Ordinarily, Bellamy didn't much care for abstract art. Surrounded by Victorian tallboys and ottomans, this piece was so out of place that it ought to seem particularly unappealing. Yet for some reason, it fascinated him. It seemed bigger, deeper, that it had any right to be, with faint fluctuations of shadow and phosphorescence rippling inexplicably at its core.
He stared at it for at least a minute, trying to puzzle out its true shape, before he realized that, even though the style was utterly different, for some reason it reminded him of the immense carvings in his dimly remembered nightmares. Obscurely alarmed, he wrenched his gaze away from it.
Astarte kept staring at it. He gripped her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. "Are you okay?" he asked.
Blinking, she turned to face him. "I guess," she said hesitantly. "I wasn't asleep, but I feel like you just woke me up. Was it hypnotizing us, like Marilyn's runes?"
"It just interested you," said a silky baritone voice.
His heart jolting, Bellamy spun around. Astarte did the same. In the doorway to the foyer stood a small bald man. Despite the dim illumination, he wore heavy sunglasses, and despite the chill in the air, he smelled of sweat. Evidently he'd crept up behind the intruders while the sculpture held them in its spell.
"Their art is very interesting," the bald man continued. "It speaks to the part of us that's the same as they arc." He giggled.
There was nothing overtly monstrous or even threatening in the bald man's appearance, but something about him made Bellamy's skin crawl. Maybe it was simply because he was on edge. "I'm sorry we forced our way in here," he said. "But I'm an FBI agent, and we're on urgent business." He displayed for his credentials.
The bald man pressed his dark glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. "What can I do for you?" he asked.
"For starters, you can tell us who you are," Bellamy said.
The bald man smirked. "Charles Tamblyn. Which is to say, no one at all. I just work for Mr. Daimler and Miss Paris. They're the ones who can help you if anyone can." He sniggered as if the idea of his employers assisting anyone was comical in the extreme. "Come with me." He limped toward the opening in the far wall. Bellamy noticed that one of Tamblyn's shoes was taller than the other, with a built-up sole and heel.
Astarte shot the FBI agent a questioning glance. He gathered that she found Tamblyn unsettling also. Bellamy gave her a nod and then they followed the bald man on through the house.
The servant, if that was the proper term for him, led them through several more gloomy but elegant rooms and finally into a study, where golden flames crackled in the fireplace and an abstract oil, rendered predominantly in shades of blue and green, hung above the marble hearth. The painting had the same disturbing yet eye-catching quality as the huge metal sculpture, and as soon as Bellamy realized it, he hastily looked away.
The most handsome man he'd ever seen stood beside the fireplace in an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit, a goblet of red wine cradled in his hand. His hair was pale gold, his skin alabaster, and his eyes sapphire blue. Across the room, a slim woman in a long dress lounged on a leather couch. White gauze bandages concealed every inch of what would otherwise have been exposed flesh, from her scalp with its waves of chestnut hair down to her fingertips.
Astarte gasped.
"What have we here?" asked the handsome man.
"My name is Frank Bellamy," the agent said, displaying his badge and ID. "I'm with the FBI. This is Emily Dodds, my assistant. I assume you're Miss Paris and Mr. Daimler?"
The bandaged woman inclined her head. The firelight flowed over her hair.
"We're sorry to disturb you," Bellamy continued.
Daimler chuckled. "You ought to be sorry to break into a private residence."
"We knocked," Bellamy said. "No one answered. And we're trying to stop a series of murderers. I assume you've heard of the Atheist."
"Yes," Daimler said, "but all I know about him is what I read in the papers. I can't imagine why you'd think otherwise."
"We believe the Atheist is involved in the occult," Bellamy replied. "We have reason to think that you are, too."
Daimler smiled. "I'm a suspect, then?"
Bellamy shook his head. "To tell you the truth, I'd never even heard of you until we broke in here. But a reliable informant told me that everyone who frequents this house has some connection to the occult. I came on a fishing expedition, hoping you have some pertinent information."
Miss Paris rose and sauntered toward the intruders, her long skirt swishing faintly. Head cocked, she circled them, looking them over. The faint, foul stink intensified. Evidently it was wafting from her bandaged flesh. Astarte quivered.
