The stranger smiled without showing her teeth and waved aside the proffered mug. "Don't bother with me. I don't drink—coffee."
She got up and knelt beside the sink, looking down at the boy's thin, pale features. She reached out and brushed the fringe of hair on his forehead. He murmured something in his sleep and pulled his blanket tighter.
"The undead do not like children—except as prey. Children are unpleasant reminders that they are frozen in time, changeless and unchanging, locked outside the chain of Nature. Although vampires feign disgust as to how humans reproduce, they are secretly jealous. The boy was lucky Esher did not order him killed immediately."
"Yeah," sighed Cloudy, as he poured the extra coffee into the sink. "Real lucky." He glanced at her suspiciously. "You sure know a lot about vampires, lady. And I don't think I've caught your name—?"
The stranger straightened up, wiping her palms against her jacket. "No, you didn't."
Cloudy felt the pit of his stomach tighten. The hair on the back of his hands and the ridge of his spine began to tingle. "You're one of them, aren't you?" he whispered, taking a step away from the sink. He started backing toward the front room, where he'd left his shotgun propped next to the door. The stranger turned toward him, but did not move to follow.
"Shit! I should have known it! Who's your master? Who you working for—Esher or Sinjon?"
"I serve no one but myself."
"I don't believe you, sucker! Either answer me straight or get the fuck out of here! I don't have to be Van Helsing to figure out you'll stay dead if I blow your fuckin' head off!"
The stranger smiled again, this time revealing sharp fangs. "You are brave. You and I both know I could bring you down long before you could reach your weapon, Cloudy. Very well. If I prove to you that I am not like the others—will you hear me out?"
Cloudy glanced down at where Ryan was still sleeping under the sink, then back at her. "Okay."
The stranger reached into her jacket pocket and produced the switchblade she'd used earlier on Cavalera,
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) the handle of which was decorated with a sinuous golden dragon. Her thumb brushed the dragon's ruby eye and the blade leapt from the hilt. In the dim light, the knife resembled a frozen flame.
Cloudy's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "I didn't get a good look at that before—but that's real silver! And something else is weird about it too. Gives me a really creepy feeling."
"It's enchanted. Specifically to slay Kindred. For someone who may not be Van Helsing, you know much."
"You learn fast if you want to survive in Deadtown," he replied tersely.
"Then I don't have to explain what this means." She drew the blade across her left palm. The cut was deep; dark, almost black blood welled from the wound and dripped between her fingers. Then, as Cloudy watched, open-mouthed, the lips of the wound began to seal themselves, leaving a scar that pulsed bright red for a second or two, then rapidly paled.
Cloudy frowned. "What the hell are you, lady?"
The stranger shrugged as she folded the blade back into its hilt. "It's a long story. Let us say for now that there is more than one kind of vampire, my friend. And more than one kind of vampire slayer."
Nikola sat in front of the dressing-room vanity and stared at the black paint covering the mirror as she applied her mascara. Over the last few months, she had grown adept at putting on her makeup without the aid of reflective surfaces. Lord Esher did not approve of looking glasses. Still, she had managed to glimpse enough of herself in shop and car windows to know that she no longer looked like herself.
Whoever that might be.
She knew that her name was Nikola, that she was a dancer, and that she was betrothed to Lord Esher.
Beyond that there was only mist and the occasional murky recollection. She had the nagging suspicion that her life had once held more than these few reference points, but every time she tried to focus on remembering, her head began to hurt and the mist surrounding her thoughts grew thicker.
Sometimes—but not that often—the fog would lift for a moment, and she would become painfully aware of what was happening to her. During those brief moments of clarity, horror and helplessness so overwhelmed her that she would deliberately wrap herself in the mist. It was less scary that way.
