But Vall waited and watched. He wasn’t in a particular hurry to race to his death. It was still early in the evening, and traffic on Water Street was steady. The former industrial area had experienced rebirth over the past few decades, and while it was no Lincoln Park, clubs and restaurants flourished.
He waited an hour, during which no one entered or left the club. Would Nestor’s pride dictate a one-on-one encounter, or would he have his thugs at the ready to ensure a swift and easy kill of his enemy? Vall took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was no way of knowing, but nothing more would be learned by waiting. He shut off the engine, and the Lincoln, like a dying beast, shuddered and was still.
He crossed the street, walked down the stairs, and pushed the call button, announcing, “Duvall.” As if it would be anyone else.
The door buzzed in response, and he pulled it open. Vall entered carefully, as he had at the vacant factory on Canal Street. But this time he wore no ballistic vest, packed no Claw-filled Glock, and wore no radio lifeline. It was strange to realize how much he missed that radio and having Kilpatrick on the other end. He’d give anything to have the meatball belching and cussing in his ear, even if there wasn’t a damn thing his partner could do to help.
Before he let the door close behind him, he rummaged through his pockets, finally pulling out what he’d been looking for, a field interview card. This one was creased, but it would do. He slipped the card between the door and the frame to keep it from locking. It was an old cop trick, usually practiced in apartment buildings that had automatically locking doors. A strategically placed FI card effectively left the door unlocked and allowed additional officers entry to the building in the case of an emergency. And while Vall expected no help tonight, the unlocked door somehow made him more comfortable. It gave him an out.
The club did look closed. The chandeliers were off, but small sconces on the walls were turned on, providing the kind of dim light that created more shadows than it banished. Chairs were upended on the tabletops, and the rooms were spotless. An outsider would never know that the spilling of various body fluids was a nightly occurrence.
He took off his coat, draped it over one of the tables, and moved further into the club, passing the various murals. Even with the soft lighting he had no trouble seeing the fine detail on each, but his senses were more on the sounds of the club than the sights. He picked up a vampiric presence, nothing more.
“Come on, Nestor! You wanted me, so don’t be acting like some coy little bird.” If calling Nestor a girl didn’t draw him out, nothing would.
Vall stretched out his senses even further, trying to count heartbeats, but this time all he could hear was his own. It grew louder, as if his heart was being pulled into his mouth, and he swore he tasted his own blood, sour and acrid, like wine gone bad. He’d faced the true death many times before, but never with so much certainty.
Nestor, like a shifting shadow, seemed to detach himself from the wall adjacent to the Tirgoviste fire mural, as if he were stepping out of the scene itself, unscathed by the flames that rose and fell like winged monsters on Wallachia’s poor. Nestor’s many individual braids were gathered behind his head into a single braid as fat as a boa, and instead of his usual birthday suit, he was fully clothed. Befitting the old-time cinema décor of the club, Nestor looked like a screen swashbuckler in a billowy white shirt, tight trousers, and knee high boots. But instead of adorning himself with a cutlass, he wore silver claws on each of his fingers. They were similar to the finger fangs vamps sometimes wore for delicately piercing their victims, but these were at least three inches long and curved, with a spine on the backside that Vall was sure was honed as sharp as a knife blade.
“So, the Gray Wolf came after all. I didn’t think you would. Coming here was reckless and foolish, and you’ve proven to me that you are neither of these.”
Nestor spit on him and stroked him at the same time, but why he had come no longer mattered. He was here.
“Why start another war, Nestor? Didn’t our people suffer enough the last time?”
Nestor’s blue eyes glowed even in the murky light, and he stepped past the tables onto the dance floor, as if it were a stage. “Suffer? What are the few quick deaths of sucklings too stupid to survive compared to the never-ending suffering of our entire race? We are humiliated in the eyes of the world. We have no dignity anymore, no strength. The mortals should fear us, yet they hobble us like animals and then laugh at our docility.”
