Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “What sort of stuff?”

  “Containers. Milk bottles, maybe.”

  “Shoot one, please.”

  I heard the pfut! of a subsonic round and the muted sound of shattering glass. Swearing followed.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “They’re unloading the sack.”

  “Probably because it’s covered in kerosene. Keep them honest.”

  I waited sixty-four seconds before Ted came out with a duffel. He jogged down the walk while Mary put two more rounds into the house. I heard yelps of surprise.

  “The boys were going out the back, probably to circle around,” Mary whispered.

  “Roger that,” I murmured as Ted started across the street. The duffel smelled of fuel, as expected.

  “Stop there and open it,” I instructed.

  “What? Why?”

  “You can smell why. Stand there and open it or I’ll have you shot.”

  He opened the duffel. Bronze rolled down a rear window.

  “Take out the sword. Hold it by the scabbard. Hand it to me. Good. Now, dump out the sack, right there. One by one, toss things in the back. Vary from that and you’ll find everyone in the house is much more ventilated.”

  Ted didn’t snarl, but he wanted to. He tossed each item, one by one—amulets, knives, guns, and so on—in through the rear window.

  “Keep the bag,” I told him, once he finished. “I don’t want to be annoyed by any extra explosives you might have included.”

  “Look, this has all been a terrible misunderstanding.”

  “Yes. You thought I was a soulless monster. A soulless monster would have killed you over this long ago. I’m the one who consistently tried to be kind and generous, and the only one of us who kept his word. I’m a better person than you are. You are a liar and a coward, Ted, and I have no respect for you.”

  We left him standing in the street, confused and angry. Bronze circled the block so we could pick up Mary and head back toward Los Angeles.

  “So, how did it go?”

  “I am done with these idiots.”

  “Do tell!”

  So I told her how it went. She nodded.

  “They’re not religious fanatics,” she pointed out, “but they are professional vampire hunters. They’re not equipped to understand there might be nice supernatural entities.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All I’m saying is, maybe you could have been a little more understanding.”

  “The hell I could have! I was the nicest creature of darkness in the history of darkness! I think so, anyway. Trixie keeps telling me I am.”

  “I know,” she said, patting my leg. “It’s okay. You don’t deal well with people who don’t think. He has what he thinks of as a fact and he won’t let go of it even in the face of evidence. You don’t understand what it’s like.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Oh, you have facts, but they’re just things you accept for convenience. You toss them out if you prove them wrong. Normal people don’t do that. They get something in their heads and it stays there, bolted down and glued in place, painted over repeatedly. The inside of your head is more slippery and uncertain.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Sometimes you need an outside observer. Different perspectives,” she suggested. I put my arm around her.

  “Thanks. I appreciate your perspective.” She snuggled into me. Bronze did the driving.

  “Are we going to see Salvatore?” she asked.

  “Up to you. Do we still have time, tonight?”

  “Mmm. No, I don’t think so. I want plenty of time with him and sunrise would cut things short.”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Yes.”

  We cuddled in the front seat for a while, headed back to our lair.

  “You know,” Mary said, “I think I’ve figured out the problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re not used to hatred.”

  “I hate plenty of things.”

  “No, not your hatred. You’re not used to being hated.”

  “I’m known as the Demon King and I don’t deserve that, either.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You have a reputation. It’s not the same thing. No, what I mean is you don’t deal with people on a day-to-day basis. People who actively hate you. My guess is this is a rare occasion when you deal with someone who despises you for what you are rather than who.”

  “I don’t like Church of Light priests, either. Well,” I amended, thinking back, “most of them.”

  “And you react to them about the same way, don’t you?”

  I grunted something noncommittal while I thought about it. She might have a point, I decided. I do tend to be unpleasant to people who are unpleasant to me.

  “Am I overreacting?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know how much time and effort are involved in recreating our gear. Was this easier?”

  “Yes. Mostly. More frustrating, but less time and quite a lot less effort.”

  “And did Ted deserve to be shown a world of wonders only to have it snatched away from him? Or was that your own personal vengeance?”

  “Maybe.”

  “To which part?”

  “All right, all right. I overreacted.”

  Mary hugged me.

  “It’s okay. You didn’t kill anybody and I know that matters a lot to you. Personally, I would have waited until the kids were in school and most of the adults out of the house. Then I would have gone in with a tranquilizer gun and simply stolen it all back.”

  We rode in silence for the rest of the trip. I was busy reflecting on the differences between a physicist and a thief—and the drawbacks of having a temper.

  Flintridge, Tuesday, September 30th, 1969

  Tuesday was a business-heavy day for us. Mary made a trip to send letters for Diogenes. Liquidating assets in an equitable manner takes time and paperwork. A lot of paperwork. Despite this, pulling all our interests out of Flintridge still struck me as a good idea. Diogenes handled most of the telephone calls, but without robots, handling mail was another story.

  We made sure the post office would forward our mail to a post office box. They don’t deliver to burned-out shells of buildings and I didn’t want to leave an obvious pointer to the new lair. As for transporting whatever commodities Diogenes wanted, the garage would do. Most of it would be materials—refined metals of all sorts. More recently, some of the local manufactured goods are useful, too. Some quasi-antique items from here would not go amiss in The Manor, and if we can simply buy them rather than dedicate robots to produce them, so much the better.

