by Conner, Jack
Just then, sounds of alarm issued from the south.
“Seems Ludwig and the rest of the cavalry are on their way,” Jagoda said, disappointed.
“We’ve accomplished what we intended,” Junger said, returning.
"Next time, then."
"Next time," Jagoda agreed, and flicked away his cigarette.
They jumped to all fours, changing from men to the shape of great wolves in less than a second and running off into the forest just as the first sounds of rifle fire erupted behind them.
Ruegger dragged himself over toward Danielle, who felt herself dying. She’d lost too much blood. Cradling her in his lap, he bent his head to kiss her bloody mouth. She opened her eyes and tried to smile.
Ruegger’s strength gave out, and he toppled face-first into the snow. After a moment, darkness filled Danielle’s vision, and she fell back into it, too.
* * *
Ludwig, rifle gripped smartly, fired off his last shot at the retreating demons, then turned to the other snipers that lined this brittle ridge of snow.
“Let’s go.”
Covered by more snipers, his crew moved swiftly down the ridge toward the bloody snow where once-beautiful wolves littered the scene, and for a second only Ludwig allowed himself to lament their loss, then he knelt next to Ruegger and examined him. Maleasoel, kneeling over Danielle, looked at him questioningly.
"Alive, thank God," said Ludwig. "How's she?"
Maleasoel shook her head. "Bad.”
"Let's get them out of here, sir," he heard one of the others say. “They could come back.”
Ludwig rose to stare in the direction in which the Balaklava had vanished. His gaze lingered. He didn't know when, or how, but he knew beyond question that he'd have hell to pay. And hell was not forgiving.
* * *
The first thing Danielle wanted when she woke up was a cigarette. A nice, fat, hand-rolled one, made out of that wonderful tobacco Ludwig kept. She lay sprawled in the absurdly large four-poster bed in her room on the top floor of Ludwig's villa. The view was grand, if only she had the energy to go to the window to see it. At least she still smelled and felt clean from all the doctoring and bathing she'd been treated to.
When he heard her request, Ruegger gladly retrieved the tobacco for her and rolled the cigarette himself. He'd been up and about not more than an hour after the attack, as his age enhanced his recuperative abilities, and he'd doted on her constantly.
"Better than cloves," she said softly, once he lit it for her.
"How do you feel?"
"Great.” She reached for his hand. "You're cold, baby. Come here."
He obeyed. "We've been out searching for them—Junger and Jagoda. Unfortunately, the snow's erased what tracks there were. During the search, though, we came across something else—a mass grave of shades.”
“Damn.”
“It explains all the disappearances lately."
"You’re sure it’s the work of the Balaklava?"
"No, that's the worst part. The bodies were intact and drained of blood, as only a kavasari could do."
"What's a kavasari?"
A dark light settled in his eyes, and when he answered, his voice was bitter: "A type of immortal that feeds only off of other shades—a vampire's vampire. They're the strongest race of known immortal, and they're very rare."
“You’re kidding me. There’s something that can feed on us?” When he nodded, she said, “Holy shit. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“They’re very rare, and I didn’t want to worry you.”
There was something in his face as he said it, though, that made her think there was more to it than that. She decided not to press him. He would tell her when he wanted to.
"Why would one be hanging around Liberty?” She paused. “Well, the high concentration of shades here, I guess. A perfect feeding ground. But you've gotta admit, what with all the other strange things going on here, it makes you wonder. What did Ludwig say about it?"
"Nothing, really."
"Damn, but he is acting suspicious. What do you think? You know more about the kavasari than I do."
"They ...” He passed a hand across his face. “One killed someone I loved very much, a long time ago. But as to their role in the greater picture, I haven't a clue. Could Junger and Jagoda be involved with a kavasari? I don’t know."
“The most powerful immortal involved with two of the second most powerful? God help us.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
She breathed in a long draught of smoke. Softly, she said, “Who did you lose?”
He looked at her. “I … don’t want to talk about it.”
