by Jack Conner
Danielle followed his gaze. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
“No,” he said. “Wait. I don’t think … ”
“What?”
He breathed out in a sudden rush of relief. “That body’s decomposing.”
The door burst open. A horde of zombies—the whole congregation—swarmed down, blades and guns in their hands. Ruegger reached for a long knife, really more of a dagger.
“Give ‘em hell,” Danielle said, pulling out a blade of her own.
The zombies flew at them. Ruegger tore into the creatures with teeth and knife. He jammed the blade into his attackers until one of them sunk to the floor, the knife in its skull. Too far away for him to reach. He fought on with teeth and fist. A splash of corpseblood sprayed his mouth, and he nearly retched.
They surged all around him and Danielle. Ruegger swiveled, turned, punched, kicked. He heard his enemies’ bones breaking. Soaked with blood from head to toe, he fought on.
“Danielle,” he gasped. “Danielle!”
He could no longer see her.
“Ruegger … ”
There were too many of them. Escape was impossible.
He heard growls approach. Singer. In beast form. As the werewolf joined the fight, Ruegger realized his time had come.
A voice, Laslo’s: “Come to God, my son.”
Ruegger tried to answer, but one of the deaders rammed a dagger through his throat, and blackness overcame him.
Chapter 18
When Sophia woke up in the morning, sunlight streamed in through the window and she glanced at the clock on the bedside counter. Nine-thirty. Early enough.
She sat up in bed—Jean-Pierre's bed—and noticed him still asleep beside her. He was such an angelic sleeper. This was the first time in a long time she’d woken up next to a man that 1) she hadn’t had sex with and 2) she had no plans to destroy. Oddly self-conscious, she ran her hand through his pale blond hair.
Last night had been good. Healthy, in its own twisted way. They’d danced and gotten drunk together. Even talked. She had let her guard down, and wasn’t sorry about it.
She even felt a little guilty about her attempt to seduce him. It was her natural instinct, though, maybe the natural instinct of all ghensivs; when she saw a weakness in a man, she honed in on it and used it to her best advantage, or what she thought would be her best advantage at the time. Sometimes she was wrong.
She reprimanded herself for her emotional outlook. Emotion made one weak. And yet he looked so beautiful lying there …
She rose and lit a Black Death. She would wait and see. If she felt anything real towards him, she’d make an effort to own up to those feelings instead of turning away from them as usual. Of course, part of her cringed at the whole notion. Gods, girl. You can’t do this. He’s …
She banished the thought. They were immortals and above such concerns.
She showered and dressed, and by that time he was up as well. While he showered, she found the kitchen and brewed some coffee. She saw that Kilian was already up. Cloire marched into the room, two cigarettes in her mouth, and smiled.
"Mornin', Sofe."
"Mornin', Cloire. Wanna cup?"
"Hellfire and fuck yeah. Byron and I finished off four liters of tequila last night. He puked on me in the middle of the night and the sad thing is I couldn't blame him."
The morning progressed, and by ten-thirty everyone was dressed and ready to go. Since they'd rented a van at the airport last night, the first priority of the day was to find some sympathetic criminals and purchase hardware, as, having taken a commercial flight to Las Vegas, the death-squad had had to leave their guns back home. Unfortunate but easy to rectify, which they did quickly and were on to the second objective by noon. It was a nice day outside and the team was in good spirits.
The second objective was to find Ruegger and Danielle, which meant interrogating anyone that might've come in contact with them in the past week. Ruegger and Danielle were certain to be looking for Hauswell, even though the rumors of his death were now common knowledge. As the day went on, the death-squad talked to many minor underworld figures, who would be the best sources of information on Hauswell, and by five o'clock it became clear that the underworld was really and truly in turmoil. Hauswell's absence had left a hole that many were trying to fill. In fact, they were warring over the position, without success. All Hauswell's former lieutenants and rivals were at each other's throats.
