Beware the Leaven

By James Vanore

Beware the Leaven is a vampire novel like no other.

The definitive vampire tale. History's first vampire is identified, and their unending bloodlust is finally explained.

In identifying history's first vampire, and the reason for the creature's birth, the novel breaks ground previously untread within the genre. The vampire's bloodlust is meticulously explained. Not just any blood will do, and there are caveats, even for the undead as they stalk humanity. But if the proper bloodline is ultimately found, humanity may well face a quick and unthinkable end.

Only the custodians stand between the vampire population and their prey, and the custodians' line predates even that of the vampire. Beware the Leaven will cause the reader to think about vampirism as never before. Published in Italy (Newton-Compton) in 2007 as "il Vangelo dei Vampiri," Beware the Leaven is now in it's third Italian printing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 18, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469742762

James Vanore

Jim Vanore spent over 22 years with the Philadelphia Police Department, retiring as a sergeant. He then taught junior high English, math, and science. He is an international award-winning journalist, author of the mystery novel Grave Departure and is currently the Features Editor of the Cape May County Herald. He and his wife, Barbara, live in New Jersey.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jerusalem, A.D. 1229

Is the portal secure, Demitri?

The old man looked out over the arid spectacle before him, not facing the one he addressed. He heard the answer that was given in a calm, quiet, yet apprehensive tone.

Yes, Magister.

He turned slowly to confront his younger assistant. Demitri, he began almost apologetically, this may be the last time I am able to govern these… he looked at the scorched ground, groping for the proper word, then finding a suitable term he literally spat it, …these proprieties…such as they are.

I understand, Magister.

The old man turned back once again and looked at the vast desert. His shoulders were rounded now, not at all the straight and broad expanse they were when he undertook the task, almost forty years prior.

How long has it been? he thought to himself. How long have you been here, Alastair—a lifetime? Perhaps.

The younger man came along side his mentor and followed his gaze at the great wilderness. He too had aged during his tenure in the campaign. He had been but a boy when Alastair had snatched him from the talons of slavery by out-bidding a wealthy Moslem trader.

That was fifteen years ago, and Alastair was then a strong and healthy scholar just two years into his seventh decade of life, and completely enmeshed in the turmoil that was pervading the Holy Land. Now the old man was in his late seventies, and obviously failing. He gently placed his arm around the younger man’s shoulder as he spoke.

But then again, we could conceivably have peace, he said, smiling warily at his assistant. What would you think of that, Demitri? There was a hint of something naively hopeful in the old man’s waxen eyes.

The younger man put his arm around his lord’s waist and held him firmly. His smile was genuine. Is that not what we have been struggling for?

The old man pulled his companion closer and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Yes, Demitri. That is why we toil. Then he released his grip and said seriously, But never forget the reason why peace is so fleeting. He turned slightly to stare back at the entrance to the cave from which they had both recently withdrew.

No one passing this way would ever imagine that a cavern lies beyond that wall of earth. He turned and nodded at his assistant. You did a fine job, Demitri.

Thank you, Magister.

There was a distinct pensiveness to the old man’s next question as he tilted his head back and seemed to search the top of the mount in front of them.

You are sure that the light can reach through to the bottom?

The younger man inhaled deeply and spoke deliberately as he stepped forward. Ah, yes. He pointed to the top of the elevation. The opening is too small for a jackal, then turning to face the old man, he continued, but more than large enough to allow sunlight to daily strike the floor of the cave. His dark eyes radiated intensity as he pronounced the Anglo words with a harsh disparity so familiar to those who were not born to the tongue.

Alastair nodded his aged head in satisfaction, still looking to the top of the steep incline. And there is scant reason for anyone to try and ascend such a menacing peak, he announced with certainty. Yes. Yes, I feel we are safe. Then he absently grabbed Demitri’s elbow and added, At least for a while.

The sun was getting lower in the western half of the sky as the two began the journey back to their encampment. Demitri walked slower than was his want, deferring to his master’s growing incapacity. The old man still managed to travel surprisingly well for his years, but no longer was he the ever-vibrant character striding forcefully across this desert country, constantly admonishing his trailing protégé to come along.

Those days now seemed a millennium behind him. He only hoped now that a peaceful epoch was at hand. He had worked long and diligently these past decades. Soon he could rest. Demitri would carry on. Alastair had much faith in the young man, and he was sure that his faith was not misplaced.

