by David Lee
Inside the Queen stood holding the vase, her eyes fixed on Arabella’s face hissing, “Do you know what this is?”
“No,” Arabella said, “I do not.”
“Look no more,” replied the Queen cradling the vase in her hands. “Petru is dead, these are his ashes, Oliver mailed them to me.” Arabella would have been touched by the gesture had not the Queen’s face contorted into a hideous grimace.
“I would like to go to the Underground,” she said. “Perhaps we can locate Oliver and his friends.”
“Of course,” replied Arabella, “I understand,” although she really didn’t understand what they were going to do.
“You will sweep the way of any unpleasant surprises lurking in my way.” If Arabella was surprised to be pressed into service as point for the incursion, she showed no sign, saying only, “I’ll assemble my team.”
“Choose whomever you deem acceptable,” the Queen replied. “And while you are at it, get your friend, Ratman, and his pets to act as sentries.” This time Arabella’s face twitched, betraying her emotions. Flashing to within an inch of her face the Queen whispered, “You didn’t think I knew you were using the Ratman.”
Carefully, Arabella whispered, “I tried to keep him confidential so that he would not be at risk.”
“It’s worse than I thought; even you think I am out of touch.”
“I only serve,” said Arabella, queasy at the unexpected turn. She had never become comfortable about the Queen; it was always a step away from disaster talking to her. “I did not mean to keep a secret from you.”
Walking off down the corridor, the Queen casually asked, “How is the little vermin, still moaning about the fire?”
“Yes, he still speaks of it as if it were yesterday.”
“He was poking his nose out of a hole in the wall when the glue pot started burning; never got over all his children dying in the fire.”
“He is useful.”
Turning to face Arabella, “Remind him to stay that way,” she said, “Everyone needs to be useful or I really don’t need them, do I?”
There really was no need for an answer. As Arabella was sure that no one wished to be perceived as superfluous, she dipped her head, indicating complete assent.
“Be sure to bring your Human and the Indian, I want everyone present.”
“Of course,” she replied, wondering what the Queen had in mind. “Do we take prisoners?”
“What do I need with prisoners,” the Queen snapped, “Incapacitate them.”
Arabella didn’t need to ask what incapacitate meant. She didn’t want to sweep ahead of the Queen killing every Vampire she met; the fallout would insure that her presence in Seattle would be unwelcome. “Surely not your supporters,” she said, seeking clarification.
“Of course not, why would I want my own soldiers killed?” she peevishly replied. “Use your discretion but remember, anyone you leave behind is your responsibility.”
Roughly translated from Queen-speak, Arabella knew that meant go ahead and kill them all if you want, but if you decide to leave anyone alive and they annoy me, I might decide to kill you. The Queen’s attitude indicated a sea change in her strategy. Arabella guessed there were going to be a lot of ashes blowing through the Underground and that Vampires who had been sitting this one out would either get in on the Queen’s side or they might find themselves looking at a wooden stake sticking from their chest.
“Of course,” Arabella said. “When do we leave?”
“Now, we leave now. Have we become so bloated that we cannot even get out the door?” she raged.
CHAPTER 26
Arabella cast her thoughts into the darkness seeking contact with life in any of its forms. Her long years hunting alone in the world honed her perceptions so when she focused, she could detect a butterfly leaving a leaf. And now, she was focused.
Behind her, Jesse and the Indian’s presence floated along each side of the tunnel. The Indian’s heart beat as loud as one of his ceremonial drums, steady and confident, the pulse in his neck a metronome to their progress. Jesse’s familiar heart comforted her in the dark, a lover’s metronome fluttering a bit at side passages but quickly settling down. Thinking about him was exactly why she didn’t want him along, and she snapped her mind back casting it into the dark. Briefly, she hoped he wasn’t thinking of her, that he was paying attention to his duties, although that wasn’t quite true.
