Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  Dominic gathered them in a huddle, and they went over the plan once more.

  Chapter 3

  The jail cell was barely big enough to fit the toilet, sink, and narrow cot that made up its only furniture. There wasn’t even a table on which Blake could place a book or his cough syrup. Thin yellow light filtered in through the bars, but only when someone in the office area actually had the light on. Otherwise, the space was completely dark. The cell had a tiny window high up that faced the wall of the next building over.

  The cells hadn’t been designed to drive men mad. They had simply never been meant for long sentences. Once upon a time, they had been holding cells for drunks and rowdy teenagers, only meant to sober them up for a few hours or a night. Things were different now. They expected Blake to live in this rat-infested hotbox for the next sixty days. He would spend most of that time meditating, though his body would certainly take a beating from dehydration and malnutrition—if the coughing didn’t kill him first.

  Midas Ford had left to get more cough syrup. Blake lay on the cot, curled in the fetal position, holding one fisted hand tightly against his lips. Each time he coughed, his body would shake and the pain from his lungs would shoot into the rest of him like cold fire ravaging his nervous system.

  Something bubbled deep inside his throat.

  “Wrath,” he managed to croak before leaping off the cot and stumbling to the sink.

  He coughed out tendrils of blood that looked black in the dim light. A mirror about the size of a paperback book hung above the sink, meant for shorter prisoners. Blake hunched to see his reflection. Blood coated his lips. His eyes were the color of tobacco-stained teeth, and his forehead gleamed with the same sticky sweat that coated the rest of his body.

  He extended a shivering hand to turn on the faucet. A threadlike stream of water came out, piped in from the rain-gathering tanks on top of the building. It did little to clear away the blood. When he glanced up at the mirror again, he noticed the markings on the wall behind him. One seemed oddly familiar, a dark, crooked stain about as thick as a child’s index finger.

  Turning to see better, Blake tripped over the leg of the cot and went toppling toward it. He managed to save himself at the last moment by grabbing one of the bars. He was off to a terrible start. Just terrible.

  Panting and coughing, he straightened his spine and approached the wall. A hundred different messages and drawings had been carved into the concrete bricks. Mostly profanities, professions of love, crude poems, and marks for counting the days. But the one he had noticed at first, the crooked stain, was actually blood someone had left there. It had turned black with age, and Blake noticed many other indications of blood that had either been splashed or imprinted by a hand or finger.

  The crooked stain reminded him of another one from many years ago. Only it had not been a bloodstain. It had been more deeply ingrained than that. Blake had seen it only once, on a day unlike any other, when Harris Kole had been feeling gregarious enough to invite Blake—back then, he’d been Major Blake—to a game of handball.

  “I need more exercise,” Kole said, dressed in a cotton shirt and sweatpants that made him look like a cartoon version of the One President from the posters. “Look at this gut.”

  With one hand, he squeezed a roll of fat around his midsection and grinned at Blake, who could only smile politely in response. They had never been friends. Kole wasn’t one to socialize outside of fancy political fundraisers where he was usually surrounded by sycophants. And Blake wasn’t one to socialize—period.

  “What?” Kole asked, tossing a rubber ball into the air and catching it. “Cat got your tongue, Louis? I’ll bet you one night with that sexy concubine you like so much that I’ll win at least two out of three.”

  He was referring to Claudia Cairne, the pretty woman with the pale skin that made her dark eyes and hair stand out even more, creating a quality that was almost vampiric. Blake didn’t know her, but he had made eye contact with her once, while she and the other concubines were being led in chains to their living quarters. It had been a long look, and that gaze had torn into him like hooks, drawing blood from a part of him he had always thought was impenetrable—and the pain had been terrible and haunting and delicious all at once.

  “No need for bets,” Blake said, feeling simultaneously repulsed and excited by the offer. He cracked a smile. “I’m here for the exercise, too—though you obviously need it more.”

