The Living Night (Book 1) (31 page)

"You two lovely people must be the albino
Jean-Pierre and his gorgeous bride Sophia. Please, call me Max."

"You know of us, Max?" she asked.

"Of course, of course. Especially your
husband, the right arm of Vistrot himself."

"No more," said Jean-Pierre.

"Yes, I've heard that you no longer preside
over your team, but fate unfolds in mysterious ways."

"There is no fate, Max."

"Be that as it may . . ." The snake-oil
salesman grinned in friendly mischief. "Jean-Pierre, my good fellow, I
have some interesting news for you, if you would like to know it."

"What's your game?"

"Oh, let's just say a favor."

The albino nodded impatiently. He had no
intention of owing this hellish bastard a favor. "What is it?"

"Well, I was just in the wonderful city of Lereba, Morocco,
and heard some rumors ... about your little Gutter Angel, Danielle."

"She's in Lereba?"

"She was when I departed, as was her beau,
the Darkling."

Jean-Pierre considered. It was useful information,
and he was glad that Danielle was somewhere far away, although by no means was
Lereba a safe place at the moment.

"You're going to have to do better than
that if you want a favor out of me," he said.

"Then we're going to have to define the
favor. Let's say I give you another tidbit and you give me some of your
blood—word is that you've some of Kharker in you. I can see how that could be
rather … invigorating."

"That's reasonable. But this better be
good."

"Oh, it is. How would you like to know who
killed Testopha?"

"Wasn't he Scoured?"

"Indeed, my dear chap, he was—one of the
very first ones, too."

"Fine."

Max pursed his lips. "It was your
Balaklavian artists, Junger and Jagoda."

"That
is
interesting. But doesn't the
Scouring usually work through local death-squads?"

“As I've said, this was one of the very first
Scourings—perhaps a system had yet to be worked out back then. You fail to see
the broader uses of using Junger and Jagoda. See,
Testopha's
death created great havoc in Lereba because it was thought that the karula
killed him—and that situation couldn't have been achieved if a local
death-squad was running around bragging about knocking off one of the greatest
leaders in history. The killer would have to be an outsider."

"So you're saying his death was meant to
cause the abunka-karula conflict?"

"Indeed. Now, how about that blood now? I'm
sure we could find an empty room back here somewhere."

"I'm not in the mood. I'll return in a few
days' time, don't worry. Technically, Sophia and I are still on
honeymoon."

Silently, Max nodded. "I certainly wouldn't
want to spoil your honeymoon, of course. I look forward to your visit." He
withdrew a pen and scribbled something on the back of a business card, then
handed it to Jean-Pierre. "Here's the address where you can reach me. We
will make your appointment a comfortable one. Having been on tour so long,
we've collected a large variety of the world's best wines. Perhaps when you
come by—"

"Yes, perhaps. Well, thanks again and good
bye." Jean-Pierre led Sophia away. He had the feeling that if Max was
angered, he could become a very dangerous man. The albino could just imagine
that, after a few days went by and he did not call upon the Funhouse, the
Funhouse might just come to him ... and that would most certainly spoil the
honeymoon.

The couple happened upon a cluster of Funhouse
performers, arranged in a line, happily chatting with their fans and posing
together for pictures. There was the dwarf with the four arms (whose name they
learned to be Claude) sitting in a chair in the center of the line, looking
relaxed and composed. He seemed to hold a high position among his peers,
perhaps even that of leader.

The large, obese woman with the empty abdominal
cavity slouched at his side, and they were holding hands in a
loverly
fashion. Not too far away stood the skeletal mime,
standing side by side with the blond girl in the web. To their left was a man
with two tails holding hands with another man with one head but three faces. And
there sat the two large Siamese twins, who could give the illusion of coming
together, posing for a picture with the spider-man, who smoked a French
cigarette. A woman with four breasts but no ears whispered to an androgynous
figure with a no eyes but two perfectly formed mouths.

As he studied the freaks, Jean-Pierre realized
how symmetrical, even beautiful, some of their aberrations were. He supposed
that most of them had undergone plastic surgery to give a more even appearance
to their deformities. Or perhaps
Maximillian's
blood
had enhanced their aesthetic appeal; the curse was known to do such things on
occasion. Nonetheless, they were fascinating to behold.

As the night continued, he was able to meet
several of the freaks themselves, who weren't overly deferent to his status as
an immortal but were gregarious and friendly just the same. Eventually, Sophia
tugged on his sleeve.

“I’m ready to go if you are,” she said. “And … I
have something to tell you.”

They returned to his apartment. Over the last few
days, they’d purchased some furnishings to the suite—nothing too elaborate,
because, after all, they were about to move—just a few chairs (with cushions,
which was a major change), a couch, stereo, television, and several various
odds-and-ends.

Sophia had placed the cigar that she'd bought to
announce herself as the albino's child in a drawer. She retrieved it now and
tossed it to him. Catching it, he stared at her dumbly, then saw her begin to
smile.

"You're kidding," he said.

She moved over to him, pressed her body against
his, and gave him a long, passionate kiss.

"I'm not," she said. "At
all."

“But such a thing is so
rare
… and with us, the way we are …”

“The curse will preserve it. There will be no
deformities. Of that I’m sure.”

"And you're sure. Positive."

"Absolutely."

He stared at the cigar, shoved it in his mouth
and lit it. Taking the smoke in, he thought briefly of Kharker, but his mind
was far too preoccupied to consider his old friend long. Slowly, he smiled,
staring into the violet eyes of his bride.

"I can't believe it,” he muttered. “We're
going to have a baby."

