Within moments the chains had drawn tight. Vanessa was pinned flat against the wall, her wrists out to her sides and her ankles immobile, slightly spread. She fought, but she could barely twist her wrists in the charmed manacles, and the one was only partially healed. It would be hours before it mended properly. The force drawing the chains back into the wall was impossibly strong. The man had continued his slow, deliberate pursuit, and now that she was held helplessly to the stone, he stepped closer still. He was careful to keep his throat out of the possible range of her fangs, but he pressed his leg between hers and rested his chest against the material of her gown so her nipples brushed the rough fabric of his jacket.
“Very good,” he said. “You are faster than I expected, much faster — and stronger. I have done even better than I’d hoped.”
Vanessa didn’t reply. She continued to struggle. She tried desperately to pull away from him and at the same time ground the already tortured bones of her wrists and ankles against her bonds. She gritted her teeth against it the pain, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing how great it was.
“You can smell it, can’t you?” he asked, turning his head to the side so that the pulsing vein in his neck was in clear view. “I know you can — probably smelled me the moment I entered the room, didn’t you?”
He pressed closer, and Vanessa began to panic. His voice droned on, but she only caught the words between the thunderous, crashing beats of his heart. She’d been this close to many throats, fed many times, though not to the death — not in three hundred years. This was like nothing she’d ever experienced. His pulse blanked thought, and the heady, powerful scent of his blood — the taste of it, even through his skin, maddened her.
Her gums retracted to show long, pearl-white fangs. Her jaws worked convulsively, trying to latch on and drive those fangs home and drain that sweet, hot blood. She felt him brush a hand through her hair and lunged, like a wild beast, toward his wrist, but he was far too quick now, and her mind had dropped into a slow-motion world of fuzzy vision and humming sound. He stroked the other side of her throat, and she lunged that way, lashing her hair back and forth across his face. Each time she tried to clamp onto him, he evaded her, and throughout it all, he caressed her cheeks, her throat, and her hair. His voice never ceased, and she realized vaguely that he was chanting.
Then something slipped between her lips. She tried to turn from it, but it was too late. Blood spurted in over her tongue, washed down her throat, and she latched onto the metal tube like a baby suckling its mother. She couldn’t stop herself. It was his blood, she knew the scent, the taste, and it was as sweet as she’d imagined, though cold — so cold.
“That’s right,” she heard him say. “Take it all.”
She did. He pulled back from her with a satisfied smirk on his face and surveyed his work. Vanessa hung limply from the chains. Her bones had knit themselves and healed, her complexion had grown rosier. Her strength returned, but along with it a strange, inexplicable lethargy.
Her captor waited a few moments longer, then stepped forward again. She watched him, but did not try to reach him. Her thoughts were shifting very slowly, and she couldn’t quite remember why she’d wanted to escape, or who he was. He stepped close again, pulled something from his pocket, and slipped it around her neck.
Glancing down, she saw he had hung a circular gold pendant on a chain around her neck. He held the ends of the chain together behind her and whispered two words she didn’t understand. When he stepped back, the chain was joined in back. The chains on the wall grew slack.
Vanessa allowed him to lead her to the cot by the wall and sat beside him. The chains trailed behind her and hung limply down over the edge of the cot. She knew she should be doing something, but could not bring it into focus. Her eyelids had begun to flutter, and she was very tired.
“I couldn’t have you attacking me every few minutes, you know,” he said conversationally. “You really are far too fast to be trusted. I think things will go more smoothly now, don’t you?”
Vanessa nodded her head, though she had no idea what things he meant. She hoped he’d leave her so she could lie back on the cot and rest. She thought the sun must have risen outside and sapped her strength. If the building had proper shielding, this wouldn’t happen. She tried to tell him, but he shook his head.
“It’s fine. You get some rest, and I’ll be back to see you with more blood. We have to keep you healthy, don’t we?”
She nodded.
He reached out and traced her throat with a long fingernail, lifted her chin, studied her face, and then stroked her skin gently. “Before long,” he told her, “I’ll be taking my blood back, you see. All of it, and more. I’ll be taking all of that wonderful, powerful blood of yours, and that exquisite immortality, and I’ll be keeping it for my own. I’m afraid I can’t share, and it’s a pity, but you understand, don’t you?”
She nodded, though she really didn’t understand at all. He couldn’t have said what she thought he did, how was that possible? She was the one who took blood — she didn’t give it back. What a funny thought.
The man stood and laid her back on the cot, and Vanessa closed her eyes at once. On her chest, the gold medallion glowed with a dim golden light. He watched for a moment, nodded, and tucked the small bottle with its metal tube spout back into a fold of his robe.
“How fitting,” he said, brushing his fingers a final time through her hair. “They sell these for the feeding of pets, you see.”
Without a backward glance, he left the tower room and the heavy stone door closed behind him. On the cot Vanessa lay very still. Her eyes were closed, and other than an occasional twitch at the corner of her mouth, nothing disturbed the crypt-still air, or the total, lifeless silence.
