Vampire a Go-Go

THIRTY-ONE

Allen glided through nighttime Prague as if on autopilot.

He passed the dark and empty Sparta Stadium, crossed Milady Harakove, and entered the western reaches of Letna Park, where the bike paths and walking trails crisscrossed through the trees. Allen never lost his way. One foot plodded in front of the other. The small chunk of his brain that was still thinking independently fretted over Cassandra Evergreen. Had he made a covenant with evil? Would he contract some kind of unholy venereal disease?

Must… obey.

Trees closed in around him, and the complete darkness was terrifying and comforting. He trudged on. An owl hooted, and Allen froze. Eyes in the night. Never mind. Keep going.

The trees opened suddenly, and there was Prague Castle before him, sprawling and magnificent, high walls and towers lit for the tourists. Even compelled as he was to move on, Allen made himself pause a moment to take in the view, to gaze upon the onetime seat of the Holy Roman Empire.

Then the urge to obey grew uncomfortable enough to spur him on. He passed Sternberg Palace on the north side. Schwarnbersky Palace came into view soon after. The whole area was lousy with historical crap.

He cut through another thin patch of forest and found the old monastery at the foot of Petrin Hill. The Rogue’s Guide entry to Strahov Monastery read like this:

Old libraries. No action.

Allen crossed the rambling cobblestone courtyard to the wide, wooden front-entrance double doors. He read the hours posted on the front door. The place opened for tourists at eight in the morning. Allen looked at his wristwatch.

1:36 a.m.

Stupid arbitrary half-assed vampire hypnotism bullshit.

A nudge in his ribs. Somebody was yammering foreign talk at him.

Allen blinked his eyes open, then looked up into the bored face of a uniformed man. Badge. Gun. Cop. The inside of Allen’s mouth tasted like old cabbage and feet. He sat up, his back, shoulders, and neck aching from six hours of sleeping on a stone bench.

The cop jabbered in Czech.

“I’m sorry.” Allen rubbed his neck, stretched. “I’m waiting for the monastery to open.”

Already a small crowd of tourists gathered at the front entrance, cameras around necks, khaki shorts and hats, T-shirts with the Czech flag on the front.

The cop sighed. “American.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He pointed to the big double doors. “Over there. Almost open.” He tapped his wristwatch.

“Thanks.”

Allen fell in with the rest of the tourists and waited. It opened, and he soon found out there was a separate entrance fee for the libraries and the picture galleries. It was eighty Czech crowns to tour the libraries, but they told him university students could get in for fifty, about the price of a cup of coffee. He paid and shuffled inside with the others.

He paid another forty crowns for a guidebook in English. The two libraries were known as the Philosophical Hall and the Theological Hall. The guide described the Theological Hall as housing the collection of ancient arcane learning. Allen went there first.

The hall was impressive, and Allen stood a moment at the entrance, taking it all in. The ceiling vaulted overhead like a barrel, giving the place a feeling of space, rich stucco, paintings. Globes and lecterns with books on display lined the walls, bookcases at least a dozen feet high. It was immediately clear one could not simply approach the shelves and start pulling off books as in a normal library. The guide said there was a reading room with specific hours that didn’t start until later, and all handling of the books was carefully supervised.

Allen left this library and found the Philosophical Hall.

This library was even more impressive than the last.

The bookshelves rose fifty feet high on both sides, all the way up to a richly detailed ceiling painted-according to the guide-by Franz Anton Maulbertsch, depicting scenes showing mankind’s search for ultimate wisdom. The shelves towered over Allen, made him feel like a spec.

Books. Lots and lots and lots of books.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

Allen was considered by his professors to be an outstanding researcher. He could walk into any university library back in America, plop himself in front of a computer terminal, spend an hour getting the hang of the system, initiate a search, and walk out with anything he needed. The dust on these books was older than any library in America. Nothing appeared to be computerized, at least not at first glance.

Okay. Stop. Think. What’s the smart way to do this?

He went back outside, found a cart selling hot coffee, sat down with the guidebook. He devoured a brief history of the monastery. It had been founded in 1143, had been burned to the ground in the 1200s, and had survived Hussites and Communists. Allen paged through again, tried to find passages that involved the relevant time frame.

There wasn’t enough here. He needed a computer.

He finished the coffee and began asking directions. The same cop who’d hustled him off the bench pointed him toward an internet café. Allen thanked him and started walking.

Allen realized it was no longer Cassandra’s control that compelled him. It was his own curiosity. Whatever the vampire had done, it must have worn off with time and distance. He still felt the urge to investigate, the need to get to the bottom of… of whatever the hell it was that had taken over his life. Or maybe he was kidding himself. Maybe it was part of her spell that made it seem like it was Allen’s own will that propelled him forward.

It didn’t matter. He was going to solve this. He was going to get answers.

He circled the base of Petrin Hill to the east and veered south until he ran into a busy street and a cluster of shops, cafés, and other businesses. He followed the boulevard about five minutes until he found the internet café more or less where the cop had indicated. He ordered another cup of strong, black coffee and paid for an hour of web time. At the end of the hour he paid for two more and switched to espresso.

The monastery had its own website; it must have been a popular attraction, because there was an English-language option. Allen steadily worked his way through a more detailed history of the place. He borrowed a pen and jotted notes on a paper napkin.

He was narrowing it down, getting a workable plan together for finding his prize.

A man named Jan Lohel was abbot at Strahov from 1586 to 1612, which covered the time period in question. Perhaps they organized their materials according to the time at which they were acquired. Some collections might be attributed to particular abbots. Allen made a note.

It would likely be a handwritten manuscript, and in English. Narrowing it to works in English would help a lot. There! What was that? He hit the Back button and read more carefully. There was a special treasury room that housed rare volumes and fragile manuscripts. Any handwritten originals would be there. He was certain of it. Allen was a step closer.

He guzzled espresso, the excitement of impending discovery fueled by caffeine.

Allen poured over detailed summaries of a dozen historical anecdotes that seemed pertinent at first, but ultimately he scrolled on.

And then he had it. By 1603, a number of longtime residents of Prague Castle had left for good, including astrologers and alchemists. Many personal effects and written documents had been sent to storage in Strahov Monastery.

Allen knew the room he had to search, and he’d narrowed it down to the exact year.

Very soon he would be reading the last written words of Holy Roman Alchemist Edward Kelley.