The Living Night: Part One
Author: Jack Conner
Date: 2012-03-20 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Horror; Vampires; Fantasy; Zombies; Urban Fantasy; Supernatural
Description: Imagine a cross between Blade and Anne Rice -- a sweeping, action-packed epic about the world of vampires and other immortal races, with high drama and high stakes. Ruegger and Danielle are two vampire lovers who rebel against the vampire society and the greater immortal community -- composed of many races, some quite strange -- and who fight against their brethren when they prey wantonly on humans. Ruegger and Danielle strive to be moral vampires, taking only what blood they need, and as such they're hated by many, and loved by few. Ruegger's an ancient vampire, many hundreds of years old, wh
Publisher: Smashwords Edition

THE LIVING NIGHT

PART TWO

by Jack Conner

Copyright 2014

All rights reserved

Cover image used with permission

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

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Chapter 1

The Congo was hot and the mosquitoes weren't any nicer than Danielle remembered, but there was a wonderful familiarity here. A wonderful, eternal quality; the Congo was the darkest, thickest, most savage jungle in the world, had been that way since long before she was born and would be that way long after she died. It was the true immortal, a large, seething, and sultry beast. Green and lush, chaotic, and as noisy in its own way as Times Square.

Of course, whenever Danielle thought of the Congo, she always associated its smell with Kharker's cigars, and Lord Kharker himself, who seemed just as immortal and unchanging as the jungle he lived in.

So it was strange that he didn't greet the odd flock as they stepped down from the plane, as was his usual custom. Gavin was there in his place, flanked by a score of Caucasian guards Danielle didn't recognize.

"Welcome," Gavin said, taking first Danielle's hand, then Ruegger's. "Kharker's been looking forward to your visit."

"Then why didn't he meet us?" asked Danielle.

"I think you'll have to discuss that with him. Please, but could you remove all your weapons?"

Ruegger and Danielle exchanged glances, but did as they were asked. Gavin had never been anything but polite with them (although he'd never seen them together), and he wasn't impolite now. Once they'd handed their arms over to the host of soldiers, Gavin led them toward the main building, then veered off, moving toward the jungle as if he expected his guests to follow. Warily, they did.

The clearing around the estate soon gave way to fierce vegetation, but several trails snaked off into the wild and almost impenetrable darkness. Danielle immediately noticed that the jungle life was oddly quiet—the first signal of an ambush—and ordinarily this would've given her a few tense moments, but she heard the sounds of men working and, over them, Lord Kharker giving orders.

When they came upon the man himself, he was standing with the sleeves of his soiled white shirt rolled up past his elbow, the stub of a cigar sticking authoritatively from one corner of his mouth. Judging by the stubble on his face, he hadn't shaved in some time. The men he was ordering about seemed to be digging trenches, and pieces of piping material lay scattered around. When he heard the odd flock approach, Kharker turned and offered a huge smile.

"Ah! It's good to see you again.” He crossed to Danielle, hugging her, then embraced Ruegger roughly and stood for a long moment examining him. "I've missed you, son.” His voice was soft. "Here, let me look at you. Hair's a bit longer, but otherwise you haven't changed a bit, and I don't know why you should. You know, my boy, I thought I might never see you again."

The Darkling lit a cigarette, studying the Hunter. "I vowed never to come near you again, old man."

"I know. I've respected it. And old I feel, too. I celebrated my millennium just a short time ago."

"We heard. Celebrated it with Jean-Pierre."

Was there jealousy in Ruegger’s voice? Danielle wondered. Surely not.

"Indeed," said Kharker. "On safari, of course. That albino's turning into quite a hunter, become even a better shot with a rifle than yourself—soon to outclass even me, I'm sure, but I find that I'm looking forward to that. It's strange. Perhaps I really am just getting old, looking for a successor. But seeing you again ... after all these years ... it quickens my blood. Do you feel it, too?"

It was clear Ruegger did. When he removed the cigarette from his lips, his hand was shaking slightly.

"What are you doing here?" he said.

The Hunter smiled, cigar pointing up. "We're digging irrigation ditches for the alligator swamp I'm going to make."

"Alligator swamp?"

"In fact, I'm thinking of making an entire zoo, replete with all the creatures I love. You see, recently I've begun to examine myself in different ways—isolation fosters this sort of thing—and I've found that one of the chief reasons I enjoy hunting so much is that I simply want to be in touch with nature. It's not so much that I enjoy killing, although that's part of it, of course, but that I enjoy animals themselves: their freedom, their simplicity, their energy.

“So I'm having a zoo built in my backyard to honor them, and so that I can enjoy them without going to the trouble of organizing a safari. There are some times in the middle of the night when I'd rather just walk outside and watch them. It calms me, and inspires me at the same time. However—well, I don't like the idea of them being in cages, you understand, so I'm trying to work out a system in which I can have them here and at the same time keep them liberated. It breaks my heart to see them imprisoned."

"I remember."

"Do you have any revelations to share?"

Ruegger glanced at Danielle, and Kharker nodded in sympathy. If they were to have a good old-fashioned chat, she would have to be absent. She watched them and understood what they were thinking, but it didn't bother her. Sometimes friends needed time to talk alone. On the other hand, the thought of Ruegger left alone with his old mentor made her edgy. He was too open-minded for his own good, and she was a little afraid he'd be susceptible to Kharker's corruption.

Plus, there was business to attend to.

"Ahem," she said.

Kharker gave his full attention to her. "You, my girl, look even more sumptuous than the last time I saw you. The albino still pines for you, you know." He said it with a trace of sadness, but it was obviously meant as a compliment.

"Anyway, what's the deal here?” she said. “To start with, why'd you have our guns taken away?"

He looked off into the distance. "I feared you might have planned to undertake the revenge of your good friend Ludwig, whom I had killed not long ago."

"Bullshit. What reason did you have to kill him?"

"He wanted to take over the world, enslave humanity. It's not in my interest to have humanity enslaved. That would spoil the fun, wouldn't it? There would be no more Hunt. Ludwig had to die. For your loss, I'm deeply sorry."

"That is the singularly biggest load of atrocious crap that I've ever heard in all my years,” she said. “For one, all the humans you ‘Hunt’ are captives anyway, so what does it matter?"

"The fact that I'm a hypocrite changes nothing."

She waved this away. "For another, Ludwig wanted to disband Liberty, not keep it going. Enslaving humanity was the one thing he was trying to prevent. It may be what he died for. Now what's the real story? And what's the deal with all the white guys?"

Kharker looked to Ruegger, but the Darkling offered no help.

"That's what we came here for," Ruegger said. "To find out what you know."

The Great White Hunter stared at the tip of his cigar. "I recruited the white guys, as you call them, Danielle, to help out in the event that Maleasoel organized an avenging strike on me."

"I don't buy it," said Danielle. "If you wanted extra help, you'd train some natives, not hire a bunch of Euro-trash mercenaries—if that’s what these are. Mercenaries are rough and independent. The soldiers we saw looked formally trained, and trained together. An army of some sort, I guess. No, the way we see it is that—and this is just one of many possibilities—you were afraid Roche Sarnova would be accused of Ludwig's death, so you took the blame yourself, and ..." She looked at Ruegger questioningly. "How to you figure in the Caucasians?"

Ruegger's eyes never left the Hunter. "I think someone approached Kharker, said that Sarnova would be accused of Ludwig's death because of his association with the Balaklava and asked the Hunter if he'd take the fall. In the bargain, whoever approached him would give him a load of pre-trained soldiers to ward off Maleasoel. The real question is who approached him. How does that sound?"

She nodded. "Well, Kharker?"

The Hunter remained silent a moment. "You may not believe, or want to believe, that I killed Ludwig, but it's the truth. I hired Caucasians simply for a change of pace. Now why don't you join me for a nice glass of sherry?"

*     *     *

Once they were inside, Kharker showed them to the Elephant Room. Ruegger moved along the walls, studying the new additions to the chamber, and it wasn't long before he came across his old poem; each page had been framed and hung from left to right so that they could be read.

"Jean-Pierre gave me that for my birthday," Kharker said. "I couldn't have asked for a better present."

"Sorry I missed your millenium."

"Don't be. You didn't want any contact between us, and I understood that. It's why I didn't send you anything for your anniversary."

"You keep up with that sort of thing?” Danielle said.

"How could I not?"

She walked over to the poem on the wall, but it wasn't in English and she couldn't read it. "Darling," she said, "why don't you write anymore?"

Ruegger winced. "I don't have anything else to say. Everything I believed in I put into my poems, and I've said it all."

"You have more things to say than anyone I've ever met. When was the last time you wrote a poem?"

He paused, looking to her, then to Kharker. At last he let out a breath. "When Amelia died," he said.

Studying the two men, she realized that this had been an issue between them back when they were together. Kharker had probably urged Ruegger to write again, but Ruegger had resisted. The Hunter had tried to find a muse for his companion, but had been unsuccessful; all his attempts to enliven Ruegger had failed. Danielle could sense all this, or some variation of it, in the subtle gestures of the two.

"I don't wish to discuss it," Ruegger added.

A servant entered, carrying a silver tray bearing glasses of sherry. Danielle sipped hers and smiled.

"It's divine," she said.

"Thank you, my dear,” Kharker said. “Now what exactly is it that you wish to know? If it's okay with you, I'd rather get business out of the way first."

"That would be fine. We'd like to know whatever you can tell us about the War of the Dark Council. And about Ludwig's death."

"I'm afraid I've said all I can on the latter subject, but I wouldn't mind sharing what I know of the War with you. It's a subject I've been most interested in of late. That said, I never like to divulge information to someone who's unwilling to do the same for me."

Ruegger raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"I know of your quest to gather facts about the strange situations surrounding us these days, and would be very interested in what you’ve learned. In particular, what you've found out about the Scouring."

"Quid pro quo, eh?" said Danielle.

"If you like. I would be more than willing to share with you what I know, but I would be most intrigued by what you have to tell me—if you chose to do so. Here, I'll go first."

He reclined in a large, comfortable chair, and the other two joined him. Sipping his sherry, Kharker began recounting the discussion he'd had with Roche Sarnova on the day he'd arrived at the Castle to celebrate his birthday with the Dark Lord, after Sarnova had asked Jean-Pierre to leave the room ...

*     *     *

"Well," said Kharker.

"Indeed," said Sarnova, his voice sickly, his face pale and ashen, and nodded at Francois Mauchlery. "Ambassador, would you care to bring Lord Kharker up to speed on recent events?"

"Certainly," said Mauchlery, rising. He moved out from behind Sarnova's desk and started pacing. "As you may know, the Dark One here is the head chair of the so-called Dark Council, which presides over immortal matters in our immediate realm. Other than Roche and myself, the most prominent member of the Council is a female morbine called Subaire. About a month ago Roche made the bold decision to claim Romania in the name of all immortals."

"Excuse me?" said Kharker.

"Please," said Sarnova patiently, earnestly. "Allow me to explain."

Francois bowed his head.

"Shades have, as the term implies, always lived in shadow," Sarnova said, "but dependent on humanity for our very existence. We've always lived in fear of mortals, because they've historically outnumbered us beyond proportion. Recently, however, our ranks have swelled into a more fair distribution, do you agree?"

"I suppose.” Kharker started rolling a cigarette. He took a deep breath, leaned back in his seat, and lit it. He had the feeling it would be the first of many.

"Nowadays, even if humans knew of us, we could more easily defend ourselves—provided we were united." Sarnova’s nostrils flared, smelling Kharker's cigarette. He smiled and lit one for himself. It made him cough more, but he didn't seem to mind, even when a few droplets of blood came to his lips, which he gracefully dabbed at with a white handkerchief.

Roche leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment. His face took on a strange look, almost of longing. "I'm old, Kharker. I'm tired of living in the shadow of our lessors—or, if you prefer to think of them as equals, then I'm tired of living with our equals ignorant of us. Maybe it's just the voice of ego, but I've been so frustrated lately that I just want to run through the streets shouting at the top of my lungs, ‘I'm a vampire! Look at me, I’m a vampire!' Childish, maybe, but it's what I want. Don't you ever feel that way, my friend—that you just want to be recognized and unashamed of what you are?"

"I suppose," said Kharker, wary.

"But just imagine, humans knowing of us and accepting us, living in harmony with us. Sure, they might fear us, but we could make some sort of treaty with them—they could send their criminals to us for sustenance, and we wouldn't attack their countries. We need a land of our own, a Jerusalem for the Undead. Think how beautiful that would be." He sighed wistfully, then nodded at Mauchlery again.

The Ambassador resumed talking, and pacing. "Roche wanted the Council to come to a consensus on the subject; it wouldn't make sense to go ahead with the plan unless we had the support of our followers, would it? So we summoned them for a special meeting and gave the proposal. Many were outraged, but we fought it out. Finally, after everyone had turned it over, it developed that the Council was evenly split, right down the middle, with Subaire leading the opposition. The half in favor of the plan, our half, would not back down. Unfortunately, neither would Subaire's.

"It was a stand-off. The differences were irreconcilable. Subaire and her supporters stormed out, gathering all the troops that were loyal to them and fleeing to London, which has become their base of operations. We hear they get new followers every day, but so do we. Now we're at war with them, and neither side shows any sign of backing down. Most of the conflict seems to be taking place in Western Europe, but recently rumors have started circulating about the war coming closer to home.

"I was sent to the front lines several weeks ago to check up on our troops and to recruit supporters, and I returned two days ago with a werewolf named Victoria Lisaund, who accompanied me back under the guise of petitioning Roche for protection of her clan, who she said supported our cause. Apparently, though, she was an assassin—but worse, she had skills we weren't prepared for.

“She'd been trained to kill mortals with her mind, and she killed one that Roche was feeding from, causing him to drink dead blood. She attacked Roche when he was down. Also, she seemed to have been stronger than she should've been. It took both me and Roche to destroy her."

"How?" asked Kharker. "How was she so strong?"

Francois looked uneasy. "We think that she might have gotten ahold of the blood of a kavasari."

Kharker raised his eyebrows. "That's bad. That's very bad. But, Roche ... how did she get hold of such blood?"

"I wouldn't know," said the Dark Lord quietly.

"Wouldn't you? There are rumors ..."

"There have always been rumors. Let's not give them merit through discussion."

Kharker smoked in silence, then looked up again. "So all this is why the immortal world is in turmoil right now? Does this have some bearing on the Scouring?"

Roche Sarnova sat up slowly, but not too slowly. "Not quite. However, I'm afraid that I can't ... speculate ... on the reasons why things are the way they are now."

"But the War and the Scouring—they are related?"

Sarnova coughed again, his face solemn. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps."

*     *     *

"That's all he told me," Kharker said.

"But ..." Ruegger prodded.

"But he was keeping something from me, and I didn't like it. Why should I? I figured the best way to gather more information on the War would be to send some men to London, where most of it was—and is—taking place. Surely some information would be floating around.

“What interested me most was the widespread mystery surrounding the war. Surely if Sarnova and Subaire were getting more troops each day, the troops knew what they were fighting for. As it turned out, they didn't, not really. They knew of the break-up of the Dark Council, but that was it. They were just signing on with one of the sides because of the principles involved—they saw fighting for Sarnova as conservatism, keeping the old ways and the old power base alive, and fighting for Subaire as liberalism, fighting against the established power, and under a woman at that. As it happened, Roche was the real liberal and Subaire was the conservative, but that little bit of irony was about all the head-way I made; there was no more information to be gathered, except for the tactics of the armies involved—something I wasn't very interested in. But, just as I was about to recall my men, we heard some major news; Subaire, and a couple of her followers, had been kidnapped.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Apparently she was tortured quite badly, but was permitted to leave alive. Why, I don’t know. I kept my men there for days, wondering what new news would pop up, but nothing came. Subaire would not reveal who her kidnappers were or why she’d been taken in the first place. With nothing else to go on, I brought my men home. Since then, I’ve been concentrating on building my zoo."

"And killing Ludwig."

"Of course."

There was a long silence, at the end of which Danielle looked at Ruegger and nodded. "That explains the War, then. Roche Sarnova not only wanted to publicly reveal the immortal presence to humans but wanted our own country—a Jerusalem for the Undead." She thought about it. "I like the idea. Rueg?"

He drew a sharp breath, as if pained. "I don't know. It's hard for me to accept. All I can say for sure is that Sarnova has a lot of balls, and I can see why Subaire was so outraged. Really, I'm surprised Sarnova got as much support as he did." He drained his glass. "I think that he might be right, though. It's time for a change. Then again ..."

Kharker removed a shoe and massaged the sole of his foot with one hand, still holding his cigar with the other. "I didn't know what to make of it either, son," he said. "At first I was indignant. Revealing ourselves to mortals rather, well, puts us on their level, wouldn't you say? Knowledge is power; our knowledge of our own presence helped me think we were somehow superior. I got to thinking, What would happen if humans knew of us? Would I lose stature, self-confidence—something? And I found that I might, I just might. On the other hand, I might not.

“Another issue: say they decided to punish those of us who'd committed unforgivable sins—which most of us have, at one point or another—like they punished the Nazis of war crimes after the fact. What then? Well, we all know what then: I'd be executed. And you with me, Ruegger. Most of us would. But, and this is virtually the only positive thing I can think of, we wouldn't be hiding anymore, and that might make all the difference."

Slowly, he leaned forward. "Now," he said. "It's your turn."

*     *     *

Later, Gavin showed Ruegger and Danielle to a large guestroom. The bed on which their baggage waited was an enormous four-poster monstrosity with hand-sewn sheets and pillow casings somewhat concealed by a thick mosquito net. After Gavin had left, Danielle fingered the netting and raised an eyebrow at Ruegger.

"Why so thick?" she asked.

"Haven't you seen the mosquitoes here? They've been sucking Kharker's blood for decades."

"You mean immortal mosquitoes?"

"Yep. And Kharker's a shapeshifter, remember."

"Werewolf insects ... I can see a really bad movie come out of that one." Her voice changed into a rather poor imitation of Bela Lugosi: "I—am—Count—Bugula!" She laughed. When she grew serious again, she said, "It's strange the things you remember. I spent two years here and I don't remember the bugs at all."

Suddenly the heat and humidity seemed to overwhelm her and, pushing past the mosquito nettings, she sank to the bed and placed a hand to her forehead. "You really think he killed Ludwig?" she said.

"No. He's been friendly with Roche Sarnova for nearly a thousand years, though, so if Sarnova did kill Ludwig, I doubt Kharker’s going to rat him out. One thing's for certain; if Kharker didn't do it, he's convinced Sarnova did. Either Sarnova confessed to him, or someone made him believe that Sarnova was responsible. I think the former's pretty unlikely, because that means Sarnova then let Kharker take the blame, and I don't think the Dark Lord is that cowardly."

"No, but he has to know by now that Kharker did in fact take the blame, so why hasn't he stepped forward, or at least discouraged Kharker from posing as Ludwig's killer—unless he actually thinks Kharker did it?"

"Maybe Kharker refused to let him take the fall because if Maleasoel somehow found a way to kill Sarnova in order to avenge Ludwig, then there'd not even be a hope for a one-day Jerusalem of the Undead. I think that's a cause Kharker would die for. He seems to've taken to the idea." Ruegger sat beside Danielle. "Here's another thought. I think someone—a third party—convinced Kharker that Sarnova did it so that he'd be willing to take the fall. Then the third party gave him the soldiers as a bargaining piece."

"So he can fight off Malie if she decides to attack."

"Right. And I think that Sarnova hasn't stepped forward because he thinks Kharker might actually have done it."

"But if that's true ...”

"... then the soldiers themselves might be able to tell us who sent them to Kharker."

"Because whoever gave them to Kharker might just be Ludwig's killer himself, or herself. Wow. So he, she, or it had Junger and Jagoda kill Ludwig because the Balaklava are connected with Sarnova, then used Junger and Jagoda’s connection to Blackie to convince Kharker that Sarnova was the killer, so the Hunter would take the blame."

"Perhaps the killer really intended Kharker to be the target all along." He blinked and took a breath. The puzzle was finally beginning to take shape. Then why did he feel a growing sense of dread?

She smiled. "Jesus. If that's true, it's brilliant. Naturally, this is assuming Hauswell was wrong and that Vistrot isn't really Ludwig's killer. But that's another issue altogether."

"In other words, what we're looking for—although in a backward sort of way—is the Balaklava's second employer. Or, rather, the one that they refused."

“Maybe the one that hired Jarvick to kill us.”

The Caucasian guards did not prove very forthcoming. Ruegger and Danielle spent three worthless hours interviewing them with no real results—except for the conclusion that whoever hired the guards had enough sway to ensure their silence and the psychic power to enforce it.

"So what now?" said Danielle, bare feet falling quietly on the uneven jungle ground as she and Ruegger took a stroll.

"A hot bath, a cold beer and a good screw."

"No, seriously."

"Seriously."

Later, as they lay, swaddled, in the damp cream sheets of the large bed, passing a joint back and forth between them (a rare indulgence on Ruegger’s part), he said, "I like it here. It's …. relaxing."

She blew out a fragrant plume and nodded. Their sweaty hands brushed as she handed him the joint. "It scares me here,” she said. “To think of you and Kharker, how you were ...”

He put his arm around her, and she leaned into him. "It scares me here, too," he told her, "thinking of you and Jean-Pierre ... maybe in this very bed."

She took one of his fingers and placed it to her lips, bit down on it gently, then sawed it playfully between her teeth. "Let's not do this, baby," she said. "We've both done things, you know, things separate from each other, that if we dwelt on, they'd kill us."

He blew on her neck, his warm breath enlivening the dried sweat there, making her stir. "Shouldn't we work through those things, though?"

He could feel her smiling against his hand. "I love you, Rueg," she said, “but you always think before you speak."

"Meaning?"

She placed her hand on his thigh, drew little circles on his firm pale skin. "Some things you should let lie.”

Knocking came from the door.

“Come in,” Ruegger said.

"Lord Kharker is preparing for tonight's Hunt," Gavin said, popping his head in. "He invites you to join him. If that’s satisfactory, he asks that you meet him in the Elephant Room in fifteen minutes." Without waiting for a response, he bowed his head and withdrew, shutting the door behind him.

"Jesus," said Danielle. "One moral dilemma after another."

"Shall we go?"

"If we do ... we won't kill them, okay?"

"Of course."

"But?" When he didn't answer, she nodded sadly. "Yeah, I know... He'll kill them anyway, won't he? Maybe not tonight, but they'll be Hunt-fodder eventually."

"Yes."

"That fucking bastard. That arrogant fucking bastard. He really thinks he's better than they are, doesn't he?"

“He thinks it’s the natural order of things.”

She rose from the bed, naked, lit a cigarette and started pacing the room, wrestling with herself. Ruegger hated putting her in this situation and knew that speaking his own mind would only exasperate her.

"Remember our pact? Remember the Marshals?" she asked. "To fight evil where we could ... and let's not get into that there's-no-such-thing-as-evil argument. But let's say this: if there is such a thing, Kharker embodies it. Would you agree?"

He closed his eyes. "We're not going to kill Kharker."

"But wouldn't that be the right thing to do? Kill him now and he'll never hurt anyone again."

"Morally speaking, I guess that's a gray area. But even if we wanted to ... to kill him ... we wouldn't be able to. Kharker's too strong, and he's got Gavin and the rest of them."

"And you love him, don't you?"

"Dani ..."

"Don't Dani me, goddamnit! Not when you're protecting someone like him. There's no fucking gray area about that!"

He didn't know what to say, so he lit a Red and slipped on a pair of black jeans. She turned away from him, and he knew that she was crying, if only on the inside.

"Fine," he said. "I love you. I love him. You're probably the only two people alive I can say that about, except maybe Amelia, if Hauswell was telling the truth. Now I'm not going to see anyone I love get hurt, and I don't like it that you're using my feelings for you to get me to kill him."

"I'm not trying to manipulate you, Rueg," she told him, still turned away from him, her arms folded stiffly across her chest, the point of her cigarette sticking out from beyond a shoulder. "But he's a jackal, no matter how loveable he might be."

She stabbed her cigarette out and began to dress. There were no tears in her eyes, and Ruegger wondered sadly if maybe he was rubbing off on her. When she was dressed, she walked over to him and embraced him. He could feel her tremble a little against him and wondered if she could feel him doing the same.

"Let's not fight anymore, okay?" she said, her words muffled by his chest. "You're the only one I have in this world. When we fight it's like I'm losing something. To tell you the truth, Rueg, I just got a little seasick back there when I was yelling at you."

"Me, too.” He stroked her oily hair. Taking her face in his hands, he placed his hot forehead against hers, their noses barely touching, their eyes staring into each other's, unblinking. "I love you."

"I love you, too, damnit."

They found Kharker in front of the large, blazing fireplace of the Elephant Room, a wreath of cigar smoke over his head. He wore a fine dark bathrobe that had seen better days, and he was naked beneath it, ready for the Hunt. Smiling when he saw the odd flock, he took an expensive box down from the mantle over the fireplace and held it out to them.

"Please, take one," he said.

"Thanks," said Ruegger, lifting a brown tube from the box and tearing through the plastic.

"Yeah," said Danielle, smelling hers. Once she had it lit, she looked at Kharker and said, "Why do you do this?"

Around his cigar, he said, "Tastes good."

"No. The Hunt."

"Same reason, dear. Same reason. But don't worry your little dark head about it. I hate to see you scowl. When I learned you were coming, I ordered in some good old-fashioned murderers, especially for you—and Ruegger, of course, if those are still who he decides to feed from."

She took a step back as if to get a better look at Kharker, and Ruegger saw surprise on her face.

"No shit?" she said. "You did that for me?"

Kharker chuckled, stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Don't look so shocked, my dear. I pride myself on being a good host and I would never want any of my guests—you, least of all—to feel uncomfortable. Now come, both of you, and let's go meet our victims."

Danielle hesitated. "No," she said, a little unsure. "I'm glad you ... that you did this for me ... but still, I'd rather not meet them first. If that's okay with you."

He nodded kindly. "Of course it is. Ruegger?"

"Yes?"

Kharker cocked his head questioningly, ready to go meet his prey. It was a friendly gesture, and Ruegger felt somewhat torn. Like Kharker, he enjoyed meeting his victims, if for different reasons.

"No," the Darkling said. "I'll stay with Dani."

The Great White Hunter turned his eyes up to the heavens, as if to ask why. Ruegger knew he was trying to make light of it all, but he also knew there was some hurt in Kharker's old, rough face.

"How will we tell the difference," asked Danielle, "between your prey and ours, the murderers?"

"Collars," said Kharker. "The murderers will be wearing black collars around their necks." He bowed informally. "Well, have fun, you two. I'll meet you back here when you're done."

"Looking forward to it," said Ruegger, gratified by the Hunter's chuckle but unnerved by the glance that Danielle shot him.

When Kharker was gone, Danielle gave a little self-deprecating laugh. "He is something, isn't he?"

Ruegger nodded. Smoking, he lost himself in thought for a moment before she tugged his sleeve.

"Hmm?"

"Come on, baby," she said. "Let's go outside. I'm hungry."

*     *     *

The Hunt went well. The black-collared prey shot at Ruegger and Danielle, sliced them with knives and even bit them, but the murderers were brought down eventually, dying bloodily in the potent tangle of the jungle. Danielle glowed as she drained her meals, while Ruegger got more enjoyment out of watching her than from the meals themselves. Each vampire fed twice that night and after feeding spent the remaining time scaring the surviving prey, sending them deep into the forest to be recovered by Kharker's retrieval units.

When they finally returned to the main building, it was an hour before dawn. Experiencing the wild rush of the kill, Ruegger and Danielle showered together, making love with frenzied abandon as they washed themselves of their victims' bloods. They shouted and screamed, gorging themselves on each other until they were spent. Afterwards, they took turns drying each other off, gently toweling the other's tender skin. Smiling, holding hands, they threw on bathrobes, lit cigarettes and made their way into the Elephant Room.

Lord Kharker stared out of a window, his eyes turned to the windswept night beyond the glass. At the sound of the odd flock's entrance, he swiveled, and it was instantly apparent by his furrowed brow that something was wrong.

"What is it?" asked Ruegger.

"This morning, before you arrived," said the Hunter quietly, as if to himself. "I noticed some of the mosquitoes flare up at sunrise, like little matches going off all around me."

"You mean, they've been sucking the blood of vampires," Danielle said after a moment. "Or at least shades that couldn't stand the sun."

Kharker nodded absently, his hands clasped behind his back. "Something's out there," he said. "In the forest."

"It could be something else," Ruegger said. "A past guest, maybe. Something."

"No," said the Hunter. "Any bug that sucked on a past guest would have been vaporized by the sun long ago, if the guest wasn't a werewolf. But that's not all. One of the retrieval units I sent out tonight. They never came back." He returned to the window, stared through his own reflection out into what waited beyond. "Something's out there," he said.

Chapter 2

That day, safe behind blackout curtains and in the warm embrace of Ruegger's arms, Danielle dreamed of a night long ago, the night her foster brother Malcolm Verger and Jason Locke and the rest of them had raped and tortured her. She could feel their hands around her throat, squeezing and crushing as they thrust themselves inside her, their savage grindings eased by the oil of her blood. They beat her, smashing some of the bones in her face and her chest. Straight-razors flew. They were cutting her deeply, in too many places to name, when suddenly, emerging from the gutter, Junger and Jagoda appeared.

“It’s my turn, mon,” Junger said.

Gasping, Danielle awoke.

*     *     *

"What is it?" Ruegger said, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

"N-nothing," she said.

She wiped away a trickle of sweat from her forehead with a trembling hand, kicked all the sheets off herself and sat up, panting.

“Nothing?” he said.

His first instinct was to wrap his arms about her, but he saw by her expression that the last thing she wanted was to be touched. One strap of her silk slip had fallen off a shoulder, but he didn't dare move to right it. Sitting up carefully, he reached for a pack of cigarettes and offered it to her, but she waved it away, not looking at him. After watching her expectantly for a while, waiting to be able to help her in some way, he realized that she was completely oblivious to him. She stared straight ahead, her eyes clear but glassy, and she seemed to be looking at something within instead of without.

Unfortunately, it was not the first time he'd seen her like this in the days following their departure from Las Vegas. Being crucified and made helpless by Laslo had only seemed to reawaken her old nightmares about Malcolm Verger’s gang raping her when she was a young girl. To give her time to think it through, Ruegger used the head, washed his face, shaved and dressed. Danielle appeared a little more collected now, although she still sat motionless on the bed. He thought she might be on the verge of tears and found to his surprise that he hoped that she was. I don’t want to rub off on her too much.

She didn't cry, though.

At long last, she shook her head, whispered the word "Jesus" and climbed from bed. She slipped on a tight pair of black jeans and a black T-shirt that revealed her midriff. For the first time in a long while, Ruegger found the color black depressing. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was time for a change.

She hugged him, but he thought it more perfunctory than an honest display of affection.

"Baby," he said.

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Normally, after their dusk rituals had been performed, they would talk for some time or enjoy a while of companionable silence, so he found it strange that the silence which followed her declaration was tense and uncomfortable. He wanted to speak of it but couldn't find an angle. Puzzled, he sat down on one corner of the bed and used the glowing butt of his day's first cigarette to light a second, which gave him something to do.

Meanwhile, Danielle went to the window, raised the blackout curtains and stared out at the young night and the boiling jungle that was a part of it.

Gavin entered. Bowing formally, he bid the odd flock good dusk and informed them that Kharker would be coming by in ten minutes to escort them to breakfast. After Ruegger thanked him, he left.

"Hungry?" Ruegger asked Danielle, when they were alone again. He knew it was a weak attempt at conversation but didn't know what else to say.

At first he didn't think she would answer. She was absorbed by the vision from the window and for a second Ruegger wondered if she was trying to pinpoint the boogeyman that Kharker had been so afraid of the previous night.

Finally, she gave a small nod and said, "Yeah. A little."

He smiled. "Me, too. I could eat a horse and its rider. Its rider, most especially."

She grinned, but he wasn't entirely sure why, and that disturbed him as much as anything else.

When Ruegger had burned half of his third smoke, Kharker came to the door, and the Darkling felt a tremendous wave of relief.

"Come, come," Kharker beckoned. "I have a very special breakfast prepared for you."

Ruegger felt the warmth of the Hunter's presence, but an old wariness rose up in him. There was something just a little rotten behind Kharker's smile, or else Ruegger was imagining things—which he hoped to be the truth. If he was seeing demons in every shadow, then perhaps there was nothing wrong with Danielle at all. Perhaps everything would be okay.

Kharker stepped back from the doorway and waited patiently for Ruegger and Danielle to join him. When they did, he said, "Did you both have a good day's rest?"

"Yeah, sure," Danielle muttered.

Kharker shot a look at Ruegger, but he didn't know what to say and shrugged instead.

"What's for breakfast?" he asked.

The Hunter grinned. "I remember how much you used to love southern cooking—American southern, I mean—so I've prepared a breakfast of biscuits and gravy and eggs. On the side will be refried beans, salsa, corn tortillas, guacamole, spiced sausage and other goodies so you can make your breakfast tacos."

"Sounds delicious."

"Oh, it will be ... if you can keep your mind on the food."

Danielle looked up at Kharker. "What do you mean?"

Ruegger didn't like the amusement in his old friend's face when the Hunter said, "When I learned you were coming, I invited some guests that I think you will be very interested in seeing."

"Me?"

"Especially you, my dear."

"I don't understand."

"You will, my dear. You will."

Ruegger performed a mental checklist of all the pistols strapped to his body. There were three, he counted, which seemed a small number. Of course, guns wouldn't make much of a difference here, he knew, and they made a very poor security blanket for him to take heart in.

As the archway that led to the dining room loomed closer, beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He cast a glance at Danielle, but her eyes were fixed firmly on the archway. Seeming to since his appraisal, she turned her large black eyes his way, but they seemed flat and far away to him, devoid of their usual warmth. He wanted to hold her hand, but if action was to be required shortly, he needed his hands free.

Finally, they reached the archway, and Kharker hung back a moment, allowing his guests to catch up. Ruegger began to reach for a gun even before he could see what waited within the dining room, and by the time he stood beneath the archway, he held a gleaming pistol in his hand.

Though the room wasn't quite as cavernous as Kharker's main dining hall, it was by no means small, but anything Ruegger saw of the room at first was due only to peripheral vision.

The first thing he noticed was Harry Lavaca. Harry sat on the opposite side of the enormous breakfast table, a spoonful of what looked like tortilla soup poised at his lips, his large brown eyes resting on Ruegger and the Darkling's gun. Harry laid the spoon down and gave a weak smile. It seemed apologetic.

To Harry's right, Cloire perched waspishly, her hand on a bulbous .45, which lay next to her own bowl of soup. Her mouth hooked in a mean smile, and her strange eyes lingered first on Ruegger, then longer on Danielle.

To her right sat Kilian, who had pushed his bowl of soup forward to indicate that he would not touch the stuff. His legs crossed, he held a newspaper in his hands and seemed not the least bit interested when the odd flock came into view.

Before Ruegger could really absorb the scene before him, Danielle snatched the pistol from his hand and fired several loud rounds into Kilian’s chest.

"You bastard," Danielle spat. "You killed my pig."

He raised his paper so that his eyes could be seen through the holes she’d created. He carefully folded the paper and sat it down on the table.

"Do you how hard it is to get today's copy of the New York Times in the fucking Congo?" he said. H glanced down at his immaculate suit and fingered the blood-soaked bullet holes. "Danielle, do you know what I'm going to do to you?"

"I can't wait to find out."

Cloire laid a hand on Kilian's, but he just smiled. When his eyes turned back to Danielle, he said, his voice grave, "I'm going to send you a bill."

Ruegger wasn't quite sure whether the man was actually as sour as he seemed or if his humor was simply very dry. Either way, Ruegger placed a hand over Danielle's and gently reclaimed his pistol. He chanced a look at Kharker and saw that beneath the Hunter's straight face lurked mischief.

"What's this all about?" Ruegger said, putting away the gun.

"Sit, sit," said Kharker. "Don't worry, all will be on the table soon enough."

After Ruegger and Danielle were seated across from Lavaca and the werewolves, a servant emerged from the kitchen and set two bowls of the tortilla soup before them. Another placed one before the Hunter, commanding all from the head of the table.

"Sorry to have started without you," Kharker said, "but my new guests were hungry."

Ruegger noticed Kilian's untouched appetizer but made no comment. When he'd taken a bite of soup, he said, "Good."

"Thank you,” Kharker said. “I actually imported two Hispanic cooks and one Texan just to prepare this meal for you."

"You imported three chefs just to make some soup and refried beans?"

Kharker shrugged. "For you, I spare no expense."

Ruegger glanced sideways at Danielle to see if she was enjoying her soup; though her hand guided spoonful after spoonful into her mouth, her eyes never left Cloire's. Cloire, for her part, seemed to be enjoying the attention.

"Where's Jean-Pierre?" Danielle asked.

Cloire smiled. "Still in Las Vegas, for all I know."

Danielle nodded, kept eating her soup.

Ruegger returned his attention to Lavaca, finishing off the dregs from his bowl.

"How are you, Harry?"

“I've been worse," Harry said.

"Have they been treating you well?"

"We've been treating him just fine," Cloire answered. "We haven't fed from him and we haven't fucked with his mind."

"So why'd you bring him here?"

Cloire smiled again, and Ruegger found that she had an unpleasant smile. "To serve as an eyewitness that you would trust. We found him by accident, but I think he'll turn out to be useful."

"An eyewitness to what?" Danielle asked.

Lord Kharker cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him. Smiling kindly and making an expansive gesture with his large hands, the Hunter said, "Please, there is a time for everything. Let's wait for the main course to begin this discussion."

"No," Ruegger said. "Let's do this now."

He saw a flash of anger in his old friend's face but didn't care. Kharker liked a dose of melodrama every now and then, and it was a penchant that Ruegger wasn't willing to indulge at the moment. In fact, it was a penchant that he was beginning to resent.

"I agree with Ruegger," said Kilian, looking at his watch. "Let's get on with it already."

He bent down to an attaché case propped up against his chair leg and hefted it onto the table. He popped the latches and opened the case, but its contents faced him.

Ruegger leaned forward.

Kilian withdrew a Polaroid picture from the attaché case and tossed it to Danielle.

"Recognize him?" Kilian asked.

She stared dumbly at the picture for a long moment, uncomprehending. Then, slowly, she seemed to recognize what she was looking at. As the light dawned, she threw the picture down on the table and placed a hand to her temple.

"Shit."

Ruegger glanced down at the picture to see a trim, middle-aged gentleman in a nice suit holding up a copy of yesterday's New York Times to face the camera. In the background, Ruegger saw that the wall behind the man seemed to be made of stone.

"Who is it?" Ruegger asked, thinking that maybe he should comfort her but still unsure whether or not she would permit him to put his arm around her.

Danielle shot out of her chair, knocking it to the floor and breaking it unintentionally. Once up, though, she didn’t seem to know what to do. She lit a cigarette and glared at the werewolves.

“Is it really him?” she said.

"It's Malcolm Verger," Cloire affirmed. "He changed his name to Martin Ascott, but he wasn't too hard to find for a determined searcher."

"What do you want with him?" Danielle said.

"The question, dear, isn't what I want with him. I don't want anything with the bastard. It's what you want with him." Seeing the malevolence in Danielle's face, Cloire continued. "So, tell us, Gutter Angel, what do you want with him?"

"Stop it," Ruegger said.

"No, I don't think so, Darkling. Let's see what your better half has to say."

The pain in Danielle’s eyes shriveled his insides.

"You know what I want," she said to Cloire. "You all know what I want."

"We do," Cloire agreed. "You want to play Mussorgsky's "Night on Bald Mountain" while you slowly and painfully tear him limb from limb. According to the tabloids and the gossips, that's what you've done with all the others before him. You've saved him for last, haven't you? So maybe you'll want to take your time, maybe play "Night on Bald Mountain" over and over and over again until you've avenged yourself in style. Maybe you'll spend hours or days torturing the bastard until he finally comprehends the horror that you must have felt when he and his buddies were having their way with you. And when he finally understands, then you can deliver the final blow. Because then he will know he deserves it." Cloire nodded, leaned back in her chair. "Oh, yes, we understand. And he does deserve it, he really does. You're perfectly right in wanting to avenge yourself—and not only you, but all the other girls he's hurt and killed in his time."

"But," said Danielle.

Cloire smirked. "But you'll never get him for yourself unless you do what we tell you to do."

Danielle hesitated. Ruegger wanted to say something comforting, something wise that she could find strength in, but he couldn't think of a thing, except one.

"Baby," he said.

Her lips trembled. She turned away from him and faced Cloire.

"What do you want me to do?" she said.

Cloire and Kilian exchanged glances.

"We want you to come with us," Kilian said. "Ruegger too, of course."

"How do I know Malcolm's still alive, that you didn't kill him the second after you took this picture? Or that you haven't set him free?"

"That's what the Slayer's here for." Cloire thrust an elbow into Lavaca's side. "Speak up, Harry."

Lavaca sighed and downed a sip of scotch. "It's true. They have him and he was still alive when we left to come here. But Danielle—"

"Enough," said Cloire. "Now, Ruegger ... Danielle ... if you think we've tampered with Harry's mind in order to get him to say this, feel free to examine it yourselves."

Danielle looked to Ruegger, and he nodded, having swept his mortal friend's mind broadly the second he'd taken his seat. Harry was acting—reluctantly—on his own.

"And where would we be going?" Danielle asked. "If we were to come with you?"

"Somewhere neutral," Cloire said. "Somewhere where you would feel just as safe as we do: Roche Sarnova's castle. That's where Malcolm is now."

"Jesus," Ruegger said. "Why is Roche Sarnova letting you stay at the Castle?"

"Because he knows we're affiliated with Vistrot and we got the Titan to convince Sarnova we're acting as his emissaries."

"Emissaries?"

"Right. Our story's that Vistrot is thinking of making an alliance with Sarnova. And we're acting as the Titan's ambassadors, should he decide to go through with it. Of course, old Blackie doesn't really trust us, but he needs all the friends he can get at the moment, so he's willing to humor us for now."

"Who's taking care of Ascott?"

"The other members of our team—Byron, Loirot and that sick fuck Kiernevar."

Ruegger nodded. If Cloire was the mastermind behind all this, then she really must be quite clever. Not only did she know how to exploit the weaknesses of her enemies, but she wasn't a bad salesman, either.

"And if we don't go with you?" Danielle said.

"Then Mr. Verger will have one of three fates. One, I could make him a shade. That could fun. Second, I could get tired of him and shoot him in the back of the head. Easy but painless. It would be the simplest way to ensure that you never receive satisfaction from his death. Third and least likely, I could find it amusing to lavish him with gifts. We'll give him all the wine and jewels he can use. Not only that, but we'll give him as many young girls as he wants. He can rape and beat them and kill them, or tear their insides up so badly that they'll never be able to have children. Isn't that what he did with you, Danielle?"

Danielle’s hands curled into fists. What remained of her cigarette burned into the flesh of her right palm.

"You bitch," she said, her voice shaking with pain and rage. Her white face was red and cords stood out from her graceful neck. "You fucking ... fucking ... bitch!" She flung the cigarette to the floor and stared dully at the imprint it had left on her skin. After a long moment, she said, "So what do you want with us that you'd be willing to go through so much preparation just to catch us? You were assigned to kill us. Why should we believe you want anything different now?"

Cloire nodded, as if that was a good point. "When Vistrot learned that your boy Jean-Pierre was no longer the leader of this death-squad, he rescinded his order to have you and Ruegger killed. Why, I don't know. To be honest, I kind of wish he hadn't. But I guess he knew that the albino couldn't do it, so maybe he never wanted you dead to begin with. Whatever, he’s ordered us to capture you two, and that's what we're going to do. We'll hold you at the Castle until Vistrot decides what to do with you."

"Why should we believe you?"

"You have no choice if you still intend to be the one that kills Malcolm. Also, Lord Kharker here has generously volunteered to send some of his immortal troops to accompany us back to the Castle and insure that nothing happens to you. Once there, Blackie will keep an eye on you, I'm sure. He and Kharker are loyal to each other, you know, and he wouldn't let Kharker's friends go to their deaths without good reason."

Ruegger looked at the Hunter. "What do you have to gain by all this, Kharker?"

Kharker affected a look of innocence. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

He was lying, Ruegger knew. Kharker never did anything without a reason. The reason could be as simple as idle mischief, but Ruegger knew that there was something larger at stake here.

*     *     *

The breakfast wasn’t bad, Ruegger had to admit, though the conversation could have been more appealing. After the specifics of Cloire's proposal had been ironed out, Kharker ordered in the main course and commanded his guests to change the subject to something more civil. Naturally, they all wound up talking about Jean-Pierre. He was the only thing they all had in common—except, of course, for Lavaca, who said very little.

At one point, after studying Danielle (who had seated herself in an unbroken chair) for several minutes, Kilian said, "I don't see it."

"What?"

"What the albino sees in you. I suppose you might be a good fuck, but you shouldn't be enough to destroy someone like Jean-Pierre." Almost wistfully, he said, "Before you came along, he was an enjoyable adversary. He really was." He turned his brown eyes to Ruegger. "Don't think about it, Darkling. So I said she might be a good fuck—isn't she?"

"Cut it out," ordered Kharker. "You're behaving like children. But children are cuter."

Ruegger recognized bait when he saw it. Sitting back down in his chair, he was surprised to hear Danielle give a little laugh. He turned his head to catch her smiling.

"What?" she asked, patting his shoulder. "Aren't I?"

He looked down at his plate of gravy and biscuits, which had been scraped clean despite the fact that he'd lost his appetite the instant he'd seen Cloire.

"Enough of this," said the she-wolf. "Danielle, are you or are you not going with us to Blackie's Castle so that we can pay a visit to your dear foster brother?"

Danielle bit her lip. She examined each of the faces around the table in turn, hastily turning away from Ruegger to settle on Harry Lavaca instead.

"Don't do it, Danielle,” Harry said. “Ascott's not the man he used to be. He's changed. Reformed."

Cloire laughed. "Evil never reforms."

Danielle gave what seemed like an involuntary glance at Ruegger, and he felt himself stiffen. For the first time, he wished he hadn't told her about his past. She didn't turn her eyes away from him this time, though. When he finally realized she was looking to him for guidance, he shook himself.

"It's up to you,” he said. “I must allow you to do what’s in your heart. But I'm staying here."

She nodded and stared at her plate, which had only been picked at.

"Goddamn," she said, snapping up to face Cloire. "No, you bitch, I'm not going with you."

Cloire's lip actually lifted to expose a gleaming fang, but then the corner of her mouth twisted itself into a smile. She said nothing, only shared a small patient glance with Kilian.

Ruegger reached for Danielle's hand and was almost surprised when she accepted the gesture, even squeezing back. She withdrew her hand, leaned back in her chair and lit a cigarette. To Ruegger, she seemed full of thought.

*     *     *

While the servants were taking away the plates, Kharker informed his guests that the Hunt would begin in two hours and invited them all to join him. He felt that their differences could all be worked out if they Hunted together. And, since his invitation was more command than request, all the immortals agreed.

After the meal that had been breakfast for the odd flock was finished, Cloire and Kilian retired to a room that they'd decided to share. She lit a French cigarette and moved to a large window, looking down into the jungle. Kilian acquainted himself with the mini-bar and began mixing himself a drink.

"Get me something, too," she said.

"What?"

"Doesn't matter. Scotch on rocks would be decent."

"Something the matter?"

"Why?"

"You drink tequila when you're happy. You drink scotch or Jack Daniels when you're not."

She turned to him, a strange expression on her face. "What the hell are you talking about, Kilian?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"Jesus Fucking Christ. I can't believe that someone as self-absorbed as you can notice something like that. Let alone remember it. Shit, I've never made that connection." She waved her hand, dismissing it. "Fuck it. Just make the goddamned scotch."

After he made their drinks, he brought her glass over and handed it to her.

"So," he said. "Why'd you bring me along on this run and not Byron?"

"Why do you think? A few days alone with me, he wouldn't have been able to remain focused on the mission."

"So you made him stay behind while you took me along." He sipped his drink. "You treat him like shit, you know."

"Since when do you care?"

"I don't. I think you two are codependent, and I think you lust after him."

"If you're saying that I love him, you're a fucking moron. Byron's like a little boy. He needs his treats now and then, and he needs a good slap across the face every once and awhile, too."

"That's why you brought me instead of him. To slap him across the face."

"No." She sucked a last hit off her cigarette and tossed it out the open window. "I brought you along because ... well, you're growing on me."

"After almost twenty years, and I'm growing on you?"

She moved a little closer to him, so that he could smell the scotch on her breath and a small fragrant whiff that came from the shampoo she'd used.

"Yes," she said and sat her drink down on the windowsill. "You're growing on me."

*     *     *

Kilian was a good lover, Cloire thought to herself afterwards. Perhaps even a great one. He was passionate, in an angry sort of way, and he was lean and skillful. He seemed to like it when she arched her back, pressing into him, and thrust her hips rapidly. There had been one time, before she'd forced her way on top, that he'd almost laughed in pleasure; that had been when she'd given his back a good clawing. She enjoyed seeing the arrogant bastard in pain, and he hadn't seemed to mind.

Afterwards, they lay together drowsily, enjoying the lush bed Kharker had provided. Cloire smoked a cigarette or two while Kilian worked on a cigar, and after a time he drifted into a light doze.

Still naked and enjoying the dried sweat against her skin, Cloire pushed herself up from the bed and moved to the window, where she watched the jungle for awhile. It was beautiful here, she thought, but in a strange way that irritated her. It was like virgin territory out here, and to Cloire there was little more irritating than a virgin. She thought it would be fun to go out there right now with the largest chainsaw she could find and start dismembering the trees right and left. And she would not stop until this place was scarred and ugly. Only then could she really find peace here.

Suddenly, appearing between great trunks and the almost-impenetrable undergrowth of the jungle, came Danielle, leaping and ducking where the moon could not easily find her. To Cloire's amusement, she felt a bitter growl work its way up from her belly. Old rivalries died hard.

"What is it?" said Kilian, sitting up in bed.

"It's Danielle. Looks like she's taking a walk."

Kilian re-lit his cigar. "Think she'll do it—leave Ruegger and come with us?"

"She has to. It's in her nature. But it's more important that we get Ruegger. Vistrot's orders."

"When she leaves, Ruegger'll come after her."

She smiled. "That's the plan."

Kilian looked at his cigar. "Why did I have to start smoking again?"

"Because you're in love with me, and you know I hate pure things. That includes lungs."

He climbed out of bed. "Cloire?"

"What?"

"Danielle's room is in the other wing. On the opposite side of this place."

"You're right."

"I know,” he said.

She saw it, too. "She's trying to signal us. She took a walk to get away from Ruegger and now she wants us to come down and talk to her."

"That's what it looks like. But why?"

Cloire chuckled. "She wants to be sold." The sound died in her throat. Someone else was moving down there, jogging from the house to the jungle where Danielle could be seen intermittently. Harry Lavaca. "Damnit," she said. "I knew we shouldn't've let him have the run of the place."

"It was your idea."

She shrugged. "I like him. Now I'm going down there to speak with the Gutter Angel. Are you coming?"

"No. Both us would be intimidating. Also, you forget: I killed her pig."

For a moment his face was blank, and then they both laughed.

Chapter 3

After Danielle's decision to go on a walk by herself, Ruegger distracted himself with a trip down to Kharker's extensive library—a place in which he himself had spent many long summer nights back when, losing himself in this virtual sea of information. The ancient tomes covered everything from classic mortal literature to old newspaper clippings of underground immortal presses, and everything in between.

Ruegger selected one of several running biographies of Augustine Michael Vistrot and sat down to read up on the shade that Hauswell believed to be behind the Scouring, but he hadn't gotten very far when he heard a familiar coughing behind him. When he swiveled his head, there stood Kharker, as worn and aristocratic as always. Ruegger felt his mouth go slightly dry. For the first time in a long while, he and the Hunter were alone together.

"Find anything interesting?" Kharker said.

"I'm reading up on the Titan."

"So you believe what Hauswell said, eh?"

"I believe that he believes what he said, and I'm quite sure that he's done a hell of a lot more research on the matter than I have. So I'm willing to go along with what he told me until I can come up with something better."

"You always did have an open mind."

"For all the good it's done me."

"Dear boy ...” breathed the werewolf. "It's been so long."

They watched each other, and a long silence stretched into an even longer one.

Ruegger felt things he hadn't felt in over half a century. Kharker still measured up to Ruegger's impression of him as a rock—stable and old and wise. This last, wisdom, was the trait that appealed to Ruegger the most, for Kharker had taught him to embrace a part of himself that he'd been forced to reject and hate before. The question Ruegger asked himself every night since he'd left Kharker's side was whether or not that darker side should in fact be hated and rejected. In all his years of wandering and thinking, Ruegger had yet to find an answer to that one.

As he looked into Kharker's face, he felt the Hunter's love for him—the Hunter's unconditional love. Kharker embraced and encouraged every side of Ruegger, even the murderous half that Ruegger tried so hard to repress, the half that even Danielle attempted either to fight or ignore.

"Come here, my boy," Kharker said at last, holding out his arms. Ruegger rose from the chair and moved towards him, smelling that old dusky scent that his mentor could never seem to shed and that was always strangely soothing. They crushed their arms about each other and held each other tight.

"I missed you," Kharker said.

"I missed you.”

They stepped back, and Ruegger could see the moisture in Kharker's old brown eyes and wondered if he looked any better himself.

"Let's go into the Elephant Room," said the Great White Hunter. "We can relax there. And we can talk."

"Yes," Ruegger answered. "We need to talk."

*     *     *

Harry had been wandering around down in the catacombs before finding Danielle. It was strange and dusty down there, but Harry found it inviting, even homey. He’d heard that Kharker suffered from a mild claustrophobia, which explained why the tunnels themselves were as wide as they were.

Eventually, Harry stumbled on the Great White Bastard's extensive wine cellar and, laughing to himself, swiped a bottle that claimed to be over two hundred years old. It was wonderful.

Drinking straight from the bottle, Harry soon found himself in the prisoners' quarters, and all his levity drained from him in an instant. Though the cells were well-furnished, it didn't change the fact that they were cells. When he passed by, the prisoners that were awake rose from their activities and moved towards him, gripping the iron bars that separated the free and the caged. One man's face was particularly haunted, and it was to this man that Harry handed the bottle of wine. The man stared at Harry for a long moment, took a swig, then passed the bottle to a mate. "Thanks," the man said.

Harry began a thorough search for the keys to their cells, but of course there were none, and Harry chastised himself for being so naïve; Kharker would simply use his mindthrust to open the doors.

Disheartened, Harry found where the catacombs ended and gave way to open air. There, across an open expanse of tall grass, waited the jungle.

He lit a cigarette and leaned against the outside wall of Kharker's mansion. After a few minutes, he heard the faint sound of something stirring in the jungle. Straining his eyes into the night, he thought he caught a flash of moonlight on white skin. Danielle. He threw down the cigarette and ran after her.

"Danielle!" he shouted, over and over, until he could see that she'd slowed down and emerged from the undergrowth into the clearing between the jungle and the mansion.

"What is it?" she said as he approached, panting. She stood there, still, her black hair wild, run through with bristles and leaves, her eyes cool, arms folded impatiently across her chest.

"Danielle," he wheezed, placing his hands on his hips and bending over to suck in air.

"That's me," she said.

"Danielle, I've got to talk to you."

"Talk."

"I'm serious."

"Go ahead."

He raised his head to face her. It was amazing how ethereal she looked, the perfect vampire. Beautiful, too, with cruel lips and high cheekbones and impossibly deep, dark eyes. He didn't know her well, had only met her on a couple of occasions, and for a moment he found it disconcerting that, though he was a few inches her senior, she had such a presence of self that she somehow seemed to tower over him. Maybe she was playing tricks with his mind, he thought, although he'd heard that she disliked such displays of power.

"What were you doing?" he said, still breathing heavily. "Running around out there?"

"I wanted some fresh air.”

For a moment, he wished that he hadn't given that prisoner his bottle of wine. "Danielle," he said. "You can't go with Cloire and Kilian."

"Why? Have they already killed Malcolm?"

"No. And neither will you."

"Over your dead body, huh?"

He couldn't tell if she was mocking him or not. "He's innocent."

"He's innocent. Of what? Name one thing that bastard is innocent of."

Harry shook his head. "That's not what I meant. Please, take me seriously, Danielle."

"I'm trying."

"Look.” He placed the back of a hand to his forehead. "This isn't working. If I defend him, you'll play devil's advocate just to irritate me."

"You're defending him and I'm playing devil's advocate. Gotcha. Just so we got that clear."

"Shut up! You know what I meant. Malcolm's changed."

"Yeah. It's Martin now. Isn't that what Cloire said?"

"Listen. The man you used to know as Malcolm Verger was a very bad man, a very wicked and evil man. But he's not that way anymore. He's a family man, a good person. I know it's hard for you to believe—"

He felt a tap on his shoulder and spun around to see Cloire holding a bottle of beer out to him.

"Here, Harry," she said. "Drink up like a good mortal. Go back inside, okay? Leave me and Dani alone. We need to talk."

Harry glanced from Cloire to Danielle.

"Cloire," he said. "Don't do this. You're trying to discredit me by sending me off with a bottle, but Dani's not going to go for it."

"It's Guiness, Harry."

"Enough.” He turned to Danielle, whose face was a mask of nothing but cold eyes and hard lips. "Danielle, do you want me to leave?"

"Do you have anything more to say?" she said.

He wanted to open his mouth and tell her something important, but he knew it would only come out in an angry stutter. He hung his head and whispered, "No. I guess not."

As he began to walk away, Cloire shouted, "Don't forget this."

He spun to catch the bottle of Guiness. Angrily, he hurled the bottle at the mansion wall, but it fell short, disappearing into the tall grass of the clearing.

He swore once under his breath, then turned to Danielle one last time. Cloire had her arm around the vampiress and was leading her back into the jungle. Harry swore again and turned back towards the Lodge. He picked up the bottle along the way.

*     *     *

Once in the Elephant Room, Kharker ordered in some drinks (not bothering to pour them himself) and had his gramophone turned on to some old Big Band songs. It was there that Ruegger's Keeper and the Darling of Lord Kharker began to speak. At first, the conversation was slow and strained, but by small leaps and bounds they began to grow comfortable with each other once more, though Ruegger sensed vaguely that something was missing.

By and by, he remembered how hypnotizing Kharker's presence was and how difficult it was to remain detached when speaking with him. Ruegger recalled that a discussion with his old friend wasn't merely hypnotic but intoxicating as well—a feeling not diminished by the fact that a steady storm of wine flooded his head. At last, Ruegger allowed himself to (as Kharker had put it) relax—to lower his guard—and it quickly became more like old times. They told stories and chuckled and bullshitted and drank. As the hour wore on, their eyes met more and more frequently.

Just when things were starting to run smoothly, Kilian walked into the room.

"Jesus, Kharker. How do you live in this place? There's nothing here, for gods' sakes. Not even a fucking television."

At Kilian's intrusion, something in Ruegger realigned, as if he were waking up. As much as he loved Kharker, he didn't want to fall back into their old routines. He'd broken free of the Hunter's spell once and was glad to be out of it. At the same time ...

"How do I live here," Kharker repeated slowly, casting a rueful glance at Ruegger. "Well, I keep myself amused."

Kilian pulled a sour face. "I don't see how, you old buzzard. And what the hell is that music—Glen Miller?"

"Jimmy Dorsey," Ruegger said.

The werewolf shrugged. "I didn't listen to this crap back in the twenties and I can't say I'm enjoying it now."

"Pull up a chair," suggested Kharker.

"Well … as long as there's something to drink."

"There is."

Kilian joined the conversation, for all the good he did it. Ruegger found him to be a troubled and dour creature, though (the Darkling hated to admit) not without his good points, chief among these being wit. Nevertheless, Ruegger had promised Danielle a long time ago that he would dispatch the swine-killer and he had no intention of going back on his promise.

