Vampire a Go-Go

FORTY-EIGHT

Zabel watched them from the V of two trees about fifty yards away. The glow of the computer screen lit the small group. What were they doing? Obviously, finding Roderick’s grave hadn’t been so easy. Zabel had perhaps been strangely lucky. Better to let the priests and the college kids do the hard work, then Zabel could move in afterward and take the stone.

Six of them against one of him. He was regretting leaving Lars in the car. This might get tricky. Best to watch and wait for the right opportunity.

They were moving now.

He watched as the priests and the kids clustered around the door to the cathedral. Were they going in? The big priest approached the front door with a crowbar. A loud crack and the rattle of a falling chain. They were breaking in!

A large raven landed on a tree branch near Zabel. It flapped wings, squawked.

Shut up, you stupid bird.

He turned his attention back to the cathedral. They were going inside, but they left the tall black guy out front. A lookout. This gave Zabel an idea. He reached into his bag of tricks, took out a jar of goo, rubbed some on the palm of his hands. He bent down, grabbed a handful of loose dirt in each hand, and spread the dirt in a circular motion while chanting arcane words.

A mist seeped out of the ground around him, swirled around his feet. A thick fog. It began to spread.

The raven squawked again, and Zabel frowned at it. Many considered the raven to be a bad omen. A good thing Zabel wasn’t superstitious.

“Find the light, Finnegan,” Father Paul said.

“Right.”

The Irish priest went fumbling into the dark, and sixty seconds later the lights, small electric bulbs made to resemble candlelight; came on. Charming. Every historical inch of Prague had been done over for the tourists.

Not nearly as grand and impressive as St. Vitus Cathedral, the Cathedral of St. Paul and Peter was nonetheless large and ornate, with rows of pews, hanging chandeliers, an altar with much gold, and other shiny stuff.

“Spread out,” Father Paul told everyone.

Allen asked, “What are we looking for?”

“Let’s hope we know it when we see it.”

Allen strolled the aisle between a row of pews and a stone wall, glancing at the floor and ceiling. A narrow wooden door led to a small anteroom. Another door beyond that, stairs leading down. He descended into a small basement, where he had to feel along the wall for an old push-button light switch, which brought a naked high-watt bulb blazing to life overhead. Barrels and crates. Storage.

Think. Don’t just wander around aimlessly. Who were these people?

Masons. Stoneworkers.

Allen got on his hands and knees and ran his hands over the smooth, wide stones, trying get a fingernail in the crack where the stones met. Allen new nothing of stonework, but this seemed to be solid stuff. He frowned at his dirty hands. The floor was covered in thick dust. Nobody had been down here in a good long time.

He continued to crawl along, knees scraping a trail in the dust. He crawled between barrels and crates, smearing dust on his sweaty face. Back and legs aching, he gave up at last. He stood, looked back at the dust trail. He looked down at his clothes. What a mess.

Allen stood there with his hands on his hips. Think, moron. But his mind went blank. He simply gazed at the floor, the mental equivalent of a test pattern droning in his head.

He noticed something.

The trail his knees had left in the dust was interrupted by a clean line that ran across it. No dust at all. He bent down for a closer look. A perfectly straight line. No dust. Right down the center of the line was another crack where two of the big floor stones met. Was it his imagination, or was this crack very slightly wider than the others?

He put his face right down next to the crack and held his breath. A slight waft of cool air touched his cheek. That’s what kept the dust from gathering along the crack. He crawled again, followed the crack. It went under a crate.

Allen stood, put a shoulder against the wooden crate and pushed. It didn’t budge at first, so Allen got lower, gained leverage, pushed again. It edged out of the way. Allen heaved again, his face going red, until he’d moved the crate completely off the crack.

He slumped against the wall, sucked air for a few seconds before bending over to examine the stone beneath the crate.

Something was carved into the far end of the stone, almost up against the wall. It was about as big around as a drink coaster and worn almost smooth. Allen shifted around so he wouldn’t block the light. He examined it again.

The Freemason symbol with the pentagram in the middle. Exactly like Amy’s tattoo.

He jammed his crowbar into the crack, tried to pry up the stone. It barely budged. He grunted, his face almost going purple this time. No. He backed off. He would rupture himself.

He ran back upstairs. He spotted the big Irish priest, Finnegan, searching the altar with Penny. “Where is everyone?”

“Searching,” Finnegan said. “You find something?”

“Maybe,” Allen said. “But I need some muscle.”

They followed him down to the basement. He showed them the Freemason symbol, explaining how he’d discovered it.

“Okay, lad, get on the other side,” Finnegan said. “Put your weight into that pry bar when I give the word.”

“Right.” Allen jammed the crowbar into the crack, and stood ready.

Finnegan positioned his crowbar on the other side. “Now.”

They both grunted, sweat breaking out on their foreheads. Penny stood back.

