Vampire Thriller (Book 2): The Living Night

by Jack Conner

  "I only kill murderers."

  "So the killing of another killer is okay?"

  "It's a gray area, but it certainly feels better."

  "Better. More righteous."

  "I don't like that word."

  "I remember. But it's okay to be righteous; it just means you know you're right."

  "You can never know you're right. You have to keep an open mind."

  "Philosophical posturing,” Kharker said. “But back to my point—killing other killers is okay to you?"

  "It's acceptable."

  The Hunter let that go. "So taking pleasure in another's pain is acceptable if that person is wicked?"

  Ruegger saw where this was going, but he didn't know a way out of it. "I have a mean streak, Kharker. I'm not proud of it, but I like to hurt those who deserve it."

  "So you focus your aggression, then: those you kill symbolize something to you—something worth the strain of sin?"

  Ruegger recognized the line. It was from one of his poems, a long time ago, and he couldn't help but smile at the tactics of his old friend; Kharker would use Ruegger's own words against him.

  "Yes," he said. "I suppose they do symbolize something to me. What it is, I don't know."

  "A demon from your past, I suppose. Maybe unconscious."

  Ruegger said nothing.

  "Ah, here it gets interesting. Because the only demon in your past, my son, is yourself. I never brought you over into the darker side; you were there when I found you. So it's yourself that you focus your aggression on, not the murderers themselves."

  A little perturbed, Ruegger lit another cigarette.

  "You're not saying anything I haven't thought of myself," he said quietly.

  The Hunter nodded. "And you were right when you thought it. So let's trace this aggression to its source."

  "I've tried."

  "And?"

  "Nothing."

  "It's simple, Ruegger. You despised your parents for letting your dear Spanish Maria die of pneumonia when they could've done something about it. So you torched their house and never looked back, never even to find out if someone perished in the fire. Which is one of the reasons why you go by only your family name; in some way, you atone for what you did to them by using their name, keeping them immortal. At any rate, burning their house was the first time your ‘mean streak', as you call it, fully showed itself. It was a righteous anger, too. Later, after Amelia died, you retreated into that anger. And later, with my help, you came to embrace it, to love it."

  "That's too simplistic."

  "Feelings are more simple than we'd like them to be, Ruegger."

  "So what's your solution?"

  Kharker lit a cigar. "Answer me this. Have you ever felt whole since you left me?"

  "Danielle ...”

  "I mean the anger. Have you ever felt comfortable with it?"

  "Of course not."

  "You've dealt with it quietly, privately. All in all, very British, really, although you've spent very little time in the U.K. to be sure."

  "Your solution?"

  "You need to embrace your darkness again, my son. I've already given you a head start."

  Holding the cigarette carefully so that it didn't betray his tremble, Ruegger sat up slowly, carefully.

  "What do you mean?"

  Kharker smiled. "Those humans you've been feeding from, the ones with the black collars. The only thing that separates them from the other humans is the collars themselves."

  The world tilted. "You mean ...”

  "They're not murderers, Ruegger, not to my knowledge. They're just as guilty or innocent as anyone down there in the prison."

  Ruegger rocketed out of his chair and towered over Kharker menacingly.

  The Hunter regarded him with pleasure. "The anger feels good, doesn't it?"

  Ruegger stormed out of the room, leaving Kharker to sit and smoke in triumph.

  The battle was far from over.

  * * *

  Later, in his room, Ruegger reread the only thing Danielle had left him: a small note on a yellow tablet. In a rough black scrawl, it read, I love you, baby, but we both know I must do this. When it's finished, I’ll be whole, and we can have a fresh start together. Until then, stay safe and don't listen to a fucking word Kharker says. Below this, Danielle was written inside a small black heart with an arrow through it.

  He crumpled the paper in his hands and lit the corner of it with a cigarette lighter. The flame consumed it fiercely, leaving only a small burning fragment that he flung to the floor in disgust.