"So what is it between you and Cloire?" Kharker asked the new arrival after a quarter-hour of teeth-pulling small talk.

Kilian shrugged. "Nothing.”

The Hunter smiled. "You're no gentleman, Kilian. You have every right to kiss and tell. It's obvious: you and Cloire are lovers. But I seem to remember that it was Byron who—"

"Oh, for God's sakes! This is stupid. Cloire and I aren't lovers. We've hated each other too long for that to be true."

"Yet it is."

Kilian sighed and stared down at the carpet. "And yet," he agreed tiredly.

"Speaking of Cloire," Ruegger said. "Where is she?"

"On a walk.” He said it with a smile that Ruegger didn't like at all.

Kharker, who also seemed to sense that Kilian was holding back something, said, “What kind of walk?”

Before Kilian could answer, Harry Lavaca appeared at the entrance to the room and all eyes turned toward him. He looked sweaty and defeated. Without a word, he walked past the immortals and the fireplace to arrive at the bar, where he poured himself a bourbon and tonic and took several generous swallows. Only then did he nod at Ruegger.

Ruegger returned the greeting. "Rough evening?"

Harry pulled up a chair to join the circle. After he'd had a seat, he looked at Lord Kharker. "Mind if I take a load off?"

Kharker cast a warm look at Ruegger and began chuckling.

"Balls of steel," said the Hunter.

"Head of rocks," Ruegger said.

"Sit, my good man."

So Lavaca joined the meeting by the fire. The four talked for what seemed to Ruegger a long time. It was apparent that Kharker had taken an immediate liking to Harry, and he made a wide effort to include the mortal in conversation, an effort Harry indulged.

Despite all the werewolf's cruelties, Ruegger felt his judgments about Kilian thawing a little. Not enough to spare the bastard, should it come to that, but thawing nonetheless. Ruegger found himself thinking Kilian could've been him sixty years ago and reminded himself that all individuals had the power to change, if only they had the desire. Perhaps there was hope for the swine-killer yet—although, in all likelihood, the Darkling doubted Kilian would live long enough to exploit it.

About forty minutes into the gathering, a nightmarish figure appeared framed in the doorway. Harry gasped.

Human-shaped and human-clothed but with the erect head of a wolf, a cigarette dangled from the creature’s sharp-toothed smile.

"I'm hungry," Cloire announced, her lycanthropic lips forming the words perfectly. "Are we going to go on this goddamned Hunt or am I going to have to eat one of you fuckwads instead?"

*     *     *

Danielle joined them outside, where the catacombs met the fresh air and where the clearing between mansion and jungle was at its narrowest. She looked weary and distracted, so Ruegger went to her with his arms outstretched. She buried her face against his chest and clasped her hands behind his back.

"I love you," she whispered. "God, I love you."

He stroked her head, smelling the jungle and the sweat and the perfume in her hair, and told her that he loved her too. Catching him by surprise, she rose up on her toes and kissed him full on the lips, exerting a pressure and a passion in the motion that scared him. It seemed far too much like a good-bye. She tore herself away and wiped at her eyes .

"Rueg," she said, smiling.

He saw Kilian and Cloire leaning against the wall, both naked and wearing the heads of wolves. Their wolfen faces were strangely animated, smiling with bright mean eyes, tongues lolling happily from between needle-sharp teeth in anticipation of the blood to come. Cloire leaned over and licked Kilian on the shoulder; in return, he licked her under the left eye. They were holding hands.

Kharker, meanwhile, was taking off his robe and hanging it next to the other werewolves' on one of a row of pegs that sprouted from the wall. Now he, too, was in the flesh.

Harry Lavaca remained off to the side, looking disgusted. Ruegger couldn't blame him—but then Harry didn't feel the hunger, the need, that burned inside the immortals.

Ruegger and Danielle smiled at each other and began helping the other disrobe. When they too were naked and the clothes hung on pegs, they turned to Kharker, whose eyes sparkled contently behind the smoke of his cigar. Withdrawing it from his mouth, he gave a long whistle, and Gavin emerged from the catacombs.

"Are the prisoners ready?" asked the Hunter.

"They're ready.”

"Send them out."

Gavin bowed his head and disappeared back into the darkness of the catacombs, where Ruegger could hear a large number of humans murmuring and moving about. He could smell their fear.

The immortals arranged themselves on either side of the tunnel opening, so that their quarry would have to pass through a gauntlet on their way into the jungle.

Gavin issued a shout from within, and the humans streamed forth from the catacombs, a score or more, naked and muscled and lithe. Strangely, none of them were armed and Ruegger realized that this was supposed to be a slaughter, pure and simple. It was this that Kharker thought would bind his guests in friendship. Ruegger counted ten of the humans wearing the black collars that signaled that they were the murderers assigned to him and Danielle. Then the tide of flesh surged ungracefully into the jungle, vanishing but for their shouts and crashings.

Something moved off to his right. Ruegger observed Kilian and Cloire dropping to all fours, their bodies slipping from one form to another, becoming larger and more nightmarish than even the most hideous wolf. Still, in their own demonic way, they were beautiful. They glanced at each other once, then lifted their heads and loosed a howl of pure primal joy and dominance. They tore off after their prey, their bodies gleaming quicksilver under the moon, and disappeared into the suicidal tangle of the Congo.

Looking gray, Harry turned back toward the mansion.

Danielle squeezed Ruegger's hand. He searched for Kharker, but the Hunter was already gone, leaving only his still-smoking cigar behind on the ground, and Ruegger imagined that he could feel the old monster watching him from the forest.

"Let's go," Danielle said, and hand-in-hand they made their way to the jungle wall.

*     *     *

They were surrounded by the sounds of life and death all around them, vines and trees and endless undergrowth obscuring all but the nearest sights. As the vampires ran on and their bloodlust consumed them, they became increasingly swallowed by this lush world, the rest of the Earth receding to shadows. This is where it all began, thought Ruegger, in this land where everything is moist and deep and new.

He and Danielle chased the sounds and scents of fleeing humans through the green chaos, sometimes hand-in-hand and sometimes running separately, but always together, always in synch. To him it seemed that time was distorted here, that this place was some limbo where seconds couldn't be distinguished from years. He just ran and ran, sensing his murderous quarry in front of him and Danielle by his side.

In the distance, he could hear the screams of humans as Kilian and Cloire brought down their first victims. With them, the smell of blood exploded into the air, overwhelming the scent of vegetation.

Suddenly, he was running alone … and realized he'd been running alone for some time, chasing scents and sounds without regard to anything but sensation. He slowed, and knotted spires spun crazily above him. He stood perfectly still, listening for Danielle, but she was gone.

"Ruegger," he heard, and spun to face Kharker, sitting patiently nearby on the fallen corpse of a large tree.

"Danielle," Ruegger said, his mind not quite caught up with the situation.

"Don't worry, my son. She's off hunting. Alone. It won't kill you to let her be by herself for awhile. Or for you to be by yourself, for that matter.”

"I don't want to lose her, Kharker. Not here."

Kharker smiled. "You're not going to lose her. Just calm down. Breathe deeply."

Warily, Ruegger nodded. Where had Kharker come from?

The Hunter hopped easily off his perch, his agility making a lie of his aged appearance. "We haven't Hunted together in ... well, it's been forever,” he said.

"What do you want?"

Kharker looked pained. "What do you think I want, cub. To be with you, like we were before. To Hunt and to talk and to share one anothers’ lives. Simple, really. It's pretty much all I've ever wanted. I want us to enjoy life, and enjoy it together—in the way that only we can."

"And Jean-Pierre."

"I haven't forgotten him, Ruegger, don't worry. But the albino's heart belongs with Danielle, you know that. Even when he's with me, he thinks of her. You, on the other hand: you think of me ... even when you're with Danielle."

"I know you want that to believe that, Kharker, but ...”

"But?"

"I don't know." Ruegger grimaced, feeling the twitching of his fingers that told him it was time for a cigarette. He sighed. "We never finished it, did we?"

The Hunter smiled, faintly.

"No," he said. "We didn't. You left before it could run its course. There is, however, the possibility that it never would have."

"We did have something, didn't we?"

"Whatever the hell it was. It was the happiest time of my life. Enough words. Words are only symbols of what I want to convey to you, but symbols just aren't good enough. Come here, Ruegger. Taste my blood, just a few sips so that you can change like I can change, and we'll be wolves together, hunting."

Ruegger hesitated.

"Don't worry," coaxed the Hunter. "We'll only feed off the ones with the black collars. But let's be about it quickly, before Cloire and Kilian kill them all."

The Darkling stepped forward and drank from the arm of his mentor and friend. The blood tasted hot against his lips and spurted refreshingly down his throat. A richness began to throb through his system like some hybrid of crystal meth and heroin, shooting through his veins and mind like hallucinogenic lightning.

"Jesus," he whispered, stumbling backward. "I’d forgotten how powerful you are.”

Kharker smiled. Surprising himself, Ruegger smiled back.

"Shall we began?" asked the Hunter.

Ruegger set off into the jungle with the old werewolf at his side, feeling the relentless energy burning in his limbs, his eyes wide and omniscient. Without conscious thought, he leapt to the ground and began running on all fours, a hungry happy beast with of tender humans wafting on the breeze. Bad humans, of course. It was important that the humans be bad, although right now Ruegger couldn't quite grasp what the reasoning behind that was. Meat was meat.

The humans fled before them, scattering like leaves at the immortals' advance. Through gullies and a stream, over little hills and beneath massive logs, the Hunt continued, Ruegger's human half fleeing further with every gleeful lunge.

When the bloodlust got too great, he kept up a steady mantra to preserve his identity: I am the Vampire Ruegger. I am the Vampire Ruegger. I am the Vampire Ruegger. I eat only those who deserve it.

He and Kharker drove through a thick mesh of bushes, flushing out several humans into a small clearing between giant trees. In less than a second, the wolves fell upon them, the beasts' heavily muscled weight and momentum knocking the mortals to the ground.

Ruegger's claws bore into the hard back of a black-collared man as his iron teeth closed around the human's neck, breaking it with a satisfyingly gruesome sound, blood spilling out, hot and copious.

With a growl, Ruegger began to feed.

*     *     *

Afterwards, Ruegger and Kharker rested in companionable silence. They could've left immediately to bring down another meal, but they chose to luxuriate in the kill and their rekindled brotherhood. Spattered with blood and picking at a chunk of flesh between his two front teeth, Ruegger smiled contentedly.

"I miss this.”

"Ah, so do I," said Kharker. “I wish this last few hours would repeat itself day in and day out for another millenium."

"I think I can see now why you're building the alligator swamp."

"That's just the start, my boy. Wait'll the zoo is completed; it's going to be something else!" With a sigh, he heaved himself to to his feet. "Well, my meal is settled now. Let's go after the next one, shall we."

Ruegger rose. "I think I'd better be making my way back to Danielle."

"That can wait for awhile, but the human retrieval units will be deployed in an hour or thereabouts, so we'd better make the most of this while we still can."

Ruegger hesitated. "Tempting, Khark. But Danielle's been acting strange. I'd think I'd better head back before she spends any more time with Cloire."

"Hold off on that for a little while, won't you? Your Danielle can take care of herself, but I think my stomach's starting to growl again."

"Well, I really—"

"Not just now, my son."

The Hunter motioned with his hands for Ruegger to come to him, so that they could begin hunting again, but Ruegger saw a flash of something guarded cross Kharker's face. All of a sudden he knew.

"Shit," said Ruegger. "You goddamned bastard. I can't believe you would do this to me. Damn you!"

He plowed back into the jungle.

"Please, Ruegger!" cried Kharker. "Let her go! For your own good, God damn it. Let her go!"

Ruegger ran, using the senses of the wolf still inside him to thread his way through the sultry tangle back toward the estate. Kharker followed immediately behind. Ruegger began to run, the trees and leaves and undergrowth raking his overheated body. Danielle, please, no.

He burst into the clearing that surrounded the mansion. Nothing.

He made his way through the catacombs and up into the house itself, running from room to room and calling out her name, but no one except for the Great White Hunter's servants made themselves visible to him. Not even Harry was around. In their room, Ruegger found that all of Danielle's things had been packed and bundled away. Over the din of his own heart, Ruegger finally heard the roaring.

Is that … ?

Ruegger bounded downstairs, past where Kharker waited, through the foyer, and the front door. From the front steps Ruegger saw the airfield some distance before him. There on the runway a little white plane gleamed in the moonlight.

"No, please no.”

The plane shot away down the narrow dirt strip. Vainly, he ran after it, waving his arms wildly.

"Danielle! Danielle!"

If she heard him, she didn't stop the plane on account of it. It kept going, faster and faster, until its propellers thrust it bodily into the gaping nighttime sky. Eventually, long after Ruegger had ceased his pursuit to collapse on the ground, the plane disappeared into the blackness.

When he was able to, he climbed to his feet slowly, his eyes still locked onto the portion of the sky into which Danielle had flown, as if she might change her mind and return.

Sensing Kharker behind him, he said, "So the Hunt was a ruse."

For awhile, Kharker remained silent.

"No," he said. "There was a ruse, of course, but that wasn't it. The ruse was Cloire and Kilian, so that they would take away Danielle."

"That's what you had to gain," Ruegger said, finally understanding. "I knew it was something."

"Yes," Kharker replied sadly, but the Darkling could hear the smile in his voice. "I had to gain something, all right: you."

Chapter 4

An alligator lunged at him against the bars, but Ruegger didn't back away. Like all the others, it was large and vicious; this one, however, seemed to want revenge for its imprisonment more than his brethren.

"I understand, buddy," muttered Ruegger.

Danielle had been gone three days, and he was worried for her. She’d been right, though, in feeling that Kharker would seek to recast Ruegger into the image of the Darkling. So far, Ruegger had successfully resisted his mentor’s attempts, and he had no fear that he would be tempted. Would Danielle fare as well?

Kharker's footsteps sounded behind him.

"Ah," said the Hunter. "He'll be the king of the swamp some day, won't he?"

"He'll be something, all right."

"What's bothering you?"

"Damnit, Kharker. I've been here three days. What do you think's bothering me?"

A pause. "You want to leave."

"Give that man a toaster."

"Don't be childish. This isn't a jail; you can leave whenever you want to."

"But you won't allow me to use one of your planes."

"If it's true love, you should be willing to stomp through the jungle for a few weeks. Or months."

"Stop it, Kharker."

Another pause. "It's time to finish up that game of chess from yesterday. It's almost over. Come on, then."

Ruegger waited a moment just to irritate him, then relented and came with him back inside the mansion and up into the Elephant Room, where they sat at a small table over an immaculately-carved stone chessboard. Kharker ordered in some Costa Rican coffee and Ruegger lit a cigarette.

"Well," he said, studying the chessboard. "Your experiment failed, Kharker."

"My experiment?"

"To see if, with Danielle gone, you could get me back into the fold. To see if you could make me evil again."

"Evil," said the Hunter, chewing the word. "What is that? Because, if you know, please tell me."

"You're evil, Kharker. I don’t normally use that word, but sometimes it’s appropriate."

"Am I? So the mirror should tell all, then. Let's explore that for a moment. If I am the definition for evil, then what is it exactly? Well, what am I? Let's see ... I've accepted my nature and I constantly revel in it. If there was a God, He would be proud that I utilize His gifts so fully. So that is what you mean, about evil?"

Ruegger didn’t back down. "Evil is taking joy in the pain of others. Or simply placing yourself so far above others that you’re indifferent to their pain."

Kharker, white, advanced a rook to a position guarded by a pawn, a move which put Ruegger's queen in jeopardy.

"No," said the Hunter. "Evil is just an obsolete label, a word without meaning. You know that as well as I do. If you argue against me, I won't be hearing your voice, I'll be hearing Danielle's. She's brainwashed you, man. Can't you see that?"

Carelessly, Ruegger thrust his queen to the left, protecting her from Kharker.

"She hasn't brainwashed me, Khark. You have. You've done it to yourself, too."

"Meaning?"

"That deep inside you don't really believe what you're saying."

The Hunter smiled sadly. "You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you, my son?"

Just as sadly, Ruegger nodded. "I would, Khark. I really would."

Suddenly the Hunter swung a bishop out from nowhere, and the Darkling saw that with his queen gone, his king—

"I believe that's checkmate," said Kharker.

Ruegger toppled his king.

"You should've kept your mind on the game, son,” Kharker said. “For the past few days, you've been in a fog."

"I don't need you to teach me how to play chess."

"No. You just need to keep your mind on the game. Anyway, what were we talking about?"

"Evil."

"I'm tired of talking about evil. This sort of philosophy is all hogwash, anyway. Hell, so is the rest of it."

Ruegger stubbed out his smoke. "I'm not done with talking about it, not yet."

"You want to change my mind?"

"Of course."

Kharker leaned back in his chair. "Then please, allow me to backtrack for a moment. You said that evil means taking pleasure in the pain of others. You take pleasure in the Hunt, don't you?"

"I only kill murderers."

"So the killing of another killer is okay?"

"It's a gray area, but it certainly feels better."

"Better. More righteous."

"I don't like that word."

"I remember. But it's okay to be righteous; it just means you know you're right."

"You can never know you're right. You have to keep an open mind."

"Philosophical posturing,” Kharker said. “But back to my point—killing other killers is okay to you?"

"It's acceptable."

The Hunter let that go. "So taking pleasure in another's pain is acceptable if that person is wicked?"

Ruegger saw where this was going, but he didn't know a way out of it. "I have a mean streak, Kharker. I'm not proud of it, but I like to hurt those who deserve it."

"So you focus your aggression, then: those you kill symbolize something to you—something worth the strain of sin?"

Ruegger recognized the line. It was from one of his poems, a long time ago, and he couldn't help but smile at the tactics of his old friend; Kharker would use Ruegger's own words against him.

"Yes," he said. "I suppose they do symbolize something to me. What it is, I don't know."

"A demon from your past, I suppose. Maybe unconscious."

Ruegger said nothing.

"Ah, here it gets interesting. Because the only demon in your past, my son, is yourself. I never brought you over into the darker side; you were there when I found you. So it's yourself that you focus your aggression on, not the murderers themselves."

A little perturbed, Ruegger lit another cigarette.

"You're not saying anything I haven't thought of myself," he said quietly.

The Hunter nodded. "And you were right when you thought it. So let's trace this aggression to its source."

"I've tried."

"And?"

"Nothing."

"It's simple, Ruegger. You despised your parents for letting your dear Spanish Maria die of pneumonia when they could've done something about it. So you torched their house and never looked back, never even to find out if someone perished in the fire. Which is one of the reasons why you go by only your family name; in some way, you atone for what you did to them by using their name, keeping them immortal. At any rate, burning their house was the first time your ‘mean streak', as you call it, fully showed itself. It was a righteous anger, too. Later, after Amelia died, you retreated into that anger. And later, with my help, you came to embrace it, to love it."

"That's too simplistic."

"Feelings are more simple than we'd like them to be, Ruegger."

"So what's your solution?"

Kharker lit a cigar. "Answer me this. Have you ever felt whole since you left me?"

"Danielle ...”

"I mean the anger. Have you ever felt comfortable with it?"

"Of course not."

"You've dealt with it quietly, privately. All in all, very British, really, although you've spent very little time in the U.K. to be sure."

"Your solution?"

"You need to embrace your darkness again, my son. I've already given you a head start."

Holding the cigarette carefully so that it didn't betray his tremble, Ruegger sat up slowly, carefully.

"What do you mean?"

Kharker smiled. "Those humans you've been feeding from, the ones with the black collars. The only thing that separates them from the other humans is the collars themselves."

The world tilted. "You mean ...”

"They're not murderers, Ruegger, not to my knowledge. They're just as guilty or innocent as anyone down there in the prison."

Ruegger rocketed out of his chair and towered over Kharker menacingly.

The Hunter regarded him with pleasure. "The anger feels good, doesn't it?"

Ruegger stormed out of the room, leaving Kharker to sit and smoke in triumph.

The battle was far from over.

*     *     *

Later, in his room, Ruegger reread the only thing Danielle had left him: a small note on a yellow tablet. In a rough black scrawl, it read, I love you, baby, but we both know I must do this. When it's finished, I’ll be whole, and we can have a fresh start together. Until then, stay safe and don't listen to a fucking word Kharker says. Below this, Danielle was written inside a small black heart with an arrow through it.

He crumpled the paper in his hands and lit the corner of it with a cigarette lighter. The flame consumed it fiercely, leaving only a small burning fragment that he flung to the floor in disgust.

"Goddamnit," he muttered and placed his face in his hands.

His skin was hot, burning, and behind his eyes flared the almost alien sensation of tear ducs swelling up. Just as soon as he was aware of it, the ducs calmed themselves and left him dry-eyed and empty.

Someone knocked on the door.

Without invitation, Kharker opened it and stepped inside. Seeing that Ruegger wasn't going to offer him a seat, he pulled up a small wooden rocking chair and plopped down across from the Darkling, who sat on the bed.

"I'm sorry, Ruegger," he said, his voice soft.

"For what? I know you're not sorry that you caused me to kill innocent people. Something I haven't done since the War, you bastard."

"No, I'm not sorry for that. I couldn't care less if there are a few less mortals in the world now than there were a couple of days ago. But I am sorry that I hurt you. All I want is for you to be happy."

"The road to Hell is paved with justifications."

"Be that as it may, it's up to you to help yourself. Still, I can give you guidance."

"I'm sure you can."

"Don't be bitter. What you need is a symbol of your change."

"My change?"

"From broken to whole."

"From moral to immoral. From good to bad."

"Please, let's not start that again, Ruegger. There is nothing in this world that is concrete good. And there is nothing in this world that is concrete bad. It's all in your head. What's important is that you enjoy yourself. And I think I have the means to that end—a symbol of your new beginning."

"My new beginning," Ruegger repeated, reminded of the note that Danielle had left him. A fresh start. "What is it?"

Kharker rose from his chair to the doorway, where he motioned into the room a young woman with black hair and dark eyes and features that reminded Ruegger strangely of—

"Danielle," he whispered.

Kharker nodded, bringing the girl to stand beside the vampire.

"Or a reasonable facsimile thereof," amended the Hunter.

"What’s she doing here?"

"After the safari a month or so ago, I offered Jean-Pierre this girl as sort of a thank-you to him for giving me such a great birthday present. Dear Jean-Pierre was so insecure that he thought I was mocking him. He even let the poor creature go into the woods. Of course, once I heard about it, I sent the retrieval units after her."

"You never were one to waste."

Kharker shrugged.

"Now you want to pawn her off on me."

"No, Ruegger. That's not it at all. She's a symbol. Danielle is your conscience, and for our purposes this girl is Danielle. Now, you take your time with her, say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done. This is an important obstacle for you to overcome, so if she leaves this room alive you will have failed yourself. Once you kill her, you will be yourself again. You will be free."

Ruegger looked at the girl. She was beautiful, in the way that Danielle was, but something was wrong with her. She was too ... composed. He realized that Kharker must have a tight grip on her mind.

"Release her," he commanded.

Kharker obeyed. The girl seemed to shiver. The steel washed out of her and she backed up a step, but she was still too traumatized to do much else. Her face was pale.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Her eyes darted around before settling on him. She opened her mouth slightly as if about to speak, but then closed it again. To Ruegger, she looked as if she was about to cry.

"Say something," he said. "Tell this pompous ass that that's exactly what he is. That if anything, he's inferior to you."

She said nothing, and this time there was no sign that she was even thinking of a response.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked the Hunter.

Unapologetically, Kharker said simply, "I had her tongue cut out."

"What?"

"I figured she must have talked her way out of the situation with Jean-Pierre, so I stopped her from speaking. Also, if she’s to represent Danielle to you, why spoil the illusion with speech? She can still scream, and that's all that’s required of her."

"You're a fucking monster, Kharker."

"No. But I do have my fun. Now," he said, "if you'll excuse me, I believe you two have work to do. Progress to make." Leaving the room, he closed the door solidly behind him.

"Jesus," said Ruegger.

He motioned for the girl to sit down. She sank into the rocking chair, still and dark-eyed, while Ruegger watched her. She was mute and damaged goods, to be sure, scarred and discarded and here to be used again.

"Jesus," he repeated, and closed his eyes.

*     *     *

Later, just before sunrise, Kharker found himself wandering around down in the portion of the catacombs set aside for his wine cellar, which was perhaps the most comprehensive cellar of its kind in the world. The main chamber was incredibly vast, its ceiling rising high to an earthen dome. The main part of the collection itself was laid out in a seemingly endless maze of wooden racks covering several acres. Kharker loved to wander the Labyrinth of the Grape, running his fingers along the countless dusty bottles, recounting the battles he'd undergone to save each of them from their respective fates. Sometimes he had pursued a single bottle around the world for years, going to greater efforts to acquire it than he'd ever expended on behalf of a certain elephant—or other beast—that he'd been courting. He was the Hunter, whether it be for grapes or blood.

On this night, he took to wandering the smaller tunnels that emptied out into the main chamber. These were the tunnels where he kept the best of the best wines, the ones with the highest prestige or simply the ones that meant the most to him personally.

Suddenly, he plucked a bottle from the shelf and began admiring it. He held it up to the light and stared at it fondly for a long time. It was a bottle he'd spent years tracking down, but that wasn't its real significance. This was the decanter that he'd found himself hunting for after the conclusion of World War Two.

Once Ruegger had left him, without so much as a word good-bye, he'd needed something to distract him from his grief, so he had set out on the quest for this bottle, this wine. It had consumed his thoughts utterly for a time, taking up the space that the Darkling would have. If he'd allowed himself to wallow in misery, he might just have killed himself. In a sense, this bottle had saved his life.

Gingerly, he set it back in its crevice and moved on down the tunnel, illuminated at this point only by torchlight.

It must be nearly dawn, he thought, and sighed. Time to go to bed, if he was to continue keeping the vampire hours that Ruegger was forced to. He didn't really need to sleep, in the way that younger immortals did, but he desired it (at some times more than others) and his body was used to the rest.

He wound his way through the smaller, more protected tunnels and again through the Labyrinth of the Grape. Soon he found himself going up the staircase. At the landing, he turned around for a final view of his collection. Beautiful, he thought. They were things that could bring a man pleasure without ever needing to be held to his breast—and without him ever wanting them to, either. He ascended the stairs and entered one of the Lodge's central hallways. From there, he selected a back route and a seldom-used flight of stairs up to another hall that he then took to his personal chambers.

His quarters stretched, large and comfortable, adorned with the heads of animals and draped in their skins and furs. Already in his smoking jacket, he slipped between the covers of his massive canopied bed and lit a cigar. The coversheet was zebra hide, and he scratched at its rough softness with one hand while smoking with the other. For nearly an hour, he sat upright in bed, thinking of Ruegger. What was he to do with the Darkling? He had loved the vampire and thought he still did, but was this Ruegger truly the same creature Kharker had befriended so long ago?

Questions that couldn't be answered, Kharker decided. Not by him. Still, he was unable to sleep. He called up the mortal musicians that Jean-Pierre had mocked, the same ones who had played for him on his birthday. It was not the first time. In fact, the ritual was becoming more and more frequent, as if he were a baby that had to be lulled to sleep.

The humans’ dark skins sweating and their lids heavy, they began to play, their instruments resonant in the fur-lined room. It may not be Jean-Pierre's favorite, but Kharker liked it just fine. The players’ devotion, as much as their music, made him smile. He placed the cigar in the ash-tray and lay back, closing his eyes. Letting the music wash over him, he tried to sleep. Slowly, he could feel the real world tugging away. Gladly, he let it ...

Someone knocked on the door.

At Kharker’s invitation, Gavin entered. The band stopped playing, but the Hunter gestured for them to continue.

"What is it?"

"Bad news,” Gavin said.

Kharker swore and reached for his cigar. "What is it this time?"

"Remember that group of terrorists killed two weeks ago—I believe it was about fifty miles from here?"

"Yes, I remember. Has there been another incident?"

"Yes, my lord. The bodies were discovered yesterday by some rebels, but they looked to have been sitting for awhile, over a week."

"And the bodies?"

"They too had been fed from, yes. Just like the first group. What's worse, I fetched out a map and lined up the coordinates of the two slayings, and ...”

"It points right at us."

"Yes, my lord."

"Well, it doesn't tell us anything new. Whatever it is has already arrived, and it's been here for awhile, maybe a week. All this new report confirms is that, whatever's out there, it's immortal."

"It, sir? You don't mean them?"

Kharker scowled. "Gavin ... I don't know what the hell it is."

The manservant nodded respectively, then added in a quiet voice, "There's more. One of the retrieval units tonight ...”

"Damn. Another one's disappeared."

"Yes."

Kharker ran a hand across his chin. "From now on, Gavin—until this thing blows over—we’ll send out no more units. If this thing attacks, we'll need all the men we have. If it's immortal, our retrieval units are only serving to feed it. So no more, not for some time."

"Yes, Lord. But what about our prey that escape?"

"They’ll perish in the jungle or return here. It's a waste, yes, but it must be done. Oh, I see what you mean. They, too, will serve to feed whatever's out there."

"Exactly, sir."

"Then we'll only take what we need from now on. No more large Hunts for awhile."

"Yes, sir."

"One more thing. Since this stalker of mine seems to be a night-dweller—based on the mosquitoes that've been burning up at daylight—I think we should send a scouting party out today. Say, around noon. Include five immortals in the group."

"It will be done, sir."

"Thanks. And Gavin?"

"Yes, Lord?"

"At ease." When the manservant obeyed, Kharker said, "You've served me well for a long time, my good man. For over a century. I want you to know that you've been indispensable to me."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Enough of that for now. Don't call me Lord. Call me friend. When I first saw you as a young boy, I used you. You were ... attractive. I've been using you ever since. But from now on, things are going to be more equal between us. I want you to know now, in case whatever is out there … well … I love you. You are the only one, ever, that I’ve always been able to count on."

"You don't need to say these things, my ... friend. I know them already."

Kharker smiled. "Thank you, for everything. Now go carry out my orders and get some rest."

Gavin withdrew, leaving Kharker with his music and his bed. The band played on, and the Hunter closed his eyes. He didn't know what was out there in the jungle, but he had an idea. It was every bad thing he'd ever done, waiting for him.

And it was hungry.

Chapter 5

The next evening at sundown, Ruegger woke slowly and rubbed his eyes, then pushed himself off the floor where he'd slept and stared at the bed. Behind the thick mosquito netting, the girl still slept, tangled in the cream-colored sheets, her clothes still on. Well, he thought, at least she'd had one good day's rest, untouched and peaceful.

Of course, Kharker would find some meaningful way to kill her someday, and the only way Ruegger could prevent this was to either kill her first or kill the Hunter. Since he hadn't the desire to perform the former and lacked the strength to perform the latter, there wasn't much else he could do for her but to offer her rest.

As he began his dusk rituals, including his first cigarette of the evening, Gavin knocked and announced that breakfast would be served shortly.

Ruegger finished his smoke and, without bothering to button it, threw on a long-sleeved black silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He made his way down the corridor to the breakfast room, where Kharker had already begun eating his huevos rancheros. He greeted Ruegger warmly as the vampire sat down opposite him. Silently, Ruegger began shoveling rice and refried beans and guacamole and sour cream and pico de gallo onto a home-made flour tortilla, then rolled the taco up and began eating it, not talking. About the time he was finished, a servant came out and placed a hot plate of huevos rancheros before him.

After his first bite, he said to Kharker, "I didn't kill her."

"No," replied his host. "I didn't think you would."

"Are you disappointed?"

"No. Actually, now that I've had time to think about it, I'm relieved."

"Relieved?"

"Because I'd been forcing all this on you. I got to thinking that if someone else were trying to force a new lifestyle on me, I'd resent it, and ultimately I'd resist it just on general principles, no matter what this new lifestyle's merits might be. So now I respect you more for resisting me than I would've later if you'd gone along with what I'd wanted. I guess I was too anxious to have things back like they used to be. I didn't stop to think about making you comfortable with it. When I first met you, you were already quite on the opposite side of conventional morality, so I didn't have to do any persuading; that's why we were so close."

"You taught me things ...”

"I taught you how to be honest with yourself, how to love life from all angles. Things are different now. You've changed, and the harder I push you the harder you're going to push back. Please, forgive me."

"I can't, Kharker. You've gone too far."

"What, cutting out the girl's tongue? Is that anything worse than I do nightly in the Hunt?"

"I suppose not."

"There you are. Come to think of it, we did some much worse things back during the War, didn't we?"

"Those times are past."

Kharker buttered a tortilla and sopped up the last of his plate with aplomb. "I'm glad you inspired me to get those Mexican cooks," he said. "I'd forgotten just how delicious this stuff is."

"Kharker ...”

"Yes, my son?"

"I need to leave. I need to find Danielle. If you hold me here, I'll only resent you more."

Kharker nodded, took a swig of his orange juice. "Yes, things can't go on like this for any longer. I've anticipated this and have made preparations to shake things up around here."

"I don't want to be shaken up. I want—"

Kharker raised a hand, commanding silence. "Look, Ruegger, you can't go back to Danielle yet. I don't say this just to keep you around here longer—although I would like that. I say this because in all likelihood she hasn't finished what she needs to do. She has a decision to make, and if you interfere before she's ready you’ll only make things worse. So, please, stay here a few more days and I’ll arrange transportation for you to Roche's Castle. I'll make sure that he understands that you're to be given special protected treatment. Does that sound like a deal?"

Ruegger shoved his plate away. Slowly, he nodded, because despite Kharker's ulterior motives, the Hunter was right: what Danielle needed to do, she needed to do alone.

"It's a deal," he said, and stood.

"Going somewhere?"

"I need a walk."

Kharker wiped at his lips with a napkin. "I’m sorry about all this. You know I love you, Ruegger. You do know that, don't you?"

"I know," Ruegger said, and left.

He returned to his room, hoping to find the girl for company, but she was gone and he realized that Gavin must have waited for him to leave before abducting the girl from her slumber.

Gritting his teeth, Ruegger pushed downstairs and into the forest. He tried to turn his mind to the beauty around him, to focus on it and not himself, but it wasn’t easy. Please, Danielle, he thought. Be strong. Be safe. Before long, he stumbled into a small clearing and upon the remains of the two men he and Kharker had killed the night Danielle left him. Little remained of the corpses except for the bones, most of which were broken at least once; what Ruegger and Kharker hadn't finished off, the creatures of the jungle had.

He examined a black collar on the ground, where he had thrown it after ripping it off the human's neck with his teeth.

"I’m so sorry," he muttered, inhaling the ripe and rotted scent of death and taking a step backwards. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know ...”

Another scent hit his nostrils. A shade. Crouching, Ruegger glanced all around. What was this?

Something stirred in the jungle.

Ruegger caught a flash of pale skin. Then, insanely, the bare-chested creature stepped forward into the clearing, his eyes green and his expression grave. His chest, covered in blood, signaled that he had recently fed.

"Jean-Pierre," Ruegger growled.

"That's me.”

With a howl, they flew at each other.

*     *     *

In the Elephant Room, Lord Kharker glanced up from an ancient hard-backed book as Gavin entered.

"You bring news?"

"I'm afraid so. The scout party you sent out to discover the remains of the lost retrieval unit ... They too have disappeared."

"Shit." Kharker clenched his fist and forced his breathing to become regular. "Do we at least know the area in which they vanished?"

Gavin cringed. "We have it narrowed down."

"Narrowed down ...”

"It’s a large area, my lord, and our tracking devices have been destroyed utterly."

"Christ. Is there anything else?"

"Nothing.”

Bowing, Gavin departed. Kharker re-opened his book and stared down at its heavy pages, but the words had lost their meaning. He groaned, closed it, and sat there smoking in silence.

*     *     *

Ruegger wrapped his hands around the albino's throat and threw himself forward so that his greater weight sent them crashing through the rib cage of one of the corpses. They thrashed, filthy bones snapping beneath them, each seeking some advantage, each knowing that, if they made a single mistake, this could end very quickly.

Jean-Pierre shoved his fingers up towards Ruegger's eyes. Ruegger tilted his head back as far as it would go, but still they kept coming. He snapped his mouth, causing Jean-Pierre's fingers to retreat, but not fast enough. Blood spurted Ruegger’s mouth and for a moment he thought he'd severed the digit, but no such luck. With a surge of strength, Jean-Pierre hurled his body back and yanked his finger from the Darkling's mouth.

"I'm sorry, did that hurt?" Ruegger said.

"I just hope you enjoy pain as much as I do, because if so you're going to be having a lot of fun here in a minute."

Jean-Pierre's hands shifted into claws, which raked across Ruegger's abdomen, eager to spill his intestines. Ruegger released his grip on Jean-Pierre's throat and flung himself away.

They leapt to their feet. Crouching, they circled each other warily, their hands and teeth primed for combat.

Ruegger feinted to the right. Jean-Pierre out-guessed him and struck in low towards the Darkling's midsection. Caught off-balance, Ruegger jumped sideways and out of the albino's reach, landing on the ground with his feet in the air. Jean-Pierre charged, but the Darkling caught him with his feet and hurled Jean-Pierre into the jungle.

Then they were on their feet again, circling.

"This is getting dull," said the albino.

He leapt effortlessly into the arms of a tree overhead, disappearing into the overbrush.

Ruegger followed, scrambling past twisted branches and gnarled vines, chasing the albino's scent as they went further and further up the tree. He could see his quarry moving above him and knew that sooner or later Jean-Pierre would have no place to go.

Ruegger gained on him. He could almost reach out and grab the albino's bare heel. Ruegger thrust himself upwards faster, almost tasting victory on his tongue.

Triumphantly, Ruegger pounced onto the same branch that Jean-Pierre occupied to discover that the albino was no more. In the Frenchman's place stood a large hairy beast with large pointed ears, unnaturally red eyes and a snout so long and wicked it looked surreal. One of its claws slashed across Ruegger's chest.

The vampire stumbled backward, arms out to steady himself. Quickly, he bent and retrieved a long silver knife from one ankle holster and a .38 caliber pistol from the other.

"Come on, you bastard.”

The werewolf took a step forward.

Ruegger shot the two-legged, translucent-haired beast with his pistol, emptying his clip into the monster's throat and face. The pain didn't stop it, but it did enrage the creature.

Jean-Pierre stormed towards Ruegger. Using his mindthrust, Ruegger cracked the branch at its base, spilling both branch and immortals into the clutch of gravity. Before he started to fall, Ruegger launched himself into the air and grabbed at an overhanging limb, smiling to himself as he watched the werewolf fall away beneath him to the ground almost a hundred and fifty feet below.

The creature threw its arms around a branch about fifty feet down and hung on for dear life. It knew that a fall from this height would incapacitate it long enough for Ruegger to be able to finish it off.

Jean-Pierre poised on the branch, red eyes glaring up.

"Having fun down there?" Ruegger said.

"Not yet! Soon I’ll be eating your liver."

Jean-Pierre climbed.

Without looking back, Ruegger did the same, knife clutched between his teeth, the pistol discarded and forgotten. Propelling himself upwards as fast as he could, he made a bee-line for the top of the tree. Sweat stung his eyes. It was then that Ruegger remembered that Jean-Pierre had tasted not only Kharker's blood, but Vistrot's as well. And Vistrot was one of the Elders.

Not only that, but Jean-Pierre had just fed.

Ruegger mounted the highest branch that would support his weight. Reluctantly, he glanced down. Jean-Pierre ascended rapidly, his speed only enhanced by this other form. Studying him, with his eyes of brimstone and his ears that looked like devil's horns, Ruegger felt a momentary punch of fear. He forced himself to examine his options. There weren't many.

He closed his eyes. Summoning all the considerable powers of his telekinesis, he forced the tree itself to obey his will, made its bark ripple and its branches extensions of his own arms.

He sent the limbs toward Jean-Pierre. They beat him and wrapped their hard lengths about him. For a moment the albino was caught in this wooden cocoon and Ruegger could hear his cries of pain, but then the limbs cracked and splintered around him, and the demon surged upwards, covering the final stretch that separated him from Ruegger.

The Darkling removed the knife from his mouth and looked at his reflection in its moonstruck blade. (Unlike depictions in popular media, vampires did cast reflections.) Ruegger’s black eyes had become livid, and a hot red ember seemed to burn in each one.

Using all his strength of mind and body, he flung the knife downwards, hurling it end over end towards the angry head of Jean-Pierre.

The albino threw a shaggy forearm in front of his face. The blade passed clean through the bone and muscle of the limb to bore straight through the Parisian's skull and lodge there, the blade poking out the back.

The albino reeled, blood and brain fluid leaking down his pale back and onto the forest floor below—but still he hung from the tree, his lips quivering. Slowly, very slowly, he started back up the tree.

Fuck this. Ruegger dropped onto the wounded creature, dislodging it. Jean-Pierre wrapped monstrous arms around the Darkling. Locked together, they plummeted past small limbs and large branches—smacking them occasionally—toward the hard ground now nearly two hundred feet below.

Ruegger twisted for position, but when the impact finally came, it didn't make much difference. They landed side by side, tangled and bleeding in each other's arms, and the blow only drove them closer together. They each lay there for several minutes, motionless and unconscious.

When Ruegger came to, he tore himself loose and rolled away. He'd broken several bones, he could tell. They'd mend, though.

Carefully, he rose to his feet and searched for the pistol, which, he was glad to see, had survived intact. He retrieved an extra clip from his ankle holster and loaded it.

Something caught his eye. A lizard. Reaching for it, he caught the reptile and strode out into the clearing, where Jean-Pierre lay lifelessly.

Ruegger approached the body—it had resumed its human shape—and, when he was sure the albino wasn't playing 'possum, held the lizard over the Frenchman's face, which still displayed the handle of the knife. Ruegger squeezed the green reptile until it broke in his hands and watched the blood fall into his enemy's mouth.

Jean-Pierre woke. He raised his hands to his head, exploring, and, with what had to be great pain, withdrew the blade from his skull. The knife still in his hand, he collapsed, the hand falling softly to the ground. Ruegger snatched up the blade and returned it to its holster, moved off into the woods again, retrieved another lizard and made a second sacrifice to Jean-Pierre.

This time the albino stirred more readily, licking the reptile's blood from his lips and opening his luminous green eyes. At first they seemed unfocused, but they quickly locked onto Ruegger. Seeing the remains of the lizard in the Darkling's hands, Jean-Pierre smiled.

Ruegger raised the pistol and aimed it at the albino's head. Slowly, deliberately, he cocked it.

"Well?" he said.

The albino wiped a hand across his mouth, only smearing the blood more, and gave it some thought.

Then, reluctantly, Jean-Pierre nodded.

"Uncle," he said.

Ruegger lowered the gun.

*     *     *

When Kharker found them some time later, they were lying in the high grass of the clearing, either asleep or unconscious. It wasn't readily apparent who’d won the battle, but Kharker guessed that since they both still seemed to be undead, the victor had been Ruegger. If Jean-Pierre had won, the Darkling would probably be a memory by now.

The theory was further confirmed by the blood on the albino's lips, which matched that on Ruegger's hands and which must have come from the discarded reptile bodies on the ground nearby. For whatever reason, the Darkling had chosen to revive his enemy. Chuckling, Kharker shook his head.

An interesting thought struck him: if Ruegger and Jean-Pierre had been awake and at peace in each other's presence, they might have talked, which is what the Hunter had wanted to happen in the first place. Kharker couldn't help but wonder what the two had found to say to each other, before they’d drifted off.

Well, it didn't matter. Not right now.

Kharker ordered the servants that had accompanied him to approach the slumbering duelists and resuscitate them. As one of the dark-skinned girls approached the albino, Kharker could see the green of the Parisian's eyes and was suddenly a little apprehensive. But Jean-Pierre must have sensed Kharker’s presence, as he let the girl alone. She and her partner bent over the pale creature and began cleansing him and dressing his wounds, while two other girls did the same for Ruegger, now conscious.

Once the girls were through nursing the immortals, they began to rejuvenate them with blood. One girl placed her wrist before Jean-Pierre's mouth, while another placed hers before the Darkling's, and the duelists fed. When one girl had passed out, the other took over.

After Jean-Pierre and Ruegger had both been sated, Kharker gave them each a cigar.

“On the house,” he said.

Ruegger narrowed his eyes.

Kharker shrugged by way of apology. "Well," he said, "I told you that I was going to make it interesting for us around here. When Jean-Pierre called me the other day and told me that he was on his way to see me, I knew he was just what we needed, so I allowed him through the cordon of local militias. Standard procedure.”

“But?”

"Well, I didn't want you two going at each other's throats the whole time."

"So you had him ambush me."

Jean-Pierre sighed. "For God's sakes, I didn't ambush you."

Ruegger considered. "I suppose you didn't. But it wasn't much of a hello."

"Don't talk to me about it. It was Khark's idea."

Kharker smiled; they seemed to be getting along well, which strengthened his theory that the two had talked during his absence. Well, damnit, he should have planned for that by having a surveillance team record their actions. It sure as hell must have been a Kodak moment.

"Anyway," he said, "I knew that you two had your differences to work out, so I arranged for you to meet. What you did with your time wasn't my concern. Hell, you could've played chess."

"Bullshit," said the albino. "You wanted us to fight."

"We could've killed each other," said Ruegger.

Kharker nodded guiltily. "As you can see, I came with girls to revive you in case you were hurt."

"It wouldn't have done us any good if we were dead."

"You had to fight each other sooner or later. I just provided the time and the place. Enough squabbling, gentlemen. Let's go inside and have a glass of wine."

As they rose, the former enemies noticed the large detail of soldiers deployed behind Kharker. Ruegger seemed to understand the precaution, but Jean-Pierre's face was a question mark.

"What's going on here?" he asked.

*     *     *

In the Elephant Room, they spoke for a long time. Ruegger told of his misadventures with Danielle, while Jean-Pierre talked about discovering his daughter, about becoming her lover and husband, and about his near brush with morality.

"You know we sent her to you," said Ruegger.

"Sophia? Yes, she told me. I was more surprised to find out that she was my daughter, of all things, that all this time Veliswa had kept it from me."

"Does she know? About you and Sophia?”

“Hell, she thought it was funny. I guess that means she’s over me.”

“She told me you hit her.”

Jean-Pierre nodded. "I did. First time. I supposed that’s what clinched it for her.” Suddenly, his face turned bitter. In a whisper that was almost a growl, he said, “Fuck love, or whatever it was. I've had enough."

"Is that why you left her?" asked Lord Kharker.

"Sophe? I suppose. To tell you the truth, I just wanted to be alone for awhile, and I was sick of the whole rotten city. After I found out what Vistrot had been up to all this time ...”

"Vistrot?" said Ruegger, leaning forward. "What did you find out about Vistrot?"

Jean-Pierre took a sip of his wine, then shrugged. "He's the Scourer."

Ruegger sat back in his chair, quiet.

"What? Did you already know that?"

"I’d been told, yes. I didn't want to believe it."

"Why?" When Ruegger didn't answer, Jean-Pierre nodded. "Right, he told me about her, too. Amelia."

"I'm sorry about her,” Kharker said.

The Darkling eyed him strangely. "You sound as if you'd heard about her."

Slowly, the Hunter sighed, staring at the fire with his face full of concentration. "I've been keeping tabs on the kavasari for years, my sons. It's one of my greatest pastimes. Among all of us, they are the strongest and the best. And the most lethal." Unexpectedly, he smiled. "They are the biggest game there is."

"So you did know about her."

"I’d heard rumors, and I had my suspicions, but there wasn't anything concrete, really. It wasn't until you told me what Hauswell said that I knew for sure, and then there wasn't any point in telling you about it, was there?"

"I suppose not." Ruegger paused. "What else do you know about the kavasari?"

"It's not relevant."

"Ah, but it is. Kavasari seem to be inextricably linked with all of this. First Roche Sarnova is attacked by a daybeast with kavasari blood. Meanwhile, the Scouring begins wiping out powerful immortals in the world by using local hit-teams. Most of these teams are given kavasari blood to make them stronger so that the hit will be successful. Now it turns out that the mastermind behind the Scouring is a kavasari, as well."

Jean-Pierre frowned. "Then could it be that it’s the same single kavasari that's doing all this—Amelia?"

"I don't believe so," said Kharker, slowly.

"Why?"

"Don't interrogate me."

Jean-Pierre didn’t back down. "You must have had some personal involvement with them."

"If I have, it's none of your concern, either of you."

Ruegger raised an eyebrow. "Let's elaborate on that, Kharker. Especially on the part where you become personally involved with them."

"No," said the Hunter, and closed his eyes. "Let's not do this, gentleman. As much as I would like to unburden myself to you, some secrets must be kept. Please respect that. Still, you do deserve to hear something of what I've learned about them over the years. If you would like, I'll tell you what I know about the position of the kavasari in our society—and how that came to be. Then you will see the connection between them and the situation in which we find ourselves. But I won't discuss my personal encounters with them. Agreed?"

"It'll do."

"Good. It begins with a story."

The albino took a puff on his cigar. "I like stories."

"It starts a long, long time ago, in a place a little north from us. You see, about a hundred or two thousand years ago, give or take, evolution coughed up a creature called a human being. Somewhere around this time, perhaps due to the existence of spirits from outside our world and their meddling in our reality, immortals came into play. Though there were many many different kinds of immortals, they kept themselves secret from humankind, because there was a vastly greater number of humans than shades, and mortals could wipe out the undead if they only knew. At any rate, the most powerful form of immortal was the kavasari, and there were only a few of these, and they ruled—each in their own separate kingdom—over the other undead. This went on for some time, and it was a time of relative peace.

"Then one day a bright lad of a kavasari—let's call him Bob—decides to take over all immortals by crushing his other kavasari opponents. War is waged. The other kavasari leaders band together to resist him and, after many years of fighting—using the lesser shades as their soldiers, mind you—they defeat poor Bob, who somehow escapes into the wild blue yonder.

“But the seed of global—and I use the term loosely, being that they believed the earth was flat back then—anyway, the seed of global power is sown among the victorious kavasari leaders, and they war for dominance among each other. Again, they use the weaker immortals as their soldiers, but eventually these weaklings get sick of beating each other's brains out over some leader who never did them a damned bit of good to start with.

"These lesser shades rise up against their kavasari masters, defeating them with their greater numbers. The surviving kavasari scatter and keep themselves in hiding for the rest of their lives. They've learned their lesson; from now on, the last thing a kavasari wants is a seat of power. Things continue peacefully for awhile, until old Bob shows up again.

"Now one thing needs to be said for old Bob: he’s a strong bastard; in fact, some say he was the very first immortal, but that's debatable. Anyway, Bob falls in love with this particular vampire girl, who is becoming a very successful chieftain of her people, and he starts courting her in secret. Well, his little Barbarella is a warrior queen, and she’s under constant attack. Bob is worried about her safety.

"He calls up a handful of kavasari that he has brought over himself and who are loyal to him—as much out of fear of him as anything else, most likely. And Bob, always having been a persuasive bastard, gets these poor chaps to form a cult of protection around his Barbarella, so that she'll always be safe. He calls this order the Sangro Sankts and clouds their purpose in mystery and superstition, telling them that this girl is a holy being or somesuch nonsense, destined to take over the world—which, naturally, is what Bob intends for her to do—and which she does a pretty good job of, actually. Anyway, the Sangro Sankts protect her, under one minor stipulation—that they keep immortals from the knowledge of humans at all costs. This is the primary Commandant that Bob gives them to follow.”

“Why?” interrupted Jean-Pierre. “Why keep us a secret from mortals?”

“The obvious reason, of course. The same reason why the kavasari were afraid of the less powerful immortals. Because there are a lot more mortals than there are shades. Humans could wipe us out at any time, if they only knew about us, and if they acted against us before we acted against them. So Bob decides to take up the burden of keeping immortals safe by creating his little cult. They would kill anyone who tried to make humans aware of our presence.

“Anyway, to continue. Eventually, Barbarella, with the help of her secret protectors, seizes a pretty sizeable chunk of the immortal population, and it turns out that she’s an able ruler. After a hundred years or so, Bob gets bored and disappears back into the cesspool from whence he came, never to heard from again. Later, it becomes apparent to the few who are aware of all this that Bob just wanted a little taste of power after his years of anonymity. Once he got his fill, he took off, leaving Barbarella and the Sangro Sankts to manage the shadeworld on their own.

“Eventually Barbarella gets killed by a rival. The Sangro Sankts take revenge, then appoint an heir to take their queen's place. This establishes the tradition that continues until today; when one of their ‘masters' die or decides to relinquish his or her power, the Sangro Sankts simply serve another, which has been predetermined ahead of time. My good friend Roche Sarnova is the latest of this line. That’s the end of the story."

Jean-Pierre clapped his hands and whistled. "Encore! Encore!"

Kharker sighed.

"I’m not satisfied with the answer you gave Jean-Pierre,” Ruegger said. “Why was it so important to, ah, Bob, that immortal existence be kept a secret from humanity?"

"Because there are a hundred million times more humans than there are shades, Ruegger. Isn't it obvious?"

"Sure, but why make this a central part of the Sangro Sankts' mythology?"

"Because they are the secret rulers of all immortals—the shadow rulers, which is what ‘Sangro Sankts' loosely translates to. If they don't look out for their flock, who will? Does that answer your question?"

"I suppose."

Jean-Pierre coughed. "Khark ... do these kavasari still rule?"

"No. Their order protects and guides Roche Sarnova, thus their influence is limited only to his domain, which isn't what it used to be. I don't blame Roche for that, of course; the population of shades has exploded in the past few millennia, and spread out, and he now commands a smaller percent of our numbers."

"But," Ruegger said, "the Sangro Sankts must uphold that old stipulation, which quite goes against what Roche Sarnova is doing now ...”

"True.”

"What do you mean?" asked Jean-Pierre.

Again, the Hunter sighed. "I should've told you, my son. I guess now is the time. Remember after the safari, when we went to visit Blackie and he made you leave the room?"

"You wouldn't tell me what you discussed."

"I'll tell you now. He told me the reason behind the War of the Dark Council."

"Which is?"

"Roche wants to announce our presence to the human world. Not only that, but he wants us to have our own country."

"A Jerusalem for the Undead," added Ruegger.

"It was this that tore the Dark Council in half."

"Jesus," whispered Jean-Pierre

"Yes."

The albino ran a hand through his yellowish, almost translucent hair and left it there, tangled in his roots. "Well, if that isn’t something."

"Indeed," said Ruegger. "But it doesn't jive with the priorities of the Sangro Sankts."

"No. It doesn't."

Kharker leaned back in his chair. "So, Jean-Pierre, what do you think?"

Raising his eyebrows in bemusement, Jean-Pierre said, "I think the man has balls of iron. I think it's an interesting idea. Still ...”

"Yes," Ruegger agreed. "That was my reaction, too." Slowly, he stood up and stretched his legs. "Well, I know you two haven't seen each other in some time, so I'm going to leave you alone for awhile. Besides, I need to feed."

Kharker nodded in mildly surprised approval. "Thank you."

"Sure."

Ruegger departed, leaving the two werewolves in silence.

"That was … generous of him," Jean-Pierre said.

"Yes, maybe it was.”

"It's certainly much better to have him as a friend than an enemy."

"Maybe ... maybe. But never let him fool you, my son."

"What do you mean?"

Kharker’s face grew tight. "He's the most evil bastard I've ever met. I've said it before and I'll say it again: his is the Evil of Old, and it is to be highly respected. The problem is that he's under the misconception that, beneath all the darkness, he's really a good guy. And that's what he wants to be. Right now, anyway. But if Danielle were ever taken away from him—permanently, I mean—he would revert right back into the old Ruegger, the Ruegger that could kill a hundred innocents without flinching. Back in his heyday, he would've given Junger and Jagoda nightmares. So don't turn your back on him. Ever."

"Come on, Khark. You're exaggerating. He loves you, like I do. Maybe I'll even grow on him sooner or later. Hell, he's already growing on me. But of course I'll keep that secret to my grave."

"Of course." Kharker grabbed a bottle of wine and refilled his studded iron goblet. "Seriously, Ruegger is good at playing both ends against the middle, and even though he may love me he considers me the opposite of what he stands for. And if I'm in danger from him ...”

"Then I don't stand a chance. What you're forgetting, my friend, is that he'd be all too easy to kill, if that were called for. Which it won't be. Ruegger is our ally."

"Of course." After a moment, Kharker said, "By the way, after you and the Darkling had thrashed it out, what did you talk about?"

Jean-Pierre waved the question away. "Oh, a number of things. We talked of Danielle for awhile, and he told me that he understood my fixation with her. I suppose it was his own way of forgiving me, or at least I hope so. At one point, he said that if we’d battled in a city, I would've been the victor. In a city, I would've been able to use my power of psychic dominance. Out here, though, I was at the mercy of Ruegger's spoonbender tricks."

The Hunter smiled. "Yes, you're both very strong in your own ways. You control people. He controls things."

"We talked for a little while longer, but that was about the extent of it, really."

Kharker rose from his seat, goblet in hand.

"We going somewhere, Khark?"

"Yes, my son. Follow me."

Together, they left the Elephant Room and made their way down into the catacombs.

"So you've become disenchanted with love, eh?" said Kharker.

"Perhaps everyone becomes disenchanted with it at one point or another, but it's given me the shaft more than most, I'd wager."

"It's a turning point for you."

"I'm working on becoming the man I was before I'd ever even heard of Danielle. I was strong then. Precise. I need to be that way again."

"Why?"

"There are changes coming. I can feel them."

Kharker nodded. "You always have had strange powers of the mind. They've served you well, so far."

"So far.”

"What you need is a symbol of your change.” They descended into the catacombs and threaded their way through the large dusty tunnels. "You need to eradicate Danielle from your life, utterly and completely."

"I've already done that: I let her go. It took more strength on my part to do that than it would have done to kill her."

"Perhaps, but you need a concrete symbol of her destruction. You need to desecrate her image, to tear her limb from limb."

They’d reached the area of the tunnels reserved for the prisoners and had stopped before a certain door. With his mindthrust, Lord Kharker flung it open and stepped aside.

"Danielle ...” whispered the albino, seeing the occupant of the cell. "It's her, the one you gave me on your birthday."

"Yes. The time is ripe for you to take her."

"But Kharker ...”

"What?"

Jean-Pierre frowned. "Yes," he muttered. "I suppose it is."

He stepped into the room and watched as the girl retreated from him, backing into a dirty corner.

"Thank you," he whispered over his shoulder.

"You're welcome, my son. Now I will leave you. Please, take your time. Say and do what must be done. But remember—she is the ghost of Danielle that haunts you. Only by obliterating her entirely will you purge your system, once and for all, of Danielle."

"Yes," answered Jean-Pierre, a trace of sadness in his voice.

The Hunter shut the door and walked away. Ruegger had been right, he thought: he never had been a creature to let something go to waste. Even before he rounded the corner, Kharker heard the girl screaming behind him. Proudly, he smiled.

Chapter 6

"You asked that an unarmed human be released into the woods, sir," Gavin said. "It’s been done."

"Thank you," said Ruegger.

Leaving the manservant by the catacombs entrance, he moved off into the jungle, as lush and sultry as ever. This time, there seemed to be some malice to it, some tension that Ruegger couldn't fathom. It breathed green venom.

Shaking it off, he pressed deeper, tracking his mortal quarry. It had been a long night, and he had thoughts he needed to process. Things were moving very fast. Faster than he would've liked. He would appreciate some time to just sit down in peace and think for awhile, without the distraction of Kharker or Jean-Pierre, the Scouring or the War of the Dark Council, but that, he realized, wasn’t going to happen.

Danielle, however, was a distraction he wouldn't mind. In fact, she was the one thing at that moment that he really wanted, that he desired with every bloody snapping fiber of his being. Still, he recognized that he needed to give her time. She had her own demons to exorcise. Or kill.