  Kole took a step toward him—hesitantly and with obvious fascination—as if he couldn’t believe he was in the presence of that rare breed of citizen reckless enough to level an insult at the One President’s eldest son, the second most powerful man in the country. Blake wasn’t that stupid, but he had studied Harris Kole long enough to understand the man’s sense of humor. Kole liked being teased.

  “You got a set of balls on you, Major.” Kole’s face broke into an easy grin. He landed a hard slap on Blake’s shoulder. “I like that. You’re not a wimp like all those other yes men my father keeps promoting.”

  They began the game, Blake doing his best to keep up. He was much younger then, more agile and with a healthy set of lungs from a lifetime of avoiding cigarettes except for those few years in the infantry, when everyone smoked at least a pack a day. Yet he found it difficult to gain the upper hand—Kole was overweight, but he played with a determination to win that rivaled even his father’s famously ferocious passion for besting others.

  He won two out of three games, just as he had predicted. Blake hadn’t gone easy on him, either. The man was out of shape, but he drove himself hard.

  “Yes, the fucking is good for my heart, I think,” Kole said later, when they were drying themselves off in the locker room. “Nothing like a young, ripe concubine to keep a man’s blood running. Every time I go to the rooms, it’s like I’m walking into a candy store—except this candy’s good for me, you know what I mean? Sometimes, I’ll have two or three in one night.”

  “You know you’re not supposed to have sex with them,” Blake said.

  “I can do whatever I want. As long as they’re tranqed and I wear a sleeve, I’m fine. You, on the other hand…”

  “I know,” Blake said. “Death sentence if I do it.”

  “Unless I allow it.” Kole pointed a finger at him. “I see how you look at Claudia every time they get her up on that table. Every time they spread those legs of hers.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Blake said. “I always look away.”

  “Exactly. But you don’t with the others.”

  “I didn’t realize you were watching me,” Blake said, not entirely pleased.

  Kole grinned. “You’re in love.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Hey, I get it. She’s a feisty one. A lot of fun, too. I’ll tell you what, you beat me next game and I’ll let you have her for a night. I’ll even stand watch outside the door. It’ll be like we’re a couple of teenagers out past curfew. What do you say?”

  Blake thought about it. Would it be rape if the girl allowed him to do it? He remembered the way she had studied him. It meant nothing, of course—a look from a pretty girl didn’t give a man permission to take her body. And yet…

  “Only if she’s not tranqed,” Blake said. “She has to agree to let me.”

  The smile on Kole’s face fell away. “You’re insane. You know what that girl can do?”

  “I’m a telepath, too,” Blake said. “Did you forget what I do for a living? I train ment soldiers. I can handle her, trust me.”

  “Fine,” Kole said, extending his hand. “It’s a deal.”

  They shook on it.

  Turning to dress himself, Harris Kole yanked off his towel. It was then, for the first time, that Blake noticed the port-wine birthmark on the man’s abdomen. Thin, crooked, and about the size of a man’s thumb, it made him think of an archipelago he’d seen once on a map somewhere. Kole noticed the way Blake’s gaze lingered on it for half a second longer than normal.r />
  “Runs in the family,” he said, placing a finger on it. “Dad has one just like it.”

  “Sorry?” Blake said.

  “The birthmark. Unless you were looking at my cock just now. You weren’t looking at my cock, were you, Louis?”

  Both men broke into chuckles. Blake thought of that moment as the start of their friendship. It didn’t last. In less than a year, they would become bitter enemies.

  “Same time tomorrow,” Kole said. It wasn’t a request. “I expect you’ll finally play like a man.”

  “I just won’t let you win next time,” Blake said, smiling.

  Harris Kole’s laughter filled the locker room. The next morning, a courier handed Blake a telegram informing him of his promotion to “Director of Operations, Research & Development, Noogenesis Project.” In the experiments on battle telepathy, Blake was now the third most powerful contributor—second only to Harris Kole, who reported directly to his father. Kole had seen fit to promote his new friend, which wasn’t unusual in his father’s regime.

