Blood Lite II: Overbite (13 page)

“Oh, hell!” the Count exclaimed. “The bloody fool got himself nicked!”

The Countess laid her ivory fingers on the Count’s sleeve. “The district really can’t support two werewolves, dear.”

The Count rose and urged the Countess back with his arm. All around O’Malley the dinner guests rose and edged away from the table.

“Delmar!” Manfred bellowed, drawing his silver dagger. “Fetch the Martini-Henry!”

Bad German

EDWARD BRYANT

Enos Harkman, perhaps the greatest psychic detective of the twentieth century, finally stumbled into the twenty-first century a decade or two late by obtaining a BlackBerry. In truth, he didn’t buy it so much as accept it ungraciously as an All Souls’ gift from his trusted assistant Torg. Torg had used the BlackBerry himself for a few years before replacing it with a highly modified iPhone that, so far as Harkman could tell, monitored the contents of the refrigerator, ordered new stocks, gave the delivery boy directions for finding the house, cooked supper, and sorted the scraps into various categories for recycling. For all Harkman knew, the iPhone could process the scraps into biofuels, subprime mortages, or ectoplasm.

Torg didn’t so much as snicker when Harkman fumbled helplessly with the BlackBerry’s keyboard—a grace note the detective appreciated deeply. Harkman felt that offering the dusky giant a position of executive responsibility—as Harkman’s assistant—had been one of the bravest things he had ever done. Not only was Torg eighteen inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier—all of it corded muscle—but Harkman had to admit Torg was smarter. Torg bore his burdens with modesty and a sense of ungodly psychic competence. Harkman hoped his assistant would never develop the sense of ambition that would trigger him to form a competing consultancy. Or worse, simply stuffing Harkman’s body into a fifty-gallon steel drum and dropping him into a bayou.

“Sir,” Torg said, dropping five spatulate fingers lightly on Harkman’s shoulder. “Sir!” He added a tone of urgency now. “I believe we have a client. I asked him to take a seat in your study.”

Harkman jerked fully awake and, for a moment, looked around the brightly lit kitchen. “Of course.” He pulled himself erect and followed Torg toward the stairs.

The second-floor study was a calm, measured room of dark hardwood and exotic art. As Harkman entered, he saw the presumed client was a gentlemen of middle years dressed in a linen suit of some quality. The man rose to meet his hosts.

“Mr. Harkman? I’m Samuel Turner. I’m delighted you could see me at such short notice.”

“It’s my pleasure, sir,” Harkman said, taking the leather padded chair behind his desk. “May I ask how you come to be here?”

“A friend of a friend,” said Turner. He twisted the brim of the linen hat in his lap. “I despaired of figuring out what horror was afflicting my new home with only my own resources and those of my wife to draw upon. I began complaining to all my friends. One on the golf course was apparently familiar with your work. After an alligator snatched and swallowed my ball in the sixth hole water trap, he attempted to cheer me by offering a referral to you.”

“Ah,” said Harkman. “I am flattered. So tell me, Mr. Turner, what is the nature of your horrific affliction?”

The visitor was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “My wife and I recently purchased our dream home in the Garden District. It’s an old residence on the Rue Atelier. Like the French Quarter, it is one of the higher points in the city. It allows us to have the rare cellar. The house is not so old as some, mind you, but is still well over a century. I am told its predecessor burned to the ground in the 1880s. At any rate, Marianne—my wife—and I looked forward to growing old gracefully in this place once I gave up my practice and retired.”

“You’re a doctor?” said Harkman.

“A surgeon. I’m with Mercy Central in Chicago. I still commute each week for certain procedures. Marianne and I have always loved the romance of the deep South.”

“It’s a sentiment I can well understand,” said Harkman. “But what about the horror you’ve encountered?”

Turner released his tortured hat and steepled his fingers. “We’ve been in the house only a month. From the beginning there were strange noises late at night. Primarily from the cellar. Bestial noises.”

“Perhaps, oh, rats?” said Harkman.

