Clan Novel Giovanni: Book 10 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Justin Achilli

  “I am sorry, Grandmother, but your wisdom is incomparable.” Isabel knew that flattery never hurt when dealing with the impatient souls of the departed. Only by inflated estimations of their worth could ghosts be calmed, as many still had profound attachment to the physical world in some form or another. Still, one could never be too careful around the Restless Dead—they had no qualms about giving one’s secrets to another in exchange for their favor.

  “What is it, then? Speak your mind!” Clearly, something was pressing on the other side of the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead.

  “It is this urgency, Grandmother, that concerns me. What is it that transpires in your Underworld?

  Ah, so those who walk the lands of the living have noticed….” Giulia began, but trailed off apprehensively.

  “Yes, Grandmother, we have.” Isabel left the comment to hang in the air, hopefully prodding the wraith to further insight. But none seemed forthcoming. “Does something beneath the shroud of death compel you?” she ventured again.

  “Powerful forces shake the realm of death,” Giulia whispered, her manner becoming furtive. “I cannot say any more, because the truth evades me. But I can say this: Our armies move each night. The tides of blackness whirl and eddy in a manner I have never seen before. Lightning strikes and thunderheads make too much noise. Great change is on its way.”

  “Grandmother, help me. You’re not making any sense,” Isabel pleaded.

  At once, Giulia became angry again, losing the fearful cast her smoky features had taken. “I have spoken what I can, my ill-mannered descendant. Cover yourself! The dead have no duty to tell you of our private affairs. I will warn you though, contemptible whore, that an old evil has found a new body. Even if the war beneath the living doesn’t plague you with its aftermath, those who wait beyond the grave will. Augustus has damned his brood in more ways than one: Your unwholesome traffic with those of us whose life has left is but the first of your blights. The knife of treachery is hot, especially to cold, undead hearts….”

  “Crone, you’re speaking in riddles!” Isabel decided to shift her tactics. Giulia was either under the influence of the darker half of her consciousness, or she was deliberately trying to occlude the issue. Isabel knew that the ties that bound wraiths to the living world, the objects that fettered them and prevented them from going on to their true rest after death, held great import. Giulia’s bones were all that remained of her grandmother, and the only tie she knew that bound her to the living world. The Giovanni blood that sat lifeless in her veins held a great potential for depravity, and Isabel hoped that her own capacity for violating taboo exceeded that of her grandmother’s ghost. “You leave me no choice.”

  Isabel pulled the bones rudely from the niche in the wall; they clattered like the keys of a macabre xylophone. She shed her robe and opened one of the veins in her arm, spraying cold, dead blood over the bones and her nakedness.

  “Prurient slut!” shrieked the spirit, at which Isabel grimaced lewdly. Slowly, lasciviously, she dropped to her knees, sprawling on all fours over the scattered pile as a mortal woman would a lover.

  “Just speak frankly with me, Grandmother, and I’ll stop.” Isabel ran her fingers over individual bones, mocking the caress with which the living fondled each other during acts of passion. Each gesture was an impurity, hands stroking the phallic skeletal remains, blood soiling them. With every lustful pass over her lifeless body, Isabel enraged her long-dead grandmother by defiling the ivory pieces of her legacy. She licked them, tasting her own vitae; she prodded herself with them, passing them over the gash in her arm, her breasts, her barren and hairless sex. She favored some in her blasphemous acts and cast others aside, spurned and impotent tools that gave her no pleasure. But beneath such hellish, wanton acts, Isabel’s mind remained her own. Even the most carnal of acts could not satisfy her Kindred’s lust for blood. Mortal sex—no matter how insidiously parodied—provided her no orgasmic joy. These vulgarities served only to demonstrate superiority over the wraith. For every memory of the debased mortal ecstasy this would have caused her were she alive, Giulia’s ghost felt a spasmodic shudder, as the remnants of her earthly body served merely as a vehicle for the concupiscence of another. The ghost’s remaining vengeful resolve withered as her grandchild, the fruit of her once-living mortal loins, pressed the pelvic bone to her own pubis, mimicking the advances of a lover atop his naked paramour.

