The eccentrics knight wa.., p.11
The Eccentrics (Knight Watch Book 3), page 11
“You seem to have gone through a pancake phase,” Matthew said.
“Pan . . . cakes? Oh, non, pas les crêpes!” He rushed out of the kitchen. From the other room, we heard several loud exclamations in tortured French, then the wholesale evacuation of damp dough from the shelves.
“So we’ve got nothing. Pierre doesn’t know who attacked him and the vampire is just a weird beetle thing.” Chesa sighed and looked out the window. “At least the fog is lifting. Looks like the Gestalt is back in place.”
“We have the devices,” Gregory said. “Maybe Tesla will be able to make some sense of them.”
“Good thought. Let’s get those bagged up,” I said. “Hopefully Pierre is on his way to recovery. What should we do with the body?”
“We can figure that out later. For now, we need to get back to the Silverhawk.” Addie sat up a little more. The color drained from her face, and she tottered back and forth. The Good Doctor grabbed at her elbow, but she pushed him aside. “Where’s my gun?”
“About that. Um . . .” I looked around awkwardly. “Before you freak out, this is how we found it.”
“What? What do you mean? What’d you do to my gun?”
I produced the weapon. Or, at least, the pieces of the weapon I’d been able to find, collected in a muffin tray according to size. Addie snarled at me and snatched the tray out of my hands, then started sorting out the pieces, discarding about half of them with disdain.
“I told you we have a negative effect on modern technology. Be glad that most of those pieces at least resemble your pistol.”
“This is a spoon! And a thimble! And these are . . . dice? Why are all my bullets dice?”
“Ooo, d12s. Big damage.” I took the dice and rolled them around in my hand. They were a mix of lead and brass, and clunked together in a very satisfying manner. “If you can’t get them back to their original form, I’d be happy to take these off your hands. Left most of mine back home, and my mom threw—”
Addie snatched the dice from me and tucked them into her pocket. “This is the kind of thing Nik was talking about. Our magic systems interfere with each other. Most of the time everything will work as you expect it to then, suddenly, bang, your longsword is a grandfather clock and my revolver turns into nerd jewelry.” She shuffled the broken pistol around on the table for a second before sighing heavily. “I’d like to get out of this magical backwater before something else breaks.”
“Sure thing. Soon as the doc is done with you.”
The Good Doctor hummed happily, producing another syringe, this one the size of his forearm. She tried to push him away, but her weakened protests amounted to little more than the flapping of hands and a long string of precise profanity. He shoved the needle into her arm and lowered the plunger. Addie turned green.
“You know, I’m starting to appreciate the Saint,” I muttered to Gregory. “A couple cookies, a joke about missing sheep, and you’re healed.” I glanced over at him. He was staring at the needle, and had turned about the same shade of green as Addie. I quickly backtracked. “Hey, I’m sure he’ll have something other than a needle for that head. A poultice or something.”
Turns out needles were The Good Doctor’s thing—needles, gasses, and glass vials filled with various chemicals that smelled like a collection of urine samples. He used all of these things in healing Gregory of his wounds. I retreated to the front room, happy that I had escaped with minimal scrapes, deciding to not point out the cut on my wrist. Not that I’m scared of needles. I just have a healthy mistrust of them, bordering on fear.
Pierre had managed to clear out the display cases. He retreated back to the kitchens with an armload of flour and a determined look on his face. It wasn’t long before the smell of baking bread wafted through the air. I glanced up at the ceiling.
Instead of cherubs and laureled women, the scene was a pastoral setting that seemed to focus once again on scantily-clothed women and the stunning appearance of baked goods. The center of the ceiling was the sky of gilt gold. Chesa’s flarrow stuck in the middle of the sun, and was glittering brilliantly off the gold leaf.
“Huh. That’s weird. I wonder—”
I heard the footsteps a moment too late. Assuming it was Chesa coming to taunt me, or Bethany practicing her stealth rolls, I glanced over my shoulder, ready to make a joke.
A vampire stood in the middle of the room. Not a baker dressed as a vampire, but an actual vampire—black cloak, bloodred eyes, gray skin, dressed like a Bauhaus song come to life. Pearly white fangs puckered the edge of black, cracked lips.
