Half Past Hell

by Jaye Roycraft

  “Beowulf Duvall.”

  She smiled. It was indeed a hideous name, and he knew it.

  “And what did your friends call you?”

  “Wulf.”

  “So be it.”

  Thirteen

  THE HOSPITAL RELEASED him the next evening, and Vall reported downtown for roll call, only to be told by Butler to take the night off, providing, of course, that he had enough comp time banked. Vall was surprised, for the Department was notorious for its disregard of its members’ personal problems. Surprised, that is, until he spoke to Kilpatrick, who was assigned to desk duty for one more night.

  “Shit, the only reason they gave you the night off is because the garage is having trouble finding a replacement for the car you totaled.”

  Vall sat down at his desk, which was across from his partner’s. “Figures.”

  “Here.” Kilpatrick pushed a pink “while you were out” slip at him. “You got a fan club. Call came in right after I got here.”

  Vall looked at the slip. “Veronica” was scribbled on it, along with an almost undecipherable phone number.

  “Tell your girlfriend to call you on your cell. I ain’t no social secretary.”

  “You’re in a cheery mood.”

  Kilpatrick fiddled with a well-chewed pencil. “Sitting at a desk all night sucks. Pardon the expression,” he said with a lopsided Elvis smirk.

  “Speaking of which, what’d you find out?” Vall asked, his voice lowered.

  Kilpatrick pulled a manila folder out of his briefcase and tossed it onto Vall’s desk. “More than I wanted to. I printed out most of the stuff I found. Since you got all night with nuthin’ to do, maybe you want to look at it yourself.”

  Vall stood and grabbed the folder. “I just might not have any free time tonight, after all, but thanks, meatball.” He winked at Kilpatrick.

  His partner leaned back and snorted his doubt. Or maybe it was his envy.

  Vall smiled, fangs and all, and left the building.

  VERONICA ANSWERED on the first ring. “Hi. I wasn’t sure you’d get my message. Your partner didn’t seem too happy to take my number, but I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you.”

  “Not to worry. His irritation made my night.”

  “Are you okay? I saw the news story on TV last night, and in the paper today, they gave your name.”

  He’d seen the story. As usual, they’d gotten half the details wrong, including the number of years of service he had on the department and the spelling of his name, but on the plus side the article failed to specify that he’d been shot with a Claw. He had enough people after him. No need to give any more wackos ideas on how to off a vamp. “I’m fine.”

  “Really? Your partner said you wouldn’t be working tonight.”

  “I’m not, but it doesn’t have anything to do with my . . . health.” Health was a strange word to use in conjunction with a vampire, but in light of the week’s events, it was a word lately on his mind.

  “Oh. I’m glad. I mean . . .”

  She paused, and he felt her uncertainty. She wanted to see him—he was sure of that—but she obviously didn’t know how to ask.

  He relieved her burden. “See for yourself, if you like. I have all night.”

  He could hear her breathing. “Sure. I’d like that.”

  “Leon’s? In an hour?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Vall drove home and peeled off his trench coat. It was old and worn, but it would have to sub for the one perforated last night until he could order a new one. Next, he shed his detective suit and examined his naked body. Not bad, he thought, considering I’ve been whittled by a Claw and mangled by a Mack truck. Well, not a Mack truck, exactly, but it had felt like one. The ugly sunburn-pink to his skin was gone, replaced by a subdued glow that made him look irritatingly human. He ran his hands over the muscles of his chest and abdomen, feeling their accustomed hardness. Thankfully the pain was gone now, and soon the flush of regeneration would fade, returning his skin to its pale perfection.

  He put on his black jeans, a gray knit shirt, his long gray coat, and headed for Leon’s. No one inside the tavern paid him any particular mind, for neither the TV report nor the papers had showed his likeness. Anonymity was fine by him, and he was happy to wait for Veronica in a back booth. She came in ten minutes later, smiling when she caught his eye. He kept his gaze on her mouth as she crossed the floor, remembering the blood in her mouth and how it’d brought his tongue to life.

