Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “Hold it,” I interrupted. “I get the idea. I’m expecting to be called away at any moment, so let’s sort out anybody in the Hall, first. I’ll try to sandwich Weatheral in later, assuming I don’t have to rush off to consult with a supplier or something.”

  “Very good, Sir.” Graves strode out, straight-backed and proper, the very picture of dignity. I wish I could do that. Do butlers go to a special school for it? Or is it something they’re born with, so they become butlers?

  I finished breakfast, wondered what to do with the dishes, and realized I shouldn’t eat in my quarters. Someone would come along to clear away the dishes eventually, but I’d have to let them in. Note to self: have mealtime arrangements for outside my quarters. Or would that be a good idea? Having Graves bring me a tray would be a convenient way to let him have a private word with me.

  Crap. This was easier in Karvalen. I didn’t have to hide my true nature and my activities.

  I decided to leave the tray there and the door unlocked. I could use the sitting room as a sort of parlor, a guest-friendly room for my private wing. I’d have to install new locks on the other doors, though, so they would lock automatically when closed. Maybe one of those pneumatic things for automatically closing doors, too. I sent a text to Diogenes, along with pictures of the doors.

  Most of the morning was eaten up by meetings. I’m not sure anything was accomplished thereby. People came and went, mostly feeling more reassured or confident or just plain better, but aside from that, did anything get done? I don’t think so.

  Fortunately, Mary called a little after the local sunset. I drove off to Maryport since I didn’t know how long I would be gone. The shift-closet in the flat was done, but the other end still needed work. At least I could take this time to finish it at the Apocalyptica end.

  Apocalyptica, Sunday, September 13th, Year 11

  I told Diogenes we needed a truck for the Manor. He told me he could arrange it. I went to work on the Maryport shift-booth—read “closet”—in the Hall of Doors. Mary explained her findings on Salvatore while I worked.

  “He’s exactly what he appears to be. He’s a medium-level family man—that is, ‘family’ as in ‘part of the mob.’ He does mostly smuggling work through L.A., including diamonds, drugs, and other valuables. I think he has a minor protection racket and maybe some gambling—probably through some unofficial ownership in places in Vegas—but they’re not his major business. Until now, he hasn’t been too religious, but it seems he’s had a sudden change of heart.”

  “Shocking.”

  “Ain’t it, though? He’s been spending a lot of time and effort sending his lieutenants—not goons, but people with brains—out to various churches, from St. Vibiana’s to little one-room places.”

  “All Catholic?”

  “Is the Pope Italian?”

  “I don’t know. Is he?”

  “Work with me, will you?” she sighed. “Yes, Salvatore seems to have a strong preference for Catholicism. I’m guessing it’s his upbringing.”

  “Oh. Put your finger here.” She did the magical equivalent while I asked, “What else do we know?”

  “There are a bunch of vampires in Vegas, not so many in L.A. Again, Vegas is the hot spot. Don’t ask me why.”

  “I accept it as an observed fact. What do you think of the local bloodsuckers?”

  “I think they’re a sorry bunch,” Mary sneered. “Vegas may be a hot spot for vampires, but these worthless specimens cower like rats. Mostly.”

  “It’s better than on Dracula’s World,” I pointed out.

  “That’s just the opposite. The humans are either cattle, guard dogs, or rats, depending. I can’t say having vampire overlords ruling the world is better.”

  “No argument. But on Flintridge?”

  “The vamps are afraid. They figure in popular literature and pop culture, but they’re regarded as fictional by the majority. No surprises there. Organizations and individuals exist who actively hunt them, though. A few people scream about vampires being real, but the humans themselves actively shut them up—either to keep people from panicking, or because it benefits their group to keep the secret, or something. Most of the screamers who know something are drowned out by the crackpots. Real loudmouths are either discredited, locked up, or vanish.”

