A Dozen Black Roses (29 page)

Please excuse me. I'll be in the bell tower if you need me."

***

Cloudy scanned the alley, switching the cooler from his right to his left hand. The streets were unusually empty, even by Deadtown's standards. Still, taking a stroll wasn't the safest thing to be doing this time of night—but he had no choice. Tracking down the black-market blood dealer ended up taking up most of the day. By the time he finally made the buy and was on his way back to Deadtown, the sun was already setting. He'd promised to get the shipment to her, and he meant to stick to his word. And judging from what the priest had said, something told him she wasn't going to last the night without an infusion. Now all he had to do was make it to St. Everhild's without getting nabbed by Esher's goons__

As he stepped out of the alley, a burly Pointer materialized from the shadows, blocking his way.

"Yo! Look what we got here, cuz!"

A second, equally large Pointer emerged from the darkness behind Cloudy. "Looks like we got ourselves a curfew violator. Hey, old man! Don't you know you're under martial law?"

Cloudy shifted uneasily, trying to keep his eyes on both men as they moved to circle him. "Martial law?

Under whose order?"

"Who else do you think, sucka? King Hell hisself—Lord Esher, the fuckin' king of Deadtown!" grinned the first Pointer. He jabbed a thick finger at the cooler Cloudy was carrying. "Whatchoo got there, motherfucker? We're to search and interrogate anyone we find on the street after sundown."

"Nothing you'd be interested in—just let me go, okay?"

The second Pointer loomed closer, scowling menacingly. "He asked you what's in the fuckin' cooler, old man. Mebbe we just take us a look-see. "

Cloudy sliced at the first Pointer's hand with his Buck knife, nearly severing the bigger man's thumb.

The gangbanger grabbed his hand as blood spurted forth, looking more surprised than hurt.

"Motherfucker!"

Cloudy shot past the Pointer blocking his way, but the one behind him was too close. He felt the air leave him in a solid rush as the second man tackled him, driving him to the ground with bone-jarring force. He cried out as his shoulderblade snapped.

The first Pointer, the one holding his thumb, kicked Cloudy hard enough to lift him off the ground.

"Motherfucker cut me!" he shrilled. "I'll fuckin' kill his ass!"

A third Pointer came trotting up out of the darkness, drawn to the yells and sounds of struggle. "What's goin' on here?"

"This asshole fuckin' cut me! That's what's goin' on!" the wounded Pointer snarled, delivering another vicious kick to Cloudy's midsection.

"What's in the cooler?"

"Dunno," the second Pointer said with a shrug. "Old fucker didn't want us to look. Probably his hooch.

Ain't nothin' left now but the hardcore alkies and junkies."

"So why don't we take a peek at what Gramps here didn't want us t'see?" The third Pointer grinned down at where Cloudy lay half-conscious, blood staining his beard. "Is that what you got stashed in here, old-timer? A six-pack of Olde Sterno?" His grin faltered as he reached inside and withdrew a plastic bag full of human plasma. "Take him to Lord Esher. Now."

***

Esher sat on his throne atop his dais, chin resting on his doubled fist, and stared into nowhere. It was supposed to be better than this. After long years of scheming, he was finally the unchallenged prince of Deadtown. The entire Eastern Seaboard's illegal drug and gun trades were now his, and his alone. After decades of waiting, he was finally one of—if not the—most powerful princes in America. But instead of experiencing the joy and satisfaction that come from grinding an enemy into dust, he felt only emptiness.

What good did his triumph over Sinjon do him without Nikola and Decima to share in his success? The stranger eluding capture made his situation all the more galling. He did not relish being played for a fool.

The mirror-eyed bitch was going to pay dearly for what she cost him—dearly indeed.

"Lord Esher!"

He glanced up from his reverie to frown at the Pointer holding a plastic cooler. "What is it? Can't you see

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) I'm busy?"

"We captured a prisoner, milord—one we thought you should see for yourself." The Pointer holding the cooler motioned to his companions, who dragged the bleeding and bruised Cloudy into the audience chamber. "We found this piece of shit breaking curfew. He attacked us when we asked to look inside the cooler he was carrying."

