Zen and the Art of Vampires Read Online Free PDF

out into the light. “My apologies, madam,” he said in a voice heavy with an Icelandic accent. “I did not see you, either. Here are your things.”
    â€œNo harm done,” I said, scrabbling at my feet for the contents that had spilled out of my purse.
    â€œYou are a tourist, yes?” the man asked.
    â€œYes.” He seemed nice enough, with a freckled face and the same open, cheerful countenance that I was becoming convinced was standard in Iceland. “Just here for a few days, unfortunately. Oh, thanks.” I tucked my bag under my arm, taking the books from him.
    He stooped once more and picked up something else at my feet, offering it to me a second before he froze. The light hit his palm, flashing off of something held there.
    I looked in surprise at the object he held: a narrow silk cord from which a stone hung, a small oval stone somewhat milky in color, blue and green flashing from the depths.
    â€œOh, that’s nice,” I said, taking it to admire it better. “Is it an opal? It doesn’t look quite like an opal.”
    â€œIt is a moonstone,” the man answered, his voice kind of choked.
    It looked like a bookmark, the kind you slid around the pages and cover of a book, but rather than a charm hanging from the end, as I’d seen before, this one had the moonstone.
    â€œIt’s very pretty. Did it come from one of my books? I didn’t know it was in there. I’ll have to take it back to the bookseller. He probably didn’t realize this was tucked away inside—”
    The man suddenly broke into laughter. “You didn’t tell me who you were,” he said, chuckling a last couple of chuckles before he took my arm and steered me out of the alley in the opposite direction. “I thought you were just an ordinary tourist.”
    â€œUm . . .” I didn’t quite know what to say to that. It seemed odd to insist that I was, in fact, perfectly ordinary, but I had a suspicion that the nice Icelander thought I was someone else. “I think maybe there’s some sort of a mistake.”
    â€œNo mistake,” he said, smiling with genuine happiness. “We’ve been expecting you, you know. The Zenith said you’d arrive today, but we thought you’d be here earlier. I suppose you felt it necessary to maintain your cover as a tourist?”
    â€œOK, now we really are talking at cross-purposes.” I stopped, not willing to get myself any more lost than I had been. “My name is Pia Thomason, and I really am just an ordinary tourist.”
    â€œPia? Heh-heh. You are very good,” he said admiringly, taking my arm again and gently pushing me forward. “I am Mattias. I am the sacristan.”
    â€œSorry?” I said, unfamiliar with the word. Would it make me a Bad American if I tore my arm from his grip and turned around to run back to the holiday crowds? With everyone down at the waterfront park enjoying the celebrations, the town was all but deserted.
    â€œIt means—let me see if I can translate it for you—keeper of the doors, yes? You understand?”
    â€œA doorkeeper? Is that some sort of a doorman?” I asked, puffing a little since Mattias was hauling me gently but persistently up one of the steep stone roads. “Like at a hotel, you mean?”
    â€œDoorman . . . that may not be the right word. Doorkeeper sounds better. I am doorkeeper of the Brotherhood of the Blessed Light.”
    I tried to remember what was the predominant religion of the area, but drew a blank. “Ah. I assume that’s a religion?”
    He chuckled again. “You wish to play? I will play. Yes, it is a religion, a very old one. Its origins are in the Basque region. We were once known as Ilargi, but now we are called by the name of the Brotherhood. We have been around since the beginning of the darkness.”
    â€œIlargi?” I asked, startled at the familiar word. I peered up into the face of