Daimler shook his head. A lock of golden hair slipped down his ivory forehead. "I must say, you seem to be grasping at straws."
"Tell me about it," Bellamy said. He could feel that Miss Paris had paused directly behind him. He tried to ignore her. "But sometimes an investigation is like that, and this one is worse than most."
"In point of fact," Daimler said, "I don't even live in New Orleans, or anywhere in what seems to be the Atheist's hunting range. An associate owns this house. He lends it to me when I visit."
"If you don't know anything about the Atheist," Bellamy said, "maybe he does. What's his name, and how can we get in touch with him?"
Daimler smiled. "I didn't say I didn't know anything that might be helpful. Miss Paris and I collect information on all sorts of esoteric topics. But why should we share it with you?"
"How about human decency? You could help me save some lives."
Daimler grinned. "Aha. That clinches it. You truly don't have any idea what we are."
Astarte stepped toward him. "I do. I've been looking for you all my life."
"Do you think so," Daimler said.
"I know so," Astarte answered. She stuck her finger into the red liquid in his goblet, then touched it to her lips. "And here's the proof. This isn't wine."
Bellamy stared in amazement. Did she mean that the drink was blood, and Daimler was a vampire? The idea seemed crazy, but no more crazy than statues coming to life, or killers who were almost bulletproof.
He almost reached for his Browning, but he didn't know that Daimler was a vampire; and, in any case, so far the blond man hadn't made any threatening moves. Possibly sensing Bellamy's confusion, Tamblyn giggled.
"If you think my choice of beverage proves me undead," said Daimler to Astarte, "then you underestimate your own species's propensity for cannibalism. But just for fun, let's say you're correct. What then?"
"Then maybe I'll give myself to you," Astarte said.
"What?" Bellamy cried.
Astarte glared at him. "Fuck off! It's my body and my choice!" She turned back to Daimler. "Here's the deal. You give Frank all the help you can, and I'll be your slave. I'll do anything you want."
Unpleasantly conscious of Tamblyn and Miss Paris, still standing behind him, Bellamy eased his hand toward his pistol. "Don't listen to her," he said to Daimler. "She doesn't know what she's saying."
"No," said Daimler, "she most certainly doesn't. Would you actually like to be one of my mortal servants, Miss Dodds? Mr. Tamblyn is, and some people would say it's had a deleterious effect on both his social presence and his mental health."
Tamblyn snickered.
"I'll risk it," Astarte said.
Daimler stroked her lips with his fingertip, pausing for a moment to toy with the steel ring. Bellamy's muscles clenched with anger. "Because you think I'd become infatuated with you," the alleged vampire said, "and crave your blood. But what if I drank it all without giving you immortality in return? What if I simply killed you?"
Bellamy's fingers closed around the butt of his pistol.
"I'll take that chance," Astarte said. "I knew I was risking death when Frank and I broke in here."
Daimler nodded. "I admire your nerve, if not your judgment. Perhaps I should grant your wish. Burn away all that beauty. Compel you to spend eternity in a b
ody like mine."
Daimler seemed to crouch, but then Bellamy saw that he hadn't exactly moved. Instead, the blond man's body had changed form. Now it was bent and hunchbacked, with scab-like moles mottling its twisted hands. His face had altered as well, the straight nose becoming a wrinkled pig's snout, the perfect white teeth rows of stained, jagged tusks, and the sapphire eyes a single bloodshot orb set off-center in his forehead. Astarte's mouth fell open, and her body quaked. She looked as if she were screaming, but she didn't make a sound. Seizing her, Daimler pressed his thin black lips against her throat.
Bellamy froze for a split second, then began to snatch out his pistol. Two pairs of hands grabbed him from behind.
The FBI agent snapped his arm backward in an elbow strike. The blow connected, and one set of hands slipped away. He glimpsed Tamblyn stumbling backward, clutching at his solar plexus. The servant's sunglasses fell off his face, revealing a ring of pustular sores around each eye.
