Nightlord: Orb (21 page)

But it wasn’t my eyes that noticed her.  It was the way her dark, psychic tendril brushed over me, trying to drain a tiny fraction of my vitality.

She was a vampire, sweeping her power through the crowd, feeding off the surging energy of the party.

The instant her drifting tendril touched me, it jerked like a hand touching a live wire.  She snatched it away and her head snapped around, eyes wide, to stare at me.  She seemed frightened!  I smiled in as friendly a fashion I knew and waved at her. 

I don’t mind treating a crowd like a smorgasbord; it’s harmless.  I prefer to find someone who volunteers to be dinner, but that’s a matter of personal taste.  If her preference ran the other way, I certainly wasn’t going to object.  If I was hungry, I would certainly do the same.

I reciprocated her touch.  Examining her in like fashion struck me as only fair.  My own tendrils coiled out and slid over her, through her, feeling her out.  She was definitely a vampire, although her flavor was strange.  She didn’t taste like Sasha.  A different species of vampire?  Possibly.  Age might be a factor.  I could feel her soul still inside her, though, so she was what I think of as a living undead, rather than a soulless undead, or even a demon-possessed corpse.  She was still in there, not merely a body animated by dark forces.  That made me think of her as a relative of some sort.  Doubtless, she had already formed her own opinion of me.

She didn’t seem to enjoy it.  She moved away through the crowd at a good speed, hit the front door, and was gone as though I was actively chasing her.

Sighing, I wished Firebrand wasn’t quite so huge.  Having something to talk to at moments like this is a good thing.  What was she thinking?  Why was she frightened?  Was this party thrown by some other vampire and she was sneaking in uninvited?  I didn’t see any signs, didn’t detect any other members of the species.  Or was it her party and she was off to get help from her creator or companion?  Or did she come down here to snack and not realize another vampire was present until she brushed me?  Or did touching me like that constitute some sort of offense among vampire-kind?  Or did touching her back imply I was offended?  Or did my touch seem excessive?  Am I guilty of overreacting—on the order of her shaking hands and me grabbing her throat?

The only person to ask already left.  Maybe next time…

I worked my way through the crowd and out of the party chambers myself, glad to be out of the wailing, flashing hell full of gyrating and screaming people.  A moment or two more and I felt adjusted to the quiet—well, quieter—dark again.  My fellow vampire wasn’t waiting for me; I was alone in the uninhabited zone between party central and the doorman.  That suited me; I had other fish to fry.

So, where was Mark, my target?  Not at the party, obviously.  I unpacked and checked the compass box.  Up.  More
that
way… move along a hallway, go up the stairs, cross along a catwalk… ah, signs of civilization, or at least use, with places where the rust is worn away by footsteps, spiderwebs riven, and evidence of repairs, perhaps even construction…

Everywhere I’ve gone, there have been people who seem to belong in the criminal classes.  Something about them says Tough, or maybe Muscle or Thug.  Admittedly, at night I can cheat and look at the light and dark places in the human soul, but sometimes I don’t need to.

The tough guy was standing by a fire door.  He had a machine pistol slung crosswise at his hip and seemed bored.  I packed the compass box and slung it before I approached.  I made it a point to make my footsteps loud on the concrete walkway.

He switched on a flashlight.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Like, hey, is this where they keep the good stuff?” I asked, and leaned against the wall.

“Got nothing for you here.  Get back to the party.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  I turned around and he turned off the flashlight.

I turned around again.  I didn’t kill him, just hit him in the head with a wall. I did swipe his money, gun, and vitality though.  He would wake up in a day or so with a headache.  I can be terribly pragmatic.

I reached through the door with psychic tendrils, uncoiling them through the darkness, steel, and stone, feeling my way around beyond the wall.  Nothing living, not even rats… but that wasn’t so surprising.  This door seemed to be the blocking point for stoned party animals.  What went on farther in was anybody’s guess.  But, to judge from the machine pistol and the big wad of cash, someone was serious about privacy.

