Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  The poet’s brows knotted tight, then suddenly went slack, his eyes widening in a mixture of surprise and horror. “My God! They said you died of typhus in Austria!”

  “You shouldn’t believe all that you read—and half of what you write, old friend!” Esher chuckled, clapping the ailing man on the back. “Come—allow me to buy you an absinthe! We have so much to catch up on!”

  It wasn’t hard to cloud the minds of the patrons of the bar, since their minds were befogged to begin with. Still, Esher did not want anyone to notice that the poet’s last hours were spent in the company of anyone but the green fairy. As he drank, he told Esher of his life—or what was left of it—since last they met. It seemed that although the poet had experienced some success with his writing, there had also been an unfortunate scandal involving a poetess and a libel suit, which eventually robbed him of what little money he’d managed to accumulate, and not long after, his young wife succumbed to tuberculosis. He abandoned New York City, returning to his native soil in hopes of overcoming the temptation of drink. But then a friend invited him to a birthday party in the city, where he made the mistake of toasting the hostess with a sherry—he did not remember much after that, but he was certain that several days had passed.

  As Esher listened to the poet weep and babble, he contemplated, for the briefest second, on bestowing the gift of immortality on his old drinking buddy, only to quickly cast aside the notion. The poet was simply too romantic and weak-willed for such a transformation. So when he finally suffered a seizure and collapsed in the gutter, Esher quietly left him there to die of exposure. After all, he had more important things to attend to. And with the poet’s death, the last tie to his mortal identity was finally severed.

  In the years since his return to America, Esher’s had worked hard to become one of the most feared and respected Nobles, the Ruling Class of vampire society. But it wasn’t until five years ago, that he’d dared to make his boldest moves: the usurping of Deadtown.

  The inner-city neighborhood had been damned for a very long time, and as such he could operate openly, without fear of discovery from the human authorities. However, it had been Lord Sinjon’s stalking grounds since the War of 1812. Compared to the elder vampire, Esher was little more than a pimply-faced teenager. Most Nobles would have been intimidated by the fact Sinjon had one of the largest broods in North America. But then again, Esher wasn’t one for being timid. It was his goal to move in and shatter the old fool’s power base and take over his turf. But in order to do so, he had to match his rival’s numbers. That meant creating his own vampires while also recruiting as many orphans and castaways possible. Luckily, he had no shortage of raw material to work with.

  Thanks to the rise of modern technology and the downfall of superstition in the years since the First World War, there were probably more vampires wandering about than ever before. The vast majority of them were garden-variety undead, ignorant of their potential, struggling from one feeding to the next, in constant fear of being found out by the humans on whom they preyed. Without a sire or dame to claim them, they meandered, eternal and alone, in search of security. And Esher was more than happy to give it to them.

  Throwing caution to the wind, he set out on a blatant campaign against the Lord of Deadtown. He opened the Dance Macabre, which acted as a magnet for orphaned vampires, especially those new to unlife. Most were so pathetically desperate for someone to tell them what to do and explain the intricacies of their new existence to them that they gladly swore allegiance to him by allowing him to taste of their blood in exchange for a sip of his own. From that moment on they belonged to him, both body and mind, as they no longer had a soul to barter.

  Esher much preferred recruiting orphaned vampires than to spawning his own brood. He was nowhere near as prolific as most Nobles, some of whom created new undead every time they fed. Like his own sire, Lord Gabor, Esher preferred quality over quantity in his progeny. He’d been forced to destroy the first one he had created after she ran away to be with a human male. He’d ripped her unliving heart from her breast and squeezed the blood from it as punishment, but not before gouging out the eyes of her mortal paramour. He never spoke her name after that and his servants had been instructed never to mention her again on pain of death. In time he had replaced her with Decima, who had served him well for several decades. But all things fade with time, including a vampire lover’s passion, and now his precious Nikola was being prepared to take her place as his bride …

  Esher was suddenly drawn from his reverie by the sound of the disco music being switched off. He straightened himself and leaned forward in his seat. The floor show was about to begin.

