by Jack Conner
Open coffins, standing vertically, lined the earthen walls of the circular room, with about five feet of space separating each one. Formally dressed corpses, their flesh splotched and decaying, stood stiffly in their coffins staring on the world with dead eyes. From the feet of each one, human bones (held together with carefully-concealed wire and cobwebs) sprouted, snaking across the floor to converge on the center of the circle. Here the strings of bone met and rose into the air, some bleached and white, some gray and rotting. A tree of bones emerged from the chaos, towering over everything in the room, its stark and lifeless branches arching high and long in dense, thorny, crystalline clusters.
A stained-glass window with lights behind it, built into the ceiling directly above the tree, cast a strange green glow on the branches, giving the sculpture the eerie, deathly glow it needed.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" said Roche Sarnova.
"It is," said Jean-Pierre.
Kharker heard a noise behind him and turned in time to see the Balaklava enter. They were very tall, and their skin was black on black.
"Glad you like it," said the bald one with the tusks. "I'm Junger."
"And I'm Jagoda," the other said. He wore sunglasses and his face, framed by long dreadlocks, was masked by a heavy, unkempt beard. "We call it the Tree la Morte."
"It's marvelous," said Kharker. "A shame we missed the grand opening. Maybe I could hire you to do something for me sometime."
Junger shrugged. "If we're inspired, we'll give you a call. Now, if you'll excuse us, we were just preparing to rape and kill a few people. Ta-ta." They bowed and left.
"I love their art," said Sarnova, "but sometimes their artistic temperaments are a little much." He shook Kharker's hand. "Now, friend, I'm really afraid I've got to get back to work. Forgive me?"
"Of course. Be sure to get some sleep soon."
An escort led Kharker and Jean-Pierre into separate rooms, where they fed. An hour later, they flew high over the snow-whipped mountains toward the lush tangles of the Congo, away from the ice-bound halls of stone and the warlord in black.
"Well," said Jean-Pierre, over the roar of the helicopter. "Was it interesting, what he said?”
"Very."
"Care to discuss it?"
"Later,” Kharker said. “When I find out more."
The albino looked amused. "So he's holding out on you?"
Kharker didn’t answer.
Jean-Pierre glanced out the window. Lounging back in his seat, he closed his eyes, and it was like the sun disappearing.
"Happy Birthday," he muttered.
* * *
The helicopter dropped them off in Bucharest, where Kharker's personal plane waited, and they set out again for his palatial Congo estate, flying over vast ocean, never-ending desert, and a jungle that had driven an infinite number of men mad. A little dirt airstrip stretched before the manse itself, and they landed hard, dust throwing up in geysers behind the plane, which shuddered as the engine died.
"Great landing," Jean-Pierre said. He tore open the door and dropped down, then helped Kharker, not out of any infirmity on the latter’s part but out of respect.
The Hunter cast a glance at the sunset, took a deep breath and smiled. "There's nothing like home.”
"Don't start clicking your heels together yet."
Kharker laughed, turning his eyes toward his immense estate, built many years ago by natives who Kharker had later trained to be his personal army and grounds keeping taskforce. Their offspring had continued the tradition. He thought he treated them well, having even gone to the trouble of hiring a small faculty of English professors to educate them. Of course, he didn't hold himself responsible if he was particularly hungry or desirous one day and one of his following glanced at him wrong. He was, after all, the Great White Hunter, and he had certain needs—entitlements.
Jean-Pierre studied the trucks, parked close to the main building.
"It looks like our trophies have arrived," he said. The game they'd killed on safari had been bundled up and sent here directly.
"Good.”
"What are we gonna do with more elephant hide?” Jean-Pierre said. “Make another Elephant Room?"
"We've got more than elephant hide, but I see your point. Maybe we could hire Junger and Jagoda to make some arrangement with the corpses themselves."
"Sure, why not? Maybe a necrotic Renaissance is in the works."
