The Living Night (Book 1) (19 page)

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As
Sophia was led to the lowest sub-level of Vistrot's building, she had to stop
her jaw from hanging open. She’d never seen so many immortals in all her life.
At last she was led into his office, and she could almost feel the suffocating
weight of the entire building—all that concrete and steel—poised over her head.
There was only one chair in the room and that was occupied, so she stood,
forcing herself to remain calm.

Vistrot ran his eyes over her. Apparently liking
what he saw, he gestured for her to step forward.

"So you're a ghensiv, is that right?"

"It's what I consider myself to be,” she
said.

"But from what I've determined, and I've
had your past looked into, of course—you can walk about during the
daytime?"

"Yes."

"How is that possible?"

"My father was a werewolf." She
instantly regretted the comment, but Vistrot just nodded. Why
should
he
be interested in who her parents were?

"Well, this is good," he said.
"It gives you an advantage over other candidates for this function—and
your cross-breeding might allow you access to other abilities as well. Can you
shapeshift?”

“It does not come easily for me … but yes.”

“Excellent. How old are you?"

"Ninety-three."

He puffed on his cigar. "I suppose that's
old enough, though it would be better if you were older. Ah, well. No one's
perfect."

She said nothing, but she was wondering just
what he was wanting of her.

He adopted a formal tone. "So: you want to
join my organization?"

"Yes." The trick of this meeting, she
felt, would be to come off as competent yet sensual. Despite Vistrot's bulk, it
was not hard to find him attractive. "Do you have a position for me?"

He smiled. "So that's it, is it? Well,
sorry, I'm taken, and I've done more damage there than I should've
already."

She felt a flash of emotion, registering it as
crestfallen, then rejected it instantly.

"You misinterpret my statement," she
said.

"Did I?" He studied her for a long
moment, evidently trying to size her up but failing. He shook his head. "So
why do you wish to sign up?"

"The obvious reason. I mean no flattery,
but you're the strongest shade in the world, save for Roche Sarnova, and I hear
he's losing his war."

"So you wish to be on the A-team?"

"It's the only way to be."

He nodded cautiously. He seemed to be warming up
to her, but couldn't quite get a grip on her. She would have to make an effort
at being more readable.

"Have you ever killed someone you didn't
need to feed on?" he said.

"Many times."

"Have you ever killed a shade?"

"Yes."

"Ever killed one that was not threatening
you somehow?"

"No."

He
steepled
his
fingers. "Look, I won't lie to you. I normally don't accept people into my
fold who are just off the street, but there's something about you I find intriguing.
Of course, you'll have to work your way up, just like anyone else, you
understand."

"Naturally."

"First you must prove your loyalty to me by
killing a shade."

"It's a reasonable request."

"It's more than that. It's an initiation;
you need to earn my trust and respect. There is a complication—see, I haven't
much time. I've reason to believe that my primary death-squad is falling apart,
and I can't allow that to happen. I placed my own man in it when it was first
banded together, but I have yet more reason to believe that he's trying to become
independent and take the rest of the crew with him, save for its leader, a man named
Jean-Pierre: the albino. You've heard of him?"

"Indeed."

"Well, Jean-Pierre is very dear to me. He's
been doing jobs for me for sixty years or more, but he's having a bad time. His
team was assigned to kill Ruegger and Danielle. The Marshals."

"Why do you want them dead, or may I
ask?" God, could it be this easy?

"You may not. Jean-Pierre himself doesn't
know, but that's none of your concern. Soldiers are not to reason why. Anyway,
he's having trouble with the idea of killing Danielle—they had a fling once—and
this is all the more reason why he needs to kill her. I need a mole in the
team, to make sure they're doing things according to my wishes, and, like I've
said, my current mole has designs of his own. I need to put someone else on the
inside, someone new, someone fresh, to hold the crew together. Especially, you
must be sympathetic to Jean-Pierre. That's another thing you've got going for
you; you're attractive."

"It's served me on occasion. Are you saying
I should sleep with this man?"

"No explicit instructions on that one, but
be friendly. If you two have chemistry, that would be great. The important
thing is to keep his mental condition primed. The team could break up, and
while that would be a shame, I could easily put together another one provided I
had the leadership of the albino to depend on. Now will you agree to be my
inside man, or woman, as a test of loyalty, until the odd flock is hunted down?
Then we can find a more appropriate position for you, unless, of course, you
grow to like being on the team."