  Chapter Four

  The club’s Emcee, a stocky vampire dressed in a black cassock and floppy beret, raised his hands for silence. His voice boomed out over the club’s speakers courtesy of a cordless microphone.

  “Welcome and good eveeee-ning, children of the night, and fellow-travelers, to Dance Macabre: Deadtown’s premiere nightspot! We’ve got a fine floor show lined up for you, if I do say so myself! Something for everybody! We’ve got blood sports, beautiful women, gorgeous men, and the one-of-a-kind dance stylings of our very own Nikola to look forward to before cockcrow! I don’t want to hold up the festivities any longer, so let’s get started with tonight’s Example!”

  The curtains behind the Emcee opened to reveal two male figures standing center stage: one Caucasian, the other African-American. Both were completely nude except for leather fighting harnesses and heavy manacles around their wrists and ankles that secured them to an eyebolt set in the floor, and special razor-studded gloves.

  “Ladieees and Gentlemen! On your left is none other than the six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-thirty-three-pound tower of terror known as P-Dawg! Type AB Negative! Three wins!

  “And on your right, weighing in at six foot three, two hundred and twenty pounds, is the challenger and tonight’s Example: Cro-Mag! Blood type O Positive!”

  The Pointers in the crowd shifted uneasily upon seeing their fellow gang member on the stage, but said nothing. Their eyes went from Cro-Mag to P-Dawg, whose mouth was twisted into a permanent sneer by a scar that ran from his left cheek to where his ear used to be. His head was shaven clean, along with his eyebrows.

  Cro-Mag, while impressive in his own right, was nowhere near as intimidating. A large purple bruise discolored his forehead, and his right pupil appeared to be fixed. He looked dazed and seemed slightly unsteady on his feet. His penis dangled like an albino python between the pillars of his thighs.

  P-Dawg lifted his razored fists over his head, his sneer tightening even further. The gleam in his eyes was that of a man pushed beyond the boundaries of sanity. The vampires in the audience clapped and cheered. The Pointers glowered at the scarred fighter but said nothing.

  The Emcee gestured to someone offstage, and the sound of a diesel engine abruptly coming to life added to the noise inside the club. A large metal cage was lowered from the rafters. The Emcee removed a key ring from his voluminous sleeves, quickly unlocking the fighters’ manacles and opening the cage door for them. As the two men entered, the diesel motor changed gear and began to lift the cage into the air while swinging it out over the dance floor. P-Dawg stared coldly at Cro-Mag as they gripped the rust-colored bars for balance. Cro-Mag kept shaking his head, trying desperately to clear his vision.

  The Emcee smiled, exposing his pearl-white fangs. “Let the dance—begin!”

  The taped electronic house-music kicked back in, even louder than before. P-Dawg surged from his corner of the cage, razored fists slicing Cro-Mag’s naked flesh. The odor of adrenaline-heavy blood filled the air. Below them, the club patrons lifted their voices in an ululating howl of raw pleasure.

  Cro-Mag landed a punch on P-Dawg’s jaw, neatly slicing off most of his lower lip. The African-American staggered backward, his sneer transformed into a crimson grin. Before Cro-Mag could savor hi
s coup, P-Dawg grabbed his opponent’s scrotum and yanked it like he was ringing for a stop on the bus. Cro-Mag shrieked and instinctively grabbed his wounded groin, allowing P-Dawg the chance to smash a razor-studded fist into his unprotected face, nearly severing the Pointer’s nose. Cro-Mag’s eyes bugged as he strove to keep from strangling on the wash of blood filling his sinuses. The spectators below laughed and jeered as they jostled one another for prime positions beneath the cage, their heads thrown back and mouths open wide. Even some of Cro-Mag’s fellow gang members, caught up in the blood-frenzy, were laughing and clapping.

  Cro-Mag was losing and he knew it. P-Dawg tried to sidestep him as he grabbed for his crotch, but there simply wasn’t enough room to maneuver. P-Dawg bellowed like a bull in a gelding stall. The crowd screamed its delight as his penis landed on the dance floor. There was a minor scuffle as some of the vampires fought to retrieve the tidbit.

