by Jack Conner
"Well, I was just in the wonderful city of Lereba, Morocco, and heard some rumors ... about your little Gutter Angel, Danielle."
"She's in Lereba?"
"She was when I departed, as was her beau, the Darkling."
Jean-Pierre considered. It was useful information, and he was glad that Danielle was somewhere far away, although by no means was Lereba a safe place at the moment.
"You're going to have to do better than that if you want a favor out of me," he said.
"Then we're going to have to define the favor. Let's say I give you another tidbit and you give me some of your blood—word is that you've some of Kharker in you. I can see how that could be rather … invigorating."
"That's reasonable. But this better be good."
"Oh, it is. How would you like to know who killed Testopha?"
"Wasn't he Scoured?"
"Indeed, my dear chap, he was—one of the very first ones, too."
"Fine."
Max pursed his lips. "It was your Balaklavian artists, Junger and Jagoda."
"That is interesting. But doesn't the Scouring usually work through local death-squads?"
“As I've said, this was one of the very first Scourings—perhaps a system had yet to be worked out back then. You fail to see the broader uses of using Junger and Jagoda. See, Testopha's death created great havoc in Lereba because it was thought that the karula killed him—and that situation couldn't have been achieved if a local death-squad was running around bragging about knocking off one of the greatest leaders in history. The killer would have to be an outsider."
"So you're saying his death was meant to cause the abunka-karula conflict?"
"Indeed. Now, how about that blood now? I'm sure we could find an empty room back here somewhere."
"I'm not in the mood. I'll return in a few days' time, don't worry. Technically, Sophia and I are still on honeymoon."
Silently, Max nodded. "I certainly wouldn't want to spoil your honeymoon, of course. I look forward to your visit." He withdrew a pen and scribbled something on the back of a business card, then handed it to Jean-Pierre. "Here's the address where you can reach me. We will make your appointment a comfortable one. Having been on tour so long, we've collected a large variety of the world's best wines. Perhaps when you come by—"
"Yes, perhaps. Well, thanks again and good bye." Jean-Pierre led Sophia away. He had the feeling that if Max was angered, he could become a very dangerous man. The albino could just imagine that, after a few days went by and he did not call upon the Funhouse, the Funhouse might just come to him ... and that would most certainly spoil the honeymoon.
The couple happened upon a cluster of Funhouse performers, arranged in a line, happily chatting with their fans and posing together for pictures. There was the dwarf with the four arms (whose name they learned to be Claude) sitting in a chair in the center of the line, looking relaxed and composed. He seemed to hold a high position among his peers, perhaps even that of leader.
The large, obese woman with the empty abdominal cavity slouched at his side, and they were holding hands in a loverly fashion. Not too far away stood the skeletal mime, standing side by side with the blond girl in the web. To their left was a man with two tails holding hands with another man with one head but three faces. And there sat the two large Siamese twins, who could give the illusion of coming together, posing for a picture with the spider-man, who smoked a French cigarette. A woman with four breasts but no ears whispered to an androgynous figure with a no eyes but two perfectly formed mouths.
As he studied the freaks, Jean-Pierre realized how symmetrical, even beautiful, some of their aberrations were. He supposed that most of them had undergone plastic surgery to give a more even appearance to their deformities. Or perhaps Maximillian's blood had enhanced their aesthetic appeal; the curse was known to do such things on occasion. Nonetheless, they were fascinating to behold.
As the night continued, he was able to meet several of the freaks themselves, who weren't overly deferent to his status as an immortal but were gregarious and friendly just the same. Eventually, Sophia tugged on his sleeve.
“I’m ready to go if you are,” she said. “And … I have something to tell you.”
They returned to his apartment. Over the last few days, they’d purchased some furnishings to the suite—nothing too elaborate, because, after all, they were about to move—just a few chairs (with cushions, which was a major change), a couch, stereo, television, and several various odds-and-ends.
Sophia had placed the cigar that she'd bought to announce herself as the albino's child in a drawer. She retrieved it now and tossed it to him. Catching it, he stared at her dumbly, then saw her begin to smile.
