Underground Vampire (19 page)

“Thank you,” mumbled Finkelstein,
flummoxed at the transformation of the person he’d casually categorized as the
Big Indian to Lee the Vampire Slayer, sent by a tribe of Indians to help. “What
tribe did you say you’re from?”

“I didn’t,” said Lee.  “You
wouldn’t recognize the name; we’re not one of the treaty tribes.”

From the dumbfounded look on
Finkelstein’s face, Lee took pity, explaining, “we don’t sign treaties, we
don’t surrender and we don’t give in.  We’ve survived the whites and we
will survive the dead.”

“How’d you get so good at
shuffleboard?”

“Tribe doesn’t pay much per diem so
I got to earn my beer money,” Lee explained, practical as any travelling man on
a limited expense account.

“From now on, beer’s on the house,”
said Finkelstein.

“Killing Vampires is thirsty work,
you might come to regret your offer.”

“Forget about it, I buy beer by the
barrel,” with a dismissive wave of his spotted hand.

“I drink it by the glass; I guess
we’re fair.”

Meanwhile, the others lovingly
prepared Mort’s remains in the rituals prescribed by the rituals of their
lives, carrying their compatriot to the stairway, waiting for the instructions
from Malloy telling them where to deliver Mort’s remains so Jesse Ortega could
discover another tragic crime in a Seattle alley. 

Perhaps, thought Mr. Finkelstein,
it was better that neither of his sons was interested in the Blue Anchor, the
glorious and secret history of the Finkelstein clan ending with him, his and
his forefathers’ deeds disappearing into his death. 

 Anonymous and grey, the
district squatted between the University, the Lake, downtown and Capitol
Hill.  The dispossessed resisted gentrification with a savage commitment
to public urination, while the anarchists and civil libertarians made it no fun
at all for Seattle’s finest to abuse the homeless. 

Perched on a concrete hillside, the
storefront’s tarpaper roof hid from the storms, protected by  the freeway
span aiming for Lake Union.  Anonymous among foreign bars and second hand
lives lived in rusted out station wagons moved nightly, it was the perfect
place to put a blood donation center with a side of sperm repository and
long-term cryogenically frozen heads.

Sterile with stainless steel
counters and industrial Formica walls, the interior was faintly modern in a
cheap sort of way.  Eastlake Blood did a consistently profitable walk-in
business of bums and students eager for book and beer money.  Lucien the
Vampire secured the rights to the neighborhood by promising and delivering a
healthy ten percent of the gross to the house on Queen Anne. 

Displaying an entrepreneurial bent,
once the plasma/whole blood operation was profitably established, he branched
into a big seller, sperm from students, good Catholic boys, they were prolific
producers, and lately into cryogenic head freezing, more for the fun of cutting
the heads off than the
profit.              

A twist of geography in the tunnels
beneath Capitol Hill made Eastlake Blood accessible from the Underground by a
simple and direct route.  Vampires out for an evening gravitated there to
assuage their needs.  Lucien could always be counted on to advance a
down-and-outer a bag of day old, tiding him over till things got
better.   Completely apolitical, Lucien served whoever had cash and
made his payments on time.  If a tasty treat came in, he made sure to send
some with his compliments to Her Majesty.  Lucien’s life was good.

Older, more established members of
the Clan resided on the other side with those closest to the Queen on her hill,
lower down but nonetheless on the hill.  Her plasma center was modern,
sleek and cheerful with a clientele vetted by a full time medical staff adept
at spotting annoying infections, diseases and conditions that might affect the
taste of the product.  Over time, the two centers became main suppliers of
Vampire blood supply, rather like competing supermarkets with the Queen taking
hers off the top of both.

So it came to pass that Arabella
was summoned to Highland Drive and, ascending the stairway behind Petru,
wondered if she was there to receive orders or for Petru to kill her, so
unsettled had the society become.  Disappearances were common and Vampires
rarely traveled alone any more.  The Underground resembled 18th century
London; Vampires with swords disguised as walking sticks to ward off the packs
attacking any inebriated stragglers going home.  

The household staff no longer
dressed like maids and butler unsettled her as they crowded up the stairs
behind, sealing off any escape.  Her paranoia abated slightly when she entered
the upstairs room and saw that the Queen had transformed it into her war
center.  Gone was the hideous overstuffed furniture, replaced by sturdy
Navy chairs surrounding a conference table covered in maps and charts.

