The Living Night (Book 1) (20 page)

Around four in the morning, Byron began to come
down, so he and Cloire smoked a couple of joints, took some Valium and retired
to their bedroom. Before climbing into bed, she picked up the phone and called
someone.

"Martin Ascott," she repeated, writing
it down, "Hamptons,
huh? Okay, I've got it. Nice job tracking him down. I'll put your money in the
mail tomorrow."

"What was that all about?" Byron said
when she’d hung up.

"Nothing, just some insurance,” Cloire
said. “Just in case ... "

He patted the bed beside him and she scooted
beneath the sheets. As he reached over her to switch off the lamp, he whispered
"I love you" in her ear, but she was breathing heavily, eyes closed.
He sighed, kissed her forehead and turned out the light.

*
   
 
*
    
*

Sophia
woke up on the couch around ten in the morning to the smell of eggs frying. And
something else, something horrible, underneath. She rubbed her eyes, lit a
cigarette, and moved to the kitchen, where Byron made breakfast.

"You like omelets?" he said.

"Nothing better. Where's Cloire?"

"Shower. She doesn't eat breakfast."

"Right. Any beer left?"

"Help yourself."

Ignoring the stench, she rooted around in the
refrigerator and came up with a Shiner Bock. This was all so weird to her, this
easy camaraderie, and she wasn't sure her acting talents were up to it. She was
a loner, happiest in seclusion, but for the purposes of the assignment she had
to be friendly.

The assignment itself was nothing like she'd
hoped—there would be no grand seduction of Vistrot, no cloak-and-dagger
intrigue—and the only reason she'd agreed to it was because of the direct
involvement with Ruegger and Danielle. Maybe, if she couldn't find out why they
were being hunted, she could thwart the hunt itself. At any rate, she'd come
too far to go back now.

Maybe she could turn her seductress impulses in
the direction of Jean-Pierre, who was friendly with Vistrot. He could provide
the access she needed, but the thought of sleeping with the albino turned her
cold.

If that was the only way...

She and Byron breakfasted together, and she made
an effort to return the light conversation that he put forward. Really, he was
what she would call a nice guy, if in a bearish sort of way. Strange that he
should be an assassin. And stranger still that he would be involved with
someone like Cloire, who was not what Sophia would call nice by any standards.

Cloire ambled in, dressed in a bathrobe with a
towel about her head, sat down next to Byron and lit a cigarette.

"Nothing better than a post-shower smoke.”

"Enjoy your omelet?" Byron asked Sophia.

"Super." Something stunk, she thought.
Something really fucking stunk.

"Well, I try." He smiled and glanced
up suddenly at a just-arriving Kiernevar, naked and covered in his own feces.

"Oh, for God's sakes," protested
Cloire. "Byron, you idiot, you forgot to give him his pills, didn't
you?"

"I guess I must have. Sorry." He
turned to Sophia, who'd managed to keep her composure, and shrugged. "He
does this sometimes, part of his insanity, I guess ... I'm sorry if it offends
you."

"I've seen worse," she assured him.

"Well, go wash the bastard off and give him
his bleeding pill," said Cloire, and Byron disappeared with Kiernevar.
"So,
Sofe
, how does all this strike you?"

"You mean Kiernevar?"

"Everything."

Sophia smiled. "I can't wait to hit
Vegas."

"That's my girl. All quite a switch from L.A., I imagine."

They talked for a few minutes about the
differences between L.A. and New York before Byron and a very clean
Kiernevar reappeared.

The big Australian glanced at his watch.
"Time to go, ladies."

They set out for Sophia's motel so that she
could collect what belongings she wanted to bring with her to Vegas, then started
towards Jean-Pierre's apartment for the noon meeting.

"Like his digs?" Cloire asked Sophia as
they walked down the main hall.

"What happened here?" Sophia noted the
trails of blood and injured vagrants.

Cloire laughed. "Jean-Pierre kidnapped
Danielle and took her here, devil knows why. He wanted her to come back to him,
I guess, but she didn't fall for it. See all these homeless bastards? Well, the
albino's a powerful psychic and he can control all these wretches if he wants
to. He couldn't kill dear Danielle himself, of course, so he
sicced
his little friends on her. Luckily for her, Ruegger
came along and played hero. Fucking
pendejo
.”
She stuck a finger down her throat and made gagging sounds. “It was a stupid
thing for Jean-Pierre to do; we could've killed '
em
and been done with it, but no. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure that
whitey's got it in him to kill her. Fucking schmuck. I guess that’s why you’re
here."

