by Conner, Jack
Harry finished his second martini and started on his third. "Don't patronize me, Ascott. All the money in the world couldn't buy me if I didn't like the cause."
"But my kids, my wife ..."
"Look, I'll come to your house, I'll see if you're the wonderful family man you claim to be, and if I like you I'll try to help. That's as far as it goes. No promises."
"Of course. You don't know how much this means to me. Come, I feel vulnerable out here in the open. What if I went into a public restroom and she was there, waiting for me?"
"Don't worry about it. She's out of town for the moment. That's not to say she couldn't sweep back in any time, but for now you're safe."
Ascott leaned back. "Thank you for telling me this. I can see that you're an honest man."
"Kiss my ass, you son of a bitch. You’re a fucking piece of shit for what you did.”
“I ... I know.”
Harry drummed his fingers on the table. “Do you have liquor at your house?"
"My wife drinks occasionally, yes."
"But not much. Well, we'll have to make a run by the liquor store. You're buying. All right, let's go." Harry set his empty glass down, starting to feel better. "Before we go over to your place, I need to pick up some things at my apartment, leave a note for visitors, that sort of thing." He moved towards the door. Ascott trailed behind. "Ah, but there's one thing I forgot."
"What's that?"
Harry belted him across the face. When Ascott didn't go down, Harry struck him again, then grabbed Ascott by the hair and slammed the sod's face down onto his knee. If Harry hadn't been tipsy, he was sure he'd have broken the bastard's nose.
"That's for … Danielle,” he panted.
Hands dragged him away, and he put up no resistance. Ascott followed him outside, a hand over his face. The man said nothing. Together, they made their way back to Harry's apartment. When he opened the door, Harry immediately felt an uninvited presence.
A thin, black-haired woman with violet eyes lounged on his couch, smoking a Black Death cigarette on a cigarette holder. Harry instantly recognized her as an immortal and, thinking that she was a werewolf (the sun had just set—surely no other shade could be up and about at this time of night), he ripped out his gun.
"Silver bullets," he warned.
"La dee da.” She rose. Several inches Harry's senior, she extended a hand, and he eyed it warily. "I'm Sophia.”
He glanced at Ascott, who seemed hopelessly confused. Did the man realize he was looking at an immortal?
"Please, wait outside,” Harry told him. Ascott obeyed, and Harry turned back to the woman. "Who are you?"
"Sophia, Veliswa's daughter, if you’ve heard of her."
"I know of her."
"Well, she came to me a few days ago in L.A., told me she and some friends needed my help. Understand, my mother's never asked anything of me before, so I was rather surprised. Having no pressing business in L.A., how could I refuse?"
"Get to the point."
"Please, lower the gun, Harry. Let's sit down and have a drink together. Have any Cristol?"
He chuckled but lowered the gun. "Afraid not, princess. How do you feel about a beer?"
"I'd feel great about a beer."
He fetched them each a drink. "You play chess?"
"Yes, but I'm not one to play games with inanimate objects. I prefer flesh and blood."
She meant it, too, he could tell. He slid into a chair near the couch, not too close to her. "So what is it you've come to see me about?" he said.
“I don’t know him well, but the Vampire Ruegger is apparently very dear to my mother's heart, and he's in danger from Vistrot. I've come here to infiltrate Vistrot's organization and find out more about why Ruegger and Danielle are wanted dead."
"A charitable aim.” Looking her up and down, he added, "Surely you didn't come here for purely unselfish motives."
"I think you misjudge me, Harry. Why must a self-assertive woman be seen as heartless?"
"Please."
She smiled. "I like to use people, Harry—bad people. It gives me satisfaction to see them squirm, and even more to destroy them. This situation gives me a chance to get close to Vistrot, a most worthy target. So, you see, I'm doing it for sport. To me, this will be like bringing down a lion among lions. You understand?"
