“Louis-Cesare isn’t a normal vampire.”
I wanted her to go. It felt like somebody had yanked my heart out of my chest and crumpled it into a little ball. I wanted nothing more than to curl around the pain and—
But Claire almost looked like she was in pain, too.
“You told me not to lump them all together,” she said. “I didn’t listen.”
“It’s all right—”
“It’s not all right.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Especially now.
“It matters!” She stared at me. “He was so worried, Dory, when they brought you back from those fights. I told him I thought you were okay, but that someone really should check you out, just to be sure, but he said he didn’t know anyone else here—”
“That’s great, Claire—”
“No, listen. I asked him why he didn’t contact one of his people, you know, mentally.”
I nodded.
“And have them find a healer. But he said that takes concentration, and he couldn’t manage it right then. So I dug out the emergency number, for the all-night service, and gave it to him. But he couldn’t dial it. His hands were shaking too much—”
I’d started digging through the dresser, looking for something to wear to Horatiu’s, but now I rounded on her. “Why are you doing this?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know. I just—I realized then that I’d made a mistake. He did—he does—love you, and you love him—”
“None of which matters!”
She caught my arm. “Love always matters! And I—When I saw him that way, this big, strong master vampire, suddenly so terrified, so helpless . . . I knew I’d been wrong. Wrong about him, maybe wrong about all of them. I don’t know.”
“They’re like every group. Some good, some bad.” I looked from her to the hand she had on my arm. “Why are you doing this?” I repeated.
“Because he’s a big, strong master vampire. He can handle this. He can handle her.”
“But I can’t!” I grabbed my duffle and threw some stuff inside, barely even looking at it. “If I hurt him—”
“Dory.” Claire’s voice was suddenly small. “If what I saw that night was any indication, you couldn’t hurt him more than . . . than this.” She gestured around—at what, I didn’t know. Probably my empty fucking room.
“Then I’ll hurt him. At least he’ll be alive to feel it!”
I left.
Chapter Thirty-three
I drove around aimlessly for a while, with the top down because it was stifling and my air conditioner had been busted for a week. It didn’t help. The night was muggy, I was sweating and miserable, and nobody even bothered to try to hijack me so I could take out some aggression.
Not that I seemed to have much right now.
Or anything else.
It was why I hadn’t headed to Horatiu’s, like I’d planned. I was in no condition to talk to him. I’d just wanted to get away, somewhere without people, even well-meaning ones, somewhere I could think. But now that I had, my brain didn’t seem interested. I felt strange, detached, numb. And seriously in need of a drink.
I also needed information, and there was only one place to get both.
I jerked the wheel around, and headed for the bar I knew best.
* * *
—
“SHUT THE DOOR!”
The collective shout made me jump, as it always did, despite the fact that I knew to expect it. I slipped inside and shut the door. Some of Fin’s clientele tended to be light phobic, and the shout had become a habit, even at night. Others just liked the ambience of a basement bar lit only by a dozen TVs, a few dim lanterns, and scrolls of golden graffiti streaming down the walls, giving the odds on anything and everything. The proprietor wasn’t picky; if you could bet on it, you could get odds at Fin’s.
Assuming you didn’t break your neck on the way down the stairs, that is. It was actually worse than descending into the twins’ den, where all you had to deal with was black. In here, it was either glaring, rapidly shifting colors, or darkness, take your pick. Which left you tripping over your own feet the whole night because your eyes never totally adjusted.
Or your ears, I thought, as another roar went up from the crowd—the really big crowd. I hadn’t seen Fin’s this packed in a while. I couldn’t even see any floor below, just a sea of heads, lit by flickering darkness.
And it was the same up here. I pushed my way down the stairs ruthlessly, because people weren’t using them for the purpose intended, but as a way to get a better look at the big screen off to one side. Not that it was helping. It covered maybe a fourth of one wall, and was where the most important events were shown. But I couldn’t tell what was on tonight thanks to the mass of people standing in front of it.
The bar was swamped, too, when I finally fought my way over, although I kept shoving until I found a piece to prop my elbow on.
Fin was nowhere in sight. The long slab of maple was being manned by a bunch of his family, at a guess, since they were forest trolls, too. The nearest was so tiny that, even though he was standing on a box, his nose kept hitting the bar top and then bouncing up and down. It was kind of fascinating to watch, and didn’t seem to bother him, although it did make his voice a little hard to understand.
Although that would have been the case anyway, I thought, wincing as another huge roar shook the place.
What the hell was going on?
After a moment, the bartender finished with his current job and popped up at my end, bobbing his nose expectantly.
“Fin?” I yelled, because anything less wasn’t going to be heard over the noise.
He cupped a hand around his ear and leaned closer, in the universal “speak up” pose.
“Fin? Is he in tonight?”
“What?”
“Is Fin here?” I all but bellowed.
“You want a beer?”
“No! I want Fin!”
“Okay, what kind of gin?”
