"The outfit's too monochrome for one. Stefan likes color; he wouldn't wear black to a funeral much less a business meeting. Those shoes? Nice, but not imported. Stefan favors the Italians. And, as a master vampire, he has a palpable aura. You? You're surrounded by—" I sniffed. "Brut?"
"Hai Karate."
I blinked. "You're kidding."
"You're one to talk, Old Spice boy."
"But how? Where do you get—?"
"There's this warehouse—"
The door opened again and the limo driver passed Kurt a note while the hired muscle stood around outside with their gun hands inside their jackets. The snow had picked up again and it looked like Paul Bunyan had flicked his cigar ashes over their heads and shoulders.
"Nothing like a low-profile meeting at the airport," I said as the ambiguously gendered driver closed the door and walked around to sit in the front seat.
Kurt gave me the look. "Do you think your arrival here is a secret? Under the circumstances this is the best I could do with short notice. Besides, we must demonstrate a level of security befitting your status."
"I'm impressed."
"The idea is to impress your enemies." He turned the lapel of his overcoat and spoke into a tiny microphone. "As soon as the luggage is secure, we drive."
Kurt Szekely could have been a Doman, himself. He had spent over a hundred years in the service of a Great Evil—an ancient demon who had pretended to be the bloodthirsty Countess Elizabeth Báthory. When I unmasked her perfidy he executed her physical body, himself. Then he and the Szekely Clan swore fealty to me, declaring me the new Doman of the New York demesne. It was an honor Kurt might have taken for himself. Instead, he assumed the role of majordomo and ally as other fanged wannabes stepped forward to contest for the throne.
I still was unsure of his motives at times.
But I was pretty much out of alternatives.
The fact that he was out and about in the day—albeit under a ton of sunscreen despite the solid cloud cover—bespoke his age and power.
He wasn't especially tall—just under six feet—but I had met undead with a six-inch or hundred-pound advantage that didn't exude half the menace that Kurt put out. As we used to say in the broadcasting biz, he had a face made for radio. It wasn't that he was ugly or even unattractive; there was just something about even his most casual expression that made you want to look away. And you didn't turn your back on him without that unpleasant prickling sensation between your shoulder blades.
The funny thing was I seemed to amuse him. When you've spent the last couple of centuries scaring the hell out of everyone you met, it's a refreshing change of pace to run into someone who actually goes out of his way to irritate you.
At least that's what he once told me.
As far as I'm concerned, that assurance belongs on the list of other trusted expressions which include: "I'll still respect you in the morning," "the check is in the mail," and "I'm from the government, I'm here to help you."
"So," he said, fixing Suki with a jaundiced eye, "you are the Oriental vampire."
"Asian."
"What?"
"Asian." She refused to be intimidated. "'Oriental' is a misnomer."
"Misnomer?"
"It's her politically correct way of telling you that 'Oriental' is politically incorrect," I said. "She's Asian."
He waved his hand in dismissal. "I was curious as to your ability to move about after sunrise. How old are you?"
She favored him with a smile. I knew Suki's smiles: there was nothing behind it except teeth. "One should never ask a lady her age, Kurt-san."
"Asian vampires differ from the European," I offered. "The differences are more than just cultural."
"You saved her life, too," he said, changing the subject abruptly.
"Um. Not really. At best, we all saved each others' lives—it was sort of a tag team approach."
"I speak of before. When she was helpless, with a broken back, in the lair of your enemies."
I pointed at Smirl. "More his doing than mine."
"It proves my point," Kurt said as our limo, flanked by the SUVs, caravanned away from the loading zone and began plowing through ripples of miniature snowdrifts. "Your greatest strengths lie in marshalling the talents and abilities of others. A Doman is more the general than the lone warrior."
"How about 'distant figurehead?'"
He didn't bat an eye. "Figurehead, perhaps . . . in the best sense of the word. Distant . . . under certain conditions. But, for now, you must prove yourself a diplomat and formidable adversary. At tonight's reception—"
"Tonight?" Suki protested.
