The Living Night (Book 1) (30 page)

"Because she loved you and knew that if you
knew, you'd perceive some sort of emotional attachment and reject her. But you're
strong enough now. Listen to me! I am your daughter,
goddamnit
,
but it doesn't change a thing. If anything, it should strengthen our
bound."

He mashed his eyes shut. "You're sick.”

"How? How does this change anything? Answer
me."

Shaking his head again, he said, "I don't
know, but it does."

"We love each other, Jean-Pierre. Isn't
that all that matters? Don't give in to societal conditioning."

"And if we have kids?"

"No immortal child has ever been born
mentally or physically inhibited. The curse prevents it. Besides, what are the
chances of us having a child? It's very rare, you know. Immortal tissues are
highly reluctant to change. You know that."

He slumped down in a corner, his eyes looking in
her direction but not directly at her. Slamming the back of his head against
the wall, he balled his fists, inadvertently crushing his cigarette.

"Veliswa," he said. "Did she set
you up to this?"

"She asked me to help out Ruegger and
Danielle—and I tried. Becoming involved with you wasn't part of the bargain. It
was an accident, but I'm glad it happened. I admit that you probably wouldn't
have gotten as far with me if I hadn't known you were my father, but I did, so
I gave you . . . us . . . a chance. And it changed everything, even how I
perceived the world. You opened me up, Jean-Pierre, more than I can ever say.
Now please, come here and tell me you love me."

His eyes met hers. He was composed once again. "Daughter,"
he said, and his voice was distant. "Kristen—the girl who was here just
now—asked me if we had pet names for each other. I guess now we do."

She hesitated, still unsure of his reaction. "I
love you.”

He didn’t look at her for a long moment, and her
heart twisted violently. At last he reached out for her, and she nearly wept in
release.

*
    
*
   
 
*

Roche
Sarnova stared out the great windows of his study to the windswept mountains
beyond, sipping on a glass of bourbon, as Francois Mauchlery entered the room.

"How did it go, Ambassador? Did the former
Secretary of War confess?"

"Not at all. He still claims to be
innocent. Loyal."

"Do you believe him?"

"No, but I don't think he's the only spy
around, either."

Sarnova nodded. "That's what I've been told."

"Oh?"

"I've just spent five hours in the War
Room, and none of what I learned was good news. Seems we're still losing the
war, mainly due to security leaks and poor morale. It's finally started to hit
me that we may actually lose."

"Don't tell me you're giving up, Roche. I
won't believe it."

"As well you shouldn't, my friend. I'll die
before I see my cause crushed."

"What are you going to do about
morale?"

"Actually, I've had a thought on that
subject. You see, if I am going to die, then I'll need a successor."

"Don't look to me," Francois said.

"Oh, I know you’ve no interest in such
things. You've no reason to worry on that score. But I have another idea, one
that will kill two birds with one stone. I think we should set up the Arena
again."

"The Arena—of
Death
? Two shades trying to kill each other in an iron cage with a
horde of spectators watching? That's barbaric, Roche—we haven't allowed the Arena
in three hundred years."

"True, but I seem to remember that the
public loved it, and that it boosted morale incredibly."

"You wish to use prisoners of war as in the
old days?"

"No. This time it will be used to select my
successor. We must either use visitors or our own people, preferably prime
stock, but it will only be on a volunteer basis, so anyone may enter."

"This is absurd, Roche. Strength alone
shouldn't determine your successor."

"But it is a necessary component. Have it
set up so that at the end of the competition there will be eight finalists
left. They will then engage each other in a series of chess matches—the winner
gets the crown."

"But Roche ..."

"Yes, Ambassador?"

Francois looked at him but said nothing.

"You don't like me to speak of my death, do
you?" Roche said.

"I see no reason why you should die. If it
comes to that, why don't you simply concede? We can bring the Dark Council back
together and begin the mending process. Perhaps someday the world will be ready
for your movement."

"No. We've been complacent with our role for
far too long." Closing his eyes, he took a sip of bourbon and cleared his
throat. "Ambassador, I know you have only good intentions at heart, but
this is as it must be. Now please leave me for the moment so that you can
attend to the arrangements we've discussed."

With obvious reluctance, the ambassador nodded and
left. Sarnova returned to watch the night.

