The Living Night: Box Set

by Jack Conner

  She grabbed his hand. "I know."

  He looked at her, and his face was agony. "Are you saying that ... ?" He shook his head. "Because if you're saying that—if you really mean it—then yeah, I'll break with him, if it comes to that."

  She pulled him down and kissed him. "Then it's decided.”

  "I don't understand," said Sophia.

  "Don't worry about it, Sofe," Cloire said. "There's no way you can make up your mind until you've seen us in action ... until you've seen the fucking albino refuse to open the emergency coffin of the odd flock until nightfall so that he could keep his precious Danielle alive that much longer. Just keep your eyes open. Observe everything."

  "Roger."

  "And don't comment on Jean-Pierre's apartment. You know what they say about how only a fool would be his own attorney—well, the same thing applies to Jean-Pierre and interior decorating."

  The quartet made its way upstairs to the boss's lair and Sophia saw what Cloire had been talking about. All those hooks and chains and sharp protrusions ...

  Jean-Pierre waited in an uncomfortable chair in the living room while Loirot paced restlessly.

  "Kilian!" the albino shouted and a small, dour man in a nice suit stepped inside from his position on the fire escape. "This is Sophia. Sophia, Kilian."

  Sophia kept her face impassive as she studied Kilian, and, as he watched her, he began to scowl.

  "So this is my replacement?"

  "I'm not a replacement for anyone," she said, "but piss me off and you'll need one."

  He raised a hand to slap her. She brought a knee up to his groin faster than he could respond and, when he doubled over, struck him on the side of the head. He tumbled to the floor. She kicked him once in the stomach and then pressed her foot down on his chest.

  "This settled?" she said.

  "You've gotta love her, don't you?" Cloire said.

  "Okay, Sophia, you've made your point,” Jean-Pierre said. “Now cool down, both of you."

  Sophia lifted her foot and stepped back, while Kilian stood and brushed himself off.

  "She'll have to go through Initiation," he demanded.

  "Of course," said Jean-Pierre. "In fact, I have a treat for all of us. You see, it seems lately that loyalty's become something of an issue—"

  Cloire groaned. "Oh, come off it, Frenchie. You're not suggesting we all go through Initiation again."

  "That's it, exactly, only it's not a suggestion. We're doing it, like it or not."

  "I think it's a good idea," said Byron.

  "Thank you. Any other objections?"

  "This is ridiculous," said Kilian.

  Sophia cleared her throat. "Excuse me, but what is this Initiation exactly?"

  The albino nodded to Loirot. "Explain."

  Loirot sighed. "When we all banded together originally, we decided to share a bonding experience together. Basically, what it entails is this: we light some candles and some incense, draw some chalk patterns on the floor, drop some acid, meditate for awhile, then strip naked and drink each other's blood—everyone drinks from everyone else and allows him or herself to be drunk from, so that we all become intimate and share in each other's power—and we have an orgy. After that, we go for four solid days without feeding and at the end of those four days we all go hunting together, then share each other's blood again. Have I missed anything?"

  "I think that about covers it,” Jean-Pierre said.

  "But why do you light the candles and the incense?" Sophia asked. "I thought we were all atheists here."

  Jean-Pierre answered: "We're not praying to any divinities but to the natural forces and rhythms of the world, if there are any, to unify us and bond our life energies. It's really something we should start doing every year."

  "It sounds like a bunch of mystical bullshit to me."

  "Perhaps it is, to an extent, but it's the psychology of it all that counts. When we do it, we all become one with each other." He looked at Cloire. "It's very emotional, isn't it?"

  “Fuck you, Paleface. You were in tears, too, if I remember. Weren't we all? Don't you dare single me out because I'm a woman. If that's what you think, then kiss my ass."

  Kilian puckered his lips. She flew at him, but Jean-Pierre leapt from his chair and held her back. She wrenched herself free, breathing heavily, but made no more move toward Kilian.

  Jean-Pierre lit a Pall Mall, looking each of his crew in the eye. Sophia was beginning to see why Vistrot considered him to be such a valued leader. He sucked a hit off the cigarette and smiled affectionately at everyone.

