Paradigms Lost (18 page)

Another crash echoed through the Silver Stake. I heard Verne cursing in some Central European tongue. With one more agonized look at Sylvie, I charged back into the conference room.

I had the gun ready; then I stopped. “Son of a bitch!”

Verne Domingo looked back at me . . . twice.

Two Vernes were locked together, straining against each other. They were identical, down to the tears on their clothing.

The damn thing can even emulate clothing? That really sucks.

There was no way to tell them apart; even their cursing sounded the same, and each was calling the other “Shirrith.” One was faking . . . but which?

I could have kicked myself. How stupid can you be? I raised the gun and fired twice.

The one on the left twitched as the bullet hit; the one on the right screamed and tore itself away from the real Verne Domingo, its disguise fading away.

There was a
clack
as the gun jammed, trying to eject the last shell. “You
bugger
!” I said, as the werewolf dove out the window, a perfect target if I could only have fired.

I cleared the jam, but it was too late. Shirrith was gone.

Verne gazed out the broken window, then turned away.

I shoved past Winthrope, who was muttering apologies, ran to Syl. “How’re you doing, Syl?”

She tried to smile but failed miserably. “Not so good.”

Blood was pooling on the floor.

“Verne, call the hospital, quick! Get an ambulance!”

CHAPTER 27

Empathy and Electronics

“Jason, you need your rest. It’s been twenty-seven hours. Go to bed.”

I was too tired to jump at the sudden voice from a formerly empty space. “Verne, I’ve got work to do. I’m going to find that bastard and silver him like a goddam mirror. I don’t have time to sleep. You heard what Winthrope said.”

“About her assistant being found dead? Yes.”

“Then don’t talk to me about sleep. Every hour I sleep could get someone else killed.” I rubbed my throbbing forehead. “Besides, every time I close my eyes, I see Syl getting slashed by that other werewolf.” Fury took over. “That
other
werewolf, dammit!” I shouted at Verne, feeling my eyes sting. “You said there was only one, the last one, and all of a sudden it’s
The Howling III
around here!”

Suddenly, Verne looked tired himself; tired and very, very old. “I know, my friend. It was my arrogance and stupidity that led to that mistake. I should have realized that to exterminate an intelligent race is well-nigh impossible. These are not passenger pigeons or dodos. Virigar survived and must have sought out the few that remained; for the past century, they have increased their numbers, awaiting the time of revenge.”

My anger evaporated. “Damn. Sorry, Verne. I shouldn’t take it out on you. We
all
should have realized that where there was one, there might be more.” I wiped my eyes, half-noticing how damp they were. “It’s just that Syl . . . of all of us, Syl should have been the last to get hurt. She saved Renee and me—did you know that?”

He bowed his head. “I had not known. But I would have expected no less from her.”

“She did. Then the last one got her. Now . . .”

“She will make it, Jason. I give you my word on that. Sylvia will not die for my mistakes.” His dark eyes held mine, lent his words conviction.

“Thanks,” I said. “I hope you’re right.”

“I have never broken my word yet.”

“Why didn’t you go after Shirrith when he ran?”

“Because . . .” He hesitated, staring down at his hands. “Because, I am ashamed to admit, my past centuries of soft existence have made me slow and not as adept in combat as I was in years past. Even the small strikes they managed caused pain to my soul, and with weakness and pain come fear. I must remedy that. Also, it would have done no good. Shirrith would never have led me to Virigar, unless that was his plan . . . in which case, I would be dead.” He sighed, and glanced at the odd tubular object on my workbench. “Since you will not rest, perhaps you can explain what you are doing?”

“Sure.” I picked up the tube, showing the lens at one end with the eyepiece on the other. “This viewer fits onto this little headband, like this.”

“I see that, yes. But what function does this device perform?”

“Well, it . . .” I broke off, thinking for a minute. “How well-versed are you in the sciences?”

He made a modest gesture. “I am sufficiently educated that I consider myself a well-read layman.”

“Good enough. Then you know that visible light is just one small part of the electromagnetic spectrum, right?” He nodded. “Well, I’ve thought for a long time about how to find a hiding werewolf. Normal methods can’t work. Their physical imitation seems to be so perfect that they can duplicate the DNA of the subject. But if that were true, then they must be more than merely material beings—you follow me?”