*
    
*
    
*

Several
hours later and thousands of miles away, in the Hamptons, Harry Lavaca was also drinking in a
study. However, he was sitting, not standing, and his drink was not bourbon but
a homemade vodka martini.

Nearby the man who called himself Martin Ascott
perched in his own chair sipping on a ginger ale. True to his word, he drank no
alcohol. In the days Harry had spent living with him, he’d noted that, as
advertised, Ascott was a decent family man, even if the money that he'd used
for capital in the hot dog business had originally come from being a very successful
heroin distributor. Still, drug money, especially the relatively small-scale
stuff Ascott would've been involved in, would not be enough to buy an estate
here. No, Ascott must have a good mind for legitimate business to have done as
well as he had. In fact, and despite himself, Harry found that he could even
get to like the man; Ascott was intelligent, soft-spoken, modest and gentle.
Although he tried hard, Lavaca couldn't picture him as a rapist or a drug
runner.

The two had been enjoying a companionable
silence for several minutes before Ascott spoke: "Harry, I must tell you
that I've enjoyed your being here. You know what Charlotte told me yesterday? She said that
Michelle, our youngest, asked if she could call you Uncle Harry." He
smiled. "I told Charlotte
to tell her that that was just fine with me, but we ought to ask your
permission first, of course. So what do you say?"

Grudgingly, Harry smiled. Ascott had raised some
fine kids. "It's okay with me," he said. "But I don't know how
much longer I can stay here and I wouldn't want to hurt little Michelle. She's precious."

"Please, we would love to have you stay on.
Maybe permanently. And I don't say that just because I'm afraid of
Danielle—although I am, terribly—but because, well, I've come to regard you as
something of a friend. I like to think that you feel the same towards me."

"I suppose I do, Marty. If I did leave, I
wouldn't hang you out to dry as far as Danielle is concerned. I've got contacts,
friends of friends. I could find her, eventually, but most of these contacts
I'd have to see in person. Some dislike telephones."

"Why on earth is that?"

"Shades have been around long before modern
technology and many are resistant to it. I’ve been around them so long, I don’t
have a telephone, either."

Ascott considered that. "Harry, you know a
great deal about these creatures, don't you?"

"I've gathered a lot of information over
the years."

"Do you know how they came to be?"

"There are many stories, creation myths,
but I can't say that I absolutely believe any of them."

"Tell me."

Harry wet his mouth. “Magic.”

“Magic?”

“Oh, according the myths, this old world of ours
used to be full of mythical beings, from unicorns to dragons and other, more
esoteric creatures. Spirits from other planes came to Earth regularly, and many
worshipped them. They altered our reality, created the various immortal races.
Cursed some, blessed others. But that’s just a story, and of course it’s a lot
more involved than that. I don’t actually believe in
dragons
.” He smiled.

Ascott frowned. “Well, why not?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you accept the existence of vampires and
werewolves, you accept the existence of the supernatural. Like you said, what
is that but magic? Call it by a different name if you want, but it amounts to
the same thing.”

“Perhaps,” Harry said. “But unicorns—”

The lights flickered out. A scream curled up
from one of the lower flowers (Michelle hated the dark), then silence fell. Only
a glimmer of moonlight washed in through an open window, which also let in a
current of cool air. This wind was the only sound.

"Is it the Gutter Angel?" Ascott
whispered, and there was a trembling in his voice. "Is it Danielle?"

"Quiet." Harry made his way to the
telephone: dead.

He pulled out his gun and pressed his back to
the wall beside the door just as several dark figures leapt into the room and
surrounded Ascott.

"Stop right there," commanded Lavaca.
"These are silver bullets."

A petite woman, the only female of the group, laughed.
"You've got the race right, but if you believe we're going to be afraid of
some silver, you'll be disappointed. Who do you think you are, Harry Lavaca?"

"That's right,
darlin
'."

"Are you serious, old man?" asked one
of the others. "You're the Slayer?"

"In the flesh."

Another raised his gun. "Not for
long."

"Cut it out,” said the woman. “He could be
of use to us. He knows the odd flock."

"She's right," the largest shadow said;
he had an Australian accent. "We'll take him with us."

"Who the hell are you people?" Harry
said.

"I'm Cloire, and you can meet the others
later. Funny, I'd always expected you to be taller."