Like what had happened outside the club earlier. When the street urchin darted forward and touched her—it was as if she'd been startled from a waking dream. She had looked down into the child's unwashed face and recognized it. Even now, the boy's features were trying to swim out of the mist, as if he were drowning and desperate to reach her. The face had a name. And on some deep, instinctual level, she realized she should know it. Nikola put aside her mascara, fearful that her trembling hands would ruin her makeup. Lord Esher was most particular when it came to how she looked while dancing. It would not do to displease him. Nikola blinked her eyes and, to her surprise, found that she was crying.
How strange.
Why should she weep? She was Lord Esher's newest bride-to-be. Shouldn't that make her the happiest woman on the face of the earth?
She wished she knew.
The door opened and Lord Esher, accompanied by his lieutenant, Decima, entered the dressing room.
The vampire lord wore tight-fitting black leather jeans, a black muscle shirt, dyed-black lizardskin cowboy boots, and a floor-length black leather duster. His dark, square-cut hair fell well below his wide, heavily muscled shoulders. Although quite striking physically, the vampire lord did not look much different from the mortals who inhabited the city's rowdier districts. The only things that marked him as one of the Kindred were the black-and-gold enamel clan totem, a squared circle and captive triangle, pinned to his left lapel, and the chromium-plated skull of a human infant he wore as a belt-buckle.
"Good evening, my dear," he smiled, standing behind Nikola so that his sinewy hands rested on her bare shoulders, the thumbs pressed lightly against her carotid artery. "Are you ready for tonight's performance?"
"Almost." Her voice was as dry and brittle as papyrus.
"You look ravishing, my pretty. Doesn't she, Decima?"
The vampiress shrugged. She folded her arms over her bare breasts, making the nipple rings jingle. "If
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) you say so, milord."
Nikola felt her flesh grow chili under Decima's gaze. The vampiress made no attempt to disguise her contempt for her sire's new bride. After twenty-five years as his consort, Decima had been cast aside in favor of the mortal dancer. She was too heavily enthralled to Esher to rebel against him openly, but Decima took great delight in making Nikola's life as unpleasant as possible.
"You look troubled, Nikola," Esher commented as he stroked her hair. "Is there something bothering my sweet?"
Nikola hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a voice as soft and uncertain as a child's. "There—there was a little boy on the street outside the club. He looked familiar. Who is he, milord? I feel that I should know him."
Esher turned Nikola around in her chair so that she faced him. His eyes gleamed red and wet, like fresh wounds. When he spoke, it was as if thunder echoed in his voice.
"You do not know the boy! You have never seen him before! He is a stranger to you! In fact, you did not see a child tonight at all! Do you understand me, Nikola?"
"There was no child," she murmured, her pupils out of focus.
"Very good! That's much better, isn't it? Don't you feel much nicer not thinking about things?"
"Yes, milord. Very nice."
"Now hurry up and get ready! You don't want to be late for your performance!" Esher smiled. "We'll leave you to finish your preparations. Come, Decima!"
The vampire lord stepped into the hall outside, but the moment the door closed the indulgent smile twisted into a scowl of anger. "Why didn't you tell me the boy had been here?!?"
Decima shifted uncomfortably and glanced at her boots, unwilling to meet his gaze. "I—I didn't think it was important, milord. I sent a couple of the Pointers to handle it."
"Which ones?"
"Cavalera and Cro-Mag."
"And did they succeed?"
"N-no. Cro-Mag was found unconscious in the gutter with most of his teeth knocked out. Cavalera is dead. Stabbed through the heart."
"Seeing as how they're a congenital idiot and an illiterate, I'm not surprised they failed so miserably!"
Esher snorted in disgust. "Do you have any clue as to who did this to them?"
"Cro-Mag said something about an old man, but I don't know how reliable his account might be. He's suffering from a serious concussion. There's some brain damage—"
"As if anyone would notice! See that he's made tonight's Example."
"Yes, milord."
"And have that child destroyed, once and for all! How can I hope to finish conditioning my new bride if her wretched brat keeps getting in the way? I've nearly got her turned, except where the boy's concerned!
