Transylvania's Most Wanted (2 page)

“Wow.”

“
At the shock of both King
Nikola and Yuri’s deaths, both Anna and Havel’s wife, Diana, went
into labor that same tragic night. While both deliveries were
difficult, Princess Diana gave birth to a girl, while, probably
from the trauma of her husband’s death--the witch Anna’s child was
stillborn. The next day Count Voorhees was captured and
executed.”

“You can’t make this stuff up,” Tom
remarked.

“In the following days, stricken with grief,
the witch Anna’s mental state collapsed and she began attempting to
place spells upon anyone who tried to comfort her, but eventually,
for her own safety and that of the king’s servants, she was locked
away in the King’s Tower. It so happened that that year was a year
that the winds over the pole settled long enough that travel
between them the two realms was possible and a representative of
the Administration suggested Count Voorhees descendants, including
his only son, Vasili, and others loyal to the Karloff vampire line,
be allowed to immigrate to Transylvania, so as to avoid any
retribution for Count Voorhees act of treason. King Havel, in his
great wisdom and generosity, while promising to protect Count
Voorhees’ family if they wanted to stay, did allow those who wished
to leave, permission to do so.”

“That’s who that Count Vasili is then that I
read about in the papers every now and then,” Tom said.

“What else is there?” Red asked pointing at
the pamphlet and Rebecca began reading again, but the remaining
information was about the two zeppelins, how they had some advanced
technology and both were twice as long as any zeppelin in
Britannia. The last thing they learned was that the U.R.R.K. is
sometimes affectionately referred to as Mother Rusha, a joke begun
by those arriving there from Russia. “That’s all?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Would the library have anything more?”

“There would be some newspaper articles from
back then, or you could talk to someone that came from there. Count
Vasili possibly.”

“Don’t know that I want to do that,” Red
said. “Maybe someone else. There must be some record of all of them
that arrived here from there?”

“The Hall of Records should have
something.”

“Let’s head over there,” Red told Tom.

“Can I go too?” Rebecca asked.

“Sure why not.”

They headed to the Hall of Records which was
located across from City Hall. Red flashed the lady at the counter
there his badge and explained to her what he wanted.

It took the lady a few minutes to locate the
file, but soon she produced a list of all creatures that had
arrived from the U.R.R.K.

Red, Tom and Rebecca sat down at a table and
began looking through the list of names, and the species of
creature; vampire, hobgoblin or the like.

“All these names are Russian,” Tom said.

“I’m sure most of the goblins and golems
have taken English names now. My guess is some of the vampires have
Anglicized their names now.

“Like here,” Red said pointing. “Kracosokov,
that might Krakov now.”

“He came from there?”

“Looks like it,” Red said.

“Only one witch came from there,” Rebecca
said looking down the list. “Her name is Pandora.”

“That’s not Russian. Greek mythology right?”
Tom asked.

“That’s right.”

“Pandora,” Red repeated. “Never heard of
her. Wonder why they shipped her out of Mother Rusha? I think I’ll
send you and Miss Kensington out to Pendle Hill to see what you two
can find out about her.”

“All right,” Tom said.

Chapter 3

The Opponent

At that very moment a man stepped off the
Vulture. From there the man went and checked into the Strigoi Hotel
under the name of Arrowsmith, but that was not his name. His real
name was Slangakova; his first name nobody living knew, and none
knew the name Slangakova either, but a few living, and many dead,
knew of a man who went by the name Mr. Slang.

It would serve you well to remember this
name, just in case, in some future life, you have the unfortunate,
ruinous luck, to run into a man calling himself Mr. Slang.

At the time of this story, Mr. Slang was
living out his fourth life. The first, as well as anyone else’s, is
spent on Earth, but having killed a number of men in that lifetime,
mostly during wartime, but not all, and not having felt much
remorse afterwards, but some, Mr. Slang was sent to a dark realm
when he died. Not the darkest of realms by any means, but a place
where war is always being waged and cities are always under siege
and fleeing armies and refugees move about the land.

