“Actually, a simple unconsecration ceremony is sufficient for most of us,” he answered grudgingly. “As long as the demesne recognizes its ownership of the property, the décor is muted, and no actual handling of consecrated materials is required, we are able to pass through such edifices and access the prepared habitats below. It’s the synagogues that are the challenge . . .”
“More potent iconography?”
He shook his head. “Observant Jews. Too observant. The orthodox congregants notice the least little discrepancy even if they’ve never been in the building before.” He contemplated the concert-tour tee-shirt she was wearing as she slipped out of her light jacket. “Slayer,” he read across the swell of her bosom. “Do you fancy yourself a ‘slayer’, Ms—?”
“Just call me Deirdre, Kurt,” she answered, working her own brand of intimidation. “After all, we’re all family, now. And no.”
“No?” His eyebrow underscored the question but also suggested he wasn’t sure of exactly which question it was.
“I don’t fancy myself a slayer. Buffy’s the Slayer.”
“Buffy?”
“It’s television,” I whispered. “Ask her if she fancies herself The Executioner.”
“It’s a comic book,” Suki coached.
Smirl shook his head. “You’re thinking of The Punisher.”
“Anita Blake is The Executioner,” the redhead said.
Kurt sighed. “Then, thankfully, you are not subject to delusions of grandeur.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” I said as the elevator stopped five floors down.
“What would you say?” he asked patiently, as the doors opened and he led us into an underground corridor as wide as a suburban street.
“Well,” Deirdre took the ball, “I’d say that I’m not Buffy and I’m not Anita and I’m not Sookie, either . . .”
Kurt looked at me.
I shrugged.
“ . . . I’m just Deirdre . . .”
We entered an electric tram that seated six plus luggage.
“ . . . the undead ass-kicker.”
Which pretty much ended that conversation.
The driver joined us while the other security personnel were taking the elevator in shifts and bringing the luggage. We started off with the understanding that he (or, as I suspected, she) would return with the vehicle to get the rest of our belongings and the handlers.
There were side tunnels heading off toward Central Park, but Kurt drove us toward the museum’s location. Underneath the massive structure’s subbasements, he explained, were living quarters as tastefully appointed as any five-star hotel.
We pulled up to an unloading zone and Kurt led us through a set of doors and into a nicely appointed hallway as the driver began to turn the tram around. Eventually we arrived at a large oaken door.
Kurt produced a large brass key from his pocket and inserted it into a plated keyhole.
“What?” This time it was Suki asking the questions. “No electronic passkeys? No biometrics? No retinal scans?”
He pushed the door open. “Biometrics can be hacked, electronic passkeys jacked. Sometimes the old ways are the best ways.”
I was about to say that keys could be duplicated. Then I got a second look at the key as he extracted it. The design looked old but the brass gleamed as if new. And the teeth—or prongs—angled off the circular barrel in three different directions. It couldn’t be copied on any known key duplication machine that worked with prefabricated blanks. Likewise a sideways mold impression would not capture the three-dimensional configuration. No lock and key system was completely foolproof but this would come closer than anything.
He handed me the key, saying: “Don’t lose it.”
“What about us?” Deirdre asked.
“Why would either of you need a key?” he asked.
“Well . . . you know . . .”
“No. I don’t. Why would you need to leave unless it was to accompany the Doman? And if you are with the Doman, he has the key.”
And with that, he ushered us into the suite.
Actually, it was more like a house than a suite. A house with five bedrooms, each with its own private bath. It was really a small underground mansion with living and recreational space sufficient for a small army. And that wasn’t counting the staff and servants’ quarters.
Kurt gave us a “quick” twenty-minute tour, introducing us to the service personnel and acquainting us with the amenities and the security systems. He concluded by inviting us to unpack, rest, and refresh ourselves while he finalized preparations for the pending reception. Then he left, promising to return around seven p.m. for a pre-meet strategy session.
