Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  “I want you to take a message to Sinjon,” Esher said, pointing to Sonja.

  “Why me?” she asked in surprise.

  “Sinjon does not like or trust Decima. You, on the other hand, are a tabula rasa as far as he’s concerned. He has no reason to doubt what you say. Tell Sinjon I will exchange my trophy for his in an hour’s time on The Street With No Name. No tricks. If he fails to show up—or if I see any weapons—I will send his boy-toy back to him as a jigsaw puzzle.”

  Sonja nodded, trying to keep her own frustration under wraps. This was screwing up things hard. She had planned to smuggle Nikola and Ryan out of Deadtown come dawn, but now all that was being shot down in flames. And, if she didn’t move fast, Johan would eventually spill the beans about her clandestine involvement with his master.

  “Consider the message as good as delivered, milord.”

  She found Sinjon pacing back and forth in his drawing room, hands clutched behind his back. He glowered at her as she entered the drawing room, his eyes flashing like polished rubies. “Esher has Johan!”

  “I know. I saw him.”

  The vampire lord halted his pacing, a look of anxious dread crossing his face. “Has he been harmed?”

  “He’s okay. But that might not last. Esher sent me here to arrange a trophy swap.”

  “He doesn’t suspect anything between us, does he?” Sinjon asked uneasily.

  “I don’t think so.” “What are his terms?”

  “It’s to be an hour from now, on The Street With No Name. No weapons. No funny stuff. Johan for Nikola. By the way—where is she?”

  “Don’t worry: she’s being kept in the style to which she is accustomed,” Sinjon replied. “As for the boy, the little guttersnipe was returned to the street. My brood found his presence…discomforting. Tell Esher I agree to his terms. I will bring him back his dancer.”

  “But you promised me the girl,” Sonja reminded him.

  The Noble dropped into a nearby Rococo chair, crossing his legs at the knee as he plucked a perfumed lace hanky from his sleeve and daubed his upper lip. “So I did. But that was before Johan was stolen from me. I’m sorry, but you can’t have her.”

  “Is Johan that important to you?”

  “There is nothing more important to a Noble than their bride-to-be,” Sinjon replied. “You should know that.”

  The Street With No Name was jammed. Pointers and Spoons lined the sidewalks outside their respective headquarters, flashing gang sign amongst themselves while directing poisonous looks at their rivals, each side trying to look as tough as possible. Suddenly the doors of Dance Macabre and Rackham’s simultaneously opened. Sinjon, resplendent in his powdered wig and diamond-encrusted shoe buckles, stepped out of the pool hall while Esher, outfitted in his black leather duster, strode from the strip club, while the assembled gang members turned to their respective leaders, like daisies following the sun. Esher and Sinjon moved forward, until they stood toe-to-toe in the middle of the street.

  “I believe you have something of mine you would like to return,” Sinjon sniffed.

  “Put up or shut up, Freemason,” Esher growled.

  Sinjon pulled the lace handkerchief from his coat sleeve and patted his upper lip. This was the signal for Tristan to step out of Rackham’s, leading Nikola on a stainless-steel choke chain.

  “Satisfied, warlock? I’ve shown you yours, now show me mine.”

  Esher snapped his fingers and the red vinyl door to the strip club swung open and Johan emerged, still gagged and bound as before. Decima stood behind the human youth, her crossbow pointed at his back.

  “Very well,” Sinjon said, nodding in approval. “Let the exchange begin.”

  “I warn you,” Esher said, pointing in the direction of the assembled Black Spoons, “if I see so much as a toothpick, Decima will spear your precious boy-toy’s heart like a ripe olive!”

  “And let me remind you, Esher: if your Pointers try anything, Tristan here is under orders to garrote your beloved little ballerina. It will only take one tug on the leash to snap her neck.”

  “I believe we understand each other,” Esher replied stonily.

  He motioned to his lieutenant, who gave Johan a sharp nudge with her crossbow. The terrified youth took a hesitant step forward. Sinjon nodded to Tristan, who moved forward, Nikola trailing after him like a lovely, sad-eyed hound. Just as the hostages were within inches of the exchange point, there came a commotion from Sinjon’s side of the street.

