The Living Night: Box Set

by Jack Conner

  The rooms themselves had been given to the death-squad because they represented the interests of the Titan, and so it served their interests to call themselves diplomats. Supposedly, they were here on Vistrot's behalf, awaiting word from him. The Dark Lord seemed skeptical, but he needed all the allies he could get at the moment and Vistrot was certainly powerful enough not to be dismissed. So, for the time being, the death-squad had the run of the castle.

  In her room, on her bed, Cloire smoked a Camel and stared up at the intricately-detailed ceiling fan.

  "This is fucking heaven," she said.

  "Yeah," agreed Byron, lying beside her.

  "But why the fuck hasn't Vistrot gotten in touch with us?"

  "That's a very good question."

  She growled. "Stop agreeing with me, goddamnit."

  "What am I supposed to say, that Vistrot's been Scoured? Isn't that what we're all thinking?"

  "I don't know, but I don't need a fucking yes-man. Loirot fills that role already. What I need from you is strength and at least a show at leadership. You used to be Jean-Pierre's right-hand man. Why can't you be mine?"

  "You know why," he said, his voice quiet.

  "Because I'm fucking Kilian? It means nothing. I've fucked other guys before. Girls, too."

  "And I didn't like it, then. But this is personal. I've known Kilian for a long time. And it's business, too, because it affects the dynamics of the crew. Cloire, it needs to stop."

  She bristled. "You get your spine at all the wrong moments, you stupid Aussie bastard."

  "I'm serious, Cloire."

  "I know you are."

  "It needs to stop."

  She shot to her knees and slapped him hard across the face. "How dare you give me orders!"

  He lurched up in bed. Immediately, she was on her feet, towering over him, the breeze from the fan stirring her multi-colored hair. He laid back on the bed, helpless at her feet, a sheet thrown across him at the waist and the round impression of his big head branded into a silken pillow. She could feel her face become livid, the blood smashing through her as if preparing for war.

  "Calm down," he said.

  "I will not. I'll do whatever the hell I please."

  "That's exactly what's wrong."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I think we should go back to Jean-Pierre."

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "No, Byron, I don't think I did. You want the Ivory Bastard to be our leader again?"

  "That's right. He would know what to do now."

  She sneered. "He'd be following Danielle around, his stupid tongue hanging out of his mouth, and leave us to rot in the wind. We'd fall apart, just like we did before."

  "Maybe. But it's a risk worth taking. I mean, what are we going to do? Vistrot should've contacted us a week ago."

  She sucked at her cigarette. Byron had a point, but he was too simple to grasp the complexities of the situation. As usual, it was up to her.

  "Well, as it happens, I've been thinking," she said.

  "About what?"

  "I think the only recourse is to get the hell out of here and go back to New York, find out for ourselves what's happened to the Titan. Besides, things are winding up here, I think. There's something in the air. Something bad."

  "Yeah," he admitted. "I feel it, too."

  "You're agreeing with me again."

  "I guess Kilian never agrees with you, huh?"

  "As a matter of fact, he doesn't. Not often. But back to the matter of the moment. I hate to leave all this luxury behind, but we need to jet. And bring Danielle along for the ride."

  "What if Vistrot's been Scoured?"

  "We’ll piss off that bridge when we come to it."

  “That’s no sort of answer.”

  She frowned. What if Vistrot had been Scoured? She could hardly imagine life without the Titan. The position he'd given her had brought her respect and purpose. Even a singing career.

  "If he's dead," she said slowly, "then we start over."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I guess we’ll figure that out then."

  He rubbed his scalp. "When are we leaving? We should give him a few more days, just in case. Maybe there was a crisis ..."

  She nodded. "Yeah, we'll give him a few more days, no more. We could get trapped here, living like kings. Hell, they bring us humans to eat right here in our rooms! And they have a chute that we can throw the remains in!"

  “Fuck it,” he said. “And fuck this castle. I miss the smog.”

  "That's the spirit. Not quite as much of a shitheel as Kilian, but you're learning."