The stone block was thicker than Allen had guessed, but they finally lifted it high enough to shove it aside, stone grinding on stone, a whoosh of air sending puffs of dust between their legs.

They slid the stone aside, revealing a three-foot hole down into deep darkness and a narrow set of stairs that could accommodate one person at a time. Finnegan shone the flashlight down but couldn’t see much.

Allen got on his belly, shoved his own flashlight into the opening. “A chamber. And a tunnel, I think.” He put his foot on the top step. “Let’s go.”

“Hold on,” Finnegan said. “Best we fetch the others first. It wouldn’t be polite to go off and get killed, letting the others wonder what happened.”

Allen felt something tug at him, some force urging him down the stairs and into the tunnel, but he resisted. “Okay.”

While Finnegan was gone, the compulsion to go ahead, not to wait for the others, nearly overwhelmed him. Part of him recognized this as Cassandra’s doing. He had to face it. There was still some intermittent hold on him, something that only kicked in at certain key moments. It was Cassandra’s will that he go down those steps. Don’t wait. He had a mission to complete for her, and every second he delayed increased his discomfort, a deep sense of uneasiness at a task uncompleted.

“Are you okay?” Penny touched his arm with soft, cool fingers.

Allen closed his eyes tight, opened them again, and looked at her. He realized he was standing rigidly, with a white-knuckle grip on the crowbar. He took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m a little nervous is all.”

Penny smiled crookedly. “Vampires and philosopher’s stones? I can’t imagine why anyone would be nervous.”

Finnegan returned with Amy and Father Paul. They all leaned over, gazed down into the dark black hole.

Father Paul said, “Okay. Everyone wait here. I’ll have a look.”

“No way,” Allen said. “I found it. I’m going too.”

“If he’s going, I’m going,” Penny said.

“If she’s going, I’m going,” Amy said.

Father Paul grimaced. “Fine. Don’t touch anything. Be careful.”

Amy smirked. “Did you really just say to be careful?”

Father Paul ignored her, flipped on his flashlight, and descended the stairs. “Let’s go.”

The stairs delved deeper than expected, heading straight down at first before turning into a tight curve and spiraling. Allen noticed that the passage had been carved from raw stone. It grew colder as they went.

The stairs terminated in a round, twenty-by-twenty-foot chamber, the walls carved smooth. Their flashlight beams played over the walls before coming to rest on the circular door in front of them, carved pillars on either side. A larger version of the Freemason symbol with the pentagram in the middle had been carved neatly and deeply into the center of the door.

A foot below the symbol was a phrase in another language.

“It looks familiar,” Allen said. “Not Czech.”

“It’s Latin,” Father Paul said. “‘Here dwell our dead, for nowhere else can they find rest.’”

“I think it’s a Mortality Motel,” Amy said. “Sort of a slang term the Society uses for these burial places.”

Father Paul shot her a questioning glance.

“I’ve heard talk about them,” Amy explained. “Often a Society member would get branded a heretic, all that witchcraft, you know. They couldn’t be buried in regular church cemeteries.”

“There’s an iron lever here.” Finnegan gestured to the left of the door.

Father Paul said, “Pull it.”

Finnegan grabbed the lever and pulled with both hands. It made a rusty, scraping noise as he pulled it down. There was the distant, muffled sound of grinding machinery, and the circular door rolled aside. There was a whoosh, and all of their ears popped, a gust of stale air escaping from the door crack.

“It’s been sealed a long time,” Amy said.

Penny stepped closer to Allen. “I’d rather it stayed sealed.”

They entered, all of them clustered together. Father Paul stepped on a stone, which shifted. More muffled sounds echoed throughout the cavern.

“Uh-oh.”

Allen said, “‘Uh-oh’? What do you mean, ‘uh-oh’?”

On high shelves lining both sides of the hall, tiny flames sprang to life. The group flinched at the sudden pops of flame.

“What is it?” There was a bit of panic in Penny’s voice.

“It’s okay,” Father Paul said. “I think I just hit the light switch.”

Amy said, “Oil lamps. A spark spell to light them. Very simple to set up a remote-control trigger.”

Penny raised an eyebrow. “You know, I’ve yet to see you do one bit of magic.”

Amy gave her the middle finger.

The flickering lamps provided ample light, and they took a good look at the long hall. A vaulted ceiling arched twenty feet over their heads. The hall was fifty feet wide and twice again as long. Unadorned tombs cut from plain stone lined the walls. Clay urns sat on low pillars throughout the chamber. A dozen empty suits of armor stood along each wall, holding up swords in eternal salute, lamplight playing across dull metal breastplates.

Finnegan lifted the nearest urn carefully from its pillar, removed the lid, and peeked inside. “Looks like it’s full of dust.”

“Ashes, I would imagine,” Father Paul said. “I think you have somebody’s remains there.”

“Bloody hell.” Finnegan promptly returned the urn to its pillar.

“There.” Allen pointed to the large tomb all the way at the other end of the hall. Some instinct drew him on.

