The Season of Passage

  He remembered Jennifer's last instructions.

  Daniel uncorked the canteen and wetted the wooden shaft with the water James Ranoth had brought from deep beneath the Himalayas. Jennifer had taken it from Ranoth's place while the Nova was still on its way to Mars. Using the file, he began to sharpen the tip. The wood was hard as steel; sweat sprung on his well-muscled chest as he worked. Three times he was forced to stop and rest. But each time he stopped it was darker, which made him want to work all the harder. When the first stars appeared

  overhead, he set aside the file and leaned closer to the tombstone. He began to scrape the shaft at sharp angles over the rough granite, until the tip turned to a fine point. Again he wet the wood with the water in the canteen. Then I he took the crossbow, pulled back the taut wire, and set the shaft in place.

  The last traces of sunlight were gone, but the moon continued to rise, bathing the forest in a false romantic serenity. A warm breeze stirred the leaves. Daniel tested the tip of the shaft carefully. He had done his work well. His delicate pressure was enough to prick his finger. A single dark drop of blood fell from his hand and was lost in the flowers and grass that covered the grave. The stake was sharp as a sword. Nothing could stand in its way and live.

  But he thought of Dr Lauren Wagner.

  Daniel gathered his tools and hurried from the cemetery.

  FORTY-ONE

  At the end of Rattlesnake Range, Terry Hayes pulled his rented car onto the shoulder of the road. He left the engine idling and climbed out, looking down upon the twinkling lights in the wide valley below - the city of Mobile. It was 10:14 p.m. The rental car company had taken a half hour to deliver his car. He had looked a fine sight, waiting for it in the airport lobby with his gun case and white roses in his hands.

  Overhead, the night sky was ablaze with the moon. He thought it appropriate. A hard warm wind blew from the south, the direction of his cabin. He leaned over and stretched his legs and his back; it felt good - that's why he'd stopped. His muscles had been cramping for the last ten minutes. The reason was not complicated. He was scared shitless.

  Terry was stepping back to his car when the wind abruptly shifted, coming out of the east instead. He was instantly alert to a change in the quality of the air. It seemed somehow thicker, and tainted with an odor of decay. He stopped, troubled. The smell was coming from the city, not from the direction of his cabin. Had Lauren taken a minor detour for a late-night snack? If that were true where was he to search? Should he waste the time?

  Then he remembered the last thing Lauren had said to him at Edwards.

  'Goodbye, lover. We'll meet again, maybe, and we'll dine together in our favorite place.'

  They had never had a favorite restaurant. He had never understood her comment. But now that he was not far from his cabin, he figured if they had to name a restaurant, it would have been Mr Russo's. And hadn't Lauren promised the gentleman that she would have dinner at his establishment to celebrate her return?

  Terry got in his car and headed toward the restaurant. It lay on the eastern outskirts of Mobile, sheltered by an outstretched arm of the forest. It was Thursday. They had probably just closed. Mr Russo and his son Michael were probably cleaning up.

  Terry arrived half an hour later. Her smell was strong. The restaurant parking lot was empty, except for Mr Russo's cream-colored Volvo. The building's lights were out. Terry took the flare from the glove compartment. He draped his rosary around his neck and jammed the vial of holy water in his back pocket. Then he opened the gun case. He loaded the shells without difficulty - five shots. He wondered whether he would have time to get one off. He pumped a shell into the chamber. He got out of the car and headed for the front door.

  He found Mr Russo a moment later. The man sat on the ground with his back against the closed door, his head slumped to his chest. At first Terry thought Mr Russo was dead. But when Terry shook him, he looked up. His eyes were vacant, and his face even allowing for the moonlight -was as pale as a bleached ghost's. He appeared to be in shock.

  'Terry?' he said softly. 'Have you come for dinner?'

  Terry glanced uneasily around and knelt by Mr Russo's outstretched legs. 'Has Lauren been here?' he asked.

  'Does she want dinner, Terry?'

  Terry gripped his shoulders and shook him. 'Tell me if Lauren has been here!'

  Mr Russo blinked. 'We should be closing.'

  'Where's your son? Where's Michael?'

