"Out of her
pants?"
"Oh yeah."
"What was it?"
"A CD."
"As in music?"
"Not just any music. She pulled out a
classical CD. The first song on it was ‘Night on Bald Mountain’."
"The song you always kill to."
"The song I listen to when I kill Malcolm's
gang, yes. Oh, she was smooth, Harry. She pulled it out of her pants, this big
oh-I've-got-ya-now smile on her face and held the disc up to the moon. It
glittered, Harry. It fucking
glittered
.
And I knew right then I couldn't say
No
. I'd go with
Cloire, I'd kill that fucking bastard, and it would be done with. That was all
there was to it.
Easy as pie."
He nodded. "I remember, when my wife was
killed, and my kids—you know about that?"
"I know. Some jandrows killed her in
retaliation for you killing one of them."
"Something
like
that. They wouldn't kill me, though, because I'd become something of a
curiosity to other shades and they didn't want to start a war. But they didn't count
on my immortal friends—although I don't really think of them that way—well, the
murderers that killed my family didn't count on them being so loyal to me. They
were, though, and each one in turn, the ones who'd killed my wife and kids,
were hunted down. On two occasions my friends brought one of the murderers home
and let me deliver the final blows. Anyway, so I know what vengeance feels
like. That’s why I feel qualified to give you advice."
"And you want me to let Malcolm be."
"Yes."
"But ... Harry ...
think
of it this way. You
avenged
your wife and kids. You got—"
"Closure."
"Exactly.
You got closure. How
would you feel knowing one of those murderers was still out there, still
capable of having fun, when your wife and kids won't ever be able to again?"
He chewed this over, took a drink from his
glass, and said nothing.
"Yes, Harry,” she said, nodding. “You got
yours.
And I want mine.
GodDAMNit
, I want mine!
"
Finally he could hear
the emotion in her voice, the desperation.
The
need
.
He understood and knew that anything he said about the matter now would have no
effect. She would do what she would with Martin, and if Harry had to take
Ascott's
body back to his family in pieces, so be it.
*
*
*
The
death-squad and its prisoners, Danielle and Harry Lavaca, were staying in three
lavish rooms in one of the nicest wings of the castle. Connecting doors linked
the rooms. On one end stood Cloire's quarters; though she didn’t sleep alone,
her partner varied. In the middle slept Harry and Kiernevar. Of course, they
had a roommate, but this roommate—either Byron or Kilian—depended on whom
Cloire picked that night. The far room was reserved for Danielle and Loirot.
The rooms themselves had been given to the
death-squad because they represented the interests of the Titan, and so it
served their interests to call themselves diplomats. Supposedly, they were here
on Vistrot's behalf, awaiting word from him. The Dark Lord seemed skeptical,
but he needed all the allies he could get at the moment and Vistrot was certainly
powerful enough not to be dismissed. So, for the time being, the death-squad
had the run of the castle.
In her room, on her bed, Cloire smoked a Camel
and stared up at the intricately-detailed ceiling fan.
"This is fucking heaven," she said.
"Yeah," agreed Byron, lying beside
her.
"But why the fuck hasn't Vistrot gotten in
touch with us?"
"That's a very good question."
She growled. "Stop agreeing with me,
goddamnit."
"What am I supposed
to say, that Vistrot's been Scoured?
Isn't that what we're all thinking?"
"I don't know, but I don't need a fucking
yes-man. Loirot fills that role already. What I need from you is strength and
at least a
show
at leadership. You used to be Jean-Pierre's right-hand
man. Why can't you be mine?"
"You know why," he said, his voice
quiet.
"Because I'm
fucking Kilian?
It means nothing. I've fucked other guys before.
Girls,
too."
"And I didn't like it, then. But this is
personal. I've known Kilian for a long time. And it's business, too, because it
affects the dynamics of the crew. Cloire, it needs to stop."
She bristled. "You get your spine at all the
wrong moments, you stupid Aussie bastard."
"I'm serious, Cloire."
"I know you are."
"It needs to stop."
She shot to her knees and slapped him hard
across the face. "How dare you give me
orders!
"
He lurched up in bed. Immediately, she was on
her feet, towering over him,
the
breeze from the fan
stirring her multi-colored hair. He laid back on the bed, helpless at her feet,
a sheet thrown across him at the waist and the round impression of his big head
branded into a silken pillow. She could feel her face become livid, the blood
smashing through her as if preparing for war.
