The front tire of the Yamaha crashed against the rear bumper. The motorcycle flipped forward, catapulting me helmet-first through the rear window.
Glass exploded around me. I flew into the Lincoln like a spinning cannonball, lost for a moment in a maelstrom of confusion, motion, and pain. Color and light swirled around me. I slammed into a hard surface and fell sideways on something soft and yielding. A seat.
A woman screamed. The Lincoln jerked to the left and right. I fumbled for leverage, grasped a door handle, and sat upright. Boxes and stacks of suitcase crowded around me.
The Lincoln swerved across the lanes. Paxton's aura flamed with surprise and fear. A young woman, with hair and a face like a Barbie doll, beat at his arms and shrieked.
"He's inside, Julius. Shoot him. Shoot him."
I climbed into the middle seat, grabbed the chalice by her long tresses, and pulled her face toward mine. "Shut up." I gave her a glare that could knock out a squad of firemen.
Her aura puffed out and shrank to a muted glow. She sat paralyzed with hypnosis.
I pulled my Colt pistol and jabbed it against the nape of Paxton's neck. "Slow down."
The speedometer dropped below one hundred, then ninety, eighty, and held steady at seventy. A green highway sign announced the next exit as Avalon Boulevard.
"Get off the freeway here." I removed my helmet. "Go north."
"Where are we going?"
"To have a chat. I need to complete a report to the Araneum, and since you're the only one in your merry band who's still walking and talking, well, I guess you're it."
The tendrils of his aura writhed like snakes caught in a trap. Paxton didn't question what I had said about him being the only one remaining from his "merry band."
"We can work a deal."
"Paxton, you got nothing I want except information."
The Lincoln circled down the off ramp to Avalon Boulevard. I directed him into a parking lot. Raccoons scattered in front of us, their auras crimson jewels rolling across the asphalt.
"Stop here," I ordered.
We halted in the middle of the lot.
"I'll tell you everything," Paxton said. "Then let me walk. No one has to know."
The Araneum already considered him more ash. "Afraid not. It would cost me my reputation."
"I got money. I got a harem of chalices."
"And I got you by the balls." I screwed the muzzle of the pistol deeper into his skin. "Who put the bomb in Coyote's truck?"
Paxton's aura brightened like a lamp.
I jabbed the pistol against his neck. "Who?"
"My vampire cops. On Venin's orders."
I gritted my teeth in rage. I pistol-whipped Paxton's head. "Who was in charge of the investigation into Roxy's murder?"
"What's that got to do with this?"
"Answer the question."
"I was," Paxton replied.
"Cragnow didn't kill Roxy. Venin didn't. And you wouldn't wipe your nose unless they told you, so you didn't kill her either. Then who did?"
"I don't know," Paxton answered.
"Then why the cover-up?"
"Because we didn't want to know. Roxy was dead, and whoever murdered her did us all a big favor."
The chalice rolled her head and regained consciousness. She blinked, looked at me, and let out a scream that could echo to the San Gabriel Mountains and back.
I didn't see Paxton throw the punch but I did see plenty of stars. Pain clotted my thinking. I lifted myself from the seat.
Paxton jumped from the Lincoln.
I broke the side window and shot at him.
Paxton stumbled. He regained his footing and limped toward the road.
I jerked the door open, stunned and smarting from Paxton's sucker punch. The chalice lunged for me and grabbed my hair. I slapped her away and tried to zap her. She kept her eyes closed and flailed her arms. I grasped both her wrists with one hand and squeezed. She yelped in pain and opened her eyes. Finally. I left her sitting motionless and got out.
Paxton moved through a cone of headlights bearing across the parking lot. He abruptly turned and limped faster.
The car aimed for him. Paxton's aura burned in panic. The car was a BMW coupe. Lara.
Paxton yelled for help. From whom? The BMW smashed into him and he disappeared under the bumper. An instant later he flopped from behind the coupe and lay still.
The car raced past me and skidded to a stop a hundred feet away. It backed up and swung the headlights upon me. I could barely make out Lara's aura in the dazzle of the headlights.
