—BRIEFING BOOK: CODENAME: NIGHTMARE PET
N
eon Hangul characters glowed above the entrance of the place where the AA meeting was held, a run-down auditorium near Koreatown. The lobby was plastered with posters for get-rich-quick seminars, and the interior was filled with rows of salvaged theater seats. Cade took one near the back.
He had been going to AA since shortly after World War II. The war had not been easy for him. He was certain, at many times, that he was on the losing side, that the darkness was winning against the light. Even aside from the otherworldly evil that Hitler’s occultists summoned up, the merely human brutality was almost too much to bear: Auschwitz and Dachau, Bataan, even the internment camps in the U.S. Many times, he was tempted to start drinking from the fountains of blood that seemed to spring up all around him.
The thirst didn’t go away after V-E Day. Coming back to the States, he found his faith almost undone. Winning hadn’t solved that. He thought they were lucky.
Everyone said they had saved the world. He didn’t believe that. Worse, he was no longer sure it deserved to be saved.
One night in 1947, he’d stumbled into a church in New York. It hurt—any house of worship did, even more than the cross he still wore around his neck. But it was better than the thirst.
He was surprised to find people there. They were telling stories—how they had struggled, and often failed, to control their own need for a strong drink. And yet, they kept struggling. Kept fighting.
He listened for as long as they talked and then came back again the next night. Then he would find a meeting whenever he could.
The people never asked him to say anything, or even introduce himself. He was careful, over the years, to vary his patterns, so no one would notice that alone, out of all the drinkers, he never aged. Even so, the people at the meetings always respected his privacy.
It wasn’t the same thirst. He knew that. But it helped. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but it helped.
He needed to hear that right now. The taste of his own blood was bitter in his mouth, and he didn’t like thinking how much he had wanted to give in to Zach’s order—to drain the flask and then keep drinking, to drown in oceans of blood if he could.
Someone up front was talking about receiving his one-year chip when a man sat down next to Cade in the back.
He was dressed in expensive but casual clothes, munching one of the free doughnuts, a cup from Starbucks in the other hand.
“What’s up?” he asked Cade, not bothering to lower his voice. A few people turned in their seats and looked back, but he didn’t notice.
Cade didn’t respond, which didn’t make a difference. The man kept talking, without a pause for breath.
“You new? I’m new. I mean, to this place. I’ve been to other meetings. But a friend of mine said this is where Robert Downey, Jr., comes. You seen him?”
Cade gave the man a look, then pointed at the speaker.
The man nodded, smiled and went a whole three seconds before talking again. “See, confidentially, I don’t really have a problem with alcohol. I mean, aside from when it’s last call and they cut me off, know what I’m saying? It’s just, I hear this is such a great place to network.”
The man didn’t smell of booze. Cade couldn’t believe it, but he was drunk on nothing more than his own fumes.
“Frankly, you don’t look like one of these other losers. I mean, if you have a problem, I don’t mean to offend ya. You look like you’ve got it under control. I’m Brad. Brad Lawrence,” he said, polishing off his doughnut and offering his hand in one move.
Cade stared back. For the first time, Brad seemed to actually notice him. He gulped.
“So ... uh ... how long has it been for you? Since your last drink, I mean.”
Cade decided to answer him. “Fifty-one thousand, nine hundred and sixty-eight days,” he said quietly.
Brad did the math in his head. Then he gave Cade a strange look and moved to another seat.
Cade felt something like amusement, or as close as he got. His humanity was long gone, and he would never get it back. He was beyond redemption. He knew that. But these meetings reminded him what humanity was—both how small and how great.
It reminded him of what he’d lost, and that was important. Aside from the cross around his neck, it was the closest thing to an article of faith Cade had left.
TWENTY-TWO
The term “vampire king” isn’t strictly accurate, in that it doesn’t refer to a leader of the Vampire Nation, as we’ve come to call them. Vampires, from what we’ve seen, are obsessively territorial and isolationist, much like any other apex predator, with limited social interaction. If a human were to exhibit these same tendencies, we’d call them sociopathic. But like other apex predators, they respect strength, and the “vampire king” is roughly the equivalent of a bull elephant—the biggest, most powerful member of its species. Of the few hundred vampires believed to exist worldwide, there are perhaps two or three vampire kings—maybe as few as two or three in the entire species’ history. These king vampires do not seem to exercise any authority over the rest of the Vampire Nation other than the rights allowed by brute force. Any vampire who does not yield to a king vampire will probably find its unnatural existence put to a quick end.
—Notes of Dr. William Kavanaugh, Sanction V Research Group
C
ade stood outside as the meeting broke up, taking a moment to absorb the noise and scent of the people as they left. They talked about their jobs, traffic, the unbelievably crappy streak the Lakers were on. They lit cigarettes, jangled their keys in their hands, or walked away without looking at anyone else. More than anything else, this is what he needed here.
“You are such a masochist, Nathaniel.”
The voice came from behind him. She wrinkled her nose at him and giggled. As always, when he saw her, Cade thought of a song popular during World War II, about a girl who wouldn’t sit with anyone else under the apple tree.
Then she smiled a little wider, showing her fangs, and ruined it, like she did every time.
“Hello, Tania,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
She looked at the crowd as it broke up, and her eyes danced again. “I knew I’d find you at a place like this. Really, Cade, you’re such a martyr. ”
“What do you want?”
“Oh, don’t be like that. Can’t a girl say hello to an old friend?”
Several men stared at Tania as they moved down the sidewalk. She sized them up in return, like a lion watching gazelles.
“Are we still friends?”
“We must be. I’m here to give you a little advice,” she said. “Konrad has placed a contract on your life. He’s put out inquiries. He wants you dead. Truly dead. Head or heart. Then ashes.”
