The windows banged again as both outside shutters rattled shut, effectively banishing all light from the room.
Dallas felt cold air wash over him like a shadow, but this time it wasn’t Mistress Death. The table behind St. James started shaking, its legs banging against the floor, and the utensils at the place settings vibrated in an angry patter. Dallas steadied himself against the wall. “No, St. James, I don’t think I’ll die a damned man. But you will.”
The door to the stairs swung open and a new presence made itself felt, but before Dallas could react, St. James lunged toward him. Just as quickly, a fork flew at St. James, narrowly missing his head.
“If that’s the best you can do, Aldgate . . . ” He never finished the sentence, for in the next instant a steak knife bounced from the table and hurled itself at St. James, piercing his flesh above his heart. He cried out, his momentum carrying him straight into Dallas’ arms.
“I didn’t do it, but I’ll happily take credit for this.” Dallas grabbed the handle of the knife and thrust the blade in deeper. St. James screamed in agony and struggled to pull the knife out, but he succeeded only in slamming himself and Dallas into the wooden cupboard. The heavy piece of furniture held its ground, but tumblers and wine goblets were thrown to the floor in a crescendo of shattering glass. St. James fell on the broken shards, pulling Dallas down on top of him, and the two writhed in a mass of thrashing limbs.
“Ah, excellent. I see I am not too late,” came an all-too-familiar voice from above.
Dallas rolled over and tore St. James from him. With a burst of renewed strength, Dallas hurled the body across the room. St. James landed on a tabletop and skidded across it, sending everything in his path flying. Utensils, place mats, and salt shakers were still soaring to the floor when St. James’ body bull’s-eyed the center of an adjoining table. The sound of splintering wood erupted as the force proved too much for the old furnishing. Dallas stood, ready to defend himself, but his attention was now split between Drago and St. James.
“If you’re here to watch, Drago, stay out of my way,” growled Dallas.
“Watch, mon ami? You misunderstand my intentions. I am here to do more than observe this time. I am here to enforce my sanction on monsieur St. James.”
Dallas took a step forward. “This is my fight to finish. Stay out of it.”
“Yes, Drago, stay out of it.” St. James got up and, with a twisted smile born more of pain than pleasure, pulled the knife from his chest. “Your ‘sanctions’ don’t govern my life. You’re a useless vestige of the past. Your kind is no longer needed in our world any more than the old superstitions that hold us back. We could rule the world if it weren’t for meddling dinosaurs like you.”
Drago crossed his arms. “I can forgive the impetuousness of youth on both your parts, monsieurs, but not your disrespect.”
With one swipe of his arm, St. James sent the broken table tumbling across the room. “You can’t touch me and you know it. It’s forbidden for an enforcer to interfere in a conflict.”
“Is it? A very amusing person reminded me just recently that I have something called ‘discretion.’ A very good word in either French or English. ‘Freedom to judge and act on one’s own.’ Yes, I like that. A good word. Do you agree, St. James?”
St. James licked his lips, but if the gesture was intended to mimic a hungry beast, it failed. The fear surfacing in his dark eyes made Jermyn appear more like a man whose mouth has gone dry with dread.
His words, though, were as full of bravado as ever. “You’re old, Drago. You’re a laughingstock. The Brotherhood has never frightened me, and you least of all. You’re nothing but Nikolena’s dog, and all the Undead know it. When you get too far out of line, she yanks your chain, and you slink back to her, eager to please. You wouldn’t dare kill me.”
Dallas stepped to Drago’s side. “Let me finish him, Drago. This is between him and me.”
Drago shook his head. “No, mon ami. He has just made this very personal. This one will go against my record, not yours.”
Dallas put a restraining arm in front of Drago. He knew that even on his best day he lacked the power to prevail over l’ enforcier, but this was something Dallas had to do. He did something he never did. He prayed that Drago would reach into his mind and understand. “Drago, please. Allow me the chance to correct my mistake.” Dallas gazed square into the eyes of ice that burned with a cold fury evident even in the gloom of the dark room.