Demitri was one of the misled multitude that had marched south through the Holy Roman Empire during the ill-fated Children’s Crusade in the earlier part of the century. The second wave of these young zealots had originated in Germany, and Demitri had joined them as they passed through Asia Minor. That was over fifteen years ago, and as far as Alastair knew, Demitri was the only member of the march to live as a non-Moslem slave in the Holy Land.

The only other child crusaders to arrive south of the Principality of Antioch did so as slaves to the Moslems. Alastair’s wealth and long time position as a non-belligerent were what had made it possible for him to bid for the services of the swarthy adolescent. He had seen in Demitri’s eyes the conviction and the fervor. He knew at once that this was his Peter—his rock upon which to build—his strong right arm.

Even now, he could vividly remember how he had led the boy, still in chains, gently away from the auction circle, removing his bonds for good upon arrival at his tent just outside Jerusalem. Alastair’s permanent residence was in Acre, a city one-hundred miles to the north, and in the hands of the Christians.

Although Jerusalem was still a Moslem city at that time, Christian pilgrims were permitted to freely enter, thanks in large measure to the persuasive powers of England’s King Richard the Lion-Hearted. Richard’s military prowess may have enabled him to take Acre in 1192, but Jerusalem proved impervious to his army. He had to settle for a negotiated agreement that left Jerusalem an Islamic stronghold, but open to Christians who wished to visit and study the place of their dogmatic heritage. Alastair had been studying in this land since the beginning of the Third Crusade in 1189. Now, forty years later, Frederick II, young Emperor of Italy and Germany had negotiated a phenomenal treaty with Al-Kamil, the Saracen army leader.

Tell me, Demitri, the old man said as they approached their camp, how do you feel about this concession?

Frederick is a skillful bargainer, the younger man answered without emotion. He must be. To have the Moslems give us Jerusalem without a battle… he shook his head slowly, looking straight ahead as he walked, …that is progress.

True, his mentor replied. But I was more interested in how you felt about the endurance of such a pact. He faced his companion; the slightest suggestion of cynicism expressed on his weather-worn features.

Demitri pulled to a stop. Magister, I am not one to think that all is now well and will remain so. These are troubled times. Men have little tolerance and less love for those who fail to share their beliefs. I fear there is yet much to do.

The old man smiled and placed his palm tenderly on Demitri’s smoothly shaven cheek. This face was not yet cracked and seared by the years of wandering through this parched land. That would surely come. Demitri, as long as we know these things, and as long as we always manage to find others to continue the work, we will have fulfilled our destiny.

Demitri nodded silently. The unspoken agreement between the two had been sealed. Both now understood that Alastair’s mission was at its end, and Demitri’s was about to begin.

Come, Demitri, the old man said with enthusiasm while nudging the younger forward. We must break camp and make haste for Acre. I am anxious to collect our effects and transfer permanently to Jerusalem. I will end my days as a townsman in the city of our Savior.

They were soon dismantling their small tent and packing their necessities. The old man was especially careful when placing one object into its container. The wooden box was compactly closed once its contents were secure. He wrapped long leather straps around the closed box many times before tying the ends together with as much force as he could muster. He hoisted the long narrow box over his shoulder. It was no wider than a man’s leg, and barely a man’s height in length, but to him it contained the most valuable of inanimate objects on the face of the earth. To lose it would mean a catastrophe from which humanity might well not recover.

Chapter 2

USA, 1993

Sergeant Myers sat alone in his patrol car. The city was quiet—nothing unusual for 4:30 a.m. in the autumn. Most of the drunks had already left the after-hours clubs and made their way either home or into a cell for the night. A steady, almost imperceptible cloak of rain had begun to fall.

Myers took advantage of these calm moments to catch up on his assignment sheet for tomorrow. The car was parked under a street light, engine idling with the interior light on as he penciled in the names and badge numbers for the next night’s tour of duty. His noiseless sanctuary was soon invaded as the police radio came to life.

Two-sixty-five.

Go ahead, two-six-five, answered the dispatcher.

Is twenty-six-A available?

Sergeant Myers groaned to himself and threw his pencil and clipboard up on the dash.

Stand by, two-six-five, the dispatcher continued. Twenty-six-A-Andy, are you available?

Myers picked up his receiver and clicked the carrier button. Twentysix-A, I’m available, he answered with something less than enthusiasm. What have you got?

Two-six-five, repeated the dispatcher, the sergeant’s available. Where do you want him?

Could you have him meet me, in-service, at State and Riverside streets?