  "Goddamnit," he muttered and placed his face in his hands.

  His skin was hot, burning, and behind his eyes flared the almost alien sensation of tear ducs swelling up. Just as soon as he was aware of it, the ducs calmed themselves and left him dry-eyed and empty.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Without invitation, Kharker opened it and stepped inside. Seeing that Ruegger wasn't going to offer him a seat, he pulled up a small wooden rocking chair and plopped down across from the Darkling, who sat on the bed.

  "I'm sorry, Ruegger," he said, his voice soft.

  "For what? I know you're not sorry that you caused me to kill innocent people. Something I haven't done since the War, you bastard."

  "No, I'm not sorry for that. I couldn't care less if there are a few less mortals in the world now than there were a couple of days ago. But I am sorry that I hurt you. All I want is for you to be happy."

  "The road to Hell is paved with justifications."

  "Be that as it may, it's up to you to help yourself. Still, I can give you guidance."

  "I'm sure you can."

  "Don't be bitter. What you need is a symbol of your change."

  "My change?"

  "From broken to whole."

  "From moral to immoral. From good to bad."

  "Please, let's not start that again, Ruegger. There is nothing in this world that is concrete good. And there is nothing in this world that is concrete bad. It's all in your head. What's important is that you enjoy yourself. And I think I have the means to that end—a symbol of your new beginning."

  "My new beginning," Ruegger repeated, reminded of the note that Danielle had left him. A fresh start. "What is it?"

  Kharker rose from his chair to the doorway, where he motioned into the room a young woman with black hair and dark eyes and features that reminded Ruegger strangely of—

  "Danielle," he whispered.

  Kharker nodded, bringing the girl to stand beside the vampire.

  "Or a reasonable facsimile thereof," amended the Hunter.

  "What’s she doing here?"

  "After the safari a month or so ago, I offered Jean-Pierre this girl as sort of a thank-you to him for giving me such a great birthday present. Dear Jean-Pierre was so insecure that he thought I was mocking him. He even let the poor creature go into the woods. Of course, once I heard about it, I sent the retrieval units after her."

  "You never were one to waste."

  Kharker shrugged.

  "Now you want to pawn her off on me."

  "No, Ruegger. That's not it at all. She's a symbol. Danielle is your conscience, and for our purposes this girl is Danielle. Now, you take your time with her, say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done. This is an important obstacle for you to overcome, so if she leaves this room alive you will have failed yourself. Once you kill her, you will be yourself again. You will be free."

  Ruegger looked at the girl. She was beautiful, in the way that Danielle was, but something was wrong with her. She was too ... composed. He realized that Kharker must have a tight grip on her mind.

  "Release her," he commanded.

  Kharker obeyed. The girl seemed to shiver. The steel washed out of her and she backed up a step, but she was still too traumatized to do much else. Her face was pale.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  Her eyes darted around before settling on him. She opened her mouth slightly as if ab
out to speak, but then closed it again. To Ruegger, she looked as if she was about to cry.

  "Say something," he said. "Tell this pompous ass that that's exactly what he is. That if anything, he's inferior to you."

  She said nothing, and this time there was no sign that she was even thinking of a response.

  "What's wrong with her?" he asked the Hunter.

  Unapologetically, Kharker said simply, "I had her tongue cut out."

  "What?"

  "I figured she must have talked her way out of the situation with Jean-Pierre, so I stopped her from speaking. Also, if she’s to represent Danielle to you, why spoil the illusion with speech? She can still scream, and that's all that’s required of her."

  "You're a fucking monster, Kharker."

  "No. But I do have my fun. Now," he said, "if you'll excuse me, I believe you two have work to do. Progress to make." Leaving the room, he closed the door solidly behind him.

  "Jesus," said Ruegger.

  He motioned for the girl to sit down. She sank into the rocking chair, still and dark-eyed, while Ruegger watched her. She was mute and damaged goods, to be sure, scarred and discarded and here to be used again.