"You're kidding," he said.
She moved over to him, pressed her body against his, and gave him a long, passionate kiss.
"I'm not," she said. "At all."
“But such a thing is so rare … and with us, the way we are …”
“The curse will preserve it. There will be no deformities. Of that I’m sure.”
"And you're sure. Positive."
"Absolutely."
He stared at the cigar, shoved it in his mouth and lit it. Taking the smoke in, he thought briefly of Kharker, but his mind was far too preoccupied to consider his old friend long. Slowly, he smiled, staring into the violet eyes of his bride.
"I can't believe it,” he muttered. “We're going to have a baby."
* * *
The series of events that quickly spun out of control and led to such violent upheaval began the next day. It was late Saturday afternoon and Kristen was playing on the great white Steinway Vistrot had bought for her years ago, when she decided to pay him a visit.
It would be a very important visit. She dressed in a seductive-but-mature little dress and called for her limousine, which took her directly to her lover's base of operations. She marched down to the appropriate sub-level and made her way to the end of the main hall where his private office was located, but neither of the two guards (both of whom she'd known for years) opened the door for her.
"He's not in," one explained. "I believe he's in his quarters getting some rest. He said he didn't want to be disturbed."
She smiled and held up the bottle of Cristol she'd brought along. "Well, I'm going to him anyway. We have something to celebrate—I'm going to ask him to marry me! If Jean-Pierre can do it, so can I. It's gone on like this for too bloody long."
The guards glanced at each other.
"Better let him sleep, dear," cautioned the second one.
"Bullshit." She stalked away from them until she found her way into one of the secondary halls, where Vistrot's sleeping quarters were. Two more guards stood before it; they stiffened at her approach.
"He's sleeping," one said.
"So I've heard, Leroy. But today's a special day. Wake him up!"
She tore past them. Since they weren't about to manhandle the boss's girl, they had no choice but to let her by. As it turned out, this was an unfortunate decision. She threw open the door and strode into the room victoriously, bottle raised high, then stopped and gasped in horror.
Vistrot laid naked on the bed, an equally unclad woman straddling him. She had auburn hair and wispy green eyes, and her wrist was to his mouth; he was drinking her blood. Stranger still, his wrist was to her mouth as well—she was drinking his blood! For a moment, Kristen thought the woman was some sort of victim of Vistrot's and was surprised; she'd never seen him feed before. But no, the woman appeared very willing—in fact, it almost seemed as though she were the dominant one. But that couldn't be, could it?
Instantly, Vistrot ceased his movements and turned in shock to Kristen. In less than a second, his expression transformed from lustful to dismayed. The woman on top of him seemed quite unperturbed. She hopped off her mount, tearing her wrist away from Vistrot, who'd been biting down on it absently. He lurched up, his body beet-red while his face was very pale, then with an effort rose to his feet and yanke
d on a pair of pants.
"Kristen," he said, "this isn't—"
"Isn't what!" She grabbed the bottle of Cristol by the neck and launched it at him. Despite his considerable bulk, he dodged it ably, and it shattered against the wall behind him. "God damn you, you cheating bastard! And I was going to ask you to marry me! You fucking pig, I can't believe you."
"Kristen, baby, I swear—"
"Swear what, exactly?" She grinned bitterly. "Well, if you think you're the only one who can hurt someone else, you're wrong! Oh, Auggie, you're so wrong! I knew you were cheating on me, you lying turd, so I returned the favor!"
"Come on, Krissy ... Krissy, honey, don't talk like that."
"Oh, but I did." She watched with satisfaction the hurt in his eyes. "And you know what else? It wasn't with just some bum—it was with your own Jean-Pierre!"
"Krissy, no!" Vistrot's face had gone from shocked to traumatized. There was almost no expression left there at all. Behind that, though, a seething rage grew, and Kristen was well aware of it.
"He said he loved me, what do you think of that!"
