Nightlord: Orb

by Garon Whited

  “No… but I tried to cook some of it and it burned.”

  I remembered to breathe. Yes, I could smell burned meat—chicken, if memory served. I looked in the direction of his house; it seemed every light in the place was on.

  “Would you rather I came over to help you cook, or would you prefer to come in for dinner?” I asked.

  “I’m not allowed to have anyone over when Dad ain’t home.”

  I stood aside and gestured him toward the kitchen. He went in, scooted a chair up to the kitchen table, and waited. He kept his eyes on the table, as though looking around was a crime. He didn’t have that attitude when he was with the other three, helping fix things. He was more than merely nervous. He was scared.

  I didn’t say anything. Instead, I rummaged in my cabinets. Gary wasn’t the only one who needed groceries; I eat like three men, sometimes five. I spread out what I had—sandwich stuff, cereal, the last of the milk, Susan’s cookies, and a microwave pizza. At my urging, he put together a sandwich for himself while I microwaved the pizza. I wasn’t worried about wasting it. I couldn’t eat it tonight, but whatever he didn’t finish I’d send home with him.

  “Your Dad hasn’t got groceries in a while?” I guessed. Gary nodded.

  “He was gonna get some last night, but he’s not home yet.”

  “You’ve been on your own since Sunday?”

  “Yeah.”

  My opinion of his father sank two notches, which did not bode well for him at all.

  “I saw you made it to school.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m proud of you. You’re a good kid.”

  He didn’t say anything. He was too busy wolfing down his sandwich. He seemed pleased, though. The pizza was done when he finished; I plunked it down in front of him and poured him the last of the milk.

  “What does your Dad do, anyway?” I asked. Gary shrugged and blew on the hot pizza. “You don’t know?” I pressed.

  “He doesn’t talk about it.”

  “Is he away like this often?”

  “No.” Gary chewed ferociously. “First time.”

  I watched while Gary ate. He was definitely upset about it; I could see inside him. He was pretty good about hiding his feelings, at least on the outside. Lots of practice, I suppose.

  “Do you even know where Mark works?”

  “No. Somewhere in the city, I think.”

  “Do you have milk at your house?”

  “No.”

  “Then eat the cookies before you finish the milk. I’m out, too.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t require much urging. He likes oatmeal raisin cookies, the little weirdo. Then again, who am I to talk?

  Mark never struck me as a model father, but that was—strictly speaking—none of my business. Now, though, I was feeding his kid because he would rather be out on a bender than bring food home.

  That pissed me off, which never ends well.

  After feeding Gary, I walked him home. It wasn’t difficult to persuade Gary to let me in for a minute. He wasn’t supposed to have anyone over, but he wanted someone to search the house for monsters, thieves, or anything else. I went through the place and reassured him it was empty.

  While I was there, I also helped clean up the mess in the kitchen. He burned the chicken because he was out of microwavable and other easy-prep foods. The pan he tried to fry the chicken in was ruined, so we threw the whole thing away. I also took out the trash, helped him straighten up a little, and taught him the right way to fold towels.

  I also swiped some of Mark’s hair from the comb on his dresser. I planned to use it with the magic-detecting compass box.

  The enchantment on the thing was old and solid. Whoever built it did good work. I learned my magic in a different school, though. I didn’t alter the enchantment, but I did put a spell on it. Think of it as hotwiring a car. I added some spells like jump leads to short-circuit around some aspects of the enchantment, basically allowing it to do exactly what it normally did. The difference was in the detection specifications. I added a module to let me specify what sort of pattern it searched for.

  I printed out a map of the city, called a cab, and did some triangulation. Then I packed up the box, dismissed the cab, and took a walk in one of the more depressed and depressing areas of the city. Within two blocks, I had a two-pack volunteer dinner come up to me and demand money.

