by Jack Conner
"I love you, too."
Normally, after their dusk rituals had been performed, they would talk for some time or enjoy a while of companionable silence, so he found it strange that the silence which followed her declaration was tense and uncomfortable. He wanted to speak of it but couldn't find an angle. Puzzled, he sat down on one corner of the bed and used the glowing butt of his day's first cigarette to light a second, which gave him something to do.
Meanwhile, Danielle went to the window, raised the blackout curtains and stared out at the young night and the boiling jungle that was a part of it.
Gavin entered. Bowing formally, he bid the odd flock good dusk and informed them that Kharker would be coming by in ten minutes to escort them to breakfast. After Ruegger thanked him, he left.
"Hungry?" Ruegger asked Danielle, when they were alone again. He knew it was a weak attempt at conversation but didn't know what else to say.
At first he didn't think she would answer. She was absorbed by the vision from the window and for a second Ruegger wondered if she was trying to pinpoint the boogeyman that Kharker had been so afraid of the previous night.
Finally, she gave a small nod and said, "Yeah. A little."
He smiled. "Me, too. I could eat a horse and its rider. Its rider, most especially."
She grinned, but he wasn't entirely sure why, and that disturbed him as much as anything else.
When Ruegger had burned half of his third smoke, Kharker came to the door, and the Darkling felt a tremendous wave of relief.
"Come, come," Kharker beckoned. "I have a very special breakfast prepared for you."
Ruegger felt the warmth of the Hunter's presence, but an old wariness rose up in him. There was something just a little rotten behind Kharker's smile, or else Ruegger was imagining things—which he hoped to be the truth. If he was seeing demons in every shadow, then perhaps there was nothing wrong with Danielle at all. Perhaps everything would be okay.
Kharker stepped back from the doorway and waited patiently for Ruegger and Danielle to join him. When they did, he said, "Did you both have a good day's rest?"
"Yeah, sure," Danielle muttered.
Kharker shot a look at Ruegger, but he didn't know what to say and shrugged instead.
"What's for breakfast?" he asked.
The Hunter grinned. "I remember how much you used to love southern cooking—American southern, I mean—so I've prepared a breakfast of biscuits and gravy and eggs. On the side will be refried beans, salsa, corn tortillas, guacamole, spiced sausage and other goodies so you can make your breakfast tacos."
"Sounds delicious."
"Oh, it will be ... if you can keep your mind on the food."
Danielle looked up at Kharker. "What do you mean?"
Ruegger didn't like the amusement in his old friend's face when the Hunter said, "When I learned you were coming, I invited some guests that I think you will be very interested in seeing."
"Me?"
"Especially you, my dear."
"I don't understand."
"You will, my dear. You will."
Ruegger performed a mental checklist of all the pistols strapped to his body. There were three, he counted, which seemed a small number. Of course, guns wouldn't make much of a difference here, he knew, and they made a very poor security blanket for him to take heart in.
As the archway that led to the dining room loomed closer, beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He cast a glance at Danielle, but her eyes were fixed firmly on the archway. Seeming to since his appraisal, she turned her large black eyes his way, but they seemed flat and far away to him, devoid of their usual warmth. He wanted to hold her hand, but if action was to be required shortly, he needed his hands free.
Finally, they reached the archway, and Kharker hung back a moment, allowing his guests to catch up. Ruegger began to reach for a gun even before he could see what waited within the dining room, and by the time he stood beneath the archway, he held a gleaming pistol in his hand.
Though the room wasn't quite as cavernous as Kharker's main dining hall, it was by no means small, but anything Ruegger saw of the room at first was due only to peripheral vision.
The first thing he noticed was Harry Lavaca. Harry sat on the opposite side of the enormous breakfast table, a spoonful of what looked like tortilla soup poised at his lips, his large brown eyes resting on Ruegger and the Darkling's gun. Harry laid the spoon down and gave a weak smile. It seemed apologetic.
To Harry's right, Cloire perched waspishly, her hand on a bulbous .45, which lay next to her own bowl of soup. Her mouth hooked in a mean smile, and her strange eyes lingered first on Ruegger, then longer on Danielle.
