by David Lee
Inching forward, he kept moving toward the light. It was important to die in the light; even if it was a violent death, light was better than the dark. At least the pretense of silence was gone, he thought, as he moved forward, his gun extended in front.
Suddenly a firm hand grasped his gun hand, stopping all movement, and a familiar voice whispered in his ear, “Stop shooting, you maniac, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to help,” he said, desperately grateful to no longer be alone but anxious to show no fear.
“Help me, help me, you almost shot me,” Arabella hissed, barely able to suppress her anger, wrenching the gun out of his grip. “You and your stupid gun.”
They were huddled against the wall so close that he could feel her breast pressed against his arm. When he turned his head he could smell a light lilac fragrance and unconsciously he snuggled a little closer. “Boy, you sure smell good,” he whispered.
“Get off of me,” she said giving him a push, “Its L’Heure Bleu.”
“I’ll get you some,” he said, “You know, for helping me out.”
“You can’t afford it,” she whispered, “You want to help, right?”
“Of course,” he whispered, glad to be on the team. “Anything!”
“Good,” she replied, “Stand up and walk down the sidewalk.”
“What,” he blustered, “What about those guys?”
“OK, stay here,” she whispered, “I’ll take care of them myself.”
“OK, OK,” he whispered. “You need a goat, I’ll be the goat.”
Ortega got to his feet and wobbled off down the corridor toward the next pool of dim light. He kept his right arm out to touch the wall so he wouldn’t wander off in the dark and fall off the edge. Silence lay on him like a wet wool blanket; the only sensation he had was the rough surface of the wall scraping his fingertip and the indescribably foul odor he was walking into.
He stepped into the warmth of the violet pool of light, his shoulders sagging with relief when two men materialized in front of him. The two were dressed in what he guessed were raggedy Edwardian tailcoats and formal white shirts with ruffled cuffs jutting from the sleeves. On their feet were pointy-toed black boots like skinny rockers used to wear, and one of them even sported a silk top hat.
Ortega didn’t know what he expected, but these two cartoon caricatures were not it. He felt he’d opened the front door at Halloween on a couple of teenagers scarfing free candy instead of scary Vampires under Seattle. He did the only thing he could under the circumstances. Opening his mouth he started laughing, his anxiety and fear exploding at the ridiculous pair in front of him.
Pale as cave lizards, their skin was finely translucent and Ortega could see the blue veins in their necks spreading across their faces, branching into their skulls. The faint purple highlighted the blood coursing through the network exposed on their necks and skulls. Their eyes bulbed insect-like from the sockets, an effect, he was to learn, from long life in the lightless depths.
One of the Vampires, the one not wearing the top hat, flitted to the wall and, with an impossibly quick strike, snatched a large wriggling rat from a crack in the wall. Holding it out, he bit its head off and drank the blood like he was sipping from a drinking fountain.
“Snack, my brother; next we dine on Human blood,” said top hat, moving closer.
The two were so out time and place that he felt he had been transported to another world. His laughter took on a hysterical tone as they closed on him. The one with the rat dropped it and, refreshed, turned his attention to him. At his laughter, the two arched their backs, opened their mouths and hissed like lizards. The stench from their breath hit him in the face, his eyes burned and began to water and his throat involuntarily closed to keep the poison from his lungs.
The creatures split apart and glided towards him, leisurely surveying prey. Ortega felt their eyes rake his and dimly remembered Arabella’s injunction not to lock vision with them; his brain screamed flight as he realized he was meat to the beasts. He tried to fix them in his vision but they haphazardly flitted about until, breaking, he fled down the corridor, not caring that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, his only thought to escape the hideous smell and the teeth protruding from the evil grins of the creatures.
Running, he knew he must stand and fight. Flight would only result in them ignominiously hauling him down from behind so, forcing himself, he stopped, turned and, pulling his backup from its ankle holster, fired three shots down the corridor, hoping he hit something, hoping he didn’t accidentally hit Arabella. The only response was more laughter, the sounds drawing closer.
