by Alix Adale
“The showman? Aye.”
“He here?”
The old woman wrinkled up her nose as if about to refuse. Her eyes bounced back to Jordan’s pendant. With reluctance, she nodded. “In the big yellow tent, setting up a show. Where else?”
“Thanks.” He took Jordan’s arm and they moved off through the crowd.
They’d almost made it to the tent when a seven-foot tall lycan of some indeterminate species barred the way. The creature folded fur-striped arms across his barrel chest. Huge tufts of hair came from his chin and pointed ears—a lynx, maybe. “Fee, fie, foe, fum,” the lynx-man said. “I smell the blood of Dagon.”
That statement attracted the nearby crowd as heads turned and claws flashed. A small group gathered around them before he could whisk Jordan away. They were trapped within a ring of worrisome man-beasts.
Give it a quick kick to the nuts, or a punch to the throat—dammit, why were they both unarmed? He should’ve put a leash on Mustard, let her lead them to Moog’s camp.
Before he could react, Jordan stepped forward. “Back off, son. He’s mine.”
The lynx-man rumbled. “You? Puny hyoo-mon claim this bat-meat? I will fight you for it!”
“Wrong—” Jordan said, swinging a fist, lightning-quick, into the man’s crotch, “—answer.”
Doubling over, the lynx-man’s face turned red, then blue, before settling into a bright shade of purple as he staggered off. The crowd, eager for blood only seconds before, broke into fits of good-natured laughter and turned away.
Damn, that was some fast thinking. He flashed a smile. “Thanks.”
Her scowl banished his grin as she tugged his arm toward the tent. “Nobody kills you—but me.”
There was no reaching this one. “Always with the death threats.”
They strolled into a yellow circus tent at the far end of the camp, stepping over a rope and pushing past several hanging sheets. Sunlight streamed through mesh panels in the ceiling. Sawdust covered the floor and a few lupine workers assembled aluminum grandstands.
Moog—in human form, as usual—stood in the center of the ring, arguing with Brickhouse. “Brick, you gotta do it. We need that big payday.”
Kit sat huddled on a picnic bench, working on a ledger book with Mustard lounging by her side. A shiner showed over one eye. But her nose twitched and she spotted them. “Jordan, Dreck! Wow, you made it!”
“Ingrid!” Jordan flung out her arms and the two women rushed together, embracing. They fell into a rapid-fire conversation. The dog Mustard also bounded over, yipping at Jordan with joy. Kit’s damn dog liked the hyoo-mon better than the bat. Most dogs did.
Moog saw them enter and clapped Brickhouse on the back. “You’re off the hook,” he muttered, before heading over. “Dreck, my man!”
Enough bullshit. No more prevaricating. He strode forward. “I want answers, Moog. Now.”
“Good to see you again, buddy!” Moog tried to hug him.
None of that. He held the big lycan off at arms-length. “Who killed my sire? What do you know about it? And do you know a vampire named…” He shot a look at Jordan. “Malmardane?”
“Malma-what? Forget it. Dreck, I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“I’m done fighting for you.”
“You haven’t heard me out!”
He puffed out his chest. “The only thing I want to hear coming out of your mouth is everything you know about Ferdinand Braden’s death.”
“I never heard that name before.”
“A vampire master, head of a house in Dagon. He died in your circus, seven years ago.” He gestured toward the tent. “Before one of these gatherings. Maybe during. Nobody seems to know, or they won’t say.”
Moog’s friendly manner vanished. “I’ll tell you everything I know—after you fight tonight. Everything. Cool?”
“Wrong answer, Moog.”
“Buddy, either you fight in the ring tonight—or never learn shit. Uh-uh-uh! Put those fists down. How many lycans are around here, five hundred? A thousand? You going to fight us all?”
Damn the clever bastard, but Moog was right. His fists dropped. Stupid, barging in here and demanding answers, but everything was coming together now, he could feel it. “Deal. One last show. Tonight.”
Moog stomped off and he did the same. Jordan rose, holding onto Kit’s hand, drawing the slender lycan with her. But Moog saw that and whistled. Her tail and ears drooping, Kit slunk back to the ledgers. The show must go on.
Jordan walked up and hissed, “Dreck, we need to talk.”
“Later,” he murmured. “Remember, they have superior hearing.”
