by Jack Conner
“Whatever you say. Besides, he’s already pretty much dead. He won’t survive once I leave him, so your conscience shouldn’t bother you.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“As I said, you’ll be doing me a favor. I can’t wait to get out of this guy’s body.”
“But I thought you had to possess ... to live.”
“I’ve possessed him for about an hour and, believe me, that’s quite enough. It’s centered my consciousness, made me stronger. I can easily survive till the next one comes up the pike. Then I’ll be off down to the nymphs, and then back to my position by the old Grife. Life as usual. Now just hurry up and eat me, already.”
“With you in him?”
“Don’t worry so much, my friend. Each portion you eat, I’ll move out of. I’ll stay in him as long as I can, get as much strength from him as I can—then, when he’s about dead, I’ll retreat altogether and let you finish.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Actually, no. But it’ll work. Now before I have to force-feed my arm down your throat, would you please just start already?”
Jean-Pierre didn’t need any more prodding. He fell upon the skinhead in a frenzy only starvation can bring about. Started with the limbs, swallowing meat and gristle and veins and fat and finally chewing on bone, letting it splinter in his strong werewolf teeth. He hadn’t even realized he’d transformed until he tasted the marrow on his tongue. He ate hungrily, rapidly. And every time he moved to a different portion of the body, a flurry of bats would burst from the skin and circle about him in encouragement and, even—awe.
He ate the whole damned body, head and all. It took him about fifteen minutes. Afterwards, content and full of life, he lay down gnawing on a thigh bone he’d missed. He virtually crackled with strength. He felt it blazing in his eyes, could feel the long-neglected wounds begin to heal, and he relished it.
His transformation had burst his clothes, but, now that he was back on the ball, he mended them as best he could with his telekinetic abilities—enough so he could still wear them, anyway. Appropriate for a formal ball they were certainly not, but it kept him from going naked, not that he really cared one way or another down here.
Ladrido sat comfortably beside him, in his bat-man form, and watched as the last of the thick bone splintered between the albino’s teeth. After finishing the head, Jean-Pierre had slipped back into his human shape.
The two immortals sat quietly, comfortably, atop a gigantic mushroom and enjoyed a slight draft that gusted out of one of the many tunnels that led into this room.
When Jean-Pierre was completely finished, he turned to Ladrido and said, “Thank you. I needed that.”
The bat-man nodded sagely. “I know. And I was happy to give it to you. Would you like to rest now, or go on?”
“I’m wired, Ladrido. I feel like I could do just about anything, thanks to you. But what about you, are you strong enough to go on, or have you any reason to go on at all now?”
Ladrido chuckled to himself. “We’re friends, Jean-Pierre, and that means a lot to someone who’s been shut away for hundreds of years. So of course I have reason to go on with you. I can’t go far, though. The quickest route to the Castle is through the Meadow, but there’s a sun there—the brightest one of all, and too much for me—and I can’t go through it. But I’ll lead you as far as I can, then I’ll scatter to the ceiling and wait for the next one. I hope you return someday. We can have a grand old time eating mushrooms and balling nymphs.”
Jean-Pierre smiled. “I’m a married man.”
Ladrido shrugged, but didn’t retract the offer. “Shall we go?”
* * *
As the sun sank behind the Carpathians, Ruegger and Danielle rose from their bed, taking their time, and leisurely made their way down to the café for breakfast and coffee. It was a pleasant evening, but, as she passed through the halls, she noted the expressions of the other denizens of the Castle. Seeing their tense and agitated gestures, Danielle too grew uneasy.
The Castle was in hard times, not made any easier by the nuclear attack the Libertarians had devised to cripple its air force and daytime defenses. On the other hand, most of these shades were amoral creatures and Danielle couldn’t feel much sympathy for their problems, except where their problems overlapped hers—namely, the winning of the War and the successful repellence of the Libertarians.
