by Ben Reeder
“Invitation only, dumbass,” the man said.
“I’m here by invitation,” I said. “Rose asked me to meet her here at nine. The name is…Midnight.” Maybe it was the pretentious name, or maybe it was the dramatic pause that made him laugh.
“Whatever,” he said and turned to a man standing behind him. “Ask Rose if she knows some guy named Midnight.” The other man left for a couple of minutes, then came back.
“Yeah, she knows Midnight guy,” he said, snickering. They stepped aside and gestured for me to come in. The second man led me to a tiled room with several steel tables set in rows. The Swans were at the far end, standing next to one of the tables.
“Not a bad start,” Lyressa said as she eyed my ensemble. “We definitely have to keep the coat. The t-shirt has to go. And the jeans. In fact, let’s just keep the coat and start from the ground up.”
After half a dozen outfits, I wound up in a pair of stiff ankle boots that pinched my toes, a pair of nut-hugging black slacks, a white button down shirt, a vest with some kind of shiny brocade pattern on it and a black jacket with narrow lapels. They topped it all off with a dark red cravat before they had me stretch out on one of the metal slabs. Then came the makeup. Guyliner and a white base, with what they called a hint of wine color to make my lips stand out. When I finally got to stand up and look at myself, I looked terrible. With my hair slicked back and the makeup on, I looked like a walking cadaver, which I guess was the point. What I didn’t look like, however, was me. No one would mistake Midnight for Lucas Kale. That part worked for me.
“Now you look right,” Rose said with a black-lipped smile. “Come on, join us.” She took my hand and led me out through a side door to what used to be the viewing room. A casket laid in the customary spot, the top half open to reveal a pale girl lying in repose. She looked pretty convincing…until she took a breath. The slight rise of her chest took the chill out of the scene for me, and I fought hard not to smile. No one else in the room seemed to be smiling, and at the moment, the last thing I wanted to do was stand out..
The pews had been removed and replaced with clusters of padded chairs, couches and love seats with low tables set near them. Pretty people lounged as casually as they dared, doing their best to look bored. Most of the guys were dressed in Victorian style suits and smoking jackets, but a few had shed the outer jackets and were in vests and shirtsleeves. The girls ranged from full gowns to Lolita style dresses to sheer lingerie. I kept my face blank as I noticed the difference in the fashions, then I looked at the folks who were actually standing and working. By the door, two big guys in domino masks wore mesh shirts that hid absolutely nothing from the waist up, and tight satin shorts that only covered a little bit more. Muscle rippled under the mesh, and the dim light still shimmered against skin that I would have bet was oiled down before they came out.
Masked women in French maid outfits walked among the groups of loungers, showing a lot of leg and a lot of bosom as they served drinks. Something struck me as odd about them, and after watching a couple of them, it finally hit me. All of them were the same height in heels. All of them wore the same hairstyle in the same color. Almost nothing distinguished one from another. Add in the masks, and they were as close to completely anonymous as you could get.
Rose led me to a clutch of chairs and let go of my hand, then found her place with the other two Swans. I turned and took the open seat closest to me, ending up by a thin guy in a striped black suit with curly hair and the suggestion of a mustache and goatee.
“Good evening,” I said softly.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Have we been introduced?”
“No,” I said. “I am Midnight.” I offered a hand, and he looked at it, then to me. “And you are?”
“Afflicted with ennui,” he said as he laid his white gloved hand in mine and gave it a perfunctory shake. “My name is Jerome. I’m with Lyressa’s brood.”
“Ah,” I said with a nod. He leaned back and held one hand out as he gave one of the girls in a maid outfit a heavy-lidded look. She put a wine glass in his outstretched hand, then bent forward and offered me one. At least, I thought it was the wine glass she was offering me. There was an awful lot on display behind it. I took the glass, trying to imitate Jerome’s relaxed posture. From where I was, I could see most of the room, and the name of the game seemed to be to hold a pretty pose for as long as possible and look as afflicted with ennui as you could while listening to the low, slightly dissonant sounding music and sipping wine while talking to the people around you about deep things, like the meaning of existence or the futility of life in general. It was a subtle dance of equal parts grace and desolation.