She waited a beat, then nodded. "Well, I've been doing some thinking. Jagoda said something about more than one possibility, and he said that in connection with the subject of his employment. I think maybe the Balaklava are working for at least two employers. Or at least two different people approached them."
"I've had similar thoughts. It seems likely that one of those employers was the same one who hired Jarvick. But Junger and Jagoda had something else going, perhaps a deal from this second person, and it's that that they carried through today, neglecting the contract from the first one, the one who hired Jarvick. That one wanted us dead and the Balaklava didn't. If that's true, then someone wants us six feet under and someone wants us ... harassed, or something. Whatever the Balaklava intended to do."
She suppressed a shudder. "Maybe to put pressure on Ludwig."
"Maybe. That leads back to the question of the dissidents."
"Not necessarily. Maybe there's more than one entity that wants to pressure Ludwig. Maybe for different reasons."
"Maybe one wants him to continue leading Liberty and the other wants him to step down. And both are using the same method—threatening those Ludwig’s close to."
"It explains why he's been acting so weird,” she said.
Ruegger lit a cigarette. “The Balaklava mentioned Roche Sarnova. It’s possible both they and Jarvick were hired by the Castle.”
“Jarvick didn’t seem as if he was getting paid enough. The Castle could have paid him whatever he wanted.”
“Unless they wanted him to bargain with us instead of kill us.”
“That’s a reach. Anyway, so where does the kavasari fit in? And what’s with the Scouring? And the War?”
“Well—”
Someone knocked on the door. At Ruegger’s invitation, one of Ludwig's many servants entered. "Master Ludwig is having dinner prepared. If you're feeling well enough to attend, he'll expect you on his private terrace in half an hour."
Danielle smiled. "We'll be there. Count on it.” When the man had gone, she said, “Now we’ll get some damned answers.”
Chapter 4
Francois Mauchlery looked down from the helicopter as it swept just above the Carpathians past an outcropping of rock. Crevices, fissures, sheer facades and crumbling ruins dotted the ragged mountains which rose like rotting fangs from the jawbone of a monster. He knew each rise and bump by heart, and loved them all.
Keeping one leather-gloved hand on his black attaché case, Francois smiled. Blackout curtains, drawn tightly over the compartment's windows, prevented him from peering directly into the gaping void below, so he watched the sinking sun through the pilot's eyes; it disappeared and reappeared sporadically between the mountains.
Slowly, the light drained from the Dark Country as night sank its teeth into the hard Transylvanian hide. Villagers and gypsies, those that believed, would be retreating to their homes and cowering behind doors and crucifixes, but some, believers or nonbelievers, would be corpses in the morning.
Francois lost the sun as it sank below Carpathia. Only then did he raise the blackout curtains to watch the frozen tumult of twilight. The new dark sent his hairs on end and a shiver up from the base of his spine.
His companion in the passenger compartment of the helicopter, Victoria Lisaund, removed her sunglasses, then uncrossed and recrossed her legs.
<
br /> Sitting opposite her, he regarded her in silence for a moment. She had dark red hair and muddy brown eyes, was wearing a navy blue suit-dress and long combat boots that emphasized the shapeliness of her legs. They were nice, and Francois remembered they tasted quite good, too. Full lips, turned up at the corners, grinned at him.
"First time in Transylvania?" he asked in well-etched English, as he knew her to be a Brit.
"Of course not," she said. "But it is my first visit to the Castle."
He nodded. He'd met her two days ago in Paris on his way home from the front lines in London. She was the representative of a group in Whales that had been forced to flee the island, and now she was making the journey to the Castle in order to request aid on their behalf from Roche Sarnova, the Dark Lord, the most powerful immortal in the East, if not the world.
She leaned forward and placed a hand on Francois’s knee. He'd been her escort since they had met in France, and they'd grown close.
"Will he help me out?" she said in an excellent Romanian accent. "If anyone could know, it's you."
