Chapter 14

Wednesday, January 17th

The sun was high the next day when Patrick called Anthony.

"You need a ride where?" his friend asked.

"It's some huge house in the middle of nowhere. Michael's staying there." Patrick reeled off the directions. "Can you take me or not?"

"Yeah, I guess. I'm at Twila's now. Let me get done, then I'll be over, a'ight?"

"Cool. Just kinda hurry, huh? I gotta stop and pay the electric bill, and I don't wanna be out there after dark."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, man." Twila giggled in the background and Patrick knew what they were doing. "Catch you later."

Patrick tossed the cellphone onto the couch, next to the envelope. Blood money. That's what it was, only it was for his own blood. Like the Red Cross. The difference was they only wanted a little.

Michael wants all of it.

***

It was after four before Anthony showed up, a Cheshire cat grin on his face that irritated Patrick even more.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

"Hey man, there's more to life than bein' your taxi. Twila was feelin' lonely." Anthony's grin grew. "Twice."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I don't wanna hear it." Patrick slung his coat on and stuffed his cell phone in his pocket. "Let's get this shit over with."

He dropped the bill through the afterhours slot, then repeated the directions to the mansion. Michael's map was vague, and left them circling back roads for almost an hour.

As they passed a peeling barn for the third time, Anthony turned the music down to ask, "You're sure there's really a mansion out here? Twila said she's heard stories about one with some kinda stone wall, but she ain't never found it. Maybe it's just an urban legend?"

"Michael said"

"Was he sober?"

It was a fair question. "I think so. I don't know." Patrick slouched in the seat and covered his eyes. Reality and the monster-reality were crashing together and he wasn't sure what was real again.

Anthony took a chance and steered the car down a pot holed road they'd previously ignored. "We can keep looking for a while. But I'm gonna need some cash for gas."

Patrick nodded and leaned his forehead against the window. His stomach knotted in fear. But was he scared of finding the place, or not finding the place, and learning that the vampires were his imagination?

"Holy shit! Look at that!"

Patrick followed his gaze to a stone wall and wrought iron gates. So it is real.

Anthony parked and they climbed out, but the gates were locked. "Now what?"

Patrick stared through the gates, to what might be a fountain. Jorick's words came back to him, "...he'll agree to storm the basement." Except he wasn't. He wasn't going anywhere near the goddamn vampires.

He took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. Michael had promised him that everyone was asleep in the basement, and the rest of the house was deserted. Jorick had said that the vampires couldn't stand sunlight, so as long as he stayed away from shadows he could handle a quick look around the yard, maybe even pop inside for a second, to see if Michael's bullshit descriptions of all that wealth were real, and then he was out of there. He'd tell Mikey he'd cased it out, that the plan was impossible, and that would be that. He'd tried, and Mikey couldn't say shit anymore.

Patrick forced his voice calm. "Just, you know, kinda wait here for me. I'll, uh, I'll just go in."

"By yourself?" Anthony shook the gate. "You sure that's a good idea?"

No it's not. Let's get the fuck back in the car and get out of here! Instead he said, "Yeah, it's cool."

"Okay then. I'll hang around for an hour or two." Anthony slouched back to the car and paused. "You're sure about this?"

"Yeah, sure." Except, he wasn't, even as he climbed the wrought iron gates. He dropped down on the other side and looked back to see Anthony still waiting by the car. He gave him a final wave before he trudged toward the house.

No, not house, mansion.

Made of stone, with its odd, tacked together shape, and decorative trim and statues, it looked like a sprawling haunted manor from a horror movie. Shiny windows reflected back the early evening sun and reminded Patrick of how little time was left until dark.

He ignored the copious outbuildings and walked around the perimeter of the house first, checking windows and nudging the foundation. There was no sign of a basement; no cellar doors or windows. But Michael had been right about one thing. It was quiet. Way too quiet.

Patrick made his way to a side door. In spite of the early February chill, beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he used his old plastic gift card to jimmy the lock.

What the fuck am I doing?

It was a question he didn't have an answer for. When the door swung open, he stole softly inside, from one outlandish room to another. It would have been the perfect set for the historical PBS shows his mother watched: chandeliers, red carpet, even a mirrored ballroom. But there was no door to the basement.

Maybe Michael 's crazy, he thought with relief. Maybe I broke into some eccentric millionaire's house. Fuck, I better get out of here!

He turned in time to see a thin, mustached man. Patrick yelped, then something crashed down on his head and everything went black.

***

Patrick opened his eyes. The room was bright and blurry. He tried to block the light with his hands, but they wouldn't work. He tugged harder to discover they were tied behind his back.

What the fuck?

He concentrated and the blurriness receded. He lay on the floor in a smallish room. The only furniture was a desk, some assorted chairs, and a couple of display cabinets. Patrick's eyes roamed from object to object, fluttering fearfully over the swords that hung on the walls.

Oh my God. What kind of freaks are they?