  “Hi. You look wonderful,” she said, sliding onto the bench across from him.

  She looked pretty good herself, shrugging out of her jacket to reveal a white sweater that hugged her like frost on glass.

  “Good as new.”

  Her face grew serious. “The crash looked terrible. It looked like your car was broadsided.”

  “It was.”

  “How does it work? Your body, I mean. How does it heal so fast?”

  He cocked his head. “It would take a scientist to explain it, and even then you wouldn’t understand it. The flesh regenerates. Of course, when we die the true death, the flesh decomposes just as quickly.”

  “So why are all these vampires dying?”

  He leaned back. “Ah, the million dollar question. I don’t know yet.” Even if he did know, he wouldn’t tell her. There was too much at stake, and his vow not to trust anyone included pretty girls. She was a former senator’s daughter, but he didn’t know what else she was. For all he knew she could be a reporter, a writer, or any manner of low-life out to use him.

  “I’d really like to know more about you. If I ask questions, will you answer?”

  He smiled. She had perhaps already sensed his reticence, and he wondered how far she’d go to loosen his tongue. His hunger flared at the thought of what she might be willing to swap for information.

  “Maybe. But not here. I warned you last time that if we met again, it would be serious.”

  Her gaze was steady as she looked him in the eye. “I thought that the last time we met I showed you I was serious.”

  “You did. But that was a mere apéritif. If you want more, come home with me.”

  She nodded, but insisted on following him in her own car. For a quick getaway, no doubt, in case she didn’t get what she was after. Or, more likely, if she got what she wanted and couldn’t handle it.

  Most masters lived on The East Side or in the Historic Third Ward, close to Lacustre and the other clubs, but he lived west, in the old and upscale Washington Heights neighborhood. His neighbors didn’t know that the reclusive young man in the Tudor mansion was undead, and that made everybody happy.

  She raised a brow at the stone exterior and both brows at the stained glass windows, hardwood floors, and mammoth fireplace. He’d never sought to impress anyone. It was merely that after three hundred years on earth he craved his space and comfort.

  “Very nice,” she said. “Somewhat better than I think most cops can afford. So what made you become a cop, of all things? So you can help your own kind?”

  He saw no point in lying. This encounter, after all, wasn’t the usual vamp-mortal game of deception, but to see if she could deal with the truth of what he was.

  She paced around the living room, admiring his things, and he followed her, admiring her stuff. He could smell her warmth, and the mere sight of her reminded him of how her blood had tasted, but just as appealing was her skin. It was clear and smooth, and in the white sweater, almost luminous. This time he wanted all of her, not just what any vamp could get from a blood whore on the street.

  She stopped and turned to him. “Vall?”

  He stepped up to her and took her loosely in his arms, feeling the warmth of her through her sweater.

  He preferred thoughts of her to Hell and the Seco
nd Chicago Fire, but at her prompting he remembered the underground and the nights he’d risked his own skin to save the colonies of pitiful sucklings too scared to save themselves. Had he done it then to truly help them? They’d been nothing but ragged children—too poor and needy and ignorant to fend for themselves. No, he’d done it for himself. His rage at the war, the Brothers of the Sun, the ineffectual doyens, and the sucklings themselves had needed an outlet. And while most masters had fought back by going on killing sprees on the Gold Coast, he’d chosen flames instead of blood.

  She tilted her head and tried to catch his gaze with her own. “Did you hear me? I asked . . .”

  “I heard you. No, I didn’t become a cop to help anyone. I figured if I’m going to be hated anyway, I may as well be hated in a job that gives me a taste of power and freedom.”

  All her attention was on him now, not the furnishings. “Freedom? I would think just the opposite. Don’t you have to take orders? And follow rules and regulations?”

  He smiled and lifted his shoulders. “Of course, but as long as I appease the bosses with a few yessirs and don’t screw up too much, they leave me alone. Besides, they think of me as less than a man.” He looked away from her and stared at the fireplace. In all the years he’d lived here, he’d never lit a fire. “So if I do something they don’t like, they just shake their heads and say, ‘he’s a vampire—what do you expect?’”

