A Dozen Black Roses (16 page)

The restaurant that served as a front for the Colombians was a converted wooden camel-back called L'Emeraud. Downstairs boasted a general dining room and bar, while upstairs was reserved for large dinner groups and special occasions, such as wedding receptions, birthday parties—and meetings between drug kingpins and vampire lords.

The upstairs banquet room was tastefully appointed in sea-foam green and off-white, with three French windows opening onto a widow's walk that, weather permitting, allowed the diners a view of the city lights reflected in the nearby bay. But tonight the curtains were drawn tight, and heavily armed men in cheap suits stood guard beside the windows. The service stairs that led to the kitchen were also heavily guarded.

The Borges Brothers sat at one end of a long table, flanked by several armed men. Their leader was Antonio Borges, a squat man with hair graying at the temples and a long ponytail hanging down the back of his Armani suit. While his cartel's power had its roots in Cali and the surrounding area, he handled operations out of Miami. Seated at the other end of the table was Esher, accompanied by Decima, four members of his enclave, and a half-dozen Pointers.

"I am honored that you have agreed to meet with us, Lord Esher," Borges said.

"The honor is all mine, Senor Borges," Esher said, smiling without showing his teeth. "And my condolences on the untimely death of your brother."

"Dario was not just my brother—he was an integral part of the business. But then, you know more than most the value of blood."

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"Yes. Yes, I do," Esher agreed. "What is it you would propose, Senor Borges?"

"An alliance between your enclave and our cartel. We want you to help us against Sinjon."

"And when you say 'help', you mean—?"

"To destroy him."

Esher stroked his chin for a moment, then leaned over and whispered something to Decima, who shook her head. Esher returned his attention to Borges. "What do I get out of the deal?"

"The death of your enemy."

The vampire lord laughed, this time making sure the drug dealers could see his teeth. "If that were motivation enough for me to act against the Freemason, he would have been dead years ago! No, Senor Borges. You know the Kindred do not interfere with the concerns of humans unless it benefits us in some way. Come, amigo, what pretty bauble do you have that can entice one such as I?"

"We'll supply you with enough cocaine to make you twice as rich as Sinjon."

Esher's smile widened, grew even sharper. "My that is pretty. I believe you have yourself a deal, Senor.

However, there are a few—formalities— we must observe." Esher produced a folded piece of parchment and an old' fashioned fountain pen, its barrel fashioned of obsidian, from his breast pocket. The nib gleamed as sharply as the edge of a razor.

"Formalities?"

"I like to get things down in writing."

Borges frowned. "You want me to sign a contract?"

"I prefer to call it a pact, my dear fellow," Esher explained as he strolled the length of the table to where Borges sat. He unfolded the parchment and slid it across to the druglord with his fingertips.

Borges picked up the blank sheet and muttered something in Spanish to his companions, who fidgeted nervously. He looked up at Esher, doing his best to conceal his revulsion. "Th-this isn't paper."

"Ah! I appreciate a man who can identify human skin when he feels it!" Esher held the pen out to Borges, who, after exchanging glances with the others, reached out his hand to take it.

Moving with the speed of a cobra, Esher rammed the nib into Borges' thumb, drawing blood. The druglord yanked his hand back. "Madre de Dios! What are you playing at, you crazy bastard! ?!"

"I play at nothing, Señor! Not now, not ever! If you want my help against Sinjon, then do as I say—sign your name in your own blood on this parchment. If you do not, then—well, heaven help you. Because I know where my help will be coming from."

The look on Borges' face was that of a man who has seen his damnation, but knows salvation has long since ceased to be an option. With a trembling hand he took the pen from Esher and signed his name at the bottom of the blank sheet of human skin.

"Excellent!" the vampire smiled. "I'll have it notarized later."

As he moved to fold the document and return it to his breast pocket, there was a sound like the rising of a sudden wind, and the French windows abruptly flew open, allowing Sinjon, in all his foppish glory, to stroll in, accompanied by several vampires and a dozen or more Black Spoons.

"Good evening, one and all! It looks like someone forgot to send me an invitation to this little soiree. I hope you don't mind if I gate-crash?"