"Take it back, Krissy," he warned, his voice all too quiet. "If you don't, I swear—"
"Oh, and now you swear again! But it's all right when you cheat, isn’t it? Well, isn't it! Fuck you, Michael Augustine Vistrot—and the ulcer-ridden elephant you lumbered in on!" She glared at him one last time. "You bastard, I hope it was worth it. And as God as my witness I never want to see you again.”
She stormed out of the room.
Vistrot glowered at his guards, who'd watched the whole scene with mounting dread. He smiled at their fear.
"I'll deal with you later, men. Now get me Junger and Jagoda!"
* * *
Lying beside him as he slept, Sophia ran her fingers through the albino's pale blond hair and thought about their life together. This was not only her father, but the father of their future child. He would be its father and grandfather at the same time. She'd made him a daddy twice over and a granddaddy once in less than a week. It was splendidly perverted, and she loved it.
During their time together, she'd learned so much from him about the arts of tenderness—but she had her doubts. Serious doubts. He was still much better at displaying his emotions than she, and he was finally beginning to appreciate it. She, on the other hand, was beginning to think that perhaps she wasn't cut out for being emotionally healthy; it just didn't come naturally. Still, she couldn't see leaving him, and maybe in time she could learn even more from him. Could it ever be enough?
Of course, there was that other business of Ruegger and Danielle. Sophia had selfishly abandoned the quest to save them in the deserts of Nevada so that she could pursue her own love life and self-fulfillment. Now it struck her that perhaps her skills would be best suited to furthering the quest instead of apartment-shopping with Jean-Pierre. Well, time would tell.
Abruptly a fusillade of knocking sounded from the front door. Jean-Pierre snapped awake beside her. Tossing on some clothes, they answered the summons. Kristen burst in, sobbing, and threw herself around Jean-Pierre.
"What is it, Krissy?"
"Oh, Jean-Pierre," she moaned. "I've done something terrible, so terrible."
"What, honey? What?"
She backed away from him and wiped at her eyes, then hastily lit a Virginia Slim.
"I told him about us," she said. "I caught him with his whore and I blabbed! I'm so stupid, so horribly stupid. I should be shot, shouldn't I?"
"No, of course not."
"Yes, I should. I really should. Say you forgive me, my beautiful pale one, and I'll feel better."
"It's done. I forgive you."
"No, you shouldn't. I don't deserve it. Don't you realize what he'll do?"
"What could he possibly do? He deserved what he got and he knows it. You know he'll never hurt you."
"It's not me I'm worried about." She took a deep breath before going on, then looked meaningfully back and forth between Jean-Pierre and Sophia. "You've got to go, both of you. Far, far away, somewhere he can never find you."
"That's no use, Krissy. If he wanted, he could find us anywhere."
"Jean-Pierre, don't say that! He's not one to take things passively. He'll do something rash, I know he will. Now pack up and go! Here, I'll help you."
He laid a hand on each of her young shoulders. "Calm down, girl. What's done is done and there's no use hiding. I knew what I was getting into when we first started sleeping together, and I'm not afraid to face the consequences."
"Then I'm afraid for you. Don't you get it? There's no point in acting noble now. Just run! If you run, it will be an act to appease him. He doesn't want to kill you and that'll give him an excuse not to. Don't argue with me, Jean-Pierre. I know him better than anyone alive."
"We're not going anywhere, Krissy. But here, you stay with us tonight, okay? And for however long you need to."
Clearly, she was not lulled into any sense of security, but she gave in under the albino's ministrations, and Sophia helped. Around four in the morning, Sophia awoke with a start. Something was wrong. Beside her, the albino lurched up. Two large black figures seized hold of her and tore her, naked, from bed. Her first thoughts were that they smelled foul and that she missed being in Jean-Pierre's arms, and then one of them struck her over the head and she was out.
* * *
Peeking around the doorway, Kristen marveled as Jean-Pierre leapt to his feet. She knew Junger and Jagoda were much stronger than he was and either one of them would've been more than sufficient to rip him limb from limb.
"Release her," he commanded.
Kristen gasped. He was so brave!