"I suppose. But why won't he know what you're up to? Surely he'll investigate you and find out Veliswa's your mother. The jig will be up."
"I like you, Harry."
"My heart overflows."
"Now you're the one being cold. Can't we be friends?"
He sipped his beer. "Be sincere and maybe you'll grow on me."
"I'll try."
"Good. Now why won't Vistrot know you're Veliswa's daughter?"
"I was born ninety years ago in Paris, long before she moved to New York. She existed largely in the mortal societies back then and didn't want her friends to think she was just another silly girl getting pregnant out of wedlock, so she moved into the French countryside and raised me there until I was sixteen. Of course, I didn't look sixteen, because we ghensivs age slowly.
"When we moved back to Paris, Veliswa had been virtually forgotten. Of course, before she'd had me, she went by a different name. She changed it again when we moved back. No one knew she was the same woman. She hadn't aged a day; that's why she had to alter her identity, to avoid suspicion. Anyway, she pretended I was her niece—she didn't like the idea of people thinking she was a mother; not very sexy, she thought—and we lived there for a while until I hit puberty and matured more rapidly—at a human rate, you might say. That's why we moved back to the city when we did, so that I would blend in.
"She was eager to go to New York—she had a lover there—but I was just physically old enough to be accepted generally as a sexual being among the mortal society and I wanted to stay. Hell, it was Paris! I remained there while she moved to the Big Apple, where she's lived under various names ever since. After some time, I got the urge to move on, as well. I set out west to the new city of Las Vegas, then on to L.A."
Harry had finished his beer and moved to get another. "So what you're getting to is ... "
"It was never admitted publicly that I was Veliswa's child, not even to other shades. Besides, we both changed names every few decades and back in those early years all our acquaintances were mortal, and none of them are around any more, so even if Vistrot tried to do a thorough check, he wouldn't find out that I was her daughter or even knew her. To the best of his knowledge, I appeared in Las Vegas out of nowhere. I have no history."
"Surely you and your mother kept in touch."
"Not very often. Every now and then she'd fly out to L.A., but what rich New York socialite doesn't fly out to L.A. once in a while?"
"There's something you're not telling me."
"If that's true, then I'm keeping it from you for a reason. Respect it."
He paced, then turned to her. "How do I fit into the picture?"
"Well, I'm going over to one of Vistrot's buildings tonight. I've already contacted his people and arranged a meeting. I'll need some outside help, some support in case something goes wrong, or at least a place to crash if I get discovered. Veliswa didn't want me to confide or accept help from any of her friends. They're good people, she says, but unreliable and terrible gossips. And none of them are particularly close to Ruegger or Danielle. She wanted me to get help from someone who knows them and likes them, would want to be of service, but still has good contacts. She said that Ruegger suggested you. Will you help?"
He stared up at the painting of Marcela, wondering if she would guide him through this. He was just ready to make a clean break from this wretched city. Did he really want to tempt fate by becoming involved in something as complex and sinister as this probably would turn out to be? His eyes settled on his Chess Table, to the board he and Ruegger had been playing on last week. There was the toppled king where he hadn't bothered to re-set the board.
"I'll hel
p," Harry said. "What can I do?"
"Not much, for now. You're supposed to find out who began the rumor that the Balaklava were chasing Ruegger and Danielle to the ends of the Earth—something like that, anyway—and, if you can, why Vistrot had that man of his killed not too long ago."
Harry called in Ascott, made him write down his number, address, and instructions on how to get to his house. When Harry handed the piece of paper to Sophia, she scanned it and looked up, smiling doubtfully.
"The Hamptons?"
Harry glanced at Ascott. "The Hamptons?"
Ascott seemed embarrassed. "This is New York. People like French fries."
"Right,” Harry said. “Did I mention you're taking me to a liquor store?"
