The Living Night: Box Set

by Jack Conner

  She drained her glass. As she moved toward the archway that led out of this room, she heard Claude call out something to her but didn’t respond. She had business to attend to.

  The music died behind her as she left the warren of tunnels, and she reflected that in going to Ruegger’s aid (if aid it was) she was placing his needs over her own desires. The act was in accord with what Veliswa had taught her and with what she had taught herself. Still, it went against that cold and selfish portion of herself that had kept her alive all these years; if she continued doing such things, no longer would people refer to her as the Ice Queen. She wondered if that was a good thing or not.

  Finally, she rounded the last corner and approached the tangle of Castle Guards that surrounded the odd flock’s room. They turned bored looks her way but didn’t block her as she shoved past them and entered the room.

  Which was empty.

  Where the hell did you go? Her eyes flicked around the room for some sort of hiding place, her nose quivering for clues. Inevitably, her eyes locked onto the only other way out: the food disposal chute.

  “Fuck,” she said. “What the hell did you two do?”

  Had Ruegger committed himself to flames rather than battle Kiernevar over a chessboard? Had Danielle, in her grief, followed him?

  “No,” Sophia muttered. “Impossible.”

  She sniffed and scanned, trying to detect a misplaced stone brick or wooden beam. It wasn’t impossible that the vampires had tunneled their way out, but if so there would be some trail to follow. There wasn’t. However, there was another smell, a smell that threw shivers down Sophia’s spine. Balaklava.

  Junger and Jagoda had been here.

  How?

  The chute. It was the only answer. Slowly, she moved over to it, started to stick her head inside in order to follow the scents, but the heat told her that, surely, no one would have willingly gone down that route. What if it had not been willingly?

  The assassins couldn’t enter the room through the front way—Roche Sarnova had placed a warrant out for their arrests—but perhaps they had found a way to come up through the chute. What if Junger and Jagoda, in their new chalgid states, did not fear the flames? No, chalgids could be killed by fire, just as any other fleshly creature could. What, then?

  The only thing she knew for certain was that she had to sort this mess out somehow. In order to properly brainstorm, she needed a sounding board: a sympathetic companion. Harry Lavaca might serve.

  It must be nearly dawn, she thought as she left the suite. Harry would likely be asleep, but that was too bad for him. She slipped through the halls, now nearly empty; despite the fact that all windows of the Castle were covered during daylight hours, few shades chose to roam about during this period. Old habits, much like immortals, die hard.

  Harry’s room, too, was empty.

  Irritably, Sophia ground her teeth. Cloire, she thought. He’s with that bitch. Swearing every step of the way, the ghensiv marched over to the she-wolf’s room and knocked. No answer. Impatiently, she used her immortal powers to unbolt the door from inside and throw it open. Cloire’s room was also vacant.

  “Fuck.”

  Where was everybody? Had everyone in the Castle just up and disappeared?

  Not a little perturbed, Sophia wondered if these sudden disappearances were somehow aimed at destroying her sanity, because, if they were, they were working.

  “I need another glass of champagne,” she muttered, and brightened. She’d gone in search of Harry, but another man might do. “Dirk, baby, here I come.”

  She was much less concerned with waking up her sex slave than with waking the Slayer, which somewhat intrigued her. Perhaps she should show more respect for the man. Maybe this time she would ask him his real name.

  However, when she reached Dirk’s room—the room she’d rented for him—such thoughts flew from her mind. Sitting on the stone, propped up against the door, wearing a brown robe with a cowl that was pulled back from his pale and smiling face, was her father, her lover, the albino Jean-Pierre.

  “Jean-Pierre,” she breathed.

  “Sophia,” he said, his own smile growing wider.

  They rushed into each other’s arms.

  * * *

  “Okay,” Ruegger told Cloire. “I think we’ve gone over just about every possible scenario.”

  She nodded, looking down at her notes, then glanced over at Harry and Danielle. “Any further thoughts?” she asked.

  They shook their heads.

  “Fine. Come on, Harry, let’s go get some rest. We might need it.”

  Lavaca rose from his seat, as did Ruegger, and they shook hands.

  “Make me proud,” the mortal said.

  Ruegger managed a smile. “Don’t worry, Harry. I’m not going to put Cloire in danger. What we just did—the plans we just drew up—they were only a safety precaution.”

  “Just the same, give him hell.”

  “No. But I will beat him.”

  “Atheist humor,” Lavaca muttered.

  When he and Cloire were gone, Ruegger turned to Danielle. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For supporting me. I know you don’t really want me to—”

  She shook her head. “No, babe. I want you to do this, to get it out of your system. I know it’s important to you. And …” She paused. Quietly, she said, “I have faith in you.”

  Silently, he nodded.

  She kissed him, long and passionately. Clasping her hand, he led her to the bed, or started to, but she resisted.

  “Sorry, lover, but we’re not gonna bump uglies tonight.”

  “Why not?” he said.

  “Because that’s just another way of saying goodbye, and that ain’t something I’m gonna do, not tonight, not ever. So let’s just get some sleep.” When he didn’t move, she smiled again. “Well, you’ve gotta have some incentive to win, don’t you?”

