Half Past Hell

by Jaye Roycraft

  She opened her mouth, then closed it, as if she were going to argue the point, then realized there was nothing she could say. “I’ve never heard you talk like this after a homicide,” she said instead.

  He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. That much was true. Normally he didn’t give a rat’s ass for any of the slugs stupid enough to get themselves whacked. Most murder victims were criminals themselves, no better than those committing the offense. But most victims weren’t females, most weren’t killed by a squid, and his wife had never been pregnant before. “Yeah, well, most homicides don’t lead to war.”

  She flattened her palms against the table. “War? Now what are you talking about?”

  “This could lead to war again. Think about it. Maybe not because of just one girl dying, but if it happens again and again, what do you think will happen? It’ll be Chicago all over again. People will fight back, and Little Transylvania will be burned to the ground.”

  He wasn’t sure if she believed him or not, but either way, the shine in her eyes wasn’t from tears of joy. He stood and pulled her into his arms, holding her close. “I’m so sorry, babe. I wouldn’t have told you any of this, except that you would’ve heard it on the news anyway. Listen. I’ve been doing some thinking since yesterday. If there is another war, I don’t want you or the baby anywhere near it. If you still want me to quit and get a job up north, I will.”

  She leaned back and stared at him with rounded eyes. “You’d do that for me?”

  She’d been after him for years to take a cop job up north. “For you and the baby, yeah. It wouldn’t be easy—I won’t try to tell you otherwise. We won’t get anywhere near what this house was worth before Midnight Storm, and I’d go from top-tier detective pay to first year starting pay.”

  “But is it what you want?”

  Since when did she care what he wanted? “Yeah, it’s what I want.” He didn’t know if it was the truth or not. He’d never been one to run from a fight, and the thought of working in some little backwoods town bored him to tears, but he couldn’t tell her anything else. Not with her pregnant.

  She nodded and let herself fall against him again, and he held her.

  “You didn’t tell Duvall not to come by on Thursday, did you?” she mumbled against his T-shirt.

  He hadn’t, but the thought of Duvall in his house after what had happened tonight disgusted him. “I don’t want him near you, babe.”

  She put her hands against his chest and pushed, and he loosened his hold. “It’s not like he’s got something that’s going to rub off on me. I still want to meet him. You’re always talking about what the vampires are like. I want to make up my own mind. Besides, he did save your life, and it’s only right I thank him for that.”

  Candy’s stubbornness was legendary, and this was an argument he knew he wouldn’t win. “All right. He can stop by, just this once.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, John.”

  A week ago his life had taken a left turn, and tonight it had taken yet another, and neither time he’d been in control. He wondered if his life would ever again be his.

  WHEN VALL WOKE, there was a message waiting on his machine. He hoped it was from Veronica. He hadn’t heard from her since the evening before last, when she’d left his house after an all-night marathon of questions and answers and sex. Mostly sex. She’d been a responsive lover, surprising him with the raw emotion evident in her passion. She’d made him feel like he had aroused her in ways no man before ever had, shuddering at his gentlest touches and begging for more when he’d given her his all.

  It was from Conrad, the chemist at Badger State Forensics, letting him know that the analysis was finished on the two bottles Vall had dropped off and that he’d be at the lab until seven tonight if Duvall wanted to stop by. Vall listened to the message with anticipation, yet still felt a tinge of disappointment that it hadn’t been Veronica. Girls like her were rare for the likes of him, for she’d been as challenging with her mind as she’d been with her body.

  He dressed quickly, listening to the six o’clock news as he did so. As expected, the girl’s murder was the lead story. The newscasters reported that there was speculation that the girl had been killed by a night person, but that a spokesperson for the Chi-No Police Department had refused comment, saying only that the “incident was still under investigation.” Well, he thought, it’s no worse than any other homicide story. Yet.

  As soon as he was dressed he left for the lab. When he arrived, Conrad handed him a box.

  “The bottles are inside, along with a written report. Unfortunately, if you should take anyone into custody in connection with these bottles, I won’t be able to testify in a court of law. By you giving me this material without it having come through official channels, the chain of evidence has been corrupted. Still, I wish you luck with your investigation. Oh, and one more thing, though I’m sure you already know this. As soon as the war ended and bottled blood went on the market, hundreds of mom-and-pop bottling plants opened up.” He nodded toward the box. “Most of that stuff is bottled locally. All bottling companies are required to put the location of the bottling plant on the label.”

  Vall handed over an envelope containing the agreed upon payment in cash, shook hands, and left. Once inside his car, he opened the box, flipped on his map reader light, and read the report.

  It was as bad as he’d feared.

  Sixteen

  Fort Dearborn

  August 11, 1812

  IT WAS A DANK night, the air sodden with moisture, much like that night fifty-five years ago, at another fort far, far away. Wulf ignored the swarms of mosquitoes infesting the riverbank and entered the fort through the secret underground passage that led from the river under the north wall to the parade grounds inside Fort Dearborn. He’d been serving as a “scout” to the garrison for the past two years, and the soldiers manning the gates had never refused him entrance.