“No, Fin! Fin! I just want to find out—”
“Stout?”
I gave up. “Never mind.”
He nodded and hopped off his box, disappearing under the counter, and I scanned the room. If Fin wasn’t behind the bar, he was usually taking bets over by the big screen, where everything was happening. But I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see anything with the old green couches completely covered in people, and more standing behind. And with the screen itself giving off only an occasional flicker through the yelling, jumping, and high-fiving patrons in front of it.
Somebody was having fun tonight.
“Here you go!” The bartender was back.
He handed me something reddish gold, with a good head.
“What is this?”
“What you ordered. Barley wine!”
I sighed and paid up, because arguing wasn’t worth the hassle, and took my barley wine on a tour of the facilities. It wasn’t easy. I got more alcohol on me than in me, thanks to buffeting elbows, and was all but deaf due to the constant thunder of the crowd.
But I made it to one side of the big screen, where I was pushed against a side table by the crowd’s ebb and flow. That wasn’t such a bad thing, since the table was currently empty, except for a bunch of used glasses. So I climbed on top to look for Fin.
And found somebody else instead.
Make that two somebodies, I thought, as another earthshaking roar went up from the crowd. The screen was so big, almost filling my vision from here, and the crowd was so close and so loud, that it was genuinely disorienting. It felt like I’d stepped into some weird virtual reality game, where we were all along for the ride.
And what a ride it was.
I had to steady myself on the shoulders of a couple guys, to keep from falling off the table as we went tearing along behind a huge troll
. Who in turn was tearing through a building, a bunch of screaming men running ahead of him, most of them too panicked to use the guns they were carrying. And the few who did finding it hard to aim while pissing themselves.
The troll smashed into something that shattered in a haze of flying wood, and whatever was providing the feed took a beating. We all lolled drunkenly, maybe half the bar together, as it flipped end over end, and hit the floor. And then we were leaning the other way, as it bounced up again and zoomed around in a circle to right itself. And showed us a dizzying view of an industrial building in the process.
It was old and grimy, with a row of high rectangular windows letting in streams of hazy moonlight, or maybe streetlight. It filtered down to illuminate the scene, looking strangely peaceful and serene. While below, the troll was literally ripping apart the building that the men were running through, and then using the pieces to rip them apart.
I saw one guy bisected by a flying piece of metal, maybe a large table or door; we were back behind the troll now and moving so fast that it was hard to tell. Another was crushed under a brick wall that decided to collapse when a massive arm was dragged through it. And a third was sent hurtling into another wall, courtesy of the girder that had been thrown at him like the world’s biggest javelin.
Others, however, were obviously mages, because I saw shrapnel bouncing off what had to be shields. Shields that were taking a beating, and not just from the troll. Because, on his back, hunched over like a tiny, wild-eyed wart, was . . . something crazy.
Or make that someone crazy, a screaming banshee with a machine gun and an afro, just letting it rip.
I had a sudden, dizzying flashback to the same woman in the cab of a truck, swaying back and forth and cackling maniacally. Kind of like she was doing now, only the machine-gun bursts drowned it out, along with the screams of the remaining men. One of whom finally got his shit together long enough to lob a spell. The big troll ducked, and it mostly flew overhead—his, anyway. The maniacal wart, however, got her hair singed, which started smoking.
But not because it was on fire.
But because the spell had lit the dozen cigarettes she had stored up there, like a tobacco crown.
She took a couple out of the smoking circlet, stuck them between her teeth, and let loose like the last five minutes of The A-Team.
I just stared.
So did the mages—for a moment. Until their shields went down and so did they. Well, most of them.
I saw a few make it through some industrial sliding doors up ahead, using magic to increase their speed, while ours started to flag. I wasn’t sure whether the troll was getting tired, because he ought to be tired after acting like a wrecking crew all on his own. Or if maybe there was another reason.
And then I saw the reason.
Cage after old iron cage lined the walls and spilled out into one end of the huge space. Some housed lumps huddled in darkness, too dirty and ragged to make an easy identification. But others had humans clinging to the bars, staring out in dawning hope, hands reaching, reaching, reaching—
For the keys that the troll shook off one of the few men who were still moving, before throwing him through a window. And then standing in the middle of the room and roaring, the sound almost drowned out by the cries of the slaves and the yells, cheers, and boos of the crowd around me. Who were surging to their feet, those who hadn’t already been there, and acting like they’d just won the Super Bowl.
Maybe because some of them had, I realized, finally spotting Fin on the other side of the screen, doing some swift calculations on an old yellow pad.
A list of odds and their payouts showed up on the wall a moment later, while the winners surged at Fin and the losers headed for the bar. I just stood there, staring at the images. Because the important part of the night’s events, which no one seemed to care about, was still ongoing.
The slaves were being freed.
