A Dozen Black Roses (30 page)

The door to the interrogation room was unlocked. She stepped inside. It was very much as she had left it the night before—except that Decima's body had been removed and someone had scrawled on the wall in human blood: He's with me.

***

Esher sat beneath the stained-glass window suspended over his chair of office, one boot resting on Cloudy's body. The old hippie's beard was bright red and his left eye and cheek were so swollen it looked as if someone had surgically inserted a grapefruit under his skin, but he seemed to be breathing. Kindred and Pointers alike lined the walls of the audience chamber, their eyes glittering like those of rats in a sewer.

"Let him go, Esher," the stranger said. "You've got me here—he's nothing to you now."

"On the contrary, my beauty," Esher grinned, nudging Cloudy with the toe of his boot. "He means everything to me. After all, he was the brat's protector. That must mean he knows where Nikola is."

"Nikola's dead. She died in the Black Lodge."

"Don't piss on my head and tell me it's raining, bitch!" Esher snarled. "If Sinjon had her, he would have tossed her out the nearest window after the first three minutes! No, I realize now that my beloved's abduction was your doing, not his. I don't know why you wished to maneuver Sinjon and myself into a jyhad—did you think we would destroy one another, leaving Deadtown for you to take over? Is that it?

Are you a mammal conspiring beneath the feet of dinosaurs?"

"You wouldn't understand my motivations if I told you. But you're right about one thing—I came here with the express purposes of getting rid of both you and Sinjon."

Esher stood up and stepped away from Cloudy, glowering balefully. "Who are you, woman? Did the Camarilla send you? Are you one of their Archons?"

"The Camarilla!" She turned her head and spat. "I have as much love for the Camarilla as I do for you, Esher!"

"Answer me, damn you! Who are you! Tell me your name!"

"You want to know who I am? I am the shadow that monsters fear! I am the nightmare that haunts the dreams of the dead! Look into the darkest corner of your black heart, and you will find me there! I am the slayer of the dead, the destroyer of the Damned! I am that which you fear above all things—I am your death, Esher!"

The assembled audience whispered among themselves, shifting about uneasily. Esher gestured for silence with a sharp cut of his hand. "Big talk for a little traitor!" he sneered. "Do you think your brag impresses me, anarch? Who are you to challenge me? Me—! A wizard of the Tremere! I am prince of this city—and your knee will bow to me!" He stepped to the edge of the dais and stabbed downward with his index finger. "You heard me, bitch—I command you to bow down before me!"

She could feel his will inside her, hammering away at her self-control. It felt as if an invisible hand had grasped the back of her neck and was trying to force her head down, but still she refused to budge.

Esher's eyes flashed angrily at her defiance, and he redoubled his efforts. "I said—bow!"

The audience echoed their master's cry, their voices merged as one: "Bowl Bow! Bow!"

The stranger set her jaw and grimaced as her muscles fought among themselves. It felt as if she were

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) playing tug-of-war with piano wire. Esher's will burned inside her like a red-hot coal, worrying her mind with the savagery of a pit bull. She staggered under the psychic onslaught, but stood her ground, grimacing from the exertion.

"Defy me all you like, traitor!" Esher snarled. "It will do you no good! Kneel before me, and at least I will grant you an easy death!"

One of Esher's thralls darted forward and grabbed the stranger by the hair. "You heard Lord Esher!

Kneel, bitch! Kneel before your master!"

The stranger drove her elbow into the vampire's ribcage, forcing him to let go of her hair. She then grabbed him in a headlock and turned it a full 360 degrees. The vampire's neck made a noise like fresh celery being snapped as his head popped off in her hands. She drop-kicked the grisly trophy at Esher, who instinctively caught it.

"You meddlesome fool!" he growled at the severed head. "I didn't need your help to bend her to my will!"

The severed head opened its mouth to apologize, but there were no lungs to fuel the larynx. Its eyes darted about for a second, as if realizing for the first time its situation, then glazed over. Esher snorted in disgust and tossed the dead thing over his shoulder.