The house chef stuck his head in while I was unpacking and asked if I would care for an aperitif.
That was a big affirmative. The Hunger had kicked into overdrive since I’d been shot. One or two blood packets from the blood bank every week or so was all I’d needed up till now. Suddenly, a couple of warmed over meals in a pouch—even on a daily basis—seemed woefully inadequate.
“And what would the master prefer?” the chef inquired, sounding more like a wine steward at the moment. “A generous ‘O’? A dry but slightly sweet ‘A’ or a fruity ‘B’? Or shall I bring you something exotic from our rare stock?”
Okay. This was weird, ordering blood by type as if it were like differing years and vintages of wine. But, hey, it beat going out into the streets and hunting mystery meat at night. . . .
I shook my head: Where did that thought come from?
“Do I take that as a ‘no,’ sir?”
“Sorry, just thinking.” Or not thinking . . . “I’ll tell you what; I’ve never had any AB. Do you have any in stock?”
“Positive or negative, sir?”
“Negative if you have it.” AB negative was the rarest of the ABO groups and existed in less than one percent of the population. The fact that I wasn’t that concerned about how they came by it was a little disturbing. Perhaps the mood elevators that Dr. Mooncloud had prescribed were blunting my conscience along with my angst.
Or maybe it was finally eroding under the transmutative onslaught of the virus.
He nodded. “Very good, sir, I shall send something right up.” He disappeared as I closed my empty suitcase and set it in the walk-in closet. Then I flopped on the tennis court–sized bed and ran down my mental checklist.
The Kid’s ashes were now in Billy Bob Montrose’s custody. He wanted to postpone any sort of memorial until I got back. I left him with instructions as to what to do if I didn’t come back. It was a distinct possibility and I wanted things done right by the little twerp. With me or without me, his ashes were to be taken to California and spread across the intersection of Routes 46 and 41 just outside Cholame at precisely 5:45 p.m.
The house, property, and most of my secret bank accounts were deeded over to Lupé in the event of my death or disappearance. I had arranged for some tidy sums to be forwarded to Deirdre and Mama Samm. Also a charitable bequest to Father Pat’s missionary work—if anyone could find him. Olive would become full owner of After Dark Investigations.
Had I missed anything?
There was still my to-do list on the adversarial front. Several individuals or families in the New York demesne were trying to kill me and would keep trying until they either succeeded or I did something to discourage them. Back home I could only keep dodging. Here, I could explore the old football maxim—the best defense is a smashing offense.
If I could just figure out who my enemies were and how to do that before the game went into sudden death overtime.
And then there was this Dr. Pipt. The not-so-good doctor had gone to a lot of trouble to make his Frankenstein monster into a walking autolancet. To what lengths might he go on his next attempt? And how did Theresa, the Patchwork Girl of Ozymandias Industries, figure in?
It didn’t seem likely that I was destined to lead a long and happy life. But I’d settle for short and scrappy if I could take a f
ew of the bastards with me.
I was musing on the theme that Dr. Mooncloud’s happy pills should be renamed “Jimmy’s Cracked Corn” when there was a knock at the bedroom door.
Come, I thought.
The knock sounded again.
Come!
Oh.
“Come,” I said.
A woman entered the room. Her hair was white. Her skin had that fish-belly, glow in the dark, had-to-lie-out-in-the-sun-just-to-neutralize-the-blue-tones kind of whiteness. All she lacked were the pink irises to be a true albino.
If she was one of the maids, she wasn’t dressed for it. Her strapless evening gown was an eye-catching claret that was all the more fascinating as I couldn’t see how it stayed up. She was thin and angular, no bosom and very little hip to provide anchor points.
She extended a white arm as she approached the bed. “Master Cséjthe,” she said in a surprisingly husky voice, “I am Bethany.”
I sat up and noticed three things.
First that the hair on my arms—and apparently all over my body—was starting to stand away from my skin.
Second, Bethany was human, not undead.