Suddenly, blood filled the air and he heard a noise up ahead, and he stepped towards it. The sound issued from behind a tangle of bushes. Slowly, he parted them. There, somewhat below him, was the human—a white man, he saw—that he’d been hunting. In his fervent desire to escape, the man had tripped down a slope and fallen into a narrow ravine.

With care, Ruegger moved down the slope toward him, even as the fellow's eyes widened with terror.

"Easy," the Darkling said. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Within touching distance of the man, Ruegger could tell that he had broken his leg, the blood from the wound clouding the shallow water that flowed about him.

"Don't," said the mortal, trying to back away, pushing with his hands against the muddy slope and sliding further up the bank only to slip again.

"It's okay," Ruegger told him. "I was only going to take a little blood from you, anyway, and now it looks like I don't even have to use my teeth because you've done the work for me." He smiled to show it was a joke, but the man's face screwed up in fear, and he let out a miserable moan. Gingerly, Ruegger slid his hands beneath the mortal and hauled him out of the wet murk, then staggered up the hill and set him down again on level ground.

Before bending to feed from the wound, Ruegger said, "I'm sorry about this, friend, but I was in a bit of a scrape tonight and I really need the blood. Don't worry. I'll only take a little. Then it's back to the mansion with you."

Bitterly, the man said, "Go ahead and kill me, you bastard. I'm dead anyway, don't you know that? Whether it's you or one of the others, I'll be dead in a week. Please don't get righteous on me."

Ruegger paused. "I could release you into the woods."

"And be picked up by one of the retrieval units? No thanks. I've been picked up by one of them already, and they beat the shit out of me before hauling me back. Just do what you came here to do, you goddamned monster. Remember, though, God is watching, and when you're in Hell I'll be laughing down at you from my cloud, drinking wine and screwing virgins."

Ruegger used his telekinetic abilities to enliven the vines that had grown up the nearest tree. Under his power, the vines wrapped themselves tightly around the human and held the poor man down while Ruegger drank blood out of the wound on his broken leg. The human screamed, but Ruegger did not relent until the mortal had passed out. The Darkling stood, wiping the blood from his mouth, and dismissed the aid of the vines. His anger faded, though he wasn’t sure whom the anger was reserved for.

True to his word, Ruegger hefted the mortal up and began making his way back toward the Lodge.

Something moved overhead. He glanced up to see a shape fluttering against the night sky, its outline obscured against the trees.

"Who are you?" he shouted.

No answer came.

Slowly, forms began to resolve into discernable figures. There wasn't just one outline, but four, all human-shaped and flying in circles above him, their dark and leathery wings beating a wind through his hair. Jandrows, from the look of them, and something else, something they were carrying that glinted metallically in the moonlight—guns. Large and bulbous, with wolfish barrels and glittering belts of ammunition. Machine guns, weapons so heavy that they would normally be mounted. The shades trained the weapons at him as the circle of jandrows descended towards him.

"Who are you?" he called again.

"Don't worry about who we are, Darkling," one of them shouted back. "Just freeze where you are. We’ll take care of the rest."

"Like hell.”

He gestured, and the arms of the nearest trees snaked out and clutched at the quartet of winged beings. They squealed as the rough limbs seized them, but Ruegger knew that this was only a temporary solution.

A fifth winged creature dropped from the sky through the ring of imprisoned jandrows and flew straight at him. Ruegger noted a long, massive jaw extending from a flat, sinister head. It was, of all things, the head of crocodile, with the thick body and powerful tail to match. Its enormous, bat-like wings billowed behind it as it drove at the Darkling.

Ruegger dove. He struck the ground and rolled fast, feeling the creature's presence close above him. He threw himself to his feet and swiveled.

The beast landed not ten feet away. As if about to pounce, it crouched menacingly, lashing its heavy tail with force. Though its body was very like that of a crocodile, its legs were longer and seemingly more agile, although they were thick, meaty and covered with scales. It was a jandrow, he thought uncertainly, and must be one of the few of their kind that could shapeshift. Not only this, but it appeared relatively old and quite able to match or exceed him in strength.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, setting down the human that still slumbered in his arms. The man stirred and opened his eyes.

"Captain Raulf D'Aguila," the creature said through its enormous, smiling mouth, evil red eyes squinting at Ruegger in what he thought of as an authoritative manner. "I have come to take you in."

Retrieving the knife from its holster, Ruegger spat. “Then come and get me."

The creature raised itself to its full height and tucked its large wings carefully above its ridged back, all the while swiveling its head about playfully on a thick neck that seemed too long for the crocodile it otherwise resembled. In fact, Ruegger thought, it seemed very much like a dragon at the moment—an obese dwarf of a dragon that had spent too much time in the mud, bursting at the seams with puss and venom. It exuded an air of corruption.

Overhead, the other jandrows freed themselves from the wooden prisons Ruegger had created for them, but they made no move against him. Perhaps they were enjoying the show.

Captain Raulf D'Aguila launched itself high into the air, its great dark-green wings spreading out behind it. Its legs stood out from its body in postures meant to ensnare Ruegger. The legs were swift and powerful, the Darkling saw, almost like those of a frog. They ended in wicked reptilian talons, the foreclaws almost hand-like, while the hindclaws were meant for grasping and rending.

Ruegger dodged aside.

With shocking swiftness, the beast struck the earth and pivoted to face him, long mouth opening to reveal cruel teeth and an eager tongue. Noticing movement to its side, D'Aguila craned its head. Perhaps for the first time, it took note of the human that Ruegger had fed from. It turned back to face the Darkling, a knowing leer across its gargantuan face. The man, awake now and seeing the intentions of D'Aguila, tried to scramble out of the way, but the wreckage of his ruined limb wouldn't allow him to get more than a few feet.

"Leave him alone," Ruegger said.

The Captain pounced on the mortal, seizing the man's body with its talons. The creature rolled over onto its ridged back, holding up its squirming human prize high into the air for inspection.

"Let me go!" the man shouted, thrashing.

"No," the Captain said. “I don't think I will, not just yet."

Before Ruegger could stop it, the creature raised its wings so that they overlapped each other and brought up its tail to fill in the gap where the wings ended below. In effect, it concealed any sign of its human prisoner, unless one happened to be looking into the lethal cocoon from the direction of D'Aguila's head.

D'Aguila stuck its snout into the space between its wings and chest, its mouth opening wide. Ruegger felt certain that Raulf had performed this ritual countless times, that this was a sort of show he put on for the soldiers that he captained for. Ruegger heard a gruesome popping sound, then the noise of the human's blood spattering against the membranes of Raulf's wings. The scent of death filled the air.

The Captain unfolded its wings and lowered its tail, revealing the spectacle of the mortal's death to all present. Still held in the creature's talons, the headless corpse shuddered violently once, then sagged. Blood fountained from the open neck, subsiding gradually. The man's head, meanwhile, rested between the jaws of Captain D’Aguila. The beast turned its mouth toward Ruegger so that the vampire could get a clear glimpse of the terrified expression on the face of the deceased.

D'Aguila crushed the man's face between its molars a few times and swallowed the head whole. With a forceful kick, it propelled the rest of the body into the underbrush twenty feet away, rolled onto its feet and rose, its blood-spattered wings unfurled in triumph.

When D’Aguila burped—rather theatrically, Ruegger thought—one of the flying soldiers convulsed with laughter.

"I always did like an appetizer before my meal," commented Captain D’Aguila, and advanced on Ruegger.

Ruegger raised his knife so that it glinted in the moonlight. "Let's get this over with."

Raulf closed the gap. Above him, the jandrows trained their huge machine guns on Ruegger. He realized that even if he won, which seemed doubtful, he would lose.

To hell with this.

Without another thought, Ruegger turned and ran.

*     *     *

Once the door closed, the girl that looked like Danielle screamed and threw herself backwards.

Jean-Pierre winced. How many mortals had he heard issue that same cry?

But he would not kill her. What he and Ruegger had talked about after their scuffle—the conversation Kharker seemed so interested in—had to do with morality. Jean-Pierre spoke of the difficulties of staying moral, and his commitment to doing so, while Ruegger had assured him that commitment was the main part.

To be good, do good, the vampire had said.

And Jean-Pierre had no intention of betraying Sophia. Bad enough to have left her in order to do some soul-searching, but to kill an innocent? Never.

Never again.

What would Kharker think? Despite Jean-Pierre’s new morality, this question bothered him. He didn’t want to lose the Hunter’s friendship.

Wiping a hand across his forehead, he crouched next to the girl. “Remember me?”

She opened her trembling mouth—

“Fucking Kharker!”

Jean-Pierre slammed his fist against the wall. The Hunter had taken the girl’s tongue. Jean-Pierre breathed deep.

Looking into her eyes, he said, “I could make you what I am, an immortal. The curse—that’s what we call it—often corrects wounds and scars. A girl I know, she had scars all over her body from being beaten and raped. When Ruegger changed her to a vampire, the scars disappeared. So ... your tongue might grow back is what I’m saying.”

She stared into his green eyes for a minute, then shook her head.

Sadly, he nodded. “I think I under—”

BOOM!!!!

An explosion, from the direction of the wine cellar.

Jean-Pierre jumped to his feet. Putting a finger to his lips, he indicated for the girl to be quiet. She might not be able to talk, but she could still scream. With wide eyes, she obeyed.

Carefully, he opened the door and stepped into the hall. Lots of noise and activity. Something major was going on.

Footsteps.

He retreated back into the cell until he was sure the footsteps only came from two people. He waited for them to pass so he could glimpse them through the tiny window. When he did, he realized they were shades—maybe morbines or vampires.

He opened the door and ducked his head out.

“Hey!”

They spun, automatic rifles rising. Faster, Jean-Pierre grabbed both guns by their barrels, tore them loose, tossed them in the air, reversed his grip on the weapons, and drove both rifles through the skulls of their former owners.

Limbs twitching, they collapsed. That wouldn’t hold them forever, Jean-Pierre knew. They would heal soon enough. He dragged them by their heels into the room.

“Sorry,” he told the girl. “I’d suggest you close your eyes. What I’ve got to do isn’t going to be pretty.”

Just as she closed her eyes, the sounds of more soldiers echoed through the catacomb hall. What the hell was this? A full-scale invasion?

*     *     *

Ruegger tripped and fell into a strange arroyo of some kind. With a start, he realized he'd stumbled into one of Kharker's irrigation ditches. The Lodge couldn't be far away. As he stopped and listened, he made out the sounds of gunfire coming from the direction of the estate. Something bad was happening there. Maybe the Captain's other soldiers had begun an attack on the Great White Hunter himself. Kharker could be in danger.

Climbing out of the ditch, Ruegger made his way toward the edge of the estate, wary now that the trees were thinning out. He paused on the border between the jungle and the swath of clear ground that ran around the Lodge and located the position of the catacombs opening, the logical place to enter. How was he going to cross the clearing without being picked off by D'Aguila? The only place that could offer any security at all was the temporary swamp that Kharker had had built for his alligators.

Glancing over his shoulders to ensure that the Captain wasn't at that very moment barreling for him, Ruegger dashed out from the cover of trees to the alligator pin that lay between him and the opening of the catacombs. He jumped over the short electric fence and splashed head-first into the mud. Quickly, he sent his mind out to fend off the alligators and subdue them temporarily. He wasn't the psychic dominator that Jean-Pierre was, but keeping some big lizards out of his way for a few seconds shouldn't be too hard.

He rose, covered in mud and alligator feces, and wiped at his eyes. There, shooting from the green canopy of the jungle, was Captain Raulf D'Aguila, big head grinning.

It shot straight towards the Darkling.

Ruegger used what influence he could muster to force the alligators to lunge upwards. D'Aguila hurtled straight toward the vampire. Ruegger flung himself to the side just in time to avoid the angry snap of his enemy's teeth. The alligators leapt at Raulf's leathery wings, and Ruegger grinned to see that there wasn't any loyalty between the different strains of reptile.

"Go get 'im, boys.”

Climbing from the muck once again, he bolted over the fence and tore his way across the clearing. He knew D'Aguila was circling back for him even at that moment and felt the hairs rise all along the nape of his neck as he heard the creature’s wings beating, louder by the second.

Something dark shifted at his feet, enlarging—the Captain's shadow, thrown by the moon. When the shadow grew so large that he could see where the moonlight filtered through its wings, Ruegger chanced a look over his shoulder.

The Captain was right there, long mouth open and green talons reaching for him.

Ruegger leapt forward into the opening of the catacomb tunnel, landing on his mud-soaked stomach and rolling. He let himself roll until the momentum wore off, then stood and looked about.

"Shit.”

The tunnel was too wide. When Raulf realized that its wings could fit in here, it would pursue him. Which would be in about fifteen seconds, if Ruegger accurately gauged how long it would take D'Aguila to circle back around again.

Ruegger ran. He fled down the long dusty corridor toward the wine cellar and the stairs that would lead up into the mansion, where he could hear frequent bursts of gunfire. He had to get to Kharker. Prisoners shouted at him as he ran past.

Just before rounding the first corner, he heard something behind him and turned to see D'Aguila.

It—he—had landed just outside the tunnel. Sizing up the passageway, the red eyes of the Captain gleamed when they fell on Ruegger. D’Aguila took a few running steps forward, into the tunnel, and launched himself into the air. The large wings almost touched the walls, but they fit. When they started to beat, the Darkling could feel their power from where he stood nearly a hundred feet away.

There wasn't enough air to support the Captain in beast form—at least not for long. D’Aguila flew a few yards, set down, then quickly launched himself into the air for another few yards. The sight was strange and halting, but, in his own surreal hopping manner, D'Aguila was covering the ground between himself and Ruegger very quickly. In a few moments, D’Aguila would be on him.

Ruegger ran. He rounded the corner and pelted head-first into a pair of soldiers coming his way. They weren't jandrows, but, by the look of them (rough and ungroomed, as if they'd been living in the jungle) they certainly weren't Kharker's men. They must be with D'Aguila's party—sentries, perhaps, sent to guard the opening of the catacombs while their comrades battled within.

The sentries, if that’s what they were, raised their weapons. Ruegger tore the machine guns from their grasps and continued off down the hall. He could hear them running after him but didn't care. He was older and could best them easily. Suddenly, he heard screaming behind him and knew that D'Aguila must have just bounded past them.

"Jesus!" one cried.

"It's the Captain!"

Ruegger ran faster, not paying attention to the prison cells he flew by or the various alternate tunnels that emptied into this main one. As the tunnels grew narrower and crazier, he was sure that he'd put some distance between him and Raulf. Then, not as far behind him as he would've liked, he heard D'Aguila slam headfirst into an earthen wall as the Captain took a turn too fast. He grunted and continued fly-hopping frog-like after his prey.

Soon the rat-tunnels spilled out into Kharker's legendary wine cellars. Ruegger found himself in the large main chamber. Damn. The ceiling was too high to afford him much protection from the Captain. Also, the stairs that led up into the mansion were way on the other side of the room, and it would take him some time to thread his way through the rows and rows of wine to reach them.

He darted down one row, then another, making his way toward one of the many smaller tunnels where Kharker kept the most expensive wines of his collection. Narrow and low-ceilinged, they were the best refuge from his antagonist.

Behind him, he heard an explosion of breaking glass and running fluid as D'Aguila knocked his careless way into the room. Ruegger glanced into the air to see his reptilian persecutor leaping into the air and catching the air beneath his wings with grace and might. D’Aguila began flying back and forth over the rows of wine, hunting the Darkling.

"Fee fi fo fum!" D’Aguila shouted. "Come out, come out, wherever you are! If you don't, I'll only make it worse for you. Show yourself, Darkling! Or are you the worm that I think you are?"

Ruegger pointed both the machine guns in the air and waited for his chance. When the Captain floated over his position, he fired, the force of the guns knocking him back a foot. The rounds lanced through Raulf's flesh and scales. Screaming, he flew to the side and out of the Darkling's narrow field of fire.

"Die, worm!" D’Aguila shouted. “Soldiers! Find the worm and kill him!"

Ruegger dropped the guns and ran, darting through the fragile pathways, priceless bottles of wine to both sides and earthen floor beneath. He zigzagged his way through the maze and was going so fast that, when the enormous hole became visible to him, he was already teetering on its rim.

Below him dropped a cavity, an opening in the earth at least fifteen feet across. It looked like it had been caused by an explosive of some sort. The shaft ran down for about twenty feet, then connected to a passageway leading to one side.

This was where the soldiers had entered, Ruegger realized. Their time in the woods hadn't been in wait, after all. They’d been digging. They’d dug a tunnel almost to the stairs that led up into the mansion, then blown their way into the wine cellar with a bomb.

Which could only mean one thing: aware of the presence of Kharker's new army, the attackers knew a direct assault would fail. That, at the least, it would be chancy. So they had chosen a sneak-attack. Their raiding party couldn't be much larger than the Hunter's home team.

So why had they wasted five men on Ruegger?

He edged his way around the crater—which had disrupted several rows of invaluable drink—and continued his trek toward one of the smaller passageways, where he might be able to lose D'Aguila.

Flapping.

Craning his neck, he caught a brief flash of Raulf's outline, then pitched himself forwards.

The Captain swept over him, pulling out of his dive with care. In the heat of the moment, its talons reached out and overturned one of the tall wooden racks of wine. The rack fell heavily upon the rack in front of it, which in turn toppled and fell on the next one. The noise was horrendous—wood and glass splintering loudly, while hundreds of gallons of the richest wine in the world spilled to the dirt.

What a waste. Ruegger dragged himself to his feet. He ran on through the maze, trying to find his way out. Once he had his bearings, he quickly found where the kingdom of the grape ended, at least for the moment. Beyond the end of this row stretched a wide walkway bordered by the earthen wall of the cellar. Not too far away, a hole in the wall signaled one of the smaller tunnels, where Kharker kept the good stuff.

Glancing both ways down the aisle and upwards just to be sure, Ruegger fled down the walkway, entering the narrow and low-ceilinged tunnel.

"There he is!" shouted D'Aguila somewhere above and behind him, directing his underlings. "Follow me!"

Ruegger sprinted carefully through the corridor, wanting not to destroy any of the irreplaceable bottles that flanked him. He just hoped that Raulf would show the same courtesy.

This was not to be. With a roar and the sound of things breaking, the Captain entered the tunnel behind him. Ruegger turned to see whether or not his pursuer would fit and was disheartened to see that he would.

Just barely. Relentlessly, D'Aguila surged forward, his great bulk scraping the walls and destroying the bottles that this corridor had been designed to protect. Unable to use his wings here, the Captain utilized his muscular legs to propel him forcefully toward his quarry, smashing every rack that he came to. His red eyes blazing, his body covered by blood and antique wine, he opened his great mouth and roared at the thrill of the hunt.

Ruegger dashed on, breathless.

He reached an equally small tunnel that emptied out into this one and decided to take it, although not without a shred of guilt. The wines down this new corridor were probably even finer than those of the first one, and if D'Aguila could enter the first he could just as easily enter the second.

Unfortunately, Ruegger was right. Though D'Aguila did have some trouble changing position in order to force his way into this new passageway, he managed.

"Run!" he shouted. "It makes your adrenaline flow fast and free. I love to eat those with adrenaline in their veins. It makes their blood all the headier."

The Captain charged, and Ruegger could hear the grievous shattering of glass as he came on. Up ahead, Ruegger saw a brighter light. He was heading back toward the main chamber, which wasn't going to do him much good. Still, his alternatives were few.

A rifle cracked. Slugs tore into his chest. He glanced up to see that one of the soldiers was jogging towards him from the direction of the main chamber. The shade had time to release another burst before Ruegger was upon him.

When he had torn out the man’s jugular, Ruegger wrenched the AK-47 from his grasp and kept running. With a quick glance at the rifle, he had an idea—Kharker's weapons storage room, right near the stairs that led up into the mansion.

That’s where the soldier had found this gun, Ruegger knew; unable to find his own weapon in the maze, he’d broken into the Hunter's cubby-hole of death and borrowed one. In his haste, the soldier had made a poor choice. The Darkling would do better.

When Ruegger emerged into the main chamber, he entered the maze again and pressed down one row and another, making his way toward the stairs. He knew he was safe as long as he could hear the breaking of glass as the Captain smashed his way through the tunnel Ruegger had just emerged from. With any luck, D'Aguila would become lodged there. The sound ended, though, and Ruegger knew he was in trouble again.

He neared the end of the maze—or the beginning of it, rather, for this is where one would normally descend into the cellar to enter the burgundy corridors.

A stretch of open ground lay between the stairs and the beginning of the maze, and Ruegger would have to cross it in order to reach the storage room, the door of which hung open in tatters, thanks to the soldier and, presumably, his comrade. The room was ten feet from the staircase. Glancing overhead, Ruegger spotted D'Aguila making a long slow pass, his large belly bared and leaking blood.

Ruegger stepped from the maze onto the open ground and spun to face the Captain. Raulf, seeing his prey vulnerable, adjusted its course and began a dive toward the Darkling, obviously relishing his moment of triumph.

Suddenly, thousands of bottles rose from their wooden nesting places and shot up toward the creature. At Ruegger's telekinetic direction, a humming swarm of the ancient receptacles assaulted D'Aguila, their legions breaking against him in a frenzy of bursting glass. Raulf bellowed in pain.

The bottles continued to fly from the racks, striking the beast with an ever-increasing intensity. D'Aguila halted his attack, concerned only with warding off the endless volleys. The bottles slammed into him, exploding brightly, bruising the Captain with their weight and cutting deeply when they broke. The glass that didn't lodge in Raulf's flesh rained down on the maze, glittering. Torrents of wine spilled down D’Aguila’s scaly hide, mixing with the blood, and Ruegger felt a stab of regret. It was probably all vinegar, he told himself, but the scent given off by the drink divulged a different story.

When the buzzing cloud of bottles surrounding D'Aguila grew so thick that Ruegger could no longer see his enemy, he made his way into the weapons locker and surveyed the room happily. On the far wall hung what he had come for. Quickly, he loaded two of Lord Kharker's elephant rifles with three rounds each and stepped back out into the main chamber.

The Captain flew erratically above the maze, trying to outpace the bottles that dogged him. Ruegger was having a hard time directing his tools properly because he could only see Raulf now and again, when a rift opened in the cloud of glass and wine. Even then, it was only for a second.

Not letting the barrage abate, he took aim with one of the rifles—though he still could not see his target—and fired into the heart of the din.

D'Aguila roared.

In a flash of anger, the Captain dove down toward Ruegger, flying so fast that his great mouth actually emerged from the glass cloud around it.

Ruegger fired into the mouth. The round halted the Captain's dive for a moment, but only for a moment.

Ruegger fired again. The Captain shuddered. Kept coming.

The Captain progressed so swiftly that Ruegger ceased hurling bottles at him simply because they were now a danger to him. The bottles dropped away, revealing D'Aguila—or the ragged ruin of the creature that had been D'Aguila.

His wings were so smashed and shredded they could barely keep the monster airborne, his thick hide punctured and broken in too many places to name, and all the glass embedded in it made him gleam obscenely like a blood-spattered diamond. His head, however, was still large and viscous, and though D'Aguila must have been in intense pain, his smile was savage.

Ruegger picked up the second elephant gun and fired.

Reeling, D’Aguila hung in the air. He coughed wetly, and his eyes glazed over. His wings beat slower, costing him altitude. Realizing his imminent demise, the Captain tried to rouse himself. His eyes snapped open. His wings beat fiercely.

Ruegger fired again, shooting the creature straight through the brain.

D’Aguila fell, smashing two rows of wine before striking dirt.

Ruegger glanced all around, on the lookout for the second sentry. There, fifty yards away, was the soldier. The shade lay dead, surrounded by a thickening pool of its own blood, and over him, his body drenched in the fluids of his victim, stood Jean-Pierre.

Chapter 7

Jean-Pierre nodded to Ruegger, and the Darkling returned the gesture. The albino had heard or witnessed much of the action between the winged crocodile and Ruegger and was surprised that the vampire had been the victor. He’d been ready to step in, had this been called for, and in a strange way it disappointed the albino that this hadn’t happened, as if he needed to intervene on behalf of the Darkling in order to prove something. The feeling was ridiculous, of course.

"What are you doing down here?" Ruegger asked, as Jean-Pierre stepped forward.

"I got lost in the maze,” said Jean-Pierre, not wanting to mention his session in the cell with the Danielle look-alike. Before Ruegger could push him, he said, "What was that thing?"

"I don't know. It called itself Captain Raulf D'Aguila. The name sounds familiar. Let's put him to the question."

"Not just yet. There was something I wanted to discuss with you, but not in front of Kharker."

"Can't it wait? There's a war going on up there."

"No. It's finished." Jean-Pierre tilted his face to the ceiling, listening, and the vampire mimicked the gesture. When Ruegger appeared to comprehend, Jean-Pierre said, "See? It's silent. Whatever happened, we missed it. Now, about what I wanted to say …  "

"Yes?"

"I was thinking on what Kharker told us. Bob and the Sangro Sankts and the kavasari. I came to think of Amelia, and the stories I’d heard of her death."

"Stories which were greatly exaggerated, apparently."

"That's just the point. She was made a kavasari." Something passed across Ruegger's face, and Jean-Pierre knew he was getting through. "From what I know of kavasari—and I admit that's very little—they’re extremely reluctant to make more of their kind. In fact, inherent in their very existence is a purpose, and that is to eliminate immortal overpopulation."

"So the making of a kavasari is a deliberate act."

"Exactly.” The albino permitted himself a small smile. "It makes sense that creating a new kavasari would require a consensus of opinion among the elders of their kind—or, maybe, a decision by their supreme elder. Bob, or whoever."

"You're saying that Amelia was made a kavasari by the oldest kavasari of them all, the one who organized the cult that protects Roche Sarnova."

"It’s only a theory."

Ruegger frowned. “It makes some sense, but I don't know where it can lead. I mean, how could we investigate that? And what does it mean if it's true?"

Jean-Pierre shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Bob was in love with Amelia from afar. Or maybe a new kavasari needed to be brought over because of the exploding population of the shadeworld and Bob just happened to like her politics."

"And since Amelia's the Scourer, that means Bob liked the politics behind the Scouring—death to religion and evil."

"Politics which you share, Ruegger."

"I suppose. But it all seems to connect, doesn't it? The War of the Dark Council and the Scouring."

"Maybe they do. The connective tissue is Bob. Or Amelia. She could be a member of the Sangro Sankts."

"Maybe." Ruegger slipped a hand inside his jeans and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He seemed surprised to find that they were whole but he didn't let the surprise distract him from lighting one up. "Want one?"

"No," said the albino. "I'm quitting. I need to be in control and focused for the days to come, not preoccupied with vices. There will be plenty of time for vices when all this is over."

"You seem very sure."

"I can feel it coming, whatever it is. Now let's go interrogate that thing that was chasing you."

Ruegger disappeared inside the storage room and emerged with a large box of shells. Opening it, he tossed a handful of long cartridges to Jean-Pierre. They each loaded one of the elephant guns and moved off into the maze, Ruegger in front and the albino close behind.

Having just fed, Jean-Pierre's senses were sharp, and he could smell the wine and the blood and the earth in his nostrils so acutely that he nearly ached with the sensation. He forced himself to concentrate.

They came upon the Captain, lying sprawled among the wreckage of bottles and racks. For his part, D'Aguila had shifted from his reptile form to his more human form. Completely hairless, he was a tall and obese man, his rolls of fat settling on his massive body and hanging to the side as gravity claimed them. His eyes, which fluttered open occasionally, had a mad reddish tinge, and they were deep and large and set far back in his skull, each one gleaming like a moon of flame on a cloudy night. His teeth, seen when he opened his mouth to smack his ruddy lips, were many and sharp, so sharp they looked as if they'd been deliberately filed, but Jean-Pierre's intuition told him that they were naturally that way. His wings were great and dark and bleeding, half-crushed beneath his naked body.

At their approach, D'Aguila's eyes snapped open and fixed on Ruegger. The Darkling pointed the elephant gun at Raulf's sweaty forehead.

"Good evening, Captain.”

D'Aguila merely growled.

"If you're a Captain, then what army do you belong to?" Jean-Pierre asked.

"I'm a Libertarian, you feeble-minded, sun-whipped mongrel."

"You're from Liberty?" Ruegger said. To Jean-Pierre's eyes, the Darkling didn't seem entirely surprised.

"That's right."

"Then you know Maleasoel."

"Know her, Darkling? I'm sleeping with the bitch."

Ruegger cocked the rifle. "What are you saying?"

"I'm fucking Ludwig's widow. In fact, I've been fucking her since before he was murdered!"

Ruegger's eyes blazed, and Jean-Pierre thought that he might have to restrain the vampire.

"Then you killed Ludwig.”

"No," D'Aguila chuckled. "But I did represent the faction of the Libertarians that wanted to proceed with the plan to take over the world."

"You're the one that commissioned Junger and Jagoda to kill Danielle and I. You hired Jarvick and the other sand-rats."

"Wrong again, Darkling. I was the one that blew up one of the buildings at Liberty and led the attack against Maleasoel. We didn't mean to kill her, we just wanted to scare Ludwig into delivering on his promises. He couldn't make up his mind about what he wanted to do. He was a weakling, which is why Malie started sleeping with yours truly."

"You're a pig," Ruegger said.

D'Aguila shrugged, indifferent.

Ruegger took a breath. "Do you have any idea who killed Ludwig?"

"Why the hell do you think we're attacking Lord Kharker—because we were bored? No, you imbecilic leech. Kharker claimed credit for Ludwig's murder, and Malie wanted vengeance. She believed that the Great White Bastard was covering for the Dark Lord, so she staged this attack so we could capture him. Interrogate him."

"How many soldiers did you bring?" Jean-Pierre said.

"Just enough to do the job: fifty of our best. Any more than that and we wouldn't have been able to support ourselves, what with the meager sort of food we could find in the jungle."

"Why did you try to kill Ruegger?"

"Malie wanted me and some troops to detain him so that he wouldn't get hurt in the battle."

"Detain me?" Ruegger said.

"I only wanted to put your head in my mouth, my teeth on your neck, and have you submit. Then I would've released you. But no, the Darkling had to fight back! Idiot. Couldn't stand to be upstaged."

"I should kill you now."

"Then do it, blood-boy," D'Aguila grinned, sharp teeth shining. "Shoot me. Shoot me in the belly, make me linger for a while. I'll be in agony, dying. Come on, it'll be fun."

Jean-Pierre could see the conflict in Ruegger and understood what Kharker had told him about the vampire's nature. If it had been up to the albino, D'Aguila would be dead now, his needling ineffective. Ruegger was a different animal, an animal that thought itself moral while its native impulses said otherwise.

Eventually, Ruegger lowered the gun, but raised his free hand. A knife glimmered there. Then Ruegger was on the ground and sticking the blade into D'Aguila's throat.

"Get up," the Darkling ordered. "Slowly. One wrong move and I'll cut off your bald head and make it watch while I feed your body to the alligators."

Raulf rose gingerly, his body still bruised and battered, covered in blood and sparkling with countless pieces of glass that stuck from its flesh like scales. Jean-Pierre watched all this, wanting to be of help but finding Ruegger quite capable of handling himself. The vampire stood behind the Captain, pressing the knife into Raulf's neck.

"Okay," Ruegger said. "Let's go upstairs."

Staying behind Ruegger and D'Aguila so that he could keep the rifle trained on Raulf, Jean-Pierre followed as the Darkling maneuvered his prisoner up the stairs, using his mindthrust to open the door at their top.

When the two had crossed into the upper part of the Lodge, Jean-Pierre followed, and they headed for the foyer. The albino heard a sound behind him and turned to find two of the jungle soldiers training guns on him. Since they made no move against him, he ignored them.

The three entered the foyer, bordered on one side by the sweeping staircase and adorned with animal trophies—hides, heads and all. Sitting on the hide-covered floor and chained together were a dozen of Kharker's Caucasian mercenaries. Over the bloody and taciturn men huddled a group of Libertarians, their guns aimed and ready.

When Ruegger entered, shielded by D'Aguila's bulk, the Libertarians all took a step back and re-trained their weapons. Jean-Pierre moved to the Darkling's side but kept the elephant gun pointed at Raulf.

"Move and I'll cut off your Captain's head," Ruegger said. "Stand down and lower your weapons."

"Do it!" said the albino.

The Libertarians turned to D'Aguila for direction. The Captain sneered, but nodded his consent, and his soldiers lowered their guns.

"Up here!" Jean-Pierre heard. He peered upward to see a beautiful jandrow on the second floor landing, her arms braced on the railing. She was a dark angel, he thought, with long black hair and dark eyes, and the dark wings that she kept tucked behind her back looked painfully fresh, as if they'd recently been torn off and had just grown back. Her black clothes and black leather vest were those of an anarchist, as was the black beret on her head. It was Maleasoel, he knew, although he’d never met her. The Widow Ludwig, now commander of Liberty.

Ruegger smiled at her, but she didn't smile back.

"Please," she insisted, "release Raulf."

The Darkling withdrew the blade from the Captain's neck. Instantly, D'Aguila stumbled forward and spun to face his tormentor, anger burning from every pore in his bountiful flesh.

"Calm down," Maleasoel told him. She studied the albino. "You must be Jean-Pierre.”

"And you Maleasoel."

"Call me Malie. Now, the three of you, come up here at once."

They joined her at the landing, and none of the soldiers protested or moved against Ruegger or Jean-Pierre. Ruegger attempted another smile and tried to embrace her, but she offered him a hand instead.

"Good to see you again," he said, taking it.

"There's no time for that. This is business."

"I thought revenge was personal."

"Not when there are as many people involved in it as there are at present. I’ve duties and obligations to those I lead to deliver justice."

Smugly, D'Aguila stepped in for an embrace, and, seemingly reluctant, she allowed him to crush her against him. At once, Jean-Pierre saw the truth of the matter. This woman had not slept with the beast because she needed the intimacies that only he could offer her; rather, she had known that Liberty was crumbling out from under her and had chosen the Captain as an ally so that when Ludwig fell, Liberty would not. Or at least its power would not be subverted by others with separate agendas.

She’d chosen well, in a manner of speaking. A high-ranking officer with the respect of his men. It seemed to Jean-Pierre that the tactic had also paid off in that these men called themselves Libertarians, implying that their cause had not died with its father.

"Now," she said, shoving D'Aguila away and addressing them all, "follow me."

*     *     *

The Elephant Room lay in darkness, only a few torches and the fire throwing light. In his usual chair sat the Great White Hunter, Lord Kharker. Stirring, as if trying to awake from slumber, Kharker struggled against the chains that bound him. Large and gleaming, the chains were tightly drawn across him, and a dozen different Libertarians kept guard.

"He put up quite a fight," explained Maleasoel. "We shot him with bullets and tranquilizers for a long time until he finally went out. He's only now coming out of it. He killed ten of my men himself, not to mention what damage his bodyguards did. See all that blood? Only half of it's his own. But we got him, and I suppose that's what matters. For the cause.”

"Just what cause is that?” asked Ruegger. “I thought you'd abandoned the idea of taking over the world."

Maleasoel shot him a sharp glance and he shut up. Jean-Pierre didn't know exactly what was going on and he didn't think Ruegger did either, bur perhaps there were some things the soldiers really weren’t meant to know.

"So what are you going to do with Kharker?" Jean-Pierre asked.

For the first time, she smiled, but it was not a kind smile. "We're going to find answers," she said.

Half a dozen pairs of hands seized Jean-Pierre from behind, fixing him to the spot despite his struggles. At the same time, he saw D'Aguila come up to Ruegger from behind and wrap his large arms about the Darkling, immobilizing him. All this done with not a little satisfaction on the part of the Captain. From the shadows another shade was brought forward, also restrained by Libertarians: Gavin.

"What the hell is going on?" Gavin said.

"That's just what we're going to find out." Malie nodded to one of her soldiers, who injected something into Kharker's arm. "He'll be coming around shortly, and then it begins."

"You've changed," Ruegger said.

"Yes," she answered. "I have."

"If Ludwig were still alive ...”

"But he's not. Now shut up, both of you. As I said, this is business."

Kharker's heavy eyes fluttered open and stared about him in impotent rage. He strained against his chains and, with what slack they would allow, pounded his fists on the arms of his chair. He bared his teeth, his face momentarily losing its humanity, and fixed his gaze on Maleasoel.

"Goddamn you.”

"You brought this on yourself, wolf," she said.

At last he let his anger ebb. "I suppose I did at that. I'm sorry about Ludwig, my dear."

"Sorry isn't going to cut it."

"Of course not."

She turned her head to encompass Jean-Pierre, Ruegger, and Gavin. "Now, you bastard, tell us what we need to know and these three individuals will live. For every lie you tell us, we’ll kill one of them."

"Jesus," Ruegger muttered, struggling in D'Aguila's arms.

She turned to the Darkling, her face cold. She started to say something, then stopped.

Ruegger nodded at her in disgust. "Business," he said.

"Exactly."

She turned back to the Hunter.

"You're bluffing," said Kharker.

"I'm not. The only one of the three that means a thing to me is Ruegger, but he's been jeopardizing his life for some time in an effort to find Ludwig's killer, so I won't feel too guilty if I kill him now in the conclusion of that quest. The others I couldn't care less about. But I'm sure you could. Other than these three individuals, I know of only one being who you love on this earth, and that’s Roche Sarnova."

"What if you think I'm lying and I'm not?"

"If you tell the truth and these men die anyway, then your conscience will be clear. I will be the one at fault."

"What if I just tell you what you want to hear?"

"You have no idea what I want to hear."

"I've an idea. Obviously, since I'm still alive, you assume that I didn't kill Ludwig, that I'm covering for somebody. Logically, that person would be Blackie—and that's what you want me to tell you. I won't do it, so save yourself the trouble."

"Big words. Nevertheless, we will proceed and you’ll tell the truth or watch those you love die one by one. Are you ready?"

His nostrils flared cruelly, but he nodded.

"Very good," she said. "Now tell me this: who killed Ludwig?"

"I did."

"Strike one."

She turned her head toward one of the groups of Libertarians. The ones holding Gavin. Without hesitation, they tore off the manservant's head. Kharker pitched himself forward, simultaneously trying to break his chains with physical and telekinetic powers. Apparently there were some good mindthrusters among the many Libertarians, as the chains held.

One of the soldiers placed her face over Gavin's fountaining neck, and blood splashed down her throat and over her face, painting her in red. Below her, Gavin's body was being quickly dismembered. One of the jandrows plunged his hand inside the werewolf's chest and, after a gruesome sound, pulled the manservant's heart out of his body. The winged creature bit into the still-pumping muscle and began to drink.

The Great White Hunter roared, his face contorting into a mask of fury. As he watched Gavin's body being torn limb from limb, a trickle of tears burst from his eyes.

"You will die for this," he said to Maleasoel, although he did not look at her. "I raised Gavin from infancy. I loved him as a boy, instructed him in all manner of things, watched him grow into a fine man and then immortalized him. He's been my right hand for over a hundred years. It was understood that if I died, he would inherit the Lodge and everything that goes with it." Suddenly, his face went slack, drained of all emotion. "Yes," he repeated, "you will die for this."

Maleasoel nodded without sentiment.

"Now tell me who killed Ludwig," she said.

He glared at her, silent. Then his face bloomed into an expression of sheer uncompromising defiance.

"I did," he said.

A rictor-mortis grin tattooed itself on her face, and she nodded to herself.

"Very well," she muttered.

She positioned herself between Jean-Pierre and Ruegger. The albino could smell her strange dark scent, feel the grip of her hand in his hair, holding his face up so Kharker could see. Craning his neck a little, he saw that she had Ruegger in a similar grip.

"I cannot choose to kill Ruegger," she said, "because he’s been my friend for a long, long time. More than that, he was Ludwig's friend and that means a lot to me. Ludwig had few true friends. Most of them were just trying to take advantage of him for one thing or another, but not Ruegger. So I cannot chose to kill him, but if I kill the other one now, your Jean-Pierre, it will amount to the same thing, because Ruegger would then be next. The only thing I would have accomplished would've been to delay Ruegger' death. Therefore, it’s up to you, Kharker, which one dies and which one doesn't. One of them must. No longer is it in my hands, but I'll be forced to choose if you don't, and I think this might be a decision that makes some difference to you. So ... who is your pick?"

The Hunter looked back and forth between the Darkling and the albino, silent and hateful. Finally, he closed his eyes and whispered, "Okay, you bitch. I'll tell you everything I know."

She released her hold on her captives. "Good choice. But I don't want to know everything you know—just the part that pertains to Ludwig."

"Fuck you, harlot."

"Who killed Ludwig?"

"I don't know," he hissed. "And that's the truth."

"What do you know?"

Taking a deep breath, he said, "Let me begin at the beginning."

"If you must."

"It starts after the safari I took with Jean-Pierre to celebrate my first millenium. We took an abbreviated visit to Blackie's Castle and came back here to the Lodge. A few days later, Jean-Pierre left to return to New York. A few days after that, the Sangro Sankts arrived."

"The Sangro Sankts?"

"An order of kavasari that protects Roche Sarnova and the conquerors of his line."

"I've never heard of them."

"They're very secretive."

"Continue."

Knitting his thick eyebrows, Kharker said, "They made a proposition to me. They said that a pair of Balaklava had killed Ludwig and that Roche was presumed to have hired them simply because he was the only immortal the two had had any contact with since before their exile in Jamaica. Maybe that’s true, I don’t know.

“Whatever, they left Jamaica in order to do a piece of artwork for Sarnova. He commissioned them to do it, and I guess they figured it was worth coming out of their voluntary exile to build something for the Dark Lord. The created the Tree of Death, I think it’s called. Anyway, so the rumor got started that he was responsible for Ludwig's death. The Sangro Sankts believed otherwise. They appealed to my love of Roche, saying that Ludwig's widow had vowed to avenge her late husband's murder, and that she had at her disposal one of the largest immortal armies in the world. Maybe the largest. The Sangro Sankts said that with the soldiers of Liberty she just might have the ability to destroy Blackie, which was what their coven was designed to prevent ... that, and another stipulation which has nothing to do with the matter at hand.

“The kavasari asked me to publicly take the fall for hiring Junger and Jagoda to assassinate Ludwig, hoping to take the pressure of Liberty off of Blackie's back and put it on mine instead. I hesitated. I love Roche, but I’d prefer to stay undead just the same. The Sangro Sankts sweetened the deal. They said that they have a small army of immortals that they would be willing to loan me until this whole thing blows over. I asked where this army came from, but they weren't very forthcoming, though they hinted that somewhere on the planet there was a place where all kavasari could seek refuge, and that in this place there was an army of lesser shades to protect them—a small army. One that couldn't rise up and kill their rulers; the kavasari got burned on that before.

“At any rate, they loaned me this force, and I was glad to lend Roche a hand. I was expecting an attack from the air, though. I have rocket launchers and guided missiles, the whole works. At the very least, I was prepared to be raided from the jungle. Obviously, I wasn't fortified properly to resist an attack from beneath. So here I am."

"Yes. Here you are...."

Maleasoel stared at him for a long time, tapping her foot rhythmically, entranced by her own thoughts. At last her foot stopped moving and she shifted her posture to light a cigarette.

"All right. I believe you."

Kharker seemed to relax. "Please," he said. "Can you remove these chains so that I can light a cigar?"

"I suppose.”

"And release Ruegger and Jean-Pierre?"

"Naturally. But there's just one more question."

"Yes?"

"WHO FUCKING KILLED LUDWIG!"

Her volume pinned the Hunter to his seat.

Suddenly sweating, he said, "I told you, goddamnit. I don't know. If I had to guess, I would say Ludwig's killer was Subaire, the leader of the half of the Dark Council that opposes Roche. But I don't think it's her."

"Why?"

"Because it's too obvious, and she's smarter than that."

Cruelly, she smiled. “Actually, you’re right. I did a little ... investigating ... myself, and I determined that Subaire has nothing to do with Ludwig’s death. She was one of my first choices, but when she didn’t pan out I came to you.”

He stared at her, as if realizing something. “When I went to London to try and figure this whole thing out, I learned that Subaire had been ... kidnapped.”

Again, Malie smiled, but any joy in her face had vanished completely. "What makes you so sure Sarnova didn't do it, after all?"

"For one thing, he had no reason to. For another, the poor man's in the middle of a fucking war, which he's losing by all accounts. Why add insult to injury and incite the wrath of the second largest immortal army in the world? It just doesn't make sense. Lastly, I believe that he would've told me if he had a part in your husband's death. That's all I know."

"Do you think Sarnova knows more than he's telling?"

After a long moment, Kharker said honestly, "I just don't know. It's possible."

"It's possible?"

"Yes."

"Very well. If I have any further questions, will you answer them?"

"I have nothing left to hide, you bitch. For the love of my boys, I've given up the only other being I love in this world. You were right about that. And, for the record, I too wish to discover the identity of Ludwig's killer. After all, whoever hired Junger and Jagoda has delivered more harm to those I love than I can ever forgive."

"Good," she said. Her gaze drifted to the remains of Gavin. "Sorry for your loss."

His features hard, he whispered, "You should know my answer to that."

"Yes. But please wait for me to avenge Ludwig's murder before you choose to avenge Gavin's. Is that a deal, Lord Kharker?"

Without inflection, he said, "They say that anticipation is the best part of the kill. They're wrong, of course. Tasting your flesh on my tongue will be the sweetest part, but have no fear. I'm in no hurry. Whether it's now or later, your meat will taste the same."

*     *     *

After Kharker's confession, Ruegger was dismissed to his room, accompanied by four guards who weren't to let him out of their sight.

Trying his best to ignore them, he showered and donned clean clothes, then plopped down on his bed and lit a cigarette. Things weren't going his way, but it seemed selfish to be thinking about his own misfortunes when those of Malie and Kharker were far greater. Malie had changed. It was hard for him to believe that she’d cried on his shoulder not all that long ago.

Kharker, though, was still the same, and Ruegger didn't know quite what to think about that. It all came back to the question of evil; if there was no such thing, then how could he deny the Hunter his love? Even if there was such a thing, shouldn't love be unconditional? Perhaps the main question was how Ruegger could love someone who was evil?

On the other hand, he could understand Jean-Pierre very well indeed. The albino had retreated so far into himself that he had probably forgotten who he was. He yearned for redemption, for salvation, but mistakenly thought he required the assistance of someone else to do this for him. Ruegger was certain that what Jean-Pierre needed was not for someone else to find something of value in him; he needed to find it for himself.

Frustrated, Ruegger rose from the bed and placed a tape (old technology for an old vampire) in a small cassette player he'd brought to the Lodge. The tape contained an array of some of his favorite songs and he hoped that they would comfort him. Stubbing out his smoke, he opened his ears and smiled as the waves of classical music washed over him.

He raided the mini-bar for a bottle of Cuervo Gold, a shot glass, and the requisite salt and lime. He didn't know quite what was coming next and saw no good reason why he should face it coherently.

"Here's to you," he said to the soldiers, and knocked back a shot. "Want one?" They just looked at him, and coldly. "Yeah, well, I guess somebody's gotta drive."

He downed another shot, and another. To the strains of music, Ruegger danced around the room, carrying the bottle of tequila as he went. No longer did he require the assistance of the shot glass but drank straight from the source.

He pulled the black-out curtains over the windows, withdrew to the bed that he'd shared with Danielle only a few days ago (he could still smell her perfume!) and snuggled up in the sheets. Another hour and it would be dawn. Perhaps it would be best just to slip off now and get the added sleep, not that he needed. What he needed to do was to think, to plan, to come up with a strategy—

Someone knocked on the door. Captain Raulf D'Aguila entered, now clothed and looking much better than he had the last time Ruegger had seen him.

"Darkling!" he roared. "Get out of bed, goddamnit. Maleasoel has ordered me to bring you to her."

"She wants to talk to me?"

"Get moving."

Ruegger realized that D'Aguila was not alone; he was flanked by two guards. For some reason, that made the Darkling smile.

They wound their way through the halls until they came to one of Kharker's most prized rooms, where he kept all his immortal trophies. The heads and bodies of werewolves and shapeshifters and various undead monsters that had died under Lord Kharker's hand decorated the chamber, some with plaques under them offering an account of the life and death of their subject. Several were legendary beings in their day, and their mythos only added to the Hunter's own.

In every corner, torches blossomed with fire, throwing strange light across the eyes of the dead, whose shadows jumped and leapt as if they were the dreams dreamt by these trophies. At the far end of the room hunched a large antique desk and behind this reclined Maleasoel, booted feet thrown carelessly on top of the surface, her frame leaning powerfully back in a chair meant for Kharker.

She smiled when she saw Ruegger and told him to pull up a chair, which he did.

"Want a cigar?" she asked, opening a box on the desk.

Without a word, he used his mindthrust to raise one of the brown tubes in the air, strip off its plastic shell and guide it between his lips, where he bit off the tip at the very end. Simultaneously, he raised the silver Zippo from the desktop and lit the cigar.

"Don't be that way," she said.

"Was that rude?"

"You could have at least let me light it for you."

"Tell me this: would you really have killed me?"

It was her turn to frown. "Yes. I needed to hear what Kharker had to say and I knew that you had already put your life on the line to find out why Ludwig died."

"You didn't think I'd mind?"

"Oh, I'm sure you might have objected at the time, but in the long run, I knew you'd at least understand why I did it."

"I understand. I just can't condone it. Or forgive it."

"You can't forgive? You, of all people?"

He puffed on the cigar. "I suppose I'll forgive you sooner or later. But if Gavin comes back as a spirit to haunt you, I wouldn't blame him."

"And if Kharker comes for me—will you think that I deserved that, too?"

"Yes, but that won't prevent me from attending your funeral. I'll even bring flowers."

At that, she almost smiled, and some of the tension between them was broken. "Thanks."

"That's what I'm here for."

She glanced over his shoulder to D'Aguila. Apparently failing to find what she was searching for, she returned her gaze to the Darkling.

"Ruegger," she said. "We have business to discuss."

"First tell me this, about Liberty. I thought you'd given up on enslaving humanity and all that rot. So why is Liberty still together? Why haven't you dismantled it like you wanted to? Come on, be honest. It’s only us and the Captain here now."

"Isn't it obvious, Ruegger? I need those soldiers, now more than ever. Their numbers ensure that Ludwig's murder will be avenged. So I tell them lies. I tell them that I’ll further the cause for which Liberty was founded. To take over the world. Because of that, they're loyal to me. And because of that, I’ll find the person that killed my husband."

"And Captain Raulf? He's in on this too?"

"Yes, but he's the only one. He knows that whatever becomes of our current cause, we shall find a new one. Liberty will not be disbanded, and he will continue to be the leader of men."

Ruegger saw an odd light in her eye and thought she might be lying, but to D'Aguila, this time, so he didn't press the point.

"What about Subaire," he said, "the leader of the half of the Dark Council that opposes Roche Sarnova ... or do you know about all that?"

"Oh, I know the reason why the Council broke apart."

"Then doesn't it make sense that Subaire might have been responsible for hiring Junger and Jagoda to kill Ludwig? Since the Balaklava were associated with Sarnova, you would've blamed him and attacked. At least, this would be her reasoning. And whether or not your attack finished him off, it would've made it much easier for Subaire to come along and pick up the pieces. You would’ve crippled him and she would have taken the glory."

"It could've happened that way, but it didn't."

"Why are you so sure?"

"Because while you and Dani were off having your adventures with Jean-Pierre and Laslo, my crew and I took a little trip to London, where I used my men to infiltrate Subaire's organization. I gleaned enough intelligence to know how to get her. It cost me ten men, but we captured her and another member of the Council. We tortured them for days. Believe me, they talked, but they didn't tell me anything I wanted to hear. She didn't kill Ludwig or have any idea who did. I scratched her off the list and came here to do the same thing with Kharker."

"And you did."

"I did. And before that—before I'd even gone to London—I captured a member of Vistrot's tribe, one Jacob Ikaud, and did the same to him."

"You’ve become quite the little torture-master. What did you find out about the Titan's involvement in all this?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"So you don't know ..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

She shrugged. "So now I'm going to Roche Sarnova's Castle to capture and interrogate the Dark Lord."

"How are you going to attack the Castle, of all places? Even if you could gather all your surviving soldiers, you wouldn't be able to overrun it. The number of soldiers on each side would probably be pretty equal, but they're better fortified and they've been preparing against an invasion for centuries. You don't stand a chance."

"That’s where you come in."

"Me?"

"After I dismissed you and Jean-Pierre, I stayed to chat with Lord Kharker. We talked about a number of things, but what I found most interesting was this order he calls the Sangro Sankts. Apparently, they protect Sarnova, but then you know all that. What he may not have told you was that they have their own back way into the Castle."

"You're kidding."

"Somewhere hidden in the catacombs is a passage that leads through the mountain and opens onto the other side. There's a secret entrance, and Kharker has told me how to find it."

"You trust him?"

"He wouldn't hurt Sarnova for the world, but he knows I won't kill the Dark Lord unless he turns out to be the one. Not only that, but Kharker’s agreed to help me in any way I can to find Ludwig's killer."

"How gracious."

"Damnit, Ruegger, he's sincere. He doesn't like the things that've befallen you, Danielle and Jean-Pierre on account of Lud's death and he's going to help me bring the responsible party to justice."

Ruegger sighed, but his blood was stirring just a little. "Won't Sarnova have this entrance guarded?"

"Why would he? He's under the impression that only he and the surviving conquerors of his line that came before him are aware of the existence of the Sangro Sankts. Little does he know that those that came before him—the ones that are still alive—aren't as discreet as he is; they've let bits of information leak out here and there over the course of centuries. That’s the meat of the information Kharker’s gathered. The rest is just myth, conjecture."

"Yet he knows exactly where this tunnel is."

"Apparently, yes."

"Won't it be guarded?"

"Ruegger, do you think the Sangro Sankts would permit Sarnova to know when they're going to visit him, to give him some advance knowledge? No, these are secretive creatures. They're not going to allow Sarnova to keep tabs on them.”

"Maybe. But I’ve heard that the wolves that run through the Carpathians are Sarnova’s watchdogs. He sees through their eyes, smells through their nostrils. He’ll know if someone’s approaching.”

“I’ve heard that rumor, too. Maybe it’s just myth. I hope so, but we have to go under the assumption that it’s not. Which means that once we get within a few miles of the Castle, me and my army will tunnel underground till we get to the secret entrance.”

“You’ve had practice.”

“Yes.”

Leaning back in his seat, he took in mouthful of smoke. "So, Malie, where do I fit in?"

*     *     *

When Ruegger left Maleasoel and Captain D’Aguila, he went looking for Kharker. At first he tried the Elephant Room, then the Hunter’s bedchamber, but when neither of those places yielded results, Ruegger realized where his old friend must be.

Accompanied by several Libertarian guards, he made his way down to the wine cellar and paused on the landing overlooking the immense chamber. There stood Jean-Pierre, leaning against the railing and looking sadly down into the room. Arrayed about him were several guards, which told Ruegger that Malie trusted the albino no more than she trusted him.

When he heard Ruegger approach, Jean-Pierre gave a weak smile. Ruegger offered a hand in greeting. Without much hesitation, Jean-Pierre accepted it, and they shook as if they were actually friends. And, in that moment, it struck Ruegger that the albino was now his friend despite everything.

Seeming to pick up on the Darkling’s mood, Jean-Pierre nodded. “You know that sometimes childhood friends will prick themselves with needles and exchange blood in order to become blood-brothers.” He paused. “I think, Ruegger, that you and I have exchanged enough blood … ”

“Yes,” Ruegger said, and smiled. “Blood-brothers we are. Where’s Kharker?”

The albino gestured toward one of the side tunnels that branched off from the main chamber. Outside of the tunnel, several Liberians loitered, every now and then glancing inside.

“There.”

It was the tunnel through which Ruegger had fled from Captain D’Aguila, and the Darkling could only imagine what horror Kharker must be experiencing at this very moment as he surveyed the ruin of his life’s work.

Kharker emerged from the tunnel, clutching a broken bottle to his chest. Tears stained his cheeks, but his eyes seemed clear. Pausing for a moment to look up at his two adopted sons, the Hunter made his way around the maze and up to the landing to meet them.

After nodding to the Darkling, Kharker said, “You talked with Maleasoel?”

“Yes.”

“She told you the plan?” Kharker looked skeptical.

“If such it can be called. I can’t believe we’re going through with this. It just seems too ... half-assed. And wrong.”

Jean-Pierre nodded. “I talked to her, too.” Lowering his voice, he said, “But is there any way out of it?”

Surrounded by guards, the three of them stood there for several minutes, thinking, but none had an answer.

Finally, Jean-Pierre turned his eyes to the broken bottle that Kharker held.

“What’s that?”

Sadly, the Hunter lowered his gaze to the ruined vessel and for a moment Ruegger thought he might start crying again. But, after a deep breath, Kharker said with a clear voice, “This bottle saved my life once.”

He raised it into the air so that its ragged edges caught the light. Then, with a violent sweep of his arm, Kharker threw it over the railing so that it soared out over the fragrant wasteland and fell behind an overturned rack. Kharker wiped at an eye and smiled grimly. “I guess that’s all I needed it for. Now I’ve got to find something else.”

Tiredly, he turned to his sons and clapped a hand their shoulders. “Boys,” he said, “I think a new era has began. It’s time to go to war.”

*     *     *

However, as Jean-Pierre looked into Kharker’s eyes, feeling the grip of the Hunter’s hand on his shoulder, he knew they were keeping something back from Ruegger. There was something, a being of which Ruegger could have no knowledge, that by its very existence had probably doomed Maleasoel’s invasion of the Castle before it had even begun.

Though the creature had no real name that Jean-Pierre knew of, it was called the Sabo, and he knew that since Kharker had kept the creature a secret from Ludwig’s widow, he had already broken his word to her: Gavin’s death would be avenged no matter what.

Jean-Pierre wondered what other promises the Hunter might break and, further, if he should even stick around to find out.

Then again, as Kharker himself had said, it was time to go to war. And Jean-Pierre had things to fight about.

Chapter 8

Restless, Danielle watched the battle below. She turned to look at Loirot beside her, but he seemed engrossed in the fight.

"This is stupid," she said, over the roar of the crowd, who shouted down insults and praise at the pugilists.

"It's the Arena of Death," he responded. "They're fighting over who'll be the successor to Roche Sarnova. You don't find that interesting? Even a little?"

"No."

"Look at them, Danielle."

"I'm looking."

"See those two?"

"Despite my best efforts, Loirot."

"Well, study them. Imagine one of them as the next Dark Lord. Can you see it?"

"Honestly? No."

"That's the point! These fights will determine the next leader of the undead. It's like the election of an American President, but this is more primal."

"Somewhat."

He smiled. "When eight victors of the Arena have been chosen, they’ll play each other in chess until only one remains. He will then be Sarnova's successor. Isn't it fascinating?"

"Make a good term paper."

"You have a bad attitude, Danielle."

"Well, maybe I could actually enjoy this show a little if I didn't have to have one of you following me around all the damned time."

"Forget it. We're not going to give you the run of the place, not till we get word from Vistrot."

"Which you should've gotten by now."

Suddenly, Loirot's beautiful face looked disturbed. "Yes," he whispered. "Something must have gone wrong."

Danielle groaned and leaned back in her seat. They hadn't even let her kill Malcolm yet—ostensibly the reason she'd come in the first place.

Their reasoning was that her foster brother was the only real leash they had on her. If they allowed her the time with him she was due, he’d be dead and then there wouldn't be any incentive for her to stay. For, even though at least one of the death-squad was with her at all times (usually Loirot, but sometimes Byron) it wouldn't be that hard for her to slip away into the throng. She couldn't do that, though, unless she was willing to give up killing Malcolm. And, since she didn't even know where he was being held in the castle, she had to be a good girl and stick with Cloire and the rest of her crew. It was the she-wolf’s crew, let there be no mistake. Kilian had some say in their affairs, but Cloire was the final word in all things.

Danielle retrieved a pack of Reds from her black jeans and lit one up.

"Can I have one?" Loirot asked.

