The skulls opened and closed their mouths at her—Junger
playing games with his telekinesis—and then branches started swatting her, not
trying too hard to remove her from the tree, but letting her know that she was
doomed.
The ivory skull of an ape cracked against her
head. She swatted at the bone-fruit, and it snapped back.
Below, she could hear the zombies ascending
rapidly, eager to bring her down. A claw-like hand grabbed at her boot. She
kicked it off.
Plowed upward with greater speed.
She hit the top.
Looked all
around.
Shit
.
There was only one entrance to the room, where
Junger stood, watching her with satisfaction. Occasionally a twitch of
annoyance would cross his face as he heard the sounds of his sculpture being
broken by his own undead slaves, but that was it.
She looked overhead. Behind the green piece of
glass, there would be a light, which would have wires running from it ... and
these wires might follow a service tunnel into which she could escape.
She rose as high as she could atop her delicate
perch and pressed the green glass upwards. It moved in its earthen fixture. She
pushed it to the side, revealing a small tunnel, although she could see little
of it. The light that had been shielded by the glass was bright and strong, but
she was protected from its glare by an unwelcome eclipse.
A large form stood before it, a shape with
sunglasses and dreadlocks.
"Good to see you again," said Jagoda.
He reached toward her—
She dropped away, hunkering low on the highest
branch of the tree just out of his reach. The ghoulish phantoms below closed in
on her every second.
"Go away!" she roared at Jagoda.
"Just go away and leave me the fuck alone!"
Jagoda grinned. "That's not much of a
hello."
Anger pulsed through every artery in her system.
She collected it all in her eyes and socked him with every last ounce of her
hatred.
He didn’t even flinch.
This is it
. She could feel the
tears working behind her eyes and tried hard to suppress them, but the end had
come for her, she knew. Death perched happily above her, blocking out the
light, ready to taste the center of her bones. It ringed the tree, and
clustered on the branches. It waited in the entrance. All because she
hadn’t
killed Malcolm!
"I never did anything to you," she
said, hating the pitiful note in her voice.
"No," Jagoda agreed. "That's
never been very important to us. Have no fear, child. Your suffering will make
great Art."
The zombies grabbed her. She could feel their
filthy hands all over her, and though she fought them she knew it was futile.
Growling, they dragged her down the Tree of Death and past its snapping fruits.
They hauled her to the ground and pinned her there.
Junger's intricately-tattooed bald head smiled
down at her.
"I bet you're wondering what comes
next," he said.
"Fuck you," she spat. She could feel
that her face was all scrunched up, that tears were leaking out of her eyes
despite all her attempts to stop them, and she could hear that her voice
sounded beyond the point of pitiful now. She bucked and kicked against the
undead limbs that held her down, finally feeling strength returning to her, but
her resistance would do no good.
Junger lowered himself to his knees and placed
his large hands on each side of her dark head. Then, slowly, as if he was
having fun with her outrage, he kissed her on the forehead.
She rocketed upwards, trying to bite off his
fucking face, but strong arms held her down.
"I like you, Danielle," he said.
"
Which is why I'm going to make you last for a long,
long time.
I'm going to taste everything you have to offer." He
smiled. "It's going to hurt."
"
You
evil fuck
!" she roared.
Junger rose to his feet and backed away. At his
signal, the zombies released their holds on her and stood. Just as she was
preparing to make a break for it, the blood-slaves descended. She fought them
with all she had, but they were too much for her. Teeth and claws tore into
her, and she arched her back and screamed.
Chapter 11
After
several exhausting hours in the War Room of planning strategy with his captains
(many of whom were potential turn-coats, he knew), Roche Sarnova retired to his
lavish chambers and had his servants prepare his sauna. He made himself a glass
of whiskey and slipped into the boiling water, slowly letting himself relax.
Things were not going well. Despite all his
efforts, he was losing the war. No matter how many victories he won against
Subaire or how many spies he ferreted out, he still could not win.
The worst thing was that he knew the reason why:
the
Sangro Sankts
. Conditioned to protect immortals against human
knowledge, the ancient order was sabotaging his efforts. He understood their
fears, but there were so many shades in the world now that they should have no
reason to fear humans. It was their due to have their own place in the world,
their own country.
Or at least a city.
A Jerusalem
for the Undead.
It was time.
There was one glitch. The so-called Scouring had
created chaos in the immortal world, pitting factions of immortals against each
other by killing off leaders that had been able to bring peace. As a result,
every day scores of shades were killed needlessly, senselessly, whether it
be
the war of the karula against the abunka in Lereba or
that of the
Saiphang
against the
Konduli
in Hong Kong or the territorial battles between the gangsters in America.
