Decima was his second attempt, and he had made a point of Blood Bonding her to him immediately following her creation, ensuring no troublesome display of free will on her behalf. And now he was preparing his precious Nikola to accept the Embrace. For the first time two of his by-blows would exist at the same time.
Esher was drawn from his reveries by the flashing lights and the sound of the disco music being switched off. He straightened himself and leaned forward in his seat. The floor show was about to begin.
The club's emcee, a stocky vampire dressed in a black cassock and floppy beret, raised his hands for silence. He held a cordless microphone and his voice boomed out over the club's speakers.
"Welcome and good eveeee-ning, children of the night, and fellow-travelers, to Dance Macabre: Deadtown's premiere nightspot! We've got a fine floor show lined up for you, if I do say so myself!
Something for everybody! We've got blood sports, beautiful women, gorgeous men, and the one-of-a-kind dance stylings of our very own Nikola to look forward to before cockcrow! I don't want to hold up the festivities any longer, so let's get started with tonight's Example!"
The curtains behind the emcee opened to reveal two figures standing center stage: one white, the other black. Both were completely nude except for leather fighting harnesses and heavy manacles around their wrists and ankles that secured them to an eyebolt set in the floor.
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"Ladieees and Gentlemen! On your left is none other than the six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-thirty-three-pound tower of terror known as Skald! Type AB Negative! Three wins!
"And on your right, weighing in at six foot three, two hundred and twenty pounds, is the challenger and tonight's Example, Cro-Mag! Blood type O Positive!"
The Pointers in the crowd shifted uneasily as they recognized their friend, but said nothing. Their eyes went from Cro-Mag to Skald, whose mouth was twisted into a permanent sneer by a scar that ran from his left cheek to where his ear had once been. His head was shaven clean, along with his eyebrows. On closer inspection, there wasn't a single hair to be seen on the massively built African-American's body.
Cro-Mag, while impressive in his own right, did not look quite as intimidating. A large purple bruise discolored his forehead, and his right pupil was fixed. He looked dazed and seemed unsteady on his feet.
His penis dangled like an albino python between the pillars of his thighs. Both men were outfitted with special razor-studded gloves.
Skald lifted his razored fists over his head, his sneer tightening even further. The gleam in his eyes was that of a man nearly beyond the boundaries of sanity. The vampires in the audience clapped and cheered.
The Pointers glowered at the scarred fighter but said nothing.
The emcee gestured to someone offstage, and the sound of a diesel engine added to the already considerable noise. A large metal cage was lowered from the rafters. The bars looked rusty, but they weren't. The emcee removed a keyring from his voluminous sleeves, quickly unlocked the fighters'
manacles and opened the cage door. As the two men entered, the diesel motor changed gear and began to lift the cage high into the air, swinging it out over the dance floor.
Skald stared coldly at Cro-Mag as they gripped the gore-flecked bars for balance. Cro-Mag kept shaking his head, as if trying desperately to clear his vision.
The emcee smiled, exposing his pearl-white fangs. "Let the dance— begin!"
The taped electronic music kicked back in, louder than before. Skald surged from his corner of the cage, razored fists slicing Cro-Mag's naked flesh. The odor of adrenaline-heavy blood filled the air. Below them, the club patrons lifted their voices in an ululating howl of raw pleasure.
Cro-Mag landed a punch on Skald's jaw, neatly slicing off most of his lower lip. The black man staggered backward, his sneer transformed into a crimson grin. Before Cro-Mag could savor his coup, Skald grabbed his opponent's scrotum and yanked.
Cro-Mag shrieked and instinctively grabbed his wounded groin, allowing Skald the chance to smash a razor-studded fist into his unprotected face, nearly severing Cro-Mag's nose. Cro-Mag's eyes bugged as he strove to keep from strangling on the wash of blood filling his sinuses. The spectators below laughed and jeered as they jostled one another for prime positions beneath the cage, their heads thrown back and mouths open wide. Even some of the Pointers, caught up in the blood-frenzy, were laughing and clapping.
Besides, Cro-Mag had never been well liked.