Gritting her teeth, she gave him one, feeling his fingers brush her hand as she did so. For the past several days, she'd suspected he had a crush on her and wasn't inclined to indulge it, something she might have found amusing if Ruegger had been with her.

She kept wanting to glance to her side to share a look with him, or to hold his hand, or to run her fingers through his hair, but he was never there. How could she have done what she had? She'd left him ... alone, with Kharker ... just because she had to kill somebody. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Yet Malcolm waited ...

Loirot lit his cigarette and smiled, the nostrils of his aristocratic nose flaring. "Can you smell their blood?"

"The fighters? Yeah, it smells great, Loirot. Real good. Now can we go do something else for awhile?"

"Like what?"

"I have this incredible urge to floss."

"I'm trying to be patient, Danielle. But come on, this fight's almost over, and it's the last one of the evening. Okay?"

"Okay," she groaned, and tried to watch the fight.

It wasn't much different from the others. Really, the Arena was just a pit with a sandy floor covered by a dome woven from beams of titanium, like something from a Mad Max movie. This allowed the audience to see in but prevented the pugilists from making an easy escape.

Stadium seats surrounded the Arena. At present, Danielle estimated there were almost a hundred and fifty shades among the audience—well over half of the immortal population here (not counting the soldiers)—and twice that number of human servants. She wondered if Harry was there, somewhere, but couldn't pick him out; unlike the Gutter Angel, Cloire had allowed him to run free throughout the Castle. For some odd reason, the she-wolf liked him.

Danielle scanned the audience, looking for a friendly face. Every now and then she'd see someone she recognized—but no one she especially wanted to fraternize with. Kiernevar perched on the side facing her, down on the first row.

He was a familiar sight, and she assumed he watched every single fight. He was there every time she attended—which was most of the time, because of fucking Loirot. Yesterday, Kiernevar had approached her and she'd bought him a hot-dog, hoping that he'd feel up to talking with her, but he only smiled and acted all fidgety. Today, though, he didn't seem to be in such a friendly mood. She watched Kiernevar for a moment, studying the intense and barely-coherent look he wore, and wondered what he was thinking. He was watching the fights, watching them hard.

She turned her gaze back to the Arena. The two combatants had been warring for over two hours, but then that was the nature of scrapes between immortals. They were either short and sweet or they dragged out forever. This one had lasted long enough for the vendors to temporarily run out of peanuts, although their smell still lingered pleasantly.

Just now, the warriors were beginning to tire. One of the pugilists was a morbine, she saw, like Ludwig. The thought made her cringe. Feeding off of brain fluid …

The other contestant was some sort of shapeshifter that had taken on the form of a dragon—an ancient Chinese sort. Long, colorful and snake-like, with no legs but a dragon head (bristling with whiskers, no less), bony fins that sprouted here and there along its body and sharp ridges along its spine.

To Danielle, it seemed unfair to pit a static form up against a shapeshifter, but the morbine seemed to be getting along okay. Though surely it was only a matter of time—

The serpent snaked toward its opponent, who realized what his enemy was up to but couldn't do much about it. The dragon wrapped its length around the man, like a python might a goat, and started squeezing, while its mouth neared the morbine's head. Luckily, the man had gotten his arms free in time, and he gripped the serpent's mouth, holding it open.

Danielle fought the urge to yawn. This same scenario had repeated itself a countless number of times in the last two hours and always ended the same way. A stalemate.

This time the man yanked the dragon's jaws apart so hard that she could hear the crack as bones broke and tendons tore. Instantly, the serpent uncoiled itself and slunk off to a corner to lick its wounds and mend.

The morbine followed, eager for the kill.

The dragon whipped its tail, knocking the man's legs out from under him, and even as he fell the creature pounced.

It coiled itself about him so that his arms were pinned tightly against his sides, and without hesitation—without so much as a showman's pause—it inserted the man's head into its mouth and sank its teeth into his neck. The morbine's immortal flesh resisted, and for a moment Danielle thought the dragon's jaw would be too badly damaged to close, but the creature's teeth were sharp and swift and soon the serpent jerked its head away and a fount of blood exploded from the morbine's neck.

The worm uncoiled itself, spat the head onto the ground and began dismembering the body of its rival. When this was done and the body was not likely to be salvageable, the creature moved over to the head, gingerly taking it between cruel teeth. It raised the head as high as it could into the air and waited for the crowd to cheer. Thus encouraged, it began to chew. A showman after all.

Beside her, Loirot clapped and whistled. "Good show!" He turned to Danielle, smiling, almost boyish. "Don't you think, Dani?"

"Two thumbs up. Let's get the hell out of here."

"It's not over, yet. Remember, this isn't just a fight, it's a formal ceremony."

"Yeah, right."

Slowly, the dragon resumed its human shape—a woman named Lyshira, remembered Danielle. Tall, attractive, red-haired, naked, covered in blood and smiling triumphantly, she waved her hands as flowers and other objects arced down toward her.

On opposite sides of the caged Arena, two doors led from the underground tunnels from which the pugilists had entered. From one of these, Roche Sarnova himself emerged, accompanied by a host of guards. In one arm, he held a robe. In the other, something shiny. He nodded to his followers and smiled. They roared approval.

"They love him, don't they?" said Loirot admiringly.

"They do," answered Danielle.

"He's a hell of a lot more than a figurehead to these people, that's for sure. They worship him."

"And you? You seem awful reverential."

"I think he's one of the greatest beings that’s ever lived."

"Don't hold back now."

"You know I was never made a lychen—I was born one, in Italy. I grew up on tales of Roche Sarnova. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up."

"So join the fights. Become his heir."

"No," he said, chuckling nervously.

"Why not?"

"You see that dragon-lady, Lyshira? She's nine hundred years old, and she's young for these contests. Very strong, but young. I'm not even three hundred, yet." He shook his head, a little sadly. "No, I would be eaten alive."

Below, the Dark Lord stepped up to the victor and draped the robe about her, although she didn't allow the garment to cover everything. There were fans to please, after all. Still, she accepted the gesture, even acting a bit submissive in his presence. Roche held something up to the light for all to see; a silver medallion on a thick silver chain.

Lyshira lowered her head and he placed the necklace about her. He took one of her hands and raised it into the air as if this were the climactic moment of a boxing match, and the crowd roared louder.

Roche Sarnova bowed and re-entered the tunnel, his guards swept up in his wake.

"He's got style, doesn't he?" said Loirot.

"He does at that."

"What? You don't like him?"

Danielle shrugged, not wanting to get into a discussion like this with Loirot. Then again, she had no one else to talk to, except Harry, and he was never around.

"Yeah," she admitted. "I like old Blackie. To be honest, I respect the hell out of him for what he's trying to do here. It just seems absurd to me that none of his followers actually know what the War is all about. Maybe his officers do, but the rest of them don't. They're just following him blindly because they always have. That disgusts me."

"What are you talking about? You know the reason behind the War of the Dark Council?"

"Yes. And it's a good reason, but if Sarnova wants to keep it a secret, it's not up to me to tell you."

"I don't understand."

She patted his knee. "I don't either, Loirot. All I know is Sarnova wants the Dark Council to back him up on his plan before he spills the beans to everyone else, and I think he's an idiot for doing that. He should hold a meeting and go ahead and tell everyone that he wants to—" She stopped herself.

"What?"

"Oh, forget it. It's up to him. I guess he's afraid that if he tells everyone what he intends to do, they'd revolt against him. It is a revolutionary idea, after all."

"Tell me what you mean."

"Maybe another time. I'm just frustrated."

He smiled. "Then I could—"

"Save it. Let's go get someone to eat."

"Come on. There's another fight. It's not formal, like this one was, but it should be a good one. It's a personal dispute, a duel."

"A duel?"

"Yeah, Sarnova has decided to allow mutually willing shades to fight out their problems in the Arena."

"Why?"

"To build moral, to psyche everyone up for battle. Not only that, but it's a way of resolving personal disputes—something he's trying to cut down on. You know, an attempt to bring unity."

"It's a waste of fighting men."

He shrugged. "Wanna watch?"

"No, Loirot. I'm hungry and I want to go. Now."

She rose from her seat and pulled him by his lapels. Probably more afraid that she'd tear his suit than that she could actually harm him, Loirot stood up and looked indignant.

"Don't do that," he said.

"Well?"

"All right, all right. Let's go."

*     *     *

Harry Lavaca wanted to find a place to drink.

He'd worked up a thirst wandering around down in the catacombs, exploring their various sections—the prisoners' area, the quarter where Sarnova's honored dead were kept, the place reserved for great art exhibits—in which Harry had seen, among other things, Junger and Jagoda's so-called Tree of Death. A tree of bones rising in the center of a circle of corpses, its roots springing from the feet of the deceased. Nice. Some day, Harry thought, he would have to meet these Balaklava. He'd pretty much given up his pastime of killing immortals, unless he got word of one that was particularly evil, one that had some weak spot he could exploit. He didn't know what weak spot the Last of the Roving Balaklava might have, but they certainly matched his requirement.

The problem with getting something to drink, he knew from his previous few days of incarceration—if that was the right word—was that, though there were several barrooms in the castle, only one served to his kind, the living, but as it was located conveniently near one of the mass latrines, its smell was less than lofty.

Nevertheless, Harry intended to seek it out, although he had never found it easily yet. Maybe today he would remember the way.

The halls teemed with activity, and he assumed that the fighting must be over for the night. When the Arena was in session, there were very few shades roaming about, which lent the castle a strangely vacant feeling. In a place this size, it was amazing how few people there actually were here. If this were a castle run by mortals, it would be bustling, overflowing. Every room would be in use.

But immortals were few in the world, and this castle was built on a very large scale—even for humans—and the small fraction of undead that made their way here was just not enough to flesh out the place. Even during a time of war, when the castle was probably as full as it had ever been, it seemed nearly deserted. Now, between the fights, was the only time when the halls were flooded, when the castle was given the illusion of being alive.

Harry ascended a few floors, wandered down a few halls—getting lost only once, which seemed to him a good number—and finally finding the pub, which was toward the center of the castle. After all, it just wouldn't be right to permit mortals a window, would it? Treat cattle like cattle and cattle they will be.

Harry sat himself down at the bar and ordered a martini, extra dirty. The bartender, an aging man with a cautious face, intrigued Harry.

"How long you been here?" he asked the man.

"Twenty years," the bartender said, setting down Harry's drink.

"That's a long time in this place."

The barkeep nodded his agreement, and Harry saw a pride in the man's face he hadn't immediately noticed. The bastard had survived twenty years in a castle run by immortals, had found a position for himself and stayed there, out of the way, in constant company of his own kind. Fascinating.

The barkeep took out a rag and started washing the counter, saying nothing further to his latest customer. Harry let him. After all, he hadn't come for conversation.

Sipping his drink, he surveyed the assembled barflies, mostly regulars he’d seen before. Predominately women, he noticed, not for the first time. Beautiful women. And some beautiful men, too. Beautiful boys. Must be from the harems that certain shades kept. Sadly, Harry wondered just how long these humans had before their looks faded, before they were reduced to just another vessel of blood for their masters. A few months, a few years? Either they would lose their masters’ interest and be discarded, or they would be Turned. They themselves would become the predators and drag a new generation of prey here.

Harry took another sip.

There were some bodyguards, he saw, but they hadn't come on their own. Instead, they were in four groups, each clustered around a certain mortal man. Each must be someone that carried some legitimate power of their own, Harry surmised. Drug dealers or merchants or artists or prime ministers, who knew? Having power akin to that of immortals, these humans had taken human servants in imitation of the beings who would use each and everyone in this bar as food if they so desired.

"There's human nature for you," muttered Harry, and took a long sip. He ordered another drink, and another.

Danielle arrived, followed by Loirot.

Feeling the drinks, Harry blinked at her, smiling, maybe a little too widely, and gestured for her to join him.

"And what brings you here?" he said.

"You," she said, taking the seat. "I thought I'd find you here."

"Using those old vampire mind-tricks, eh?"

The bartender approached and raised his eyebrows at Danielle, almost as if challenging her authority to be here, immortal that she was.

"Gimme some tequila, please," she said, glancing at the saltshaker a few feet away. "And limes."

The barkeep nodded, but there was an edge to the gesture, as if he was making an effort to restrain himself.

"There you go, Lady," he said, giving her the asked-for items.

Danielle sized him up. "Wanna shot?" she said, without mockery of any kind, although—Harry had to admit—she did seem a little amused. A little mischievous. Spunky, he thought, and could see why Ruegger liked her.

The barkeep returned her stare for a moment, then seemed to decide that he didn't mind her so much. He turned away to resume his duties, but not before casting a glance at Loirot. Loirot, for his part, just stood there, a couple of feet behind and to the side of Danielle, looking like he'd rather be somewhere else.

"Watcha doin', Harry?" Danielle said, preparing herself a shot.

"Just clearing the cobwebs, honey.”

"Here's to clearing the cobwebs," she answered and downed the shot, then stuck a slice of lime into her mouth.

"Amen,” he said.

She coughed, spat out the lime and smiled. "So what do you think of all this, Harry?"

"Of what? The castle? If I were in my prime, I'd think this was a dream come true: so many shades to kill, so little time. My own private Happy Hunting Ground."

"Seriously."

"I'm trying, honey. Believe me. I guess the truth of it is that I'd really like to know what this whole War is about. I hear Sarnova's troops talking about it all the time, about how they're kept in the dark, and they don't like it. Something's stirring there, maybe a rebellion."

She nodded. "Yeah, there's a lot of dissent around. I can't believe Blackie's kept it together this long."

"I heard a rumor," he said, careful to keep his voice a whisper.

"What?"

"I heard that some of his officers are banding together, that they're preparing a coup."

"I can't believe anyone here would want to dethrone him, he seems so ... worshipped."

"Oh, they don't want to dethrone him. You're right, his subjects are much too fond of him. They just want to keep him locked up so that they can surrender to Subaire and the half of the Dark Council loyal to her. When the Council's whole again, and if Sarnova agrees to comply to their conditions, he'll still be leader."

"Interesting."

"You got that right." He thought for a moment, got the bartender's attention and ordered another drink. When the martini was in front of him, he turned to Danielle again. "So what've you decided to do with Martin Ascott—your Malcolm?"

Frowning, she threw back another shot and stared down into the empty glass for a few moments. If its depths chirped any answers, Harry didn't hear them.

"I don't know," she said finally.

"You seem more ... relaxed now, than you did when we were at Kharker's Lodge. Why the change?"

"Oh, Harry, I don't know. I'm not sure I even want to kill him any more. The fire's gone out of me. Maybe it's just that this whole thing has been so anticlimactic; I mean, I came here, the whole time thinking what I'd do to him, how long I'd take doing it, and then, when I got here, Cloire kept me from seeing him. At first, the anticipation just made it sweeter, but after a week ... it just fizzed away. I mean, don't get me wrong, if I saw him ..."

"Of course."

"But ... I don't know. No, I guess I do. I want the bastard dead. I want to crush his skull between my fingers." She sighed. "But you were trying to tell me that night, the night we left, that he was really a good guy now, or something like that."

"He is. I lived with him for a little while, got to meet his family. They're nice."

"Jesus, Harry. I don't know what to stay to that. You were the willing houseguest of the man who betrayed my trust, my own foster brother, and raped me, with his gang, beat me and left me for dead."

He listened to her voice, but there didn't seem to be any real venom there. She'd been thinking about it for so long, he thought, that the emotional component of her revenge had tapered off. Probably, it was mostly analytical to her now. What she felt, what she must be feeling, was that her job was almost finished, that she'd killed off the members of Malcolm's gang one by one, saving him for last. And now that she had reached the point where it could all be finished, she'd already been purged time and again. All she wanted was closure.

He nodded. "Yeah, I stayed with him. He really wanted me to get the full treatment, too, you know, to see how nice he was and all that, so that if I saw you I could protect him. I made dinner with his wife and helped him put his kids to sleep at night. He has two of them, you know, two kids. Before I left, the girl wanted to call me Uncle Harry."

"Is he happy?"

"Happy? Maybe. I think he is sometimes, but often he seems troubled, like he's just remembered that he's actually one of the greatest jackasses in the world and he'd just forgotten for a moment."

"Good."

"Danielle ... to him, you're just a symbol of all the other horrible things he did during his time. You loom over him, trust me. Just the mention of your name makes his back go stiff. But if you don't kill him, then make your peace with him. He's lived in terror for too long, Dani. Let him go."

"You think I should."

"I want to return him, alive, to his family."

She grimaced, glancing over her shoulder at Loirot as if irritated that he hadn't gone away yet. He just arched his eyebrows impatiently. Closing her eyes, she turned back to Harry.

"Maybe Ruegger was right," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe evil can change, after all. Somehow I don't buy it in this instance." Her large black eyes flared open, angry. "If Malcolm walked through that door right now, I'd kill him in a heartbeat."

"Would you?"

She poured another shot, her hand trembling just a little. "I don't know," she said. "I really don't."

"Danielle, would you tell me something?"

"What's on your mind?"

"Well, that night we left. Remember, after I talked to you, Cloire took you out into the jungle. To talk, she said. I don't think I'll ever forget the image of you two, her arms around you, walking out into the jungle."

Danielle licked her salty hand, took the shot, stuck the lime in her mouth and spat it out. She’d had lots of practice at that procedure, Harry could tell.

She said, "I remember."

"Well, what did she say? How'd she convince you to go, to come with her and kill Martin?"

Suddenly, Danielle smiled. "She was smart, Harry. She was cool. She knew just how to do it, too."

"What'd she do?"

"Easy. She took me out, way out, into the jungle, and pulled something out of her pants."

"Out of her pants?"

"Oh yeah."

"What was it?"

"A CD."

"As in music?"

"Not just any music. She pulled out a classical CD. The first song on it was ‘Night on Bald Mountain’."

"The song you always kill to."

"The song I listen to when I kill Malcolm's gang, yes. Oh, she was smooth, Harry. She pulled it out of her pants, this big oh-I've-got-ya-now smile on her face and held the disc up to the moon. It glittered, Harry. It fucking glittered. And I knew right then I couldn't say No. I'd go with Cloire, I'd kill that fucking bastard, and it would be done with. That was all there was to it. Easy as pie."

He nodded. "I remember, when my wife was killed, and my kids—you know about that?"

"I know. Some jandrows killed her in retaliation for you killing one of them."

"Something like that. They wouldn't kill me, though, because I'd become something of a curiosity to other shades and they didn't want to start a war. But they didn't count on my immortal friends—although I don't really think of them that way—well, the murderers that killed my family didn't count on them being so loyal to me. They were, though, and each one in turn, the ones who'd killed my wife and kids, were hunted down. On two occasions my friends brought one of the murderers home and let me deliver the final blows. Anyway, so I know what vengeance feels like. That’s why I feel qualified to give you advice."

"And you want me to let Malcolm be."

"Yes."

"But ... Harry ... think of it this way. You avenged your wife and kids. You got—"

"Closure."

"Exactly. You got closure. How would you feel knowing one of those murderers was still out there, still capable of having fun, when your wife and kids won't ever be able to again?"

He chewed this over, took a drink from his glass, and said nothing.

"Yes, Harry,” she said, nodding. “You got yours. And I want mine. GodDAMNit, I want mine!"

Finally he could hear the emotion in her voice, the desperation. The need. He understood and knew that anything he said about the matter now would have no effect. She would do what she would with Martin, and if Harry had to take Ascott's body back to his family in pieces, so be it.

*     *     *

The death-squad and its prisoners, Danielle and Harry Lavaca, were staying in three lavish rooms in one of the nicest wings of the castle. Connecting doors linked the rooms. On one end stood Cloire's quarters; though she didn’t sleep alone, her partner varied. In the middle slept Harry and Kiernevar. Of course, they had a roommate, but this roommate—either Byron or Kilian—depended on whom Cloire picked that night. The far room was reserved for Danielle and Loirot.

The rooms themselves had been given to the death-squad because they represented the interests of the Titan, and so it served their interests to call themselves diplomats. Supposedly, they were here on Vistrot's behalf, awaiting word from him. The Dark Lord seemed skeptical, but he needed all the allies he could get at the moment and Vistrot was certainly powerful enough not to be dismissed. So, for the time being, the death-squad had the run of the castle.

In her room, on her bed, Cloire smoked a Camel and stared up at the intricately-detailed ceiling fan.

"This is fucking heaven," she said.

"Yeah," agreed Byron, lying beside her.

"But why the fuck hasn't Vistrot gotten in touch with us?"

"That's a very good question."

She growled. "Stop agreeing with me, goddamnit."

"What am I supposed to say, that Vistrot's been Scoured? Isn't that what we're all thinking?"

"I don't know, but I don't need a fucking yes-man. Loirot fills that role already. What I need from you is strength and at least a show at leadership. You used to be Jean-Pierre's right-hand man. Why can't you be mine?"

"You know why," he said, his voice quiet.

"Because I'm fucking Kilian? It means nothing. I've fucked other guys before. Girls, too."

"And I didn't like it, then. But this is personal. I've known Kilian for a long time. And it's business, too, because it affects the dynamics of the crew. Cloire, it needs to stop."

She bristled. "You get your spine at all the wrong moments, you stupid Aussie bastard."

"I'm serious, Cloire."

"I know you are."

"It needs to stop."

She shot to her knees and slapped him hard across the face. "How dare you give me orders!"

He lurched up in bed. Immediately, she was on her feet, towering over him, the breeze from the fan stirring her multi-colored hair. He laid back on the bed, helpless at her feet, a sheet thrown across him at the waist and the round impression of his big head branded into a silken pillow. She could feel her face become livid, the blood smashing through her as if preparing for war.

"Calm down," he said.

"I will not. I'll do whatever the hell I please."

"That's exactly what's wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"I think we should go back to Jean-Pierre."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"No, Byron, I don't think I did. You want the Ivory Bastard to be our leader again?"

"That's right. He would know what to do now."

She sneered. "He'd be following Danielle around, his stupid tongue hanging out of his mouth, and leave us to rot in the wind. We'd fall apart, just like we did before."

"Maybe. But it's a risk worth taking. I mean, what are we going to do? Vistrot should've contacted us a week ago."

She sucked at her cigarette. Byron had a point, but he was too simple to grasp the complexities of the situation. As usual, it was up to her.

"Well, as it happens, I've been thinking," she said.

"About what?"

"I think the only recourse is to get the hell out of here and go back to New York, find out for ourselves what's happened to the Titan. Besides, things are winding up here, I think. There's something in the air. Something bad."

"Yeah," he admitted. "I feel it, too."

"You're agreeing with me again."

"I guess Kilian never agrees with you, huh?"

"As a matter of fact, he doesn't. Not often. But back to the matter of the moment. I hate to leave all this luxury behind, but we need to jet. And bring Danielle along for the ride."

"What if Vistrot's been Scoured?"

"We’ll piss off that bridge when we come to it."

“That’s no sort of answer.”

She frowned. What if Vistrot had been Scoured? She could hardly imagine life without the Titan. The position he'd given her had brought her respect and purpose. Even a singing career.

"If he's dead," she said slowly, "then we start over."

"What does that mean?"

"I guess we’ll figure that out then."

He rubbed his scalp. "When are we leaving? We should give him a few more days, just in case. Maybe there was a crisis ..."

She nodded. "Yeah, we'll give him a few more days, no more. We could get trapped here, living like kings. Hell, they bring us humans to eat right here in our rooms! And they have a chute that we can throw the remains in!"

“Fuck it,” he said. “And fuck this castle. I miss the smog.”

"That's the spirit. Not quite as much of a shitheel as Kilian, but you're learning."

Chapter 9

After leaving Harry in the bar, Danielle led Loirot up a few floors toward a restaurant. She didn't really want to go there, but she was hungry and didn't want to return to her lair for room-service at the moment as that would only invite Loirot to start in with his Rico Suave routine.

The restaurant, a world-famous eatery called The Blood and Stone, jutted from the second-to-highest floor of the castle. An attractively dressed ghensiv waited at its entrance (just a plain wooden door with a brass knob along the hallway) and greeted Danielle and Loirot as they ducked inside. There was a small, stone-walled foyer, empty and lit only by candles, which led into a much larger room beyond, where the maitre'd stood in an old-fashioned Dracula-esque tuxedo behind an antique wooden counter.

"Welcome to The Blood and Stone. Would you prefer to sit inside or out?"

"Out," said Danielle.

"Very well, my dear."

He showed them through the large and low-ceilinged dining room, mostly empty, and out onto one of the several large wrought-iron balconies, arranged like shelves along the face of the castle. Wide staircases of wrought-iron connected them. The terraces, which seemed to be doing a brisk business, looked down from the mountain onto the frigid and withering valley below, a frozen wasteland. The valley was steep and narrow, bordered on all sides by large and unusually sharp-looking mountains. The Carpathians. They were beautiful, thought Danielle, and turned to share a glance with Ruegger, who wasn't there. Instead, Loirot grinned back and muscled the maitre'd out of the way to pull out a chair for her.

"Thanks," she muttered.

"Anytime," he responded, and occupied the seat opposite her.

Danielle shuddered. Despite the heating lamps, it was cold out here. Maybe when she got older it wouldn't bother her so much, but goddamn. She’d wanted to sit out here to get out of the stuffy corridors and enjoy the view, but she was beginning to regret it.

"Would you like a jacket, my dear?" asked the maitre'd.

"That'd be nice."

"Of course. I'll have your waiter bring one out directly."

"What if it gets stained?"

He smiled. "Don't worry, my dear. Blood comes out."

As he stalked away, the swinging black tails of his tuxedo seemed to her like the shadows that fangs might throw. Resisting another urge to shudder, she lit a cigarette and leaned her head out over the railing so that she could see the mountain that fell away below. Small flurries of snow gusted, spiraling down past the other terraces and into the abyss so that she couldn't distinguish their patterns from the overall whiteness. It was a long way down.

"Almost as beautiful as you," said Loirot, half dreamy, half hammy.

"Give it a rest, already, or I'll get my boyfriend to beat you to a bloody pulp."

"Is that what Ruegger is to you? A boyfriend?"

"I was joking, Loirot."

"I know. But I'm serious. What exactly is Ruegger to you?"

"I have no idea. My lover, my companion, my friend, my soul-mate. Something along those lines, I guess."

"Ever cheated on him?"

"Never. Jesus, Loirot."

"Don’t play so coy. You kill to live, just like any of us."

"I only kill bad guys. Your victims are innocent. Or, at least, you don't discriminate between innocent and evil."

"Meat is meat."

The waiter arrived with the jacket and passed out menus to Danielle and Loirot, then accepted drink orders. Danielle ordered a root beer and Loirot a glass of champagne.

When the waiter was gone, Danielle said to Loirot, "How can you have no respect for intelligent life?"

"Dani ... I hate to break this to you ... but I'm an assassin. Guilty, innocent, it doesn't matter to me. It really doesn't. I kill who Vistrot says to kill."

"What if it was your own mother?"

"I killed my mother. She bore me as a slave to serve her. When I was old enough, I liberated myself through her destruction."

“Jesus.”

"Face it, Danielle. Morality is a concept created by people who spend too much time thinking and not enough time doing."

"Loirot, that's not just self-serving: it's idiotic."

"No, think about it. I mean, look at it this way—what forms of life have the purest values?"

"Obviously not werewolves."

"No, but close. Animals."

"Animals."

"Animals can't sin simply because they can't conceive of sin. They have no laws to break, so they break no laws. In my own life, I base my morality on animals."

"It's all starting to make sense."

"I choose not to exercise the part of my brain responsible for morality, which is as close as I can come to not having it in the first place. For me, there is no sin, only life, and the different ways to live it."

"So you're stupid on purpose."

He seemed to want to respond to that, but couldn't seem to think of an answer, so he began to peruse his menu. Tired of the conversation, Danielle did the same.

Catch of the day ... ask server for details.

She glanced under the heading "Villain Eaters”, the section of the menu reserved for moral clients. As she did, she wondered if she was the only one in the whole castle that would order from this section. Surely she wasn't alone. Just the thought that she was completely surrounded by nothing but evil petrified her. If she didn't watch it, she'd have to lean over the side of the terrace and puke. From this height, her vomit would probably freeze before it hit the ground. Tomorrow's headlines: "Innocent mountain-goat killed by frozen barf".

The Villain Eaters section of the menu was also jokingly called the "Vegetarian Section"; some bloodmongers mockingly referred to moral shades as "vegetarians", a play off of the American expression "Real men eat meat". To those that thought this way, Danielle and other more principled shades were weak, inferior.

She stubbed out her cigarette and studied the menu.

Well, they did have some interesting entrees. Not only did they have humans from all over the world, but the chefs were experts at creating "sauces" which they injected into the bloodstream of a meal before it was to be consumed. Danielle decided on a strawberry flavor, folded the menu and leaned back in the chair, crossing her legs.

Loirot took his time deciding what (or whom) he wanted to eat, so she didn't have to make conversation with him before the waiter arrived and took their orders.

"What's the catch of the day?" asked Loirot.

"A good choice," said the waiter. "We just received a small shipload of young Japanese boys. The chefs have prepared a special sauce just for them, to compliment their unique taste."

Loirot wrinkled his face disdainfully. "I've never liked chink meat. How are the gypsy girls today?"

"Young," the waiter said with a smile. "And very beautiful. May I suggest a flavoring?"

"That won't be necessary. But what I would like ... ah, may I get one of your private dining rooms ... that is, if Danielle doesn't object?"

"You’re disgusting,” she said.

The waiter lifted up his hands apologetically. "I'm sorry, sir, but all our private rooms are booked. You must make a reservation first, I'm afraid. Of course, there is a waiting line for cancellations ... ?"

"No, no," said Loirot. "Just bring me a gypsy girl. And can I get your Rum Rumble flavor?"

"Of course, sir. Now what would you like, ma'am?"

She told him, then asked, "Just what kind of villains do you have today?"

"You ordered off the Murder List."

"I know, but I mean what kind of murder?"

The waiter frowned. "I really don't know, but if you'd like I could ask the manager on duty?"

"I'd feel a little more comfortable that way."

"It won't be a problem. I'm sure you're not the sort of girl that is used to being served like this."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Only that you look like the kind of girl who usually picks her own meal."

She wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. It might be his way of saying she was white-trash, and she really hated that. It might've been okay if he was white-trash, too, but if he was looking down on her, then she would find some way—

"If there's anything else I can get you," the waiter said, "just call."

"Uh, thanks."

"Prick," muttered Loirot, when he was gone. "No private rooms, my ass. I should've told him I was one of Vistrot's diplomats—that would've got him hopping."

"Oh, shut up. You just wanted to rape that poor girl."

"Well, that's what the private rooms are for.”

Before too long, the waiter returned. "I talked to the manager, and I found out that the only man we have of the profile you ordered, ma’am, is, indeed, a murderer, as you desired."

"But what did he do? Exactly?"

"He killed a man that he claims tried to mug him."

"Where did this happen?"

"In Budapest."

"A mugging in Budapest? Well, it's a likely place for it. No, I don't want him. He doesn't deserve to die."

Loirot coughed. "Danielle," he said. "Someone else will just come along after you and have him."

"Well, it won't be me." She turned back to the waiter, who was politely expressionless. "What else you got?"

The waiter nodded. "I thought you might say that, so I asked the manager about the worst criminal we have at the moment."

"And?"

"He's a skinhead from Liverpool who killed one of his comrades for sleeping with a black girl. Then he killed the girl for good measure."

"Yeah," she said. "He'll do."

The dinner went well, or as well as it could. The mortals were served, naked, tastefully bound and gagged, on large silver platters, and placed before Danielle and Loirot respectively. After overcoming her queasiness at this whole thing, she bit into her meal and started feeding, taking pauses now and then to sip her root beer or to stare out at the mountains. The flavoring of the blood was rich, but not too sweet, which was good. Whatever the chefs had put in there gave her a good little buzz, too.

The biggest part about the dinner that bothered her was Loirot, who took his time killing his meal. Of course, werewolves could only feed off of living and/or recently dead bodies, but this was no excuse to eat the poor girl, slowly, bite by bite, with a fork and knife, which is just what Loirot did.

After the first few minutes, Danielle killed the poor girl with one swift stroke, a knife through her heart, ending the girl’s torment.

“Why did you do that?” Loirot all but shouted, looking perplexed, even dangerous.

Danielle stared at him. “I was practicing for you.”

His mouth was smeared in blood and a piece of flesh stuck to his chin. "You're about to cry,” he said, wonderingly.

"Am not."

He returned to his meal, trying to fill up before the gypsy girl grew cold.

He was right, though. Danielle felt the tears behind her eyes and the blood pounding in her temples. She was honestly about to cry for that poor girl. After all the death she’d seen. But if she didn't cry for her, who would?

With some effort, she held the tears back. What reservoir of emotion she had left was better kept for something else. If she cried now for this poor girl it would only drive her further down into the hole that she was sinking into fast enough already.

And damned if she was going to let Loirot see her weep! At that moment the thing she wanted to do most of all was to lift him up by his lapels and hurl him bodily over the balustrade into the freezing abyss. She’d seen some other diners throw bits and pieces of their meals down into the valley. Knuckles, tendons. Why not him?

When she’d finished her meal, a busboy removed the dead man from the table and wheeled him to the disposal room, where presumably the corpse was slipped into one of the chutes. Supposedly, at the bottom of the chute raged a fire which would consume any last shred of a victim.

Around this time, Danielle spotted a familiar face finishing up his meal on one of the terraces below: Kilian. He’d ordered the catch of the day. Now there's a strange man, Danielle thought. Not strange because he'd ordered the catch of the day, necessarily, just strange.

As she watched, Kilian paid his bill, wiped his mouth and made his way toward the railing overlooking the valley. He lit a cigar against the wind and stayed there for several minutes, admiring the scenery. He wasn't just taking it in, she suspected. He was mulling something over, some plan that would probably turn out to be unpleasant if he ever put it into motion, but you never knew with Kilian. He would cut out your heart or pay your bar tab, depending on his mood. Usually, though, he would cut out your heart—and then he'd stand around looking dour, which is what he did best. But, again, you never knew.

As Loirot was finishing his meal, Kilian left the balustrade and found the stairs. Soon he was approaching the highest terrace. Danielle wouldn't have said anything, but Loirot waved him over, and after a moment's deliberation Kilian approached.

"Pull up a chair," suggested Loirot.

"No thanks. I was just on my way out."

"Come on, pull up a chair. We were just fixing to ask for the bill. Although maybe some dessert wouldn't be out of the question. What do you think, Danielle?"

"I'm fine," she said, then turned to Kilian. "So where you headed, Killer?"

He seemed to think before answering, as if afraid to tell her. After a second's thought, though, she realized that she wasn't the one Kilian was worried about; it was Loirot.

"I've just heard that a troupe of side-show freaks called the Funhouse of the Forsaken has just arrived at Roche Sarnova's invitation,” Kilian said.

Danielle smiled. "I've seen them before,” Danielle said. “Me and Ruegger saw ‘em in, uh, well, not too long ago. They’re good."

Kilian looked at her, suddenly alert, and she knew she'd fucked up.

"Where did you say you saw them?" he said. "They just came back from New York, and I know you didn't see them there, so it must've been Lereba, where they were before New York. It was Lereba, wasn't it? Why were you in Lereba, Danielle?"

Ice touched her spine. Kilian and the rest of Jean-Pierre's old crew had known for what, or whom, she and Ruegger had been hunting in Las Vegas, of course. They probably figured the odd flock, once away from Vegas, would still continue the hunt for Hauswell wherever they went. If Kilian figured out that she’d been in Lereba …

"Where are they?" she said, ignoring Kilian's question. "Where's the Funhouse?"

"In the Throne Room,” he said, sounding distracted. “The King's Court. That's where I was headed. After they settle in, they're supposed to publicly shake Roche Sarnova's hand and so on. Signing autographs, doing a few tricks, that sort of thing."

"Sounds interesting," said Loirot, finally wiping at his chin. His napkin came away bloody. "Danielle, I think we should check that out. What do you say?"

She tried to hide her revulsion. “Fine.”

Kilian coughed. "Well, if you don't mind, I'll take my leave now. Danielle," he added, bowing slightly, "it's been a pleasure. I'll see you—both—down there directly."

"We'll see you," returned Loirot, obviously glad to be causing Kilian some chagrin.

Kilian departed, as if this was something he'd been looking forward to.

"Prick," whispered Loirot, but Danielle noticed he didn't whisper it loud enough for Kilian to hear.

The waiter returned and asked if there was anything else he could get them. Some cappuccino, perhaps, maybe some dessert.

"No," said Danielle. "But I'd like to go ahead and order that guy that I didn't want while ago. You know, the man that shot someone for mugging him."

The waiter smiled. "Ah, a hardy girl. I'm glad to see you've changed your mind. May I recommend a flavoring?"

"No, you jackass. I don't want to drink from him. I want to buy him and set him free. Please hand him over with the clothes he came with, if any."

The waiter's smile froze. "I'm sorry, miss, but that's impossible. I can't hand him over to you; it's against house policy."

"House policy, my ass!"

"Please, miss, keep your voice low. We can't have righteous customers setting our meals loose. If you treat humans with the same rights we have, then it would make other customers feel uncomfortable."

She lifted her upper lift, exposing her fangs.

"If you want to buy a human and set him free,” he added, “go the slave auctions that are held every night at the Arena before the fights start. The slaves there can be bought for less than a single meal at our establishment."

"I can't right all the wrongs in the world,” she said. “I don't have the money. But the man you've got on your Murder List doesn't deserve to die. Someday someone like me will order him off the Villain Eaters section, expecting to eat a villain, expecting to maintain their values. Instead they'll eat that poor bastard and then both of them—customer and meal—will be cheated. I'd rather just set the man free."

"Well, in order for you to buy the man that you want, a slaver would have to buy him from us first, then sell him to you at the auction. It's the rules. But a slaver won't buy him from us, of course. That's not how it works. It's the opposite, as we often buy from slavers."

"That's perverse. A slave can be bought and work his entire life for someone, but he's worth less than one of your meals."

"Dining here is a luxury. Slaves, however, aren't. They're essential for running one's estate. Don't forget, their upkeep is the major portion of their cost."

"Slaves aren't essential. Loirot here doesn't have any slaves."

"Er, Danielle ..."

"What? You have slaves?"

"Just one."

"Jesus."

He shrugged. "As the man says."

"But I'll ease your mind," said the waiter.

"How?” said Danielle.

"I'll remove the man you want from the Murder List. Clearly he doesn't deserve to be labeled a murderer."

"You'll let him go free?"

"No. I'll move him to a different part of the menu, to a section where his consumer will not have your delicate moral fiber." He smiled.

Danielle snapped.

She flew out of her chair, grabbed the waiter by the lapels of his tuxedo and spun him around so that his back faced the railing that separated the terrace from the valley.

"You bastard!" she spat in his face as she pushed him closer to the balustrade. "You stupid stupid bastard!"

"Danielle!" Loirot cried.

She shoved the waiter against the railing so that his torso hung out over the abyss, held up only by her grip on his lapels.

"I could let you go," she hissed. "Would you like that? Would you!"

"No," he said evenly.

"Stop it, Danielle," said Loirot, who hovered a foot away, ready to step in.

"No," she said. "I'm not going to stop it."

She pushed against the waiter's chest so that his upper half hung even further out over the railing. Still, he didn't even flinch.

"I think that you'd better let me go now," he said.

"Think again."

Suddenly, before she could react, the waiter gained the upper hand. In a blur of twisting arms—two of them her own—she was on her back in the middle of an aisle, looking up at his stern face.

"You've got some strong blood in you," he allowed. "I'm quite a bit older than you, though, Danielle, if that's your name, and wiser. I suggest that next time you want to fight, you play with someone your own size—like this one," he added, poking his thumb at Loirot.

Brushing himself off, he gazed wryly around at the customers nearby, all staring at him. "Vegetarians," he lamented, shaking his head.

Several smiled and threw spiteful glances at Danielle. Capitalizing on his victory, the waiter returned indoors.

Danielle shouted after him, "Don't expect a tip!"

*     *     *

Loirot and Danielle descended several floors toward the King's Court, where Roche Sarnova kept his throne. The room was embedded in the bowels of the Castle so that it would be virtually impervious from any outside attack. As Danielle moved into the corridor which led to the doors of the Throne Room, she noticed a steady influx of sightseers. Everyone loves a show.

The doors to the throne room stretched high to a distant ceiling; though the King's Court was built just two floors above the catacombs, the ceiling reached up another three floors. And why not? Roche Sarnova had once been the ruler of all immortals. Times may have changed, but he was still the Dark Lord.

The largest and most beautiful mural Danielle had ever seen looked down from that ceiling. Though it must have been done back in the Renaissance period, it sported neither Cupids nor Angels. In fact, there wasn't one thing religious about it.

Many parts composed it, many pictures, all beautifully rendered. There was Roche Sarnova, standing in the North African desert, an army of mounted knights behind him. A portrait of Francois Mauchlery showed him astride a battlement of this very castle. Most of the pictures’ subjects weren't recognizable to Danielle, although here and there she saw a figure or battle she thought she knew.

She and Loirot entered the Court to find a colorful and festive scene. Groups of shades were gathered in knots, having cornered a particular member of the Funhouse, sometimes more than one. Questions were shouted at the performers, who did their best to live up to the publicity. Several wheeled about on unicycles, doing tricks like juggling or fire-breathing, while two more had a table laid out and were performing card-tricks, while still others sang or danced. A small Funhouse band played jaunty music, providing a strange score for the scene.

The Dark Lord's throne was the focal point in a semi-circle of chairs branching out in a wide arc (so wide that the wings of the semi-circle tapered against the walls of a very cavernous room) from the rear of the chamber. Though the Dark Throne reared larger than any other, neither were the others lacking in detail or rank. This was where the Dark Council sat, Danielle realized. She found herself wondering which seats would be occupied and which empty when the Council was in session these days. Which were the traitors and which were the loyal ones ... although maybe not so loyal anymore, if what Harry had overheard was true.

For the past few weeks, the Council would've been in session after the fights in the Arena had ended, but the coming of the Funhouse had apparently disrupted that.

In front of his throne stood Sarnova, guarded by a wary contingent of guards and flanked by his right-hand man, Ambassador Mauchlery. The leader of the Funhouse, Maximillian, was having his picture taken with the Dark Lord, as were several of the so-called freaks; Danielle cringed at the word, but apparently it was how they advertised themselves, and they wore the title with a certain disdainful pride. Arranged around this event clustered a myriad of on-lookers.

"Let's play some cards," said Loirot, nudging her.

"I'm game."

As they made their way toward the card-table, something caught her eye. She was just passing a crowd gathered around a four-armed dwarf when she noticed a woman who was not part of the troupe, yet was standing by the dwarf's side as if she was with his party, not the crowd's.

Just as Danielle's eyes found Sophia, Sophia's eyes found Danielle. Ignoring Loirot’s squawk of surprise, Danielle moved toward her. The Ice Queen tapped the dwarf on the shoulder, indicating that she was going to step away, and met Danielle in the middle of the

Dark Court.

"Jesus," whispered Danielle.

"Seconded,” said Sophia.

They embraced. As they stepped away, they began examining each other.

"What ..? And how did you ...?" began Sophia.

"Don't ask,” said Danielle. “Not now. I mean, shit. We've gotta find a place to talk."

From behind them, Loirot said, "Not so fast."

"Not-so-fast, my ass, Loirot. Me and Sophia have things we need to talk about."

Loirot stared at Sophia. Apparently he was as shocked by her arrival as Danielle was. Also, it occurred to Danielle that Loirot might actually know the Ice Queen better than she did.

"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.”

Danielle coughed. “Come to see the fights?" It had not been Cloire’s habit to do so.

"No." Again, Cloire shook herself, then frowned. "No, I came here to tell you that I've been unable to come into contact with Vistrot. We'll stick around for a few days just to be sure, but I think he's been Scoured."

Danielle nodded. Of course she knew that since Vistrot was actually the Scourer, he couldn't have been ... unless Amelia had killed him, or he'd killed himself.

"Anyway,” Cloire went on, “I see no reason why you should continue to be our prisoner. At one point I wanted you dead, but I don't need that anymore." She smiled. "I conquered you just the same, didn't I?"

Danielle remembered the music disc and said nothing.

"I hereby set you free,” Cloire said. “Loirot, say good-bye to your little prisoner."

"But ..." Loirot only now seemed to be coming out of his shock. A shock quickly replaced by a new one.

"Save it," Cloire ordered, then pulled something out of a pocket, something small and shiny.

A key. With a sinking feeling deep in her guts, Danielle knew what it was.

"This is your reward for playing by the rules,” Cloire said. “It'll open Malcolm's room. Do with him what you will."

*     *     *

The Dark Lord looked down from the tallest of his battlements, letting his eyes trace the dramatic skyline of his home. The stars were bright overhead, very white against the black sky, although they could only be seen here and there through the dense clouds which shot through the sky as swiftly as if they were being driven forward by the very whips of Hell. The same wind caressed his dark hair and long flowing cape, which he only wore on special occasions; he hoped that this would not be one of them.

Sarnova watched the sky and the falling snow and the jagged steeples of the Carpathians, then turned his gaze upward toward the tip of the mountain. On this side, it was nearly shear, and in this face the Castle was embedded. At the mountain’s tip glowed a red point, and that was as it should be. It meant that power had not been cut to the outpost up there—an outpost whose sole function was to alert him in the event that an enemy force was ascending the opposite side of the mountain. If that red light switched off it meant that the force was already here.

As Sarnova saw it, his primary job was to keep that light shining strong, a job complicated by the treachery of his subordinates.

Oh, he was very aware of their secret meetings. Although—well, he had not caught them in time. Things had gone too far, and now the only hope he allowed himself was that things were already being seen to. That was his greatest fear, as well, for if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

He turned his gaze upon his castle’s courtyards and towers. Two main courtyards, the north and the south. One for assembly and one for recreation.

There was the main courtyard, the head of which was the lowest tower on the castle. It was on the balcony of that white tower, one fateful day not too long ago, that he had looked down upon all the dwellers of the castle—all assembled in that courtyard at his order—and announced that they were now at war. The next few days had been grim, as many of his weaker subjects fled the castle—some recruited by Subaire and her Half.

Soon hundreds of others had flocked to his side, eagerly joining his army and signing on to battle his enemies. Some, of course, had been spies. For others, the fair-weather followers, betrayal hadn't entered their minds until he started to lose. Even now the thought made him livid, but he could not surrender control, not now with four guards on the battlement with him. Poise was important, especially when things were going so sour.

Far below, on one of the catwalks, Ambassador Mauchlery approached. Four guards flanked him, too, although these guards were not simply to protect, but to prevent their charge from escaping. The very sight of them made Sarnova's fist ball up until it shook. When the trembling reached his elbow, he took a deep breath and went back to watching the skyline.

In time, the Ambassador disappeared into the tower and began ascending the stairs.

Sarnova appraised the shadows of the chamber, where a large and expensive missile launcher had been pushed back from the large window. The machine was intended to protect his castle from airborne assaults. In the old days, boiling water would have sufficed. Maybe some rock-throwers or archers for good measure. Back then, castles had been efficient structures insofar as safety was concerned.

Nowadays, one should have an underground bunker of some sort. Of course, he had one of these, too, though it wasn't very scientific, just a tunnel into the deepest part of the mountain, but that was only protection for him, and he was a man very concerned about the well-being of his subjects; old age had mellowed him. The question was how to fit a castle so far underground that it could resist nuclear attack. That was his greatest fear.

Hopefully Subaire and her followers would not use such tactics; they wanted the Castle whole, as well as the subjects at his command. As for himself, they wanted him dead only if he couldn't be persuaded to see their point of view. Which he couldn't.

The thing that troubled him most at the moment, though, was the reason the missile launcher had been pushed back from the window in the first place: to clear the area before the window in case a summary execution of his oldest friend proved necessary. It was for this event that Roche Sarnova had donned his ceremonial cape, hoping even as he did so that it wouldn't be required. It all hinged on what the Ambassador had to say for himself. A few wrong words and he would be positioned at the edge of the window (where the launcher had heretofore been placed), then flung out the window into the abyss, where he would plummet until he was obliterated against the ice-encrusted chasm floor. If that didn't kill him, nothing would.

Sarnova’s ears pricked at footsteps from below. The Ambassador and his escorts stepped into the chamber, moved a few yards toward their Lord and stopped at an appropriate distance.

"Good evening, Ambassador," Sarnova said.

Mauchlery nodded. "I hope so, Roche."

The Dark Lord said nothing, contemplating the familiarity with which his old friend spoke. It was unnerving at a time like this.

"I presume you know why I summoned you.”

"At the secret meeting last night, you must have had a mole."

"Yes. You ..." Roche cleared his throat and began again. "You plotted to overthrow me."

The Ambassador opened his mouth. When nothing came out, he closed it and reconsidered. He didn't seem to know what to say. Neither did Sarnova, and he'd had longer to think about it.

The wind made the only noise, though this at least was a roar. Snow drifted in through the glass-less window and struck the floor, throwing up little drops of water where other flakes had recently melted.

"Why?" asked Sarnova. "Why did you do it?"

Mauchlery’s voice was quiet. "To save you, my friend."

"Explain."

The Ambassador sighed. "I knew that some of the officers were holding secret meetings, so I placed a few moles myself and discovered, not to my surprise, that they were discussing the situation as if the war was already lost. Or nearly so. They thought the only solution was to replace you, at least temporarily. They lacked direction, though, and I was approached twice by them; they were subtle, but it was clear they wished me to lead them, to give them strength. At first I pretended ignorance, as if they were being too subtle."

He smiled then, as if to show that this was a joke. Tentatively, Sarnova returned the gesture. He so wanted to believe. Therein was the danger.

Mauchlery continued: "Then it occurred to me that if I was their leader, I could control them. It was clear to me that sooner or later they would've gone through with it, with or without me. They might've bungled it. You could've gotten hurt. Either way, they would've deposed you and surrendered to Subaire. I couldn't let that happen. So I summoned them all together, knowing you would've probably planted a mole yourself, and told them that I was taking over their operations." He paused, as if considering his words carefully, or maybe it was only to show his triumph. "They were relieved," he said. "I outlined a plan to depose you without you getting hurt and told them to gather support from their own subordinates."

"Why?"

"So that there would be no confusion in the ranks. I didn't want the younglings throwing a coup of their own. I wanted organization, and I wanted to lead it. After the mass recruiting, I would've been the silent leader of the rebels, and I could've stalled them for as long as I wanted. I knew it was risky, I knew you would probably find out about it, but it was the only thing I knew to do. As the old saying goes, The surest way to prevent a house from being built is to be the carpenter that builds it." He stopped, looked Sarnova in the eye. "Do you see, Roche? Do you see why I had to do it?"

Sarnova let out a breath.

Francois had said everything he'd wanted to hear, and that was the problem. It was too perfect. Of course, that's the way it would've been, and that's the way it had all gone down according to Roche Sarnova’s moles. The question was what the Ambassador had really intended. Had he been doing it all for Sarnova's benefit, or for his own? The crux of it was that Mauchlery had never wanted any position of leadership, not in all the millennia the Dark Lord had known him; it was just not in his nature. And Sarnova had, over the centuries, come to trust in that nature ... which might have been the mistake. Then again, maybe all this treachery was just making him see fangs in every shadow.

"Very well," he said, indicating that his decision had been made. He would now announce the verdict.

Mauchlery waited, silent.

"I believe you," said the Dark Lord.

Visibly, the tension drained from the Ambassador's face. After a few moments, he smiled. The smile was genuine, if a touch nervous, though it was clear the encounter had taxed him. Even as he observed this in Mauchlery, Sarnova felt the same in himself.

"You had me scared there for a minute," Francois said, his eyes glancing at the window.

Sarnova smiled, stepped forward and embraced his friend. "You scared me, too," he said into his ear.

"But you understand," Francois demanded, pushing Sarnova away just far enough so that they could look into each other's eyes. "Blackie, it's not enough that you believe me. You must understand why I did what I did."

The Dark Lord squeezed his friend's shoulder. "I understand. And I thank you for it. If you hadn't stepped in, I probably would've been overthrown within a week or so."

"Good," Mauchlery said, and it was apparently all he could say at the moment, his throat being constricted as it was. Sarnova noticed that he refrained from blinking so that the lens of water over his eyes would not break.

Sarnova ran his hand through Francois' golden hair with one hand and patted him on the cheek with the other.

"Come on, Ambassador. Let us go have a drink."

*     *     *

Alone, Danielle wandered the castle, thinking. At first she wanted to seek out Harry or Sophia for guidance, but this would be a mistake, she knew. He was the angel on her shoulder and Sophia the devil. Since they would only cancel each other out, their advice was useless, which left Danielle in the position of having to decide what to do herself. As it should be, she supposed.

Revenge or forgiveness, revenge or forgiveness …

In the end her judgment was surprisingly easy to arrive at. Having made up her mind, she descended into the catacombs.

Into the dungeon.

At the entrance to the dungeon, guards blocked the way, but she flashed her key and they let her through without comment, although she thought she saw them stifling grins. They knew the situation, then, at least as best they could.

Let them laugh. She was beyond caring.

After exploring the prisoners' tunnels for some time, she came upon the door that led into Malcolm's room. It was metal, and she remembered that most of these rooms were designed to hold immortals. The prisoners would be drained of as much blood as they could afford to lose and thrown into one of these cells to whither away, too weak to escape through the walls or even open the door with their mindthrust—though this last was a talent few of them would have in any quantity. Few possessed the telekinetic strength of Ruegger.

Danielle stared at the door. She made no move to open it.

What would Ruegger say about this whole thing? At Kharker’s Lodge, he’d said that she must follow her heart, but the heart is not a simple thing; it’s multi-faceted and one must consciously chose which facet to pursue.

Taking a deep breath, Danielle unlocked the door, swung it wide and stepped into the chamber beyond.

Kicking the door shut behind her, she gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. The room was made of thick stone and the ceiling stretched away into high shadows, narrowing into a sort of dome. On a ledge sticking out from the circumference of this dome crouched a dozen large stone gargoyles, glaring down into the room with malevolent eyes.

Along the wall lay rumpled sheets where Malcolm must be spending his nights—if, that is, he could tell them from the days—but he was not among them. Instead, he stood tall and proud and completely naked in the center of the chamber, holding his ground against her. She wondered what she must look like to him, she the creature that had haunted him for so many years, a creature he had lived with in his youth and ultimately betrayed.

"You stand tall for a coward," she said.

He stared at her hard and seemed to shudder.

At a flick of her wrist, the large curved knife she used for these killings shot from the sleeve of her jacket into her waiting hand—a cross between a dagger and a scythe and a machete, yet none of these. The blade glittered even in the faint light, as if over the years it had captured some wispy fragments of the souls it had liberated and now they were making themselves known.

"All the others died by this blade," she told him, watching his reaction.

He visibly fought to maintain composure.

"Where's the music?" he asked.

“‘Night on Bald Mountain’? I decided I didn't want to listen to it, not now. The only music I want to hear is your screams."

He swallowed, took an involuntary step backward.

"Don't," he said. "My wife, my kids ..."

"Yeah, I talked to Harry. He almost had me convinced, too, but then I thought to myself, If Malcolm gets away, then he will’ve had his cake and eaten it, too. You were evil, and now Harry says you're not—if that's even possible—but still you live the good life. You were never punished, never brought to justice."

"I've changed. Please, Danielle..."

"I'm not sure I believe it's possible to change, Malcolm. Ruegger says it is, but he still struggles with it to this day, so maybe he's wrong, although in his case I'm willing to cut him a little slack."

"It is possible to change. I'm not evil! Danielle, I'm not evil!"

She stepped forward swiftly and raised the scythe high over her head. Immediately, Malcolm/Martin dropped to his knees, his hands knotted together over his face, maybe in prayer, maybe for protection.

She grabbed him by the hair, wrenched his head away from his hands and placed the blade at this throat, cutting him just a little. Blood ran down his neck and stuck in the thin hair on his chest.

"Convince me," she said.

Panting heavily, blinking to keep the sweat out of his eyes, he nodded as much as the knife at his throat would allow.

"I've ... I've had a lot of time to think about evil over the years," he began.

"I'm sure you have, you fucking bastard."

"I've come to the conclusion that there isn't such a thing, not really."

"Convenient."

"No, no. That's not what I mean. I mean that really evil's just a way to say cruelty or sadism or self-absorption to the exclusion of all else ... Okay?"

"Talk!"

"So—well, once I was cruel and I enjoyed it. Then came a time, when I was on top, a successful player in the drug world, poised to become a major player ... I lost all taste for it. The cruelty, I mean. The barbarism. Somehow, it struck me, what I'd been doing, what I'd become, doing junk all the time, whoring and boozing and killing—I wanted out. Don't know why it happened, it doesn't to most, but it did to me. You understand?"

"Epiphanies are easy reprieves, Malcolm."

"Well, I ... I saw all the, ah ... destruction I was causing and I grew a distaste for it, for myself. I wanted to be different than who I was. Constructive, I guess. So I got out, successfully, which is rare. Most usually get busted or killed, or kill themselves one way or another. I got lucky."

"That's right."

"So you see?"

"I see."

"You won't kill me?"

Hope welled up from the depths of his eyes, and she enjoyed it for a moment before saying, "I understand you were lucky, that you made a clean break. That's why I must make up for all the good fortune that went your way. You never had to account for your sins, not until tonight. I hope you understand."

She placed the knife at his hairline and slipped the knife under his skin, stripping the flesh from his skull like peeling an orange. She grabbed the scalp and tore it free. As she tossed the strip of skin and hair to the floor behind her, Malcolm screamed and leapt backward on his hands and knees.

Calmly, she pursued him to the wall, where he turned as if about to fight. He was pinned. She kicked him, hard, in his chest, in the stomach. In the face. She could hear bones crunch under her heels. She moved in with the knife, cutting him across the breast, opening his skin in long arcs. He crawled off, screaming, trying to escape her.

She stopped and smiled, listening.

"That's what I like to hear," she said, and went after him.

He had crawled over to the door and was clawing at its metal surface with his fingernails.

"Sorry, Malcolm," she said.

He turned as she approached, his face a mask of horror, and let loose his loudest howl yet. His next words were the only things that had any chance at saving him, and he knew it.

"I'm sorry!" he shouted, tears coursing down his eyes. "I'm so fucking SORRY! Danielle, PLEASE! Don't kill me! I’m SOOOORRRRY!!!"

His voice cracked. His words became inaudible as he placed his hands over his face and supported his arms with his knees. He was just sitting there by the door, curled up and miserable, waiting for her vengeance, bleeding all over, his skull gleaming a ribbon of blood where she had peeled him. Of course, it was far from over. She might take hours or days with him, soaking up his pain. She could feel the knife in her hand and the grin on her face.

This was going to be beautiful.

She moved closer.

He didn’t pull away.

This was going to be …

He just sat there, shaking, weeping.

"Forgive me!" he shouted from behind his hands. Then, less distinctly, "Don't make my wife and kids suffer for what I did. Please, please don't do that to them ... Forgive me, forgive me ... forgive me …"

"You bastard," she spat, and took another step.

"... forgive me ...”

She brought her knife across his exposed legs, slicing open his shins. He howled with pain and fell over on the stone floor, crying and wailing, but not trying to escape.

She towered over him, the knife dripping his blood onto the floor. His muffled sobs, her jagged steaming breaths and the faint splashing of blood were the only sounds in the room.

"Do you like being the victim?" she asked.

" ... please ... please ... no ..."

She studied him, then the knife. She frowned.

She let the knife slip from her fingers and clatter to the floor. He looked out from behind his hands, saw the knife on the floor and stared up at her hopefully.

"It took all the others," she said of the knife. "I didn't drain them. For you, I'll make an exception. I want to feel you die on my teeth. I want to taste you as you go."

He only sobbed, wrapped his arms tighter about himself.

