Original art by Rob Pegler
CHAPTER ONE
It took exactly ninety-nine seconds for Johnny Fantôme's private elevator to descend the length of the Renfield Building. It could have made the journey in a third of that time, but Fantôme had specifically ordered that the mechanism be made to run slower. He was never in a hurry, no matter the circumstances, and made a point of not being so. Besides, he found it useful to keep people off-balance when they visited his home, and a painfully slow elevator ride always ruffles a feather or two.
Tonight the journey was much shorter, because he wasn't on his way to the lobby.
Fantôme didn't go to the twenty-sixth floor very often. He passed by it in the elevator almost every night, but seldom stopped there. He usually gave it very little thought, like the plumbing in his bathroom or the wiring for his lights. Johnny's private residence encompassed the top three floors of the Renfield building, currently the tallest residential block in the city. More than a mere penthouse, it was like an elevated mansion, complete with outdoor garden—a modern stately home perched thirty floors above the streets below. The three floors beneath it were occupied by his senior staff—various lieutenants, administrators and other lackeys—and the two beneath those by the small regiment of vampires and ghouls who made up his security staff. The twenty-fifth floor was unoccupied, but contained a myriad of sophisticated surveillance devices and more than a few booby traps.
The rest of the building housed several hundred humans who either worked—directly or indirectly—for Fantôme, could afford the exaggerated rents he charged, or were willing to turn a blind eye to certain things in exchange for a nice view. And sandwiched in between, below the barracks and above the surveillance level, was the twenty-sixth floor.
Fantôme's staff sometimes called it "the Gulag."
Sasha was waiting for him next to the elevator, leaning against the wall with her ankles crossed, curling her long blonde hair around one delicate finger. She was wearing a short red dress and black leather boots with platform heels, and looked for all the world as if she was hanging out in a nightclub. Sasha still had the face of the innocent nineteen-year-old girl she had ostensibly once been, but her crimson eyes and the cruel smirk on her perfect lips betrayed the beast that lurked behind it. As Fantôme alighted from the elevator, tastelessly dressed in a sleek white suit and blue satin shirt, she detached herself from the wall and moved towards him, coiling her long white arms around his neck and laying her head on his shoulder. Fantôme looked down to see streaks of blood on her forearms. There were dark stains spattered across the front of her dress, and more on her slender thighs. He smiled gently.
"Vot have you been up to, little girl?"
"I was helping," Sasha sighed.
"Vere you?"
She nodded, her blonde head bobbing against his shoulder. "Freddy was being stubborn. The boys were being too gentle with him."
Fantôme stroked her hair. "Did he die?"
"After a bit."
"And did you break him, little girl?"
"Yes." She nuzzled against him, kissing his ear. "But he couldn't talk by then."
Fantôme sighed, brushing a stray lock of hair from her beautiful face. Alfred de Lange, former bookkeeper for the fallen Okhotniki clan, had been a guest in the Gulag since Kolya—Sasha's older brother—had tracked him down the previous evening. He would have eventually been a valuable source of information regarding some of the late Xander Moorden's private accounts, had the staff on the twenty-sixth floor been left to do their work. But Sasha liked to dabble, and Fantôme couldn't begrudge her anything. It was only a few million, after all.
"Never mind," he said, patting her perfect cheek. His eyes moved down the dimly-lit hallway, lined with reinforced doors. "Und how is our guest of honour?"
Sasha's upper lip curled. "She threw another tantrum." Her fingers played gently around Fantôme's chin. "I don't think she likes me."
"Perish der thought," Fantôme replied, with a faint chuckle. "Vot's not to like?"
"I know."
"I think I'll go und visit her." Fantôme gently extricated himself from Sasha's languid embrace, motioning towards the elevator. "Vhy don't you go und get something to eat? Kolya's got a couple of girls upstairs you might like to meet. Pretty little things."
Sasha pouted. "Prettier than me?"
Fantôme smiled as she slipped into the elevator. "Of course not." Or at least not for long, he added mentally.
It was a short walk through the hallways of the Gulag. Fantôme passed a number of his staff along the way, mostly armed guards, and one blood-spattered ghoul on his way to clean up. All offered a deferential bow as he passed them. The floor was mostly quiet, though faint noises could be heard behind some of the doors—here a scratching, there a sobbing. The occasional muffled scream from the west side of the floor indicated that the ghoul's colleagues were still hard at work on a couple of other stubborn guests.
The guest of honour was in a room in the southeast corner. A burly vampire in a dark coat with a shotgun held in the crook of his arm stood vigil outside the door, but only for the look of the thing. If the room's occupant decided to make trouble, one guard with a shotgun would hardly be in a position to prevent her.
Fantôme acknowledged the guard's bow with a faint nod, and waved him away down the hall. The guard moved away, but not very far, turning his back as his master punched a code into the keypad by the door. Scanning his thumbprint even as it registered the code number, the keypad activated a mechanism in the wall, retracting three heavy steel bolts within the doorframe.
Brushing a blonde hair from his jacket, Fantôme turned the door handle and moved inside.
The room was larger than most of those on the twenty-sixth floor, but still no bigger than an average bedroom. The hardwood floor and plaster walls were little more than a veneer, and much of the plaster had been broken or torn away recently to reveal glimpses of the steel plating that lined the room. There were markings in the steel as well, several deep grooves, more melted than cut. A fine layer of plaster dust lay over the floor.
The room was a mess, its meagre furnishings in disarray. The single bed had been overturned, one of the legs snapped off, and grubby blankets were twisted beneath it. The table was intact, but the metal chair was lying on its side against one wall, missing its back and two of its legs. Several metal mugs lay here and there around the floor, some of them dented or flattened. A dark red splash across the plaster showed where one had been thrown against the south wall. There were no windows.
The room's occupant was sitting on the table, legs crossed in front of her, back against the wall, head down over her chest. Long, unkempt red hair hung over her face, brushing against her legs, She was barefoot, clad only in a long loose tank top, black in colour, pulled down over her hips like a dress. Her arms and legs were smeared with dirt and dried blood, though Fantôme suspected most of it came from the scattered mugs. He might have thought she was sleeping, if he didn't know her better.
The spear was laid across her lap, her fingers resting gently across the swirling patterns carved into the shaft. Fantôme had never seen her let it go, not even for a second. It was a foot taller than she was, with a broad double-edged head made from silver. The spearhead was engraved with a stylized effigy of a face, locked in a twisted expression of battle rage, the eyes set with twin rubies. It seemed to glisten with its own light, entirely separate from the glow provided by the fluorescent overheads that were still in working order. Fantôme let his gaze wander over the spear, but not for long. It gave him the unsettling feeling that it was waiting for him to turn his back on it.
Looking around the room, he gave a little smile. "I should fire your decorator if I vere you."
The woman's head lifted, just a little. One crimson eye glinted through a gap in the tangled hair.
Fantôme's smiled grew a little wider. "Sasha tells me you've been . . . troublesome of late."
A low grunt sounded from somewhere beneath the red mane. "That bitch hasn't seen trouble."
"Oh, I assure you she has," Fantôme replied earnestly. "Caused quite a bit of it, in her time." He slipped one hand into his pocket, smoothing back his elegant black hair with the other. "You are unhappy vith your accomodations? Ve try to make our guests here as comfortable as . . . dey deserve."
The woman raised her head, the hair falling back from her porcelain face. "I thought I was a prisoner."
Fantôme's eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "Gracious, votever gave you dat idea?"
She looked around, sharp eyes scanning the room. "I'm in your prison?"
"Not at all," Fantôme replied, waving a dismissive hand. "I merely decided dis vould be der safest place for you until you . . ." His eyes wandered over the mutilated furniture. ". . . settled in. Besides," he added, eyes moving reluctantly towards the spear in her lap, "if you vere a prisoner, ve'd hardly have let you keep your veapon."
The woman smiled. It was a cold smile, mocking with a hint of cruelty. "I'd like to see you try and take it."
If the smile had any affect on Fantôme, he didn't show it. "True. But if you think yourself a prisoner, vhy not escape?"
The smile faded. She held his gaze for a few moments, then looked down at the spear. Her fingertips traced their way lovingly around the designs on the shaft.
"At any rate," Fantôme went on, "I think you've been cooped up here long enough. I'm having a suite prepared for you on der thirtieth floor. Considerably more comfortable. And you'll be free to come and go." He gave a tiny shrug. "Vithin reason."
The woman didn't look up. "And to what do I owe your hospitality?"
"Little Salomé . . ." Fantôme chuckled. "You didn't think I took you in out of pity, did you? You have, shall ve say, marketable skills. Your father recognised dis vhen he rented you out to our friend Moorden. Und I do hate to see talent go to vaste. It rankles me."
The merest hint of a smile played across Salomé's lips. "You want someone dead."
"Several people, actually," Fantôme replied, matter-of-factly. "But not all at once. Dere's . . . a schedule involved."
Salomé's left hand curled around the spear shaft, and there was a faint edge to her voice as she responded. "As long as one of them is Gabriel Pope."
"Eventually," Fantôme assured her.
The sharp eyes flicked upwards. "When?"
Fantôme raised an eyebrow. "E-ven-tu-ally."
The last syllable had barely left his mouth before Salomé moved, darting forward off the table like a striking serpent. In one swift blur she was an arm's length from him, the tip of her spear hovering a centimetre from his throat. The silver blade glowed with a faint orange light. Fantôme felt the heat of it on his skin.
The woman's eyes burned into his, her mouth twisted into a snarl. "Don't fuck with me, Fantôme. I'm not one of your lapdogs."
Fantôme smirked.
His right arm barely seemed to move from his pocket before the heel of his palm struck her, slamming into her torso just beneath her small breasts. Had she been human, the blow might have broken ribs and ruptured her diaphragm. As it was she was thrown off-balance, stumbling backwards to hit the edge of the table. She instantly recovered and spun away to one side, dropping into a crouch with the spear held up in a defensive posture. She looked up to see the clan boss standing nonchalantly in the middle of the room, right hand back in his pocket.
"It never crossed my mind," he told her. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a small rectangle of glossy paper. "Your first customer," he announced. Salomé tensed, the sizzling spearhead still pointed at him, as he moved to place the photograph on the table. "Handle it as you please, as long as he dies. Three nights from now."
Salomé didn't rise to her feet until he'd stepped back. Then, slowly straightening up, she lowered the spear to her side and moved to the table. Eyes still on Fantôme, she picked up the photo and turned it over. "I know him," she said softly. "He's a human."
Fantôme nodded. "Should make things easier, no?" He turned to the door. Salomé's eyes strayed over his unprotected back, then returned to the photograph in her hand. "What's he done to you?"
"To me?" Fantôme paused, hand on the door handle. "Nothing at all. I know nothing about it. My name shouldn't even come up." He opened the door, stepping out into the hallway. "I'll be far too busy vith der Konferentsii."
His footsteps faded away down the hallway, leaving the door open behind him.
"What's a 'cofferetsky'?"
Wilton Grey's voice rose out of the general chaos in the offices of Downwright and Pope, Investigators. The chaos consisted of only two people, but—given that one of them was busy loading a small arsenal of weapons and the other was sorting through a stack of files with one hand and answering her telephone with the other while ignoring the cellphone vibrating its way across her desk—it was suitably chaotic nonetheless.
Will stood and watched them for a moment—the tall, solid frame of Gabriel Pope laying guns and edged weapons across his desk and rummaging through a box of shotgun shells, while the svelte figure of his assistant Meliad wrestled with paperwork and argued with someone important about something official—and decided, not for the first time, that here was a place where worlds collided.
"What's a 'cofferetsky'?" he asked again.
Mel spared him a glance, brushing a strand of green-brown hair behind one ear, as she kept talking into the phone. She dropped into her chair and swept up her cellphone, dismissively dropping it into a drawer.
With a sigh, Will sat down in the chair next to Mel's desk. His left hand moved to absently fiddle with the slim silver bracelet around his right wrist. He'd almost gotten used to it being there, but every now and then, when it shifted on his wrist, he fancied he might be able to slip it loose . . .
