The Living Night: Box Set

by Jack Conner

  Sophia’s chest heaved.

  Pulse quickening, Jean-Pierre ran to her and carefully extracted her from the embrace of the beast. The tiger shifted, but did not wake.

  “Sophia, darling, I’m here.”

  Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. With a sinking feeling, he realized that she was dying. Not wasting a moment, he carried her in his arms back through the winding corridors of the Labyrinth, his heart beating faster, faster. He had to get her out of here.

  Suddenly, rounding the corner ahead of him—Dear God!

  Jagoda stepped forward, burned and bloody. He cradled his brother, Junger, in his arms. The tusked one was little more than a blackened skeleton, his motionless mouth open in an expression of agony. Apparently, Junger had sheltered his comrade from the blast—and now, without a doubt, Junger was dead.

  Tear-stricken, Jagoda glanced up at the albino. He studied the butchered Sophia in the albino’s arms.

  For a long moment, neither the werewolf nor the Balaklava said a word.

  Then, in a raw voice, Jagoda said, “It looks as though we’re even, albino. One for one.”

  Jean-Pierre nodded, hoping that that wasn’t the case.

  Warily, the albino and the Balaklava approached each other, one leaving the Labyrinth and one seeking sanctuary in it. As they passed, their eyes locked. Then tears erupted from the Bone Crusher’s face. Silently, he spun about and retreated back into the darkness of his home.

  * * *

  I’m going to get to see my sugar, Kristen thought as the warehouse hove into view.

  She’d gone with the albino to watch the destruction of his old building and hopefully the deaths of the Balaklava, but before Jean-Pierre and the troupe entered the flaming ruin to assure themselves of their victory, he’d sent her back to the warehouse, claiming that if Junger and Jagoda were still alive, things could get dangerous. Plus, of course, there was always the chance of a confrontation with the police, and he didn't want her hit by a stray bullet.

  The albino's dismissal had stung at first, until he'd pointed out that now she could have some time alone with Vistrot.

  She noticed a delivery vehicle outside of the warehouse: Chinese food. It pulled away as the taxi dropped her off. Entering the decrepit building, she found what was left of the troupe playing, of all things, a game of Bingo. Claude was the leader. Off to the side lay Vistrot, massive and naked and bleeding; unconscious, chained to the floor and run through with all manner of blades and stabbing instruments, he looked perfectly pitiful, reduced from the most powerful crime lord in the world to a soon-to-be cadaver.

  After Jean-Pierre had impaled him with that first hellish poker, Kristen had instantly forgiven the Titan, and whether or not this represented some weakness in her she didn't care. In any case, she knew that Vistrot's usefulness to the albino had come to an end. Without the need for duress, he had willfully confessed all Jean-Pierre had wanted to know and more. It had come as a shock to her that of all things Vistrot was the Scourer, along with that kavasari female Amelia, whom he’d been sleeping with.

  Strangely, this had appeased Kristen; his liaison with Amelia had been more a business relationship than anything else, and whatever personal feelings he had for her were secondary.

  Now it had come time for Kristen to spend some time with him, alone, before he was to be executed. The execution would not come before he'd been drained by that awful leech Maximillian, though.

  Kristen approached Claude. “It’s time,” she said.

  He rolled his eyes at the troupe and they streamed out through the rear of the building; even here, they were worried about being recognized.

  Taking a little white box of fried rice, she knelt beside the great man.

  "Hey, baby.”

  At her voice, his bruised eyes opened. A weak smile played about his face, and he managed to croak, “Krissy ..."

  "We're alone, Auggie."

  "I'm surprised … Jean-Pierre kept his word."

  "Brought you somethin'." Using a pair of chopsticks, she shoveled a small amount of rice into his mouth.

  It took a long time for him to chew and swallow—he choked several times—but he managed.

  "Thanks, angel. My last meal, eh?" Seeing the pained look on her face, he added, "It's okay. I deserve it, you know. All the crimes I've committed, all the crimes I would've committed ... I just wish I had one last chance to redeem myself."

