Revamp the Night, Pt. 2 (short story)

Part two of the vampire romp. With Narration!

Welcome to Damsel’s Snuggery of Storytelling!

At last, part two of the Halloween special story, months after Halloween. Better late than never, eh?

In case you missed it or need a refresher, part one.

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I used the phone in the Scarlet’s back room to dial Remi.

Turning into a vampire made me hate werewolves by default. All that perfectly good blood now corrupted with four-legged mongrel-itis…what a waste. I’d learned through idle gossip that Remi was turned under less than ideal circumstances too, but that didn’t mean I had to commiserate with him. He also had a silly accent, which doubled all his unlikable traits.

Remi didn’t answer his phone. He’d probably found a nice juicy bone to slobber over. I checked the nearby calendar; no full moon, so he should be sane.

I dialed Monica instead. She wasn’t the ordinary human type. Pinnelli tried to turn her when she was young, but a handful of crucifixes later and she’d struck a deal with him: let her stay human and she’d be there when he needed literal doors opened. Her looks may have faded to wrinkles, but she could break hexes with the best of them and her insomnia made contacting her at all hours of the dark a real cinch.

“Cleans More laundry service, this is Monica speaking.”

“Hello, Miss Monica. It’s Dominic Wade calling.”

“Oh, Mr. Wade,” she sounded delighted. “I take it you don’t have a tomato stain on your white shirt.”

“No, miss, it’s more of a preventative measure I need assistance with. Are you available tonight?”

“Well listen to you, using a word with more than two syllables. Must be a big deal. You wait right there, sonny. I’ll be at the Scarlet in two ticks of a rat’s whisker.”

“Uh, wait, Miss Monica,” I checked to make sure the room behind me was empty. “Could you swing by Remi’s place and see if he might answer his door? He’s not answering my call.”

“Ah-ha! That bad, is it? Guess I’d better bring some extra goods. Okay, cookie, one Monica and Remi special, coming your way.” She hung up.

I know I talked tough about standing apart from the likes of Monica, but I had a touch of softness for her. She thought I had all the suspense of a dime novel, and about as much substance, but when Pinnelli introduced us, we sorta hit it off.

Rita now sang a slower ballad and a few couples swayed aimlessly about the floor. Most of the customers were deep into their shots and quiet conversations. I didn’t see any newcomers or the prime troublemakers; the men wouldn’t miss me.

I arrived at the bar and the barman worked his way to me, an empty shot glass in each hand. “Need something else, Dom?”

“Heard anything about Veinglory recently?” I asked, eyes still on the customers.

The barman grunted. “So that’s where this is headed, huh? A lot of rabble rousers in that quarter. Been hearing snatches of a newcomer, name of Swansea. Real mysterious fella. No one wants to talk about him.” He breezed back along the counter to his next customer.

Swansea. Didn’t sound any alarms, but if it had, I still needed to get Conrad no matter what types of unrest were brewing across the river. Which reminded me…

I signaled the barman. “I need a shot from a sailor.”

I paced outside the Scarlet for Monica and Remi. Why were they so slow? I checked my watch: already ten and we hadn’t even started yet.

“Burning nightlight, folks,” I muttered as I searched the streets again.

There. Two blocks away and walking like it was a lazy day at the beach. I ran to them in a couple seconds.

“We’re going to Veinglory,” I said by way of greeting.

“Let an old woman catch her breath,” Monica gave a few performative breaths and hoisted her lumpy bag higher on her shoulder. Her loose clothes threatened to swallow her and leave her wispy hair to float away on the wind.

While Monica huffed and puffed like a dysfunctional bellows, I turned my full attention on Remi, an action that sent most people to the nearest exit or weapon.

I’d only ever seen the man wear a long gray trench coat, track shoes, and a dark green bowler hat. Tonight was no exception, though his pencil mustache looked less resolute, and his eyes, usually alert, were wondering where the forty winks might be hiding.

“You getting enough sleep?”

“Don’t make me laugh. You would drag me from a confessional at high noon if it suited you,” Remi pulled the trench coat tighter around his thin body.

“It’s not for me that you’re working.” I liked reminding him of his contract with Pinnelli. He didn’t. “You ready to go?” I addressed Monica.

“Just as soon as you tell us what’s the problem,” she stood as one ready to summit a mountain. Typical human belligerence.

