Rule of Vampire (14 page)

Terrill had taken the note and said, “Thank you for the meal.”

He’d waited until he was in bed and had a book in his hand before reading the message:

Please destroy after reading.

Be aware that not all vampires are in league with the Council. Indeed, the majority of us oppose them. The Council is using your Rules to enforce its own viewpoint. Worse, it has become a tool for certain vampires to gain power. You must resist, Terrill. You must fight them. Know you are not alone, and when the time comes, you will have allies, both near and far.

It was, perhaps, a trap. Perhaps he was supposed to mention it in the morning.

At breakfast, he took a chance and didn’t say anything about the note, watching Fitzsimmons for any sign that he knew. The meal passed uneventfully, and then they were given the opportunity to sightsee, but Terrill could tell that Sylvie was tired and jet lagged.

“I think we’ll just rest, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“That’s a good idea,” Fitzsimmons opined. “You’ll be fresh for the meeting. Everyone is excited to meet you––or see you again, as the case may be.”

#

Sylvie slept most of the day, but Terrill paced the huge suite, trying to decide what to do.

Michael had advised going slowly: getting the lay of the land, discovering who the different factions were, finding out where the real power resided, gathering allies. But Terrill’s instincts were to strike fast. Unless he was very much mistaken, the power already resided in one vampire: Fitzsimmons. If the portly Englishman was a figurehead, he was an effective one. Terrill’s sense was that if he went one on one with Fitzsimmons, he could remove the guiding force behind the Council.

Fitzsimmons wouldn’t be expecting it. He’d be completely unaware of Terrill’s returning powers.

But Michael was the oldest and, if not the wisest, certainly the shrewdest vampire Terrill had ever met. And it was hard to disobey one’s Maker, even for a vampire who had been on his own as long as Terrill had.

He decided to go to the Council meeting and meet the other members, the movers and shakers, and then figure out what to do.

#

London’s nightlife was vibrant. It made Terrill’s blood run faster. To a vampire, such a place was almost irresistible, and indeed, Terrill had spent most of his existence in this very city. But this was modern London, unlike anything he’d seen before. It reminded him of New York in the ’60s, but was both flashier and more reserved.

He looked at Sylvie. Her face was flushed; her eyes were glittering with excitement. They’d found a gown laid out for her in the dressing room that fit her perfectly. It was dark blue, almost black, to match her hair, and low-cut to show off her cleavage. It shimmered in the nighttime lights of the streets. Terrill had forgotten she was a small-town girl and was glad that she was enjoying herself in the big city––for as long as it lasted. That thought sent a chill through him. He became more subdued, and started paying more attention to what was going on around him.

Fitzsimmons was watching him, he realized. They were being carefully managed, shown all the special sights, so they’d be more inclined to be favorable toward London and those who lived there, and the Council that ruled the city from the shadows.

After dinner, they were given a private tour of the Tower of London, and then led to Buckingham Palace, where they were quietly introduced to some of the younger royals. Sylvie nearly fell over at that. This was the life, all right: a life of pampered privilege.

But Fitzsimmons decided where they went and how long they stayed. It was a gilded cage.

By the time they made it to the Council’s meeting room, Sylvie was nearly floating. She was given a chair at a side table where the assistants to the Council members sat, and the young-appearing vampires greeted her as if she was a long-lost sister.

Fitzsimmons was seated at the head of the long, strangely shaped table. Terrill looked at the concave middle, the gentle slope, and immediately understood what it was and what it portended.

Terrill was placed on Fitzsimmons’s right-hand side, and Clarkson was in the next chair over. Across from them sat Hargraves, his little body on a raised seat, and Peterson. Other vampires were milling around or just arriving, and all of them were sneaking glances at Terrill. A few were openly staring. Terrill ignored them.

“Where’s Southern?” Clarkson asked.

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Fitzsimmons said casually. “He was caught eating one of the Council secretaries in his flat. Broke at least two of the Rules. Still, he might have gotten off if he hadn’t been stupid and tried to escape. Unfortunately, the enforcers used a little too much force.”