Confident that nothing threatened down the side passages she pushed forward, anxious to reach a safe haven. Jesse had proven adept as a Vampire hunter but would always be at the Human speed disadvantage. Any squeamishness had long since disappeared in the constant combat, and she could count on him to put the heavy .45 rounds into marauding Vampires, allowing her the time to finish them off. The Indian was born and bred to hunt, a welcome addition and another set of eyes. It took some getting used to, but she could get happy with having these two at her back protecting her without the complications of Clan obligations.
Ragnar, one of the Queen’s messenger boys, tailed behind, ostensibly the rear guard. He was one of the Scandinavians from the Ballard district who were all the rage among Vampires years ago. Tall, blond and Nordic, Vampire women collected them like purse dogs until the Queen put a stop to it, limiting the number that could be harvested and kept as pets. Arabella doubted that his name was Ragnar; no one wanted one named Jim or Bill, so they were renamed when changed. Now, you couldn’t go out for a quiet drink without Thor or Odin wanting to chat you up; maybe, she thought, she should whack them all for the general improvement of her nightlife.
Most of all, she relied upon the horde slithering unseen, unheard, unnoticed through the cracks and crevices, watching and monitoring. Their scritchy, scratchy feet beneath, above and beside her let her know the Ratman had done his job. When she told him he was working for the Queen and to mobilize the hordes he balked, blathering on about the fire, “I can never forgive her; she killed a million of my brothers and sisters.” It was true that the Great Fire had killed no Humans but that a million rats perished in the conflagration. While the City fathers saw the carnage as the only bright spot of the Fire, it had seriously unhinged Ratman, who seemed never able to let go the screaming memories of his roasting protégés. Tedious and tiresome.
Occasionally a Human, when brought to the turning point, would not actually metamorphose to a Vampire. Usually, the Human did not survive the experience and expired, a failure. No loss, most Vampires felt, as there was an unlimited supply of Humans. Of the ones who did not turn, a very few lived. Most were destroyed by their putative parent as soon as it was evident they would not completely turn. Ratman was the exception.
Arabella listened to him off to the side squeaking orders to the horde. No longer quite Human, never to be a Vampire, he had permanently moved Underground, living among the rats of the City, eventually rising to rule them. The Clan allowed him life because it was almost impossible to locate him in the warren of pipes and tunnels he inhabited, protected by the millions of rat eyes, and the Queen found his particular abilities useful. Useful, Arabella thought, being the key word, for the Queen could easily decide his potential liabilities outweighed his usefulness, a decision which would inevitably lead to a wooden stake in the heart.
Glancing back, she spotted beady eyes peering from beneath a tumbled down wall and knew that if the rats were present they were probably safe. Ragnar, the pompous fop, was sauntering down the corridor like he was vamping on the Champs Elysees. She wanted to scream at him to pay attention, but there was little she could do to convince him of the potential for danger. She picked him because he appeared to be the least indolent of the boys congregating in the mansion.
They appeared to be a mixture of, to her eye, foppish fashion, fad haircuts and bad attitude. Kept as pets by the wealthy and powerful, they were more lap dog than Vampire. None as far as she could tell had ever fought, let alone hunted, and they had no appreciation of the danger they were walking into. Perhaps the Qu
een was right, if you aren’t useful why do we need you. Perhaps Oliver had a point, and it was necessary to cull the herd, restore the Night People to their strength.
Ragnar was examining his black tipped fingernails. Earlier he had complained that his Gucci loafers would be soiled in the wretched conditions, but she had silenced him, hissing that more than his shoes would be damaged if he didn’t pay attention. Besides, she positively abhorred branding and secretly hoped his silly slip-ons would be destroyed in the muck.
The boys, as they were known, were pressed into action as the insurgency ground on. Her ranks depleted, the Queen used the basement boys as messengers and “first in,” sacrificing them as canaries to save her combat troops.
The route Arabella chose was circuitous, avoiding the main passageways. There was less chance to run into anyone but, and it was a risky but, anyone they did happen upon was probably a rebel or at the very least a sympathizer. She assumed that anyone they met along here was a problem and could be dealt with expeditiously if they didn’t have a quick and believable explanation. Otherwise, it was stake in the heart time.
