Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “I’m hoping to meet Stan. He’s the one I discussed this place with.”

  “I look forward to meeting him. In the meantime, do we dance?”

  “You can dance?”

  “After four weeks of lessons? No, but I can fake it.”

  “I would be happy to dance with you, my love.”

  We took to the floor and revolved for a bit. When the piano player shifted into a faster set, I admitted my limitations and we resumed our seats. The waitress, Candy, took our order for a pair of Texas Cocktails (meaning the beef blood, presumably) and hurried away again.

  “Have you noticed the usual pairing?” Mary asked, softly, still speaking Rethvan.

  “Hmm?”

  “Most of the vampires have a human companion.”

  “Oh. No, I hadn’t noticed. We do seem to be unusual. Why is that?”

  “Well, this is just a guess, but from what I can see of their vital energies, the humans look tired. Regular feeding by the vampire, maybe?”

  I glanced around the room again, evaluating the glowing lives in view.

  “Not on their vitality,” I decided. “Blood, yes. It’s subtle, but I think the depletion is from physical recuperation.”

  “I agree.”

  “You’re getting good at seeing auras and spirits,” I complimented her.

  “You’re a good teacher, Professor Strange. And I think I see Stan.”

  “Invite him over. He knows you.”

  Mary stood up and approached him, rather than wave across the room. It didn’t feel like the sort of place where one should be too obvious. Meanwhile, Candy brought the drinks. I had her put them down at the end of the table while I slid back in the booth.

  The blood didn’t crawl out of the hurricane glasses, but it did slide up the side rather sharply. Candy observed the phenomenon but quite professionally failed to notice it. My guess is she sees weird things aplenty in a vampire lounge. I just tried to be less of a blood magnet. I still don’t know why it happens—I still don’t know why most things about me work the way they do. It was a darn inconvenient time to have to try and control this one, though.

  Mary slid into the booth and Stan joined her.

  “Stan, this is Vlad. Vlad, this is Stan.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I offered.

  “Likewise.” He didn’t offer to shake hands. He was dressed in slacks, shirt, and sportcoat, but lacking a tie or hat. His hair was slicked back from a widow’s peak and he wore a small, gold hoop in one ear. He gave me the impression of a small-time, leather-jacket thug told to dress nicely.

  “Stan’s been very helpful,” Mary continued, “since we’re new in town. I thought we should buy him a drink.”

  “He’s welcome to it,” I offered, nodding at the glasses. Stan didn’t waste any time. He grabbed one and slurped it up through the straw. I decided he was hungry. Mary and I traded looks and she encouraged Stan to have the other one, as well. He didn’t hesitate, but made it vanish just as quickly. I signaled Candy for another while Mary continued the conversation.

  “So, Stan, as I told you before, we haven’t decided to settle here. Is there room for us? We don’t want to make any waves, you know.”

  “It’s not my place to say, but I guess so,” he replied. He seemed much more at ease after a couple of drinks. “If you do want to stay, you’ll have to talk to the Black King.”

  “I’m sorry, but we moved here from England. The Black King?”

  “The Lord of Las Vegas. He’s the man.”

  “Oh, is that what you call them here? Interesting. But we’re still a little hesitant. I had a nasty encounter with humans who wanted to put a stake through my heart. Should I report that? How common is this sort of thing?”

  “It’s not common, but there’s some folks who know we exist. Not most people, but enough to be trouble.”

  “What, here? Actually in Las Vegas?”

  “Well, yeah.” Stan accepted the third drink as Candy brought it over. “There’s enough of us here, we can’t always hide what we do.” He sucked down the bloody Texan, or whatever it was.

  “I thought we had adequate supplies?” Mary persisted.

  “Tourists? Yeah. They’re supposed to be off-limits. Economics. Locals are fair game, but someone always comes looking for them when they disappear. Makes the tourists tempting.” He gestured with the hurricane glass. “You can’t live on this stuff forever.”

