The Living Night (Book 1) (9 page)

The servant vanished. The Dark Lord led his
guests down another few corridors, then took a stairwell into the catacombs,
where they followed another series of rat-tunnels. Kharker could feel hairs
prickling along his spine. Finally, Sarnova ushered them into a large, domed
room.

"Behold.”

"Goddamn," said Kharker.

Open coffins, standing vertically, lined the
earthen walls of the circular room, with about five feet of space separating
each one. Formally dressed corpses, their flesh splotched and decaying, stood
stiffly in their coffins staring on the world with dead eyes. From the feet of
each one, human bones (held together with carefully-concealed wire and cobwebs)
sprouted, snaking across the floor to converge on the center of the circle.
Here the strings of bone met and rose into the air, some bleached and white,
some gray and rotting. A tree of bones emerged from the chaos, towering over
everything in the room, its stark and lifeless branches arching high and long
in dense, thorny, crystalline clusters.

A stained-glass window with lights behind it,
built into the ceiling directly above the tree, cast a strange green glow on
the branches, giving the sculpture the eerie, deathly glow it needed.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" said Roche
Sarnova.

"It is," said Jean-Pierre.

Kharker heard a noise behind him and turned in
time to see the Balaklava enter. They were
very tall, and their skin was black on black.

"Glad you like it," said the bald one
with the tusks. "I'm Junger."

"And I'm Jagoda," the other said. He
wore sunglasses and his face, framed by long dreadlocks, was masked by a heavy,
unkempt beard. "We call it the Tree
la
Morte
."

"It's marvelous," said Kharker.
"A shame we missed the grand opening. Maybe I could hire you to do
something for me sometime."

Junger shrugged. "If we're inspired, we'll
give you a call. Now, if you'll excuse us, we were just preparing to rape and
kill a few people. Ta-
ta
." They bowed and left.

"I love their art," said Sarnova, "but
sometimes their artistic temperaments are a little much." He shook
Kharker's hand. "Now, friend, I'm really afraid I've got to get back to
work. Forgive me?"

"Of course. Be sure to get some sleep
soon."

An escort led Kharker and Jean-Pierre into
separate rooms, where they fed. An hour later, they flew high over the
snow-whipped mountains toward the lush tangles of the Congo, away
from the ice-bound halls of stone and the warlord in black.

"Well," said Jean-Pierre, over the
roar of the helicopter. "Was it interesting, what he said?”

"Very."

"Care to discuss it?"

"Later,” Kharker said. “When I find out
more."

The albino looked amused. "So he's holding
out on you?"

Kharker didn’t answer.

Jean-Pierre glanced out the window. Lounging
back in his seat, he closed his eyes, and it was like the sun disappearing.

"Happy Birthday," he muttered.

*
    
*
    
*

The
helicopter dropped them off in Bucharest, where
Kharker's personal plane waited, and they set out again for his palatial Congo
estate, flying over vast ocean, never-ending desert, and a jungle that had
driven an infinite number of men mad. A little dirt airstrip stretched before
the manse itself, and they landed hard, dust throwing up in geysers behind the
plane, which shuddered as the engine died.

"Great landing," Jean-Pierre said. He
tore open the door and dropped down, then helped Kharker, not out of any
infirmity on the latter’s part but out of respect.

The Hunter cast a glance at the sunset, took a
deep breath and smiled. "There's nothing like home.”

"Don't start clicking your heels together
yet."

Kharker laughed, turning his eyes toward his
immense estate, built many years ago by natives who Kharker had later trained
to be his personal army and grounds keeping taskforce. Their offspring had
continued the tradition. He thought he treated them well, having even gone to
the trouble of hiring a small faculty of English professors to educate them. Of
course, he didn't hold himself responsible if he was particularly hungry or
desirous one day and one of his following glanced at him wrong. He was, after
all, the Great White Hunter, and he had certain needs—entitlements.

Jean-Pierre studied the trucks, parked close to
the main building.

"It looks like our trophies have arrived,"
he said. The game they'd killed on safari had been bundled up and sent here
directly.

"Good.”

"What are we gonna do with more elephant
hide?” Jean-Pierre said. “Make another Elephant Room?"

"We've got more than elephant hide, but I
see your point. Maybe we could hire Junger and Jagoda to make some arrangement
with the corpses themselves."

"Sure, why not? Maybe a necrotic Renaissance
is in the works."

A man approached. He was a tall and muscular
Greek-Indian mix, with black hair going gray at the fringes. Gavin had been
Kharker's bum-boy when he was young, but had proven himself competent at a
range of things and was now the Chief of Security for Kharker's estate. Kharker
had transformed Gavin and nine other loyalists into immortals so they could
better protect his grounds.

"Welcome home," Gavin said. "Too
bad Sarnova couldn't celebrate with you like you wanted, but we've got a little
something to make up for it—although we weren't expecting you back so soon.
Anyway, they're getting ready up in the Elephant Room. It's not much, but it's
all we could do on the spur of the moment. Please, at least pretend you like
it; they've been practicing for weeks ... Oh, and on that other matter, we've
prepared everything the way you instructed."

Jean-Pierre raised his transparent eyebrows, but
Kharker just smiled.

"I'm sure I'll love whatever it is you've prepared
for me, Gavin. And thanks for attending to the other matter. Please, lead on.”

He followed Gavin inside. Jean-Pierre flicked
his cigarette away and trailed along behind. The inside of the Lodge was
spacious and masculine, adorned with expensive rugs, paintings, antiques, and
an afterlife-full of dead animals, hides and heads and all. The Elephant Room,
located on the second story and overlooking the encroaching forest that
surrounded them, was a testament to lavishness and decadence; entering it was
like stepping into another world.

