Chapter Sixteen
The payphone had seen better days. It stood outside the liquor store, the only remaining legitimate business on The Street With No Name. Even if cellulars hadn’t rendered it obsolete, no one in their right mind would ever think of dropping a quarter in it, since the jimmied coin box hung open like the drawbridge on a ransacked castle. The metal shell was covered with gang tags, and the earpiece looked like it had been used as a blunt instrument more than once.
Sonja picked up the dead phone and stabbed at the keypad. There was a sound in the receiver like the wailing of lost souls, and then a gruff male voice spoke up on the other end of the line: “Monastery Bar and Grill.”
“Hey, Grendel. It’s me. Put Malfeis on, would ya?”
The bartender grumbled something in Old English as he handed over the phone. A second later his voice was replaced by that of young man’s. “Sonja! Girlchick! How’s it hangin’?”
“I can’t waste time with snappy patter right now, Mal,” she told the demon. “I have a deal for you.”
The young, clear-as-a-bell voice became as thick and gravelly as a chainsmoker’s. “When is it not business with you, girly-girl? I didn’t think you called just to shoot the breeze. What are you selling?”
“Five kilos of snow. Uncut.”
“My-my,” the demon chortled. “Slumming, are we? To tell you the truth, I thought you’d have something far more esoteric, lovey. That dust from the World Trade Center bombing was primo, by the way!”
“What if I told you this particular shipment of cocaine is responsible for at least a dozen violent deaths?”
“Hmmm. Now you’re starting to interest me.” No doubt his ears had literally pricked at that bit of news. His voice changed again, becoming that of an elderly man. “How much do you want?”
“Three hundred. And I need it in cash, no later than tomorrow morning.”
“Very well. I’ll send Grendel,” Malfeis said. Sonja had no trouble picturing him as lounged about in the back booth of his French Quarter dive, his tail lashing back and forth like an anxious cat’s.
“You got me on radar?” she asked.
“Are you kidding? My kind developed Caller ID! However, I will need an exact address for my delivery boy.”
“Okay. But remember: no eating anyone this time!” “If you insist,” Malfeis sighed.
After finishing her deal with the devil, as Sonja hung up the receiver, she experienced a peculiar sensation, persistent and impossible to ignore, like the tug of a magnet. It was Esher, calling to those tied to him by blood.
The Dance Macabre was jammed with humans and vampires alike. She knew Esher had been building his brood, but until that moment Sonja did not realize just how large it truly was. She’d never seen so many vampires together under the same roof. Esher’s brood reminded her of a cross between Fagin’s School for Thieves and the Manson Family, combining a ragged army of sneak-thieves and footpads with damaged souls drawn to, and easily manipulated by, a far more powerful, utterly amoral will than their own. The sight of them made her palms twitch, and she had to restrain herself for reaching for her switchblade.
Most of the brood was comprised of younger, orphaned vampires Esher had actively recruited. Of course, ‘young’ had a different meaning among the undead than it did the living. While some wore the skins of runaway teenagers, others were outfitted in the bodies of decrepit street-people. She suspected most of them had been undead for no longer than a year or two. For the most part they had all been created by careless predation, probably by vampires no different from themselves, and left to wander the urban jungle alone and untutored, much like she had been, decades ago.
As she moved through the crowded nightclub, she noticed that the Pointers were huddled together in one section of the room, eyeing the assembled vampires uneasily. Sonja picked up on a definite lions-at-the-watering-hole vibe as the assembled vampires squabbled over the available feeders chained to the walls.
She watched as two undead—one wearing the skin of a junior executive, the other a street hustler—got into a hissing match over a tall, thin man whose who was so pale his veins resembled strands of blue yarn. There was very little juice left in him, and the vampires knew it, hence the showdown. The junior executive’s hair rose like the hackles on a cat’s back, while the hustler growled like an angry mountain lion, unsheathing his fangs so far it looked as if his lips had been sliced away. The junior executive quickly backed off and the hustler claimed the feeder as his own.
