The Living Night (Book 2) (19 page)

"How's it going, Loirot?" Sophia
asked.

"How's it going?" he repeated dumbly.
"
How's it GOING?
Sophe, how the hell did you get here?"

"Came with the
troupe."

"How'd
that
happen?"

"Long story."

"Start talking."

Sophia sighed. "It was Jean-Pierre. He left
me with the Funhouse after ...
well,
it really is a
long story. Danielle, come on, let's go. Loirot, you're staying here."

"I don't think so," he said. "And
Danielle's not going anywhere unless I permit it."

Sophia arched an eyebrow. "Why’s
that?"

"She's my prisoner."

"
Your
prisoner, huh?”
Danielle said.

"A prisoner of the
crew."

"So they got you, after all?" Sophia
said to Danielle.

Danielle shrugged.
"More
like I got myself, to tell the truth."

"But why didn't they ... you know, kill
you?"

"Turns out Vistrot never wanted us dead. He
knew Jean-Pierre wouldn't do it. Or, I guess, he would've been happy for Jean-Pierre
to do it, but he knew he wouldn't. I think for Vistrot it was a win-win either
way. He was using us, me and Ruegger, against someone else."

"Who?"

"Long story.”

Sophia spun to Loirot. "Lover, me and
Danielle need time to catch up, and I’m not taking no for an answer."

"Don't call me lover.”

"Then you shouldn't have fucked me,
sweetheart."

"It was part of the Initiation."

"That's what they all say. Now, about that
time alone
… "

His gaze swung back and forth from Danielle to Sophia.
"I don't know."

"Come on," said Danielle, punching him
lightly, even affectionately, on the shoulder.

Loirot's resistance gave out.
"Fine.
You two can talk in our room—
Dani's
and mine—and I'll
wait outside."

He was as good as his word and waited outside
the room while they spoke, although neither Danielle nor Sophia trusted him
enough to speak above a whisper. They took turns telling their stories, Sophia
first. Danielle interrupted only occasionally. When Sophia told about how
Junger and Jagoda had raped her, Danielle comforted her tearfully. When they
were both finished telling their stories and comparing notes, Sophia said,
"So what now?"

Danielle lit a clove and leaned back on the bed
so that she was staring up at the ceiling. “I have no fucking clue."

"I think the first thing we need to do is
get the hell out of here. This thing's gotten too far out of our control.”

“We can’t go anywhere till Ruegger arrives.”

“Okay, fine
… ”

“And he’s not the only concern."

Sophia sighed.
"Right.
You have to kill Malcolm."

"At least I think I do."

"This isn't something you should be vague
about. Kill the bastard and be done with it. Move on. Trust me, when I'm in a
position to take my revenge on Junger and Jagoda, I will. So as one rape victim
to another—just do it."

"It's not that simple. Junger and Jagoda
are still evil, but Malcolm ... he's changed. If Cloire had let me at him the
first day I got here, Malcolm would be a thing of the past by now. Now I'm not
so sure."

Sophia rose from the chair, stretching her arms.
"You've got to do what feels right. That's the main thing. As for me, it's
been a long night, and I've got to hit the sheets."

Danielle studied her. "What's that smile
about?"

Once it was brought to her attention, Sophia
only smiled broader. She said, "
Claude'll
probably be worried about me. That's all."

"Claude? Oh … right. What—ah—is he to you,
anyway?"

"Oh, just a friend, rest assured. I am
married now.
But ... to me ... that's a lot.
Traditionally, I've had very few friends."

"You've got one more now."

"You?"

"You're surprised?"

"A little," Sophia admitted. "I
think of us as comrades. We share a mission, although whatever that is anymore
I don't really understand. To save the world, I guess.
But
friends?
I haven't known you long enough."

Danielle stubbed out her cigarette.
They
don't call her the Ice Queen for nothing.

“Alright, then,” she said. “Comrade it is.”

"I'll see you tomorrow.” Sophia made her
way to the door, opened it—

And recoiled.

