Paradigms Lost (23 page)

Verne smiled. “It was much easier to go with the obvious assumptions, Jason. And by doing so, I minimized the chance of anything being learned that I wished kept secret. And it was
much
simpler. The word ‘vampire’ can be applied to any one of several sorts of beings, not merely one, and—for the most basic purposes—calling me a ‘vampire’ was and, to some extent still is, sufficient to the moment.” His smile faded. “Your friend Elias . . . he was of a type that typically go mad as they gain their power, until they have grown used to it. They were made in mockery of what I am.”

“And what is that?”

He hesitated, not seeming to see the board. When he finally answered, his voice was softer, and touched with a faint musical accent unlike any I had heard. “A remnant of the greatest days of this world, my friend. In the ending of that time, I was wounded unto death, but I refused to die. I would
not
die, for there were those who needed me and I would not betray them by failing to reach them, even if that failure was through death itself.

“Perhaps there was something different about me even then, or it was something about the difference between the world that was and the world that is now for, certainly, I cannot have been the only man to ever attempt to hold Death at bay with pure will. I did not die; I rose and staggered onward only to find that my solitary triumph had been in vain.” I heard echoes of pain and rage in his voice, tears he’d shed long ago still bringing a phantom stinging to the eye, a hoarseness to his words.

“Of those who had been my charges, none remained; and all was in ruins. But in the moment I would have despaired . . .
She
came.” He moved again.

I could hear the capital “S” in “She” when he spoke. “
She?
”

“The Lady Herself.” The accent was stronger now, and I was certain I’d never heard anything like it. Not even close to it. The accent was of a language whose very echoes were gone from this world. Then it was as though a door suddenly closed in his mind, for he glanced up quickly. When he spoke again, the accent was gone, replaced by the faint trace of Central European lilt I was used to. “I’m sorry, Jason. No more.”

“Too painful?”

He looked at me narrowly, his eyes unfathomable. “Too dangerous.”

“To you?”

“To you.”

CHAPTER 33

Who’s Your Daddy?

The man sitting across from me was small. Oriental, handsome (at least that’s what Syl told me later; I’m not much of a judge), average-length hair just a bit shaggy. He was dressed casually, but that wasn’t much indication of his job or resources; people come to WIS in guises that are different from what people normally see.

“Okay, Mr., um, Xiang—right?—okay, what can I help you with?”

Tai Lee Xiang shifted uncomfortably in his chair, obviously ill-at-ease. “I’m trying to locate someone.”

Locate someone? That didn’t sound particularly promising. There is some work that I do once in a while, but that I don’t find interesting, such as locating old girlfriends, enemies, and so. “What kind of a someone?”

“My father.”

Okay, that was more interesting, maybe. “Your father? Okay. How do you know he needs finding? A family argument?”

He shifted again, then stood up and began pacing in the small space available. “It’s . . . hard to explain. I didn’t have any argument with him. It’s . . . I’ve just not seen him in a long time.” His voice was heavily accented—Vietnamese, if what he told me was true—but the word “long” was clearly emphasized.

“Why do you need to find him?”

“Why do you need to know?” he countered, slightly annoyed.

“I don’t
need
to know, as long as there’s nothing illegal involved, but any information can help.” I always toss in the word “illegal” with potential clients—it wasn’t unusual for people to try using Wood’s Information Service to get info they had no business getting.

He frowned at me, then shrugged. “I am new in this country, and he is my only living relative, aside from my children.”

“Fair enough.” This actually sounded interesting. Finding a man can be a relatively easy thing, or almost impossible, depending on how much information you have to go on. “I’ll need to know everything you can tell me about your father. The more I know, the easier it will be to find him.”

He looked somewhat embarrassed and uncomfortable again. “I . . . I can’t tell you too much. I have . . . memory trouble.”

“Amnesia?” I was surprised by this little twist.

“Um, yes, I think that’s what they called it. I remember some things well, other things not so well.”

This was getting interesting. “Okay. Can I ask why you chose WIS for this job?”

“I saw the reports on the werewolves . . .” he began. I already knew the rest; the “Morgantown Incident” was a great piece of advertisement. I was wrong.

