The Living Night: Box Set

by Jack Conner

  Afterward, while they were smoking and staring out the great dirty windows of the apartment, he said, "Don't tell anyone about this."

  She kissed his shoulder and smiled. "Of course. We wouldn't want anyone to know our secret, would we?"

  "What would that be?"

  "That you do have a soul.”

  “That again.”

  “You aren't the void that people think you are—that you think you are."

  He sniffed. "If we're going to be poetic, we must be truthful. I have no soul. What I am is a void that knows that it's a void and wants to be something more."

  "I saw it back there ... when I looked into those eyes of yours ... It's there, my pale one, like it or not." Suddenly she felt very vulnerable naked and returned to the mattress to throw a sheet over her shoulders. Still, there was something eating at her.

  "What's wrong?" he said.

  She lit another cigarette, fidgeting. "I don't ... I don't know if I should tell you. Really, it's ironic, betraying Vistrot to illuminate the fact that he betrayed you ..."

  "What are you talking about?"

  She sighed. She felt so close to him now that she couldn't keep it back. "He lied to you, Jean-Pierre, although I'm not quite sure what it means. I overheard a phone conversation. He was talking to someone named Junger, I think.”

  This got his attention.

  Continuing, she said, “He said something about how he lied to you, but it was a necessary lie. He said that there was no general contract out on Ruegger and Danielle, that yours was the only death-squad sent to kill them and that Junger wasn't supposed to kill them, that his was a different purpose entirely, or something to that effect. Maybe I'm just reading too much into what he said. I wasn't really listening, but I heard your name so I paid attention. What does it mean? Does it make any sense to you?"

  He frowned, and it was clear that he was thinking hard. "No. I don't know what it means, but don't ask him about it. Never let him grow suspicious."

  "Of course not."

  "Thank you for telling me this. Now I know you do love me."

  “You’re my brother, right?”

  It wasn't long before she left, shrugging on the remains of her clothes and calling back her limo. She sat in its cool, leather-bound confines and felt the tension drain from her. If only she could bottle whatever it was that Jean-Pierre did for her ...

  She wasn't going home, which was her apartment, but back to the Titanic. Of course, Vistrot had put out the rumor that he was frequenting many buildings, never staying in the same place twice in order to avoid the Scouring, and he'd even fabricated some evidence to support this, because he said the best way to hide was to convince others that you were hiding. The fact of the matter was he hadn't left that building in six weeks. He'd warned her not to leave it, either—but, especially during the daytime, there was little he could do to stop her, except to have her forcefully detained, and he would never do that.

  If she couldn't get him out of the building, maybe she could bring a little pleasure to him while he was there. She would have to shower thoroughly first, of course. That vampire sense of smell didn’t fool around.

  She called ahead and arranged for a romantic meal to be prepared for them this evening. Something Italian, the chef's choice. He was having an affair, she was certain, but she still loved him and knew that he loved her too, so why not make the most of it?

  Of course, if she had known with whom he was having the affair, and why, it would have made all the difference in the world.

  Chapter 12

  In his War Room, Roche Sarnova sipped his bourbon and listened to his advisors describe how he was losing the war. A big map on the wall outlined different parts of London. A red star indicated the suspected location of Subaire, his nemesis. He, the officers and the other members of the Dark Council had been over the same material now several times, and he listened with one ear. Mainly he sipped on his bourbon.

  It was the first week of January and the war was going badly. His enemies had established a successful stronghold in London, where most of the fighting took place. The enemy just sat there and waited for Sarnova to send in more troops, and when they learned of one of his secret bases, they had it destroyed. There were rumors that his enemies were gathering their forces, preparing an attack on the Castle. Even Sarnova was growing apprehensive, but he told himself to be steady. He'd ruled the immortal world for three thousand years and he'd not relinquish it now.

