Nightlord: Orb

by Garon Whited

  “Good to know. I’ll leave you alone, now.”

  As I turned to go, he stopped me with a word.

  “Hey.”

  “Yes?” I asked, turning back.

  “You out to even up? Or help Mark and his kid?”

  “A bit of both, I suppose.”

  “Killing Jerome get you even, but his boss be Tyrone. Tyrone won’t take it; he think Mark do whatever you do, or Mark had it done. Tyrone, he won’t let it go if you kill his man Jerome.”

  That was a point. How do I deal with that? Pack Mark and Gary up and move them somewhere to start a new life? Or kill off Tyrone, too?

  I put the question to Ortiz on the theory he would want to help his friend. Or, at least, owed Mark for insisting on rescuing him. Ortiz looked thoughtful for a bit, which was obviously something of an effort for him. I wondered how much of the substance on the table was already up his nose or in his veins.

  “You probably need to get them gone,” he answered, finally. “There no winning against these guys. You push, they push back. You beat one, the rest beat you. You kill one, the rest kill everyone you love. It don’t never stop.”

  “So, my choices are to hide them, or to kill everyone from Henderson on down?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said, sarcastically, then he checked himself. “You serious?”

  “Are you afraid of the Dark?” I asked, smiling, fangs out.

  “Big time,” he agreed.

  “Then I was never here.”

  “Suits me.”

  Saturday, October 31st

  Ah, Halloween. If there’s a time of year I can get away with looking weird, this is it.

  I went to my classes, same as usual, and remembered to stop by the hardware store—Google Vans loves me, I’m sure. There were also some other errands, such as driving by some addresses, looking places over, and “casing the joint,” as they used to say.

  None of it struck me as all that difficult, provided you could leap a twelve-foot wall, remain unseen by video cameras, and didn’t mind being shot. I mind the being shot part, but it doesn’t bother a monster nearly as much as it does people. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that.

  If things went well, I was definitely making a trip to Vegas. I have to make a living, and I haven’t made anything as a professional magus, yet. I should check with Sebastian about when I can expect to get paid.

  If things didn’t go well, I might not have to worry about it. I should probably draw up a last will and testament. Maybe I’ll leave everything to a trust fund for the Fab Four.

  I made it home well before dark and started on some housekeeping—a some black ribbon around the door, a couple of rubber bats, some fake spiderweb. I also lugged munchables out to the loft and found the Four-minus-one sitting around up there, looking miserable and twiddling with their instruments. Gary’s guitar was still sitting where he left it. Nobody said anything while I restocked the little fridge. I was on my way back to the ladder when Patricia piped up.

  “Mister Smith?”

  “Yes, Patricia?” I always call her by her right name.

  “What’s going to happen to Gary?”

  “He’ll be in the hospital for a while, then he’ll be back.”

  “But his house burned down.”

  “True. He may have to move. There’s a house for sale on the corner; maybe he can live there.”

  “We ought to do something,” Luke said. Edgar and Patricia agreed.

  “You know,” I said, thoughtfully, “he and Mark don’t have much left after the fire. They’ll probably need stuff like clothes, shoes, food… you know, all that stuff. Why don’t you go home and look around? Make a list of all the things you wouldn’t have if it was your house that caught fire. Then we can compare lists and see what they probably need.”

  They liked the idea. It wasn’t doing something directly for Gary, but it felt like it. It was action, at least. They scrambled down the ladder and vanished. I climbed down much more slowly and carefully.

  Not much later, sunset found me under a stream of hot water. I keep thinking I should add a soap dispenser to the showerhead—press the button and foamy, soapy water streams out. Let go the switch and it goes back to rinsing. Probably unnecessary for humans, but I have industrial hygiene needs. At least, I think so. I may be oversensitive to my own odors, either from enhanced senses or my tendency to be an effete wimp.