Miss Paris clutched at Bellamy with terrible strength, trying: to immobilize his shooting arm with one bandaged hand and throttle him with the other. As they struggled, the putrid stench of her flesh became fouler and fouler. Tiny insects emerged from between her wrappings, jumped on the agent's body, and bit him.
He stamped on Miss Paris's foot. Bone snapped, and her grip loosened. Wrenching himself free, he; spun around and slammed the Browning against her temple. She staggered back against the wall, sending a still-life in a gilt frame crashing to the floor.
Bellamy shot her in the chest. Pie had no confidence that he'd actually incapacitated her, but with Astarte in Daimler's grasp he couldn't waste any more time on her. Gripping the Browning in both hands, he whirled.
To his surprise, Daimler hadn't actually bitten Astarte. Rather, he was simply holding the thrashing girl in his arms, and now he pushed her away. "My compliments; to your karate instructor," the cyclops said. "I didn't think you could actually get your gun out. Miss Paris will be sore for a while."
"Get away from him," rasped Bellamy to Astarte. She stumbled to his side. He glared at Daimler. "Get your hands up."
Instead of obeying, Daimler shook his head as if Bellamy had disappointed him. "I had plenty of time to bite her if I'd really wanted to, but she isn't Nosferatu material. Too innocent, though considering her punk regalia, I imagine she's: annoyed to hear me say so." He gave Astarte a hideous leer. "I was only trying to teach her a little wisdom. Quixotic of me, considering the likelihood that neither of you will leave this house alive, but we all have our impulses."
"I'm the one pointing the gun at you," Bellamy said.
"Do you really think that matters?" Daimler asked. The FBI agent heard a floorboard creak behind him. He suspected Miss Paris was drawing herself to her feet. "I can just about guarantee you that it doesn't. However, there ts a chance that we can avoid any more unpleasantness."
Bellamy edged around the room until he had his back against a wall and could see Daimler, Tamblyn, and Miss Paris all at oncfc The stain on the bandaged woman's breast looked black in the firelight. From the location of the wound, the agent figured he'd hit the aorta. Were she human, her blood would be spurting. Instead, it was seeping out in a steady flow.
"What do you have in mind?" said Bellamy to Daimler, "My people have a law," Daimler said. "It requires us to kill any mortal who learns of our existence. But I've never been a stickler for rules, at least not when I can profit by ignoring them."
"Are you asking us to bribe you?" Bellamy asked.
Daimler chuckled. "Blot with money. I have more than I'll ever need. Not with Miss Dodds's sweet blood and ripe young body, either. I'm not thirsty, and I'm no longer capable of sexual arousal. With information. I told you I collect it, as do most of my breed. Tell me Everything you know about your friend the Atheist. If I find your tale significant, or at least intriguing, I'll let you off the hook. I might even help you, with the understanding that you'll share the rest of the story when you can,"
"What if I bore you?" Bellamy asked.
"Then we finish our altercation," the cyclops said.
Suddenly Bellamy's eyes were drawn to Miss Paris. He had the peculiar feeling she was talking, even though she was standing silent and still.
Daimler responded to her as if she had spoken. "You're right," he said. "But I like them. And it won't be the first time we've played fast and loose with the Traditions." He turned back to Bellamy and Astarte. "Miss Paris says that if we're even to consider setting you free, you'll also have to promise never to try to learn any more about us or this house, or reveal to anyone that our race truly does exist."
Bellamy hesitated. He didn't like the idea of holding out on the Arcanum. But on the other hand, Marilyn had kidnapped him; anyway, stopping the Atheist, to say nothing of escaping this place alive, was a more important consideration. "It's a deal," the agent said.
"Excellent," Daimler said. He waved his blemished hand at a sofa and two armchairs clustered to form a conversation pit. "Then let's make ourselves comfortable. Charles, you can bring our guests some coffee." Tamblyn recovered his sunglasses, then hobbled from the room.
Bellamy hesitated. These creatures were hideous monsters. If Daimler was willing to show his true features, God only knew what sort of deformities Miss Paris was hiding inside her bandages. Bellamy had just shot the woman, and might well wind up fighting the two of them again. It would seem surreal to sit down and chat with them as if they were all old friends.