To Dallas’ surprise, Drago didn’t try to exert his authority or punish Dallas’ impudence, but simply nodded. “Very well, mon ami. You have earned that chance.”
Some of the fear visibly lifted from St. James, and a smile almost stretched between the gaping shotgun wounds on either side of his face. “Ah, so we do agree on something after all, Aldgate. The less interference by the Brotherhood and the Directorate, the better.”
Dallas forced his gaze from the ugly lesions on St. James’ face to his dark eyes. “You’re wrong. We don’t agree on anything. It’s simple. I’m just selfish. I want the pleasure of sending you to the True Death all to myself.” In point of fact Dallas did agree with much of Jermyn’s assessment of the Directorate and its branches, but he wasn’t about to let either St. James or Drago be privy to that opinion.
St. James pointed his finger at Drago. “Then at least make this a fair contest, Drago. Promise me you won’t side with Aldgate against me.”
The intensity of Drago’s eyes was matched by that of his voice, and St. James’ arm suddenly jerked downward, as if hit by an invisible force. “Espece d’idiot! You fool! Did I not warn you to stay away from here? You have the audacity to disobey me and then beg for favors? I should kill you right now for defying me. I promise you nothing.”
St. James rubbed his arm. “At least guarantee that the survivor, whether it be me or Aldgate, be free from any new sanctions. I don’t fancy my victory being rewarded with my death.”
A laugh that was half-snarl burst from Drago. “You want to fight, monsieur? Very well, then fight. But accept the consequences. I make no promises or guarantees to either one of you.”
Dallas took an aggressive step forward. “Enough whining, St. James. You invited me to this party, so get on with it. I promise you all the entertainment you want.”
Drago stepped back into the blackness of the doorway, and St. James turned at last to Dallas with a lopsided leer.
“Oh, you will entertain me, I have no doubt. As will the delectable Miss Martell. I was surprised to learn she was still with you. I would have thought the experience in Rodney would have been too much for her. At the very least I figured the discovery that her new lover was a blood sucking monster would send her fleeing in terror.”
Dallas had heard enough. He loosed all the power of his vampiric mind on St. James, willing his opponent to submit to the mirror, much as St. James had done to him earlier. St. James’ eyes took on a glassy, unfocused stare, and Dallas fought to maintain the compelling force. “Miss Martell will be safe, now and forever, from the abomination you embody, St. James. That’s all that you need to know. Now take a good look at yourself, and see if you can live with your own horror.”
St. James made small choking sounds, and his unseeing, glazed eyes blinked rapidly, as if to clear his vision.
Dallas felt a surge of satisfaction. “Truth is a monster, isn’t it? Do you now see all your grandiose fantasies for what they really are?”
Dallas knew St. James was vulnerable, but he felt his own strength start to flag. Though the room was dark, it was still daylight outside. Dallas’ powers would not be at their peak until sunset, and he had not fed. St. James, on the other hand, had feasted well just moments ago. The fresh blood would give him a boost in strength and energy that Dallas feared would be more than he could overcome.
Dallas needed to make his move now, before his advantage w
as lost. He flew at St. James, seizing him by the neck and propelling him into the wall. The impact broke the grip of the compelling stare, however, and St. James focused his eyes once more on his enemy.
Dallas tightened his grip over the wound on St. James’ neck, and pain contorted the hideous face. “Did you see the truth? Did you see your fountain of youth as the false kingdom it really is? It’s a prison, St. James, isn’t it? Full of all the same sufferings as life—hunger, pain, deceit, and persecution.”
St. James croaked out his reply. “You’re wrong on all counts. I never sought the fountain of youth to find a kingdom. I sought it to be able to avenge myself on you. And it may be a prison for you, but it’s not for me. I enjoy it, and I plan to keep on enjoying it. You’ll never kill me like this, Aldgate.” He twisted free of Dallas’ grasp and spun away, leaving Dallas with nothing but blood covering his hands.
