SCROLLS OF THE DEAD-3 Complete Vampire Novels-A Trilogy (85 page)

The old truck had been lovingly restored down to the gleaming chrome bumper and the spotless cherry red original paint.

He gripped the wheel in preparation for turning onto the highway. He looked both ways though no one ever drove down the road much anymore, and spun out onto the tarmac, back tires burning rubber. If his dad heard that, he’d scold him.

“It’s not a hot rod, son. It’s seventy years old!” That’s what he’d say. Had said. Many times. It might be old, he would reply, but it’s got gumption, Dad, it wants to rock and roll. It’s a racing machine. It’s Mad Max with a bullet.

The sky was overcast and only now did Malachi notice. The wind rushing in his open driver’s window was damp and cool, tasting metallic on his tongue. It was early spring, with new Bahia and coastal hay standing a half-foot tall in the warming pastures. Cattle clustered together in clumps, sentinels behind barbed wire and raw timber fences, lazy and moving slow as slugs. People didn’t eat much beef anymore, but those who did paid a premium. This had kept them in business, thankfully.

A clutch of black crows feasting on something dead in the roadside ditch flew skyward as the old truck neared, roaring down upon them. Malachi shook his head. The damn scavengers were worse than buzzards. They were everywhere in the spring, snapping off budding flower heads and swallowing them whole, swooping down over the pastures to pick at whatever the cattle left behind, invading back yards to steal corn thrown for the chickens or seed left out for the birds migrating home.

He wondered what good use there was for a crow. The same could be said for a vampire, he guessed, and the thought made him laugh a little out loud. Then it occurred to him that useless things were often the peskiest creatures on earth. Crows, vampires, pipe worms living in volcanically warmed vents of darkness at the very bottom of the seas, those little alien creatures everyone kept seeing in their spaceships that never landed. Dark and dread things no one really wanted to admit had a purpose in the scheme of life.

He peered up through the windshield. The sky was not as black as the crows, but it wasn’t that many shades lighter. Stone gray, if he had to put a name to it. If it rained it would ruin the hay standing in the fields. He hoped it wouldn’t rain. It had been an eerie spring, with sudden squalls coming out of West Texas or screaming down from the Panhandle. They hardly ever had bad weather set in from the east, over near Louisiana. It might be a sunny bright day, not a cloud evident, when suddenly thunderheads would rush in from the west or north, bringing lightning and thunder and eventually a gully washer.

The weathermen blamed it on the climate change. Global warming. Malachi knew they were right. Things were much less predictable weather-wise, than when he’d been a boy.

God, he hated rain now. And he wasn’t too fond of water in any form.

The pit…the pit with the stagnant water where he slept and ate and did his business. It was always damp, even if it hadn’t rained in a few days. It was always a muddy cavity he couldn’t escape. He would hardly get dry before the tropical Thai rains came again to soak him.

He looked out at the solidly overcast sky and cursed beneath his breath.

It just couldn’t rain. The water was too hateful, not only ruining his dad’s hay gathering, and spoiling the bales, but it could throw Malachi into a dark mood that would last until the sun came back to brighten the world.

Chapter 2

Charles Upton hungered. He had not taken blood from a victim in twelve hours, having just risen from a death-like sleep. He rose naked from his luxurious bed covered over with satin sheets and pillows, throwing back the gold satin comforter brocaded with creamy silken thread sewn into an Oriental pattern. When he touched a button on the wall, the spread changed from brocade cloth to a view of an ocean sweeping onto a white, sandy shore. He stood staring at it a moment. The new blanket data cloth never ceased to amaze him. He could make his bed look like a desert, a mountain, or even tune it into the web and sit in the middle of the bed and search through other people’s lives as if they were in the room with him.

The air of the room, like a shock of cold water on his skin, brought him back to the present. He was always cold.

Dead and cold.

No comforter ever devised could warm him. No data blanket, electrified or not, no fire, no heat, none of it could make his skin pliant and pink again, or cause the blood to rush hot through his veins.