“Speak. Or I will return to my lovely steak dinner,” Remi smiled thinly.

I sent him a humorless grin, then checked our surroundings and leaned in closer to my temporary team. “Our blood supplier’s gone, defected or taken, I can’t be sure. All I know is we need him back and Veinglory is the place to start.”

“Ugh. You do not need me for your petty in-fighting,” Remi said with typical disgust. He straightened and took a step away before Monica’s hand shot out to keep him in place.

“What else is there?” her eyes narrowed.

“I’m not sure there is anything, other than Pinnelli being unhappy about this theft; you know how territorial he is.” They both nodded, Remi with a touch of chagrin. “But I heard a name. Swansea.”

Monica actually gasped—a sound I didn’t think her capable of.

Remi, the dog, didn’t react of his own accord; he just frowned at Monica’s growing antics.

“Oh. Oh dear. Yes, I see. This could be very bad, Wade. Just awful. My heavens, what a pickle.”

“Stop clutching your garlic, Monica,” Remi stepped away as the old lady toddled in circles around us, muttering more worrisome phrases. “Who is this ‘Swansea?’”

“Don’t you know all about your eternal enemies?” I said, deliberately letting my fangs show.

“I am too pious to concern myself with your eternal damnation, though I am sure it would brighten my day,” his mustache somehow joined in the smugness.

“I’m sure he’s just another hotshot vamp looking to make history. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

Monica rejoined us, shaking her head and running a hand up and down her bag’s strap. “No, Wade. It’s much worse than that. Aside from being a good brand for canned chicken noodle soup, Swansea is a necromancer.”

Ah. You might say that was at the top of my list of things I never want to hear.

Even Remi’s face wilted at the word.

She continued. “A necromancer working for Lambert. You know these undead come with blood, guts, and muscles in working condition? Lambert could keep his vamps fed on the same body, just reviving someone over and over again. Don’t know how it works, but it’s the worst thing I’ve ever found, and I’ve been to the absolute bottom of West Haven. Those poor souls die a bit more each time they’re brought back, until all that remains is a walking husk. ‘Course, they’re easier to control then.”

Remi crossed himself.

“Let’s go,” I marched off and they fell in line, whispering as we headed toward Veinglory.

Conrad had never tried to hoodwink, bamboozle or otherwise shortchange Pinnelli. It’s foolish to con a vampire, the same way it is to sweep another witch’s front porch. I guess I was wrong to think Conrad willingly changed sides, now that I knew a necromancer, with all his temptations, had entered the stage.

“Monica,” I slowed to let the old woman join me. “How long can someone be dead before a necromancer can no longer resurrect them?”

“Hmm, I think that would depend on the necromancer. If he only dabbles, a week, tops. But if he’s been at it for a long time, I’m not sure there is a limit. Decades wouldn’t be impossible. The suffering that inflicts on the dead, though…you’d have to be heartless and out of your mind with desperation to re-animate a skeleton,” she shook her head and clutched her bag.

“I do not understand this,” Remi sniffed in disdain as we crossed a wooden bridge spanning a sunken alley. “The soul is gone, the body a crumbling ruin. How can it be brought back?”

I opened a wrought iron gate between two brick buildings and waited for them to pass through. “They don’t call them ‘the devil’s own’ for no reason,” I said, and hopped down the few steps to join them on the road that followed the river’s path. “Even we don’t like their sort. If that rat overseeing Veinglory has anything to do with one, he is not going to like how this night ends.”

We’d reached the main bridge crossing the river. Street lamps lined both sides and their light barely reached the dark water below, but illuminated the bridge plenty. I stalled at the bridge’s edge. Since becoming a vampire I hadn’t visited the other side of West Haven.

Remi strolled by me and walked a half dozen steps before checking on me. “Come on, little bat. We do not have all night.”

Monica patted my shoulder and joined Remi, the two setting off without me. Some team we’d make. I took a deep breath and slid one foot onto the bridge. Under normal circumstances, crossing over moving water was almost impossible for us vampires. A deep charge would flow up the legs and leave you paralyzed after a few steps. Your only hope was someone dragging you free before the sun burned you to dust. Not a pleasant way to shrug off our immortal coil.

I gently put my weight on my foot. Nothing. Not even a tickle. I grinned and jogged right on by the duo. I’d have to tell the boys about this trick. And a hat’s off to my dead professor for thinking of it.

