by AnonYMous
Twenty-Three
By the time Dante arrived at the Nightjar, it was already dark. His thoughts were racing, though he looked cool enough. Would this potion that he’d been given actually work? Would he be recognized as a fraud straight away? And how many vampires were going to be inside? He had other worries, too, like how was he supposed to know the vampires from the ordinary folk? Well, he reckoned fatalistically, only time would tell. For now he just had to drag his ass inside.
The Nightjar had undergone a great many changes in the year since Dante had last been in Santa Mondega. First of all, there was a new bar manager. The previous manager, Berkley, had been shot dead by the Bourbon Kid the night before the last eclipse. A European guy named Dino had taken over and had set about refurbishing the place. Dino, a child of Italian parents, dressed immaculately in smart fashionable clothes at all times, unlike most of his clientele. Unlike all his clientele, truth be told. In order to try to raise standards in the bar (which he had extensively remodelled, redecorated and refurnished) he had also taken the opportunity to employ some security staff. Tonight, two bouncers stood at the front entrance. Dante was going to have to get past them before he even got close to meeting any vampires.
As he attempted to stroll past them and into the bar in as casual a fashion as he could manage in the circumstances, one of the bouncers, a man known as ‘Uncle Les’, held an arm out across his chest to stop him before he reached the front door. Les was a large man, as one would expect of someone in his line of work, and he wore a sleeveless leather vest over a black T-shirt, no doubt to show off the gallery of tattoos on his arms. He had long grey hair pulled back into a ponytail, and his craggy facial features and grey stubble suggested he was probably in his early fifties. Still not a guy to be messed with, though. Old or not, this guy looked like he was handy in a bar fight.
‘What’s ya name, son?’ he asked in a Southern drawl.
‘Dante.’
‘Where y’all from?’
‘I’m local.’
‘Not seen you here before.’
‘That’s ’cos I ain’t been in since Berkley got killed.’
‘Okay,’ said Uncle Les, looking to his colleague for a second opinion. ‘Whadda ya reckon, Jericho? We gonna let this guy in?’
Jericho, puffing on a slim cigar that hung from the right corner of his mouth, took a long look at Dante. It was hard to tell what he thought because his face wore a permanent sneer, always looking as though he was only one second away from spitting on the floor. He was wearing a black denim shirt, the top half of which was unbuttoned to reveal a wispy thatch of hair on his bronzed chest. He was also wearing black denim jeans, with, on his right leg, a metal brace that ran from his ankle right up to his thigh, where it was tightly wrapped with a brown leather strap. Jericho had been shot in the leg by a monk almost a year ago, and now needed the brace to prevent his knee from collapsing whenever he put too much pressure on it. The brace was partly responsible for his permanent sneer. Anyone considering messing with him would instantly know from his face that he wasn’t in the mood for it. He looked Dante up and down.
‘What’s your favourite song, sonny?’
‘What the fuck has that gotta do with anythin’?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘Jeez, whatever,’ said Dante struggling to hide his impatience, and struggling even more to think what his favourite song was.
‘Hold on,’ said Jericho, raising his left hand for silence. With his other hand he pushed open the solid oak doors slightly and peered inside the club. The noise from inside started filtering out. Drowning out the chatter was the sound of a band playing the opening bars of ‘Whatever’ by Oasis.
‘The Psychics like you. Guess you can go in,’ said Jericho gruffly.
‘Huh? The Psychics? Who the fuck are they?’
‘They’re the band. If they play your song, you can come in. And they’re playing your song, so get your ass inside before I change my mind.’
Dante did as he was told and walked on into the bar, unsure of what exactly had just happened. A second guy who had been standing behind him tried to follow him in. Dante heard Uncle Les interrogate him in similar fashion.
‘Favourite song?’
‘Anything by Michael Bolton.’
‘Get the fuck outta here.’
The inside of the Nightjar was a great deal different from how Dante remembered it. It seemed to be nearly twice the size it had once been, but was a good deal darker. It was also, he thought, a shitload busier. And everyone in the place actually looked like a vampire. Fact is, they probably always had done, but until about a year ago Dante had had no idea that vampires even existed, so it was little wonder that he had not noticed them before.
