by Jack Conner
"Not as such."
He sighed. Cloire always had been a bitch and he'd never had much occasion to talk to her, but for some reason he liked her. If nothing else, she had spunk.
“Where have you been?” he said. “I sent you to Vegas two weeks ago and you haven’t even checked in, yet. Where’s Jean-Pierre?”
“Calm down, cue ball. We’ve been away testing loyalty. Trust me, it was needed.”
"Explain. Quickly."
As she described the events that had taken place, he couldn't help but to notice the satisfaction in her voice.
"So you've broken with Jean-Pierre," he said when she was through, trying very hard to disguise his disappointment. He wasn't angry at Cloire; she had, in fact, done what she was supposed to do. If the albino couldn't hack it anymore, then he was better left out. But this changed things greatly.
"That's a fact," she said. "But we still work for you, big guy. Are your orders still to kill the odd flock?"
"No."
"What?"
Keeping his laughter in check, he said, "That's right, sweet-cheeks. You're not to kill them."
"Goddamn you, you fat bastard. You can't do this to me."
This time he couldn't keep it down. He laughed, long and hard, and he could hear Cloire growling on the other end, which just made it more enjoyable. Finally, when it was out of his system, he said, "You're still to pursue them, Cloire. You're to capture them, not kill them. Do you understand me?"
"The line's breaking up. I didn't catch that last part. You said kill them?"
"Don't irritate me, Cloire. If you have them killed, I'll have you hunted down, no matter where you are, and believe me, death will be the least of your worries." When she said nothing, he went on. "How do you intend to reacquire them?"
Some good humor returned to her voice, and he could hear the smile there. "I think you'll like this one ... "
He did. When she was finished speaking, he had a new respect for her; she was quite the devious mind, wasn't she, and she knew very well how the human (or immortal) mind worked. Yes, her plan even smacked of genius.
"Do it," he said, and hung up.
Beside him, Kristen stirred. More and more, she had taken to leaving her apartment and spending the days with him, which he liked, although it made some clandestine matters more difficult.
Like a child, she was curled into the fetal position and her thumb was stuck cutely in her mouth. So innocent and so full of fire. Vistrot felt a strong paternal instinct toward her, which he knew she both liked and didn't; sometimes she said he behaved like an overbearing father and didn't see her as a grown woman. Sometimes he had to admit, if only to himself, that she was right. But he loved her.
Little did he realize then just how much that love would be tested in the days to follow.
* * *
Kristen woke up around three in the afternoon and dressed in silence, letting Vistrot sleep. After leaving him a note on her pillow, she departed, giving her driver instructions to take her to Jean-Pierre.
Upon entering his apartment, she was shocked at the changes she saw. All the chains had been taken down, as had most of the sharp objects that once sprouted from the walls, and an empty bottle of champagne stood on the kitchen counter. She moved into the bedroom to see the albino and some strange woman lying peacefully. The woman slept, but he didn’t.
When he saw Kristen, he pulled on a pair of pants. Taking her arm, he led her from the bedroom and closed the door behind them.
"Who was that?" she asked, expecting him to say that it was another of his whores.
"That's Sophia," he said. "My wife."
"Your what!"
"Keep your voice down, Krissy."
"Sorry ... but you're married?"
"Very much so."
"Christ, I didn't know the drugs in Las Vegas were that good. Honey, let me feel your forehead."
“Kriss, don’t. I think I might just love her."
"Have you told her that?"
"Of course not."
"So you married someone that you don't love. Why?"
He sank into his uncomfortable wrought-iron chair, and she eased herself to the floor beside him. "She's completely changed my world, Kristen. I can't put it in words—but yes, I really do think I love her. She's so strong, so collected, and she's moral, for God's sakes; she's teaching me how to not kill innocents, to only feed off criminals and such." He smiled. He looked happier and more at peace with himself than Kristen had ever seen him. "I think she just may be my salvation."