  “Okay. What’s the story with the butcher shop and the blood? If they’re hiding from everyone, why are there blood shops?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s owned by a vampire. If the place keeps a low profile, he might get away with it, at least until some hunting party thinks to check the yellow pages for a blood supply.” She paused for a moment. “You know, I’m not sure anyone would notice.”

  “How do you mean? And let go of that; hold this instead.” She held the spell module in place and explained.

  “Nobody who doesn’t drink blood would think to ask if they can buy any. I mean, most people investigating a butcher would prowl around the place and watch for suspicious activity. Nobody’s going to think to call and ask. It’s… it’s very Purloined Letter, really, hidden by its own obviousness. If a vampire is behind the shop,” she finished, “I like his style.”

  “So do I. But maybe we were lucky.”

  “How so? And is the vertical spatial reference supposed to look like that?”

  “Oops.” I fixed the module’s orientation and started connecting it correctly. “Distracted. But I mean we were lucky in that some group of hunters wasn’t behind the butcher shop. It would be a perfect bait.”

  “Ooo, yes! Good thought. We should ask around. Come to think of it, it still could be, if they’re subtle hunters out to spot their prey by opening a bait store. We might both be marked as vampires while they try to track us—where we go, who we talk to.”

  “Wonderful. And you can let go of the universal constants subroutine.” She stepped back from the enchantment structure and cocked her head at it.

  “Why are we using a universal constants subroutine instead of a quantum signature key? You did mention something about the idea.”

  “I did,” I admitted. “What do you remember about it?”

  “Uh…”

  “It was boring and you weren’t paying attention?”

  “It wasn’t boring! —not exactly. It’s just a little… advanced.”

  “What I said was we can’t define the quantum signature of a universe. We don’t yet have the technology, although I live in hope Diogenes will come across someplace with the information we need.”

  “Oh. So quantum signature keys aren’t a thing, yet?”

  “They’re a hypothetical thing and will take either a ton of work or a lucky break to prove or disprove.”

  “My mistake. I thought you already did the R&D.”

  “Not yet. I haven’t had the motivation. The system we have works. That’s good enough for now.”

  “Oh. Fair enough.”

  “And start plugging in the address for Apocalyptica, will you?”

  “Of course.” She started on that and continued, “It’s also possible hunters don’t stake out the watering holes. They could ignore blood supply shops on the theory they keep vampires from going on human-eating rampages. There are arguments in both directions. I don’t know how the professional hunters think. And, for reference, Salvatore is not a professional. He reacted badly to discovering an actual vampire, had no idea how to kill one, and pretty much ran screaming to the Church after burying it. Me.”

  “Okay. So, what do we know about the vampires?”

  “They’re typical of the genus—or family, or phylum—but we don’t know much about this particular species. They’re pretty strong, they’re above-average fast, and they regenerate when you give them blood. Most have some sort of oddball ability, too, from what I’ve gathered from my talks. There don’t seem to be clans or tribes or families with particular powers.”

  “I’m not going to ask about your talks.”

  “Probably for the best,” she agreed. “Someti
mes you’re squeamish.”

  “No argument.”

  “As for abilities, these undead all see well in low light, but I only heard about someone who could see in complete darkness. Others I heard about… one has claws, one can turn into a bat, another can turn into a wolf, another can track prey like a bloodhound. It’s mostly the usual legendary stuff. I haven’t met many, yet, but it seems to be what they generally accept about themselves. They’re social creatures, like regular humans, and tend to hang out with their own kind.”

  “Aren’t most of the vampire types we’ve encountered a bit more solitary? Individual predators, rather than pack hunters?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. But we’re all something more than predators or prey, remember. You need social contact, too, same as me.”

  “I guess.”

  “So, with this in mind, I’d like to take you with me on an evening out. There’s a vampire club in Vegas where we can hang around with kindred souls, if they have souls, which I doubt. We might even get a drink. I hope we can mingle and chat as newcomers to Las Vegas and find out more.”

