“Yamada-san, I am in your debt,” he said. “I-I trust Lady Kuzunoha was not . . . difficult?”
From my kneeling position, I touched my forehead to the floor. “That relates to a matter I need to speak of. Lady Kuzunoha was quite reluctant, as you can imagine, but I was impertinent enough to acquire the assistance of Lady Akiko in this. They spoke, mother to mother, and Lady Akiko persuaded her.”
“I see.”
I could tell that he didn’t see at all, but the die was already cast. I produced the scroll Lady Kuzunoha had supplied. “Lady Akiko told me of the . . . differences, between your wife and herself. That her intense desire to protect the family’s name had perhaps blinded her to Lady Kuzunoha’s virtues. To atone for this—and other burdens—she has decided to renounce the world and join a temple as a nun. She also sent a personal message to you.”
Lord Abe was a Gentleman of the Court, whatever else he might be. He concealed his shock and surprise very well. He took the scroll I offered and unrolled it in silence. He remained intent on what was written there for several moments longer than would have been required to actually read the words. I tried not to hold my breath.
“My mother’s script,” he said, almost to himself. “Perfect.” He looked down at me, his expression unreadable. “I don’t suppose my mother revealed to you which temple she had chosen to join?”
I bowed again. “She did not so confide in me, my lord, though I had the impression it was quite far from here. She seemed to feel that was for the best. She hoped you would understand.”
He grunted. “Perhaps she is right about both. Well, then, Yamada-san. I’ve lost both my wife and my mother, but I have not yet lost all. It seems I must be content with that.”
I breathed a little easier once I’d been paid and was safely off the grounds. I wasn’t sure how much of my story Lord Abe really believed, but if he didn’t realize full well that Lady Kuzunoha had written that message, I’m no judge of men. Perhaps that was another choice he made. As for myself, I chose to be elsewhere for a good long time. Hokkaido sounded best; I’d heard that it’s very sparsely populated and only a little frozen at this time of the year. But first I went to meet Kenji by the Demon Gate, since I’d given my word and now I owed him a drink.
I owed myself several more.
Richard Parks has been writing and publishing science fiction and fantasy longer than he cares to remember. His work has appeared in (among many others) Asimov’s, Realms of Fantasy, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and several “year’s best” anthologies. A Yamada novel, To Break the Demon Gate, is scheduled for release this year. A collection of Yamada stories, Yamada Monogatari: Demon Hunter was published earlier this year. He blogs at “Den of Ego and Iniquity Annex #3” (www.richard-parks.com).
The Case: A voluntary human “blood donor” is found murdered in the kitchen of a vampire mansion during festivities celebrating the ascension of a new vampire leader.
The Investigators: Dahlia Lynley-Chivers—a savvy, sexy, centuries-old vampire—and Matsudo Katamori, vampire and former police officer.
DEATH BY DAHLIA
Charlaine Harris
Dahlia Lynley-Chivers had been a woman of average height in her day. Her day had been over for centuries, and in modern America she was considered a very short woman indeed. Since Dahlia was a vampire, and was reputed to be a vicious fighter even among her own kind, she was usually treated with respect despite her lack of inches and her dainty build.
“You got a face like a rose,” said her prospective blood donor, a handsome, husky, human in his twenties. “Here, little lady, let me squat down so you can reach me! You want me to get you a stool to stand on?” He laughed, definitely in the hardy-har-har mode.
If he hadn’t preceded his “amusing” comment on Dahlia’s height with a compliment, she would have broken his ribs and drained him dry; but Dahlia was fond of compliments. He did have to bear some consequence for the condescension, though.
Dahlia gave the young man a look of such ferocity that he blanched almost as white as Dahlia herself. Then she stepped pointedly to her left to approach the next unoccupied donor, a blond suburbanite not too much taller than Dahlia. The woman opened her arms to embrace the vampire, as if this were an assignation rather than a feeding. Dahlia would have sighed if she’d been a breather.
However, Dahlia was hungry, and she’d already been picky enough. This woman’s neck was at the right height, and she was absolutely willing, since she’d registered with the donor agency. Dahlia bit. The woman jerked as Dahlia’s fangs went in, so Dahlia considerately licked a little on the wound to anesthetize the area. She sucked hard, and the woman jerked in an entirely different way. Dahlia was a polite feeder, for the most part.
