Harker stalked toward him. “Not everyone can become a vampire. There is much more to it than what you believe.”
“Fine,” Frankie said. “Enlighten me.”
“I will not speak of this anymore.”
“If I decide to become a vampire,” Frankie said to the Romanian woman. “And you, of course, decide I’m worthy, do I get to choose who turns me? Can I pick the one who sucks on my neck?”
Lou Carboni, Jillian noticed, had become increasingly uncomfortable during the exchange, and now he spoke up. “You think maybe we can knock it off with that talk for a while, Frankie?”
Frankie gave him a baleful look. “I say something wrong, Lou?”
“Maybe I just want some quiet time to think.”
“So think,” Frankie said. “I’m sure they won’t mind you going back to that body room for a little quiet time.”
Lou’s face went hard. “Or you could shut up.”
“Maybe I don’t wanna shut up, you ever think of that, Louie?”
“It’s Lou. I shouldn’t have to remind you of that.”
Frankie looked at the Romanian vampire. “You believe this guy? My money’s on him to start shooting first. He’ll go for me first and then it’ll be him and Maza shooting it out to the death.”
Quincy had been watching the argument with a merry look on his face. “Perhaps we should just send the three of you next door,” he said and hooked a thumb toward the far side of the stage. “And let you decide matters now.”
Arthur Holmwood said, “Renfield’s in there.”
Quincy smiled. “Then they meet Renfield too!” And all the vampires laughed.
All except the red-haired Jonathan Harker.
Jillian glanced at Eddie Maza, whose face had gone stern again, and as she did she happened to spot a figure beyond him, one whose face she hadn’t seen before but with whom she had a passing acquaintance.
The creature wore the clothes of a deliveryman.
Jillian clenched her jaw.
It had to be the same vampire that had run down Lazarus. He was standing beside the limo driver vampire, the two of them apparently trusted lieutenants of Harker’s and therefore holders of favored positions within the vampire hierarchy.
Harker had been scowling at Frankie Canelli, but seeing Jillian’s angry expression seemed to alleviate whatever tension the loud-mouthed mobster had enkindled in him. “Are you thinking of your big friend?” Harker said. His brow had formed into a V of mock sympathy.
“I’m thinking of how he’s going to kill you.”
Harker laughed softly. “Since your friend Mr. Canelli is asking questions, Ms. Alcott, I have a couple of my own. Why does Bloodshot have a big red circle on his chest?”
Jillian said nothing.
“Is it a birthmark?” Harker asked. “A target? Perhaps he’s a secret admirer of the Japanese flag?”
“Hey, I wondered that too,” Frankie said. “And what’s with the hair? It’s like he’s got lightning bolts on the side of his head. He have the barber shave him that way? I thought that kind of thing went out in the early nineties.”
Harker looked at the Romanian woman in amazement. “My goodness! Mr. Canelli and I finally agree on something.”
“So how ’bout it, Jillian?” Frankie persisted. “You’re Bloodshot’s main squeeze, right? Give us the scoop about him.”
“I’m not telling you anything.” She turned to Harker. “And I’m sure as hell not helping this monster learn more about Lazarus.”
Harker nodded, index fingers touching his lips. “You’re impudent, my dear. Have you forgotten what happened to your friend Philip? Would you enjoy experiencing a similar fate?”
Jillian knew she was making a mistake, but the way the bastard had exulted in Philip’s horrible death, the smirking callousness he exhibited … she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower any longer.
“You’re afraid too,” she said to him. “Just like Frankie’s afraid of you, you’re terrified of Lazarus.”
“And what do you presume I have to fear from him?”
“His speed. His intelligence.”
Harker rose from his throne. “After tonight, the feeble creature with whom you’re enamored will be dead, and his computerized blood—which is only a pathetic facsimile of the pure blood that flows within the veins of my kind—will be drained all over this filthy concrete.” Harker strode closer, a triumphant grin on his face. “After tonight, we’ll no longer have to live in this squalor. After tonight the city will be ours.”
“If it were that easy you would have attempted it by now.”
“You have no idea of my power,” Harker said. “If you did, you’d hold that simpering tongue of yours for fear of my ripping it out of your pretty little head.”
