Seize the Night: New Tales of Vampiric Terror (18 page)

The bookseller stood silent for a moment and then said, “That’s it? ‘Not until you sh-show me what you’ve got stashed in that vault’? No racial slur at the end?” He made a
tsk
-ing sound and shook his head. “Losing your edge, son. What would your Aryan brothers say at the next meeting if they knew you dropped the ball like this?”

“Shut up, motherfucker!”

“Oh,
that’s
original.”

The gunman moved closer, but the bookseller didn’t budge from his spot. “Last chance, half dick. Let’s go back to the vault.”

The bookseller shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Trust me, son, there’s nothing back there that’ll be of any value to you.”

The gunman started laughing. A thin patina of perspiration
covered his head and face, making him almost glow under the lights. “Ain’t that just like a Jew? They’d rather die than part with any of their wealth.” A sudden spasm ripped through his body and he started to double over. As a result, the gun went off and shot the bookseller.

The round blew through the old man’s shoulder with such ferocity that his blood spattered onto the gunman’s face and hands. For a moment, the bookseller remained standing, looking at the wound as it bled out, and then he looked at Annette with an unreadable expression and slowly sank to his knees.

Her fear suddenly gone, Annette rushed over and knelt beside the bookseller, holding him in her arms.

“Oh, Lord,” croaked the old man. “I’d forgotten how much that
hurts
.”

“Don’t move,” she said, grabbing the edge of the handkerchief the old man used to wrap the Fitzgerald volume and pulling it. The book spun out and away, freed from its wrapping. Annette crumpled the handkerchief into a tight wad and used it to stanch the flow of blood from the bookseller’s shoulder. “You’ll be all right, you will.”

The bookseller smiled his thanks to her and then looked up toward the gunman. “
Please
,” he said. “You
need to leave now
.”

“Not until you open that vault!”

The bookseller closed his eyes and sighed in resignation, then looked at the gunman, pity in his gaze. “You poor, misguided son of a bitch. It’s already open.”

The floor began to vibrate; it was just a low rumble at first—more of a thrum than an actual physical manifestation—but it quickly grew in strength and intensity.

The gunman looked around in panic. “What the—? Is this a goddamn
earthquake
?”

“Not exactly,” said the bookseller. His eyes were filled with tears as he looked once more at the gunman and said, “I tried to get you to leave, son. I am truly sorry.”

“For what?”

All around the store, shelves began to tremble as their books shuddered, pushing against one another until there was no more room and they began falling, scattering over the floor as the glass-fronted cases began to shake and rattle, a few of the panes making loud crunching noises as spiderweb cracks spread out from their centers. The cash register was shaking, its bells sounding softly but continuously, and as more shelves began to collapse Annette felt the floor beneath her shudder as if something large and fast like a subway train were roaring underneath them.

The vault
, she thought.
They can communicate with each other. Oh, dear God.

The roar of a freight train thundered up from the floor and became a deafening snarl as somewhere farther back in the store a door was splintered into a thousand pieces and its glass shattered, blowing outward with such force Annette could feel a few slivers of it hit the back of her neck.

“I’m so sorry,” whispered the bookseller in her ear.

“I know,” she whispered back, kissing the old man’s forehead.

There was nothing they could do.

O
ur eternal life means the hunger never goes away. And we have been very, very hungry. And we have waited, here in this cramped, dark place. And we have found more of our brothers and sisters of the night. And they have waited with us.

But now . . . the scent. Brief and sweet, but enough to make our hunger all-consuming.

Our waiting ends again.

Now we feed.

A
sea of books hurtled themselves through the air from the back of the store, pages snapping, dog-eared teeth chewing, filling the small
bookstore with the sound of a thousand paper wings flapping in rage, flying around like panicked birds released from their cages for the first time in their lives, the prolonged
hisssssssss!
of a hundred thousand turning pages becoming almost deafening. The only sound louder was coming from the young man with the gun; he was screaming.

But the sounds of the books’ snapping, gnawing pages quickly drowned out even that hideous noise as each dog-eared page found purchase in his flesh and slashed down, slicing, cutting, biting, tearing through skin, shredding the material of his coat and the clothing beneath, each set of teeth puncturing deeper to make room for the next page’s teeth to find fresh meat, fresh blood, fresh sustenance after so long imprisoned in dusty shadows where never a hand caressed their covers, never an eye read their words, never a warm fingertip stroked their sharp, waiting, numbered corners.

For one brief moment, the pile of raw hamburger that was once a young man with a gun staggered around, eyes not yet dropping from ruined sockets, and looked straight at Annette. There was pleading in its gaze, confusion, maybe even remorse.

Annette managed to say, “So sorry . . . ,” before her throat hitched and she couldn’t speak.

The meat pile opened what might have been a mouth to issue something that might have been a scream, but nothing came out; no sound, no meat, no blood.

It took only a few more minutes, but soon there was nothing left of the young man with the gun except his weapon and the shredded rags that had once been the clothes he’d worn. Even his bones had been consumed.

After a few moments, the bookseller reached up and took hold of Annette’s hand. “We need to . . . to clean up.”

Shaking the tears from her eyes, Annette shook her head. “Screw that—we need to get you to a hospital.”

Annette stood up and gently pulled the bookseller up with her. “Put your weight against me.”

“It’s not
that
bad.”

