The Living Night (Book 2) (27 page)

She turned to him, dagger still clutched tightly
in her small pale hand. “Think you’re pretty impressive, don’t you?”

“That was nothing,” he said.
“Just
a trick to let you cool off.”

“Letting me cool down’s a mistake. When I’m
cold-blooded I might actually be able to think of a way to get you.”

“Stop it, sweetie. I can’t believe that we can’t
be friends again. All you’ve got to do is try to see things through my eyes. I
had no choice. Don’t you see that? I did what was best for my friends. To me,
friends are very important, and when I’m in a position to protect one of them,
I do. When Ruegger threatened to torture and perhaps kill Blackie, I did what I
could to ensure that both of them stayed alive. Surely you see that. There was
no other way.”
Keeping a level gaze on her, as if to
hypnotize her with his calmness, he patted area of the bed just beside him.
“
Dani
, let’s be friends again.”

“How do you propose we do that? Wanna lock me
up, too? Want me to turn around so you can stick the knife, maybe? Well, fuck
you, Khark, I don’t need this shit.”

He called out after her, but she was already
gone.

*
    
*
    
*

She
spent a large portion of the rest of the night in one of the immortal bars,
getting plastered and listening to some soldiers sitting a few tables away tell
war stories about their times in London. When the soldiers spotted her
listening, they offered to buy her a few drinks, but she told them she was
taken. They didn’t retract the offer. It wasn’t long before a tequila-shooting
contest was declared, and before the hour was over, three of them had passed
out. Beside herself, only two of them were standing, and she knew that if she
stayed much longer she wouldn’t be coherent, either. Politely, she excused
herself.

She had to find Sophia, tell her that Ruegger
was here. When she returned to the room they shared, the ghensiv hadn’t arrived—though,
mercifully, Kharker had gone. There
was
one more person Danielle should notify about Ruegger, so, drunkenly, she made
her way around to several of the castle’s bars, looking for Harry. He was
nowhere to be found.

Of course
, thought Danielle, wincing.

She found the chain of low-rent rooms that
Cloire’s death-squad had been bumped down to, and, taking a deep breath, she
knocked on Cloire’s door.

After a moment, the werewolf shouted “Go away!
I’m busy!”

Gritting her teeth, Danielle said, “Open up,
damnit. It’s me. I’m looking for Harry.”

For a moment, silence greeted her. Then the bolt
of the door drew back, and the door opened a few inches to reveal a naked
Cloire with a scotch in hand.

The she-wolf eyed Danielle drunkenly, then
snorted and swung the door wide.

“Come on, then.”

Cautiously, Danielle pushed inside, noting that
Cloire stepped back a few feet as she did so. Candlelight lit the otherwise
dark room, and by its faint light Danielle could make out the small
lumpen
figure of Harry sleeping on the only bed.

“Harry,” she whispered.

The mortal didn’t stir.

“Leave him alone,” said Cloire, and Danielle was
slightly surprised at the protective tone of her voice. “He needs his sleep,
Dani
. Trust me. He earned it.”

“What about you?”

Cloire
smiled,
her eyes
glassy. “I’m watching him.” She motioned to the mini-bar in the corner. “Care
to stay for awhile?”

For some reason, this tempted Danielle. She
genuinely wanted to spend some time just talking to this creature, this livid
naked thing that had just seduced the only decent man she knew except for
Ruegger. But she was too tired, and now was not the time.

“No.”

“Maybe later.”

As soon as she was gone, the door closed quietly
behind her. After giving herself over to a great sad sigh, Danielle staggered
back to her own room and stripped off her clothes, picking her way towards the
bed. Before she even reached it, she fell to the carpeted floor and passed out
cold.

*
    
*
    
*

Dawn
approached all too swiftly.
Shit
,
Jean-Pierre thought.
I have to think of
something fast
. Before too long, they’d take him underground and chain him
up like they’d done yesterday, just to ensure he didn’t try anything while the
rest of them slept. He couldn’t allow that to happen this time. If he waited
any longer, he’d be too weak. Hell, he was weak enough already.

During the days and nights he’d been held
captive, he’d formulated a plan, if it could be called that. He kept hoping
that he’d think of something better, but so far no dice. He was stuck with what
he had.

Now
.
It had to be now.

He jumped off the rock that had become his
station and left the shelter of the trees for a smoke. It had become a ritual,
and the guards that hovered behind him had become accustomed to it, so much so
that Jean-Pierre could tell that their level of readiness had tapered off.
So much the better.

He lit his last Pall Mall.

As he did, he extended his mind out over the
ridges and through the woods of the mountain the Libertarians had made camp on.
Slowly, the cigarette burned, but he tried not to dwell on it. If his mind
hadn’t found what it needed by the time the last bit of tobacco had turned to
ash, he would have to go back inside the army’s shelter. From there, it was
only a few feet down to where the chains waited.

Come to me, my brothers
, he thought.
Come to
Jean-Pierre.

Before he had even expected it, he found them.
Wolves.
A whole pack of them—maybe two
dozen in all.

He permitted himself a grin as he let his mind
open up a channel between himself and the animals. And yes,
there
, he
could feel it, an ember embedded in their heads that was the Dark Lord’s
finger. If Jean-Pierre had been stronger, he could’ve tapped into the mind of
Sarnova himself, maybe exchanged some thoughts with the great leader, but now all
he could do was manipulate the animals, his kindred. He only hoped that that
would be enough.

