The Darkening Dream (28 page)

Thirty:

Blood Fury

Salem, Massachusetts, Sunday night, November 9, 1913

D
USK CAME, AND WITH IT,
Ali ibn Hammud al-Nasir’s return to consciousness.

He seethed and twisted in the darkness of his traveling coffin. The dirt of his homeland offered no solace. Nabil and Ahmed were gone, severed from him like the limbs he had imagined them to be. Allah, cursed be His name, heaped endless humiliations upon him.

Farther than the stars in the sky, to lose not one but two of his loyal servants to violence! Ahmed had been with him only thirty short turns of the year, but Nabil he had taken in 1811. Al-Nasir levered open the lid of his pine casket and sat up. His heavy breaths brought no oxygen to his desiccated heart.

He let anger bring his blood to a boil. Infidels, may he soon sever their filthy cocks!

His limbs became leathery and gray. He stretched his wings and flexed his talons.

“Fouad!”

Instantly, the old Moor entered the windowless sleeping chamber of the new townhouse. He slept at the door.

“Yes, most noble Caliph?” The big man spoke flawless traditional Arabic. Even now, well into his second century, his black skin covered an impressive array of powerful muscles, although his hair had gone almost entirely white.

“Fouad, someone has slain Nabil and Ahmed. Our beachside lair is likely desecrated.”

“Woe upon them, terrible Master! May the whore mothers of those trespassers be fucked like the dog bitches they are!” Small white worms crawled from the corners of the big man’s eyes.

“Well said.” Al-Nasir patted the old Moor. “I go now to salvage what I can. Send Tarik. He must secure our treasures and my sarcophagus. I will meet him with further instructions.”

Fouad was staring at the doorframe.

“Did you hear me, Fouad?” al-Nasir said.

“Yes, Master, of course.” Fast as a desert snake, Fouad struck the wooden beam. He brought back a struggling spider, which he placed on his tongue.

Al-Nasir let him be. The huge eunuch had few pleasures available to him.

“Have you heard from the warlock? He was supposed to enter the house today, if we are blessed he will have secured the Horn.”

“No word, Master.”

“While I’m gone, find him and bring him here.”

The vampire swept around two corners and unbolted the shutters Fouad and Tarik had installed on the window. He winced at the glow of twilight, as if he’d stood too close to a fire, then took to the air.

He beat his arm-wings to gain altitude, then veered east toward the coast. By feel, he followed the iron train tracks from the air. That coal-eating beast traveled faster than he could over distance, but in short bursts he was its better. He didn’t trust the loathsome invention. Fruit of perverse science, its farts were fouler than those of a camel drunk on spoiled milk.

Al-Nasir circled the house on Webb Street three times before descending. His keen senses detected the dark stain on the street. Landing in the shadows between two nearby houses, he resumed his more comfortable, less alarming form. Pale nostrils sniffed the air. Any nearby humans remained in their houses, but no matter. He drew the shadows to him. None of these mortals had the strength of will to even remember him if they so much as caught a glimpse.

The bushes rustled, and he discovered what little remained of Ahmed. Al-Nasir plucked a millipede from the foliage and licked it to be sure.

Ahmed, the most recent of the hundred-odd slaves that had served him over the centuries, had been a fine specimen. Al-Nasir found him in 1876 in a Marrakech brothel — some mortals shared his taste for the boys who were men no longer. Although Ahmed was but a ball-less slave whore, a vessel filled by other men’s seed, Al-Nasir made a glorious dark god of him, and now this — he crushed the millipede in his hand — was all that remained.

The vampire caught the scent of human blood. He let it pull him to a garment, smeared in gore, discarded behind the foliage. He sniffed carefully to sort through the complex bouquet. Crushed bits of Ahmed, a man’s musk, and two strains of blood. One was from the man, presumably the garment’s owner. The other he thought might be a woman’s, but there was a subtle layered fragrance to her blood: jasmine, rose, and sandalwood.

Hmmm…

Before leaving for America, he had gone at the Painted Man’s bequest to get the Eye and the portrait from the convalescing Khepri. While there, the beetle god’s dung smell made its usual assault on his nose, but he’d also detected jasmine, rose, and sandalwood.

The archangel’s stink. Even Khepri couldn’t survive such a confrontation unmarked. Al-Nasir licked at the bloody remnant in his hands. The blood was dried, but he was certain. The beetle had lost the Horn, and the painted Egyptian had set al-Nasir to profane the archangel’s feast day with that boy’s sacrifice. Now this, literally intermingled with the death of his slaves. The vampire wanted answers. He must speak with the Painted Man soon.

Al-Nasir streaked down the street and into his former dwelling, batting the front door off its hinges. The place was useless now, anyway. Inside, he smelled human, but it was stale. Some flies that had once been Nabil buzzed about the kitchen.

The cellar door stood open, and al-Nasir leapt down the stairs, landing in the basement as gracefully as a cat. The door to his crypt had been ripped from its jamb. Former parts of Nabil crunched under his feet. His second-favorite slave no doubt died defending the treasures and sarcophagus. The vampire collected a few of Nabil’s creepy crawlies. He wanted to retain a little of the old Moor inside himself, so he munched on the bugs as he surveyed the crypt proper.

The first thing he noticed was the cracked lid of his sarcophagus. His anger stoked hotter as he approached the coffin and sniffed. Ichor from his henchman had soaked the ancient earth that filled the limestone casket, but he sensed no effort at desecration. No holy charms, no oils or sacred waters. The infidels were either amateurs or too fearful to finish the job.

