A Dozen Black Roses (21 page)
"Doesn't that hurt?" Cloudy asked, his face scrunched into a sympathetic grimace.
"Pain means different things to different people. In my case, my threshold is exceptionally high."
"No shit!"
"We don't have the time to waste on something as minor as this," she said with a dismissive wave of her maimed hand. We need to get this show on the road."
"But you're missing two fingers—!" Cloudy protested.
"It's nothing that won't grow back! What's important right now, however, is getting Nikola and Ryan out of Deadtown." She turned to Nikola, who was still staring at the money in the gym bag. "Do you have any idea where you want to go?"
"I-I have family in San Luis Obispo. My sister lives there."
"Good. San Luis Obispo it is." The stranger turned to Cloudy. "You should go with them. Deadtown won't be safe for you. There's a good chance it won't even exist after tonight."
Cloudy shook his head. "I can't leave. This is my home."
Ryan pulled away from his mother and grabbed one of Cloudy's big, callused hands. "You're going to come live with us, aren't you, Cloudy?"
The old hippie smiled sadly and knelt so that he and Ryan were eye-to-eye. "I'm really touched that you made the offer, kid. Really. But I can't go with you. This is where I belong. Maybe someday soon I'll come out and visit you and your mom—would you like that?"
Ryan threw his arms around his friend's neck and began to sob. Cloudy pulled the boy close to him, trying not to crush his frail body as he hugged him.
"Cloudy—the time," the stranger said, her voice soft but urgent.
He nodded his understanding and reluctantly let go of Ryan. "She's right. You better go, kid." He wiped the heel of his palm under his eyes, struggling to keep smiling in front of the boy. "But before you do, there's something I want you to have." He turned and dipped into the jumble of books that surrounded them with the unerring grace of a heron pulling a fish from a pond. He held out a much-thumbed hardback copy of Make Way For Ducklings to Ryan. "Here—something to read on the plane." Still sniffling back his tears, Ryan took the proffered book and clutched it to his narrow chest like a holy shield.
The stranger stood by the door, tapping her foot anxiously until Nikola and Ryan joined her. Then, with
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) the simple turn of a deadbolt lock, they were out on the street. Nikola hesitated on the threshold for a long moment, clutching the gym bag as she blinked at the sun, until the stranger grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the doorway.
In the early morning light, Deadtown almost looked normal. Or as normal as any other forgotten inner-city neighborhood. The Kindred who ruled its streets were curled up in their various underground burrows, while their human servants slumbered in their squalid squats, leaving the streets to those who had always called Deadtown home. Most of the residents were old— like the ancient woman in the shapeless raincoat and black babushka pushing a decrepit two-wheeled market-cart ahead of her. Others were junkies or alcoholics, shivering in the sunlight as they made their way to a rendezvous with their dealer or the nearest liquor store, like the rail-thin older man dressed in a filthy clerical collar—no doubt the elusive phantom she'd glimpsed haunting the bell tower. As the trio drew closer, the priest rapidly crossed himself and scurried to the other side of the street, clutching a paper sack under his arm.
As Nikola, Ryan and the stranger hurried along, those few citizens they happened across reacted in much the same way as the priest. At first they seemed surprised to see a child; then, upon spotting the stranger, the surprise became open fear, and they quickly averted their eyes, visibly shaken by the sight of a monster braving the sun.
Not that she was enjoying her little morning stroll. Although she could walk in daylight without fear of death, it wasn't a pleasant experience. She was tired and her body cried out for regeneration. The bright light was giving her a migraine and her skin felt as if an army of fleas were happily snacking on her.
But the further they got from the cancerous heart of Deadtown, the more people they saw on the street, as if the blight that afflicted the neighborhood weakened with every passing block. Without warning, they turned a corner and emerged into a busy downtown area, filled with bicycle messengers, honking cabs, and harried-looking men in suits and women in dress jackets.
Nikola shivered and turned to look back the way they'd come. "Was it always that easy to leave?" she asked.
"It's always that easy and always that hard to leave places like Deadtown," the stranger replied. "Come, you're not safe yet—not until we've gotten you to the West Coast." She stepped out into traffic and slammed her hands onto the hood of a passing taxi, bringing it to a full stop. The cabbie looked more spooked than angered, since he hadn't put his foot on the brake.
"Wh-where to, lady?" he stammered as the stranger, Nikola and Ryan climbed into the back seat.
"The airport," the stranger snapped.
"What airline?"
"Any of them. All of them. Just go!"
The ride to the airport was uneventful. Ryan sat with his nose pressed against the window, wondering aloud at landmarks he'd never seen before in a city he had lived his entire life in. When they arrived at the airport departure zone, the stranger paid off the driver with a hundred-dollar bill. The cabbie mumbled his thanks and peeled away as fast as he could.
"I don't think he liked what he saw in his rear-view mirror," the stranger said with a dry laugh. "But a fare's a fare, right?"
They entered the main terminal and scanned the bank of video screens until Nikola spotted a flight into Los Angeles that was scheduled to leave in a couple of hours. The stranger hung back and watched Nikola go to the ticket counter and talk to the booking agent. After a few minutes she came back, waving a pair of boarding passes. Although she was smiling, she still looked painfully wan, like Camille on a day-trip.
"I managed to get us on the next flight! They're first class, though."
"Hey, you can afford it," the stranger said with a shrug.
"I need to call my sister and tell her we're coming."
"I'll watch Ryan for you while you're on the phone."
The stranger waited until Nikola was at the payphone before turning to face the boy. She dropped down onto one knee and touched him lightly on the collarbone. "Ryan, you're going to have to look after your mom. She's been through a lot. She's going to need you to help her try and get back to how she was before—and that might take a long, long time."
"Is she gonna stay old?"