Cade noticed that not one person passing by turned their heads, even though Tania made no attempt to be quiet. That was, perhaps, the only quality he enjoyed about L.A. No matter what you said, people simply assumed you were talking about a movie.
“Interesting,” Cade said.
Tania waited. Cade didn’t speak.
“Is that it? Aren’t you going to do something?”
“What would you have me do?”
“Kill him.”
“I can’t. I’ve been given orders. And it’s not a crime to try to kill me. I’m not even alive.”
“Idiot,” she said. “I don’t know why I bother.”
She turned to go, but Cade grabbed her arm. He put just enough pressure in his grip to let her know he was serious.
“Why do you bother, Tania? You were in New York. Why would you come all this way?”
She stepped closer to him, getting into his personal space. Even in heels, she had to look up at him.
“Believe it or not,” she said, “I still care about you.”
“Interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“I would have thought a murderer would be a better liar.”
She scowled and stepped back. “Funny. That was almost funny.”
“I’ve spent time with a comedian lately.”
She made a face. “Another one of them?” Nodding at the people going by. “Why do you do it? I will never understand why you spend so much time socializing with the stock.”
The stock. As in livestock. His kind’s term for humans. The first time he heard it, he realized how perfectly it summed up their contempt for people: an undifferentiated mass of food. It didn’t surprise him at all that Tania used the name every chance she got.
“Maybe I’m trying to make up for old mistakes,” he said.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, and almost sounded like a teenager again. “Do
not
try to put this on me, Cade. I have told you, over and over. You tried to save me from eternal youth and godlike power. I’m happy you didn’t.”
Cade’s self-control broke, and the anguish shone on his face.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “You look like I just killed a puppy.”
“This isn’t life, Tania.”
“Talk to me in another hundred years. If you live that long. You know what happens if you don’t feed on the stock?”
Cade made a face. “You’re going to tell me the others like us view me as a traitor. I’ve heard it before. And everyone who made that threat is—”
She cut him off, rolling her eyes. “Yes, yes, I know how frightfully tough you are, dear. That’s not what I was asking. Do you know what will happen to you if you don’t drink?”
Cade just looked at her.
“It’s like putting kerosene in an engine meant to run only on premium unleaded,” she said. “Already, you’re less than you should be. Keep denying your body what it needs, and it will just get worse. You’ll be less resilient, less able to process damage, less efficient. You’ll get tired. You’ll get
old.”
“I’m not afraid of dying.”
“Who said anything about dying? The change will keep you alive—but your body will wear down. Eventually, you’ll be decrepit. Feeble. An old man, forever. No one will even bother to put you out of your misery.”
“You’re right,” he said.
That stopped her cold. “I am?”
Cade smiled. “I’m older than you. I may not get invited to the family gatherings, but I’ve seen what happens to those of us who don’t feed on humans.”
Cade had seen a vampire at the end of the cycle—starved of human blood, left to feed on whatever vermin he could find, as a punishment.
It wasn’t pretty, even for their kind.
He remembered the starving vampire’s parchment skin, crisscrossed with deep lines. His joints frozen with disuse. Tumors swelling his abdomen. And his eyes, screaming with pain, begging for release.
It was an object lesson. One he had chosen to ignore.
Tania asked him, “And your purity is worth that much to you?”
He did something he didn’t do very often. He laughed. At her.
“I’m not pure,” he said. “And yes. It is.”
“Idiot,” she said again. There was no teasing in her voice this time.
Cade’s phone buzzed in his jacket. ZACHARY BARROWS, the display read.
“I have to go,” he told her.
“Don’t let me keep you,” she said, her voice light and mocking. “I was headed over to the Christian women’s college for a bite to eat anyway.”
He was already walking away, his back to her. She’d find him again. She always did.
Cade had other priorities right now.
TWENTY-THREE
Likewise, some vampiric abilities we can regard as mere myth.
Cade has not proven capable of changing into a bat, or fog, or a
wolf. These stories no doubt rose from accounts of vampires’
actual speed and strength, which are impressive enough. But we
can safely say that for all the power Cade has displayed, vampires
cannot fly, or change shape.
—BRIEFING BOOK: CODENAME: NIGHTMARE PET
T
ania wanted to hit Cade in the back of the head as he walked away. She didn’t know why she bothered. It was like spraying graffiti on a wall and expecting the wall to learn English.
She’d even had herself shipped FedEx for him. In a crate. She hated to do that.
Tania didn’t know how Cade could stand at the edge of a never-ending feast, a buffet that stretched for eternity, and not join in. She didn’t know what he had inside him that replaced the need.
And when she was honest with herself, she really didn’t care.
She turned and walked in the opposite direction, headed west on Wilshire.
She checked her watch. It was auto-synched with sunset and sunrise in every time zone she entered, and beeped a series of alarms as they approached. It cost about as much as a used car.
Well. If Cade wouldn’t do what was necessary, she would. She had plenty of time, if she didn’t bother with traffic.
Fortunately, this part of the city had tall buildings. Not skyscrapers, really—but tall enough.
She slid into a crowd clotted around the entrance to the Wiltern Theatre, waiting impatiently for the doors to open, some band she’d never heard of. She made a mental note to check them on iTunes.
She took a brief, heady sniff of the crowd scents—the hair gel, the perfumes, the slightly sexual anticipation, and the blood underneath. She didn’t have time to pull any sheep from the flock, but she still liked the aroma.
She cut ahead of one young man, gym-muscled, dressed in expensive rags, stinking of creatine and protein supplements and Polo by Ralph Lauren. He was about to protest, but she gave him a smile, and the fight went out of him.
She slid on by, her hand brushing his chest, and then followed the building around to the alley. Behind her, she heard the young man’s girlfriend say, “Hey!” and punch him—hard.