chapter 3
Denny's might seem like an unlikely rendezvous spot for vampire hunters, but think about it for a minute: they're open twenty-four hours and most are conveniently located near major traffic arteries, just in case you have to make that ever-popular quick getaway. Besides, given the clientele that usually occupies the orange and brown booths after midnight, customers like Mr. Estes and me barely merit a second glance from the wait staff.
The parley, as arranged through Jen, is to occur at midnight, but I chose to show up a half-hour early, just in case I'm walking into a trap. I'm not surprised to find Estes already awaiting me, but I am slightly impressed.
He's sitting alone in the farthest corner booth, his back to the wall, dressed much as I first saw him, a solitary cup of black coffee in front of him. Even in repose he's as tight as a steel spring. I have no doubt that he is armed, and I know he thinks the same of me. And he's right, of course.
His eyes follow me as I approach, watching for telltale body language or sudden movement. His gaze flickers to my shoulder. Confusion, as fleeting as a summer cloud, crosses his face.
"May I sit down?" I ask, gesturing to the empty bench. He nods but says nothing. I slide in opposite him.
A waitress with a weary expression and sagging pantyhose moves to take my order. I point to my companion's drink and she returns a moment later with a white ceramic mug and a half-empty Bunn pot.
The coffee smells of scorched grounds. Neither of us moves or speaks until the waitress has returned to her station behind the counter.
"You are the Blue Woman." It is not a question.
"I have been called that. My name is Sonja. Sonja Blue."
His eyes go back to my shoulder. "I shot you the other night, but you're not wounded. Do you wear a Kevlar vest?"
"No.
The furrows on his brow deepen.
"Look, forget the shooting, okay?" I say, cutting him off before he can ask anything else. "I didn't agree to meet with you to compare notes. I'm here to talk you into giving up this madness. You've been lucky, so far. But that luck will eventually fail you. Despite everything you think you know, you are in no position to truly combat these things."
A flash of anger darkens his eyes. "Who are you to tell me what I do and don't know? I'm hardly a novice on the matter; I've been hunting these creatures for five years! I know if I shoot them with a silver bullet, they die. I know that if I take their heads, they stay dead. I know that if I touch them with a crucifix, they burn."
I shake my head, fighting the urge to laugh. "Everything stays dead if you chop off its head. As to burning them with a crucifix, religious icons have no effect on them."
"Mine does," he says, the muscle in his jaw jumping. I extend my hand. "Let me see it."
Estes casts his searchlight gaze about the diner, then reaches into the interior right breast pocket of his duster and retrieves an ornately detailed antique silver crucifix measuring a foot in length. I take the relic from him, turning it over carefully in my hands. It is weighted so that it can bludgeon as well as bless.
"I bought it from a dealer in rare objects," Estes explains. "He claimed it was a specially designed for use by the Inquisition and blessed by Pope Sixtus IV."
"I know what it is," I reply curtly. "It was used to administer church-sanctioned beatings of heretics and those accused of witchcraft. Breaking bones with a blessed object was believed to pain the demon that possessed those under the Question and guaranteed that no imp could enter the wound after the fact." I return the witch-breaker to him, wiping my hands with one of the paper napkins from the dispenser on the table. "They burn because it's silver, not because it's a crucifix. Not even because it was blessed by a Pope."
Estes stares at the crucifix for a long moment as if truly seeing it for the first time, then carefully returns it to its place within his coat.
"That's exactly what I'm talking about," I say, shaking my head in disgust. "Your understanding of their abilities and weaknesses, while impressive, is seriously flawed. You're good, but you're still just human.
There are only a handful who possesses the ability to truly see these creatures for what they are, and most are madder than hatters. I can tell from looking at you that you don't possess extrasensory perception, so I'm assuming your awareness must come from personal contact."
A startled look flashes across his face, as quick as a deer leaping in front of a speeding car, then disappears. "Who told you that?"
I sigh and roll my eyes. People more intense than me wear me out. "Didn't you hear what I just said?
Don't get paranoid on me, friend. I don't know a thing about you except what Jen has told me. But give me credit for adding two and two together and not getting five, okay?"
"You say I've been lucky so far. That's bullshit! I've got over twenty kills under my belt. That's more than just luck! You keep saying I'm just human. So what the hell does that make you?"
"Come now, boy," I smile, flashing him a glimpse of fang. "Surely you know by now it takes one to know one."
Estes' hand goes to the concealed holster nestled in his left armpit, but I grab his wrist and pin it to the table with enough force to slosh cooling coffee into the saucers.
"I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Mr. Estes." I keep my voice even and low, as if calming a skittish animal. While I make sure the pressure on his wrist isn't painful for now, there's no way he can lift his hand without breaking his arm. "There are too many witnesses here, for one." I nod to the trio of college students sipping coffee and eating pie two booths over. "Neither of us is interested in harming uninvolved parties."