  “Enough, wanton! I’ll tell you what you want to know. End this display.”

  Isabel braced herself for the pang of guilt she knew should come after such a horrendous act. To caper so whorishly with the corpse of the woman who helped bring you into the world! To make such rude and carnal gestures with the pieces of corpses. Unthinkable!

  And yet, the rush never came. She had ensured the wraith’s compliance—seized what she wanted— and felt no remorse. In nights past, she would have brooded seemingly without end, but not this time. This time she had simply—taken. And that was it.

  “The spirits of the dead wage war, Granddaughter,” Giulia spoke while Isabel pulled herself into a standing position and covered herself with the robe. “The struggle between factions is not a monopoly the Kindred hold. A storm brews in the dead realms that threatens not only to overwhelm this world, but to poison the one in which you exist as well. Several of your kind have taken up residence here—constructed a stone city they sacrilegiously name after one of the cities of God’s first. They are unwelcome in this world, as much as I would be in yours. The time has come, it would seem, when the lords of this dead kingdom would have them removed, driven from the Underworld. But those lords are too shortsighted to know the effect this would have. The storm—it will come now, for tempers have flared unchecked for too long. It will claim us. And it will cross the veil. Your world will know the vengeance of that which is greater than men or any who walk among him. God will judge many before the night of His wrath is felt wholly. May He have mercy upon unworthies like yourself. And until then, we must prepare.”

  Tuesday, 29 June 1999, 3:14 AM

  Caesar’s Palace

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  The plane had arrived without a hitch, delivering Chas and Victor safely to McCarran International Airport, and from there to the hotel via a quick cab ride.

  “I hate this city,” Chas said idly, in the back of the cab.

  “Why?” asked Victor.

  “You’ll see.”

  Check-in had likewise gone smoothly. Chas had decided to try his luck in the casino, maybe earning a few bucks and seeing if any disastrous turn of chance portended ill omens for him.

  If the cards and dice were any indication, this trip would be a good one, Chas decided. He had won six hundred dollars at blackjack, half of which he tipped the dealer, and two hundred at craps, half of which he tipped the croupier.

  “I just do it for fun,” he explained, gracefully deferring their questioning gazes.

  It wasn’t like he really needed the money, after all. Plus, it’d be a good cover story if something big happened while they were in town and they made a few dollars on that—he could say he’d won big, and heavy tips would corroborate that.

  It was still next-to-last shift at the table, and the drinks (surreptitiously switched with those of neighboring gamblers—they watched their cards and chips but never their cocktails) still flowed freely. Pretty soon, however, the Bad Time would come, after all the sport gamblers had gone to bed and the desperate gamblers crept like cockroaches into the casino. Pale, pasty-faced insurance salesmen and middle managers from Iowa, their wives dropping coins into video slot machines while they themselves tried vainly to win back next month’s mortgage payment on a lucky deal or throw of the dice.

  Easy pickings for the casino, and easier pickings for vampires like Chas.

  Not that he had to worry about feeding. The city was full of similar desperation; it was an undercurrent that ran through the whole town, touching the oil barons and the rogue drifters alike.
At one moment, any of them could be Lady Luck’s favorite suitor and at the next, they could be penniless and drunk on the curb out front. The only thing that separated them as individuals was where they stood on the spectrum of destiny.

  Fuck. A seven. Crapped out. Chas left a twenty for the croupier and left the table. It was getting late anyway. Where was Victor?

  Chas rode the elevator back to their hotel room, running his hand through his hair and looking at himself in the mirror on the wall. He sniffed, which startled an old woman in the elevator to consciousness. She exited on the nineteenth floor.

  Lady, Chas thought to himself, you just rode an elevator with the devil and you never knew the difference. You’re lucky to be alive. He smirked, a self-deprecating little twist of the mouth yet somewhat sincere, and leaned back against the rail.

  Floor twenty-six.

  He slid the electronic key through the lock and heard the tumbler whir, then opened the door.

  Victor shot up, naked, from the bed, his cock limp and his eyes and nose rimmed with red. Burst blood vessels. Beneath him, a girl of maybe seventeen bent on her hands and knees, rough white lines on her ass and a fine cloud of white powder that settled slowly onto her thighs and the bed. Beneath her lay another girl, this one on her back, flat-chested and with pupils so big Chas could see them from the doorway.