"You're Cloire?” Harry nodded. “I’ve heard
of you. A member of Jean-Pierre’s death-squad.”

“Not anymore.”

"Knock it off, all of you!" roared
Ascott, who seemed about to pass out. "Get out of my house, you demons! I'm
not going anywhere with you."

The one Harry would come to know as Loirot lit a
cigarette, the flare of his lighter very bright in the dark room. "I guess
we go for the hard sell," he said, and reached a hand toward the man who'd
once raped Danielle.

"Leave him be," said Harry. "You
obviously didn't come here to kill him."

"Shut it, mortal.”

Harry shot him in the heart. These were
werewolves and it was the first time he'd really been able to try out his
silver bullets. A waste of money, as it turned out. Loirot straightened out and
glared at him; Harry could see it well enough, even in the dark.

"Let's get out of here before the maid runs
to the neighbors' and calls the cops,” the one Harry would learn to call Kilian
said to Cloire.

"Don't you hurt my family," Ascott
said, and for the first time Harry got a glimpse of his more brutal side. A
vein throbbed in his forehead, and spittle sprayed from his lips. "Or I
swear I'll hunt each and every one of you down and, before I kill you, I'll
destroy every single thing that you love in this life."

"Be agreeable and no harm will come to your
family,” Cloire said. “Now clam up and come with us. You too, Harry."

Chapter 24

On
the third day of apartment-shopping, Jean-Pierre and Sophia found what they
were looking for: a nice little place in
SoHo
. With cash down, they could move in on
Monday.

It was not to be.

The Funhouse of the Forsaken had arrived in New York, just in from
Lereba, and were performing their second show, which Jean-Pierre and Sophia
decided to attend. The freak show played to an eclectic audience and charged
high prices even for Manhattan;
a six-hundred and sixty-six dollar cover charge and an extra two hundred for
backstage passes. It was an intimate audience with no more than a hundred seats
arranged around small tables, as if at a comedy club. Sophia chose a table near
the center of the room and the two ordered drinks from a waiter. She ordered a
strawberry daiquiri and he a gin and tonic.

The show started with the snake-oil salesman,
Maximillian, coming out onto the stage before the curtains and making a few
purposefully bad jokes.

"He's the shade, right?" Sophia
whispered to Jean-Pierre.

"That's the story. Supposedly he owns the
troupe and gives the freaks—if you’ll pardon the term—just enough blood to
temporarily immortalize them—it also allows them to perform acts that they couldn't
do otherwise."

"Does the audience know what he is?"

"Some of them, probably. Trust me, we're
not the only shades here."

The audience laughed at some tasteless joke
Maximillian had just delivered, and he gave an evil smile.

"I see you're a group to my liking.” He
rubbed his hands together. "Alas, it is not me you have come to see. In
this world where so many of us are trapped in conformity, it is the majority
who are imprisoned by their own ideals. Everyone seems to be alike in this
world, so it's those that are different that are the truly free. We call them
freaks, and oh! how we love to revile them, but somewhere in our minds there is
part of us that sees their social liberation and yearns to join them—yearns for
release!
Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the opportunity to
join them and for a few brief moments of eternity feel that release. Deliver
yourselves into our embrace and let your minds float uninhibited by the jailhouse
of convention. I now present to you, my good people, the Funhouse ...
of the
Forsaken
!"

He bowed and everyone applauded. Then, stepping
backwards, he disappeared through the psychedelic curtains amid a burst of
purple smoke and a barrage of surreal lights. Jean-Pierre was impressed. The
showman had just insulted a roomful of people who had paid a high admission and
gotten them to
clap
about it.

The curtains parted, revealing a dark dreamscape
of props, smoke, and background. There were winding roads and tilted, pointy
hills dotted with stunted trees, a cemetery with some nightmarish tombstones,
and galaxies of wild, multi-colored stars above. It was arranged to resemble
some Eastern European countryside—perhaps even that of Romania itself.

Haunting music swelled, the lighting grew more
intense, and a score of actors dressed as peasants swept onto the stage and
began to dance in what seemed to be a spooky folk-ritual celebrating something.
Tittering back and forth and swirling across the stage, they raised their hands
to the stars, then down to the ground again.

