by AnonYMous
The main hospital building was three storeys high, the outside painted from top to bottom in a calming light blue colour, although they could not see that in the fitful moonlight. The huge glass double doors at the front entrance were closed, which was normal not just for this time of night, but at any time. The winds in this region were biting and the place was exposed to the elements, so the doors were almost always kept closed. Igor sized them up as he approached. It was going to take a superhuman effort to knock them down. But then, he was superhuman, so there shouldn’t be any problem.
In order to help them sneak in unseen, the pair of them had dressed in black jeans and black sweaters that matched their balaclavas. The effort they had put into dressing themselves as shadows was entirely wasted, however, when one of the massive doors was suddenly shattered by a single kick of the big black boot on Igor’s right foot. Before the glass had even hit the floor, he was striding menacingly through the frame and up to the reception desk. Pedro, spotting the word ‘Pull’ on the undamaged door, was pleasantly surprised to find that it opened easily. He stepped over a few shards of glass on the tiled floor and proceeded to follow his partner into the building.
The desk was manned by a forty-something, bored-out-of-his-mind former doctor named Devon Hart. He had worked as receptionist there for over six years and had seen all kinds of crazy shit go on at night, so this intrusion didn’t particularly faze him. He was reading a book called The Mighty Blues by Sam McLeod, and was enjoying it too much to care about the shattered glass and the two thugs who had approached his desk.
‘We’re closed, you know,’ he sighed, without looking up. ‘And if you don’t leave immediately I’ll call security.’
‘Thatta fact? Well, I got news for ya, homeboy, we are security,’ snarled MC Pedro.
‘Excuse me?’ Devon finally looked up, frowning. These two clowns clearly weren’t security. Security didn’t generally wear black balaclavas, or call him ‘homeboy’. Come to think of it, they didn’t usually smash in the glass doors at the front of the hospital.
‘Yo, white boy, word to your mother. I’ll excuse you on the other side of your face in a minute, you ain’t careful,’ the smaller thug responded. Pedro was beginning to talk as if he were rapping. It made him feel in control, and he firmly believed it intimidated other people. Besides, anyone who said it didn’t scare them was clearly unnerved by it – in his opinion, anyway.
‘What the fuck are you talkin’ about?’ Devon asked, failing to hide his bewilderment.
Igor the Fang thrust an arm out across Pedro’s chest, as though he thought his buddy was about to lunge at the aloof receptionist. If either of them did decide to attack Devon, he’d be dead long before security arrived. Apart from the three of them, the lobby was empty of people. There were several large terracotta plant pots on the floor containing small trees, and a waiting area with two leather sofas and a small wooden coffee table in between on which lay a few tired-looking magazines.
After a quick look around to make sure no one was hiding behind the sofas or plants, Igor took over the questioning.
‘We’re lookin’ for a patient with no name. He lives here. Where can we find him?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t give out that sort of information,’ Devon replied. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave and come back tomorrow, during official visiting hours.’
Pedro lunged at him, only to be held back firmly by Igor’s huge muscle-bound arm.
‘Oh yeah?’ Pedro snapped. ‘Well, I’m gonna have ta ask you to leave an’ come back tomorrow. How d’ya like that?’
Devon looked at Igor quizzically. ‘Is your friend a patient here?’ he asked.
‘Just tell us where we can find him,’ Igor growled, his face screwing up into a wolfish snarl.
Devon sighed wearily. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘At least make it worth my while.’ He held out a hand, palm upwards. Igor knew the drill and pulled a roll of banknotes from an inside pocket. He slipped a twenty-dollar bill into Devon’s hand, then, seemingly from nowhere, with his other hand he slammed the blade of a pocket-knife through the note and straight through Devon’s hand. It sliced clean through the receptionist’s palm and lodged itself in the wooden desk below, pinning the hand down so that only the fingers could move.
‘Yeeeoooowww! SHIT!’
‘Don’t make him ask again, man,’ Pedro suggested to the stricken receptionist.
‘Fuck, fuck, FUCK!’ Devon stared, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, at the blood spurting from his hand. ‘Room Forty-Three, second floor. FUCK!’