The door didn’t want to open, so I reached into it with tendrils and pulled the spring-loaded latch back.  It was well-oiled and in good condition; the door opened soundlessly.  I went back to being extremely quiet and slithered my way deeper into the ruined factory.

Drugs, drugs, drugs.  Most of them white, all of them powdery, and busily subdivided from large, plastic bags into tiny plastic capsules.  I don’t know what it was; I’m not clear on these newfangled designer drugs.  Besides, who can tell by looking?  All I know is they had half a dozen automated capsule-filler machines, each with an operator, and another dozen people moving around, lifting things, carrying them, putting them somewhere else.  Everyone wore dark blue, full-body suits and full-face gas mask things.  Whatever it was, they were avoiding not only breathing it but even skin contact.  It was an industrial operation, not some garage meth lab.

Scowling, I got out the box and took yet another bearing.

I wound up crouched next to a broken-out picture window that was once part of a manager’s office.  It had a good view of the processing below, formerly the factory floor.  Although, to be fair, it was still a factory floor.  Down there was well-lit; up here was dark.  That suited me.

Through the window, I heard the argument.  One guy wanted to kill them, two others refused to express an opinion, and one guy, with excellent diction and a particularly clear voice, kept patiently explaining how keeping them alive allowed for a greater range of options and uses.

I peeked.  Yes, four men, sitting on or around a big, dilapidated desk.  Two others tied to chairs and looking considerably the worse for wear.  There were two light sources:  A free-standing thing in one corner and a clamp-on lamp at the edge of the desk.

“I wanna know how these two found the place is all,” one of the four sneered.  “They didn’t wander off from the damn party.  I know for a fact Ortiz works for Henderson!”  The speaker moved to the Hispanic gentleman tied to a chair and slapped him; his head rocked limply.  I looked at his life.  He was alive and exhausted, but in no real danger—a few bruises and cuts, plus one fairly deep stab wound in the thigh, crudely bandaged with a torn shirtsleeve.

The speaker pulled back the head of the other fellow.  Gary’s father, Mark.

You know, sometimes I hate people.  Mark was beaten and bleeding.  Someone had put out a cigar on the back of his hand.  One of his eyes was swollen almost shut, but the other glared at his captor and he snarled through his gag.  Whatever these guys wanted from him, he hadn’t given it.

I silently apologized: He wasn’t out getting drunk.  He was out doing—presumably—his job, whatever that was.  Being kidnapped and held prisoner is one of the few acceptable excuses for leaving your kid at home alone.

Why couldn’t he simply be an irredeemable bastard?  Mark had to go and have good qualities.  It’s hard to wholeheartedly despise someone when they aren’t monsters.  I’ve
seen
monsters.  I
am
a monster.  Knowing that, I couldn’t bring myself to hate Mark for being… well… somewhat less than perfect.

He still wasn’t off the hook for being an abusive parent, but he wasn’t all bad, damn him.

I took out my contacts and put them in their case.  Then I fished out a pocket pack of alcohol wipes and started work on my face and hands, muttering a charm to help the makeup come off.

This wasn’t going to be subtle.  It was trouble I didn’t need, possibly a
lot
of trouble I didn’t need.  Anyone with so much product also has a massive amount of money, and money means influence.  If this setup had a shut-eye arrangement with someone in the city political structure, then it was a large dump truck of manure I might be buried under.

“I seen this other chump with Oritz before.  That makes him part of the competition!”

“Now, now,” cautioned Mr. Cultured.  “Carlo says to hold them.  We hold them.”

“What
for?
”

“I wouldn’t ask him that, especially with such a tone of voice.  I would guess he wants them alive to trade with Henderson.  What he hopes to get out of such a deal is above my pay grade.”

While they continued to argue, I finished cleaning up.  Fangs out?  Check.  Claws sharp?  Check.  Plan?  Plan?  What plan?  I’m making this up as I go.