  Blake won that afternoon’s game of handball.

  When it came time to have sex with Claudia Cairne, the cameras shut off in her tiny room and Harris Kole standing guard outside like he had promised, Louis Blake made the decision that would change his life.

  Keeping his cock in his pants, he chose to have a conversation with Claudia instead.

  He chose to listen.

  Chapter 4

  In all of Praetoria, Roman was more than a chieftain—he was a king.

  The man was fat beyond any reasonable standard, even for a ruler who did little more than order people around. He sat back against a plush red sofa, his belly as expansive as a pile of bread dough rising in an oven, in a building that had once been a natural history museum. The display cases were empty, and there were still dark spots where ancient artifacts had once sat. In the corner hung the giant artificial skull of a T-Rex that had been too big and worthless for raiders and scavengers to steal. Roman, who had liked it so much because of the power and hunger it stood for, had ordered his slaves to hang it from the ceiling, tilted back as if the creature was about to swallow the entire room.

  He stared at it now as he chewed on a piece of meat from a platter one of his slaves had brought him. Dressed in a skimpy robe, his grotesquely obese arms, legs, and head were all shaved clean of any hair. The man hated hair, even his own; he saw it as beastly and unsanitary. Massive folds of flesh hung from his chin. He resembled an oversized baby in most ways, except for the features of his face, which were small and angry. And when he spoke, it was with the nasally voice of a much smaller and weaker man.

  “Dietrich, play me a song—the one I like about being bad.”

  Dietrich Werner lay across an old chaise lounge in the center of the room, an unconscious whore draped over him. He nodded once and closed his eyes, then extended his telepathic reach toward the chieftain and concentrated all of his mental energies on reproducing Michael Jackson’s “I’m Bad.” He could sense Roman’s giddiness, hear him snapping his fingers and mimicking Jackson’s occasional oooh sounds. Dietrich’s memory of the song was accurate, as they always were. He had a gift for this sort of thing.

  When the song ended, Dietrich inhaled sharply and opened his eyes. He watched his boss sigh with pleasure, body appearing to shiver and quake in the light of the fire. The room was mostly dark, except where Roman’s bodyguards stood around fires crackling inside metal bins, and, of course, the massive indoor bonfire meant to keep Roman warm.

  The prostitute draped over Dietrich was a dancer who called herself “Cherry Life” on stage. She had passed out almost naked on top of him after shooting a dose of high-grade Seraphim into her veins. Three other advisers from Roman’s cabinet were sprawled on couches and armchairs, kissing and fondling slave girls and drinking whiskey. Dietrich slid his gaze over them. Was he becoming like these men? Passive, stupid, and easily satisfied by whores, drugs, and violence?

  He prayed not. This gig wasn’t so bad, though, and he wanted to keep it a bit longer. But Harris Kole was a man who expected results. If he didn’t get them soon, Dietrich Werner might as well escape into the radioactive ruins of Old New York and stay in hiding the rest of his life. It would be a lot safer to fend off mutants and cannibals than have Kole’s men hunting him. At least, that was what people said.

  That reminded him of something.

  With a soft grunt, he pushed the slave girl off him and watched her land with a slap-thump, arms and legs flopping. Roman saw this and burst out in giggles. The motion made his fat, pockmarked face jiggle.

  “Gotta take a leak,” Dietrich said, stretching and making his way toward the rear door.

  “Make it quick,” Roman said. “I want to hear another song when you get back.”

  Dietrich yawned as the effects of the drug began to wear off. He didn’t go for Seraphim, despite the calm euphoria it induced. He preferred Vitrex instead, a stimulant that made him want to dance on the surface of the sun. He didn’t feel that way now. Instead, he felt like crushing someone’s rib cage with a sledgehammer, a typical withdrawal effect.