  She shook her head, and he knew she didn’t understand any of what he’d said.

  “Is that what your father taught you, Veronica? That we’re less than men?”

  She pushed against him and broke the embrace, choosing the neutral zone of the sofa to answer his question. “I know you don’t like my father, but he did a lot of good. He was the first to propose the bottled synthetic blood.”

  Vall laughed and sat down next to her. Was she truly so naïve? The bottled blood was killing his kind, and she was bragging about it like it was the greatest invention since pasteurized milk. But he wouldn’t discuss the investigation with her, naïve or not. “Animals to be fed and cared for. Is that what you think of me, Veronica?” He stroked her hair. “Am I some kind of exotic pet to be played with?”

  She reached up and he wrapped his hand around hers. “How can you say that after I let you take my blood? My father sheltered me from vampire contact when I was growing up. I think he does look at vampires as less than human, but when you saved me from those men at Leon’s, I started thinking that maybe my father had been wrong. Maybe.”

  “You have much to learn, Veronica,” he whispered. He so much wanted to teach her.

  “Really?” She pushed against him with her free hand.

  “Really.” But at this particular moment he cared more about schooling her body than her mind. He leaned forward to kiss her, still holding her one hand, and managed to pierce the inside of her lip. He let the blood flow into her mouth, and she squirmed like a fish on a hook.

  “No, don’t swallow,” he commanded, and he slid his tongue over her teeth to twine with her tongue. She stopped jerking, but he didn’t ease his grip on her hand. The inside of her mouth was warm and wet, a prelude of what was to come.

  His innocent little student growled deep in her throat and arched against him, and his cock felt as hard and heavy as the barrel of a cannon. He stood, cradling her in his arms, and carried her to his bedroom. Even with the speed of his kind, time slowed to a crawl, and by the time he stripped off her white sweater and tight jeans, the long seconds had consumed his remaining patience. He unhooked her bra and pushed her down on the bed.

  “My father was right. You are an animal.”

  He said nothing, but peeled off his shirt, dropped his jeans, and watched her hungry little eyes slice and dice every part of his anatomy. She pulled off her bra, flipped it onto the floor, and thrust her breasts at him as if to show him she was every bit as delicious as he was. He climbed on top of her as if to mount her, but took her breasts in his hands instead and rubbed his lower body against hers.

  “Animal.”

  “Brat.”

  “You’re a cold bastard.”

  “Only because you’re such a hot bitch.”

  And she was. He was glad, for he wasn’t in the mood tonight for a slow seduction. She stretched her body, extending her legs and arching her back. He caught a nipple between his teeth and bit down, but not hard enough to break the skin. He reserved nipple piercing for veterans of the hunt, so he tempered his desire with restraint and used his teeth only to tease. Her body moved in opposition to his, pulling away when he tugged on the nipple and arching up to him like a cat when he let go. His hands stroked her until she was the animal, writhing so much he could hardly hold her. When he thrust into her, though, she was as ready as if she’d been waiting her whole life for him. In the end, politics was forgotten, and the discussion of what they each wanted was expressed in a far more primal way.

  And when he finished making love to her she made no move to leave, but lingered in his bed, which he took as a good sign.

  “Tell me about Duvall,” she said, but softly, like a lover, not a school news reporter. “I don’t even know your first name. Are you French?”

  He shook his head and smiled. Everybody thought he was French, and the irony had always amused him. “No, I was born in England.”

  She poked him in the ribs. “So, are you going to tell me?”