  One of the things about the way I see the world at night is the life inside people. While I’m still able to see the skin of a person, my nighttime eyes tend to naturally slide into a different way of seeing. I see vital energy coursing through people, the sparkling lines of nerves, the whirling vortices of blood in the veins and arteries—especially the big, red, pulsing thing slightly left-of-center in the chest—and even the formless, cloudy colors of the living soul inside.

  So when they demanded money, I noticed two things immediately. One of them really didn’t want to do this. The other one was practically blasé about it. He didn’t live long.

  The other one I picked up by the belt buckle and pressed him against a wall. He hit me several times, which I ignored—he had good reason, so I didn’t hold it against him.

  “You,” I told him, around a mouthful of fangs, “need to find another occupation. Anything will do. Go talk to the employment agency and tell them you don’t care what it is. You desperately need a job because this kind of thing will get you killed.”

  I tossed him casually over my shoulder and walked away. He limped the other way surprisingly quickly.

  Farther along, I took out the box, took a bearing, and put it away again. It wasn’t long before I homed in on a dilapidated factory structure. It had a surprising amount of graffiti, with a combination of old fencing and newer planking closing it off. I could hear the sounds of a party inside—quite a large one—but it was muffled by distance, doors, and depth. I wasn’t sure it was audible to normal ears. There were several ways in through the fence, but only one obvious way into the building. This door was guarded by a pair of guys who might as well have tattooed “BOUNCER” on their foreheads.

  Well, what the hell. I walked up to them.

  “What’ll it take to get in?” I asked.

  “Fifty.”

  I handed him fifty. They knocked on the door, it opened, and I was in.

  Huh. That was easy. No sneaking around, no ripping people to pieces, not even any mystically draining the life-force from the guards. Am I disappointed or relieved? Surprised, certainly.

  The guy inside had a drug problem or a runny nose; he sniffled constantly. We followed a rope on the wall as he escorted me through the place. We went underground into a large, open area where the lights and music were all dialed up to eleven. The place was full of strangely-dressed young people, screaming and moving about, presumably singing along and dancing. No one took any notice of me, except to bounce off me as they staggered and whirled through whatever drug-fueled haze they might have achieved. The smell of sweat and musk, alcohol and smoke, old rust and mold, all combined to make the place a cloud of noxious fumes.

  I gritted my teeth and waited for my eyes and ears to adjust to the cacophony of sound and its concrete-and-steel echoes. There are bad points to having ultra-sensitive sensory equipment. The pounding beat and the flashing lights were unpleasant and distracting, even mildly painful. Everyone else seemed to enjoy the seizure-inducing atmosphere. I didn’t appreciate it at all. I stayed against the wall because I didn’t think I could stand being pummeled from all sides by the noise and lights. I already felt an urge to blindly rip my way through the crowd on my way to someplace dark and quiet. Finding out how powerful the urge could get was an experiment for another place and time.

  My sunglasses may have saved lives. I was amazingly pleased I had my eye armor. In the future, earplugs might not be a bad idea, either.

  Working my way around the room, I searched for Mark and any other rooms or ways out. I found the equivalent of a toilet; there was a crack in the foundation one
could straddle, with sections partitioned off for the he’s, the she’s, and the undecided. Water came from big plastic tubs set on platforms, with some pushbutton valves and hosing. Someone had thoughtfully glued pieces of mirror to a wall. I smelled human waste and lime. At least they had the sense to lime their in-house outhouse.

  Another side chamber was obviously the equivalent of a concessions stand and bar. They sold prepackaged snacks, shots of liquor, and what were probably mild recreational drugs.

  I also found the generator room; a couple of portable generators pumped their exhaust up through a pipe. They provided power for the party. This was obviously not the first such party here. An unlicensed nightclub? Or merely a favorite spot to rave?

  Whatever it was, it was a firetrap. The only way out was back the way I came. No doubt the local law enforcement people would love to know about it. If it was anywhere but underground, doubtless they would!

  I stepped into the cacophony again and leaned against the wall until I could adjust to it. I didn’t succeed completely, but it was beneficial to take the time.