Most men would wish to escape a city about
to fall to an invading army, but not Mr. Slang. He was drawn to
them. Opportunity abounds among the desperate and afraid, they are
ripe for plucking, and as well there is a kind of excitement and
urgency, on a scale that can be found under no other circumstances.
War is hell, precisely because of the sheer number of participants.
Mr. Slang soon developed a trade in smuggling people out of such
places, or, sometimes, providing just the opposite service, seeing
that certain others did not manage to escape.

And then he died a second time, shot in the
back, but much to his surprise and delight, he found he’d been sent
to a similar realm, full of war and strife, invading armies and
spies and he made a living assassinating people, black mailing
others and what not for the next thirty years until he was killed a
third time.

When he awoke for the third time, he found
himself in the U.R.R.K, but he longed to be sent back down to the
dark realm where war and turmoil were ever present, and he vowed to
live just unworthily enough to be returned there. In the meantime
he would have to take such kind of work as he could find, and even
here, in a supposedly higher realm, he found those who were in want
of men such as were willing and capable of doing such things as Mr.
Slang was willing and capable of doing.

Now, stepping off the train that day, Mr.
Slang had not come to Transylvania City for vacation, or business,
or to visit friends (he had none). Neither had he come to see a
witch perform rather ordinary magic, or see a golem perform feats
of strength. No, he had come on someone’s errand. Mr. Slang needed
to find someone and he needed to find him quickly, so he checked
into the Strigoi Hotel, which primarily caters to vampires, and not
your upper-class vampire, but the more low order of them.
Immediately after checking in Mr. Slang began making inquiries.

Mr. Slang was about to turn forty years old,
or maybe he’d just turned fifty. He was just over six feet tall or
maybe several inches under. He had gray hair, or possibly it was
brown. He was powerfully built, or perhaps he just carried himself
that way. The thing was, when asked, no one could ever be certain
what Mr. Slang had looked like, or, if they were absolutely
certain, they were mistaken. Probably because they had conducted
whatever business they had engaged Mr. Slang for, in a dark
alleyway or some other poorly lit spot.

You would have an advantage over any of Mr.
Slang’s clients or victims, if you were told exactly what Mr. Slang
looked like, because, certainly, none of them passing him on the
street, would have any notion they’d just passed by the man they
most wished had no idea of their present whereabouts. Of course Mr.
Slang recognized them.

Now Mr. Slang being very cunning and very
talented at what he did, for he had been doing this for several
lifetimes now and he enjoyed his work very much, suspected the man
he was looking for would be found at the post office. Actually that
is misleading. Even when only writing about Mr. Slang, one begins
to act disingenuous and sneaky like Mr. Slang. Only the picture and
name of the man he wanted to find would be found at the post
office. So he immediately headed there and as soon as he came
inside, he found what he was looking for. On the wall of the post
office was a line of photographs of Transylvania City’s Most
Wanted.

Mr. Slang was encouraged at the sight of the
man’s photograph hanging there, because this meant he was just the
sort of man he needed. In fact he appeared to be the most qualified
man for the job, because his picture was the most prominently
displayed. In other words, the man, or rather creature, was
Creature Enemy #1.

Mr. Slang took out a picture he had of the
man and compared it to the one on the wall. He also checked the
name he’d been told to the one on the poster. The two names did not
match, yet were similar. The picture Mr. Slang carried had been
taken some years before, while the photograph on the wall had been
taken fairly recently. There was not much difference between the
two either, the man’s hair was slightly grayer and his clothing
more in the fashion worn in Transylvania City.

Mr. Slang began, that very moment, visiting
the lobbies of all the best hotels in Transylvania City looking for
this man. After having been to the Hotel Romania, and then The
Fountain, he entered the Monte Christo.

Now, this being the day before Halloween,
the city was packed with visitors. The lobbies of all the best
hotels in Transylvania are quite extensive and luxurious and the
Monte Christo is by no means an exception. Its lobby is decorated
with pillars, small alcoves and plush chairs, long, leather
couches, and fireplaces and bars and many, many tables where people
sit and talk, drink the finest liqueurs and smoke the best cigars
and play cards of the highest stakes.