"Let me see that," Esher snapped. He took out the chilled bags of plasma, studying the labels like a wine connoisseur before dropping them back into the container. "Bring him closer."

The Pointers dragged the groggy hippie forward, forcing him to kneel before the vampire lord.

"I recognize you," Esher said. "You were the one who tried to rescue the boy. The one I told her to destroy. Tell me where she is, old one, and I'll let you live."

"Get bent, you rat bastard!" Cloudy spat. "You're not getting a thing outta me!"

Esher's smile was as thin and sharp as a razor. "I wouldn't be so certain, if I were you."

***

The stranger sat propped in the church pew, staring at the shadows cast by the flickering light of the votive candles. She hoped Cloudy showed up soon. Every beat of her heart was growing perceptibly fainter. It was strange, feeling yourself die one cell at a time. She wondered how long it would continue before her consciousness would finally be obliterated. Maybe it wouldn't. Perhaps that was the curse of the undead—to die and remain sentient the whole while, experiencing your own rot yet helpless to stop it.

That was a cheery thought.

There was a loud bang as the door to the bell tower slammed open and Father Eamon hurried into the church. He was gasping noisily and his face was beet red.

"They've got him!" he gasped.

"They got who?" She struggled to sit up straight, but the exertion was too much for her.

"Cloudy! I saw it from the bell tower! They captured him!" The stranger slumped even further in the pew.

"That's it, then."

"You don't think he'll tell Esher where you are, do you?"

"That's beside the point. Without that blood, I'm as good as dead. " She pulled herself up onto wobbly legs, grimacing from the exertion. "I guess there's no point in delaying the inevitable..."

Father Eamon moved to block her path. "Where are you going?"

"I've got to help Cloudy."

"But you said you don't stand a chance without the blood!"

"Father, I can't sit here and let him die! He risked his life trying to help me—I've got to get him out of that hellhole! Now, please—get out of my way. Let me do what I've got to do." She pushed past Father Eamon and staggered into the aisle. Squaring her shoulders against the pain, she took a step forward—and collapsed.

Father Eamon knelt beside her, rolling her limp body over so she lay cradled in his arms. He gingerly removed the mirrored sunglasses, flinching at the sight of her blood-filled eyes with their elongated, reptilian-slit pupils.

"You're dying."

"So I noticed," she whispered.

"You need blood." He glanced up at the Virgin Mary, then at the crucifix suspended over the demolished altar. There were no miraculous tears or dripping stigmata to be seen, but he no longer needed such crude signposts to show him the way. He calmly reached up and removed the clerical collar from his neck.

"Take mine."

The stranger's eyes widened, revealing even more blood-filled whites. "Father, you don't know what you're saying—"

"Yes, I do. For the first time in years, I know exactly what I'm saying. I don't know if you are a thing of Heaven or Hell, but I have no doubt as to Esher's origins. There is much I don't know or understand, but I know one thing for certain: all that has gone before in my life was to bring me to this place, so that I would be the one kneeling beside you at this moment. No one else could make this sacrifice but me."

He pulled her closer, lifting her head so that it rested on his shoulder like a sleeping child's. She closed her eyes, trying to blot out the sight of his veins pulsing in his neck. She could smell his blood, lurking just beneath his skin. She could hear his blood rushing through his arteries with every pulse of his heart.

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) Her fangs ached to plunge into his bared throat.

"Father—no—don't do this to me. Don't make me kill you," she whispered as she tried to pull free of his embrace.

"You needn't worry about that. I've been dead for years. I died with Christopher."

She licked her lips, her tongue flickering across the skin of his throat. He tasted of sweat and dirt and human. She trembled as she felt her resolve give way to the voracious need within her. She opened her mouth wider, and her fangs unsheathed themselves.

Do it, the Other's voice hissed inside her ear. If he is so desperate to martyr himself—let him! We'll die if you don't—and then where will we be? Heaven? Hell? Or back where we started, all those years ago?