All six sides of the room (floor and ceiling
included) were covered with elephant hide. The head of an enormous bull
elephant dominated one wall, its long trunk arched in challenge, and on the
opposite wall, the animal's scrotum (fully erect) jutted out. Tusks sprouted
from its balls. Countless animal heads, hides, legs, tongues, trunks and other
appendages stuck out or hung from the walls, floors and ceiling, as well as
several elephant livers, hearts, stomachs, and never-ending loops of
intestines, which were painted different colors. And, of course, the room was
fully furnished with its share of rugs and paintings, chandeliers hanging from
the ceiling. A group of comfortable chairs arranged around a large coffee table
(propped up by elephant feet) not too far from the large, unlit fireplace. It
was Kharker's favorite room.

Several Africans stood in front of the fireplace
holding an assortment of musical instruments. Smiling, they greeted Kharker
affectionately.
They’re going to play for
me, how nice
. Jean-Pierre and Kharker made themselves comfortable in the
chairs facing the musicians.

Jean-Pierre glanced at Kharker, who winked.
Waving a servant for a beer, the albino drank as the music started. Kharker winced.
It was bad. Just the same, he was impressed by Jean-Pierre’s patience. The
albino endured it for half an hour until the humans were through. He even
clapped for them.

When they were gone, the albino said, "You
need to spend more money on the music department." He crossed to the
window and lit a cigarette. The night grew dark outside, and Kharker could feel
its temptations in his gut.

He sparked a cigar. "You know," he
said, puffing, "I've never met a shade who didn't smoke."

"Kilian doesn't smoke. Insolent
bastard."

"The member of your death-squad?"

"Probably afraid it will make his clothes
smell.”

Kharker laughed. "That's better. You're
lightening up.”

“Enough of that.”

“Seriously. You unwound so much on the safari.
You actually
enjoyed
yourself, and
you can't know how much that warmed my heart. But the moment you saw Roche's
castle, you stiffened up again."

The albino shrugged. "You know why."

"It's where you met Danielle. I thought
maybe you were over her by now. I remember before we went on safari, you'd
pulled out the projector from my basement and were watching the old reels we
shot back when she was staying with us. But once we left, you never mentioned
her once."

"She was in love with me for awhile."

"When she thought Ruegger was dead."

"Maybe.” Jean-Pierre didn’t sound
convinced. “My crew still gives me hell about it.”

I imagine
. Kharker knew that
during the time she’d spent at the Lodge, Danielle and Jean-Pierre had become
lovers. Kharker had not interfered, though he’d wanted to. Still, Ruegger had
abandoned him long ago, and Kharker’s loyalty belonged to Jean-Pierre now.

Instead of addressing any of this, Kharker said,
"How are they?"

“The squad? Belligerent as always. And you?
Don't you still love Ruegger?”

Kharker had been willing to let it go, but it
seemed Jean-Pierre wasn’t. Kharker didn’t answer

“You know,” Jean-Pierre said, “many say I
replaced him in your affections."

Kharker studied the end of his cigar. "I
love you as much as I loved him once."

Jean-Pierre’s face was still. "You don't
anymore?"

Changing the subject, Kharker said, "I
think you'll appreciate my gift to you. But I can't talk about it yet—it's a
surprise."

"Why'd you get me a gift? It's
your
birthday."

"Your happiness makes me happy, so it's a
gift to both of us."

"I haven't even given you my gift. Hang
on." Jean-Pierre left the room for a few minutes, returning with a small,
flat package, wrapped in canvas.

Kharker smiled. "I'm honored, really."

"You can't open it until after the Hunt,
okay? I think you'll want to take some time to ... look it over." The
albino placed it on a stand near Kharker's chair.

"I’m hungry, too.”

Together, they left. Once outside, Kharker turned
to Jean-Pierre. It was Kharker's custom to go down into the holds before a hunt
and stare his prey in the eye, arming them and releasing them personally, often
giving them a head start. Jean-Pierre, however, preferred to kill with
detachment.

“Good hunting,” Jean-Pierre said.

“You, as well.”

Kharker had had a system of tunnels built
beneath his estate, and he took a stairway down. Mostly he used them as a wine
cellar—he was quite a connoisseur—but a portion of the tunnels had been
converted into a type of prison for his prey, where they lived semi-comfortably
until it was their time to be hunted.

Servants greeted him, bringing several wheeled
tables that carried an assortment of blades and firearms.

Kharker unlocked the door of the first cage and
stepped inside. Ten minutes later he'd chosen and armed the fifteen mortals he
wanted. His estate had been erected on a small rise, so that this end of the
catacombs opened directly into the forest. He released his prisoners, most of
them collected on the white slavery market, and watched them scatter into the
darkness.

When his cigar was halfway smoked, he followed.

*
    
*
    
*

Jean-Pierre
wandered through the sultry Congo,
smoking Pall Malls and searching for a glimpse of the moon through the tangled
trees that arched like half-gnawed ribs overhead. It slivered as the nights
went by; soon there’d nothing left. He remembered Danielle telling him of
Ruegger's theory that all shades were strongest on the new moon, because it was
the time when the world was the darkest. The albino knew darkness was a state
of mind, though, not something nature could inflict upon you. Of course,
Ruegger should know that too.

Jean-Pierre tugged off his clothes and let the
night change him into its own image: a beast, somewhere between wolf and man,
his coat almost translucent, with a hint of yellow. It wasn't true that
werewolves needed a full moon to transform; all they needed was the night.
Transforming under the sun would get you burned, though. He loped through the
forest, between trees and along muddy ravines, howling and running as fast as
his four legs would take him.