Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  “Like takin’ candy from a fuckin’ baby!” Born2Lose crowed, kicking the still-bleeding corpse of one of the bodyguards hard enough to flip it over onto its back.

  Webb kneeled and yanked the dead man’s gun free of its holster, studying it intently.

  As the flush of adrenaline dissipated, Born 2 Lose frowned and scratched his head in puzzlement. “How come you wanted me in on this job, Webb? Looks like you and Obeah could have jacked the sucka on your own.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Webb agreed, and fired the dead bodyguard’s gun point-blank into Born2Lose’s gut. The Pointer stood there for a long moment, mouth hanging open, staring in dumb surprise at the hole in his abdomen, before dropping to the ground. Webb then leaned over and put the gun he’d just fired in the bodyguard’s hand. “Yo! Obeah! Time for the voodoo that you do so well,” he grinned.

  Obeah nodded and removed his machete from its holster on his belt. Webb watched as the former Tonton Macoute handled the weapon with ritualized care.

  “Is it true you chopped off a hundred hands with that thing when you was in Haiti?”

  Obeah laughed. It was a rich, dark sound. “Hell, no! I chopped off two hundred!” With that, he drew back his right arm and brought the machete blade down on Borges’ neck, severing the head in one blow. He carefully wiped off the blood and rewrapped the weapon, returning it to the knapsack. He then pulled out a large Tupperware container, which he tossed to Webb. Webb grinned and stuck a blunt in his mouth as he peeled open the rubber lid. Obeah scooped up Borges’ head by the hair—what little there was of it—and dropped it inside the bowl. Then Webb dug around inside his purloined gang jacket and pulled out a pair of metal spoons. Chuckling to himself, he set the container down while Obeah produced a disposable lighter. Webb’s grin grew even wider as Obeah lit the blunt clenched between his teeth, then held the butane flame beneath the spoons, blackening their underside before they were dropped inside the bowl.

  “You gotta burp these things to lock in the freshness,” Webb grunted. “We wouldn’t want our friend here to go stale when we mail him home.”

  From her vantage point high in the rafters of Warehouse 69, Sonja admitted she had to give Esher his due. The bastard was definitely cunning. He knew that an open brood war between himself and Lord Sinjon would attract unwelcome attention, from both the Ruling Class and human society. He would not hazard an open declaration of war until he knew he could take Sinjon down fast and hard—and with a minimum of personal risk. And what better way to destroy your enemy than to arrange for others to do it for you?

  Chapter Ten

  Decima anxiously scanned the floor of the Dance Macabre from her place in the balcony. “Do you really think he will accept your invitation?”

  “Of course he’ll accept,” Esher replied confidently. “Noble etiquette requires that he respond. Besides, the old reptile is curious as to what I’m up to. But forget about Sinjon for the moment—Are you certain the Pointers are disarmed?”

  “I personally stripped them of all firearms. But I can tell you they don’t like the idea of a phalanx of Spoons waltzing in here at midnight. I’ve got five recruits guarding the arsenal, just in case someone gets a bright idea and decides they want their weapons back.”

  “If they’re feeling that threatened, tell them to mark their turf with piss,” Esher growled. “I’ve got too much riding on this meeting to have it spoiled by a feeble mind with an itchy trigger finger!” His gaze drifted across the floor, then paused upon spotting the glint from a pair of mirrored sunglasses. “Ah! I see my newest recruit has arrived! Have her sent up. I would speak with her.”

  “As you wish, milord,” Decima said less-than-enthusiastically.

  Although there were four dozen young males on the Dance Macabre’s floor, Sonja spotted only a handful of women in the club, most of whom were either undead or chained to the wall as feeders. While she could feel the gang members’ eyes on her, none of them dared approach her. No doubt they had learned the hard way it didn’t pay to fraternize with female vampires. The room reeked of testosterone and the madness that arises when crowds in great number have surrendered their free will: sort of a cross between a gym locker and an insane asylum. Nazi-era Berlin and Jonestown had smelled much the same. Suddenly she found herself face-to-face with Decima, who glowered at her with open hostility.