She knelt beside him, grabbed him by a tuft of graying hair and brought his sweaty face up to hers. He’d aged, she thought, almost to the point were she couldn't recognize him. His eyes stared into her eyes, remembering her ... really remembering her for the first time.

"Danielle ..." he said.

"Malcolm."

She tilted his head, exposing his neck, and sank her fangs into his warm salty skin. Blood spurted into her mouth, as hot and spicy as it always was, and she drank it in, lovingly. He convulsed and beat at her, but she wouldn't be denied. She held him to her breast tightly, trying to still him, and finally his limbs seemed to loose their strength. She could feel him going, almost on the brink of death.

"Danielle ..."

She tore herself away and brought her face to look at him again. As she did so, she could feel his blood trickling down her mouth and knew that he was watching it. How does it feel, she thought, to see your own life plastered across the face of someone else, to know that the sum of your fears has materialized?

"Danielle," he said. "Please ... don't ... do ... this ..."

"It's almost finished," she told him softly. "I could've taken much longer. Hours ... days ... but I've made it short for you."

"... no ..."

"Yes."

"... no ... please ... forgive me ..."

She felt the wall of ice within her give just a little. His face wasn't as she remembered. It wasn't cruel. It was mature, almost kind. And it was the face of a man who had suffered, Harry had been right.

"Jesus," she said, and turned her gaze away.

"Danielle," he said, his voice weak now, his whole torso being suspended by only his hair, what little blood he had left slowly leaking out of his cooling body.

She felt a tear fall from the corner of an eye and turned back to stare at this naked, dying man before her, butchered by her own hand.

"You deserved it," she whispered.

His watery eyes closed.

"Yes," he answered. "Now, please ... forgive me..."

She released her grip on his hair. He crumpled to the floor with a muffled sound of agony.

"You fucking bastard," she said.

He just lay there at her knees, barely stirring.

She saw that his blood had stained her clothes all over. She could feel the wetness against her skin. Slowly, very slowly, she began to cry. Doubling over, she placed her hands over her eyes and wept.

"... I'm sorry," he was saying. "I'm so ... so ... sorry .... Please, Danielle ... forgive me..."

She swallowed her tears, but still her throat was raw. For a long time, she remained silent. She let herself cry, let all the hurt and anger of the years come out and roll down her cheeks. It was like nothing she'd ever known, a deep unburdening, a cleansing unlike any she'd ever experienced after a killing. Deep within her, something changed, became calm, and she did forgive this man for what he'd done, or what a different version of him had done to her many years ago.

Fucking bastard, she thought. Fucking fucking bastard. I got to him too late ...

After some time, she clasped her hands and stared up at the strange domed ceiling and the gargoyles there, or past the ceiling to what (if anything) waited above.

"God," she whispered. "If you're there, you're a bastard, too—but please give me strength anyway."

As she said it, one of the gargoyles stirred.

Danielle nearly shot out of her skin. The gargoyle leapt from its perch and landed on the stone floor a few feet away.

Like Malcolm, it stood tall and naked, but unlike Malcolm, it was an extremely large being with black skin, a tangled beard and carefully-patterned dreadlocks.

"Good evening, Danielle," said Jagoda. "I'm not a sign from your god, but I'm a lot more fun."

*     *     *

Danielle froze.

This was too much. Just seconds ago, she’d laid to rest the biggest demon of her life. Emotions pounded through her too fast to name.

Jagoda had no right to be here! This was perhaps the most private moment of her life. Now, after dealing with Malcolm, she was free from the death-squad, free to await Ruegger’s return. Free either to continue their quest or let it go. But now …

He smiled, his big teeth shining wetly in the thin light.

"Jesus," she said, rising and backing away.

"There you go again," he admonished.

"How the hell did you get here?" she said.

"Tunnels, my dear. As you might know, or not, Junger and myself are legendary for our tunnels."

"No ... I mean, how ... in the castle ... ?"

"Blackie granted us unlimited access to this little retreat in reward for our creation of the Tree of Death. You might've heard about it? It was quite well received. Anyway, that is why we built it for him. That was our price. Admission past the gates at any time."

Unable to think, Danielle wiped some of Malcolm's blood away from her mouth and forced herself to breathe evenly. Jesus. What the hell was going on?

At last, she said, "Why’d you come here?"

"Because this is where it's all going down, isn't it? We've been watching for so long, but watching wasn't getting the job done."

Going down? What was going down? "What do you hope to accomplish?"

"We still believe that we're all on the verge of a new world order, and we intend to be in on the ground floor. Now is a time of choosing allies."

"Allies," she repeated dumbly. "So you want me for an ally?"

He laughed. "Not quite, my dear. If you had killed dear Malcolm, it might be another story. That is why I came. Ruegger, maybe, but not you. We need a meal-ticket and we can't have morals getting in the way."

For some reason, this didn't seem to shame him at all, this admission that he was just looking for someone to take him where he wanted to go. But, as Danielle had been raised to believe that you must find friends where you could, maybe he'd been conditioned to believe that one should find coattails to hang onto. The question was who that would be.

She wanted to ask where Junger was, but she remembered Sophia telling her that the other Balaklava was dead. Jean-Pierre had taken his life, and the world was a better place for it. Cruelly, she smiled, hoping to hurt this fucker as best she could. She couldn’t think of anyone else more deserving.

"How does it feel to be alone?" she said.

"Alone?"

"Now that your boyfriend's dead."

"Yes, Junger is dead, but I'll never be alone. We will always be together. At any rate, you failed the test, Danielle. You let Malcolm live. Part of me knew you would. I just can't walk away now."

"Shut up," she told him. "Just turn around and get the fuck out of here."

"Ah, Danielle. So tender, so fragile. I can't bear to see you live unscathed, conscience clean. Maybe you wouldn't have done it yourself, but he wouldn't be here if it weren't for your hatred." He shrugged, to show that it didn't matter. "It's good enough for me."

Her eyes darted to Malcolm, who had managed to crawl off into a corner and was staring at the two immortals as if they were on some celestial plane far removed from him. Then, suddenly, realizing Jagoda's intent, his eyes widened in terror.

As the Balaklava moved toward her old foster brother, Danielle cried, "No! Don't you dare touch him!"

Jagoda continued towards Malcolm.

"You bastard!"

She lunged at him.

Half-turning, he swatted her away without breaking his stride. For the last time, she reminded herself that he was immeasurably stronger than herself. Her physical presence could not deter him.

Jagoda reached Malcolm, crouched against the wall, unmoving, perhaps thinking that Danielle could really come to his aid. Suddenly, Jagoda raised a clawed foot and plunged it down, pinning Malcolm's arm to the wall at the shoulder.

Using this to hold his victim in place, Jagoda reached down, grabbed the arm and twisted it off. Malcolm howled and writhed. The Balaklava applied some of his own saliva to the spurting wound. The spit acted as a coagulant, stopping the flow of blood almost immediately. Still, the wall on that side of Malcolm's body was painted in red.

Jagoda raised the arm to his mouth and bit down on the bone, letting the marrow burst on his tongue. Of course, thought Danielle. This is what a Balaklava feeds on.

Malcolm was still alive, though. That was the main thing. She might've been about to kill him a few minutes ago, but no more.

Inspiration struck her.

"Jagoda," she said, inching her way towards the door. "If you don't release that man, you'll regret it."

Still munching on the bone, the Balaklava said nothing, just looked at her, triumph blazing from his eyes. He stripped back the flesh of the arm as if peeling a banana and chomped down.

Around his mouthful, he said, "Say 'bye to Brother."

"No, I don't think so. Malcolm will be around for awhile, unless you never want to see your precious Tree again."

Malice flared in his eyes. "Touch my Art and you will become a part of it, Danielle—and remember, my Art is Death."

"An artist is his own worst critic."

"Danielle, don't do this."

"Let him live and I'll forget it. Take another bite off that arm and I'll hack apart every goddamned limb of your fucking Tree."

"I will not be threatened.” He sank his teeth once more into the arm.

Danielle flung open the door and ran as fast as she could down the corridor. Streaking past the guard outpost, she wondered how Jagoda would get around them, then remembered the tunnels he'd spoken of and the stories Sophia had told her about the Labyrinth in New York. If he'd been here in the castle for long, he'd probably already started a network of tunnels; hell, he probably started one when he was here working on the Tree, and that was some time ago.

She ran and ran, at last finding herself in the section of the catacombs reserved for the art exhibits. Though Harry had taken her to see the Tree a few days before, she couldn't immediately remember where it was, and by the time the memory surfaced she was already there.

Entering the chamber slowly, on guard in case Jagoda had arrived before her, she took in the circle of coffins and the large bone-tree rising from the circle's center. Directly over the tree, in the ceiling itself, the green piece of glass glowed with the room's only light save for the scattered torches blazing along the earthen walls.

From their erect coffins, Danielle could feel the corpses staring at her. And they were staring, weren't they? It wasn't just a trick of the light. And there! At the corner of her eye, was that movement?

She waited. Nothing.

She stepped toward the Tree, wishing she had some bat or pipe or something to begin the damage with. She plucked up one of the root-bones instead, which led from the base of the Tree to each individual coffin. She selected a thigh bone, the closest thing to a bat she could find, and started smashing away at the lowest limbs of the Tree. They broke loudly, but they were bound so together that they wouldn't collapse without some effort on her part.

At last, after several minutes of swinging her bones (she needed a new one every so often), she began to do some serious damage, surely enough to enrage Jagoda if the Balaklava was protective of his art. This is some funny shit, isn’t it? Malcolm had consumed her thoughts since she was a fourteen-year-old girl—she'd wanted to kill him for so long—and now she was willing to risk her own immortal life to see him live? Well, fuck it.

Suddenly, from all around her, she heard strange dry noises, creaks and pops from things that should've stopped creaking and popping long ago. She ceased her destruction of the Tree and stepped away from it, turning in slow circles to keep her back from being vulnerable.

The corpses lived. They emerged from their coffins, yawning and stretching their gruesome limbs.

"Damn," she said.

They really weren't dead. And they weren't being manipulated by anyone's telekinetic abilities, either. No, these things had been dead once, but were dead no more. They were zombies, as Tommy O'Connel had been a zombie, and they were moving toward her in terrifying synchronicity.

"Come on, guys," she said, raising her hands in a placating gesture. "Just calm down now."

Unheeding, they shuffled toward her. Their arms rose. Their claw-like hands opened and closed.

"Just think about this," she said. "I mean, hell—you want a cigarette or something?"

They came on. Closer.

Too fucking much. Where had the normal world gone? Where were the convenience stores, the Taco Bells, the bagel shops? One minute she was through with Malcolm. Ready to get on with her life. Now, all the rules had changed. And none of the new ones were good. When she had decided to go with Cloire, to come to the Castle, she’d stepped through a looking glass, but the world on this side of it wasn’t just dark, or distorted; it was just plain mean.

From the expressions on the zombies’ faces, she could see that their minds weren't all their own, that there was a force behind them that was the driving entity. Like Tommy O’Connel and Laslo's others. If these zombies were minions of a chalgid like Laslo, who was the chalgid?

The answer walked into the room, infant-ribs sticking out of his tattooed face like little tusks. It was Junger, Jagoda's blacker half, and he frowned deeply, surveying the damage Danielle had done to his creation.

"Danielle," he said sadly. "What have you done?"

"What have I done?" she asked, trying to stop the fevered pounding in her skull. "What the hell have you done, and what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were dead!"

"I am. I was. When Jagoda and myself were at Laslo's mission, we knew the day might come when one of us would die, so each of us tore off one of Singer's arms—we knew he was a chalgid, though a weak one as yet—and drank the marrow. That way, if one of us died, the other would be able to revive him."

"So Jean-Pierre did kill you."

"Of course. When Jagoda resurrected me, he gave me enough of his blood—even a few fingers so I could have the marrow—to make me a chalgid, instead of the blood-slave I would otherwise become."

"So now both of you ..."

He smiled wider. The implications drove through her like spikes. Now the demons were more powerful than ever.

While Junger was speaking, his zombies—his slaves—had ceased their approach toward her, giving her a few moments to assess her options. She realized she was pretty much fucked unless she could talk her way out of this.

"And now?" she said, trying to sound confident, as if she expected him to shrug the whole incident off and let her be.

"Now?" he repeated, chuckling to show that it was a joke. To some extent his zombies joined in the mirth, but their bodies had been dead much longer than Laslo's shades and they weren't cut out for laughter. However, they had been raised by a Balaklava-chalgid hybrid and their brittle bodies must be strong. Dust billowed from their cackling maws.

"Well, Danielle," Junger said, cocking his head meaningfully; at this signal, the zombies began their forward march once more. "Now you die."

"But no!" she said, desperate. "That's not the way it's supposed to be. You're only supposed to harass us, not kill us. That's what Vistrot hired you to do, so that he'd have something to use against Amelia ..."

Junger raised his eyebrows, and for a moment Danielle thought she had him.

"So you figured that part out," he said. "I thought Hauswell might prove useful to you. One thing you don't know, though, Danielle: Vistrot's dead, or missing. In either event, Amelia has effectively taken over his territory. Jagoda and I have free range to do whatever we want with you. Ruegger, we'll leave to the kavasari. At this point, she’s about the only thing to give us pause, and she has always had eyes for the Darkling. Why interfere?"

The zombies were very near now. Danielle thought of burrowing through the ground, but Junger was a shapeshifter and would be a much better mole than herself. Which left one option ...

She leapt upwards, grabbing the lowest branch of the tree. Climbed. By the time she reached the second level of branches, she could hear the zombies jumping for purchase on the first. She clawed her way up the thorny sculpture, noticing things she hadn't before. Human and animal skulls hung from the branches of the tree, as if they were the fruit of this macabre creation.

The skulls opened and closed their mouths at her—Junger playing games with his telekinesis—and then branches started swatting her, not trying too hard to remove her from the tree, but letting her know that she was doomed.

The ivory skull of an ape cracked against her head. She swatted at the bone-fruit, and it snapped back.

Below, she could hear the zombies ascending rapidly, eager to bring her down. A claw-like hand grabbed at her boot. She kicked it off. Plowed upward with greater speed.

She hit the top. Looked all around. Shit.

There was only one entrance to the room, where Junger stood, watching her with satisfaction. Occasionally a twitch of annoyance would cross his face as he heard the sounds of his sculpture being broken by his own undead slaves, but that was it.

She looked overhead. Behind the green piece of glass, there would be a light, which would have wires running from it ... and these wires might follow a service tunnel into which she could escape.

She rose as high as she could atop her delicate perch and pressed the green glass upwards. It moved in its earthen fixture. She pushed it to the side, revealing a small tunnel, although she could see little of it. The light that had been shielded by the glass was bright and strong, but she was protected from its glare by an unwelcome eclipse.

A large form stood before it, a shape with sunglasses and dreadlocks.

"Good to see you again," said Jagoda.

He reached toward her—

She dropped away, hunkering low on the highest branch of the tree just out of his reach. The ghoulish phantoms below closed in on her every second.

"Go away!" she roared at Jagoda. "Just go away and leave me the fuck alone!"

Jagoda grinned. "That's not much of a hello."

Anger pulsed through every artery in her system. She collected it all in her eyes and socked him with every last ounce of her hatred.

He didn’t even flinch.

This is it. She could feel the tears working behind her eyes and tried hard to suppress them, but the end had come for her, she knew. Death perched happily above her, blocking out the light, ready to taste the center of her bones. It ringed the tree, and clustered on the branches. It waited in the entrance. All because she hadn’t killed Malcolm!

"I never did anything to you," she said, hating the pitiful note in her voice.

"No," Jagoda agreed. "That's never been very important to us. Have no fear, child. Your suffering will make great Art."

The zombies grabbed her. She could feel their filthy hands all over her, and though she fought them she knew it was futile. Growling, they dragged her down the Tree of Death and past its snapping fruits. They hauled her to the ground and pinned her there.

Junger's intricately-tattooed bald head smiled down at her.

"I bet you're wondering what comes next," he said.

"Fuck you," she spat. She could feel that her face was all scrunched up, that tears were leaking out of her eyes despite all her attempts to stop them, and she could hear that her voice sounded beyond the point of pitiful now. She bucked and kicked against the undead limbs that held her down, finally feeling strength returning to her, but her resistance would do no good.

Junger lowered himself to his knees and placed his large hands on each side of her dark head. Then, slowly, as if he was having fun with her outrage, he kissed her on the forehead.

She rocketed upwards, trying to bite off his fucking face, but strong arms held her down.

"I like you, Danielle," he said. "Which is why I'm going to make you last for a long, long time. I'm going to taste everything you have to offer." He smiled. "It's going to hurt."

"You evil fuck!" she roared.

Junger rose to his feet and backed away. At his signal, the zombies released their holds on her and stood. Just as she was preparing to make a break for it, the blood-slaves descended. She fought them with all she had, but they were too much for her. Teeth and claws tore into her, and she arched her back and screamed.

Chapter 11

After several exhausting hours in the War Room of planning strategy with his captains (many of whom were potential turn-coats, he knew), Roche Sarnova retired to his lavish chambers and had his servants prepare his sauna. He made himself a glass of whiskey and slipped into the boiling water, slowly letting himself relax.

Things were not going well. Despite all his efforts, he was losing the war. No matter how many victories he won against Subaire or how many spies he ferreted out, he still could not win.

The worst thing was that he knew the reason why: the Sangro Sankts. Conditioned to protect immortals against human knowledge, the ancient order was sabotaging his efforts. He understood their fears, but there were so many shades in the world now that they should have no reason to fear humans. It was their due to have their own place in the world, their own country. Or at least a city. A Jerusalem for the Undead.

It was time.

There was one glitch. The so-called Scouring had created chaos in the immortal world, pitting factions of immortals against each other by killing off leaders that had been able to bring peace. As a result, every day scores of shades were killed needlessly, senselessly, whether it be the war of the karula against the abunka in Lereba or that of the Saiphang against the Konduli in Hong Kong or the territorial battles between the gangsters in America.

Consequently, the Community dwindled in number just when it needed the ripeness it had so recently achieved. For, if they were to have their own country, they needed a population large enough to protect themselves against those mortals that would side against them. To Sarnova and the others that shared his vision, the Scouring was making a someday Jerusalem difficult.

All this had begun to make the Dark Lord suspect that the Scouring was orchestrated by a member of the Sangro Sanks, a suspicion fostered by facts gathered by his spies. Though it had been Vistrot who'd begun the Scouring, it had been a kavasari female named Amelia who’d originally propositioned the Titan. Now that Vistrot was gone and she had taken over his territory, it was very likely she would aim her sights on Sarnova, if indeed she craved dominance in their world.

If she didn't, then her reasons behind the Scouring might've been to disable Sarnova's Jerusalem, which is what he was beginning to believe. He wondered if Amelia was a member of the Sangro Sankts; he had no picture of her, only a name and a race. The members of the order never told him their names. He knew that there were three females in the group, and that one of them had been absent from the last meeting.

Could that have been her?

If not——if Amelia was not a member of the order—what would've prompted her to kill off so many of her own kind? Or did she not consider lesser immortals her kind? To none of these questions did he have an answer. Nevertheless, he puzzled over the problem as he sipped a drink.

A servant entered and announced the arrival of Ambassador Mauchlery. Sarnova and his guest exchanged greetings, and the Ambassador disrobed and slipped into the sauna.

"Hot," he said, appreciative.

"What would you like to drink?"

"What wouldn't I? Some cognac would be fine."

A servant fetched it for him. "Would you like a massage?" the girl asked, but he declined.

"You don't look so good," Sarnova observed, when she had gone.

"I don't feel so good, to tell the truth. Today I was approached by our dear Colonel De Soto. He wanted me to narrow down a time to overthrow you."

"How efficient of him. What'd you say?"

"I told him I'd summon him when I'd pinpointed the right moment."

"Very good."

"That's not all. Just before I came here, two interesting facts were reported to me. Good news and bad. Which would you like first?"

"The bad."

"It's pretty bad, Roche," Mauchlery warned.

"Go ahead."

"It seems that our border and airport spies have reported large numbers of incognito shades moving into Romania. Though they arrived in different ways, they all appear to be a part of the same group."

"How many?"

"Nearly two hundred, all told."

"Damn."

"Yes."

"Where did our spies follow them to?"

"The forest. After that, the army—or whatever it was—realized it was being observed and vanished without a trace."

"Were there any familiar faces?"

"Only one."

"Who?"

"The albino Jean-Pierre. Lord Kharker's consort."

"I remember."

Sarnova finished his drink, ordered another and sank lower in the steaming water. What could this mean? Two hundred shades. An army. They hadn't announced themselves to him, which could only mean they were enemies. Of course, there were only a few immortal armies around, and only one that he could think of that would be strong enough to attack him.

"Libertarians," he muttered.

"That's what I thought, too," Mauchlery said. "But why would Jean-Pierre be among them?"

"Good question. So what's the good news?"

"I'm afraid it's really just a follow-up to the bad news, Roche. Lord Kharker’s just called and requested permission to pay us a visit. I wasn't informed of this until just now, but since his request was simply out of politeness, it was of course granted. He’ll arrive in a few days' time. With him is Ruegger, the one they call the Darkling."

"The Marshal. Yes, I remember him." Sarnova thought a moment. On the one hand, he was glad his old friend was dropping by, but why would Kharker's albino companion be traveling into Romania with the Army of Liberty? After some time, he asked, "Francois, do you see how this fits together?"

"I have no idea, Roche. Even if Kharker was coming here to pave the way for Liberty—which is the only possible scenario I can think of—he wouldn't try to slip the albino in past the border, would he?"

"Of course not. He knows we keep a close watch on all those who come through. Which can only mean ... what, that he doesn't know about Jean-Pierre? It can't be. And why’s he traveling with Ruegger? They parted ways many decades ago. Not long, really, but still ... Ambassador?"

"Nothing, Roche."

"Speak up, if you have any ideas."

"Well, I was just thinking: What if Kharker is being brought here against his will? What if Ruegger, who was friends with that Libertarian leader Ludwig—the one that died—is using Jean-Pierre as blackmail in return for Kharker coming here ... and ... and somehow weakening our defenses to pave the way for Liberty's invasion? And Kharker, being made to do this against his will, knows that we'll recognize Jean-Pierre and is hoping we'll figure it out before he gets here."

"That does make a certain amount of sense. And you're right; I find it hard to believe that Kharker would betray me willingly. Now, if Jean-Pierre was being held as a hostage against his good behavior ... maybe." He sipped his drink, then set the glass down. Now wasn't the time for intoxication. "We have to get Kharker away from the Darkling. He needs to be able to speak freely."

"One thing more."

"What am I forgetting?"

"We need to reassure him that Jean-Pierre will be okay. He loves that creature, Roche, and would not see it harmed."

"Yes, you're right, of course, but I haven’t forgotten. There's something that'll keep Jean-Pierre safe."

Francois smiled. "The Sabo."

"If the Libertarians attack through the Sangro Sankts' entrance—which must be what they intend to do; a frontal attack would only destroy us both, but more likely them—but if they go through the mountain itself ..."

"The Sabo."

"And the Sabo knows Jean-Pierre." Feeling better, Roche picked up his glass and downed another swallow, this one rather large. "Here, Ambassador. Your drink looks like it could be freshened up."

"That would be great."

As the girl refilled his glass, the Ambassador said, "I think I'll have that massage now.”

"Yes," agreed the Dark Lord. "I think I will, too."

*     *     *

Harry Lavaca was working on his third martini of the day when Cloire showed up at his side, unescorted. The bartender hardly took notice of her, despite his liberal hostility toward immortals; she’d come to visit Harry often since they'd been at the castle. And, as Harry was a regular patron of the bar, she had been here more than once before.

"Hey, Cloire," he said, swiveling on his stool to get a better look at her. For some reason, she seemed agitated.

"Harry, we need to talk."

"Have a seat."

"No." She glanced around, as if trying to decide the best way to get him out of the bar, then let out a breath. "Let's go to a booth."

He shot the bartender a look, and the bartender nodded. Grabbing his drink, Harry hopped off his stool and followed Cloire to a booth, where a waitress approached. The she-wolf waved her away.

"Have you heard about Kiernevar?" Cloire asked, lighting a cigarette.

He had, but he wanted to hear what she had to tell him. "What about him?"

"He's entered the competition in the Pit."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

She related to him what she’d observed first-hand, and he listened patiently. For whatever reason, the two had formed a friendship over the last few weeks, which was disturbing to Harry, because back in the days when he was a notorious shade-killer he would've considered her a perfect target. She was evil and took pride in it. Yet for some reason he liked her, and she seemed to feel the same way towards him. They’d gotten drunk together several times, had stayed up the whole night talking and telling each other stories, and once every now and then, such as now, she’d come to him for advice.

"So whataya think?" she said when she'd finished.

"I think he's insane."

She smiled patiently. "I hope you can come up with something better than that, Harry."

He ordered another drink, and they talked it over. “How could Kiernevar have gotten so strong?” he asked.

“He was turned by Frenchie.”

“I know, but to defeat this Lyshira … How old did you say she was?”

“Old.” She frowned. “Some shades are just naturally stronger than others. They can tap into whatever it is that makes us easier than others can. I don’t know.”

Suddenly, he laughed.

“What?” she said.

“Well, here we are wondering about him. Why not—hell, why not just ask the mad bastard?”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

For a moment, Harry sensed that she might actually be afraid of Kiernevar. Then again, he wouldn't blame her if she were.

"It's up to you," he said.

She seemed to think about it for a moment, then said, "I guess I've got nothing better to do. Byron’s refusing to come to my bed now."

Despite himself, Harry said, "Why?"

She made a face. "I was a little hard on him when Kiernevar disappeared, I guess. It was his responsibility ..." Anger clouded her features for a second, then blew over.

"What about Kilian?"

"Oh, he's still around, but, well ... I guess you could say I'm keeping him at a distance."

Harry finished his drink. "Ready when you are."

She threw a few dollars on the table. When he started to protest, she said, "It's on me, Harry. My way of ..."

"What?"

"Apologizing."

"You don't need to apologize, Cloire."

"For everything, Harry, for kidnapping you in the first place, but mainly for that night back at Kharker's Lodge when I tried to humiliate you in front of Danielle. You know. Giving you that bottle and sending you on your way. Even then I liked you, but I thought you were going to spoil everything."

"That was my plan."

"In any case, I'm sorry. Forgive me?"

He watched her closely, his antenna up and out and on the search for guile, but he found none; she was sincere.

"You're forgiven,” he said. “Any woman who'll buy my drinks can get away with pretty much anything."

"I'm serious, Harry."

Slowly, she reached out a hand across the bar and held it open, palm up. Warily, he took the hand. She gripped him tight, but not too tight. The contact was … intimate.

"Harry," she whispered, "have you ever given any thought to, you know, Turning?"

Up until then he'd been feeling slightly buzzed. Sobriety stormed his body on the instant.

"I ..." he began, then cleared his throat. "I've never wanted to live forever. Maybe I would've said something different when I had something to live for ... when my wife and kids were still alive, but now—"

"That's just it! Harry, don't you see? You never started over, you just gave up, on everything. You even stopped killing for the most part. But Harry, there's so much to see." She released his hand and stood. "Just think about it. Meanwhile, let's go find that bastard Kiernevar."

Shaken, he followed her out of the bar and they began their search.

"By the way," he said, "where are we going?"

"He might be a fruit, but Kiernevar will go where everybody else is going. Everybody likes a show."

They entered the theater where the Funhouse of the Forsaken was practicing its routines. At the moment, it looked like a dress rehearsal was going on, the magnificent red curtains pulled back, lights shining from up above. Maximillian, just below the stage, shook his head and shouted at one of the actors, but Harry suspected even that was part of the performance. The seats were far from full, because many would-be spectators were still at the Pit, but once the fights were through for the night, this place would fill up fast.

At first Harry didn't see Kiernevar. He and Cloire wandered the aisles for some minutes before he looked up at the balcony seating on the second level, which was deserted except for three figures. Sitting near the front row was Kiernevar, as Cloire had predicted, flanked by two Castle Guards, which was S.O.P. for the contenders to the throne. Kiernevar hunched forward, engrossed in the action on stage.

"He looks like a fucking guppy," scoffed Cloire.

She and Harry found the stairs and ascended to the balcony, where a sloping aisle led them to the bottom.

One of the Guards rose aggressively. Kiernevar turned. Instead of telling the Guard to retake his seat, he cocked his head at the second one, who got to his feet as well. Not a very friendly sign, Harry thought.

"Kiernevar," the lunatic said.

"Knock that shit off," Cloire told him.

Kiernevar, who was bare-chested and wearing only a loincloth, climbed to his feet and faced them, giving Harry a view of the werewolf's skeletal frame, smeared with feces from groin to gullet. He stank like a sewer; it was a wonder the guards put up with him. Certainly nobody sat close to him.

"Fuck, but you need a bath," Cloire said.

"Go away,” he said. “No longer part of death-squad is Kiernevar. King. Lord Kiernevar."

"But why?" Harry asked, grateful at least that the creature was able to communicate, however awkwardly.

"Kiernevar is strong,” Kiernevar said. “Others are weak. Kiernevar is born to rule. Now go. Or he will kill you."

Cloire made a fist, which she seemed to just barely keep at her side. Harry touched her forearm. Slowly, she relaxed.

"K, don't you miss your friends?” she said, trying a different tac. “Come on back to us. We can be pals again, just like before. So long as you take your fucking pill. Come on, follow me back to our rooms like a good boy."

"Kiernevar hate pill. Pill deadens his mind, makes him calm when he does not like calm." He spat. "Chaos," he said. "Voices and movement. This is what pill takes away. Now he is back and will be king. Soon all shall worship Kiernevar."

Harry swallowed. Kiernevar, from what he’d heard, used to be a vagrant in New York. Why all the sudden did he want to be a ruler? Was it because he'd only now been exposed to the idea by staying at Sarnova's castle? Or—and this is what Harry thought more likely—was it because someone had planted the thought in his head?

Cloire, still intent on winning Kiernevar to her side again, asked him, "What about his friends—your friends?"

"He has none."

"Get your goddamned pronouns right, you fucking little ..." Growling, she shut herself up and started over. "Remember your friends in the death-squad, K, the good times we used to have. You want that back, don't you?"

"No friends, only Byron, and he does what you tell him. Also Danielle a friend to Lord Kiernevar. Buy him hot dog."

Seeming to realize she'd lost the battle, Cloire sneered. "You make poor friends, Kiernevar. Byron's a fool and your little girlfriend isn't as nice as you might think. She's gone off to kill her foster brother—remember all that?"

An odd look came into his face, as if this filled him with concern.

"She goes to dungeon?" he asked.

"That's right."

Harry and Cloire exchanged glances. For some reason, Kiernevar didn't like the thought of Danielle going to kill Ascott, although he seemed to show little regard for life itself.

A sense of urgency overcame Kiernevar. He leapt over several rows to land in the aisle. Then, walking swiftly but with a strange dignity, he marched past Cloire and Harry and made for the stairs. His guards followed, and the trio descended from the balcony and disappeared from sight.

"Fucking weird," said Cloire.

*     *     *

Danielle woke with a strangled gasp. She’d been hanged by the neck from a noose, she realized, and she dangled from one of the larger limbs on the Tree, her hands tied tightly behind her back. Butt-naked, she swung back and forth in the air, her feet—also bound—several yards above the ground. Swinging …

What was making her swing?

Swish-crack.

It hit her again, a large bone-branch slapping her, whipping her, from behind. She tried to scream, but the rope had dug so deeply into her neck she couldn't manage even a squeak. She couldn't even breathe.

Swish-crack! The branch whipped her again.

Jesus!

Was this the Balaklava's way of telling her that she was their slave, that she would be whipped and hanged as they saw fit?

Shadow draped the room, darker than before she'd blacked out. Torches still blazed along the round earthen walls, but the light that had shone behind the green glass had faded, leaving only the flickering light of flame. This is hell, she thought. That's what they want me to feel. Fuck them. I really will be in hell before they get to me.

Skulls snapped all about her, their jaws chattering, the mean little tree-fruits trying to mock her. Well, you just go right ahead, snap your little teeth until they fall out. Before you lift one fucking hair on the back of my neck, you'll all be wearing dentures.

Though she was naked, she didn't think she'd been sexually violated yet. That was bad. It meant they'd been saving it for when she woke up so that they could make a production of it. A painful production, most likely. Closing her eyes, she tried not to think about it.

Swish-crack.

The branch whipped her from behind again, cutting into her back and buttocks, and she realized she'd lost a lot of blood, too much to try any mind-tricks. She wished she could stop the damned branch from whipping her, at least, but there wasn't any way she could counter the power of Junger and Jagoda.

She opened her eyes and tried to get a fix on her surroundings. The zombies milled in a circle around her, talking as best they could among themselves.

"Look, she's awake," she heard one say.

"Good, good. Time for the second course."

"I c'n still taste'r on me tongue."

"She doesn't eat enough salt."

Shit! How had she gotten herself into this situation? Because of Ludwig, that's why, because she had to find out who killed him, had to deliver justice. Had to be a Marshal. Was it worth this?

As the swinging rope took her to new and less-appetizing angles, she could see that Junger and Jagoda were sprawled out on the ground below her, their heads touching, their mouths open greedily. Her blood had spattered all over their faces. She shuddered. How long had they been there, she thought, just lying there like fat leaches, letting her blood rain down on them and lapping it up?

"Pleasant sleep?" Jagoda called.

She kicked her legs about in an effort to try and break the ropes that bound her feet—an easy task if her powers had been in full swing. The ropes held.

Movement below, shadows shifting. Junger and Jagoda rose from the ground.

"Time for some rape," Junger said. "We want you soiled, torn, desecrated."

"Yes," agreed the other, curling his fingers around a long black tendril shooting from his beard. "The zombies will take you first, then, after a very special surprise, we will fuck what remains." He turned his eyes from her face to the rope from which she was suspended, and at this motion the cord snapped.

Before she had time to brace herself, her bare pelvis struck first and hard. Pain flared through her, and she cried out. She noticed the ground was strangely warm below her and wondered if that was because the Balaklava had been resting there. Quickly, she attempted to get to her feet, but the bindings made her clumsy. She fell over again. This time her breath was knocked from her so that even with the rope no longer hindering her larynx, she still couldn't breathe.

Finally, after resting a moment, she found enough strength to say, "Please ... don't do this. I ... I didn't … For God's sakes, what did I ever do to you!?"

She looked back and forth between them, hoping for one of them to budge, to waver. That's all she wanted, in all the fucking world, was just a goddamned waver!

"Nothing," Junger answered. "You did nothing at all. We do this because your suffering makes great Art.”

At a movement of his hand, the ropes binding her feet broke so that her legs were free to spread. Now she was wide open for assault.

The Balaklava stepped backwards, outside the circle of zombies that even now began to shrink in diameter, to close in like the noose around her neck. Within seconds they were only a few feet away.

For a moment, some confusion gripped their ranks as they silently debated who would have her first. Then they chose, and the man nearest her feet stepped forward.

Gritting her teeth, she squeezed her knees together tightly. Thoughts ran together frantically in her head, but there wasn't anything she could think of that would save her. When finally it hit home that she was actually going to die here, she tried to figure out how, in this situation, she could die with dignity, and the awful thing was that she couldn't think of a way.

The creature nearest her legs—a bearded man who appeared to have died in his early forties and who wore the remains of a dress tuxedo from the same decade—stepped forward, even as those zombies to either side of her moved in to pin her down. The bearded zombie unzipped his zipper and reached his hand inside—

A thigh-bone erupted from his forehead.

For a second he tottered, then slowly fell forward and came to rest on his knees, his upper half sprawled across Danielle as if in worship.

The others dropped her to the ground and wheeled about. Knocking the truly dead zombie off her, she crawled to the side, but Junger and Jagoda placed themselves before her.

Beyond them, she saw her savior: Kiernevar, the bone-thrower, wearing only a loincloth and an extra skin of his own feces. She’d never been more glad to see anybody in her entire life. At that moment, she remembered Cloire’s prophetic words of just a few hours ago. For now, in whatever sick game of intrigue was involved here, Kiernevar was a player.

To either side of the lunatic loomed his Castle Guards, their faces tense.

"What's the meaning of this?" Junger demanded.

Kiernevar scowled, scraped his hand across his belly, and threw a fist-full of shit at the Balaklava.

"Kiernevar will be king, you say. Kiernevar will be god! Well, he never say to kill Danielle, Danielle who not treat him bad. You treat him bad by not telling him of this—not asking his permission!"

"Ask his permission?" said Jagoda. "You fool, we don't have to ask your permission! We said we'd help you, protect you ... be your allies ... but you’re not our master. Don't fucking forget your place again, fly-catcher. Now leave us."

"No." Kiernevar held his ground. "When Kiernevar king, he will have you killed. Killed! Unless you let go Danielle and do what he says."

Throughout this interplay, Danielle wisely kept her mouth shut. Recording events, but not participating. Something big was going on here, if only she knew what.

Junger growled. "We're not your toadies. That wasn't the deal. Equals, Kiernevar. Equals! You understand that?"

Danielle seriously doubted that the Balaklava considered him an equal, but she wasn’t about to point this out.

The lunatic snapped his fingers at her. Without a word, she leapt to her feet and made a broad loop around the Balaklava to Kiernevar's side. Without her having to ask, he broke the ropes that bound her hands.

"If equals," Kiernevar said, "then next time you ask." He shook a finger at them. "Very important. Understand?"

Junger and Jagoda exchanged glances. After a moment's silence, they seemed to reach some sort of consensus.

"Fine," said Junger. "Keep her. To us she was only a few hours' entertainment. The world could've benefited from the Art her body would've inspired in us, but we'll let that go. Just never forget, Kiernevar, that though we three’re allies, neither Jagoda nor myself will submit to you personally. For the cause, of course, but not to you. And that's an end to it."

Kiernevar nodded. He pounded on his chest as a kind of salute. "Kiernevar!" He spun on his heel and left, bodyguards in tow.

Danielle shot the finger at the Balaklava and started to say something really unpleasant, but the expressions on their faces stopped her. Suddenly cold, she hurried to catch up with Kiernevar. Only then did she start to shiver. She had to stop and lean up against an old stone wall before she could go on.

Kiernevar ordered one of the guards to give her his jacket. After cinching it tight, she cleared her throat and straightened.

"Thanks," she said.

Kiernevar nodded.

"But why?" she asked.

“Danielle cold.”

“No. Why’d you save me?”

"Danielle ... Kiernevar doesn’t have friends, not like others do. Maybe Danielle a friend, maybe not. But she isn’t an enemy, and that means much to one who has nothing but." He turned to continue the trek back up to the main part of the castle, but she lay a hand on his shoulder.

“That why? Not ‘cause you wanted to prove a point to … them?”

“Maybe both. Does that upset you?”

It didn’t and she told him so, but what she didn’t tell him was that she was beginning to think that his odd patterns of speech were more of an affectation than anything, that he was a lot more sane than he let on.

“What's this cause?” she said. “What do you and the Balaklava have to do with each other?"

He scowled, clearly unwilling to talk about it, and she didn't want to press him after he’d already done so much for her—especially since she had one more favor to ask of him.

"Not yet," she said, when he started to press on. "I've got something I have to do. It won’t take long.”

She walked off through the catacombs, her three escorts just behind, and returned to the dungeon and the door to Malcolm's cell.

"Stay here," she told Kiernevar, and entered the chamber.

She saw nothing at first, but she could smell the blood. Off to the right, her dagger-scythe gleamed dully.

Directly in front of her, she could hear movement.

"Malcolm? It's Danielle. I've come to get you out of here. You're forgiven and all that. Now come on."

Then she saw him, although at first she didn't know quite what she was looking at. Both arm sockets were empty. It was his head and upper torso—that was all that was left, nothing below the fifth rib—and it was dragging itself toward her with one arm, an arm which was attached somewhere on its bottom side. Plugged into its guts. A trail of blood marked his movements around the room. The second arm seemed to have disappeared, and she assumed that Jagoda had eaten it.

"Jesus," she said.

Once it was about five feet from her, it stopped, but it was close enough so she could see its face and eyes. It was hard to be sure, but she didn't think that this creature was still her foster brother

"Malcolm," she said. "Are you ... are you still you?”

No response but an amphibian glare.

From deep within herself, she could feel a growl trying to work its way out. Fucking Jagoda. What, he was gonna spring this on me after they'd all raped me, that the plan? That was his special surprise? She instinctively knew that it was.

Someday, she would see that very bad things happened to those two.

Hesitantly, she stepped closer to her old foster brother, examining him. More than anything, this creature resembled a toad as much as it had ever resembled a human being.

"Say something, Malcolm. You were a fucking braggart when I knew you, only time I ever saw you stop talking was when you were kicking the shit out of somebody, so you better say something now or I’m gonna think you’re not really Malcolm at all and pound my foot through your skull."

It remained silent.

“Say something,” she warned.

It stared at her, toad-like, and blinked its eyes slowly.

Now a little scared, she took another step closer.

Without warning, the creature opened its mouth. An arm shot out of it. Not just any arm, but a skinned arm: the creature's tongue. Or penis. In a flash, she realized that Jagoda had intended for Malcolm to rape her again.

With a scream, Danielle flung herself backwards, out of the creature's range, landing on her side.

Rapidly, using its two arms, the Malcolm-thing propelled itself towards her, and there was no mistaking its intentions.

She jumped to her feet and scanned the room for the blade she’d left here. There! She snatched it up and wheeled about, seeing the creature within an arm’s distance. It drove toward her. She plunged the sword through its skull, pinning it to the floor. It lashed around with its arm and phallic tongue for half a minute before finally succumbing to whatever peace it was allowed.

Slowly, almost delicately, she removed the blade, and for a long time she stood there staring down at Malcolm's remains.

"You bastards,” she whispered, and plunged the sword down again.

*     *     *

Later, when she was alone in her room (Loirot was out feeding), she luxuriated in a long hot shower, then dressed in heavy black clothes and threw herself onto the bed.

What the hell was going on?

Mainly she just wanted Ruegger to get here. Then, as a team, they would kill Junger and Jagoda and consider Ludwig avenged. But something bigger was at stake here, wasn’t it? The War of the Dark Council, the Scouring, and add to that Ludwig’s murder. Where did the latter fit in? Obviously to incite Maleasoel’s wrath so that she would attack Roche Sarnova with the weight of her army behind her.

Right?

Danielle couldn’t think of another reason. The Balaklava worked for Vistrot, had performed a few Scourings, so they tied in to that part of it. They said they had nothing to do with Amelia, and Danielle believed them. After what they’d done, the kavasari would surely kill them. However, the Balaklava also figured heavily into Ludwig’s demise: the second employer. Or was it?

Would Vistrot (the first employer) have gained anything from Ludwig’s death? Not unless he wanted Maleasoel to attack the Castle and so wipe out the Dark Lord. Maybe clearing away the competition in Europe? Expand his Empire here? No, because the Titan had yet to clear out all the competition in the States. So the Titan hadn’t ordered Ludwig’s death … and now the Titan was presumed dead.

The sole Scourer left was Amelia, but Danielle didn’t see why the kavasari would want Roche Sarnova killed. Besides, Amelia wouldn’t be associating with Junger and Jagoda.

What now? The assassins themselves said things were drawing to a close, right here at the Castle. What close? How would a new world order come of it? And how did the Scouring and the War figure into it?

And, not least of all, how did Kiernevar fit in?

Chapter 12

Several days passed, during which Junger and Jagoda were often seen in the company of Kiernevar. Sometimes they took a position just behind him and sometimes they flanked him like equals. No one knew whether the Balaklava were serving the lunatic, or if he were serving them. The rumors ran unchecked.

For her part, Danielle wondered whether or not to approach the Castle authorities and attempt to press charges against Junger and Jagoda. On the one hand, she desperately wanted to see them punished for what they’d done, but on the other the two were friends of the Castle. Going against them officially might be damning herself. Better to deal with them on her own, she thought. Harry counseled her against this course of action, but she ignored him. The Ice Queen wasn’t consulted at all, though Danielle was pretty sure what her advice would be.

Meanwhile, Kiernevar continued to compete in the Pit and be successful at it. On the day before the Funhouse of the Forsaken opened, the competition ended, leaving eight surviving warriors to do battle on the chessboard. Of these eight, he was the only unknown quantity.

At first, public opinion swung against him, but then he began a campaign of winning favor. One at a time, he took several Council members out to dinner and buried them with gifts. Some observers speculated that the money to do this came from the Balaklava, but the truth was that no one knew. Was it possible that the lunatic had a fortune buried away? What really won the favor of Council members (and others that Kiernevar approached) was his pledge of loyalty; if he won the contest and became Roche Sarnova’s successor, he vowed allegiance to each individual officer. By the end of this short campaign, public opinion had shifted more in his favor. This wouldn’t be enough to get him elected, but it would be more than enough to prevent him from being assassinated immediately after being crowned, which is surely all he had been looking for.

The state of the death-squad was rapidly going downhill. Cloire had effectively brushed off both Byron and Kilian, isolating them from her and from themselves, which meant that the three were barely on speaking terms. Kiernevar was gone. Thus only Loirot could serve as any sort of go-between, and his popularity was at an all-time low.

Still, the crew continued to (barely) function, though the weight of Vistrot’s unknown fate pressed heavily on them. The Kavasari Amelia had taken the Titan’s place, but she had not made any effort to contact the death-squad as yet, and it didn’t look as if she would. They were on their own. Aware of this, Castle authorities had requested that the death-squad vacate the luxury suites and move into the common rooms. Danielle wasn’t surprised to hear Cloire grumbling about it, and shortly Cloire began laying the groundwork for the crew to leave the Castle entirely. But even in this the werewolf seemed reluctant.

“What the hell are we doing?” Kilian yelled at her one day.

“We’re thinking,” she told him.

“Well, think faster.”

*     *     *

The day after she’d put the blade through Malcolm’s skull, Danielle packed her suitcase and at Sophia’s invitation moved into the large warren of rooms that the Funhouse had been allotted. Living there proved chaotic, but it beat staying with the death-squad.

The rooms in this section of the castle had no order, just yawned and spilled into each other at random, which suited the performers just fine. And the groupies! The number of damned groupies the Funhouse attracted shocked Danielle. Often, she was mistaken for one, but that stopped happening after the first few black eyes. Like their drugs, the freaks distributed their groupies equally. Well, almost. Maximillian and Claude seemed to get a slighter larger share—but then Max was the boss and Claude the closest thing the Funhouse had to a star. Not only that, but Claude wrote many of the pieces they performed.

“He says he wants me to write something for him,” Sophia said after she’d helped Danielle move in. “What should I write?”

Danielle shrugged. “Don’t know much about that. Written a few poems, that’s it. Ruegger’s the writer in the family.”

When Danielle fell silent, Sophia squeezed her arm.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’ll turn up.”

A few days later, down in the Gift Shoppe, Danielle found a picture of Junger and Jagoda posing in front of their Tree: a publicity shot, signed and everything. Danielle bought it, tacked it to the wall over her bed and threw darts at it. It became a nightly ritual. In fact, this is what she found herself doing the night the Funhouse opened.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Harry wearing a blazer (that Cloire had bought him) and looking worried. Not worried because they were going miss the beginning of the show, evidently, but because of the darts.

“Danielle,” he said.

“I know, I know.” She tossed the darts down and slipped on her jacket. “I’m all right, Harry. Come on, let’s go.”

“You sure?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not getting any better just standing here.”

They left.

Not surprisingly, the theater was packed—probably the largest gathering of immortals she’d ever seen outside Lereba. There were definitely more shades here than at Liberty.

Of course, the bulk of the audience was comprised of human servants that swarmed around their masters in force, and it occurred to Danielle (not for the first time) that to many shades here, power could be conveyed to their peers through number of slaves. She’d seen it all before both here and elsewhere, but even so it didn’t fail to turn her stomach. A few more days of this and she’d go mad.

Sophia had saved two seats for her and Harry near the front, and as she moved down the wide aisle, Danielle glanced up at the balcony. Kiernevar and his Guards perched on the first row, almost ostentatious in their assumption of power. Well, let them. Before Kiernevar could catch her eye, she continued down the aisle and slid in next to the Ice Queen.

“Thought you were going to be late,” Sophia said.

“Just got a little distracted.”

From Sophe’s other side, Harry grunted.

“This whole thing’s gotten so fucking commercialized,” Sophia said. “Shit, I went down to the gift shop and found a pillow-doll of Max, for gods’ sakes. T-shirts, sure, but a pillow-doll?”

“What cut does the Funhouse get off the merchandise?”

“Fifty.”

Danielle raised her eyebrows. “Hell, they could make a doll of me, I wouldn’t mind. Make me an action figure.” She yawned and did a quick scan of the audience behind her.

“Looking for Sarnova?”

“Actually, I was looking for a beer vendor, but now you mention it, where is he? Blackie.”

“Look above the balcony. See it?”

“Damn, there’s a second balcony.” It was very small.

“Armor plated, too,” Sophia said.

“Where’d it come from?”

“Lowered it from the ceiling. They tell me Sarnova only uses it for special occasions. Usually he sits down here, just a regular guy.”

“Guess he’s trying to appear more leader-like,” Danielle said.

“I guess. But he really fucked up, didn’t he?”

“You mean, because of the war.”

“Before too long, Subaire and her band of merry men are gonna come in here and take the place. Him bringing the Funhouse is just a way of pretending he’s still got it together, but you know what? I think everyone knows that’s just what he’s doing—and they’re letting him. Why? Because he’s been their leader for three thousand years and they can’t think for themselves.”

Harry leaned in. “Sophe, for God’s sakes. Keep your voice down.”

Danielle flagged a vendor and bought a beer, as did Harry. They clinked glasses.

“Here’s to life on the edge,” he said.

“Harry, we passed the edge a long time ago,” Sophia said.

Maximillian stepped onto the stage to great clapping and whistling.

“Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You’re too kind, really. You’ve made this our biggest opening ever, and I only hope that our performance tonight will be half as magnificent as the welcome you’ve given us. Before we get started, everyone please give a big hand to the man who made all this possible, our beloved lord, His Highness Roche Sarnova!”

An explosion of clapping and whooping overcame the audience and did not die down for several minutes. From his high balcony, the Dark Lord stood and smiled down at his subjects. Although he seemed at ease, the guards to either side of him stiffened. Eventually, the commotion died and attention returned to Maximillian, who had been clapping along with the crowd.

“And now,” he said, “give a big hand for yourselves!” As they obliged, he said, “You’re great! Come on now, louder!” Again, he led the audience in the cheer. When the noise faded, he started off with a few jokes about the war, but he was careful not to cross the line, and the audience received the humor well.

“He’s smooth, isn’t he?” whispered Sophia, and Danielle had to agree. He was kind of like the Bob Hope of immortals, funny and topical but never genuinely offensive.

After warming up the audience, Max introduced the first act and the show really got started.

To Sophia, Danielle whispered, “So, did you ever end up writing anything for Claude?”

“I wrote a little skit that they might do tomorrow, but tonight ... well, I got to change a few words around, but that’s about it. Still, you know, it was just fun to be involved.”

As the show began, Danielle found herself drawn to in. Some acts were better than others, but the ones that were good were really fucking good. Some were poignant and some were funny and some were both, and she understood why the Funhouse was getting so popular.

Every now and then she’d glance over at Harry to see how he was taking it in, and though he seemed to cringe at some of the darker pieces, he seemed to be enjoying the show in general. Sometimes she’d catch a little glimmer in his eyes betraying that he felt uncomfortable about sitting in the middle of all this decadence and evil, and she understood perfectly. She felt the exact same way.

But the show was good. In fact, the only problem she had with it was that it was maybe a little too long. Either that or her attention-span just wasn’t up to it. After a long time seemed to have elapsed, she checked one of her three watches and was surprised to see that two and half hours had gone by, which was longer than she’d thought.

Sensing that the beer had caught up with her, she wormed her way to an aisle and sought out a restroom. Once there, she did what she had come to do and moved to the mirror, where she stared at herself.

“What the hell are you doing here, girl?” she asked, but her reflection just mimed the words back to her.

She ran the faucet and splashed some water on her face, then watched the droplets slide down her smooth skin, some running down her neck and some so heavy that they fell right off her nose and jaw. Wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket, she lit a clove and closed her eyes. What was she doing here? Waiting for Ruegger, mainly. Thinking of ways to kill Junger and Jagoda. Drinking. Drugging. Not much else.

She popped the clove out of her mouth and studied it. For some reason, it tasted too sweet today, and she realized that she’d felt that way for some time now. Maybe it was time for a change. And all those watches ...

Without a second thought, she tore off two of her three and threw them in the wastebasket. She stubbed out the clove in the sink. Not satisfied with that, she ripped out her pack and junked it as well.

She smiled and leaned against the wall. She hadn’t really been aware of it, but she’d been feeling anxious. She either had too much time to herself or not enough. She was going stir-crazy. Now, though. Now she felt better.

“Goddamnit, Ruegger, where are you?”

Though she could feel tears building behind her eyes, she refused to let them come. After a few minutes, they dried up.

She left the restroom and made her way back to the aisle, but something was wrong. At the bottom of the aisle, about where she’d been sitting, stood two Castle Guards.

Waiting for her.

As soon as she saw them, they saw her. Immediately, they started moving up the aisle fast, coming toward her, oblivious to the stares that members of the audience were shooting their way. At a fast walk, Danielle fled. She made her way out of the theater, down one corridor, then another. Just as she was rounding a corner, two Guards grabbed her.

“Let me go!” she shouted.

“Stop it,” one said. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

“Then let me go!”

Uneasily, they complied, even stepping back a few feet.

“What’s going on?” she said.

“We’re here to escort you to the dungeon, ma’am.”

“What?”

He raised a hand defensively. “There’s someone wants to see you. Someone being held in the prison.” He shared a look with the other Guard. “It’s someone you might want to see.”

Startled, Danielle tried to find something to say, but even when she found it, she couldn’t say it well because tears had choked her voice.

“Ruegger,” she gasped, and without waiting for the guards, she took off down the hall.

*     *     *

The opening night of the Funhouse of the Forsaken was a wild success, and Sophia knew that there would be a big party later in the rooms that the troupe occupied. Before she could join in, though, she had something she needed to tend to.

Once the show had ended, she escorted Harry Lavaca to a bar. Along the way, they discussed what the guards had wanted from Danielle and concluded that if she wanted them to know about it, she’d tell them. When Sophia dropped Harry off, the she-wolf Cloire was waiting for him.

Cloire gave Sophe an evil smile, but the ghensiv didn’t stop to trade insults. She had fires she needed to quench.

She moved down to the Arena, which (now that the fights were over) were dedicated solely to the slave auctions, and as she entered the room she saw what had to be fifty or sixty slaves being bound together and herded off to one corner of the room. Despite herself, she was intrigued. Fifty or sixty slaves—that was a hell of a purchase. Who could be the buyers?

Then she saw them.

Junger and Jagoda were paying off the cashiers with big bundles of cash. When the transaction was completed, the Balaklava accepted the reins of their newly acquired chattel and dragged them away. As they disappeared from sight, Sophia saw many of the shades in the room whispering to each other in shocked tones. What were Junger and Jagoda going to do with all the slaves? Most had been human, but some had been immortal criminals that had allowed themselves to become indentured servants just to get out of their cells. This was not unusual in itself, but a sale that big was very unusual. A mixed batch of mortals and immortals in one purchase was even more so. What were Junger and Jagoda planning?

For the moment, Sophia didn’t care.

Impatiently, she sat and waited for the right human male to be brought out onto the stage. It didn’t matter what sort of man it was. That is, her ghensiv half didn’t care, just as long as its libido was satisfied, but her female half wanted a juicy specimen. Finally, a big strapping stud was ushered out onto the stage, and she bought him for ten thousand dollars. After she’d paid for him, she grabbed him by the leash and led him up a few floors, where she’d rented a private room. This had been the major problem she’d had with the troupe; while living with them, she had no privacy.

Unchaining her slave, she named him Dirk.

“So, Dirk, what do you think?” she said, taking off his clothes.

Smiling a little, he said, “I’m just glad you bought me and not those others.”

She laughed. “You damned well better be. Enough small talk. I’m a ghensiv and I need a good old-fashioned fuck. Think you’re up to it?”

“That’s what you bought me for?”

“Pretty much. You got a problem with that?”

He didn’t, and was very eager to show her so. After she’d taken from him what she needed, she told him to go sleep on the couch, which he did.

She smiled contentedly and made herself comfortable on the bed. Dirk had been just what she’d needed. He was just a sexual being, though, nothing more. That’s all she could ever let him be. Fucking was one thing, but loving was something else. As perverted and wrong as it was to think, the only one that could love her and that she could love in return was the albino. As she thought of him, the pleasure Dirk had given her faded. Her eyes burned, and a few tears actually leaked out. Damn it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried.

“Jean-Pierre,” she whispered into her pillow. “Where the hell are you?”

*     *     *

On a nearby mountain, Jean-Pierre smoked a Pall Mall and watched the snow fall through the limbs of the skeletal trees and plummet toward the layers of snow that had come before. The cigarette tasted good, and he enjoyed it despite the fact that it meant he’d failed in his attempt at eliminating vice. Some vices were worth it.

A week ago it had seemed important to prepare himself for battle. He’d convinced himself to stop drinking and smoking. Drinking he’d quit, and was proud of that, but smoking had been a far more difficult addiction to overcome. He allowed himself that little luxury, but only infrequently, when his body demanded the chemicals. Besides, he thought. Vice keeps you human.

He crouched on a boulder, watching the snow and the trees and the soldiers that littered the ground before him. Some slept or played cards. Some discussed the possible reasons why Maleasoel had not yet arrived. Jean-Pierre ignored them.

He tried not to act annoyed at the four guards that surrounded him, but he knew that he could be far worse off, so he didn’t complain. After all, he was basically a prisoner of the Libertarians, but Captain Raulf D’Aguila had not seen it fit to chain him or otherwise impede his freedom. Except for the guards, of course.

Jean-Pierre climbed off the rock and moved outside the shelter of the trees. Into the naked snow, the guards followed him. When he was about twenty yards from the temporary shelter, he stopped and threw his cigarette into the endless ice that stretched in all directions.

As his hands became free, he could feel the sudden tension of the guards behind him. He smiled. They needn’t bother. Now wasn’t the time to escape. It was night, and most of the army was still awake. Pretty much the only soldiers that couldn’t pursue him (if so motivated) were either passed out drunk or off hunting or scouting. He’d have to wait until daylight before he could make his move. He might wait for the hunters to return first.

They were off tracking any animal that lived in this hard country, and their skills were sorely needed, because without food, the army weakened, and it wouldn’t be too many days before they’d passed the point of no return. Even Jean-Pierre, one of the oldest shades here, felt the gnawing in his gut, but he knew that if it came down to it he would live. Without food, the others would grow weak faster than he would, which would make it all the easier for him to escape.

On the other hand, if his escape were successful, it would mean that he’d have to spend some time in the wilderness, avoiding his trackers, before he could even make an attempt at entering the Castle. At that point he knew a full belly would sure be a nice thing to have.

The only animal the hunters avoided was the wolf, and that was because (according to myth) Roche Sarnova kept a finger in the minds of every wolf that ran through these regions. More than one of the Dark Lord’s enemies had been hunted down and killed by these predators, or so the rumors said. The scouting parties bore the responsibility for avoiding the wolves. The animals couldn’t hurt a group as large as the Libertarian army, but they could alert Sarnova of the army’s presence, and several times during the last few days the scouts had reported wolves in the area, and the army had had to retreat to the hard cold tunnels underground that were their emergency shelters.

D’Aguila had revealed himself to be a good captain, Jean-Pierre reflected. A leader and protector of his people.

The main problem with the bald man’s rule was that it was a lone venture. Maleasoel had not arrived, nor had the third of the army she’d taken with her. Presumably she’d left Kharker’s Lodge with the intention of enlisting more soldiers at another one of Ludwig’s training facilities, but she’d been scheduled to arrive just one day after D’Aguila’s party and now was the third day with no word had from her yet.

