Shadows of Falling Night (30 page)

There wouldn’t be
, he thought, fighting not to let the breath rasp in his throat.

They trudged, and trudged and the apprehension built, rather than relaxing until he could taste stomach acids at the back of his throat. Something flitted through the air above him, or he thought it did, and that was almost a relief. It was gone by the time he could pay attention to it, and his heart beat so hard he could’ve sworn he felt the ribs flexing to its hammer.

“Center of the road,” he said. “Hell with traffic, fast as you can. I don’t think this bunch are going to be as restrained as the ones we met back in New Mexico.”

“Hungry,” Leon said suddenly. “They’re saying they’re hungry.”

“I wish
Maman
were here!” Leila said suddenly, then turned her head down and trudged again. “Or Papa.”

“I wish they were both here,” Leon said.

Vienna

Adrienne bared her teeth as she paced on the faded, priceless carpets; it was the instinctive gesture of a species that bit their prey, and paralyzed them by it too. Dmitri lolled in his chair, ostentatiously refusing to be intimidated.

The Palais was a property she’d bought through cut-outs when it came on the market in 2006 and the locally dominant Sorgách family owed the Brézés a favor; it was early 18th century but fully renovated down to the fortified sub-basement and escape tunnels and a small but well-equipped mortuary-style crematorium to deal with the empties. It was also conveniently located in the Josefstadt District of central Vienna, which put it outside the Ringstrasse but near the excellent hunting-grounds of the university and its tasty herds of students. The basic architecture
was Baroque—Fischer von Erlach had been the architect, back around 1710—but this upper apartment had been redone in a more Classical style, pale plaster and Chinoiserie wallpaper and spindly graceful furniture with cream-silk upholstery.

Normally she quite liked it, but right now she had an impulse to throw a teapot through the Schönfeld painting of the 17th-century noblewoman stopping at an inn. And this was
not
the time of year she usually liked to visit Central Europe; it was around sundown, but you could barely tell.

I could have gone out nightwalking today at high noon and gotten nothing but a sunburn,
she thought sourly; which was an exaggeration, but a pardonable one.
I
was
born in California, after all
…

“Dale is taking care of it,” Dmitri said. “With the von Trupps, especially the older ones…well, my name
is
Russian. Yes, yes, that is obsolete thinking, merely human prejudice, but we are not speaking of Progressives here, Adrienne Juliyevna,” he said.

“A point,” she said grudgingly. “But only because it becomes increasingly annoying as my children approach the decisive point. It would be
intolerable
for them to reach Tbilisi! I will not be put in a position where I have to choose between alternatives of that sort!”

“Dale’s more likely to keep them under control.”

“More likely, not very likely. But the von Trupps do not love the Brézés. Particularly, as you say, the older generation…Great-grandfather spoiled a number of their schemes.”

Dmitri shrugged and spread his hands in an expressive gesture that an American would have thought of as Jewish, but which was actually simply the body language common in the old Romanov lands. She took the meaning:
what can we do
?

“You were the one who suggested that it was your children’s
future luck thwarting us,” he said. “Logically, it would be protecting them at the same time.”

Adrienne snarled and hissed, but she was careful not to direct it at her associate-subordinate. That pointed it at Monica, as she came in with a tray of pastries and coffee.

“Eeek!”

She managed not to spill it, and put it down between the Shadowspawn before retreating behind Adrienne’s chair. Adrienne stuck her fork moodily into the sachertorte.

“The more I consider it, the more I think involving the Trupps was a mistake,” she said.

“Dale was much in favor. He thinks he can even keep your former lucies alive, as well as safeguarding the children. One of the lucies at least.”

“He has been strange since he killed Arnaud. That was done efficiently…but…I do need to get the children back, and I would very much like to reacquire Peter, if only long enough for a thorough probing of his mind, but…you will excuse me.”

He nodded and left. Monica breathed a sigh of relief. “Leon and Leila aren’t
really
in danger, are they,
Doña
?” she asked anxiously.

