real requirements lie in another direction.”

Was that a hint? He must know what she was, surely? Should she invite him through the alcove and into her curtained room? Then, as she filled her glass … it was as if he had read her mind!—though of course that wouldn’t be too difficult. “No,” he said, with a slight but definite shake of his great head. “Now you must leave me alone. There are matters to occupy my mind, and friends will soon be joining me here.”

She threw back her wine, and smiling, he refilled her glass before repeating, “Now go.”

And that was that; the command was irresistible; she returned to her bench under the alcove. But now she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. He was aware of it but it didn’t seem to bother him. If he had
not
commanded her attention, then he might feel concerned.

Anyway, it was now time for Janos to discover what Armstrong was doing. He put the girl out of his mind, reached out with his vampire senses along the waterfront to the mole, and into the shadows there where massive walls reached up out of the still waters. No bright lights there, just heaps of mended nets, lobster pots, and the floats and amphorae-like vases with which the fishermen caught the octopus. And the ever faithful Armstrong, of course, waiting for his master’s commands.

Do you hear me, Seth?

“I’m here, where I should be,” Armstrong whispered into the shadows of the mole, as if he talked to himself. He made no mention of the hunger, which Janos could feel in his mind like an ache. That was good, for a master’s needs must always come first; but at the same time a man should not forget to reward a faithful dog. Armstrong would receive his reward later.

I
now seek out the mentalist, the Englishman,
Janos briefly explained,
and him I shall send to you. The other English will doubtless accompany him. That one is not required, for he can only hinder my works. One of them can tell us as much as two. Do you understand?

Armstrong understood well enough—and again Janos felt the hunger in him. So much hunger that this time he commanded:
You will neither mark him nor take anything from him—nor yet give him anything of yourself! Do you hear me, Seth?

“I understand.”

Good! I suggest that he receive a stunning blow—say, to the back of the neck?—and that he then falls in the water where it is deep. Look to it, then, for if all is well I shall send them to you soon.

Without more ado he then sent his vampire senses creeping amidst the bright lights of the New Town, searching among the hotels and tavernas, in and around the bars, fast-food stalls and nightclubs. It was not difficult; the minds he sought were different, possessed some small powers of their own. And one of them at least had already been penetrated, damaged, almost destroyed. Indeed it was going to be destroyed, but not just yet. Time enough for that when Janos knew all that it knew. And from the single glimpse he had stolen before crushing down on that mind and driving it to seek sanctuary in oblivion, he was certain that it knew a great deal.

The mind of a mentalist, aye: a “telepath”, as they called them now. But if Janos had caught the thought-thief spying on him (or if not on him directly, at least spying on the drug-running operation of which he was a part), how much then had he discovered
before
he was caught? Enough to make him dangerous, be sure! For in the moment of shutting him down Janos had sensed that the mindspy knew what he was, and that must never be. What? To be discovered as a vampire here in this modern world? Oh, some might scoff at such a suggestion—but others would not. This mentalist was just such a one, and there’d been echoes in his mind which hinted he knew of others. An entire nest of them.

Janos detected and seized upon a wave of frightened thoughts. He knew the scent of them. It was a mind he had encountered before, recently, which like a familiar face he now recognized. Terrified, cringing thoughts they were, bruised and battered to mental submission—but rising now once more to consciousness. He tracked them like a bloodhound, and entering that shuddering mind knew at once that this was the one and he’d made no mistake …

* * *

Ken Layard attended Trevor Jordan in the latter’s hotel room. Their single rooms were side by side, with access from a corridor. For twelve hours solid the telepath had lain here now: six of them as still as a corpse, under the influence of a powerful sedative administered by a Greek doctor, four more in what had seemed a fairly normal sleeping mode, and the rest tossing and turning, sweating and moaning in the grip of whatever dream it was that bothered him. Layard had tried to wake him once or twice, but his friend hadn’t been ready for it. The doctor had said he’d come out of it in his own good time.

As for what the trouble was: it could have been anything, according to the doctor. Too much sun, excitement, drink—a bug which had got into his system, perhaps? Or a bad migraine—but nothing to worry about just yet. The tourists were always going down with something or other.

Layard turned away from Jordan’s bed, and in the next moment heard his friend say: “What? Yes—yes—I will.” He spun on his heel, saw Jordan’s eyes spring open, watched him push himself upright into a seated position.

There was a jar of water on Jordan’s bedside table; Layard poured him a glass and offered it to him. Jordan seemed not to see it. His eyes were almost glazed. He swung his legs out of the bed, reached for his clothes where they were draped over a chair. The locator wondered: is he sleepwalking?

“Trevor,” he quietly said, taking his arm, “are you—?”

“What?” Jordan faced him, blinked rapidly, suddenly looked him full in the face. His eyes focussed and Layard guessed that he was now fully conscious, and apparently capable. “Yes, I’m OK. But …”

“But?” Layard prompted him, while Jordan continued to dress himself. There was something almost robotic about him.