  She stroked his big bald head. The thought of giving him a last blow job crossed her mind, but three different lances had been driven through his scrotum.

  "I love you," she said. It was the only thing she knew to tell him. Slowly, she began to cry.

  "And I love you," he said. "Could you ... could you lower your hair to my hand ... I want to feel it once more ..."

  Letting her tears fall unashamedly, she let him caress her hair. He moaned. When she looked up, tears hovered in his eyes, as well.

  "Could you ... could you bring your head to my chest?"

  Bursting into fresh sobs, she gingerly wrapped her arms about him and, navigating carefully between the spears, laid her head on his chest. They stayed that way for a long time before he said, "Tell Jean-Pierre I'm sorry I killed Sophia. If I could change it, I would."

  A sudden anger gripped her. She rose back to her kneeling position and wiped at her tears. "I won't let this happen to you.”

  "There's no way ... Jean-Pierre won't change. And these spears he drove through the concrete itself. You can’t move them."

  She held his hand, squeezed it. "I can take your blood."

  His eyes widened. "You'd need a lot, baby. You ... you would become what I am ... and you've always said you didn't want that. No ... no, Krissy, I won't let you do it. I'm not worth damnation."

  "I'll be the judge of that." She smiled sadly. "And, dear ...you have very little choice in the matter."

  She bent down to his wrist and bit into the big vein there; it spurted some, then she had her mouth around it and nearly gagged before she became accustomed to the flow. The blood was warm, coppery, sort of salty, kind of bitter. As it pooled in her stomach, she began to get a strange high off it. It's immortalizing me, she realized. It welled up from her belly into her veins and circulated throughout her body; her skin burned with it wonderfully and her eyes blazed. She felt like she could move a mountain. After a time, she heard him say, "Enough, baby ... I don't … have any more."

  When she pulled back from the wound, only a few drops trickled from it. Vistrot looked even closer to death than before. Thrusting her arm before his mouth, she said, "Now it's your turn."

  Without argument, he bit into the proffered wrist and began ingesting her blood. To Kristen, it was a very singular, rather unwelcome feeling, although there was a certain high that came from this as well. She soon grew lightheaded.

  When Vistrot stopped swallowing, she stood up and steadied herself, then started tearing the chains out of the floor. She was so strong. Once that was done, she took a firm grip on one of the spears and gave it a hard yank, pulling it roughly from its concrete bed. Its angular head made it impossible to pull back through Vistrot without causing him severe pain, so her task would be to free all the spears from the concrete and then to roll him over onto his side so that she could pull the spear shafts out through his back.

  The task took a whole of fifteen minutes, and that was only because of the delicate nature of the last part of the operation. Vistrot cried out in pain only once. When it was over, she helped him to his feet, then searched through the overnight bags of the troupe until she found some oversized clown garments. Not only could he fit into them, but they would disguise his injuries, as well. With her assistance, he dressed.

  He wrapped his arms about her and held her close, and long.

  "How do you feel?" he said.

  "Strange ... but I'm the one who should be asking you that, Auggie: how do you feel?"

  Weakly, he smiled. "Let's just say that I'm not going to be retaining any water
for some time.”

  Despite herself, that made her grin a little. "Let's go home.”

  They left the warehouse and hot-wired one of the vans out front, which Kristen drove to the Titan's building. Though they didn't talk much, they frequently held hands. Eventually they reached the Titanic, parked, and made their way down to the proper sub-basement, then to his bedroom, where he called a doctor, who was to arrive within half an hour. While Vistrot showered and dressed, she flung herself on the bed and tried to pinpoint Amelia's scent. Did the kavasari wear perfume? Did Vistrot like sleeping with a woman who was mature, voluptuous? She’d have to confront him with these questions and more before her mind would be at peace, but now was not the time.

  When he emerged from the dressing room, she patted the bed. He flopped down beside her, shaking the bed.

  Unbidden, he said, "I'm sorry for Amelia. I was weak and selfish, but that's no excuse."

  She sniffed. "I'm sorry for Jean-Pierre. What about him, now—are you going to ... take revenge?"