There were about two hundred customers crammed into the bar, drinking and generally making merry. Most bars in Santa Mondega were rough, if not dangerous, places to be, if memory served him well, but the revamped Nightjar actually looked like somewhere you could have a good time. On a stage to his left, a girl group was belting out ‘his’ song. They were wearing sexy black leather outfits and showing a fair bit of flesh, too. And they could play. Boy, could they play. The lead singer, who had long, bright red hair flowing halfway down her back, was hot as hell. The others were playing an assortment of instruments from guitars and drums to violins and flutes. There were eight young broads in total, and one tubby fella playing a tuba. He looked a little out of place, being the only male, the only fat one, the only one with a combover, and the only one with an incongruous brass instrument. All he had in common with the others was the tight-fitting black outfit, and on him that wasn’t a good thing.
After checking them out for a minute, Dante fought his way through the crowds to the bar. Since the people in the crowd were not overly keen to make way for him, it was almost inevitable that he should accidentally bump into the back of a well-built man. He heard the guy curse and saw some of his drink spill onto the floor. Unsurprisingly, the man turned around to see who had barged into him. ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’ he said in what may have been an English accent.
Smiling apologetically, Dante looked back at the guy barring his way. Much like everyone else round these parts, he was wearing a black leather sleeveless jacket and blue jeans. He was unshaven, with a particularly narrow face beneath dark, scraggly hair and sunken cheeks accentuating the bones of his face. He too was heavily tattooed. His eyes couldn’t be seen because he was wearing what Dante thought was a pretty cool pair of wraparound sunglasses. And he was holding a half-full glass of beer, the other half of which was dripping down his hand and onto the floor.
‘Er, yeah. How did ya know?’ Dante maintained his awkward ‘Please like me’ smile.
‘You’re not wearing an emblem, and you’re on your own.’
‘An emblem?’
‘Yeah. Shows you’re part of a clan. You should know that, though. You’re a vampire right?’
‘Oh yeah. Sure. ‘Course I am.’
‘Good, ’cos you know, we’ve been getting undercover cops trying to infiltrate this place just lately, and the first giveaway is that they don’t have an emblem.’
‘Oh shit.’ Dante sensed he was in trouble already. Saying ‘Oh shit’ out loud probably wasn’t helping his cause, either. ‘Can you get me an emblem?’
‘So you really don’t belong to any clan?’ the man asked.
‘Nah. I only arrived in town this mornin’. Can I join your clan? … Please?’
There was an awkward pause amid the bustle of the noisy crowd. Dante was well aware that he had made himself sound desperate to belong, like a geek on his first day at a new school. Eventually, after looking Dante up and down for what seemed like an age, the man whose drink he had spilled responded. ‘Sure thing,’ he said, suddenly breaking into a smile. ‘Here, have these.’ He reached inside a small pocket on the front of his jacket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses, identical to his own. He handed them to Dante, who, mumbling his thanks, q
uickly put them on.
To his surprise, the would-be vampire found that he could still see perfectly clearly, as if the glasses weren’t actually tinted. This was a relief, for the Nightjar wasn’t exactly blazing with light. He could now stare at other people and not feel too self-conscious about it, since they wouldn’t be able to tell for sure whether he was looking at them or not. As the guy who’d given them to him was wearing a pair too, Dante thought it was probably a safe bet that he no longer stood out in the crowd. He kept reminding himself of what Kacy had made him promise. Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t draw attention to yourself.
‘Thanks, man. ‘Preciate it.’ He held out his hand to the other. ‘I’m Dante, by the way. Who the fuck’re you?’
‘Obedience.’ He took the outstretched hand and cursorily shook it.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Obedience.’
‘Must be me. I thought you said “Obedience” just then.’
‘That’s right. I did. I’m called Obedience because I have a habit of always doing as I’m asked. I kinda like to please, y’know.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Great,’ said Dante, eager to test his obliging new acquaintance. ‘So buy me a beer and introduce me to some of your friends.’
‘Sure,’ said Obedience, smiling.
