No. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“See you tomorrow, then,” Nuri said. The line died as he hung up.
Stefan slowly rested the handset back into the cradle and resumed cleaning his desk. There were notes and speculations he didn’t wish to leave in the office while he was gone.
5
Monday, August 14
FDR was in town to visit the Great Lakes Exposition. As usual, the president was followed into town by dozens of aides, officials, and other political types. As usual, when such people came to town, Carlo Pasquale waited in a limousine. A few of FDR’s entourage would be meeting the Master tonight.
Despite accusations of being a class traitor, members of FDR’s administration weren’t averse to meeting with wealthy businessmen. Carlo thought it was almost amusing.
He waited outside the Exposition, far back from the rear of the motorcade. He watched the uniformed police controlling the swelling crowds and waited for his guests. Cops used to make him nervous. Even before, when he was working for the Mayfield Road Gang and two-thirds of the cops were bought off, cops had made him nervous.
Not since he started serving the Master. The Master’s protection went far beyond anything his old bosses could manage. No one could mess with him; he was invulnerable. The Master saw what he saw, and those who saw Carlo saw a piece of the Master. Carlo saw it in the way people turned away when he looked at them.
His old employer had tried to bump him off several times. Each time the Master had seen it, and the assassins were as dead as those who tried to kill the Master—except for those the Master chose to serve Him, as Carlo did. The Master was very persuasive.
Carlo watched the evening sky and wondered how many more sunsets he would see.
Carlo pushed away the thought. The Master needed service in the daylight as well as at night. It was his honor to remain human. If the Master would grant him eternal life, He would in his own time. It was best for him not to think about that.
Carlo turned and studied a sign for the Aquacade at the exposition.
It was after dark when Carlo Pasquale delivered his passengers to the Union Terminal Tower. They were going to meet the Master in one of the offices he held in the building. The Master had just come from Chicago. Carlo heard that He had dealt with a legal problem.
Carlo smiled. He knew that all the Master needed to solve any legal problem was talk to the DA. Money didn’t even have to change hands. The Master could convince.
Carlo waited outside, leaning against the fender of the limo, taking drags on a cigarette. He felt good, as if he had found his purpose in life.
Behind him, through Public Square, transit cars rattled by. Carlo listened to the sound of the electric trolleys as he watched his smoke curl up into the darkened sky. He was watching the smoke spread in the windless air when he felt something stab him in the back of his neck.
He tensed up and dropped the cigarette, more in surprise than in pain. It fell against his leg, burning a hole in his trousers and searing his leg. He sprang away from the car, slapping at his burned leg and simultaneously turning to see what had stabbed him.
His move was way too awkward, and as he turned, his leg slipped from under him. He slammed into the sidewalk, but he didn’t really feel it. His body felt wrapped in cotton. His vision blurred as he tried to look up. All he could make out was a darkened shadow leaning over him.
His last thought, as he lost consciousness was, Master ...
Carlo Pasquale woke up hearing a babbling chorus of shrieks and smelling the rankest odor he had ever encountered. The sound was like the entrance to the gates of hell. The smell was old blood that had gone sour. He had smelled it before, and for a few panicked moments he thought that he had offended the Master and was to be executed like an enemy.
Then he opened his eyes and faced a light shining down on him. It was too bright for him to see anything except what was immediately next to him. He was on a concrete floor, stained and tacky with blood. Also, Carlo noticed with a sense of disorientation, the floor was dotted with feathers. After blinking a few times, he noticed cages just outside his field of vision. Tiny cages, coated with feathers and manure.
The horrid sound was the cackling of chickens, thousands of them outside the area he could see.
He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t move. He was weighted and bound with chains, too much for him even to lift, much less escape.
Beyond the light, a voice spoke above the sound of the imprisoned birds. “Are you awake, Carlo Pasquale?”
Carlo yelled at the voice, “You’re making a hell of a mistake. I got protection.”
