A Dozen Black Roses (15 page)

"I suppose."

"It better be crystal-clear, bitch!" Decima snarled. "If anything happens to Nikola, you are to answer for it!"

The stranger flipped the bird at Decima's back as she checked her watch. Webb and Obeah were scheduled to leave the safe-house with Nikola in five minutes. She would be cutting it close. Possibly to the bone. She only hoped the boy didn't run into too much trouble trying to reach Sinjon.

***

Ryan leaned cautiously out of the dark doorway, scanning the street. He glanced down at his chest, at the silver-thorn crucifix. It was heavy and tended to swing quite a bit when he ran. After a moment's deliberation, he carefully rearranged it between his ragged jersey and his undershirt. He clutched the stranger's note to his chest like a life preserver. Taking a deep breath, he darted from his hiding place in the direction of the shadowed alleyway across the street. He'd learned that the trick was to keep his head down and shoulders hunched and make himself as small as possible, so if one of the Pointers spotted him out of the corner of an eye, they'd mistake him for a stray dog. Not that there were many strays wandering the streets in Deadtown, nowadays.

He was still holding his breath as he cleared the curb and made the entrance of the alley—but it escaped him in a single gasp as he ran headfirst into a pair of legs. Although the collision sent him sprawling, he did not relinquish his grip on the note.

A heavyset African-American wearing a Pointer jacket and sporting the letters "BMF" shaved into the hair on the side of his head glowered down at Ryan. He held a 40 of Olde English in one meaty hand and a blunt in the other. "You tryin' t'fuck with me, punk?" BMF growled. His frown deepened. "Hold on—!

You that kid—!"

Ryan scrambled to his feet and began to run. He could hear the big man swear and toss aside his malt liquor as he gave chase. Ryan was younger and faster, but BMF's legs were easily three times as long as his. His only hope was to find a broken basement window or an old coal chute to scoot down.

As he turned the corner, he realized he was opposite the church. That meant he was close to the Black Lodge—he was almost there! But as he turned to glance over his shoulder to see where his pursuer was, he tripped and fell headlong onto the cobblestones hard enough to scrape his knees and bloody his nose.

His first instinct was to cry—but the tears were not those of a child who has hurt himself while playing.

They were tears of grief. He'd failed to get the message to Sinjon. And because of his failure, he was never going to see his mother ever again. His eyes swimming with tears, he lifted his head to look at his killer face-to-face. But instead of BMF's dark features, he found himself staring up at the face of a boy who

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) looked to be little more than sixteen.

Although the teenager's skin was corpse-white, his lips were as red and full as ripe tomatoes. "What have we here?" purred the vampire youth. "Squab?"

A second, equally pallid face, seemingly even younger than the first, loomed into view. "Tristan! Look!

He's bleeding!" the second one said with breathless excitement.

"So I see, Ethan. Such a yummy little boy! I could eat you right up!"

"Back off, motherfuckers! The punk's mine!"

Tristan and Ethan glanced up at BMF, who was standing twenty feet away, pointing a .45 semiautomatic in their direction.

"Don't try an' mess with me, assholes, cause I'm packin' phosphorus clips in this baby!"

Tristan smiled, exposing his fangs, and raised his hands. "Don't shoot, Mr. Gangbanger!"

Ryan lay on the hard cobblestones, looking from Tristan and Ethan to BMF and back again—then Ethan wasn't there anymore. It was as if someone had thrown a switch and he simply disappeared. A second later BMF screamed as his gun arm was turned completely around in its socket. His arm made a noise like a balsa-wood airplane being crushed. Then Ethan was back, only this time he was standing behind BMF, holding the Pointer's gun. The vampire youth's snide smile disappeared, to be replaced by a look of genuine anger as he placed the muzzle of the .45 against the letters shaved into BMF's head.

"Lesson Number One: Humans don't threaten Kindred. Especially if they're outnumbered."

Then he pulled the trigger. The Pointer's head disappeared in an explosion of flame. Ethan stepped over the gangbanger's body while dusting off his hands.

"Now—where were we?"

Tristan returned his attention to Ryan, leaning close until his unnaturally red lips were all the boy could see. The vampire's tongue darted out and licked at the blood smeared across his cheek. His breath reeked like a dog's. Suddenly Tristan gasped and recoiled, making a noise like an angry cat.

