Chapter Fourteen: Scaredy Cats
In ten minutes they were drawing gazes outside the nightclub. They didn’t exactly blend in with the crowd, the crowd being mostly female, thin, and pale, whereas the wolves were all burly rural farmer types in plaid shirts, jeans, and beer bellies.
The wolves followed Beck and Paddington past the line – longer now than earlier; Estikans partied late, not like Archians who needed to be up before the dawn to tend their farms – to the bouncer at its head. Heavily-made-up youths watched them with… not exactly hostility, but far from indifference. Gathering malice, perhaps, or animosity. Thank the Three-God Paddington had convinced Lisa not to come with them.
“Constable Beck,” Beck said and produced his badge from a brown trouser pocket. He nodded toward the wolves. “My men; we’re on an undercover sting. Very hush hush; you understand. We need to get inside.”
For a moment Paddington thought the bouncer would want details, verification, something. Instead, his mouth turned down in a shrug and he nodded them in. Paddington and the pack followed Beck through the arched doorway and down a set of stone steps. At the bottom, the club was poorly lit by the false flicker of electric candles. Blood-red couches lined the walls, filled with people in black leather who nursed drinks in cocktail glasses.
“Remember,” Paddington said over the thumping bass, “we’re just trying to find Phaedra; we’re not here to kill her or start trouble.”
The wolves said nothing, just spread out through the club. Paddington chose to assume that was assent. Mitchell hadn’t spotted Phaedra leaving, so the vampire was in here somewhere. The club was dark, though, and filled with low ceilings, booths, and writhing bodies. Checking all of them without drawing attention would be difficult. Paddington excluded the dancers from his initial search on the assumption that an Andraste wouldn’t partake of such crude gyrations.
All of the booths were occupied, and the occupants looked annoyed when Paddington wandered close and peered in trying to discern features in the gloom. The Andrastes were distinctive enough that he thought he’d be able to spot Phaedra in the low light, but it annoyed him no end that the wolf could have seen so much more clearly.
He’d circled half the room – from the staircase entrance to the bar – and spotted nothing apart from a lot of Mainlanders with not a lot of fabric on them, when he saw something of interest: Beck, chatting up a barmaid. At least, that’s what it looked like. Beck was talking to her and she was smiling back and standing up nice and tall. It didn’t make her much taller, but it pressed her chest out. Beck noticed but tried not to make it obvious that he had.
The girl noticed him noticing and did a better job of not making it obvious that she was pleased.
So… so much for Beck’s boring little life.
“Anything?” Truman said through the radio in Paddington’s ear. Truman had gone all-out on the tech this time, including fancy in-ear radios that wirelessly talked to the push-button pack on his belt.
“Not yet,” Paddington said.
“Let me know the moment there is.” Truman sounded annoyed at being left out of the action, but he’d elected to guard the other vampires; he couldn’t complain about it now.
Paddington spotted a blonde with a wide face in one of the booths. It wasn’t likely to be Phaedra because it was surrounded by shirtless men in leather pants and vests, but it was worth investigating.
Especially since, as Paddington came closer, he became more convinced it was her. He’d have called for backup except that vampire night vision was better than a human’s. If he’d spotted her, she’d definitely spotted him.
Since she wasn’t running, Paddington slid into the booth beside the men. “Phaedra my dear. How are you?”
“Did you just say Phaedra?” Truman asked. “Everyone converge on Paddington!”
Paddington wasn’t sure the wolves would know what “converge” meant, but they’d recognise the name.
“I’m fine, chief,” said Phaedra. She didn’t seem concerned. That concerned Paddington. Were these men also vampires? The thought that the Andrastes may have bred an army in the last month hadn’t occurred to him until right this second. He tried not to let it show on his face as he checked the eyes of the man sitting closest him. They didn’t look slitted, but in this low light even Phaedra’s didn’t.
The man pursed his lips at Paddington, which he took to be the cue to stop staring. “How’s the family?” Paddington asked Phaedra.
She understood his meaning, judging by her dour expression. And by the short burst of worry, Paddington assumed these men were not vampires.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“To negotiate.”
She smiled. Teeth showed. White points, glinting in the dark. “You’ll have to take that up with father when he arrives.”
Adonis was coming here? When?
Malice grew in the air. The men sitting beside Paddington were staring, sneering. If they attacked him – and they were growing interested with the idea – he wouldn’t be able to fight them all off. They could drag him away and kill him and in the dark and the noise no one would even notice.
“I’ll do that,” Paddington said. “In the meantime, w—”
“Where is she?” Pete roared. Of course he’d be the first one here. Luckily, Dom was only a step behind, trying to keep him calm. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it, but then Dom never did a great job of anything. He couldn’t even control his hair, which was something of a problem for a werewolf.
“She’s right here,” Paddington told Pete in a calming voice. “We’re having a nice civilised chat.”
Apparently Pete missed the undertone that he shouldn’t grab the nearest man and throw him bodily onto the dance floor. By the time the man had knocked down a pair of writhers, the other men in Phaedra’s booth were scrambling to get at Pete.
Which was when the rest of the wolves arrived and stood behind him, forming a wall of muscle and, yes, flab.
The music stopped. The writhers ground to a halt. All eyes turned to their little booth.
Phaedra’s men slunk back to their seats at the appearance of the whole pack, but they locked eyes with the wolves in a way that clearly stated they would not be opposed to a fight. They just weren’t about to throw the first punch while the odds were so against them.