Cro-Mag was losing and he knew it. He grabbed at Skald's hairless crotch. The fighter tried to sidestep him, but there wasn't enough room to maneuver. Skald bellowed like a bull in a gelding stall. The crowd screamed its delight as the black man's sex landed on the dance floor. There was a minor scuffle as some of the vampires fought to retrieve the tidbit.
Maddened by pain, Skald pounded Cro-Mag's face unmercifully, slicing open his eyes and gouging huge ruts along his forehead and cheekbones. Blood fell from the dangling cage in a crimson shower, splashing the wildly dancing vampires underneath.
Blinded and mortally wounded, Cro-Mag offered Skald his throat in ritual defeat. The killing blow was swift and—compared to what had gone before—relatively painless. Cro-Mag dropped to the wire-mesh floor of the cage, his life pumping from his severed jugular onto the dancers below. His last thought before he died was maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have come to such an end if he'd only learned to read.
The cage was lowered to the stage, where a man wearing a white coat and carrying a doctor's bag stood beside the emcee. Now that the killing lust had fled, Skald began to feel the effects of his emasculation. He collapsed across Cro-Mag's body, his eyes glazing as he gripped his opponent's cooling flesh. The shivers caused by oncoming shock made it look as if he were grieving for his fallen foe.
The vet hurried into the cage and squatted next to the crippled fighter. He glanced at the emcee and shook his head. Either way, this would be Skald's last fight.
The emcee stepped forward, waving the chattering crowd into silence. "Well, ladies and gentlemen—what shall it be for our brave contestant? Is it 'yea' or 'nay'?"
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) There was quiet for a second, then the audience answered as one, their voices joined in a primitive singsong:
"One of us! One of us! One of us!"
The emcee nodded his understanding and turned to look in the direction of Esher's balcony. Sighing, the vampire lord stood and leaned against the balcony railing. The revelers gathered on the floor below, human and Kindred alike, tilted their faces upward, and began chanting, "Esher! Esher! Esher!"
"So, milord? What will it be?" asked the emcee.
Esher glanced at the dying champion, then nodded. A ragged cheer burst from the spectators. The veterinarian pocketed his stethoscope and returned the premixed lethal injection to his little black bag.
"Do it," ordered Esher.
The veterinarian sank his fangs into Skald's neck, rewarding him with the prize that every champion who enters the cage strives for—immortality.
Esher looked away, already bored.
"I don't think Skald's going to appreciate an eternity without a dick," Decima smirked.
"What does he need a dick for?" Esher replied with a casual shrug. "He'll be one of the Kindred."
"Old habits die hard. You know that better than anyone, milord."
Esher stiffened and turned to glower at his lieutenant. "Mind your tongue, whelp—if you want to keep it in your head!"
Decima lowered her eyes in deference, but offered nothing else in the way of an apology. Esher made a mental note to see that she was properly chastised, then returned his attention to the stage.
While Dance Macabre attracted unaffiliated vampires to his banner, it served a twofold purpose. In the past the Kindred had utilized bands of social pariahs, such as gypsies. But ever since the end of the Second World War, gypsies had become scarce and far too conspicuous. Luckily, the late twentieth century had seen fit to provide the Kindred with disaffected urban youths that wandered the streets of America's and Europe's cities. There were always those willing to betray their own kind in hopes of sharing the power of the Kindred. Indeed, they often proved so dedicated they would recruit their friends and family. Right now the club was full of such Judas goats, eager to taste forbidden delights.
Esher had discovered over the years that the best way to bind human servitors to him was by indulging their vices. Drugs, alcohol, sex, violence— these were the tools most often used to bend humans to his will. Not even the sight of one of their own being beaten to death was enough to make them doubt the wisdom of their pact.
The curtains parted again, this time to reveal a padded couch outfitted with leather restraining straps and stirrups similar to those found on an examination table. A large raffle drum filled with plastic chits stood to one side of the stage.
"And now, on to the audience-participation part of tonight's entertainment!" the emcee announced as he waved in the direction of the wings.