He raised his arm to fire again when the faint smell of Arabella surrounded him and her arms rose up to restrain his movement. Softly she whispered, “Wait.”
He stood waiting and, from the dark, two shapes materialized in the last bit of light; and then she was silhouetted between them, wielding a sword in short vicious strokes and the two heads bounced against the walls as the bodies slumped to the ground. Ortega stared, stupefied at the suddenness of the ending. The headless bodies flamed, crumbling to dark sandy ash until all that was left of the two was a heap of ash rather like the residue in the fireplace after the embers smoldered down. The last were the skulls, which glowed hot in the passageway, then ignited into white flame, their brains bubbling out through the eyes and ears.
Gently taking his arm as if he were escorting her to a movie, she leaned close saying, “Come, someone up above may have heard your shots and raised an alarm.”
“I need to find my gun,” he replied, “I can’t lose it.”
Pulling his service revolver from her pocket, she handed it to him saying, “Here, I saved it for you; you did well, turning to fight, very few Humans can take it.”
“What was that smell?”
“They’ve been feeding on rats; hiding in the depths undetected; without the nourishment of Human blood they did not develop properly, they are an abomination.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“No. Their hunger is driving them to the surface to feed.”
“That,” pointing at the smoldering skulls, “running loose in the City,” grimacing, he drew back.
“Do not fear, Human, I will protect you.”
“My name is Jesse.”
After a moment, “Thank you, Jesse.”
And, after a moment, “You’re welcome, partner.”
Together they turned and, taking his hand in hers, she led him out of the Underground.
CHAPTER 16
“Congratulations,” drawled Jason, preening on the baroque velvet couch he favored in the grand salon of his residence. “I’m sure everyone was impressed as I was by your performance.” Dressed in black, which certainly was not unusual for this group, he nonetheless managed to look chic and polished, whereas many of the others looked drab and common in their monochrome selves. A rare albino, his skin was so pale and white as to draw notice even from the People of the Night.
With his pale blond hair pulled back into a long ponytail reaching the middle of his back, piercing light blue eyes over prominent cheekbones and slightly flaring nostrils, only the most discerning would guess that he was born in Africa. Made in the mid-18th century by a Dutch Vampire busy looting the continent, he’d traveled the world, first as a slaver on transport ships then as a freebooter. Eventually ending up in the New World, he became the premier purveyor of exotic pleasures and entertainments to Vampire Clans in the Americas.
Oliver discovered Jason on a pleasure trip to New York and the two became fast friends if not, as many suspected, lovers. Soon Oliver persuaded the Queen to allow Jason entry to the Northwest and very shortly the social center of Vampire life centered in Blood Simple, the club he opened under the City. Adroitly weaving his way through the politics of the Clan, he became necessary to many Vampires because of his ability to maintain a ready supply of young women who willingly offered their blood in exchange for Vampiric pleasures o
f the flesh.
“Did you miss me?” replied Oliver. His return from the dead caused equal parts excitement and apprehension in the group that had coalesced around Jason at Blood Simple. “Or didn’t you notice I’d been gone these last few years?” said Oliver, an edge to his voice that caused several patrons to discreetly slide their backs toward a wall.
“Whatever are you wearing,” said Jason, ignoring the implied threat, “you are dressed like a lawyer on casual Friday.”
It was true, and after a moment Oliver looked down at the green cable knit sweater covering cuffed and pleated khaki pants over actual Brooks Brothers penny loafers and began to laugh. “I borrowed these when I escaped and haven’t had time to shop; their previous owner was deliciously preppy.” One by one the others laughed with him and came up to him, welcoming him back, thrusting glasses of the freshest blood into his hands. And, like the prodigal accepted into the bosom of his family, he drank glass after glass of the red rich liquid until he was thoroughly sated and his blood lust forgotten for the moment.
Sensing that the time was right, that Oliver was calm, Jason, still in his customary position on the couch, stretched his impossibly languid arm out saying, “Come, sit beside me and tell us what happened and where you’ve been.”
