by Jack Conner
Together, and with a new peace between them, they shared the stub of Kharker’s cigar in a silence broken only by the drip of water.
* * *
Cloire proved too swift for Harry to catch, even running. At last, exhausted, he slumped against a wall and thought the situation over. It seemed to him that she’d deliberately avoided a confrontation, and he didn’t know how to interpret that. He hoped it meant that, if confronted by him and with no easy out, she’d be unable to contain her emotions, and that the prevailing feeling would be love. Of course, on the other hand, she could just as easily take off his head.
He sighed and stretched his weary muscles. Obviously, if she wanted to avoid him, she’d go someplace where he couldn’t. She’d already eaten, so she wouldn’t go to the Blood and Stone—unless it was out of sheer spite—or any other feeding grounds. And she certainly wouldn’t go back to her room, as he would find her there. And the Funhouse was shut down for the night, pending the new Dark Lord Francois Mauchlery’s speech at nine—which left, mainly, the Floor Show and the taverns and the casino. Which one would she pick?
Not the casino, as mortals were allowed there. Probably a shade bar with dark corners so she wouldn’t see him if he passed by, and plenty of music and glitz to keep him off her mind.
The Floor Show …
He needed some coffee. He needed to be at his most charming if this was going to work, and right now he was dead on his feet. He punched a button on the elevator and rode it up to the mortal tavern, where he downed two strong black cups of joe and pondered just exactly how this was going to work.
After his second cup, the grizzled barkeep reminded him of the blood on his face and handed him a paper towel. Harry wiped it off and stared at the red-stained paper.
No, he thought again. This sure as hell wasn’t going to be easy.
* * *
When Ruegger left with Francois, Danielle tried going back to sleep but couldn’t. Her new kavasari powers brimmed over in her, like lightning running through her veins, and that, coupled with the thought that soon Ruegger would share this with her, completely foiled her attempts at slumber.
Also, she found herself excited by the thought that, with their help, the war would come to an end and she and Ruegger could get on with their lives. That is, after they had dealt with Junger and Jagoda.
Soon, though, she and Ruegger could climb back out of the rabbit hole and into the real world once more. She wanted time away from all this, to sit and meditate on what she’d found and on what she had become. Surrounded by chaos and magic, all she wanted to do was find a good beach and eat a hamburger. Was that too much to ask?
She untied her backpack, retrieved a flask of undiluted whiskey, rolling papers and a healthy bud of marijuana. Once she’d rolled the joint and taken her first sip of whiskey, she sparked up the ganja with a light touch of her mind and lay back in the oversized sleeping bag, her back to the wall. Surely, she thought, straight whiskey and some weed would knock her out. After several hits and mouthfuls from the flask, the buzz began to hit her. Unfortunately, it did nothing to put her to sleep.
Sophia poked her head through the archway. “Care if I join you? Jean-Pierre’s gone off to be with the men. Bullshitting each other and smoking cigars, I’ll bet.”
Danielle smiled. “Good thing we didn’t bring any dishes or we’d probably be washing them right now.”
Sophia laughed, but Danielle could tell she was uncomfortable.
“Oh, come on, Sophe. Plop yourself down and we can trade tokes.”
At this, the ghensiv/werewolf-kavasari laughed and liberated a small metal smoking pipe from a pocket. “Actually, I came for a refill.”
They sat together, the sleeping bag thrown about their legs like blankets and their backs propped against the stone wall like a headboard, passing the joint and the flasks (Sophia had brought her own, this one of tequila) back and forth. They started talking, stiffly at first, but soon they were swapping stories as fast as flasks.
They levitated into the air, keeping the sleeping bag around their legs for comfort and sparking up fires in every little alcove in the room. At first, it was a contest to see who could grow the biggest fire, and then another revelation hit them. They could change the colors of the fire!
It was at about this time that Jean-Pierre entered. He looked intrigued to see the two of them floating in midair and surrounded by pyres of psychedelic flame.