  “Trust me, I’ve got more than enough.”

  She patted his side, letting her fingers run across his chest. “Now you’ve got one more.”

  Sighing, he turned off the lights and climbed into bed, cradling her in his arms, and eventually drifted off to sleep. She didn’t reach that point so easily; for a long while, she lay there, feeling him near her, against her, stroking his hair and watching the rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t need the air, she knew, but enjoyed the act of breathing it. Neither did he really need to sleep, but he enjoyed that, too.

  As for her, she didn’t need to lay there and study him, as his every feature was embedded in her mind, but she did. She prayed that he was right: that his logic would win out against Kiernevar’s insanity. In her heart, she did trust him, but she knew that something about the lunatic he would challenge tomorrow was not right. There was something off about Kiernevar, other than his madness.

  At long last, she kissed Ruegger on the forehead, closed her eyes and allowed herself to rest. That’s how they remained all day, arm in arm, leg in leg, both dreaming that this bed—as comfortable as it was—wouldn’t be the last they shared.

  * * *

  When Sophia’s eyes fluttered open, she found herself lying on Dirk’s bed, with Jean-Pierre leaning over her, holding her hand. She smiled up at him and gave his fingers a squeeze.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Why not? You’re the one put me to sleep.”

  He kissed her cheek. “Ah, Sophe, it’s so good to see you again.”

  The warm and fuzzy sensation that had taken hold of her evaporated. Instantly, anger overwhelmed her and, seemingly of its own accord, a hand shot out and lashed him once across the face. It reversed itself and smacked the other side, too. He didn’t budge, accepting the punishment as if it had been expected. His smile did slip, though, and his luminous green eyes dimmed.

  “Why the hell did you leave me?” she all but shouted, propping herself up on the headboard and tearing her other hand out from his. “And what did you
do with Dirk?”

  “I put him out in the hall. He won’t have wandered far. As to why I left you, I needed some time to think. I thought you did, too.”

  That calmed her, somewhat. She remembered how she’d wanted to sever their union, had wanted to reclaim her independence. Apparently he’d harbored similar feelings, which she could both understand and forgive—if only because she had done the same for herself. However, she said none of this, just stared at him as if daring him to continue.

  He didn’t seem to have much else to say, though, perhaps having recognized the look of acceptance in her face.

  “I’m sorry,” was all he said.

  She issued a frustrated hiss and crossed her arms over her chest. “No, goddamn it, don’t be sorry. If you hadn’t left, I would have. And I probably wouldn’t have been strong enough to come back to you afterwards.” Suddenly, she grabbed both of his hands and pulled him down on top of her. “Thank you for coming back to me,” she said.

  “I’m forgiven?” he asked.

  She nibbled on his lobe. “I suppose. I—”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Dirk, go away!” she called.

  “It’s not Dirk,” came a familiar voice.

  “Come in,” said Jean-Pierre, rising.

  The door opened, and in walked the Dark Lord Roche Sarnova, flanked by soldiers.

  From the look on the albino’s face, Sophia expected the king to haul him away, but Roche Sarnova strode up to him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and said, “Welcome to the Castle, Jean-Pierre. Kharker told me I might find you here. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “I …” Jean-Pierre didn’t seem to have anything else to say.

  Sarnova bowed toward Sophia, then turned back to the albino. “He told me you were afraid I’d arrest you or something, and that I should allay your fears. True, once you’ve found some ... free time ... I would like to ask you some questions about the Libertarians, but otherwise I wanted to officially welcome you to the Castle.”

  The Dark Lord offered his hand and, having little choice, the albino accepted it.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Of course. Also, there is the little matter of how you arrived here ...” The Dark Lord’s eyes flicked toward the corpse-chute, and Jean-Pierre nodded. “Feel free to tell your wife, of course, but beyond that ...”

  “Yes. Of course. By the way—” (Jean-Pierre lowered his voice) “—you might want to send some of your trusted guards down there—”

  Sarnova raised a palm. “Already done, my good man. Now, I’m sure you’d rather be left alone. Now, what of this human?”

  Sophia coughed, and the Dark Lord turned his eyes to her. “You’re referring to the man in the hall?” she asked.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “You have my permission to set him free. I bought him off the slave blocks and have the right to release him from his obligation. Now that Jean-Pierre’s back, I don’t think I’ll need him anymore.”

  “Very well. I bid you both good day.”

  As Sarnova left, Jean-Pierre visibly collapsed in relief.

  “What was that about how you ...?” she began, but he shook his head.

  “I’ll explain later,” he promised, then smiled and approached the bed again. “Now I think I’d better make sure you didn’t just tell a whopper to Blackie.”

  “Meaning that you intend to fulfill Dirk’s function?”

  “If you’ll have me.”

  She stretched out a beckoning hand. “Where were we?”

  * * *

  On a nearby mountain, a not too-dissimilar reunion was underway.

  The sun was up, and so Maleasoel and her many troops had to tunnel underground to reach D’Aguila’s encampment, but when they did the party that spontaneously erupted between the long-separated soldiers was so raucous that the Captain half feared the roof of snow would collapse and kill everyone there.

