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Digital Knight
Ryk E. Spoor
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this
book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely
coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 by Ryk E. Spoor

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-7161-X

Cover art by Gary Ruddell

First printing, October 2003

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America
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This book is dedicated to:
Jim Baen, for giving me a chance;
My wife, Kathleen, for her constant support;
The "Butcher of Baen" for his invaluable help.
 The yard was very dark; no lights were on in the house to which it was attached, the
fence was high, and my eyes were still accustomed to the streetlights. But I could make out
something on the ground, about thirty or forty feet away . . . and it seemed to me that across
the yard there was a movement, another gate opening, and someone going through. There
was nothing I could put my finger on . . . but something about that distant, moving figure
sent a sudden shiver down my spine. "Hello?" I said tentatively.
There was no answer, though I heard a faint clack noise of the other gate shutting in the
distance. "Sorry to intrude, but I heard something . . . ?"
Still no answer, but no sudden attacks from darkness either. I took a deep breath and
stepped inside, walking slowly towards the object lying on the ground in front of me. Even
before I reached it I had a very nasty feeling I knew what it was. I pulled out my keyring
and turned on the mini-flashlight, pointing it downward.
Lying on the ground before me was a dead man.
"Oh, for crissakes," I heard myself say. "I'm on vacation, dammit!"
 Gone in a Flash

1
I clicked on the JAPES icon. A second picture appeared on the RAN-7X workstation
screen next to the digitized original, said original being a pretty blurry picture of two men
exchanging something. At first the two pictures looked identical, as always, but then
rippling changes started: colors brightening and darkening, objects becoming so sharp as to
look almost animated, a dozen things at once. I controlled the process with a mouse,
pointing and clicking in places that were either doing very well or very poorly. JAPES
(Jason's Automatic Photo Enhancing System) was a specialized plug-in program module
I'd designed, which combined many of the standard photographic enhancement techniques
into a single complex operation controlled partly by me and partly by a learning expert
system.
The computer-enhanced version, on the other hand, was crisp as a posed photo; except
that I don't think either the Assemblyman or the coke dealer had intended a pose. Yeah, that
ought to give Elias Klein another nail to put in the crooks' coffins. I glanced at my watch:
eight-twenty. Time enough to enhance one more photo before Sylvie came over. I decided
to do the last of Lieutenant Klein's; drug cases make me nervous, you never know what
might happen.
I inserted the negative into the enlarger/digitizer, popped into the kitchen for a cream
soda, sat down and picked up my book. After seventeen minutes the computer pinged; for
this kind of work, I have to scan at the best possible resolution. I checked to make sure the
scan went okay, then coded in the parameters and set JAPES going, then went back to
Phantoms. Great yarn. After the automatic functions were done, I started in on what I really
get paid for here at Wood's Information Service ("Need info? Knock on Wood!"): the
ability to find the best "finishing touches" that make enhancement still an art rather than a
science.
A faint scraping sound came from the back door, and then a faint clank. I checked the
time again; nine-twenty-five, still too early; Sylvie's occult shop, the Silver Stake, always
closed at precisely nine-thirty. "Lewis?" I called out.
Lewis was what social workers might call a displaced person, others called a bum, and
I called a contact. Lewis sometimes did scutwork for me—as long as he was sober he was a
good worker. Unfortunately when he was drunk he was a belligerent nuisance, and at six
foot seven a belligerent Lewis was an ugly sight. Since it was the first Friday of the month,
he was probably drunk.
But I didn't hear an answer, neither voice nor the funny ringing knock that the chains on
his jacket cuffs made. Instead I heard another clank and then a muffled thud. At that point
the computer pinged again, having just finished my last instructions. I checked the final
version—it looked pretty good, another pose of the Assemblyman alone with his hand
partly extended—then downloaded all the data onto two disks for the Lieutenant. I sealed
them in an envelope with the original negatives, dropped the envelope into the safe, swung
it shut, pulled the wall panel down and locked it. Then I stepped out and turned towards the
backdoor, grabbing my book as I left. Just then the front doorbell rang.
It was Sylvie, of course. "Hi, Jason!" she said, bouncing through the door. "Look at
these, we just got the shipment in today! Aren't they great?" She dangled some crystal and
silver earrings in front of me, continuing, "They're genuine Brazil crystal and the settings
were handmade; the lady who makes them says she gets her directions from an Aztec she
channels—"
There was a tremendous bang from the rear and the windows shivered. "What the hell
was that?" Sylvie demanded. "Sounded like a cannon!"