And third, the vein that ran along the side of her neck was very prominent.
“Yes,” I said, not sure of what I was saying yes to.
“Chef said you requested AB negative,” she said, leaning toward me.
“Yes?” Her hands were empty, neither a bottle nor a pouch in sight.
“Where would you like me? On the bed?”
Oh God . . . “You’re it. Her. You’re AB . . .”
“Negative.”
“Negative?”
“AB negative,” she clarified with a twinkle in her eye. She reached behind her and I heard a zipper clear its throat. “I hope you like me. I’ve always feared that I might be an acquired taste.”
The dress came down and she was white marble with blue veins.
“You must be under some compulsion,” I whispered as she crawled onto the bed and rolled into my lap.
“I am here of my own free will,” she answered. “I’m not a fang-banger . . .” she looked up at me with pale blue eyes, “ . . . but for you I’ll make an exception.”
“Why?”
“You are the Doman, for one reason.”
“No, I mean, why are you . . . a willing occupant of my wine cellar?”
She gazed up at me with eyes so pale they almost seemed empty. “The money is very, very good. Especially since I am a statistical rarity. And there are benefits . . .”
Before I could find out about the benefits there was another knock at the bedroom door and Deirdre started to come in. “You forgot to pack your—” She stopped as she took in the tableau. Her face colored in stark contrast to the feminine snow sculpture lying across my lap.
“I thought you might need—that is, I brought . . .” She walked quickly forward and handed me a familiar inlaid wooden box. “Here. Bon appetit.” She turned and left as hurriedly as decorum would permit.
I opened the box as the door closed behind her.
“What is it?” Bethany asked.
“My teeth,” I answered as I pulled the fanged dental appliance out of its velvet-lined case.
“They told me that you didn’t have—that you weren’t fully transformed. There’s a small knife in the bedside drawer if you would prefer.”
I looked at the ivory points in my hand and then down at Bethany, her head thrown back, her neck a creamy arch of pale flesh and blue veins, her small breasts pulled taut and flat like a boy’s.
What the hell was I doing here?
It was hard to think when I was so very, very thirsty!
Her snow-white hand took the fangs from my untanned but darker palm. She began to hum as she drew the twin points across her throat. Her skin was not broken but two faint, parallel red lines followed in their wake. She turned her head and drew the teeth up the side of her neck . . . and then back down again.
“Bethany . . .” I said hoarsely.
She dragged the incisors down over her chest, across her breasts until a sharpened tooth caught on a nipple. It rose, tumescent, a pinkish pencil eraser, and a drop of blood formed, like crimson mother’s milk.
I snatched the fangs back and hurriedly set them in my mouth. To delay now was to risk a dangerous loss of self-control: I slid an arm beneath her and raised her snowy neck to my icicled mouth.
* * *
Bethany was subdued when she left. I soon found out why.
Chef appeared as I was cleaning up. He knocked hesitantly and I found him standing nervously, fingering his white hat, as I emerged from the bathroom. “Yes?”
“Did the master find his selection to his taste?”
“What?”
“You ordered AB negative.”
“Yes. Bethany. Well.” To my taste? The truth of the matter was I had not yet come to note the differences in blood and donor types to be any kind of a gourmand. Part of me was still not over the ick factor. And, until recently, I had only required small amounts of blood on an irregular basis. But Bethany had tasted . . . different. How much of that was the blood and how much the vessel?
“Bethany is one of the rarest flowers in our hothouse,” he continued.
“I know. AB negs constitute only one percent of the population.”
“Oh, she’s rarer than that. Bethany’s also a Lutheran.”
I was trying to figure out what her religious affiliation had to do with anything when the antigen association clicked into place. “LU-a or -b?”
“A.”
I whistled. “That makes her a double neg!”
“Then you know what I’m talking about?”
