Read Online Imperium (Caulborn) by Nicholas Olivo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nicholas Olivo
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Better safe than sorry.
She nodded, a quick, jerky motion, and gave a nervous laugh. “I suppose it is pretty silly. Everyone knows vampires are made, not born.” She was trying to convince herself, I could tell. She took a deep breath and when she let it out, some of her composure returned. “Besides, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard of this legend. If it were true, it would be present in other forms in other cultures.” She nodded to herself again, the motion more natural this time.
“We’ve had a busy evening,” I said. “You up for a pint?”
She leaned her head against the headrest and let out a short laugh. “More than you can know.”
“Great. There’s a bar I know called the Seanake that’ll take care of us. And there’s a guy there who might know some things about the missing people.”
As Megan drove to the bar, we talked about what we’d learned. Bruli might not know what had happened to the abducted, but the vampires were losing their own and were on edge. That could turn into a clan war if left unchecked. We’d have to keep Galahad apprised of that. After about fifteen minutes, plus an extra ten circling the parking lot for a space, we walked into the Seanake.
The Seanake's a really old school Irish pub. They served Guinness just right, and there was live music every night. The great thing was the music was always traditional Irish drinking songs; no up and coming bands here, only guys who can sing Whiskey in the Jar and Seven Drunken Nights. I smiled as we entered the bar, which was about three quarters full. Three waitresses were scooting back and forth from the bar to the tables, trays loaded with beer and pub grub.
There was an empty table near the corner, about ten feet from both the bar and the band. That table was always empty, and even if the place was packed, no one would sit there. I took Megan over to the table and then walked up to the band, which had just finished one of the more off-color renditions of Wild Rover. I handed the band leader a twenty.
“Finnegan’s Wake,” I said. He nodded his thanks, pocketed the cash and I sat down at the table. A waitress came over and I ordered four pints of Guinness and a shot of Bushmills.
Megan cocked her head at me. “So where is this contact of yours?”
“He’ll be here shortly. Relax, enjoy the song.”
We listened to the band play. I sang along, as did most of the patrons and the staff. The song was about one Tim Finnegan, an Irish bricklayer who fell off a ladder and was presumed dead. The mourners at his wake gradually became rowdy and spilled whiskey on his corpse. This brought Tim back to life and he was most indignant that they thought he was dead and that they were spilling his whiskey.
Our waitress returned with the drinks as the band finished to a booming round of applause. I turned to the third chair at the table and found a pale, dark-haired man sitting with us. He whistled and hooted his appreciation of the music, then knocked back the shot of whiskey.
“Now, these lads know how to send a man off proper,” the newcomer said with a smile as he took one of the pints in front of him.
Megan jumped in her seat and I saw her reach under her coat.
“Easy, Megan. This is Tim Finnegan. He’s my contact here.”
She squinted at him. “He’s a ghost,” she said. There was both wonder and horror in her expression. I winced. Tim was pretty laid back as far as spirits go, but they typically didn’t like being reminded that they were dead.
Tim smiled. “This one’s as sharp as a pin, Vinnie,” he said to me. Then he paused. “You didn’t break up with Petra, did ya?”
“No, Tim, Megan is a business associate.”
His eyes twinkled as he looked at her. “If I’d had business associates with figures like that when I was carryin’ me hod, I’d never have gotten any work done.” Megan shifted in her seat and blushed.
“According to that song, you spent most of your time drunk, anyway,” she
She nodded, a quick, jerky motion, and gave a nervous laugh. “I suppose it is pretty silly. Everyone knows vampires are made, not born.” She was trying to convince herself, I could tell. She took a deep breath and when she let it out, some of her composure returned. “Besides, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard of this legend. If it were true, it would be present in other forms in other cultures.” She nodded to herself again, the motion more natural this time.
“We’ve had a busy evening,” I said. “You up for a pint?”
She leaned her head against the headrest and let out a short laugh. “More than you can know.”
“Great. There’s a bar I know called the Seanake that’ll take care of us. And there’s a guy there who might know some things about the missing people.”
As Megan drove to the bar, we talked about what we’d learned. Bruli might not know what had happened to the abducted, but the vampires were losing their own and were on edge. That could turn into a clan war if left unchecked. We’d have to keep Galahad apprised of that. After about fifteen minutes, plus an extra ten circling the parking lot for a space, we walked into the Seanake.
The Seanake's a really old school Irish pub. They served Guinness just right, and there was live music every night. The great thing was the music was always traditional Irish drinking songs; no up and coming bands here, only guys who can sing Whiskey in the Jar and Seven Drunken Nights. I smiled as we entered the bar, which was about three quarters full. Three waitresses were scooting back and forth from the bar to the tables, trays loaded with beer and pub grub.
There was an empty table near the corner, about ten feet from both the bar and the band. That table was always empty, and even if the place was packed, no one would sit there. I took Megan over to the table and then walked up to the band, which had just finished one of the more off-color renditions of Wild Rover. I handed the band leader a twenty.
“Finnegan’s Wake,” I said. He nodded his thanks, pocketed the cash and I sat down at the table. A waitress came over and I ordered four pints of Guinness and a shot of Bushmills.
Megan cocked her head at me. “So where is this contact of yours?”
“He’ll be here shortly. Relax, enjoy the song.”
We listened to the band play. I sang along, as did most of the patrons and the staff. The song was about one Tim Finnegan, an Irish bricklayer who fell off a ladder and was presumed dead. The mourners at his wake gradually became rowdy and spilled whiskey on his corpse. This brought Tim back to life and he was most indignant that they thought he was dead and that they were spilling his whiskey.
Our waitress returned with the drinks as the band finished to a booming round of applause. I turned to the third chair at the table and found a pale, dark-haired man sitting with us. He whistled and hooted his appreciation of the music, then knocked back the shot of whiskey.
“Now, these lads know how to send a man off proper,” the newcomer said with a smile as he took one of the pints in front of him.
Megan jumped in her seat and I saw her reach under her coat.
“Easy, Megan. This is Tim Finnegan. He’s my contact here.”
She squinted at him. “He’s a ghost,” she said. There was both wonder and horror in her expression. I winced. Tim was pretty laid back as far as spirits go, but they typically didn’t like being reminded that they were dead.
Tim smiled. “This one’s as sharp as a pin, Vinnie,” he said to me. Then he paused. “You didn’t break up with Petra, did ya?”
“No, Tim, Megan is a business associate.”
His eyes twinkled as he looked at her. “If I’d had business associates with figures like that when I was carryin’ me hod, I’d never have gotten any work done.” Megan shifted in her seat and blushed.
“According to that song, you spent most of your time drunk, anyway,” she
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