  Pencils for everyone! Plus paper, chalk, erasers, clothes… and bicycles. Lots of vintage bicycles. I plan to put bicycle racks outside every building and simply park bikes everywhere. Not for any one person, of course, but for everyone. As school property, simply grab one, pedal down to the village and back, or back and forth between buildings, whatever. Then park it somewhere. Don’t worry about which one is yours; they all are! You just grab whichever one is closest when you need one.

  Google bikes, anyone? Less creepy than the Google Cabs on Nexus, anyway.

  On the more militant side, I asked Diogenes what technology we had available to stun, disable, or incapacitate a human target. There was quite a list. For practical reasons, we finally settled on an air-powered dart gun. It fired tiny ice darts made of several drugs, frozen in layers. The dart penetrated into the target, creating a minor wound—potentially dangerous if it hit an artery or eye, but there are trade-offs to any weapon—before promptly melting and dissolving into the bloodstream. The innermost one was a coagulant, to minimize the wounding. The others were paralytics, psychotropics, and anesthetics. Between them, the subject lost coordination, mental focus, and consciousness.

  Mary thinks I’m a softie. Maybe I am. But the gun is nearly silent, the wound feels like a bee sting, and the effects are almost immediate.

  “You do want
to capture Salvatore, right?” I confirmed.

  “Yes.”

  “That means dragging him out of his house. You can kill the guards if you like, but they’re not who you’re after, right? And as you pointed out, it’s easier to steal something—or someone—if everyone is unconscious.”

  “That’s hardly a fair way to argue.”

  “What?”

  “Using my own words against me.”

  I didn’t have a good reply to that. Instead, I did some work in the garage, reinforcing and refining the work Mary already did. It didn’t need much. She may claim to be a so-so wizardess, but she’s meticulous. Anything she feels she can do, she does well.

  Once I was sure the spells on the garage would hold up for our orderly withdrawal from Flintridge, I double-checked our recovered equipment. Everything checked out on both a material and magical level. I suspect they didn’t have a way to analyze the enchantments, only detect them. I’m also guessing nobody wanted to try on the vampire’s personal magical jewelry, either.

  I spent the time to double-check the enchantments on the gems in the amulets. Each one is a separate enchantment, so it takes time to look the whole thing over, but nowhere near as much as it takes to make them. They were all functioning normally.

  Finally, I noticed the missing item. Ted kept my cigarette-case phone. At first, I was tempted to go blow down his door and demand it back, but, upon consideration, I realized it might have been an honest mistake. I didn’t give him much time, so he was rushed. If he had the thing somewhere besides the pile on the table, they might have swept everything into a sack and simply missed it.

  I’ve been tempery with the poor man. Maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. I made a mental note to have Diogenes pipe acid through the phone’s micro-gate.

  With all that taken care of, I started work on transportation stalls—shift-stalls?—for Bronze.

  Bronze drove us out to Salvatore’s house that night. We spied on the place and confirmed Salvatore was in residence, along with six “gentlemen.” The seventh guest was not an employee, but a priest. He was obvious, what with the funny collar and all.

  “What do you think?” I asked. Mary touched Bronze’s rear-view mirror and searched around the house some more before answering.

  “I think it’s still doable,” she mused. “I see Salvatore is in bed already, but the priest is sitting in the hallway, drinking coffee. He’s definitely there for a reason—I’d say he’s guarding the bedroom door. I’ll have to take out the guards before the priest notices. I can’t deal with both at once.”

  “Good thing you have a silent gun with drug darts.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Did you notice the power protecting everyone?”

  “No, I didn’t. What is it?”

  “I’d say it’s a faith-based charm. It’s got the same pearlescent color as the aura the guys in the garage ambush had. At a guess, the priest has blessed them with some sort of protection. I’d be careful about trying to drain any of them with your tendril. You might want to be cautious about physically touching them, too—it’s likely to be unpleasant.”

  “That complicates things, but I think I can manage.”

  “Want me to come in?”

  “Only if things go badly wrong.”

  “Ah. By all means, enjoy.”

  Mary climbed out, put on what I think of as a ninja hood, settled her helmet in place, and pretty much disappeared into the night.

  I wish I could do that. I’d settle for knowing how she does it. She has tried to teach me. I’m much more stealthy than I used to be. I can sneak better than any elephant I know, now.

  I followed more slowly. In my armor, I lumbered along, thunder-footed by comparison. I startled sleeping animals Mary hadn’t disturbed as I followed through the hole she made in the fence. One drawback to putting the fence inside the treeline is it isn’t visible to the guards. At least they made an effort to trim branches that might allow someone to climb a tree to get over the fence.

  I also brought along a hand mirror tuned to Mary. Lurking in the shrubbery nearest the house, I watched in the mirror as she circled the place. One by one, well-dressed gentlemen decided to take sudden naps. It doesn’t matter how well-protected you are from the icy grip of black magic when you’re being shot.

  All in all, it took her about forty seconds from the first dart to the last slumped body.