  "This is exactly why we need to do this," he said. "Do you understand now?" He stared at Cloire pointedly, saw her sneer start to fade, went over, patted her on the shoulder and kissed her forehead. To Sophia's surprise, Cloire didn't pull away, though she became very stiff. Then he went over to Kilian and did the same. Grabbing Kilian's arm, he led the daydog over to Cloire and made them embrace. After their initial reluctance, they did, though it was a very brief contact.

  "Now," said Jean-Pierre, "are you all with me ... and, just as importantly, are you with each other?"

  Byron nodded. The others followed his lead.

  "Good, now let's all start setting up the candles."

  They were shown several boxes, which held the necessary components to the ritual, and began arranging the ceremonial space. Jean-Pierre threw the blackout curtains over the windows so that they could feed during daytime, and Loirot broke out the LSD. After taking off their clothes, they all sat in the center of the chalk-and-candle pattern and dropped the acid. There were some nervous smiles from the group and Sophia could feel an excitement spreading up from her stomach and groin. They looked at each other pleasantly and reached for each other's hands. Then, feeling the presence and warmth of everyone else, they closed their eyes and began.

  Chapter 15

  “He’s dead,” the bartender said. “I’m sorry, but Hauswell’s dead.”

  Ruegger glanced at Danielle, whose face was sober. They had been inquiring all over Las Vegas for Hauswell, and everyone had the same story. An assassin had murdered the city’s most powerful resident.

  “He can’t be,” Ruegger said. “The man hired to kill him is dead.”

  The bartender—a werewolf; this was an immortal dive, one of many—only shrugged. “Sorry, but they must’ve gotten another hired gun to do the deed.”

  Ruegger narrowed his eyes. “Where’s the body?”

  “Laslo’s.”

  Ruegger looked away. It was the same answer he’d received before.

  Danielle drew him away. “You’re not going to get anything more out of that guy.”

  “But we killed Greggs.”

  She grimaced. “I don’t know, babe.”

  "We've got to find out if Hauswell's really dead. I couldn't stand it if he was ... I always wanted to return the favor, I guess.”

  “You’ve never really told me what happened between you. Were you and Hauswell ... lovers?”

  He smiled. “No. He saved my soul, maybe. At the very least, he saved me from myself.”

  “You mean, when you were evil, or whatever.”

  “There’s no whatever about it, Dani. I don’t believe in ‘evil’, but I was as bad as you can get. Hauswell pulled me out of it. Anyway, so we see if Laslo's really got his body and we go from there."

  "Where's Laslo?"

  "About seventy miles outside of town at a little private airfield Hauswell owns ... or used to. But I warn you now, Laslo's elevator—the one that doesn’t go all the way to the top in some people—it’s in the basement, and if he thinks Hauswell's dead, he's probably gone completely insane; Hauswell saved his life about a hundred years ago and ever since Laslo's had an unhealthy fixation on him."

  "That what you mean by insane?"

  "No, you'll have to meet him to see what I mean. Seems God and the angels have a personal relationship with Laslo and he talks to them often—he frequently dresses like a priest and Hauswell humored him by b
uilding him a rather unusual mission. You'll see."

  Somewhat nervously, she ran a finger across the thin silver adornments that pierced her left ear. “You can tell me, you know. I mean, about what happened, when you were ... bad.”

  He stared at her for a long while. At last he shook his head.

  “Some other time,” he said.

  She frowned.

  * * *

  When the sun set, they packed their bags and checked out of their hotel. Their new vehicle was a VW mini-bus with psychedelic flowers and peace signs painted on the outside and Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview mirror. A plastic Elvis jutted from the dashboard and a profusion of glow-in-the-dark stars stared down from the ceiling, walls and floor of the rear interior, creating a small but brilliant universe when illuminated by blacklight—which they were.

  Ruegger and Danielle tossed in their two suitcases and she climbed behind the wheel. She started the automobile with a dusty roar and headed east toward the desert that surrounded Las Vegas. Once clear of the city, Ruegger lit a cigarette, propped his feet up on the dashboard and turned on the radio; Aerosmith was singing "Sweet Emotion".