The Queen absently waved her to a
seat at the table while the others ranged about, some sitting at the table,
others behind against the wall. If nothing else, Arabella thought this was an
opportunity to see who was who for the moment.  Petru took his accustomed
place behind every one, guarding the door, while Prunella sat at the Queen’s
right, comfortably taking her position as chief of staff.

The assembly resembled birds of
prey perched on the chairs, bloodless eyes on the Queen, raptors or, more
properly, vultures, thought Arabella looking around the room. Each wore a
partially satiated look; no doubt they had stopped for a quick nip from the
Queen’s personal blood cellar, definitely one of the perquisites of being on
her side. 

Prunella launched into a concise
summary of the war to date, detailing dead and wounded, territory lost,
territory gained, plans and schemes.

“That’s all very nice, isn’t it,
Petru,” said the Queen as Prunella took a deep breath, winding up for the
logistics report. 

If Petru had an opinion, he didn’t
say.  Arabella uncharitably gloated a bit, happy as Prunella floundered
adrift.  “But they feed, do they not,” the Queen continued, “how can that
be, answer me that, Petru.”  Petru actually began to consider the
question, his face registering sustained thought.  Not waiting for him to
process the question, the Queen answered it for him, “They must be venturing
above ground to feed.  They had a small herd of Humans, did they not?”

“I will kill them,” announced
Petru, cutting to the chase, “all of them.”

Around the table Vampires went into
shock.  There were members of the Clan who had never heard Petru make a
sound besides the obnoxious snuffling he emitted when feeding.  His
reputation was such that no one wanted to strike up a conversation with him, and
he had no interest in anyone besides the Queen, so in periods of peace he
lapsed into the background rather like an old coat no one actually wanted to
wear.

“That’s the spirit,” said the
Queen, “A little more of that and this will all be over.”

Scrambling to catch up, Prunella
sputtered, “Exactly who should we kill?”

“All of them,” screamed the Queen,
evidently tired of the meeting, tired of explaining matters that even Petru
understood.

Prunella jumped to her feet, “I’ll
get right on it,” she blurted, rolling up maps and stuffing papers into, of all
things, Arabella noticed, a leather Coach briefcase.

“You,” pointed the Queen, extending
a finger in Arabella’s direction.

Uh oh, thought Arabella, my turn.

“You will go with Petru.”

“Of course,” replied Arabella,
trying to figure out what it was she’d been handed.

“I don’t want them feeding,” she
said, “I want them starving.”

Arabella nodded as the Queen rose
and swept out of the room.

As she reached the door she turned,
“Be sure and return dear Petru in good condition when you are finished with
him.”  She was a bit daft, thought Arabella, as if Petru was a favorite
lap dog entrusted to her for a walk in the park rather than the disgusting
murderer he was.

All the Vampires made their
loyalties known by moving to stand behind Prunella, except for Petru who didn’t
budge.  Prunella smoldered a bit while Arabella considered the situation.

 “Well,” Prunella demanded,
“what do you propose to do?”

“No idea,” said Arabella, turning
her back to Prunella, “not the foggiest.”

“You will submit your plan to me.”

“How about you, Petru; any plans
besides kill everyone?”

If Petru had a plan he was keeping
it a secret.  Prunella made to confront her, which was a really bad idea
as Petru took the Queen’s orders seriously and flared up a bit, causing all the
Vamps to shrink back, lest he decide to start the ‘killing everyone’ part of
the plan now.

And that is how Arabella came to
find herself hunched over in the dark rain, watching Vampires pop out of an
alley off Denny and casually saunter up the hill before turning into the alley
behind the Eastlake Plasma Center. Came in jittery left relaxed, junkies
scoring drugs. Occasionally, one would arrive with a small cooler, the kind
construction guys used to carry their lunch, and left toting it like it was
heavy.

After she’d explained the situation
to Jessie, he push pinned a street map with every possible blood center in the
city, painstakingly located every access point to the Underground within a four
block proximity of each pin, eliminated some locations, added others, and
narrowed the list after some research to find out who owned which
location.  Then he’d systematically staked them out, watching pedestrian
traffic patterns until he presented her with a list of his top three candidates
for illegal blood-dealing Vampire businesses in Seattle. 

Impressed, she’d gone with him to
sit in his car watching alleys and back doors, pronouncing the activity,
“boring beyond belief.”  He informed her, “it was damn fine police work,”
and she agreed when she identified the customers of Eastlake Plasma as likely
renegades.

