Hell's Warrior

by Jaye Roycraft

  The Illinois Indians were already long gone, not only from Le Rocher, now called Starved Rock by mortal whites who seemed to love indulging in romanticizing tragedy, but from Kaskaskia and the entire state. Ever the friend of the white man, the meek Illinois had been vanquished by their more warlike brothers.

  Today was the white man’s turn to vanquish.

  A new treaty declared that eight thousand Chippewa, Ottawa, and Pottawatomie give up their lands east of the Mississippi River. Tomorrow was the exit. Today was the Indians’ final day in Illinois and their good-bye to Chicago.

  Cade dressed and went to the window of his Lake Street house to watch the end of it all. Thousands of Indians had gathered in Chicago for a final farewell dance. The dance had begun early in the day, but the parade of Indians was still visible in the form of knots of red men who didn’t so much flow down the street in organized celebration, but pounded the ground like angry fists. Unable to exert their defiance in action against the whites, they exercised their pride in their appearance and demeanor, and one would never know by watching them that they were a defeated people.

  They were nearly naked, covered only in loincloths and paint and sweat that the day’s heat had merged into long, ragged streaks of vermillion and black. Feathers and horns tangled in coarse black hair as long as his own, and they brandished tomahawks and clubs that by their facial expressions they longed to use. Everything about them was shrill and discordant, as though fueled by a rage so powerful yet impotent that no other manifestation of behavior was possible. Shrill shrieks filled the evening air, accompanied by the jerking and twisting of bodies so hard and glistening as to resemble more the stones of a river bed than human flesh.

  Cade understood both the emasculation that tore at their souls and the pride that energized their bodies, but beyond that, he felt no kinship with these Indians. They were savages; he was learned in the ways of both the white man and his red brothers. Though hard of muscle, they were mortal; his flesh was indeed as undying as the stone it resembled. But the greatest difference was that Cade had no intention of subjecting his will to those who conjured treaties out of thin air and decreed them as real and binding as metal shackles. The laws of humans meant nothing to him. They didn’t apply to him, and he had no intention of complying with their directives.

  Chicago was officially a city now, with a population in the thousands. Three hundred of these were vampires, most living in colonies with others born of a common creator, but every night more sucklings drew their first blood. Cade knew he was the oldest vampire in Chicago. He’d come here in 1800, before there was a city, before Fort Dearborn had been burned to the ground. And he knew none of the others vampires could match him either in power or will. The existence of the others was steeped so thoroughly in blood that they saw nothing else. But he still saw the vision of the Manitou, and his vision set him apart and above the rest, for he wanted more. He would proclaim himself doyen, the elder of the Chicago vampires, and in doing so, he would help mold this city.

  He watched as the last of the Indians straggled down Lake Street, their energy waning at last with the fall of night, their moves less frenetic, their shrieks less strident—the tail end of a herd being inexorably driven toward oblivion.

  But he was here. And here he’d stay. This was his land, and now his city, and no one would ever drive him away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A PACT WITH THE Brothers of the Sun. If his brethren found out about it, they’d howl with indignant rage. Even Thor would question his sanity if he knew. But none of them understood the sacrifices that keeping the peace entailed, so it was better to keep his dealings to himself.

  In a way, he was like the Machine. As long as the result of the turning of the wheels made his people happy, few knew or questioned what kind of grease eased the turnings. It was the supreme irony that he’d become so alike to those he hated, the mortals who would see the old status quo reinstated.

  “So what did I miss?” asked Red as soon as they were in the safety of their car.

  “Not much. The BOS have someone on the council. If their man learns something, they’re willing to share.”

  “Oh.”