"I'll call you when we've got something," Mel was saying. "No, I'll call you. Yeah . . . no . . . yes. As soon as we know, you'll . . . yes. Okay." She dropped the receiver back onto its cradle, picked up a pen, and started scribbling something into the margin of a document on her desk. When the phone rang again a moment later she lifted it from the cradle and hung it up again without looking.
"Mel," said Will.
She kept writing.
"Mel."
"Hmmm?"
"Mel!"
She looked up, her pen pausing in its dance across the page, as her eyes lighted on the teenager. "What?"
Will smiled. "Hi. What's a 'cofferetsky'?"
Mel relaxed, allowing herself a faint smile. "Konferentsii. It's . . . a meeting. Like a political summit." She glanced down, continuing with her scribbling. "The leaders of all Five Clans—well, four now—get together in one spot to chew the fat." There was a pause as she considered her choice of words. "As it were. Happens every three years in these parts. Unless something big comes up."
"Like what?"
Mel shrugged. "Like the sky falling. They generally don't like meeting face to face. You don't get to be a clan boss without being crazy paranoid. Konferentsii is just something they have to do. Rules of a very old game."
Will nodded. "And it's happening now?"
"In about three nights' time, yes."
"So . . . it's an opportunity, right?" Will suggested. "Catch 'em all in one place and take 'em out?"
Mel responded with a look which indicated that nothing would please her more. "Well, you have to find them first. The location's a closely guarded secret and it moves every time. And they bring more security with them than most heads of state. Like I said, they're paranoid."
"Yeah, but if you could get a bomb or something, and—"
"Been tried."
Will looked around as Gabe's voice reached across the room. "What?"
"One of my ancestors," Gabe explained, walking over to Mel's desk while feeding shells into the shotgun in his hand. "Early 1800s. Tried to blow up six of the Middling Lords during a meeting in Odessa. Never got the fuse lit."
"Why not?"
Gabe shrugged, focused on his task. "Mostly on account of having his arms ripped off."
Will went a little pale, and looked at Mel. She gave a sympathetic little grimace. "Gabe's grandfather once saw a Konferentsii, though. Actually attended one. Under very unusual circumstances, of course."
Will smiled. "The sky was falling?"
"Near enough. He only had limited access, but he wrote down what he saw." She nodded towards the bookshelves lining the wall to the left of her desk, and went back to her scribbling. "It's in the Journal."
Will looked over the bookshelves. He'd heard Gabe mention the Pope Family Journal—the repository of knowledge and research into the arcane and undead that had been handed down through his family since the late seventeenth century—but he'd never actually seen the book itself. Loading the last shell into his gun, Gabe wandered over to the shelf, pulled out a weighty tome from the top shelf, and passed it across to the boy. "Look it up."
Will looked down at the volume in his hands. It was a loose-leaf folder six inches thick, with a blue plastic cover. The words POPE FAMILY JOURNAL were printed in an unimaginative font across a rectangular white label near the top.
He looked up. "This is your ancient family journal?"
"Scanned backup copy," Gabe explained, moving back towards his desk. "The original's in a safe deposit box across town."
"Along with the family gold and the company dental plan," Mel added wryly. She looked up with a smile, reaching for the telephone. "Go read, kiddo. We're a little busy right now."
CHAPTER TWO
The Hotel Fasteaux had been condemned in 1986, but was still standing over two decades later. Presumably it was on some city official's "To Do" list, but the squatters weren't panicking. Some of them had mail delivered.
The wide front doors were chained up for appearances' sake, but this was a moot point since they hadn't had glass in them since the early nineties. Meliad slipped through the one on the right, taking care not to cut her bare feet on the stray shards of glass that still remained, and made her way down the steps into the lobby.
In bygone days it had been an expansive chamber of marble and gold, an ostentatious display of wealth and decadence where the city's cultural elite had been embarrassed to be seen. Now it was dark and hollow, a great groaning chasm of rotting woodwork and broken glass, full of dust and cobwebs and bad memories. Most of the large windows were shuttered, and even those that weren't were so filthy as to only let in scraps of sunlight. Spiders and mice and other, more invisible things scuttled into the shadows as Mel crossed the lobby. Rats watched her from the bannisters with a keen interest.
One hand was in the side pocket of her moss-green coat, wherein lay the comforting weight of a .357 Derringer. Some of the squatters could get a bit territorial, though she wasn't overly concerned. Most of them were out scavenging or begging during the day, and those that stayed lurking in the rooms upstairs were harmless as long as you didn't breathe too close to them. If any of them were foolish enough to think the lone female entering their domain an easy target, the Derringer would make a big enough boom to send them packing without the need for actual violence.
The service elevator was in the northeast corner, doors permanently stuck about fifteen inches ajar. The lift hadn't worked in three decades, but that wasn't the point. Stopping at the doors, Mel fished around in her pocket to produce a small LED flashlight. Turning side-on, she slipped through the gap in the doors and into the lift. She brushed aside the new cobwebs as the light picked them up, ignoring the large cockroaches weaving across the floor at her appearance. The pile of bird skulls pushed into one corner of the elevator was larger than when she'd last been here. As always, she wondered who was putting them there, and for what purpose.
Waving it aside, she crouched and busied herself in the other corner. One of the floor panels came up with ease, revealing a hole cut in the bottom of the elevator car. The beam from the torch shone only a few metres down into the blackness of the shaft beneath. The rusted rungs of a maintenance ladder gleamed in the torchlight like decomposing bones.
It was an easy climb down, only two levels. Mel's feet splashed into muddy water at the bottom of the shaft, but only a couple of inches deep. The doors at the bottom were halfway open, one of them dented and buckled by some forgotten accident. Pointing her way with the flashlight, Mel slipped through the doors into the sub-basement of the Fasteaux.
A corridor lay beyond the doors, but a short one. There was only one room down here, disused for so long that its original function was forgotten. The doorway was at the other end of the short passage, the door long since taken away for some unknown purpose. It was pitch black within.
Mel slipped a zippo out of her pocket as she entered the room. There was an oil lamp on a shelf by the doorway, which soon cast its flickering glow throughout the room. It was about six metres by eight, constructed entirely of cement. The floor had once been tiled, but only broken, dusty remnants remained. An open sewer grate in one corner breathed its unpleasant odours into the room, and the ceiling was a network of angular pipes. The room was furnished with aging appliances, no doubt salvaged from the rooms upstairs or stolen from the squatters. A dusty old television stood in one corner, with a rather elaborate aerial constructed from several coat hangers. A VCR and a small stack of cassettes was perched on top of it. On the other side of the room was an ancient standing refrigerator, a microwave set on the chipped end table beside it. Mel wasn't sure where the microwave had come from, but it had a big round dial and a bell that went ding. These few appliances were powered by a series of extension cords hooked up to what was probably the one working outlet remaining in the whole building.
And in the center of the room, dominating the space, was the coffin.
It could better have been described as a sarcophagus. A stone crypt, huge and rectangular, with a heavy slab for a lid. Lord only knew how someone had gotten it down here. Perhaps it had been here all along, which raised questions about the Fasteaux's history that Mel had no need to contemplate.
It took a moment's pushing and grunting to move the slab aside. With a harsh grinding that was deafening in the small space, it finally shifted halfway off its base. The lamplight barely penetrated the crypt, but as Mel's eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could make out the creature lying within. It was a thin and ghastly figure, almost skeletal, its hands folded across its chest. It was completely still.
Balancing on one foot, Mel lifted her other leg and pulled up the cuff of her trousers to reveal a slim, eight-inch ash stake strapped to her ankle. Hardly daring to breathe, she moved a little closer and leaned over the figure. Tightening her grip on the weapon, she braced himself with one hand on the edge of the stone coffin, raising the stake above his head. She paused for a moment, steeling herself for the task, counting to three in her head.
On three the needle-sharp point of the stake plunged downwards, aiming directly for the creature's heart.
It never got there. With a flicker of movement, a shrivelled hand shot up out of the coffin and caught Mel's wrist, halting it in mid-stab. The hand was thin and bony, with papery brown skin and long jagged fingernails, almost as sharp as the stake. Its grip was as strong as iron, but much colder. A rattling hiss whispered out of the coffin, finally gurgling its way into a thin, rasping voice.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?"
Mel smirked. "Just seeing if you were awake."
The hand released its grip, and slid back into the crypt like a retreating serpent. Mel stepped back, slipping the stake under her coat as the occupant stirred. A dark shape rose from the coffin, a hunched and dessicated thing, swathed in ragged black robes. The faint lamplight gleamed off an egg-like head, hairless and mottled. It had a wrinkled and leathery appearance, like a piece of fruit that had shrivelled in the sun.
The creature didn't climb out of the sarcophagus so much as ooze, slithering his way out onto the cold stone floor, before rising to his feet with a rattling sigh. Even then he stayed huddled and bent, hands clasped beneath his tapering chin. Glimmering red eyes blinked in the darkness, a pointed stub of a nose sniffing at the dank air. Not for the first time, Mel was put in mind of some huge predatory insect. "Do you know what time it ish?"
"'Bout ten in the morning," Mel replied. "We can go out for brunch if you like."
The creature snorted, a dry and sickly sound, as he lurched across the chamber. "I'll jusht shlop on shome SPF-1000 shunblock and meet you up in the lobby, shall I?" His sentences were punctuated with nasty little sucking noises. His long fangs were set together at the front of his mouth, which—along with his jaggedly pointed ears and snivelling expression—lent him a strong resemblance to a rodent. Not only did the fangs make enunciation a rare challenge, but they also brought on a tendency to dribble.
"Nice to see you haven't lost your sunless disposition," said Mel, leaning against the edge of the crypt. "How've you been, Croglin?"
"My endlesh torment continuesh unabated, thank you." The vampire opened his ancient refrigerator and started rummaging through it. "And you? Shtill butchering my bwethewen for fun and pwofit, are we?" He eventually produced a small tupperware jug from the fridge, and shambled over to the microwave.
Mel smiled. There was no real resentment in the question, as much as he liked to make a fuss. There were all kinds of vampires lurking in Roseburg, many of them solitary and reclusive, but even those were practically gregarious compared to Croglin. He barely even went out stalking any more, preferring to lie about in his crypt drinking reheated blood and watching late-night television.
"It'sh been shome time shince you came to call on me," the vampire rasped, fumbling about with the microwave.
"Yeah," Mel agreed. "Not since Lazarus died."
There was a certain edge to her voice that made Croglin pause. He half-turned, peering over one shoulder. "I hope you didn't fink I had any part in that nonshenshe."
"It was your tip that sent him in there," Mel reminded him.
Croglin spread his bony hands. "I merely pwovided the lead. My shources were perhapsh a little . . . vague on the detailsh."
Mel's eyes narrowed. Despite his hermitical existence, the vampire stooping before her knew almost everything that went on in Roseburg, often before it happened. While some vampires had an affinity for bats or wolves or owls, Croglin's chosen familiar was the common sewer rat. They were his eyes and ears, his messengers and couriers, his thieves and—with a spot of innovative thinking—his assassins. Rats could go anywhere and see everything in the city—and if they saw it, so did Croglin. It was his ability to sniff out sensitive information that made him such a useful commodity to vampire and human alike—and for a vampire in Roseburg, being useful was often the difference between unlife and death.
But he never gave up information for free, and he always knew more than he let on. Only a fool would trust him—you never knew who else he was working for—but Mel had learned it was generally prudent to give him the benefit of the doubt. In her line of work, there were always compromises to be made.
With a shrug, she opened her coat. "Brought you something," she announced. "Little 'long time no see' present." Croglin tensed as she reached into an inner pocket, but relaxed when she drew out a VHS cassette in a plastic case.
Croglin's nose twitched. "Twying to butter me up?"
Mel smiled and held out the tape. "Perish the thought."
