The Living Night: Box Set

by Jack Conner

  THE LIVING NIGHT

  PART TWO

  MASTER OF THE BLACK THRONE

  by Jack Conner

  Copyright 2014

  All rights reserved

  Cover image used with permission

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  Prologue

  One month ago …

  Francois Mauchlery looked down from the helicopter as it swept just above the Carpathians past an outcropping of rock. Crevices, fissures, sheer facades and crumbling ruins dotted the ragged mountains which rose like rotting fangs from the jawbone of a monster. He knew each rise and bump by heart, and loved them all.

  Keeping one leather-gloved hand on his black attaché case, Francois smiled. Blackout curtains, drawn tightly over the compartment's windows, prevented him from peering directly into the gaping void below, so he watched the sinking sun through the pilot's eyes; it disappeared and reappeared sporadically between the mountains.

  Slowly, the light drained from the Dark Country as night sank its teeth into the hard Transylvanian hide. Villagers and gypsies, those that believed, would be retreating to their homes and cowering behind doors and crucifixes, but some, believers or nonbelievers, would be corpses in the morning.

  Francois lost the sun as it sank below Carpathia. Only then did he raise the blackout curtains to watch the frozen tumult of twilight. The new dark sent his hairs on end and a shiver up from the base of his spine.

  His companion in the passenger compartment of the helicopter, Victoria Lisaund, removed her sunglasses, then uncrossed and recrossed her legs.

  Sitting opposite her, he regarded her in silence for a moment. She had dark red hair and muddy brown eyes, was wearing a navy blue suit-dress and long combat boots that emphasized the shapeliness of her legs. They were nice, and Francois remembered they tasted quite good, too. Full lips, turned up at the corners, grinned at him.

  "First time in Transylvania?" he asked in well-etched English, as he knew her to be a Brit.

  "Of course not," she said. "But it is my first visit to the Castle."

  He nodded. He'd met her two days ago in Paris on his way home from the front lines in London. She was the representative of a group in Wales that had been forced to flee the island, and now she was making the journey to the Castle in order to request aid on their behalf from Roche Sarnova, the Dark Lord, the most powerful immortal in the East, if not the world.

  She leaned forward and placed a hand on Francois’s knee. He'd been her escort since they had met in France, and they'd grown close.

  "Will he help me out?" she said in an excellent Romanian accent. "If anyone could know, it's you."

  Francois ignored her hand. "I can't answer for him."

  She slowly sat back. "Something wrong, lover?"

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Call me lover.”

  She sulked, or pretended to.

  That was the thing that bothered him; she wasn't half as ingenuous as she pretended. Somehow she had her own secret agenda, but what that was, or how she was going to go about it, was something she kept guarded, even pretending at its nonexistence.

  The helicopter blasted between twin snow-capped alps, and a rough gust shook the craft rudely. Rocky outcroppings challenged the skids as the machine cleared the crest of the next mountain and snow swirled thicker as the ship flew on, ice and wind whipping madly against the thin walls. Neither moon nor stars could be seen. The dark heart of the Carpathians loomed ahead, hidden in the spinning night.

  "How old are you?" she asked suddenly.

  He paused. Few were brave enough to ask the question, though he was sure all wondered. He couldn’t tell if she actually expected him to answer, but he thought courage should be rewarded.

  "I ... to give you some idea ... was quite old when Caesar wept at the feet of the statue of Alexander the Great.”

  “You’re that old?”

  “Older.”

  “So Christ has nothing to do with us? I heard rumors that shades were mixed up with the early Christians and got damned somehow.”

  “Every culture has its creation myth. We’ve got reams of them.”

  “So God had nothing to do with us?”

  “Which god?”

  She nodded. "I'm sorry, Ambassador. You understand, I had to ask. I'm not yet a hundred years old and I still think about these things."

  He softened. "We all do.”

  Silent again, she turned her face to the bleak nightscape.

  "We're approaching my home," he said.

