Bloodfire (Empire of Fangs) (8 page)

PART TWO:

WELCOME TO THE ALISTAIR

12.

The hotel lobby was brightly lit from several domed lamps positioned around the room, as well as a chandelier that hung over the center of the room.
 
The check-in counter was a stout wall of smooth dark wood, topped with a lighter slab of blond pine, polished and gleaming to perfection.
 
The spacious room was accented with antlers and black and white photos of miners and cowboys, and framed collages of newspaper clippings documenting moments of justice or injustice dealt or perpetrated throughout the town’s history.
 
Burgundy curtains hid the windows. Tall, stuffy leather chairs with deep dimpled buttons were aimed at a fireplace across the room where a heavy-looking brass cage guarded the burning log inside.
 

Twig walked over to the counter and rang the fat silver bell on the counter six times.
 
Finally a gaunt little man whose head barely crested the counter appeared.
 
He wore a stiff blue uniform with red trim. His eyes looked like to little marbles set in clay, and he beamed at Twig with a toothy smile.

“Welcome to the Alistair,” he said, spreading his hands across the counter.

“Thanks.
 
Uh, we need a room for the night.”

“Well you have come to the right place,” the little man said.
 
He stared at Twig for a moment and Twig shifted awkwardly.
 
Twig hoped the haircut and the lack of mustache was enough of a disguise.
 

“Your name?” The man asked, still grinning eagerly.

“Oh, uh yeah.”
 
Twig dug in his wallet and put an ID down on the table.
 

The man took down the name in a small notebook.
 
“Thank you mister Bell.”

“You know they got these things called computers right?”
 
Twig said laughing as the man wrote.

“Not in the Alistair they don’t,” he said, obviously perturbed by the comment but retaining his professional tone.
 
“The hotel has stayed exactly as it was when it was built in forty-four.
 

“So no HBO?” Twig asked.

“I’m afraid not,” the little man said with a shrug.
 
“But I think you will find the atmosphere does not suffer from it.
 
Will you be needing two beds or one?”

Twig blushed a bit and looked over at Zara.
 
She was entranced by the gilded brass cage that protected the fireplace, where a black log was popping inside.
 
Twig shook his head, “Um, two would be good.”

The man nodded.
 
He looked over at a big wall of keys and plucked one of the sets from its hook.
 
“Room 6B.
 
Lovely.
 
Top floor at the end.
 
Very private.”
 

Twig coughed uncomfortably and took the keys from the man’s outstretched hand.
 
“Cool.
 
Thanks.”
 

“There is a drawing room down that hall, and a saloon down the street if that is more suited to your tastes.
 
Just please, respect our other guests and keep the noise to a minimum.
 
We have a stern policy against unruly behavior.”
 

Twig nodded again and went over to Zara, who was sitting in a big plush leather chair, watching the fire.

“We’re set.”

Zara seemed lost in the fire.
 
“It doesn’t judge, does it.”
 

Twig looked puzzled.
 
“What doesn’t judge?”

“Fire,” Zara said listlessly.
 

Twig looked back at the little man who was eyeing them curiously.
 
Twig whispered into Zara’s ear.

“Maybe not, but this guy is judging like crazy over there.
 
Can we go to the room now?”

Zara nodded, still gazing at the fire as she got up and followed Twig.

They walked up the stairs.
 
Twig marveled at the brass lanterns affixed to the walls and the intricately carved grooves in the wooden rails that twisted like soft-serve ice cream.
 

Twig paused on the second floor and looked at Zara.
 
“Are you okay?
 
You’ve been pretty out of it lately.”

She gave him an annoyed look.
 
“I’m fine.
 
Just tired of running is all.”

“We’re not
gonna
run forever.
 
We’re just regrouping is all.
 
We can’t beat them without a good plan.
 
Damon would love it if we charged in unprepared.
 
We can’t play into their hands like that.”

“Maybe you’re afraid,” Zara said coldly, “but I’m not anymore. Maybe I should go back alone.”
 
She shoved by Twig and marched up the stairs. Twig flung the keys up the stairs past her.

“I don’t need this,” Twig said.
 
“Do what you want to do.
 
What do I know anyway?
 
I think I’ll go have a drink.”
 