Two Pointers dragged a struggling woman onto the stage. The woman wore an expensive, if unexceptional business dress, and a pillowcase smothered her head. The emcee stepped forward and yanked the pillowcase away, revealing tousled blond hair and the terrified face of an executive secretary in her early thirties. The woman was trying to scream but her cries were being blocked by the ball-gag in her mouth.
The secretary was dragged to the couch. As her captors tried to force her to sit down, she experienced a burst of panic-born strength and kicked one of them hard enough to make him let go of her. Catching the other off guard, she wrenched herself free of his grip and made for the stage door.
Suddenly the emcee was there in front of her. Grabbing her by the sleeve of her jacket, he backhanded her hard enough to send her reeling. The secretary dropped to the floor, stunned. Her guards unceremoniously grabbed her elbows and dragged her to the couch, then began roughly removing her clothes and gag. The Pointers in the audience began to hoot and stomp their feet in unison.
"Bang-bang! Bang-bang!"
Having finished stripping and restraining their captive, the two Pointers moved to the raffle drum. One of the youths turned the crank on the drum to the accompaniment of a prerecorded drum-roll, halting at the crash of the cymbals; his companion opened the hatch on the drum and reached in, removing one of the plastic chits and handing it to the emcee.
"Tonight's lucky winner is—467!"
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) There was a brief moment of silence as the humans in the audience consulted their ticket stubs, then a hoarse bellow of triumph. A Pointer with a spiderweb tattooed across the back of his shaved head began pushing his way toward the stage, pumping his fist in the air as his buddies clapped him on the shoulders.
"M'man, Webb!" one of them hooted, punching him in the arm.
Esher had already lost interest by the time Webb clambered onto the stage to claim his door-prize.
Something was bothering him—but he couldn't put his finger on it. As the secretary woke to find Webb on top of her and began screaming, he motioned for Decima to draw near.
"You said Cavalera was stabbed. Who is responsible?"
"Cro-Mag insisted that the old man did it, although from his description of what occurred, that would have been impossible. The child may have stabbed Cavalera, but I seriously doubt it."
"How so?"
"I saw Cavalera's body. His chest was heavily bruised and there were several broken ribs—as if whoever stabbed him drove the knife in with a mallet. He could have died by human hand—but I think otherwise."
"You believe he was slain by one of Sinjon's brood? But why? Why would one of them bother to come to the aid of a human child and an old man?"
Decima shrugged, her gaze fixed on the ritual rape being enacted below. "Sinjon is your enemy.
Whoever slew Cavalera did it because he was a Pointer, not because they were helping the child—doubtless a fledgling thinking he was honoring his sire by killing one of your servitors."
Esher nodded. It made sense. He leaned back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Cavalera was a pathetic idiot, but his death is an affront to my honor. It cannot go unavenged. Besides, the Pointers will not expect me to let such a transgression go unpunished. Kill a Black Spoon in retaliation tomorrow night."
Esher glanced back down at the stage. Webb had finished and was pulling his pants back up. The secretary's face was bruised and her mouth bleeding, her eyes swollen with tears. Webb winked, leered at his comrades clustered around the stage, and made a thumb's-up sign. The crowd roared like a hungry animal and the synchronized clapping and foot-stomping began again.
"Bonk-bonk on the head! Bonk-bonk on the head!"
The emcee sidled up, holding a tray on which were arrayed various different blunt instruments—everything from a monkeywrench to a sawed-off bat. Webb studied the selection for a long moment before deciding on the traditional lead pipe.
"Bonk-bonk on the head! Bonk-bonk on the head!"
The secretary saw what was coming, but did not struggle or plead for mercy. She was surrounded by monsters—human and otherwise—and recognized the futility of her situation. Instead of screaming, she simply turned her head and closed her eyes. After five blows there wasn't much left of her skull. Satisfied that he was finished, Webb held up the bloody length of pipe for his gang's approval. A ragged cheer went up from the audience.
Webb jumped off the stage and was greeted by his homeys, who congratulated him on his performance.
The clean-up team quickly removed the secretary's body and hurried it backstage. It was up to them to see that anything that might possibly identify the corpse was removed before it was weighted and dumped in the river. Esher was not so careful with every door-prize—just the ones who would be missed.