For old times’ sake, the Queen wanted to enter at Madison and First Street to commemorate the Great Fire, which had laid the foundation for the Underground, and sweep majestically up the Central corridor. Too much traffic, too many eyes, too many unknowns to suit Arabella’s paranoia, and she had successfully lobbied for a more anonymous approach, one that offered less pomp but significantly more protection.
Bored, Ragnar started singing to himself, which, to Arabella’s heightened senses, resonated like a ringing a bell. He was rapping to Arabella’s favorite, Thrift Shop. She had hoped to come unaware upon any Vampires using these corridors but that opportunity was lost. Actually, she ruefully acknowledged, lost long ago as Ragnar was the noisiest Vampire she’d ever known, constantly sniffling about the damp underground, groaning at the fetid smells wafting from ancient cesspools and scuffling his feet through the trash on the floor. Even Jesse, she noted with admiration, had learned to be quiet, almost Vampire quiet and the Indian, a forest hunter, possessed skills so stealthy she was a bit envious.
Reviewing the attack later she had to thank, albeit posthumously, Ragnar. His constant complaining had spared her, Jesse and the Indian from the initial onslaught. The ambush let the three of them slip past, apparently distracted by Ragnar who was, at the moment, actually loudly whining about how far they’d walked. As she passed, she noticed the absence of the rats. It wasn’t much, just enough to jerk her attention from the interminable whining to the part of her whispering, “Someone wants to kill you.” As soon as she felt it, she flashed left then right, a zigzag avoiding anything coming at her and getting her turned around to face the attack.
The first thing she saw was Ragnar’s head arcing through the air, blood spurting from the stump of his neck, his headless corpse disintegrating. She nodded approvingly as Jesse went directly to target acquisition, his .45 pointed down the corridor. Vampires dressed like an old fashioned barrio gang with chinos hanging off their hips, work boots and pressed white shirts with only the top button closed over wife beaters stood laughing as Ragnar’s head arced through the air spurting blood, while his body ashed out like a pillar of salt before crumbling to the floor.
The make believe cholo gang was armed with stakes and one was swinging a Napoleonic era sword in the air, celebrating the decapitation. She was in their midst before they appreciated their problem. Sword boy was the first to go; Arabella didn’t want him waving the thing around and accidentally cutting Jesse. He gaped a silly smile as she raked her nails across his throat severing trachea, carotid artery, muscle and tissue to the spinal column so that his head fell backward as he continued forward, the skull bouncing off his back as he slowly disintegrated.
Pulling her katana, she continued the fluid motion, slicing through the two to her left with a side cut then continuing around, attacking the next with the classic kesa giri, cutting him between shoulder and neck so that he split open to his heart. To make sure, Arabella took the moment to sever the heart so there would be no recovery. Stepping through, she raised her katana to attack position and counted off the remaining opponents.
The remaining five stood, then flashed each to the side as a gunshot reverberated. She felt the bullet go past her as she slashed the one to her left, forcing him back; he began a disruptive jitter bugging back and forth, which she timed, and when he went left it was into her side cut, which neatly severed him. His legs kept going and the bottom half ran on, leaving the top half to plop to the floor.
Gunshots from Jesse’s .45 sounded as he came down the corridor blasting away at the remaining Vampires. Hit twice in his freshly laundered white shirt, a make believe East LA chollo faltered from the impact, turning from Jesse to Arabella. Jesse ejected the spent clip, jammed in another and shot the Vamp in the face, continuing until his head exploded and he began to ash out.
“Got ‘em,” was all Jesse said.
“Nice shot,” she replied, turning to face the rest. Vampire battles involve a quantum aspect as flashing Vamps appear and disappear, sometimes so fast they seem to be in two places at once. Hampered at the moment by the need to protect Jesse from a Vamp materializing behind him, she stood her ground slashing at the air trying to time an appearance.