*
    
*
    
*

About
a mile away, up on one of the high ridges of the mountain, a group of five
Libertarian scouts were just preparing to return to camp. Already, they could
feel the heat on the horizon and knew it wouldn’t be half an hour before the
sun was up. After they’d stuffed their gear back into their backpacks, one of
them climbed up the little hillock, or ridge, and took a last look down at the
slope below, which they had been assigned to monitor.

“Jesus
fuck
,” he said,
and the rest of them crawled up to the ridge to join him, careful to keep their
heads low.

Below, the ridge fell
away to become a wide snow-covered slope, empty of trees until about three
hundred yards down.
There, from the dense woods, came the wolves. Fast.

“Damn,” the first Libertarian said. “Come on, let’s
get our heads down.”

They crawled to the base of the hillock and stared
grimly at each other. One of them removed his backpack and pulled out his
radio, and within a minute he had Captain D’Aguila on the line.

“This is Plato,” the Captain said, using his
code-name. “Go ahead.”

“North base, sir.”

“Go ahead.”

“Wolf sighting, sir.”

“How many?”

“
Dunno
, sir.
Maybe ten, fifteen.
Headed up toward us,
though.
Maybe they got wind of us and are coming to investigate. If they
continue their present course they should be on us within a minute or so. Sir,
please
advise
.”

“Can you get out of the area in time? I don’t
want you having to burrow again.”

“
Yessir
, we can get
out.
If we leave now.”

“Then get back here, double-time.
Out.”

Less than ten seconds later, the Libertarians
were jogging swiftly down the mountain. About a minute later, they heard the
first of the wolves climbing over the ridge that they had just left.

The wolves started howling.

*
    
*
    
*

Captain
Raulf D’Aguila swore, shoving the radio handset into the chest of the man who’d
handed it to him, in the process knocking the subordinate to the ground.

“Men!” the Captain roared. “Gather ‘round.”

His one hundred and fifty soldiers leapt off
their asses and made a bee-line for him. Just then, and to Raulf’s supreme
irritation, the radio man pressed the whining machine back at D’Aguila. For a
moment, Raulf considered belting the man, then realized that someone was on the
line.

Growling, he put the handset to her ear.

“This is Plato. Go ahead.”

“This is east base,” the radio crackled.

Raulf recognized the base as the nearest one.
The soldiers on the other end of this line were stationed at a little ridge
overlooking the precipice of the mountain and the woodland that bordered it.

“I read you,” he said, irritated that the
interference was making it difficult for him to hear.

“Wolf sighting, sir,” came the reply.
“About a dozen, coming from the north high ground.
Please—”

“Let me ask you this, soldier. While you’re
talking to me, now, are you running?”

“No, sir.”

“Then start!” He switched off the radio, tossing
it to the ground as he stepped forward so that he could address his men, who
were muttering back and forth.

“Shut up!” he commanded, and they fell silent.
“All of you, down in the tunnels. Bring your gear. Now go. Go
go
go
! If any of you aren’t down
there in two minutes, I will personally lop off your head!”

As they scurried toward the trapdoors, Raulf
scanned the immediate horizon for stragglers. After a quick inspection he was
satisfied that there were none except for Jean-Pierre and the guards that
surrounded him. They were turned to look at him, as if they’d seen all the commotion
and were wondering what was going on, but with all the distance and snow, they
were not able to hear him.

Swiftly, he marched towards them.

*
    
*
    
*

Jean-Pierre
savored the last few hits of his Pall Mall as
he watched D’Aguila approach. If his plan was to work, it had to be now.

“Come on,” one of the guards said, and gestured
that they should all move toward their Captain, meet him half-way. As one, they
started towards him ... and, again as one, they stopped and turned when they
realized that the albino had not moved.

“Come on, damnit!”

Jean-Pierre remained still.

Through the raging blizzard, Jean-Pierre heard
D’Aguila roaring at the top of his lungs, “You! All of you! Get your asses over
here! I mean NOW!”

Jean-Pierre’s guards moved in swiftly, drawing
the shiny sabers they wore at their hips.

“Come now, Jean-Pierre,” said the man
Jean-Pierre thought of as the warden. He spoke in a manner as if he were trying
to communicate with a troublesome child. “Now isn’t the time to play hero.”

Jean-Pierre smiled. Slowly, he raised his hands
in a placating gesture. The motion seemed to alarm the soldiers. When they
realized what he was doing, though, they relaxed.

Jean-Pierre moved in a blur. In a flash too
quick for most to see, Jean-Pierre reached out with his bare hand, took the
leader’s saber by the sharp curved blade and yanked it free, ignoring the pain
and blood. In an instant, he transferred the weapon to his other hand, gripping
it deftly by the handle, and plunged it into the chest of the man to his right.

The wounded man, with half the saber sticking
out of his breast, lunged toward Jean-Pierre. The albino grabbed him by the
protruding hilt and used this purchase to swing the man
around,
like a side of beef on a skewer, with such force that the momentum and weight
of the stuck soldier knocked the next two over.

The fourth guard—the disarmed warden—reached
down to one of his fallen men and snatched up a saber.

Jean-Pierre shoved his boot against the stuck
man’s chest and pushed the writhing body off his blade. With a cry, the
skewered man fell in a red wet heap to the snow.

Already, the other two fallen guards were
rising, and their leader was advancing with his flashing blade. Behind him,
D’Aguila drew near.