Authors: Lady Brenda
He tried to lift Virgil to his feet but he had already began to writhe and shake. Devlin grasped the stake but Virgil stopped him.
“No, Devlin, go…on without me…the Hive, you must help Ligea.”
He could see that Virgil was himself beyond help. His immortal body had begun to shrivel. It became lighter and lighter. His handsome face ravaged with age until the white bones of his cheeks protruded from his paper thin skin. The sound of heavy boots pounded towards them and Devlin had no choice but to leave Vigil where he lay. He jumped up and into the lift and pulled the lever.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wrath
D
evlin burst out of the mine. Walking Ghost galloped up. He held Devlin’s stallion. Devlin vaulted into the saddle and they headed back towards the town.
Daylight was just breaking as they reached D Street and The House of the Rising Moon. Ligea’s silent black man stood guard at the entrance to her red door. When he saw Devlin’s blood soaked appearance his body stiffened. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Go on away from here, Mister.”
“Let me pass,” Devlin demanded.
Before Ligea’s bodyguard could answer the door swung inwards and the Queen herself stood there. She looked from Devlin to Walking Ghost then back to Devlin.
“Where is Virgil? Was he not with you?”
Devlin stepped forward. He reached for her but she stepped back. “No Devlin, tell me what has happened? Is Virgil alive?”
Devlin met her frightened gaze. He knew there was no way to soften the blow. “No, Ligea, he has perished, one of Peabody’s men drove a stake through his heart.”
Ligea gasped. Eyes blazing she leapt at Devlin, long red nails aimed at his eyes. He caught her wrists; fiercely he struggled to restrain her.
“You are a blood curse, Devlin, a foul disease. Oh my poor boy!”
She cried. Tears ran down her cheeks. They fell like tiny diamonds on the red velvet of her bodice. Devlin could do nothing but stand there. Nothing he could say or do could bring Virgil back. All he could do was try to protect those that were left.
“I am sorry for Virgil’s death, but you are alive and must protect those of the Hive. I have brought this to your doorstep and I will be the one to rid you of it but first I need to know what happened to Esmeralda and Dahlia”
Ligea shook her head.
“Do not feed me your lies, Devlin. This is all about you and your hellborn quest. As for Miss Jones and Dahlia I have not seen them since we left the tunnel. Everyone went their separate ways.”
That was not what he had wanted to hear. But to press her for more at this time was out of the question. He left silently closing the door behind him.
The parlor door opened and Cleo, the Librarian with the curly blond hair, entered.
“We cannot let this stand, Domina,” she said.
Ligea rose and dried her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “Call on all of the Hive, this is war and we will go down into that mine ourselves to meet this evil, head on.”
The Librarian nodded solemnly; glad that she could finally have a chance to avenge her poor Thadeus.
Silently, swiftly, in less than an hour the vampires congregated at the House of The Rising Moon. Ligea, now dressed in dark sturdy clothes, addressed them. Her heart was filled to bursting with the desire to crush and lay waste the men and the unholy monster who had killed Virgil. Virgil, who had been by her side for the last fifty years and had helped her build her new Hive from the ashes of the old. Virgil who had persisted with his love of her even though he guessed she still harbored secret feelings for Devlin.
She addressed the vampires of her Hive.
“Beloved blood of my blood another of our Hive has fallen to the mortals and Zombies, the puppets of the Beast, the Demon that lies within the earth. Virgil my consort has been savagely murdered. We shall go forth into the Lily Ann mine to exact our vengeance. Show no mercy and leave no one, human or otherwise, alive.”
A short time later they met with little resistance at the mouth of the Lily Ann, just two drunken guards slumped over a whiskey jug.
Ligea shot them both through the heart.
Then, with torches lit, she led them forth to the lift that would carry them down to the main shaft.
The lift jarred to the ground unnoticed and they crept towards the sound of pounding and hammering. When the main shaft opened they came upon a grimy crew toiling like red devils in the faint lamplight. One of the grimy miscreants wore a dove gray top hat.
Virgil’s hat!