Jean-Pierre harbored suspicions about what this meant, but he kept them to himself. Eventually, if Malie did not return D’Aguila would carry out the mission, with or without her. Jean-Pierre had his own problems, and he thought of them as the snow fell, scalding his face and singeing his eyes. His fate awaited him in the Castle. For some reason, he had known that for a long time. He didn’t know what it meant, though. Was he destined to die there, destined to redeem himself, or was something altogether different in store for him?

Sophia …

He’d known, even when he handed her over to the Funhouse, that he would meet his end at the Castle, so he had sent her along with an unconnected party whom he knew to be arriving at the place itself within a matter of weeks. He didn’t know why this was, didn’t even like the fact that he had known what he had, but he was cursed with a kind of foresight. For a man that wanted oblivion as badly as he did, foreknowledge was a form of living death.

Above all, he wanted to know nothing, feel nothing, be nothing. Instead, fate had given him a gift that plagued him—not relentlessly or even often, but, even as infrequently as the visions came, they maddened him. They disturbed his emptiness. That was a violation he had only permitted Sophia … and, in a former life, Danielle. The visions usually came to him when his guard was down, when he let the walls lower just a little. To prove the point, the blight had struck him just when Sophia had distracted him.

He wanted her back. If it was salvation he was to find in the Castle, it was she. And, of course, if it was death he was to find, she might be in charge of that, as well. Whatever the consequences, he had to see her again.

He turned, casually, to gauge the competency of the guards. They were not as old as he was, but they were strong. Ready. When he completed his survey, he turned his head up to the white face of the night above, felt the endless slivers of ice chip away at his face. No, he decided, now was not the time.

Not just yet. But soon.

Chapter 13

Though she wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, it was a good thing the soldiers caught up to Danielle. She’d never been to the section of the dungeon that Ruegger was being held in and had no idea where he was. Instead of being in the “general” prisoners’ area as she would have thought, he was being held in the portion of the dungeon reserved for political prisoners. What the hell? Mainly this area kept those who had tried to depose Roche Sarnova.

On five sides, his cell was fashioned of the same thick stone that Malcolm’s had been, and on the sixth rose a thick mesh of woven metal, as if someone had tried to make a blanket using the bars of a jail cell as thread—strong enough to prevent Ruegger from breaking through it yet porous enough to allow Danielle to see him.

When she neared the room, she found him on his cot, apparently asleep, but by the time she’d made it to the woven metal, he’d shot off his bunk and was there with her.

When their hands met, palms and fingers pressed against each other hungrily despite the sharp metal that dug into them. Their eyes met. Things that couldn’t be articulated in words passed between them in the instant before she closed her eyes and pressed her lips against the bars. He pressed his mouth to hers.

A weight lifted from her, a release even stronger than sparing Malcolm’s life. Ruegger’s lips and tongue merged with her own, the sharp-edged metal cutting them, making them bleed. She wanted him, badly.

“Danielle,” he whispered when he pulled back, his eyes smiling even more broadly than his lips.

She studied him, his hollow face, unshaven, his hair matted and filthy. His eyes burned bright and fierce and dark.

“They haven’t let you feed,” she said.

“I’m fine, baby. What about you?”

Looking over her shoulder at the guards, she asked, “Guys, would you give us a few minutes?”

They hesitated. Then: “Of course, ma’am. We’ll be right outside.” They left.

“Bastards,” she said. “Why’d they put you in here?”

Resting his forehead against the bars, he said, “They had good reason, babe.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was ... involved ...” (he smiled) “in a plot to take over the castle, to kidnap and ultimately to torture Roche Sarnova until he confessed to hiring the Balaklava to kill Ludwig. And if he did, we’d execute him.”

“That’s not funny, Ruegger.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

She cleared her throat. “Ruegger, if you were out here, I’d want to slap the hell out of you, but since you’re in there I’m just thankful you’re alive. But I don’t get it. Trying to take over the castle? Torture Sarnova? What the hell’s going on?”

“It’s a long story.”

“So start talking.”

He sighed. “Okay, here’s how it happened.”

She stepped back, lit a cigarette and listened to what he had to say. He told it as briefly as he could.

When he was finished, she said, “The whole thing was idiotic. I can’t believe you’d do something like that without telling me ...”

She balled a fist, digging nails into her pale flesh, and closed her eyes angrily. Of course, Ruegger couldn’t have consulted her because she had left him to go kill Malcolm. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Even as she thought this, she knew it would be a long time before she’d let herself off the hook concerning that one.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She forced herself to smile. “I leave you alone for a week and you’re already trying to kidnap the Dark Lord. It’s a good thing we weren’t separated longer.”

He laughed, and she knew that he’d forgiven her long ago. Just the same, emotions roared through her, so fast she couldn’t even identify them. To steady herself, she leaned against the bars and gulped down several breaths. Beyond the bars, she could feel Ruegger waiting patiently.

A low crooning sound escaped her and, unable to stop herself, she said, “Why do you have to be behind those bars?”

When he didn’t reply, she nodded. “So you and Kharker got here yesterday? You’ve been here a whole day ...”

His kind dark eyes watching her, he stuck a finger out through the bars and traced her jaw line. “You okay, Dani? We don’t have to go through all this right now. Tell you the truth, I’d just kinda like to sit here awhile and look at you, feel you near me.”

Almost unable to speak around the lump in her throat, she shook her head. “No, baby. We’ve gotta iron this out. Later, we’ll get you out of here and then ...”

“Okay. But if you start feeling like you’re not up to it, tell me.”

She counted to ten and then said, “So you and Kharker got here yesterday. Where’s Jean-Pierre?”

“Well, Malie didn’t trust Kharker ...”

“For good reason, the bastard.”

“ ... so she brought Jean-Pierre along with the raiding party to use in case she had to blackmail him. I was supposed to keep him in line, but if he showed any signs of wavering we’d use the albino to keep him in check. Meanwhile, Malie and the Libertarians were supposed to sneak into the country in separate groups and meet at a point just a few miles from here. From there, they’d tunnel underground until they got to this mountain, where they’d seek out the secret entrance Kharker told them about, enter the castle and hide in the catacombs. But when Kharker and I got here, Roche took him aside. They were friends, they had to talk, that whole thing. Malie and I knew it would happen sooner or later, but we’d hoped the fear of anything happening to Jean-Pierre would make him stick to his word.”

“But it didn’t.”

“He told Sarnova everything. Later, after they’d thrown me in here, Khark told me he had no choice, that Sarnova already knew what was going on so there was nothing for Kharker to betray. Sarnova’s spies had seen Jean-Pierre and Malie’s army cross the border. Maybe that’s the truth. Even if it is, though, Kharker would’ve known beforehand that Sarnova keeps close tabs on the borders. If so, he was lying the whole time.”

“There’s not much sense in giving him the benefit of the doubt, is there?”

“It’s my fault. I should’ve seen it coming, should’ve realized that Sarnova would have spies like that, that he’d know if Malie entered Romania.” He banged his head against the bars.

“What about Malie and Jean-Pierre and the rest of them?” Danielle said. “They still out there?”

“As far as I know. I was supposed to make a map of this place, learn the troops’ schedules, general reconnaissance. I was to go down into the catacombs and find wherever they were hiding, let them know how to attack. Without me, they might’ve made it anyway, but they don’t have a chance at all now that Sarnova’s onto them. They’re as good as dead, and it’s all because I didn’t take the time to think it through.”

He was angry with himself, Danielle saw, but he was smart enough to know that anger wouldn’t get him very far, that what he needed now was to be cool. Just as she thought it, she could see his anger draining away, could see him collect himself. For a moment, she wished she had such a tight handle on her emotions.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this. Caged …”

She smiled. “Honey, you look like apple pie to me. Besides, God know you’ve seen me in some piss-poor shapes myself.”

“You should be in my arms right now. Instead … I might be here for a long, long time. If they don’t kill me. Not to mention what’ll happen to the Libertarians.”

“They’re not your responsibility.”

“They were.”

“One battle at a time.”

They talked for a long time. He wanted to know how she’d been, so she told him about Malcolm, about Junger and Jagoda and Kiernevar. He held her hands when she described killing Malcolm, and he swore lividly when he heard what Junger and Jagoda had almost done.

When she was through, he stared around him at his bars. “Things are going to hell out there, it sounds like,” he said. “This is not where I need to be.”

*     *     *

“How’s our pale man doing tonight?” rumbled Captain Raulf D’Aguila, sinking beside Jean-Pierre.

The albino just glared at him. Jean-Pierre’s stomach growled. The hunters had returned with very little to show for their excursion and they hadn’t deigned to give their prisoner any of their fodder. Even now, they gathered around him, eating. They seemed to savor every last morsel.

D’Aguila laughed. “Hungry, I bet.”

The Captain ordered one of his men to hand over a half-eaten bird to Jean-Pierre. The Frenchman took the offering, but in a way that made Raulf laugh even harder.

“Not a king’s ransom, is it?” the Captain said.

Really, the bird didn’t look so bad, but Jean-Pierre refused to give D’Aguila the satisfaction of seeing him eat it. Grudgingly, he sat it down on the snow at his feet.

Under his breath, he said, “Thanks.”

Raulf shrugged. “The least I could do. After all, you’re my partner in this whole thing, as much as Malie and Ruegger are, and you know I hate to see my partners treated like prisoners.”

“Then give these soldiers something else to do than following me everywhere I go. For instance, they could go find something for me to eat. Maybe pick some chickory roots for coffee.”

Raulf smiled, displaying needle-like teeth. “Sorry, old son. You know I can’t do that. You may be a partner, but I wouldn’t trust you to do my laundry.” He patted Jean-Pierre on the knee. “Now, if you’ll promise not to escape, I might loosen up a little.”

The albino regarded him. Of course, the Captain was lying through his crocodile teeth, but what could it hurt to play along?

“Sure,” he said. “I promise not to escape.”

For a moment, Raulf was silent. Then, unexpectedly, he burst into laughter so convulsive that his large reptilian wings shook with the force of his mirth.

Jean-Pierre took that as a no.

*     *     *

As soon as Danielle left Ruegger’s cell, she scoured the castle for Kharker. Finally, realizing the Hunter would probably wish to speak with her himself, she returned to the room she’d been sleeping in for the past several nights. Sure enough, though she shared the room with Sophia and two other girls, Kharker waited for her alone.

“I wanted to see you,” explained the Hunter, sitting on her bed.

“I bet you did, you piece of shit.”

She started towards him but stopped when he lifted a hand.

“Don’t take another step,” he said. “You know what I can do.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a good idea, but back-stabbing doesn’t impress me.”

“Stop it, Dani.”

“Stop what, telling you how much of a jackass you are? Ruegger’s rotting in jail!”

Though anger pulsed in a vein somewhere on his temple, only kindness and patience touched his brown eyes.

“I’m sorry about Ruegger,” he said.

“You fucking better be. Now go get him out of there!”

“It’s not that simple. It’s in Roche’s hands now.”

She wanted to hurt him. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much she could do but call him nasty names. So she did.

“Bastard.”

Slowly, he retrieved a half-smoked cigar from a pocket and lit it up. After the first mouthful of smoke, he said, “Like one?”

“No thanks. Where’s your bodyguards?”

“Probably in the pool room, hustling.”

“I bet you taught them how to do it, too.”

He smiled, apparently confident that she was now relaxed enough to lighten up with. “You know I did,” he said.

Balling a fist, she spat on the floor at his feet. “Guess you didn’t think I’d go after you, did you? Thought you could just betray Ruegger and suffer no consequences? Is that what you thought?”

With an enraged cry, she lunged toward him, her dagger already in hand. As she brought it down, a white cloud enveloped her and she screamed in confusion. Then, angry beyond the point of reasoning, she tore off the bed sheets he’d surrounded her with and came toward him again.

“No,” he said, softly. Without another word, the bed sheets flew up into the air, seemingly of their own accord, and rearranged themselves on Sophia’s bed, where they’d come from, neatly folded and everything.

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.

As if on cue, the guards froze and stared at something behind Jean-Pierre. Not willing to take the time to look around, he just stared at the faces of the men in front of him. Then he heard it.

Several shades were, at a full run, bursting out of the wooded territory at his back and entering the clearing that separated the army’s temporary headquarters from the surrounding forest. Understanding that these shades must be the east scouting party, Jean-Pierre knew then that his plan was going to work.

“Wolves!” cried one of the soldiers that had just entered the clearing. “Right behind us!”

The east scouting party brushed by Jean-Pierre and past his guards, running toward D’Aguila. Using his extrasensory powers, Jean-Pierre could smell the wolves, just fifty yards away and rushing fast towards the clearing in which Jean-Pierre stood.

D’Aguila waved four of the east scout team on, but stopped the fifth one—apparently the leader. A few words were exchanged, and the east team’s leader glanced back at Jean-Pierre, whom he only seemed to be noticing for the fist time. He shrugged. D’Aguila patted him on the back and sent him toward one of the trapdoors that led into the frozen tunnels below. Within seconds, the leader followed his scouting team into the snow.

Hesitantly, the warden of Jean-Pierre’s own little detail turned to see what D’Aguila was doing. The Captain trotted toward him. He was only ten feet from Jean-Pierre as he began to speak, but the albino never heard a word because, all at once, a loud chorus of at least a dozen wolves broke out.

From the expression on D’Aguila’s face, Jean-Pierre guessed that the animals were closer than the east team’s leader had led Raulf to believe. There was a man that the albino did not envy.

“Goddamnit!” said the Captain. “Come with me now, Jean-Pierre, or I swear by the gods that I’ll hunt you down and flay you alive. I’ll fucking feed you the strips of skin as I peel them off you!”

Again, the wolves howled, and Jean-Pierre smiled, looking around at the quintet of immortals before him.

“You could take me,” he admitted. “But it wouldn’t be before they got here. And when they get here, you’re finished. The Dark Lord will send helicopters and bomb the shit out of you. Whatever’s left, which won’t be much, he’ll send his army to deal with.”

“Fucker!” snarled D’Aguila. “This wasn’t part of the deal!”

“The deal?” Jean-Pierre snorted. “The deal was a farce. Now go back to your goddamned tunnels, I’ll turn into a wolf and no one will ever be the wiser. Or stay here and die. It’s that simple. Well? Go on, Captain.”

Instead, D’Aguila stepped forward, removed the saber from the warden’s hand, and started toward the albino.

“You’re a liar,” the Captain said. “You’ll alert Blackie. You’ll go back to the Castle. No. Either you come with me or I kill you now.”

Jean-Pierre edged backward. “You’re being stupid, Captain.”

“You know I’m right.” To the warden, he said, “Kill those wolves.”

The Captain took another step, this time edging around Jean-Pierre, trying to cut him off from the wolves. He was now too close for the albino to break in that direction.

Shit.

The Captain took another step—

Jean-Pierre bolted.

D’Aguila roared behind him. With his heart pounding in his temples in the wind in his hair, Jean-Pierre ran in the only direction open to him: the cliff.

Fuck fuck fuck.

The Captain, newly gorged and powerful, gained on him, Jean-Pierre could hear his footsteps right behind him … and closing. There was no time to evade, no place to go … but forward.

It was a long way down.

Can I survive that fall?

Gods help him, but he was about to find out.

Just as D’Aguila closed the last few feet, Jean-Pierre reached the cliff and flung himself out into space. The gorge dropped below him, and he fell into it, trying to hold back his screams.

*     *     *

D’Aguila stared down at the diminishing shape of the albino as the werewolf plummeted toward the snowy ground far below. D’Aguila wanted little more than to fly down after him—it was always possible Jean-Pierre could survive, however unlikely—but he had an attack to prepare for.

Chapter 14

Damn them, Roche Sarnova thought as quit the War Room. Even though the Ambassador had united the rebellious factions among the Dark Lord’s flock, there continued to be major problems.

Information still leaked to Subaire. Francois had supposedly ordered the leaks to plug themselves, having told them that Roche had infiltrated the network of spies and would soon know who the informants were. To accentuate this point, several of the leaks had met swift and not-so-accidental deaths. That should have stopped the problem, but it hadn’t. Subaire was still aware of the Dark Lord’s moves before he had set them in motion, and this fact alone was costing him the war. Sarnova blamed the Sangro Sankts.

The hell of it was that his people were dying out there. Worse, they died for his dreams, not their own—they died for a vision of a world where all shades would have a home.

I will not surrender. If he handed himself over to Subaire, he might as well fly into the sun. She wouldn’t kill him, but he would never really be able to live again.

No, he knew what he had to do. He just didn’t know how to do it.

He made his way into his expansive living quarters. There, lounging in an ornate oak chair by the den fireplace, was the Ambassador.

Sarnova had expected him, but the sight of his old friend made him smile. Francois rose and they embraced warmly.

“Coffee?” the Dark Lord asked, moving into the kitchen, where one of his mistresses wiped a counter. He patted her on the rump and brought out a bottle of liquor.

“Coffee?” asked the Ambassador.

“My own special brew,” Sarnova replied, pouring the liquor into a mug, which his mistress filled to the brim with hot coffee she’d brewed for his return.

“I’d love some.”

Once they were both relaxed, Roche dismissed the girl and turned to his friend.

“Any news from the front?” Francois asked.

“Nothing good. The whole thing sickens me. I’m seriously considering calling all my subjects together and telling them why the hell I’m waging this war. Right now they might think I’m just trying to punish Subaire for her disobedience. At first this was enough for them to fight for, but there have been too many deaths. My people deserve to know the truth.”

Mauchlery said nothing, only waiting.

The Dark Lord took a deep breath. “I’m thinking of organizing a vote.”

“A vote?”

“Maybe I was wrong in deciding what was best for my subjects. Perhaps they should have a say in whether or not the war continues.”

Francois paused. “What if they vote in favor of surrender?”

“Then I was a fool all along. I’ll stop the war and admit Subaire and her Half back into the Council. If they’ll come back. But I’m hoping my people are smarter than that, that they’ll appreciate the new world that I could give them.”

“You didn’t think they would before.”

“Back then I felt I needed the consent of the Council before announcing it to the general populace, and after seeing the reaction of the Council I knew there would be many dissenters among my people, so I proceeded along other avenues.”

“Roche, your vision of an Undead Jerusalem is a good one, one worth the fight. However, it is a radical idea, going up against the longest-held beliefs of our people. You were right in wanting the consent of the Council first. Hell, that’s what it’s there for, to act as a senate of sorts. A sounding board.”

“There are times when the Council’s a hindrance to the greater good. I’ve … been thinking that I should disband the Council.”

“Then you would be a true tyrant. Many would see you as a Caesar. Some might move to strike you down. No, Roche, the tradition of the Council is a good one.”

Sarnova sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Stop second-guessing yourself, my friend.”

“Your words are reassuring, Francois, but I fear, in your deep heart, even you hold reservations.”

Francois shrugged helplessly. “I’ve lived a long, long life, Roche, longer even than your own. I’m perhaps one of the oldest creatures under the sky, and for all of my centuries I’ve thought to keep the immortal presence a secret from humans. It’s harder for me to let go of those beliefs than it might be for someone younger. However, I am open-minded enough to accept your ideas.”

His face saddened, and he made an expansive gesture with his hands. “I fear that not all of our brothers and sisters are so inclined. Subaire, though wise and experienced, rejected your ideas, as did half of the Council. But there’s one thing you’re forgetting.”

“Yes?”

“That Subaire could have told the legions of your plan, of your Jerusalem. If even a good percentage of them agreed with Subaire’s conclusions, then you would now be dead—and it seems reasonable to conclude that they would.”

“Yes.”

“Instead, Subaire and her Half took only the soldiers loyal to them and fled. Admittedly, they did not flee peaceably, but they did not spread word of your plans. In effect, Subaire spared your life.”

After some time, Sarnova inclined his head. “Perhaps she didn’t spread word of my plans because she feared that my subjects would accept the notion of my Jerusalem.”

The Ambassador cast him a doubting glance.

Roche gave another weary sigh and reached for his mug. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Subaire only wants things back the way they were.” A flash of anger swept through him, then was gone. “If that’s what she wants, she’s going to be sorely disappointed.”

“Are you going to proceed with the vote?”

“Oh, I was just thinking aloud. Still, the idea of some form of democracy does appeal to me. I’ve been a borderline tyrant for three thousand years. My thirst for power has been more than quenched. Now I want only to make the world a better place for those who follow me—and, I must admit, I’d like to be remembered as the man who united the mortal and immortal worlds.” He grimaced. “So how have things been going on your end?”

The Ambassador seemed to welcome the change in conversation. “Well, things are stable. No one’s going to try to depose you anytime soon.” He took a breath. “But they’d like to.”

“Colonel De Soto again?”

“Primarily. He seems to be the leader of the more radical faction. If I could just get him to shut up, things would run more smoothly.”

“That can’t happen.”

“I know, Roche. He’s Chief of Security, after all. He commands more men than pretty much anyone else here, except you and one or two others. If he met with an accident, his men would put the finger on you.”

“We can’t let that happen. I need those men. I can’t have them thinking I murdered their prized Colonel. I’m afraid it’s up to you to deal with him, to keep on putting him off.”

“There’s another consideration.”

“Yes?”

“There are others, not loyal to myself, that are even more radically opposed to the continuance of the War than De Soto. However, I can’t get any information out of them concerning their plans ... whereas the Colonel might. In other words, we need him alive.”

“Interesting.”

“He wants a deadline, Roche. He wants an exact date and time when the coup will begin. I’ve been stalling, yes, but this is only making him suspicious.”

Roche smiled grimly. “Watch your back, my friend.” Just as he was about to raise his mug in a toast, he stopped and sat up straight.

“What is it?” Francois said.

Roche concentrated. Because of the alcohol and his exhaustion, the images he was receiving proved elusive, blurry and twisted. He focused more, and they snapped into clarity.

“Jesus Buddha.”

He slammed the mug down so hard it shattered, spewing coffee and liquor and ceramic shards all over the room.

“Roche! What’s wrong?”

“The wolves. One of the neighboring mountains ...”

“Blackie, calm down.”

“No.” Grimly, Roche passed a hand across his face. To his shock, it trembled. “Kharker was right,” he said, hearing the raggedness in his voice. “The Libertarians, Francois—they’re here.

Ludwig’s widow has come for her vengeance.”

*     *     *

Quickly, D’Aguila gathered his soldiers and struck off toward headquarters. When he reentered the clearing, he turned to the soldier named Clayton and said, “Think you can relocate the surviving wolves before the sun comes up?” All but a few of the animals had been destroyed.

The soldier nodded. “You wish them dead, as well?”

“Yes. We need to be certain that the Dark Lord knows where we are.”

Clayton managed to hide his shock, but could not help blurting, “Sir?”

“You heard right. We have to play this safe. We have to make sure that he knows we’re here before I put my plan into action. To do that, one of the wolves must see you. To that end, act as you did before in your execution of the animals, but this time let one of them, and only one, turn in time to see you. We want Sarnova to think this a mistake. If more than one of the wolves see you, he’ll know it for the trap it is. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Another shadow of doubt crossed Clayton’s young features. “But won’t the sun—?”

“Yes, of course. By the time your mission’s complete, it’ll be dawn. So once the wolves are dead burrow under the snow and get your ass back here with all due speed. In all likelihood, you’ll be one of the last to evacuate.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Then get yourself into the air, son! We’re depending on you!”

Clayton launched himself into the sky and flew north as fast as his wings could carry him.

Satisfied that that part of the plan was taken care of, D’Aguila led his last two jandrows down into the cold bunkers of the headquarters. At his return, the other Libertarians leapt to their feet, and he could see the relief on all of their faces.

“Come to attention, men!” he called, knowing as he said it that it was an unnecessary order. Still, he was heartened to see his soldiers snap into position with such precision.

“Men,” he said, speaking slowly so that they could all measure his words, “when we first arrived here, our orders were to infiltrate the Castle, kidnap the Dark Lord and bring him back here for questioning. Events have not turned in our favor. Maleasoel is missing, and though we all hope for her swift arrival, we cannot base our actions on hope alone.” He gauged the expressions of his people and saw they were in agreement. “We must act on our own to execute the completion of our task. Are there any who disagree?”

Silence.

“Good,” he said. “Also, the escape—and subsequent death—of the albino Jean-Pierre has alerted the Dark Lord to our presence.”

Seeing the uncomfortable stirrings of his men, he continued quickly: “Have no fear. Maleasoel and myself planned for this eventuality and came to discuss several alternate sites for headquarters. We must begin an underground evacuation to one of those sites immediately. If Malie returns, she’ll know where to meet us. At any rate, Blackie will be mobilizing his troops to come and blast us into a million pieces. We’ll escape his attack, yes, but should we let a successful escape be an end to the encounter? Or—” he grinned “—should we lay some trap for the invaders? I’m not talking about simple booby-traps here.” He could see that many of his troops were beginning to nod, perhaps guessing at his plan. “For even in retreat, the glorious Army of Liberty will not be beaten. In fact ... it will prevail!”

Chapter 15

“The Libertarians are here!” Roche Sarnova declared, marching back into the War Room. “I’ve seen it through my wolves.”

“You know where they are?” demanded Colonel De Soto, his hatred for Sarnova momentarily checked.

“I do,” replied the Dark Lord, and told them where.

“Then, as Chief of Security for the Castle, I request permission to lead our team against them.”

Roche smiled bitterly, but remembered Francois’ stern warnings that they needed De Soto alive. “Colonel, I would love nothing better than to send you out after the Libertarians. However, strictly speaking, they have not launched an attack on the Castle itself and are therefore out of your jurisdiction.”

“Bullshit!”

Sarnova shot him a glare, and the Colonel backed down, but though he remained silent it was apparent to all that his fury held no bounds … and some would undoubtedly agree with his point of view.

“Besides,” said Sarnova, in an effort to both soothe the surly De Soto and regain the support of his people, “you are not a daybeast and if you were to lead the assault you would have to stay inside the helicopters behind black-out curtains. Certainly not the best position for a warrior, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

Reluctantly, De Soto nodded.

Continuing, Sarnova turned to Colonel Wheatshear, a werewolf in charge of all offensive military operations stemming from the Castle. “Colonel, I place the burden of dealing with Maleasoel’s army in your hands. Are you up for a fight?”

“Of course, my Lord. But dawn has already fallen. I fear that we cannot muster enough werewolves to rout an entire army.”

Sarnova waved the concern away. “The battle will not be fought hand-to-hand. If our dear Colonel De Soto has been performing his duties, we should have ten armed attack helicopters at the ready. We have wolves capable of flying them, as well. Your mission is simple, Colonel. Take the birds up and bombard the Libertarians’ encampment with all the hardware you’ve got. Then send in a few humans to trip any booby-traps that the missiles failed to set off. Afterward, you and your lupine kin will descend into the encampment and take as hostages any survivors. They may have valuable information. Get a move on. We’ve all been planning and training for this day for years. Are there any questions?”

There were none. All knew what they must do, and within a minute the War Room was all but deserted. The Dark Lord held Wheatshear back.

“Yes, my Lord?” inquired the Colonel, obviously anxious to begin the raid. “Is there something further?”

“One thing more. You’ll have a passenger aboard one of your helicopters. Lord Kharker.”

“I’ve heard that he’s a skilled fighter.”

“He is, but keep him away from the front lines until the area is secured. It may wound his pride, but this is not his fight and I don’t intend for him to lose his life in it. Now go. Prepare your men and birds, only hold one of the machines back for him to board. Make it the perimeter patrol; that will allay his suspicions. He’ll be along within a few minutes.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Bowing, the Colonel spun on his heel and left.

Sarnova allowed himself to feel pride at his soldiers and the satisfaction of impending victory. Still, part of him felt that this had all been too easy, that the Libertarians were leading him into a trap. But what could it be, really? He held all the advantages. Dismissing the doubt as a mere manifestation of the paranoia that had all but swallowed him whole in recent months, Sarnova headed back to his own chambers, where the Ambassador and Lord Kharker awaited him.

After a quick greeting, Mauchlery left them, knowing that they had private words to exchange.

“Roche, I’m glad you had Francois come for me,” Kharker said, “but this isn’t a social meeting, is it?”

“I’m afraid not, my friend.”

“Malie’s here, isn’t she? And her whole stinking army with her.”

The Dark Lord nodded. “We’ve already begun preparations to launch an attack.”

“No! Roche, you can’t do it. Jean-Pierre is with them. He could be killed in the crossfire.”

Sarnova frowned, aware of what must come next.

“Roche, I know you’ve got to do this, eliminate Malie’s threat, but you can’t just go ahead and kill him, too.”

“Do you have any alternate suggestions?”

Kharker considered. “You’ve got to strike now while you know where they are and while the sun is still up so that you can use your choppers to your advantage.” Kharker swore under his breath and swung his suddenly cold eyes up to his old friend. “Roche, I realize that I have no place to interfere, but would you grant me one request?”

“You’ll have to state it first.”

“I must go with them. The raiding party. That way I’ll be able to recognize Jean-Pierre and tell them not to mark him as a target. And hopefully I’ll get to chop off a few Libertarian heads in the bargain. Please, Roche, you can’t deny me this.”

Sarnova pretended to think it over, then smiled and patted Kharker on the back. “Of course,” he said. “But you’ve got to promise me something in return.”

“What?”

“That you’ll stay in your chopper, well away from our missiles and their countermeasures, until the area’s secure. If you spot Jean-Pierre, and I hope you do, call up Col. Wheatshear. He’s leading the op. Tell him to hold his fire. But don’t enter the fray yourself. Okay?”

Unable to hide his smile, Kharker laughed and gave Sarnova a quick hug. “Of course,” he said.

The Dark Lord’s face became solemn again. “You must promise me one thing further.”

Kharker raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Roche.”

*     *     *

One helicopter remained in the hangar, Kharker saw, and it was spinning up. Several soldiers bustled about it, checking their weapons. Kharker marched up to the pilot and said, “I’m coming with you.”

The pilot peered at him. “Who are you?”

“Lord Kharker.”

Instead of balking, the pilot nodded. “We’re the perimeter patrol, Lord Kharker, and of course we have no authority to deny you, of all people, the opportunity to accompany us. Do you require weapons?”

Kharker indicated the hunting rifle slung over his shoulder and the machete that slept in a leather sheath at his hip. “This is all I need.” He couldn’t hide his scowl. “You’re the perimeter patrol? Then you won’t be in the fight yourself?”

“Indeed, sir, and we leave immediately. The others have already lifted off.”

Suspicion reared its head. “Why did you delay lift-off?”

The pilot frowned, and a trickle of sweat ran from his brow. “Er, final preparations. We thought there might be something wrong with her.”

“The bird looks fine to me.”

“We had to make sure.”

Kharker relaxed. “You were told to wait for me, weren’t you?”

Seeing that the Hunter was taking it well, the pilot nodded. “Yes, Lord.”

Suddenly embarrassed by the obvious maneuverings of the Dark Lord and by his own predictable actions, Kharker coughed. “Well, goddamnit, I’m here now, so let’s get this show on the road!”

Within a minute, the military aircraft had been boarded and the circular platform it stood on had been raised to greet the chill wind of the outdoors. Above the battlement the bird now jutted from, Kharker could see nine other helicopters hovering impatiently. At the sight, his own embarrassment withered into a helpless chuckle.

“Roche,” he whispered, “you’ve got my number, don’t you?”

The bird joined its dark cousins in the sky, and the convoy dipped low into the valley to avoid the stiff winds that tortured the higher regions. Once it attained its new altitude, the convoy struck off in the direction of the Libertarians.

Kharker thought of Jean-Pierre as the mountains rolled away on both sides. Feeling the morning sun through the eastern window, he lit up a cigar and sank deeper into his thoughts. He pictured the good times he and the albino had shared before the appearance of Danielle. Now that the Gutter Angel had been purged from Jean-Pierre’s system, they could share even better times to come.

The convoy began a slow rise along one of the many mountains that populated this desolate corner of the world, and adrenaline washed away Kharker’s reverie. Soon battle would be upon them. The helicopter cleared the precipice and started forward over the woodland below. Then there was a clearing, and Kharker could see traces of blood on the snow, blood that would soon evaporate in the light of the sun—unless, of course, it was werewolf blood. Kharker prayed it wasn’t.

They flew over the wooded region that Sarnova had named as the Libertarians’ headquarters, and Kharker’s helicopter began a circling pattern around the main force, looking for foes that might have strayed beyond the main installation.

Settling over a still region, the chopper awaited further instructions. Although far away from the main action, Kharker was afforded a good view of the nine birds as they scoured the terrain for signs of their prey. From the cockpit, he could hear the garbled voices of the soldiers via radio as they relayed to their colonel what they were seeing. Not much, apparently, aside from the blood in the clearing and the tracks in the snow. However, there was no doubt that this was the place Maleasoel had chosen for her HQ. It was daylight now, and the Libertarians would be underground, unless a few werewolf scouts roamed the surface.

Once they’d appraised the area, the nine attack helicopters formed a wide circle and aimed their weapons on the Libertarians’ underground bunker. At a signal from Colonel Wheatshear, they began their assault, and Kharker found himself entranced by the awesome display of the powerful missiles streaking into the snow.

Explosions rocked the land, then more explosions below as the missiles triggered the expected booby-traps the Libertarians had left behind. Kharker’s hope ebbed, for it was clear to him and to the others that if Malie’s army had laid traps behind them, they were gone. Which meant that Jean-Pierre, too, was lost for the moment. Nevertheless, the assault continued, missiles boring through the snow to detonate underground.

After several minutes, the assault ended, and one helicopter landed in the clearing. Three humans stumbled out from the machine and, caught in a spell of psychic dominance, they marched toward the scarred wasteland that had once held the Libertarians, making their way to the edge of a hole, where they peered down into the bunker Malie’s army had carved from snow and stone.

The humans fanned out, then lowered themselves into the tunnels, where Kharker could no longer see them. After a minute of nervous silence, there came a loud explosion as one of the mortals triggered a booby-trap. To Kharker’s irritation, he felt a twinge of sadness at the loss; the human hadn’t even been given a fighting chance. On the other hand, his death had probably saved a few immortals from the same fate.

There were no other booby-traps. The two surviving mortals climbed out of the bunker and made their way back to the helicopter that had released them.

Five birds set down next to it, and out poured the raiding party of werewolves and other immortals that did not fear the sun. Leading them was Colonel Wheatshear.

With two birds hovering over them and the perimeter patrol chopper some distance away, some of the soldiers fanned out to explore the area surrounding the desecrated bunker, hoping to stumble upon some clues to where the Libertarians might have gone, but the main party, led by the Colonel, quickly descended into the smoke-filled tunnels and were lost from Kharker’s view. Part of him wanted to hop out and join them—the area was secure now—but another part just wanted to sit here and watch. What was the point in doing anything else? Jean-Pierre was gone, and there would be no battle to find sport in.

Just as he was thinking this, a blazing streak caught his eye. Roaring in from a ridge about a hundred feet to the west, the missile shot past his helicopter and continued swiftly along its trajectory, at last smashing into the still smoking remains of the Libertarians’ underground bunker—and detonating.

Kharker had no time to prepare, no time to brace himself.

The missile erupted with an explosion larger and more powerful than any he had ever witnessed. In the blink of an eye, it incinerated all the Castle soldiers within the bunkers’ immediate vicinity, then grew to engulf a wider area. The hovering birds burst into flame and tossed their fragments upwards. The helicopters in the clearing, too, were swept away in the might of the hellfire.

So bright that it blinded Kharker, the explosion sent shock waves that tossed his helicopter away as if at the flick of a mighty wrist. Even as it tumbled through the air, the bird started to disintegrate under the pressures of the sudden force. When it tilted so that its propellers could no longer keep it upright, the helicopter began a descent to the thick canopy of trees below, a plummet slowed somewhat because, even as it fell, the crumbling bird was still in the grip of the shock wave.

The propellers struck the highest treetops, snapping and spinning the dying bird towards the ground. It smacked up against tree after tree, tearing it into sections. In six separate pieces, the bird plowed into the snow and came to rest.

Time passed.

Kharker did not move, stunned by the recent developments and pinned as he was under the wreckage of a large chunk of what had once been a formidable attack helicopter. Then, as he began to regain control of himself, he shoved his way out from under the wreckage and searched about for survivors. He saw nothing.

He set off in the direction of the ridge that the missile had come from, then stopped dead. He’d been so completely blown off course that he no longer knew in which direction the ridge lay.

“Hell,” he muttered, and noticed for the first time that his cigar had been lost.

As he started to retrieve another one, a better plan occurred to him. Instead of him going after the Libertarians who’d fired the tactical nuke—it could have been nothing else—he’d let them come to him.

“Step into my web, you bastards.”

Would they come? Surely there would only be a handful, for how many werewolves could Liberty claim to possess, and how many would their leader devote to so simple a task? Just a few, surely. And, being of slim numbers, they would not approach the site of the explosion for fear that a pocket of Castle soldiers had survived.

On the other hand, they’d have noticed Kharker’s bird and concluded that it may yet hold some survivors. Since it was obviously a perimeter scout, it would not likely be armed very heavily. It followed that if the Libertarians wanted Castle soldiers to interrogate, they would descend on the downed chopper.

Kharker climbed a tree and waited.

In less than a minute, four shades approached, carrying machine guns that would shred even the flesh of an immortal. At their hips they wore wicked sabers.

Bastards, Kharker thought. Cowardly ambushing bastards.

As he took a bead on the leader of the quartet, he made a mental note to keep at least one of them alive for questioning.

He fired. The round of the elephant gun tore through the head of the leader and slammed through the chest of the shade directly behind him. Without a sound, the leader fell to the ground, the remains of his shattered head leaking gore across the snow. By the time he struck the ground, the other three had fanned out and were lifting their big guns to target their attacker.

Kharker fired again. A second Libertarian fell to the snow, nearly decapitated by the powerful round.

At this second shot, the surviving two located Kharker and opened fire. Kharker, anticipating this, had dropped to the ground immediately after his second kill. Above him, the bullets of the machine guns tore apart his place of concealment, but he was already on the move, finding cover and circling for an attack.

Realizing that their shots had failed to bring down the sniper, the two Libertarians slipped into the scarce underbrush, their guns at the ready. One of them, hearing something behind him, swiveled in time to see Kharker barreling down on him.

The Libertarian raised his gun and fired, blowing a hole in the Hunter’s abdomen, but this did not slow the arc of Kharker’s machete. The blade cut through its victim’s neck, separating the Libertarian’s head from his shoulders. Even as the body fell, Kharker grasped the head by its sweaty hair and brought it in close so that he could stare into its awestruck eyes. The mouth opened, tried to say something, but could not.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” replied the Hunter. “I’ll be back for you shortly.”

The last Libertarian, having heard the battle, emerged from the underbrush. Half a dozen rounds tore into Kharker before he found cover behind a nearby tree.

“Damn,” he said, feeling the wetness with his fingers.

His attacker continued firing and the bullets slowly began to tear the tree apart. Angered beyond the point of reason, Kharker leapt out and hurled his machete at the last Libertarian. The blade buried itself in the man’s face.

Once the body had fallen, he retrieved his machete from the remains of his enemy’s skull and slipped the blade back into its sheath, not bothering to wipe off the blood.

Making his way back to the beheaded Libertarian, Kharker placed the head back on the shoulders and let the immortal’s innate power do its work. As the wound mended, Kharker rose to his full height and placed a booted foot on the chest of his enemy, then pointed his rifle at the man’s face.

The wound healed quickly, although a vicious scar remained that would only disappear after the creature had fed. The man blinked and cleared his throat to test the limits of the damage, but he couldn’t contain a smile when he heard the sound of his throat working once again. Then he looked up at Kharker and his smile faded.

Kharker pressed his boot more firmly on the man’s chest, pushing him into the snow. “Talk,” he said.

The Libertarian set his chin. “I’m no rat. You can kill me now if that’s all you want.”

“No.”

Kharker yanked out his machete and severed one of the Libertarian’s arms. As the man screamed, the Hunter pressed him further into the snow.

Once the man had subsided, Kharker said, “This can go on all day if you like, son. However, I think it would be in both our interests if you loosened your tongue a little.”

“If I talk, will you release me?”

“If you don’t, I’m sure to kill you. And I’ll do it slow. Now tell me this: why did you bring the nukes along? That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“Mistress Maleasoel thought that you might betray us to Roche Sarnova, so she obtained some leverage. If, in the raid on the Castle, we found ourselves trapped, we were to use them to barter for our lives. If Blackie wouldn’t let us go, we’d bring the whole place down with us.”

“The threat of killing Jean-Pierre wasn’t enough?”

“That was just to bring you into line, but Malie wasn’t sure that you held enough sway over the Dark Lord.”

“How many nukes?”

When the man hesitated, Kharker raised his machete for another swing. “How many?” he reiterated.

“Four,” said the werewolf.

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m telling the truth! Please, let me go. The sun is up. With my wounds, I can’t survive in daylight much longer. I’ve got to get underground.”

Kharker pondered, not yet willing to dismiss the man. Of course, he was right; a werewolf could not use his powers to heal during daylight—not much, anyway. Really, though, Kharker should deliver the creature to Blackie for a more in-depth interrogation. After the major loss that Roche had just suffered, he deserved some answers. Not only that, but, wounded and still stunned by the turn of recent events, Kharker couldn’t think of the proper questions.

“What of Jean-Pierre?” he said. “How’s he doing?”

A grin crept across the Libertarian’s face. “The albino is dead.”

“What?”

“He tried to escape and the Captain killed him.”

Mind reeling, Kharker almost fired his rifle, but stopped himself at the last moment.

“Did you see his body?” Kharker said.

“No, but I trust in the Captain’s word.”

“That would be that D’Aguila fellow.”

“Of course. He’s taken—”

The Libertarian stopped himself just before he divulged anything more.

Kharker sensed his captive had been about to say something important and twirled his machete around menacingly. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” The man squirmed. “Can I go now?”

“You’ve got more to spill, but I’ve not the patience to sit here and talk to you further. So get up, you’re coming with me.”

Unable to stop himself, the Libertarian spat at Kharker’s leg. “Fuck you, Khark! I told you, I’m no rat! I’d rather die than be taken to the Castle for interrogation.”

“Then die.”

The Hunter sheathed his machete, bent down, grabbed a handful of matted hair and pulled the Libertarian to his feet. Shoving his captive before him, Kharker moved back into the area where his helicopter had come to rest. Hopefully, a radio would still be functioning and he could contact the Castle.

Just as he was thinking of how to phrase news of the disaster, his captive lunged to the side and started running.

“No!” roared Kharker, and ran after the man.

As soon as the Libertarian had gone ten feet, he slipped into his wolf form and kept running on all three legs. Werewolves can’t roam the surface in daylight, not in their beastly form, and as soon as the Libertarian found a clearing, the sun drenched him in fire.

The werewolf screamed as the sun found him. His momentum carried him beyond the clearing, but by the time he reached the shadows he was already disintegrating. When Kharker came to stand over him, he found little left but ash and bones.

“Son of a bitch!” Kharker said, as it hit him. “The question. The stupid question ...”

In that horrible moment, he realized the most important piece of information the man could have provided, the question that he hadn’t thought to ask.

“God damn it all to hell,” he said. “It should’ve been the first thing I asked him—where the fucking Libertarians have gone to!” Still swearing, he looked down on the charred bones. “No wonder you killed yourself. I guess you were right, you stupid loyal bastard. You weren’t a rat.”

Behind him, he heard stirring. He spun, rifle at the ready, to find three Castle shades watching him curiously. Kharker recognized one as the pilot of the bird that had carried him here.

“Lord Kharker, I’m glad to see you alive,” the pilot said. “We were thrown from the chopper when it hit the ground, and when we didn’t see you …”

The Hunter waved the words away. “Do any of the radios work?”

“No, sir.”

“Then follow me.” Kharker started back in the direction of his skirmish with the Libertarians. Without question, the others followed.

Shortly Kharker stared down at the place where the leader of the Libertarians had fallen. The man was gone, and so was the second one that Kharker had felled. From the tracks in the snow, the Hunter surmised that the second one had recovered from the wound in time to hoist his leader up and carry him off into the wilderness. They would be long gone by now.

Which left the forth one, the one that had taken both a blade through his face.

Kharker grinned when he stumbled across the still unconscious form. His wounds were mending fast, though, and Kharker could not allow this one to turn into ash as had his previous captive. So, without further thought, he severed the werewolf’s head. Hoisting the head by the hair, he turned to his three companions and pointed to the body with his machete.

“Carry it,” he ordered, and marched off in the direction of the tactical nuclear explosion. Behind him, he could hear the Castle soldiers fighting over who got to carry the headless corpse. He smiled wider and entered the wasteland.

*     *     *

When communication was lost with the attack force, Roche Sarnova dispatched a lone unarmed bird with a human pilot to investigate the fate of Colonel Wheatshear’s company. Ten minutes after the pilot had departed, he called back in to relate his findings. First, he described the scorched piece of earth that had so recently been the Libertarians’ headquarters.

“A tactical nuke,” suggested De Soto, who sat with the other officers in the War Room, listening to the human’s grim voice.

Sarnova nodded, his worst fears confirmed. Now he would have to get a relay to his spies in the mortal governments of the world, the ones that would’ve seen the nuclear explosion on their satellites. He had to erase that fact from mortal knowledge. Relaying that message would not be half as difficult as facing Ludwig’s widow.

The pilot went on to describe the band of survivors that huddled in the clearing beyond the wasteland.

“Five of them,” came the pilot’s voice. “No, one of ‘em’s dead, head cut off. One of ‘em’s holding up the head up to me ... fuck ...”

Then the human’s voice changed, became more gruff. “Blackie, are you there?”

“I’m here,” Sarnova replied, realizing what had just happened.

“Sorry to mess with your pilot’s head,” the voice said. “Anyway, this is Kharker here, if you didn’t know. Guess yer boy’s told you the news by now. I got one of them, Roche. One of Libertarians is in my hands right now, or at least the important part. Before I make your pilot lose control of his craft, I better let him have the use of his mind back. First, I request you send someone to fetch us soon. I doubt yer boy’s chopper would carry us, but this headless Libertarian isn’t going to last much longer in the light of day, if you see what I mean. And if I put the head back on him, he’ll just kill himself like the other one did. I’ll put him under the snow temporarily. That’ll help, but I think the swifter you get us back, the better.”

“Agreed. And well done, my friend.”

“I’ll be seeing you.”

“Khark, you still there?”

“No,” growled the pilot after a moment of silence, and Sarnova recognized the human’s familiarity with psychic dominance—and his dislike of it. “He’s out of my head. But he’s right. I can’t fit all five of them in here. If the Libertarian is that important, I could set down and take him back in time.”

“No. If he recovered, he’d kill you on your way back. Just hold your position, apprise us of any further developments. We’ll be sending out another chopper to collect Lord Kharker’s party.”

Within half an hour, the Libertarian was healed, drugged, and thrown in the dungeon for questioning.

Kharker was escorted to Sarnova’s chambers, where he told of the nuclear blast that had killed many Castle soldiers and how he’d barely survived it. After some brandy, he gladly recounted his battle with the Libertarian soldiers. However, his jovial façade faded toward the end.

“Jean-Pierre’s dead,” he concluded.

Roche nodded in sympathy, then raised a mug.

“To the memory of Jean-Pierre!” declared the Dark Lord.

Kharker raised his own mug, then hesitated. “No.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll not believe him gone until I feel his corpse in my hands. For all I know, D’Aguila lied to his men. Or perhaps that damned Libertarian was simply trying to get my goat.”

Sarnova noted the determination on his old friend’s face. Still, there was a great deal of doubt etched into the Hunter’s gruff features, and Roche knew that, despite his words, Kharker feared the worst even as he denied it.

“So you’ll not approach Sophia, the albino’s, ahem, daughter?” Sarnova said. “You’ll not inform her ...?”

“Not until I know for sure. Besides, I shouldn’t be distracting you with my troubles. For gods’ sakes, you’ve got enough of your own. Half your air force is gone, and more than half of your daybeasts. Compared to that, my troubles are small.” He raised his mug in a toast of his own. “To the fallen men and women of the Castle, that their deaths shall be avenged!”

Roche joined him in the toast, glad that Kharker was strong enough to set his grief aside, but at the same time afraid that the Hunter’s pride would refuse to admit that his own sorrow was justifiable.

Shortly, Kharker left the Dark Lord for some much-needed sleep, though Roche doubted that his friend’s slumber would be restful. Once Kharker had gone, Roche made his way to the dungeon to view the interrogation of the captured Libertarian. When the lead interrogator saw him watching, he stopped his grisly business and approached.

“How goes it?” Sarnova demanded.

The flayer beamed. “We’ve learned that Maleasoel has failed to join the Libertarians. She’s presumed dead—as well as all the troops she took with her! Fully a third of them were at her side and were supposed to rejoin the Libertarians already here with even greater numbers, but she never showed up.”

“Why?”

“He has no idea, although he suspects Captain D’Aguila does.”

“D’Aguila?”

“In the wake of Maleasoel’s disappearance, the Captain has assumed command of the Libertarians.”

Sarnova smiled. “Does our prisoner suspect foul play?”

“No. Apparently the Captain was Maleasoel’s lover.”

“All the better reason ...”

The flayer shrugged. “Maybe the Captain killed her to gain control over the army. It could be. However, this soldier suspects nothing of the sort. He feels only loyalty to his captain.”

Sarnova sighed, but he was glad that the Libertarians were not as strong a force as they might have been. On the other hand, they didn’t really need reinforcements if they had more nuclear weapons at their disposal. Which lead him to his final, and most important, question:

“Does he know where the rest of them are?”

The flayer let out a breath. “No. Believe me, he’s not lying. I have ways of getting at the truth.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“He says that this D’Aguila character anticipated his raiders might get caught and didn’t tell them where the new camp was to be set up.”

“Then how were they to get there?”

“They were to meet at a predetermined spot, where another lycan would join them, one who knew where the camp was. If the lycan thought that they were being monitored by us, he simply wouldn’t approach them. From that point, if he thought them okay, he would lead them, underground, to the new base.”

Sarnova ground his teeth, trying to keep his expression as blank as possible. “Keep it up. Maybe he’ll divulge something else.”

The flayer smiled. “Whether he does or not, my Lord, I assure you that I will indeed keep it up.”

With that, the man went back to his grim but apparently enjoyable task. Sarnova left the dungeon behind, not even slowing his step at the sound of the screaming at his back. In his mind, the Libertarian deserved every single second of it.

*     *     *

“This is bullshit,” someone said. “I’m hungry.”

Raulf punched him in the face. “Stow your whining and get back to work.”

Sullenly, the man obeyed, a trickle of blood staining his chin. Around them the remaining Libertarians were beginning to set up their new headquarters. It was slow, tentative work, as they had to perform the project solely from beneath the surface of the new mountain. If even a portion of the surface snow collapsed, the sun would pour in and many lives would be lost. They went in slow, carefully measured movements, though not without some grumbling.

Captain D’Aguila stewed silently. Why hadn’t the damned dogs returned yet? Something must have gone wrong.

Finally, to the great relief of the Captain, three werewolves returned—the surviving two that had led the assault and the one that had guided them to the new camp. At their arrival, relief flooded the Captain, and he drew them aside for a debriefing.

The two surviving raiders looked haggard due to their little battle, and D’Aguila was quick to devise several devious punishments for them. First, they’d come to him wounded, defeated, which bespoke of their obvious incompetence in hand-to-hand fighting, but, far worse, he’d given a strict order forbidding them to personally engage any of the Castle soldiers. They were to shoot the missile, observe its effects, and come straight back to him. However, when they told him of their foe, the formidable Lord Kharker, he forgave them their wounds, if nothing else.

“Why did you disobey me and attack the survivors of the patrol unit?” he demanded. “We have all the inside information we need.”

The leader of the raiding party, long recovered from the most telling signs of his encounter with Kharker, lowered his eyes to the snow. “Sir, we didn’t attack them for the sake of battle. We would never have gone against your wishes that way. But we were hungry. Sir, we haven’t really fed in over a week!”

Slowly, Raulf nodded. “You’re right.” He could see the visible relief of the two werewolves. “It’s been long since we’ve tasted the blood and flesh that we need, and I’m pleased with your execution of my plan.” He sighed, thinking of the spectacle it must have been.

Seeing his wistful look, the leader of the raiding party grinned. “Ah, my Captain, I wish you could’ve been there! It was beautiful. Ten of their mightiest attack helicopters destroyed, as well as all the troops they sent to rout us. It’ll be many years before that place doesn’t glow in the dark.”

D’Aguila laughed. He had much to be happy about. However, he also had great problems, the major one being something the werewolf had just brought up. If he would disobey D’Aguila because of hunger, so might others.

“You did that part well,” the Captain allowed. “Still, you disobeyed me and cost me two men—both of which might have been captured by the enemy.”

“But, sir! Even if they were captured, there’s no way their captors could use what they have to say to their advantage.”

“Still, you committed a high crime. Have no fear, though. Your treason will only make the rest of us stronger.”

“Sir, I’m afraid ... I don’t know what you mean ...”

“I don’t know how far two scrawny shades like yourselves can be stretched among a hundred and fifty, but it’s better than nothing.”

With that, the Captain’s biggest problem was solved. A half hour later, his stomach full, he set about the completion of his new headquarters. And, every now and then, to the companionable laughter of those about him, he’d release a loud belch.

*     *     *

Several miles away, deep in the icy ravine, Jean-Pierre began to stir. At first, he could only move his legs, and he realized that his upper torso was embedded in the cold hard mud of the river floor. Slowly, gingerly, he extracted himself from the grip of the tenacious ground and let himself drift upward. He floated up about ten feet until he hit the sheet of ice that covered the shallow river. He tried to strike at the thick, almost translucent wall, but his limbs were weak and the attempt unsuccessful.

I need time. Healing would take even longer, though, in the glaring light of the sun that waited just beyond the ice above.

The albino shoved himself off and let the currents carry him slowly along the river, ever closer to the Castle just a few long miles away.

Chapter 16

When Danielle woke up the next dusk, she found herself in her own bed, the covers carefully tucked in about her. Sophia had done this, she realized, though the ghensiv was nowhere in sight. Maybe the albino’s daughter was more friend than comrade, after all. Then again, maybe the Ice Queen hadn’t liked Danielle taking up half the floor.

Danielle struggled to sit up, but her head reeled with the effort. She let herself fall back to the pillow, where she began plotting her next course of action. First, she had to get up. That was important. Then she had to find Harry and tell him that Ruegger was here. She still couldn’t believe that Harry had slept with Cloire, but she wouldn’t hold that against him. Danielle smiled to imagine herself with Ruegger, once he’d been freed. The sight of him had quickened the hunger in her loins.

The second after she had this thought her eyes locked onto the dart-shredded publicity photo of Junger and Jagoda. Without warning, bile shot up her throat; it was all she could do to stumble to the restroom in time.

Done, she wiped off her face and smashed a fist against the floor.

“Bastards,” she said. “Maybe you didn’t do it to my body, but you sure enough did it to my mind.”

After she’d showered, shaved her legs, brushed her teeth and smoked the first cigarette of the evening, she dressed and ventured downstairs to the little café, where she had a big cup of coffee.

God, she was glad Ruegger was here, but she was so angry at Kharker for his betrayal and at the Balaklava for their very existence that she couldn’t think straight. The worst part, though, was there wasn’t much she could do about it. How could she free Ruegger?

*     *     *

In the kitchen of Cloire’s small room, Harry, always full of surprises, was whipping up some omelets for the two of them, while the she-wolf watched with sleepy eyes. She’d been fond of the mortal since the night she had first captured him, and even in those early days had fostered thoughts of corrupting him.

Corrupting and killing were two of her favorite pastimes, and she saw Harry as a perfect opportunity to warp the agents of good. She’d allowed herself to spend time with him, which she greatly enjoyed, all the while plotting to violate him in some way. But as the days passed, she realized that this had just been a pretense, an excuse to get close to the man. Now she was beginning to realize that she’d let the pretense slip away. She had grown too close to this mortal for her own good.

Smiling and wearing only his boxers, he brought her an omelet on a hot plate and plopped down beside her on the bed.

“Good,” she said after the first bite.

“My wife taught me how to cook.” She could see that, even after all these years, the thought of her still pained him. To lighten the mood, he patted his belly and said, “Much to my detriment, as you can see.”

She chuckled. “You look just fine to me, lover.”

Carefully, so as not to spill the food onto the bedcovers, they started to kiss—when someone knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” she said, her free hand reaching for one of the pistols she kept on the nightstand.

“Loirot.”

“Go away. I’m busy.”

“This is important,” came the reply, and this time it wasn’t Loirot’s voice. It was Kilian’s.

She handed her plate to Harry in order to free up both hands. “You might want to wait in the bathroom until this is over,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “My place is with you. Besides, I’m a pretty good shot myself.”

He retrieved his own large gun from the opposite nightstand, the one loaded with silver bullets.

“Come in, already,” Cloire said to the door.

Loirot, Kilian, and Byron entered, looking on in mild surprise as their leader, her breasts exposed, and her mortal lover steadied their weapons.

“Cloire ...” began Byron, his surprise absolute.

“State your business,” she said. “Then leave. I’ve got a breakfast to eat.”

Kilian stepped forward. “We’ve come to devise a plan, Cloire. We can’t stay here forever, and we’ve all heard the rumors that the Libertarians have arrived. Not only that, but that they’ve done Roche Sarnova some damage.”

Cloire shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything. I’ve been here enjoying myself. Until now.”

“Well, if you’d been up and about like the rest of us, you would’ve heard the rumors.”

She nodded impatiently. “Get on with it,” she commanded.

“Cloire, we want to know what your intentions are.”

She smiled wickedly. “Well, they’re not honorable, if that’s what you mean.”

“Cloire. We need answers, and we need them soon. Byron and I have set aside our differences, and Loirot is with us. We’ve decided to leave this place, and were hoping that you would join us ...” He waved his hand in the direction of Harry. “Without him.”

Silently, she cursed herself. This had been bound to happen sooner or later, but she’d hoped that by the time this encounter cropped up, she would have something planned to say. She had a plan for everything, except this. How the hell was she supposed to get herself out of this situation? She certainly didn’t want to lose her crew. Then again, they were often more trouble than they were worth. Add to that the fact that they no longer had a boss, that Vistrot was gone forever, and they were pretty much screwed, as far as she was concerned.

Sneering, she said, “If you left here, where would you go? Not back to New York.”

“No,” Byron said. “Amelia hasn’t sent word to us, although we’ve tried to establish a link with her several times. We can’t be assured of a good reception there, and until we can, we’ve got to find something else. We were thinking of Lereba. In the wake of the recent disaster there, we figure many crime lords could benefit from our services.”

“You’re kidding. Why the hell would we want to relocate to Morocco, for gods’ sakes? Have you lost your minds? I can see why you want me back.”

“Then where would you have us go?” Loirot said.

She laughed. “Well, if he still lives, I’m sure Hauswell would welcome our loyalty. We might have to break the ice first, prove ourselves, but with him scrambling to put his kingdom back together, he couldn’t really refuse.”

Loirot’s smile nearly took in his ears, and he turned to his two companions to judge their reactions. They seemed to reach an agreement and turned back to the she-wolf with pleased, though wary, looks.

“So you’ll join us?” Kilian said.

She paused. She could feel Harry beside her, sense his trepidation, and tried to force herself into her former state of detachment. To her half-hearted fury, it would not come. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet Kilian’s.

“If I go, so does Harry.”

After a few moments of reflection, Kilian nodded reluctantly. “If that’s the way you want it, we won’t object.” He turned to Harry, and his next words didn’t surprise Cloire. “Mortal,” he said, “will you Turn?”

Harry looked all about him, apparently at a loss, but then his eyes glowed hotly. With more grit than Cloire had expected, he said, “No.”

Kilian turned his gaze back to Cloire. “So you’ll come,” he said, but it was more a question than a statement.