No one seemed very powerful. No one, that is, except for an enigmatic figure few seemed to have met in person, a shade named Karl Barnaby. Apparently he’d just arrived on the scene, and it was rumored that he was very wealthy and powerful. Though he was a newcomer, he was quickly making Las Vegas his territory. Mystery surrounded him, but no one the death-squad talked to proved helpful in solving it.
They did find out a critical piece of information, which was repeated over and over again in rumor: Hauswell's body was at Laslo's. That, Jean-Pierre was certain, was where Ruegger and Danielle would go. The others agreed, but Kilian had something to say:
"I don't think Hauswell's dead. I think he planted the rumor of his death himself to make going underground easier.”
Surprisingly, Jean-Pierre agreed. "Hauswell’s too crafty to die."
"So what do we do about it?"
"I've an idea."
Jean-Pierre took them to a particular casino/hotel operated by one of Hauswell's former lieutenants. If the death-squad had learned anything today, it was that the underworld was so weak here that the name Vistrot carried great weight and, while they probably would've been killed within a few hours of entering the city had Hauswell still been in power, they were at the present time feared as emissaries of Vistrot. Vistrot had the power to wipe all these insignificant players off the board at a whim if he was willing to devote the manpower.
Jean-Pierre parked the van and the crew followed him inside, where he demanded to see the operator of the establishment. After some mindpulling, he got his way. The death-squad stormed into the office, closing the door behind them. The operator, a morbine named Stacey, had been expecting them and had a small army of shades behind his desk, all armed, just in case.
"We're looking for Hauswell," Jean-Pierre said.
"He's dead," said Stacey. "Or haven't you heard?"
The albino laughed. "He's not dead; it was just a trick to evade the Scouring."
"As far as I know, he's quite dead."
"Then who killed him?"
"He was Scoured, I suppose."
"Yes, but as we've all come to know, the Scouring usually works through local hit-teams. That's how it killed Lord Chang in Hong Kong yesterday, or haven't you heard? That's how it killed Hernandez in Columbia two weeks ago. And that's how it would have killed Hauswell. Since we've been here, we've heard many rumors and many false braggarts, tales of several squads who take credit for the killing. It seems to be becoming common knowledge that the body at Laslo's mission is missing a head—so if it really is the body of Hauswell, the team that killed him took his head as a trophy. But none of the braggarts have the head. So who has it?"
Of course, much of what he said wasn't quite true; the death-squad hadn't been in town long enough to gather all this information. Jean-Pierre was simply making the necessary leaps based on the assumption that Hauswell was still alive. The bluff worked.
Stacey swallowed. "I ... don't know. Now please get out of here."
The albino turned to his crew. "Do it.” They all withdrew their weapons. The small army behind Stacey raised theirs as well, but Jean-Pierre held up his hand. "Not yet," he cautioned. "Stacey, do you see that all our guns are silenced?"
"Yes."
"Yours are not. We can shoot you all night without making a sound—no cops will come and no awkward questions for you to answer. If your men return fire, it makes a big loud sound and the poor tourists in their rooms are certain to call the boys in blue. And the boys in blue will alert the mob. Other bosses will find out about it. You�
�ll look weak. You're at a disadvantage, Stacey. We have nothing to lose and you do. Trust me, we will shoot until every last bone in you is shredded, and I'll personally throw what's left of you out for the sun to enjoy, and if you return fire you're fucked. In addition to that, if so much as one of your rounds hits any one of my crew, you'll have the wrath of Vistrot down on you tomorrow."
Sweat popped out on Stacey’s brow. He took a sip of his gin and tonic. "What do you want to know?"
"Tell me where Hauswell is."
"His carcass is at Laslo's ... "
"Incorrect answer. Now my team is going to fire at you for approximately ten seconds. Then I'll ask the same question: if Hauswell's not alive, where is his head?"
"No, wait—"
The death-squad fired, knocking Stacey from his chair and sending his blood across the desk. After ten seconds, they stopped and Jean-Pierre asked the question again—with the same results. This repeated itself several times until Stacey was in tatters, but the results did not change. The location of the head was not known.