"Do you have any idea of how difficult it is to run security on a room full of people?" Deirdre demanded.
The temperature in the back of the limo dropped a good ten degrees. "First of all," Kurt said quietly, "you are in my demesne, now. I act as seneschal for the Doman and administer all matters in his name. As you are guests here, I extend certain courtesies but those courtesies have limits. If you are here as Christopher Cséjthe's consorts, you may enjoy a greater degree of informality with him . . . but not with me.
"If, for example, he takes Darcy Blenik as another consort while he is here—and through ignorance or design she brings him harm—I will be obligated to kill her and go to war with her family. Do not presume that I would treat you any differently."
"Uh, Kurt," I said, being careful not to look at either Deirdre or Suki, "neither one is a consort . . ."
Kurt addressed Suki and Deirdre directly, saying: "Then I am even less inclined to cut you any slack." He turned back to me. "Please keep your friends on a short leash until the formalities of the next three nights are concluded."
Deirdre was not sufficiently cowed. "I'm your Doman's Chief of Security," she told Kurt.
"Not here you're not. Here, you are an unnecessary complication. All security matters are my concern, now. Tonight Christopher Cséjthe will meet with representatives of other enclaves and factions who will offer tribute and seek alliances. Tomorrow night he will address the families of this demesne and settle any challenges to his succession as Doman. Your only real value lies in your unique biochemistry and which clan alliance he might purchase by offering you for their study."
"I would never do that," I said.
Kurt answered me by continuing to speak to Deirdre. "He has not sufficiently transformed to consider sacrificing you for his own personal gain. Yet." The last word hung out there in midair, resonating with all of its implications. "However the time may come when he must choose to sacrifice one life—or two—to save many. And that time may come quickly."
"So," said the shapeshifting gangster from the Chicago demesne after the silence had lengthened, "how have you been?"
As I opened my mouth, Deirdre asked: "Who's Darcy Blenik?"
* * *
We took the Queensboro Bridge into the city and drove down 60th Street, skirting the boundaries of Midtown and the Upper East Side, passing by Bloomingdale's. I knew that the enclave owned a number of properties from Morningside Heights and Harlem all the way down to Lower Manhattan. Kurt briefed us on the various "safe houses" in hotels, churches, synagogues, office buildings, brownstones, warehouses—even a bank. We didn't go to any of those. Instead, we took a right on Madison Avenue, passed by the Museum of American Illustration, then a left on 81st Street, and another left on Fifth Avenue. We drove into the parking garage for the Metropolitan Museum of Art at 80th Street as a parade of snowplows passed by, flanked by a pair of sand and salt spreaders.
Our driver produced some sort of pass and we drove in and eventually down. We parked on an underground level that had no painted slots and was occupied by a few old service vehicles.
"How can you have a vampire safe house in a church?" I asked as we exited the car and entered an elevator set in a bare concrete wall.
Kurt slipped a plastic card into a slot below the panel of buttons as Deidre guessed: "I suppose you defile all visible icons and re
ligious symbols." She steadfastly refused to act abashed in Kurt's presence. I liked her all the more for it.
"Actually, a simple unconsecration ceremony is sufficient for most of us," he answered grudgingly. "As long as the demesne recognizes its ownership of the property, the décor is muted, and no actual handling of consecrated materials is required, we are able to pass through such edifices and access the prepared habitats below. It's the synagogues that are the challenge . . ."
"More potent iconography?"
He shook his head. "Observant Jews. Too observant. The orthodox congregants notice the least little discrepancy even if they've never been in the building before." He contemplated the concert-tour tee-shirt she was wearing as she slipped out of her light jacket. "Slayer," he read across the swell of her bosom. "Do you fancy yourself a 'slayer', Ms—?"
"Just call me Deirdre, Kurt," she answered, working her own brand of intimidation. "After all, we're all family, now. And no."
"No?" His eyebrow underscored the question but also suggested he wasn't sure of exactly which question it was.