I sat for half an hour, and got the impression that the night was just getting started. After a few rounds of wine were served, and yeah, it was real wine, the serving girls brought out hookahs. A low haze of aromatic smoke started to fill the room. The girl in the coffin “awakened” in a romantic little ceremony that involved what I assumed was a symbolic drinking her master’s blood from a wine glass, and a new girl took her place.
After about an hour, I finally saw Darth Fedora and his crew enter the room. I knew him before I saw his face. It was the walk that gave him away. Everyone else walked with grace, there was no doubting that, with their heads up, in a smooth pace that didn’t move their hips. Not this guy. He carried himself with his shoulders forward and his head down slightly, so that he was almost looking through his eyebrows to see straight ahead. He walked like a hunter. What he didn’t know was that he wasn’t the only predator hunting tonight. I leaned forward and put one elbow on my knee as I watched him stalk the room. He moved from table to table, his eyes devouring the girls and assessing the guys.
“What are you looking for?” I asked softly as he went to another group. So far he’d gone through half the club, and he still seemed to be looking.
“A remedy for the tedium that is life, perhaps,” Jerome said. I turned my head to look at him.
“Tedium is the least of this guy’s problems,” I told him.
“Oh, it’s personal,” Jerome said with more enthusiasm than I’d seen him show all night. “How intriguing.”
Two tables later, Darth Fedora stood up a little straighter, and I could see a predatory smile spread across his features. A couple sat across from him, the guy looking as pleased as he could without smiling, the girl’s face pretty much frozen into a neutral expression. But by the way her hand wrinkled the sleeve of his coat, she had a death grip on his arm. She’d seen Fedora for what he was, and it was anyone’s guess which side of fight or flight she might choose when it came down to it.
Fedora chatted up the guy almost exclusively, getting an invite to join them after a few moments. He sat down, and the girl leaned into her paramour’s side, her gaze roving the room every few moments before returning to the predator sitting across from them. I had to admire her poise. After a few minutes of talking, Fedora stood up, and the guy followed suit. The girl came to her feet more slowly, and she said something to her date. He shook his head and put his arm around her waist to usher her along after Fedora.
“Ah, the game is afoot,” Jerome said as I came to my feet.
“And so am I,” I said. “See you later, Jerome.” Following my quarry was easy in the half-light and smoke of the club, and before long, I was out in the cooler air. Fedora was ushering his prey into back seat of a minivan. I headed for my car as casually as I could, not daring to look at the van for fear of giving myself away.
I fished the keys for my new car out of the pocket of my great coat as I pulled the cravat free. Well, “new” is a relative term. Plymouth hasn’t made the Barracuda since 1974, and mine was two years older than that. The cravat got thrown into the back seat as I slid behind the wheel of the crimson beast, and I turned the key. The ‘Cuda rumbled to life as the van pulled out of the parking lot and turned right.
Just as I was about to put it in gear, the passenger door opened, and a red-faced Jerome bounced in
to the passenger seat. “Dude, what the hell?”
“You are the antidote to the banality that is my existence,” he panted.
“Could you stop with the sesquipedalian verbiage?” I snapped as the van pulled out of the parking lot and turned right. “Things are about to get unpleasant and dangerous. The last thing I need is some thrill seeker throwing around two dollar words in the middle of a fire fight, getting his sensibilities trampled and his silk boxers twisted up.”
“Oh, I’m not wearing boxers,” Jerome said with a smile. The van was in the protected left turn lane at the next intersection, its blinker on.
“Good!” I growled. “It’s one less thing you’ll need to clean later!” I slammed the ‘Cuda into gear and hit the gas. “And buckle your damn seatbelt!” We bounced into the street a few feet ahead of a delivery truck, and I left a little rubber behind as I accelerated and aimed for the turn lane. The arrow turned yellow while we were still about fifty yards away, and I only skidded a little bit as we took the turn. The van was about a quarter mile ahead of us, and I slid behind another car to break line of sight.