Miles away, seated in his living room staring at the smooth obsidian shield on his window, Johndrow jerked so hard he nearly dropped the wine glass in his hand. He lurched, caught himself, and managed to place the goblet on the table beside him.
“What is it?” The younger man across the table from him shot to his feet. He was dark, swarthy and thin. He appeared to be no more than about seventeen years old, though he’d walked the streets of this same city for more than a hundred and fifty years.
He stood beside Johndrow, who recovered quickly, and watched as his elder sat up straight, eyes blazing. Then he felt it too, and his eyes widened.
“He has fed her something,” Johndrow said. “I don’t know what it was, but it was powerful. I can almost taste it. I…”
He fell silent, and the younger man cursed.
“This is too much,” he said. “First he steals Vanessa from your home, now he invades our minds, using hers. We can’t just sit around and wait, hoping this DeChance will find him. We have to act ourselves, and quickly.”
“I told him he would have forty eight hours,” Johndrow said, reaching for his glass. He steadied himself, then took a long gulp of the wine, and then put the goblet down again. “You must be patient, Vein, we all must be. Donovan is not just any man, and this job is beyond our knowledge. I’ll ask you what he asked me; what would you do if you found this thief? If he can control Vanessa, drag her out of here like a toy, and controls her still — what chance would you have?”
There was no insult or contempt in Johndrow’s question, but the younger man scowled. “You are too quick to let others make your decisions,” he snapped. “I would not go alone. There are others — many others. We’ll find the one who has done this, and we’ll put an end to this once and for all."
“You will wait,” Johndrow said. He rose to his feet and glared at his visitor. “You will not do anything to jeopardize her safety. Is that clear?”
The young man stood silent, glaring at him, and Johndrow repeated the question.
“Am I clear, Vein? No interference. None. When the time comes that we have no choice but to take this matter into our own hands, you will be the first I call.”
Vein said nothing. He drai
ned his own wine goblet, and placed it on the table beside Johndrow’s.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’m expected downtown.”
Johndrow watched him for a moment, as if judging the other’s silence.
“Stay in touch,” Johndrow said, turning back to the window. It was growing dark out. Soon he’d be able to open the shield and watch the stars. “Don’t do anything foolish. Two days is not such a long time — particularly for us.”
Vein turned on his heel and vanished from the room. Moments later a soft chime indicated that he’d found his way to the elevator and been granted access.
“Where are you, Vanessa?” Johndrow asked.
Silence was his only answer, and he punctuated it by pouring another glass of wine.
SEVEN
Most of the citizens of the world travel through cities by the main roads. Heads down and collars pulled up against the growing chill of night, they slide past the mouths of alleys and turn away from shadowed stairways, particularly those leading down. Deeper in, where the veins of civilization are narrow and more easily clogged, where side streets and garbage-strewn tributaries trail off into unknown darkness, another city thrives.
The two coexist in reasonable peace, the citizens of each rarely crossing into the other’s world or brushing shoulders on purpose.
Still, there are gray areas. Life has certain requirements, and some of those requirements exist on the other side of boundaries otherwise avoided. At such boundaries, you sometimes find a crossroads. That’s what Club Chaos had become.
The only way to reach the club was through an alley. You walked down to where a neon sign said PHONE, and you stepped into the phone booth. Right off the bat it was strange, because there is no reason a phone booth would be located in a dark alley. Who would use it? Once inside, you dialed a number, and the booth spun like a revolving door and deposited you inside. There were several distinct numbers you might use to access Club Chaos.
The first, the number you’d find now and then on the streets, in phone booths or inked onto bathroom walls; the one in the fine print at the bottom of posters announcing live entertainment and cheap drinks; that number was obvious. You dialed sixty-nine and you spun into a world where morality was checked at the door. The music was loud, usually heavy gothic or industrial, pounding so loudly that the most important skill patrons developed was an ability to read lips and a willingness to communicate on a more primal level.
This was the area of the club where worlds mixed most freely. The undead haunted the shadows and held court with pale, thin children and aging junkies. Musicians searched for their own crossroads down chemical highways, always providing the backbeat and the melody required to sustain the groove. Donovan had spent plenty of time there, though not as much in recent years.
If you dialed the more complex 360, your entrance was different. When the booth spun, it didn’t stop at the one hundred and eighty degree point, as you’d expect, but spun on around. Logic said you’d step back into the alley, but logic was on hold at Club Chaos. What you entered with the 360 code was a very dark bar. There were no mirrors, few lights, only ranks of dark tables where quite conversations were carried on in low tones. The air was always smoky, and the music was always soft. It ranged from blues to light jazz, from Robert Johnson to Charlie Johnson and back again.
They called this central bar The Crossroads, and there was no set clientele. It was a place for business transactions and private liaisons. It was neutral ground where the two halves of the club, and of the city, met in relative peace. There were no bouncers in sight, but Donovan knew from experience that they would miraculously appear if they were needed. Trouble was rare, and when it erupted, was handled quickly and with great force.