  He fell silent for a moment. "No. Really, I deserved what he did to me. I'll consider us even; let's just hope that he will, too." He held her small hands in his. "Kristen, I really respect what you did, standing up to me like that, but I couldn't bear it if you cheated on me again."

  "It runs both ways, Auggie."

  "Of course ... but that's not what I meant."

  She felt something cross her face; seeing it, he visibly grew excited, too.

  "Don't tease me," she said, somewhat nervously. "And I don't want you to tell me later that it was just one of those in-the-heat-of-the-moment things."

  "Believe me, it's not. I've been thinking of this for a long, long time."

  Seeing her eyes grow bright and her breathing grow shallow, he rose from the bed and knelt beside her, her hands still in his. His face red and his fingers trembling faintly, he said, "Kristen, will you ..." He coughed. "Kristen, will you marry me?"

  She smiled and threw her arms about him. It was all the answer he required.

  * * *

  "Where are they?" Max raged at Claude, who had one pair of arms folded across his small chest, was defiantly scratching his balls with one of the hands from the second pair and smoking a cigarette with the other.

  "Up my ass," said Claude. "Where do you think they are?" He spun to the albino. "You told me to give them some time alone and that's what I did—don't think I'm owning up to any culpability. It's really not my problem."

  The albino let his eyes rove the scattered freaks and could not find fault with any of them; as Claude had said, it wasn't their mistake. Max was still admonishing the dwarf, but Jean-Pierre cut in.

  "Max, it's a shame you didn't get your goddamned blood, but don't take it out on them. Don't blame yourself, either; I accept full responsibility. At the appropriate time, I will administer my punishment. Unfortunately, Vistrot knows who you are, and, as he's still living, I’d suggest going underground for awhile. From what he told us, I don't think you'll have to worry about him for long."

  "What do you mean?" Max said.

  "Just what I told you." Jean-Pierre glanced over to Sophia, comatose in a nearby chair. He’d given her his blood, which would sustain her until she was able to procure sustenance on her own. But what to do with her? Where he was going, she couldn’t follow.

  “Max,” he said. “I want to repay you for what you’ve done, but now is not the time. There’s somewhere I must go to sort things out. I’ll make a deal with you; you look after Sophia for awhile, as collateral, and I’ll come back for her. Soon. Then all debts will be paid in full.”

  Slowly, Max nodded. “It’s a deal.”

  To the troupe, Jean-Pierre said, "Thank you all for your cooperation. We'll meet again soon. Count on it."

  With that, he turned to leave.

  "Wait," said Max.

  "What?"

  The snake-oil salesman hesitated, but his eyes were sincere. "Jean-Pierre, my friend ... you have no place to go, do you? And you—you are a freak, aren't you? An albino, more or less. Well ..." He gestured to the others. "We're all freaks here, Jean-Pierre. We could be your home, your family. Why not stay with us?"

  Jean-Pierre closed his eyes. Really, why not indeed?

  * * *

  "When the albino was interrogating you, you didn't say anything about how you were supposed to kill Kristen, did you?" Amelia interrupted.

  It was the night after Vistrot’s escape. Amelia had come to visit the Titan's office. She wanted to know the details of his absence, and he filled her in on recent events.

  "Of course not,” he said. “For a long time, she was in the room."

  "That's a shame. I'm sure he would've gotten a kick out of it. Anyway—continue."

  When he told her of how Kristen had freed him, she smiled. He was almost able to convince himself that it was a sweet smile.

  "So I take it you haven't killed her."

  "No, and I don't intend to. In fact, I asked her to marry me, and she said yes."

  "That was quite contrary to our agreement."

  "I won't apologize, Amelia. You'd no right to ask me to do that."

  "I wasn't asking, dear. Now isn't the time for foolish valor. Now is the time for proving our loyalties to each other, and you've more to prove than I do, goddamnit. I sought you out, not the other way around. Need I remind you that if you won't kill her, I'll do you both?"