  Chapter 9

  After leaving Harry in the bar, Danielle led Loirot up a few floors toward a restaurant. She didn't really want to go there, but she was hungry and didn't want to return to her lair for room-service at the moment as that would only invite Loirot to start in with his Rico Suave routine.

  The restaurant, a world-famous eatery called The Blood and Stone, jutted from the second-to-highest floor of the castle. An attractively dressed ghensiv waited at its entrance (just a plain wooden door with a brass knob along the hallway) and greeted Danielle and Loirot as they ducked inside. There was a small, stone-walled foyer, empty and lit only by candles, which led into a much larger room beyond, where the maitre'd stood in an old-fashioned Dracula-esque tuxedo behind an antique wooden counter.

  "Welcome to The Blood and Stone. Would you prefer to sit inside or out?"

  "Out," said Danielle.

  "Very well, my dear."

  He showed them through the large and low-ceilinged dining room, mostly empty, and out onto one of the several large wrought-iron balconies, arranged like shelves along the face of the castle. Wide staircases of wrought-iron connected them. The terraces, which seemed to be doing a brisk business, looked down from the mountain onto the frigid and withering valley below, a frozen wasteland. The valley was steep and narrow, bordered on all sides by large and unusually sharp-looking mountains. The Carpathians. They were beautiful, thought Danielle, and turned to share a glance with Ruegger, who wasn't there. Instead, Loirot grinned back and muscled the maitre'd out of the way to pull out a chair for her.

  "Thanks," she muttered.

  "Anytime," he responded, and occupied the seat opposite her.

  Danielle shuddered. Despite the heating lamps, it was cold out here. Maybe when she got older it wouldn't bother her so much, but goddamn. She’d wanted to sit out here to get out of the stuffy corridors and enjoy the view, but she was beginning to regret it.

  "Would you like a jacket, my dear?" asked the maitre'd.

  "That'd be nice."

  "Of course. I'll have your waiter bring one out directly."

  "What if it gets stained?"

  He smiled. "Don't worry, my dear. Blood comes out."

  As he stalked away, the swinging black tails of his tuxedo seemed to her like the shadows that fangs might throw. Resisting another urge to shudder, she lit a cigarette and leaned her head out over the railing so that she could see the mountain that fell away below. Small flurries of snow gusted, spiraling down past the other terraces and into the abyss so that she couldn't distinguish their patterns from the overall whiteness. It was a long way down.

  "Almost as beautiful as you," said Loirot, half dreamy, half hammy.

  "Give it a rest, already, or I'll get my boyfriend to beat you to a bloody pulp."

  "Is that what Ruegger is to you? A boyfriend?"

  "I was joking, Loirot."

  "I know. But I'm serious. What exactly is Ruegger to you?"

  "I have no idea. My lover, my companion, my friend, my soul-mate. Something along those lines, I guess."

  "Ever cheated on him?"

  "Never. Jesus, Loirot."

  "Don’t play so coy. You kill to live, just like any of us."

  "I only kill bad guys. Your victims are innocent. Or, at least, you don't discriminate between innocent and evil."

  "Meat is meat."

&
nbsp; The waiter arrived with the jacket and passed out menus to Danielle and Loirot, then accepted drink orders. Danielle ordered a root beer and Loirot a glass of champagne.

  When the waiter was gone, Danielle said to Loirot, "How can you have no respect for intelligent life?"

  "Dani ... I hate to break this to you ... but I'm an assassin. Guilty, innocent, it doesn't matter to me. It really doesn't. I kill who Vistrot says to kill."

  "What if it was your own mother?"

  "I killed my mother. She bore me as a slave to serve her. When I was old enough, I liberated myself through her destruction."

  “Jesus.”

  "Face it, Danielle. Morality is a concept created by people who spend too much time thinking and not enough time doing."

  "Loirot, that's not just self-serving: it's idiotic."

  "No, think about it. I mean, look at it this way—what forms of life have the purest values?"