"I don't know," I answered. "But it wasn't a gun. Something hit the building." I thought
of the photos I was enhancing. It wouldn't be the first time someone had decided to erase
the evidence before I finished improving it. I yanked open the righthand drawer of the front
desk, pulled out my .45, snicked the safety off.
"You're that worried, Jason?"
"Could be bad, Syl; working for cops has its drawbacks."
She nodded, her face serious now. To other people she comes across as a New Age
bimbo, or a gypsy with long black hair and colored handkerchief clothes. I know better.
She reached into her purse, yanked out a small .32 automatic, pulled the slide once. I heard
a round chamber itself. "Ready."
I raised an eyebrow, Spocklike. "Why the gun?"
"This may be a fairly nice neighborhood, Jason, but some of the places I go aren't. And
you get a lot of wierdos in the occult business." She started towards the back. "Let's go."
I cut in front of her. "You cover me."
I approached the door carefully, swinging to the hinge side. It opened inward, which
could be trouble if someone slammed it open; I took the piece of pipe that I keep around
and put it on the floor in the path of the door. Then I yanked the bolt and turned the handle.
I felt a slight pressure, but not anything like something trying to force the door. Sylvie
had lined up opposite me. She glanced at me and I nodded. I let the door start to open, then
let go and stood aside.
The metal fire door swung open and Lewis flopped down in front of us. Sylvie gasped
and I grunted. Drunk like I thought. I reached out for him. That's when he finished his roll
onto his back.
His eyes stared up, glassy and unseeing. There was no doubt in my mind that he was
very dead.
I stepped over the body, to stand just inside the doorway. I peered up and down the
alley. To the right I saw nothing but fog—God must be playing director with mood
machines tonight—but to the left there was a tall, angular figure, silhouetted by a
streetlamp. Pressing myself up against the doorframe in case bullets answered me, I called
out, "Hey! You up there! We could use some help here!"
The figure neither answered nor came closer. He moved so fast that he just seemed to
melt silently into the surrounding fog. I watched for a few seconds, but saw nothing else. I
turned back to Lewis.
Fortunately, there wasn't any blood. I hate blood. "Aw Christ . . ." I muttered. I knelt
and gingerly touched the body. It was cool for a spring evening, but the body was still
warm. Shit. Lewis was probably dying all the time I was reading Phantoms.
"Jason, I have a bad feeling about this." Sylvie said quietly.
"No kidding!" I snapped. Then I grinned faintly. "Sorry, Syl. No call for sarcasm. But
you're right, this is one heck of a mess."
She shook her head. "I don't mean it that way, Jason. The vibes are all wrong. There's
something . . . unnatural about this."
That stopped me. Over the years I've come to rely on Sylvie's "feelings"; I don't really
believe in ESP and all that crap, but she has a hell of an intuition that's saved my job and my
life on occasion. "Oh. Well, we'll see about it. Now I'd better call the cops; we're going to
be answering questions for a while."
Normally I might have asked her more about what she meant; but something about the
way she'd said "unnatural" bothered me.
***
The sergeant on duty assured me that someone would be along shortly. I was just
hanging up when I heard a muffled scream.
I had the gun out again and was around the corner instantly. Sylvie was kneeling over
the body, one hand on Lewis' coat, the other over her mouth. "What's wrong? Jesus, Syl,
you scared the daylights out of me!"
She pointed a finger. "Explain that, mister information man."
I looked.
On the side of Lewis' neck, where the coat collar had covered, were two red marks.
Small red dots, right over the carotid artery.
Two puncture marks.
"So he got bit by a couple mosquitoes. Big deal. There are two very happy bugs flying
high tonight."
Sylvie gave me a look she usually reserves for those who tell her that crystals are only
good for radios and jewelry. "That is not what I meant, and you know that perfectly well.
This man was obviously assaulted by a nosferatu."
"Say what? Sounds like a Mexican pastry."
"Jason, you are being deliberately obtuse. With all the darn horror novels you read, you
know what nosferatu means."
I nodded and sighed. "Okay, yeah. Nosferatu. The Undead. A vampire. Gimme a break,
Syl. I may read the novels but I don't live them. I think you've been reading too much
Shirley MacLaine lately."
 "And I think that you are doing what you always laugh at the characters in your books
for doing: refusing to see the obvious."
I opened my mouth to answer, but at that moment the wail of sirens became obvious.
Red and blue lights flashed at the alleyway—jeez, it must be a quiet night out there.