  Maddened by pain, P-Dawg pounded Cro-Mag’s face unmercifully, slicing open the gangbanger’s eyes and gouging huge ruts along his forehead and cheekbones. Blood fell from the dangling cage in a crimson shower, splashing the wildly dancing vampires underneath. Blinded and mortally wounded, Cro-Mag offered P-Dawg his throat in ritual defeat. The killing blow was swift and, compared to what had gone before, relatively painless.

  Cro-Mag dropped to the wire-mesh floor of the cage, his life pumping from his severed jugular onto the dancers below. His last thought before he died was that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have come to such an end if he’d only learned to read.

  Now that the killing lust had fled, P-Dawg began to feel the effects of his emasculation. He collapsed across Cro-Mag’s body, his eyes glazing as he gripped his opponent’s cooling flesh. The shivers caused by oncoming shock made it look as if he were grieving for his fallen foe. The cage was lowered to the stage, where a man wearing a white coat and carrying a doctor’s bag hurried into the cage and squatted next to the crippled fighter.

  The vet glanced at the Emcee and shook his head. Either way, this would be P-Dawg’s last fight for the amusement of the patrons of the Dance Macabre. The Emcee stepped forward, waving the chattering crowd into silence.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen-what shall it be for our brave contestant? Is it ‘yea’ or ‘nay’?” There was quiet for a second, then the audience answered as one, their voices joined in a primitive singsong:

  “One of us! One of us! One of us!”

  The Emcee nodded his understanding and turned to look in the direction of Esher. Sighing, the vampire lord stood and leaned against the balcony’s railing. The revelers gathered on the floor below, vampire and human alike, tilted their faces upward, and began chanting his name.

  “Esher! Esher! Esher!”

  “So, milord? What will it be?” called out the Emcee.

  Esher glanced at the dying champion for a long moment before finally holding up his thumb. A ragged cheer burst from the spectators. The veterinarian pocketed his stethoscope and returned the premixed lethal injection to his little black bag, then

  sank his fangs into P-Dawg’s neck, rewarding him with the prize that every champion who enters the cage strives for—immortality.

  Esher looked away, already bored.

  “I don’t think P-Dawg’s going to appreciate an eternity spent as a eunuch,” Decima smirked.

  “What does it matter?” Esher replied with a casual shrug. “He’ll be one of us now.”

  “Old habits die hard,” his lieutenant observed. “Old vices die even harder. You know that better than anyone, milord.”

  Esher stiffened and turned to glower at her. “Mind your tongue, woman—if you want to keep it in your head!”

  Decima lowered her eyes in deference, but offered nothing else in the way of an apology. Esher returned his attention to the stage. While Dance Macabre attracted unaffiliated vampires to his banner, it also served another purpose. In the old country Nobles had utilized bands of social pariahs, such as gypsies, to work as their servants. But ever since Second World War, the Roma had become increasingly scarce and far too conspicuous to suit the modern day vampire lord. Luckily, the disaffected urban youths that wandered the streets of America’s cities proved more than willing to betray their fellow humans in exchange for money and power. Indeed, they often proved so dedicated they willingly handed over their friends and family to serve as feeders. Right now the club was full of such Judas goats, eager to taste forbidden delights.

  Esher had discovered over the years that the best way to bind human servitors to him was by indulging their vices. Drugs, alcohol, sex, violence—these were the tools most often used to bend humans to his will. Not even the sight of one of their own being beaten to death was enough to make them doubt the wisdom of their pact.

  The curtains parted again, this time to reveal a padded couch outfitted with leather restraining straps and stirrups similar to those found on an examination table. A large raffle drum filled with plastic chits stood to one side of the stage.

  “And now, on to the audience-participation part of tonight’s entertainment!” The Emcee announced as he waved in the direction of the wings.

  Two Pointers pulled a struggling woman onto the stage. She wore an expensive, if unexceptional business dress, and a pillowcase covered her head. The Emcee stepped forward and yanked the makeshift hood away, revealing the tousled blond hair and terrified face of a woman in her early thirties. She was trying to scream but her cries were blocked by the ball-gag in her mouth.

