Alex the pilot heaved a sigh and said, “I am required by FAA regulations . . . blah blah . . . seat belt . . . blah . . .”
Rune burst out laughing. “If we wouldn’t lose all the shit that’s not anchored down in the cabin, I’d be tempted to just pop open a door and hop out.”
Daniel shot him a look. “Thank you, sir, for refraining from that action.”
“You’re welcome.” Rune clapped the co- on the shoulder and left the cabin.
Truth was, he wasn’t in all that big of a hurry, and they set down soon enough. When they had taxied into position and Daniel opened up the Lear, Rune thanked him and took off. He shapeshifted just outside the jet and, cloaking his Wyr form from scrutiny, he launched into the air and flew into the city.
He was undecided about where to land, since he wasn’t familiar enough with the location of 500 Market Street that he could locate it from the air. Finally he chose to set down near the west end of the Golden Gate Park. As he spiraled down toward a paved path, his shadow flickered over a slender furtive figure that stood in front of a sign and shook a can of spray paint in one fist.
Rune landed, changed back into his human form and let his cloak of concealment drop away. He slung his duffle bag onto one shoulder and watched as the figure tagged the sign. The brown creature looked like an anorexic humanoid female, with a skeletal frame and long spidery hands and feet. Her dripping hair had strands of seaweed tangled in it.
She glanced over her shoulder, caught sight of him and scowled. “What are you staring at, ass-wipe?”
He said in a mild tone, “Not a thing, my good woman.”
“Keep it that way.” She darted to a nearby trash can, tossed away the spray paint can and dashed across the path to dive into a nearby pond. Soon the quiet sound of brokenhearted sobbing came from underneath a weeping willow at the pond’s edge.
Rune walked over to the sign. It was one of the myriad signs that were posted throughout the Bay Area’s ponds, lakes and rivers that warned tourists: Please Do NOT Feed the Water Haunts.
This particular sign had one word blacked out with spray paint. It now read: Please Do Feed the Water Haunts.
Welcome to the Nightkind demesne, the home of water haunts, night elves, ghouls, trolls and Vampyres. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of several night elves trotting through the park. Unlike real Elves, night elves were typically slender and child-sized creatures, with large eyes and large bald heads and pointed ears, and they schooled together like fish.
He strolled over to the willow tree and cocked his head to look underneath the dripping leaves. The water haunt sat in the water, her bony thin shoulders hunched. She caught sight of him and sobbed harder.
He dug in his duffle bag. The water haunt gave a piteous whimper, her lips trembling, as she tracked his movements with a mud-colored gaze. He pulled out a PowerBar and held it up. The haunt’s eyes fixed on it. She wailed as she crept close. He raised a finger. Her wailing sailed upward on a questioning note and hitched to a stop.
He told her, “I’m onto your tricks, young lady. You try to bite me and I’ll kick your face in.”
The water haunt gave him a crafty grin that had a great many teeth. He indicated the PowerBar and raised his eyebrows. She gave him an eager nod. He tossed her the bar, and she snatched it out of the air. With a whirl and a splash, she dived to the other side of the tree to devour her prize.
He shook his head and checked his watch. He had about a half hour to sunset. Plenty of time to walk west, connect to Market Street, and find out if he needed to hook either a left or a right in order to reach his destination.
Bob started up in his head again as he headed out of the park. Every little thing is going to be all right.
Oh no. Not again. He wanted to at least start out this venture with some semblance of sanity. As he strode down the street, he unzipped a side pocket on his duffle and fished around inside until he nabbed his iPod. He popped in the earbuds and scrolled through his extensive playlists for something else. Anything else. Anything at all.
“Born to be Wild.” Yeah, that’d do. He punched play.
Steppenwolf’s strong raw voice sang in his ears.
Fire all of your guns at once and explode into space.
It was twilight, one of the world’s threshold places, the crossover time between day and night. The dying sunshine caught in his lion’s eyes. They flared with radiance as Rune smiled.
TWO
Market Street in San Francisco slashed diagonally through the city from the Ferry Building at the northeast shore to Twin Peaks in the southwest. The street was one of the city’s major thoroughfares and had been compared to the Champs-Élysées in Paris or Fifth Avenue in New York.