The blonde’s arms squeezed Dahlia with surprising force, and she gripped a handful of Dahlia’s thick, wavy, dark hair, which fell in a cascade reaching almost to Dahlia’s waist. The blonde pulled Dahlia’s hair a little, but she wasn’t trying to pull Dahlia off . . . not at all.
At Dahlia’s age, she didn’t need to drink much at a sitting (or perhaps at a biting would be a more appropriate term). After a few pleasurable gulps, the vampire had had enough. Dahlia didn’t want to be greedy, and she’d taken such a small amount that it would be safe for the woman to donate again on the spot.
Dahlia gave a final lick, and when the air hit the licked puncture marks, her natural coagulant set to work almost instantly. The blond woman seemed disappointed that the encounter was over and actually tried to hold on to Dahlia. With a stiff smile, Dahlia removed herself with a little more decision. The donor turned to the next vampire in line, who was Cedric. She would have to be stopped after that; most people who enjoyed being bitten enough to be listed with the donor agency simply weren’t smart about when to stop.
“You could be a little nicer,” Dahlia’s best friend Taffy said reprovingly. “Would it have hurt to you tell the breather how good she was?” Dahlia would have ignored anyone else who ventured to give her advice on her manners, but Taffy was within two hundred years of being as old as Dahlia. They were the oldest vampires in the nest, and their friendship had survived many trials.
Taffy had been practically Amazonian during her lifetime, and she remained an impressive woman even now. Five foot seven and busty, Taffy’s light hair exploded in a tangled halo around her head and fell past her shoulders. Taffy’s husband Don was one of the trials they’d survived, and it was due to Don’s preference that Taffy went heavy on the makeup and tight on the clothes. Don thought that was a mighty fine look on Taffy.
Of course, Don was a werewolf. His taste was dubious, at best.
Taffy waved at Don, who was over by the food table. Werewolves were always hungry, and they could drink alcohol until the cows came home—and then the Weres would eat them. A party with an open bar and a buffet was like heaven to Don and his new enforcer, Bernie. The two Weres were making the most of the opportunity, since politics demanded they be in the vampire nest for Joaquin’s ascension celebration.
Dahlia noticed Don and Bernie casting contemptuous glances at the group of blood donors. Werewolves thought humans who were willing to give blood to vampires were from the bottom of the barrel. Any self-respecting Were would rather have his fur shaved off. Dahlia was sure Don didn’t mind giving Taffy a sip in private . . . at least she hoped that was the case. During Dahlia’s own brief marriage to the previous enforcer, her husband had not been averse to a little nip.
The demons and half-demons huddled together in a corner, and just after a very skinny female said something, they all burst into laughter. Dahlia looked for one half-demon computer geek she knew better than the others. With a frisson of pleasure, she spotted Melponeus’s reddish skin and chestnut curls in the cluster. Their eyes met. The half-demon and Dahlia exchanged personal smiles. They had had some memorable evenings together in Dahlia’s bedroom on the lower level of the mansion. The glitter in Melponeus’s pale eyes told Dahlia that the demon wouldn’t mind a r
eplay.
She might retrieve some pleasure from this dismal evening, after all.
A few creatures Dahlia didn’t recognize were scattered through the crowd. No fairies, of course; vampires loved fairies to death, literally. But there were other creatures of the fae present, and a witch. Joaquin had a reputation as a liberal, and he’d made up the party list and presented it to Lakeisha, who’d retained her post as the executive assistant to the sheriff despite the change in regimes. Lakeisha had sniffed at some of the inclusions, but she had obeyed without a verbal comment. All the vampires were walking softly and carefully until they learned their new leader’s character. Since he’d lived on his own, not in the nest, until his appointment as sheriff, Joaquin was a largely unknown element.
As Taffy took Dahlia’s arm to steer her over to the buffet to join Don, Dahlia said, “I’m not enjoying myself, though I ought to be.”