"At least we get a paid vacation out of
it."

"Yeah, I guess." She seemed to be
considering something and glanced at Byron, who watched her worriedly. This
only made her smile broader.

"I missing something?" Sophia said.

"Don't, Cloire," Byron warned, but
Cloire just laughed.

She hesitated, then seemed to decide to go ahead
and say it: "You want this team to be efficient, don't you, Sophe? After
all, you've got to report to Vistrot, so you have a stake in the team doing
well, right?"

"I guess."

"So if the team was inefficient, you'd want
to repair it?"

Sophia could see it in her face. "You mean removing
Jean-Pierre."

"Stop it!" said Byron.

Cloire patted his hand. "Don't worry,
lover. I'm only thinking about the well-being of the crew."

"Well-being, my ass. I thought we'd all
agreed to give him a second chance. Doesn't he deserve that much?"

"If that's what it takes to convince you.
But will you come with me—break with him—if he fucks up again?" She
paused, then seized on something. "Do you love him more than you love
me?"

"What are you talking about? I just feel
loyalty to him, and I love you only as much as you love me."

She grabbed his hand. "I
know.
"

He looked at her, and his face was agony.
"Are you saying that ... ?" He shook his head. "Because if
you're saying that—if you really mean it—then yeah, I'll break with him, if it
comes to that."

She pulled him down and kissed him. "Then
it's decided.”

"I don't understand," said Sophia.

"Don't worry about it,
Sofe
,"
Cloire said. "There's no way you can make up your mind until you've seen
us in action ... until you've seen the fucking albino refuse to open the
emergency coffin of the odd flock until nightfall so that he could keep his
precious Danielle alive that much longer. Just keep your eyes open. Observe
everything."

"Roger."

"And don't comment on Jean-Pierre's
apartment. You know what they say about how only a fool would be his own
attorney—well, the same thing applies to Jean-Pierre and interior
decorating."

The quartet made its way upstairs to the boss's
lair and Sophia saw what Cloire had been talking about. All those hooks and
chains and sharp protrusions ...

Jean-Pierre waited in an uncomfortable chair in
the living room while Loirot paced restlessly.

"Kilian!" the albino shouted and a
small, dour man in a nice suit stepped inside from his position on the fire
escape. "This is Sophia. Sophia, Kilian."

Sophia kept her face impassive as she studied
Kilian, and, as he watched her, he began to scowl.

"So this is my replacement?"

"I'm not a replacement for anyone,"
she said, "but piss me off and you'll need one."

He raised a hand to slap her. She brought a knee
up to his groin faster than he could respond and, when he doubled over, struck him
on the side of the head. He tumbled to the floor. She kicked him once in the
stomach and then pressed her foot down on his chest.

"This settled?" she said.

"You've gotta love her, don't you?"
Cloire said.

"Okay, Sophia, you've made your point,”
Jean-Pierre said. “Now cool down, both of you."

Sophia lifted her foot and stepped back, while
Kilian stood and brushed himself off.

"She'll have to go through
Initiation," he demanded.

"Of course," said Jean-Pierre.
"In fact, I have a treat for all of us. You see, it seems lately that
loyalty's become something of an issue—"

Cloire groaned. "Oh, come off it,
Frenchie
. You're not suggesting we all go through Initiation
again."

"That's it, exactly, only it's not a
suggestion. We're doing it, like it or not."

"I think it's a good idea," said Byron.

"Thank you. Any other objections?"

"This is ridiculous," said Kilian.

Sophia cleared her throat. "Excuse me, but
what is this Initiation exactly?"

The albino nodded to Loirot.
"Explain."

Loirot sighed. "When we all banded together
originally, we decided to share a bonding experience together. Basically, what
it entails is this: we light some candles and some incense, draw some chalk
patterns on the floor, drop some acid, meditate for awhile, then strip naked
and drink each other's blood—everyone drinks from everyone else and allows him
or herself to be drunk from, so that we all become intimate and share in each
other's power—and we have an orgy. After that, we go for four solid days
without feeding and at the end of those four days we all go hunting together,
then share each other's blood again. Have I missed anything?"

"I think that about covers it,” Jean-Pierre
said.

"But why do you light the candles and the
incense?" Sophia asked. "I thought we were all atheists here."