*
    
*
    
*

The
series of events that quickly spun out of control and led to such violent
upheaval began the next day. It was late Saturday afternoon and Kristen was
playing on the great white Steinway Vistrot had bought for her years ago, when
she decided to pay him a visit.

It would be a very important visit. She dressed
in a seductive-but-mature little dress and called for her limousine, which took
her directly to her lover's base of operations. She marched down to the
appropriate sub-level and made her way to the end of the main hall where his
private office was located, but neither of the two guards (both of whom she'd
known for years) opened the door for her.

"He's not in," one explained. "I
believe he's in his quarters getting some rest. He said he didn't want to be
disturbed."

She smiled and held up the bottle of Cristol
she'd brought along. "Well, I'm going to him anyway. We have something to
celebrate—I'm going to ask him to marry me! If Jean-Pierre can do it, so can I.
It's gone on like this for too bloody long."

The guards glanced at each other.

"Better let him sleep, dear,"
cautioned the second one.

"Bullshit." She stalked away from them
until she found her way into one of the secondary halls, where Vistrot's
sleeping quarters were. Two more guards stood before it; they stiffened at her
approach.

"He's sleeping," one said.

"So I've heard, Leroy. But today's a special
day. Wake him up!"

She tore past them. Since they weren't about to
manhandle the boss's girl, they had no choice but to let her by. As it turned
out, this was an unfortunate decision. She threw open the door and strode into
the room victoriously, bottle raised high, then stopped and gasped in horror.

Vistrot laid naked on the bed, an equally unclad
woman straddling him. She had auburn hair and wispy green eyes, and her wrist
was to his mouth; he was drinking her blood. Stranger still, his wrist was to
her mouth as well—she was drinking
his
blood! For a moment, Kristen
thought the woman was some sort of victim of Vistrot's and was surprised; she'd
never seen him feed before. But no, the woman appeared very willing—in fact, it
almost seemed as though
she
were the dominant one. But that couldn't be,
could it?

Instantly, Vistrot ceased his movements and
turned in shock to Kristen. In less than a second, his expression transformed
from lustful to dismayed. The woman on top of him seemed quite unperturbed. She
hopped off her mount, tearing her wrist away from Vistrot, who'd been biting
down on it absently. He lurched up, his body beet-red while his face was very
pale, then with an effort rose to his feet and yanked on a pair of pants.

"Kristen," he said, "this
isn't—"

"Isn't what!" She grabbed the bottle
of Cristol by the neck and launched it at him. Despite his considerable bulk,
he dodged it ably, and it shattered against the wall behind him. "God
damn
you, you cheating bastard! And I was going to ask you to
marry
me! You
fucking pig, I can't believe you."

"Kristen, baby, I swear—"

"Swear
what
, exactly?" She
grinned bitterly. "Well, if you think you're the only one who can hurt
someone else, you're wrong! Oh, Auggie, you're
so
wrong! I knew you were
cheating on me, you lying
turd
, so I returned the
favor!"

"Come on, Krissy ... Krissy, honey, don't
talk like that."

"Oh, but I did." She watched with
satisfaction the hurt in his eyes. "And you know what else? It wasn't with
just some
bum
—it was with your own Jean-Pierre!"

"Krissy,
no
!" Vistrot's face
had gone from shocked to traumatized. There was almost no expression left there
at all. Behind that, though, a seething rage grew, and Kristen was well aware
of it.

"
He
said he loved me, what do you
think of that!"

"Take it back, Krissy," he warned, his
voice all too quiet. "If you don't, I swear—"

"Oh, and now you swear
again!
But
it's all right when
you
cheat, isn’t it? Well, isn't it! Fuck you, Michael
Augustine Vistrot—and the ulcer-ridden elephant you lumbered in on!" She
glared at him one last time. "You bastard, I hope it was worth it. And as
God as my witness I never want to see you again.”

She stormed out of the room.

Vistrot glowered at his guards, who'd watched
the whole scene with mounting dread. He smiled at their fear.

"I'll deal with you later, men. Now get me
Junger and Jagoda!"

*
    
*
    
*

Lying
beside him as he slept, Sophia ran her fingers through the albino's pale blond
hair and thought about their life together. This was not only
her
father, but the father of their future child. He would be its father and
grandfather at the same time. She'd made him a daddy twice over and a
granddaddy once in less than a week. It was splendidly perverted, and she loved
it.

During their time together, she'd learned so
much from him about the arts of tenderness—but she had her doubts. Serious
doubts. He was still much better at displaying his emotions than she, and he
was finally beginning to appreciate it. She, on the other hand, was beginning
to think that perhaps she wasn't cut out for being emotionally healthy; it just
didn't come naturally. Still, she couldn't see leaving him, and maybe in time
she could learn even more from him. Could it ever be enough?

Of course, there was that other business of
Ruegger and Danielle. Sophia had selfishly abandoned the quest to save them in
the deserts of Nevada
so that she could pursue her own love life and self-fulfillment. Now it struck
her that perhaps her skills would be best suited to furthering the quest instead
of apartment-shopping with Jean-Pierre. Well, time would tell.

Abruptly a fusillade of knocking sounded from
the front door. Jean-Pierre snapped awake beside her. Tossing on some clothes,
they answered the summons. Kristen burst in, sobbing, and threw herself around
Jean-Pierre.

"What is it, Krissy?"

"Oh, Jean-Pierre," she moaned.
"I've done something terrible, so terrible."

"What, honey? What?"

She backed away from him and wiped at her eyes,
then hastily lit a Virginia Slim.