Myers didn’t wait for the dispatcher to relay the message. Ignoring radio protocol he simply answered, Twenty-six-A, okay. He dropped the hand receiver on the seat, turned out the interior light and pulled away, leaving a dry spot under the bright, sodium vapor street light. He flipped the switch on his wipers to interval, and eradicated the thin shroud of moisture on his windshield. His was the only moving vehicle on the street.

The road surface was getting increasingly slippery, and Myers drove slowly. He was a cautious man, and was proud of his twelve years in patrol with not so much as one dented fender on his record. Besides, he thought, there was no hurry. Johnson had asked for an in-service meet. That usually meant it was not strictly police business. Probably wants a night off, he guessed.

Myers drove down State Street until it terminated at Riverside. It was a strictly industrial area right on the waterfront. He stopped and looked around for two-sixty-five car. There was no evidence of life anywhere, and his headlights cast a beam across Riverside Street into the just as lifeless river beyond. He was getting ready to pick up the radio and ask for Johnson’s location when a light shone on the left side of his face. He rolled down his window and saw the shadow of a man about thirty paces away. The man was clicking a flashlight on and off.

Johnson, you idiot, he muttered, turning left and driving over to the figure who stood in a driveway that led to the rear of a factory. The officer was wearing a yellow raincoat and he approached the sergeant’s car with a hurried gait.

Where the hell’s your car? Myers asked as the officer came up to his open window.

It’s back there, the officer said, motioning with his flashlight beam to the driveway.

And what the hell’s it doing back there?

I was…ah…checking the loading dock for breaks, Sarge.

Uh huh. The last time I found you checking a loading dock for breaks at 4 a.m., Larry, you were also checking your eyelids for holes.

Johnson grinned sheepishly then quickly added, Sarge, I called you in-service because I didn’t want to go out over the air with this.

Yeah? Myers answered. The drizzle was starting to accumulate on his face through the open window. Well suppose you get the hell in and you can tell me about it.

Johnson ran around the front of the car and hopped in on the passenger’s side. He almost sat on the sergeant’s hat which was lying on the seat.

Crissake, Larry, Myers shrieked as he quickly pulled the hat from the seat just in time. You’re going to crush my goddamn hat. He threw it onto the now crowded dashboard. Now what the hell’s so mysterious that you couldn’t go over the air?

Drive in back, was all Johnson said as he pointed to the driveway.

Myers maneuvered the car through the narrow space. It was a driveway only in the sense that it was barely big enough to get a car through. On either side, the brick building loomed up a full three stories. Most of these older buildings by the waterfront were from pre-depression days, and not built for motor vehicle convenience.

This is the Bartronic distribution warehouse, right? asked Myers as he looked up through the windshield. His headlights were now overtaking Johnson’s parked car which sat at the end of the drive next to the loading dock. Myers noticed Johnson had backed in, and his car stood with the engine on and only the parking lights lit.

Yeah, was all Johnson said.

Myers pulled to a stop just in front of Johnson’s cruiser. Great place to take a damn nap, he said sarcastically.

Johnson ignored the affront and opened his door. Better have a look at this, Sarge. He got out and flicked on his flashlight, walking toward the back of his car. Myers put on his hat and pulled the collar of his patrol jacket up against the rain before he got out.

He followed Johnson up the steps of an old loading dock. Johnson walked into a deeply recessed doorway and shined his flashlight into the corner. He said nothing, just holding the beam of light on a male figure, fully clothed, sitting propped up against the steel door.

Gimme that. Myers reached over and took the flashlight unceremoniously from Johnson’s hand. He then bent down over the body and grabbed the man by the jowls, shining the light point blank into the face.

Guy looks like a code five-two-nine-two, Sarge, Johnson declared over the sergeant’s shoulder.

No shit, Sherlock, said Myers as he routinely felt for a pulse under the man’s jaw. This guy’s deader than a rat’s ass.

The body had a pallid tone that was visible even in the glow of a three-celled flashlight. The man appeared to be younger than middle age, and dressed in contemporary casual clothing. He wore no coat, but his gray cotton slacks and black crew-neck sweater were only damp. He had on expensive black walking shoes over thick gray woolen socks.

This guy looks familiar, Myers said abruptly as he stood up. Then handing the flashlight back to Johnson added, You recognize him?

Johnson took the light and focused the beam on the man’s waxen face. Nicky Costello, Johnson answered as he stared at the corpse.

"Is that the jerk-off they refer to as Nick the Knife?" Myers asked somewhat incredulously.

