follow my meaning…?” And:
“Oh, I do,” Mike had answered. “So now you can loosen these chains and set me free.”
“Ah, no, I think not,” The Chemist had replied. “You have a certain look about you, Mike; I’m quite sure you’re the impulsive sort and I wouldn’t want to tempt you. So I’ll just lie you down again under your blanket and give you a shot, and when you wake up at dusk the chains will be gone—as will I. But don’t worry, for I’ll leave these phials close by. My only advice: Do look after them, won’t you?”
With which he had returned the table to its horizontal position, given Mike a shot and left him prone beneath his blanket again. And as the basement’s clinical blue light faded Mike had turned his head a little and watched The Chemist climb the concrete steps, seeing no sign of any infirmity about the man, and no walking-stick aiding his quick and agile movements…
The Chemist had been as good as his word and better—or maybe worse. Mike had awakened as dusk was settling; he had found the dimmer knob, brightened the lighting in the basement, and collected the three phials from a workbench, where he found them in a small padded box like a cigarette case. Along with the phials there had also been this note:
Mike—
Behind the curtain in the corner you’ll find a caged animal. Just three days ago I used it to test the efficacy of my new synthetic bacilli—you’ll know the ones I mean. Of course, as a man you are much bulkier than the poor dog by perhaps six or seven times; also, your vampire blood will try to fight off the infections…and fail. But this is an example of what you can expect should you fail. I calculate you have somewhere in the region of eleven, possibly twelve days, before you need to take the antidote, by which time you should certainly have begun to resemble the canine in its cage…
In the specified corner of the spacious subterranean room, while the smell had been offensive Mike had nevertheless opened the curtains and revealed The Chemist’s “experiment.” He’d felt little or no pity as he at once noted that the dog in the small cage was close to death and quite beyond help; indeed his emotions had been entirely self-centred as he also noted the bursting pustules all over the animal’s scrawny body, the madness of hydrophobia, rabies, in its glaring eyes and foaming jowls, and the way its extremities appeared to be disintegrating. Leprosy, surely? Having found his gun with The Chemist’s phials and note, Mike might easily have put the creature out of its misery there and then; but no, that would have been the waste of a bullet.
Then, as he had left that poisonous dwelling in the misted shade of the mountains, the thought had occurred to him to burn it down, raze it to the ground; at least until he recalled what The Chemist had warned of the dangers of his being made “unwell or unhappy, disinclined or indisposed”—and then he’d at once reconsidered all such incendiary notions.
Following which, biting the inside of his cheek until blood spurted, he’d driven furiously from the house up into the mountains, and begun retracing his route to the airport in Sofia…
Mike had been fortunate to board a plane to Munich that night. The flight had taken off late; it had lasted for two hours; he had spent the rest of the night and following day in a transit hotel room not far from the German airport. Later, his evening flight to Edinburgh had seen him into the city around midnight, which had suited Mike perfectly. Plenty of time to get himself a room in this seedy so-called hotel, not too distant from his target’s wine bar, and then to step out in the night in search of food. Blood, of course.
Prostitutes had been Mike’s main prey ever since the Francezcis turned him, and like every big city Edinburgh had always had its fair share of ladies of the night. Now, with Mike Milazzo, the city was also possessed of a creature of
“Oh, I do,” Mike had answered. “So now you can loosen these chains and set me free.”
“Ah, no, I think not,” The Chemist had replied. “You have a certain look about you, Mike; I’m quite sure you’re the impulsive sort and I wouldn’t want to tempt you. So I’ll just lie you down again under your blanket and give you a shot, and when you wake up at dusk the chains will be gone—as will I. But don’t worry, for I’ll leave these phials close by. My only advice: Do look after them, won’t you?”
With which he had returned the table to its horizontal position, given Mike a shot and left him prone beneath his blanket again. And as the basement’s clinical blue light faded Mike had turned his head a little and watched The Chemist climb the concrete steps, seeing no sign of any infirmity about the man, and no walking-stick aiding his quick and agile movements…
The Chemist had been as good as his word and better—or maybe worse. Mike had awakened as dusk was settling; he had found the dimmer knob, brightened the lighting in the basement, and collected the three phials from a workbench, where he found them in a small padded box like a cigarette case. Along with the phials there had also been this note:
Mike—
Behind the curtain in the corner you’ll find a caged animal. Just three days ago I used it to test the efficacy of my new synthetic bacilli—you’ll know the ones I mean. Of course, as a man you are much bulkier than the poor dog by perhaps six or seven times; also, your vampire blood will try to fight off the infections…and fail. But this is an example of what you can expect should you fail. I calculate you have somewhere in the region of eleven, possibly twelve days, before you need to take the antidote, by which time you should certainly have begun to resemble the canine in its cage…
In the specified corner of the spacious subterranean room, while the smell had been offensive Mike had nevertheless opened the curtains and revealed The Chemist’s “experiment.” He’d felt little or no pity as he at once noted that the dog in the small cage was close to death and quite beyond help; indeed his emotions had been entirely self-centred as he also noted the bursting pustules all over the animal’s scrawny body, the madness of hydrophobia, rabies, in its glaring eyes and foaming jowls, and the way its extremities appeared to be disintegrating. Leprosy, surely? Having found his gun with The Chemist’s phials and note, Mike might easily have put the creature out of its misery there and then; but no, that would have been the waste of a bullet.
Then, as he had left that poisonous dwelling in the misted shade of the mountains, the thought had occurred to him to burn it down, raze it to the ground; at least until he recalled what The Chemist had warned of the dangers of his being made “unwell or unhappy, disinclined or indisposed”—and then he’d at once reconsidered all such incendiary notions.
Following which, biting the inside of his cheek until blood spurted, he’d driven furiously from the house up into the mountains, and begun retracing his route to the airport in Sofia…
Mike had been fortunate to board a plane to Munich that night. The flight had taken off late; it had lasted for two hours; he had spent the rest of the night and following day in a transit hotel room not far from the German airport. Later, his evening flight to Edinburgh had seen him into the city around midnight, which had suited Mike perfectly. Plenty of time to get himself a room in this seedy so-called hotel, not too distant from his target’s wine bar, and then to step out in the night in search of food. Blood, of course.
Prostitutes had been Mike’s main prey ever since the Francezcis turned him, and like every big city Edinburgh had always had its fair share of ladies of the night. Now, with Mike Milazzo, the city was also possessed of a creature of
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