He took a very hot shower, so hot the steam filled the bath and blotted his image from the mirrored walls. Water this hot would have blistered a human.

Upton let the water run over his head as he slicked back his hair with both hands and raised his face to the hot stream. His hair was black again, as it had been when he was a young man, though he’d died old and white-headed, his old sore-infested scalp showing through the sparseness. Now his hair had come back, lush and full. He was so vain about this new growth that he sometimes spent a half-hour just brushing through it where he’d let it grow to his shoulders, curling at the ends like a girl’s.

Now if only his body would renew itself too, but it was obvious this was not going to happen. He’d seen Mentor, his nemesis, aged and elderly, who could not make himself beautiful. He knew he would never have a lovely human form again until the body he inhabited from birth finally gave out, all the organs inside finally incapable of taking nourishment from new blood. When this body could no longer be invigorated, then he could leave it, throw it aside like the old shell it was, and take a new body from a dying man. A young, beautiful dying man, he swore it.

Or a beautiful woman, if he desired.

He turned off the shower and stepped out of the enclosure. He wiped the steam from the mirror above the sink area and grinned devilishly at his wrinkled, bony face surrounded by the long mane of wet midnight black hair. He would never take the form of a woman. He desired them only as a man needing sexual release and could not fathom ever wishing to be one of them. Weak creatures, too soft, too small in stature and authority for his schemes.

He dressed quickly in a pure white silk shirt with cuffs. He put square gold and emerald links in the cuffs and draped a red satin scarf around his neck. He pulled on black trousers with front pleats that draped and disguised his spindly legs. He drew on expensive black stockings that hugged the frail skin of his calves, and slipped his feet into soft black Italian loafers. Over his shoulders he draped a short cloak made of fine soft wool, lined in black satin. The lining could be linked and used as a data blanket, but when he was out and about, he rarely turned it on.

He was vain and he knew it. But only, he told himself, as much as any god would be who held dominion over lesser creatures.

He stood now before his dressing room full-length mirror eyeing the impression he would make on others who might see him—at least those he allowed to see him. He was very good at slipping so quickly past men, they never knew more had occurred than a breath of breeze bypassing them. The cape was an affectation, but he didn’t care. If he deigned to let men see him, they might think him one of the strange clans of humans who these days dressed in Victorian clothing. That was all right with him as it seduced his victims into a momentary lapse of judgment, believing him old, so old, and weak in mind and in taste.

He laughed, his laugh a roar he did not try to withhold. In truth he was stronger than ever. Stronger than any strong man who had ever been in sport or competition, stronger than Samson who brought down the pillars of the temple to rubble. His strength did not come from this old frail body he wore as a shroud. It came from his vampire blood, from his deathless being.

And his being was hungry. Famished.

He left the dressing room, crossed the bedroom, spreading out his right hand as he passed the disheveled bed. The sheets were magically drawn tight, the pillows plumped and positioned, the thick oceanic spread arranged in a twinkling so neatly it was as if no one had ever slept in the bed.

He had learned long ago how to cause objects in his vicinity to move as he instructed. It saved so much time and effort.

In the living room where lovely halogen lamps shaded with amber parchment burned steadily, he stopped to survey his domain. He had always been a rich man, a magnate, and had been able to afford the greatest of luxuries, but this home he had bought in Cannes, France was one of the finest places he had ever owned.

Not that it was set up with all the new technological marvels, no, that was not his style. Except for the bed cover data blanket and his data cape, he had not installed any of the other new equipment. Gyroscope chairs and floating wall covers sensitive to a person’s mood and wishes. Automated kitchens, SIRs to do all the other work, doors that locked on thought command, windows that brought down steel shields at dusk. None of those things amused him in the least. Toys, intrusive toys, that is what they were.

The building that housed him stood three stories high on a side street off the main thoroughfare. Made of pale cream limestone blocks, the entrance boasted wide marble steps flanked with huge stone and copper-coated lions dulled to a hazy green patina. Inside the home was rich with warm imported woods for floors and the banisters that went up the lofty staircase to the upper floors. The doors were all made of oak that might have been cut from an ancient forest.

