Even so, he decided to stand his guard outside the door and keep an eye on things. Fires were common, but not to be ignored, especially by the undead. In his over one hundred years of existence, he’d never seen his brethren as vulnerable as they were now. Just as Chicago itself had spread like a raging wildfire over the past forty years, so had the local vampire population. The young, because of their sheer numbers, were abandoned more and more frequently by their creators, left to fend for themselves. Many walked the easiest path of survival, and that path led to the slums south and west of downtown, where prey was easy, life and women were cheap, and dead bodies common enough not to prompt more than a passing comment in the local saloon.
But the slums were also a firetrap, and Wulf knew it. He knew it, and so did le père. They’d done what they could to educate the sucklings, but the latter, like rabbits, hid in their wooden warrens and thought themselves safe from the dangers of the world.
Just last night a huge fire had broken out at a woodworking factory on Canal Street, not far from where tonight’s fire looked to be. No vampires had died the true death in last night’s blaze, but he and Dorothea had helped to relocate several who’d been burned out of their tenement houses.
Cade. It was Cade’s fault. Cade was doyen, more magnificent and more powerful than any vampire in the city. No one disputed that, certainly not Wulf. But he was an enigma. For all the depths of his personal power and all the glitter and armor of his wealth, Cade’s leadership was like a worn coat, becoming more torn and ragged with the passing of each year. The sucklings had fallen through the holes, and once gone, Cade had never striven to gather them back to his bosom. Wulf had never understood Cade, yet he wanted to. More than anything. But to even attempt to get close to Cade would be disloyal to le père, and Wulf’s devotion would always be first and foremost to le père and Dorothea.
Wulf walked back to Halsted, and this time when he gazed up the street, the area of flames had both climbed higher into the sky and spread wider along the horizon.
Jesus. It was a big fire. He thought about Dorothea and wondered where she was. Knowing her, she’d be in Conley’s Patch trying to save some suckling from his own stupidity. Wulf went back inside, where the topic of conversation, like the wind, seemed to change every ten minutes. He found one of the Clan leaders, leaned close, and whispered discreetly in his ear. “The fire’s a big one. I’ve family near there. I’m leaving.”
The man looked at him as if he were a child asking to leave school early. “Come, man. It’s sure and to be out soon. Stay.”
Wulf didn’t want to waste any more time. When next he spoke, he injected his words with the power of vampiric suggestion. “I’m leaving, and you don’t have any objection, now, do you?”
“All right, then. Be gone with you.”
Wulf ran to the stable behind the meeting hall, thankful that Cade had long ago shared his secret of how to accustom horseflesh to the touch of the undead. He quickly saddled Gypsum, his huge gray. He turned the horse east on 31st Street and urged the beast toward the lake at a good clip. He, Dorothea, le père, and three others shared a large house just south of downtown, between the lake and the south branch of the river. It was a sturdy brick building not far from the grand homes of some of Chicago’s wealthiest businessmen. He wasn’t sure if the fire would jump the river and burn to the lake, but it didn’t matter. Knowing Doro, she wouldn’t stay at the house even if it looked to be safe from the flames. She’d head to one of the slums surrounding downtown to lend aid to some hapless suckling.
He just prayed she hadn’t made for Conley’s Patch. The Patch was a wart that made the city’s other slums look as unblemished as a virgin bride. Why Doro insisted on ministering to the sucklings that chose to live among the brothels, pawnshops and dance halls was beyond him. But Doro was independent and headstrong, and neither he nor le père had ever had much luck in controlling her.
He nudged Gypsum, and the horse responded, picking up his gait. They were still well south of the fire, paralleling it, so traffic was light. Wulf made good time, arriving at his house on South Indiana Avenue in less than an hour. He tied Gypsum to the hitching post out front, unlocked the door, and let himself in.
“Doro!” The house looked empty, but his senses picked up creaks from the floorboards above. A moment later Leo came down the stairs.
“I was watching the fire from the attic.”
As if he cared. “Where’s Doro?”
Leo pouted, a look that spoiled the delicate beauty of his blue eyes and fair hair. “She went over to Fifth Avenue.”
Damn it all! Conley’s Patch. “And le père?”
“He went with her. You know he’d never let her go alone.”
It didn’t make the situation much better. Le père’s strength and judgment weren’t what they used to be. He was still strong enough in body, but his mind lacked the focus and vitality of years past. Perhaps it was the dizzying growth of both the city and its technology, but le père was too often confused and indecisive nowadays. He followed Doro instead of guiding her. “Where are Jack and Magra?”
“They went to see the fire.”
“Where, Leo?” The brains of Leo, Magra, and Jack put together didn’t equal that of Gypsum.
“How would I know? Wherever they can get the best view.”
What Doro saw in these particular sucklings was beyond him. She’d taken them in two months ago when the lease on their tenement rooming house had expired. They hardly seemed to be in any hurry to leave the relative luxury of the Indiana house, and Doro seemed equally unmotivated to push them out.