  It was late in the evening, past ten o’clock, but not so late that Wulf expected inactivity. But there were no signs of evacuation. If anything, the fort was filled with more civilians than usual. Men and women lined the galleries of the barracks, the men enjoying a smoke or cards, and their womenfolk holding council with each other to do what he imagined they enjoyed most—to gossip. Settlers from the surrounding region, he supposed, who’d fled to the fort for safety.

  Wulf strode to the commandant’s quarters, asked to see the captain, and was shown inside a moment later. Nathan Heald stopped his pacing to address his guest.

  “Ah, Duvall. You’ve heard the news, I suppose.”

  “Yes. I admit I expected to see signs of evacuation.”

  Heald threw his hands up. “How can I? The officers advise against it, the men are afraid, and the settlers flock to me for protection.”

  “A siege will not be to your advantage, Captain. Believe me when I say this.”

  “Will we be any more safe by leaving the fort in an exposed march? For God’s sake, Duvall, we’ve women and children with us. And you yourself have always warned us not to trust the Indians.”

  That was true enough. The soldiers and settlers, led by John Kinzie, were on friendly enough terms with the Potawatomis and Winnebagos, but Wulf had always advised caution. The fact that the Indians purchased goods from the Factory, a U.S. government trading house outside the fort, didn’t ensure loyalty or mean that their allegiance to the British had lessened. The Americans were the invaders, and the Indians didn’t forget that. Aside from the undead, Wulf had never seen a group of people with such long memories.

  “True, Captain, but if you leave now, your passage could well go unchallenged. I’ve met with a representative of the Indians.” No need to mention that the “representative” was a vampire, who, like himself, was more spy for the undead than scout for either the Americans or the Indians.

  The c
aptain stopped his pacing and took a step in Wulf’s direction, but, as always, Heald came so close and no closer. There was something in both Wulf’s pale complexion and feral eyes that always seemed to keep humans at a distance, as if he were a stray dog they wanted to touch but were afraid to.

  “You’ve met with them? What did they say?”

  “There is much unrest, much indecision.”

  “But will the Indians be satisfied with the Factory goods?”

  Wulf raised a brow. “A few blankets and looking glasses? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But more Indians are arriving daily. If you are to go, go now, before they decide what they truly want.”

  Heald shook his head, but thanked him anyway. “I’ll take it up again with my officers tomorrow morning.”

  Heald was a fool. Wulf took his leave and crossed the parade grounds. People were still up and about, perhaps sensing the same impending doom that he felt. A mother sat with a child on her lap, and another pressed her infant to her bosom. Blood hunger gnawed at Wulf, but not bloodthirst. They were two different things. The murder of the parolees at Fort William Henry was still fresh in his memory, and he had no desire to see these people butchered in a similar fashion.

  But as he exited the secret tunnel at the river, the moon slipped her gray robe and bared her beauty to the night. Jeweled light danced on the surface of the lethargic water of the Chicago. He turned his head and saw the graveyard to the east of the fort. It, too, was lit as if by design, and he wondered if it was a bad sign.

  Seventeen

  VALL LOCKED THE box and the report in his trunk and drove downtown, walking into the assembly one minute before roll call. Butler, in the annoying way of supervisors, didn’t say anything, but stared pointedly at the clock and then at him, as if anything less subtle would be lost on a cretin like him. Kilpatrick also gave him the evil eye, though Vall knew that look had nothing to do his late arrival.

  During their nightly briefing, Butler gave them an update. “The victim of last night’s homicide, Aurora Finch, died from blood loss. The actor is an unknown vampire, and the single bite mark would seem to indicate a random attack, as opposed to donor abuse. In accordance with Department policy regarding all ongoing investigations, we are not providing details to the media. Due to the highly sensitive nature of this case, I want to emphasize again to all of you not to discuss, speculate, or elaborate on this matter to any person outside the Department. This includes your family and friends. We don’t want to start a panic among either the vampire or human community. It is possible that this was an isolated incident and will not be repeated. Let’s hope so. Anybody got anything?”

  For a long-winded lecture reeking of sincerity, Butler’s speech was nothing but departmental dogma and bullshit. As expected, nobody said a word.

  “Then get out there.”

  As usual, in spite of the lieut’s “get out on the street” rallying war-cry, everyone milled around the assembly for ten minutes, checking their subpoenas, looking through their mail, and bringing their memo books up to date. Kilpatrick went to the men’s room, and Jean Crevant wandered over to Duvall. Crevant’s long, pale neck stretched above the shoulders of his black trench coat, reminding Vall of a black-winged buzzard.

  “So what do you think of Butler’s speech?” asked Crevant.

  Vall shrugged. “He isn’t stupid. He knows the truth—he just isn’t spilling it.”

  “I agree. Listen, I’ve seen you and Kilpatrick all buddy-like. Don’t trust him. He’s no different than Butler or any of the humans.”

  “Don’t worry, Crevant. I don’t trust anyone here.” Including you.

  Crevant cocked his head, and his black eyes studied him. “I never see you at any of the clubs. You should stop by after work for a drink or make a night of it when you’re off. We’re beginning to think you don’t like us.”

  He didn’t. “Nonsense. I’m just waiting for Boogie Night. I love to dance.”