“What the—” I started to turn toward him. He hissed, then leapt at me, claws extended.
I fumbled my shield off my shoulder, barely getting it between us before he barreled into it. Falling backward, I grabbed at his outstretched arm. Razor-sharp claws scraped across my vambraces before slicing into my cheek. I let out a startled yelp and hit the ground, banging my head off the floor. Dazed, I rolled over onto my belly, putting the shield between us. The vampire stood in the doorframe, backlit by the diffuse light from outside, glaring down at me.
“He is coming for you, mortal. The Iron Lich will be content with nothing less than the destruction of the Gestalt,” the vampire purred. Then he swept his cloak over his head and bolted outside. “Be warned!”
A tinny bell sounded as the vampire bolted through the door, disappearing into the foggy street beyond. I stared numbly after him.
“Who the hell is the Iron Lich?” I muttered.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“John, what the heck are you doing out here?” Chesa appeared from the kitchen. Her eyes shot up when I turned around. “What happened to your face?”
Blood streamed down my cheek. I rolled to my feet, peering out into the fog. There was no sign of the vampire. Chesa grabbed me by the shoulder.
“You’re bleeding all over the place!”
“Vampire. There was a vampire,” I stuttered. “Vampire.”
“Yes, we know, John. We were all there,” Chesa said. “Did you trip and hit your head or something?”
“No, listen, there was a vampire. A real one. It . . .” I pointed outside. “Well, he’s gone now.” I described the encounter as quickly as possible, while the Eccentrics were out of earshot. Chesa furrowed her brow.
“Well, we’re going to need to tell Tesla about this. Maybe the name means something to him,” she said.
“We can’t. Not until we know what’s going on. They can’t know about the vampires.”
Chesa looked over her shoulder uncertainly. Finally, she shook her head. “Fine. But we keep an eye out.”
“Agreed. And thanks for trusting me,” I said.
“Oh, I don’t trust you. At least not very much,” Chesa said.
Just then, Gregory came out of the kitchens. “What are you guys doing out here?” he asked. “John! Your face!”
“Yeah, yeah.” I put one hand to my cheek. It came away bloody. “Just a scratch.”
“Hey, Doc?” Gregory called over his shoulder. “Looks like we’ve got one more patient!”
The Good Doctor shuffled into the room, his fingers still sticky with pancake batter. When he saw me, his glassy eyes lit up.
“Hey, I’m perfectly fine. Just a scratch,” I said, backing away. “Honest. There’s no need—”
The needle he produced from his belt was as thick as a number-two pencil, protruding from a plunger as long and round as my arm. The glass vial bubbled with noxious orange liquid.
“Ah, crap,” I mumbled, as Gregory and Chesa gleefully grabbed my arms and held me down for the healing.
My arm felt like a water balloon that someone had filled with hot, pulsing magma. Every time I tried to move my hand, spears of pain shot through my shoulder and cradled my spine in misery. Every heartbeat was throbbing anguish. I had to pry my gauntlet off to keep my fingers from bursting through the chain link, and my fingernails had turned the most amazing shade of purple. The twin puncture wounds on my wrist had boiled with pus and black bile before sealing closed, leaving a pair of shiny scars.
“Next time, get me a priest,” I said, wiping the remnants of the vampire-pus from my armor with a pancake. “Or a shot of whiskey.”
The Good Doctor chirped dismissively, measuring my arm with his calipers before stowing the syringe in a holster inside his coat. “Aether stabilizing. Take two cocaine tablets and message me tomorrow.”
“Is there a reason you didn’t step in to help, Matt?” I asked. The Saint lounged just outside the kitchen, admiring the gilt ceiling and chewing thoughtfully on a rolled-up pancake. “I would have much preferred the Brilliance.”
“Gotta conserve our energy, man. These amulets are a real slow drip.” He tapped his chest. “Long as The Good Doctor’s methods work, why not use ’em?”
“I have a list of reasons. I’ll start with the syringes. Then the smell. Then the excruciating pain.” I stood up. “Oh, hey. Dizziness! Add that to the list.”
