by Jack Conner
She nodded and stared at her plate, which had only been picked at.
"Goddamn," she said, snapping up to face Cloire. "No, you bitch, I'm not going with you."
Cloire's lip actually lifted to expose a gleaming fang, but then the corner of her mouth twisted itself into a smile. She said nothing, only shared a small patient glance with Kilian.
Ruegger reached for Danielle's hand and was almost surprised when she accepted the gesture, even squeezing back. She withdrew her hand, leaned back in her chair and lit a cigarette. To Ruegger, she seemed full of thought.
* * *
While the servants were taking away the plates, Kharker informed his guests that the Hunt would begin in two hours and invited them all to join him. He felt that their differences could all be worked out if they Hunted together. And, since his invitation was more command than request, all the immortals agreed.
After the meal that had been breakfast for the odd flock was finished, Cloire and Kilian retired to a room that they'd decided to share. She lit a French cigarette and moved to a large window, looking down into the jungle. Kilian acquainted himself with the mini-bar and began mixing himself a drink.
"Get me something, too," she said.
"What?"
"Doesn't matter. Scotch on rocks would be decent."
"Something the matter?"
"Why?"
"You drink tequila when you're happy. You drink scotch or Jack Daniels when you're not."
She turned to him, a strange expression on her face. "What the hell are you talking about, Kilian?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
"Jesus Fucking Christ. I can't believe that someone as self-absorbed as you can notice something like that. Let alone remember it. Shit, I've never made that connection." She waved her hand, dismissing it. "Fuck it. Just make the goddamned scotch."
After he made their drinks, he brought her glass over and handed it to her.
"So," he said. "Why'd you bring me along on this run and not Byron?"
"Why do you think? A few days alone with me, he wouldn't have been able to remain focused on the mission."
"So you made him stay behind while you took me along." He sipped his drink. "You treat him like shit, you know."
"Since when do you care?"
"I don't. I think you two are codependent, and I think you lust after him."
"If you're saying that I love him, you're a fucking moron. Byron's like a little boy. He needs his treats now and then, and he needs a good slap across the face every once and awhile, too."
"That's why you brought me instead of him. To slap him across the face."
"No." She sucked a last hit off her cigarette and tossed it out the open window. "I brought you along because ... well, you're growing on me."
"After almost twenty years, and I'm growing on you?"
She moved a little closer to him, so that he could smell the scotch on her breath and a small fragrant whiff that came from the shampoo she'd used.
"Yes," she said and sat her drink down on the windowsill. "You're growing on me."
* * *
Kilian was a good lover, Cloire thought to herself afterwards. Perhaps even a great one. He was passionate, in an angry sort of way, and he was lean and skillful. He seemed to like it when she arched her back, pressing into him, and thrust her hips rapidly. There had been one time, before she'd forced her way on top, that he'd almost laughed in pleasure; that had been when she'd given his back a good clawing. She enjoyed seeing the arrogant bastard in pain, and he hadn't seemed to mind.
Afterwards, they lay together drowsily, enjoying the lush bed Kharker had provided. Cloire smoked a cigarette or two while Kilian worked on a cigar, and after a time he drifted into a light doze.
Still naked and enjoying the dried sweat against her skin, Cloire pushed herself up from the bed and moved to the window, where she watched the jungle for awhile. It was beautiful here, she thought, but in a strange way that irritated her. It was like virgin territory out here, and to Cloire there was little more irritating than a virgin. She thought it would be fun to go out there right now with the largest chainsaw she could find and start dismembering the trees right and left. And she would not stop until this place was scarred and ugly. Only then could she really find peace here.
Suddenly, appearing between great trunks and the almost-impenetrable undergrowth of the jungle, came Danielle, leaping and ducking where the moon could not easily find her. To Cloire's amusement, she felt a bitter growl work its way up from her belly. Old rivalries died hard.
"What is it?" said Kilian, sitting up in bed.