Her eyes widened and she nodded.
“Moog!” His shout roused the lycan. “Where’s Jordan’s katana?”
For a moment, Moog looked blank then he laughed, pointing toward the big-top’s snack stand. “We carved up some pumpkins with it. But since you brought Mustard back, take it.”
He followed a half step behind as Jordan ran into the foul-smelling booth. Her sword lay across the sink, covered with pumpkin rind. She wiped it up with dirty dish rags. “My sword, my beautiful sword. Those idiots. Who uses a katana to slice vegetables? Who does that, Dreck?”
Her attachment was amusing. “Does the sword have a name?”
“Course it does.”
“Dare I ask?”
“I almost don’t want to say it.”
“Some Japanese haiku? ‘Cloud Behind Fuji’ or some shit?”
“Stone Killa.”
Okay then. He took a step back. “That’s not cool.”
“Hey, I was eighteen and just killed my first man. Feeling kinda grim and badass.” She caressed the elegant blade with a thumb, testing the edge. “Dreck, we gotta do something about Ingrid. Did you see that black eye?”
“Yup.”
“Brickhouse hit her! You said they got along fine.”
He bit back his annoyance. “Must be a new phase of their relationship.”
“That isn’t funny!”
He roared back. “I didn’t say it was!” Damn, where was his head at? He lowered his voice. “I didn’t mean to shout. And I’m sorry about Kit. We’ll do something for her, but not this minute. Look, I have to fight tonight. It’s the only way to get answers.”
“And if he doesn’t tell you tonight? What then? Stay with the circus for another month? Another fight? Keep asking nice, hope he cracks? He’s playing you for a fool, Dreck.”
“So are you! Tell me about Malmardane—why does he look like my sire?”
She sheathed her sword and strapped it to her back, fastening the buckles with anger. “I told you already, I don’t know—and for the rest of it, no. You are not getting into my personal shit. Not you, you goddamn bat.”
How quickly the lycan insults had entered her vocabulary. This journey was changing her outlook—she just didn’t know it yet. But would it be enough to save her? Danger surrounded them both and she was a long way from her order. Getting away from this crazy hunter remained on the to-do list, but he couldn’t leave her here at the mercy of the lycans. She could die.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing when she kills them. Give her a chance, show her all vampires aren’t evil, they’re not all fiends killing for blood. She needed to know. Ah, what was the use? That was a worthless line of thinking. Such soft thoughts would get him killed.
They left the tent, searching for an empty trailer to lay low until tonight’s fight. They found one, paying fifty dollars ‘cash money’ as Jordan called it for a room. It turned out to be a foul-smelling camper with a single mattress and a couch. At least the lock worked and it had a tiny little bathroom. He did not want to go shit in the woods only to run into more lycans spoiling for a fight.
But goddamn this stubborn vampire hunter with her twisted, incomprehensible ethics! And goddamn Moog and Ursula. Damn everyone. And damn Ferdinand too. Damn them all! His fist crashed into the aluminum siding, denting the trailer.
Bah. Punching i
nanimate objects never solved anything.
Chapter 11: Royal Summons
Jordan
This katana belonged in her hands. She unsheathed it inside the trailer, wiped it with care, furious at the nicks and scratches marring the blade. Those numbskull lycans had beat it against cutting boards. Sacrilegious bastards. Ingrid should have stopped them. But her friend had angered both Moog and Brick, so maybe that was impossible. Poor Ingrid. On top of all these other problems, her friend needed help. Once Order, always Order, even if Ingrid never graduated to novice hunter.
Inside the trailer, Dreck flung himself onto the mattress and stretched out to sleep. Let him sleep, then. He needed it if he was going to fight some big, scary monster. Who or what he was up against, Moog never said.
Her opinion of lycans had dropped off a cliff. They were more dangerous and more human than her lore described. If Brickhouse stepped into the ring tonight, she’d challenge him herself, lay him out for what he’d done to her friend. Ingrid. Why was someone like Ingrid hanging out in a nightmare like this? It boggled the mind. The whole place radiated serious spookiness, like a demonic sabbath out of an old-fashioned woodcut. Ingrid shouldn’t live like an animal.