The telephone rang. As Jordan went on dressing, Layard answered it. It was Manolis Papastamos, wanting to know how Jordan was doing. The Greek lawman had come on the scene only seconds after Jordan’s collapse; he’d helped Layard get him back here and called in the doctor.

Trevor’s fine,” Layard answered his anxious query. “I think. He’s getting dressed, anyway. What’s happening your end?”

Papastamos spoke English the same way he spoke Greek: rapid-fire. “We’re watching the boats—both of them—but nothing,” he said. “If anything has come ashore from the
Samothraki
it couldn’t have been very much, and certainly not the hard stuff, which is about what we expected. I’ve checked out the
Lazarus,
too; unlikely that there’s any connection; its owner is one Jianni Lazarides, archaeologist and treasure-seeker, with good credentials. Or … let’s just say he has no record, anyway. As for the crew of the
Samothraki:
the captain and his first mate are ashore; they may have brought a very little of the soft stuff with them; they’re watching a cabaret at the moment, and drinking coffee and brandy. But more coffee than brandy. Obviously they plan on staying sober.”

Jordan had meanwhile finished with dressing and was heading for the door. He moved like a zombie, and his clothes were the same ones he had worn this morning. But the nights were still chilly; plainly he hadn’t so much chosen these light, casual clothes as taken them because they’d been handy. Layard called after him: “Trevor? Where do you think you’re going?”

Jordan looked back. “The harbour,” he answered automatically. “St Paul’s Gate, then along the mole to the windmills.”

“Hello? Hello?” Papastamos was still on the phone. “What now?”

“He says he’s going to the windmills on the mole,” Layard told him. “And I’m going with him. There’s something not right here. I’ve known it all day. Sorry, Manolis, but I have to hang up on you.”

“I’ll see you down there!” Papastamos quickly answered, but Layard only caught half of it as he was putting the phone down. And then he was struggling into his jacket and following Jordan where he made his way doggedly downstairs into the lobby, then out of the door and into the Mediterranean night.

“Aren’t you going to wait for me?” he called out after him, but Jordan made no answer. He did glance back, once, and Layard saw his eyes staring out of his sick-looking face like holes punched in pasteboard. Plainly he wasn’t going to wait for him, or for anyone else for that matter.

Layard almost caught up with his robotic partner as Jordan crossed a road heading for the waterfront, but then the lights changed, engines revved, and mopeds and cars started rolling in the scrambling, death-wish, devil-take-the-hindmost fashion of Greek traffic. In that same moment he found himself separated from Jordan by bumper-to-bumper metal; and by the time the exhaust fumes had cleared and the lights changed again, the telepath had disappeared into milling groups of people where they thronged the streets. Hurrying after him, Layard knew he’d lost him.

But at least he knew where he was going …

Jordan felt that he was fighting it for all he was worth, every step of the way, even knowing it was useless. It was like being drunk in a strange place and among strangers, when you lie on your back and the room spins. It actually seems to spin, the corners of the ceiling chasing each other like the spokes of a wheel. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it because you know it isn’t really spinning—it’s your mind that’s spinning inside the head on top of your body.
Your
bloody head and body but they won’t obey you … you can’t make them do what you want no matter how hard you try!

And all the time you can hear yourself trapped in your own skull like a fly in a bottle, buzzing furiously and banging repeatedly against the glass, and saying over and over again, “Oh, God, let it stop! Oh, God, let it stop! Oh, God … let… it…
stop!”

It’s the alcohol—the alien in your system, which has taken control—and fighting it only makes you feel that much worse. Try lifting your head and shoulders up off the bed and everything spins even faster, so fast you can feel the centrifugal force dragging you down again. Force yourself to your feet and you stagger, you turn, begin to spin with the room, with the entire bloody universe!

But only lie still, stop fighting it, close your eyes tight and cling to yourself … eventually it will go away. The spinning will go away. The sickness. The buzzing of the fly in the bottle—which is your own battered, astonished, gibbering psyche—will go away. And you’ll sleep. And it’s possible the strangers will roll you and rob you blind.

Roll you? They could steal your underpants—even rape you, if they felt inclined—and you couldn’t stop them, wouldn’t feel it, wouldn’t even suspect.

It was a replay of Jordan’s first violent experience with alcohol. That had been when he’d started university and got homesick—of all bloody things! A couple of fellow students, college comedians thinking to have a little fun at his expense, had spiked his drinks. Then they’d played a few tricks on him in his room. Nothing vicious: they’d rouged his cheeks, given him a cupid’s bow mouth, fitted him up with a garter-belt and stockings and stuck a Mickey Mouse johnnie on his dick.

He woke up cold, naked, ill, not knowing what had happened, wanting to die. But a day or two later when he was sober, he’d tracked them down one at a time and beaten the living shit out of them. Since when he’d only ever got physical when there was no other way around it.

But by God, he wished he could get physical now! With himself, with this mind and body which wouldn’t obey him, with whoever it was that was doing this to him. For that was the terrible thing: he knew it was someone else doing it to him, jerking him about like a puppet on a set of strings, and there was
still
nothing he could do about it!