by Conner, Jack
Junger ran his slavering tongue across his teeth and laughed.
Danielle cocked the revolver. “What did you come here for?”
“We came because of your maze, of course,” Jagoda said.
“And to show that we could,” added the other.
“And ... another reason.”
She fired, sending a bullet through Junger’s brain, but it did no more than temporarily irritate the Balaklava. Harming the bastard hadn’t been her reason for firing.
Within seconds, Ruegger and Malie arrived at her side.
“You,” said Maleasoel. “Be gone from here!”
“Our business is only beginning,” said Jagoda. “Ruegger, Danielle—we will hunt you till the end of the earth. Your life will be a hell. And then ... death.”
“But why?” asked Ruegger. “Why all this? Ludwig, Barrow? What do you have to gain?”
“You’ll find out,” said Junger. “In time.”
"What do you want?"
"We're here to help you," said Jagoda, with that maddening sense of calm. “With incentive ... and information."
"Get to the fucking point,” Danielle said. “We already know that you're working for Roche Sarnova, and maybe someone else."
"Then you don't know anything, because we're not working for Roche Sarnova."
“Don’t believe a word they say,” Malie said.
"But you are working for two employers?" Ruegger asked.
The Junger-wolf turned to the Jagoda-wolf. "I don't think they're ready for our information, do you?"
"What do you get out of helping us?" Danielle said.
"The same thing you get: answers. You see, child, we know more than you do, but we know very little of the big picture. Which is unfortunate for us—fortunate for you, though, in that you're still here. We very much want to see the big picture, which we think will be very interesting indeed, and we need you two to find it for us. You have the right connections, we don't. It's that simple."
"This is all bullshit,” Malie said.
"We’re interested in your fate—not that we care one way or another about your deaths, but we think the circumstances surrounding them will be, as I've said, interesting."
"What's this big picture?" Ruegger said.
"The war in Europe, the murders all over the world, Ludwig's death—they're all part of a whole,” Jagoda said, “We're sure of it, but we need to figure it all out so that ..."
"Yes?"
"So that we can be in on the ground floor of the New World Order."
Danielle blinked.
"Speak plainly,” Ruegger said.
"The meaning is for you to find out. There is still a hit out on you both. Someone's hired Vistrot to arrange your death and we want to know why. So we come to you. Legwork is not our forte—but, as it is your life in peril, I suggest it become yours."
“They’re lying,” Malie said.
“If you want us to find information out for you, we’d better know what you do,” Ruegger said. “Why kill Ludwig?”
The assassins remained silent.
“At least tell us who your middleman is,” Danielle pressed.
“Did you think we’d come out of retirement to work for a faceless employer?” Junger said. “Do you think we’re doing this for money?”
“Give us something!”
“We have. Vistrot.”
“Something more.”
Smiling their infuriating smiles, Junger and Jagoda disappeared into the darkness.
* * *
The next night, the odd flock packed their bags, said their good-byes and made their way to the enormous garage, where Ruegger kept his ever-growing automobile collection. In Danielle's opinion, the perfect road vehicle was the blue convertible '72 Cadillac El Dorado, but it wouldn't serve the vampires' needs as adequately as the van they chose. After fitting it with what they needed, they set out for the highway. Danielle brought her vampire pig Cerberus, who was a faithful friend at the estate but rarely left its grounds. This time, Danielle felt she needed the reassurance of its presence on the road.
Last night, they had drawn up loose plans. Maleasoel would lead her army in search for the answers to Ludwig’s murder in one direction, while Ruegger and Danielle would follow another path.
"You sure about this?" Danielle asked when they were driving, letting the breeze run through her hair. She could feel the old juices pumping through her veins. Back on the road again. “I mean, going to New York’s where the order to kill us came from!”
"Yes, so there might also be information about where the order originated there, too. Plus I have contacts there that don’t use phones or have internet service.”
“You’re thinking of Harry.”
“He is remarkably plugged-in to the New York immortal scene.”
“But Vistrot … the most powerful shade in America … will be right there. And Jean-Pierre … that’s who the Titan will send after us.”