A red mist formed at the corners of Ligea’s vision.
The vampires surged forth. The man in the top hat stared, but before he could utter a sound, Ligea slashed his throat from ear to ear. What followed in the seconds afterwards was nothing short of a blood bath as the vampires shot, slashed and tore the fifteen miners limb from limb. The ones that were not zombies were drained of their blood and the cohorts of Lance Peabody were beheaded.
Ligea pried the steel drill from the fingers of the man who had worn Virgil’s hat. A three foot long solid steel drill called a Widowmaker. Fueled with rage and immortal strength she snapped the drill in half and threw it against the wall of the mine. She picked up Virgil’s blood soaked hat with a shaking hand. She caressed the soft beaver skin then placed it atop her raven curls. She spit on the corpse of the man who had worn it then she and the other vampires fled the scene, stepping over the carnage, back through the mineshaft. At the mouth of the mine they dumped the severed heads in a pile.
Ligea took notice that the Zombie Peabody and that pig Big Jim were not amongst the dead. Well, she and her Hive had sent a clear message to them and she welcomed the next confrontation.
Let them try to set loose their Babylonian scourge now!
Devlin and Walking Ghost meanwhile galloped up the hill to B Street dodging through the C street traffic and the drunks and miners who rolled out of the saloons in broad daylight. When they got to the Emerald Salon they found it empty. The only person holding down the place was Jamie who stood polishing the short bar. He looked up nervously when Devlin and Walking Ghost burst in.
“Where is she, Jamie?”
Jamie paused but kept polishing. He avoided meeting Devlin’s eyes. “Don’t reckon I know.”
“If you know something you had better tell me, both Esmeralda and Dahlia could be in grave danger.”
Jamie’s face blanched white but his loyalty held fast. He shook his head. Devlin was out of patience. He reached out and snatched the boy by his collar.
“Spill it you ragamuffin or Walking Ghost will skin you alive.”
Jamie squirmed and sweated. “I ain’t tellin’ ya.”
“This is not a game Jamie, people are dying and if you want them to live you better tell me what you know.”
Jamie shook his head stubbornly. At a glance from Devlin, Walking Ghost drew a wicked looking knife.
“Start with his fingers,” Devlin said.
Walking Ghost seized Jamie’s right thumb.
Jamie caved. “San –San Francisco she tol’ me to buy her a ticket last week, to San Francisco by way of Carson City. That’s all I know!”
She had planned to disappear into the bowels of the West again, without him and without a backward glance. Anger rushed to his head, along with it a searing pain of heartbreak. With startling clarity he understood her plan. She had left so that his enemies could not use her to bait him.
He would not allow it! Not after what had happened between them. Besides, she must know that they would follow her, or was that part of her plan too?
He took a thin cigar out of his pocket, trying not to notice the slight tremor in his hands. He lit it and blew smoke to the side. He looked hard at Jamie. “And when was she supposed to leave, Jamie?”
Jamie’s eyes filled with tears. “She was supposed to take the train this morning but she never came back to the salon, and Mister, one of
them
was hear askin’ about her.”
“Peabody’s gang?”
Jamie met his stare. “Yes, sirree, an he was a bad un.”
Devlin released his hold. “Walking Ghost, let’s ride hell for leather!” He looked over at Jamie. “You too boy, if you’re up to it.”
Jamie nodded. Devlin admired the grit in the boy. He knew Esmeralda had taken him in, an orphan and one of the forgotten and now he was a loyal soldier and part of her special circle.
Once outside the salon Devlin swung up onto Mephistopheles’ back, and along with Walking Ghost on his white mule and Jimmy on his bay mustang, they galloped south down B Street towards Carson City and the train bound for San Francisco.
As the morning sun rose higher in the sky Big Jim sat up on the edge of his bed. He stubbed out his cigar and took a last gulp from his brandy glass. He smiled slyly.
All of his ducks were in row including the depraved plan that he had in store for the gambler Devlin Winter and his red headed whore. He had loosed Peabody on them and now all he had to do was wait. Miners working in twenty- four hour shifts had assured him that they were within twenty feet of the Gilded Bird. He anticipated seeing the raw fear in Esmeralda Jones’ eyes. So much so that he could feel his limp member twitch under his hanging belly.
