“Veronica.”
She blinked.
“As I said, just a taste. Think about it. I may not have any of the answers you’re looking for—I’m just a stiff trying to do a job. But if we meet again, it’s serious. Very serious. Understand? If it’s what you want, meet me here one week from tonight, same time.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. A little of her blood stained her cheek, like a lipstick print. “Good night, Veronica.”
She blinked again, then opened the door and climbed out without a word. He sat and watched her red coupe speed away with the tang of her blood still fresh in his mouth. Perhaps he was no better than those vamps who trotted at the end of Nestor’s leash. It was one thing to assert his independence and denounce the depravity of Nestor and his ilk, but, after all was said and done, he was no different in his needs. He’d be damned if he’d cut off his tongue to spite his stomach.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON Vall awoke to find a phone message waiting for him from Viktor. It was the recommendation of an independent lab not connected to any governmental agency. Viktor left the name, address and phone number of a local forensic chemist at the lab who could be trusted. Vall called the lab, Badger State Forensics, right away and spoke to Conrad, the chemist, who promised to wait after hours for Vall to stop by with the samples.
But Vall didn’t know if he could trust Nestor any more than he could Kilpatrick or his mortal superiors. Peace was only step one, Nestor had said. Vall wondered what step two was. Neither Nestor nor Cade nor any of the other doyens had ever been as sharing with their future plans as they were with their handouts. Vall left for the lab, realizing full well that whatever results he got from the chemist, Nestor was sure to receive as well.
Nine
THE FOLLOWING EVENING, after roll call and their nightly briefing, Duvall found himself alone on Squad 131. Kilpatrick, as per standard procedure following an officer-involved death, was assigned to inside duty. Before heading down to the garage, Vall stopped at his partner’s desk in the detective assembly.
“So, meatball, what are you going to do for ten hours?”
Kilpatrick put his hands behind his head, stretched, and worked a kink out of his neck. “Damned if I know. Probably a lotta nothing. Butler told me I should be in here for only a couple of days, though. Just long enough for the media to report I’ve been put on desk patrol.”
Vall inhaled a deep breath. It figured. A cop kills a mortal, he sits at a desk until an inquest is completed. Cop kills a vamp, and it’s nothing but a token slap on the hand.
Kilpatrick lowered his arms and took a sip of coffee. A drop dribbled down his chin. “Shit, too hot.” He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and looked up. “Hey, cheer up. You have two nights in the car without me.”
“Yeah, it’ll give me a chance to clean the Styrofoam cups and empty sunflower seed bags out of the back seat. Later.”
“Hey, uh, Duvall.”
He waited.
“The wife wants to meet you. She wants you to stop by some night so she can thank you. For, you know, what you did for me.”
He wondered how hard it had been for Kilpatrick to say that and how big of an argument had been fought over the invitation. Vall smiled. He wanted to meet any woman who could win a battle with the meatball. “How about Thursday? Seven o’clock. And tell her not to fix anything on my account.”
“Funny. Hey, speaking of food, go get me a sandwich. I didn’t bring anything to eat.”
What was this? Like they were all of a sudden buddies, or something? He didn’t think so. “Grab the phone and have something delivered. What else does your lazy ass have to do all night?”
“I got a taste for a Real Deal Special. They don’t deliver.”
Vall stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”
Kilpatrick pulled out his wallet, extracted a crumpled bill from one overstuffed compartment, and tossed it on the desk. “Here. You can keep the change.”
Vall scooped up the bill and slipped it into his pocket. “You owe me. The next time I want to do something my way, you don’t argue.”
The blue eyes widened. “Argue? Me?”
“Duvall! You still in here?” Butler walked past and gave him the evil eye. “Get your butt out on the street. Bad enough we got one cop in here wasting time.”
Duvall sighed, his partner grinned, and Butler continued on to his office. Squad 131 was no doubt on his shit list again, and Vall would have put a good-sized bet down that later in the shift he’d be doing a food run on the lieutenant’s behalf as well. That was one disadvantage to being a one-man car. You were everybody’s errand boy.
