Paradigms Lost (22 page)

I looked around. “How many people here
have
actually seen one in person?”

Besides my hand and Jeri’s, only one other hand went up out of fifty other people in the room. I guessed that was someone who’d been there when they caught one of the three trying to get into this building. “Then you—all of you—need to really get into your heads what you’re dealing with.” I reached into my bag and found the slender sheath, grasped what was inside carefully. “The average wolf—when not pretending to be human—stands eight feet high and weighs over five hundred pounds. As my experience shows, they are capable of sprinting at speeds in excess of sixty miles per hour—almost as fast as the fastest land animal known.

“As for armor,” I continued, and with a practiced flick of my hand, sent something sparkling through the air to land with a
chunk!
in the conference table, “take a look at that.”

Standing up at an angle from the shining wood of the table, vibrating slightly with a faint, chiming hum that was fading away, was a sparkling, transparent, curved form measuring nearly nine inches long. “
That
is one claw—a hand, I think—from an average werewolf. As you can see, I threw that thing very gently, just a flick of my wrist, and it buried itself about two inches into the hardwood of the table. I mentioned that my car is armored. After my encounter with Virigar, I found that the one that grabbed onto my car had cut nearly through the armor in four separate places. And this was with almost no chance to grab and establish purchase.”

I clicked my presentation back to the sketch of a werewolf. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any good
photos
of these things. But I want you to look at that claw, then realize that these,” I pointed to the claws on the sketch, “are what you’re looking at. This is a creature that can outrace a car on anything except a straightaway, has claws that can cut like butter through almost anything, is strong enough to lift one end of an armored car clear off the ground, and that likely has other tricks it didn’t show us.

“And they can transform themselves to look and act
exactly
like anyone else on Earth.”

Faces were noticeably paler around the table. General Bravaias reached out and carefully pulled the claw free, studying it. “What is this thing
made
of?”

“We don’t really know. It’s something like diamond in that it’s mostly carbon, but it doesn’t shatter like diamond can. It’s almost unbreakable, whether we’re talking impacts, compression, tension, or torque. Right now, the guess is it’s some form of carbon with an unknown microstructure, but exactly what that microstructure is we won’t know until we get a detailed X-ray crystallographic scan on it. And even that might not work.”

The general nodded, then passed the claw back down to me. “In any case, it is clear that we
really
need your sensing devices. Yes, I know that’s slightly outside of this meeting’s purpose—”

“Don’t you worry about that, Jean,” said the president. “This is definitely a high priority. Mr. Wood, I’d like to make sure our major installations are protected by these, er . . .”

“CryWolf sensors,” I said with a grin. “That’s the name I want to call them, anyway.”

He laughed. “Let’s hope they
don’t
‘cry wolf’ too often, huh? Anyway, I’d like to make sure that happens as soon as possible.”

Hmm, that gives me an idea
. “Well, sir, I’d be glad to give the government a license on the technology and all, but right now I’m getting held up in the patent office . . .”

CHAPTER 32

Upgrades and Relationships

“I must thank you, Jason,” Verne said, surveying the mound of equipment assembled in his dining room. “The advice of an expert is always appreciated.”

Verne had decided to fully enter the fast-approaching twenty-first century, adding telecommunications and computers to his formidable range of resources. I grinned. “No thanks needed. Advising someone on what to buy is always fun, especially when you know that the person in question doesn’t have a limited budget.” One of the workmen looked at me with a question in his eyes. “Oh, yeah. Verne, how many places are you going to want to be able to plug in a computer? I mean to the Ethernet lines.” Extra jacks were a good idea; cable didn’t yet run out to Verne’s house, so we were going with a dedicated satellite hookup and a LAN on Ethernet through the house.

“Ah, yes. I would say . . . Hmm. Morgan?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Are any of the staff likely to need such access?”

Morgan smiled slightly. “I would say most of them, sir.” While Verne was modernizing, he was not quite grasping the change it was going to bring to his household.