“I know. That is why you’re here.”
“Mr. Dietrich is going to find you—”
“No, he isn’t.” The voice was much too calm. “Your master can’t save you.”
Carlo was about to shout something more, but he stopped when he realized that the voice had said “master.” That was a secret. No one was supposed to know that he had fed from the Master. No one should know that He was the Master.
The voice moved in a circle around him, but he couldn’t see the speaker, or hear the footsteps over the din. “Your master is bound through you, can see what you see, but what do you see? What do you hear? What do you smell? This place is so rank with sensation that even someone as powerful as Melchior will not be able to pick you out of it before I’ve had what I want.”
When the voice said “Melchior,” Carlo shuddered. Others weren’t supposed to know the Master’s true name. He struggled and began to feel the first stirrings of fear, the first sense that he might not be fully protected.
“You can’t do this,” Carlo yelled. “He won’t permit it.”
The voice laughed. “I’d admire your faith, if it wasn’t Melchior’s blood talking through you. You’re less than a thrall, less than human even, a debased thing, a perversion.”
“I work for Dietrich, and he’ll—”
Something splashed across his legs from the shadows. The smell of gasoline watered his eyes. His voice caught in his throat, choking on the fumes. The cacophony of poultry redoubled in volume. Carlo began a renewed struggle against his bonds.
The voice spoke again, as another splash of liquid fell against Carlo’s chest.
“Melchior fed you just enough of his blood to bind your will to his. Not even enough to pull you into our world had you died.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
More gasoline splashed into his face, burning his eyes and searing his lips. He maniacally shook his head from side to side, fighting the pain. He had to hold his breath against the smell.
“Melchior is one of the blood, Carlo. A demon out of your mythology. A vampire. His blood contains the seed of his nature, his will. A little, and you become a willing extension of his will. Enough will pull you across the threshold of death, make you a thrall, an extension of his body, of his unlife, bound to him until his destruction.” The voice stopped circling, stopping at Carlo’s head. The speaker bent forward. Carlo strained to see the man’s face, but even when he leaned into the light, Carlo’s burning eyes couldn’t make out more than a blur.
He wanted to call out, deny what the man was saying, but something held him silent—more than the choking fumes that kept his breath from him. Something in the core of his being was frozen at the presence of this anonymous being. Something fearful that bound his will like a vise. It was terrifyingly similar to what he felt in the presence of his Master....
“Those of the blood have few weaknesses, Carlo. Sunlight can kill the flesh of all but the most powerful. Dismemberment is Melchior’s favored method of assassination. Then there’s immolation of the flesh.” Carlo felt a hand brush his cheek. He felt a leather glove leave a trail on his wet cheek. The touch felt like a brand against icelike skin. Carlo began shivering. Inside, his body felt frozen. It had been several long minutes, and he still wasn’t breathing.
What’s happened to me?
“Your master promised you li
fe after death....”
Somehow his voice managed to find itself. “No,” he whispered, tasting gasoline along with his own stale breath. Even through the fumes, Carlo began to realize that the smell of blood came from him as much as anywhere else. His breath was like cold carrion, and tasted like sour iron through the gasoline.
“I needed you to talk, Carlo. To talk against the creature that bound you. The only way to do that was to take you as my own. You’re mine as much as his now. My thrall. My flesh.”
“But what ...”
“Look at me!”
Carlo could do nothing but obey the command. His eyes opened, despite the burning. Despite the streaming tears. He looked up into a golden mask. The mask was twisted and frowning, covering the whole face except for the eyes. Those eyes stared into his own with a burning pressure that made him forget the sting of gasoline.
The other gloved hand laid itself on Carlo’s other cheek. Both hands clamped down with a pressure as heavy as the chains across his chest and legs. His head was held immobile.
“I see into you, Carlo Pasquale. You will remember everything of Melchior that you saw or heard. His actions, his plans, where he keeps his allies. You will remember, and you will speak them to me.”
