by Garon Whited
“Yes.”
“Whatever you’ve told him, he may—I say ‘may’—have also told to individuals who would wish to do you harm. While I, of course, am reasonably secure here, I cannot offer hospitality to everyone who asks for it. Becoming a rooming house for my fellow undead simply makes my home more of a target for those who, shall we say, might be tempted to ignore the repercussions of overt action.”
“We understand. We wouldn’t want to cause trouble.”
“Excellent. But my purpose is also to caution you. We are, by definition, supernatural creatures. While I have seldom seen actual magic, there are some moments I can recall where mortals have done things inexplicable. Meddling with our kind tends to encourage them to investigate other supernatural avenues, often with an eye to using them against us.”
“You’re saying there are… what? Some sort of wizards or something?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as all that, but if you’ve any experience with either the Church or with witchcraft—voodoo priests, hermetic mages, or even crystal-worshippers—you might do well to consider them again. If even one in a thousand is legitimate… well, all it takes is one to find you as you sleep.”
“A disturbing thought. We’ll have to consider our arrangements more carefully. Are you sure there are such people?”
“I can’t say I’m certain,” he said, pursing his lips. “I’ve seen things to make me wonder, though. When I was but a mortal, I would have laughed at any man who believed in such things. Today?” He held up his hand and flicked two fingernails against each other. “I don’t believe there is any secret society of vampire hunters using magical spells to trace us down and kill us. We wouldn’t survive for long. But are there a few with real powers, just as some of us have exceptional abilities? I feel the idea must be lent credence even if it has not, can not, earn it.”
“Good to know,” Mary agreed, nodding. “Yes, we’ll definitely have to look into more secure sleeping arrangements.”
“I’m pleased. Now, one last thing before I must conclude our visit.”
“Yes?”
“What do you do?”
“Through a few false identities, we own holdings that supply—”
“No, no,” he interrupted, waving a hand as though to erase the words from an imaginary blackboard. “I mean in the sense of exceptional powers. Everyone has a talent, large or small, and they tend to grow with age.” He nodded at me. “You will not, I hope, take me for such a fool that I do not notice your elder, here.”
“Ah. Yes.” Mary turned to me, allowing me to answer. I thought about it for a moment. Where to begin? Or, rather, what to demonstrate?
“Could you call in a donor?” I asked. “This requires a little demonstration.”
“Of course.” Fingers snapped. Degas moved. A moment later, yet another young lady entered.
“You may experience some discomfort,” I cautioned, and bit the tip of her finger, gently, with one fang. I immediately placed her hand on the tablecloth.
“You’ll notice the young lady bleeds,” I began. “Hardly surprising or unusual, but…” I lifted her hand and placed mine next to the fresh bloodstain. It crawled through the cloth, beading up on the surface. I moved my hand so everyone could watch the blood trickle rapidly after it. When it caught up, it soaked into my skin. I waved the young lady away. She backed away, sucking at her finger.
“Most interesting. Do you actually need to drink?”
“Technically, no, but I drink faster than I sponge up. On the plus side, I never worry about bloodstains.”
“Quite. And you, young lady?” he asked, smiling at Mary.
For answer, she laid her hands on the tablecloth and concentrated on the centerpiece. The bowl of flowers slowly slid toward her as she tugged on it with her tendril. She screwed up her face in ferocious concentration and the bowl shifted, bit by bit, toward her hands.
While it wasn’t easy for her, sliding the bowl was within her capacity. She pretended to greater efforts than required.
“Excellent! Most excellent!” LeSange declared, applauding gently. “I’m delighted. Well, if I ever need to eliminate a bloodstain or alter the throw of dice, now I know who to contact.”
“Which does bring up a point,” I suggested. At his encouraging nod, I went on. “See, one of the ways we make a living—so to speak—involves finding crooked gaming establishments and being better at it than they are. I would never suggest your establishment has anything to do with such things, but it’s possible you may have some knowledge of which ones might be unethical. If any spring to mind, we would happily take our patronage, such as it is, to them.