* * *
As Sophia was led to the lowest sub-level of Vistrot's building, she had to stop her jaw from hanging open. She’d never seen so many immortals in all her life. At last she was led into his office, and she could almost feel the suffocating weight of the entire building—all that concrete and steel—poised over her head. There was only one chair in the room and that was occupied, so she stood, forcing herself to remain calm.
Vistrot ran his eyes over her. Apparently liking what he saw, he gestured for her to step forward.
"So you're a ghensiv, is that right?"
"It's what I consider myself to be,” she said.
"But from what I've determined, and I've had your past looked into, of course—you can walk about during the daytime?"
"Yes."
"How is that possible?"
"My father was a werewolf." She instantly regretted the comment, but Vistrot just nodded. Why should he be interested in who her parents were?
"Well, this is good," he said. "It gives you an advantage over other candidates for this function—and your cross-breeding might allow you access to other abilities as well. Can you shapeshift?”
“It does not come easily for me … but yes.”
“Excellent. How old are you?"
"Ninety-three."
He puffed on his cigar. "I suppose that's old enough, though it would be better if you were older. Ah, well. No one's perfect."
She said nothing, but she was wondering just what he was wanting of her.
He adopted a formal tone. "So: you want to join my organization?"
"Yes." The trick of this meeting, she felt, would be to come off as competent yet sensual. Despite Vistrot's bulk, it was not hard to find him attractive. "Do you have a position for me?"
He smiled. "So that's it, is it? Well, sorry, I'm taken, and I've done more damage there than I should've already."
She felt a flash of emotion, registering it as crestfallen, then rejected it instantly.
"You misinterpret my statement," she said.
"Did I?" He studied her for a long moment, evidently trying to size her up but failing. He shook his head. "So why do you wish to sign up?"
"The obvious reason. I mean no flattery, but you're the strongest shade in the world, save for Roche Sarnova, and I hear he's losing his war."
"So you wish to be on the A-team?"
"It's the only way to be."
He nodded cautiously. He seemed to be warming up to her, but couldn't quite get a grip on her. She would have to make an effort at being more readable.
"Have you ever killed someone you didn't need to feed on?" he said.
"Many times."
"Have you ever killed a shade?"
"Yes."
"Ever killed one that was not threatening you somehow?"
"No."
He steepled his fingers. "Look, I won't lie to you. I normally don't accept people into my fold who are just off the street, but there's something about you I find intriguing. Of course, you'll have to work your way up, just like anyone else, you understand."
"Naturally."
"First you must prove your loyalty to me by killing a shade."
"It's a reasonable request."
"It's more than that. It's an initiation; you need to earn my trust and respect. There is a complication—see, I haven't much time. I've reason to believe that my primary death-squad is falling apart, and I can't allow that to happen. I placed my own man in it when it was first banded together, but I have yet more reason to believe that he's trying to become independent and take the rest of the crew with him, save for its leader, a man named Jean-Pierre: the albino. You've heard of him?"
"Indeed."
"Well, Jean-Pierre is very dear to me. He's been doing jobs for me for sixty years or more, but he's having a bad time. His team was assigned to kill Ruegger and Danielle. The Marshals."
"Why do you want them dead, or may I ask?" God, could it be this easy?
"You may not. Jean-Pierre himself doesn't know, but that's none of your concern. Soldiers are not to reason why. Anyway, he's having trouble with the idea of killing Danielle—they had a fling once—and this is all the more reason why he needs to kill her. I need a mole in the team, to make sure they're doing things according to my wishes, and, like I've said, my current mole has designs of his own. I need to put someone else on the inside, someone new, someone fresh, to hold the crew together. Especially, you must be sympathetic to Jean-Pierre. That's another thing you've got going for you; you're attractive."
"It's served me on occasion. Are you saying I should sleep with this man?"
"No explicit instructions on that one, but be friendly. If you two have chemistry, that would be great. The important thing is to keep his mental condition primed. The team could break up, and while that would be a shame, I could easily put together another one provided I had the leadership of the albino to depend on. Now will you agree to be my inside man, or woman, as a test of loyalty, until the odd flock is hunted down? Then we can find a more appropriate position for you, unless, of course, you grow to like being on the team."