  I am so glad she’s on my side.

  The priest, however, was more of a challenge. Mary went upstairs, paused at the head of the stairs, and peeped around the edge of the hallway. The priest was sitting in a chair beside the bedroom door, as before, reading. Mary rolled partway around the corner, just enough for a shot. She fired, hit the priest from his left side, in the chest, barely missing his arm.

  It didn’t go through his cassock or robe or whatever the thing is. The dart hit and shattered, leaving a tiny piece of the point stuck in the fabric.

  What kind of priest wears body armor? Answer: One who knows vampires exist. Judging by his reaction, he was expecting trouble.

  The priest snapped the book closed and sprang to his feet. He made a sharp downward gesture with one hand and caught the thing falling out of his sleeve. It clicked, arms springing out—a switchblade cross? Something like it, anyway, because he then presented it in Mary’s direction and began to chant. His voice was strong and he spoke with authority. The force of it was a palpable thing and I could feel it even through the scrying spell. To my vision, the cross caught fire, blazed with a white flame, and appeared to grow until it filled the hallway.

  Mary, for her part, snapped back around the corner and down a step. What I could see of her face was reddened, as though sunburned. I didn’t see the rest of her face under the mask, but I could tell she wasn’t happy.

  Neither was I.

  Mary stuck her hand around the corner, blindly popping off a half-dozen shots. One dart in a hand or in the face would have done, but nothing found the mark. Given the fiery icon burning in the hallway, I couldn’t tell if the darts were being vaporized or if Mary simply missed. I would put money on it, either way. The priest advanced with a firm, measured tread, cross held out in one hand, book held up in the other.

  I launched into motion, across the lawn and around the house. My amulet includes a silence spell, something to damp down vibrations in the air. With a little tweaking, I temporarily expanded its radius of action to make sure the shattering glass did so quietly. I leaped through the second-floor window and landed in some kid’s bedroom—kid not included. Peeking out through the door, I was well behind the priest. His body shielded me from the worst of the blazing religious icon, but the scatter around it, the aura it projected, was still like a cloud of stinging insects on all my exposed skin.

  I stepped out into the hall to start my run. Tendrils extended down through my feet, planting each step. Grab the floor, shove it backward, lean forward into the acceleration. Everything is slow as cold syrup, even me, but every step is another thrust, another inhuman shove adding to my velocity. The hallway telescoped, shortening rapidly, like the view of a bullet down the barrel of a gun.

  When I hit the priest, I didn’t stop powering forward. I ran into him like a truck and kept going. He crunched a bit as I hit, and we carried down the last part of the hallway, past the stairs, out through the window, and into the pool, leaving Mary with a clear path to Salvatore. The light of the religious icon went out like a candle-flame under a snuffer. The priest was either dead or in no condition to concentrate.

  I would rather have landed on him, on the concrete patio, to make sure. Sadly, we were going too fast for that. Still, I figured the pool wouldn’t be much of an issue for me, at least not at night. I wasn’t going to drown, after all. The priest, broken and dying, might or might not have time to drown, depending on his internal injuries, exactly where his spine was broken, and whether or not the whiplash snapped his neck.

  There was one slight flaw in my plan. The
water was an issue. Who blesses their pool to make it holy water? I mean, come on. People swim in the pool! The kids swim in the pool! It’s not going to stay sanctified for long. I mean, dropping a vampire in it should pollute it, shouldn’t it? How about the corpse of a priest?

  I hate it when the so-called “good guys” get clever. It generally means something unexpected and painful happens to me.

  So the priest and I exploded out the window at the end of the hall, sailed out over the border of the pool, splashed down, and I immediately sank to the bottom of the roiling cauldron of boiling water. It seared me everywhere, but mostly on my face and hands. My clothes were a water-repellent fabric, but not waterproof. They trapped steam as it boiled against my skin, forming a thin layer of vapor in the cloth that helped protect me a bit. It was an improvement over the way my face and eyes were being boiled off. At least I had the presence of mind to grit my teeth and keep my mouth shut.

  Anyone else would surface, grab the edge of the pool, and haul themselves out. But not me—oh, no! I weigh too much for that. I had to sizzle and boil and steam as I sprinted—as much as it is possible to sprint underwater—up the incline toward the shallow end, bearing to one side. My sense of urgency multiplied as the water boiled away my eyelids and started on my eyes. I reached up and seized the edge of the pool with my skinless, sizzling-meat hands and hauled myself out.

  Even then, it wasn’t over. I was still soaking wet and steaming. The holy water continued to sizzle and pop like frying fat as it evaporated.

  After a small eternity of sizzling and regenerating, sizzling and regenerating, my eyes healed enough to see through. I crawled over to a garden hose, and rinsed the holy water off with tap water.

  I heard Mary come out, gasp, and go back inside. Moments later, she thumped down a pair of unconscious guards. She then drew one of her usual pistols and shot the floating priest in the head. She holstered the weapon and knelt by me.

  “You look terrible.”

  “I’m sure I do,” I agreed. My lips and cheeks weren’t in good shape, but at least I didn’t have gaping holes and a carbonized tongue. I was much more intelligible than the time I sun-blasted my face off.