The Living Night (Book 1) (18 page)

"Damn it all.”

The reaction was stronger than Roche had
anticipated. "What is it?"

Mauchlery lowered himself into a chair.
"There's a spy in our midst."

Dryly, Sarnova said, "One?"

"No, this is serious. It's why we've been
losing so badly; the enemy knows when and where we're to attack. It's costing
us several soldiers a day."

"And this spy..."

"Could well be the Secretary of War. It
sounds awful, but there is a growing mound of evidence to support it."

"What do you suggest?"

"Take him off the assignment and lock him
up until a deeper investigation can commence."

"Have it done." Sarnova leaned his
head back in the chair. If he wasn't careful, he would fall asleep. "I'd
love to see the look on their faces when they hear I've had my own successor
imprisoned. It's almost worth going down there to tell them. Ah, but I'm so
tired ... Francois, are you as exhausted as I am?"

"I'm afraid so, Roche. The stress is
terrible. But we must stay strong so that the others will take heart."

"Of course. Tell me, does the Scouring
continue?"

"Indomitably."

"Great," Roche said, but he couldn't
decide whether his voice sounded sarcastic or sincere. Well, it didn't matter.
Francois would know.

Chapter 14

Harry
Lavaca had intended to get drunk in peace, but it was not to happen. He slid the
pistol with the silver bullets in it into his shoulder holster (it was only
five in the afternoon and werewolves would be out) and walked down a few blocks
to a local pub he sometimes frequented. Lots of oak and brass, bright colors,
festive music, and a curtain of shiny beads hung behind the bar where the
bartenders and bar-backs would occasionally duck into to snag something they
were out of up front. Very pleasant, all and all, and Harry was feeling good by
the time he'd gotten to the bottom of his first martini. He figured he'd be
feeling
very
good after another three
or four.

The gun dug into his ribs, and he shifted its
weight. Maybe it was egotistical to think that he was being hunted at all
times.
Maybe next time I’ll leave it at
home.

Someone patted him on the shoulder. At first
glance Harry thought the man was in his sixties, as he had lots of gray in his
hair and mustache, and lines around his eyes. He had a deep weariness in him,
but a fortitude as well. Harry looked closer. The man couldn't be more than
fifty, he realized. Despite his fine suit and cufflinks, fear clung to him.

"My name is Martin Ascott. May I buy you a
drink? I see you're almost out."

Harry rattled his glass. A bartender came.

"I'd like two martinis," Harry said.
Then, to Ascott: "You?"

"I quit a long time ago. Please, may we
take a booth? I've something very serious to discuss with you."

Harry waited for his drinks and then went with
the man to the only corner booth available.

"You know me, but I don't know you,” he
said.

"I hope you won't get upset, but I've had you
heavily researched,” Ascott said. “I know you have dealings with the occult and
that sort of thing. I know that you're acquainted with a, ah, vampire ..."
He stared at Harry for a long moment as if to gauge his reaction. Harry only
sipped his martini. "Yes, well, you know a vampire named Danielle, don't
you?"

Harry shrugged. "Not well. I know her
boyfriend much better. If your game is to have her killed—sorry, Jack. I'm
broke but not that broke. She's a nice girl, for a
bloodmonger
."

"Look." Ascott dropped his voice even
further. "My name isn't really Ascott. I had it changed years ago."

"Keep talking."

"My real name is Malcolm Verger ... "

Harry raised his eyebrows. Said nothing.
Can it really be?

"... and nineteen years ago I raped
Danielle, mutilated her and left her for dead.” He waited for Harry’s reaction,
but when Harry gave none he continued, somewhat apologetically: “I was very
...
 
evil ... back then. I've changed. I
nearly died of a heroin overdose ten years ago, and since then I've been clean.
I changed my entire life ...
 
After the
Gutter Angel killed a few of my old friends, her rapists, I knew she was saving
me for last, so I moved, had plastic surgery, changed my name, but now I know
it won't make any difference. Jason Locke, the last one she killed, also had
his name changed, but she found him anyway. Don't you see, I'm the only one
left. I'm next. I have a wife now. Two kids who depend on me."

"How did you make your money?"

