The Living Night (Book 1) (17 page)

The corners of his mouth slid up just a little.
Thinking that maybe a little of the old two-headed-beast would make him feel
better, she sank to her knees before him and started stroking his member.

"No.” He pushed her away. "Sex isn't
the answer to everything, Kristen. You're so immature sometimes, you really
are. Some wounds are too deep."

She stood up and slapped him again. "Never
push me unless I want you to!" Still, she was pleased that he seemed more
his old self. "Ah, my poor, passionate, tragic Frenchman ... what am I
going to do with you?"

"Is that why you want me? Because I'm
tragic? If I got over Danielle, would you still love me?"

"Of course. But, wait ... you love
me?"

He moved to a counter and lit a Pall Mall. How regal he looked, standing there, naked,
covered in blood, but unbent and strong.

"To what end?" he said. "The
feelings aren't there, not in that way. You love Vistrot and I Danielle. I'll
say the same thing I said to Veliswa: you're like a sister to me. I'd never let
any harm come to you."

She sighed, lit a cigarette herself, a Virginia
Slim. It seemed that he felt the same way about her as she did towards him. At
least he was being honest. But, ah, how she wanted someone to really, truly
love her. Vistrot did to an extent. But no matter what he said, his work was
his fist priority and always would be. In her dreams sometimes she imagined
herself eloping with the albino, but this was just a schoolgirl fantasy, just
grasping at straws because they were the only things that were real.

"Are you reading my thoughts?" she
asked.

"I would never do that."

"So what do we do now, Jean-Pierre?"

"You started whatever it is between us
because of what's going on between you and the Titan. If I rejected you now
your dissatisfaction would remain; you'd only find a new outlet. So I won't
turn you away, and ... now that you're the only one left for me ..." He
shook himself, clearly trying to avoid slipping back to the way he'd been when
she arrived. That state seemed so close, as if he'd collapse at any moment.
"I don’t have the strength to turn you away. If either one of us leaves
the other, it will be you."

"I'll never leave you, Jean-Pierre. Never.
I may go back to Vistrot, I may stop sleeping with you ... but I'll always be
here for you as a friend."

He smiled. "Never say always."

"How about that cappuccino?"

His smile became more seductive, and as he
walked over toward her, she felt an electric thrill pass through her. He
pressed himself against her, and their lips locked. She threw her arms about
his sweaty, bloody torso, feeling herself grow wet instantly.

"No," she murmured, her eyes catching
the hooks and chains. "Not here ..."

He led her into his bedroom. A stark testament
to self-abnegation, at least it was devoid of blades and had a large mattress,
if not a real bed. He lay her down on it, tore off her clothes and ravished
her. She so loved to be ravished; Vistrot was much too gentle a lover.

Halfway through it, Jean-Pierre began to cry
again, and she could see the shame and self-hatred in his face even as the sweat
dripped from his brow. At first she was deeply annoyed. Then, as if his misery
were contagious, she realized her own great unhappiness and began to cry as well.
They resumed fucking savagely, this new emotion only fueling their lust. At the
climactic moment, they came together, a first for them.

Afterwards, while they were smoking and staring
out the great dirty windows of the apartment, he said, "Don't tell anyone
about this."

She kissed his shoulder and smiled. "Of
course. We wouldn't want anyone to know our secret, would we?"

"What would that be?"

"That you do have a soul.”

“That again.”

“You aren't the void that people think you
are—that
you
think you are."

He sniffed. "If we're going to be poetic,
we must be truthful. I have no soul. What I am is a void that knows that it's a
void and wants to be something more."

"I saw it back there ... when I looked into
those eyes of yours ... It's there, my pale one, like it or not." Suddenly
she felt very vulnerable naked and returned to the mattress to throw a sheet
over her shoulders. Still, there was something eating at her.

"What's wrong?" he said.

She lit another cigarette, fidgeting. "I
don't ... I don't know if I should tell you. Really, it's ironic, betraying
Vistrot to illuminate the fact that he betrayed you ..."

"What are you talking about?"

She sighed. She felt so close to him now that
she couldn't keep it back. "He lied to you, Jean-Pierre, although I'm not
quite sure what it means. I overheard a phone conversation, I can't remember.
He was talking to someone named Junger, I think.”

