Blood & Rust

by S. A. Swiniarski

  She didn’t even feel that she belonged with Rose and the others. They, all but Rose, had been brought over already. She was the only other one left who hadn’t. She and Rose were still human.

  Still human, but with His blood in her veins, pressing His will into her own, opening every wrinkle of her mind to Him. She wanted Him, and she was terrified of Him. She wanted to join them in their eternity, but the necessary death scared her.

  She had seen the death. The ceremony He underwent with His inner circle. They all had to see, and had to share the blood as it was all drained from the disciple from slashes in the neck, the arms, the legs. Only when it was completely gone would He replace it with his own.

  Flo had seen it ten times now, and every time it seemed that more than blood was replaced. It was as if He filled the bodies with his own soul.

  She shuddered at the memory and slid into a familiar tavern, a place where she had once spent time with poor Eddie.

  The bartender recognized her when she pushed her way through the crowd. “Hey, Flo,” he said over the head of a patron, “long time no see.”

  Flo nodded and squeezed next to the bar. Before, she had been growing to hate these places—smoky, crowded, loud. Now it almost filled her with a painful nostalgia for a time before the blood, before the ache, before the death—

  She gave the bartender a fiver and said, “Whatever that will buy me.”

  The bartender looked at her, looked at the five, and swapped a bottle of amber liquid for the money. He handed her a glass and she pushed away from the bar before he could say anything more.

  She found a dark corner with a table all to herself and proceeded to get quietly drunk.

  When she got to her third glass, an unfamiliar voice said, “Florence? Florence Polillo?”

  She slowly looked up from the glass. She resented the speaker before she ever saw him. The liquor had barely had a chance to warm the December chill away, and when she saw him, the chill deepened, evaporating the grip of the booze.

  The man wore overalls, clothing that was almost anonymous. His hair was black, except where his mustache met his goatee, where it had begun to gray. But what chilled Flo were his eyes, eyes as gray and hard as slate. For a moment, Flo thought He had finally come for her.

  It wasn’t Him, and that frightened her all the more.

  He stood opposite the table and said, “Don’t deny it. I can see who you are, what you are.”

  Flo finally spoke. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She set down the glass because her hand was shaking.

  The stranger shook his head and sat down opposite her. “You know Andrassy. You have the same master.”

  “I don’t know—”

  Her friend the bartender stepped up behind the stranger and placed a hand on the man’s shoulders. Not a man, Flo thought.

  “I think the lady wants to be alone, Mister.” Flo was grateful for the interruption, and was simultaneously frightened for the bartender. He had no idea what he was interfering with.

  The stranger turned to face the bartender, and Flo had a horrible fantasy of the stranger striking him down right there, tearing out his throat, of blood pooling on the stained barroom floor. But the stranger didn’t attack. He stared at the bartender and said quietly, “I am bothering no one. I am not even here.”

  All the color drained out of the bartender’s face as he nodded. The expression he wore was one of extreme terror, as if he had also seen Flo’s gory fantasy and for a moment believed it might happen. He quickly slipped away, and once he was back behind the bar the stranger turned back around to regard her.

  “Who are you?” Flo whispered.

  “Call me Iago,” the stranger said.

  “What do you want?”

  Iago’s gaze bore into her skull. She felt as if her forehead was made of glass, and that those gray eyes could see every working of the mind underneath it. “I want you to name your master to me.”

  She felt as if her heart had stopped beating in her chest.

  “One of the blood has thrown aside the Covenant, one of enough power that he threatens the Covenant itself.”

  Flo just shook her head.

  “Do you think you and yours are the only ones of the blood? There is a society here, one your master could destroy. He has already killed one of us in addition to your friend; do you know how grievous an act that is?”

  “I can’t talk to you!” Flo said in a harsh whisper. Running through her mind was what He had done to Eddie. He had severed his head while he was still alive. He had mutilated the body ... “Leave me alone.”

  “Unlike your master, I respect the Covenant. I shall not force you against your owner’s will.” Iago stood. “But I see your master’s blood in you as I saw it in Andrassy. You and your master are part of the Covenant whether he holds to it or not.”

  Flo felt a shudder inside herself. She knew that she had to let Iago leave. She knew that it would mean her life, and her chance at something beyond life, if she opened her mouth.

  Her hand shook as she whispered, “You knew Eddie?”

  Iago stopped. “I knew the person your master slaughtered with Andrassy. I saw them both a few days before they were killed.” He stepped back and returned to the chair. The crowd in the barroom seemed to recede from them, as if they’d been abandoned in a small corner of the world that no one could quite see. No one faced them, no one paid them any attention. Even the sound of their voices seemed to fade under Iago’s, as if it came from a different reality.

  “His name was Anacreon, and he was the oldest and wisest of the blood that I have known.” He must have seen her expression, because he said, “No, not as old as the name. He was a scholar. He was my friend, he was once my master.”

