A Dozen Black Roses (18 page)

"No prob. What is it?"

"About ten pounds of uncut cocaine."

"Shit!"

"Stash it the attic with my things. Something will be by for it later."

"Don't you mean someone?"

"No. I also need you to contact the number I've written on this piece of paper. Everything you need to know is already written down. You'll have to go pick the order up yourself. The dead president should cover that and the cab ride. Take Ryan with you—I don't want him getting loose again! Remember—you and he are supposed to be dead! Now beat it! I gotta get back soon or they'll get suspicious."

Ryan caught her sleeve as the stranger turned to leave. "What about my mom?"

She smiled and smoothed the boy's hair. "I'm doing the best I can. I'll get your mom back, Ryan. I promise you that. But you have to do as I say and go with Cloudy. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now scat! I've business to attend to!"

She watched as Cloudy took Ryan's hand and the two hurried from the alley. The wheels were turning and there was no going back. Hopefully she wouldn't get crushed by the juggernaut she was setting in motion. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time.

The payphone had seen better days. It stood outside the liquor store, which seemed to be the only legitimate business on The Street With No Name. The change box had been jimmied open a long time ago, and hung open like the drawbridge on a ransacked castle. Not that it mattered. No one in their right mind would ever put a quarter in it. The metal shell was covered with gang tags, the metal cord that tethered the receiver to the box had been severed with a pair of bolt-cutters, and the earpiece was cracked in two.

The stranger picked up the dead phone and stabbed at the keypad. There was a sound in the receiver like the wailing of lost souls, then a gruff male voice picked up on the other end.

"Monastery Bar and Grill."

"Hey, Grendel. Put Malfeis on, would ya?"

The bartender grumbled something, then was replaced by a young man's voice. "Girlchick! How's it hangin'?"

"I can't waste time playing, Mai. I got a deal for you."

The young voice became as thick and gravelly as a chainsmoker's. "When is it not business with you, girly-girl? I didn't think you called just to shoot the breeze. What have you got for me?"

"Four kilos of snow. Uncut."

"My-my," the demon on the other end of the line chortled. "Slumming, are we? To tell you the truth, I thought you'd have something far more interesting for me, lovey. That dust from the Oklahoma City bombing was killer!"

"This particular shipment of cocaine is responsible for at least a dozen or more deaths."

"Really?" She could tell by his voice that Mai's ears had pricked up. No doubt his tail was starting to lash back and forth like an anxious cat's.

"I need cash and I need it tonight—tomorrow morning by the latest."

"I'll send one of my apprentices along."

"You got me on radar?"

"Of course! We pride ourselves on being full-service. However, I'll need an exact address for the exchange."

"Okay. But remember: no eating anyone this time!"

"Very well, if you insist," Malfeis sighed.

As she hung up the receiver, she experienced a peculiar sensation. It felt like the gentle, but persistent tug of a weak magnet. It was Esher, calling to those bound to him by blood. She could turn her back on the summoning, but there was no way she could ignore it.

***

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) enclave, but until that moment she did not realize just how large it truly was. She'd never seen so many vampires together under the same roof. The sight of them made her palms twitch. Most of them were the younger, unaffiliated vampires the Kindred referred to as Caitiff. Of course, 'young' had a different meaning among the undead than it did the living. While some wore the skins of runaway teenagers, others were outfitted in the bodies of decrepit street-people. None of them had been undead for longer than a year or two. They had all been created by careless predation, probably by Kindred no different from themselves, and left to wander the urban jungle alone and untutored, much like she had been, decades ago. Esher's enclave reminded her of a cross between Fagin's School for Thieves and the Manson Family, combining a ragged army of apprentice sneak-thieves and footpads with damaged souls drawn to, and manipulated by, a powerful, utterly amoral will.

As she moved through the crowded nightclub, she noticed how the Pointers were huddled together in one section of the room, eyeing the assembled Kindred uneasily. Although the gang had sworn itself to Esher's service, apparently things sometimes got a little too hairy even for them. There was a definite lions-at-the-watering-hole vibe going down as the vampires squabbled over the available feeders chained to the walls.