I certainly don’t want Maleasoel’s army here. From what Ruegger had told her, Ludwig’s widow had made a turn for the darker side, and the soldiers of Liberty themselves had never been particularly moral. Danielle still wanted to avenge Ludwig, but now that mystery tied into several others, and it looked as though she and Ruegger would have to unravel all these threads before they found what they wanted. The Libertarians would only bring destruction.
Primarily, though, Danielle’s mind was focused on keeping Ruegger alive throughout the next few days and nights, and for this—and this alone—she was glad of the Hunter’s interference.
“You were pretty frisky last night,” she observed, as she and Ruegger slid side by side into a booth in the café and ordered breakfast.
“How could I help myself?” he said. “With you there in your hot-pants and fluffy shoes?”
She knew there was more to it than that, but wasn’t quite sure how to phrase the question. “Were you trying to distract me from reading about you, about the way you were ... before?”
He sipped his black coffee. “I guess I was. In the best way possible.”
“Hey, I’m not complaining, but …”
“I suppose I just don’t like being remembered the way I was before I thought she was dead. Amelia. I wasn’t quite innocent then, or pure, but I was a hell of a lot more of both back then than I am now. Stirring up those old memories, of what could have been, had not some kavasari decided to turn her, had not I given up everything I believed in and turned into a creature of hate … It’s painful.”
She wanted to be satisfied with the answer because she knew probing Ruegger like this wasn’t in either of their best interests, not at the moment, so she merely nodded. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
He looked into his coffee and frowned.
She let him. Really, she was just glad to have him back, but she wished they could get re-acquainted under better circumstances and in a better environment. More and more, she was beginning to feel oppressed by the evil of the other immortals here, at how petty and cruel and obsessed with power they were. She thought about how that mirrored his old essays.
“Let’s talk about all that later,” he said. “We’ve got other things to think about now. Kiernevar’s last chess game is in about an hour and I wanted to know if you had any further thoughts about who killed Ludwig. Since we’ve been apart, you might have some fresh insight.”
“Actually, I might,” she said. “I kinda hate to tell it to you, though.”
“Why?”
“Well, not only is it really off-the-wall, but you won’t like it.”
“Tell me.”
She patted his chest and let her hand stay there. “First, let’s start off with what we know, what we’ve learned recently.”
“What have we learned?”
“That Roche Sarnova keeps a zoo of endangered immortal creatures buried in the heart of this mountain.”
“You think that has something to do with all this?”
“I don’t know, but, and think of this, if Sarnova didn’t have Ludwig killed, it might mean that one of his enemies did.”
“That’s what he was saying,” Ruegger said.
“I think he might be right. It makes sense. Anyway, when you first told me about the dragon, my first thought was that it was Kharker who hired the Balaklava to kill Ludwig.”
“Why on earth would you think that?”
“See, I told you you wouldn’t like it,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“Well, he loves to hunt, doesn�
��t he? It’s his great pastime, other than collecting and drinking wine. And what greater beast could he hunt than a dragon? Or the other things Sarnova has tucked away.”
“That’s insane. You think Kharker hired Junger and Jagoda to kill Ludwig so that Malie would attack Sarnova in order to avenge Ludwig’s murder—in the process tearing apart the Castle and freeing the dragons and such—all so that Kharker could get at Roche’s secret zoo? I can’t believe that. Do you?”
At his shock, she smiled. “No. But I think that’s the sort of thing we should be considering—really weird shit. Stuff that isn’t transparent. Things we wouldn’t normally think of. We’ve discussed all the obvious ideas. Now let’s examine the more obscure.”
“You think the Refuge is a part of this whole thing.”
“Maybe. I just don’t know.”
He lit a cigarette and sucked down a drag. “Do you think we made a mistake, pursuing this so far?”
