“Hey, Leif, I’ve been meaning to ask. There’s this famous kids’ book called Everyone Poops. Does that include vampires, since you guys are on a strict liquid diet? I’d imagine the accumulation of hemoglobin could really get you backed up after a while. Is there a special laxative you use or what?” Leif regarded me glacially for a couple of heartbeats, then rose silently from his seat and shuffled past people to the aisle leading to the main concourse. “Hey, get me a beer while you’re up,” I called. “And a hot dog with mustard and onions.” I didn’t see him again for three innings, but he came back with a dog and a beer for me.
Gunnar begged off back-watching duty. He had plenty to accomplish himself if he was to have all in order by tomorrow night. “I must arrange things satisfactorily with the Pack,” he said. “Can’t be helped.”
Leif gave up on the werewolf but turned once more to me. “Atticus, you must help. Sleep is an insufficient excuse to stay home when there are so many vampires out there.”
"Is he serious? Sleep is the best excuse to stay home when there are vampires out there!"
“Don’t get me wrong, Leif,” I said, “I loves me some vampire huntin’. Nothing like watching a hissing head go flying in one direction while the body falls in another, you know? But trust me when I say that taking the three of us to Tír na nÓg is going to be taxing. You don’t want me to be exhausted when I do that.”
“You never get tired,” Leif pointed out. “You draw strength from the earth.”
“You’re supposed to say ‘Gotcha!’ when you catch people in verbal inconsistencies.”
“I am aware, but it sounds vulgar.”
“Perhaps it does. This isn’t a ‘gotcha’ moment, anyway. I’m speaking of mental exhaustion, not physical. Planewalking isn’t a physical strain. It’s a mental one. If I’m not fresh, then—”
“Say no more,” Leif interrupted. “I understand. I will simply have to kill them all myself.”
"There he goes again. I’m telling you, Danny Elfman would love to get hold of those lines."
Not John Williams?
"If you’ve got some hopelessly overmatched heroes fighting evil and some Imperial types marching, John Williams is your guy. You need a song to make people reach for a box of Kleenex, talk to Randy Newman. But if you want creepy atmospherics and spine-shivering chords to back up your casual death threats, you gotta bring in Danny Elfman."
Gunnar excused himself from the conversation and rose to leave, citing his pack business. We stood and shook hands and bid him good evening. He exited in a flash of silver and I sat back down with Leif.
“So what’s going to happen when you show up there, Leif? Do all the southern vampires know what you look like and have little posters of you taped to the inside of their coffins? Are they going to squee and ask for your autograph?”
“I beg your pardon? What was that? Will they screech and ask me …?”
“No, I said squee.”
“I am not familiar with this verb.”
“It’s a relatively new exclamation. It’s a high-pitched noise of excitement one makes when confronted with a celebrity one worships.”
Leif took a moment to digest this and then he arched a blond eyebrow at me. “Tell me, Atticus, have you ever, ah, squeed? Did I conjugate that correctly?”
“Yes, you did. And, yes, as a matter of fact I have squeed.”
“Do tell.”
“I went to the San Diego Comic-Con a few years back and met one of my favorite authors, and he made me squee involuntarily. I also did a tiny dance and I might have peed a little bit when he shook my hand.”
“You did not,” Leif stated flatly.
"Liar!" Oberon added.
“Okay, maybe I didn’t pee, but I spake truth about the tiny dance or I’m the son of a goat. Authors aren’t huge celebrities to most people, but I’m a guy who appreciates a good story well told. Beyond that, though, I think this man might actually possess supernatural powers. He makes people lose their minds, and I’m sure some of them do lose bladder control as well.”
“I see. And who is this author?”
“Neil Fucking Gaiman.”
“His second name is Fucking?”
“No, Leif, that’s the honorary second name all celebrities are given by their fans. It’s not an insult, it’s a huge compliment, and he’s earned it. You’d like him. He dresses all in black like you. Read a couple of his books, and then when you meet him, you’ll squee too.”