I brought my pistol up and sighted down its stubby length. My silver bullets splattered against the windshield and grille. The car swerved around the Lincoln and circled back to the road.
I ran after Lara and got as close as fifty feet. Holding my pistol before me, I squeezed the trigger until the magazine was empty. My bullets plunked against the BMW's trunk lid. I shoved the pistol into its holster and sprinted faster.
The BMW pulled away, bounced over the sidewalk, and careened onto the road.
I angled my path to catch Lara. I leapt as hard as I could and windmilled my arms and legs to keep the momentum.
Slamming across the trunk, I stabbed my talons into the metal to hang on. Lara swerved across the road. Four bright headlights were on me. A large truck blared its horn. The BMW fishtailed to the left. My talons slipped loose and I was flung aside.
The grille of a semi smashed into me, and I was sent flying like a soccer ball. I crashed into a field and rolled into a ditch.
I lay for a moment, flat on my back and blind with agony. Points of starlight bled through the inkiness above me. I wiggled my fingers and toes. The worst of the pain came from my left leg. I propped myself on my elbows and examined the wound.
Blood soaked my trousers from the knee to the cuff. A white splinter of bone poked midway from my shin. I patted the leg and felt a compound fracture of my fibula.
A man in a plaid shirt appeared on the edge of the ditch. "You alive?"
I let the pain ebb before answering. "Not quite."
A siren approached and a car stopped. Flashing blue and red lights flicked across the grass above me. The man went away, and seconds later, a deputy sheriff in a khaki uniform loped into the ditch and knelt in the weeds beside me.
"Hold on," he said. "An ambulance is on the way."
He noticed my eyes. "What the?"
I balled his shirt collar into my hands and yanked him closer. I mustered the strength for a good stare and zapped him.
"Help me up," I said.
He pulled me upright. My leg felt like it was getting broken again. I supported myself against the deputy, took his baton and my belt, and fashioned a splint against my leg.
Once the pain cleared from my head, we hobbled out of the ditch to his patrol car. Torn, muddy clothes hung from my limbs.
The semi truck was down the road, its emergency lights flashing. I had no idea where that murderous bitch Lara had gone. Besides, I was in no condition to hunt her down. I felt like, well, like that semi truck had drop-kicked my hairy vampire ass into a ditch.
I needed to recuperate. Someplace with lots of human blood for the asking. A chalice parlor. The Majestic Lanes.
Chapter Fifty-five
I levered myself behind the steering wheel and carefully rested the splinted leg to keep from jarring the fracture.
I looked over the parking lot where I had last seen Paxton. He was gone, for good, I hoped, as was his chalice and the Lincoln. I knew getting flattened by the BMW wouldn't finish him. But it would be a while before Paxton did the mattress tango with his chalice.
I drove into Los Angeles, halted outside the Majestic Lanes, and hobbled out of the deputy's cruiser, leaving the motor running and the lights flashing.
Inside the darkened bowling alley, a lobby card read: SORRY! LANES CLOSED! BUT TRY OUR EGGS! COFFEE SHOP OPEN 24 HRS!
Crockery rattled from the opposite end of the building. Who would eat at t
his dump at 2 A.M… other than the undead?
I found the maintenance door leading to the secret passage for the basement. At first I tried to ease my broken leg down each step of the stairway. No matter what I did it hurt like hell, so I held on to the banister and staggered to the bottom of the stairs as best I could, the wooden splint clanging against the metal steps.
I knocked on the door of the chalice parlor. The little window in the door slid open. I recognized the red vampire eyes of the bouncer from my previous visit. He let me through.
I shuffled in, dragging my broken leg. The bouncer's aura brightened with alarm.
"A little help, please," I said.
He stood behind me and lifted me by my armpits. With one foot he pushed a chair away from a table and sat me down. He knelt and removed the splint. He extended a talon, which he used to slice away the lower part of my left trouser leg.
The bouncer grimaced at the sight of my swollen leg. "Hope you kicked the other guy's ass."