“Hubby!” shouted a drunken Sophia. “Join us. The party’s just started.”
“I’d love to, baby, but I’ve got some news for you, and I think we might want to celebrate it in privacy. Danielle, would you mind if I took her away?”
“Take ‘er, already. Her flask was done for, anyway.”
The Ice Queen and the albino disappeared together.
As Danielle let herself become absorbed by the largest of the pyres, a flame as tall as a man and shot through with all the colors of the rainbow, she thought of the night to come. Dragons, magic and war. What would the night bring?
As it happened, it brought Ruegger.
He floated into the little cavern, two feet off the ground, sweaty and spent and smiling … and holding a bouquet of beautiful flowers in his hand. Flying up to meet her, he gave a formal bow and handed her the bouquet.
“But how?” she gasped, burying her face in the blooms.
“The Meadow.”
“But the sun!”
He smiled. “My old power is always the best. I simply used mindthurst to uproot these ... and here I am.”
She noticed that he was whole. Two eyes, two arms, and not a hole through his body, though his ragged black clothes remained. They smelled nice, as if he’d bathed in a spring and rolled around in lilacs. Full of surprises, this one.
“I love you,” she said, touching his cheek.
“I love you, too.”
He took her in his arms and they kissed for a long time, slowly and passionately, and she savored the feel of his body against hers, the taste of his mouth and the rough silkiness of his thick black hair. As they embraced, it seemed their bodies became one. Soon they were one, amidst the colorful flames and floating ten feet off the ground.
* * *
When Harry reached the Floor Show, where he had been admitted the night before, the receptionist—a morbine, he thought—shook her pretty blond head and said, “Sorry, Lavaca. I know you’re a friend of the Heir, but I have instructions from a certain werewolf inside that I shouldn’t let you through.”
He groaned inwardly. “Please,” he said. “It’s urgent.”
The morbine shrugged helplessly. “When a customer gives explicit instructions not to allow a mortal in—who we don’t normally admit anyway—we’ve got to follow orders, whether you’re a friend of Lord Ruegger or not.” Looking sympathetic, she smiled as if to give him encouragement. “You know, the customer’s always right.”
“Alright, then. But, please, as I said: this is very important. Would you at least pass a message along to her?” When she frowned, he added, “Just a short one, one she’ll understand. If that doesn’t work, I promise I’ll be out of your hair.”
Still frowning, but now in consideration, she said, “Does this mean Lord Ruegger owes me a favor?”
Damn them all. “Yes, alright. Fine. I’m sure under the circumstances he’d be more than happy to owe you a favor.”
“Look, some more customers are arriving. Make this quick. What’s the message?”
He racked his brain, but in the end, the answer was simple. “Tell her Byron is a zombie now.”
She stared at him, hard, and he could feel a prick of her psychic powers probe him. Instantly, he threw up his mental walls as Ruegger had shown him how to do many years ago and backed her down. Finally, she resorted to verbal communication:
“So the Labyrinthines have claimed another one, eh?”
“That what you’re calling Junger and Jagoda nowadays?”
“It’s the new phrase. No one knew of
the Labyrinth until recently, and when news broke out that they’d taken it over, the name seemed natural.”
“Whatever. Please, just deliver the message.”
She darted off. For the love of God, why did they have to make this so difficult for him? A few months ago he’d been an antique dealer in Queens, contemplating whether or not to burn the old picture of his late wife Marcela; that had been his biggest problem—and now this.
Shortly (and a bit primly, he thought), the receptionist returned to her station and said, “She’ll see you now.”
He sucked up his courage and entered the Floor Show.
A barrage of music broke across him and for a second he was overwhelmed at the last decadent night of the Castle. He’d give the shades this: they sure could put on a show. And the dancers, like always, kicked their lovely legs high.