The surgeon shook his head. “Louder. I’ve heard rats in medical school. More of a shrieking. At first, when I investigated, they ceased upon my entering with a light. The cellar dates back to the time of the previous dwelling. We’ve planned to use it for storage and for wine.”

“Of course,” said Harkman encouragingly.

“This past Friday . . .” Turner’s voice trailed off momentarily. “This past Friday, I followed the noises into the deeper end of the cellar. There was snuffling, snorting, and, as I mentioned a minute ago, shrieking. I asked my wife to wait upstairs. She seemed not unwilling to comply. Then I took a light and my nine-millimeter Glock and adjourned below. The darkness seemed, well,
darker
than it should. My light barely affected it. The noises became more horrid. Then I became disoriented. I suddenly thought I was surrounded by humanlike figures that capered and screamed. Panicking, I fired my pistol, to no apparent effect. I could see nothing in the muzzle blast. The screaming continued and I fell to my knees.” The surgeon stopped in apparent distress.

Torg adroitly filled in the embarrassing gap. “May I bring you gentlemen some coffee?”

“Yes,” said Harkman.

“Extra cream and sugar, please,” said Turner.

By the time Torg returned with the tray, the distressed Turner had regained his composure. “Let me quickly finish,” he said. “While on my knees in the darkness, I sensed movement all around me. Then it hit me.”

“Yes?” said Harkman. Torg shot him a warning glance.

“No,” said Turner, “I mean it really
hit
me. Dollops of something disgusting, soft and hot, horribly redolent of a summer privy. In a moment I was briefly encased in what I can describe only as a fecal cocoon. Then . . . it melted away and was gone. The scent remained, but my light came up and showed I was alone in the brick cellar. Shadows of cardboard boxes danced, but that was all. The phantoms were gone.” Turner expelled a long breath. “You see why I need help?”

Harkman set his cup back in its saucer with a decisive click. “I must see your cellar myself,” he said.

“Soon?” said Turner with a tone almost of childish hope.

“Tonight.”

The Turner residence was indeed an impressive edifice, a neat construction of brick and frame, framed by oak and bougainvilleas, and rising two storeys from the shaded street. Torg found space to park the van in front of the home and Harkman supervised as his assistant unloaded the cases of sophisticated equipment.

“We’ve pretty much got it all,” said Harkman to Turner and his lovely wife waiting in the front hall. “There’s audio and video, all with high-gain detector capability. There are EMF detection units and electro-voice phase filters. We have electroplasmometers—”

“
Ecto
plasmometers,” Torg corrected him gently.

“Whatever,” Harkman said with a touch of asperity. “We have all that we’ll need.”

Turner made a round of introductions and Marianne extended a soft hand with a firm grip. “Gentlemen, thank you for agreeing to visit. My husband has been a bit beside himself.”

Harkman thought Turner looked a mite put out by his wife’s remark. “It has been unhelpful to my sleep.” Turner gestured to the house behind him. “Where does all this gear go?”

“Various locations around your home,” said Torg, “but most of it is, of course, destined for the cellar.”

“Let me help.” Turner grabbed for an aluminum-encased oscillograph. Torg snatched it up ahead of him.

“No need, sir. I can handle it.” With some mildly proffered help from Harkman, Torg wrestled four cases toward the indicated hallway. “This way?”

“All the way down,” said Turner.

Wooden stairs became brick steps, and those turned to carved stone. The overhead lights yellowed and flickered as the four descended. “Only a bit more,” said Turner. Torg showed his teeth in a broad grin. He was not even panting.

“Here we are,” said Marianne Turner. The bottommost end of the cellar stretched into the shadowed distance, damp stone floor broken by the occasional moldy carton.

“This way,” said Samuel Turner. “I’ll show you exactly where—”

Enos Harkman tripped on something and tumbled forward into the suddenly complete darkness. He landed on knees and hands and rolled across the tightly fitted blocks. He cried out and realized there was no echo, the oppressive atmosphere wrapping him in a silence akin to the grave.

“Torg!” he called, but there was no reply. “Dr. Turner!” Nothing. He came to rest with his breath knocked out, but little else apparently amiss. Harkman lay quiet for the moment, refilling his lungs with air. Then he fumbled his way to his knees, ineffectually slapping his pockets in search of a flashlight. Nothing; no torch, no matches.