Francois ignored her hand. "I can't answer for him."
She slowly sat back. "Something wrong, lover?"
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“Call me lover.”
She sulked, or pretended to.
That was the thing that bothered him; she wasn't half as ingenuous as she pretended. Somehow she had her own secret agenda, but what that was, or how she was going to go about it, was something she kept guarded, even pretending at its nonexistence.
The helicopter blasted between twin snow-capped alps, and a rough gust shook the craft rudely. Rocky outcroppings challenged the skids as the machine cleared the crest of the next mountain and snow swirled thicker as the ship flew on, ice and wind whipping madly against the thin walls. Neither moon nor stars could be seen. The dark heart of the Carpathians loomed ahead, hidden in the spinning night.
"How old are you?" she asked suddenly.
He paused. Few were brave enough to ask the question, though he was sure all wondered. He couldn’t tell if she actually expected him to answer, but he thought courage should be rewarded.
"I ... to give you some idea ... was quite old when Caesar wept at the feet of the statue of Alexander the Great.”
“You’re that old?”
“Older.”
“So Christ has nothing to do with us? I heard rumors that shades were mixed up with the early Christians and got damned somehow.”
“Every culture has its creation myth. We’ve got reams of them.”
“So God had nothing to do with us?”
“Which god?”
She nodded. "I'm sorry, Ambassador. You understand, I had to ask. I'm not yet a hundred years old and I still think about these things."
He softened. "We all do.”
Silent again, she turned her face to the bleak nightscape.
"We're approaching my home," he said.
Using one of his mental powers, he merged his mind with that of the pilot, making sure the mortal didn’t crash the helicopter. Francois preferred a shade to pilot these things, but most of the immortal fliers were in London or thereabouts, engaged in the war, and the ones that were available couldn’t fly in the daytime.
In the pilot’s mind, Francois felt Victoria’s psychic presence brush up against his own. She, too, kept tabs on the human. Frowning slightly, he turned to her and saw her brown eyes fixed on him with some awe.
“Such control,” she said, to answer his question. “What I mean to say—”
He waved her off.
"We've arrived," he said.
The helicopter swept past its last ice-covered summit and plunged down toward an immense stone structure whose great towers and bulwarks burned with light from within. The castle sat embedded in the side of the approaching mountain like an iron thorn. Like a torch blazing on a catacomb wall.
"My God," she whispered. "It's beautiful …"
Francois smiled as he watched the looming castle from the eyes of the human pilot. Coldly grandiose, his home looked. Mysterious in its bed of stone.
They approached it cautiously. From a distance it really did look like a cluster of sharp iron thorns embedded in the mountain's side, but as they drew nearer it seemed more like a flower, the cold battlements rising like deceptively delicate-looking stems into the freezing, snow-blasted night. Landing wasn't going to be much fun under these conditions, but a visit to Roche Sarnova always tended to be dramatic.
Tensely, under partial mind-control from Francois Mauchlery, the pilot approached a battlement that doubled as a helipad and landed. The machine rocked back and forth on the icy surface.
The deafening roar of the rotors wound down as three figures on the stone platform ran carefully toward the black helicopter and accepted the emerging couple as the doors were flung wide and Francois and Victoria stepped down. Wind blasted them without mercy.
"Ambassador Mauchlery!" shouted a ranking general and member of the Dark Council, the leader of the welcoming party. "Wonderful to have you back! Welcome home!"
The Councilman led the way toward the battlement doorway and out of the freezing snow. The cold didn't disturb Francois, but he respected the needs of the others.
Inside, he was made to feel at home (which it was) as he was courteously led to his chamber. He looked fondly around as he went—the wide crimson drapes, the flinging snow against the courtyard windows, the warm torchlight along open halls. The comforts of the modern world too nestled snugly amidst the splendor of the old ways: the electric elevators, indoor saunas, and cellular phones against the backdrop of stone and tapestries.
He found himself running his hands along the familiar walls and smiling to himself as his manservant led the way.