"I might have dented his fender." Except for the bouncer and me, the parlor looked deserted. "What gives? Last time, this place was a goddamn circus. I've seen more life on an autopsy table."
"It's the news about Cragnow."
"What about him?"
The bouncer's aura telegraphed his skepticism with my question. Like you don't know? "Don't bullshit me. You're the enforcer from the Araneum."
"Take a look at me. I'm not enforcing anything."
"Maybe not now." The bouncer stood and unfolded a tablecloth from a stack on another table. He tore a long strip and knelt again by my left leg. "Hold steady now. This might hurt." He grasped my knee and ankle.
As he pulled my leg and reset the fracture, it felt like a thousand scorpions were stinging me at once from the inside. My vision dimmed and a rush of noise echoed within my skull. When my eyes focused again and my brain quieted, the bouncer was standing before me, admiring my bandaged leg.
The pain now seemed like only a hundred scorpions were at work. I moved the leg, and it hurt less.
"Why are you helping me?"
"I got a business to run. I don't care which vampire is in charge of the nidus, they're all the same to me. The sooner this nonsense stops, the sooner I can go back to making my payroll."
I whisked dust from my shirt. Clumps of dirt and grass fell out of my hair. I had to wash up and change clothes. But first I had to eat and rest. "What's on the menu?"
"Not much. Let me see what I can scrounge."
The bouncer went through a door behind the bar and returned with a steaming plate of Transylvanian lasagna-no garlic, extra ricotta cheese, and drenched with whole human blood. He uncorked a bottle of shiraz. "On the house."
I thanked him and forked helpings into my mouth and cooled the portions with gulps of wine. The pain in my leg now felt like only a dozen scorpions.
A barefoot female chalice in a robe refilled my glass.
"You dessert?" I asked.
She dropped her robe over an empty chair. "I like to think of myself as the main course." She pushed my plate aside, climbed on the table, and lay naked with her nipples and toes pointing to the ceiling. I scooped her head under one arm and curled the other around her waist.
I sank my fangs into her neck. Her aura rose to a low boil.
I took my time feeding. She ran her hands over her breasts, across her flat belly, and cupped her vagina, rubbing her fingers in slow circles. She moaned and shuddered in orgasm while I feasted.
Her blood warmed me, and the kinks and knots in my body melted away. I awoke slumped across the table with the chalice curled around my head like a big hairless cat.
I pulled free and rubbed my eyes. My joints and back creaked like they belonged to an old man. I reached for my left leg and touched the bandage. The flesh was still tender. I put weight on the leg. The ache was tolerable.
The bouncer sat at the bar and sipped coffee. "You okay?"
I stamped my left foot. The soreness would last for a day or two. "Fit enough to kick ass, with either leg. You got extra clothes and a place to wash up?"
"The dressing room's got cosmetics and a sink. There are plenty of clothes lying around. Take what fits."
The parlor was empty except for the bouncer, the chalice, and me.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Three o'clock."
"A.M. or P.M.?"
"P.M."
"Where are your customers?"
"Hiding and waiting," answered the bouncer.
"For what?" I lifted the robe from the chair and covered the chalice.
"To see what you'll do next."
"For that I need wheels."
The bouncer reached into his trouser pocket and tossed a set of keys to me. "Take mine."
A Mitsubishi logo decorated the key fob.
He poured a cup of coffee and topped it off with a long splash of blood from a second carafe. "Where you off to?"
"You know Lara Phillips?"
He pushed the cup across the bar counter in my direction. "Nope."
"Then you won't miss her."
Chapter Fifty-six
I had scrubbed myself clean, picked through the clothes littering the dressing room of the chalice parlor, and changed into jeans and a T-shirt that read: TAKE BACK THE STREETS. STOP THE VIOLENCE.
The bouncer owned the only Mitsubishi in the parking lot, a Spyder convertible. Since I was out of ammo, I dumped my pistol into the trunk. I folded the convertible's top down and sped north to Lara's home in Verdugo City.