  Using one of his mental powers, he merged his mind with that of the pilot, making sure the mortal didn’t crash the helicopter. Francois preferred a shade to pilot these things, but most of the immortal fliers were in London or thereabouts, engaged in the war, and the ones that were available couldn’t fly in the daytime. This pilot was a hired hand, one of the few mortals that knew of the existence of the supernatural in the world.

  In the pilot’s mind, Francois felt Victoria’s psychic presence brush up against his own. She, too, kept tabs on the human. Frowning slightly, he turned to her and saw her brown eyes fixed on him with some awe.

  “Such control,” she said, to answer his question. “What I mean to say—”

  He waved her off.

  "We've arrived," he said.

  The helicopter swept past its last ice-covered summit and plunged down toward an immense stone structure whose great towers and bulwarks burned with light from within. The castle sat embedded in the side of the approaching mountain like an iron thorn. Like a torch blazing on a catacomb wall.

  "My God," she whispered. "It's beautiful …"

  Francois smiled as he watched the looming castle from the eyes of the human pilot. Coldly grandiose, his home looked. Mysterious in its bed of stone.

  Tensely, under partial mind-control from Francois Mauchlery, the pilot approached a battlement that doubled as a helipad and landed. The machine rocked back and forth on the icy surface.

  The deafening roar of the rotors wound down as three figures on the stone platform ran carefully toward the black helicopter and accepted the emerging couple as the doors were flung wide and Francois and Victoria stepped down. Wind blasted them without mercy.

  "Ambassador Mauchlery!" shouted a ranking general and member of the Dark Council, the leader of the welcoming party. "Wonderful to have you back! Welcome home!"

  The Councilman led the way toward the battlement doorway and out of the freezing snow. The cold didn't disturb Francois, but he respected the needs of the others.

  Inside, he was made to feel at home (which it was) as he was courteously led to his chamber. He looked fondly around as he went—the wide crimson drapes, the flinging snow against the courtyard windows, the warm torchlight along open halls. The comforts of the modern world too nestled snugly amidst the splendor of the old ways: the electric elevators, indoor saunas, and cellular phones against the backdrop of stone and tapestries.

  He found himself running his hands along the familiar walls and smiling to himself as his manservant led the way.

  Finally, they arrived at his suite, and the servant opened the thick mahogany door and showed the way in. Francois followed the young one into his room and turned to dismiss him.

  Once alone, Francois saw the cart of champagne in its silver bowl of ice. The accompanying meal could be smelled from the bedroom. He laid his attaché case on his dresser and followed the smell down a short hallway into his bedchamber.

  Tied in white silk bonds to his bed, a beautiful young woman struggled on his satin mattress.

  The girl couldn't be eighteen, and her flesh was warm and supple. Her luscious figure, bursting from silk panties and brassiere, was emphasized even more by her thrashings. Golden hair fell about her head and over her wide blue eyes. Caucasian, Francois mused; some length must have gone into fetching her.
Her breasts rose and fell quickly with her frightened gasps. Her long legs squirmed to and fro. Sweat glistened on her thighs. The smell of life rose from her sweetly and Francois inhaled it with a sad smile.

  His fangs lengthened.

  “Ah,” he said. “It’s good to be home.”

  * * *

  The dining hall was immense, all mahogany walls and burning incense. The seemingly endless dining table stretched on forever in the grand hall. In its life the table had risen heavenward from its soft bed in the redwood forest of northern California, but, like everything else in this room, the table had moved beyond mere life. It was law that nothing mortal should pass into this room, except the food.

  Dozens of beautifully bound mortals wriggled hysterically along the redwood table, their young skins rubbing delightfully against the dark and polished wood. Several scores of vampires and other assorted immortals hunched at the table, which had only one head; the other end was rounded off.

  Francois had the guest position (his usual) at the left hand of the head of the table, which was vacant. Roche Sarnova would make an entrance when he chose. Then the festivities would begin.