  Flo shook her head, “But Eddie—”

  Iago raised his hand, silencing her. “Anacreon took me long ago, initiated me into his circle, taught me the Covenant that has held our society together for nearly a millennium. That we do not slay those of the blood, allow those of the blood to be exposed, and take responsibility for those we bring into the blood. Without that law between us, all those of the blood would be slain—at our own hands or the hands of others.”

  “You told Eddie this?” This was not what He said. He said law belonged to the powerful, and that all those of His kind were His subjects or His enemy. He was the true lord of this world, and eventually all humanity would bow down to Him and His kind, and all of His kind would bow to Him. Anyone who opposed Him forfeited their lives.

  All He had given the thirst thought His rule was a small price for the power, and the life, that He offered.

  “Anacreon told Eddie this. I know that Anacreon had spent a year investigating something. An ancient who did not observe the Covenant. The last I saw him, he was with Andrassy, and Anacreon thought he knew who this ancient was. He did not tell me who, and within days they both had died.” Iago leaned forward. “At the hands of your master.”

  Flo couldn’t move, but she could feel Iago reading the agreement in her eyes. She wanted to tell him, scream everything, punish Him for taking Eddie. She couldn’t. The price was too high. She could feel what He offered slipping away from her just for being in Iago’s presence, and something inside her wanted desperately to hang on to what she had. All she had. The only thing she had.

  “Anacreon was one of the great ones in this city. His loss, in this way, has panicked and confused those of the blood. My circle is devastated, nearly powerless without him. Without the information you can give me, I have no voice for the others. I need a name.”

  Flo felt the force of Iago’s will pushing her, pulling the information. Even though He controlled her, body and soul, He wasn’t here. Somewhere under Iago’s gaze, her internal struggle transformed from her attempt to resist Iago to His influence trying to keep her from speaking.

  “I found you,” Iago said, his words pushing away everything but them and the table. She was alone, utterly alone with herself and Iago. Nothing
could reach her here. “Others can find you,” he said.

  Flo felt she was falling into his gray eyes, losing herself. It was like giving herself up to Him, but without the pain.

  “A name,” Iago said.

  Slowly, as if in a dream, Flo said, “He calls himself Eric Dietrich.” Then, through the evening, Florence Polillo committed suicide with her words.

  13

  Wednesday, December 11

  When Eliot Ness saw the reporters, he knew he was going to take the job the new Cleveland administration was offering him. He had only talked once on the phone with Mayor Burton, and since then he’d been wondering if the job of Safety Director was for him. Until now, his entire career in law enforcement had been within the Federal Government, and he’d always been on the front lines, not an administrator.

  He came to City Hall to talk to the mayor, still a little unsure. Unsure until the press began to crowd around him. The third time a reporter asked, “Is it true you’re going to be the chief lawman in this city?” he knew he’d take the job. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

  Ness was one of a crowd of people here to see the mayor, most probably here to see about jobs in the new reform-minded administration. Even so, he didn’t have time to shuck his overcoat before he was ushered into the mayor’s office.

  The door shut, leaving him facing Mayor Burton. The politician stood behind his desk, leafing through papers as he talked to another man. His eyes glanced up at Ness once the door closed. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Ness. I’d like to introduce you to Joe Crowley, Assistant Law Director for the city.”

  Ness stepped up and shook hands with Crowley, then the mayor. “Thank you for inviting me. I was somewhat surprised at your phone call.”

  The mayor nodded. “I was surprised at how well-recommended you were. I’m afraid I did not know you beforehand,” he glanced down at the pages in his hand, “though it seems I should have.”

  Ness felt irritated at the admission, but he didn’t let it show in his face. He just nodded politely.

  “Seems you were hell on bootleggers, and you helped put Al Capone away. Is that right?”

  Ness nodded again.

  The mayor put the papers on his desk and looked into Ness’ eyes. “They tried to bribe you, and you threw them out. That’s what impressed me the most. I need someone like you. The city’s in a hell of a mess, and my predecessor practically abdicated while in office. I told the people that I was going to do something about crime, and the only way that’s going to happen is if we clean up the police department. I need someone with an incorruptible reputation. If you’re willing to take on the job, Joe here can swear you in right now.”

  Ness said he was willing.

  Within moments he was holding up his right hand as Joseph Crowley swore him in before a crowd of reporters and city employees.

  14

  Friday, December 13

  Oris Paxton Van Sweringen sat next to his brother’s bed and tried to comfort him. Mantis James, normally light-complexioned, was even paler. His brow glistened under the single light in the private room, and his breathing was shallow and wracked with congestion. He had lost too much weight. His wrist was too bony under Oris’ hand, and underneath the burning skin Mantis’ pulse was much too fast.

  The disease was in his heart, in his blood, and it had been made much worse by the influenza. Oris spent his time trying to think of some way out of this, some solution, better doctors, something. As usual, he was left empty, watching his brother, his companion, his best friend, being torn apart from the inside.

  Tonight was another night that the doctors doubted Mantis would survive. His fever was too great, his blood pressure too high, his damaged heart working too hard to maintain a traitorous body. Oris tried to convince himself that he would rally again, as he had after the auction. But he hadn’t been this bad off then.

