Underground Vampire (27 page)

CH
APTER
2
8

Beneath the City in a room as fusty
and gloomy as only the Victorians could imagine, Oliver swooned, for that is
the only way to describe how he’d thrown himself across the overstuffed brocade
couch, and hated, for that is the only way to describe how he felt about
everyone around him.  He disliked their stupidity and he deplored their
ill considered actions, but most of all he hated the look of them. 

They stood around the edges of the
room coloring like chameleons to blend with the florid wallpaper he’d chosen to
match the thick Persian rugs and the heavy brocade furniture.  Thank God,
he thought, the windows were fake so he needn’t endure the light the few times
he was awake during the day.  Heavy velvet drapes swagged across the
windows reinforced the sense that the air itself was thick as molasses. 

“Tell me again,” he murmured in the
tone of one who suffered continually from the failures of fools, “make me
understand why you thought it was a good idea to publicly challenge her when
she was surrounded by her Guard, and that bitch, Arabella, was with her, and
everyone who is anyone was there to witness your humiliation.” 

“We didn’t mean to challenge her;
we were only trying to get close to her on the off chance an opportunity would
present itself,” answered James Patrick Murphy, the unlucky Vampire who
happened to be standing in his line of sight and felt compelled to say
something out of nervousness.

Covering his eyes to spare himself
having to look at the miserable miscreants assembled in the room, “I see, a
spur of the moment thing.  And who thought this up, I mean, which of you
had this sudden inspiration?”

Looking about, James Patrick Murphy
noticed that while he stood still everyone else must have stepped back for he
was all alone and lonely.

“We all did, I guess,” was what he
came up with after a moment of reflection.

“Did it occur to you that she was baiting
you to start something, something that she could finish, something public that
would make us look bad?”

James Patrick Murphy, an Irish
Catholic boy made in the street celebration following the Seahawks improbable
victory over the New Orleans Saints, had not yet lost the respect for authority
ingrained in him by his parochial education and felt compelled to provide a
response.  “We all did Sir,” he replied, falling back upon the proven
stratagem of spreading the guilt evenly over the entire fifth grade class.

“Ah,” breathed Oliver, “a
collective act of insanity then.”

Some at the back of the room, those
behind the drapes possessing a keener understanding of the dialectics of
collective guilt producing a synthesis of collective punishment, sought to distance
themselves from Mr. Murphy’s thesis by boldly asserting the antithesis, “We
only sought to pay our respects lest she think we were insulting her,” and “We
thought it best to act as if we were loyal so no suspicion would fall upon us,”
and, most ingenious of all, “We told everyone to behave, if the yearlings
misunderstood it is they who should suffer, not us.”

James Patrick Murphy, still
possessed of a sense of right and wrong founded on a belief in an absolute
truth, didn’t realize that both his philosophy and the dictates of revolution
require punishment for failure.  Naïve, he believed in any event that
punishment would automatically and inevitably fall only upon the guilty. 
He was about to learn that failure requires blood, and often it is politic to
sacrifice an innocent who carries no freight, has no powerful friends and won’t
be missed. 

Unfortunately for James Patrick
Murphy, his maker had tired of him soon after the celebration died down, the
Queen would not accept him into the Clan as he was a bastard in the truest
sense of the word and he was too young, without much power, to serve as a
fighter in the upcoming struggle.  In short, he was the perfect candidate
for the education Oliver felt necessary for the morale of the troops. 

Wiser heads, recognizing
inevitability, slipped forward binding James Patrick Murphy’s arms and forcing
him to his knees before the couch.   All he could think of as he
stared at the brocade was how it reminded him of grandma’s couch in the
clapboard house on 79th Street, where he spent family holidays before he became
a Vampire.  One of the more senior Vampires grabbed his hair, forcing his
head back to expose the throat, wanting to get this over with before Oliver
decided to expand the lecture to include more demonstrations.

Having the hapless youth on his
knees, the terror of comprehension coming to his eyes, rejuvenated Oliver from
the lassitude he’d suffered since news of the debacle reached him. 
Reaching out, he resisted the impulse to slash the innocent life from the
offered throat, instead slowly crushing the larynx and arteries so that James
Patrick Murphy strangled, losing consciousness as his brain shut down from a
lack of oxygen.  To make the point indelible, Oliver staked the chest,
producing a mound of dust and ash on his carpet, which one of the other
yearlings vacuumed, erasing all sign of the problem and restoring equilibrium
to society.

