The Last of the Red-Hot Vampires (17 page)

Theo!
I screamed as I crawled backward, trying to avoid contact with the Hashmallim. Panic filled me, threatening to send me teetering over the edge of control. “Theo!”

“I'm here,” he said, racing over to me, stepping between the still-approaching Hashmallim and myself. Somehow, his body seemed to block some of the horrible sensations the Hashmallim's presence was causing, leaving me able to dampen the rest enough so I could get to my feet.

“Wow,” Sarah said, her expression a mixture of curiosity and terror. She grabbed my arm and clung on with a grip that would no doubt leave bruises. “OK, I see what you mean about them being unpleasant to be around. They look…
wrong
somehow. Just wrong. Like they're empty black shells of what people are. I think I'm going to forgo my interview.”

I swallowed down a thick lump that made my throat ache, moving closer to Theo. I'm sure the picture we presented—the three of us clumped up together in a tight bunch—was amusing, but that was the furthest thing from my mind at the moment.

“Hashmallim, you honor us with your presence,” Theo said in a strained voice, his usual elegant bow coming out a bit less than perfect.

“Why am I summoned, champion?” The Hashmallim's voice matched its image—flat and devoid of all emotion, yet awful at the same time.

“Oh my god, it has nothing, absolutely nothing in it,” Sarah whispered in my ear as she clung to my back. “Not a face, not a shadow, not even a glimmer of depth.”

I held onto Theo, silently drawing comfort from his broad, strong back.

“This is so amazing. I've never seen anything like it. It would be a bad idea to take a picture, wouldn't it?”

“Very.” I struggled with the impossibility that was the Hashmallim, aware that as it had before, its very presence seemed to fill the surroundings with despair.

“We seek answers that only you can give us,” Theo said, his voice steady. My awe and appreciation of him went up another few notches. “We would like information about the virtue Hope.”

The Hashmallim's shape seemed to shimmer for a moment, then moved to the side to
look
at me, if such a thing was possible. Sarah gasped, and hid behind me. I knew just how she felt—at that moment, I would have just about given anything to close my eyes and hide from the Hashmallim. “What do you seek, Portia Harding?”

I swallowed down my fear, pulling strength from the comfort Theo silently offered me. “We seek the name of the murderer of Hope. I don't suppose your investigations have led you to a conclusion about that?”

The Hashmallim seemed to swell, blotting out the night sky around us.

“I think I'm going to be sick,” Sarah muttered, and ran for the grassy verge beyond the parking lot. I fought down the bile that rose in my own throat, struggling to keep control of my emotions.

“That of which you speak does not exist,” the Hashmallim said, its form twisting and turning upon itself in an endless dance of horror.

“Are there any suspects?” I asked, trying desperately to remember the list of questions we'd agreed to ask.

“Portia Harding.”

“Other than me,” I said, clinging to Theo, drinking in the warmth of his body.

“That which you seek does not exist.”

That's the second time he's said that. What does it mean?
I asked Theo.

It means something is up,
he answered slowly, his mind busily sorting through ideas. I gave him full marks for being able to think while confronting the abomination before us.

I mentally girded my loins, and ventured another question. “Exactly when was she killed?”

“That which you seek does not exist.”

If I wasn't at the point where I could quite possibly die of fear, I'd be annoyed at that.

Hmm. Interesting.
Theo's words were thoughtful. “Do you mean that Hope was not murdered, that she died from other causes?”

The Hashmallim continued to face me, violating every rule of physics, its flat nothingness sucking the gaze in and holding it. “That which you seek does not exist.”

An idea bloomed in my head. I could tell by the dawning enlightenment in Theo's face that it occurred to him, as well.

I cleared my throat. “Are you saying, then, that Hope has not died?”

“Confirmation,” the Hashmallim said.

She's not dead,
I said in stunned disbelief.
Why does everyone think she's dead if she's not?

I don't know, but I intend to find out.

“Where is the virtue known as Hope?” Theo asked the Hashmallim.

“The answer you seek does not exist. The summoning is at an end.” In front of Theo, the portal sparked to life again. The Hashmallim drifted toward it, clearly intending on returning to wherever it had originated.