A man approached. He was a tall and muscular Greek-Indian mix, with black hair going gray at the fringes. Gavin had been Kharker's bum-boy when he was young, but had proven himself competent at a range of things and was now the Chief of Security for Kharker's estate. Kharker had transformed Gavin and nine other loyalists into immortals so they could better protect his grounds.
"Welcome home," Gavin said. "Too bad Sarnova couldn't celebrate with you like you wanted, but we've got a little something to make up for it—although we weren't expecting you back so soon. Anyway, they're getting ready up in the Elephant Room. It's not much, but it's all we could do on the spur of the moment. Please, at least pretend you like it; they've been practicing for weeks ... Oh, and on that other matter, we've prepared everything the way you instructed."
Jean-Pierre raised his transparent eyebrows, but Kharker just smiled.
"I'm sure I'll love whatever it is you've prepared for me, Gavin. And thanks for attending to the other matter. Please, lead on.”
He followed Gavin inside. Jean-Pierre flicked his cigarette away and trailed along behind. The inside of the Lodge was spacious and masculine, adorned with expensive rugs, paintings, antiques, and an afterlife-full of dead animals, hides and heads and all. The Elephant Room, located on the second story and overlooking the encroaching forest that surrounded them, was a testament to lavishness and decadence; entering it was like stepping into another world.
All six sides of the room (floor and ceiling included) were covered with elephant hide. The head of an enormous bull elephant dominated one wall, its long trunk arched in challenge, and on the opposite wall, the animal's scrotum (fully erect) jutted out. Tusks sprouted from its balls. Countless animal heads, hides, legs, tongues, trunks and other appendages stuck out or hung from the walls, floors and ceiling, as well as several elephant livers, hearts, stomachs, and never-ending loops of intestines, which were painted different colors. And, of course, the room was fully furnished with its share of rugs and paintings, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. A group of comfortable chairs arranged around a large coffee table (propped up by elephant feet) not too far from the large, unlit fireplace. It was Kharker's favorite room.
Several Africans stood in front of the fireplace holding an assortment of musical instruments. Smiling, they greeted Kharker affectionately. They’re going to play for me, how nice. Jean-Pierre and Kharker made themselves comfortable in the chairs facing the musicians.
Jean-Pierre glanced at Kharker, who winked. Waving a servant for a beer, the albino drank as the music started. Kharker winced. It was bad. Just the same, he was impressed by Jean-Pierre’s patience. The albino endured it for half an hour until the humans were through. He even clapped for them.
When they were gone, the albino said, "You need to spend more money on the music department." He crossed to the window and lit a cigarette. The night grew dark outside, and Kharker could feel its temptations in his gut.
He sparked a cigar. "You know," he said, puffing, "I've never met a shade who didn't smoke."
"Kilian doesn't smoke. Insolent bastard."
"The member of your death-squad?"
"Probably afraid it will make his clothes smell.”
Kharker laughed. "That's better. You're lightening up.”
“Enough of that.”
“Seriously. You unwound so much on the safari. You actually enjoyed yourself, and you can't know how much that warmed my heart. But the moment you saw Roche's castle, you stiffened up again."
The albino shrugged. "You know why."
"It's where you met Daniel
le. I thought maybe you were over her by now. I remember before we went on safari, you'd pulled out the projector from my basement and were watching the old reels we shot back when she was staying with us. But once we left, you never mentioned her once."
"She was in love with me for awhile."
"When she thought Ruegger was dead."
"Maybe.” Jean-Pierre didn’t sound convinced. “My crew still gives me hell about it.”
I imagine. Kharker knew that during the time she’d spent at the Lodge, Danielle and Jean-Pierre had become lovers. Kharker had not interfered, though he’d wanted to. Still, Ruegger had abandoned him long ago, and Kharker’s loyalty belonged to Jean-Pierre now.
Instead of addressing any of this, Kharker said, "How are they?"
“The squad? Belligerent as always. And you? Don't you still love Ruegger?”
Kharker had been willing to let it go, but it seemed Jean-Pierre wasn’t. Kharker didn’t answer
“You know,” Jean-Pierre said, “many say I replaced him in your affections."
Kharker studied the end of his cigar. "I love you as much as I loved him once."
