Chapter Nineteen: The Demon’s Revelation
There were a lot of fifth wheels with Truman in charge. Mitchell had run a tight ship – too tight, in Clarkson’s opinion – but at least things got done. Now it was all about feelings and opening dialogues of communication or something.
Case in point: they’d all come to the sniper’s nest so they could talk things out like civilised people. First, though, were the necessary steps of cleaning off the blood and then dressing the pack, feats achieved with towels and spare uniforms (some of which only barely fit).
As the wolves dressed, Truman asked Clarkson everything he remembered about the castle, which was disappointingly little. They already knew the general layout of the place, and the only other thing Clarkson had seen was naked Andraste women, which he doubted was of strategic importance. Detailed descriptions of them might help stave off boredom and frustration during another long siege, but were useless tactically.
Then, since everyone else seemed to have a job – McGregor was translating his new Book, which he enthusiastically told everyone was the Book of Enanti; Skylar was near the window watching the castle; Mrs Paddington had retreated from company as soon as she could; and everyone else was assembling around the little kitchen centre bench – Clarkson made for the door. He gave them a wave and shouted goodbye as he left.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Truman demanded.
“Out. I’ve told you everything I know.”
“We might be better off not trusting a vampire right now, sir,” Mitchell said quietly to Truman. Not that quietly, though.
“Says the man who tried to kill me while I was going to the castle on his orders,” Clarkson said. “You were supposed to fire warning shots!”
“They wouldn’t have believed warning shots.”
“They didn’t believe me anyway!”
“And it looks like they treated you so poorly,” Mitchell said. It was hard to argue with that. Though technically their prisoners, the Andrastes had fed and bedded him most satisfactorily.
“Sir,” Mitchell said to Truman, “we put a gun in his hand, who knows where he’d point it?”
Clarkson would have been offended by that, except Mitchell was right: he had no intention of shooting any Andrastes. On the other hand, he didn’t want the world to end.
Resolving that conflict would take periods of prolonged introspection. Soul searching. Hard looks at himself in the mirror. Other tedious examinations of self and conscience.
So instead Clarkson was going partying.
Truman stared down Mitchell. “If you thought he might be corrupted by going into the castle, why did you propose it?”
“Sorry, sir,” Mitchell said. “I hadn’t meant to give the impression that I trusted him before he went into the castle.”
Wow. Clarkson hadn’t seen Truman this annoyed before. “Unless he does something to indicate otherwise—”
“At which point it will be too late.”
“—we will treat Clarkson as a friend.”
“In vampires we trust, sir?” Mitchell asked.
The American ignored that, threw Clarkson a radio, and told him to keep it turned on. Clarkson slid it into the inside pocket of his dinner jacket, put the whole depressing conversation behind him, and closed the door.
Then, at last, he was free.
No more orders. No more prisons, be they bedroom or island. He could do whatever he liked. Where to start? With some Nepeta Dynatos, ideally, but he doubted this town had any.
Right now the town didn’t seem to have much of anything. A few bars still had lights on, though, and he was dressed like a proper vampire. Why not find somewhere fun, a nightclub say, and try to pull?
It took him a while to find somewhere with a suitably grim aesthetic, but Estika wasn’t big enough to hide any secret for long, especially when the glaring neon sign could be seen from what Clarkson snortingly thought of as the main street. The bouncer beside the sign to the club – the Crypt, obnoxiously – took one look at Clarkson and stepped aside.
Down a set of dark steps and Clarkson was in a bar. A proper nightclub. Not a dinky, stinky, wooden Archian pub, but a bar. A place where young people came to hang out. It wasn’t his sort of bar – too much skin-tight leather – but that wasn’t always a bad thing. If his vampiric liver weren’t completely useless, he’d have ordered a drink. He’d have to settle for a different kind of distraction.
A pretty young thing in a white tank top and silk scarf stood behind the counter. “What can I getcha?” she asked when she registered his presence. “Oh wow,” she said when she realised what he was wearing. “Taking it a step far, aren’t you?”
“Taking what?”
“Oh, cool! You even got the teeth!” She was bending over now, trying to see inside his mouth. Clarkson was trying to see down her top. Decent enough quality, though the quantity was lacking. “Can I see them?” she asked.
He’d wanted to play the vampire? Well, here was a young woman to impress. He put on an innocent, slightly-confused face. “You’re not… scared of me?” he asked.
“Scared of you? Why should I be?”
Did this vampire-worshipping town not fear their immortal masters? Were vampires just playful kitties to these youngsters? Even after two women had been hospitalised? Maybe she hadn’t yet worked out what he was.
He caught and held her gaze as she leaned in to examine his teeth. “Because I’m dangerous.”
She opened her mouth, probably to say he didn’t look dangerous, but he knew he did. Mitchell’s regime of yelling and threats had turned him from athletic to full-on muscled and he’d kept the shape after he’d become a vampire.
Her hand was on the side of his jaw when she spotted his bottom teeth. Like the top row, the canines there were extended like a cat’s. Clarkson waited for her to ask why he was wearing twice the necessary fake dentures. Instead she drew back a few inches and her eyes lost the wide-eyed youthfulness for something darker. Recognition? Hunger?
“Yeah, I guess you are,” she said.
“I’ve been watching you all night,” Clarkson said.
Around them, people came to the bar and were ignored as Clarkson monopolised the blonde’s attention. “I… I didn’t see you,” she said.
“That’s because I didn’t want you to.
She trilled a bit. Not out loud, but Clarkson could see the shiver go up her spine. A human probably would have missed it in the dark of the bar, but his night vision was superb.
“What’s your name?” he asked. He took his time pronouncing the words, as if the endless life he experienced left him in no rush on any matter.
“Suzi,” she said, “with an ‘i’.”
“Theodore.” Clarkson reached his hand across the bar. She shook it; Clarkson made sure his grip was firm as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.
“You’re so cold,” she said.
Actually Clarkson ran hotter than humans, but he’d swiped a piece of ice when she was distracted and had been holding it out of sight beneath the bar. Just before shaking her hand, he’d dropped the ice and wiped his hand dry on his trouser leg. Voilà. Instant vampire.
Suzi worked on controlling her breathing. Clarkson could feel her pulse in her hand, feel the tremor in it. Anticipation. Fear. Both.
“Come to the back room,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Clarkson smiled. It was fun to be him.