He found Cloire waiting for him in a highly coveted round booth and slid in to join her. Her eyes locked tight and angrily on him. Not much warmth there, but he hoped that somewhere beneath those green-amber orbs floated something else.
“Cloire,” he said.
“Harry.” Her voice was not so much angry as sad. Apparently the message had worked.
They sat opposite each other in the round booth for several silent and awkward moments. He knew he should let her speak first, though he felt it imperative they get started immediately.
“Is it true—the message?” she said. “Not just some ploy to get in to see me?”
Bloody hell. Was there actually hope in her voice? Did she actually want him to win her back? Maybe. Probably so she could squash him like she thought she’d been squashed and then walk away from their affair cleanly. It struck him that she’d probably never been dumped before. And for a mortal to be the one, that must really have pushed her over the edge. If she could only understand that he hadn’t really dumped her, that he’d just done them both a favor ...
“Yes,” he said, trying to sound gentle. “They killed all three of them and made them zombies. I ... I’m sorry.”
She inhaled a long sip of her drink and flagged down a waitress, from whom she ordered a Jack Daniel’s.
“And you, sir. What would you like?”
“Coffee. And keep it coming.”
“It must really be bad,” said Cloire, when the waitress had gone. “If you’re ordering something nonalcoholic.”
Well, he deserved that one. Let her get in her shots where she could.
“It’s bad,” he assured her. “Ruegger—well, the bastards captured him—”
“Captured him? That’s not the way I heard it. Heard he leapt off a balcony at the Red Light Outpost and plunged into the mountain head-first.”
“He certainly didn’t intend to get himself caught by them. It’s Maleasoel, you see? And the Libertarians.”
“Yeah. Everyone knows they’ve banded up with Junger and Jagoda. Soldiers are the worst gossips. And now they’re calling the bastards Labyrinthines. Giving them a title. Fucks. We’re under siege from the catacombs and the Sabo and rumor has it that Subaire’s staked out some land for herself, too. Word says she’s moved four times since we spotted her. So we can’t bomb her troops, I suppose.”
He shook his head. He was no good at getting to the point, and now, when time was critical, he was fumbling it the worst. Out with it, already.
“Look, Cloire. You and I ... we have a mission. Ruegger gave it to me and I can’t turn my back on him. This—”
“That’s rich! Can’t turn your back on him. Good thing there are some people you can’t do that to.”
“We don’t have time for this.”
“Maybe you don’t. You’ll be dead in twenty or thirty years anyway. Who needs you? I don’t. Get the hell out of here and never let me see you again, because if I do—”
“Shut up,” he commanded, and to his surprise she closed her mouth. “Byron’s a deader, Cloire. That’s not all of it, though.”
She wasn’t listening. The waitress had arrived with their drinks and Cloire was draining her whiskey like she was snake-bit and it was the antidote. She slammed the glass down and ordered another, just as the waitress was setting Harry’s mug of coffee before him. When the waitress left, Cloire stared down at her hands and shook her head.
“You know, I really did love that fool. Should’ve told him that.” Anger blossomed in her cheeks. “Should’ve told him that instead of wasting it on you. I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“Damnit, Cloire ... Look, we both know it wouldn’t have worked out. You would’ve gone off with them, sooner or later—”
“No,” she countered. “They refused me.”
“They what?”
“I told them we had to track Vistrot down, but that damned Kilian was so set on being the best and brightest death-squad of the new Castle, once the Balaklava had it under wraps.”
“Cloire, they sent Byron up here with a tactical nuke they stole from the Libertarians.”
“Jesus!”
“That’s why Ruegger needs you.” He paused, hating himself for what he was about to say. “And that’s why I need you, too.”
“Why do you care, Harry? So what if my poor zombified Byron blows up this whole stinking place? What’s in it for you?”