“Then we’d better step lively then, hadn’t we?” He paused, casting her a sidelong glance. More softly, he said, “You know, Dani, you don’t have to come. Ludwig was my friend, after all.”
“Yeah, but this is my world.” Throwing her feet up on the dashboard, she lit her first cigarette of the journey. “Step on the gas, ace. New York it is.”
Chapter 7
The Carpathians weren't as impressive as Lord Kharker had hoped they'd be. He'd seen them before, of course, many times, but somehow he always managed to convince himself afterward that they had been more dramatic. Ah, well. He hadn’t come here for the view.
The helicopter rattled around him, and Kharker frowned. Known as the Great White Hunter, straight from the hot killing grounds of Africa, Kharker was a werewolf, and he enjoyed the sunlight on his skin, something most of his immortal friends could never experience, but he did not enjoy the altitude or the turbulence. To calm himself, he rolled a cigarette, licked the paper to seal it, and lit up.
Smiling, he turned to his companion, the werewolf Jean-Pierre, now soundly asleep.
Jean-Pierre wore a lot of black leather and boasted a series of silver studs and loops angling along the upper ridge of his right ear—silver to spite the gods, of course. Not that silver posed any real threat to the lycans. Jean-Pierre's skin was colorless, almost translucent, his hair a spiky whitish-blond, but his eyes, closed now, were a luminous, angelic green. Light flickered in them strangely, and sometimes they looked like swimming emeralds. He was known throughout the world as the “albino”, even though he was not completely without pigmentation.
Kharker, who looked to be a robust fifty-five, was coming up on his thousandth birthday tomorrow, hence the reason for his visit to the Dark Lord. Jean-Pierre probably would've been placed in his early thirties, when the truth was that he was a sinewy two-hundred and sixty.
He looks like a baby when he sleeps, though. A baby who needs a shave, maybe, but a baby nonetheless. A bit different from the waking animal.
Jean-Pierre cracked an eye.
"It's snowing," he observed, his voice characteristically empty. His wet green eyes acknowledged Kharker, then settled back on the window. "I hate snow."
“Then you should move. Running your death-squad out of New York was poor planning for a fan of warm weather.”
“You know very well why I live there.”
Kharker let out a breath. Jean-Pierre worked exclusively for Vistrot, the Titan, and Vistrot (it rhymed with “bistro”) rarely left in New York.
“We there yet?” Jean-Pierre said.
“Yes. That’s why we’re still in the helicopter.”
Jean-Pierre grunted and closed his eyes again.
Kharker had to smile. Though the former Parisian’s ruthlessness was legendary, he often adopted the demeanor of a child when around Kharker. They weren't lovers—not now, anyway—but they'd been off-and-on companions since the early sixties. Quite a change from Ruegger, Kharker thought.
The albino whipped out a pack of Pall-Malls. He wa
s just striking the match when he caught a glimpse of something outside, just visible through the storm. "We're almost there," he said. Then, almost as an aside: “The place where it all began.”
Kharker grimaced. Of course returning to the Castle would stir memories in Jean-Pierre. This was where he had met Danielle, after all. Where he had abducted her. Kharker knew all too well that he was still obsessed with the girl.
“There’s nothing to fear,” Kharker said.
“Did I say there was?”
Kharker slipped on his cream-colored canvas hat. "I wonder if Blackie will have any surprises planned for my birthday."
Dryly, Jean-Pierre said, "I can't wait.”
Rocked by winds, the helicopter took its time getting to the helipad that erupted from the top of the castle, but when it saw its chance the craft dove down, landing with a start that unsettled Kharker's stomach. The Hunter and the albino clambered out, Kharker shivering at the snap of the cold air, and followed their welcoming party, a single high-ranking werewolf, indoors.
“It is an honor to have you here,” the fellow said. “Please, come with me.”
After the outside door was closed, an inside door was opened, protecting any sun-sensitive immortal that happened to be walking around. All windows were covered, and a few shades did indeed prowl the halls, but the castle seemed largely deserted at the moment. Kharker had to fight the urge to keep glancing over his shoulders as he made his way through the narrow stone passageways. He liked the outdoors, open spaces, and grew anxious surrounded by so much stone.