“The gray’s out front. Rub him down and make sure he has fresh water. I’m taking the black colt. I don’t think the fire’ll come this way, but if it does, take the horses south to safety.” Wulf had taught Leo how to handle horses, but he feared it was a lesson wasted. He had no doubt that if it came to that, Leo, would help himself to whatever valuables he could carry off and leave the animals to die in the stable. But right now Doro was more important than the horses, the house, or anything inside.
“Sure,” said Leo with a toss of his long hair.
Wulf didn’t spare him another thought, but left out the back to the stable at the rear of the property. He saddled Chess as quickly as he could, but the young horse was already restless, and Wulf had to take extra time to calm him. Both Chess and Gypsum were exceptional horses, trained from a young age to be accustomed to the presence and touch of the undead. Cade had taught him the training methods years ago, not long after the Fort Dearborn massacre. Chess wasn’t as thoroughly trained as Gypsum, the older horse, but the black was strong, and right now he was fresh. Besides, Conley’s Patch was no place for prized horseflesh, and if worse came to worst, Wulf would rather lose the colt.
Moments later he mounted up, and the black reared at the strange night air, hot and suffocating and as charged as if a storm were brewing. He felt it as much as the animal did, but he soothed the beast with a word and a firm hand and urged him on.
He rode west two blocks to Wabash, then north. The south wind at his back keened and cried, driving him on, and as he neared 12th Street, a roar, like surf crashing, joined the singing of the wind in a chorus from hell. The fire was west of him now, just the other side of the river, a moving wall of red waves that rolled as if to some far-off shore.
The streets became more and more crowded as people headed downtown, perhaps to salvage papers or valuables from offices, perhaps to watch the blaze. A wagon rattled past him, and Chess shied, nearly tossing him, but Wulf kept his seat and brought the horse under control with a word. With pressure from his knees he pushed the colt forward, and at Jackson Street he turned west, into the wind, the hell of Conley’s Patch, and straight at the fire. The hot wind assaulted him, ridden by demons who flung firebrands and cinders before him.
Wulf stared at the flames across th
e river, gazing in disbelief as the brands carried over the defense of the water and landed on the Parmelee Stage building, one of the newer and lesser horrors of Conley’s Patch. Chess reared, and Wulf, for the first time in years, felt vulnerable, as if he were mortal again. The heat washed over him, and with the heat came fear.
He was a soldier at war again, facing death. His job then was to fight, and if need be, die fighting, and he fought now. He willed the horse on through the ragtag crowd of hard-faced women and harder men. Like flies drawn to a carcass, they broke into a liquor store on his left and a hockshop on his right. The cries of fright, despair, and jubilation were absorbed into the roar of the fire, and Wulf rode on. He carried no gun or whip, never having needed them, and in his fear, he felt defenseless, but when a ragged one-eyed man snatched at the colt’s reins, his instincts took over. He slipped his foot from the stirrup and aimed the toe of his boot at the bull’s-eye of the one good eye. He missed the eye, slicing the man’s forehead instead. The man’s mouth opened in a silent scream, his brow opened in a gush of red, and the man went down in their path. Wulf dug his heels into the horse’s sides, and he felt Chess’s hind feet stumble over the body.
His fear disappeared with the would-be thief, and he felt his blood run as hot as the wind through his veins. He was the undead, one of the Nathusius, as unlike these pathetic animals as night to day. More raggedy men tried to attach themselves to Chess like leeches, but Wulf’s kicks kept them at bay.
He came at last to a dumpy frame building he knew to house several of the Patch’s sucklings. Not daring to dismount and leave Chess to the rabble, Wulf rode up the dirt path to the front door. He reached down for a loose board once part of the porch railing, tore it free, and smashed out the nearest window. He shouted into the gaping hole and stretched out his senses, but the building had been abandoned to its fate.
He wheeled Chess back to the street and saw Cassidy, one of the Patch vampires. There was fresh blood on the suckling’s mouth, and his eyes gleamed no less red.
“Have you seen Dorothea or le père?” Wulf shouted.
Cassidy smiled, showing his fangs, a sign of disrespect to an elder, but the young one was obviously in the throes of a feeding frenzy. “They were here. They took those of the colony who would go with them.”
“Where?”
“To hell, where else? Lucifer calls for his children this night.” Cassidy licked his lips.
Wulf wasted no more time. He’d get nothing useful from this one. He pointed Chess north, eager to put both the slum and the fire at his back. The whole of Conley’s Patch could burn to the ground for all he cared.
There were any number of houses north of downtown where Doro may have gone, and as long as he could stay ahead of the fire, he’d check every one of them until he found her. But at the corner of Fifth and Water there was a logjam of humanity waiting to cross the bridge over the river, and a bear of a man reared up in front of him waving a gun.
“That’s as far as you go,” he boomed.
Big man, big voice—and his gun was even bigger. The barrel was the size of a small child’s leg. Wulf stared at it, and the man obviously thought the horse was worth more than he was, for he aimed at Wulf’s heart and fired.
Twenty-one
TIME AND A HALF was a wonderful thing when all Kil had to do was dictate reports or conduct an interview, and doing a DA shot or being subpoenaed for trial was a gift from heaven. He loved nothing better than sitting for hours in court, doing absolutely nothing, while waiting for his case to be called, all on the city.