Framed in the doorway stood Cloire, hips cocked,
lips curved cruelly, her eyes on fire.

"Sophe," she said.
"How
the hell you doin'!"

*
    
*
    
*

After
the very public arrival of the Funhouse of the Forsaken, Francois Mauchlery,
shadowed by two guards, retired to the warm shadows of the castle's only
cabaret club, informally known as the Floor Show. Really, it would be one of
the last nights for this place, at least for awhile, because the Funhouse would
surely be the most popular attraction while they were here, and they were
planning to do their first show in a few days.

As usual, the hostess offered Mauchlery a seat
by the stage—he was the second-most powerful shade in the Castle, after all—but,
as usual, he declined, preferring a booth instead. His guards took position to either
side, mostly out of sight to the Ambassador. He smiled to himself as he
wondered whether the guards were more interested in protecting him or watching
the showgirls. The showgirls were
good,
Francois had
to give them that. They were beautiful and talented, and they kicked their legs
high.

Frequently, they shot little glances at him, and
he wondered if his presence made them nervous. It never had before. But things were
spiraling rapidly downhill, and he supposed that if a showgirl could manage to
hook herself up with a man of his prestige and power, her safety would be assured.
Well, as assured as anybody’s was, these days.

The waitress brought him scotch, which he drank
with only one cube of ice. He would've ordered the bottle itself, but
appearances did have to be maintained.
A shame.
In a
little while, he would be called upon to do something that would change things
from there on out. It was his idea, though, so he had only himself to blame. A
little more alcohol would not have gone amiss.

A few tables away hunched a group of dignitaries
from Ireland.
They represented a majority of the immortals on their island and they’d come to
Roche Sarnova for a special petition on behalf of their constituents. The Irish
shades had been approached by Subaire's Half of the Dark Council, who had
requested their assistance in fighting Sarnova. Unfortunately (for them, at
least) the Irish had refused, siding instead with their traditional ruler.
Subaire's faction had retaliated by attacking the loyalists, and now the Irish
were here to request Roche Sarnova's help.

It wasn't the first such situation. Blackie
spent several hours a night listening to these appeals and granting them when
he could spare the man-power, although on many occasions he couldn't. His men
were spread too thin already, and things weren't going his way.

In fact, the war was being lost. And it was
because of this state of affairs that Mauchlery was about to do what he was
about to do.

For awhile, he listened to the music and watched
the dancers as they kicked and strutted and slunk across the stage. It was all
very bright and glitzy, and the scotch (which kept getting refilled, as if by
magic) didn't make it any more comprehensible.

After some time, a man in a suit approached his
booth. The guards blocked the way.

“Admit him,” Francois said, and they obliged.

The man sat opposite Francois, and they had a
drink together, just to keep up appearances. Really, though, this wasn't
necessary; the man's arrival was just a signal, nothing more.
But gods, what a signal.

After his drink was finished, Francois rose,
gathered his guards and left the Floor Show to ascend several floors and make
his way down various halls until he was in a portion of the castle seldom used,
where he reached a door at the end of a little cul-de-sac. His guards stepping
in front of him, he crossed the threshold and locked the door behind him.

Before him stood more
than twenty of the highest-ranking members in Roche Sarnova's government, chief
among these the "loyal" members of the Dark Council.

"Ambassador," said one of the
Councilmen, a Colonel De Soto, swarthy and bearded, apparently the chosen
spokesman of the group.

Francois shook the man's hand and nodded to the
rest of the shades present.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said.
"I want to thank you all for coming here on such short notice and despite
the obvious risk involved."

"Of course," said the colonel. "I
think we all realize how urgent and belated this meeting is. And yes, I think
we all have a good idea what this is about."

"I'm sure you do. From what I've managed to
gather, you all have had similar meetings before."

