The Vampire's Photograph by Kevin Emerson

forms of payment, like a fresh young animal, or bone credits, weren’t practical.
    They started across a long grass park along the edge of a wide lake, just north of downtown. In the center of the park was a labyrinth of black metal towers: an old gas refinery long shut down. It was surrounded by a high chain-link fence that kept the contaminated site safe from humans. The hulking cylinders stood in dark silhouette against the blinking city buildings and the glowing Space Needle, across the water.
    A raw wind peppered Oliver and Sebastian with spray from the lake. They leaped nimbly over the fence, and Oliver followed his dad into the maze of black metal towers, spun together with a web of catwalks above. Their shoes clattered in the gravel and rust flakes.
    Sebastian stopped at a black tower no different than the others, except that three stories up, near the top of the tower, there was a single, glowing silver Skrit symbol: an upside-down eye inside a square. He knocked on the metal wall, creating a hollow thud. For a moment, there was no response, then the squealing echo of deadbolts being turned. A curved rectangular door pulled inward, and warm light spilled out. Oliver followed Sebastian in.
    In stark contrast to the decrepit exterior, they entered a nicely appointed waiting room. It was small, lit with low lamps, and lined with chairs, three of which were filled: two with older women and one with an extremely ancient man who had long since lost his skin to time.
    Sebastian moved to the receptionist’s desk, where a striking young woman sat at a computer. “Nocturne to see Dr. Vincent,” he said. Oliver sat down, and watched as his dad popped open his briefcase and removed a plain-looking legal folder, which he handed to the receptionist. Oliver recognized his medical records. He looked down at the stack of magazines on the table beside him: Seattle Tombs and Flats , Bloodlust , Us Weekly …
    â€œHell’s speed to you, my boy,” a razor-thin voice hissed from beside him. Oliver turned to find the ancient man leaning toward him, his leathery face only inches from his. His teeth were still brilliant white, and he wore a tweed suit with a bow tie. Oliver had rarely seen a man so old and guessed he might be well more than six hundred. The whites of his eyes had long since turned to black, and his pupils had dulled to a luminous gray that indicated almost total blindness. His wrinkled nose was doubly active, sniffing the air between them. Oliver could smell the time on him.
    â€œHi,” Oliver said, trying to be polite.
    â€œI hope he comes to you soon,” the man hissed, the effort of speaking making his body shake.
    Oliver nodded respectfully, not knowing what the old-timer was talking about.
    â€œThe wind wants to take me,” the man went on, “But I tell it, No, Illisius is coming, and I don’t mean to rot to dust before we’re finally freed from this prison! That’s what I tell that cursed wind.” The man’s teeth clicked eagerly.
    â€œThat’s great,” Oliver said, and turned back to the magazines—
    But the man grabbed Oliver’s shirt collar with his bone hands and spun him around. “Don’t take your destiny lightly, Oliver. You are the one who can open the Gate.” He pulled Oliver even closer, with ten times the strength Oliver would have thought possible. His skinless face stretched into a grin. “You are he who will journey to N—”
    A hand firmly pushed the old-timer away. “Excuse me, sir,” said Sebastian sternly. “Have to get my boy in for his checkup. Come along, Oliver.” Dad was smiling, yet he quickly pulled Oliver up out of his chair.
    The man was scowling at the interruption, but then he broke into a wide smile. “Yes, yes,” he cooed. “Off to the doctor for the vessel! Careful with my merchandise! I’m not to dust before the ascension!”
    Sebastian moved Oliver