The Living Night (Book 1) (35 page)

They poked through the ruins, quickly and
efficiently, ignoring the policemen and firemen that urged them to leave. The
performers found no trace of the Balaklava.

Jean-Pierre felt a surge of disappointment; the
bastards had been vaporized.
They
deserved a much slower death.
If they hadn’t been so powerful, he would've
had them put through the same treatment as Vistrot, but, alas, it was not to be.

More police vehicles arrived.

The troupe had brought along firearms, but the
guns proved unnecessary. Jean-Pierre was able to lead the troupe out the back
way and, without violent incident, down a few blocks to where vans waited for
them in an alley. They sped off, their destination the cemetery in which the
Balaklava had lived during their final days in New York long ago. Under the questioning
that Kristen had recommended, Vistrot had given up the location.

"You really think she'll be alive?" Max
asked as he peeled off his disguise.

Not looking at the snake-oil salesman,
Jean-Pierre checked a pistol to make sure it was loaded.

“She’d better,” he said.

Chapter 27

Sophia
scanned the minds of the Rastas on an almost hourly basis. When they were
informed of the departure of their lords, they gave no outward sign, but she
was easily able to access the information. After learning of Junger's and
Jagoda's withdrawal, she whispered softly to one of the prisoners, who spread
the word.

The Rastas often made a habit of sending a
couple of their number to wander through the scattered ranks of captives just
to instill a little fear in the condemned ones, and Sophia waited for such an occasion
before launching the attack: divide and conquer.

As the two Jamaicans drew near, she summoned her
powers of psychic dominance, which were greater than her mother's but far
inferior to her father's. Controlling the semi-mortals was not easy, but she
grimaced and pushed harder—broke through.

Throw down your weapons and
disrobe
,
she instructed them, and they obeyed.

The other Rastas, sensing she was the culprit,
turned their guns on her, but too late. At her signal, the prisoners had slowly
crept to either end of the Stomach and at the disrobing of the first two Jamaicans
launched themselves on the others.

Like crabs beneath a wave, the Rastas fell under
the hands of their prisoners. Several died on both sides. The Rastas lay
bleeding on the ground, along with several wounded and dying prisoners, while
the majority of the freed men made their way to the Labyrinth beyond the
Stomach.

Kalanda woke.

The large tigress opened her eyes, surveyed the
scene and leapt from her bloody throne with a roar.

“Shit,” said Sophia.

Kalanda set her sights on Sophia, who stood alone
in the center of the living cave—and charged.

Sophia scooped up one of the Rastas’ submachine
guns and fired. The bullets tore into the tigress, shredding her beautiful coat
into bloody streaks and drilling into her face. They didn't even seem to slow her
down.

She’ll kill me
, Sophia realized. If,
that was, Sophia was human-shaped.

She
was
,
after all, the daughter of a werewolf.

Throwing down the rifle, she let the gifts of
her father storm her bloodstream for the first time in years, and before she
could consciously comprehend what was happening she’d transformed into a hairy
demon and was flying through the air at Kalanda.

They collided in the air with a thunderclap and
meshed into a web of tangled limbs, talons and teeth before they even hit the
floor. Hair and blood flew in every direction. Bone cracked.

Sophia would have been killed in seconds save
for the damage that the gun had done to
Kalanda's
mouth. Splintered teeth and bone protruded from the wreckage, making it
difficult for the great beast to use her most awesome weapon. Kalanda raked her
claws down Sophia’s side, and Sophia screamed. Growling, she locked her jaws
around the tigress’s shoulder and bore down with all her strength.

*
    
*
    
*

Jean-Pierre
and the vans arrived on the scene to find a group of mortals emerging from the
crypt. “Where’s Sophia?” he demanded. “Tall, with long dark hair and violet
eyes.”

 
“She
died,” one man said, panting. “Brought down by the tigress Kalanda. Sacrificed
herself for us all.”

Jean-Pierre pushed toward the ruined tomb and
took the stairs down to the crypt. As soon as his eyes adjusted to the
darkness, he saw hands gripping a broken tile, and a mortal pulled himself out
from the abyss.