I felt slightly winded when I reached the opposite side and my feet were numb, but once those two slowpokes moseyed to me, my strength had returned.

“Come on, little dog,” I waved Remi on ahead of me.

“You shouldn’t antagonize him,” Monica said after Remi wandered on into the night. “He’s having a rough time.”

“You mean there are worse things than being himself? Now that is shocking.”

“His pack cast him out. Something about spending too much time away from his own kind.”

I felt her accusing eyes but stared straight ahead.

“What is it to me how he spends his time when he’s not working for Pinnelli?” I surveyed the quiet neighborhood street around us.

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re this dense because you’re a man or because you’re dead. He needs a friend, Wade. Preferably of the inhuman kind. You don’t have to share your feelings, what’s left of them anyways. Golly, Wade, you don’t have to speak to him at all. Just stand there and do what you do best: be a wall he can count on. And if that’s too much, try to keep your snide comments buttoned up.”

An annoyed Monica didn’t sit right. I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets. “When you say such kind words, it’s hard to ignore them. I’ll…try. That’s all us poor soulless creatures can do, right?”

Monica didn’t look convinced, but I had to admit, somewhere deep down inside me, where the last dregs of my humanity huddled for warmth, Remi’s situation didn’t sit right either. Those dogs…uh…wolves, were protective of their own and if they ever disowned one, business could not be more serious. It spoke to a strong sense of honor that Remi stuck by Pinnelli’s deal instead of his own kind. He truly was a lone wolf.

Remi waited for us at a street corner a couple blocks from Veinglory. “What exactly is the plan to liberate this man? You do have one, yes?”

“What makes you think I don’t?”

Remi waved a hand in the air. “There is a decidedly vacant look in those eyes. One that speaks of poor planning and baseless confidence. Please tell me you consumed intelligent blood.”

I shrugged and rubbed my chin. “Pinnelli asked me to get Conrad. I reckon I’ll go in real nice like and ask around for him. Can’t be too many humans hiding in there.”

You’d’ve thought I stole a T-bone steak off his plate, given the look of pure horror Remi skewered me with. I laughed. “The one time a mirror would be helpful,” I slapped my knees and howled. “Honestly Remi, your face is a picture.” My laughter quieted. “All right, here’s the plan. We won’t enter Veinglory directly. Remi, you sniff around the place, see if you can’t pick up any fresh human scents or strange undead ones. I’ll let you in through a backdoor. Keep an eye out for crates marked with a stylized ‘C’; that’ll be Conrad’s goods. Maybe Lambert’s only taken the Scarlet’s order and this necromancer is mere guff in the wind.”

“A fool’s hope,” Remi cut in helpfully. “But I will find out all that exists in this place.” And like a loyal dog, he went off in search of his treat.

“That leaves you and me,” I looked down at Monica.

“I’m not going to be no bait, sonny. I’m too old for that,” she folded her arms.

“I would never suggest such a thing,” I stared up the nondescript concrete building beside us. It had plenty of handholds. “You and me are going roof side.” I reached out a hand to grab her, but stopped just shy of her coat.

“Good call, Wade. I’ve got enough relics in this bag to keep your grandchildren from being born. I’m taking the stairs.” She marched away and a moment later I heard a door open and close.

I reached the rooftop in seconds and prowled its surface. I heard the dogs bark an endless serenade and a few sirens whizzed by. This side of town felt similar to mine, but its murderous intent was lessened somewhat by a nearby zesty trumpet player—the least dangerous of sounds.

A few more minutes ticked by before Monica arrived on the roof. She tried to slam the door. It resisted the slam and gradually closed. “I’ve walked most of this accursed city and yet it keeps finding new ways to torment me. What are you grinning at?”

I held up my hands in defense. “I see nothing worthy of amusement. There’s Veinglory,” I pointed unnecessarily at the large building two down and two to the right.

From our vantage point, the garish blue lettering spelling out Veinglory instantly drew the eye. And beside the writing flashed the heart, a quarter of it filling with red light every second and then pulsing as a whole. It was an eyesore in the face of decency and taste, no doubt a sign of the types it brought in: the figuratively young and restless.

“Humph,” was all Monica contributed.

“What do you have in that bag of yours that’s suited for long range?”

