by Jack Conner
“So. We could become evil again.”
“Under the right circumstances. But hopefully, with the knowledge we’ve gained because of our time of ... villainy ... and the years afterward, we won’t fall into that same trap twice.”
“Does that mean you forgive me?”
“I can forgive you turning Amelia. She was worthy. But why didn’t either of you tell me?”
“I couldn’t, Ruegger. Honestly. Believe me, when I saw what you became, I wanted to, but she wouldn’t let me. Back then, she truly hated me, and I suppose I can’t blame her. She was happy with you, and you with her. I destroyed all that. When I took her from you, she too became a creature of hate, but focused, not like yours—directed entirely on me.
“She said that I should suffer for what I’d done. She mocked my morality, as I guess she had a right to do. She wouldn’t let me come to you. She wanted me to suffer in the knowledge of what I’d made you, and on some level I thought I deserved it. Of course, she always asked to go to you herself, but I forbade it. I needed her, needed her personality and drive, needed her to do things that I could not. I needed her to infiltrate the Sangro Sankts.
“I knew that if I let her come to you it would all be over. I’d never be able to separate you two again, and by then I wouldn’t have the heart for it anyway ... So we didn’t come. Meanwhile you earned the title Darkling and, after some time, you and Kharker took up together. It was only after that, after Kharker started showing you how to open yourself, how to heal, that Amelia’s hate for me died, at least to a low simmer. Finally, and after many years, she became fond of me, as I’d already become of her. I know you don’t want to hear it, Ruegger, but you need to. I love her, and she loves me. It’s not the same love she held for you, but it’s enough. The important thing is that she is loved. I love her far more than she does me. I just wanted you to know that.”
Ruegger nodded. “Thank you. You’re right: I needed to hear that. But when you say she doesn’t love you as you do her … Is she, I don’t know how to say ...?”
“She’s not the same,” Mauchlery admitted. “Maybe, in time, she’ll heal completely. Still, even as you’re riddled by your guilts and self-hatred, so she is with hers. I guess I wasn’t strong enough of a mentor to raise her out of it, like Kharker and Hauswell and, perhaps most importantly, Danielle have done for you. She’s healed mostly, but there are times when she’s colder than ice, and at others teeming over with fury. Over the years, though, she’s ... stabilized.” The Ambassador shook his head. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. The important thing is she has the capacity to love. She loves me, and you know she still loves you.”
“Mauchlery.”
“Yes?”
“May I meet her sometime?”
The kavasari considered. “I guess that will be up to her. Now she knows you’re aware of her, I’m sure she’ll come for you eventually. Not to take you away from Danielle, but just to see you again.”
“I’d like that.”
“As, I’m sure, would she. I would be interested to see how she and Danielle got along. And Ruegger, I have a request. Will you call me by my first name?”
“I ... don’t think I’m ready for that, yet. But ... my mind is open to the idea.”
“That’s all I ask.” The Ambassador placed a hand on Ruegger’s. “Are you ready to begin?”
“To turn me, like you turned her so long ago? It’s come to that, has it? Full circle.”
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.” Ruegger had no hesitation, but he could see that his lack of such somewhat surprised the Ambassador. “I’ve been a vigilante long enough. It’s high time I made a living from it.”
Unexpectedly, that brought a laugh from Mauchlery. The sound bounced around the cavern until the sheer healthiness of it infected Ruegger, too. Side by side with the man he’d hated for so long, he laughed and laughed, as outside the night grew darker and its inhabitants more restless.
When they quieted, Ruegger said, “I’m ready.”
Chapter 4
The fate of the Castle (and through it very possibly the world) depended on stopping Byron from leveling the whole place, Harry knew, but to stop the zombie he needed Cloire. And he couldn’t find her.
Cloire wasn’t in her room, or in any room that Harry looked in. He tried the taverns, thinking that a logical place, and—sure enough—found a fellow that had seen Cloire leaving not long before. According to him, she’d said she was hungry.
Harry didn’t like the sound of that. With her tie to him severed, she was probably over at the Blood and Stone ordering the specialty of the night, enjoying the new dusk on one of the many balconies. With a sinking feeling, he marched up to the evil restaurant and tried to enter.
