The Living Night (Book 1) (15 page)

"So why didn't
you
save her?"
he said. "Why single me out? I fucking loved you, you bitch.
Why did you ruin that?"

Why hadn't Sophia saved the girl? Was it because
she had not known, not completely, that the girl was as bad as she'd really
been—or that the girl had refused Sophia's help? Maybe. Maybe that was a part
of it. But mainly it was because Sophia felt that to be strong one must reject
all emotion. A heart was a fragile thing. But keep it small and hard enough,
and maybe it just might be safe. That’s why she hadn’t saved
Gilly
: because the Ice Queen hadn’t allowed herself to know
her well enough to be aware of the girl’s destructive streak.

"I feel dizzy," she said.

Robert sat back down with a grunt. "I can't
do this. You won't beg forgiveness, will you, and give me back the money? You
wouldn't be so kind."

"No."

He nodded sadly. "I can't hurt you, you
know. But I've brought someone who could." He motioned to the shadows and
a figure stepped forward, tall and hard. "I'll give you one more chance. If
you don't speak now, you'll die."

"You'll beg before it comes, though,"
the figure said, and Sophia started. She studied the man silently, and he
returned the stare. His face registered subtle shock.

"Christ," Sophia said. She hadn't
counted on this; often the wronged lover hired someone to do the torturing and
killing, but Robert in his ignorance had hired another immortal, who apparently
used this job as a guise for gathering food.

"What's going on?" Robert demanded,
seeing the expressions on their faces. "Do you two know each other?"

The strange vampire remained still; perhaps Sophia
intimidated him. She could feel the blood rush through her body and intuitively
knew she was the stronger of the two. She was older. This new one was probably
very young, some Hollywood thug that had
irresponsibly been brought over. He was big, though, and hungry, she could feel
it, and he would be a match for her yet.

"No," the other breathed. "Never."

"Then take her out of my sight."

The vampire moved toward her.

Sophia jumped over Robert's desk. She grabbed
him by the throat and maneuvered him so as to keep him between her and the vampire.
Robert struggled, but his efforts were fruitless and after a few moments he
grew still, fighting for breath.

"Come for me and kill your master,"
Sophia said.

The vampire narrowed his eyes.

"Go on!" the ghensiv roared.
"You'll get no food from me."

Although the
fanger
remained motionless, his discomfiture was obvious.

"Who are you?" he said.

"Who are
you
?"

He frowned and nodded again. Both of them would
refuse identification.

"Why do you do this?" the vampire
asked.

"There's more to life than food. There's
destruction, and vengeance, and needless waste. That’s where Robert comes
in."

"I don't understand."

"Not my problem. What
is
my problem
is that you're here, and you don't know what to do. Well, I'll tell you. Leave."

"No."

"Listen, I know you still feel tied to the
living; that's why you exist in the human mob.
Get over it.
Go work for
Hauswell in Vegas, or one of his rivals if you must, and join others of your
kind.
Now go.
I'll take care of Robert."

The vampire's brow furrowed, then his eyes grew
brighter as if to lunge for Sophia at the last second. He seemed to lose
confidence, though, and a beaten look crossed his face. He edged back, his eyes
never leaving her, and disappeared out a window.

Sophia waited until she was satisfied that the
young one had gone, then released Robert. She could feel it in her veins: the
Ice Queen was back. This man was a coward, a killer—and would die.

He sank to the ground, one hand to his throat,
massaging it.

"What are you?" he said.

"I wonder about that too, sometimes."
She took a step closer to him. "Want to make love to me, Robert?"

"What?"

She smiled at him, and her smile was menacing.
"In a very real way, and pardon the vulgarity, I'm hungry for your
cock."

She pulled off her blouse. Her nipples grew
erect at contact with the cool air of the room. She descended on him, taking
off her clothes as she went.

First Robert's screams were almost pleasurable,
though confused—and then they were just screams.

She was used to that.

*
    
*
    
*

A
face flashing past caught Danielle’s attention as Veliswa’s limo roared by; it
was staring out of an office building, pale and vacant, but when the eyes lit
on the car something changed. “Shit,” she said. “I think Jean-Pierre’s watching
us still.”