Verne sighed theatrically. “Very well, then.” He turned to the workman. “You might as well rewire the entire house—first, second, and third floors—and put two of these Ethernet jacks in every bedroom and study, as well as one here in the living room,” he pointed, “and another three in my office, marked there. Make sure there are also enough phone connections for everyone; several of my staff would like their own private lines.”

Ed Sommer, the head contractor, smiled broadly, obviously thinking of the money involved, and glanced at the plans. “We’ll write up a work order. What about the basement?”

“No need for anything there.”

“Gotcha.”

Sommer cut the work order quickly; I’d recommended his company because of their efficiency, despite the fact that they were the new kids on the block. Verne signed it, and we left the rest of the work in Morgan’s hands. “Coming, Verne? Syl’s out of town on a convention and I’m up for a game of chess if you’re interested.”

He hesitated, the light glinting off the ruby ring he never removed. “Perhaps tomorrow, Jason. Having all these strangers in the house is upsetting.”

“Then get away from them for a while. Morgan can handle things here. Besides, how could anything upset
you
?” This was partly a reference to his vampire nature—I expected a man who’s umpteen thousands of years old to be comfortable everywhere—but also to his constant old-world-calm approach, which was rarely disturbed by anything except major disasters.

“You may be right. Very well, Jason, let us go.”

The night was still fairly young as we got into my new Infiniti. Verne nodded appreciatively. “Moving up a bit in the world, my friend?”

“The only advantage of being attacked by ancient werewolves is that the interview fees alone become impressive. And the publicity for WIS has made sure I’ve got more work than I can handle, even if I do have to turn down about a thousand screwballs a day who want me to investigate their alien abduction cases. Not to mention that the government groups involved in the Morgantown Incident investigation would rather use me as a researcher than an outsider.” I gave a slightly sad smile. “And age, plus being hacked at by werewolves, finally caught up with old Mjölnir.”

“He served you well. Have you named this one yet?”

“Nope. I was thinking of Hugin or Munin—it’s black and shiny like raven feathers.” We pulled out of his driveway and onto the main road into town. We drove for a few minutes in silence.

“I was not deliberately changing the subject,” Verne said finally. “I understand how you would find it hard to imagine me being disturbed by anything. I was thinking about how to answer you.”

I was momentarily confused, then remembered my earlier comment. At times, it was disconcerting to talk to Verne; his long life made time compress from his point of view, so a conversation that seemed distant to me was recent for him. Sometimes he forgot that the rest of us don’t have his manner of thinking.

“You have to remember that one with my . . . peculiarities rarely can have an actual long-lasting home.” Verne continued. “So instead, one attempts to bring one’s life
with
one in each move. Rather like a hermit crab, we move from one shell to another, none of them actually being our own, yet being for that time, a place of safety. Anything that enters your house, then, has the ability to encroach on all those things you bring with you—both physical and spiritual. Workmen are things beyond my direct control, especially in a society such as this one.”

“Are you afraid they’ll find out about you?”

Verne shrugged, then smiled slightly, his large dark eyes twinkling momentarily in the lights of a passing car. “Not really. Besides the fact that Morgan would be unlikely to miss anyone trying to enter the basement, the basement itself contains little of value for those seeking the unusual. The entrance to the vault and my true
sanctum sanctorum
is hidden very carefully indeed, and it’s quite difficult to open even if found. And my personal refrigerator upstairs is secured very carefully, as you know well.” Verne referred to the fact that I’d installed the security there myself. “No, Jason. It is simply that my home is the last fading remnant of my own world, even if all that remains there are my memory and a few truly ancient relics. The mass entry of so many people of this world . . . somehow, it reminds me how alone I am.”

I pulled into my new garage, built after werewolves nearly whacked me on the way to my car, and shut off the engine. “I understand. But now you’re reaching out to this world, Verne. You’re not alone. If something in your house concerns you, come to mine. I mean it. You were willing to die to protect me and Syl.”

“And you revived my spirit, Jason. In a sense, I had let myself die a long time ago; only now am I becoming what I once was.”

