by Jack Conner
For awhile, he listened to the music and watched the dancers as they kicked and strutted and slunk across the stage. It was all very bright and glitzy, and the scotch (which kept getting refilled, as if by magic) didn't make it any more comprehensible.
After some time, a man in a suit approached his booth. The guards blocked the way.
“Admit him,” Francois said, and they obliged.
The man sat opposite Francois, and they had a drink together, just to keep up appearances. Really, though, this wasn't necessary; the man's arrival was just a signal, nothing more. But gods, what a signal.
After his drink was finished, Francois rose, gathered his guards and left the Floor Show to ascend several floors and make his way down various halls until he was in a portion of the castle seldom used, where he reached a door at the end of a little cul-de-sac. His guards stepping in front of him, he crossed the threshold and locked the door behind him.
Before him stood more than twenty of the highest-ranking members in Roche Sarnova's government, chief among these the "loyal" members of the Dark Council.
"Ambassador," said one of the Councilmen, a Colonel De Soto, swarthy and bearded, apparently the chosen spokesman of the group.
Francois shook the man's hand and nodded to the rest of the shades present.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "I want to thank you all for coming here on such short notice and despite the obvious risk involved."
"Of course," said the colonel. "I think we all realize how urgent and belated this meeting is. And yes, I think we all have a good idea what this is about."
"I'm sure you do. From what I've managed to gather, you all have had similar meetings before."
"Yes, that’s true. But there was not enough ... focus ... to those earlier gatherings. Now that you've decided to join us—"
"No," interrupted Mauchlery. His voice was cold and level, and he saw that he commanded everyone's attention. "I am not joining this effort. When I became aware that certain steps were vital to maintain our way of life, and this system of government, I requested you all here, not so that I could join the cause, but so that I could lead it." He looked at each face in turn, measuring each expression. What he saw was gratifying; it seemed that they had expected this. He continued, "If anyone wishes to oppose me, speak now."
Silence.
Colonel de Soto bowed. "You're now our leader, Ambassador Mauchlery. I'm sure you'll provide our effort the focus it requires. Now, please, I think we'd all be relieved if you stated your intentions before us—not that they would be different from our own, of course, but it would set our minds at ease."
"My intentions tonight are simple,” Francois said. “We must plot the overthrow of our beloved leader, the Dark Lord Roche Sarnova."
Chapter 10
"Where is that goddamned Roach Motel?" Cloire demanded.
Danielle glanced up, then traded a look with Sophia. "What do you mean?"
"What she means," elaborated Byron, who stood in the hallway next to Cloire, "is that Kiernevar hasn't come back for his evening pill, and he should've been back an hour ago."
Danielle remembered her first encounter with Kiernevar in Jean-Pierre's apartment building all too clearly. He'd been the only vagrant there who hadn't obeyed Jean-Pierre's will, and he'd been deeply insane.
"I don't want him going back to the way he was," Cloire said needlessly. "So far, he's been a good boy, taking his pill, helping us out. But if he goes off his medication ...”
"I saw him at the Arena," Danielle said.
Cloire nodded, turned to Byron. "Go look for him, will you? Pin him to the floor if you have to. Just make sure he takes the goddamned pill."
Byron nodded and moved off.
Cloire turned to Sophia. "And what about you, Sophe? When Loirot told me you were here, I didn't believe it."
"Well, I am," said the Ice Queen. "Get used to it."
Cloire chuckled, looked for a moment as if she was about to embrace her old companion, then cooled off.
"Did you come back to betray us again, Sophe? Was once not enough? Is it kind of like when a lion eats a man for the first time—the first time is strange, then you acquire a taste for it?"
"Stop it," said Danielle.
"Oh, shut up. Go win a merit badge or something."
"Girls, girls," said Loirot. "Why don't we all try to be civil?"
Sophia lunged forward, belted Loirot across the face and then planted a kick in the center of his chest, launching him down the hall to land on his back.
"I never did like you,” Sophia said.
