Midnight Reign (20 page)

N
OW
, there is a specimen,” Sorin said as he and Benedikte exited the Chadwick Arms Hotel on Wilshire Boulevard. “Who would protest
his
absence?”

Benedikte glanced at the man Sorin indicated. The tattered threads of his clothing clashed with the white tuxedo jackets and black bowties he and his son wore.

A bum, they called this type. A man whose outer dishevelment mirrored the inner Benedikte: ravaged and lifeless.

At Sorin’s comment, the man lifted a dull gaze and an empty fedora hat to the vampires as they passed.

“Spare any change?”

A hotel doorman rushed over. “You leave these gentlemen alone! Out….” He shooed the bum away. “Go on now.”

Sorin lifted a grateful hand to the employee and turned back to Benedikte, matching his pace as they headed for the sidewalk this summer’s evening. “Are you certain you would not rather hail a cab?”

Benedikte carelessly switched into Awareness mode, knowing he was taking a chance on being discovered by another blood brother, but not caring. Normally, simple shielding was all they dared do Above since it wasn’t easy to detect. Yet, what did he have to lose now?

I prefer to stalk at the moment, thank you. It’s the only way to play tourist.

As day bowed under the coming weight of night, he noted that so much about this walk should’ve been a miracle: the Technicolor glamour of a city that housed all the silver-screen stars he adored, the sight of the sun, the wonder of being a preternatural creature among men.

But even as Benedikte’s blood simmered at the scent of human life, he couldn’t enjoy it. Not since London, when he’d discovered that everything was meaningless. It had broken his will to realize that even brothers didn’t have enough honor to stand by a code.

So why have one of his own? Why not kill and pillage at random? Why protect a brotherhood that would end up destroying itself before the true maker could awaken from his deep sleep?

Not that Sorin agreed with this. No, the younger vampire still had dreams of “making a family,” fantasies of another place he could call home.

Even now his son was going on about his latest idea: Guards for a second Underground.

“…The perfect build, Master. I could take such a man, even a transient in a fedora, and mold him into a soldier who would protect our territory. A first line of defense. Imagine if we had possessed a small army of Guards when Andre attacked.”

Home.

The concept floated through Benedikte briefly, but then he rejected it. Too soon for another one, too impossible. It would only be destroyed again.

To distract himself, he took up the trail of a redhead who walked with a bluesy sway to her hips. He imagined she was rushing to meet a lover at a motel. Benedikte fantasized about intercepting her there, erasing her wanton behavior by grabbing her hair, twisting back her neck to expose a ripe vein, drinking until she was drained. Then, he could make her over into what a woman should be—innocent, inspiring, and sedate.

That sounded just about right. During the last thirty years, he’d been lucky, never getting caught in his excesses, always fleeing from city to city before his victims could be discovered. It was an existence Sorin despised because he had, of course, come up with a far more civil plan to make everything easier. A plan that would allow them to settle in a place closer to Heaven than Benedikte would ever get.

Secrecy,
Sorin kept saying.
Remember how well it worked in London before we grew careless?

At the sound of Benedikte’s heedless footfalls, the woman looked over her shoulder. The vampires nodded and smiled in return.

Two well-heeled men out for a summer stroll. That was all.

She picked up her pace and darted into a market. My, my. Sharp instincts.

As they continued down the sidewalk, Sorin thought,
She felt us. Do you not think a woman with such perceptiveness would make a proper vampire daughter for you? Think of how she would always hide her tracks.

Benedikte rolled his eyes.
How many times do I need to tell you I’m not interested in more children?

Master, I see your face before you lay yourself to rest. I hear your lonely thoughts. Stop lying to me.

Benedikte kept walking.

You are reluctant,
Sorin added.
You fear a new Underground will end up like the old, but I tell you, we can anticipate your blood brothers’ tricks, if any should cross us again. Do you not long for a
rest, Master? Have you not already fallen in love with this town and wished to become a part of it?