  “How often do you need human blood?” Mary asked. “I mean, we can manage to get by without it for a while, but I heard American vampires are different.”

  “With the thin stuff?” Stan asked. He seemed distant for a moment, thinking. “A week. Two weeks, if you’ve got the willpower for it. I don’t know if anyone’s gone a whole month.”

  “Well, there’s another international rumor shot down. It’s about the same all over, I suppose. Hunters are on the lookout for missing humans and the like?”

  “Yeah. Bloodless corpses, too. They’re a problem. I knew this guy, grabbed homeless people. He used to be a medical type, a doctor or something. Strapped ’em down in his basement, hooked ’em up to tubes, did a little poking around in their brains to keep ’em quiet, and farmed ’em for their blood. Worked pretty good for a while. I don’t know how the hunters caught on to him, but they tracked him down and killed him. Covered their tracks and his, too. Never did find out what they did with the bodies.”

  “Seems a shame,” Mary sympathized.

  “I thought so. But if you get an eyubit, make sure you don’t bite ’em anywhere people can see. And when it gets really hot, they’ll need to wear short sleeves and stuff—we forget that. I think,” he added, leaning in conspiratorially, “they kinda get a thrill out of other people seeing the bite.”

  “Discipline is so important.”

  “Ain’t it, though?”

  I listened, but I also kept an eye on the room. Two black-souled, well-dressed bruisers came in—vampires—and made their way to our booth.

  “Good evening, Stan.”

  “Oh, uh, hi!” Stan replied, startled and nervous. “How’s it hangin’?”

  “What did the management tell you about guests, Stan?”

  “Yeah, but this is different. They’re from out of town and they’re thinking of staying. I brought ’em in so the Black King could do his thing, you know, interview them and stuff.”

  The impulse to sigh must be a holdover from human existence. The heavy in the suit did so, shaking his head.

  “Stan, Stan, Stan. You do not invite anyone in here without clearing it with higher authority.”

  “Excuse me,” I interjected. Eyeballs clicked in my direction. I used my best conciliatory tone. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but before this goes any further… we are, as Stan said, new here. We’re unfamiliar with your etiquette and, if what I’m hearing is any indication, we’ve committed a terrible breach. Is it possible to render a formal apology and have someone explain what we should be doing, instead?”

  “I think that can be arranged,” he replied, nodding. “Bill, why don’t you take them up to the Plantation suite? Stan and I will discuss the error of his ways.”

  Stan did not look happy at the prospect.

  Mary and I went with Bill, stopping off by the bar to pay the check before we left. Blood is apparently more expensive than I thought. Then again, a drink in a lounge is always pricier than buying your own bottle.

  Bill led us through the casino and into the hotel. Once in the elevator, he produced a key, turned it, and pressed the penthouse button. Mary took note of it, as well. If we were about to meet a vampire overlord, it spoke to us of money, influence, and possibly a disdain for anything mortals might try. It was also important to know how far the drop would be if we had to jump out a window. Fifteen floors, in this case. Unpleasant, but doable, if we did it right, landed well, and weren’t instantly pursued.

  Stepping off the elevator was like stepping back in time. The place was laid out like the ground floor
of a plantation house, complete with wooden floors, some rugs, period furniture, all of it. The elevator doors were out of place in the entryway. Aside from those, it was hard to tell we were in a hotel, fifteen floors up.

  An elderly black man, dressed in period costume, bowed at us as we stepped out. His accent was from the deep south with a hint of French. The space inside him was black as night and just as hungry as those of his fellows down in the lounge.

  “Welcome to the house, lady and gentleman. The Master will see you.”

  In my head, I thought, Please let it be Delgado or Ainley. I managed not to say it out loud.

  “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here. Lead on, please.”

  He smiled at me, just a hint around the corners of his mouth, and led us through the house. Bill, our burly escort, brought up the rear.

  The Master waited for us in the dining room. I found it interesting how the windows were dioramas of plantation views, lit to simulate sunlight. To the casual glance, it was about noon on a fine summer day. All it lacked was people working the fields and the ripple of wind.

