The Living Night (Book 2) (16 page)

"It's a waste of fighting men."

He shrugged. "Wanna watch?"

"No, Loirot. I'm hungry and I want to go.
Now."

She rose from her seat and pulled him by his
lapels. Probably more afraid that she'd tear his suit than that she could
actually harm him, Loirot stood up and looked indignant.

"Don't do that," he said.

"Well?"

"All right, all
right.
Let's go."

*
    
*
    
*

Harry
Lavaca wanted to find a place to drink.

He'd worked up a thirst wandering around down in
the catacombs, exploring their various sections—the prisoners' area, the quarter
where Sarnova's honored dead were kept, the place reserved for great art
exhibits—in which Harry had seen, among other things, Junger and Jagoda's
so-called Tree of Death.
A tree of bones rising in the center
of a circle of corpses, its roots springing from the feet of the deceased.
Nice. Some day, Harry thought, he would have to meet these Balaklava.
He'd pretty much given up his pastime of killing immortals, unless he got word
of one that was particularly evil, one that had some weak spot he could
exploit. He didn't know what weak spot the Last of the Roving Balaklava might
have, but they certainly matched his requirement.

The problem with getting something to drink, he
knew from his previous few days of incarceration—if that was the right word—was
that, though there
were
several barrooms in the castle, only one served
to his kind, the living, but as it was located conveniently near one of the
mass latrines, its smell was less than lofty.

Nevertheless, Harry intended to seek it out,
although he had never found it easily yet. Maybe today he would remember the
way.

The halls teemed with activity, and he assumed
that the fighting must be over for the night. When the Arena was in session,
there were very few shades roaming about, which lent the castle a strangely
vacant feeling. In a place this size, it was amazing how few people there
actually were here. If this were a castle run by mortals, it would be bustling,
overflowing. Every room would be in use.

But immortals were few in the world, and this
castle was built on a very large scale—even for humans—and the small fraction
of undead that made their way here was just not enough to flesh out the place.
Even during a time of war, when the castle was probably as full as it had ever
been, it seemed nearly deserted. Now, between the fights, was the only time
when the halls were flooded, when the castle was given the illusion of being
alive.

Harry ascended a few floors, wandered down a few
halls—getting lost only once, which seemed to him a good number—and finally
finding the pub, which was toward the center of the castle. After all, it just
wouldn't be right to permit mortals a window, would it? Treat cattle like
cattle and cattle they will be.

Harry sat himself down at the bar and ordered a
martini, extra dirty. The bartender, an aging man with a cautious face,
intrigued Harry.

"How long you been here?" he asked the
man.

"Twenty years," the bartender said,
setting down Harry's drink.

"That's a long time in this place."

The barkeep nodded his agreement, and Harry saw
a pride in the man's face he hadn't immediately noticed. The bastard had
survived twenty years in a castle run by immortals, had found a position for
himself
and stayed there, out of the way, in constant company
of his own kind.
Fascinating.

The barkeep took out a rag and started washing
the counter, saying nothing further to his latest customer. Harry let him.
After all, he hadn't come for conversation.

Sipping his drink, he surveyed the assembled
barflies, mostly regulars he’d seen before. Predominately women, he noticed,
not for the first time.
Beautiful women.
And some beautiful men, too.
Beautiful
boys.
Must be from the harems that certain shades
kept.
Sadly, Harry wondered just how long these humans had before their
looks faded, before they were reduced to just another vessel of blood for their
masters.
A few months, a few years?
Either they would
lose their masters’ interest and be discarded, or they would be
Turned
. They themselves would become the predators and drag
a new generation of prey here.

Harry took another sip.

There were some bodyguards, he saw, but they
hadn't come on their own. Instead, they were in four groups, each clustered
around a certain mortal man. Each must be someone that carried some legitimate
power of their own, Harry surmised.
Drug dealers or merchants
or artists or prime ministers, who knew?
Having power akin to that of
immortals, these humans had taken human servants in imitation of the beings who
would use each and everyone in this bar as food if they so desired.

"There's human nature for you," muttered
Harry, and took a long sip. He ordered another drink, and another.

Danielle arrived, followed by Loirot.

Feeling the drinks, Harry blinked at her,
smiling, maybe a little too widely, and gestured for her to join him.

"And what brings you here?" he said.

"You," she said, taking the seat.
"I thought I'd find you here."

"Using those old vampire mind-tricks,
eh?"

The bartender approached and raised his eyebrows
at Danielle, almost as if challenging her authority to be here, immortal that
she was.

"
Gimme
some
tequila, please," she said, glancing at the saltshaker a few feet away.
"And limes."

The barkeep nodded, but there was an edge to the
gesture, as if he was making an effort to restrain himself.

"There you go, Lady," he said, giving
her the asked-for items.

Danielle sized him up. "Wanna shot?"
she said, without mockery of any kind, although—Harry had to admit—she did seem
a little amused.
A little mischievous.
Spunky, he
thought, and could see why Ruegger liked her.

The barkeep returned her stare for a moment,
then
seemed to decide that he didn't mind her so much. He
turned away to resume his duties, but not before casting a glance at Loirot.
Loirot, for his part, just stood there, a couple of feet behind and to the side
of Danielle, looking like he'd rather be somewhere else.