Sinking down into the luxurious cushions of the richly brocaded couch, Oliver told them of his capture by Arabella and Petru. At the mention of those names the group cringed, for their names reminded everyone present that Oliver was an escaped traitor. Oliver went on telling of imprisonment, the sordid burial at sea, how he’d starved and scratched until he was free, how he’d swum to land and fed for the first time in over a century, how he’d made his way back to Seattle, feeding on the way.
The only thing Oliver didn’t talk about was the thought on everyone’s mind; Arabella and Petru, and how soon the Queen would send them out to hunt down Oliver and kill him and, while they were at it, kill everyone associated with him.
The group grew uneasy with the telling; not only had he escaped from the Queen’s imprisonment but he had broken the law by openly feeding on Humans. Killing Humans was expressly forbidden and the punishment was death. It was quite simple really, the Vampires’ world existed parallel to the Humans’, invisible and unsuspected; no one was permitted any action that would bring the slightest suspicion, let alone conflict, between the two.
Now, Oliver was brazenly describing pulling people off the streets to feed upon them and actually relishing in the ecstasy of the taste as the life drained from his victims. It was clear that his actions were meant as an open challenge and the trail he’d left led straight here.
“Now,” he announced, “I’m back.”
Stunned, they all stared, wondering if Petru was coming through the door like the avenging angel with the Queen close behind to dole out their punishment, where permanent banishment would be the best they could hope for but death was more likely. All except Jason, who appeared as unperturbed as ever and quipped, “I suppose you have a plan? I mean, what else could you have been doing for all those decades while you were eating concrete except plotting revenge.”
“I’d forgotten how attractive the throat of an unwilling victim is, the arched neck veins exposed, a pulse beating with fear and anticipation, raging hormones pumping adrenaline into the body till the taste of the victim is the elixir we need to be ourselves,” he said, as he looked around the room fixing each with his gaze. “The blood you served me tonight came from the herd maintained by our host,” tipping his head toward Jason, “farm animals maintained by the Clan, they are part of your captivity with no taste, no nutrition, no life force.”
Looking about the room he knew that he had their attention. Each face was raptly imagining the hunt, the feed and the kill, for it was true the most satisfying and nutritious blood for a Vampire came from feeding upon a pure Human to conclusion. Unfortunately, this resulted in the death of the Human, a messy, bloody death fraught with terror and hormones with sexual overtones that inevitably led to conflict among the Vampires, spilling into Human society.
Because of this, the Clans had long ago adopted the aptly named Concord of Harmony Between the Races, which forbade the indiscriminate feeding upon Humans except in certain designated world zones. Enforcement and interpretation of the Concord was left to each individual Clan leader and there were minor variations.
The Cincinnati Clan, for instance, allowed a certain number of street people to be harvested yearly. The annual hunt attracted Vampires from all over the world who purchased tickets for the lottery, winners receiving ear tags for that season’s cull. Photos of the hunts were prized and hung prominently in Vampire residences, attesting to the hunting skills of the owners. Cincinnati rules provided that the Human must be taken cleanly, with no evidence of violence or abduction. The body after draining must be disposed anonymously and permanently so that the authorities tallied the Human as missing.
The only other alternative for a Vampire craving a fresh kill was an officially designated zone, usually an impoverished nation involved in a civil war, someplace without any natural resources that could safely be ignored by the world. However, with the increased computer surveillance by the major powers, it was becoming more difficult if not impossible to travel unnoticed to these countries. Most designated zones were so poor and desolate that there was no tourist industry and no plausible reason to support the visa applications. The good old days of wide-open wars were gone, and travel to one of the destinations guaranteed attention from one of the government agencies that kept track of such things.
For the Vampires present, free range Humans were a distant memory. All relied instead upon purveyors like Jason who maintained herds of Humans who, for whatever reason, usually psycho-sexual dysfunction, served as voluntary donors to the local population. The allure of the hunt, however, was strong and not far from the imagination of every Vampire, the desire to possess and destroy not far from the surface.