  The Master, himself, was a tall, aristocratic fellow with long, wavy hair. He wore a combination of brocade and lace I would have placed a few decades earlier than the plantation era, but maybe he just liked the styles. His smile was fanged, his eyes a brilliant green, and his fingernails trimmed to wicked points. He wasn’t trying to hide the fact he was a vampire. He was delighted to be one and didn’t care who knew it.

  Or he simply never left his quarters. My money was on that option. Staying here would, eventually, be like wearing a neon sign, blinking “vampire,” but what was a hunter going to do about it? They want to keep things subtle, hidden, low-key. Neither side wants to draw attention. So what do they do? Stage a full-scale assault on the place? Blow it up, along with all the humans in it? Try to burn it down and hope he doesn’t have an escape route? I used to think fortifying one’s residence was a mistake, but I wasn’t entirely right. There’s a point of diminishing returns, but it’s usually worthwhile to have some hidden defenses. This, on the other hand, was going a bit overboard in the “You can’t touch me” department.

  Still, even though it’s not ideal, but it’s not a bad arrangement. It’s comfortable until it all goes wrong.

  He stood up as we entered.

  “Welcome to my abode,” he offered, smiling. I detected a little French in his accent. “I trust I have not inconvenienced you too much with my request for your company?”

  “Not at all,” I replied. I mentally filed the fact he sent the bouncer types to fetch us, rather than to scold Stan. The old servant moved to stand behind his master’s right. As the Master gestured us to be seated, I held the chair for Mary before seating myself. We all sat and were friendly. Yeah.

  “As newcomers, you doubtless require introductions. I am Jean Pierre LeSange, Master of Las Vegas.”

  “I am Vladimir Harkonnen, and this is my mistress, Mary.”

  “It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” Mary offered.

  “Charmed,” LeSange replied. “Regrettably, this is not as social an occasion as I might hope. You will forgive me, of course, for coming right to the business?”

  “Of course. The demands on your time must be unbelievable.”

  “You are quite correct. So, to the point: We do receive quite a few visitors, but not so many applications for residence. May I ask what makes you think Las Vegas would suit you?”

  “We’re not sure,” I admitted. “Mary?”

  “We’re mostly shopping around,” Mary told him. “Las Vegas is a lovely city, but we also want to look at other places before we make a formal application to stay.”

  “How refreshing!” he said, smiling. “Most of us do not like to travel so much. I assume your eyubit—or do you have more than one?”

  “None, at the moment.”

  “My, my. Then how do you get around during the day?”

  “Our car is specially modified for emergencies,” I supplied, “and we always plan our travel carefully.”

  “Dangerous, but not impossible,” he allowed. “I would not choose to travel so, but I commend you both on your bravery.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I am also given to understand you have made the acquaintance of Stanley Kraznowski.”

  “Yes,” Mary answered.

  “As newcomers, I suppose I cannot hold you responsible for your choice of company, but Mister Kraznowski is not known for his reliability, subtlety, or his bravery. He is presently under suspicion of having worked for a group of hunters in exchange for his life.”

  “I’m surprised he’s still alive,” Mary offered. I kept my mouth shut and tried to watch the shifting darkness inside the Master and his servant. It was much more subtle than the lights of the living, and difficult to see, but there were shades and patterns to it, like black smoke rather than empty nothingness.

  “He may not be for long. My advice is to stay away from him for the duration of your visit. Sadly, I must also advise you to avoid the lounge, as well. If Stan has identified you to hunters, your presence will only draw attention.”

  “Of course. How else can we make ourselves less bothersome?” Mary asked. I wondered at his concern. If he’s living in a penthouse with vampires going to and fro, how do hunters not already know about the place?

  “Now, that’s quite an interesting question, my dear. Yes, indeed it is. I’ll have to give it some thought. Have you had anything to drink?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Oh, what you must think of me as a host! Degas,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Fetch three. I’ll join my guests.” The servant bowed and retreated.

