by Jack Conner
His rooms were barren if one neglected to count the few scattered chairs, the table, and the countless blades and hooks that rose from the floor, sprouted from the wall or hung by rusty chains from the ceiling. He had an entire hall devoted to the chains, which fell to about waist-level from a barely-visible ceiling and held at their ends all variations of sharp and painful instruments. Jean-Pierre ran through the gauntlet whenever the demons closed in. The pain drove them away.
He studied Loirot. Loirot had always been the flamboyant one. He seemed to want recognition for bringing what he surely thought of as good news, but Jean-Pierre would deny him any satisfaction.
Byron cleared his throat in an attempt to prompt some response out of Jean-Pierre. A large Australian werewolf, he stood nearly six-five and probably over two hundred and fifty pounds, all muscle.
Jean-Pierre turned to Kilian, his lieutenant. "Well?"
"Well what?" Kilian snapped. "You're the fucking leader of this outfit. You’re not on vacation anymore."
Jean-Pierre often had the urge to kill the insubordinate toad, but restrained himself when he thought of Vistrot. The Titan had no hand in Jean-Pierre's movements other than assigning the tasks themselves, but he had insisted that he be allowed to appoint one member of the death-squad, and Kilian was that man. It would not go well to kill him. Besides, Kilian was right. Jean-Pierre was back now and it was time to act like it. Still …
The albino lifted a flaming Pall Mall to his lips. “Do you vouch for this information?”
“I vouch for it,” Loirot said.
Kilian said nothing. He had been the one to insist on calling this meeting, and Jean-Pierre held him responsible for its outcome.
The albino turned to the final member of the death-squad, Cloire, the only female present and the crew's technical wizard. Small, with short dyed hair and mismatched eyes (one green, one amber), a neurotic energy seemed to fill her.
"The van good to go?"
"Get as it gets," she said.
He stared at the fading end of his cigarette, then glanced up at the four expectant werewolves. His team.
"Then let's go," he said.
He saw them to the door and told them he'd be down in a minute, then turned and re-entered the Hooked Hall. Moving to a corner hidden by blades and spikes, he rapped on a section of wall. The wall bucked, and with a billow of plaster dust someone shoved the section away.
Coughing, the Ghensiv Veliswa emerged from the hollow space between walls.
"Well, well,” Jean-Pierre said. “It seems as though you've had some interesting houseguests."
"So it would seem, lover. What of it?"
"You've been a bad girl. Do you know what I do with bad girls?"
"I've an idea, yes." Veliswa laughed.
He struck her, hard, sending her back into the shadows of the hidden room. "I'll deal with you later. Don't leave, Veli. I'll go much easier on you if you stay. And ... well, I really would prefer that. You've been good to me, you know. You're almost like a sister, really."
"If I'm a sister, Jean-Pierre, then—"
"Enough! We go back a long way, Veli. Don't make me come after you.”
She wiped at her eyes. "We go back even more than you know."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll make sure you find out one day. But go on, mon ami. Just remember that if you kill my friends and don't kill me ... well, sleep lightly, dear."
He spun and walked away, disappearing through the chains.
When he was gone, she slunk over to the fire escape and descended. She didn't hear Jean-Pierre make a phone call then, and she never noticed the motorcycle that stayed behind her all the way.
* * *
Danielle waited in the dark. She gripped a blade in her right hand, a long and severely-curving instrument more scythe than knife, and in her left hand she held a lit clove, one she'd found in her jacket pocket.
A blue-collar wasteland stretched around her. It was the type of place Danielle had been raised in before she lived on the streets. Cigarette butts, crumpled beer cans, and other familiar assorted trash littered the dusty one-story house, was strewn across the ugly sofa in the living room (where Danielle now stood), was carelessly flicked over the cheap coffee table/leg rest and hunched forgotten atop the TV that, though not large, dominated the room.
