The Living Night: Box Set

by Jack Conner

  With that in mind, Francois began tugging and rocking the Collage, trying to lift it off the ground far enough so Roche could scamper out. No one came out.

  Overcome with grief, Francois fell to his knees and wept. He didn’t know how long he cried, but when he looked up he saw a strange blunt limb extended from the twitching mass of the Collage, the ends of its tapered form peeling back like grotesque petals on a flower. A female torso shot out, her gray eyes lively and her dark hair streaked with silver. She offered the Ambassador a cruel smile and said, her voice full of Jamaican inflections, “Did you lose something?”

  The Ambassador leapt to his feet and drew out his dagger. “You bastards!”

  “We get that a lot.”

  Francois took a step forward and lifted his dagger high.

  The woman wagged her finger at him. “Tsk tsk tsk, Ambassador. Kill this vessel and you’ll never see your friend again.”

  “You mean ... he’s not dead?”

  She laughed. “Well, we didn’t say that, now did we?”

  “What do you mean, you swine? Where is he?”

  Through the woman-thing, Junger and Jagoda laughed at him some more. Francois was just on the verge of throttling her despite the threat when suddenly a form shot up from the apex of the Collage, a form Mauchlery knew all too well.

  Roche Sarnova, now a part of the Collage, smiled down at the Ambassador. “So nice to see you again, Francois.”

  Mauchlery collapsed. It seemed that all life had left him, gone up in a puff of smoke. All that was left was ash.

  “If it’s any consolation,” the woman-thing said, “your friend killed our pet, just as she killed him ... and drew him into her own beautiful tapestry. Too late to be of any use to her, we’re afraid. We’d hoped his blood would be strong enough to revive her so she’d be able to consume you next, but alas, the fall was too far, the drop too hard, the flames too bright ...”

  “This thing looks pretty alive to me.”

  The woman-thing shook her youthful head, and in that moment Francois thought he recognized her. Yes, a ghensiv, a girl from the taverns ...

  “Sonia,” he said.

  She smiled bitterly. “Yes, that’s who we’re speaking through now. Would you like to speak to her a moment in private?”

  “If that means you getting the fuck out of her head, then yes.”

  She laughed, then suddenly stopped. Her face recomposed itself, and she blinked, now seeming shaken and tired.

  She stared placidly at him. “Evening, Ambassador.”

  “Evening, Sonia. Tell me, are you really dying?”

  “Blackie set too much of me on fire, and the drop pretty much crushed me. It’s only a matter of time now.”

  “Is there any way you can ... release ... any of the bodies this thing’s made of?”

  “I don’t know. My masters didn’t teach me how, if there was a way, and I’m not saying there is.”

  “But ... when you die ... will all the rest of them die, too?”

  “In a sense, they’re already dead, but ... yes. I’m the nexus. The nervous system. Through me, my masters guide it, either directly or through pre-programmed instruction.”

  “Why did you attack Roche?”

  “I’m programmed to accept Maleasoel as a master; she ordered me to attack and kill him. That’s only one reason, however. He was a Dark Lord and a kavasari. As a gift to the Libertarians from my highest masters, my lords, my creators, I was to eliminate the army’s greatest threats. And so I have tried. I’ve consumed one Dark Lord and one kavasari. It was thought that only one kavasari would be found ... but when I realized that not to be the case, my programming took over and I prepared to pounce. Maleasoel ordered me to do so, and I did.”

  Wearily, the Ambassador studied his oldest friend. “Roche ... Jesus ... is there any way to get you out of this thing?”

  Sarnova shook his head sadly. “Even if you could cut me out of here, Francois, I’d die, because I was never formally killed and resurrected by Junger and Jagoda. I’m not a zombie. I’m just a part of this thing now, and if I’m separated from it ...”

  “Fuck.”

  “I’m not too happy about it, either.”

  “Good God, Roche, I’m sorry. I know I lived a lie, that I misled you for thousands of years ... but I’m still your friend. I won’t allow this!”