The helpful vampire duly led the way to the bar, where he ordered two beers. Everyone in the place looked a bit vampish, but no one appeared to have actually transformed into a creature of the night. Which is a bonus, Dante decided, as he waited for Obedience to be served.
When their drinks came, Dante’s new friend handed him a bottle of Shitting Monkey beer, then led him through a crowd of strange-looking folk. Some were dressed as clowns, some in drag, others looked like Maori tribesmen, and there was a particularly large group of what looked like ‘white Rastafarians’ wearing multicoloured tie-dyed T-shirts. Obedience ignored them all, heading towards a dark corner where three men stood watching the band.
‘Cool choice of song, by the way,’ Obedience said, as they approached the three men.
‘Thanks,’ said Dante. ‘It just kinda popped into my head.’
‘Yeah, that happens.’
They stopped before the three men, who were all dressed similarly to Obedience. All wore the same wraparound sunglasses. Obedience grabbed the arm of the nearest man. He had a neatly combed mop of blond hair with a particularly uncool side parting and a thick yellow moustache that rested on his top lip. He also affected rather slim, effeminate blond sideburns (if sideburns can actually be effeminate), and he was very pale. Even for a fuckin’ vampire, Dante was thinking.
‘Fritz, I’d like you to meet Dante,’ said Obedience, indicating his new friend with a wave of one hand. Fritz held out a hand and Dante shook it.
‘IS VERY NICE TO MEET YOU, DANTE. MY NAME IS FRITZ!’ the blond man shouted in a heavy German accent.
‘Yeah, nice to meet you too, er … Fritz, is it?’ Dante replied, less vocally. Although the band was loud, there was no call for shouting at the top of one’s voice as this German dude was doing.
‘You’ll have to excuse Fritz,’ said Obedience. ‘He can’t help shouting.’
‘MY VOICEBOX VOZ DAMAGED WHEN I VOZ BITTEN BY MY MAKER!’
‘Oh yeah. Right,’ said Dante uncertainly, eagerly hoping to avoid too much conversation with the loudest man in Santa Mondega. It would be hard to go anywhere unnoticed with this freak.
‘And who’s this guy?’ Dante asked, pointing at the first of the other two identically dressed men to Fritz’s left.
‘SILENCE!’ shouted Fritz.
‘Alright alright, keep your fuckin’ hair on. I was only fuckin’ askin’.’
‘NO NO! YOU MISUNDERSTAND!’ the German barked aggressively. ‘HIS NAME IS SILENCE!’ He was patting the guy next to him on the back. This fellow had dark hair cropped short on top, but shaved to the bone on the sides. That aside, he looked much more as Dante expected a vampire to look. He was deathly pale, with gnarly teeth and deep-set dark eyes, coupled with two-day-old stubble.
‘Why’d they call you Silence?’ Dante asked. The man didn’t respond so Dante turned to Obedience. ‘Why’d they call him Silence?’
‘Because he hardly ever speaks.’
‘Oh, right. Why’s that, then?’
‘His maker damaged his voicebox. It’s painful for him to talk so he says very little.’
Dante smiled at Silence, who offered half a smile in return. What a coupla freaks. A shouting German and his silent buddy.
‘I guess you two are, like, the Jay and Silent Bob of the undead world, huh?’ Dante joked.
No one laughed. Instead, there was an awkward silence. Shit!, thought Dante. ‘So who’s this guy then?’ he asked, pointing at the third man, anxious to skate over his gaffe.
‘This is Déjà-Vu,’ said Obedience.
Déjà -Vu was smoking a cigarette. He took a single long drag on it, then blew a kind of smoke ring, only it came out like an uncoiling snake. It floated up through his greasy shoulder-length hair and disappeared toward the ceiling.
He nodded at Dante. ‘Have we met before?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Dante replied, unsure whether this was a joke or not.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Obedience. ‘Déjà-Vu gets that a lot.’
‘So you keep saying,’ said Déjà-Vu, without a hint of irony.
