Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “Ted, this is Bronze. Bronze, Ted.”

  “Pleased to meet you?”

  “I should think so. This way, please. Here are the keys.”

  “Thank you.”

  I showed them in through the mine entrance gate and down the tunnel to the hidden passage.

  “And don’t go too far down the main tunnel,” I cautioned. “Pit trap. Nasty.”

  “I’ll want to look at it later.”

  “Okay, but be very careful. I’m told it’s hard to spot and lethal.”

  “…or maybe I won’t.”

  He was more impressed by Bronze than by the vault door, but only because she moves on her own, I think. The four of them did find the facility interesting, for a variety of reasons. One of them—Charles, also called “Charlie” or “Chuck,”—asked if I ever used the place.

  “Not yet,” I told him. “I only had it built after Ted agreed to kidnap a bloodsucker.”

  “But that was… was…”

  “The tunnels were already here,” I pointed out. “It was just a matter of moving materials and putting it all together.”

  “Still, all this in… a week?”

  “All right, I had it built two years ago. Does that make you feel better? Let it go, please.”

  He didn’t like it. I think it scared him.

  On the other hand, they were all suitably impressed by the containment facility. Locks, bars, bolts, cuffs, clamps, collars—you name it, we got it, ranging from hardened steel to solid silver.

  “No cold iron?” Ted asked.

  “I’ve never had a fairy try to kill me,” I replied.

  “Seems fair. What’s with these collars?” he asked, turning one over in his hands.

  “They’re explosive. The segmented armor on the outside contains the thin strip of explosive running along the center of the inside. You can detonate it with a radio control—here you go—or it’ll go off automatically when it gets out of radio range. Ripping it off also sets it off. And always put fresh batteries in before you lock them in place.”

  “The lock can be picked,” the middle son, Edward, pointed out.

  “Why are you permitting lockpicks to your prisoners?” I countered.

  “They’re ingenious.”

  “Be smarter.”

  “I don’t like your tone.”

  “Fair enough. I don’t much like you. So, now that we’re in agreement as to not liking each other, can we move on? I want to show you the recording room and the power room.”

  “Is this the only way in or out?” Ted asked.

  “Barring some sort of weird magical portal or other non-physical opening, yes. There are a couple of concealed exhaust pipes for the diesel generator, but they’re only a couple of inches. If you capture something that can turn into mist or vapor—and survive a trip through a diesel engine—it could get out that way.”

  The tour went reasonably well, all things considered. I left them in charge of the place and arguing whether they should wheel drums of diesel fuel into the mine or just run a long hose to refuel the tanks on the lower level. Nice to see they were thinking ahead. They continued to look the place over. I left them to it.

  Shortly after the sun came up, Mary visited the Reynolds’ house. They must have gone home shortly after I left them, since they greeted her and set off to assault the chosen lair. Mary wore her video glasses so I could see what she saw, linked through her bracelet Diogephone. Bronze and I waited in the Impala a few blocks away, ready to support the operation. Bronze had a scrying spell on her rear-view mirror and kept an eye on the surrounding streets.

  I was a trifle concerned when the hunting party paused a block short of the building for a rendezvous with another group of hunters, presumably three or more cells of their extended hunting club, making a total of sixteen people. I recognized two of them as some religious zealots we briefly hosted after the holy hostilities incident. They didn’t even blink at Mary, though. They never got a good look at her in the car, of course, and now she wore her hair differently, had glasses, and a complete change of wardrobe.

  I didn’t know what to think of her outfit: Maroon bell-bottom pants with a black, long-sleeved turtleneck shirt, and a tiger-striped jacket to go over it all. Mary made it look good, of course, but it didn’t seem effortless. I don’t think it’s a fashion choice I can get behind. At least she blended in well with the rest of the gang. It was 1969, after all, and California. They were all dressed in similar style, with all the expected variations. Mary would have stood out in her tactical ninja wear. As it was, her outfit didn’t rate a second look. She did, but not her outfit.