“An interesting proposal. Yes, I can see how it might be useful. Beneficial to both of us, in fact. I shall have to give it some thought.”
“Thank you in advance. We aren’t in immediate need of cash, but one has to always look toward the future.”
“Indeed. Well, thank you both for a lovely visit. Degas will show you out.”
We rose when Degas moved toward the door.
“Thank you for the honor of this audience,” I replied. “You have been most hospitable.”
“A pleasure to make new friends,” he told me, smiling with all his teeth. I nodded, smiling without teeth. I didn’t want to accidentally trigger a predator instinct, and teeth are sometimes viewed as a challenge. It was all right for him, since he perceived himself as the alpha in the room, but showing teeth could be bad manners on my part. We followed Degas to the elevator and Bill took us down to the underground garage.
“Here’s a list,” he told us, handing me an index card with two addresses on it. “Drop in at one of these places once a week or so to get the news and let us know you’re still around. When you get a PO box or a phone, let us know that, too. His Majesty likes to keep in touch, but not always face to face.”
“We’ll do our best,” I replied. “Anything special we should do at these places?”
“Smile at the bartender.”
“I see.”
“You can let yourselves out through the parking garage,” he added. “If Stan knew you were going to the lounge, there might be people waiting for you. You might not want to go out the usual doors.”
“That’s excellent thinking, Bill. I appreciate you looking out for us. I’ll remember it.”
“Doing my job, sir. It’s good business.”
We parted company from him in the parking garage and, once the elevator doors closed, discussed as we walked through the concrete caverns.
“What did we learn?” I asked.
“There are groups of hunters, they know to cruise Las Vegas, the local vamp leader is controlling some of the city’s mortal authorities—I’m guessing the usual blackmail, bribery, and the like, but I’m not ruling out Phrygian powers. We also know he’s keeping active tabs on his own people, which means he’s probably going to try and keep an eye on us. Plus, there may be magical shenanigans among the hunters.”
“Does it matter that Degas is the real leader?”
“Beg pardon?”
“This guy, the Master, kept… I don’t know if ‘listening’ is the right word, but he wanted Degas’ approval on everything. He didn’t look at Degas, but his spirit was focused on him. Degas kept responding in kind, basically telling him to get on with it. It was interesting to watch the way their spirits interacted. I don’t know if Degas sired LeSange, but they seem to have some sort of link.”
“Huh. Why the deception?”
“To add another layer of safety? Anyone after the Master of the City—the Black King—wouldn’t specifically target the elderly butler, would they?”
“I would. Looking old doesn’t mean anything in a vampire.”
“Good point. People can’t help but judge by appearances.”
“I’ll have to think about how this affects things,” she mused.
“So, now that we’ve met the locals, what do you want to do?”
“I feel I have a better grasp of the l
ocal supernatural politics. I’m thinking I may want to find Salvatore and interrogate him into small chunks. We’re known to live in L.A., so if we feed him his own intestines there, it doesn’t necessarily reflect on Las Vegas.”
“Does this mean I’m going to have to move the shift-booth and the cargo shifter?”
“Not all at once,” she soothed. “Start with the booth. The cargo shifter is just a place for deliveries. The booth is for us, and we won’t want to drop into the Los Angeles area.”
“So, you kill Salvatore with a cheese grater. Anything else?”
“It depends on what I can force him to tell me. If his whole family is now involved in hunting vampires, we’re going to have a hard time doing business with them. I already stopped the diamond shipments after the crossroads-burial fiasco.”
“Maybe he didn’t discuss it with them. It might not be the sort of thing you call up your relatives about. They might think he’s crazy.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that. I assumed he would want to tell everyone in his organization.”
“Never underestimate the power of peer pressure. He may have had a discussion with his subordinates—they have to take his orders, and the ones who witnessed your transformation won’t think he’s crazy. He might never mention a word of it to his family. If he’s married, he might not even have told his wife. Most husbands are hesitant to look crazy or stupid in front of their wives.”