That surprised her, and for a moment she didn’t know how to respond. “I ...” She stopped. Started again. “I don’t know, baby. At the time, finding out who killed Ludwig seemed like the right thing to do, not to mention preventing the army of Liberty from taking over the world and all. But we’ve gone through so much since then.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “I know.” Putting out his cigarette, he slipped an arm under her back, around her shoulders, and drew her closer to him. She looked up at his face and saw what looked like tears in his eyes.
“Oh, Dani,” he managed to say, “I’m so sorry ... what they almost did to you …”
“No,” she said again, and tilted her face up so she could really see him. His jaw and lips were set firmly, and his eyebrows were slanted together in an angry sort of way. Not angry at her, or even at Junger and Jagoda, but at himself, because that was his way. He was putting all the culpability on himself first, everyone else later. “Don’t do that,” she said. “Give yourself a break for once. I’m not sorry, so you shouldn’t be either.”
He stared at her. “You’re not sorry?”
“Of course not,” she said, suddenly sure that what she said was true. “We did what we had to do. No good deed ever goes unpunished, right? Baby, look at me. It’s not your fault. Place the blame where it belongs, on the fucking bastards that deserve it. Now let’s go get you ready to face Sarnova.”
* * *
A half hour later and they were seated in the Throne Room, their guards assembled behind them, listening as the referee outlined the rules of the game and the consequences for losing. He was making the thing out to be even more dramatic than it was.
Kiernevar sat at a little table in the middle of all the hubbub, staring intently at his opponent opposite him. His foe, a werewolf named Breedlove, was a large, hulking creature nearly seven feet tall with a lantern jaw and long, flowing, gray-brown hair. His dark brown eyes took in the scene around him, occasionally settling on Kiernevar, who did not even blink.
Breedlove did not appear in the least bit intimidated. Powerful and strong and exuding wisdom, he seemed certain of his inevitable victory. However, for the gamblers in the room, he wasn’t the favorite, and he had to know it. For whatever reason, the vibe in the room suggested that this game was just a formality, that Kiernevar would win without question—that he was, or soon would be, the heir to the Throne.
Danielle glanced at Harry Lavaca, sitting beside her. Beyond Harry was Cloire, who seemed to have developed an affection for the Slayer despite all their differences. Beyond Cloire sat Byron, Loirot, and Kilian. To Danielle, the members of the death-squad seemed uncomfortable with each other, and she guessed that things were not well between them. Too bad I don’t care.
Harry returned her gaze, and his eyes contained a level of gravity that adequately conveyed his feelings of despair. He did not want Kiernevar to win, that much was clear. In the last few days public opinion had turned in the lunatic’s favor, not so much because of his blatant attempts at bribery but because the dwellers of the Castle regarded him as a novelty, something that kept things interesting in what many were calling the Last Dark Days. To them, Kiernevar broke up the boredom and tension, and in this at least he was valuable. On the other hand, Breedlove was considered a good man, a worthy heir ... but not half as interesting.
Danielle nodded to Harry in agreement, then turned to see how Ruegger was taking this whole thing. She wasn’t quite sure whether he wanted the lunatic to win or not. On the one hand, she knew Ruegger didn’t want Breedlove executed, and he was just a little apprehensive of going up against Kiernevar, but on the other he wanted to prove to her that logic was stronger than insanity. It was a battle she prayed would never happen.
Ruegger stared at Kiernevar, probing. Ruegger was actually trying to understand the bastard, realized Danielle. Good luck, baby.
When the referee finished building the match into an epic conflict, he bowed to the Dark Lord.
From his throne, Roche Sarnova said, “Breedlove, are you ready?”
The large man nodded solemnly. “Yes, my lord.”
“And you, Kiernevar?”
“Kiernevar destroy!”
“So be it. Gentlemen, may the best man win.”
The Dark Lord leaned back in his chair and motioned for a servant to bring him a cup of something, which he only started drinking once most of the spectators had averted their eyes. As he took his first swallow, his gaze fell on Danielle, and he gave a little nod of acknowledgment.
She returned the gesture and moved her attention to the chessboard in the center of the room.