  Crevant glared at him with a look that ran down his long nose. Crevant knew when he was being mocked, but Vall didn’t care. He’d never liked Jean Crevant and his Frenchie nose.

  Vall let Kilpatrick head down to the garage without him while he stopped at the desk of the night shift clerk, Mavra, one of several vampires hired by the city as civilian office assistants. Mavra was a suckling, only about forty years old as a vampire, but she was quiet, efficient, and held her own in an environment that was not only male-dominated but as vampire-unfriendly as any other segment of human society. She typed up his reports and those of the other detectives, but she seemed to take extra care with his, and she did him little favors like seeing to it that his time card was filled out correctly and making sure his radio always had a fresh battery. He handed her a folded piece of paper.

  “Do something for me, sweetheart, would you? Find out who owns this bottling plant, and keep it between you and me, will you?”

  She looked up at him with her dark eyes and gave him a little smile. “Sure, Duvall.”

  He gave her a wink and headed for the garage. On his way, he thought about Mavra, Roman, and all the other sucklings who had bought into the peacemakers’ propaganda. Diversity was a blessing and a community’s strength, they had said. Night people could be productive citizens, providing low-cost labor to employers, went the peace-party line. No health benefits or workers’ compensation to be paid, no sick time lost, no disability, no life insurance—the advantages of a vampire work force was a big part of the package that sold peace. Yet it was the sucklings who were despised by the masters, doyens, and humans alike, and if another war broke out, it would be the sucklings again who would pay the price. Those like Mavra and Roman deserved better.

  Which reminded him . . . on Thursday, his next off day, he’d have to have another little talk with Nestor. That was after his visit with Miss Candy, of course, unless the meatball had changed his mind about letting him within spitting distance of his wife.

  He caught up to Kilpatrick in the garage, but his partner was silent all the way to Mugz, his new first stop on the nightly coffee train. Vall waited until he bought his extra-large-to-go and took a slurp before breaking the silence.

  “I got the lab report back on the bottles.”

  “So?”

  “You want to hear it or not?”

  Kilpatrick gave him a look cold enough to freeze his coffee. “I want this case solved as much as you do. Let’s have it.”

  Vall ignored the look. “It’s what I feared. Silver salts, specifically silver nitrate. It’s a chemical compound, highly soluble. Taken internally in large doses, it’s toxic to humans, but even more so to the undead. We call it ‘the inner fire’ because it causes tissue wasting and hemorrhaging, and for some reason the tissue burned by the silver is unable to regenerate. The gray skin of the victims is argyria. It’s a common condition resulting from prolonged ingestion of silver salts.”

  “So how come the Department hasn’t released this information? They’ve had bottles tested from the homicide scenes.”

  “Sure they have. But you heard Butler. It’s your classic cover-up. They don’t want this leaked to the public, and they’re not taking any chances, so they’re not even telling us what’s going on.”

  Kilpatrick shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense. How can they expect us to solve cases when they hide findings from us?”

  “You know as well as I do that if the sucklings find out that the bottled blood supply is poisoned, they’ll revert to feeding on humans. It’s already started. Butler was lying when he said Aurora Finch was an isolated incident, and there wasn’t a cop in that room, human or vamp, who believed him. I know you didn’t believe him.”

  “You or DeMora or Crevant could have spoken up when he asked for comments.”

  “To what end? The command staff is going to continue to blow smoke, no matter what. They want the perception that the
Department is taking the vampire deaths seriously, but that’s all they want.”

  Kilpatrick was silent.

  “You know I’m right, don’t you?”

  Kilpatrick nodded. “I knew it last night. Hell, I think I knew it long before then. Can’t we just close down the plant that bottles Magma?”

  Vall shook his head. “It’s not that simple. You know the California Gold Rush? Well, after the war we had the Wisconsin Blood Rush. Everybody with enough cash to buy a vacant building and a few machines set up shop. There are dozens of small bottling plants in southeastern Wisconsin alone.”

  “Aren’t they regulated by the State Board of Health?”

  Vall laughed. “Sure. But everything that’s connected to ‘vampire welfare’ is a joke.”

  “We’re talking about a conspiracy here.”

  They looked at each other. “Or someone who’s very, very powerful,” said Vall.

  “So what can we do?”

  Vall thought about it for a moment, and wisps of memories plucked at him. Something Cade used to always say . . . It came to him at last. “Find the head of the snake and cut it off.”

  BUTLER WAS PROVED wrong less than an hour into the shift. Duvall and Kilpatrick were dispatched to a homicide at 38th and Lloyd. It was another human—a male this time, in his early twenties, bitten on the neck and sucked dry. They canvassed the neighborhood, conducted interviews, and did a background check on the victim. It was just like last night—no witnesses, no suspects, and no ties to the vampire community.

  It was another long night, and almost four in the morning when their radios crackled.

  “Squad 38 to 131.”

  Kilpatrick answered. “131.”

  “Are you guys available for a meet?”

  Vall and Kilpatrick looked at each other. It was late, and they still had paperwork to finish, but uniformed district squads usually didn’t ask to meet a Bureau car unless it was important. Vall nodded to his partner.