But he hated call-ups on his day off. It was Friday, and he’d planned on taking Candy out to a rare dinner and a movie, but Lt. Butler’s phone call had ordered him to be downtown by six, packed and ready for an overnight trip to Chicago.
He disconnected the call, wishing the cordless phone had a receiver he could slam down like in the old days. “Son of a bitch!” He tried not to swear too much around Candy, but the floodgates were down, and the words poured out. It was more than just going in to work on his day off and changing his plans. It was leaving Candy alone for God knew how long. And it was a two hour drive sitting next to the squid. “Son of a fucking bitch!”
Candy came down from the upstairs bedroom. “John?”
“Lieutenant Butler just called. Duvall and I got called up to go in and pick up all the files on the case. We’re to drive down to Chicago tonight and meet with Chicago PD. I guess they’ve got information they’re willing to share on the two Brothers of the Sun who died in the chase.”
She huffed, but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the first time their plans had been derailed because of the job, and it wouldn’t be the last.
“I’m sorry, babe.”
“Well, it’s not your fault. How long will you be gone?”
He looked at the wall clock. Christ! He only had a half hour to pack. “I don’t know yet. It depends on what CPD has for us.” He started up the stairs. “I’ll have to call you.”
“I’ll fix a thermos and some sandwiches for the drive,” she called up the stairs after him.
“Make it two thermoses. It’s going to be a long night,” he shouted back down.
KIL HADN’T EVEN been driving for an hour and had already downed two sandwiches and most of coffee Candy had packed. He made a pit stop at the rest area at the Wisconsin-Illinois border, and now he was bored. He glanced at Duvall. The squid had never been what you call chatty, but this was ridiculous. His partner hadn’t said one word since they’d pulled out of the police garage.
The sign announcing the first toll booth on the Illinois Tollway gave him an excuse to break the silence. “Hey, gimme some dough.”
Duvall, who’d been staring out the side window for long moments, turned and blinked. “What?”
“The toll. Come on, cough it up. Four bucks. When did it go up from three, anyway?”
“Couple years ago.”
In the dark the squad lurched as it hit an unseen pothole. “Son of a bitch! Fucking highway robbery. What do they spend all that money on, anyway? It sure ain’t the roads.”
Duvall didn’t say anything, but pulled a five out of his wallet and handed it over.
On the other side of the toll, Kil cleared his throat and tried again to engage his partner. “So, ah, this Veronica Main. Nice girl?”
Duvall stared out the side window. “I don’t know.”
What the hell did that mean? Maybe “nice girl” had no meaning for vampires. “Whattya mean you don’t know?”
“Her father owns the plant that bottled the poisoned Magma.”
“The former senator? Jesus. You tell anyone?”
Duvall sighed. “No, no yet.”
Keeping the city from panicking was one thing, but this was too much. “What the hell are we doin’ driving all the way to Chicago? We should be shaking down her old man.”
Duvall turned his head and looked at him, and from the quick glance Kil got of his expression, much the same idea had occurred to him.
“Well, that was my plan until the call-up.”
Kil stared at the road and shook his head. “Listen, I know we have to be careful about what might get leaked out, but we gotta go to the lieut on this one. Force the issue, you know?”
Duvall let out a long sigh. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“How’d you get involved with this girl, anyway?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.”
“You think it was planned?”
Duvall nodded, and over the next quarter hour Kil listened while he told him how he’d met the girl and what had happened when Duvall had confronted her. Kil had thought it strange when the squid first admitted to seeing Veronica Main. It wasn’t totally unheard of for celebrities—actors and sports figures, anyway—to “go vamp” in their choice of
partners, but people in politics and especially in the Midwest just didn’t do things like that. Liberal Hollywood, yes. The Dairy State, no.
Kil wondered if Duvall had actually felt anything for the girl beyond lust. He wondered if Duvall, in all his how-ever-many-hundred, years had ever been in love. He wasn’t about to ask, no way, but it made him think. He tried to imagine his life without Candy, and he couldn’t. How could someone live year after year without having someone to come home to? For the first time, he felt sorry for the squid.
He decided to change the subject. “So you’re from Chicago?”
Duvall nodded.
“When did you leave and move to Chi-No?”
“During the war.”
“Why? Because all the other vampires did?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Duvall looked at him, and Kil glanced his way. In the dark, he couldn’t read the squid’s expression.
“It’s a long story.”
IT WAS A LONG story. Vall hated thinking about Veronica, but he hated thinking about Cade even more. And yet he had no choice. He was going to Chicago, and Chicago meant Cade. Home, he’d almost thought. I’m going home.
It had been almost twenty years since he’d left, a mere bat of an eyelid for a vampire. In some ways it did seem a blink in time. In other ways, it seemed like an eternity, for the whole world had changed.
Why had he left? asked the meatball. Duvall could have given Kilpatrick lots of easy answers, none of which would have made any sense to a human. Because Dorothea and le père were dead. Because Hell filled Chicago with one too many bad memories. Because Cade had left the peace negotiations up to idiots like Nestor. And because Vall hated Cade like a child hates a father who abandons his family.
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