A Dozen Black Roses (9 page)

Esher leaned forward, staring at the stranger with interest. "You are anarch?"

"Ronin might be a better word for it, milord," she smiled crookedly.

"You claim to have slain three of my enemy's brood—why?"

The stranger shrugged. "As I told the lady with the fishhooks through her tits—it was a case of mistaken identity. They jumped me—I waxed them. It's that simple."

"Why are you here?"

"I heard it on the grapevine you were looking for muscle. Rumor has it there's a jyhad brewing between you and Sinjon."

Esher stood up abruptly, forcing Nikola to scoot out of his way. "Jyhad?!? There is no jyhad going on in Deadtown, my dear! I am merely protecting my interests! It would be foolish of me not to, considering the known aggressiveness of my opponent, don't you agree?"

"Absolutely, milord."

Esher's boots rang against the hardwood floor as he paced in a circle around the new recruit, eyeing her speculatively. "It is plain even to human eyes that you are a woman of great strength and ability. It radiates from you like heat from a freshly forged sword. I would like you to join my enclave, stranger. To be clanless is no great virtue amongst the Kindred, childe! No doubt you have already learned this sad truth! You shall have much to look forward to in the years ahead. Deadtown is but a stepping stone; I have great plans for this country! Cast your lot with me, my dear, and you may very well find yourself in charge of a whole city—perhaps an entire region—come the new millennium!"

"Sounds tempting. What do I have to do to join?"

"You must swear fealty to me as your liege-lord through the taking of a blood oath."

The stranger stiffened. "You would place me in thralldom?"

Esher smiled and held up a hand in appeasement. "You misunderstand me, friend! I ask merely for an oath—I do not wish to bind you to me! No, I desire that your service to me be of your own free will. Only through mutual agreement will we benefit from our arrangement! The taking of a blood oath is a mere formality, if you will. I am a great believer in ritual and tradition amongst our kind; it is what separates us from the more bestial species."

"Very well. I'll do it. I've gotten tired of being harassed by every punk with fangs I run into. It's time I belonged to something besides myself."

Esher smiled, clapping her on the shoulder. "I'm pleased to hear it, my dear! You have made a wise decision." He snapped his fingers and Nikola got to her feet, swaying like a reed. "Nikola! Bring me the claive!"

The dancer ducked behind the Savonarola and retrieved a dagger holstered in an ornately jeweled scabbard. Moving like a sleepwalker, she brought the knife to the vampire prince. Esher smiled indulgently and caressed Nikola's pallid cheek with one of his fingers.

"Is she not exquisite, my friend?"

"Yes, she's quite—lovely."

Esher fixed the stranger with a hard stare. "She is mine, and mine alone. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly, milord."

Esher rolled up his left sleeve, exposing an impressively muscled forearm. He pulled the dagger from the scabbard. The hilt was made of pure platinum, with a large bloodstone set in the pommel, the blade glinting like ice in the reflected candlelight. With a single stroke, he opened his inner forearm from the elbow to his wrist. The lips of the cut pouted, then opened wide, revealing several layers of skin. Had he been alive, Esher's life would have come gushing forth in a crimson geyser, but instead he was forced to

Create PDF
files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (
http://www.novapdf.com
) grab the underside of his elbow and squeeze, milking the wound so that it would bleed. After several long seconds a viscous red liquid, looking more like molasses than blood, welled from the cut.

"Partake of this, my blood, Daughter of Morgan. Drink of my essence and swear your loyalty to me, Esher, Prince of Deadtown. Drink and be of my blood," Esher intoned, his voice echoing mightily.

The stranger knelt before the prince. "I swear my fealty to you, Esher, Prince of Deadtown. By your blood my existence is dedicated to your service and glory," she responded. She pressed her lips to wound, sucking the blood offered her. Esher's lids fluttered as his eyes rolled back in their sockets and a groan, like that of a man on the brink of orgasm, escaped from his throat. With a sudden shuddering gasp, he jerked his arm away and stepped back, blinking like a man shaken from a dream.

"Enough!"

The stranger nodded and got to her feet. Esher rolled his sleeve back down, looking somewhat unnerved.