"Since when has your kind ever cared about harming the innocent?" He spits the words out as if they've curdled in his mouth.
"I am not one of them," I reply, trying to keep the anger from my voice. "Didn't I just handle your blessed silver crucifix?"
He relaxes slightly, but remains tense, his brows knit in consternation. "Then what are you, if you're not undead?"
I shrug and let go of his wrist. He yanks it away, studying it cautiously, like a man counting his fingers after a close encounter with a crocodile.
"All I can tell you is that I am Sonja Blue, and I have been a vampire hunter for thirty years."
Estes stops massaging his wrist and tilts his head to one side. "Thirty - ? How old are you?"
"Forty-seven."
"You don't look it."
It takes me a moment to realize he is attempting humor. I smile crookedly. "Thanks."
A long, uncomfortable silence falls between us. His eyes flicker over me, trying to decipher the enigma before him via whatever Rosetta Stone he has based his world upon. I skim the surface of his mind, careful not to create ripples that would alert him to my presence. I see hungry, dead eyes and a grinning mouth set in a dark face.
"You're looking for one vampire in particular."
Estes' eyes narrow in suspicion.
"Don't worry. I'm not a mind-reader," I say, lying to his face. "It's just that those who hunt the undead have their reasons, and it's usually revenge. It certainly was in my case."
Curiosity replaces the suspicion in Estes' eyes. "Tell me about it."
I shrug. "It's the same old story. Girl has the world on a string. Girl meets handsome Prince Charming.
Prince Charming turns into rapist hell-beast. Girl wakes up from a coma a year later with fangs and a thirst for blood. Girl spends the next twenty-something years trying to track down the bastard who stole her life and future away from her."
Estes leans forward in his seat, his gaze focused on me as tight as a laser. "Did you find him?"
"Yes. More than once, actually."
"Did you kill him?" His breathing has become as ragged as that of an obscene phone caller's.
"Yes."
"How was it?"
I avert my eyes, looking out the window into the parking lot. "Dangerous. Frightening. Violent.
Exhilarating."
He gives a tiny sigh and leans back in his seat. He looks like a man who has satisfied some urge better left secret.
"Look, Estes," I whisper sharply. "The world you think you know is a lot darker than even you can imagine. It's a nightmare country, where a little knowledge is as dangerous as complete ignorance. So far you've played the holy fool, strolling towards the precipice, happily unaware of your own blindness. The path you've chosen is dangerous beyond human comprehension.
"That is why the Holy See disbanded the witch finders elite. Once they learned mankind shared the planet with shadow races that had been preying upon humans since the first ape stood upright, they were unable to live with the knowledge. Many went mad, some committed suicide, and others surrendered themselves to the control of those they were once sworn to oppose. They learned the hard way that it's impossible for humans to be hunters of monsters without becoming monsters themselves.
"As for me, I've slain hundreds of vampires. And I've murdered countless humans. Many were servants of those I battled. Others were - if not exactly innocent - certainly not guilty of any crime worthy of death.
Yet, I killed them all the same. That's why I'm asking you to stop. If you value your humanity, you'll surrender this madness and get on with your life."
The muscles in Estes' jaw work as if he's biting on a bullet. "Even if I wanted to do that, I can't. Not yet."
One of the diners in a nearby booth stops eating her scramble skillet and stares at us, fork frozen halfway to her mouth, a look of fearful disbelief in her eyes. We've been overheard, if not exactly understood.
"Let's take this discussion someplace a little bit more private," I say, tossing a crumpled ten onto the tabletop.
We stride out of the restaurant and into the darkness beyond its glass doors. I motion for Estes to follow me as I head down a side street, away from the lights of the main drag. He hesitates, and then falls into step alongside me. "Tell me about yourself, Mr. Estes."
"You don't want to hear my story."
"On the contrary. I want to know as much about you as I possibly can. There are so few vampire hunters; surely we must share some things in common."
Estes shoots me a look from the corner of his eye, trying to decide if I'm making fun of him. After a long moment, he reaches inside the pocket of his duster and withdraws a pack of unfiltered Raleighs.
"Mind if I smoke?"
I raise an eyebrow in mild surprise. "Isn't that an unusual brand for someone your age?"
Estes grunts something like a laugh as he lips his cigarette. "Old habits die hard. It's what they used to smoke in the bughouse. "
"You were in an asylum?"
"Yeah," he sighs, lighting his smoke with a chrome Zippo pulled from yet another pocket. "Sixteen years, total. Although I only remember six of them." He takes a long, hard pull on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out through his nostrils.
"So...where do you want me to start?"
"How about from the beginning? That's where most stories start."