The Summoning

    Alone in his room, Nimrod needed no light.  A candle would have burned itself out anyway, since the room had no windows and little air circulation.  In New York City nobody questioned his willingness to pay for the illegal basement apartment.  That was one thing he liked about modern times.  The telephone not so much, but tonight it might be his only chance of survival.  He didn't think there was time to see his sire in person before the impulse overcame him.
    Nimrod told Caine, "Something's calling me.  I can feel it.  I've seen the expression on your face when others speak of it, and I think you know more than you've told me.  Ignorance could be my destruction."
    Nimrod's hand tightened on the telephone as he spoke.  He dared come no closer to demanding an answer, or accusing his sire Caine of betrayal.  Others had been destroyed for less.  Before Vlad had vanished, he had whispered to Nimrod that he felt the calling, and his sire would not tell him the secret because he feared the knowledge could be used against him.
    The cold voice came back over the phone.  "We'll discuss this again in a few days."
    When Caine had finished speaking, Nimrod replied, "I don't think I can wait that long.  I think tonight may be the night."
    No reply came, and after a moment Nimrod heard a dial tone.  He replaced the phone gently in the charger.  He looked around his apartment for what might be the last time.  He could see easily - the room next to the bedroom had a window near the ceiling, and it wasn't quite sunset yet.  Some light leaked under his closed bedroom door.  The spartan room had few personal items - it was like a coffin in spirit, if not physically.
    The gathering impulse to move felt like restlessness, but ten times as strong as any restless need for movement had ever been.  Even keeping himself still until sunset challenged Nimrod's will, but to do otherwise would be foolish.
    If the call became too strong to resist, tonight was not a bad night to meet the unknown.  He had recently had blood, and used little power since, so he did not hunger.  Every minor wound was completely regenerated, so every corded muscle worked perfectly, and his pale white skin was flawless.  Even his clothing was perfect.  Nimrod wore evening clothes, but with a black cloak instead of a suit jacket.  This way humans who might be more trouble than they were worth could sense something subliminally wrong, and avoid him.  The local criminals, druggies, and assorted scum had long since learned that he was not a soft target.
    Nimrod glanced at his watch.  The sun would have set a few minutes ago.  He felt he might be able to resist the call awhile longer, but it would be better to go now, at the peak of his power, with the whole night ahead of him.
    He walked out his front door and up the concrete steps.  He would have to walk, since he didn't know which way the calling would drag him.  He would have some time to think as well, while the feeling was still partially under control.
    Nimrod didn't like to hunt on these streets, dark and shadowy though they were.  The slime nearby knew him for a predator and not prey, and this contented him.  Who knew what drugs or diseases might run in their blood?
    "Yo man, give me your money and all before I blow you a new hole!"
    Nimrod looked up in astonishment.  This fellow clearly wasn't from around here, or else he hadn't gotten the memo.  He was also holding a gun.
    He didn't know if he would be returning, yet it behooved him to spread his reputation.  Nimrod didn't want this every time he went outside.
    His hand wrapped itself around the barrel of the gun.  Someone knowledgeable enough to come with silver bullets would have been smart enough to shoot from a distance without speaking.
    Even a lead bullet could hurt, but Nimrod moved with inhuman speed.  The idiot thought he was trying to pull the gun away, so his knuckles were still gripping it when gun and hand were jammed hard into his own mouth.  Nimrod heard the crack as the mugger's jaw broke.  The sound of breaking teeth was quieter and less distinct.
    Nimrod permitted him to flee with his life.  The whole point was to spread the word about avoiding Nimrod, not leave an anonymous corpse.
    The momentary burst of physical activity left him invigorated, but there was a cost.  He was a tiny bit hungrier now, his reserves slightly less for the challenge to come.
    No drop of blood marred Nimrod's appearance, which was just as well since his feet headed towards the better part of town.  What could control a vampire this way?  Half remembered ancient stories drifted into his head.  Some claimed you could control a devil or demon if you knew his true name.
    More than one Vampire had adopted Nimrod as his name.  Had someone discovered his original birth name, from over a thousand years ago?  His first and last name had both been common, and other Vampires might share them both.  His sire already knew that name, but did not have this power.  Or did he?  No sense thinking that way.  The idea of summoning a Vampire with his true name was a red herring, or at least a heavily distorted reflection of the truth.
    By now he had reached Main Street, and passed a highly polished shop window.  Nimrod smiled grimly.  None of the other walkers noticed that everyone except him was reflected in the shop window.  It didn't just happen that way with mirrors.  His image had been taken away somehow, and some believed that Vampires, though calling themselves immortal, would someday be called to account.  Could capturing his image somehow control his power, if someone could get hold of it?
    Nimrod had no idea how such a thing could be done.  If that was the key he faced unimaginable sorcery, with no conceivable way to prepare for the uneven battle to come.
    Walking past the window of a small independent bookstore, Nimrod peered within.  The lighting was dim, just as he preferred it.  Bright artificial light could only irritate him, not kill his as sunlight might.  Still he avoided it.
    This was no time for browsing - yet he had walked to the door and pulled it open unwilling.  Could this store have accidentally acquired a used book, an ancient tome of great power?  Could some obscure author of books on magic somehow have gotten more than he bargained for, discovered an authentic formula?
    He dared assume nothing.  He suspected the battle was near at hand, although he saw and heard and smelled nothing strange as he walked in past the cash register.  He grabbed the checkout counter as if to steady himself, but in reality to hold himself still for a few precious moments, to feel which way he was going before he went, to plan.
    The older woman behind the counter smiled at him, and it didn't seem forced.  "I love your costume.  Natalie Hingest is back that way."
    She lifted her hand from behind the counter and pointed towards the rear of the store.
    That wasn't where he needed to go - or was it?
    His hand gripped the counter tightly, for the moment able to still the movement of his restless feet.  He strained every sense, and was able to hear quiet conversation from a distance most humans could not.
    "



    Gilly shivered slightly.  There was something pleasurable about the tiny thrill of fear, erasing the humdrum depression and frustration of her failed signing.  Now that the sun had gone down and no more light came through the window, the horror section of the little bookstore had acquired atmosphere.  The lights were partially blocked by a huge pile of books.  In the dimness, shadows played over the gory covers of a couple of books left off the shelf by a browser, almost artistic.
    Her neck hurt.  She had twisted it too suddenly after hearing the sudden footstep.
    Then she blinked.  "It's you!"
    A quiet little chuckle.  "I believe it is - though I could say the same with more cause for drama.  You tried to put me in your book - without permission yet."
    He wrapped his black cloak around himself.  Not many people wore cloaks nowadays, but he did it as he did everything else, naturally and not at all staged.
    Gilly blushed.  "I never even knew your name?  How could I have found you?"
    He pinned her with his eyes.  They did not flicker, and so she could not move.  Nobody had black eyes, especially not with such fair skin, so they must have been dark brown.  She told herself they were dark brown, but they looked black.