She smiled deviously. “I was wondering when we’d get to the shooting portion of the night’s activities. There are a few options, but my person favorite is this,” and she withdrew a small crossbow, the kind that might fit in a cereal box. She brought out a bolt too. “I had some made from an oak grown in a churchyard, blessed by the Father. The tip,” she held it close for my examination, “is filled with holy water. Packs a real wallop. I like to aim for the thigh, it’s the more unexpected area.”

“I…see. Can you hit the guards on the roof?”

Monica produced a small pair of binoculars from under her shirt. “There’s only four of them,” she said, her disappointment quite clear. “I once took out a dozen vamps in ten seconds flat.” She dropped the binoculars and grinned. “The best holy smoke grenade I ever used. Tell me when to start shootin’.”

I’d give Remi a few more minutes. “I suppose you’re thinking what I’m thinking,” I said.

“I doubt it,” she checked the sight on her crossbow.

“We’ll need to get to that rooftop real quick once those bodies drop. Every second will count.”

She sighed and glanced balefully up at me. “Now we’re thinking the same thing. Very well, Wade. You can carry me. But if one finger touches my bag, all the demons in the world wouldn’t be able to find your sorry carcass.”

“A pleasure knowing you, as always,” I doffed an imaginary hat.

She crouched by the roof’s knee-high wall. “What will you do if Conrad throws a hissy fit?”

That was a distinct possibility if a necromancer were involved. Humans had warped visions of what it might mean for a loved one to return. They never imagined the part where a reanimated body filled with a confused and much-abused soul might ask, “Why did you bring me back?” The selfishness of humans knew no bounds. But I’d do my best to pull Conrad free, physically or otherwise.

“You let me do the talking,” I told Monica. “And if talking don’t work, you leave the heavy lifting to me too.”

“That’s fine by me, sonny,” she re-situated her position at the ledge. “I’m only here to open doors and shoot first. But, uh, what do you know about Lambert?”

I folded my arms and glared at the offensive rooftop. “He owns Veinglory, and even though he hasn’t been a vampire long, he thinks he’s better than Pinnelli.”

“Is that all?”

“Sorry, Monica, should I have made it a priority to know his family’s medical history, his preferred tailor, blood type, and what his opinion of this year’s car design is? He is Pinnelli’s rival and as such he is to be treated with contempt and antipathy,” I rolled my shoulders and redoubled my effort to incinerate the building with my eyes.

“I think I preferred it when you gave mono-syllabic replies. I may regret asking this, but shouldn’t you have a bit more information on the man before you try to weasel your way into his private lair?”

I gave up scowling and turned my attention to the human. “I take it there’s some wildly important information you’d like to share?”

Monica raised her gaze to meet mine and didn’t even flinch, though I knew my eyes disturbed most breathing souls. “I suppose it depends on what you think is important. As the resident vampire vanquisher,” she grinned cheekily, “I take a special interest in anyone I might have to target. And let me tell you, Lambert is quite the target. Yessir, his ashes would go nicely with the others on my mantel.”

I think I took an involuntary step back, but don’t mention that to anyone. “Alright. Is there anything I need to know tonight?”

She scratched her nose. “What his guards lack in finesse, they make up for in numbers and eagerness. Lambert can afford to flatten any bump in his path, including pesky banks. I know he’s put some hefty curses on his personal residence and I assume Veinglory itself. He likes to show off his wealth, uses it like a wedge to enter the elite circles. That’s how Pinnelli first heard of him; nothing raises that man’s ire like someone else on his turf. Lambert has access to a lot of things, Wade. The only things he doesn’t have are what money can’t buy. And that is where the necromancer must come in.”

“How come you know so much about Lambert, but you about had a fit when I mentioned the necromancer is in cahoots with him?”

Her look turned baleful. “Wade, sugar, I read the paper and I take long walks. I don’t go snooping around a vampire’s basement for the fun of it. That would be bad for my health.”

I nodded. “Thank you for the tips. If Lambert wants what money can’t buy, dangling a dead loved one in front Conrad might convince him to drop Pinnelli as a client, and that would place Lambert at the top of blood sellers. Buy the necromancer, the blood supplier caves, sweep up the proceeds. Makes sense.”

“There’s just one wrinkle.” Monica rested an elbow on the wall. “When a man has everything money can buy, his next move is conquering. Sweeping loose pieces off the board is a lot easier when you have an army that can go on fighting forever. That’s what a necromancer is for.”

