Hell's Warrior

by Jaye Roycraft

  The cop held out his right arm. “Step back. Now.”

  The bartender grabbed the cop’s left arm. “Get your hand off her.”

  The mortals at the edge of the dance floor dropped their arms, opened their eyes, and milled like cattle. A few headed for the door, but the cop there stopped them. “Nobody leaves.”

  Cade started moving in the direction of the back stairs, pulling Red with him. For a moment, the crowd blocked his view of Phyrne and the cops, but the sea of bodies parted long enough for him to see the cop shake off the bartender’s hand. Oh, shit.

  The cop’s gun was suddenly out of his holster and in the air. Someone screamed.

  A shot rang out, and the sound was immediately swallowed by a chorus of shrieks. Two more shots popped, and Phyrne’s body seemed suspended under the dazzle of the chandeliers, her head lolling to one side as if someone had taken a doll and tried to rip its head off, the blood squirting from her throat like water from a fountain. A moment of shock seemed to hold everyone in thrall, but when the body fell, the collective heartbeat fell out of sync, and the stampede started.

  There was nothing he could do. Phryne was beyond help, and Thor was lost to him in the crowd’s panic. He dragged Red up the back stairs to find empty corridors and locked rooms, but the overpowering smell of blood led him easily to the initiation room. He kicked the door in, and a dozen hooded figures, their cloaks bathed in the flickering shadows of hundreds of candles, turned his way. All vampires. He’d interrupted a ceremony, that of a mortal female who lay naked on a low dais. She was bound to the dais, her arms stretched over her head and her legs spread wide. Her thin body was pale and flaccid, seemingly drained of all life, and her features were slack, beyond pain. She’d been cut in four places, once on each breast and inner thigh, and a vampire knelt at each wound. Blood still welled slowly from the wounds, dribbling over her pallid flesh. The vampires had been feeding, but their faces were turned toward him now, their eyes as bright with anger as the fresh blood still on their lips.

  Beside him Red’s heavy breathing ceased only long enough for her to suck in a gasp. A hand to her mouth followed, and he wasn’t sure if it was the thick blood-and-candle scented air, or the horror of the sight.

  “Phryne’s dead,” he announced. “The police are downstairs. Do what you have to do, and quickly. Where’s your safe exit?” All such rooms had one.

  A vampire who’d been kneeling at the foot of the dais stood. A ceremonial knife rested in his hand, but he made no movement to raise it. He was the Maker, the one from whom the Initiate would take everlasting life. Cade wasn’t sure if it was because of the mention of the police or if the Maker recognized him, but he said nothing, merely cocked his head toward the rear of the room.

  Cade nodded his acknowledgment and pulled Red toward a partition that hid the exit door. The Initiate would probably die. The girl’s silence and pallor suggested they’d already fed heavily from her, and Cade doubted the Maker would take the time now to finish the ceremony and let the girl feed from him. Just one of the many tragedies of the night.

  The exit door led to another corridor and a back staircase, one that descended all the way to the basement. As they ran down, Red’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, nearly drowning out the chaos from the main floor, but her feet followed his without tripping, and they were soon in the basement. A narrow corridor fed to a door and connecting tunnel, and moments later they were beneath the building to the west of Vamphasia—an all-night restaurant that catered to the hunger worked up by Vamphasia’s patrons. Cade and Red stepped into the dining room from the rear hall. Most of the customers had gone outside to see what was going on next door, and they followed the crowd. Sirens wailed in the distance like a pack of wolves, but squads were already pulling up and initiating crowd control.

  Time to go.

  Drizzle was falling. He felt Red shiver beside him and try to run in her high-heeled boots. Between what she’d just seen and the chill of the rain, he couldn’t blame her, but he couldn’t have her drawing any attention to them. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “We walk.”