Father Eamon jerked when her fangs first penetrated him, then relaxed as the natural anesthetic in her saliva began to kick in. He could feel his blood being drained, but it was all very painless—even pleasant.

It felt better than the buzz from a bottle of whiskey. There was no fear, no anger, no hate—only the dreamy detachment that comes the split-second you realize you are falling asleep.

He turned his gaze to the plaster Virgin and saw tears of milk and blood streaming down her cracked and peeling cheeks. Something fluttered in his chest like a piece of paper caught on barbed wire, and he heard something that sounded like the beating of muffled wings. Father Eamon looked up toward the roof-beams and saw Christopher sitting on one of the rafters, surrounded by a host of white doves, kicking his tiny legs back and forth. He smiled down at Father Eamon and waved.

***

The stranger licked the blood from her mouth as Father Eamon's head rolled lifelessly on its neck. She could not remember the last time a kill had died so easily. His pale features seemed peaceful, almost beatific, in the flickering light from the votive candles.

She could feel her body regenerating itself, her strength returning. She still wasn't in peak condition, but there was no helping that. She was sound enough to give Esher her best shot. She got to her feet, lifting Father Eamon's body effortlessly in her arms.

She placed the priest's body atop the altar, folding his hands across his chest. She looped his rosary about his neck and arranged the votive candles so that they formed the stations of the cross. She took her switchblade and carved into the wood of the altar this epitaph:

"Here Lies Saint Eamon—Protector of the Damned."

Chapter
12

The House of Esher stood stark and alone amid the nibble of Deadtown, its bulk silhouetted ominously against the rising moon. The graveyard quiet of its surroundings made it seem even more like a mammoth tomb—a place where the dead held sway and which the living shunned. The checkpoints were no more, and a handful of guards loitered on the curb outside the House, smoking cigarettes and talking among themselves in hushed voices.

The stranger watched them from the shadows for a long moment, pondering her options. Was it worth going into overdrive to handle these goons? Ghostwalking ate up a lot of energy reserves, and she didn't have much to spare. And the moment she set foot across the threshold, Esher would know she was there.

The element of surprise would be over before it could begin. No—she needed a different entrance.

She crawled down into one of the open cellars that dotted the block like bomb craters. Halfway down, she realized there were dead bodies littering the bottom. The Pointers who had survived the riot and the assault on Sinjon's stronghold were using it as a mass grave, tossing their fallen comrades into the open cellar in lieu of actual burial. Although the stench was bad, it was nowhere near what it would be after another day or two.

She shifted through the corpses until she found the tunnel entrance, which was about the size of a manhole cover. Such a small tunnel probably meant it wasn't used very often, which suited her just fine.

The walls of the tunnel were not shored up with planking of any kind, as if it had been clawed out of the earth by a huge burrowing creature, and she had to lie on her belly and worm her way forward on her elbows through the darkness. As she crept along, she hoped she wouldn't come face-to-face with one of Esher's enclave worming his way in the opposite direction. Things were complicated enough already.

After several long, claustrophobic minutes, she finally saw something resembling light. Carefully edging

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) herself forward, she found herself peering out into the far end of the subterranean vault that served as the barracks for Esher's recruits. The huge room appeared to be empty of Kindred. She quietly slipped out of the tunnel, brushing the dirt from her hair and clothes with a couple of brisk swipes of her hand.

Now that she was inside, she had to find out where they were holding Cloudy prisoner—and in this crazed funhouse, there was no telling where he could be. Her best bet was to find the dungeon where she had been taken for interrogation, which had been in one of the corridors off the main catacomb. As she retraced her steps from the night before, she felt Esher's blood pulsing inside her like a second heart.

While she was weak, the summoning had been easier to ignore, but now it was almost as insistent as the Other's malign influence.

In a perverse way, the Other had prepared her for dealing with the likes of Esher. She'd spent so many years learning to subvert her vampiric personality, she recognized the blood-wizard's attempts at controlling her for what they truly were. A weaker vampire would have mistaken Esher's desires for his own and acted without a second thought.