Authors: Mick Farren
More Than Mortal (35 page)
“And how do you find our Uisge Beatha?”
“It’s certainly novel.”
“I suppose tha’s one way o’ puttin’ i’ f’ a southern jasmine limp-wrist.”
The customs and practices of the court of Fenrior probably required Renquist to take exception to being called a “southern jasmine limp-wrist,” but right at that moment he was swimming in a sea of tranquillity, and it had been many ages since he had found himself so immersed. At various times and in various places—and almost nonstop through the latter half of the twentieth century—Renquist had absorbed a comprehensive pharmacopoeia from the blood of his victims, but no intoxicant had even come close to the microfungi in the whisky. How was it no other nosferatu knew about this? The undead metabolism made the nosferatu immune to so many of the chemical diversions enjoyed by humans and other lower animals. It seemed hardly right Clan Fenrior kept such a thing to themselves. Renquist was totally unused to stimulation, except the jolting energy rage of the blood feast. Initially he found himself filled with a golden glow of affection. All things were bright and beautiful—even Shaggy Lachlan, whom Renquist only just managed not to embrace. Lachlan must have read it all in Renquist’s aura because he winked knowingly. “I’ll bet ye’re loving everyone reet noo. Din’a worry lad, i’ willna’ last. Next y’ll be wantin’ t’ laugh, an’ then y’ll be feelin’ no fear an’ want t’ fight everyone i’ th’ room single-handed.”
The experience was so intense that Renquist knew he was at very great risk of losing control, and this was neither the time nor the place to let that happen. And yet he couldn’t seem to be overly concerned. It was all so futile. All his care and conspiracy and plotting for eternal survival: loaded on the microfungi, he could only find it all laughable. He noticed an influx of new guests in the hall that he suspected only he could see. He also noticed Lachlan staring at him and blurted, “It’s all so ironic.”
“Ye probably feel like laughin’ helplessly right now.”
Renquist could scarcely suppress a guffaw. “I do.”
“Well din’a, because ye’re at th’ high table, an’ y’ll look like a bloody fool.”
For an instant, Renquist’s mood tilted, and he wanted to punch Lachlan hard in the face, but then his feelings shifted once more, and all seemed hilarious again. “It’s hard to resist. I mean, we’re all bloody fools.”
“Some bigger an’ some smaller, an’ some who ken when i’s time t’ shut th’ fuck up because th’ laird’s a-comin’.”
Renquist looked up at the stairs but saw nothing. Were his senses so impaired? It seemed Shaggy wasn’t the only one who sensed the coming of Fenrior. The quintet fell silent. The standing crowd between the lower tables began either to take their seats or melt back toward the walls. It was only then that Renquist heard the mournful skirl of a single piper. Lachlan whispered in his ear. “That’s Angus Crimmon, the laird’s own piper.”
Renquist was swaying slightly. “Is that so?”
“Aye. He’s playin’ ‘The Black Swan.’ After a while ye get t’ ken th’ laird’s mood accordin’ t’ th’ tune he orders.”
“And what does ‘The Black Swan’ mean?”
But before Lachlan could answer, the laird had appeared. Preceded by an angry undead dwarf who restrained two huge wolfhounds that tugged at their leashes, and with Gallowglass, Crimmon the Piper, and a huge bodyguard Highlander, the Lord Fenrior stood at the top of the stairs, exactly where Renquist had paused a short while earlier.
Columbine stared through the Range Rover’s brand-new windshield, only replaced earlier that day. By a near miracle, Bolingbroke had managed to organize the repair while the troika slept. Almost immediately she started to protest. “You must have misread the bloody map. It’s nothing but an empty field with mist and an old barn.”
“It’s only an old barn until one sees the antennas.”
Columbine sighed. “Antennas on barns. I’m not ready for this modern world. I’ve always hated science fiction.”
“You’d better get ready for it, because science fiction is coming right at you, and at a considerable rate of knots.”