"Go, now! From this night on you are under my protection and bound to my service. My only request is that my newer recruits stay close by."

The stranger bowed, placing her left hand over her heart. "As you wish, milord."

Esher clapped his hands, summoning a vampire who wore the tattered clothes and grizzled beard of a wino. The vampire bowed nervously before his master. "What is your wish, milord?"

"Show the new recruit the catacombs, Torgo. See that she is made comfortable."

"Yes, master."

The stranger followed the shuffling servant out of the room while Decima stared after her with unveiled hostility. The moment the audience chamber closed, Esher's lieutenant turned to face him, her body trembling with anger.

"Why did you accept her? I don't trust that mirror-eyed bitch any farther than I can spit!"

"Jealous, my dear?" Esher smirked, as he returned to his seat.

"There's nothing to be jealous of!" Decima sniffed. "She's just some smartass Caitiff, out to cause trouble!"

"You know that's not true, my dear," Esher chided. "You could feel her potential, just as I did. Whatever else this stranger may be—she's a walking weapon."

"She's dangerous, Esher! You're playing with sunlight, bringing her into the enclave! I say we're better off killing her!"

"You worry overmuch, Decima. I would be a fool to allow an agent as powerful as this one to wander into Sinjon's service! Besides, I believe in keeping my friends close—but my enemies closer. That is why I insisted she bunk in the catacombs. I fully intend to keep track of our new recruit's comings and goings.

Besides, should she prove bothersome, I will either place her under full Blood Bond or cast a spell that boils her brain like a cabbage."

"Are you sure you're the one in control? I didn't like the way you looked when she drank from you."

The back of Esher's right hand caught Decima on the side of her face, sending her flying against the wall with enough force to snap the spine of a human woman. "You forget your place, childe! Something you've been doing too much of late! If you weren't my progeny, you'd be truly dead by now! "

Decima staggered to her feet, wiping at the blood oozing from her nostrils and mouth. "Forgive me, sire."

"Perhaps. But first I want you to send a message to the Black Lodge. Tell him that there have been some grave misunderstandings of late between his troops and my own. Tell him I'm interested in calling a truce and that I would parley with him at the Dance Macabre this midnight."

"As you wish, milord. Is there anything else?"

"Leave us," Esher snapped, extending his blood-smeared hand to Nikola. "I would be alone with my bride-to-be."

"As you command, my prince," she whispered, backing out of the audience chamber.

As she closed the heavy oaken doors behind her, Decima silently swore that she would see to it that both the human and the anarch bitch would pay with their lives for what they were trying to do. Esher had been hers for decades—and now she was being cast aside for a pallid music-box ballerina! And it was clear the stranger hungered to take her place as Esher's lieutenant—and the bastard was smitten enough to let her do so! Well, the bitch could plot all she liked. She'd find Decima ready for her.

Create PDF
files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (
http://www.novapdf.com
) A FISTFUL OF ROSES

Cry "havoc!" and let loose the dogs of war,

That this foul deed shall smell above the earth

With carrion men, groaning for burial.

— William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, act 3, sc. 1

Keep not your roses for my dead, cold brow

The way is lonely, let me feel them now.

— Arabella Smith , "If I Should Die To-Night"

Eyes closed to the swirling chaos around her, the stranger followed the vampire called Torgo into the bowels of the House of Esher. "Pretty fancy digs," she said as they climbed down an inverted spiral staircase. "How do you find your way around this joint?"

"Once you become used to it, it ain't too hard, milady," Torgo replied. "Prince Esher is the heart of the House, no matter where he may be. Once you find him, gettin' round the House is simple enough."

"Find him? How could I possibly find him in this madhouse?" she snorted.

Torgo looked over his shoulder at her. "You took his blood, didn'tcha? Blood calls to blood. All you gotta do is listen."

The stranger stood still for a moment, turning her attention inward. She could feel something vibrating within her, the way fine crystal responds to a tuning fork. The sensation was faint but persistent—and vaguely menacing. "I see what you mean," she muttered uneasily.

They continued their downward climb until they came to a large cellar with stone walls and a dirt floor.