  Apparently she was expecting something more cloak-and-dagger, for she slumped and stared out the side window in disinterest. He was thankful for her silence, though. It made it easier to concentrate on the traffic, which was still lively, even at ten-thirty. It had started raining again, and headlights, taillights and street lamps alike shimmered in the mist with ghostly coronas. He turned off Magnolia onto a side street, and a block and a half later headlights flared in his rearview mirror. He turned left at the next intersection and stepped on the gas pedal. He listened to the slap of the windshield wipers and watched both the street before and behind him. It was empty of traffic and dark for two blocks, then headlights flashed again in the mirror.

  “Shit.”

  Red sat up straight and turned her head in his direction. “What?”

  “I think we’ve been made.”

  She saw his gaze on the mirror and twisted to look out the rear window. “We’re being followed?”

  “Looks like it. The car behind us keeps his distance, but he’s shadowed us the last two turns I’ve made.”

  “But nobody knew we’d be at Midnight Oil except Nate Burnham.”

  She was right. Was the meet with Nate just a ruse for the BOS to put a tail on him? In the days during Hell the BOS had been known to put bounties on the heads of particular vamps. He himself had once carried a bounty of half a million dollars. He personally thought the bounty should have been higher, given his status of doyen, but no one had ever collected.

  “Is it the Brothers of the Sun?” Red asked.

  “I don’t know.” He hated to think Nate had betrayed him. Or maybe it was that he hated to think he’d trusted someone who’d betrayed him. In any case, his mind cast around for another possibility while he turned the Chevy into a narrow alley and stepped on the gas again. He sped through the alley, made a left turn, then an immediate right turn at the next intersection. A minute later headlights popped up again in his mirror. “Whoever it is, he’s good.”

  Red was still twisted to watch behind them. “How can you be sure it’s the same car?”

  “It’s the same car. The driver side headlight is out of alignment.”

  “We’re on Rosemont. Keep going, and you’ll hit Clark Street.”

  He gave her a look. He knew the city, and the last thing he needed was a female backseat driver.

  “Sorry.”

  But she had a point. He’d lose the tail easier in heavier traffic. He stepped on the gas and turned north onto Clark Street, fishtailing the Chevy’s rear end on the wet pavement. “Turn around and buckle up, Red.” He didn’t want her flying into his lap the next time he took a corner too fast. Well, he did, but not at this particular moment. The rain slashed at the car, and he switched the wipers on high. Dark gaps appeared on either side of the street like burned out bulbs on the string of bright city lights that was Clark Street, and he knew they’d passed Chase Park and St. Bonifacius Cemetery. He let his instincts and the totality of his senses take over from his eyesight and forced himself to relax. He knew the north side of Chicago like a cabbie, and no tail was going to stay with him.

  He made the light at Foster and turned west, and Red stretched out both arms to brace herself against the dash. The Chevy skidded again and nearly took out a parked car, and he cranked the wheel to compensate. The rain-blurred headlights of eastbound traffic were distracting, but he cared only about the headlights behind him. He started to celebrate silently when he saw it—the headlight that was like a lazy eye, slightly skewed. It had to be a vampire. No mortal driver could stay with him in this downpour.

  The stoplight ahead at Western was red. He braked enough to see that cross traffic was coming south on Western, a
nd he slowed more to let the traffic pass before he ran the light. He made a hard left at the next intersection, and over the slap of the wipers he heard police sirens howling in the distance. He supposed they could be hunting someone else, but just like he knew lazy-eye was still behind him, he knew they were coming for him. He’d been speeding for blocks. No doubt some do-gooder had called 911. He had to end this now. A vamp tail was one thing, but the cops were something else.

  Cade veered again and ran into the series of parks along the North Branch of the Chicago River. He flanked the parks, looking for a street that passed through to the west. He found one and took it. The area just south of the suburb of Lincolnwood was his target. Northeastern Illinois University and a bevy of cemeteries and parks promised a feast of hiding holes.

  He cut his lights and ducked into the first university parking lot he came on. Cade counted his good fortune, for some school event was going on, and the lot was almost full, but not so full that no spaces were available. He zigzagged down the maze of aisles, backed into an empty spot, and shut off the engine. There was no front plate on the Chevy—nothing to make the front end stand out in a sea of rain-drenched cars.