Columbine’s problem was that she simply hadn’t kept up. The last time she had learned anything new was during the wartime occupation of Ravenkeep by de Richleau and his madmen. As that generation of humans finally died out, Columbine had increasingly ceased to identify with the new times. The Goddess Cult had been easy. They’d made that up as they went along, but after it was abandoned, she’d contented herself with her perfumes, her foibles, her undead neuroses, and her boys. Marieko and Destry always seemed to know, and usually made the right decisions, so she’d amused herself and let them take care of the day-to-day business. Day to day, however, had turned into year to year, and decade to decade, and really, without noticing, she had lost track of the passage of time. Fad, fashion, and technology came and went without Columbine being anything more than peripherally aware of them. Every season brought new haircuts, gadgets, and pop music, but all proved infinitely replaceable. But then the dreams had started, and the rest of the mess had coagulated around her, and she was completely unprepared. Now she found herself in a field waiting for a mysterious aircraft bringing a woman who, for Columbine, was about as welcome as anthrax.
“Wait,” Marieko warned.
“What?”
“Men are coming.”
Two human figures had detached themselves from the dark mass of the barn—large men in combat coats, blue jeans, and knit caps. They carried compact machine pistols down by their sides. Destry would have recognized them as Czech AKs, but Columbine was far from au
courant with such things. The pair moved toward the Range Rover with a casual caution that spoke of expert military training. They could well have previously served in some elite unit like the Special Air Service.
courant with such things. The pair moved toward the Range Rover with a casual caution that spoke of expert military training. They could well have previously served in some elite unit like the Special Air Service.
One stood back while the other walked to the driver’s side. Destry rolled down the window. “We’re here to meet the plane.”
“Do you have identification?”
Destry looked at them as though, armed as they might be, they were total idiots. “Of course we don’t. You think we’re crazy?”
This seemed to be exactly the right answer. The man nodded and signaled to his partner to relax. “Just wait where you are. It’d be best if you didn’t get out of the vehicle until the plane’s down and secured, okay?”
Destry nodded. “No problem. Is the plane going to be on time?”
The possible ex-SAS man shook his head. “They don’t tell us. You’ll know when the field lights come on.”
In fact, it took twenty minutes for the field lights to come on. And in that time, three more cars drew up to wait for the plane. Each was stopped and was inspected as the Range Rover had been, and each hinted at a story. An antique James Bond Aston Martin DB3, an embassy-loaded Mercedes town car (obviously bulletproof and with a great many options), and a lavender Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud made exotic companions for the Ravenkeep Range Rover. Even these diversions, though, did little to cushion Columbine’s impatience. “What is this? A scheduled service?”
Destry seemed fascinated and possibly quite excited. “It’s a Black Plane.”
“A what?”
“I’d heard about them but I’d never seen one. It’s a private and highly secret network for people who want to move around under the radar and have the price of a very costly ticket. They commute regularly between
New York, London, Moscow, all over. Governments use them when they need a whole shitload of deniability.” She paused and listened. “I think I hear something.”
New York, London, Moscow, all over. Governments use them when they need a whole shitload of deniability.” She paused and listened. “I think I hear something.”
Marieko nodded. “It’s a small jet.”
What seemed like a flat meadow suddenly blossomed with parallel rows of landing lights that extended far enough into the distance to provide the needed runway length for a small private jet to land and taxi to a halt. Columbine looked at Destry and Marieko in amazement. “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s like a bloody spy movie or a meeting with the aliens.”
Marieko nodded. “Or a very big cocaine deal.”
Destry was now really excited. She seemed to thrive on this human shadow-world stuff. “Possibly all three. That’s what the Black Plane’s all about.”
Columbine pretended to be unimpressed by the sudden appearance of an airfield out of nowhere. “Who does this woman think she is?”
Destry shrugged. “She’s Julia Aschenbach. Who’s to judge? She used to be a player. Old habits die hard.” Destry faltered. “Holy shit, that’s some plane.”
It had been difficult to see beyond the lights, and the plane only became visible at the very last moment. The Black Plane was a drama unto itself, without even taking into account the location and supporting cast, and now not even Columbine could remain blase. It had probably started its life as a small twin-engined executive jet but had then been so extensively customized, all the way to extra, stealth-style airfoils and fuselage panels, and strange lancelike probes extending from its nose, until it had become the matte black Chevy Stingray of the skies. Destry nodded in admiration. “It sure beats an Air America DC-3.”