Vall signed out his keys and radio and headed to the garage. The Real Deal was just west of downtown, and he was there in ten minutes. Parked cars jammed both sides of the street, as was the norm on both the East Side and any other neighborhood claiming proximity to downtown. He pulled up to the far end of the block and parked in the “No Parking Bus Stop” zone with a smile. One of the tiny perks of driving a police vehicle.
The smile twisted into a grimace as he exited the car and walked back to the diner. It was just at the freezing mark, and icy rain that hadn’t yet softened to snow stung his face, driven by a buffeting wind that blew in the direction opposite to his destination. Vall thought about Kilpatrick sitting in the warm assembly, gulping at his too-hot coffee, and swore under his breath. He’d have to plan a deserving payback for this favor.
He walked into the Real Deal, raked the hair out of his face, and looked around. It was early in the evening, and the place was crowded, mostly college kids grabbing a late dinner. A happy hum of teenage chatter filled the place, and no one paid any attention to him as he walked to the counter, but he felt stupid giving his order to the counterman. “One special, to go.”
Like the rain that dribbled down his leather trench, the man’s gaze fell from Vall’s face to his feet. He no doubt recognized him, for Kilpatrick was in here at least once a night for dinner, coffee, snacks, or more coffee. Even if Squad 131 hadn’t been a regular, his long coat and long hair shouted “vamp cop” to anyone who paid attention. “It’s for my partner,” explained Vall, feeling even more foolish.
The man didn’t bother replying, but he put the order through, and five minutes later Duvall was on his way out, the paper bag tucked under one arm as he dug his key from his pocket. The night was as raw as the onion that assailed his nostrils, strong and sharp and unshakable, and the fact that he now walked with the gusts rather than against them was little relief. The cold wind flailed at him, bringing the stench of charred burger and raw onion to his nose. The smell of long-dead meat was nauseating, and Vall made a mental note to charge Kilpatrick two favors for this one.
He reached his car with an oath of small thanks on his lips, and a shot rang out, drowning out both the wind and the sound of his voice. The paper bag exploded, splattering meat and sauce and flesh and blood against the door of his car, and in that moment of disconnection when shock numbs the body from the reality of pain, he searched for the shooter and saw a dark sedan double-parked on the opposite side of the street. But the period of grace was brief. Pain unlike any he’d ever felt broke through the shock, and he pushed back the front of his coat to probe underneath. It was as bad as it felt. There was a hole the size of his hand where his left side should be, and what remained was wet with blood and viscera. The jagged end of a broken rib poked his probing fingers.
Shit! Black Claw. The damned Claw.
Halfway down the block the suspect car pulled away, tires spinning and whining like a buzz saw on the icy street, and Vall ignored the ruin of bone, tissue, and gore and did his job, opening the door and falling into the driver’s seat. The key was slippery in his bloodied hand, but he started the engine, yanked the gear shift down, and flipped on the siren. He floored it and spun the squad in a donut in the intersection, but the s
edan was already two blocks ahead of him.
Vall wiped his hand on his trousers, grabbed the mic and keyed it. “131 in pursuit of shooting suspect. Black four-door Turo, unknown plates, northbound on 20th street.”
“131, you have all channels,” answered dispatch.
Great. He had the ears of the whole goddamned city, a suspect almost out of sight, and barely the wits to know where he was. “131. Still northbound on 20th, black Turo.” The loss of blood was making him lightheaded, and all he saw were spots of red in front of him. In an eyeblink the red spots were gone. Had the car turned? He felt detached from his body, and he couldn’t feel his foot on the pedal, but he drove on instinct, turning west onto State Street. “Westbound on State, high rate of speed.” He couldn’t see the car ahead of him, but in his mind he knew where it was headed. West to the main artery of 27th Street, then south a hop and a skip to the freedom of the expressway. “Blew the red light at 27th Street, southbound on 27th.” Where were the district squads? Cops loved nothing better than a chase.