"I would accept the position with honor. In
L.A., we hear
that your death-squads are treated like rock stars."

He laughed. "There's some truth to that,
but that's only because they do good work. Now, that's agreed." He wrote
something down on a piece of paper and handed it to her. Their fingers almost
touched. "That's the address you're expected to be at tomorrow at noon
exactly. They're very punctual; don't be late. It's important for both of us
that you make a good first impression. Don't act arrogant."

"Of course."

"Do you have a place to stay in town?"

"I'm at a little flea-bag motel right now.
It'll do."

"I'll make arrangements for you somewhere
nice. As you say, you'll be treated like a rock star ... which makes me think
of something ... " He was silent a moment, then made a decision.
"Cloire, one of the crew—their technical specialist—is the lead singer in
band. It's playing tonight at St. Lucifer's. It might be good for you to go
there, ingratiate yourself with any member of the team that happens to be there
before things really get into motion. Camaraderie is very important for the crew
to function."

"I had no plans tonight."

"Good. Regarding your accommodations—I'll
arrange a suitable place for you to stay on your return. For the present, you'll
be out of town for awhile; Ruegger and Danielle are in Las Vegas, according to my sources. Another
good reason for your presence on the team. So bring whatever you need to the
meeting tomorrow. I don't know how long you'll be gone."

"Until Ruegger and Danielle are dead.”

"Yes, you'll do," he said.
"You'll do just fine."

Chapter 15

Byron
sipped on a long-necked Corona
and smoked a Camel as he watched the show from the second floor balcony, far
removed from the mosh pit. Cloire was prancing around on stage, snarling and
growling into the microphone while the band and the back-up singers provided
atmosphere. The style of the band hovered somewhere between death-metal, punk
and
goth
.

Vistrot had created the band for Cloire several
years ago when she'd shown an interest in singing, and Peyote Dawn played
several times a month here at St. Lucifer's, which Vistrot owned. After a
while, she'd begun to draw in decent crowds and eventually became something of
a success. The room tonight was crowded, the empty space near the ceiling
filled with a blue thunderhead of cigarette smoke.

Lights flashed, music swelled and Cloire began
to sing. She didn't have what one would call a pretty voice, but it was raucous
and edgy, with a wide range and surprisingly filled with emotion. As Byron
listened, he could feel the hairs stick up on the back of his neck. Pride
surged through him.

 
I do love her, damn it
. No matter what she
said herself, he was convinced that on some level she felt the same. They'd
lived together for years, and though she slept around every now and then just
to prove she could, she was basically faithful to him.

He glanced at Kiernevar beside him, scowling
deeply, dressed to the nines in a tailored suit. Byron was the one to look
after him, and after her initial repulsion, Cloire had not complained, which
was further proof to the Australian that she cared for him.

"What do you think?" he asked.

 
Kiernevar
had made a little mental progress toward sanity. Apparently being cared for,
talked to and restrained frequently for misbehavior was having some effect. A
psychiatrist had even prescribed a drug, which he was to take three times a
day.

Kiernevar looked alertly at Byron, then back at
Cloire, but said nothing, and the Australian didn’t press him.

Someone slid into the seat next to him: Loirot,
smiling, in his typical Armani suit, which seemed incongruent amid the crowd,
as did Kiernevar's. But with Kiernevar the suit was progress, while with Loirot
it was simply irritating.

"So you decided to come?" Byron said.

Loirot shrugged. "How could I not? It's her
release party, after all. I think even Jean-Pierre might show up."

"You talked to him?"

"Yeah, but—"

"How's he doing? He looked pretty bad last
time I saw him."

"Not great, but better. He took losing
Danielle for a second time pretty good, all things considered. That's not the
big news."

"There's news?"

"Two things. First, Vistrot called
Jean-Pierre and told him we're going back after the odd flock—they're in Vegas—and
we leave tomorrow. Second, and more interesting—we're getting a new member to
the team."

"You're kidding. Well, tell me about
him."

"Her. Name's Sophia. They call her the Ice
Queen. I don't know much about her, except she comes from L.A."

"Interesting. But why?"

