Channeling the Vampire by Gary Morton

Contents

CHAPTER 1: THE STAKE

CHAPTER 2: POSSESSION

CHAPTER 3: THE PSYCHIC

CHAPTER 4: FIRST CHANNEL

CHAPTER 5: ON THE TOWN

CHAPTER 6 THE WAREHOUSE

CHAPTER 7: HOME AGAIN

CHAPTER 8: SKULL VISION

CHAPTER 9: THE SPLIT

CHAPTER 10: MAGIC

CHAPTER 11: BODY WORK

CHAPTER 12: BEACH SCENE

CHAPTER 13: CRYSTAL BARON

CHAPTER 14: ON THE RUN

CHAPTER 15: SUNDOWN

CHAPTER 16: THE BOOK

CHAPTER 17: RESURRECTION

CHAPTER 18: GHOST TOWN

CHAPTER 19: BIRDS

CHAPTER 20: THE FAIR

CHAPTER 21: THE DOCTOR

CHAPTER 22: MIST

CHAPTER 23: THE LAWYER

CHAPTER 24: THE HUNT

CHAPTER 25: ROLLERFRIGHT

CHAPTER 26: TOWNSIDE

CHAPTER 27: VOODOO

CHAPTER 28: CULT LANDS

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CHAPTER ONE: THE STAKE

The plane landed, roaring down the foggy runway. Red glare coated its wings, becoming a curtain of heat distortion. Minutes later two tall dark men stood out in the bland crowd of passengers streaming through the gate. They were striking men; both wore casual suits and were in a hurry, trying to beat the airport rush.

The tallest man turned right, forcefully brushing the second man aside. Jon Chandler rubbed his shoulder as he regained his balance. Anger tightened his brow. Being a channeler he was disappointed. He couldn’t predict the dumbest everyday events. He felt like shouting a few choice cusses at the rude giant moving quickly ahead of him, but the sudden roar of a plane made words impossible. Jon halted, edged over to a post and massaged the lower orbits of his eyes. He collected his scattered thoughts, obeyed the press of the crowd and moved on.

Twenty minutes later Jon carried a single flight bag as he walked along slowly under the bright metal ribs of the new terminal building. He felt terribly weak and was making his way to a splash of neon bulbs marking the entrance to a restaurant. Jet lag had killed his appetite, but he had a burning thirst to quench.

The taller man, a guy named Len Wilde, had continued on in a hurry and was already racing across the city in a cab. Amber sunset reflected in the lenses of his dark glasses, grim determination showed on his face; to him it seemed like it was always this way when he was rushing to battle with the supernatural. Len's past was etched in the dark windshield behind him; his future burned in the reddening sky of the distance. It was a grim premonition. Shaking his head he barked some directions at the cab driver.

The cab sped to the lakefront and into an aura of twilight that slowly deepened to a sinister shade of purple. Streaking to an off ramp, the cab found its way into a wasteland of half-abandoned warehouses. The slump-shouldered cabby gave Len a bemused look, noting that he was about as big as Conan the barbarian and not the sort of guy he could hassle. He drove past a no trespassing sign as Len commanded and stopped in the centre of an empty lot, then he grinned as Len handed him a fifty and told him to keep the change. Popping out, Len turned away from the cab and paced across the rubble-strewn lot.

An uncanny sixth sense became a supple tiger pushing Len on; he approached a fence made of a patchwork of old boards and with a heavy kick sent it crashing down. Instinctively, he began to run toward an ancient, char-blackened warehouse that stood in the twilight like something at the end of a time tunnel. Clouds over the lake were hurrying darkness to the waterfront. Len knew he was probably too late; if so, the shadows of the warehouse interior would be the cloak of a vampire, lined with the silver of mesmerism and the red of blood.

A large rusty lock held the time-battered door shut. Len studied it with a fierce eye; he had no time for picking or prying so he rushed up and threw his shoulder into it. The door heaved inward, creaked, and popped its fatigued hinges before slamming down in the dark interior. Gray gloom and warm musty air engulfed him, but he didn't slow down; he moved swiftly, his nostrils flaring at a rank odor that reminded him of rotted toadstools. He got through a maze of stacked crates to a huge centre room. There he stopped dead in his tracks and creeping darkness and shadows exploded to a vision of bats in his mind. He listened and heard the moan and creak of hinges.

A red subterranean glow spilled from the lid of an ebony coffin, running thick in the gloom like blood haze. The light gleamed hellishly on Len's glasses and sweat-slicked face, but he remained silent, holding back the icy terror he felt inside. He knew the consequences of failure were death and damnation, and with that in mind he opened his case and calmly set it on the floor, keeping his senses razor sharp as the massive square-shouldered figure of Baron Varsook rose from the coffin. Again a premonition of the end entered Len's mind, and this time select fragments of his past flashed in his soul. Death had its grip on him, and it made him even more determined; he had to take the Baron into oblivion with him to succeed.

Erect in the glow, the Baron was stunning – moon-bright face and cloak of darkness, he wore the animal power of night and conveyed it with eyes of fierce blue starlight. He studied Len, the hammer and stake in the open case at his feet, and was unafraid.

Using strategy, Len remained statue-still as the vampire stepped gracefully to the floor. Baron Varsook moved forward, a picture of supreme confidence; he was certain he had this agent of the psychic enemies mesmerized. He would make him suffer, like the last man that tried to stake him, over on the Aegean Coast.

The Baron's heels clicked coldly as he halted. He stood firm and looked Len squarely in the eye, then he maliciously slapped his face . . . slapped it so hard that any other man would've gone stumbling across the room. Yet Len's head only turned slightly as his glasses snapped and flew off among the crates.

His eyes uncovered, Len turned his head back and faced the Baron. Triumph that had lit the Baron's pupils turned to snarling fear on his face. He could see that Len wasn't mesmerized. Len had blind eyes -- eyes filmed with cataracts and doom.

Quicksilver fast, Len's knee shot up and the Baron felt pain electrify his groin. A hard right hand followed, catching the Baron on the temple as the pain in his groin worked to double him over. The force of the blow sent him skidding back a metre on his heels. Turning sideways Len moved in, he seized the back of the Baron's neck, then bolted forward, keeping a tight grip as he slammed him face-first into the floor.

A power of levitation sent the Baron flying up and Len tumbling over backwards. The Baron floated to the rafters and before Len could roll out of the way he soared down and slammed knees-first into his chest and breadbasket. Instinctively, Len seized the vampire's neck and held on with an iron grip as white flashes of razor sharp pain ran down the scale to become a dull intestinal throb.

The Baron's nails were untrimmed and deformed by death growth; he used them as claws, tearing great gashes in Len's neck.

Calling on hidden strength Len worked his fingers into the Baron's throat, turning cartilage into pulp and muscle into purple-black lumps.

Levitation sent the Baron back up, and this time Len held on. They hovered in mid air, and the Baron's eyes filled with agony as he felt his neck crack and snap.

Blood froth spilled from Len's open throat. An invisible cord snapped and they came down, the Baron's flailing legs and cape sending a tower of crates spilling across the floor.

As he got to his hands and knees, the Baron realized he couldn't raise his head; it lolled on a broken neck his supernatural powers couldn't immediately repair.

Len also got to his hands and knees, and he could feel a warm blanket of blood on his chest; he'd already lost too much, he was weakening, his strength being fast sapped away. Sensing the Baron's position he scrambled numbly to him and with a burst of adrenaline hefted him over his shoulder and rushed the coffin. He threw the Baron the last few metres and he thudded back in place in the coffin.

At first the Baron sank like dead weight. His arms and legs began twitching as he tried to get up. He could do nothing with a broken neck and shattered spine, and then he saw Len -- a gorgeous blood-soaked vision and a nightmare holding a stake high. Using the last of his energy he tried to transform to a temporary spirit form, and as his aura began to brighten the stake came down and drove straight through his heart.

The stake remained firmly in place as Len tumbled to the floor. The coffin automatically creaked shut. Len's muscles shuddered as he took his last few gulps of air and he could see visions of a life to come flashing out of a wonderful wall of light.
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CHAPTER 2: POSSESSION

Death trolled with many nets, seeking to capture the vampire's spirit. The Black Sea coast, the Carpathian Mountains and the medieval towns of Moldavia passed as colored ashes of memory in the Baron's mind. His last vision was of a remote monastery he’d destroyed in his youth, then, finally, his body fell to dust.

Jon Chandler exited the airport terminal building and stepped through a veil of dust. A cab swung in like a gliding car on a circus ride, stopping only for a moment before speeding off with him in the back. The restaurant had helped, Jon felt better, and it was good to know he would soon be recharging his spiritual batteries. The highway unfolded smoothly and he watched the faceted towers of Toronto close around him; cubes of glass and steel alloy in the last haze of sunset. As the cab rolled on, night lights began to cluster and shine amid the first of falling twilight.

A short clip and Jon Chandler's cab reached its destination, which was the Church of the Crystal Millennium, a popular New Age church with two broad sweeps of curved roof that almost touched the ground. Long shallow steps ascended to a court, broad oak doors and an enormous stained-glass facade. The parking lot was bedded with colored gravel and glittering with mica bits.

Jon gave the manicured grounds an approving nod. Checking his Rolex he found that he was fifteen minutes late; fashionably late - he'd timed it right. One of his secrets was to never arrive early; as a man of mysterious powers it wouldn't do to be loafing out front or chatting with the ushers. All of his chatting took place in later hours when people had developed a solid faith in his powers.

Kicking up gravel the cab drove off. Jon mounted the steps leisurely, and before he reached the top the doors opened and his old friend Allan Rampa stepped out. Allan had arranged and promoted this night at the Church of the Crystal Millennium. Jon was one of a number of spiritualists often brought into Toronto by Allan. As always, great pools of understanding filled Allan's brown eyes. He had an Eastern look, with a close-shaved head and a big silver loop in his right ear.

"I hope your flight wasn't an energy drain?" Allan said.

"I'm a bit off, but well enough to get by. How's the crowd? Is it fitting for an opener?"

"Yes, but they're of a very dull order. About what you would expect for an opener. It always has to go out by word of mouth. News that you can really make things happen. Then the crowd gets exciting."

A small crowd was seated and the quiet air meant Allan had opened with meditation. They went up the aisle in silence. There would be no applause as this was a spiritualist audience. Two burly ushers appeared from behind a burgundy curtain and took Jon's jacket and bag as Allan took the podium.

"Mr. Chandler has arrived late as his plane was delayed," Allan said. "I hope people won't irritate him with pointless questions."

His simple introduction complete, Allan stepped down and joined the crowd, leaving the stage open to Jon. Jon stepped up with an open-handed gesture and looked at the crowd approvingly. These were well-dressed people, many of them business people. Huge splash-of-color paintings on the back wall created a warm atmosphere. He detected the gentle scent of lemon grass. Most exciting was the reddish aura of the crowd; it meant energy and he needed energy in the worst way.

"Tonight," Jon said, "I'm going to channel Sekhmet, an ancient Egyptian god. The method will be open channeling. Feel free to question Sekhmet."

A young man with a thick braid of red hair immediately stood up. "This is fraud," he said. "I'd believe it if you were channeling a spirit. But a god? Everyone knows that gods, especially ancient gods, are imaginary. If Sekhmet never existed how can you channel him?"

Jon Chandler didn't appear at all surprised; he expected skeptics to come forward and answered calmly. "Because the people of ancient Egypt believed in Sekhmet, he came to exist as a being living in their higher moral mind. You could say that Sekhmet is a mind-made god, because the collective minds of men created him. But even so, Sekhmet was and is real and he has tremendous knowledge that he can impart."

Silenced by the answer the young man sat down. People began to shift in their seats, whispering and nodding. Hungry faces - admiring, amazed, maybe even a little startled. Jon began to relax. He wasn't going to channel anything; he was a drainer not a channeler. Once he'd drained enough of their energy, the people would hallucinate, demonstrate glossolalia, all sorts of things, never knowing it was the result of being weakened and not the result of spiritual contact.

A man wearing a sparkling turban rose to ask a question and he was waved back into his seat by Allan. Putting a finger to his lips for silence, Allan made small circles with his left hand to suggest that a period of trance was beginning.

Jon closed his eyes and relaxation moved as blue phantoms in his mind. Deftly, he slipped out a flat-faced puller crystal that he kept on a silver chain around his neck. Slowly, he raised it, and then began moving it in small widening circles over the top of his head. This opened his crown chakra to energy, but in the way a whirlpool is open, functioning only to suck things down.

Opening his eyes Jon saw the people as energy entities and not bodies; a scene of floating colors and ghosts. He worked his power smoothly, and ever so slowly, one color - red - began to separate and drift in the haze curls, moving toward his crown and crystal.

As Jon began to drain them the people slipped into a dreamlike trance state. They placidly watched his smile flicker through the emotions of gratitude, relief, love and revelation one would expect to see on the face of a man becoming filled by a spirit of the eternal energies.

It was going as smooth as the lifting of gossamer veils in a breeze. Jon was receiving the youth-giving energy he needed, and the people were passing through phases of harmless hallucinatory imbalance and false memory. Moved, Jon stepped forward and opened his arms, swallowing the energy of total fulfillment from the glowing entities bobbing before him. Satiated, he closed his eyes in bliss.

And when his lids sealed a massive coffin closed over him. He found himself in darkness, total night, the complete absence of energy. He wasn't asleep, nor was he dead, but a dream still swept over him.

In the dream he wasn't himself, he was somebody else. He was Titus, a young Roman soldier leading his men down a snowy trail on a plateau in Transylvania.

This was a time as ancient as the rock-castle mountains rising above the plateau, and as young as the cerulean sky above. It was a time of great victory, they were conquerors, and they were men so brave they'd left battering rams, great catapults and dead kings behind as they rode inland across cold territory no other men would challenge except in sledges.

Suddenly the peace was broken; there was movement and a flash of red on the downward slanting trail. Titus signaled his men. Hooves clattered on the snow-blown rock. The din of spurs, armor and swords echoed faintly as the horses charged down. Titus knew without a doubt that this was the man they were hunting - a wild man, a peasant dressed in sheepskin who had brutally murdered two Roman soldiers.

The coats of the horses and men billowed up in the bitter wind and a gust howled through the mountains like the voice of a demon as they thundered to a halt.

The wild man hadn't tried to flee. He stood calmly on the trail. Unlike other peasants he had no axe or pitchfork. He relied on his bare hands, and the fear inspired by his tangled hair and the thick blood frozen to his lips and beard.

Titus locked his gray eyes on the man. He was a devil if ever there was one, and he would die like one. "In the name of our Roman Emperor Trajan, you are under arrest," Titus said.

The wild man stared ahead with glazed eyes and didn't reply.

A wave of Titus' hand and two soldiers dismounted and moved forward to seize the prisoner. Snarling like a beast the man stepped back and bared his teeth, revealing two huge fangs.

A terrible shiver of fright and cold wracked Titus' bones as he watched his men close in. "Use your swords," he commanded as the man raised his arms to resist.

There was no way to subdue him and wounding him seemed necessary so the first soldier swung a stroke that caught a raised arm and cut the man's hand off.

It fell in the snow and blood oozed from the stump, yet the wild man showed no emotion; at least not for several seconds, then he let go with a wicked howl and burst forward, beginning a savage fight with the soldiers. He came in close and fast taking two more sword slashes to the body, but he wasn't stopped - he struck out with his arms, blood flying from his stump, splattering the men as they went down. He stopped to howl again, the men cringed beneath him and Titus was about to dismount. Then something stopped him, it was the stump - he could see it glowing, healing like it had been touched by magic. Titus pulled himself back up on the saddle, then his horse reared and neighed, he knew a nightmare was beginning. What he didn't know was that it could last forever.

The dream ended in a void of absolute terror, and it gripped Jon and froze him like polar winds. He saw a stake flying down, blood spattering up, and the doomed eyes of the vampire panning the peaks of the Transylvanian Alps. Smoldering with death and the grave the eyes searched the void, then they began to fade, but before they were gone completely they saw Jon Chandler and the inviting emptiness of his soul. They returned with regained strength and their stare consumed him - rapacious eyes, brimming with hunger and lust, and they were Titus' eyes.

Falling to his knees, Jon tore the puller crystal from around his neck and began to claw madly at his sweating face. The spirit of the vampire descended as a sword of fire and a smothering shroud. Jon’s flesh felt cold and dead. Wails and moans swept the audience. People stood up, collapsed and tumbled in the aisles, drained to near death as their vital energies were sucked into the ghostly pulse of blurred wings that had swallowed Jon.

Awareness returned and Jon felt the mind he was channeling - a mind of brilliance, refinement and evil. It dominated him totally with its superior intellect, and was like a trap closing over his free will and soul. For a moment Jon struggled spiritually, and it was a moment of such devouring horror that he collapsed and sank to the floor. Adrift in waves of confusion, his mind slowly drowned in darkness.

Jon rolled and ended up face-up on the floor. Pandemonium swept the room as people awakened and succumbed to deranged inclinations and strange hunger. The vampire looked out of Jon's open eyes, realizing that the body had been weakened to temporary paralysis by the transfer.

"I've managed to enter into coexistence with this peculiar and powerful spiritualist," Baron Titus Varsook thought. "It’s a new life and certainly better than being dead. A strange arrangement perhaps, but it might have hidden advantages. Chandler feeds on these desperate people in a new way, and they throw themselves at him. I hope this young fox has a palate for wine."

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CHAPTER 3: THE PSYCHIC

A tall blond man walked down the centre of a dust-blown Texas highway. A healthy specimen he was unaffected by the blazing badge of sun and the fact of being far from home. Yes, he saw bright lights in the sky in addition to the sun, and it wasn't heat stroke. He always saw lights; they carried him on, down many roads, so that his life had been a long journey. Mike Wilde got around; his face could be a face in any town. Not that he looked familiar, but because he was a stranger and truly a little strange. Few men identified with Mike or wanted a pal like him, but many people had come to love him in spite of the odds.

The journey had begun in his teens. On a black day he’d begged his pal Kelvin not to go out in his new Corvette. A vision had warned Mike that Kelvin would die if he took to the road, but he still went out and he did die. The power became a curse; he went from the handsome captain of the soccer team to a young recluse … a guy that read theology and collected comics and butterflies. He knew when someone liked him and when someone didn't. He couldn't help knowing when he could pick up on people's thoughts. It wasn't like the fantasy stories where a guy gets ahead using his psychic powers. The effects were profound and reached to the roots of his personality and soul. Yet Mike preferred it that way; he didn't think the world should be an easy place where he was king.

Approaching a bend in the road, he saw dust smoking over a small desert rise to his left. A Jeep appeared on the crest, sped around some chaparral and headed down toward him. Mike frowned, a grim frown, and he unconsciously began to grind his teeth. He'd hoped they’d forget and let it go . . . but that wasn't the case; it was never the case. Fools were always fools.

Dropping his pack on the roadside he put his hands on his hips as the Jeep pulled up beside him. Two men with sun-reddened faces, both over fifty, grinned at him arrogantly.

"Thought you'd stroll out on us, Wilde?" said the man with the badge. Sheriff Lee being his name.

"He's filled with those fairy doubts that add up to make a man a coward," said Jack Samisen, the guy riding shotgun.

Mike shrugged. "I rented my psychic services to the town, saying I'd help bring a killer to justice, but you guys want me to help you ambush him."

Jack gestured forcefully with his fist and rifle. His eyes looked like buttons about to pop. "That monster slit my granddaughter's throat and drank her blood. So I'm going to bleed him, an eye for an eye."

"I know you can't control your need for revenge. That's why I walked out. As far as bleeding him goes, I'd say it looks more like you're going to dismember him. That rifle must have been made for killing dinosaurs."

"It's a Westley Richards Large Game Rifle," Jack said. "Imagine being hit between the eyes by the head of a hammer traveling at the speed of a rocket and you'll know how it works. It's my guess that a man with no head would bleed quickly."

"You expect me to help you do that?"

"You'll cooperate or we'll make you cooperate."

Mike looked to the sheriff.

Sheriff Lee shrugged. "You know the way it is in small towns."

"Yeah, I do. I've worked for many small towns. At first everyone thinks I'm a fake, but after they get to know me it's okay. I'd say the key is this … they're all honest. They all have ideas about what they'd like to do with killers, but they still go by the law. Guess that leaves only you two to play God."

"Shut up!" Jack said, his sun-creased face puckering. "This heat makes me feel like killing you as it is. Now get in the Jeep and do what you're told."

Picking up his pack, Mike got in reluctantly and kept quiet. The sheriff drove off and the Jeep began cutting a miles long trail in the dust. Grit settled on them and sanded through their parched lips, fouling teeth that were already on edge. In time their scorched faces grew ugly with brooding. Mike began to figure that maybe it was the desert. If you did wrong in the desert you'd end up a bleached skull. He could see where hot sand had seeped into Jack's head, and coiled like a burning snake, calling for vengeance against the despicable man that had killed his granddaughter.

It seemed like the dust would bury them, Jack took a slug of whiskey and looked to Mike. "This better be the right direction."

"It is."

"How do you do it?" Jack said, eyeing him with suspicion.

"It's a unique ability - like you have the ability to stay alive while guzzling rotgut whiskey in the desert. When I know, it's almost always different. Powerful visions or else I see bloody hands or a trail of blood. This time I see a face and we're driving straight for that face. Maybe now you understand how strong my stomach has to be - I have to look at you and him."

"I have to be sure he's the one," Sheriff Lee said. "There can't be a mistake on this one."

"I'd like to talk you out of it," Mike said, "but I know the evidence will be there at his hideout."

The heat burned on the tabletop land, and the drive became so numbing and monotonous that when a sun-bleached shack appeared even Mike suspected a mirage. The sheriff was quick to note a battered pickup; one with unpainted bodywork on the front fenders. No doubt about it, it was the one he was looking for.

Jack took a strong slug and studied the shack. He spotted the pickup and knew they had the killer … in his excitement he nearly swallowed the bottle. Mike glanced at him and saw whiskey spill on his shirtfront. Jack coughed hard as the booze hit, but managed to recover before the Jeep came to a stop. He popped out to the ground like he'd been propelled by a refined ejection seat. With the big rifle in hand he charged the door.

"You keep out of the way, Wilde!" Sheriff Lee hollered as Jack fired a round at the closed door. "I have to cover that idiot!"

A giant's fist went through the door and the rest of it shattered like rotten wood in a hurricane. Sheriff Lee and Mike bounded from the Jeep together and ran all the faster when they heard Jack's yelp of triumph.

They stepped through the splintered door frame onto warped floorboards that creaked underfoot. The inside of the shack stank like bear piss, foul humidity rising and clamming on them. A sallow, scrawny man had been surprised while sleeping. He sat up on the bed, hugging his knees, dazed sleep still in his sunken, bruise-ringed eyes. Jack kept the rifle trained on him while Sheriff Lee seized him roughly and looked him in the eye. Pushing him down and throwing a knee into his throat, the sheriff pinned him on the bed and cuffed his hands at the front, purposely locking the cuffs painfully tight.

"You crazy bastard, Jack!" the Sheriff said as he stepped back. "He was sleeping with a rifle under his bed. You almost got it."

"You shoulda had an eye open, boy," Jack said. He turned to the sheriff. "Might’ve been better for him to get me, because what I'm gonna do isn't pretty."

Mike remained by the door and watched as the sheriff snatched up a Ruger shotgun from under the bed. A Taurus laser-aim handgun was in the top drawer of a burn-scarred bureau, next to some loose photos of young girls in various states of undress and distress. The sheriff held the pictures up like a poker hand and when Jack saw them he leaned in and whipped the killer on the temple with his rifle barrel. Groaning, the killer tried to protect his face. Spittle dripped from his chin.

Working more like a burglar than a cop, Sheriff Lee ransacked the shack. He heaped the stuff on the floor. In one drawer he found a camera, which he threw down and stamped to pieces. As he emptied a closet he found some papers in a box and looked them over carefully.

"He uses several names," the Sheriff said, "but his real name is Joey Lucan."

"There's no need to kill him," Mike said. "Look at the evidence you got - murder weapons, photos, articles of clothing."

"Shut up!" Jack said. "We can see. And we can see that society has paid enough without putting in the cost of a trial. A wolf's grave is all a wolf should get. But just to be fair, I'm going to give this boy a hearing. Now let's begin with the questioning."

"Fuck you, like I fucked your daughter," Joey said venomously.

Jack whipped the rifle barrel and cracked a couple of Joey's teeth.

"Surely you're not going to let him do this?" Mike said to the sheriff.

"Just a minute," Sheriff Lee said, raising a hand like he was going to swear to something. "I don't want Mike to see this. I'll take him and Joey's guns out to the Jeep."

"If that's what you think is best," Jack said. "I'll just screw with his head a bit until you get back."

Reluctantly, and holding Joey's Ruger in his right hand, Mike followed the sheriff to the Jeep. While the sheriff unloaded the Taurus, Mike checked the Ruger. It was fully loaded. Now was the time for a showdown if he wanted one. He glanced at Sheriff Lee and saw that he had a knowing lizard's eye on him. The sun flared up and sent down soul-bleaching heat. A showdown just wasn't sensible. The sheriff, Jack and Joey were three ornery rattlers; you could gun them down and nothing else. They could never be trusted under the gun. All three had gambled big and wouldn't go down without making desperate moves - if there was going to be a loser, it was better that it be Joey Lucan. He'd earned a wolf's grave, and maybe even a torture pit in hell.

"Why didn't Jack just shoot the creep?" Mike said, unloading the Ruger. And he said it for more reasons than the sheriff knew; in his mind's eye Mike could see what was happening in the shack. He didn't want to see it, so he tried to keep it out of focus as much as possible.

Jack was punishing Joey, getting his revenge. He beat him about the head and shoulders with the rifle butt, and then he went over to the heap of stuff by the bureau. He fished through the photos and came up with a blurry one of his granddaughter. Tears welled in his eyes, hate and pain warped his face; trembling, he reached down and grabbed a stiletto. For a moment Jack's eyes were as sharp as the stiletto, then he stuck the photo on the point and jabbed it toward Joey. The photo fell off and glided to the floor, landing face up. Joey's gray eyes fell on it sickly, like it was the ace of spades.

"You're going to answer some questions," Jack said coolly. "And I want you to feel good while you're talking so I'm going to plant this stiletto between your legs. I'm sure it won't bother you much, such a fine incision."

Joey kept quiet, his scraggly head drooping down and his eyes on the photo.

"Yeah, look at it," Jack said. "I want you to know why you're dying this way."

"I'm sorry. I never thought about what I did until now," Joey said, hanging his head, choking bitterly on the words.

This was truly what Jack wanted; bizarre understanding and hate grew in his eyes, like he was looking down at Joey from another planet. Joey's words were food for revenge, and Jack couldn't help listening to those words. He relaxed his guard and held his rifle off to the side as he moved up close.

And as he did, Joey suddenly came up with another stiletto he kept in his boot. Thrusting forward with his cuffed hands he planted the thin blade in Jack's breadbasket. He twisted and worried the handle, slashing an opening in the intestinal wall.

A razor of blood and death flashed in Mike's head and he jumped from the side of the Jeep. Jack cried out hideously and dropped his rifle. Joey went to his knees after the gun. Sheriff Lee didn't know what was happening, but without hesitation he joined Mike in dashing for the shack.

Sheriff Lee didn't want an unarmed man getting in his way; he managed to knock Mike aside and get ahead. Readying his shotgun, he slid in the sand and came around by the busted door. He saw Jack collapsing, holding the knife handle and a mound of bloody innards with both hands. Joey was rising, trying to manipulate the huge Westley Richards rifle and having difficulty because of his numb hands and tight cuffs.

Sheriff Lee hesitated for a moment, then the truth of what he was seeing set in and he fired his Remington. Joey's head disappeared in thunder and the Westley Richards went out the far window with the blast. A shower of blood and bone splinters spray-painted a pile of lumber as the bent and broken rifle skated in the sand.

Mike had tripped and rolled in the dirt, but now he was up and watching as Sheriff Lee silently entered the shack. The sheriff heaved up the contents of his stomach, fell to his knees and began to weep. He was between two corpses; one headless and spilling dark blood and one flat on its back, a ghastly, hateful expression locked on its face.

It was the ending Mike should have expected, though he'd had no premonition of it. A feeling of self-loathing hit him; he hadn't dealt with the situation properly. He'd tried to take an easy way out. As he cursed himself the entire scene began to blur and a vision unfolded in the pool of blood by Joey's headless corpse. "No!" he yelled, not wanting to have a vision there among the dead. But the blood turned to light and the corpse gained a head. It was beside an ornate coffin, and it was his brother, Len. He was dead, his body being eaten by rats in a warehouse.

Mike fell to his knees, joining the sheriff, but he didn't weep. A great need possessed him; he had to move on, get to Len and give him a decent burial. The thought of his unburied body was another chewing rat that ripped at his conscience.

Rising, Mike looked at the sheriff with disgust and went out to the Jeep. A few minutes later Sheriff Lee emerged, his face ashen. He walked up to Mike.

"I suppose you’ll talk and get a major inquest going on this?" the defeated sheriff said.

“It wouldn't benefit anyone. I don’t have the rest of my life to spend testifying. Especially now when I have business in Toronto. Jack bought his own tombstone, and Joey bought his own ticket to hell. You can say that Joey came up with a knife and got Jack before you could stop him. I'll say it was so."

"Guess Jack's a hero," the sheriff said, shaking his head. "A dead one. I never should have listened to him. Problem is you owe too many people favors when you're elected."

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CHAPTER 4: FIRST CHANNEL

Jon Chandler felt vigor rising from a pearl within; his body hummed like a tuning fork, only with energy and not sounds. He'd been rising to a peak since early morning when he'd leapt from his bed at St. Michael's Hospital and signed himself out in front of a shocked doctor. Outside the hospital he'd decided not to resume with his planned speaking schedule. Instead he phoned some movers and shakers in the local New Age scene, and had Allan arrange some flexibility in his bookings.

Marilyn Atkinson, an overweight admirer of Jon's, had booked him a complimentary suite of rooms at the Royal York Hotel. The gift wasn't unusual; Jon loved luxury and so many things were handed to him that he assumed everything to be free. However, the plush suite wouldn't see much of him. He'd be keeping on the go and now he was cruising in a chauffeured limousine on his way to Marilyn's for tea and a lucrative semi-private session.

Doric columns fronting a mansion passed outside the tinted windows of the limousine. Houses in this exclusive neighborhood were lavish in design. It was like cruising in an ultramodern fairy tale; even the classic designs had a brand-new feeling. Jon loved houses, rich landscaping, opulent interior decorating and all material things. Although he never consciously admitted to it, his quest for spiritual meaning had become complacent materialism and junkie fixes of crystal energy. Nowadays he believed more in commercial charisma than the divine charismata. Jon bled people for money like he bled them for life force. Gold, jewels, even sports cars rained down on him. He pumped much of his wealth into his estate in Vancouver and a wife he rarely saw. His marriage was a marriage of convenience, not that he was gay . . . he was fickle, preferring brief affairs with infatuated ladies. Husbands often greeted him with an immediate jealous eye, and it was always so much better to put a friendly arm over the shoulder and talk about his wonderful wife.

