by Jack Conner
The owner of these treasures, a former antique dealer, lay asleep on the sofa, head thrown back, the TV glowing softly in front of him. The man's features seemed to shift with each flickering frame, the television casting strange hues across his countenance.
Ruegger slid onto the sofa beside him. The man wore a dark green bathrobe, perhaps a little tight around his middle, and course black hair topped his head. Black stubble furred his cheeks and throat. The throat …
Ruegger eyed it, feeling the pulse in his ears and tongue.
He craned his head down, lips parting as they drew near the arched neck. Just when he could feel the heat clearly on his lips, the man rammed a pistol to his jaw and pulled away, lightning-quick. For a mortal.
They leapt to their feet and faced each other.
The man breathed raggedly and uncocked the pistol. "Knock next time, okay? It's not a difficult concept." He lowered the gun.
"Hell of a pistol, there," Ruegger said.
"Tell me about it. I had to hock a few priceless objects to get it, thank you very much." After laying it down, Harry Lavaca walked over to his refrigerator and rooted around, coming up with two Guinness Extra-Stouts, one of which he tossed to Ruegger. "It's even got silver bullets," Harry added.
Ruegger smiled. "Why?"
"Same reason you have your silver knives. Werewolves are superstitious, sometimes. If they get separated from their makers before they learn the rules, they get to believe their own publicity. Same for all of you, I suppose, but werewolves are the most expensive. Silver, of all things. And I have to worry about them twenty-four hours a day, a day—when my good friends like you aren't out there to protect me." He made his way back to the couch, where he and Ruegger sat down together like the old friends they were.
Ruegger looked at the wall furnace, which blazed warmth into the room, and then not too far away, to a dreamy oil painting mounted on the wall that captured the haunting face of Marcela, the young and beautiful Spanish bride of Harry Lavaca. She’d given birth to their two children and died protecting them, in vain, many years ago, before Harry's paunch expanded, before he lived surrounded by this squalor, before his soul had all but quivered to a stop. Marcela had died at the hands of several jandrows in a painful and ritualized proceeding involving the unwilling participation of her children. It had been a slow death, apparently—at least as the dark angels told it. They’d been afraid to go after Harry himself because of his immortal friends, but they had made their displeasure with him excessively clear, as if anything needed to be explained.
Of course, it wasn't only jandrows that disliked him; if it hadn't been them to act, it would have eventually been some other group. Harry had few friends, but they were well-chosen and loyal. He never seemed a hundred percent sure why they liked him—after all, he did kill wicked immortals as a hobby; the Slayer, they called him, partly as a joke, partly not—but they did. They appreciated his honesty, his persistence, his mind, and his tragedy—this last he seemed particularly aware of. They became even more protective after his wife and children had been killed, going so far as to retaliate in kind against the offending jandrows.
Ruegger was an early friend, one of the original company who had known of Marcela as something beyond the myth that Harry had made her into. Lavaca was a man possessed by a memory, and he had lived very little, these past ten or so years, other than to wreak vengeance and to relive that memory, those images of remembered happiness and peace. Marcela had died over a decade ago, but Ruegger knew that her laugh, her face, were more clear in Harry’s mind than the day he'd found her mutilated corpse and those of their children, ages three and four.
"How's Danielle these days?" Harry said.
"Better than you, thank the gods. You look like hell."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all day."
Ruegger lifted his bottle to clink necks with Harry's. "Here's to being alive."
"In a manner of speaking." Harry sipped the black beer and grimaced. "Fucking Irish horse-piss, don't you just love it." He started to walk into the next room. "Let's finish that chess game, ace. I've been studying the situation for six months—the last time you were here, if you can remember that far back—and although I think you've got me whipped, I have a sneak move I've gotta try."
The vampire followed him into the dining room, where he had a long wooden picnic table occupying most of the available space, with eight sets of chairs sitting opposite each other, lengthwise, and no chairs at either end. Between each set of facing chairs lay a chessboard, each one in various states of battle. Every time a friend visited, one of the games would progress a little farther. Some games lasted indefinitely. Their present match had lasted two years; Lavaca evidently was ready to finish it.