“He can’t be,” Veliswa said. “We’re too far
away, and his minions …”

“He’s watching through others’ eyes.”

Veliswa blinked. “You mean … ?”

“If that’s true, then he’s grown very powerful
indeed,” Ruegger said.

“Here’s your car,” Veliswa said, as the limo
slowed. “If Jean-Pierre is watching, I think he’ll follow you, not me, though
he may come for me later. Be quick. And farewell. We probably won’t meet again
for awhile.”

They climbed out of the limousine and dove into
their black Mustang, parallel-parked between two sedans, as Veli’s limo shot
away. Danielle caught Ruegger scanning the windows of the buildings around.
Several faces stared blankly back, office workers whose minds had been co-opted
by a greater power. Danielle shivered.

“This is bad,” Ruegger said, as he climbed
behind the wheel. Danielle lowered herself into the passenger seat. Ruegger
shoved the car into gear and shot it out into traffic.
 
“I think that—hell!”

“What?” she said.

“Jean-Pierre and his pack have found us.”

Danielle faced the rear. Sure enough, a van had
just rounded the corner. It barreled straight for them. “Jesus! They’re driving
badly."

"Is Jean-Pierre behind the wheel?"

"Too far away to tell, but I bet he
is." She turned around. "We have enough gas?"

"To get us clear of to the Clearglass Inn,
but not much more. The trick's going to be dodging the traffic."

"And losing
them
."

"Our car's faster."

"And older."

"Buckle up.”

Chapter 11

"Launch
the bikes," Jean-Pierre said.

Byron flung open the rear doors and Cloire
lowered the wooden ramp. Byron hopped on a black Honda and Kilian took his
Harley. The engines screamed in the close confines, then the bikes were away,
sliding backwards down the ramp. Once on the street, they tore forwards along
both sides of the van.

"Get ‘
em
!” Cloire
said.

Loirot groaned from the back. He’d been shot by
Veliswa and was still bleeding. "I need food, or at least some blood.
Cloire, would you?"

"Fuck off, asshole. My blood's my own."

"Bitch," he said.

"Goddamned right."

It was a moment before she realized that the
albino was cursing something at her.

"What's it now,
Frenchie
?"

"Cops.”

"What'd you expect, asshole? Drive better!
Or do you
want
Danielle to go free?"

He bared his teeth. "Get the grenades.”

*
    
*
    
*

"They've
sent bikes to catch up with us,” Danielle said.

"Who?"

"Kilian and someone else, a big guy ...
Byron."

"Weapons?"

"Can't tell. They're both wearing trench
coats. Probably shotguns."

"Enough to take out our wheels, then."
They had armored flaps that dangled behind their wheels for just such
occasions, but they wouldn't be strong enough to resist sustained assault,
especially by shotgun.

"Cops," she said suddenly.

"For us or them?"

"Them. Two cruisers. They must've gotten
reports on Jean-Pierre's driving."

"Think it was intentional?"

"Maybe. The bikes are coming fast."

"Break out the guns."

She grimaced. "What's your pleasure?"

"Berretta nine. You shoot, I drive."

She kissed him on the temple, then hopped in the
cramped rear compartment, on top of their last-ditch coffin. Reached to the
floor, removed the flap (made to resemble a floor mat) that disguised their
stash of weapons, and selected one of their two briefcases (one contained their
clothes, the other their weapons) and a double-barreled semi-automatic shotgun
designed to fit a double-magazine of rounds.

She tossed the Beretta forward, then punched out
the disposable rear window, swivel-connected at the bottom so that it swung out
and down. Feeling the breeze in her air, she stuck her head out the rear,
keeping her weapon (already loaded) out of sight until the bikes came within
range.

Kilian, on the Harley, narrowed in on their car
at speed, while Byron roared in behind. Danielle's mind flashed back to Byron
playing chess with her, many years ago, and she grew cold. When Kilian got
within a hundred feet, she brought out the rifle and took aim.

A hole erupted in the car beside her.

“Shit!”

Byron fired openly at her, regardless of
whatever cars or people divided them.