If Jon knew anything it was that he should be frightened of the being locked inside him. He could see it there, a dangerous hidden observer lurking just below his awareness. Yet he felt good, even euphoric as he watched sun dapples and shadows dance under the willows in Marilyn's driveway. This being, this vampire; it didn't go to work like a demon to terrify and destroy its host. It didn't seem to want him to go screaming for an exorcist. It was avoiding direct confrontation, like it wanted him to be content and emotionally healthy . . . at least for the present. Jon contemplated the situation for another moment, and then the limousine glided to a halt. He shrugged his shoulders, he wasn't a genuine channeler, or hadn't been until now . . . yet this being had exciting possibilities. When it sought communication he would communicate. He would coax and lure it out and take slow control over it. If it wasn't inimical it was power, and it could keep him famous and bristling with energy.

As the limousine deposited Jon on the drive and rolled away, Marilyn rushed down the marigold-lined walk. She looked pasty and plain, wearing a straw hat and a long, loose dress that still managed to look tight as her beefy thighs pressed against it. The red gleam of carnelian caught Jon's eye, it was supposed to be a bringer of joy. Jon thought that perhaps its magic had brought Marilyn her dull husband, Conrad, whose bank account was the real joy bringer.

Marilyn threw her arms around him in a crushing embrace that left him speechless, gasping for air, and she didn't notice her clumsiness at all. Bubbling with silly conversation and enthusiasm, she led him through the house and into the back garden where two guests were waiting. She mentioned that Conrad wasn't around and that left Jon especially cheered.

"This is Jeanie," Marilyn said, introducing a slim platinum blond woman. She was young, early twenties and quite sexy, wearing a red halter dress. "She's a Virgo with her moon in Aries."

Jon took her hand warmly. "I do get along so well with Virgos," he said.

"But maybe not with a Pisces with his moon in Scorpio," said a short man with silvering hair.

"This is my old friend Paul Davis," Marilyn said. "He's wanted to meet you for a long time."

"Ah, a man of fiery contemplation," Jon said with a nod of acknowledgment. "What you lose in friendships I'm sure you make up in other ways."

"Very true," Paul said.

With introductions out of the way they sat in white patio chairs, shaded by lilacs, a vine-laden trellis and a sun umbrella. Jon pretended to admire a bed of lavender flowers beside him as Marilyn began to tell him about Jeanie and Paul. Jeanie and Paul had become acquainted through a joint interest in crystals. They were also channeling enthusiasts. Paul owned a small greenhouse and sometimes held Sunday gatherings where people toured and watched him talk to his plants. He had a personal name for each one of his hundreds of plants. Jeanie was an artist and a much more interesting person than Paul. Jon noted that she lived alone and turned the fact over in his mind. Keeping his hands clasped, Jon listened as Marilyn rambled on. His attentiveness wasn't just appearance; Jon studied every client, remembering everything. He valued every piece of information, knowing that an obscure fact used in the right way could often be the key to a person's trust.

When Marilyn ran out of words for Jeanie and Paul she turned her attention to the previous night's channeling session and Jon's hospitalization . . . mentioning that although she hadn't been in attendance, word had gotten around. Jon was fast becoming a cult hero.

"It must have been a new being or energy you channeled," Marilyn said. "Some people reported fantastic things."

"It was my first contact with a very unusual being," Jon said. "In fact, the being is a vampire."

"A vampire!" Jeanie and Marilyn cried in unison.

"How exciting," Marilyn said, beginning to bubble.

"Exciting perhaps, but is there any value in it?" Paul said.

"I don't know," Jon said. "I was hoping you people would know."

"Of course there's value in it?" Jeanie said. "The wisdom of a vampire could be invaluable. They're very old beings. Imagine how much universities would pay to have history verified by someone who was actually there."

Paul remained unconvinced. "A vampire is a lower being compared to Sekhmet, who is of the highest order. This vampire could be a harmful and negative development if it is turning Sekhmet away."

"Nonsense," Marilyn said. "Sekhmet is a dead old mummy. A vampire is worldlier and better able to advise people of a sensual nature."

The reaction of the women pleased Jon. He'd already written Paul off as an oddball and not worth any investment of time. He decided to pursue it further and see just what magnitude of attraction a vampire had.

"It was an accident. I intended to channel Sekhmet, but instead some kind of window opened in the spirit world, releasing this vampire from its purgatory. It knocked me off my feet."

"It could be dangerous," Marilyn said. "Alisha told me about the bizarre effect it had on the audience … possession, illness, mad raving, bleeding from nonexistent wounds."

"Quite a number were hospitalized with me, and there was an unfortunate case of self-mutilation. I think the dramatic effects were the result of first contact. You should never channel before an audience unless you have the being under control. No one is in tune enough to have immediate control. Now that the initial clash of energies has taken place I should be able to channel the vampire smoothly."

"Perhaps you can touch with the vampire now?" Jeanie said. "Keeping it in mind that we are experienced people and not unbalanced like the spectators you get at the open meetings."

"I can try, but I'll likely want some money for health bills incurred," Jon said. "Right now I know little about the vampire. I've gathered that he is about as old as Rome and he changed his title to baron some time after the Romans created the European country of Romania. I could do some open channeling with my receptive crystal, that's if the three of you aren't afraid?"

"I'm not afraid," Marilyn said.

Jeanie smiled. "Nor I," she said.

They looked to Paul and he did look afraid, but he nodded, prepared to go along.

Remaining seated Jon opened his collar and lifted out his puller crystal. A placid expression developed on his face as he admired the violet sheen of light reflected by the clear stone. When he looked up, his mental state had visibly changed. Jeanie and Marilyn were enveloped by yellow auras; a favorable color of aura . . . life-giving and sharing. Blue and green, the aural colors of healing and wisdom were the dampers that could seal his chakras. A faint blue tint was present in Paul's aura, but it wasn't pronounced enough to have any effect.

Going through the opening motions with the crystal he opened his chakras to energy. After some initial disorientation he began to feel a gentle infusion of energy drifting to him from the others. His mind cleared and he thought of what he might say to Jeanie, knowing he couldn't be obvious with Marilyn and Paul looking on. At last, as he prepared to fake contact with the vampire, it became unnecessary . . . he suddenly found himself speaking in a strange voice.

"Why have you disturbed my rest? I am a traveler of the endless night. I know of spirit worlds, crystal millenniums, even of nether worlds, the past and the future."

Silence descended, birds stopped singing and the breeze vanished. Only Jeanie could muster the courage to speak.

"Are you the vampire?"

"I am Baron Titus Varsook of Brasov. Some call me a vampire. I call myself a man of refinement."

"How old are you?"

"I am eternally young." A strange smile crossed Jon's face. "You don't believe me, I see. Yes, the truth is my body has crumbled. Mr. Chandler is quite alive and as refreshing as rose water in comparison. His looks could be more Mediterranean, but I do enjoy his health and even some of the new fashions. His new continental haircut is nice."

Paul found the courage to speak. "So you're a thief, stealing his body. Sekhmet was more honest."

The Baron's anger lit Jon's face. "If you call me a thief again, mention Sekhmet again, or even speak to me again, you will die!"

A shade of red rose on Paul's face and he pursed his lips, holding back words. He looked to Marilyn and Jeanie, and then back to the Baron. It seemed like he might scream, then he popped up and fled, running madly through the garden and out of sight in the trees.

Jeanie giggled. "That seems to be the end of him," she said.

The Baron laughed heartily. "It will be if he continues to try the patience of spirits from the other side."

Marilyn cleared her throat. "Tell me, Titus, how will you satisfy your need for blood while you are in Jon's body?"

"Ah, a question I was expecting. The truth is that the need for blood is a childhood thing, for young vampires. I'm very old and long ago I learned to feed on crystal energy. The Carpathian Mountains have some of the most potent crystals in the world. I spent many summers up in the caverns just enjoying nature and inner peace."

"Really," Jeanie said. "We’re crystal enthusiasts as well."

"Then we can talk at some other time. Right now Mr. Chandler seems to want his body back. You should put out the news to the New Age people that I will be available as an expert in all areas of the occult. I do desperately need something to keep me occupied."

"Definitely," Marilyn said. "We will put the news out."

Sudden confusion washed over Chandler's face and the Baron's distinct expression vanished. Having come back to himself, Jon stood up and stretched his muscles.

"All this has drained me," Jon said. "The Baron left me aware of his message, which was interesting . . . but the Baron should keep in mind that I am the foremost expert on crystal energy. There will be plenty of other evenings in which to channel the vampire, so for now I'm going to return to my suite and rest."

Jeanie was unable to conceal her excitement; she rushed over and stuffed her card in Jon's front pocket. "You must call me when you feel better. I'm not far from your hotel."

"Have patience," Jon said, feigning weakness. And as he said it, it occurred to him that patience was a virtue he'd have little of when it came to dealing with Jeanie. He hoped the Baron wouldn't get in the way. Thinking it over Jon felt the Baron was a liar, calling himself an expert on crystals. He was sure he could teach the Baron a lesson or two when it came to precious stones. Jealousy pinked his cheeks; it was disheartening the way the women preferred the Baron to him.

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CHAPTER 5: ON THE TOWN

The baron rested in a new coffin, deep in layers of the mind and an underworld cloud. Above him Jon Chandler's life drifted like a dream.

A crystal earring glittered in Jon's left lobe as he stepped out of the Royal York Hotel. He felt refreshed, having bathed, and his new dark suit gave him a polished look. The afternoon session hadn't weakened him; he'd lied to Marilyn because it was his policy to never give the customer too much in an early session. A first meeting was essentially a baiting session, so the vampire would have said about the same thing even if he'd faked it.

Sunset flame streaked the office towers. The evening was too picturesque to spend at the Royal York or in the business district around it. He was heading for a trendy area of town that was also Jeanie's neighborhood. He moistened his lips with anticipation; creamy thighs were in his mind. An artist like Jeanie would be easy to charm and great in bed . . . but he felt it was too early to call her and he had another appointment anyway. He managed to find an outlet that carried Crystal Millennium products and the new spiritualist papers. Papers were all he purchased, and with them in hand he looked for a certain deli.

The place turned out to be a block from the magazine store, but the man he was supposed to meet hadn't arrived. He went in and ordered a salad and milk. Sitting at an empty table he nibbled at his food, odors of corned beef steaming around him. Meat he didn't include in his diet; he liked it but it wasn't popular in the circles he moved in. He also believed it to be unhealthy and a source of cancer.

A quick browse through the news lifted his spirits. The Toronto scene was still a strong one. Filled with career optimism he flipped through a music magazine, stopping to speed read an article written by an old cyber guru. The message was - get blasted but avoid all visions of a religious or theistic nature. Jon chuckled, thinking that these guys were hopelessly dull. They wanted to expand their minds, but what were they open to when they'd already decided not to see anything of a religious nature? In Jon's early days he’d enjoyed the real religious vision and he supposed that even now he was closer to Huxley than he was to zapped-out atheists. In a way it was sad. He felt he'd begun with a better vision than drug gurus and most of the new spiritualist people. At some point, a point he couldn't quite put his finger on, the vision had slipped into a materialist dream.

As he closed his paper his client entered the deli. Jim Gresham was slim and blond, a well-dressed business type. Jon supposed Jim was exactly what women were looking for when they advertised in the dating pages for a businessman. All the right qualities were there; stability of mind combined with exciting interests, social drinker, good dancer and so on. But even so, Jon found him uninteresting and easy to read.

It was a good thing, too, because his job was to read him. Jim Gresham paid top dollar for advice; fortuneteller-type advice on what was best for his future. Jim also had his hang-ups. He was the owner of a large computer software company and he felt it necessary to keep his spiritual side a secret.

Predictably, Jim ordered a corned beef sandwich and a coffee. He sat on the chair like it was made of china, glancing around and giving only a nod for hello. Anxiety showed on his face. It was obvious something was troubling him.

Jon immediately reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're having trouble with your car. I can feel it."

"You're on the mark as usual," Jim said. "The beast is in for repairs. Engine trouble. I was involved in a nasty fender bender this morning."

Jon nodded sagely. The simple fact that Jim was late indicated car trouble, and of course Jon used facts, not supernatural powers.

"In spite of it all I'm doing fabulously well," Jim continued. "So with that said I suppose you're wondering why I demanded to see you?"

"There are life changes in the stars for you, and since you’re a big investor it might mean acquiring new companies or real estate."

"The stars are right," Jim said, his blue eyes dilating with mild amazement. He leaned closer, seeing charm in Jon's cynical smile. Charm that someone with a clearer head wouldn't see. "It's a possible life change . . . politics. A major party is trying to recruit me as a candidate."

"There's every reason to go ahead with it," Jon said. "You have a positive image and are driven to accomplish. You’ll need spiritual advice during your campaign and after you're elected. Now that I think of it, we never discuss politics. What are your aims?"

"As you know," Jim said, "party names are just banners to run under nowadays. There are no ideological platforms … there are only populist politicians and a few men and women with rare vision. I hope I'm one of the latter. I see myself as a proven corporate leader and innovator taking leadership ability into the political arena."

"You will be successful," Jon said. "The stars and your outlook say so. You’re practically a born politician. You have that degree of honesty and sincerity."

"You really think so?"

"Yes, I really think so?"

An hour passed and Jim Gresham faded with it into the dead twilight of politics. When Jon stepped out of the deli, dusk was deepening to murky night in the alleyways. The night lights were brightening to a blaze and he saw fine silver lines in the air. It seemed weird that he’d been brooding, wondering why he'd lost personal vision, because he had vision now, and a grand purpose directing him. He stopped; night magic turned to laughter in his throat, and in that moment the switch became complete. Jon Chandler became Baron Titus Varsook.

Across the road and down a ways people were streaming along a broader avenue. Fashionable people running from the very young to others much older. Attracted by the bustle he jaywalked over the road and turned, letting his mind record the motion of Jon Chandler's body. Chandler's coordination, health and brain balance were items he found close to perfect.

Smiling pleasantly, the Baron plunged into the crowd. The street was well lit by topaz-tinted streetlights, and that combined with Chandler's bright vision forced him to narrow his eyes. He examined Chandler's memory as he moved along past street vendors, bucksters, spare-changers and teens. Soon his focus fell like a spotlight on Jeanie. He took her card out of his pocket. Her place was somewhere nearby. It would probably be polite to phone first, but surprise visits were always so much more romantic and he was anxious to see what he could do with Chandler's body. It wasn't exactly the perfect instrument for vampirism, though it responded well to his appetites.

A small white convertible cruised by as he stopped at a cross street. He watched it park out front of a radio station. A thin man hopped over the passenger door, his long hair flying as he ran into the station. Feeling the need for a car, Baron Varsook ambled into the glare out front of the station building.

He studied the car, noting that it was a Viper, and then he stepped onto the road and went around to the driver. He pulled out Jeanie's card and waved it at the driver. Turning from the wheel he looked at the card. The guy was a teenager, the sides of his head were shaved and a spray of maroon was on his front locks. He frowned at both Jeanie's card and the Baron.

"Do you know how to get to that address?" the Baron said. "It's somewhere close to here."

"Five blocks west, right two," the kid said. "It's a building that's hard to miss."

"How about giving me a lift over there?"

"Are you kidding. Do you know who it is I'm driving? This is a huge promotion, so get a ride somewhere else."

Eyes widening, brightening, and gaining a sapphire-blue glow, the Baron tapped the kid on the shoulder. The kid turned back to him, froze for a moment, then amazement washed over his face and his lips began to tremble. Squeezing the kid's shoulder lightly, the Baron watched as a look of admiration replaced his confusion.

"Maybe you should lend me your Viper for a few days?" the Baron said. "I'm sure your boss won't mind walking."

"Sure," the kid said. "He can walk. He's nobody anyway, just another superstar. My address is in the glove compartment. Try to have it back in a week if you can."

Chandler's driving skills weren't all that great, but they were better than the Baron's lack of skill. The feel of the Viper was low-slung power, like a tiger ready to spring, and it added to the Baron's natural feeling of strength. He cruised down the road grinning, not bothered at all by the heavy traffic. Jeanie's address turned out to be a Fantastic Sound Warehouse, and it was fantastic that so many garish signs could be supported by one boxlike old building. Instinctively, the Baron parked facing away from the lights. At first he thought he had the wrong address then he remembered the kid saying it was hard to miss. As he glanced in the mirror it dawned on him that she probably lived in the upper floor. The card was for a home address. An artist; it clicked in his mind. She needs a place like a big attic to store her stuff, and what could be better than the top floor of a warehouse.

A pair of mirror shades sat on the dash, and the Baron put them on before getting out. He'd found that too much neon glare caused disorientation. The glasses cut the light to a comfortable level. Reaching the cover of the building and soothing darkness, he pocketed the glasses. Some ferns grew in pots in the side alley. Inhaling a fresh lake breeze, he came to a fire escape and went up its broad steps. A metal door was at the top and it looked like it had once belonged to a bank vault. There was no bell, but there was a ghoul-head knocker. He knocked hard, guessing the door to be sound resistant. Instead of the expected thuds it boomed resonantly. Within moments the peephole darkened.

The door opened slowly on well-oiled hinges. Smiling, Jeanie faced him. Soft white light haloed her and she was wearing a strapless red dress that enhanced her figure and the cream color of her skin. Her rosebud breasts had the Baron almost drooling and he became unsteady as lust mesmerized him.

"Ah, you came," Jeanie said, "and as the Baron. How nice."

"I thought you were in need," he said. "In need of spiritual advice."

She replied with devilish eyes and led him inside. Her place was as large as he'd imagined. It had nice dark corners and rafters. The predominant odor was sandalwood. Her hips swayed lightly as she took him to the paneled-off area that functioned as her living room. Excitement lifted him like a grand slam when he noticed that he was her only guest.

Dusty hardcover books and art objects cluttered the room, but there was still plenty of space and lots of seating. In spite of that Jeanie sat in a small love couch and motioned for the Baron to join her. The way things were going it was like being in a romantic play. He didn't want the director to have a chance to alter the script so he walked straight over and sat.

He hugged closer to her than was necessary and she encouraged more by taking his hand and brushing it softly. His self-esteem demanded that they at least engage in some preliminary conversation so he reached over to the coffee table and picked up a crystal skull. Surprisingly, the jaw clicked open as he lifted it.

"It's genuine Aztec, isn't it?" the Baron said.

"Close," Jeanie said. "Actually, it's a Mayan crystal skull. A benevolent spirit inhabits it."

"Really, have you spoken to it?"

"No, but I thought you might," Jeanie said. "Maybe you can find out how it really feels about me?"

"I could and perhaps later we can find out how some other spirits feel about you."

"That would be exciting."

"Let's give it a few minutes then we'll see if we can conjure them."

Jeanie got up, went over and picked up a long pole on a work bench. The Baron could see that it was carved from top to bottom like an elongated totem pole. Detailed painting had been done on the raven-like top figure.

"This is the piece I'm working on now, it's also delicate in its present state," she said. "I want to put it up. I wouldn't want a flux of psychic energy to snap it."

"Good idea. I wouldn't want to see it broken because of me."

"Would you like a drink?"

"Yes, perhaps I'll try some of your Western liquor."

"I have brandy and dark rum."

"Rum would be good. A drink should help relax us. I plan to use spiritual hypnosis tonight."

A dim aisle in the clutter led to the kitchen, and Jeanie went down it and into gloom. The Baron bided his time studying the Mayan skull, fancying he could see a distorted face in the flashing glitter of the crystal. He knew there was a spirit of some sort trapped in the crystal, but it didn't really interest him. Remote spiritualism wasn't his game. Flesh and blood, desire, the appetites and passions of the body were what he savored.

Rum shone darkly as two glasses glittered in the gloom. Jeanie appeared, passed him his drink and carefully sat beside him.

"How about a toast to your vampire friends?" she said, her eyes reflecting the glitter of the skull.

"A toast to their blood. We wish it to age another thousand years," he said.

"Sure, why not?" she said, and they clicked glasses and downed the rum.

Jeanie had poured triplets of the rum and it had its effect. Their conversation grew effervescent. The Baron nearly forgot what he was there for and time passed like a spark in dark amethyst, the haze of the liquor putting Jeanie in his hungry arms and his carnal memory back in place.

He nibbled on her ear lobe then moved down the curve of her neck, kissing skin that glowed warmly like firelight. An ocean of blood pulsed sweetly beneath the surface, he was about to lose control and sink his teeth in when she ran her hand up his leg and let it rest on his swelling organ. Chandler's physical desire was still latent in his body, and it rose, took command and forced the Baron to satisfy its lust. He lowered the top of her dress and began to kiss and suck on her breasts as she caressed his head and neck.

Jeanie became fully aroused. She pushed him away, stood up and swept off her dress. She wore no underclothes and the perfect curves of her flesh were a potent aphrodisiac. Sliding back down she opened his pants and began to stroke his erection. Moaning pleasantly, he was unable to stop Chandler's body from following her leads.

After peeling off his clothes, the Baron took her to a Mexican rug in the centre of the room and returned to kissing her breasts. He did what Chandler would do, moving down with his kisses, pleasantly amazed by the delicate invitation of her pink orifice. Jeanie moaned and he was as content kissing her there as he would be with fangs in her neck.

Intercourse came naturally, with the Baron wanting gratification more than the somewhat prolonged act Chandler would prefer. She moved with soft wet thrusts beneath him, and a minute later he exploded into orgasm. He looked directly into her eyes and climax gave his eyes the shine of damp bloodstones. Energy flowed to her as sexual mesmerism; her moans and movements grew wild. Something in Chandler's memory told him to use the crystal, which he still had around his neck.

Maintaining penetration as she writhed, he used the crystal to open his chakras. Their rhythm was temporarily broken and there was a moment where they stared at each another in surprise, then a river of energy splashed like blood from her to him, sending him into a second state of orgasm. It was already more than Chandler had ever achieved, but it wasn't enough for the Baron. As she shrieked, clawed and bled energy to him, he dammed it up.

A death climax took her and he lost control and released the flood. A wave of energy broke along force lines like shattering crystal and exploded into her. The Baron was thrown off by the charge; he tumbled on the rug, rolled up on his knees and saw her twitching and gasping like an epileptic, barely visible amid a brilliant aura of red energy.

The aura grew in intensity to a thick haze and condensed as drops of blood. Her eyes fluttered randomly and a drowning gurgle slipped through her clenched teeth. The blood formed beads her body; beads that glittered like a million tiny jewels and worked to entrance the Baron. He crawled to her and began to lap up the blood and the tremendous energy stored in it.

Mesmerized, Jeanie remained in a dream state, unaware that her life force and soul were being licked up by the same tongue that electrified her with pleasure. As she died she had a smile on her face, even though her body looked like it'd been delicately pierced by ten thousand fangs.

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CHAPTER 6: THE WAREHOUSE

Mike’s business in Texas had ended without an uplifting moment. He soothed himself by believing fate had acted to claim Joey Lucan and Jack; fate and a gruesome claw had pulled them through a graveyard doorway. Aside from that, there was only so much justice he could bring into a brutal world. Sympathy for evil, stupid men could only be a worthless emotion. It was best to say that they got what they got and then forget about the rest . . . but life be cursed as few things are really forgotten. Instead he had another skeleton rattling in his closet, two more scarecrows on the field of his soul, and the good life was a little harder to gain. Without a doubt his brother Len had been stronger. Len would have thought Joey and Jack to be agents of the big world enemy. Mike wished he could believe in such an enemy.

A chain of murderous events and now Sheriff Lee was a silent taciturn man, working to close things up like a funeral director. The sheriff had believed in vigilante justice and now knew there were consequences to every act.

Not many words had been exchanged on the way to the airport, and now that they were pulling in Mike realized that he was going to walk away without saying any sort of genuine goodbye.

He did walk away . . . and stepped into the terminal feeling glad he was finally on his own. Once he was on the plane a darker bank of emotional clouds settled over him. Flash visions of vicious rats tearing at Len's corpse began to torment him. The plane droned on through purgatory and he found it hard to hide the problem. One passenger got himself moved to another seat and people nearby eyed him warily. Ordinary people were afraid of a man who developed sudden horrified expressions and covered his face with his hands. Fortunately, the flight attendant assumed it was fear of flying and that helped him get through the flight.

Mike tried to let his mind drift to better things; he had a wife and daughter in Toronto - Alice and Annie – and they still loved him. Len's death was tragic but not a surprise. He'd lived on the supernatural razor's edge, taking big risks every day. Mike had always feared that he'd bury Len while they were still young. He'd even bought insurance to cover a funeral. That was a few years ago, Alice had completed the payments on it.

Alice would always be an angel to Mike. If she couldn't live with a moody guy who had strange psychic experiences, a guy who wouldn't mature and settle into a steady job - well, that was understandable. He knew she was a stable mother, and she never treated him with contempt or held up his faults like dirty laundry in front of Annie. No doubt Annie suffered some emotional damage because of his long absences, but at least she didn't suffer the additional torment of seeing her father as a villain.

The plane hummed smoothly toward the Toronto runway, a silver omen gliding over the suburban expanse of North York. Tremendous relief came with the touching of the wheels to the tarmac . . . but it was temporary because Mike despised crowds. Gritting his teeth he restrained himself from rudeness as he moved with the air-terminal crowd. He believed in loving his fellow man, but it would be easier to love others if they'd keep at arm's length.

Mike grabbed an Emerald cab and was falling back to relax in the seat when he realized he wasn't sure of his exact destination.

The black cabby looked him over. "Few drinks on the plane, man?"

"No," Mike said. "I don't need a drink to look like this. I suppose you expect me to know where I'm going, like most people do?"

"Most people goin' nowhere. Don't matter what they know."

"You come from the same school I do. Okay, take me downtown near the waterfront. I'll find my way from there."

The cabby drove in the same way some people play snakes and ladders, hitting some of the lucky ladders. Eventually he got downtown. Mike popped out at the rear by the garage section of a building, figuring only an odd cabby would drop a fare there. He'd been taken for a bit of a ride but there was no sense wasting time arguing. He walked swiftly out into the gray light of day.

It had rained and now the streets were steamy. Working his way through the side streets below the old Chinatown, he headed for the waterfront. A sixth sense guided him and whenever he got far off the track a depressing, lost feeling came over him. He looked suspicious, out of place, cutting across abandoned rail lands and under freeway pylons. It was territory that even bums usually avoided, maybe it involved trespassing . . . but it didn't matter, he went where the trail led.

A structure like a corpse, Mike thought when he saw the warehouse, its blackened brick and long unused stack. He'd seen castles brought stone by stone from Europe, and the warehouse was similar to that, only it was a hellish factory brought brick by cracked brick from Industrial Revolution England.

The stack dropped a hangman's hood shadow. He slowed his pace as he came to the broken door. Damp, rancid air touched him as he entered and enough light filtered through the chinks for him to see the tumbled crates and dry goods spilled across the floor. A few more steps and he heard the squeal of an angry rat. He'd stepped on it and it darted from underfoot. There was a chorus of squeals as other rats joined in. His eyes fell on the coffin and the rodents scampering around it. He didn't have to look to know where the body was. A lump formed in his throat and he gulped, feeling a horrible ache in his taut neck muscles. Without investigating further he turned away and went back outside.

Mike had a friend in homicide - Detective Jake Skagway. He decided to call him and get matters cleared up officially so he could go ahead with the funeral. His pocket phone was out of power so it meant pounding the pavement again, a long kilometre to a greasy spoon restaurant where he bought a coffee and used the house phone. Mike liked it that way as he didn’t use his cell much. He could be tracked via a cell phone. Powered up mobiles were like your address in your front pocket, telling intelligence agencies where you were. Jake wasn't at home so he had his answering service forward a message. From experience he knew that Jake would get the message and be out in a few minutes.

Jake Skagway arrived alone, grim as a mortician in his dusty black Chevy. He wasn’t in a hurry and got out slowly, his face doom serious. His body hulked big, like the warehouse. He’d been a linebacker with the Toronto Argonauts in his younger days. His look was that of a mean guy but his personality was more that of a harmless bear. If necessary he could subdue the craziest of punks using nothing beyond standard police tactics. Detective Skagway was a fan of old movies and not-so-old mystery books. He enjoyed tough-guy stuff as fiction but in everyday life he preferred people with an easygoing nature.

Mike eyed Skagway's rumpled suit. "Life been hard on you or are you trying to look eccentric?"

"I suppose you think the baggy jacket is for hiding an old Dirty Harry .44," Jake said, managing a brief smile. His grin being a funny one that let most of his teeth show. "Truth is our budget is down and the murder rate is up. I’m a mess. I barely have time for a shower."

Mike read Jake's fortune in the deep creases on his forehead. "Are the killings organized crime?"

"No. Creeps are on the up. Nutsos that kill their wives, kids and friends or innocent bystanders. It’d be nice if they'd only kill themselves. The Chief calls it culture rot, a growing subculture of morons who try to solve problems with murder. Your wife walks out, so the answer is to gun her down with a G11 military assault rifle. If your dog disobeys you, shoot him with a canon. People can't face problems anymore. They can only go nuts."

"It's meanness more than madness. Happiness is getting rare and the mean streak is showing through. If you don't understand that you can't keep yourself in check. My brother never had a mean streak. I guess you think he had a dangerous streak. I know you two didn't agree on much."

"He was taking the law into his own hands. I don't agree with that." Jake's brown eyes dimmed as his brows eclipsed them; a serious look Mike knew well.

"I didn't exactly agree with it myself."

"You're sure no one is inside the warehouse?"

"The body has been in there a while and the guy who murdered him is dead, too. Look in the coffin."

"There shouldn't be any coffin. I just ran a check on this place. It's used as a warehouse. There should be crated appliances - toasters and stuff and some dry goods from China. I suppose the next thing you're going to tell me is the guy planned on dying so he brought his own coffin with him." The detective held up his hand. "Don’t answer. Wait here while I investigate."

Frustration and humidity on his brow, Jake Skagway lumbered into the warehouse. Mike heard his heavy footfalls resounding and the squeal and scrabble of fleeing rats. There was a bang as the coffin was opened, and then Mike sat on a pile of broken concrete slabs for the next twenty minutes, his head swimming with ugly thoughts.

Stepping back outside, Jake lit a cigarette and puffed with an unhappy look on his face.

"I thought you quit smoking?" Mike said.

"When I find a body I smoke and think about it. It's the only time I smoke. Smoked half a pack this month."

"Ugly in there isn't it?"

"I'm used to the ugly part. It's how to describe it that gets me. What will I put down? That you had a hunch your brother was dead and lying in this out of the way dump. The dead guy in the coffin killed him. Only all that's in the coffin is an expensive costume with a stake driven through it. The socks, shoes, underwear - everything put together so it looks like someone was wearing a suit then vanished out of it."

"The man in the coffin was a vampire. One so old he disintegrated to nothing after Len staked him. Len must’ve died of injuries he got in the scuffle."

"Now you know why I hate you Mike. You always come up with cases that are from the twilight zone. I can't put in a report like that. I'll leave out the coffin. It's just an article that happened to be in the warehouse. Likely it’ll turn out that Len died of injuries he got in a scuffle, so I’ll say he was slain by criminals importing drugs. The coroner's report will outline how he was killed. You'll have to wait for him to release the body for burial. You'll also have to stay in the city."

"If that's the way it has to be," Mike said.

"It can't be any other way."

Mike knew Jake believed him and he also knew the gears were in motion in his mind, trying to churn up a reasonable final report. As expected, Jake kept the investigation routine and held him at the scene as a parade of police specialists examined the site and the body. When Jake mentioned DNA tests, Mike couldn't help wondering what sort of results they'd get from the contents of the coffin. After about an hour, he was driven from the scene to the downtown station for questioning. Five more hours crawled by before he was finally set free in the chilly back parking lot of the police station.

