The Vampire's Photograph (10 page)

The conductor snapped his arms and the chorus went silent, their last note echoing upward until it was swallowed by the fog. There was a deathly moment of quiet as the depth of the song lingered, then the humans began to clap. Now the choir burst into “Jingle Bells.” Oliver watched as, while more humans joined the crowd to revel in the cheery music, a few others gathered their kids and turned to leave—vampire families.

Yet two humans also turned and departed. They'd been standing with a set of adults and two other gangly children. Now they pushed their way to the edge of the crowd, looked warily about, then headed across the plaza, toward the edge of the cheery light.

Oliver slipped off the ledge and crawled down the wall headfirst. When he reached the height of the streetlights, he stopped, let go with his hands, and lunged into space, soaring over the milling shoppers. He spectralized just enough that with his charcoal sweatshirt and black corduroys, he was no more noticeable than a pigeon swooping overhead.

He landed on the roof of the carousel. He couldn't levitate well enough to land without a sound, but he did slow himself enough so that the light thud of his arrival was drowned out by the off-key carousel music and the laughter of its riders.

Oliver leaped again, back up into the dark fog. This time he landed on the top of a long, narrow roof. It was a fountain. In the summer, water dropped from either side of this stone roof into troughs on the ground, creating a long hallway with liquid walls. There was a metal walkway beneath the roof, so that one could walk between the two sheets of water. The fountain was dry now. Skateboarders were doing jumps and slides along the stone benches on either side of it, their boards scraping and clacking.

Oliver peered under the roof. Two people stood on the metal walkway. “Hey.”

“Dah!” Dean jumped.

Emalie spun around, her face startled as well, but then she punched Dean. “Dean!” She rolled her eyes.

Oliver flipped down onto the walkway. “Hi,” he said. He wasn't sure what to say next. “You got my note.”

“Of course, I got it.”

Oliver had left the scrap of paper wedged beneath her desk early Friday morning. “So, you brought the negative.”

Emalie nodded and tapped her vest pocket. “Got it.”

Oliver looked at her. Dean looked at Oliver, then at Emalie. “Emalie,” Dean said.

Emalie only stood, hands in the pockets of her vest.

Oliver held out his hand. “Can I have it?”

Emalie didn't move. Dean started to fidget. “Emalie, come on.” He checked his watch. “We told my parents an hour and a half.”

Emalie only stared at Oliver. “We're going with you,” she said.

“What?!” Dean threw his hands in the air. “Oh, great. Knew this was going to happen!”

“No,” Oliver replied beneath Dean's ranting.

“Yes,” Emalie nodded.

“No!” said Oliver, feeling more flustered.

“We go, or you don't get the photo.”

Dean took a few frustrated steps, his large feet clanging on the grating, then spun around. “Emalie, just give it to him!”

Oliver stared at Emalie. She stared back. Then with a shrug he said, “All right.” He turned and headed down the fountain walkway, away from them. “Forget it.”

“I can't believe the vampire is the one whose head is on straight,” Dean muttered as they watched Oliver leave. Emalie didn't reply.

Oliver kept walking, listening to Dean and wishing, for a moment, that there was a cliff nearby, so that he could just kind of bump Dean off. Because even though Oliver looked like he was leaving, he wasn't. Emalie had one more second to give in….

He reached the end of the walkway. Emalie hadn't spoken. All right then. He'd had a feeling this would happen. Shaking his head, Oliver ducked out of the walkway and climbed back to the roof of the fountain. He reappeared a moment later, walking back toward Emalie and Dean holding a large lump of fabric.

“What's that?” Dean asked.

“Put these on,” Oliver said, holding out the pile.

Emalie almost smiled. She reached out and held up two hooded coats. “Here,” she said, handing one to Dean.

“You have to be kidding,” Dean whined.

“Just take it,” commanded Emalie.

Dean did, but then his face scrunched. “It smells, like—horrible!”