He thought for a moment, then nodded again. “I believe so. You are saying that if they were purely physical beings, once they assumed a perfect duplicate form, they would then become that person . . . and lose their special powers.”

“You’ve got it. So if they aren’t just matter, that leaves some additional energy component. A werewolf has to be surrounded, permeated, with a special energy field.” I locked the viewer into the holder, checked the fit. “That’s where this comes in. That field has to radiate somehow, in some wavelength outside the visible.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I see. But what wavelength? And would psychic powers, or mystic ones if you prefer, radiate in such mundane ways?”

“At some point I’d think they would,” I answered, clipping on a power lead. “If these fields interact with matter, matter will produce certain emissions. As to what wavelength, I’m betting on infrared. In the end, all energy decays to waste heat, you see. But I’ve also added an ultraviolet switch to this viewer, and these two little gadgets cover other areas—magnetic fields and radio waves, respectively.”

He smiled. “I am impressed, Jason. I had thought you proficient solely with your computers and databases; I had no idea you were adept with technical devices as well.”

“Any real hacker has to have some skill with a soldering iron and circuitry,” I answered. “But I just happen to like gadgets. The Edmund Scientific catalog is some of my favorite bedtime reading. Heck, most people think I named my car Mjölnir because I’m weird. Actually, I’ve put thousands of dollars into gadgetizing the hell out of it. Mjölnir doesn’t fly and if you drive it into water, it stalls like any other car, but it’s got some optional features that no major manufacturer never thought of installing.” The phone rang; I grabbed it fast.

“Hello? Doctor Millson?” I said.

“No.” The voice was deep and resonant in a peculiar way; it sounded like a man in a tin closet. “We met earlier, though you did not realize it at the time. I am Virigar, Mr. Wood.”

Adrenaline stabbed my chest with icy slivers. “What do you want?”

“To deliver an ultimatum, Mr. Wood. You know why I am here. I presume that you care for the young lady, Sylvia? If you wish her to survive the night, you will do one of two things: either you kill Verne Domingo for me . . . or you deliver him to me that I might kill him myself. Do this, and my people—who even now walk that hospital’s corridors—shall spare the lady’s life.”

“You bastard.” I barely recognized my own voice. “If I’d known—”

“Yes, well, we all have things we’d have done differently ‘if only,’ do we not, Mr. Wood? You are worthy prey; it makes the chase and the kill sweeter. But for Domingo I will let you and your mortal friends live. Bring him, or the ruby ring he wears, to the old warehouse on Lovell Avenue within the next six hours. Any trickery or failure on your part, and the lady shall die . . . painfully.” The line went dead.

I put the phone down slowly and looked up. Verne looked grimly back at me.

“I heard it all, my friend,” he said softly.

CHAPTER 28

A Nice Evening Drive, with Gunfire

“Why the hell not?”

I gestured at the ornate ruby-and-gold ring. “Why not, Verne? If he’s going to be satisfied with the ring, just
give
it to him! Then we hit him later.”

Verne rubbed the ring gently, turning it about his finger and making the ruby send out sparks of crimson. “The reason he would be satisfied with the ring, Jason, is because he knows that I will never remove this ring.
Never
. I gave my word many, many years ago to one who meant more than life itself to me that I would wear her ring until the final death claimed me.” He looked up; his eyes were black ice, cold and hard. “I value my honor, Jason. Nothing, not even God himself, shall compel me to break my word.”

“That’s asinine, Verne! We’re talking Sylvie’s life here, and you’re worried about honor! Whoever your lady was, I’m sure she’d understand!”

“You are probably right,” Verne said, his eyes unchanged. “But I cannot decide on the basis of what might be. She and she alone could release me from my vow, and unless she is born again and regains that which she was, she cannot. I do not expect you to understand; honor is not valued here as it was when I was young.”

“Where is the honor in letting a friend die?” I hurled the question at him.

He closed his eyes, drew one of his rare deep breaths. “There is none in that, my friend. I have no intention of letting Sylvia be killed; did I not also give my word that she would not die?” He opened one of my drawers, looked inside.