Jean-Pierre’s face was still. "You don't anymore?"
Changing the subject, Kharker said, "I think you'll appreciate my gift to you. But I can't talk about it yet—it's a surprise."
"Why'd you get me a gift? It's your birthday."
"Your happiness makes me happy, so it's a gift to both of us."
"I haven't even given you my gift. Hang on." Jean-Pierre left the room for a few minutes, returning with a small, flat package, wrapped in canvas.
Kharker smiled. "I'm honored, really."
"You can't open it until after the Hunt, okay? I think you'll want to take some time to ... look it over." The albino placed it on a stand near Kharker's chair.
"I’m hungry, too.”
Together, they left. Once outside, Kharker turned to Jean-Pierre. It was Kharker's custom to go down into the holds before a hunt and stare his prey in the eye, arming them and releasing them personally, often giving them a head start. Jean-Pierre, however, preferred to kill with detachment.
“Good hunting,” Jean-Pierre said.
“You, as well.”
Kharker had had a system of tunnels built beneath his estate, and he took a stairway down. Mostly he used them as a wine cellar—he was quite a connoisseur—but a portion of the tunnels had been converted into a type of prison for his prey, where they lived semi-comfortably until it was their time to be hunted.
Servants greeted him, bringing several wheeled tables that carried an assortment of blades and firearms.
Kharker unlocked the door of the first cage and stepped inside. Ten minutes later he'd chosen and armed the fifteen mortals he wanted. His estate had been erected on a small rise, so that this end of the catacombs opened directly into the forest. He released his prisoners, most of them collected on the white slavery market, and watched them scatter into the darkness.
When his cigar was halfway smoked, he followed.
* * *
Jean-Pierre wandered through the sultry Congo, smoking Pall Malls and searching for a glimpse of the moon through the tangled trees that arched like half-gnawed ribs overhead. It slivered as the nights went by; soon there’d nothing left. He remembered Danielle telling him of Ruegger's theory that all shades were strongest on the new moon, because it was the time when the world was the darkest. The albino knew darkness was a state of mind, though, not something nature could inflict upon you. Of course, Ruegger should know that too.
Jean-Pierre tugged off his clothes and let the night change him into its own image: a beast, somewhere between wolf and man, his coat almost translucent, with a hint of yellow. It wasn't true that werewolves needed a full moon to transform; all they needed was the night. Transforming under the sun would get you burned, though. He loped through the forest, between trees and along muddy ravines, howling and running as fast as his four legs would take him.
After a while, he could hear the screams of Kharker's victims … but not Kharker himself. As always. The Great White Hunter was as silent and insidious as death itself. Jean-Pierre remembered once during their safari when they'd slipped into beast form and brought down an elephant together. They'd wallowed in its steaming carcass, burrowing down into its guts and rutting as if they were possessed. It was the first time they'd fucked in years, and the albino didn't like it. With Kharker, emotions were involved, even in animal form, and emotions were too much for Jean-Pierre. Life should be still, calm.
Jean-Pierre allowed himself become a man again. Ahead moved prey. The albino followed, and the forest thickened. The human stopped, and Jean-Pierre could hear him checking his weapons. The final sta—
Bullets tore into Jean-Pierre, drilling his head and shoulders and torso, knocking him to the ground. A half dozen mortals dropped onto him from overhanging trees, covered in mud to mask their smell, shooting him with automatic rifles and sticking him with lances. Blades and rounds ripped into his flesh. He struggled, trying to escape, but he couldn't even get off the fucking ground.
Without conscious thought, he shifted back into a beast and lunged at the nearest attacker. Blood flew, and bones cracked. He moved to the second one.
In seconds, corpses and soon-to-be corpses littered the ground, writhing in their own entrails. The battle was over. Jean-Pierre lowered his head over one and began feeding. When he was done, he searched through the clothes of the dead until he found some cigarettes and lit up. He sprawled on the ground, naked and covered in blood, and stared up through the trees.
Someone was still hiding up there, he saw, huddled against the trunk.
"Come down," he said.
