They Thirst (36 page)

"And of course, when you saw my collection . . . or, I should say, the collection my father began . . . you ceased to care what sort of creature I was. Even after I'd killed Kovak, you helped the others throw his body from the cliff. Do you remember that as well?"

Falco shuddered.

"Look around you, Phillip," Vulkan whispered softly. "Look at the beauty you sacrificed your soul to be near."

Falco blinked and looked at the walls where the medieval tapestries and the ancient works of Byzantine art hung. There were more modern works as well—pieces by Lorrain, Ingres, Delacroix, Nolde, Degas, Lorenzo Di Credi, and the Hungarian artists Laszlo Paal, Jozsef Borsos, and Simon Hollosy. In the dim firelight magnificent black horses leapt on their canvas fields; a peasant celebration, done in earth tones, swirled across a village square; a bright red Nolde demon giggled while a poet struggled with his verses; wind moved, cold and silent, across a gold and purple autumnal scene, sending a gaggle of black crows flying from an amber field; Degas ballerinas wearing pink masks pirouetted on a shadowy stage; the somber face of a Hungarian nobleman in black stared out from his canvas, a golden coronet around his head the only hint of light or color. The paintings filled the room, their subjects bright and dark, colors muted and sparkling.
The beauty,
Falco thought;
oh, the terrible beauty . . .

Prince Vulkan took a step toward him, but his face remained in shadow. "It comes to an end, Phillip. The one who calls himself Roach is bringing me food tonight. He'll be staying here with me. In your place."

Falco's mouth opened. He whispered, "Please," then whirled away from the prince, racing across the huge room toward the slab of a door on the other side. Before he reached it, Vulkan raised a finger and formed a triangle in the air; Falco found himself grasping for a doorknob that was no longer there. Now a rough, stone wall stood before him. "Illusion!" Falco shrieked. "There's a door here! I know there is!" His fingers scrabbled over the stone frantically, and then he began beating at it with his fists.

Vulkan giggled—the giggle of a young, spoiled boy— and called out in a high singsong, "Phillip can't get out, can't get out, can't get out. . . can you?"

"God help me!" Falco shrieked, his voice cracking. "God help . . ."

"STOP THAT!" Vulkan shouted, clapping his hands to his ears. His face had sharpened, the mouth half-open to show the vicious fangs. "I'll tear you to pieces for that!"

Falco whirled around, his back to the cold stone, and watched in horror as the prince approached. "Master!" he whispered hoarsely and began to sink to his knees. "Master, please, I'm begging you! I'm begging you! Don't kill me, don't kill me . . . make me like you! You said you would someday! Do it
now!
Make me like you!"

Vulkan stood over him, smiling slightly. "No, Phillip, you've aged too much to be of any further use to me. And you know too many of my secrets, too many of my plans . . ."

"Don't kill me!" the old man on the floor whimpered, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"The world belongs to the young," Vulkan said. "The old have no place in it. I give the gift of everlasting youth, and soon this world will be
mine.
Think of Alexander, Phillip. During his campaigns on Tyre and Babylon, he left behind the stragglers and invalids who would hold back his march. You are now worth as much to me as a straggler was to Alexander . . ."

Falco hid his face in his hands. "God save my sinning soul, I have sinned, Father, and I . . ."

"YOU FOOL!" Vulkan shouted and gripped his palms around Falco's temples. The fingers tensed; Falco's eyes widened in shock. There was a soft cracking sound and a fine thread of blood spread from the crown of Falco's head to the bridge of his nose. Vulkan's eyes blazed green, the pupils darkening.

Then Falco screamed, the scream echoing eerily against the walls as it was drawn up with the wind toward the high ceiling. Drops of blood were being squeezed from Falco's forehead, streaming down to the tip of the nose, spattering onto his shirt. The cracking noise grew louder, and Falco began babbling in terror.