The Good Doctor made a dismissive gesture, then packed up his gladstone bag and retreated to the kitchens to check on Pierre and Adelaide. As soon as he was gone, I pulled the rest of Knight Watch close.
“Listen, keep the vampire thing quiet. Because I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that it wasn’t one of these mechanical scarab things.” I pointed down the street, where the vampire had run. “That was the real thing.”
“If that’s the case, shouldn’t we warn the Eccentrics?” Chesa asked. “If there’s a real vampire running around the Gestalt, they should know.”
“Not without clearance from Esther. And unless one of you has a magic telephone, we’re pretty much on our own.” I glanced over Greg’s shoulder at Tembo, who was just emerging from the kitchens. “Let’s keep this to the five of us for now. Okay?”
“Sounds like a terrible idea,” Bethany said. “I’m in.”
“I do not like the idea of providing succor to the foul spawn of the night, but in this I must agree,” Gregory said. “The lady Esther has spoken. I have given my word to follow her commands, though the very gates of Hell—”
“Right, okay, you’re in. Chesa?” I asked.
“What are we talking about?” Tembo asked, strolling up.
“John saw a third vampire. Maybe a real one,” Chesa said. “He doesn’t want us to tell the Eccentrics.”
“Hm. Well, for now, I agree. Until we know who or what is behind this,” Tembo said, placing one broad hand on my shoulder. “I am with you.”
“Fine,” Chesa tossed her hair over one shoulder. “I’ll keep quiet. But if this gets someone killed . . .”
“If what gets someone killed?” Adelaide stepped out of the kitchens. She was still nursing her right hand, which under The Good Doctor’s care had swollen up like a pincushion.
“We were talking about taking Pierre in for an interview,” I said. “But I think he’s been through enough.”
Adelaide looked from me to the rest of the group, then shrugged.
“Sure, whatever. I’m just anxious to get back to the Silverhawk, and a shower.” She strolled past us. “They’re these clever things, Rast. Like rain, only inside, and warm. Oh, and someone needs to bag up the scarabs. Tesla will want to see those.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get right on that, ma’am,” I grumped. “One bag of dead vampire beetle parts, coming right up.”
“You really missed your calling, John. You’d have killed it in retail,” Chesa said.
Tesla stared at the sack in my hand with baffled distaste. Oil and blood dripped through the burlap to pool on the intricate pattern of the parquet floor. The team of Pinkertons who had escorted us into the Silverhawk stood in a loose circle behind us, ready to pounce with janitorial supplies and a bucket of lye. We were on the flight deck, a place I’d never seen before. It looked like a cross between the bridge of a submarine and a gentleman’s drawing room. Wooden floors, brass railings, and cushy chairs contrasted with pipe-encrusted low ceilings, beeping display cabinets, and an array of controls that boggled the mind. Three bubble-like windows gave a commanding view of the outside, with a fourth window built into the floor and crossed by catwalks. The three command chairs, where we stood, were centered on a parquet wooden floor that wouldn’t have been out of place in the finest dance halls in the country. Fortunately, we were still on the ground, or I would have been dealing with significant vertigo issues.
“And what am I supposed to do with this?” Tesla asked delicately.
“I don’t know, I figured you’d want to see the body. Isn’t that how this works? We kill the monsters, you do science stuff to their corpses.” I shrugged. “I did the sword stuff. You’re the science guy. Science it.”
“It’s a wonder you lot ever accomplish anything meaningful.” Tesla pressed his knuckles into his brow. “Let’s go back a step. Who is this, that you have chopped up and brought to me in a burlap sack?”
“Oh, it’s not actually the body. He was way too big for this,” I said, lifting the sack. The burlap swung back and forth pendulously, spattering drops of black ichor around the control room. The mob of Pinkertons ebbed and flowed, eager to clean but reluctant to get close to me. “But both he and the other baker had one of these on their backs. Seemed important.”
“So you slaughtered a couple of bakers—”
“Just one of them. And he wasn’t just a baker,” I said.