“I hope not, but this tit-for-tat is getting out of control; I intended it to preoccupy Adrian and distract him, but it is rebounding on me and
his
little gambit is rebounding on
him
…he should not have sent his retainers on such an unorthodox path. That bunch of von Trupps still think of themselves as werewolves in the classic sense. Too many hours spent with the Brothers Grimm in their impressionable years.”

Indecision wasn’t something she was comfortable with. “I will have to intervene…but I cannot
locate
my children more than approximately…”

She snapped her fingers. “I have it! I will focus on the
von Trupps
. There is nothing shielding them, that rural bunch are quite sloppy about it, and they are the immediate problem; to watch them is to solve the problem, or at least if they do not sight the children there
is
no immediate problem. I can…supervise from a distance, bend the probabilities if I must, blackpath anything those wood-dogs do.”

She checked her reserves; that musician yesterday had been the last full feeding, but the social whirl here in Vienna was strenuous.
Hm
mmm. Not quite full-up
…

“When was the last time I fed on you? More than a nip to set the mood, I mean.”

“A week ago, about a quarter-pint,” Monica said. “I’m getting rather, umm, anxious for another, actually. I’m sure my red-cell count is fine.”

Withdrawal from feeding addiction was like that from heroin, only rather worse. Adrienne preferred to keep her regular lucies just on the verge of real suffering from it, as a training aid. And the begging and pleading was so charming…

“Come here, then.”

“Oh, goodie!” Monica said, with a slow smile.

“No games, I just need the blood for some Wreaking. Don’t pout, either.”

The lucy sat beside her on the couch, leaning backward across her lap and embracing her, nestling her face into the Shadowspawn’s shoulder, bending her chin back to present the neck. Her aura trembled and her heart began to race, stimulating the predator’s reflexes even though Adrienne wasn’t particularly hungry right now—it was better to feed
before
you did any serious work if you didn’t want to kill the victim that time, because Power-depletion meant you might lose control. Adrienne licked the taut skin—a pureblood’s saliva was antiseptic and promoted clotting
when exposed to air, and besides that it was fun. Then she clamped a hand to the base of the human’s head and curled back her lips to present the micro-serrations in the inside of her incisors; fangs would have been totally impractical, of course.

“Bite me,
please
,” Monica breathed, muffled and tense.

“You asked for it,” she said, and struck.

Her growl mixed with the lucy’s moan; the first mouthful was always incredibly sweet, like a wine-and-cocaine cocktail…in this case a nice fruity Beaujolais Nouveau. Her victim’s mind opened like a flower at the rush of pleasure.

“No, no, take more,” she murmured as Adrienne withdrew and pressed a finger to the small wound.

“Later. Have some sachertorte. I’m going to be hungry when I come around, and you are the ultimate comfort food.”

Mitteleuropa

They had to get somewhere with lights and people. He
could
see a faint glow in that direction, northeastward, but that was because everything else was so damn dark. There was an odd flicker to it, too. After ten minutes the figures ahead of him slowed, so that he nearly ran into them with his head swiveling backward. His mind felt as if it were encased in a sheath of hard flexible glass at the bottom of the sea, and he knew that it was pressure on the Wreakings Adrian Brézé had implanted there; panic and despair beat at it, emotions not his own but ready to flood his mind like a tide race through a canyon to make him run and run like a witless beast until the teeth closed. His amulets were all warm against the skin under his clothes, just short of pain. The blackness buzzed and
throbbed with malign intent, like a million hair-fine tentacles swarming and probing from all directions.

“Keep moving,” he said.

“
Los niños
can’t,” Cheba said.

“Carry them,” Eric said, and she and Peter each took one; he needed to stay free to fight as long as possible.

