Hell's Warrior

by Jaye Roycraft

  “Sure.”

  “If any vamps call, reassure them that I’m getting answers. I’ll hold a city-wide meeting a week from tonight.”

  Thor turned for the door. Cade caught him by the arm and pulled him close.

  “I’m counting on you, brother. Keep a cool head, and keep the peace.”

  “Should I close the club?”

  “No. We go on, and the city goes on. Everything as normal. Now go.”

  Cade followed him out of the room, but while Thor headed downstairs to the club, Cade left the building and stood at the top of the outdoor staircase. He heard the chorus of sirens, like a pack of wolves, the long wails in macabre harmony with the pulsing yelps. He’d never paid any attention to sirens. They were an inconsequential sound of the night—some human’s tragedy, nothing more, but now the sound made his gut twist. They gave a reality to the words Cade had hoped Thor had somehow misunderstood, a finality to the human life Cade had politically and personally fostered for the past three years. In the crowd on the sidewalk a few heads started to turn at the incessant warble and whoop, alerting those who were even more oblivious to sirens than he was that something was really wrong.

  He pulled out his cell phone and punched Rat’s pre-set code number.

  “Detective Ratkovich.” The voice on the line shouted to be heard over more sirens in the background.

  “It’s Cade. What can you tell me?”

  “Fuckin’ hell, Cade. I just got the call. I can’t tell you anything yet. If you’re at Noctule, you’re closer than I am. Meet me at the scene if you want. The command post is at New Orleans and Menomonee.” The call was disconnected.

  Ivan Ratkovich was one of his ablest masters and his main contact for all things police-related, but sometimes the power of the hunk of metal Rat wore clipped to his belt went to his head. No one hung up on the doyen.

  Cade clenched his teeth and ran down the steps to the car. He took Lincoln Avenue to Sedgwick, parked as close as he could get to the intersection Rat had given him, and walked the rest of the way. The trip had taken five minutes, but it felt like an eternity had passed.

  Personnel and equipment were everywhere. There were police vehicles of every kind scattered about—marked squad cars, unmarked squads, wagons, tech vans—as well as emergency vehicles and media trucks. Yellow police tape cordoned off entire blocks, and light stands lit up the area as though it were a movie set. Cade hadn’t seen so many of the infamous black and white checkered hat bands since the police riots of 1968, but none of them paid any attention to him until he tried to approach the mobile command post trailer.

  “No civilians,” said the cop who stopped his forward progress with a burly physique and cold stare, not to mention the usual low-slung belt crammed with weaponry.

  “I’m the doyen,” answered Cade, annoyed. Most of Chicago’s cops knew him by sight, but especially the cops on this side of town. Maybe this one was playing stupid.

  “I don’t care if you’re the fuckin’ Pope. Nobody gets through.”

  Cade debated how hard to push. Rat arrived and strode up to him, making it a non-issue.

  “We’ll talk later, Cade. I don’t have anything for you.”

  Rat’s brush-off was the last thing he needed. Cade stared at him. “No, now. Your first allegiance is to me. Don’t forget that.”

  Rat sighed. “What do you want?”

  “I want to make a statement.”

  “What for?”

  “If the mayor came straight home from City Hall, I was one of the last people to see her.” He’d thought about it on his drive over here. His meeting with her was well documented. Not only was there the sign-in record in the lobby, but there were surveillance cameras everywhere in the building except on the roof and in the mayor’s inner office and private suite. There was no point in denying his presence there tonight.

  “Damn.” Rat raised his brows, then turned and searched the crowd. “Starling! Over here.”

  Len Starling was Rat’s human partner. He was a big man, but on those occasions when Cade had met him, didn’t seem the type to throw his weight around. Starling and Ratkovich had always gotten along, or so it had always appeared.

  “What?”

  Rat cocked his head at him. “Kincade wants to make a statement. He was with Dayton tonight.”

  “Okay. Let’s sit in the squad,” Starling replied, showing less emotion than Rat had. Rat was decades older than Starling, but Starling had been a Chicago cop for thirty years, while Rat had served for only five. Cade figured that sort of evened things out as far as the shit they had both seen.

  Cade grabbed Rat’s arm. “First, I want to see the body.”

  Starling and Ratkovich looked at each other with that silent communication cops always seemed to have. Starling shrugged.

  “Guess we all do. Let’s go,” said Rat.

  They wound their way past the tape and the army of officers guarding the scene. In the company of the two detectives, no one questioned Cade’s presence. The shooting scene itself was as bizarre as anything he had ever seen. Deborah’s dark city-issued sedan sat at the curb, as pristine as if it had just come from the car wash. Her Victorian mansion loomed in the background like something out of Hansel and Gretel, all decorated in ornate wooden Gingerbread. And in the middle of the street rested the body, already bagged, like trash to be removed from such unspoiled surroundings.

  “Photos already taken?” queried Starling of a nearby cop.

  “Yeah. Quick, huh? Guess they thought the decent thing was to get her body out of public view as soon as possible.”

  The cops were trying to keep neighbors inside, but it was easy to see the dozens of faces peering out their front windows. Death always seemed to attract as much attention as flies.