He stared into the black, eyes straining. Was there some sort of ambient illumination? Yes! He was sure of it. In front of him, a spectral glow began to form. In the glow, a line of humanoid forms silently regarded him.

“I am not your enemy,” Harkman rasped out. “Speak with me.”

One of the figures raised an arm—and shrieked. Harkman recoiled. The scream, inhumanly edged, coiled around him. The sound embodied pain and anger, an agony that suggested suffering beyond all human measure. Another scream joined the first; then other cries rose up. They wove a sudden symphony of blades and hooks, rusted needles and rent flesh tearing asunder. Harkman wanted to squeeze his eyes shut; more, he wished to plug his ears. Instead, all he could do was gawk as the figures gestured at him, pointing and crying out.

Then the spectral chorus line took a nasty turn. The figure that had originally gestured drew its arm back and flung something directly at Harkman. The psychic detective felt a dollop of something soft and hot splatter against his face. Some of the missile splashed into his lips, smearing against his clenched teeth. The texture was viscous and grainy, almost fibrous. The smell was horrendous, exactly as Samuel Turner had described it.

Other arms rose and lashed forward. More material projected from dark figures smeared against his face and chest, arms and abdomen. Harkman felt nauseated, attempting to spit out what already had penetrated his lips. He bowed forward, then flailed his arms, attempting to rise to his feet.

His nostrils and his throat were clogged with spectral material. He could not breathe. Harkman felt the helpless state of unconsciousness approaching, the inexorable doom of drowning. He tried not to inhale.

The barrage of gelatinous missiles continued until he was upright. Then the clangorous cries abruptly ceased. The bombardment ended. His claustrophobic end via foul suffocation withdrew. Harkman stared into a darkness that abruptly changed its texture.

It was only basement
night
again. There were no accusing figures.

There was only the cellar.

“—I saw them,” said Samuel Turner’s tense voice.

“Sir?” said Torg, voice concerned. “Are you all right?”

Harkman beat frantically at his clothing, stopped suddenly as he registered no clinging foulness. He was clean again, but the memory of the odor lingered. He looked around at his companions.

“Upstairs!” he cried. “We are through here. For now. Let us adjourn upstairs. I require a whiskey.”

“And the equipment?” said Torg.

“Bring it all,” Harkman answered. “You should have a whiskey too.”

On the succession of steps upward, Harkman said to no one in particular, “You saw nothing? Heard nothing?”

“You convulsed and fell to the floor, Mr. Harkman,” said Marianne Turner. “Needless to say, we were concerned.”

Samuel Turner nodded in agreement.

Torg shook his head. “I could sense you were confronting the spirit world. But that was all. I saw and heard nothing.”

They reached the first floor of the Turner home. Looking ahead to his future needs, Harkman said to Mrs. Turner who was busying herself at the bar in the living room, “Please pour me a second whiskey while you’re at it.”

“A good bourbon,” said the surgeon.

“Only the best,” Harkman agreed.

The four sat around the table with their drinks, the Turners on the overstuffed love seat, Harkman and Torg in leather wingback chairs.

After finishing his first whiskey, Harkman said, “I am developing a theory, but it is going to require some research. If I work all night tonight, I just may have something to tell you tomorrow evening.” He blinked and addressed Samuel Turner, “Do you have an idea of who lived in this house before you?”

“Not really,” said the surgeon. “The realty woman said it had been unoccupied for more than a dozen years before we made an offer. Apparently our predecessor died here in the house. The Realtor said he was a single man of some years who kept to himself. The neighbors said he had something of a Teutonic accent and referred to himself as a visitor from the South.”

“That’s a good start,” said Harkman. He looked thoughtful and turned to Torg. “My man, I am going to require some help now that I am beginning to draw upon the apparently boundless resources of the Interweb.”

Marianne Turner politely covered her slight smile with pale fingers.

Oblivious, Harkman said to Torg, “I think tonight will be a most excellent night for you to teach me how to gooble.”