Those Who Hunt the Night(29)

Horace Blaydon’s bellowing voice echoed in his mind, in the big carbolic-smelling theatre at Radclyffe: “I’ll tell you one thing that’ll happen to you, if any of you manages to stay the course and become a doctor, which, looking at your pasty little faces, I sincerely take leave to doubt—you’ll be spoiled forever for the beauty of life. You’ll never see a girl’s rosy blush again without wondering if it’s phthisis, never hear your fat old uncle’s jolly laugh without thinkin’: ‘The old boy’s ridin’ for a stroke.’ You’ll never read Dickens again without pickin’ it apart for genetic blood factors and unhealthy drains.”

“A rather unfortunate choice of examples,” Lydia had remarked, when she’d joined Asher by the door where he’d been waiting to escort her to tea at her uncle’s college, “since, with a complexion like his and that prematurely white hair, it’s obvious the man’s heading for an apoplexy himself. I wonder if the godlike Dennis will turn into that in twenty years’ time?”

And Asher, suffering under the sting of being brown and unobtrusive and skirting the shadowy borders of middle age, had felt insensibly cheered.

But, he thought, recalling Lydia’s clinical reaction to being surrounded by vampires, old Blaydon had, of course, been absolutely right.

He turned from the Cut to Lower Ditch Street, a dingy thoroughfare whose few gaslights did little to dispel the rainy gloom. It was a neighborhood of crumbling brick terraces and shuttered shops, grimy, cramped, and sordid. Down the street, yellowish light shone on the pavement outside a gin shop; other than that, the street was dark. Asher’s own footfalls sounded loud, as did the thin, steady patter of the rain. Halfway down the unbroken frontage was the door he sought: Number 216. Its windows weredark; looking up, he saw them all heavily shuttered. The door was barred with a padlock and hasp.

Asher stood for a long time before it, listening, as if, like the vampires, he could scent peril at a distance. In spite of his weariness, the ache in his bones as if he had fallen down a flight of stairs, and the hurt of his flesh for sleep, he forced all his senses alert. Bully Joe Davies had said that he was being stalked. The killer, a vampire who moved so silently that he could, in fact, stalk other vampires, might be watching him from the shadows of those dark buildings, waiting for him to leave the lights of the street.

For that matter, Asher thought ironically as he crossed back to the mouth of the alley that ran behind Lower Ditch Street, Davies himself might be waiting for him. The fledgling vampire had moved so clumsily he doubted Davies’ ability to detect Ysidro, either last night or now, if Ysidro was, in fact, watching over him. However, if he was wrong …

Uneasily, Asher scanned what little he could see of the smelly cleft of the alley and the street behind him for sign of the vampire. There was none, of course. He was reminded of the picture an old Indian fighter in Arizona had once drawn for him—a white page with a horizon line bisecting it, two pebbles, and a minuscule cactus. It was titled “Arizona Landscape with Apaches.”

He drew the silver knife from his boot, holding it concealed against his arm. 216 Lower Ditch Street had been purchased three months ago by Chrétien Sanglot, shortly after, Asher guessed, Bully Joe Davies had met the Frenchman.

Cautiously, he advanced down the back lane, rain trickling from his hat brim and into his collar. There was a sharp crash from the brimming dustbins, and tiny red eyes glinted at him in irritation from the darkness. The alley wasfilthy beyond description, garbage and refuse of all kinds mingling into a kind of primordial slop under the steady patter of the rain.

Counting the cramped little slots of yards, Asher found Number 216 easily and slipped through the broken boards of its back fence without trouble. The ground oozed with reddish mud; at the back of the yard, barely visible in the gloom, a broken-down outhouse simmered in a pool of nameless slime. “The Houses of Parliament,” he recalled abstractly, such buildings were christened in some areas of London …

The rain had eased to a whisper. He strained his ears as he crossed the yard, trying to catch some sound, some signal of danger.

In the yard he might be safe, at least from Bully Joe. He doubted the fledgling could come at him through that much water and mud without a sound. But once he was in the house, if Davies had seen Ysidro waiting for him, he was a dead man.