Fitzsimmons shrugged. “He’s gone.”

Clarkson was even paler than most vampires at the best of times, and as Terrill watched, she grew paler still. Her eyes flicked worriedly to Terrill. Fitzsimmons caught the look and smiled.

Assuming that Southern was to be replaced on short notice by someone sympathetic to the hardliners, it would split the balance of power of the ten-member Council of Vampires down the middle. A tie went to the nay votes, so it was still enough to block any power grab.

Fitzsimmons called the meeting to order, ringing a small silver bell. “First order of business. As you know, we need to vote in a replacement for Southern.”

The other Council members looked uneasy. They’d all heard the news.

“Ordinarily, we’d call an election, but that would take months, and in the end I think I know who we’d elect. So I’d like to skip all that and propose that we elect Terrill forthwith.”

“Wait,” Terrill said.

“It’ll be fine, Terrill,” Fitzsimmons said soothingly. “You’ll see.”

Terrill looked up and down the table, but no one objected. Most of them looked almost excited.

“All in favor, say aye.”

The vote was by acclamation, and it was so clearly unanimous that Fitzsimmons didn’t bother to ask for nays. “And while we’re at it,” he said, “I’d like to ask for an exemption to Rule One when it comes to Terrill and his lovely friend, Sylvie. After all, you have to admit that this is an extraordinary situation.”

Again, the vote was unanimous. There was a moment of silence as the momentous event sank in. The other vampires all smiled at Terrill; it appeared that everyone thought he was on their side.

“This calls for a celebration!” Fitzsimmons announced. He rang the little silver bell again and liveried servants entered the room, bearing champagne in crystal glasses. Etched on the goblets was a blue flower, the Royal Sigil, once the crest of the Southern family and now apparently appropriated by Fitzsimmons for the Council.

Terrill glanced over his shoulder at Sylvie and smiled reassuringly. There were two bodyguards standing behind her. They didn’t know about his speed, his strength. It wasn’t too late to attack, get Sylvie away from them, and declare his independence. At least half the Council would back him up. But he’d promised Michael he would wait, so he tried to calm himself.

It reminded him of being at the court of Henry the Eighth. This was the aristocracy of the vampire world, many of them centuries old and extraordinarily rich.

“I, for one, am delighted that Terrill has chosen to join us,” said a dapper man at the other end of the table. He had a French accent and looked no older than twenty. Terrill knew him as Fontaine, one of the oldest and most powerful vampires in Europe and, according to Clarkson, the leader of the opposition now that Southern was out of the picture.

“Yes, indeed,” Fitzsimmons agreed. “Everyone knows of Terrill’s integrity. That’s why I’d like to ask him straightaway…” He turned to his right and patted Terrill on the arm familiarly. “Do you agree with the enforcement of the Rules of Vampire?”

Terrill glanced around the table again. Everyone was staring at him; each faction was probably expecting him to confirm their viewpoint. “I think the Rules are a good idea, in principle,” he said.

“In principle?” Fitzsimmons echoed. There was a warning tone in his voice.

“Yes, I believe they should be enforced.”

There was a gasp from the opposition members of the Council.
Look behind me,
Terrill wanted to shout.
See the human girl? Why do you think she’s here?

As if in answer, he saw Fontaine’s eyes go from him to Sylvie and back. He nodded grimly. There was another moment of silence. Terrill had mentally compared this meeting to the court of Henry the Eighth: it had been a more apt comparison than he’d realized. He remembered the sense of dread that had pervaded the court as the king searched for Catholic traitors.

Fontaine cleared his throat. “Perhaps if…” he began, then faltered and gulped. He looked pale and confused. “Perhaps…” he said again, then fell silent.

Across from him, Kruger, the German representative, spit his champagne onto the table and clutched his throat. He tried to stand, jerked backward, then forward, slammed into the table, and rolled to the floor with a thud.

Fontaine turned to Terrill, his eyes frightened but determined. “You must resist, Terrill. You must fight them.”

They were the exactly the same words as in the note.

Then the Frenchman, too, clutched his throat and tried to stand. He staggered, grabbed for the back of his chair and missed, then fell to his knees and slowly toppled over.