"I wouldn't call your mom old," the stranger smiled crookedly. "But, yes— she'll stay like she is. Which might be a good thing, really. They say the older you get, the wiser you become."
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"Is that true?"
"For some people, yes. But I want you to remember, no matter what happens to you and your mom in the future, only one thing matters: Esher couldn't make her stop loving you. He did everything he could to scrub away her past and make her like him—but she wouldn't give you up. That's what kept her human all this time."
"I know," Ryan said, his voice so soft it was almost lost in the background noise of the terminal. He looked solemnly into the stranger's mirrored eyes. "Will I see you again?"
The stranger shrugged as she stood up, patting the boy on the head. "Who knows, kid? I've got a few good years left to me, and I travel quite a bit. Maybe someday I'll find myself in your neck of the woods.
Look—here comes your mom."
Nikola was smiling even broader than before, her eyes gleaming with a manic sparkle. "I managed to get hold of my sister. I gave her our flight information and she'll be there to meet us at LAX! You've never met your Aunt Kate, have you, Ryan?"
The boy shook his head.
"She's got a son—your Cousin Jeremy—that's a year or two older than you that you can play with. He'll be your friend."
"Cloudy's my friend," Ryan said, glancing down at the copy of Make Way For Ducklings he was carrying.
"Well, he'll be your new friend," Nikola said, her smile suddenly growing brittle.
The stranger handed a fistful of quarters to Ryan. "You've got some time to kill before the flight. Why don't you go to that video arcade over there? Here, knock yourself out."
Ryan tucked his book under one arm and eagerly accepted the offered quarters, scurrying across the concourse much like he had the streets of Deadtown.
"He's a wonderful kid," the stranger said, as she watched the boy plunk his money into one of the video games. "You're very lucky, Nikola."
"I know."
The stranger turned so that her mirrored gaze was focused directly on the dancer. Her voice lost its previously easygoing tone, becoming as hard and unyielding as tempered steel. "Get this straight: I didn't do any of this for you. I did it for Ryan. And if word gets back to me that you've let that child down in any way—I'll come looking for you. You don't want that. Have I made myself understood?"
Nikola's face drained of what little color it possessed. She nodded dumbly, her eyes never leaving the stranger's sunglasses.
"Mom! Mom! Come look!" Ryan called out as he hopped up and down excitedly in front of the game controls.
The stranger glanced over the boy's shoulder at a pair of computer-animated dinosaurs kicking the shit out of each other, sending sprays of pixillated blood flying in every direction.
"Cool."
***
She shouldn't have tampered with Nikola's mind like she did, but she really couldn't find it in her to feel that bad about it. So what if she reached inside Nikola's brain and tweaked the volume on her sense of responsibility a few notches? It wasn't like she was telling her to go out and become a highway sniper. The woman had the maternal instinct and genuine love to make a decent mother—but there was also her chronic poor judgment and tendency for weakness. Esher had recognized those traits from the beginning and preyed on them. Something told her he wasn't the first to do so—but he was certainly the most monstrous.
Come nightfall Nikola and Ryan would be safe and sound in her sister's home in San Luis Obispo.
They'd be facing a new world, one free—at least on the surface—from bloodsucking monsters, while she, on the other hand, would be trying to drain the swamp while up to her ass in alligators.
She grimaced and fought the urge to scratch the stump of her left pinkie. The damn things always itched like hell when they grew back.
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10
Esher emerged from his hibernation, his thoughts racing at much the same speed as when he last closed his eyes against the coming dawn. The events of the night before remained fresh in his mind. He would have to move quickly if he was to secure his position against Sinjon and the Council. Of the two, the Council was his greater concern. Although he was confident in his abilities as a wizard, there was but one of him. However, he had crafted numerous spells and contracts over the years, and he was not without his friends in low places, so to speak. While he might not be able to overthrow the Council of Vienna, he had no doubt that he could successfully defy them.
These were his thoughts as he climbed out of his casket to greet the evening. The coffin was specially designed so that the side was on a hinge and would drop away when the lid was unlocked and lifted from the inside. As he climbed out, Esher reflected on how he would soon need to requisition a larger version, so that Nikola might sleep alongside him. Granted, her inexplicable aging had confused and angered him, but the passion he felt for the pale dancer remained as before.
He was at a loss to explain his obsession with the human, even to himself.
But that is how it has always been with Kindred and their consorts. The fascination burns bright and strong, and although it is not true love, it gives off enough light and heat to pass for the real thing. Only during these passing moments of mad fancy did Esher feel alive. There was a time, long decades past, when he had been similarly obsessed with Decima—and Bakil.
Esher did not like thinking about Bakil. She was his first progeny—and his greatest mistake. He did not like dwelling on the errors of his past. Perhaps what bothered him most was how her visage would sometimes come to him unbidden, in a moment's quiet. In life she had been a beer-hall songstress, singing for pennies in the Bowery's rowdy houses. Her name had not been Bakil then—that was the name she took upon her resurrection, to symbolize her break with the world of the living. In those days she went by the name of Black Nan. Her hair was black as a raven's wing; and her skin, when scrubbed of the coal-dust and filth of the Lower East Side, was as white as the flesh of an apple. It was her voice, however, that first drew him to her. He was walking down the crowded sidewalks, in 1879, searching for that evening's prey, when he heard what sounded like an angel lost among the damned. He went in and out of the myriad dives lining the street until he came to one with straw and sawdust spread across the floor to sop up the beer, vomit and blood that might be spilled. And there, amid the squalor, he found an eleven-year-old girl standing on the bar and singing for the pennies pitched her way by drunken miscreants, while her father stood by, drinking what meager wages she earned as quickly as he could. The sodden oaf was eager to pimp her to any taker for the price of a bottle of rotgut.