"Vistrot has a message for you," said Jagoda. "He says that since you took from him the only thing he loved in this life, he would take your bride in her place."
"He'll never live to lay a finger on her, the bastard."
Junger laughed. "You misunderstand. We’re to dispose of her. Consider it a professional courtesy that we don't kill her in front of you. After this, you and Vistrot will be even." He turned to his comrade. "Brother, don't you love New York?"
"It's beautiful," agreed the bearded one. He peered at Kristen in the doorway. "Vistrot says you're free to return."
"Fat chance!" she said.
"He says no harm will come to you."
"Tell him to fuck himself!"
Jagoda winked. "With pleasure, little one."
He and Junger left through the front door, Sophia slung over the bald one's shoulder. After they were gone, Jean-Pierre collapsed on the floor and Kristen knelt beside him.
"I'm so, so sorry, Jean-Pierre. You'll never forgive me, I know, and I wouldn't deserve it if you did. Here, would you feel better if you hit me?"
He cupped his hands over his face. He limbs shook.
"No," he said. "I don't want to hit you, for God's sakes. It's you that doesn't understand. Kristen … Krissy, honey ... she was pregnant."
"My god. I didn’t think that could happen."
In that moment, something snapped in him, Kristen could feel it. It was as if all the knowledge Sophia had given him, all the morality—with her abduction, it was gone. Vaporized. The old Jean-Pierre had reemerged.
Fury possessing him, he started smashing things. It didn't matter what it was, he thrust his fists and his feet into it, cracking and splintering, ripping and tearing—destroying blindly, until there was nothing left big enough to smash. Then he moved into the living room. By the time he was through, the entire apartment was broken apart, the walls fractured, the floor littered with gaping holes, the furniture shredded, the ceilings caving in.
Then he started on the hall.
At first Kristen cried, hating herself, but then the anger blossomed outward. She kicked at what was left of the toaster because it was the nearest thing to her. As she listened to Jean-Pierre's sounds of destruction from beyond the suite, she realized that Vistrot's revenge had been a mistake, a grave miscalculation. His act had been irrevoca
ble, and now it was war.
* * *
Claude, the four-armed dwarf, had to step over sleeping performers on his way to the door. It had taken three penthouse suites to accommodate all of them, but ever since that initial challenge it had been a non-stop party. Pretty much everyone here was in a fitful, drunken stupor except Claude and several friends, including Max, and that's only because they were snorting the last of an eight-ball. When he finally got to the door and flung it open, he saw a very severe Jean-Pierre with a grim-faced blond girl at his side.
"You're here to see Max.”
"That's right," said Jean-Pierre.
Claude led them through the living room into the oversized den, where Maximillian and a few others—one or two of them groupies—were still carrying on the festivities. The troupe had put on a good show tonight and were hoping to spend another few weeks in New York. That would all change shortly.
Max glanced up at Jean-Pierre, then, smiling, rose to meet him.
"So glad you could make it, my dear fellow. And who's this lovely creature?"
"My name's Kristen," she said coldly.
Max studied the albino, and Claude saw what Max saw: something about the werewolf had changed. He was more composed, more confident. It looked, to Claude, as if Jean-Pierre had made up his mind about something. And, having done so, he seemed even deadlier than before.
"So, my friend,” said Max, wary, "are you ready to give a little blood?"
"No. But if you're willing to do something for me, you'll be able to taste blood far richer than my own—blood that has been building strength since 500 B.C. It will make you immeasurably more powerful than you are. Of course, I'll need the complete cooperation of your troupe."
Max frowned. "Whose blood would this be?"
"Vistrot," Jean-Pierre said. “The Titan."
* * *
When Sophia finally woke up, she couldn't open her eyes at first because of the soreness and dried blood. She smelled something horrible, some slaughterhouse stench. The bruises and abrasions she'd suffered under the hands of the Balaklava burned. Worse, from the throbbing between her legs she realized that they'd raped her while she'd been unconscious. Fucking bastards. Let them try to do that when I’m awake!