"Magic!"

Ryan glanced down at his chest and saw that the crucifix the stranger had given him had worked its way free from his clothing.

"This is the one Sinjon told us about!" Ethan said, pointing at Ryan. "We are to bring the boy to him!"

Tristan regarded Ryan with open distaste. "What would our prince want with such a wretched child?"

"All I know is that he is under Lord Sinjon's protection." Ethan bent over and grabbed Ryan by the back of the collar, careful not to come in contact with the silver crucifix or the chain securing it around his neck, and yanked him onto his feet. Two minutes later, Ryan found himself being hurried through the corridors of the Black Lodge. Other vampires, curious to see what a child was doing in their midst, stuck their heads out of various doors as Ryan passed by, but the moment they caught sight of the talisman around his neck they visibly flinched and quickly withdrew.

Finally they came to a room where a vampire dressed like the man on the dollar bill sat on a big golden chair. Seated at the vampire's feet was a boy who bore a strong resemblance to Tristan and Ethan, except that he was still human.

Sinjon smiled and held out an elegantly manicured hand. "Welcome, small one. I am Sinjon, Prince of Deadtown. I believe you have something to give me—?"

***

"I don't like this," Obeah mumbled from the back seat of the Batmobile. "Much as I hate that vamp bitch, we need her riding shotgun." He glanced over at Nikola, who was seated between him and the driver's-side door, gazing at her reflection in the heavily tinted window. If she heard him, she gave no signs of doing so.

"Esher said he'd have someone waiting for us on the curb. It'll be cool, man. Don't sweat your balls,"

Webb laughed. He was sitting up front with the driver, literally riding shotgun.

"Sweatin' my balls what's kept 'em on me all this time," Obeah snapped back. "Who's he got waitin' on us?"

"I dunno. I think it's the new chick. The one with the shades."

"Fuck! She's even worse than Decima!"

Webb turned around to grin at Obeah. "Whatchoo talkin' bout? Hey, I'd fuck her in a New York minute!

The bitch is fine!"

"Yeah, if you like dead meat."

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"Shit! Pussy's pussy, whether it's body temperature or not!" Webb laughed. He was still laughing at that particular witticism when the hand punched through the front passenger-side window and grabbed the collar of his jacket, yanking him out of the car.

The driver swore and grabbed for the Glock resting on the Caddy's dashboard, but before his fingers could close on the butt of the gun, something cold and sharp touched his throat. Then there was a sudden spurt of warmth as blood sprayed from his jugular, splashing the windshield.

As Nikola watched the driver's blood turn the inside of the car bright red, it occurred to her that something was wrong. She turned to look at Obeah, who was trying to climb into the front seat and grab the steering wheel as the Batmobile bounced over the curb and headed straight for a brick wall. At least it looked like a brick wall. It was hard to tell with all the blood coating the windshield.

There was a loud crash as the vintage Caddy smashed into the wall, sending Obeah hurtling through the windshield in a shower of glass. He bounced off the hood of the car as if it were a trampoline and landed hard on the sidewalk. Nikola was thrown against the back of the front seat hard enough to bruise her shoulder, but was otherwise unhurt. She sat on the floor, motionless, listening as the Batmobile's radiator hissed. She remained still as the back passenger door was wrenched off its hinge and tossed aside. Only then did Nikola finally react, cringing at the sight of the woman she assumed was Decima.

"Nikola? Are you okay?"

Whoever the stranger was, she wasn't Decima. The vampiress could care less if she was hurt or not.

"Nikola, can you hear me?"

Nikola nodded.

The stranger groaned something under her breath, reached in and grabbed the dancer's wrist, pulling her out of the wrecked car. Nikola gazed placidly at the sight of Obeah sprawled alongside the car, his hair full of busted safety glass. Although there was blood coating his face and clothes, he was still breathing.

Webb, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. His skull was split open from landing headfirst on the curb, his brain oozing through the spiderweb tattoo like toothpaste squeezed from the middle of the tube.

"Bonk-bonk on the head," Nikola giggled.

The stranger hustled her into a nearby alley, then took the dancer by the shoulders and turned her so they were face-to-face. She removed her sunglasses, exposing eyes the color of fresh blood. "Nikola, listen to me." Nikola twitched and blinked, but did not pull away. "Tell me where it is."