“Tell that to my coat and blouse.” Both were soaked in the bookseller’s blood.

They made their way over to the counter and the bookseller sat down on a small stool. “Thank you for being so kind,” he said.

Annette touched the hamsa around her neck. “Thank
you
for protecting me.”

The bookseller reached under his tie and behind his shirt collar, pulling out a similar hamsa. “Don’t leave home without it. Hey . . . will you . . . will you come back tomorrow and help me? The books have gorged themselves. They’ll be sleeping for a good while. You won’t be in any danger. Will you come back?”

“Come back? What the hell makes you think I’m going to leave your side any time soon?” Annette found the telephone—a rotary-dial, it figured—and began dialing 911. They’d get their stories straight before the police and EMTs arrived.

The bookseller smiled. “Uri once said the same thing to me.”

“Yeah, well . . . just don’t ever call me that. My name is Annette.”

“Mine is Saul.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, dear lady. The pleasure is most definitely mine.” He waited until she hung up the phone before asking, “What was that about not leaving my side . . . ?”

“Seems to me you could use an extra pair of hands around here.”

The bookseller grinned. “Now that you mention it, there are only
so many
paper cuts one person can take . . .”

—For Nanci Black

“T
he class will be seated,” Miss Fondevant said clearly, and the twenty-two sixth graders sat down at their desks. Miss Fondevant looked around her domain, Room 2. Susan Langley held her breath, and she knew she wasn’t the only child who did.

Miss Fondevant nodded approvingly, and Susan relaxed. “Taylor Oswalt, turn over the calendar.” Taylor left his desk and hurried to the calendar, a big one by the teacher’s desk. He flipped it over to read
Friday, September 25, 1970
. Then he went back to his desk just as quickly, his shoelaces flopping around and his black hair flying.

“Please get out your spelling and vocabulary books,” Miss Fondevant said. She was wearing a skirt and blouse, as always. She favored pastels in the hot months, oranges and greens in the cold months. Though she was rather stout and pale, Miss Fondevant had beautiful skin and smooth brown hair pulled back into a bun, an old-fashioned hairstyle that suited her.

The other teachers thought it looked out-of-date. Susan knew this because her own mother was a teacher.

“You have five minutes to look over the words before we have the
test,” Miss Fondevant told them. Miss Fondevant glanced at the little clock on her desk. All of the faces but one were bent intently to the lists of twelve words.

“Miss Fondevant, can I go to the bathroom?” James Phillip Farmer asked. There was a suppressed snicker from Ricky Cannavale behind him, because when you’re twelve years old, any bathroom reference is funny.

“James Phillip, you had ample time to go to the bathroom before the bell rang,” Miss Fondevant replied, with no smile of any sort. “You must wait.”

“But, Miss Fondevant—”

“I said no, James Phillip.”

James Phillip Farmer looked rebellious . . . and uncomfortable. He wriggled in his seat. “I been sick, Miss Fondevant. Please!”

Miss Fondevant’s lips pressed together, an expression that meant she was displeased—or rather, that she was more displeased than usual. “All right, James Phillip. Tomorrow, no more excuses. If you are sick, you must stay home. If you’re at school, you should be well enough to abide by the rules.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get the note.” James Phillip, who was a small boy with a shock of pale hair, fumbled with his backpack for a second before giving up the attempt. He fairly jumped from his seat and ran out into the hall, looking almost as pale as Miss Fondevant. While Susan and the other children looked at their spelling lists, Miss Fondevant went to the classroom door to watch for James Phillip’s return. She was very conscientious.

Susan, to her chagrin the tallest child in the room and therefore always conspicuous, very cautiously turned her head a little to watch Miss Fondevant. It was a good idea to always know the location of her teacher, she’d found. Her mother had been so happy when Susan had found her own name on Miss Fondevant’s class list! Her mother had said, “Honey, she’s only been here for three years, but her
reputation is solid. Everyone behaves in her room. You can really learn because she keeps order. You’re going to love it.”

After the tumult of her fourth-grade classroom and the horror of her fifth-grade year, Susan had found the first few weeks in Miss Fondevant’s room blissful, just as her mother had predicted.

Kids just
minded
this teacher.

This was all the more extraordinary because Miss Fondevant’s face seldom wavered from its expression of calm benevolence. She never said she would paddle them or that she would send them to the principal or that she would call their parents. Miss Fondevant didn’t
threaten
.

She gave you one warning.

If that warning was not heeded, she’d walk by the offender’s desk, kind of casual, and grip the child’s shoulder, and after that, she’d be obeyed. After the first month of school, somehow even the worst kid, Taylor Oswalt, had bent to Miss Fondevant’s will—though the previous year, he’d talked back to Mrs. Stoker, deemed the most terrifying woman in the world by the kids at Vivian G. Anderson School, which housed the fifth, sixth, and seventh grades.

Taylor was a quiet boy now, not the whirling dervish he’d been since he’d been born. Even his father had commented on the change at Teacher Conference Night. Though it was intended for parents to talk to the teacher without the student present, Susan’s mom was a single parent, rare in Schulzberg. So Susan, who was able to be relied on to sit quietly outside the classroom, had trailed along. On their drive home, her mother had muttered, “I never knew Larry Oswalt realized he had a kid named Taylor, much less knew how bad he was.” Then Susan’s mother had said, “Susan, you forget I said that. Larry has his own problems.”