“It’s the Batplane.” Marieko was positively delighted, in a way Columbine found close to unseemly. She was Japanese and harbored what Columbine considered an unhealthy liking for all that was new, modern, and outrageous. “Elvis couldn’t have lived without one.”
Columbine was bored with all this aircraft worship. “Elvis didn’t live.”
“Exactly.”
Columbine changed the subject. “Did Victor fly like this?”
Destry shook her head. “No, Victor still likes to fly the old-fashioned way, as high-maintenance freight.”
The Black Plane’s wheels had touched, and though it had come out of stealth darkness, its lights were blazing as it braked on the runway, rolled to a near stop, described a half turn, and then halted completely. The doors quickly opened and two heavy-set security men, again with machine pistols, jumped down and assumed defensive postures. The original guards from the barn approached them, words were exchanged, and the area appeared to be declared safe for the passengers to disembark. Just four passengers came down the short ladder: a suave middle-aged man with no luggage, who made straight for the Aston Martin; a short worried man, with an uncanny resemblance to Peter Lorre, hurried to the bulletproof Mercedes; and a tall black man in an ankle-length fur, wide-brimmed hat, and dark glasses strolled casually to the Rolls as if it were all no big thing. Even if being the only female hadn’t given it away, Julia would have been immediately recognizable. Tall, model-thin, and blonde, she seemed to have taken the idea of flying on the Black Plane rather too much to heart, and dressed in the style of a 1930s aviatrix. This stopped Columbine, who was right in the act of getting out of the Range Rover. “Good grief, she’s dressed up like Hannah Reich.”
Julia’s butter-leather flying suit was midnight blue with contrasting lapels and piping, and although loosely cut, it clung crucially to various parts of her body as she moved. The ensemble was completed by a matching leather flying helmet with pushed-back purple goggles.
“The Third Reich via Rodeo Drive. Either way, it’s a Nazi whore on wings.”
“Stop it, Columbine. She’s our best ally so far.”
The man in the hat and sunglasses gave Julia an appraising look and the slightest of waves, which Julia returned, before he ducked into the Silver Cloud. Columbine was even more determined not to like Julia Aschenbach. “Will we be expected to feed her?”
“I expect so. She is our guest. Now shut up or she’ll hear you.”
Destry and Marieko stepped forward to greet Julia, but Columbine lagged behind. Julia pointed to each of the three in turn, proving she’d done her homework. “Destry? Marieko? And this must be Columbine?”
Columbine’s forced smile took on the sweetness of acid. “Did you have a good flight?”
Julia waved it away as if she did it all the time. “It was uneventful. One of the humans was amusing, but the other two were exceedingly tedious.”
They walked quickly to the Range Rover, and Marieko slipped behind the wheel. Columbine pointedly sat in the front passenger seat, leaving Destry and Julia to climb into the back. Already the Black Plane was being refueled and restocked, and three figures were coming out of the barn, apparently a new roster of passengers. Marieko put the Rover in gear, and Julia glanced at Destry. “Where are we going?”
“To Ravenkeep. To our Residence. Do you have any plans?”
“If no one has a better idea, I intend to present myself at Fenrior Castle and demand to see my master. As a right, not as a privilege.”
Columbine turned back to face Julia. She should perhaps be aware with what she would be dealing. “Fenrior has an entire tribe of undead savages behind him.”
Julia didn’t seem too concerned. “To deny me access to Victor would be nothing short of an outrage. It would be to turn all Europe against him. Not only our own kind, but the humans in power who know.”
Destry and Columbine exchanged glances. Hadn’t Julia
considered how Fenrior didn’t seem too worried about committing outrage, or the opinion of the world community of the undead and of the human cognoscenti? That would have to be dealt with later, however. Marieko voiced the question foremost in all their minds. “And Lupo?”
considered how Fenrior didn’t seem too worried about committing outrage, or the opinion of the world community of the undead and of the human cognoscenti? That would have to be dealt with later, however. Marieko voiced the question foremost in all their minds. “And Lupo?”
“If Lupo has a plan, he isn’t going to reveal it to us. Not even to me. Lupo will free Victor and exact any revenge he deems suitable. I imagine he’ll destroy Fenrior. In this context, I am the diplomat and Lupo is the executioner.”
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