  “Lord Esher wants to see you.”

  Sonja glanced up at the balcony overlooking the dance floor. She could see the Noble seated on a rosewood throne, Nikola hovering by his side. “What for?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Decima replied sharply. “He wants to see you. You will be seen.”

  Sonja followed the crossbow-toting vampire up a spiral staircase at the end of the club. As they reached the upper level, Decima tried to trip her, but she deftly avoided her outstretched foot.

  “You’ll have to do better than that, girlfriend,” she sneered. “I’m not some doped-up stripper you can pinch and poke whenever Daddy’s not looking.”

  Decima clicked her fang in anger, but regained her composure before the turned to address Esher. “The new recruit is here, as you commanded, milord. Please forgive me—I must attend to security.”

  “I don’t think your Gal Friday likes me very much,” Sonja said with a crooked smile.

  “There’s not much Decima does like!” Esher replied with a laugh.

  “She said something about security—?”

  “Sinjon is to arrive here at midnight.”

  “Really? I thought you and he were worst buddies.”

  “I have decided it is time to declare a truce. Neither of us can afford a brood war right now. We waste too much time in petty squabbles and territorial disputes, when we could both be engaged in far more profitable endeavors. I have decided to try to mend fences, so to speak.”

  “Do you think Sinjon will agree to a truce?”

  “He is a reasonable man. Or at least he was, back when he was alive.”

  “So what did you want to see me about?”

  “I want you to serve as a liaison between the House of Esher and the Black Lodge.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “What do you mean?” Esher asked, his eyes flashing.

  “Don’t get me wrong, milord! I appreciate the trust you’re showing in me. But I did snuff three of his brood earlier tonight. He might still be a tad sore about it.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Esher conceded, a thoughtful look on his face. “Maybe it would be better for all concerned if you made yourself scarce. I’ll bring you into play once Sinjon has had time to forget the incident.” He smiled, flashing her some fang. “I can see you’re already a useful addition, Sonja.” Suddenly his attention was drawn to one of the television monitors. “Aha! Sinjon’s car has just arrived!”

  “I’d best be going then, milord,” she said.

  The canned music thundering from the club’s speakers came to an abrupt halt. Warily, everyone turned their eyes to the padded red-vinyl door as a phalanx of Black Spoons, walking with the caution of tigers in a lion’s den, came into the club, forming twin lines on either side of the entrance. As a pre-recorded track began to toll midnight, Sinjon entered the club, gliding down the human corridor fashioned by his bodyguards.

  Surrounded by a sea of black leather and tattoos, the vampire Noble seemed the very definition of gentility. He was dressed in a high-waisted double-breasted royal blue cutaway coat, with a high-standing collar, pointed lapels, and swallow tails. A cambric ruffle showed from the cuff of the coat sleeves, underneath which he wore a shorter blood-red waistcoat, the front of which extend downward in two V-shaped points. About his neck he wore a jabot, the double frill of silk spilling like snow down the front of his vest. His tight black satin breeches extended to just below the kneecap, and he wore long white silk stockings. About his waist was a blue-
and-white silk apron boasting gold fringe, on the front of which was embroidered the symbol of the Freemasons: the eye in the pyramid. On his head sat a powdered wig, and atop that rested a tricorn hat. On his shoes were elaborate diamond buckles that could have supported a small family for a number of years, and in his left hand he carried a cane adorned with a large amber knob. All in all, Sinjon was quite the clothes horse—circa 1776.

  Esher greeted his rival in the middle of the dance floor, flanked by his own elite guard. “Welcome to my club, Lord Sinjon! I am pleased you agreed to meet with me,” he smiled.

  “I could not ignore such a gracious invitation, Lord Esher,” Sinjon replied. “Besides, there is much we must discuss.”

  Esher nodded and motioned for his rival to join him. “Come—let us retire to my private box. We can talk undisturbed there.”