  He put his hand on Red’s shoulder. “Scrunch down.”

  The police sirens grew louder, then cut out completely.

  “They’re leaving,” said Red, trying to fold herself out of sight.

  “No.” He took a deep breath and shivered. The rawness of the night was already invading the interior of the car. “They’re not leaving. The wolves will sniff for their prey before they give up.”

  “What about the tail? Won’t he just wait for us outside the lot?”

  “Perhaps the wolves will scare him off.” He knew they wouldn’t. The cops would eventually leave, called to other assignments, but whoever was tailing them was single-minded, with no other objective for the night but to run Cade to ground. But he wanted to reassure Red. “Besides, there are other exits. We’ll sit tight a while.”

  There wasn’t room for Red’s body to scrunch down in her seat so she leaned toward him. He swiveled the center console up and back to give her more room, and she lay with her head in his lap. The rain came down harder, and he felt like a rabbit in a wet hole. This was a new feeling for him, being the hunted, and he didn’t like it. The warmth of Red’s cheek against his cock made the time pass in sweet anguish instead of boredom, but it didn’t lessen his loathing for the situation.

  “I suppose I should be scared,” she breathed into his crotch, “but I’m not.”

  “Why not?”

  She played with the zipper on his jeans. “Because I trust you. Cade?”

  “What?”

  “Does anything scare you?”

  He stroked her hair and leaned back against the headrest. “No,” he lied. He would never admit fear to her or anyone. Immortality. It was a lie. Most vamps knew it, except those sucklings too drunk on themselves to see the truth of vampirism.

  He twisted one side of his mouth in acknowledgement of his own blindness, for there had been many years when he himself had truly felt immortal. It hadn’t been ignorance or inexperience, but conceit, and he knew it. He’d believed too literally the Manitou’s promise of greatness, taking it instead as a mandate of everlasting power. He knew better now. The Great Chicago Fire had been proof enough. Not only had two vampires died in the fire, ancients more traveled and wise than he, but he’d nearly baked to death in the cemetery vault he’d taken refuge in to escape the rising sun. He’d seen it again during Hell, in which too many to count had died for the final time, masters and sucklings alike.

  Now, with the advent of the Claw, any mortal fool who could aim straight could aspire to a level playing field with the undead.

  “Hmm,” purred Red, and he wasn’t sure if it was skepticism of his answer or a reaction to parts of him that were responding heartily to her touch.

  But the finality of true death was the least of his anxieties. As time went on, the loss of his position was more and more on his mind. Years past, when the vampire population was far smaller than it was now, he could control those who would challenge him by eliminating those who posed the biggest threat. Reputation and fear kept the rest in line. But he could no longer kill off those who would challenge him for doyen—there were simply too many. All he could do now was to try to provide an atmosphere in which his kind could survive comfortably. The more who were happy, the fewer there were who would oppose them. But it was becoming harder and harder. And now . . . with Deborah’s murder and his flight, there would be those who would think him weak no matter what happened from here on.

  People started thronging through the parking lot, some with umbrellas, some running. The school event, probably a basketball game, had ended, and everyone was hurrying to their cars to escape the weather. Headlights popped on all around him, and he turned his on as well. It was the perfect time to leave. He nudged the Chevy into the line of cars already filing down the aisle and exited the lot with the crowd. The traffic thinned as people went their own way, and Cade headed back south in the direction of the safe house. He saw neither squad cars nor lazy-eye.

  Red sat up and twisted in her seat, trying to look out the back window. “Are we still being followed?”

  “Turn around.” Her curiosity was understandable, but he knew she couldn’t see anything out the streaked glass. “I don’t know. I don’t see him, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t there.”

  She faced front and obediently settled her butt into the seat. “Can you sense him? Can you do that?”