Jean-Pierre answered: "We're not praying to
any divinities but to the natural forces and rhythms of the world, if there are
any, to unify us and bond our life energies. It's really something we should
start doing every year."

"It sounds like a bunch of mystical
bullshit to me."

"Perhaps it is, to an extent, but it's the
psychology of it all that counts. When we do it, we all become one with each other."
He looked at Cloire. "It's very emotional, isn't it?"

“Fuck you, Paleface. You were in tears, too, if
I remember. Weren't we all? Don't you dare single me out because I'm a woman.
If that's what you think, then kiss my ass."

Kilian puckered his lips. She flew at him, but
Jean-Pierre leapt from his chair and held her back. She wrenched herself free,
breathing heavily, but made no more move toward Kilian.

Jean-Pierre lit a Pall Mall,
looking each of his crew in the eye. Sophia was beginning to see why Vistrot
considered him to be such a valued leader. He sucked a hit off the cigarette
and smiled affectionately at everyone.

"This is exactly why we need to do
this," he said. "Do you understand now?" He stared at Cloire
pointedly, saw her sneer start to fade, went over, patted her on the shoulder
and kissed her forehead. To Sophia's surprise, Cloire didn't pull away, though
she became very stiff. Then he went over to Kilian and did the same. Grabbing
Kilian's arm, he led the
daydog
over to Cloire and
made them embrace. After their initial reluctance, they did, though it was a
very brief contact.

"Now," said Jean-Pierre, "are you
all with me ... and, just as importantly, are you with each other?"

Byron nodded. The others followed his lead.

"Good, now let's all start setting up the
candles."

They were shown several boxes, which held the
necessary components to the ritual, and began arranging the ceremonial space.
Jean-Pierre threw the blackout curtains over the windows so that they could
feed during daytime, and Loirot broke out the LSD. After taking off their
clothes, they all sat in the center of the chalk-and-candle pattern and dropped
the acid. There were some nervous smiles from the group and Sophia could feel an
excitement spreading up from her stomach and groin. They looked at each other
pleasantly and reached for each other's hands. Then, feeling the presence and
warmth of everyone else, they closed their eyes and began.

Chapter 16

“He’s
dead,” the bartender said. “I’m sorry, but Hauswell’s dead.”

Ruegger glanced at Danielle, whose face was
sober. They had been inquiring all over Las
Vegas for Hauswell, and everyone had the same story.
An assassin had murdered the city’s most powerful resident.

“He can’t be,” Ruegger said. “The man hired to
kill him is dead.”

The bartender—a werewolf; this was an immortal
dive, one of many—only shrugged. “Sorry, but they must’ve gotten another hired
gun to do the deed.”

Ruegger narrowed his eyes. “Where’s the body?”

“Laslo’s.”

Ruegger looked away. It was the same answer he’d
received before.

Danielle drew him away. “You’re not going to get
anything more out of that guy.”

“But we killed Greggs.”

She grimaced. “I don’t know, babe.”

"We've got to find out if Hauswell's really
dead. I couldn't stand it if he was ... I always wanted to return the favor, I
guess.”

“You’ve never really told me what happened
between you. Were you and Hauswell ... lovers?”

He smiled. “No. He saved my soul, maybe. At the
very least, he saved me from myself.”

“You mean, when you were evil, or whatever.”

“There’s no whatever about it,
Dani
. I don’t believe in ‘evil’, but I was as bad as you
can get. Hauswell pulled me out of it. Anyway, so we see if Laslo's really got
his body and we go from there."

"Where's Laslo?"

"About seventy miles outside of town at a
little private airfield Hauswell owns ... or used to. But I warn you now,
Laslo's elevator—the one that doesn’t go all the way to the top in some
people—it’s in the basement, and if he thinks Hauswell's dead, he's probably
gone completely insane; Hauswell saved his life about a hundred years ago and
ever since Laslo's had an unhealthy fixation on him."

"That what you mean by insane?"

"No, you'll have to meet him to see what I
mean. Seems God and the angels have a personal relationship with Laslo and he
talks to them often—he frequently dresses like a priest and Hauswell humored
him by building him a rather unusual mission. You'll see."

Somewhat nervously, she ran a finger across the
thin silver adornments that pierced her left ear. “You can tell me, you know. I
mean, about what happened, when you were ... bad.”

