Christopher Pike - The Last Vampire 01 - The Last Vampire.pdf - Christopher Pike - margozap

THE VAMPIRE

I am a vampire, and that is the truth. But the modern meaning of the word vampire, the stories that have

been told about creatures such as I, are not precisely true. I do not turn to ash in the sun, nor do I cringe

when I see a crucifix. I wear a tiny gold cross around my neck now, but only because I like it. I cannot

command a pack of wolves to attack or fly through the air. Nor can I make another of my kind simply by

having him drink my blood. Wolves do like me, though, as do most predators, and I can jump so high

that one might imagine I can fly. As to blood - ah, blood, the whole subject fascinates me. I do like that,

warm and dripping, when I am thirsty. And I am often thirsty...

About the Author

Christopher Pike was born in New York, USA but grew up in Los Angeles, where he lives to this day.

Prior to becoming a writer, he worked in a factory, painted houses and programmed computers. His

hobbies include astronomy, meditating, running, playing with his nieces and nephews, and making sure his

books are prominently displayed in his local bookshop. He is the author of the bestselling CHAIN

LETTER, SPELLBOUND, LAST ACT, GIMME A KISS, WEEKEND, SLUMBER PARTY,

REMEMBER ME, the FINAL FRIENDS trilogy, SCAVENGER HUNT, FALL INTO DARKNESS,

WITCH, SEE YOU LATER, CHAIN LETTER 2, DIE SOFTLY, BURY ME DEEP, MONSTER,

ROAD TO NOWHERE, SATI, WHISPER OF DEATH and MASTER OF MURDER which are all

available in paperback from Hodder and Stoughton.

CHRISTOPHER

PIKE

THE LAST VAMPIRE

Hodder

Children's

Books

a division of Hodder Headline plc

First published in the USA in 1994 by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd.

The right of Christopher Pike to be identified as the Author of

the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

10 98765432

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

in any form or by any means without the prior written

permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated

in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

it is published and without a similar condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious

and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

A Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 0 340 61158 8

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd., Reading, Berkshire

Hodder Children's Books

a division of Hodder Headline pic

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

For Dr Pat

I am a vampire, and that is the truth. But the modern meaning of the word vampire, the stories that have

been told about creatures such as I, are not precisely true. I do not turn to ash in the sun, nor do I cringe

when I see a crucifix. I wear a tiny gold cross now around my neck, but only because I like it. I cannot

command a pack of wolves to attack or fly through the air. Nor can I make another of my kind simply by

having him drink my blood. Wolves do like me though, as do most predators, and I can jump so high that

one might imagine I can fly. As to blood—ah, blood, the whole subject fascinates me. I do like that as

well, warm and dripping, when I am thirsty. And I am often thirsty.

My name, at present, is Alisa Perne—just two words, something to last for a couple of decades. I am

no more attached to them than to the sound of the wind. My hair is blond and silklike, my eyes like

sapphires that have stared long at a volcanic fissure. My stature is slight by modern standards, five two in

sandals, but my arms and legs are muscled, although not unattractively so. Before I speak I appear to be

only eighteen years of age, but something in my voice—the coolness of my expressions, the echo of

endless experience—makes people think I am much older. But even I seldom think about when I was

born, long before the pyramids were erected beneath the pale moon. I was there, in that desert in those

days, even though I am not originally from that part of the world.

Do I need blood to survive? Am I immortal? After all this time, I still don't know. I drink blood because

I crave it. But I can eat normal food as well, and digest it. I need food as much as any other man or

woman. I am a living, breathing creature. My heart beats—I can hear it now, like thunder in my ears. My

hearing is very sensitive, as is my sight. I can hear a dry leaf break off a branch a mile away, and I can

clearly see the craters on the moon without a telescope. Both senses have grown more acute as I get

older.

My immune system is impregnable, my regenera-tive system miraculous, if you believe in miracles—

which I don't. I can be stabbed in the arm with a knife and heal within minutes without scarring. But if I

were to be stabbed in the heart, say with the currently fashionable wooden stake, then maybe I would

die, It is difficult for even a vampire's flesh to heal around art implanted blade. But it is not something I

have experimented with.

But who would stab me? Who would get the chance? I have the strength of five men, the reflexes of the

mother of all cats. There is not a system of physical attack and defense of which I am not a master. A

dozen black belts could corner me in a dark alley, and I could make a dress fit for a vampire out of the

sashes that hold their fighting jackets closed. And I do love to fight, it is true, almost as much as I love to

kill. Yet I kill less and less as the years go by because the need is not there, and the ramifications of

murder in modern society are complex and a waste of my precious but endless time. Some loves have to

be given up, others have to be forgotten. Strange as it may sound, if you think of me as a monster, but I

can love most passionately. I do not think of myself as evil.

Why am I talking about all this? Who am I talking to? I send out these words, these thoughts, simply

because it is time. Time for what, I do not know, and; it does not matter because it is what I want and

that is always reason enough for me. My wants—how few they are, and yet how deep they burn. I will

not tell you, at present, who I am talking to.

