But this land had power and greatness. Everyone who came here felt it, and the undead were no exception. Water, the very thing that made life miserable, made living possible. The Chicago Portage, a low, muddy divide between the Chicago and Des Plaines Rivers, connected the Great Lakes with the Mississippi River system.
Wulf and le père sat and waited for their guest three miles west of Fort Dearborn, the great stronghold the Americans had built nine years earlier in acknowledgment of Chicago’s importance.
At last, when the moon was high overhead, Cade made his appearance atop a black pony. Wulf loved le père, but Che Kincade was the most imposing vampire Wulf had ever met. He had long black hair, dark eyes, and skin that would never pale no matter how many sunless days he saw. It was rumored that his father was a French fur trader and his mother a Dakota, though some claimed he was the half-breed bastard of a Jesuit missionary. No one in any of the colonies Wulf had visited could confirm either story, and Cade himself never spoke of his origins.
The pony halted several yards away, pawed at the sand, and Cade, like the beast’s own shadow, slipped to the ground. Horses normally shied from the undead, but Cade had somehow trained the animal to tolerate his presence. It was just one of many attributes that lent mystique to Chicago’s self-appointed master vampire.
Cade governed his small colony in the same way le père cared for the Nathusius, for the two were equals in age. Wulf was only too aware of his own youth and inexperience, but le père always insisted on Wulf accompanying him, and Cade made no protest to his presence in this particular parley. And parley it was, for this meeting, while friendly, was not among friends.
Wulf, for all his awe of Cade’s beauty, presence, and horsemanship, had taken an immediate dislike to him. Vampires had long memories, and the betrayal by the Indians at Fort William Henry was still fresh in Wulf’s mind. And even though the passing of time meant little to an eternal creature living on the frontier, le père insisted his colony mark the passage of the days and years. Wulf was thus painfully aware that tonight was fifty-five years to the day from that fateful day the 35th had begun the surrender march that history had dubbed “the massacre.”
Wulf glanced at le père, and in the light of the small camp fire, their eyes met. Le père’s dark eyes showed understanding, and Wulf knew he was just as aware of the importance of the date as Wulf was. But Wulf, as the youngest in attendance, knew to keep his opinions to himself.
Cade cocked his head toward the east. “Captain Heald has been ordered to evacuate his fort. Chief Blackbird, the Potawatomi, and Winnebago also know it.”
Le père smiled. “Word travels quickly.”
Cade raised a brow. “A Potawatomi chief brought the dispatch. A foolish order. The Americans are to distribute all their property to the Indians and abandon the fort.”
“What will the tribes do?” asked le père.
“They will take what they are given.”
“That’s not what I meant. Will the Indians allow the whites to leave the fort in peace?”
Cade’s dark eyes gave nothing away. “It is difficult to say. There is much unrest among them, and more warriors arrive every day. They are much like us—the promise of blood draws them.”
Le père smiled, too broadly, for his fangs shone in the firelight. “You mean the promise of liquor from the whites draws them.”
Cade gave no answering smile, and Wulf feared le père had made a mistake. Cade’s colony was three times the number of the Nathusius, and even Wulf knew it would not do to make an enemy of Cade.
Cade looked at Wulf, as if he could read his mind, then shifted his dark gaze back to le père. “If blood is what the Nathusius want, advise Captain Heald to linger. There will be a siege, the fort will fall, and you’ll have your choice of man, woman or child served up for dinner.”
Le père met Cade’s steady gaze. “And that is why we are here, no? The frontier is rich with possibilities, but war is a special treat. I ask you again—if Heald obeys his orders and evacuates, what will the Indians do?”
Cade’s teeth gleamed white against his dark skin. “I cannot say. It depends on what they want.”
“And what will you advise them, Cade?”
“You flatter me to imply I have influence with Chief Blackbird,” said Cade, and he said no more. The meeting ended, the fire was extinguished, and Cade and his mount melted into the summer night.
“What do you think, Wulf?” asked le père, when it was certain they were alone.
“I think it was unwise to insult Cade. He has Indian blood, and he does not forget it, even now, when such things shouldn’t matter.”
“Perhaps it was unwise. But he is not the only one who does not forget, is he? You remember Fort William Henry. You and Cade will never be brothers.”
“No, but neither do I want him for a foe. What of the fort?”
Le père sighed. “I leave it to your judgment, Wulf. If you are to lead someday, you must learn to make these decisions on your own.”
“Yes, father.”
War had begun, and Wulf knew neither he nor Cade nor le père could change the outcome of the conflict. But the undead could certainly influence individuals, and the fate of Fort Dearborn could very well be in their hands. As Cade had suggested, any significant delay on Captain Heald’s part could mean siege, and siege and battle meant both blood and candidates to swell the ranks of their colony.
The prudent thing to do from the undead point of view was to push for siege, but all Wulf could think of was the siege of Fort William Henry and its aftermath. He no longer cared about the plight of mortals, and yet . . .
“Father, they need to evacuate the fort, and right now.”