The news stunned Kristen. It had only been a few weeks ago that he'd been a miserable wreck huddled in the corner, covered with tears and blood. How could he have come so far in so little time? She'd overhead Vistrot's conversation with Cloire and knew that Jean-Pierre was no longer the leader of his death-squad—a fact which she thought might have crushed him and which was the reason she'd come here today. But married?
"Baby..." she said hesitantly, "I'm going to tell you this because I don't think anyone else would dare: you're on the rebound—that's all this woman is. You lost both Danielle and your crew. You've turned to this Sophia for comfort ... Although I'm glad to hear your choice in food has changed. I really am. That’s wonderful."
"You don't understand," he said. "All this time I've been looking to Danielle for purpose, for definition—my tragedy was who I was. Sophia is teaching me how to find myself—how to live! Come, Krissy, I'd expected you, if no one else, to be happy for me."
She frowned. What he said was true: he did seem much improved. And surely this Sophia was responsible for the removal of the hooks and chains, and the glow that Jean-Pierre gave off …
"Okay," she said and tried to give a genuine smile, though on the inside she felt shell-shocked. "I'm happy for you." She embraced him, giving him a peck on the cheek. "But where does that leave us?"
"We'll always be there for each other, Kristen. Nothing will change that. It simply won't be in a sexual way."
"So why are you two still in New York? Why aren't you off on honeymoon or something?"
"Sophia just joined Vistrot's organization. She was a part of the crew, but she stayed with me instead. So it's important for her to stay in town so that he can find another position for her; it would look bad if she just ran away with me. As for me ... well, I suppose I need to find a new position as well."
"What will you do—head another death-squad?"
"I don't think I could ever do that again. I could never kill another innocent."
"She's changed you that much?” When he nodded, she said, "You're like a completely different person, Jean-Pierre. You really are."
"Do you still love me?"
"Of course, and I'm happy that you're finally over Danielle, but this is all very strange to me, baby. I can't believe you're married. Jesus, you're somebody's husband! Do you two have little cute names for each other and all that crap?"
"We're working on it."
She swayed. "I need a drink."
He fetched them both a beer. Before too long, she left, still in a daze, thinking of marriage and insanity. But somewhere inside her, an idea was growing.
* * *
Jean-Pierre returned to the bedroom, where he watched Sophia sleep; she could sense it. She smiled, her eyes still closed, and she said, "I can feel you watching me, you know."
"Shall I stop?"
"No, I like it." She opened her eyes and reached for a cigarette.
"Your eyes . . ." he said. "They remind me of something—something from a long time ago. I'd almost forgotten."
"What?"
"My mother. She had eyes just like yours."
She wondered if she should tell him. What would be his reaction? Well, she reasoned, I'm going to have to tell him sooner or later. Why drag it out?
She moved to the window, feeling the dying sunlight against her bare skin, soaking her in its warm rays like an olive in a martini. These past few days had been bliss, from their acid-laced wedding to their hal
lucinogenic road trip back up to New York, to tearing all the chains from his ceiling and thrashing around on his mattress in lustful abandon. That, she thought—removing all the hooks and chains—had really been a milestone.
Recognizing his discomfiture at her gentleness toward him, she had, over the last few days, been trying to make him understand that he possessed this same quality and that he should rejoice in it instead of rejecting it. They were both so similar in that way, having spent most of their lives denying and suppressing their emotions instead of thriving in them. She was now more certain than ever that this is where true strength came from, and he was slowly coming round to this conclusion, too.
The teachings weren’t all one-way. She wouldn't have been able to teach him what she did if she hadn't had him to learn from in the first place. She saw the tenderness in him (which he hated and suppressed, but which she was still able to see) and learned how to express it herself, and then she taught him how to do the same. Though he considered her to be his redemption, he was really the redemption for the both of them.