The moment is pregnant with mystery, even for me. I stand outside the door of Detective Michael Riley's

office. The hour is late; he is in his private office in the

back, the light down low—I know this without see-ing. The good Mr. Riley called me three hours ago to

tell me I had to come to his office to have a little talk about some things I might find of interest. There was

a note of threat in his voice, and more. I can sense emotions, although I cannot read minds. I am curious

as I stand in this cramped and stale hallway. I am also annoyed, and that doesn't bode well for Mr. Riley.

I knock lightly on the door to his outer office and open it before he can respond.

"Hello," I say. I do not sound dangerous—I am, after all, supposed to be a teenager. I stand beside the

secretary's unhappy desk, imagining that her last few paychecks have been promised to her as

"practically in the mail." Mr. Riley is at his desk, inside his office, and stands as he notices me. He has on

a rumpled brown sport coat, and in a glance I see the weighty bulge of a revolver beneath his left breast.

Mr. Riley thinks I am dangerous, I note, and my curiosity goes up a notch. But I'm not afraid he knows

what I really am, or he would not have chosen to meet with me at all, even in broad daylight.

"Alisa Perne?" he says. His tone is uneasy.

"Yes."

He gestures from twenty feet away. “Please come in and have a seat."

I enter his office but do not take the offered chair in front of his desk, but rather, one against the right

wall. I want a straight line to him if he tries to pull a gun on me. If he does try, he will die, and maybe

painfully.

He looks at me, trying to size me up, and it is difficult for him because I just sit here. He, however, is a

montage of many impressions. His coat is not only wrinkled but stained—greasy burgers eaten hastily. I

note it all. His eyes are red rimmed, from a drug as much as fatigue. I hypothesize his poison to be

speed—medicine to nourish long hours beating the pavement. After me? Surely. There is also a glint of

satisfaction in his eyes, a prey finally caught. I smile, privately at the thought, yet a thread of uneasiness

enters me as well. The office is stuffy, slightly chilly. I have never liked the cold, although I could survive

an Arctic winter night naked to the bone.

"I guess you wonder why I wanted to talk to you so urgently," he says,

I nod. My legs are uncrossed, my white slacks hanging loose. One hand rests in my lap, the other plays

with my hair, Left-handed, right-handed—I am neither, and both.

"May I call you Alisa?" he asks.

"You may call me what you wish, Mr. Riley."

My voice startles him, just a little, and it is the effect I want. I could have pitched it like any modern

teenager, but I have allowed my past to enter, the power of it. I want to keep Mr. Riley nervous, for

nervous people say much that they later regret.

"Call me Mike," he says. "Did you have trouble finding the place?"

"No."

"Can I get you anything? Coffee? A soda?"

“No."

He glances at a folder on his desk, flips it open. He clears his throat, and again I hear his tiredness, as

well as his fear. But is he afraid of me? I am not sure. Besides the gun under his coat, he has another

be-neath some papers at the other side of his desk. I smell the gunpowder in the bullets, the cold steel. A

lot of firepower to meet a teenage girl. I hear a faint scratch of moving metal and plastic. He is taping the

conversation.

"First off I should tell you who I am," he says. “As I said on the phone, I am a private detective. My

business is my own—I work entirely freelance. People come to me to find loved ones, to research risky

investments, to provide protection, when necessary, and to get hard-to-find background information on

certain individuals."

I smile. "And to spy."

He blinks. "I do not spy, Miss Perne."

"Really." My smile broadens. I lean forward, the tops of my breasts visible at the open neck of my black

silk blouse. "It is late, Mr. Riley. Tell me what you want."

He shakes his head. "You have a lot of confidence for a kid."

"And you have a lot of nerve for a down-on-his-luck private dick."

He doesn't like that. He taps the open folder on his desk. "I have been researching you for the last few

months, Miss Perne, ever since you moved to Mayfair.

You have an intriguing past, as well as many invest-ments. But I’m sure you know that."

"Really."

"Before I begin, may I ask how old you are?"

"You may ask."

"How old are you?"

"It's none of your business."

He smiles. He thinks he has scored a point. He does not realize that I am already considering how he

should die, although I still hope to avoid such an extreme measure. Never ask a vampire her age. We

don't like that question. It's very impolite. Mr. Riley dears his throat again, and I think that maybe I will

strangle him.

"Prior to moving to Mayfair," he says, "you lived in Los Angeles—in Beverly Hills in fact—at

Two-Five-Six Grove Street. Your home was a four-thousand-square-foot mansion, with two swimming

pools, a tennis court, a sauna, and a small observatory. The property is valued at six-point-five million.

To this day you are listed as the sole owner, Miss Perne."

"It's not a crime to be rich."

"You are not just rich. You are very rich. My research indicates that you own five separate estates

scattered across this country. Further research tells me that you probably own as much if not more

property in Europe and the Far East. Your stock and bond assets are vast—in the hundreds of millions.

But what none of my research has uncovered is how you came across this incredible wealth. There is no

record of a family anywhere, and believe me, Miss Perne, I have looked far and wide."

"I believe you. Tell me, whom did you contact to gather this information?"

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