Leif found the suggestion distasteful. “I would never behave with so little dignity. Nor would I wish to be confronted in such a manner by anyone else. Vampires inspire screams, not squees. Involuntary urination is common, I grant, but it properly flows from a sense of terror, not an ecstatic sense of hero worship.”
“It properly flows? Are we having a pee pun party?”
A slight tightening around the eyes was my only visual clue that Leif was amused. Otherwise his face remained impassive and his voice deadpanned, “If I do not aim carefully at my targets tonight, I might cause a big splash at the stadium.”
“Oh, very punny. You will show them what yellow cowards they are,” I said.
“Right after I flush them out of the crowd.”
“You will rain down upon their porcelain skin a deluge of justice.”
“Ugh! And I will have to wash my hands afterward.”
I chuckled, and Leif’s face finally cracked into a grin. It felt good to laugh, but then I wanted to ask Leif if vampires ever peed. Since he’d never answer that, I asked him something else.
“Leif, why is the Memphis nest at the stadium?”
“It’s a direct challenge to me. They are symbolically laying claim to all those people.”
“If you take them on during the game, there’s likely to be collateral damage.”
Leif nodded. “They’re counting on it.”
“That you won’t want to hurt innocents?”
“No, that I will not want to cause a scene and leave a bunch of dead vampires lying around with a bunch of dead humans, thus exposing the secret of our existence. But they have miscalculated; I do not care about that anymore. I do want to cause a scene. Leaving the stadium littered with undead corpses will doubtlessly make the news. It will let everyone know I am still around and very capable of holding this territory.”
“And it will also let everyone know that vampires are real. Isn’t that kind of a fatal flaw in your plan?”
Leif dismissed the point with a wave of his hand. “They will never admit the possibility. Science is so very sacred to them now, and scientifically vampires cannot exist, therefore we do not. Vampires are safe by this tautology alone. Any lab results they find outside the norm will be assumed to be contaminated.”
“Do you know if these Memphis vampires are very old?”
Leif snorted contemptuously. “I am the oldest vampire on this side of the Atlantic.”
“And on the other side?”
The blue ice of his eyes slid coolly from contemplating his empty goblet and regarded me. “The one who created me is still there. And there are … others.”
“Any of them older than me?” I asked brightly.
“There is one I know of. There may be others. I have never met him, mind; I have heard of him only, but I am told he still hunts.” I half-expected him to throw back his head and let rip with a shrill, hoarse cackle worthy of the Crypt Keeper, but he chose instead to remain silent and let the tension build.
I think you’re right, I told Oberon. He needs a soundtrack.
"Hound 1, Druid 0."
“Do you dare speak his name?” I whispered softly.
Leif rolled his eyes, acknowledging my mockery. “He is called Theophilus.”
“Ha!” I barked, amused by the Greek roots of his name. “There’s an ancient vampire in Europe whose name means ‘loved by God’?”
“I did not say he was in Europe. But, yes, that is the name he professes to the world. I do not know if that is his original name or if he is merely being ironic.”
“What’s the name of the vampire who created you?”
The vampire narrowed his eyes. “Why do you wish to know?”
I shrugged. “Curiosity.”
Keeping his eyes on me to gauge my reaction, he carefully pronounced, “Zdenik.”
“That doesn’t sound like an Icelandic name,” I observed.
“Your sharp ears serve you well. It is a Czech name.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You were turned by a Czech vampire in Iceland one thousand years ago?”
“I never said I was turned in Iceland,” Leif replied, smirking.
I frowned and reviewed our relationship, realizing that I’d been operating on an assumption all this time. “Touché,” I said. “Will I ever get to hear the story of how and where you were turned?”