The small woman with the smoking hair jumped down from the troll’s back, assisted by a hand the size of an easy chair, and grabbed the keys. And went hopping from cage to cage, letting out what I could now see were mostly weres. Some were in human form, thin, dirty people with matted hair and darting eyes. But others were too exhausted and sick to transform, leaving them stuck as a menagerie of animals: a lion with half its fur gone; a dozen wolves, so scrawny I could see all their ribs; a huge gorilla that was cradling a tiny baby with the greatest of tenderness; and a mass of selkies, fey skin changers who in their animal form resemble seals.
Somebody went to switch the channel and I growled at him. The man slowly pulled his hand away, and I hopped down and pushed through the remaining crowd to get closer to the screen. The slaves were running now, some stopping to help those who couldn’t help themselves, but most darting into the night, not even waiting to plunder their former jailers, whose bodies were littered everywhere.
Except on the long dock visible outside the sliding metal door, where a couple guys in a speedboat were about to take off. At least, they were before a young man with massive, eagle-like wings swooped down, the partial transformation allowing him to kick the duo back onto the dock. Where they were swarmed by their former captives.
But many more slaves ran off, not enticed by revenge any more than they had been by plunder.
They looked terrified.
But not of the troll. Who was slumped down now, on the dirty wood floor, head lolling, obviously exhausted. And letting his assistant do the mopping up.
“Dory!”
My head jerked up to see Fin waving at me above the crowd. He jumped off his stool and came bustling over, looking pleased. “You out and about already?”
I blinked at him, wondering how he knew I’d been at the theatre, and then I realized: he thought I was still recovering from the burnt-out-building fight.
“Yeah.” I went back to staring at the screen, where the eagle man had now transformed his feet into great claws, to rake at the slavers, one of whom had grabbed a kid as a shield.
And who, a second later, was hitting the dock on his knees, when the were-child changed into a python and wrapped around his neck.
“I should have expected it,” Fin said. “You always heal fast—”
“Fin.” I gestured at the screen, half-incoherent. “What is that?”
He looked over his shoulder, and then back at me, beaming. “The latest thing. I’m making a killing!”
“On what?”
“On the crazy crusade those two got going.” He jerked a thumb at the screen. “You haven’t heard?”
I shook my head.
He pushed his way through the crowd, and pulled a folded newspaper from in between two sofa cushions. “Here. It’s yesterday’s, but you get the idea.”
It would be hard to miss. At the top of the paper was a screaming headline: UNDERWORLD GANG WAR! And beneath that: WHAT IS THE CIRCLE HIDING?
Not a lot, judging by the pictures. Which showed members of the Silver Circle in their trademark leather overcoats, a few with glittering insignia, standing around the middle of what appeared to be another warehouse. It was a newer one this time, all dirty concrete floors and few windows to let in light. On what, at a guess, was another troll attack.
It looked like the one I’d just witnessed, except with more bodies.
A lot more.
I couldn’t tell exactly how many because a mage had his hand up, palm facing the camera and fingers spread, in a vain attempt to keep any images from reaching the masses. But if that was the goal, the Circle’s guys should have thought to check the security feed. Below the candid shot was a whole row of grainy stills from a video of the attack. And while they were hard to make out, thanks to poor lighting and cheap equipment, they were recognizably the dynamic duo. Only this time, Revenge Granny had gone full Scarface, with a machine gun in one hand and a sawed-off shotgun in the other.
“They’re really something, huh?” Fin said, looking over my shoulder.
Yeah. I just wasn’t sure what that something was. But I knew what it’d be if the Circle caught up with them.
Vigilante justice wasn’t a concept they understood.
“How did you get this?” I gestured at the screen.
“Easy.” He looked proud of himself. “I saw the paper and recognized Big Blue from the fights. You remember him. He threw you at a wall.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Anyway, I saw the story and thought, huh. He’s looking for some payback. And I didn’t think he was gonna stop at one slaver. I mean, look at the scars on that guy. Some people are owed.”
“So you did what exactly?”
“Called in some favors. Heard some rumors about which smugglers still got game, what with the Senate trying to shut them down and all. And the Circle’s just as bad. These guys been operating for years and nobody cares, but all of a sudden—”
“Fin.”
“Yeah, so anyway, I set up a camera or two. You know, the kind they use at sporting events, ’cause they can fly around after the action? Cost me something, ’cause I had to bribe some of their boys to do it since my guys . . . well, they’re good, but ‘good’ don’t mean ‘suicidal’—”
“Wait. You bribed some of the slavers to give you a feed of their activities?” I stared at him.
“Not of their activities. Just of a room. One near where the merchandise was bein’ kept, ’cause that’s what these two are after. The cameras only activate if there’s some major event for them to follow, like Big Blue there tear-assing through the place—”
“Why on earth would they do that? Why would anyone?”
Fin frowned at my obvious disbelief. “The head honchos wouldn’t, but the low men on the totem pole? They don’t make the big bucks, and figure what the boss don’t know won’t hurt him. Come on, Dory. You know how it goes. How many guys you bribed through the years?”
“Not that many.” I usually didn’t have the scratch. “And not slavers!”