“Then you are going to give me the ring,” I said, relieved.

“No,” he said, taking something out of the drawer and handing it to me. “You will take it from me.”

I looked down. In my hand was a magazine loaded with wooden bullets for my automatic; a vampire special.

It took a minute for that to sink in. Then I threw the magazine against the wall so hard it left a dent. “Christ, no! Kill you?”

“It seems the only way. I would rather die by your hand than his, and only my death will satisfy him; else Sylvia dies.”

“Look,” I said, glancing back at the pistol magazine, “maybe if . . . well, I could shoot your finger off, I guess.”

He made the dismissing gesture I’d come to know so well. “Impossible. It matters not how the ring leaves my possession. My word will still have been broken if it leaves my possession with my connivance and I yet live.”

I couldn’t believe this. “You want to die?”

“Of course not, Jason! I have spent many centuries trying to ensure my safety. But I will not break my word to her whose ring I wear, nor shall I break my word to you. That leaves me little choice.”

“Bull!” I didn’t understand this; how the hell could someone take a promise
that
seriously? But I could see he was deadly serious. “You only made that promise to make me feel better. Forget it, okay? I release you from that obligation. Whatever the formula is. You know as well as I do that Virigar has no intention of letting
any
of us go. For all I know, he’s got a hit squad waiting outside.”

He relaxed slightly. “I thank you, my friend. Yes, I also doubt Virigar’s benign intent, but I had to make the offer. None of you would be imperiled were I not here . . . and were you not my friends.”

“Bull,” I said again. “Maybe we wouldn’t be on today’s hit list, but we’d sure as hell be on tomorrow’s menu.” I looked at him again. “Is this the same Verne Domingo who sent me out to take on Elias Klein with nothing more than a mental shield and moral support?”

For the first time, I saw his features soften, and for once, his smile held nothing unsettling. “No, my friend. For you are my friend now. I have had no true friends, save those in my household, since . . . well, since before your country was born. In the past few months, you have shown me what a precious thing I was missing. More; you have given back to me the faith I lost, oh . . . more centuries ago than I care to remember. That, Jason, is a debt I shall be long in repaying.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say; I guess I didn’t need to.

As quickly as it had come, Verne’s gentle expression faded and his face returned to its usual aristocratic detachment. “We are agreed that Virigar’s offer is without honor; thus we cannot follow that course of action. So what do you suggest?”

I stared at the ring again. “Well, even if he isn’t trustworthy, if I
did
deliver the ring it might give us
some
advantage.”

“I have already explained to you that I cannot—”

“I know that,” I said, cutting off his protest. “I’m not saying take it off.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“For guys as rich as you, jewelers make house calls. Surely one could make a duplicate in a few hours?”

That stopped him. He looked very thoughtful for several minutes, but then shook his head. “I’m afraid it would never work. The time element aside—and we would be cutting it extremely close—you are underestimating Virigar. He would undoubtedly check the authenticity of the ring; I would not be surprised if he were himself an expert in jewelry. Moreover, we have no way of ascertaining if he has watchers about our residences; a visiting jeweler would tell him all he needed to know.” He shrugged. “In any case, it is irrelevant. He would know that ring in an instant, for it is more than mere jewelry.”

“Seriously, Verne, could he really spare that many to watch us? I mean, we killed one and injured another; how many more could there be?”

He gave me a look reserved for idiots. “You are the expert in mathematics, my friend. Calculate how many descendants a single pair could have in one hundred years, assuming a twenty-year maturity age.”

I winced. “Sorry, so I’m slow. That’d be eighty from the original pair alone that’d be full-grown.”

“That, of course,” Verne admitted, “assumes that they maintain normal human birthrates and take no ‘breaks,’ so to speak, from parenting. In reality, this will not be the case, but even so, I would be surprised if there were less than a hundred all told.”

A hundred! Christ! I didn’t even have that many silver bullets! “Outnumbered and outgunned . . .” Suddenly, one of my favorite, if crazy, quotes came to mind: “It’s you and me against the world . . . When do we
attack
?”