“You don’t know what power is,” Jillian heard herself saying. “You think letting your friends murder Philip is a sign of strength? That’s just sadism.”
“Of course,” he said, shaking his head. “The last refuge of the weak—labeling your superiors as oppressors. Branding them monsters, sadists—”
“He didn’t do anything to you!”
“Because he couldn’t!” Harker yelled, eyes gleaming. “Do you think for one moment he wouldn’t have saved himself had he been able? But that’s just it—he wasn’t able. Neither are you. Nor is anyone in this city.”
“Lazarus is stronger,” she said.
“Then where is he?” Harker challenged. “Under the tire of a delivery truck? His body broken and that joke of a circulatory system spilled out on the ground? He was a farce. He was nothing.”
“Then why didn’t you kidnap me yourself?” she demanded. “Why did you rely on these three to do it? Was it because you can’t stand the daylight? And you call Lazarus pathetic.”
Harker was next to her in a flash, one taloned hand gripping her by the jaw.
“Don’t you see?” he snapped, his rancid breath scalding her ear. “Other than the Master, I am the most powerful being in New York.” He motioned at the horde of vampires watching them with ravenous black eyes. “Don’t you see how they respond to me? Doesn’t that speak volumes to you? In this subterranean theatre filled with magnificent, superhuman creatures, I am the recognized authority. I am the one they fear.”
“Well … ,” the one named Quincy began.
Harker whirled. “Do you question my supremacy, Quincy?”
“Not necessarily,” Quincy said. “Just the notion that you’re the only one we fear.”
“There’s the Master,” Arthur Holmwood offered.
“I already spoke of Him,” Harker said, scowling.
“Then there’s Renfield,” John Seward said quietly.
Harker appeared to hesitate. “Renfield serves the Master, so of course I group them together.
“Sounds to me like you’re not too sure of yourself,” a voice spoke up from behind her. The three vampires standing by the theatre entrance—the delivery truck vampire, the limo driver, and the small, bald one—all whirled to stare at the figure who’d come silently through the doorway.
Jillian felt her lungs expand.
Lazarus.
Before the delivery truck vampire or the limo driver could react, Lazarus plunged long carving knives through their chests. The bloody blade sliced through the backs of their coats, their bodies twitching in surprise and mortal agony. The little bald vampire turned to run, but Lazarus whipped his arm at the vampire, emitting a flash of something long and slender. Then the bald vampire was staring down at his chest in mute surprise, something large and shaped like the head of an arrow poking out of it. With an effortless tug, Lazarus whipped the slender, barbed pole back toward his waiting hand, the chain that tethered the harpoon to his arm clinking softly as it did. When Lazarus caught the harpoon, the bald vampire’s heart was skewered upon it. Smiling, Lazarus removed the heart and chucked it into the crowd.
The vampires avoided it, their glittering black eyes uncertain and perhaps a bit re
volted.
Lazarus turned to Harker. “Now what were you saying about your supremacy?”
PART THREE
* * *
Battle in the Kingdom
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
Malcolm stood at Bloodshot’s side and gaped at the three vampires that lay dead on the stage. He couldn’t believe it. Bloodshot had killed three vampires in the space of three seconds. Yes, Malcolm thought. Bloodshot. He could think of Lazarus no other way at the moment; the man’s eyes had acquired that eerie scarlet glow they sometimes emitted when he was engaged in battle. But even though he’d seen Bloodshot fight before, the speed with which he moved was still awe-inspiring. Granted, Malcolm had witnessed the creation of the harpoon, but until now he couldn’t envision how effective it would be. The force with which Bloodshot punched through the chest cavities of the two vampire drivers was amazing. But the manner in which he manipulated the makeshift harpoon, the perfect zinging sound the chain made as it unspooled from his forearm, and then the efficient impaling of the bald vampire … it was uncanny.
Malcolm’s fingers touched the handle of the carving fork. He’d grabbed it as an afterthought when Bloodshot had claimed the carving knives.
Everyone in the room—man, woman, and vampire—stared down at the three corpses. For a long moment, no one uttered a sound or even seemed to breathe.