“Hey, when you find out you have a rare blood disorder, you tend to do the research. Lutheran, Kell, Lewis, Duffy, Kidd, Fisher—even some of the antigen classifications that just use the alphabet. LU-b is rare enough; LU-a drops her off the population charts and onto the Endangered Species list.”
He nodded. “All of our consensual donors are precious to us. We treat them well and make sure the symbiotic relationship is a rewarding one. I think you can see why an exotic like Bethany is particularly special in our eyes . . .”
“And upon our palettes,” I said. “Now, I know I’m the new boss and most of the staff is anxious to mind their p’s and q’s—but you really need to stop beating around the bush and get to the point. What seems to be the problem?”
“Well, that is . . .”
“Come on, I don’t bite.” I felt a bead of moisture at the corner of my mouth, touched it with my finger, and looked at the remnant of Bethany’s blood on the tip: I had missed a spot.
“Well, it’s just that she seemed dissatisfied as she was heading back to her quarters.”
“Dissatisfied?”
“Master . . .”
I flinched inwardly. It was a hateful appellation and far too reminiscent of really bad, two-a.m.-on-the-telly monster movies. I forbade anyone to use it in my presence back home. Kurt, however, had repeatedly impressed upon me the need to establish my dominant status here. Reform, he argued, was best administered from a position of strength.
“ . . . it is just understood that the donor will be pleasured in exchange for the wine of their body.”
I stared at him. “Pleasured . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“You mean, have sex with her?”
“Only if you wanted to, master.”
I frowned. “Well, I didn’t want to. So, I didn’t. So, what’s the problem?”
“The problem, sir, is that she didn’t enjoy it.” He bowed his head. “I’m terribly sorry, sir.”
“Well, why should she enjoy it? I put my teeth into her flesh and drank her blood! Being on the receiving end is not my idea of a good time. But I did try to be as gentle as possible and stop that bowing and cringing! I’m not going to kill the messenger.” Unless he continued to drag this conversation into further obfuscation, that is.
“Well, some do en
gage in physical coupling while feeding . . . and there are some donors who relish the pain, the restraints, the slow, excruciating—”
“Yeah, I get the picture. So what does Bethany expect in return? What’s her kink?”
He looked up at me, his face blank with astonishment. “Didn’t you read her?”
“Read her what? A menu? A bedtime story?”
“You entered her throat without entering her mind?”
Oh.
“Master?” he inquired after a painfully long silence.
“Chef, please send for Bethany and tell her to return to my quarters. Tell her I was . . . tell her I will . . .”
“You cannot drink from her again, this day, unless you mean to bring her over.”
“I won’t.” Another file drawer opened in the back of my head. “Chef,” I asked as he turned to go, “does part of Bethany’s contract include the promise that she will be turned someday?”
“But of course,” he said, hesitating at the doorway, “and therein lies another reason to treat the donors with special care. For if you mistreat them while they are still human, what sort of monsters will they be when you finally give them like power over others?”
* * *
Nearly a half hour into Bethany’s orgasm there was a knock at the door.
“Come,” I called, careful not to take my hand away from the small of her back.
Dennis Smirl walked into my field of view. “What are you doing?” the Chicago shapeshifter asked, looking first at me lying on the bed and then at Bethany sitting primly on the side, fully clothed and facing away from me.
“Tipping the waitress.”
He circled around where he could see her vacant, empty stare. He took in the perspiration that misted up from the white flame that burned beneath her skin, the tremors, the clenching and unclenching of her hands, and then listened to the soft gasps and quiet moans that punctuated the paragraphs of silence.
“What is she seeing?”
I shrugged, careful again not to break physical contact. “I’m not a mind reader, yet. I can make suggestions. Force them, if necessary, through mental domination. And my psionic influence is greater if there’s a blood-bond, even if it’s only a one-way sharing. I’m not really privy to Bethany’s fantasy life. I just probed a little to find her pleasure centers and she seemed happy to have me stimulate them.”
Habeas Corpses - The Halflife Trilogy Book III Page 16