"You look ill," Ruegger commented as they sat.
"I wouldn't be so lucky."
"Are you spending the money we send you?"
"No, I'm putting it in my college fund. Of course I'm spending it. Don't you see my new Blu-ray?"
"Have you converted your videotapes of Marcela to disc?"
"Need you ask?" Harry tapped the board. "Move, compadre."
Ruegger studied the board and slid his bishop forward. "Check.”
"Cheap shot." Harry shielded his king.
Ruegger placed a finger on his queen. Paused. "What's your secret move, buddy? I can see your rook lurking over there in the shadows. Don't try to fool me."
"Guess again."
"You're bluffing."
The mortal shrugged. "Move and find out." He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. "`Thank the gods'", he repeated softly. "Why don't you believe in God, anyway? I mean, you are living proof that superstition isn't all horseshit, right? Religion is superstition, on that we're agreed, but if God is superstition, so are you. You're real, so why not Him?"
"By that logic you would have to agree that if one mythical entity exists, then all of them should." Ruegger could feel a philosophical discussion coming on, but he didn't mind.
"Not necessarily," Lavaca said. "After all, you call yourself damned, thereby implying the presence of a higher being to damn you. And how do you rationally, scientifically explain a creature that lives forever on the condition that it drinks human blood and avoids the sun? How do you explain that without God?"
"How do you explain it with God?"
"Much easier.” He tapped the board again. "You keep forgetting."
Ruegger smiled. Moved. "Check again."
"Jesus, you're a pain in the ass. Well, take this."
The vampire cringed.
"So why don't you believe in God?" Harry asked. Obviously, theology was heavy on his mind.
"All I know is that churches don't scare me, crosses nor holy water scare me, and the thought of a god that would throw me into eternal pain for not believing in it actually terrifies me. And not in the way that makes me want to convert."
"All right, so if God didn’t create you, what did? I’ve heard your origin myths, but what’s the truth?"
Ruegger shrugged. "How would I know? I was made by the same thing that made you, I suppose."
"What, spite? Alright, enough talk about God. It's your move again, maestro. I believe I left myself open for checkmate."
"You did, didn't you. Why?"
"I'm leaving town, Darkling. I'm going to burn that fucking picture of Marcela and move far, far away."
"That's great, Harry. It really is."
"I'm trying to finish all my chess games before I go, because who knows when I'll be back again, if I'll be back again. Don't worry, your kind will forget about me. I was a novelty for a while, but that's over now. Besides, I'm too well known here. There's no way I can hunt you bastards down."
“That must gall you. I'm sorry to see you leave. We'll have to come see you sometime. Where are you moving?"
"The same could be asked of you, you know. You could checkmate me and be done with it, but no."
"Is that your sneak move, Harry? Suicide?"
"Are we still talking about chess?"
"I don't know. Are we?"
Harry sighed. "I'm moving to Swakashani, okay? An island paradise, or so I've heard. But thanks for the concern."
"Since you're asking for it so badly …" Ruegger moved. “Checkmate.”
Harry toppled his king. "Thanks for the game. It's been stimulating." He studied Ruegger. "So what's going on, buddy? Why the hell is Vistrot salivating over you?"
"I was hoping you'd know. You hear more gossip than I do."
"Did you know that just three nights ago Vistrot had one of his own men killed? One of the higher-ups, too."
"Why?"
"Couldn't tell you,” Harry said. “No one knows. Some say he was an informant or something, but that's just conjecture. To make matters more interesting, did you know a certain pair of Balaklava are in town? Junger and Jagoda, I think they're called. I hear you've met them. They killed a bunch of people last night in Queens. Close to a hundred, I think. Some sort of feeding frenzy." He grinned. "Maybe I should pay them a visit."