  She didn’t answer, but matched her long strides to his and slid an arm around his waist. He set a steady but unhurried pace back to where they’d left the Chevy. The rain had no cleansing odor tonight, but made everything smell dank and spoiled. Perhaps it was the smell of death and sweat still clinging to his senses, or perhaps it was Red’s fear adhering to him like cloying perfume. His eyes panned the sidewalks and the street ahead, but they were empty. Everyone at the restaurant had apparently stayed at the scene to gape at the tragedy next door, but in any case, he sensed no new threat. Still, he was glad when the black Chevy, like a port in a storm, came into sight.

  He could still feel her shaking, but Red had done well. He, on the other hand, had fucked up badly. It had been a mistake to go to Vamphasia, for he’d put himself and Red in unnecessary danger.

  They got into the car, and Cade was thankful that he’d been forced to park blocks away from the club and off Lawrence Avenue. The street he was on wasn’t yet blocked, and he pulled into traffic and drove away with ease. He glanced at Red, who was leaning back against the headrest with her eyes squeezed shut and her eye makeup streaking her wet cheeks like black tears. As bad as she looked, his thoughts brightened. The bitch was dead, but Red was safe. And he’d accomplished two things after all. He’d supported Thor. He hadn’t really been able to help, but he’d been there. Thor would remember that his master had risked his life to be at his side, and perhaps some of the rebellious zeal in those fighter’s eyes of his would be quenched for a little while. If he needed Thor’s help, Thor would be there for him.

  But best of all was that Cade would no longer be the top story on the news. The pundits had a new calamity to dissect and a new victim to lay bare to the world.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kaskaskia, Illinois Country

  April, 1765

  IT WAS A GLORIOUS spring night, for war had finally come to the Illinois country, and though no battle loomed, the promise of victory yet sat on Che Kincade’s tongue, as sweet as blood.

  For while tonight’s council was no different in its makeup than the previous councils of the past three months—just himself, two Kaskaskia chiefs, and the two British emissaries—Kincade knew tonight would be different. After suffering ninety days and as many mountains of useless words that steamed and smelled like so many dung heaps, tonight he would deliver his final answer on behalf of the Illinois.

  The British lieutenant, John Ross, was as powdered and pompous as some preening hen, and as usual, he spoke first. His English words sounded no less harsh to Kincade’s ears for having been subjected to them for nights on end, but the second white man translated the lieutenant’s words to French.

  “Peace must come. You have no alternative. The French accept this peace. Your own commandant, Captain Saint-Ange, embraces this peace. He knows he cannot fight.”

  Kincade shook his head and felt the tall feathers of his headdress echo his answer. “You think you are masters of this country. You are not. You think you have taken it from the French. You have not. The French cannot give up what has never been theirs. They have no claim on the land, for it has always been ours. This great treaty you say gives you power has no truth. This treaty is between the French and the British. It has no meaning for us and no meaning for our land.”

  Ross lifted his chin, as if to elevate his false words. “The French will leave. Their soldiers will leave. You will no longer have their protection. You will no longer be able to purchase guns and ammunition. How will your people hunt? You are subjects of British rule. You must accept trade with us, or your people will suffer.”

  Subjects? He was subject to no one, and he’d already suffered too much. It was time to end it, and as he spoke his next words, he wrapped them in the compelling power of le vampire. �
�Leave here, and tell your white chief that the Illinois and all our brothers will make war on you if you step again upon our land. This is our land, and no one else can claim it. We will have no English here. That is my mind and the mind of the red man. Go and never return, or our warriors will make of your bodies scraps for our dogs, and they will devour you with great relish.”

  Three hours later Kincade watched from the shadows as Ross and his interpreter fled the village with all the haste that fear could inspire. The English stumbled in the darkness, afraid to light a lantern, and dropped one of their packs before reaching the safety of their bateaux and the river. Kincade smiled, baring his fangs to the night. Sometimes killing was the ultimate satisfaction. Sometimes it was simply the reward of watching the enemy flee like a frightened doe—eyes wide and tail flagged in retreat.

  THE NEXT DAY word came that the great Pontiac was at long last coming to visit the Illinois to ask for their support. The tempo of life in the village changed overnight from laziness and dull monotony to hysterical fury. Kincade watched from the shadows as preparations for a grand feast and celebration raced along at whirlwind speed until the anticipated evening arrived along with their honored guest.

