Vampire a Go-Go

SEVEN

The surly Czech cab driver dropped him in front of the apartment building in the little neighborhood across from Letna Park. Rain flayed the world, and Allen, struggling with his two enormous suitcases, was soaked in just the quick dash across the sidewalk and into the building. He hauled his luggage up two flights of stairs, then collapsed in front of number three, the apartment Dr. Evergreen had arranged for himself for the summer.

Allen unzipped the front pouch of the first suitcase, fished out the key he’d been given, and entered the apartment. It was spacious, with two bedrooms, a sitting area that bled into the kitchen, and a balcony that overlooked the street in front. From this vantage point he saw warm light in the windows of a neighborhood pub not even half a block away. He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to sample the Czech beer he’d heard so much about, but if he missed the delivery, there would be hell to pay with Dr. Evergreen.

And anyway, he was getting wet again standing on the balcony.

Back inside, he changed into dry clothes. He turned on the TV, found he had three channels. One showed something incomprehensible in Czech, and another showed something incomprehensible in German. The third showed soccer.

Allen switched off the television and turned his attention to the present Penny had given him when she’d dropped him off at the airport.

The Rogue’s Guide to Prague was intended to be an irreverent travel guide to the city, pointing out all the usual tourist attractions, offering helpful hints for travelers, but also providing tongue-in-cheek commentary about various parts of the city and its environs. He read the entry for the Letna neighborhood:

More difficult, but not impossible, to locate a hooker in one of the local taverns of this quiet neighborhood. Better chances at the nearby Holešovice train station. The area is bordered by Letna Park on the south and Wenceslas Park to the north, known for its extensive rose gardens. There are numerous quiet grottos and shrubby enclaves where prostitutes can pleasure you if you’re too cheap to spring for a room.

Allen glanced through some of the area’s highlights.

• The Charles Bookstore and Café: Unlike the more touristy places in the city center, you can still get breakfast or lunch here for a song. The strong coffee will crush your balls. Cold beer. Local prices. The girls with tattoos and nose rings who work at the place know enough English to refuse your advances.

• Metronome Sculpture in Letna Park: This useless piece of crap gives the graffiti artists something new to deface instead of the old giant statue of Stalin. But the view here is magnificent. You can look down into the heart of Prague where things are actually happening. The constant racket of skateboarders will make you long for the old days of the iron-fisted Communists who would have sent these punks to the gulag without blinking.

• Kjyeilkle’s Pub: No English. Very few hookers.

Allen closed the book, wondered if Penny had meant it as a gag or if she’d really thought Allen would be able to get useful information out of it. He waited another hour, dozed off to the sound of the rain against the windows and balcony. A harsh knock on the door woke him with a start. He rubbed his eyes, stumbled to answer it.

He opened the door to four grumpy, rain-soaked men, who babbled at him in Czech until he got the message they wanted him to move the hell out of the way. He stepped aside, and the men grunted and heaved a long wooden crate into the middle of the apartment. They shoved a clipboard into Allen’s hands and mimed for him to sign it, which he did right before they left, muttering and frowning.

The wooden crate was nearly seven feet long and came almost up to his belt. He’d been told to wait for some things Dr. Evergreen was having shipped, but Allen had figured it was just miscellaneous luggage and books. An overwhelming curiosity seized him, a strong desire to crowbar the thing open and take a look.

He ran his hands across the rough wood, knocked. Thick planks, something heavy inside. He tried to push the crate off to the side but couldn’t budge it alone. He sat on the crate, let his legs dangle. The rain continued its hypnotic splat against the windows. After signing for Evergreen’s package, Allen was supposed to see to his own accommodations, but he was loath to trek through the downpour.

A whiff of something wet and pungent caught his attention. Allen leaned over, put his nose close to the surface of the crate, and sniffed an earthy smell, like freshly tilled soil, moist and rich.

Allen stretched out on top of the crate, yawned. He was jet-lagged. His eyelids grew heavy, and in seconds he was drawn into deep, dark slumber.

Night had fallen. Allen rose from the crate, the full moon casting a pale blue light through the open balcony door. He shivered, a cold wind flowing around him. He saw his own breath fogging between his lips.

It’s summer. I didn’t pack anything warm. He hugged himself.

A creak of floorboards. Allen jerked his head around, looked at the front door, saw nothing. The room seemed to groan under its own weight, and Allen suddenly felt the immensity of the apartment building, an eerie self-awareness of himself as an insignificant part of a greater whole, sleeping minds in other apartments, people eating, screwing, watching television.

A gust of cold wind on his neck and he turned back to the balcony. Allen gasped at the figure standing there.

Her skin glowed white, the frigid wind lifting the midnight hair off her shoulders, her eyes blazing with cold fire. Cassandra. It was Evergreen’s wife, wearing some shimmering, silky gown, her figure clear beneath the sheer material, soft white breasts threatening to overflow the gown’s plunging V-neck. She stretched her hands out to him, the red of her glossy fingernails like radioactive raspberry fire. The color matched her lips, the contrast of the bright red against her white skin doing strange, animal things to him.

Allen. Her lips didn’t move; the voice echoed in his head.

She drifted closer to him, her feet seeming not to touch the ground, the gown billowing around her. The wind howled now, washing the apartment intensely cold. The drapes flapping violently, bits of paper and debris flying around the room.

Allen was unable to move his body or rip his eyes away from Cassandra’s gaze.

She moved close to him, rested her hands on his thighs. An electric shock went to his groin, his sudden anticipation growing. He trembled as her face inched toward his, felt her breath on his mouth. She sank into him, breasts pushing against his chest.

Allen trembled, his erection straining painfully against his jeans. Her lips pressed frozen against him, a violent mix of cold fire, pain, and ecstasy. He tried to push away, but Cassandra’s tongue pushed its way into his mouth, invading him.

He wrenched himself away and scooted back on the crate. He opened his mouth to scream but couldn’t draw breath. He worked his mouth, tried to get air. Allen. Her voice filled his mind.

Allen’s eyes popped open. He sucked breath and screamed, rolled off the crate, and landed with a thud on the hard wooden floor.

He raised his head slowly, looked around. It was still day. The rain had eased but still fell in a drizzle. He was alone. His fingers went briefly to his lips, the dream images lingering and disturbing. Arousal and dread hung on him in equal portions.

He backed away from the crate, gathering his luggage as he went. He left the apartment, flew down the stairs two at a time, and sprinted from the building, out into the drizzle.

Prague lay before him like a mysterious stranger in an old hat.

An exotic woman waiting for him in poor light.

Like an inviting gypsy with a brand-new iPod.

Anyway, it was Prague.