They stopped abruptly to see a sort of
procession appearing around a hill. Six peasants held up a carriage-like bed,
and lying on the bed there was a rather homely woman, grotesquely obese, but
she smiled serenely and her eyes were warm. Dressed in a simple nightgown, she
was playing a jaunty song on a fiddle. The six peasants set the carriage down
and everyone gathered around, leaving an opening so that the audience could see
what transpired.

A man dressed as a priest helped the woman out
of her nightgown, while the peasants started chanting and then began to dance
in a circle around the bed, still leaving room for the audience to observe the
action. Other than being extremely fat, the woman had what seemed to be a long
scar running up from her groin to her breastplate. As she started to croon in a
low voice to the rhythm of the chanting, something in her abdomen seemed to
buck; it appeared as though she was about to give birth. At the climactic
moment of the chant, a head popped out of the scar running up her belly, which
wasn't really a scar at all but an
opening
. With a little help from the
peasants, a short figure emerged from the chasm of flesh and stepped to the
ground, dripping fake blood.

The bearded dwarf wore a skin-tight shirt (that
bore horizontal black-and-white stripes) and green trousers. Most unsettling,
he boasted four perfectly-formed and mobile arms.

The priest raised his hands to the sky, howled,
and ran off stage. The peasants performed a dance of fright and followed the
example of their holy man. The woman, whose cavity had sealed as soon as the
birth had been complete, stared at her child with panic, threw on her nightgown
and began running away from the dwarf, who followed her with a smile.

He chased her through the hills and around the
stage a few times (to the delight and laughter of the audience), then grew
discouraged and sat down at the top of the hill the cemetery was located on.
His mother returned to her bed, sobbing. The scene was tragic despite its comic
undertones, but Jean-Pierre was settling into the spirit of the show.

A mime appeared. He was a tall man who looked
rather ordinary except for the fact that he had no cartilage in his nose, just
a stubby bone and two long black holes for nostrils, which lent his face the
likeness of a skull—an image complimented by the thick white make-up and his big
dark eyes. He studied the mother and child, tapping his foot thoughtfully. Then
he grinned, snapped his fingers, and from the bed grabbed the fiddle, which he
brought to the four-armed dwarf. The bearded “child” accepted it, turning up
his ear as the mime bent down to whisper something to him. The dwarf smiled and
took a bow to the fiddle, while the mime stepped courteously to the side.

As the dwarf began to play, swaying atop the
cemetery hill, the mother watched him, the serenity returning to her face as
the music moved her. Her son performed a little jig of affection and happiness,
placing his free set of hands on his hips. The mime clapped along and joined in
the jig.

The mother smiled, wiped the tears from her face
and, after climbing down from the bed, went to her son and embraced him. The
lighting grew warm and a rim of orange appeared above a hill, as if the sun
were rising. In the glow of the brilliant dawn, the mother, son, and mime began
to dance anew. Soon, the peasants returned to the stage, all smiling. The dwarf
gave the fiddle to the mime and, taking his mother's arm, led her over to the
bed, where she cradled him in her arms and kissed his forehead tenderly.

The six peasants who'd carried the bed onto the
stage lifted it and led the way out, the rejoicing peasants just behind. The
mime followed last, smiling, dancing and playing the instrument. He glanced
once over his shoulder to give a kind wink at the audience before the actors
all disappeared behind a green hill. The curtains closed.

Really, thought, Jean-Pierre, the act had been
quite sweet and even strangely affecting. Along with the rest of the audience,
he applauded loudly, then reached for Sophia's hand. She smiled at him. There
was something else in her eyes, something particular that had touched her about
the act. She turned back to watch the show, leaving him to wonder.

He reflected that they had grown extremely close
over the last few days, their bond only strengthened now that they could openly
call each other father and daughter. A thought had hit him yesterday and he'd
suggested inviting Veliswa to dinner one night in a sort of family reunion. Sophia
had smiled and said that they should wait until they'd moved into their new
home.

There was only one thing that bothered him, and
that was the urge he kept feeling. Strange thirsts welled up in him, and hungers.
He craved violence. Casual brutality had been a part of him for too long.

For the first week he hadn't even noticed, had
been perfectly satisfied with his more conservative eating habits, and his more
villainous selection of victims had only seemed to add a little spice to his
meals. It had finally hit him today that what he craved most in all the wide
world was just to run through the streets tearing off the heads of passers-by
and sucking out their brains.
NO!
his new-found conscience screamed, but
it was too new a voice to override his bloodlust. He could actually feel his
hands shaking at the thought of violence, as if he were trying to kick
cigarettes again.