“Let’s all calm down,” Rick said.
“You’re not a cop here,” Curt said. “And that bitch needs to pay.”
“An interesting noun coming from you,” said Phaedra, calmly. She didn’t even look worried. She should look worried; her guards weren’t vampires and eight wolves would have no difficulty beating the remaining young men in a bar fight. So why was she so cocky?
“You want a piece?” Curt asked, stepping forward.
Phaedra seemed confused by this. “Do you?” she asked. “Have you forgotten where you are?”
“No,” Paddington said. “In another town your father has cut the heart out of.”
“Or given purpose to,” said Phaedra.
“We haven’t forgotten what your family did to us,” Will said, rolling his shoulders and warming up his muscles.
“Now might not be the best time to fight,” said Phaedra. “The numbers are not in your favour.”
“You have four,” Rob said, “not counting the unconscious one over there. We have eight.”
Phaedra smiled, and gave a brief nod.
On command, the leather-bound men in Phaedra’s booth rained spirits and glass on the floor by overturning the table in the centre, then launched themselves at the wolves.
It was going to be a short fight. Even Tony, who had let himself go a bit over the last few years, was a match for two of these scrawny black-clad clubbers. It was the most testosterone-fuelled Archians who had become wolves – or being wolves brought out their testosterone, Paddington wasn’t actually sure. In any case, they were all short-tempered and had learned to fight by brawling, not by seeing it glorified in films. Add
the fact that they worked well as a group and the vampire’s cohorts wouldn’t last more than a few seconds.
As the wolves beat the clubbers into submission, Paddington turned back to Phaedra. “Sorry about this; I am trying to avoid bloodshed.”
“You’re failing.” Phaedra nodded toward the floor. Paddington followed her gaze.
There were more fighters in the battle than there had been. At least half a dozen more, not including those standing at the sides looking brave but not throwing a punch. The wolves had backed up against each other in the centre of the dance floor and were doing very well. Even Dom was holding his own.
Beyond the throng of struggling bodies strode the vampires. Their dress was even more archaic than it had been on Archi: frilly shirt-sleeves and pocket-watches. They had mystique, but it was a visage created to turn them into the vampires the townsfolk expected them to be: pale, gorgeous, ethereal, full of dignity and power. They were genuinely all of those things, but subtle differences in their appearances and expressions amplified the effect.
Adonis was at the head. Behind him were the two boys, then two of the girls.
Oh for a giant bowling ball…
“What is all this?” asked Adonis, as if he were somehow disappointed by the wolves’ behaviour.
The clubbers wound down slower and slower like clockwork fighters. The wolves let the fight die, their eyes on the Andrastes. Only two of them threw punches after their opponents had stopped, which was almost a personal best.
“Chief, really,” said Adonis. “I had hoped you could maintain—”
“Shut it,” Paddington said. “I’m in no mood.”
The elderly vampire looked shocked.
“And I’m aware that you brought the family out to show us just how impressive you all are, but it doesn’t work. Not today. Because you’re short a few members.”
Adonis swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“And yet,” Paddington continued, “as strange as this will seem to a man who poisons everything he touches, I’m not here to get revenge for taking my father from Archi or hiding my brother’s existence or keeping secret yet another prophecy. I’m not even here to make war.” Paddington nodded at the wolves. “They are; I’m not. I’m here to tell you that if you come home I won’t let them kill you.”
“And if we refuse?”
“War,” Will said.
Adonis’s hands turned outward, to the sixty or so leering, angry, clubbers. “Do you think you can win?” asked Adonis.
“I don’t think anyone wins in war,” Paddington said. “But one side usually survives.”
Adonis took a moment to look from the wolves to his daughter in the booth. “What do you want?”
“Your family to come back to Archi,” Paddington said.
“I consent,” said Adonis. “The moment the prophecy is complete.” Ah, the iron resolve of an arrogant theistic tyrant.
“Even if it costs you your daughters?”
Adonis’s neck muscles tightened as he clenched his teeth. How did he not puncture his lips when he did that? “If that is the price… then they shall rest safe in the arms of the Three-God.”
“We’ll stop you. Whatever this prophecy is, we’ll stop it.”
“You already know the prophecy, demon,” said Adonis. “Fulfil it and we can all go home.”
“And the other?”
“Is irrelevant.”
“Then you won’t mind our seeing it ourselves in the Book of Three, whole and intac—”
“That is a priceless artefact,” said Adonis.
“Whereas you have daughters to spare?” Paddington said before Adonis could start spouting nonsense about sacrilege. “Whereas you can always make more children?” Paddington stood. “Your family means more to you than a dusty old tome, Adonis.”
Adonis nodded. “Very well. Return my daughters and I shall deliver the Book.”
“No. One Book, one daughter.”
Paddington couldn’t remember seeing Adonis so mad. His exceptional self-control appeared to have run out and the predator rose to the fore, all animal eyes and vicious snarl. “What’s to stop our killing you right here?” he spat.
“What’s to stop Truman shooting your daughters in the head?” Paddington countered. He stepped closer to the flared nostrils and curled lip. “We’ll see you at the castle gates tomorrow at sunset.”
Paddington made it four steps before Adonis asked the obvious question. There was no mockery in his voice now, no playfulness, just empty resignation. “Which daughter? Who will you return?”
Paddington turned back to him. “I’m in a generous mood today, so I’ll tell you what: you choose.”