The stranger stood surrounded by Esher's minions, who pressed forward with a hungry gleam in their dark-adapted eyes. They strained toward her, licking their lips and tittering among themselves like bats.

"Get away from her!" Esher bellowed as he waded through the crowd, booting Kindred and Pointer aside. "She's mine!" The others scuttled out of his way, lowering their heads in deference.

Now Esher and the stranger stood on equal ground, separated by less than ten feet. She and the vampire lord began to move, each cautiously circling the other in a counterclockwise position, like wary panthers locked in a cage. Esher growled deep in his throat, his eyes burning like twin hellfires.

The stranger pulled her right hand from her pocket and the silver blade leapt from her fist. Esher's eyes widened in surprise and alarm, but he stood his ground. The stranger darted forward, slicing at Esher's chest, only to find he had sidestepped her, turning on his heel with the grace of a matador caping a bull.

"You're fast, traitor—but are you fast enough?" he jeered, lifting a hand that glowed with crimson fire.

He feinted, grabbing at her with burning fingers. She pirouetted like a jewel-box ballerina on a mirror lake, narrowly avoiding contact with the blood-wizard. She came out of the spin, slashing at Esher, but he whirled out of reach.

Esher's followers watched from the sidelines, hooting and chanting as the two vampires danced their deadly challenge. This was far more arousing than anything that had ever graced the runways of the Dance Macabre.

The stranger darted forward and Esher moved to meet her, catching her right wrist in an iron-hard grip.

The stranger bit back a cry of pain as liquid fire shot up her arm. The pain was excruciating—it felt as if an acetylene torch was being held to her arm. She tried to wrench herself free, but it was no good. Esher would not let go, no matter how she struggled. Her fingers spasmed open and the switchblade fell to the floor. Esher grinned and quickly kicked it out of reach. The members of the enclave gasped and quickly moved out of the way, for fear of being nicked by the deadly silver blade.

"You are indeed strong and clever, traitor," Esher leered as he tightened his grip. "But you never stood a chance against me—just like that mincing old museum piece, Sinjon! You are nothing compared to me!

Nothing!"

She could feel her blood burning her veins and scalding her arteries. It was as if acid were sluicing through her—or magma. Tears of blood began oozing from her eyes, leaving crimson streaks as they rolled down her cheeks. Steam leaked from her ears and nostrils. The Tremere's blood-magic would boil her brain until it had the consistency of a pudding; her organs would cook and rupture like sausages in a microwave. It was a horrible way to die, even for the dead.

She swooned, dropping to her knees. Esher let her wrist drop and grabbed her throat, holding her head so that her blood-filled eyes could not look away from his face.

"See? I told you you would kneel before me, my beauty! But what to do with you—? Shall I use your skull as my winecup? Or shall I dissect you, piece by piece—a kidney here, a uterus there—but do it slowly, letting you regenerate just enough so that you never die? Yes, that has a certain appeal, don't you think? You have cost me much that was dear to me, traitor. It will take me years to find and train another Decima—" A slow smile spread across his face. "Yes, that's it! I will use you to replace Decima! I will

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) make you my thrall, and force you to serve me as your liege-lord. You bear a close enough resemblance; there will only have to be a few cosmetic changes. Then I will change your name, whatever it is, to Decima, and you will be Decima! It will be as if she never died—and you never existed!"

"No! Not that! Anything but that!" the stranger gasped. "I beg of you!"

"Your cries for mercy will do you no good, traitor!" The pulsing energy shrouding Esher's hands flickered and died, but he maintained his grip on the stranger's throat. He motioned with his free hand to one of his nearby thralls. "Bring me the claive!"

The lackey scurried to the dais and quickly returned with the ritual knife.

Esher held his left wrist out and the thrall sliced into the exposed flesh, gasping at the sight of his master's blood slowly welling from the gaping lips of the fresh wound.

Esher pushed his bleeding wrist against the stranger's lips. She shook her head and tried to pull away, but was held fast. "No—please! Don't do this to me!" she begged.

"Take this, my blood! Drink and be bound to me, now and forever! Drink and be one with my flesh, one with my will! Drink—and be damned!"

"Drink it! Drink it! Drink it!" the others chanted.