  Although, to be fair, every fiber of her ensemble was still close to bulletproof. Fashion-conscious armor is my tailor’s trademark.

  After a brief pause to collect the troops, the religious types prayed over everyone and sprinkled holy water everywhere. Mary didn’t mind. I don’t know how she felt about it, but I was nervous. It’s one thing to have a holy symbol aimed at you in the middle of a fight. It’s quite another to hold still while someone presses it to your forehead. She didn’t flinch and nobody commented on any smoke or burn marks, so it must have been all right.

  The lair they selected was in Los Angeles, a five-storey brick apartment building, probably dating from around 1910 or so. I didn’t much care for it, myself. Too many windows, too many points of access, too many people. I would have gone for the estate lair, myself. It was relatively private and, if Mary tackled the alarms, unlikely to have interruptions. It wasn’t my call, though.

  Cars and vans rolled out. One van circled the building, dropping off two-man teams at the lesser exits, covering all sides of the building. The rest of the people went into the lobby, right through the front door, thanks to the largest of the men and his well-placed boot.

  Attack of the psychedelic disco hippies. Oh, the things I have seen in my life.

  Mary wasted no time heading for the wiring closet, flanked by two men. Telephones, alarms, electrical power—all that stuff has to come into a building somewhere, and we searched for it in advance. There were a couple of doors in the way, but she opened them with practiced ease. They might be sturdy, but the locks were basic. Once in, she performed electronic wizardry on the fire alarm system, keeping it from registering any problems. After that, she cracked open the telephone exchange, attached a number of alligator clips and wires, and gave her bodyguards a thumbs-up. One of them produced a rather bulky walkie-talkie and gave everyone a go-ahead. Cutting the electricity was then simply a matter of throwing the main switches on the power boxes.

  As she did all these things, the rest of the invaders screwed silencers onto their handguns, drew other guns out of their bags, and produced flashlights. They headed straight for the vampire’s sleeping quarters and paused only moments while waiting for the go-ahead. The same well-placed boot opened another door.

  The apartment building wasn’t completely dominated by the vampire’s servants. Several of the residents were just that—residents. No doubt they were sitting in their homes, grumbling about the power outage first thing on a Monday morning and cursing at the way it fouled up their morning routine. Some, however, reacted as though the building was under attack.

  The vampire was in the basement, naturally. Sunlight-proof was only one of the good things about it. It also meant it was close to earthquake-proof. The building might come down on top of the coffin, but it still wouldn’t let in any light. The building could burn down with the same lack of result. Putting his casket anywhere else was more risky. The disco hippie attack force went through the ground-floor apartment, killed the human guards, and applied three shotgun shells and a boot to the door leading to the stairs—it was almost as though they knew where the internal bolts were. At the bottom of the stairwell, they applied dynamite and duct tape to the wall around the steel access door, and retreated upstairs again.

  Mary was also useful there. She didn’t place the charges herself, but she helped set them up so they we
re easy to place and simple to use. She doesn’t particularly like explosives—I think it’s a professional pride thing—but she does know what she’s doing with them. I suspect there were some pesky vault doors in her early career.

  About this point, four servants from elsewhere in the building arrived and a firefight ensued. Mary heard the gunfire as she and her escorts headed toward the access point. She stayed out of the actual fight, hanging back to observe, but I could tell she wanted to jump someone from behind. Her escorts did it for her, getting the bloodsucker’s minions in a crossfire and leaving four corpses on the floor.

  I heard the explosion with my own ears when they blew the door. Mary didn’t go down into the cloud of dust and smoke, but she did wait until they came back up—four men struggled with a heavy, somewhat battered steel coffin. Very nice. Black with silver fittings, enameled, and probably quite shiny before it was scratched up, dented all over, and covered in dust.

  They hustled out, making an orderly withdrawal, and loaded the coffin into a van. They put their wounded in another van, hustled aboard the rest of the vehicles, and departed with brisk efficiency.