Jason Locke lived here. Long ago, Locke had taken part in Danielle’s gang rape and mutilation. Of course, Locke wasn't what he called himself these days; he'd changed his name and moved to a different pocket of town, but he could never escape her. Try as he might, he would be the sixth to die. She'd saved her foster-brother Malcolm Verger for last. He had been the leader of the gang that had raped her repeatedly, then taken a razor blade to her adolescent face and body and left her for dead.
What happens when I finally kill Malcolm? she wondered. After he’s dead, will I still carry this hate—or will the nightmares go away?
Light pierced the dusty drapes and bathed the living room with brutally honest light, transforming what was almost nostalgic for Danielle into an ugly nightmare pinned in by four walls. The headlights cut off. The car engine sputtered and died.
The vampiress crossed over to Locke's ash-covered CD player and inserted Mussorgsky’s "Night on Bald Mountain", which she'd brought with her, and with the first reverberations of the chords she felt a smile spread across her face.
* * *
With a jingle of keys, the door swung open and Locke crossed its threshold for the last time. Not registering the music until it was too late and the door was irrevocably shut, he stiffened in fear.
He'd heard the tale from witnesses—two girlfriends, one wife—of Danielle's previous revenge-based bloodlettings. She never killed the witnesses, but she always played a piece of classical music which was more or less alien to her victims' ears but was presumably the same piece every time. That's what the cops had suggested, and one witness (a rapist's girlfriend) had been able to identify the song as the one that always played on the Fourth of July.
There were numerous articles written about Danielle in the papers, most notably the tabloids, who called her the Gutter Angel. Most people thought of her as a serial killer, but at least one guilty rapist had confessed the story of Danielle's rape and attempted murder to his wife after several of his friends had died, and the wife later told the police and some reporters the story. So the public knew, and many considered Danielle a sort of folk hero.
Thus Jason knew what was in store.
His eyes flicked from one shadow to another, but she was nowhere to be found. He pulled out a cigarette as the music built up around him.
"O-one last smoke?" he said.
Silence answered.
Then, from a shadow he must have overlooked, stepped the girl, as young and beautiful as he'd heard she was, many years ago. Her eyes sparkled against her too-ivory skin and her winedark lips were hooked in a toothless smile. How can she be so young? And her skin … uncut …
"The song's over ten minutes long," she said. "And yes, you will live that long, not that you’ll enjoy it.”
He stared, transfixed. "What they said, they were right. The ones you spared, I mean. You're not ... human, are you?"
When she smiled, her fangs caught the light.
He pressed himself tight against the door. "My God, it’s true! You're—"
She descended, and his screams rose from his rapidly-diminishing body until the thunder of Mussorgsky's melody ceased in time to his heart.
* * *
Guards escorted Kilian through the several checkpoints that led to Vistrot's den, located in the subbasement of a subbasement of a skyscraper downtown. Rumor was he owned half the building. Either way, he’d officed in this granite cellar for the better part of three decades. People called it The Titanic. Kilian personally believed that Vistrot owned many such basements throughout the city and off the island and switched headquarters every night. This would explain the deeply impersonal nature of the large, echoing hall
that he was being led through, which terminated in a door flanked by two more immortal guards.
One held the door for him.
Kilian stepped into a large and sparsely decorated chamber. Plastic covered the floor in as tasteful a way as possible—in case any blood was shed in the room, Kilian was all too aware.
He stopped before the great ebony desk, polished and gleaming, cluttered by papers and scented by spices that rose from the old-fashioned box of Cuban cigars, and waited for the Titan to look up. It never failed to amaze him how vast Vistrot was, an immense man both of bone and flesh—absurdly obese yet impossibly strong. When he stood he reached almost seven feet, which made his mostly bald head harder to see than now. The big man’s girth strained against a rumpled but immaculately tailored dark blue suit. His chair supported his four hundred pounds admirably as he leaned back, phone to his pale, scaly head.