"Calm down," he said.
"I will
not
.
I'll do whatever the hell I please."
"That's exactly what's wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"I think we should go back to
Jean-Pierre."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"No, Byron, I don't think I did. You want
the Ivory Bastard to be our leader again?"
"That's right. He would know what to do
now."
She sneered. "He'd be following Danielle
around, his stupid tongue hanging out of his mouth, and leave us to rot in the
wind. We'd fall apart, just like we did before."
"Maybe.
But it's a risk worth
taking. I mean, what
are
we going to do? Vistrot should've contacted us
a week ago."
She sucked at her cigarette. Byron had a point, but
he was too simple to grasp the complexities of the situation. As usual, it was
up to her.
"Well, as it happens, I've been
thinking," she said.
"About what?"
"I think the only recourse is to get the
hell out of here and go back to New
York, find out for ourselves what's happened to the
Titan. Besides, things are winding up here, I think. There's something in the
air.
Something bad."
"Yeah," he admitted. "I feel it,
too."
"You're agreeing with me again."
"I guess Kilian never agrees with you,
huh?"
"As a matter of fact, he doesn't. Not
often.
But back to the matter of the moment.
I hate to
leave all this luxury behind, but we need to jet. And bring Danielle along for
the ride."
"What if Vistrot's
been Scoured?"
"We’ll piss off that bridge when we come to
it."
“That’s no sort of answer.”
She frowned. What if Vistrot
had
been
Scoured
? She could hardly imagine life without the Titan.
The position he'd given her had brought her respect and purpose.
Even a singing career.
"If he's dead," she said slowly,
"then we start over."
"What does that mean?"
"I guess we’ll figure that out then."
He rubbed his scalp. "When are we leaving?
We should give him a few more days, just in case. Maybe there was a crisis ..."
She nodded. "Yeah, we'll give him a few
more days, no more. We could get trapped here, living like kings. Hell, they
bring us humans to eat right here in our rooms! And they have a chute that we
can throw the remains in!"
“Fuck it,” he said. “And fuck this castle. I
miss the smog.”
"That's the spirit. Not quite as much of a
shitheel
as Kilian, but you're learning."
Chapter 9
After
leaving Harry in the bar, Danielle led Loirot up a few floors toward a
restaurant. She didn't really want to go there, but she was hungry and didn't
want to return to her lair for room-service at the moment as that would only
invite Loirot to start in with his Rico Suave routine.
The restaurant, a world-famous eatery called The
Blood and Stone, jutted from the second-to-highest floor of the castle. An attractively
dressed ghensiv waited at its entrance (just a plain wooden door with a brass
knob along the hallway) and greeted Danielle and Loirot as they ducked inside.
There was a small, stone-walled foyer, empty and lit only by candles, which led
into a much larger room beyond, where the
maitre'd
stood in an old-fashioned Dracula-esque tuxedo behind an antique wooden
counter.
"Welcome to
The
Blood and Stone. Would you prefer to sit inside or out?"
"Out," said Danielle.
"Very well, my
dear."
He showed them through the large and low-ceilinged
dining room, mostly empty, and out onto one of the several large wrought-iron
balconies, arranged like shelves along the face of the castle. Wide staircases
of wrought-iron connected them. The terraces, which seemed to be doing a brisk
business, looked down from the mountain onto the frigid and withering valley
below, a frozen wasteland. The valley was steep and narrow, bordered on all
sides by large and unusually sharp-looking mountains.
The
Carpathians.
They were beautiful, thought Danielle, and turned to share
a glance with Ruegger, who wasn't there. Instead, Loirot grinned back and
muscled the
maitre'd
out of the way to pull out a
chair for her.
"Thanks," she muttered.
"Anytime," he responded, and occupied
the seat opposite her.
Danielle shuddered. Despite the heating lamps,
it was
cold
out here. Maybe when she got older it wouldn't bother her so
much, but god
damn
. She’d wanted to sit out here to get out of the stuffy
corridors and enjoy the view, but she was beginning to regret it.
"Would you like a jacket, my dear?"
asked the
maitre'd
.
"That'd be nice."
"Of course.
I'll have your waiter
bring one out directly."
"What if it gets stained?"
He smiled. "Don't worry, my dear. Blood
comes out."
