Half Past Hell

by Jaye Roycraft

  “Not good enough, Crevant. Not nearly good enough. Who wants me dead, and why?”

  Crevant gurgled, and Vall loosed his grip on his neck so he could speak. He literally held Crevant’s life in his hand, so there was no need to exert pressure elsewhere.

  “Because you’re strong. You’re about to come of age. And because there are those who think you’re a spy.”

  Spy? It had been centuries since he’d been a spy in the wilderness for the Nathusius. He squeezed the heart even more, and it throbbed harder against his fingers. The violence and the blood drenching Crevant like French dressing stirred Vall’s own blood, and even in the cold wind, his body responded to the hard muscle beating in his hand as if he were making love to a woman. His heightened senses felt every flake of snow that assaulted his face, and his hardening body demanded satisfaction of any kind.

  “Tell me! I’ll rip your heart out and feed it to the rats, I swear I will. Who thinks I’m a spy?”

  Kilpatrick, leading a small army of cops, burst out of the State Street entrance to the building.

  Crevant glanced at them and tried to laugh, but coughed up more blood instead. “You fool,” he whispered. “Who else would want Cade’s spy dead but Nestor?”

  VALL COULDN’T SLEEP. He sat alone in his living room, slumped on the sofa in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and stared at the fireplace. The snow had stopped, but the temperature had dropped into the single digits. The warmth of a fire would feel good, but he’d known when he bought the house years ago that as long as he lived here, no fire would ever burn in that hearth. So he stared at the empty grate and thought very un-vampire-like thoughts about the ironies of life, death, and everything and everyone who, like himself, fell through the cracks.

  Crevant would see another moonrise. As much as Vall had wanted to crush his cold heart in his fist and rip it from his worthless bones, he hadn’t. They would need Crevant as a witness. But DeMora was dead. Vall had taken countless Claws the past two weeks and survived, and DeMora, who’d taken only one, had perished. The Claw that had hit him had caught his lower jaw and severed the spinal cord.

  Guilt was a human emotion, but Vall felt it worm through his mind. Valentin DeMora hadn’t been terribly shrewd or cunning, but Vall had liked him. DeMora, like Vall, had been nothing more than a working stiff, trying to survive the turbulent waters of their new world without rocking the boat too much.

  Nestor. Nestor, who’d been the undead voice for peace in the Midwest, was now trying his damnedest to reignite the war. And Vall himself, for all his lone-wolf apolitical ways, was now the bone of contention between Nestor and Cade.

  You Cadians, Crevant had said. Spy for Cade. He’d never thought of himself as either, nor had he intentionally done anything to put himself in either role. But perhaps from Nestor’s point of view, it was true. Vall had been one of Cade’s masters for a long time. He’d been close to Cade since the Chicago Fire, living in his house and holding the coveted position as hunting partner. But the war had brought a turning point in their relationship. They hadn’t fought—hadn’t had so much as a disagreement. And maybe that had been the problem. Cade had taught him how to break a horse to an undead master, how to hunt with skill and stealth, and how to bring a woman to climax in a hundred different ways. But Cade had never allowed Vall access to his innermost feelings.

  But to an outsider . . . Vall could see how his leaving Chicago and coming to Chi-No could be viewed differently, that perhaps Cade was sending his closest lieutenant to Nestor’s backyard for a reason.

  In any case, he was taking the heat for Cade while Cade himself sat in his club and made love to beautiful mortals.

  What to do about Nestor was another problem. One of the stipulations of the peace accords was that doyens be granted the same kind of diplomatic immunity from prosecution that ambassadors enjoyed. A doyen’s property was considered foreign soil, and no human authority could invade his premises to question him or arrest him.

  Besides, the Chi-No Police Department had four dead cops to bury and a very violent and volatile suspect to process through the system. As far as they were concerned, dealing with a warmongering doyen would have to wait a couple days.

  A knock at the door brought Vall’s head up. It was two hours before dawn. Kilpatrick, maybe. He hoped to hell it wasn’t the media. He was in no mood, and even the thought of compelling them to go fuck themselves brought him no pleasure. He got up, pulled aside a corner of the heavy drapes, and saw a red car at the curb.