The ghensiv at the door pushed him away. “Lifers can’t go in.”
“Do you know who I am? I’m a friend of the Dark Lord’s Heir, and I have urgent business in there.”
“Unless you’re willing to get yourself served on a plate as somebody’s breakfast, you’re not getting in.” She licked her lips. “You would make a good breakfast.”
He checked all the usual watering holes of the evil immortals, searched the taverns and rooms again, and nearly gave up.
Fuck. He stomped into the human tavern himself and ordered a martini. Once the drink was in front of him, he stared at it for a good five minutes and sent it back, ordering a coffee instead.
He drank it, slow and black and hot. Unlike these damned shades, he needed sleep and at this point caffeine was just about the only thing keeping him on his feet. That, and his mission. To save the Castle. To save that ghensiv that had just told him he’d make a good breakfast.
Nevertheless, he drank three straight cups of coffee, went to the mass latrines and took a long leak, his eyes closed and one hand half-supporting him against the wall. Where was there to go?
Then it struck him, like a dash of cold water on his face. Finishing, he took the elevator down several stories and approached Rosie’s Din. Warm and festive lights greeted him, as did the virtuous shades of the Castle. These were the shades he would want to save. They emerged flushed and sweaty from the blood brothel and he was surprised when some smiled and nodded or, even, waved at him. Yes. They may be shades, but they were decent. Then he came on a sight he would never forget:
Cloire, emerging from the cheerful Din, staggering slightly under the euphoria of a recent feeding.
She saw him and stopped dead.
Unable to help himself, he smiled. She hadn’t gone back! Despite their break, she still held to her morals—or, rather, his.
He moved toward her, cautiously, and she didn’t draw away. The next thing he knew he was laying on the dirty stone-bricked floor, staring up at the livid expression on her face. Blood ran from his nose.
“Bastard!” she said, and stalked away.
He lay there stunned, but only for the moment it took him to recover himself. Yes, she was still good. And yes, she was still royally pissed.
With a groan of protest from his middle-aged bones, he shoved himself off the floor and ran after her.
* * *
When the mud-sharks had retrieved the Sabo and were busy tearing it apart in plain view of Junger and Jagoda, the assassins turned their attentions to Laslo. They’d already discussed their plans for him and both agreed that in order to fulfill his new role, he’d need to be more than a head and a set of cute, tiny lungs.
So, while the mud-sharks were ripping open the great black globe of the Sabo with all its countless groping tendrils—a task that would take the parasites some time—the Balaklava drew Laslo out of the blood-stained burlap sack and proceeded to make faces at him until his spirits were enlivened enough to start spouting Scripture at them, some of which he seemed to invent on the spot.
“Sinners! Fornicators! Heretics! Murderers! You who turn your back on God when you should be kneeling before Him. When you should restore me to myself and kneel before me so that I may bleed away your wickedness and
raise you up again in the image of Purity! I am the Chosen One, the Second Coming! I am Christ! Resurrector of the dead, healer of warped minds! Years from now, people shan’t say Jesus Christ; they shall say Laslo Christ, the Word of God! For is Christ not God?”
Jagoda, holding the priest by the hair, punched him in the nose, and both assassins laughed as Laslo’s head swung back and forth.
“We repent!” said Junger. “We will do as you, the Word of God, command!”
Laslo’s expression was priceless. Again the assassins fell out laughing.
“Dare not mock the One True God!” Laslo said.
“Oh, we daren’t, believe us. We will raise you, bigger than life, and give you leave to spread your Word.” Junger smiled. “We saw what beautiful messages you crafted in your hangar. We wish you to continue your efforts—only this time with our help.”
Laslo’s eyes darted back and forth between them, trying to find the catch. Before he could, Kiernevar came leaping up, a thin scar around his neck the only sign of his recent decapitation.
“What is it, Norman?” Jagoda said. “We’re busy.”
“Stop calling me that!”
“We should’ve put Laslo’s head on your body. Now that might’ve been fun.”