“Of course,” Zara muttered as she picked up the keys.
 
“Go get your courage from a bottle.”

“As opposed to getting it from a neck?” Twig retorted.

She looked back now, anger and sadness painted across her face.
 
“Get your own room.
 
I don’t think I want you around tonight.”
 

She walked away, leaving Twig looking up the stairs at a small chandelier with dangling crystals.
 

“Whatever,” he muttered, and stomped loudly down the stairs and back into the lobby.
 
He got another set of keys from the shriveled munchkin and handed him another hundred.
 
Twig looked down at his wolf shirt while he waited for the new set of keys, feeling quite absurd.
 

He went out the front door and into the dark street.
 
The air was smoky and the usual audience of stars didn’t gaze down on him.
 
He wondered how his dad was doing as he walked down the stiff planks of the sidewalk, past his murky, bent reflection in the windows of the closed storefronts.
 

13.

The funeral for Micah
Caspari
was a rather private affair.
 
Only family were permitted to attend the funeral, although all were invited to Micah’s former bar, the Church, the following day, where all of Micah’s forlorn friends had a one-night all-you-can-drink tab waiting for them at the bar, paid for by Damon.
 

Micah had been swept into a vase already, his bloody clothes sent to the incinerator.
 
He was already on the shelf in the foyer of Damon’s new house, formerly the Winters’ estate.
 
Drake and Abby, Damon and Norah, stood there, heads bowed, while Doctor Reynolds paced the kitchen.
 

When the moment of silence was over, Damon sent the women to away, so that he might talk to Drake in private.
 

“So the father is gone.
 
You are sure?” he asked while retrieving a cigar from a small box next to his dead son.
 
He checked his teeth in the reflection.
 

“Yes,” Drake said solemnly.
 
He was looking out the window at the big yard.

“And your face? Was that his work?”

“Yes,” Drake repeated.
 
He turned away from his mentor.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.
 
I’ll have one of our surgeons take a look once we’ve settled things with…that girl.”

Drake nodded, and looked over at the vase.

“He was always too soft for war.
 
To kind for what he was.”

Damon lit his cigar and snapped loudly.
 
“Reynolds, scotch!” he barked.
 
In the kitchen, something crashed loudly and then the whimper of an apology followed.

 
“Right away sir!”

Damon puffed and looked at the vase.
 
“It’s true.
 
I often wondered how such a person could be of my blood.
 
Perhaps he wasn’t.”

Drake looked perplexed.
 
“Of course he was.
 
No man was stupid enough to go near Vivien
Zokos
.
 
Plus, he had your eyes.”

“Not always.”

Drake shrugged.
 
“What’s it matter now?
 
He’s gone.
 
And so is Vivian and Jonas.
 
We are but three.
 
We need to recruit, and fast. What about Norah?”

“I need her as is.
 
Her dealings require her to remain human, for now.”

“We need soldiers, not politicians.
 
You think the
Lesai
clan is going be up for a political discussion when they pounce?”

“I know all this, boy!” Damon snapped.
 
He took a deep breath of cigar smoke and relaxed a bit.
 
“I know this well.”
 
He moved closer to Drake.
 

“The Lee girl,” he said calmly.

“Safe in the basement, although I don’t see a point—”

“Don’t second guess me.
 
You focus on your duties and let me handle mine.
 
As we speak a law is being voted on.
 
A complete lift on genetic research regulations.
 
I have a fully staffed facility counting the minutes before they can start synthesizing.
 
Lee knows everything that James
Sollero
once kept in that head of his and much more.”

Drake smiled at the crafty general.
 
“You’re
gonna
have her make you some of that liquid sunlight, to use on the other clans?”

“Yes, as well as a second serum.
 
An inoculation.
 
But those are only theories as of now.
 
But I do have something special from the lab that might dispel any doubts as to their skills.”
 
He reached out his hand behind him and Reynolds placed a glass of scotch in it.
 
“Out worm,” Damon said.
 
He reached into his pocket and carefully handed Drake a small vial filled with a black substance.

Drake waited for the shameful human to exit.
 
“And this will do what exactly?” He turned around in the light.

“It will give you your army.”
 
Damon blew a big plume of smoke at the vase, where his first-born resided as dust.