Besides the locals, I saw two New York State Troopers; they must've been cruising the I-90
spur from Albany and heard about Lewis over the radio. I felt more comfortable as I
spotted a familiar figure in the unmistakable uniform of the Morgantown PD coming
forward.
Lieutenant Renee Reisman knelt and did a cursory once-over, her brown hair brushing
her shoulders. "Either of you touch anything?" she asked.
I was glad it was Renee. We'd gone to school together and that made things a little
easier. "I touched his face, just to check if he was still warm, which he was. Sylvie moved
his collar a bit to see if he'd had his throat cut or something. Other than that, the only thing
I did was open the door; he was leaning up against the door and fell in."
"Okay." She was one of the more modern types; instead of scribbling it all down in a
notebook, a little voice-activated recorder was noting every word. "You're both going to
have to come down and make some statements."
"I know the routine, Renee. Oh, and I know you'll need to keep the door open a while
during the picture taking and all; here's the key. Lock up when you're done."
I told the sergeant we'd be taking my car; he pulled the PD cruiser out and waited while
I started up Mjolnir. It was true enough that I could afford a better car than a Dodge Dart,
even a silver-and-black one, but I kinda like a car that doesn't crumple from a light breeze .
. . and it wasn't as though Mjolnir was exactly a factory-standard car, either. But that's not
important here.
Sylvie's statement didn't take that long. Mine took a couple hours since I had to explain
about Lewis and why he might choose to die somewhere in my vicinity. A few years back
I'd been in the area when two drug kingpins happened to get wiped. Then Elias got me
involved in another case and a potential lead fell out a closed window. I was nearby. Cops
don't like it when one person keeps turning up around bodies.
It was one-thirty when we finally got out. I took a left at Chisolm Street and pulled into
Denny's. Sylvie was oddly quiet the whole time. Except for ordering, she didn't say
anything until we were already eating. "Jason. We have to talk."
"Okay. Shoot."
"I know that you don't believe in a lot of the Powers. But you have to admit that my
predictions and senses have proven useful before."
"I can't argue with that, Syl. But those were . . . ordinary occasions. Now you're talking
about the late-night horror movies suddenly doing a walk-on in real life."
She nodded. "Maybe you can't feel it, Jase, but I am a true sensitive. I felt the Powers in
the air about that poor man's body. And that noise, Jason. Big as Lewis was, even he
wouldn't make that kind of noise just falling against the door. Something threw him, Jason,
threw him hard enough to shake the windows." I nodded unwillingly. "Jase, it's about time
you faced the fact that there are some things that you are not going to find classified on a
database somewhere, comfortably cross-indexed and referenced. But I'm not going to
argue about it. Just do me a favor and check into it, okay?"
 I sighed. "Okay, I'll nose around and see what I can find out. No offense, but I hope this
time your feelings are haywire."
Her blue eyes looked levelly into mine. "Believe me, Jason, I hope so too."

2
I got back to WIS at 2:45. The cops were gone but one of those wide yellow tapes was
around the entire area. Damn.
I went to the pay phone on the corner, dialed the station, asked for Lieutenant Reisman.
I was in luck. She was still in. "Reisman here. What is it, Jason?"
"You know, I happen to live in my place of business. Do you have to block off the
entire building?"
"Sorry," she said. "Hold on a minute."
It was actually five minutes. "Okay, here's the deal. You can go in, but only use the
front entrance and stay out of that back hallway."
"But I store a lot of stuff there."
"Sorry, that's the breaks. Tell your informants to die elsewhere from now on. Anything
else?"
"Yeah. This thing has Sylvie really spooked. She's really nervous about this, and being
in the business she is, it gives her weird ideas."
"So what can I do?"
"Just give me a call when the ME report comes through. If there's nothing really odd on
it, it'll make things much easier."
She was quiet for a moment. "Look, Jason, medical examiner reports aren't supposed to
be public knowledge, first off. But second, just what do you mean by 'odd'?"
I grinned, though she couldn't tell. "Believe me, Lieutenant, you'll know if you see it."
"Huh." She knew I was being deliberately evasive, but she knew I probably had a
reason. She'd push later if events warranted. "All right, Jason, here's what I'll do. If the
ME's report is what I consider normal, which includes normal assaults, heart attacks, and
so on, I'll call you and tell you just that, 'normal.' If I see something I consider odd, I'll let
you know."
"Thanks, Renee. I owe you one."
"You got that straight. Good night."
I went back to my building and up to my bedroom. I was drifting off to sleep when I
suddenly sat bolt upright, wide awake.