"I don't fancy myself a slayer. Buffy's the Slayer."
"Buffy?"
"It's television," I whispered. "Ask her if she fancies herself The Executioner."
"It's a comic book," Suki coached.
Smirl shook his head. "You're thinking of The Punisher."
"Anita Blake is The Executioner," the redhead said.
Kurt sighed. "Then, thankfully, you are not subject to delusions of grandeur."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," I said as the elevator stopped five floors down.
"What would you say?" he asked patiently, as the doors opened and he led us into an underground corridor as wide as a suburban street.
"Well," Deirdre took the ball, "I'd say that I'm not Buffy and I'm not Anita and I'm not Sookie, either . . ."
Kurt looked at me.
I shrugged.
" . . . I'm just Deirdre . . ."
We entered an electric tram that seated six plus luggage.
" . . . the undead ass-kicker."
Which pretty much ended that conversation.
The driver joined us while the other security personnel were taking the elevator in shifts and bringing the luggage. We started off with the understanding that he (or, as I suspected, she) would return with the vehicle to get the rest of our belongings and the handlers.
There were side tunnels heading off toward Central Park, but Kurt drove us toward the museum's location. Underneath the massive structure's subbasements, he explained, were living quarters as tastefully appointed as any five-star hotel.
We pulled up to an unloading zone and Kurt led us through a set of doors and into a nicely appointed hallway as the driver began to turn the tram around. Eventually we arrived at a large oaken door.
Kurt produced a large brass key from his pocket and inserted it into a plated keyhole.
"What?" This time it was Suki asking the questions. "No electronic passkeys? No biometrics? No retinal scans?"
He pushed the door open. "Biometrics can be hacked, electronic passkeys jacked. Sometimes the old ways are the best ways."
I was about to say that keys could be duplicated. Then I got a second look at the key as he extracted it. The design looked old but the brass gleamed as if new. And the teeth—or prongs—angled off the circular barrel in three different directions. It couldn't be copied on any known key duplication machine that worked with prefabricated blanks. Likewise a sideways mold impression would not capture the three-dimensional configuration. No lock and key system was completely foolproof but this would come closer than anything.
He handed me the key, saying: "Don't lose it."
"What about us?" Deirdre asked.
"Why would either of you need a key?" he asked.
"Well . . . you know . . ."
"No. I don't. Why would you need to leave unless it was to accompany the Doman? And if you are with the Doman, he has the key."
And with that, he ushered us into the suite.
Actually, it was more like a house than a suite. A house with five bedrooms, each with its own private bath. It was really a small underground mansion with living and recreational space sufficient for a small army. And that wasn't counting the staff and servants' quarters.
Kurt gave us a "quick" twenty-minute tour, introducing us to the service personnel and acquainting us with the amenities and the security systems. He concluded by inviting us to unpack, rest, and refresh ourselves while he finalized preparations for the pending reception. Then he left, promising to return around seven p.m. for a pre-meet strategy session.
The house chef stuck his head in while I was unpacking and asked if I would care for an aperitif.
That was a big affirmative. The Hunger had kicked into overdrive since I'd been shot. One or two blood packets from the blood bank every week or so was all I'd needed up till now. Suddenly, a couple of warmed over meals in a pouch—even on a daily basis—seemed woefully inadequate.
"And what would the master prefer?" the chef inquired, sounding more like a wine steward at the moment. "A generous 'O'? A dry but slightly sweet 'A' or a fruity 'B'? Or shall I bring you something exotic from our rare stock?"
Okay. This was weird, ordering blood by type as if it were like differing years and vintages of wine. But, hey, it beat going out into the streets and hunting mystery meat at night. . . .
I shook my head: Where did that thought come from?
"Do I take that as a 'no,' sir?"
"Sorry, just thinking." Or not thinking . . . "I'll tell you what; I've never had any AB. Do you have any in stock?"
"Positive or negative, sir?"