  "Obviously not werewolves."

  "No, but close. Animals."

  "Animals."

  "Animals can't sin simply because they can't conceive of sin. They have no laws to break, so they break no laws. In my own life, I base my morality on animals."

  "It's all starting to make sense."

  "I choose not to exercise the part of my brain responsible for morality, which is as close as I can come to not having it in the first place. For me, there is no sin, only life, and the different ways to live it."

  "So you're stupid on purpose."

  He seemed to want to respond to that, but couldn't seem to think of an answer, so he began to peruse his menu. Tired of the conversation, Danielle did the same.

  Catch of the day ... ask server for details.

  She glanced under the heading "Villain Eaters”, the section of the menu reserved for moral clients. As she did, she wondered if she was the only one in the whole castle that would order from this section. Surely she wasn't alone. Just the thought that she was completely surrounded by nothing but evil petrified her. If she didn't watch it, she'd have to lean over the side of the terrace and puke. From this height, her vomit would probably freeze before it hit the ground. Tomorrow's headlines: "Innocent mountain-goat killed by frozen barf".

  The Villain Eaters section of the menu was also jokingly called the "Vegetarian Section"; some bloodmongers mockingly referred to moral shades as "vegetarians", a play off of the American expression "Real men eat meat". To those that thought this way, Danielle and other more principled shades were weak, inferior.

  She stubbed out her cigarette and studied the menu.

  Well, they did have some interesting entrees. Not only did they have humans from all over the world, but the chefs were experts at creating "sauces" which they injected into the bloodstream of a meal before it was to be consumed. Danielle decided on a strawberry flavor, folded the menu and leaned back in the chair, crossing her legs.

  Loirot took his time deciding what (or whom) he wanted to eat, so she didn't have to make conversation with him before the waiter arrived and took their orders.

  "What's the catch of the day?" asked Loirot.

  "A good choice," said the waiter. "We just received a small shipload of young Japanese boys. The chefs have prepared a special sauce just for them, to compliment their unique taste."

  Loirot wrinkled his face disdainfully. "I've never liked chink meat. How are the gypsy girls today?"

  "Young," the waiter said with a smile. "And very beautiful. May I suggest a flavoring?"

  "That won't be necessary. But what I would like ... ah, may I get one of your private dining rooms ... that is, if Danielle doesn't object?"

  "You’re disgusting,” she said.

  The waiter lifted up his hands apologetically. "I'm sorry, sir, but all our private rooms are booked. You must make a reservation first, I'm afraid. Of course, there is a waiting line for cancellations ... ?"

  "No, no," said Loirot. "Just bring me a gypsy girl. And can I get your Rum Rumble flavor?"

  "Of course, sir. Now what would you like, ma'am?"

  She told him, then asked, "Just what kind of villains do you have today?"

  "You ordered off the Murder List."

  "I know, but I mean what kind of murder?"

  The waiter frowned. "I really don't know, but if you'd like I could ask the manager on duty?"

  "I'd feel a little more comfortable that way."

  "It won't be a problem. I'm sure you're not the sort of girl that is used to being served like this."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Only that you look like the kind of girl who usually picks her own meal."

  She wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. It might be his way of saying she was white-trash, and she really hated that. It might've been okay if he was white-trash, too, but if he was looking down on her, then she would find some way—

  "If there's anything else I can get you," the waiter said, "just call."

  "Uh, thanks."

  "Prick," muttered Loirot, when he was gone. "No private rooms, my ass. I should've told him I was one of Vistrot's diplomats—that would've got him hopping."

  "Oh, shut up. You just wanted to rape that poor girl."

  "Well, that's what the private rooms are for.”

  Before too long, the waiter returned. "I talked to the manager, and I found out that the only man we have of the profile you ordered, ma’am, is, indeed, a murderer, as you desired."

  "But what did he do? Exactly?"

  "He killed a man that he claims tried to mug him."

  "Where did this happen?"

  "In Budapest."

  "A mugging in Budapest? Well, it's a likely place for it. No, I don't want him. He doesn't deserve to die."