That went a long way in explaining why Nestor enjoyed putting mortals in collars and on leashes. “When have you or your masters suffered anytime lately? You feed on the freshest of mortal flesh and blood. You have no need for Magma or Jiva or any of the industry you just destroyed . . .”
Nestor smiled a dog-smile, lips curled back and all tooth. “And tell me it wasn’t an industry that deserved to be destroyed.”
Vall couldn’t. Maybe Nestor could read his mind. Maybe it was just a good guess. Vall couldn’t think of any self-respecting vamp that didn’t hate the shit in a bottle. The bottled blood was indeed a loathsome industry, and he knew the sucklings could do much better with donors, but destroying an industry was a poor excuse to start a war. “When did you ever care about the sucklings anyway? I don’t buy it, Nestor. Why stump for peace then try to restart war?”
“Peace? I never wanted peace. Never! This is your peace; Cade’s peace. This was my city. Milwaukee.” He thumped his chest with the backs of his hands, careful to curl the silver claws away from his flesh. “My city! And look what you’ve done to it. You with your damned underground shipped Chicago’s trash north and dumped it all in my backyard. Little Transylvania is a joke that vampires and mortals alike laugh at!”
Cade’s Peace? Vall didn’t understand any of what Nestor was saying. Cade had never done anything for the peace effort. “Cade?”
Nestor’s brows lowered, like those of a teacher frustrated that his message wasn’t getting through to his student. An instant later, Vall’s body was slammed back against the wall. Nestor’s will was a physical force as strong as a gale wind, and before Vall could even think of resisting, he could feel Nestor’s mind plucking at his own, snatching the thoughts out of his head. Nestor released him with a burst of laughter.
“You idiot! Cade’s been playing both of us for fools. You have no idea what he’s done. I thought you were his confidante, his spy, but he’s been playing you this whole time, hasn’t he?”
Vall didn’t know what to say. Cade’s gorget lay cold and hard against his chest, an unnecessary reminder that Cade’s shadow was as far-reaching as ever. Cade had never been totally forthcoming, but to have played him for a fool all these years? Vall didn’t want to believe it. He spoke the only truth he was sure of. “I’m not Cade’s spy.”
“No, I realize that now. Pity I wasted so much effort to have you killed. Perhaps it’s for the best. There’s no reason you have to die now, is there? Join me. Swear allegiance to me. You hate this demeaning peace—I know you do. You hate the bottled blood . . . the indignity we’re made to suffer every day. Help me destroy Cade’s peace once and for all.”
It was true he hated the bottled shit. He hated the humiliation and disgrace his people lived with. But he didn’t want war, and he definitely wanted to learn more about Cade’s part in the peace process.
“First tell me what you know about Cade.”
“Cade.” Nestor spat on the floor, apparently not caring if a gob of mucus sullied his pricey carpet. “Cade couldn’t stand seeing his precious Chicago burning again. It cut him to the quick every time some worthless bungalow burned to the ground. Did you not see this?”
No. All Vall had seen was the face of indifference, the cool look of unconcern that he’d first seen on Cade’s face when Fort Dearborn was burned by the Indians in 1812. “Go on.”
Nestor paced, tossing his long snake-braid over
one shoulder. “Cade wanted to save his beloved Chicago. He wanted peace, but he didn’t want to go public, and he didn’t want to be the one to pay the cost.”
That part made sense. Cade himself, only two nights before, had admitted he was seen but not known. Vall took an educated guess. “So he negotiated with you to front the peace on his behalf.” Vall had no doubt Cade had forced Nestor, not negotiated with him, but Vall knew he could keep Nestor talking longer if he stroked his ego.
Nestor smiled. “Ah, this is more like the shrewd detective I know. Yes, I fronted the peace for Cade. I did what he wanted, spoke the words he scripted. I promised that vampires would stop killing, stop feeding without consent. I promised the sucklings would make do with the bottled blood, and I swore we would obey mortal law.”
Vall took another guess. “But the cost of doing all this, after twenty years, is more than you could bear.”
The room became charged, like the air when a storm brewed, and you just knew that with all that instability, violence was coming.