Sonja quickly looked away as the winner of the hissing match drained the dying man dry. The sight and smell of the blood flowing around her was starting to make her edgy. She had not fed since arriving in Deadtown. She usually carried a couple of units of whole blood in a special cryo-container when she traveled, but she had already tapped out her supplies. When she looked back in the feeder’s direction, it was in time to see the club’s bar back unshackling the empty to replace it with a fresh vintage from the cellar.
The dance music blaring from the speakers began to fade, and the crowd turned as one to face the stage. Esher, stripped to the waist, stepped out from behind the blood-red curtains and gestured for the assembly to draw near.
“Come closer, my children.”
The vampires in the audience murmured to themselves and pressed closer to the runway, their pale faces turned toward their leader.
“I call you my children, because even though most of you were not Made by me, your blood flows through my veins. You who have no dame or sire, you who have been cast aside—I gladly claim you! You who are without a place to hide from those who would destroy you—I will protect you! A time of great tribulation is soon to be upon us, my friends! If we are to survive it, we must prove ourselves united in the face of adversity and doubt! That is why I have summoned you to my side this evening, my children—to tighten our bond even further.”
As Decima emerged from behind the curtains, carrying a ritual dagger and a golden chalice, Sonja could see that while Ryan hadn’t held the silver crucifix against the vampire’s skin long enough to kill her, he had still done some damage. The wound on her forehead was red and angry, like a fresh brand. Although she had been irked by the boy’s foolhardy stunt, she had to admit she was proud of him for marking the bitch.
Esher took the dagger from his lieutenant and pressed the point against his right wrist and sliced his inner forearm to the elbow. A liquid that looked more like burgundy than blood gouted forth from the wound. Esher must have recently gorged in order to bleed so freely. Decima knelt before her sire, holding the chalice in order to catch every drop of precious gore. Once the golden cup was filled, Esher held it up so all could see.
“Behold! As you gave to me, so do I give unto you! My blood is your blood! Come forward, my children! Come forward and drink that which is Life!”
The vampires moaned as one and pushed forward, tearing at one another in their eagerness to taste their leader’s power. But when one of them tried to jump his place in line by climbing over the footlights onto the stage, Decima kicked him in the head, sending him flying back into the crowd.
“Wait your turn, maggot-bait!” she snapped. “Try that again and I’ll put a bolt through your fuckin’ eye!”
Sonja found herself sandwiched in between what had once been a drag queen and what had once been a tourist. The tourist-vampire looked particularly fresh, as he still had a digital camera looped around his neck and that glazed, shell-shocked stare common to the newly resurrected. Sonja glanced about uneasily, but there was no way she could evade participating in the brood sabbat without drawing attention to herself. If any of the other vampires were concerned about Esher tightening his hold on them, they certainly didn’t show it, and instead shivered like junkies in anticipation of a fix.
Suddenly she found herself at the head of the line, with Esher smiling down at her as he handed her the chalice. “Drink this, my friend, so that we may be of one blood.”
Steeling herself, Sonja lifted the chalice to her lips. It tasted like the finest vintage wine and was as thick and nourishing as mother’s milk. She felt it creep through her veins, spreading a warm glow as it went. Nothing could compare to it: not sex, not food, not drink. She closed her eyes and savored the moment, tempted to lose herself in the ecstasy of it all, only to start from her reverie as Esher took the chalice from her hands and handed it to the tourist-vampire, who eagerly took her place in line. As she moved away from the stage, she could feel Esher’s blood inside her, humming to itself like a tiny dynamo.
As she joined the others on the dance floor, the door to the club flew open and a tall figure dressed in a scarlet cloak entered. The Pointers did not challenge this new arrival, assuming it to be a member of Esher’s brood. But Sonja could tell by the way he carried himself, this was no garden-variety vampire.
“Esher!” thundered the newcomer.
The vampire lord halted and peered into the crowd. “I know that voice.”
The newcomer pushed back his cowl, revealing shoulder-length honey-blond hair pulled into a loose ponytail and features so classically perfect they could have been the model for a Greek statue. “Has it been so long that you have forgotten your own sire?”
Esher frowned. “Gabor? They sent you?”