  For the evening, I decided on my King of Karvalen outfit, complete with sword, solid-black eyes, and white makeup. Next year, maybe I can put up some real Halloween decorations, too. With Myrna making anti-pagan-holiday noises, I’m not sure it will go over well, but I’ll have a year to feel out the neighborhood and gauge everyone else’s opinion.

  Let’s see… groceries in the hayloft minifridge, Stalls charging up, diamonds in the attic growing nicely, candy in a bowl on the porch, alarms set, armored underwear… anything I’m missing before going into the city again? No, that seems to be it.

  Jerome Powers did business by proxy. That is, he didn’t do anything; he ordered it done. He was more of a manager than an operative, which suited me perfectly. What I wanted to do was grab him by the neck and see if I could peel his spine out his back like the plastic pull-strap in easy-open packaging. What I would settle for was a simple financial arrangement—one of the reasons I might need to visit Las Vegas or Monaco.

  Knocking on the door was right out; I had to buzz at the front gate. The location was a suburb in the same way Beverly Hills mansions are in the suburbs. The houses were far apart, had walls or tall privacy fences, and many of them had private security.

  This does not seem like Oklahoma City to me. I had to remind myself I’m not in my home universe. Strike that. I’m not in my original universe. The concept of “home” is problematic.

  Powers’ residence was no exception to the estate rules, but there was a sizable party in progress. With luck, it was a costume party and I’d fit right in.

  “Name?” crackled the speaker.

  “The Dark.” Seemed good enough for Halloween.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Dark. As in, that stuff when the lights go out. I’d like to see Mister Powers about paying him a large sum of money, please.”

  The speaker was quiet for several moments.

  “Stand in front of the camera, sir.”

  “I am.”

  “I don’t see you.”

  “That’s complicated. You may want to send someone down.”

  They did. While I waited, I inspected the gate, the wall, and the cameras. The cameras didn’t concern me; I don’t show up well—if at all—after sunset. Nevertheless, I had the feeling someone was watching me. Nothing definite, nothing I could put my finger on. Certainly no signs of anyone looking intently in my direction—and I did look up, just in case there was a drone or other aerial vehicle. There really was nothing.

  The feeling persisted. Maybe I’m a trifle paranoid. I can’t imagine why.

  “Hush, Firebrand.”

  Huh?

  “Just getting ahead of the curve.”

  A security guy came down and there followed the interesting experience of having him show up on the monitor at the guard station while I did not. This was apparently weird enough to attract attention. At least it got me escorted up the drive to the house. The little electric cart was built for two; it did not like carrying me.

  Once inside and theoretically under the thumb of the in-house security, a lady in formal business attire asked my reason for being there. I could hear the party going on elsewhere in the house, but business matters happen at all hours when you’re a professional criminal, I suppose.

  “I’d like to buy the Spotznitz family from Mister Powers,” I told her. She blinked. I think I succeeded in ruffling her. From her cool, professional demeanor, I’d wager that didn’t happen often.

  “Wait here.”

  I wai
ted there. She came back.

  “Mister Powers will give you five minutes. Follow me.”

  I followed her.

  Powers was dressed in a Harlequin outfit, complete with mask and cap of bells. He stood in front of a sideboard, pouring a drink for himself as I was shown in. The lady left us alone and closed the doors behind her. Well, I say alone. There were four men in the room with us who were dressed in bodyguard costumes. They were really good costumes. I wondered if Powers shopped at the same store the Fries did.

  Powers took a sip of something brownish and regarded me with an expression reserved for things like gum on the bottom of one’s shoe.

  “You want something from me?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’d like to buy Mark Spotznitz.”

  “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “He isn’t mine to sell.”

  “I see. Perhaps I phrased that badly. Would it be possible to purchase any interests you have in him, or any markers, debts, or obligations he might have to you?”

  “I suppose that might be done,” he admitted, “if I actually owned any such properties.”

  “All right. If you would be so good as to direct me to the appropriate person, I’ll take up no more of your time.”