The figure I had seen in the alley, backlighted by a streetlamp. I had thought it just
moved away too fast to follow in the fog. But the Tamara's Tanning neon sign had been on
its left, and the lit sign for WKIL radio on its right. One or the other should have flickered
as it passed across them.
 Both had stayed shining steadily. But that was impossible.
It was a long time before I finally got to sleep.
I got up at twelve-thirty; that yellow tape would keep away the customers who might
drop by, and as a consultant I keep irregular hours anyway. I was just sitting down with my
ham sandwich breakfast when the phone rang. "Wood's Information Service, Jason Wood
speaking."
"This is Lieutenant Reisman, Wood. I've just read the ME report."
"And?"
"And I would like to know what your girlfriend thinks is going on here, Mr. Wood."
"Syl's not my girlfriend." Not exactly, anyway, I thought. "What did the ME find?"
"It's what he didn't find that's the problem." Renee's voice was tinged with uncertainty.
"Your friend Lewis wasn't in great shape—cirrhosis, bronchitis, and so on, and various
malnutrition things—but none of those killed him. He'd also suffered several bruises,
someone grabbed him with great force, and after death the body was thrown into your door.
But death was not due to violence of the standard sort."
"Well, what did kill him then?"
"The ME can't yet say how it happened," the Lieutenant said quietly, "but the cause of
death was blood loss." She took a breath and finished.
"There wasn't a drop of blood left in his body."
I made a mental note that I owed Syl a big apology. "Not a drop, huh?"
"Well, technically speaking, that's not true. The ME told me that it's physically
impossible to get all the blood out of a corpse. But it was as bloodless as if someone had slit
his throat with a razor. The thing that's really bothering him is that the man had no wounds
that account for the blood loss. He'll have the detailed autopsy done in a few days, but from
what he said I doubt he's going to find anything."
"You're probably right. Well, thanks, Renee."
"Hold on just one minute, mister! You at least owe me an explanation."
"Do you really want one?"
She was silent for a minute. Then, "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Because there's one other thing
that I haven't told you yet."
I waited.
After a few moments, she said, "All right, here it is. This body is not the first we've
found in this condition. The others all had wounds that could explain the loss . . . but the
ME told me privately that there were certain indications that made him think that they were
inflicted after death."
"Okay, Lieutenant, but you are not going to like it."
"I don't like it now, Wood. Let me have it."
"Sylvie thinks we are dealing with a vampire."
There was a long silence. "Would you repeat that?"
"A vampire. As in Dracula."
Another silence. "Yeah. And damned if I don't half believe it, either. I must be getting
gullible. But no way can I take this to my supervisor. He's the most closed-minded son of a
bitch who ever wore blue."
I laughed. "I don't expect you to do anything about it. Just keep an eye out. I'm going to
start some research of my own. If we are dealing with something paranormal, I doubt that
normal approaches will work."
"God, listen to me. A cop dealing with vampires? I'll call you later, Jason. This is too
weird for me to handle right now."
I cradled the receiver. I couldn't blame her for needing time to sort it all out. Hell, I was
stunned that she accepted it as much as she did. Somewhere in the back of her mind she
must already have decided that something was very wrong about those other deaths.
I went upstairs into my library, started pulling down books: Dracula, 'Salem's Lot, The
Vampire Lestat, The Saint-Germain Chronicles, and various folklore reference works I'd
picked up over the years; I like checking the accuracy of legendary "facts" used in my
favorite books. I reconsidered and put back The Vampire Tapestry; a vampire that was little
more than a human with an indefinitely long lifespan wouldn't be a big problem; one bullet
would stop him.
I sat down at my workstation, started keying in information from each book. I hesitated
at first at including fictional information; I mean, what good will someone else's
imagination do me? But then I thought of two important points. First, the prevalence of the
vampire legend. In some form, it is found around the entire globe; there are vampire myths
in Europe, South America, China, and in almost every other major culture past and present.
I couldn't discount some kind of Jungian "collective unconscious" that these writers tapped
into. Second, and more important, was the possibility that one of these writers was writing
from experience.
After three hours, my neck and arms started getting really cramped. I broke for a late
lunch, headed back towards the computer just as the phone rang.
"Wood's Information Ser—"
"Hello, Wood."
I knew that gravel-scraping voice, even though it usually didn't call before the night
shift. "Hi, Elias. I've got your photos done."
"Anything good?"
"Let's just say that I'll be real surprised if we aren't electing a new Assemblyman soon."
He laughed, a quick explosive chortle. "With an attitude like that, I don't see you
getting on jury duty, that's for sure. Listen, I'll be over to pick 'em up soon. 'Bout an hour
and a half good?"