 The invitation appeared in
the mailbox along with the two bills and advertising circulars for dry
cleaning, hardware and cell phones.  Engraved paper so thick he thought
two sheets were stuck together, feeling as solid as life should be but
wasn’t.  To receive something so substantial was an occasion to stop and
consider; after all, even Christmas cards in December were e-mail
disposable. 

Something so substantial implied
premeditation.  Such a thing meant that the sender wanted something,
undoubtedly money, probably charitable.  But no one with any sense would
send an expensive request to him.  His charitable endeavors began with the
mandatory Girl Scout cookies from cops at the station and ended with the
Christmas Knights of Columbus’ turkey raffle.

He turned the heavy envelope over
in his hands, noting the lack of a return address.  It didn’t make any
difference, of course, his name and address were written in a hand he knew well
and a hand that had been trained long ago and refined when such things were
important and worth doing well or not at all.  The stamp was framed in the
upper right corner exactly 1/8 of an inch from the edges so that the black and
white Man Ray showed nicely in the cream matting.

He carried it into his houseboat
with the other contents of his mailbox.  The advertising circulars he
dumped into the trash under the sink.  The utility and phone bills he
opened at the counter, checked the amounts due to see if they looked reasonable
and then extricated the envelopes provided, tore the stubs from the statements
and dumped everything else into the trash.

He wished he had some cool Man Ray
stamps as he fished American flag stamps from the junk drawer next to the knife
drawer.  The mail handled, he took the invitation into the living room,
sat on the couch across from the flat screen, put his feet on the coffee table
and gently rubbed his thumbs across the paper.  Closing his eyes, he
focused his attention the way he learned in meditation until the touch of the
paper against the skin of his fingers was all there was.

 At first the paper felt
smooth to the touch and his skin slid across the surface.  Then a whorl
nicked a bump and he could explore minute variations in the topology.  He
traced Himalayas transverse across the envelope to the Ganges of broad nibbed
ink, setting out his name and address in rivers, streams and tributaries as
formulated by the aesthetics of classical penmanship.

He listened for sounds of the
papermaker pressing slurry into molds and delicately touched an edge with the
tip of his tongue tasting molecules of plants and linens with a faint overlay
of a romantic blue moment.

Opening his eyes he considered the
envelope again and, turning it over, inspected the flap, which was glued to the
paper tight with no opening for a finger to slip in and open.  Removing
his feet, he centered the envelope on the coffee table and went to the kitchen
where he located his three and a half inch paring knife with the particularly
sharp point.  Returning, he slit the flap along the upper seam, careful
not to cut the enclosed correspondence, as if she would insert the paper with
the fold up, risking such a disaster.  Inside was a single sheet of
stationary folded precisely in the middle fitting snugly into every bit of
available space, so that to extract it took a moment as he maneuvered the page
back and forth to free it from its bed.

The invitation requested his
presence at dinner on Saturday the next at seven o’clock P.M. at the address he
knew well on 2nd Avenue; Formal Dress. 

Arriving at the designated address
five minutes before the requested time, he waited in the hall then knocked upon
the door at the appointed time.  The door was opened by a man wearing a
white shirt and black trousers and black shoes.  He was ushered into the
apartment, which had been converted to an elegant restaurant featuring a single
table set before the window with the best view of the Sound. 

The waiter handed him a small heavy
glass.  “I’ll tell Arabella that you’ve arrived.”  As the waiter
disappeared on his errand, he walked about the apartment he thought he knew
admiring the flowers and decorations and a view that looked new. Poking his
head into the kitchen he glimpsed a chef busy chopping and saucing.

She arrived fashionably
tardy.  He was sipping his aperitif, Lillet, when she came in.  She
was wearing a red dress with black heels.  At first impression he mistook
the dress for a rain coat; it was double breasted with a belt about the waist
that she’d tied in a knot as it didn’t appear there were belt loops.  The
red was beautiful and bold, the way a Ferrari is red.  The shoes were
ankle wrap pumps in suede.  Her hair was done differently, a wild mass of
waves and curls framing her face and spilling over the upturned collar of the
dress.  “The shoes are black suede,” she said, explaining that it was a
trench dress made especially for her by a New York designer for a special
evening.

She made him stand by the window so
she could inspect him.  The tuxedo was put together at the Italian atelier
in Belltown favored by Arabella, so he knew it would pass muster. 
Critically, she had him turn about admiring it with a practiced eye.

They decided on another aperitif
and stood together as the waiter filled their request, watching the ferry and a
tremulous moon shimmering in its soft wake. They spoke of nothing, commenting
on the view as if they hadn’t seen it hundreds of times, because it never
looked quite like it did this night.  The chef appeared murmuring about
the dinner, so he escorted her to the table where the waiter held her chair and
he took her hand and seated her, then took his own.