To her right sat Kilian, who had pushed his bowl of soup forward to indicate that he would not touch the stuff. His legs crossed, he held a newspaper in his hands and seemed not the least bit interested when the odd flock came into view.
Before Ruegger could really absorb the scene before him, Danielle snatched the pistol from his hand and fired several loud rounds into Kilian’s chest.
"You bastard," Danielle spat. "You killed my pig."
He raised his paper so that his eyes could be seen through the holes she’d created. He carefully folded the paper and sat it down on the table.
"Do you how hard it is to get today's copy of the New York Times in the fucking Congo?" he said. H glanced down at his immaculate suit and fingered the blood-soaked bullet holes. "Danielle, do you know what I'm going to do to you?"
"I can't wait to find out."
Cloire laid a hand on Kilian's, but he just smiled. When his eyes turned back to Danielle, he said, his voice grave, "I'm going to send you a bill."
Ruegger wasn't quite sure whether the man was actually as sour as he seemed or if his humor was simply very dry. Either way, Ruegger placed a hand over Danielle's and gently reclaimed his pistol. He chanced a look at Kharker and saw that beneath the Hunter's straight face lurked mischief.
"What's this all about?" Ruegger said, putting away the gun.
"Sit, sit," said Kharker. "Don't worry, all will be on the table soon enough."
After Ruegger and Danielle were seated across from Lavaca and the werewolves, a servant emerged from the kitchen and set two bowls of the tortilla soup before them. Another placed one before the Hunter, commanding all from the head of the table.
"Sorry to have started without you," Kharker said, "but my new guests were hungry."
Ruegger noticed Kilian's untouched appetizer but made no comment. When he'd taken a bite of soup, he said, "Good."
"Thank you,” Kharker said. “I actually imported two Hispanic cooks and one Texan just to prepare this meal for you."
"You imported three chefs just to make some soup and refried beans?"
Kharker shrugged. "For you, I spare no expense."
Ruegger glanced sideways at Danielle to see if she was enjoying her soup; though her hand guided spoonful after spoonful into her mouth, her eyes never left Cloire's. Cloire, for her part, seemed to be enjoying the attention.
"Where's Jean-Pierre?" Danielle asked.
Cloire smiled. "Still in Las Vegas, for all I know."
Danielle nodded, kept eating her soup.
Ruegger returned his attention to Lavaca, finishing off the dregs from his bowl.
"How are you, Harry?"
“I've been worse," Harry said.
"Have they been treating you well?"
"We've been treating him just fine," Cloire answered. "We haven't fed from him and we haven't fucked with his mind."
"So why'd you bring him here?"
Cloire smiled again, and Ruegger found that she had an unpleasant smile. "To serve as an eyewitness that you would trust. We found him by accident, but I think he'll turn out to be useful."
"An eyewitness to what?" Danielle asked.
Lord Kharker cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him. Smiling kindly and making an expansive gesture with his large hands, the Hunter said, "Please, there is a time for everything. Let's wait
for the main course to begin this discussion."
"No," Ruegger said. "Let's do this now."
He saw a flash of anger in his old friend's face but didn't care. Kharker liked a dose of melodrama every now and then, and it was a penchant that Ruegger wasn't willing to indulge at the moment. In fact, it was a penchant that he was beginning to resent.
"I agree with Ruegger," said Kilian, looking at his watch. "Let's get on with it already."
He bent down to an attaché case propped up against his chair leg and hefted it onto the table. He popped the latches and opened the case, but its contents faced him.
Ruegger leaned forward.
Kilian withdrew a Polaroid picture from the attaché case and tossed it to Danielle.
"Recognize him?" Kilian asked.
She stared dumbly at the picture for a long moment, uncomprehending. Then, slowly, she seemed to recognize what she was looking at. As the light dawned, she threw the picture down on the table and placed a hand to her temple.
"Shit."
Ruegger glanced down at the picture to see a trim, middle-aged gentleman in a nice suit holding up a copy of yesterday's New York Times to face the camera. In the background, Ruegger saw that the wall behind the man seemed to be made of stone.
