Bad Moon Rising. Джонатан Мэйберри

but he had nowhere else to go. He was only half aware of the process of locking up his bike, opening the shop, counting the money in the till, restocking the shelves, and sweeping the floor. On some level he was aware that he was doing these things, but it was more process than deliberate action, and even though he’d only worked at the shop for two weeks he did everything right, made no errors, felt no hesitation. Autopilot with just the occasional glance from the person behind the wheel.

      Then Mike went into the small employees-only bathroom to get the dustpan and peripherally caught sight of himself in the mirror. What he saw jolted him out of the unconscious rhythm and he froze for a discordant moment because the face there in the glass was not his own.

      It was…and then again it wasn’t. Déjà vu flared and he knew that he had seen this other face, this other version of his own face somewhere else. Recently. He straightened slowly, afraid to move too fast in case it somehow changed what he was seeing in the mirror. Carefully, like he was trying not to spook a skittish deer, he moved toward the mirror and looked at the face, watched as it moved with him, normal in the seamless way it mimicked his every movement but totally unnatural in what it showed. The face that looked back at him was older, with a stronger jaw and skin that was gaunt and stretched over a sharply etched brow and cheekbones. The lips of this stranger’s mouth were thin and hard as if he was fighting a grimace of pain, and the upper lip was cut by a thick white scar. The eyes were the most compelling, though. They were blue, flecked with blood-colored drops of red and totally ringed with gold. Strange eyes. Alien. If there was anything human about those eyes, Mike Sweeney could not find it. There was no way Mike could have known it, but those were the eyes his mother had seen that morning in the kitchen. Mike hadn’t looked at his own reflection that morning in the bathroom; he’d just stumbled in, washed his mouth with Scope, and used the toilet. Had he looked then he would have seen the same eyes that stared out of the mirror at him now.

      Hard eyes, cold, without remorse, without pity. Without hope.

      “Dead eyes,” he murmured, and the sound of his own voice was equally unfamiliar. It had grown deeper, sadder, more harsh. There was a cynical sneer in the sound of it.

      The face in the mirror stared at him, hard as fists, cold as night.

      Mike blinked to clear his eyes—and that fast the spell was broken. In the microsecond of the blink the face was there—and then it was gone. 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