  I may have to upgrade my opinion of these guys. I don’t respect them, but maybe I should. True, we handed them everything they could possibly want to know about the place, so it was just a matter of execution. Still, they did execute the plan, and they did it very well indeed. I wondered how many of them were former military and how many had a family history of this. Either way, they were a whole lot better than I expected.

  Bronze and I rolled out to find me some mortal breakfast while we waited for Mary. I topped up the tank, parked at a place called “The Burger Barn,” and went inside. Bronze waited outside while I insufflated four or five thousand calories.

  Well, sort of. While I was sitting in a booth, chomping viciously through a Double Combo Super Stack, I heard her engine grunt to life. I glanced out the window and saw someone in her driver’s seat as she backed out of her parking spot. She projected a complicated aura of amusement and annoyance, so I didn’t go chasing out after her. I did wonder what was going on, to which she replied she would be back shortly.

  I felt reassured, so I ordered a Double Bacon Burger and another Coke.

  By the time I finished the last of the fries—and a took a trip to the bathroom—Bronze was back, parked in her spot again. The driver’s door opened. A man flopped out, landed on his hands and knees, and vomited on the pavement.

  I stuffed my trash in the can, stacked the plastic basket things on the tray, and went outside. The would-be car thief lay next to the Impala, looking pale with a slight greenish tinge. He didn’t move as I walked up, stepped over him, and climbed into the driver’s seat. I thought I heard him whimper as Bronze closed her door.

  “Were you mean to the man?” I asked, as she revved up and backed out again. She admitted it without any trace of guilt or shame. He tried to steal her! He was lucky to be alive.

  “Well, when you put it like that, yes, he is. Let’s go get something for Mary and get you a fresh tank of gas.”

  We got food from a Macho Taco and pulled into a gas station. Mary finally called as I was filling the tank. She gave us directions and Bronze and I went to pick her up.

  She waited for me at a bus stop, idly flirting with some of the giant sunglasses and open shirts. Bronze pulled up at the curb, she brushed off her would-be suitors, and we drove away.

  “Is this for me?” she asked, lifting the bags from the floorboards.

  “Some of it.”

  “Tacos? For breakfast?”

  “Macho Tacos,” I corrected, “and it’s closer to brunch. Have one.”

  “I’ll try anything once. More if I like it. Did you see everything okay?” she asked, unwrapping.

  “Pretty much. Short of a camera crew with no sense of self-preservation, it’s the best live footage we could hope for. They did get the bloodsucker?”

  “Yep,” she replied, around a mouthful of Macho Taco. “This is actually not bad.”

  “Did they open the box to check?” I pressed.

  “Before they picked it up. They didn’t want me to see—they think I’m a civilian, remember?—but they assured me they checked their cargo. I gave them my best puzzled-but-okay expression, like I was thinking of asking about the coffin, before I shrugged and took off.” She produced a scrap of paper. “If I ever want to work with them again, we traded phone numbers.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep.”

  “How sure are you it’s not some guy hoping to ask you out?”

  “I’m not. That’s part of the fun.” She took a huge bite and chewed ferociously.

  “Fair enough. Hey! Pass me some of those!”

  We could have spent the rest of the day in Apocalyptica, enchanting more probe gates. We didn’t. It would be a long drive back to the garage shift-booth and we’d have to make it twice to make our appointment in the containment facility after sundown. Bronze was all for sprinting the whole way and playing tag with police cruisers. Mary and I decided otherwise. I told Bronze she was welcome to run out and back if she pleased, but she declined.

  Instead, we took the day off. There are times when not rushing about is as important as the actual rushing about. Everyone needs a little stress rest. We went up to Hollywood and saw the sights. The Walk of Fame, with all the stars, was interesting, but there were so many names I didn’t recognize. Most of the stars I knew were set in stone somewhat later. On the other hand, someone had thoughtfully provided handprints for Micky Mouse outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Big, cartoon hands, along with those little markings on the back, in fact.