Donovan stepped into the phone booth and punched in the second code without hesitation. He knew three codes personally, and knew of the existence of at least two others. He imagined the club as a giant wheel with alcoves all around its circumference, but he’d never had opportunity or reason to look into it. He had access to the third, more private club, but his business lay elsewhere this day. He needed information, and he needed to find it quickly. He might have found the information by dialing sixty-nine, but he wasn’t in the mood to scream over the music, and he didn’t like using other means of communication in such an exposed place.
Scattered patrons lined the bar and leaned in close over the tables. As he entered The Crossroads, a few heads turned in his direction, but no one spoke. There was no bell over the door, and there were no greetings shouted from the bar, or the tables. He was simply absorbed by the smoke and Billie Holiday’s crooning voice, and then deposited on a stool at the bar without ceremony.
The barman approached, polishing a glass tumbler carefully with a gleaming white towel. He had long hair, and the way he squinted with his right eye gave his face a sort of sideways, off-kilter aspect. He didn’t speak, just stopped in front of Donovan, who ordered bourbon and water on the rocks, nodded, and spun.
There were three others at the bar. Donovan turned and inspected them quickly. He didn’t let his gaze linger on any one person, or table, because it just wasn’t done. This was a place you came to if you needed privacy, as well as a private hideaway for making deals and sealing pacts. A lot of what happened here was never intended to be spoken of or described once a patron walked back out through the door and into the alley, and it was better still if they managed to develop a case of amnesia.
Donovan had been coming to The Crossroads for many years, and he respected their policies. He’d made use of the place several times in his own business dealings, and had always appreciated that they were courteous and discrete.
At the far end of the bar, a very thin woman leaned over a cup of something hot. It might have been herbal tea, but Donovan didn’t think so. When he’d entered the room, she’d turned to the door — maybe hoping to see someone else slip in — and he’d seen her eyes. They reflected what light was available in the room and flashed silver. They were a seer’s eyes, and every time Donovan met such a gaze he had the urge to turn away. For a brief moment he considered approaching her — it was possible she could find his answers for him without the personal risk and trouble other methods entailed, but he decided against it. Consulting a seer had its perils, and was never cheap.
A couple of stools down from her two others sat together. They leaned in close and brushed shoulders as they whispered. One rose abruptly, pushed back from the bar, and headed for the door. The other signaled the bartender to refill his beer glass. Donovan didn’t hesitate. He rose, slid over a few stools to sit beside the man, and indicated to the barman that he was buying.
The man seated beside Donovan didn’t look up at his approach. There was also no complaint when the bartender refilled the beer glass and stepped away down the bar, discreetly out of hearing.
“Hello Windham,” Donovan said. He took a long, slow sip of the bourbon and water and watched the other man in silence.
Up close, the man’s profile took on stark angles. He was razor thin. His long hair wasn’t exactly greasy, but it also wasn’t clean. He wore a dark trench coat, despite the fact that in San Valencez there were only a few days of the year cool enough to warrant it. There were gloves on the bar beside him, and Donovan noted that the man’s hands were uncommonly long and slender. His skin, where it was visible, was very pale and tinged a light yellow. A quick assessment by one who didn’t know him would have placed Windham in Johndrow’s group, but it would be a mistake.
Jasper Windham was a collector. He made his living finding things; ingredients for potions, amulets, missing persons, things that others didn’t want found. Windham wasn’t the only collector in the city, but he was one of the best. Donovan was pleased to have found him so quickly and easily.
“You come here just to buy me beer?” Windham asked, turning to face Donovan at last, “or you need something?”
Windham’s voice was very dry, hardly more than a whisper, as if the vocal
chords that formed its sound were made of aged parchment. He wrapped his fingers around the fresh beer, and Donovan saw that they circled the glass completely and folded in under his palm. The nails were yellow and chipped.
Donovan met Windham’s gaze and smiled thinly. “You know me too well, old friend,” he said tipping his drink gently in Windham’s direction. “I don’t have much time for casual drinking these days.”
Windham continued to stare pointedly, not speaking. He sipped his beer, and then placed it back on the bar.
“There are strange things happening,” Donovan continued. “They are things that concern me and quite a few others as well. I’m looking for some information.”
“I don’t deal in information,” Windham replied, dropping his gaze. “I find things, you know that.”
Donovan nodded, despite the fact his suddenly reluctant companion was no longer looking at him.
“Yes, I know.” he said. “I also know that if someone wants something, you are one of their first choices for finding it. That’s why I’m here. There are a lot of things ending up — missing. Did you hear what happened at Johndrow’s party?”
Windham’s head swiveled snake-quick.
“I had nothing to do with that. I wouldn’t even have tried with Kline there, and I don’t do kidnapping.”
“I didn’t suggest that you did,” Donovan replied, taking another sip of his bourbon. “I’m not sure who was behind it, but the same person visited me, and now it’s personal.”
Windham watched Donovan carefully, but no longer seemed inclined to interrupt.
“Something of mine was taken,” Donovan continued, “and if my suspicions are correct, there will be more things taken before our thief has finished. I think I know what he’s after…what I’m trying to find out is if he’s tried to get you to find it for him.”
Windham held his silence. He had grown very still, and Donovan knew he was poised to defend himself, or run.
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