He stared at her for a long while. At last he
shook his head.

“Some other time,” he said.

She frowned.

*
    
*
    
*

When
the sun set, they packed their bags and checked out of their hotel. Their new
vehicle was a VW mini-bus with psychedelic flowers and peace signs painted on
the outside and Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview mirror. A plastic
Elvis jutted from the dashboard and a profusion of glow-in-the dark stars
stared down from the ceiling, walls and floor of the rear interior, creating a
small but brilliant universe when illuminated by
blacklight
—which
they were.

Ruegger and Danielle tossed in their two
suitcases and she climbed behind the wheel. She started the automobile with a
dusty roar and headed east toward the desert that surrounded Las Vegas. Once clear of the city, Ruegger
lit a cigarette, propped his feet up on the dashboard and turned on the radio;
Aerosmith was singing "Sweet Emotion".

"So tell me about Laslo," she said.
"Like what kind of shade is he?"

"A very rare one, what they call a
chalgid
."

"Never heard of them."

"They've got the power to resurrect the
dead. In fact, whatever force created them made it imperative that they
do
resurrect the dead. They're a kind of vampire, really; they need human blood to
live, but this blood must first be passed through a corpse."

She made a face.

"Here's how it works," he said.
"The chalgid resurrects a dead person by giving the dead one some of its
blood, then the zombie—or whatever you want to call it—feeds off a human and goes
back to its maker so that the chalgid drinks from its zombie."

"That’s disgusting."

"The chalgid usually makes several zombies
to carry out its needs. The more of its blood it gives to the zombies, the
stronger they are; in fact, if the chalgid gives a zombie enough blood the
zombie can become a chalgid itself. But this means the zombie then becomes
powerful enough to be a threat to its maker, so this rarely happens. And if the
chalgid doesn't give its zombies enough blood, they continue to decompose.
Ideally, it gives the zombies just enough blood, every now and then, to erase
the more visible effects of death and keep them from decomposing altogether. I
should mention that the chalgid has a strong psychic connection to his minions
and can even control them sometimes, unless the zombies have got enough of
their master's blood to make them powerful enough to resist its mindpull. At
any rate, the chalgid usually uses enough of its powers to instill a certain
loyalty in its undead subjects."

"So how many zombies does Laslo keep?"

"Last time I saw him, which was about twenty-five
years ago, he had four at his disposal."

"How strong could they be? I mean, if Laslo
turned out to be unfriendly, could they hurt us?"

"Probably. One advantage they've got is the
zombies aren't afraid of the sun, even though their master is. Typically they
go and gather blood during daytime and return at night to feed him."

She thought about it. "So how do they get
the blood? After all, they're in the middle of the desert."

He shrugged. "Hitchhikers and
passers-through, I guess. Or they go to a neighboring town."

"How do you kill them?"

"Destroy their brain and you destroy their
immediate psychic connection with their master. He can resurrect and restore
them later, but it takes them out for the time being."

“Are they … discriminate about who they feed
from?”

“You mean, are they worthy of a visit from the
Marshals?”

“Well?”

He frowned. “It would be a bad idea to kill
someone we’re trying to get information out of.”

“Didn’t stop you with Greggs.”

He paused. “First let’s see how bad they are. We
can plan on delivering justice later.”

"Fine. So how did Laslo come to be at this airport of Hauswell's, and why'd Hauswell build one
out here in the first place?"

"Back in the fifties he built it for
commercial purposes, so he'd have a place that he could import his drugs to
directly. Never made much money on it, though; overhead was too high. And once
the police caught wind of it, they gave him hell. Other mob bosses bribed them
more than Hauswell could compete with; this was before he grew as powerful as
he is today. Or was. Then, in the late sixties, a rival boss sent some of his
thugs to torch the place. Burned most of the buildings and planted explosives
along the runway. The airport's personnel made their final stand in the hangar
and were able to hold out until the thugs were gone.

"Hauswell decided it wasn't worth it to
keep the airport running in the same capacity it had been, so he dismissed the
staff and rebuilt the runway so he could keep the airport running, if only on a
private, non-commercial basis. He loves to fly around the world, you know. I
remember he was always so excited whenever a new model plane came on the scene.
He kept his personal jets there. And it was a perfect place to stick Laslo.
Hauswell wanted Laslo to move out here with his zombies, but Laslo wouldn't
have it because he said it was ungodly.