"Yes, that’s true. But there was not enough
...
focus
... to those earlier gatherings. Now that you've decided to
join us—"

"No,"
interrupted Mauchlery.
His voice was cold and
level,
and
he saw that he commanded everyone's attention. "I am not
joining
this effort. When I became aware that certain steps were vital to maintain our
way of life, and this system of government, I requested you all here, not so
that I could join the cause, but so that I could
lead
it." He looked at each face in turn, measuring each
expression. What he saw was gratifying; it seemed that they had expected this.
He continued, "If anyone wishes to oppose me, speak now."

Silence.

Colonel
de
Soto bowed. "You're now our
leader, Ambassador Mauchlery. I'm sure you'll provide our effort the focus it
requires. Now, please, I think we'd all be relieved if you stated your
intentions before us—not that they would be different from our own, of course,
but it would set our minds at ease."

"My intentions tonight are simple,”
Francois said. “We must plot the overthrow of our beloved leader, the Dark Lord
Roche Sarnova."

Chapter 10

"Where
is that goddamned Roach Motel?" Cloire demanded.

Danielle glanced up,
then
traded a look with Sophia. "What do you mean?"

"What she means," elaborated Byron,
who stood in the hallway next to Cloire, "is that Kiernevar hasn't come
back for his evening pill, and he should've been back an hour ago."

Danielle remembered her first encounter with
Kiernevar in Jean-Pierre's apartment building all too clearly. He'd been the
only vagrant there who hadn't obeyed Jean-Pierre's will, and he'd been deeply
insane.

"I don't want him going back to the way he
was," Cloire said needlessly. "So far, he's been a good boy, taking
his pill, helping us out. But if he goes off his medication ...”

"I saw him at the Arena," Danielle
said.

Cloire nodded, turned to Byron. "Go look
for him, will you? Pin him to the floor if you have to. Just make sure he takes
the goddamned pill."

Byron nodded and moved off.

Cloire turned to Sophia.
"And
what about you, Sophe?
When Loirot told me you were here, I didn't
believe it."

"Well, I am," said the Ice Queen.
"Get used to it."

Cloire chuckled, looked for a moment as if she
was about to embrace her old companion, then cooled off.

"Did you come back to betray us again, Sophe?
Was once not enough? Is it kind of like when a lion eats a man for the first
time—the first time is strange, then you acquire a taste for it?"

"Stop it," said Danielle.

"Oh, shut up. Go win a merit badge or
something."

"Girls, girls," said Loirot. "Why
don't we all try to be civil?"

Sophia lunged forward, belted Loirot across the
face and then planted a kick in the center of his chest, launching him down the
hall to land on his back.

"I never did like you,” Sophia said.

Cloire chuckled. "That's my girl."

Sophia shrugged Cloire's hand off her shoulder
and turned to glare at the werewolf.

"I'm not getting sucked into this
again," the Ice Queen said,
then
cast her gaze to
Danielle.
"Later, Danielle.
I'll catch up with
you tomorrow. We'll talk."

"Later," said the vampiress.

Sophia stalked off. Loirot crawled out of her
way as she strode past him, but she had eyes only for leaving. Soon she rounded
a corner and was a gone.

"You're no fun anymore," Cloire called
after her. She snarled wordlessly at Danielle,
then
vanished inside her room.

Danielle shut the door to her own suite, and as
she walked back into the bedroom she took off her black leather jacket, her
black steel-toed shoes, her black jeans and her black T-shirt. She removed off
her silver earrings, washed her face and climbed into bed. She could feel the
tug of slumber, feel the presence of the sun climbing over the Carpathians outside,
but her mind churned, restless, and would not let her sleep.

What was she doing here? She missed Ruegger and
hated the fact that she was seemingly surrounded by evil.
Nothing
but evil.
And if evil was anything, if it had one single universal
property, that property would be that it was contagious.

Because here she was, on a mission to do evil to
a man who might no longer deserve
it.
Where was the
justice in that? But he did deserve it, the bastard, he really did. That was
the crux of the whole problem. Was he to get off scot-free after all the things
he'd done?

She could hear Loirot entering the living area
up front, hear him taking off his clothes and going to sleep on the couch.
Surely he deserved to die at least as much as Malcolm did, so why didn't she
just kill him instead? Following that logic, why didn't she just kill all the
immortals in the castle, save Sophia? They were all evil. She'd start with that
goddamned
waiter ...