  "So tell me about Laslo," she said. "Like what kind of shade is he?"

  "A very rare one, what they call a chalgid."

  "Never heard of them."

  "They've got the power to resurrect the dead. In fact, whatever force created them made it imperative that they do resurrect the dead. They're a kind of vampire, really; they need human blood to live, but this blood must first be passed through a corpse."

  She made a face.

  "Here's how it works," he said. "The chalgid resurrects a dead person by giving the dead one some of its blood, then the zombie—or whatever you want to call it—feeds off a human and goes back to its maker so that the chalgid drinks from its zombie."

  "That’s disgusting."

  "The chalgid usually makes several zombies to carry out its needs. The more of its blood it gives to the zombies, the stronger they are; in fact, if the chalgid gives a zombie enough blood the zombie can become a chalgid itself. But this means the zombie then becomes powerful enough to be a threat to its maker, so this rarely happens. And if the chalgid doesn't give its zombies enough blood, they continue to decompose. Ideally, it gives the zombies just enough blood, every now and then, to erase the more visible effects of death and keep them from decomposing altogether. I should mention that the chalgid has a strong psychic connection to his minions and can even control them sometimes, unless the zombies have got enough of their master's blood to make them powerful enough to resist its mindpull. At any rate, the chalgid usually uses enough of its powers to instill a certain loyalty in its undead subjects."

  "So how many zombies does Laslo keep?"

  "Last time I saw him, which was about twenty-five years ago, he had four at his disposal."

  "How strong could they be? I mean, if Laslo turned out to be unfriendly, could they hurt us?"

  "Probably. One advantage they've got is the zombies aren't afraid of the sun, even though their master is. Typically they go and gather blood during daytime and return at night to feed him."

  She thought about it. "So how do they get the blood? After all, they're in the middle of the desert."

  He shrugged. "Hitchhikers and passers-through, I guess. Or they go to a neighboring town."

  "How do you kill them?"

  "Destroy their brain and you destroy their immediate psychic connection with their master. He can resurrect and restore them later, but it takes them out for the time being."

  “Are they … discriminate about who they feed from?”

  “You mean, are they worthy of a visit from the Marshals?”

  “Well?”

  He frowned. “It would be a bad idea to kill someone we’re trying to get information out of.”

  “Didn’t stop you with Greggs.”

  He paused. “First let’s see how bad they are. We can plan on delivering justice later.”

  "Fine. So how did Laslo come to be at this airport of Hauswell's, and why'd Hauswell build one out here in the first place?"

  "Back in the fifties he built it for commercial purposes, so he'd have a place that he could import his drugs to directly. Never made much money on it, though; overhead was too high. And once the police caught wind of it, they gave him hell. Other mob bosses bribed them more than Hauswell could compete with; this was before he grew as powerful as he is today. Or was. Then, in the late sixties, a rival boss sent some of his thugs to torch the place. Burned most of the buildings and planted explosives along the runway. The airport's personnel made their final stand in the hangar and were able to hold out until the thugs were gone.

  "Hauswell decided it wasn't worth it to keep the airport running in the same capacity it had been, so he dismissed the staff and rebuilt the runway so he could keep the airport running, if only on a private, non-commercial basis. He loves to fly around the world, you know. I remember he was always so excited whenever a new model plane came on the scene. He kept his personal jets there. And it was a perfect place to stick Laslo. Hauswell wanted Laslo to move out here with his zombies, but Laslo wouldn't have it because he said it was ungodly.

  "So, when he got rich enough, Hauswell built a new hangar—a large one and out of stone this time. Built a three-story church on top of it. Made the church to look like a mission, out of stone like the hangar, with a bell tower, too. Spent hundreds of thousands of dollars setting it up just right so the mission would have enough support not to fall down on top of the hangar. It amused Hauswell to have God watching over his planes. He maintained the place as a private airport and Laslo's stayed there ever since. There's even a little cemetery out back full of mortals and immortals who've died in Hauswell's service and Laslo tends to it on occasion. That's where he gets his zombies if he needs a new one."

  "Money can buy anything, can't it?” she said. “And Hauswell's an eccentric bastard.”