  The woman was dragged to the couch. As her captors tried to force her to sit down, she experienced a burst of panic-born strength and kicked one of them hard enough to make him let go. Catching the other off guard, she wrenched herself free of his grip and made for the stage door.

  Suddenly the Emcee was there in front of her, backhanding her hard enough to send her reeling. The woman dropped to the floor, stunned. Her guards unceremoniously grabbed her by the elbows and dragged her back to the couch, then began roughly removing her clothes and gag. The Pointers in the audience began to hoot and stomp their feet in unison.

  “Bang-bang! Bang-bang!”

  Having finished stripping and restraining their captive, the two gang members moved to the raffle drum. One of the youths turned the crank to the accompaniment of a prerecorded snare drum-roll, halting upon the crash of the cymbals. His companion opened the hatch on the squirrel cage and reached in, removing one of the plastic chits and handing it to the Emcee, who called out:

  “Tonight’s lucky winner is—467!”

  There was a brief moment of silence as the humans in the audience consulted their ticket stubs, then a hoarse bellow of triumph. A Pointer with a spider web tattooed across his shaved head began pushing his way toward the stage, pumping his fist in the air as his buddies clapped him on the shoulders.

  “Git ’er done, Webb!” one of them hooted, punching him in the arm.

  Esher had already lost interest by the time Webb clambered onto the stage to claim his door-prize. Watching humans fornicate was as arousing to him as observing a pair of slugs mate. As the woman began to scream, he motioned for Decima to draw near.

  “You said Cavalera was stabbed. Have you found the one responsible?”

  “Cro-Mag insisted the old man did it, although from his description of what happened, I seriously doubt it.”

  “How so?”

  “I saw the body. Cavalera’s chest was heavily bruised and there were several broken ribs—as if whoever stabbed him drove the knife in with a mallet. It’s possible he died by human hand, but highly unlikely.”

  “You think he was slain by one of Sinjon’s brood? But why? Why would one of them bother to come to the aid of a human child and an old man?”

  Decima shrugged as she glanced at the ritual rape being enacted on the stage down below. “Sinjon is your enemy. Whoever slew Cavalera did it because he was a Pointer, not out of any desire
to help the child.”

  Esher nodded. It made sense. He leaned back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Cavalera was a pathetic idiot, but his death is an affront to my honor. Besides, the Pointers will not expect me to let such a transgression go unavenged. I want you to kill a Black Spoon in retaliation tomorrow night.”

  “Any one in particular?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Esher said as he looked back down at the stage. The lucky winner had finished and was pulling his pants back up. The secretary’s face was bruised and her mouth bleeding, her eyes swollen with tears. “A paper clip is a paper clip. Just pick one.”

  Webb winked, leered at his comrades clustered around the stage, and gave the thumb’s-up sign. The crowd roared like a hungry animal and the synchronized clapping and foot-stomping began again.

  “Bonk-bonk on the head! Bonk-bonk on the head!”

  The Emcee sidled up, holding a tray on which were arrayed various different blunt instruments, everything from a monkey wrench to an aluminum bat. Webb studied the selection for a long moment before going with the traditional lead pipe.

  “Bonk-bonk on the head! Bonk-bonk on the head!”

  The woman saw what was coming, but did not struggle or plead for mercy. She was surrounded by monsters—human and otherwise—and recognized the futility of her situation. Instead of screaming, she simply turned her head and closed her eyes. After five blows Webb held aloft the bloody length of pipe for his gang’s approval. A ragged cheer went up from the audience. The Pointer jumped off the stage to be greeted by his homeys, who congratulated him on his performance. The clean-up team quickly removed the door-prize and hurried it backstage, where anything that might possibly identify the corpse was removed before it was weighted down and dumped in the river.

  The lights dimmed and the canned throb of the house music abruptly disengaged. Esher leaned forward in his seat, clutching at the armrests, his full attention riveted on the darkened stage below. The vampires and humans still milling on the dance floor fell silent, their conversations forgotten, as the speakers crackled to life, this time playing the opening notes of Philip Glass’ Mishima.