  Loirot coughed. "Danielle," he said. "Someone else will just come along after you and have him."

  "Well, it won't be me." She turned back to the waiter, who was politely expressionless. "What else you got?"

  The waiter nodded. "I thought you might say that, so I asked the manager about the worst criminal we have at the moment."

  "And?"

  "He's a skinhead from Liverpool who killed one of his comrades for sleeping with a black girl. Then he killed the girl for good measure."

  "Yeah," she said. "He'll do."

  The dinner went well, or as well as it could. The mortals were served, naked, tastefully bound and gagged, on large silver platters, and placed before Danielle and Loirot respectively. After overcoming her queasiness at this whole thing, she bit into her meal and started feeding, taking pauses now and then to sip her root beer or to stare out at the mountains. The flavoring of the blood was rich, but not too sweet, which was good. Whatever the chefs had put in there gave her a good little buzz, too.

  The biggest part about the dinner that bothered her was Loirot, who took his time killing his meal. Of course, werewolves could only feed off of living and/or recently dead bodies, but this was no excuse to eat the poor girl, slowly, bite by bite, with a fork and knife, which is just what Loirot did.

  After the first few minutes, Danielle killed the poor girl with one swift stroke, a knife through her heart, ending the girl’s torment.

  “Why did you do that?” Loirot all but shouted, looking perplexed, even dangerous.

  Danielle stared at him. “I was practicing for you.”

  His mouth was smeared in blood and a piece of flesh stuck to his chin. "You're about to cry,” he said, wonderingly.

  "Am not."

  He returned to his meal, trying to fill up before the gypsy girl grew cold.

  He was right, though. Danielle felt the tears behind her eyes and the blood pounding in her temples. She was honestly about to cry for that poor girl. After all the death she’d seen. But if she didn't cry for her, who would?

  With some effort, she held the tears back. What reservoir of emotion she had left was better kept for something else. If she cried now for this poor girl it would only drive her further down into the hole that she was sinking into fast enough already.
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  And damned if she was going to let Loirot see her weep! At that moment the thing she wanted to do most of all was to lift him up by his lapels and hurl him bodily over the balustrade into the freezing abyss. She’d seen some other diners throw bits and pieces of their meals down into the valley. Knuckles, tendons. Why not him?

  When she’d finished her meal, a busboy removed the dead man from the table and wheeled him to the disposal room, where presumably the corpse was slipped into one of the chutes. Supposedly, at the bottom of the chute raged a fire which would consume any last shred of a victim.

  Around this time, Danielle spotted a familiar face finishing up his meal on one of the terraces below: Kilian. He’d ordered the catch of the day. Now there's a strange man, Danielle thought. Not strange because he'd ordered the catch of the day, necessarily, just strange.

  As she watched, Kilian paid his bill, wiped his mouth and made his way toward the railing overlooking the valley. He lit a cigar against the wind and stayed there for several minutes, admiring the scenery. He wasn't just taking it in, she suspected. He was mulling something over, some plan that would probably turn out to be unpleasant if he ever put it into motion, but you never knew with Kilian. He would cut out your heart or pay your bar tab, depending on his mood. Usually, though, he would cut out your heart—and then he'd stand around looking dour, which is what he did best. But, again, you never knew.

  As Loirot was finishing his meal, Kilian left the balustrade and found the stairs. Soon he was approaching the highest terrace. Danielle wouldn't have said anything, but Loirot waved him over, and after a moment's deliberation Kilian approached.

  "Pull up a chair," suggested Loirot.

  "No thanks. I was just on my way out."

  "Come on, pull up a chair. We were just fixing to ask for the bill. Although maybe some dessert wouldn't be out of the question. What do you think, Danielle?"

  "I'm fine," she said, then turned to Kilian. "So where you headed, Killer?"

  He seemed to think before answering, as if afraid to tell her. After a second's thought, though, she realized that she wasn't the one Kilian was worried about; it was Loirot.