They passed an Italian restaurant, garlic wafting out from the ivy-decorated trellises. It had no effect on Benedikte; immunity to the herb’s properties was one of his personal talents, and his blood had passed it on to Sorin. He wished he had thought to use that sort of one-way repulsion on Andre back when—

He didn’t want to think of London. Didn’t want to think of how, since those times, he’d cultivated such a shell that nothing got through to him anyway. Feeling cancelled, he spent much of his time in vaporous form, though Sorin had convinced Benedikte to shift into his old body and hit the streets tonight.

“Stop wallowing in grief,” his son had said. “We have collected a fortune throughout the years, so let us enjoy it. Let us at least pretend to have a life in this town where imagination makes the prospect so simple.”

Why not, the Master had apathetically agreed. It might break the monotony, if nothing else.

Beyond the Italian restaurant, they passed a church, which brought a wooden laugh from Benedikte. It wasn’t until, farther down, they came to a movie theater that the Master paused under the shining marquee.

With a mocking smile to Sorin, he bowed to the altar of film, then set off on his stalk again. He knew his son understood the cruel joke, the absence of rules that allowed them both to exist. After London, even Sorin had lost some faith, becoming numb to spiritual meaning and, therefore, increasingly immune to it, as well.

But, again, maybe the immunity was only another talent. A destiny.

Before long, they arrived at the Ambassador Hotel, where a pocketful of cash would buy them some mindless leisure, if they were lucky. And if they were really fortunate, maybe there’d even be something tasty on the menu.

Smile, Master,
Sorin thought as they walked beneath the awning of the Cocoanut Grove.
Out of all places, I thought this should make you the happiest.

When they paused at the entrance, a blast of music, color, and joviality hit Benedikte’s vampire senses, overwhelming him.

Sorin was right. Happiness was all
over
the menu.

A band played a Tony Bennett tune onstage, leading a floor full of perfect people to dance and laugh. Palm trees from
The Sheik
, Rudolph Valentino’s biggest movie, spread their leaves over what looked to be a Moorish palace, complete with gilded pillars and tables clothed in white. Small table lamps cast golden lights on the jubilant faces of men and women wearing evening gowns, minks, and diamonds.

Consumed by the lustrous haze, the vampire took a step forward, recognizing one of his idols dining and mingling. Lana Turner, using her dimples on a willing romantic victim.

As he and Sorin flashed their money and were shown to a table, the word
home
consumed the vampire again. It was all he could do to remain in his seat, taking in everything while holding his breath.

Time moved in a breeze, heavy with an intoxicating twist that he hadn’t experienced since meeting Sorin—a night that had changed the path of his wanderings. And, at some point, when his son left him alone, Benedikte barely noticed.

He was too wrapped in the perfumes, the throb of a hundred heartbeats entwining through his own veins.

Eventually, when Sorin came back, presumably from dancing, Benedikte focused on his son, vision finally locking into place.

“Care to take a turn?” the younger vampire asked, arms around the waists of two beautiful women smiling with red-lipstick confidence. Twins, with their black hair worn as short as Liz Taylor’s, eyes big and blue, skin pale and tempting.

Benedikte’s lust suddenly reared up, beating in time to a rumba the band was now playing.

“Hey, hey, hold on there!” A man with sparkling hazel eyes, also clad in a tuxedo, came up behind Sorin. He had a wide, youthful smile with a flop of brown hair covering most of his brow. It took Benedikte a moment to absorb that he was staring at one of Hollywood’s biggest actors, Edward Waters.

The star took one of the twins by the hand. “Are you stealing my partner?”

He wasn’t angry, and Benedikte knew that Sorin had already read this, too. Even so, the younger vampire inclined his head toward the actor, graciously surrendering only one twin.

“Quite the gentleman,” Edward Waters said, duly impressed. He stuck out his hand to Sorin and introduced himself.

When the actor turned to Benedikte, the vampire laughed. Actually laughed. “We’re acquainted by way of the screen. I’m Benny.” His masquerade name.

Sorin had shaken Edward’s hand without deigning to offer his own moniker. “You’re familiar with Geneva and Ginny?”