Carlo felt Melchior draining away inside him in the presence of this new Master. He opened his mouth and spoke, despite the part of him that was terrified of doing so. He spoke, and he couldn’t tell if he used more his voice or his mind. It seemed days he spoke, everything falling up into that frowning golden mask.
After he had said everything, the hands let go, and his head fell exhausted to the ground. It was over. Carlo began to recover a little. It was just another change of bosses, after all. He had gone through it once, he could go through it again. Hell, this guy, mister anonymous, had pulled him all the way over. Which was more than Melchior did.
He really was invulnerable now, he couldn’t die....
Carlo screwed up his courage and said, “Okay, you’ve got everything, boss. Can you let me go now?”
Carlo realized that he could sense, somewhat, what his boss was feeling. The emotion seemed to roll off of him like an invisible cloud-bank. The feeling Carlo got wasn’t reassuring. It seemed like pity.
The masked man stood and reached into the pocket of his dark overalls. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I cannot allow Melchior to discover my blood within you. If he finds that, he can find me.”
“Look, I won’t roll over on you,” Carlo’s voice took on a pleading tone. “Hell I don’t even know who you are.”
“I’m afraid you never will.” The masked man pulled out a book of matches.
Carlo Pasquale burned.
When Carlo’s burning corpse stopped trying to move, Iago removed the mask of Tragedy and tossed it into the fire, followed by his gloves. The air was rank, with thick tarlike smoke, and the surrounding poultry were deafening with their objections.
Iago couldn’t breathe comfortably, but he stayed to watch Carlo reduced to ash. He didn’t watch with any enjoyment. If it had been possible for Carlo to live, as thrall or as owner of his own blood, Iago would have preferred it.
But Melchior had claimed this one as his own, and that meant that Melchior would find him, eventually. It would be simple for Melchior to sense an elder’s blood in another, and sense whose. It would be simple even if Carlo had been slain in a less complete manner. Iago could not leave any trace of himself behind, otherwise there would be little chance for him. The fate of the Council told him that much.
All Iago had was anonymity. Even if Melchior sensed what happened to his puppet, all he would have was a forest of impressions impossible to pin down, a masked figure draining Carlo of his secrets.
Iago stared at the charred black flesh as the flames died down. He wished Carlo had known more for the price he paid. For the price Iago paid. The slaughter he had just committed, taking what another had claimed, and bringing him over only to kill him. It savaged the Covenant as badly as Melchior did.
Those of the blood do not kill those of the blood....
6
Tuesday, September 8
Stefan Ryzard stared at the ceiling of his apartment, trying to sleep. Moonlight washed through the bedroom, giving everything a pale blue glow. In the shadows, barely visible, pictures still clung to the walls. Stefan had not taken down any of the remnants of his long investigation into Dietrich. The walls were still covered by papers, surveillance photos, and forensic details of the mutilated corpses.
His part was over. It was no longer his problem. He kept telling himself that. Despite that, he didn’t take the papers off of his wall. He couldn’t stop thinking of Dietrich.
The fact that Dietrich existed was an ache inside him. The more Stefan thought about him, the more he became convinced that Dietrich was the devil that Samson Fairfax had told him about, the devil that Edward Mullen couldn’t lie for anymore.
Whoever investigated Dietrich, Stefan knew that they’d find little more than he had. No direct connection to the murders. Perhaps they’d see signs of the supernatural that no one else would credit. Surveillance would be useless, and Stefan expected anyone who got too close to Dietrich would disappear like those mob assassins.
He lay naked on sweat-stained sheets, trying not to think of what was happening out there. It wasn’t his business anymore....
A shadow passed over his bedroom window, wiping away the moonlight, plunging the room into darkness. Stefan bolted upright, his heart racing. Before he could make out what had passed in front of his window, it was gone.
