Vampire Thriller (Book 2): The Living Night

by Jack Conner

  "I'm sorry about her,” Kharker said.

  The Darkling eyed him strangely. "You sound as if you'd heard about her."

  Slowly, the Hunter sighed, staring at the fire with his face full of concentration. "I've been keeping tabs on the kavasari for years, my sons. It's one of my greatest pastimes. Among all of us, they are the strongest and the best. And the most lethal." Unexpectedly, he smiled. "They are the biggest game there is."

  "So you did know about her."

  "I’d heard rumors, and I had my suspicions, but there wasn't anything concrete, really. It wasn't until you told me what Hauswell said that I knew for sure, and then there wasn't any point in telling you about it, was there?"

  "I suppose not." Ruegger paused. "What else do you know about the kavasari?"

  "It's not relevant."

  "Ah, but it is. Kavasari seem to be inextricably linked with all of this. First Roche Sarnova is attacked by a daybeast with kavasari blood. Meanwhile, the Scouring begins wiping out powerful immortals in the world by using local hit-teams. Most of these teams are given kavasari blood to make them stronger so that the hit will be successful. Now it turns out that the mastermind behind the Scouring is a kavasari, as well."

  Jean-Pierre frowned. "Then could it be that it’s the same single kavasari that's doing all this—Amelia?"

  "I don't believe so," said Kharker, slowly.

  "Why?"

  "Don't interrogate me."

  Jean-Pierre didn’t back down. "You must have had some personal involvement with them."

  "If I have, it's none of your concern, either of you."

  Ruegger raised an eyebrow. "Let's elaborate on that, Kharker. Especially on the part where you become personally involved with them."

  "No," said the Hunter, and closed his eyes. "Let's not do this, gentleman. As much as I would like to unburden myself to you, some secrets must be kept. Please respect that. Still, you do deserve to hear something of what I've learned about them over the years. If you would like, I'll tell you what I know about the position of the kavasari in our society—and how that came to be. Then you will see the connection between them and the situation in which we find ourselves. But I won't discuss my personal encounters with them. Agreed?"

  "It'll do."

  "Good. It begins with a story."

  The albino took a puff on his cigar. "I like stories."

  "It starts a long, long time ago, in a place a little north from us. You see, about a hundred or two thousand years ago, give or take, evolution coughed up a creature called a human being. Somewhere around this time, perhaps due to the existence of spirits from outside our world and their meddling in our reality, immortals came into play. Though there were many many different kinds of immortals, they kept themselves secret from humankind, because there was a vastly greater number of humans than shades, and mortals could wipe out the undead if they only knew. At any rate, the most powerful form of immortal was the kavasari, and there were only a few of these, and they ruled—each in their own separate kingdom—over the other undead. This went on for some time, and it was a time of relative peace.

  "Then one day a bright lad of a kavasari—let's call him Bob—decides to take over all immortals by crushing his other kavasari opponents. War is waged. The other kavasari leaders band together to resist him and, after many years of fighting—using the lesser shades as their soldiers, mind you—they defeat poor Bob, who somehow escapes into the wild blue yonder.

  “But the seed of global—and I use the term loosely, being that they believed the earth was flat back then—anyway, the seed of global power is sown among the victorious kavasari leaders, and they war for dominance among each other. Again, they use the weaker immortals as their soldiers, but eventually these weaklings get sick of beating each other's brains out over some leader who never did them a damned bit of good to start with.

  "These lesser shades rise up against their kavasari masters, defeating them with their greater numbers. The surviving kavasari scatter and keep themselves in hiding for the rest of their lives. They've learned their lesson; from now on, the last thing a kavasari wants is a seat of power. Things continue peacefully for awhile, until old Bob shows up again.

  "Now one thing needs to be said for old Bob: he’s a strong bastard; in fact, some say he was the very first immortal, but that's debatable. Anyway, Bob falls in love with this particular vampire girl, who is becoming a very successful chieftain of her people, and he starts courting her in secret. Well, his little Barbarella is a warrior queen, and she’s under constant attack. Bob is worried about her safety.