"Sure thing, Elias."
I needed a little break from bloodsucking freaks anyway. I pulled the envelope from the
safe, rechecking the pictures on disk against the negatives. By the time my recheck was
done, dusk and Elias were here. "Hey there, Jase," he said, ducking slightly as he entered.
He really didn't have to—the doorway's seven feet high and he's six foot six—but it was a
habit he had. Add a gangly frame, a sharp-edged nose, black hair, black eyes, and a slight
stoop; Elias Klein always reminded me of a youthful buzzard. He came into my office to
get a quick look. He liked them all, until we got to the last one.
 "Nice joke, Jason."
"What do you mean, joke? It looks pretty good to me."
"Oh, sure, Assemblyman Connors looks just lovely. But without Verne Domingo to
complete the picture it's nothing but a publicity shot."
I pointed to the next to last. "What about that one? They're swapping right there, what
more could you ask for?"
"That's just a second-string doper, Jason! Domingo's the big man, and that is the photo
that should show him."
I shrugged. "Too bad. Next time make sure he's in the picture."
"Don't give me that, Wood! I know he was in that shot, I was the one looking through
the viewfinder."
I handed him the negative. "Look for yourself."
He stared at it. "What the hell?" Then he swung towards me. "Wood, you'd better not be
dicking around with the evidence! I've been on this for eight fucking months, and if
you're—"
"Oh, cut the tough cop act, Elias. Kojak you ain't. You know damn well that I only play
jokes, I don't really mess with my clients' stuff. If I did, would the city PD be paying me ten
grand a year? That negative is the one you gave me and it's in the same shape as it was
when it got here."
"But that's impossible." Elias glared at the negative as though a hard stare would make
the missing figure materialize. "If you look through the viewfinder of an SLR, what you
see is what you get. Besides, dammit, look at your own enhancement. He's got his mouth
half open, saying something, and he's about to shake hands. Then look at that angle. Do you
put your hand out twenty feet from the guy you're going to shake with?"
"Nope." I was mystified now. Then a quote spun across my mind: "This time there
could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But
there was no reflection of him in my mirror!"
I took the negative and stared at it again. "You're right, Elias. Mr. Domingo should
have been in this picture. That leaves only one explanation."
He looked at me. "And that is . . . ?"
"That you are dealing with someone whose image doesn't appear on films."
Elias didn't like that at all, but he had to admit that I had no motive to screw around with
the negatives. "So what are you suggesting? He has some kind of Star Trek cloaking device
that wipes his image off film? I won't swallow it."
"Trust me, Elias, you don't want to know what I think. Since this negative is worthless
as is, mind if I keep it? Maybe there's some kind of latent image I could bring up."
"Dammit, Jason! Tell me what is—" He broke off, having caught sight of the pile of
books and papers on the desk.
He looked at them. He picked them up, examined them. Looked at me. "And Reisman
said . . ." he began, then stopped. He glanced at the negative again. Back at me. A long
pause. "You're right." he said finally. "I don't want to know. Keep the negative." He
grabbed his hat and sunglasses, left quickly.
 I went back to typing.
The phone rang again.
"Hello, Jason," said Sylvie. "What have you heard?"
"Enough. I apologize for doubting you, Sylvie. We've either got ourselves a real
honest-to-God vampire here, or someone who is doing his level best to fake it. And with
the technical problems of faking some of this, I'd rather believe in a vampire than in a
faker." I glanced down. "And I think I've found our bloodsucker, too." I gave her a quick
rundown on Klein's negative.
"But, Jason, isn't that an incredible coincidence?"
"I thought so myself, at first. But I've been thinking, and it isn't as far out as it first
seems. In most legit businesses you have to do business in daylight hours at some point.
Maybe a vampire can live in a musty coffin underground all the time, but I'll bet they sure
don't want to. They want all the creature comforts they can enjoy and that means money. So
they'll just naturally gravitate to the 'shady' side of commerce, pardon the pun. And with
their natural advantages, it isn't surprising at all that one might be high up on the ladder."
"I hadn't thought of it that way. But drug deals happen in the day, too."
"But if you've got muscle to back you up you can get away with a lot of odd quirks.
Avoiding sunlight might be possible."
"True. And, by the way, apology accepted. I've been calling around and getting my
better occult acquaintances on the alert. They'll see what they can find."