Croglin edged forward, and one clawed hand darted out to snatch it away. His eyes glimmered as he examined the title. "I've already sheen it."
Mel shrugged. "Well, if you don't want it . . ."
"I shaid nothing of the short." The tape was quickly deposited on top of the VCR, along with the others. Mel's eyes wandered over some of the titles in the stack. "You really should broaden your viewing habits a little," she commented.
Croglin's rasped out something that might have been a chuckle. "You know me, dear. Alwaysh had a shoft shpot for the young ladiesh."
"So I hear," said Mel. "It was the young ladies' relatives you always had trouble with."
Croglin bristled. "Did you want shomething, or are you only here to pick at old woundsh?"
Mel looked up. "You have to ask?"
The vampire's ragged lips curled into something that might have passed for a smile. "Ah. The Konferentsii."
Mel tapped her nose.
"Looking for an invitation?"
"No," she replied. "Just a peek at someone else's."
Croglin snorted and turned back to the microwave. "I'm sure I can dig shomething up for you," he told her. "For, shall we shay . . . three timesh my usual fee?"
Mel blinked. "Beg pardon?"
"Rishk factor, love," Croglin explained. "More than my life'sh worth. Unlesh," he added, eyes wandering across her smooth pale neck, "you want to offer shomething more compelling . . .?" A trickle ran down his mottled chin.
Mel's eyebrow lifted. "Not your type, dear. Unless you're looking for the vegetarian option."
"Oh, I'm alwaysh willing to bwoaden my palate," Croglin gurgled, oozing a little closer. "I'm sure we'd get along famoushly . . ."
Mel smiled. "Like a house on fire?"
The vampire flinched. "Fine," he spat, turning back to the microwave. "Double the fee, and not a dwop lesh."
"Double it is," Mel agreed. "I'll make the pickup at sunset on the night. Make sure it's worthwhile." She turned to go.
"Alwaysh ish, dear." He opened the microwave and removed the jug, taking down a dented old chalice from the top of the fridge. "Shoundsh like it'sh going to be a busy night . . ."
Mel stopped at the door. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the gentle trickle of warm crimson liquid pouring into the chalice. Then she slowly turned around, leaned against the door frame, and folded her arms. "How so?" she asked, with a tight-lipped smile.
Croglin looked up, feigning innocence. "Hmmm? Oh, nothing, nothing . . ." He put the jug back into the microwave, raising the drink to his lips. "Jusht a little wumour I heard, pwobably not important." He breathed in, savouring the aroma from the chalice. "A particular VIP, ash it were, whoshe life may be in imminent pewil. Nothing to worry your pwetty little—"
"Cut the shit. Who is it?"
Croglin turned to face her, tipping the chalice to take a casual, if noisy, sip. "What'sh it worth to you?"
Mel arrived back at the office just before eleven, striding in the door with a purpose. Gabe barely glanced up from polishing the silver cap on his boot as she crossed the room to her desk, a grim look on her face. "Hey," he called. "Your informant come through?"
"Remains to be seen," said Mel, dragging her coat off. "But we have a bigger problem."
"How so?"
Mel tossed the coat onto her chair and picked up the telephone. "Someone's going to kill the mayor."
CHAPTER THREE
"So . . ." Harvey Brown, liaison to the mayor, leaned his portly frame back in the chair, his eyes shifting from Gabe to Mel and back again. "What do we know?"
Meliad leaned on the edge of Gabe's desk, long legs stretched out in front of her. "According to my informant, there's going to be a hit on the mayor. Planned for the same night as the Konferentsii."
Harvey sighed, more weary than concerned. "Names?"
"We don't know who the order came from," Mel conceded. "But we've got a lead on the assassin." She glanced back at Gabe, seated behind the desk.
"Salomé Argyros." Gabe's voice had a razor edge to it.
Harvey's eyebrows lifted a little as he heard the surname. "So it's the Chernysvet."
"Not necessarily," said Mel. "Seems Salomé was working for Xander Moorden the last year or so that he was active. We had a little run-in with her ourselves during that whole mess, not that we had an ID on her at the time."
"Got the scars to prove it," Gabe added.
"Ever since the Okhotniki went down in flames, she's been off the radar. She may have gotten back into her father's good graces, or she may have gone freelance."
"Not that it matters," said Gabe.
Harvey stared at him. "Come again?"
"C'mon, Harvey," said Mel, a wry smile on her face. "Someone just happens to want the mayor dead on the same night that the four most powerful vampires in town are getting together for a pow-wow? And this information just happens to leak back to my favourite snitch? It's a diversion. They're playing us."
"Okay," Harvey replied, with a slow nod. "But do we take it seriously?"
"If they're sending Salomé, then we take it very seriously. Diversion or not, that little chica doesn't mess around. Someone's decided your boss is expendable, as long as it keeps us all busy on Konferentsii night."
Harvey looked at Gabe, who treated him to a smile. "Bloody vampires, eh?"
Ignoring him, Harvey turned back to Mel. "So do we have a plan?"
Mel gave him a look. "How long have you known me, Harvey? We always have a plan."
5:49 pm
Will was reading when Mel walked into his apartment, next door to the office. He was sitting cross-legged on the couch, the Journal open in his lap, a half-eaten biscuit held in limbo halfway to his mouth. He didn't notice Mel emerging from the short front hallway until she spoke.
"You're still reading that thing?"
Will looked up. "It's interesting." His eyes moved back to the page in front of him. "Did you know Gabe's grandfather killed a werebear once?"
"Yeah," sighed Mel. "I remember popping his shoulder back in afterwards." She smiled, somewhat painfully, at the memory. "Crazy fun."
"I mean, a fuckin' bear-man. And he killed it with a silver dagger. I mean, that's just . . ."
"Yeah, those Pope boys. Giants among men. Watch your language."
"Uh-huh." Will turned the page, revealing an ink drawing of a twisted worm-like creature, its bulk held up on hundreds of segmented legs, its maw set with jagged needle-like teeth. "Holy shit."
"I'm glad you're taking such an interest in reading," said Mel. "Maybe something on art or history next time. Anyway, we'll be leaving soon, so you'll be—"
"I know."
"—here by yourself for the night. I've left you some money to—"
"I know, you told me."
"—order food, but don't leave the building. If anybody calls, let the—"
"You told me."
"—machine get it. And nobody comes over. Not even a girl."
"What girl?"
"Especially not a girl."
"What girl?"
"Alright then. See you later."
"Uh-huh," Will nodded absently, flipping pages again.
Mel gave him a slightly worried look, then turned and walked back to the front door. The last thing she heard as she closed it behind her was Will declaring "Jesus Christ!"
The adjacent block to the Hotel Fasteaux contained a row of disused tenements, slated for demolition some time after the hotel itself. The street they inhabited was a bleak corridor of dirty brickwork and dark hollow windows, where even the squatters hesitated to venture.
The grey Chevy G-series that served as the company vehicle of Downwright & Pope travelled halfway down the street before slowing down, cruising to a halt outside a sagging three-storey building which, to Gabe's eyes, looked more or less identical to all the others. He leaned forward to peer through the windscreen at the chipped red bricks. "You know, for some reason I expected an underground parking lot."
Mel half-smiled as she pulled back the handbrake. "I'll be two minutes."
Gabe nodded, watching her slip out the driver's door of the van. "When do I get to meet this snitch of yours?"
"Oh, one day," Mel replied, in a vague tone of voice. When I can be sure you won't put a stake through him, she added mentally. Pulling open the side door of the van, she picked up a canvas bag and slung it over one shoulder. The contents made a gentle sloshing sound as she turned and walked towards the darkened doorway of the building, taking the flashlight from her jacket.
The room inside had been completely gutted, leaving behind nothing but rotted woodwork. Even the tiles on the floor had been pulled up. There was still plaster on the west wall, marked with dark rectangular patches where mailboxes had once been placed. Mel paused as her bare feet touched the floor, vague memories passing through her mind. Mostly happy ones, some melancholy. A little violence, a lot of old guilt. She didn't have too much trouble shutting the images out—she'd been here many times before, and the stories the wood told her were little more than background noise by now.
Coming to the center of the room, she shone the torch towards one corner, where a section of the floor had rotted away to leave a large hole a couple of feet across. And she waited.
Presently there was a rustling, scratching sound, and a couple of faint squeaks. There was movement in the hole, the flash of a whiskered snout. The rats emerged one by one—half a dozen of them, big and filthy and black, like plague rats—scrambling up out of the hole. They scurried across the floor in an almost straight line, stopping in a little huddle a short distance from Mel's feet. Little black eyes gleamed in the torchlight. "You're late," she told them.
The rats looked up at her with sublime indifference.
With a sigh, Mel placed the bag on the floor and opened up the flap. The light from her torch picked out the bulbous shapes of plastic bags, their contents showing up crimson as the beam passed over them. "Alright? Now come on, I haven't got all night."
The rats moved forward a couple of paces, noses twitching, as they studied the contents of the bag. Then the one at the back came forward, scuttling closer to Mel as she crouched to meet it. A leather strap was tied around its rounded body, holding a little plastic tube in place. Trying to not touch the matted fur, Mel reached down and carefully extracted the tube with thumb and forefinger. "Thanks," she said, straightening up. "Real pain in the tits doing business with you."
The rodent stared at her departing ankles, then moved back to join its companions. Gripping the straps of the canvas bag in elongated teeth, they began industriously dragging it back towards the hole in the floor.
Outside, Mel settled back into the driver's seat of the van, handing the plastic tube to Gabe. "Might want to wash your hands after touching that," she warned. "I will be."
"Noted." Gabe fiddled around with the tube, popping one end off, and with some difficulty he managed to extract a roll of paper inside. Unrolling it, he found a few lines written in a flourishing but messy script, indicating an address and a time. "I don't think I know it."
He passed it over to Mel, who smiled. "Huh. I do. I'll fill you in on the way." She turned the key.
The microwave beeped five times, indicating that its business with the noodles was concluded and they were free to go. Will removed the bowl with both hands, wincing and hopping as the steam stung his fingers, and placed it on the kitchen counter. Even as he tore open the flavour sachet and sprinkled chicken-flavoured chemicals onto the noodles, his eyes were on the Journal open beside the bowl.
He'd never really thought about how Gabe and Mel had gotten into this line of work. He knew the business had been inherited from Gabe's father, but Will had always just assumed the guy was a crazy bastard, and thought no more about it. But the sheer volume of history contained in the Journal was astounding. The Pope family, or certain branches of it at least, had been doing this for generations. Literally hundreds of years. The earliest entry was a faded, near-indecipherable manuscript written by someone called Absalom Pope in 1666, and apparently had to do with the detection and destruction of a succubus. Several dozen members of the family had filled in their own erratic entries over the intervening centuries, creating a somewhat disordered database of information on the undead and demonic, and the most effective ways to ensure their demise. From what Will had read so far, the earlier members of the clan had been even more zealous about this than Gabe was. Frighteningly so, in some cases.
It was the more recent entries that Will found most interesting, specifically those related to the Roseburg Popes. Malachi Pope—Gabe's great-grandfather—had arrived here in 1923 with his gypsy bride and his partner in crime, a man named Moses Downwright. The pair of them had met under unusual circumstances on a battlefield in France—details were vague, but somehow involved zombies—and had spent years scouring the darker corners of war-torn Europe for things that went bump. Drawn to Roseburg by the growing size and power of its vampire population, they'd set up shop and made life as difficult as they could for the clans, while somehow keeping themselves alive and, in Malachi's case at least, managing to raise a family. Will smiled to himself. Gabe couldn't even manage a social life.
Noodles in one hand and book in the other, he grabbed a soft drink from the fridge, tucked it under his chin, and made his way back to the couch.
Down on Romero Street, outside Will's window, a car was pulling to a stop.
The van stopped outside an empty lot on Blackwood Lane, at the edge of Chernysvet territory. The headlights were already off.
"I think this is as close as we want to risk," Mel was saying as they pulled over. "You've got an hour and a half, so don't rush it. Stealth trumps speed at this point."
