99 Coffins: A Historical Vampire Tale

99 Coffins

David Wellington

For Alex

CHESS

She is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave.

Walter Pater, Studies in the History of the Renaissance

1.

Fifty thousand men had died or been wounded on this broad valley, Montrose told himself. It must have been a scene out of hell—the injured lying sprawled across the corpses, the cannon still firing from the top of one hill at the top of another. The horses screaming, the smoke, the utter desperation. This was where the country could have fallen apart—instead, this place had saved it from utter ruin.

Of course, that had been a century and a half ago. Now as he stared out over the dewy Gettysburg battlefield all he saw were the trees shimmering in the wind that swept down between two ridges and stirred the long green grass. The blood had dried up long ago and the bodies all had been taken away to be buried. Off in one corner of the field he could just make out the scrupulously period-authentic tents of a band of reenactors, but it looked like even they were sleeping in.

He rubbed his face to try to wake himself up, forgetting for the third time that morning that he still had kohl daubed around his eyes from the previous night’s clubbing. Jeff Montrose was not a morning person. He preferred to think of himself as a creature of the night.

Of course, when Professor John Geistdoerfer called you at sixA.M. on a Sunday morning and asked if you’d supervise a student dig until he could arrive, you made your voice as chipper as possible and you got dressed in a hurry. The professor was the hottest thing going in the field of Civil War Era Studies, one of the most influential people at Gettysburg College. Staying on his good side was mandatory for a grad student like Montrose, if he ever wanted to have a career of his own someday.

And when the student dig turned out to be something special—well, even the most hard-core night owl could make an exception. Montrose ran down through the trees to the road and waved at the professor’s Buick as it nosed its way toward him. The car pulled onto the side of the road where Montrose indicated.

Geistdoerfer was a tall man with a shock of silver hair and a neatly combed mustache. He climbed out of the car and started up the track, not waiting to hear what his student had to say.

“I called you the second we found it,” Montrose tried to explain, chasing after the professor. “Nobody’s gone down inside yet—I made sure of it.”

Geistdoerfer nodded but said nothing as the two of them hurried toward the site. His eyes tracked back and forth across the main trench, a ragged opening in the earth made by inexpert hands. At the bottom, still mostly buried in dark earth, was a floor of decayed wooden planking. The undergrads who excavated it had come only for extra credit and none of them were CWES majors. They stood around the trench now in their bright clothes, looking either bored or scared, holding their trowels and shovels at their sides. Geistdoerfer was a popular teacher, but he could be a harsh grader, and none of them wanted to incur his wrath.

The site had been chosen for student work because it was supposed to be of only passing interest to history. Once it had been a powder magazine, a narrow pit dug in the earth where the Confederates had stored barrels of black gunpowder. At the end of the battle, when the soldiers had beat a hasty retreat, they had blown up the magazine to keep it out of the hands of the victorious Union troops. Geistdoerfer hadn’t expected to find anything in the dig other than maybe some shards of burned barrels and a few whitened lead minié balls identical to the ones you could buy at any gift shop in town.

For the first few hours of the dig they hadn’t even turned up that much. Then things got more interesting.

Marcy Jackson, a criminal justice major, had been digging in the bottom of the trench when she uncovered the magazine’s floorboards about an hour before Geistdoerfer arrived. Now Montrose motioned for her to step forward. Her hands were shoved deeply into her pockets.

“Marcy hit one of the floorboards with her trowel and thought it sounded hollow. Like there was an open space underneath,” Montrose said. “She, um, she hit the boards a couple of times and they broke away. There was an open space beneath, maybe a big one.” Which meant the site was more than just another powder magazine, though what else it had been used for was anybody’s guess.

“I just wanted to see what was down there,” she said. “We’re supposed to be curious. You said that in class.”

“Yes, I did.” Geistdoerfer studied her for a moment. “I also told you, young lady, that it’s traditional, at a dig, to not destroy anything before the senior academic on-site can have a look,” he said.

Montrose could see Jackson’s shoulders trembling as she stared down at her shoes.

The professor’s stare didn’t waver. “Considering the result, however, I think we can let this one slide.”

Then he smiled, warmly and invitingly. “Will you show me what you found?”

The student bit her lip and climbed down into the trench, with Geistdoerfer following. Together they examined the hole in the boards. The professor called up for Montrose to fetch some flashlights and a ladder. Geistdoerfer went down first, with Montrose and Jackson following. At the bottom they waved their lights around with no idea what they might find.

The powder magazine had been built on top of a natural cavern, they soon decided. Pennsylvania had plenty of them, though most of the big caves were north of Gettysburg. It looked like the Confederates had known it was there, since in several places the ceiling of the cave was shored up with timbers.

Jagged stalactites hung from the ceiling, but some effort had been made to even out the floor. Their flashlights did little to cut through the almost perfect darkness in the cave, but they could see it wasn’t empty. A number of long, low shapes huddled in the gloom, maybe large crates of some kind.

Jackson played her light over one of them and then squeaked like a mouse. The two men turned their lights on her face and she blinked in annoyance. “I’m okay. I just wasn’t expecting a coffin.”

Montrose dropped to his knees next to the box she’d examined and saw she was right. “Oh my God,”

he whispered. When they’d discovered the cave he’d assumed it would hold old weaponry or perhaps long-rotten foodstuffs and general supplies. The thought it might be a crypt had never occurred to him.

He started to shake with excitement. Every archaeologist at heart wants to dig up old burial sites. They may get excited about flint arrowheads or ancient kitchen middens, but the reason they got into the field in the first place was because they wanted to find the next King Tut or the next stash of terra-cotta warriors. He waved his light around at some of the other boxes and saw they were all the same. Long, octagonal in shape. They were plain wooden coffins with simple lids held on by rusting hinges.

His mind raced with the possibilities. Inside would be bones, of course, which were of great interest, but maybe also the remains of clothing, maybe Civil War–era jewelry. There was so much to be done, so much cataloging and descriptive work, the entire cavern had to be plotted and diagrams drawn up—

His train of thought was derailed instantly when Jackson reached down and lifted the lid of the nearest coffin. “Hey, don’t—” he shouted, but she already had it open.

“Young lady,” the professor sighed, but then he just shook his head. Montrose went to take a look.

How could he not?

Inside the coffin lay a skeleton in almost perfect preservation. All the bones were intact, though strangely enough they were also completely bare of flesh. Even after a hundred and forty years you would expect to see some remains of hair or desiccated skin, but these were as clean as a museum specimen. Far more surprising, though, was that the skull was deformed. The jaws were larger than they should have been.

They also had more teeth than they should. Far more teeth, and none of them were bicuspids or molars.

They were wicked-looking triangular teeth, slightly translucent, like those of a shark. Montrose recognized those teeth from somewhere, but he couldn’t quite place where.

Apparently Geistdoerfer had a better memory. Montrose could feel the professor’s body go rigid beside him. “Miss Jackson, I’m going to ask you to leave now,” he said. “This is no longer an appropriate site for undergraduate students. In fact, Mister Montrose, would you be good enough to go up top and send all of the students home?”

“Of course,” Montrose said. He led Jackson back to the ladder and did as the professor had asked.

Some of the students grumbled and some had questions he couldn’t answer. He promised them all he’d explain at the next class meeting. When they were gone he hurried back down the ladder, desperate to get to work.

What he found at the bottom didn’t make any sense to him. The professor was kneeling next to the coffin and had something in his hand, a black object about the size of his fist. He laid it quite gently and carefully inside the skeleton’s rib cage, then leaned back as if in surprise.

Jeff started to ask what was going on, but the professor held up one hand for silence. “I’d appreciate it if you went home too, Jeff. I’d like to be alone with this find for a while.”

“Don’t you need someone to help start cataloging all this?” Montrose asked.

The professor’s eyes were very bright in his flashlight beam. Jeff didn’t need more than one look to know the answer.

“Yeah, sure,” the student said. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Geistdoerfer was already staring down into the coffin again. He made no reply.

2.

I met with General Hancock for the last time in 1886, on Governors Island in the harbor of New York City. He was in ill health then, and much reduced in his duties as Commander of the Atlantic Division, and I waited in the anterooms of his office for several hours in the cold, with only a small stove to warm me. When he came in he walked with much difficulty, and some pain, yet gave me the warm felicitations we two have always shared.

We had some matters of small business to conclude. Last of these was the thin sheaf of documents I had compiled, about my work at Gettysburg in July 1863. “I think they should be burned,” the general told me, without a glance at them. His eyes were fixed on my face instead, and as sharp and clear as I remembered, from the third day of the battle. The pain had not then touched his fierce intellect, nor his spirit. “These papers offer nothing to posterity save moral terror, and would ruin many a fine career should they be published now. What benefits any of us to stir up old memories?”

One does not question a man of Winfield Scott Hancock’s authority. I bowed over the papers and gathered them again into my valise. He turned to reach for a glass of tea, which steamed in the icy room.

“And what of the soldiers?” I asked. “They are veterans, all.”

But his answer was immediate. “They are dead, sir,” he told me, putting his feet up on the stove.

“It is better for them to remain so.” His voice sank lower as he added, “and best for our sacred Conscience, as well.”

A week later he was brought to Pennsylvania, and buried there, having died of a very old wound that never healed.

—THE PAPERS OFCOLONELWILLIAMPITTENGER

3.

The unmarked car sat screened by a row of trees only a hundred yards from the barn. The same barn she’d been looking at for so long—just a big unkempt pile of weather-eaten wood planks, with here and there a broken window. It looked like it ought to be deserted, or even condemned, yet she knew it was full to capacity with the fifteen members of the Godwin family, every single one of whom had a criminal record. As far as she could tell they were all asleep. A gray squirrel ran up the side of a drainpipe and she nearly jumped out of her seat. Getting control of herself, she scribbled some notes on her spiral pad.

Sept. 29, 2004, continuing surveillance outside of Godwin residence near Lairdsville, Pennsylvania. This was it, she thought. The day of the raid had finally come. She looked up. The dashboard clock ticked over to 5:47A.M. and she made a note.

“I count five vehicles out front,” Corporal Painter said. “That’s all of them—the whole family’s in there.

We can get everybody in one sweep.” As the junior officer on the investigation, Caxton had been assigned to shadow one of the more experienced troopers. Painter had been doing this for years. He sipped at an iced coffee and squinted through the windshield. “This is your first taste of real police work, right?”

“I guess you could say that,” she replied. Once upon a time she had worked on a kind of investigation.

She had fought for her life against vampires far more deadly than any bad guy Painter might have tracked down in his career. The vampire case had gotten her promoted, but it didn’t appear anywhere on her permanent record. It had been nearly a full year since she’d moved up from the Bureau of Patrol to the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. In that time she’d taken endless classes at the academy in Hershey, qualified on tests both written and oral, passed polygraph and background checks and full psychological, medical, and physical fitness evaluations, including a urinalysis for drug screening, before she was actually permitted to work a real investigation in the field. Then had come the hard part, the actual work. For the last two months she had been pulling twelve-hour shifts in the car, watching the barn that they believed contained one of the biggest meth labs in the Commonwealth. She hadn’t made a single collar yet, nor confiscated any evidence, nor interviewed a person of interest. This raid would prove whether or not she was cut out for criminal investigations, and she wanted to do everything perfectly.

“Here’s a tip, then. You don’t have to write down the time every five minutes if nothing happens.” He smiled and gestured at her notepad with his coffee cup.

She smiled back and shoved the pad into her pocket. She kept her eyes on the barn. She wanted to say something funny, something to make Painter think she was one of the guys. Before she could think of anything, though, the car radio lit up and the voice of Captain Horace, their superior, came through.

“All cars, all cars. The warrant just came through. Hazmat and firefighters in place. All cars are on scene.

Let’s wake ’em up!”

Caxton’s body surged with adrenaline. It was time.

Painter twisted the key in the ignition and threw the car into gear. They lurched forward onto the road, then swung into the broad unpaved driveway in front of the barn, their tires squealing. All around them other cars—hidden until that exact moment—came tearing out of the woods, and armored cops spilled out onto the gravel. Beside her a pair of troopers brought up a breeching device—a length of PVC pipe filled with concrete that could knock down even a steel-core door. Another trooper ran toward the door to knock and announce—to give the legally required warning he had to shout out before they could bust in and serve the warrant. Everyone was armored, and everyone was masked up. She grabbed her own gas mask off her belt and strapped it over her face. Meth labs churned out some pretty nasty chemicals, including phosphine gas that could kill you in seconds. She couldn’t see very well through the faceplate, but she ran forward anyway, drawing her weapon and keeping it down near her hip. Her heart pounded in her chest. Everything was happening so fast.

“Team one to the left, team two with me. Go, go, go!” Captain Horace shouted, coming up from behind her. “Team three”—that was her team—“get some distance. Team three,” he called, “get back, get—heads down!”

A window had opened up in the second story of the barn. A man with a shaved head and sores on his face leaned out and started firing at them with a hunting rifle. Damn it, she thought, they were supposed to have been asleep! She ran forward, seeking shelter on the porch of the barn, a narrow roofed porch that would give her cover.

“You! Get back, get back!” Horace shouted. Gunshots smashed into the gravel and struck the hood of her car as if it had been hit with a hammer. “Caxton, get back!”

In her twenty-seven years of life no one had ever shot at her before. Her brain stopped working and her kidneys hurt as her adrenal glands poured fire into her veins. She tried to think. She had to follow the order. She tried to spin on her heel and run back. The cars were so far away, though. She was out in the open and the porch was so close—

Without warning a high-velocity bullet smashed into her sternum, knocking her backward.

Her vision went red, then black, but only for a moment. Her feet couldn’t seem to grip the loose gravel, and her head collided jarringly with the ground. She could hear nothing at all. Her entire body felt like a bell that had been struck.

Gloved hands grabbed her ankles and pulled her backward, away from the barn, her legs bouncing wildly. She couldn’t feel her left arm. Faces stared down into hers, faces in helmets and gas masks. She could hear a buzzing noise that slowly resolved into a human voice demanding to know if she was still alive.

“Vest,” she said. “The vest took it.” Hands grabbed at her chest and pulled and tugged. Someone got the bullet free, a shiny lump of distorted metal. Someone else pulled at her helmet, but she batted the hands away. “I’m okay,” she shouted, again and again.

She could hear a little better by that point. She could hear the unrhythmic barking of hunting rifles and the more stately reply of automatic weapons fire.

“Get her out of here,” the captain shouted.

“No, I’m good!” she shouted back. Her body begged to differ. You’re not as fragile as you think, she told it, repeating words an old colleague had once said to her. They wouldn’t let her get up—they were still dragging her, even as she fought them.

“What the fuck happened?” a trooper asked, pressing his shoulder against the side of a car. He leaned out a little, into the open, then jumped back as rifle fire chewed up the gravel ahead of him. “They were supposed to all be asleep!”

Captain Horace tore off his gas mask and scowled at the barn. “I guess they use their own shit. Meth freaks get up earlier than normal people.”

Hands reached down and helped her sit up against the side of a car. She couldn’t see anything through her mask. She couldn’t breathe. “Let me up,” she shouted. “I can still shoot!”

“Stay down, ” Horace shouted, pushing down hard on her shoulder. “I don’t have time for this. I’m giving you an order. You disobeyed the last one. You don’t get to do that twice. You stay here, stay down, and stay out of the goddamned way.”

Caxton wanted to protest, but she knew he wasn’t interested in her opinion. “Yes, sir,” she said. He nodded and jumped up to run to the back of another car. She struggled to take off her gas mask and drop it on the gravel beside her, then settled in to get comfortable.

It was hours before the shooting was done and they’d carted off the last suspect. After that she could only watch as the other troopers came parading out of the house carrying pieces of the meth lab wrapped in plastic and plastered with biohazard stickers. Ambulances carried away the wounded and almost as an afterthought a paramedic was sent to take a look at her bruised chest. He took off her vest, opened up her shirt, and took one look at her before handing her an ice pack and telling her she was fine. While she was being discharged Corporal Painter came by to check up on her. “You missed all the fun,” he said, grinning. He leaned down and gave her a hand to help get her back on her feet. Her rib cage creaked a little as she rose, but she knew she was fine. “Not quite what you signed on for, was it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’m going home,” she told him. She dug her notepad out of her pants pocket and threw it to him. “Here, you can write up the report.”

4.

They asked I tell my tale. I should like it not, save the War Department demands it of me, & no man, no living man can call me SHIRKER, so I will write down on these pages what happened to me & to the men of my charge, & what horrors I have seen & what tragedies did occur. Also, of those trespasses we committed. So be it.

Let me begin after the battle of Chancellorsville, for what happened there is of no matter to my present narrative. Suffice to say the Third Maine Volunteer Infantry was the last to flee that hell of cannon fire and muddy death. When at last the order came to retreat, we made all due speed away. On June 21st, 1863, after some marching, we made camp in a place called Gum Spring, Virginia. Before we were allowed to rest, however, the sergeant came down the line with a candle in his hand and beating on a small drum with new orders. We were to stand Picket Duty, which is no soldier’s desire. The six of us, which were one quarter of the remains of Company H, marched out about one mile from the lines, there to look for & make contact with the enemy, should he present himself. Hiram Morse, who I have called a malingerer & worse, liked it least. “This is dog’s duty,” he muttered, & often. “To send us into the heart of the Confederacy in the middle of the night! Do they want us dead, truly?”

I should, as my duty as corporal requires, have struck him & made him silent but it was good old Bill who saved me from such an unwelcome task. “Maybe you’d like to ride back to camp & ask our Colonel that question,” he whispered. “I’m sure he’d love to hear your thoughts.”

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

5.

The next morning Caxton was finally getting some sleep when sunlight flooded into the room and burned her cheek. She tried to roll away from it but the heat and light followed her. She clenched her eyes tight and grabbed hard at her pillow.

Something soft and feathery brushed across her mouth. Caxton nearly screamed as she bolted upright, her eyelids flashing open.

“Time to get up, beautiful,” Clara said. She had a white rose in her small hand and she’d been running its delicate petals across Laura’s lips.

Caxton took a deep breath and forced a smile. After a tense moment Clara’s face turned up with a wry grin. Clara had already showered, and her wet hair hung in spiky bangs across her forehead. She was wearing her uniform shirt and not much else.

“Too much, so early?” Clara asked. Her eyes were bright. She held out the rose and Laura took it. Then she picked up a glass of orange juice from the bedside table and held that out, too.

Caxton forced herself to calm down, to push away the darkness of the night. There had been bad dreams, as always. She was, over time, learning ways to forget them when she woke up. Clara had learned ways to help.

“Just perfect,” Caxton said. She drained half the glass of juice. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight. I have to go.” Clara was a police photographer for the sheriff ’s department in Lancaster County. It was nearly an hour’s commute from the house they shared near Harrisburg. Caxton had been trying to convince Clara for months to join the state police so they could work out of the same building, but so far she had resisted.

Caxton drank her juice while Clara finished getting dressed. “I have to get moving, too,” she said.

