The Living Night: Box Set

by Jack Conner

  At that, she almost smiled, and some of the tension between them was broken. "Thanks."

  "That's what I'm here for."

  She glanced over his shoulder to D'Aguila. Apparently failing to find what she was searching for, she returned her gaze to the Darkling.

  "Ruegger," she said. "We have business to discuss."

  "First tell me this, about Liberty. I thought you'd given up on enslaving humanity and all that rot. So why is Liberty still together? Why haven't you dismantled it like you wanted to? Come on, be honest. It’s only us and the Captain here now."

  "Isn't it obvious, Ruegger? I need those soldiers, now more than ever. Their numbers ensure that Ludwig's murder will be avenged. So I tell them lies. I tell them that I’ll further the cause for which Liberty was founded. To take over the world. Because of that, they're loyal to me. And because of that, I’ll find the person that killed my husband."

  "And Captain Raulf? He's in on this too?"

  "Yes, but he's the only one. He knows that whatever becomes of our current cause, we shall find a new one. Liberty will not be disbanded, and he will continue to be the leader of men."

  Ruegger saw an odd light in her eye and thought she might be lying, but to D'Aguila, this time, so he didn't press the point.

  "What about Subaire," he said, "the leader of the half of the Dark Council that opposes Roche Sarnova ... or do you know about all that?"

  "Oh, I know the reason why the Council broke apart."

  "Then doesn't it make sense that Subaire might have been responsible for hiring Junger and Jagoda to kill Ludwig? Since the Balaklava were associated with Sarnova, you would've blamed him and attacked. At least, this would be her reasoning. And whether or not your attack finished him off, it would've made it much easier for Subaire to come along and pick up the pieces. You would’ve crippled him and she would have taken the glory."

  "It could've happened that way, but it didn't."

  "Why are you so sure?"

  "Because while you and Dani were off having your adventures with Jean-Pierre and Laslo, my crew and I took a little trip to London, where I used my men to infiltrate Subaire's organization. I gleaned enough intelligence to know how to get her. It cost me ten men, but we captured her and another member of the Council. We tortured them for days. Believe me, they talked, but they didn't tell me anything I wanted to hear. She didn't kill Ludwig or have any idea who did. I scratched her off the list and came here to do the same thing with Kharker."

  "And you did."

  "I did. And before that—before I'd even gone to London—I captured a member of Vistrot's tribe, one Jacob Ikaud, and did the same to him."

  "You’ve become quite the little torture-master. What did you find out about the Titan's involvement in all this?"

  "Absolutely nothing."

  "So you don't know ..."

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  She shrugged. "So now I'm going to Roche Sarnova's Castle to capture and interrogate the Dark Lord."

  "How are you going to attack the Castle, of all places? Even if you could gather all your surviving soldiers, you wouldn't be able to overrun it. The number of soldiers on each side would probably be pretty equal, but they're better fortified and they've been preparing against an invasion for centuries. You don't stand a chance."

  "That’s where you come in."

  "Me?"

  "After I dismissed you and Jean-Pierre, I stayed to chat with Lord Kharker. We talked about a number of things, but what I found most interesting was this order he calls the Sangro Sankts. Apparently, they protect Sarnova, but then you know all that. What he may not have told you was that they have their own back way into the Castle."

  "You're kidding."

  "Somewhere hidden in the catacombs is a passage that leads through the mountain and opens onto the other side. There's a secret entrance, and Kharker has told me how to find it."

  "You trust him?"

  "He wouldn't hurt Sarnova for the world, but he knows I won't kill the Dark Lord unless he turns out to be the one. Not only that, but Kharker’s agreed to help me in any way I can to find Ludwig's killer."

  "How gracious."

  "Damnit, Ruegger, he's sincere. He doesn't like the things that've befallen you, Danielle and Jean-Pierre on account of Lud's death and he's going to help me bring the responsible party to justice."

  Ruegger sighed, but his blood was stirring just a little. "Won't Sarnova have this entrance guarded?"