Fifteen
THE NEXT EVENING Vall arrived downtown almost a half hour early, eager to be back on the street. He was surprised to see that his partner was also early.
“Did you miss me?” asked a straight-faced Kilpatrick.
“No, and from now on, you can fetch your own bloody food.”
Kilpatrick grinned.
DeMora and Crevant both welcomed him back personally, and even Butler, at the end of roll call, acknowledged his return.
They signed out the keys to their replacement car. It wasn’t new, of course. There never seemed to be money in the budget for new cars. This one was a refurbished spare from the municipal garage, three years older than the car Vall had totaled.
“I’m driving,” said Kilpatrick. “You smash this one, and our next replacement’ll be an antique.”
Kilpatrick stopped for coffee, but not at the Real Deal. His fix in hand, he sat with the car idling, sipping the steaming liquid. “So, who’s the new girlfriend?”
“None of your fucking business.”
Kilpatrick ignored that, took another sip, and stared at the headliner of the car. “Hmm. Veronica. An old-fashioned name. She a vamp?”
“No.”
“What’s the big deal in keeping it a secret? It’s not like I’m going to know her or anything.”
Vall didn’t answer.
Kilpatrick turned to him. “You’re shittin’ me.” He slurped a mouthful and stared out the windshield. “Veronica . . . Veronica. Nope, I don’t know any Veronicas. Only girl I ever heard of with that name is the ex-Senator’s daughter, but she wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of you.”
There was nothing Vall could say. If he protested the insult, Kilpatrick would know the truth. If he said nothing, he’d still know the truth. So he told it.
“She was the girl at Leon’s—the one who was being harassed by those three morons when you crashed the party and let them get away. You didn’t bother to so much as ask if she was all right, so don’t talk to me about the kind of man a woman like that is interested in.”
Kilpatrick’s mouth would have fallen open if h
e hadn’t had a mouthful of hot liquid. “No shit,” was all he could sputter.
But the relatively pleasant start to the shift ended an hour later when they were dispatched to a homicide at 45th and Center. By the time they arrived, district squads already had the alley scene taped off, and paramedics had already tried and failed to revive the victim. It was no vampire this time. It was a human, a girl who looked to be in her late teens. She had long dark hair and vaguely reminded Vall of Veronica. He tried to imagine how he’d feel if this was Veronica and not a stranger, but there was no time for such sentimentality.
Kilpatrick put on gloves, and they both squatted on either side of the body and did a quick examination. The body was fresh, still warm to the touch, even in the cold of the December night. The skin of her face was lucent, almost waxy, and her lips and nails were pale, giving her a strangely vampiric look. Like the vampire, she was caught between life and the grave, dead but whole, lifeless but warm, a body and spirit in transition. He touched her cheek. The skin was smooth, pliant, and almost luminous, the last vestiges of life. But her open eyes had already flattened from loss of fluid, a clear sign that, unlike him, she wasn’t trapped in the immortality of transition, but hurtling through the tunnel to the finality of mortal death.
A bite mark was clearly visible on her neck, and while Kilpatrick might not see it for what it was, Vall could. The bruising and lacerations showed that someone had not only been extremely hungry, but clumsy and inexperienced. A suckling, and a very young one at that.
“Son of a fucking bitch,” said Kilpatrick under his breath, but Vall heard it, and when his partner raised his gaze to Vall’s, Kilpatrick’s eyes glowed under the alley lamps like blue ice.
Vall took a deep breath. “Go tell the uniforms to keep the media and onlookers well back. Have them move the tape if necessary, and make goddamn sure no rookie gets chatty with the reporters. Go.”
Kilpatrick didn’t say a word, but rose and stalked off. Vall located the district squad that had been the first dispatched to the scene and copied all the information the officer had gathered. The girl had had ID on her, but there’d been no witnesses. He met Kilpatrick back at the car and they both got in.
“You know we won’t be able to keep this one quiet,” said Vall. “Too many people know this for what it was—the coppers, the EMTs . . .”
Kilpatrick threw his memo book on top of the dash pad. “A fucking girl is dead, and all you can think about is that we won’t be able to hush it up?”
“Are you angry because she’s dead, or because a vampire killed her? What about the dozen vamps who’ve died in the last week? Are their deaths any less tragic?”
The intensity of Kilpatrick’s gaze bordered on that of target acquisition—the look a suspect gets in his eye just before he shoots you. “Fuck, yeah. This girl was only nineteen. She had her whole life in front of her. You vamps have had your time. Hell, motherfuckers like you have had ten lifetimes.” He got out of the car and slammed the door.
Vall followed him and grabbed his arm, pulling him close. “There’s a bigger picture here, meatball. This could restart the war. So why don’t you and I calm down and try to solve this thing before Hell breaks out all over again?”
Kilpatrick’s breathing was loud in his ear, and he yanked his arm free, but didn’t say anything.
Vall continued, his voice low. “So let’s work the case, trust the professionals to keep their mouths shut, and pray this girl’s father isn’t some CEO. Okay?”