  Mauchlery lifted a large wine-filled goblet to his lips and drank as his eyes scanned the familiar faces—many tried to catch his eye, but he pretended not to notice—until he lit upon Victoria Lisaund, the beautiful representative of the fugitive Wales faction, who it seemed had been watching him for some time; when his eyes met hers, she quickly looked away, then slowly back. Coy.

  Finally, the host of the evening appeared, making his way down a lavish staircase which branched off at the middle to disappear upward in two opposite directions. Dressed in carefully-embroidered black garments, the host smiled at his guests as he descended the last stair. Simultaneously, the meals ceased writhing and grew quiet.

  Mauchlery appreciated Roche Sarnova's understated entrance. No thronging escort, blaring music or superfluous attire. Not even a crown or cape. Simple and dark and smiling.

  All the guests were on their feet in deference, as if they were the host and Roche Sarnova their honored guest. His half Anglo, half Egyptian face radiated warmth and friendship, and—in his characteristically understated way—absolute command.

  "Sit, sit," he beckoned in Romanian, and his guests took their places while he remained standing. "Thank you all for coming. I know the difficulty of a great meeting such as this in these chaotic times and appreciate the sacrifices you've all made to get here. I won't bore you with a speech. I dare say you’ll hear enough of my voice in the days to come. Now, a warm welcome to a newcomer to our home, Ms. Victoria Lisaund."

  She stood briefly to scattered applause.

  Roche turned elegantly toward Francois and smiled deeply. "Now with great affection we welcome home our best friend, Ambassador Mauchlery!"

  The Ambassador rose and grinned as they applauded him, then sat back down.

  Roche Sarnova continued. "I've met with many of you today and will continue the meetings throughout the week—business unfortunately taking precedence over pleasure when our brothers and sisters are dying on the front lines. For now, let us enjoy each other without the stresses of war intruding and enjoy the life of these beautiful mortals." He smiled at his company and lifted a crystal glass of red wine in the air. "To the night!" he cried and drank deeply.

  "To the night," Francois muttered and did the same.

  Later, while Sarnova and Francois were trying to converse between the host's many visitors and between Roche's sips from the gypsy-girl's big toe (he was trying to make her last), Sarnova said, smiling, "So you and the dear Ms. Lisaund know each other well?"

  “I took her on the scenic route from Paris.”

  The Dark Lord convulsed with laughter. “I’m glad someone’s having fun these days.”

  Francois made a face. “There’s something ... not quite right ... about her.”

  “What race is she?”

  “A Finnish werewolf.”

  “Finnish, really. I always did like the Finland girls.”

  “Roche ...”

  “I know, I know. Did I ever tell you that you take things too seriously?”

  Francois pretended to count on his fingers.

  “Just enjoy her,” said the Dark Lord. “These may be the last days of my empire and do you see me complaining? No, you do not. Why? Because—”

  “You live in the moment, right.”

  Sarnova grinned. “Have you heard any news not related to the war, something to take my mind off it?”

  “Yes, actually. The odd flock, Ruegger and Danielle—you’ve heard of them, the American vampires, they go around saving humans and killing shades—”

  “Oh, yes. Very amusing. I had them here once. What are they up to now? Don’t tell me they’ve died. They may be a pain in the ass, but they are fun to have around.”

  “No, no. They’re fine. For now, anyway. Ruegger has taken another of his vision quests in the Sahara—”

  “I’d forgotten about those. Intriguing.”

  “Well, he took his punk rock bride with him this time, Danielle. I believe they’ve been sidetracked onto another one of their ‘police actions’.”

  Roche rolled his eyes. “Who are they stalking this time?”

  “A vampire named Triboli.”

  Roche shrugged. “Good riddance, if they’re able to bring him down. He’s quite powerful, from what I’ve heard. Is it true people are calling them the Marshals?”