"Who is it?" Ruegger asked, thinking that maybe he should comfort her but still unsure whether or not she would permit him to put his arm around her.
Danielle shot out of her chair, knocking it to the floor and breaking it unintentionally. Once up, though, she didn’t seem to know what to do. She lit a cigarette and glared at the werewolves.
“Is it really him?” she said.
"It's Malcolm Verger," Cloire affirmed. "He changed his name to Martin Ascott, but he wasn't too hard to find for a determined searcher."
"What do you want with him?" Danielle said.
"The question, dear, isn't what I want with him. I don't want anything with the bastard. It's what you want with him." Seeing the malevolence in Danielle's face, Cloire continued. "So, tell us, Gutter Angel, what do you want with him?"
"Stop it," Ruegger said.
"No, I don't think so, Darkling. Let's see what your better half has to say."
The pain in Danielle’s eyes shriveled his insides.
"You know what I want," she said to Cloire. "You all know what I want."
"We do," Cloire agreed. "You want to play Mussorgsky's "Night on Bald Mountain" while you slowly and painfully tear him limb from limb. According to the tabloids and the gossips, that's what you've done with all the others before him. You've saved him for last, haven't you? So maybe you'll want to take your time, maybe play "Night on Bald Mountain" over and over and over again until you've avenged yourself in style. Maybe you'll spend hours or days torturing the bastard until he finally comprehends the horror that you must have felt when he and his buddies were having their way with you. And when he finally understands, then you can deliver the final blow. Because then he will know he deserves it." Cloire nodded, leaned back in her chair. "Oh, yes, we understand. And he does deserve it, he really does. You're perfectly right in wanting to avenge yourself—and not only you, but all the other girls he's hurt and killed in his time."
"But," said Danielle.
Cloire smirked. "But you'll never get him for yourself unless you do what we tell you to do."
Danielle hesitated. Ruegger wanted to say something comforting, something wise that she could find strength in, but he couldn't think of a thing, except one.
"Baby," he said.
Her lips trembled. She turned away from him and faced Cloire.
"What do you want me to do?" she said.
Cloire and Kilian exchanged glances.
"We want you to come with us," Kilian said. "Ruegger too, of course."
"How do I know Malcolm's still alive, that you didn't kill him the second after you took this picture? Or that you haven't set him free?"
"That's what the Slayer's here for." Cloire thrust an elbow into Lavaca's side. "Speak up, Harry."
Lavaca sighed and downed a sip of scotch. "It's true. They have him and he was still alive when we left to come here. But Danielle—"
"Enough," said Cloire. "Now, Ruegger ... Danielle ... if you think we've tampered with Harry's mind in order to get him to say this, feel free to examine it yourselves."
Danielle looked to Ruegger, and he nodded, having swept his mortal friend's mind broadly the second he'd taken his seat. Harry was acting—reluctantly—on his own.
"And where would we be going?" Danielle asked. "If we were to come with you?"
"Somewhere neutral," Cloire said. "Somewhere where you would feel just as safe as we do: Roche Sarnova's castle. That's where Malcolm is now."
"Jesus," Ruegger said. "Why is Roche Sarnova letting you stay at the Castle?"
"Because he knows we're affiliated with Vistrot and we got the Titan to convince Sarnova we're acting as his emissaries."
"Emissaries?"
"Right. Our story's that Vistrot is thinking of making an alliance with Sarnova. And we're acting as the Titan's ambassadors, should he decide to go through with it. Of course, old Blackie doesn't really trust us, but he needs all the friends he can get at the moment, so he's willing to humor us for now."
"Who's taking care of Ascott?"
"The other members of our team—Byron, Loirot and that sick fuck Kiernevar."
Ruegger nodded. If Cloire was the mastermind behind all this, then she really must be quite clever. Not only did she know how to exploit the weaknesses of her enemies, but she wasn't a bad salesman, either.
"And if we don't go with you?" Danielle said.