Mr. Slang meandered his way through this
crowd, but had not, as of yet, found the man he was looking for. He
headed up the wide staircase to the second floor balcony that over
looked the main lobby.

Now Mr. Slang knowing the man he was looking
for was a fugitive from the law did not expect him to make himself
easily recognizable. What he had been told was that the man liked
to play cards, preferably with wealthy humans, and since this was
the week of Halloween, and nowhere is Halloween more celebrated
than in Transylvania and Draculia, all the lobbies of all the top
hotels were full of wealthy tourists. Now one of the reasons
wealthy tourists came to Transylvania City was to play cards with
fellow wealthy tourists and of course, against vampires, who are
known as very good poker players, especially the part about never
letting their face show what kind of hand they are holding.

Mr. Slang had a dossier on the vampire he
was looking for, and it told him the vampire he was looking for
very much liked to play cards and very much liked to humiliate
humans, preferably snotty, supposedly well-respected humans. Thus
Mr. Slang figured his target could not resist being somewhere in
the city that day, since right then was a favorable time for him to
indulge in his two favorite past times.

He found him on the second floor of the
Monte Christo, in a dark corner, playing cards against four
gentlemen. Mr. Slang approached the table, tipped his hat and in
his best, fake, British accent, politely asked if he could sit in.
After being invited to do so, Mr. Slang sat down and promptly
started winning.

Before an hour had passed all four gentleman
had excused themselves and left the table, all of them having lost
a considerable sum of money. When the final gentleman left, Mr.
Slang addressed the lone remaining person at the table.

“I’ve been very lucky,” Mr. Slang said
gesturing at the stack of money just in front of him.

“You’ve been cheating,” the vampire across
the table from him said matter-of-factly.

“Very much so.”

“You admit it?”

“Quite readily,” Mr. Slang said. “In fact
I’m glad you called me on it. I suppose you want to call for a
policeman and have me arrested.”

“I should,” came the reply.

“Why don’t you?” Mr. Slang asked.

“Just give me half your winnings
instead.”

“Are you afraid to call for a
policeman?”

“No. I rather have the money.”

Mr. Slang spoke in Russian then, asking the
vampire across the table from him if he was afraid he’d be arrested
too.

“Who are you?”

Mr. Slang hesitated, or rather, he paused a
moment, for dramatic effect, before revealing, “My name is
Slang.”

The vampire, who had seen, heard, and done
many disreputable things in his life, was genuinely surprised, as
well as concerned, at learning he was sitting across the table from
the infamous Mr. Slang. “I’ve heard of you,” he said.

“Good. Then you know I can deliver what I
say I can and I know what you would have me deliver as my part of
the deal.”

“What?”

“To go home,” Mr. Slang told the vampire
sitting across from him. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Arrangements are being made at this
moment.”

“It is not something that could be easily
arranged.”

“I dare say I’m the only one who could
arrange it.”

“How fortunate I am you found me.”

“As well as for me,” Mr. Slang said. “Of
course I need something done.”

“Who do I have to kill?”

“In due time,” Mr. Slang said. “First, would
you rather being called Krakov or do you prefer you old name.”

“I do prefer Krakov now.”

Chapter 4

The White Knight

Tom walked to work from the Hall of Records.
Red would was going to drive Rebecca home before heading to a
meeting with Chief Rogers, so Tom said he would walk to the TCPD
building and then Miss Kensington and him would head out to Pendle
Hill.

Crossing Mulberry Street, he noticed a
flatbed truck pull into the alley across from the north side of the
TCPD building. Some golems, trolls and goblins jumped off and went
to work putting together a crane.

Curious, Tom stopped and asked the foreman
what was happening and the man said he didn’t really know, just
that he’d been told to erect the crane so that a wrecking ball
could be brought to this spot, and do it as fast as possible. He
thought the small building on the next corner was to be knocked
down. The foreman expressed some puzzlement at why such a large
crane was needed to demolish such a small building.