“That's the point,” Oliver explained. “We have to hide your scent.”

Emalie began slipping on the long, hooded green coat. It was far too big for her and hung down over her hands and below her knees. As she pulled the hood up over her head, she looked like she might be sick.

“Yeah…” Dean was saying as he held the other jacket, a purple one, in front of him, his arms stiff. “But this seems kinda extreme.”

“You think this is extreme?” Oliver said, letting a note of darkness tint his voice. “If anyone in the Underground smells a live human…”

“We get it,” Emalie said, “Come on, Dean.”

Dean reluctantly put on the coat. He had just slipped on the second sleeve when he froze. “Wait, you just said…that means these jackets aren't from humans?”

Oliver couldn't help but smile a little. “They're from humans, just not living ones.” He started off down the walkway again.

“Oh, no…” Dean started grabbing at the jacket.

“Dean, relax,” Emalie grabbed his arm.

“But these are—did you steal these from graves? Of course you did, you—”

“No,” Oliver replied impatiently, “I didn't steal them. I bought them from two zombies over in Denny Park.”

“Z—” Dean's mouth fell open.

“You should be grateful,” said Oliver, enjoying Dean's terror a bit. “It wasn't easy. Zombies are very possessive of their things.”

“Then how did you get these?” Emalie asked.

“Well,” Oliver said, turning to walk again. “There are some things that they like more.”

“Don't zombies eat b…brains?” Dean called from behind.

Oliver ignored him. He reached the end of the fountain walkway and stopped in the shadows. He crouched and lifted up one of the heavy sections of metal grating beneath their feet. Emalie and Dean reached him and looked down into a sewer drain.

“Um…” Dean croaked.

“Now listen,” Oliver said. “Stay behind me, and no matter what happens, keep your hoods up and your heads down.” He dropped out of sight.

Emalie and Dean climbed gingerly down a metal ladder. As they reached the sewer tunnel below, Oliver helped them step over to a ledge. They started forward, black water rushing beside them. In moments, the darkness became complete. Oliver felt Emalie's hand grasp the back of his sweatshirt.

“I can't see a thing,” Dean muttered.

After a minute, light began to return—a soft green glow. A thin vein of neon appeared on the ceiling of the tunnel, providing more than enough light for vampire eyes, and just barely enough for human. Still, Emalie kept hold of Oliver's sweatshirt.

They reached an intersection, lit with sconces of magmalight. Oliver hadn't taken this route before, so he turned to the wall and whispered, “
Anemoi
.”

The wall blurred and a map appeared, floating before them in sparkling light. It was a three-dimensional depiction of the sewer system and the streets above, drawn in tubular lines of molten light, from searing whites to warm magentas, that sparked with bits of flame. The map resembled a square funnel, with the Underground Center dropping down out of the middle. Oliver pinched the corners of the map and twisted and turned it. It fluttered like fabric in front of them, sparking and hissing.

He zoomed in on a section and studied their location.

“Wow,” Emalie breathed “It's a map?” Oliver nodded. “What are these?” She pointed to a scrawled Skrit symbol.

“Those are Skrit,” Oliver said. “It's a vampire language.”

“They look like they're written in blood,” Dean whispered.

“What does this one mean?” Emalie pointed to one. It was a spiraling shape set within a square, thicker and thinner at points, as if drawn with a brush. There was a crimson tinge to the color:

“That's the Underground Center,” Oliver replied. “The boundary indicates this world. Square corners are the boundaries of matter. The spiral is the Underground. It says more than that, but I haven't learned much Skrit yet.”

Emalie ran her finger through it. The symbol flamed when she touched it, and a soft, whispering voice announced, “Westlake Underground Entrance: Access to level nine, and express elevators to charion station. Entrance is point-three kilometers from your current location, due south.”

Oliver double-checked their route. “Come on.” He blew out the map, then turned and continued.