I dove in through the missing window like a shadow.  The first two guys I came to were the quieter ones; I pounded their heads into the desk hard enough to make a cracking sound—possibly the desk—and crushing the lamp.  The third guy, Mr. Voice-and-Diction, reached for a gun.  I grabbed him, swung him around between myself and the remaining gunman.  He took a breath, presumably to scream, and I chopped him in the throat to shut him up.  He clutched at his throat, trying to gag while he choked to death.

The last guy, standing over Mark, pulled out a small cannon disguised as a pistol.  He shouted at me to freeze.  I looked at him over my dying shield’s shoulder.  He couldn’t get a clear shot, but he had the oversized weapon in both hands, aiming. I lashed out with dark, psychic tendrils, engulfing the gun and
twisting
it in a single, sudden jolt.

That peculiar effect I once noticed when striking at Keria happened again.  Instead of a thousand tiny, threadlike tendrils, what reached out seemed more a braided, twisted rope of tendrils—a tentacle of dark spiritual essence, hungry and powerful.

The cannon wrenched violently from his grip, spinning sideways to embed itself in the wall.  I made a note to be more careful while my now-disarmed adversary stared at his bleeding hands.  Fortunately, the blood dripped normally.  It was hard to see it crawled in my direction after it hit the floor.

I tossed my meat shield over one shoulder and moved.  Suddenly, I was right in front of the former gunman, faster than his stunned brain could register.  I grabbed the frightened inquisitor by the throat with my left hand and lifted him off his feet.  It’s not as bad as people think; the victim instinctively grabs at the arm and takes some of the weight.  If you do it right, they can hang there for several minutes before losing consciousness.

I added some gravel to my voice, mindful that Mark watched all this, wide-eyed.  He probably couldn’t see too well; he certainly didn’t recognize the monster as his neighbor down the street.

“Do you have any children?” I asked, loud enough for Mark to hear me clearly.  “Any who would miss you, that is?”

“Hell, yes!  Four daughters and a son!”

I could see his soul and I recognized the lie for what it was.

“You’re lying,” I snarled.  Then, for Mark’s benefit, I grabbed my victim by the face, jammed my hand in his mouth, down his throat, and clawed my way to his heart.

If you ever find yourself attempting this, be aware:  It’s harder to do than it sounds.  There are tons of problems with making it look like a cool move rather than just a gory process.  First off, the guy doesn’t hold still while you do it.  He jerks around and flails like a seizure victim.  You have to get a grip on him and hold him still, and that’s not easy with a six-foot sack of meat.  Second, when he dies, he goes limp, so you have to hold him up if you want a good visual; if you lay him down, it’s just awkward surgery.

It didn’t help that I goofed by using my right hand.  The heart is on the left side, so with the guy facing me, his heart was on my right.  Going through the mouth and down the neck to reach the heart is a long trip.  You’ll be in past your elbow for sure.  Oh, sure, there are big arteries you can follow once you rip your way down through the throat, but you’ve got to force your way through a chest full of meat to get there.  Going through the neck was the hard way.  If I wanted the easy way, I should have gone up under the ribs.

To fix this and other problems, I turned him around to wrap my left arm around him from behind and support him.  This also changed my angle of attack for my right hand and let me get down into his torso more easily.

This is the part where I pull out the still-beating organ and toss off a one-liner, right?  Nope.  Dragging a heart out is tricky, to say the least.  It’s not designed to come out; human bodies aren’t modular.  That’s why it takes so long to train a surgeon.  You can get most of the heart, though.  That’s doable, but it takes some time and work with sharp fingernails to cut all around it.  Even then, you’re not pulling out a still-beating, intact organ.

Let’s face it.  It’s not going to happen.  All I removed was a mangled lump of meat.  Well, it was my first try.  I’ll do better next time, but I’m not sure it’s possible to pull it off—or out—with cool move style.

On the other hand, successful or not, it’s gory and terrifying, especially to anyone tied to a chair and observing at close range. 
That
was the point.

Sometimes I wonder how I look to people.  Am I sinister and frightening, or just some goofball in a bad vampire costume?  It would be nice to be able to see myself through other people’s eyes.  At that precise moment, though, I was pretty sure I nailed the horrific, bloodsucking, demonic Thing look.