  “Mama!”

  Ryan, his face streaked with tears, darted through the crowd like a broken field runner and headed for Nikola.

  “My baby!” the dancer cried.

  The boy threw himself at his mother, wrapping his thin arms about her waist and burying his head in her midriff. Nikola tried to bend down to embrace him, but was brought short by the choke collar about her throat.

  “Get rid of that child, once and for all!” Esher barked in annoyance.

  Decima pushed Johan out of the way and grabbed Ryan by his shirt collar, lifting the kicking boy off the ground and holding him at arm’s length as if he were a lice-ridden wolf cub.

  “Let him go!” Nikola wailed, trying to snatch Ryan away from the vampire. “Don’t you dare hurt my baby!”

  “Shut up, cow!” Decima snapped, swatting the dancer with her crossbow.

  Nikola staggered backward, struggling to keep her footing and avoid strangling herself.

  “Don’t you hurt my mother!” Ryan shrieked in impotent rage.

  “Or you’ll do what, kid?” Decima smirked, saliva dripping from her fangs.

  Ryan grabbed the thorny crucifix Sonja had given him and, with a strength born of fear and desperation, snapped it free of his neck with a single yank and shoved it in the face of his tormentor.

  The female vampire screamed as the silver burned her flesh and dropped both boy and crossbow to cover her wounded face. Ryan hit the ground running, doing his best to dodge the fists and boots aimed at him. He was fast and made a small target, but there were just too many of them. A heavyset Pointer grabbed the boy by the belt-loops and held him aloft by one ankle, displaying him like a champion-weight fish.

  “I got ’im! I got ’im!” the Pointer grinned triumphantly. “I got—!” The Pointer’s head disappeared in a spray of blood, brains and bone as his body dropped to the ground.

  “Leave the boy be!” Eddie shouted, the smoke rising from the barrel of his sawed-off shotgun. Ryan quickly got his feet and scuttled towards his savior. “Any of you bastards try to lay a hand on him, you gotta go through me!”

  “You’re a fool, old man!” Esher laughed. “I can take that shotgun away from you and shove it up your ass before you could bat an eye!”

  “Why don’t you try it then, sucker?”

  Before Esher could make good on his threat, a leather-clad arm snaked around the old hippie’s neck, placing him in a chokehold. Eddie cried out in surprise, the shotgun discharging into the air as he was yanked off balance. Ryan yelled his friend’s name, only to be snatched up as well.

  “Good work,” Esher smiled at his recruit. “Be a pet and destroy them for me.”

  “Sure thing, Boss,” Sonja grinned as she dragged the struggling humans away into the shadows.

  “Ryan!” Nikola screamed, yanking against the choke chain hard enough to turn her lips blue.

  “Obeah!” Esher snapped. “Take care of her, will you?”

  The bokor limped forward, his damaged leg strapped into a temporary splint, and produced a mojo bag from one of his pockets. He poured the contents of the leather pouch into his cupped palm, blowing the fine powder into Nikola’s face. The dancer coughed violently, then went limp. Esher caught his errant bride and lifted her in his arms so the choke chain would not garrote her. Nikola moaned as her head lolled back, her eyelids fluttering as the zombie dust took hold
of her once more. As Sinjon turned to leave, Tristan stepped forward, holding the still-bound and gagged Johan’s leash. “Should I free him, sire?”

  The vampire lord eyed the trembling youth and smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. “Leave him like that for the time being. That’s what he gets for letting himself be captured.”

  “What the hell did you two think you were doing” Sonja hissed once they got clear of the crowd. “I’d expect something like this from Ryan—he’s just a kid—but you, Eddie? Shit, you know better than to pull a bonehead play like that!”

  “I was just trying to look after the boy. He told me he was going to try and see his mama. I couldn’t let him go out alone.”

  Sonja checked to make sure they weren’t being watched, then reached into the hidden pockets sewn within her jacket and pulled out the bags of “sugar” she had liberated from Esher’s room. She handed the parcels, plus a folded piece of paper and a hundred-dollar bill, to Eddie.

