by Conner, Jack
Anubis yawned and slunk away.
"Smart cat.” Sophia moved to the kitchen, picked a banana and a beer, and departed for her execution.
She drove her thirty-year-old yellow convertible Corvette Stingray—the wind a chorus of cat-calls about her, tossing her hair and teasing her eyes. She smoked a Black Death cigarette on a cigarette holder, peering out at the Los Angeles nighttime landscape through wraparound Ray Bans. She smiled as the car roared beneath her, and the gas petal grew steadily closer to the floor.
She finished her banana and beer and tossed them both overboard. She was late for her rendezvous, but that wasn't unnatural. Today her would-be lover wanted to meet her somewhere reclusive, which was as it should be for this part of the operation. The scam was almost concluded. The ending was her favorite part.
By the time she'd finished her second cigarette, she was in the hills. The moon looked gray and unhealthy above. She took the car down a gear as she rounded a corner and spotted the big stone mailbox of her lover. Shooting down the tree-flanked driveway, she hit the horn as she screeched to a halt. She was out of the car in a slash, sweeping up the wide staircase in time to see Robert's gloomy expression as he exited his house. His face brightened artificially when he saw her.
"Well, dear, how nice to see you,” he said.
She gave him a big hug, staying in character. Robert's manservant stood only a few feet behind his master, eyeing her severely.
"Well, baby, it's only been a few days," she sighed into Robert's ear. "You look as if it's been forever!"
He separated himself from her, coldly, and she could see the depth of his hurt. She had won his affection, then betrayed him. But he would still be uncertain.
"Come, dear," he said. "Follow me inside."
She did, wearing a slight pout that was to be read as Oh, poo. She ripped off her oversized hat, hearing the door close—and lock—behind her. She supposed this was the point at which she should start acting nervous. It took a lot of concentration on her part to play a mortal, and a scared one at that, but she was an accomplished actress of sorts, though her performances were mainly viewed in private.
"Kind of cold in here," she murmured, and affected a small shiver.
Robert led her past the rough wood walls and mounted heads of animals, from deer to alligator, past grand windows, drapes pulled, and up a polished wooden staircase, then up another. In all honesty, she did feel a draft.
"Robert," she said, "why don't you say something? You're so silent! Heavens, is something wrong?"
He scowled back at her and continued their little journey until he came to a closed door, which he opened almost ceremoniously and beckoned her to enter: his office, she knew, where he attended to his shady business when required. He was quite evil for a mortal, and though this was a trait that Sophia was inclined to admire at times, she had taken special delight in winning this bastard's affections and then crushing him.
He liked to dominate people, women especially, but the ghensiv had been able to read him, as she always could, and knew that beneath that power-hungry exterior lay a core that was afraid: a pinprick of self-doubt that craved to be told what to do, and how to do it. And though the exterior could never slip (he was far too controlled for that), she had found the chink in his armor and had penetrated deep. She'd bent him and pulped him, playing dominatrix in the bedroom, knocking him to his knees in release so that he could shed his responsibilities for the few precious moments they were alone—and in public she played every bit as submissive as he could have wanted. And then, after she'd discovered his weaknesses and exploited them, she robbed him of every penny he had available and sent rumors through his employees (rumors that were sure to come back to him) that she had been having an affair on the side, wrecking him emotionally, too.
There was no way he could touch her, though. He didn't know her real name or residence (she'd used an anonymous apartment during most of the operation), or race of being. She'd pulled this scam many times before, and it nearly always ended the same way. The boyfriend, or girlfriend as the case may be, eventually rounded the ghensiv up and demanded retribution. This was when she observed their grief personally, and this was often the time when they subjected her to tortures in an attempt to relocate their lost capital. She liked pain, so this was usually the most eagerly anticipated part of the operation, and she hoped it would begin soon.
Robert perched behind his desk, brooding and staring at her until he had to avert his eyes.
"You took something from me," he said.
"What are you talking about?" She tried not to sound too innocent because, she realized, he was confused and not a hundred percent certain that she was in fact guilty.
"I know what you did, you little bitch. You used me. The whole time, you were using me ... and then what you took ..." He closed his eyes, and the Ice Queen was amused to see tears spilling down his cheeks. A part of her almost felt guilty for causing him pain (she'd enjoyed her moments with him), but this was a small part and easily silenced.
Robert shook his head. "You filthy little whore. You nearly ruined me, you know. If not for my off-shore accounts ..."
"So fucking what?" she said, surprised at the emotion rising in her. She took a step closer, all pretense at vulnerability dissolved. "I do this sort of thing for fun, Robert. To pass the time. I destroy people like you for sport. Usually that's all it is. But I'll tell you something, Bob. This time there was a small personal motive as well. You see, I'd made friends with this girl, a club-hopping little witch hooked on crack and god knows what else. You pimped her, or one of your franchises did. You strung her out and used her until she died. She weighed sixty-five pounds when she died, Robert. Sixty-five pounds." Sophia’s voice lowered. "She had a nice smile."
Robert pushed his chair back from his desk, more in surprise than fear, although some small tick had tugged at his face when he saw her step forward, as if he'd seen something ghastly. A glimpse of inhumanity, perhaps, but then why should this shock him of all people, he who profited from the weaknesses of others?