Borges' men, the Pointers, and the Black Spoons drew their respective weapons. There was a tense moment as the Black Spoons pointed their guns at the Pointers and Borges' muscle, the Pointers aimed at the Black Spoons, and Borges' men, uncertain, tried to cover both gangs.

"You miserable bloodsucking freak!" Borges bellowed at Esher, pushing himself away from the table. He pulled a chrome-plated .38 from his Armani jacket. "You set me up! Nobody sets up Antonio Borges!

Nobody!"

Borges fired point-blank, but the vampire turned into a dark blur, reappearing a heartbeat later on the other end of the table. However, the bullet intended for Esher did not go entirely to waste, as it found a target in the waiter who had just stepped out of the service stairwell, bearing a tray of coffee sent up by the management. The hapless L'Emeraud employee hit the ground in a crash of flame and crockery, his blood mingling with the scalding hot liquid.

Outrage flashed in Esher's eyes. "Phosphorus? You brought incendiary bullets to a parley?"

"You better fuckin' believe I brought 'em!" Borges retorted. "You think I was gonna fuck with monsters like you and not cover my ass?"

"That tears it! The deal's off!" Esher snarled, wadding the parchment in a ball.

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) Borges' eyes started from his socket as he clutched at his chest. Blood drooled from the corners of his mouth. He collapsed to the floor, crimson leaking from his nostrils, ears, mouth, tear ducts, and anus.

Borges' men opened fire on both Sinjon and Esher's gangs, and within seconds the room was filled with incendiary bullets. Esher, roaring his anger, overturned the parley table, pinning one of Borges'

lieutenants underneath. The air seemed to grow tight, like the skin of a soap bubble before it bursts, and as one the vampires disappeared, leaving only their human servants behind.

The Pointers and Black Spoons knew exactly what the mass exodus meant and drew closer together, so that their backs weren't exposed. Borges' men, however, merely blinked and looked around, confused.

Then one of them screamed as his arm was broken by unseen hands. Then another's head suddenly came detached from his body and bounced across the floor. Within seconds, all twelve of the druglord's men were scattered about like the remains of chickens after a weasel-raid on a henhouse.

While in overdrive, the vampire combatants could easily sidestep any bullets whizzing through the air.

The vampire princes' human servants, however, did not have such an option. Pointers and Black Spoons alike littered the floor, clutching smoking wounds as they died. It was hard to tell, but Sinjon's forces seemed to be gaining the upper hand.

Decima winked back into view. She was standing in one of the French windows, and she had Sinjon's favorite, Vere, in a chokehold, the point of a crossbow bolt shoved under the boy's chin.

"Daddy!" wailed Vere. "Stop!"

Sinjon, his powdered wig askew and waistcoat stained with blood, signaled for the others to drop out of overdrive. He took a step toward his lover, but Decima growled and shook her head.

"Stay put, old man, or I'll spear his brain like an olive!"

Esher's forces reappeared. While the blood-wizard himself was unharmed, the same could not be said for his recruits. Although Esher's enclave was larger than Sinjon's, its members were mostly young, untried Kindred. Sinjon's brood, on the other hand, were older, more experienced fighters, who had spent decades dwelling in the hell of Deadtown, and their seasoning showed.

"Good work, Decima," Esher said. "I knew I could rely on you!"

"Let the boy go!" Sinjon snarled. "He's of no use to you!"

"On the contrary, my dear Sinjon," Esher replied. "He serves a useful purpose—as a shield! Order your minions to stand down, or I'll have Decima do something decidedly unpleasant to your little boy-toy!"

"You heard the man!" Sinjon barked at his troops. "Stand down!" The Black Spoons exchanged uncertain looks, then lowered their weapons. Decima dragged Vere past the elder vampire, pausing to let him take one last look at his lover's face.

"Don't you dare hurt the boy!" Sinjon warned. "Or you'll be sorry, wizard! Mark my words."

"How so, old man?" sneered Esher.

Sinjon fixed his enemy with a cold stare, and, grinning nastily, replied;

"Ladybug, Ladybug,

Fly away home!