The girls fawned over Edward, saying they knew him well.

The matinee idol gestured to a nearby table, where slick-haired men with cigars enjoyed their steaks. With a boyish bow of the head, he said, “I’m trying to make my way over there. Dealmakers. One of them’s got a part I’d sell my soul for, if you know what I mean.”

Something in the back of Benedikte’s consciousness flickered.

“Anyway,” Edward added, addressing Sorin, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to dance
both
of these lovelies past the table, just to get the conversation started. I’ll get ’em right back to you though. Any objections?”

Geneva adjusted the décolletage of her gown to make it even more appealing. “If there’s a role in it for me, let’s go.”

Edward laughed. “All business. I should’ve known.”

As he led the twins away on a stream of pleasant farewells, Sorin stared after the women.

Their skin,
he thought to Benedikte.
Did you smell their skin?

He had; it was a vampire’s curse and blessing to be aware of appetite at all times.

Their taste,
Sorin continued.
I could live forever on the taste I imagine they carry. If we only had a home, where I could keep them, I would live off their blood for years.

Although Benedikte had never seen Sorin so taken with a victim—or two—he was much too preoccupied with Edward Waters to respond. It was as if the star had showered a little bit of his presence on the vampire.

He watched the human joking with the producers, throwing his head back after he told a good anecdote. Magic. Pure magic.

Benedikte’s mouth began to water, but not with the thought of blood. The soul. He craved the soul Edward Waters said he would give up for his career.

The vampire’s musings crashed together, falling to pieces that magnetically rearranged themselves into a new order.

Soul. Career. A vampire’s talents.

He glanced around the room again, surreptitiously peeking into the minds of the others, retreating before they could notice he’d even been inside. Benedikte didn’t even need to look into their eyes he was so powerful, and it helped him to see a new world: a dreamscape of plastic surgery, casting couches, deviant schemes. The all-consuming hunger to be loved.

The search for identity.

Closing his eyes, he accepted them all, knowing he was among his own kind.

An hour, perhaps many more, went by, and the lounge slowed to a trickle of activity. The vampires were among the last to leave, though Sorin had charmed the twins into crossing the threshold with him.

I will be in my hotel room,
the younger creature thought to Benedikte as they exited.

His son caught a cab and, in a rush of giggles, the twins disappeared inside, dragging an amused Sorin with them. He would be cautious about his bite, Benedikte knew. There was no need to come with him back to the hotel just yet and spoil his anticipated adventure.

There was a lot to think about, and wandering the night streets would offer clarity, as wandering often did. At least, it had back when anything mattered….

Postmidnight silence captivated the town while Benedikte folded his hands behind his back, the same thoughts running through him over and over.

“Sell my soul…” A long career—a very long one…

Struck by the power of the concept, the vampire laughed, glanced around at the empty field he was in, then laughed again. Soon, he was holding his sides, dropping to his knees, laughing to the point of crying.

He peered up, finding the Hollywood sign blazing in eternal majesty from a mountainside. Lore had it that the letters had once read “Hollywoodland” and that it had undergone a makeover to accommodate the town’s changes.

A makeover. Plastic surgery. If Benedikte could find a doctor, then absorb his knowledge and refine it—

Powered by his discovery, he cried out in triumph, then stood, walking at a quickened pace to keep up with the speed of his mind. He traversed streets, walking, walking until his feet hit grass, then dirt. Rocks towered above him, blocking a moon that was arcing through a sky turning lighter and lighter.

He was so engrossed that he didn’t even hear the footsteps behind him.

Crack!

Something had hit his head, catching him so unawares that he stumbled back, losing his footing on rock, tumbling, back, down, darkness—

A figure jumped into the hole after him, raising a crowbar in the moonlight.

Irritated by the interruption, the vampire snapped into pure form, swelling, roaring forward to catch the man’s throat in his jaws. But as soon as his fangs sank into a vein, Benedikte knew the attacker had only wanted his wallet.

Wrong prey.