"It's Danielle. Looks like she's taking a walk."
Kilian re-lit his cigar. "Think she'll do it—leave Ruegger and come with us?"
"She has to. It's in her nature. But it's more important that we get Ruegger. Vistrot's orders."
"When she leaves, Ruegger'll come after her."
She smiled. "That's the plan."
Kilian looked at his cigar. "Why did I have to start smoking again?"
"Because you're in love with me, and you know I hate pure things. That includes lungs."
He climbed out of bed. "Cloire?"
"What?"
"Danielle's room is in the other wing. On the opposite side of this place."
"You're right."
"I know,” he said.
She saw it, too. "She's trying to signal us. She took a walk to get away from Ruegger and now she wants us to come down and talk to her."
"That's what it looks like. But why?"
Cloire chuckled. "She wants to be sold." The sound died in her throat. Someone else was moving down there, jogging from the house to the jungle where Danielle could be seen intermittently. Harry Lavaca. "Damnit," she said. "I knew we shouldn't've let him have the run of the place."
"It was your idea."
She shrugged. "I like him. Now I'm going down there to speak with the Gutter Angel. Are you coming?"
"No. Both us would be intimidating. Also, you forget: I killed her pig."
For a moment his face was blank, and then they both laughed.
Chapter 3
After Danielle's decision to go on a walk by herself, Ruegger distracted himself with a trip down to Kharker's extensive library—a place in which he himself had spent many long summer nights back when, losing himself in this virtual sea of information. The ancient tomes covered everything from classic mortal literature to old newspaper clippings of underground immortal presses, and everything in between.
Ruegger selected one of several running biographies of Augustine Michael Vistrot and sat down to read up on the shade that Hauswell believed to be behind the Scouring, but he hadn't gotten very far when he heard a familiar coughing behind him. When he swiveled his head, there stood Kharker, as worn and aristocratic as always. Ruegger felt his mouth go slightly dry. For the first time in a long while, he and the Hunter were alone together.
"Find anything interesting?" Kharker said.
"I'm reading up on the Titan."
"So you believe what Hauswell said, eh?"
"I believe that he believes what he said, and I'm quite sure that he's done a hell of a lot more research on the matter than I have. So I'm willing to go along with what he told me until I can come up with something better."
"You always did have an open mind."
"For all the good it's done me."
"Dear boy ...” breathed the werewolf. "It's been so long."
They watched each other, and a long silence stretched into an even longer one.
Ruegger felt things he hadn't felt in over half a century. Kharker still measured up to Ruegger's impression of him as a rock—stable and old and wise. This last, wisdom, was the trait that appealed to Ruegger the most, for Kharker had taught him to embrace a part of himself that he'd been forced to reject and hate before. The question Ruegger asked himself every night since he'd left Kharker's side was whether or not that darker side should in fact be hated and rejected. In
all his years of wandering and thinking, Ruegger had yet to find an answer to that one.
As he looked into Kharker's face, he felt the Hunter's love for him—the Hunter's unconditional love. Kharker embraced and encouraged every side of Ruegger, even the murderous half that Ruegger tried so hard to repress, the half that even Danielle attempted either to fight or ignore.
"Come here, my boy," Kharker said at last, holding out his arms. Ruegger rose from the chair and moved towards him, smelling that old dusky scent that his mentor could never seem to shed and that was always strangely soothing. They crushed their arms about each other and held each other tight.
"I missed you," Kharker said.
"I missed you.”
They stepped back, and Ruegger could see the moisture in Kharker's old brown eyes and wondered if he looked any better himself.
"Let's go into the Elephant Room," said the Great White Hunter. "We can relax there. And we can talk."
"Yes," Ruegger answered. "We need to talk."
* * *
Harry had been wandering around down in the catacombs before finding Danielle. It was strange and dusty down there, but Harry found it inviting, even homey. He’d heard that Kharker suffered from a mild claustrophobia, which explained why the tunnels themselves were as wide as they were.