  As I worked my way around, along the walls, I spotted something out of place. She didn’t look like anything more than another a pretty lady in the crowd. Too much makeup, of course, but that applied to everyone in the room. A red upper lip, a black lower lip, and rainbow eyeshadow from the bridge of her nose to her temples. Far too much glitter for my taste; she practically sparkled. The long, kinked, multicolored hair was also decidedly not my speed. Nice eyes, though, with an intense, almost electric-blue color. I squinted a little and saw they weren’t contacts; the color was natural. Well, built-in. For all I know they have cosmetics to alter your eye color.

  But it wasn’t my eyes that noticed her. It was the way her dark, psychic tendril brushed over me, trying to drain a tiny fraction of my vitality.

  She was a vampire, sweeping her power through the crowd, feeding off the surging energy of the party.

  The instant her drifting tendril touched me, it jerked like a hand touching a live wire. She snatched it away and her head snapped around, eyes wide, to stare at me. She seemed frightened! I smiled in as friendly a fashion I knew and waved at her.

  I don’t mind treating a crowd like a smorgasbord; it’s harmless. I prefer to find someone who volunteers to be dinner, but that’s a matter of personal taste. If her preference ran the other way, I certainly wasn’t going to object. If I was hungry, I would certainly do the same.

  I reciprocated her touch. Examining her in like fashion struck me as only fair. My own tendrils coiled out and slid over her, through her, feeling her out. She was definitely a vampire, although her flavor was strange. She didn’t taste like Sasha. A different species of vampire? Possibly. Age might be a factor. I could feel her soul still inside her, though, so she was what I think of as a living undead, rather than a soulless undead, or even a demon-possessed corpse. She was still in there, not merely a body animated by dark forces. That made me think of her as a relative of some sort. Doubtless, she had already formed her own opinion of me.

  She didn’t seem to enjoy it. She moved away through the crowd at a good speed, hit the front door, and was gone as though I was actively chasing her.

  Sighing, I wished Firebrand wasn’t quite so huge. Having something to talk to at moments like this is a good thing. What was she thinking? Why was she frightened? Was this party thrown by some other vampire and she was sneaking in uninvited? I didn’t see any signs, didn’t detect any other members of the species. Or was it her party and she was off to get help from her creator or companion? Or did she come down here to snack and not realize another vampire was present until she brushed me? Or did touching me like that constitute some sort of offense among vampire-kind? Or did touching her back imply I was offended? Or did my touch seem excessive? Am I guilty of overreacting—on the order of her shaking hands and me grabbing her throat?

  The only person to ask already left. Maybe next time…

  I worked my way through the crowd and out of the party chambers myself, glad to be out of the wailing, flashing hell full of gyrating and screaming people. A moment or two more and I felt adjusted to the quiet—well, quieter—dark again. My fellow vampire wasn’t waiting for me; I was alone in the uninhabited zone between party central and the doorman. That suited me; I had other fish to fry.

  So, where was Mark, my target? Not at the party, obviously. I unpacked and checked the compass box. Up. More that way… move along a hallway, go up the stairs, cross along a catwalk… ah, signs of civilization, or at least use, with places where the rust is worn away by footsteps, spiderwebs riven, and evidence of repairs, perhaps even construction…

  Everywhere I’ve gone, there have been people who seem to belong in the criminal classes. Something about them says Tough, or maybe Muscle or Thug. Admittedly, at night I can cheat and look at the light and dark places in the human soul, but sometimes I don’t need to.

  The tough guy was standing by a fire door. He had a machine pistol slung crosswise at his hip and seemed bored. I packed the compass box and slung it before I approached. I made it a point to make my footsteps loud on the concrete walkway.

  He switched on a flashlight.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Like, hey, is this where they keep the good stuff?” I asked, and leaned against the wall.

  “Got nothing for you here. Get back to the party.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I turned around and he turned off the flashlight.

  I turned around again. I didn’t kill him, just hit him in the head with a wall. I did swipe his money, gun, and vitality though. He would wake up in a day or so with a headache. I can be terribly pragmatic.