This got his attention.

Continuing, she said, “He said something about
how he lied to you, but it was a necessary lie. He said that there was no
general contract out on Ruegger and Danielle, that yours was the only
death-squad sent to kill them and that Junger wasn't supposed to kill them,
that his was a different purpose entirely, or something to that effect. Maybe
I'm just reading too much into what he said. I wasn't really listening, but I
heard your name so I paid attention. What does it mean? Does it make any sense
to you?"

He frowned, and it was clear that he was thinking
hard. "No. I don't know what it means, but don't ask him about it. Never
let him grow suspicious."

"Of course not."

"Thank you for telling me this.
Now
I know you do love me."

“You’re my brother, right?”

It wasn't long before she left, shrugging on the
remains of her clothes and calling back her limo. She sat in its cool,
leather-bound confines and felt the tension drain from her. If only she could
bottle whatever it was that Jean-Pierre did for her ...

She wasn't going home, which was her apartment,
but back to the Titanic. Of course, Vistrot had put out the rumor that he was
frequenting many buildings, never staying in the same place twice in order to
avoid the Scouring, and he'd even fabricated some evidence to support this,
because he said the best way to hide was to convince
others
that you
were hiding. The fact of the matter was he hadn't left that building in six
weeks. He'd warned her not to leave it, either—but, especially during the
daytime, there was little he could do to stop her, except to have her
forcefully detained, and he would never do that.

If she couldn't get him out of the building,
maybe she could bring a little pleasure to him while he was there. She would have
to shower thoroughly first, of course. That vampire sense of smell didn’t fool
around.

She called ahead and arranged for a romantic
meal to be prepared for them this evening. Something Italian, the chef's
choice. He was having an affair, she was certain, but she still loved him and
knew that he loved her too, so why not make the most of it?

Of course, if she had known with whom he was
having the affair, and why, it would have made all the difference in the world.

Chapter 13

In
his War Room, Roche Sarnova sipped his bourbon and listened to his advisors
describe how he was losing the war. A big map on the wall outlined different
parts of London.
A red star indicated the suspected location of Subaire, his nemesis. He, the
officers and the other members of the Dark Council had been over the same
material now several times, and he listened with one ear. Mainly he sipped on
his bourbon.

It was the first week of January and the war was
going badly. His enemies had established a successful stronghold in London, where most of the
fighting took place. The enemy just sat there and waited for Sarnova to send in
more troops, and when they learned of one of his secret bases, they had it
destroyed. There were rumors that his enemies were gathering their forces,
preparing an attack on the Castle. Even Sarnova was growing apprehensive, but
he told himself to be steady. He'd ruled the immortal world for three thousand
years and he'd not relinquish it now.

Back then he'd used his powers and his title to
bring the immortal elements together, to make peace among them, and he'd been
successful. For centuries he'd ruled in tranquility, letting the borders of his
domain expand naturally as the humans themselves explored new regions,
spreading to all corners of the world.

Unfortunately, this exploration had brought
about the decentralization of power; his empire, always hidden from human
knowledge, had become unwieldy and the different elements had started to
unravel once again. He couldn’t control them all. Many had become nomadic and
still others had begun to build empires of their own, despite his best efforts
to crush them. Then they had grown arrogant and had tried to band together to
destroy him, but they were too weak and he'd easily won. It had been simple to
gather them back into his fold. Order was needed. Togetherness. Unity.

The seeds of rebellion had been sown, however,
and over the centuries more and more of his following had deserted him to
establish themselves elsewhere. They had discovered the New World long before Columbus had been born and
there they fled, and there they prospered.

Sarnova (who'd gone by a different name then)
was ignorant of this new development for a long time—how could he have foreseen
the discovery of a new continent?—but when humans began to explore this virgin
land he’d sent his forces over there only to be beaten back by the immortals
already there.

He'd concentrated on fortifying his position as
the most powerful shade in the Old World, had moved from his long-established
headquarters in northern Africa to the regions of Eastern Europe so that he
could more easily conquer the many immortals that had gathered there, away from
his Egyptian stronghold. And conquer them he did, at a terrible price. He'd
lost his headquarters in Africa because he'd had to concentrate so many troops
in Europe, leaving Egypt
unguarded. What misery that had been, losing his home, and too weak to reclaim
it.