  “I trust your men are unarmed?”

  “Of course,” Esher replied. “Just as I trust yours are.” “Of course,” Sinjon said with his most reassuring crocodile smile.

  From her vantage point on the dance floor, Sonja watched the elaborate charade of cordiality between the rival Nobles. Despite their viciousness—or perhaps, because of it—the Ruling Class were ritually polite whenever they dealt with one another. Most of the elder Nobles were like Sinjon—clinging to the customs of centuries ago. Given time, even the more ‘modern’ vampires like Esher eventually succumbed to such anachronistic eccentricities. After all, who could bother keeping up with human fashions and fads?

  Yet those who allowed themselves become trapped in the past risked falling out of touch, and soon found themselves under the heel of younger, more vital rivals. That was clearly what was happening with Sinjon and Esher. But it was up to her to see if she couldn’t manipulate the situation to suit her own ends.

  Father Eamon sat in the bell tower, nursing a bottle of cheap bourbon as he watched the lights of the city reflected on the river’s dark surface. He marveled at how close and yet so far away the rest of the world was from Deadtown. He felt a certain excitement—not unlike that kindled by self-abuse—whenever he thought about how easy it would be for him to walk out the front doors of his church and return to the world of shopping centers and fast food. Such an exodus would have to occur during daylight hours, but it could be easily done.

  But, of course, that would never happen. He was tied to Deadtown as tightly as a expectant mother to her unborn child. He could no more walk away from his parish than he could fly from the bell tower. He was bound to the neighborhood by chains of guilt and sin just as surely as Christ was nailed to the cross.

  His attention was abruptly drawn to a shadow flickering across the street. When he looked again felt his skin crawl with the realization he was watching one of the demons that wandered Deadtown after dark. Even after all these years, he had yet to lose the sense of horror that came from espying such creatures on their unholy rounds. Some, like the thing below, took the shape of comely women, while others wore the flesh of handsome young men. But Father Eamon knew them for what they truly were: the living dead.

  The female vampire paused for a moment, the dim light reflecting off the pair of mirrored sunglasses she wore. At first he’d thought she was Esher’s lieutenant, but now he realized that wasn’t the case. Whoever she was, she was new to Deadtown. And since she was headed for the Black Lodge, odds were she most certainly didn’t belong to Esher.

  “Please, help yourself,” Esher said, holding out a cordial glass filled with blood. “It’s from my private cellar.”

  Sinjon accepted the drink with a gracious nod. “You’re too kind.” He sniffed the proffered liquid as a connoisseur would a fine wine, nodding his approval. “Ah! This one shows fine breeding! Very nice!”

  “I’m honored you approve.” Esher replied with a smile that never made it to his eyes.

  “Now that we have observed the niceties,” Sinjon said as he set aside his drink, “let us now talk. What is your reason for inviting me here, Esher?”

  “I would like to propose a truce.”

  Sinjon lifted an eyebrow, but remained silent.

  “Despite what you may believe about me, I have no desire to engage in brood war with you, Sinjon.”

  “You certainly have a strange way of showing it, then! I have it on good authority your second-in-command slew one of my Spoons on my very doorstep!”

  “You must be mistaken!” Esher replied with feigned astonishment. “As it is, there is a rumor circulating amongst the Pointers that the death was in retaliation for the murder of one of their own. You know how foolish these humans can be, constantly committing drive-bys on one another.”

  “You’re right about that,” Sinjon admitted grudgingly. “They’re worse than the Gypsies ever thought of being.”

  “This is the kind of problem a truce would help solve! The difficulties that have arisen between my brood and yours have more to do with the humans in our service, rather than genuine ill-will on my part. We both spend too much of our time scheming and plotting against one another, instead of tending to our respective businesses. Surely, Lord Sinjon, Deadtown is big enough for both of us to prosper?”

  “You are an ambitious man, Esher. Am I to believe that you have no interest in what is mine?”

  “True, I am ambitious. But since when has that become a sin in the eyes of our kind? However, I assure you I have no interest in your drug trafficking business.”