  “Don’t, Francois. I forgave you for lying about your true nature not long after you told me about it. Don’t beg my forgiveness, and don’t waste your time trying to save me. I’m dead already. Believe me, I wish ...” He shook his head. “You’ve got a dream to save. Maybe Subaire was right; maybe shades and humans aren’t ready to coexist, but someday we will be, and I want you there to lead the way.”

  “And I want you there. What I need to do is go down into the Sabo, find the bastards and force them to get you out of this ... thing. No offense, Sonia,” he added.

  “None taken,” she said.

  “Sonia, can you ... talk your masters, can you get in their heads?”

  She tilted her head. “They’re closed to me, now. All I can read from them is that they’re engaged in some fierce combat. The strange thing is that they seem to be fighting only one opponent. I wouldn’t have expected one to pose such a problem to them.”

  Francois had to smile. “Amelia.” His smile faded. “I told her to stay the hell away from here. Why did she have to be so fucking thick-headed?”

  “Because of Ruegger,” said Sarnova.

  “I suppose that must be it. Well, if she’s down there, she probably needs help. I’d better—”

  “No.”

  “What? With me to back her up, we’ll defeat the Balaklava in no time, then find a way to get you out of here.”

  “Can’t you hear it, up above? The Libertarians are laying waste to last of my people ... the last of your people. I know you want to save me, and I wouldn’t mind being saved, but I’d much rather die here and now than live with the knowledge that my kingdom and dreams died with me. Please, Francois. If Amelia’s really down there giving them battle, you know you can’t get to her in time. Either she’ll prevail or she won’t. You can’t do anything about it. But you can ... hopefully ... stop Subaire and Maleasoel from destroying everything we’ve fought so hard to preserve. Is that a deal?”

  “Don’t be a martyr, Roche. God damn, you’ve been a part of my life for three thousand years and more.”

  “Stop being so melodramatic. I’m dead. Go help those that aren’t.”

  Instead, Mauchlery lit a cigarette, offered one to Roche and sat down beside him. Above, gunfire sounded.

  * * *

  When Maleasoel realized that both Dark Lords were absent from the battle, and hopefully for good, she ordered her army to begin assaulting the eastern wall with the missiles it still possessed; supplies were running low.

  “Fuck,” said Cloire, when she saw Mauchlery disappear into the crater. “There goes our last chance.”

  “Maybe he’ll come back,” Harry said.

  “Hope to hell you’re right.”

  She glanced around at the other shades occupying the top of the tower. Their faces were drawn in grim lines. No, she realized, more than just grim—hopeless.

  Nearly sixty shades had been in the western wall, and all were dead, which left roughly twenty-five Castle shades (former members of the largest immortal army on the planet, by God!) to defeat the Libertarians. Really not good odds. Even if the Kavasari Mauchlery returned with a living and ready-to-kick-ass Roche Sarnova, the Castle would just as surely fall.

  “What else can we do?” Harry said.

  “Run and hide. Fight another day.”

  “But the dragons ...”

  “Aren’t helping. Well, maybe they were, by delaying Subaire’s Half, but seems to me they’re dying or jumping ship.” She turned her gaze to the northeast tower, the one from which Byron had leapt, and the one on which a black and quite dead dragon was impaled. Below the black one lay a steaming and
massive red carcass of another wyrm, whose head and neck had landed on the top of the central northern tower.

  No help from that quarter.

  “Run and hide, eh?” Harry said.

  “Unless you can come up with some great plan or other. Ruegger sending you anything?”

  “Nothing.

  She cast her gaze at the other shades, huddled together and holding a similar conversation. “Hey, lads! Any ideas?”

  They regarded her solemnly.

  “We’d give our lives for our kingdom, ma’am,” one said. “But only if our deaths would serve a purpose. Going up against those fucking Libbies is suicide. I don’t know what the hell’s going on up there at the mountain, with all those dragons and shit, but I know Subaire’s supposed to be up there and the fact she ain’t here yet must mean them dragons is on our side. Still, the Libbies’ll be firing at us or charging us any second. Right now they’re regrouping, probably, collecting all the rockets still live in the storage lockers. Once they get their shit together, we’re history. As I see it, we’ve four options. Surrender. Die a warrior’s death, killing as many of ‘em as we can ‘fore they cut us down. Jump off this tower and end it now before they can make slaves out of us. Or run the fuck away.”

