Half Past Hell

by Jaye Roycraft

  He wrapped his arms around her, held her tight, and buried his face in her thick blonde hair. God, but she smelled good—like baby powder, all warm and soft and fresh.

  “Oh, John, I was so . . .”

  He took her mouth and kissed her, long and deep. When she came up for air, he cut her off. “I need a shower, babe. I spent half the night in an unheated squid house.”

  She let him go, but followed him into the bedroom to ask questions even as he jumped into the adjoining bathroom shower. He ignored her questions, pretending he couldn’t hear her over the sound of the running water. He’d had questions flung at him for hours, and he wanted nothing more right now than peace and quiet and warmth. He emptied his mind and just stood under the pelting water, letting it close him off from the world.

  When he got out of the shower at last, the bathroom was full of steam, and the mirror was fogged up, but he didn’t care. What he needed next wasn’t in the bathroom. He dried off quickly and dropped the wet towel on the floor. “Candy!”

  She was at his side in a minute, and he held her close again. “You don’t have anything on the stove, do you?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “Good,” he growled.

  He pushed her back onto the bed and this time buried his face between her breasts, at the same time trying to drag the top part of her pink velvet warm-up suit down off her shoulders. Candy didn’t exercise, but she was fond of the comfortable pants and zippered, hooded tops. He had asked her once why she wore the damn things so much when she didn’t work out, and she had replied, “I wear them to warm up for you.”

  He hadn’t said anything more after that, and in truth he had no problem with her wardrobe, except that right now the zipper pull was digging into his skin. She helped him, pushing him off her enough to unzip the top and pull the pants down. He did the rest, pulling off her white T-shirt and skimpy underpants.

  God, her breasts were even better than the hot water. He loved her breasts. They were large, shapely, and full of magic. They never failed to make him rock hard. They didn’t fail him now, and he kissed her, suckled her, and stroked her until he could wait no longer. But she was ready for him, and he entered her with a groan that took him to a better place than even the hot shower had taken him. He lost himself completely in her, feeling nothing but heaven, and for a few glorious moments, hell was forgotten.

  She made him breakfast afterwards, and he devoured it with almost as much gusto as he’d devoured her. “Take my suit to be dry cleaned today,” he told her between mouthfuls. “And my trench coat. Don’t forget my coat.”

  Satisfied at last, he told her what had happened that night, leaving out, of course, the gory details and the part about him helping to hide evidence from the department.

  “Do you think this will help change things for the vampire cops? As far as their being allowed to carry guns, I mean?”

  Since the department started hiring squids five years ago, it had remained the biggest point of contention ever since. Should vamps in law enforcement be permitted to carry guns? There’d been arguments on both sides. The pro-gun advocates, mainly many of the vamps themselves, contended that they needed guns, if not for their own protection, then for the defense of their partners and any potential mortal victims. Those in opposition stated that vampires, with their celerity and strength, didn’t need guns to disable an enemy. In the end, vampire equality had only gone so far. No vamp, cop or otherwise, was allowed to carry a firearm.

  “Oh, it’ll renew the debate, and it’ll give the media a chance to rehash the controversy, but it won’t change things. There’s way too much anti-vamp sentiment out there.”

  She leaned forward with her elbows on the table and cradled her chin in her hands. “What about you? Does last night change your mind?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. The squid did just fine without a gun.”

  “John, he’s your partner, and he saved your life. How can you talk about him like that?”

  He snorted. How quickly she was forgetting her own anti-vamp attitudes. “He’s my partner, babe, not my friend. And he didn’t do anything more than any partner would’ve done. ‘Sides, I saved his hide, too. His good ol’ blood brother was trying to plug him full of holes before I pumped four Claws into him.” It wasn’t exactly the truth. Luka wouldn’t have killed Duvall no matter how many 9mm slugs he put into him, but it made Kil feel better to think that they were even. He didn’t want to feel indebted to a squid. He wouldn’t owe a squid.

  “Where did that vampire get a gun, anyway? It does seem strange that a vamp would want to own a gun.”

  He shrugged and gulped his now-cold coffee before answering. “Who knows? He probably found the gun when he moved in. A lot of the houses in Little Transylvania belonged to gangbangers before the squids moved in.”

  Candy leaned back and crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Well, I think you should invite him over. I want to meet him. And thank him for what he did for you.”

  He laughed, nearly spitting out the last mouthful of coffee. “Duvall? You’re kidding. What’re you going to do? Invite him for dinner?”

  “No, silly. Some evening when both of you are off, just invite him to stop by for a short visit. That wouldn’t be too hard, would it?”

  Her sugary voice had turned serious, and it pissed him off. No way did he want a squid in his house, meeting his wife. It was bad enough that he had to share his squad car with a creature that smelled like dead insects, but he wasn’t about to let one into the sanctity of his house.

  He shook his head. “No, babe. You don’t know what they’re like.” He fished around for a way to explain it to her. “You know how in the summertime the windowsills and ceiling fixtures fill up with dead moths and flies? Well, multiply that by six feet and a hundred eighty pounds and you have Duvall.”

  “Oh, John . . .”

  He got up. “It’s been a long night. I’m going to bed.”

  “If you don’t invite him, I will.”

  He slammed the bedroom door behind him.

  Seven

  The Fort Edward Road

  August 10, 1757

  THE MARCH SOUTHEAST to Fort Edward, some sixteen miles away, had begun at dawn with the Royal Artillery and the 35th leading the column. Gone were the open fields, lake and bug-breedin’ morass surrounding Fort William Henry, replaced by tall trees that encroached on the road like the London tenement flats of his youth had crowded the narrow streets, shoulder to shoulder. But the pestering of the Indians continued, and their French escorts advised the English again to give up their packs.

  Wulf, Quin, and Duncan were near the tail end of the 35th, but in front of the American rangers and provincial regiments. They were the crowded midsection of a very ungainly beast, slowed by civilians from the fort—women and children—and slowed even further by the pace of those in front of them, whose forward motion seemed measured by fits and starts.

  More and more Indians silently appeared, like the gnats at dusk, out of nowhere. They seemed to multiply like vermin, dozens of them, and as their numbers increased, so did their demands. Soldiers both in front of Wulf and behind him were forced to hand over not only their packs but their weapons and clothing. Quin was already without his musket, and Duncan, who had happily gone the night with his kit intact, was now compelled by a very large hatchet to give up his pack, musket, and jacket.

  “Smile, old boy, and be glad it’s not your breeches,” said Wulf, but a moment later he himself surrendered at knife point his musket, cartridge pouch, waistbelt, and canteen. It was demeaning, but all humiliation was forgotten when screams from the rear of the column reached above the din of confusion.

  Wulf heard a hell whoop, and warriors poured out of the woods like animals fleeing a storm. Half naked, without a weapon, there was little for Wulf or the rest of the stripped down 35th to d
o but mill like frightened cattle. He heard a battle cry and turned to see an Indian appear out of nowhere, tomahawk raised high. He shouted to warn Quin, but his voice was lost in the clamor, and the blade caught Quin at the base of the neck, nearly decapitating him. Blood splattered onto Wulf, and the body fell against him, driving him to the ground. Shrieks surrounded him, and he saw Duncan pitch forward, a tomahawk in his back. A yelping savage pounced on the body, wrenched the tomahawk out and dug his knee between Dunky’s shoulder blades, ignoring the blood that gushed onto his bare skin. The warrior pulled Dunky’s head up by his red hair, slashed his skin from his forehead to the back of his neck, and pulled the scalp off as easily as if he were removing a hat. Yelping, he dropped the body, jumped to his feet, and, standing with one foot on Dunky’s back, flourished his trophy high overhead. The regulars broke, stampeding in every direction, some back to the fort, some down the road to Fort Edward, and some into the very woods whence had come the enemy.

  Wulf had never in his life run from a fight, but there was nothing to do now but run. He ran his hand over Quin’s face, shutting the dead eyes, whispered a quick prayer, and took to the woods, wearing nothing but blood and breeches.

  Eight

  VALL WOKE THAT evening feeling hungry, horny, and full of juice. He chalked it up to last night. The violence and the sight of so much blood had roused him, and with no release, if blood could boil in a cold body, his did.

  He got up, stretched, and examined his shoulder. The pain was gone now, and the healing was complete. All that remained to mark the injury was a tiny pink spot. Soon that, too, would fade, leaving nothing to mark that night but his memories.

  He debated which of his errands would satisfy his needs quicker, a visit to Nestor’s vampire club, Lacustre, or tracking down Veronica. Nestor was Chi-No’s doyen, the title given to elders who could claim an existence of at least three hundred years, but he was just as well known for his club and its amenities. Those amenities included mortals for both sex and blood, male and female. Nestor’s mortals were always fresh meat—young, tender, and virgin. Vall didn’t know where they came from or what happened to them after they had served their purpose. He’d never asked. He didn’t want to know.

  Meeting Veronica might not be easy. He could stake out her house, but even if she was home, she might not want to see him. During their last meeting he had sensed both attraction and repulsion. His present needs, though, left no time for seduction. He would visit Nestor.

  It wasn’t that Vall liked Nestor, and he certainly didn’t trust him. Nestor was a broker not only for human flesh, but for deals, and Vall didn’t trust anyone who made deals. In his experience, those who made peace were those who would break it. But the one big disadvantage to being an independent son-of-a-bitch was that he had few resources he could trust for information. So, like it or not, kowtowing to Nestor on occasion was a necessary evil.

  He showered and dressed carefully in black linen trousers and a black long-sleeved shirt. He wasn’t quite the archetype of mortal vampire fantasy. His hair wasn’t as dark as his partner’s was, but it was long, thick and shiny, and he’d been told from the time he’d been young that his gray eyes were amazingly wolflike. Neither was he as tall or bulky as his mortal partner, but for a creature his age, his five-eleven height was extraordinary.

  It occurred to him that John Kilpatrick would make a good vampire someday. With his black hair, blue eyes, and imposing height, he’d make one hell of a bloodsucker. Vall pictured his partner with long hair and fangs and smiled at the image. He imagined Kilpatrick’s reaction to seeing such a picture of himself and his smile grew even wider. There was no greater satisfaction than to see some holier-than-thou mortal brought across to be reborn as a lowly suckling.

  Vall topped off his outfit with his gray full-length leather coat. It had been tailor-made for him and lined with wolf fur. He never wore it to work, only for special occasions. The last thing he wanted was a bullet hole or two marring his prized possession, not to mention the blood, gore, vomit, or other nasty bodily fluids a homicide detective was prone to come into contact with. Most vamps would have chosen black for the coat, but Vall was, and always had been, his own person, and he cared not what others, mortal or undead, thought of him.

  He arrived at Lacustre a half hour later. Located in the Historic Third Ward near the river, the club occupied the cellar of a huge cream city brick building that had once been a warehouse. The bricks were a beautiful pale golden yellow, made, he knew, from deep veins of the red lacustrine clay that ran along the western shore of Lake Michigan. Vall had heard the story more than once, for it was one that Nestor enjoyed telling over and over again.

  Vall parked in a lot off the street and approached the building from the rear. There were no signs, of course, just an outside staircase behind a brick wall that descended to a locked metal door. The buzzer to the door was hidden halfway down the stairwell, and Vall pressed it as he walked down the steps. When he reached the bottom, he spoke into a small intercom. “Duvall.” There was no need for fancy passwords or secret codes. Mortals weren’t allowed and neither were sucklings. There were only a few hundred masters in Chi-No, and Nestor and his security staff knew them all.

  The door buzzed, and Vall entered. One of Nestor’s goons stood just inside the door. This one looked like a Viking on steroids—tall, blond, and built like a brick house. He wore black leather pants, a matching leather vest, and a dog collar with spikes. He smiled, wide enough to purposely flash fangs that were bleached and sharpened to perfection.

  Great. It’s Bondage Night, and I left my handcuffs at home.

  “Duvall,” the goon acknowledged.