“. . . and of all the investigators out there, only you seemed ready to search for someone . . . unusual.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me there’s something out of the ordinary about your father?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

Tai Lee looked at me. “I can’t tell you any more unless you agree to take the job. You . . . seem like an honorable man, which means if you agree to do the job, you won’t talk about it to other people if I don’t want you to.”

He had me pegged right. I thought a moment. “Nothing illegal involved in this job?”

“I know of nothing that would be illegal in finding my father, no.”

“Very well, then. I agree. I’ll find your father, if it’s at all possible.”

His nervous fidgeting subsided almost instantly and he visibly relaxed. “Thank you.”

“So what can you tell me about your father? Skip the description for now—I’ve got a computer program we’ll use later to construct the best picture. Tell me some facts I wouldn’t gather from his appearance.”

“That is where my memory is weak. I can only tell you five things about Father.”

“Shoot.”

“Excuse me?”

“That means, ‘go ahead, let me have them.’”

“First, he is not my natural father. I was adopted. He is not of Oriental blood, but I think is a Westerner instead.”

Well, that weakened one approach. Obviously, there’d be no link in appearance between father and son, and not necessarily one of immigration, either. “Next?”

“Father is a priest. Priest of . . . um . . . nature? I’m not sure the term . . . ?”

This was interesting. “You mean of the Earth itself? Not Shinto or something of that nature?”

“Yes. The world’s spirit?”

“Our word for that is generally ‘Gaia.’”

“Yes! That is it.” He nodded, recognizing the word. “Father also had a ring that he wore, which he would never remove.”

“A ring?”

“A big, wide, heavy gold ring, with a very large red stone— a ruby I think—set in it.”

I blinked for a moment. “O . . . kay.”

“Something wrong?”

“No, nothing. Go on.”

He hesitated. “This is the . . . weird part.”

“I’m ready.”

“No, I mean, really strange. Please believe me when I tell you this is not a joke, okay?”

I studied him carefully. “I believe you’re not playing a joke on me. You seem too serious to be able to joke about it at all.”

“Thank you.” He had tensed up again; with my assurance he relaxed once more. “All right . . . my father didn’t eat; instead, he drank blood.”

I stopped dead in mid-keystroke. What were the odds? Drinking
blood
? A red ruby ring that never came off?

Tai could tell I was shocked. “Mr. Wood?”

“What was the fifth thing?”

“What?”

“You just recounted four facts about your father. What’s the fifth?”

“His name . . . the name he was using then. His name was V’ierna Dhomienkha a Atla’a Alandar.”

It was impossible. But it
had
to be.
I stood up. “Excuse me for a minute; I’m going to check something.”

“What? Mr. Wood, what is it?”

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

I stepped into the back office, grabbed the phone off the hook, and punched in Verne’s number.

“Domingo Residence, Morgan speaking.”

“Morgan, this is Jason. I need to speak with Verne.”

Morgan’s voice was puzzled. “But, Jason, you know that Master Verne is never awake at this time. It’s barely two o’clock.”

“Then wake him. This is important!”

There was a long pause—even longer to me, sitting on the other end of the phone waiting. Finally I heard the familiar voice pick up at the other end. “Jason? What is the emergency?” Tired though he was, what I heard most in his voice was worry. “It isn’t the Wolf, is it?”

Jesus, I should have realized that was the first thing he’d think of. “No, no. Nothing that bad. Maybe . . . not bad . . . really . . . at all. There is a guy here looking for his father.”

His tone was slightly nettled. “And how does this concern me?”

“Because of what he told me about his father: that he wore a ruby-colored crystal and gold ring, which he never took off, and that he drank blood.”

There was dead silence for several moments. “Interesting coincidence to say the least, Jason. But I have no children.”

“He said he wasn’t a natural child of this man—he is adopted. He also said that his father was some kind of priest of nature, and he gave his father’s name. I’m not sure quite how to spell it, but it sounded a lot like yours . . .”

In a whisper almost inaudible, I heard, “V’ierna Dhomienkha a Atla’a Alandar i Sh’ekatha . . .”

“Holy crap,” I heard my own whisper.

“That name? He spoke
that
name? But . . . that is impossible.” Verne’s voice was at the edge of anger, laughter, or tears—I couldn’t tell which—and hearing the strain in his voice was more upsetting than I’d imagined. “I am on my way, sun or no sun.”