The kitchen was warm and well-lighted—I like leaving those lights on—and the aroma of baking Ten Spice Chicken filled the room. I was slightly embarrassed by Verne’s words, but at the same time, I knew he meant them. Our first meeting had struck a long-dead chord in him and during our apocalyptic confrontation with Virigar, I’d discovered just how much he valued friendship . . . and how much I valued him. “I’d offer you dinner, but it’s not quite to your taste.”

“Indeed, though I assure you I appreciate both the thought and the scent. I may be unable to eat ordinary food without pain, but my sense of smell is undiminished. Do you still have some of my stock here?”

“Yep.” I reached into the fridge and pitched him a bottle, which he caught easily. “I never imagined I would overlook a bottle of blood in my fridge any more than I would a can of beer.” Sliding on a potholder, I reached into the oven and pulled out the chicken, which was coated in honey with a touch of Inner Beauty and worcestershire sauce, garlic, cilantro, pepper, cardamom, cumin, red pepper, oregano, basil, turmeric, and a pinch of saffron. I put that on the stovetop, pulled out two baked potatoes (crunchy the way I like ’em) and set the microwave to heat up the formerly frozen vegetables I’d put in before leaving for Verne’s.

By the time I had my place set, my water glass filled, and the chicken and potatoes on the plate, the veggies were done and I sat down to eat. Verne had poured his scarlet meal into the crystal glass reserved for him and he sat across from me, dressed as one might expect a genteel vampire to dress: evening clothes, immaculately pressed, with a sharp contrast between the midnight black of his hair and jacket and the blinding white of his teeth and shirt.

“I haven’t asked you lately—how’s the art business going?”

Verne smiled. “Very well indeed. Expect an invitation from our friend Mr. Hashima in the mail soon, in fact; young Star is recovering nicely, and he will be having an exhibition in New York in a month or so.”

“Great!” I said. “I’m looking forward to it. I was a bit concerned, to be honest—it seemed that he was hemming and hawing about doing anything with you for a while.”

Verne nodded, momentarily pensive. “True. There were some oddities, some reluctance which I do not entirely understand . . . but it is none of our business, really. What is important is that he and I are now enjoying our work together.” He leaned back. “In other related areas, I’m sure you saw the news about Akhenaten being returned to Egypt, but thus far the archaeological world is keeping the other treasures quiet while they’re examining them. Most of the truly unique artworks are already elsewhere, and I confess to feeling quite some relief. As their custodian, it was something of a strain, I came to realize, to ensure their preservation along with my own whenever I was forced to move.”

“You can’t tell me you’ve emptied that vault?” I asked in surprise.

He laughed. “Hardly, my friend. There are pieces there I keep for beauty’s sake alone, others for historical value, ones which are personally important, and so on. And even of those I would consider selling or donating there remain quite some number; it would be unwise for me to either flood the market or to eliminate one of my major reserves of wealth in case some disaster occurs.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “Let’s hope there are no more disasters. I’ve had enough of ’em.”

“To that, I can wholeheartedly agree.”

We finished dinner and went to my living room, where I set up the chessboard. Playing chess was fun, but it was more an excuse for us to get together and talk. Neither Verne nor I were comfortable with just
talking
; we had to be
doing
something.

“So,” I said after we began, “what did you mean about ‘letting yourself die’ a while back?”

Verne took a deep breath and moved his pawn. As I considered that position, he answered. “I should clarify something, which I should have done some time ago. I am not a vampire.”

“Huh?”

“Or, perhaps, I should say not a vampire in any ordinary sense of the term. True, I drink blood and have a number of supernatural abilities and weaknesses. But these are not the result of being infected by a vampire. For me, my abilities are a blessing, a gift—not a curse. I am not driven by those impulses that ‘traditional’ vampires must follow.”

“So why didn’t you tell me this before?” I decided to continue with the standard opening strategy. Getting fancy with Verne usually resulted in my getting roundly trounced in fifteen or twenty moves. “It does explain a few things—I remember thinking that you seemed to hesitate at times when talking about vampires. But why dance around the subject?”