Then again, maybe Dreck had a point about vampires. Maybe they weren’t all terrors from the Underworld. The lore did mention a few helpful vampires who assisted the Order with their work. Ashamed of what they’d become, those pitiful creatures had thrown themselves on the mercy of the Church. They received confinement in exchange for surrendering information about vampirism, cooperating in tests, surrendering to the judgment of a tribunal. Maybe Dreck would agree to such a deal.
No. Look at him. Strong, proud, fierce and so independent. He’d no more go crawling to Father de la Sierra and the Order than would one of these lycans turn vegetarian. Surrender didn’t figure into his nature.
With a strip of cloth and whetstone from her duffel bag, she worked in earnest, cleaning the sword before smoothing out dings and honing the edge. With any luck, the katana would send Malmardane back to hell. Would it, though? What was she still doing here? In theory, she was on sabbatical, clearing her head, renewing her purpose, rededicating herself to the sacred task. Then Dreck—and Malmardane—had thrown that into chaos. Not to mention Ingrid’s circus mutating into a gateway to another dimension. This was without a doubt the worst vacation ever.
Demi-World. Hah. What a joke. Dreck’s explanation of a mystical fairyland didn’t wash. This was Limbo, the formless void that surrounded Heaven, Earth, and Hell. No other explanation fit the lore. Then again, could the Church be wrong? It was out of step with a lot of things, but the Church’s stand on issues like celibacy and female priests didn’t matter as much as the endless war against demons and vampires.
Her work with the sword complete, she sheathed it, hung it on the cabin’s gun rack before prayer and meditation. During the session, Dreck’s words returned. That’s Ferdinand Braden, my sire. How could Malmardane resemble George’s sire? How could one devil be the same as another? Easy. They all practiced deception.
Dreck had slipped up, though. He’d named his sire. Vampire Houses kept their bloodlines secret, but the more powerful houses couldn’t help but gain notoriety. The Bradens operated up north within the Kingdom of Dagon, a region not patrolled by the Order of Silence. That meant Dreck wasn’t from Malmardane’s bloodline—or was he? She’d spent years hunting Malmardane, knew his nest and bloodline inside out. The creature never set foot in the Kingdom of Dagon, according to her records. The first Malmardane had lived—and died, with her sword in his heart—back in Oklahoma. Somehow, he’d risen from the dead, taken a new shape, and followed her to California. There he gathered the forces that destroyed her mentor and wiped out her cell. Then he’d infiltrated the funeral and even followed her as far as that motel in Idaho.
Dreck’s presence had made Malmardane hesitate. Now Dreck claimed the creature wore his dead sire’s form. But why? Nothing like that existed in the lore. Precious few vampires could change their forms in so radical a fashion, and what was the use of a dead vampire impersonating another one? She wanted to call Father de la Sierra for counsel, but there was no phone service in Limbo.
A twig snapped outside the trailer, followed by an abrupt silence. Too bad Mustard wasn’t here. Could it be Ingrid out there, sneaking away from the Circus? Maybe, maybe not. Her friend’s name hung on the tip of her tongue, but better to wait.
A hand rattled the knob, finding it locked. Outside, a woman—not Ingrid—whispered: “Let’s try the back window.”
Intruders, then. Reflexes took over. Gripping her sword with perfect silence, she crouched behind the couch, waiting.
Two distinct sets of steps left the porch, crunching through leaves to the far end of the trailer. Two shadows peered through gaps in the curtains, blocking the sunlight. Dreck snoozed on.
Waking him at this point might alert the intruders, losing the element of surprise. The metaphorical spider dropped a web down her spinal column. A chill hit the air as her on-again, off-again senses picked up the vibe of supernatural danger, loud and clear.
The pane opened and the woman whispered, “Push me in.” A human head poked in, looked around, followed by a short, lean body, pale and wiry. Dyed blonde hair showed two pigtails, one pink, one blue, along with a mass of black roots. Pale as a ghost in a t-shirt and denim cutoffs, the intruder landed on her feet. Her gaze went at once to the sleeping Dreck.
In a flash, Jordan leaped from behind the couch and wrapped an arm around the woman’s neck. The point of her katana pushed up between the vampire’s breasts. “Say your prayers, blood-drinker.”
The woman recovered fast. Iron-strong hands gripped Jordan’s wrists with underworld strength, wrestling the point back down. “Iä, iä, Cthulhu. Like that?”