I hung up and stepped back into the office. Tai Lee Xiang looked up at me. “Mr. Wood?”

“If what you’ve told me is accurate, Mr. Xiang . . . I think I’ve located your father already.”

As his jaw dropped, a chill wind blew through the closed office, and from my back room stepped Verne Domingo, dark eyes fixed on my visitor.

There was no recognition in Verne’s eyes, but there was no doubt about Tai Lee’s reaction. He leapt to his feet, eyes wide. “Father!”

Verne fixed him with a cold glare. “Who are you? Who, that you know that name unspoken for generations unnumbered, that you would claim to be son to me?” That alien accent was back and emphasized by his anger.

There was no mistaking the shocked, wounded look in Tai Lee Xiang’s eyes. “Father? Don’t you recognize me? The boy in the temple?”

Verne’s mouth opened for a bitter retort, but with the last words, slowly closed. He stared at the young man intensely, as though he would burn a hole through him by gaze alone. I felt a faint power stir in the room. Then Verne’s face went even paler than usual and he stepped forward, reaching out slowly to touch the young man’s face. “The scent is wrong . . . but the soul. I know that soul. Is it really you, Raiakafan?”

Tai jerked as Verne spoke the name, as though slapped in the face, then nodded. “Y . . . yes. Yes. That was my name.”

For the first time since I’d known him, Verne was too overcome to speak. He simply stepped forward, around the desk, and stared straight into the young man’s eyes. “Even with what I feel . . . I must have proof. For you disappeared . . .”

Tai—Raiakafan?—looked at me, and suddenly I had a completely different impression of him. The uncertain, nervous young man was gone; instead, I saw a black, polished-stone gaze as cold as ebony. I found myself stepping backward involuntarily; only once before had I gotten the sense of such total lethality, and that had been in the hallway at the hospital when I witnessed Virigar assume his true form. That same feeling carried the utter conviction that Tai was not merely trained in the art of killing, but a killer to his very core. “In front of him?” he asked coldly.

I could see that Verne was surprised by the tone, but apparently not by the question. “It may be necessary later . . . but you are quite correct. We shall speak in private. But I would ask that you moderate your tone of address to one who is not only my friend, but who has reunited us.”

The cold gaze softened abruptly and was replaced by an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Father. You are right. Mr. Wood, forgive me. It has been a difficult time for me. But I am very grateful . . . and amazed.”

I shrugged. “Don’t mention it. Not as much a coincidence as I first thought; anyone who was Verne’s friend would have been around during the last dust-up. The only
real
coincidence is that one of those friends happens to be an info specialist. No,” I said as I saw him reaching for a wallet, “no charge. Not only is Verne a friend, but I hardly had to do any work on this one.”

“Still, I thank you, Jason,” Verne said.

His hand on Tai’s arm, the two disappeared into thin air. I jumped at that, but my mind was distracted by the fact that I’d seen a new and different sparkle in Verne’s eyes.

Vampire tears are just like ours.

CHAPTER 34

Reunion Jitters

“Guess who!”

Two soft hands covered my eyes in time with the words. To my credit, I managed not to jump, though she probably knew how much she’d startled me anyway.

“Madame Blavatsky?”

She giggled. “Nope.”

“Nostradamus?”

“Do you feel a beard against your neck? Try again!”

“Then it must be the great Medium of the Mohawk Valley herself, Sylvia Stake!”

The hands came away as I turned around.

“You guessed!”

“No one else has a key to this place, and Verne’s voice is two octaves lower and his hands are five sizes bigger.”

Sylvie was looking good this evening: her black hair was styled in tight ringlet curls pulled back by several colorful scarves, and she was wearing a low-cut dress with a long skirt—one of her gypsy outfits—and a big over-the-shoulder bag that was handwoven with enough colors to supply a dozen rainbows. “Oh, is
that
the only difference?” she said, leaning forward.

Sylvie makes me nervous. She’s not the only woman I’ve ever dated, but I never got this nervous around any of them, or anyone else for that matter. Syl has always assumed that
all
women make me nervous, and she has always enjoyed flustering me. Leaning forward in
that
dress did not help matters. “C’mon, Syl, cut it out. I can’t take the games today.”