Cloire chuckled. "That's my girl."
Sophia shrugged Cloire's hand off her shoulder and turned to glare at the werewolf.
"I'm not getting sucked into this again," the Ice Queen said, then cast her gaze to Danielle. "Later, Danielle. I'll catch up with you tomorrow. We'll talk."
"Later," said the vampiress.
Sophia stalked off. Loirot crawled out of her way as she strode past him, but she had eyes only for leaving. Soon she rounded a corner and was a gone.
"You're no fun anymore," Cloire called after her. She snarled wordlessly at Danielle, then vanished inside her room.
Danielle shut the door to her own suite, and as she walked back into the bedroom she took off her black leather jacket, her black steel-toed shoes, her black jeans and her black T-shirt. She removed off her silver earrings, washed her face and climbed into bed. She could feel the tug of slumber, feel the presence of the sun climbing over the Carpathians outside, but her mind churned, restless, and would not let her sleep.
What was she doing here? She missed Ruegger and hated the fact that she was seemingly surrounded by evil. Nothing but evil. And if evil was anything, if it had one single universal property, that property would be that it was contagious.
Because here she was, on a mission to do evil to a man who might no longer deserve it. Where was the justice in that? But he did deserve it, the bastard, he really did. That was the crux of the whole problem. Was he to get off scot-free after all the things he'd done?
She could hear Loirot entering the living area up front, hear him taking off his clothes and going to sleep on the couch. Surely he deserved to die at least as much as Malcolm did, so why didn't she just kill him instead? Following that logic, why didn't she just kill all the immortals in the castle, save Sophia? They were all evil. She'd start with that goddamned waiter ...
Soon she slept, but it was a fitful rest, and her dreams were dark and frantic.
When she woke, she could smell coffee brewing in the small kitchen. She showered and dressed and replaced her earrings, then joined Loirot for a cup of joe. Loirot could unfailingly brew a mean batch, that's for sure. Maybe it was his only redeeming characteristic, thought Danielle, but in the mornings it sure was a hell of a redemption.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
"Just great," she said. "How's your chest?"
Unconsciously, he looked down at the spot where Sophia had delivered her kick. As he did so, Danielle got a good look at his hair, which was as clean and immaculately brushed as always, despite the fact that he'd spent most of the day sleeping on the couch.
"She crushed one of the buttons on my shirt," he said.
When their coffee was finished and Danielle had smoked the first cigarette of the evening, they met the other members of the death-squad at a little breakfast joint a few floors down. This had become something of a tradition with the crew and its "prisoners", a time to re-group and plan for the night. Almost everyone was there, including Harry and Kilian. There was only one absentee: Kiernevar.
As Danielle sat at the large table that the others were already seated at, she saw the strained look on Byron’s face and knew that Cloire had put the pressure of Kiernevar's recovery on his shoulders. Danielle didn't envy him.
When the waiter came by, Danielle ordered an omelet. Loirot only ordered another cup of coffee and some toast. He was probably still full from the girl he'd eaten the previ
ous night. The breakfast that evening was somber, although Danielle's omelet was quite good.
Afterward, she and Loirot wandered the castle’s halls, seeing what sights there were to see. Down in the castle's theater, the Funhouse of the Forsaken was running through some of its routines while letting the inhabitants of the castle watch. The troupe would practice all night and all day for several days in preparation for their first show. Danielle's purpose in bringing Loirot here was to find Sophia, but of Jean-Pierre's daughter there was no sign.
“Enough,” Loirot said. “We’ve explored enough for today, Danielle.”
She groaned. “Fine. What then?”
“The first fight of the evening should be starting soon … ”
“You and your damned fights.”
Grudgingly, she allowed him to lead her to the Arena, bought a beer and a hot dog off a vender and settled down next to Loirot on one of the lowest rows of the stadium. The seats perched close to the action that some old blood had stained the stone near her feet. For some reason, even to her nose, the blood didn't smell so good.