  “Open it up,” ordered Starling.

  “Only for a minute. The transfer company’s already here. They want the body en route to the medical examiner’s office ASAP.” The cop unzipped the bag.

  Cade’s gut did another reality check. The woman he’d fucked only two hours ago lay in the bag, her skin gleaming with a waxy purplish luminosity under the street lights, a bullet hole marring her breast and another her forehead.

  The hole was right between the eyes. Someone had found a way to make mere killing effective.

  Chapter Three

  La Vantum

  Along the Illinois River

  1697

  CHENANGO HAD always known he was different.

  Oh, it wasn’t so much seen in his appearance. His skin was a shade lighter than the others of his village, the color of doeskin, but his hair was as black as the night sky, and he wore it like his brothers wore theirs—cut short and erect on the top of his head, longer in the front and back, and very long on the sides. Though not yet a man, he was tall and straight and slender, and he was as swift a runner as any of the Inoca.

  He was also not the only boy to be fathered by one of the Great Father’s men across the river, although he’d been among the first. He’d been told his father had been called Auguste Kincade and was one of the explorers who’d traveled with the Great Father Tonti. His mother had been a slave, captured in a raid to the north and presented to Kincade as a gift from the Inoca. His father had died years ago, and Chenango remembered nothing of him but his name.

  He’d been treated no differently from his full-blooded brothers by the Inoca. Neither did the Black Robe who came to the village of La Vantum to spread the word of the One God single him out. But when Chenango sought out the Black Robe to learn français, the tongue of his father, Chenango saw the light of approval in the man’s eyes. He knew he was quick to learn, and when his brothers were lying in the sun or playing games of chance, he was with the Black Robe, learning new words, new ideas, and absorbing stories of the fantastic lands from which the Black Robe
and Great Father Tonti had come.

  Today, though, he was alone. His fifteenth summer had come, and he prepared for his quest. The day was as lazy as his brothers. The river was like a sleeping beast, barely twitching, and the water reflected gray clouds that hung motionless in the sky. Smoke from the lodge fires rose straight as a pole, and there was no wind to shape it into new patterns. The air buzzed with insects, while birds drew invisible circles in the sky.

  He blackened his face, covered his head with elk skin, and carried his medicine bag into the forest, beyond the prairie where the squaws tilled corn and the air hummed with heat. When he stepped into the forest, though, the shadows cooled his hot skin, and a quiet as deep as the deepest part of the river embraced him. He traveled for miles, seeking a sacred place to which the Manitou would come and reveal himself. The Black Robe’s One Great God was good, but the Manitou was the Inoca’s ruler of sky and earth and not to be shunned.

  Chenango came at last to a small clearing. An open shaft ascended to the sky through a gap in the leafy forest cover. It was a good spot, cool and dry, and it connected him to both the earth and the heavens. He fasted, prayed, and meditated on the Manitou. He had thought long on his purpose and what he wished to seek from the Manitou, and what he asked for now was strength and power. He’d seen the glint in the Black Robe’s eyes as they beheld him. He knew he was different, though no one had ever spoken the words. He knew he was destined for greatness—not as a chief, for he was the offspring of a slave, but perhaps a great hunter or warrior.

  He slept and fasted again on the second day, praying for the vision to appear, but his stomach clenched in hunger, and the stillness of the forest seemed to suck away all his prayers.

  On the third day he felt stronger.

  Guide me, he prayed. Instruct me and protect me. He chanted the words over and over, and then it came. A huge buck stood at the far side of the little clearing, its nostrils flared and ears turned, and Chenango heard the words in his head as clearly as if they were spoken.

  The future is dark, and many will drown in the tears of tomorrow, but you who are chosen for greatness will grow strong from the tears and survive to become a leader like no other. It will be a solitary journey, but if you are careful, you may yet find love. Never fear the evil, for it will only make you stronger.

  Chenango blinked, and the buck was gone. He rose on shaky legs to search the ground where the buck had stood. There had to be some Totem left behind, a token of the Manitou’s visit, a symbol of the protection and power the Manitou had promised.

  Then he found it, the tine of an antler, broken as if in some great battle. He carefully placed the tine in his medicine bag and headed back to La Vantum.

  He thought not of the tears or loneliness the Manitou had promised, but only of the greatness.

  Chapter Four

  “JESUS,” SAID STARLING. “Looks pro.”

  “Oh, yeah,” answered the cop who’d opened the bag. “Real professional. Two to the chest, rounds grouped so tight you can’t tell it’s two wounds, and one to the head. Tap, tap, tap.” He shook his head as he zipped the bag closed. “This wasn’t random, or kids, or a gang, or anything like that. This was Professional with a capital P.”

  Professional. Cade had somehow been hoping it would be otherwise—kids, or a case of being caught in a cross-fire. Not that those things went on in this neighborhood. Decades ago Old Town was a hippie hangout, but today it was swank and gentrified to the gills. Professional meant intent, and that opened more cans of worms than Cade wanted to think about right now.

  Rat and Starling checked in at the command post, then escorted him back to their car to take his statement. Starling asked the questions, and Rat took down the answers.

