“Yes.”
Leaning back in his seat, he took in mouthful of
smoke. "So, Malie, where do I fit in?"
*
*
*
When
Ruegger left Maleasoel and Captain D’Aguila, he went looking for Kharker. At
first he tried the Elephant Room, then the Hunter’s bedchamber, but when
neither of those places yielded results, Ruegger realized where his old friend
must be.
Accompanied by several Libertarian guards, he
made his way down to the wine cellar and paused on the landing overlooking the
immense chamber. There stood Jean-Pierre, leaning against the railing and
looking sadly down into the room. Arrayed about him were several guards, which
told Ruegger that Malie trusted the albino no more than she trusted him.
When he heard Ruegger approach, Jean-Pierre gave
a weak smile. Ruegger offered a hand in greeting. Without much hesitation,
Jean-Pierre accepted it, and they shook as if they were actually friends. And,
in that moment, it struck Ruegger that the albino was now his friend despite
everything.
Seeming to pick up on the Darkling’s mood, Jean-Pierre
nodded. “You know that sometimes childhood friends will prick themselves with
needles and exchange blood in order to become blood-brothers.” He paused. “I
think, Ruegger, that you and I have exchanged enough blood
…
”
“Yes,” Ruegger said, and smiled. “Blood-brothers
we are. Where’s Kharker?”
The albino gestured toward one of the side
tunnels that branched off from the main chamber. Outside of the tunnel, several
Liberians loitered, every now and then glancing inside.
“There.”
It was the tunnel through which Ruegger had fled
from Captain D’Aguila, and the Darkling could only imagine what horror Kharker
must be experiencing at this very moment as he surveyed the ruin of his life’s
work.
Kharker emerged from the tunnel, clutching a
broken bottle to his chest. Tears stained his cheeks, but his eyes seemed
clear. Pausing for a moment to look up at his two adopted sons, the Hunter made
his way around the maze and up to the landing to meet them.
After nodding to the Darkling, Kharker said, “You
talked with Maleasoel?”
“Yes.”
“She told you the plan?” Kharker looked
skeptical.
“If such it can be
called.
I can’t believe we’re going through with this. It just seems too ...
half-assed.
And wrong.”
Jean-Pierre nodded. “I talked to her, too.”
Lowering his voice, he said, “But is there any way out of it?”
Surrounded by guards, the three of them stood
there for several minutes, thinking, but none had an answer.
Finally, Jean-Pierre turned his eyes to the
broken bottle that Kharker held.
“What’s that?”
Sadly, the Hunter lowered his gaze to the ruined
vessel and for a moment Ruegger thought he might start crying again. But, after
a deep breath, Kharker said with a clear voice, “This bottle saved my life
once.”
He raised it into the air so that its ragged
edges caught the light. Then, with a violent sweep of his arm, Kharker threw it
over the railing so that it soared out over the fragrant wasteland and fell
behind an overturned rack. Kharker wiped at an eye and smiled grimly. “I guess
that’s all I needed it for. Now I’ve got to find something else.”
Tiredly, he turned to his sons and clapped a
hand their shoulders. “Boys,” he said, “I think a new era has
began
. It’s time to go to war.”
*
*
*
However,
as Jean-Pierre looked into Kharker’s eyes, feeling the grip of the Hunter’s
hand on his shoulder, he knew they were keeping something back from Ruegger.
There was something, a being of which Ruegger could have no
knowledge,
that
by its very existence had probably doomed Maleasoel’s invasion of
the Castle before it had even begun.
Though the creature had no real name that
Jean-Pierre knew of, it was called the Sabo, and he knew that since Kharker had
kept the creature a secret from Ludwig’s widow, he had already broken his word to
her: Gavin’s death would be avenged no matter what.
Jean-Pierre wondered what other promises the
Hunter might break and, further, if he should even stick around to find out.
Then again, as Kharker himself had said, it was
time to go to war. And Jean-Pierre had things to fight about.
Chapter 8
Restless,
Danielle watched the battle below. She turned to look at Loirot beside her, but
he seemed engrossed in the fight.
"This is stupid," she said, over the
roar of the crowd, who shouted down insults and praise at the pugilists.
"It's the Arena of Death," he
responded. "They're fighting over who'll be the successor to Roche
Sarnova. You don't find that interesting?
Even a
little?"
"No."
"Look at them, Danielle."
"I'm looking."
"See those two?"
"Despite my best
efforts, Loirot."
"Well, study them. Imagine one of them as
the next Dark Lord. Can you see it?"
"Honestly? No."
"That's the point! These fights will
determine the next leader of the undead. It's like the election of an American
President, but this is more primal."
"Somewhat."
He smiled. "When eight victors of the Arena
have been chosen, they’ll play each other in chess until only one remains. He
will then be Sarnova's successor. Isn't it fascinating?"
"Make a good term paper."
"You have a bad attitude, Danielle."