  “There’s not much time! Things are coming down fast. I need you to take this with you back to your crib.”

  “No prob. What is it?”

  “Uncut cocaine.” “Holy shit! Are you nuts?”

  “Stash it the attic with my things. Something will be by for it later.”

  “You mean someone,” he corrected.

  “No I don’t,” she replied. “I also need you to contact the number on this piece of paper. Everything you need to know is already written down. You’ll have to pick the order up yourself. The dead president should cover that, plus your cab ride. Take Ryan with you—I don’t want him getting loose again! Remember—you and he are supposed to be dead! Now beat it! I gotta get back or they’ll get suspicious.”

  “What about my mom?” Ryan asked, catching Sonja’s sleeve as she turned to leave. “Can you save her?”

  Sonja smiled and smoothed the boy’s hair. “I’ll do the best I can. But you have to do as I say and go with Eddie, understand? Now scat! I’ve business to attend to!”

  She watched as Eddie took Ryan’s hand and the two hurried down the alley in the direction of their squat. The wheels were turning and there was no going back. Hopefully she wouldn’t get crushed by the juggernaut she was setting in motion. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time that happened.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The payphone had seen better days. It stood outside the liquor store, the only remaining legitimate business on The Street With No Name. Even if cellulars hadn’t rendered it obsolete, no one in their right mind would ever think of dropping a quarter in it, since the jimmied coin box hung open like the drawbridge on a ransacked castle. The metal shell was covered with gang tags, and the earpiece looked like it had been used as a blunt instrument more than once.

  Sonja picked up the dead phone and stabbed at the keypad. There was a sound in the receiver like the wailing of lost souls, and then a gruff male voice spoke up on the other end of the line: “Monastery Bar and Grill.”

  “Hey, Grendel. It’s me. Put Malfeis on, would ya?”

  The bartender grumbled something in Old English as he handed over the phone. A second later his voice was replaced by that of young man’s. “Sonja! Girlchick! How’s it hangin’?”

  “I can’t waste time with snappy patter right now, Mal,” she told the demon. “I have a deal for you.”

  The young, clear-as-a-bell voice became as thick and gravelly as a chainsmoker’s. “When is it not business with you, girly-girl? I didn’t think you called just to shoot the breeze. What are you selling?”

  “Five kilos of snow. Uncut.”

  “My-my,” the demon chortled. “Slumming, are we? To tell you the truth, I thought you’d have something far more esoteric, lovey. That dust from the World Trade Center bombing was primo, by the way!”

  “What if I told you this particular shipment of cocaine is responsible for at least a dozen violent deaths?”

  “Hmmm. Now you’re starting to interest me.” No doubt his ears had literally pricked at that bit of news. His voice changed again, becoming that of an elderly man. “How much do you want?”

  “Three hundred. And I need it in cash, no later than tomorrow morning.”

  “Very well. I’ll send Grendel,” Malfeis said. Sonja had no trouble picturing him as lounged about in the back booth of his French Quarter dive, his tail lashing back and forth like an anxious cat’s.

  “You got me on radar?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding? My kind developed Caller ID! However, I will need an exact address for my delivery boy.”

  “Okay. But remember: no eating anyone this time!” “If you insist,” Malfeis sighed.

  After finishing her deal with the devil, as Sonja hung up the receiver, she experienced a peculiar sensation, persistent and impossible to ignore, like the tug of a magnet. It was Esher, calling to those tied to him by blood.

  The Dance Macabre was jammed with humans and vampires alike. She knew Esher had been building his brood, but until that moment Sonja did not realize just how large it truly was. She’d never seen so many vampires together under the same roof. Esher’s brood reminded her of a cross between Fagin’s School for Thieves and the Manson Family, combining a ragged army of sneak-thieves and footpads with damaged souls drawn to, and easily manipulated by, a far more powerful, utterly amoral will than their own. The sight of them made her palms twitch, and she had to restrain herself for reaching for her switchblade.