"So why didn't you save her?" he said. "Why single me out? I fucking loved you, you bitch. Why did you ruin that?"
Why hadn't Sophia saved the girl? Was it because she had not known, not completely, that the girl was as bad as she'd really been—or that the girl had refused Sophia's help? Maybe. Maybe that was a part of it. But mainly it was because Sophia felt that to be strong one must reject all emotion. A heart was a fragile thing. But keep it small and hard enough, and maybe it just might be safe. That’s why she hadn’t saved Gilly: because the Ice Queen hadn’t allowed herself to know her well enough to be aware of the girl’s destructive streak.
"I feel dizzy," she said.
Robert sat back down with a grunt. "I can't do this. You won't beg forgiveness, will you, and give me back the money? You wouldn't be so kind."
"No."
He nodded sadly. "I can't hurt you, you know. But I've brought someone who could." He motioned to the shadows and a figure stepped forward, tall and hard. "I'll give you one more chance. If you don't speak now, you'll die."
"You'll beg before it comes, though," the figure said, and Sophia started. She studied the man silently, and he returned the stare. His face registered subtle shock.
"Christ," Sophia said. She hadn't counted on this; often the wronged lover hired someone to do the torturing and killing, but Robert in his ignorance had hired another immortal, who apparently used this job as a guise for gathering food.
"What's going on?" Robert demanded, seeing the expressions on their faces. "Do you two know each other?"
The strange vampire remained still; perhaps Sophia intimidated him. She could feel the blood rush through her body and intuitively knew she was the stronger of the two. She was older. This new one was probably very young, some Hollywood thug that had irresponsibly been brought over. He was big, though, and hungry, she could feel it, and he would be a match for her yet.
"No," the other breath
ed. "Never."
"Then take her out of my sight."
The vampire moved toward her.
Sophia jumped over Robert's desk. She grabbed him by the throat and maneuvered him so as to keep him between her and the vampire. Robert struggled, but his efforts were fruitless and after a few moments he grew still, fighting for breath.
"Come for me and kill your master," Sophia said.
The vampire narrowed his eyes.
"Go on!" the ghensiv roared. "You'll get no food from me."
Although the fanger remained motionless, his discomfiture was obvious.
"Who are you?" he said.
"Who are you?"
He frowned and nodded again. Both of them would refuse identification.
"Why do you do this?" the vampire asked.
"There's more to life than food. There's destruction, and vengeance, and needless waste. That’s where Robert comes in."
"I don't understand."
"Not my problem. What is my problem is that you're here, and you don't know what to do. Well, I'll tell you. Leave."
"No."
"Listen, I know you still feel tied to the living; that's why you exist in the human mob. Get over it. Go work for Hauswell in Vegas, or one of his rivals if you must, and join others of your kind. Now go. I'll take care of Robert."
The vampire's brow furrowed, then his eyes grew brighter as if to lunge for Sophia at the last second. He seemed to lose confidence, though, and a beaten look crossed his face. He edged back, his eyes never leaving her, and disappeared out a window.
Sophia waited until she was satisfied that the young one had gone, then released Robert. She could feel it in her veins: the Ice Queen was back. This man was a coward, a killer—and would die.
He sank to the ground, one hand to his throat, massaging it.
"What are you?" he said.
"I wonder about that too, sometimes." She took a step closer to him. "Want to make love to me, Robert?"
"What?"
She smiled at him, and her smile was menacing. "In a very real way, and pardon the vulgarity, I'm hungry for your cock."
She pulled off her blouse. Her nipples grew erect at contact with the cool air of the room. She descended on him, taking off her clothes as she went.
First Robert's screams were almost pleasurable, though confused—and then they were just screams.
She was used to that.
* * *
A face flashing past caught Danielle’s attention as Veliswa’s limo roared by; it was staring out of an office building, pale and vacant, but when the eyes lit on the car something changed. “Shit,” she said. “I think Jean-Pierre’s watching us still.”
“He can’t be,” Veliswa said. “We’re too far away, and his minions …”
“He’s watching through others’ eyes.”
Veliswa blinked. “You mean … ?”
“If that’s true, then he’s grown very powerful indeed,” Ruegger said.
“Here’s your car,” Veliswa said, as the limo slowed. “If Jean-Pierre is watching, I think he’ll follow you, not me, though he may come for me later. Be quick. And farewell. We probably won’t meet again for awhile.”
They climbed out of the limousine and dove into their black Mustang, parallel-parked between two sedans, as Veli’s limo shot away. Danielle caught Ruegger scanning the windows of the buildings around. Several faces stared blankly back, office workers whose minds had been co-opted by a greater power. Danielle shivered.
“This is bad,” Ruegger said, as he climbed behind the wheel. Danielle lowered herself into the passenger seat. Ruegger shoved the car into gear and shot it out into traffic. “I think that—hell!”
“What?” she said.
“Jean-Pierre and his pack have found us.”
Danielle faced the rear. Sure enough, a van had just rounded the corner. It barreled straight for them. “Jesus! They’re driving badly."