“Chicago’s been rebuilt. Its slums are all but gone. Chicago’s suckling population fled, and its masters live in luxury and anonymity. Cade has everything he wants. And what do I have? I have Chicago’s sucklings. I have a ghetto so notorious it’s a damned tourist attraction. I have all Cade’s problems and all Cade’s poor. But do you know the worst part? I have the name of his fucking city! Chicago North! Chi-No! Do you have any idea what an insult it is for Milwaukee to be called Chicago North?” Nestor picked up a chair with one hand and flung it across the room. The legs snapped upon impact with the wall and fell to the floor like a pile of kindling.
Vall hadn’t felt Nestor’s civic shame, not being a native Milwaukeean. Still, the city was only a city. Shouldn’t a doyen be more concerned with his people? “The sucklings cry out for leadership. With a little effort, Little Transylvania could be transformed.”
Nestor shook his head, and the braid slithered to and fro across his back. “But the perceptions of the mortals will never change.”
Vall thought about Kilpatrick and how much his hatred of the undead had subsided in only a few days. “With time, they will change.”
“They’ll change only if we go back to the way things used to be. Then they’ll fear us and respect our power.”
The air inside the club shifted again, as if positive and negative charges were gathering for the granddaddy of all lightning bolts.
“There’s no going back, Nestor, ever.”
Vall turned toward the new voice, as familiar to him as his own hand.
Cade stood in the frame of the arched doorway, as uncharacteristically underdressed as Nestor was overdressed. He wore skintight brown leather breeches and only his tattoos from the waist up. With his long hair worn loose, he looked every inch some mythological Native American warrior.
Nestor turned, too, an animal defending its den. “Cade! How did you get in here?”
Like a magician, Cade flicked his hand, and the yellow field interview card appeared. “You can thank Duvall.”
Nestor didn’t look thankful. “Why are you here?”
Cade’s long black bangs hid much of his eyes, but their glitter nevertheless shone through. “To protect what’s mine—peace and Wulf Duvall.”
Nestor laughed, but without the ebullience of moments before. “After what Duvall has heard tonight, I don’t think he’s yours, if he ever was.”
Cade turned to Vall and took several steps toward him in that silent and sensuous catwalk of his that Vall knew had been perfected over thousands of hunts.
“Is that true, Wulf?”
Vall certainly didn’t belong to Nestor, but neither was he Cade’s. Not anymore. Nestor had tried to kill him, but that had been business. Cade had deceived him, and that had been personal. “It’s true.”
Cade’s thick brows butted, and his mouth twisted into a pout. “I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve always been my brother, Wulf.”
“Does a man keep his truest desires from his brother?”
“I never lied to you. Never,” said Cade.
“And you never told me the truth!” Vall thought about all the times he’d risked himself during Hell in the struggles against the Brothers of the Sun. He thought about the sucklings that had died and the masters, like Boston Ackerman, who’d perished. And he’d never seen Cade do more than cock a brow in that lazy way of his and resume his pursuit of what Cade called “bed and breakfast.”
“Join me, Duvall,” said Nestor, apparently seeing his opening. “Together we can take him.”
No. Regardless of his feelings for Cade, he couldn’t side with Nestor. Nestor was like the fire in the mural of Prince Dracula’s deadly conflagration—twisted and voracious and indiscriminate in what it destroyed. “No.”
“You’ll serve me whether you want to or not,” answered Nestor, and with celerity, Nestor pulled him to his chest in a chokehold. “Back off, Cade. I’ll kill him, I swear I will. I’ll snap his neck and rip out his heart. You know I can do it. You know I will do it.” To emphasize his words, Nestor drew one claw along Vall’s right cheek. He felt his own cold blood trickle down his face to drip from his jaw onto his collar.
Vall stood perfectly still, feeling the strength of the arms that held him. He stared at Cade’s eyes, trying to gauge his reaction. By the utterly still glints in the dark eyes, Cade was as cool as ever, but Vall had no idea what the coolness hid.