  Everybody and their brother had visited him at the hospital following the hostage setup. Everyone except Veronica. But she was here now. He didn’t feel like engaging in any kind of human interaction that didn’t involve either blood or sex, but he was curious about what she had to say, so he opened the door.

  She stood hunched in a hooded parka, holding the front of the jacket closed at the neck. He wondered if she was simply trying to keep warm or if it was some sort of unsubtle message to keep his hungry eyes off her décolletage.

  “Duvall, if you don’t want to talk to me, I understand, but . . .”

  “Come in.” He held the door open.

  She stepped inside. “I won’t stay long.”

  “Take your jacket off.” He hoped by taking her jacket off, she’d stay longer. He also hoped she’d skip the obligatory amenities like “how are you” and “I’m sorry about your fellow officers.” He was, of course, fine, and except for DeMora, he hadn’t really known any of the cops who’d been killed.

  She obliged him on both counts. He waited while she shrugged out of the parka and sat down on the sofa. She wore jeans and a cropped maroon sweater that had a low neckline and showed the outline of her hardened nipples. She’d been cold, and no wonder. She pulled at the hem of the sweater, but there was no excess material to straighten.

  In spite of all the mistrust between them, the very sight of her opened the floodgates of his memory, and all the details of the ecstasy they’d shared filled his mind. His fangs ached with the remembrance, and his cock did more than ache.

  Her eyes were as fidgety as her fingers, gazing at everything in the room but resting on nothing, as different as could be from the cold steady eyes in the factory that had looked ready to slay any foe.

  “I’m not sure if you’re interested in what I have to say, but there are some things I need to tell you for my own sake.”

  He sat down on the chair opposite, the same he’d vacated when her knock had come. “I’m listening.”

  She took a deep breath and focused her eyes on a spot on the wall somewhere to the left of the fireplace. “First of all, I know my father hurt a lot of people, but I’m not going to apologize for what he did. He felt he had no choice. Even if you can’t forgive him, I hope you can at least understand why he did it.”

  He did. He was no paragon. He would have done anything to save Dorothea. And le père. And Boston. And Cade? Had Cade ever really needed his help? “It’s important to you that I do?”

  She finally looked at him. “Yes.”

  Her eyes glistened, and he wondered if the emotion was for her father, herself, or for him. Was her request for understanding a plea for something more? His hunger flared at the thought, but he decided to keep his own answer brief. After everything that had happened, he didn’t want to make the wrong assumption and make a fool of himself. Again. “I do. I understand.”

  She seemed to breathe easier, and when she continued, it was without hesitation. “I do want to apologize for myself. I blamed you for my abduction, but I know now it wasn’t your fault. I want to thank you for getting me out alive.”

  It meant a lot to him that she said that, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to know it just yet. He knew she could handle him on his very best I-can-imitate-a-human behavior. He wanted to know if she could handle him. “I did my job.”

  Her eyes had
a wet sheen to them, but she didn’t blink. “You’re not going to make any of this easy for me, are you?”

  More than anything he wanted to make it easy. He wanted to respond to the plea in her eyes with everything a mortal would do—give her a hug, a pat on the back, and a “there, there, it’s all right.” But he was what he was, and she needed to understand that above all else. Until she was ready for a repeat of the night she’d spent in his bed, she’d get the vampire’s cold response. “It’s been a long hard night, Veronica, even by my standards. Forgive me if I have no energy left for human niceties.”

  She stood up and grabbed her parka. “Well, then, I’ll be leaving. I said what I came to say.”

  He rose and followed her to the door, not wanting her to leave just yet. He had a question of his own for her, one that had haunted him since their meeting in her condo. “Veronica, wait. I have to know. Was meeting me a set up? Were you working for your father?”

  She swiped a finger at one eye. Tears for him? He waited for her answer.

  “No. Everything I told you at my place was the truth. I never lied to you. Never.”

  “So it was just coincidence that you met me that first night at Leon’s?”