"So, when he got rich enough, Hauswell
built a new hangar—a large one and out of stone this time. Built a three-story
church on top of it. Made the church to look like a mission, out of stone like
the hangar, with a bell tower, too. Spent hundreds of thousands of dollars
setting it up just right so the mission would have enough support not to fall
down on top of the hangar. It amused Hauswell to have God watching over his
planes. He maintained the place as a private airport and Laslo's stayed there
ever since. There's even a little cemetery out back full of mortals and
immortals who've died in Hauswell's service and Laslo tends to it on occasion.
That's where he gets his zombies if he needs a new one."

"Money can buy anything, can't it?” she
said. “And Hauswell's an eccentric bastard.”

"He's nothing compared to Laslo."

"Can't wait to meet him. So you really
think Hauswell might have some useful information if he's still alive?"

"According to Greggs, yes. Hauswell was
investigating the Scouring before he vanished, remember. Something about a
mysterious third party trying to figure out how powerful he was, something like
that. By now he’s bound to have tracked that person down. He may know more, too.
He may know the secret behind it all. Anyway, it's the only move we've got so
far. If Hauswell
doesn’t
know
anything I was thinking …”

“Yes?”

“We could ask Kharker. No one knows more about
immortal affairs than he does.”

She looked sideways at him. "You still love
him, don't you?"

He sighed and lit another cigarette. "I
know he kills innocents, but does that really make him, in your terms,
evil?"

"Yes." Her voice was ice.

*
    
*
    
*

About
forty minutes later they saw a hitchhiker just up the road, and Danielle said, "What
do you think?"

"Pick him up and if he pulls a knife or a
gun on us we have a sip."

They were both starving for blood.

"I concur."

They pulled to the side of the road, and the
hitchhiker approached. Carrying a cheap-looking bottle of whisky in one hand, dirty
long brown hair fell down his back, a ratty biker's jacket hung over an
indescribably dirty shirt, and skin-tight black pants stretched down to his
boots. As he approached, his face became more visible; his eyes were quite red
and there was something gangrenous about his features. He flashed a peace sign and
threw open the rear door before climbing in. Ruegger wrinkled his nose at the
stench.

"Where to, mates?" the man said.

Ruegger spun around just in time to see him draw
out a blade from his waistband. Ruegger shot him twice in the chest. The noise
startled Danielle, who jumped in shock. The man looked down at his wounds,
swore and took a big gulp of his whiskey.

"Danielle," Ruegger said casually,
"meet one of Laslo's zombies."

The man winked at Danielle out of a blood-shot
eye. "I prefer the term
bloodfinder
,
m'self
.” To Ruegger: “How'd you know, mate—I mean before ye
shot me?"

"I've smelled a lot of corpses in my day,
son, and I could smell you a mile off. What's your name?"

"Tommy
O'Connel
.
And forgive the stench, friends—Laslo ain't got any
runnin
'
water at that
friggin
' place, not
t'mention
me own
frailments
. Is that where you two fine an'
upstanding
citizens're
headin
'?"

"Afraid so, Tommy," said Danielle.

He returned the blade to his waistband and made
an effort to straighten himself up. He offered his bottle to Ruegger, but
Ruegger declined.

"How do you come to know Lord Laslo?"
Tommy inquired.

"From Hauswell."

"Oh, I’ve met him. On several occasions
when the good man stopped by to say hi
t'Laslo
. He
used to be
m'boss
, you know."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yes, indeed, my good sir."

"Have you seen him lately?"

"Oh, sure, sure. Got his corpse in the
hangar."

Ruegger's heart sank.

Danielle saved the moment. "If you've got
Hauswell's corpse, why not resurrect him?"

"Ah, simple. See, the sick sods who killed
'
im
took 'is head—for a trophy, I guess. Can't
resurrect no one without a head, unless you're doin' it for amusement. Laslo's
done it before, I've watched '
im
. They corpses just
flop around like
dyin
' fishes an' sometimes 'e
c'n
get'em
to walk and stuff,
though I '
spect
that's just some of them
ol
'
spoonbender
techniques the
Lord's got. Not my kind of man, the Lord, but 'e treats me well enough. Guess
yer
sundogs or
somethin
',
right?"

"Something," Ruegger said sadly—he'd
heard the rumor about Hauswell's decapitation before but had forced himself not
to believe it—feeling Danielle's hand on his own. "I'll take some of that
whiskey now."