They were now walking down a major tunnel that sloped steadily downward. Its wide walls were lit with sconces and adorned with a series of long tapestries. The candelabras, tucked into half-moon recesses in the floor, cast their wild shadows on the walls.

“I didn't think it would be so—” Emalie started, then paused.

“What?” asked Oliver.

“Warm. It feels warm down here,” she continued. “Not just the air, but like, the light and the art, and …” She halted, pulling Oliver to a stop by the back of his sweatshirt. “Oh.”

Oliver turned to find her staring wide-eyed at the tapestry beside them, yet the fascination in her eyes had turned cold.

“Y…you were saying?” Dean muttered softly.

Oliver glanced up and down the hall at the long weaving they were passing: It depicted a wide room of stone. Every few feet along the tapestry, there was a collection of hooded figures employing ancient means of torture upon shackled prisoners, involving tubs of water, ropes and weights, flames. Oliver wasn't sure which specific Inquisition it was, maybe the Spanish, but there had been so many throughout the Middle Ages, they all kind of blended together. The particular moment in the tapestry that had Emalie transfixed involved two children, who were being made to face a beast of some kind, something from the Underworld. Oliver wished she hadn't seen it.

“Their faces,” Emalie said softly. “I've never seen anything so scared-looking, it's—” She turned away, swallowing hard.

“It's just because it's accurate,” Oliver offered, trying to be helpful.

“Why would you want to show that so
accurately
?” she muttered.

“Well—”

“Let's just go,” Emalie said quickly, pushing Oliver forward. He heard Dean sigh behind her. Oliver tried to think of something else to say about the imagery, about how it wasn't the
vampires
who were doing the awful things in that tapestry, but decided just to leave it.

They walked for five minutes, silent except for their footfalls. On either side, they began to see abandoned chambers: the deep, forgotten basements of buildings, with dusty tables and chairs scattered about. They passed a cobwebbed storefront, a general store. There were still barrels and sacks of pioneer supplies piled inside.

“I took a tour through stuff like this once,” Dean mused quietly. “There used to be bars and shops beneath the streets.”

“Those were good times to be a vampire,” said Oliver, “I mean, you know, 'cause…” He trailed off, still feeling uncertainty from Emalie.

They turned right, then left, and finally the tunnel leveled out. Oliver began to hear the din of activity up ahead.

“How much farther is—” Dean began.

“Tsss,” Oliver warned.

Two vampires were approaching: a man and woman, well dressed, hooked at the elbows. The woman carried a tiny triangular purse that was actually a cage, with a black cloth over it. Something scurried and hissed inside. The man was in the middle of a story but paused as the two groups passed. Oliver nodded to him, hoping that Dean would have the good sense to keep his head down.

“Not really the sort to be hanging around with,” the man said, nose upturned at the scent of zombies.

“They're my servants,” Oliver said quickly, keeping his pace brisk.

“Hmph,” added the woman, and her purse rattled as if in agreement.

As they passed by, Oliver listened to make sure the couple kept walking. They did. Oliver felt Emalie grab his sweatshirt again.

“Servants?” she hissed.

“Vampires sometimes have zombies as servants,” explained Oliver. “It was the safest thing to say.”

“Oh, man,” Dean said hoarsely. “That was crazy. We should go back.”

“Too late,” Oliver said.

They'd reached the end of the sewer line. Beside them, the water continued into a dark tunnel. In front of them was a solid wall, with a wide set of platinum double doors. The same spiral-in-a-square Skrit had been etched across the seam of the doors.

“Ready?” Oliver asked.

Neither replied, but Emalie nodded sternly.

Oliver pushed through the doors. They descended a long, carpeted staircase. When they reached the bottom, they found themselves standing on the edge of a bustling stream of people moving past them in both directions on a wide walkway that curved away to the left and right. The ceiling rose high above them. Well-dressed vampires, young and old, hurried along, pulling kids, arms full of bags, long coats trailing behind them.