Jim Diamond had learned long ago that it was easier to inspire fear rather than love. He had learned that from his father a dour, bearded Quaker. Even now he could still hear his sanctimonious words as he laid a leather strop across Big Jim’s bare shoulders.
“You have no respect for the word of Gott! Unholy imp of Satan, I must beat the Devil from you!”
He drained his brandy glass. He waited for the guilty flush of shame that overtook him whenever he thought about his father and the farm.
Back then he could not explain the urges that surged through him. Rages that caused him to torture the farm animals, set fire to crops and play out various other perversions.
When he was sixteen he became enamored with a girl from the neighboring farm. Her name was Greta and underneath her severe shapeless bonnet was a face of rosy innocence and china blue eyes. He did not know the real meaning of love. From the time of his birth in which he tore his way out of her womb backwards his mother had viewed him with suspicion and even fear. His bright orange-red hair was an embarrassment in a family of towheads, the Devil’s hair! Life in a dour, undemonstrative family had shriveled his youthful heart. Greta was a ray of sunshine and seeing her walk across the field with her basket of flowers gave hope to his starved heart. He became obsessed with her every move watching her from the shadows as she went about her chores, fantasizing about her and touching himself when he lay alone on his lumpy straw mattress. They shared a few brief and awkward meetings along the dirt path that led between their two farms. Greta always carried with her a basket full of delicacies, canned or pickled goods that she would trade with the other farming families. Big Jim had a powerful sweet tooth and recalled the magical day in which she gave him a jar of her own homemade strawberry jam. They had sat down beside the road under a great shady tree and eaten the whole jar together. He had wanted to kiss her that day, a first kiss for both of them he was sure. But his courage failed him fraught as he was with the severe self- loathing that had been fostered in him by both his parents.
One day when Greta went into her family’s barn to milk the cows he followed her. He offered her a wilted bluebell and asked her if he could touch her golden braids. When Greta agreed shyly, he pounced on her overcome by his excitement. Crudely, clumsily he tried to kiss and squeeze her. Greta resisted him pushing against his hold and turning her head away from his lips.
Greta please!” he whined.
Greta shook her head. “No James, you must not”
“But Greta I love you! I want you to be mine.” He tried to pull her closer but she resisted mightily.
“No, no James, don’t touch me I am spoken for, my hand is promised to Juergen Hansen from Green Hill Farm.”
With those words she squirmed out of his hold but he was hard on her heels and grabbed her arm and spun her around. Greta’s blue eyes, which had always been so calm and passive, shot daggers at him, “Did you think that I would want you as my husband? To bear your red headed children? It would bring shame and Satan’s curse upon my family.”
Rejected, he slapped her and a cold rage filled him. When she tried to run he threw her down on the floor of the barn and his hands fastened around her neck and he squeezed and squeezed. She struggled and fought like a helpless animal then suddenly went limp. Breathing hard he stood up. Greta lay lifeless in a pool of spilt milk. He backed away then fled across the field. From that day on he hated the farm, hated his dull family more and more and when they perished in a mysterious barn fire he ran away and never looked back.
The Monte dealer Esmeralda Jones, reminded him of Greta, an untouchable beauty that would never soil her hands with the likes of him.
A violent pounding on the front door snapped him out of the sordid memories of his past. He lurched off the bed and pulled on his robe. He headed for the stairs while the pounding continued. He cursed.
Where is that damn yellow servant?
He stumbled drowsily, down the stairs. When he reached the foyer Chow was just opening the door.
“Who is it Chow?”
A foul cloying stench, like a Viking funeral pyre wafted through the door, so strong it almost knocked him to the floor. The next instance Lance Peabody pushed his hulking form into the lamplight. He stood before Big Jim in a blackened, still smoking coat. His rat-like eyes stared out of a red blistered face. One in which his left eye hung out of the socket like a blob of bloody custard.