Dallas, never taking his eyes from St. James, knelt down to wipe his hands on a napkin that was part of the litter on the floor. As he stood, a steak knife levitated off the floor and hung in the air before him. He grabbed it and lunged at St. James. “No? Guess again.”
St. James reached for a similar knife still part of an undisturbed place setting, but the knife slid quickly out of his reach. He grabbed for another, but it, too, jerked away from him. “Stop it, Drago! You said you’d stay out of it.”
Drago smiled from the doorway, his white teeth visible even in the shadows. “I have nothing to do with it, monsieur, I assure you.”
St. James had time to utter an oath, but not to search further for a weapon. Dallas was on him, knocking him to the floor among the scattered flatware and place mats. Dallas fell on top of him.
“Where exactly did you take the brunt of that shotgun blast? Here?” Dallas plunged the knife into St. James’ side. A squeal of pain filled the room. “It burns, doesn’t it? Silver burns like fire. Some say worse than fire. What do you say, St. James?”
Nothing erupted from St. James’ mouth but another shriek of pain. Echoing the scream was the blood that started to well from the fresh wound. Dallas tried to draw out the knife to drive it home into Jermyn’s heart, but at that instant St. James managed to pull his feet to his chest and push them against Dallas’ abdomen. The handle of the knife, wet with blood, slipped out of Dallas’ grasp as he was thrust backward, off balance, to land halfway across the room in a pile of broken glassware and splintered wood.
St. James pulled the knife from his side and lurched toward the windows. With a burst of inhuman strength, he ripped the inside shutter from one window, grabbed a nearby wooden chair, and flung the chair through the window. The glass panes shattered, and the impact tore the outside shutter from one of its hinges. A soft glow flooded the room, and a square of pale light fell right on Dallas.
Dallas moaned, not so much in pain, but at the dizziness that washed over him as his strength ebbed. He had neither the power nor time for the speed necessary to get off the floor before St. James pounced on him. The most he could do was to try to roll to the side. Dallas felt the knife pierce his flesh. If he hadn’t twisted, the knife would have run through his heart. As it was, the blade entered between ribs and punctured his lung. For a long second a numbness prevailed, but in the next instant the pain of an unbearable heat tore a scream from his throat.
St. James thrust the blade in up to the handle. “Answer your own damn question now, Aldgate! What does it feel like? Does it burn like fire or more like the flames of perdition? We’re more alike than you want to admit, you and I. What pleases me pleases you, and what hurts me hurts you, and all the self-righteous speeches in the world can’t change that.”
The agony from the silver burn and the enervation caused by the light consumed Dallas. He could neither respond nor fight back. In desperation, his hand felt along the floorboards for a piece of cutlery. He felt broken glass slice at his skin, but the pain was nothing compared to the knife wound. Suddenly he felt the handle of a knife slide against his palm, and he curled his fingers around the heavy haft. He tightened his grip, then waited several seconds longer to marshal his remaining physical and mental strength.
“What’s the matter, Aldgate? No energy left for one of your ready repartees?” A sound almost like a sob broke St. James’ voice. “Come on! Admit it! All I want is for you to admit that you’re no different from me. We’re both demons of vengeance. Tell me that in my place you wouldn’t have done exactly as I did!”
A soundless denial roared through Dallas’ mind, and he swung his arm with all the force he could, stabbing the wounded side that already streamed blood. St. James cried out, but refused to let loose of his own deadly grip. The two bodies rolled across the floor until they crashed into the sturdy legs of a dining table. St. James ended up on top again, and the impact loosened Dallas’ grip on the handle of the knife imbedded in his opponent’s side. Unable to do more, Dallas’ head fell back to the floor and his arms dropped to his sides.
With one hand on each knife handle, St. James pulled both out and held them high in the air, points down, over Dallas’ heart. “Tell me! Tell me I’m justified! You would have done the same thing to avenge a father you loved!”