Death and murder, Mike found both to be energy draining vampires. If a friend or relative turned up a corpse, grief would come in like a haymaker, and when you got up, your head still spinning, the police would be there asking an endless chain of tricky questions.

The bone-numbing aspect of the investigation, the stabbing emotional pain that came with questions that could only mean you were a prime suspect . . . the totality of it all slammed down on Mike, leaving him feeling like an aching mound of old flesh. He didn't want to phone Alice or pop in on her while he was in a state of nerves, and the thought of telling her and Annie that Big Len was dead made him shudder. Annie had been very close to Len. Working on their own his feet took him through a blur of lights and scrapers to the Holiday Inn. He rented a room, ordered an appetizer and a strong beer, and turned on pay TV. A haze of memories drifted in his head while the blue twinkling of an old Elvis movie passed easily like a tranquilizer.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and it worked like magic, taking his thoughts back to his boyhood in Carrying Place, a tiny village on the edge of Lake Ontario in the eastern part of the province.

Len was returning home for the summer that year, meaning Mike would be reunited with an older brother he knew little about. He honestly couldn't remember any more than Len’s big eyes as he'd been taken away by an ecumenical society in the early years. Odd disabilities got Len sent to a special school in the Peloponnese. Other schools; regular, private and special wouldn’t take him.

Heat ghosts were in the air over the soft highway, the fields were scorched to the color of brown sugar, and in that dead landscape Len's arrival was more than odd. A sleek black sedan came gleaming out of the sun, rolling up a dust cloud and crushing paper-dry weeds as it rolled over and stopped on the shoulder.

Sun was mirrored in the windows and Mike couldn’t see the driver, but the horn honked and a huge bronze teenager wearing enormous dark glasses was deposited on the roadside. The vehicle crept off without further fanfare, disappearing up the road like an important thief.

Mike's feelings of awe and amazement were so strong he couldn't move. He stood like a scarecrow watching a handsome, muscular youth stride up the driveway. His hair had the luster of a raven and the scorching heat that withered everything else worked to energize him. It didn't seem possible that this could be his disadvantaged brother. If no school would take him then where were the bandy legs, gibbering mouth and incredible spastic condition?

Len was the picture of health, and he walked up confidently, clapping Mike on the shoulder with a hand of iron. "How goes it little brother?"

The reunion progressed normally, and by the time lunch was finished Mike had forgotten Len's supposed problems. Len became his brother, plain and simple, even his weird glasses grew familiar and ordinary, like the jam/jelly sandwiches they shared.

Later that afternoon when they were out at the point the subject of disabilities came up. Mike was watching ring-billed gulls out on the water, and when he turned back Len had his glasses up and was massaging the orbits of his eyes. They were open but they were blind and white with cataracts; white as the wall of the lighthouse towering behind them.

It startled Mike. He nearly fell in the water. "You mean you're blind?" he said.

"Inoperable cataract tissue on my eyes, but I'm not blind. I see by motion awareness. The world I see is different."

"That doesn't sound like a disability."

"It's the rest of the world that’s disabled. I ended up in a special school because of it. Parents won't let their kids associate with a child that has an abnormal form of vision . . . and schools for the handicapped don't want kids with handicaps that make them superior."

Mike tossed a stone, trying not to look too shocked or interested. "So all the other kids at your school are like you?"

"They have their own abilities. The monks don't call them disabilities."

"Your teachers are monks?"

"Yeah, and they're a lot better than you would expect. Our school is a 6th-century monastery. It's near the straits at Daphni. An area that's scary because of the ancient ruins in the baronryside."

"So what will you be when you graduate?"

"Don't know. I take odd courses and training. Right now I'm taking one on vampires. I suppose I'll graduate as a man who doesn't put his trust in society or the world. The world didn't have a place for me and I'll never forget that. You're normal so you'll probably never understand."

Only it turned out the other way round. Mike wasn't normal, and he too graduated as a man that put no trust in society or the world.

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CHAPTER 7: HOME AGAIN

Mike woke from a dream of a pouncing mountain lion and saw a golden mane of sun in the window. Yesterday's gloom had lifted but he couldn't see where today held promise. He picked up the phone, ordered breakfast and picked through his suitcase for clean clothes. After a shower and a bowl of corn flakes he got on the phone to Alice. A sinking feeling hit him as her mellifluous voice filled his ear.

"I thought you were way down South?" Alice said, not sounding too thrilled by his sudden return.

"I was and some law enforcement people down there paid me real dollars for a change. Don't get too happy about it because I'm here with terrible news."

"Let me guess. You're in jail again? Or maybe one of those nutty clients of yours is coming after us again?"

"It’s much worse than that. My brother, Len has passed away."

"No . . . how did it happen?"

"Here in Toronto. We think it was an accident. Jake Skagway is investigating. We won't know for sure until he finishes his report."

Alice gulped and sighed. "I better keep Annie home from school."

"You'll tell her?" Mike said. "I mean, use a mother's touch. Before I get there."

"I think you should, Mike. You're her father, and he's your brother. Act responsibly for once in your life."

"Come on, Alice. I don't want it to look like I only come around to break her heart. She might think I'm somehow responsible, and you know I can't bear little-girl tears. The whole thing has been a draining experience. I suppose we knew it was coming. With Annie it's different. She won't believe it. Besides, I can be a buffer. After she's cried some, I'll get there and cheer her up."

"You're cruel, Mike. That's what you are, and selfish. Never mind, I'll be the bad guy like always. Besides, you'll probably upset her even more if you do it. Don't come over and try to throw her a birthday party. It's the death of a loved one so behave accordingly."

"Sure, I'll behave. Thanks Alice."

Mike did behave and he did cheer Annie up; at no time did he wish he had broken the news himself. Alice was better at that sort of thing, and she was no longer peeved about it. There was an odor of mothballs as she fussed with some of his suits. Annie was still in her nightgown and had fallen asleep in his arms. He could feel her tear-sticky face gluing itself to his neck so he shifted her position.

Mike gazed out the bay window. The privet hedge, flower-lined walk and neat yard could fit with any suburban home. It was the old maple tree that made him feel fine, because a front-window maple had been there in his childhood home in Carrying Place. Home nowadays was really only a fleeting feeling. Everything seemed to disappear in a well of time behind him. His parents, the old house were gone. Len was gone, and his wife and daughter were emotionally distant. He was acutely aware of the fact that nothing in life lasts.

Alice's blond locks were tear-teased on the right side from Annie's weeping. Alice always wore light makeup, but today she hadn't had time to put any on. She seemed serious and severe without it, like when she wore some it painted away her problems. Today her feelings were hard to read. Mike guessed her to be more grief-stricken than was immediately apparent. Usually she let her feelings hang out, but since it was his brother she was likely trying to avoid upsetting him.

"You're going to have to decide," Alice said as she pulled the plastic off a suit.

"Alright. Phone your minister. Len always called himself a Christian, though he never went to a local church. Your denomination can bury him here. It's better than letting an order of monks bury him overseas."

"I want his plot to be away from the Catholic section. You know how I …"

"Please, Alice -- I don't want to hear a speech about the pope and his Mafia of male chauvinists."

Mike's raised voice caused Annie to mumble and begin to awaken. He pushed her hair back then looked out the window and saw Jake Skagway driving up. He lifted Annie high in the air then dropped her back to his chest.

"It's time to see Mommy, kiddo," Mike said.

Alice put her hands on her hips and turned to the window. "I suppose that's Jake Skagway here with more news."

"It is," Mike said as Annie came to life as a bundle of knees and elbows in his lap. "I want to talk to him in the yard. You know his habit of being frank about all the horrible details."

"I really don't want Annie to hear all the horrible details. That's a lesson I learned when Ruffles died. I think my curiosity died the same day Ruffles did."

"I wanna see Big Jake," Annie said, struggling free of Mike. She scrambled to the window and waved, prepared to go out.

"You'll have to stay in for now," Mike said. "I have to talk to him first. You can come out after."

Detective Skagway looked cleaned and pressed. His brown eyes were alert. He had no objections to talking outside so they stood in the shade of the maple tree with a view of sunshine and the perfectly manicured neighborhood. Lush, with a hot, lazy breeze, the summer day was placid . . . the odor of fresh-mown grass lifted Mike's spirits.

"We'll probably report that Len died in a scuffle with thugs. What he was doing at the warehouse, we don't know."

"You drove over to tell me that?"

"Not just that. There's more. It turns out the coffin is a museum piece. The costume in it doesn't respond to dating tests. Nor is the dust identifiable as that of a human corpse."

"I'm not surprised."

"I know it's rotten to trouble you now, but I need to solve the mystery. We'll pay you to aid in the investigation."

"What's to investigate? I told you how Len died."

"Not just Len. It's a young woman, an artist I'm talking about. She got turned into Swiss cheese - bloodless Swiss cheese. The corpse is covered with fanglike incisions. It might bear some relationship to Len's death."

"What gives you the feeling?"

"Both deaths are bizarre. In my mind that relates them . . . and there is a weird vampire angle in both of them."

"I'd have to study the crime scene, but to be honest I can't see how I can help."

"The victim, Jeanie, was into new magic and the occult. You know a lot about that scene. She also did some crystal healing. I remember you saying something about magic stones."

Mike pulled a silver chain up from under his T-shirt, a pale orange chunk of coral dangled from it. "This is a protective stone, there's a stone for nearly everything."

"Maybe a crystal rabbit's foot would’ve saved her.”

"I see you're not a believer in stones, but you won't have to be. Give me a minute. You can talk to Alice and Annie while I get dressed."

They went inside and Mike went upstairs to dress, leaving Detective Skagway with his arms full of Annie and his mouth full of explanations for Alice.

". . . so Mike is being paid for this?" Mike heard Alice saying. He came down the stairs quietly, guessing that Alice approved of his involvement because it was murder and his role was classed as a real job. If he were to announce that he was going out on his own, just to help the investigation, then that would be juvenile and Alice would start counting the reasons for him not to go on her fingers.

"He'll be working for us in his capacity as an expert on the subject of magic stones," Detective Skagway said. "It’s a standard consultant's fee."

"Bring me a magic stone," Annie said as Mike stepped into the living room.

"That poor lady was killed by magic stones," Alice said. "I don't want Annie to have any."

"You worry too much," Mike said.

She shot him a skeptical glance. "I want to talk to you alone, before you leave."

"I can take a hint," Jake said, heading for the door.

Alice watched it shut. "Your brother died. You shouldn’t be risking your life. At least someone in your family should be left alive."

"Len didn't believe in moping about, and I'm being paid for this. I'll be with the police so it's all quite safe. It's people who are sure they’re safe at home that die."

"Maybe this magic stone stuff will backfire on you, all while you think you're safe with the police. I've never really trusted police."

"That's because you were a criminal when I met you."

"I was not."

"You smoked pot. I met you at a festival, remember."

"If you were so clean and perfect you wouldn't have been there."

"I couldn’t avoid being there? It was on the farm next to my parents' place in Carrying Place. You forget a lot of things; you sure weren't afraid of taking risks back then. You almost killed me with smoke."

"I didn't guess you to be a weird psychic. You looked fairly normal and not hypersensitive. You didn't even know it yourself." Alice frowned. "It's amazing the way you go back years to get something to justify your risk-taking now."

Mike grinned and Alice's eyes went a little glazed, like she was trying to see their past clearly. She smiled, stepped up to Mike and hugged him.

"You’re right," Mike said. "If this case turns out to be too risky I'll drop it. It would be better for everyone if I stay alive for a while."

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CHAPTER 8: SKULL VISION

In daylight the FANTASTIC SOUND WAREHOUSE lacked flash. It was an ordinary dilapidated structure. They cut through the lot without really noticing it. At the side of the building a humid breeze was drifting from the lake, lifting odors of shoreline mud.

"It's not like she didn't play it safe," Jake Skagway said, gesturing with a big hand to the vault-like door at the top of the metal staircase.

They went up and found the door open a crack. A husky, uniformed officer swung it open the rest of the way and the clanging of their heels echoed into silence as they halted. They looked carefully at a pentagram and a large number seven painted in gold neon on the inside of the closing door.

"Does that keep spirits out or lock them in?" Detective Skagway said.

"The pentagram suggests a person interested in occult magic," Mike said. "Seven is the number of the mystic seeker. Seekers are supposedly people of a brighter nature who see life from a more enlightened perspective. It's a sort of self-description she put on the inside of the door, like a signature. From it I would draw that she was a stable person working with the occult."

"Then why are all of her friends and acquaintances weird? They don't show much logic while under questioning."

"They may appear illogical. They wouldn't think in the way a detective would want. Not at all."

They stepped inside and Mike showed that he could also appear illogical, by first looking to the rafters. The back portion of the huge apartment was a sort of museum/junkyard. Shelved items, objects on the walls and ceiling and heaps of art objects made a complex mosaic. Mike's eyes drifted to a dusty alcove; on its shelves were seashells, rock crystals, rare coins, papyrus scrolls, a shrunken head, a hideous mask made of fossilized fungus and items of blown glass. A leaded-glass cabinet containing tiny, freakish, ebony statuettes was to the left of the alcove. Books scattered across various shelves made up a small library.

Two uniformed officers remained in the apartment. They were on guard duty as the preliminary investigation was complete. Jake ordered them to sit on a couch near the door then he stepped ahead into a living room created out of screens of dark paneling. A marked portion of the floor showed the position of the body.

"Believe it or not we've gone through most of this stuff," Detective Skagway said. "No fingerprints other than hers have been found in the back section. There’s nothing here that could have been a murder weapon, as far as we know, but we don't know what the weapon would look like exactly. She does have some antique torture tools in here. I'm waiting while an expert at headquarters sketches out models."

Mike turned his gaze to the Oriental panels that served as kitchen walls. "I thought you said you found fang marks?" he said absently.

"Thousands of marks, and we've learned that she had a male visitor. He had a drink and left prints."

"I can't see how you need me, not if you have a major suspect?"

"Suppose we discover the identity of the suspect. We still have to show how he killed her. I want you to tell us what kind of black magic ritual he was performing. Once I piece the puzzle together I can nail him to a cell wall as an occult maniac."

"I see," Mike said. "She really was into stones. Just at a glance I can see pieces of amber, carnelian, sodalite, agate and clear crystal. The crystal wand on the end table is for magic. It cuts psychic bonds. A laser wand it's called. She uses these phantom crystals to talk to her plants."

Detective Skagway's eyes brightened as he took in the information. "Why don't you talk to her plants or whatever it is that you talk to and ask how she got killed?"

"Plants can't communicate. Not in a sense where they would answer questions."

"How about talking to this?" Detective Skagway said, lifting a crystal skull. "Ask it whose fingerprints it is we found on it?"

"I can try. Crystal skulls come from various parts of the world. Often they are ancient and spirit-possessed. There is also a thing called crystal memory."

"What's that?"

"Events can get impressed into the molecular structure of a crystal; a memory that can be recalled by a type of psychic reading."

"Go to work. Maybe some of those fang marks got impressed in it, or enough for us to find the weapon."

Mike took the skull and admired it as he sat in the love seat. He placed it on his knees and held it firmly with both hands. Staring straight ahead he looked like a daydreamer or a person absorbed in a movie. He was aware of Jake's skeptical gaze and he knew that the detective didn't really care what method he used as long as the needed information clicked out of his mind. His usually firm jaw fell slack; his eyes gained an opalescent gleam. A light trance took him. Faint emanations of violet light rose and his eyes widened to pools as the light intensified and gave the skull a pulsating aura.

At first the effect produced mild discomfort and then the pulse became blinding and painful. It staggered Detective Skagway, he tottered then he suddenly keeled over. Mike also went down and both men experienced the sensation of their arms being black wings, fluttering wildly. A vision opened; it was of an ebony spear flying. The spear whistled through the air and struck a palpitating heart on an altar. A shower of blood exploded and blossomed into a whirling kaleidoscope of color, leaving them helplessly watching as their feet sank into smoldering volcanic lava.

Fire consumed them and they burst out of it into rushing wind. Their vision slowly cleared and they found themselves on their knees on stone steps. A vast, terraced pyramid angled to the earth below. They were near the top and the view was breathtaking, dizzying. They rose, with Mike carrying the crystal skull, cradling it in his hands. A man with glowing bronze skin appeared at Mike's side and began to lead the way over the top.

From the top they began to descend into the heart of the structure. Loud chanting drifted to them and after a moment Mike realized that it wasn't chanting, but a language of thought flowering in his mind. Rich expression, ancient in its semantics. Only one sentence was comprehensible - Tezcatlipoca our golden king - and it was a repeating theme carrying a glorious resonance.

Tezcatlipoca; Mike knew it had to be the name of the bronze man leading them. The man was a king, shining with gold and emeralds, resplendent with feathers and a garland of flowers . . . even his sandals were gold and crusted with gems.

A soothing fragrance of spice and incense was in the air, but it began to fade and deaden as they descended into the gloom of the temple. In the lower reaches the atmosphere was humid like fetid breath. A taste of burnt and decaying flesh settled on the tongue. Gem encrusted idols appeared, their menacing faces glaring down at an altar.

As they approached the altar, half-naked priests emerged from billowing smoke, seized Tezcatlipoca and dragged him to a stone of sacrifice. Jake stumbled up beside Mike and they looked on helplessly as the priests stretched Tezcatlipoca out, tied his ankles and wrists with leather thongs and began to cut open his chest with an obsidian knife.

With his bare hands the chief priest parted the wound, and it gaped wide, revealing a glistening mass of organs. Fluid gushed over white, violet, blue and scarlet tissue that wriggled and squirmed around a large swollen heart.

The blade began to cut smoothly around the heart. As the priest pried it up and turned it, Jake began to totter. Suddenly, with his face electrocution crazy, the chief priest squeezed the heart, savagely ripped it out and held it high as a dripping offering for the demon god Huitzilopochtli.

Mike felt Jake's heavy arm as he grabbed him to keep from fainting. Sickened, Mike supported Jake and listened as the priest recited some magic words. A look of evil deliberation came over the priest as he stepped up to a brazier and threw the heart down to sizzle and palpitate on the coals. Coagulating blood ran like slime on the walls, they could see that the priest's hair was blood-soaked and matted.

Jake Skagway slumped and dropped down next to Mike. The emanations returned, pulses of violet light washing away the vision. Jake found himself back in the apartment. He was on his knees, sweat-soaked and staring directly at Mike and the skull. Mike was still in a trance and now the skull bore the transparent image of Tezcatlipoca's face.

It was a noble face. A flash of its eyes brought Mike out of his trance. The lips remained set, yet Mike heard a voice; it was a clairaudient voice, taking place in his mind in the universal language of telepathy.

"As you have seen, in the year 1504 I was the glorious boy-king Tezcatlipoca. A king for one year before I was sacrificed to the demon god Huitzilopochtli. There were better times in my life than the end. It is unfortunate that the skull remembers only evil things."

"Why do you inhabit the skull?" Mike said. "Did the priests cast a spell?"

"No. Because I died willingly as a sacrifice to a demon I was sent into the skull. A purgatory allowed for me because I had shed no blood. The skull also sees the fate of the idol priests, but if a man were to see it he would wither and die."

"Do you know why I have contacted you?"

"Yes, to ask about the woman, Jeanie."

Detective Skagway could also hear the clairaudient voice, and the mention of Jeanie excited him. He tried to speak, and as he did he found himself bound by a type of magic. A distortion of sound and air rushed out of his lungs; he could form no words. Winded, he almost collapsed. Grasping his throat he stood up and took clumsy steps back, and then he stood still. He found that there was no problem as long as he didn't try to move or speak. Off to his side the two uniformed officers lay where they had fainted dead away.

Mike glanced at Jake then turned his attention back to the skull. "You saw Jeanie's killer . . . or at least the skull must have absorbed it as it does other events of an evil nature."

"I no longer watch the acts of cruel men, but as you say, the skull has absorbed it. The skull is a gate to purgatory, always looking at wicked deeds."

"Can you draw out the name of the killer for us?" Mike said. "In return we can help you in some way."

"The killer is a vampire, Baron Titus Varsook, who has taken spirit form and entered the body of a spirit channeler named Jon Chandler. The favor I ask in return is that you put the skull where it is warm, silent and dark … a place where I can sleep and forget myself in dreams."

"We'll do that for you. Can you give us more? Maybe show us how he killed Jeanie?"

Tezcatlipoca's projected face vanished; an intense violet aura remained and began to strobe. Brilliant rings of astral energy washed over Mike and he saw a vision of the past. Detective Skagway's pupils widened in spite of the light.

A tall dark man with feral eyes and a rugged yet sophisticated face stepped out of a crenellation in a parapet and strode into misty night. Castle walls towering beside him exuded moisture, lichens and slime. Mist rolled and obscured the scene and when it blew away the man was crashing down into a coffin. Then Len and the stake came down on him.

They were back in the apartment. A lurid red flash suddenly lit the centre of the room and a naked and possessed Jon Chandler flew out of it and scrambled on his hands and knees. An ancient and depraved form of bloodlust tore at Jon's face, giving it a hellishly wicked appearance in the condensing light. A blood mist was settling on a writhing naked body . . . it was Jeanie and Jon crawled to her and began at her toes, licking up blood and biting gently with his teeth to squeeze out more.

Jake Skagway trembled, and his body went iron stiff. Watching a horrible crime and being unable to stop it was more than he could stand. It was like something was tearing at the fabric of his soul. He had never encountered a character so sick; a vampire fiend with a full erection. The fact that Jeanie, although near death, seemed ecstatically willing, disturbed him so much his horror became shaded by emotions of disgust, jealousy and fury. Jake bared his teeth; it was the expression of a man who had to watch even though what he was watching was driving him insane.

Finally the vision faded and Detective Skagway's emotions were cut loose. He thundered to the floor like a corpse chopped from the rope and remained there unconscious.

Mike's expression remained clear; no disgust, loathing, fear or sadness. He had never suffered from sexual confusion or weird desires, and he viewed death as everyone's fate. He had an ability of detachment others lacked. While most witnesses couldn’t accept what had been done to the victim, he tended to agree with Plato who had believed that what a killer did to himself in becoming a monster was far more terrible. He stepped over and rolled Jake into a more comfortable position, and then he took a purple sack from a shelf, slapped the dust off it and put the skull inside. He drew the string and toyed with the ends as he waited for the others to come around.

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CHAPTER 9: THE SPLIT

Old habits die hard and the embers of a man's lust never smolder out. The Baron had put him aglow with bloodlust but Jon's appetite for the usual crystal-transmitted energy refused to fade.

He stepped gingerly off the escalator and avoided the dark interiors of a row of expensive restaurants, heading instead for the main food court. There he bought milk and a wilted Caesar salad and sat by himself at a marble-surfaced table by the window. He wasn't really hungry as his appetite was off. He was there to meet Allan.

Folding his hands he gazed meditatively at his salad, the amber of sunset fell on him as he pushed the food away and opened a burgundy portfolio. His new itinerary was inside on a neatly printed, thin sheet. He slipped it out of the slot, thinking that Liz had done a good job making arrangements. Liz was an admirer of Jon's who had offered secretarial services through Allan. She was young, a surgeon's wife who filled the lonely hours with crystal magic.

It took a moment for the sway of Liz's ample hips to pass, and then the first typed line spelled itself across his mind. If Allan had completed the arrangements, then beginning tomorrow afternoon he would be channeling the vampire. His ad was already out in the New Magic Weekly and Liz had booked the Unitarian Church on Dixon Street for the first meeting.

Looking up from the portfolio, Jon saw Allan, and he didn't look at all mystic or Eastern today. His dark suit was executive all the way. He had the look of a captain of industry who had come down to the ship's mess for an inspection. But Jon wasn't fooled; he often wore authority like a coat, too. Allan had once said, "If the devil can appear as anyone, then so can a saint." In Jon's order of things Allan was no saint. No doubt Allan's mission in life was to change the world in some way, and in doing so he appeared as so many characters it was hard to pin down exactly who he was . . . perhaps his real self was a vampire of sorts, in a coffin of its own. The key to the coffin was in a name, because Allan Rampa wasn't his real name. Rampa was his business name.

Allan sat, folded his arms and spoke calmly as sunset light flickered on his face. "I've confirmed the dates. There’s big interest out there, but much of it is in the Baron and not you."

"I am the Baron," Jon said, “because I control him."

"It's not all legitimate interest. People want to see someone with real power, and with the Baron you have demonstrated that. Keep in mind that whatever they might say power is all they're into. There are kooks, too. Every crank in the city wants something from the vampire. Last in line are crooks with money that see possible investment in you. Be wary of grand propositions. Don't sign anything."

"I'm no fool, Allan."

"I can do a better job for you business wise than anyone at the meetings can. My backing is solid and I know excellent investors. That's why I'm down here in the polished sheikdom. One of my new things is arranging speaking engagements for people who appeal to business audiences. Right now I'm on the way to listen to a top economist explain how the world financial system is going to spiral and then collapse."

"Will it collapse again?"

"Not completely. It’s in everybody's interest to restructure so that more countries and institutions are wealthy. Playing on fears and using sensational methods is a holdover from television evangelism. It puts frightened people in your lap where you can do what you want with them."

"What do your business speakers want?"

"Usually nothing other than paying admirers, a fat fee and book sales. Most are anyone-can-make-a-million swamis. Some have visions of a new order."

"I guess I have one thing in common with them," Jon said, a twinkle appearing in his eye. "Tomorrow I start collecting my fat fee."

"That's right," Allan said, rising to his feet, "so keep the vampire in his coffin until then. I have to be off. See you tomorrow."

Jon watched Allan make his way to an escalator. His eyes went back to the portfolio. He savored the beauty of his program for a couple minutes and grinned before his mood became unsettled. Sunset was getting to be a time he hated. Sharing his person with the Baron was frightening enough without this new twilight personality he was developing. It was like he was neither himself nor the Baron, but a shadow blend of the two. He would try thinking of what new interior decorating he'd like to have done at his Vancouver estate and become filled with memories of European castles and a dislike for all modern things. Even his musing concerning women had become tainted, along with his pride. Jon liked to pride himself on having bedded better women than any other man, but for every beauty he could call to memory, the Baron would send up a rival memory of some sixteenth-century princess, French goddess or doll from the beach at St-Tropez. If he tried to comfort himself with memories of boyhood, then mingled memories of the Baron's Roman boyhood would make Canada seem like a very quaint foreign land. Music was impossible to enjoy when the Baron had taste that was centuries old. Titus could rival Beethoven and other composers when it came to knowledge and taste. Every contemporary song Jon favored was destroyed as it played and he understood how technically impoverished it really was. Rather than listen to discs or the radio he found himself sitting in silence with a classical orchestra from the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam playing in his head.

Jon thought European philosophers of the Baron's period, especially the nihilists and anarchists the Baron admired, were half insane, inferior men who for ridiculous reasons considered themselves superior. And of course a clash occurred because Titus hated North American philosophers. Ralph Waldo Emerson being the philosopher the Baron particularly despised. Jon knew the Baron thought of him as a gypsy or peasant, and that was especially distasteful because he couldn't deny it. Titus could speak elegantly in the European romance languages and he had a solid knowledge of art. He could comment on almost every painting in the Prado; the works of Goya being his area of expertise. In comparison, Jon could speak a smattering of French and understand only pop art. There was also a craving for foods he’d never tasted, delicacies from the Baron's long memory - on and on the cravings went until it was hard to eat.

The Baron's superior knowledge of the occult was also maddening. Jon found himself seeing through most of the books he had believed to be classic. Previously Jon had known of much fraud, and the Baron's smarts were telling him that nearly everyone in the modern world was either dishonest or hopelessly deluded. Sure there were good people into earth magic and other things, but Jon couldn't wash away the feelings of contempt the Baron had for them; it all carried over and it was all unsettling.

It occurred to Jon that the Baron might be at work, slowly dismantling his personality, but if that turned out to be the case, then two could play at that game. Mostly it seemed like the Baron was bored and tormented him for sport, or perhaps his memories tormented the Baron and the Baron was getting even. No matter, Jon figured. The Baron was the worst sort of blackmailer; one that got right inside your head and worked to make you obey his demands. And the blackmail was working because Jon couldn't think of any way of getting rid of Titus Varsook. He wasn't going to talk anyone into driving a stake through his heart, and an exorcist would drive out his special powers of energy absorption. Going ahead with his channeling the vampire act was the only option he had.

Ready to leave, Jon picked up his salad and was about to dispose of it when the wilted tomatoes oozed blood. He set it aside and massaged his face with his left hand while pounding the table with his right. His sudden bizarre behavior attracted the attention of a security guard who began to walk over. Then, as Jon was cursing the Baron under his breath, he became the Baron.

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CHAPTER 10: MAGIC

Looking up, the Baron found himself in a food court with a hostile security guard approaching. The Baron's mood and the ace of spades had a lot in common, he gave the guard such a fierce look that he turned on his heels and walked quickly away. Contempt was what he had for Jon's wilted salad and the common place he'd selected for dinner. Chandler faked class but he was blander than hamburger. Living with him would be forever painful, and it looked like it would be forever. He'd wasted megajoules of energy on a mighty effort to control Chandler's mind. It ended as an effort in vain. He’d managed to torment Chandler and himself. At a few terrible moments he was being assimilated into Chandler, so he'd quickly withdrawn. Now that he thought it over he figured Chandler was the furtive sort who would be quietly devouring your thoughts while you thought you were killing him. A low-life and leech who knew ways of cheating that had never been thought of before. It would be best to work with him for a while longer, maybe play on his preferences, and convince him that he had to sharpen up his lifestyle and travel more, preferably to Europe and Asia.

Putting thoughts of battling Jon aside, the Baron loosened his mental net, hoping to come up with a victim. In the trash of Chandler's brain there was one lovely picture. "Yes," the Baron said as he remembered the lovely disciple Liz. Speedily he went through Chandler's brain like a set of files. It took almost no time to gather the necessary information.

Another ugly habit of Chandler's was his traveling about the city without a vehicle of his own. The borrowed Viper was kilometers away, sealed in an underground lot as damp as the base of a castle rock. Leaving in a hurry, the Baron drew suspicious eyes from the security guard. He brushed past him and went down an escalator, ending up in a vast mall. Finding an exit, he went out on the street. Taking deep gulps of air, he turned onto the downtown strip. Neon signs blazed like painful fireworks so he turned at the first side street and headed off under a fuzzed meteor shower of streetlights. The sight of leggy girls entering a bump-and-grind bar tempted him; it would be short work to take care of the frowning giant accompanying them. The prettiest girl wore gingham bloomers and a scarf tied into a bra top. She wasn't his style. Too cheap. They were all too cheap. He preferred the sophisticated ladies of the day and in general thought the streets the property of uncouth maniacs. There were his nights of desperation of course, but he usually suffered memory lapses at such times, which made life easier. If there was a tragedy of man, the Baron figured it was that he was a hunter by blood and a civilized gentleman at heart. He didn't see himself as solely a hunter or predator. Rare days of reflection and enjoyment of philosophy, literature, music and art made him live on . . . life was much more than bloodlust.

Titus knew human history existed as a well of terror, more terror than achievement. Some people delivered terror, others were born victims -- he was neither. He’d taken terror into his breast and controlled it, transformed it to supernatural strength. Even the best of mortals were forced to stare with revulsion at their own cruel hands and wonder what controlled them. The force of evil was beyond them, they were its instruments, and they were nothing. A vampire had power, control and was the true master . . . a master of darkness towering over the earthly pits of wretched murderers and uncivilized monsters.