  “My given name? No.” The moment lost its lightness. “I don’t use my true given name anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Someday I’ll tell you,” he said, but his words sounded like a lie even to his own ears. He’d left the name Wulf behind when he’d moved to Chi-No to start a new life. Wulf was the past, beginning with the memory of that last sunset—the one over the western curtain of Fort William Henry that had been so ugly. He’d often wondered if the red sky that evening had been a portent of things to come. In any case, in three hundred years he’d never mourned the loss of twilight’s beauty, as so many of his kind did, and for that he had the siege to thank. Wulf had also been at Fort Dearborn and the decades in Chicago with Dorothea, le père, and Cade. It had been his name during the Great Fire, when he’d lost Doro and found Cade, the mother he’d loved and the brother he’d come to love. And it had been his name when the world had truly gone up in flames. Hell had consumed Chicago and all the love he’d felt for Cade, and it had left him with nothing, not even the words to express his angry farewell. The name Wulf had been left behind along with Chicago and its doyen. “I’m just Vall now.”

  She was quiet for awhile, perhaps subdued by the reminder that she had just had sex with an unholy creature. But her fingers were warm on his chest, and her breath was hot in his ear. “It’s okay.”

  He rolled over and kissed her on the mouth. “Really?” he whispered when he broke the kiss.

  “Really.”

  He laughed, and he thought about Kilpatrick, stuck in the assembly, bored to death. For once he was definitely having a better night than the meatball.

  After they made love again, instead of falling asleep, she assaulted him with questions. He allowed it. Most women were concerned only with the delights of his body, so the novelty of a woman who tried to uncover his feelings was something that amused him.

  She threaded her fingers through his long hair, feeling its texture. “Are things better now? Or were they better before?”

  He knew what she meant. The war. His answer took no thought, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the touch of her fingers. “Before.”

  “Why? You don’t have to hide now.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Hide? I never hid behind closed doors. Among my kind I was respected.” Had Cade ever truly respected him? “And to the world, to mortals, I was invisible.”

  Her brow wrinkled, and he stroked her face, as if to smooth away her
confusion.

  “I don’t understand. You don’t mean they didn’t see you.”

  “No, they saw me. But they saw what I wanted them to see. Now I’m naked.” He expected her to laugh, but she didn’t. “They see what they want to see. I’m a novelty. A cheap thrill. Or an object of hate.” He wanted to add like to your father, but he didn’t want to disrupt the thread of her thoughts.

  “Surely some things are better now, aren’t they? Isn’t it better to be loved by someone who knows what you really are?”

  He thought about Dorothea, who’d loved him for over a hundred years. “Yes.”

  Veronica rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling, obviously sensing that he hadn’t been thinking of her when he’d answered.

  “Don’t be jealous. I knew her a long time. I’ve only known you a couple nights. And I didn’t make love to her. Not like this anyway.” He wondered if he’d ever meet a woman who could love him the way Dorothea had. He thought of the days she’d slept beside him, pressed against him, not for warmth or sex, but to remind him that he was a part of her, and she of him. That he wasn’t alone. That he’d never be alone. He took a deep breath, as if all the air in the room couldn’t fill his lungs. She’d died in the fire in 1871, unable to breathe, burned beyond regeneration.

  He wrapped his arms around Veronica and shivered in spite of her warmth. “No more questions. Sleep now,” he whispered. She was quiet, and in the silence his mind strayed back to that fateful night in Chicago in 1871. He lost Dorothea that night. And found Cade again.

  Fourteen

  Chicago, Illinois Territory

  August 10, 1812

  WULF HATED THE land called Chicago. The river was sluggish, the ground marshy, and the air was full of bloodsuckers, more than even the Fort William Henry morass had bred. Thankfully, the mosquitoes seemed little inclined to feed from the undead, but their constant hovering and whining was annoying.

  After the magnificence of the New York forests, this western country was as unlovely as a bald-headed woman in need of a good bath. Near the lake the corrugated land alternated between low sand dunes and swales, and farther west wet prairie gave way to meadows where an occasional tree provided relief from the endless sea of grass. The ground was soggy, soft at best, making for a constant dampness from which there was no escape. The wildflowers may have been pretty, but their delicacy and subtle color was lost in Wulf’s black and white nighttime world.