"Tell you where what is?" she whispered, her voice as tiny as a child's.

"The cocaine Webb and Obeah took from Borges. Where is it?"

"Esher's room."

"Where in Esher's room?"

"The Chinese chest."

"Good girl, Nikola." The stranger leaned forward and pressed her index finger against the back of the dancer's neck. "Go to sleep." She quickly snatched Nikola up as she went limp, tossing the woman over her leather-clad shoulder like a load of wet laundry. It didn't look as if she had any choice now but to drop back into overdrive—and take Nikola with her. She was uncertain as to how this might affect her traveling companion; after all, ghostwalking, or Celerity as assholes like Esher called it, was physically stressful even for vampires. At this stage, though, there was no other option.

Taking a deep breath, she centered herself and took a step sidewise in time and space. To the naked eye, it appeared as if she'd simply winked out of existence, but she was still there as a flicker of dark at the corner of the eye. Normally she moved at leisure in overdrive, but even in this time between time she was in a hurry. The stranger darted down alleyways and jogged along side-streets, doing her best to avoid areas she knew to be trafficked by Esher's thralls. She didn't drop out of overdrive until she was at the door of the Black Lodge, blinking into existence in front of a startled Black Spoon guard.

"Sinjon is expecting me," she said brusquely, pushing past the youth before he could bring his AK47 to bear on her.

She found Sinjon in his private chambers, watching Ryan gulp down chocolate milk and Hostess Sno-Balls with the morbid fascination usually reserved for people who watch boa constrictors feed. Vere, Sinjon's favorite, was seated on an ottoman in the corner, looking much put-upon. The moment Ryan saw the stranger ease Nikola off her shoulder and onto a nearby chair, he forgot about his treats and jumped to his feet, spilling chocolate milk on the eighteenth-century Persian rug.

"Mama.'"

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) Ryan shot across the room, burying his face in Nikola's lap, smearing chocolate and creamy filling on her white satin skirt. Nikola blinked suddenly, as if shaken from a dream, and looked down at the boy clinging to her. She reached out with a trembling hand and lightly touched the crown of his head, smoothing the prematurely gray hair they both shared.

"R-ryan?" she whispered.

"You said my name!" Ryan beamed at his mother. However, his smile flickered as he looked into Nikola's face. He looked to the stranger, confusion in his eyes, then back to his mother.

"Ryan. Your name is Ryan. I knew that, didn't I?" Nikola said, oblivious to her son's reaction. "I knew that from before Esher, didn't I?" She turned and smiled at the stranger, revealing a face much like the one she'd woken up with that day. Except that it was ten years older.

The stranger cringed inwardly but nodded and returned the dancer's smile. "Of course you know Ryan, Nikola. He's your son."

Sinjon drew the stranger aside, smiling crookedly. "You are proving quite an ally, my dear. First you alert me to Esher's double-cross, now you deliver his little lap-dancer to me! Now if you can only recover the drugs…"

The stranger shook her head. "No can do, kinsman. He's got them on him. He's going to claim one of his minions took them off one of your couriers, then give them back to the Brothers as a sign of good faith."

"Damn his eyes!" Sinjon spat.

"Looks to me there's only one way you can clear your good name—and that's to break up his little soiree with your former business partners. You got the note?"

"Yes. And I know exactly which restaurant you mean."

"So what are you waiting for?"

"Nothing, now. How about you, my dear? Are you coming with us?"

She shook her head. "If it's all the same to you, milord, I think it best I not show my hand as to where my sympathies lie. Should things not go well, you'll still need someone on the inside."

"What about them?" Vere pointed at Ryan and Nikola, seated on the divan near the fireplace.

"They are to remain under my protection!" Sinjon announced as he picked up his tricorn and his walking stick. "The woman may not prove much of a bargaining chip once Esher sees her in good light—but then, he has no way of knowing that, does he?"

***

A decade ago, the neighborhood was nothing but crumbling warehouses, greasy spoons, and missions, but a couple of years back it had been christened by realtors as an "art district." The warehouses had been renovated and turned into "artist lofts" no artist could afford; the greasy spoons became chi-chi eateries specializing in nouvelle cuisine, southwestern cooking, or sushi; and the missions were replaced by boutiques and overpriced knick-knack shops.