He began to realize that Liz's place was far off. Across town. Stopping on a quiet corner, he considered flagging a taxi. After rejecting the idea he did a partial spin, thinking to get there through the power of night. When nothing happened he grew angry and snarled. He'd forgotten he was in Chandler's useless body. It occurred to him to try combining his abilities with Chandler's. Stepping over to a phone booth he took the crystal out from under his shirt and jacket and circled it gently, opening his chakras. This time he willed an outflow of psychic energy instead of an intake. Nothing seemed to be happening and the flash of the crystal attracted a passing police car, which slowed and U-turned back in his direction. Filled with frustration, the Baron prepared to explain himself to the police . . . but that never happened . . . an officer motioned to him from the passenger window, then the Baron became as transparent as crystal and vanished like a ghost, shooting into the darkness, leaving behind a sprinkling of gold dust and phosphor.

While the two amazed police officers searched the shadows of the corner, the shattered fragments of a rainbow descended on the east suburbs. Luminescent gold and a blazing halo showed near a newspaper box for a moment before it flashed into the negative and the Baron walked into view. He strolled through the neighborhood, the distant look of a stranger on his face. Before long, the wind picked up and he heard a strong rustle of leaves. Ahead was the column of poplar trees that screened Liz's L-shaped suburban house.

Reaching the walk, the Baron stopped to inhale the fragrance of a tulip tree. A perfect evening, he thought. Jade tints of decadent romance were in the air. He was certain Liz's husband was working a shift at the hospital. No doubt she was feeling an empty ache in her heart, and was ripe for some of Chandler's cheap lovemaking. Why should she settle for the scraps some spirit channeler could offer when he could show her real enchantment?

Liz is much more interesting and beautiful than Jeanie, the Baron thought as he admired the metallic flecks in her trusting hazel eyes. She wasn't an artist but she had charisma and warmth, a wonderful person to be with . . . especially thrilling was the way she answered the door wearing only a halter top, sandals and a tropical-print bikini bottom. Liz took the Baron's hand and held it softly. He knew she had an affectionate nature, so he didn't assume the gesture to be leading.

"Jon, you're just in time," Liz said. "I'm about to do a ceremony of self-awakening."

"Good, we can do the ceremony together," the Baron said as she led him inside.

Liz took him into the kitchen and as he sat at the table she went to one of two fridges. She opened it and he saw that it was full of beverages -- bottles, cans, cartons. Nothing containing alcohol.

"What will you have?" Liz said.

"Lemonade will be fine," the Baron said.

She filled two frosted glasses with pink lemonade and sat at the table with him. They sipped the drinks and he forced a smile as the lemonade trickled down his throat.

"I guess I won't be seeing much of you with the hectic schedule you have?" Liz said.

"Once I get started there won't be a moment of peace for me."

"We can do the ceremony in the basement. Dave might overreact if he were to arrive and surprise us in the living room. He's insanely jealous. He sees everything from a suspicious slant."

"You should try to get him in for therapy," the Baron said. "Extreme jealousy is a form of wife abuse. We should try not to upset him. I'm sure it's the strain of his work. It weakens him spiritually."

They chatted more and finished their drinks. Liz took him to the basement. It had a convenient rear exit that would be useful should Dave return. The Baron glanced at Dave's open study, which was quaint, having a stag's head, an antique Springfield rifle, a fish tank and a matted-off area with weights and other sports equipment. There was a leather couch, an armchair and a stack of sports magazines, but nowhere was there anything to indicate that he was a doctor. His den was an escape from medicine. In the Baron's view Liz had married a jerk. A doctor destined to be something would be surrounded by his work always.

Turning his gaze back to Liz, he saw that she was already across the room, taking a book from a shelf. Her half of the basement stood in sharp contrast to Dave's. It contained crystal clusters and bar clusters, a pole hung with jade masks, a pentagram painted on a black wall, shelves of New Age books, incense pots, daggers, bowls full of rings and talismans, stars and astrology symbols painted on the ceiling. There wasn’t any furniture other than a legless ebony table at the center of the room. A moonlike paper lantern hung over the table. It looked like Dave was the average dull Canadian male whose wife happened to be a witch.

Book in hand, Liz dropped down on the carpet in front of the table. From the Baron's perspective she was innocent and foolishly trusting. If he didn't take her as a victim the scum would eventually get her. A hot flash reddened his cheeks, feeling warm he took off his jacket and hung it on a brass coat tree. He still had his shoes on so he kicked them off. He felt light-headed; walking on the white rug like it was a cloud he went over and sat with her.

Her large chrome-coat book was open at an illustration of a unicorn that might have been drawn by a child. The details of a magic ceremony were on the opposite page. The Baron hated unicorns and all fairylike creatures and beings, being the opposite of Jon Chandler, who, of course, liked them.

Liz turned to the Baron. Concern came into her eyes. "Are you sure you're all right?" she said. "You seem to have a fever."

The Baron cleared his throat. "I think I sat down too fast. I'm fine," he said. "Let's get on with the ceremony."

Liz nodded and smiled. "You look like you swallowed a hot chili pepper. Okay, turn and face the wall with me. We'll begin by entering a state of meditation."

The Baron turned and nodded. A bare expanse of carpet was between them and the black-painted wall. "Watch the pentagram and let your thoughts become a blue world," Liz said. "... blue jade, splashing blue waters, ice and sky."

Titus' thoughts were closer in color to the black wall, and there was little chance of them becoming anything as harmless as splashing blue water. He tried his best to play along.

After several minutes of sitting silently cross-legged, Liz rose and pulled the lamp chain. Darkness fell, a wooden match flared. She lit four candles and placed them near the wall, then she turned and faced the Baron; moving gracefully she returned to the table, picked up a crystal wand and began tracing a pentagram on the floor. The pentagram had a phosphor glow and its light mingled with shadows from the guttering candles to make an interesting play on her bare legs. Her skin had a beautiful luster, her form was perfect and her movements liquid as she began a slow dance around the pentagram.

Dim light and her easy motion soothed the Baron. He gathered that this was her way of creating the magic circle. His eyes mirrored candle flame as he watched her end her dance and step into the circle. She beckoned for him to enter and magic came upon him. Liz grew to a bright vision, the image flaring in his mind. A naked angel, she was drawing him forward. He rose and walked to her in a state of trance; it was the first time he’d forgotten to mesmerize a lover and the second time he’d been mesmerized.

They embraced and went slowly to the floor, their lips hot and sensuous, their tongues probing like fire. His mind lifted on a summer storm and he felt himself responding to her touch and caress; she had him in control with the hunger of her flesh, taking her own pleasure from his desperate need. A wave of passion consumed him and he found himself without clothes, mounting her. She arched her back, lifting her pelvis and large breasts as she forced penetration, then it was black magic as an orgasm exploded. It seemed unending, his muscles were firm and pulsing and his organ throbbed like hot melting steel.

They separated for a moment then his lips fell to her hard nipples and she heaved softly under him. He listened to her quiet moaning and knew that he had poured his energy into her. He was weak; bloodlust curled his lips to a snarl. Finally he lost control and went for her neck, biting deep.

At first she fell back in submission and then she screamed and began to struggle ferociously. Tearing her neck as he pulled back, the Baron spat out some blood. It wasn't working, he needed the crystal. He lifted himself and shoved her down. The crystal was still around his neck; he seized it and began to rotate it, trying to open his chakras.

But he was unable to complete the motions; she slashed out with her nails, ripping them across his chest. Blood welled and streamed from the wounds. Angered, he fell on her savagely, gouging strips of flesh and tendon from her neck.

It became a black nightmare of thirst and splashing blood; he tried to drink, but he couldn't get enough, and what he did get he kept choking back up. He got to his knees, crimson streaking his face and neck. Beneath him Liz's dying body shook.

Terrible weakness put cold hands on him as he looked at the corpse. Dizziness sent the candlelight reeling round him. He collapsed. Drained by his own iniquity, he fell into oblivion.

A flash of icy pain struck, and then Jon Chandler awoke to the grotesquery of the deed. The metallic taste of blood was rank in his throat. He pushed himself up, feeling the warm lifeless body beneath him. He wasn't sure who it was or where he was, the face was shrouded in blood. A scream of anguish cured his choking and he raked his eyes with his fingers. But it was futile; his irritated eyes saw only more splotches of red . . . not even blindness could spare him.

His chest heaved with hopeless sobs and he got up and stumbled away from the corpse. Jon moved around the room in a state of confusion, knocking over bowls and candles. With a vicious swipe he tore down the paper lantern, then he saw the stairs and decided to run up them. At the top he found the shower and jumped inside. He shook like a leaf, unaware that he was cleansing himself of blood with a rush of scalding water.

His hurried movements were taking place in nightmarishly broken, slow-motion . . . like Hades this place took forever to flee. The suit and shoes he put on weren't his, but they had to do because he was afraid to go back to the basement. Something unspeakable was down there, he couldn't remember what, but his teeth chattered at the thought of it. Then he remembered he had left his wallet down there next to a corpse.

Madly, he plunged down the stairs, seeing dungeon walls, rats and cobwebs instead of Liz's basement. A fat morbid eye hung in the air above the corpse and his discarded clothes. Lurching forward he scooped up his bloodstained suit, and then he fled, the flesh on his back crawling from the breath of a pursuing demon of conscience.

Deciding to escape by the back way he slid the patio doors open. With the sound of the wind rushing in the poplars came the sound of a car pulling in at the side. Jon caught a flash of headlights and heard the engine shut down. Freakish spasms of terror overcame him and he fell, shaking, to one knee. An echo of footsteps sobered him and he ran unsteadily for the cover of a hedge of hybrid willows.

Jon was so shaken he wished he could bury himself, anything so that he wouldn't be seen. He cursed the light of the moon as he fled through the backyards, his bloodstained suit fluttering as he ran. It was painfully obvious that he had failed. He'd acted to drive the Baron out of his body, acted from a dream state when the Baron's bloodlust was strong. The Baron would have committed the perfect crime had he not interfered. The possible consequences of his foolishness made him shudder.

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CHAPTER 11: BODY WORK

Ragged black patches of trees and shadow ran up a steep slope to the vacant boulder-cobbled lot where Detective Skagway's car was parked. A sprinkle of stars and the lights of a few high-rise buildings twinkled in the indigo sky. The sweetness of a summer meadow carried on the breeze. They could see nothing but a tunnel of velvety darkness as they moved farther down the path. It was so silent the ringing in their ears replaced the usual buzz of crickets. The signs were unmistakable, without a doubt they were on track.

They passed some Scotch pines, an exposed root looped over Detective Skagway's foot and he went crashing into the brush. Mike backtracked up a steep portion of the trail and glanced around quickly. He suspected an ambush but he could see nothing.

Jake had skinned his knuckles and his knee ached. "Shit!" he said. "This is dangerous. We better use the light."

Relieved, Mike hurried back down the path. Skagway loomed out of the darkness like a bear. "No light," Mike said. "There could be a lookout. Probably not, but maybe."

"You don't seem too sure. Maybe we should go back. I've got more important things to do than blunder around in the dark. If she's not here there's no use wasting time."

"She's nearby. I feel her presence. She's like a crawling corpse … half alive and in an open grave. There are odors of disinfectant and fresh earth."

"This whole damn ravine is like an open grave. I hope you're right 'cause I'm sore. If I had a dollar for every useless psychic that led me on a wild goose chase I'd be retired."

"Two hours ago you were desperate for help. Things sure change fast."

"Nothing’s changed. I'm still in trouble. I can't report that a corpse walked away from us. If we don't recover it we'll have to suffer the humiliation of saying it was stolen. If that happens I'll probably have to start looking for work as a security guard."

"There's much more at stake than your career. This is a new form of corruption and vampirism."

"I hope the corruption doesn't get much worse than what we've already seen."

"She's getting stronger, preparing to move again. What I feel is an empty mind, suffering and animal instinct."

Detective Skagway threw his arm out. "Hold it a moment. I see a light."

Both men stopped and squinted into the darkness. It was hard to tell if it was a light or a firefly. Pushing ahead and around a bend they reached the end of the path. An open meadow was in front of them and it bordered on a graveyard. In the graveyard a faint amber glow rose from the ground, casting eerie beams through the stones.

Jake's doubts disappeared and Mike studied the graveyard, looking for human figures hidden among the stones. Seeing none he followed as Jake led the way through crab grass and weeds to the cemetery fence.

"It's an open grave," Mike said. "She's inside and fairly strong, but we can handle her. It would be an interesting study to watch her changes and see if she slowly develops a living appearance. We can't afford to take that chance, though. I believe this is an imperfect form of vampirism and that all she'll ever be is a type of bloodthirsty zombie."

"I like it better that way. I mean, they should look like what they are. They shouldn't be beautiful. She was a pretty woman, you know . . . but after the vision of her death, I have mixed feelings. I got too many hang-ups when it comes to sex. It's her crystal wand I have with me. I figured it would make a good stake."

"I hope so -- in time she could get too strong to stop."

It was easy work getting over the low fence. They moved on with Mike keeping up his concentration. Jake dragged his feet; he was reluctant, not really wanting to see the creature in the open grave. When they were within a few yards of the grave there was a sudden blaze of white light.

"Stay back!" Mike said.

Plunging almost headlong, they ducked behind the statue of an angel. Peeking around they saw her fly up out of the ground. Trailing corona discharge, she rose to the lip of the grave. A power of levitation held her inches above the earth. Unnatural decay had ravaged her flesh; she dripped worms that were as bright as jewels. Vitreous glitter showed in skeletal eye hollows and a swollen emerald tongue protruded from shriveled gray lips and puffed cheeks. Tiny ruby, pearl and turquoise maggots fell from her moldering flesh as she took a step forward.

Mike turned to Jake; the detective was shaking like a child. "I'll tackle her," Mike said. "When you get an opening, stake her. Don't think about it, just do it."

Blazing with full colors of evil, she began to advance. Mike couldn't wait any longer, he charged from behind the statue. She didn't retreat, phosphor slime dripped from her as she took a final step forward. He hit her hard, driving his shoulder into her midsection and taking her tumbling down at the side of a grave. He had her on her back, and as he rolled away Detective Skagway followed through, pouncing down to drive the sharp wand through her chest. She hissed, half of it human vocals and half of it gas escaping from a corpse. Jake rolled free and radiant gore flew from flesh erupting around the wound . . . as the body hardened into rigor mortis its radiance began to fade.

"She'll be at peace now," Mike said.

Jake was grim-faced. "Peaceful enough for me to return her to the slab," he said, dusting himself off. "Now comes the hard grind. We've got to smuggle this thing back."

"It sure won't pass as a normal corpse."

"I don't care what it passes as -- as long as there is a body there I'm safe. You better stay here and guard it while I go back to the car and get the body bag."

Jake walked off through the tombstones and vaulted the fence. He ran through the dark field toward the path, in a great hurry to bag his prize.

Mike took a seat on a square tombstone and looked up at a slice of moon knifing through blowing white clouds. Something wasn't quite right; he hadn't told Detective Skagway, but he still sensed a malevolent presence. A presence other than the dead creature on the ground. Fearing the consequences of dropping his guard he stood up and turned, slowly scanning the cemetery grounds. It was a somber scene. He almost convinced himself that nothing was there, then he detected movement -- someone walking through the stones, headed away from him. His eye caught a faint gleam of light and he realized what it was -- the shine of moonlight on a bald head. Someone had been watching, and was now headed for the main gates. Mike didn't want to chance abandoning the body, and the person wasn't headed in Skagway's direction. He knew this wasn’t a chance observer but someone who was either involved or wanted to become involved.

Jake returned speedily with the body bag. He was drenched in sweat. "Let's get to work," he said.

"Slow down. You'll give yourself a heart attack. Someone’s been watching us. A bald person. Any ideas on who it might be?"

"No. Maybe another cop or a security guard. If so, we might be in trouble."

"It's not a cop. It's something creepy, and I don't like it."

"Okay, but let's take one step at a time. First the body then Chandler and our new bald pal."

Bagging the body proved to be a revolting job. They did it silently and stoically. No one disturbed them during the arduous journey up to the car so they guessed that the observer had been alone and afraid of them. Jake drove off with his confidence restored. Closing the vampire case was now possible, provided he didn't get caught using illegal tactics. Mike didn't believe anything to be possible or impossible. He'd taken Jake's advice; one step at a time was how he’d handle the case.

They came off the freeway and cruised slowly through the downtown streets, headed for the big slab -- the morgue -- which was around the corner from police headquarters. Since Jake was a cop and didn't have to worry about being pulled over, Mike guessed that he was driving slow out of fear of getting in an accident with the corpse in the car.

They turned left off Elm Street and the slab loomed ahead; the place being a towering, morbid structure and a lot like the world's biggest tombstone. Cruising in at the rear, Jake went down a ramp to the underground entrance. There he was met by a security guard who told him he would have a morgue attendant down in a few minutes.

"I'm sick of silence," Mike said, switching on the radio. A nasal love song blared so he switched it to a jazz station.

Jake glanced around; he looked like a thief stuck holding hot goods at a check point. "This Jeanie corpse, is it a new kind of monster or has this type of plague happened before?"

"I collect books on monsters, legends and fairy tales, but her kind isn't in there anywhere. The Haitian zombie is close, but it is really only a human vegetable created by the houngan witch doctor through administering poison obtained from a variety of fish. I suppose she was a vampire. One without a mind or proper healing of the blood."

The attendant showed and he was a lanky and nervous young man. "I've found your missing body," Jake said. "There was a mistake and it got delivered to the crematorium. They damaged it."

"You're kidding?" the attendant said, frowning.

"Nope," Jake said. "We'll put it back on ice and you better keep quiet about it. If there are any questions about its condition tell them nothing. It could jeopardize my investigation. They could even decide to blame you; it’s happened that way before."

"Blame me . . . don't worry, I'll keep my mouth shut," the attendant said. "I know they suspect me of moving it. How it got moved, I really don't know."

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CHAPTER 12: BEACH SCENE

Annie dashed between the heaps of boulders and looked out at the waves. Mike followed her every move, his animate eyebrows denoting fast-moving intelligence and not just parental worry.

Algae-tinted water broke to foam as it rushed against the rubble wave break. Although the day was sunny the wind at the point was strong enough to deliver some rough stuff. Retreating from the surf, Annie scooped up a stick and climbed a dry boulder. Loose, blowing blond curls and an overlarge dress, she resembled one of her dolls. Closing her eyes, she smiled blissfully. A punch of wind suddenly sent her dress flying up, causing Mike to dash over and sweep her away before she could become a victim of the slippery stones and waves.

Annie giggled as though no bad thing could have happened and Mike swung her around, laughing with her.

Alice frowned and a burst of wind kicked up her hair like it did the waves. "Come on, Mike. Let's go back and rejoin civilization. I don't know why you had to come out here. You know it's too dangerous for Annie."

"I like it here," he said, watching Annie twitch her freckled nose as though she smelled dead fish. "This kid was born in a blizzard, she loves taking chances. She's like me."

Alice sighed. "I take no chances. Let's go back to the picnic area and have some lunch. The beach is much calmer there."

"When I'm big enough, I'm going to sky dive onto the beach," Annie said. She ran ahead toward the boardwalk.

Mike grinned as Alice pursued her; she lost a sandal after a few steps and fell in the sparse grass at the edge of the beach. She got up quickly and Annie dashed back while she brushed sand from her bare legs and shoulders.

"Mommy sky dived!" Annie yelled, skipping around her.

"Mommy's lucky she's only wearing a bikini," Alice said, "or there’d be sand in everything. I want you to stop teaching her that stuff, Mike." She gave him a fierce glance. "I'd rather have a quiet daughter than a little daredevil."

They reached the picnic area and spotted Jake Skagway strolling over from the parking lot. He walked under the willows with an unconcerned expression on his face. Mike knew it meant he was thinking and probably about something unpleasant. Jake was able to use his face like a cloud to hide his emotions, which made him the opposite of Alice, who revealed everything.

"Let go, Mommy!" Annie yelled, and Alice realized that the sight of Jake had disturbed her enough to cause her to squeeze Annie's hand. She let go and Annie immediately dashed off to Jake, who picked her up like a feather.

Jake's hair was wind-combed and without jell, which was unusual, and he wore a short-sleeved shirt and light summer slacks … also unusual. Mike figured Jake had some charm working for him since he could make Annie laugh when she disliked most men. Jake came up to the table, put Annie down and brushed the front of his hair with his fingers in a way that made it look like he was tipping an invisible hat. He ignored Mike and looked to Alice. "Len's funeral was one of the best of I've seen, and I've seen many. You did well, arranging on such short notice."

"It was a headache, but funerals are important."

"Are you on holiday?" Mike said. "I hope you're not investigating a crime here on the beach?"

Jake laughed. "The guys I'm hunting don't do much wind surfing. Just thought I'd lighten up, it being summer and all."

"I hope you arrest somebody soon in that vampire stuff," Alice said. "I'm afraid the killer could be after Mike."

"We’re looking at a suspect and that's what I want to talk to Mike about. Don’t worry, this suspect isn't stalking anyone. We are stalking him."

"We can discuss it briefly," Mike said. "Come with me. I’m going over to the food hut for a takeout order."

"Get maple ice cream for Annie, and a vanilla shake and fries for me," Alice said.

They headed over a stretch of sparse grass and sand to a boardwalk that swung around to the beach canteen. The lake breeze and the cool shade of pines and willows made talk of murder and vampirism seem unreal. Other people strolling by obviously hadn't a care in the world. If the sun held a harsh secret it kept it under camouflage.

"The problem we have now," Jake said, "is that we can't convict Jon Chandler of anything."

"Why not? I thought you had prints?"

"Yes, but we can't hide the condition of the body, and no mortal man like Jon Chandler could have done unexplainably horrible things to it. The forensic evidence is bizarre to the point of being unbelievable. The defense would simply put up a plausible theory of what happened to her - maybe say she was a victim of a weird industrial accident - and it would make sense to the jury."

"So what do we do now?"

"We track Chandler and grab him when he goes for another victim." Jake raised his eyebrows. "But once we get him I'm not sure what we do. We have to wait and see. He won't be hard to follow. I've got a copy of his speaking schedule."

They turned off the boardwalk at the food hut and waited for a blond woman with a full tray to ease out of the way. Mike glanced to Jake, a question in his eyes.

"You're thinking about our bald friend," Jake said. "I found out who he might be. Jon Chandler is being promoted in Toronto by a bald man named Allan Rampa."

"I've seen mention of him in spiritualist papers."

Jake grinned. "I figured you’d know of him. What his role is, well, I'm not sure. He brought Chandler in to channel gods or some such thing, but instead he came out with this vampire stuff at the first meeting. Rumor is that weird supernatural stuff happened at that meeting."

"It's an easy picture. Allan has been on Chandler's heels. He wouldn't witness a genuine supernatural occurrence and let it slip past him. He'd want to investigate everything. I don't think he is actually in league with Chandler. Allan would have his own dark motives. He must know everything. He's a threat to our investigation."

A space opened at the counter and Jake waited while Mike put in his order, then he bought a Coke for himself. A teenage short-order cook sizzled a batch of fries and Jake looked to Mike.

"Maybe Allan had something to do with the theft of the body," Mike said. "I doubt it rose and escaped on its own."

"If Allan is breaking the law in a criminal attempt to gain occult powers, then we have a handle on him. If he gets in the way again we’ll confront him with it and silence him. If he’s in the power of the vampire or Chandler, then it’ll be a different story." The detective took a big sip of his Coke. "It's sure to be messy if the case is bigger than Chandler."

"It is bigger than him. This vampire is much bigger. He has the power to command an army of crazed admirers."

"Then our goal is to block him before he gets too big to stop."

Fries, milkshakes and a cone in hand, Mike followed Jake back to the boardwalk. "What do you think of Alice and me getting back together?"

"It’s sure to keep you out of trouble. Alice is the kind of woman that gets better not older, which is good for you since you tend to slip into a pattern of immaturity."

"You've been talking to her too much. You sound just like her."

"What about Annie? A little girl shouldn’t grow up without a strong father."

"Yes, but the world has changed. There are so many single parents now. I think I need the right mix of the traditional and the new. It would also help if I could be a normal father and not drawn away by strange happenings."

"I don't mind some of the new myself. On the police force the equipment gets ultramodern, but most of the people have the same old balls attitude that should've gone out fifty years ago."

"You’re already somewhat new. If you were one of the dinosaurs you wouldn't be able to make that observation."

"Dinosaur is the word. On the force, all your years up to retirement are a battle against dinosaurs. Yet crime never faces extinction. It’s every new generation of cops that dies."

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CHAPTER 13: CRYSTAL BARON

The Unitarian Church on Dixon Street had an unassuming look that seemed to fit with people who believed more in a spirit world than a glorious heaven of angels. The crowd gathered out front wasn’t quite as plain as the church -- incredible was the word that best described their appearance.

"It's an outdoor session," Mike said, squinting into the sun as they rolled up. "There's Jon Chandler . . . looks like a demonstration of crystal healing."

Jake felt it would be better to watch from a distance and not jump directly into the crowd. He pulled under an ash tree shading the south side of the parking lot; a spot where they had cover and could see and hear everything.

Jon Chandler was obviously in a state of possession. The Baron could be seen in his every aspect; the clever and condescending attitude, the stern and intellectual facial expressions, and the sheer power he had over others. He was standing under large willows that had grown choked together and provided deep shade. Dark sunglasses shielded his eyes and his face and hair were glittering with crystalline particles in a thick ointment and jell he used to protect himself from the sun. Since Chandler's body wouldn't decay like an undead body would, Mike figured the Baron's fear of the sun was mostly psychological.

A blond woman lay on a red blanket in the grass in front of the Baron. She wore sandals, a red mini and a plastic breastplate that left her arms, back and shoulders bare. Mike recognized her as Alisha, a spiritualist fanatic who changed religions like she did dresses. Crystals of various types were spread on the grass, aligned to Alisha, and with movements that were more deliberate and posed than Chandler's, the Baron was tracing patterns in the air with a crystal wand.

Filaments of mildly radiant, multicolored light began to flow from the crystals. Rootlike they extended to Alisha's pale-green aura. Her fingers, toes and eyelids began to pulse, then her leg muscles twitched and she began to float up off the grass.

The levitation continued and she came to rest six inches above the lawn and fell still, barely breathing.

The Baron gestured broadly. "This is crystal healing through levitation. Her blood systems are finding harmony and cancer cells and viruses are being destroyed."

"May I check the levitation, to convince doubters?" said a young Oriental man whose outfit was like something from Emperor Ming's closet.

"Definitely," said the Baron, his manner that of a successful magician.

Moving up and dropping to his knees, the man panned his hand under the body. Then he got up and checked above her. Finding nothing false, he looked to the Baron and the people with satisfied amazement and stepped back.

"Five minutes in the levitation state is all that is needed," the Baron said.

Mike turned to Jake. "The Baron is now taking over from Chandler in the daytime. If he is now the dominant personality, it means the eventual end of Chandler."

"Wait. What's happening?" Jake said, seizing the keys and the wheel. "Something's gone wrong!"

Though the car had good shocks they could feel the ground rumbling, and the emanations seemed to be coming from the Baron. Visibly shaken, he stumbled, dropped his wand and threw his hands to his face. A wave knocked the crowd off balance. The sod was rolling and people were dropping. Lines of bright light twirled as the crystal energy vanished and Alisha dropped back to the grass.

Natural sound rushed back in, birds began to sing, the sun broke out of a cloud and people began getting to their feet. Before long they regained their composure.

Alisha also recovered and she shot to her feet and faced Jon Chandler, who had regained control of his body. "What happened?" she said, a sensual pout on her face.

"The Baron has left us and I am back. This outdoor demonstration is complete, we'll move to the regularly scheduled session inside."

Turning on his heels, Jon hurried weakly down the walk to the church. His complexion was wan in spite of the heavy layer of ointment. His stunned audience stood silent for a moment, then people began to break away and head inside.

Jake Skagway waited patiently with Mike while the people entered. It was a crowd that didn't include Unitarians. The group was colorful; the hip element of the channeling movement. Young men who wore leather, earrings, talismans; tattoos, unusual hair colors and facial jewelry were common and there were some women that looked outright sleazy . . . teased hair, heavy makeup, flesh-tight slacks, mini skirts with zippers at the rear, rings, bangles and ankle bracelets. This was Jon Chandler's new Baron crowd; people interested in the decadent aspects of beings from outer space, vampires -- the weirdest of the channeler's weird.

"What do you make of them?" Jake said. "Are they fashionable people or just people with bad taste?"

"That guy in the leopard-print pants and neon fishnet shirt is definitely a loser," Mike said, chuckling. "Looks like a mixed crowd -- neophytes and the more electric element of the spiritualist movement."

"What do you mean by electric element?"

"They tend to look like counter culture or anarchist people and many of them are . . . to them spiritualism is a super drug. They want altered states of consciousness, new perspectives. They don't put a boundary between good and evil, but see the spirit world as a whole that contains both heaven and hell. Many are attracted by the darker elements."

Confusion that had been in Jake's gaze vanished. "Jon Chandler is a darker element. He's channeling that vampire willingly to exploit a bunch of groupies. He deserves everything he's going to get."

"Chandler might think he can control the vampire," Mike said, "but the truth is he is possessed. Vampires have to overpower all of their victims because in the end none of them are willing. I'm not saying that Chandler is innocent. Innocent people rarely get possessed. Chandler was open to evil beings because his mental states enter their realm. His guilt rests in the fact that he wants to use his powers and other people in purely selfish ways. I've never been a fan of channeling. It's too risky. Beings that enter you are sure to leave you warped if not mad."

"If Jon can live for one minute with what he's done, then he's a killer," Jake said. "I'd like to grab him and choke him."

"Keep yourself in check. He's just one more creep in the long line of creeps you get to deal with. I'm surprised you have any feelings left for monsters. With me the psychic contact disturbs me enough that I always hate them."

"What do you do when you feel the sick lust of a monster? Don't you run the risk of becoming as sick as he is . . . I mean like Chandler -- he was already sick before the vampire entered him?"

"He used his powers selfishly and made them sick powers. When I see visions of a monster's mind, I'm always acutely aware of how mad and evil he really is. Some experts say killers are quite ordinary. My experience shows the opposite. You’d be shocked if you ever saw how warped their minds are."

They emerged from the air-conditioned car into a humid blanket of heat. The sun blazed overhead like it was about to shoot fire on the heathens that worshiped Jon Chandler's vampire instead of it. Mike knew Chandler’s followers were older than they were new. Chandler was a living Moloch and his followers were dancing in the fire, offering their firstborn children as charred incense. Like Jake, Mike couldn't understand people who would seek the wisdom of a vampire. If their souls were white it was the white of bleached bones in a desert. Their gods were no more than circling vultures and their thirst for knowledge was like the thirst of people in heat delirium … a thirst that would swallow blood, thinking it to be water.

They entered behind two leggy brunettes with pageboy-like hairstyles and a lot of zircons. The entrance hall was plain with a registry desk and valueless artifacts in glass wall cases. The session was underway and the two women entered the hall directly. Jake cased the foyer but found nothing of interest. There were no ushers and no one was loitering outside.

"I thought Allan Rampa might be around," Jake said. "Let's go in."