His smirk disappeared. “Perhaps someday. For now I have some havoc to wreak and territory to defend.” He stood up and offered me his hand. I stood as well to shake it, and he shrugged diffidently as he said, “There are only eighty of the young ones scattered about the valley, and most of them are at the football game. See you tomorrow night, Atticus.”
"Heh! Only eighty. That was his way of saying he craps bigger than you."
I don’t think vampires poop, I replied.
"Nonsense. Everyone poops."
We saw Leif to the door and wished him farewell. Time to hit the hay for the last time in this old house, I told my hound as I closed the door on the vampire.
"Cool! Can we watch one last movie first?"
All right, buddy. What’ll it be?
"I think The Boondock Saints, because the Irish guys win. Plus the cat ends badly. It affirms my worldview and I feel validated."
Chapter 9
I yawned and stretched luxuriously in the morning. I make noises when I stretch, because it feels ten times better than stretching silently. I made my favorite breakfast with a sense of wistful nostalgia, seasoning the kitchen one last time with the smells of cooking. For Oberon, there was a pan full of sausages. I had coffee and orange juice (the kind with pulp in it), toast with orange marmalade, and a fluffy omelet made with cheese and chives, sprinkled with Tabasco. Making a good omelet is like living well: You have to pay attention to the process if you want to enjoy it.
The newspaper was full of headlines shouting about Leif’s territorial defense at the football game. STADIUM SLAUGHTERHOUSE, The Arizona Republic splashed across its front page. Phrases like “total carnage” and “war zone” were bandied about. I noticed that the body count was sixty-three, precisely the number of vampires he’d mentioned last night, so he’d managed to wipe out the Memphis nest without killing a single human.
And the humans had no idea that one man—or, rather, one vampire—had been responsible for it all. There had been a blackout—Leif’s doing, no doubt—and when the lights finally came back on, hours later, there were bodies everywhere. Plus a significant number of sexually harassed fans, some injuries, panic in the restrooms, and a line judge who’d thrown one too many flags and was “accidentally” knocked down by a “disoriented” player. People had exited the stadium using the collective glow of their cell phones, and fantasy football fans shat themselves because Larry Fitzgerald never got a catch, much less a touchdown.
The police suspected it was a gang war. Someone asked Dick Cheney about it and he promptly blamed it on the terrorists. A few of the state’s bigoted politicians pointed fingers at illegal immigrants and human trafficking rings, because in their view everything bad was the fault of someone south of the border. Ugh.
"Can I go to work with you today?" Oberon asked.
“Sure, pal. I don’t see why not. We won’t stay all day though. I’m just packing up my rare books and stocking some random newer ones in there.”
"Then where are we going?"
“Well, I have to hide all the rare magic books somewhere safe. And I need to talk to Coyote.”
"Really? How’s he been? We haven’t seen him in months."
I smiled fondly at my hound’s weak grasp of time. “I expect he’s fine, Oberon. It’s been only three weeks, after all. And he’s a survivor.”
There was one final chore to attend to before I left my home for good. I slung Fragarach across my back and adjusted the strap because I was wearing a thick leather jacket over my T-shirt. It was too warm for the mild Arizona autumn, but I figured I’d be grateful for it in Siberia and, later, in Asgard. I locked up the house, then plopped down onto the front lawn and methodically removed every single one of the wards protecting my home, every single alarm, and sent my sentry mesquite tree back to quiet sleep. It had saved my skin not long ago against a demon escaped from hell, so I rose and gave it a hug before I left.
"Look at you getting all sentimental," Oberon chuffed.
“I’m a tree hugger, no doubt about it,” I said.
When we got to the shop, Oberon sprawled contentedly behind my tea counter and basked in the sun as I served my regulars their Mobili-Tea. I let them know they probably wouldn’t see me around for a while but Rebecca would take care of them in my absence. After they left, there was some dead time in the shop, and I spent it packing my rare books into boxes. Rebecca was to come in later, and I’d prefer her to think that nothing had changed. I doubted she had ever taken a very close look at the books behind glass.