Necroscope: The Plague-Bearer by Brian Lumley Page B

light of the sun. Also, the atmosphere—the air in this wooded valley—is damp for much of the year. It comes from the stream that runs to the rear of the house, where a waterwheel supplies the power for my basement laboratory. As for the fire, it keeps the rest of the house dry.”
    While he talked in this direct, open manner, Mike had studied his host more closely. The old man was bald, wrinkled like a walnut, heavily veined in what Mike could see of his scrawny arms, and wattled with folds of loose skin under a blunt chin. If what he had said about the light, more especially sunlight, meant what Mike suspected it meant, then the current state of The Chemist’s health didn’t say much for the alleged longevity of vampires!
    He had soon discovered his error, however, when he bluntly inquired: “So you’re like me, in thrall to the Francezci brothers, eh? A vampire, and one of their agents!”
    His host had meanwhile risen and shuffled over to a drinks cabinet. As he returned with glasses and a bottle, Mike’s question brought him up short. Frowning, and apparently surprised, he barked: “Eh? What’s that?” But then as he flopped back down into his chair: “Ah! I understand! Yes, of course! But no, I’m not like you or the Francezcis. No, not at all. With me it’s a disease of the eyes. A photophobia and incurable. Here, have a drink. Then we can talk about why you’re here. And don’t worry, Mike, for I’m aware that time is of the essence. Meanwhile, try some of this essence! Oh hah, hah!” And pouring liberal amounts from the bottle, he had offered a glass to his guest.
    Lifting his glass in the glow of the fire, and rotating his hand to cause the dark red wine to swirl, Mike had stared at it through narrowed, openly suspicious eyes. While food—ordinary food—no longer appealed to him, he had at least retained something of his appetite for good wine. The question, however, remained: How “good” was this wine?
    As if in answer to that question, his host had reached over to clink glasses with Mike, and with obvious relish had drained his own glass and refilled it. Seeing which, Mike had sipped at his wine and tasted its warm, fortified excellence. Then, somewhat easier in his mind, he’d sat back in his chair and allowed himself to relax more yet…
    “So,” The Chemist had smiled a yellow-toothed smile across the table, “you took me for a vampire! That tells me something: that you are new to your transition. Given time, if that should be your lot, you’ll recognize your own kind more accurately and instinctively—the way a dog sniffs out another dog.”
    “What?” Mike had leaned forward. “If it’s to be my lot? But isn’t that why I’m here, to earn myself more time? And are you insulting me, comparing me to a dog?”
    “Not at all, not at all!” The other had held up his arms in protest, anxious to deny it. “It’s just my way of speaking! But I agree: It was a poor and thoughtless illustration of vampire, er, sensibilities. And of course you are here to earn yourself more time—indeed, an entire lifetime! Please forgive me.”
    Scowling, Mike had nodded. “Okay, you can forget about it this time—but in future you better watch what you say and how you say it!” Reaching for the bottle he had refilled his glass, thrown half of it back and felt its warm smoothness going down. Then, after grunting his approval, he had continued: “Now maybe we can get down to business. For it’s like you said: Time— my time, if not yours—is of the essence.”
    “Oh, indeed!” The Chemist had answered him with a sharp nod of his own. “But don’t worry so, Mike. For while a remedy is at once to hand, it serves no purpose to be in such a hurry. Let’s face it, it’s almost dawn—and can you travel by light of day? No, I think not. Best that you spend tomorrow here, eh? And be on your way again come fall of night.”
    That had made sense, for by then Mike had been quite tired; and