Clara kissed her on the cheek. “Call me if you want to meet for lunch, okay?”

And with that she left. Caxton padded into the kitchen, the floor freezing cold against her bare feet, and watched through the window as Clara drove away in her unmarked Crown Victoria. She craned her neck, leaning hard on the sink, to catch an extra little moment. Then Clara was really gone, and Caxton was all alone.

She didn’t waste much time getting ready. She had come to not like her own house when there was no one else in it. Some very bad things had happened there, and she was a little surprised it wasn’t actually haunted.

Deanna, Caxton’s lover before Clara, had died there. Not right away. It had been ugly, and Caxton herself had been involved in a very bad way. She had inherited the house and her car from Deanna, but the dead woman’s legacy went a lot deeper than that. It threatened to destroy her mind every night. After moving in, Clara had redecorated the place completely, but the velvet curtains and the hanging strands of lights shaped to look like chili peppers only went so far.

She took a long shower, which felt very good. She ran a comb through her short hair and brushed her teeth. She ran a wet washcloth over her face and smeared on deodorant. Back in the bedroom she pulled on black dress slacks, a white button-down man’s shirt, and her best knit tie. Standard dress for criminal investigations and not too aggressively butch. It looked cold outside, appropriately cold for the season, so she grabbed a knee-length black coat and rushed outside to feed the dogs.

Her greyhounds were excited to see her, as usual, and started singing as soon as she pulled open the door of their heated kennel. Fifi, her newest acquisition, had to lick her hand for a long time before she would allow Caxton to change her water. The dog had been abused at her former home and she still didn’t trust anyone, even if they were carrying treats.

The dogs all wanted to play, to get out and run, but she didn’t have time. Food and water supplied, a little love spread around the three dogs in the kennel, she moved on. In the driveway she popped open the door of her Mazda and climbed inside.

She took out her BlackBerry and scrolled through her email. After yesterday’s shooting she was on medical leave from work, but there was still something she had to do. She’d been putting it off—frankly, she’d been avoiding it in hopes that it would just go away. It wasn’t exactly something she would enjoy, but it was important. She could go and visit a crippled old man to whom she owed her life several times over.

Jameson Arkeley had been her mentor, once, or at least she had wanted him to play that role. She’d been useful to him in his crusade to drive vampires to extinction. She’d worked with him closely and as a result terrible, truly horrible things had happened to her life. A year later she was just starting to recover from them.

He’d been badly injured back then, so much so that he had been forced to retire from the U.S. Marshals Service. He’d been in the hospital for months having his battered body put back together. Caxton had tried to visit him once, only to be told he didn’t want to see her. That seemed harsh, but not surprising.

He was a tough old bastard and he didn’t waste a lot of time on sentimentality. Since then she hadn’t seen him or heard from him. Then out of nowhere he had emailed her, asking her to come and see him at a hotel in Hanover. There was no other information in the email, just a request for her presence.

Now seemed like the perfect opportunity. She took the car out onto the highway and headed south, down toward the border with Maryland. It was a good hour’s drive, but felt longer. Back when she’d worked on the highway patrol she had thought nothing of being in a car for eight hours a day, driving endless distances up and down the Turnpike. In one short year she’d lost that, and now an hour’s drive seemed to take forever.

In Hanover she pulled into the lot of a Hampton Inn and walked into the lobby. A blue-vested clerk at the reception desk smiled broadly as she walked up and leaned on his counter. “Hi,” she said, “I’m—”

“Officer Caxton, you don’t need to introduce yourself,” he said. “I’m a huge fan.”

Caxton smiled but couldn’t contain a little sigh. Another fan of the TV movie. They all seemed to think that she’d personally had something to do with the production. She hadn’t even seen any money out of it, much less worked on the set. She could barely watch it, herself, because it brought back too many memories.

“Mr. Arkeley is expecting you, of course,” the clerk told her. “Isn’t he great?”

“Are we talking about Jameson Arkeley?” She couldn’t imagine anyone calling the grizzled old vampire killer “great.” It just didn’t fit.

The clerk nodded, though. “Just exactly like they showed him. I remember thinking when I watched the movie that nobody could be that big a jerk, that they must have broadened his character, but—well. I suppose I don’t need to tell you. He’s in room 112. Could you just sign this?”

“Sure,” she said, and looked down, expecting to see a guest registry. Instead the clerk held out a copy of the DVD release of Teeth: The Pennsylvania Vampire Killings . Underneath the title was a picture of the actress who had played Caxton. Nearly a perfect match, except the woman on the cover had blue eyes and bright red lipstick. It looked ridiculous, since she was also wearing a state trooper’s uniform and shooting a giant pistol from the hip.

Caxton shook her head a little but took the pen the clerk offered and scribbled her name across the picture. Another name was already inscribed near the bottom. It was Arkeley’s signature, an almost angry-looking letter A followed by a simple dash. She wondered how many times the clerk had been forced to ask before Arkeley had consented to that.

“You,” the clerk said, “have just made my day. If you guys need anything, complimentary room service, free cable, whatever, just call this desk and ask for Frank, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, and handed him the DVD. Then she turned and headed down a short hallway to the guest rooms. Room 112 was near the end, across from the laundry room. She knocked lightly on the door and then stood back, her hands in her pockets. She would stay an hour, she told herself. No more than that.

The door opened and Arkeley looked out at her. She almost gasped, but covered her shock in time. He had changed considerably since the last time she’d seen him. Back then he was in his early sixties but looked eighty. Killing vampires had left him wizened and with a face so full of wrinkles that his eyes seemed to get lost in the folds.

Now he looked ghastly. The undead servants of the teenaged vampire Kevin Scapegrace had left their mark on him, and even a year later silvery scars covered most of the left half of his face. His left eyelid drooped low over the eye and the left half of his mouth was a J-shaped mass of scar tissue. His buzzed hair was missing in a big swath across the top of his head, where a reddish fissure dug through his scalp.

She looked down, away from his face, but that was almost worse. His left hand was a club of flesh with no fingers. Scapegrace himself had bitten them off, she remembered. Just grabbed them with his teeth and tore them right off. She’d always imagined that they could have been reattached. Apparently she’d been wrong.

The worst change to his appearance, though, didn’t stem from his injuries or his scars. It came from time, and distance. She remembered him, whenever she did think of him, as a giant of a man. He’d been considerably taller than her and much broader through the shoulders. Or at least she remembered him that way. The man standing before her was a little old man, a badly, horribly injured little old man who couldn’t have fought off a teenaged delinquent, much less a rapacious vampire. It seemed impossible that this was the same man she’d once known. Then he opened his mouth and proved her wrong.

“Too long, Trooper,” he said. “You took too damned long getting here. It might already be too late.”

“I was busy,” she said, almost reflexively. She softened a little and tried greeting him again. “Nice to see you, too, Jameson,” she said, and followed him into the hotel room.

6.

It was uneasy work to cross those fields. There was but little moon, & yet starlight was enough to see by. All of us had the fear, for this was the land of partisans and rangers, who would shoot a man’s back should he step away from his fellows & only long enough to heed the call of nature. At the least we could see something. Away from the line & the endless dust of marching the air was almost preternaturally clear. Perhaps that is how Eben Nudd spotted the white demon so easily, though it took pains to hide itself.

Nudd grabbed my arm, without warning, & I nearly jumped. In the darkness every motion was an enemy, & every sound the hoofbeats of a regiment of Reb cavalry. Nudd did not call out, though, or make any sign. He lifted one finger & pointed toward a stand of trees at perhaps twenty-five yards.

For myself I saw but a certain pallor in those woods, at least at first, like a snake of mist coiled up. I squatted down & squinted & thought maybe I saw a pair of eyes there, like the last embers of a campfire. I did not care for their expression. “Is that man watching us?” I asked Eben Nudd, my voice a barest exhalation of air.

“Ayup,” he said, which I sometimes think is half of his vocabulary. Eben Nudd is the very type of a downeaster, formerly a lobsterman, with a craggy face like leather & eyes as pale & clear as morning dew, & he was born, it sometimes seems, with no passion in his breast at all. Many times on many battlefields his coldness had served us well & I trusted him now, even when I liked not what he had to say. “Longer than we seen him, I figger.”

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

7.

Arkeley moved slowly, one leg dragging behind the other. Caxton shuffled along behind him as respectfully as she could. Once he turned to glare back at her, but he said nothing. With a deep grunt he dropped to sit on the edge of a single bed and then ran his good hand over his face as if he were wiping away sweat.

“How have you been?” she asked. “How’s your family? Have you seen them much lately?” He had a wife and two children, she knew, though she’d never met them. She believed he was estranged from his family, though not in any kind of dramatic way. He had just become so obsessed with his work that they had fallen by the wayside, immaterial to what he considered important.

“Everyone’s fine.” She expected him to say something more but he didn’t.

She glanced around the room. She’d been trained to always make a note of her surroundings when she entered a new place, and though she didn’t expect to find any criminals lurking in the corners, she did get a big surprise. The room was nice enough, a small double furnished tastefully though cheaply. There was a big television in a cabinet on one wall, an open closet with a pair of suits hanging from its rack. A door at the far end of the room led to a darkened bathroom. A thin muslin curtain had been drawn across the windows, leaving the room in semidarkness. Arkeley’s suitcase stood open and mostly packed on the other bed. Beyond that bed, near the windows, two metal luggage stands had been erected. Balanced on top of them stood a simple wooden coffin.

Caxton’s guts clenched at the sight of it. She had no doubt that it was occupied.

The coffin could belong only to one creature, the vampire who had destroyed Caxton’s life and turned every one of her nights into a parade of nightmares. Justinia Malvern, a three-hundred-year-old monster with a pedigree of cunning and deceit.

Even a year later Caxton felt the urge to go over to the coffin, throw back the lid, and tear out Malvern’s heart. It was daytime, and she knew that if she did open the casket she would find little but bones and maggots in there. Even by night the vampire was a decrepit wreck, a rotten body with one eye and little else but a diabolical will to continue her blighted existence. Like all vampires she was immortal, but she required blood to maintain her bodily health. The older a vampire got the more blood they needed every night just to be able to walk. A long, long time ago Malvern had passed the point where she could hunt for herself, and now she was doomed to an eternity in her coffin, barely able to move at all. If she could get enough blood—and she would need gallons of it every night—she could have revivified, but Arkeley had made sure that never happened.

Caxton walked over and set her hand on the coffin. The wood was cold as ice, and her skin prickled when it got too close. Malvern, like all vampires, was an unnatural freak, something that shouldn’t exist.

She warped reality around herself, and every living thing recognized the wrongness, the unclean nature of her. Maggots didn’t seem to mind, but dogs and horses would go crazy if she came close to them.

Caxton’s urge to destroy her was a perfectly rational reaction. Yet if she did it, if she ended so much trouble then and there, she knew she would go to jail. Malvern was a mastermind of vampires, a schemer and conspirator, but she had never harmed an American citizen as far as anyone could prove. The courts had decided after long deliberation that she was still human and still deserving of the protection of the law. Arkeley had spent much of his adult life fighting that ruling and trying to get a warrant for her execution. He had so far failed at every turn.

“Jesus,” Caxton said. “You’re traveling with her?”

“After the debacle at Arabella Furnace I decided I didn’t trust her with anyone else.” Arkeley nodded at the coffin and then at a laptop computer set on the nightstand next to it.

Caxton opened the lid of the laptop and watched the screen flicker to life. A mostly blank window opened, a document created by a word processor. Malvern was too far decayed to be able to talk or even gesture much, but she could hunt and peck on a computer keyboard, sometimes taking hours to tap out a few characters. If left alone all night with the computer sometimes she tried to communicate with the world outside her coffin. It was rare that she had anything worthwhile to say—mostly she wasted her time on idle threats and dark imprecations. The message Caxton found on the screen was a little more cryptic than usual:

comformeh

“Any idea what this means?” Caxton asked Arkeley.

He shook his head. “It’s not any language I recognize. I think she may have reached the point where she can’t even form words anymore and she’s just stabbing at random keys.”

Caxton shoved her hands back in her pockets. She felt vaguely ill, as if the air in the room had been tainted.

She turned to look at him with sad eyes. She expected to find him combative and scolding, but instead he took her glance as a spur to action. He straightened up and his eyes positively glowed. He fastened the top button of his shirt with one hand and struggled into a jacket. Then he scuttled up off the bed and took a pair of black leather gloves from out of his suitcase. With his good hand and then with his teeth he pulled them on. One glove covered the lump of flesh at the end of his left arm. The fingers of that glove splayed out pointlessly, but at least they looked somewhat normal.

“Why didn’t you get a prosthetic?” she asked.

“Too much nerve damage. Now, if you’re done playing nurse, we need to get started,” he told her.

“There’s much work to be done and we’ve already wasted two crucial days because apparently you don’t check your email anymore. I need you to call your captain and tell him you’ll be working on a new case for an indefinite time period. I’m sure they’ll understand in Harrisburg and if they don’t, I really don’t care. I still have enough clout to get you reassigned as necessary.”

“No,” she said.

He stared at her, his eyes frozen and unblinking. “No,” he repeated. “That’s not acceptable.”

“I helped you once. I was nearly killed. People I cared about were…killed.” She closed her eyes and let a wave of grief pass through her. When it had receded she looked at him again. “That ought to be enough.”

“It’s never over,” he told her.

“No? We killed all the vampires. Except her, of course. I’ve moved on. I’ve got a real job, doing real police work now.”

“And how is that working out?” he asked. “I was a real cop once, you’ll remember. I know what that’s like. It’s pointless. You chase around the same criminals you chased around the year before. You put them away for a while and then they get out and they repeat the same squalid little crimes. This is different. It’s far more important.”

Arkeley’s life had been taken over by the vampires. Every minute of his day he spent thinking about them, planning their destruction. She couldn’t let herself get sucked in like that. “What I do is important, too,” she said. She didn’t want to go into the details. She didn’t want to say what she was really thinking.

Her first raid might not have gone how she’d hoped, but she had survived it. When she was down and hurt people had worked to save her. He would never have dragged her out of the line of fire, she knew.

He would have pushed her further into danger. Was her resistance to his plea based solely on fear? Was she fighting him just because she didn’t want to get killed? She said, half trying to convince herself, “I protect the people of this state. I’m working drug law enforcement right now, keeping methamphetamines away from schoolkids.”

He shook his head. “Forget about that. When you hear what I’ve found you’ll—”

She interrupted him. “I don’t want to know.”

He looked as if he couldn’t understand what she was saying.

Caxton sighed, deep and long. She had no idea what he wanted from her, but she knew she wanted no part of it. “I’m glad you’re doing okay, and I’m sure whatever’s got you so worked up is important, really,” she said. “But I don’t have time to help you right now.”

“You don’t? Something else more important calling for your attention?” he asked. “Maybe you need to spend more time with your girlfriend? One of your dogs got sick? Well, that’s too bad. You’re needed elsewhere right now. In Gettysburg, to be exact. You’re driving.”

“No,” she said.

“No?”

The word lost all meaning when he repeated it like that. It would be easy to raise her hands in surrender and say yes instead—as she always had before. But she was a normal person now. If she wanted to stay normal, she had to stay strong.

He grimaced horribly and asked, “Why on earth not? You know me, Trooper. You know I don’t waste my time on trivialities. If I say this is important you should know by now that it is absolutely crucial.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, but couldn’t, for a moment, finish that thought. He was right—she knew he was right. He wouldn’t have summoned her just to catch up on old times. He had something for her to do, and it was probably something dangerous.

“I need you right now. I need you to drive me to Gettysburg today.”

She could say no to him. She was sure that she had the strength to do it. He was a weak old man now.

Yet she felt like she had to give him something. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’ll give you a ride. But that’s all.”

He frowned but he didn’t fight her. She knew him well enough to realize that was a bad sign, but she didn’t know how to react. “Very well. Let me get my coat.” He struggled as he walked around the side of the bed toward the closet.

“What about her?” Caxton asked, looking at the coffin.

“As long as I’m back by nightfall she shouldn’t be any trouble,” he said.

8.

The life of a spymaster for the War Department had its consolations. For one thing, I was appointed a horse to ride, while it seemed every other man in the world must walk. All that day I rode while the Army of the Potomac moved past me in a never-ending line, a human chain that stretched as far south as vision permitted, and went away from me to the north just as far. The dust they stirred up with their boots made a pall that rose on the air and hung there, like some spirit host of Araby made of sand. All day they tramped by, with calls and halloos from the drivers of the mule trains, and some singing, though not much.

This was just after Chancellorsville, when all hope seemed vain. Though outnumbered, Lee had trounced us yet again without breaking a sweat. He seemed invincible; surely that was the common belief. The Union has never known a darker day. The war had turned against us and even I believed the dream of a unified Union was doomed. Perhaps this helps explain what we did, and what we dared.

I was headed deep into Maryland, and away from Virginia, for which I was glad. I’d learned much from my contacts behind the lines, and needed promptly to report. From some runaway slaves who’d been attached to Jeb Stuart’s supply lines, I’d heard that Lee was moving again, and this time the enemy was headed north.

A very charming Southern belle, who was in secret a hater of slavery, had told me even more.

Lee was headed for Pennsylvania. For the first time he intended to bring the war to us, to the North. Already the democrats in Congress were howling for an end to this war. Well, it looked as if they might get it, but on Jeff Davis’s terms.

—THE PAPERS OFWILLIAMPITTENGER

9.

She followed him out to the parking lot. The clerk at the front desk gave them a cheery wave, which Arkeley completely ignored. The old Fed shoved himself into her little Mazda and in a minute they were off. It wasn’t a long drive to Gettysburg—it was the next town over from Hanover. Though they didn’t talk any more along the way, the atmosphere in the car never got too unbearable. She was just doing a favor for an old friend, she told herself. Well, friend was probably the wrong word.

He cleared his throat as they neared Gettysburg, but only to give her directions. “It’s on the far side of town,” he said.

She drove through the center of Gettysburg, a town given over almost entirely to history. She knew very little about the Civil War, but like most kids raised in central Pennsylvania she’d been dragged through Gettysburg on class trips as a child, so she knew it had been the location of a particularly important battle, the turning point of the war. Now it was a tourist destination.

Not necessarily a tourist trap, though. She had seen plenty of those: soulless little towns comprised entirely of T-shirt shops and gaudy ice cream parlors. Instead Gettysburg was a well-preserved Victorian town, full of brick buildings with slate roofs that hadn’t changed much in a hundred and forty years. It was almost tasteful—at least at its center. She drove through a traffic circle called Lincoln Square, past small museums and antiques shops, banks, and hotels. The town was crowded with tourists, families with herds of children carrying plastic replicas of Civil War–era rifles and felt forage caps with plastic brims.

The real things were in evidence as well, in some profusion: it seemed every corner had at least one reenactor in blue or gray, clad in authentic but itchy-looking uniforms, most of them with beards and long sideburns.