  Dietrich Werner was not a tall man, though he wasn’t short either. In fact, anything said about his physical description was less a fact and more a matter of opinion. It was hard to pin anything down. His hair—kept short and neatly parted along one side—was wavy at the tips, though some might have said it was completely straight. His eyes were gray, though at a glance, one might have thought they were blue or green. His olive skin hid its color behind a waxy pallor, which, seen together with the dark bags under his eyes from the Vitrex, made him seem mildly ill at all times. He liked to think he would never stand out in a crowd—a survival advantage for someone in his line of work.

  He was also a Type II telepath, one of very few.

  “Because I’m bad,” he sang, unzipping his fly as he emerged from the building into the freshness of a clear night. Three guards wearing leather armor acknowledged him with nods. “Out for a piss, boys. Here.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small bag containing a chalky brown powder, and tossed it over, the last of his Vitrex for the night. There was always more where it had come from. “Enjoy.”

  A guard caught it, inspected it, and shot Dietrich a wide grin. The guards turned away to better see their prize in the streetlight, and Dietrich took the opportunity to slide through an alleyway between two crumbling apartment buildings mostly used by squatters. A rope ladder hung down one side, and he had to feel around for it in the dark. After doing a quick telepathic scan to make sure he hadn’t been followed, he began to climb.

  The effort left him out of breath. He was thirty-seven, not a young man by any standard, but still, his physical frailty bothered him, as it had since he was a child. The other kids had picked on him, calling him “Tiny Deets,” and he still remembered it on a daily basis—still had the violent fantasies almost every day where he—Tiny Deets—was on top of one or more of those boys, driving his tiny fists into their ridiculous faces over and over again, making bloody messes.

  When he got to the roof, he stared over Praetoria, at its bonfires and wild gatherings in the streets. Days in this ruined city were taxing, even with the slaves doing all the hard work, and people made up for it by partying all night, drinking and consuming drugs that made Vitrex look like instant coffee. At night, the city always appeared as if it were being sacked by barbarians, complete with the cacophony of bottles breaking, rifles discharging, and motorcycles growling. Dietrich hated it. He wanted to be back home, back in New Sancta, sipping martinis with the other FSD agents.

  The transmitter was well hidden. He had to push aside a pile of trash to expose the plastic tarp that kept the device dry during the occasional rainstorm. It was a sophisticated machine unlike anything he’d ever seen east of the Line, and as valuable as a dozen slaves, maybe more if one could find the right buyer.

  Green light washed over his face as the touch screen lit up. After he tapped in his
identification number, he picked up the receiver. Not a whole lot different from a telephone, except it used a satellite to bounce its signal home. The receiver was cold and greasy against his ear. It smelled like human shit.

  He heard static, followed by a series of clicks. At the right moment, he tapped five times on a red circle in the corner of the screen. He waited a full minute before a man’s voice came in over the receiver.

  “Bronze Eagle, confirm.”

  “This is Bronze Eagle, reporting at one”—he glanced at his watch—“forty-three, mountain time. Night four hundred and twenty-seven working undercover for Roman Sellatius in Praetoria. Current operational status same as last week’s report. No changes in military strength or numbers. Still no word on Louis Blake or any other targets on our list.”

  He took a deep breath, exhaled, then added, “Over and out,” before putting down the receiver and ending the transmission.

  The words Call Ended blinked three times before the screen went dark and the machine turned off with a fading hum. He caught the faint smell of chemicals. This little device would explode if the wrong person tampered with it. An added bonus.

  He spread the tarp over the transmitter before covering it back up with trash, then sat for a minute to think. There was a lot on his mind these days. That blubbery piece of shit, Roman, wanted to expand his reach into the mountains, despite his lack of manpower and resources. He was becoming increasingly frustrated, and Dietrich, his right-hand man and the only Type II telepath in Roman’s regime, was stuck in the middle of the shit storm. Dealing with the man’s war council was in itself a full-time job, since they were all a bunch of jackals who mainly wanted war so they could capture and enslave—and rape, of course—the enemies’ women.