As long as he continues to live, he endangers the entire process! I have not spent all this time and energy on Nikola to have it ruined by something as insignificant as a human brat! Have I made myself clear, Decima?"
"Perfectly, milord."
***
The interior of the club was divided into three areas: the vast dance-floor area, where pale-faced Kindred and humans mingled at tables; the combination runway/stage, where the dancers paraded for the audience; and the upper balcony, which was reserved for Esher and his minions. There was a standard bar that served alcohol, and a far more elaborate system for those whose tastes ran to things warmer than wine.
A dozen humans, male and female, were shackled to the far wall by bondage harnesses attached to spools of stainless-steel chain, similar to those used to restrain large dogs. Phlebotomy shunts jutted from their right elbows, while bags of anticoagulant pumped into intravenous feeds attached to their left arms.
Some looked terrified to the point of madness; others seemed oblivious to their surroundings; a few appeared to be lost in ecstasy. All were exceptionally pallid.
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) Esher paused at the balcony's railing to scan the floor below. The evening looked as though it was getting off to a good start. He spotted a couple of new faces clustered near the feeders. The Dance Macabre attracted Kindred from as far away as New York and Atlanta and had proved handy in recruiting unaffiliated vampires. Soon his enclave would be as large as Sinjon's brood—if not larger.
Satisfied with the turnout, Esher returned to his seat, a rosewood throne outfitted with crimson velvet cushions, which had been presented to him by the human mage, Crowley. The little charlatan had thought he could learn the ways of Thaumaturgy from Esher, but had quickly lost interest upon discovering the price of such knowledge. Not that Esher would have Embraced the power-hungry dilettante in the first place.
He snapped his fingers and his private stock stepped forward and knelt at his feet. This evening's private stock was a woman whose wan complexion and drawn features made her look far older than her nineteen years. Without his having to gesture or speak, she automatically lifted her right arm. Esher quickly uncapped the shunt and plugged a hypodermic needle attached to a length of IV tubing into the access port. He then brought the end of the IV to his lips and began to suck. The private stock rolled her eyes back in her head and voiced a deep sigh as her head nodded back and forth.
Once the private stock's blood darkened the tube, Esher pinched it shut and motioned for Decima to hand him a shot glass. The private stock gasped as if on the edge of orgasm and swooned, laying her head atop Esher's boots. The vampire lord grunted and kicked her away as he would a bothersome pet. The private stock barely flinched. Judging by the thinness of the blood he'd drawn, she was close to empty. He made a mental note to remind Decima to see that another vessel was chosen from his cellar.
As he sipped fresh blood from the shot glass, Esher settled back into the wizard's throne and allowed himself a moment's relaxation. His eyes flickered to the series of closed-circuit television monitors mounted near the ceiling.
One presented him with a closer view of the club floor, another was trained on the stage, and two more showed views of the street just outside the front door. Esher liked to keep an eye on things. It was a trait that had helped him become one of the more powerful lords on the Eastern Seaboard.
At one hundred and ninety-one years, Esher was little more than an adolescent, as the Kindred measure age. Most were well into their third century before they accrued a power base as sizable as his. But then, he'd always been exceptional, even as a mortal. All anyone had to do was look at the impression he'd made on his unofficial "biographer."
He'd been born into Tidewater aristocracy thirty years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Indeed, his maternal grandfather had signed that very document. Raised by doting mammies, he had wanted for nothing as a boy. Nor had any limits been placed on him. By turns inquisitive and cruel, he'd shown signs of interest in becoming a physician, so he was sent to the University of Virginia to continue his schooling. Once there, he began a life of carousing and abandon that would eventually end in his being expunged from the school's records.
It was there that he met the poet.
They became acquainted over the gaming tables. Esher found the younger student intriguing, as they both shared a morbid turn of mind. Although Esher found his friend's inability to hold his liquor alternately amusing and disgusting, they remained on familiar terms after the poet's gambling debts forced him to quit his studies.