Satisfied, Jean-Pierre nodded to his crew and they left. He’d gotten the answers he expected; without the head, Hauswell's death could not be verified and therefore there was a very good chance he was still alive. Which meant that if the death-squad could not reacquire the odd flock at Laslo's mission, all they would have to do was find Hauswell and wait for Ruegger and Danielle to show up.
As she boarded the van at a harried pace, Sophia found herself impressed. Jean-Pierre had handled himself ably. He was very much a leader. If she allowed herself to feel, she realized that she could—and to her utter surprise—fall in love with someone like that.
"So what now?" Loirot asked. "We go to Laslo's?"
"We've gotta feed first," Cloire pointed out. "It's already nightfall."
Jean-Pierre nodded. "We feed—and then, at long last, we go to Laslo's and kill the odd flock."
It was then that Sophia realized she was being foolish; her love life could wait. Somehow, within the next few hours, she had to prevent the deaths of two shades she'd sworn to her own mother that she would protect. Otherwise they would most assuredly die.
* * *
It horrified Sophia how easy it was for the death-squad to round up a set of victims. They just stopped at a street corner and Jean-Pierre used his psychic powers to lure five mortals into the van. To any passers-by, it must have looked prearranged—a van stops and five people climb in.
So strange and shocking that these creatures, this crew, could seem so friendly and nice and yet be so casually brutal. Then again, Sophia knew, they didn't see humans as equals, but thought of humans much as humans might think of cattle. The werewolves simply loaded up the victims, rented a motel room and, Jean-Pierre still keeping the mortals in check with his mindpull, herded the victims into the room, where they were bound and gagged. There were no preliminaries—the werewolves just set to it, the killing and eating of the mortals.
Cloire and Byron shared one, as did Loirot and Kiernevar, while Jean-Pierre and Kilian fed on a whole one each. As a show of respect for the newcomer, they let Sophia feed on a whole one, too.
The others had stripped naked so as not to dirty their clothes, but all she had to do was take off her pants, which she did before straddling the man that she was to feed from. More ghensiv than werewolf, all she needed was his seed. As ghensivs must receive semen to live, they’re sometimes faced with unwilling, frigid or impotent men, and accordingly they have certain psychic powers of stimulation. So, staring into his eyes, Sophia aroused the man, then took him into her.
The others, if they noticed this, just figured she was having her fun before feeding from him, because everyone except Jean-Pierre assumed she was werewolf, what with her ability to walk about during daytime. At last, however, they noticed.
"What's going on here?" said Cloire, covered in her victim's blood. Byron stood behind her. They had just finished their meals and were staring at Sophia’s victim, still quite intact.
Sophia didn’t answer. She’d finished her business and was slipping her pants back on.
"She's a ghensiv," Jean-Pierre said, picking a piece of flesh from his teeth.
"But—"
"She's half werewolf, too, Cloire. Let it go."
"No," said Kilian. "Part of the reason we all kill together during Initiation is to prove our loyalty to each other and our race. How can we trust her if she's not willing to do so?"
"Sorry, Sofe, but I agree," said Cloire.
“Kiernevar,” said Kiernevar.
"I hate to say it, Jean-Pierre," Byron said gently, "but they're right. Even though we didn't wait the proper four days, this is still the conclusion to our second Initiation. We all must kill. Surely you see that."
"What do you say, Sophia?” Jean-Pierre said. “Would you kill him to prove your loyalty to us?"
"I kill only for personal or financial reasons,” she said, “and I very rarely have to kill someone. You do what you need to do in order to stay alive and so do I. There's no reason why I should go beyond that to prove my loyalty to you. In fact, I think you should show your loyalty to me by respecting that."
The albino nodded. "That's her decision. Everyone okay with it?"
"I'm not," said Kilian. "It's not fair to the rest of us."
"Ditto," said Cloire. To the others: "Are you with me?" Reluctantly, Loirot and Byron nodded, but Kiernevar just stared at them. She turned to the ghensiv. "Sofe, we could be friends, but if you refuse to do this thing, it'll create a rift between us. What do you care if some piddling mortal lives or dies?"