She sighed as she stopped at a crosswalk to let a gaggle of schoolchildren pass. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll bite.”

“Hmm?” he asked.

“What’s here?” she asked. “What kind of horror could there possibly be in a place like this?”

He shifted painfully in his seat. “Something old. I got a call a couple days ago from a student at the college here. An archaeologist was digging up some old Civil War ruins and found some evidence of vampire activity.”

“No,” Caxton exhaled, “we got them all!”

He waved one impatient hand at her. “Old vampire activity,” he said. “More than a century old. They found the bones of a number of vampires, still in their coffins. It’s almost certainly nothing.”

“But you won’t rest easy until you check it out,” she said.

“I never rest easy,” he told her. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She didn’t want to have anything in common with him, not anymore.

Caxton stared straight ahead at the crosswalk, ready to get moving again. Eventually some adults herded up the children and moved them on. They drove in silence until she’d reached the far end of town. He had her turn off into the military park, up to the top of Seminary Ridge, a zone of quiet green hills studded everywhere by endless monuments—obelisks, arches, huge marble statues. There were fewer tourists out that way but a lot more reenactors, some of them having set up elaborate period-accurate tent camps. They drilled in formation or stood around polishing cannon and mortars that looked like they could actually be fired. Arkeley told her to turn off on a poorly marked gravel road, and the car rumbled along for about half a mile into a thick clump of trees. Three cars, late-model cheap Japanese sedans, sat in a crook of the road, and a foot trail led deeper into the woods. Caxton pulled up beside a red Nissan Sentra and switched off the ignition. She had no idea where she was or what Arkeley wanted there, and she told herself she didn’t care.

He cleared his throat again. “Aren’t you going to take off your seat belt?” he asked.

“No,” she told him. “I’m not staying.”

“Alright,” he told her. “If you’re determined to be unhelpful, so be it. Maybe you’ll do me one last favor, though.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and drew out a long length of rumpled knit cloth. It was soon revealed as a necktie that was probably twenty-five years old. “There is a way to tie one of these with only one hand, but I haven’t mastered it yet.”

She squinted at him. Did he really want her to tie it on for him? Did he really want her to touch him? It would certainly be a first.

“I’ve never gone into an official interview in my life where I wasn’t properly dressed,” he explained. “I’m not allowed to wear my badge anymore, but I can at least look like a cop.”

She stared at him for a long time. Jameson Arkeley, vampire killer emeritus, needed somebody else to tie his tie. She fought back the wave of bitter sadness that gave her but she couldn’t quite swallow her pity.

“Alright,” she said. She unfastened her seat belt. It was easy enough to get the tie on him. She’d tied Clara’s tie plenty of times. When the knot was tight enough for him he grunted in satisfaction.

“Good. Now. Please help me get out of the car.”

She could hardly refuse him that. She got out of the car and gave him a hand climbing out of his seat and suddenly they were both standing there, just like they used to. Like partners.

“Tell me, honestly, that you aren’t even curious,” he said, looking at the trail.

She started to do just that. The words didn’t come easily, though.

“Tell me you don’t even want to take a look. What do you have to do today that is so much more important than this?” he asked.

She would have said no just on principle. She would have refused. But he was right—she was curious, even though her life wasn’t about vampires anymore. Especially not their moldering bones. He was right about another thing, too. She had nothing else to do.

Arkeley’s body might be ruined, but he still knew how to push her buttons. Then and there she knew she had to at least take a look.

She locked up the car and together they headed down the trail. It ran through a field of wildly profuse grass for about two hundred yards, then ended in a simple campsite with a cluster of nylon tents and a big fire ring. There were no reenactors around, but a man in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans was waiting for them. He shook Arkeley’s hand eagerly enough, then turned and smiled at Caxton as if he was waiting to be introduced.

“Trooper, meet Jeff Montrose. He’s from the archaeology department of Gettysburg College.”

Caxton raised an eyebrow, but held out a hand for Montrose to shake. He was of average height, and maybe a little pudgy. His brown hair was thinning on top and he had a long and elaborate goatee that he had dyed so blond it was almost white. There was something weird about his eyes, she thought, which worried her—but then she realized he was just wearing eyeliner. “Civil War Era Studies is what we’re calling it, but we get our hands dirty whenever we can.”

“Hi,” she said. His appearance didn’t bother her, but it wasn’t what she expected from an archaeologist.

He didn’t recognize her or ask her for her autograph, which was one thing in his favor. “Are you a professor?” she asked. She’d never finished college, but she didn’t remember her professors wearing eye makeup.

“A grad student. Running Wolf ’s technically in charge here, but he had classes all day, so he asked me to help you out.”

“Who’s Running Wolf?” she asked, confused.

He laughed. “Sorry. That’s what we call Professor Geistdoerfer. He got the name because he jogs through campus every day. He’s a fixture around here—I forget sometimes that people in the real world might not know him. The whole college does.” Montrose could not mask the boyish enthusiasm on his face, though every time he looked over at Arkeley he stopped smiling, as if that scarred face had reminded him this was a police investigation. “I’ve sent all the diggers out for lunch, so we have the place to ourselves.” He turned and walked to the largest of the tents and lifted its flap. “This is so exciting.

We’d really like to get back to work, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just show you what we’ve got.”

The three of them entered the tent, an enclosed space maybe twenty feet by ten. Long tables had been set up inside and covered with white paper. Muddy-looking bits of metal and deformed white bullets were laid out for inspection, with handwritten notes penciled around them. They didn’t interest her as much as the hole in the ground in the middle of the tent. A wide pit had been carved out of the earth there with a bright yellow ladder leading down into the ground. The walls of the pit had been shored up with timbers. In some places the pit had been excavated down to the level of wooden floorboards. Had it been the cellar of a house long since demolished?

Montrose went down first without any ceremony. Caxton followed and then Arkeley struggled his way down. He had trouble on the ladder, but he didn’t complain and he brushed her hands away whenever she tried to help him.

Montrose gestured at the pit around them. It was about six feet deep and Caxton couldn’t really see out.

A weird earthy smell made her eyes water. “We found this magazine site years ago but just now got the approval to open it up. The Park Service doesn’t care much for relic hunting, even when it’s done the right way. Too many people came through here with metal detectors over the years, digging up sacred soil.” He shrugged. “I figure that the best way to honor history is to learn about it, but I guess not everybody agrees with me. This was a Confederate powder magazine originally, a place where they stored barrels of gunpowder for the cannon. They kept them underground where it was cool and where if they blew up accidentally nobody would get hurt. There are magazines like this all over Gettysburg, most of them constructed very quickly and then filled in with earth after they were no longer needed.

Sometimes you find pieces of barrels or maybe some broken hardware from a winch or a pulley, but that’s about it. This wasn’t supposed to be a particularly interesting dig, but you always look, just in case.”

He headed over to the far end of the pit and Caxton saw another ladder there, leading farther down into the earth. Electric light streamed up from a hole cut in the floorboards.

“After the Battle of Gettysburg they intentionally blew it up. That’s not too surprising—the Confederates tore out of here in a real hurry when they realized they’d lost the battle, and they didn’t want the Union to get the powder they left behind. Except now we think they might have had another reason, as well.” He moved to the second ladder and crouched down as if to peer inside. “We were almost done here. We found some artifacts and maybe we could have gotten a paper out of this place in one of the lesser journals. I think we were all glad to be done so we could move on to more interesting stuff. Then one of my fellow students—Marcy Jackson is her name,” he said, waiting for Caxton to write it down, “told Professor Geistdoerfer that she thought the floor here sounded hollow. You’re not supposed to ruin the integrity of a site by digging just because somebody had a hunch but like I said, this place wasn’t very important. So Marcy took a chance.”

He headed down the ladder. Caxton started to follow but stopped when she saw Arkeley leaning on a support beam and looking bored. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked.

“In this condition I’ll never get down there,” he told her, grimacing as he looked down at his stiff legs.

She nodded and turned to head down the ladder. This, then, was the real reason he’d talked her into coming with him. How much had it cost him to admit that he couldn’t do this alone?

The ladder went down about fifteen feet. At the bottom Caxton found herself in a large natural cavern, maybe a hundred feet from end to end and twenty-five feet wide. There were caves like it all over the Commonwealth, but this one was unlike the tourist caves Caxton had visited. Electric lights hung from the ceiling on thick cables, though they were clearly put there recently by the archaeologists. The cavern’s walls were rough and the ceiling was thick with stalactites. The floor was almost invisible. Almost every square inch of the space had been filled with coffins.

10.

It is with some abruptness I break the flow of my narrative, but it cannot match the speed with which things happened then. There was some shooting, even as John Tyler’s neck was torn open by invisible claws. Eben Nudd dropped to a crouch, & dug inside his pack, while Hiram Morse pushed past me, running for the hills like the Yellow Dog we’d always thought him to be.

John Tyler had been an undistinguished soldier but he hardly deserved to lose his life in such a way. The pale phantom I’d seen in the woods was at his throat, his, or rather its, mouth incarnadine & buried in the wound. I raised my own weapon, & knowing I’d never have time to load a shot, I charged with my bayonet, & stabbed the demon ruthlessly again & again, but to no effect. Eben Nudd came up behind me with something in his hand, some small piece of wood, & I saw it was a crucifix of the kind some Roman Catholics carry. He thrust this holy symbol forward as if it were a firebrand, chanting a simple prayer the whole time, his eyes blazing as if he would turn back the total Host of Hell.

The beast dropped John Tyler on the ground, & stepped forward, & grabbed the cross from Eben Nudd’s hand. The downeaster looked surprised, & that alone shocked me. With one hand the demon crushed the whittled Christ into pieces, & cast them over his shoulder. I raised my weapon again but before I could strike the demon had dissolved, once more, into shadows & was gone.

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

11.

Caxton tried to breathe calmly. The electric bulbs overhead only dimly lit the cavern, but it was still daytime. There was no immediate danger of the coffins opening, lid after lid, and death climbing out.

“Isn’t this awesome?” Montrose asked her.

She shook her head in incomprehension.

“I love this stuff,” he said. “Ghosts and vampires and things that go bump in the night. It’s why I wanted to study this era in the first place—the nineteenth century was just so morbid. I pay for my tuition by giving ghost tours of the town. I have this velvet cape I wear, you know? And I tell people scary stories for tips. I never in a million years thought I’d see the real thing.”

“Ghost tours,” she said, distractedly. She was not a big fan of ghosts, but at least they couldn’t hurt you physically. Vampires were another story. “Jesus.”

She moved down the ranks of coffins. She knelt down and drifted her hand over the top of one. A lumpy stalagmite had grown on its lid where water dripping from above had left mineral deposits over the years. Her hand felt cold and clammy as it passed over the weathered wood of the lid, and she felt her stomach churn as she stepped closer. It wasn’t like when she’d approached Malvern’s coffin back in the hotel room, however. The feeling wasn’t as strong. This felt more like an echo of evil that had passed by long ago.

“You must know the history of this town pretty well,” she said. “You ever hear any stories about vampires at the Battle of Gettysburg?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”

“I take it this is the first time anyone’s found a vampire crypt here, then.”

He laughed at the idea. “Yes, and we never expected to. Most of the battlefield’s been played out for decades. You don’t expect to find anything anymore except the occasional bullet or maybe the tin badge off some dead guy’s hat. There aren’t a lot of mysteries left here, which is what makes this so incredible.”

She had to open the coffin. She had to see what was inside. She didn’t want to—she had to. There were so many of them. If there were vampires in all of the coffins, what could they possibly do? How could they possibly fight back? She did a quick count. The coffins were laid out in long, neat rows, five of them across and ten…fifteen…twenty deep. That made an even hundred. A hundred vampires wouldn’t just be a problem. They would be an army. An army of blood-fueled killing machines.

A year earlier Caxton had helped Arkeley destroy four vampires and it had cost both of them dearly. It had destroyed his body and nearly taken her sanity. She had done things—horrible things—that she tried to never think about, but that she relived endlessly in her dreams. She had been infected with the vampiric curse. She had nearly become one of them herself. The four vampires had done so much evil in just a few short days while Arkeley had played a deadly game of catch-up, following them from one bloodbath to another, walking right into the fiendish traps they left for him, with Caxton held out like squirming bait for them the whole time.

Four—just four—had destroyed both their lives. A hundred vampires would have torn them to pieces without blinking.

A wave of unreality passed through her, a feeling of sheer impossibility. This couldn’t be happening. It might be a dream or some kind of hallucination. She counted the coffins again and got the same number.

“Isn’t it just gorgeous? Professor Geistdoerfer made sure he was the first one down here,” Montrose said, looking at her sheepishly. “He wanted to make sure it was his name at the top of the paper when he wrote this place up. I’m just glad to be part of this—I love a good juicy mystery.”

She stared at him. What was he babbling about? Did he even know what a real living vampire was capable of? Most people didn’t. Most people seemed to think they were like paler versions of Romantic poets. That they dressed in lace shirts and sipped red wine. That they would deign, from time to time, to nibble at somebody’s neck with delicate little fangs.

She grasped the edge of the nearest coffin lid. It felt like ice in her hands. She lifted and heaved and the battered old wood started to give way.

“Hey! You can’t do that! That has to be fully cataloged before we open it up.”

She grunted and threw the lid back on its rusted hinges. The lid shrieked and the metal hardware snapped. With a clatter that echoed around the cavern the lid smashed to the floor. Caxton leaned over the open coffin and stared down at its contents.

A skull looked back at her, its mouth open in a dreadful grin. The eye sockets and cheekbones looked mostly human, but the mouth was filled with sharp triangular teeth lined up in deep rows. Much like the teeth of a shark. Caxton had seen such teeth before, seen what they were capable of. A vampire could tear a man’s arm off at the socket with one bite. With another it could take his head. Vampires, real vampires, didn’t nibble on the necks of nubile young virgins. They tore people to pieces and sucked blood out of the chunks.

The lower jaw had fallen away from the rest of the skull and dropped to one side. Caxton glanced down and saw the rest of the bones lying jumbled in the bottom of the coffin, only approximately in the positions they’d once held. She grabbed at the intact rib cage and lifted it up even as Montrose grabbed at her arms and tried to pull her away.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s College property!”

She glared at him. She was trained in hand-to-hand combat and could easily have broken his wrists to get free of his grasp, but it didn’t come to that. When he saw the look in her eyes he took an involuntary step back. She didn’t have to work hard to summon up real, blistering anger. She had only to think about Malvern and her brood.

He tried to match her withering gaze, but didn’t have it in him. Eventually he looked away, his eyes darting to the left, and she knew he wouldn’t interfere again. She reached back into the coffin and lifted the rib cage once more. She reached between the cold bones, her fingers tracing the lines of the sternum and the xiphoid process, tapping on the knobby vertebrae. She didn’t find what she was looking for.

Oh, thank God, she thought, and let out a long relieved sigh.

The heart was missing.

Vampires possessed many gifts the living could not match. They were stronger, much faster, and they were nearly invulnerable to physical damage. If you cut a vampire’s arm off he could grow a new one while you watched. If you fired an entire clip of bullets into his face he would just laugh and hold you down while his teeth and eyes grew back. The heart of a vampire was its only weak spot. It took blood, the stolen blood of humans, to regrow damaged tissues and heal those injuries, and without a heart a vampire could not regenerate. When the heart was destroyed the vampire was dead.

Whoever had buried so many vampires under Gettysburg had been smart enough to make sure they stayed buried.

In the cold cavern her relief felt like warmth spreading through her numb fingers and toes. It felt like coming back to life, to reality, like waking up from a nightmare. She would need to check every coffin, of course, defile every piece of College property in the cavern, because she had to make sure. But it looked like the world was safe again.

Thank God.

She rubbed at her face with her hands. Her whole body tingled with adrenaline. Slowly she stood up straight and looked at Montrose again.

“Listen,” he said, “I’ve tried to be helpful here. But I really do need to bring my people back and start the real work of cataloging this place and—”

Caxton held up one hand. “We won’t keep you much longer. I just have to make sure these bodies are truly dead. That means looking at all of them.” She walked down one of the rows, holding out her hand over each of the coffins she passed. Each of them gave her the same cold feeling she’d gotten from the first. It seemed vampire bones were unnatural even in true death. She wondered if Montrose could feel it or if it was something only she could perceive. “I’ll try to be gentler with the other ones.”

Something occurred to her then. She looked back and counted coffins, then looked to either side. Four of the rows had twenty coffins each. The row she was looking at was short a coffin. It had only nineteen.

“There are ninety-nine coffins here,” she said. It irked her, but just a little. Why weren’t there an even hundred? Of course she had no idea why the coffins were there in the first place, or how many vampires there had once been. It just seemed a little odd. “I count ninety-nine.”

“Ninety-nine intact, yeah,” Montrose said. He waved her over to the other side of the cavern. She stepped over a coffin to reach him and couldn’t help but feel a little jolt of fear that it would open as she passed overhead and that the skeleton inside would rear up to grab her. She walked over to meet him and looked down at the end of the row. There had been another coffin there at some time, for an even hundred. Now there was just a pile of broken wood. The lid was reduced nearly to splinters, while the sides of the coffin looked as if they’d been smashed apart with a sledgehammer. There were no bones inside, nor any sign of occupation. The wood did not register cold when she ran her hand over it.

“Did you find it like this?” she asked.

He nodded. “We were surprised we didn’t find more of them like it. If this place really is a hundred and forty-one years old, you’d expect a lot more damage over time. Normally with a big tomb like this you find signs of animals breaking in and gnawing at the bones, or at the very least you’d think groundwater would have gotten in at some point and flooded the chamber. We think that’s probably what happened to this one.”

“If animals had come for the bones, wouldn’t you have found chewed-up fragments of them, or something?” she asked.

He shrugged once more. “This is an inexact science a lot of the time. If you have a better explanation I’d love to hear it.”

Caxton thought she might have another explanation. Certainly not a better one. But no, it was impossible. Even if one of the vampires had been buried with his heart intact he wouldn’t have had the strength left after so much time to break his way out of the coffin. He wouldn’t have had the strength to sit up.

There was another possibility, but it didn’t merit thinking about. That someone else might have come down into the cavern and removed one of the skeletons. But why on earth would anyone do that?

She didn’t like thinking about the possibilities. She didn’t like that a skeleton was missing. Still, she had work to do—she had to check the intact coffins. Worrying could wait until that was done.

12.

Hiram Morse had run off in the scuffle, & John Tyler was dead. Worst of all, my Bill was gone missing. I sought him everywhere to no avail. I could hardly fit this fact into my head. We had been so close all our lives, & it was rare a day would go by that I had not spoken with him. Much more rare since the war began & we signed on together. My father had forbidden it of me, but Bill had chosen a man’s path, & I could do naught but follow. Through battle & cannon & smoke & war we had been together. In but a moment the white demon had changed that.

“Corporal Griest,” someone spoke, & I turned to see who it might be. Had it been our enemy returned I would not have flinched. Yet instead it was German Pete who was tugging at my pant leg. His hands were smeared with blood & his face was hard. “John Tyler’s dead, Corporal,” he told me. “Do we bury him, now?”