  She turned back to him. “I knew you’d be there. But it wasn’t a set up. I overheard my father talking to someone about a vampire cop who was in Leon’s on a regular basis. I love my father, but I wanted to see for myself if he was right or not about the undead. I thought that a vampire cop would be safer than taking my chances meeting a vampire at random.”

  “Sweetheart, were you ever wrong.”

  She laughed—a small laugh—but it was the first he’d heard since the night they’d spent together. “Yeah.” She turned to go.

  He held her arm to keep her another minute.

  “Your father is strong. He has a clear vision of his world and the conviction to make others see that same vision. Father or no father, it’s easy to be drawn to someone like that. It’s easy to love larger-than-life figures. I know. I know what it’s like to live in someone else’s shadow—to see all of life through a filter of someone else’s making. If you ever decide to step out of your father’s shadow, you know where to find me.”

  He was afraid of what she might say, but she stared at him instead and laid the palm of one hand against his cheek. He closed his eyes and savored her warmth, wanting so much more.

  When he looked at her again, she gave him a small nod before she pulled her hood over her head. “Good night, Duvall.”

  He dropped her arm, and she left, pulling the door closed softly. He considered that a victory, and perhaps a sign that she hadn’t slammed closed the little door to the future that they’d opened. If I have a future.

  Nestor waited for him, and neither Kilpatrick nor the whole of the Chi-No Police Department would be able to help him this time.

  Thirty-one

  AS SOON AS VERONICA left, Duvall packed a bag and drove to a hotel. All hotels and inns having more than ten rooms were required by the Night Person Citizenship Act to have a minimum of five percent of their accommodations designed for vampire habitation. That meant no windows, special check in and check out times, and on-premise vending machines for bottled blood. Vall didn’t care about the amenities—he simply wanted a good day’s sleep without being disturbed. He also did it with his hide in mind, not wanting some BOS bastard to launch a rocket propelled grenade at his house and blow it and him to smithereens.

  He checked in, displayed his night person registration card, and then, for good measure, compelled the young lady behind the desk to forget she ever saw him. Maybe he was being overly paranoid, but his name had been all over the news, and he didn’t want her tipping anyone off that he was here.

  He awoke later that evening after a deep and undisturbed sleep. A dozen messages waited for him on his cell phone, and he waded through calls from Kilpatrick, the Department, the hospital, and Roman Shostavich. Everyone, from his partner to the hospital, was asking after his well-being, but it was the call from Roman that got him.

  “Detective Duvall, this is Roman Shostavich. I hope you don’t mind me calling you. You gave this number to my girlfriend Leeann when you interviewed us. I just wanted to tell you that we’ve been following the news on everything that’s happened, and we thank you for what you’ve done. I wish more of our kind would do things to help us, but I know we are not a selfless people. Anyway, I’m glad it’s over, and thank you again.”

  Yes, Roman, I, too, wish more of our kind would help. But Roman was wrong about it being over. The Brothers of the Sun, Lawrence Main, and Crevant had all been mere pawns. He played the twelfth message.

  “Congratulations, Duvall, on being more clever than the average flatfoot and more resilient than I gave you credit for. I’m waiting for you. It’ll be just you and me.”

  Nestor. For a moment, Vall wondered how Nestor got his cell phone number, then remembered he’d left it with Viktor when he’d asked Nestor to recommend a forensic lab.

  Duvall would have to do it. Not so long ago, he’d told Kilpatrick they would have to find the head of the snake and cut it off. Well, the pawns had been the tail of the snake, but Nestor was the head. As long as Nestor still slunk about, the tail would grow back, and everything—the killings, distrust, betrayals—would start again.

  And he’d have to do it alone. DeMora was dead, and he didn’t know any of the other vamp cops well enough to trust them. The masters he’d met at Lacustre were to be trusted even less. Vall also knew he had little chance for success. They’d be fighting on Nestor’s turf, and though Nestor had said it would just be the two of them, Vall expected that to be a lie. Nestor had any number of goons at his disposal. And then there was the not-so-tiny fact that Nestor was a doyen. Duvall was close in age to becoming an elder, but age alone did not a doyen make. Strength, skill with the vampiric attributes, and the ability to wield power most often made a doyen. That, and a healthy dose of wealth, cunning, and notoriety. Vall was strong, but he’d felt Nestor’s will before in their encounters, and Vall knew Nestor had superior strength.