Eventually, Harry stumbled on the Great White Bastard's extensive wine cellar and, laughing to himself, swiped a bottle that claimed to be over two hundred years old. It was wonderful.
Drinking straight from the bottle, Harry soon found himself in the prisoners' quarters, and all his levity drained from him in an instant. Though the cells were well-furnished, it didn't change the fact that they were cells. When he passed by, the prisoners that were awake rose from their activities and moved towards him, gripping the iron bars that separated the free and the caged. One man's face was particularly haunted, and it was to this man that Harry handed the bottle of wine. The man stared at Harry for a long moment, took a swig, then passed the bottle to a mate. "Thanks," the man said.
Harry began a thorough search for the keys to their cells, but of course there were none, and Harry chastised himself for being so naïve; Kharker would simply use his mindthrust to open the doors.
Disheartened, Harry found where the catacombs ended and gave way to open air. There, across an open expanse of tall grass, waited the jungle.
He lit a cigarette and leaned against the outside wall of Kharker's mansion. After a few minutes, he heard the faint sound of something stirring in the jungle. Straining his eyes into the night, he thought he caught a flash of moonlight on white skin. Danielle. He threw down the cigarette and ran after her.
"Danielle!" he shouted, over and over, until he could see that she'd slowed down and emerged from the undergrowth into the clearing between the jungle and the mansion.
"What is it?" she said as he approached, panting. She stood there, still, her black hair wild, run through with bristles and leaves, her eyes cool, arms folded impatiently across her chest.
"Danielle," he wheezed, placing his hands on his hips and bending over to suck in air.
"That's me," she said.
"Danielle, I've got to talk to you."
"Talk."
"I'm serious."
"Go ahead."
He raised his head to face her. It was amazing how ethereal she looked, the perfect vampire. Beautiful, too, with cruel lips and high cheekbones and impossibly deep, dark eyes. He didn't know her well, had only met her on a couple of occasions, and for a moment he found it disconcerting that, though he was a few inches her senior, she had such a presence of self that she somehow seemed to tower over him. Maybe she was playing tricks with his mind, he thought, although he'd heard that she disliked such displays of power.
"What were you doing?" he said, still breathing heavily. "Running around out there?"
"I wanted some fresh air.”
For a moment, he wished that he hadn't given that prisoner his bottle of wine. "Danielle," he said. "You can't go with Cloire and Kilian."
"Why? Have they already killed Malcolm?"
"No. And neither will you."
"Over your dead body, huh?"
He couldn't tell if she was mocking him or not. "He's innocent."
"He's innocent. Of what? Name one thing that bastard is innocent of."
Harry shook his head. "That's not what I meant. Please, take me seriously, Danielle."
"I'm trying."
"Look.” He placed the back of a hand to his forehead. "This isn't working. If I defend him, you'll play devil's advocate just to irritate me."
"You're defending him and I'm playing devil's advocate. Gotcha. Just so we got that clear."
"Shut up! You know what I meant. Malcolm's changed."
"Yeah. It's Martin now. Isn't that what Cloire said?"
"Listen. The man you used to know as Malcolm Verger was a very bad man, a very wicked and evil man. But he's not that way anymore. He's a family man, a good person. I know it's hard for you to believe—"
He felt a tap on his shoulder and spun around to see Cloire holding a bottle of beer out to him.
"Here, Harry," she said. "Drink up like a good mortal. Go back inside, okay? Leave me and Dani alone. We need to talk."
Harry glanced from Cloire to Danielle.
"Cloire," he said. "Don't do this. You're trying to discredit me by sending me off with a bottle, but Dani's not going to go for it."
"It's Guiness, Harry."
"Enough.” He turned to Danielle, whose face was a mask of nothing but cold eyes and hard lips. "Danielle, do you want me to leave?"
"Do you have anything more to say?" she said.
He wanted to open his mouth and tell her something important, but he knew it would only come out in an angry stutter. He hung his head and whispered, "No. I guess not."