Dallas had no answer. The bloody blades continued to hover above him, and once again he felt the cold touch at his shoulder. He closed his eyes and could only reflect on his own life, not that of St. James. He had survived life to endure the hell of Midexistence the best way he could. He had few regrets. Those he did have had haunted him a long time. The loss of Sabra . . . his betrayal of Veilina . . . and now the possible loss of Tia. Strangely, that last hurt the most—not because of what he had actually had with Tia, but for what could have been.
“I want an answer! Tell me I’m justified, Drago! He destroyed an old man who had done nothing! Tell me that in the centuries of your existence you haven’t done the same thing a hundred times over.”
Dallas heard Drago’s soft voice float above him, almost in his ear.
“Ah, but I’m not the one being judged on this day, monsieur.”
“Damn you, Drago, and all enforcers! What gives you the right to judge others of your own kind? You’re not a god—just a bigger monster with a more inflated ego.” St. James’ hands started to tremble, and the knife points wavered as he raised the weapons for a final strike.
Dallas looked up and saw Drago above him. L’ enforcier’s voice filled the room. “No, we have no God, you and I, but you have the Anti-God, and I am He. And I have decided that you will kill no more.”
With a final howl that was half-scream of victory, half-cry of defeat, St. James thrust the blades toward Dallas’ heart. The blades never reached him, though. St. James’ body was torn from Dallas and flung across the room. A crash and a thump sounded as yet another dining table met its demise.
In a movement so swift even Dallas had trouble following it, Drago pulled a rapier from its wall display above the fireplace with his right hand. “This wouldn’t happen to be silver, Allgate, would it?”
Dallas raised himself on one elbow. “Steel. But the cutlery is all sterling. Be my guest.”
L’ enforcier snagged a knife from the floor with his left hand. “Merci, mon ami. These will do.”
St. James scuttled backward until he hit the wall. “No! It’s forbidden! It’s against the law!”
Drago was on him like a beast on prey. “You put a lot of faith into a system you say you don’t believe in, monsieur. Your sanction is imposed.”
“No! You said you’d let us finish it!”
“I made no promises. All I promise you now is a quick death.”
The rapier staked St. James to the wall, and the knife made swift work of his jugular, ensuring that any more words of protest died before falling from his lips. An oil painting from the wall above twitched and fell on St. James’ body, bouncing off one shoulder to land at his feet. It was the portrait of
a young woman with long red hair, hazel eyes, and the barest wisp of a smile. Veilina Bishop.
His labor done, Drago flipped the knife to Dallas with a high arch of his brows.
“I dislike being called ‘old.’”
Dallas picked the knife from the air. “I’ll try to remember that,” he said dryly.
Drago plucked a fallen napkin from the floor, wiped his hands, and nodded toward the women in the corner. “If you’re able, you’d better see to your humans.”
Dallas, knowing that Tia was not badly, if at all, injured, saw to Angie and Jaz first. He found a faint pulse on Angie, but Jaz was beyond help. He then quickly undid the ropes and gag binding Tia.
“Oh, God, Dallas . . . ” she whispered.
He could see her eyes alternating between his own knife wounds and the bodies of the two other women. “Are you hurt?” he asked, brushing her hair away from her face with his fingers.
She shook her head. “No, but . . . ”
He cut her off. There was still too much to do. “Then I need you to help. Run upstairs and get a blanket from the cedar chest next to the sofa. Keep Angie warm and stay with her. I have to make some calls.”
Tia nodded and hurried up to the third floor. He called Gillie and instructed the man to come to the inn right away. Dallas also called a doctor he knew who could be counted on to be discreet.
Drago helped remove the dead vampire’s body, as well as that of Jaz, from the inn, then helped Dallas release the employees locked in the cellar. Dallas told them that the blond man had taken Jaz as a hostage and had fled the inn with her after a confrontation with Dallas in the banquet room. The story was accompanied by compelling gazes from both Dallas and Drago, assurance that the humans would all relate the same story, with conviction, to the police. It should be a safe story. The police would search without success for two bodies that would never be found.
When all had been taken care of, Drago prepared to take his leave. He paused before getting into the Riviera. “I will see you at your town house later tonight, mon ami. It appears we still have business to conclude.”
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