Darkest Heart (8 page)

"Cut the shit, Jen! I'm in no mood! Who is he?"

Jen struggles to lift his head, and spits out a clod of dirt before he speaks. "His name is Estes! Jack Estes!"

"What else do you know about him?"

"That he's bad news!"

"And I'm not?"

Sometimes my loathing of renfields overwhelms me, and when it does, Jen bears the brunt of it. I always end up feeling bad about it, because it's not really his fault. Unlike the human Judas goats who seek out their dark masters, Jen genuinely can't help being what he is. A vampire bit his mother while she was in the early stages of pregnancy, thereby tainting him in the womb. Technically, he's a dhampire - sort of a supernatural half-breed, ostracized by both species. In many ways, we have a lot in common.

I remove my foot from his neck and motion for him to stand. "Get up. I don't want you getting off on this any more than you have already."

Jen scowls at the grass stains on his crushed velour pants with genuine dismay. "Look at these trousers!

Do you have any idea what the dry cleaning bill is going to be?"

"I'm sure you can afford it, what with the cash you've been making peddling information to this Estes."

"What makes you think I've got dealings with him? I just said that I knew his name, that's all."

"Come off it, Jen! Remember who you're talking to here. We're family, right? We're just like this, aren't we?" I hold up my hand and cross my fore and middle fingers. "You've been acting as a stalking horse for this Estes bloke, am I right? I know you rent yourself out as a double agent to vampires from time to time, so why not another vampire hunter?"

"I'm not a stalking horse," he replied petulantly. "I provide consultant work, if you don't mind."

"You can call it synchronized cat-flinging for all I care. All that matters is that you've got a working relationship with this Estes. That means he's more likely to trust you."

Jen fixes me with a cautious eye. "Are you going to kill him?"

"No."

"Is that your final answer?"

With its penchant for corpse-pale make-up, heavy eyeliner, black clothing, and eccentrically morbid behavior, the Goth scene is perfect camouflage for vampires and an excellent recruiting ground for minions. And as much as he loathed minions, Estes had to admit they had their uses.

When the pallid little man with the elaborate dreadlocks had first sidled up to him and whispered, "I know

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) what you need," Estes had assumed he was being solicited for either sex or drugs. When he'd attempted to brush his un wanted companion off, the slighter man had smiled slyly, his eyes gleaming like those of a fox in the brush, and pointed at a youngish man with a shaved head and a tinted monocle who was cruising the dance floor.

"That one is hundred and seventy-six years old. He claims to have been a viscount in the Austro-Hungarian court. He lies. I have it on good authority he was a Polish swineherd."

The minion's name was Jen and he claimed to have once served a powerful vampire lord, but had become embittered toward vampire society by his treatment after his patron's demise. Apparently vampires have little interest in taking into their service minions who were not "loyal" enough to follow their masters to the grave. From that evening on Estes had paid to use Jen's considerable knowledge to his own advantage.

Despite their mutually beneficial agreement, there was still something deeply repulsive about Jen, although Estes couldn't exactly put his finger on just what it was. The man was simply intrinsically wrong somehow, and he managed to stir an instinctual dislike within Estes. It was the same disquiet humans felt when in the presence of a spider or a snake.

Estes scanned the crowded bar and caught sight of his contact standing at the farthest end of the rail, his appearance as outlandish as usual.

"Jen," he said flatly, nodding his head in polite acknowledgement.

Jen looked up from his drink, his eyes flashing the same feral fire Estes had glimpsed at their first meeting. "What is you want from me, Jack?" he asked, his words slurred by alcohol.

"Information."

"What kind of information?" The minion smiled wryly, using an overlong fingernail to stir the ice cubes in his drink.

Estes glanced about, making sure they weren't being watched, and leaned in close. "Have you ever heard of the Blue Woman?"

Jen regarded him in silence for a long moment, and then chuckled humorlessly. "I take it you're not talking about Picasso."

"What has that to do with anything?" Estes snapped. "I'm in no mood for your being clever tonight.