“Not much,” he admitted. “But you ... and the others here that share your ... integrity ... you don’t deserve to die. As for the rest of them, you’re right. This could’ve been my last and greatest Slaying, if only I could turn my back on Byron and let him carry out his orders … if I didn’t mind the Balaklava or whoever gathering the survivors together and ruling them, along with the greater Empire, and through it doing God knows what to the world … and if it weren’t for shades like you who’d be killed in the blast.”
“You mean because I went to Rosie’s.”
“Because you’re good, whether you’ll acknowledge it or not. I know it. And that’s, at least to a large extent, why I’m here now.”
The waitress approached with the next glass of whiskey. Cloire waved the Jack aside and said, “Just send me the bill. We’re done.”
“No dessert, no—”
“Get the fucking bill.”
The waitress scurried away and Cloire grinned sadly. “Come on, Harry. We’ve gotta think this through.”
“We do?”
“Yes. We’re going to my room.”
* * *
In the great domed earthen chamber that Ruegger had escaped from, Junger and Jagoda gave Laslo their blood and powers of resurrection, then ordered a huddle of recently-fed zombies to give their bloods to the mad priest so that he may rise again. Both Balaklava tore off a finger and tossed it to Kiernevar.
“There,” said the tusked one. “Now you’re a Balaklava, albeit a weak one. Once Laslo’s strong enough, take his blood and soon you’ll be a chalgid, too. Like us, just weaker. And thank Laslo’s God for that.”
Kiernevar greedily devoured the Balaklavian fingers and rushed over to the gaggle of zombies now feeding Laslo, waiting for his turn.
Junger and Jagoda watched the lunatic speculatively. What was to become of that one? Would being a powerful shade cure him of his illness and restore him to a clear-thinking individual? If so, would that make him less amusing? In which case, they would probably kill him. What good was a wild card if he was no longer wild? The possibilities were vexing, but the artists were bored with Kiernevar the way he was and were anxious to see what would develop, even if that meant they had to put him down.
After sharing these thoughts, they turned their attentions to the immense black globe of the Sabo, now gutted and torn into several large chunks. Even its blood was black. Some of its long tentacles still twitched and the assassins waited for them to cease moving before they began again. Finally, the mud-sharks completed their job and slipped back into the earth. The Sabo was dead.
Making their way over to the large gleaming carcass, Junger and Jagoda began the careful process of resurrection. It took them nearly an hour, but eventually the S
abo was restored, though by now it looked like some mutant Frankensteinian octopus with all its long gashes and scars. Severed tendrils lay about it like long, dead snakes. Examining their newly resurrected creature both physically and mentally, the Balaklava were satisfied. Its will was all but dead; it was theirs. The nerve center and the brain of the Labyrinth was now just a tool—and oh, what a tool it was!
They sent it back into the ground and were about to advance toward their next project when one of their agents ran up to them. “The Mistress Maleasoel wishes to know what you’re up to and why you’ve been gone so long. She wants to know what you’ve done with Ruegger and demands to see him.”
The assassins laughed. “Tell her to go fuck herself. If she must have a message of some sort, tell her that we’re preparing a new Collage to further enhance our army and to secure our inevitable victory. That should hold her.”
“And of Ruegger?”
“She wouldn’t believe us if we told her and we’re certainly not going to inform her of his escape. She’d think her new allies imbeciles, and in retrospect I think she might be right. The original message still stands. Tell her to go fuck herself.”
The zombie trotted off.
“A pity,” said Jagoda.
“Yes. Still, our plan will work. Amelia would’ve received news of the Castle’s condition, either last night or the night before, and she should be well on her way here, if not already.”
“Of course, she’ll have been informed of our position.”
“Of course.”
“But she’s a kavasari, with a kavasari’s arrogance. She’ll think she can defeat us. And she’ll be wrong. She’ll go through the Sabo out of habit, because, as we’ve now learned, she’s a member of the Sangro Sankts, and she’ll think she knows the Labyrinth quite well enough to evade us—or, perhaps, destroy us. And that is our hope.”