  “Most of the time, yes. This one—he’s good.”

  She looked at him.

  “Don’t worry. I’m better.”

  She was silent after that, not questioning his roundabout route to the house—doubling back, alley diving, and flowing with the heavier traffic on Lincoln and Foster.

  He’d lied to Red when he’d said he didn’t know if the tail was still out there. He knew. He couldn’t see him, but he could feel him. It wasn’t a chill or anything else his physical senses could register, but a knowing that came to him like words come to a poet—one moment absent, the next moment there.

  But he couldn’t drive around the city all night. He had to face whoever was following him. It may as well be now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chicago, Illinois

  October, 1893

  CADE STOOD IN THE park and gazed at the stars. In a city of over one million, how can I be alone? He expected no answer, for he’d already asked the question more times than he could remember. Still, the stars, in their quiet splendor, made him feel better. Chicago, over the past few decades, had changed so dramatically so fast that it felt good to contemplate things that, like him, were ageless.

  He stood on one of the main trails off La Salle, near the Standing Lincoln statue, and let the evening breeze stroke his face. The cool October air was fresh off the lake and almost rendered his evening attire bearable. Almost, but not quite. The black cape and silk top hat weren’t uncomfortable, but the heavily starched white shirt, tall stiff collar, and white kid gloves were confining and irritating. Still, the fashion was a necessary evil, especially for his kind, for survival meant blending into mortal society. Not that he totally blended in anywhere. Tonight, though, the stars and the lake breeze made the burden of fashion sufferable.

  Reluctantly, he pulled out his pocket watch, stared at the dial, and let out a long breath. He could afford no more stargazing tonight. There were matters to be handled. Unpleasant, to be sure, but necessary. A colony of sucklings in Hell’s Half Acre was leaving too many corpses strewn around, even for a vice-ridden district that accepted death like the rise and set of the sun. He also had to address the problem of Otto Hammer. Hammer ruled a sizeable colony and had been currying the favor of neighboring colonies on the south and west side with the goal of challenging him. Th
e thought of Hammer spoiled his relaxed mood, and he let out a sigh that emerged more a growl.

  It was inevitable. Every twenty years or so some ambitious vamp rose to vie for the title of doyen. He usually eliminated such threats by sending the challenger to the true death while the upstart was still rising to power on the shaky legs of inexperience. But he’d allowed Hammer to survive too long, and now the vamp had the support of powerful masters.

  When he slipped the watch into its hidden pocket and raised his eyes, he saw her. Women alone were rare enough in the park at this time of night, but this one would be rare anywhere. She was fashionably dressed, and her tight bodice outlined a slim figure, though Cade didn’t really care for the cartoonish leg-of-mutton sleeves. What caught his attention, though, was her upturned face. She wasn’t young. There was life in her eyes, but also a lot of living. Yet she wasn’t old. Her skin, pale in the moonlight, was unlined and perfect. She, too, stared at the heavens, oblivious to his presence.

  Women didn’t come to the park at night alone. Her companion must have left her side for a moment. Cade waited another ten minutes, forgetting all about Hell’s Half Acre, but no one joined her.

  He stepped closer to her and looked to the northern sky. The Little Dipper hung upside down above its larger mate. “There’s an old Indian legend that says the autumn colors pour out of the Little Dipper at this time of year, and that’s what covers the trees in red and gold.”

  She turned her face to him, keeping the rest of her body still. Most women would have been offended by his brashness in speaking to her, but she only stared. That much was expected and understandable. In a world where manly fashion meant short hair and fat mustaches, his long hair and clean-shaven face were always a shock to those who didn’t know him. More than a shock, long hair on men was considered vulgar. The only thing that saved him from immediate dismissal in society was his equally outrageous countenance. With his bronze skin and exotic features people usually assumed he was a foreigner, and the hair was forgiven under the supposition that foreigners didn’t know any better.