"I made a good living in the drug trade,
but then I got out of it and used the money to buy a chain of street-side food
stands. I've got some money in stocks and bonds. I do okay."

"What do you want of me?"

"Protection. You must try to contact her,
explain that I've become a decent person, try to persuade her ... and you must
come live with me so if she comes you'll be there. You could be just the thing
that makes her spare me. You can have whatever you want, money unlimited."

Harry finished his second martini and started on
his third. "Don't patronize me, Ascott. All the money in the world
couldn't buy me if I didn't like the cause."

"But my kids, my wife ..."

"Look, I'll come to your house, I'll see if
you're the wonderful family man you claim to be, and if I like you I'll try to
help. That's as far as it goes. No promises."

"Of course. You don't know how much this
means to me. Come, I feel vulnerable out here in the open. What if I went into
a public restroom and she was there, waiting for me?"

"Don't worry about it. She's out of town
for the moment. That's not to say she couldn't sweep back in any time, but for
now you're safe."

Ascott leaned back. "Thank you for telling
me this. I can see that you're an honest man."

"Kiss my ass, you son of a bitch. You’re a
fucking piece of shit for what you did.”

“I ... I know.”

Harry drummed his fingers on the table. “Do you
have liquor at your house?"

"My wife drinks occasionally, yes."

"But not much. Well, we'll have to make a
run by the liquor store. You're buying. All right, let's go." Harry set
his empty glass down, starting to feel better. "Before we go over to your
place, I need to pick up some things at my apartment, leave a note for
visitors, that sort of thing." He moved towards the door. Ascott trailed
behind. "Ah, but there's one thing I forgot."

"What's that?"

Harry belted him across the face. When Ascott
didn't go down, Harry struck him again, then grabbed Ascott by the hair and
slammed the sod's face down onto his knee. If Harry hadn't been tipsy, he was
sure he'd have broken the bastard's nose.

"That's for … Danielle,” he panted.

Hands dragged him away, and he put up no
resistance. Ascott followed him outside, a hand over his face. The man said
nothing. Together, they made their way back to Harry's apartment. When he
opened the door, Harry immediately felt an uninvited presence.

A thin, black-haired woman with violet eyes
lounged on his couch, smoking a Black Death cigarette on a cigarette holder.
Harry instantly recognized her as an immortal and, thinking that she was a
werewolf (the sun had just set—surely no other shade could be up and about at
this time of night), he ripped out his gun.

"Silver bullets," he warned.

"La
dee
da
.” She rose. Several inches Harry's senior, she extended
a hand, and he eyed it warily. "I'm Sophia.”

He glanced at Ascott, who seemed hopelessly confused.
Did the man realize he was looking at an immortal?

"Please, wait outside,” Harry told him. Ascott
obeyed, and Harry turned back to the woman. "Who are you?"

"Sophia, Veliswa's daughter, if you’ve
heard of her."

"I know of her."

"Well, she came to me a few days ago in L.A., told me she and some
friends needed my help. Understand, my mother's never asked anything of me
before, so I was rather surprised. Having no pressing business in L.A., how could I
refuse?"

"Get to the point."

"Please, lower the gun, Harry. Let's sit
down and have a drink together. Have any Cristol?"

He chuckled but lowered the gun. "Afraid
not, princess. How do you feel about a beer?"

"I'd feel great about a beer."

He fetched them each a drink. "You play
chess?"

"Yes, but I'm not one to play games with
inanimate objects. I prefer flesh and blood."

She meant it, too, he could tell. He slid into a
chair near the couch, not too close to her. "So what is it you've come to
see me about?" he said.

“I don’t know him well, but the Vampire Ruegger
is apparently very dear to my mother's heart, and he's in danger from Vistrot.
I've come here to infiltrate Vistrot's organization and find out more about why
Ruegger and Danielle are wanted dead."

"A charitable aim.” Looking her up and
down, he added, "Surely you didn't come here for purely unselfish
motives."

"I think you misjudge me, Harry. Why must a
self-assertive woman be seen as heartless?"

"Please."