Answer the question: yes or no?"

Jen sighed and nodded his head, causing the beads woven into his braids to click like dice in a cup. "Yes, I've heard of her."

"Do you know how I can get in touch?"

Jen eyed him for a long moment, as if deciding whether or not to answer. "Are you sure that's what you want? Beware of what you ask for, Jack. You might just get it."

Estes regarded the smaller man carefully. "Are you telling me you can arrange a meeting with her?"

"If that's what you really want, yes."

"You still haven't answered my question. Can you arrange a rendezvous?"

"Of course I can," Jen replied as he sipped his drink. "The Blue Woman and me, we're like this." He held up his left hand. He had somehow managed to wrap his pinkie over his ring finger. "We're family."

"Is that so?" Estes replied, still dubious.

"Would I lie to you?"

"Probably. How come you've never mentioned to me that you know her?"

"You never asked before now."

Estes shrugged. He couldn't argue with him there. "Is she a genuine vampire slayer?"

"As real as it gets, my friend. She hates vampires more than you do."

"I seriously doubt that," Estes sniffed. "What are you laughing at?"

"You'll find out," Jen said, trying hard to suppress another snicker.

Denny's might seem like an unlikely rendezvous spot for vampire hunters, but think about it for a minute: they're open twenty-four hours and most are conveniently located near major traffic arteries, just in case you have to make that ever-popular quick getaway. Besides, given the clientele that usually occupies the orange and brown booths after midnight, customers like Mr. Estes and me barely merit a second glance

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) from the wait staff.

The parley, as arranged through Jen, is to occur at midnight, but I chose to show up a half-hour early, just in case I'm walking into a trap. I'm not surprised to find Estes already awaiting me, but I am slightly impressed.

He's sitting alone in the farthest corner booth, his back to the wall, dressed much as I first saw him, a solitary cup of black coffee in front of him. Even in repose he's as tight as a steel spring. I have no doubt that he is armed, and I know he thinks the same of me. And he's right, of course.

His eyes follow me as I approach, watching for telltale body language or sudden movement. His gaze flickers to my shoulder. Confusion, as fleeting as a summer cloud, crosses his face.

"May I sit down?" I ask, gesturing to the empty bench. He nods but says nothing. I slide in opposite him.

A waitress with a weary expression and sagging pantyhose moves to take my order. I point to my companion's drink and she returns a moment later with a white ceramic mug and a half-empty Bunn pot.

The coffee smells of scorched grounds. Neither of us moves or speaks until the waitress has returned to her station behind the counter.

"You are the Blue Woman." It is not a question.

"I have been called that. My name is Sonja. Sonja Blue."

His eyes go back to my shoulder. "I shot you the other night, but you're not wounded. Do you wear a Kevlar vest?"

"No.

The furrows on his brow deepen.

"Look, forget the shooting, okay?" I say, cutting him off before he can ask anything else. "I didn't agree to meet with you to compare notes. I'm here to talk you into giving up this madness. You've been lucky, so far. But that luck will eventually fail you. Despite everything you think you know, you are in no position to truly combat these things."

A flash of anger darkens his eyes. "Who are you to tell me what I do and don't know? I'm hardly a novice on the matter; I've been hunting these creatures for five years! I know if I shoot them with a silver bullet, they die. I know that if I take their heads, they stay dead. I know that if I touch them with a crucifix, they burn."

I shake my head, fighting the urge to laugh. "Everything stays dead if you chop off its head. As to burning them with a crucifix, religious icons have no effect on them."

"Mine does," he says, the muscle in his jaw jumping. I extend my hand. "Let me see it."

Estes casts his searchlight gaze about the diner, then reaches into the interior right breast pocket of his duster and retrieves an ornately detailed antique silver crucifix measuring a foot in length. I take the relic from him, turning it over carefully in my hands. It is weighted so that it can bludgeon as well as bless.