The wet wood of the back steps creaked sharply beneath his weight. The door was only a vague outline in shadow, but he could see no padlock. Cautiously he turned the knob. The door creaked inward.

“Come no further until I have lighted the gas,” Ysidro’s voice said softly from the darkness, startling Asher nearly out of his skin. “I think you should see this.”





TEN




A PIN-BURST explosion of gold came in the darkness, bright to Asher’s straining eyes, and there was a sting of sulphur. Already his mind was taking in the smell that filled his nostrils; the ashy, fetid choke of burned meat overpowering the mustiness of mildew and dust.

Slow and gold, the light swelled around the steel fishtail of the burner, widening out to fill the whole of the square and dingy room.

A coffin lay five feet from where Asher stood in the doorway, filled with ash and bone. From here, it looked like a lot of bone, the whole skeleton intact and black, but for the moment he didn’t go to check. He looked instead at the stone floor around the coffin, then sideways, past where Ysidro stood near the stove, to the dripping puddle beneath the vampire’s shed Inverness, which lay over the warped wooden counter top. There was no trace of dripped water anywhere else in the room, save where Ysidro himself had walked from the outer door to where he stood, just beside the stove.

“So much,” he said quietly, “for a vampire who remains awake a little longer than his brethren. The rain didn’t stop until nearly dawn. The ground wouldn’t have been even spongy-dry until well into daylight.”

He walked past the coffin to the cellar door, an open black throat on the other side of the room, taking his magnifying glass from his pocket. Fresh scratches and faint shuffling tracks marked the dusty linoleum of the floor, and here and there was a dim footprint, outlined in crusts of dried mud. After a moment’s study he put the glass away and replaced it with the measuring tape.

“Two of them,” he said, kneeling to mark the length of one pale smudge. “One nearly my height, the other three or four inches taller, by the length of the stride. Together they carried the coffin up from the cellar to here, where there was daylight.” He sat back on his haunches, studying the shuffled and overlapped spoor.

“Your friend Mr. Davies,” Ysidro murmured softly. Asher knew the vampire was going to cross to the coffin then and concentrated on watching him. Through a haze of what felt like almost unbearable sleepiness, he saw Ysidro take two long, quick strides; when it passed he was standing above the blackened remains, a colorless specter in his pale gray suit and webby hair. “The bones are intact.”

He folded himself like an ivory marionette down beside the coffin and picked with fastidious fingers at what was inside. There was no expression on his thin face. Pocketing the measuring tape, Asher joined him in time to see him slide from between the ribs something that crumbled even in the inhuman lightness of Ysidro’s touch—something about a foot and a half long that was too straight to be a bone.

Ysidro dropped it almost at once, pulled a silk handkerchief from some inner pocket, and wiped his fingers, stillwithout expression. “Whitethorn,” he said. “Burned nearly to ash, but still it stings.”

Asher caught the long, narrow hand in his and turned it palm-up to the light. Faint red welts could already be seen on the white flesh. The fingers felt utterly cold to his touch, fragile as the sticks of an antique fan. After a moment, Ysidro drew his hand away.

“They were taking no chances.”

“They knew what to use, obviously.”

“Any clown with access to a lending library would,” the vampire returned.

Asher nodded and turned his attention to what was left of the corpse. There were, as he’d hoped, a number of keys in the vicinity of the blackened pelvis—trouser pocket, he thought absently, the carryall of a man who isn’t used to wearing a jacket when he works. Don Simon had been right about vampires’ combustibility: the bones were intact, not seared to crumbling and unrecognizable fragments as Lotta’s had been. The place where the spine had been severed to separate head and body was horribly clear.

“Why is that?” he inquired softly. “Isvampirism a type of petrification that slowly alters first the flesh, then the bone, into something other than mortal substance? Is that why the younger vampires go up like flashpaper, while the older ones burn more slowly, more completely?”

“I don’t think it can be so simple as that,” Simon replied, at the end of a long hesitation. “There are—interlocking effects, psychic as well as physical. But yes—I have often believed it to be as you say. Grippen was burned once by the sun, fifty, seventy years ago. It was nowhere near as bad as my own experience during the Fire, and now the scars are almost gone. We toughen a little, as I said, even to daylight. But not to this extent.”