Was
that
it? Was it an addiction? And was it one he
wanted
to overcome? If anyone could help him, it was Sophia, but he hesitated to speak
to her it; despite everything, she was moral and unlikely to understand his
predicament. Also, of course, she was half ghensiv—maybe more than half—and ghensivs
didn't generally behave in patterns of violence. They must shed blood
occasionally, but only occasionally.

He ordered a vodka gimlet and settled in for the
rest of the show. Not all the acts were as gentle as the first had been—in
fact, some were downright cruel—but they were all interesting and varied enough
to hold his attention. Lord Kharker had instilled in him an appreciation of the
finer things in life—smooth automobiles, fine wines, Cuban cigars, classical
music—but the only one that had really stuck with him was the love of opera. When
moved by a particular opera, the albino was able to forget himself for awhile.
It was this same pleasant feeling that he rediscovered now, with some surprise,
by watching the performances of the Funhouse of the Forsaken. He found he was
looking forward to his visit backstage and hoped that Sophia shared that
anticipation.

Eventually, the last act came. It concerned the
fate of a spider and a woman. The woman appeared normal, with blond hair and
wide blue eyes, but the spider was a long, thin man with arms where his legs
should be and hands where his feet should be. He had three eyes and two sets of
upper teeth, all of which were malformed. Despite this, he appeared quite dignified—stately,
even.

The tale unfolded thusly: the woman was passing
through a forest when she stumbled across a giant web, the centerpiece of the
stage, suspended between two large trees. The spider had gotten tangled in his
own web, so the girl ascended one of the trees until she drew close enough to
liberate him. Pulling a saber from a sheath, she cut him free, but in doing so
inadvertently tangled herself in the web.

Immediately the spider descended on her, intent
on feeding.

She began to sing. A low, beautiful song rolled
out, full of mourning and redemption. Moved, the spider released her. She
kissed him and disappeared into the forest. The spider watched her go, then
returned to the center of his web, where he waited. He danced around playing an
accordion, calling to the gods to deliver him sustenance, but none came. The
sun rose and set, the night grew dark, then the sun rose and set once more. The
cycle repeated itself several times, and the spider grew so weak from
starvation that he collapsed into the web.

Finally, the girl reappeared. Seeing him caught
again, she set about freeing him, successfully staying clear of the web's
entrapments. Once he was liberated, they began to dance, but suddenly the
spider broke away from her, crying because he still had no food.

The girl offered herself to him. He resisted.
Seeing that he would die without her sacrifice, the girl flung herself into the
web, becoming firmly entangled. Immediately the spider freed her, but she just
entangled herself again. The spider cried and watched her, then began to dance
with tears in his eyes. Still, he refused to take her, and as he came to free
her again, his body went rigid and a fixed expression swept his face. He
collapsed beside her, having died of starvation because he wouldn't accept her
sacrifice. Only now she was trapped in the web with no hope of release.

The sun rose slowly behind her, and silence lay
over all. Suddenly there came a soft humming, which grew louder as another
spider descended from above. Singing a happy tune, he cocooned the two lovers
for future use—despite the low crooning of the girl—picked up the accordion and
started to dance, silhouetted against the rising sun.

The curtains closed. Maximillian walked out on
stage to enormous applause. He bowed, and after several moments a line of
actors appeared behind him to accept the warm recognition of the audience.
After a few final words ("Thank you for coming, my friends. Enjoy your
differences and relish in them! Now good night!"), the troupe departed,
some clutching flowers thrown by fans.

"That was lovely," said Sophia. “But
sad.”

"I thought so, too,” he said.

They made their way backstage, Jean-Pierre aware
of brushing the elbows of a few fellow shades along the way. For the most part,
they saw who he was and nodded in deference. He could see them trying to figure
out who Sophia was.

When the newlyweds reached Maximillian, he was
swarmed with people trying to get autographs, learn his secrets, or, in a few
cases, seduce him, but when he caught sight of Jean-Pierre he disengaged himself
and made his way over. He ushered the couple into a more private area, away
from the hubbub of the main rooms. He smiled and reached for Sophia's hand,
then kissed it.