Finally, they arrived at his suite, and the servant opened the thick mahogany door and showed the way in. Francois followed the young one into his room and turned to dismiss him.
Once alone, Francois saw the cart of champagne in its silver bowl of ice. The accompanying meal could be smelled from the bedroom. He laid his attaché case on his dresser and followed the smell down a short hallway into his bedchamber.
Tied in white silk bonds to his bed, a beautiful young woman struggled on his satin mattress.
The girl couldn't be eighteen, and her flesh was warm and supple. Her luscious figure, bursting from silk panties and brassiere, was emphasized even more by her thrashings. Golden hair fell about her head and over her wide blue eyes. Caucasian, Francois mused; some length must have gone into fetching her. Her breasts rose and fell quickly with her frightened gasps. Her long legs squirmed to and fro. Sweat glistened on her thighs. The smell of life rose from her sweetly and Francois inhaled it with a sad smile.
His fangs lengthened.
“Ah,” he said. “It’s good to be home.”
* * *
The dining hall was immense, all mahogany walls and burning incense. The seemingly endless dining table stretched on forever in the grand hall. In its life the table had risen heavenward from its soft bed in the redwood forest of northern California, but, like everything else in this room, the table had moved beyond mere life. It was law that nothing mortal should pass into this room, except the food.
Dozens of beautifully bound mortals wriggled hysterically along the redwood table, their young skins rubbing delightfully against the dark and polished wood. Several scores of vampires and other assorted immortals hunched at the table, which had only one head; the other end was rounded off.
Francois had the guest position (his usual) at the left hand of the head of the table, which was vacant. Roche Sarnova would make an entrance when he chose. Then the festivities would begin.
Mauchlery lifted a large wine-filled goblet to his lips and drank as his eyes scanned the familiar faces—many tried to catch his eye, but he pretended not to notice—until he lit upon Victoria Lisaund, the beautiful representative of the fugitive Whales faction, who it se
emed had been watching him for some time; when his eyes met hers, she quickly looked away, then slowly back. Coy.
Finally, the host of the evening appeared, making his way down a lavish staircase which branched off at the middle to disappear upward in two opposite directions. Dressed in carefully-embroidered black garments, the host smiled at his guests as he descended the last stair. Simultaneously, the meals ceased writhing and grew quiet.
Mauchlery appreciated Roche Sarnova's understated entrance. No thronging escort, blaring music or superfluous attire. Not even a crown or cape. Simple and dark and smiling.
All the guests were on their feet in deference, as if they were the host and Roche Sarnova their honored guest. His half Anglo, half Egyptian face radiated warmth and friendship, and—in his characteristically understated way—absolute command.
"Sit, sit," he beckoned in Romanian, and his guests took their places while he remained standing. "Thank you all for coming. I know the difficulty of a great meeting such as this in these chaotic times and appreciate the sacrifices you've all made to get here. I won't bore you with a speech. I dare say you’ll hear enough of my voice in the days to come. Now, a warm welcome to a newcomer to our home, Ms. Victoria Lisaund."
She stood briefly to scattered applause.
Roche turned elegantly toward Francois and smiled deeply. "Now with great affection we welcome home our best friend, Ambassador Mauchlery!"
The Ambassador rose and grinned as they applauded him, then sat back down.
Roche Sarnova continued. "I've met with many of you today and will continue the meetings throughout the week—business unfortunately taking precedence over pleasure when our brothers and sisters are dying on the front lines. For now, let us enjoy each other without the stresses of war intruding and enjoy the life of these beautiful mortals." He smiled at his company and lifted a crystal glass of red wine in the air. "To the night!" he cried and drank deeply.
"To the night," Francois muttered and did the same.
Later, while Sarnova and Francois were trying to converse between the host's many visitors and between Roche's sips from the gypsy-girl's big toe (he was trying to make her last), Sarnova said, smiling, "So you and the dear Ms. Lisaund know each other well?"