Before she could take aim at either of them,
Kilian fired, as well, letting loose with a stumpy automatic weapon. Bullets
punched into her, and she tried not to scream. She felt her gristle and muscle
giving way as her blood warmed her clothes. Holes drilled the trunk lid, some
were passing inside. The disposable rear-window shattered.

Danielle fired, and fired, and fired. Blood
mushroomed on Kilian's clothes as he drew near, but he still closed in. Danielle
lowered her aim and squeezed off several shots. Kilian's bike broke apart
beneath him, crunching and whirring. His face flashed anger, then he was
skidding under his heavy bike along the crowded street—which had grown
substantially less crowded in the last few moments—and was lost to sight.

Before she could even swivel, she was thrown
backwards in a bloody arc to crash against the back of the front passenger
seat.
Damnit
. She hated being shot.
She leapt up and fired back at the other one, Byron, who had grown eerily near
while her attention had been on Kilian.

They exchanged volleys. Danielle aimed at the
werewolf's bike. At last it blew apart beneath him and Danielle was slammed
back in her seat again, gun forgotten, her blood spraying the rear compartment.
Her chest was a painful disaster, and in her largely unfed and already
traumatized state, she was in danger.

“Rueg," she whispered, and reached a hand
for him. He squeezed back.

She latched onto him and dragged herself
bloodily forward, slithering into the front compartment, where she lay
backwards in a pitiful slump, blood soaking the seat beneath her.

"Damn," he said, seeing her broken
chest, the splintered ribs, the pumping blood. He stuck his wrist in front of her
face. "Here, drink."

She rocked her head back and forth. "No
more. You need strength to drive."

"Take some," he demanded. "You're
so young. You could be dying."

"No."

"Take some!"

She bent her face forward to where her lips
touched the flesh of his wrist, and kissed him, her eyes closed. Then she collapsed
back into her seat.

*
    
*
    
*

Kilian
scowled as he pulled himself out from under his bike. Totaled, of course. He
picked himself up and scanned downstream to see Byron moving over to the right
side of the road so the van could pick him up. Kilian, being on the right, just
waited.

As it came upon him, the side door slid open and
Cloire reached for him. He leapt aboard without her help, even though the van
was going at a considerable speed, and without a word of thanks dropped beside
Jean-Pierre.

Byron scrabbled aboard next, nearly falling on
top of Cloire, she having pulled him so hard. He panted and reclined next to
Loirot, who seemed to be healing slowly for some reason. Had Veliswa coated her
bullets with something?

"Give me a drink?" the wounded man
said.

Byron frowned but stuck out his arm anyway.
"Drink away," he invited, and turned to Cloire. "I hurt
Danielle," he said. "Her blood was everywhere."

"
Such
concern," Cloire said.
"You did fuck her. Either that or baby's developing a conscience."
She ran her fingernails along his cheek, scraping his skin. "Which is it?"

"Well, I didn't fuck her," he said.
"Whether or not that means I've a conscience is debatable." He jerked
his arm away from Loirot. "Enough.”

"Thanks, By."

Jean-Pierre yelled to the back, "The cops
are on us. Cloire, you got the grenades?"

"As you requested."

"Bombs away."

Byron and Cloire moved to the extreme rear,
dragging their box of explosives with them, and popped open the rear doors with
a bang.

Two police cruisers followed immediately behind,
lights flashing and alarms wailing. One cop had some sort of megaphone to his
mouth and was shouting through it. When he saw the van's doors fly open, he
quit the megaphone and reached for a gun.

Too late.

Cloire ripped the pin off one grenade and threw
it through the cops' windshield. It detonated a split-second after it had
passed into the driving compartment, the windshield bursting outward in a
million pieces of charred glass. The cruiser scraped to a smoking halt, almost
colliding with the one behind it, which swerved recklessly around and shot
forward to get to the side of the van.

The passenger cop was in such a panic he fired
his shotgun twice through the glass of his own windshield. The second blast
caught Byron in the chest, but not before he'd lobbed two grenades—one in each
hand—at the cruiser, which burst into double flames and rolled to a flaming
halt.