"Negative if you have it." AB negative was the rarest of the ABO groups and existed in less than one percent of the population. The fact that I wasn't that concerned about how they came by it was a little disturbing. Perhaps the mood elevators that Dr. Mooncloud had prescribed were blunting my conscience along with my angst.
Or maybe it was finally eroding under the transmutative onslaught of the virus.
He nodded. "Very good, sir, I shall send something right up." He disappeared as I closed my empty suitcase and set it in the walk-in closet. Then I flopped on the tennis court–sized bed and ran down my mental checklist.
The Kid's ashes were now in Billy Bob Montrose's custody. He wanted to postpone any sort of memorial until I got back. I left him with instructions as to what to do if I didn't come back. It was a distinct possibility and I wanted things done right by the little twerp. With me or without me, his ashes were to be taken to California and spread across the intersection of Routes 46 and 41 just outside Cholame at precisely 5:45 p.m.
The house, property, and most of my secret bank accounts were deeded over to Lupé in the event of my death or disappearance. I had arranged for some tidy sums to be forwarded to Deirdre and Mama Samm. Also a charitable bequest to Father Pat's missionary work—if anyone could find him. Olive would become full owner of After Dark Investigations.
Had I missed anything?
There was still my to-do list on the adversarial front. Several individuals or families in the New York demesne were trying to kill me and would keep trying until they either succeeded or I did something to discourage them. Back home I could only keep dodging. Here, I could explore the old football maxim—the best defense is a smashing offense.
If I could just figure out who my enemies were and how to do that before the game went into sudden death overtime.
And then there was this Dr. Pipt. The not-so-good doctor had gone to a lot of trouble to make his Frankenstein monster into a walking autolancet. To what lengths might he go on his next attempt? And how did Theresa, the Patchwork Girl of Ozymandias Industries, figure in?
It didn't seem likely that I was destined to lead a long and happy life. But I'd settle for short and scrappy if I could take a few of the bastards with me.
I was musing on the theme that Dr. Mooncloud's happy pills should be renamed "Jimmy's Crac
ked Corn" when there was a knock at the bedroom door.
Come, I thought.
The knock sounded again.
Come!
Oh.
"Come," I said.
A woman entered the room. Her hair was white. Her skin had that fish-belly, glow in the dark, had-to-lie-out-in-the-sun-just-to-neutralize-the-blue-tones kind of whiteness. All she lacked were the pink irises to be a true albino.
If she was one of the maids, she wasn't dressed for it. Her strapless evening gown was an eye-catching claret that was all the more fascinating as I couldn't see how it stayed up. She was thin and angular, no bosom and very little hip to provide anchor points.
She extended a white arm as she approached the bed. "Master Cséjthe," she said in a surprisingly husky voice, "I am Bethany."
I sat up and noticed three things.
First that the hair on my arms—and apparently all over my body—was starting to stand away from my skin.
Second, Bethany was human, not undead.
And third, the vein that ran along the side of her neck was very prominent.
"Yes," I said, not sure of what I was saying yes to.
"Chef said you requested AB negative," she said, leaning toward me.
"Yes?" Her hands were empty, neither a bottle nor a pouch in sight.
"Where would you like me? On the bed?"
Oh God . . . "You're it. Her. You're AB . . ."
"Negative."
"Negative?"
"AB negative," she clarified with a twinkle in her eye. She reached behind her and I heard a zipper clear its throat. "I hope you like me. I've always feared that I might be an acquired taste."
The dress came down and she was white marble with blue veins.
"You must be under some compulsion," I whispered as she crawled onto the bed and rolled into my lap.
"I am here of my own free will," she answered. "I'm not a fang-banger . . ." she looked up at me with pale blue eyes, " . . . but for you I'll make an exception."
"Why?"
"You are the Doman, for one reason."
"No, I mean, why are you . . . a willing occupant of my wine cellar?"
She gazed up at me with eyes so pale they almost seemed empty. "The money is very, very good. Especially since I am a statistical rarity. And there are benefits . . ."
Habeas Corpses Page 15