  “Thanks, Custer.”

  “You asked, ma’am.”

  She swung back to Harry, whose gaze was fixed on the mountaintop. “See anything that might help us?”

  “Ruegger’s lost another dragon,” he said. “I can only see two more up there, and I don’t see a rider on either of them.”

  She nodded. She had to assume the worst-case scenario in which Ruegger and the rest of the kavasari were dead—and that the two dragons still circling the mountain would follow suit. And yep, there went another one, a long sinewy white one. She could see several bloody eruptions on its flank, then a missile actually took off its head. She turned her eyes away as it fell.

  “Okay,” she said, horribly aware of the hitch in her voice. “Run and hide. Seems the only real option, doesn’t it?”

  “How to run and where to hide?” Harry said.

  That was a good question.

  The soldier she’d called Custer herded his men toward the stairwell; to Cloire and Harry, he said, “I wish you both luck. You may do as you see fit, but my men and I’ve discussed the matter and’ve agreed that fleeing the Castle is not an option, and neither is surrender and slavery. We’ve determined to take the warrior’s path.” He slapped a fist over his heart. “Death to our enemies!”

  “Give ‘em hell, C.”

  He shot her a weary glance and followed his men down the stairwell.

  Harry reached for her hand and squeezed it. “I, for one, would like to see the Libertarians stopped, but I don’t think we’re up to it. Despite all the plans, all Ruegger and Danielle and the rest have tried to do ... None of it’s worked. If I believed in karma, I’d say the Castle was meant to fall.”

  At precisely this moment, rockets began streaking out from the western battlements and slamming into the eastern wall. Apparently the Libbies had gotten their shit together.

  “I love you, Cloire.”

  “Shuttup, luv. I’m thinking.”

  She put her mind to imagining their escape, but couldn’t quite picture it. Where was there to escape to? Vibrations and tremors rattled the tower, and she knew she’d better come up with something fast. The eastern wall, heavily damaged by the nuke, didn’t need much encouragement to go sliding off into the chasm.

  Think fast, Cloire.

  A rocket struck the side of the tower just below one of the niches in the wall. The whole stone platform rocked from the impact, and the section of floor Cloire was crouched on gave out. Only by leaping to the side did she avoid following the floor down through the five levels of the tower. As it was, she knocked into Harry and sent them both rolling until they collided with the far wall.

  “Hey,” she said, choking dust.

  He blinked. “Hey.”

  Shouting erupted from the courtyard below. She rushed to the remains of the parapet in hopes of seeing Mauchlery rising out of the crater with Roche Sarnova right behind. Instead, she saw Custer and his motley pack being blown to smithereens by rockets.

  “What’s going on?” Harry asked, still slumped against the eastern wall.

  “The warrior’s path,” she mumbled, thinking, So he really decided to commit suicide, after all. Would’ve been easier and with better scenery going into the chasm.

  All at once, several rockets slammed into the tower, one flying right over her head so that its fiery tail actually singed her hair. She raised a fist and was shouting insults at the Libertarians when she realized that more of the floor was giving out.

  “Holy fuc—” Harry said from somewhere behind here.

  Jumping to a stable piece of ground herself, Cloire spun to see the floor and the wall Harry had been stationed at gone. Simply gone. Much of the platform was disintegrating and she could feel the whole tower tilting to the side. The whole eastern wall must be sagging over the abyss.

  “Harry!” she cried.

  No answer.

  “Harry!”

  Finally, a wheezing “Cloire!” came from somewhere over the side of the tower. Scampering carefully across the crumbling surface, she reached the empty place where the wall and the floor had been, where Harry had been, and leaned out.

  “Jesus,” she moaned.