He hated to say it, and not just because of the way Cheba gasped when Leila was boosted up piggyback and the weight came on her injured shoulder. Fairly soon he’d have to spell her or she’d collapse, and the thought of going into action with a kid riding on his back was just what was needed to make this nightmare complete. They moved down the road at a slow jog. Over the crest, and now it was downhill, which helped a bit. The air was thick but not actually foggy, and the lights ahead were much brighter; he could make out streetlights and windows. Nothing very tall, it wasn’t a city and there weren’t any skyscrapers. The biggest structure was some sort of old-looking white stucco mansion on a hill, with modest-sized floodlights in the grounds, but the whole thing was definitely three steps up from the nowhereville they’d stayed the night before last. And there were still Christmas decorations up, and now he could hear noise like revelry at the end of an infinite tunnel—

—and big wings cut the air overhead. Just a rustle and a flash of pale feathers, but the children squealed in alarm. He pivoted, arm flung out and aiming entirely by instinct. The muzzle flash from the twin barrels blinded him for a second, and most of the silvered shot pattered into the boughs of the trees as the muzzle whipped upward. Twigs rained down, but a long white barn owl feather did too…until it vanished with a subliminal sparkle. There was a crashing and then a thump somewhere out there in the dark, accompanied by a feral squall of anger and fear. Eric thumbed open the coach gun as he jogged on, ignoring the ache in
his abused wrist and grinning a little as he shook the spent cartridges out and replaced them with two more from his left pocket.

That had sounded awfully like what you’d get if someone turned from a bird into a human being in midair without really meaning to, and then fell thirty feet through a big beech tree until they hit the ground. The grin turned to a snarl as a wolf howled again, this time shockingly near; whoever it was,
whatever
it was, was thoroughly pissed off. And others answered it, a pack, not right on top of them but not all that far away either. He snapped the gun closed by jerking upward, the hard metallic click obscurely comforting.

“He’s saying
I’m hurt, Mommy,
and
come and eat, come and eat, eat, eat
,” Leon said, his voice high and quavering.

Wait a minute,
Eric thought.
The bastard is thinking like a wolf as much as a man right now. And wolves are pretty much a dog with attitude. Werewolves especially, I guess.

Aloud he gasped out: “Faster. Just for a bit, as fast as you can. Then when I give the word, kids in the center and us facing out.”

“It’ll attack,” Peter rasped.

“We want him to. Got…to finish this one…before the others get here. Before he gets ahead and blocks us. Making him do what we want, not what he would want to do if he was thinking about it.”

Tactics, and his detective’s feeling for the psychology of macho asshole perps. And if he was wrong and they failed, they’d be overrun and ripped to pieces. A lumbering dash, the fall of their feet and the sobbing of their breath loud in the night. The ants were crawling on his skin, all right, and it felt tight enough to split under their little sharp feet.

“
Now!
”

Dogs can’t resist chasing something that runs, especially when they smell fear. Let the wolf rule the man. Let the man go apeshit because he can’t stand
to lose face or let the others laugh at him. C’mon, do the wrong thing, you son of a whore! Make that son of a bitch!

“Now, stop!”

He knew he stank of raw terror, and he suspected the others did too; having these things chase you through the night was an ultimate fear built right in, and something deep down knew those weren’t just wolves. Perhaps this was the irrational source of the fear and hate wolves had always aroused, the way the ancient masters had used their forms to hunt men.

The children went down and huddled on the ground, clutching each other. The three adults made a protective triangle; there was a
shing
as Cheba’s machete came out. He couldn’t see six feet, but he could hear paws rutching on the wet pavement with its patches of snow. Then he could see, see the glowing yellow eyes above the snarling muzzle; the nightwalker had been careless to leave them like that. He fired just as the eyes lifted in the killing leap, then clubbed blindly with the silvered steel barrels, flailing into the strobing afterimages that the twin streaks of fire drew across his vision. Metal cracked against bone, thudded into something like hard upholstery.

Weight slammed into him and he went over on his back, tensing his muscles as he fell so it wouldn’t knock the wind out of him. A hundred and eighty pounds of wolf tried to anyway. He got his hands up just in time, the fingers locking in fur over muscle that felt like living metal. Slaver sprayed to his face, and the harsh animal musk and stink filled his nose, and the blank yellow eyes were like windows into a world of fire. There was a flash of fangs amid a sound like baseball bats being slammed together or God’s own castanets as the great jaws snapped close enough that the hot wind of it fanned his chin. Blunt-clawed paws scrabbled at him, and he could feel his grip slipping.