"Good." Privately, I didn't expect much from Sylvie's pals. Sylvie herself might have
something, but most of the people who visited the Silver Stake were your typical muddled
New-Age escapists who confused Tolkien and Shirley MacLaine with real life. "I'm
working on something here that might help. Stop by after you're done, okay?"
"Sure thing, Jason. Just promise me no more bodies, huh?"
"I make no guarantees. Bodies never consult me before arriving. See you."
"Bye."
It was eight-ten by the time I finished. Then I put WISDOM to work. Wood's
Information Service Database Online Manager can analyze information using many
different methods. WISDOM was instructed to examine the information on all different
kinds of vampires to construct the most likely abilities that an actual vampire might be
expected to possess. It took WISDOM only a few minutes to do its calculations. I sat down
and read. It was grim reading.

3
"What in the world are you doing?" Sylvie asked.
I put down the loading kit. "Preparing. I figure that if I'm going to deal with a vampire,
I'd better have something other than conventional ammo."
She picked up a cartridge. "Silver? I thought I read somewhere that you actually
couldn't make silver bullets; something about balance?"
"I heard that too, but it's a silly statement on the face of it. Lead's softer and just as
heavy, and they've been making bullets from lead as long as they've been making guns." I
checked the fit of another bullet. "Not that I expect those to be of much use. WISDOM only
gave a twenty-five-percent chance of a vulnerability to silver. That seems more of a
werewolf thing."
She examined the other kinds of ammo. "Well, I'll say this for you, you have one heck
of an assortment." She reached into her purse, pulled out a small wooden box. "Here,
Jason."
"What's this?" I opened the box. On a slender silver chain was a crystal-headed
hammer, handle wrapped in miniature leather thongs, the head an angle-faced box. "It's
gorgeous, Syl! Thank you!"
"I remembered how much you like the Norse pantheon—you even named your car
after Thor's hammer—and if you look real closely on the hammer head, you'll see Mjolnir
engraved there in Nordic runes."
I squinted closely at it, and I could just make out the spiderweb-thin runic lines. "It's
really beautiful, Sylvie. But why now?"
"I was actually saving it for your birthday next month, but with this vampire thing
going on, I decided it was best I give it to you now." She saw my puzzlement. "It's not just
a piece of jewelry, Jason. I made it especially to be a focus, a protection against evil, for
you."
"But you know I don't really believe in that stuff."
She gave a lopsided smile. "Jason Wood, how in the world can you believe in vampires
and sneer at crystals and spirits?"
"Touché." I slipped the chain over my neck. It felt cool against my skin. The
three-inch-long hammer made a slight bulge below my collar. "This could look a little
strange. I don't wear jewelry often. I think I'll put it on the wall. Or on Mjolnir's rearview
mirror."
"No, Jason." Sylvie had her "feeling" face on again. "Wear it. Even if you don't believe,
it will make me feel better if you keep it on you."
I wasn't about to test her accuracy after the last time. "Okay."
"Now what else has your machine come up with?"
"Nothing good. The problem is that there are so many versions of the vampire legend in
myth and fiction that the best I can do is estimate probabilities. Problem with that is that
even a low-probability thing could turn out to be real." I picked up a printout. "But I can't
prepare for everything. So I've constructed a 'theoretical vampire' using all the probabilities
that showed a greater than eighty-percent likelihood." I started reading. "Strength,
somewhere between five and twenty times normal human, with a heavy bias towards the
high end of that range; he can probably tip over a station wagon like I can a loaded
shopping cart and leap small garages in a single bound. Invulnerable to ordinary weapons.
What can hurt it is a nice question; only two probables showed up, sunlight and a wooden
stake, although three more, running water, holy symbols, and fire, were just below the
threshold. Does not show up on mirrors; after that photo I think we can take that as
proven."
 "Maybe he just doesn't show on film?"
"The legend started long before there was film. Stands to reason the mirror business
had something behind it. Okay, where was I? Shapeshifting. This might have started as a
blending of the werewolf and vampire legends, but most are pretty emphatic that at the
very least the vampire can assume a noncorporeal form, like a cloud of gas. Changes those
bitten into others of its kind, that's how they reproduce."
Sylvie shook her head. "No, Jason, that's silly. If getting bitten made vampires, we'd be
up to our earlobes in bloodsuckers in nothing flat."
"So I simplified it. Actually, the transformation requires a full exchange of blood; the
victim has to both have some of his taken and drink some of the vampire's. As an aside, if
that happens, there is a fair chance that the new vampire is controlled by the old one. And
speaking of age, the legends also tend to emphasize that the older the suckers get the
tougher they are."
"Anything else?"