Then the red-haired vampire—there was something familiar about him, though Malcolm couldn’t quite place him—who’d been shouting at Jillian when they entered stepped forward. “I’m disappointed it took you so long to arrive, Mr. Lazarus. We expected you sooner.” With a flourish of his arm and a grand bow he said, “I am Jonathan Harker.”
“No, you’re not,” Bloodshot said, pocketing the carving knives. “You’re Eric Westenra.”
Malcolm’s mouth went dry. Eric Westenra. Earlier that year the man—Malcolm was certain Westenra had been a man at the time and not a vampire—had held him at gunpoint, had nearly killed him. Malcolm had only been saved from death because of Bloodshot’s intervention.
And you paid Bloodshot back by betraying him, Malcolm’s conscience reminded.
The thought disturbed him, but not as deeply as another thought did. Or a fact rather. After Bloodshot and Eric Westenra had done battle … when Westenra had gotten the upper hand due to an uncharacteristic weakening of Bloodshot’s powers … Malcolm had … he had—
“Ah, Malcolm. I see you remember me,” Eric Westenra said. “I certainly remember you. And what is more, I see you remember the cowardly manner in which you shot me.”
From the corner of his mouth, Bloodshot whispered, “Don’t listen to him, Malcolm.”
But Malcolm was listening. Was listening hard. Because he’d begun to realize that he hadn’t just been setting Bloodshot up today. Malcolm had set himself up too.
Malcolm peered beyond Eric Westenra and saw Mina Murray smiling at him. Despite the blood smeared on her mouth, she looked more radiant than ever. With an effort he peeled his eyes off of Mina.
He stared at Eric Westenra, “You …” Malcolm started, then licked his lips. “You were dead. I killed you.”
Eric Westenra’s eyebrows rose. “Ahh, that’s right, Malcolm. You did kill me. Or so it seemed. You shot me alright, and it appeared as though I would die. But the Master saved me.”
Westenra turned to Frankie Canelli. “You asked us how one becomes a vampire earlier. You were given part of the answer, but only a part. The other part must be demonstrated through one’s actions. You see, I had proved myself worthy of the gift through my actions. I had brought the mighty Bloodshot to his knees and would have destroyed him had Malcolm not intervened. And because my actions had been so pleasing to the Master, I was given the gift.”
“The gift of what?” Jillian asked. “The gift of slaughtering innocent people? Of living in the sewer?”
Harker scowled at her. “I told you, Ms. Alcott. All of that is about to change.”
“Take me,” Malcolm said. “Jillian here is innocent. Lazarus was only following orders when he shot your sister. I’m the one who shot you, Eric. I’m the one you want.”
Eric Westenra’s lip curled in a vicious sneer. “You say it like it was a minor thing, ‘when he shot your sister.’”
“What would you have done?” Bloodshot asked. “She was engaged in terrorist activity. She had a gun on me. You really think I could’ve handled your sister any differently?”
“She was not a terrorist,” Eric Westenra spat. “Do you really believe she was working for the IRA?”
Malcolm saw Bloodshot hesitate, uncertain now. “What are you saying, Westenra?”
“She was serving the Master,” Eric Westenra said. “She was proving her worth to the vampire king. Had she not bled to death so quickly, he would have granted her immortality, and she’d be sitting on the stage with the rest of us. Do you really believe our real name is Westenra? The Master gave us the names Eric and Lucy Westenra because we were about to become immortal.”
Bloodshot’s voice was soft and marveling. “So that’s how you survived.”
Eric Westenra grinned, but to Malcolm it looked more like a leer. “Malcolm almost killed me, yes. He saved your life that night, Bloodshot, but he didn’t finish the job with me. When the vampires found me, I was almost dead. They carried me down to the Master, and He gave me life. He rewarded me for my valor.”
Mina was watching Malcolm closely. He remembered the way she had drunk his blood the other night. The warm, summery smell of her hair. He became drowsy thinking about it, waves of sweet pleasure washing over him …
Frankie Canelli said, “So that’s how it’s done, huh?”
Malcolm glanced up at Frankie and was disquieted by the sheen of twitchy excitement in his eyes. He looked to Malcolm like a junkie preparing to get his fix.