  “We wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,” I suggested.

  “Nonsense. It’s hardly trouble. And I think it lends a certain convivial air to the occasion. While we wait, perhaps you might be so good as to tell me what you’ve found to delight you in my happy little city?”

  Mary went on to tell him any number of things. The contrast between the lights and the night, the party atmosphere—“It’s not Mardi Gras, but it goes on all the time.” “So true my dear. So true.”—the prevalence of twenty-four-hour businesses, the way people valued privacy, and so on.

  Degas showed in three young ladies, all dressed in skirts and long sleeves. They shuffled rather than walked, I thought, and seemed slightly pale. None of them looked around, but kept eyes on where they were putting their feet. Mary mentioned Stan again.

  “Stan did mention the tourists were off-limits. I’m not completely clear on why. Not that it matters, if you say so, of course, but I am curious. May I ask?”

  “It’s no secret. It is simply good business.” The young lady on his left rolled up her sleeve and held out her wrist, looking away. He took her hand and forearm, delicately, careful of his fingernails. “A city is like any other plantation. Tourists bring in the money. Money makes the city grow. The city is what we feed on. Kill a few tourists and you drive the rest away. No tourists, no money, and this place returns to the desert.”

  He extended fangs and delicately bit the inside of her wrist. She moaned and her eyes rolled up, but she didn’t faint.

  The lady next to me and the one next to Mary already had their wrists out. I shrugged to Mary and took the young lady’s wrist in my hands. Now, how best to bite? My teeth are a little different. In addition to retractile fangs, the rest of my teeth are sharp, cutting-edged things. My jaw is also a trifle odd in that I can open my mouth ridiculously wide. I could, with very little effort, bite her hand completely off at the wrist.

  Delicately, I bit her as shallowly as I was able, sinking fangs alone into her skin. I barely pricked her, but blood pumped rapidly out—one might say it tried to force its way out and into my mouth. She was good, too. Very healthy, very vital. I kept my tendrils to myself, however, since the local breed of bloodsucker didn’t seem to have them.

  Degas provided napkins. I took mine and pressed it to he
r wound almost before I had my mouth off her wrist. Mary might be able to lick the wound and encourage coagulation, or blood production, or whatever her vampire spit does to a human body. Mine doesn’t. In testing, we discovered her nighttime saliva is, in many ways, good for a human being. Mine, on the other hand, encourages bleeding and might make a damn fine drug for busting blood clots. As a result, anything I bite can easily bleed to death, even if it’s only a pinprick. I’m not the sort of vampire to nibble on someone seductively.

  This is one reason I generally eat things to death. Keeping a meal ticket alive is difficult.

  My current snack wasn’t doing the eye-rolling thing, either. She seemed disappointed and a little upset as she held the napkin in place. I waved her away and she stepped back. Mary was in a better situation. At least she could stop actively sucking blood out of her victim.

  “Most interesting,” Mary agreed, dabbing at her mouth before handing the napkin to her donor. “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of anyone treating a city this way before. It’s quite original.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I’m rather proud of it. And, as you can see,” he added, gesturing around the dining room, “it has paid enormous dividends.”

  “Yes. And I hate to ask this, but it’s been on my mind.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “About the hunters. I’m afraid I don’t know quite who we’re avoiding, here. It’s all new in this region, so forgive me if I presume and ask for advice.”

  “Think nothing of it, not for a moment.” He waved the donors away and Degas showed them out. “There are a number of small groups here who are less than pleased at our presence, but they are manageable. I’ve gone to considerable lengths to establish influence over local politicians, law enforcement, and the like. While our activities, if done with discretion, attract little enough notice, it is quite another matter to conceal such from parties privy to the truth.”

  “That’s reassuring. At least the local police won’t be helping them.”

  “Individuals, perhaps, but not as a policy. However, you do raise a point I, also, find a trifle upsetting. You’ve had words with Stan.”