"God I love roasting pork,” Cloire said.
She turned to watch the blood spreading across Byron's chest. The wound itself
was closing before her eyes. "My, my, aren't we manly tonight."

He slammed the rear doors closed. "You
ain't seen
nothin
' yet."

"Cloire!" came a shout from the front.
With grumbling obedience, Cloire moved forward and blew in Jean-Pierre's ear.

"What can I do for you, sunshine?"

"We're going to need another car here soon:
the cops have identified this one. Take a bike ahead and knock us off another
van. A new one preferably, something very unlike what we're in now."

"What about our guns? We just going to leave
them here in the fucking van for anyone to find? Some of this stuff can be
traced, you know."

He grabbed her face with one hand and drew it
near his own. Staring into her different-colored eyes, he said, "Just do
it."

"Say please, J-P."

He shoved her backwards, and she fell down
laughing.

"Please," he spat. He turned his
attention back to the road.

Cloire busied herself with the task of readying
a bike as Byron approached her.

"Care to lower the ramp,
light-of-my-life?"

He popped open the doors and threw down a ramp,
then stepped back as she roared away without so much as a nod good-bye.

*
    
*
    
*

Danielle
woke to the taste of blood in her mouth. She wiped it from her fingers and
licked it gratefully.

"Thanks," she said.

"How are you?"

She examined her chest, trying for detachment
but failing. Ruegger had stanched her bleeding with a white shirt from their
second suitcase, which he'd managed to hoist into the front seat with one hand.
The shirt was soaked through, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. She was
hurt badly and needed sustenance. Shaking her head, she said, "I'll live. We
just need a place to crash for a while, if we can get the albino off our
backs."

“I’m trying.”

"What happened to the cops?" she
asked.

"Dead, damn it. Jean-Pierre’s crew used
grenades."

She fell silent. Then: "How long until
we're out of town?"

"Too long. Another half hour."

She glanced at one of her watches. "It's
going to be close. Sunrise
in under an hour." She craned her head to see out the back. There seemed
to be gallons of blood back there, but it didn't interfere with the view.

"They're way back there," she said.
“But they’re there.”

He nodded. "Every time I try to lose him,
he's right there with me. Wonder if he’s still looking through others’ eyes."

"Think he knows where we’re going?”

"He can’t. I think he's tapping into your
head."

"He can do that with humans, yeah. But not
with shades. Plus, he just used up all his psychic energy on his homeless guys
and his other watchers. Otherwise he wouldn’t have had to kill the cops."

"Right. But for a time you two were very
close. You developed a tight bond: maybe he's able to use that to a psychic
advantage. And in your weakened condition ..."

"Maybe."

He passed her a cigarette and his Beretta.

"More cops," he said.

She groaned. "No rest for the weary."

She leaned out the window, squinted one eye and
fired low. The cruiser's wheel blew out and the vehicle started into a
dangerously fast spin, finally flipping over and skidding to a halt
upside-down.

"They alive?" Ruegger said.

"Yeah, but it was close.” She tried to
block out the thought that she might’ve hurt the two in the cruiser. “Hope they
don’t find us again. If they only knew we were cops of a sort, maybe they’d
ease off a bit.”

She lit her cigarette and leaned her head back
out the window, her hair stirring in the breeze.

Traffic, as the sun's advances on the horizon
grew more persistent, became thicker and more purposeful, and the albino's
ebony van vanished into it so that it was nowhere to be found; when the albino
reappeared, it was behind the wheel of a different van, dark and older than the
first.

Ruegger and Danielle's spirits sank. Finally,
the city of New York
began to dissipate, its massive concentration of steel and humanity unraveling
to give way to open road and emptier skylines.

"Almost sunrise," she said. One of her
worst fears was now making itself realized: being trapped in open country with
the sun coming up and sun-resistant killers just behind them, preventing them
from finding some place to hole up for the day. If they hid too soon, the
killers would catch them and expose them to the sun ... and if they didn't hole
up soon enough, the sun would get them anyway.

Their Mustang rattled and groaned around them.
The endless highway stretched ahead as they blew past the outskirts of the
sprawling metropolis. They headed west, away from the sun.