"
Watcha
doin', Harry?"
Danielle said,
preparing herself a shot.

"Just clearing the
cobwebs, honey.”

"Here's to clearing the cobwebs," she
answered and downed the shot, then stuck a slice of lime into her mouth.

"Amen,” he said.

She coughed, spat out the lime and smiled.
"So what do you think of all this, Harry?"

"Of what?
The
castle?
If I were in my prime, I'd think this was a dream come true: so
many shades to kill, so little time. My own private Happy Hunting Ground."

"Seriously."

"I'm trying, honey. Believe me. I guess the
truth of it is that I'd really like to know what this whole War is about. I
hear Sarnova's troops talking about it all the time, about how they're kept in
the dark, and they don't like it. Something's stirring there, maybe a rebellion."

She nodded. "Yeah, there's a lot of dissent
around. I can't believe Blackie's kept it together this long."

"I heard a rumor," he said, careful to
keep his voice a whisper.

"What?"

"I heard that some of his officers are
banding together, that they're preparing a coup."

"I can't believe anyone here would want to
dethrone him, he seems so ...
worshipped
."

"Oh, they don't want to dethrone him.
You're
right,
his subjects are much too fond of him.
They just want to keep him locked up so that they can surrender to Subaire and
the half of the Dark Council loyal to her. When the Council's whole again, and
if Sarnova agrees to comply
to
their conditions, he'll
still be leader."

"Interesting."

"You got that right." He thought for a
moment, got the bartender's attention and ordered another drink. When the
martini was in front of him, he turned to Danielle again. "So what've you
decided to do with Martin Ascott—your Malcolm?"

Frowning, she threw back another shot and stared
down into the empty glass for a few moments. If its depths chirped any answers,
Harry didn't hear them.

"I don't know," she said finally.

"You seem more ... relaxed now, than you
did when we were at Kharker's Lodge.
Why the change?"

"Oh, Harry, I don't know. I'm not sure I
even want to kill him any more. The fire's gone out of me. Maybe it's just that
this whole thing has been so anticlimactic; I mean, I came here, the whole time
thinking what I'd do to him, how long I'd take doing it, and then, when I got
here, Cloire kept me from seeing him. At first, the anticipation just made it
sweeter, but after a week ... it just fizzed away. I mean, don't get me wrong,
if I saw him ..."

"Of course."

"But ... I don't know. No, I guess I do. I
want the bastard dead. I want to crush his skull between my fingers." She
sighed. "But you were trying to tell me that night, the night we left, that
he was really a good guy
now,
or something like
that."

"He is. I lived with him for a little
while, got to meet his family. They're nice."

"Jesus, Harry. I don't know what to stay to
that. You were the willing houseguest of the man who betrayed my trust, my own
foster brother, and raped me, with his gang, beat me and left me for
dead."

He listened to her voice, but there didn't seem
to be any real venom there. She'd been thinking about it for so long, he
thought, that the emotional component of her revenge had tapered off. Probably,
it was mostly analytical to her now. What she felt, what she must be feeling,
was that her job was almost finished, that she'd killed off the members of Malcolm's
gang one by one, saving him for last. And now that she had reached the point
where it could all be finished, she'd already been purged time and again. All
she wanted was closure.

He nodded. "Yeah, I stayed with him. He
really wanted me to get the full treatment, too, you know, to see how nice he
was and all that, so that if I saw you I could protect him. I made dinner with
his wife and helped him put his kids to sleep at night. He has two of them, you
know, two kids. Before I left, the girl wanted to call me Uncle Harry."

"Is he happy?"

"Happy?
Maybe.
I
think he is sometimes, but often he seems troubled, like he's just remembered
that he's actually one of the greatest jackasses in the world and he'd just
forgotten for a moment."

"Good."

"Danielle ... to him, you're just a symbol
of all the other horrible things he did during his time. You
loom
over him, trust me. Just the
mention of your name makes his back go stiff. But if you don't kill him, then
make your peace with him. He's lived in terror for too long,
Dani
. Let him go."

"You think I should."

"I want to return him, alive, to his
family."

She grimaced, glancing over her shoulder at
Loirot as if irritated that he hadn't gone away yet. He just arched his
eyebrows impatiently. Closing her eyes, she turned back to Harry.

"Maybe Ruegger was right," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe evil can change, after all. Somehow
I don't buy it in this instance." Her large black eyes flared open, angry.
"If Malcolm walked through that door right now, I'd kill him in a
heartbeat."

"Would you?"

She poured another shot, her hand trembling just
a little. "I don't know," she said. "I really don't."

"Danielle, would you tell me
something?"

"What's on your mind?"

"Well, that night we left. Remember, after
I talked to you, Cloire took you out into the jungle. To talk, she said. I
don't think I'll ever forget the image of you two, her arms around you, walking
out into the jungle."

Danielle licked her salty hand, took the shot,
stuck the lime in her mouth and spat it out. She’d had lots of practice at that
procedure, Harry could tell.

She said, "I remember."

"Well, what did she say? How'd she convince
you to go, to come with her and kill Martin?"

Suddenly, Danielle smiled. "She was smart,
Harry. She was cool. She knew just how to do it, too."

"What'd she do?"

"Easy. She took me out, way out, into the
jungle, and pulled something out of her pants."