"Well, maybe I could actually enjoy this
show a little if I didn't have to have one of you following me around all the
damned time."
"Forget it. We're not going to give you the
run of the place, not till we get word from Vistrot."
"Which you
should've gotten by now."
Suddenly, Loirot's beautiful face looked
disturbed. "Yes," he whispered. "Something must have gone wrong."
Danielle groaned and leaned back in her seat.
They hadn't even let her kill Malcolm yet—ostensibly the reason she'd come in
the first place.
Their reasoning was that her foster brother was
the only real leash they had on her. If they allowed her the time with him she
was due, he’d be dead and then there wouldn't be any incentive for her to stay.
For, even though at least one of the death-squad was with her at all times
(usually Loirot, but sometimes Byron) it wouldn't be that hard for her to slip
away into the throng. She couldn't do that, though, unless she was willing to
give up killing Malcolm. And, since she didn't even know where he was being
held in the castle, she had to be a good girl and stick with Cloire and the rest
of her crew. It
was
the she-wolf’s
crew, let there be no mistake. Kilian had some say in their affairs, but Cloire
was the final word in all things.
Danielle retrieved a pack of Reds from her black
jeans and lit one up.
"Can I have one?" Loirot asked.
Gritting her teeth, she gave him one, feeling
his fingers brush her hand as she did so. For the past several days, she'd
suspected he had a crush on her and wasn't inclined to indulge it, something
she might have found amusing if Ruegger had been with her.
She
kept wanting
to
glance to her side to share a look with him, or to hold his hand, or to run her
fingers through his hair, but he was never there. How could she have
done
what she had? She'd left him ... alone,
with
Kharker
... just because she had
to
kill
somebody.
Stupid,
stupid, stupid.
Yet Malcolm
waited ...
Loirot lit his cigarette and smiled, the
nostrils of his aristocratic nose flaring. "Can you smell their
blood?"
"The fighters?
Yeah, it smells great,
Loirot.
Real good.
Now can we go do something else for
awhile?"
"Like what?"
"I have this incredible urge to
floss."
"I'm trying to be patient, Danielle. But
come on, this fight's almost over, and it's the last one of the evening.
Okay?"
"Okay," she groaned, and tried to
watch the fight.
It wasn't much different from the others.
Really, the Arena was just a pit with a sandy floor covered by a dome woven
from beams of titanium, like something from a Mad Max movie. This allowed the
audience to see in but prevented the pugilists from making an easy escape.
Stadium seats surrounded the Arena. At present,
Danielle estimated there were almost a hundred and fifty shades among the
audience—well over half of the immortal population here (not counting the
soldiers)—and twice that number of human servants. She wondered if Harry was
there, somewhere, but couldn't pick him out; unlike the Gutter Angel, Cloire
had allowed him to run free throughout the Castle. For some odd reason, the
she-wolf liked him.
Danielle scanned the audience, looking for a
friendly face. Every now and then she'd see someone she recognized—but no one
she especially wanted to fraternize with. Kiernevar perched on the side facing
her, down on the first row.
He was a familiar sight, and she assumed he
watched every single fight. He was there every time she attended—which was most
of the time, because of fucking Loirot. Yesterday, Kiernevar had approached her
and she'd bought him a hot-dog, hoping that he'd feel up to talking with her,
but he only smiled and acted all fidgety. Today, though, he didn't seem to be
in such a friendly mood. She watched Kiernevar for a moment, studying the
intense and barely-coherent look he wore, and wondered what he was thinking. He
was watching the fights, watching them
hard
.
She turned her gaze back to the Arena. The two
combatants had been warring for over two hours, but then that was the nature of
scrapes between immortals. They were
either short and
sweet or they dragged out forever. This one had lasted long enough for the
vendors to temporarily run out of peanuts, although their smell still lingered
pleasantly.
Just now, the warriors were beginning to tire. One
of the pugilists was a morbine, she saw, like Ludwig. The thought made her cringe.
Feeding off of brain fluid …
The other contestant was some sort of shapeshifter
that had taken on the form of a dragon—an ancient Chinese sort. Long, colorful
and snake-like, with no legs but a dragon head (bristling with whiskers, no
less), bony fins that sprouted here and there along its body and sharp ridges along
its spine.
To Danielle, it seemed unfair to pit a static
form up against a shapeshifter, but the morbine seemed to be getting along
okay. Though surely it was only a matter of time—
The serpent snaked toward its opponent, who
realized what his enemy was up to but couldn't do much about it. The dragon
wrapped its length around the man, like a python might a goat, and started
squeezing, while its mouth neared the morbine's head. Luckily, the man had
gotten his arms free in time, and he gripped the serpent's mouth, holding it
open.
Danielle fought the urge to yawn. This same
scenario had repeated itself a countless number of times in the last two hours
and always ended the same way.
A stalemate.
This time the man yanked the dragon's jaws apart
so hard that she could hear the
crack
as bones broke and tendons tore.