“Who else would they send? I was the one responsible for Making you, thereby the onus falls on me to reign you in.”
“Surely you jest, old friend! All I do here is for the greater glory of the Ruling Class!”
“Lie to yourself all you like, Esher! But don’t lie to me! What you’re doing is born out of lust for power. You are on the verge of open brood-war with one of the most entrenched and powerful Nobles in America. Even in Deadtown, open warfare between rival broods is bound to bring attention from humans. It was one thing to blatantly battle amongst ourselves in the old days, but with every warm-blood carrying a camera in their cell-phone and the Internet, it’s an invitation to genocide! There have also been complaints that your bloodlust for the mortal woman—the dancer called Nikola—has affected your reasoning and made you reckless.”
Esher’s eyes narrowed and his frown became an angry scowl. “I weary of your questions, Gabor! We were more than friends, once—but those nights are gone! There was a time when you were the master, and I the student, but I have gone on to claim the power you never dared to. Do not threaten me, for I will not stay my hand!”
“Is your hubris such that you would risk exposing us all for the sake of making Deadtown your own?” Gabor retorted. “The altercation at the restaurant earlier this evening did not go unnoticed, I assure you! There are those in power at the Holy See waiting for evidence of large-scale vampire activity. You may very well have given the Malleus Maleficarum its new lease on life!”
“Let the Witch Hammer strike me, if they dare!” Esher sneered.
Gabor shook his head in dismay. “I had hoped that I would be able to talk reason into you, Esher. But I see you will have none of it! Very well—I have no recourse but to take you back with me.”
“I will not be judged, Gabor! Not by you and not by the Synodus Horrenda!”
“Very well,” the blond vampire sighed as he leapt onto the runway, his movements as fast and smooth as those of a tiger, his hands glowing as if they held live coals. “Then you leave me no choice.”
The Pointers and vampires both began pushing for the exits as Esher moved toward his Maker, his fangs bared and red energy crackling from his fingertips. The warlocks lunged at one another, their hands locking onto one another’s shoulders. To the uninitiated, it looked as if they were engaged in nothing more than a vigorous bout of Indian wrestling, but the look of pain on the combatants’ faces told a different story.
The air inside Dance Macabre grew heavy and Sonja felt her skin prickle, like before a lightning strike. There was a sound like that made by an arc welder going full blast, and then a shroud of crimson energy enveloped the battling wizards. She swore and instinctively covered her eyes, even though she was still wearing her sunglasses. The smell of burning blood filled her nostrils, making her grimace in disgust. She had heard stories of the Strega—humans versed in the occult who had carried their dark power over into their undead existence—but she had never seen anything like what was transpiring on the main stage of the Dance Macabre.
As Esher and Gabor strained against one another, tears of blood leaked from the corners of their eyes and ran down their cheeks, soon followed by blood from their noses and ears.
“Stand down, Gabor!” Esher growled. “Let go, or I’ll boil your blood like a pudding in the pot!”
“Only if you agree to leave Deadtown with me!”
Esher’s response was to close his blood-filled eyes and push even harder than before. Gabor cried out as he was sent sliding the length of the runway on his back. His eyes were gone, the sockets reduced to puddles of blood that bubbled like boiling sugar. Gore poured from every hole in his head, turning his face to a crimson mask.
Esher knelt down beside his dying sire, a look of genuine regret on his face. “Why did you have come here, old friend? You should have known it would end like this. I will not be stopped by a handful of museum pieces, shivering in fear of what the cattle might do should they see us for what we are!”
Gabor made a wet gurgling sound deep in his chest that was the best he could do for a chuckle. “You blind fool. They don’t have to raise a hand to swat you down. Your doom is upon you, but you cannot see it for what it is. You nurse a serpent at your bosom, beloved.”
“What do you mean?” Esher glowered. “Are you saying there’s a traitor in my brood? Answer me, damn you!”
But Gabor was beyond all questions. As Esher watched in disgust, the dead Noble’s skin melted away, quickly followed by its exposed pink muscle and bone. Within seconds there was nothing left to mark the passing of the six-hundred-year-old Transylvanian but a pool of fetid ichor.