Consequently, the Community dwindled in number
just when it needed the ripeness it had so recently achieved. For, if they were
to have their own country, they needed a population large enough to protect
themselves against those mortals that would side against them. To Sarnova and
the others that shared his vision, the Scouring was making a someday Jerusalem difficult.
All this had begun to make the Dark Lord suspect
that the Scouring was orchestrated by a member of the
Sangro
Sanks
, a suspicion fostered by facts gathered by his
spies. Though it had been Vistrot who'd begun the Scouring, it had been a kavasari
female named Amelia who’d originally propositioned the Titan. Now that Vistrot
was gone and she had taken over his territory, it was very likely she would aim
her sights on Sarnova, if indeed she craved dominance in their world.
If she didn't, then her reasons behind the
Scouring might've been to disable Sarnova's Jerusalem, which is what he was beginning to
believe. He wondered if Amelia was a member of the
Sangro Sankts
; he had
no picture of her, only a name and a race. The members of the order never told
him their names. He knew that there were three females in the group, and that
one of them had been absent from the last meeting.
Could that have been her?
If not——if Amelia was not a member of the order—what
would've prompted her to kill off so many of her own kind? Or did she not consider
lesser immortals her kind? To none of these questions did he have an answer.
Nevertheless, he puzzled over the problem as he sipped a drink.
A servant entered and announced the arrival of
Ambassador Mauchlery. Sarnova and his guest exchanged greetings, and the
Ambassador disrobed and slipped into the sauna.
"Hot," he said, appreciative.
"What would you like to drink?"
"What wouldn't I? Some cognac would be
fine."
A servant fetched it for him. "Would you
like a massage?" the girl asked, but he declined.
"You don't look so good," Sarnova
observed,
when she had gone.
"I don't feel so good, to tell the truth.
Today I was approached by our dear Colonel De Soto. He wanted me to narrow down
a time to overthrow you."
"How efficient of
him.
What'd you say?"
"I told him I'd summon him when I'd
pinpointed the right moment."
"Very good."
"That's not all. Just before I came here,
two interesting facts were reported to me. Good news and bad. Which would you
like first?"
"The bad."
"It's pretty bad, Roche," Mauchlery
warned.
"Go ahead."
"It seems that our border and airport spies
have reported large numbers of incognito shades moving into Romania. Though they arrived in different
ways, they all appear to be a part of the same group."
"How many?"
"Nearly two
hundred,
all told."
"Damn."
"Yes."
"Where did our spies follow them to?"
"The forest.
After that, the army—or
whatever it was—realized it was being observed and vanished without a
trace."
"Were there any familiar faces?"
"Only one."
"Who?"
"The albino
Jean-Pierre.
Lord Kharker's consort."
"I remember."
Sarnova finished his drink, ordered another and
sank lower in the steaming water. What could this mean? Two hundred shades.
An army.
They hadn't announced themselves to him, which
could only mean they were enemies. Of course, there were only a few immortal
armies around, and only one that he could think of that would be strong enough
to attack him.
"Libertarians," he muttered.
"That's what I thought, too,"
Mauchlery said. "But why would Jean-Pierre be among them?"
"Good question. So what's the good
news?"
"I'm afraid it's really just a follow-up to
the bad news, Roche. Lord Kharker’s just called and requested permission to pay
us a visit. I wasn't informed of this until just now, but since his request was
simply out of politeness, it was of course granted. He’ll arrive in a few days'
time. With him is Ruegger, the one they call the Darkling."
"The Marshal.
Yes, I remember him."
Sarnova thought a moment. On the one hand, he was glad his old friend was
dropping by, but why would Kharker's albino companion be traveling into Romania
with the Army of Liberty? After some time, he asked, "Francois, do you see
how this fits together?"
"I have no idea, Roche. Even if Kharker was
coming here to pave the way for Liberty—which
is the only possible scenario I can think of—he wouldn't try to slip the albino
in past the border, would he?"
"Of course not.
He knows we keep a
close watch on all those who come through. Which can only mean ... what, that
he doesn't know about Jean-Pierre? It can't be. And why’s he traveling with
Ruegger? They parted ways many decades ago. Not long, really, but still ... Ambassador?"
"Nothing,
Roche."
"Speak up, if you have any ideas."
"Well, I was just thinking: What if Kharker
is being brought here against his will? What if Ruegger, who was friends with
that Libertarian leader Ludwig—the one that died—is using Jean-Pierre as blackmail
in return for Kharker coming here ... and ... and somehow weakening our
defenses to pave the way for Liberty's invasion? And Kharker, being made to do
this against his will, knows that we'll recognize Jean-Pierre and is hoping we'll
figure it out before he gets here."