"Who knows what goes on in Vistrot's head?
Jean-Pierre said something about fresh blood, but he was vague. If you ask me,
with the addition of Norman Bates over here the team is too large
already."

"I'm inclined to agree, though I'd rather
keep Kiernevar than Kilian."

"The same goes for me, of course. You know
how I feel about that prick. But Kilian has a point, along with Cloire:
Jean-Pierre may be losing it."

"Jean-Pierre," murmured Kiernevar.

The other two turned to look at him. Byron was
thankful; it saved him from having to speak ill of the albino.

"Go on," he urged Kiernevar.
"Tell us how you feel. Do you like Cloire's music?"

"... no"

Byron tried to prod him with a few more
questions, but Kiernevar remained silent.

"He may come round yet," said Loirot.

"He just needs time."

"Sure. Anyway, this new girl, Sophia, may
be coming here tonight to meet us."

Byron sipped his beer, mulled it over, then
decided to make it more entertaining. "Let's make a game of it.”

"How?"

"Let's see ... how about if one of us spots
her before she comes over—say the first one to do it—gets a thousand bucks from
the other." Money meant very little to them. There was so much of it to be
had at their fingertips that even the smallest bet had to be substantial, just
out of principle.

"I'm game," said Loirot.

They shook on it, then turned their attention to
the show. Cloire was singing a ballad and the lights had dimmed. During the
most emotional part of the song, her eyes fell on Byron and she winked. Byron
nearly blushed.

It was Loirot who spotted Sophia first.

"Enter the dragon," he muttered.

Byron looked up and around, then caught sight of
her. "Exit a grand.”

Sophia entered, a small opened package in her
hands, consulting a few pictures. She saw them and came over. She wore a sleek,
glossy black outfit, zippered up the middle, with pants and sleeves, which only
accentuated how long and graceful she was, and she walked in fashionable combat
boots. Her black hair was tied back and her violet eyes nearly stabbed into
Bryon they were so sharp. All and all, very interesting.

As she approached the table, Byron and Loirot
stood.

"You must be Sophia," Byron said.

She smiled, seductive. "And you're Byron,
and you're Loirot. Vistrot gave me pictures of all of you so I'd know who to
approach and a little note—" (she held up the package, sat it down on the
table) "—written by him, so you'd know I was legit." She stuck out
her hand.

"What's this?" He looked at the hand
and embraced her. Clearly, she was surprised. Loirot embraced her, too.

She put a hand to her face. "I wasn't
expecting you to be so friendly. This is New
York, after all. You've got a reputation to
uphold."

"We're like a family," Loirot
explained, and offered her a chair. “No matter how much we bicker."

"Thank you," she said, accepting.

The others resumed sitting, and Sophia ordered a
daiquiri from a passing waiter, which was delivered promptly. Studying
Kiernevar, she said, "Good evening."

"Kiernevar."

"That's his name," Byron told her,
surprised again to feel a certain pride, this time for the lunatic; he'd
actually introduced himself, in his way.

"Is he a member of the team? Vistrot didn't
mention him or give me his picture."

"I'm sure he's trying to forget Kiernevar
ever existed,” Byron said. “He was our latest addition to the team until you
came—we picked him up about a week ago."

"Actually, it was Jean-Pierre who picked
him," said Loirot. "We still haven't figured out why."

"The albino tends to romanticize certain
things," Byron said. "Insanity is one of them. Really, we don't know
why he did it any more than you do, so don't feel uncomfortable about it."

"Thanks. So you're saying Kiernevar's ..."

"I believe the scientific term is
batshit
."

She studied Kiernevar, who was looking back at
her. "Are you okay, Kiernevar?"

"Kiernevar," he repeated. "Squish
squash."

"Right. Well, it's refreshing to meet a nut
who's taciturn; in my experience, it's usually the reverse." She watched
the stage. "She's good.”

"She'll be glad to hear you say it,"
Loirot said.

"Flattery is a child's game, though it has
its uses."

She seemed suddenly cold to Byron. Then again,
what had Loirot said: the Ice Queen?

"So, you're from L.A.," he said. "What do you do
there?"

"This and that. Not much of anything,
really. That's why I came here."

"We're delighted to have you," said
Loirot.

She hunched over to sip her daiquiri and her
outfit squeezed her breasts in a most titillating manner. Byron stirred despite
himself.