  “Seems fair. No sword?” I guessed.

  “No sword. Stuff you can conceal. Handgun?”

  “I’ve been practicing, but I’m no marksman. Put your mystical finger here.” She held it for me while I worked on the booth.

  “You don’t need to be. For you, guns are usually irrelevant. Sometimes they’re intimidation tools when you don’t want to vamp out, or signaling devices when you want to make a noise. Having one can still be useful even if you don’t shoot anyone with it. If a person knows you’re armed, you often don’t have to demonstrate proficiency.”

  “A valid point. Thanks. Okay. Let me finish this booth and get the Liverpool cargo-shifter set up in Denver.”

  “Can I help?”

  “I would be delighted to have you along. Pop over and get a transformer from Diogenes—a small one. I’ll meet you in Liverpool. Afterward, you can take me to the nightclub.”

  Flintridge, Thursday, September 18th, 1969

  Every Las Vegas, in my experience, is a city of lights. In any world with electricity, the place is a Babylon. I’m not criticizing. Far from it. It’s a place for people to go play, and they do. Oh, boy, they do.

  The more modern versions, full of flashing, blinking, flaring, strobing lights, are not to my taste, though. They irritate me, make me short-tempered and fidgety. Even with a sensory-damping spell or sunglasses, it still gets into the back of my brain and makes me grumpy. It’s like having someone following you around and always scratching their fingernails on a blackboard. Loud or quiet, it’s still annoying. I would say it sets my teeth on edge, but, well…

  The Flintridge version is mild by comparison. Still kind of gaudy, though. I like it better during the day, except for the heat.

  Mary and I showed up at night. We used a temporary gate, not a shift-booth, just as if we were exploring a new world. If the butcher shop was a way to identify vampires for tracking, we probably lost any tails on our run back to Los Angeles. Still, no point in risking it. We stepped through some doorway, into an alley, and Diogenes shut down the gate. No one screamed, which is always a good start. We didn’t see any signs we were spotted.

  I wore the usual men’s suit, in black, with my cloak disguising itself as the sport coat. I could pretend to be a mortician or a government agent with no trouble. In addition to hidden weapons, I carried a cane, mostly because I wanted to have something wooden to jam through a vampire’s heart. You never know.

  Mary selected a pantsuit in a dark turquoise, complete with what I think of as a ladies’ fashion peacoat jacket. Solid colors were apparently the “in” thing for the more well to do, rather than the psychedelic splashes of the counterculture movement. I applauded her choice, especially since a good jolt of electricity—there was a unit disguised as a lapel pin—would change the whole outfit to a mottled mix of dark grey and dark green.

  If I sound cautious, it’s because we’ve dealt with vampires before. I have very few good memories of such meetings.

  Our destination was the Lady Luck, a hotel-casino. We stuck together, touring the various games of chance, to get a feel for the layout and cast a glance over the likely exits. What we wanted was only technically part of the building and not, for obvious reasons, publicly advertised.

  While we were the only two players at a blackjack table, I asked how we were supposed to get in. I doubted the dealer spoke any of the Rethven dialects.

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted, in the same language. “I know it’s here, but the conversation implied I already knew about it.”

  “Ah. So, we’re gatecrashing a private nightclub.” The word nightclub transliterated into naxodo, for both night and association.

  “Essentially.”

  “Then let us wander around some more. You steer and I’ll be psychic.”

  “Got it.”

  We started walking through the place. Mary took my arm and subtly guided me while I devoted my attention to spreading a net of tendrils all around. Reaching in all directions—including underground and overhead—my filaments of soul-sucking darkness writhed outward. I touched everything within a hundred yards, piercing cloud, shadow, earth, and flesh. It was a lot to take in and added to my agitation, but Mary was right there, on my arm, an anchor in the storm of incoming sensations. I kept my teeth clenched and tried not to show how much I wanted to stomp straight out of the place. Through a wall, if necessary.