"Yep. They have a special attachment to the earth, particularly their 'home
earth'—ground of the area in which they were first buried. They tend to be inactive in the
daytime, and may have psychokinetic abilities. One other interesting note: many legends
state that a vampire cannot enter a personal dwelling—house, apartment,
whatever—without the permission of a legitimate resident therein. However, once given,
the permission is damned hard to revoke." I put the printout down. "That's about it. Lower
down on the list you get some really odd stuff—you should see the Chinese 'hopping
vampire' subtype."
Sylvie sat in frowning thought for a few minutes. "So sunlight is the best bet?"
I waved a hand from side to side. "It's chancy. The problem is that while it's virtually
certain that the vampire is somewhat vulnerable to sunlight, the degree of vulnerability is
highly variable. Just about any vampire would die if you could stick it out on a beach thirty
minutes from shade, but in the first twenty minutes it could do a lot of damage to anyone in
the area. Several of the legends emphasize that an old and powerful vampire can even rise
and walk about in daylight as long as they wear clothing that covers most of the skin and
don't stay out overlong. Besides, I doubt he'd answer an invitation to a beach party."
"So what are you going to do?"
"See if I can get a handle on him somehow, so he has to come to me. And I think this
negative is the key."

4
Two hours later, I wasn't so sure. "Funny, Jason . . . that picture looks the same."
"Oh, very funny, Syl." I stared at the screen, willing a faint outline to appear.
"Sorry, Jason. But this is not exactly the most exciting date I've ever been on."
"I'd have thought last night would have been all the excitement you could handle.
Besides, we are not dating."
"Oh? So you kiss your male friends good night too?"
 "Okay, then I won't do that any more." I pounded another set of instructions into the
machine, a little harder than was really wise. Syl always rattles me when she gets on that
subject.
"Oh, honestly, Jason! Don't sulk like that. I didn't mean to pressure you. It just strikes
me funny."
"What strikes you funny?"
"You, Jason. You can face down an angry policeman, send crooks to jail, run a
business, and you're calmly trying to track down a vampire . . . and you just fall apart
whenever a woman smiles at you."
"I do not fall apart!" With dismay I watched the entire background turn a pale lavender.
Hurriedly I undid my mistake. "I just . . . don't want to get involved. I don't have time.
Besides, we are off the subject here." I ignored her tolerant smile.
"So what are you doing now?"
I turned back to the screen, then shrugged. "Nothing, actually. I've tried everything and
it's no use. Either he simply does not show on any wavelengths or else, more likely, this
film just has no sensitivity at all in any non-visible spectra. I can't bring up something that
the film doesn't have on it." I slumped back, depressed. I really hate losing.
"Well, then, why not work with what has to be there?"
I looked at her. She looked serious, but there were little smile wrinkles around her eyes.
"What exactly do you mean?"
"Well, this vampire's solid, isn't he? I mean, you don't shake hands with a ghost."
"Right. So?"
She pointed to the area in front of Connors. "He's standing right there somewhere. So
his feet must—"
"—be on the ground there . . . and he'll be leaving footprints! Syl, you are a genius! And
I am an idiot!" I selected the area in front of Connors that his invisible opposite should be
in, started to enlarge it.
A few stages of enhancements passed. Then I smiled and sat back.
On screen, in the gravel of the pathway, were the unmistakable outlines of two shoes. A
sprig of grass was caught underneath one shoe, showing an impossible half-flat,
half-arched outline. "Syl, I could kiss you!"
"I'll bet you say that to all the guys." She looked pleased, though.
I saved the data and hid the disk away. "For that, I'll buy you dinner."

5
I tried to call Elias the next morning, but they told me he was back on his usual night
shift. The police removed the yellow tape that day, and I found myself busy with regular
customers until six-thirty; two major research literature searches for a couple of professors
at RPI, a prior-art and patent survey for a local engineering firm, and a few simple source
searches for a few well-heeled students who'd rather pay me than spend hours in the
library. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing people like that a service, but what the heck,
they'll pay for it one way or another. At seven I locked up and called Elias again. He was in
this time.
He protested at first, but eventually gave me what I asked for: Verne Domingo's phone
number. As I hung up, it occurred to me that Elias had actually not fought very hard.
According to regulations, it was illegal for him to hand out that information, so he had to
have wanted me to get it. I remembered him looking at the books yesterday. Maybe he just
didn't want to get directly caught in the weird.
I punched in the number. After a few rings, it was answered. Yes, Mr. Domingo was in.
No, he could not come to the phone. No, there would be no exceptions. Would I care to
leave a message?