  Most of the brood was comprised of younger, orphaned vampires Esher had actively recruited. Of course, ‘young’ had a different meaning among the undead than it did the living. While some wore the skins of runaway teenagers, others were outfitted in the bodies of decrepit street-people. She suspected most of them had been undead for no longer than a year or two. For the most part they had all been created by careless predation, probably by vampires no different from themselves, and left to wander the urban jungle alone and untutored, much like she had been, decades ago.

  As she moved through the crowded nightclub, she noticed that the Pointers were huddled together in one section of the room, eyeing the assembled vampires uneasily. Sonja picked up on a definite lions-at-the-watering-hole vibe as the assembled vampires squabbled over the available feeders chained to the walls.

  She watched as two undead—one wearing the skin of a junior executive, the other a street hustler—got into a hissing match over a tall, thin man who was so pale his veins resembled strands of blue yarn. There was very little juice left in him, and the vampires knew it, hence the showdown. The junior executive’s hair rose like the hackles on a cat’s back, while the hustler growled like an angry mountain lion, unsheathing his fangs so far it looked as if his lips had been sliced away. The junior executive quickly backed off and the hustler claimed the feeder as his own.

  Sonja quickly looked away as the winner of the hissing match drained the dying man dry. The sight and smell of the blood flowing around her was starting to make her edgy. She had not fed since arriving in Deadtown. She usually carried a couple of units of whole blood in a special cryo-container when she traveled, but she had already tapped out her supplies. When she looked back in the feeder’s direction, it was in time to see the club’s bar back unshackling the empty to replace it with a fresh vintage from the cellar.

  The dance music blaring from the speakers began to fade, and the crowd turned as one to face the stage. Esher, stripped to the waist, stepped out from behind the blood-red curtains and gestured for the assembly to draw near.

  “Come closer, my children.”

  The vampires in the audience murmured to themselves and pressed closer to the runway, their pale faces turned toward their leader.

  “I call you my children, because even though most of you were not Made by me, your blood flows through my veins. You who have no dame or sire, you who have been cast aside—I gladly claim you! You who are without a place to hide from those wh
o would destroy you—I will protect you! A time of great tribulation is soon to be upon us, my friends! If we are to survive it, we must prove ourselves united in the face of adversity and doubt! That is why I have summoned you to my side this evening, my children—to tighten our bond even further.”

  As Decima emerged from behind the curtains, carrying a ritual dagger and a golden chalice, Sonja could see that while Ryan hadn’t held the silver crucifix against the vampire’s skin long enough to kill her, he had still done some damage. The wound on her forehead was red and angry, like a fresh brand. Although she had been irked by the boy’s foolhardy stunt, she had to admit she was proud of him for marking the bitch.

  Esher took the dagger from his lieutenant and pressed the point against his right wrist and sliced his inner forearm to the elbow. A liquid that looked more like burgundy than blood gouted forth from the wound. Esher must have recently gorged in order to bleed so freely. Decima knelt before her sire, holding the chalice in order to catch every drop of precious gore. Once the golden cup was filled, Esher held it up so all could see.

  “Behold! As you gave to me, so do I give unto you! My blood is your blood! Come forward, my children! Come forward and drink that which is Life!”

  The vampires moaned as one and pushed forward, tearing at one another in their eagerness to taste their leader’s power. But when one of them tried to jump his place in line by climbing over the footlights onto the stage, Decima kicked him in the head, sending him flying back into the crowd.

  “Wait your turn, maggot-bait!” she snapped. “Try that again and I’ll put a bolt through your fuckin’ eye!”

  Sonja found herself sandwiched in between what had once been a drag queen and what had once been a tourist. The tourist-vampire looked particularly fresh, as he still had a digital camera looped around his neck and that glazed, shell-shocked stare common to the newly resurrected. Sonja glanced about uneasily, but there was no way she could evade participating in the brood sabbat without drawing attention to herself. If any of the other vampires were concerned about Esher tightening his hold on them, they certainly didn’t show it, and instead shivered like junkies in anticipation of a fix.