He reached the intersection at 27th, and the light was still red. It was a blind intersection, with the old building on the southeast corner blocking his view of cross traffic. He forced his foot to obey his mind, and it found the brake pedal, but too late. The ABS system kicked in, reining the car back with a shuddering screech, but the road was too slick, and the squad carried too much speed. It slid into the busy intersection, and the next few seconds slowed to antagonizing stillness and clarity, giving him all the time in the world to see the northbound truck fly right at him and no time at all to do anything but watch.
Ten
Wilderness, Albany-Montreal Corridor
August 10, 1757
WULF COULDN’T THINK. He did the only thing he could do. Run. The woods were dark and close, and he felt his way with his hands and arms as much as his eyes, forcing one foot in front of the other. He ran until he could no longer do even that. He fell to the forest floor and lay panting, as if by sucking in enough air he could eradicate all the exhaustion, humiliation and horror of the past six days and nights. He tried to block out the sights and sounds of the unarmed soldiers butchered before his eyes with the absolute silence of the forest, and he tried to remember his objective. His only objective. To reach Fort Edward.
He wasn’t exactly sure why he had taken to the woods instead of following the road except that he had no weapon, and in the absence of a weapon, cover was the best ally.
When his breathing slowed, he forced himself to his feet, and only then did he realize that not all of the blood on his body was Quin’s. A gash on his side had soaked his breeches. He laughed at the numbness that had shielded his mind and body from the agony of the wound and wondered if it had been a good thing or a bad thing. He’d been spared the pain, but with the loss of blood it was doubtful he’d make the fort.
Still, he’d never give up. He was young and strong, and he hadn’t survived the horrors of war to die in the woods like an animal—alone, half-naked, and stripped of his identity and dignity. And though he was loath to admit it, fear drove him as well. He hadn’t seen a single red warrior since he’d taken to the woods, but that didn’t mean they weren’t here. Even worse than dying unnoticed among the tall trees was the thought of being scalped and made into a trophy to hang at some savage’s belt.
So he ran, and when he couldn’t run, he walked, and when he couldn’t walk, he crawled.
Nightfall came, and he fell to a bed of dead leaves, unable to go on. His mind shut down, and he floated blissfully on the edge of consciousness, thinking nothing and feeling nothing.
Voices roused him from his half-sleep, but he didn’t move. He wasn’t sure if he even could. In any case, it was better to stay hidden. Perhaps they wouldn’t see him. Perhaps they’d pass by.
“Here’s one. He still lives.”
Thank the Lord. No bloody French. No accent. It was one of the lads. Maybe from the 60th, maybe even a ranger. It didn’t matter. He was saved.
But the pale faces that gleamed in the lantern light belonged to no military unit. Dressed in black, they were like living shadows. He panicked until one of the figures pushed back a hood to reveal a face of such feminine beauty as he had never seen. She had skin as translucent as fine china and eyes so dark it was as though they were filled with the night itself.
“Let me have this one, Father.” Her voice was like her eyes—beautiful, sad, and full of dark things. She reached for his face, and cold fingers caressed his brow.
Wulf closed his eyes. She could only seem cold if he was hot. Of course . . . I’m fevered. It’s but a dream. An hallucination.
Lips brushed his cheek. “Fear not, brave soldier,” she whispered. “We are here to ease your pain and suffering.”
She kissed him, and he gave himself up to the dream.
Eleven
FIRE. AN UNDEAD beast as lethal as any vampire. It was born, it grew and fed until it could feed no more, and it died, only to be reborn. It raged through his mind, providing no haven for his pain, only a revisiting of Hell.
It ran the walls and ceilings of the old house in sheets as smooth as glass, hiding its insatiable appetite behind a mesmerizing beauty. He called to the others trapped in the building, but they were young and as afraid of those who waited outside as they were of the flames. Black acrid smoke dropped from the ceiling, so thick it was like drowning. He heard the sucklings scream, and he abandoned them to their fate, giving himself up to his own selfish instinct for survival. He hurled himself through a window and never looked back, and the Brothers of the Sun, happy with their nightly catch, seemed not to mind the loss of one.
