silly.”
“I bet you would, bitch. I bet you would… Hey, Ian! You gonna sit on those runs all day, buddy? Let’s go!”
“Right!” Ian started writing hurriedly again. “So it’s Dungeons and Dragons on Friday night. My place again?”
“It already looks like a battlefield, so I don’t see why not.” Allan winked, and they shared a grin. “Think we can get Mr. Hunter to play?”
“Is he still on the line?” They turned simultaneously to look, but Chester had just hung up the phone.
“Now, that guy is good ,” Chester proclaimed. “I don’t hafta worry about Hunter. He’s okay. He does his work. But fuckin’ Vince …”
Everybody started rolling their eyes. Chester was going to be on a Vince-trip all day, and it was only ten after ten.
“All he kept sayin’ was ‘ Coffins , man! Coffins !’ I mean, who cares about coffins?”
Allan and Ian looked at each other, two minds that liked to play with the fantastic. Two sets of eyebrows raised at the same time. A matched set of evil, obsequious leers.
“Our master,” said Allan, rubbing his hands together in toadyish abandon.
“Count Vampiro,” said Ian, with fawning adoration in his voice.
“What a lovely bunch of coconuts we’ve got to work with around here,” Tony griped, lighting up a cigarette. “I kid you not, buddy.”
“Don’t these guys ever do any work?” Doug asked Tony. Tony shrugged.
“No,” said Jerome with perfect diction. “They’re too busy serving Count Vampiro.”
“Nobody’s talking to you, Mary… Ian! Get outta here, buddy! Doug, you too!”
“I’m going!” Ian grabbed his clipboard, stuffed it into his bag, and ran for the door, Doug skating up in hot pursuit. Allan watched them, and a weird flash of trepidation struck… a shapeless fear, with no identifiable cause, that suddenly loomed up inside him like a monster from his imaginary dungeon.
A sense of impending doom.
He started to say something, but the door slammed shut behind them. Allan stood there, frozen, the bad rush just sitting in his chest like a rotting thing. Was it for me, or was it for them? he wondered, staring at the closed door. Or was it just random paranoia?
He was dimly aware of Chester’s voice, going on and on behind him.
Saying, “ Coffins , man! Can you believe that?”
As a chill moved up his spine like a snake.
CHAPTER 6
At about 3:30 in the afternoon, Stephen Parrish resolved to call Josalyn again. He’d been all over the Village until almost four in the morning, checking every possible hangout, and come up with nothing. He’d finally dragged himself home and collapsed in defeat, slept through the rest of the morning, and awakened at a quarter to two: bleary-eyed, cranky, and not at all rested.
He’d gotten dressed, made a cup of instant coffee, and gone down to the corner for the Post and the Daily News . The subway murders were relegated to small boxes in the lower left-hand corner of the front page: POLICE SUSPECT DEMON CULT IN SUBWAY SLAYINGS for the first, SUBWAY PSYCHO’S CALL… “THE DEVIL MADE US DO IT!” for the other. They did not make him happy He bought them and took them home.
He read them. They were nonsense, pure and simple. Stephen was amazed that the ruse had made it past the copy editors desk. Obviously, some fruitcake had called in, dubbing himself High Priest of the Luciferian Order, and claimed to have orchestrated a blood sacrifice to the Dark Prince Himself. The police were checking on it, on the off chance that there might be something to it; but Stephen’s opinion was that “Lord Blood” (as this loony-tune referred to himself) was a sicko publicity-seeker, cluttering the trail with bad jokes and schizophrenia.
But… how could he know for sure?
For all he knew, Lord Blood was not only as weird as he seemed, but even weirder . For all he knew, the guy might be a cover for a real group of Satanists, or mobsters, or terrorists, or whatever. For all he knew, it could have
“I bet you would, bitch. I bet you would… Hey, Ian! You gonna sit on those runs all day, buddy? Let’s go!”
“Right!” Ian started writing hurriedly again. “So it’s Dungeons and Dragons on Friday night. My place again?”
“It already looks like a battlefield, so I don’t see why not.” Allan winked, and they shared a grin. “Think we can get Mr. Hunter to play?”
“Is he still on the line?” They turned simultaneously to look, but Chester had just hung up the phone.
“Now, that guy is good ,” Chester proclaimed. “I don’t hafta worry about Hunter. He’s okay. He does his work. But fuckin’ Vince …”
Everybody started rolling their eyes. Chester was going to be on a Vince-trip all day, and it was only ten after ten.
“All he kept sayin’ was ‘ Coffins , man! Coffins !’ I mean, who cares about coffins?”
Allan and Ian looked at each other, two minds that liked to play with the fantastic. Two sets of eyebrows raised at the same time. A matched set of evil, obsequious leers.
“Our master,” said Allan, rubbing his hands together in toadyish abandon.
“Count Vampiro,” said Ian, with fawning adoration in his voice.
“What a lovely bunch of coconuts we’ve got to work with around here,” Tony griped, lighting up a cigarette. “I kid you not, buddy.”
“Don’t these guys ever do any work?” Doug asked Tony. Tony shrugged.
“No,” said Jerome with perfect diction. “They’re too busy serving Count Vampiro.”
“Nobody’s talking to you, Mary… Ian! Get outta here, buddy! Doug, you too!”
“I’m going!” Ian grabbed his clipboard, stuffed it into his bag, and ran for the door, Doug skating up in hot pursuit. Allan watched them, and a weird flash of trepidation struck… a shapeless fear, with no identifiable cause, that suddenly loomed up inside him like a monster from his imaginary dungeon.
A sense of impending doom.
He started to say something, but the door slammed shut behind them. Allan stood there, frozen, the bad rush just sitting in his chest like a rotting thing. Was it for me, or was it for them? he wondered, staring at the closed door. Or was it just random paranoia?
He was dimly aware of Chester’s voice, going on and on behind him.
Saying, “ Coffins , man! Can you believe that?”
As a chill moved up his spine like a snake.
CHAPTER 6
At about 3:30 in the afternoon, Stephen Parrish resolved to call Josalyn again. He’d been all over the Village until almost four in the morning, checking every possible hangout, and come up with nothing. He’d finally dragged himself home and collapsed in defeat, slept through the rest of the morning, and awakened at a quarter to two: bleary-eyed, cranky, and not at all rested.
He’d gotten dressed, made a cup of instant coffee, and gone down to the corner for the Post and the Daily News . The subway murders were relegated to small boxes in the lower left-hand corner of the front page: POLICE SUSPECT DEMON CULT IN SUBWAY SLAYINGS for the first, SUBWAY PSYCHO’S CALL… “THE DEVIL MADE US DO IT!” for the other. They did not make him happy He bought them and took them home.
He read them. They were nonsense, pure and simple. Stephen was amazed that the ruse had made it past the copy editors desk. Obviously, some fruitcake had called in, dubbing himself High Priest of the Luciferian Order, and claimed to have orchestrated a blood sacrifice to the Dark Prince Himself. The police were checking on it, on the off chance that there might be something to it; but Stephen’s opinion was that “Lord Blood” (as this loony-tune referred to himself) was a sicko publicity-seeker, cluttering the trail with bad jokes and schizophrenia.
But… how could he know for sure?
For all he knew, Lord Blood was not only as weird as he seemed, but even weirder . For all he knew, the guy might be a cover for a real group of Satanists, or mobsters, or terrorists, or whatever. For all he knew, it could have
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