The room erupted into chaos. Several of the opposition members scrambled for the door, but the liveried servants had produced crossbows and were motioning them back into their seats. Terrill looked at Clarkson, who was regarding her wine glass with a fatalistic calm. In the midst of the uproar, Fitzsimmons got up and strolled over to Sylvie, stood behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders.

“I have executed the two ringleaders of a plot against the Council,” he announced loudly. The room grew quiet at his words. “If you aren’t disloyal, you have nothing to worry about. But just to be sure I’ve done the right thing, I’d like to ask for Terrill’s endorsement. What say you, Terrill? Do you agree with my actions?”

It was too late. They’d been outsmarted, outmaneuvered. If, early in the evening, before the champagne had been served, he’d freed Sylvie and asked for the opposition’s help, everything might have turned out differently. But the putsch was over and done. Even if Terrill fought the hardliners, he’d have no allies. Just a glance at the remaining opposition councilors made it clear that they were completely cowed.

“The Rules must be followed,” he said, and his voice sounded dead to his own ears.

Chapter 23

Robert Jurgenson went to work each day, did his job, smiled at the jokes, and kibitzed about the weather. But he was hollow inside, as if Jamie really had drained him of blood and left him for dead.

He also felt strangely calm. His wife, Brenda, hadn’t left him: she’d been taken from him. He had been given a chance to start believing in himself again. When she’d disappeared, he’d been so gobsmacked that he hadn’t trusted his instincts about anyone after that. For years, he’d questioned his feelings about every suspect, every co-worker. Going on dates was impossible because he couldn’t be sure he was reading the signals right.

Now his former certainty had returned: his old ability to tell instantly if someone was guilty or innocent, to know where the office politics were leading, to know whether a woman was interested in him.

What had happened with Jamie? He tried applying his newfound clarity to the situation, and the answer was always simple and always the same. She’d loved him, he was certain of that. And he had loved her. The feelings had been genuine and deep.

She was a vampire, the same kind of creature that had taken his wife. Jamie had almost certainly killed people. Robert understood that. If anything, he should hate her, or at least fear her, and yet, he still wanted to see her again. Worse, he wanted her back in his life.

What did that say about him and his vaunted integrity?

“You with me, Jurgenson?”

“What?”

His partner, Jerry Smithson, was talking to him in a theatrically loud voice, as if Robert was deaf. They were sitting in Robert’s office. Robert had been going through the pile of case files on his desk that, the week before, he had been certain he was making steady progress on––certainly, he was clearing as many cases as any other officer in the Crescent City Police Department.

But now, the legendary Robert Jurgenson of old had reappeared. He’d gone through the files one by one, clearing half of the cases by making connections that he’d missed before. With others, he’d been able to pluck the most salient fact out of the files, the hidden clue that merely needed to be followed up on with some legwork to crack the case. The other cops were starting to look at him the way they used to look at him, when he’d been a young officer rapidly climbing the ranks.

He should have been police chief by now.

All that career progress had stopped when his wife had left him and he had started to doubt himself.

Now his mind was working better than ever, but his heart was a lump in his chest, and at night the hollow feeling got worse as he lay awake and wondered if any of it mattered, and if, when he was gone, there would be anyone to miss him.

For a week or two with Jamie, he’d felt fulfilled. Because he’d fallen in love. With a vampire.

Robert snapped out of his reverie. “You were saying?” he said to Jerry with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He wasn’t even sure which case Jerry was referring to.

“I said, the kid from the beer kegger died. He seemed to be recovering well, then they found him on the floor of his hospital room, all twisted up as if he’d been having convulsions.”

Robert frowned. “That’s a real shame. Did Callendar and Jeffers get a chance to question him first?”

“They were there just an hour before,” Jerry said. “Callendar said the kid seemed perfectly fine. He was cooperative but clueless as to what happened to him.”

Suspicion flared in Robert’s mind. Had Jeffers and Callendar dispatched the poor young man? He thought it was likely. They killed vampires, as weird as that sounded. And the kid had been bitten.