Bad Moon Rising. Джонатан Мэйберри

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СКАЧАТЬ He blinked again, but all he saw was his own face. Fourteen going on never grow up. That’s how he thought of himself, and that’s what he now saw. Just his own face. Tired and pale, splashed with freckles, smoother bones in brow and cheeks, hair more garishly red, chin still childlike, lips unscarred. He leaned closer, letting the light above the mirror fall on his face. He searched the mirror for any trace of what he had seen, and all he saw—and that only for a moment—was the alien color of his eyes. Fiery gold rings around blue ice, flecked with blood. He blinked again…and his eyes were ordinary blue. No trace of fire or blood—merely a cold and hopeless blue.

      He stood there, peering at himself for several minutes, then he closed his eyes and stared at the darkness behind his lids for a slow count of thirty. When he opened his eyes, they were still ordinary eyes.

      Mike straightened, turned, picked up the dustpan, and walked out of the bathroom. By the time he’d swept the floor the whole incident was gone from his conscious mind. Secretly and quietly shoved down by some unknown hand into a darker and less accessible place inside. He did not even remember that he couldn’t remember. He finished his chores by eight-thirty, picked a magazine off the rack, and sat down on the stool behind the counter to wait for the day to start.

      At nine o’clock precisely, the bell above the door tinkled and Mike looked up from the latest copy of Cemetery Dance to see a police officer enter the shop. He was a big, brawny, blond-haired cop with a very neatly pressed uniform, highly polished leather gun belt, and gleaming chrome cuffs that jingled as he walked. The blacking on his shoes looked like polished coal, but despite his fastidious clothing he walked with a noticeable limp and both of his hands were lightly bandaged.

      Mike’s heart froze in his chest.

      It was Tow-Truck Eddie.

      (2)

      Newton sat at his desk with his main computer on in front of him and his laptop open to his left. He had several Google search pages open on each and a half dozen Word documents. His fourth cup of coffee was cooling to tepid sludge as his fingers blurred over the keys, typing in search arguments, scrolling through the lists of web pages, cutting and pasting information and URLs. He’d been at this for hours now, ever since driving back from the hospital. No shower, no change of clothes, no food except for the cups of coffee that had long since turned his stomach to acid.

      Willard Fowler Newton was furious. He was hurt and scared, too, but mostly he was absolutely livid. Twenty-four hours ago he was just another third-string reporter in a fifth-rate town like Black Marsh. A day ago he was, he knew, a geek. Nerdy and kind of annoying—insights often provided for him by people he met, even strangers. He was content to be a geek. He could do geek without effort.

      Now he was caught up in something that involved vampires. Actual vampires.

      That’s what made Fowler so furious. Vampires should not be any part of the world in which he lived. Vampires were TV and movies. Buffy and Blade and Barnabas-fricking-Collins. Vampires were Halloween costumes and Count Chocula. Vampires were fiction. At worst they were supposed to be myths and legends. Vampires weren’t real. Vampires and geeks do not belong in the same reality, of that he was quite certain.

      In vampire stories there were only two kinds of characters—victims and heroes. Newton knew that there was nothing remotely heroic in his nature, but he sure as hell did not want to be a victim.

      Waking up and discovering that the world now included vampires and werewolves—let’s not forget werewolves—was too much to ask. Not just one…but two monsters…the big two. The classics. Right here in River City. Shit.

      Crow was the hero, Newton knew. He’d already shown that by facing Ruger twice. Val was a hero, too. She’d fought Ruger herself, and she’d killed Boyd. At best, Newton knew, he was the squatty sidekick who would probably not make it to the final reel. Like George from Seinfeld, with a stake and hammer. Yeah, there were good odds on that game.

      But what could he do? Running was an option, and he gave that a lot of thought. No one would blame him; no one ever blames the geek for being a coward. After all…we were talking supernatural monsters here. He didn’t have a black belt like Crow or a will of iron and a big-ass pistol like Val. All he had was…what?

      That was the thought process that took him from sitting in his car after leaving the hospital—crying like a baby and praying to a God he hadn’t said “boo!” to since his bar mitzvah—to where he was right now. Parked at his computer, working the Net, working sources. Finding stuff out. It’s what a geek would do.

      He kept at it for hours, researching everything he could find, punishing the keys with stabbing finger hits. He searched on vampires and werewolves, and at first the enormity of the available information nearly stopped him in his tracks. When he typed “Vampire” into Google the search told him there were 54,200,000 hits.

      “Holy shit!” he breathed, then tried adding an “s” to make it “Vampires.” That dropped the number of websites down to 18 million. “Werewolf” 11,400,000 hits. He chewed a plastic pen cap for a few moments, then he tried it as “vampire folklore” which eliminated most of the film and fiction references and that dropped it down to 773,000 sites. On a whim he refined it even more by adding the word “university,” hoping to score experts. That dropped it down even further to 276,000 sites, and from there Newton plowed it, looking for thesis papers, studies, published works, and for names that popped up over and over again: J. N. Corbiel, an assistant professor of folklore at the University of Pennsylvania.

      Newton recognized that name and pulled open his file drawer for the folder of notes he’d made when researching material following his interview with Crow. He riffled the pages until he found one whose contents jarred him. One he’d read but put out of his mind at the time—could that just be a day or two ago? The printout was a historical account of a man named Peeter Stubbe, known in folklore as the Werewolf of Bedburg, a mass murderer executed in 1589 following the most famous werewolf trial in history. Under brutal torture Stubbe confessed to having been a sorcerer and lycanthrope who had practiced black magic since boyhood and who transformed regularly into a savage wolf for the purpose of hunting humans for sport and food. The article also gave the many aliases Stubbe used over the years: Peter Stubb, Peter Stumpf, Abel Greenwyck, Abel Griswald…and Ubel Griswold.

      His skin crawled.

      There was a URL on the printout and he typed it in, bringing up a page with a lot of history about that and similar werewolf trials, most of which had been conducted by the Inquisition. Dr. Corbiel had a typically dry and detailed academic style, but the case details were nonetheless bloody and sensational.

      Newton sat back in his chair and considered this, tapping his lower teeth with the cap of his pen. U of P was in Philly, maybe fifty, sixty miles from where he sat. Maybe he could meet with this Professor Corbiel, pick his brain. Pretend to be doing a story on the folklore behind the pop culture, something like that. Or maybe writing a pop-culture book.

      He looked for an e-mail address and found it on the staff directory, and clicked on it to load an e-mail screen. [email protected].

      “Dear Professor Corbiel,” he began.

      (3)

      Before Weinstock even had the door closed, Val said, “Crow told me everything.”

      “Okay,” he said carefully, glancing at Crow.

      Crow nodded. “She knows what we know.”

      “That was fast, don’t you think? Val needs rest and—”

      “Listen СКАЧАТЬ