  Back then he'd used his powers and his title to bring the immortal elements together, to make peace among them, and he'd been successful. For centuries he'd ruled in tranquility, letting the borders of his domain expand naturally as the humans themselves explored new regions, spreading to all corners of the world.

  Unfortunately, this exploration had brought about the decentralization of power; his empire, always hidden from human knowledge, had become unwieldy and the different elements had started to unravel once again. He couldn’t control them all. Many had become nomadic and still others had begun to build empires of their own, despite his best efforts to crush them. Then they had grown arrogant and had tried to band together to destroy him, but they were too weak and he'd easily won. It had been simple to gather them back into his fold. Order was needed. Togetherness. Unity.

  The seeds of rebellion had been sown, however, and over the centuries more and more of his following had deserted him to establish themselves elsewhere. They had discovered the New World long before Columbus had been born and there they fled, and there they prospered.

  Sarnova (who'd gone by a different name then) was ignorant of this new development for a long time—how could he have foreseen the discovery of a new continent?—but when humans began to explore this virgin land he’d sent his forces over there only to be beaten back by the immortals already there.

  He'd concentrated on fortifying his position as the most powerful shade in the Old World, had moved from his long-established headquarters in northern Africa to the regions of Eastern Europe so that he could more easily conquer the many immortals that had gathered there, away from his Egyptian stronghold. And conquer them he did, at a terrible price. He'd lost his headquarters in Africa because he'd had to concentrate so many troops in Europe, leaving Egypt unguarded. What misery that had been, losing his home, and too weak to reclaim it.

  Over the years he'd struggled to make the Carpathians his new home, had renewed his forces, had re-established his empire and would soon emerge yet again as the strongest immortal in the world. And, now that he was ready to make the boldest move of all—this!

  His idea was too revolutionary, too radical, too sudden. His brashness had ripped the Dark Council in half, perhaps destroyed it forever. They were cowards afraid of change. He wanted progress and they were willing to make war to stop him. It pained him, their lack of vision, their eager conservatism. Didn't they see how glorious the future could be?

  At least he had Francois to console him. Deep down, though, Sarnova felt that even the Ambassador was afraid of his new ideas, was hoping that the war would end and the Dark Council be reunified, but that no real progress would develop. Did no one understand him? It had come to the point where he was beginning to doubt his own plans.

  He sighed, finished his bourbon and cleared his throat. The others in the War Room turned.

  "Is that all?" he said. "Are you quite finished? I see by your faces that you wish I would make peace with them. No, the war will go on until our enemy gives in. Don't you see? Progress is always difficult. Only afterwards do even its facilitators fully appreciate it. You will, gentlemen, mark my words. The new world order is almost upon us!"

  He rose, feeling the sweat on his brow, and looked each of his followers in the eye. "Thank you for your diligence. Now please excuse me. Do what you must to ensure the fulfillment of the vision."

  He stalked out of the room, waving away his guards. Privacy was crucial to the meeting he would now attend. He moved swiftly down to the catacombs, where he slo
wed his pace to collect his thoughts. He'd an idea of what this secret meeting would be about, but the implications of that were too hideous.

  Most of these crypts and vaults had been moved long ago from their original locations in Egypt. Inside them rested the bodies of ancient rulers and shades who'd been important figures in immortal history. A few were representatives of Sarnova's line.

  His predecessors, those that had carried the mantle of Dark Lord before him, were not his genetic ancestors but a line of warriors. Rulers. At some point in every ruler's life he or she must choose a successor, someone to carry on the tradition and the mantle. The successor would not necessarily be chosen because the ruler was dying or in peril but often because the ruler was tired of his or her responsibilities and wished to roam the world. Sarnova felt no such inclination and wasn't prepared to name a successor until he did. If that’s what they want to talk about ...

  He walked through a stone archway and into a tomb, where he made his way to one of the walls and depressed a panel. A wall swung back. He stepped through into the hidden room.