The waiter disappeared and they
took a moment to admire the table, which he knew she had set because she would
not leave the focal point of the evening to another’s eye.  The
centerpiece was of unknown flowers, mostly yellows and reds, in a deep blue
vase.  Somehow when he looked across the table her face was perfectly
framed between the blooms and for once it wasn’t annoying to have something
between them. 

The charger was blue matching the
vase, the plates were gold rimmed and the silver was arrayed on each side, each
piece perfectly spaced from the other.  Dinner proceeded, the courses
rolling out in perfect tune with the rhythm of the evening until they reached
dessert and the chef appeared.  They discussed the meal, congratulating
him on the preparations and the wine pairings.  Then he and the waiter
were excused and they departed, leaving Jesse and Arabella to eat the chocolate
confection that he’d made.

Afterwards, she said she would like
to dance and they did in the living room that had been cleared in case this
moment should come.  On the turntable was a perfectly preserved Etta James
album cued to ‘At Last’ and they swayed in the room to luscious strings and
lyrics that said what she avoided. 

Later, he wrestled with her
complicated red dress until she untied the belt and undid the fastenings. 
He slipped the dress off of her shoulders and they stood for a moment in the
dark.  He told her that the evening was perfect, the best of his life, and
that he loved her, and she said she knew that he did and that she loved
him.  Then, she crossed to her desk, opened a drawer and handed him the
key to her apartment, saying, “I want you to have this and, if anything should
happen, I want you to move in and live here.”  And when he started to
protest, she touched his lips, saying, “It would make me happy to know that you
are here if anything should happen.”  “Why, what is going on?” he
demanded, but it wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have this evening, so she
said she wanted to have a perfect evening and led him down the hall to the
bedroom.

 The clear light fell softly on her face, enough to
warm her skin, enough to suppress the People of the Night.  Viscous and
resilient, thick to push through, the air felt like rain to come, maybe
tonight, but this afternoon the clouds were white against the blue.  She
turned her face to the sky, watching eagles circle Portage Bay high in the sky,
savage crucifixes black against the infinite blue.  She marveled at the
sight of so many in the middle of the City.  Hopefully, one would strike,
plucking an unsuspecting salmon from the water, carrying it to the dense stand
of pines over by the houses, tearing it to bits to feed her eaglets.  

The park north of the University
was a welcome escape from the days and nights on Seattle’s streets and
alleys.  Malloy’s message promised a plan to end this grind and retake her
life.  The longer this went on, the more likely that Jesse would be
injured or killed in the guerilla warfare and that she could not allow.

She watched as the familiar clump
of trash by the dumpster shook itself into a slightly different position. 
Ratman had arrived early and found a spot where he could observe the comings
and goings. 

She’d picked the park on Jesse’s
suggestion; it was ideal for the meeting.  Outdoors in the sunlight it
would be impossible for most Vampires to linger.  The grounds were tidal
marsh lands with wooden walkways meandering on stilts above the ground.  The
paths wandered about, intersecting, then spinning off to another vantage point,
a wonderful place to admire the flora and fauna of this particular ecosystem.

No one could go cross-country
without sinking to their armpits in the mud. Anyone approaching on one of the
boardwalks would be visible long before they arrived.  She looked around
surveying the parkland, making a mental note to thank Jesse.  It was the
perfect place for the meeting, public yet anonymous.  The only company
worker bees and retirees out for a stroll on a beautiful day, sitting on
benches to eat lunch out of a bag.

Today she’d worn a camel skirt with
sleek boots to her knees and a dark blazer over a cream blouse.  A nice
bag and her aviators completed the professional out-for-a-break-from-the-office
look.  Ratman sidled past; his wafting odour reminded her of how badly he
needed a bath.  Perhaps when this was over she would at least make him
change his clothes, she thought, as the disgusting rubbish pile collapsed to
the ground near a bench. 

Malloy entered from the University
side, all grandfatherly in his baggy chinos and golf shirt, carrying a bright
green cardigan in case of a breeze off the water.  Ever professional, he
sauntered along with the Field Guide to the Birds of Western Washington in one
hand and lunch in the other, a retiree keeping his mind occupied and body
exercised.  He even peered up at the eagles, opened the book and
studiously flipped pages.  She wanted to scream ‘they’re eagles’ but left
him to his craft.

The Indian and Jesse came in
together, two buddies in their plaid shirts, jeans and boots, crossing the
walkways like experiencing nature was a competition.  Jess was imposing
but the Indian was that and more, so that casual walkers unconsciously moved,
ceding him right of way, which he accepted as his due.  He wore his hair
loose and it was black against the blue sky.  As the battles wore on, the
pretense of modern culture had dropped from him till he was a warrior from
another time. 