Your house is afire and your children alone!"

Esher's triumphant smile disappeared as if wiped off with a rag. The sound of police and ambulance sirens caused both vampire lords to hiss in displeasure. They had grown used to Deadtown, and were unaccustomed to humans meddling in their affairs.

Moments later, the police thundered upstairs, followed closely by paramedics. They found over a dozen partly charred bodies, some of them bullet-riddled, others apparently rent limb from limb. And, to make matters even more confusing, some of the dead seemed to be, well, far from fresh. Even as they watched, the corpses withered and collapsed inward, like pumpkins rotting on the vine. The police and paramedics muttered among themselves, and some of the older hands glanced about warily. If anyone noticed the shadows flickering at the corners of their vision, they did not speak up.

The stranger lurched uncertainly along the topsy-turvy corridors of Esher's stronghold. She had to hurry.

Esher would be back any time now. If he found her searching his private chambers, then it was all over; she'd be forced to duke it out mono a mono with not only the blood-wizard but his entire enclave. She was

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) willing to take risks now and again, but she wasn't a fool. Still, as difficult as navigating the House might be while Esher was in residence, it was even worse when he wasn't. All the doors seemed both familiar and strange at the same time, mocking her sense of direction. Some of the doors she'd tried opened onto relatively prosaic rooms, while others seemed tied to a menacing intradimensional void. These doors she wasted no time in slamming shut. Who knows what lurks in the corners of a house where space has been folded in on itself like a child's paper hat?

She tried yet another doorknob, expecting it to open onto blank nothingness, but this time she found herself gazing into a room that had to be Esher's personal suite. The rooms were spacious and decorated similarly to the audience chamber, with tapestries draping the walls and candelabra scattered about for light. A bewildering hodgepodge of antique furniture, varying from Empire to Jugendendstil, cluttered the room, which made finding the Chinese box Nikola had mentioned more difficult than she'd originally thought.

She found it tucked inside an alcove, hidden behind a curtain of multicolored glass beads designed to resemble a snarling tiger. It was a black lacquer chest shaped like a pagoda, with bronze dragon's feet and a grinning dragon's head decorating the lid. Lifting the lid of the box, she saw two five-pound bags of Jack Frost brand sugar. She smiled and shook her head. She had to hand it to Esher—he'd wasted no time in repackaging the stolen drugs. She quickly stashed the purloined drugs in special pouches sewn into the lining of her jacket. She'd done her fair share of smuggling over the years, although the contraband she dealt in was far more esoteric than mere narcotics. When dealing with demons and other unsavory supernatural elements, the body parts of convicted murderers and similar dark totems were considered far more valuable than money.

After making sure the packages were secure, she pulled a perfumed lace handkerchief from her back pocket. The hanky was unremarkable, except for its distinctive scent and the Masonic emblem embroidered in one corner. Careless of Sinjon to leave such personal items lying about. With a smirk, she dropped it into the Chinese box and closed the lid.

Now she had to hurry back to the audience chamber and await Esher's return. One thing was for certain—he probably wasn't going to be in the best of moods when he got home.

***

"Where is she?!?" Esher thundered. "Where is Nikola?!?"

"She's not here, milord."

Esher's right hand moved inhumanly fast, clamping tight as a vise around her throat. The stranger's body went rigid as she battled an overpowering urge to plunge her switchblade into the vampire lord. Physically attacking Esher would be personally satisfying, but far from wise. She was locked into an elaborate quadrille with both vampire princes, and deviating by a single step could prove disastrous. She could feel the Other stir, deep at the bottom of her brain, responding to the aggression and hostility radiating from Esher as a hibernating serpent would to the first signs of warm weather. The last thing she needed was to have the Other become ascendant, ruining all her carefully laid-out plans with its psychotic rage. She told herself she would have Esher's blood soon enough—but for now she needed him alive. Or at least not dead.

"I can't tell you with a broken neck!" she gasped. She reached up and tried to pry Esher's fingers from her throat. Esher let go, leaving her to stagger backward, massaging her larynx. When she spoke, her voice was hard and cold as black glass. "Don't touch me like that."