Slipping in, they took seats at the back so they could see the entire crowd. The air was cool and had a jasmine fragrance; Mike immediately noticed the red aural haze emanated by the crowd. Usually he didn't watch auras; he guessed that the presence of Jon Chandler had tuned him into it. Chandler was moving across the stage, his motion choppy like that of a puppet being directed by an amateur. This wasn't the Jon Chandler of the vision, his face was drawn and his cheeks were sunken. It was obvious that he was struggling with the vampire. He took a chair at the front, facing the crowd. A violet aura like the sheen of clear crystal appeared around him.

"I apologize. I'm not quite myself," Jon said. "I'll take some questions now, but no more that rely on cosmic memory or psychic powers for an answer."

A plump, turbaned lady spoke up as Chandler pointed her out. "I'm not clear on this. Why are you weakened and not strengthened? Is this vampire feeding on you?"

"It's a test of strength. The Baron is not cooperative like other beings I have channeled. I intend to channel him at will, and to do this I must break him. He is also doing his best to break me. I expect it will be several days before I am in full command of him."

A handsome man dressed all in leather spoke. "You don't seem to be facing reality. The Baron is the naturally dominant personality. You are going against the spiritual order. Keeping in mind that you are a much less important person, you should submit willingly. It would be a service to humanity."

Jon's expression grew pained; it was obvious that because of his vain nature it had never occurred to him that people would side with the vampire. "I am the channeler," he said. "The Baron should only live as he is focused through me -- in the way that I interpret his being. I have priority because he is dead. Giving him some of my life is enough."

"The Baron should live, not you!" yelled a man with a long Oriental braid. "His superior nature justifies it! Your motive is obviously greed!"

The statement hit Chandler like a blow. He trembled uncontrollably and his teeth began to chatter, then he went from the chair to his knees. His hands fluttered to his throat, he pulled them away and held them out, palms up, staring at them like they were cursed. He began to speak in a deeper, baser voice. The voice of the Baron.

"If you want to help me take full control," the Baron said, "then leave now and return at the next scheduled meeting. Jon Chandler gains the energy he needs to fight me by draining it from you. He has betrayed the spirit world and himself; he has a gift, a power of channeling, but he uses it in the lowest way -- to steal life force from people. He's an addict and of no use to anyone. Starve him and he’ll be fully under my power."

The voice died and Jon Chandler collapsed, sobbing on the stage. The people became excited and the air thickened with whispering. Some nasty comments were directed at Chandler and people got to their feet. No one wore an aura of pity. Loathing was the universal feeling and there was also a feeling of promise . . . a belief that there would be much to gain if they aided the vampire.

Chandler's sobbing broke and he lifted his tear-stained face. "Wait, I have more to say!" he cried desperately. But no one would listen. Buzzing angrily, stamping their feet cruelly, the people began to move toward the exits.

Mike had been caught off guard, and Jake hadn't expected such a sudden end to things either. They looked at one another, trying to decide what to do."

"We better get to Chandler," Mike said. "There's no other way to stop the Baron from striking."

Jumping to an aisle they moved against the crowd and some shoving took place as nasty people tried to force them back. Scowling faces threatened violence. It became apparent that they weren't going to get through.

"Get out of the way, we're ushers!" Jake hollered. "Clear the church, like the Baron said!"

People began to stream around them and Jake threw his bulk forward. Mike felt the anger pressing in on him subside and he fell in behind Jake. They weren't even halfway down the aisle before they saw that it was too late. Jon Chandler was escaping. He’d crossed the stage and was ducking through scarlet curtains to an exit. A gust of wind blew the curtains up as Jon went out the door, and beyond the fluttering Mike saw him pulling out his keys for a quick grab at his car that would prevent easy pursuit.

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CHAPTER 14: ON THE RUN

Even in bright sunlight Jon Chandler's face was ghost white. Dark pouches showed beneath haunted eyes. He ran toward a borrowed sports car he’d parked in the reverend's space at the back of the church. Anxiety, confusion and fear charged his brain to the point that it felt like it was going to explode with several aneurysms. He was now certain that two men couldn't exist in the same body; the flesh couldn't take the transformations and the inner conflict carried nerves to the breaking point.

At the car he jingled his keys and took a hurried look around. He suspected a police stakeout, he suspected Allan Rampa of following him, and he suspected cultists were on his tail -- every nut in the world was probably after him. Most of all he feared the two big men he'd seen charging for him in the church. He was certain their intent was evil. A view along the side of the church showed him nothing other than the angry mob streaming out the front doors. It was fortunate that no one was at the back.

Sliding behind the wheel, he powered up, but with the front drive jammed by the mob he was at a loss about where to go. He had no time; the two big men would be out and after him in a few moments. Spinning the wheel, he hit the gas, drove out of the lot and through a hedge of pine scrub into a neighboring parkette. Roaring over the grass, he forced some sunbathers and kids out of the way. Tearing up sod, he went up an incline and down a footpath to enter a side street.

A distorted picture formed in his mind. The two big men had been hired to hunt him down by friends of the victims, or else they were cops. It was amazing that he hadn't been questioned already. It was also amazing that no reports of Liz's death had come out. Eventually they’d trace his connection to Jeanie, so it was a race against time and the Baron. He wanted to flee the city, but the Baron wouldn't allow it; the vampire was breaking him down, using the fear of arrest against him. And why should the Baron care? -- if arrested the Baron would simply wait for an opportunity to escape. For now he could bide his time and cause Jon to miss planes and vital fixes of energy. If it continued he'd have to submit, give over complete control to the vampire or else fall into the hands of the law or other hostile forces. A feeling of self-loathing came over Jon, and it was because the vampire had to know he was a coward to break him with such tactics.

A conglomeration of muscular aches added up to one pulse of pain, so that Jon's body felt like a huge abscessed tooth. His thirsty tongue seemed permanently swollen, and he could feel his head pulsing with the pounding of his heart. Weakness was making pallid wax of his flesh and webbing his eyes with veins. Rushes of agony swamped his thoughts. He pulled in a mall parking lot, put his hands to his face for a moment, then lifted them and started as he saw the face of the blond man staring from the windshield. The face vanished, but the probing eyes remained for a moment. Gnawing terror hit him; he couldn't tell if his sweaty body was hot or cold. Now he knew the blond man was using a strange psychic power to track him; his giant companion could have abilities, too. Jon saw them as bloodhounds at his heels, hunting him like an animal. From nowhere an idea for ditching them popped into his head, and feeling a little better he drove away.

Detective Skagway stared at a flattened bush and tire tracks in the grass while Mike stood with his hands on his hips looking at the clear sky. "See anything in your crystal ball?" Jake said.

"I just got a picture of Jon Chandler in his car. He looks like a man who has found the dregs of the world."

"If you have a bead, let's go on it. I want to get him before he does something crazy."

They hurried to the front and found it jammed, cars parked askew and blocking passage to the street. The Baron's fans congregated and conversed in small groups. Taking the wheel, Jake slowly drove around back, ignoring people who shouted and banged their palms on the hood. He spotted Jon's tire tracks and followed them through the park. Amazed people stepped out of the way. Mike got a feeling and it told him to turn right and go up a side street.

Something moved in the shadows in the corner of Mike's eye -- something tiny and black. Bat wings or a centipede's legs, he wasn't sure, but it was his road map to Chandler and the Baron. The summer day belonged to the tanned and elegantly slim women walking to the beat of their iPods, to the skateboard and roller kids that raced out at the lights, and to the street-corner gangs with boom players blaring out alternative and hip hop music. Jake and Mike were distanced from it, almost like ghosts, ephemeral as flashes of light at poolside. Only unreal people could be hunting a vampire and a spirit channeler, and that was okay with Mike because he could handle unreality that Jake couldn't. Mike saw each day as ghost brief and quite impossible. He had never anchored his world down and for that reason he could be on its boundaries, watchful of the little consensus reality humans defined. Watchful enough to see Jon Chandler moving in the corners.

Jake was flustered. He sped down the summer-holiday streets, oblivious to the beauty of the banner day. The trees were crowned with emerald and gold but he saw the distorted faces of monsters in the shadows below. He had vision like Mike, but in his case it didn't lead him anywhere.

"It seems ridiculous," Mike said, "but the direction I keep getting points to the warehouse where we found Len."

"We can check it," Jake said. "He might have a reason for returning to it."

"That's the bead I keep getting, even though I know something's not quite right about it."

A closed-in feeling and unnatural nervousness came over Mike. He rolled the window down and as they came up from under the expressway they were washed by the lake breeze. Mike found it refreshing and drank in its energy. He imagined it to be a better form of energy than the stuff Jon Chandler drank.

The warehouse appeared and it hadn't got any better; it looked like a towering piece of rot, crumbling now that it had sucked in its last musty breaths. Their wheels rutted into gravel and busted-up concrete as they rolled into the lot. Someone had been there. There were no cars but the fire department's seal had been taken off the doors and they'd been forced open.

Jolting to a stop, Jake grabbed a briefcase from the back, then they were off, dashing for the warehouse. They stopped at the door, fearing an ambush when they stepped into the dark. Jake had a Beretta pistol in a crossdraw holster in his belt; he drew it then flashed it inside the door. There was no response so he drew it back and took a peek. He saw nothing and nothing happened, so they charged inside.

Moving quickly, they took cover behind a post. It was dim and dusty, a tomblike atmosphere. There weren't many places where Jon could be hiding, the building had been emptied completely during the investigation. In a few days it would be condemned and on the city demolition list.

Mike tapped Jake on the shoulder, alerting him to a faint amber glow in a doorway on the far side of the building. Making as little noise as possible they hurried across the cracked concrete floor and looked inside. The drop of a pin probably would've caused Jake to fire a defensive round, but what they saw was a glowing crystal and its silver chain hanging from a nail imbedded in a grease-scarred wall.

They entered cautiously. The only other object in the room was a bench. Mike ducked down and glanced under it, then held up the flat of his hand to indicate that no one was there.

Jake took a deep breath; sounds of disappointment were in his exhalation. He shook his head as he opened his case and took out a small linen sack. He put the crystal and chain inside and drew the string tight.

"He's nowhere near here," Mike said. "He charged the crystal with his energy and planted it here to throw us off the trail."

In a world of bright sunshine Jon could barely see. He parked the car and stared at Marilyn's house. In his drained mind it was as black as a cinder block. Not a trace of energy came from it; it smoked like ice. That meant no one was home, there were no easy victims for him to feed on.

Opening the door, his hand moved like it was made of rusty nails and chain links. The pain he experienced belonged to an arthritic old man. As he got out a low growl in his stomach told him that the hunger was greater than the pain. When he looked at the lawn, gardens and trees his visual awareness was of everything dead -- curled leaves, busted branches, dry twigs, the wormy corpse of a field mouse. Other than that he saw mostly shadows, the rustling leaves made a dancing carpet of them, and as he moved furtively under the willows, making his way around to the back, the shadows flew at his eyes like ashes. He stepped around the darkest patches of shadow, watching them flow past like corpses in a Stygian river. This was the bottom, completely drained; he could barely remember who he was.

As sucked dry of emotion as a zombie, he drifted to the patio. The only light he found there was the glitter of a crystal. He picked it up and froze, staring at it with blank eyes.

In time, and he had no idea how much time, there was a beam of light. The world existed as a coffin and had opened a crack to reveal a star. Moving through the yard and along a tall wooden fence, he came to a cedar hedge. Through a gap in the foliage he could see a woman. She wore a bikini and was sunbathing on a checked blanket by a swimming pool. She was the star -- fantastic, gently pulsing, turquoise. She shone and granted existence to her surroundings, making them an island of beauty and reality amid an ocean of night and nothingness.

Unendurable thirst swept him up and he blundered through the bushes. The woman heard the noise but looked in the wrong direction. He was on her before she saw him. She had time to scream once. His attack was fierce and relentless, and he saw showers of fiery blood as he battered and gouged her with the crystal. As she died, he absorbed some of the raw energy escaping from her, and then he felt bloodlust and the Baron taking over. He knew now that the Baron had succeeded; the Baron had turned him into a ravening animal, the crudest variety of vampire.

A mask of Aztec jade appeared, gained human eyes and a fiery halo. It rose like a kite on a wind of energy, its features twisted from hate uncoiling behind the eyes. The mouth gaped and a scream that was neither animal nor human emerged. The vision shook Mike. He seized the dashboard and yelled. "Hurry up, for God's sake! He's killing someone!"

"Hurry to where?" Jake hollered. Keeping a hand on the wheel, he grabbed Mike's shoulder and shook him. "Give me an address, something to go by!"

"Chandler has a friend named Marilyn. That's what I pick up. Go there."

"Shit, it'll take fifteen minutes to get there."

The car came outfitted with a siren and it shrieked in the summer air as they topped the speed limit and tore up soft asphalt. Mike remained silent, stern and morose. Detective Skagway's lips were skinned back over gritted teeth. They came out of the last turn to Marilyn's suburban home, holding tight like it was the last round on a gut-wrenching ride. Jon Chandler hadn't bothered closing the gate so Jake sped straight in and hit the brakes, spinning in a half circle to avoid a collision with the Corvette.

"Keep going!" Mike shouted. "Drive to the rear."

Keeping precarious control of his car, Detective Skagway drove onto the lawn and tore up a flowerbed on his way to the back yard. He stopped with the grill against a birdbath and ripped the keys out. Mike was already ahead of him; having popped open the door, he was racing for a space in the hedge.

Jake followed and was on Mike's heels by the time he reached the hedge. They spied the corpse immediately -- a heart-sinking sight. Appalled, they moved up close, glancing around nervously, checking for movement that might be Chandler. With great reluctance they took a closer look at the body.

"Oh my God!" Jake exclaimed. His eyes glazed over with shock. "Her head, what did he do with her head?"

The color drained from Mike's cheeks. Blood floated on debris in the swimming pool. He looked to Jake and nodded grimly.

Jake looked at the spreading slick, then he covered his eyes. "Where is he now?" he said, breathing the sentence through clenched teeth.

"I get a shadowy picture of him. Very vague," Mike said. "He's somewhere to the north of here, moving on foot. I can see water, a pond. I see Chandler. He's in a coffin -- that means the Baron has taken complete control."

"Okay," Jake said. "I'll radio in on the body and we'll head out after the Baron."

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CHAPTER 15: SUNDOWN

Sunset's amber deepened and twilight tinted the water. It was a postcard evening in the reservoir lands, or it would have been had the Baron not been present and in a disheveled state. A long run down back lanes and through parks had left him rank with the odors of sweat and blood. A stalker, he moved through the maples toward a spot where the huge park opened on a suburban back street. Beyond the trees, people strolled on the apron of grass by the sidewalk. He found himself unable to get a proper focus on them. Stopping, he tried to piece together his disjointed thoughts. His mind drifted like a dark cloud . . . one made of the essential vampire's reminiscences he needed for survival. It was a consequence of using Chandler; he knew it was true that Jon's body and brain would continue to eat at his personality even if he destroyed him. He’d damaged Chandler's constitution so much already it was hard to bear the effects. He felt a general state of malaise, monstrous confusion, dizziness, flashes of rage and bloodlust. With it came temporary loss of identity and moments of complete emptiness. He was probably closer to being a rabid animal than to being a human being.

His vision filmed over with grime, then it cleared and he saw a woman jogging in his direction. Ivory limbs, a halo of long blond hair, red short-shorts. Looking at her was pleasure and he stared, forgetting to obey the impulse to pounce. She passed by, a white flow of motion, and turned, going down a wood chip path into a forested area. As she disappeared in the screen of foliage, pain hit him like splinters of glass, awakening him and giving him the energy he needed for pursuit.

Jake saw the speed bump too late and its grind and thump almost sent Mike through the roof. The car shot over a hill then coasted down into a picnic area. The scene was idyllic, sunset glory reflecting on the waters of the reservoir as the day cooled with a gentle breeze. There were a few cars, people walking dogs, roller skating, playing catch, cycling and strolling. The evening light gave people an unnatural beauty. It didn't seem possible that any of them could end up minus a head.

"We're near him," Mike said. "The next problem is how to handle him?"

Jake pulled in on some baked, bare earth by the water. "We haven't time for plans," he said. "Let's just get to him before he gets away."

Twilight haze dusted the treetops. The blond woman jogged on, following the wide circle the path made through the park. Behind her the Baron limped as he ran on stiff legs. Poisonous sweat soaked his clothes, his chest muscles were thick bands of pain and his neck muscles were tense like guitar strings. A distorted vision of the woman and his hunger drove him on. At times he wasn't sure if he was seeing her or smelling her, and it didn't matter as long as the healing red fluids of her body promised to end his pain.

The patch of forest broke at a clearing; she plunged off the path into deep grass and jogged to a mound at the center. Reaching the clearing, the Baron saw her stop at the mound and turn to begin the run back. Ducking behind a fir tree, he picked up a large flinty stone. There wasn’t time for a struggle or mesmerism, that sort of action was difficult and would come later when his strength returned. For now he wanted a fast recharge and the satisfaction that would come with it.

He was ready to pounce as she passed on the path, but she didn't make it that far; when she was halfway back from the mound her right foot hooked into some vines and she squealed in pain and surprise as she stumbled and fell. Getting to one knee, she groaned, cursed and rubbed her ankle. Knowing that she wouldn't get away with a bad leg, the Baron rushed out of the firs, his face a gruesome leer as he limped toward her.

She had her attention on the leg and didn't see him at first. When she did spot him panting and running desperately toward her, she pulled a rape whistle from under her blouse, blew it and tried to limp away. She wasn't nearly fast enough, and she ended up glancing back in horror as the Baron pounced on her.

Jake and Mike were headed in the direction of the clearing, and the whistle blow threw them into a mad dash. They burst out of the maples on the west side of the clearing just as the Baron was taking her down. Although Jake was an ex-football player, Mike was the faster runner. Yet even Mike had no chance of getting to her on time.

"Stop it!" Jake yelled as the Baron grazed her temple with a blow.

Quick as a rattler, the Baron flew up, leaving the woman to roll and moan in the grass.

Jake considered using his gun, but Mike was in front of him and there was a chance of accidentally blasting the victim so he decided against it.

Mike continued to sprint as the Baron readied his stone. The Baron would go for his head, hoping to bust his skull, so with that in mind Mike ducked aside at the last possible moment and raced past.

The Baron had moved forward to take a strong swing at Mike. He saw that Jake was almost on him and he drew back. He couldn't turn away from such a big opponent.

Using the Baron's predicament to his advantage, Mike stumbled through a tight half circle and moved in to seize him from behind.

Jake slowed some, giving Mike time to get a grip on the Baron. Now the vampire was unable to use the stone, but Jake couldn't stop; he'd forgotten to check his old football instinct to tackle. He hit them with a solid offensive rush and all three men tumbled hard in the grass.

Mike was lucky, he'd been thrown free of any tangle and the Baron had cushioned him from most of the bone-crunching blow. Yet the Baron wasn't out; he snapped to his feet like he wasn't even hurt, and he didn't try to run. Instead he faced-off with them. The Baron obviously believed that only the aggressor could be the victor.

"Avoid his eyes!" Mike yelled.

Ducking his head, Jake advanced like a bull, grappled with the Baron and forced him to the ground. With a loud snarl the Baron pushed up, and through a feat of great strength flung Jake off.

As the Baron sprang up, Mike stepped in and connected with a hard right hand. The Baron staggered back then countered with a flurry of punches that knocked Mike to the grass.

A dust devil and thunder were in Mike's head, but he managed to get up quickly. Jake was already up and charging the Baron, only he didn't connect because the Baron moved right at great speed -- so fast he vanished like a ghost and Jake was left running at nothing.

A purple blur was in the corner of Mike's eye; he followed it to the woman and saw that she’d limped away and was on her knees weeping in a patch of weeds. His vision cleared; if the Baron wasn't attacking the woman he knew where he had to be -- behind him. Throwing himself to his knees, Mike turned. The Baron's arm and a stone whistled through the air where his head had been.

Scrambling between the Baron's legs, Mike managed to escape further blows, and the sight of Jake returning distracted the Baron for the moment Mike needed to push up and knock him from behind.

This time Jake caught the stumbling Baron and drove a hard fist into his breadbasket. As the Baron doubled over, he got hammered on the jaw by an elbow and more organ-crushing blows struck his torso. Throwing the Baron upright, Jake moved under and lifted him; he held him over his head and slammed him down -- he landed flat on his back and the big detective came down, driving his knees into his neck and shoulder.

Jake thought the vampire was finished, but it was only a moment before he felt teeth sinking into his leg and jumped up and retreated.

Hissing viciously, the Baron got up, but he was weakened, blue in the face and barely able to stand. Mike decided not to wait, moved in from the rear and got an arm lock on the tottering vampire. It took all of his strength to hold him.

Jake rushed in and began to pummel him with body punches, a storm of blows no man could withstand . . . and the Baron didn't withstand it; thickening blood oozed past his bruised lips, then red light spilled from his eyes and enveloped his body.

Thinking the light to be a deadly trick, Mike and Jake backed away quickly. The vampire remained standing and blood continued to pour, making his shirtfront a gruesome tongue in the intensifying glow. A rainbow of aural colors began to form around the Baron, causing Mike and Jake to retreat further, then, in a final blaze of energy, the Baron collapsed to the grass. The body twitching violently as the rainbow slowly vanished.

Amazement had replaced fear on the woman's face. She limped over. Mike and Jake had momentarily forgotten her; they stood staring suspiciously at the corpse. It withered rapidly, taking on an unnatural appearance. In moments all signs of life vanished and the face dropped its pained expression.

"He looks like he's made of blue rubber," Mike said.

"So is he dead or not, Mike?" the woman said.

"I think so," Mike said.

Jake pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket and removed a clean linen handkerchief from it. He soaked it with fluid from a small bottle of isotonic water and stepped up to the woman. "Turn your head while I clean the cut," he said.

Mike stared at the woman as her wound was washed. An innocent face took shape as the blood streaks melted. She was familiar but he couldn't quite place her.

"It's a small cut that bleeds a lot," Jake said. "You have to be checked for skull fractures."

"How did you know my name?" Mike said.

"We went to the same high school."

"Now I remember. You’re Donna James."

Jake took a small bottle of pills from his pouch. "These should kill the pain," he said.

Donna swallowed two of the pills. "I see you haven't kept out of trouble, Mike. What is that guy, or what was he?"

"He was a vampire. It's an unusual situation to say the least. I'm afraid you’ll have to keep quiet about what just happened."

"We should call the police," Donna said. "If creeps are around nobody is safe."

"I'm a police officer," Jake said. "Jake Skagway from homicide. As far as we know this is the only vampire, and we can't make any statements concerning him -- it would cause a panic."

"Oh-oh, I hear people coming through the woods," Mike said.

"Take Donna back to the car," Jake said. "Reassure the people. Tell them she's all right -- she just fell while jogging. I'll stay behind and take care of the body."

"Whoa! Not so fast," Donna said as Mike scooped her up.

Mike headed for the trees. People were shouting and crashing about. Though Donna was in his arms, his mind wasn't on her; pleasant thoughts of Alice and Annie came to him. He thought about hanging around for a year and getting closer to Annie. He didn't know if he would ever have a truly healthy relationship with Alice, but what the hell; his world had never been perfect. If the world was perfect Jake Skagway wouldn't be back by the mound doing what he was doing.

It was an unusually light body and Jake dragged it around the mound with ease. Taking a Clip Mate knife from a small sheath on his belt, he began to fashion a wooden stake from a fallen branch. He completed it swiftly, hearing Mike talking to some people as he worked. He glanced around and spotted a culvert and a small stream over in the trees. The culvert was almost completely hidden by ferns, sumac and scrub evergreens. He figured it was a good spot to dump the body.

The stake whistled down, and in purgatory bright light washed the spirit of Titus Varsook. Darkness and death followed. Jake also saw light, darkness and death; he'd never felt better about a corpse. He didn't even feel like smoking this time.

Finished, he dragged the corpse over the weeds and stuffed it in the culvert. He dropped the sack containing Jon Chandler's crystal next to it. Stepping back, he made sure it was out of sight, and then he turned and headed for the car.

Jake came out of the trees and walked along the shore of the reservoir. A curtain of darkness fell on the silver water behind him. He knew he looked to be in very rough shape. Donna and Mike were already in the car, and they didn't look much better.

"Did those people give you any trouble?" Jake said as he got behind the wheel.

"No. Just some guys that heard the whistle," Mike said. "I told them Donna injured herself and whistled for help."

"We’re done with the Baron," Jake said. "The body is stashed. We can grab it later when no one is around. Then our vampire problem will be over."

"Good," Mike said, "let's get Donna to the hospital for a check."

Exhaustion turned to elation in Mike’s mind as Jake drove off. Donna also felt better; she managed to get a laugh out of Mike by bringing up an old high school nickname. They stopped at a sign, the streetlights came on, and then they pulled away, not noticing another light that had just ignited -- an evil light flashing in deep-set eyes. Moments later the man got out of his car, determined to find Jon Chandler or his remains.

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BOOK TWO

MILLENNIUM

Chapter 16: THE BOOK

The sunshine held steady and brilliant like the aura of a summertime goddess dappling the Toronto Islands. Out on the water, Mike found the islands to be much as he remembered them . . . the same now as years ago. If anything had changed he had. Back then he'd been an unemployable young man with visions but no real plan for his future. He'd studied the great philosophers, reading in the bird sanctuary. Today he had no time for philosophy but he did have confidence in himself in the face of a future arriving too fast . . . swifter than visions or plans.

Energized, Mike closed his eyes and pumped his legs harder as the paddle boat surged forward. He was hurrying for shore and away from a yacht cruising up the channel. The honking of geese and the hum of a plane drifted over from the island airport. A steady lap of waves kept his legs moving. Annie's excited voice rose beside him with the shouts of teenagers near the shore. A gull screeched and he opened his eyes as it dive-bombed in to snatch a piece of bread from the water. Swallowing as it flew, it circled to return.

"Thief!" Annie yelled as she tossed some bread chunks over toward the geese. "The gulls steal everything," she said. "Even hot-dogs. They eat wieners."

"They may eat more," Mike said, "but they probably die sooner. It's better to be like the geese and eat less junk food."

"You can't buy anything here but junk food. That's what mom says."

"She’s probably right."

They slipped into the shade of some shoreline willows as the boat approached a long wooden dock. A fair built on the model of a tiny town gleamed in the sunshine across the channel. Annie’s eyes fixed on the cable cars gliding over the town. Pony rides were visible at the far end.

As he turned the boat in toward the tie post, Mike spotted Jake and Alice standing by the ticket booth. The glare pinched Jake's face, adding a false expression of suspicion. It was like he’d seen a body bobbing out on the waves. Sunglasses failed to hide Alice's troubled frown . . . she obviously thought he'd taken Annie out too far in the channel.

An attendant stepped over to help Annie from the boat, but Alice brushed him aside and took charge before he could reach her. Mike stepped to the dock and waited as Alice removed Annie's life jacket.

"I thought you couldn't make it before four?" Mike said.

"I didn't have to wait for the ferry. Jake got us over in a police boat."

"I want a ride in the police boat," Annie said.

Mike raised his eyebrows. "What's the emergency?"

"No emergency. Jake needs to talk to you."

Mike grimaced as Alice hugged Annie excessively. It was like he'd taken her over Niagara Falls in a barrel or something. Turning away, he walked over to Jake. “Looking for Chandler's body out there in the water?"

"Might as well be looking there. I can't find a trace of it anywhere else."

"Only two things could've happened to it. Somebody stumbled on it and moved it or Allan Rampa got to it and took it."

Jake's eyes narrowed. "Allan took it. How can you be sure of that? Where would he take it?"

Alice came off the dock with Annie tugging at her arm and leading her like she was one of the ponies she’d soon be riding. Mike and Jake walked behind as they followed the walkway to the bridge. They were into the fairgrounds before the subject of Allan Rampa came up again.

"Have you found Allan?" Mike said.

"Not really. It was like tracking a ghost. He had an expensive apartment at Harbourfront. Now it's empty and I couldn't find the movers who took his stuff. He left no forwarding address. Just about everything in his background is mysterious. He does most of his business under another name. I talked to some of the New Millennium people and they wouldn't give me anything. But don't worry. I'll find him eventually."

Breezy weather had eased in. They ambled up to the cable ride, pausing to watch cars of sea-green and cherry gliding in on the platform. Metallic flecks in the paint showed as sun dazzles. Alice's face softened, becoming more childlike, and Mike breathed a sigh of relief. If her mood was lifting she wouldn't pick a fight over Annie.

"You take Annie across on the lift," Mike said. "I’ll walk over with Jake."

"Okay," she said, but she didn't go up for tickets. She stood waiting.

"What are you waiting for?" Mike said.

"For the end of your talk on this Allan guy. I want to know if you'll be roaming all over the city, at all hours of the night?"

Mike looked to Jake. "I don't think I'll be roaming anywhere. All I can draw is a blank. Nothing comes to me concerning either Allan Rampa or the missing body."

"That's good to hear," Alice said.

Mike nodded but he knew it wasn't good to hear. More like it was too good to be true. He wasn't sure if someone was blocking him psychically or if unconsciously he just didn't want to know anything. Either way there could be nothing good about the disappearance of Allan and the loss of Chandler's body. Being blocked was okay for the present; it would allow him some time with his family.

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THE MILLENNIUM TRANSMISSIONS

Allan Rampa … A BEGINNING

Earlier this summer I dreamed of dense mist blowing out on the lake. It remained at the ends of my mind in distant imaginings. I went to my penthouse window and watched it lift and swirl. A hypnotic effect; I lost my grasp of time and felt a terrible weakness of body and mind. The mist and its vapors fell into a vortex spinning down, pulling in all energy and leaving my body and bones pale as wax.

Drained, I staggered to my mirror and choked at the sight of my yellowing flesh. As strange as it may seem, I was there reassuring myself that I was a human being, not some other alien life form. Memories of lives I had lived on other worlds were confusing me. That such a state could be anything other than the onset of madness or serious illness didn't occur to me at the time. I began taking deep breaths, my chest heaving mightily as I tried to suck energy, life and perhaps my sanity back into myself. All I got was stale air and feelings I couldn't shake. I could feel the parts of my body; my chest, my cheeks, my legs -- and they felt like lumps of dead wax. I was so empty I knew I had no soul . . . I knew that I'd never had a soul. There was nothing but a thread trying to hang on, and the thread said -- I am Allan Rampa. I am not mad. Said it repeatedly until finally the thread snapped.

I heard a dry wind heaving in dead foliage. A black pit punched through the sky; I believed the force of the earlier whirlpool had brought down the whirlwind and the pillars of heaven. Endless empty vacuum was bleeding life from the Earth. Fangs of a cosmic beast were sucking every vision dry.

Out of this altering of reality came realization. It was the grim truth -- nothing was being sucked from the planet because the Earth was a lump of nothing to begin with . . . as men are nothing without souls. Something was being given; it was the meridian of history, of the human effort, and a time when we would be given what we had never owned - a soul.

Something beautiful was floating into focus. It was much greater than mortals and I didn't know if I would survive to see it. I was disintegrating. I was shattering to crystal fragments and wisps of mist. Then that something began to help and to make me whole. It looked out of my eyes and they were bigger than galaxies. When it spoke its voice was a steel cable running through me.

"I am an entity in the eternal ether. I am the end of the path of darkness. I am you a million years from today and I have returned to grant you a soul."