Kiernevar growled. In his eyes burned a fierce determination.
“Out with it, Kiernevar. Say your piece and go your way. You’ve already failed us once. What now?”
“I want my freedom. I never want to feel your minds in my head again—or Laslo’s, either. Out of you, all of you! You promised you’d make me a chalgid, and you lied.”
Jagoda turned to Laslo. “Add that to your list, priest. Fornicators and murderers and now—prevaricators!—boy, are we going to hell.”
“No,” squealed the head. “Not Hell, not if you help me spread the Word. That will save your wretched souls.”
The assassins grinned. Laslo would be happy soon enough—and oh, what a sight he’d be.
“Look at me,” said Kiernevar. “I want you to honor your word. I’m not a chalgid, only half of one—and half zombie. I can’t bear it. If you don’t restore me, I swear I’ll kill myself.”
“Swear not,” warned Laslo. “The Ears of God are listening.”
“Fuck you.”
“Now, now, Norman,” chided Junger. “If you’re going to be a full chalgid, you’ll need Laslo. He’s the one that turned you, remember. You’ll need his healing properties to restore you.”
“He’s a fucking head!”
“Not for long. Even now, look over there. Zombies come this way, bringing blood for Laslo so that he can grow back. And blood for us, too, of course.”
“And me?”
The tusked Balaklava shrugged. “Why not? You are, after all, at least half chalgid.”
Hope welled over in the lunatic’s eyes. “So you’ll grant me my request—you’ll make me whole?”
Junger turned to his brother. “True, Kiernevar isn’t much fun as a zombie,” he said. “What’s a wild card good for if he’s not allowed to be wild? And a slave is not wild.”
“On the other hand, do we really want him running around, all himself?”
“That doesn’t sound so good, either,” Junger agreed.
“But it would be more amusing …”
“Please,” begged the lunatic. “Please. I feel ... unwhole, like there’s something missing. Don’t you see? Now, after your bloods, I ... can speak, and think, better than before. And I remember ... vaguely, like shadows ... what I was before. I think ... I think if I was whole, I would know. Yours and the priest’s bloods would restore me back to who I was.”
“You were an insane vagrant drawn to the void of Jean-Pierre and his incredible mental powers,” Jagoda reminded him. “That’s what you want to remember? You were a fucking lunatic and still are.”
“But what was I before? Before all that? Don’t you see? Look at this body, it’s in its middle forties, but aged beyond its years. Surely there was a time before Jean-Pierre ... Maybe a family ... something!”
Junger and Jagoda listened to the desperation in his voice, a pitch that matched Laslo’s equally, and nodded to themselves.
“Fine,” Junger said. “Then let it be done.”
* * *
“So this Meadow should be no problem, then?” Kharker said and took a sip of the brandy they’d brought along. It was very fine, he had to admit. He and Roche sat together in a stony little hollow, passing the bottle back and forth.
“No,” said Roche. “Now we’re all kavasari, I doubt the Demons will even approach us.”
“What about that sorcerer-created sun?”
“We were in charge of the sorcerers. We made them give us immunity to their suns, so that we could, ah, check up on the creatures we preserved. You really should have come with us a time or two.”
“I never wanted to see them caged.”
“As cages go, some are quite nice, my friend. And some of the denizens of the Refuge are … very friendly.”
“You old dog.” Kharker was chuckling, thinking about the new sights he was about to see, when in walked the Ambassador. He must have just come from Ruegger, as he looked both drained and invigorated.
“How’d it go?” asked Sarnova.
“Ruegger’s quite incredible, isn’t he?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean ... I simply mean he’s very strong. Before he came to the Castle this time, I knew he’d had Kharker’s blood. But he’s been killing off evil shades ever since he was brought over. Maybe that’s how he got his strength, I don’t know. But he has an incredible ability to ... to search out every aspect of his powers and master them with enormous speed. It’s like how that Kiernevar creature was.”
Kharker nodded. “Maybe that’s it. Ruegger has passed through at least one period of sheer insanity, when he was mortal. He actually walled himself up in the catacombs of his family’s mansion with his dead bride. Afterwards, he was thrown into an insane asylum for half a year. Maybe that’s the key. Maybe if we all went insane every now and then we’d be a lot stronger.”