The three rode an elevator to the lowest floor above the level of the dungeons and catacombs, marched down another network of corridors until they found themselves in a cold but well-furnished room. The shade who'd greeted them nodded at a man behind a desk, and this man pressed a button on a console. Shortly, a line of tired shades stumbled through the room's second door and sat down in some seats along the walls. They looked as if they'd been in conference for days. Kharker and Jean-Pierre were shown into the next room, and the door closed swiftly behind them.
Roche Sarnova hunched behind a large desk, with Francois Mauchlery not too far away, slightly behind him, in a comfortable chair. The Dark Lord smiled and motioned his guests to sit.
“Thanks,” Kharker said, noting that Sarnova appeared terrible, his hands shaking slightly, sweat beading his skin … which was rent in countless places. Dear gods. A black patch covered one eye.
Mauchlery didn't look much better.
"Damn it all," breathed Kharker. "What happened, Roche? Who did this to you? What the hell's going on?"
Sarnova held up his hands, warding off questions. He gave a sick cough, which took longer than it should have, and smiled. "In time," he said. "All questions will be answered. So how are you doing, my friend?"
"Wonderful, comparatively."
"And you, Jean-Pierre?"
The albino said nothing.
"How was your safari? I'd been keeping track of your progress until recently."
"Fabulous," Kharker said. "We brought down some elephants, and you should see Jean-Pierre handle a rifle. I'm afraid he'll be better than I am before too long. Perhaps next time you could join us."
"I'd love that. And much congratulations on your birthday, Kharker. Unfortunately, due to circumstances not immediately in my control, the grand celebration we'd planned for your millennium will have to be delayed, I don't know how long. I'd love for you to stay awhile in the hopes that there would be a break in my schedule, but I don't foresee one and I could never put you in the jeopardy that living here might entail. Other than the Ambassador here, you are my oldest friend, Kharker, and I hope that sooner or later I can make amends for my lack of hospitality."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
Sarnova coughed again, then looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Jean-Pierre, but could you please give us some time? I mean no disrespect, but your friend and I must talk privately."
The albino shrugged and rose. "Anywhere I can get some coffee in this dump?"
Roche remained pleasant. "Just ask Ivan, my receptionist."
The albino left, not closing the door as delicately as he could have on the way.
"Well," said Kharker.
"Indeed," said Sarnova, and turned to nod at Francois. "Ambassador, would you care to bring Lord Kharker up to speed on recent events?"
* * *
Jean-Pierre stalked the shadows, wishing they’d never come here. The Castle! Gods, what a bore. A great big lump of old stone in the mountains. So what if it was the seat of all immortal activity in the world, or that it was hallowed and sacred to many, as was its lord? It meant nothing to Jean-Pierre. Though French by birth, he was a New Yorker now, a product of the New World, and the Old held little interest for him. Also, he admitted, he was jealous of the friendship between Kharker and Sarnova. If only that were all.
He glanced around the dark halls, barely suppressing a wave of mixed longing and sorrow.
Danielle, where are you?
Years ago, on one of his frequent meccas to the Dark Country with Kharker, back when the albino had found it less repellent, Jean-Pierre had seen the young vampiress for the first time. She'd been staying with Ruegger at the Castle for a few weeks. At the time, the Dark Lord had wanted to meet the notorious vigilante vampires. Roche Sarnova could have put them to death for their murderous actions (indeed, Jean-Pierre had heard that he’d intended to), but had been persuaded by Kharker into sparing Ruegger’s life. And Blackie would not kill Danielle unless he could execute Ruegger, too. The issue was dropped, but it had brought great attention upon the odd flock, and Jean-Pierre had become enamored of the so-called Waif.
Calling on some favors, the albino had separated the vampires and convinced Danielle that Ruegger had been killed and that his murderers wanted her dead, too. The odd flock’s enemies had decided to move against them, he said. He’d even produced a corpse resembling Ruegger, with the face unrecognizable. Thinking she had no choice, Danielle had allowed him to take her away to Kharker's vine-covered Congo estate, where they had holed up for months before Ruegger, alive and well, had tracked them down and released Danielle. Upon discovering that Jean-Pierre had lied to her, she’d attempted to kill the albino, who was saved by none other than the Darkling.