  "He calls up a handful of kavasari that he has brought over himself and who are loyal to him—as much out of fear of him as anything else, most likely. And Bob, always having been a persuasive bastard, gets these poor chaps to form a cult of protection around his Barbarella, so that she'll always be safe. He calls this order the Sangro Sankts and clouds their purpose in mystery and superstition, telling them that this girl is a holy being or somesuch nonsense, destined to take over the world—which, naturally, is what Bob intends for her to do—and which she does a pretty good job of, actually. Anyway, the Sangro Sankts protect her, under one minor stipulation—that they keep immortals from the knowledge of humans at all costs. This is the primary Commandant that Bob gives them to follow.”

  “Why?” interrupted Jean-Pierre. “Why keep us a secret from mortals?”

  “The obvious reason, of course. The same reason why the kavasari were afraid of the less powerful immortals. Because there are a lot more mortals than there are shades. Humans could wipe us out at any time, if they only knew about us, and if they acted against us before we acted against them. So Bob decides to take up the burden of keeping immortals safe by creating his little cult. They would kill anyone who tried to make humans aware of our presence.

  “Anyway, to continue. Eventually, Barbarella, with the help of her secret protectors, seizes a pretty sizeable chunk of the immortal population, and it turns out that she’s an able ruler. After a hundred years or so, Bob gets bored and disappears back into the cesspool from whence he came, never to heard from again. Later, it becomes apparent to the few who are aware of all this that Bob just wanted a little taste of power after his years of anonymity. Once he got his fill, he took off, leaving Barbarella and the Sangro Sankts to manage the shadeworld on their own.

  “Eventually Barbarella gets killed by a rival. The Sangro Sankts take revenge, then appoint an heir to take their queen's place. This establishes the tradition that continues until today; when one of their ‘masters' die or decides to relinquish his or her power, the Sangro Sankts simply serve another, which has been predetermined ahead of time. My good friend Roche Sarnova is the latest of this line. That’s the end of the story."

  Jean-Pierre clapped his hands and whistled. "Encore! Encore!"

  Kharker sighed.

  "I’m not satisfied with the answer you gave Jean-Pierre,” Ruegger said. “Why was it so important to, ah, Bob, that immortal existence be kept a secret from humanity?"

  "Because there are a hundred million times more humans than there are shades, Ruegger. Isn't it obvious?"

  "Sure, but why make this a central part of the Sangro Sankts' mythology?"

  "Because they are the secret rulers of all immortals—the shadow rulers, which is what ‘Sangro Sankts' loosely translates to. If they don't look out for their flock, who will? Does that answer your question?"

  "I suppose."

  Jean-Pierre coughed. "Khark ... do these kavasari still rule?"

  "No. Their order protects and guides Roche Sarnova, thus their influence is limited only to his domain, which isn't what it used to be. I don't blame Roche for that, of course; the population of shades has exploded in the past few millennia, and spread out, and he now commands a smaller percent of our numbers."

  "But," Ruegger said, "the Sangro Sankts must uphold that old stipulation, which quite goes against what Roche Sarnova is doing now ...”

  "True.�
��

  "What do you mean?" asked Jean-Pierre.

  Again, the Hunter sighed. "I should've told you, my son. I guess now is the time. Remember after the safari, when we went to visit Blackie and he made you leave the room?"

  "You wouldn't tell me what you discussed."

  "I'll tell you now. He told me the reason behind the War of the Dark Council."

  "Which is?"

  "Roche wants to announce our presence to the human world. Not only that, but he wants us to have our own country."

  "A Jerusalem for the Undead," added Ruegger.

  "It was this that tore the Dark Council in half."

  "Jesus," whispered Jean-Pierre

  "Yes."

  The albino ran a hand through his yellowish, almost translucent hair and left it there, tangled in his roots. "Well, if that isn’t something."

  "Indeed," said Ruegger. "But it doesn't jive with the priorities of the Sangro Sankts."

  "No. It doesn't."

  Kharker leaned back in his chair. "So, Jean-Pierre, what do you think?"

  Raising his eyebrows in bemusement, Jean-Pierre said, "I think the man has balls of iron. I think it's an interesting idea. Still ...”