“Perhaps,” Mauchlery said, “but I think it’s something more. At any rate, what concerns me is that he’s off right now, running loose through the Refuge, testing the outer limits of his new powers. Exploring, testing. I think he’ll run himself ragged if he’s not careful. And without another shade to feed from down here, he won’t be able to revive himself in time.”
“He’s preparing for war.”
All three of them turned to face the new voice, Jean-Pierre, standing in the archway with an unlit Pall Mall dangling from his lips.
“He’s seeing just how far he can go, how much damage he can do,” elaborated the albino. “I think he’s prepared to give it all tonight. Tell me, all of you, is this war true? Are the goals you’ve stated the real ones—to establish a peaceful relationship with humans and to free the magical creatures wandering around down here?”
“You didn’t honestly think we were lying to you, did you?” said Roche.
“No. I don’t. But I needed to be sure.”
“Be sure.”
“We’ll leave as soon as Ruegger returns,” Francois said. “I hate to delay, but we need all the strength we can muster, and I suspect he will be formidable.”
“Good,” Jean-Pierre said. “Then there might be time. Kharker, I hate to interrupt your gathering, but there’s something I need to tell you in private.”
Kharker studied his adopted son for a moment, nodded a silent goodbye to the other two and rose. “Lead on, my son.” What could be so urgent, and personal?
The albino led him down several corridors and into an empty chamber that reeked of stale air and the flame that billowed from the three torches along the stone walls. Jean-Pierre sat down on the cold ground and, after a puzzled moment, the Hunter joined him.
Kharker started to say something, but stopped. It was clear from his expression that Jean-Pierre wished to go first. When he was comfortab
le, the Hunter lit up an old stub of a cigar with his newly energized pyrokinetic abilities and leaned back to hear what the albino had to say.
“I’ve got something to tell you, Khark. It may not be easy for you, but it’s important.”
“Alright, my son. I’m all yours.”
Jean-Pierre did not smile, just sat there in contemplation puffing on his Pall Mall. At last he met Kharker’s gaze. “I didn’t kill her, Khark. The girl, the one that looked like Danielle. I let her live.”
Kharker said nothing.
“I’ve changed, Khark. Sophe ... she’s taught me the value of life. I ... I can’t explain it very well, not like she could, but I now believe it wrong to kill an innocent. I don’t know whether to apologize to you or to curse you for encouraging me to slaughter wantonly all these years. I still love you, Kharker. Know that, always. But, what you said to Ruegger, that you loved him despite his morality. I want it to be like that between us.” He sucked on his cigarette for all it was worth. “I don’t want to lose you, Khark, or turn away from you like Ruegger did when he found ... the goodness in things. But I don’t know what your reaction will be, and it scares me. I’ve … gone good.” He stole a last hit from the Pall Mall and threw the butt with unerring accuracy into one of the torches. When he looked up again, his expression was hard, but at the same time hopeful. “So where does that leave us?”
Kharker mulled on it. First Ruegger, now Jean-Pierre. Both his sons had abandoned his ways. Yet they had not abandoned him. Perhaps that was the important thing. Or was it? They’d rejected his ways, his moral code, everything that made him him. What did that mean? Had they gone soft? Or was it him, him that had stayed evil for so long he saw it difficult to see any other way of life.
For a long time, the two werewolf-kavasari just sat there, lost in each others’ thoughts. To Kharker, it felt like he was aboard a ship that had just been torpedoed. His foundation was ripping out from under him.
But ... was there a new one underneath?
At last, exhausted, Kharker glanced up into those brilliant green eyes of Jean-Pierre’s and said, “For God’s sakes, my boy. Of course I still love you. As for our feeding habits, shit, now we’re kavasari—and I’ve long felt criminals to be the best prey in any hunt. All we need to feed on are shades, and most of them are criminals. With our new diet, if I kept to eating innocents, I’d likely as not starve to death. So if it’s only evil you’ll eat from now on, then evil it is.”