Now dusk was approaching on a Friday evening in the heart of the Nightkind demesne. That made Market Street a hip and happening place. The tall skyscraper surroundings provided an effective shield from the last of the day’s sunshine. Tourists and shoppers crowded the sidewalks.
A pair of white-skinned, beautiful and elegantly clothed female Vampyres strolled arm in arm toward him. They bent their heads and whispered together as he approached, looking at him sidelong with kohl-lined eyes and pale smiles. When he smiled back, the nearest Vampyre’s eyes widened and her ivory skin washed with a delicate blush of color. Rune considered it quite a compliment, coming from the undead.
The crowd grew denser as he approached his destination. It was the thickest just outside the sleek tall skyscraper that was 500 Market Street. Rune studied the throng curiously as he threaded his way to the front doors. The members of the crowd were all human.
One frail-looking woman pushed in front of him pulling a portable tank in a cart, a thin oxygen tube threaded under her nostrils, and he paused to let her past. As she brushed against him, he caught the scent of serious illness underneath her lilac perfume. The sour, medicinal smell lingered in his nostrils, evoking images of pain and decay, until he turned his head and emitted a polite cough that cleared his lungs. Another pale, thin man was in a wheelchair, accompanied by his wife and a younger man who looked to be his son.
Rune stripped off his earbuds and put away his iPod, then he pushed through the revolving doors and surveyed the main lobby. It was dominated by uniformed security guards, metal detectors, and lines of people that led up to bulletproof glass-plated windows. He rubbed the back of his neck and was about to step outside and check the number on the building again when he heard his name called from the bank of elevators across the lobby. He swiveled back around.
Duncan the Vampyre strode toward him. Dressed in a black Ralph Lauren suit with matching shoes, the male stood around five-foot-eleven. Razor-cut dark hair lay sleek against his well-formed head, and he had pleasant features and intelligent eyes. Duncan gestured to a security guard, who opened a side gate and invited Rune to step through.
“I just arrived, myself,” said Duncan. The Vampyre held out his hand.
Rune shook it. The Vampyre’s grasp was strong and cool. “I was going to step outside to make sure I had the right address. What is going on here in the lobby?”
Duncan turned back to the elevators. Rune fell into step beside him, shortening his longer stride to accommodate the other male. Duncan told him, “The Bureau of Nightkind Immigration occupies the first three floors of the building. This is where humans apply for visas to become Vampyres—”
Shouting at one of the plateglass windows interrupted him. “Don’t tell me it’s going to be another four fucking months! My father has stage four cancer—he doesn’t have another four months to wait!”
Rune glanced at the man who was shouting then back at Duncan, who gave him a slight wince. They reached the elevator bank where Duncan punched the top button on the panel for the fifty-fifth floor. As they stepped into an elevator, Duncan continued, “Understandably enough, the visa process can get emotional, which is why there is such a strong security presence in the lobby.”
Two security guards were walking toward
the altercation as the elevator doors closed. Rune said, “Just out of curiosity, what happens to visa applications for people who are terminally ill? Is that guy going to be able to get his father’s case expedited?”
“Probably not,” said Duncan. “There are always sad cases, and there are too many desperate dying people.”
“Dude,” said Rune. “Ouch.”
The Vampyre glanced at him. “I do not mean to be unsym-pathetic. But to put this into perspective, the United States received an estimated fourteen million applications for the Diversity Green Card Visa in 2009. The North American Nightkind demesne gets close to ten million visa applications in a year, and our screening process must not only be more rigorous than the federal government’s, but we can grant far fewer visas than the 2.5 million visas the United States granted.”
“Holy shit,” said Rune.
“We’re the only demesne that must regulate itself in such a fashion,” said Duncan. “The long-lived Elder Races have correspondingly low birthrates. Even for the human witches, nature regulates those who are born with sparks of Power, and not all of those born with the inherent ability choose to study the Power crafts. Vampyrism is a dangerous infectious disease, not just physically but socially. It used to be the purview of the rich, the beautiful, and the Powerful, or anyone who caught a Vampyre’s fancy for whatever reason. We can no longer afford to be so capricious. I helped to coauthor the original visa application process in the early 1900s, which goes through updates and improvements every ten years. Each year we also coordinate with the CDC in Atlanta to arrive at a total for the number of applications we are allowed to approve.”