  “I was running Deadtown back when you were still bar-hopping with that writer friend of yours. You have done nothing since your arrival her but blatantly challenge my control, and now you expect me to ignore your previous effrontery with a wave of a white flag and a promise not to do it again?”

  “I fully understand you position, Lord Sinjon. That is why I am willing to appease you by surrendering whatever of mine you think will make things right between us and thereby prove my good will. It does not matter to me whether it is riches, weapons, physical property—I will happily relinquish whatever you so choose.”

  Sinjon raised an eyebrow. “No matter what?

  Esher smiled and nodded, spreading his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “You are free to pick from all that is mine.”

  “I’ll take the girl, then,” Sinjon smiled, pointing at Nikola, who lay curled about her master’s feet like a dropped cape.

  Esher’s face suddenly went rigid. “No!” he said sharply. “I’ll grant you anything else, but not her!”

  “You promised that I could have whatever I wanted from you in order to appease my pride.” Sinjon said with a smile as sharp as broken glass. “I have chosen the girl. Now give her to me. If you do not, there can be no truce. So unless you surrender your toy dancer to me, you and I have nothing more to say to one another.” The elder vampire rose from his seat, bowing slightly at the waist as he touched the brim of his tricorner hat. “I bid you adieu, Lord Esher.”

  Esher tried his best to conceal the rage inside him as Sinjon exited the club. Physically attacking the old reptile in public would not be wise. There was a cracking sound and he looked down to find that he had reduced the armrests of his throne to kindling with his clenched hands.

  “Why didn’t you give him the girl?” Decima asked from her hiding place in the shadows.

  “The old bastard is canny—I’ll grant him that! You don’t get to be his age and not know some tricks. He had no intention of agreeing to a truce—yet he had to make it look as if he was the affronted party! So he asked for a boon he knew I would not give. But it does not matter. The truce would have simply made it easier to arrange his demise without the messiness of an actual brood war, and make sure his guard was down when the Borges Brothers made their move against him. Now I have to step up my dealing with the cartel. Did you notify the authorities as to the location of the bodies in the warehouse?”

  “Yes, milord. I have no doubt it’ll make the morning news. Possibly even th
e cable news services.”

  “Did you send the Borges their brother’s head?”

  “I sent it overnight express. It should arrive in Miami by ten a.m.”

  “You didn’t pack it in dry ice, did you? I want it nice and juicy when it arrives, so they get the full effect.” Esher glanced at Nikola, who was hovering at his elbow, looking confused. He took her pallid hand in his, caressing the outline of her veins with the tip of his tongue. “You needn’t worry about Sinjon, my darling,” he whispered. “I will never let you go. Not even to death eternal.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lord Sinjon’s 1935 Dussenburg, its chassis gleaming like a polished stone, pulled up in front of the Black Lodge. A youth in a Black Spoons jacket scuttled forward to open the rear door. The vampire lord stepped forth, smiling like the proverbial cat.

  “Did everything go okay, Master?” The boy asked nervously.

  “Swimmingly,” Sinjon replied. Upon being met with a blank stare, he took a deep breath and said: “Yes, everything went ‘okay’, as you call it.”

  The boy smiled and nodded. “That’s very good, Master!”

  Sinjon brushed past the Spoon with a disgusted sigh. He wasn’t sure if it was the drugs or the gene pool, but the quality of servitors nowadays was appalling. Granted, the Gypsies had hardly been towers of intellect, but in contrast to what was currently available, they seemed like proverbial Renaissance men. Then again, Americans had always possessed a wide streak of thickness. He should know—he’d watched the nation evolve from a conglomerate of ill-conceived commercial ventures into the superpower it was today.

  Before his resurrection, Sinjon had known life as the third son of a minor English nobleman. Which is to say that he had been raised in a lifestyle he, himself, could never hope to replicate, as his elder brother had inherited the family title, wealth and holdings, which included shares in Sir Walter Raleigh’s latest venture.