  "Why would he? He's under the impression that only he and the surviving conquerors of his line that came before him are aware of the existence of the Sangro Sankts. Little does he know that those that came before him—the ones that are still alive—aren't as discreet as he is; they've let bits of information leak out here and there over the course of centuries. That’s the meat of the information Kharker’s gathered. The rest is just myth, conjecture."

  "Yet he knows exactly where this tunnel is."

  "Apparently, yes. Ruegger, do you think the Sangro Sankts would permit Sarnova to know when they're going to visit him, to give him some advance knowledge? No, these are secretive creatures. They're not going to allow Sarnova to keep tabs on them.”

  "Maybe. But I’ve heard that the wolves that run through the Carpathians are Sarnova’s watchdogs. He sees through their eyes, smells through their nostrils. He’ll know if someone’s approaching.”

  “I’ve heard that rumor, too. Maybe it’s just myth. I hope so, but we have to go under the assumption that it’s not. Which means that once we get within a few miles of the Castle, me and my army will tunnel underground till we get to the secret entrance.”

  “You’ve had practice.”

  “Yes.”

  Leaning back in his seat, he took in mouthful of smoke. "So, Malie, where do I fit in?"

  * * *

  When Ruegger left Maleasoel and Captain D’Aguila, he went looking for Kharker. At first he tried the Elephant Room, then the Hunter’s bedchamber, but when neither of those places yielded results, Ruegger realized where his old friend must be.

  Accompanied by several Libertarian guards, he made his way down to the wine cellar and paused on the landing overlooking the immense chamber. There stood Jean-Pierre, leaning against the railing and looking sadly down into the room. Arrayed about him were several guards, which told Ruegger that Malie trusted the albino no more than she trusted him.

  When he heard Ruegger approach, Jean-Pierre gave a weak smile. Ruegger offered a hand in greeting. Without much hesitation, Jean-Pierre accepted it, and they shook as if they were actually friends. And, in that moment, it struck Ruegger that the albino was now his friend despite everything.

  Seeming to pick up on the Darkling’s mood, Jean-Pierre nodded. “You know that sometimes childhood friends will prick themselves with needles and exchange blood in order to become blood-brothers.” He paused. “I think, Ruegger, that you and I have exchanged enough blood … ”

  “Yes,” Ruegger said, and smiled. “Blood-brothers we are. Where’s Kharker?”

  The albino gestured toward one of the side tunnels that branched off from the main chamber. Outside of the tunnel, several Libertarians loitered, every now and then glancing inside.

  “There.”

  It was the tunnel through which Ruegger had fled from Captain D’Aguila, and the Darkling could only imagine what horror Kharker must be experiencing at this very moment as he surveyed the ruin of his life’s work.

  Kharker emerged from the tunnel, clutching a broken bottle to his chest. Tears stained his cheeks, but his eyes seemed clear. Pausing for a moment to look up at his two adopted sons, the Hunter made his way around the maze and up to the landing to meet them.

  After nodding to the Darkling, Kharker said, “You talked with Maleasoel?”

  “Yes.”

  “She told you the plan?” Kharker looked skeptical.

  “If such it can be called. I can’t believe we’re going through with this. It just seems too ... half-as
sed. And wrong.”

  Jean-Pierre nodded. “I talked to her, too.” Lowering his voice, he said, “But is there any way out of it?”

  Surrounded by guards, the three of them stood there for several minutes, thinking, but none had an answer.

  Finally, Jean-Pierre turned his eyes to the broken bottle that Kharker held.

  “What’s that?”

  Sadly, the Hunter lowered his gaze to the ruined vessel and for a moment Ruegger thought he might start crying again. But, after a deep breath, Kharker said with a clear voice, “This bottle saved my life once.”

  He raised it into the air so that its ragged edges caught the light. Then, with a violent sweep of his arm, Kharker threw it over the railing so that it soared out over the fragrant wasteland and fell behind an overturned rack. Kharker wiped at an eye and smiled grimly. “I guess that’s all I needed it for. Now I’ve got to find something else.”