I shook my body as if some ghost had possessed me.

“Supposed to head back to the line,” Eben Nudd said, reminding me of my duty, & he was right.

We were standing picket, my handful of men & I. Our duty was not to engage the enemy, nor to put ourselves in greater danger, but only to return & report.

Yet my Bill was gone! Two years he & I had slept in the same tent, shared the same maggoty meat in camp. Since I was a child he had been the only friend I counted in the wide world.

“Did any man see what happened to Bill?” I asked.

“He’s not here,” Eben Nudd said, in his fashion. “Might expect him to be dead, too.”

“No one saw him get hurt, though.” I stared at German Pete, who shook his head in negation.

“Then he still lives. We don’t leave him here, not with that demon running loose.”

“Weren’t no demon,” Eben Nudd said. I scowled at him but he showed me the broken pieces of his wooden cross. “No demon can stand the sight of Our Lord.”

“That thing was a VAMPIRE,” German Pete insisted, “& ye all know it.” He spat on the ground, too close, I thought, to where John Tyler lay. “Bill’s food for it now as well. A vampire! A Reb vampire, at that.”

“We should report,” Eben Nudd told me, his face very still.

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

13.

It took Caxton hours to check all the intact coffins. Her legs grew cramped from squatting down all the time and her arms ached with stirring up the bones, but she didn’t want to go back and face Arkeley until the job was complete. As she worked her fear was slowly replaced by boredom. To help pass the time she quizzed Montrose. “How old is this place?” she asked.

Montrose shrugged. “There’s no good way to tell without a lot of lab work, but the powder magazine was chemically dated back to 1863. The coffins can’t be any later than that. This place definitely hasn’t been opened since then.”

Caxton nodded. Even if the vampires had still had their hearts intact, there was no way they could have gotten out of their coffins. Vampires theoretically lived forever, but like Justinia Malvern, the older they got the more blood they required just to stand upright, much less to maraud and pillage. Any vampire old enough to have been buried in the cavern would have been far too old to be a danger in the twenty-first century.

“Do you have any idea who put them down here?”

“None. There’s no evidence down here that would tell us something like that and I can’t find anything in the archives to explain it, either. We opened the cavern three days ago and since then I’ve been hitting the Internet pretty hard, searching databases of Civil War–era documents. That’s just good fieldwork. If you find something like this you want to know everything you can before you start opening things up.” He shrugged. “There’s no record of this place, though that’s hardly surprising.”

“Why?”

Montrose shrugged. “This was the nineteenth century we’re talking about. People didn’t save every email and scrap of correspondence the way we do now. A lot of records from the war were destroyed, either when libraries and archives burned down or when somebody was just cleaning house and threw out tons of old paper.”

She finished her search shortly thereafter. Of the ninety-nine skeletons in the tomb not a single one still had its heart. That was something. “Okay,” she said. “I don’t see any reason why we need to delay your work any further. Give me your phone number in case we have any more questions.”

He gave her his info and started up the ladder ahead of her. Before she followed she took one last look back at the cavern. The silence of the place and its long shadows were enough to make it eerie. The perfect stillness of the air inside and the sporadic dripping of water from the ceiling didn’t help. It was the skeletons themselves, though, that made the place so creepy. Their combined chill was enough to set her hair on end.

The place was a mystery. How had the skeletons gotten there? Why were they buried in an open space, in individual coffins? Someone had been careful enough to kill the vampires properly. Somebody had been scared enough to seal the place off by detonating a gunpowder magazine on top of it. Why, though, hadn’t they gone farther? Why not crush the bones to powder and dump the powder in the sea?

Perhaps some long-dead predecessor of Arkeley, some nineteenth-century vampire hunter, had filled the cavern. Perhaps he had thought the dead deserved a proper burial. Perhaps the hundredth coffin had been placed there as she’d found it, empty and broken. Perhaps there had never been a hundredth vampire.

She knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

As she climbed up the ladder Montrose cut the power to the lights below. Caxton froze in place on the rungs and felt the darkness beneath her swell as if the cavern had been holding its breath, waiting for her to leave it in peace.

She wasted no further time getting back up top.

Arkeley waited for her there. “Now are you interested?” he asked.

“I suppose you could say my curiosity is piqued,” she admitted, “but I don’t think we have anything to worry about. That tomb has been untouched for over a century. How did you even find out about this?”

she asked. “Ancient crypts aren’t exactly your style.”

“One of Geistdoerfer’s students wants to be a police officer,” he told her. She looked over at the archaeologist, who just shrugged. “That’s what she’s studying toward, anyway.”

Caxton checked her notebook. “Is her name Marcy Jackson?”

Arkeley nodded. “When they opened the first coffin and found a vampire inside she called the Marshals Service and asked to talk to me. I’m officially retired but they still had my number. I’ve left explicit instructions that I’m to be notified whenever a case like this comes up.”

He asked her what she’d thought of the cavern. He grunted his approval when she told him she’d checked all the skeletons and that all the hearts were gone.

“What about the other one?” he asked.

“The empty coffin?” She turned and asked Montrose, “Has anyone been down there other than your team?”

“Of course not,” he replied. “And we’re all under strict instructions not to talk about it. The professor was very upset with Marcy when she called you in—though of course, we’re happy to cooperate with your investigation in any way we can.”

Caxton nodded. “And the coffin was empty when you found it.”

The grad student concurred.

“That doesn’t mean it’s always been empty. It doesn’t mean there wasn’t a vampire inside it at some point,” Arkeley insisted.

“Okay, but what of it? You know as well as I do that a vampire buried underground that long with no blood couldn’t possibly be active.”

He grunted again, less agreeably. “I also know better than to underestimate them.”

She sighed, but she’d known it would come to this. Arkeley had spent twenty years of his life chasing down every vampire legend and rumor he could find. He’d turned up real vampires twice in that time—but only because he never tired of the search. He considered his hobby to be vital to the public safety and had frittered away his life with endless investigations. No doubt they had all been crucial, had all been fraught with danger, at least until he’d actually done the legwork and found a cold trail or a long-dead monster who had grown in time into a local myth.

Arkeley had become obsessed a long time ago, and now he had nothing else to occupy his time. She wouldn’t let that happen to her. She wouldn’t let vampires define her life.

“This is a dead end,” she said. “Something bad was here, but that was a long time ago. You should go home. You should call your wife.”

“You don’t want to open an investigation, then?”

She turned to look right at him. The scars on his face didn’t bother her as much as they had before. “I’m not authorized to do that. This isn’t my job. It’s not even my jurisdiction. I’ll put in some calls. I’ll alert the proper authorities, get a bulletin out for people to keep their eyes open. Just in case. After that I’m done. Now, come on. I’ll give you a ride back to Hanover.”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “Montrose will take me into town and I’ll get a bus from there.”

“That’s ridiculous, Jameson. My car is right here and—”

He had already turned to leave the tent. “You’ve made yourself clear. I can’t count on you. So be it.”

Her chest burned with the rejection, but she let him go. Montrose gave her what might have been a sympathetic glance and then filed out after the old Fed, leaving her alone. She stood in silence for a minute until she’d heard them drive away, then went out to the Mazda and headed back toward town.

Halfway there her stomach started to grumble and she realized she hadn’t eaten all day. It was five-thirty, about when Clara would be getting home, but Caxton needed to eat before she went back to Harrisburg.

She parked in a public lot in Gettysburg and went into a little café that wasn’t completely overrun with tourists.

She ordered a ham croissant and a diet Coke and sat down to eat, but the food was tasteless. She took two or three bites and pushed the rest aside.

14.

“If he’s hurt, I can track him, ja,” German Pete said, & reached for his haversack. From this reeking bag he took out a measure of black powder, some small greasy pieces of hollow bone that might have belonged to some unfortunate bird once, & a couple of hawthorn leaves. “It’s madness,” he told me, “to go traipsing in the dark when vampires are about, but I’ll do what you say, Corporal.” He ground his ingredients together in a tiny pestle with some spit, then rubbed the resulting paste into the blood that still stained his hands. He asked for a match & Eben Nudd broke one off his block, then snapped it to life. German Pete took the flame between his cupped palms & cursed liberally as the gunpowder there flared up. He put his breath into the fire, however, & the flame which had been yellow turned a dull & flickering red.

All around his feet the same hellish light licked at the grass & the fallen leaves. Wherever John Tyler had lost his life’s blood the light shone, & much of it on his corpse & shirt as well, & everywhere we looked, though not as much of it as I expected. I’ve seen so many men die in this war, & always the blood splashed on the ground like a pitcher of water being poured out. Yet here only a few drops & splatters remained.

German Pete had claimed our demon was a vampire, & I knew vampires sip blood as their repast. Perhaps I did not wish to believe it before; I had no choice now.

“There, look ye,” German Pete said, & pointed with his glowing hands. A trace of dim fire led away from where we stood. Small drops of it could be seen heading off to our right. That was the same direction from which the vampire had first come.

“Is that Bill’s blood?” I demanded. I was terrified, if the War Department must know.

“Ye’ll have to take a chance. This charm’s for tracking a wounded deer, as such it was taught to me, & I’ve never seen it used otherwise. Might be Hiram Morse’s,” German Pete told me. “Might be the vampire’s own. Yet it’s a track, & that’s what ye asked for.”

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

15.

Night had fallen, just barely—the sky still showed a burning yellow through the black silhouettes of the trees. The streetlights were on, but some were still glowing a doubtful orange, occasionally flickering into life just to wink out again. In the street the air had gotten colder, far colder than she’d expected. She’d left her coat in the Mazda, and she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth as she headed toward the car.

The very last thing she wanted to do was spend another minute in Gettysburg. It was time to go home.

She thought of Clara, probably already waiting for her back at the house. She could go home, feed the dogs, and then spend the evening curled up on the couch with Clara while the TV put them both to sleep.

It sounded just about perfect.

Maybe Clara would let her sleep with the light on for once. After the chill she’d gotten from the mass vampire grave she didn’t feel the need to be frightened again for a long time.

It was only a few blocks between the café and where she’d parked. She walked quickly, keeping her head down. She didn’t look up at the windows of the houses-turned-souvenir-stores that she passed.

When she reached the Mazda, though, a sound made her look up.

An alarm bell rang somewhere nearby. The harsh panicky sound might have come from blocks away, but it was one of the sounds she was trained to notice and identify. It was a burglar alarm. Not her area of expertise, she told herself.

She was who she was, however. She was a cop. She stepped away from the Mazda and back into the tree-lined street. The alarm was around a corner, she thought, away from the main tourist areas, deeper into the actual town. It would only take a second to check it out. She wasn’t supposed to do that, of course. The state police didn’t intervene in municipal criminal investigations. According to standard operating procedure, she should call it in and let the local police take care of it.

She was right there, though. It couldn’t be more than a minute away on foot. She would just take a look, get the street address where the bell was ringing.

Half-jogging, she headed around the corner and up the block beyond. The alarm came from a nondescript building across the street from the Gettysburg College campus. The shrill noise bounced off the big brick buildings of the college and rattled down the deserted street, which had been mobbed with tourists just a few hours before. She could see no one nearby. If the local police were on their way, she couldn’t hear their sirens.

She moved closer, sticking to the shadows of the sidewalk. She couldn’t hear anything except the alarm, which was loud enough to give her a headache. She was close enough to see the building’s two wide plate-glass windows, obscured by heavy venetian blinds. A black awning over the doorway read MONTAGUE FUNERAL HOME. A placard above the doorknob readCLOSED .

The door stood slightly ajar. The doorknob had been wrenched sideways in its socket, and it looked like the lock had been forced.

Okay. That was all she needed to know. She dashed across the street to the cover of some trees and took out her cell phone. She called the Harrisburg office of the Pennsylvania State Police and asked the police communications operator on duty to patch her through to the Gettysburg police department. A woman’s voice answered, “Police Department Dispatch. How may I direct your call?”

Caxton glanced at the building across the way. There was no sign of movement within. “This is Laura Caxton with the state police, Troop H. I’m at one-fifty-five Carlisle Street and I’ve got an activated burglar alarm.”

“I’ve already registered that alarm and dispatched a patrol unit,” the dispatcher told her. “But thanks.

Are you available to assist if the chief requests it?”

Caxton frowned. “I’m off duty but, yeah. If you need help I’m here. What’s the ETA on your unit?”

“Upward of five minutes. Have you spotted any subjects?”

“No. There’s sign of forced entry, though. It’s the mortuary down here. I don’t see anyone outside or any suspicious vehicles, so—”

The alarm clanged wildly and then stopped. Caxton peered through the lamp-lit gloom but couldn’t see any change in the building.

“There’s definitely someone inside. They just disabled the alarm and—”

One of the plate glass windows exploded outward, sending jagged shards of glass skating across the street. The blinds fluttered and broke apart, and then a square wooden object protruded from the shattered window. It lurched out to drop with a heavy thud on the sidewalk.

No, no no, Caxton thought.

It was a casket, a big mahogany casket. A much more ornate version of the hundred coffins she’d seen that afternoon. Caxton knew better than to think some junkies had broken into the funeral home to steal something that would be so hard to sell on the street. She had a much better idea who was behind the break-in. Somebody who needed a coffin because his old one had gotten smashed.

“Trooper?” her phone chirped. “Trooper, are you there?”

She bit her lip and tried to think, but there was no time. “Cancel that patrol car, dispatch. No, don’t cancel it—get as many people down here as you can, get them to clear out the vicinity. Get all the civilians off the street!”

“Trooper? I don’t copy—what’s going on?”

“Get everyone away from here!” Caxton shouted.

The vampire jumped up onto the jagged lower edge of the broken window and then leaped down into the street. His skin was the color of cold milk, his eyes red and dully glowing. He had no hair anywhere on his body, and his ears stood up in points. His mouth was full of row after row of sharp teeth.

He looked as if he hadn’t fed in a century. His body was emaciated, pared down by hunger until he was thinner than any human being she’d ever seen. His skin stretched tight over prominent bones, and the muscles on his arms and legs were wasted away to thin cords. His ribs stuck out dramatically, and his cheeks were hollow with starvation. His skin was dotted with dark patches of decay and in some places had cracked open in weeping sores. He wore nothing but a pair of ragged gray pants that were falling apart at the seams.

He looked up the street, then back down as if he expected somebody to be there. Then he looked right across at Caxton and she knew he could see her blood, could see her veins and arteries lit up in the dark, her heart pounding in her chest.

Caxton’s free hand went to her hip to draw her weapon. It didn’t look like he’d fed that night. If she was fast enough maybe she could keep him from ripping her to pieces. Her hand touched her belt and found nothing, and she wasted a vital second looking down, only to realize her Beretta wasn’t there. It was still in her car.

“Dispatch, I have a vampire over here—do you copy? I have a vampire!” she screamed into the phone.

“Request immediate assistance!”

16.

After long searching I found my quarry & almost at once I regretted it. Bill lay curled on a tussock of grass & mud, his body twisted up & broken. His pack & musket were missing & nowhere to be found & his blue jacket had been torn open in the front, the buttons cast about him as if he’d torn them off in a frenzy. His neck & his hands were as pale as the belly of a fish, but that was not the worst of it. His face hung in ragged strips as if he’d been mauled by a bear. Flaps of skin hung loose on his cheeks & his nose was laid open, as completely as if it had been flayed in an anatomist’s classroom.

I found his forage cap near his hand. I picked it up, & wrapped it around & around my own hands, & wept for him, for my Bill was dead.

Eben Nudd placed one hand upon my shoulder, which I was most grateful for. German Pete sat down on his pack & drank deep from his canteen.

I knelt down to kiss my friend’s brow one last time, & it was then I had the worst shock of my life. For though I could feel no heat in him, nor did he breathe or show other sign of life; yet Bill moved. He winced away from my touch.

“Alva,” he said. He stirred, too weak it seemed to sit up, yet desperate to get away. “Alva, he’s calling me.”

“Who is, Bill? Who calls you? Come, let’s get you up & back to camp. The surgeons will do something for you.” They could hardly repair his torn face, I thought, but plenty of men in this war have been disfigured, & yet lived to fight again. “Come.”

“No!” he screamed, his voice as high & thin as a whistle. He struck me on the shoulder & knocked me backward onto my fundament. “No, none of you get closer! Leave me! He’s calling, O, can you not hear him? He calls even now!”

With that he leapt up, & ran off, calling over his shoulder that I should not follow. That I should give him up for dead.

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

17.

The vampire saw her. His red eyes bored right into her. She tried to look away, but she couldn’t.

In an offhand, very casual way, she knew exactly what was happening. He was mesmerizing her. It had happened before. Had she been capable of it she would have screamed, run away, at least tried to move her eyes. But she couldn’t. The vampire had the power to compel her. The amulet at her throat grew warm as it fought that influence, but it had little power of its own. Its purpose was to focus her own mental energies, to give her the clarity to fight the vampire’s psychic attack. Unless she could reach up and grab it, turn her thoughts toward it, it was useless. And until the vampire looked away from her she could do nothing but stare at him, her rational mind disconnected from her body.

The cell phone in her hand made loud buzzing noises. Most likely it was the dispatcher on the other end asking her frantic questions. She opened her fingers and the phone slid to the ground. It bounced off the sidewalk, but she couldn’t look down to see where it had gone. She couldn’t look anywhere except into the vampire’s eyes.

And those eyes—they were cold, even though they were the color of fiery embers. They were vacant of any emotion. They were locked on hers with an unmatchable strength. He could hold her there forever if he wanted to. He could come over and tear her throat out with his hands and she would not be able to turn away or move an inch.

She heard police sirens coming closer but lacked the presence of mind to even hope for rescue.

He padded lightly into the street, coming closer. He had all the time in the world and he knew it. Unable to break his gaze, she did not see the police car approaching. Focused intently on her, perhaps seeing nothing but the blood in her body, the vampire didn’t see the car either.

Whether or not the driver of the car saw him she didn’t know. He came around the corner at high speed, his tires shrieking on the asphalt (she heard a plaintive cry from far off, that was all), and barreled down the street right into the vampire’s side, knocking him down and dragging him half a block as the car’s brakes howled and smoked.

Instantly the spell was broken. A stale breath burst out of Caxton’s lungs—she’d been holding it in the whole time—and she bent double, nausea and fear wracking her body. She reached into her collar and grabbed the charm there, almost scalding herself on its stored heat. Strength rushed back through her, making her blood surge.

“Is he dead?” someone yelled. “Please tell me he’s dead.”

“Who?” she asked, before realizing the question was not directed at her. She looked up to see two local police officers circling the vampire’s inert body in the street. They had their weapons out but held upward, at a safe ready.

“He’s not moving,” one of them said. They were both male, dressed in identical uniforms. One of them, the one who had last spoken, was broad through the shoulders but no taller than Caxton. He prodded the vampire’s arm with his shoe. The other one, a big wall of a man, stood back to cover his partner.