Yet things had taken much the same course with Marilyn. She'd seemed to go from enemy to ally in the blink of an eye, and given the proper circumstances, he could easily imagine her turning against him again. It was as if violence was so much a part of the world of the paranormal that all the inhabitants took it in stride.
Scratching at one of the invisible bugs still stinging his wrist, hoping they didn't carry some ghastly disease, he sat down on the sofa with the Browning in his lap. Daimler and Miss Paris settled across from him, and Astarte plopped down beside him.
Bellamy noticed her staring at the monsters. Though she was trying to hide it, there was loathing in her eyes, but now that the first shock of Daimler's transformation had passed, fascination as well. "You talked about your 'race,'" she said, a little hesitantly. "What is it?"
"Oh, we're vampires," Daimler said. "You were right about that much. It's just that we belong to what's generally considered one of the less desirable bloodlines. Now please, Agent Bellamy, tell us about your adventures."
Bellamy did his best, striving to be not merely clear but entertaining. As he began to describe his encounter with Keene, Tamblyn brought the coffee service on a silver tray. It smelled good, but Bellamy was far too tense to drink any. It annoyed him when Astarte poured herself a cup, dumped liberal quantities of cream and sugar into it, and began to sip it.
When he finally finished his account, Daimler said, "I'll have to let my host know that your Arcanum busy bodies have discovered the existence of this residence. He may want to stop using it for a few decades, or even dispose of it altogether."
"Whatever," Bellamy said. "What I want to know is, how do things stand between you and us?"
Daimler turned to Miss Paris. Once again, Bellamy felt that she was speaking, even though she didn't make a sound.
The cyclops pivoted back toward his guests. "You can put the pistol away," he said. Some of the tension quivered out of Bellamy's body. "We are intrigued, and on an abstract level, we'll even agree that this Atheist person—or cabal—should probably be stopped. We'll help you to the extent we can without inconveniencing ourselves."
"Good," Bellamy said. "What do you know?"
"Nothing relevant," Daimler said, "not yet. But I may be able to find something out. If I do, I'll contact you."
"You may not realize the significance of information you already have," Bellamy said. "Let me ask you some questions—"
"No," Daimler said. "I'm sorry, but I won't give you a single fact until I'm convinced you absolutely have
to have it. Powerful as we are, my people only survive through secrecy."
Bellamy grimaced. "All right. We sleep in a different place every night, to keep the Atheist from catching up with us again. When you have something, mail it to me at New Orleans General Delivery."
"Very well," Daimler said, and then he hesitated.
"What is it?" Astarte asked.
"I'm reluctant to mention this," said the vampire, "because I don't really know what it means, and I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily. But from some of my reading, I suspect that the vision of the island city you both beheld was a glimpse of the Kingdom of the Dead. It seems an ill omen that you, Agent Bellamy, have been dreaming of the same place ever since. Let's hope it isn't calling you home."
Potter crept through the artificial jungle with his halberd leveled, mostly to keep from catching it on the low-hanging branches and lianas. As always, he was impressed by how well the artificers who'd built this environment had done their work. The yielding mass beneath his boots felt and smelled like decaying vegetable matter. The plant and tree sculptures were indistinguishable from living Earthly verdure. The sounds of nocturnal birds and insects whispered through the humid air. Only an occasional glimpse of one of the structures outside the park, the spindly white minarets of the Skeletal Lord's palace or the colossal black cylinder of the Onyx Tower proper, marred the illusion of a genuine tropical forest.
Despite Demetrius's ministrations, Potter had found himself growing edgier and more apprehensive by the day, and his Shadow increasingly restive. Evidently even the most skillful Pardoner couldn't entirely quell a person's masochistic side, not when the petitioner sensed terrible danger looming over his head.
And so the Deathlord had ordered his animal handlers to release a Phantasy into the forest. With luck, a hunt would wake the magic of his mask almost as effectively as violence against a fellow human being. It would submerge his own flawed essence in the indomitable persona of the Smiling Lord, and in so doing, finally soothe his jangled nerves.
Dark Kingdoms Page 24