  Pontiac was as large in person as in his legendary stories, tall and strong and covered with tattoos. His straight black hair was shaped into a narrow pompadour, and he wore silver bracelets on his arms and a collar of white plumes around his neck. He and the Illinois feasted on sagamite, roast dog, and wild ox, and though the night sky smiled down on the gathering with indolent breezes and the brilliance of the stars, the stench of cooked meat soured the air for Kincade and kept him at the fringes of the celebration. The calumet dance followed, and he endured the endless chant of “ni na ha ni ni na ha ni ni ni ha ni na ni” with the patience of the undead. When the chanting and drumming ceased at last, a Kaskaskia chief held up the calumet, smoked it, then offered it to Pontiac with a speech of honor and welcome.

  Kincade twisted his mouth in the shadow he hunkered in. Pontiac’s success had stalled months ago. News had even come last year that Pontiac had sent a peace belt to the British. Did the Illinois not know that Pontiac’s war had failed? Did they not see that Pontiac was quickly losing face, and that it was no honor to be asked to join the fight when the battle was already lost?

  But the Illinois, ever generous and hospitable, seemed not to know or care. Perhaps it was merely that they sat in awe of such a legendary figure. The calumet was passed, accepted, and smoked, and when all welcoming gestures had been made, Pontiac spoke.

  “The French were friends to the land. They caressed it lightly, like a lover. But the English are brutes. They put their hands on the land not as lovers, but as masters. They enslave the land. If you allow them to come among you, they will do far worse to you. The land has value to them. You have no value. You they will kill, with their maladies and smallpox and poisonous drink.”

  The elders made noises of agreement, but to Kincade’s ears, they were simply noises. Perhaps his Illinois brothers were not as truly awed as they pretended to be.

  Pontiac, too, must have heard the sour notes in the flattery of the elders, for his voice rose. “Fight with me. Fight the English. They are not gods but men, and they can be beaten.”

  More noises from the elders, but no real zeal. Kincade felt it keenly, but he also sensed hurt and humiliation behind Pontiac’s passionate words. How else would a war chief feel after defeat? For a moment, Kincade almost felt sorry for the war chief who’d already lost so much face. Almost.

  But Pontiac went on. “If you hesitate in joining me, I will devour your tribes, as the fire devours the dry grass on the prairie.”

  Silence fell, and the chiefs said nothing in response. However much Pontiac felt there was no enthusiasm behind the posturing of the Illinois, those words were not only needless, but an affront to the hospitality of all present. More than that, Pontiac’s words were a clear threat.

  No one threatened the Illinois. Not even a chief as great as Pontiac. Not even a chief hurting as much as Pontiac hurt.

  FOUR YEARS LATER, when Pontiac crossed the Mississippi east into the village of Cahokia, Kincade was waiting.

  Pontiac’s war had failed, and Pontiac had submitted to a peace treaty. Kincade had heard that Pontiac, shunned by his former allies, hid his failures in the drink he had scorned only a few years before. The former war chief was broken, but Kincade hadn’t forgotten the threat to the Illinois.

  Days later, Pontiac lay dead with a tomahawk splitting his skull.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE SHOTS SENT screams rippling through the crowd from front to rear, as perfectly timed as marquee lights or the dance line at the Aragon. Thor kept his cool, for he had every intention of keeping his head, unlike Phryne.

  Thor’d been surprised to see Cade at Vamphasia. Cade was not one to take casual risks, and it was well known that Cade had no love for Phryne. The two had butted heads for years, and while she’d never been able to derail any of Cade’s plans, neither had she bent to his will. She did what she wanted, just as Cade did.

  Thor didn’t like her either, but she was a master—a prominent one at that—and she deserved consideration as such. Perhaps that was Cade’s reason as well for being here, but more likely Cade was simply looking out for the investment he’d made in his tyro. It was a point in Cade’s favor that he’d risk himself for Thor. It almost made up for sapping him and leaving him at the mercy of Chicago’s finest in Red’s flat. Almost, but not quite.