Jean-Pierre swallowed a gulp of air and threw
himself into the pit. His landing was cushioned by four feet of thick mud.
Struggling out of the muck, he marched past the boulders and waited. Vistrot
had told him that the Balaklava guarded the
entrance to their prison with a labyrinth, making it difficult for any
prisoners that managed to escape to actually get free. Jean-Pierre didn’t have
the luxury of time to navigate the damned thing, so he decided to let the
humans do it for him.

A man emerged from one of the tunnels. Just what
the albino had been looking for. Jean-Pierre stalked into the tunnel and
followed it till it branched off. Yet another mortal appeared in one of the
forks. Using these stragglers as his breadcrumbs, Jean-Pierre navigated the
Labyrinth until he emerged into a great open chamber that looked like nothing
so much as a massive abdominal cavity. Even the walls were fashioned from pink
tissue.

In the middle of the room sprawled Sophia,
nestled in the embrace of a tiger. Cautiously, he advanced. Neither of the
combatants stirred. Were they unconscious? If Sophia were dead …

Sophia’s chest heaved.

Pulse quickening, Jean-Pierre ran to her and
carefully extracted her from the embrace of the beast. The tiger shifted, but
did not wake.

“Sophia, darling, I’m here.”

Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. With a
sinking feeling, he realized that she was dying. Not wasting a moment, he
carried her in his arms back through the winding corridors of the Labyrinth, his
heart beating faster, faster. He had to get her out of here.

Suddenly, rounding the corner ahead of him—
Dear God!

Jagoda stepped forward, burned and bloody. He cradled
his brother, Junger, in his arms. The tusked one was little more than a
blackened skeleton, his motionless mouth open in an expression of agony.
Apparently, Junger had sheltered his comrade from the blast—and now, without a
doubt, Junger was dead.

Tear-stricken, Jagoda glanced up at the albino.
He studied the butchered Sophia in the albino’s arms.

For a long moment, neither the werewolf nor the Balaklava said a word.

Then, in a raw voice, Jagoda said, “It looks as
though we’re even, albino. One for one.”

Jean-Pierre nodded, hoping that that wasn’t the
case.

Warily, the albino and the Balaklava
approached each other, one leaving the Labyrinth and one seeking sanctuary in
it. As they passed, their eyes locked. Then tears erupted from the Bone
Crusher’s face. Silently, he spun about and retreated back into the darkness of
his home.

*
    
*
    
*

I’m going to get to see
my sugar
,
Kristen thought as the warehouse hove into view.

She’d gone with the albino to watch the
destruction of his old building and hopefully the deaths of the Balaklava, but before Jean-Pierre and the troupe entered
the flaming ruin to assure themselves of their victory, he’d sent her back to
the warehouse, claiming that if Junger and Jagoda were still alive, things
could get dangerous. Plus, of course, there was always the chance of a
confrontation with the police, and he didn't want her hit by a stray bullet.

The albino's dismissal had stung at first, until
he'd pointed out that now she could have some time alone with Vistrot.

She noticed a delivery vehicle outside of the
warehouse: Chinese food. It pulled away as the taxi dropped her off. Entering
the decrepit building, she found what was left of the troupe playing, of all
things, a game of Bingo. Claude was the leader. Off to the side lay Vistrot,
massive and naked and bleeding; unconscious, chained to the floor and run
through with all manner of blades and stabbing instruments, he looked perfectly
pitiful, reduced from the most powerful crime lord in the world to a soon-to-be
cadaver.

After Jean-Pierre had impaled him with that
first hellish poker, Kristen had instantly forgiven the Titan, and whether or
not this represented some weakness in her she didn't care. In any case, she
knew that Vistrot's usefulness to the albino had come to an end. Without the
need for duress, he had willfully confessed all Jean-Pierre had wanted to know and
more. It had come as a shock to her that of all things Vistrot was the Scourer,
along with that kavasari female Amelia, whom he’d been sleeping with.

Strangely, this had appeased Kristen; his
liaison with Amelia had been more a business relationship than anything else,
and whatever personal feelings he had for her were secondary.