  "You're bluffing. Not only am I sure of that, but to be on the safe side I've given instructions to Cloire, who will have rounded up both Ruegger and Danielle shortly, that if I die, she should kill them both. Which won't be a problem for her, if that's what you're thinking—in fact, I believe Cloire's been looking forward to the job."

  Amelia’s face went still. "You've hung that over my head for too long, Titan. It’s given you some leverage, I admit, but now I realize that if I'm to stay true to my vision—a beautiful world, free of crime and superstition—that I may have to sacrifice certain nonessentials. If it's your desire to kill the odd flock, I won't stop you. But you'll kill Kristen regardless."

  He felt genuinely unnerved. "Christ ... how can you have such little heart? My love of Kristen won't affect anything! She doesn't need to die."

  "No, but you need to kill her, for the same reason you sent Jean-Pierre to kill Danielle: to rid yourself of that baggage and to prove your loyalty. The albino faltered; are you as weak as he?"

  Vistrot stared. "Is that what this is? You're making me do this to Krissy in order to punish me for sending Jean-Pierre to kill the Gutter Angel. That's it, isn't it? A taste of my own medicine, and at the expense of the most innocent person involved in the whole affair."

  "That just makes it all the sweeter, doesn't it? Even if she doesn't deserve it, you do."

  "That’s perverse."

  "Perhaps. But, then, Vistrot, you're a perverse man. You're just lucky that I'm equal to it. So: now that you understand why I'm making you do it, I expect Kristen to be dead by tomorrow—and trust me, her death at your hands will be much more pleasant than at my own."

  She blew him a kiss and left the room.

  * * *

  That night, as he watched Kristen sleep, Vistrot thought of all their times together and all of their times to come. He couldn't wait to see how bright her face would become on their honeymoon to Hawaii—hell, it would only start in Hawaii.

  They could go around the world endlessly, buying a beach house there, a lodge in the mountains there, a flat in Paris ... he could make her so happy, and now they had all eternity to spend together... How could he wrap his gigantic hands around her delicate, milky-white neck and squeeze the life out of her? He tried to imagine what advice she would give on the matter and for the briefest of moments thought of waking her, but no, that would be madness. God, Amelia was so ... so evil, wasn't she? How could Ruegger have been her lover all those years? Of course, the Darkling had more than ably demonstrated his own talent at sin, hadn't he?

  So had Vistrot, if truth be to
ld, all for the sake of his business, his empire. Kristen had often accused him of loving his business more than he loved her, and of course he'd denied it, but they both knew that there was a certain truth in what she said. By killing her, he'd only be proving her right. Even during the years he hadn't been sleeping around, he'd always had a mistress, and her name was Power.

  Could he ever expect to leave his business behind and dote every waking moment on Kristen? How preposterous. After all, he was on the verge of a power so great, so global, that he could not possibly turn his back on it now, could he? Shed his burdens and go gallivanting around the world with the one person he truly loved—

  What a ... what a joke ... what a cosmic fucking … joke it had all turned out to be, wasn’t it? Go on, convince yourself that what you're doing is right so that you can strangle her and be done with it, then go on to be King of the World—now that would be grand, wouldn't it?

  He put his hands over his face and cried silently for a long time, but not silently enough.

  Kristen opened her eyes. Groggily, she said, "What is it, baby? Bad dream?"

  "Yeah," he replied. "Bad dream."

  "Here, want me to make you some milk or coffee?"

  "No ... no, that's okay. Kristen, you know I love you, right?"

  "Of course, baby." She smiled. "You've only said that a thousand times today, although you know I couldn't hear it enough. And you know I love you, too. Here, want me to hold you while you fall asleep?"

  He smiled sadly, wiped away his tears and stroked her hair. "No, that's okay. I just need to think for a little while. You go on back to sleep. Sweet dreams, darling."

  She patted his hand and closed her eyes, her head resting gently on the silk pillow. Soon she was fast asleep. He watched her for two straight hours, wrestling with himself. Finally, he breathed a great sigh, placed his large hands around her smooth, creamy neck, and squeezed.

  THE END

  OF VOLUME ONE