  “Let us not be hasty,” he suggested. “What, exactly, is your interest in this matter?”

  That’s a really good question, I thought. If I admitted I was here because I liked Gary, Gary instantly became a high-value target and potential hostage. Was there anything else I could come up with?

  “It’s personal. Mark did me a favor. I’d like to return it.”

  “Then I regret I am unable to oblige you. Good evening.” He turned to leave and I stood up quickly. The large gentlemen started moving toward me.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but I really must insist.”

  Powers paused, hand on the door. He raised an eyebrow at me while one of the four guys laid a hand on my left shoulder. Another got a grip on my right wrist. The other two stood behind me, but not actually touching me. I didn’t attempt to move, so they let me stand there.

  “Your personal matter,” he informed me, “does not take precedence over the personal matter involving my employer.”

  “May I ask why he has such an attachment?”

  “It’s a personal matter,” Powers replied, smiling nastily. So that was it. I didn’t want to tell him my reasons, so he was being difficult. Still, maybe greed could overcome petty vindictiveness.

  “Will you please—please!—at least ask him if there is any price at all that he will accept?”

  “My good man, you have already wasted enough of my time. I have guests to attend and this matter is closed.” Then, to his guards, “Show him out.”

  They showed me out. I let them. They were firm, but in no sense rough about it. Polite and professional, they made sure to let me know they had the situation well in hand every step of the way.

  Standing outside the gate, I rubbed one wrist and regarded the place. If Powers wasn’t the one who had the authority for this, I’d have to find his employer. Unfortunately, while Ortiz told me Tyrone’s name, Ortiz was too low on the food chain to give me specifics. I’d have to ask Powers a trifle more insistently.

  I took a walk. As I walked, I muttered a chant, gesturing occasionally to help shape the spell. I spent about an hour on it, wrapping myself in an aura of familiarity. It wasn’t invisibility; far from it. People would see me easily. But anyone who saw me wouldn’t notice me. People would look right through me as another face in the crowd, as though I simply belonged there.

  Admittedly, this doesn’t work so well when I’m dressed like a vampire king from a fantasy universe. The more unusual you are, the more likely it is someone will notice. On the other hand, once I made it into the costume party, I would actually blend in. Let’s hear it for pagan holiday celebrations! Always making it easy for creatures of darkness to mingle with humanity.

  By the time I finished the spell, I’d circled around Powers’ place. I didn’t go through the gate this time. I walked down a little way, jumped over the wall, landed on the lawn, and strolled boldly in. It really was that simple.

  Believe it or not, I like simple.

  I wandered around in the house. It was quite a large house. It was shooting for mansion and scored a near miss. The party occupied most of the ground floor. Everyone wore a costume of some sort.

  Much like the house, the party shot for upper class soirée and missed by a narrow margin. The string quartet played some appropriate music—very Gothic, good for Halloween. Sharply-creased, uniformed staff circulated with trays loaded with fluted champagne glasses and delectable finger-foods. There was still something amiss about the place. Maybe the people were the problem. Maybe the rooms were a trifle too small to really give the feeling of a palatial party. Or maybe the ostentatious décor was a little too ostentatious, aiming for elegant and hitting pretentious, instead.

  I didn’t like it. But then, I didn’t have to like it. It was all just background while I circulated among the ghosts and ghouls, aliens and spacemen, pop stars and historical figures. Eventually, the party would either wind down, allowing me to lurk until the guests were gone, or I would have a chance to buttonhole Powers privately between mingles. I was hoping for the former; the fewer screaming guests, the better. It’s hard to interrogate a man when people are screaming around you. It distracts the victim and makes it harder to hear the answers.