“So, how personal is this vendetta?” Jerome asked. “Is he a jealous ex? Or did he steal someone from you?”
I turned my head to look at him with a frown so deep it felt like my eyebrows wanted to do double duty as a moustache. “Unpleasant. Dan-ger-ous,” I said slowly. “What part of that says this is about an ex?”
“Obviously, you’ve never had a jealous ex,” Jerome purred.
“Dude, we’re dealing with vampires and kidnapping,” I said with every ounce of heterosexuality I could muster. “Not failed relationships.”
“Ooooh,” he said in one disturbing syllable. The silence after that was welcome. Awkward as hell, but welcome. We followed the van deeper into the industrial part of the old Joplin district, until it pulled into the lot of an abandoned meat packing plant. That was the thing about the Joplin district. More than half of it was empty, abandoned in favor of greater New Essex after the seventies when the businesses followed the money north. Criminals went north to steal, and south to hide.
I pushed the knob in to kill the Barracuda’s headlights as we cruised to a stop behind a dumpster. Across the road from us, the van stopped and opened its doors. Fedora and the innocent bystanders got out, and the van pulled away. It was time to get my hands a little dirty.
I killed the engine and got out to remove the great coat, jacket and vest. The air was cool enough that I put the coat back on while I kicked the ankle boots off, then I reached into the back seat and grabbed the beat up black duffel bag I’d stashed there. Over the past year, it had slowly filled with all manner of useful toys. A hand stunner, a pair of brass knuckles with raised silver crosses over the knuckles. A bright green water gun filled with holy water. The pair of ironwood shock batons Chance had bought from Arianh-Rod in the Hive. And the innocuous seeming little things: the thick chunk of chalk, the can of spray-paint, a roll of duct tape and the double ended permanent marker. The strap slid over my shoulder and I slipped my feet into my sneakers and laced them up.
Finally, I pulled out the gun. No, not the gunpowder kind. The paintball kind. The kind that fired pellets filled with chloroform, holy water and silver nitrate, and alchemical explosive and cryo formulas in the hopper that ran along the top of the barrel. I loaded up the knockout rounds, then grabbed the hoppers for the vampire and explodey rounds and stuck them in my coat pockets. Chance and Dr. Corwyn had cool tactical holsters for theirs, but I had to settle for tucking mine through my belt.
Once I was armed up, I pulled the fancy silk handkerchief from the pocket of the jacket and wiped my face with it. If things went sideways, the last thing I wanted to have to explain was guyliner and lipstick.
“You look like a raccoon,” Jerome sighed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle and a packet of baby wipes. “Put this on your face, then wipe it off.” He poured a little into my hand.
“What is it?”
“Olive oil,” he said. “It breaks down the make up and makes it come off easier.” I dabbed some on my fingers then used both hands to swab some around my eyes. “Now, wipe.” The first baby wipe came away smeared with black, and the second only had a few smudges on it.
“Did I get all of it?” I asked.
“Yes,” Jerome said. “And do the world a favor. Go with the natural look.”
“Believe me, I intend to. Look, Jerome, I’m serious, shit’s about to get seriously bad for your health around here. You need to be a whole lot of somewhere the hell else as fast as you can. At the very least, stay with the car.”
“You’ve done this kind of thing before?” he asked.
“A few times, yeah. Usually with someone a little better at it than I am.”
“Wouldn’t I be safer if I stayed right behind you, then?”
“No, I’d have a hard enough time sneaking up on the two guards out there on my own. There’s no way I can sneak up on them if you’re on my ass.”
“You’re right. You’re going to need a distraction.” Before I could protest or so much as say anything, he was on his feet and around the edge of the dumpster, leaving me to scramble to the other side to see if I was going to have to save his ass, or take advantage of what he was doing. And damn if it wasn’t working. The guy at the gate was zeroed in on Jerome, and he’d even started walking toward him.