She watched as two Kindred—one wearing the skin of a junior executive, the other a street hustler—got into a hissing match over a tall, thin man. The feeder was so pale his veins resembled strands of blue yarn.

There was very little juice left in that one, and the vampires knew it, hence the showdown. The junior executive's hair rose like the hackles on a cat's back, while the hustler growled like an angry mountain lion, unsheathing his fangs so far it looked as if his lips had been sliced away. After a few moments of this, the junior executive backed off and the hustler claimed the feeder as his own.

The stranger watched the winner drain the dying feeder, then quickly looked away. The sight and smell of the blood flowing around her were starting to make her edgy. She had not fed in a day or two. She usually carried a couple of units of whole blood in a special cryo-container in her gym bag, but preferred standard refrigeration when possible, so she'd left them in Cloudy's icebox for safekeeping. When she looked back, it was in time to see the club's bar back unshackling the empty feeder to replace it with a fresh one.

The industrial dance music blaring from the speakers began to fade, and the crowd turned to face the stage. Esher, stripped to the waist, stepped out from behind the blood-red curtains and gestured for the assembly to draw near.

"Come closer, my children."

The Kindred in the audience murmured to themselves and pressed closer to the stage and runway, their pale faces turned toward their leader.

"I call you my children, because even though you were not created by me, my blood flows through each and every one of your veins. You who have no family, you who have been cast aside—I gladly embrace you! You who are without clan, without place—find your place with me! A time of great tribulation is soon to be upon us, my friends! If we are to survive it, we must prove ourselves strong in the face of adversity—united in the face of doubt! That is why I have summoned you to my side this evening, my children—to solidify even further the bonds that tie us together."

Decima emerged from behind the curtains, carrying a ritual claive and a golden chalice. Ryan hadn't held the crucifix against her skin long enough to kill her, but it had done its damage. The wound on her forehead was red and angry, like a fresh brand. Although the stranger had been irked by the boy's foolhardy stunt, she had to admit she was proud of him.

Esher took the claive from Decima, pressed the point against his right wrist and sliced his inner forearm to the elbow. A maroon liquid—looking more like burgundy wine than blood—gouted forth. Although it was thicker than human blood, it still flowed faster than usual. Esher must have recently gorged for him to bleed so freely. Decima knelt before him, holding up the chalice in order to catch every drop of precious gore. Once the chalice was full, Esher took the vessel from Decima and held it up so all could see.

"Behold! My blood is your blood! Come forward, my children! Come forward and partake of that which is Life!"

The Kindred moaned as one and rushed the stage, tearing at one another in their eagerness to taste their liege's power. A celebrant tried to jump his place in line by climbing over the footlights; Decima kicked him in the head, sending him back into the crowd.

"Wait your turn, maggot-bait!" she snapped. "Try that again and I'll put a bolt through your fuckin'

eyesocket!"

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) The stranger found herself standing between a drag queen and a tourist. The tourist-vampire looked exceptionally fresh, since he still had a Minolta looped around his neck and that glazed, shell-shocked stare common to the newly resurrected. She glanced about uneasily, but there was no way she could evade participating in the communion without drawing undue attention to herself. If any of the other celebrants were ambivalent about Esher tightening his Blood Bond, they certainly didn't show it. Most of them were shivering like junkies in anticipation of a fix.

When her turn finally came, Esher smiled as he offered her the chalice. "Drink this, so that we may be bound, blood to blood."

Steeling herself, she lifted the chalice to her lips. It tasted like the finest vintage wine and was as thick and nourishing as mother's milk. She felt it creep through her veins, spreading a warm glow as it went.

Nothing could compare to it: not sex, not food, not drink. It was better than all those things, yet was the same as them as well. She closed her eyes and savored the moment, tempted to lose herself in the ecstasy of it all.