‘Can I have my blade back?’ asked Igor.
Devon nodded frantically. ‘Take it out!’
Igor obliged by forcefully pulling the blade back out. Then the huge wolfman snatched back the bloodied twenty-dollar bill and slipped it into one of the front pockets of his black jeans. ‘Thanks.’
Having relieved Devon of the key to Room 43, Igor and Pedro pushed through a pair of double doors into a long narrow hallway and set about finding the staircase to the second floor. In less than two minutes they found themselves standing outside a grey door with a small square window in it at head height and the number 43 just below it. Igor peered through the window and saw inside the room a single bed with the body of a man lying asleep in it.
‘That’s our guy,’ he said. ‘He’s sleepin’, so this oughta be easy.’
Pedro also peered in to get a look for himself. Then he slipped the key into the lock and turned it. It was definitely the right key, which meant this was definitely the right guy. Pedro turned the doorknob and looked at Igor.
‘You wanna go in first, or shall I?’
Twenty-Eight
Vanity, the leader of the Shades clan, was not a vampire who enjoyed being kept waiting, so his mood was fairly dark by the time Dante and Obedience arrived at the pool hall. The hall was on the third floor of the nightclub aptly named the Swamp. The Swamp was a shithole that attracted the sort of lowlifes that weren’t even welcome in the Tapioca. It was a rundown building that had once been a multi-storey car park, but a shoddy revamp had turned it into what was now a distinctly unclassy five-storey club that attracted as many rodents as it did paying customers.
Fritz, Moose and Cleavage had arrived at about ten o’clock, but it was another two hours before Dante and Obedience showed up.
When they arrived they were both extremely drunk and noisily boisterous. That, however, was not the reason why their entrance caused quite such a stir. They had made their way up two flights of stairs to get to the pool room. On their way up they had passed a number of bikers, hookers, drug dealers, clowns and Depeche Mode fans, and every single one of them had stared hard, first at Obedience, and then at Dante. They had all seen something that they didn’t like. Word was spreading round the joint fast that something was amiss.
Vanity was in a game of pool with Déjà-Vu and Fritz when he saw the two drunkards stagger through the doors at the end of the hall. ‘Finally, they’re here,’ he grumbled, slamming his cue into the white ball and pocketing a tricky red.
There was no mistaking why he was called Vanity. This guy was one handsome dude. He had long dark hair and an immaculate goatee. His dress sense was sharp, too, tonight running to a smart black suit with a perfectly pressed black shirt underneath. His eyes were his most distinguishing feature, however, and by a very long way. They flickered between three different colours. This may have been a trick of the light, but rather like a rotating disco ball they changed from gold to black and then silver to black before repeating the routine. Each change was a mere flicker, but to look into his eyes for too long was simply hypnotic, which certainly helped him to attract all the female company he could possibly handle. He had formed the Shades because of this affliction. He had found that he fitted in better when he was wearing a pair of sunglasses, because he could hold a conversation with someone without freaking them out, or, indeed, hypnotizing them. So cool shades had become the clan’s emblem.
Fritz
and Déjà-Vu had been standing at the far end of the pool table watching Vanity take his shot. There was a long bar counter stretching along the back wall with a bartender standing behind it preparing cocktails for Cleavage and Moose. The two female vampires were buying a round of drinks with some money that Silence had handed them. The quietest of the vampires was out of sight, however, having taken himself off to the men’s washroom in the far corner of the hall.
As Dante and Obedience staggered merrily over to the pool table, a small crowd of disparate characters they had passed on the stairs was assembling behind them, following them at a short distance as they made their way towards Vanity. As they passed Cleavage and Moose at the bar, Dante heard the pneumatic brunette squeal something that sounded like ‘Oh my God! That’s not good …’
When they were no more than six feet from the table, Vanity threw his pool cue to the floor. ‘What the fuck have you done?’ he demanded. He was staring at Obedience.
The English vampire sobered up very suddenly. Taking on the look of a disobedient puppy, he stared meekly at his boss’s feet. Vanity snarled at him, ‘Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you!’