Cloire frowned. “I … don’t know.” Her bluntness surprised even herself.

Almost as if he’d expected as much, Kilian nodded casually. “We’ll give you a day to make up your mind. Tomorrow night, say midnight, we’ll come back here and see where you stand.”

“Sounds like a showdown.”

“No, Cloire. If we must part ways, we will do so amiably. Despite everything that’s happened recently, we wish you no harm. As long as you return the favor, we’re even.”

She agreed to the terms. Without another word, the three remaining members of Jean-Pierre’s death-squad left the room. She replaced her weapons on the nightstand and turned to Harry, who had similarly disarmed himself and was playing with the remains of an omelet on his plate; it had cooled considerably.

“Well?” she asked, and noted the grimace he was trying to hide.

“It’s your call,” he said. “But if you go, I won’t. I’ve come to feel ... strongly, about you, but I’m not going to live my life with a bunch of killers.”

“Harry,” she said, softly. “I’m a killer.”

Looking extremely uncomfortable, he said nothing, but his wince was all the answer she needed.

“If we stayed together,” she said, “would you want me to stop killing?”

“Yes. Or, at least, do like Ruegger and Danielle do. Just eat the bad guys. That I could live with.”

Unexpectedly, that brought a smile to her lips. Harry wouldn’t sacrifice his own moral principals and would try to force them upon her, but he was honest about it, and unapologetic. She respected that, but she didn’t know if she could alter her dark side and was afraid that, in the end, she would disappoint Harry by killing an innocent and he would either leave her or kill her. On the other hand, she didn’t really want to start over with the death-squad. She wanted a new chapter in her life to begin, and she wanted Harry by her side while she went on the journey.

At last, she took his hand in hers. “Lover, I’ve got a lot to think about. Besides, you’ve got something to do. I’d forgotten, but last night Danielle came in here and demanded to talk to you.”

“About what?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, hon, but I’ll let you look into it yourself.”

“And you?”

For a moment, she felt tears burn behind her eyes, trying to get out. Decisions, decisions. Then the crisis passed and she shoved him toward the door.

“Go,” she said. “When you return, maybe I’ll have some answers for you.”

*     *     *

“How shall we attack the stronghold?” Colonel Zan asked for the second time, meaning a newly discovered bastion of Subaire’s forces in London.

“Swiftly,” Roche Sarnova replied.

“But the strategy?”

Sarnova smiled, knowing that the officers in the War Room would not like what he had to say. “Let the General on scene decide the strategy. Too long have we been issuing orders and attack plans from afar. Let the leaders of the front lines decide the best course of action.”

Zan stared at him, disbelieving.

“There are spies among us,” Roche said. “We all know this. Every time we issue an order to a commander on the front lines, Subaire’s able to counter it. Why? Because one of us, or more than one, is telling her. From here on out, I’ll lead the war in a different direction. I will lead by not leading. If I tell the good general how to best assault Subaire’s stronghold, word will find its way to Subaire and the general’s assault will be repelled. We’ve seen this over and over. So, Colonel Zan, I advise you to tell the general that it is up to him how best to proceed. Of all of us, he’s in the best position to decide strategy anyway.”

“He lacks perspective,” countered Zan.

Roche shrugged. “If we give him an order, he’ll be lacking a head. So go, Colonel, tell him to proceed as he sees fit.”

The room stirred, and Sarnova relished the horror of his people’s reactions. How many of them were spies? None, perhaps. Or many. All he knew was that, for the sake of his shuddering empire, he must put a stop to all the intrigue.

Sarnova stood, and the din of the room calmed.

Off to the side, Colonel De Soto growled, and Sarnova spun on him. “You have something to say, Colonel?”

Quick to respond to the challenge, De Soto nodded. “You’re making a grave mistake, my lord. This is not a sound strategy.”

“Col. De Soto, if you disagree, then fine, but I will not change my mind. Put the word out, all of you. Tell the men on the front lines that they’re better off on their own. Tell them to do as they think best. We’ll give it a few days, see if the new tactic pays off. If it doesn’t, we’ll revert to more direct commands. If I hear that any of you are going against these new instructions, I’ll have you put to death on the instant. Is that understood?”

Roche Sarnova swept from the room and returned to his quarters for a drink of coffee before his next task—to oversee the first series of chess matches to determine his heir—and was not surprised to find Ambassador Mauchlery waiting for him. However, the Ambassador seemed surprised to find Roche smiling.

“It went well, I take it?”

“We’ll see.”

Roche told him about the meeting, and by the time he was finished, the Ambassador was smiling, too.

“I wish I could’ve seen the looks on their faces,” he said.

“It was gratifying.”

“So we may have a chance to win the war, after all.”

“We will see.”

“What of the Libertarians?”

“I’ve thought of something to end that threat, as well.”

“Yes?”

Sarnova just smiled.

Seeing that his friend would not reveal his plan, Mauchlery said, “Where are you off to now? The chess game?”

“Yes. Actually, I’ve changed the schedule around somewhat.”

“How so?”

“Originally, the eight survivors of the Pit were to face each off in four games the first night. The four victors were then to compete in two games the following night. On the third night, the last two were to compete to determine my heir.”

“But you’ve changed it.”

“I’ve decided the first two rounds will be finished tonight, with only a short recess between them.”

After a moment, Francois nodded in understanding. “You wish to see how Kiernevar fares, is that it?”

“Exactly. If he survives the first two rounds, he and the final contender will face each other tomorrow. If he loses, so much the better. I can’t take that chance, though. If he wins both games tonight, I must go to my alternate plan.”

“Which is?”

Again, the Dark Lord just smiled.

*     *     *

After successfully seeking out Sophia (predictably helping the Funhouse set up for that night’s performance), Danielle told her the news of Ruegger’s return, and the Ice Queen seemed pleased, but it was hard for the vampiress to fully gauge her true feelings. Like her father, Sophia was a mystery to Danielle.

The Ice Queen had some information of her own to exchange. “They’re only rumors,” she admitted, “but there is some truth to them.”

“What?”

“The Libertarians are here. Apparently, they attacked Roche Sarnova’s raiding party with a tactical nuclear missile.”

“Christ!”

As Sophe fleshed out the story, Danielle found herself torn between gratitude and sorrow. Surely most of the denizens of the Castle were an evil lot, but a wholesale slaughter of them seemed to be overkill, as it were. Then she remembered the waiter at the Blood and Stone and knew that over ninety percent of the residents of the Castle shared a similar morality. The Castle was evil. Even Sarnova, who promised such great deeds, would kill a mortal as thoughtlessly as he would floss his teeth. And the Libertarians, though certainly no saints, were at least trying to accomplish a righteous cause—if vengeance could ever be called righteous.

“Good for Malie,” she heard herself say.

Sophia nodded. “Well, I’m glad Ruegger’s back. How do you plan to get him out?”

“I’m going to have a little talk with Blackie.”

Looking skeptical, Sophe gave the vampiress a brief hug. “If I can be of assistance, just drop on by.”

Danielle found Harry in the bar that had become his second home. When he saw her, he raised his martini (his first of the day) in greeting. “I was just coming to get you.”

“I’m sure you were,” she said, but did not sit down to join him. She still wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject of Ruegger’s arrival. Also, she wasn’t sure how to approach Harry now, in light of the fact that he was Cloire’s lover.

Sensing her unease, Harry took her by the arm and steered her to the bright shadows of a nearby booth. When they were both seated, he ordered a second drink and asked if she wanted any. Still feeling the effects of last-night’s binge, she declined.

“What is it?” Harry said. “Cloire told me you came by last night.”

“I did.” Unable to look him in the eyes, she glanced down to her fidgeting hands.

“You don’t like me with her, do you?” he asked.

She shook her head.

He sighed. “Sometimes I don’t, either. The other night, I was watching her sleep, and a horrible thought occurred to me.”

She met his gaze. “You thought about killing her.”

He nodded. “Sometimes she still refers to me as the Slayer. She’s well aware of the deeds I did when I was younger. Also, she’s aware that she could just as easily have been a target of mine as any of the others were. I think that appeals to her for some reason.”

“She’s twisted, Harry. Stay with her any longer and she’ll twist you, too.”

He took another sip of his drink. “Anyway, that’s not what you came to talk to me about.”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“Ruegger’s back.” For a moment, he looked stunned, speechless. Then one of the biggest smiles Danielle had ever seen spread across his face.

“Let’s go to him,” Harry said.

“He’s in prison.”

He ordered another drink and listened to every word she had to say.

*     *     *

Many times throughout the previous day, Jean-Pierre had lost consciousness. But this time, when he opened his eyes to find the air above the layer of ice dark with the onset of night, he knew his time had come. Still weak, he knocked himself a hole in the frigid ceiling and crawled to the snow-covered bank of the little river.

“Damn,” he muttered, his teeth chattering. It was cold.

The water began to freeze on his skin. He’d better get moving unless he wanted to wind up a pop-sickle. He took note of the mountains around him. To his surprise, he realized he wasn’t that far from the one holding the Castle. In fact, its blazing lights were the only sign of civilization in sight. They called to him, spurring him on. Somewhere inside its stone halls waited Kharker, his dearest friend, and Sophia.

Shaking off the ice, he thrust one foot in front of the other and forced himself toward the lights.

*     *     *

When she entered the Throne Room, Danielle found it busy and tense. Leaning forward in their seats, the remaining half of the Dark Council sat their thrones, as did Roche Sarnova. Before them lay four small tables, and on each of these four tables loomed a stone chessboard. Two shades crouched opposite each other at each of these tables, intent on the game before them, as well they should be. One of these shades was Kiernevar, wearing a jacket probably issued to him by Sarnova in order to mask the sight and stench of his feces. To Danielle, he seemed the least perturbed individual there. She wondered if he was winning. A glance at the board told her it was too early to tell.

A throng of people surrounded the contestants, leaving an opening just wide enough so that the Dark Council could also see what was going on. Pausing only long enough to size up the situation, Danielle began her approach on Roche Sarnova. Seeing her, his guards withdrew their sabers.

“The Lord is not hearing petitions at this time,” one said, careful to keep his voice low.

“I couldn’t give a fuck.” She turned her gaze on the Dark Lord in his throne. “Hey, you! Blackie!”

The guards took two big steps toward her before Sarnova called out, “Leave her be.” His large dark eyes studied Danielle. He glanced at the chess-war in front of him and, seeing nothing there to keep him riveted, gave is attention to Danielle. “You’re the one they call the Gutter Angel, aren’t you?”

“My name is Danielle.”

“Oh, I know. I was going to throw you in jail. I would have, if it hadn’t been for Lord Kharker. He convinced me that you weren’t part of the plot to kill me.”

“If that’s an attempt to get me to take it easy on him, it’s a waste of your time.”

He nodded. “So what’ve you come to see me about?”

“Take a wild guess.”

With a thumb and pointer finger, he rubbed his thick eyebrows, which hid his eyes for a moment. Then, perhaps a little sadly, he said, “Danielle, I can’t release Ruegger, not now.”

“Why not? He was only doing what he thought was right.”

“So was Hitler. The Darkling is still a threat to me, although ...”

“What? Although what?”

He frowned at the games behind her. “Nothing. Now is not the time.” She could feel the weariness coming off of him like smoke from burning wreckage. “Danielle ... please ... leave now.”

“But Ruegger—”

“I know you love him, but let it go. You’ll only do yourself harm if you do something rash. Trust me. I will have a talk with Ruegger, see if he can be persuaded ...”

“Damn you, you’d better release him.”

“It’s up to Ruegger now.”

*     *     *

That night, needing to feed and unwilling to return to the Blood and Stone—and equally unwilling to buy a human off the trading blocks—Danielle moved down several floors to a less prosperous portion of the Castle, to a “blood brothel” where patrons could simultaneously satisfy their sexual and immortal urges. They could sleep with the girls and boys of the brothel, as well as feed from them, but not kill them. It was Vegetarian only. Though Rosie’s Din did not prosper as other brothels in the fortress did, Danielle found it one of the only bright spots in the Castle.

She paid a fee, selected her “mate”, and moved on to a private room.

The young human girl she had selected was polite and friendly, but she seemed disappointed that Danielle did not want to make love.

“Don’t you find me sexy?”

Danielle almost blushed. The girl was actually quite attractive, and she knew that Ruegger would not object to such a union, but to Danielle at that moment, sex simply did not appeal to her. The shadows of Junger and Jagoda loomed long, and she wondered when she would ever be able to view sex in a more healthy light. Soon, she hoped, promising herself that she would be ready the moment Ruegger was released. For the moment, intimacy was the last thing on her mind.

She took blood from the girl and smiled as the familiar waves of strength rolled over her. Then, to Danielle’s surprise, the girl started stroking her hair and singing her a lullaby. Danielle, unaccustomed to such gentleness in this place, suspected an ambush and braced herself.

Instead, the girl sang on. Eventually, Danielle relaxed and drifted off into some semblance of sleep, and when she opened her eyes the girl slept beside her, snoring softly. Danielle left a tip on the pillow and made her way out.

To her further surprise, she saw the werewolf Cloire approach the blood brothel even as she left it. The former enemies stared at each other for a moment.

Cloire laughed. “You should see the look on your face.”

Danielle shook herself. “What’re you doing here? You can’t kill anybody here, you know.”

Cloire shrugged. “A promise I made to Harry.”

Without another word, she brushed past Danielle and entered the Din. Danielle blinked, surprised that Cloire would go to such lengths to appease a human, but the shock wore away as she began to understand that there was something very real between the she-wolf and the Slayer. Perhaps, just perhaps, Cloire wasn’t so twisted after all.

Danielle moved down the torch-lit corridors of the Castle, making her way into the dark tunnels of the catacombs and into the dungeon. Soon she stood before Ruegger’s cell.

Behind those bars, he smiled at her.

In that moment, all thoughts of Junger and Jagoda washed away from her to be replaced by sincere longing for this creature, this man whom she loved above all others. For a long moment, she stood there as if turned to stone by the very sight of him, but then she broke free of the spell and rushed to him.

They kissed through the bars. She stayed for perhaps an hour, talking to him about her concerns and about events happening in and around the Castle, and when she left him at last, her step was a little lighter, more spirited. Somehow, someway, things would work themselves out. He would be freed, or she would help him escape. They might die trying, but she was more than willing to give her life in the attempt, and she knew that if the situation were reversed, he would do the same for her.

The image of his face fixed in her mind, she moved into the upper chambers of the Castle, where the Funhouse was just beginning its show.

*     *     *

Breath steaming, Jean-Pierre approached the Dark Lord’s mountain, his every step faster than the one before. The lights of the Castle nearly blinded him, but he welcomed them.

As he neared the base of the sharp mount, he swore. He’d hoped to scale the cliffs and make his way into the Castle within an hour or so, but he quickly realized that he was still too weak for such an attempt. If he was lucky, he might climb halfway up only to find the strength sapped from his limbs from exertion. From there, he’d fall back into the ravine, more wounded than before.

Without warning, he stumbled upon a scene of sheer beauty and horror. The sight took his breath away.

Before him, layers and layers of human bones and body parts lay in great piles, all but the most recent trapped in prisms of ice. It was a gruesome display, and by its random nature he assumed that it had not been man-made. Rather, it was an accident. Perhaps, though, it was a fortunate one.

Looking upward at the Castle, he smiled.

“The Blood and Stone,” he murmured.

He’d dined there many times, of course, and often had he thrown an errant finger or such off the balcony. He remembered wondering where those pieces ended up, and now he had his answer. Even as he watched, a dismembered and partially-eaten arm fell from one of the many balconies and buried itself in the snow not ten feet from where he now stood. Sophia had taught him to respect life, and so he would. But this he could not pass up.

He scrambled over to the arm and sank his teeth into what flesh remained. Though just a table-scrap, it strengthened him. When he was done, he craned his head up at the balconies and wondered if a second meal would be forthcoming.

He didn’t like being reduced to a scavenger, but if he was to see Kharker and Sophia again, he needed all the strength he could get. Though he doubted that such scraps would make him strong enough to scale the sheer face of the mountain, he knew he could always circle around and climb it from its more gentle side. It would take more time, but time was the one thing he did not fear.

*     *     *

When Ruegger woke up, he found Roche Sarnova perched a few feet away on an upturned box. Instantly, he bolted up, alert, but there was no one present except for the Dark Lord.

“Did I scare you?”

“How long have you been sitting there?” Ruegger said.

“A few minutes. To tell you the truth, I was dozing a little. I haven’t been getting much sleep lately.”

“I can imagine.”

They stared at each other, sizing each other up. To Ruegger, it was strange that this silence was such a comfortable one. And it was true what the Dark Lord said; he did look weary. The man was clean-shaven and flushed from a recent kill, but his eyes were sad and opaque. Still, Ruegger was impressed at the energy Sarnova radiated, and it wasn’t hard to imagine why his subjects valued him as much as they did.

“You look like you could use a cup of coffee,” said the Dark Lord.

“I wouldn’t refuse a cigarette, either.”

Sarnova smiled, withdrew a pack from a pocket and offered the Darkling a smoke and a light, both of which were accepted.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Now, if you’d like that coffee, I suggest we relocate to my den. Would that present a problem?”

Ten minutes later and Ruegger was sitting opposite Roche Sarnova in an enormously comfortable armchair, working on his second cup of coffee. Along the nearest wall ran a window that peered out across neighboring mountains. A barrage of snow pelted the glass, seeking out its weak points. Not far away, in a fireplace taller than a man, an inferno raged so hotly that neither Ruegger nor Sarnova would sit close to it for fear of igniting their clothes.

“Feel better now?”

“Much.” What Ruegger really needed was to feed, but he knew better than to ask Sarnova if he would permit this; no matter how friendly the Dark Lord might appear at the moment, he would still want Ruegger to be in a weakened state. Just in case.

“You’re probably curious what this is all about,” Roche Sarnova said.

“Probably.”

Sarnova scanned the room until he saw what he was looking for, then used his powers to summon a bottle of liqueur into his hand, from which he added a little spice to his coffee. He swished it around his mouth, than added another dose.

“Want some?”

“Not right now.” Ruegger needed to stay alert. Whatever Blackie wanted of him, he was about to find out.

“Ruegger,” Sarnova said, careful to keep his voice even. “Do you really think I killed Ludwig, or had him killed? Please, take your time. This is very important.”

“I don’t need any time. The truth is I don’t know. You certainly had motive. With him dead, your Undead Jerusalem would be a lot easier to bring to life.”

“But his wife—’

“You couldn’t anticipate her reaction.”

“Someone did.”

“You think Ludwig’s murder was just a means by which to get Maleasoel to attack you?”

“Perhaps,” Sarnova said.

“By that theory, the plot against Ludwig was really a plot against you.”

“Indeed.”

Ruegger took a sip of his coffee, which was very good, and stared out the window. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll bite. Who do you think’s behind all this?”

“I wish I knew. Obviously, someone who wanted my forces crippled. It could’ve been Subaire.”

“It wasn’t her.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I can’t, but I trust my source.”

“I see.” Sarnova sat his cup down and did not touch it again. “To be honest, I don’t know who killed Ludwig, only that I did not. You must believe that.”

“I’m tired of the preamble, Sarnova. What’s your game?”

“Okay, Ruegger. Here it is. I need your help.”

“I’m listening.”

“The Sangro Sankts—yes, Kharker told me that you know of them now—assigned me to choose a successor in the event that I’m murdered, which doesn’t give me much confidence in them, needless to say. Their purpose, other than to protect the acting Dark Lord, is to keep immortals from human knowledge, and their frame of mind is that humans are inferior to us; what I’m trying to do, the changes I’m trying to bring about, goes against what they stand for. They don’t want humans aware of us, and they certainly don’t want us to have our own country, which would bring us down to the level of mortals. Or, at least, such is their opinion. I disagree.”

“You think they might try to kill you.”

“More likely, they’ll just allow someone else to do the wet work for them.”

“Why not go into hiding?”

Sarnova almost laughed. “If I were the man I used to be, I’d kill you just for suggesting it.”

“Really, though. Why not? You’ve obviously failed here. From what I’ve heard, Subaire is winning and your own troops are turning against you. Not only that, but Maleasoel has decimated your defense and might have enough nuclear devices to level the whole castle. What’ve you got to stick around for?”

Sarnova sobered. “I can’t run, Ruegger. It’s not in my nature. Besides, I think I have an even chance of coming out of this thing alive.”

Ruegger refrained from commenting.

“You’re probably wondering where you come in,” Sarnova said.

“I don’t want to be your successor. That what you’re getting at?”

“Not directly. Tradition has it that a ruler can directly chose a successor if he or she is in imminent danger, but for me to do this would be to admit to my people that I’m going to fail them, which I’m determined not to do. Instead, I’m holding these contests to determine my heir—which is the way a ruler does it in times of peace.”

“Why would a ruler need a successor in a time of peace?”

“To build dynasties, to marry your heir off in order to have greater influence in other lands. I’ve done it before. But once you marry a successor off, he or she is no longer your successor, although he or she does retain some of their original power. So now I must find another, and at the same time not lose face. Unfortunately, a lunatic named Kiernevar has entered the competition.”

“I’m acquainted with him.”

“At first, I thought little of this turn of events, but his abilities have been very surprising ... very unfortunate ... and he’s become something of a problem. Just a short while ago, he defeated his opponent in the second round of chess that will determine my heir. He has only one more game to go, tomorrow night. However, his victories have been so decisive that he’s expected to win again tomorrow.”

“You don’t want him to win.”

“Of course not. He would be a poor king.”

“And an embarrassment.”

“You’re a cynic, Ruegger. You’re right, he would be an embarrassment, but as hard is it may be for you to believe, I actually want what’s best for my kingdom, and Kiernevar is not that.”

“You are.”

“History will be the judge of that. At any rate, I’m a better king than Kiernevar could ever be, but if he wins the next game, he’s in. To prevent this, I have only one option: to choose someone to test his strengths, to go up against him in battle. And, since the battle is chess, I come to you, a chess-player of some renown.”

“You want me to beat him for you.”

“If you can.”

“I haven’t seen him play.”

“He’s good,” Sarnova said. “But if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“You seem very confident.”

“I have to be. You’re my only hope.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Freedom, of course. If you agree to go up against Kiernevar, I’ll liberate you, which is more than you deserve. In all fairness, I should execute you just for good measure, but you have quite a reputation and are well liked by many in an outlaw sort of way. It would be better public relations to let you go—what’s more, to give you a chance to be king.”

“I don’t want to be king.”

“Good. Because I am the king and have no intention of stepping down. Just so we got that straight. Anyway, you’ll have your freedom. In fact, if Kiernevar loses the next fight, you won’t even have to fight him.”

“What’s the catch?”

Sarnova eyed his coffee longingly. “Well, there is a penalty if you lose the game.”

“Which is?”

“To ensure that no one entered the competition lightly, the penalty for losing is death. So it was in the Arena; so it is on the chessboard.” He let a beat go by, then smiled. “So what do you say?”

Chapter 17

“Hell no!” said Danielle, pacing up and down the room furiously. “That’s what you should have said.”

Ruegger watched her stride, knowing from the scowl on her face that he should stay silent. Instead he said, “If I’d done that, baby, I wouldn’t be here now.”

“Goddamnit, Ruegger!”

Tear-stricken, she flung herself against his chest. He wrapped his arms about her back. As he ran a hand through her hair, he whispered, “Baby, it was the only way.”

For a long time, they stood like that, Danielle sobbing, crushed against him, and Ruegger trying to comfort her. He didn’t like it that she was so worked up about this; that meant she had some reason to be. Despite the fact that Ruegger rated a high place among even the most myth-shrouded figures in chess history, she was scared—from which Ruegger deduced that she had a high opinion of his opponent, Kiernevar, or at least his chess skills. Though Ruegger wasn’t one to brag about his abilities, he didn’t doubt his mastery over his favorite board game, so why did Danielle?

“What is it, baby?” he said, once her sobbing had died down. “Why so afraid for me?”

“Ruegger, damnit, you’re the fucking poet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Come on now, we’re on the same side here.” He put his hands to each side of her face and lifted it up so that she was forced to look right at him. “I’m the poet,” he repeated. “What’s that mean?”

Without opening her eyes, she said, “You think about the curse in poetic terms. We must sin to live, that’s how you explained it to me. Not we must drink blood to survive, not that we must sleep during the day. We must sin, that’s what you said. And you said that the more we sinned, the stronger we’d become, which makes since in a poetic sort of way, but I realize that that’s how you think. I didn’t take you at your literal word, and you didn’t expect me to.

“Also,” she added, “your mind is split. On one hand, you think in poetry, but when it comes to action, you think coldly, logically, analytically. Almost to a fault. You see what I mean?”

“Is this a riddle?”

“I’m suggesting that you use your poetic side to find the fallacy involved in a logical man fighting Kiernevar. Just take a second, you’ll see what I mean.”

“Chaos versus reason, you mean? Chaos being the stronger.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, back in the day, I could’ve shown Kiernevar a thing or two.”

“I don’t like to think of you that way.”

I never should have told her about my past. “I’m not that person anymore.”

“I know. But there’s a part of you that’s closed to me. A dark part. I’m afraid of what you could do if you let your guard down.”

“Don’t be.”

Suddenly, her voice became a whisper, and an urgent one. “Ruegger, baby, I don’t care about all that, that’s not what we should be thinking about. The fact is that you’re going up against Kiernevar tomorrow night, if he lasts that long—but he’s going to. For some reason, I don’t know, I can’t explain it ... It’s like he’s an elemental of some kind. He’s the Godzilla of lunatics, and he’s unstoppable. He was one of Jean-Pierre’s flock, one of a horde of the most wretched and demented human beings alive. Out of all of them, he was the one, the most far-gone, the only one so completely removed he couldn’t follow the albino’s psychic demands. You see what I mean?”

“He’s the cream of the terrible crop, the essence of madness. That’s what you’re getting at.”

“Right. You’re the other side of the coin ... You might’ve been pretty far-gone yourself once, but now you’re the most analytic and logical person I know. The most sane. You are to logic what Kiernevar is to its opposite, or close enough.”

“In other words,” he elaborated, “I don’t have a chance.”

“Exactly. So let’s get the fuck out here before Kiernevar beats you, they sentence you to execution, and you have to revert back to the way you were before ... evil, savage ... in order to free yourself—because at that point it’ll be the only thing that can save you.”

He nodded. “So that’s what you’re afraid of. That I’ll lose and be forced to run amok.”

Without hesitation, she said, “That’s it, baby. I know you’re powerful and could cause a lot of damage if you wanted to.”

He stared into her eyes, trying to detect the reason why she said this. After all, it was only recently that he’d begun to hone his preternatural skills to a sharpness he’d never acquired before. Not only were his skills becoming quicker and stronger, they were gaining in magnitude. He’d tried to keep his experiments to himself until he could determine his new range, but from what she’d said he realized that mere silence on his part hadn’t been enough to prevent her from discovering his secret.

“I’ll be good,” he promised.

“That’s just it, though. If it comes to that—if Sarnova sentences you to death—then I don’t want you to hold back. Ruegger, you mean more to me than anyone or anything else ever has, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to see you killed over a fucking chess game. You see? If it happens that way, I’ll want you to be as brutal as you’ve got to be to escape. But it doesn’t have to go that far. It doesn’t. We should escape ... and do it as soon as possible.”

“No. We’ll stay here, I’ll beat Kiernevar, and Sarnova will let us both go free Logic has got to be stronger than disorder, and I’m willing to put my life on the line to prove it.” He paused. “The way you’re looking at it—well, it’s too poetic. Life isn’t that way. Come to think of it, that’s why I stopped writing in the first place. Because chaos doesn’t have to win.”

“But it always does, baby.”

“Not this time. After I defeat him and we’re released, we can start all over, reevaluate the whole situation.”

“Rueg ...”

“I’m not a coward, Dani. I won’t back out. This is the only way.”

For a long time, she was silent, then: “Okay. I know you think I’m being stupid, but I want you to know, if you change your mind—for instance, if you come across Kiernevar between now and then and you see what I mean—then you can come back to me and change your mind without losing face.”

He took her hand and led her over to the bed. She resisted for just an instant, then gave in. The truth was she seemed relieved that what Ruegger wanted now was to relax and get to know her again. As he watched, she let the tension drain from her, as he allowed his own to leave him. Soon after reclining on the bed they were talking warmly to each other, sometimes holding hands and kissing, and sometimes in various states of undress.

When he began to help her get her jeans off, though, she stiffened.

“What’s wrong?”

She looked away.

“Junger and Jagoda,” he said.

She hissed out a breath. “Yeah.”

He backed off. “Don’t worry. We don’t have to. If they’d done that to me, I would need some time, too.”

“No,” she said, and he was surprised by her ferocity. “No! If I can’t make love to you, then they’ve won. I’ve been through this before, but this time I’m prepared. As far as I’m concerned, Junger and Jagoda can go to hell.”

She pulled him close and kissed him. They took full advantage of having their own room, which was a luxury they hadn’t been afforded since they’d been together at the Lodge. After Ruegger had agreed to go up against Kiernevar, Sarnova had granted him a few perks. Not only was the room beautiful and comfortable, it also boasted a hot-tub—a large, bubbling cauldron fashioned from granite. It was there that Ruegger fell in love with Danielle all over again.

“I love you,” he told her an hour after their conversation about madness, staring up into her big black eyes.

They were just playing around now, relaxing in their new comforts. His member inside her, she straddled him, rocking back and forth and up and down, trying to see if she could get him fully hard again.

“I love you, too,” she said.

Her eyes were wet, but it might’ve been from the sweat that ran down her forehead and collected in her slyly-curved eyebrows. He wasn’t sure, but he knew that the moisture in his own eyes came from tears, not sweat. It was then that he realized part of him had never expected to see her again.

“What’s this?” she asked.

She touched her lips against his cheeks, tasting his tears. As his eyes closed, he felt himself grow hard again. Just then, someone knocked on the door.

*     *     *

After feeding off the scraps that were thrown down to him, Jean-Pierre realized he needed to move on. He couldn’t go up the side of the precipice, he knew. Slowly, he picked his way around the mountain and started upwards.

It was slow, tiring work, and he quickly exhausted himself. Before long, he sank to knees and curled up against a large rock. I need rest. The wounds that the Libertarians had inflicted on him were still causing him some discomfort, but the holes had healed, even if they did leave scars in their wakes. The blood froze against his flesh.

After the wave of weariness had passed, he rose to his feet and staggered up the mountain. Next time the wave will be longer. Then longer still. Then it won’t pass at all. He’d better hurry.

*     *     *

When Danielle opened the door, Roche Sarnova appeared in the doorway, guards to either side. He nodded to Danielle, then settled on the Darkling, sitting in a chair with a bathrobe hastily thrown around him to hide his erection.

“Ruegger,” Sarnova said, “there’s one more thing we must attend to.”

“Yes?”

“Let’s just say you’ll need your jeans and jacket. Get moving and I’ll meet you downstairs in the Old Courtyard in ten minutes.”

Before the Dark Lord could leave, Danielle said, “Not so fast, Blackie.”

“How may I help you?”

“Has Kiernevar played his second game tonight? I saw the first, but not the second.”

Sarnova paused, and there was a touch of sadness in his face. Then, as if only coming to terms with it himself, the Dark Lord said, “Kiernevar won. He has only one more to go. After that, it’s your turn, Darkling.” To Danielle, he said, “Is there anything else?”

“Tell Kharker he can kiss my ass.”

He left, and she shut the door none too gently after him.

“You have a way with people,” Ruegger said.

“Sarnova can kiss my ass, too. I think the only reason he’s letting you fight Kiernevar is because he thinks you’ll lose and he can kill you without your admirers protesting too much.”

“Then he’s going to be disappointed.”

“The way he was talking, you’re going outside. That’s where the Old Courtyard leads to, right?”

“That’s right. Mostly it’s called the Main Foyer nowadays because the courtyard isn’t really used anymore. There’s a drawbridge, the whole works. Before the invention of helicopters, it was the only way to enter the castle that was open to the general public.”

“Jesus, he’s keeping a tight schedule.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dawn’s only about two hours away. This must be the one clear spot in his calendar. Here, Rueg, let’s get you dressed. The sooner you’re out of here, the sooner you’ll come back.”

Chapter 18

During past centuries, Ruegger knew, the Old Courtyard was the area in which knights prepared to go to war. The stables (still in use) ran along one side of the immense room, and they could be located by smell as much as by their physical presence.

Along the opposite wall, weapons either hung from pegs on the wall itself or were located in large storage lockers. Originally this room had been open to the sky, but as years went by and war tactics changed a thick ceiling was constructed to absorb the impact of catapult payloads and, later, bombs. Centuries went by and stories were added above this chamber so that the castle as a whole was enlarged. Eventually, medieval ways of war evolved into modern methods, making this courtyard all but obsolete. Hence, it became more of a foyer than a place in which to prepare for battle, and as it stood now that’s all it was: a vestibule, and a rarely-used vestibule at that, since most guests arrived by helicopter.

Ruegger found Sarnova surrounded by forty armored knights, all mounted and wearing swords and guns. Ruegger suspected that underneath their breastplates they wore bulletproof vests, as well. It was a strange marriage between the old ways and the new, but it was a necessary union in a war where both blades and bullets were effective weapons against the enemy. When the knights saw him, their ranks parted like an iron rose blossoming.

Roche Sarnova appeared, decked out in an antiquated battle-suit, a hunting rifle stuck in a quill down his back, a sword at his waist. His mount was large and black and carefully groomed, a sort of living throne.

“Glad to see you made it,” the Dark Lord said.

“Where are we going?”

“Outside. You’ll see.”

“Do I get to dress up, too?”

“Armor’s available if you think you need it.”

“Do I?”

Sarnova smiled. “You’re the only one that has an answer to that question. Does Maleasoel have a grudge against you, too?”

“You’re afraid she’s out there?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t tell Kharker the details of her attack, only a rough outline. I assume she told you more. So: are we in any danger?”

“I don’t know, either.”

Ruegger heard gears turning and spun to see the portcullis being raised. It lifted, disappearing into the wall above it and revealing the drawbridge on the other side. Servants started turning a new set of gears, this time lowering the drawbridge.

In all the times Ruegger had been to the Castle, he had never entered it nor exited it through this portal, although it was rumored that Lord Kharker and Roche Sarnova frequently left this way in order to roam the Carpathians on horse-back, unescorted. Gods, just thinking of all the rumors their escapades had unleashed made Ruegger want to laugh. Perhaps he was about to follow in his old friend’s footsteps. Somehow he doubted it.

He glanced over at the Dark Lord. Sarnova’s face revealed nothing.

With the drawbridge open, snowflakes swirled in, and Ruegger buttoned his jacket and slipped on a pair of black leather gloves Danielle had insisted he take along.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said.

Sarnova nodded to one of his men, who led a group of knights out onto the drawbridge, where they scanned the horizon with binoculars and sniffed the air for signs of unwelcome visitors. They moved to the far end of the drawbridge and stepped out on to snow-covered ground. After a few words with his men, the head knight called, “All clear.”

“Thank you, Colonel De Soto,” said Sarnova, ushering Ruegger outside. “Colonel, meet the man that’s going to defeat the Werewolf Kiernevar. Colonel, this is the notorious Vampire Ruegger. Ruegger, this is Col. De Soto, my Chief of Security.”

Ruegger regarded De Soto for a moment. He was a large man with thick black hair and a thick black beard, braided into fashionable tendrils. He looked to have been immortalized in his late forties.

“Good to meet you, Colonel.”

De Soto gave him a hard look. “I know who you are. I know what you’re up to. If I ever catch you even looking at my lord cross-eyed, you’ll find out where our torture chambers are. They don’t see much use these days, but they’re still operable.”

Ruegger didn’t reply, but he couldn’t help thinking it was the most contrived drivel he’d ever heard. Whatever De Soto was about, it wasn’t allegiance to his lord. What’s more, by the look on his face, Sarnova knew it.

“Are you through?” the Dark Lord said.

“Yes, sir. Is His Lordship ready to begin this venture?”

Sarnova regarded his colonel coldly, and though Ruegger knew he was missing something, it was pretty clear what the Dark Lord was trying to convey, and it went something like this: Watch yourself, Colonel, because I know something you don’t.

“Let’s begin,” said Sarnova.

A man leading a horse approached Ruegger and offered the Darkling its reins.

“Have you ridden before?” Sarnova asked.

“Not since they called me the Demon of the Mississippi.”

Though Ruegger hadn’t made a close inspection of the other horses, this one looked to be the runt. Small and shifty, it was the color of bad milk and didn’t smell much better—this as opposed to Sarnova’s beautiful black stallion. It didn’t matter. Ruegger had ridden much worse. He shoved a foot in the stirrups and threw himself into the saddle.

“Well?” asked Sarnova. “How is he?”

Ruegger started to answer, then realized that Sarnova had an ulterior motive for asking the question.

“She’s not much to look at,” Ruegger said, playing along.

“You’re right.” Sarnova turned to De Soto. “Colonel, get down off there. You and Ruegger are trading.”

“You’ve got to be kidding, my lord.”

“It’s not right that my successor rides a mount of inferior breed.”

De Soto glared at Ruegger, who said nothing. For a long moment, the Colonel refused to move, but at last he climbed down from his horse and they switched.

Sarnova seemed pleased, and when he nodded to Ruegger it was a gesture of thanks, which interested Ruegger. He didn’t know quite why, but it was obvious that De Soto and his king detested each other.

“How’s that one?” asked the Dark Lord.

Ruegger patted his big brown horse on the neck. “Much better.”

“Good. Now we have a chore to do.”

As Ruegger had expected, it was much colder outdoors. What surprised him was the moat; its waters were hot and boiling, giving off a ghostly heat that stripped the winter of its chill. It had been fashioned, he realized, out of a hot-water spring. Unlike many moats, it didn’t surround the castle, as the wide ledge that led up to the castle doors was the only level ground connected to the structure. The fortress was actually built into the wall of the mountain. Two sides of it bordered the precipice, one was completely buried in the mountain, and the fourth—the face of the castle as was originally intended—fronted the ledge. For its part, the ledge, probably a hundred feet wide at its broadest point, wound its way around the mountain and ended on the far side.

To ensure that an invading army could not penetrate the fortress, the moat was constructed and stocked with all sorts of vicious creatures, only some of which were mortal. Even as he watched, Ruegger saw movement beneath the surface and was tempted to ask one of the knights what manner of beasts lived there. Before he could phrase the question, the Dark Lord gestured for Ruegger to come to his side, and Ruegger obliged.

When Ruegger glanced back over his shoulder, he saw the other knights slow their mounts, giving him and their king privacy.

“Cold?” asked the king, as they left the moat behind.

“I’m fine. Can I ask you a question?”

“About the moat? It’s got some interesting points to it that you can’t really tell from here.”

“Not that. What I want to know is—well, what do I call you? I refuse to call you lord. You’re not my king. And you’re not my familiar, so I can’t call you Blackie like Kharker does. And I’m not exactly your enemy, so I can’t call you Blackie in the derogatory way your detractors do. What does that leave us?”

“Why don’t you just call me Roche? Is that something you can live with?”

“Roche,” Ruegger said, trying it out. “Roche … Yes, it will do.”

“As long as we’re on the topic, what do I call the man who’s going to be my successor shortly? Ruegger sounds too formal.”

“That’s my name.”

“What’s your first name?”

“That’s personal.”

“You’re superstitious, Ruegger. Knowledge is power, yes, but the whole idea that names are related to power is antiquated.”

“Roche Sarnova isn’t the name you were born with, was it?”

“I guess it wasn’t, at that. But I will tell you that name, if you’d like.”

“I don’t want to know. Listen, Roche, you seem like an okay guy, but as far as I know you had my best friend killed, so let’s not start taking showers together just yet.”

“Ruegger, I’m tired of this. I didn’t have Ludwig killed.”

“Than help me find out who did.”

“I am. That’s what this trip is all about.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were using the Libertarian Army to find his killer, right?”

“That was part of it.”

“You might just need that army yet to continue the quest. As it stands, that army is about to die. The reason I brought you out here is to save Maleasoel, Jean-Pierre, and the army of Liberty itself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A creature called the Sabo.”

*     *     *

As the Funhouse of the Forsaken performed the last half of the night’s show, Sophia helped the crew backstage. Mainly she just let the props master order her around, which meant that the larger portion of her responsibilities dealt with moving stuff. Though it wasn’t very rewarding work, she found it therapeutic. For the past few days, she’d been relieving her frustrations out on Dirk, the well-proportioned male she’d bought off the auction blocks, which under normal circumstances would’ve been all she required, but for some reason helping Claude’s crew filled a void she hadn’t realized in herself before.

Nevertheless, she was running a little ragged by the last half of the show, which is when Claude, in costume, walked over to her while she was transporting a small wooden hill and shook his head in frustration.

“Taurke and Rico have gone missing,” he said, scratching his scalp with one of his four hands. “You seen ‘em?”

“Who?”

“Taurke and Rico, you know them. Remember, last night?”

“Oh, right. The extras.”

“Well, they’re supposed to be in a scene coming up, but they’re nowhere to be found.”

“They’re probably off doing a few lines.”

“Nope. Already thought of that one.”

“Well, they’re around. I think I saw them just a few minutes ago.”

He placed two of his hands on his hips in a somewhat resigned gesture. “Sophe, they’re gone. The worst thing is, we can’t find Kaiphong or Vance, either. All four’ve just up and disappeared.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

He used his forth hand to reach out and grab one of hers. Holding it tenderly, he said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, and I don’t want you back here with all these dark corners.”

“You’re being silly.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that something’s going on, and whatever it is I don’t want you close by if it happens again. Go in the dressing room and find someone to get you a costume; I want you out there, on stage, where there’ll be witnesses.”

“Is this a promotion?”

“That’s up to Max. If you do good as an extra, maybe he’ll let you read a few lines for him. Problem is, though ...”

She nodded. I can’t be a star because I’m not a freak. “Talk about reverse discrimination.”

Patting her on the thigh, he said, “Get dressed, doll. At the party tonight, we’ll hook up. Till then, watch your back, okay?”

By the time Claude had sauntered off to get made-up, her mind had become engaged in thoughts very unlike the Sophia he knew. They were primal and they were dark, and they were very, very cold.

*     *     *

Ruegger and Sarnova stopped before a large boulder, twice the height of the Darkling even on horseback. They’d gotten here by following the ledge as it wound around to the other side of the mountain, where it became a trail. The far side of the mount (which Ruegger had always envisioned to be just as sheer and stark as the one in which the castle was planted) was characterized by wooded areas and a more gentle slope.

In some places, there had been rockslides, and if appearance was any judge these avalanches were regular occurrences; Ruegger could see older layers of rocks buried beneath the newer ones. In some places, certain rock formations that in the past had prevented an avalanche from going any farther didn’t look as if they would survive much longer. However, in one place, a large boulder seemed to have withstood the onslaught. Half buried in a short, steep slope itself half-covered in scree, it stuck out proudly.

“So behind that stone is a tunnel that leads into the catacombs?” Ruegger said. “That’s the secret entrance?” Off Sarnova’s nod, he added, “And somewhere between this entrance and the catacombs is this creature of yours.”

“The Sabo.”

Ruegger lit a cigarette and leaned back in his saddle, savoring being outdoors. It was cold, but at the same time he wished Danielle could be here to see it with him. The snow-covered mountain-top with misty white peaks glimmering through the pale veil all around was quite beautiful. Hard to imagine that just behind that boulder lurked a terror even Roche Sarnova seemed in awe of.

“Tell about this thing,” he said.

For some reason, that relaxed the Dark Lord. “Here’s the story. The Sabo—which is what I first heard it called, although I don’t think it calls itself anything in particular—is not like anything you’ve ever experienced before. It’s a living maze.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Sabo not only creates the maze, but it lives in the labyrinth—is a part of it.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Ruegger said.

“It’s intelligent, but not like we are. Its mind doesn’t process information the same way ours do. In a way, it’s kind of insectile. To it, we’re just food.”

“Even you?”

“No,” the Dark Lord said. “I’m the one that rescued it. Without me, humans would’ve discovered it and destroyed it. It’s their way, not that I blame them, at least in this. But when I saw humanity becoming so spread-out—and especially at the first hint of mass media—I had the Sabo brought here to begin a new labyrinth. Here it would be safe and I could keep an eye on it. It’s ambitious, don’t let it fool you. It would make itself known to humanity, as it did once before.”

“What happened then?”

“Long story. The point is that, no matter how strong it is, humans could find a way to destroy it—and if they didn’t, it would be to their detriment. So I brought it here, figuring I could use it to guard my emergency escape route.”

“What is it, exactly? What does it live off of—blood, brain fluid, hearts, flesh, semen—what?”

“Fear.”

“Fear?”

“From what I know about it, yes,” said Sarnova. “That’s why it creates the maze.”

“To trap its victims, right. Then what? Does it just let them run around, trying to find their way out until they die?”

“Sometimes. Usually the parasites get to them first.”

“The parasites.”

“They’re creatures that live within the labyrinth and feed off of the people that get trapped there. The Sabo allows them only because they enhance the fear of its victims.”

Ruegger frowned. “This is where the Libertarians will try to enter the Castle.”

“Yes.”

“Can I see it?”

“No. If you enter it with me, it would assume you to be my ally and in the future would leave you unharmed if you tried to use it.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“Not a bit.”

“Is that what you came out here to tell me, that you don’t trust the man you want to be your heir?” Ruegger said.

“I wanted to tell you about the Sabo so that you would realize the danger the Libertarians are in. After that, you’d leave some signal to warn them off.”

“So,” Ruegger said slowly, “on the strength of what you’ve just told me, the existence of a creature you won’t allow me to examine, you expect me to call off the attack against you—the one thing that if successful might get you to answer the truth about Ludwig’s death. Is that right?”

“The Sabo will kill them, Ruegger. It’s your duty to your friend and her army to lead them away from a trap, which is exactly what the Sabo is. The last time I entered it, the labyrinth was eight stories tall and very wide … and full of parasites.”

Ruegger passed a hand across his face. “I need to see this thing.”

With a snap of his fingers, the Dark Lord summoned a knight, who held the reins of his reserve horse. With a slight bow, the knight handed the reins to his king and withdrew.

Ruegger could see Colonel De Soto on his stumpy horse, and though the faceplate of his helmet concealed the colonel’s expression Ruegger could feel the man’s scowl nonetheless. For his own reasons, De Soto didn’t like this knight displaying such deference to Roche Sarnova, even though the knights as a whole seemed to hold the colonel in some regard.

Unsmiling, Sarnova examined the animal for a moment, then turned his eyes on Ruegger. “This horse will go into the tunnel, where it will be killed inside the Sabo. If you let yourself see through its eyes, you’ll catch a brief glimpse of one of the strangest creatures in our realm. The only one of its kind that I know of.” He gestured to the boulder. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Ruegger hesitated. On the one hand, he knew that he could lift the rock, but on the other he wasn’t so sure he wanted the Dark Lord to know what he was capable of.

“Ruegger,” said Sarnova, who looked slightly amused. “You don’t have to pretend around me. Besides, I’d expect any shade worth his salt to be able to lift it.”

Ruegger used his mindthrust to roll the big stone out from where it was lodged, and as it rolled forward, it displaced smaller rocks, which tumbled over each other like pups fighting over a teat. They kicked up a cloud of snow and dust, momentarily obscuring the slope.

As this cloud died down, a thin ring of black appeared behind the boulder, hinting at the tunnel beyond.

Ruegger let the rocks settle for a few seconds, then lifted the boulder high into the air, over the heads of the assembled knights, and as the rock passed over, it temporarily blocked out the night sky. He could feel other psychic talons hovering close by just in case he decided to set his payload down on the king. Using all the grace he cared to grant the job, Ruegger placed the boulder in the middle of a large nest of bushes.

“Well done,” said Sarnova.

Ruegger blew out a stream of smoke. “If we’re going to kill the poor horse, let’s do it now before I have to think too long about it.”

“Here goes.”

The animal crept up to the mouth of the tunnel, now revealed as a hole ten feet in diameter, and hesitated before entering. Throwing down his cigarette, Ruegger extended his mind into that of the animal and prodded it forward, into blackness.

*     *     *

Max and Claude were livid over the disappearance of their employees. The vanishing act meant that inexperienced people like Sophia had to be promoted just to ensure that things ran at all.

Nevertheless, she enjoyed taking a more active role, despite the fact that she didn’t really know what the hell she was doing. And though her part (if it could be called that) was so meager it might as well not have been at all, she felt a rush of adrenaline at performing in front of a large number of people; it wasn’t something she’d done in quite a while.

When the show ended (to the great relief of everyone, audience included) she joined hands with the rest of the cast and crew and bowed. The clapping wasn’t overwhelming, but it was there. When the curtains closed for the final time, no one shouted for an encore.

Afterwards, Sophia helped the rest of the troupe clean up, a procedure which seemed slow and ever-more depressing as the realization of what had happened sunk into the collective consciousness of the troupe and its hangers-on.

When the clean-up was complete, the mood seemed to shift to the satisfaction of just being alive. By the time she slipped back into her party clothes for the now-famous Post-Show Blow-Out—which had become a nightly event in the Castle—the general mood had ripened into anticipation.

The troupe and its groupies migrated upstairs to the warren of rooms they occupied, and Sophia saw that her group wasn’t the first to arrive, but it quickly became apparent that tonight’s celebration would be delayed—if it occurred at all.

The rooms were now a crime scene.

At the entrance, several Castle Guards interviewed those who had arrived early and allowed themselves to be cornered. Those that had had the foresight to evade the Guards wandered in and out of the main doorway, talking amongst themselves. Of these, Maximillian seemed the most moved, although he channeled his emotion into anger.

Sophia marched up to him until she was so close that her presence forced him to forget exactly what he’d been yelling about to the unfortunate underling at his side. Quick to recognize that an escape was possible, the underling disappeared into the general milieu.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Sophia demanded.

Max led her through the busy doorway and down several tunnels.

After several twists and turns, she said, “Damnit, Max, let go of me.”

Without breaking stride, he complied and kept plowing forward through a thickening sea of people. Sophia, pausing only for a moment, followed. She smelled blood ahead.

Pushing her way through the last small archway, she entered the room from which all the activity stemmed. This room was more rectangular than domed or rounded, as were most of the rooms, and apparently the main reason why this room had been chosen was that it had more corners than the others.

Max reached out his hand. Taking it, she stepped to his side and viewed the carnage in silence.

Taurke, one of the missing extras, hung grotesquely from the center of the room, blood congealing on the floor below him. Whoever had done this to him had somehow stretched his limbs in a most unnatural way so that, though his torso was mostly intact, his hands were nailed into two (respectively) upper, facing corners of the room. His feet were nailed into the lower corners.

The effect was to give his limbs an almost rubber- or root-like quality. Of course, they couldn’t really be as long as they appeared. Whoever had done this must have added some extra bones to flesh-out the illusion. Other, more subtle (if that is a word that had any bearing here whatsoever) atrocities had been committed to his being, but the Ice Queen chose not to see them.

“This is all your fault, you know,” Maximillian said.

“Fuck you, Max.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Sophe. We both know who did this, and the reason why. Because we did you and the albino a favor.”

“From what I’ve heard, he didn’t have to twist your arm. All you wanted was Vistrot’s blood.”

His head darted around like a snake’s, making sure no one was within ear-shot, and he hissed, “That’s right, sweets. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t want to piss off the Last of the Roving Balaklava!”

“Well, friend, it looks like they’re pissed off, alright. And this is probably just for starters. After all, Taurke was only one of four.”

He squeezed her hand, hard. “Eight.”

She reciprocated the pressure on his hand until, with a gasp, he released her.

“Eight?” she said.

“They didn’t stop with Vance. And it’s not just me they’re mad at, sister. Have you taken a look at this fucking room?”

“Yes.” She was the Ice Queen, and her voice was like ice at its most treacherous, almost to the point of breaking.

“It’s my room,” she said. “And up until tonight, it was also Danielle’s.”

Chapter 19

Very slowly, the horse stepped through the tunnel, taking extra care because the surroundings were so dark. Suddenly, light appeared up ahead in the form of two torches jutting from the rock wall on both sides of a large, round, metal door, if such it could be called. To Ruegger, it almost looked like a vertical manhole cover, except for the fact that it was much wider and covered by all sorts of elaborate inscriptions: ancient runes, he knew. Warnings, most likely. The only thing the door lacked was a handle of some sort.

Removing himself from the mind of the horse for a moment, Ruegger turned to Sarnova and said, “What’s the door for?”

Sarnova, who had also been seeing through the eyes of the animal, blinked a few times and said, “To keep the Sabo in, of course.”

“Surely it can tunnel around the door ...”

“Not with the spells that the door enforces.”

Ruegger raised an eyebrow. “Spells?” Next Sarnova would be telling him stories of wizards and witches. Dragons, too, probably. Ruegger didn’t put much stock in such things. He’d run into a few sorcerers in the abunka underground, but they were charlatans, one and all, surely, if not always entirely human. And though he was familiar with telekinesis and the like, he knew these to be mere powers of the mind, whereas a belief in actual magic symbolized a leap of faith that he wasn’t willing to take.

Seeing the look of skepticism on his face, Sarnova said, “It’s okay to believe, Ruegger.”

“I wish I could.”

“You can’t tell me that the Sacred Pillars of the Sahara never aroused your curiosity. And our own Pools of Pleasure?”

“I suppose …”

“You’ve been confronted with the truth many times, Ruegger. You’ve just never consciously acknowledged it.”

“Are you trying to tell me that magic is real?”

“I’m not telling you, I’m showing you.”

“Next you’ll be telling me elves and dragons exist, too.”

Mischief—actual mischief—twinkled in Sarnova’s eyes. “Maybe I’ll show you them, as well.”

Ruegger tried (but not very hard) to hide his impatience. “Is that the sole reason for the door, to keep the Sabo in?”

“It’s also to keep lesser creatures from entering through this side. When I want to feed the Sabo, I send humans in from the front way. This portal is primarily used by the Sangro Sankts, and they want to keep it that way.”

“You mean only a kavasari can open the door?”

“No. A strong shade of any species could get the job done. Would you like to test your strength?”

“Not really.”

“Still tired from the last one, I bet.”

Ruegger said nothing. He would not be goaded into wearing himself out. Not only had he been recently bled and starved, but now the Dark Lord was getting him to do taxing psychic tricks, making him weaker than he’d been to start with. Whatever was going on, Sarnova didn’t want him at his peak.

“You go ahead, Roche. I think I’ll sit this one out.”

He let himself drift back into the mind of the horse, let the animal’s eyes show him the bright torches and the ancient, circular door. The metal disc rolled to one side, disappearing into a slot carved into the wall—and leaving a tunnel in its wake. Though torches burned along the walls in different places, the horse could not see very far down the tunnel, as the first major twist appeared after about thirty feet.

From Ruegger’s side, he heard Roche Sarnova say, “Shall we?”

On the one hand, Ruegger hated to send the horse to its death, but it might be just this sort of morality on which the Dark Lord depended. If Sarnova was bluffing and there was no Sabo, then that changed things radically, whereas if the king were telling the truth Ruegger would have to call off Malie’s attack … which probably wasn’t a bad idea anyway. Nonetheless, he had to know for sure whether or not Sarnova spoke the truth. If Ruegger could actually trust the Dark Lord, that in itself could make a world of difference to upcoming events.

“Proceed,” he said.

The horse moved forward. As it rounded the bend, several large archways opened to either side. The horse passed them nervously.

Soon the main corridor spilled out into another, larger tunnel, leaving the horse to decide which way to go—right or left? It chose right. However, after passing many other archways, this new avenue turned out to be nothing other than a cul-de-sac.

Partially guided by the mind of Roche Sarnova, the animal made its way back to one of the archways it had passed and passed under it, slowly. Torches blazed along the stone walls at uneven spaces, throwing eerie light on the scene.

None of the parasites that Sarnova had spoken of presented themselves, but perhaps they were waiting for the right moment. At any rate, the horse only grew more anxious, and since Ruegger was in its mind goose bumps sprang up all along his arms. He could even feel a few beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow.

To distract himself, he started examining the labyrinth in greater detail. It was elaborate and larger than he would’ve thought it to be. Twice the horse passed ramps that led up to different levels of the maze, and, once Ruegger glimpsed a large spiral staircase that led who-knows-where. Perhaps it could deliver someone to all eight stories of this labyrinth, if it was that large. Later on, the horse crossed over a narrow bridge, below which roared an angry red river. Large hungry shapes moved in its waters.

The horse wandered into a part of the maze where the walls were no longer stone, but damp and earthen. In fact, the tunnel seemed as if it had been formed by a giant worm tearing right through a sea of mud, which for all Ruegger knew was quite possible. Before he could ask the king why the earthen tunnels didn’t simply collapse, some large dark creature shot out of the ceiling directly ahead of the horse and plummeted down toward the muddy floor, which opened before it. The thing vanished, and the hole closed up behind it, leaving what looked to be solid ground behind.

In the brief moment that Ruegger had to observe the creature, he had seen a large worm-like beast with fins and tendrils and a large gaping mouth, surrounded by bristles like those of a catfish, which the thing vaguely resembled. Its mouth sported scores of large sharp teeth that would’ve scared even the most monstrous of fish, though.

Snorting in fear, the horse leapt back, shivering.

In the outside world, Sarnova shouted to Ruegger, “That was a parasite. One of many. I call them mud-sharks.”

“Why didn’t it eat the horse?”

“The Sabo wouldn’t allow it; the horse isn’t scared enough to have satisfied it. Yet.”

“So the Sabo can control these parasites?”

“To an extent. Here, this horse isn’t going anywhere without a jump-start. Let me give it a spur.”

The animal forgot its fear and started off down the tunnel once more, leaving Ruegger time to the think about what he’d just seen. Had he just seen proof of the Sabo’s existence? Maybe. If he had, perhaps he should cancel this expedition and allow the horse to turn around. At least then it would have a fighting chance. Before he could explore this option further, he heard something large moving behind him—rather, behind the horse.

The animal swiveled. With the dim light, neither Ruegger nor the horse could really appraise the new creature in any detail, but whatever the assailant was, it was large. Gargantuan. A countless number of arms that sprouted from its rotting flank propelled the new arrival swiftly down the passageway.

The creature stunk. Fetid and unhealthy, like the air of a mass grave.

Ruegger tried to force the horse to look a moment longer, but his psychic tricks couldn’t overpower the animal’s fear. It turned and bolted down the corridor.

Without bothering to extricate himself from the horse’s mind, Ruegger shouted to Sarnova, “What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Is that one of the parasites or not?”

“It’s something I’ve never seen before.”

Bolting down corridor after corridor, the horse struggled to outpace the monster, who followed.

“Faster,” Ruegger urged, suddenly hoping that the horse made it. He’d seen what he needed to.

The horse ran hard. Sweat lathered it. Constantly, its instincts told it to dart into one of the archways, but its velocity was so great that stopping would’ve taken too long. It did encounter many forks and in each case it chose the right path, perhaps at Sarnova’s prompting.

It never lost the creature that pursued it; the thing with all the arms could be heard scrambling even over the animal’s heavy breathing.

The horse stumbled out into a large domed chamber, maybe a hundred and fifty feet high at its highest point. This was not the only tunnel that led into this room; in fact, a quick inspection showed at least two dozen dark archways. Countless chains fell from the earthen ceiling, a few coming almost all the way to the floor. From several of the chains that ended maybe fifty feet off the floor, rusted cages dangled from large hooks. To Ruegger, they almost looked like bird cages, except they were large enough to hold a man. Even in the dim light, he could see the remains of several human bodies.

So this is where they come, he thought. The parasites drive them into this room or others like it, and the humans use the chains to get up to those cages, where they stay until they die. Meanwhile, the Sabo soaks up their fear like a sponge.

The horse darted into the center of the chamber, where it started circling nervously. The thing that had chased it here hadn’t yet made itself visible to its prey, perhaps because the light was somewhat brighter here.