"Yes, ma'am," Gabe replied, checking the weapons on his harness.
"And I'm not here to watch your arse, so don't leave it hanging out too far."
"I have done this before, you know," he reminded her.
Mel gave him a look. "This?"
Gabe thought it over, then conceded the point. "Well, alright, not this." He opened his door. "I'll be fine. You better get going before Harvey has a heart attack."
"Okay," said Mel, putting the van in gear. "Don't get killed."
"Ditto." Gabe swung the door closed and set off at a low run, darting across the lot and slipping through a gap in the fence at the back. Before he got there Mel had already swung the van around in the other direction, heading for the town hall.
Will looked up from the page in front of him—a fascinating treatise written by Gabe's grandfather on the forging of lightweight silver throwing knives—as a sound caught his attention. It was a low rumble, felt more than heard, but overlaid with a metallic grinding sound and the clanking of old metal. It was coming from somewhere in the building, and getting louder.
After a moment's nervous reflection, he realised it was the elevator. Neither Gabe nor Mel ever used ancient device, and had warned him not to either. There was a three to one chance you'd get stuck halfway up the shaft, and a strong possibility of the cable snapping if more than two people were in the car.
Which meant it wasn't Gabe or Mel. And it was a little late in the evening for a business client. So . . .
The hideous sound finally stopped, bringing the elevator to rest on the third floor. His floor.
Will put the book down as he heard the cage door being dragged open.
His ears detected faint footsteps in the corridor as he approached the front door. They were slow and uncertain, as if the mystery caller wasn't sure where he was going. Will paused, listening at the door, fingers resting on the handle. The footsteps paused, then moved away down the hall.
It couldn't be a vampire. Gabe's father had once called in a holy man to consecrate the ground on which the Fisher Building stood. Any undead creature trespassing here would have its feet burned off before it reached the doorstep, assuming it had feet to begin with. On the other hand, it didn't have to be undead to be dangerous. Not for the first time, but with more fervour than ever before, Will cursed the silver bracelet on his wrist. The one Mel had put there, to keep him from doing magic. Defensive spells rose in his mind, all dressed up with no place to go.
Down the hall, he heard three gentle taps.
Will frowned. Whoever it was, they were knocking on the office door. Surely, dangerous intruders didn't knock.
The taps sounded again, louder this time.
Holding his breath, Will opened his door just enough to gingerly stick his head out. Peering around the doorframe, he laid eyes on the intruder standing outside the office.
His eyebrows drifted upwards. "Oh," he said, under his breath. A moment later, the rest of his body followed his head out into the hall. "Uh . . . hello?"
The girl started, whirling around to stare at him. A moment later she relaxed, one hand on her chest. "Sorry," she said, with an embarrassed grin. "You scared me."
"Yeah . . ." Will replied. "I mean . . . yeah. Sorry."
The girl smiled at him. Will guessed she was about his age, a couple of years older at the most. She was small of frame and slight of build, dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt under a brown suede jacket. Long black hair hung around a pale, open face which, while it probably wasn't going to feature on any magazine covers, was certainly pretty enough not to pay for its own drinks. The words especially not a girl drifted through Will's mind.
The girl jerked a thumb towards the office door. "Is this . . . uh . . . I'm looking for Gabriel Pope?"
Will frowned. "Really?"
"Um, yes. Is he in?"
"No, sorry. He's working."
"Right," she nodded. "Of course he is." Her eyes, large and green, moved towards Will's door. "Are you neighbours?"
"No, I'm . . . kind of a flatmate. I mean, next door. Next door flatmate. Kind of thing." By the time he'd finished speaking, Will was already wishing he hadn't started.
The girl seemed puzzled, and rightly so. "So he lives with you?"
"No, he's upstairs. Lives there, I mean. Uh, is this business-related, or . . .?"
She shook her head. "I'm an old friend. Haven't seen him for a while, and I'm sort of passing through, so here I am. Oh . . ." She stepped forward and extended a hand. "I'm Helena."
Will accepted the handshake, hoping his hand wasn't clammy. Hers was smooth and warm, with a gentle grip. "I'm Will."
"Do you know when Gabe'll be back?" she asked.
Will shrugged. "I don't even think he knows when he'll be back. You could hang out and wait if you like." He motioned towards his open door.
The girl responded with a bemused smile, and he instantly regretted making the offer. "No, that's fine. I'll come back tomorrow. Could you tell him I came by? He's not expecting me or anything, but still."
"Okay," Will replied. "Uh, you might want to take the stairs down. That elevator's kind of a deathtrap."
"Yeah, I noticed. See you later."
"Yeah, bye." Will watched as she started down the steps, black hair bobbing around her shoulders. "So it was Helena, right?"
"Yeah." She smiled back at him over one shoulder. "Helena Downwright."
CHAPTER FOUR
8:08 pm
Superintendent Parrish was waiting for Meliad on the third floor, along with half a dozen police officers. All of them were wearing tactical vests and armed with shotguns and submachine guns. Parrish himself was sporting an MP5 on a sling and a sour expression on his face.
Mel made her way up the stairs at a brisk pace, hands in her coat pockets. Her eyes were moving as she walked, taking in her surroundings as if memorizing them. Finally her gaze fell on the assembled cops, and a faint curl of her lip indicated her dissatisfaction. "Are we ready?"
Parrish glanced back at his men. "Ready as we're going to get. Two tactical squads downstairs, men on the roof and all the entry points. I've got two of my best in there with the Mayor right now." He nodded down the broad hallway to his right.
Mel nodded. "Pull one of the tactical squads in, I'll use them up here. They'll need a lot of firepower. Lead won't kill her, but if they can do enough damage it'll make my job a lot easier. I want to know all the weak points in our defences so we can anticipate where she'll come in." She turned and set off down the corridor in the direction Parrish had indicated. "What about the staff?"
Parrish hurried to catch up with her. "Cleaners and whatnot have been given the night off. The security staff are helping my men with—"
"Send the security guards home too, they won't be much use. I don't want anyone dying who doesn't have to."
Parrish frowned. "I don't want anyone dying at all."
Mel sighed. "Well, if wishes were horses . . ." Coming to ornate double doors at the end of the hall, she pushed them open and entered the room beyond. It was large and dimly-lit, with oak panelling on the walls and an expensive (if well-worn) blue carpet. There were two tall windows opposite the double doors. Plush leather sofas stood against the walls, and three more couches were grouped around a broad glass-topped coffee table in the middle of the room. A door to Mel's left led to the Mayor's private office, but the man himself was seated here, in the middle of the room. Harvey Brown sat on his left, and two more armed officers stood nearby, along with the Mayor's personal bodyguard. An untouched pot of coffee sat on the table.
The Mayor stood up as Mel entered, though it wasn't clear if he did this due to nerves or some old-fashioned sense of courtesy. He certainly looked frightened, though he was doing his best not to show it. Mayor Simon Marrot was a rather small man in his fifties, known to compensate for his lack of stature by way of expensive suits and an overly flamboyant manner in council meetings and interviews. That was just his public image, of course. Anyone who worked with the man knew that behind all the bluster was an indecisive figurehead whose actual authority extended over less than sixty per cent of the city, and he only held onto that due to the efforts of men like Harvey Brown. Mel had only met Marrot twice and harbored no illusions about him.
"Mr Mayor," she announced in a brusque tone. "The sun set thirty-one minutes ago, which means your would-be assassin is either on her way or already outside. I don't have time for questions," she added abruptly, as the Mayor opened his mouth. "This room's too open to defend properly and there's only one exit—that you could use, at least. I want to move you two doors down the hall to the Police Chief's office. There's only one window there and he's got a vault which we can stash you in when the time comes. Let's go."
Marrot blinked and looked at Parrish. Parrish looked at Harvey Brown, who looked at Mel and rolled his eyes. "I'd listen to her, Simon. She's been doing this a while."
As the Mayor was ushered through the doors and down the hallway, Parrish caught Mel by a sleeve and drew her to one side. "I don't like this plan."
"You don't have to like it."
Parrish's face turned a little more sour. "I just don't get why we're sitting here waiting for your assassin to show up. Why haven't we moved the Mayor to a secure location?"
Mel raised a disdainful eyebrow. "One—she's not 'my' assassin. And two—we want her to show up so we can take her out. That's kind of the essence of a trap."
"Using the Mayor as live bait," Parrish snapped.
Mel shrugged. "Only bait she'll go for. And if we don't take her out here we'll have to worry about her popping up somewhere else."
"So what makes you think she'll even come in here? What if she's out there with a sniper rifle?"
Mel supressed a weary sigh. "According to our best information, Salomé Argyros has been around since the start of World War Two. She's spent a good chunk of that time becoming proficient in the use of melee weapons and close combat tactics. Her current weapon of choice is a fucking great spear. She's not afraid of bullets, and she considers it a point of personal pride to take down her targets face to face. Trust me . . . she ain't out there with a sniper rifle."
Parrish quietly ground his teeth as he watched her follow the Mayor's entourage down the corridor. He'd only been a Superindendent for three months, due to his "fine efforts" in bringing the Downsfield High School seige to a close. He was well aware that that particular feather in his cap was largely owed to Meliad. If anything, this only made him dislike her more, and he hadn't been terribly fond of her in the first place.
Drumming his fingers on the grip of his gun, he followed her down the hall.
Smutter's Dyeworks was one of Roseburg's business success stories—not because of achieving any great financial growth, but because it had managed to stay open for twenty years. As part of the Smutter Group of industrial concerns around the city, it was one of several businesses used as fronts by the Krasnayaruka Clan. The owner, Warren Smutter, had readily converted to vampirism in the late 1970s and owed most of his success over the last three decades to this fact.
The dyeworks was closed for the night, but there was activity around the building all the same. Cars had been arriving for the last half hour, most of them circling a couple of times before pulling into the dirty concrete courtyard at the rear of the building. They parked well away from one another, each one dispensing a couple of dark, dangerous-looking figures to check the surroundings before the passengers dared step out of the car. These passengers were then escorted quickly and quietly to a small metal door towards the north end of the building and ushered inside.
At the edge of the roof, lying prone so as not to give away his position, Gabriel Pope watched each one go in. He studied them carefully through night-vision binoculars, comparing them to their descriptions and the few photographs which existed. There was the tall, skinny figure of Edgar Moon, leader of the Kranitelya Clan. He was wearing his customary three-piece suit and the wire-framed glasses which, as a vampire, he didn't really need. The Orlokov Brothers had arrived ten minutes earlier, Jerzy's hulking frame dwarfing that of his older brother Vadik. There was no sign of Damian Argyros yet, or of Johnny Fantôme. As the most powerful clan boss in the city he would arrive last, after keeping the others waiting for a suitable amount of time.
Slowly moving back from the edge, Gabe rose to a low crouch and moved back toward the other side of the roof, past the decaying bodies of three sentries who'd been unlucky enough to be posted there. Coming to one of several skylights built into the roof, he peered through a crack in the acrylic pane to confirm the presence of a catwalk below. Rummaging in his coat pocket, Gabe produced a small screwdriver and set to work.
"All done?" Mel asked, as Parrish entered the Police Chief's office.
Parrish responded with half a shrug. "One of the tactical squads is placed in concealed positions on this floor. The other's pulled inside downstairs. If she enters the building we can take her on this floor before she gets anywhere near this room."
Mel nodded. "Tell your men to aim low. If they can take out her legs she'll be easier to finish off. Might even take her alive, although I'm not sure I want to run that risk." She leaned back against a cabinet to one side of the room, juggling something in one hand. Looking closer, Parrish saw what looked like a large walnut, brown and rough, moving between her fingers.
"What is that?" he asked.
Mel looked down, and quietly slipped the object into her coat pocket. "Nothing."
"So who is she?"
Mel looked around at Marrot. He was sitting in the leather chair dragged over from the desk, near the open steel door of the vault. His bodyguard was still beside him, while the two cops were pacing quietly around the room. Harvey was seated on the edge of the desk. "Sorry?" asked Mel.
"This vampire who wants to kill me," said the Mayor. "Who is she?"
"Saloméja Walczak," Mel replied. "That's the name she was born with, sometime in the early twenties. She had a twin sister named Celestyna. They grew up in Poland—just a couple of farm girls, by all accounts."
"So what happened to them?"
Mel shrugged. "The war happened. The Red Army came through in '39 and burned the Walczak farm off the map. The whole family went missing. Dead or deported, probably. There's no official record of the twins after that. But then a few years later Damian Argyros turned up in Paris with two vampire girls who he called his 'daughters.' Nobody knows where he found them. They caused a fair bit of havoc among the German troops while they were there. After the war they relocated to Roseburg and joined the Chernysvet Clan."
Marrot frowned. "But . . . she's not working for the Chernysvet now?"
"Can't really say," said Mel, with a sigh. "The twins both fell out with their 'father' in the last few years. Celeste was connected to the Krasnayaruka for a while, but she ran foul of my boss a few months back. Salomé pretty much went rogue after that. No telling who's pulling her strings now." She looked around. "Maybe someone in this very room . . .?"
The men in the room exchanged puzzled glances. Marrot's face went slightly more pale.
"Sorry." Mel's face broke into a grin. "Couldn't resist."
There were several ghouls patrolling the work floor of the plant, moving about in pairs or threes, stalking between the silent and looming machines like attack dogs. Physically weaker than vampires, they were also easier to kill. Taking out two at a time without attracting attention was a more difficult feat, but after observing their movements from above for several minutes, Gabe came to the conclusion that he had little choice. The arriving vampire bosses were being shown to a stairwell door near the back of the building, where two of the ghouls were acting as doormen. Shortly after dropping in through the skylight Gabe had caught a glimpse of Edgar Moon vanishing through that door. As he watched from a shadowy corner of the catwalk, Damian Argyros had made his appearance, a surprisingly nondescript figure in a casual suit, surrounded by four vampire henchmen and an aide. One of the ghouls unlocked the door and pulled it open, both of them lowering their bleary yellow eyes as the Chernysvet boss and his entourage moved inside. The door was quickly closed and locked behind them.
Gabe paused to assess the situation, but not for long. He knew that once Johnny Fantôme arrived, the upper floor would be rotten with vampires. Johnny never left the Renfield Building without at least half a dozen minders. He'd have extra tonight, and most of them would probably station themselves on that door once he was inside. There was no time to waste.
The two ghouls were both looking the other way when Gabe dropped lightly to the floor about fifteen metres to their right. One of them turned in time to see him darting towards them along the wall, but not in time to do anything about it. The silver-plated combat knife in Gabe's hand caught the ghoul in the throat and didn't stop until it was showing through the back of his neck. By the time he hit the cement floor Gabe had already grabbed the other one by the head and given a businesslike twist. The weakened state of the tissue—due to the slow decomposition, a by-product of ghoulism—was such that the ghoul's head was facing completely the wrong way when Gabe started rifling his pockets for the door key.
"Team Two. Any sign of Argyros yet?"
"No, sir."
Parrish moved to the window, looking down into the well-lit plaza that lay before the building's entrance. "Roof. Anything?"
"Negative."
Parrish tapped the walkie-talkie against his cheek for a second. "Team One, stay alert." He turned to the others, adjusting the MP5 hanging across his stomach. "I'll go check the perimeter. You lot, stay on the radio and keep an eye on this window." With the barest glance at Mel as he passed her, he slipped through the door and into the hallway.
Mel waited a few seconds, one leg gently jiggling, before she spoke. "I think I'll go with him."
"No," Harvey replied, getting up from the edge of the desk. "You should stay close to the Mayor. I'll go give Parrish a hand."
As he moved to the door Mel stopped him with a hand on his arm. Reaching into her coat, she produced a compact 1911 handgun and held it out to him. He glanced at the weapon, then pulled back his jacket to reveal a Glock 21 in a shoulder holster. "I am in local body politics, you know."
Mel smiled and holstered her gun as Harvey followed Parrish through the door. Leaning back against the wall, she looked around at the Mayor, his bodyguard and the two cops standing solemnly around the room.
"I suppose nobody thought to bring any booze?" she asked.
Two levels down from the work floor of Smutter's dyeworks was a room that had no particular business being there. It was an old stone silo, ten metres in diameter and fifteen deep. Its former purpose was unknown to anyone still living in the area, but over the years that Smutter had owned the property it had served as an illicit storage space, a hideout, a hostage cell and a torture chamber. Tonight, cleaned out and refurnished, it would serve as the latest venue for the Konferentsii.
The door was near the top of the chamber, where a relatively new steel-framed catwalk encircled the rough, ancient stonework. A stairwell ran around the wall from the catwalk, winding almost all the way around before reaching the floor. Four curved tables had been brought in and set up at compass points around the room, each with two chairs, to form a circular conference space. Three of the tables were already occupied.
Johnny Fantôme entered the room with his usual sweeping panache, flanked by Kolya—his right-hand man—and an attractive female vampire in a smart jacket and skirt, carrying a slim folder under one arm. Whatever protection the assembled bosses may have brought along, the rules of the Konferentsii allowed for them each to bring one aide and one bodyguard into the actual meeting room. Sasha, Kolya's sister, was upstairs supervising Fantôme's guards. While she was every bit as loyal and useful an assistant as her brother, Sasha's facetious and unpredictable manner tended to ruffle feathers, even amongst other vampires. And should trouble occur, the savagery she was capable of unleashing would be more useful outside. Letting Sasha loose with a weapon in the confines of the silo was something even Fantôme didn't like to contemplate.
He took his time descending the stairwell, his eyes moving from one table to the next. The Uvdayasvet Clan was the second most powerful in the city next to Fantôme's, and therefore the Orlokov brothers occupied the table to the left of his. This clockwise placement of the bosses in order of importance was a tradition so old that even most vampires couldn't remember how it had originated, but they were nothing if not traditionalists. The Orlokovs ran their clan as a partnership, but Vadik was the elder and smarter of the two, and therefore sat as representative. Jerzy—his solid bulk only barely fitting the other chair—took the place of an aide and, subsequently, made the bodyguard behind them seem somewhat redundant.
Damian Argyros, since finally ridding himself of his chief rivals in the Okhotniki, now commanded the third strongest clan in Roseburg. This placed him directly opposite Fantôme, sitting silently with his assistant beside him. Edgar Moon was seated at the fourth table to Argyros' left, making a show of cleaning his useless glasses.
All eyes were on Fantôme as he moved to his table, theatrically pulling out the chair for his smiling secretary before seating himself, while Kolya took up a position behind them. His own gaze briefly met that of Argyros across the room, before moving around to take in the others.
"Gentlemen," he announced. "Velcome vunce again to our . . . little gathering. Apologies should be made for our associate Mr Moorden, who vill not be joining us except, perhaps, in spirit."
Jerzy Orlokov chuckled loudly at the joke, while Vadik offered an amused snort. Even Moon allowed himself a smile. Only Damian Argyros, who had benefitted most directly from the demise of the late Xander Moorden, remained unmoved.
"It's been a busy three years," Fantôme went on. "Aside from der removal of Moorden and his clan, dere have been several significant changes in der past year alone. I hardly need remind any of you of dis. As such, ve have a great deal to discuss. If you vill bear vith me, I shall ask Miss Saffron to present us vith the minutes of our last meeting, und our agenda for dis evening."
All eyes turned to Fantôme's assistant as she rose to her feet, her sparkling smile spoiled only slightly by her gleaming fangs.
The basement level directly above the silo was a warren of corridors and storage rooms, barely lit by hanging light fixtures. Most of the assorted bodyguards had spread themselves out around this floor, keeping their distance from one other. They milled around the corridors, none of them bothering to venture into the rooms, which was why none of them had found the two dead ghouls stashed behind some empty drums in a storage space in the southwest corner.
The corridor leading to the silo itself was a long, narrow strip of bare concrete with a door at either end. Fantôme had left one of his vampires here on watch, at the opposite end from the silo door so as not to inspire the paranoia of the other bosses. Unfortunately for the vampire in question, he'd taken this to indicate that he should stand with his back to the other door.
Stepping over the body, Gabe carefully closed the door behind him and made his way down the corridor. He'd made careful note of a locked sewer grate on the south side of the basement level—there were two vampires guarding it, but it would serve as an escape route when the time came. He'd have to reach it first, of course, and although he was confident of evading the guards in the corridors behind him, there was only one way in or out of the actual silo. If the shit hit the fan, he'd have to move fast to avoid the splatter.
The silo door wasn't locked, and knowledge of Konferentsii procedure told him that the four guards in the room would be down on the floor with their bosses. If Mel was right about the layout, he should be able to slip out onto the catwalk above them and observe undetected.
Holding his breath, he slowly turned the handle and pushed the door ajar. Listening carefully, he heard the muffled voice of Johnny Fantôme drifting up from below. "Thank you, Miss Saffron, scintillating as ever. And now, gentlemen, to business . . ."
With one last glance behind him, Gabe eased the door wider and slipped through.
CHAPTER FIVE
Parrish was already down on the second floor before Harvey Brown caught up with him. Parrish gave the man an irritable glance as he came alongside. "You shouldn't be wandering around by yourself."
"I'm not by myself," Harvey countered. "And I'm not wandering; I'm going with you."
Parrish grunted, pausing to check a locked office door. "You had enough of our consultant, too?"
Harvey frowned in the gloom. "Not really. I notice you're not thrilled about her being here."
"I'm not." Parrish moved on down the corridor, lifting his flashlight to check an adjoining hallway. "I don't even want her on my team, let alone running it."
"She knows what she's doing."
"She's reckless," Parrish countered. "I've seen how she operates. It's all professionalism and so-called expertise until the shit hits the fan, and then she ignores any kind of protocols or common sense and runs in all guns blazing."
Harvey smiled. "She can be a little . . . unpredictable," he admitted. "Gets the job done, though. She's been doing this since before either of us was born, remember."
"Oh, yeah," Parrish muttered. "I forgot. She's a hundred and something, right?"
"Two hundred and twenty-something," Harvey corrected him. "I think."
"And she's part tree."
"In a manner of speaking. Is that a problem?"
"But we pretend otherwise," Parrish went on. "It puts on a skirt, we act like it's a girl."
Harvey stopped walking. There were a few seconds of terse silence while he searched for a diplomatic response.
Parrish paused to look back at him. "What, you think I'm being unfair?"
"That's one way of putting it."
"She's not human," Parrish reminded him, "but we treat her human, because she's got pretty eyes and legs up to her tits. If she had warty skin and a tail we'd be thinking twice about letting her run around unsupervised. But she looks like a real live woman, so we let her and her boyfriend play vigilante."
Harvey shook his head. "We let her 'run around unsupervised' because she's earned it. She's done a lot of good in this town. Saved it, at least once."
"Uh-huh."
"You don't believe me? Ask Leo Cobb," Harvey added, and Parrish snorted in response.
"Cobb? Yeah, he's really unbiased. Don't think I haven't heard that story. The boys on my squad are still telling knothole jokes."
Harvey's response—less diplomatic this time—was lost as Parrish's walkie-talkie sputtered into life. "Sir? Ericson here. I think we've got a problem."
Parrish snatched the device to his mouth. "Where?"
"Ground floor. Boardroom in the southwest corner. Window's been forced."
"Who's there with you?"
"Just me and Tobe."
"Alright. Stay put." Parrish switched channels. "We may have a breach on the ground floor."
Mel's voice crackled through the speaker. "Any sign of Salomé?"
"No. We've found what looks like an entry point."
There was a brief pause. "Leave it," Mel finally replied. "Pull your men out and get them upstairs."
"What?"
"It's a diversion," Mel explained. "If it's her, she's trying to draw you downstairs so she can go around you or ambush you. Bring everyone up to the second floor."
Parrish glowered at Harvey, and switched back. "Ericson."
There was no answer.
"Ericson, wake up. You there?" Parrish waited a few seconds, then turned and hurried towards the stairs. After a moment's hesitation, Harvey followed him.
"The second matter concerns payments made to city officials to forestall certain urban development projects. As you know, while most of us have made our own arrangements with official agencies within our own territories, we have various mutual agreements regarding . . ."
Around the silo, the assembled vampire bosses sat back and drummed their fingers while Edgar Moon droned on about secret accounts and hidden transactions. As leader of the Khranitelya Clan, Moon was more concerned with legitimate business enterprises than the other bosses, but was also heavily involved in money laundering, fraud and high-level corruption. It was largely due to the efforts of Moon, his predecessors and his associates that vampires enjoyed such an affluent and unrestricted lifestyle in Roseburg, which was precisely why Fantôme had allowed them to establish themselves in the city. Their business acumen largely made up for certain failings in other areas, such as their close affiliations with humans, and the fact that many of their long-time members had sworn off human blood. Moon himself still fed on humans, but was generally regarded as a weakling—albeit a useful one—by most of the other bosses. Jerzy Orlokov had a particular disdain for him.
On the catwalk above, Gabe checked his watch. The meeting had been underway for almost two hours, and had most of the conversation had been concerned with money, resources, manpower, territorial matters—the day-to-day (or night-to-night) details of the vampire underworld. Some of those at the meeting seemed to be bored with the whole thing—Jerzy, for one, appeared to be having trouble sitting still—but to Gabe it was a goldmine. The microphone he'd rested at the edge of the catwalk was picking up every word, connected by a thin wire to the recording device stored in his coat. He only understood about half the information himself, but Mel would have a field day sifting through it all back at the office. If she could find a way to track the clans' money, she could find a way to start disrupting their cash flow. She had friends in all sorts of high places.
The thought reminded him of where Mel was, and what she was doing tonight. He hoped she was alright.
Finally Moon sat down, dropping his folder onto the table. Jerzy straightened up in his chair, giving the other vampire a withering glare across the room.
"Thank you, Edgar," said Fantôme. "Another pulse-pounding update on our collective finances. Now, vot's next?"
"Next . . ." Miss Saffron consulted her notes, and for the first time her sparkling demeanour wavered a little. "Vadik Orlokov has requested that we discuss the matter of, er . . . Gabriel Pope . . ."
Up on the catwalk, Gabe moved a little closer to the rail.
Fantôme nodded, his face unreadable. "Very vell. Vadik?" He turned to the Orlokov's table. "You have concerns?"
"You're fucking right I have concerns," Vadik retorted, already out of his chair. "It's been almost six months since that nuisance arrived in town, and he's already done more damage than his father did in six years. Who knows how many vampires he's killed—"
"Two hundred and sixty."
Vadik faltered, and turned to stare at Miss Saffron. So did everyone else in the room.
She froze, an apologetic look on her face. "That's . . . a rough estimate, of course. Taking into account the incident at Asphodel nightclub, and . . . the . . ." She trailed off. Vadik was still staring at her.
"At least a quarter of those belonged to the Uvdayasvet," he went on, "or were associated with us. Not to mention the money he's cost us."
"He ran the Volka family out of town," Edgar Moon piped up. "That hurt all of us."
"He's killed your people too, Fantôme," Vadik went on. "And yet you sit back and allow him to run amok."
"You may recall, Vadik," Argyros interrupted, in a bored tone, "that it was Pope who rid you of Ranier Swift."
Vadik responded with a sneer. "Yes, and he rid you of Xander Moorden. You probably have the bastard on your payroll for all we know. I want to know what our host here is planning on doing about him."
Fantôme smirked, the first reaction he'd shown to the conversation. "Asking me for help, Vadik?"
"I'm asking you why you don't seem to care. His father was an annoyance, but this one's proven himself to be a serious threat." Vadik looked around the room. "We need to go on the offensive. Hunt the fucker down. Pool our efforts if we have to."
That was where he lost them. Argyros rolled his eyes, Moon looked down at the table. Even Jerzy seemed uncomfortable with his brother's suggestion. Cooperation between clans was rare, treacherous and always ended in bloodshed. No one in the room had any interest in sending out assassins who would only turn on one another.
Seeing the wind sucked out of Vadik's sails, Fantôme smoothly interjected. "Rest assured, Vadik, I have people vorking on the Pope issue as ve speak. Vhen the time is right, he vill be dealt vith accordingly."
Gabe frowned in the darkness. That sounded like more than an empty promise. There was something in Fantôme's tone that bothered him.
"Now," Fantôme smiled brightly. "Unless I am mistaken, dis concludes our agenda for der evening. Unless anyvun has another matter dey vont to discuss—"
"I do."
The eyes of the room turned towards Damian Argyros. He was lean and well-groomed, swarthy for a vampire, with a neat hairstyle and a pencil-thin moustache. He sat forward with his hands folded on the table, and for the first time appeared to be showing a real interest in the proceedings.
Glancing left and right at the other bosses, Fantôme sat back and gave Argyros an expectant look.
Argyros' crimson eyes were fixed on Fantôme. "It concerns my daughter."
The boardroom was in the southeast corner, next door to the Department of Water & Power. The room had two windows, both barred. One was open, the bars apparently cut through. At first glance the room seemed empty, until Parrish spotted a huddled shape behind the long table.
Ericson was lying at one end of the table, a gaping wound in his chest. It looked like a stab wound, but the skin and fabric around it had been burned and cauterised. Tobe was slumped against the wall near the opened window, a deep gash across his torso. Parrish moved to check the bodies, Harvey following him into the room with his gun drawn. As the Superintendent checked for life signs, Harvey edged towards the window to inspect the damaged bars. They looked as though they'd been cut with a blowtorch.
"Diversion my arse," Parrish growled, rising from the second body. "Get away from that window." He was already on his way back to the door, walkie-talkie in hand. "She's in! Team One, stay alert. Team Two, move to the lobby and regroup at the foot of the steps. I'm on my way."
"Vhich daughter vould that be?" Fantôme replied flatly. "Der daughter you cast out into der cold und left to die, or der daughter you loaned out to your enemy?"
The silence that followed was broken only by a faint "Oooooohhhh . . ." from Jerzy Orlokov. Vadik was watching the exchange with a faint scowl.
Argyros' face darkened, but he continued regardless. "Salomé was bound to the Okhotniki by an agreement between Moorden and myself. Now that he's dead, that agreement is terminated. Therefore, I want her back."
Fantôme sighed, drumming his fingers on the table. "Und dis concerns me . . . how?"
"We've known each other too long for you to assume I'm a fool, Johannes."
"If I may . . ." Vadik Orlokov shifted in his chair. "This sounds like a private matter between the two of you. Hardly something to discuss at Konferentsii. If you want to squabble over one of Argyros' bitches, do it on your own time."
Argyros' eyes hadn't left Fantôme. "I should remind you, Vadik, that among other things my daughter is a particularly gifted assassin. None of you had much to fear from her while she worked for me, because it never served me to directly interfere with your clans. But if she's in the employ of our illustrious host, I rather think it's a matter you should take an interest in."
There was a long pause, and all eyes turned back to Fantôme. But it was Jerzy Orlokov who finally broke the silence.
"Pah. What do we have to fear from some wench?" He sat back with a dismissive wave of one beefy hand, his chair creaking under the weight.
"She killed Moorden," his brother reminded him, still watching Fantôme. "So I hear."
Jerzy sneered. "So? How hard could that have been?" He jerked his head in Edgar Moon's direction. "That woman over there could have finished Moorden."
Moon's knuckles whitened on the table, but he didn't respond.
"The fact remains," Argyros charged on, "I want Salomé back where she belongs. And most of you," he added, with a glance in Jerzy's direction, "are smart enough to realise that it's better for us all if she is."
Fantôme's expression hadn't changed throughout the entire conversation. "I have no control over der relationship between you und your daughter, Damian. If she hasn't returned to you on her own, I'm sure she has her reasons. Perhaps you should consider putting your house in order. It's no concern of mine."
Argyros' mouth twitched. "Perhaps there's someone else you need to clear the decision with?"
Fantôme shrugged. "I have no vun to answer to."
"That's not what I hear."
"Alright," Vadik Orlokov stood up. "If we're going to start discussing that old story, then I suggest we adjourn. I have better things to do than sit around in this sinkhole talking about fairy tales and boogeymen. Are we done?"
Fantôme and Argyros were still staring at each other.
"Are we done?" Vadik snapped.
Moving his eyes from Argyros in a manner which suggested the matter was beneath him, Fantôme smiled at the others. "Ve are done. Gentlemen, thank you vunce again for your time. I hereby adjourn der Konferentsii—"
Vadik and Jerzy were already gathering themselves to leave. Up on the catwalk, Gabe slipped the recording device into his coat and prepared to move.
"—und I shall see you all in three years. Kolya, kindly escort our guests back to—"
Rising into a crouch, Gabe turned towards the door and found himself staring at a pair of feet on the catwalk beside him. They were pale, dainty feet, clad in black fishnet stockings.
Oh shit, he thought.
His eyes slid upwards, taking in long white legs, a slinky black dress, and a smiling face surrounded by flowing blonde locks. "Hello, my love," Sasha breathed.
Gabe didn't bother to greet her back. Instead he pushed himself upwards, a knife flashing out of his belt. Sasha shot out a forearm to turn the attack, and the blade whispered past her face to leave a thin cut on one delicate cheekbone. She hardly seemed to notice, her other hand swinging at his face. Gabe wheeled away, almost losing his balance at the top of the steps. Behind Sasha were three other vampires, all of them holding weapons. Sasha—still smiling as blood trickled down her cheek—tilted her head to one side as the vampire behind her levelled a handgun over her shoulder. With nowhere to run but down, Gabe ducked and darted down the steps as the shot rang out, reducing a chunk of old stone wall to dust. The vampires down on the floor looked up at the disturbance.
Gabe was almost halfway down the stairs before Sasha cut him off. She sprang up onto the catwalk railing, perched there like a bird, and jumped eight metres down to land on the steps ahead of him. He slid to a halt, steadying himself on the railing, and risked a glance back over his shoulder. Sasha's three henchmen were rushing down the stairwell behind him, guns drawn, and the devil woman herself was advancing up the stairs with an excited gleam in her eye.
Weighing up his odds, Gabe grabbed the rail in both hands, crouched for leverage, and jumped over.
The assembled bosses and their lackeys were mostly on their feet by the time he landed, many of them with weapons drawn. Gabe hit the Orlokov table boots first, stumbled forward into space and came down in an awkward roll on the stone floor. He righted himself as quickly as he could, coming up on one knee with his gun hand already on his revolver. Looking around, he found himself surrounded on all sides by the cream of Roseburg's undead community. Edgar Moon had backed up to the wall, trying not to look like he was hiding behind his bodyguard. Vadik and Jerzy were out of their chairs, Jerzy drawing a nicked and tarnished silver hatchet from his belt. Vadik's hand was inside his jacket, gripping a concealed weapon. All around the silo guns and blades were being drawn, fangs and claws bared. Sasha's henchmen came to a halt on the stairs, covering the intruder from above, and a second later Sasha herself dropped lightly to the floor near Moon's table, crimson eyes fixed on Gabe with what could only be described as barely-controlled bloodlust. Only Fantôme and Argyros were still in their seats, both of them watching Gabe; one with amusement, the other with a calm interest.
Gabe scanned the room, weighing up his odds. He counted sixteen vampires, at least seven guns, and one unreachable door.
With a heavy sigh, he slowly rose to his feet, dusted off his shirt, and squared his shoulders.
"Okay," he said. "Who's first?"
CHAPTER SIX
"Vell," said Johnny Fantôme, with a smirk. "Speak of der devil." He remained in his seat, leaning back with one elbow resting on the back, and looked the lone human in the room up and down. "I don't believe ve've ever been properly introduced. Und yet ve often seem to move in der same circles."