With the message came illumination and well-being that I had never known before. It was beyond meditation. It was beyond spiritualism. It was the mist of life flowing in my heart and the beginning of a New Age and Millennium.

Two days passed and the feeling stayed with me, rising and falling until I finally realized that I had to get up from my kneeling position, wash, eat and go for a walk. I satisfied the needs of my body swiftly and efficiently and once I had worked the stiffness out of my legs I went out.

The elevator whisked me to the street. I found that it was daylight but a different daylight from the usual. All light beamed from a great amber wheel that had replaced the sun in the sky. The wheel was rotating as it moved swiftly northward and the desire to follow it swept me up. Miraculously, a white Ford convertible was parked by the curb. No passengers or driver were inside, the door was open and the engine was running. After a moment's hesitation, I leapt in and drove off in pursuit of the wheel.

Waves of power electrified the road ahead of me and traffic was swept aside. Cars, trucks and buses were eased to curbside like they were toys. Using the horn, I warned pedestrians out of the way, and the power remained as I hit the freeway going north. I roared onward, tearing over hot asphalt; a blaring siren of the gods.

The city was no longer important. I left its buildings behind like they were yesterday's tumbled dominoes. Exiting the freeway, I plunged into green countryside, passing frame farmhouses, sagging barns and miles of zigzag cedar-log fencing. The car had a balloon-like motion as it raced up dusty roads into forested areas. Warm amber fire was in the treetops and my eyes . . . it was the light of the promise of the spiritual transmissions to come . . . as genuine as a vision in a crystal ball.

When the wheel stopped revolving and took up a stationary position in the sky, I was driving up a pot-holed road into a clearing. Out of reverence for the light I stopped the car and silenced the engine. I watched, my face aglow, as the wheel descended over a giant birch tree in the centre of the clearing. I heard the scorch and sizzle as it burned its shape into the dew-soaked grass, then it vanished and normal sunlight poured in on the scene.

In a trance, walking slowly, I entered the charred circle. As I stepped up to the birch tree I knew I was under an all-seeing cosmic searchlight. A multitude of alien voices rose in my breast, softly as air bubbles in water. They were speaking of so many matters of great importance at once that I couldn't possibly begin to remember it all. I was desperate to write some of the messages down so there would be a record, but I didn't have a pen or paper.

One voice grew in volume and it told me to turn to the birch tree. I did and noticed huge strips of bark peeling from the trunk. I set to work and found that the bark peeled away easily . . . each piece taking the shape of a parchment scroll. I made a stack of scrolls then I listened for the voice. A medley of voices coursed through me and out of them came understanding. I took the crystal from around my neck and prepared to write on the scrolls.

The voices were gaining in clarity and I looked up as I waited for them to gain perfection. Out on the edge of the clearing the white pines had bent and touched the ground without pulling up roots. Their branches braided together and formed a circle to protect me from all intruders.

It was there in the grass, surrounded by star flowers, rattlesnake ferns, choke cherries and the beautiful voices, that I wrote the first of THE MILLENNIUM TRANSMISSIONS.

I channeled the entire multitude of voices and their messages emerged from the tip of my crystal as a laser beam burning into the bark. As I wrote, I felt the birth of my soul, reincarnation. In the end, when the signals grew weak, there was a final voice that told of more transmissions that would come to me in the future. It commanded me to take up residence near the sacred ground and establish a Cult of the Millennium. It warned that a period of supernatural occurrences had been ordained for the lands near the sacred ground, and that when the occurrences were at an end the rest of the transmissions would be given.

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CHAPTER 17: RESURRECTION

. . . just as I switched my headlights off, I thought I saw quick movement in the bushes at the back. It was something hurrying and fluttering and it was there and gone swiftly. Perhaps it was one of the night's illusions, a ghostlike play of bushes in the wind, but I thought not. I’d been doing enough creeping around of my own at night to know what lurks in the dark.

As I opened the door and got out, the poplars rushed with wind that strengthened until the leaves were hissing like the reeds of woodwinds. It turned into such a punch of air that the car door got thrown shut and I fell to one knee against the fender. The wind looped through with force a couple more times then died, leaving a highlight of faint phosphors on the house.

Other people would’ve thought they were witnessing a supernatural event, and I suppose my New Age acquaintances would imagine that some demon god of the Philistines was seeking vengeance. I knew better; years of diligent study were guiding my senses, combined with second sight born on a day long ago when I first witnessed the golden signs of the occult. I knew the phenomena were a mere beginning. A much greater supernatural event was about to take place.

I was visiting Liz Kanter because I believed Jon Chandler's vampiric half, the Baron, might arrive. His presence nearby would certainly account for any strange happenings. At that time my intention was to talk with Titus at night when his powers were strong and perhaps make him an offer he couldn't refuse. I believed Jon Chandler to be the main obstacle blocking my plan; his vanity, his go-it-alone approach to everything showed him to be a person who wouldn't want to share power . . . and he would have to in order to participate in, even help found, the cult I had in mind. Common sense led me to favor the Baron. He was the superior man of the two, he would be more inclined to listen to reason, and with his seal of approval I could forge ahead.

It was beautiful to think of then as it is now; our New Age religions in array and joined with the delicacy of wisdom . . . the petals on a rose, but a red rose and one startlingly radiant in contrast with the midnight robe on which it would be pinned. In the New Age we have taken the best of everything and let the deserving pass away. Jesus Christ has been redefined, Wicca has been renewed, the stars are our healing and the glory of the aliens has touched us. Our divine attributes unfold like a holy scroll. Yet try to point to a foundation, a great mystic rock supporting us, and you will find that there is none. Which is why I am providing one.

A coexistence of light and darkness, the hideous entwined with the beautiful, a religion that has resolved man's conflict with himself and the supernatural is a wonderful idea and it is the idea behind the Cult of the Millennium. A religious body that shields and nurtures its friends, the vampires. In return the people of the New Millennium share in the powers of the blood. And there is an answer, a reconciliation of Cain and Abel, a new Eden and a new order of blood and man.

. . . I knocked at Liz's door and there was no answer to the bell. Several agonizing minutes passed and I was scarcely able to prevent myself from bursting through the lock. Fortunately I knew that the very future depended on me and that a small mistake could make a crushed butterfly of the grand dream. I went back down the walk and over to the car. In the cover of darkness I glanced around. Seeing no one on the street I stepped behind a lilac bush and hurried to the back patio. Curiously, the door was open and banging in the wind.

On entering I saw no immediate signs of disarray. I called out Liz's name and was prepared to say that I entered thinking something was amiss, if her husband happened to surprise me. There was no answer, but incense smoke hung in the air, it was obvious that someone had just been in the house.

Rusty bloodstains on the carpet came to my attention, leaving me startled for a moment. A curious sense of caution took over. I must have looked like a dumb hound dog as I followed the stains to the basement stairs. Mutated thoughts similar to those before the onset of sleep began to slip through my head and before I realized it I was in the basement staring at Liz's corpse. It was a ghastly vision; a maniac's measure of blood was splashed across the white carpet. The place was a warlock's slaughterhouse, the mutilation was severe. She was obviously the victim of some form of misbegotten vampirism.

I have always despised blood and torn flesh, along with rituals that require viscera, so if I stared long, or if I smiled, it wasn't in enjoyment of the abominable, but in realization of the possibilities. Could I save her, had enough of the powers of the blood passed on to make it worth it? It didn't take all that much thinking before I understood that I had to try. Immediately I saw how difficult it would be to get away with the body and not be traced.

No sooner did I begin to formulate a plan than it vanished into the face of a turn of events. There was a creak on the stairs behind me. I spun around and found myself face to face with Dr. David Kanter, Liz's husband. He was at the bottom of the stairs and his surprised expression was breaking to horror; he tried to scream, but he could only move his lips in silent agony.

His mouth opened and closed a few times like he was drowning then he rushed me and had me by the throat before I could think to put up a defense.

"You killed her! You butcher!" he screamed as his fingers dug into my flesh.

Prying his hands from my neck I forced him back. He stumbled and went down on his knees. Drawing back, I cracked my palm across his face.

"Come to your senses, man!" I yelled. "Look at me. Blood is everywhere, but my suit is clean. I found her like this, I didn't kill her."

Being a doctor, a plastic surgeon, David certainly had the reasoning powers to grasp that I was innocent. His faculties returned long enough to stave off his violent tendencies, then he fell to weeping. He tried to crawl over and embrace the corpse and I had to restrain him. A cold and reserved person, I have never been good at consoling the grief stricken, and I must confess that the next few minutes were trying. David's endless sobbing disgusted me more than the sight of Liz's gashed throat. I ground my teeth while pretending to be concerned and caring.

"My little Elizabeth, she was all I had," he said repeatedly.

Although I didn't nod my head I had to silently agree. As a person he was undistinguished, one of those lumps of male flesh that becomes briefly rugged in youth, entraps a beautiful woman in marriage and then sinks into blandness.

David's sobs grew choked and began to fade. I assumed he'd practically managed to get his heart in his mouth. At that point I seized his fleshy cheeks, looked into his eyes and said, "How would you like to see your little Elizabeth alive again?"

His face twisted and he glared at me like an angry lap dog, then he shoved my hands away. "How dare you make cruel jokes, you bastard!"

"She is the victim of a vampire," I said. "If the powers of the blood have passed on to her she might survive. With our help she could be your beautiful Elizabeth again."

"That's not possible," he said. "I'm a doctor. I know."

"And you know me," I said. "I'm Allan Rampa and I don't lie about these things."

"You mean she might survive, but as a vampire?"

"Perhaps only partly a vampire."

The way David's eyes brightened, a faith healer might have touched him. "How can we tell? How can we know if she'll live?"

"I know what to look for, but it may be too soon for signs to be visible. Get me a pair of rubber gloves and I can check."

Mad hope suddenly filled him and gave him great strength. He dashed up the stairs with his arms bursting in front of him like a man about to fly. I heard the front door slam twice then he was thumping back down the stairs with his medical bag in hand.

"Do you fear disease?" David asked as I slipped the gloves on.

"No. I just don't want to get blood on my hands."

We approached the corpse and I squatted on my hams. Out of the corner of my eye I could see David wince as I positioned the head. I opened her mouth wide, pushed the tongue away, cleared her throat and peeled back her upper lip. The signs were distinct; her tongue, throat, all of the inside of her mouth was opaque white -- a thick, bloodless, mucous membrane, except her gums above her front teeth. They were bleeding lightly. Her incisors were loose and could be moved back and forth with ease.

"She has the signs," I said. "Enough of the powers of the blood have passed on for her to recover. What we want to do is speed her rejuvenation. If her flesh decays she will become a horrible creature."

"Lack of blood and oxygen has killed some flesh already," David said. "We need blood, a gurney and equipment. First we'll go to the hospital and get what I need, and then I can pick away the dead tissue, suture the wounds and try to get some blood flowing into her. She'll be badly scarred, but over time I can help her with plastic surgery."

With that said, David transformed from a mass of quivering jelly to an invigorated Dr. David Kanter; a surgeon with nerves of steel. Together we went to the hospital and once we had the equipment we turned his basement into an emergency medical facility. Within a day, Liz was beginning to stir.

There was little time for Jon Chandler while I was keeping a close eye on Liz, but I did have several friends and paid informers watching him for me. I was thinking of using the information I already had to blackmail him, but it became unnecessary. A friend, Jim Gresham, called from his car to inform me that he'd spotted Jon Chandler, wild-looking, nearly crazed, stumbling down the road leading into the reservoir park.

It worried me; I figured Chandler might be mad, and vengefully so. I knew he was struggling with the Baron. My hopes were that the Baron would emerge victorious so I could get on with my plans. There was a possibility of Chandler doing something foolish, possibly he could leap onto a stake or destroy his body in another manner. In that way he could cheat the Baron of victory. It made sense to me that a vain man like Chandler would commit suicide rather than lose.

I sped to the reservoir trying to come up with a plan for dealing with Chandler. It was getting dark and I initially parked away from the water and under a weeping willow. I wasn't quite sure how to go about searching for Chandler or the Baron in a darkening forest. My thinking was muddled and as I considered my options a Chevy drove up from the shore of the reservoir. It was the common model of Chevy undercover officers favor, and as it halted at a sign, the streetlights came on and I spotted Mike Wilde's blond head in the open passenger window. I knew Wilde was connected with a shadowy organization that worked against vampires and other supernatural beings. His happiness meant the worst and as I watched them drive off I felt light-headed. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, a hopeless feeling rising with them.

I remained parked there, my mood settling with the falling of night. I could hear a ghost of Mike Wilde's laughter and it angered me. I spat between my teeth, out the window, determined not to give up. If Jon Chandler had been injured, I would find him. If he had been destroyed, I would recover the body and either revive it or bleed any remaining power from it.

I got out of the car and in my agitated state I probably would’ve struck down anyone who dared question me. I was desperate to do something. If I could have, I would have changed the course of events with brute strength. I ran under the willow and through shrubs into some neat rows of pines. Branches whipped me, mosquitoes descended in clouds, I stubbed my toes on rocks and I could see nothing. Finally, I fell and crashed through some branches to the duff. I got up, a sweaty mess of twigs, leaf fragments, dirt and pine gum, and realized that running about were-man style wasn't a way to find anything.

Calmly, I returned to the car and took my flashlight from the glove compartment. Subtle search techniques came to mind, logic dictated that I go down to where Wilde had been and search the shoreline, field and woods there. A sense of mission took over at that point and I began my search filled with new optimism. I believed I would find Chandler. In fact, the odds were against even a search party finding anything, but I felt I was above the odds.

Hours later those odds were higher than the stars. The flashlight was dimming and I wasn't able to concentrate. I brought the beam to a stop. I'd found something and that something turned out to be a dead garter snake. I kicked it away in disgust and walked toward the shoreline. A slice of moon was overhead and it was cutting through my brain like a hot knife.

Sitting on a slate boulder, I leaned over, sighed and splashed my face with water. Cupping up some more, I drank deeply. Looking back at the field I tried to figure out if I was moving ahead or had been circling and searching the same half-acre over and over.

Headlights flashing from a turning car gave me my answer, which was that I had gone nowhere. My car was a short distance away, and even worse, the lights I was seeing belonged to a police car.

The police were checking my car. Keeping the flashlight off, I waited. I could hear their voices faintly, but as I tried to listen harder a chorus of crickets deafened me. As I watched, they cruised over by the shore and parked. They were taking it easy; doing whatever it is police do when they don't feel like working.

If I returned to my car no doubt they would decide to get back to work and come and question me. I was in no condition to answer questions, so I decided to cut across the park and get into the residential neighborhood, where I could flag a cab.

I couldn't use the flashlight, but there was enough light from the sky and the moon. Following a line of trees, I went into the woods and worked my way through to a clearing. At the center of the clearing I stopped at a mound for a rest, and there I saw a light.

At first I thought the police were out and looking for me with flashlights, then, as my heart was sinking, I realized the light was flashing through a rainbow of colors.

Advancing warily, I came to a stream and worked my way up to a culvert and the source of the light, which, amazingly, was a crystal. It had spilled halfway out of a small sack, and from memory I knew it was Jon Chandler's crystal. Scanning the culvert further, I saw his body.

A glance told me he was dead. Working swiftly I dragged the body out along a stream bed. A stake had been driven through the heart, so solidly so that I had difficulty extracting it. I threw the gore-soaked stake into the stream then I paused and inspected the corpse. Rather than being ugly in death, Jon Chandler looked strangely peaceful. Bruised and swollen as he was, he wasn't repulsive -- death seemed to agree with him.

I didn't agree, though . . . I looked at the crystal for a moment then I placed it on his punctured heart, hoping its healing powers would be of help. The crystal scintillated brilliantly, and the colored dazzles cut and seeped into the wound.

For some unknown reason terror struck me then and I ran off and hid in some gooseberry bushes. In the sky above, white clouds like elongated fingers obscured the moon. I watched them, believing them to be misty omens. My nerves steadied and I went back to the body. It was far from healed, the crystal had sealed the chest wound, but nothing else was changed. For a second I thought I saw a saintly nimbus above Chandler's bruise-yellowing face, and then I began making plans for the body.

Plans and plans but none were sound plans. I couldn't carry the corpse to the car with the police lurking in the lot, yet every moment I waited meant further decay. If I moved the body and came back I would risk encountering Wilde as he would no doubt return for the corpse.

For a first step I carried the corpse a few hundred yards and set it down next to a balsam fir. Putting an ear to its chest I detected the faintest of heartbeats and became cautiously elated. A power of sciomancy came upon me and a vision of the future took shape in the shadows. Jon Chandler, a beautiful priestess and a cowled multitude were looking down on me, directing my actions. Opening and clearing the body's mouth, I pressed my lips to it and filled the lungs with air. Though it was a bloating corpse I found the touch of its lips to be as sweet as the kiss of a saint.

My efforts at resuscitation failed, I couldn't restart the lungs. After some time I gave up and cradled the corpse in my arms, rocking it gently as the last of its air whispered out like a blessing. I brushed Chandler's hair back like a lover would . . . he was the hope of mankind and I feared I couldn't save him. Tears formed and I wept like it was the crucified Jesus in my arms.

Then I heard a siren and beams from a bubble flasher lit the woods. The police were racing away from the reservoir, heading for a distant emergency.

I was certain the task ahead would be a back breaker. Getting the stiffening body back to the car wouldn't be that easy . . . so I thought till I moved it and became filled with great strength. The white clouds blowing in the sky seemed to belong to my mind, I felt that powerful.

In less than ten minutes I was at the car. I felt distanced from my fouled body and events seemed to be turning my way, moving ahead with an easy perfection . . . and the removal of the body would have gone off well if it hadn't been for an old woman walking her dog. She’d been out of sight, under the willow tree, waiting as the dog emptied its bladder. She threw her silvered head back and screamed hoarsely, sounding more like a witch whose pet toad had been squashed than a frightened woman. Her calico mongrel took to barking and dancing ferociously in the air at the end of its leash.

"Wait, I can explain," I said.

We stared at one another. The fact that there was no honest explanation for carrying a corpse around in the wee hours of the morning was obvious. Hatred and revulsion showed on her face as she began to cower and retreat, pulling the snapping beast with her. Fearing she was trying to get my license number I dropped the body gently and snatched up a sizable stone. I hoped the action would cause her to flee swiftly and not look back.

Instead she released the dog and my attention went to it as I prepared to bash it with the stone. The mutt burst past me like I didn't exist and began to tear at Chandler's leg. It wasn't doing much other than damaging his pant leg so I took advantage of the opening and dashed up to the old woman. I struck her with the rock, knocking her unconscious. I tossed the stone into the trees and turned my attention back to the dog.

Coming up behind him, I seized him and pulled. He was savagely worrying at Chandler's shoe, but I managed to yank him back. He bit me, squirmed out of my grip and ran back to the unconscious woman. The sight of her took the fight out of him and he began to whimper and lick her face. Not wasting any time, I stuffed the body in the back and drove away quickly.

Dawn was breaking as I arrived at the Kanters' house. Chilled flesh and exhaustion cloaked me . . . so vacant was my mind that I nearly began unloading my corpselike companion in full view of the neighborhood. I caught myself and breathed a sigh of relief; some fabric of common sense was still in me. The curtains were drawn and the house was veiled in sleep. I assumed David was in the basement at Liz's bedside and unaware of my arrival. I cut over the lawn, headed for the front door, and I felt like half a corpse myself. I supposed it was how a wino would feel -- deadened reflexes, looking at the morning through eyes burning with blood filaments. The shadows were a deep and beautiful lapis lazuli blue and the sky blossom pink, and it made me think of hell as rare beauty one couldn't appreciate. My arm nearly creaked with pain and stiffness as I reached for the bell, but my inner resolve was above pain. I figured an hour's sleep and a shower would have to do as I had a business meeting to attend.

David opened the door, folds of suspicion on his brow. "What happened? You look like a crazy bum."

"Unlock the garage," I said. "I'm bringing in a new patient and I don't want it to be noticed."

He held up his hands. "No new patients. I agreed to help only Elizabeth."

"But this is Jon Chandler. We've got to help him. He's nearly finished."

"Jon Chandler! Get him out of here! I'll take no responsibility for him. You weren't followed were you?"

He wasn't going to bully me; my arm shot forward quickly as my temper flared. I seized his throat, his eyes bulged with disbelief. He resisted lamely; I could see he was too much of a coward to fight back.

"You’re not in a position to argue," I said. "What you’ve already done is enough to put you away forever … understand?"

I released my grip and he nodded, then he kept nodding like he was an idiot who’d just realized how deep in he was. My gaze held no sympathy; he’d made his decision. He was too cowardly to live without Liz. If he expected roses to grow from his cowardice, he deserved punishment.

I slapped his face. "Get to it, man! Open that garage door and give me a hand."

Within an hour we had Chandler under care in the basement. We were fortunate; he was the same blood type as Elizabeth and we had enough. A slow transfusion was feeding into him and we were monitoring his vital signs. Like Liz, his brain waves were an epileptic storm while his metabolism was a mere scratch above death. His face had become a gray-yellow bruise while his eyes were swollen shut and his lips were puffed to monstrous size. I pulled back the covering and checked his chest; a volcanic eruption of purple-red scar tissue was healing over his heart. All in all he was a gruesome sight, but a pleasing one. From experience I knew that even ordinary mortals could recover from fairly hideous states, and I assumed that Chandler's blood powers would eventually become active and heal him quicker.

Liz rested on a roll-away bed beside Jon. She was feverish and muttering as though in a nightmare. She hadn't regained full consciousness yet. Her face had healed and was alabaster pale . . . her inheritance of supernatural beauty was taking over, or trying to. David's suturing work on her throat had created swelling and scarring like dark lightning bolts. Other parts of her body were mutilated and scarred as well. The manner in which David had removed areas of dead tissue and sealed wounds had caused me to seriously doubt his skills as a plastic surgeon. I could only hope that vampiric healing and future operations would correct his errors. On the brighter side, Liz did show strong signs. Her fangs were already well developed.

David was somewhat calmer, having accepted his fate. "The point I'm still not clear on is their vampiric inheritance," he said. "Why do you keep questioning what powers Liz will have? Could it be that she’ll remain normal and have no thirst for blood?"

"She’ll likely have a taste for it. Not a craving. She will drink it ladylike - like wine. Jon was possessed by a vampire but he wasn't fully a vampire . . . so I can't be sure about Liz. Except that she will be a priestess in my Cult of the Millennium. Chandler was staked while two spirits inhabited the body -- the Baron got driven out while Chandler's spirit took refuge in his crystal. When I placed the crystal on the wound the spirit reentered and healing began. Jon had some powers of his own and the powers he received from the Baron would’ve remained in his blood. He may never be able to use them fully. Only the Baron has the experience to command them fully, and he is gone."

"I have one last question," David said, his expression hopeful. "Will Liz still love me?"

"Of course she will. She’ll know you saved her, helped her become a goddess, and love you all the more for it."

A shower and sleep improved my disposition and I was off to the heart of the financial district to settle a land purchase and clean up some other matters. I’d been extremely fortunate in that when I set out to purchase the sacred grounds and the surrounding lands, I found that I already owned much of the territory. There was one additional parcel I wanted to pick up -- a parcel that had been for sale for fifteen years.

Parking in a downtown lot, I got out and smiled at the structure of gold-tinted glass towering over me. My dreams for the Cult of the Millennium had come true. I had my vampires, I owned the land. I soared up to the clouds in my mind and in the elevator. My lawyer, George Drake, met me in his fortieth floor office. I signed the papers and left, the proud owner of Burchell Lake, an Ontario ghost town.

The town cost almost nothing and I wasn't worried about money anyway. I had money, Chandler had money. The ghost town I planned to have repaired as a residence for cult members. The priesthood or elite members would reside in another abandoned estate I owned. It was just outside of town. Repairs had been done here and there on the estate over a period of years. I had toyed with many ideas for it and had built some structures on the grounds, but I had never found a use for it, then the Millennium Transmissions happened and it became invaluable because of its location.

To David's credit he was able to procure an ambulance. It had been out of service for a while but it was still adequate, since all we really needed it for was the trip to Burchell Lake. In the musty gloom of the garage we transferred Jon Chandler and Liz to the ambulance beds. David went in and sealed up the house while I secured the passengers with canvass straps, then we were off on our way to the Millennium.

I took the wheel, mainly because I didn't trust David's driving. I was thinking that there was no room for foul-ups when Chandler began screaming in agony. Narrowly missing a Pepsi truck I pulled over to the curb and stared daggers at David, whom I assumed was responsible. He was; he’d opened the curtain so he could look out the back as we drove, and a beam of sunshine had swept in on Chandler, reddening the skin on his face.

"Close that curtain you idiot!" I snapped.

He did and Chandler's face relaxed. I remained silent, watching as Chandler drifted back to the sleep of the undead. David trembled with embarrassment as I eased out from the curb and headed for the freeway.

In a summer heat wave, the city dropped behind us into a lake of haze and we began a clip of freeway that passed some toylike bedroom communities -- houses set neatly on small hills. Buildings shrank to colored boxes and we hit a long blur of mixed forest. The faster I drove the slower we seemed to be going, until finally the unchanging scenery made the world seem stationary. David mumbled a warning about police helicopters, which I ignored. I knew the police wouldn't stop an ambulance.

The forest broke at a hamlet, then a small town. We were beyond the reach of the city now and passing into tiny communities, all of them similar whether they called themselves villages, towns, or in some cases, laughably small cities. Regency and Gothic houses and a heck of a lot of white paint, maple-lined streets, town halls of brick and stone blocks, clock towers, people fishing in roadside streams or loafing on Main Street.

Gambrel-roofed barns, hay rolls, grazing cattle and horses separated the towns, and a lot more paved roads lined with modern country houses and mansions had been constructed on the rivers and lakes. Farmers still had most of the land, but they were outnumbered by people who had purchased new country homes. Many city people had discovered that it was cheaper to buy a mansion in the country than it was to buy an ordinary house in the city. I was one of those people, only my estate wasn't newly constructed, though it had seen some renovation.

Milford was the last town before Burchell Lake. A small town of 6,000, it had a rustic look. After we passed through it we were in ghost country. As far as I knew, there was one other man who had an estate near Burchell Lake . . . other than him there weren't even squatters or Indians. Back when Burchell Lake lost its industry, it had died all the way. Mines have ghosts and towns that rely heavily on mines end up ghosts.

The road into the ghost town was mostly dirt. It had been gravel over crumbled asphalt originally but the stones were spread thin now. Blue weeds choked it in sections and it was canopied by maples. At some bends fallen branches and rotted logs bursting with wild flowers made it little more than a cow path. It probably would’ve been closed long ago if teenagers and rowdies hadn't kept it open with their drunken excursions to the lake. The rowdies also gave Burchell Lake the distinction of being the crime capital of the county, even though no one lived there.

We cruised through the town. It had an eerie feeling even in bright sunshine. The windows of the bleached buildings and houses all gaped with darkness and were fanged with jagged glass. An exhalation of cobwebs and rotted curtains led the mind to imagine twisted wraiths roaming within. Sagging porches, half-fallen swings, old wells, piles of discarded furniture and the weeds and vines creeping over everything created a mournful effect. Even the sunlight was a suspension of time, deep as old amber.

Dead as the place was, I was optimistic concerning it; hard working cult members would have it in shape in no time. Installing running water would be expensive. Phone lines, computers and other connections with the outside world I didn't want in the town. Isolation and mind control are two things I have never believed in, but to get in touch with the nature gods the cult members would have to be alone.

The road to the estate was winding and pot-holed. I went up it at a snail's pace, burning with fury because I'd paid good money to have it fixed. Some brush had been cleared and that was all. Deep tracks from transports were still evident, which meant I was partly responsible for the damage. I’d ordered a number of extremely heavy objects trucked in.

At last the estate appeared, almost buried behind hemlocks, black willows and poplars. Portions of it were shrouded in ivy, but turrets, gables and columns were visible along with the sparkle of windows. A rubble-stone wall ran next to the road, putting the grounds out of view. A big iron gate was hinged to two imitation Toltec stone warriors. The entire gate affair had been installed recently. I admired the mighty stone totems as I drove in. The drive was oval and I followed it, viewing the trimmed lilacs beneath a front picture window and geraniums dripping with blood-red blossoms along the walk. High up in a dormer window a face appeared then vanished as I turned onto a narrow drive that led around back.

The grounds at the rear of the estate were immense, stretching off to the forest on one side and a cedar bog on the other. One hundred yards from the house I’d planted a grove of widely spaced maples -- named the sacred grove. At its heart stood three Doric columns, a massive lintel and stone staircases; the structure was a partial reconstruction, built as a likeness of the ancient palace at Minos Crete. The chambers beneath it were to be the home of the vampiric members of the Cult of the Millennium.

I parked and switched off the engine. Getting out I stood in the shade of the mansion and waited. Shortly, my groundskeeper and handyman, Jackson, came out a rear service entrance. Jackson was large and bony, a distortion of his body and features as a whole gave him an Oriental air, but he was really of British descent. He had no real intelligence, yet he was clever in every way other than the philosophical. Right and wrong were whatever the boss said they were, and it was that quality that I liked about Jackson.

David hopped out. "Well, we have a servant. Maybe it’ll be comfortable here after all."

I frowned and stepped up to greet Jackson. David would find out who the servant was soon enough. Thinking it paramount that we get our patients to the safety of their chambers I put my mind to work, thinking of how to keep them out of the light. I decided to bring their coffins up and place them inside.

As I was pumping Jackson's hand, he gave me a confused look. "You’ve brought the people for the grove?" he said, as if they were plants or statues. "The holy people?"

"The holy people," I said, then I clapped him on the back and my head filled with the joy of a dream come true.

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CHAPTER 18: GHOST TOWN

Danny Waters gazed out the front window of Jack's Pumps & Billiards. Cornfields rested in the warmth of summer. He felt just about as idle. Across the highway a weeping willow swayed in the steam of the muggy afternoon, and like it he wouldn't move voluntarily. New hybrid rock music machine-gunned down the long hall from a brand-new chrome-grilled jukebox at the back. Rigged surround sound cooked in his head. His long dark hair and body swayed slightly with the beat. As the song came to a screeching halt, two green-blue pickup trucks skidded into the parking lot.

Danny turned and hollered into the din. "The bay boys are here!"

A small gang of teenage boys who'd been playing pool and video games answered the call by putting away their cues and access cards and shuffling up to the window. Outside, five bay boys had got out of their cars and were smoking cigarettes and weed and talking in a circle. They were fairly ordinary in appearance, wearing torn and faded jeans, sloppy T-shirts, baseball caps, short hair, and some had earrings.

Danny looked to Joey. "They want either dope or a fight."

Joey tossed his head, throwing back ragged blond hair. "Neither, because I know they're selling some strange Dust. And they never fight before dark."

"Maybe they came back to get even," Danny said. "With Jack I mean, for barring them from this joint."

"Naw," Joey said. "They got their own hangout, and it's a lot classier than this dive."

A fist of dust drifted by on the hot summer wind; the huddle broke up and the biggest bay boy, a guy named Freddy Woods, singled out Danny and waved for him to come out.

A blast of controlled distortion and fiery metal notes came out the door with Danny. He walked up to Freddy, careful to keep his look bored and unconcerned. "What's up? You pop by to hear some real sounds?"

"Not to hear that new metal shit, especially the stuff you guys play." Freddy shoved the guy beside him. "Put on one of our new MP3s, some hip hop conversion maybe."