As he began to walk away, Cloire shouted, "Don't forget this."
He spun to catch the bottle of Guiness. Angrily, he hurled the bottle at the mansion wall, but it fell short, disappearing into the tall grass of the clearing.
He swore once under his breath, then turned to Danielle one last time. Cloire had her arm around the vampiress and was leading her back into the jungle. Harry swore again and turned back towards the Lodge. He picked up the bottle along the way.
* * *
Once in the Elephant Room, Kharker ordered in some drinks (not bothering to pour them himself) and had his gramophone turned on to some old Big Band songs. It was there that Ruegger's Keeper and the Darling of Lord Kharker began to speak. At first, the conversation was slow and strained, but by small leaps and bounds they began to grow comfortable with each other once more, though Ruegger sensed vaguely that something was missing.
By and by, he remembered how hypnotizing Kharker's presence was and how difficult it was to remain detached when speaking with him. Ruegger recalled that a discussion with his old friend wasn't merely hypnotic but intoxicating as well—a feeling not diminished by the fact that a steady storm of wine flooded his head. At last, Ruegger allowed himself to (as Kharker had put it) relax—to lower his guard—and it quickly became more like old times. They told stories and chuckled and bullshitted and drank. As the hour wore on, their eyes met more and more frequently.
Just when things were starting to run smoothly, Kilian walked into the room.
"Jesus, Kharker. How do you live in this place? There's nothing here, for gods' sakes. Not even a fucking television."
At Kilian's intrusion, something in Ruegger realigned, as if he were waking up. As much as he loved Kharker, he didn't want to fall back into their old routines. He'd broken free of the Hunter's spell once and was glad to be out of it. At the same time ...
"How do I live here," Kharker repeated slowly, casting a rueful glance at Ruegger. "Well, I keep myself amused."
Kilian pulled a sour face. "I don't see how, you old buzzard. And what the hell is that music—Glen Miller?"
"Jimmy Dorsey," Ruegger said.
The w
erewolf shrugged. "I didn't listen to this crap back in the twenties and I can't say I'm enjoying it now."
"Pull up a chair," suggested Kharker.
"Well … as long as there's something to drink."
"There is."
Kilian joined the conversation, for all the good he did it. Ruegger found him to be a troubled and dour creature, though (the Darkling hated to admit) not without his good points, chief among these being wit. Nevertheless, Ruegger had promised Danielle a long time ago that he would dispatch the swine-killer and he had no intention of going back on his promise.
"So what is it between you and Cloire?" Kharker asked the new arrival after a quarter-hour of teeth-pulling small talk.
Kilian shrugged. "Nothing.”
The Hunter smiled. "You're no gentleman, Kilian. You have every right to kiss and tell. It's obvious: you and Cloire are lovers. But I seem to remember that it was Byron who—"
"Oh, for God's sakes! This is stupid. Cloire and I aren't lovers. We've hated each other too long for that to be true."
"Yet it is."
Kilian sighed and stared down at the carpet. "And yet," he agreed tiredly.
"Speaking of Cloire," Ruegger said. "Where is she?"
"On a walk.” He said it with a smile that Ruegger didn't like at all.
Kharker, who also seemed to sense that Kilian was holding back something, said, “What kind of walk?”
Before Kilian could answer, Harry Lavaca appeared at the entrance to the room and all eyes turned toward him. He looked sweaty and defeated. Without a word, he walked past the immortals and the fireplace to arrive at the bar, where he poured himself a bourbon and tonic and took several generous swallows. Only then did he nod at Ruegger.
Ruegger returned the greeting. "Rough evening?"
Harry pulled up a chair to join the circle. After he'd had a seat, he looked at Lord Kharker. "Mind if I take a load off?"
Kharker cast a warm look at Ruegger and began chuckling.
"Balls of steel," said the Hunter.
"Head of rocks," Ruegger said.