The Eye of the Moon (19 page)

Once they were inside the open-plan shower area De La Cruz turned to face Stephanie.

‘You ready to see just why this locker room has always been out of bounds?’ he asked.

Stephanie raised her eyebrows. ‘Go on.’

De La Cruz hit the ‘on’ switch for the shower furthest from
the entrance. There was a sudden whirring sound followed by a drawn-out but very loud grating noise. The light-blue-painted wall at the back of the showers began moving to the left. De La Cruz had just opened a secret passageway. A gateway to things that were probably best left alone. Stephanie began to feel even more uneasy. What was about to be revealed to her here, exactly? Intrigued, in spite of herself, by what she might find, and allowing her curiosity to get the better of her, she peered in to see what it was that was so secret it had to be concealed behind this shower-room wall. On first inspection it didn’t look like much. In the gloom of the small chamber the moving wall had exposed, she could make out only an antique wooden table on which had been placed a book and a golden chalice. She turned back from the darkened room to look questioningly at De La Cruz.

‘This, my dear Stephanie,’ he said softly, ‘is the Holy Grail that you have been reading about in
The Book With No Name.
Or, if you prefer, the Cup of Christ. It has been here at police headquarters stashed away beneath our noses all this time.’

Stephanie, unsure exactly how to react to this bizarre statement, simply smirked.
After all
she thought,
De La Cruz had to be shitting her, surely?

‘You’re kidding, right?’ she asked, checking the reactions of Benson and Hunter behind her. Both looked deadly serious. ‘Well,
aren’t you?
’

De La Cruz shook his head. ‘See that book on the table?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘We believe it was written by Archibald Somers. Looks like a diary or series of memos of some sort. It confirms much of what you have told us from what you read in
The Book With No Name.
’

‘Really? So why have me do all that research?’ Stephanie was confused. And irritated. If they already knew so much from reading this new book, why make her read the whole of the fucking
Book With No Name?

‘Well, it kinda looks as though Somers was writing his own version. Only this is a diary of sorts, detailing all of his wrongdoing and rewriting the story of
The Book With No Name
in his own words,’ De La Cruz replied. ‘As a member of the undead, he couldn’t touch the original book. As we’ve established already, to touch the book would kill him, so he appeared to be writing his own version with a whole bunch of new chapters.’

‘What’s the relevance of this?’ Stephanie asked. This whole business was making her more nervous by the minute.

De La Cruz ran a finger inside his shirt collar to loosen it. ‘Don’t you want to know why it’s hidden away down here?’

‘Does it by any chance cause the death of everyone who reads it?’

Behind her, she heard Benson laugh briefly. She glanced at him, but his face had resumed its stern and serious look.

‘It’s hidden
here
,’ said De La Cruz walking over to the table and flipping open the book’s black leather cover, ‘because
I
hid it here.’

Stephanie suddenly felt even more uneasy. What was De La Cruz driving at?

‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,’ she stammered.

De La Cruz sighed, then said patiently, ‘This book revealed the hiding place of the Holy Grail. I came here, along with Benson and Hunter, to find it. Problem was, of course, that, as you confirmed from your findings in the original book, there’s no blood of Christ left to drink from it.’ He paused a moment, marshalling his thoughts, before continuing. ‘So in order to achieve ultimate immortality – in essence, to become a god – an individual would have to drink the blood not just of a mere mortal, but also of a vampire and, for good measure, the blood of a descendant of Ishmael Taos or Armand Xavier. And drink them all from this very cup.’ He picked up the golden chalice and held it up in front of his face, marvelling at its beauty. It wasn’t much more than eight inches in height and was shaped somewhat like a brandy glass rendered in metal, only with a slightly longer stem.

‘So what are you intending to do with it? Call the FBI?’ Stephanie asked, not grasping where the detective’s explanation was heading.

‘Oh no, my dear,’ said De La Cruz, putting down the cup and leaning back against the table. ‘You have now told us you think you know where to find the Bourbon Kid, the son of Taos. Which means we only need to drink his blood, with the blood of a vampire and the blood of a mortal, to gain immortality. And you, my dear Stephanie, are a mere mortal.’

Stephanie turned back to Benson and Hunter to see if they were as confused as she was.

Both men stood staring at her. The hunger had overcome them, and they opened their mouths wide to reveal perfectly formed fangs, thirsty for blood. Utterly terrified, she turned back just in time to see De La Cruz move in upon her. He was clasping a six-inch silver dagger in one hand and, like his colleagues, he too now sported a set of hideous fangs. The flesh on his face had thinned to reveal the blue veins beneath, ready for their fill of her blood.

With the silver dagger the smartly dressed detective sliced Stephanie’s neck wide open with a single sweep of the blade. He watched wide-eyed and with a ferocious thirst as her blood began to pour out into the cup he was pressing against her chest with his other hand.

By the time Dante arrived at the Nightjar, it was already dark. His thoughts were racing, though he looked cool enough. Would this potion that he’d been given actually work? Would he be recognized as a fraud straight away? And how many vampires were going to be inside? He had other worries, too, like how was he supposed to know the vampires from the ordinary folk? Well, he reckoned fatalistically, only time would tell. For now he just had to drag his ass inside.