“Wait a second,” I said, moving around in front of Theo. The resulting wave of revolting nausea left me staggering against him. “You can't just leave like that. You're the Court police! There has to be something you can tell us about Hope.”

The Hashmallim flickered for a moment at the edge of the portal. “In order to succeed, you must first destroy.”

Both the Hashmallim and the portal disappeared without any further ado.

“What in the name of Stephen Hawking is
that
supposed to mean?” I asked Theo.

“I have no idea. This Hashmallim wasn't particularly inclined to give answers, it appears.”

Slowly, the horror within me began to fade. Anger quickly replaced it.

“Sweet mother of sanity,” I swore, looking at the spot the Hashmallim had occupied. “So help me, once I have your soul back, and this thing with Hope is cleared up, if I ever want to get involved in anything to do with the Court, you have my full permission to beat me senseless.”

“This is downright creepy.”

“Meh.” I made a half-hearted shrugging motion to accompany the word, trudging along behind the group of people who chattered in excited whispers, occasional startled gasps punctuating their conversation.

Sarah stopped to give me a gimlet eye. “Meh? Meh! This is not in the least bit meh!”

“You're talking to someone who has been to hell itself, and had a chat with the man in charge, not to mention facing down a gauntlet of Hashmallim, which in my humble opinion is a thousand times worse than the aforementioned demon lord. Something so simple as a haunted house holds no fear to the likes of me.”

“I almost liked you better when you were a pigheaded skeptic,” she answered, making a face.

“Oh, I'm still a skeptic…about most things I am. There are some I won't dispute fall well out of the bounds of what can be explained by existing science,” I answered, obediently stopping when the ghost-hunting group leader waved everyone to a halt. “I haven't seen any proof yet that this house is anything other than extremely old and”—I sniffed the air—“evidently inhabited by a very large family of rodents. I wish Theo was here.”

“That's the third time in an hour you've said that—ooh, what was that?”

“Sorry, that was me,” one of the men in the group called out, sheepishly answering a cell phone that had made an odd buzzing noise.

“Fine, I'll take it back. I don't wish Theo was here—I wish I was with him, instead.”

“We'll wait here for the two missing members,” the group leader announced in a loud whisper. “They're just outside the building. I'll go meet them at the door and escort them here. While we're waiting, let's take a few baseline readings of this upper floor. Those of you on the communication team may want to get into your meditative states and see if any entities contact you.”

“People in a new relationship are always so cloying,” Sarah said as she sank down gracefully into a lotus position, adopting a peaceful look on her face despite the cold, damp, and rodent-infested ambiance of the three-hundred-year-old mill we were presently occupying. “You don't see Anthony and me clinging to each other.”

I plopped down next to her with considerably less elegance. “You've been married sixteen years. I assume by the time Theo and I have been together that long, I won't mind if he spends the evening off doing mysterious things that he refuses to tell me about except to say that he hopes it will give us some direction regarding the whole Hope situation.”

“Hush. I'm meditating.”

I hugged my knees as I sat next to a softly humming Sarah, shivering slightly in the cold midnight air. We were on the top floor of one of the oldest standing mills in England, a notoriously haunted mill which had a checkered past that supposedly included several murders, three suicides, and during the 1970s, a rash of Satanic rituals. The interior of the mill wasn't anything special to look at—for the last hundred years it had alternately been used as office space, apartments, and, finally, storage. Although I didn't have the paranormal radar that Theo assured me would come with time, I didn't sense anything in the building that felt remotely different.

“Hey, look,” I said softly, nudging Sarah with my elbow. The group leader, puffing slightly at all the stairs, emerged from the staircase with the two latecomers in tow. “It's Milo from the séance.”

“Mmmhmm. They belong to the group, I believe.”

“I'm going to say hi.” I got up and went over to the newcomers with a smile. Milo introduced his wife, who gave me a curt nod before exclaiming that she wanted to spend a few minutes communing with the spirits of the mill.

“The wife is a believer,” Milo said to me in a quiet voice. We moved to the other end the room, perching ourselves on a rickety metal table that lurked in a corner. “I've tried to reason with her, but…” He shrugged.