As he stalked away, the swinging black tails of
his tuxedo seemed to her like the shadows that fangs might throw. Resisting
another urge to shudder, she lit a cigarette and leaned her head out over the
railing so that she could see the mountain that fell away below. Small flurries
of snow gusted, spiraling down past the other terraces and into the abyss so
that she couldn't distinguish their patterns from the overall whiteness. It was
a
long
way down.
"Almost as beautiful as you," said
Loirot, half dreamy, half hammy.
"Give it a rest, already, or I'll get my
boyfriend to beat you to a bloody pulp."
"Is that what Ruegger is to you?
A boyfriend?"
"I was joking, Loirot."
"I know. But I'm serious. What exactly
is
Ruegger to you?"
"I have no idea.
My
lover, my companion, my friend, my soul-mate.
Something along those
lines, I guess."
"Ever cheated on him?"
"Never.
Jesus, Loirot."
"Don’t play so coy. You kill to live, just
like any of us."
"I only kill bad guys.
Your
victims are innocent. Or, at least, you don't discriminate
between innocent and evil."
"Meat is meat."
The waiter arrived with the jacket and passed
out menus to Danielle and Loirot, then accepted drink orders. Danielle ordered
a root beer and Loirot a glass of champagne.
When the waiter was gone, Danielle said to
Loirot, "How can you have no respect for intelligent life?"
"
Dani
... I hate
to break this to you ... but I'm an assassin. Guilty, innocent, it doesn't
matter to me. It really doesn't. I kill who Vistrot says to kill."
"What if it was your own mother?"
"I killed my mother. She bore me as a slave
to serve her. When I was old enough, I liberated myself through her
destruction."
“Jesus.”
"Face it, Danielle. Morality is a concept
created by people who spend too much time thinking and not enough time
doing."
"Loirot, that's not just
self-serving
:
it's idiotic."
"No, think about it. I mean, look at it
this way—what forms of life have the purest values?"
"Obviously not
werewolves."
"No, but close.
Animals."
"Animals."
"Animals can't sin simply because they
can't conceive of sin. They have no laws to break, so they break no laws. In my
own life, I base my morality on animals."
"It's all starting to make sense."
"I choose not to exercise the part of my
brain responsible for morality, which is as close as I can come to not having
it in the first place. For me, there is no sin, only life, and the different
ways to live it."
"So you're stupid on purpose."
He seemed to want to respond to that, but
couldn't seem to think of an answer, so he began to peruse his menu. Tired of
the conversation, Danielle did the same.
Catch of the day ... ask server for details.
She glanced under the heading "Villain
Eaters”, the section of the menu reserved for moral clients. As she did, she
wondered if she was the only one in the whole castle that would order from this
section.
Surely
she wasn't alone. Just
the thought that she was completely surrounded by nothing but evil petrified
her. If she didn't watch it, she'd have to lean over the side of the terrace
and puke. From this height, her vomit would probably freeze before it hit the
ground. Tomorrow's headlines: "Innocent mountain-goat killed by frozen
barf".
The Villain Eaters section of the menu was also
jokingly called the "Vegetarian Section"; some
bloodmongers
mockingly referred to moral shades as "vegetarians", a play off of
the American expression "Real men eat meat". To those that thought
this way, Danielle and other more principled shades
were
weak, inferior.
She stubbed out her cigarette and studied the
menu.
Well, they did have some interesting entrees.
Not only did they have humans from all over the world, but the chefs were
experts at creating "sauces" which they injected into the bloodstream
of a meal before it was to be consumed. Danielle decided on a strawberry
flavor, folded the menu and leaned back in the chair, crossing her legs.
Loirot took his time deciding what (or whom) he
wanted to eat, so she didn't have to make conversation with him before the
waiter arrived and took their orders.
"What's the catch of the day?" asked
Loirot.
"A good choice," said the waiter.
"We just received a small shipload of young Japanese boys. The chefs have
prepared a special sauce just for them, to compliment their unique taste."
Loirot wrinkled his face disdainfully.
"I've never liked chink meat. How are the gypsy girls today?"
"Young," the waiter said with a smile.
"And very beautiful.
May I suggest a
flavoring?"
"That won't be necessary. But what I would
like ... ah, may I get one of your private dining rooms ... that is, if
Danielle doesn't object?"