Still, Stefan sat up on his bed, the copper taste of fear searing his mouth. The window was open to the night air, and next to the window a picture of Edward Andrassy’s decapitated body fluttered in the breeze.
In a few minutes, his breathing and his pulse returned to normal. He slipped off the bed and walked over to the window. He closed it, throwing the latch.
Even with the window closed, there was still a chill in the room.
“Greetings, Detective Ryzard.”
The voice came from behind him, and Stefan spun around to face it. Standing in his bedroom, in front of the only door, stood Iago. His overalls were black in the moonlight. He looked paler, gaunter than he had seemed the last time Stefan had seen him.
“What do you want?” Stefan whispered. He didn’t ask how he had gotten in. If Iago was the same kind of being as Dietrich, it seemed that they had a talent for not being seen when they didn’t want to be seen.
“I want an end to Eric Dietrich.”
Stefan shook his head. “You’re too late, I’m off that case.”
“Look at your own walls,” Iago said, his eyes boring into him.
Stefan couldn’t answer that. He wasn’t actively investigating Dietrich, or the murders. He didn’t interview anyone. He didn’t watch the suspects....
But the case still obsessed him. Dietrich still gripped his thoughts. Stefan still felt the cold overpowering presence of the devil named Eric Dietrich. It was as if, having touched him, Stefan had tainted his own soul.
“Why are you here?” Stefan said. His breath was dry and tasted like copper.
“I need an ally, policeman.”
Stefan felt the force of Iago’s will spilling over, overwhelming his own. He prayed to God for strength, and found enough to take a step backward. “Why should I help you?” his voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “Why should I help any of your kind?”
Iago took a step forward. The moonlight splashed across his face, carving shadows across his pale skin, making him look like a marble bust of the Devil himself. He ran his hand over his beard. “You know me so well that you know what I am?”
Stefan backed to the wall, the wall that bore a crucifix. “An undead thing,” Stefan said. “A damned soul. A creature of Satan.”
Iago laughed, but he stopped advancing. “You’ve decided, then, haven’t you? We’re Vampyr, Nosferatu, Dwellers of the Darkness.” Iago released his beard an
d bowed with a flourish. His eyes, however, remained on Stefan’s own.
“I won’t help any servant of evil,” Stefan said. He wanted to cower, he felt his knees wanting to bend, but he held his back straight to the wall. Thumbtacks dug into his backside, where he had posted pages on Dietrich and the murders. He didn’t move. He held his spot under the cross, fearing that any more movement might lead to collapse.
“Am I evil, then?” Iago said. “This your Bible says?”
“You feast on the living.”
“Didn’t your savior say to drink of his blood? Eat of his flesh?”
Stefan’s stomach tightened at the blasphemy. He straightened and said, “In the name of God and Jesus Christ, I command you to leave me.”
Iago actually took a step back. “You should listen to me, policeman.”
The retreat emboldened Stefan. He stepped away from the wall and reached for the crucifix. “In the name of the Lord—”
Iago hissed at him. His face retreated into shadow, but Stefan thought he could see parts of it, bone and skin, move and distort. Iago’s voice lowered from the cultured tone it usually took, and became closer to a growl. “What Christian charity is this?”
Stefan took a step forward, holding the crucifix.
Iago slunk backward. He spat like a cat, his body hunched over and twisted, completely in shadow now. He pointed at Stefan, his finger reached into the moonlight. It had changed, becoming a twisted thing that was almost a talon. “You make a mistake.” The voice was harsh now, barely human. “You might pain me, but your faith in that stick will be as nothing to Melchior. He is your enemy.”
“Begone, fiend of Satan, in the name of the Lord, Jesus Christ.” Stefan took another step forward.
Iago shrieked and leaped. Stefan stumbled backward, but the leap didn’t carry Iago toward him. Instead, Iago leaped at the bedroom window. The manic dive carried him back into the moonlight, and gave Stefan a single terrified glimpse of what he’d become before he slammed through the window.
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