She knew with a dread familiarity that they would be dead in seconds if she didn’t act. “State Police!”

she shouted, and ran toward them as fast as her body would allow. She felt drained and unsteady. “Get back!”

The taller policeman looked up at her, his mouth forming around a word. The other bent down to take a closer look at the vampire. It happened then all in a flash. The vampire lifted himself up on his elbows and twisted his head to the side. His mouth opened, revealing his sharp, translucent teeth. They dug into the crouching policeman’s leg and bit down hard.

Blood slapped the front of the car, the legs of the standing policeman, the dark surface of the street. The vampire must have bitten right through a major artery. The crouching policeman screamed and tried to bring his gun down to shoot the vampire, but before he got it halfway down he was dead. He slumped backward and his skull smacked the asphalt with a noise that made Caxton wince.

The surviving policeman jumped back, wheeling his pistol around. Caxton came up to the side of the car and grabbed at his arm, pulling him back still farther.

The vampire dragged himself out from under the car. His mouth and most of his chest were covered in gore. His skin looked less luminously white, had in fact taken on a vague pinkish cast. He looked no less wasted and emaciated than before, but Caxton knew that he would be a dozen times stronger with the officer’s blood in him.

The remaining cop bent his knees and grabbed his weapon in both hands. He sighted down the barrel and put a bullet right into the back of the vampire’s bald head. Caxton watched the vampire’s skin buckle and open, saw the skull underneath crack under the bullet’s impact. The wound closed over as quickly and smoothly as if the bullet had been fired into a bucket full of milk. If the vampire even felt the shot, he showed no sign.

“The heart,” Caxton had time to say. “You have to destroy the heart.” Even as she was speaking, though, the vampire turned slowly around to stare at the local cop. The man’s face convulsed in fear and loathing and then suddenly went slack. His body trembled and his arms fell loose at his sides, his gun forgotten in his hand.

It would have been easy for the vampire to kill Caxton and the other officer just then. He might have done it just to keep them from following him—she’d seen vampires do that before. Instead he rushed over to where the coffin lay just outside of the mortuary’s window. He grabbed up the coffin, turned away from them, and dashed across the street and into the campus of the college.

In the distance a siren started to howl with a series of short wavering cries.

“What’s that?” Caxton asked.

The cop looked around him as if he couldn’t remember where he was. “Tornado alarm,” he said. “They wanted to get the people off the streets in a hurry. It’ll just scare the tourists, but the locals will know to get them to shelter.”

Caxton breathed a sigh of relief. The dispatcher had taken her seriously. There was no danger of a real tornado—the sky was clear and full of stars—but the siren would serve its purpose. “That’s good. Now, what we do next is—”

“Oh, God,” the cop said. “Oh, sweet Jesus—Garrity!” He rushed to his fallen partner’s side and grabbed at his wrists, feeling for a pulse. “He’s dead!”

“Yes,” Caxton said, as gently as she could. “We have to get the thing that killed him.”

“Negative,” the cop said. He reached for his radio and called for an ambulance. Then he switched bands and shouted, “Officer down, one-five-five Carlisle!”

“Good, good,” Caxton said. He was following standing orders, she knew. You didn’t just abandon a dead policeman in the street. But unless they hurried they were going to lose the vampire. “Now let’s go.”

He stared up at her. “Garrity’s been my partner for eight years,” he said, apparently thinking that ended the discussion. Under any other circumstances it probably would have.

Caxton knew she couldn’t afford to wait for the ambulance. “Give me the car keys, then, and you stay here,” she insisted. “I’m a state trooper. Come on! He’s getting away!”

The cop stared at her with wondering eyes for far too long. She could almost see the fog of grief and fear and anger swirling in his brain. Finally he reached down into Garrity’s bloodstained trouser pocket and yanked out a set of car keys. He pressed them into her hand without a word.

Caxton turned on her heel and jumped into the open door of the patrol car. She backed away from the horrible scene in the street—one more chilling vision to give her nightmares for years to come, she thought—and wheeled the car around to face the campus. A narrow road ran through a cluster of long, low buildings. She looked between them as she shot by but couldn’t find any sign of the vampire. A few terrified-looking students were milling on the sidewalks, but they paid little attention to her. They were listening to the tornado siren, which was pulsing out its call faster and faster.

Up ahead the road widened. The signs saidCONSTITUTION AVENUE, but that meant little to Caxton. She pressed down on the gas pedal and the cruiser jumped forward, pushing her back in her seat. The vampire could have turned off any of the side streets she passed, but all she could do was trust her luck and hope she caught sight of him. She had only started to despair when she caught a glimpse of a thin white shape bobbing in the darkness ahead of her. Yes, there—the vampire was still carrying the coffin, running right in the middle of the road ahead of her, his feet flashing and pushing him along far faster than any human could run. Caxton poured on as much speed as she could and slowly gained on him. He was so fast—how was it possible? He had to be a hundred and fifty years old, at least.

Vampires that age should be stuck in their coffins, unable to rise, just like Justinia Malvern. It was impossible. Impossible, and yet clearly it was happening.

18.

Bill had bade me not follow him further. Yet what else could I do & call myself his friend?

Through the dark, following still his trail, we gave chase along a narrow track. In time this gave way at a clearing in which stood a house & some outbuildings. Of the house there is much to say, so I shall put it aside for the moment, & speak of the outliers. These were tumbledown shacks, & a number of sheds, which flanked the house so close they near leaned on it. They were of the worst construction & looked very shabby, & hurt the house by comparison.

Ah, yes, the house! The house had been painted white once, & perhaps even had looked grand.

Six thick columns fronted it, & it was topped by a generous cupola. The broad windows were of clearest glass & I could see the remains of white curtains beyond. Remains only, for the house had died & was surrendered to corruption.

Is it correct, or even possible to say a HOUSE has DIED? That was my first impression. The paint was peeling from its façade in long pale tongues that revealed worm-eaten wood beneath.

Some half of the windows were broken out, with those of the upper story boarded over in haste.

The cupola dome had partially caved in, & one end of the house entire was lower than the other, as if it had shifted on its foundations, & would soon collapse.

The front door stood open or perhaps was missing. That entrance was no more than a black rectangle leading into mystery; splintered bullet holes around the jamb explained little. It was through that portal I was certain Bill had run & I made to follow, my musket & my haversack bouncing on my shoulders & back, my breath ragged in my throat.

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

19.

The vampire’s white back glowed in her headlights. He looked behind him now and again but never slowed down. Caxton had her foot on the accelerator, but even as parking lots and tree-studded quads flashed by her on either side he was nearly keeping pace on foot.

Her best bet, she decided, was to run him down with the car. If she could get it on top of him, pin him underneath it, she might be able to hold him in place long enough to summon reinforcements. The idea of taking him on by herself was suicidal, especially since she’d left her weapon in her own car. She spared a single glance down and saw a riot shotgun bolted to the dashboard. That was something, though shotguns were almost useless against a vampire who had already fed. It might slow him down, and that was all she could hope for.

She roared after the vampire as fast as she could. Constitution Avenue swung north around the far edge of the campus, and she lost some ground as she had to turn to match the curve. Ahead of her the vampire lifted up his stolen coffin in both hands and then pivoted to sling it at her. She tried to veer out of the way as the massive wooden missile filled up her windshield. Shrieking, she stamped on the brake as the glass in front of her cracked and buckled on impact. The car rocked on its suspension and spun out, whirling around and nearly going up on its side. One of the tires, then another burst with a noise like gunshots, and the car fell back down onto the rims, listing hard to the side. The air bag deployed with a screeching hiss, then almost instantly collapsed though the car was still moving. Caxton was thrown sideways, colliding painfully with her door. Her seat belt yanked her back down into her seat as the car bounced to an unsteady stop.

Through the starred windshield she could see a big football stadium ahead of her. She had slalomed into its parking lot—fitting enough, since the car wasn’t going anywhere else that night.

She fought to get her equilibrium back. There was no time to check herself for whiplash or other injuries—she had to move. The vampire was still close by and she still had some slim chance of catching him. She grabbed the shotgun from its rack, checked to make sure it was loaded, then pushed open her door and stumbled out onto the concrete. She staggered to her feet and looked around but couldn’t see the vampire.

This monster’s behavior puzzled her somewhat. She’d never seen a vampire run away from a fight before, especially after he’d fed. A normal vampire should have been more than a match for the meager police response. Yet she’d never seen a vampire so starved-looking before, either, at least not one that could stand up straight.

The shotgun cradled in her arms, she dashed back toward the road—then turned as she caught a flash of movement to her side. Yes, there, she saw a pale shadow flitting between trees on the far side of the stadium. She would never catch up with him on foot if he could run as fast as he had while she’d pursued him in the car. She couldn’t just give up, though. Her legs burned as she pounded toward the side of the stadium. She reached for her cell phone, but it was gone, and now she recalled dropping it while he had her hypnotized. She hadn’t thought to pick it back up. She was on her own.

Beyond the stadium lay a practice field. She could see the vampire streaking across the close-clipped grass. Beyond that lay trees and green hills lit only by the stars. That was part of the national military park, she thought, part of the battlefield that contained nothing but marble obelisks and heavy monuments to fallen soldiers. It would get dark out there pretty fast between the trees, and she didn’t have a flashlight.

She kept running.

She stopped at the top of the hill and tried to catch her breath. She knew she should turn back. There was no question. Let the vampire go, let him get away. It would disappoint Arkeley. Once that had meant something to her, but she had a life now. She had Clara to think of, and the dogs. If she were killed here—

She didn’t get a chance to finish the thought. As Caxton turned around to head back to the campus behind her, the vampire was there. He stood perfectly still behind her, as if he’d been watching the back of her head the whole time. His eyes burned in their sockets like the glowing ends of two lit cigarettes.

Caxton pried her own gaze away from those eyes and grabbed at the amulet around her neck. She tried to bring the shotgun up, thinking only to blast those damned eyes right out of his head. With an easy, swooping motion he closed the distance between them and knocked the weapon out of her hand, sending it spiraling down the side of the hill. It slid away on the wet grass.

He grabbed her head in both of his hands and brought his face within inches of her own. She could smell the blood of the dead policeman on his breath. His eyes went wide and his stare bored right into her, but with the charm in her hand he couldn’t quite connect. With a grunt of disgust he let go of her.

“I am a gentleman, Miss, and I was taught to never raise my hand against a lady’s person.” His voice was steely beneath the mushy growl that distorted every vampire’s voice. Steely and brittle. He frowned around his sharp teeth. “I do not know what the etiquette books would say about a lady dressed in a man’s attire.”

Maybe he wasn’t going to kill her, at least not right away. Caxton was too stunned to really comprehend what that meant. She glanced down and saw her white shirt and her tie. “This is my uniform,” she said.

“I’m with the state police.”

“I’ve killed once tonight, and that’s all I want, I think,” he said. “But I warn you to leave me be. I’ll not show mercy again, if our paths continue to cross.” Then he threw her through the air, through darkness.

She felt wet grass smack the side of her face as hard as a concrete wall, and then she felt nothing at all.

The darkness enveloped her as if she were enclosed inside a giant clenched fist. Then light burst into her world again and she convulsed violently.

“No!” she screamed, her eyes flicking open. The light had changed. The air was warmer. Where was she? Where was—who was in front of her? Was it the vampire? Her hands shot out and she grabbed for the thing in front of her, grabbed for its throat, not caring if it would prove as hard as stone, and then she had it, she had her hands around its windpipe and it was solid, solid flesh, solid warm flesh—

“Oh, God, no,” Laura shrieked, letting go instantly. The woman in front of her had black hair that fell in cute bangs across her eyebrows. Her eyes were a rich brown, wet eyes that reflected Laura’s own screaming face.

It was Clara she had attacked. Clara who was coughing and sputtering for breath.

20.

Before I could enter said house, a shot called out, and buried itself between my feet. I stood stock-still, as if paralyzed, and thought my number must be up. The shootist who waved at me from a nearby tree, however, proved to be no Johnny Reb. Instead he was dressed in dark green with black rubber buttons. His weapon lay draped over a thick limb of the tree & it appeared to me as a mechanical python almost. It was a custom-made target rifle, a weapon I’d seen only once at a beef shoot before the commencement of hostilities. It looked like a good length of octagonal pipe with a batwing stock & a spyglass mounted on the top for good measure. I knew that rifle could have punched a hole right through me, especially at such proximity, & I also knew its master had been aiming to warn & not wound me. His strange uniform was meant to help him blend into the foliage, & I recognized it as the habiliments of the U.S. Sharpshooters. He was a Unionist, then, & good thing or I would have already been dead. He had a fringe of hair around the sides of his face & skin the color of walnut shells. What he was doing up in that tree I did not hazard to guess.

“My friend is in there!” I called back to him, but my voice faltered as he shushed me.

With his free hand he beckoned me closer to his position, then made me lie down in the tall grass there. “Rebs comin’,” he hissed. Despite my furor I was still a soldier & I still understood what that meant. I made myself as discreet as possible.

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

21.

Caxton lay back in her hospital bed and stared at the ceiling, unable to get comfortable. She’d been found at dawn crawling around in the military park. The park rangers had at first thought she was blasted on drugs, and had rushed her to Gettysburg’s very modern hospital. The doctors had tested her and found no drugs at all in her system, but they still wanted her to rest. Fat chance. “I thought it was the vampire. Oh, God—I nearly killed Clara because I thought she was the vampire!”

“Yes.” Vesta Polder placed her hands on Caxton’s cheeks. The older woman wore dozens of plain gold rings on her fingers and the metal was cool and welcome against Laura’s burning skin. She left her hands there while she studied Laura’s eyes. “That’s true. But there’s no need to be so dramatic about it.”

Laura licked her dry lips. She felt feverish and drained, like she was coming down from a bad case of the flu. “I could have killed her!”

Vesta Polder shrugged and took her hands away. “You didn’t, though, and life is far too short for us to worry about the evil we might have done.” The older woman had waves of frizzy blond hair that stuck nearly straight out from her head. She wore a long black dress buttoned tightly at the throat. She was a friend of Arkeley’s—though perhaps it was better to call her an ally—and she was some kind of witch or medium or something. Caxton had never been quite clear on where Vesta’s powers came from, but they were considerable. It had been Arkeley’s idea to bring Vesta Polder in to the hospital, a strangely caring gesture on his part. She didn’t choose to look a gift horse in the mouth by wondering about his true motivations. “Do you need a sedative, or do you think you can settle down, now?”

Caxton swallowed. Her throat was thick and scratchy, as if she’d been shouting for hours. “I’ll try,” she promised. She felt like she’d been scolded by an elementary schoolteacher. “Is she okay, though?”

“She’ll be fine. I gave her some tea to soothe her hurt.” Vesta Polder caught Caxton’s look of alarm and shook her head. “Just plain old herbal tea. Much more effective than any potion for what ails her. She’s frightened, of course, but I’ve already explained things to her and she isn’t angry with you. This one,” she said, looking down her sharp nose, “is worth keeping. She’s smart enough and she’s grounded in reality.”

Caxton nodded. A lot of people wouldn’t have described Clara that way, but Vesta saw people the way they truly were, not how they presented themselves. “Am I okay?” she asked.

Vesta Polder straightened up until she loomed over the hospital bed. “You could use a long rest. You should get away from this town, get as far away as possible. I can’t say I like this place myself. Too many vibrations, good and bad. The ether here is sorely clouded. I’ll be heading home now to where I can think properly. You should do the same.” She reached into a pocket of her dress and drew something out. She opened her hand and the spiral pendant tumbled out, dangling on its torn ribbon. “The police found this near where they picked you up. Try to hold on to it better from now on, hmm?”

Caxton promised. She took the amulet gladly and held it tight in her hand. It felt cool like Vesta Polder’s rings, and even more reassuring. The older woman patted her arm and left. As soon as the door of Caxton’s room was open her next visitor entered. Clara sat down heavily in a chair next to the bed and smiled broadly at Caxton without saying a word. She had some red bruises on her throat that Caxton couldn’t stand to look at.

“You scared me, you!” Clara said. “Stop doing that! When I got the call that they’d picked you up I was sure that the vampire’d gotten you. They told me it got that other guy, the local cop.” Clara wore a black T-shirt and jeans—she must have taken the day off. “His family must be so upset right now but I just feel relieved. Does that make me a terrible person? Don’t answer that. I’m just glad you’re alive.”

Caxton opened her mouth to speak, but only a raw creaking sound came out.

Clara’s eyes widened. She shook her head. “Listen, the dogs are fine. I watered and fed them just like you showed me. Fifi doesn’t like me, I think, but that’s just got to mean she doesn’t know me yet, right?

Everybody likes me once they get to know me.”

Laura closed her mouth and nodded against her pillow.

“The doctors say you can go home whenever you’re ready. I put a new quilt on our bed—it was really cold last night, especially when I was all alone—and I saw a place on my way down here selling Macoun apples. Those are my favorite! I thought I’d make you a pie. Would you like that? I’ve never made one before, but…but…”

Clara was staring at her face. Something wet dribbled across the side of Caxton’s mouth. She reached up and found that she was weeping copiously. She tried to apologize, but a wordless sob came out instead.

“Oh, Laura,” Clara said, softly. She climbed out of her chair and into the bed, shoving Laura to the side.

“It’s okay. I’m here.” She pressed her small body against Caxton’s side, her chest. Her perfect soft mouth touched Caxton’s greasy forehead.

She was rocking back and forth slowly, her arms wrapped around Caxton’s limp body, when the door opened again.

“Ahem,” Arkeley said.

Caxton didn’t move. Clara sat up just enough to tell him to go away.

The old crippled Fed didn’t obey her. Instead he came farther into the room to stand at the foot of the bed.

“Get out!” Clara said, louder this time. There was bad blood between her and Arkeley—she’d even threatened to hit him, once, though she’d backed down when she realized it would have cost her her job just to punch a U.S. Marshal.

Caxton closed her eyes. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to see Arkeley. At the very least, though, she owed him an apology. She swallowed heavily and shifted herself upright in the bed.

“My girlfriend and I,” Clara said, “are kind of busy at the moment.”

Arkeley’s face contorted gruesomely, his scars bunching up and turning white. His eyes were shining.

Was he smiling? It looked like it hurt him to do so. “Officer Hsu, why don’t you go wait out in the hall?”

he asked.

“Why don’t you sit and spin?” Clara asked, throwing him the finger.

His smile didn’t shift.

Caxton cleared her throat noisily. The two of them looked at her as if waiting for her to settle the differences between them. She didn’t think she could do that, but at least she could try to take charge of the situation.

“You were right and I was wrong,” she said, finally, looking into Arkeley’s eyes. They didn’t change; he hadn’t come to gloat. “There was, in fact, a vampire in that last coffin. An active one.”

“Yes. I’ve read the report filed by the survivor of last night’s attack.” He looked her up and down as if searching her for wounds. “The other survivor. His prose style was a little too emotional for proper police work, but I got the gist.”