  "Yes," Ruegger agreed. "That was my reaction, too." Slowly, he stood up and stretched his legs. "Well, I know you two haven't seen each other in some time, so I'm going to leave you alone for awhile. Besides, I need to feed."

  Kharker nodded in mildly surprised approval. "Thank you."

  "Sure."

  Ruegger departed, leaving the two werewolves in silence.

  "That was … generous of him," Jean-Pierre said.

  "Yes, maybe it was.”

  "It's certainly much better to have him as a friend than an enemy."

  "Maybe ... maybe. But never let him fool you, my son."

  "What do you mean?"

  Kharker’s face grew tight. "He's the most evil bastard I've ever met. I've said it before and I'll say it again: his is the Evil of Old, and it is to be highly respected. The problem is that he's under the misconception that, beneath all the darkness, he's really a good guy. And that's what he wants to be. Right now, anyway. But if Danielle were ever taken away from him—permanently, I mean—he would revert right back into the old Ruegger, the Ruegger that could kill a hundred innocents without flinching. Back in his heyday, he would've given Junger and Jagoda nightmares. So don't turn your back on him. Ever."

  "Come on, Khark. You're exaggerating. He loves you, like I do. Maybe I'll even grow on him sooner or later. Hell, he's already growing on me. But of course I'll keep that secret to my grave."

  "Of course." Kharker grabbed a bottle of wine and refilled his studded iron goblet. "Seriously, Ruegger is good at playing both ends against the middle, and even though he may love me he considers me the opposite of what he stands for. And if I'm in danger from him ...”

  "Then I don't stand a chance. What you're forgetting, my friend, is that he'd be all too easy to kill, if that were called for. Which it won't be. Ruegger is our ally."

  "Of course." After a moment, Kharker said, "By the way, after you and the Darkling had thrashed it out, what did you talk about?"

  Jean-Pierre waved the question away. "Oh, a number of things. We talked of Danielle for awhile, and he told me that he understood my fixation with her. I suppose it was his own way of forgiving me, or at least I hope so. At one point, he said that if we’d battled in a city, I would've been the victor. In a city, I would've been able to use my power of psychic dominance. Out here, though, I was at the mercy of Ruegger's spoonbender tricks."

  The Hunter smiled. "Yes, you're both very strong in your own ways. You control people. He controls things."

  "We talked for a little while longer, but that was about the extent of it, really."

  Kharker rose from his seat, goblet in hand.

  "We going somewhere, Khark?"

  "Yes, my son. Follow me."

  Together, they left the Elephant Room and made their way down into the catacombs.

  "So you've become disenchanted with love, eh?" said Kharker.

  "Perhaps everyone becomes disenchanted with it at one point or another, but it's given me the shaft more than most, I'd wager."

  "It's a turning point for you."

  "I'm working on becoming the man I was before I'd ever even heard of Danielle. I was strong then. Precise. I need to be that way again."

  "Why?"

  "There are changes coming. I can feel them."

  Kharker nodded. "You always have had strange powers of the mind. They've served you well, so far."

  "So far.”

  "What you need is a symbol of your change.” They descended into the catacombs and threaded their way through the large dusty tunnels. "You need to eradicate Danielle from your life, utterly and completely."

  "I've already done that: I let her go. It took more strength on my part to do that than it would have done to kill her."

  "Perhaps, but you need a concrete symbol of her destruction. You need to desecrate her image, to tear her limb from limb."

  They’d reached the area of the tunnels reserved for the prisoners and had stopped before a certain door. With his mindthrust, Lord Kharker flung it open and stepped aside.

  "Danielle ...” whispered the albino, seeing the occupant of the cell. "It's her, the one you gave me on your birthday."

  "Yes. The time is ripe for you to take her."

  "But Kharker ...”

  "What?"

  Jean-Pierre frowned. "Yes," he muttered. "I suppose it is."

  He stepped into the room and watched as the girl retreated from him, backing into a dirty corner.

  "Thank you," he whispered over his shoulder.

  "You're welcome, my son. Now I will leave you. Please, take your time. Say and do what must be done. But remember—she is the ghost of Danielle that haunts you. Only by obliterating her entirely will you purge your system, once and for all, of Danielle."

  "Yes," answered Jean-Pierre, a trace of sadness in his voice.