  “People are foolish. Ruegger and Danielle are getting to be celebrities.” Francois frowned, genuinely offended. “They go around helping our prey and killing us, Roche. I don’t think it’s as amusing as you do. I’m not saying we should kill them—I’ve been around too long to discount colorful characters—but they are quite anti-establishment, Roche, and, my friend, we are the establishment.”

  “So we are. But they can’t touch us, and we’ve got bigger fish to fry. Subaire, for one, and the rest of her Half.”

  Francois nodded grimly. Ever since half of Roche’s cabinet had sided with the Lady Subaire, she who had declared war on the Dark Lord, things had gone to hell. And if Roche, a man of never-ending enthusiasm, was joking that these were the last days of his reign, Francois knew even more dire events were ahead.

  “I think Ruegger and Danielle have the right idea,” said the Ambassador. “A vacation is just what you need.”

  “Right, and who’d manage the war while I was gone? You? You’d just nuke London and get it over with, probably. Who cares if humans discover our existence when we’re in the middle of a civil war and in the weakest position we could possibly be in? Who cares if they hunt us down like dogs when we’re too busy fighting to state our position, defend ourselves, make our peace ... ? No, my friend, you don’t like humans enough to manage a war taking place in a human city.”

  Francois rolled a shoulder. “All I’m saying is you should take it easy, Roche. It’s not going to help the cause if you get an ulcer.”

  “I’ll get an ulcer from friends as much as from enemies these days. And don’t give me that look, I’m not talking about you. Spies, Francois. This is what I’m worried about.”

  “What are you saying?”

  The lord of the castle swished the girl's blood back and forth in his mouth. “Intelligence has it that they’re here. In my home.” His voice nearly choked with rage as he said this. He glanced quietly around his beloved castle.

  The Ambassador was about to respond, but just then a familiar figure approached and he smiled.

  Victoria Lisaund bowed politely toward the seated figures as she approached; for a moment, she looked uncertain, as if she wasn't sure whether to kiss Sarnova's ring or hand before speaking with him, but when Roche Sarnova gestured to an empty chair, she accepted gratefully.

  "Thank you.”

  "No, thank you for coming to my home, young Victoria. We're most delighted to have you. You're British, correct?"

  "Welsh. I represent the Laegstrom, a small faction
fighting within the front lines."

  "I understand you've got a special petition," Sarnova said, casting a glance at Francois. "As well as an intimacy with our shared friend."

  Her cheeks colored, contrasting with the strange look of determination on her face. "Well ... yes. He was very helpful."

  Roche lowered his head to the dying gypsy. Lisaund knitted her brows in consternation. Mauchlery would remember this later and draw conclusions.

  As Roche bit into the gypsy's big toe for the final time, the girl jerked suddenly and fell still. With a start, as he felt the psychic scream of Lisaund via the last dim thoughts of the gypsy, Sarnova jerked up and stared at Victoria, clutching at his throat and slipping from his chair. Lisaund flew over onto the ground with him, the heavy chair toppling to the floor.

  As Francois looked on in horror, the woman changed. Her clothes shredded about her and through the ripped garments he saw dark flesh and her face twisting outward. The snout slashed into the Dark Lord, teeth flashing and blood spraying.

  Assassin!

  Mauchlery leapt into the brawl. Bones fragmented in a chaos of sweat and blood, the ancient carpet sopping with red. In a moment, guards seized Lisaund, apparently some sort of werewolf-vampire hybrid, a strong and hairy demon-thing, and without pause dismembered her. They butchered her swiftly and efficiently, even cleaving in her beautiful skull.

  A clawed foot kicked a few times and was still.

  Sarnova's living remains dragged itself away a few feet and collapsed. His body was ripped open from throat to crotch and little remained of him that was recognizable; but he lived.

  Mauchlery himself had taken his share of the werewolf's fury and was savagely slashed and bitten in places too many to name, but he remained conscious long enough to pull the ruin of his friend into his arms and think, The revolution has begun, before he too collapsed and fell into blackness.

  Chapter 1