That night was hell, and Hell was a thousand nights like that one. His pain drove him from memory to memory, but they were all the same—fire and death and always, the Brothers of the Sun. And the Claws.
“Claw . . .”
Duvall heard the word and tried to fight back, as he had in the nightmare, but fresh pain met his efforts to get up. And resistance.
“Get more security in here, and strap him down.”
He felt his arms and legs being pinned, and as he forced open his healing eyes he saw a circle of hulking humans, each of whom was locking a metal restraint around an ankle or wrist. They were all strangers but one. He directed his rage at the familiar target, glaring at Kilpatrick.
“You son of a fucking bitch. You missed me, didn’t you?” No one else knew he was going to be at the Real Deal. He hadn’t even notified dispatch.
Blue eyes stared down at him. “What are you talking about? You’re in the hospital.”
Hospital? He was chained and strapped down like some Bedlam patient. The hulks stepped back, making room for a new face to join the circle. It was a young, just-out-of-med-school mug, but cold eyes pitted the baby face, spoiling the image of wholesomeness.
“Jesus, doc, what’s wrong with him now? I thought you said he’d be all right,” said Kilpatrick, who at least had the grace to look puzzled, if not worried about him.
The doctor answered, staring at Duvall as if he were nothing more than a specimen on a table—a particularly uninteresting specimen at that. “We’ve found hallucinations and delusional expressions to be typical in cases of night people suffering from severe trauma,” said the doctor, as if he were quoting out of his Vampire Physiology 101 textbook. “The body heals rapidly, but apparently not without discomfort, and the mind is sometimes slower to mend.”
Bloody croaker. Discomfort? His broken body felt as if it was being sewn back together by a thousand red-hot needles. This doctor was in desperate want of some real education, but Vall wouldn’t be the one to rectify the doctor’s ignorance. No self-respecting vamp would ever admit to feeling the true pain that accompanied regeneration. Besides, pain could be controlled.
But the croaker also lacked vampire bedside manner, and that was something V
all would be only too happy to correct. He adjusted his senses, shutting out as much sensory input as he could, and strained against the metal cuffs. “Call me a vampire, doctor. It’s what I am. And by the way, I’m not deaf, and I’m not M.O.” Cop slang for mental.
But the doctor merely gave Kilpatrick a look that said “he’s all yours” and left, and it was Kilpatrick who answered. “Yeah, and if you’ll shut up for a minute I’ll explain a few things to you. And if you relax, they’ll take off the cuffs. I didn’t have anything to do with your getting shot. I heard about the chase the same way everyone else did—on the radio. I went to the scene and followed the med unit here. You were shot by a Claw.” He pulled a bag of sunflower seeds out of his suit pocket, tore a corner off with his teeth, and poured some into his hand.
“I figured that much out for myself, meatball.”
“Shut up, and let me finish. The doctor says the Claw did a lot of damage but missed your spine. Somebody must have tailed you from the admin building.” He popped the seeds into his mouth with practiced accuracy.
“Did they catch him?”
Kilpatrick shook his head, shifted his gaze to the wall, and chewed for a few seconds before answering. “No.”
“I get it. Nobody cares about a vamp being shot.”
Kilpatrick swallowed and looked him in the eye. “Don’t give me that ‘nobody loves me’ crap. We didn’t catch him because all the squads responded to the accident. It was bad. The other driver’s still in ICU. And you . . . well, you’d be dead if you weren’t fucking undead. I’ve never seen anyone so messed up. And the blood . . . Jesus.” He poured and popped another handful. The gruesome image apparently had no effect on his appetite.
Duvall leaned back against the bed and let the tension drain out of him. Kilpatrick hadn’t tried to set him up. It wasn’t guilt that had made him look away—it was remorse. Duvall could feel it, even through the dullness of his senses. “Blood, blood, everywhere, and not a drop to drink . . . You can tell them to take these cuffs off. I won’t try to fight you.”
Half Past Hell Page 8