  There was a sour smell in the room, under the smell of fever and sweat. Oris tried to ignore it.

  It was after midnight, early Friday morning, when Mantis opened his eyes and looked up at his brother. Quietly, he asked, “How goes the business, O. P.?”

  Oris shook his head. “You were right about him.”

  His brother grasped Oris’ hand. His grip felt hot, as if his skin was drawn tight over a boiler. “You did what we needed,” he said.

  “What we needed?” His own voice had weakened. “Is the business all we had? Is that all we ever had... ?”

  “We have each other,” Mantis said weakly. His eyelids drooped.

  It shouldn’t be you, Oris thought. He might have spoken, but if so, the words were too soft for Mantis to hear. He put you here, because of me, to control me.

  “We have each other,” Oris said so his brother could hear. Mantis’ eyes remained closed.

  Oris gripped his brother’s hand tighter and realized that he was no longer feeling the flutter of Mantis’ erratic pulse. “No,” Oris whispered, “we have each other. We have to have each other.”

  He shook his brother with his other hand. His brother was so much dead weight. Still holding his hand, Oris called for the doctors, the nurses, someone to help. When the help came, Oris’ throat was sore and the doctors had to pry his hand away from his brother’s.

  When they pulled his hand away, it was as if they were prying the heart out of his chest. He was pushed slowly away from the bedside as doctors and nurses crowded around. From their faces, Oris knew that there was nothing to be done.

  “Why?” Oris asked. The question was silent, his voice had no breath to make a sound. The word stayed trapped in the hollowness inside him.

  It was the devil Dietrich. He had taken away the two things that mattered most to Oris. And as he stood in the doorway, shaken and grieving, he thought of ways he could take revenge on the devil.

  Two days into the job, Ness carried the last box of personal effects into his new office. The transition was going cleaner than he’d expected. He hadn’t even had to miss his traditional handball game. Things were going well.

  There was a paper lying on his desk telling him of all the meetings he had today, and the interviews he’d agreed to give. Next to that was a stack of file folders, personal histories he’d requested yesterday. By next week he expected to have a list of people within the department he’d be able to trust. He doubted that the majority of the cops in this city would appreciate him once he started in on his number one priority, cleaning up the corruption in the department.

  It was about ten in the morning, the box put away, and he was halfway into the pile of folders when the intercom buzzed. Ness sighed.

  “What is it?” he asked the box on the desk.

  “Call for you, Mr. Ness,” the secretary on the other end responded.

  “Who?”

  “The man won’t give his name. He says he knows about a murder.”

  “Can you transfer that to a Homicide detective? I’m busy here.”

  “I tried. He says he’ll only talk to you.”

  Ness looked at the folder in his hand and laid it on the desk in front of him, shaking his head. “Put the call through.”

  He picked up the phone with one hand, while saving his place in the folder with the other. “Hello, Eliot Ness here. What can I do for you?”

  “Eliot Ness?” The caller was obviously trying to disguise his voice. It sounded as if he were at the bottom of a well.

  “Yes, and you are?”

  “Listen,” the voice said. Ness could hear terror in the voice. The terror made him pay attention. Cranks aren’t afraid. They don’t sound as if they’ll hang up if you do something unexpected.

  “I’m listening,” Ness said trying to sound authoritative. He was suddenly interested in the call.

  “September fifth, last year, half a body washed up on Euclid Beach. A woman, killed by decapitation. Last September, two bodies were found by the tracks.”

  Ness had grabbed a pen and began taking notes on the cover of the file he’d been reading. 9/5/34, female, dec
apitated, Euclid Beach; 9/??l35, two men, tracks. He was instantly reminded of the odd conversation he’d had at Mayor Burton’s celebration.

  “Yes, those were in the paper. What about them?”

  “The same man is responsible for all the killings. He is a Hungarian named Eric Dietrich.”

  The blond man who’d been guarded by Carlo Pasquale. Eric Dietrich, Mayfield Road Mob, Ness wrote, then he added, Van Sweringen? Ness gripped the phone tighter as he wrote. “How do you know this?”

  “I know Dietrich. You need to stop him. He’s becoming more powerful.”

  Ness could hear the stress in the voice. There was something there, and he needed to draw it out. “I can’t involve anyone in a murder investigation just on the basis of a phone call. You need to give me more.”

  “You have enough already. There will be more murders if you don’t stop him. Murders and worse.”

  “Can you at least give me your name?”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Ness.” The line went dead as the caller hung up the phone. Ness held the phone for a moment, then hung it up, shaking his head.

  In his brother’s office in the Union Terminal Tower, Oris Paxton Van Sweringen hung up his brother’s telephone and removed the handkerchief from the receiver. When he walked away, he left his brother’s desk lamp on, leaving the desk as if Mantis James were just about to return to work.

  As Oris left his brother’s office, Eliot Ness was already ordering the immigration records for an expatriate Hungarian calling himself Eric Dietrich.