I grimaced. All this back and forth was getting us nowhere. “Take the shots,” I said.

Monica quickly fired the first bolt. I watched her lever the string back and calmly, without hesitation, shoot the other three victims. She certainly knew her craft.

“Let’s go,” she shouldered her bag and pursed her lips. “I promised myself I’d never touch a living vampire,” she clicked her tongue. “Kneel, before I change my mind.”

“If it’s any relief, I won’t tell the ladies at the crochet circle,” I said, kneeling on the graveled roof.

She clambered onto my back. “Nice guess, sonny. But I don’t crochet with the ladies.”

“Oh?” I walked to the roof’s center and faced the yawning gap between us and the next roof.

“Of course not,” she said close to my ear. “I talk about my body count.”

I shook my head, but a grim smile tugged at my mouth as I sprinted for the roof’s edge.

The speed and power were my favorite parts of being decidedly dead. I sailed over the night abyss with ease and a long-practiced grace. Monica squeaked and her hold on me tightened.

I brought us safely to Veinglory’s rooftop and sure enough, Monica’s aim had been true. Four piles of ash lay unceremoniously on the concrete ground, still gently smoking, and lending a charred smell to the already smoky air. My comfort was only slightly ruined by the sight, but Monica’s cackling brought my attention away from the unholy remains.

She stood over the trapdoor leading into the building. “Etched hexes. My favorite,” she pulled a chisel out of her bag and knelt by the door.

The metal hatch looked impressive, its edges inlaid with an abundance of hexes and wards, and its solitary ring was twisted like rope. Monica placed her chisel on an unmarked part of the door and, using a hammer—her bag must have all sorts of tools—gently tapped out a new mark. I remained quiet while she worked. If this expedition were solely on my shoulders, I’d rather have risked walking in the front door. The symbols didn’t mean anything to me or my professor, but I could sense the danger and disaster one would incur by touching it without the proper caution or invitation.

Monica’s ironwork stopped and she surveyed her handiwork. “That’ll do,” she said and stowed her tools. She grasped the handle and lifted the door a few inches to inspect the new area before hoisting the door open all the way and sticking her head down for a good look. Satisfied, she briskly descended the ladder to explore the brown shag carpeted room.

A dog barked nearby, but it didn’t sound disgusted enough with life to be Remi.

“C’mon down, Wade,” Monica reappeared. “This room is clear. Only boxes and some gaudy trash.” She waved around her and smiled up at me. “Welcome to Veinglory.”

Stepping into Veinglory unsettled me, mainly due to the unsteady light cast by a lone light bulb and the jittering shadows cast by the headless mannequins and stuffed lion. The slight pressure I’d felt up top closed in on me, hovering like a set of hands waiting to squash me.

“Where do you think they’d keep a man like Conrad?” I asked quietly.

“A lair? If not, Lambert’s office, which might also be a lair,” Monica reached up to tap the light bulb. It kept flickering.

“Down we go then,” I strode toward the only other exit from the creepy attic. Monica nodded to me, her hands full with a silver stake and presumably a holy smoke grenade.

I slowly turned the door’s handle and pulled it open enough for Monica to see out. She jerked back inside and raised the stake to her mouth while slowly pushing the door closed.

“Are you and Pinnelli very desperate to get Conrad back?” She ran her thumb over the grenade.

“Do what you have to. I’m not leaving without Conrad.” For good or ill, I silently added.

Reliving every holiday, vacation, christening, and birthday would not have made her more happy. “Open the door, Wade. We have a party to throw.”

I smiled stiffly and opened the door from as far away as I could.

Monica tossed her grenade out and then followed. I hastily shut the door again; she could breathe that smoke all she wanted, but one lungful of it and I’d be dust. A few minutes passed and then she proudly ushered me out into a scene of desolate carnage. Several piles of ash dotted the narrow hallway and Monica walked by them, casually wiping her silver stake.

I placed an arm over my mouth to filter out any smoky remnants as I carefully wended my way to her and another door, this one with a small placard painted with a blobby man running down stairs.

“We cleaning this place floor by floor, or heading straight for the lair?” she tested the point of her stake.

I looked back at the ashy remains. Tempting, to be sure, but our advantage would only last until someone noticed the absence of these vamps. Could be an hour. Could be five minutes.

“We’ll come back another time. Let’s find the lair.”

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TO BE CONTINUED…

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