Fins rose from the ground around the horse’s feet. Maybe ten fins in all, they started circling the horse like sharks.

“Those are the dorsals of things like the one we saw awhile back,” Sarnova said.

Each about a yard high, the fins sprouted from large swells below the muddy floor. Presumably the parasites were the cause of those swells. As they circled the horse, the animal reared and lashed the air with his hooves. When that didn’t work, it bolted twenty feet to the side. The shapes beneath the mud followed. Again, they began circling.

Sick to his stomach, Ruegger said, “When will it be scared enough for the Sabo to let them eat it?”

Before Sarnova could reply, a large strange shape emerged from one of the archways. Without a doubt, Ruegger knew it to be the thing that had chased the horse into this room, the creature that had forced this confrontation. It was infinitely larger than the mud-sharks and configured much differently.

It was composed of at least thirty human and immortal bodies—bodies which had been threaded together and molded in such a way as to create a whole new entity, a being with countless arms and legs and tails and faces and mouths—and thousands of teeth, some jutting from the snapping jaws of werewolf heads, or heads even more monstrous.

The bodies were those of zombies.

Amorphous, the creature seemed able to form many different body designs. It had been in its long worm-like form, but now it bunched up to became a towering predator with several long, many-jointed legs and arms, something like a titanic scorpion minus the tail. And there, amidst all the squirming body parts, a mouth shone wetly, its three tongues dripping slaver to the floor. Fashioned from different parts of many anatomies, the maw stretched almost five feet across, and its teeth would’ve made even a mud-shark cringe.

Ruegger knew instantly that this thing didn’t belong in the world of the Sabo, not like the sharks did. It was of the graveyard, of a world in which art and death were inextricably linked; and it was definitely a work of art, no matter how surreal it might appear.

“Goddamnit,” shouted Sarnova, apparently realizing it, too. “How the hell did they get in here?”

From behind (at least behind their human bodies; Ruegger was beginning to grow disoriented), Colonel De Soto said, “You’d better not be shouting at me, my lord. You’re the one who allowed those two to return.” He had been monitoring the horse’s progress, too, then.

“I was counting on you to keep them from getting up to their old tricks,” Sarnova said. “I’m holding you accountable.”

Still some mud-sharks circled the horse, but most were swarming toward the invader. Ruegger had no question as to how the Balaklava would’ve found the Sabo in their underground travels, but why would they chose to invade it? Of course, the answer was obvious.

“They like the Labyrinth,” he said aloud.

“What was that?” Sarnova asked.

“The Balaklava. They told us how they like labyrinths. They want this place to be their own.”

“They’re out of luck,” Sarnova said. “This is my land and the Sabo is under my protection. The way I see it, there are more Balaklava in the world than there are creatures like the Sabo. Junger and Jagoda are expendable.”

Ruegger started. “Are you implying that there are other things under you protection?”

“Oh, there are—plenty—but now isn’t the time to go into that. Regardless, the Balaklava are laying claim to a valuable piece of my land, and I won’t allow it. If they want to fight over a piece of real estate, they’re free to do it somewhere else.”

From behind, De Soto said, “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to get you and your men to enter the Sabo and extricate them, and if the Balaklava aren’t there you will at least destroy any animals they’ve made in their spare time.”

“Animals?”

“They may call it art, but it’s not art when the people they made that thing from are my subjects. Organize a party and see to it.”

“Now?”

After a beat, Sarnova said, “No. Let’s see if the Sabo’s parasites can finish this thing off first.”

With what sounded like a sigh of relief, the Colonel said, “Fine.”

Meanwhile, the mud-sharks began circling the corpse-monster—the Collage, as Ruegger would later call it; he, and everyone else in the Castle.

The Collage didn’t need to rotate in order to track its enemies, as the horse had had to do (and was still doing), because it sported a plethora of eyes ... and just about everything else, too. As the first shark lunged out of the mud to snap at one of the monster’s legs, the Collage slashed a claw-like appendage through the air and caught the body of the shark in its pincers. Slowly, it began to squeeze. Blood and guts sprinkled the ground in a meaty rain. The abomination raised the worm-shark to its primary mouth and began to eat, while human arms that were arrayed about the orifice helped it devour every morsel.

The rest of the sharks kept circling.

Another parasite, ignoring the Collage altogether, struck at the horse, and in the process ripped open the animal’s side. As it began to bray in terror, a third and forth shark burst out of the ground and brought the animal to its knees.

Ruegger drew himself out of the dying mind of the animal and blinked his eyes, readjusting to the outside world.

“Damn,” he said, and lit a cigarette.

“Not what you expected?” Sarnova asked, also shaking himself.

“I take it that that wasn’t a scheduled part of the trip.”

“No. Although … some facts are starting to come together.”

“Such as?”

“That’s right, you probably didn’t hear about all the slaves Junger and Jagoda bought at the auction yesterday night.”

“No.”

“I assumed they’d use the humans as food or play—or, possibly, incorporate them into a piece of art of some kind. Stationary art. But this? What they’ve made is part Frankenstein and part Salvador Dali painting. I know from the number of slaves they bought that they probably built more than one of those things. Or at least a variant.”

Sarnova scowled. After some thought, he said, “You really think all they want is the maze? There’s no ulterior motive?”

Ruegger smoked his cigarette for a minute in silence. All about him, snow fell in a light flurry, settling onto the armor of the knights.

“I don’t know, Roche,” he said. “From what I’ve been told, they have an alliance with Kiernevar. So now they’re allied with a potential successor to the throne and are at this very moment trying to take over the secret entrance to the castle.”

Sarnova nodded. “It’s a power play.”

“I don’t know what they’re doing, but they have an agenda. Count on it.” Ruegger shifted in his saddle. “There’s something we’re overlooking.”

“Go on.”

“They must have sensed us in that horse’s mind, or at least known that you were the one that sent it in there—which means that they’re not trying to keep what they’re doing a secret. They didn’t have to send that thing after the horse. They wanted you to know.”

For a long time, Roche Sarnova sat astride his big black horse, staring into the tunnel, and Ruegger did not interrupt him. After a few minutes, the Darkling flung his cigarette butt to the snow-covered ground, and the movement seemed to snap the king out of his trance.

“Do you now believe in the Sabo?” Roche Sarnova said.

“Is it magical?”

“I don’t know, not really. Basically, it’s a psychic vampire. It feeds on terror, can’t grow strong without causing fear. When it’s strong, it can manifest itself in a number of ways when it wants to communicate with you on a person-to-person basis.”

“You have a psychic connection with it?”

“Let’s just say that if I need to talk to it, I can. Usually our psychic connection is just a means by which to set up a meeting.”

“Are these meetings regular events?”

“No, but sometimes it just needs a little company, which I don’t mind. I find it to be an interesting being on many levels.”

Ruegger realized that was supposed to be a joke. On many levels. Smiling a little, he said, “How do you meet it?”

“For starters, I must come alone. Although sometimes it doesn’t mind if I bring a guest. It’s a moody bastard.”

“I want to meet it.”

“Out of the question. Especially now. Don’t you get it? There’s a war going on in there. The Balaklava are trying to take it over. Anyway, we’re not going in there tonight. Not even to fight them. The Sabo is strong. Maybe it will do the work for us. They may have bitten off more than they can chew.”

“You hope.”

“Will you agree to call off Maleasoel’s attack? You can see that she’d only be heading into a trap, whether it be that of the Sabo or the Balaklava.”

“Why do you care so much if the Libertarians get lost in the Sabo and eaten by parasites, or rot in those cages? Or, for that matter, get killed by the Balaklava’s new toy? Last I heard, they were your enemies.”

“They were. They are. But if I could only speak to Ludwig’s widow, I could convince her of my innocence.”

Ruegger remembered Gavin’s death. “She’s not easily convinced.”

“She would believe the truth, wouldn’t she?”

“She might. You’ll have to ask her.”

“If she was convinced of my innocence, maybe I could persuade her to join me in my fight against Subaire and the other traitors.”

Ruegger saw a man that needed help badly. Needed an ally. But if that’s what he expected of Maleasoel, he was sadly mistaken, Ruegger thought. Still, something about the nakedness of the king’s eyes made Ruegger feel for him.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll call off the attack.”

*     *     *

It wasn’t hard to do. Sarnova had planned ahead for this event, had brought along several wooden boards and posts to nail them to. On one of these boards, Ruegger wrote, “It’s a trap, Malie” with a black marker and then scrawled a big L underneath the message.

Around the L, he drew a circle. This was to authenticate the message. He nailed the board to a post and planted the post just inside the tunnel so that once Malie moved the boulder she would see the sign and lead her troops away. At least, so Ruegger hoped.

Once the task was accomplished, Sarnova moved the boulder back into its original position and turned to Ruegger. “Thank you. I know this isn’t how you’d planned it.”

“It’s better this way. The plan was foolish anyway. If you are Ludwig’s killer, torturing you won’t do much good, will it? You’d only say what you thought you wanted Malie to hear.”

“Is that what Lord Kharker did, when she had him?”

Ruegger didn’t know how to respond. After all, Kharker had done what he’d had to do at the time, which was save Ruegger and Jean-Pierre. Later, the Hunter had turned his mind to saving his other closest friend, Roche Sarnova. In doing so, he’d betrayed Ruegger, but Ruegger wouldn’t have been around to betray had Kharker acted differently when Malie had him at her mercy. Ruegger was all too aware of this, which is why he didn’t bare any grudge against Kharker.

“Kharker never lost his dignity,” Ruegger said. “Although, if he’d been willing to lose face to start with, he could’ve saved Gavin’s life.”

“He told me about that. You hold him responsible, not Maleasoel?”

“I hold them both responsible. What you have to understand about Malie is that she’s not in her right mind. She’s obsessed with avenging Ludwig’s death.”

“And you’re not?”

Ruegger would not be baited. “Can we get the hell out of here? The sun’s going to come up soon.”

“Let’s get a drink of water first.”

“Whiskey would be better.”

“If I had a lake of booze, you could have some, but I don’t. However, there’s a big pond just a little ways down the slope, and it’s got some of the freshest water you’ll ever taste.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“You will be.”

Sarnova turned his horse and began leading his troops down the slope. With some reluctance, Ruegger followed. Why did they have to have water right now? Sarnova wanted to show him something, it must me.

“Isn’t that beautiful?” the king said.

Before them stretched a little valley, covered by snow and snow-laden trees, and in the center of it all was one of the biggest ponds Ruegger had ever seen. Roche was right, it was more like a little lake. Miraculously, it wasn’t frozen over, though the two streams that fed it were both covered by a layer of ice. What kept the pond from the same fate, hot springs? If that were true, perhaps on some subterranean level it was connected to the moat on the other side of the mountain. Or maybe it was magic. Whatever the case might be, Ruegger felt increasingly uncomfortable about the whole affair. He wanted to be in bed with Danielle.

Bemused, he accompanied Roche Sarnova down the hill to the rocky shore of the little lake, and the knights followed.

Sarnova stopped his horse and slid down, the clinking of his armor one of the only sounds that Ruegger could hear throughout the entire valley.

“Well?” the Dark Lord asked. “Are you coming down or not?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Come on, Ruegger. What’s to be afraid of?”

Ruegger joined Sarnova on the ground, while the knights remained silent and mounted. Rooting through a satchel on his bag, the king brought out two large mugs and handed one to Ruegger.

“What’s wrong?” asked the king.

“We shouldn’t be here.”

Sarnova patted him on the shoulder and offered an enigmatic smile that only served to make Ruegger more tense, then knelt at the edge of the lake to fill up his mug. After a long sip, he beckoned Ruegger to do the same.

Once Ruegger had taken a swallow of the water, he relaxed a little.

“Damn good, isn’t it?” Sarnova said.

“Yeah,” Ruegger admitted. “It is.”

Leaning over, Sarnova examined his reflection in the still water and motioned for Ruegger to follow suit. There they were, two vampires looking back at each other beneath the fading starlight. One wore a knight’s armor with its visor raised so that all that could be seen was its olive-skinned face and big dark eyes that, once again, seemed slightly mischievous. The other shade reflected in the pool, with its gaunt eyes, unkempt dirty hair, unshaven face and many-zippered black leather jacket, seemed like it had been drug off the streets of New York just seconds before, and not one of the better streets.

“Aren’t we a pair?” said the king.

“What will happen to the Libertarians now?” Ruegger said suddenly. “They’ll tunnel until they get here so that you won’t be able to see them, then pop up, find my warning, and leave—at least, if things go according to plan. How do you expect to make contact with Malie?”

“Let me worry about that when the time comes. Meanwhile, forget about them because you’ve done all you can to ensure their safety. Now it’s Malie’s problem. And mine. Leave it at that.”

Ruegger stared into the eyes of Sarnova’s reflection. “Why did you bring me here? So that I could look at our reflections and have greater faith in the future of our partnership?”

“Partly. I just wanted to get away from the castle for awhile. I wanted to talk to you one-on-one to see if I’m making the right decision in choosing you to go up against Kiernevar.”

“You could’ve gotten Kharker to do it. He can play a mean game of chess, if you didn’t know that already.”

“True. I even talked to him about that, but he tells me that when you’re focused you’re a much better player than he is. Also, he wouldn’t have agreed to the terms. He has no reason to stake his life on the game, whereas you do.”

“I have the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“There is, of course.”

“What?”

“You’ll see for yourself. But ...well, Ruegger, I’ve got a question for you first.”

“Yes?”

“You know about my plan to win immortals our own country?”

“You know I do.”

“Well, what do you think? I ask you this because I respect your opinion. Also, because I would have you as my heir.”

Ruegger considered. “I’ll tell you the truth, Roche. I like the idea. In fact, I think it’s about time we stopped creeping around in the shadows, but I think you could have set your plan in motion with far less drama and risk. By announcing your plan to the Dark Council first and asking for their approval, I’m afraid you damned your vision to failure.”

“I don’t agree.”

The Dark Lord rose to his full height and shut the visor on his helmet.

As if on cue, the waters of the lake began to move. Waves smacked the shore, bursting and drenching Ruegger’s pants. He found the water surprisingly warm. Something big—enormous—was rising from the depths, and fast. Ruegger leapt back, wishing he had a suitable weapon, not simply guns. What the hell was going on?

The water in the center of the lake exploded. Some great beast leapt into the air, flapping massive reptilian wings.

For a moment, water vapor obscured the creature, but then its big leathery wings blew the mist away to reveal a being that Ruegger recognized instantly, despite the fact that he’d never actually seen one.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” he said. “It’s a dragon.”

Chapter 20

And a dragon it was, mottled green, golden scales running the length of its underside and smoke shooting out of its nostrils and from between the teeth of its great mouth. Beating its great wings to dry itself off, it roared once—a big primal roar—then rose higher in the air.

From the other side of the lake, behind a little ridge, Jean-Pierre watched it, but his expression did not show the same surprise that Ruegger’s did. He had always suspected that such creatures existed—Kharker had often hinted that they did, even if he never gave a full accounting of where he gathered such knowledge.

What the creature was doing here, however, Jean-Pierre could only guess at. Of almost as much concern were the forty armored knights. Obviously, they were from the Castle, and the albino wasn’t sure whether he should approach them or not. His plan had been to enter through the Sabo, which knew him, and enter the Castle in secrecy. He did not fear Roche Sarnova, but he did fear the reaction of the king’s men. Might they think him a Libertarian spy and kill him, or toss him into the dungeons? Best to avoid them.

And the dragon. That was most certainly to be avoided as well.

Confused, cold, hungry and weary, Jean-Pierre couldn’t process all the information he saw before him. With a curse, he dropped below the ridge and out of sight.

*     *     *

Ruegger stared, uncomprehending. On some level, he could accept the existence of the Sabo because he knew that there were supernatural things in this world of which he had no knowledge. He had always been proud of the fact that his mind was open to new ideas—to new ways of thinking and being—but there was no way in hell he was prepared to accept the existence of dragons.

Yet there before him …

In that moment, all his years of skepticism eroded in one colossal landslide, leaving him breathless and disoriented. All thoughts emptied from his head to make room for one big fact:

Dragons existed. MAGIC existed.

He prepared for battle.

From behind his visor, as if reading Ruegger’s mind, Sarnova said, “Do you believe me now?”

Ruegger dropped his mug, unbuttoned three of the buttons on his shirt and, reaching both hands inside, withdrew two nine-millimeter Berettas. They were big pistols, but somehow he doubted that they’d be very effective against a dragon. Nevertheless, they were better than nothing.

As he watched, the green-scaled leviathan flew toward the far side of the lake, and for a moment Ruegger feared it would leave before he got a chance to observe it a little longer, but then the dragon angled along the curve of the shore. If it continued along the perimeter of the lake, it would arrive above Ruegger’s location in about a minute.

The Dark Lord, still as a glacier, stood planted on the rocky shore, a large sword gripped in both hands.

Behind his king, Colonel De Soto issued orders to his men. Several of the knights dismounted and dug equipment out of their satchels. As if they’d been preparing for this event, they started assembling various weapons, probably brought along in case of an attack by the Libertarians. There were RPGs, big machine guns, disposable missile launchers, shotguns ...

Ruegger squinted and took aim with both pistols. As of now, the dragon wasn’t much more than a dark blot against the stars, but even at a distance its sparkling green shone magnificently. The golden glare off its underside was just discernable. Part of the Darkling hoped that this creature would live up to its legend, that it was bloodthirsty and savage, but another part wanted a more peaceful confrontation—or better yet, no confrontation at all.

The creature was certainly beautiful to look at. Over the barrels of his weapons, Ruegger saw the sleek winged serpent follow the curvature of the lake until it was aimed straight at the party of immortals.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

Behind him, he heard De Soto ask Sarnova, “Well, my lord? Should we fire on it or not?”

“No,” said Sarnova. “Let’s see what it does first.”

The creature angled itself so that it bore directly down on the knights and their lord. When it was about a hundred feet away, it started breathing fire. Having no protection against flame, Ruegger leapt into the lake, firing his guns up at the dragon as he fell.

Enveloping the war party in an orange blaze, the blast left the monster’s mouth with such power that it knocked the knights off their mounts. For their part, the knights were protected by their armor, but their horses were not so lucky. By the time the cloud of flame had disappeared, half of the beasts lay smoldering on the ground. Mewling and crying out in pain, the rest of the animals ran about aimlessly, their bodies on fire even though their hearts still beat. The sound of their misery caused Ruegger to adjust the aim of his weapons. Within seconds, all the horses were dead, even Sarnova’s. Ruegger reloaded.

The dragon did not capitalize on the weakness of its prey; rather, it began circling the lake once more. As he watched it go, Ruegger climbed out of the water and shook himself off while the knights picked themselves up and began assessing the situation.

“Goddamn you,” De Soto said to his king. “We should have fired.”

The Dark Lord, his once-shiny armor now slightly charred, regarded his colonel for a moment. “Next time we will.”

During the respite, the knights, whose armor was now as blackened as their lord’s, gathered the surviving weapons and prepared them for the monster’s next pass. They didn’t have long to wait. When the dragon was two hundred feet away, five missiles struck out toward it. Although it was an easy shot, every single one went off course at the last second, swerving around the creature.

“Shit,” said De Soto. “It’s fucking telekinetic. Come on, men, goddamn you! Keep firing!”

Ruegger knew what was coming next, so he leapt back into the water—just in time. The dragon unleashed another barrage of flame, again knocking the knights to the ground. The fire actually cooked several of them inside their suits of armor, Ruegger saw when he stuck his head back up.

This time the dragon wasn’t going to simply pass over. It barreled down on the armored soldiers, who broke rank and started to scatter. The only one left was De Soto, tall and black in the middle of the carnage, issuing orders to the very end.

The dragon seized the colonel in its rear talons and wrenched him off the ground. As he receded into the night, his screams grew fainter and fainter.

Ruegger dragged himself out of the water and plunged himself into a blackened pile of weapons, searching for one that still worked. He found a disposable missile launcher that looked like it ought to function, but by the time he had it to his shoulder, the dragon was gone.

No … not gone. It was circling the lake once more.

“Sorry, Colonel,” he said. “Too bad you won’t be missed.”

“Indeed,” agreed Sarnova, just a few feet away. The king turned to his surviving men and said, “Spread out. The last thing we need is to bunch up. Get ready. This will be the final round.”

The knights, dazed and bleeding and weary, obeyed. For his part, Ruegger lay down the missile launcher and just stood there by Roche Sarnova, silent, checking his pistols, which he placed back in their holsters before picking up the launcher once more.

“By the way, thanks for killing my horse,” Sarnova said.

Ruegger didn’t waste energy replying.

The dragon had almost completed its third circle of the lake, and it had transferred the still-struggling body of Col. De Soto from its rear talons to its fore talons. Before Ruegger could question this action, the dragon brought De Soto up to its mouth, inserted the whole body of the colonel inside, armor and all, and swallowed.

Another volley of missiles arced through the clear night sky toward the monster. Again, every single rocket went wide. This time, though, Ruegger had let his mind follow the missiles and had ascertained that the party responsible for the telekinesis was not the dragon but an immortal somewhere nearby. So it has an accomplice.

The beast unleashed another rain of fire. This time, instead of jumping in the water for protection, Ruegger ducked behind a boulder. As the dragon passed overhead, he fired his missile and used his mindthrust to ward off the telekinetic powers of the beast’s accomplice. The accomplice’s powers were very strong, but whoever it was wasn’t prepared for the Darkling’s interference. The missile drove straight through the golden scales of the dragon’s belly and exploded.

For several lengthy seconds, the dragon kept flying despite the fact that the area below its ribcage was now vacant of the guts that at that moment were spilling down on the rocky shore of the lake. Finally, its wings stopped beating and the creature began a long slow dive toward a thickly wooded area bordering the body of water.

Ruegger ran after it.

“Wait!” Sarnova called out. “What are you doing?”

Ruegger didn’t know how to answer the king’s question. There were probably many reasons why he was chasing the falling dragon. Sure, curiosity was a factor, a large factor, but what he found himself shouting back at the Dark Lord was: “Dragon blood!”

*     *     *

Hot on the trail of the leviathan, Ruegger ran, the wind drying his clothes.

The exercise felt good, even though his body was weary, but, more to the point the fresh flow of blood to his brain forced him to reevaluate the situation. Sarnova had hinted that he “rescued” endangered immortal things from the destructive hands of humanity. Surely a dragon fit this profile. Also, the Dark Lord had brought Ruegger to the lake for a purpose. At the time, Ruegger’s arrogance had allowed him to assume that this purpose was related to him, but now he suspected otherwise. Sarnova had known about the dragon, which had appeared immediately after he’d lowered his visor. That had been its cue—or rather the cue of Sarnova’s accomplice, who maybe wasn’t so much of an accomplice as a psychic controller of the dragon. If that was so, then the controller and Sarnova were partners—which meant that the death of Colonel De Soto had been very deliberate.

Ruegger saw a cloaked figure disappear into the underbrush ahead of him, trying to beat him to the body of the dragon.

The controller. It had to be.

Pushing himself on, Ruegger entered the woods and wove in and out of the knotted and snow-laden trees, his nostrils alive with the alien scent of dragon, like a blend of gold and honey and peaches and bronze and salt and power.

Behind him, he could hear the metallic crashings of knights that had heard his call to dragon blood. He imagined Sarnova was somewhere close by.

There, up ahead! He saw the cloaked figure again. It was a tall man, but with the hood concealing his face Ruegger could make no guess as to his identity. A clearing appeared through the trees, created only a minute ago by the plummet of the dragon. The large carcass lay belly up, steam from its enormous wound spilling into the air.

The cloaked figure leapt onto one the creature’s legs and scrambled to its chest. The tall man put one of his own wrists to his mouth and tore into the big vein there. Blood welled up out of him, dropping onto the dragon. The fellow moved closer to the point where the cavity began and rained his blood into the wound, then he bit into his other wrist and let blood from it too fall into the place where the dragon’s guts used to be. After a moment, Ruegger thought he saw one of the monster’s talons twitch. The man couldn’t be trying to bring it back to life. Surely that was impossible; even though the creature was mighty, such a wound was bound to be mortal ...

Just as Ruegger entered the clearing, the man leapt into the cavity and disappeared from sight. What was he doing in there—trying to hot-wire the dragon back to life?

Ruegger jumped onto one of the forelegs and climbed onto the creature’s chest, where the cloaked man had been just moments before. He stepped to the edge of the hole and peered down. What he saw was bizarre. The man, whoever he was, had immersed himself in what was left of the monster’s entrails and was so completely embedded that Ruegger couldn’t make out his face. But he could see a lot of blood, and not all of it was from the dragon.

The dragon shifted beneath Ruegger. He spun to see the head of the great being lift off the ground by its strong neck muscles. The terrible head approached Ruegger and gave the Darkling a tired snarl. It seemed as if it was trying to work up a gout of flame but was too weak.

Bam!

Ruegger felt the side of the creature’s tail crash into his side and send him whirling to the ground. Gasping, he stared up at the sky.

The dragon rolled over on its side and stood up, carefully. Then, with a few cautious flaps of its wings, it launched itself into the air. The dragon’s great dark shape disappearing into the night was the last thing Ruegger saw before he blacked out.

*     *     *

He woke up to the taste of some strange exotic blood in his mouth. When he opened his eyes, he saw Roche Sarnova kneeling over him with a piece of dragon intestine in his hand, which he was twisting like a wet rag so that the blood and juices of the great beast dripped on Ruegger’s face.

“Tasty?”

Once Ruegger had managed to sit up, the Dark Lord dropped the piece of flesh to the ground and patted him on the back. Ruegger waved Sarnova away and wiped the blood off his face with the gloves Danielle had made him bring. With a groan, he stood.

“What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” Sarnova said.

“Oh, I remember. I just want to know what happened.” Scowling, he searched for his pack of cigarettes, but they were wet. He swore and faced the Dark Lord. “I know what you did,” he said softly.

“Maybe,” Sarnova said. “Now’s not the time to discuss it. The sun’s on its way up and we’ve got a long way to walk back.”

All about him, the knights were shedding the remains of their armor, tossing the charred hunks of metal to the ground. Roche Sarnova did the same. That done, the small war party ran at a swift pace back up the slope. They found the ledge, followed it around the mountain and crossed the drawbridge.

Once inside the Old Courtyard, Sarnova told them all to get some rest and to meet him for a de-briefing in eight hours. Ruegger felt certain that the king was giving them this much time on purpose so that they could spread the word of De Soto’s death. But why? When the knights were gone, the king turned to Ruegger and was about to say something when several Castle Guards stepped forward.

“Lord Sarnova, there’s been a murder. Plus, seven shades, part of the Funhouse of the Forsaken’s entourage, are missing and presumed dead.”

“What happened?”

“In one of the rooms that the Funhouse of the Forsaken occupy—a man was discovered, dead and hung from the ceiling, or rather the corners of the room, in a strange fashion.”

“Show me the pictures.”

As if he had been expecting this, the captain of the guard retrieved several Polaroids from a pocket and handed them to his king. Sarnova studied them, then tossed them to Ruegger.

“Fucking Balaklava,” Sarnova said. “First the Sabo, now this.”

“The Sabo, my Lord?” the guard captain said.

“Never mind. Have you found the ones that did this, Junger and Jagoda?”

“We’re still searching. A couple of my men think they’re hiding in the catacombs. Some are afraid to go down there after them, especially after all the slaves they bought, if you see what I mean? Them being chalgids now, too.”

“Your men are right. Limit your search to areas above the catacombs. Otherwise, you have my permission to do a full and exhaustive sweep of the castle.”

The captain just stared at his lord for a moment, and Ruegger could imagine what the man must be thinking. Was the Dark Lord himself afraid of the Balaklava? Without another word, the captain and his men retreated, leaving Sarnova and Ruegger virtually alone in the Old Courtyard.

“I guess we have things to discuss, don’t we?” said Sarnova.

“Yes.”

“Very well.” The Dark Lord led Ruegger upstairs into his study. “You can take off your clothes if you want. I promise I won’t look.”

Ruegger allowed himself a small smile, but declined the offer. Instead, he moved over to the large fireplace and let the heat dry his clothes; unfortunately, as they dried they became stiff and uncomfortable.

Sarnova prepared some coffee and handed Ruegger a big mug for the third time that night.

“Thanks.”

The king added some liquor to his own mug. “Want some?”

“Please.”

“So you think I had a hand in what happened back there?” the king asked, once they were both drinking the enhanced coffee.

“A hand? That’s one way of saying it. I think you masterminded the whole thing.”

Sarnova sighed and sank into his big armchair. “I suppose you deserve to know what that was all about, but I hesitate to tell you. I don’t want it to become common knowledge. If I tell you, you’ll tell Danielle. I can accept that, but I want your assurance that it goes no farther than that.”

“You have it, Roche. But make it quick. The sun is already up and she’ll be worried about me.”

“Here it is. A large percentage of my subjects have grown weary of the war. This you know. Further, you’ve probably heard rumors that a coup was in the works. Well, our dear Colonel De Soto was the leader of that movement. Luckily, I have a close friend in the Ambassador Mauchlery. Ever met him?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“That’s strange. You’ve been here enough times as to make your lack of acquaintance with him rather unusual.”

“Anyway, I haven’t met him.”

“He’s my oldest friend, and for good reason. He was able to get De Soto and company to elect him as their leader. In effect, he was the man they wanted to dethrone me. Still is, for that matter. But De Soto was pushing the Ambassador for a fixed date. He wanted to depose me and end the war as quickly as possible.” Sarnova closed his eyes for a moment. “Obviously something had to be done about the Colonel if I was to maintain my position. However, the problem was that De Soto had enough sway amongst his men as to make murdering him or imprisoning him tricky. You follow me?”

“You needed him dead.”

“Let’s just say out of the way. But I couldn’t let anyone know that I was responsible—otherwise, his men would either revolt or defect, and I couldn’t have that. In fact, there could be no question about my involvement, because I require the complete loyalty of my troops. What I needed was to have him killed in plain sight of his own men. Thus I staged the little drama that you were so recently a part of. That dragon, as you may have surmised, wasn’t acting on its own. It was one of several that I managed to capture many centuries ago when I realized that they were in danger of being utterly wiped off the face of the earth.”

“Where do you keep them?”

“Deep inside the mountain, where I keep the rest of my collection.”

“Your collection?”

Sarnova shrugged. “I didn’t mean it quite that way. They’re not mine, as such, but they wouldn’t be here today without the refuge I had created for them. At any rate, the Ambassador and I organized the dragon attack.”

“Why a dragon? Don’t you think that was a little ... over the top? How are you going to explain the dragon to your troops?”

“I’ll have my elite guards—those I’ve had to protect me for many years now—lay hints about the Refuge. They know of the dragons, and of the Refuge. Some refer to it as the Zoo, but it’s a word I dislike. I took you out there to be rid of Malie and dispatch De Soto.”

“You used me.”

The king wet his lips once more. “No,” he said. “The Sabo is real and you did the right thing in warding off the Libertarian attack. Believe me, I appreciate your help in that.”

“But the part about you making Maleasoel an ally ...”

“It wasn’t a lie, if that’s what you mean.”

“No. I know what you mean. And I believe I know the reason you didn’t want Malie to enter the Sabo. Not because you wanted to keep her alive, but because you were afraid of her bringing nuclear weapons into your castle.”

Roche paused, then smiled a smile that was both guilty and unapologetic. “I won’t deny it. Truly, though, I’d like to make her an ally. I’ve heard that before Ludwig’s murder she was a good leader, one many admired, and I honestly would’ve liked to have someone of her fiber on my side, fighting against Subaire. The problem is how do I get in touch with her without getting any more of my men killed?”

“You didn’t have a problem with the dragon killing your men.”

“That was an accident. I hadn’t intended for the dragon to breathe fire. Mauchlery should’ve kept a tighter grip on its mind.”

“Your Ambassador was its controller.”

“Right. Where were we?”

“You and Mauchlery killed De Soto.”

“Actually, we wanted to capture him alive if possible. See, not all of the potential revolutionaries completely trust the Ambassador. He isn’t privy to all the inside information. Another revolution could have been brewing and he wouldn’t have known about it.”

“Whereas the Colonel would.”

The Dark Lord scratched his jawline. “You noticed that the dragon swallowed him whole? It was to regurgitate him shortly thereafter and the interrogation would begin.”

“I see.”

“Then you come along with your goddamned supersonic mindthrust and kill the damned dragon, probably killing the colonel too despite our best efforts.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sarnova waved it away. “I hold no grudges. Except, of course, for the fact that Gethraul—the dragon—is a friend of mine. Don’t ask. It’s a long story.”

“What I want to know is how Mauchlery got the dragon back on its feet.”

“He’s old and powerful and wise. Besides, such dragons as Geth can’t be killed by a single missile.”

“He looked like he was well on his way.”

“You placed a good shot. I don’t know how Francois revived him so quickly; my own bloods would’ve taken far longer to do the job. To be honest, I don’t know how Francois did it and I don’t care. I don’t want Gethraul to die. And maybe, through some miracle, De Soto didn’t die in the explosion and I can proceed to get some answers out of him. I haven’t heard back from the Ambassador yet. Until I do, I won’t know if De Soto lived or died.”

“I can only apologize once.”

“I’m not asking for an apology. If anything, I should be apologizing to you.”

“I’d prefer a pack of cigarettes.”

After taking a deep breath, Sarnova said, “I think I’ve covered just about everything. Go back to your room and tell Danielle you’ve just slain a dragon. Maybe she’ll see something positive in it. I don’t. Anyway, we both need our sleep. Remember, tomorrow night Kiernevar goes up against the last of my potential successors; if he wins, you’re my final line of defense against insanity. Do whatever you need to do to get yourself focused.”

Ruegger stepped away from the fireplace, immediately missing its warmth, and moved towards the door.

“Ruegger?” Sarnova called, and the Darkling turned. The king smiled, reached into a pocket and threw Ruegger a pack of cigarettes.

Lighting up, Ruegger left him by the fire.

*     *     *

Once the dragon and the knights had disappeared, Jean-Pierre jumped down from the small ridge and made his way around the lake, careful to keep his eyes and ears alert for the slightest sound. There was only the wind and the lapping of waves against the shore. For the first time in a long while, he stopped to enjoy the beauty of the scene.

This is the sort of thing Sophia would like.

Taking in the sharp air, he soon found himself outside the entrance to the Sabo. He wasn’t quite the spoonbender that Ruegger was, but he had little trouble moving the big boulder that blocked his way. As he started into the darkness of the tunnel, he found an odd sign: It’s a trap.

What did that mean? Surely it was a reference to the Sabo itself, an entity the Libertarians had not been made aware of, by why had Castle soldiers been the ones to place it here? Surely Sarnova wanted the Libertarians to come this way because it was a trap! It made no sense. And what of the dragon? Jean-Pierre’s powerful psychic sense had informed him that the dragon had been under the (very strained) thrall of an immortal, yet who could be powerful enough to control a dragon?

Jean-Pierre wanted to shrug the questions off, to keep on going down the tunnel and into the maze he knew so well, but it was not that sort of urge that had kept him alive all these years. Above all else, he knew the right moments to be prudent, and he sensed that now was one of those times. He could not enter the Castle through the Sabo. This was a nuisance, but he could handle it.

He could always go around the ledge and enter the Castle via the Old Courtyard. However, this presented two major problems. One, the sun was just coming up, and Jean-Pierre hadn’t had enough to eat to properly mend his wounds; the hike up the ledge to the Old Courtyard would only allow the sun to grow higher and stronger. It was quite possible that, as sorely wounded as he was, the sun would kill him.

Also, he wanted to create as little a stir as possible. He wanted to approach Kharker and Sophia in stealth, find out what they knew and proceed from there. Caution seemed the word of the day.

He left the tunnel and replaced the big boulder before the entrance. Looking about him, he considered his options. He needed to get into the Castle—

The dragon! Shit.

Weak, it flew out from behind a shoulder of the mountain and struck for the lake. The dawn sun glistened on its green scales, glittering on the clusters of wicked horns and scraggly whiskers sprouting from its head. For a moment, Jean-Pierre was transfixed by its sheer size; its wingspan alone must stretch a hundred yards across, and from barbed tail to enormous head, it surely must be at least four hundred feet. Only magic could keep such a heavy creature airborne, surely. Kharker had been right. The dragon looked tired, even deathly. Gore still dripped from the hole in its belly. Its wings beat slowly, laboriously. Jean-Pierre knew it wasn’t a threat to him any longer … unless he was very, very stupid.

It tucked it wings and barreled into the lake with such force that waves blasted the shore. Jean-Pierre didn’t wait for them to subside before he made his decision.

The dragon had risen from its depths. Surely it had come from some underground chamber that had an opening on the floor of the basin. From there would be a connecting tunnel up the castle—it was the only thing that made sense, in as much as it did)—which would solve Jean-Pierre’s most immediate problem. However, if it was true that the wyrm had risen from some underground location, did it mean that there were more dragons where that one had come from?

Unexpectedly, that thought made Jean-Pierre smile. Dragons. Maybe, if the legends were true, he would find a horde of gold and jewels for the taking. If nothing else, at least the adventure should prove diverting, and the water would shield him from the sun. Hopefully he wouldn’t actually have to follow the dragon all the way down; in his current condition, he simply couldn’t afford to engage even a dying dragon in combat. Also, he sensed that it was still under psychic control, and he had no wish to meet up with anyone that could control a dragon. Kharker had hinted that they were very powerful, physically and mentally.

And so it was that, with a smile on his face, Jean-Pierre dove below the rippling waters and made his way into the darkness at the bottom of the lake.

At first, he couldn’t see the dragon but could easily detect its blood in the water. The trail led to a large hole in the middle of the lake floor, partially hidden behind a rock wall. Jean-Pierre plunged into the opening, which was large, deep and unnaturally even—almost a perfect cylinder. Wrought by powerful magic, he had no doubt. The waters here were warmer, and he wondered whether this was normal or an effect created by the dragon’s blood, which also made the water murkier. Still, Jean-Pierre could see enough to continue.

It seemed as if he followed the dragon for a long time, but maybe this was simply his weariness speaking. Whichever, he soon knew himself to be deep in the heart of the mountain.

He saw a great rift in the shaft’s wall and paused to inspect it. The crack was long, curving along the shaft’s wall for about twenty feet, but only about five feet in height. Obviously, a dragon could not fit here, but it seemed to Jean-Pierre that if there were other creatures, magical creatures, than this rift might lead him to where they lay. Surely that would be safer than following the dragon down to its lair ... and wasn’t caution supposed the word for the day?

Maybe, but curiosity pulled at him. Sophia, he thought. I must break off this mad hunt and find another way. I must live to see her again.

He followed the dragon deeper. They must have passed the midpoint of the mountain by now. Just when he was starting to grow worried that they would never stop, he felt the dragon change directions below him. Jean-Pierre stilled himself and managed to embed himself in the wall of the shaft. The dragon had not sensed him. He felt it turn until it faced a horizontal direction and then proceeded.

Cautiously, Jean-Pierre followed the hole down and saw that the tunnel snaked off into a more level direction. He tailed the dragon, which seemed to swim slower with every lash of its mighty tail and every kick of its great talons. In fact, it slowed so much that Jean-Pierre actually found himself in danger of catching up to it. He hung back, wary of being discovered. He knew the leviathan neared death, but even so it would encounter little trouble if it decided to dispatch him.

The moribund wyrm plowed ahead. It rose with the tunnel and surfaced in a large pool, of which Jean-Pierre could see little. Dragging itself out of the water, the creature disappeared from sight.

Jean-Pierre quested out with his mind, trying to get a reading on it, but felt the brush of the beast’s controller instead. Jean-Pierre retreated back into himself. Anything that could psychically dominate the will of a dragon was a thing that the albino feared equally as much as he feared the wyrm. Actually, he realized that he was a little jealous. He was the strongest psychic he’d ever known and the thought of competition both frightened and intrigued him.

Sophia. He had to make it back to her.

He waited for several minutes, then rose to surface in the pool. The air was foul, as if it had been rotting down here for hundreds of years—and perhaps it had. Torches blazed intermittently along the rocky chamber, but they were neither bright enough nor numerous enough to completely lift the space from a darkness that must have plagued this place for countless years. Rock walls surrounded half the circular pool, forcing Jean-Pierre to make his way to the shore on the far side. Fortunately, many large stone outcroppings rose from the hard ground and, once out of the water, he found hiding places easily.

He stuck his head out from one such outcropping and appraised the chamber. Except for the stone and the flickering torches it was empty, but several large—dragon large—tunnels ran off from it. From the blood on the floor, Jean-Pierre determined which corridor the dying dragon had taken … and followed.

The tunnel spilled out into an even larger chamber, this one lit more brightly by torches whose hellish light made demons out of the shadows of every stone outcropping, of which there were many. The light glittered upon a magnificent pile of gold and treasures, just as Jean-Pierre had hoped. It was to this great glittering mound that the dragon sluggishly marched. The albino leapt from the tunnel and slipped behind the largest and nearest stone outcropping. Cautiously, he climbed the rocky pile to its summit and peered out.

Leaking blood, the dragon found its horde and plunged into it with a muffled roar of pain and longing. Jean-Pierre hadn’t realized just how large the horde was until he lost sight of the dragon within its gleaming mound.

The heap bucked at its owner’s movements, sending cascades of priceless jewels and artifacts into avalanches. For many minutes, the dragon wallowed about in its wealth, and as more and more of the gems were uncovered and tossed about, Jean-Pierre saw that the wyrm’s blood had spilled all over its possessions. It created an odd sight; where the torches flashed upon the unbloodied jewels, gold and silver and diamonds radiated brilliant light, awing the hidden werewolf. But, where blood poured down in red rivers on the once-glowing rubies and trophies and treasures, the light was absorbed, creating an illusion of a luminous and golden mountain cut through with black streams and speckled all over with tiny ponds.

The massive head of the dragon shot up from the horde, scattering another group of treasures into a loud metallic avalanche, and Jean-Pierre was shocked at the change in the beast’s demeanor. Still, it did not look plump and healthy and vital, but neither did it seem on the brink of death. Its eyes blazed with rejuvenation, and its nostrils quivered, drawing in deep healthy breaths of stagnant stone-filled air.

For a moment, Jean-Pierre was afraid the wyrm would smell him, but apparently it did not, as it did not glance his way. He wondered if its mound of treasures was responsible for the sudden burst of healing. Did a dragon feed off of wealth as vampires fed off of blood?

Suddenly, the immense body of the dragon rose from the mound and shook itself, sending various treasures flying across the room. To the albino, it looked much like a dog shaking itself dry after being walked in the rain.

The dragon stretched, gave a low roar of contentment, and lowered itself to lay sideways on its horde, giving Jean-Pierre a good view of its wound, which seemed much smaller now. Then, to his great surprise, a blood-drenched, human-sized figure emerged from the cavity, dragging behind it what looked to be a knight in charred armor.

One of the knight’s legs and one of his arms were missing, and there was much damage to the body and armor. Obviously, whatever had dealt the dragon its almost fatal blow had damaged or killed the knight, too.

The bloody figure, a tall man wearing a hood and cloak that was so thoroughly soaked with blood that they plastered his frame like glue, shook his head and swore. He removed his hood, revealing blood-soaked blond hair and a face that made Jean-Pierre blink. Ambassador Mauchlery …

The Ambassador knelt down and pulled off the knight’s helmet, revealing a bearded face that Jean-Pierre knew only vaguely. Some member of the Dark Council, he knew. De Soto, he thought. Mauchlery spent several minutes trying to revive the Council-member, but with no success.

“Goddamn Ruegger,” he growled. Clearly, he was tired and seemed to have lost a lot of blood. Angrily, he kicked De Soto in the side. “At least you’re dead, anyway. Next time I’ll be sure not to underestimate that damned vampire.”

“Next time?” queried the dragon, and Jean-Pierre started to hear it speak. It did so in a low, rolling voice, but the albino was sure that, had it wanted to, it could have split the earth with its thunder. It was weary, though, and seemed to harbor little anger toward the Ambassador. “I don’t think there will be a next time.”

Mauchlery nodded. “This wasn’t much of a success, was it?”

“Still, I thank you for your loyalty. You may have used me, but at least you came back to save me. You could’ve abandoned me in the lake, or the connecting shaft, and taken your dead friend there with you. You stayed with me ... within me ... gave me your blood and strength, and forced me back to my home, even though I hadn’t the power to do it on my own.”

The dragon brought its enormous wedge-shaped head down to regard Mauchlery and blinked its amber eyes slowly. The Ambassador stroked its snout and said, “That’s what friends are for, Gethraul. I’m just sorry I had to use you like that in the first place.”

The wyrm snorted, stirring Mauchlery’s matted hair. “You didn’t control me very well, though, did you? I got to have a little fun despite you.”

“You weren’t supposed to have that kind of fun, Geth. I can’t believe you spat fire even after I begged you not to.”

Amused, the dragon smiled. The image was quite unnerving. Almost, Jean-Pierre thought, the thing was human.

“When we struck the bargain, Francois, you promised I’d get to have a little sport.”

“Not that kind! Geth, you killed some friends of mine today; that simply can’t happen again. When I said fun, I meant you’d get to leave the mountain for awhile, not get to burn up twenty good men.”

Gethraul lay its head down on its front talons, very much like a dog indeed, and sighed. “Definitions vary, my friend. Next time, we’ll sort out the fine print before I agree to any more excursions. Does that sound fair?”

Mauchlery scowled, and Jean-Pierre felt certain an argument between dragon and immortal was about to break out; it was time to go. He wouldn’t make it past this chamber, not with these two, and if the other great tunnels that led from the pond chamber spilled out into other dragon dens, Jean-Pierre wanted no part of them.

Quietly, he crept off down the stone outcropping and slipped back through the tunnel he’d followed to get here. Soon he stood in the dark chamber of the pond, feeling relief and exhilaration wash over him in liberal doses. He’d seen a dragon! He had learned a dragon’s secret, that gold can cure one’s ailments, and had even heard one speak.

Quite a morning.

Now, though, he knew he had to follow the water back up to the rift in the shaft of the wall, the rift he felt would lead him closer to the Castle, and further from the dragons. Thinking of all he had to tell Sophia and Kharker, and even Ruegger, he knew he needed to avoid the great beings for awhile.

Feeling the sleek golden dagger he’d purloined from Gethraul’s lair against his thigh (he’d stuck it in his waistband), he grinned as he plunged headfirst into the pond.

*     *     *

After Ruegger was gone, Lord Sarnova poured more liquor into his coffee, sat back deeper in his chair and watched the fire.

Godsdamned fire. He hadn’t meant to sacrifice his horse, even to the worthwhile goal of pumping De Soto for all the information he was worth. Nevertheless, Tepes was dead and Sarnova had no chalgids on hand to bring him back. Except, of course, for Junger and Jagoda ...

Bastards. Trying to take over the Sabo! What arrogance. Did they really expect Sarnova to sit back and let them seize the Labyrinth? If they were that stupid, they shouldn’t be hard to kill. Unfortunately, Sarnova did not doubt their intelligence, which could only mean that they thought they were powerful enough to withstand his countermeasures. There would be countermeasures.

He drank more. Francois should have been here some time ago ... but then he did have a dead dragon on his hands. Just as Roche was about to add more liquor into his coffee, someone knocked the side door.

“Come in, Ambassador.”

Mauchlery entered and slumped into a chair near his king. He looked drained. “Gethraul made it,” he said. “But De Soto’s dead.”

The Dark Lord had not expected a different answer. “At least he’s not around to cause any more problems. Not only that, but his death will probably throw the revolutionaries into turmoil.”

“So you hope. For all we know, they liked him as much as we did. They might think his death a blessing.”

“Thanks for looking on the bright side.”

Francois smiled thinly. “Sorry, Roche. I just don’t feel very cheerful at the moment.”

“Get some rest. Take a mortal, feel better. I’m sure getting Gethraul back to life was no piece of cake.”

“I’ll live.”

“By the way ...”

“How did I do it?” Off Sarnova’s nod, Mauchlery smiled again. “Through sheer force of will, Roche. Through sheer force of will.”

The Ambassador sat there for several moments, silent, as if trying to will his own strength to return to him. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths and just generally looked as if trying to locate something—something within himself—that he’d lost. At last, he seemed to give up, and said, “Roche, where’s the scotch?”

“Where it always is.”

The Ambassador prepared himself a drink. “So what do you think about Ruegger?”

“He’s strong. Smart. Not very respectful of his elders. But I think he’s in favor of my vision—of the Undead Jerusalem. I don’t know why, but I trust him.”

Francois nodded, sipping. “Think he’ll beat Kiernevar?”

“I’m not prepared to guess.”

“Do you still want Ruegger to lose?”

“No,” Roche said.

“Do you want him to win?”

“No.”

“So ...”

Roche groaned. At first he had seen Ruegger as a disruptive element, an enemy, but the public held the Darkling in high regard (or at least the press did; the Marshals sold papers), and it would have made Sarnova look bad if he had been forced to kill Ruegger without at least giving the Darkling a fighting chance. And then of course there was Kharker to consider. So he’d given Ruegger the opportunity to go up against Kiernevar, hoping that the Darkling would be defeated and Sarnova could have him executed without losing the support of his subjects.

At the same time, he did not want Kiernevar to win. The only upside to a victory by Kiernevar would be that—hopefully—the lunatic would be easier to handle than Ruegger. Kiernevar, existing solely in his own limited world, might not fully realize the power he would possess if were to be Sarnova’s successor ... whereas Ruegger would be fully aware and in a position to exploit his position.

“Well?” pressed the Ambassador.

“I don’t know. I ... like Ruegger. And I don’t think he has any urge to rule. The danger he poses is small. On the other hand, now that Junger and Jagoda have taken such an interest in Kiernevar—and are expanding their own boundaries ...”

“What do you mean?”

“The fuckers have created some thing ... or things ... that is, or are, taking over the Sabo.”

“What?”

Briefly, Sarnova related what he’d seen through the eyes of the doomed horse.

“But what is it?” the Ambassador said.

“I don’t know. Some ... art. I guess you could call it a collage of sorts. You know how they are. Everything’s a piece of art to them. Even death.”

“Especially death.”

“Right. Well, I don’t know what they think they’re doing, but they’re doing it regardless. Plus, with this Kiernevar thing hanging in the balance ...”

“What are you going to do?”

“The only thing I can. Organize a war party and go down in there to get them out.”

“You think they’re down there themselves? You don’t think they just created the thing and set it loose?”

“Taking over the Sabo through remote control?”

“They could be over at the Floor Show for all we know.”

“I doubt it. The Guards are at this very moment combing the castle for them.”

Francois gave him a strange look. “You acted fast.”

“They provoked me, or at least that was the result. They killed a man and strung him up in one of the rooms the Funhouse has been staying in.”

Francois looked even more weary than before. “Why?”

“I have no idea. Some grudge or other, I imagine. Whatever their motive, it means nothing to me except disrespect, and I will not tolerate it. However, I will try to find them first, reason with them, see if I can convince them to back off. They won’t, of course. I’ll have to kill them.”

“Roche ...”

Sarnova waited.

“It won’t happen that way,” Francois said.

“Oh, I know. They wouldn’t have started this thing unless they thought they stood a chance of winning. Nevertheless, my options are limited.”

“Just the same …”

“They have to be dealt with. And they will. Leave it to me. As for you, I need you to organize a meeting of the traitors and discuss De Soto’s death, hear what they have to say, and basically make sure you’re still their leader.”

“Consider it done.”

“They need to be united, under you, so that they pose no threat.”

Francois nodded, said nothing.

“A penny for your thoughts.”

The Ambassador laughed softly and drank some more scotch.

“What’s so funny” Sarnova said.

“Just that you’d be wasting a penny.” Francois sat the glass down, running a hand through his blood-streaked hair. “I need some sleep, Roche. You could use some yourself.”

Sarnova smiled. “Consider it done.”

*     *     *

When Ruegger returned to the room he shared with Danielle, he found four Castle Guards standing outside.

“What’s this?” he demanded.

“Sarnova sent us here to ensure that nothing happened to you or to Danielle before the chess match between you and the ... well, Kiernevar,” one said.

“You’re supposed to protect us?”

“Something like that.”

“Are we in any danger?”

“Junger and Jagoda have allegedly killed a member of the Funhouse of the Forsaken, and they left the body in Danielle’s old room.”

Ruegger nodded. The Balaklava liked to play, and it wasn’t out of character for them to throw fright into those that they were playing with. However, he doubted that this was the only reason the Guards were posted here.

“What if we tried to leave, Danielle and I? Would you try to stop us?”

The Guard shifted uncomfortably. “We’ve been directed to prevent you from escaping, should you chose to do so.” He gestured apologetically. “I’m sorry about this—I’m admirer of yours; I read about you every chance I get in the papers—we’re just doing our job. We’re to follow wherever you go until the game.”

“What about Danielle? Aren’t you supposed to be protecting her?”

“We’re undermanned, you know. Not enough Guards to go around, so we were kind of hoping you two wouldn’t separate. Please, sir. Just let us do our job, we won’t interfere. Your room is soundproofed. We’ll give you your privacy.”

He struck out a hand in friendship.

Swearing under his breath, Ruegger said, “We’ll try to be good.”

“That’s all we’re asking.”

Ruegger took the offered hand, nodded to the other three Guards, and moved inside, where Danielle was lying on the bed reading a book. When he entered, she shoto her feet and hugged him.

“Cute, aren’t they?” she said.

“So much for getting the hell out of here while we still had a chance.”

“You wouldn’t have gone anyway.”

“No, I guess not, at that. Did they tell you about ...?”

“Junger and Jagoda? Yeah. But if the bastards were trying to leave a message or something, it could just as easily have been for Sophia as for me—or Max, for that matter.” She shook her head. “Not that … if it had been intended for someone else … that would be any better, of course.”

“I know what you mean.”

“All I’m saying is that since that message may not’ve been for me—and since I haven’t heard that guards were posted to Sophe, it means those guys out there are more jailers than protectors.”

She touched his face lightly with her fingertips.

“Jesus, your clothes are stiff ... wet,” she said, laughing a little. She squeezed him harder and said, “I was worried about you. The sun …”

“It’s all right, baby.” He kissed her forehead, smelling her clean and fragrant hair. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

She pressed her lips against the place over his heart, took his hand and pulled him over to the bed. “Now tell me what the hell happened.”

“Well, among other things, I killed a dragon.“

When he had finished the tale and convinced her that he wasn’t pulling her leg, she propped some pillows under her back and lit a cigarette, frowning in thought.

“You think this is random?” she asked.

“Meaning, does it have any relation to finding out why Ludwig died?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. The dragons, the Refuge. I mean, on top of everything else to sort through, this doesn’t just add a few pieces to the puzzle, it changes it entirely. We need some evidence, some real evidence, of who hired those two to kill Ludwig. Without that, we’re just chasing phantoms.”

She stared into space. “So magic is real … ?”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

Ruegger was tired of mysteries. He simply wanted to hold Danielle in his arms and sleep. Thankfully, she let him.

*     *     *

Ten soldiers stopped Lord Kharker as he descended into the catacombs.

“Please, sir, we’re to advise anyone who tries to go down this way to refrain. There have been ... unforeseen circumstances ... and the catacombs are considered potentially dangerous.”

“I know all about it. The Balaklava are supposed to be down there. That’s why there are ten of you here. I can handle them.”

“Excuse me, Lord Kharker, I would not deny you, of all people, access to the tunnels, but I must tell you that I am to report all those who descend into them ... well, I have to report you to the Lord Sarnova if you pass through. I guess he figures anyone who goes down there might have ties to Junger and Jagoda.” The soldier smiled nervously, as if suggesting that this was only a joke. “Please, I implore you, don’t go down there. It’s dangerous.”

Kharker laughed, then stepped forward.

“Out of my way, lads. I’ve got things to do and I don’t care whether Blackie knows about them or not. Go, give your report.”

Stomping past the guards, he began the last leg of the descent.

Once deep within the nest of old stone passageways, he knew just where to go. After making his way into a chamber built to house the remains of a long-dead Dark Lord, he triggered a hidden panel. Moving into the darkness beyond, he entered the territory of the Sabo. He had no fear of the creature itself, or of the parasites that lived within it, for Sarnova had taken him here many times in the past and the Sabo recognized him as a friend. Of the Balaklava, however, he was wary. About that he’d lied to Blackie’s soldiers. But he would not let his fear of Junger and Jagoda eclipse his purpose.

Swiftly, he moved through one tunnel after another, crossing over a bridge here and climbing a flight of stairs there, at all times keeping his senses sharp for other sounds. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before he heard strange noises coming from a source he’d never heard before.

He popped his head out from behind a wall and made a quick study of the area beyond. What he saw in the instant before he pulled his head back one of the several large chambers that the Sabo used to snare its victims. There were the long chains and there, up high, the rusted cages where many a mortal had spent his last moments in utter terror. But these were sights that Kharker had seen before.

What attracted his attention was the strange creature climbing up to one of those cages, using its countless arms and appendages to grasp many chains at once. Made of interwoven human and immortal bodies, its shape seemed fluid. Of course, this must be what had everyone so afraid, Sarnova included. This creature, this thing, had been fashioned by Junger and Jagoda for some grim purpose.

Why was it climbing to the cages above? Then Kharker thought he understood. It was practicing. This was a drill. Memories returned to him of times spent in various armies throughout the world, most recently of his time spent in World War Two Germany, with Ruegger as his great and evil companion. Yes, companion. That was the word. Not pupil, as Ruegger liked to think of it now. Hell, if anything, the Darkling had taught Kharker some things! But that is what this thing was doing, wasn’t it? Practicing for a time when it would need to know how to climb those chains—for a time when it was at war.

Who was there to make war upon? Sarnova, for one. Surely Junger and Jagoda weren’t preparing to attack the Dark Lord! Even they weren’t that bold.

It was a question for another time. What Kharker wondered now was whether or not this thing had a mind of its own. Had Junger and Jagoda actually given it the power to reason? Kharker needed to get around it, to reach a tunnel on the far side of the chamber.

He risked another glance. This time he noticed details he’d missed before, like the mutilated body of a dead horse on the ground. Secondly, and in greater supply, were the bodies of roughly a dozen mud-sharks. Even the Sabo could not kill the Balaklava’s creature. Third, the abomination had reached the cage it had been climbing towards. It opened and closed the door, reaching a limb inside. Once satisfied, the monster swung its great bulk through the air, shifting its purchase from one set of chains to another. It began an ascent to a cage even closer to the ceiling.

Damn it all. The creature above had many heads and many eyes, and if even a few of them actually worked it would spot Kharker crossing the chamber and he’d be finished. Suppressing a groan, he moved back from the opening and retreated down several tunnels. He would have to take the long way around. It took him another twenty minutes, but finally he made his way to the tunnel he’d been seeking, and from it he made his way to the outer limit of the Sabo, the great round door.

He gathered his telekinetic power and rolled it open. He stepped into the outer region, seeing the boulder ahead which sheltered the labyrinth from unwanted visitors. A post with a board mounted on it jutted from the ground. It’s a trap, Malie, read the note.

Kharker laughed.

“Yes, you bitch. It’s a trap, all right.” He plucked the post from the ground and put it under an arm, where it would stay until he found a place to dispose of it. Looking up through the ceiling for a moment, he sighed. “Gavin, this is for you. And for Jean-Pierre, may you find your peace at last.”

He rammed the stump of a cigar into his mouth, careful not to light it lest the scent give him away, and returned to the dark corridors of the Sabo, confident now that Maleasoel would die, painfully and in fear. Then he made his way back the way he’d come.

He tried to ignore the feeling that he was being watched all the while.

THE END

OF VOLUME TWO

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Thank you for reading. Part Three is now available. You can find it here . . .

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. . . in the UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00MW8RRPO

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In fact, to encourage you to leave a review, if you liked the novel and review it, just email me at jackconnerbooks@gmail.com and I’ll gift you a free copy of Part Three.

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Table of Contents

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14Damn

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

AUTHOR’S NOTE: