Half Past Hell

by Jaye Roycraft

  She never finished her sentence. With speed bordering on celerity, Vall drove her backward until the wall stopped them. She grunted from the impact, but could make no further noise, for his left hand pinned her by the neck to the wall. Her chest heaved against his, and her blood pulsed against his fingers, but she made no move to struggle against him, as if she instinctively knew his grip would tighten like a noose if she so much as twitched.

  He ached to take her, but his control was stronger. He bent his head and dragged his mouth down her cheek, parting his lips and letting her feel his teeth against her skin. With his free hand, he caressed her hip and ran his palm under her top and across her flat stomach to her ribcage and left breast. He moved his mouth to her ear.

  “Does your father regret his part in the peace process? Is war his way of atoning for his mistake?” At “mistake” his thumb rubbed her nipple, and her body’s tandem reaction to both fear and desire nearly pushed him over the edge. Her heart pounded under his hand, and her blood raced as though it sought an outlet of escape. He yearned to accommodate her.

  She tried to shake her head. “You’re wrong,” she whispered.

  “Am I? And what was your part? To gain information on the investigation and then have me killed if I got too close?”

  She fought him now, trying to pry his fingers from her neck and kicking at him with her feet. He let her go, only because he knew she wouldn’t be able to give him information if he truly hurt her. And, he admitted, because he’d drain her dangerously low if he didn’t release her right now.

  She slumped to the floor at his feet and put her hands to her neck and face. “It’s not true, any of it. Why would my father sabotage his own company? His bottling plant makes him more money than all his other business ventures put together.” She glanced up at him from behind sheltering fingers. “And what kind of a monster do you think I am that I’d prostitute myself for information I could get with a few phone calls? God, Vall, you’re not making any sense!”

  He walked away from her, as far as the boundary of the room allowed, needing the space to clear his head. It’d been a long time since he’d had such a powerful sexual reaction to a woman, not even three nights ago with this same woman. Could what she was saying be right after all? He wanted to believe her, but betrayal had slammed a fist into the face of his trust too many times in the past for him to show it. He took deep breaths and finally took off both his leather coat and his suit jacket, draping them over the back of an armchair.

  He went back to her and squatted down beside her. Her back was to the wall, and she sat with her knees drawn up and her head down.

  “Veronica, listen to me.”

  She lifted her head and pushed her hair out of her face. One strand caught in the track of her tears and stuck to her cheek.

  His eyes held her gaze. “I need the truth. There’s a war sitting out there right now, like a land mine, just waiting to explode.”

  She swiped at her eyes with the fingers of one hand. “I’m telling you the truth, Vall, I swear to God. I know my father. He worked too hard for peace to ever jeopardize it. Why would he want war?”

  “This is a conservative state. It’s not the peace people hate, it’s the vampires. There’re a lot of people who want to make things so bad that all of us are driven underground again, like in the old days, so they can go back to the kind of life they used to lead and go on pretending we don’t exist.”

  She shook her head. “My father wouldn’t do that.”

  “Maybe not on his own, but maybe he’s being pressured by others. Maybe he’s even being blackmailed. It happens.”

  “No. My father’s always been his own man, and there haven’t been any family scandals.”

  Maybe she was as naïve as she claimed to be. No one was without some kind of bones in the closet. “Veronica, what about you? Tell me the truth.”

  “Well, it would seem that the lapse in good judgment that resulted in my sleeping with a bloodsucker ranks as the most scandalous thing I’ve ever done.”

  He ignored her sarcasm and pressed on. “I don’t mean that. How did you really come to meet me? Did someone set you up? Was it a dare? A bet?”

  “I thought vampires could sense when people were lying. How is it that you’re so clueless when it comes to knowing I’m telling you the truth?”

  He rocked back on his heels and closed his eyes. Sometimes he wished he were the all-powerful, indestructible machine that the vampire-worshippers expected the undead to be. It would make things so much easier. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “I normally can tell when people are lying, yes, and I’m quite good at it. My senses are such that I can feel and hear changes in the heart rate and respiratory rate of someone I’m close to, just like a polygraph machine. But the problem with you is that when you’re with me, your heart and respiratory rates are jumping off the scale—all the time.”

  Some of her high-horse anger dissipated, softening her features, and when it did, he knew she understood what he was saying. He drove his point home, just for the pleasure of seeing the acknowledgment on her face. “It’s the chemistry. The sex. It has a tendency to short-circuit the polygraph machine.”

  Her eyes stared into his, owning up to the undeniable attraction, but her words struck back at him. “All sex and no trust makes Vall a dull boy.” Maybe it was pride. Maybe he’d hurt her more than he thought.

  He sprang to his feet and reached out a hand to help her up, but she ignored the peace offering and stood up without his help.

  Perhaps survival was dull. There was little thrill to existing without change night after countless night. “It’s the way I am. It keeps me . . . alive.” He smiled at the conceit of the word, baring his fangs.

  “And very alone. Good-bye, Vall.”

  The finality in her farewell didn’t escape him. “One final question before I go. When you called the detective assembly, did you ever talk to or leave a message with anyone other than Kilpatrick? Another detective, or maybe one of the clerks?”

  “No, and you don’t have to worry about my calling again.”

  As if he hadn’t already gotten the message. He put on his suit coat and leather coat as she snatched up the papers she had dropped. She handed the pile to him without bothering to straighten them or put them back in the envelope. “And take your hate mail with you.”

  He took the stack and opened the door. “Your father’s still on that short list, sweetheart, and so are you.”

  He closed the door behind him before she could have the last word.

  VALL TRIED TO cool down on the drive home, but it wasn’t easy. Meeting Miss Candy notwithstanding, it was stacking up to be a rotten night. He was no closer to knowing if Lawrence Main was responsible for the poisoned blood, and Veronica had given him an unquestionable goal-winning boot through the open door. Girls like her who were beautiful, intelligent and willing to give her all to a bloodsucker were hard to find, and he’d hoped to establish a lasting relationship with her. Right now their one-night stand looked like Vall’s last stand.

  It was regrettable, and no doubt he could have handled the situation better, but right now he had more important things to worry about. Like war.

  He arrived home and changed from his conservative make-a-good-impression-on-the-wife duds to something more appropriate for wooing his own kind. Nestor ran Lacustre as if it were a cruise ship—every night had a different theme. He couldn’t remember if tonight was Formal Night or Fantasy Night, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to preen or party, so donning a costume wasn’t a priority. He put on a white silk shirt, gray linen trousers, and wore a diamond stick pin at his neck.

  He drove downtown, parked the Lincoln behind the club so that it took two spaces, and rang the buzzer as before. When the door opened for him, he was greeted not by the Viking, Viktor, but by a female dressed to the nines
in vintage Hollywood couture, an ivory long-sleeved dress with padded shoulders, a sash that fell from one shoulder to the floor, and a jeweled waistband. Formal Night, and me without my top hat and cape.

  “Welcome, Duvall,” she said, and her gaze raked his body like a streetwalker, rather spoiling the classy image.

  He recognized her as one of Nestor’s regular “hostesses,” but was surprised the door wasn’t manned by one of the goons. “Good evening, Alena. I request the honor of a meeting with Nestor.”

  Her gaze fell, wavering south of his waist, seeming to imply that her opinion of him was equally low. “You’re not dressed properly, Duvall. No jacket. Wait in the back room.”

  It was a slight, but he didn’t care. This was business, and he had no desire to hobnob.

  Alena turned her bare back on him and slunk across the lounge to presumably inform Nestor of his request. He followed more slowly, looking for Dora, the little mortal who’d been so eager to please him a week ago. There was no sign of her either in the main lounge or the room he’d been relegated to. There was a real possibility she was already dead, and the thought angered him, as if he needed any more fuel to power his confrontation with Nestor.

  He paced the back lounge, eyeing but otherwise ignoring several other vamps who had apparently flunked the dress code test. This time Nestor made him wait an hour, even though Vall saw no other petitioners enter the corridor to Nestor’s private suite. Finally, Alena appeared and stared at him, her way of calling his number. He followed her, and once inside, waited for Nestor’s command.

  “Come.”

  Vall made his entrance as before, and as before, his appearance prompted criticism.

  “Ah, Duvall. Once more, your attire is all wrong. Last week you were in sheep’s clothing, as I remember. This week . . .” He gestured with his arms, raising them in puzzlement. “What kind of animal are you trying to emulate this week? Not a gray wolf, surely—more like a clay pigeon.”

  Vall was not amused. “If I’m a target, it’s because someone’s set me up.”

  “Nonsense. You set yourself up, Duvall. What do you want this time? I’m busy.”

  Vall reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the yellow flyers. He unfolded it and held it up. “You’ve seen this, of course? I trust one of your stool pigeons has shown you this already?”

  Any humor that had shown in Nestor’s expression fled. The elaborate braids of hair on his head seemed to slither and sway like so many snakes, and Vall fully expected to be turned to stone by the deadly Medusa-gaze that bore into him. No words on Nestor’s part were needed, for Vall’s punishment for his disrespect was silent. Though not painful, it was humiliating and uncomfortable to have to endure the weight of Nestor’s mind reach for his, stripping bare his thoughts and emotions and leaving him as naked and powerless as he’d been after the collapse of Fort William Henry so long ago.

  Nestor withdrew the energy of his mind, leaving Vall’s thoughts scrambled in its wake. It took him several minutes to remember why he’d even come.

  “You will enter my club and address me with at least a modicum of respect, Duvall. You are allowed access here only at my discretion. Do you understand?”

  Vall concentrated on his breathing and in piecing together his scattered musings. “Forgive me, Doyen.” The words were no harder to voice than all the “yessirs” at the police department.

  “Now, tell me what angers you, besides your own impotence in solving your case.”

  Much angered him at the moment, but he strove to concentrate on the matter at hand. “The sucklings, Doyen.”

  Nestor lifted one shoulder lazily. “The sucklings are always afraid.”

  “Perhaps they would not be so if they had reassurance, guidance.”

  “And what exactly would you have me do, Duvall?”

  “You have your own power and the power of many loyal masters. Go into the city and inform the young ones. They cry out for leadership.”

  One of the snake-braids twitched. “Words are easy for one who doesn’t have the responsibility of actually wielding that power. But since you are so eager to dispense wisdom, what would you have me tell the sucklings?”

  “Not to kill for blood.” He held up the Brothers of the Sun flyer. “These assholes are just waiting for an excuse to burn us out again.”

  “And what would you have them do instead? Partake of the wondrous life-in-a-bottle?”

  Duvall had no doubt that Nestor knew the bottled blood was poisoned. “The sucklings can be taught how to take blood without killing. It can be done, and you know it as well as I do.”

  “Of course. The older sucklings, yes. But the young ones are like infants.”

  “Then those are the ones you help.”

  “You’ve more than made your point, Duvall. Have you anything else to complain about?”

  Complain? Trying to save his race was complaining? He fought to restrain his tongue. “The Brothers of the Sun. Have they established a foothold in Chi-No?”

  Nestor’s blue eyes glowed. “No. The two you killed were from Chicago. I suggest you direct your inquiries there. It is Cade who allows the Brothers to flourish, not I.”

  So Vall was correct in his assumption that Nestor had spies in CNPD. The news media hadn’t mentioned the two dead men as either members of the Brothers of the Sun or as hailing from Illinois. “Thank you for your time, Doyen.”

  Nestor nodded his acknowledgment and dismissal.

  Vall turned to leave, but he paused in his exit. “Oh, one more question, Doyen. Is Dora here? The blonde?”

  Nestor smiled, working his jaw, and Vall was reminded of a snake that resets its bones after dislocating its jaw to swallow its prey. “No, regretfully she is unavailable tonight. I can have Alena arrange someone else for you if you wish it.”

  Vall dished up a frog-eating smile of his own. “Thank you, no, Doyen. Another time.”

  Nestor’s smile dropped, and as Vall left the room, he could swear he heard a hiss behind him.

  VALL SAT IN THE Lincoln and listened to the steady purr of the idling engine. The evening was going downhill at breakneck speed. He would get no help from Nestor—that much was abundantly clear. The doyen obviously knew what was going on, but preferred to stick his head in the sand. But Nestor was right about one thing—Vall couldn’t put off any longer having a face-to-face with Cade.

  Twenty

  Chicago, Illinois

  October 8, 1871

  THE IRISH WERE A passionate lot, but Wulf was bored. He stood inside the back door of the frame building with his arms folded across his chest and tried to make sense of the fiery rhetoric, but he couldn’t.

  It was the weekly Sunday meeting of the Clan-na-Gael, and, as usual, the political ranting didn’t mean anything to Wulf. It didn’t have to. He’d been hired strictly for muscle—his ability to take a punch and give it back tenfold, his total lack of fear, and his willingness to be as brutal as the situation called for. It was his job firstly to make sure no one got in who didn’t belong, and secondly, to keep his mouth shut. That was fine by him, though he’d had to change his name some years ago when the Irish poured into Chicago’s southwest side. It was easier to find work using the name Cuan Dougal. To those among the undead who knew him he was still Wulf, but to his Irish friends “Wulf” made him sound either British or German, both of which were very much persona non grata to the Irish.

  Wulf knew the Clan-na-Gael’s interest was to support the revolutionary cause in Ireland, but tonight the topic of discussion seemed to be Republican-bashing. Wulf sighed. It would be a long night. The meeting had started at eight and would probably rage on until after midnight. But it was only once a week, the work was pitifully easy, and the few dollars, while not much, were better than nothing. It was an exceptionally warm evening for early October, and Wulf kept the do
or open to let fresh air into the smoky room.

  “These bleedin’ New Republicans will ruin the city!” someone shouted.

  “Sure, and it’s the Native Americans. Who invited them here, anyway?”

  Wulf knew enough to know that “Native Americans” didn’t refer to the Indians, but to those from back east with a long American pedigree. There were no more Indians in Chicago. They’d been forced west of the Mississippi years ago, in the early 1830s. Americans, no different from either the Indians themselves or the undead, had long memories. They hadn’t forgotten Fort Dearborn. So all the Indians were gone—all except Cade. As promised, Cade was still here, evidence that his loyalty was to himself, not his red brothers.

  Wulf thought about Cade and lowered his brow. Cade wouldn’t be caught dead in a neighborhood like this—full of loud, hard-drinking, poor-as-piss laborers. Cade was no doubt miles away in his North Division mansion. It wasn’t that Wulf lacked the wealth to live in a better neighborhood—in point of fact he did, but he spent little time in his downtown house except for that needed for sleeping. Most of his nights were spent on the south side, where many of the Nathusius sucklings had settled for the easy feeding. Le père felt it his responsibility to keep his masters nearby, and Wulf accommodated him.

  A man, breathing heavily, ran through the doorway. Wulf grabbed his arm. “Easy, friend.”

  “Let me go. There’s a fire,” he gasped.

  “So? There’ve been over a dozen fires this past week.”

  “Not like this. It’s near 12th and Jefferson, and it’s a big one.”

  Twenty blocks away. “Go on in.” Wulf released the man and stepped outside. The air was no better than inside—warm, dry and dusty—and a stiff wind keened like an old woman. The sky to the north was as inflamed as an infected wound, bright and red. He jogged to the nearby intersection and looked north on Halsted. The street gave him an unobstructed view, and he saw the flames of the fire eat at the skyline.

  A procession of men and boys were making their way north, some on horseback, but most on foot, off to catch a Sunday night amusement that didn’t cost a cent. Wulf walked back to his post at the door. He’d never seen what humans found so entertaining about watching things burn. With the wind blowing out of the southwest, the fire wouldn’t come his way, and in any case, it would be out in a couple hours at most.