The Living Night (Book 1) (11 page)

Veliswa crinkled her eyes. "I may be
biased, dear. Most of my clients are a repeat business, I'm afraid. Actually, a
lot of them know what I am—and they
like
it. All S & M freaks,
naturally, not that I mind, but to tell you the truth, I'm tired of playing
dominatrix. But no; once they learn about my teeth, they want them harder,
deeper, more blood, more blood—that's what they ask for. And once they build up
a tolerance for pain, they want it even worse. Tighter, tighter. Grip me
tighter. Tighter, for God's sakes! Teeth like sharks' teeth, rows and rows."

Ruegger made a face as he lifted a plate of
huevos rancheros
and brought it to
Veliswa's long, glass-topped breakfast table.

"Sorry," she said.

He shrugged and sat down. "Hey, no skin off
my—well, actually, I can see the thrill. I mean, knowing you could be, well,
severed, at any moment. Plus the pleasure-pain thing. I can see it." He
exchanged glances with the ghensiv, their words unspoken and unnecessary.

"That turns you on?" Danielle asked.

He lifted a glass of champagne to his lips.
"Hmm, this is great,
Velis
. But ah, no, it
doesn't turn me on, but I can see the thrill. That said, I'm not sure nowadays
if I could stay, well,
focused
, with all those teeth pressing against
me. But I've tried a few times, and I can't say I didn't—"

"You never told me."

"You would like to know?"

Sharing her attention between the omelet and Belgium pecan
waffles, Danielle said, "Maybe not." She chewed a big, syrupy bite of
waffle. "Well, maybe."

Veliswa laughed and picked at her plate of
brightly-colored fruit. "You two are so cute it's almost
insufferable."

After breakfast had been heartily consumed, she
informed the vampires that she had to attend to a client, but she would just
love to meet Ruegger and Danielle later on if they were free, maybe sometime
after midnight.

"How about
Rocky Horror
?" asked
Ruegger. Though he was anxious to begin investigating Ludwig's death, he knew
he should spend some time with his hostess and friend. "New York always has a good show."

"Groovy," said Danielle. "I
haven't seen that in ages."

"Great,” said Veliswa. “Meet you at the
usual place for the two o'clock, okay? There's a double feature all this week,
I think.
Rocky
and its spin-off."

"See you then," said Ruegger.

"
Catcha
later," called Danielle liltingly, clicking her tongue. Then softly,
"I didn't know there was a spin-off."

“
Shock
Treatment
. It’s technically a sequel, but with different actors playing
Brad and Janet.”

Veliswa dressed quickly and departed, leaving
the vampires with the run of the house.

"I'm still hungry," Danielle said.

"Oh, really?"

"For love."

He grinned. "You're just in love with the
idea of those handcuffs, aren't you?"

"The cold steel against my wrists, the warm
you against the rest of me. What's not to love?"

Some time later, when he and Danielle were
curled up in each other’s arms in exhaustion, his mind caught hold of something
and wouldn't let go. He eased himself gently from Danielle’s embrace, dressed
in silence, and left, patting Cerberus on the head as he went. He found his car
and headed away from Manhattan.

*
    
*
    
*

Ruegger
hoisted himself onto the alley dumpster and leapt for the nearby fire-escape,
which he caught neatly and climbed until he reached the fourth floor. He
stepped up onto the railing and jumped a few feet over to clutch the cheap
metal bars of the adjacent balcony. Then one more over to land on the brick and
cement of the balcony there, his mind moving fast to open the balcony door with
his telekinetic abilities, wondering at the same time if he was being watched,
if the man inside was being protected by unseen guardians. If so, they would
recognize Ruegger and know why he was here.

He shoved open the door and slid inside. He felt
the hunger in him as he sensed a mortal in the next room, and he moved quietly
through to the living room, comfortable in all its inexpensiveness, the colors
dark and somber.

Several antique treasures lined the walls or
perched as
mantlepieces
: a full, standing suit of
twelfth century armor, complete with shield and sword; two ancient samurai
swords, crossed in battle as if their wielders gripped them fiercely and
invisibly; the very sword, stolen, that was reported to have cut off
Vlad
Tepes's
head. Here a
blood-rusted mace, there an early, Mid-English Christian Bible—the list went
on.

The owner of these treasures, a former antique
dealer, lay asleep on the sofa, head thrown back, the TV glowing softly in
front of him. The man's features seemed to shift with each flickering frame,
the television casting strange hues across his countenance.

Ruegger slid onto the sofa beside him. The man
wore a dark green bathrobe, perhaps a little tight around his middle, and
course black hair topped his head. Black stubble furred his cheeks and throat.
The throat …

Ruegger eyed it, feeling the pulse in his ears
and tongue.

He craned his head down, lips parting as they
drew near the arched neck. Just when he could feel the heat clearly on his
lips, the man rammed a pistol to his jaw and pulled away, lightning-quick. For
a mortal.

They leapt to their feet and faced each other.

The man breathed raggedly and
uncocked
the pistol. "Knock next time, okay? It's not
a difficult concept." He lowered the gun.

"Hell of a pistol, there," Ruegger
said.

"Tell me about it. I had to hock a few
priceless objects to get it, thank you very much." After laying it down,
Harry Lavaca walked over to his refrigerator and rooted around, coming up with
two
Guiness
Extra-Stouts, one of which he tossed to
Ruegger. "It's even got silver bullets," Harry added.

Ruegger smiled. "Why?"