  Thor saw Cade and Red disappear up the rear staircase. He didn’t blame Cade. It was time to get out. He worked his way through the press of panicked bodies, making for the same escape route Cade had taken. The crowd cut the stairs off from the cops—stairs that he hoped led to a safe exit. On the second floor the crumbs Cade had left him to follow were impossible to miss. A door halfway down the corridor was kicked in. Thor crossed the threshold into what was obviously an initiation room. Dozens of mulberry candles sputtered from sconces along all four walls, but their light fell on only one figure, that of a body tied to a dais. Wounds on the woman’s body gaped open, spilling the last of her life’s blood, but Thor needed no more to know she was beyond the pale. She reeked of death, and the scent of her blood was already cold and unappetizing.

  He found the exit door and descended into the bowels of the old building, stopping just long enough to devise a plan. This was his opportunity to shake the police tail he’d had since Cade had become number one on the list of most wanted. Thor would follow Cade’s lead and utilize one of the safe houses. If he was successful, he’d be in a position to better help Cade.

  Or myself.

  CADE HATED THE feeling of running to the safe house. But he wasn’t running with his tail between his legs, and there was no tail behind the Chevy. He made sure of that, taking a roundabout route back to the house and keeping his gaze pasted as much on the mirrors as the street before him. Before he pulled up to the house at last, he drove around the block, checking each car parked on the street. None had tinted windows, and none were occupied. Satisfied, he led Red inside.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she moaned.

  She ran to the bathroom, and he used the moment of peace to call Thor.

  “Thor here.”

  Cade drew an easy breath. “Safe, brother?”

  “I’m safe. I made it out the same way you did, and without a tail on my ass. I’m not going back to the club. I’m at a safe house.”

  Cade smiled. His tyro had always been a quick thinker. “Good. I didn’t want to see Phyrne killed, you know.”

  “I know. Neither did I. There could be reprisals. Phryne’s following was very devoted. And they care little for human law.”

  War could come again all too easily, but Cade couldn’t think about that. “I agree. But we have to focus on who killed Deborah. I still want you t
o check out those names I gave you for mayoral candidates. Make it your top priority. Understand?”

  “I understand. Cade . . .” Thor paused, and Cade waited. “Thanks for showing up tonight.”

  “You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Sure.” The call disconnected.

  Red came down the stairs looking as green as her eyes. “Don’t you dare laugh at me.”

  He did just that, letting out all the emotion of the night in a rumbling laugh. “Don’t tell me the sight of a little blood made you queasy. You’ll have to change your name. Or use your real name. Just what is your real name, Red?”

  “Angie. Angie McGraw. I’ve never minded bites, but that girl . . . to be tied down and sliced open like that. Was she dead?”

  He sobered quickly. “I’m sure by now she is.”

  She sat down next to him, almost, but not quite, meeting his gaze. “Is it always done like that?”

  He stroked her hair, wanting nothing more right now than her blood. Violence always stirred hunger, but he didn’t think she’d be too receptive to the idea at the moment. “No. There are dozens of ways of initiating the chosen.”

  She allowed his touch, but still wouldn’t make eye contact. “‘Chosen.’ You mean turned against their will? Is that why that girl was tied down?”

  “Chosen is just the term. Some do it voluntarily, some don’t. Every colony has its own practices.”

  She picked up the phone. “You should call Thor. Make sure he got out okay.”

  “I did. He’s fine. Hang on to the phone. You’re in charge again.”

  Five minutes later it rang.

  “It says Nate Burnham. Should I answer it?”

  Nathan Burnham. The Brothers of the Sun. “Answer it. Make sure it’s Burnham.” It was just to give him a moment to collect his thoughts. Nate was BOS. The most notorious band of vampire hunters in the country. The people responsible for outing the undead to the world. The hatemongers who’d started Hell and changed everything. But he’d dealt with Nate Burnham before.