The Nightjar had undergone a great many changes in the year since Dante had last been in Santa Mondega. First of all, there was a new bar manager. The previous manager, Berkley, had been shot dead by the Bourbon Kid the night before the last eclipse. A European guy named Dino had taken over and had set about refurbishing the place. Dino, a child of Italian parents, dressed immaculately in smart fashionable clothes at all times, unlike most of his clientele. Unlike all his clientele, truth be told. In order to try to raise standards in the bar (which he had extensively remodelled, redecorated and refurnished) he had also taken the opportunity to employ some security staff. Tonight, two bouncers stood at the front entrance. Dante was going to have to get past them before he even got close to meeting any vampires.

As he attempted to stroll past them and into the bar in as casual a fashion as he could manage in the circumstances, one of the bouncers, a man known as ‘Uncle Les’, held an arm out across his chest to stop him before he reached the front door. Les was a large man, as one would expect of someone in his line of work, and he wore a sleeveless leather vest over
a black T-shirt, no doubt to show off the gallery of tattoos on his arms. He had long grey hair pulled back into a ponytail, and his craggy facial features and grey stubble suggested he was probably in his early fifties. Still not a guy to be messed with, though. Old or not, this guy looked like he was handy in a bar fight.

‘What’s ya name, son?’ he asked in a Southern drawl.

‘Dante.’

‘Where y’all from?’

‘I’m local.’

‘Not seen you here before.’

‘That’s ’cos I ain’t been in since Berkley got killed.’

‘Okay,’ said Uncle Les, looking to his colleague for a second opinion. ‘Whadda ya reckon, Jericho? We gonna let this guy in?’

Jericho, puffing on a slim cigar that hung from the right corner of his mouth, took a long look at Dante. It was hard to tell what he thought because his face wore a permanent sneer, always looking as though he was only one second away from spitting on the floor. He was wearing a black denim shirt, the top half of which was unbuttoned to reveal a wispy thatch of hair on his bronzed chest. He was also wearing black denim jeans, with, on his right leg, a metal brace that ran from his ankle right up to his thigh, where it was tightly wrapped with a brown leather strap. Jericho had been shot in the leg by a monk almost a year ago, and now needed the brace to prevent his knee from collapsing whenever he put too much pressure on it. The brace was partly responsible for his permanent sneer. Anyone considering messing with him would instantly know from his face that he wasn’t in the mood for it. He looked Dante up and down.

‘What’s your favourite song, sonny?’

‘What the fuck has that gotta do with anythin’?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘Jeez,
whatever
,’ said Dante struggling to hide his impatience, and struggling even more to think what his favourite song was.

‘Hold on,’ said Jericho, raising his left hand for silence. With his other hand he pushed open the solid oak doors slightly and peered inside the club. The noise from inside started filtering out. Drowning out the chatter was the sound of a band playing the opening bars of ‘Whatever’ by Oasis.

‘The Psychics like you. Guess you can go in,’ said Jericho gruffly.

‘Huh? The Psychics? Who the fuck are they?’

‘They’re the band. If they play your song, you can come in. And they’re playing your song, so get your ass inside before I change my mind.’

Dante did as he was told and walked on into the bar, unsure of what exactly had just happened. A second guy who had been standing behind him tried to follow him in. Dante heard Uncle Les interrogate him in similar fashion.

‘Favourite song?’

‘Anything by Michael Bolton.’

‘Get the fuck outta here.’

The inside of the Nightjar was a great deal different from how Dante remembered it. It seemed to be nearly twice the size it had once been, but was a good deal darker. It was also, he thought, a shitload busier. And everyone in the place actually looked like a vampire. Fact is, they probably always had done, but until about a year ago Dante had had no idea that vampires even existed, so it was little wonder that he had not noticed them before.

There were about two hundred customers crammed into the bar, drinking and generally making merry. Most bars in Santa Mondega were rough, if not dangerous, places to be, if memory served him well, but the revamped Nightjar actually looked like somewhere you could have a good time. On a stage to his left, a girl group was belting out ‘his’ song. They were wearing sexy black leather outfits and showing a fair bit of flesh, too. And they could play.
Boy, could they play.
The lead singer, who had long, bright red hair flowing halfway down her back, was hot as hell. The others were playing an assortment of instruments from guitars and drums to violins
and flutes. There were eight young broads in total, and one tubby fella playing a tuba. He looked a little out of place, being the only male, the only fat one, the only one with a combover, and the only one with an incongruous brass instrument. All he had in common with the others was the tight-fitting black outfit, and on him that wasn’t a good thing.

After checking them out for a minute, Dante fought his way through the crowds to the bar. Since the people in the crowd were not overly keen to make way for him, it was almost inevitable that he should accidentally bump into the back of a well-built man. He heard the guy curse and saw some of his drink spill onto the floor. Unsurprisingly, the man turned around to see who had barged into him. ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’ he said in what may have been an English accent.

Smiling apologetically, Dante looked back at the guy barring his way. Much like everyone else round these parts, he was wearing a black leather sleeveless jacket and blue jeans. He was unshaven, with a particularly narrow face beneath dark, scraggly hair and sunken cheeks accentuating the bones of his face. He too was heavily tattooed. His eyes couldn’t be seen because he was wearing what Dante thought was a pretty cool pair of wraparound sunglasses. And he was holding a half-full glass of beer, the other half of which was dripping down his hand and onto the floor.