"Same reason you have your silver knives.
Werewolves are superstitious, sometimes. If they get separated from their
makers before they learn the rules, they get to believe their own publicity.
Same for all of you, I suppose, but werewolves are the most expensive. Silver,
of all things. And I have to worry about them twenty-four hours a day, a
day
—when
my good friends like you aren't out there to protect me." He made his way
back to the couch, where he and Ruegger sat down together like the old friends
they were.

Ruegger looked at the wall furnace, which blazed
warmth into the room, and then not too far away, to a dreamy oil painting
mounted on the wall that captured the haunting face of Marcela, the young and
beautiful Spanish bride of Harry Lavaca. She’d given birth to their two
children and died protecting them, in vain, many years ago, before Harry's
paunch expanded, before he lived surrounded by this squalor, before his soul
had all but quivered to a stop. Marcela had died at the hands of several
jandrows in a painful and ritualized proceeding involving the unwilling
participation of her children. It had been a slow death, apparently—at least as
the dark angels told it. They’d been afraid to go after Harry himself because
of his immortal friends, but they had made their displeasure with him
excessively clear, as if anything needed be explained.

Of course, it wasn't only jandrows that disliked
him; if it hadn't been them to act, it would have eventually been some other
group. Harry had few friends, but they were well-chosen and loyal. He never
seemed a hundred percent sure
why
they liked him—after all, he did kill wicked
immortals as a hobby; the Slayer, they called him, partly as a joke, partly not—but
they did. They appreciated his honesty, his persistence, his mind, and his
tragedy—this last he seemed particularly aware of. They became even more
protective after his wife and children had been killed, going so far as to
retaliate in kind against the offending jandrows.

Ruegger was an early friend, one of the original
company who had known of Marcela as something beyond the myth that Harry had
made her into. Lavaca was a man possessed by a memory, and he had lived very
little, these past ten or so years, other than to wreak vengeance and to relive
that memory, those images of remembered happiness and peace. Marcela had died
over a decade ago, but Ruegger knew that her laugh, her face, were more clear
in Harry’s mind than the day he'd found her mutilated corpse and those of their
children, ages three and four.

"How's Danielle these days?" Harry
said.

"Better than you, thank the gods. You look
like hell."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to
me all day."

Ruegger lifted his bottle to clink necks with
Harry's. "Here's to being alive."

"In a manner of speaking." Harry
sipped the black beer and grimaced. "Fucking Irish horse-piss, don't you
just love it." He started to walk into the next room. "Let's finish
that chess game, ace. I've been studying the situation for six months—the last
time you were here, if you can remember that far back—and although I think
you've got me whipped, I have a sneak move I've gotta try."

The vampire followed him into the dining room,
where he had a long wooden picnic table occupying most of the available space,
with eight sets of chairs sitting opposite each other, lengthwise, and no
chairs at either end. Between each set of facing chairs lay a chessboard, each
one in various states of battle. Every time a friend visited, one of the games
would progress a little farther. Some games lasted indefinitely. Their present
match had lasted two years; Lavaca evidently was ready to finish it.

"You look ill," Ruegger commented as
they sat.

"I wouldn't be so lucky."

"Are you spending the money we send
you?"

"No, I'm putting it in my college fund. Of
course I'm spending it. Don't you see my new
Blu
-ray?"

"Have you converted your videotapes of
Marcela to disc?"

"Need you ask?" Harry tapped the
board. "Move,
compadre
."

Ruegger studied the board and slid his bishop
forward. "Check.”

"Cheap shot." Harry shielded his king.

Ruegger placed a finger on his queen. Paused.
"What's your secret move, buddy? I can see your rook lurking over there in
the shadows. Don't try to fool me."

"Guess again."

"You're bluffing."

The mortal shrugged. "Move and find
out." He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. "`Thank the gods'",
he repeated softly. "Why don't you believe in God, anyway? I mean, you
are
living proof that superstition isn't all horseshit, right? Religion is
superstition, on that we're agreed, but if God is superstition, so are you. You're
real, so why not Him?"

"By that logic you would have to agree that
if one mythical entity exists, than all of them should." Ruegger could
feel a philosophical discussion coming on, but he didn't mind.

"Not necessarily," Lavaca said. "After
all, you call yourself damned, thereby implying the presence of a higher being
to damn you. And how do you rationally, scientifically explain a creature that
lives forever on the condition that it drinks human blood and avoids the sun?
How do explain that without God?"

"How do explain it with God?"

"Much easier.” He tapped the board again.
"You keep forgetting."

Ruegger smiled. Moved. "Check again."

"Jesus, you're a pain in the ass. Well,
take this."

The vampire cringed.

"So why don't you believe in God?"
Harry asked. Obviously, theology was heavy on his mind.

"All I know is that churches don't scare
me, crosses nor holy water scare me, and the thought of a god that would throw
me into eternal pain for not believing in it actually terrifies me. And not in
the way that make me want to convert."

"All right, so if God didn’t create you,
what did? I’ve heard your origin myths, but what’s the truth?"

Ruegger shrugged. "How would I know? I was
made by the same thing that made you, I suppose."

"What, spite? Alright, enough talk about
God. It's your move again, maestro. I believe I left myself open for
checkmate."

"You did, didn't you. Why?"

"I'm leaving town, Darkling. I'm going to
burn that fucking picture of Marcela and move far, far away."

"That's great, Harry. It really is."

"I'm trying to finish all my chess games
before I go, because who knows when I'll be back again,
if
I'll be back
again. Don't worry, your kind will forget about me. I was a novelty for a while,
but that's over now. Besides, I'm too well known here. There's no way I can
hunt you bastards down."

“That must gall you. I'm sorry to see you leave.
We'll have to come see you sometime. Where are you moving?"