Soon she slept, but it was a fitful rest, and
her dreams were dark and frantic.

When she woke, she could smell coffee brewing in
the small kitchen. She showered and dressed and replaced her earrings, then
joined Loirot for a cup of
joe
.
Loirot could unfailingly brew a mean batch, that's for sure. Maybe it was his
only redeeming characteristic, thought Danielle, but in the mornings it sure
was a hell of
a redemption
.

"Sleep well?" he asked.

"Just great," she said. "How's
your chest?"

Unconsciously, he looked down at the spot where Sophia
had delivered her kick. As he did so, Danielle got a good look at his hair,
which was as clean and immaculately brushed as always, despite the fact that
he'd spent most of the day sleeping on the couch.

"She crushed one of the buttons on my
shirt," he said.

When their coffee was finished and Danielle had
smoked the first cigarette of the evening, they met the other members of the
death-squad at a little breakfast joint a few floors down. This had become
something of a tradition with the crew and its "prisoners", a time to
re-group and plan for the night. Almost everyone was there, including Harry and
Kilian. There was only one absentee: Kiernevar.

As Danielle sat at the large table that the
others were already seated at, she saw the strained look on Byron’s face and
knew that Cloire had put the pressure of Kiernevar's recovery on his shoulders.
Danielle didn't envy him.

When the waiter came by, Danielle ordered an
omelet. Loirot only ordered another cup of coffee and some toast. He was
probably still full from the girl he'd eaten the previous night. The breakfast
that evening was somber, although Danielle's omelet was quite good.

Afterward, she and Loirot wandered the castle’s
halls, seeing what sights there were to see. Down in the castle's theater, the
Funhouse of the Forsaken was running through some of its routines while letting
the inhabitants of the castle watch. The troupe would practice all night and
all day for several days in preparation for their first show. Danielle's
purpose in bringing Loirot here was to find Sophia, but of Jean-Pierre's
daughter there was no sign.

“Enough,” Loirot said. “We’ve explored enough
for today, Danielle.”

She groaned.
“Fine.
What then?”

“The first fight of the evening should be
starting soon
… ”

“You and your damned fights.”

Grudgingly, she allowed him to lead her to the
Arena, bought a beer and a hot dog off a vender and settled down next to Loirot
on one of the lowest rows of the stadium. The seats perched close to the action
that some old blood had stained the stone near her feet. For some reason, even
to her nose, the blood didn't smell so good.

The slavers were just finishing up their auction,
dismantling their platforms and refastening the chains on their human
livestock. Seeing this, Danielle set her hot dog down and didn’t resume eating
it, even after the slavers and the slaves had left her sight.

Soon, the ringmaster of the Arena greeted the
audience, which was small this early in the evening, and the first contestant
entered the ring to scattered applause.
Then the second.
The duelists shook hands, and the ringmaster left the Arena.

The pugilists began hot and heavy, and at first
Danielle thought it was to be a mercifully quick fight, but the warriors swiftly
grew wary, and their movements became careful, measured. It turned out to be a
very long fight, at least two hours. By the time it ended, enough spectators
had filtered in to flesh-out the stadium. The competition ended rather
bloodily, but then didn't they all?

A short recession was called while the blood in
the Arena was mopped up, during which Loirot and Danielle both had to use the
head. Loirot's solution to the dilemma was simple: she would accompany him into
the men's room and use a stall there while he pissed in the latrine. The idea
worked fine, although she did get a few interested glances, if only a few;
immortals as a rule were rather liberal.

The two returned to their seats as the
ringmaster came back into the Arena, welcomed the new members of the audience,
and recapped the highlights of the last duel. He introduced the first official
contestant to loud applause. It turned out to be Lyshira, the dragon-lady that
had prevailed last night. She wore a robe cinched around the middle, but the
medallion Roche Sarnova had given her gleamed around her neck.

"Isn't she beautiful?" said Loirot.