“I think you’re projecting.”
“Am I?”
“Maybe.”
Mary took my arm as we made it to the street. Someone in a bright yellow Thunderbird convertible honked at us as he swung into the garage. We sauntered along the sidewalk.
“It’s okay,” Mary decided. “This is just me being annoyed. I’m still upset about how I was treated. You don’t have to go on a rampage because of it.”
“It would be nice if I did, though, right?”
“Well, yes. You don’t seem too upset.”
“Only because you’re okay. I mean, if you weren’t, then we’d have another kettle of kippers entirely. I’m a Guardian Demon, remember? You were inconvenienced and threatened, but not harmed, as such.”
“I don’t feel that way about it!”
“I imagine not. But I can’t help thinking this is merely you being angry at someone. —Not that there’s anything ‘merely’ about you being angry! I do recognize you have a reason to be upset, but I’m not personally enraged, if you follow. I will happily help you wreak havoc and mayhem in any plan to make you feel better about it. They are not my priority. You are my priority.”
“So, you’re willing to humor me? Is that it?”
“No. Humoring you would be going along with what you want when you have no reason for it. You have a perfect reason to be upset with Salvatore and his goons. I would be humoring you if he insulted your hat and you decided to steal his ribcage. In this case, I will happily assist you in your righteous fury and aid you in seeking retribution for crimes committed against you.”
“Hmm,” she pondered. “I’m not sure how I feel. The difference seems negligible.”
“It’s a huge difference, at least to me.”
“I—oh, I see. All right. I can respect it means a lot to you, and you’re doing your best to be supportive and helpful, even if it does seem like you’re humoring me. Perspectives. Viewpoints. Got it.” She squeezed my arm. “But I expect the old you, the rip-slash-blast-kaboom you, to rear his shadow-crowned head and deal out massive amounts of badass if it’s called for.”
“I think I can dig him up. For you.”
Karvalen, Sunday, December 25th, Year 8
Yeah, I know my great-granddaughter—much like my daughter and granddaughter—was born on Christmas Day. My interpretation of the Rethvan calendar is mildly arbitrary, remember, and December 25th is two hundred and eighty days from the spring equinox. What’s that got to do with it? Because Tamara’s descendants are all Priestesses of the Mother of Flame, there’s a rite of spring on the equinox, and two hundred and eighty days is the average gestation period for a human baby. That’s just how it works. The date may have some significance to the Mother of Flame, but I’m not going to ask her.
The fact a year on Flatland is so close to a year on Earth is a coincidence I don’t think about. Shh. Not thinking about it.
I went back to Apocalyptica while Mary continued her investigation thing in Flintridge. I was about to go back to The Manor when Diogenes sounded an alert. His periodic spot-checks in our favorite worlds registered a time differential with Karvalen. If I wanted to make the birthday party, I needed to get dressed and go now.
“Hold the connection. I’m changing. Don’t let the time differential slip on me.”
“Holding.”
I dove through Wardrobe, changed in a hurry, accepted Tymara’s present from the robot with a fast thank-you to Diogenes, and skidded to a halt at the shift-booth.
“The ceiling says it’s daytime at the destination. How long until sunrise here?”
“Three hours, Professor. Shifting now will cause a rapid-onset resurrection.”
I swore fluently, but you can’t rush sunrise. I keep meaning to build a network of shift-booths around the world, making it possible to either avoid sunrise altogether, or pick a convenient location for enduring one whenever I need one. It hasn’t been a priority.
Still, I knew how this was going to go. I performed some spells, pre-starting my body and getting it ready for life. One spell to warm me to normal temperature, another to pump my heart until it got the idea. A healing spell designed to level out the biological shock to my system. Another one to encourage a more general regeneration to mitigate the damage. And a painkiller. And an anti-nausea spell. And a cleaning spell. And something for my nose, to keep me from smelling what was about to happen.