"Have it fixed by midnight tomorrow," he was saying into it. "You know the consequences if you fail." He had a cold, guttural voice. Even as his finger pressed the button to disconnect the call, his massive head was tilting up to stare at Kilian. "Sit down."
Kilian obeyed, adjusting himself with what he took to be the appropriate body language: relaxed, but not too.
"Now what is this bullshit about having to see me in person?" Vistrot demanded. "I haven't seen you in the flesh in years, and could do without it now."
"Yes," Kilian said, careful to keep his voice low, "but I needed to see you in person myself, to confirm that you’re still alive and that I wasn't receiving my instructions through an impersonator." He leaned over, stretched his arm ever so slightly, and plucked a cigar from its varnished case. He put it to his nose, breathed in its odor with his eyes closed, then smiled. "Nice.”
"Jesus," swore the Titan. "I should have you killed. I value your ear in the albino's squad, but ears are cheap."
Kilian swallowed. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about."
Vistrot arched his great white eyebrows, his death-blue eyes almost lethal by themselves. He waited.
"I think Jean-Pierre needs to go," Kilian said. "He's become an impediment to his own team."
Vistrot steepled his gold-ringed fingers to his most prominent chin. "He’s having difficulty about Danielle," the Titan said. Was there sadness in his voice?
"Yes. I believe he heard from several sources about her arrival in town but only acted when one of our own brought the news to his attention.”
Vistrot inhaled deeply. "I knew this day might come. I'd hoped by giving him this assignment that he would prove himself to be above such concerns."
"I don't mean to say that that was a mistake," Kilian said carefully, "but the arrangement doesn't seem to be working."
Vistrot tilted his face upward. Oddly, it looked as though he were praying. "What do you suggest?"
"Either Jean-Pierre's squad needs to be disbanded ... or a new leader needs to be elected."
The Titan gave a closemouthed smile. "Ah.”
"I’m only saying.”
"You want to replace Jean-Pierre."
"I don't recall saying anything of the kind.”
"Good. You won't do. You won't do at all. So go. Now, while the plastic at your feet is still clean."
"You won’t do anything about Jean-Pierre?"
"His test has just begun, and you're not part of my plan," Vistrot said pointedly, and Kilian realized there was more at stake here than himself.
"What do you mean?"
The Titan shook his head. "I will deal with Jean-Pierre, if it comes to that. As for yourself, we’ll talk later. Go."
Kilian rose, hearing the plastic crackle, and in silence crossed to the door, which he realized was knobless and could not be opened from the inside. Surely Vistrot's minions kept a tight telekinetic hold on it, too; unless the Titan so desired, the portal would not open. For a moment Kilian feared he had gone too far, that the door would stay shut, that he would be butchered here like so many others. Then, mercifully, the door swung to and Kilian, taking a deep breath, stepped across the threshold, leaving the Titan to his solitude.
Just as he returned to street-level, his phone rang.
“Yes?”
“It’s Jean-Pierre. It’s time.”
* * *
Byron and Cloire rutted in the back of the van. Curtains covered the tiny windows at the rear, but several of the small slide-away panels along the van's flanks opened to reveal what could be seen through the tinted, one-way glass windows that were built in to allow easy surveillance.
The werewolves used what talents they hadn't devoted to copulation to ensure that the van didn't rock too much, and to keep an eye out. The Cardeux Building stood just across the way, the obvious place to acquire Ruegger and Danielle. Kilian had already been inside and verified no one was home.
Byron tweaked Cloire’s nipples. She growled, pressing her hips against him as hard as she could, bestial face locked, every fiber of muscle in her straining to sustain that intimacy. Eyes mashed shut, she let loose one long, low moan as she came, then drew closer to him and kissed his hairy chest. He continued to thrust, slicing into her now-hairless mound again and again and again, until he too let loose with a gasp, but still thrust reflexively for several moments. Sated, they collapsed.
"That was great," murmured Cloire, reaching for a cigarette.