He remembered his first sip of Nabil, then a runaway living on the Cairo streets. Al-Nasir had snatched him from an alley and lifted him silently to a moonlit rooftop. The boy tasted of upper Egyptian and Mamluk blood, a delightful blend. It had been a tough choice. There was nothing so sweet as the taste of blood drawn all the way to the end, but in Nabil he sensed potential. With great effort, he stopped himself short. Instead, he offered the child a taste of his own blood, just a taste, then brought him to a back-alley cutter, easy to find in those happier days. The procedure was simple, whether it was ram, bull, stallion, or boy that was to be gelded.

Al-Nasir surveyed the hoard of gold and gems in his crypt. Nothing seemed to be missing, though a few things had been moved in the struggle, the treasure seemed accounted for. He picked up an Iznik dish, a tight pattern of knot-like shapes painted in blue on its translucent white surface…

His eye caught on one crate. Where was the lion-shaped Achaemenid drinking vessel? He snarled. The hand of at least two kings had held that rhyton. Suleiman the Magnificent himself had presented it to al-Nasir while he oversaw the Painted Man’s interests at the Sublime Porte.

The vampire leaned down and breathed in. He caught the scent of a human male, not the one on the garment. He inhaled, memorizing the nuances of the man’s odors.

If the precious goes, everything is cheapened. They would pay, these amateur intruders, for the deaths of Nabil and Ahmed, for daring to enter his private places. Ali ibn Hammud al-Nasir would retrieve his stolen goblet from their severed hands.

A creak of the floor above drew his attention. Faster than an
ifrit
, he was upstairs. It was only Tarik.

“When angels come, devils run away,” al-Nasir said.

“Master!” The big man bowed low. He wore an ill-fitting modern jacket and trousers, curled slippers, and no shirt — probably no shirt could fit him. It was, even to the ancient vampire, an odd sartorial combination.

“Find one of those wagons they have now,” al-Nasir said, “the kind that draws itself without horses. A big one. We need to move the sarcophagus and the treasure to the new lair.”

“Yes, Master.” Like Nabil, Tarik was a low-born Egyptian, and his gutter accent still colored his Arabic.

Of his current slaves, only Fouad had a real education. Al-Nasir grew depressed, realizing he now had only the two companions on this continent. Tahar still watched over his interests in Morocco, but that was literally half a world away. He might be forced to bring a new man into his service — in this forsaken place — how would he ever find anyone suitable?

The Moor returned in one of those noisy magical carts. It was well endowed with a canvas tent covering a copious storage area. Al-Nasir didn’t ask how such an object had been procured in the middle of the night.

They maneuvered the coffin out of the cellar with ropes. Tarik was the largest and strongest of his slaves, one of the strongest al-Nasir had elevated. Of course, he himself was many times more powerful, but the lion was always stronger than the dog. They heaved the sarcophagus into the bed of the wagon, which even though it sagged under the weight, had a strong back. It took an hour to collect all the treasures and pull tarps over them.

“Master, I am sorry you must labor so,” the big man said to him when they were finally done.

“No need to apologize, Tarik. Tonight we are in crisis.” Losing Nabil and Ahmed had made him feel magnanimous. “Do you need a small drink to recharge your energies?”

“Oh yes, most perfect and generous Master.”

He offered the big Negro his arm. The man bit down on his wrist, using teeth to tear a little flesh. Al-Nasir allowed him a minute to feed before pulling back his hand.

“Thank you, most illustrious Master.”

“Enough, Tarik. There is so much more to be done. Take this thing,” he waved at the vehicle, “and bring it to the townhouse. You are second in command here in the west now that Nabil is gone.”

“Yes, Master, of course. Big shoes to fill, but I shall not let you down.
Salam alechem
.”

“
Salam alechem
.”

The Moor conjured the growling
djinn
that pulled the wagon. Man and machine rolled down the road, leaving behind an oily cloud.

Al-Nasir had hoped to begin his search for the light-handed miscreants involved in today’s disaster. Unfortunately, it was getting late, and he still had the warlock to deal with. He sighed. One did not live 895 years after death by being hasty.

Thirty-One:

Cursed

Salem, Massachusetts, Sunday evening, November 9, 1913

E
MILY LAY HALF ASLEEP
on the bed when Sarah burst into the room.

“Men out!” She pointed to the door. “There’s too much distraction.”

Emily flung a hand over Mr. Barnyard, asleep on her bed.

“That includes you too, dog.” Sarah could be so bossy.

Sam grabbed the basset hound by the collar and dragged him away.

“I’ll have Anne write down anything we discover,” Sarah told the boys, who slunk out, tails between their legs.

Sarah moved a chair in front of the door and jammed its back under the knob. “This is going to be an eclectic mix of techniques,” she said. “Papa taught me a way of praying to increase perceptivity.”

“What are you talking about?” Anne asked.

It was hard for Emily to concentrate. Was she coming down with something?

Anne sat on a nearby chair. Sarah handed her a notebook and pencil.

“You get to play secretary.”

Sarah unlaced her boots and took off her stockings. She kept taking things off, even her brassière and bloomers.

“Jesus, Sarah,” Anne said.

She pulled on a loose white man’s shirt over her pale breasts and the dark triangle between her legs. Then took a little white beanie from a fuzzy velvet bag.

“Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” Anne said.

Barefoot, Sarah climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged between Emily’s legs. She slapped the beanie on her head, pulled out a thin shawl from the velvet bag and wrapped it around her shoulders. She jabbered in some language that sounded to Emily like something was caught in her throat.