Gabe spared him a glance, keeping an eye on the guns in the room. "Yeah. Hi."
"It is rather impolite of you to turn up unannounced," Fantôme went on. "Vos dere something you vished to bring to der floor?"
"Actually," Gabe replied, slowly turning to keep Sasha in view as she circled him like a shark, "I wasn't even planning on bringing myself to the floor." The other bodyguards in the room were edging towards the center, trying to box him in.
"Gravity is troublesome dat vay," Fantôme conceded. "Still, as long as you're here—"
"Kill him."
Fantôme's eyes flicked sideways. Vadik Orlokov was on his feet, eyes burning into Gabe. "This is the best chance we're going to get, Fantôme. Stop playing games and kill the bastard."
An amused smile slid onto Fantôme's face. "You must forgive Vadik. He's known for being impetuous."
"That's what I hear."
"But if you lay down your veapons," Fantôme offered, "I'm sure ve can bring dis to a more amicable conclusion." Behind him Kolya was moving around for a clear shot, one hand inside his jacket.
Gabe smiled in spite of himself. "You reckon?"
Jerzy stepped away from the table, hefting his silver hatchet. "I'll kill him," he growled, advancing on Gabe.
"Sasha," Fantôme ordered. "Relieve Mr Pope of his veapons."
Sasha sprang forward, a vicious smile on her face. Two of the other guards moved forward as well. Jerzy was still coming from the other direction, hatchet in hand. The blade was well-used and stained with old blood, and had a wicked-looking hook at the back. Bits of dried skin and hair were still clinging to the edge.
Surrounded on all sides, Gabe reached into his coat and retrieved an object clipped to his weapon harness. It was about a foot long, made from black plastic and a silvery glass cylinder. Raising it above his head, he closed his eyes and pressed a switch.
There was a click, a faint whine, and a second later the interior of the silo was flooded with ultraviolet light.
Parrish reached the lobby at a run, Harvey struggling along behind him. The tactical squad was gathering at the foot of the broad marble staircase, weapons drawn to their shoulders, scanning the room for movement. The overheads were on full, bathing the room in harsh flourescent light. The high ceiling was supported by thick square pillars, arched oak doors leading off into other parts of the building. There was no movement to be seen.
Waving the men into silence, Parrish raised his walkie-talkie. "No movement in the lobby. Team One, keep your eyes open."
"Parrish." Mel's voice crackled out of the speaker. "Bring your men back up here. We're too spread out."
"You just stay close to the Mayor," Parrish replied. "We'll go room to room and sweep the building."
"It's too late for that," Mel insisted. "She's already breached the perimeter. We need to concentrate our defences around the target."
"I'm not letting her get—" Parrish began, but the rest of the sentence was lost as a black-clad figure with flowing red hair dropped from the landing above and came down in the midst of the squad, spear blazing in her hands.
Up on the third floor, Mel's walkie-talkie buzzed with a sudden commotion from Parrish's end. She heard him shout, a couple of cries from the other men, and shots ringing out. As the speaker cut out, she picked up the muffled sound of gunfire two floors below her feet.
Dropping the walkie-talkie, she reached for her gun. "Get in the vault."
Marrot was on his feet. "What?"
"Get him in the vault!" Mel repeated, running for the door. The Mayor was almost dragged off his feet as his bodyguards propelled him towards the heavy steel door standing open at one end of the office. The last thing he saw was Mel vanishing into the hallway, gun in hand.
Sunlight kills vampires. This is common knowledge. What's less widely known is why.
Those with scientific leanings suggest some extreme form of photosensitivity, or a vulnerability to ultraviolet radiation. The actual reason is not rooted in science, however, but in mysticism. The sun is the source of all life, the oldest of holy symbols, worshipped before men had even given it a name. Before there were crosses or churches or clerics, vampires had learned to fear the holy light of the sun.
Unfortunately, no artificially-generated light can replicate the effect. Despite this, vampire hunters who experimented with using UV light as a weapon in the early 20th century discovered one useful fact. While UV didn't burn and destroy vampires as hoped, it did appear to have a dazzling effect on their eyes, which were attuned to wavelengths of light unknown to humans. The effect of an ultraviolet flash on a vampire was a reaction in the optic nerves which caused a complete—if temporary—blindness, and produced a sensation not unlike a brief but powerful migraine.
In short, what Gabe had just set off in the silo was the vampire equivalent of a flash-bang grenade.
The reaction was instantaneous, and quite spectacular. Of the sixteen vampires in the room, eleven immediately dropped to their knees or collapsed, clutching their heads and shrieking like cats. Sasha, still moving at a run, went flailing past Gabe as he darted out of her way. She ran headlong into Jerzy, who had averted his eyes just in time and hadn't caught the full flash. Partially stunned, his vision badly blurred, Jerzy caught Sasha around the waist as she fell against him, then let out a roar as she blindly raked her claws down his chest, shredding his shirt and drawing blood. Picking her up like a child, Jerzy flung her angrily to one side. She landed on Argyros' table, tumbled over it and landed amongst Argyros' fallen aide and bodyguard. Argyros himself was nowhere to be seen.
Kolya was the only one in the room who had recognised the device for what it was, and shielded his eyes completely from the flash. As such he was unaffected, but the same could not be said for his master. Johnny Fantôme was slumped against the table, one hand over his face, fighting off the effects of the light. Kolya moved forward to grab Fantôme by the shoulder, his other hand drawing an HK45 handgun from under his jacket. Dragging Fantôme behind him, he raised the gun and fired two rounds in Gabe's direction. Both bullets passed through thin air, as Gabe had seen the gun and was already moving, but it had merely been covering fire anyway. Pushing Fantôme ahead of him, Kolya raised a Gucci-clad foot and kicked violently at the wall behind their table. A section of the stonework collapsed with ease, stones and mortar tumbling to the floor, to reveal a narrow arched tunnel fading into the darkness.
Gabe's attention was already elsewhere, as a partly-blinded Jerzy lunged at him with the hatchet. Ducking out of the way, Gabe drove a solid but barely sufficient elbow into the vampire's face before making a run for the stairs. Jerzy took a wild swing, completely missing Gabe but instead intercepting Miss Saffron, who was stumbling across the room clutching at her eyes. The hatchet caught her under the jawline, lifting her off her feet and almost removing her head. She flopped to the floor in a twisted heap as Gabe sidestepped another staggering vampire and started up the winding stairwell. He grabbed the first of the three henchmen on the stairs and flung him over the railing, punching a second in the face as he ran past. The third, face down on the steps, offered no resistance.
Halfway to the top, he paused to glance down at his handiwork. Those vampires who were still alive were either still on the floor, staggering about in agony or blindly fighting amongst themselves. A few other blind shots rang out, at least two of them finding targets. Sasha was straddling Argyros' bodyguard by the opposite wall, screaming obscenities as she blindly stabbed at him with his own knife. Edgar Moon, glasses hanging askew on his face, was feeling his way around his table. Vadik Orlokov was leaning against the wall, trying to clear his vision and fumbling for his gun. Only Jerzy, still staggering a little, was looking up at him.
With a curse, Gabe turned to charge up the stairs.
She hit them like lightning, striking from the heart of the group before anyone had a chance to react. Two of the cops were dead before they knew she was there, one stabbed through the back and the other beheaded by the sweeping blade of her spear. A third was thrown onto his back as the blade took his left leg off at the knee. Harvey got brief glimpse of the attacker before her boot caught him in the stomach, sending him sprawling.
The others brought their guns around, but she was moving in a blur, the blazing spear twirling about her. Gunshots rang out, bullets striking marble and plaster but never finding their target. Two more cops went down with mortal wounds before Parrish got a clear shot, firing a short burst at Salomé's side, but only one of the bullets grazed her ribs as she spun out of the way. She hardly seemed to notice the flesh wound, bringing her spear around in an upward swing that caught Parrish across the left side of the face and sent him spiralling to the floor. The spear shaft caught another man in the face, dropping him to the floor, before Salomé ducked and thrust her weapon forward to impale the last cop on his feet.
Pulling the spear free, she barely seemed to acknowledge the dying man as he folded up and dropped to the floor. Her eyes were on Harvey.
He was on all fours, still winded, one hand grasping for his fallen Glock 21. He snatched it up and came around on his knees, but Salomé was already on him. The butt end of the spear lashed out to strike the gun from his hand and send it spinning across the room. In the same movement the spear point swept around to rest beneath Harvey's chin.
Salomé stood almost completely still, hands on the shaft of the spear, studying the man on his knees before her.
"Why you?" she said.
Harvey's wide eyes were fixed on the spear hovering beneath his chin. "What?"
Salomé held the spear with one hand, the other reached into her back pocket. Harvey looked up as she shook open a folded glossy photograph and held it out for him to see. "Why you?" she asked. "What have you done?"
Harvey looked at the photograph, staring into his own face. His eyes slowly lifted to meet her gaze. "Does it matter?"
For a moment, Salomé seemed to consider this. Then she dropped the photo to the floor, and raised the spear in both hands.
"No," she said, and drove the blade home.
Jerzy's mouth twisted into a snarl as he fought to concentrate on the blur escaping up the stairs above. Taking two shaky steps, he launched himself into the air with an agility that belied his bulk, leaping four metres upwards to grab the outer edge of the stairwell.
Vadik pushed himself away from the wall, finally managing to drag an OTs-33 machine pistol from his coat. Barely able to see, he yelled a warning to Jerzy—which was lost in the general chorus of screams and shouts—and swung his arm around in a wide arc, spraying the room with a dozen bullets. Unlike Gabe, who was forever working to a budget and relied on iron-tipped ammunition, the Orlokovs had money to burn and kept their personal firearms loaded with silver rounds. Five vampires fell, either dead or injured, as the bullets ripped through them. One of these was Edgar Moon, who had almost regained his equilibrium before one of Vadik's bullets shattered his glasses and continued through his forehead. The contents of his skull spattered the wall behind him as he crumpled to the ground.
Kolya pushed a stumbling Fantôme into the tunnel and was about to follow when Vadik's last bullet tore into his left shoulder. He fell against the wall with a howl, already bringing up his HK45 to return fire. He squeezed off four shots, none of which found their target, although two of them dropped other vampires who'd been lucky enough to avoid Vadik's first volley. By now Sasha was back on her feet, bloodied knife still in hand, scrambling towards Vadik in an attempt to help her brother. Clutching his injured shoulder, Kolya returned to his first responsibility and followed Fantôme into the tunnel.
Above the carnage, Jerzy righted himself on the railing and jumped again, springing up and across the silo to grab the stairwell on the other side. One last jump carried him to the catwalk near the ceiling. Gabe reached the catwalk and slid to a halt as Jerzy appeared, landing on the outside of the railing like a cat alighting on a branch. The burly vampire's face split into a hideous grin, holding on with one hand as he raised his bloodied hatchet in the other. "Where are you going, puppy?"
Down on the floor, Vadik was thrown back against the wall as Sasha cannoned into him, her knife plunging into his leg. He screamed and tried to bring up the machine pistol, but Sasha grabbed at his gun hand, forcing the weapon upwards. The last six bullets in Vadik's clip were expelled in a brief burst of gunfire, hurtling straight upwards. Two hit the ceiling, three glanced off the catwalk, and the sixth punched straight through Jerzy's left wrist as he was trying to scramble over the railing. Bellowing like an injured bull, Jerzy lost his grip and plunged back the way he'd come.
Vadik swung his gun around, striking Sasha across the head with enough force to split her scalp open and bend the frame out of shape. She spun away from him, sprawling over the table and onto the floor. A moment later Jerzy's plummetting bulk went through the table, smashing it to firewood and sending his brother tumbling to the floor. By the time either of them regained their wits, Sasha was vanishing into the escape tunnel after Fantôme and her brother. By that time, Gabe was out the door and running for his life.