Yeah.

Well, said Myers as he again bent down near the body, then I guess he must have had hundreds of enemies that would have… He hesitated as he easily moved the man over on his side, to check for a possible wound. Hmmm. If this guy’s been shot, stabbed or tuned-up, I don’t see any evidence of it. Give me that light again, Larry.

Johnson leaned over and handed the light to the sergeant. He wasn’t really a bad guy, Sarge. I mean, aside from the fact that he was always involved in some kind of scheme, he never really hurt anybody. He’s just a two-bit punk who tended a little bar, took a few bets… Johnson shrugged his shoulders unseen in the dark. …sold a few hot TV’s…that sort of stuff. But he got along with people in the neighborhood.

Myers turned and looked up at the officer, shining the light in his face. Then why the hell the name?

Johnson squinted and put his hand up in front of his eyes. Myers noticed his discomfort and pulled the beam away from his face. Now each man only saw the other as a shadow.

Johnson laughed softly. You won’t believe this, but the guy was always eatin’ apples…

Apples! Myers interrupted.

Yeah, he liked apples, and he carried one of those Swiss army knives on his key chain. He used to cut the apple as he ate it. He never just bit into it. They say he’s been doing that since he was a kid.

Myers again threw the beam in Johnson’s Face. "You’ve gotta be shittin’ me," he said.

No lie, Sarge. The guy never stabbed anyone in his life. I used to see him around all the time. He was a shady bastard, but people generally liked him.

Myers returned to inspecting the body, but stood up and handed the light back to Johnson after a short examination. Well, he said, dusting his hands together, maybe the guy O-D’d or somethin’. I can’t see any wounds. By the way, Larry, I never ran into this guy a whole hell of a lot, but I kind of remember him as average height and stocky build, right?

Johnson was nodding his head even though the sergeant couldn’t see. That’s right. About five-ten, maybe one-eighty, one-eighty-five. He put the light on the dead man as he spoke.

He must have lost some weight then, replied Myers, because he rolls over as easy as a rag doll. And by the way, the sergeant turned to face Johnson’s outline. Why the hell couldn’t you go out over the air with this?

Again an unseen shrug. You know, Sarge…the newspapers. Some of their night people listen to scanners. They’d probably be here before you. And I wanted to ask you somethin’ before anyone else was around.

What’s that? Myers mumbled.

What’s chances of gettin’ Friday night off?

Chapter 3

Sergeant Myers sat in the passenger’s seat of Johnson’s car, signing the officer’s patrol log while Johnson called for a wagon to transport the body to the morgue.

Tell them I want a lab crew out here first, said Myers without looking up from the clipboard. They can at least light up the area and take some pictures before the guy is moved.

Johnson relayed the request to the radio dispatcher who immediately replied, Stand by, Two-sixty-five.

Less than one minute later, the dispatcher spoke again. Two-six-five, are you establishing a crime scene?

In the overhead glow of the interior light, Johnson turned and looked inquiringly at his supervisor.

Gimme that, snapped Myers as he reached over and took the radio from Johnson. This is Twenty-six-A, he began, keep Two-sixty-five out of service at this location along with a wagon until the lab gets some shots of the area. It looks like an overdose, but I want some photos just in case. Once the lab is done, the scene can be secured and everyone can resume patrol.

Myers put the handset back into its cradle as the radio barked back, Okay, Twenty-six-A.

The sergeant gave Johnson some last minute admonitions about not disturbing the scene any more than was necessary. Then he got out and maneuvered his own car back down the narrow driveway, but not before giving Johnson Friday night off.

***

All things considered, the entire week of midnight shift went rather slowly, and when Myers’ squad returned to work after their two days off, the sergeant was bracing himself for a much busier week of four-to-twelve. He entered the operations room of the stationhouse and pulled the accumulated paperwork from his squad’s box. It was three-thirty-five p.m., and he was in uniform shirtsleeves with his patrol jacket over his arm. The phones inside were already ringing repeatedly, and officers hurried back and forth across the terrazzo floor, some just coming on, some getting ready to report off. Myers threw the fistful of paper down at an empty desk and sat in a wobbly swivel chair. He had twenty-five minutes to get everything put together for roll call.

By ten after four, Myers had inspected his squad, handed out the assignments for the night, and notified the officers who were due for court appearances tomorrow morning. He also had one telephone message memo to deliver.