"Come here alone?" Loirot asked.

"Don't know a soul."

"Now you do." His voice was husky.

"Thanks.”

Loirot was evidently expecting something more, but
Sophia held her ground.

"So what do you two do when you're not
offing people?" she said.

If there was an insult there, neither of them
recognized it.

"I don't know," Byron said. "Whatever
it is, we usually end up hung-over afterwards."

She laughed again, a pleasant sound. She raised
her glass. "Let's make a toast. To our future together."

They all clinked glasses and drank.

"Would you like to come to Cloire's big CD
release party after the show?" Loirot asked her.

"I'd be honored," she said. "Can't
wait to meet Cloire."

"You'll get your chance," Byron told
her. "The show's almost over."

Loirot grinned. "Wait till she gets a load
of you."

Apprehension filled Byron. Cloire might just go
berserk at having a new member—especially another female—and kill Sophia, or
the other way around. He wasn't looking forward to going backstage, and could
feel the tension in his gut.

Jean-Pierre approached. Sophia rose to meet him.
For some reason, it was odd, Byron thought, seeing them staring at each other,
trying to take the other’s measure.

"Welcome to the party," the albino
said, and gave a little bow to her before sitting down.

"Glad to be here.”

To Byron, he said, "Don't suppose Kilian's
going to show up, do you?"

"I'll bet you a grand he doesn't," the
Australian said.

Jean-Pierre smiled. "Another time." He
summoned a waiter and ordered champagne, which was an odd thing to have at a
rock club, but then Vistrot always had to add a personal touch. "We'll
dedicate this round to Cloire.”

Byron nodded, and the Frenchman winked.

"Good to have you back, Jean-Pierre."

"Good to be back," the albino said. He
reached for Sophia's hand, which was creeping toward her box of cigarettes. He
brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "And with such lovely
company."

Loirot and Byron exchanged glances, their
thought unsaid:
On the rebound, poor bastard.

Sophia did a strange thing. She took Jean-Pierre's
hand to her own lips and kissed it. "The same to you.”

Byron thought he might could get to like Sophia
and could tell from the expression on Jean-Pierre's face that the albino felt
the same. The next few weeks could be very interesting.

The crew settled in to watch the last few
minutes of Cloire's performance, which ended with a roar, then stood to clap.
They finished their drinks and made their way into the chaotic backstage areas to
find Cloire in a make-up room removing the
skoal
from
around her eyes. A zip-lock back of hallucinogenic mushrooms loomed on the
counter near her elbow.

She swiveled at the crew's approach. Immediately
her gaze went to Sophia. "Who's this?"

"Sophia, a new member to our group,” said
Jean-Pierre.

"Oh, fuck, whitey, not another of your
strays."

"She came to us through Vistrot."

"Jesus fucking Christ, we could stand to
lose a few members already. Well, she'll have to go through Initiation or I
quit this team right fucking now. We still haven't initiated this bloody bastard,"
she said, hiking a thumb at Kiernevar.

"Oh, she'll be initiated, don't worry. Now
be civil, Cloire."

"Bite me, Jean-Pierre." To Sophia, she
said, "So you're Vistrot's new mole."

"That's right, sister," said Sophia.
Her stance widened, preparing for battle.

Cloire stepped back a foot, crouching a little
as if she were about to lunge.

Sophia smiled. "Shall we piss for distance
now?"

Cloire glared at her, then swept her gaze over
the others. Suddenly, Cloire exploded in laughter, stepped forward and embraced
Sophia roughly.

"Nice to see another cunt around here.
Shit, can't wait till we get down to some good
ol
'
fashioned girl-talk for a change. We'll do each other's fucking hair. Just
don't make eyes at Byron here—he's mine." She patted Sophia on the back, then
indicated her bag of
shrooms
. "You trip,
Sofe
?"

"I'm from L.A."

The crew ate the mushrooms there, then went back
to the apartment that Byron and Cloire shared, where many revelers had already
arrived—all friends and associates of Peyote Dawn. After an hour the
hallucinogens began to kick in, and Sophia lived up to Byron's expectations as
a hard-living, hard-drinking shade, blending right in. Cloire even invited her
to spend the night—they'd pick up her clothes and stuff tomorrow on their way
out of town—and she agreed.