The slavers were just finishing up their auction, dismantling their platforms and refastening the chains on their human livestock. Seeing this, Danielle set her hot dog down and didn’t resume eating it, even after the slavers and the slaves had left her sight.
Soon, the ringmaster of the Arena greeted the audience, which was small this early in the evening, and the first contestant entered the ring to scattered applause. Then the second. The duelists shook hands, and the ringmaster left the Arena.
The pugilists began hot and heavy, and at first Danielle thought it was to be a mercifully quick fight, but the warriors swiftly grew wary, and their movements became careful, measured. It turned out to be a very long fight, at least two hours. By the time it ended, enough spectators had filtered in to flesh-out the stadium. The competition ended rather bloodily, but then didn't they all?
A short recession was called while the blood in the Arena was mopped up, during which Loirot and Danielle both had to use the head. Loirot's solution to the dilemma was simple: she would accompany him into the men's room and use a stall there while he pissed in the latrine. The idea worked fine, although she did get a few interested glances, if only a few; immortals as a rule were rather liberal.
The two returned to their seats as the ringmaster came back into the Arena, welcomed the new members of the audience, and recapped the highlights of the last duel. He introduced the first official contestant to loud applause. It turned out to be Lyshira, the dragon-lady that had prevailed last night. She wore a robe cinched around the middle, but the medallion Roche Sarnova had given her gleamed around her neck.
"Isn't she beautiful?" said Loirot.
This comment had a strange effect. His voice carried further than Danielle would have anticipated and was quickly picked up by the dragon-lady's ears. As soon as he said it, the red-haired Lyshira turned his way and winked at him. He smiled back and began to blush.
"You're the one who wanted to sit near the bottom row," Danielle reminded him. "So talk softer, Nimrod."
He started to chastise her, but he couldn't get that silly smile off his face and was in too good a mood to get angry, so he let it drop.
"And now," roared the announcer, "may I present our second contender to the throne, a newcomer by any standards, but one who thinks he has what it takes ... to be the king! Ladies and Gentleman, allow me to present the Werewolf Kiernevar!"
The crowd booed happily as Kiernevar strode into the Arena wearing only a loincloth.
"Jesus Fucking Christ," said Loirot.
"Goddamn," Danielle agreed, staring at the Lord of the Flies and trying to make sense of what she saw. Kiernevar, as young and deranged as he was, making a bid for Dark Lord ... going up against a woman almost a thousand years older than himself... What the hell?
"So much for his medication," she said.
Loirot’s eyes stared, blank and unseeing. "He's going to kill her," he said. "That bastard's going to kill Lyshira. She winked at me and now he's going to kill her."
"Shut up," Danielle said. "He's not going to kill her, Loirot. You said yourself she's nine hundred years old. He doesn't have a chance. Good riddance to bad rubbish and all that."
"No," he whispered. "He killed Laslo, and Laslo was much older than nine hundred years, and now he's going to kill Lyshira."
He’s right, Danielle thought. Through some sort of bizarre fluke, Kiernevar was ingrained with unnatural strength and awareness of his powers. What would take a normal shade millennia to learn, he already knew. And why? Because he was insane. Deeply. Fucking. Insane.
Trying to reassure Loirot, she said, "They'll probably disqualify him for mental incompetence."
They didn't.
Kiernevar and Lyshira shook hands, the ringmaster accepted her robe and medallion, leaving her naked, then left the Arena. The fight commenced.
It was quick. Kiernevar and Lyshira flew at each other lustily. There was a lot of flying limbs and blood, and, where the combatants partially transformed, Danielle could see glimpses of roiling fur and gleaming scales. They rolled around on the dirt floor for nearly a minute, and Danielle could feel the audience around her craning forward, sitting on the edges of their seats—and, though she might later deny it, Danielle did the same.
Eventually, Kiernevar flung himself away and rose to his feet.
A few yards away Lyshira lay torn and bleeding and naked, utterly defenseless. She still lived, though. Barely. Tears hovered at the corners of her eyes as she saw Kiernevar draw near. His shadow fell across her face, but somehow her tears still caught the light.