  'Michael,' Mr Russo mumbled. A faint smile touched his lips. 'He's a good boy. He makes his Papa proud.'

  Terry slapped him across the face. 'Has she been here, damnit?'

  Mr Russo's head rolled with the blow. Then he frowned, puzzled. 'She came with you. We were closing and she said that your car had stalled on the hill. I went to check on it...' He trailed off, lost.

  'Where is your son now?' Terry asked anxiously.

  Mr Russo nodded pleasantly. 'Talking to Lauren. They were talking about Mars when I left...' His voice trailed off again. But then his face suddenly contorted into a lump of pain. He began to weep pitifully. 'She put Michael inside. She put my boy in with the meat.'

  He would say no more. Lighting the flare, Terry pushed him gently to the side and opened the front door. He stepped inside, into the dark. It pressed down upon him like a heavy blanket. He tried the light switch. Nothing happened. He held the flare out before him with his left hand, carrying the shotgun in his right. The flare wasn't very bright. It seemed to make more shadows than it dissipated. He wished it didn't burn with a red light. It reminded him of Mars, and he had never even been there.

  The dining room was unoccupied. Terry crept toward the closed kitchen door. He knew he was making the mistake of his life. He hoped to God Lauren hadn't felt this way on Mars. It must have been worse, of course - although

  honestly speaking, he couldn't imagine how it could have been. The reason his flare was causing every shadow in the room to jump at him was because his hands were shaking so badly.

  Terry reached the door and pressed his ear to it. All he could hear was the roar of his own blood in his ears. Putting a finger on the trigger of his shotgun, he opened the door.

  The smell was extremely bad. He could have just broken the seal of a tomb full of black-plague victims. He wished he had brought incense along with his rosary. He tried holding his breath, but he began to cough. Fortunately the effect of the smell on him was purely physical. He had no sudden desire to rape a pig. He relaxed slightly, very slightly. He told himself Lauren mustn't be around.

  He tried another light switch, and got the same result as before. He made his way around the central butcher's table. It was then he stepped through a layer of cold air. He pointed the flare to the right: the shiny steel freezer door was lying wide open. In with the meat you say, Mr Russo.

  Terry knew Lauren could be in there, too. She could probably turn on and off her perverted psychic overload switch at will, the cold-blooded lizard. But what the hell, he thought. He'd already paid the plane fare. He said a silent Hail Mary and stepped into the giant icebox.

  Fat slabs of beef hung in his burning light. The stink wasn't getting any better. Steam poured off the tip of his flare. All he needed now was to fog the whole freezer. Vampires loved to attack in the fog. He stepped deeper into the icebox. Mr Russo must have bought his meat in huge wholesale blocks; there was enough of it. He could have been walking through Kratine's pit.

  In more ways than one.

  At the back of the freezer, hanging between two bloody carcasses, he caught sight of a human leg.

  Michael.

  The boy was completely naked. The back of his head had been impaled several inches deep onto a meat hook. The force of the impalement had caused the hook to bend . slightly, and that was a hook that was used to the weight of cows. His eyes were half open, the pupils rolled upward into a dead brain. He stared at Terry with two white marbles. Terry couldn't help but stare back. Michael's skin was ashen, even the boy's once brown hair seemed
drained of color. His throat had been completely ripped open, yet there was a little blood. A lump of dark pubic hair lay below his hanging feet. The hair appeared wet, almost as if it had been spat out. Terry forced himself to look closer. The boy had been castrated. The wounds were rough and jagged. The job had not been accomplished with a knife.

  She had used her teeth.

  Terry ran from the cold tomb. He barely reached the kitchen sink in time. He vomited again and again until he was gagging on dry heaves.

  After a minute or two, as his nausea began to subside, Terry heard moans from the back of the building. At first he assumed Mr Russo had got up and staggered around to the rear of his restaurant. Clutching the flare and shotgun, Terry stepped out the back door. The stink was still about, but it was a thousand times less intense than inside. He felt little relief. He saw dark trees shaking in the wind, an empty parking lot. He couldn't find the source of the moaning sounds.

  But had he really heard them? Or had he been making them himself? He was distraught. A young boy castrated by his fiancée's molars. Damn NASA! Why did they have to explore space? Couldn't they see it was dark out there? That bad things could come out of the dark?