“How are you going to proceed?” she asked.

“Who? Me?” Arkeley’s face went wide with surprise. It again made all his scars turn white. “I can’t fight this vampire.”

“Why not?”

The old man grimaced and looked away from her. “Are you really going to make me say it? I’m a cripple.” His shoulders tensed. How much did it hurt him to admit his weakness, she wondered? How much had it humiliated him when he’d asked her to tie his tie for him? “My body doesn’t work well enough anymore. I can advise you. That’s all. This case is yours.”

Caxton’s mouth opened as if she were about to laugh. But she knew he was quite serious. “I can’t,” she tried.

“If you don’t,” he said, slowly, deliberately, “someone else will have to take your place. Most likely a local cop who has never dealt with a worse villain than a drunk driver. You know exactly what will happen to said cop. He’ll die. He won’t know what he’s up against, he will underestimate the vampire, and he’ll be ripped to shreds the first time he draws down on this monster.”

Caxton thought of a hundred arguments against what Arkeley was saying. There was only one problem with them: He was right. She’d had horrible, perfect proof of that the night before. Arkeley was right—this was going to be her case.

22.

He proved as good an oracle of future events as he was a crack shot. Within moments of my concealing myself I began to hear hoofbeats approach. Within the space of a minute a horde of Secesh cavalry reined in before the house. Their leader, an officer of some distinction by the look of his insignia, wore leather gauntlets & a dusty slouch hat & good gray cotton tailored to his frame. Many of his men were in butternut though, which is to say, uniforms made at home & undyed. We’d seen plenty like them at Chancellorsville, where some men fought with no shoes on their feet, & some without even rifles of their own.

We were defeated at Chancellorsville, as we have been defeated every time we strove against Robbie Lee. I took this fact to heart & tried not to breathe too loudly. “Marse Obediah,” the cavalry commander shouted, as if he were hallooing an old friend. “Can you hear me in there?

I’ve come from Richmond thirty miles. Can you hear me? The Cause requires your services once more. The Yanks are all over this part of creation & we must drive them back. General Lee commands it!”

The officer wheeled his horse as if expecting an attack to come from any direction.

An answer came at last, however, in a voice that chilled my blood. There was very little human in that voice though the words were good English. It sounded more like a violin had been scraped with the neck of a broken bottle, & words had somehow come out.

“You have been heard,” the voice announced.

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

23.

Caxton got out of the bed feeling like she’d been beaten up the night before. Her joints ached and there was a truly foul taste in her mouth. It couldn’t be helped. Clara had brought her a change of clothes, which she got into painfully. It felt good to have a crisp new shirt on her back, though. She slipped on her coat and shoved her notebook and her cell phone in the pockets. The local police had been kind enough to return the latter after she dropped it in the street outside the mortuary.

“You’re on the case,” Arkeley said. It wasn’t a question.

It had been, the day before, and the answer had been no. Now everything had changed. She had watched a fellow cop die because of a moment’s hesitation. She had gone chasing after a vampire she had no chance of killing. It had all been so crystal clear. It had all made sense—the way nothing much had since the last time. Since the last vampire she’d fought.

“Yes,” she said. Clara turned to look up at her, but Caxton didn’t even meet her lover’s eyes. What choice did she have? Arkeley couldn’t fight active vampires anymore. Not when he couldn’t tie his own tie. There were plenty of other cops in the world, but none of them had her experience. In fact, none of them had any experience with vampires. If she left this job to other cops, they would almost certainly get themselves killed.

Of course there was no guarantee Caxton would survive, either. But that was part of who she was. Her father had been the only cop in a coal mining patch up north. His father had been a Pinkerton. What would her father say now, she wondered, if he were still alive? She knew exactly what he would say. He would tell her it was about damn time.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes already,” she said, and Arkeley just nodded. He’d never been big on reassurance. Still, the fact that he’d come to her for help—that he thought of her as the one best to find and destroy the vampire—meant something. She just hoped she could convince her superiors in Harrisburg. “We should start doing things right, then. We should start now.”

He nodded again.

“That starts with getting some idea of what we’re fighting. Vampires don’t age well—that’s been a constant so far. The older they get the more blood they need just to maintain, and after fifty or sixty years they can’t even climb out of their coffins. This guy’s different. I wish we knew how that was even possible. I saw him last night. He looked like he’d been starved of blood for a very long time. He looked terrible. Still, he almost outran a car.”

“There’s a lot we don’t know about this one,” Arkeley concurred. “I might be able to do something about that.”

Caxton grunted in encouragement.

“It might be nothing. But I have a lead of sorts. I have a contact at the College of Physicians in Philadelphia—”

Clara laughed. “You mean at the Mütter Museum? Why am I not surprised an old fossil like you has an in with that place?”

Caxton frowned. She knew about the Mütter Museum, of course. She’d been there on a class trip when she was a kid. It was the world’s largest collection of medical anomalies. Two-headed babies in jars, the skeleton of the world’s tallest man. Lots of skeletons, actually. She thought about the bones in the cave.

The vampires that hadn’t made it to the twenty-first century. “Hold on, Clara. Arkeley, what do they have there that would interest us?”

He shrugged, looking a little miffed at being interrupted. “As I was saying, my contact there got in touch with me recently. He’d turned up something in a storage room he knew I would want to see. They have the bones of a vampire in their collection. Bones which are dated to 1863.”

Caxton’s eyes went wide. “You think there’s a connection.”

“You don’t?” he asked. “I should go and take a look, anyway. It might tell us something about who we’re fighting.”

Caxton nodded eagerly. She was less concerned by who the vampire might be than by what he might do next, however. “Okay. Find out what you can. The most important thing for me right now is to catch the active one. I’ll head up to HQ and see what I can do about getting some people down here so we can start searching for this vampire’s lair.”

He left without another word. Caxton checked her pocket and found her car keys. Turning to Clara, she said, “You drove down here, right? You can take me back to where I left the Mazda and then—”

“Yeah,” Clara said, standing up. She threw her arms around Caxton, pressed her face into the crook of Caxton’s neck. “Anything I can do to help,” she said. “Just promise me you won’t get killed.”

Caxton hugged her back, hard, and promised. When she let go she saw the red bruises on Clara’s neck, however, and made a promise to herself.

The last time she fought vampires people had been hurt—people she cared about. That wasn’t going to happen again.

They went out into the hospital’s parking lot, where a stiff wind was whirling up great spirals of fallen orange leaves. Clara drove her back to the Mazda and left her there with one deep, meaningful kiss. She promised she would take care of the dogs.

“Don’t expect me home tonight.” Caxton didn’t plan on coming home until the vampire was destroyed.

“Keep me informed,” Clara insisted. Then she drove away.

Caxton watched the patrol cruiser go, watched the sweep of leaves it kicked up in its wake. Then she unlocked the Mazda and reached inside for the Beretta and its magazine, checked the action, and put the weapon in her coat pocket. Just having her familiar sidearm on her person made her feel better.

She wanted to get started right away, wanted to start liaising with the local cops and start an investigation folder. It wasn’t that easy, though. First she had to drive back to Harrisburg and beg her superiors at the Bureau of Criminal Investigation to allow her to be reassigned and to give her some kind of jurisdiction for Gettysburg.

A thick layer of clouds lay over Route 15 as she hurried northward. She listened to the radio and tried not to think about much until she saw the aqueduct bridges of the state capital appear before her between two ridges. The dome of the capitol looked greenish under the overcast sky, but she was glad to see it. A few miles farther on, she pulled into the parking lot of the state police headquarters, a brick building with a big flag out front. She parked the Mazda and rushed inside to the lobby.

She had planned on speaking with her captain, but when she arrived she was told to go straight up to the Commissioner’s office. At his door she introduced herself to his assistant. She expected to be kept waiting while her superior finished whatever he might be working on at that moment, but instead she was just waved in.

“Trooper Caxton,” the Commissioner said, standing up from behind his desk. His office walls were lined with the antlers of twelve-point bucks, and there were antique rifles lined up behind his desk as if he wanted to be ready to shoot anyone who came through his door with bad news.

“Sir,” she said.

“Do you know why I asked you to come up here?” he inquired.

She licked her lips and began. “There’s evidence of a vampire pattern in Gettysburg,” she said. “I mean, there’s a vampire there. I’ve seen him.” She cursed herself for not having rehearsed this speech before.

She’d had plenty of time in the car. “I’d like to be assigned to special duty. If that’s alright.”

“Yes,” he said.

She wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. “Sir, I—”

“You want to be assigned special jurisdiction for this case. To be reassigned from your current duties.

I’m agreeing with you. That’s exactly what should happen now. And I’m not the only one.” His eyes twinkled. “The doughnut munchers have spoken. This morning the police chief of Gettysburg called and asked to speak with me personally. I listened to what was going on and then I promised whatever assistance Gettysburg required. Do you know what the chief asked for?”

“No, sir.”

“He asked for Laura Caxton, the famous vampire killer. The star of Teeth . They asked for you by name, Trooper.”

Her hands were shaking. Was it that easy? Could it be that easy? The Commissioner came out from behind his desk and squeezed her bicep, then started walking toward his office door. She stood still until she realized she was being dismissed, then rushed to follow him.

“Sir,” she said, “I want to thank—”

“Me? No need,” the Commissioner said, smiling widely. “Like I said, I’ve read the reports on your work on the Godwin investigation. You got yourself shot and two troopers had to risk their lives pulling you out of the action.” He smiled at her, but his eyes were already looking down at his desk. “I’d just as soon have you on special duty and away from the rest of my people.”

Caxton did then what she’d learned a long time before was the only suitable reaction to such a backhanded compliment. She put her heels together, saluted, then turned and walked out the door.

24.

We crowded into the covered wagon and found room for knees and elbows around the dial. For light we had a single candle, but he assured me that was enough. It was a few minutes past midnight and I was anxious to be unburdened of my bad news.

The telegrapher, though, took his time getting set up, and even with his machine in operation, was much delayed. Cursing and fussing, he turned the indicator back and forth on the face of his dial, which was inscribed with two rounds of letters and numbers, and some few commands such as WAIT and STOP. He could not seem to get a good signal out, for messages kept coming in. He assured me this was normal, and set back to his work, but again with little success. I produced a small bottle from inside my coat and offered it to him, and this did much for his disposition, but did not help his machine.

“It’s these new electro-magnetos, they’re s’posed to be better than an honest man’s telegraph key, but I don’t see it. No fluids or acids to burn me, no salts to keep straight, that’s fine and well.

But this type picks up too many ghosts.”

I must have raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “After every battle we get ’em. They crowd the wires, you see. Dead men breathing out their last.”

I watched in amazement as the indicator moved on the dial, of its own accord. The messages were picked out letter by letter so that even I could read them. The missives were never long or overly complex. M-O-T-H-E-R was the most common, and L-O-R-DJ-E-S-U-S, and S-A-V-E-M-Y-S-O-U-L and W-A-T-E-R. All the cries of the battlefield, tapped out in an invisible hand.

We managed to get my urgent news out, eventually, though two o’clock had come and gone. I was climbing out of the wagon, glad to be shut of that cramped and eerie conveyance, when the telegrapher called me back. “Another message, sir.”

“What now, more news from the other side?”

“No, sir, this one’s got your name on it. ‘Received in full,’ it says, and then, ‘New orders. Gum Spring forthwith.’ Where’s that, then?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” I said. It was the first I’d heard of the place.

—THE PAPERS OFWILLIAMPITTENGER

25.

Afaint misty rain was falling by the time Caxton got back to Gettysburg. The afternoon was already half over, and it would be dark before she knew it. She wheeled into the parking lot of the town’s sole police station, on High Street just south of Lincoln Square. She finished the takeout food that littered the Mazda’s passenger seat; she needed to keep her strength up, especially as lousy as she felt after the previous night’s exertions. Then she stepped out of the car and through the glass doors at the front of the cop shop. The sergeant at the front desk stood up when he saw her and pointed her through a pair of swinging doors. Beyond she found the bullpen, a dimly lit room full of cubicles, each with a PC and a couple of office chairs. Policemen in gray and black uniforms stood up all around the room as she walked in. She stopped short as every man in the room turned to face her.

They were patrolmen, not detectives. They were cops who spent every day walking the streets, keeping order. They were tall men, mostly, and most of them were a few pounds over-weight. They wore bristly mustaches and their hair was short and neat. In other words, they looked a lot like her father had in his prime. She knew enough cops to recognize the look they were giving her. Their eyes were empty, the same way they’d look while they were interviewing suspects, willing to give nothing away for free.

One of them she actually recognized. A huge guy with broad shoulders and a hunched head, as if he was afraid of banging it on the ceiling. He was one of the cops who had responded to the mortuary burglary, the one who had survived. The one who stayed with his dead partner while she raced off in his borrowed cruiser. His name tag readGLAUER, and he stepped forward to stand in front of her, his immense bulk blocking her path. She wasn’t sure what he wanted, but she was ready to defend herself if he wanted to call her out.

“Officer,” she said, by way of greeting.

“Trooper,” he said. His lips barely moved as he spoke. “Every man here was a friend of Brad Garrity.

He was the one who—”

“Who died in service last night. I remember,” Caxton said. She tried to keep her eyes as blank as his.

Was he going to puff himself up next, and tell her how much he resented her walking into this office like she could just take over? Maybe he would accuse her of being an accomplice in Garrity’s death. The vampire was to blame; everyone knew that, but she was a much more convenient target for his rage and grief. If he wanted to blow some steam at her, she supposed she could take it.

“You didn’t know him,” Glauer said. “We did. He had a wife and two kids, just little kids. He wasn’t a smart guy, but people liked him. He was honest and hardworking, and he loved the job. He loved this town. He grew up here.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, permitting herself a frown of compassion.

Glauer shook his head, though. He didn’t want her apologies. “When he died I followed procedure. I stuck with him until the ambulance arrived, even though I knew he was gone. I called it in. Afterward I came back here and filled out the paperwork. You, on the other hand, went tearing off after the perp who killed him.”

She nodded. There were rules to this game and she would follow them.

“We heard what happened to you. I saw what happened to my cruiser, when they towed it out of the Musselman Stadium parking lot. We all,” he said, glancing backward at the men standing behind him,

“just wanted to say something.”

Here it comes, Caxton thought. She would take it, whatever it was.

“We wanted to say thanks. You didn’t know Brad, but you put your life on the line to catch his killer.

That kind of courage is something we respect.”

One of the men at the side of the room started to clap. The others followed suit immediately. The applause was hardly deafening, but it was real.

“Whatever you need to get this thing, whatever it takes, we’re with you,” Glauer said over the noise. He held out a hand and grasped hers hard, pumping it repeatedly. “Just next time, try to wreck Finster’s car instead. It’s a real shitbox.”

Another man—it had to be Finster—said, “Hey,” and everyone laughed, Caxton included. She took her hand back from Glauer and let him point the way to a glassed-in office at the back of the room.

Inside the local police chief waited for her, dozens of manila folders lined up neatly on his desk. He stood up promptly as she entered and shook her hand, then sat back down. “Trooper Caxton. I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you here. How glad the borough of Gettysburg is that you could help us out.” The nameplate on his desk readCHIEF VICENTE and there was no dust on it. The walls behind him held framed photos of policemen from years gone by, some of the photos looking sixty or eighty years old. They showed cops who looked almost identical to the men out in the bullpen, just with different uniforms.

Vicente himself stood out, by contrast. He was young, maybe ten years older than Caxton, and though he wore a mustache it was thin and neatly trimmed. He was relatively short and his eyes were bright and clear and full of optimism. He had a faint Puerto Rican accent when he talked. He didn’t look anything like the cops in his bullpen. He looked a little like a politician.

She sized him up in one professional once-over. He must have worked damned hard to get where he was, to be chief of the men outside his office. He must have put up with a lot of crap along the way.

Caxton knew that story because it was a lot like her own. This was a man she could work with, she thought. Somebody she could understand. “I want to thank you for inviting me down here,” she said, by way of opening.

“Are you kidding? I think the luckiest thing that ever happened to the ’Burg was you being here last night.” He opened one of his manila folders and took out a map of the town. Portions of the map had been highlighted in yellow ink and a number of handwritten notes crowded the margins. “This town has a population of about seventy-five hundred, and most days this time of year we have twice that many tourists in town. I have twenty sworn patrolmen to take care of those people, and a couple dozen auxiliary officers I can call in for homecoming or the bigger reenactments. Normally that’s enough.

Normally our biggest problem is frat parties getting out of control up at the college, or tourists who don’t know how to drive and make our traffic patterns a real mess.” He looked up from the map and smiled at her. “We had forty-three violent crimes reported last year. None of them resulted in a death.”

“None?” Caxton repeated, a little stunned. “You had no murders at all last year?” Even in the sleepiest of backwater towns you normally got a couple of abused women killing their husbands or kids playing with guns blowing each other away. Then there were vehicular fatalities to consider. In the era of road rage, more and more people were realizing that a three-ton SUV made a great murder weapon.

Vicente shook his head, though. “This is one of the safest towns in Pennsylvania. We’re very proud of that, and we’d like to keep it that way. My men aren’t trained to respond to what happened last night.

We had to download the correct forms to report a death in service because we didn’t have any on hand.

Trooper Caxton, you tell us what to do, okay? You tell us how to keep our people safe and we will listen.”

Caxton sat back in her chair and inhaled deeply. “I haven’t had time to prepare a formal action plan,”

she said.

Vicente raised his hands an inch or two off the desk and then lowered them again. “I’ll take your best off-the-cuff suggestions, too.”

She nodded and thought about it. She was trained for this. She had been training in criminal investigations for a year. “Yeah. Well, we start by looking for where he’s sleeping. Vampires don’t just dislike sunlight. They literally cannot get out of their coffins until the sun goes down. This one doesn’t even have a coffin—he tried stealing one last night, but I screwed up his plan. He can sleep in a barrel or even a Dumpster if he has to, but he needs someplace dark and enclosed. If we can find where he is now, we can pull his heart out and be done without any further violence.”

“Do you think that’s a likely scenario?” Vicente asked, his eyes brightening.

“Unfortunately, no. There are too many places he could be hiding and we don’t have enough manpower to search the entire town today. It’s going to be dark in a couple of hours. The vampire will need blood tonight—he looked emaciated, and they’re worse than junkies, they need blood the way we need oxygen. If—when—he attacks somebody, we need to know about it so we can respond instantly. So we should put out an APB. I can work up an Identi-Kit profile so your people will know what he looks like, but he’s conspicuous enough that people will probably recognize him right away. I need to get the call when that happens.”

“I don’t want to just wait for someone to die before we take action,” Vicente said. “People around here won’t like that.”

“No, of course not.” Caxton licked her lips. Her mouth was getting dry. She’d never done this before, but she was the only one who knew how to fight the monsters. She kept having to remind herself of that.