Davey obeyed, leaping in the cab of the pickup with the agility of a monkey. A crash of percussion followed and a line was drawn. Danny had a wall of metal backing him and Freddy had a tower of drums and vocals.

"Thought you guys hated Milford?" Danny said.

"We do. We're on our way to Burchell Lake. Heard from the Skids that some weird Satanists are moving in out there."

"They're what you call New Millennium," Danny said. "Only a few of them are around, so far."

"A few's enough to pound out. You can come out and watch them get it if you want."

Danny nodded. He knew Freddy didn't like to do his own bragging. He wanted someone else to make him a legend, telling how five or six bay boys stomped hell out of a couple of scrawny Satanists. "Some of us might be popping out later. Beating on a couple of them isn't much good, though. Word is that a whole cult is moving in. It's that Rampa guy. The one with the stone monsters for a gate. He's bringing the cult in."

"Really," Freddy said. "I had a look at his place, it's done up pretty neat. He must be loaded, like my pop. What do you figure he's up to?"

"We’re the nearest family to him. That's why a couple churchers came up to talk to my mom this morning. They say this Rampa guy owes a big debt to a New Age devil, so he bought Burchell Lake and gave it to Satanists. Milford town council wants him out of there, but technically he's the mayor of Burchell Lake."

"B. Lake is bay boy property," Freddy said. "We’ll defend it, like the warriors of God -- pounding out the devil worshipers."

"I don't know if it's worth a fight," Danny said. "We'll always be able to use the lake, and the Satanists aren't likely to complain about our music. They know about growing herbs and probably new kinds of dope, too. Maybe we should be beating up the churchers. It's because of them that we can't loaf downtown or play our music. You know what their biggest worry is? It's that we'll get into orgies with these New Millennium chicks and spread AIDS."

"Girls, I never thought about that," Freddy said. "What we'll do is start by pounding out any guys out there. When we meet their girls we'll apologize and tell them we'll bring beer for any orgies they have."

"Sounds fine to me," Danny said, although he privately thought Freddy had rocks in his head.

"So we'll see you out there?"

"Yeah, later we'll come out."

As Freddy and his boys tore off Danny and the pool hall gang shuffled back inside to discuss the issue. It turned out the rest of the guys weren't partial to following Freddy anywhere, and especially not to Burchell Lake.

"It's a trap," Johnny said as screaming guitar notes climbed like a vine on the stone wall behind him. Deep lyrics about a suicide caused him to think. "I bet the bay boys are carrying. Freddy has a pistol, a Colt 2000 -- he pointed it at me once."

"I don't think they're planning on doing any shooting," Danny said.

George spoke up. "Maybe we get out there and the cult people are gone, then the bay boys ambush us."

It was Arty who cinched it. "Look at it this way. The bay boys wanna be black or they wanna be bad. They're wannabes no matter what they wanna be -- imitating some old dead gangs of idiots from L.A. and Toronto. They're followers and we'll be more followers if we follow them around."

"I'm going out with Joey, anyway," Danny said. "Somebody has to take a look at these Satanists. We'll take the dirt bikes in case we have to escape."

Red bled in the sky, tinting the haze trails revolving from the hot sun. Danny and Joey roared along a forest trail on their dirt bikes and emerged by a floating sedge meadow at the edge of the lake. A quarter mile more and they were in a clearing. A pigeon hawk soared overhead and moths got in their eyes. Coming down the trail between the forest and the cedar bog at the edge of Allan Rampa's property, they came upon an enormous stone wheel in the grass.

They stopped. "What's that?" Joey said.

"Someone hauled it over from the mansion," Danny said, pointing to a trail in the grass. "The way it has chunks broken off it and patterns that look ancient, I figure it's a marker. It marks one of Rampa's sacred spots. The churchers are already afraid of his sacred spots, saying they're spots where demons appear."

"Oh-oh, here comes Rampa's loony servant," Joey said, nodding to the distant figure of Jackson. "He's a big sucker. If the bay boys pick a fight with him they'll probably end up buried under this wheel."

Ripping up grass and earth they roared off and followed a faint bush trail down to the outskirts of the ghost town. Since they wanted to approach unnoticed, they parked behind a collapsed mill building and set off on foot for the center of town.

Strains of guitar music came to their ears and rose in volume with the breeze. It was heavy alternative rock, a new disc and not the sort of music the bay boys would play. The vocals lifted to a haunted howl and the destructive slamming of the guitars seemed to fit with the crumbling town.

If people were moving in, there were no other signs of it. Hawkweed, burdock, shrubs and fallen branches choked the side streets. They passed buildings thick with rot and moss and a shed so shrouded in climbing poison ivy that it could easily be mistaken for a small rise.

Spikes and rusty nails studded a pile of rotted timbers blocking their path. They went over a heap of broken red bricks and found that the rubble had been cleared from Main Street and stuffed in the alleys. A neat cleanup job was underway. Only last week the street, which was the town's only paved road, had been pocked with huge potholes. Now it was spread with a thick layer of gravel.

The music was coming from down around the bend. The old town hall crouched there at the heart of town. Danny took the lead, noting that the cult or Allan Rampa had only been working fix up Main Street. Warped boards and petrified shingles had been removed and new planks and posts gleamed like white teeth on some of the buildings. Fixing up the town hall first was the natural course to take; it had space for a large group and since the church steeple had tumbled, the hall clock tower was the only real landmark remaining in the town.

Staying in the shadow of the building walls they came to the corner and halted. Cautiously they peeked around. Freddy, the bay boys and a gang of greasy-haired skids were sitting on new benches placed in the parkette out front of the town hall. It was an odd sight; the stone face of the hall had been blasted clean and flowering weeds and wild flowers grew in patches in the parkette, almost like the work of a gardener. Cars and trucks were parked in a circle and the loud music was coming from big speakers in the back of a truck belonging to the bay boys. They had beer but it didn't seem like much of a party; the boys were all sitting, toking and smoking and giving the refurbished hall gloomy glances.

"The bay boys won't hassle us while the skids are here," Danny said. "Let's go down and see what's depressing everyone."

"It's obvious," Joey said. "No one to beat up."

Gravel crunching like toast underfoot, Danny and Joey walked down the middle of the road to the park. Freddy spied them immediately and walked through the weeds to meet them. The superman crest on his T-shirt didn't suit him; he looked more like Bizarro.

"So what's the score?" Danny said.

"Score is that the Satanists might be hip to our action," Freddy said. "We're waiting to see if any show. If any do then we . . . . " He picked the blossom off a tall buttercup and crushed it in his hand.

"Did you search the hall?" Danny said.

"Nope," Freddy said. "It's dark in there and the skids say that Satanists are back stabbers. If they got half a chance you'd be hit from behind and spiked to a cobwebbed wall."

"The skids are scaring them off with that music," Joey said.

"That's not what they say," Freddy said. "The music is supposed to draw them to us, like moths when they get dizzy and come into your headlights to get squashed."

"It won't work," Danny said. "Boring drumbeats, flute playing like the pipes of Pan or weird chanting is what would draw them."

"My brother's got a tape of chanting Cree Indians," Freddy said. "I wish I would've brought it along. Wait a minute, I got an idea -- we can do some chanting."

Spinning on his heels, eyes alight, Freddy hollered at the others. "Turn off that shit music! All right! Everybody! There are a couple Satanists around somewhere 'cause Armando saw them earlier. What we're gonna do is make a circle, dance and do some Indian chants. If Satanists are here, they're sure to come out and join us."

Some of the skids looked at Freddy like he might be crazy, others knew he was crazy. Maybe it was his superman crest, but they still obeyed him and converged to form a circle at the center of the parkette.

"Get your filthy hand away from me," Freddy said as Davey tried to hold his hand. "There will be no hand holding, just dancing and chanting. Get over to the truck and put on that new drumbeat I mixed."

Sunset's blood-red sky had purple at the edges and twilight was already giving birth to grotesque shadows. Hoods of darkness crowded the alleyways and it was impossible to guess which were illusions and which might be real Satanists. The music player in Freddy's truck began to blare, a steady beat, and the boys began to dance, chant and howl like Indians. In the beginning they were little more than a shouting mob, but as they danced self-hypnosis took over and their voices began to blend into a theme that provided an anchor of cadence for the more extreme individual modulations.

Sweat beaded their faces, colored like shades of Indian corn in the twilight. Most of them were high and getting off on refining their howls and chants to sensible disorder. They didn't notice the moon rising or how fast the night was falling, and they were unaware of the river of mist that was creeping out of the forest and gathering in the streets.

Twenty minutes raced by and the chant reached its crescendo, then the beat ended. The boys stopped and looked around the circle, checking to see if any satanists or possibly the devil himself had joined them.

"Hey! We called up a spook fog!" Danny hollered. "Look at that!"

The circle broke as they flung sweat from their foreheads and staggered out to look around. Mist ran in patches, wisps and tentacles through the whole town. In places the last beams of the sun created eerie gold columns that stood against the purple and black palace of early night. Only the parkette was clear, and surprising as the situation was, the boys were unconcerned. They saw no devils so they began to mill about, popping open tins of beer and lighting weed and cigarettes.

Things were settling, no one was expecting anything. Davey went over to Freddy's pickup and turned on the headlights. The beams cut through the mist obscuring the town hall and revealed someone standing on the steps.

"Hey!" Joey yelled. "It's a Satanist!"

They all turned to the hall and saw the figure illumined in the beams. The face was obscured by shadow and they assumed the person was a man. He wore a hooded black robe with flared sleeves, tied with a rope braided from blue, white and red strands.

Chanting, dancing, weed and the spooky mist had drained the boys of fight, except for Freddy whose temperament was sadistic. "Come on over for a beer," he yelled. "We won't hurt you. We were just about to drink a toast to the devil."

The hooded figure said nothing; mist swirled and tunneled in the headlamp beams. The other boys began to whisper to one another as Freddy took some slow paces toward the steps.

An owlish cry echoed from the woods, and then there was loud stamping, sounding like feet pounding the floor at a concert hall.

Freddy spun around. "Davey, shut off the music!"

"I'm not playing any sounds. No one is."

The pounding continued and grew in volume; the sound of a marching host; enough pounding feet for an army of thousands of Satanists to be coming out of the dark."

"Let's get out of here!" hollered one of the skids.

Shadows in the mist transformed to Satanists in the boys' minds and the warm glow of beer and dope became a hair-raising charge of fear. In panic they broke and ran for their vehicles.

"Wait, stop!" Freddy yelled. "It's a trick! The Satanists are playing a disc to scare us!"

Doors slammed, engines growled, headlights came on and tires booted gravel as the skids and some of the bay boys fled. A minute later only Freddy, four bay boys, Danny and Joey remained. The hooded Satanist also remained, unmoving in the funneling mist by the steps.

"This is bullshit!" Freddy yelled. He dashed to his car, snatched his Colt 2000 pistol from under the seat and headed back to the steps.

"I don't like it," Danny said to Joey. "If Freddy shoots that guy It‘ll mean big trouble."

"He’s bluffing," Joey said.

"Come down here and drop that hood!" Freddy commanded, waving the gun.

The figure in black had turned and was ascending the steps. Stopping, it turned and came down. At the bottom of the steps in the bright headlights, the hood was pushed back. Lustrous dark hair spilled out, it was the face of a beautiful young woman; her skin glowing white and her lips forming a cherry heart. It was Liz Kanter's face.

Freddy whistled long and loud. "Don't be shy, baby. We'll give you what you want. Say, why don't you open that robe and show us what you've got?"

Danny looked to Joey and whispered. "Keep back. It's a trap or something. Freddy is forgetting that someone had to be playing that music; there has to be more of them watching."

"Gotcha."

Liz spoke, her voice a silky invitation. "I need someone to help me undress." She undid the braid rope fastening her robe and gave them a quick flash of her breasts before closing it back up.

Freddy nearly keeled over. The other bay boys, Danny and Joey couldn't believe it was happening.

"Go over and take her robe," Freddy said to Davey. "Put it in the car for now."

A panting parody of teenage lust, Davey scooted over. Freddy glanced around, trying to make sure no male Satanists were lurking in the mist. He saw a million ghosts, none of them quite real, and when he turned back, Davey had come to a halt in front of Liz. He stood there like a statue.

"Don't just stand there! Take her robe!" Freddy yelled.

Davey refused to move, and Liz opened her robe wide. Everyone strained to see, but shadows, glare and Davey blocked their view. Only Davey saw and he came to life with a scream . . . one that was cut short by Liz's hand, which shot out and caught him by the throat.

Davey was short and she lifted him so that his legs dangled and kicked air. Pulling him close she clamped her other hand over his head and twisted it around like it was a light bulb in a socket. Vertebrae popped loudly, his eyes bulged and a bloody tongue snaked out of his gaping mouth. There were stunned gasps from the boys as she dropped him in a heap on the cement.

The bay boys ran through the weeds and mist swifter than ghosts in flight, turned on their engines and fishtailed off down the gravel road. Freddy was the only bay boy who remained with Danny and Joey, who were taking quiet steps backward into the darkness.

"You killed a member of my gang!" Freddy screamed hysterically. "No one kills a bay boy!"

Freddy shook all over. He raised the Colt and fired, hitting her in the chest area with a slug. A wet sticky hole exploded in her robe, but she didn't collapse. With his free hand Freddy rubbed his eyes, then his face firmed up and he smoked four more bullets into her. The slugs ripped down her chest and belly, splattering up blood and gore like licks of bursting mud. She staggered back and hissed, but she didn't die.

One bullet was left in the clip, and she was advancing. Freddy took careful aim with his shaky hand. The hammer struck and a bullet smashed into Liz's forehead. It took a chunk of scalp and bone right off, leaving a section of brain exposed.

She went down on her knees. Freddy grunted with satisfaction then with horrified amazement. A milky substance was gathering in the wound and bubbling as it sealed it up.

She bowed her head as if in prayer, then she cast off her robe and rose. Her skin glowed white, and huge purple-black scars showed. Scars jagged as lightning bolts; she looked like the victim of an axe murderer come back to life, and she was advancing.

Danny and Joey remained rooted to the spot and they were both too frightened to even choke out words. As they watched she suddenly took off with a power of transvection, flying through the air to Freddy. Freddy stumbled to one knee and put up his hands to block her, but she landed in front of him and swept his hands and the gun away.

She seized Freddy by the throat, and her long nails cut into the flesh, slicing cartilage, muscle and tendons. Her expression cold and wicked, she stared directly into his fear-widened pupils. He was still breathing, and watching, transfixed, as her nails worked like scalpels. Skillfully, she plucked out a large vein, the jugular vein, and she worked it into a loop without damaging it . . . then her nails cut more flesh and she squeezed out his two carotid arteries.

Her lips curled back in a snarl, revealing fangs, and in a calculated movement she used a crooked nail to sever all three veins. Blood spurted into her mouth; she forced Freddy down and sank her fangs in deep. His body jerked and squirmed, but her lock on it held.

Freddy fell limp and dead and she continued feeding, making gross slurping noises and sounds of guttural swallowing.

Having seen enough, Danny and Joey fled into the misty night, praying they wouldn't run headlong into more vampires. They were off the cleared road and on lumpy, split ground that seemed to shift underfoot. Tall weeds rose before them, appearing out of deep shadows and heaps of trash. Side streets and alleys were blocked and whited out; the ghost town had become a looming hazard, jutting with treacherous decay.

Not wanting to get caught up or spikes in their feet they ducked back to the open road, flying half a block through gravel before coming to a wreck. A truck lay in the gravel; the skids had rolled it and abandoned it there. Its faint shine made it an outsider in the dust-coated town.

They halted for the barest moment and were about to dodge left when a shift in the patches of mist alerted them. An unknown something sparkled with rainbow colors and slithered with a hideous fluidity. It was long and arched, insect-like and more of a ghost than real.

But it was real enough to send them stumbling back; and like a strong wind, fear sent them scrambling around and past the pickup. They never glanced back to see it skittering in the stones behind them; sprinting with the energy of bandits they swallowed up several blocks, finally coming to a safe halt under a moldy slab of overhanging roof.

The silence cut to the bone, trails of fog drifted through crouched and broken buildings, but most of the mist had thinned. Ahead, the street was a dim corridor dead-ending at a wall of night.

In their haste they’d lost their bearings, and were trying to guess their way to the bikes. As they studied the street side, shadows coalesced farther up the road. Bubbles of red floating on the gloom caught their eyes and they stared as a robed congregation appeared.

Initially the sight inspired amazement more than terror. The road seemed to be casting up an illusion of medieval times, a plodding host of monks.

They hesitated, not sure whether to escape or greet them, and after several moments it was something odd about their gate that named them as dark forces. Their walk was lifeless and as measured as the beat of a metronome - a dead march. To greet them would be to approach witches, specters or the walking dead.

A lone figure walked in the lead, dressed in a wine robe, the hood thrown back. Vague features gained detail, it was impossible to tell if it was male or female. The eyes were glowing ochre and if the nose wasn't in shadow, then it was no more than a gaping hole. Vines and weeds were matted into its hair and saliva of slime and blood oozed from its lipless mouth.

Danny and Joey looked at one another, and they didn't waste any words. Spinning on their heels they ran into an alley. Leaping, climbing, using any handholds and footholds available, they made it through the obstacle course of rubble. The alley opened on a small field of weeds, and they could see the old mill building on the far side. Moving swiftly to the back of the mill they reached their bikes. Danny paused to vomit, and then they started the engines and roared off, both of them silently swearing to stay away from Burchell Lake.

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CHAPTER 19: BIRDS

Danny Waters rested in the shade of a cottonwood in the front yard of the stone mansion his father had purchased fifteen years ago, back before a shattered local economy had drained the life blood out of nearby Burchell Lake. Down the road a dark chevy sedan kicked up dust as it approached. Danny spotted his pal Joey in the passenger seat and Nathan Sharp at the wheel. He figured Nathan Sharp looked exactly like a Nathan Sharp; tall and handsome, but with a fox-like face that made him the sort you wouldn't trust with your girlfriend. Nathan's eyes were gray; his hair sprinkled with silver on the short-cropped sides and black at the widow's peak. Although Nathan was a Mounty, he was rarely in uniform. His everyday clothing served as a uniform; he always wore dark trousers, a blue shirt and a western tie. His gun was an old Taurus police revolver that had as much polish on its exterior as it had metal. He shunned newer weapons like Tasers and pepper spray.

Nathan blasted the horn as he drove up the steep driveway and Danny popped up and went out to greet him. Burchell Lake remained a fright zone, Nathan wouldn't be able to deal with it, but Danny knew he had to warn him.

Joey got out quickly, his face a tense mask. He was obviously very uncomfortable. Danny had told him Nathan would be difficult if given such an unbelievable story.

Nathan got out slowly, acting about as official as a cowboy stopping in at the saloon. He didn't have his notebook in hand. He left it on the dash, and Danny took that to mean he hadn't believed any of Joey's story.

"Thought your hair'd be white, Danny," Nathan said.

"How's that?"

"Mine would be if I saw the stuff Joey's talking about."

"Don't worry, I saw it."

"You boys are bad actors. I should charge you with mischief. Sending me out to view a body that isn't there."

"What about blood? You should have found blood?" Danny said.

"What would blood be evidence of? It would just mean that Freddy and the boys were fighting out there."

Having no answer, the boys shrugged in the face of Nathan's supreme confidence, then the front door burst open and Danny's fifteen-year-old sister, Lana, dashed out. She was followed by Danny's father, Morris Waters, a dark complexioned, stocky man. Morris was about as rushed in his manner as Nathan. He came down the walk slowly while Lana ran ahead.

Lana beamed, her smile full. "Freddy had his throat ripped out," she said. "He'll never call me sugar boobs again."

Nathan laughed. "Don't count on it. I think Freddy is around somewhere."

"Here about the vampires, Nathan?" Morris said.

"Yeah, but I'm surprised there was nothing on the radio," Nathan said, alluding to the fact that Morris Waters owned CLBQ, the Milford radio station.

"Oldies, country music and local news, that's what my listeners want," Morris said. "I’ll be in trouble if I start a vampire scare and it turns out to be nothing."

"So, you don't really believe in the vampire?" Nathan said.

"I believe something weird happened to Freddy and Davey. I'm not sure what. Guess it's up to you to find out."

"Not really. They've only been gone three days and Mavis Beasley says she saw them last night at sunset, walking along the old Burchell Lake rail line. The whole thing may be a clever hoax. I think the boys got dope from some of the cult people and are reporting hallucinations."

Danny looked to Joey and raised his eyebrows. It was clear that Nathan would be no help, especially if he believed Mavis Beasley, who reported UFOs regularly.

"Hum," Morris said. "If that new cult is into drugs you'll have to investigate."

"It's not my territory," Nathan said. "It's not anybody's territory. There's no tax money to pay for police work there. The Milford police, the provincial police or Mounties, whoever happens to be passing through, polices Burchell Lake. I received a letter from Mr. Rampa, the new mayor of the town, saying he is fixing it up for his religious colony. They are New Age Wiccans according to the letter, and they sometimes hold outdoor ceremonies to honor the nature gods. It's all legal, so once reports start coming in about Satanists in the woods we'll just phone Mr. Rampa to verify that it's a religious ceremony."

"I don't know what to say about the town on my radio shows," Morris said. "It wouldn't be fair to attack the new people, but my regular listeners are mostly Christians so I can't say anything good about cultists. I'm sure there’ll be trouble from people who want the Wiccans out."

"Trouble means the town council comes to me," Nathan said. "Right now I'm working with the Milford Police, investigating that new nudist colony up near Cedardale Beach. A bunch of reverends and councilors are upset, so they have us peeking through the bushes, hoping we can make some arrests. That's one reason why I'm not rushing into this cult business . . . I know council will have us out there in the woods soon enough."

"I see," Morris said.

"By the way," Nathan said. "I passed Lucas Wickens on the road. He says he can find Freddy by following the birds."

"Ornithomancy," Morris said. "Lucas claims a medicine man taught him how to track people by watching the patterns of birds in flight."

Nathan grinned. "I call it a wild goose chase."

"Maybe the Indians invented it as a way to make learning about birds fun," Lana said.

"You're probably right," Morris said. "We can go out with Lucas, but if we find Freddy it’ll be luck and not birds."

"Freddy always was for the birds," Danny said, "but we still have to find him and see what really happened."

"You can call me and report your findings," Nathan said. "Right now I have to take off and hunt nudists."

Danny, Joey and Lana watched Nathan turn off the drive to the highway and disappear under the canopy of maples. Joey and Danny felt at the mercy of forces beyond their control. Something evil was happening and the forces of law and order couldn't see it to deal with it. People tended to see only their own kinds of evil, so Danny knew it was a matter of finding people who knew of this kind of evil. They were turning back to the house when a flash of sunlight on chrome caught their eyes. A bicycle was moving down on the highway.

"Here comes Lucas," Lana said, "on his bird-watching bike."

"He sure couldn't follow any birds in that old Ford of his. It sounds like a bucket of bolts in a paint shaker when he starts it up."

The deep-tread mountain bike climbed the Waters' driveway easily. As a cyclist, Lucas was an obvious dilettante. He was overweight and Danny figured that his various bulges would have earned him the nickname Lumpy at any high school. He was much too old for high school now, and other than his tropic-palm shirt his most noticeable characteristic was that he was balding and trying to hide it by combing a huge shank of hair over from his temple.

Lucas came to a halt and put the bike on its kickstand. His head shone, waxed by perspiration, and his hair fell in a big wet lick on his left side. Pulling out a handkerchief he dried his forehead. "Is Morris here?” he said.

"He heard you were coming so he went inside to change," Danny said.

"Good. I guess you're all coming out with me?"

"Sure. Why not?" Joey said.

"What we find may not be pleasant," Danny said. "And we'll have to be careful."

"Really," Lucas said, his eyes shining like coins. "You warning me. Now there's a switch. You wouldn't want to know about some of the things I've led the police to."

"I guess it's you that’s leading them on their search for nudists," Lana said.

"No. I hate nudity. Couldn't stand to watch it," Lucas said. "You should get dressed little girl. You put me in mind of a nudist. Bare legs can be a bare invitation."

"In your case, Lucas, bare legs are a bare invitation for birds to nest," Lana said.

Morris emerged from the house. He’d changed and was carrying a canteen and a can of bug repellant.

"When we find the corpse we can drive the flies away with that," Lana said.

"I'm not quite that morbid," Morris said. "I brought it in case we get near swampy areas."

Lucas took a small canvass pack from the carrier of his bike and opened the flap. "I have a snake-bite kit, superenergy chocolate, salt tablets, you name it. This roll-on bug repellant is the best. That spray does nothing."

"You'd think we were going on a safari," Danny said. "I go out in the fields all the time, and I've never needed a survival kit."

"It's different when you're young," Lucas said. "Get a little older and you can't take chances. When I was twenty I would have found Freddy by running every trail between here and Burchell Lake."

Danny turned and squinted into the sun. He smiled, certain the only running Lucas did when he was younger was to escape bullies like Freddy. His moment of amusement faded, a milky haze was forming around the sun. It was the sort of humid sky that came with the hottest days and with the mercury already well up it was going to be a sticky meltdown in the fields.

Lana giggled causing Danny to look back at Lucas. He’d taken a forked stick, a divining rod, out of his pack, and was looking down it like a surveyor getting a line of sight. "This is no time for fooling," Lucas said to Lana.

"I know what she's giggling about," Danny said.

"What's that?" Lucas said.

"One time this guy named Allen Getty came over with a divining rod and we went around with him looking for water. Then dad came home and told us that this whole area is honeycombed with underground caves and streams. If that guy's rod worked right he would’ve found water just about everywhere."

"I see," Lucas said as Lana giggled some more, "only I'm not looking for a well dig. I use this rod for following lines of flight. When you track birds you have to be accurate."

"There's something to sight on," Morris said, pointing to the dark shape of a turkey vulture wheeling in the sky to the south.

Lucas stiffened, his movements unwinding slowly as he followed the vulture with his divining rod. It spiraled up and went out of view in the haze.

"We go this way," Lucas said, pointing in a direction about thirty degrees to the left of where the vulture vanished.

"Your line of sight is sure different from mine," Danny said.

"I know the angles," Lucas said.

"That's odd, a vulture being up here," Morris said.

"They're not all as uncommon as you might think," Lucas said. "We’re about fifty miles northeast of their territorial band. They venture up here sometimes. Vultures are a great bird to follow, especially when you're looking for corpses."

"Maybe it found Freddy's corpse," Lana said.

"I hope not," Lucas said. "I don't want this vampire stuff to be true. I heard about a town in Mexico that was destroyed by a nest of vampires. The exterminators went in and killed everyone with fire."

"You mean there are people who exterminate vampires?" Danny said.

"There are people that are experts on them," Lucas said. He stopped and rifled a side pocket of his pack, coming out with some dog-eared business cards. "I have the cards of some occult specialists here."

"Could I borrow those cards?" Morris said. "I might want to talk to some of those people. Maybe even interview them on the radio if the situation gets worse."

"Sure," Lucas said, handing Morris the cards.

Morris looked at the top card; Mike Wilde was the name on it, and there was a list of strange happenings he investigated.

Lucas got himself prepared, and then led the way as they set off in the direction of the turkey vulture. Moving in single file they went down the rise to an open field. There they fanned out in a V-formation with Lucas as the lead goose, and their aspect was more that of country people out for a walk than a search party. Perhaps they should have been looking for bodies in the crab grass instead of the sky, but as it was they were being led by a stick and a bird.

An aerial view of the territory would show a patchwork of clearings and forest leading up to Burchell Lake; at the end of the first clearing they came to snowberry bushes rowed at the edge of a forested tract of land. The vulture never wheeled back out of the haze so they gave up on it and went down a trail. Evergreens towered overhead, sunbeams made heavenly spotlights in places and the cool shade was home to some mosquitoes. Although blackbirds and finches darted by, Lucas never tried to sight by them . . . he just marched ahead dutifully until the trail opened at another field.

It was a meadow, fragrant with the ferment of summer greenery and undulating with tall weeds. They moved through islands of wild carrot and goldenrod to a sea of clover. Golden-winged warblers, meadow larks, wrens, gray jays and monarch butterflies were bursting with song and flitting in the rising breeze. Lucas began to follow flight paths, trying to get a direction, and he looked silly halting here and there to track a lark or jay with his forked rod. Sometimes Lucas would cup his hand against his brow and gaze off to the far end of the meadow, his expression mystic like he might have spotted the lost continent of Lemuria, cradle of all civilization, out there somewhere in the heat shimmies.

The journey had been mostly without conversation, mainly because no one wanted to interfere with Lucas' supposed powers of ornithomancy . . . but now Lucas raised a hand as a signal for discussion and they gathered in a huddle.

"The direction I get is to the closed CNR tracks," Lucas said. "That's where Mavis says she spotted Freddy."

"Amazing," Danny said. "You must have been tracking one of Mavis' parrots?"

"Don't get smart," Lucas said.

"Look," Lana said, pointing to a small cloud of blackbirds descending on a distant copse.

"We have a powerful sign there," Lucas said. "Let's move."

Lucas began to pace across the clearing, his hips slashing from side to side like a speed walker's. The others followed and they came to a thick band of saplings at the edge of the copse and pressed through to denser brush. Thorns bit at them as they made their way to open woods. Bright sunshine and a body of water sparkled at the center of the copse.

Rather than Freddy they found a pond ringed by yellow birches. Blackbirds chirped frenetically in two oaks on the far side of the pond. The scene itself was idyllic. Two swans were afloat among lily pads in the clear spring-fed pond. Dragonflies hovered near the shore.

"Maybe they're hiding underwater, breathing through reeds," Lana said.

"Guess we're on the wrong track here," Lucas said. "We might as well head over to the tracks."

Using his divining rod or his mental maps, Lucas didn't say which, he led them to a trail that took them over to the abandoned tracks. They went over a ditch, up to the rotten ties and began to stroll down the rusted, weed-covered tracks. It was hazy on the line and they couldn't see far; in many places it was only the grade that revealed they were on an abandoned rail line. It didn't seem at all likely that Freddy or Davey would come walking out of the haze. What seemed likely was that the hunt was a waste of time.

An old supply shack appeared at the side of the tracks. It was dilapidated, with opaque plastic sheets tacked to the windows. Some streaks of paint revealed that the structure had once been a fire-red color, though now it was mostly bleached gray wood.

"If a couple boys wanted to hide out near Burchell Lake, this would be the perfect place for it," Lucas said.

"Not really," Morris said. "There are many abandoned buildings, some of them a fair bit better than this shack."

"Come on, we'll take a look," Lana said. "They may have been in there."

Hopping in single file across a tiny ditch, they left the tracks and walked up to the shack. A rusty lock was on the door but it wasn't fastened. Lucas took command and was about to open the door, then he looked back to say something to the others and saw a flash of black in the sky.

"Hey," Lucas said," I think our vulture just flew over. You people check the shack. I want to see if I can sight him."

"If the vulture is here it must mean the shack is the place to check. This is the end of the line," Danny said.

"That's not my feeling," Lucas said as he walked away, staring up at the blurred sun.

Morris looked at Lucas, shrugged his shoulders and stepped up to take off the lock. Rust coated his fingertips as he removed it. Frowning, he dropped it in the dirt and paused to clean his fingers with a Kleenex. The door creaked open and some flakes of rust showered off the hinges. A putrid smell leaked out and Morris peeked inside; enough light was shining through cracks and the open door for him to see something repulsive on the floor. Partly because of fright, and because Lana was behind him, he slammed the door shut.