  “Shit, Chas, I thought you wouldn’t be back for another couple of fucking hours.”

  “Victor, you stupid piece of shit. What the fuck did you bring these hookers in here for.7”

  “Hey, mister, we’re not hookers, we’re escorts,” said the one on top, standing semi-erect now, though on her knees and still straddling her partner.

  “Bitch, shut the fuck up or I’ll put out your fucking eyes and skull-fuck you. All right, ladies, party’s over. Get dressed. Come on, get dressed. Pack up. Time to go.”

  Chas was clapping his hands and barking at the girls, prodding them into movement. They responded sluggishly, but were obviously wound up, as the coke or crank or whatever played havoc with them and they acted impishly to see what would happen.

  “I’m fucking serious here. Victor, put your fucking clothes on. Cover that thing, would you? Jesus Christ.”

  “What’s the fucking problem, Chas? I mean come on, we’re in Vegas; this shit’s legal.” Victor led the top girl back to the bed, bending her over, rubbing white powder from her ass into his gums with one hand and working his dick to some degree of attention with the other, readying himself to take the girl from behind. The skinny, flat-chested one—bottle blonde, for the record—giggled and leered at Chas, dry-humping her friend’s leg.

  “Yeah, come on, Chaaaas…” She drew out his name, making an impossible three-syllable word out of it. “You’re in Vegas.”

  “Shut the fuck up, slut. I’ve been coming to Vegas since you were a twinkle in your daddy’s eye.” He looked her over, noticing track marks on her arms as she squirmed beneath the other whore.

  “Come on, baby. You like it rough?” She smiled, crawling out from beneath the other girl and stepping toward him. Yellow teeth. Cigarettes and heroin. Bad news. Not this one, Chas found himself thinking.

  What? You’re not serious, he said silently to himself. Still, he couldn’t deny the truth—must have overlooked it in his anger. He could feel the girls’ blood calling to him, hear the pulse of it through their veins. He looked out the window: desert lightning behind the neon and halogen.

  Chas shook himself. “You don’t know how rough, girl. Now pack up and take your sister with you and get the fuck back to the street comer.”

  “Victor,” the skinny girl crowed, “I think your friend’s a fag. Is that so, big meany?” She leaned in, taking a rude handful of Chas’s crotch. “Do you like boys? I’m kind of shaped like a boy…I’ve even got a dildo in my bag that I could use to—”

  Chas batted her away, this time fighting with the urge that could only end in trouble. Victor wasn’t even paying attention—couldn’t be trusted to defuse the situation. He was working his hips back and forth behind the girl on the bed, who looked at Chas lasciviously, her mouth open, pupils and irises half-circles obstructed by her eyelids. Chas smelled the musky odor of sex, which mingled with the sharp tang of what he now figured was cocaine.

  Enough. He felt the red rush rising.

  His throat constricted; he had to force out words. “Victor, did these whores have a pimp?”

  Victor was still stabbing away with his groin at the other girl’s upended ass. “Fuck.” He grunted. “What? Fucking what?”

  “A pimp, you no-account motherfucker. Did you buy these whores from a pimp?” Pressure rising…losing sight…

  “No. No. They were….” Grunting. “They were solo.”

  Good. No one to care about finding them in pieces.

  “I told you, Mister Chaaas,” the skinny one piped up, “we’re escorts, not who—”

  Chas snapped. He tore the phone off the nightstand, grabbing the receiver and base in one big hand. The cord to the wall went taut and pulled free in a shower of dry wall dust. Chas brought the whole assembly down on top of the skinny girl’s head. Again. Three times. By the fourth, her head had given in like a ripe melon, blood running from her shattered skull, spraying the carpets, tainting the wall, misting the other girl’s swinging breasts as her lusty look immediately became one of horror.