“Why not?” Taffy asked. “The humans will be gone soon, and we can be ourselves. It’s not like we haven’t seen this coming. Cedric has been getting more and more set in his ways. He’s lazy. He’s sloppy. A waistcoat every day. So dated! He can’t even pretend to belong to this century.”
Like all successful vampires, Dahlia knew the key to surviving for centuries was adaptation. And the most conspicuous adaptation was following the trend in clothes and language. This had been essential when vampires existed in secret, so they could blend in with a crowd long enough to cut out their prey. Vampires were an increasingly familiar presence in business and politics, but they found society still accepted them more easily if they mimicked modern Americans. It was true, too, that old habits died hard. It had only been six years since the undead had “come out,” and to vampires that was less than the blink of an eye.
“I did see that Cedric would have to be replaced,” Dahlia said. “I don’t know Joaquin well, and maybe I’m worried about how he will rule, and how living in the nest will be with him in residence. At least he had a very conventional ascension.”
“It couldn’t have been more standard,” Taffy agreed. “And soon the guests will be gone and we can amuse ourselves. I’m pleased with Joaquin’s first steps. The mansion is looking beautiful, more beautiful than it did for my wedding.” Taffy tapped the newly polished wooden floor with the toe of her boot. The reception room, which was large and full of dark leather furniture and scattered rugs, was at the back of the mansion and looked out onto the garden. Taffy had gotten married in that garden one memorable night. Though the night was chilly the fountain was splashing away in the dimly lit courtyard outside the French doors. The lights didn’t need to be bright; vampires have excellent night vision.
Dahlia was proud that the mansion, which housed the vampire nest of Rhodes and was the area headquarters for all vampires, was polished and sparkling, clean and newly redecorated. However, Dahlia’s pride had a certain nostalgic tinge. Though for decades they’d all tried to prod the old sheriff, Cedric, into installing new carpet and modernizing the bathrooms, she found that she missed the old fixtures. And she missed the former sheriff, too. Maybe he counted as an old fixture.
“I’m going to talk to Cedric,” she said.
“Not the smartest move, homes,” Taffy cautioned. Taffy always tried to use current slang, though sometimes she got it wrong or was off by five years . . . or ten.
“I know,” Dahlia said. The new sheriff, Joaquin, was certainly keeping an eye open to see who approached Cedric; but Dahlia was not afraid of Joaquin, though she did regard him with a certain respect for his devious ways. The ousting of Cedric had been handled with a sort of ruthless finesse. Cedric, sunk into what he thought would always be his cushy job, had been foolishly complacent and unaware. “I’ll join you later,” she told Taffy. “Though I may stop to have a word with Melponeus, too.”
“Playing with fire,” Taffy said, grinning broadly.
“Yes, we did that last time.” Even half-demons could produce fireballs. The memory caused Dahlia to have her own tight smile on her lips as she approached the former sheriff.
“Cedric,” she said, inclining her head very slightly. Even Dahlia didn’t care to provoke Joaquin by appearing to offer Cedric obeisance.
“Dahlia,” he said, his voice laden with melancholy. “See how the peacock preens?”
Joaquin, in the center of a cluster of other vampires, was dressed to kill. Obviously Joaquin felt like the king of the world on his ascension night. In his thin, dark, hand he held a goblet of Royalty (a blend of the blood of various European royals, who could keep their crumbling castles open with the money they made by tapping into their own veins). His favorite artiste, Jennifer Lopez, was playing in the background. He was wearing a very sharp dark gray suit with a pale gray silk shirt, and in his crimson tie was an antique pearl stickpin. Fawning all over Joaquin was Glenda, a flapper-era vamp who had never been Dahlia’s favorite nest sister.
“You could use a little preening, Cedric,” she observed. Cedric was wearing fawn-colored pants and a white linen shirt with a flowered waistcoat, his favorite ensemble. He had many near-duplicates of all three pieces hanging in his closet.
Cedric ignored her comment. “Glenda looks good,” he said. In the past Glenda had slipped into Cedric’s bedroom from time to time, more to keep the sheriff sweet than from any great affection. Dahlia had often seen the two clipping roses in the mansion garden at night. They’d both been ardent rose growers in life—or at least, Glenda said she had been.