  Tiredly, he turned to his sons and clapped a hand to their shoulders. “Boys,” he said, “I think a new era has begun. It’s time to go to war.”

  * * *

  However, as Jean-Pierre looked into Kharker’s eyes, feeling the grip of the Hunter’s hand on his shoulder, he knew they were keeping something back from Ruegger. There was something, a being of which Ruegger could have no knowledge, that by its very existence had probably doomed Maleasoel’s invasion of the Castle before it had even begun.

  Though the creature had no real name that Jean-Pierre knew of, it was called the Sabo, and he knew that since Kharker had kept the creature a secret from Ludwig’s widow, he had already broken his word to her: Gavin’s death would be avenged no matter what.

  Jean-Pierre wondered what other promises the Hunter might break and, further, if he should even stick around to find out.

  Then again, as Kharker himself had said, it was time to go to war. And Jean-Pierre had things to fight about.

  Chapter 8

  Restless, Danielle watched the battle below. She turned to look at Loirot beside her, but he seemed engrossed in the fight.

  "This is stupid," she said, over the roar of the crowd, who shouted down insults and praise at the pugilists.

  "It's the Arena of Death," he responded. "They're fighting over who'll be the successor to Roche Sarnova. You don't find that interesting? Even a little?"

  "No."

  "Look at them, Danielle."

  "I'm looking."

  "See those two?"

  "Despite my best efforts, Loirot."

  "Well, study them. Imagine one of them as the next Dark Lord. Can you see it?"

  "Honestly? No."

  "That's the point! These fights will determine the next leader of the undead. It's like the election of an American President, but this is more primal."

  "Somewhat."

  He smiled. "When eight victors of the Arena have been chosen, they’ll play each other in chess until only one remains. He will then be Sarnova's successor. Isn't it fascinating?"

  "Make a good term paper."

  "You have a bad attitude, Danielle."

  "Well, maybe I could actually enjoy this show a little if I didn't have to have one of you following me around all the damned time."

  "Forget it. We're not going to give you the run of the place, not till we get word from Vistrot."

  "Which you should've gotten by now."

  Suddenly, Loirot's beautiful face looked disturbed. "Yes," he whispered. "Something must have gone wrong."

  Danielle groaned and leaned back in her seat. They hadn't even let her kill Malcolm yet—ostensibly the reason she'd come in the first place.

  Their reasoning was that her foster brother was the only real leash they had on her. If they allowed her the time with him she was due, he’d be dead and then there wouldn't be any incentive for her to stay. For, even though at least one of the death-squad was with her at all times (usually Loirot, but sometimes Byron) it wouldn't be that hard for her to slip away into the throng. She couldn't do that, though, unless she was willing to give up killing Malcolm. And, since she didn't even know where he was being held in the castle, she had to be a good girl and stick with Cloire and the rest of her crew. It was the she-wolf’s crew, let there be no mistake. Kilian had some say in their affairs, but Cloire was the final word in all things.

  Danielle retrieved a pack of Reds from her black jeans and lit one up.

  "Can I have one?" Loirot asked.

  Gritting her teeth, she gave him one, feeling his fingers brush her hand as she did so. For the past several days, she'd suspected he had a crush on her and wasn't inclined to indulge it, something she might have found amusing if Ruegger had been with her.

  She kept wanting to glance to her side to share a look with him, or to hold his hand, or to run her fingers through his hair, but he was never there. How could she have done what she had? She'd left him ... alone, with Kharker ... just because she had to kill somebody. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Yet Malcolm waited ...

  Loirot lit his cigarette and smiled, the nostrils of his aristocratic nose flaring. "Can you smell their blood?"

  "The fighters? Yeah, it smells great, Loirot. Real good. Now can we go do something else for awhile?"

  "Like what?"

  "I have this incredible urge to floss."

  "I'm trying to be patient, Danielle. But come on, this fight's almost over, and it's the last one of the evening. Okay?"

  "Okay," she groaned, and tried to watch the fight.