The stranger's eyes closed as she took Esher's blood into her mouth. She moaned in abandon and reached up of her own volition to grasp his wrist and arm. Esher's grin grew even wider than before. Now she was under thrall to him, subject to his every whim and command. This was better than killing her. Much better. Death was far too easy and swift a punishment to mete out to the likes of her. The complete and utter destruction of her mind and soul, however, was another thing entirely. To erase her identity and turn her into a continuation of his beloved Decima was inspired by his centuries-dead father's fondness for replacing his gun-dogs and wives with look-alikes, in order to create the illusion of them being the same creatures.

Esher moved to pull his wrist away from her feeding mouth, but the stranger refused to let go. Her grip tightened and she began draining the wound in earnest. A look of alarm flickered across Esher's face as he attempted to pull away a second time.

"That's enough!" he whispered hoarsely. "Let go!"

The stranger opened her eyes, peering up at him over the rims of her sunglasses, but continued drinking.

A mantle of purple-black light crackled about her head and shoulders, like the halo of a fallen angel.

"Let go!" Esher yelled, grabbing her hair with his free hand. The dark energy flared and spat like a bug-light, causing him to jerk his hand away. His fingers and palm looked as if he'd just stuck them in a deep-fryer.

The orgasmic rush that came with the sharing of blood had disappeared, to be replaced by a feeling of genuine panic. "Don't just stand there!" he shrieked at his gathered minions. "Get her off me!"

The vampire who handed Esher the claive came forward, grabbing the stranger's jacket collar. Then he spontaneously combusted. His fellow Kindred drew away, hissing as they shielded their faces against the blaze. After a minute of shrieking and gesticulating, he fell over and stopped making noise. Meanwhile, the stranger was still feeding and Esher's hair was starting to turn gray.

"Fuck this shit!" one of the Pointers said.

"I hear you, man," replied another.

"Get her off me! I command you!" Esher wailed.

Two more thralls came forward, and two more burst into flames. Only these were a lot more athletic than the first—they dove directly into the crowd, igniting several of their fellow Kindred with their death-throes. Within seconds the audience chamber was full of rapidly burning vampires, running around in frantic circles as the flames consumed their immortality.

Esher gave out a sob of pain and dropped to his knees, too weak to stand. The stranger broke off her feeding, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, and got to her feet.

"Oh, please don't throw me in that brier patch, Br'er Fox!" she laughed. "Anything but the brier patch!"

Esher tried to drag himself away, but he was far too frail. In place of the powerfully built, virile vampire lord was a rail-thin old man with jaundiced, liver-spotted skin and thinning white hair. His fingernails were long and hooked, like those of a bird of prey, and his face was that of a cadaver.

"What are you?" he rasped, his voice as dry as parchment.

"I am the vampire who feeds on vampires," she replied. "And I have tasted your blood—and found it good."

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) Esher lifted a bony hand to his face, whether in self-defense or to blot out the sight of his doom was uncertain, as she pulled him into a brutal parody of a lover's embrace, her face pressed close to his. He flinched at the sight of her exposed fangs.

"You should feel honored, Esher," she smiled. "You're only the second vampire I have consumed. My first was my own sire. And, I may add, you are much better than he was."

"Please—let me go—I'll give you anything—everything!"

"If I set you free, would you let Cloudy and myself leave Deadtown unharmed?"

"Yes! Of course!"

"Would you leave Nikola and Ryan alone?"

"I swear by my blood I will never seek her out ever again!"

The stranger loosened her grip on Esher without letting him go, studying the vampire lord's aged features. "I'll tell you what—" she said, after a pause. "You're one lying son-of-a-bitch."

Her fangs drove into Esher's jugular like a tap into a keg. The blood that flowed from him was thick and dark and had the consistency of motor oil. And it tasted sweeter than any she'd ever known. She'd told him the truth—he was good.

The deeper she drank, the faster the vampire lord aged. His lips turned black and withered, pulling away from his gums in a hideous rictus. His skin flaked away in large sheets, while his hair, nails and teeth loosened from their moorings and fell like autumn leaves.