Over the years he'd struggled to make the
Carpathians his new home, had renewed his forces, had re-established his empire
and would soon emerge yet again as the strongest immortal in the world. And,
now that he was ready to make the boldest move of all—this!

His idea was too revolutionary, too radical, too
sudden. His brashness had ripped the Dark Council in half, perhaps destroyed it
forever. They were cowards afraid of change. He wanted progress and they were
willing to make war to stop him. It pained him, their lack of vision, their
eager conservatism. Didn't they see how glorious the future could be?

At least he had Francois to console him. Deep
down, though, Sarnova felt that even the Ambassador was afraid of his new
ideas, was hoping that the war would end and the Dark Council be reunified, but
that no real progress would develop. Did no one understand him? It had come to
the point where he was beginning to doubt his own plans.

He sighed, finished his bourbon and cleared his
throat. The others in the War Room turned.

"Is that all?" he said. "Are you
quite finished? I see by your faces that you wish I would make peace with them.
No, the war will go on until our enemy gives in. Don't you see? Progress is
always difficult. Only afterwards do even its facilitators fully appreciate it.
You will, gentlemen, mark my words.
The new world order is almost upon
us!"

He rose, feeling the sweat on his brow, and
looked each of his followers in the eye. "Thank you for your diligence. Now
please excuse me. Do what you must to ensure the fulfillment of the vision."

He stalked out of the room, waving away his
guards. Privacy was crucial to the meeting he would now attend. He moved
swiftly down to the catacombs, where he slowed his pace to collect his thoughts.
He'd an idea of what this secret meeting would be about, but the implications
of that were too hideous.

Most of these crypts and vaults had been moved
long ago from their original locations in Egypt. Inside them rested the
bodies of ancient rulers and shades who'd been important figures in immortal
history. A few were representatives of Sarnova's line.

His predecessors, those that had carried the
mantle of Dark Lord before him, where not his genetic ancestors but a line of
warriors. Rulers. At some point in every ruler's life he or she must choose a
successor, someone to carry on the tradition and the mantle. The successor would
not necessarily be chosen because the ruler was dying or in peril but often
because the ruler was tired of his or her responsibilities and wished to roam
the world. Sarnova felt no such inclination and wasn't prepared to name a
successor until he did.
If that’s what
they want to talk about ...

He walked through a stone archway and into a
tomb, where he made his way to one of the walls and depressed a panel. A wall
swung back. He stepped through into the hidden room.

The
Sangro
Sankts
waited for him. Four of them, hunched around a large stone table
with a lantern blazing from its center. The flickering light caught the group
strangely, and for a moment Sarnova thought he'd stepped into a dream.

He accepted his seat at the head of the table,
which they had reserved for him out of tradition and courtesy (although they
were much more powerful than himself), and addressed them: "Good to see
you again, my friends. I see there are two of you missing."

"We have always been here to protect and
support your line," one said, "but, even so, we were shocked to hear
your plan. Two of our number decided not to come out of protest. For that, we
apologize." He smiled, but it was a strained, tense gesture. "It's
good to see you again, too, Roche."

Sarnova nodded. "There's something you're
not telling me."

"What do you desire to know?" said
another.

"I was attacked a month ago. My assailant
was carrying the blood of a kavasari in her veins. Where did that come
from?"

"Are you accusing one of us?"

"I accuse no one, but there aren't many of
you in the world—half of you are represented here—so it's more than likely that
one of you, or one of the two absentees, was responsible."

Silence. Then the first speaker said, "If—
if
—one
of us was responsible, our intention wouldn't have been to kill you, but to
make you aware of our displeasure. Your new decision goes against everything
we're meant to uphold, and you should've realized that before announcing it to
the Dark Council."

Sarnova laughed. "Your feelings were hurt,
is that it? That I'd act alone. That's why you did it."

"We didn't say we did it," said a
third. "None of us here gave the blood to Victoria Lisaund—and yes, we
know all about it—believe me. We're loyal to you, no matter how foolish your
actions may be."

"Will you vouch for the loyalty of the two
absentees?"