"Yes. Tell Mr. Domingo that I have a photograph that he is not in."
The unctuous voice on the other end was puzzled. "Excuse me? Don't you mean one
that he is in?"
"I mean exactly what I say. Tell him that I have a picture that he is not in. I will call
back in one half hour." I hung up.
I pulled out several "blackboxes" from their hiding place behind some equipment. I
knew that, if these guys were well equipped and had half a brain between them, they'd slap
a lock-and-trace on my call right away. My little blackboxes, though, would send them on
a merry chase around Ma Bell. I hadn't lost my old hacker's paranoia.
Precisely thirty minutes later, I called back. A different voice answered. "Verne
Domingo speaking."
"Ah. You got my message."
"Yes. I'm wondering what it means."
I felt a faint tinge of uncertainty. Could I be wrong? I dismissed it, though. The photo
was unmistakable evidence. He was playing it cool. I looked at an indicator; there were
more than two people on this line. "Are you sure you want me to talk about it with all those
others listening?"
There was a fractional pause, then a chuckle. It was a warm, rich sound. "Very good,
young man. I suppose there is no harm in talking to you privately. The rest of you, off the
line."
The indicator showed four people dropping off. "All right, young man . . . what should
I call you?"
"Call me . . . um, John Van Helsing."
That got a real pause. "Interesting. Go on. Tell me about this picture."
"I have a photograph that could place you in a very difficult position. A photo of you
involved in a felony."
"You said that I was not in the photo."
"Indeed. Your accomplice is, but even though you should undoubtedly be in the
photograph, there is no trace of your image."
He chuckled again. "Obviously the photographer made a mistake."
 "Not in this case, Mr. Domingo. You see, even though you do not appear, your physical
presence left definite traces, which modern technology could define and discover. I think
that you would find life even more difficult if this photo were publicized than if you simply
went to jail."
I heard no humor in his voice now. "I despise cliches, Mr. . . . Van Helsing. But to put it
bluntly, you are playing a very dangerous game. You sound like a young and perhaps
impulsive person. Take my advice and stop now. I am impressed by your initiative and
resources . . . not the least of which is your ability to nullify my tracer. But if you do not
stop this now, I will have no choice but to stop you myself."
That response confirmed everything. If he hadn't been a vampire, he would have
dismissed me as a nut. "Sorry, Mr. Domingo. It can't be dropped. This is a matter of life and
death. Several deaths. I'll be in touch."
I hung up the phone immediately.
Now I had to figure out what to do. I'd verified my guess. Domingo was the vampire, no
doubt about it. Now what? I couldn't just march up to him some night and hammer a stake
through his heart. Never mind the technical difficulties like bodyguards and the fact that
he'd probably be less than cooperative; I'd probably be arrested for Murder One and put
away. But aside from just killing him, what other choices were there? Lieutenant Reisman
would believe me, and maybe Elias Klein if I pushed him. But try getting a warrant out for
a murderer with no witnesses except a photo that doesn't show him and some wild-eyed
guesses.
I decided to sleep on it. Sometimes the subconscious works out solutions once you stop
consciously worrying at it. I had dinner, watched Predator on HBO, and finished reading
Phantoms before I turned in.
I woke up suddenly. I glanced at the clock; it was 3:30. What had awakened me?
Then I heard it again. A creak of floorboards. Right outside my bedroom door.
I started to ease over towards the nightstand; I keep my gun in that drawer at night.
The bedsprings creaked.
The door slammed open, and three black figures charged in. I lunged for the nightstand,
got the drawer halfway open, but one of them smacked my wrist with the butt of a small
submachine gun. "Hold it there, asshole. Move and you are history."
I used to think Uzis looked silly on television, like a gun that lost its butt and stock.
There was nothing funny about the ugly black snout with the nine-millimeter hole ready to
make a matching hole in my head. My voice was hoarse and my heart hammered against
my ribs. "Okay! Okay, I am not moving! What do you want?"
"It's not what we want. Mr. Domingo wants to talk to you. Now."
After a nasty frisking, I was dragged out to a large car. My captors made it clear I was
to sit down and shut up. The ride was fast and silent. We pulled up in front of a very large
house, fenced and guarded. The three hustled me out and into the hallway. They handed me
over to a more polished butler, with a kindly admonishment that if I caused any trouble one
of them would come back and castrate me.
I was brought into a library that looked like Alistair Cooke should be sitting in it for the
next episode of Masterpiece Theatre. I sat down in one of the chairs to wait. I'm glad it was
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