Breedlove, being white, moved first, shoving the pawn in front of the king up two squares. A common opening, she knew, even though her grasp of the game was far from complete. Ruegger, however, would probably be able to say whom it was that made that move popular and in what year it occurred.
Kiernevar moved out a knight.
Danielle yawned and kept her eye out for the beer vendor.
* * *
Down in the still halls of the Labyrinth, Junger and Jagoda stood over the bloody wreckage that the Collage had left in its wake. Specifically, they studied the remains of the parasites that the Sabo had sent to attack the Collage. The nasty worm-like things with the big teeth and all the fins lay at the Balaklava’s feet, gutted and squashed and torn.
“Think they’re really salvageable?” Junger asked.
The other one shrugged. “They’d better be, else things are going to get a little sticky for us.”
“Then let’s get this thing over with.”
He pulled one of the tusks out of his face and used the sharp end of the baby-rib to tear open a vein in his arm, then let his blood rain down on the mud-sharks.
Jagoda, using his large teeth to draw blood, did the same. While they were pouring their fluids on the dead things, the Balaklava also used their newly acquired chalgid gifts to resurrect the parasites.
After some time, the creatures began to stir.
Junger and Jagoda turned to each other and smiled. Behind them, the small army of human zombies cheered.
As the parasites came back to their senses, Junger and Jagoda began sending them messages, which the worms received as well as could be expected.
We are your leaders, the Balaklava sent, and the mud-sharks, after some persuasion, came to agree. Junger and Jagoda gave the resurrected parasites their orders, and the things disappeared back into the mud, not even leaving holes to prove that they’d once been.
“Go get ‘em, boys,” Junger said.
For a while, the assassins waited, silent, letting their minds follow the progress of their new zombies … and, before too long, they realized their success: the parasites were loyal.
Jagoda laughed.
After a brief embrace, the Balaklava turned to their ever-growing legion. Beyond the blood-slaves, a Collage towered innocently, like a big dog waiting to be thrown a bone.
“Well done, all of you,” said Junger, careful to include the Co
llage in the praise. “We have now infiltrated the Sabo.”
“And,” continued Jagoda, “if those parasites are successful, we will shortly control one of the most valuable creatures in the world.”
He raised his head and gave a great triumphant roar, which was quickly joined by Junger, the zombies, and, at last, the Collage itself.
* * *
The chess match lasted over two hours. Ruegger noticed that, as time went by, Roche Sarnova seemed to grow increasingly impatient, and thought he understood why. The man had a war to run, after all.
Kiernevar hardly even glanced at the board; most of his attention was focused on Breedlove, who, after two hours had gone by, had finally started to sweat. It was clear to Ruegger that Breedlove was an exceptional chess player, but for some reason he was no match against Kiernevar.
The lunatic didn’t even hesitate before making a move, would just reach out a long arm and waggle a piece with his long dirty fingers. As time wore on, Breedlove spent more and more time deliberating about his next move, and Ruegger could see flashes of anger in the man’s face, but Breedlove managed to keep himself composed enough not to do anything foolish. Which was wise, because foolishness was not something the werewolf could afford.
Ruegger didn’t envy him. In fact, he began to see what Danielle had been so afraid of. Kiernevar was simply not of this world. He was the elemental of chaos. How else could he beat such a skilled opponent as Breedlove without even seeming to consider his next move?
Eventually, Breedlove was left with nothing but a king and a rook, whereas Kiernevar had managed to convert two pawns into queens and had also managed to retain a bishop and a knight, while his king just sat back and watched. From there it took two moves before Breedlove was in checkmate.
Glaring, trembling, eyes huge and fixed on his killer, Breedlove reached out a massive hand and toppled his king. The sound reverberated long and loud in the hallowed chamber.
Kiernevar smiled at his opponent, then reached inside his jacket and retrieved a wad of old feces, which he flung at the defeated party.