Johnson, he called as the squad broke ranks, call the crime lab before you hit the street. He handed Larry Johnson a small yellow form with a pre-formatted message that read please return call. A name and phone number followed. In the upper right hand corner was a block marked from, and the block contained the words crime lab.

Johnson used the phone on the counter by the exit that lead to the rear parking lot. When a female voice answered, he identified himself, then asked for the name on his memo and waited about fifteen seconds before a male voice came on the line.

Hello, Johnson? Yeah, this is Phil Cronin. I tried to call you Friday but you were off and I got no answer at your home.

I was up the mountains, Johnson answered in an uninterested manner. I stretched it into a three-day weekend. So what’s up?

That guy who croaked behind the warehouse last Wednesday—the one I shot the pictures of?

Nicky Costello? Johnson replied.

Yeah. Well, the Medical Examiner called me Friday. He had finished the autopsy and he asked me if my report was complete. He said the pictures didn’t show anything much.

Yeah, said Johnson, looking at his watch.

I told him there wasn’t much to show. What he saw in the shots and what he read in the report was all there was. It looked like an O-D to me

So? Johnson added indifferently.

So did you notice anything unusual at all when you first checked that loading dock?

Like what?

Like anything, man. Something you might have forgot to tell me.

Hell no, Phil. I told you everything when you showed up. You saw everything me and the sarge did. I knew the guy was dead as soon as I looked at him. There was nobody and nothing around when I found him. Why, what’s the problem?

Johnson continued to say uh-huh into the phone a few times, hung up and then went to get Sergeant Myers. Myers was out back just about ready to get into his patrol car.

Hey, Sarge, Johnson called as he trotted toward the sergeant.

Myers stood with one hand on the open door. This Friday’s all booked, Larry.

No, Sarge, Johnson smiled shyly. It’s Cronin at the lab. He wants to see us.

Now? cried Myers, his left hand on his hip and his right ready to slam the door shut on his empty car.

Yeah. He had to file an extension to his investigation report on that Nicky Costello job last week. Johnson paused and noticed that Myers was getting ready to say something bright like, Who gives a damn, so he quickly added, The M.E. started an inquiry.

For what? Myers demanded. Everything was handled right. Who put a bug up their ass?

Sarge, Johnson began with an affected air of shrewdness, did you notice anything unusual that night?

Yeah, said Myers sarcastically, there was a dead body layin’ there.

Johnson gave a banal smile.

Okay, okay, Larry, Myers said, holding up one hand in a stopping motion. What’s all this leading up to?

Sarge, Johnson said slowly, all I know is Cronin wants to see us to go over a few questions about the crime scene.

With an air of disgust Myers said, Larry, I sure as hell hope you didn’t screw things up after I left. What’d you do, walk all over the scene as soon as I pulled away?

Johnson was shaking his head with certainty. No, Sarge, it ain’t nothing like that. All Cronin said was that he figured the M.E. might not believe this was an O-D.

Chapter 4

Sergeant Myers and Patrolman Johnson spent about forty-five minutes with Phil Cronin, then both returned to duty. Essentially, all Cronin did was go over every entry on both his lab report and the Medical Examiner’s report with the two officers. There was nothing either could add, however, so Cronin simply initialed his copy of the M.E.’s inquiry, and placed it back into a message folder addressed to the Office of the Medical Examiner. As far as he was concerned, his job was done. He would be more than willing to testify in court as to his findings if an arrest was ever made, but his testimony could only cover the scene and the conditions at the time. He had shot some black-and-white prints of the body, done a quick pencil diagram of the area, and filed his investigation report. As crime lab cases went, this one was bland, inconsequential, and not likely to net him any overtime on the witness stand. Besides, he was on four-totwelve shift now, and things were beginning to pop. He had a hit-and-run scene to photograph, so he picked up his equipment bag, threw it over his shoulder, and headed out the door, dropping the message folder into the interdepartmental mail box as he left.

***

When the folder arrived at the M.E.’s office with the early morning delivery the following day, it was picked up by the A.M. clerk with the rest of the mail and sorted to the proper assistant medical examiner’s box, in this case, Doctor Nathan Forester. When Forester’s aide arrived at eight-thirty, he emptied the doctor’s box and dropped the contents on Forester’s desk, covering the pile of mail with a paperweight: a fresh cup of coffee in the doctor’s private mug.

Doc Forester had been a county pathologist for over ten years. He never intended it to be his career, but he did some investigative medical work while he was a young Air Force captain fresh from med school, and found the experience surprisingly engrossing. He signed