“Every car we can get on the streets should have two cops in it, and enough firepower to take down the vampire. There’s a state police barracks a few miles from here, and another one in Arendtsville. You can request they send every available unit. We’ll search every shadow, every street corner. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Also, I’d like to open an official investigation, see what we can learn about this guy.” That should have come first, she realized. It should have been her first suggestion. Vicente caught her self-doubt; she could see it in his eyes. She was making mistakes already.

What would Arkeley do? It had been so much easier when he’d been in charge and she’d just followed his orders. She had to remind herself she’d been trained for this.

“There’s somebody I need to talk to, a professor at the college.” She pulled out her notepad and flicked back to the first page. “Professor Geistdoerfer, in the, uh, Civil War Era Studies department.”

“The Running Wolf?” Vicente exclaimed.

“You know him?”

The police chief laughed and then covered his mouth. “I’m an alum of the college. Class of ninety-one.

Everybody there knows him. How is he possibly mixed up in all this?”

“He was the first person to enter the tomb,” Caxton said. When Vicente’s face clouded in confusion, she felt like her heart had stopped for a second. The chief didn’t even know how this had all begun. Briefly she filled him in on Arkeley’s discovery and the investigation she’d made of the cavern and the hundred coffins.

“We’re—we’re not going to see more of these things, are we?” he asked, when she’d finished. His eyes were very wide and his mouth was open. He was scared shitless.

Well, maybe he should be, she decided. Maybe it would keep him on his toes. As long as he didn’t get so scared he stopped functioning. She needed him.

“The hearts were all missing. That means they’re dead. So hopefully we won’t see more than just the one. But that’s more than enough. Can you have someone make an appointment for me with the professor?”

“Yes,” he said, “of course.” He took a pack of gum out of his desk and peeled off a stick. He offered her one, as well, and she took it gladly. “I’ll make sure he sees you right after the press conference.”

Caxton stopped with her stick of gum halfway to her mouth. “Press conference?” she asked.

26.

The Rebs left then, & I began to breathe once more.

Leg by leg, arm by arm, the marksman unwound himself from his perch. He dropped to the ground with the softest of thuds & squatted down next to my hiding place. He was a tall & lanky man like our Commander in Chief, even more so in fact. I guessed him seven feet tall & as thin as a reed. He held out one lined hand & I shook it gratefully.

“Alva Griest,” I whispered.

“Rudolph Storrow of Indiana.” He slung the rifle over his shoulder like a rower shipping an oar. I saw he wore a sawed-off shotgun as well in a holster at his belt, where an officer will keep a pistol; on the other side, where a sword should go, he had an Indian-style hatchet with a long handle, what is sometimes called a Tomahawk. I was terribly glad he was on my side. “Listen, Griest, there are two men comin’ our way on foot, runnin’ the same course you did. They’re tryin’

to be subtle, yet ain’t very good at it. They your’n?”

I nodded. Eben Nudd & German Pete, he meant. “They’re good men,” I swore.

“If they’re dressed in blue, they need no other recommends with me. Just get ’em in here quiet like, will ya, so’s we don’t bring down half of the Army of Northern Virginia with ’em.”

I blushed from pate to soles, but did not waste further time with idle talk. I found my men in the weeds of a nearby field, & brought them to order, & introduced them to our new ally.

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

27.

Glauer drove Caxton back to the hospital—she had some important business there before she could get started organizing the night’s patrols, and she wanted him with her to act as her liaison with the local authorities. They took a patrol cruiser, one of five the department had left, since Caxton had put one of them in the shop. It felt very strange to climb into the passenger seat—a literal shotgun seat, with a Mossberg 500 locked between her knees. A laptop computer mounted between the seats kept jabbing her in the thigh as they took the sharp corners.

There had been a time when she drove Arkeley around, listening to whatever pearls of wisdom he cared to drop. She had tried to learn everything she could from him, thinking that he had planned to make her his successor. Instead he’d just wanted her as bait for the vampires. The tables had turned, it seemed, and she wondered if Arkeley had ever been so uncomfortable in the passenger seat. Not just because of the various bits of hardware poking her, but because for the first time in her life Caxton was in charge.

Vicente and Glauer looked to her to make all the decisions. Caxton had been far more comfortable the night before, chasing a vampire with her life at stake, than she was ordering cops around. What if she screwed up? She had already screwed up, many times. It would probably happen again—and eventually she would screw up enough that people would die. Unless she could take down the vampire first.

“Time,” she said, as they waited at a stoplight, “is going to be our enemy here.” Gettysburg’s roads had been laid out for carriage traffic in the nineteenth century, back when it was a market town, before the Battle. The roads had not been widened since—they couldn’t be, since that would mean moving or demolishing historical buildings. As a result, and with two million tourists coming through every year, the quaint little town of seventy-five hundred people saw some pretty heavy gridlock. She sighed and wondered if it would be faster to get out and walk. To pass the time she looked at Glauer and asked him,

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen?” It was one of the questions state troopers used to get to know each other, nothing more.

Glauer looked back at her as if she’d asked how, when, where, and with whom he had lost his virginity.

She squirmed in her seat, wishing she could take her question back. After a second, though, he shrugged and looked forward through the windshield again. “About ten years ago, some coed, some girl up at the college, took a header off the top of Pennsylvania Hall. It’s supposed to be haunted—maybe she was running away from a ghost. Maybe she was just high on acid.” He shrugged again. “I got called in to tape off the scene, keep the other kids away. I had to be there all day with her until they could get an ambulance in there to take her out.”

“Was she pretty well splattered?” Caxton asked.

He flinched and shook his head. “Not so bad. There was a little blood, but she was lying on her side almost like she’d just lain down and taken a nap. Her face was turned away from me. That was why I didn’t notice the birds at first. They were all over her, pigeons, crows, starlings. I eventually decided to shoo them away, even though I felt like an idiot doing it. I would have done it sooner if I’d realized they’d come for her eyes.”

Good one, Caxton thought. In the barracks of Troop T, the highway patrol, that would have gotten the man a couple of high fives and maybe a free beer. She started to smile and opened her mouth to congratulate him, but when she looked over again he was shivering. She’d stirred up a memory in Glauer that he would have preferred not to visit again. Shit, she thought. In Troop T they had seen worse things almost every day. Traffic fatalities could be bad, really bad, especially when it rained. They had developed a thick skin about it, used gallows humor to cover up how much it shook them. Apparently when you were a cop in a town with zero homicides you didn’t have to grow calluses on your heart.

They arrived at the hospital a few minutes later. Glauer led her down the stairs and to the morgue, where Garrity’s wife was already waiting for them. She sat in an orange plastic chair in a waiting room on the far side of the autopsy suite. She had a kerchief around her hair and wore sunglasses, probably to hide how puffy her eyes had become with weeping. A forgotten Styrofoam cup of coffee rested on the seat next to her.

Caxton held her breath before she walked into the waiting room and promised herself that this time she would get it right. She had to be sensitive and understanding, but she couldn’t let those things stop her getting what she needed.

They didn’t have a course in how to do this at the academy. Maybe they should have. She walked in and crouched down next to the woman and offered her hands. “Hi,” she said, and studied the other woman’s face. She had sandy hair and thin lips and she might have been thirty or forty; Caxton couldn’t say. She had that same pasty complexion that grief gives everyone, a pallor that sadness brings. “I’m Laura Caxton. I work for the state police. I was with your husband last night,” she said. “I want you to know I’m very, very sorry for what happened.”

“Thank you,” the woman said. She squeezed Caxton’s hands and then let them go. “The doctor here said you had called him and that I couldn’t take Brad’s body until I’d spoken with you. Is there some kind of form to fill out?”

Caxton shot a glance at Glauer. The local cop stood by the door as if he were guarding it. His eyes did not meet hers. Supposedly he had already told Garrity’s widow why they had come. Clearly he hadn’t been specific enough.

“Your husband was killed by a vampire,” Caxton said. “There’s a possibility—I’m not really sure how to say this.”

The woman pulled the sunglasses off her face. Her eyes were bloodshot, but they showed far more composure than Caxton had expected. “Why don’t you just say it, and we’ll worry about my feelings later?”

Caxton nodded and looked down at her shoes. She had to force herself to meet the woman’s gaze.

“Vampires have a certain power over their victims. They can call them back from death. It’s not—it’s not something you would want to happen. They come back corrupted, with their souls damaged. They become slaves of the vampire. I’m sure your husband was a strong man, a good man—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” the woman finally said. Her hands were shaking, but her eyes blazed. “What is it that you want? Will you just tell me?”

Caxton bit her lip. “Until we cremate his body, he can be forced to come back and serve the vampire.

We have to burn him, all of him. It’s the only way.”

The widow’s face turned deathly white. She stared up at Glauer and Caxton waited for her to say something. She didn’t.

“It’s the only way,” Caxton repeated. “I understand there may be religious reasons you may not want to do this, but—”

“Bullshit,” the widow said.

“Helena, she’s not making this up,” Glauer said.

The woman’s name was Helena. Why hadn’t Caxton even asked? Her cheeks burned, but she knew she had to get the permission before she could move on. “If you’ll just say the word, we’ll take care of all the details.”

“Mike, this woman is talking about—about—” Helena Garrity stood up suddenly, so suddenly she swayed from side to side. She rushed over to Glauer, who pulled her into a bear hug. She nearly disappeared into the broad expanse of his jacket.

“Shh,” Glauer said, stroking her hair. The woman collapsed against his chest. “Just say yes.”

The woman shook her head against Glauer’s chest, but then said yes. Caxton produced the proper form and the woman signed on the appropriate line. A doctor came in and started talking to the widow in low tones. He took the form and shoved it in his pocket.

Glauer led Caxton back upstairs. He didn’t speak until they were in the parking lot. He put on a pair of mirrored sunglasses, then, and looked away, toward the road. “You’re not really a people person,” he suggested.

“I’m a cop,” she replied.

He looked almost surprised. “You think those are two different things?”

She kept her mouth shut all the way to their next stop—a meeting room at the back of a church. Chief Vicente was there waiting for them, standing at a podium with one of his patrolmen on either side of him.

They should have been out searching for the vampire’s body, she thought, but she supposed he had his reasons for doing this instead.

Vicente wanted a press conference. A half-dozen reporters from the Gettysburg Times and other papers around Adams County sat in uncomfortable-looking chairs, while a lone TV crew had set up in the corner, their cables and battery packs in a pile on the floor. They had a pair of floodlights trained on the podium and it looked pretty hot up there. Caxton lingered at the back of the room. The reporters looked back at her, ignoring the chief as he read a prepared statement.

“The state police in Harrisburg have been good enough to provide us with an expert in just this kind of crime,” Vicente said, and raised one hand to gesture at her. He wanted her to come up and say something, she realized. “I’d like to introduce you to Laura Caxton. Thank you.” He waved at her again.

She wasn’t sure whether or not to expect applause. When none came she rushed down to the podium and cleared her throat.

The lights were bright enough to blind her. She held up one hand to cover her eyes and looked out at the reporters. “I don’t have a prepared statement,” she admitted. “Are there any questions?”

One of the reporters stood up. He was wearing a dark blue blazer, but she couldn’t really see his face.

“Do you have any leads as to the vampire’s identity?” he asked.

She shook her head. That didn’t seem to suffice, so she leaned closer to the microphone and said, “No, not at this time. We’re looking into it.”

Another reporter asked, without getting up, “Can you tell us about the policeman who died last night?

Did he suffer much, or did he go peacefully?”

She felt like she was back at school. She felt like she was being quizzed. That one had to be a trick question. “I’m sorry, I can’t comment on that,” she said.

Over by the television camera a third reporter asked, “Officer Caxton, can you give us some idea of what to expect? Can you outline your plan for catching this creature and what you’re going to do to protect Gettysburg?”

“I’ve basically just got here and I haven’t had time to create an action plan. We’re still working on that—”

The reporter held up his hands in disgust. “Can’t you give us any details of your investigation at all?

What’s your best-case scenario? What should people do?”

She glanced over at Vicente. His face was very still, as if he were keeping it under perfect control. His shoulders, however, were inching upward toward his ears. He didn’t like her performance.

Well, so be it, she thought. She certainly had better things to do. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to throw him a bone, though. “Well, I can tell you that everyone should stay indoors tonight. Don’t go out for any reason, not unless it’s a true emergency. Anyone who has a place to go outside of town should do so now, before sunset. I’d urge all the tourists to cut their trips short and go home.”

Vicente smiled very broadly and started walking back toward the podium, his hands together as if he might start clapping.

The reporter wasn’t done with her, though. “Are you actually suggesting that Gettysburg should shut down its tourist industry?”

“Definitely,” she said. “We’re dealing with a vampire. They drink blood. They’ll kill anyone who gets in their way. If I could, I would evacuate the whole town.”

Even through the haze of light she could see every eye in the room go wide when she said that.

28.

I fumed in impatience. Bill had been badly hurt when I’d seen him, perhaps near death. Every minute I delayed my rescue reduced his chances of survival.

“Now ya hold your horses, Griest. That’s one virtue I’ve learnt, & it has served me well. For a long time I been runnin’ after that Reb, e’er since he sup’rised my company in the Peninsula. He slaughtered a good score of men in their sleep. I was on sentry duty that night or I would have been one of them. When you came runnin’ up I was waiting for him to ride by so I could spill his brains on his own beloved soil by way of thanks. Woulda had ’im, too, if’n I hadn’t wasted my powder on getting yer attention.”

“Who is this murderer?” I asked.

“The Ranger Simonon, & about the worst snake the Confederacy ever pulled out of a hole. He’s a sneak killer and a horse thief, of the sort they raise out Bleeding Kansas way. Father Abraham wants him dead as much as I, & by God, I’ll have it so. If I can help yer pal, I will, but not if it means missin’ another shoot.”

“I aim to go inside, at once,” I said again.

Storrow placed a hand on my shoulder & squeezed it. “There’s danger in there, y’know. Mortal danger.”

“You didn’t strike me as cowardly before,” I said.

The man would have been in his rights to strike me then. Instead he only spit on the ground and said, “I seen a thing come out of there last night I wouldn’t want to meet again. Ya know what I’m jawin’ about?”

“The vampire,” German Pete barked.

Storrow looked at the man long & hard & then nodded. “Thought it might be one.”

“Do you know aught of vampires, then?” I asked.

His shoulders raised in a shrug. “Precious little. What man does? They’re rare as honest politicians, & I thank Jesus for that. I saw one they caught & killed in Angola town, back in ’53, when I was a boy. They took & laid him out in a warehouse for the public edification. My daddy took us all in for a look, & paid a half-dime for the pleasure. Ugliest critter I ever saw, & it scared me stiff, dead as it was. This one’s still quick.”

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

29.

“He couldn’t get me off that podium fast enough,” Caxton said. She leaned back in the Mazda’s driver seat and rubbed at her eyes. It felt strangely good to talk to Arkeley. She’d never thought she would say that before.

Calling him had taken some courage. After she left the press conference and Glauer had taken her back to the police station, she had been left all alone in the swirling leaves of the parking lot, with no idea what to do next. Or rather, she knew exactly what needed to be done but she didn’t have time to do it. She should have been out on the streets with the other cops, searching for the vampire. She had only ten minutes, though, before she was supposed to go to her interview with Professor Geistdoerfer. She had considered getting something to eat—it was going to be a long night—but there really wasn’t time. So instead she had taken out her cell phone and called Clara, but she only got the machine.

She had screwed up, and badly. She knew that. She’d traumatized Garrity’s poor widow and outraged the local media. Vicente had been furious with her after the press conference and she still wasn’t sure why, but she knew it would be a problem. Organizing the manhunt for the vampire was going to be harder than ever.

The phone in her hand contained Arkeley’s number, she thought. If there was anybody in the world who could give her some decent advice it would be the old Fed. He had actually done this before, stood where she stood, made the decisions she was forced to make. He would be a great source of advice—though never sympathy. She could expect little but scorn for how she’d handled things so far.

She had opened her phone list and there he was, the first entry. The only person she knew whose name started with A . She had hit the send button before she could stop herself. He was in a truck ferrying Malvern to Philadelphia and the connection had been lousy, but when he answered she had just started talking, ostensibly just updating him as to everything that had happened. When she finished there was silence on the line.

“Hello, Arkeley? Are you there?” she asked. “What do you think?”

“I think,” he said, “that if you had consciously planned out how to be bad at this job, you still might have come off better.”

She shook her head from side to side. It was about what she’d expected. “But what did they want? I just told them what I thought.”

“That was the last thing they wanted. Press conferences are a very specific variety of bullshit. They serve two functions: to tell people that no matter how dire things might look, it’s not their fault, and that they need take no action at this time.”

“We have a vampire here!” she said, sounding whiny to her own ears.

“Yes. The good people of Gettysburg know that. They’re terrified. They wanted you to get up there and tell them that they’re safe and that you’ll clean up the mess for them.” His voice changed, grew more weary. “They just wanted some reassurance. They wanted a symbolic father to tell them everything was going to be alright. It’s why you were welcomed so warmly in the first place. The chief there doesn’t know what to do next and he asked you in so he could pass the buck.”

“I thought it had more to do with my experience and skills.”

Arkeley grunted. It almost sounded like a laugh. “Well, you’ve now demonstrated exactly what those skills are worth.”

She frowned. He couldn’t see it, but it wouldn’t have bothered him anyway. “I don’t remember you having to do any press conferences, last time.”

“That was only because I bullied my way out of them. Listen, Trooper, I have to go now. We’re nearly at the museum. Maybe I’ll have something for you later—if the bones here really do date to 1863, they must be related in some way to our suspect. I’ll have my phone on me, so keep me posted, please.” He broke the connection without another word. Caxton flipped her phone closed and shoved it in her pocket. Arkeley had been a jerk, as usual, but talking to him had made her feel strangely better. He hadn’t dismissed her from duty or told her to let the local cops handle the case. On some level he still believed she was the right woman for the job.

The job—she checked her watch and saw she just had time to make her appointment with Geistdoerfer.

She checked her annotated map of the town and started up the Mazda. It wasn’t far to the college campus—nothing in Gettysburg was very far from anything else—but traffic was thick. It was late, almost sundown, and she cursed the tourists around her as they crawled through green lights and blocked intersections.

She was heading up Carlisle Street when she realized that the tourists in their cars were headed away from the center of town. Always before, the traffic had flowed toward Lincoln Square. They were leaving the borough, heading out in great flocks. Had her press conference gone out live? Or maybe people were just smart enough to get their kids away from a town haunted by a vampire. She could only hope.

She pulled into a parking lot near a classroom building and headed inside. The Civil War Era Studies department had classes on the third floor overlooking a student area with a fountain. Through the windows she could see the campus lit up and golden in twilight. It reminded her of her own year and a half in college, a time she’d spent learning who she was, if she hadn’t learned much else. She found the door she wanted and knocked politely, then stepped inside. The classroom was all but deserted, row after row of black metal chairs lined up facing a whiteboard and a long table littered with books and bags. Three female students—they looked so young to Caxton, who was barely out of her mid-twenties herself—had congregated around a very tall, very striking man who could only be Geistdoerfer.