This comment had a strange effect. His voice
carried further than Danielle would have anticipated and was quickly picked up
by the dragon-lady's ears. As soon as he said it, the red-haired Lyshira turned
his way and winked at him. He smiled back and began to blush.

"You're the one who wanted to sit near the
bottom row," Danielle reminded him.
"So talk softer,
Nimrod."

He started to chastise her, but he couldn't get
that silly smile off his face and was in too good a mood to get angry, so he
let it drop.

"And now," roared the announcer,
"may I present our second contender to the throne, a newcomer by any
standards, but one who thinks he has what it takes ... to be the king! Ladies
and Gentleman, allow me to present the Werewolf Kiernevar!"

The crowd booed happily as Kiernevar strode into
the Arena wearing only a loincloth.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," said Loirot.

"Goddamn," Danielle agreed, staring at
the Lord of the Flies and trying to make sense of what she saw.
Kiernevar, as young and deranged as he was, making a bid for Dark
Lord ... going up against a woman almost a thousand years older than himself...
What the
hell
?

"So much for his medication," she
said.

Loirot’s eyes stared,
blank and unseeing.
"He's going to kill her," he said. "That
bastard's going to kill Lyshira. She winked at me and now he's going to kill
her."

"Shut up," Danielle said. "He's
not going to kill her, Loirot. You said yourself she's nine hundred years old.
He doesn't have a chance. Good riddance to bad rubbish and all that."

"No," he whispered. "He killed
Laslo, and Laslo was much older than nine hundred years, and now he's going to
kill Lyshira."

He’s right
, Danielle thought.
Through some sort of bizarre fluke, Kiernevar was ingrained with unnatural
strength and awareness of his powers. What would take a normal shade millennia
to learn, he already knew.
And why?
Because
he was insane.
Deeply.
Fucking.
Insane.

Trying to reassure Loirot, she said, "They'll
probably disqualify him for mental incompetence."

They didn't.

Kiernevar and Lyshira shook
hands,
the ringmaster accepted her robe and medallion, leaving her naked, then left
the Arena. The fight commenced.

It was quick. Kiernevar and Lyshira flew at each
other lustily. There was a lot of flying limbs and blood, and, where the
combatants partially transformed, Danielle could see glimpses of roiling fur
and gleaming scales. They rolled around on the dirt floor for nearly a minute,
and Danielle could feel the audience around her craning forward, sitting on the
edges of their seats—and, though she might later deny it, Danielle did the
same.

Eventually, Kiernevar flung himself away and
rose to his feet.

A few yards away Lyshira lay torn and bleeding
and naked, utterly defenseless. She still lived, though.
Barely.
Tears hovered at the corners of her eyes as she saw Kiernevar draw near. His
shadow fell across her face, but somehow her tears still caught the light.

She attempted to change forms, her body
elongating and her skin being covered by brilliant scales. Wings began to grow
along her back. She was too far gone, though; her wounds had drained her.
Unable to keep her transformation going, Lyshira ceased her efforts with her
body stuck half-way between woman and dragon. Still, she was beautiful.

Kiernevar tore off her head.

The crowd did not cheer. It sat mute in horror
as the lunatic went about dismembering his victim, piece by piece.

Danielle wiped at her eyes, sucked in a deep
breath and cleared her throat. She leaned back in her chair. Seeing Loirot
struck dumb, she squeezed his hand despite herself, but it did no good.

"Come on," she whispered. "Let's
get out of here."

He followed her blindly as she led the way up
toward the exit. As they crested the final stair, she saw Cloire standing near
the entrance. The she-wolf’s eyes were focused on the Arena, where the
ringmaster was covering the strange silence with a stream of patter. She must
have seen the whole thing.
Enough, anyway.

"Cloire?" said Danielle.

“Kiernevar,” Cloire breathed. “So that’s why we
couldn’t find him. The sick fuck came
here
.” Her face twisted. “Great,
this is just what we need.” She spat. “All this time and I thought he was just
a sidekick—
and now it turns out he’s a
player.”