  "He's nothing compared to Laslo."

  "Can't wait to meet him. So you really think Hauswell might have some useful information if he's still alive?"

  "According to Greggs, yes. Hauswell was investigating the Scouring before he vanished, remember. Something about a mysterious third party trying to figure out how powerful he was, something like that. By now he’s bound to have tracked that person down. He may know more, too. He may know the secret behind it all. Anyway, it's the only move we've got so far. If Hauswell doesn’t know anything I was thinking …”

  “Yes?”

  “We could ask Kharker. No one knows more about immortal affairs than he does.”

  She looked sideways at him. "You still love him, don't you?"

  He sighed and lit another cigarette. "I know he kills innocents, but does that really make him, in your terms, evil?"

  "Yes." Her voice was ice.

  * * *

  About forty minutes later they saw a hitchhiker just up the road, and Danielle said, "What do you think?"

  "Pick him up and if he pulls a knife or a gun on us we have a sip."

  They were both starving for blood.

  "I concur."

  They pulled to the side of the road, and the hitchhiker approached. Carrying a cheap-looking bottle of whiskey in one hand, dirty long brown hair fell down his back, a ratty biker's jacket hung over an indescribably dirty shirt, and skin-tight black pants stretched down to his boots. As he approached, his face became more visible; his eyes were quite red and there was something gangrenous about his features. He flashed a peace sign and threw open the rear door before climbing in. Ruegger wrinkled his nose at the stench.

  "Where to, mates?" the man said.

  Ruegger spun around just in time to see him draw out a blade from his waistband. Ruegger shot him twice in the chest. The noise startled Danielle, who jumped in shock. The man looked down at his wounds, swore and took a big gulp of his whiskey.

  "Danielle," Ruegger said casually, "meet one of Laslo's zombies."

  Th
e man winked at Danielle out of a blood-shot eye. "I prefer the term bloodfinder, m'self.” To Ruegger: “How'd you know, mate—I mean before ye shot me?"

  "I've smelled a lot of corpses in my day, son, and I could smell you a mile off. What's your name?"

  "Tommy O'Connel. And forgive the stench, friends—Laslo ain't got any runnin' water at that friggin' place, not t'mention me own frailments. Is that where you two fine an' upstanding citizens're headin'?"

  "Afraid so, Tommy," said Danielle.

  He returned the blade to his waistband and made an effort to straighten himself up. He offered his bottle to Ruegger, but Ruegger declined.

  "How do you come to know Lord Laslo?" Tommy inquired.

  "From Hauswell."

  "Oh, I’ve met him. On several occasions when the good man stopped by to say hi t'Laslo. He used to be m'boss, you know."

  "Is that a fact?"

  "Yes, indeed, my good sir."

  "Have you seen him lately?"

  "Oh, sure, sure. Got his corpse in the hangar."

  Ruegger's heart sank.

  Danielle saved the moment. "If you've got Hauswell's corpse, why not resurrect him?"

  "Ah, simple. See, the sick sods who killed 'im took 'is head—for a trophy, I guess. Can't resurrect no one without a head, unless you're doin' it for amusement. Laslo's done it before, I've watched 'im. They corpses just flop around like dyin' fishes an' sometimes 'e c'n get'em to walk and stuff, though I 'spect that's just some of them ol' spoonbender techniques the Lord's got. Not my kind of man, the Lord, but 'e treats me well enough. Guess yer sundogs or somethin', right?"

  "Something," Ruegger said sadly—he'd heard the rumor about Hauswell's decapitation before but had forced himself not to believe it—feeling Danielle's hand on his own. "I'll take some of that whiskey now."

  Tommy handed it over. "Want I should give you directions to Laslo's?"

  Ruegger fell back in his chair and stared blankly forward as the self-styled bloodfinder guided Danielle to Laslo's mission. He just couldn't believe Hauswell was really dead. So many things left unsaid, so many debts left unpaid, and at the end they weren't much more than casual acquaintances ... I should've tried harder, thought Ruegger. I should've tried much, much harder. All the time in the world and it's still left incomplete ... He took a swig from the bottle and swore under his breath.