For the next couple of hours Dante drank beers and exchanged stories with Obedience and his three friends. They were all friendly enough, except for Silence, who said nothing to him all night. Obedience always bought the drinks, Fritz shouted along to whatever the Psychics were singing, and Déjà-Vu – well, he looked confused for the most part, and seemed to do a double-take every time he saw someone walk by.
As new buddies went, these guys seemed to be all right. They had accepted Dante into their clan, and Obedience had even promised to get him one of the sleeveless black leather jackets they all wore. The jackets all had the group logo on the back which consisted of gold-embroidered lettering reading simply ‘The Shades’. So far, Dante’s mission as an undercover vampire was going nicely. He had made four friends and joined an exclusive clan or club or whatever the fuck it was. Any nerves he might have had about the task that lay ahead of him evaporated further with each beer he downed. He felt integrated already. Only time would tell if that was a good thing.
As it happened, what Dante had not noticed was that more than one of the other drinkers in the Nightjar had already recognized that he wasn’t a vampire.
Twenty-Four
Peto sat alone in his apartment after yet another evening at the Nightjar among the undead. He still hadn’t picked up any information about the Bourbon Kid, but curiously enough he had seen the young guy, Dante Vittori, whom he had met the previous year. On Peto’s last visit to Santa Mondega Dante had offered to help him and his fellow monk, Kyle, locate the Eye of the Moon. Technically, he had kept his part of the bargain, but crucially he had turned on Peto at the last minute, aiming a gun at his head just as the monk had been about to fire at the Bourbon Kid. Had Peto managed to kill the Kid he would have unwittingly saved the lives of all of his Hubal brothers, brutally murdered shortly afterwards.
Yet still Peto had a feeling that Dante was a good guy. Cromwell had said as much, and his opinion seemed to carry some weight around these parts. Peto remembered how, after the previous year’s eclipse, Dante had sent him from the Tapioca with the Eye of the Moon and the promise that he would deal with the Bourbon Kid. From what the monk had discovered since, Dante had actually done nothing of the kind. Instead, he had joined the Kid in pumping hundreds of rounds into the prone body of the young lady dressed as Catwoman.
His feeling about Dante had been confirmed when he spotted a picture of a woman bearing a striking resemblance to Jessica the Catwoman in the volume Bertram Cromwell had lent him. The book, entitled Egyptian Mythology, carried a full-page reproduction of a p
ainting of her, giving her name as Jessica Gaius.
Now that he had finally found something in the book worth reading about, Peto made himself a mug of coffee and settled into the single bed in the corner of his dingy, unheated apartment. Naked apart from the Eye of the Moon hanging around his neck, he lay under the single cotton sheet with his head propped up against the headboard. It made no sense to take the precious amulet off at any time. Any night-prowling intruder who sought to kill or wound him as he slept would be unsuccessful so long as he had that stone on him. Its healing powers were, quite simply, phenomenal. (It was also particularly useful for allowing its wearer to wake up hangover-free after a night on the booze.)
The gentle glow that emanated from the Eye when out in the open was bright enough to allow him to carry on reading, even after he had switched off the bedside lamp. So, as he lay in bed with his cooling coffee and the precious Eye, he read more about Jessica. What he discovered was extremely interesting. It was also extremely disturbing.
According to the dry and somewhat academic text, she was the daughter of Rameses Gaius, the Egyptian ruler whose mummified remains had allegedly escaped or been stolen from the Egyptology display in the Santa Mondega Museum of Art and History. As Cromwell had explained, Gaius had not only owned the Eye of the Moon, but had mastered the full use of its powers. Engrossed, Peto read on, learning that Gaius had been the chief monk of an Egyptian temple in the first century after the death of Christ. From that position of enormous power he had controlled everything, including the appointment of the Pharaoh. He was known to the people as ‘The Moon’ because he only ever came out at night.
As a young man, Gaius had lost an eye in a fight. Some years later he had discovered, hidden in one of the Great Pyramids, a blue stone known once to have been owned by Noah. Centuries earlier, the great Old Testament patriarch had used the stone to control, among other things, the tides during the Great Flood. Once Gaius realized the stone’s power he wore it not around his neck, as many before and since had done, but in his empty eye socket, and so was born the name ‘The Eye of the Moon’.