“No, not okay. This is my world now, the real world, so you better step out of your dark little nether land and get a grip on what’s real. Even if the coppers keep their mouths shut, her family won’t. Her father could be a paper hanger, and he won’t be any less enraged or any less vocal in wanting justice.”
The rest of the night was spent in strained coexistence. They did their jobs, but not a word passed between them except what was needed. When they pulled into the garage at five in the morning, Kilpatrick grabbed his arm. “No, don’t get out. We need to talk.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ve never kept my feelings a secret. I don’t like your kind, and I never have. I won’t even talk about the number of humans lost in the war, because maybe, just maybe, you can argue it was the Brothers of the Sun who started the war, not the vamps. But you people are unnatural creatures, a corruption of both mind and flesh. You’re predators, and that’s all you are.”
“And humans aren’t?”
“Lemme finish, goddamnit. Given all that, I’ve tried my hardest to accept the new wrinkle in my world. What I won’t accept is war all over again.”
“No? I would’ve thought a Claw-carryin’ clown like you would be first in line to shred us all into oblivion.”
Kilpatrick gripped the steering wheel of the parked squad so tightly that Vall thought the bones of his knuckles would pop through his skin. “Candy’s pregnant.”
Silence fell inside the car, and even radio traffic was quiet.
“Good. We have something in common. Because I’ve lived through a lot of wars, and I don’t want to see another one, either.”
WHEN KIL GOT home, a quiet house greeted him. Heavenly silence was fine by him most days, but not today. Not after what had happened.
“Candy?”
He took off his coat and hung it in the front closet, listening for the radio or other sounds from the kitchen, but there was only the soft sound of the furnace blowing warm air through the vents. He checked the kitchen, but there was neither Candy nor coffee. He ran upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, and pushed open the bedroom door.
She was in bed, asleep, and he stood in the doorway, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat. He seldom admitted fear, but his pounding heart was undeniable proof that during the last sixty seconds he’d been as afraid as he’d ever been. He thought about letting her sleep, but he had too much he wanted to tell her.
He sat on the edge of the bed gingerly so as not to dip the mattress with his weight too much and watched her. Her blond hair looked like it had gotten a thorough teasing with a comb, as fluffed as the king-size pillow that cradled her head. She breathed softly, and he wondered what she was dreaming about. Reluctantly, he put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, babe, wake up.”
“Mmm.”
“Candy, up and at ‘em, babe.”
She cracked her eyes open. “John.” She pushed a blond hank of hair out of her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Almost six.”
She sat up and stared at the clock on the nightstand, as if she didn’t believe him. “Oh God, John, I’m sorry. The alarm didn’t go off. You must be starving. I’ll get breakfast.”
“Breakfast can wait. Come here.” He drew her into his arms and just held her. When he finally loosened his grip, she pulled away, frowning. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Nothing, babe.”
“Don’t give me that. Those blue eyes may be able to snow the bad guys, but they don’t fool me. You go take a shower, and I’ll start breakfast.”
He nodded and gave her a long, drawn-out kiss, then headed for the shower. He stood under the hot water and thought about what he was going to tell her. Normally he didn’t go into the details of the more violent cases he got assigned to, but this time he had no choice. She’d be sure to hear it on the news, in any case.
But in spite of her questions and impatience to know what had happened, he waited until after breakfast to tell her. Death and scrambled eggs didn’t go well together.
“We got sent to another homicide tonight.”
She got up to start rinsing the dishes, but he pulled her back to the table with a “leave them” and waited until she sat down.
“Another vampire death?”
“No, it was a human. A girl, nineteen. She was killed by a squid.”
&nb
sp; “Oh, no. What happened?”
“She was found in an alley. Duvall thinks it was some suckling on a binge who hadn’t had the real thing for so long he couldn’t control himself.”
She made a face, her mouth a crooked pucker and her eyebrows drawn together in a cross between Candy-Confusion and womanly sympathy, and he wondered if she understood at all the import of what he’d said.
“Do you realize what this means, babe? The word is getting around that the bottled blood is tainted. True or not, they’re afraid, and mark my words. This won’t be the only victim. The squids’ll start feeding on humans again, and those without control will kill their victims.”
She rested her forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Oh, John, do you really think so? Is that what Duvall said?”
He and Duvall hadn’t exactly discussed it in detail. It would’ve just led to more arguments, but it didn’t take a genius to know what was coming. “Yeah, I really think so. As for Duvall . . . who knows?” He shrugged.
Her eyebrows lowered to scold-level. “John, you can’t blame your partner for what one vampire did, anymore than you can blame the whole human race when one goes bad.”
He shook his head with a vehemence that he normally reserved for squids and slugs. She just didn’t understand, and her naïveté made him angry enough that he had to remind himself that this wasn’t Duvall he was arguing with. “No! Not the same thing. These aren’t humans, they aren’t like humans, and you can’t compare them to humans. It’s not a point of ‘one going bad.’ They’re all bad, the whole stinkin’ race. It’s their nature to be predators and to kill.”
Half Past Hell Page 11