The underground room was huge, easily occupying twice the space of the building above it. The catacomb was crowded with discarded sofas, old couches, tossed-out mattresses, and stained futons, making it look like a subterranean homeless shelter. A network of tunnels, some shored by brick lintels, others little more than oversized gopher holes, could be glimpsed radiating from the central chamber like spokes from a wheel. Save for a few rats and silverfish, the place was deserted.

"This is the main catacomb," Torgo explained. "The master's recruits stay here."

"Looks pretty empty."

"Come the dawn it will be full enough. I'd recommend finding a place to doss down before it gets too crowded."

"What if I decide I don't want to sleep here?"

"You heard the master—you are to remain nearby, with the rest of the recruits!"

"Then I guess that's just too bad—for you, Torgo!" She shot out her arm, catching the vampire in a headlock. Although Torgo was far stronger than he appeared, his earlier life as a wino and his fondness for battening on his former drinking buddies left him no match for a vampire of the stranger's vigor. He yowled like a cat as the silver switchblade slipped between his ribs and found his heart, then collapsed like a bag of wet laundry. The stranger wedged the dead vampire's already putrefying corpse under an aged red velvet sofa that reeked of mildew and urine, where he would go unnoticed for awhile.

She sprinted down the tunnel that looked the most heavily traveled. She had no intention of remaining in Esher's barracks, and the sooner she was out of his reach, the better. The vampire lord was a powerful, charismatic personality; staying in close proximity to him would only strengthen the bond between them—something Esher was keenly aware of.

She had not planned on having to take a blood oath, but there had seemed no way around it. To refuse would have made him suspicious of her. As it was, she was having a hard time keeping herself under control. For decades her gut response when confronted by other vampires had been to kill them on sight.

Having to play along with their rules and head games was an onerous task. But at least she'd succeeded in locating Ryan's mother. Getting her away from Esher, on the other hand, was going to prove tricky. The bastard had her heavily tranced—and no doubt doped to the gills. It made unwilling brides far more tractable, after all.

Create PDF
files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer (
http://www.novapdf.com
) After a few minutes she emerged from the tunnel into one of the open cellars that ringed the House. The pit was littered with broken bottles, discarded rubbers and mummified rats and dogs drained dry of blood.

A ramshackle flight of wooden stairs in the corner led topside. As she headed upward, she could hear voices. She instinctively switched into overdrive—what these Kindred fools called Celerity—stepping sideways through the door of human perception. It was energy-intensive and physically draining, but at her level of mastery it effectively rendered her invisible to the untrained eye.

She flitted up the stairs like a moth, moving so fast her feet didn't touch the ground. To her eyes the three humans gathered around the burning trashcan at the lip of the cellar were frozen in place, like tableaux in a wax museum. The air pulsed with a sound which resembled the underwater serenade of humpback whales more than human speech. She recognized the Pointer with the spiderweb tattooed on his skull and the man Obeah, and decided it might be worth listening in. She located a patch of darkness nearby and pulled the shadows tight about her; she had learned long ago the vampire's trick of remaining unseen while in plain sight. Satisfied she was properly camouflaged, she eased herself out of overdrive.

The frozen gangbangers suddenly leapt into motion, their voices returning to normal speed. The Pointer with the tattooed head was speaking.

"You with us on the gig, cuz?"

"I'm with you, Webb!" grinned the third Pointer, a tall Anglo with spiky hair and BORN 2 LOSE

tattooed onto his left forearm.

"I don't want anyone skitzing on me when the shit goes down. You pull that on me, I'll pop a cap in your skull, dig? I ain't gonna shit you, man— we might not make it back from this stunt. But if we do, we're set for life. Maybe longer. Esher can be very generous when the mood strikes him, homey."

Born 2 Lose nodded his understanding. "I'm in, Webb. Just tell me what you need me to do."

Webb grinned and nodded for Obeah to hand him the knapsack. "Seems one of the Borges Brothers is waiting for the Spoons at the docks tonight. Only the Spoons don't know it. Esher figured out the code they were using to set up their drug buys. So Borges is expecting to do a deal tonight, only he thinks he'll be dealing with Sinjon's boys." He opened the duffel bag and pulled a leather jacket out—on the back of which was the Jolly Roger emblem of the Black Spoons. "And who are we to let him down, right?"