  "Jesus," he repeated, and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Later, just before sunrise, Kharker found himself wandering around down in the portion of the catacombs set aside for his wine cellar, which was perhaps the most comprehensive cellar of its kind in the world. The main chamber was incredibly vast, its ceiling rising high to an earthen dome. The main part of the collection itself was laid out in a seemingly endless maze of wooden racks covering several acres. Kharker loved to wander the Labyrinth of the Grape, running his fingers along the countless dusty bottles, recounting the battles he'd undergone to save each of them from their respective fates. Sometimes he had pursued a single bottle around the world for years, going to greater efforts to acquire it than he'd ever expended on behalf of a certain elephant—or other beast—that he'd been courting. He was the Hunter, whether it be for grapes or blood.

  On this night, he took to wandering the smaller tunnels that emptied out into the main chamber. These were the tunnels where he kept the best of the best wines, the ones with the highest prestige or simply the ones that meant the most to him personally.

  Suddenly, he plucked a bottle from the shelf and began admiring it. He held it up to the light and stared at it fondly for a long time. It was a bottle he'd spent years tracking down, but that wasn't its real significance. This was the decanter that he'd found himself hunting for after the conclusion of World War Two.

  Once Ruegger had left him, without so much as a word good-bye, he'd needed something to distract him from his grief, so he had set out on the quest for this bottle, this wine. It had consumed his thoughts utterly for a time, taking up the space that the Darkling would have. If he'd allowed himself to wallow in misery, he might just have killed himself. In a sense, this bottle had saved his life.

  Gingerly, he set it back in its crevice and moved on down the tunnel, illuminated at this point only by torchlight.

  It must be nearly dawn, he thought, and sighed. Time to go to bed, if he was to continue keeping the vampire hours that Ruegger was forced to. He didn't really need to sleep, in the way that younger immortals did, but he desired it (at some times more than others) and his body was used to the rest.

  He wound his way through the smaller, more protected tunnels and again through the Labyrinth of the Grape. Soon he found himself going up the staircase. At the landing, he turned around for a final view of his collection. Beautiful, he thought. They were things that could bring a man pleasure without ever needing to be held to his breast—and without him ever wanting them to, either. He ascended the stairs and entered one of the Lodge's central hallways. From there, he selected a back route and a seldom-used flight of stairs up to another hall that he then took to his personal chambers.

  His quarters stretched, large and comfortable, adorned with the heads of animals and draped in their skins and furs. Already in his smoking jacket, he slipped between the covers of his massive canopied bed and lit a cigar. The coversheet was zebra hide, and he scratched at its rough softness with one hand while smoking with the other. For nearly an hour, he sat upright in bed, thinking of Ruegger. What was he to do with the Darkling? He had loved the vampire and thought he still did, but was this Ruegger truly the same creature Kharker had befriended so long ago?

  Questions that couldn't be answered, Kharker decided. Not by him. Still, he was unable to sleep. He called up the mortal musicians that Jean-Pierre had mocked, the same ones who had played for him on his birthday. It was not the first time. In fact, the ritual was becoming more and more frequent, as if he were a baby that had to be lulled to sleep.

  The humans’ dark skins sweating and their lids heavy, they began to play, their instruments resonant in the fur-lined room. It may not be Jean-Pierre's favorite, but Kharker liked it just fine. The players’ devotion, as much as their music, made him smile. He placed the cigar in the ash-tray and lay back, closing his eyes. Letting the music wash over him, he tried to sleep. Slowly, he could feel the real world tugging away. Gladly, he let it ...

  Someone knocked on the door.

  At Kharker’s invitation, Gavin entered. The band stopped playing, but the Hunter gestured for them to continue.

  "What is it?"

  "Bad news,” Gavin said.

  Kharker swore and reached for his cigar. "What is it this time?"

  "Remember that group of terrorists killed two weeks ago—I believe it was about fifty miles from here?"

  "Yes, I remember. Has there been another incident?"