Dying is easier.
I started breathing, preparing for the ordeal. I closed the door.
Wham! Heartbeat, breathing, blood flow, biology! My body was the revving engine dropped suddenly into gear, spinning the tires and dragging me along with it. It’s pushing an elevator button for the ground floor and the floor opens up like a trapdoor. I sweat the transformation products out, felt my insides knot like a bag of snakes, and—anti-nausea spell or no—threw up anyway. At least I kept it off the birthday present.
The cleaning spell took care of everything external. I stayed on the floor, on hands and knees, waiting for the other spells to do their work. My guts eventually settled down into unhappy knots of moderate pain and I opened my eyes.
Yep, pitch black. All my preparation and I forgot a light spell. It’s the little things that get away from me.
I sat against a wall and carefully conjured a light. A little more spellcasting caused the pile of vampire excretion to burn away. The foul smoke trailed up and out through the ventilation hole.
At least this time I knew what to expect and was prepared for it. The first time was worse. Since then, I’ve done this deliberately—no, I’m not a masochist; I’m a survivalist—a dozen times. I know the routine. I developed ways to mitigate it, but there’s no way to make it anything less than awful.
It still sucks, stinks, and sucks some more. But I will be there for her birthday even if someone has to carry me.
I spent ten or fifteen minutes recuperating before I pushed myself to my feet. I could stand. I could walk. I felt wobbly and weak, but I knew from experience it would gradually diminish over time. My natural healing and the healing spells would help. Soon, I would be able to eat and replenish the calories my body burned in recovery. Then things would improve even more quickly. If it was early enough in the day, I might even be in the near vicinity of normal by the time the sun went down and I died again.
Good enough. I hefted the package and exited the shift-booth. Three Knights of Shadow were waiting for me. They saluted, but didn’t do the one-knee genuflection. I was pleased.
“Good morning,” I offered. “To what do I owe the ple
asure of a three-person sentry detail?”
“It is your great-granddaughter’s birthday,” replied the Shield. I recognized him but I couldn’t quite remember his name. Fillion? Fallion? Something like that.
“I’m getting predictable. That’s a bad sign. I’ll have to make other arrangements with Tymara, I guess. Are all three of you following me?”
“Yes, my lord. If we can predict your arrival, others may.”
“Then we better get a carriage. I’m not walking through the streets with the three of you intimidating the crowd.” They chuckled. I appreciated it. Knights of Shadow are highly regarded. People are always happy to see them. I’m the one with the reputation for being the Demon King. One of them swung the door open for me.
Tymara doesn’t have birthday parties, not in the sense of having a dozen kids over to cut a cake and give presents and blow out candles. For one thing, they don’t do the cake and candles thing over here. For another, extinguishing candles is probably not a good bit of symbolism to use in the House of Flame. And, finally, even if they did, she’d simply turn them off instead of blowing them out, the little cheater.
There’s also the possibility she could lose her temper with a guest. The results would require a broom, a dustpan, and something more substantial than an apology.
Instead, Tymara—and to a lesser extent, Tianna and Amber; they share a birthday, after all—received visits from people during the whole day, mostly the more devout worshippers of the Mother of Flame. A few of the upper-class locals paid calls, as well, along with some formal visits from priests of various temples. I understand Beltar showed up, too. He and a whole platoon of the Knights of Shadow did more than drop by. They attended the dawn services, in point of fact, and paid their respects to the birthday girls afterward. Tianna was gratified and Tymara was tickled, according to my bodyguards.
My altar ego makes it a point to be nice to the other gods wherever he can. It’s a policy. It soothes them a little, what with the quasi-avatar of the Lord of Shadow being the Demon King of Karvalen. That’s another reason I don’t want to rule the place! He also tends to try and make nice with the Mother of Flame, too, whenever the family is involved. One is political, the other is personal. He didn’t ask me what I thought of the idea. He didn’t need to.