  The light of Terry's flare finally fell on a crumpled form

  lying in the shadows of the trees, about thirty yards from the restaurant.

  Terry ran to the form, and looked at the person's face. It was Daniel. The boy seemed unconscious. Nevertheless, he was writhing in pain. His shirt was wet with fresh blood. His right arm was twisted at an awkward angle; it had obviously been broken. The right side of his face was badly bruised; the right eye was swollen shut. Terry probed for major bleeding. He found none, but his touch made Daniel resume his moans, although he did not awake. Terry had to assume the boy had a serious concussion.

  Terry sat back and looked around. A rifle leaned against a nearby tree. It looked like the gun Daniel had been showing off the day before they had left to drive to the Space Center. But it seemed shorter, somehow. Terry rose, walked over to it, and picked it up. He almost screamed. The barrel had been twisted entirely around. The muzzle was now aimed directly into the shooter's eyes.

  Why is Daniel here?

  Terry couldn't understand how Daniel knew Lauren was a vampire. Sure, he had probably read the earlier drafts of Jennifer's story. He probably knew more about the Asurians than anyone one else alive, but that wasn't saying a lot. The only explanation was that Jennifer had told him the whole story before she died. Yet that didn't make sense, either. Why hadn't Daniel told him if vampires were on their way? And how did Daniel know Lauren would come to Russo's at this precise time? Terry was dumbfounded.

  He re-examined the boy. Even though Daniel was still unconscious, his breathing appeared to be growing stronger. Terry began to feel optimistic about his recovery. Especially when he noticed the silver ring Daniel wore on his left index finger. Terry had been wondering all day and

  night where he had left it, but now he realized that he must have simply misplaced it beside the cabin fireplace after his initial reading of Jennifer's story. Yet, the more he thought about it, the less he believed that.

  The ring had been important to Jennifer. He had not just tossed it aside. The ring had seemed to disappear on him. He had searched for it before leaving the cabin to come back to Houston - and had not found it. Well, in either case, it must have been there. Daniel must have taken it from the cabin. The ring was probably the reason he wasn't on a meat hook in the freezer with Michael.

  Jennifer had always liked Daniel. Terry left the ring where it was.

  Terry returned to the restaurant. The phone inside was broken. But he was able to reach the paramedics on a pay phone strapped to a tree at the far end of the parking lot. He explained Daniel's condition and location. They told him to stay with him and they would be there in fifteen minutes. He told them to make it ten. He hung up without mentioning Michael, or giving his own name.

  He wasn't going to be around in fifteen minutes. Or ten.

  He went inside the restaurant once more and returned to Daniel's side with a tablecloth of white linen. Covering the injured boy, he realized what he already knew. His holy water and rosary were a joke. Who was he trying to fool? He wasn't going to save anybody. She was dead. Now she had to be destroyed. In the end even Chaneen had learned the same hard lesson, and had brought the fire.

  I can't leave Michael for the medics to find. He might wake up in the morgue later on and bite off someone else's balls.

  Terry returned to the freezer and lifted Michael off the meat hook. Grabbing the arms, he dragged the body into the dining area. There was a fireplace, but it was small, and because it was summer, there were few logs on hand. No

  problem. He went after the tables and chairs. He was in a hurry. He didn't bother breaking them up. He just stacked them - one on top of the other - in the middle of the room. He threw on several tableclothes. When he was through he" hoisted Michael on top of the pile. He kept expecting the boy to wake up and grab his crotch.

  'Forgive me, Michael,' he said.

  He lit the stack with his flare and took a step back.

  The tableclothes caught quickly; the flames licked the wood and turned it dark, and then a bright orange. Oily black smoke filled the air. In minutes the room looked and felt like a funeral pyre. Terry could hardly stand the heat and fumes. Yet he lingered. He wanted to watch Michael burn. He wanted to see if the boy would try to get up. He wanted to hear if a shrill demonic scream rent the air. He had plenty of proof. He had more than he needed. But still...