She had a good head start, but there'd be clues where to find her. The sooner I got to her home, the warmer the trail would be.
I crossed over the concrete viaduct leading to Verdugo City. I halted in front of Lara's home. The same car with the EXPERT MAIDS logo was parked along the sidewalk.
I scanned for auras. I didn't want Lara to ambush me. The way clear, I put my sunglasses on and let myself in through the front door.
The only noise was a rustling from down the hall. I found the blond maid in a back room, stacking clothes on a small couch beside a desk. Two matching suitcases lay open on the floor. She didn't see me approach from behind.
A cork board hung on the wall next to the desk. Across the top of the board was a row of photos. The first two were glamour portraits of Roxy and Katz. Next were pictures from the Internet of Cragnow, Venin, and Paxton. The one of Rosario had been crossed out, probably to indicate she hadn't killed him. The last two were stills from a security camera. From the background I could tell these were taken at Journey's church. These photos were of Mordecai Niphe and me.
How far back had this murder spree been planned? Months? Years? Or did Lara only recently snap?
The maid glanced over her shoulder. Her complexion turned as pale as her white blouse. She whirled about in surprise, stumbled against the couch, and fell onto the cushions.
"Take it easy," I said. "I'm only here to find Lara."
The maid took quick breaths. Her breathing slowed, and the color returned to her face. The fright in her eyes gave way to grief. "Lara's in trouble, isn't she?" With those sad, round eyes and broad, sullen face the maid looked like a forlorn cow.
I nodded. "Where is she?"
"Not here." The maid shrank into the couch. Big tears shined in her eyes. She pulled a tissue from an apron pocket to blow her nose and blot her eyes. "Promise you won't hurt her."
My promise was that I'd terminate the murderous shrew. The petite brunette Gospel aerobics instructor was a rampaging killing machine that a half dozen others had underestimated. Alive, she remained as dangerous as a grenade with the pin pulled. "Why would I hurt her?"
"I just know. Lara's been doing crazy things lately. Like walking around the house and talking to herself. Praying for hours. Today she tells me to pack everything. Then she takes off in a banged-up car I've never seen before."
Niphe's BMW.
The maid picked at the tissue. "Lara's always been kind to me. If she's done anything wrong, sh
e must have a good reason."
"That's what I'm trying to find out. Where did she go?"
"I won't tell you."
My questions meant the maid could implicate me in Lara's death when the police arrived, which they would. Despite the trouble I had interrogating the maid from last time, I had no recourse but to zap her, ask questions, and erase the memory of my visit.
The maid watched with glossy bovine eyes as I removed my sunglasses. Her aura lit up and she sat frozen in my hypnotic grasp.
Cupping her chin, I stroked her head and asked her name. Using her name might make her more receptive to my questions.
The maid stammered under hypnosis as she had before. Every passing moment put Lara farther away from me. The wall clock marked the fleeting seconds with the resolve of a hammer striking an anvil. I fought the impulse to slap the maid into answering.
At last she said, "Amy."
I caressed her face and kept my tone velvety soft. "Amy, let me help Lara." Help me kill the homicidal bitch. "Tell me where she went."
The maid smiled beatifically, naive to my lie. "With Reverend Journey. At his home in Silver Lake."
"Amy, you have an address?"
She motioned to the desk.
I found an empty postmarked envelope addressed to Dale Journey. The return address belonged to the late Council-woman Petale Venin.
"Good girl." I kissed Amy on the cheek, closed her eyes, and ordered her to sleep. She wouldn't remember anything.
I went out and left in the convertible.
South of Griffith Park, I took the Hyperion exit and climbed the twisting streets of Silver Lake. Journey's house occupied an extravagant double lot with a millionaire's view of the lake below.
The style of his home was traditional California Mediterranean: white stucco, red Spanish tile, and art deco flourishes. Turrets adorned the front of the house, one at each corner, and a larger one in the center with the entrance.
Niphe's BMW sat in the driveway to the right of the lawn. Long scratches and dents marred the smooth lines of the black coupe. The mangled front end drooped like a mutilated snout.
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