Now it was time for the great unmasking, an event inevitable in any of her previous seductions (even pleasantly anticipated), but it was probably avoidable. Being honest with him wasn't going to be easy—in fact, what it amounted to was her declaration of love, though he might not see it as such—but it was just as well. After all, she was a masochist and a sadist. She gave as well as she received.
"Jean-Pierre," she said softly.
"Yes, darling?"
"I've something to tell you. Please, sit down." He came to the bed, puzzled, while she crossed to her discarded clothes and produced a cigar which she'd bought yesterday in preparation for this event. She handed it to him. He stared at it dumbly. No matter. It was a bad joke, anyway.
"What is it?" he asked.
She smiled. "First, tell me this: do you love me?"
"I ... yes, I think so. I married you, didn’t I?"
“Yes, but we never said the words.”
He shook his head as if to clear away the cobwebs. "Do you love me?"
"You didn't answer my question, sweetheart. What have I been trying to teach you these last few days? Don't be afraid of what you feel. You were hurt once and, yes, you could be hurt again, but you're never truly going to live until you accept yourself, feelings and all. This means you must learn to express them when the timing's appropriate. Now’s one of those times."
He looked at her for a long moment. "Yes," he said finally. "Sophia, I love you."
Her heart rose into her throat. Of course, no tears came to her eyes. Crying was something she'd never been able to do.
"Do you love me?" he said again.
"Yes," she replied honestly. "I love you."
His hugged her, and she rejoiced in the feeling of his hard body against her.
"Baby," she said, pushing him away gently, "what I have to say is this: I am the daughter of the Ghensiv Veliswa and the Werewolf Jean-Pierre."
He jerked away, and his green eyes grew dim.
“It’s true,” she said.
"My god," he murmured. "All this time, I've been sleeping with my daughter!"
"Does it really matter?"
For another long moment he said nothing. Then, standing abruptly, he lit a cigarette and started pacing. "Of course it does, Sophia. How can you—why did you—how come you didn't tell me before? And how could you marry me? Is this a joke?" He seemed to notice the cigar, which he still held absently in his hand, and threw it to the ground. "Christ, why didn't Veliswa ever tell me?"
"Because she loved you and knew that if you knew, you'd perceive some sort of emotional attachment and reject her. But you're strong enough now. Listen to me! I am your daughter, goddamnit, but it doesn't change a thing. If anything, it should strengthen our bound."
He mashed his eyes shut. "You're sick.”
"How? How does this change anything? Answer me."
Shaking his head again, he said, "I don't know, but it does."
"We love each other, Jean-Pierre. Isn't that all that matters? Don't give in to societal conditioning."
"And if we have kids?"
"No immortal child has ever been born mentally or physically inhibited. The curse prevents it. Besides, what are the chances of us having a child? It's very rare, you know. Immortal tissues are highly reluctant to change. You know that."
He slumped down in a corner, his eyes looking in her direction but not directly at her. Slamming the back of his head against the wall, he balled his fists, inadvertently crushing his cigarette.
"Veliswa," he said. "Did she set you up to this?"
"She asked me to help out Ruegger and Danielle—and I tried. Becoming involved with you wasn't part of the bargain. It was an accident, but I'm glad it happened. I admit that you probably wouldn't have gotten as far with me if I hadn't known you were my father, but I did, so I gave you . . . us . . . a chance. And it changed everything, even how I perceived the world. You opened me up, Jean-Pierre, more than I can ever say. Now please, come here and tell me you love me."
His eyes met hers. He was composed once again. "Daughter," he said, and his voice was distant. "Kristen—the girl who was here just now—asked me if we had pet names for each other. I guess now we do."
She hesitated, still unsure of his reaction. "I love you.”
He didn’t look at her for a long moment, and her heart twisted violently. At last he reached out for her, and she nearly wept in release.
* * *
Roche Sarnova stared out the great windows of his study to the windswept mountains beyond, sipping on a glass of bourbon, as Francois Mauchlery entered the room.