Looking around at the stone and torches now, Jean-Pierre swore. We never should have come here.
* * *
Kharker thought it amazing how synchronized the Ambassador and Sarnova were, almost as if they were part of the same organism. Mauchlery moved out from behind Sarnova's desk and started pacing the room in an organized fashion, talking as he did.
Eventually, he came to the part about Roche being wounded. "I was sent to the front lines a month or so ago to check up on our troops," continued Francois, "and I returned with a werewolf named Victoria Lisaund. She accompanied me back under the guise of petitioning Roche for protection of her clan, who she said supported our cause. In truth she was a spy. Worse, she had skills we weren't prepared for. She'd been trained to kill mortals with her mind, and she killed one that Roche was feeding from, causing him to drink dead blood. She attacked Roche when he was down, and she was stronger than she should've been. It took both me and Roche to destroy her."
"How could she have been so powerful?" asked Kharker.
Francois looked uneasy. "We think that maybe she had gotten hold of the blood of a kavasari. That would've made her very strong indeed."
Kharker’s voice lowered. "That's bad. Yes, indeed. So … all this is why the immortal world is in turmoil?"
Roche Sarnova sat up slowly. "Not quite. But I'm afraid that I can't ... speculate on the reasons why things are the way they are. My war in Europe isn't at all responsible for the Scouring."
"But they are related?"
Sarnova coughed again. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps."
Kharker replaced his hat on his head. "So that's that, is it?"
"No, no. Please, don't take offense. You
know I'd never want to slight you in any way. Here, take your hat off, let's invite Jean-Pierre in and enjoy each other's company for a while. If we've got enough time, I have a special treat for you. Then we'll feed you both and you can return to the Congo, where you'll be safe. I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing, but don't worry, I'll make it up to you sooner or later."
Kharker snorted but pulled off his hat. He knew Sarnova was being sincere, but he didn't like anything being kept from him. Still, he understood that during wartime, secrets were sacred. He leaned forward and stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray as Jean-Pierre entered the room and sat down again.
"Enjoy the coffee?" Sarnova asked.
"You're out of cream."
Wine was poured and they talked awkwardly for awhile until the tension was broken, then Sarnova said, "Before you go, let me show you something." He moved toward the door, and the others followed.
"Weren't you in the middle of a meeting?" Kharker said, as they pushed into the next room. Many of the shades who had been sitting in the reception area slouched noticeably, either asleep or getting there.
"Let them rest," Sarnova said, talking as he led down a hall. Escorts hovered at his sides. "Have you ever heard of Junger and Jagoda?"
"The Last of the Roving Balaklava?" Jean-Pierre said. "I'd thought they'd gone to Jamaica long ago."
"They did, but they've been wanting to come out of isolation for some time, so I contracted them to do some art for me. They finished a few weeks ago but just returned yesterday to celebrate the grand opening of their new exhibit. It's only one piece, but it's quite large. I must admit that I'm pleased." He turned to a servant. "Would you go fetch them for me?"
The servant vanished. The Dark Lord led his guests down another few corridors, then took a stairwell into the catacombs, where they followed another series of rat-tunnels. Kharker could feel hairs prickling along his spine. Finally, Sarnova ushered them into a large, domed room.
"Behold.”
"Goddamn," said Kharker.
Open coffins, standing vertically, lined the earthen walls of the circular room, with about five feet of space separating each one. Formally dressed corpses, their flesh splotched and decaying, stood stiffly in their coffins staring on the world with dead eyes. From the feet of each one, human bones (held together with carefully-concealed wire and cobwebs) sprouted, snaking across the floor to converge on the center of the circle. Here the strings of bone met and rose into the air, some bleached and white, some gray and rotting. A tree of bones emerged from the chaos, towering over everything in the room, its stark and lifeless branches arching high and long in dense, thorny, crystalline clusters.