Byron, still panting, grunted assent.
Cloire lit the Camel, took a hit, then passed it to him, who, like her, was slipping slowly back from beast to human, his fur disintegrating, his ribs and pecs sliding into place once more, his snout leveling off, his teeth losing their bite.
"Why don't you go to sleep?" Byron said. "I'll keep an eye out, wake you if I need to."
"You're cute, you know. I hope you're not falling in love or anything."
"Of course not."
"Good.” She blew a perfect ring of smoke. "A big fat zero," she said. "Wreathed in smoke. I think that's symbolic."
"How?”
"Jean-Pierre's taking this whole thing way too personally. It’s not professional."
He accepted the cigarette from her. "He needs this. Remember how we all cavorted around Danielle when she was one of us and the albino was staying with Lord Kharker? Have you ever seen him so happy?"
“Cavorting’s a little strong.”
"He wants that back."
"It can never be. Doesn't he understand that?"
"No," the Australian said. "But by the end of the night I think he will."
"Then what?"
He passed her back the cigarette and lit one for himself. "Then I suppose they die.”
"You don't seem too happy about it.”
He took a long time to answer. "I'm not like you, Cloire. I take no pleasure in killing. And Danielle ... I taught her how to play chess, for fuck's sake. Jean-Pierre and Lord Kharker would be off stomping around the jungle, and Danielle would come up to me and say she had to prepare for a chess match against Kharker the next night, and would I please refresh her on the steps and the pieces."
"You wanted her."
"Maybe," he admitted. "Does that upset you?"
"No. I actually like the thought of you fucking other women. Just don't ever try it, if you value your cock." Her mind drifted back to their days in the Congo, lounging around Lord Kharker's jungle palace; the bugs, the trees, the blazing sun, the sweaty twilight, the bloody nights.
"I remember Loirot always trying to court her while Jean-Pierre was away," she said. "I often thought of informing on him."
"Why didn't you?"
"Loirot and Kilian hate each other, you know that. Better to have Loirot around to combat that fucking asshole, right?"
One of their phones rang.
"Yeah?" Byron said into the receiver. "Sure. We're on our way."
"Well?" Cloire said.
"Jean-Pierre. He says he had Loirot tail Veliswa, and she led him to Ruegger. They’re at a Rocky Horror Picture Show screening. Jean-Pierre's sending someone over
to replace us."
"Then let's snap to it, lover."
* * *
"Where is she?" Veliswa asked, watching the colorful crowd pouring into the theater.
"We hunted separately tonight," Ruegger said.
Veliswa let out a breath. "Another one bites the dust, eh?"
"Only one more left. With him, the tradition ends."
“It’s a dark thing, what she does.”
“I know,” he said.
“I mean, we all must kill to live, and you two always pick worthy targets. Rapists and killers, all of them. The world is a better place without them. But usually you do it without emotion. When she goes after those bastards, she uses a lot of emotion.”
“I know. I don’t like it either. Of course, they have it coming. Hell, I’d help if she asked. But ... well, it takes a lot out of her. I guess that’s the part I don’t like. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
The ghensiv grew silent for a moment, then: "Does she know about us, about how we were, after Amelia—?"
"No."
"It would be okay to tell her, you know. She wouldn't be hurt, I don't think ... although we should have told her long ago. But she might be hurt if she finds out years from now. Then it would be as if we'd kept something from her."
"I have."
"Does she know anything about you yet, Ruegger? About Amelia, the wars, about Kharker?"
"Bits and pieces. Here and there."
"Dear-heart, I know what you think: that she'll stop loving you if she knows, but she's stronger than that. I'm sure she suspects already, knows more than you think she does. How could she not, after having spent so much time around Kharker and Jean-Pierre? You think Kharker never talked about you? That's one thing that man never was—closemouthed. And to this day do you think he'd choose the albino over you? Of course not. So sure he told Danielle—some of it, anyway."