After a few nights watching the
comings and goings, she got to know the routine and could predict rush
hour.  She had a plan.  Petru didn’t care about the details, merely
nodding when she met him in the alley and explained things to him. 
Emphasizing silence and stealth, she went over the plan several times; he
nodded, which could mean he agreed or that the cold rain was dripping down his
neck, it was difficult to know and he didn’t encourage pop quizzes. 

 She entered the clinic
through the alley just like a hungry Vampire from the Underground.  They
actually used a secret code, two quick knocks, a pause, then two more. 
Banging her knuckles on the door, she realized it was steel enclosed in a steel
frame.  The lock released electronically and she popped through the
opening into a narrow corridor with security cameras aimed at the
entrance.  The door at the end of the hall was steel and locked.  She
knocked but it didn’t open.  Looking up at the camera, she politely
announced, “Lucien, open the door or Petru will be coming in through the front
door.”

The door opened and she entered an
interior office decorated like pictures of Sigmund Freud’s study.  Lucien
was behind a faux baroque desk angled before the opposing corner.  
There was a comfortable couch against the wall and two client chairs in front
of the desk.

“Welcome,” said Lucien, “It is so
nice to finally meet you.”

Lucien wore a white lab coat over a
white shirt and tie.  In human years he was about fifty, she guessed, very
healthy with that plump look of successful yuppies gone to seed at the country
club. He had black hair tipped with grey; looking closer she guessed he had his
tips done to give him the distinguished look of a television pitch man.

“Get up,” she said, “You’re in my
chair.”

He did, scurrying around to stand
in front of the desk.

“This thing,” she tapped the desk,
“is awful.”

“I know, but our clientele expects
some atmosphere,” he replied, professionally servile.

“There are concerns.”  She
stopped to give him time to consider what those concerns might be.

“I’m a businessman supplying a
product, one necessary to us all.  Can I get you a taste?  We have
several excellent samples.”

“Powerful people have concerns.”

“Certainly we should address their
concerns,” he replied, unctuous but still with a taste of defiance in him.

“Sit down,” she said.

He did, maintaining a calm
demeanor.  She’d already decided he was nothing more than a war profiteer,
completely apolitical.

“You are gaining a partner.”

“I see,” he said, fidgeting about
like he had to go to the bathroom.  “Well, welcome partner,” he stuck out
his hands to shake and seal the deal.

“Not me, I’m no shopkeeper.”

Confused, he tried to reason it out
but, coming up blank, asked, “If not you, then who?”

“Petru.”

“Petru, here?” The thought seemed
to make him nauseous and his defiance slipped away.

“Yes, there is going to be a change
in client services.  Petru will be providing the personal touch.”

Lucien took the news well; he
seemed to be considering his future or lack thereof.

“If you do your part you will live,
if not, then ….,” she left the future open to the possibilities of his
imagination.

“I will do whatever the Queen
requests,” a true businessman.  Once the ledger balanced, the decision was
easy.

“She will probably think you are
dead; you should disappear for a while,” Arabella counseled, “at least until
she gets used to the idea of you being alive.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Petru is in the alley; why don’t
you go get him.”

 The operation was a complete
success.  Lucien sat behind the desk to welcome the clients as always, and
Petru stood behind the door.   Arabella watched the monitor and
signaled to Petru whether the client was just a Vampire shopping or one of the
insurgents.  For the known insurgents it was straightforward. 
Arriving, they were so looking to slake their thirst they didn’t notice
anything amiss till it was too late and Petru dispatched them.  Sometimes
with a slash to the neck, sometimes with the stake to the heart, the result was
always the same, a cone of ashes on Lucien’s carpet. 

The casual shoppers were unnerved
at the sight of Petru standing behind the door and one even turned and fled at
the sight of him, prompting Lucien to moan about lost business.

After the first insurgents it
became apparent that something would have to be done, and Lucien was enlisted
to run the vacuum cleaner.

 Lucien spent the time between
clients on his computer researching vacation spots, settling on a country in
the Balkans that appeared lawless.  When they were finished, Arabella
paused on the way out to fire the shop, using a jelly jar full of gasoline as
an accelerant.  She promised Lucien she would send word when it was safe
to return.

The last chore before ducking into
the tunnel to downtown was to place a call on the phone purchased for the
purpose, informing the Fire Department of a blaze in a building off
Eastlake.  Down the street the Indian, nonchalantly leaning against a
pole, gave a wave before melting into the shadows.  Jesse stood by the
sewer entrance stoically ignoring Petru, who passed by and then flashed,
anxious to return to his Mistress. Arabella pulled the temporary phone apart,
throwing the battery down one drain, the sim card down another and the phone
into a trash basket.