Now it had come time for Kristen to spend some
time with him, alone, before he was to be executed. The execution would not
come before he'd been drained by that awful leech Maximillian, though.

Kristen approached Claude. “It’s time,” she
said.

He rolled his eyes at the troupe and they
streamed out through the rear of the building; even here, they were worried
about being recognized.

Taking a little white box of fried rice, she knelt
beside the great man.

"Hey, baby.”

At her voice, his bruised eyes opened. A weak
smile played about his face, and he managed to croak, “Krissy ..."

"We're alone, Auggie."

"I'm surprised … Jean-Pierre kept his
word."

"Brought you
somethin
'."
Using a pair of chop-sticks, she shoveled a small amount of rice into his
mouth.

It took a long time for him to chew and
swallow—he choked several times—but he managed.

"Thanks, angel. My last meal, eh?"
Seeing the pained look on her face, he added, "It's okay. I deserve it,
you know. All the crimes I've committed, all the crimes I would've committed ...
I just wish I had one last chance to redeem myself."

She stroked his big bald head. The thought of
giving him a last blow job crossed her mind, but three different lances had
been driven through his scrotum.

"I love you," she said. It was the
only thing she knew to tell him. Slowly, she began to cry.

"And I love you," he said. "Could
you ... could you lower your hair to my hand ... I want to feel it once more ..."

Letting her tears fall unashamedly, she let him caress
her hair. He moaned. When she looked up, tears hovered in his eyes, as well.

"Could you ... could you bring your head to
my chest?"

Bursting into fresh sobs, she gingerly wrapped
her arms about him and, navigating carefully between the spears, laid her head
on his chest. They stayed that way for a long time before he said, "Tell
Jean-Pierre I'm sorry I killed Sophia. If I could change it, I would."

A sudden anger gripped her. She rose back to her
kneeling position and wiped at her tears. "I won't let this happen to
you.”

"There's no way ... Jean-Pierre won't
change. And these spears he drove through the concrete itself. You can’t move
them."

She held his hand, squeezed it. "I can take
your blood."

His eyes widened. "You'd need a lot, baby.
You ... you would become what I am ... and you've always said you didn't want
that. No ... no, Krissy, I won't let you do it. I'm not worth damnation."

"I'll be the judge of that." She
smiled sadly. "And, dear ...you have very little choice in the matter."

She bent down to his wrist and bit into the big vein
there; it spurted some, then she had her mouth around it and nearly gagged
before she became accustomed to the flow. The blood was warm, coppery, sort of
salty, kind of bitter. As it pooled in her stomach, she began to get a strange
high off it.
It's immortalizing me
,
she realized. It welled up from her belly into her veins and circulated
throughout her body; her skin burned with it wonderfully and her eyes blazed.
She felt like she could move a mountain. After a time, she heard him say,
"Enough, baby ... I don't … have any more."

When she pulled back from the wound, only a few
drops trickled from it. Vistrot looked even closer to death than before.
Thrusting her arm before his mouth, she said, "Now it's your turn."

Without argument, he bit into the proffered
wrist and began ingesting her blood. To Kristen, it was a very singular, rather
unwelcome feeling, although there was a certain high that came from this as
well. She soon grew lightheaded.

When Vistrot stopped swallowing, she stood up
and steadied herself, then started tearing the chains out of the floor. She was
so
strong
. Once that was done, she
took a firm grip on one of the spears and gave it a hard yank, pulling it
roughly from its concrete bed. Its angular head made it impossible to pull back
through Vistrot without causing him severe pain, so her task would be to free
all the spears from the concrete and then to roll him over onto his side so
that she could pull the spear shafts out through his back.

The task took a whole of fifteen minutes, and
that was only because of the delicate nature of the last part of the operation.
Vistrot cried out in pain only once. When it was over, she helped him to his
feet, then searched through the overnight bags of the troupe until she found
some oversized clown garments. Not only could he fit into them, but they would
disguise his injuries, as well. With her assistance, he dressed.

He wrapped his arms about her and held her
close, and long.