  Hanging by his fingernails against some crumbling stone, Harry hung, his legs swinging freely out over the chasm. Only then did Cloire realize just how badly the tower was tilting; it leaned almost forty-five degrees out over the abyss, making it impossible for Harry to find a toe-hold. Bits of stone crumbled under her boots to fall down on his head.

  He groaned and for a horrifying moment she thought he’d let go, but he didn’t. He may be a short lush of a mortal with a healthy paunch, but he was as tenacious as the proverbial bulldog. Still, she realized that by continuing to stand over him she was only inviting greater avalanches, so she stepped back, not knowing what do to. Harry was going to his doom and there wasn’t anything she could do about it.

  Even as she was about to go back to the hole in the parapet, she saw one, then two, hands gripping the rotting stone of the blasted floor. He’d made it up!

  “Harry!”

  “I ... this stone ... need some help.”

  One of his handholds disintegrated. His hand slipped from sight. The fingers of the other turned white with the effort of hanging on. Jesus.

  Right then Cloire was faced with the most difficult decision of her life. She could easily let Harry fall to his death, which would solve that problem. She’d never have to risk her heart again. She’d become like Sophia had been before Jean-Pierre; Cloire would be the new Ice Queen. After all, what was love anyway but lust and codependence? It would be stupid to go on living with Harry. Idiotic. It would totally go against everything she stood for.

  She leapt for his one remaining hand and clutched it desperately, squeezing his fingers so hard he cried out in pain. Even as she reeled him back in, a missile exploded the ground where she’d been crouching a moment before. It would have killed her.

  She clutched Harry to her fiercely. He held her just as tightly and wiped at the tears from below her eyes. She kissed him, and he returned the kiss with passion.

  The tower leaned even further out over the chasm; the wall holding it in place wouldn’t hold much longer. The view this new angle afforded Cloire was a beaut. The falling snow and the white mountains and the sheer breathless beauty of the chasm itself ... and, off to the left, the tiered balconies of the Blood and Stone.

  She cried out as the tower began its irrevocable descent into the abyss. Shifting into her beast shape, completely catching Harry off-guard, she turned him about, grabbed a mouthful of the back of his thick course coat, and tried to say, “Hold on, luv!”

  She dashed toward the wall, now nearly bisecting the horizon in a vertical line, and vaulted over the
edge, wrapping one hairy stump of a foreleg about Harry.

  Flying ...

  They sailed through the snow-whipped air toward the balconies of the Blood and Stone below and to the side. She didn’t think they’d reach it. Her launch had been too awkward, her legs not coiled enough, the angle all wrong ... They’d never make it.

  Almost, they didn’t.

  They neared the second balcony just as their speed began to drop. Luckily, their velocity was enough to send them hurtling toward the third, the lower, deck, and an updraft caught them just in time to ensure that they didn’t miss the balustrade. The problem was that the updraft hurled them a little too hard. She hunched her shoulder to protect Harry from the impact.

  They smashed part-way through the wrought-iron balustrade. Both Harry and Cloire screamed.

  Caught, stuck.

  Her weight dragged them back into the abyss. She released Harry and hurled him across the snow-covered balcony. He skittered and rolled, throwing up bright red blood from a wound in his arm received when they’d blasted through the balustrade—and in which she was still stuck, like a bug in a spider’s web. But a really heavy bug that was falling out, slowly, and in the wrong direction. She’d kicked Harry too far out for him to help her. Sliding backwards ...

  She could feel the cold wind of the abyss lashing her backside.

  “I love you,” she called, and began falling backwards.

  Harry didn’t respond. He flung himself to a standing position, still spewing blood all across the beautiful whiteness of the balcony, and started skidding and loping towards her, almost skating at times on the ice and falling flat on his face at others. She watched him warmly, too weak to escape from her entanglement and the balustrade too well-made.

  She fell.

  She caught herself, by one claw, on the icy ledge.

  No longer could she see Harry, but she heard his cry of pain as he fell once more and went sliding towards her, hurtling actually ... he smashed into the balustrade face-first. The cold rough metal cut him in a half a dozen places.

  “Cloire!”

  Her one claw lost its traction.