"No. They'll rip you limb from limb, Harry, sun or no sun. Even I don't stand a chance against them. Your interference won't do any good, you understand? Go to Swakashani like you planned. It's beautiful. Meet some native girl and go scuba every day. Drink coconut milk and martinis—I know they're your favorite—but do not go visit Junger and Jagoda. They're more dangerous than just about anything."
"Is that a fact?"
"Just promise me you won't fuck with them."
"Alright, alright."
"Is that a promise?"
"Sure. But I'll keep an ear out, tell you anything if I hear anything, for as long as I'm in town. Come by whenever you want."
"Are you kicking me out?" Ruegger said.
"Yes, but first I've got something you'll be interested in hearing. Someone knows who hired Junger and Jagoda to kill Ludwig.”
Ruegger leaned forward. “Who?”
Harry smiled. “I thought that would get your attention.”
“Well?”
Harry rolled a shoulder. “I didn’t say I knew. Someone knows. One of my friends sleeps around a lot. Well, she found herself with an immortal assassin last night, a vampire. He claims he was just hired to take out a very important target. He wouldn’t say who, only that the target had found out who ordered Ludwig’s murder and needed to be silenced.”
“Who’s hired the assassin?”
“I don’t know that, either. But the assassin is going under the name Vincent Greggs, and apparently he’s leaving tomorrow night to go after his target.”
“That doesn’t give us much time. Where’s he staying?”
“The Clearglass Inn, just outside of town.”
* * *
David didn't have to think too long. Not at all, really. Loyalty to Veliswa or loyalty to Vistrot? Not too complicated a question. Besides, he'd already chosen his style of life: the underworld, outside both law and mortality. To rise in the ranks of the underworld meant Vistrot's favor; if this were to cause Veliswa some misfortune, so be it. She was just a stepping stone to his greatness.
He wasn't well liked or well known among the mob, so he went to the most powerful figure he knew that was friendly at all toward him: a werewolf named Loirot. Wings stroking the brisk night air, David flew toward Loirot's modest three-storied manse. Landing on the roof would be rude, so he used the back door.
The mortal butler opened the door and waved the jandrow in with distaste. He was a stocky and impeccably-dressed old man with a square jaw and steel-gray hair.
"Sir Loirot is not expecting you.”
"Oh, but he will be,” David said. “Tell him it's urgent."
The butler didn't have to say anything of the sort; like many shades, the Werewolf Loirot could perform a type of telepathy with humans whom he had "formatted" to his taste—and he always kept a phantasmagorical finger in his manservant's head.
"This way," the human said, after a moment. He led David to the plush staircase, with expensive carpeting that was perhaps a touch too old. Some of the gold threads interwoven with the rich crimson ones were coming undone. The butler moved swiftly, almost faster than David could catch up with him; there must be more of Loirot in the man than there was of the man himself. He marched stiffly up to the last story and down a dark corridor to the last door on the left, right near a stained-glass window that let in a twisted version of the moon.
The mahogany door swung open on a great room with more dark paneling and rich carpeting. Heavily shadowed, the chamber seemed thick with age and dust.
The Werewolf Loirot lounged at a table some distance away from the four-postered bed, dressed only in cream silk pants, deep shadows covering his face and torso. A shock of unruly dark brown hair stuck up from his head. Calm, he sipped red wine from a large goblet with one hand and stuck a sweet-smelling cigar to his dark, ruddy lips with the other. His gaze kept drifting to the bed.
David wasn't shocked or saddened by what lay there; it did make him hungry, though, and jandrows traditionally fed off of only hearts.
A dark-haired girl, Asian perhaps, had been tied at the hands and feet by black silk ribbons bound to the four thick posts of the bed. She was very still, dead quite obviously, with several areas of dark moistness at her chest, her thighs, her abdomen, where her flesh had been tugged away; ragged muscle and bone gleamed wetly, and dark blood had splattered the sheets, the curtains flying from the bedposts and the carpet near the bed. It looks as though she exploded, David thought. He realized it wasn't just shadow covering Loirot, but drying crimson.