She started from her reverie as Esher removed the chalice from her hands and blinked in disorientation as the tourist eagerly took her place in line. She felt almost drugged as she left the stage and rejoined the others on the dance floor. She could feel Esher's blood inside her, humming to itself like a tiny dynamo.

The communion line was near the end when the door slammed open and a tall figure dressed in a scarlet cloak and hood entered the club. The Pointers did not challenge the new arrival, assuming it to be a member of the enclave late in arriving, but the newcomer's carriage made it clear that he was no mere thrall.

"Esher!" thundered a voice from inside the scarlet hood.

The vampire lord halted and peered into the crowd, frowning. "I know that voice. Who calls my name?"

The newcomer pushed back his cowl, revealing shoulder-length honey-blond hair pulled into a loose ponytail and features so classically perfect they could have been the model for a Greek statue. "Has it been so long that the student has forgotten his master?"

Esher stepped forward, his frown deepening. "Caul? They sent you?"

"Who else would they send? I was the one responsible for indoctrinating you into the guild—it is only natural that they should send me to bring you back to Vienna, apostate!"

"Apostate? Surely you jest, old friend! All I do here is for the greater glory of the Tremere!"

"Lie to yourself all you like, Esher! But don't lie to me! What you're doing is not in the name of our clan, Esher—it is a ploy to topple the Council and place yourself in power! You are on the verge of jyhad—if you declare war on Sinjon, his fellow Ventrue will feel honor-bound to retaliate against the Tremere in his name! This is neither the time nor the reason to do battle with one of the most powerful clans of the Camarilla, Esher!"

"I assure you, old friend, that was never my intention!"

"Be that as it may, you have broken a sacred tenet of the Tremere in creating the woman Decima. Do not deny parentage, Esher—I can read her lineage as easily as a book!"

"Ours is a long and lonely existence, Caul—and I have been separated from my clansmen for many years. I have created only one childe. Would the Council begrudge me the creation of a single mate?"

"You know the rules, Esher! None of the Tremere are to create progeny on their own! And as for the

'single mate'—what of the woman Bakil?"

A troubled look crossed Esher's face. He had not expected them to know of Decima's predecessor. "She is no more! I learned my lesson with her! I did not induct Decima into the mysteries, as I had Bakil: this I swear. She has no knowledge of the blood arts, so by rights she is not truly Tremere."

"And what of the mortal woman? The dancer called Nikola? Do you not plan to Embrace her as your bride?"

Esher's eyes narrowed and his frown became an angry scowl. "I weary of your questions, Caul! We were friends once—even more than friends—but those nights are gone! There was a time when you were the master, I the student, but I have gone on to claim the power you never dared to. Do not threaten me, Caul—for I will not stay my hand!"

"There is much you must answer for, whether you wish to hear it or not! The Council might overlook the creation of get, provided they are destroyed, but your hubris is another matter entirely! The Tremere value ambition and drive, this is true. But such a naked grab for power is dangerous not only to the clan, but to all Kindred throughout the world! You would risk exposing us all for the sake of making Deadtown your

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) own? The altercation at the restaurant earlier this evening will not go unnoticed, I assure you! There are factions in the Holy See waiting for such evidence of Kindred activity to justify the reordination of the Inquisitors—and you may very well have given the witchfinders their new lease on life!"

"Let the Soldiers of the Question come!" Esher sneered. "They can prick me with their witch-pins all they like!"

Caul shook his head in dismay. "I had hoped that I would be able to talk reason with you, Esher. But I see you will have none of it! Very well—I have no recourse but to bring you back to Austria."

Esher laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. "I will not be judged, Caul! Not by you and not by the Council!"

"Very well," the blond vampire sighed. "Then you leave me no choice." Caul leapt onto the runway, his movements as fast and smooth as those of a tiger, his hands glowing as if they held live coals. The Pointers and Kindred began pushing for the exits as Esher moved toward his former companion, his fangs bared and red energy crackling from his fingertips.