“I know how that can be. I'm not saying I can't accept that there are some things that seem to escape logical explanation…” That was pretty much a given now that my life had become something outside of logic. “…but most people don't even try to look for a reason that things happen. If they see a light in the sky, it must be an alien.”

“Exactly,” Milo agreed, watching the group as they sat in a circle for a group meditation. “Logic, that's the key to it. You seem like a very logical person.”

I smiled. “It goes with the territory. I'm a physicist, you see. Logic is more or less my forte.”

“Really?” He turned an interested face on me. “You don't happen to like puzzles, do you? The brain teasers? I am mad for them, but seldom have anyone to share them with, since the wife doesn't like that sort of thing.”

“Logic puzzles, you mean? Car A leaving Los Angeles at thirty miles an hour, and a train leaving Chicago at sixty, that sort of thing?”

“Well…somewhat. I used to belong to a logic puzzle group in university, but have lost touch with most of the members.”

“Ah. I'm not much of a puzzler, but those things seem to me to be set up to be easily solved if you just take the proper steps.”

“That they are.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then a smile spread across his face as he nodded toward the group in front of us. “Would you like to try one out?”

“A puzzle?”

“Yes. One to do with this group?”

I looked at the six people in front of us. “You're kidding. Logical ghost hunters?”

“Something like that,” he said, laughing. “Look, there are five members there, plus your friend Sarah. That's the makings of a logic puzzle.”

“I'll take your word for that.” I sat back on the table, pleased there was something else to do other than watch ghost hunters communing with spirits. “I don't know if I can match someone who used to make puzzles, but I'll give it a shot.”

“That's the ticket! Let's see…you know their names, don't you?”

“Actually, I don't. I missed the introductions because I was in the restroom when everyone met at the local restaurant.”

“Perfect. I've known these folks for the last eight years, and I can tell you that each of them—this is excepting your friend, of course—live in different towns. Now, let me see, we need a third element, something you can't tell by looking at them…hmm. Ah, got it. Each one of these teams has members with a different supposed psychic specialty.”

I raised my eyebrows, looking them over again. With my newfound knowledge of things paranormal, I didn't see any signs in them that they were also “in the know,” so to speak. “OK. So I'm supposed to guess who has what psychic ability?”

“
Supposed
psychic ability,” he said with a wink. “Name, psychic ability, and town, how's that sound?”

“Better than being bored,” I laughed. “Let's do it.”

“Right, then. The psychometrist and Mr. Brand both like their tea without milk. The telepathist from Newberry and Mrs. Floring, the medium, don't get along well. The mind reader comes from St. Bartleby.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said, scrabbling around in my purse. “I need some paper to write this all down. Telepathist and Floring, medium, don't get along…St. Bartleby…OK, go on.”

“Now then, Susannah, Mr. Bitters, Michael, the Ouijist, and the person from Learing-on-Bent all usually arrive together. Mrs. Lee and Timothy are always late. Daniel the channeler and Carol sing in a local choir.”

“Oh man, this is getting good,” I said, writing it all down. “It's just like a logic class I had eons ago in college.”

“Daniel Richings doesn't live in Bartleby. Carol doesn't live in Leewardstone.”

“England has the best town names…got it. Any more?”

“Just one. If you asked Mrs. Lee if she had been with the club longest, she'd say no, that was her friend from Edmonds, with whom she'd grown up in her town of Newberry.”

“Hmm. OK. Let me see here…” I eyeballed the info I'd written down, decided it was nothing more than mathematics disguised as words, and assigned each bit of information a numerical value, then began to arrange them in equations that made sense.

“Take as long as you need, although it looks like the meditation is about up,” Milo said, one eye on the group.

“I almost have it…no, wait, that won't work…hmm…she can't be there and there at the same time…aaaaah.” I looked up with a smile.

“Figured it out, did you?” Milo asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“I think so. I am cheating a bit in that I can see there are only two women in the group, but even so, it makes sense that since the telepathist is from Newberry, and Mrs. Lee claims the town of Newberry, Mrs. Lee must be the telepath. Since she doesn't arrive with Susannah, then by the process of elimination, Mrs. Lee's first name must be Carol, which means that Mrs. Floring, the medium, is Susannah. She can't come from Newberry, St. Bartleby, or Learing-on-Bent, but could live in Leewardstone or Edmonds.”