Instantly, the serpent uncoiled itself and slunk off to a corner to lick its
wounds and mend.
The morbine
followed,
eager for the kill.
The dragon whipped its tail, knocking the man's
legs out from under him, and even as he fell the creature pounced.
It coiled itself about him so that his arms were
pinned tightly against his sides, and without hesitation—without so much as a
showman's pause—it inserted the man's head into its mouth and sank its teeth
into his neck. The morbine's immortal flesh resisted, and for a moment Danielle
thought the dragon's jaw would be too badly damaged to close, but the
creature's teeth were sharp and swift and soon the serpent jerked its head away
and a fount of blood exploded from the morbine's neck.
The worm uncoiled itself, spat the head onto the
ground and began dismembering the body of its rival. When this was done and the
body was not likely to be salvageable, the creature moved over to the head,
gingerly taking it between cruel teeth. It raised the head as high as it could
into the air and waited for the crowd to cheer. Thus encouraged, it began to
chew.
A showman after all.
Beside her, Loirot clapped and whistled.
"Good show!" He turned to Danielle, smiling, almost boyish. "Don't
you think,
Dani
?"
"Two thumbs up. Let's get the hell out of
here."
"It's not over, yet. Remember, this isn't
just a fight, it's a formal ceremony."
"Yeah, right."
Slowly, the dragon resumed its human shape—a
woman named Lyshira, remembered Danielle. Tall, attractive, red-haired, naked,
covered in blood and smiling triumphantly, she waved her hands as flowers and
other objects arced down toward her.
On opposite sides of the caged Arena, two doors led
from the underground tunnels from which the pugilists had entered. From one of
these, Roche Sarnova himself emerged, accompanied by a host of guards. In one
arm, he held a robe.
In the other, something shiny.
He
nodded to his followers and smiled. They roared approval.
"They love him, don't they?" said
Loirot admiringly.
"They do," answered Danielle.
"He's a hell of a lot more than a
figurehead to these people, that's for sure. They worship him."
"And you? You seem awful reverential."
"I think he's one of the greatest beings
that’s
ever lived."
"Don't hold back now."
"You know I was never made a
lychen
—I was born one, in Italy. I grew up on tales of Roche Sarnova.
I wanted to be just like him when I grew up."
"So join the fights. Become his heir."
"No," he said, chuckling nervously.
"Why not?"
"You see that dragon-lady, Lyshira? She's
nine hundred years old, and she's young for these contests.
Very
strong, but young.
I'm not even three hundred, yet." He shook his
head, a little sadly. "No, I would be eaten alive."
Below, the Dark Lord stepped up to the victor and
draped the robe about her, although she didn't allow the garment to cover
everything. There were fans to please, after all. Still, she accepted the gesture,
even acting a bit submissive in his presence. Roche held something up to the
light for all to see; a silver medallion on a thick silver chain.
Lyshira lowered her head and he placed the
necklace about her. He took one of her hands and raised it into the air as if
this were the climactic moment of a boxing match, and the crowd roared louder.
Roche Sarnova bowed and re-entered the tunnel,
his guards swept up in his wake.
"He's got style, doesn't he?" said
Loirot.
"He does at that."
"What? You don't like him?"
Danielle shrugged, not wanting to get into a
discussion like this with Loirot. Then again, she had no one else to talk to,
except Harry, and he was never around.
"Yeah," she admitted. "I like old
Blackie. To be honest, I respect the hell out of him for what he's trying to do
here. It just seems absurd to me that none of his followers actually know what
the War is all about. Maybe his officers do, but the rest of them don't.
They're just following him blindly because they always have. That disgusts
me."
"What are you talking about? You know the
reason behind the War of the Dark Council?"
"Yes. And it's a good reason, but if
Sarnova wants to keep it a secret, it's not up to me to tell you."
"I don't understand."
She patted his knee. "I don't either,
Loirot. All I know is Sarnova wants the Dark Council to back him up on his plan
before he spills the beans to everyone else, and I think he's an idiot for
doing that. He should hold a meeting and go ahead and tell everyone that he
wants to—" She stopped herself.
"What?"
"Oh, forget it. It's up to him. I guess
he's afraid that if he tells everyone what he intends to do, they'd revolt
against him. It is a revolutionary idea, after all."
"Tell me what you mean."
"Maybe another time.
I'm just
frustrated."
He smiled. "Then I could—"
"Save it. Let's go get someone to
eat."
"Come
on
.
There's another fight. It's not formal, like this one was, but it should be a
good one. It's a personal dispute, a duel."
"A duel?"
"Yeah, Sarnova has decided to allow
mutually willing shades to fight out their problems in the Arena."
"Why?"
"To build moral, to
psyche everyone up for battle.
Not only that, but it's a way of resolving
personal disputes—something he's trying to cut down on. You
know,
an attempt to bring unity."