“Running Wolf,” they called him, and she finally understood why. He was of average build, but his height made him look lean. He had a sharp nose and sharper eyes, and his head was crowned with a thick shock of silver hair that turned darker in the back. His mustache was thick and bristly, but he didn’t look like one of the Pennsylvania cops she’d seen back at the station. He looked far more distinguished, like some European aristocrat maybe, but with a real streak of wildness. When he spoke to the girls he tilted his head back slightly and looked down at them along his long nose. The gesture didn’t look haughty, however, but almost conspiratorial. He looked as if he were sharing dark secrets with them even as he discussed the topics for their term papers.

“Professor,” Caxton said. “I hate to interrupt, but—”

“Trooper, ah, Caxton,” he said airily. “Oh, yes, the police called to say you were coming over. You young ladies had best leave us.” He smiled down at his students and one of them actually giggled. “And do be safe tonight, won’t you? Lock your doors so the beasties don’t get you.”

The students promised to be good and left, shouldering their bags and giving Caxton a once-over as they passed her. It was only when they were gone that Caxton saw that Geistdoerfer’s arm was in a sling.

“Shall we go to my office, where we can sit down?”

“Sure,” Caxton said.

He started loading books and papers into a satchel with his one good hand. Caxton helped him and somehow ended up carrying the bag as well. He led her down a long hallway that was starting to get gloomy as the sun fell. His office was at the far end, a cozy room lined with books. He sat down behind a big desk piled with student papers while Caxton took a padded chair on the far side. She glanced around, taking in her surroundings, the way any cop would, but the room offered few secrets at first glance. A cavalry saber hung on one wall, its scabbard mounted just beneath it. The blade was polished to a high shine but still spotted with rust.

“A horseman of J. E. B. Stuart’s acquaintance dropped that about half a mile south of where we stand,”

he told her, “one hundred and forty-one years ago. His head had just been taken off by a cannonball, so he no longer needed it. He was good enough to let it fall in the mud, where it was quickly buried, and in the heat of July the mud hardened to something like cement. The sword lay there for quite some time, almost perfectly preserved, until I had the pleasure of digging it up when I was just a lad. I was a tourist, you know, dragged here by my parents from Nebraska, where we lived. I thought this place was boring until I saw that sword. Now I can’t imagine anywhere more exciting, anywhere else I’d rather live. It is funny, isn’t it, the path things take through history? The way the past intersects with and shapes our so modern lives?”

Caxton knew a few things about how the past could catch up with you. She didn’t have time for chitchat, though. The sun was down and the vampire would be waking up—hungry. Best to get this interview over with quickly.

“I apologize for taking up your time,” she said. “I’ve already spoken with Jeff Montrose—”

Geistdoerfer’s eyes went wide for a moment. “A promising student, though a bit bizarre looking.”

“Yes,” Caxton agreed. “He showed me the cavern, and the bones inside. I’m pretty sure the vampire I’m chasing came out of the empty coffin down there. Montrose said you were the first person to enter the cavern, and I thought you might have seen something everyone else missed. That you might have some idea how the vampire got out.”

“You thought, perhaps, that I might have actually seen the vampire leaving the cavern?”

Caxton squirmed in her chair. “I hardly think that’s likely, no, but I need to check up on every lead. I’m sure you understand, as an archaeologist.”

“Oh, absolutely.” He tried to gesture with his hurt arm, but the sling wouldn’t allow him much freedom of motion. He grunted and closed his eyes for a moment, as if the pain of his injury had caught up with him.

He opened a drawer with his good hand and took out a bottle of pills. After fiddling with the cap, he knocked two of them back into his mouth and swallowed them dry. He grunted them down his throat, then sat staring at his desk for a long minute while she waited for him to recover enough to talk.

He leaned back in his swivel chair, leaned all the way back and looked up at the ceiling. “Well,” he said, finally, “I suppose there’s no point in trying to lie now.”

“I’m sorry?” Caxton asked.

“I could feed you some line, and believe me, I’m enough of an orator to probably sell it. I could tell you the coffin in question was already ruined when I found it. Empty and…all that. But there’s hardly any point. You’ve caught me, copper. Red-handed.” He looked down at his arm. She studied the sling closely for the first time and saw a drop of red welling up through the bandage around his wrist. “Oh, that’s kind of funny, isn’t it?”

Then he started to laugh.

30.

It had been a fine house once, with paintings on the walls & plentiful lamps to provide illumination. Now only sunlight, slanting downward from the rent dome of the cupola, limned the place in a yellow radiance that hid as much as it revealed. I could see where the paper on the walls had peeled back, & where the floorboards were littered with the bodies of dead wasps, dry

& brittle so they crunched as I trod on them.

The entrance gave on an elaborate spiral staircase that must once have risen majestically to a second floor. An enormous finial in the shape of a chess pawn stood at the bottom of the railing,

& it remained in fine shape, but shortly past that point the stairs had collapsed, or been pulled down. They had been reduced to a heap of plaster & broken marble that filled much of the room.

Beyond these stairs I proceeded, & found a luxurious parlor, reduced to a shambles. Shattered mirrors lined the walls while elegant chairs had been shoved to the back of the room like so much rubbish, some broken down to kindling, some still showing satin upholstery. In the center of the room stood a raised platform, perhaps like an altar, but with a rounded top. It was made of alabaster & chased with gold. I stepped closer & saw that it was hinged on one side & would open like a chest. Then I sucked in a deep breath & tried not to sicken. It was a sepulcher I had found.

A gilded coffin.

“They cain’t hurt ya by daylight,” Storrow hissed at me from behind. I looked back & saw the other men standing in the doorway, peering over each others’ shoulders but unwilling to take one more step forward.

I screwed up my courage & grabbed the side of the sarcophagus & threw the lid open. It rose easily on springs & I let go & jumped back, ready for anything.

Inside I saw a lining of stained red velvet, & nothing more. Not so much as a mouldering bone or scrap of a shroud.

“Nothin’ ever was that easy, I s’pose,” Storrow said, sounding almost regretful. For myself I was glad enough to find the vampire missing. I did not look to tussle with it again, at least not so soon.

“Bill’s not here,” I told the others. “Come on, let us keep searching.”

I grasped the lid again & tried to close it, but it felt as if it had locked into place & all my strength could not move the lid. There must be some hidden catch or a release lever, I thought, & I bent to look closer.

At that moment some hard metal object caught the back of my collar, & jarred the very bones of my spine. Had I not been leaning forward it would have caved in the back of my skull, I am sure.

Stunned, my arms tingling, I turned as quick as I could to see my assailant bringing his weapon back for another blow. It was a gold candelabra, I saw, with white wax still clotted in its receptacles. The man who wielded this expensive club wore a long nightshirt & had a stocking cap on his head. His face hung in tatters, the skin peeled back from the grayish muscles underneath. Just as Bill had come to look.

There was a struggle; the short of it is, I lived, and he did not. I would have studied the dead man in more detail, I think, had we not at the moment heard footsteps scuttling on the floor above our heads.

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

31.

Caxton squinted. “If you’re making a joke I’m afraid I don’t get it.”

“Then allow me to explain. You were quite right to come here, quite right.” He leaned forward again and opened his eyes, and they flashed with a wild light that made her flinch. “I’m your culprit. I opened that cavern not knowing what I would find inside, but once I saw those coffins, once I saw the first set of bones, I saw the potential. I sent Montrose and the rest of the students away. I don’t think any of them even saw the heart.”

Caxton sat up very straight in her chair. Her Beretta was holstered under her left arm and she was very much aware of it.

“If they did they probably didn’t know what they saw. It looked like a lump of coal, because someone had been good enough to coat it in tar. I imagine they meant to preserve it, though for how long I could not tell you. It was sitting on top of one of the coffins. Just one out of the hundred but I understood. It was meant to go inside—there might as well have been written instructions. I opened the coffin and placed the heart in the center of the rib cage and it started to work almost instantly. You’ll wonder why I did such a stupid thing, of course.” He nodded at the saber on the wall. “I have longed, my entire life, to speak with the poor man who dropped that. I have spent decades imagining what he would say to me, and the questions I would ask him. I thought the fellow in that coffin would be quite forthcoming. And I was right, in a way. He had plenty to say. Of course, he asked most of the questions.”

The temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees while Geistdoerfer spoke. Caxton reached for her handgun, but before she could get her hand up someone reached down from behind her and grabbed both her arms in an iron grip. She didn’t have to look down to know that the hands holding her down would be as pale as snow. She could feel the vampire behind her, feel the way he made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight.

“I knew what I was doing. I knew that it was probably a mistake. I felt a certain compulsion, though he tells me he had no power over me at that time. It was pure curiosity that moved me, then. Exactly the thing that killed the cat.”

Geistdoerfer started to remove the dressing on his arm. It took some doing, as he only had one free hand and his mouth to work with. The vampire didn’t speak while Caxton waited to see what lay beneath. The vampire didn’t even breathe on her neck.

The vampire didn’t tear her head off, either, or suck out all her blood. That might mean he just wanted to play with her first. Vampires had very little inner life—they mostly spent their nights pursuing blood, thinking about the blood to come. Occasionally they played with the bodies of their victims, and occasionally they played with their food before they drank. Human death amused them. Corpses could provide them with hours of entertainment.

“It was quite something to see. As soon as I lay the heart among his bones it began. The heart started to shake and jump. The tar on the surface cracked and whitened, then it burst open, as if it were under considerable pressure from within. A kind of white smoke leaked out, except it wasn’t quite smoke. It seemed alive, like it had a will of its own. It filled the coffin and a thin ribbon of it spilled over. I thought it might crawl across the floor and come after me. Then I saw the bones inside that tendril of vapor, the finger bones.”

Caxton barely heard him. She was too busy thinking about what it would be like to be a vampire’s toy.

Another possibility, though, was more likely, and also far more chilling. It was possible the vampire didn’t want to kill her because he wanted something from her. One vampire, Efrain Reyes, had wanted her to be his lover. Kevin Scapegrace, who came after, merely wanted her because Malvern had decided it would be ironic to turn her into the thing she had destroyed. Then there was Deanna—but she didn’t want to think about Deanna.

A third possibility presented itself. The night before, this vampire, the emaciated creature that Geistdoerfer had awoken, had spared her life because she was a woman and he was sworn never to hurt a member of the fairer sex. It was possible he was going to let her go again.

She doubted it, though. She doubted it very much. Such niceties belonged to human beings. A vampire, drawn by the smell of blood, would shed gallantry and courtesy quickly enough. What had saved her once was very unlikely to save her twice.

“The smoke solidified as I watched. At first he was as transparent and wobbly as a man made of jelly.

Then he sat up and roared, a long, hoarse noise I could barely stand to hear. His whole body shook, even as it grew more and more solid, more complete. Finally he leaped up out of the coffin and stood hunched over in the cavern, looking like he had no idea where he was. He picked up the coffin and smashed it against the wall. I still don’t know whether he was aware for the whole time he was in that box, or whether it was like a long sleep. He didn’t seem to want to spend another second inside it, however.”

Eventually Geistdoerfer got the bandage loose. It fell in a bloody, sticky heap on his desk. What was revealed beneath looked less like a human arm than a raw leg of lamb after a dog got through with it.

There were still three fingers on his hand, but most of his wrist and forearm had been gnawed away. His thumb was missing altogether. A little blood welled out of the wound as Geistdoerfer flexed the muscles remaining to him.

When the blood glistened in the open air, the hands holding down Caxton constricted. The grip on her arms grew stronger. She did feel the vampire breathe then—a long, cold sigh of desire that drifted down her neck like a tendril of fog.

“He struck me as hungry, so I offered him a drink,” Geistdoerfer explained. “He was a bit more eager than either of us expected. He has apologized, of course, but I’m not sure that will be enough. I want you to know something, Trooper. I want you to know I had no idea what he would be like. After being buried, tucked away for so long—and he looked so thin, so cadaverously thin. I had no idea if he could even walk under his own power, or how strong he could really be.”

Most people didn’t. It was one reason that people like Arkeley and Caxton had to exist, because most people had no idea what vampires were capable of. You underestimated them at your peril—more often than not, your mortal peril.

“After this happened I wanted to go to the hospital, naturally. I fear I screamed quite a bit. He wouldn’t let me go. He didn’t want to let me get that far out of his sight. I have a friend, a professor here, who gave me the pills I’ve been taking. She has a bad back, but it only bothers her sometimes, and for now she was willing to share. She had plenty of questions herself, but I knew how to fend her off.”

Geistdoerfer looked up at her. “You’ve gone very quiet,” he noticed.

“She knows what’s coming,” the vampire said. His voice was a growl, an inhuman burr in her left ear.

She closed her eyes as he moved his thick jaw across her neck. She could feel the hardness of his teeth, feel the cold triangular shapes of them pressing against her warm flesh. None of them pricked her, though. He was holding himself back. If he drew her blood, he might not be able to resist his unnatural urge to kill her. “Forgive me if I take a liberty, Miss,” he said, much softer than before. His hand, cold and clammy, stole around the side of her neck. His fingers drew across her throat, then reached down into the collar of her shirt.

“I see you’ve not replaced your amulet,” he said in her ear. His breath stank, though not of blood. It smelled like an open grave. It filled up her nose and her mouth and made her want to pull away.

Still she said nothing.

She was far too scared to speak.

Geistdoerfer replaced his bandage with fresh linen, wrapping it carefully and not too tightly around his ruined arm. Halfway through he had to stop and take some more pills. Finally he slipped his arm back into its sling, and then he rose from the desk and came around to stand next to her.

“I’m going to take your sidearm, now,” he told her. He sounded truly contrite, but she wasn’t about to forgive Geistdoerfer for what he’d done. Garrity’s widow wouldn’t have forgiven him, she knew. With his good hand he drew her Beretta out of its holster and laid it on the desk, well away from her hands.

He took the can of pepper spray from her belt and pushed it into his own pants pocket. His hand moved upward, touching the pockets of her coat. He took away her handcuffs and her flashlight. He found the lump of her cell phone next and squeezed it experimentally. He left it where it was. She glanced up, trying to catch his eyes, but his face revealed nothing.

32.

The fiends were thick inside the door frame presently, wasting no moment on startlement at seeing us again. They pushed through as if their divers bodies had become a single, gelatinous mass.

Storrow’s shotgun blasted my senses as he fired two loads of buckshot deep into that host. Torn faces & flailing limbs shattered & fell away. There was no blood, which surprised me, but much tearing of flesh & grinding of bone. I had the presence of mind to discharge my own weapon into the fray & heard a distant popping sound which came from German Pete’s revolver. To me, half deafened by the noise of the shotgun, it sounded like a man throwing stones at a wooden fence.

Yet the bullets it fired cut down half the foemen before us…

An imp of hell with a ragged face came clambering over the sundered bodies of the dead, a fireplace poker in his hand. There was no time to reload, so I jabbed forward with my bayonet.

The blade sank with sickening ease through his skull & brains & he fell away without making a sound. Two more came charging at the doorway then & Eben Nudd knocked them sideways with the butt of his weapon.

& as easy as that, the door was clear.

—THE STATEMENT OFALVAGRIEST

33.

“You’ve been hiding him here since you found him. In these offices, somewhere,” she said.

“Let me show you,” Geistdoerfer said.

The vampire let go of her once she’d been disarmed. Geistdoerfer picked up the Beretta and gestured at her with it, like something out of an old black-and-white movie. She got the point, and stood up slowly, keeping her hands high and visible.

They walked out of the office and down a darkened corridor. Geistdoerfer lowered the pistol as he opened a door markedCWES LAB . She watched the gun bob back and forth in his hand, point at the floor. She could have made a grab for it. Then she looked at the vampire.

His face was thin and sharp, his eyes tiny and beadlike. His teeth glimmered in the half-darkness.

If she made any sudden moves, she knew, he could tear her to pieces in the space between two heartbeats.

Eventually Geistdoerfer got the door open.

The three of them walked inside, into a room full of tables. Bits of metal and whitened lead bullets lay spread out on the tables. One held an enormous barrel, a hogshead, Caxton believed it was called. Its wood was silver with age and its hoops had turned to dull rust, but a black crust of tar held it in one piece. Another table held a single pair of decaying pants. Probably the same pants the vampire had worn when she’d seen him the night before. They were laid out carefully, as if a team of archaeologists had been going over them all day with magnifying glasses and dental picks. Geistdoerfer might have done just that, she realized.

In the center of the room stood an enormous set sink made of brushed aluminum. It was as big as a bathtub. “We’re set up here to handle human remains, though I doubt the kind alumnus who funded this lab had quite our distinguished guest in mind.”

Caxton leaned over the tub and smelled something awful inside. She looked closer, but only found a few maggots crawling blindly across the bottom of the sink.

“You’ve been sleeping in this tub,” she said to the vampire. Most animals bolted in terror at the first sign of a vampire. Insects, and especially maggots, were the most notorious exception. During the day a vampire’s body didn’t just slumber, it liquefied. Maggots knew a free meal when they saw one.

“He kept saying he needed something better, that he needed a real coffin. Last night he went out to find one. Unfortunately you happened to be there at just the wrong time.”

Or the right time, she thought. The right time to discover the weird game the archaeologist was playing.

That discovery was probably going to get her killed, but it meant the vampire wouldn’t be able to hide much longer. How many people knew where she was? Half the police department knew she’d set up this appointment. When she failed to appear at the police station that night the local cops would start to put the pieces together. This was the first place they would come to look.

Of course, she’d be dead by then. A wave of horror rippled down her back, hitting every muscle in turn as it went. She wanted to run away. She wanted to start screaming.

She kept control of herself, somehow.

He gestured with the gun again. Clearly he’d never held one before. She would have been a lot more nervous if the safety had been off, but even in the gloom she could see otherwise. She might have been prompted to try some heroic gesture like grabbing the gun away from him. If it hadn’t been for the vampire behind her.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

He only smiled at her, a gruesome parody of a human smile. His teeth looked very sharp in the dim light.

“Were you a soldier?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she turned to look at Geistdoerfer. “Was he a soldier in the Battle?”

Geistdoerfer lowered his head for a second but didn’t answer her question. Apparently between the two of them they were smart enough to remember she was a cop, and that when she asked questions, she was digging for clues. They weren’t about to give her anything.

The gun moved again and this time she moved, heading down the corridor to a stairwell. Orange light came in through the windows, cast by the sodium vapor lamps outside. The light passed through the leaves of a tree being torn at by the wind, and long daggerlike shadows glided across the steps as she went down. At the bottom she pushed open a door and cold night air billowed in. Beyond lay a parking lot. There were no students out there—maybe they’d been smart enough to take her warning and lock themselves away for the night.

Geistdoerfer’s car was a burgundy-colored Buick Electra, a big old machine with hints of tail fins. He unlocked the driver’s-side door and gestured for her to get in. “I’m driving?” she asked.