Stuart Kaminsky - Never Cross A Vampire

“Mr. Hill,” I whispered, hoarsely, moving deeper into the aisle between the stacks. I passed rows of books on each side, going back fifteen or twenty feet each. A few rows had lights on, but most had them off. Strings hung from each light, and to turn a light on, one had to grope in semidarkness halfway down the aisle.

I moved slowly, peering down each aisle of books, right and left, trying to penetrate the corners, keeping a look of confidence on my face in case someone was hidden in one of the recesses. Maybe he or it would think I could see him.

“Mr. Hill?” I repeated. I was almost at the solid wall at the end of the narrow corridor. I found another set of spiral stairs up and down. I was considering whether to go up or down or back when a rumbling sound came out of the darkness behind me. It was moving quickly and noisly out of a black aisle of oversized books. I reached for my gun and pulled it out, backing against the stairway.

“Stop,” I shouted, and my voice echoed below and above in shadows.

The sound stopped and I could make out a shape in the murk.

“You were calling me?” it said.

“Hill?”

“Yes,” he said, emerging into the light, pushing a book cart ahead of him that rattled noisily on the metal grill floor. He was the same man I had seen at the Dark Knights meeting, without the black hair. He had some hair, but it wasn’t enough to try to save. He looked at my gun in clear terror. I put it away.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve had a few scares in the past several days. You know who I am?”

A wave of bitterness crossed Hill’s face.

“You were at the Dark Knights meeting Friday. You are not a member. How did you find me?”

There was a sob in his voice.

“I…” “I’ll quit,” he said, near hysteria. “Billings promised, promised in blood not to disclose anyone’s identity.”

“Blood?” I said.

“Simulated human blood,” he explained. I looked incredulous, I guess. “Chicken blood,” he clarified.

“I’m a private detective,” I said. “My name’s Toby Peters. I’ll make it fast and easy, and I don’t care if you quit the Dark Knights or the Morning Tulips, but I want answers.”

Hill tried to push his cart past me, but I kicked it back with my good leg, trapping him in the narrow aisle he had come out of.

“Someone is trying to scare Bela Lugosi, maybe do more than scare him, and I’m damned sure it’s one of the Dark Knights, and I think I’ve got the suspects narrowed down to two. And you, old bat, are one of them.”

“No,” cried Hill. “I’m not one of those people. I just go to watch. I could never do any… I couldn’t do things. I just stand around and keep my mouth shut. I couldn’t even touch the chicken blood for the ceremony. You can ask the Count.”

“Billings.”

“Yes,” he cried. “I live here, in the library. I don’t even go out except to get some food, pick up my mail, and go to the meetings. I wouldn’t hurt anybody or anything. I’m a vegetarian.”

“You’re a vegetarian?”

“Yes,” he said.

“What has that… Forget it.” If he couldn’t stand the sight of blood he sure as hell hadn’t sent an impaled bat to Lugosi. I would check his story, but I had the feeling it would hold up, which left me with damn few members of the Dark Knights.

“I practically live on ice cream alone,” he went on.

“Okay,” I said. “Forget it. Forget I bothered you.”

I started down the aisle, leaving him behind.

“Are you going to tell them?” he pleaded. “Tell them what I really do, who I am?”

“No,” I shouted. “Forget it.”

He went silent with a small shell of a sob, and I hurried toward the stairway I had come down, but something stopped me. I stood still. Some of the side aisles had lights on when I had come down earlier. Now all the lights were off. It could have been a mass fatigue of ancient bulbs or my imagination. I considered going back to the far stairwell, but that meant dealing with Hill again. I couldn’t face his complete breakdown. I pulled out my gun and inched forward very slowly and very quietly, but I still made some noise. I could see no one moving above or below and could hear nothing behind.

I made it almost to the stairway, convincing myself that fear does strange things. Then fear appeared. It was almost noiseless and caught me in a near-dreamlike instant. It was a sound behind me, a movement of air. I turned in time to see the outline of a black-caped figure swooping down in a crouch from one of the stacks. I tripped backward, landing on my rear, and raised my gun. The black figure kicked, catching me on the wrist, and the gun spun upward out of my hand, hitting a bookshelf and going off. The bullet parted the distance between the black figure’s face and mine and made him pause before he could deliver another kick. I could hear the gun drop to the steel floor below and into something beyond that. I told my body to roll fast. It listened and the next kick missed my head. I threw a kick of my own and caught the figure in the general area of the stomach. He let out a pained groan and something clanged near my head. He had a heavy object and was trying to spread what was left of my brains over the 400 section of the St. Bartholomew Library.

Enough is usually enough, though I’ve found it amazing how much more than enough the human body can take. I scrambled to my knees, ignoring the pain in the injured one, and threw my arms around the guy who was trying to kill me. He took another swing with his piece of metal, but I was too close and he caught me on the fleshy part of my buttocks. In desperation, I sank my teeth into his stomach. He shrieked and shouted. “You crazy bastard!”

“I’m a crazy bastard?” I panted. “Who’s trying to kill who?”

I got to my feet and brought my head up hard in the general direction of his chin. I made contact with about the same spot on my cranium he had softened in the parking lot of the New Moon Restaurant. He groaned and I let go of him. We both backed away. I was seeing flashes of color. I didn’t think either one of us wanted to go at it again, but something was at stake for both of us. I could see him take a shadowy step toward me, and I got ready to meet him, knowing that I’d never be able to run away and that to turn my back would be my end. The only thing I could hear was our heavy breathing in the darkness. Then above us a voice.

“What is going on down there, Hill?” shouted the dry librarian from the upper world.

My enemy’s head turned upward toward the sound and caught a shaft of light. I saw the face clearly and knew I wouldn’t forget it. I also knew I had never seen it before. He turned and ran into the darkness, the faint light of the grillwork making a rippling pattern on his retreating back.

I made my way upward toward the complaining voice of the librarian and met him on the first level.

“What on earth was going on down there?” he demanded.

“Something was going on,” I panted, “but I don’t think it’s reasonable to say it was on earth.”

“And where,” he demanded further, “is Mr. Hill?”

“I have no idea. He was no part of it. I was attacked by the devil and saved by Saint Bartholomew.”

“Dr. Chadwick, have you been drinking?”

“No,” I said, leaning against a nearby heavy oak table, “but I did lose a gun down there. I heard it drop down.”

“Professors at UCLA carry guns?” he asked, but this time it wasn’t a question for me but for himself. “I think I had best call the police.”

“What about my gun?”

“It would take some time to search the lower level,” he replied, heading back for his desk. “We plan a cleaning tomorrow. If there is a gun there, you can retrieve it.”