  He had no choice. He had to do it, and if he died the true death, so be it. He’d had a long existence. He’d seen much in the world, not all of it pretty, but he had no regrets. Well, perhaps just one. He regretted how things had ended with Cade. No, ended isn’t the right word. Things hadn’t ended with Cade. That had been the problem. There’d been no resolution, no coming to terms. He’d tried to penetrate the wall around Cade time after time, but Cade had never let him in. That, Vall regretted.

  He dressed in black trousers, black boots, and a black T-shirt, needing no fancy duds to fight and die in, then pulled a small box out of his suitcase. For all his wealth, he cared about few possessions, but this box had always been precious to him. It had survived time, the Great Chicago Fire, and Hell. He opened the box and took out the first doeskin bag, emptying its contents into his hand. A beaded necklace slithered out and pooled in his palm. A second bag contained a necklace of white shell. They’d been gifts from Dorothea from their days after the French and Indian War—simple gifts as befitted their simple, nomadic lifestyle. Two more bags contained gifts from Cade. One was a carved catlinite pendant in the form of a wolf’s head. Catlinite was a red pipestone of hardened clay, but Vall had never worn the pendant for fear of damaging the soft stone. The other piece of jewelry was a gorget, given to Vall after the Chicago Fire as a token of his joining Cade’s colony. It was a large crescent-shaped ornament—pewter, not silver—meant to be worn around the neck. It had been a traditional Indian adornment, but also used by European officers at the time of the French and Indian War as a sign of rank.

  The gorget was on a sturdy leather cord, and Vall slipped it over his head and tucked it under the collar of his shirt. He’d told Crevant he wasn’t a Cadian. No, he still didn’t think of himself as a Cadian, but he wore the ornament anywa
y, if for no other reason than perhaps to feel that some of Cade’s strength was with him.

  There was one more item at the bottom of the box. Vall took out the worn leather sheath and pulled from it the knife he’d carried for so many years. It was another gift from Cade, a small bowie knife with a ten-inch blade, brass quillon, and bone handle. Vall had carried it nightly for many years, but since the night he left Cade almost twenty years ago, the knife had remained sheathed and boxed. He threaded the sheath on his belt now and slid the knife into its familiar resting place. It was no Claw, but it made Vall feel better to face Nestor with something more than balls and brawn.

  He put on his fur-lined coat and made one last call on his phone before leaving the hotel. He called Noctule, asked for Cade’s private line, and when Cade failed to answer, left a message.

  “Cade, this is Duvall. Nestor’s the one responsible for the BOS attacks, and for having one of his henchmen coerce former Senator Main into allowing the manufacture and distribution of the poisoned bottled blood. I’m going after Nestor now, but I don’t expect to survive. I wanted you to know the truth. I wanted . . .” He paused, wanting to say more, but not feeling the right words form on his tongue. He didn’t want to express love, or appreciation, or anything else that two people who’d been together the better part of two hundred years might feel. Nor did he know how to communicate the regret he felt. And he didn’t feel it his place to demand retribution from Cade if Nestor killed him. So he only said, “ . . . good-bye, Cade.”

  He put the rest of the jewelry back into their bags and into the box, packed his suitcase, and checked out of the hotel. One way or another, he wouldn’t be back.

  VALL APPROACHED Lacustre in his car the way he would if he were working and had just been dispatched to a man-with-a-gun call. Even though his coming was no surprise, Vall wasn’t about to pull up right in front of the building and barge in. He parked one block south of the club on the opposite side of the street, put the Lincoln in park, and let the engine run. Even with the dark and the distance, Vall’s eyesight was as sharp as a hawk’s, and he had an excellent view of the club’s parking lot and the walkway to the stairs that descended to the basement entrance. By rights, the club should be closed. Nestor should be waiting for him. Should be.