  I brushed over a cluster of darker places. Hungry places. Not bright, living souls, but dark things. They were unlike the vampires of Mary’s world, even unlike the overlords of Dracula’s World or my vampire creation experiments. These things were dead, empty things, absorbing and feeding on all the brightness in the world.

  My tendrils retracted, leaving only one extended, playing over the floor and walls, invisibly tracing a physical way from the things I found and back to us.

  “Found them. Nasty customers,” I observed.

  “Which way?”

  “Past the slot machines and toward the restaurant.”

  Mary continued to steer. I got a grip on my urge to leave. The noise and lights were muted, of course. I know better than to go into a casino without a sensory-damping spell. It was still too much noise and movement and general busyness. It didn’t help that by extending my tendrils to feel around the place, I took in a sizable amount of the psychic ambiance. Not exactly a calming, soothing environment.

  Zen and the art of stillness. Yeah. This was a perfect opportunity to practice my technique. Absolutely atrocious circumstances, but a perfect opportunity. Kind of like practicing calligraphy in a kayak.

  We found our way to an unobtrusive door. Mary opened it and we entered a small, dark room. Two dim, red lights were the only illumination. There was no furniture, only a single door on the opposite wall. I couldn’t hear anything beyond it—the sounds of the casino were still too loud.

  I met Mary’s glance and shrugged. We moved to the far door and I rapped on it smartly with my cane.

  A slot opened up at about eye level. An eyeball peered at us through the grating.

  “Yeah?”

  We smiled at him, fangs extended.

  “Yeah.” The slot closed with a metallic snap and bolts scraped. The door opened. It was obviously a solid piece of metal rather than a more usual door. I’d call it a disguised hatch, myself. The chamber beyond was more of a hallway, running along the counter of the coat-and-hat-check station. I’d call it a guard room. It was tastefully done, though. The doorman was human and obviously a bouncer type, while two more humans with submachine guns tried to stay out of sight in the check area, behind the counter. I felt their presence, saw the glow of them in my vampire vision. The whole area was also lined with something quilted, like the back of a fancy chair, only everywhere. For the soundproofing qualities, probably.

  We were allowed to pass through yet another door and into the lounge.

  I don’t k
now what I expected, but that wasn’t it.

  The lounge was a dimly-lit space lined with booths. One side had a stage, the opposite side had a bar. Half the floor space was tables of the two-person variety and booths lined the walls. A few couples were dancing. The stage provided the music in the form of a piano player. I recognized Hey Jude. Other instruments were racked behind it, as though the band had just stepped out for a smoke.

  Aside from the music and the low hum of conversation, it was also quiet. That, all by itself, was enough to recommend it.

  We emerged beside the bar and were immediately greeted by a pretty young lady in a skimpy waitress uniform. She showed us to a booth and went away when we didn’t have an order immediately.

  I unobtrusively examined the place, mentally tallying the locals. The staff were all human and about half the customers. The rest were black spirits in flesh, vampires. I tried not to stare, but I also eyeballed them. I don’t think they noticed, which was a good thing. I’d never seen anything like them before.

  While I pretended to take in the ambiance, Mary examined the one-page menu. It offered a limited selection of human food and drink, with an odd preference for dishes rich in iron—liver, fish, spinach, and so on. It also included, down in the drinks section, a list of “After Hours Cocktails,” including chicken, pork, and beef.

  “Not much kosher, is there?” Mary asked.

  “I didn’t think there would be.” I switched to the Rethven language. “So, I hate to ask, but why are we here, exactly?”

  “I’m finding out more about hunters in general and how vampire society fits in with human society. You’re here to keep me company and alive. Alive-ish.”

  “Yes, dear. Be aware, however, these things are not like us. I don’t see souls in them. Any of them. I’ll bet you anything they sleep in the day and only come out at night, like classical vampires.”

  “No bet.”

  “So, how do you intend to suck information out of people?”