Standing stationary with Jesse behind her, she attracted the attention of the gang. It would be a coup for them to destroy her and they pressed in, each hoping for the kill and permanent notoriety in Vampire lore. Approaching on quiet feet with the bowie knife he carried for these special moments, Big Indian decapitated one before plunging the knife to the hilt into another. Arabella pressed forward, cutting down two more while Jesse stepped up, emptying the Colt into the remaining Vamp.
“That was scary,” he panted. “I’ll never get used to the way they pop in and out.”
“Always try to get your back against a wall,” she reminded him while giving him a quick hug. “Never be in a spot where one can get behind you.”
Gliding up, the Indian took in the very public display of affection demanding, “Hey, how about me, I got two, where’s my hug?
“Yes, you did a good job too,” she laughed giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Better benefits than my last job.”
Drawn by the gunfire, advance members of the Queen’s Guard flashed to the scene. Unable to return the messenger boy, Arabella decided to wait for the Queen to catch up. She sincerely hoped Ragnar wasn’t one of the Queen’s favorites, as she had enough on her mind and didn’t want to be blamed for getting the Court’s prize pet killed. The group headed by Prunella drew up and fanned out into the side alleys, scouting for threats. Prunella, all business, merely asked, “How many?” and nodded her head at Arabella’s answer. Next, she asked, “Ragnar?” In answer Arabella pointed to a cone of ash. “At least he was good for something,” sniffed Prunella, turning to size up Jesse. “Is he the Human I’ve been hearing about?” she demanded, standing closer to Jesse than he felt comfortable.
He stood still, not wanting to appear unsettled by her attentions. Prunella leaned in and took a deep breath, actually smelling him in a gesture obvious to all. “Is he yours?” she inquired, discussing him like he wasn’t there. “Yes,” said Arabella, “mine.”
“And him,” said Prunella, said pointing at the Indian, “I suppose he’s yours too.”
“Not me,” the Indian replied, “I’m no one’s.”
Turning away, Prunella said, “Pity. When you’re finished with him, I’d appreciate it if you’d pass him along. And as for you,” she said, pointing at the Indian, “don’t be too sure. We all belong to someone.”
Wheeling about she went down the corridor, back to business, “I’ll tell the Queen it’s safe.”
Arabella glared after her, angry at Prunella’s bold rudeness. She turned to resume her mission, only to have Jesse’s grinning face in hers. “Don’t get any ideas,” she barked louder than she meant.
“I do
n’t remember you owning me,” he said, “Is that some Vampire thing? Maybe we should talk.”
“If that’s the way it is, you can have me too,” said the Indian
Walking by them she held up her hand, “Not now, dammit.”
“I just think you should have told me that I belong to you,” said Jesse, primly falling in behind her.
“Pay attention,” she said through tightly clenched jaws, “there may be more. I think we stumbled into a training exercise.”
Following close behind he observed, as if a guest on a morning talk show, “I mean, communication is the key to a solid relationship, don’t you think?”
Doing her best to ignore him, she waved him off to the left while she covered the right side of the corridor, “Look for signs of entry; they might be fortifying a position.”
“Exactly how long have I belonged to you and when did you intend to tell me?” he asked, carefully looking into the rubble of an abandoned store. “It seems like the kind of thing we should have discussed.”
Exasperated, Arabella stopped moving forward and, facing Jesse, whispered, “Would you please stop talking? You’re making as much noise as Ragnar and look what happened to him.”
Jesse turned and stepped across the walkway so that he was nose to nose with her. Waving his handgun he whispered, “Thank you for the courtesy of being concerned about my physical welfare; I’m just saying you might have shown me the same thoughtfulness about my feelings.”
“This is not the time or place to have that conversation,’ she whispered, trying to keep her voice down. As emphasis she swung her katana in a perfect overhead cut, “We are in the middle of a war zone.”
“It didn’t stop you from announcing it back there,” Jesse pointed back down the corridor with the .45. “It might have been nice if you told me first before you announced it to the world.”
“I was trying to protect you from Prunella, otherwise it might have been,” Arabella paused for a moment struggling to find the right word, “awkward.”