  The Sangro Sankts waited for him. Four of them, hunched around a large stone table with a lantern blazing from its center. The flickering light caught the group strangely, and for a moment Sarnova thought he'd stepped into a dream.

  He accepted his seat at the head of the table, which they had reserved for him out of tradition and courtesy (although they were much more powerful than himself), and addressed them: "Good to see you again, my friends. I see there are two of you missing."

  "We have always been here to protect and support your line," one said, "but, even so, we were shocked to hear your plan. Two of our number decided not to come out of protest. For that, we apologize." He smiled, but it was a strained, tense gesture. "It's good to see you again, too, Roche."

  Sarnova nodded. "There's something you're not telling me."

  "What do you desire to know?" said another.

  "I was attacked a month ago. My assailant was carrying the blood of a kavasari in her veins. Where did that come from?"

  "Are you accusing one of us?"

  "I accuse no one, but there aren't many of you in the world—half of you are represented here—so it's more than likely that one of you, or one of the two absentees, was responsible."

  Silence. Then the first speaker said, "If—if—one of us was responsible, our intention wouldn't have been to kill you, but to make you aware of our displeasure. Your new decision goes against everything we're meant to uphold, and you should've realized that before announcing it to the Dark Council."

  Sarnova laughed. "Your feelings were hurt, is that it? That I'd act alone. That's why you did it."

  "We didn't say we did it," said a third. "None of us here gave the blood to Victoria Lisaund—and yes, we know all about it—believe me. We're loyal to you, no matter how foolish your actions may be."

  "Will you vouch for the loyalty of the two absentees?"

  "No."

  "And there's nothing else you'd care to reveal before we get to the matter at hand?"

  "No."

  "Well, then. Why did you summon me?"

  "A successor must be chosen. You're losing the war. On the off chance that you die, someone must replace you."

  I knew it. "Surely Francois Mauchlery would be adequate."

  "He is not a leader, and he does not desire to be one. Besides, that's not the way things are done; it must be someone relatively young, someone fresh that you can mold."

  “You'd have me mold him despite the fact that I'm foolish?"

  "As much as we abhor your movement, we recognize that your new ideas signify strength and vitality."

  "Why do you fear my death? Would not you protect me as you're sworn to do?"

  "Certainly we would protect you within bounds. But we are not to use our powers to interfere with history in the making. We're to remain in the shadows, always."

  "You're as bound in superstition as you always were! You cling to it because it gives you purpose, yet you would, admit it, interfere with our affairs if it served your sense of morality. Did you not stand by as one of your number provided a potential assassin with kavasari blood?"

  "You use our lack of action against us.”

  "Of course I do. How dare you cling to your purpose, your sacred duties to me, when you'd sit by and watch me die simply because you have no vision."

  "We do not call it vision. We call it sacrilege."

  "I'm sure you do.” Roche ran a sweaty hand through his black hair. Losing my cool will only serve them. They need to be reminded of their roots.

  “Allow me to refresh your memories,” he said. “You once ruled all immortals, but your greed drew you into war against each other, and your followers saw their opportunity and rebelled, your power never to be reclaimed again. Afterward your kind warred each other into virtual extinction. You drifted without purpose or ambition, and there was only one of your number that was strong. One! He fell in love with a lesser shade, a great vampire warrior, and summoned you to protect her and her line. He realized your weakness and shrouded your purpose with myth and religious overtones, providing the necessary stipulation, which you loved. You leapt at the chance to have meaning—to have a purpose!—so you upheld the stipulation and protected her, as best you could, but eventually she was overthrown and destroyed.

  "Weak of mind as you were, now without guidance or purpose, you chose to kill her assassin and then, instead of taking control of her empire yourselves you elected her successor and established the tradition which continues until today. The line of the Dark Lords. You move in the shadows as you've said, protecting me when it suits you, counseling me sometimes in important decisions but otherwise doing nothing but clinging to your ancient mythology. Now you hide behind that ancient stipulation so that you can sit back and again do nothing. You sicken me. How do you justify your actions?"