"That does make a certain amount of sense.
And you're right; I find it hard to believe that Kharker would betray me
willingly. Now, if Jean-Pierre was being held as a hostage against his good
behavior ... maybe." He sipped his drink,
then
set
the glass down. Now wasn't the time for intoxication. "We have to get
Kharker away from the Darkling. He needs to be able to speak freely."
"One thing
more."
"What am I forgetting?"
"We need to reassure him that Jean-Pierre
will be okay. He loves that creature, Roche, and would not see it harmed."
"Yes, you're right, of course, but I
haven’t forgotten. There's something that'll keep Jean-Pierre safe."
Francois smiled.
"The
Sabo."
"If the Libertarians attack through the
Sangro
Sankts
' entrance—which must be what they intend to
do; a
frontal attack
would only destroy us both, but more likely them—but if
they go through the mountain itself ..."
"The Sabo."
"And the Sabo knows Jean-Pierre."
Feeling better, Roche picked up his glass and downed another swallow, this one
rather large. "Here, Ambassador. Your drink looks like it could be freshened
up."
"That would be great."
As the girl refilled his glass, the Ambassador
said, "I think I'll have that massage now.”
"Yes," agreed the Dark Lord. "I
think I will, too."
*
*
*
Harry
Lavaca was working on his third martini of the day when Cloire showed up at his
side, unescorted. The bartender hardly took notice of her, despite his liberal
hostility toward immortals; she’d come to visit Harry often since they'd been
at the castle. And, as Harry was a regular patron of the bar, she had been here
more than once before.
"Hey, Cloire," he said, swiveling on
his stool to get a better look at her. For some reason, she seemed agitated.
"Harry, we need to talk."
"Have a seat."
"No." She glanced around, as if trying
to decide the best way to get him out of the bar,
then
let out a breath. "Let's go to a booth."
He shot the bartender a look, and the bartender
nodded. Grabbing his drink, Harry hopped off his stool and followed Cloire to a
booth, where a waitress approached. The she-wolf waved her away.
"Have you heard about Kiernevar?"
Cloire asked, lighting a cigarette.
He had, but he wanted to hear what she had to
tell him. "What about him?"
"He's entered the competition in the
Pit."
He raised his eyebrows.
"Really?"
She related to him what she’d observed
first-hand, and he listened patiently. For whatever reason, the two had formed
a friendship over the last few weeks, which was disturbing to Harry, because
back in the days when he was a notorious shade-killer he would've considered
her a perfect target. She was evil and took pride in it. Yet for some reason he
liked her, and she seemed to feel the same way towards him. They’d gotten drunk
together several times, had stayed up the whole night talking and telling each
other stories, and once every now and then, such as now, she’d come to him for
advice.
"So
whataya
think?" she said when she'd finished.
"I think he's insane."
She smiled patiently. "I hope you can come
up with something better than that, Harry."
He ordered another drink, and they talked it
over. “How could Kiernevar have gotten so strong?” he asked.
“He was turned by
Frenchie
.”
“I know, but to defeat this Lyshira … How old
did you say she was?”
“Old.” She frowned. “Some shades are just
naturally stronger than others. They can tap into whatever it is that makes us
easier than others can. I don’t know.”
Suddenly, he laughed.
“What?” she said.
“Well, here we are wondering about him. Why
not—hell, why not just
ask
the mad
bastard?”
She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
For a moment, Harry sensed that she might
actually be afraid of Kiernevar. Then again, he wouldn't blame her if she were.
"It's up to you," he said.
She seemed to think about it for a moment,
then
said, "I guess I've got nothing better to do. Byron’s
refusing to come to my bed now."
Despite himself, Harry said, "Why?"
She made a face. "I was a little hard on
him when Kiernevar disappeared, I guess. It
was
his responsibility ..."
Anger clouded her features for a second,
then
blew
over.
"What about Kilian?"
"Oh, he's still around, but, well ... I
guess you could say I'm keeping him at a distance."
Harry finished his drink. "Ready when you
are."
She threw a few dollars on the table. When he
started to protest, she said, "It's on me, Harry. My way of ..."
"What?"
"Apologizing."
"You don't need to apologize, Cloire."
"For everything, Harry, for kidnapping you
in the first place, but mainly for that night back at Kharker's Lodge when I
tried to humiliate you in front of Danielle. You know. Giving you that bottle
and sending you on your way. Even then I liked you, but I thought you were
going to spoil everything."