This one was strong—but not centuries-old strong. The strengths of younger vampires ran within upper human ranges. This one was probably still a fledgling. Deus vult.
Jordan’s muscles strained against the other’s strength, forcing the blade back up toward the heart. It was like arm-wrestling a bodybuilder, but the sword-point rose inch by inch, cutting through the woman’s shirt and nicking skin. “Think you’re funny? You should be afraid.”
“Fear is the mind-killer.”
“No. I am the mind-killer. I’ve killed dozens like you.”
Their voices snapped Dreck awake. He leaped to his feet, ready to fight. Then recognition flooded his face and he relaxed. “Jordan! Let her go.”
“Let her go? A vampire? Are you crazy?”
“She’s in my clan. Truce with me, truce with my clan. We’re a family.”
No, her treaty was with Dreck alone. “This killer? How many has she killed, Dreck? How many?”
His voice ran cold and he rolled his neck, staring her down. “Not as many as you.”
Point taken. She lowered her sword and pushed the woman away. But the katana stayed out. Might still need it. Definitely might still need it.
The woman shot a nasty look over her shoulder as she unlocked the front door. On the portal, she whistled. “Come on in, honeybunch. Coast is clear.”
A scruffy twenty-something entered the now-crowded trailer. He was as pale as the girl even without the garish white face paint he wore for some reason, along with shaggy green-dyed hair and a Batman t-shirt. The two looked like goth trailer trash. Dreck’s ‘friends’ weren’t impressive, but they were vampires. Her tingling spine proved it.
Dreck pointed his cigar at the female. “What’s with the hair, you colorblind? And who’s this clown?”
“It’s called frosting, grandpa. And this,” the female vampire said, pulling the other male up the steps, “is my boy-toy.”
“Word,” said the green-haired vampire, grinning like a stoner. “This place has … cool colors.”
Dreck sniffed. “I get it. Suicide Squad. Harley Quinn and the Joker.”
The female vampire clapped. “I’m impressed! George gets a contemporar
y reference—excuse me, Dreck.”
This exchange was baffling but educational. She’d never seen vampires interacting outside a battlefield. Now three stood in a narrow trailer, conversing. The new male blocked the door, grinning cock-eyed. He looked stoned—and deranged. The female vampire flicked her chin at Jordan. “That’s no lycan. She’s human.”
Dreck grunted. “She’s a better fighter than you. Don’t piss her off.”
The woman laughed. “Bodyguard with benefits? Naughty, George!”
“You didn’t walk into a lycan demi-world for nothing. What do you want, Cherise?”
“I’m the expendable messenger. Someone wants to see you.”
“Who?”
The one addressed as Cherise fluttered her eyelashes. “Wouldn’t you like to know? But what’s in it for—”
A blur crossed the room in a split second; Dreck moved so fast it caught everyone off-guard. One arm lashed out and punched the Joker-inspired male vampire in the head. The green-haired punk flew out the door and crashed into the yard. Dreck’s other hand grabbed the female vampire by a fistful of t-shirt and forced her against the wall. “Tell me!”
“The Queen!” said Cherise, tugging in vain on his arms. “Ursula sent me.”
Dreck released the woman. “The Queen of Dagon here—at a lycan gathering? That’s batshit crazy, even for you.”
“She wants to see you. Take a look.” The girl fished something metallic out of her pocket, tossed it to Dreck. “That’s her seal.”
Dreck caught the metal object in midair. It resembled a lead cylinder on a mesh chain. He read the name, cursed, handed it back. “When?”
“Now. It’s urgent.”
“About what?”
“The fuck would I know? Don’t shoot the messenger!”
Staying silent was a good choice. This was interesting. A vampire queen—here? It was a golden opportunity to strike a blow for God, assuming this other vampire was telling the truth. Judging from Dreck’s suspicion, that wasn’t certain. She glanced out the front door.
The male vampire lay in the yard, laid out like a snow angel in the summer grass. One less vampire to worry about for now. A few lycans wandering by laughed and pointed, but nobody interfered. Par for the course at Firewater Dam, apparently. This whole outlaw gathering had a lawless, Wild West feel. No cops or ambulances in the Demi-World. No Order of Silence to back her up.