"I would accept the position with honor. In L.A., we hear that your death-squads are treated like rock stars."
He laughed. "There's some truth to that, but that's only because they do good work. Now, that's agreed." He wrote something down on a piece of paper and handed it to her. Their fingers almost touched. "That's the address you're expected to be at tomorrow at noon exactly. They're very punctual; don't be late. It's important for both of us that you make a good first impression. Don't act arrogant."
"Of course."
"Do you have a place to stay in town?"
"I'm at a little flea-bag motel right now. It'll do."
"I'll make arrangements for you somewhere nice. As you say, you'll be treated like a rock star ... which makes me think of something ... " He was silent a moment, then made a decision. "Cloire, one of the crew—their technical specialist—is the lead singer in band. It's playing tonight at St. Lucifer's. It might be good for you to go there, ingratiate yourself with any member of the team that happens to be there before things really get into motion. Camaraderie is very important for the crew to function."
"I had no plans tonight."
"Good. Regarding your accommodations—I'll arrange a suitable place for you to stay on your return. For the present, you'll be out of town for awhile; Ruegger and Danielle are in Las Vegas, according to my sources. Another good reason for your presence on the team. So bring whatever you need to the meeting tomorrow. I don't know how long you'll be gone."
"Until Ruegger and Danielle are dead.”
"Yes, you'll do," he said. "You'll do just fine."
Chapter 15
Byron sipped on a long-necked Corona and smoked a Camel as he watched the show from the second floor balcony, far removed from the mosh pit. Cloire was prancing around on stage, snarling and growling into the microphone while the band and the back-up singers provided atmosphere. The style of the band hovered somewhere between death-metal, punk and goth.
Vistrot had created the band for Cloire several years ago when she'd shown an interest in singing, and Peyote Dawn played several times a month here at St. Lucifer's, which Vistrot owned. After a while, she'd beg
un to draw in decent crowds and eventually became something of a success. The room tonight was crowded, the empty space near the ceiling filled with a blue thunderhead of cigarette smoke.
Lights flashed, music swelled and Cloire began to sing. She didn't have what one would call a pretty voice, but it was raucous and edgy, with a wide range and surprisingly filled with emotion. As Byron listened, he could feel the hairs stick up on the back of his neck. Pride surged through him.
I do love her, damn it. No matter what she said herself, he was convinced that on some level she felt the same. They'd lived together for years, and though she slept around every now and then just to prove she could, she was basically faithful to him.
He glanced at Kiernevar beside him, scowling deeply, dressed to the nines in a tailored suit. Byron was the one to look after him, and after her initial repulsion, Cloire had not complained, which was further proof to the Australian that she cared for him.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Kiernevar had made a little mental progress toward sanity. Apparently being cared for, talked to and restrained frequently for misbehavior was having some effect. A psychiatrist had even prescribed a drug, which he was to take three times a day.
Kiernevar looked alertly at Byron, then back at Cloire, but said nothing, and the Australian didn’t press him.
Someone slid into the seat next to him: Loirot, smiling, in his typical Armani suit, which seemed incongruent amid the crowd, as did Kiernevar's. But with Kiernevar the suit was progress, while with Loirot it was simply irritating.
"So you decided to come?" Byron said.
Loirot shrugged. "How could I not? It's her release party, after all. I think even Jean-Pierre might show up."
"You talked to him?"
"Yeah, but—"
"How's he doing? He looked pretty bad last time I saw him."
"Not great, but better. He took losing Danielle for a second time pretty good, all things considered. That's not the big news."
"There's news?"
"Two things. First, Vistrot called Jean-Pierre and told him we're going back after the odd flock—they're in Vegas—and we leave tomorrow. Second, and more interesting—we're getting a new member to the team."