  "We will not justify ourselves to you, Roche," said the second one, angry. "None of us were alive back then—we only carry on the traditions of our own predecessors, thank you. And that little stipulation that you sneer at is very dear to our purpose, our reason for being. It’s even grown to eclipse our duties of protection."

  "So I've noticed."

  "You must also carry on the traditions … by appointing a successor."

  "And the stipulation?"

  "We cannot uphold it truthfully and let you live at the same time, not while you continue with your present course of action."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "No," said the first. "We have no desire to rule in your place or to kill you. For the love of dusk, Roche! You act as if we're not friends, as if we're hostile to you. Trust in us, please. We will try to uphold the stipulation in our own way."

  "By blocking my advancements. By causing me to lose the war. Bastards!"

  "It is the only way to let you live."

  “I pity you." Sarnova lit a cigar. "I'm sorry for that, but you have no vision. You still cling to your purpose, and it is what eclipses everything else—not its technicalities, but its very existence. You would let it stand in the way of progress."

  "It’s our duty. Are you ready to discuss your successor?"

  Later, when he was done, he gathered his cluster of guards and went off in search of Francois, whom he found in one of the living areas, watching the night through great glass panes. Drinking a glass of port, Francois turned at Sarnova's entrance.

  "May I get you a drink?"

  "Please," Roche said, sinking into a chair. He waited until he'd taken his first sip before he spoke again. "They're here."

  "They?" Francois nodded. "They. What did they want?"

  "To appoint my successor, naturally."

  "Who'd they have in mind?"

  Roche laughed. "My own Secretary of War, the little upstart."

  "Damn it all.”

  The reaction was stronger than Roche had anticipated. "What is it?"

  Mauchlery lowered himself into a chair. "There's a spy in our
midst."

  Dryly, Sarnova said, "One?"

  "No, this is serious. It's why we've been losing so badly; the enemy knows when and where we're to attack. It's costing us several soldiers a day."

  "And this spy..."

  "Could well be the Secretary of War. It sounds awful, but there is a growing mound of evidence to support it."

  "What do you suggest?"

  "Take him off the assignment and lock him up until a deeper investigation can commence."

  "Have it done." Sarnova leaned his head back in the chair. If he wasn't careful, he would fall asleep. "I'd love to see the look on their faces when they hear I've had my own successor imprisoned. It's almost worth going down there to tell them. Ah, but I'm so tired ... Francois, are you as exhausted as I am?"

  "I'm afraid so, Roche. The stress is terrible. But we must stay strong so that the others will take heart."

  "Of course. Tell me, does the Scouring continue?"

  "Indomitably."

  "Great," Roche said, but he couldn't decide whether his voice sounded sarcastic or sincere. Well, it didn't matter. Francois would know.

  Chapter 13

  Harry Lavaca had intended to get drunk in peace, but it was not to happen. He slid the pistol with the silver bullets in it into his shoulder holster (it was only five in the afternoon and werewolves would be out) and walked down a few blocks to a local pub he sometimes frequented. Lots of oak and brass, bright colors, festive music, and a curtain of shiny beads hung behind the bar where the bartenders and bar-backs would occasionally duck into to snag something they were out of up front. Very pleasant, all and all, and Harry was feeling good by the time he'd gotten to the bottom of his first martini. He figured he'd be feeling very good after another three or four.

  The gun dug into his ribs, and he shifted its weight. Maybe it was egotistical to think that he was being hunted at all times. Maybe next time I’ll leave it at home.

  Someone patted him on the shoulder. At first glance Harry thought the man was in his sixties, as he had lots of gray in his hair and mustache, and lines around his eyes. He had a deep weariness in him, but a fortitude as well. Harry looked closer. The man couldn't be more than fifty, he realized. Despite his fine suit and cufflinks, fear clung to him.