"Is Jean-Pierre behind the wheel?"
"Too far away to tell, but I bet he is." She turned around. "We have enough gas?"
"To get us clear of to the Clearglass Inn, but not much more. The trick's going to be dodging the traffic."
"And losing them."
"Our car's faster."
"And older."
"Buckle up.”
Chapter 11
"Launch the bikes," Jean-Pierre said.
Byron flung open the rear doors and Cloire lowered the wooden ramp. Byron hopped on a black Honda and Kilian took his Harley. The engines screamed in the close confines, then the bikes were away, sliding backwards down the ramp. Once on the street, they tore forwards along both sides of the van.
"Get ‘em!” Cloire said.
Loirot groaned from the back. He’d been shot by Veliswa and was still bleeding. "I need food, or at least some blood. Cloire, would you?"
"Fuck off, asshole. My blood's my own."
"Bitch," he said.
"Goddamned right."
It was a moment before she realized that the albino was cursing something at her.
"What's it now, Frenchie?"
"Cops.”
"What'd you expect, asshole? Drive better! Or do you want Danielle to go free?"
He bared his teeth. "Get the grenades.”
* * *
"They've sent bikes to catch up with us,” Danielle said.
"Who?"
"Kilian and someone else, a big guy ... Byron."
"Weapons?"
"Can't tell. They're both wearing trench coats. Probably shotguns."
"Enough to take out our wheels, then." They had armored flaps that dangled behind their wheels for just such occasions, but they wouldn't be strong enough to resist sustained assault, especially by shotgun.
"Cops," she said suddenly.
"For us or them?"
"Them. Two cruisers. They must've gotten reports on Jean-Pierre's driving."
"Think it was intentional?"
"Maybe. The bikes are coming fast."
"Break out the guns."
She grimaced. "What's your pleasure?"
"Berretta nine. You shoot, I drive."
She kissed him on the temple, then hopped in the cramped rear compartment, on top of their last-ditch coffin. Reached to the floor, removed the flap (made to resemble a floor mat) that disguised their stash of weapons, and selected one of their two briefcases (one contained their clothes, the other their weapons) and a double-barreled semi-automatic shotgun designed to fit a double-magazine of rounds.
She tossed the Beretta forward, then punched out the disposable rear window, swivel-connected at the bottom so that it swung out and down. Feeling the breeze in her air, she stuck her head out the rear, keeping her weapon (already loaded) out of sight until the bikes came within range.
Kilian, on the Harley, narrowed in on their car at speed, while Byron roared in behind. Danielle's mind flashed back to Byron playing chess with her, many years ago, and she grew cold. When Kilian got within a hundred feet, she brought out the rifle and took aim.
A hole erupted in the car beside her.
“Shit!”
Byron fired openly at her, regardless of whatever cars or people divided them.
Before she could take aim at either of them, Kilian fired, as well, letting loose with a stumpy automatic weapon. Bullets punched into her, and she tried not to scream. She felt her gristle and muscle giving way as her blood warmed her clothes. Holes drilled the trunk lid, some were passing inside. The disposable rear-window shattered.
Danielle fired, and fired, and fired. Blood mushroomed on Kilian's clothes as he drew near, but he still closed in. Danielle lowered her aim and squeezed off several shots. Kilian's bike broke apart beneath him, crunching and whirring. His face flashed anger, then he was skidding under his heavy bike along the crowded street—which had grown substantially less crowded in the last few moments—and was lost to sight.
Before she could even swivel, she was thrown backwards in a bloody arc to crash against the back
of the front passenger seat. Damnit. She hated being shot. She leapt up and fired back at the other one, Byron, who had grown eerily near while her attention had been on Kilian.
They exchanged volleys. Danielle aimed at the werewolf's bike. At last it blew apart beneath him and Danielle was slammed back in her seat again, gun forgotten, her blood spraying the rear compartment. Her chest was a painful disaster, and in her largely unfed and already traumatized state, she was in danger.
“Rueg," she whispered, and reached a hand for him. He squeezed back.
She latched onto him and dragged herself bloodily forward, slithering into the front compartment, where she lay backwards in a pitiful slump, blood soaking the seat beneath her.
"Damn," he said, seeing her broken chest, the splintered ribs, the pumping blood. He stuck his wrist in front of her face. "Here, drink."
She rocked her head back and forth. "No more. You need strength to drive."
"Take some," he demanded. "You're so young. You could be dying."
"No."
"Take some!"
She bent her face forward to where her lips touched the flesh of his wrist, and kissed him, her eyes closed. Then she collapsed back into her seat.
* * *
Kilian scowled as he pulled himself out from under his bike. Totaled, of course. He picked himself up and scanned downstream to see Byron moving over to the right side of the road so the van could pick him up. Kilian, being on the right, just waited.
As it came upon him, the side door slid open and Cloire reached for him. He leapt aboard without her help, even though the van was going at a considerable speed, and without a word of thanks dropped beside Jean-Pierre.
Byron scrabbled aboard next, nearly falling on top of Cloire, she having pulled him so hard. He panted and reclined next to Loirot, who seemed to be healing slowly for some reason. Had Veliswa coated her bullets with something?