  It wasn't much different from the others. Really, the Arena was just a pit with a sandy floor covered by a dome woven from beams of titanium, like something from a Mad Max movie. This allowed the audience to see in but prevented the pugilists from making an easy escape.

  Stadium seats surrounded the Arena. At present, Danielle estimated there were almost a hundred and fifty shades among the audience—well over half of the immortal population here (not counting the soldiers)—and twice that number of human servants. She wondered if Harry was there, somewhere, but couldn't pick him out; unlike the Gutter Angel, Cloire had allowed him to run free throughout the Castle. For some odd reason, the she-wolf liked him.

  Danielle scanned the audience, looking for a friendly face. Every now and then she'd see someone she recognized—but no one she especially wanted to fraternize with. Kiernevar perched on the side facing her, down on the first row.

  He was a familiar sight, and she assumed he watched every single fight. He was there every time she attended—which was most of the time, because of fucking Loirot. Yesterday, Kiernevar had approached her and she'd bought him a hot-dog, hoping that he'd feel up to talking with her, but he only smiled and acted all fidgety. Today, though, he didn't seem to be in such a friendly mood. She watched Kiernevar for a moment, studying the intense and barely-coherent look he wore, and wondered what he was thinking. He was watching the fights, watching them hard.

  She turned her gaze back to the Arena. The two combatants had been warring for over two hours, but then that was the nature of scrapes between immortals. They were either short and sweet or they dragged out forever. This one had lasted long enough for the vendors to temporarily run out of peanuts, although their smell still lingered pleasantly.

  Just now, the warriors were beginning to tire. One of the pugilists was a morbine, she saw, like Ludwig. The thought made her cringe. Feeding off of brain fluid …

  The other contestant was some sort of shapeshifter that had taken on the form of a dragon—an ancient Chinese sort. Long, colorful and snake-like, with no legs but a dragon head (bristling with whiskers, no less), bony fins that sprouted here and there along its body and sharp ridges along its spine.

  To Danielle, it seemed unfair to pit a static form up against a shapeshifter, but the morbine seemed to be getting along okay. Though surely it was only a matter of time—

  The serpent snaked toward its opponent, who realized what his enemy was up to but couldn't do much about it. The dragon wrapped its length around the man, like a python might a goat
, and started squeezing, while its mouth neared the morbine's head. Luckily, the man had gotten his arms free in time, and he gripped the serpent's mouth, holding it open.

  Danielle fought the urge to yawn. This same scenario had repeated itself a countless number of times in the last two hours and always ended the same way. A stalemate.

  This time the man yanked the dragon's jaws apart so hard that she could hear the crack as bones broke and tendons tore. Instantly, the serpent uncoiled itself and slunk off to a corner to lick its wounds and mend.

  The morbine followed, eager for the kill.

  The dragon whipped its tail, knocking the man's legs out from under him, and even as he fell the creature pounced.

  It coiled itself about him so that his arms were pinned tightly against his sides, and without hesitation—without so much as a showman's pause—it inserted the man's head into its mouth and sank its teeth into his neck. The morbine's immortal flesh resisted, and for a moment Danielle thought the dragon's jaw would be too badly damaged to close, but the creature's teeth were sharp and swift and soon the serpent jerked its head away and a fount of blood exploded from the morbine's neck.

  The worm uncoiled itself, spat the head onto the ground and began dismembering the body of its rival. When this was done and the body was not likely to be salvageable, the creature moved over to the head, gingerly taking it between cruel teeth. It raised the head as high as it could into the air and waited for the crowd to cheer. Thus encouraged, it began to chew. A showman after all.

  Beside her, Loirot clapped and whistled. "Good show!" He turned to Danielle, smiling, almost boyish. "Don't you think, Dani?"

  "Two thumbs up. Let's get the hell out of here."

  "It's not over, yet. Remember, this isn't just a fight, it's a formal ceremony."

  "Yeah, right."

  Slowly, the dragon resumed its human shape—a woman named Lyshira, remembered Danielle. Tall, attractive, red-haired, naked, covered in blood and smiling triumphantly, she waved her hands as flowers and other objects arced down toward her.