  “Where did you see the mayor tonight?”

  “At City Hall. Our weekly meeting to discuss any problems that impact the vampire community.”

  “What time?”

  “My appointment was for eight. She told me I was ten minutes late, so make it around eight-ten. You can check the visitor’s log for the exact time.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Complaints against the clubs—noise, traffic—and concerns about the parks. Too many vamps being vamps out in public.”

  Starling stared at him with that detached “don’t give me any crap” look that all cops seemed to have.

  He reworded his reply. “Too much public feeding, especially in the parks. And too many regular donors working the corners.” He didn’t care much for the term ‘blood whore.’ It was a mortal label, implying that there was something both illegal and morally wrong with a human wanting to give blood to him or any of his kind.

  “Spell it out for the statement, just so there’s no misunderstanding. Regulars?”

  He sighed. “Humans who like to donate blood on a regular basis. They hang out around the clubs or walk the streets hoping to attract a vampire looking to feed.” He didn’t mention the sex that was often part of the bargain. Sex always seemed to equate to prostitution in too many mortal minds.

  “And how did you answer these concerns?”

  “I told her I’d take care of them.”

  “Any other problems you discussed?”

  “We talked about some possible ordinance changes like closing the parks early. She mentioned that the License and Liquor Control Commission wanted to make some changes, but she wasn’t specific about those changes.”

  “She seem upset to you?”

  “No more so than usual.”

  “Did she express any fears?”

  He snorted. “We talking about the same Deborah Dayton?”

  “Is that a no?”

  “Hell yes, that’s a no.” An occasional cuss word was allowed when the beneficiary was a flatfoot.

  Starling had to have the longest brow hairs on the force. They sprouted long and thick like cat whiskers, curving toward the sky like little antennas ready and waiting to pick up the tiniest untruth from a suspect. But not a hair on Starling’s shaggy brows twitched at Cade’s profanity. “Did she talk about any threats, disagreements, arguments, confrontations, anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “What about her personal life? She drop anything? Money problems, boyfriend problems?”

  “Do I look like the father confessor?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “No.”

  “You stay in her office?”

  “No, we went up to the roof for a few minutes. She usually took me up to the park if the weather was nice.”

  “How long were you at City Hall?”

  “Not long. About forty-five minutes. Check the log.”

  “Anything else you want to add?”

  “No.”

  Rat sighed. “Okay. I’ll type it up. You can come around tomorrow night, look it over, and sign it.”

  They all got out of the car, and Cade pulled Rat aside. “Whatever you find out, I want to hear it. Understand?” Cade’s masters and tyros knew that “understand?” meant it was a command, not a request.

  “When I hear, you’ll hear.”

  Cade nodded and left, but he didn’t go back to his car. He drifted along the outer perimeter of the crime scene, looking at the people straining against the barricades and “Do Not Cross” tape. There wasn’t anything to see—no blood, no destruction, no fire, flames, or ashes. There were no wailing relatives, no distraught neighbors, no hysterical friends. Yet they stood and stared, perhaps in shock, perhaps, like him, knowing their world was about to change in ways they couldn’t imagine. He knew criminals often remained at the scene to wallow in their handiwork, and though he doubted professional assassins would do such a thing, it wouldn’t hurt to see who was expressing an interest in the affair. He adjusted his senses to be as receptive as possible and bored
into each spectator, memorizing faces and reaching for the energy of any thoughts he could pick up.

  Disbelief. Shock. Sorrow.

  The women in the crowd seemed especially affected, as if they took Deborah Dayton’s death personally. Deborah hadn’t been the first woman to be mayor in Chicago, but it was a very rare thing, and the destruction of anything rare seemed that much more tragic.

  He recognized a few of his young masters in the crowd, vampires who, like those from his own neighborhood, enjoyed the luxury of Old Town. Those he knew also recognized him.

  “What’ll happen?” they each asked.

  He answered them all the same way. “It’s hard to know. Just keep the peace. I’m calling a meeting for next week. Spread the word. Don’t give the city any reason to blame this on us.”

  He wove his way back and forth through the crowd for another hour. People were already leaving impromptu memorials as close to her house as the police would allow—flowers, candles, and signs that said, “We love you Deborah.” If only they knew how acerbic she really was. Correction. Had been.

  As the crowd started to thin, he left and drove back to the club. He’d debated whether or not to lie in his statement, but had decided the truth was best. He didn’t know what kind of notes, if any, Deborah had written regarding the agenda for their meeting. Besides, none of the business they’d discussed had been earth-shaking. Lastly, he was good at lying, even to other vampires, but Rat was an old master and wily in the ways of the undead. It was possible Rat could have picked up on a lie.

  Cade had left out a lot of what had transpired between himself and Deborah, of course, but that wasn’t the same as lying.

  There was no line of patrons on the sidewalk waiting to get into Noctule. Death was always bad for business. But Thor had kept the club open, and Cade did a walk-through to see how bad it really was. Business was indeed abysmal. The word of the assassination had obviously spread, and people had flocked home to watch their televisions. Cade had never installed TVs in the bar and lounge areas. Noctule was not a sports bar.