Nestor repositioned his hold on him so that Nestor’s left arm passed under his own and up to the back of his neck in a half nelson. Vall felt the intense pressure on his arm, but even more so on his neck. With a little more applied force, his neck would break. Vall tried to relax his body, but it was like being pinned to a torture rack—there wasn’t much he could do.
Cade tossed his head, momentarily freeing his eyes from the hair that shielded them. The dark eyes were no longer still, their sparkle glittering with the vibration of power. “Release him.”
Nestor pressed the razor edge of one of the claws on his right hand against Vall’s neck, and Vall felt the tension in Nestor’s body increase as he fought Cade’s will. The pressure on his arm and neck grew with the tension, and pain shot through him as his bones were pushed to the breaking point. The hand at the back of his skull drove his throat against the razor. Vall began fighting back, but Nestor only applied more force. The skin just below his Adam’s apple held for a moment, then split under the razor’s pressure. The blade sliced through muscle, and blood gushed onto Nestor’s hand.
“Let him go, Nestor, now!”
Nestor’s body shook with his efforts at resisting, and Vall felt his left shoulder dislocate under the pressure of the half nelson. But a moment later he was free and on the floor, his nose against the unsavory wool that had been tread upon by thousands of feet, his blood soaking into that same wool in sweet retribution. He tried to speak, but only coughed up more blood to stain the already red carpet.
Vall raised his head enough to see Cade and Nestor engaged in hand-to-hand battle, or rather claw-to-hand. The silver claws flashed as Nestor slashed at Cade, but Cade’s reflexes were sharper than the razors, and Cade leaned, spun, and danced out of harm’s way time and again. Vall rose to his knees and worked his arm until his shoulder popped back into place. He put a hand to his throat, feeling for the damage. His trachea had been sliced open, but it would heal quickly. His neck hadn’t been broken, so Vall considered himself lucky. So far.
He looked up in time to see Cade deliver a spin kick to Nestor’s chest. Cade had the grace and power of a ballet dancer, his tattoos and chiseled torso works of art in their own right. Nestor, as tall as Vall but stockier, sailed through the air like a huge shot put to land heavily on a chair-covered table. The chairs squirted outward in all directions, but the table merely toppled under the weight and crashed to the floor, cradling Nestor as i
t came to rest. It was a dramatic move, but nothing that harmed Nestor. As soon as Cade was on him, Nestor swiped at him like a cornered feline. This time the claw-blades made contact, and red stripes crisscrossed Cade’s chest.
Vall stood up and moved closer to the battle.
“Stay back, damn you! This is my fight,” shouted Cade.
Cade’s fight? No. Vall had come here to rid the world of Nestor, and he had no intention of sitting back and letting Cade do his dirty work for him. “No! He’s mine. He’s going to pay for everything he’s done to me, but by my hand.” More blood than sound spewed from Vall’s mouth, and he wondered if Cade could even hear him.
“You fool! He’ll kill you.” Cade grunted as four perfectly parallel gashes opened on his abdomen, spilling trails of fresh blood that ran down to soak his leather breeches.
“I’m prepared for that,” Vall gurgled.
“But I’m not.” With speed that was hard even for Vall to follow, Cade grabbed both of Nestor’s wrists in a defensive move, then went on the offensive by slamming Nestor’s body against the plaster wall. Cade drove Nestor’s fists against the wall over and over again, obviously hoping the impact would dislodge the claws. Only two came off, though.
Vall saw his chance. He scrabbled over to where the two struggled. “Hold him still. I’ll de-claw him.” The words came out as gibberish, but Cade understood and allowed Vall to help, holding Nestor against the wall with his arms pinioned above his head. Vall drew his Bowie knife and chopped off Nestor’s fingers like they were vegetables for the pot. Nestor screamed as his clawed digits dropped to the floor.
“That’s for the Claw I took in front of the Real Deal.” For good measure Vall thrust the knife deep into Nestor’s heart. “And that’s for all the sucklings you killed by poisoning the bottled blood.”
Half Past Hell Page 27