  Mary wanted to take a horseback tour up to the Hollywood sign, but I nixed the idea. Anything short of a full-sized warhorse isn’t going to carry me. She pouted, so we toured down the Sunset Strip, stopping at every restaurant we came to. We didn’t get them all, but we tried.

  Rather than sweat through the sunset in a parking garage, we made our way to the Roosevelt Hotel. I was thinking we would get a room for an hour and head off again, but I was mistaken. The lobby alone was enough to cause a delay. It’s impressive. It has lots of space, done mostly in dark brown or golden amber. Couches everywhere. Everything polished. It was a room you weren’t supposed to walk into. It was a room for making an entrance.

  I took notes. If I ever want to design a castle interior to impress visitors, I might have to spend some time studying architecture and interior design. I may never manage it, but at least I’ll recognize good work when I see it.

  Getting a room wasn’t difficult. Even without a reservation, the desk clerk was happy to make arrangements. Mary had a suitcase in the trunk, next to the boxes of bibles—someday, I’ll clean everything out, I swear—but she wasn’t allowed to carry it. A young man took charge of it and led us up to our room.

  Note for the interested: They don’t have small rooms. I’m not sure they have single rooms. You could raise a family of four in most of them. It’s that kind of place.

  Still, I’m a barbarian in many ways. All I care about is the lighting and the plumbing. Mary was delighted with the rooms and enjoyed the luxurious feel of everything. I appreciated the hot water.

  With sunset out of the way, we checked out of the hotel. Mary still wore her tiger-striped jacket and maroon pants, but mostly as a distraction. The difference between a tactical ninja outfit and a tactical ninja outfit covered by disco inferno camouflage is striking. She took off the colorful additions once Bronze’s was roaring down the road.

  “Planning for trouble?” I asked.

  “Always. You’re about to walk into a vampire containment facility full of vampire hunters. You think that’s going to go well?”

  “Nope. I hope it goes successfully.”

  “And you can tell them I’m outside, waiting for you. Consequences.”

  “Ah, I see. Good thinking.”

  “Mind if I ask what precautions you took? Or am I your only hole card?”

&n
bsp; “I have a couple of minor tricks,” I admitted. “I also know where the back door is.”

  “Back door? Do you mean the shift-room?”

  “Yep.”

  “You don’t want them to have it, do you?”

  “Oh, definitely not. But I can always send through the equivalent of a magical disruption grenade and an incendiary bomb.”

  “What will they send through?”

  “Nothing, because if I have to escape that way, there’s already a disruption and incendiary bomb ready to switch back.”

  “Oh. Well, it does cut down on pursuit,” she admitted. “You’ll keep the Diogenes channel open?”

  “Yes,” Diogenes replied, from my pocket. I raised my eyebrows at Mary.

  “He’s smarter than you are,” she chuckled.

  “Just don’t come in after me unless I’m incapacitated.”

  “You need a safeword,” she suggested. “How about ‘problematic’?”

  “I’m on the wrong end of the whip for a safeword.”

  “Humor me?” She gave me the big, soulful eyes routine. Most unfair.

  “Fine,” I sighed. “If something is problematic, I need your help.”

  “Excellent,” she smiled.

  “You just like teasing me.”

  “There is that,” she admitted, and checked her pistols.

  Hey! Am I coming, too?

  “What for?”

  To listen to its thoughts, set fire to it if I have to, and to keep you informed of the ongoing treacherous nastiness from the humans?

  “I was about to refuse, but that last one has some seriously good thinking behind it.”

  I know.

  “All right. You can come. But first… Bronze, find a parking spot, please. Firebrand, my cloak, and I need to experiment a little. They’re going to be paranoid enough about me. Carrying a big monster of a sword along will simply make them more nervous, which is not what I am after.”

  We pulled over and I climbed out. With Firebrand in hand, I considered. Over the shoulder was out. There was no way to hide a long, dragon-headed hilt sticking up. It would have to be at my waist. I belted it on and settled it into place.