  Then he saw his dark-winged angel.

  “Malie,” he said, careful to keep himself planted, careful to make her come to him. She seemed to realize his intentions and stopped ten feet shy of him, either forcing him to close the distance or give away his little power play.

  “My angel,” he said, and came to her. He stroked her smooth pale cheek.

  “My demon,” she answered, slugging him lightly on the shoulder. “I heard about the tactical nuke.”

  He nodded. Word spread fast. Nonetheless, he was anxious to hear what she would have to say—would it be praise or condemnation?

  “Good job,” she said, and they embraced, his big scaly wings wrapping around her, partially concealing her from view. Some of the soldiers nearest them recognized the maneuver and probably half-wondered if their captain would bite off her head, which is usually what the wing shroud foretold.

  Instead, he whispered, “Oh, Malie, it’s good to have you back. But what I ask next is very important: do you bring good news? My troops need it.”

  She pulled away just enough for him to see her nod, and the confidence she displayed in that gesture nearly made him laugh in gratitude.

  “Raulf, I’ve got great news. Sorry I couldn’t tell you about it before—I hadn’t intended to be gone so long, but that’s how long it took—but it was worth it. I’ve made us another ally. The first was enough to get us into the Castle, but this one—this one will ensure we take it.”

  “We’re not just kidnapping the king anymore, then?”

  “Now we’re going to bring his kingdom to its knees. Then rule it. After that, fulfilling Ludwig’s vision will be a certainty.”

  D’Aguila liked the sound of that. “When do we march on the Castle?”

  She glanced at her watch. “It’ll take about half an hour for this party to unwind enough for me to give my speech, another half hour to give it, and another to gather our equipment, get the hell out of here and begin. So I figure about an hour and a half.”

  “So soon?”

  “Does that present a problem?”

  “No. It’s just that ...”

  “You wanted to get ... reacquainted.” When he nodded, her eyes sparkled. “As I said, it’ll take about a half hour for this party to unwind ...”

  As it turned out, he didn’t quite last thirty minutes, which seemed fine with her, and it left him in a somewhat subdued manner as she brought the party to a halt and began her speech.

  To an eager and bloodthirsty army, she outlined the inevitable fall of Roche Sarnova.

  Chapter 8

  It was nearly time for the chess match, Francois Mauchlery noted as he entered the Throne Room.

  The table had been set up, a crowd was beginning to form, and Roche and four of the remaining Dark Council hunched upon their thrones. The others were in the War Room, overseeing the war from afar, although they could not directly interfere without Sarnova’s permission or that of the Ambassador.

  As he walked toward the Dark Lord’s throne, Francois glanced up at the massive mural painted on the ceiling and hoped that, by the end of the night, he would still remain among Roche’s most trusted. In the event that he was not, he had to set into motion a series of events that would prevent any unnecessary bloodshed. He did not fear for himself, as much, but for his oldest friend.

  When he approached the Throne, he could see that Roche had, once again, neglected to sleep during the day—a habit that was beginning to take a toll on the ancient vampire. Roche may not need to sleep every solar cycle, but he needed to sleep sometime.

  “Good evening,” said a smiling Roche Sarnova, as the Ambassador drew near. “How goes things in London? Has Subaire shown her face?”

  “Not in London. That’s part of the reason I’ve come. Two of the spies we placed underground along Romania’s borders have disappeared.”

  The Dark Lord’s face screwed up in frustration. Once the Libertarians had been spotted crossing the border, he had placed spies below the earth’s surface, thinking to locate any Libertarian reinforcements—or, possibly, locate Suba
ire’s attack force if indeed she was preparing to strike the Castle. If his spies had disappeared, it surely meant that either Subaire or the Libertarians had found them. Nonetheless, the spies had served their purpose, had alerted him to the invading army. But it was not the fate Roche had desired for them. Francois could read all this by the merest flicker of his old friend’s face.

  “Any other news?” Roche asked, as if fearing the worst.

  “We have word from London. General Brasher has captured another of Subaire’s lot, and the traitor’s revealed that the members of the Dark Council that Subaire left stationed in London have found the good general’s stronghold and are preparing an attack even now. The general wishes that either you, or myself, be present in the War Room, in contact with him, in the even that he’s overrun. I suppose he needs our moral support.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Obviously, your duty is to stay here, and I had hoped to view the chess match, as well—it being the climactic event deciding your heir—but now ...”

  “Of course. Remain in the War Room and lend the General what strength you can.”

  As the Ambassador turned to go, Roche stopped him.

  “Francois,” said the Dark Lord, slowly, “have you ever met Ruegger?”

  “Yes, Roche. Once, a long time ago.”

  “I’m glad your memory is better than his. He claims to have never met you, and I thought that a shame.” He shook his head. “There I go, thinking negatively again. We must believe that the Darkling will win. If he does, you two will have ample opportunity to become acquainted.”

  “Of course. Wish him luck for me.”

  Francois swept from the room.

  * * *

  The soldiers guarding Ruegger and Danielle’s private room glanced at their watches.

  “Goddamn prima donna,” scoffed the leader. “It’s time, already.”