Glenda, who was no more than ninety, did actually look very tempting this evening in a thin blue silk slip dress with absolutely nothing underneath. She was smoothing Joaquin’s shirt with the air of someone who knew what was underneath the silk. Dahlia harbored a certain appreciation for Glenda’s cleverness.
“You know she’s trash,” Dahlia told Cedric.
“But such delicious trash.” After tossing his head to get his long pale hair out of his way, Cedric took a pull on his bottle of Red Stuff, a cheap brand of the synthetic blood vampires drank so they could pretend they didn’t crave or require the real thing. This was sheer affectation; Dahlia had watched Cedric approach a donor.
Red Stuff was a far cry from Royalty in a crystal goblet. Cedric’s mustache drooped, and even the golden flowers and vines in the pattern on his waistcoat looked withered.
Having served their purpose, the human donors were being ushered out of the large reception room by a smiling young vampire. They’d be taken to the kitchen and fed a snack, allowed to recover from their “donation,” and returned to their collection point. This had been found to be the most efficient method of dealing with the humans the agency sent. If they weren’t shepherded every step of the way, these humans showed a distressing tendency to want to hide in the mansion so they could donate again and again. Some vampires weren’t strong-willed enough to resist, and then . . . dead donors and unwelcome attention from the police followed.
The only donor left in the room was the young man who’d irritated Dahlia. He seemed to be in the process of irritating Don, Taffy’s husband, packmaster of Rhodes. That proved his stupidity. Dahlia turned back to Cedric.
“Will you stay in the nest?” Dahlia asked. She was genuinely curious. If she’d found herself in Cedric’s position, she would have packed her bags the second the king chose Joaquin.
“I’ll find an apartment elsewhere, sooner or later,” Cedric said indifferently, and Dahlia thought that this perfectly illustrated Cedric’s drawbacks as a leader.
Though he’d been a dynamic sheriff in his heyday, Cedric had gradually become slow . . . and that was the nicest way to put it. This indolence and complacency, creeping into Cedric’s rulings and decisions over the decades, had been his downfall. It was no surprise to anyone but Cedric that he’d been challenged and ousted. To the newer vamps, the only surprise was that Cedric had ever been named to the position in the first place.
“The situation won’t change,” Dahlia said. Cedric would make himself a figure of fun if he gloomed around
the mansion during Joaquin’s reign. “I’m sure you’ve saved money during your time in office,” she added, by way of encouragement. After all, all the vampires who lived in the nest contributed to their sheriff’s bank account, and so did the other vampires of Rhodes who chose to live on their own.
“Not as much as you would think,” Cedric said, and Dahlia could not restrain a tiny gesture of irritation. Her sympathy with the ex-sheriff was exhausted. She excused herself. “Melponeus has asked to speak to me,” she lied.
Cedric waved a dismissive hand with a ghost of his former graciousness.
While Dahlia strode across the carpet to the cluster of demons, not the least hampered by her very high heels, she glanced back to see Cedric open the door to the hall leading to the kitchen. He stepped through at the same time as Taffy and Don. Glenda called, “Taffy!” and passed through after them.
Then Dahlia stopped in front of Melponeus, his fellow demons clearing the way for her with alacrity. Though Dahlia was a straightforward woman by nature, she was also incredibly conscious of her own dignity, and she didn’t care for the leering element in the smiles the demon’s buddies were giving her. Melponeus himself surely knew that. After the barest moment of conversation, he swept Dahlia away to an empty area.
“I apologize for my friends,” he said instantly. Dahlia forced her rigid little face to relax and look a bit more welcoming. “They see a woman as lovely as you, they can’t regulate their reactions.”
“You can, apparently?” Dahlia said, just to watch Melponeus flounder. He knew her better than she’d thought, because after a moment’s confused explanation, he laughed. For a few minutes, they had a wonderful time with verbal foreplay, and then they danced. “Perhaps later . . . ” Melponeus began, but he was interrupted by a scream.
Screams were not such an unusual thing at the vampire nest, but since this one came in the middle of an important social occasion, it attracted universal attention. Every head whipped around to look east, to the wing occupied on the ground floor by the kitchen.
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