“Someone or something had turned him into a vampire, boss,” Addie called over my shoulder. “Or at least a simulacrum of a vampire. Put up a hell of a fight, too.”
“He wasn’t too tough,” Bethany said with a sniff. “Dropped like a stone once I showed up. Probably scared.”
“Well, the rest of us were struggling while you lounged in the rafters,” Gregory said.
“Yeah, you’re welcome for that,” Bethany said.
“Welcome? You’re welcome?” Gregory asked with a gulp. His face turned four shades of bright red, none of them cheerful. “What exactly are we welcome for?”
“The rescue? Sheesh, you save some people and they can’t even show a little appreciation. Maybe next time I’ll just—”
“Okay, enough. Let’s at least pretend we’re professional heroes,” I said sternly. “The point is that both Pierre and his assistant appeared to be vampires, they both had these devices on their backs, and once we took them off, they both changed back.”
“Unfortunately, we didn’t figure that out until we’d already killed the kid,” Addie said. “Or maybe the machine had already killed him, and was just keeping him undead.”
The Good Doctor chittered sadly, then slowly fed a croissant into his mouth flap. Pierre wouldn’t let us leave until he had provided a basket of warm bread, most of which had already disappeared into the Doc’s mask.
“Well that sounds very serious. A device, you say? So we’re looking for some kind of engineer, or a toy maker,” Tesla mused. “That doesn’t do much to narrow down the list of suspects. Well, let’s get a look at these things.” Tesla gestured to the back of the room. “Put it over there, on the workbench. I’ll take a look at it.”
I did as asked, dumping the bag’s contents out onto the metal workbench in the corner. The latent bilious substance from the glass vials on the scarabs, along with the sticky remnants of blood from the various tubes, hooks, and talons that had burrowed through the dead baker’s body put out quite a stench. Tesla produced a pair of articulated telescoping goggles from a cupboard, strapped them on, then set about examining the shattered remnants of the scarab.
“There’s something very strange about this,” he said, laying the parts out and then slowly fitting them back together. “It follows none of the paradigms I’m familiar with. The psycho-diesel chicanery of House Ford could be involved, but it lacks the hallmark crude lines. No, it’s much too elegant of a machine for that fumbler.”
“Someday you’re going to have to get over that,” Addie said quietly.
“Hank has had every opportunity to apologize. So.” Tesla rotated the main body of the scarab. “There are familiar aspects to this device, but overall, it is a mystery. And you say both vampires were wearing one?”
“Pierre’s was smaller.” Addie poked through the parts and recovered the tiny scarab. It wasn’t much bigger than her hand. “And he seemed more in control. Didn’t attack us, beyond some frightened slapping. He lacked the boy’s strength and speed.”
“Different scarabs for different purposes? Or perhaps they harvest something from the host as they grow. Very curious,” Tesla said. His goggles buzzed and whirred. A pair of tiny arms produced progressively more powerful lenses as he bent to examine the device. “And the Egyptian symbolism is not lost on me. Not uncommon in the Gestalt.”
“So this might be someone on your side of things, trying to . . . what? Recreate vampires from scratch?” I asked.
“There is a history of vampire affinity in the Gestalt. Lost souls drawn to macabre and melodramatic,” Tesla said.
“So . . . goths?” Bethany asked.
“Goths who have discovered brown,” Tesla said. “And electricity. But more precisely, this device does not seem to function on the principle of hematological transmutation.”
We stared at him blankly.
“Blood transfer. I’m not an expert on the subject, but my understanding is that vampires of your . . . uh . . . milieu consume blood from living victims and transform it into life energy. Or death energy, depending on your views on the polydynamic nature of good and evil as it relates to—”
“Wait, this thing doesn’t suck blood?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure it sucked at least a little blood out of Addie.”
“A by-product of the transference process,” Nik said. “Resulting from the method of procurement. The, uh . . . the holes it pokes through your skin. Might be a legacy feature, but I suspect it’s more a matter of evoking the original format.”
“So what is it sucking?” I asked, more than a little uncomfortable about having the baker’s teeth in my veins. Not that I was particularly comfortable with the idea in the first place. “Please don’t say souls.”