Frankie said to Eric Westenra, “I prove myself worthy, and I become one of you, is that right?”
Eric Westenra appeared pleased. “Yes, Mr. Canelli. That is correct.”
Frankie Canelli nodded at a female vampire with long black hair. “I’d like her to be the one to change me, okay?”
The female vampire gave him a soft nod.
“Then what the hell?” Frankie said, pulling out his gun. “Let’s kill Bloodshot.”
The speed at which events unfolded was dizzying even to Bloodshot, who moved far faster than the average man. Frankie pointed his gun at Bloodshot, fired. Bloodshot dodged and went for Jillian, but Eric Westenra was too close to her. The red-haired vampire tackled her, and the two went tumbling off the stage into the churning mass of vampires. Behind him, Malcolm pulled out the gun with which Danks had furnished him, but the vampire named Mina Murray was already bounding across the stage like some kind of pale panther and was knocking the gun out of his palsied hand.
But Bloodshot only saw this happen peripherally. Malcolm would have to take care of himself.
Bloodshot went after Jillian.
Like the lead singer of some heavy metal band, Bloodshot leaped head first into the crowd. Unlike the lead singer of a band, Bloodshot wasn’t caught and then conveyed atop the crowd by adoring fans.
He was too heavy for that.
When Bloodshot slammed into the massed vampires, he knocked down at least five of them. Despite their strength, they had been caught off guard by his agility, and before they could recover, he lashed out with his right hand and broke one vampire’s neck. Another one stood there gaping at the pile of vampires Bloodshot had knocked to the concrete, and this one Bloodshot nailed with an elbow to the nose. Vampire or not, the blow was a brutal one, and the creature pitched backward squalling and drumming its feet.
Prior to his dive into the crowd, the vampires had resembled normal human beings. Pale human beings, for sure, but they’d still looked human.
But now the change was upon them. One of the vampires Bloodshot had knocked down in his stage dive now seized his calf with a taloned hand. Bloodshot raised his big boot an
d stomped on the vampire’s head. Another fallen vampire had scrambled to its knees and was preparing to leap right at him, but before the vampire could spring, Bloodshot reared back, kicked at its face as though punting for the San Francisco 49ers, and caught the creature in the underjaw. It uttered an inarticulate cry and described a complete backward somersault before landing on its face, knocked utterly senseless.
A vampire leapt on Bloodshot’s back. He smelled its carrion breath puff over him. He could dislodge the creature if he wanted to, but it would take a few moments, and he didn’t have that long. Reaching into his side pocket, he grasped the Ruger 9-millimeter that Danks had provided him, poked the barrel of the gun into the back of his trench coat until it nudged the vampire on his back, and squeezed the trigger. The vampire screeched in pain and promptly tumbled from Bloodshot’s back. But two more vampires leapt on him, and more were coming. He was surrounded by the ravenous maelstrom of vampires and, he saw with a desperate glance, Eric Westenra was dragging Jillian away.
Meanwhile, the vampires swarmed over him, snapping and snarling. One was on his back; another was clambering up his left side. Man, he thought. What he wouldn’t give for his sword.
But since he didn’t have the katana, he shifted the Ruger to his left hand, bent down, reached into his left sock, and retrieved the next best thing. Straightening, he lashed out in a violent backhand with the machete and furrowed the chest of an approaching vampire. A vampire had grafted itself to his right arm and was preparing to drink. Bloodshot had no clear idea of what would happen once the vampire ingested the nanites, but he didn’t particularly feel like experimenting at the moment. He chopped down at the vampire and lopped off its left arm at the elbow. The vampire fell immediately, its orange eyes huge and full of anguish. The vampire on his back bit down on his neck, but before it could suck his blood, Bloodshot jerked his head aside and swung the blade backward. It embedded itself in the creature’s forehead, which got it off of Bloodshot’s back but also lost him the machete. So powerful had been the force with which he’d swung it and so deeply buried was the sharp blade in the vampire’s skull, that Bloodshot lost his grip on it when the vampire crumpled. And more of the bloodsuckers were coming.
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