  Something brushed me. It wasn’t a material something, more like a tendril of psychic force. It reminded me of the underground club, only this was a much more subtle and delicate thing. I examined my examiner, so to speak, as it lightly skimmed over me. It seemed less of a tendril than a… a feeler, perhaps. It’s hard to describe something that doesn’t have any physical existence, but it was less of a flexible line and more like a broad, feathery thing. It was a sensory organ without the coiling-wire strength of my own tendrils. I had no doubt the feathery feel of it could enfold someone’s spirit like certain plants fold around insects, though. Whatever the configuration, it was made of the same stuff; I know a psychic vampire tendril when I feel one.

  When it started feeling around in my pouches—the outfit didn’t have pockets—I took hold of it with a tendril of my own and, for lack of a better way to describe it, pulled it taut and twanged it, tracing it back to the source.

  The lady at the end of the buffet table winced. Aha! Looking at her more closely, she had dark haired, wore a domino mask, and her outfit was some sort of skintight tactical thing done in black and dark purple. A pair of prop guns hung in shoulder holsters; lethal-looking knives were sheathed along her thighs. A movie character, maybe? Some sort of hunter or assassin or something? I’m really not up on the current pop culture. My geek card is out-of-date.

  Once I had a clear line of sight on her, I could see her uniqueness. She was somewhat different to my normal mode of seeing. The bright layers of a normal person are different in a vampire. She had sharper, brighter lines where a human would have a nervous system. Her vitality was a more static, stable thing, rather than foaming and churning constantly. The crimson pulse of her blood was actually a black network of lines inside the glowing fluid of the surrounding vitality, not at all like a human.

  The movement of the party allowed me to drift in her direction. It would have been odd to suddenly turn and cut through the crowd. She decided to drift away, though, not wishing to meet me at close range. Since I hadn’t let go of her feathery tendril, I drew it taut and twanged it again. She decided maybe the painting next to her deserved some study. I joined her in viewing it and let go of her… “feather-tendril,” maybe? It’s feathery, it’s a tendril…

  “Good evening,” I offered, to the painting.

  “Is it?” she asked, sounding uncertain. The painting offered no opinion.

  I eyeballed her sideways. She seemed familiar. The domino mask didn’t help, but it’s th
e worst sort of mask for concealing one’s features. Still, she was definitely familiar. The resemblance was hard to see. Then I had it. I tried to picture her with wildly-colored hair and glittering makeup. Yes, I had seen her before. She was prettier than I first thought.

  “Interesting company you keep,” I observed.

  “A girl has to know how to get around.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  “I’m Mary, of the Thessaloniki.”

  “You may call me Halar.” I suppose I could have used my original name, “Eric,” but that’s for people I like. “Vlad” was right out; I was using it publicly at the moment. “Halar” seemed like the best alias.

  “No tribe?” she asked, looking at me.

  “I never joined one,” I answered. Her expression flickered toward wide-eyed, then locked into a Generic Smile.

  “Oh. I thought we were all born into a tribe. If you take my meaning.”

  “I wasn’t. I’ve never heard of tribes.”

  “Um. Perhaps we could take a walk?” she suggested, gesturing toward the outdoor patio. Her eyes flicked around the room, then met mine, clearly indicating the potential eavesdroppers all around us. She had quite expressive eyes.

  “Love to. May I ask what your costume is? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with modern pop culture.”

  “It’s the Nightstalker,” she explained, taking my arm. “She’s a video heroine. Investigates bad guys until she finds someone who needs to vanish, then vanishes them.” She smiled prettily, showing fangs for a moment. Other than the fangs, she had perfect teeth. I was mildly envious. “Usually it’s in a quite bloody fashion.”

  She talked about her super-heroine costume and we walked along, chatting. She led me out onto the terrace. There were a number of other couples with that idea. The terrace was dim, large, and had several concrete benches. It was relatively private with the noise from inside, but Mary led me along a brick walk through the hedges.

  “How old are you?” she asked, quietly, once we were out of sight.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted., equally quietly. “I’ve lost track.” This did not seem to make her more comfortable.