Alex Van Helsing Voice of the Undead - By Jason Henderson Page 0,36

the road, and Minhi asked something that Alex had a hard time keeping straight himself. “Sid, how does someone become a vampire, anyway?”

“There are a lot of different stories,” said Sid. “But the one that seems to be true is that it’s a curse and a poison both. You get the poison and it can kill you. If you die from it and you haven’t been embalmed or cremated already, you rise again. But there are lots of halfway points. You can be a thrall.”

“A what?”

“A thrall, you know, a servant. Sometimes those are just people who really love vampires,” Sid explained. “And sometimes they’re people who have been bitten, who already are poisoned, who are on the way themselves.”

“I’m glad you’re finally finding a use for all this info,” Minhi said.

“Tell you what I wish,” Alex said. “Sometimes I wish I could just download your brain into mine.”

Alex was relieved to put away thoughts of vampires when they locked their bikes at the hospital and headed in to visit Steven Merrill.

Unlike the tony, new feel of the village library and marina, the hospital was bland and utilitarian and looked as though it had been built in the mid-sixties, with sweeping, ugly arcs and thin modern columns. Awful architecture was a mainstay the world over.

As Vienna signed the papers at the front desk Alex looked at Paul and Sid.

“Can you believe we’re doing this?” he muttered.

Paul shrugged. “Seems like the right thing to do.”

Minhi had been asking directions from the nurse behind the desk and now returned to them. “Elevator’s out,” she said. “Third floor.”

They were used to stairs. Alex shivered at the colossal dreariness of the place. A flash of color caught his eye as they neared the stairs, reflections of gold paper. He peered in the trash can with curiosity as he passed. It was a box of chocolates, crushed and dumped, next to the plainer paper it had been shipped in. The label said MERRILL. Alex filed it away—Bill was in a bad mood, so trashing a care package was within the realm of irrational things he might do.

As they walked up the white plaster stairwell—Alex could never understand why anyone painted stairs white when it made them look dingier than they could possibly actually be—Alex turned to Sid and Vienna. “I didn’t even ask how rehearsal went Monday night.”

Sid shook his head. “I think I’m no Steven Merrill.”

“Sid did very well,” Vienna said. They reached the third floor. “I think after a few more times he would be perfect.”

Alex was cursing himself slightly. Rehearsing for the ball certainly would have been better than the train ordeal. Plus he was now well on the way to putting Sid next to Vienna for the rest of the week. Because this clever strategy of putting his friends close to any girl he found remotely interesting was working out so well already.

Vienna pushed through the door and Sid turned to him. “Dude, you gotta take my place.”

“Really?” Alex said.

“Yes, really,” Paul whispered. “Sid nearly fell down the stairs.”

“I thought the debutantes come down the stairs—”

“Seriously, you gotta take my place,” Sid said, his face crinkled.

Vienna held the door open and said, “You know I’m standing right here, right?” She looked at Minhi as they all stepped into the third-floor hall.

Alex paused for a beat. Okay, sure. “So . . . would you mind terribly if I took Sid’s place?”

“I think we can make that work,” Vienna said, with only a Mona Lisa smile in evidence.

Abruptly Vienna stopped, and Alex felt the smile drain from his own face as he looked down the hallway. This was not a huge hospital—one central hallway traveled down the floor—and on a weekday afternoon there should have been a flurry of activity. But all was silent. The only visible soul was Bill Merrill, who was leaning with his hands thrust into his sport coat against the wall next to a hospital room door.

Vienna spoke first. “Bill?”

Bill seemed to come awake, heaving himself off the wall as he looked up toward them. Alex saw what seemed to be wistfulness dry up and dissolve into something angrier. “What are you doing here?” Bill demanded. As he came closer, he pointed at Alex. “What is he doing here?”

Bill was not at all himself. The Bill that Alex knew would immediately attack him—naturally—but he would have smiled while doing it or seemed bored and halfhearted. Bill now was agitated and forceful, and intent on pushing them back without saying