Mel took the last flight of stairs at jump, clearing the last few steps to come down awkwardly on the marble floor of the lobby. The floor was littered with bodies, a couple of them still moving, and with a sickening lurch in her gut she could see Parrish and Harvey amongst them. But her eyes were drawn to the front doors of the hall, thrown wide open, and the lithe red-headed figure with the spear fleeing through them. She followed at a sprint, clearing the lobby in seconds and rushing out into the night air. Salomé was ahead of her, stealth abandoned in favour of speed, sweeping down the steps and across the stone landing beyond. The landing ended with a low stone parapet and a fifteen-foot drop to the flat green expanse of Hamilton Park.
Mel slid to a halt at the top of the stairs, one hand emerging from her pocket. Held tight in her fingers was the large seed-like object that Parrish had questioned her about. Drawing her arm back, she uttered a single word in a soft, whispering language, and hurled the seed like a softball.
It hit the ground a couple of metres short of the parapet, just to Salomé's left. The thing seemed to burst like a water balloon, thick green strands whipping through the air; but these were solid and alive, snaking tendrils that wrapped themselves around the parapet and punched into the ground. They coiled around Salomé, catching her around the limbs and torso, encircling the shaft of her spear, still growing and spreading as they bundled her up in a criss-crossing web of vines. Others burrowed into the cement beneath her, tethering her to the ground, splitting and spread out into smaller tendrils.
Mel was on her way down the steps, drawing her gun as she approached the struggling figure in the midst of the leafy web. As she came closer, she saw Salomé struggle to raise her spear. The blade began to glow, a fiery glare that grew in intensity until it was blinding to look at. The tendrils around the spear began to fall away, crumbling and blackening in the heat. Within a couple of seconds Salomé had one arm free and was bringing the spear around, the blazing blade cleaving through the vines holding her back.
Mel moved forward, gun raised, but the spear flashed and roared and the vines were ripped apart, scattering in withered black pieces as Salomé burst free and stumbled over the edge of the parapet. Fighting through the pungent smoke, Mel caught a brief glimpse of the dark shape flitting across the grass below before it vanished into the trees.
The upper basement of Smutter's Dyeworks was in a state of chaos. None of the vampires at the meeting had made it out of the silo yet, but those left upstairs had heard the gunfire and were literally falling over each other in their efforts to respond. Given that the guards wandering the building were affiliated with four opposing clans, and none of them yet knew the nature of the crisis, the general assumption was that one of the bosses had either started a fight or tried to assassinate the others. As such, the responses largely involved trying to reach the silo first, fighting amongst themselves, or both. The narrow corridors of the basement rang with gunshots, screams and the gruesome sounds of metal cleaving flesh. The fighting was fuelled by general panic and a lot of old scores, and here and there an ambitious junior member of a clan was taking the opportunity to stab a superior in the back.
Very few of them noticed the human with the silver baseball bat as he dashed through their midst, and those who did got in his way at their own peril. Gabe had to detour more than once to avoid the densest knots of battling vampires, but by and large his course was leading him towards the sewer grate on the south side of the building. Dodging around the shadowy, struggling figures in the corridors, employing his revolver or bat where necessary, he managed to weave his way through the bedlam until he reached the south corridor. And here he encountered a problem.
The warriors of the Chernysvet Clan, like their illustrious leader, had a reputation for being more prudent than many of their counterparts in the other clans. So while most of the others were tripping over their own severed limbs and spattering the walls with one another's blood, six of the Chernysvet had regrouped on the south side of the building. Most of them were armed with automatic weapons, and all of them were watching each other's backs as they made their way towards the silo. Their goal was to locate Damian Argyros and escort him out of the building, and take out anyone who got in their way.
So when Gabe charged around the corner up ahead of them, bloodied bat in one hand and revolver in the other, they were in no mood to mess around. Gabe slid to a halt as two handguns, three submachineguns and an assault rifle were lifted in his direction.
In the second or two available to him, he performed the same mental arithmetic he'd used down in the silo. There were six of them, and he was fairly certain he only had four bullets in his gun. There was no available cover in the corridor, no room to dodge, and no time to make it back around the corner before the inevitable hail of gunfire commenced. The best he could do, he decided, was to start shooting first and take at least one of them with him. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.
He had his revolver halfway raised before he heard the voice from behind the vampires. It was a strong, clear voice, filled with a quiet authority, and it simply said, "Stop!"
Gabe and the vampires froze, guns at the ready, staring at one another. They all knew that voice.
"Make room."
Hesitantly, their eyes still on Gabe, the six vampires lowered their weapons and moved to the walls to clear a path. Damian Argyros was standing in the corridor behind them, a Walther P38 held at his side. He stared at Gabe for a moment, as if sizing him up. Then he half-turned and motioned towards the sewer grate, fixed into the floor at the far end of the corridor.
"It's unlocked," he said, and moved to one side.
Gabe frowned, gun still raised.
"You haven't got all night, boy," Argyros urged.
Gabe glanced back towards the corner, where the sounds of battle were getting closer. Keeping his gun trained on Argyros, he began to edge forward. The vampires on either side of the corridor glared at him as he passed, a couple baring their fangs, but made no move to stop him. Argyros watched him pass, his face unreadable. "Give my regards to Meliad," he murmured.
Gabe moved backwards towards the sewer grate, anticipating a bullet in the back as soon as he turned. Yet the vampires made no move as he crouched to pull the grate open, not even when he holstered his gun and slipped into the opening. He made his way down the steel ladder as quickly as he could, dropping into calf-deep water at the bottom. With one final glance at the grate above, he turned and set off down the tunnel at a run.
Harvey was lying on his back, one leg tucked beneath him, head tilted back. The fatal wound was in his chest, a burned and blackened stab wound over his heart. He was one of six dead men in the lobby, but for the moment the emergency teams were concerning themselves with the living. The other tactical squad stood guard as the medics worked, seeing to the man with the shattered cheekbone and the other with the severed leg. The cut had been cauterised by the heat of the blade, but he was in deep shock and the medics were having trouble stabilising him. He wasn't expected to make it to the hospital alive.
Parrish was still out cold as they wheeled him out on a stretcher. The left side of his face was scorched and mangled, his eye completely destroyed. The medics couldn't or wouldn't say if he was going to live.
By the time the ambulances pulled away Meliad was back on the third floor, facing Mayor Marrot across his desk. Between them lay the rumpled photograph of Harvey Brown.
Marrot stared at it, then looked up at Mel. "I don't understand," he admitted.
Mel was on her feet, ignoring the two guest chairs behind her. "They played us," she said, her eyes on the photo. "Leaked us bogus information about an assassination attempt to keep us busy and distract us from the real target. They had us protecting the wrong person." She glanced up at the Mayor. "No offence."
"But . . . why Harvey?"
"Harvey's been here a long time. He worked for the last two mayors before you. He's been negotiating deals and trading information with the clans for years. He was your link to their world, and now they've severed it."
Marrot stared at her, his face still blank.
"It means," Mel persisted, "that one clan or another's got something brewing, and they don't want you or your office involved. Without Harvey, you're in the dark."
"But . . ." Marrot picked up the photo. "Why go through all this? They could have gotten to Harvey anywhere. Wouldn't it have been simpler to—"
"They didn't want simple," Mel interrupted. "They wanted messy and dramatic. They wanted to send you a message. You're not in charge of this town." Leaning forward, she plucked the photograph from his hands. "And all bets are off."
And so the night's work was done. And few had escaped unscathed.
Morning found Johnny Fantôme in his living room, standing before the wide bay windows that overlooked the city in the pre-dawn light. He liked to stand there just before sunrise, knowing that death was only a few minutes away, before retreating to the safety of his bedroom just before the first rays filled the room. Over the years he'd dared himself to linger a few moments more, and often beat the sun by mere seconds. It almost made him feel alive again.
This morning, he wasn't alone.
"You did very vell," Fantôme commented, swirling an inch of warm blood around the bottom of a brandy glass. "I knew your father vasn't exaggerating your talents."
Salomé was crouched at his right, peering down at the plaza far below. A couple of people were moving about down there—the night doorman headed for his car, a young drunken couple staggering home after the night's revels. Salomé watched the girl stagger against her boyfriend, waving to the indifferent doorman as he passed them. "It wasn't difficult."
Fantôme shrugged, watching the glow on the horizon grow brighter. "The next vun might be." He smiled and sipped from the glass. "But ve'll talk about dat later. For now, go und get some sleep. Your new room is to your liking? I'd forgotten to ask."
"I won't sleep here," Salomé told him flatly, rising to her feet. "I have another place. If you want to keep me here under your thumb, you can—"
"No, not at all," Fantôme smiled. "You can come und go as you please. As long as you are available vhen needed, und your . . . extracurricular activities don't interfere vith any of my plans."
Salomé looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "What plans would those be?"
Fantôme snorted. "Oh, you presumptuous girl. You'll know vot you need to know, vhen you need to know it. Though rest assured . . ." He drained the glass with one gulp. "You'll find my hopes for der future fall in line vith your own."
"I don't have any hopes for the future."
"Ve'll see." Fantôme placed the empty glass on a side table and made his way towards the stairs. "I'd be off if I vere you. It's going to get very hot in dis room in about sixty seco—"
Turning to the window, he saw that Salomé was already gone. With a smile, Fantôme offered a small bow to the space where she had stood. Then he was away down the stairs, and the room was filled with sunlight.
The morning sun was shining into the office of Downwright & Pope as well. Will hadn't slept very well, so upon hearing Gabe and Mel moving about next door he'd roused himself and entered the office for a cup of coffee. He'd found them sitting around Mel's desk, poring over a recording device.
"So," he asked, after a recount of the night's events, "you didn't kill them all?"
"Nope," said Gabe. "This was an intelligence gathering mission that got out of hand."
Will picked up his coffee. "You probably should have killed them all."
"Would have been counter-productive," Mel explained. She seemed weary, and looked as though she'd been crying, but had waved Will aide when he'd asked her if she was alright. "Knock off the bosses, their lieutenants'll fight it out until one takes over leadership, and things will just carry on as normal. Except all the information we've got," she added, tapping the recorder, "would be worthless."
"Moon getting killed'll throw a bit of a spanner in the works," Gabe predicted.
"Just a little one," Mel replied, with a shrug. "The Khranitelya will just vote for a new leader. They're not into your bloodbath power struggles." She sipped her coffee, wincing as it burned her lip. "It's Argyros letting you walk that spins the mind a bit."
Gabe nodded. "Been puzzling over that one myself. I guess we did help him take down Moorden. Maybe he figured he owed us one."
Mel gave him a look. "Doubtful. Damian Argyros didn't get where he is by making good on favours. Nah, he's working an angle. We'll just have to watch our backs a little harder until we figure out what it is."
Will beamed happily over his coffee mug. "I'm starting to like living here."
Gabe and Mel exchanged glances.
"And on that note," Gabe sighed, "I'm going to go wash the sewer off and sleep 'till Wednesday. If anyone's looking for me, tell 'em they can go—"
The sentence was cut off as the office door open, and a figure unexpectedly walked into the room. Gabe and Mel's reactions were instantaneous, one drawing his revolver while the other was halfway out of her chair, pulling a silver dagger from a hidden sheath beneath her desk. The uninvited guest froze, one hand still on the door handle, staring down the barrel of Gabe's gun.
"Sorry," she said, her face even paler than usual. "I can come back later."
Mel stared at the girl, studying her face. "Helena?" The revolver drooped in Gabe's hand.
Will was still in his chair. "Oh, right," he murmured. "You, um, had a visitor last night . . ."
Gabe slowly lowered the gun, his mouth half open. Helena Downwright gave him a hesitant smile as she looked him over. "Wow," she said with a sheepish laugh. "You got taller."
Gabe's mouth worked silently as he searched for an appropriate answer, and all he could come up with was, "Yeah."
The two stood and stared at each other. Will turned to stare at Mel, who in turn stared at the desktop as she laid the dagger on it. "It's too early in the morning for this," she sighed.
Will smiled and picked up his coffee. "I'm really starting to like living here."