Vulkan's wrists suddenly twisted. Most of Falco's face and the top of his skull caved in, blood exploding from the ruined nose and the crack that zigzagged from his forehead to the back of his head. The body began kicking frantically, eyes filling up with blood. Vulkan applied more pressure, and the head became a morass of flesh, bone, and brains. Vulkan loosened his grip, and the corpse gave out a soft sigh as it crumpled into a formless heap. Blood had splattered across the vampire's face, and now he took a thick drop of it on the end of a finger and licked it off. Then he waved that finger in a triangle opposite the first one, and the door reappeared like a photograph coming up on blank paper. The figures that had been pressed against it on the other side, listening and laughing softly, scurried away into the corridor's darkness when Vulkan opened the door. He called sharply, "Kobra!" and one of them stopped and came back along the corridor.

"Master?" Kobra said softly. The flesh of his face was tight and masklike, veined with blue at the temples. His eyes were as red as a rat's, his white hair matted and dirty. He stepped into the room, following Vulkan, and stared down at the bloody figure on the floor.

"Drink," Vulkan said, motioning vaguely toward the corpse.

Kobra's eyes blazed in anticipation. He gasped and went down on his knees, fastening his fangs in the throat and drinking greedily as his chest heaved up and down.

The prince walked across the room and sat back down in his chair, watching Kobra feast. Every so often Vulkan giggled. Kobra was young and inexperienced and didn't yet know the rich difference between living and dead food. These young ones were so easy to please and so eager to learn. Soon, though—very soon—he and the others would learn some of the secrets that Vulkan had kept for almost eight hundred years—how to summon dogs and rats, bats and flies in thick, noxious clouds; how to peer into the mind of a human and read the secret thoughts waiting to be tapped. How to tell from a single drop of blood how old a human was, or what his diet had consisted of—the tastes a hundred thousand complex variations of sweet and sour, coppery and salty, tart or flat, poor or fine like wine aged in old Belgian kegs. How to drain the blood from a living human to the dregs and in so doing transform that person into a brother or sister of the night. So many things to learn.

Vulkan leaned back in his chair. Kobra glanced up, wasting the blood that dripped from his pale lips, and then returned to his work.
This one is dedicated. He actually loves me,
thought the prince.
What to do with Falco's carcass?
His gaze moved toward the huge fireplace. The logs had caught now, and the blaze filled the room with dancing orange specters. He wondered if the dogs in the castle's lower regions would like their meat roasted tonight.

And so he sat and waited for the Roach.

SIX

Startled, Palatazin raised his head and glanced at his watch. He'd fallen asleep for a few minutes. Three-twenty. Coronado Street seemed deserted. Even the Club Feliz had closed its doors and cut the lights. The two shapes in the parked car across the street weren't moving, and Palatazin wondered if they were sleeping, too.
Should've brought some coffee,
he told himself irritably. Then another thought—
what if this Benefield isn't the one we're looking for? The killings have stopped. Perhaps he's gone for good. Or have they stopped? Is the Roach just lying low?

A car's headlights winked from the far end of Coronado Street. Palatazin sat upright, his heart starting to beat a little faster. The car approached very slowly, and in another minute Palatazin saw that it was a light-colored Volkswagen Beetle. His throat went dry. The car pulled up to the curb perhaps thirty yards away, and Palatazin ducked down in his seat. The headlights went out. A car door opened and closed. Footsteps sounded on concrete.

When he lifted himself up, he caught a quick glimpse of the man disappearing into the Mecca.
That's him,
Palatazin thought.
That's the man!
After a moment or so Zeitvogel came across the street and peered into Palatazin's car. "Do we go up after him now, captain?"

"No. Let's wait awhile-and see what he does. If he comes back out, we'll follow him, and if he stays in, we'll have plenty of time to make the arrest."

"This is him, isn't it? The Roach, I mean?"

"We'll see. You stay alert."

Zeitvogel nodded and dashed back to his car.