  Michael's flesh peeled. His hair cracked. The whites of his eyes melted. His toenails turned into ten lit matches. He shifted uneasily in the flames, but only because the wood beneath him shifted. Nothing the books had predicted happened. Terry felt like a fool watching. It made him sick. The author of Dracula was just a guy like him. He knew nothing. Only Chaneen knew. Terry finally fled the room, coughing so hard he felt as if he would hack out a piece of his lungs.

  Outside the front door, Terry helped Mr Russo up, and led him across the parking lot to the man's car. He propped him up in the Volvo's front seat. Mr Russo looked over at his smoking place of business. He had stopped weeping. The lights inside his brain had gone back off. Maybe it was just as well, for the time being.

  'Did I burn the pizza?' Mr Russo asked.

  'Yes,' Terry said, kissing the man on the forehead. 'But

  it's OK. It wasn't your fault. It was nobody's fault.'

  Terry collected his shotgun. He returned to his car. He drove toward his cabin.

  FORTY-TWO

  A mile from his destination, on the deserted road that wound through the forest to his doorstep, Terry braked quietly and turned off the engine. He took his shotgun and picked up a single white rose. He told himself it was for good luck. He still had the rosary around his neck. He left the car and began to walk up the road toward the cabin.

  To his own surprise Terry realized he was only mildly frightened. He had been terrified a few minutes ago. Finding Michael should have been enough to send anybody running for reinforcements. He decided he must now be in slight shock. He did feel somewhat numb. But it was even more than that. Now that he paused to think about it, he could hardly remember what had happened at the restaurant, and he had just come from there. Michael had died, of course, and there had been a lot of beef hanging about, but that was all he could recall. Terry almost felt as if he hadn't been there, as if someone else had simply told him about it.

  But it was me who was there. There was no one else.

  He decided not to worry about it. Lauren was all that mattered. He had to find her and blow her brains out.

  He kept to the edge of the road as he walked, clinging to the shadows. The forest that surrounded him on all sides appeared unusually serene. The moon was bright and

  clear, the pine trees fragrant and still. The wind had vanished; and it had been so strong a few minutes ago. He couldn't smell a hint of foul odor, only
sweetness. Quite inexplicably, a feeling of peace began to sweep over him. It I made it difficult for him to keep clear in his mind the horrible thing he had to do to his girlfriend.

  The lake emerged through the trees on his right. It shone with silver light. Terry rounded a low hill, and there was his cabin. Without hesitating, he walked toward the front porch. He realized he should probably be sneaking up from behind. It just seemed such a bother.

  The door was wide open. Someone had lit a solitary white candle, and set it in a brass holder on a chair beside the entrance. The teardrop of yellow light burned without flickering in the calm air, casting a warm glow across the porch. He felt both reassured and confused. He liked candles. They were very pretty. But who had put this one here? He doubted it was Lauren. She was supposed to be a vampire. He had read somewhere that vampires didn't like fire.

  Where did I read that?

  He couldn't remember. He knew that was ridiculous. He knew he should remember that as easily as he could remember his own name. Then he tried to remember his own name. He was Terry Hayes - that was right. He didn't have a middle name. He was pretty sure he didn't.

  Yet his confusion did not trouble him. In a way, everything appeared just as he had expected. He went into the cabin. It was empty, but it nevertheless had a recent lived-in feeling. He assumed Daniel had been staying here. He didn't mind. He remembered giving the Floyd family permission to use the place.

  Terry wondered where Daniel was now.

  Daniel's with the paramedics. Don't be so dense.

  He did feel dense. He felt as if he had forty pounds of highly compressed foam rubber crammed between his ears.

  He went back outside and stood on the porch. Where was Lauren? He had to find her and cut out her heart. Yuck -he didn't like thinking about it. He didn't like thinking at all. It made his head hurt. He stumbled down the steps and wandered around in front of his cabin. He bumped into the stump where Jennifer had sat long ago reading Dracula. That was not a work of fiction, he reminded himself. There were vampires. He had personally met one and so had a couple of his friends. That was a fact. But were vampires really as bad as he thought? Maybe he and good old Herb had misunderstood where Lauren was coming from. Vampires were a tiny minority. No doubt they overreacted when people said something negative to them. They probably felt persecuted.