They followed Allen to the tomb. Again it was plain, except for a single word carved into the center of the lid: Roderick. Allen felt his heart beat faster.

Finnegan stepped forward. “One more time, lad.”

They jammed their crowbars into the slight crack of the tomb’s lid. The great slab of stone was unbelievably heavy. Allen felt the muscles strain along his arms and back. The Irishman’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato. Once the lid started moving, it went fast, tumbling over the other side, crashing to the stone floor with a racket to wake the dead.

No, I hope not, Allen thought. Let’s not wake the dead.

They crowded around the open tomb.

Within lay the mortal remains of Roderick, astrologer at the court of Rudolph II. Bones. The remnants of a dark robe. Roderick laughed at them with hollow skull eyes. In his thin, skeletal hands, he clutched a lead box the size of carry-on luggage. The heavy box had crushed his chest, nestled in his rib cage like it was a bird’s nest.

“Well,” Father Paul said in a voice barely above a whisper. “There it is.”

They all stood frozen a moment, the weight of history demanding a little respect.

“Let’s get the show on the road then.” Finnegan reached for the box.

“No!” Allen had not meant to shout. The idea of somebody else taking the stone suddenly panicked him. “I’ve come a long way for this. Let me.”

Finnegan looked to Father Paul, who nodded.

Allen reached inside and grabbed the box by the handle on either end. Heavy. He tried to lift it. Really fucking heavy.

Finnegan said, “Lad, maybe I should-”

“No, no,” Allen said. “I got it.”

With a final heave, Allen was barely able to lift it out. Roderick’s skeletal fingers slid from the box. The skull’s mouth opened.

And screamed.

The shriek was painful. They clapped their hands over their ears-all except Allen, who refused to let go of the box. The scream seemed as much in his mind as in his ears. After an eternal five seconds, the scream stopped.

And something else moved.

The suits of armor along the walls began to take lumbering steps toward them, their swords lifted high.

“Oh, shit,” Penny said.

Finnegan and Father Paul drew pistols. “I think Roderick sounded the burglar alarm.”

The suits of armor creaked and clanked, seemed to be working out the kinks, moving faster to cut off the group’s escape route back to the surface.

“Run!” shouted Father Paul.

Allen was already moving, Amy and Penny right behind him. He heard the pistol shots at his back, the metallic tunks of slugs piercing armor. He didn’t look back. He had the stone. He would take it to his mistress.

Allen and the girls made it past the ghost knights right before they closed the circle. He hit the stairs and went up, grunting as he carried the box, sweat oozing from every pore. Gunshots echoed behind him.

He kept going. Up and up.

Father Paul watched Allen and the girls make it past the knights, but the suits of armor closed in, cutting him off. He and Finnegan had been surrounded.

They fired until their magazines clicked empty, the shots punching useless holes in the armor plating.

“No good, Boss,” Finnegan said. “Got any magic wands?”

Father Paul grabbed an urn off a nearby pillar, launched it at the nearest knight with a two-handed throw. It struck the helmet, exploded in a cloud of ash, the helmet clattering away, shards of clay flying. The knight dropped its sword, began to twirl in a lost circle without its head to guide it.

Finnegan dove for the sword, grabbed it, popped to his feet and swung the blade, lopped off the metal arm of a knight that had been coming up behind Father Paul, who knelt and scooped up another sword.

They parried clumsy blows from the ghost knights. The clattering suits of armor were slow and awkward, but sheer numbers threatened to swamp the priests.

“Cut your way to the door,” Father Paul shouted over the clanging weapons.

They hacked at limbs, sent helmets flying.

They were almost to the door when a knight thrust a long blade into Finnegan’s chest. The big Irishman yelled, kicked away the empty suit of armor, pulled the sword out of himself, and let it fall to the floor. Blood gushed. He stumbled after Father Paul through the door to the other side. He collapsed, rolled onto his back.

“Oh, no.” Father Paul knelt next to Finnegan.

“The door.” Blood gurgled from Finnegan’s mouth.

Ghost knights still lumbered after them.

Father Paul grabbed the lever, shoved it back into place. The door began to roll shut just as one of the ghost knights attempted to step through. The heavy stone door tried to close, jammed the suit of armor, slowly crushing it like an old car at a junkyard. It stayed jammed like that, a few of the ghost knight’s gauntleted fingers still twitching, helmet crushed flat.

Father Paul returned to Finnegan. “We’ll get you to a doctor. Hang on.”

Finnegan laughed, his teeth stained red. “Don’t kid me, okay? Get out of here.”

“Shut up, you stupid Irish lump. Just stay still. I’ll find a phone, and then we’ll call in some help. It won’t take too long to-”

Father Paul realized he wasn’t talking to anyone anymore. Finnegan’s eyes stared at nothing, lifeless and empty.

It had been a long time since Father Paul had performed last rites; he stumbled though them half blind, tears blurring his vision.