Palatazin stared fixedly at the building's front door. When it opened again and Benefield stepped out onto the sidewalk, Palatazin felt his heart kick as if it had been given a charge of electricity.
The man was carrying a small paper bag—what could that be?
he wondered.
One of those rags soaked in that noxious brew? Then maybe he was going to strike tonight?
Benefield reached his car, looked up and down the street—Palatazin ducked his head so fast his neck cracked—and then got in. The Volkswagen's engine fired, the headlights came on, and the car pulled away from the curb. It moved slowly past Palatazin to the end of Coronado, then turned right on 6th.

Palatazin quickly started his engine, made a tight U-turn, and followed. He saw Zeitvogel's lights, about fifty yards behind in his rearview mirror. The gray Volkswagen turned on Western Avenue, and Palatazin realized the man was driving right up into Hollywood. His pulse was pounding, the palms of his hands sweaty against the steering wheel. He kept as far back as possible, driving with his lights out so Benefield wouldn't notice his tail. In a few minutes the Volkswagen turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, which was still ablaze with neon from the bars, discos, massage parlors, and porno bookstores. There was still a good deal of traffic on the boulevard, too, so Palatazin had to turn his lights on and speed up. He hung back a few car lengths behind the Volkswagen. From the sidewalks young girls in tight denims or slit skirts, T-shirts and halters called out invitations to the drivers, waving at them and holding up fingers to indicate their price. Most of the girls, hopeful starlets from every state in the country, were very pretty; perhaps they'd modeled once or twice or done bit parts or even starred in a skin flick or two, but now for a variety of reasons, their luck had just turned bad. They were the throwaways, the tissues some agent, director, or disco smooth-talker had sneezed into and then tossed out with the trash. All of them potential victims.

Up ahead under a huge red "X" that proclaimed a porno triple-bill, the Volkswagen swerved. The car plowed through traffic toward the curb.

His head was filled with the Master's voice, so he knew he had to hurry. He'd driven past several girls who'd tempted him, but tonight he was looking for one who was just right. There were so many to choose from—all colors, all sizes, the greatest candy store in the world. He had an erection already, but he wouldn't have an orgasm until he clamped the chemical-soaked cloth against her mouth and nostrils.

And then he saw her, standing beneath the red "X" of the Hollywood Adult Cinema. She had long waves of blond hair, lips pouting sensually in a face that looked more like a little girl than a woman. She was wearing a shocking pink dress and pink stockings, and best of all, she wasn't nearly as thin as the others. There was something about her eyes and her mouth that reminded him of Bev. Of course, all the girls did in one way or another, but this one . . . yes, this one
was
Bev!
It really was!
He thought he'd found her so many times, that she'd been sorry for leaving him and had come back, but always he realized that it wasn't her, that he'd been tricked again. And so he had to kill the nasty, evil bitches. They were helping Bev hide; they were laughing at him behind his back with their ugly, painted lips.

But this was her—he was sure of it. Oh, the Master would be so glad he'd found Bev!

Tears brimmed in his eyes as he pulled up to the curb and motioned the girl over. She looked around for something better and then shrugged as she stepped over to the Volkswagen, peering in at the man with her heavy-lidded, dark eyes. "I won't go for less than seventy-five," she said disinterestedly, in a thin voice. She had wanted to sing backup for somebody like Bob Seger, but it was really hard getting a gig in this town.

"Fifty," Roach said. He started digging for his wallet.

"You talking a quickie or what?" the girl asked.

"Yeah. A quickie."

"You want some lip service?" He looked like a creep, but fifty bucks would buy her those new shoes she'd been wanting over at The Broadway. There was a funny smell in the car, too. Alcohol? Aftershave lotion? She'd just gotten a whiff of it, and now it was gone.
Well, what the hell?
She slid into the car. "My name's Vicki," she said and gave his thigh a quick squeeze.

He smiled and pulled back into the flow of traffic. "I know what your name is. You can't fool me."

"Huh?" Kim muttered.
Some nut. God,
she thought,
maybe he's the Roach.
The idea chilled her, but then she pushed it aside. Everything about the guy was little except his hands; his cock was probably as big as a shrimp. That made her giggle a little bit.