She smiled. "I like to use people,
Harry—bad people. It gives me satisfaction to see them squirm, and even more to
destroy them. This situation gives me a chance to get close to Vistrot, a most
worthy target. So, you see, I'm doing it for sport. To me, this will be like
bringing down a lion among lions. You understand?"

"I suppose. But why won't he know what
you're up to? Surely he'll investigate you and find out Veliswa's your mother.
The jig will be up."

"I like you, Harry."

"My heart overflows."

"Now you're the one being cold. Can't we be
friends?"

He sipped his beer. "Be sincere and maybe
you'll grow on me."

"I'll try."

"Good. Now why won't Vistrot know you're
Veliswa's daughter?"

"I was born ninety years ago in Paris, long before she moved to New York. She existed largely in the mortal
societies back then and didn't want her friends to think she was just another
silly girl getting pregnant out of wedlock, so she moved into the French
countryside and raised me there until I was sixteen. Of course, I didn't look
sixteen, because we ghensivs age slowly.

"When we moved back to Paris, Veliswa had been virtually forgotten.
Of course, before she'd had me, she went by a different name. She changed it
again when we moved back. No one knew she was the same woman. She hadn't aged a
day; that's why she had to alter her identity, to avoid suspicion. Anyway, she
pretended I was her niece—she didn't like the idea of people thinking she was a
mother; not very sexy, she thought—and we lived there for a while until I hit
puberty and matured more rapidly—at a human rate, you might say. That's why we
moved back to the city when we did, so that I would blend in.

"She was eager to go to New York—she had a lover there—but I was
just physically old enough to be accepted generally as a sexual being among the
mortal society and I wanted to stay. Hell, it was Paris! I remained there while she moved to
the Big Apple, where she's lived under various names ever since. After some
time, I got the urge to move on, as well. I set out west to the new city of Las Vegas, then
on to L.A."

Harry had finished his beer and moved to get another.
"So what you're getting to is ... "

"It was never admitted publicly that I was
Veliswa's child, not even to other shades. Besides, we both changed names every
few decades and back in those early years all our acquaintances were mortal,
and none of them are around any more, so even if Vistrot tried to do a thorough
check, he wouldn't find out that I was her daughter or even knew her. To the
best of his knowledge, I appeared in Las
Vegas out of nowhere. I have no history."

"Surely you and your mother kept in
touch."

"Not very often. Every now and then she'd
fly out to L.A., but what rich New
York socialite doesn't fly out to L.A. once in a while?"

"There's something you're not telling
me."

"If that's true, then I'm keeping it from
you for a reason. Respect it."

He paced, then turned to her. "How do I fit
into the picture?"

"Well, I'm going over to one of Vistrot's
buildings tonight. I've already contacted his people and arranged a meeting. I'll
need some outside help, some support in case something goes wrong, or at least
a place to crash if I get discovered. Veliswa didn't want me to confide or
accept help from any of her friends. They're good people, she says, but
unreliable and terrible gossips. And none of them are particularly close to
Ruegger or Danielle. She wanted me to get help from someone who knows them and
likes them, would want to be of service, but still has good contacts. She said
that Ruegger suggested you. Will you help?"

He stared up at the painting of Marcela,
wondering if she would guide him through this. He was just ready to make a
clean break from this wretched city. Did he really want to tempt fate by becoming
involved in something as complex and sinister as this probably would turn out
to be? His eyes settled on his Chess Table, to the board he and Ruegger had
been playing on last week. There was the toppled king where he hadn't bothered
to re-set the board.

"I'll help," Harry said. "What
can I do?"

"Not much, for now. You're supposed to find
out who began the rumor that the Balaklava were chasing Ruegger and Danielle to
the ends of the Earth—something like that, anyway—and, if you can, why Vistrot
had that man of his killed not too long ago."

Harry called in Ascott, made him write down his
number, address, and instructions on how to get to his house. When Harry handed
the piece of paper to Sophia, she scanned it and looked up, smiling doubtfully.

"The Hamptons?"

Harry glanced at Ascott. "The Hamptons?"

Ascott seemed embarrassed. "This is New York. People like
French fries."

"Right,” Harry said. “Did I mention you're
taking me to a liquor store?"