I darted through the deeper shadows on the left side of the road and ended up to one side and a little bit behind the guard as he moved toward Jerome. Once I was outside of his peripheral vision, I broke into a quiet jog, the rubber soles of my sneakers silent on the pavement.
“I’m trying to get to Forty-Fifth Street, though,” Jerome was saying as I got within a few feet of them.
“You need to get your ass lost before I put a-” The guard was saying when I put the taser to his neck and activated it. The rest came out as a grunt, and he fell into Jerome’s waiting arms. I stuck the taser into my pocket and flipped the coat back so I could reach the paintball gun. It wasn’t exactly a fast draw, but I got it out while I covered the short distance between the downed guard and the bus stop between me and the one on the door, dropping to a crouch to stabilize the gun on the back of the bench..
The paintball gun gave what sounded like a cough as I pulled the trigger, just loud enough to get the guard’s attention. The round hit him just as I pulled the trigger a second time, and he was really out by the time he hit the ground. Jerome grunted as he dragged the first guard to the bench.
“God, this man stinks,” he muttered as he let the guy go. “Why couldn’t I get someone who gave a damn about hygiene?”
“They’re thugs,” I said as I headed across the asphalt toward the second guard. “Hygiene isn’t a job requirement.” The guy on the loading dock was carrying a short pump shotgun with a sling that doubled as a bandoleer for his shells. I pulled it off of his shoulder, careful not to touch where the knockout rounds had hit him, and slid it over mine.
“Isn’t that a little bit of overkill?” Jerome asked, his voice barely above a whisper..
“Not yet.”
“I don’t feel very comfortable around guns, though.”
“This is my run,” I whispered. “You invited yourself along. If you don’t like it, you can leave any time.” He shook his head quickly and set his mouth in a tight line. “Okay then. Stay behind me and out of sight. If I tell you to do something you do it, no matter how stupid it sounds. You got it?” He nodded so fast I thought he was going to strain something. I grabbed the keys off the guard’s belt and went to the door. The fifth key unlocked it smoothly, and I slipped inside.
The interior of the plant was mostly concrete floor, with square, tile covered columns along the back of the room, and concrete versions everywhere else. Glass transom windows covered the upper part of the walls along the back of the building, with thick iron mesh bolted in front of them. The windows themselves were bright, lit from inside. Wooden double d
oors with glass insets were set in the middle of the back wall. A lone guard stood outside them, his grip on his gun looking pretty relaxed. From behind him, I could hear voices and laughter. Then came the smack of flesh against flesh, and I heard someone squeal in pain. More laughter followed that. Beside me, Jerome’s face went hard, and I figured he suddenly got a lot less squeamish about guns.
The guard turned to look through the windows in the door, and I scurried to the nearest column. Even with the distance I’d covered, he was still too close to the edge of the paintball gun’s range for my comfort. So I waited. The smell of death came heavy in my nostrils as I tried to slow my breathing down, both old blood and new mixing with every breath. More slaps and laughter emerged from behind the door, and the guard gave me another moment of distraction to take advantage of. This time, I covered most of the distance between us, and by the time I leaned around the side of the cool, gray column, I was within twenty feet of my target. Both paintballs hit him high in the chest, and he staggered back a couple of steps before he caught himself against the wall. He looked around for a moment, then his eyes closed and he slid to the ground. So far, so good.
Jerome followed me to the pool of light outside the doors, and I stopped him a few steps back. We could see everything from here without being seen, and more importantly, we could hear everything clearly. Darth Fedora was standing over the older, balding man I’d seen in Detective Danner’s photo. The preist was kneeling in front of an arcane circle drawn in red, with a thin book open on a milk crate beside him. Behind him, the couple from the Red Parlor were tied against the wall with their hands over their heads. Both of them had some bruises starting to color around their eyes. Things were going to get serious from here, so I changed out the knockout rounds with the burst rounds.