"I bought it from a dealer in rare objects," Estes explains. "He claimed it was a specially designed for use by the Inquisition and blessed by Pope Sixtus IV."

"I know what it is," I reply curtly. "It was used to administer church-sanctioned beatings of heretics and those accused of witchcraft. Breaking bones with a blessed object was believed to pain the demon that possessed those under the Question and guaranteed that no imp could enter the wound after the fact." I return the witch-breaker to him, wiping my hands with one of the paper napkins from the dispenser on the table. "They burn because it's silver, not because it's a crucifix. Not even because it was blessed by a Pope."

Estes stares at the crucifix for a long moment as if truly seeing it for the first time, then carefully returns it to its place within his coat.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," I say, shaking my head in disgust. "Your understanding of their abilities and weaknesses, while impressive, is seriously flawed. You're good, but you're still just human.

There are only a handful who possesses the ability to truly see these creatures for what they are, and most are madder than hatters. I can tell from looking at you that you don't possess extrasensory perception, so I'm assuming your awareness must come from personal contact."

A startled look flashes across his face, as quick as a deer leaping in front of a speeding car, then disappears. "Who told you that?"

I sigh and roll my eyes. People more intense than me wear me out. "Didn't you hear what I just said?

Don't get paranoid on me, friend. I don't know a thing about you except what Jen has told me. But give me credit for adding two and two together and not getting five, okay?"

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"You say I've been lucky so far. That's bullshit! I've got over twenty kills under my belt. That's more than just luck! You keep saying I'm just human. So what the hell does that make you?"

"Come now, boy," I smile, flashing him a glimpse of fang. "Surely you know by now it takes one to know one."

Estes' hand goes to the concealed holster nestled in his left armpit, but I grab his wrist and pin it to the table with enough force to slosh cooling coffee into the saucers.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Mr. Estes." I keep my voice even and low, as if calming a skittish animal. While I make sure the pressure on his wrist isn't painful for now, there's no way he can lift his hand without breaking his arm. "There are too many witnesses here, for one." I nod to the trio of college students sipping coffee and eating pie two booths over. "Neither of us is interested in harming uninvolved parties."

"Since when has your kind ever cared about harming the innocent?" He spits the words out as if they've curdled in his mouth.

"I am not one of them," I reply, trying to keep the anger from my voice. "Didn't I just handle your blessed silver crucifix?"

He relaxes slightly, but remains tense, his brows knit in consternation. "Then what are you, if you're not undead?"

I shrug and let go of his wrist. He yanks it away, studying it cautiously, like a man counting his fingers after a close encounter with a crocodile.

"All I can tell you is that I am Sonja Blue, and I have been a vampire hunter for thirty years."

Estes stops massaging his wrist and tilts his head to one side. "Thirty - ? How old are you?"

"Forty-seven."

"You don't look it."

It takes me a moment to realize he is attempting humor. I smile crookedly. "Thanks."

A long, uncomfortable silence falls between us. His eyes flicker over me, trying to decipher the enigma before him via whatever Rosetta Stone he has based his world upon. I skim the surface of his mind, careful not to create ripples that would alert him to my presence. I see hungry, dead eyes and a grinning mouth set in a dark face.

"You're looking for one vampire in particular."

Estes' eyes narrow in suspicion.

"Don't worry. I'm not a mind-reader," I say, lying to his face. "It's just that those who hunt the undead have their reasons, and it's usually revenge. It certainly was in my case."

Curiosity replaces the suspicion in Estes' eyes. "Tell me about it."

I shrug. "It's the same old story. Girl has the world on a string. Girl meets handsome Prince Charming.

Prince Charming turns into rapist hell-beast. Girl wakes up from a coma a year later with fangs and a thirst for blood. Girl spends the next twenty-something years trying to track down the bastard who stole her life and future away from her."

Estes leans forward in his seat, his gaze focused on me as tight as a laser. "Did you find him?"

"Yes. More than once, actually."

"Did you kill him?" His breathing has become as ragged as that of an obscene phone caller's.