  Even Victor stopped his fervent rutting, eyes going white and mouth slack. He pulled out of the girl, a trail of lubricant following him briefly. “Fuck, Chas what are you—”

  Chas whirled around, bringing the phone high as if he meant to stave in Victor’s head, too. His eyes were wild, his face contorted, his mouth a snarl of vicious fangs. “Fuck off, Victor.” He dropped the phone as the ghoul feebly brought up his arms to ward off an attack that never came.

  In a flash, Chas had the other girl by her neck, lifting her from the floor to viciously impact her head against the ceiling. Out like a light she went.

  Chas tore into her throat, just above where her neck met her clavicle. Skin parted and blood flowed from the wound, spilling down her naked body in torrents, washing away little rivers of the white powder that still dusted her hips and haunch. He drank deeply, in huge gulps that he knew would have reduced her to screaming fits were she still conscious. The taste overwhelmed him, its salty bite and rich consistency, almost like a metallic burgundy…

  …And then he stopped. Too much would kill her, and she was already going to be a problem. He licked the messy wound carelessly, and it closed. Then he dropped her to the floor like a sack of garbage.

  Victor cowered, naked and shaking in the corner. His face was pale and his mouth still slack in shock. But there was no anger. No regret either, really. Just undiluted disbelief.

  Meanwhile, Chas toweled off the blood that stained him. Then he changed his suit and adjusted his watch, glancing briefly at its face.

  “Clean this up, Victor,” Chas said as evenly as possible. “Then meet me in the casino. You have forty minutes.”

  Tuesday, 29 June 1999, 5:22 AM

  Caesar’s Palace

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Chas was upset in the lobby lounge. He was almost one of the cockroach people, he could tell. Freaked out in Vegas, went a little beyond the boundary, and now had to worry about how to fix it. Even though Victor got fucked into doing the dirty work, it was still his operation. One dead, maybe two— dammit! Why? He didn’t even need the blood! Just a bad situation and he lost control, wasn’t it? He briefly tried to console himself by entertaining the thought that they deserved to die. They probably would have mickeyed Victor and left him in a tub full of ice, duct tape on his back and a bloody hole where his kidney used to be. Or they would have stolen the luggage and money and everything else in the room, and then bought chiva with the profits.

  But Chas knew he was grasping at straws. He knew he’d fucked up and this was just one more step on the way to hell, into the devil’s carriage house. His head fell into
his hands. Christ, he even looked like one of the cockroach people.

  Through his fingers, past the bar, he saw Victor walk into the room. Down the dais, toward him Victor came, with the coke fiend’s look of paranoia held in check only by the knowledge that if he flaked, things would become even more nightmarish than they already were. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes red with drugs and fatigue.

  “Everything done?” Chas snarled, looking out of the corner of his eye.

  “Yeah. It’s done. Room’s clean.” Sniff. “Phone’s gone, towels and sheets and all that shit’s on its way to Long Beach.”

  “And the girls?”

  “I got the one being carried out on a stretcher. Told the EMTs she’s in some kind of amphetamine freak-out, which a blood test should support. Oh, and she’s rambling about somebody tearing somebody up, which I think they’ll dismiss as drug dementia.

  You called EMTs? How the fuck did you get away from them so quickly?”

  “It’s fucking Vegas. I gave them a hundred dollars apiece. They think I’m just some cokehead john who wants to get away from his scummy whore with no questions asked.”

  “All right. And the other girl?”

  “Um… If you end up at the steak house here, I wouldn’t order off the menu. At least not till tomorrow. I’ll make a phone call and things should clear up by the time you get up for the evening.”

  Chas forced a sigh and pursed his lips. Thank fucking God that was over with. Now to just ride it out and talk to the Rothsteins’ crew tomorrow…. “This is fucking why I hate Vegas, Victor.”

  Tuesday, 29 June 1999, 5:36 AM

  Caesar’s Palace

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  “Oh, fuck.” Chas gurgled as a torrent of blood ran backward, up his throat, and spewed from his nose and mouth. “Fuck. Victor. Fuck me, Jesus Christ, Victor, I don’t feel so good.”

  Victor knew—this wasn’t how things normally happened. He didn’t know what, though; bad blood or something. “Look out! This man is sick. Stomach ulcer. I’m his attorney and he has a heart problem!” Whatever. Just to get these people the fuck out of the way.