"No."

"And there's nothing else you'd care to
reveal before we get to the matter at hand?"

"No."

"Well, then. Why did you summon me?"

"A successor must be chosen. You're losing
the war. On the off chance that you die, someone must replace you."

 
I knew it.
"Surely Francois
Mauchlery would be adequate."

"He is not a leader, and he does not desire
to be one. Besides, that's not the way things are done; it must be someone
relatively young, someone fresh that you can mold."

“You'd have me mold him despite the fact that
I'm foolish?"

"As much as we abhor your movement, we
recognize that your new ideas signify strength and vitality."

"Why do you fear my death? Would not you
protect me as you're sworn to do?"

"Certainly we would protect you within
bounds. But we are not to use our powers to interfere with history in the
making. We're to remain in the shadows, always."

"You're as bound in superstition as you
always were! You cling to it because it gives you purpose, yet you would,
admit
it, interfere with our affairs if
it served your sense of morality. Did you not stand by as one of your number
provided a potential assassin with kavasari blood?"

"You use our lack of action against us.”

"Of course I do. How dare you cling to your
purpose, your sacred duties to me, when you'd sit by and watch me die simply
because you have no vision."

"We do not call it vision. We call it
sacrilege."

"I'm sure you do.” Roche ran a sweaty hand
through his black hair.
Losing my cool
will only serve them.
They need to be
reminded of their roots.

“Allow me to refresh your memories,” he said. “You
once ruled all immortals, but your greed drew you into war against each other,
and your followers saw their opportunity and rebelled, your power never to be
reclaimed again. Afterward your kind warred each other into virtual extinction.
You drifted without purpose or ambition, and there was only one of your number
that was strong. One! He fell in love with a lesser shade, a great vampire
warrior, and summoned you to protect her and her line. He realized your
weakness and shrouded your purpose with myth and religious overtones, providing
the necessary stipulation, which you loved. You leapt at the chance to have
meaning—
to have a purpose!
—so you upheld the stipulation and protected
her, as best you could, but eventually she was overthrown and destroyed.

"Weak of mind as you were, now without
guidance or purpose, you chose to kill her assassin and then, instead of taking
control of her empire yourselves you elected her successor and established the
tradition which continues until today. The line of the Dark Lords. You move in
the shadows as you've said, protecting me when it suits you, counseling me
sometimes in important decisions but otherwise doing nothing but clinging to
your ancient mythology. Now you hide behind that ancient stipulation so that
you can sit back and
again
do nothing. You sicken me. How do you justify
your actions?"

"We will not justify ourselves to you, Roche,"
said the second one, angry. "None of us were alive back then—we only carry
on the traditions of our own predecessors, thank you. And that little
stipulation that you sneer at is very dear to our purpose, our reason for
being. It’s even grown to eclipse our duties of protection."

"So I've noticed."

"You must
also
carry on the traditions … by appointing a successor."

"And the stipulation?"

"We cannot uphold it truthfully and let you
live at the same time, not while you continue with your present course of
action."

"Is that a threat?"

"No," said the first. "We have no
desire to rule in your place or to kill you. For the love of dusk, Roche! You
act as if we're not friends, as if we're hostile to you. Trust in us, please.
We will try to uphold the stipulation in our own way."

"By blocking my advancements. By causing me
to lose the war. Bastards!"

"It is the only way to let you live."

“I pity you." Sarnova lit a cigar.
"I'm sorry for that, but
you have
no vision.
You still cling to your purpose, and
it
is what
eclipses everything else—not its technicalities, but its very existence. You
would let it stand in the way of progress."

"It’s our duty. Are you ready to discuss
your successor?"

Later, when he was done, he gathered his cluster
of guards and went off in search of Francois, whom he found in one of the living
areas, watching the night through great glass panes. Drinking a glass of port,
Francois turned at Sarnova's entrance.

"May I get you a drink?"

"Please," Roche said, sinking into a
chair. He waited until he'd taken his first sip before he spoke again.
"They're here."

"They?" Francois nodded. "
They
. What did they want?"

"To appoint my successor, naturally."

"Who'd they have in mind?"

Roche laughed. "My own Secretary of War,
the little upstart."