The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All - By Laird Barron Page 0,74

smiled coolly and sipped his rum. “You can watch the whole thing on the internet. I’m certain my esteemed colleague has done so in the name of research.”

Lancaster said, “Val Lewton’s film. Scared me pantless when I was a wee lad. What a great old flick.”

“I like you more and more. Yia mas!” Dr. Christou knocked back yet another Canadian Club.

“Val Lewton,” Mr. Cook said, his glazed eyes brightening. “Now you’re talking. My dad owned a chain of theaters. Lewton was a hell of an auteur, as the kids say.”

“Oh, honey.” Mrs. Cook smiled with benign condescension and patted her husband’s cheek so it jiggled. “Val Lewton? Really? Goodness.”

“Hellenic vampire tradition is quite rich,” Mr. Christou said. “The damned rise from their graves—day or night—and creep through villages, rapping on doors, tapping on windows, imitating the cries of animals and children. It is said one must never answer a door after dark on the first knock.”

Mrs. Cook said, “As I understand it, Grecian vampires are actually more akin to shape changers. Lycanthropes and what have you.”

“Quite right, dear lady! Quite right!” Dr. Christou said. “The Balkan Wars led to a minor usurpation by the Slavic vampire myth of the Greek antecedent. Or, I should say, a co-option, though who ultimately co-opted whom is open to debate. Ah, you would’ve been a much brighter assistant than the clods I was assigned on my expeditions. And lovelier to boot!”

“Oh, hush, Doctor,” Mrs. Cook said, casually patting her hair as she cast about for the waiter. “Seriously, although you’re the expert, doesn’t it seem plausible that these legends—the Rakshasa, the lycanthropes and vampires, the graveyard ghouls, the horrors of Dunsany, Moses, and Lovecraft, are variations on a theme?”

“If by plausible you mean impossible,” Mr. Rawat said.

“Certainly,” Mr. Blaylock said. “And a hundred other beasties from global mythology. Each iteration tailored to the traditions and prejudices of individual cultures. However, as Mr. Rawat so elegantly declared, it’s rubbish.” He smiled slyly. “Except for ghosts. The existence of ghosts is a theory I can get behind.”

There were more rounds of drinks accompanied by tales of werewolves, vampires, and other things that went bump in the night. An orchestra appeared and began to play classics of the 1930s. The Cooks ventured unsteadily onto the dance floor, and gallant Mr. Rawat escorted Ms. Diamond after them—she, ramrod stiff and protesting to no avail. Mr. Rawat’s continental chauvinism doubtless nettled her no end.

Lancaster excused himself to visit the restroom. He pissed in the fancy urinal and washed his hands and dried them on a fancy scented towel. He checked his watch in the lobby, decided to risk a few moments away from the party, and ducked into the stairwell and lighted a cigarette. Moments later Mr. Blaylock and Dr. Christou barged through the door, drinks in hand, Dedrick hot on their heels, a pained expression replacing his customary stoicism. Dr. Christou and Mr. Rawat immediately lighted cigarettes. Both smoked Prima Lux. “Ah, great minds!” the doctor said, grinning at Lancaster, who covered his annoyance with a friendly mock salute.

A few minutes later, cigarettes smoked and drinks drunk, everyone headed back to the table. Lancaster did the gentlemanly deed of holding the door. Dr. Christou hesitated until the others had gone ahead. He said in a low voice, “I confess an abiding fondness for Boris Karloff and Val Lewton. Anyone who holds them dear is first class by my lights.” The doctor leaned slightly closer to Lancaster, scorching him with whiskey breath. “In recent years I’ve become convinced the priest of Aphra was duped by the shepherd. Those cemetery photographs were surely a hoax. Which is a damned shame because I think there truly was an extraordinary event occurring in that village.” He laid his very large hand upon Lancaster’s shoulder. This drunken earnestness would’ve been comical except for the glimmer of a tear in the corner of the aged scholar’s eye. “Please extend my apologies to our fair company. That last drink was a bridge too far. I’m off to my quarters.”

Lancaster wondered if the evening could possibly become more surreal. He watched in bemusement as the big man trundled away and boarded an elevator.

He returned to the ballroom where Ms. Diamond sat alone at the table. She watched the others dance, her mouth sullen. He sat next to her and, feeling expansive from the booze, said, “I have a bottle of twelve yearold scotch back at the Chateau.” His blue eyes usually had an effect on women.