  "Yes, my lord. The bodies were discovered yesterday by some rebels, but they looked to have been sitting for awhile, over a week."

  "And the bodies?"

  "They too had been fed from, yes. Just like the first group. What's worse, I fetched out a map and lined up the coordinates of the two slayings, and ...”

  "It points right at us."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Well, it doesn't tell us anything new. Whatever it is has already arrived, and it's been here for awhile, maybe a week. All this new report confirms is that, whatever's out there, it's immortal."

  "It, sir? You don't mean them?"

  Kharker scowled. "Gavin ... I don't know what the hell it is."

  The manservant nodded respectively, then added in a quiet voice, "There's more. One of the retrieval units tonight ...”

  "Damn. Another one's disappeared."

  "Yes."

  Kharker ran a hand across his chin. "From now on, Gavin—until this thing blows over—we’ll send out no more units. If this thing attacks, we'll need all the men we have. If it's immortal, our retrieval units are only serving to feed it. So no more, not for some time."

  "Yes, Lord. But what about our prey that escape?"

  "They’ll perish in the jungle or return here. It's a waste, yes, but it must be done. Oh, I see what you mean. They, too, will serve to feed whatever's out there."

  "Exactly, sir."

  "Then we'll only take what we need from now on. No more large Hunts for awhile."

  "Yes, sir."

  "One more thing. Since this stalker of mine seems to be a night-dweller—based on the mosquitoes that've been burning up at daylight—I think we should send a scouting party out today. Say, around noon. Include five immortals in the group."

  "It will be done, sir."

  "Thanks. And Gavin?"

  "Yes, Lord?"

  "At ease." When the manservant obeyed, Kharker said, "You've served me well for a long time, my good man. For over a century. I want you to know that you've been indispensable to me."

  "Thank you, my lord."

  "Enough of that for now. Don't call me Lord. Call me friend. When I first saw you as a young boy, I used you. You were ... attractive. I've been using you ever since. But from now on, things are going to be more equal between us. I want you to know now, in case whatever is
out there … well … I love you. You are the only one, ever, that I’ve always been able to count on."

  "You don't need to say these things, my ... friend. I know them already."

  Kharker smiled. "Thank you, for everything. Now go carry out my orders and get some rest."

  Gavin withdrew, leaving Kharker with his music and his bed. The band played on, and the Hunter closed his eyes. He didn't know what was out there in the jungle, but he had an idea. It was every bad thing he'd ever done, waiting for him.

  And it was hungry.

  Chapter 5

  The next evening at sundown, Ruegger woke slowly and rubbed his eyes, then pushed himself off the floor where he'd slept and stared at the bed. Behind the thick mosquito netting, the girl still slept, tangled in the cream-colored sheets, her clothes still on. Well, he thought, at least she'd had one good day's rest, untouched and peaceful.

  Of course, Kharker would find some meaningful way to kill her someday, and the only way Ruegger could prevent this was to either kill her first or kill the Hunter. Since he hadn't the desire to perform the former and lacked the strength to perform the latter, there wasn't much else he could do for her but to offer her rest.

  As he began his dusk rituals, including his first cigarette of the evening, Gavin knocked and announced that breakfast would be served shortly.

  Ruegger finished his smoke and, without bothering to button it, threw on a long-sleeved black silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He made his way down the corridor to the breakfast room, where Kharker had already begun eating his huevos rancheros. He greeted Ruegger warmly as the vampire sat down opposite him. Silently, Ruegger began shoveling rice and refried beans and guacamole and sour cream and pico de gallo onto a home-made flour tortilla, then rolled the taco up and began eating it, not talking. About the time he was finished, a servant came out and placed a hot plate of huevos rancheros before him.

  After his first bite, he said to Kharker, "I didn't kill her."

  "No," replied his host. "I didn't think you would."

  "Are you disappointed?"

  "No. Actually, now that I've had time to think about it, I'm relieved."