"It's not necessary," Sophia stated. "If I killed him, I’d be a wastrel. I don't see how that would be proving my loyalty to you."
"Goddamnit, don't you see? This changes everything!"
Sophia shook her head sadly. "I won't do it."
"Then, by God, I will!" Shaking with anger, Cloire moved over to the man, who was quite petrified, and punched through his chest. Wordlessly, she ripped out his heart and held it up for Sophia's inspection, then flung it to the floor. She didn’t even feed from the man.
"Does that make you happy, Sofe?"
"No.”
Jean-Pierre walked over to Sofia and put a bloody arm around her shoulder. "Okay, show's over," he said. "Everyone shower and let's get on with it."
“This isn’t done,” Cloire said.
“It is for now,” he said.
Sophia, feeling Jean-Pierre's strength around her, watched as the others shuffled away.
"It'll be okay, you'll see," Jean-Pierre said, and though she knew he couldn't be right, she was glad just the same that he stayed with her until the others had showered before moving off himself.
* * *
The death-squad turned off the highway onto the private road, bounced down its winding path, passing a strange big yellow van (but not stopping to inspect it, though very shortly Jean-Pierre would realize it belonged to none other than Junger and Jagoda), then pulled up to the mission/hangar to park near the odd flock's Volkswagen. Though Jean-Pierre wasn't entirely positive it was their quarry's vehicle, it didn’t go with the environment.
He saw Cloire smile with satisfaction as she climbed down from the van.
“A perfect night for mayhem,” she said, hands outstretched to catch the cool wind.
Sophia glanced up at the half-moon, looking troubled, though Jean-Pierre couldn’t guess at what. There was certainly enough to be troubled about.
Cupping his hands, he lit a Pall Mall, and the others gathered around him.
"Okay, here's the deal," he said, looking at Cloire and Loirot. "You two walk the perimeter, find a way into the hangar and come back, fast."
"You mean you're actually going to kill Danielle?" Cloire turned to the others. "Guys, I think we should make our leader here personally kill that bitch. He's already shown a weakness for Sofe, so maybe he's finally over his little Gutter Angel—but we should make him prove it."
"I agree," Kilian said.
"I don't know ..." said Byron, and Cloire slapped him.
"Shut up, Aussie. Loirot, you with me?"
Loirot nodded, carefully keeping his eyes away from Jean-Pierre. "I guess.”
"Normie?" she asked Kiernevar.
"Kiernev—"
"Oh, I don't wanna hear it. If you wanna see your maker squirm, just nod." He nodded. "Good, that's settled. Sofe?"
Sophia returned Cloire's glare. Could friendship really turn to hatred this fast? Jean-Pierre wondered. "You seem very worried about Jean-Pierre's loyalty," the ghensiv said. "It’s called displaced aggression. In other words, you're the one with the loyalty problems."
"You're goddamned right,” Cloire said. “Jean-Pierre, will you kill Danielle?"
For a long moment, he said nothing, then: "Cloire, if you and Loirot don't do as I've said—scout the perimeter, if you need me to repeat myself—I swear by the Night that I will, here and now, take off your fucking heads."
"That's my boy." She and Loirot sauntered off.
"Now are there any other loyalty problems here?" asked Jean-Pierre.
Kilian’s eyes narrowed. "Just don't fuck up."
"Forget about Danielle," advised Loirot, trying to be friendly. "She's white trash."
Jean-Pierre sneered. "I would see you dead before her, if I had a choice in the matter. Byron, can I trust in you?"
"Of course." The Australian looked offended, but deep down, the albino felt, he would decide in favor of Cloire.
"And Sophia?"
She nodded silently. Jesus, was she the only one he could really count on? And he'd known the others, except Kiernevar, for decades!
Cloire and Loirot came back at a trot.
"What did you find?"
"On the other side, there's a stairway that leads up to the mission—all the other entrances are sealed up,” Loirot said.
"Well, that won't do. If we go up that way, we risk the odd flock being in the hangar and escaping. We can't afford to divide ourselves. The only thing to do is to blast into the hangar itself—we'll chase them up to the top and deal with them there."