  The Hunter shut the door and walked away. Ruegger had been right, he thought: he never had been a creature to let something go to waste. Even before he rounded the corner, Kharker heard the girl screaming behind him. Proudly, he smiled.

  Chapter 6

  "You asked that an unarmed human be released into the woods, sir," Gavin said. "It’s been done."

  "Thank you," said Ruegger.

  Leaving the manservant by the catacombs entrance, he moved off into the jungle, as lush and sultry as ever. This time, there seemed to be some malice to it, some tension that Ruegger couldn't fathom. It breathed green venom.

  Shaking it off, he pressed deeper, tracking his mortal quarry. It had been a long night, and he had thoughts he needed to process. Things were moving very fast. Faster than he would've liked. He would appreciate some time to just sit down in peace and think for awhile, without the distraction of Kharker or Jean-Pierre, the Scouring or the War of the Dark Council, but that, he realized, wasn’t going to happen.

  Danielle, however, was a distraction he wouldn't mind. In fact, she was the one thing at that moment that he really wanted, that he desired with every bloody snapping fiber of his being. Still, he recognized that he needed to give her time. She had her own demons to exorcise. Or kill.

  Suddenly, blood filled the air and he heard a noise up ahead, and he stepped towards it. The sound issued from behind a tangle of bushes. Slowly, he parted them. There, somewhat below him, was the human—a white man, he saw—that he’d been hunting. In his fervent desire to escape, the man had tripped down a slope and fallen into a narrow ravine.

  With care, Ruegger moved down the slope toward him, even as the fellow's eyes widened with terror.

  "Easy," the Darkling said. "I'm not here to hurt you."

  Within touching distance of the man, Ruegger could tell that he had broken his leg, the blood from the wound clouding the shallow water that flowed about him.

  "Don't," said the mortal, trying to
back away, pushing with his hands against the muddy slope and sliding further up the bank only to slip again.

  "It's okay," Ruegger told him. "I was only going to take a little blood from you, anyway, and now it looks like I don't even have to use my teeth because you've done the work for me." He smiled to show it was a joke, but the man's face screwed up in fear, and he let out a miserable moan. Gingerly, Ruegger slid his hands beneath the mortal and hauled him out of the wet murk, then staggered up the hill and set him down again on level ground.

  Before bending to feed from the wound, Ruegger said, "I'm sorry about this, friend, but I was in a bit of a scrape tonight and I really need the blood. Don't worry. I'll only take a little. Then it's back to the mansion with you."

  Bitterly, the man said, "Go ahead and kill me, you bastard. I'm dead anyway, don't you know that? Whether it's you or one of the others, I'll be dead in a week. Please don't get righteous on me."

  Ruegger paused. "I could release you into the woods."

  "And be picked up by one of the retrieval units? No thanks. I've been picked up by one of them already, and they beat the shit out of me before hauling me back. Just do what you came here to do, you goddamned monster. Remember, though, God is watching, and when you're in Hell I'll be laughing down at you from my cloud, drinking wine and screwing virgins."

  Ruegger used his telekinetic abilities to enliven the vines that had grown up the nearest tree. Under his power, the vines wrapped themselves tightly around the human and held the poor man down while Ruegger drank blood out of the wound on his broken leg. The human screamed, but Ruegger did not relent until the mortal had passed out. The Darkling stood, wiping the blood from his mouth, and dismissed the aid of the vines. His anger faded, though he wasn’t sure whom the anger was reserved for.

  True to his word, Ruegger hefted the mortal up and began making his way back toward the Lodge.

  Something moved overhead. He glanced up to see a shape fluttering against the night sky, its outline obscured against the trees.

  "Who are you?" he shouted.

  No answer came.

  Slowly, forms began to resolve into discernable figures. There wasn't just one outline, but four, all human-shaped and flying in circles above him, their dark and leathery wings beating a wind through his hair. Jandrows, from the look of them, and something else, something they were carrying that glinted metallically in the moonlight—guns. Large and bulbous, with wolfish barrels and glittering belts of ammunition. Machine guns, weapons so heavy that they would normally be mounted. The shades trained the weapons at him as the circle of jandrows descended towards him.