"How did it go, Ambassador? Did the former Secretary of War confess?"
"Not at all. He still claims to be innocent. Loyal."
"Do you believe him?"
"No, but I don't think he's the only spy around, either."
Sarnova nodded. "That's what I've been told."
"Oh?"
"I've just spent five hours in the War Room, and none of what I learned was good news. Seems we're still losing the war, mainly due to security leaks and poor morale. It's finally started to hit me that we may actually lose."
"Don't tell me you're giving up, Roche. I won't believe it."
"As well you shouldn't, my friend. I'll die before I see my cause crushed."
"What are you going to do about morale?"
"Actually, I've had a thought on that subject. You see, if I am going to die, then I'll need a successor."
"Don't look to me," Francois said.
"Oh, I know you’ve no interest in such things. You've no reason to worry on that score. But I have another idea, one that will kill two birds with one stone. I think we should set up the Arena again."
"The Arena—of Death? Two shades trying to kill each other in an iron cage with a horde of spectators watching? That's barbaric, Roche—we haven't allowed the Arena in three hundred years."
"True, but I seem to remember that the public loved it, and that it boosted morale incredibly."
"You wish to use prisoners of war as in the old days?"
"No. This time it will be used to select my successor. We must either use visitors or our own people, preferably prime stock, but it will only be on a volunteer basis, so anyone may enter."
"This is absurd, Roche. Strength alone shouldn't determine your successor."
"But it is a necessary component. Have it set up so that at the end of the competition there will be eight finalists left. They will then engage each other in a series of chess matches—the winner gets the crown."
"But Roche ..."
"Yes, Ambassador?"
Francois looked at him but said nothing.
"You don't like me to speak of my death, do you?" Roche said.
"I see no reason why you should die. If it comes to that, why don't you simply concede? We can bring the Dark Council back together and begin the mending process. Perhaps someday the world will be ready for your move
ment."
"No. We've been complacent with our role for far too long." Closing his eyes, he took a sip of bourbon and cleared his throat. "Ambassador, I know you have only good intentions at heart, but this is as it must be. Now please leave me for the moment so that you can attend to the arrangements we've discussed."
With obvious reluctance, the ambassador nodded and left. Sarnova returned to watch the night.
* * *
Several hours later and thousands of miles away, in the Hamptons, Harry Lavaca was also drinking in a study. However, he was sitting, not standing, and his drink was not bourbon but a homemade vodka martini.
Nearby the man who called himself Martin Ascott perched in his own chair sipping on a ginger ale. True to his word, he drank no alcohol. In the days Harry had spent living with him, he’d noted that, as advertised, Ascott was a decent family man, even if the money that he'd used for capital in the hot dog business had originally come from being a very successful heroin distributor. Still, drug money, especially the relatively small-scale stuff Ascott would've been involved in, would not be enough to buy an estate here. No, Ascott must have a good mind for legitimate business to have done as well as he had. In fact, and despite himself, Harry found that he could even get to like the man; Ascott was intelligent, soft-spoken, modest and gentle. Although he tried hard, Lavaca couldn't picture him as a rapist or a drug runner.
The two had been enjoying a companionable silence for several minutes before Ascott spoke: "Harry, I must tell you that I've enjoyed your being here. You know what Charlotte told me yesterday? She said that Michelle, our youngest, asked if she could call you Uncle Harry." He smiled. "I told Charlotte to tell her that that was just fine with me, but we ought to ask your permission first, of course. So what do you say?"
Grudgingly, Harry smiled. Ascott had raised some fine kids. "It's okay with me," he said. "But I don't know how much longer I can stay here and I wouldn't want to hurt little Michelle. She's precious."
"Please, we would love to have you stay on. Maybe permanently. And I don't say that just because I'm afraid of Danielle—although I am, terribly—but because, well, I've come to regard you as something of a friend. I like to think that you feel the same towards me."