She attempted to change forms, her body elongating and her skin being covered by brilliant scales. Wings began to grow along her back. She was too far gone, though; her wounds had drained her. Unable to keep her transformation going, Lyshira ceased her efforts with her body stuck half-way between woman and dragon. Still, she was beautiful.
Kiernevar tore off her head.
The crowd did not cheer. It sat mute in horror as the lunatic went about dismembering his victim, piece by piece.
Danielle wiped at her eyes, sucked in a deep breath and cleared her throat. She leaned back in her chair. Seeing Loirot struck dumb, she squeezed his hand despite herself, but it did no good.
"Come on," she whispered. "Let's get out of here."
He followed her blindly as she led the way up toward the exit. As they crested the final stair, she saw Cloire standing near the entrance. The she-wolf’s eyes were focused on the Arena, where the ringmaster was covering the strange silence with a stream of patter. She must have seen the whole thing. Enough, anyway.
"Cloire?" said Danielle.
“Kiernevar,” Cloire breathed. “So that’s why we couldn’t find him. The sick fuck came here.” Her face twisted. “Great, this is just what we need.” She spat. “All this time and I thought he was just a sidekick—and now it turns out he’s a player.”
Danielle coughed. “Come to see the fights?" It had not been Cloire’s habit to do so.
"No." Again, Cloire shook herself, then frowned. "No, I came here to tell you that I've been unable to come into contact with Vistrot. We'll stick around for a few days just to be sure, but I think he's been Scoured."
Danielle nodded. Of course she knew that since Vistrot was actually the Scourer, he couldn't have been ... unless Amelia had killed him, or he'd killed himself.
"Anyway,” Cloire went on, “I see no reason why you should continue to be our prisoner. At one point I wanted you dead, but I don't need that anymore." She smiled. "I conquered you just the same, didn't I?"
Danielle remembered the music disc and said nothing.
"I hereby set you free,” Cloire said. “Loirot, say good-bye to your little prisoner."
"But ..." Loirot only now seemed to be coming out of his shock. A shock quickly replaced by a new one.
"Save it," Cloire ordered, then pulled something out of a pocket, somethi
ng small and shiny.
A key. With a sinking feeling deep in her guts, Danielle knew what it was.
"This is your reward for playing by the rules,” Cloire said. “It'll open Malcolm's room. Do with him what you will."
* * *
The Dark Lord looked down from the tallest of his battlements, letting his eyes trace the dramatic skyline of his home. The stars were bright overhead, very white against the black sky, although they could only be seen here and there through the dense clouds which shot through the sky as swiftly as if they were being driven forward by the very whips of Hell. The same wind caressed his dark hair and long flowing cape, which he only wore on special occasions; he hoped that this would not be one of them.
Sarnova watched the sky and the falling snow and the jagged steeples of the Carpathians, then turned his gaze upward toward the tip of the mountain. On this side, it was nearly shear, and in this face the Castle was embedded. At the mountain’s tip glowed a red point, and that was as it should be. It meant that power had not been cut to the outpost up there—an outpost whose sole function was to alert him in the event that an enemy force was ascending the opposite side of the mountain. If that red light switched off it meant that the force was already here.
As Sarnova saw it, his primary job was to keep that light shining strong, a job complicated by the treachery of his subordinates.
Oh, he was very aware of their secret meetings. Although—well, he had not caught them in time. Things had gone too far, and now the only hope he allowed himself was that things were already being seen to. That was his greatest fear, as well, for if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.
He turned his gaze upon his castle’s courtyards and towers. Two main courtyards, the north and the south. One for assembly and one for recreation.
There was the main courtyard, the head of which was the lowest tower on the castle. It was on the balcony of that white tower, one fateful day not too long ago, that he had looked down upon all the dwellers of the castle—all assembled in that courtyard at his order—and announced that they were now at war. The next few days had been grim, as many of his weaker subjects fled the castle—some recruited by Subaire and her Half.