  “Tell Nestor I request the honor of a meeting.” No one demanded to see Nestor. Even requesting a meeting was no guarantee of an audience, but Duvall, for all their mutual aversion, had never been refused. Tonight there was no line of petitioners waiting on Nestor, but even had there been, Vall would be shown preference, not because he was a favorite of the doyen, but because his age had earned him a favorable spot in the pecking order of Chi-No’s masters.

  The Viking’s iceberg gaze raked Vall up and down. “Wait here.”

  Vall looked around. It was early in the evening, so the club wasn’t crowded, and while instruments stood at the ready on a small stage, the band was nowhere to be seen. To say that the room was opulent would be an understatement, but it was an opulence as old-fashioned and overdone as that of an old movie cinema. Scallops of velvet fell in graceful waves from ceiling to floor, and every inch of wall not covered by drapes was covered in murals depicting scenes of the undead from history and legend alike. Most showed mortals in some sort of submissive position, offering up their bodies for either sex or blood.

  One large mural portrayed Prince Dracula’s purge of the parasites of Wallachia. As the popular story went, the Prince invited the sick, lame, poor and homeless to the great dining hall at Tirgoviste for a grand feast. After waiting for the beggarly lot to fill their bellies with the richest of food and drink, Dracula ordered his servants to torch the house. The mural illustrated the fire at its peak, surrounding and consuming the hapless souls. Bodies twisted in torment, their eyes and mouths opened wide in horror, as flames mounted them like sexual predators. It was the only mural that really bothered Vall. The scene was far too close to the Brothers of the Sun, relentless in their zeal to burn out what they considered to be the parasites of the earth.

  The floor was covered with thick wool Persian carpets, elaborate chandeliers provided lighting, and booths upholstered in velvet provided cozy spots for private liaisons. It all made Vall feel suffocated and closed in, but maybe that was the point. This was Nestor’s world, and it was obvious that Nestor didn’t want anyone who entered to forget it.

  Vall, like Nestor, knew the masters in the city. Most of them, anyway. There had always been a transient element to his kind, those who were bored staying i
n one place too long and wandered, like Gypsies, from city to city. So there were always new faces and new liaisons. As vampires aged, they became more cliquish, rather the reverse of humans, whose gang mentality seemed to peak during their teenage years. Vall tried to visit Lacustre at least once a month just to see who was sucking up to whom.

  Tonight he saw a male and female curled up on a velvet lounger who both glanced at him before returning to their conversation. That was how it was. Everyone eyed everyone, but eye contact alone was not enough for an invitation. It was one’s unwritten résumé of past deeds and past allegiances. It was attitude, image, and subtle signals of body movement, posture, scent, and touch. It was also what the other party was looking for—dominant, submissive, ally, or victim.

  No one in the club had ever approached him, save the mortal “amenities,” and Vall expected nothing else. His profession, not to mention his temperament, had always made him an outsider. His résumé cataloged a long career of soldiering, spying, security work, and serving as a bodyguard—not the walk of life, so to speak, that made him desirable to the average vamp. Those in the finer arts—music, art, and literature—always seemed to be in demand, especially to those of the opposite sex.

  He sat down, and a young mortal immediately joined him. She didn’t look more than sixteen, yet she moved with the confidence of a veteran hooker. She was small and slender and coiled on his lap like a kitten.

  “Hello. Welcome to Lacustre.” She ran her hands down the sides of his head, smoothing his hair, not as though it needed it, but like a child playing with a doll. “Can I be of service tonight?”

  She was dressed like a doll herself, all in white, with a ruffled blouse, a mini skirt, and white nylons. It was an obvious statement of past and present innocence, for white did a rather poor job of hiding blood stains. But the outfit was also a promise of future immoderation. The front of the blouse had no buttons and plunged in a V all the way to her waist. He could see the inner curves of her breasts—young, ripe, and very inviting. Her hair was blond, like the Viking’s, but on the girl the color looked much more appealing. He stoked her hair, pushed it back from her face, and looked for previous bite marks. He didn’t see any, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t donated before. Vamps often took blood from the inner thigh, the breast, or the arm. He closed his eyes, inhaled her scent, and tried to control his building hunger.