Dante was blissfully unaware of the serious displeasure in Vanity’s tone. ‘Hi, my name’s Dante, you must be Vanity, huh?’ he said, offering his hand.
The vampire leader turned his attention to this potential new member of his clan. He looked Dante up and down with a stare that suggested he wasn’t at all pleased by what he saw. ‘Are you responsible for this?’ he bellowed. His voice caused the floor to shake, and it finally snapped Dante into a moment of sobriety. It suddenly began to dawn on him why Vanity sounded angry.
‘VOT ZE FUCK IZ ZAT?’ Fritz’s ordinary speaking voice boomed out as he and Déjà-Vu approached from the pool table behind Vanity.
Just an hour earlier, Dante had made a terrible error of judgement. After getting extremely drunk with Obedience the pair of them had decided to get a tattoo each. Dante had chosen to have the word ‘Kacy’ tattooed around a bright red heart on his right bicep, but this wasn’t even on show beneath the sleeve of his black sweatshirt. It was Obedience’s tattoo that was responsible for all the stares they were getting.
Somehow, Dante had not quite been able to come to terms with the fact that Obedience would always do as he was asked, no matter how preposterous the request. He was also not familiar with an unwritten rule among the vampires that Obedience’s eagerness to please was not to be abused. Dante had broken that rule. Not believing for a moment that Obedience would go along with it, he had ordered his new vampire friend to have a tattoo across his forehead. And it was this that had attracted everyone’s appalled stares. The rapidly sobering Obedience was standing alongside Dante in the middle of the pool hall with the word ‘CUNT’ tattooed across his brow in large green capitals.
For an awful moment there was a terrible disheartening silence. It was broken, ironically enough, by Silence, who reappeared from the men’s room, allowing the door to slam behind him. Even so, the sound of the door banging to only distracted everyone for half a second.
‘Was this your fuckin’ idea?’ Vanity asked Dante, prodding a long bony finger into his chest.
‘Hey, we – er – y’know? – we wanted to get some tattoos,’ the other stammered.
Vanity looked at Obedience again. ‘Did you want that tattoo on your face? ’Cos I’m takin’ a wild guess it wasn’t your first choice.’
Obedience took a deep breath. ‘Dante suggested it,’ he muttered.
Just then Silence arrived on the scene, curious to see what all the fuss was about. Straight away he registered Obedience’s new tattoo. His initial reaction was one of surprise. Then amusement. The normally mute vampire couldn’t help himself and began to snigger, and as all the others turned to see who it was that was finding the situation funny, he burst into a full-on howling laugh, one that a werewolf would have been proud of.
For a few seconds he was laughing on his own, oblivious to the shock on everyone else’s faces. Then the surprise of hearing anything come from his mouth started a few of the others off, and pretty soon almost everyone was laughing hysterically and pointing at Obedience’s new tattoo. Even Obedience began to laugh, just so he could feel he was in on the joke.
By now the only two people not laughing were Dante and Vanity. The former was on the verge of suffering a panic attack, realizing that he had to all intents and purposes made an enemy of Vanity on his first meeting. As for the vampire leader, well, he just didn’t think the joke was that funny. Fortunately, being extremely vain, he was desperate always to be at the forefront of fashion, and the current trend was to laugh at the prank Dante had played on Obedience. Eventually he too began to laugh along with the others, albeit rather unenthusiastically.
Dante could have hugged Silence for saving his ass. As it turned out, the quiet vampire just liked a good joke. In fact, he had just returned from carrying out a practical joke of his own in the men’s room – a practical joke that was about to backfire spectacularly and cause no small degree of bloodshed.
There were two things Silence lived for: practical jokes, and massive bar brawls. In that respect he was less than a minute away from his perfect night out. Things were about to turn seriously, if not ridiculously, ugly in the Swamp. And Silence’s new comrade Dante, in his drunken state, was about to get his first taste of a vampire bar fight. The relief he was feeling at having escaped any punishment for the tattoo incident would be over all too soon.