She watched Jesse take his
accustomed position, watching the flanks and covering their backs.  The
two had become a potent combat team, seamlessly fitting into Vampire
battle.  Although she would never say it to Jesse, she was grateful that
he and the Indian had become battle brothers if not friends, allowing her the
freedom necessary to lead the team without worrying about her lover in the
melee. She wanted to talk about their future, if they had a future but the
middle of a campaign wasn’t the time. She didn’t want him becoming any more
protective of her than he already was and taking risks on her behalf.  She
had enough emotional conflict suppressing fear for his safety while doing her
job. 

She started a slow walk to the spot
where the benches were set on a little point perfect for watching shore birds
hop about, pecking long skinny beaks into the mud for god knows what they
eat.  Sun shy, Prunella would appear when everyone was in place to
minimize her time in the light.  Prunella preferred the dark and suffered
depression from prolonged sun exposure, the other reason Arabella was happy
with this spot.

True to form, Prunella appeared
from the gloomy depths of a stand of big leaf maples and energetically crossed
to the benches.  Instantly annoyed at her elbows and ass angles, Arabella
silently inventoried Prunella’s wardrobe and, feeling better, greeted her,
“Nice color, Prunella, wherever did you find that shade of black?  It
really accents your pallor.”

It was no secret, and hadn’t been
for the three centuries she’d served as Captain of the Guard, that Prunella
despised her name and demanded to be addressed as Pru.  The Queen, equally
despising the American informality of abbreviations and nicknames, addressed
her by her forename.  Arabella, despising Prunella and her name, never
missed the opportunity to address her loudly and formally as Prunella, somehow
garbling the pronunciation so it came out Prune Ella.  One evening, she
added Mae to the end, reducing the bar at Blood Simple to tears of laughter,
cementing their enmity, an enmity encouraged by the Queen who preferred that
her lieutenants hate each other.  It was, she knew, childish and immature,
but she couldn’t help herself.

“Thank you, Arabella, nice
disguise. Nordstrom’s salesgirl?”

Satisfied, they proceeded together
to the benches, two friends meeting to enjoy the beautiful day.  Behind
them, the rubbish pile by the dumpster, ruffling in the breeze, disappeared
into the shadows.  Confident that Ratman had identified Prunella, Arabella
knew she would be tracked throughout the Underground by the constant unseen
eyes of the horde.

“Ladies,” said Malloy, gesturing to
the bench he was on.  The Indian and Jesse just looked at Prunella till
Arabella said, “Why don’t you two sweep the area in case someone’s paying
attention.”  Acknowledging the unspoken order, they stood and, after a
moment, divided the area between them and set off. 

Once they were about their duties,
Malloy launched into an analysis of the attacks and deaths attributed to
Oliver, displaying an encyclopedic knowledge of the sewers of Seattle, all
slathered with a strategic overview until even Arabella, who suspected it was
all bullcrap, found herself inexorably drawn to his conclusion.  Prunella,
daughter of the British Empire, took a while longer but eventually succumbed to
Malloy’s silver tongue.

The plan he proposed was simple to
execute and potentially devastating to Oliver.  His analysis of the
attacks, intelligence gleaned from interrogation of captured Vampires and his
knowledge of the Underground pointed to limited avenues available to Oliver’s
people.  Choke those spots and he would be hemmed in Underground with
access to topside blocked.  Then they could concentrate on those limited
avenues and lure them out for a final showdown.  The plan required
coordination of above and below ground forces to bottle him up, necessitating
cooperation between Arabella’s commando group and Prunella’s palace forces.

There were predictable questions
about tactics and Prunella squabbled about command and control, but Malloy
glossed over objections and questions saying that the Queen had approved the
plan and chosen them to implement it.  Prunella voiced Arabella’s
question, “Why they weren’t meeting with the Queen?” but Malloy tersely said
she wasn’t available since Petru’s death and he would be delivering her
orders.  Besides, he said it was imperative that the plan remain totally
secret.

The meeting over, Prunella walked
away, followed by a mound of trash, and the Indian and Jesse completed their
rounds.  As Malloy ambled off munching on his lunch, she told Jesse and
the Indian what happened.

“Since when is Malloy in charge?”
said Jesse, watching the pudgy shape amble off.

“Since he showed up and said he
was,” replied Arabella.

“Why the sudden secrecy?” asked the
Big Indian.

“They don’t trust someone.”

“Who?”