"You don't want to see what's in there, Lana," Morris said.

"Come on, Dad. Don't play games," Lana said, then she wormed around him, pulled the door open a crack and squeezed inside.

Morris threw up his arms. Lana screamed, fell back and knocked the door open wide and scrambled out. Gagging from the foul odor and gasping at what she'd seen, she bent over and held her knees.

Danny and Joey didn't hesitate. They rushed in the shack and glanced around. Their eyes fell on the carcass of a large animal on the plank floor. Closer inspection showed that it had been a white-tailed deer. Now it was desiccated, spotted with mold in parts; its legs were shriveled into unnatural bends like blackened pipe cleaners. Toadstools grew on its sunken belly. A powerful, earthy stench like the rot of an open grave radiated from it.

Morris entered, carrying a long stick he'd grabbed outside. He prodded at the carcass and the skin cracked like parchment, revealing crumbling flesh and gray mold. There were no feasting ants or maggots.

"What do you make of it, Dad?" Danny said.

"The blood has been drained and the head taken. Looks like the work of Satanists . . . people who use blood and skulls for rituals of some sort."

"What about vampires . . . would they take animal blood?" Joey said.

"I don't know. Let's ask Lucas," he said. He turned, looked out the door and saw only Lana.

"Where’s Lucas?" Joey said.

Lana pointed to the woods. "He's gone off in search of his vulture."

Danny stepped back out; he'd had enough of the foul odor. Gazing at the woods, he saw heavy mist rolling in the trees. Thick as dry ice at a concert it whited-out nearly everything. "If Lucas went far we may never find him," he said.

Morris stepped out. "It's clearer by the tracks. This mist is a ground creeper. We can go over by those boulders and wait. If we go in after him we'll only get separated and lost."

While his eyes had been on the sky, Lucas had unwittingly walked into the fog, and even when he did notice it he paid it little attention. He could still see his turkey vulture; it was a black streak appearing now and again just over the treetops. He couldn't quite make it out but it had to be a vulture to dive and soar like it did.

A short walk took him to a limestone bluff. The crater below was mist filled, but a solid path led to the bottom. He guessed that it was a spot where an open pit mine had been abandoned after a minimum of excavation.

Lucas thought about returning for the others before heading down. It came to him that they might be afraid of the mist, and he saw a black streak swoop down into the crater. Fascinated, he started down the path, figuring the others would have sense enough to wait for him at the shack.

The dark bird streaked by again, and this time he recognized it - not a vulture at all . . . it was a bat as big as a vulture.

The idea of a bat with the wingspan of a vulture caused Lucas' flesh to crawl. He decided it was unwise to follow such a creature. He stopped, and as he did he heard a low growl at the top of the bluff. A bear or a wolf he didn't want to confront; keeping his steps quiet, he headed down the trail.

Toward the bottom the trail grew hazardous. The rock was damp, slippery and trickling with water. Massive chunks leaned precariously at the edge where wide fissures had ripped the stone. Whole sections of rust-colored rock had tumbled in places and at other points the edge looked too crumbly to trust. It narrowed to a ribbon then a thread as he crept along. His heart began to pound so wildly he was afraid it would shake him loose, and even when the trail widened slightly he kept using handholds. There were fossil shells in the rock, which was no longer limestone. Only the top shelf had been limestone, and this new rock had a slick slimy feeling that touched him with the mist so that it seemed like enormous damp hands were on him. It was similar to being in the gripping tentacles of some creature at the bottom of the sea.

It became more than he could bear, he was trembling and feared he would slip. Taking his divining rod out of his belt, he tossed it down. It disappeared in spreading streams of mist and clattered on stone. It had only fallen a scant few meters. Heartened, he gathered his nerves and completed his descent.

At the bottom he sat on a block of glacial rock and caught his breath. He wondered what had possessed him to make him enter this crater; it sure wasn't common sense to search for missing persons in blinding mist. The sun was a red smear above, the mist shifted before him in curtains, veils and fragments of lace, its smooth dance revealing nothing other than jagged heaps of rock and some shrubbery.

Lucas' jaw settled on his flabby chin and a glum look saddened his face. He'd been trying to build a name for himself, trying to work his powers of ornithomancy into a tiny business that would pull in some extra bucks, allow for free travel and grant him the prestige he’d always craved. Now he was lost, trapped in a mine crater. His plan had backfired miserably. Certainly he'd been anxious to help Morris Waters find Freddy, because Morris owned CLBQ radio, which could give his career a big boost. All CBLQ could do now was make him a laughing stock, the joke of the county.

His emotional misery and the clamminess combined, making him dizzy with anxiety. He groaned, sounding like a man with an abscessed tooth, then his eyes brightened; a curtain of mist had dissolved and he could see big timbers and a tangle of mountain maple shrubbery. The squared timbers were supports for the mouth of a mine shaft.

So it was more than an open pit. Tunnels existed. Perhaps the two big birds hadn't led him astray; two because he still believed it was a vulture he’d followed initially. The bat came with the mist. There was a good possibility Freddy and Davey had come down here and managed to get trapped in the mine shaft. Perhaps they'd been following the bat. If he could locate them or their bodies he'd still have a claim to fame when he was rescued.

Euphoria kicked away feelings of personal loss; Lucas stood up and approached the mine shaft. The bat had likely gone in there, but bats weren't dangerous, and he must have gotten an improper view of it in the mist. It was likely much smaller, just an ordinary brown bat, which was a common fellow in Ontario.

Pushing through the bushes he inspected the timbers, at first tapping one daintily. The wood had a solid knock and there were no rock falls at the entrance. Taking a flashlight out of his pack he clicked it on and entered.

Lucas experienced an immediate drop in humidity; it wasn't misty or dusty inside and it was comfortably cool. A shaft, neatly cut and angled, ran before him. He took a few cautious steps and came to some char on the floor. It was from a recent small fire. He poked at the ashes with his foot then shone the beam farther down the shaft, finding it clear but narrowing.

There was no doubt in his mind; he could picture the sequence of events. Freddy and Davey had entered the shaft and then gone in too far, where through carelessness they'd likely been trapped in a rock fall. If the collapsing stone hadn't crushed them, starvation and hypothermia had done the job. Pressing ahead, he figured on locating the bodies or the rubble covering them, then he would wait for the mist to clear and either make his way back up or wait for help. If he had to spend the night, that was okay as he was safe in the shaft and had water and energy chocolate bars.

The walls became cave-like and rough as he moved down the narrowing tunnel, so much were his thoughts hopeful fantasies that his powers of observation declined and he suddenly found himself tumbling over some loose rocks and into the void. Seizing a knob of stone he broke his fall and pulled himself back up. Lying on his side, he shook the urge to scream out of his head. His arm had nearly been torn from the socket and an enormous scrape burned on his left leg.

Checking the flashlight, he found that it worked; fortunately it’d been fastened to his belt. So that was it, the shaft suddenly ended at a sheer drop. No doubt Freddy and Davey hadn't been lucky and were now at the bottom.

Flashing the beam about, Lucas saw the end wall and a hole that fell away, nearly a sheer drop. Looking down, he could see a rounded stalagmite but no corpses. The mine shaft had met up with one of the limestone caverns that riddled the underground in the Burchell Lake area. Lucas had been in some of the caverns before, he knew they were ancient and had been created by an acid effect of water and limestone. Once in the caverns you would eventually come to an exit, the best way being to follow the streams that were still running.

The drop was too steep for Lucas, and now wasn't the time for broken bones. He decided to go back and wait for assistance. He could tell the others that Freddy and Davey had been horsing around in the mine and died in a fall.

Wincing, he drew up his stiff leg and found that flexing it didn't remove the soreness or help the terrible burning of the scrape. He picked around in his pack for some ointment, knowing that if it didn't help his throbbing shoulder, he wouldn't be able to climb. As he was removing the cap, he heard a low growl. "Oh-no, the beast, whatever it is, has followed me," he thought.

More growling and echoes of it moved in the dark. His scalp lifted and he could feel hair prickling where he had none. He lifted the flashlight and swept the beam down the shaft, illumining an approaching man. He could make out a superman crest on the man's T-shirt.

Lucas couldn't grasp it; a human being growling like a rabid animal, then he raised the beam and understood. He saw Freddy, only he wasn't human anymore. Large crooked fangs protruded from a face that was birthmark red and popping with purple veins. Yellow slime filmed the eyes, yet Freddy was aware of Lucas' presence, blood hunger being his new vision.

The hopelessness of the situation sank in; Lucas felt urine trickling down his leg. Freddy shuffled closer and it became apparent that the source of the growling was a hole gashed in his throat. More than the fangs, the gangrene-rimmed pit and the guttural noises issuing from it terrified Lucas. His eyes were glued to it until the last moment when Freddy was leaning and drooling over him, and then Lucas simply lost his fear of falling and pushed himself over the edge.

Lucas' clothing caught on the rough wall, breaking his fall, and the drop wasn't quite sheer so the friction of the slide slowed him. He was thrown across the cave floor and the flashlight shattered as he rolled. He slipped in and out of consciousness and nerve flashes. Finally he came alert. His left wrist pulsed horribly and he found it to be a bruised and broken lump lolling at the end of his arm. Shock was killing the pain and surprisingly his legs worked.

He stood up, knuckles of pain pounding all over him and he could feel a Cyclopean lump on his forehead. After a long dazed moment he realized he wasn't in total darkness. There was a faint phosphor glow down the cavern. He hoped Freddy hadn't tumbled down after him; listening carefully he detected angry hissing coming from above. Without hesitation he moved down the cavern toward the light.

The narrow passage opened on another section of the caverns that was of ballroom dimensions. In spite of his battered condition and pain he looked with amazement at the brightly colored stalactites hanging from the high ceiling. Flow stone knobbed the floor and walls with patterns resembling worn carvings or relief work. The light radiated from clusters of calcite crystals that were somehow charged and growing in star patterns on the walls and ceiling.

Pale green, blue and white, the sparkling lights followed lines of rotation that were enough to inspire belief in UFOs. Shadows of the stalactites also spun and these were crisscrossing rows of fang shapes that Lucas found disturbing. Freddy had killed any taste he had for fangs.

He began to cross the cavern, and then he stopped, having spotted an enormous ebony stalactite. He looked it over and found that it wasn't a stalactite at all. It was a bat hanging with its wings folded. The size of it was startling; he stepped back in awe.

A voice echoed in the gloom. "So you like my pet".

Lucas jumped, turned and saw a man approaching from an arch in the wall off to his left. Flashing crystal lights and jags of shadow obscured his face, but he looked clean and human -- nothing like Freddy. His suit was dark and elegant and he wore a medallion with a gold image plated on it.

"Who are you?" Lucas said.

"A question I often ask myself," the man said. "You can call me Chandler."

The man was odd, a slight foreign accent woven in with his smooth Canadian voice. It was a voice you could trust. "I'm injured," Lucas said. "Can you help me?"

Jon Chandler's face came into view and Lucas squinted, trying to be sure of what he was seeing. At moments the face was classically handsome and at other moments a sneering corpse - withered and scarred, with bruise-ringed eyes. The eyes were compelling, burning with bright energy.

Forgetting his pain Lucas began to shake. "What is this place?" he said.

Holding the medallion in his palm, Jon stared, apparently seeing something in the depths of its shine. "A man once asked me that in Constantinople. I was a Roman then and I told him it was no place for a Greek. It wasn't, the Turks put out his eyes. Perhaps this place is a sanctuary, a shelter for the disadvantaged, the crippled, and the deformed. Call it your new home, where water is everywhere with burning thirst."

Lucas stared, taken aback. This madman thought he was old enough to have been in Constantinople, and that the caverns were a home for the crippled. "You are very wise, Chandler," Lucas said, hoping to humor him. "But I still need to get to a hospital."

"Death is nothing to fear," Jon said. "I channel the dead and know. Nevertheless, if it’s healing you want, I can provide it. Look into my eyes and be healed."

Lucas felt so weak he was ready to believe anything, accept any medicine, even if it came from a madman. He let Jon's gaze swallow him and the cavern became a pit he was tumbling in. For some moments he felt only the falling motion, and then a vision came to him."

His eyes were fluttering open in sunshine and the air rushing to his nostrils told him the time period was ancient. He found himself beside a Tuscan column in the court of a Roman palace. It was the top of the Palatine Hill and he was gazing down at the cityscape known as the Roman Forum. His eyes were all-seeing and he was viewing the Coliseum, right into its depths to a man chained there in the gloom. He was naked and streaked with dried blood, straw and sweat. His face was in agony from thirst, and the thirst was for fresh blood. Lucas was acutely aware of the man's pain.

The stench of animals was overpowering, as was his fear of the sun . . . and the sun was rising fast, like a bronze gong waiting for the hammer of doom. Stiff legs began to move, plodding through straw, urine and dung. A whip lashed out and the man screamed as the pain bit his back. Terror was like a fire growing, a nightmare materializing in the sunbeams. Rough hands seized him and sent him stumbling out into the burning heat. He staggered, beasts leapt on him, a frenzy of claws and teeth. Blood-misted air strengthened him, and he tore at the animal flesh, struggling till there was nothing left but screams and his burning throat.

Emerald light whirled from the pupil of an eye, a medallion flashed gold, and Lucas found himself back in the cavern. Everything began to spin at tremendous speed and he felt like the axis of a wheel being forced to explode outward. His energy and life force lost in the shadows that were ripping him like knives.

Opening his arms wide, Lucas obeyed a compulsion to look up, and as he did a stalactite broke loose and plunged down. It ripped across his neck and smashed like an icicle to the floor. Blood gushed from his opened throat and he collapsed, falling backwards as deadweight. Another stalactite broke loose; an ebony one - the bat - and its wings opened as it did a slow-motion float to the body.

The huge bat perched on Lucas' chest, wings pulsing gently. Soft sucking sounds echoed in the cavern as it fed on his bleeding throat. Chandler stepped up and watched; he toyed with his medallion, his eyes went blood-red, and the flash of lights slowed, leaving only pools of blue and shadow.

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CHAPTER 20: THE FAIR

Dear Mr. Wilde,

Your business card is one of a number of cards I borrowed from my friend Mr. Lucas Wickens. Originally I was going to consult some experts to get some information on vampirism and the occult, then Lucas himself disappeared while leading a search for two missing teenage boys. He vanished in a tract of misty forest near Burchell Lake.

In your line of work you would have heard about Burchell Lake. Since you know Lucas, perhaps you have seen the town. I should mention that it is no longer a ghost town. A New Age guru named Allan Rampa has purchased the town and the land surrounding it for his new Cult of the Millennium.

In a very short time a number of strange events have taken place; people have gone missing, teenagers have reported seeing vampires, there are strange mists that come and go and other weird happenings. Burchell Lake has always been noted for ghostly happenings, but as a long time resident of the area I can tell you that these recent occurrences are much more substantial, troublesome and frightening. There is an air of the sinister to it all.

Local law enforcement officials are not investigating as they believe the happenings to be hoaxes. Traditionally, ghostly reports from the lake are ignored. There have simply been too many of them over the years.

I phoned Mr. Rampa and found him to be secretive, argumentative and quick to accuse the county people of religious persecution. He did say that his cult is taking new members and that at the moment there are only a few members. Most of the people around town have been workers involved in reconstruction. When I requested a tour of the town and his estate he refused, saying that there would be no tourists or trespassers allowed during this early stage of cult growth. He also has sacred spots he wants respected. I advised him to keep the spots secret or they would be the targets of teenage pranksters. Of the two teenage pranksters who disappeared, he says he knows nothing.

I should mention that I am the owner of CBLQ RADIO in Milford. My family home is a stone mansion near Burchell Lake. There is plenty of room for you and your guests should you decide to investigate. I did try to phone to discuss the work and your fee, and I was surprised to find that you prefer to do business by mail or in person. So, as your wife recommended, I have dispatched this note. I am not an emotional person so I doubt you will get any certain psychic feelings from this letter. Your wife did tell me that you prefer letters because they allow your unfettered feelings to screen out undesirable clients.

At present I have kept reports off the radio as I don't want to give Allan Rampa cause to sue the station. I need someone who can investigate immediately. If you are busy with other work let me know so I can find someone else. I have hired a private detective from Thunder Falls -- Jack Stillson is his name. Mr. Stillson is now at work guarding my home and property. Investigating supernatural occurrences is beyond his scope; he doesn't know where to begin, but he will be available to assist you should you arrive.

As I said, I need someone immediately. If you want the assignment you can begin in Toronto. Mr. Rampa is there now, attending the Psychic Fair. You might get an understanding as to what he is doing by looking in on one of his lectures at the fair.

Sincerely yours,

Morris R. Waters
................................................

Mike folded the letter and looked up as he stuffed it in his shirt pocket. Branches of a weeping willow swayed lightly in the breeze; soft sunlight spilled through and it was as pleasant as the radiant skin of a woman's thigh revealed through the motion of a loose skirt. Annie had all but disappeared in the long grass near the polar bears' grounds and he was about to call her back when she returned on her own. He wished Alice had come, but she’d had other things to do. Alone with Annie, even at a busy place like the zoo, he felt like a single parent. It was a feeling he didn't enjoy, and he supposed it was how Alice felt when he was off on a sojourn. Being completely alone was okay, but being alone with a kid made the rest of his life seem lonely. He wasn't quite sure if it was the single parent feeling or if being closer to Alice the last few days was having an effect. Maybe he was becoming physically addicted to her. It was also possible that this time he’d really changed and was starting to need a wife at his side. Mike shrugged his shoulders as he watched Annie dash under the willow; it was only normal. Wanting to go places with your wife and daughter was a sign of maturity. Wanting to hang-out with the boys forever was a classic form of immaturity -- half of the men he knew had failed to mature. He’d always been a little different because he liked loneliness and the road. Alice had him believing in his immaturity when the truth was it had to do with mental instability. He hoped the years would bring him lasting stability of mind.

As Mike got up from the bench, Annie reached him and leapt into his arms. He lifted her and was enjoying the fragrance of baby shampoo in her curls when he saw Jake Skagway coming down the path from the monkey cages. Here was one of the boys; Mike nearly laughed at the thought. The kind of trouble Jake could come up with was more than the boys could handle. If Jake wasn't one of the boys, Mike wasn't sure what he was -- he didn't play the macho man or act like a fishing buddy. Maybe he was more an avenging angel, cast down from heaven -- nasty, with nosy eyes that spotted Morris Waters' letter from across town. And of course he was here to push him into the haunted waters of Burchell Lake. What else were angels for?"

"Polar bears aren't blond," Annie said. "That black man over there calls them blondies. Smile for the camera, blondie. That’s what he said."

"To the bear?" Mike said.

"Yeah, to the bear."

"Well, they're what you call snow blond," Mike said.

"Don't lie!" Annie said. "There is no such thing as snow blond."

"Well. What do we have here?" Jake Skagway said. "A little girl who's scared of bears."

"I am not," Annie said, turning her face to give him a bold pout.

"The men in her life are bears," Mike said. "She's not afraid of them once she has them tamed."

"I'm getting as tired as a bear," Jake said.

"Working on another murder?"

"What else. This time it's an unexciting case involving a drugged-out creep who murdered his girlfriend."

"I guess Alice told you about the letter from Morris Waters?"

"She didn't mention any letter. I just wanted to tell you that Allan Rampa has surfaced."

"I know. I think you should read this."

Jake took the letter. Annie shouted at another little girl over by the polar bears and ran off. As Mike tagged after her, Jake sat on the bench and read the letter.

Mike returned and found Jake shaking his head. "It's not good news at all, is it?" Mike said.

Jake frowned. "I came to tell you about the cult and the new property Rampa bought. He ran his other businesses under another name. That's why it was hard to trace him. These New Age people start little companies and when they’re through with them they fold them up like houses of cards. Allan was into many New Age scams. Now he has capital and is operating big. He’s written a book, THE MILLENNIUM TRANSMISSIONS, which is a Bible for his new cult. If Morris Waters' letter is accurate then it's obvious that the new cult is a cover for vampirism. I think we better go over to the fair and see if we can find out more."

"Yay! Let's go to the fair!" Annie shouted.

"Sure, let's go," Mike said. "But I bet this Psychic Fair isn't half the show Burchell Lake is."

This year the Psychic Fair was down by the waterfront, scattered along the parks and buildings of Harbourfront. The long drive from the zoo gave Mike time for thought, or as much thought as was possible with Annie's chatter and his eyes on the road. His rented car handled well and the weather was diamond bright. Still, he was uneasy about driving. Something ugly twisted in a womb of ooze at the bottom of his mind. He took an easy route and kept right in case he had to pull over. ESP mental states could be a problem if they occurred while he was behind the wheel.

A bridge took him over sets of railway tracks. Turning he cruised along the downtown waterfront. He found a parking lot across the road from the fair, got out and stretched. The zoo had failed to tire Annie; she looked with excited eyes at the stalls and displays. A small crowd moved under breezy banners and fake arches of painted cardboard. Most were strolling between two buildings of green-tinted glass that were home to the indoor part of the fair. The outdoor patios held small food pavilions and stalls painted with mystic images and papered with brilliant posters. Overhead, a tiny plane trailed a sign and higher up a jet chalked the blue dome of sky. The lake and sailboats were in the background. Faint strains of offbeat music, the tinkle of crystal and drumbeats carried over the road with the noise of the crowd. The day was so sunny and festive that even the trashy weeds sprouting in the parking lot seemed colorful.

A man on a bed of nails held the centre of the sunshine. A crowd circled him and the largest spectator was Jake Skagway.

"Okay, there's Jake," Mike said, catching Annie's hand before she could run for the road.

"It's a people zoo," she said.

"That's it," Mike said as he carried her across the road. "We're going to check on the predators."

Mike smiled as Jake suddenly glanced around; it was amusing to imagine Jake picking up some psychic abilities. They joined him, gazing at the turbaned man on his bed of nails. Much whispering took place among the spectators; it was as though they were afraid to startle the man.

Annie didn't whisper. "He's got plastic doll skin, that's how he does it!"

Some people laughed and stared. "Let’s take a walk," Mike said to Jake.

Jake nodded and they ambled away toward an alley of booths and stalls. At the first booth Annie called a crystal ball a big marble and the lady holding it a teacher with a wig. The man at the second booth wore black and Annie believed him to be a robot that could tell lies. The third booth had a mauve backdrop painted with falling meteors. Its occupant being a silver-haired man dressed in a frock-style coat ablaze with fluorescent meteors. A white Persian cat with a jeweled collar sat beside him at the counter. Annie loved cats, and immediately crept up and tried to get its attention.

"Most of the people here are fooled by this occult stuff," Jake said.

Mike furrowed his brow in thought. "The people here believe in nearly everything, no matter how ridiculous it is. There’s a cheap side, and a deeper side hidden behind it."

"What about Allan Rampa?" Jake said. "Is he cheap or deep?"

"Off the deep end. He threw out his humanity. He worships dark powers."

"I grabbed a brochure when I arrived," Jake said. "His presentation begins at four in one of the indoor auditoriums."

Not wanting to miss the presentation they took a short cut between two booths and followed a walkway lined with scrawny trees. It led to the back entrance of the building. They went inside and followed a polished concourse as cold as a fridge. Speakers played soft piano music. A broad spiral staircase led up to a second level where posters behind plate glass announced the presentations taking place in the three auditoriums.

The Cult of the Millennium was in auditorium three. Following an aisle carpeted in sea-green past some windows that gave a view of the harbor, they came to the entrance. A huge poster showed on a bulletin board next to the doors.

Cult of the Millennium was printed in semicircular stylized type around the face of a fanged woman wearing a necklace of human heads.

"She looks like a maniac," Annie said.

"It is a strange choice for a poster," Jake said. "I expected Rampa would have a poster of himself, glorifying his powers of transmission."

"The woman is the Hindu goddess Kali," Mike said. "A demon goddess that destroys other demons and represents the dark side of the human soul. Rampa’s people wouldn't necessarily equate her with vampirism. They see her as a being that channels evil in a positive way. Allan Rampa is coming across as someone who represents the darker powers."

"Yes, that's it," said a man in a dark suit emerging from the auditorium. "All our images are for the initiated. We’re taking new members -- but only people with knowledge of the occult. We’re an elite group."

"I see," Mike said. "Are you one of the key members?"

"I'm Ali Reba, in charge of the cult's operations here in Toronto."

"There really isn't much of an operation?" Jake said.

"We're growing," Ali said. "We’re a worldwide group. At present our strength is in the cosmos and not in numbers." Ali checked his cell display. "It's time to go in. The presentation is about to begin."

Bored, Annie fell into a tired trance. Mike scooped her up and they went inside. He figured Ali was right for the job -- slim and a friendly sort, wearing a single pearl earring. He resembled a well known movie director and he was pale and sickly looking, almost like a vampire.

The auditorium had a clamshell shape and Ali led them to seats halfway down, then he went up front and joined Allan and a woman with golden blond hair. She wore a long and colorful print dress, a blouse with sleeves to the elbows, and a scarf in her hair. Her drop earrings were made of tiny bones and shells and she had her hand on a model of a town that’d been set up on the table in front of her.

Allan studied the audience. He seemed content with a half-filled auditorium. If he noticed Mike and Jake he didn't seem worried by it. Mike felt certain Allan was aware of them, but judged them as two more people to be fooled. Allan's brown eyes were glassy with either enlightenment or madness, and his hair was still close-cropped, which was the best style for a man partially bald. His single silver earring and crude good looks put Mike in mind of a movie pirate. In costume Allan could pass as one of Henry Morgan's cutthroats.

Behind Allan a banner poster said JOIN US FOR BELTHANE. An Easter Island type statue of a distorted human form sat to his right at the end of the table. Huge globe lights shone above Allan and a number of people in the audience appeared ready to believe anything if Allan said it was so.

"What's Belthane?" Jake whispered.

"An outdoor pagan ceremony," Mike said. "It has to do with witchcraft."

With great care Allan adjusted a microphone he didn't really need in such a small auditorium. With equal care he swept his gaze over the crowd, finding most of the people to be young seekers with privileged smiles and flashy clothes. The crowd included a smattering of older, wealthy entrepreneur types.

"Let me begin by introducing Janet Flare, and Ali Reba," Allan said to light applause. "Ali is our man in charge in Toronto, and Janet is our first international representative. I chose them because they share qualities of enlightenment and are open-minded. As the brochure mentions, this is a presentation and not a reading or discussion of The Millennium Transmissions. It’s for the initiated, meaning people that have studied the transmissions. I'm not really a preacher looking to convert people. Only those seeking a new way will find it, and it is not hard to find. Our new colony at Burchell Lake is the home of that way, but members do not have to live at the lake. As Janet will tell you, we are an international group. Burchell Lake is our number one concern now, and this presentation will be mostly about it and our accomplishments there."

Allan got cut off by spontaneous applause and after a few moments he continued.

Annie had drifted into sound sleep, and Mike had to admit, to himself at least, that he’d also be sleepy if it weren't for what he knew about Allan Rampa. He’d heard too many speeches about new religions, and since they all ended up as dead-end cults, it was hard to believe in them. And with Allan, he knew he was lying anyway. The cult was mostly a front for something else.

Contradicting his introduction, Allan did go into a long talk on The Millennium Transmissions, taking time to point out sacred locations on his model. To follow he went into a detailed description of what the finished town would be like. It was all there in the model. The cult or Allan, wanted people with money to invest, specifically people looking to create a cradle for religious alternatives. There was a special invitation to New Millennium people with small businesses they could shift to Burchell Lake."

Jake's interest in the boring presentation never waned. Mike knew he was looking behind the slick words for Allan's real intentions. On the surface there was nothing wrong with Allan's grand dream; if he wanted to pool his resources with others to revive an Ontario ghost town, who could knock that? Preachers with a fear of the devil would oppose Allan, but government sure wouldn't. They'd probably give him tax breaks galore just for reviving the town.

When Allan's speech was complete, he began taking questions. Questions that made it apparent that people were buying his pitch. Mike could see the future clearly; Allan Rampa, his cult and town, were destined to grow.

A willowy black man with a star pattern trimmed into his hair rose and spoke. "Will there be incentives for herbalists to do their own farming?"

"There will be subsidies, but I don't know how much money will be involved."

The next question was posed by a very businesslike man with an aquiline nose and probing spectacles. "Does your invitation extend to Scientologists?"

Allan frowned. "Only groups that will recognize the authority of the Burchell Lake Ecumenical Council are invited. That may exclude Scientologists."

Allan's gaze shifted to a woman wearing a shimmering gown and hair that looked like plaited silver wire. "There is a problem with the idea of an ecumenical council as far as Wiccans are concerned. It is a fact of history that witches are always persecuted by religious bodies."

"We are aware of that and our constitution will guarantee Wiccans council posts and grant certain veto powers."

"I'm a second millennium Christian," said a man of Hindu appearance. "Our experience is that joint councils with Wiccans and Naturists will work."

"Thank-you," Allan said.

Near the end of the session Mike managed to squeeze in a question. "Yes, the man with the little girl," Allan said. "You have a question?"

"Are you aware of Burchell Lake's reputation as a place of ghostly occurrences?"

"Yes."

"A magazine has asked me to investigate a haunting and some ghostly happenings near there. If I do decide to go up, will your people help me or block me?"

"We won't block you," Allan said, "but we won't help you either. We're tearing down haunted buildings. The old ghosts will have to move, and we really don't need troublesome sprites. We have our own guardian spirits and they will be the new atmosphere at Burchell Lake."

"You seem to feel that anyone who goes up will decide to take the plunge and join the new community," Mike said. "What gives you so much confidence?"

"It's not confidence, it's vision," Allan said. "I have transmitted a vision of cosmic importance."

As Allan turned to address someone else, Mike began to tune into a vision of his own. A globe over Allan's head flashed and shadow and glare began to ghost, giving the auditorium an unearthly cast. The scene changed and Mike found himself standing in a shadowy courtyard. Romanesque columns and arches framed a twilight view of a city and a wide river. He believed the city to be Budapest and the river the Danube, and except for a patterned walk immediately below him it was a blackened wasteland - shattered buildings, heaps of rubble and concrete broken almost to dust. The destroyer being a monster that could only be World War Two. The only movement was some dim, ragged figures on a side street and three other men wearing the greatcoats of soldiers.

Turning, he saw that the courtyard emptied onto a dusky, cobbled alley. It was a gray vista and he wasn't sure if the shapes he saw piled against the walls were sandbags or corpses.

A man dressed in full Nazi regalia came out of the darkness, his high black boots clicking loudly on the stones. Some of the last shifting glare of evening lingered on his face, which was hawk-like and splotched with birthmarks as unsightly as fungus. A death patina encircled eyes filled with malice. The strap of his hat cut right into the flesh of his chin and he grinned like a devil as he continued his approach. Mike shivered, he experienced confusion as to his own identity and stared blankly as the man halted, clicked his heels and gave the Nazi salute.

The man's fangs suddenly showed, and it also became clear that the man was Jon Chandler. The eyes were distinctly Chandler and they'd gained some of the distant look that meant possession by the Baron. This Chandler was new and old; he was the dead Baron and a new form of vampire.

Bars of shadow obscured the face and Mike's eyes filled with colored glare and blind spots -- the auditorium reappeared. His body tickled, a sudden spasm and he felt Annie awakening. He nudged Jake with his elbow. "Let's go," he said. "We've seen enough."