Twenty-Nine
Kacy could barely stomach any food. She was worrying herself sick thinking about what Dante might be up to. Robert Swann had been a real sweetheart, convincing his colleague, Agent Valdez, that it would be good to allow Kacy to eat in the hotel’s restaurant with him. So while Dante was out drinking in town with a horde of the undead and hoping not to be unmasked, Kacy was eating a three-course meal with Swann.
The hotel dining room was huge, an imposing space that was often used for the most exclusive weddings and other social events in Santa Mondega. There were at least fifty tables of varying sizes, and at least half of them were in use while Kacy and Swann were sharing their intimate dinner. Each table had a spotless white tablecloth draped over it, and all of those in use were lit by smart pink candles in elegant two-branched candelabra. Light classical music played discreetly from hidden speakers, and there was always a member of the waiting staff on hand to cater to diners’ every need, such as adding more ice to the bucket that held the wine on the table Kacy and Swann were sharing. If a gentleman in Santa Mondega wanted to impress a lady, this was the place to come.
The food was exquisite too, but Kacy was struggling to force it down. Beneath the elegant, if rather abbreviated, black dress she was wearing, her stomach was tying itself in knots, so that trying to swallow anything too dry, like the bread that they had been offered on sitting down, was all but impossible. She had forced down a couple of prawns from her shellfish salad, only for her palate then to reject anything that tasted of fish. The only thing that she seemed able to swallow easily was the wine, and Swann, as if he could sense her tenseness, was regularly topping up her glass. He wasn’t just acting like a gentleman, either. For once, he actually looked like one, too. The hotel manager had provided him with a smart grey suit and a red tie for a small charge. The effect of it was that this serial rapist and all-round scumbag was able to pass himself off as a man of taste and manners. He’d even slicked his hair back with some sort of gel spray he’d borrowed from Valdez.
By the time the main course of chicken and pasta arrived, Kacy was actually feeling better than she had at any time since she and Dante had arrived back in Santa Mondega.
‘There’s nothing like a few drinks to calm your nerves and put everything in perspective, is there?’ smiled Swann, as he took up their second bottle of Chardonnay from its silver ice bucket.
‘I’m not much of a drinker, normally,’ said Kacy, forcing a smile. ‘But this is going down real easy. Thanks for gettin
g your partner to let us eat down here. That room was starting to drive me crazy. I’m a bit of an out-and-about girl as a rule, so sitting around with nothing to do but watch crappy movies was really starting to do my head in.’
Swann smiled back at her. ‘It’s the least I could do. You’ve got a lot on your mind. It’s only fair that you get a chance to relax, instead of sitting around worrying about your boyfriend Danny all night.’
‘It’s Dante.’
‘Whatever. Try and forget about him for a few hours. He’ll be fine; he’s a tough kid. He wouldn’t want you sitting around stressing yourself about him, would he? Besides, he’s probably steaming drunk again, so there’s no harm in you having a few drinks too, is there? Why should he have all the fun, right?’
Kacy watched him top up her glass, and although she knew she was getting a little tipsy – she could hear herself babbling slightly – the alcohol really was helping to ease her concerns about Dante. Then, of course, Swann was turning out to be quite a nice guy. At least he was paying her some attention, something Dante hadn’t been able to do much of in the last few days.
‘You’re right,’ she said picking up her wine glass and chinking it against the one Swann was holding. ‘I reckon I might get drunk, too. That way, when Dante gets back tonight, we’ll be on the same wavelength for the first time in ages.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Swann solicitously, setting his glass back down. ‘Things with you and him not going so well these days, huh?’
Kacy took a large sip of her wine and thought for a second. What the hell – there was no one else to talk to. The other agent, Valdez, seemed to have an unhealthy interest in Dante, so Swann was the closest thing Kacy had to a trustworthy friend right now. So for the rest of the meal she got more and more drunk, telling him all about the fears she had for Dante and the mission he was on, and how much he annoyed her with his foolhardiness and regular rushes of blood to the head that invariably landed him in trouble. True, she loved Dante more than she believed she could ever love any person, but he still had all these annoying habits that she had to iron out to prevent him from getting himself killed. It was his minor imperfections that made him such a challenge, and such fun to be with. And for tonight she could confide her fears about all these things to Special Agent Swann over dinner and fine wine.
