Линкольн Чайлд - Bloodless

“Admit it,” said Brock. “We’re lost.”

Toby ignored him and kept going. The cemetery was huge and Toby hoped they could find their way out again.

They came to a marble tombstone with a winged angel striding along with one arm raised, splotched with lichen.

“Now, there’s a zombie angel if I ever saw one,” said Brock. “Man, this is a perfect place to drain the main vein.”

“Jesus, don’t do that, it’s a cemetery—” said Toby, but Brock was already giving the angel a good hosing down.

“We’re lost,” said Brock when he was finished. “And you know it.”

Toby, feeling the liquor kick in, shrugged. “Totally.”

Brock laughed. “What the fuck time is it?”

Toby checked his cell phone, momentarily blinding himself with the light. “Three eleven.”

Brock took another long swig of Southern Comfort, then began singing, using the bottle as a mic.

Please allow me to introduce myself

I’m a man of wealth and taste

His drunken words floated off into the darkness as he hammed it up, dancing around the graves like Mick Jagger. Suddenly he stopped. “You hear that?”

Toby said nothing. He, too, had heard something, like wind in the trees, and smelled a faint stench like burning rubber. But there was no wind. The air was deathly still. He held the light up as he looked around. Nothing. Brock resumed singing behind him.

Then Toby heard it again: or rather, felt it. It was a broad flutter, a stirring of air. Brock’s singing abruptly ceased. Toby spun around, but Brock had vanished.

“Brock? Where are you?”

There was no answer. Toby waited, holding his breath. And then, off in the darkness, he heard the shattering of the pint bottle.

“Brock!” he called, taking a step back, blood pounding in his ears. He had a sudden and profound sense of dread. “Cut it out, man, it’s not funny!” He held the cell phone light out in front of him, moving it this way and that, probing the darkness. All he could see were swirling mists.

And then he felt something warm and humid brush his face.

He stumbled back, waving the light. “Who’s there?”

But nothing was there. It must have been just a warm nighttime draft, nothing solid.

“ Brock! ” he yelled.

And now he heard a wet sound, a sort of gush, and then a hot, heavy burst of wind — no mere draft this time — struck his face. The foul smell grew much stronger: burning rubber, but now mixed with something like vomit or old socks. He screamed, stumbling backward, twisting away, and then turning to run. He felt the nightmare wind rush over him again, damp and horribly fetid, and then he tripped over a broken tombstone and fell hard, the cell phone flying out of his hand and off into the darkness. He struggled to his feet. Where was his phone? He looked around but could see no light, the darkness closing in upon him like a damp cloak. Something unlike anything he’d ever felt before suddenly brushed the side of his face and, with a scream, he broke into a blind run, clawing his way through undergrowth, stumbling and rising, choking and sobbing, the dark fastness of the old cemetery absorbing his cracked, shrill cries.

it was just after three in the morning when Constance Greene once again noiselessly ascended the stairs to the hotel’s fourth floor, then paused at the landing to look down the carpeted hallway. All the doors were closed, and everyone, it seemed, was asleep.

All, that is, perhaps for one.

Constance stood utterly still, taking in the somnolence of the elegant corridor.

It had not been so long ago that she’d stood in this same spot and been warned away. She had to ask herself: why was she here again?

This question had been in the back of her mind ever since she’d decided to return — a decision that had formed almost without her realizing it.

Constance had as much self-awareness as any human on earth. Her unusually long life span had given her time to understand her own motivations and desires. She was here, she understood, for more than one reason. The first involved Pendergast. Curiously, he had made no attempt to question the old proprietress himself. He had glanced over the police interview with Miss Frost — if interview was the correct word, as it consisted of only six sentences, questions and responses that had passed through a locked door. The responses were of no use beyond underlining that Miss Frost had nothing to say. Normally Pendergast would find some way to charm Miss Frost into unlocking her door. She was an obvious person of interest. Although it was absurd to think she could have killed Ellerby herself, she knew him well and they had had a blazing argument two days before he died.

And yet, whenever the subject of Felicity Winthrop Frost came up, Pendergast had simply nodded... and glanced pointedly in Constance’s direction. It hadn’t taken long for Constance to realize the task of approaching the recluse was hers.

The old lady’s mysterious past and great age intrigued Constance. So did the wild rumors beginning to surface, that Miss Frost was a vampire who revivified herself through drinking the blood of others. In poking around the web, she could find no record of the woman’s existence before 1972. She had communicated all of this to Pendergast, who had drily replied that perhaps she and Miss Frost should have tea some fine evening.

Almost of their own accord, her feet had begun moving down the corridor, toward the unmarked door on the right. Nobody wants to go in. It could be... dangerous. Perhaps the staff members she’d spoken to also subscribed to these vampire stories. The rich and eccentric drew rumor to themselves like iron filings to a magnet.

As she came near to the door, her pace slowed. It’s past ten , the nervous maid had told her. She’s likely to be waking up any moment now. Another stimulant to the vampire rumor.

As she stood outside the door, Constance heard piano music once again: faint, romantic, dolorous... and echoing from above. A Chopin nocturne.

She glanced both ways along the corridor. All remained still. Moving quickly, she turned the handle. The door was unlocked, which surprised her. She opened it, slipped inside, and eased the door shut behind her.

She found herself in a steep, narrow stairway, with no light except what seeped out from beneath a door at the narrow landing above. The music was louder here. Constance, used to darkness, felt no fear; instead, she stood motionless until she could distinctly make out the stairs, covered with a beautiful old Persian carpet. As she began ascending the steps to a crescendo of piano music, she became aware of a strange mixture of scents: sandalwood, moth balls, and, beneath it all, a note of some exotic perfume.

With exquisite care, Constance noiselessly climbed another step, then another, until she reached the landing. As she did so, the music abruptly stopped.

How odd. Constance could move more quietly than most cats. Surely the old lady had not picked up her footsteps?

It could be... dangerous.

The light coming from beneath the door winked out.

As she stood in sudden, utter darkness, she thought back to the room service maid and the anxiety she had displayed at Constance standing by the door to the fifth floor. It was more than anxiety; it was terror. Was it possible the maid’s fear had less to do with Constance disturbing the old lady — and more with what might happen to Constance should she ascend?

And it was then that the door in front of Constance swung wide with a crash, and a towering figure — black upon black — loomed menacingly over her.

Bertram Ingersoll tugged at his tie, pulled the knot down about two inches, undid the top button of his shirt, and plucked the collar away from his sticky throat. He didn’t bother looking at his watch, but he knew it had to be at least three in the morning. When they’d entered Chippewa Hall at 9 PM, he had assumed the heat and humidity would have broken by the time they left. He’d assumed wrong.