Milo smiled. My confidence rose.

“Since Mrs. Lee's friend is from Edmonds, and Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Floring don't get along, that means she's from Leewardstone. Daniel Richings doesn't live in Bartleby, nor can he live in Newberry or Leewardstone. Thus he has to live in Edmonds or Learing-on-Bent.”

“What on earth are you doing?” Sarah frowned at me. “You're playing games while we are trying to conduct a very serious scientific investigation?”

“Just passing a little time,” I said hastily, shoving my sheet of paper at Milo. “Are you all done with your humming?”

“It isn't just humming, it's opening ourselves up to…oh, why do I bother? Honestly, Portia, I'd think you could display a little more respect for what we're doing here, given the fact that you are what you now are,” she said with a vehement whisper as she pulled me after the assembled group.

I tossed Milo an apologetic smile. He read over my paper, and gave me a thumbs-up, which I interpreted to mean I'd figured out the rest of the puzzle correctly. “Milo and I were just amusing ourselves while you guys were opening up and such. He's some sort of puzzle enthusiast. Did you know that his wife and the other woman don't get along?”

Sarah rolled her eyes and grabbed my wrist, hauling me along after the group. “Come on, we have a room to investigate. Mr. Richings says he has recorded a temperature drop of eight degrees there on three separate occasions.”

“Probably just a draft,” I muttered, but kept my voice low. I had promised Sarah I'd spend the evening with her temporary ghost hunting group in exchange for her help finding out what happened to Hope, and despite my wishes to be elsewhere at that moment—Theo's arms came to mind as a good alternative—I'd do what I could to see to it that Sarah had an enjoyable evening.

Why do I sense a profound feeling of martyrdom from you?

I smiled at the voice in my head.
I'm feeling particularly saintly tonight.

Is it that bad?

Nothing I didn't expect. A bunch of people running around with equipment measuring drafts and electromagnetic flux, and jumping at every creak and pop.

It's only for a few hours. I'm sure you will triumph over such exacting circumstances.

Indeed. Why are you talking to me, not that I'm complaining? I thought you didn't want me bothering you?

Sweetling, you never bother me. You do, however, distract me from matters at hand. It's your breasts. And thighs. And lips, and legs, and all the other bits in between.
Theo's words were accompanied by such erotic mental images that I found myself getting aroused right there in the middle of a cold, mouse-riddled mill.

If you don't want me running out of here, hunting you down, and wrestling you to the ground to have my way with you, you'd better stop sending me those sorts of thoughts.

Would you really wrestle me to the ground?
he asked, sounding intrigued.

Absolutely. How goes the info-hunting?

He sighed.
Not so good. The nephilim I contacted knew nothing.

Crap. So we don't have any leads?

No, we have one. My nephilim friend mentioned a vessel who evidently was very tight with Hope. But I can't find the man—he seems to have run to earth just like Hope.

A vessel is a person?

In this instance, yes. Vessels serve mortals, under the direct rule of the principalities, who in turn take their orders from powers, and the powers, as you know, are directly beneath the mare.

Sounds very much like the little old woman who swallowed a fly.

Pardon?

Nothing, just a joke, and not a very good one. So what now?

I'm going to continue to try to locate the missing vessel. I'll meet you at the pub after your ghostly group is finished, all right?

I suppose so, although I'd be happy to help you—

Sarah would be hurt.

“Portia?”

It was my turn to sigh.
You're right. Saint Portia it is for the night, then.

His laughter was warm and made me smile despite my cold, uncomfortable surroundings.
You're no saint, sweetling. But we can discuss that later tonight.

You're on. Take care of yourself, all right?

“Portia!” Sarah shook me, her face suspicious. “You look all moony-eyed again. You must be talking to Theo. Did he find Hope?”

“Not yet, no. He's trying to find some Court member who supposedly is friends with her.”

“Ah. Smart man.” She flashed me a smile, waggling her eyebrows. “In more ways than one, eh?”

“Absolutely. So what's up with the cold spots?”

Her face lit up. “Oh, it's so exciting! Mr. Richings has measured a drop of eleven degrees in the corner! Come see it!”