"Then Mr. Verger will have one of three fates. One, I could make him a shade. That could fun. Second, I could get tired of him and shoot him in the back of the head. Easy but painless. It would be the simplest way to ensure that you never receive satisfaction from his death. Third and least likely, I could find it amusing to lavish him with gifts. We'll give him all the wine and jewels he can use. Not only that, but we'll give him as many young girls as he wants. He can rape and beat them and kill them, or tear their insides up so badly that they'll never be able to have children. Isn't that what he did with you, Danielle?"
Danielle’s hands curled into fists. What remained of her cigarette burned into the flesh of her right palm.
"You bitch," she said, her voice shaking with pain and rage. Her white face was red and cords stood out from her graceful neck. "You fucking ... fucking ... bitch!" She flung the cigarette to the floor and stared dully at the imprint it had left on her skin. After a long moment, she said, "So what do you want with us that you'd be willing to go through so much preparation just to catch us? You were assigned to kill us. Why should we believe you want anything different now?"
Cloire nodded, as if that was a good point. "When Vistrot learned that your boy Jean-Pierre was no longer the leader of this death-squad, he rescinded his order to have you and Ruegger killed. Why, I don't know. To be honest, I kind of wish he hadn't. But I guess he knew that the albino couldn't do it, so maybe he never wanted you dead to begin with. Whatever, he’s ordered us to capture you two, and that's what we're going to do. We'll hold you at the Castle until Vistrot decides what to do with you."
"Why should we believe you?"
"You have no choice if you still intend to be the one that kills Malcolm. Also, Lord Kharker here has generously volunteered to send some of his immortal troops to accompany us back to the Castle and insure that nothing happens to you. Once there, Blackie will keep an eye on you, I'm sure. He and Kharker are loyal to each other, you know, and he wouldn't let Kharker's friends go to their deaths without good reason."
Ruegger looked at the Hunter. "What do you have to gain by all this, Kharker?"
Kharker affected a look of innocence. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
He was lying, Ruegger knew. Kharker never did anything without a reason. The reason could be as simple as idle mischief, but Ruegger knew that there was something large
r at stake here.
* * *
The breakfast wasn’t bad, Ruegger had to admit, though the conversation could have been more appealing. After the specifics of Cloire's proposal had been ironed out, Kharker ordered in the main course and commanded his guests to change the subject to something more civil. Naturally, they all wound up talking about Jean-Pierre. He was the only thing they all had in common—except, of course, for Lavaca, who said very little.
At one point, after studying Danielle (who had seated herself in an unbroken chair) for several minutes, Kilian said, "I don't see it."
"What?"
"What the albino sees in you. I suppose you might be a good fuck, but you shouldn't be enough to destroy someone like Jean-Pierre." Almost wistfully, he said, "Before you came along, he was an enjoyable adversary. He really was." He turned his brown eyes to Ruegger. "Don't think about it, Darkling. So I said she might be a good fuck—isn't she?"
"Cut it out," ordered Kharker. "You're behaving like children. But children are cuter."
Ruegger recognized bait when he saw it. Sitting back down in his chair, he was surprised to hear Danielle give a little laugh. He turned his head to catch her smiling.
"What?" she asked, patting his shoulder. "Aren't I?"
He looked down at his plate of gravy and biscuits, which had been scraped clean despite the fact that he'd lost his appetite the instant he'd seen Cloire.
"Enough of this," said the she-wolf. "Danielle, are you or are you not going with us to Blackie's Castle so that we can pay a visit to your dear foster brother?"
Danielle bit her lip. She examined each of the faces around the table in turn, hastily turning away from Ruegger to settle on Harry Lavaca instead.
"Don't do it, Danielle,” Harry said. “Ascott's not the man he used to be. He's changed. Reformed."
Cloire laughed. "Evil never reforms."
Danielle gave what seemed like an involuntary glance at Ruegger, and he felt himself stiffen. For the first time, he wished he hadn't told her about his past. She didn't turn her eyes away from him this time, though. When he finally realized she was looking to him for guidance, he shook himself.
"It's up to you,” he said. “I must allow you to do what’s in your heart. But I'm staying here."