Here in his living area he had installed the finest sofas made of black velvet and deep, cushioned chairs of maroon leather. His coffee table was made of faintly veined pink Italian marble supported by iron legs ending in the shape of the heads of lions. On the walls he had had the finest workmen drape the creamiest lime raw silk, the nubby texture something he loved to run his hand over. On those walls he hung some of the world’s most treasured objects—paintings, individually lighted niches for ageless sculptures, and hand-blown, artfully colored Venetian glass in the shapes of flowers and animals.

He loved just to walk through the room and let its peace and radiance fill him with power. He knew now that objects and rooms, and even houses could do this for a man…for a vampire.

He had known it as the head of his giant shipping corporation in his penthouse in Houston, Texas when he was alive. Why else had he built such a towering building over the cityscape? He knew it even more now as a great vampire that could get anything he wanted out of the world and install it for his own private ecstasy.

The leather on the chairs imparted its strength and pliability to him. The imported wood on the floors and the priceless carpets thrown down upon them gave him grace and serenity. The marble table gave him solidity and permanence. The velvet, so expertly tucked and sewn to the solid frame of the sofas that it seemed to have always been part of the object, gave up to him sensuality if he were to trail his hand along the softly brushed nap of the cloth. The art that covered the silken walls awakened in him all the energy that went into their creation so that he shared with those artists their direct link with the gods of their imagination.

He smiled and went for the door. He’d had enough reveling in the material world. It was time to stalk and to murder and to drain dry one or more of those stupid little beings out on the fog-shrouded streets.

He left his home by the front, waving his hand to cause the bolts and locks to click fast from the inside into their iron grooves. He wanted no intruder allowed entrance into his sanctuary while he was away. The house and all in it was for his pleasure and glory. It was not to be shared with anyone.

Out into the darkness he strode confidently, the short cape flying behind his scrawny shoulders and allowing the damp night breeze to rustle the silk shirt at his throat and press it against his chest like tiny massaging fingers playing with his cold flesh.

He carried no weapon, as he needed none. Rather than move hurriedly past humans, his eyes shown with preternatural light of a yellowish cast so that if a human passed and noticed him, he might turn away his gaze and forget what he had seen. He could enchant in many ways the lowly human and this was just one way, but he relished it for more than a trick. There was no magician nearly as skilled as he was.

Upton passed by the restaurant district, the nightclubs, moving through crowds on the walkways with the ease of a black cat winding through an intricate obstacle course. He never took his victims right out in the open, with witnesses present. That sort of murder could call attention to him and to his hideout in Cannes. Word might fly across the globe all the way to the United States and alert Mentor or Ross—Ross who had dispatched Balthazar with such ease. Enemies. Bastards!

No, he took his victims in the quiet places, when they were alone and without help or mercy.

He passed out of the rowdy commercial area and into the deeper darkness of the obscured streets beyond any electrical amplification. He headed for the beach, that beautiful white stretch of sand that cupped the open ocean like a pearly necklace. Often he went there for his meals, usually coming upon lonely women tramping in barefoot through the small waves that lapped the shore, their sandals swinging from their hands. He did not know what possessed them, these women past their prime with dyed hair and lipstick on wrinkled lips, their minds in disarray and despair. Why didn’t they gravitate to the filled center of the famous city, to jostle elbow to elbow with women of their kind or to be close to the scent and vigor of men who might feel sorry enough for them to spare a glance? Or why didn’t they take advantage of the new strides in the medical world that could make them appear twenty years younger? He just didn’t know.

He did not understand women or their woes. He realized he despised them. He despised anything he could not understand. And so be it. That was the right way to spend a life for an immortal.

He walked with a sure foot above the water line, avoiding the waves that might dampen his lovely, warm shoes. He saw ahead of him someone, a man in his youth or, at the very least, his prime, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, dressed in a fine suit of silver gray. He did not wear data material clothes for the suit remained stationary in color and form.