The Vampire's Photograph by Kevin Emerson Page A

ancient means of torture upon shackled prisoners, involving tubs of water, ropes and weights, flames. Oliver wasn’t sure which specific Inquisition it was, maybe the Spanish, but there had been so many throughout the Middle Ages, they all kind of blended together. The particular moment in the tapestry that had Emalie transfixed involved two children, who were being made to face a beast of some kind, something from the Underworld. Oliver wished she hadn’t seen it.
    â€œTheir faces,” Emalie said softly. “I’ve never seen anything so scared-looking, it’s—” She turned away, swallowing hard.
    â€œIt’s just because it’s accurate,” Oliver offered, trying to be helpful.
    â€œWhy would you want to show that so accurately ?” she muttered.
    â€œWell—”
    â€œLet’s just go,” Emalie said quickly, pushing Oliver forward. He heard Dean sigh behind her. Oliver tried to think of something else to say about the imagery, about how it wasn’t the vampires who were doing the awful things in that tapestry, but decided just to leave it.
    They walked for five minutes, silent except for their footfalls. On either side, they began to see abandoned chambers: the deep, forgotten basements of buildings, with dusty tables and chairs scattered about. They passed a cobwebbed storefront, a general store. There were still barrels and sacks of pioneer supplies piled inside.
    â€œI took a tour through stuff like this once,” Dean mused quietly. “There used to be bars and shops beneath the streets.”
    â€œThose were good times to be a vampire,” said Oliver, “I mean, you know, ’cause…” He trailed off, still feeling uncertainty from Emalie.
    They turned right, then left, and finally the tunnel leveled out. Oliver began to hear the din of activity up ahead.
    â€œHow much farther is—” Dean began.
    â€œTsss,” Oliver warned.
    Two vampires were approaching: a man and woman, well dressed, hooked at the elbows. The woman carried a tiny triangular purse that was actually a cage, with a black cloth over it. Something scurried and hissed inside. The man was in the middle of a story but paused as the two groups passed. Oliver nodded to him, hoping that Dean would have the good sense to keep his head down.
    â€œNot really the sort to be hanging around with,” the man said, nose upturned at the scent of zombies.
    â€œThey’re my servants,” Oliver said quickly, keeping his pace brisk.
    â€œHmph,” added the woman, and her purse rattled as if in agreement.
    As they passed by, Oliver listened to make sure the couple kept walking. They did. Oliver felt Emalie grab his sweatshirt again.
    â€œServants?” she hissed.
    â€œVampires sometimes have zombies as servants,” explained Oliver. “It was the safest thing to say.”
    â€œOh, man,” Dean said hoarsely. “That was crazy. We should go back.”
    â€œToo late,” Oliver said.
    They’d reached the end of the sewer line. Beside them, the water continued into a dark tunnel. In front of them was a solid wall, with a wide set of platinum double doors. The same spiral-in-a-square Skrit had been etched across the seam of the doors.
    â€œReady?” Oliver asked.
    Neither replied, but Emalie nodded sternly.
    Oliver pushed through the doors. They descended a long, carpeted staircase. When they reached the bottom, they found themselves standing on the edge of a bustling stream of people moving past them in both directions on a wide walkway that curved away to the left and right. The ceiling rose high above them. Well-dressed vampires, young and old, hurried along, pulling kids, arms full of bags, long coats trailing behind them.
    Oliver headed directly through the jostling crowd, leading Emalie and Dean to the other side of the walkway, where they reached a stone railing that looked out on the full expanse of the Underground