"You’re disgusting,” she said.
The waiter lifted up his hands apologetically.
"I'm sorry, sir, but all our private rooms are booked. You must make a
reservation first, I'm afraid. Of course, there is a waiting line for
cancellations
... ?"
"No, no," said Loirot. "Just
bring me a gypsy girl. And can I get your Rum Rumble flavor?"
"Of course, sir.
Now what would
you
like, ma'am?"
She told him,
then
asked, "Just what kind of villains do you have today?"
"You ordered off the Murder List."
"I know, but I mean what
kind
of
murder?"
The waiter frowned. "I really don't know,
but if you'd like I could ask the manager on duty?"
"I'd feel a little more comfortable that
way."
"It won't be a problem. I'm sure you're not
the sort of girl that is used to being served like this."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Only that you look like the kind of girl
who usually picks her own meal."
She wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not.
It might be his way of saying she was white-trash, and she really hated that.
It might've been okay if he was white-trash, too, but if he was looking down on
her, then she would find some way—
"If there's anything else I can get
you," the waiter said, "just call."
"Uh, thanks."
"Prick," muttered Loirot, when he was
gone. "No private rooms, my ass. I should've told him I was one of
Vistrot's diplomats—that would've got him hopping."
"Oh, shut up. You just wanted to rape that
poor girl."
"Well, that's what the private rooms are
for.”
Before too long, the waiter returned. "I
talked to the manager, and I found out that the only man we have of the profile
you ordered,
ma’am,
is, indeed, a murderer, as you
desired."
"But what did he do?
Exactly?"
"He killed a man that he claims tried to
mug him."
"Where did this happen?"
"In Budapest."
"A mugging in Budapest?
Well, it's a likely
place for it. No, I don't want him. He doesn't deserve to die."
Loirot coughed. "Danielle," he said.
"Someone else will just come along after you and have him."
"Well, it won't be me." She turned
back to the waiter, who was politely expressionless. "What else you
got?"
The waiter nodded. "I thought you might say
that, so I asked the manager about the worst criminal we have at the
moment."
"And?"
"He's a skinhead from Liverpool
who killed one of his comrades for sleeping with a black girl. Then he killed
the girl for good measure."
"Yeah," she said. "He'll
do."
The dinner went well, or as well as it could.
The mortals were served, naked, tastefully bound and gagged, on large silver
platters, and placed before Danielle and Loirot respectively. After overcoming
her queasiness at this whole thing, she bit into her meal and started feeding,
taking pauses now and then to sip her root beer or to stare out at the
mountains. The flavoring of the blood was rich, but not too sweet, which was
good. Whatever the chefs had put in there gave her a good little buzz, too.
The biggest part about the dinner that bothered
her was Loirot, who took his time killing his meal. Of course, werewolves could
only feed off of living and/or recently dead bodies, but this was no excuse to
eat the poor girl, slowly, bite by bite, with a fork and knife, which is just
what Loirot did.
After the first few minutes, Danielle killed the
poor girl with one swift stroke, a knife through her heart, ending the girl’s
torment.
“Why did you
do
that?” Loirot all but shouted, looking perplexed, even dangerous.
Danielle stared at him. “I was practicing for
you.”
His mouth was smeared in blood and a piece of
flesh stuck to his chin. "You're about to cry,”
he
said, wonderingly.
"Am not."
He returned to his meal, trying to fill up
before the gypsy girl grew cold.
He was right, though. Danielle felt the tears
behind her eyes and the blood pounding in her temples. She was honestly about
to
cry
for that poor girl. After all the death she’d seen. But if she
didn't cry for her, who would?
With some effort, she held the tears back. What
reservoir of emotion she had left was better kept for something else. If she
cried now for this poor girl it would only drive her further down into the hole
that she was sinking into fast enough already.
And damned if she was going to let Loirot see
her weep! At that moment the thing she wanted to do most of all was to lift him
up by his lapels and hurl him bodily over the balustrade into the freezing
abyss. She’d seen some other diners throw bits and pieces of their meals down
into the valley.
Knuckles, tendons.
Why not him?
When she’d finished her meal, a busboy removed
the dead man from the table and wheeled him to the disposal room, where
presumably the corpse was slipped into one of the chutes. Supposedly, at the bottom
of the chute raged a fire which would consume any last shred of a
victim.