"Yes?" said Loirot.
"Um. I heard about the vampires Ruegger and Danielle being wanted."
"And?”
"You're still working for Jean-Pierre?"
"I don't work for anyone, David. But yes, I am a member of the team of which the albino is the head. What's your information?"
"I heard a rumor that they had a pig. Ruegger and Danielle, I mean." He expected a response from the werewolf, but Loirot just stared at him. "Yes, and ... I saw the pig. I think. It was at the Ghensiv Veliswa's penthouse, at the Cardeux Building. It was just sundown, so it couldn't have been the animal of a customer of hers—and I know she lives with no one, and she dates no one that I know of. She'd certainly refuse to go out with anyone who had an animal like that."
"Not what I heard.”
"Yes, well. I've worked for ... with her a long time, almost since the day I crossed over, and I know she has no pig and doesn't know anyone with a pig, and this one had a spiked collar and an earring. Can you imagine?" He looked at Loirot, who was very still indeed, and ruffled an uncomfortable wing.
"Is that all?"
"Um ... yes. I felt I should tell you."
Loirot shoved the cigar between his lips. "Vistrot will be pleased."
"You'll make sure he knows it was me who—?"
"Get out of my sight."
The manservant led the way.
* * *
As the door clanged shut on them, Loirot lifted the goblet to his lips and sipped. A grin worked its way across his handsome face, and his eyes turned once more to the girl on the bed.
"And now," he said, "the Darkling."
Chapter 8
Ruegger and Danielle were back in each other's arms when suddenly she jerked up from sleep. Almost frantic, she put a hand to her forehead, feeling sweat stand out on her brow.
Dark shapes over me, laughing … thrusting … cutting …
Malcolm …
Panting, Danielle rolled over to the edge of the bed and reached for the pocket of her jeans. With shaking fingers, she pulled the last clove out of its box and lit it. Just a nightmare, Danielle. But it wasn’t. She shook the hair out of her eyes and moved into the bathroom. Staring at herself in the mirror, it was not the Danielle of today she saw, but the scarred and desperate fourteen-year-old girl she’d once been.
She switched on the shower. Must get clean.
Ruegger must
have heard the shower start up, as she caught the sounds of him climbing out of bed.
"Want the last half of the clove?" she called.
"I’m okay.”
Twenty minutes later, after they had dried off and Ruegger had told her what he'd learned from Lavaca, she said, "So I guess we need to pay a visit to the Clearglass Inn."
"Looks like. Someone knows who ordered Ludwig’s death, and we need to find out who before they’re murdered.”
“Fine.” She paused, picturing black shapes moving above her. "Listen, I've some ... business to attend to.”
He seemed to understand. Sadly, he nodded. "Then we hunt alone tonight."
She reached a trembling hand to his face. Something in her dissolved, and she felt tears rise behind her eyes. She embraced him tight, then broke away.
"I'll be fine,” she said. “This is almost the last one."
He nodded. "Yes," he said. "Almost the last one."
* * *
Jean-Pierre didn't smile when he heard the news. He didn't grin, or smirk, or bat an eye. He looked as if he had known it all along, as if he had heard it from other sources as well, which perhaps he had. Finally, after maybe five complete minutes of silence, the werewolf nodded to himself as if he understood the implications, but that the implications just served to confirm some defeatist theory of his own. His luminous green eyes—the only color anywhere on him—dimmed just a little.
He slumped in an uncomfortable steel chair in what was meant to be the dining room of his apartment. The entire eight-storied apartment building, situated as it was in a seedy pocket of the city, had been condemned long ago, but with Jean-Pierre's well-hidden fortune he managed to grease the right wheels to prevent its destruction. He lived in only one apartment on the eighth story and left the rest of the building to the vagrants and wanderers who dwelt here. The most unhinged of the homeless population gravitated to him. On occasion, they acted as his servants, and he could control them psychically. It was like a small, less ambitious version of hell, and Jean-Pierre was the devil.