  I reached through the door with psychic tendrils, uncoiling them through the darkness, steel, and stone, feeling my way around beyond the wall. Nothing living, not even rats… but that wasn’t so surprising. This door seemed to be the blocking point for stoned party animals. What went on farther in was anybody’s guess. But, to judge from the machine pistol and the big wad of cash, someone was serious about privacy.

  The door didn’t want to open, so I reached into it with tendrils and pulled the spring-loaded latch back. It was well-oiled and in good condition; the door opened soundlessly. I went back to being extremely quiet and slithered my way deeper into the ruined factory.

  Drugs, drugs, drugs. Most of them white, all of them powdery, and busily subdivided from large, plastic bags into tiny plastic capsules. I don’t know what it was; I’m not clear on these newfangled designer drugs. Besides, who can tell by looking? All I know is they had half a dozen automated capsule-filler machines, each with an operator, and another dozen people moving around, lifting things, carrying them, putting them somewhere else. Everyone wore dark blue, full-body suits and full-face gas mask things. Whatever it was, they were avoiding not only breathing it but even skin contact. It was an industrial operation, not some garage meth lab.

  Scowling, I got out the box and took yet another bearing.

  I wound up crouched next to a broken-out picture window that was once part of a manager’s office. It had a good view of the processing below, formerly the factory floor. Although, to be fair, it was still a factory floor. Down there was well-lit; up here was dark. That suited me.

  Through the window, I heard the argument. One guy wanted to kill them, two others refused to express an opinion, and one guy, with excellent diction and a particularly clear voice, kept patiently explaining how keeping them alive allowed for a greater range of options and uses.

  I peeked. Yes, four men, sitting on or around a big, dilapidated desk. Two others tied to chairs and looking considerably the worse for wear. There were two light sources: A free-standing thing in one corner and a clamp-on lamp at the edge of the desk.

  “I wanna know how these two found the place is all,” one of the four sneered. “They didn’t wander off from the damn party. I know for a fact Ortiz works for Henderson!” The speaker moved to the Hispanic gentleman tied to a
chair and slapped him; his head rocked limply. I looked at his life. He was alive and exhausted, but in no real danger—a few bruises and cuts, plus one fairly deep stab wound in the thigh, crudely bandaged with a torn shirtsleeve.

  The speaker pulled back the head of the other fellow. Gary’s father, Mark.

  You know, sometimes I hate people. Mark was beaten and bleeding. Someone had put out a cigar on the back of his hand. One of his eyes was swollen almost shut, but the other glared at his captor and he snarled through his gag. Whatever these guys wanted from him, he hadn’t given it.

  I silently apologized: He wasn’t out getting drunk. He was out doing—presumably—his job, whatever that was. Being kidnapped and held prisoner is one of the few acceptable excuses for leaving your kid at home alone.

  Why couldn’t he simply be an irredeemable bastard? Mark had to go and have good qualities. It’s hard to wholeheartedly despise someone when they aren’t monsters. I’ve seen monsters. I am a monster. Knowing that, I couldn’t bring myself to hate Mark for being… well… somewhat less than perfect.

  He still wasn’t off the hook for being an abusive parent, but he wasn’t all bad, damn him.

  I took out my contacts and put them in their case. Then I fished out a pocket pack of alcohol wipes and started work on my face and hands, muttering a charm to help the makeup come off.

  This wasn’t going to be subtle. It was trouble I didn’t need, possibly a lot of trouble I didn’t need. Anyone with so much product also has a massive amount of money, and money means influence. If this setup had a shut-eye arrangement with someone in the city political structure, then it was a large dump truck of manure I might be buried under.

  “I seen this other chump with Oritz before. That makes him part of the competition!”

  “Now, now,” cautioned Mr. Cultured. “Carlo says to hold them. We hold them.”

  “What for?”

  “I wouldn’t ask him that, especially with such a tone of voice. I would guess he wants them alive to trade with Henderson. What he hopes to get out of such a deal is above my pay grade.”