"No!"
"Then I'll just come and get you."
He closed his eyes and exerted his psychic influence (an ability he was quite strong in) on the girl. Against her will, he made her descend the trunk until she was standing before him.
"Jesus," he said. The likeness wasn't exact, but it was close enough. A dark waif, with black hair framing a pale face and deep dark eyes. Like Danielle. Amid a stream of curses, he remembered Gavin mentioning `that other matter' to Kharker. He remembered the Hunter's sly smile. This is my present.
The girl drew herself up against the tree. "Don't hurt me. Haven't you done enough?"
He slapped her. She crumpled to the ground, whimpering.
"Goddamnit!" He slammed his fists into the tree. Breathed. "Go on, get up!"
She stood shakily.
"Go," he said. "You'll probably get eaten by cannibals, but at least you won't be contributing to this farce any longer."
"You're … not going to kill me?"
"Please don't thank me. You're not out of the woods, yet."
He picked his way back to where he'd left his clothes, dressed and returned to the Lodge. He found Kharker in the Elephant Room. Kharker's hair hung wetly, the man having just come out of the shower, and he was dressed in a burgundy bathrobe, smoking a cigar. By contrast, Jean-Pierre knew that dirt covered his clothes, his hair stuck up in wild tangles, and blood caked him.
He grabbed Kharker by the lapels and threw him to the ground.
"How dare you! How could you mock me like that? How? Out of all the people I know, I'd never have thought you'd betray me. How could you?"
Kharker looked stunned.
"Well, if you wanted to hurt me, I can play that game, too,” Jean-Pierre said. He grabbed the canvas-wrapped package from off the stand and held his cigarette lighter up to it. "You know what this is? This is an original poem by your beloved Ruegger, over two hundred years old, back when he was still mortal. It took me a lot of time to find this for you."
Kharker's eyes softened, then widened in alarm as the albino set the package on fire. The Hunter leapt to his feet.
"Don't," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear. I thought you were almost over her and this would give you the opportunity to exorcise your demons on someone who looks like her, nothing else.
I never meant you to think I was mocking you. I wasn't."
The albino sucked in a ragged breath. "Do you swear?"
"I swear."
Jean-Pierre threw the package down and stomped on it until the fire was out. Kharker lovingly unwrapped it. Jean-Pierre had had each page (there were four) vacuum-sealed and bound in an expensive leather jacket. Damage to the pages themselves appeared minimal, but they'd have to be re-sealed.
Kharker rose, leaving the poem on the floor. He embraced Jean-Pierre, and, after a moment, Jean-Pierre hugged him back. The embrace was short, but it was sincere.
"Why do we insist on hurting each other?" Kharker said.
"I don't know. I'm … sorry."
"Don't be. Maybe my gift was more thoughtless than I realized." Kharker picked up the poem. "Thank you.”
"Sure."
Kharker smiled. Jean-Pierre smiled, too, and slowly they began to chuckle. Kharker waved a servant over and ordered the best wine in the cellar. He clapped Jean-Pierre on the shoulder.
"My friend, what do you say to getting stinking drunk tonight?"
Jean-Pierre laughed, the rage draining from him.
"You only turn a thousand once," he said.
* * *
Jean-Pierre departed for New York two days later. At his leaving, Kharker considered a visit to London, where Roche’s little war was taking place, to see what all the fuss was about. But, before he was able to go, he received a very strange group of visitors indeed.
They were unexpected and uninvited, but they offered him a proposition that he could in no way afford to refuse.
Chapter 8
The screaming trumpet of hard rock announced the presence of Ruegger and Danielle to Manhattan. Dark and glittering spires rose around them, black monoliths with teeth for windows, to welcome the vampires beneath the eye of the winter moon. They didn't see it, but they felt it: when they crossed into the city, certain shadows moved faster, certain grins grew tighter.
"Despite it all, I do love New York," Danielle said, adjusting the radio volume.
"It doesn't love us.” Ruegger stared at the grim monoliths, subdued but made colder by a skin of snow. "Not tonight."