Oliver rose to his feet, “I propose that we return to what we are, that we live as Vampires.”
“And the Concord, what about the Concord,” asked Linda, one of the twins who vogued the Seattle scene recruiting for Jason, “What about the Clans?”
“The Clans will tolerate us so long as we are in control of the City, they will not intervene in our affairs when I rule the Clan and operate within their restrictions, something that I will do with latitude,” he said, as dissembling as any politician advocating an expense-free war.
“Sounds like treason,” said a Vamp lounging against the wall, still guzzling the free blood, “are you suggesting rebellion?”
“I think,” interjected Jason from his seat on the couch, “our dear friend Oliver is suggesting a change in management.”
“It is time,” said Oliver looking for all the world like a Republican calling for the invasion of some obscure country, “time we took back our destiny.”
“How do you propose we do this,” said Jourdan, an older Vamp watching the speech from the side of the room. “She is powerful and has the backing of the Clan.”
“Yes, she does and we cannot win a war, but we need only replace her and the Clan will follow; we need only cut off the head,” Oliver replied, turning to face him. “Of course, my plan depends upon secrecy and stealth. Everyone in this room is with me, no?” He looked around at the faces, nodding to each. “If one of you was a traitor, an agent for her, then it would be very bad for all of us, wouldn’t you agree, Jourdan?”
Uncomfortable with the sudden attention, Jourdan slid back so the wall was behind him. The other Vamps in the room looked on with the bored insouciance of those who had been there, done that a thousand times. Oliver flashed across the room to suddenly stand in front of Jourdan, pinning him to the wall. Jason was off the couch in a heartbeat, no longer languid, his long fingernails poised like daggers at Jourdan’s throat.
Leaning forward Oliver whispered in Jourdan’s ear, “What do you suppose I thought about, my friend, all those long yea
rs when all I had to do was scratch at the ceiling and slowly starve.”
“I don’t know,” replied Jourdan motionless between the two, “It must have been terrible.”
“Yes, it was terrible. As you know, the agony of starvation never really ends for us; it takes so long to perish in that fashion, centuries I’m told. Maybe I should be grateful that my agony was so short, barely a century, don’t you agree?”
Jourdan made his move, thrusting his right hand toward Oliver’s neck in a desperate attempt to escape. Oliver easily trapped his hand, forcing his wrist back and bending Jourdan to his knees. “I’m very strong now,” Oliver whispered. “Hunting and feeding and killing have returned my strength. I am my own best advertisement.” Jason’s hands were around his neck and the only sound in the room was the gurgle from Jourdan’s throat as he tried to breathe.
“Don’t strangle him,” said Oliver, suddenly solicitous of Jourdan’s health. “I think he wants to say something. Maybe he wants to explain how Petru and the Bitch knew where to find me that night.”
Jason relaxed his hands from around Jourdan’s neck. He pulled his right hand back and bunched his fingers together so that his long crimson nails were a spike aimed at Jourdan’s carotid artery, saying, “Yes, I’d like to hear your explanation for that evening, since only you and I and one other knew of Oliver’s location.”
“Maybe it was you or the other; why do you think it was me?” Jourdan argued, smelling a way out of the trap.
“It wasn’t me and it wasn’t the other; I know because I questioned him until I was sure he told the truth. That only leaves you. All these years while I’ve waited, I’ve known you were her spy. Why else would anyone spend time with Petru?”
Jourdan drew himself up, “I am a member of the Clan, loyal to the Queen and will always serve her,” he said, defiant to the end.
“Serve her then,” screamed Oliver as he drove his nails into Jourdan’s neck, severing his windpipe, then cutting his arteries, finally slicing through his spinal cord. As the head toppled, Jason grabbed a fistful of hair as Jourdan’s body disintegrated to ash. The facial skin melted until Jason was left holding a skull with eyeballs obscenely bulging, which he spun about by the hair. At the apogee he released Jourdan’s flaming head, sailing it over the gawping Vampires into the fireplace, where it flared into a green fireball and was sucked up the chimney.