“You just took all the fun out of the Vampyre movies,” said Rune. “How many applicants could you approve last year?”
“Two thousand.”
He whistled between his teeth. “Those numbers are killer.”
“Yes,” said Duncan. “That is why visa applications are almost never expedited.”
“What would it take to get a rush on one?” Rune asked, curious.
Duncan shook his head. “A personal request from Julian or Carling could drop-kick it through, of course, or an edict from the Elder tribunal. Frankly, not much else could do it. And now applicants must not only prove they have sound financial investments and prospects—such as they have the capacity to be gainfully employed—but they must also undergo a psychological evaluation. They must also provide documentation to prove they have a Vampyre willing to host them, or in other words provide stability, discipline and training for the first five years after they’re turned. That is when most of the ten million applications hit the trash can. Metaphorically speaking, anyway. Nowadays the application process is online. We have developed a sophisticated software program that automatically rejects applications that have not been filled out properly, or have failed to meet all the initial paperwork requirements.”
Rune said, “So what you’re actually saying is that in order to become a Vampyre, you have to prove you have money or can make money, and you have to be computer literate, which knocks out a good portion of the country that lives on the wrong side of the growing digital divide. I hate to burst your bubble, but I think you might be headed back to the place where Vampyrism is the purview of the rich, the beautiful and the Powerful.”
Duncan laughed. They arrived at the fifty-fifth floor. When the elevator doors opened, they stepped into corporate luxury. Opposite the bank of elevators, Turner & Braeburn, Attorneys at Law was spelled out in gleaming slim gold letters on the dark marble wall.
Duncan led the way in a swift stride down tastefully decorated, busy halls to a corner office. Rune sent a curious glance around as he ambled along behind. The Attorneys at Law were having their version of a busy Friday morning.
“The system isn’t perfect,” Duncan said. “The bottom line is the Nightkind demesne is trying to avoid letting poor, crazy, blood-sucking immortals loose on the streets to become a burden on the more normal tax-paying society. But here’s the kicker.”
Duncan paused talking and stopped at open double doors. With a polite gesture he invited Rune to precede him. Rune strode into an office with a floor space that was a thousand square feet if it was an inch. Metallic shutters had been pulled back from the two walls of windows, and outside the entire Bay Area, including bridges, was ablaze with electric light. The sun had set and all that was left of its memory was a bloodred glow on the ocean’s darkening horizon.
Rune swiveled back to face Duncan, who had closed the doors. The Vampyre turned to face him.
Duncan said, “Everything I just told you is the official Nightkind demesne procedure. We’re required by federal law to follow it, but it’s like the U. S. war on drugs, or worse, the HIV epidemic. How do you really regulate something that is just a living heartbeat, a heated moment, and a blood exchange away?”
“I’m guessing I know the answer to that,” Rune said. “You can’t.”
“Exactly,” Duncan replied. “Of course we can’t. We can set regulations, issue visas, and work to enforce consequences, but we still have our illegals and crazies, and our non-registereds. Do we possibly know what a Vampyre is doing in your demesne in New York, or the Demonkind demesne in Houston? Of course not, just as you have no idea what individual Wyr might be doing in Chicago. Our police force is effective so we can keep a tight lid on what is visible to the public here in our demesne, but we can only do so much. Also, many of the older Vampyres resent the new restrictions, and they still follow the old ways in regulating their family trees—through secrecy, domination and violence.”
“Oh good,” said Rune. “All the fun from the Vampyre movies just came back.”
Spanned by its famous bridge, the Golden Gate is actually the name of the strait that was discovered in 1769 by Spanish explorers. In 1846, the American military officer John C. Fremont named the passageway “Chrysopylae,” or “Golden Gate,” before the Californian gold rush. The strait had been compared to ancient Byzantium’s Golden Horn.
As Rune looked out, the Golden Gate Bridge towered shining over the darkened waters of the strait. The symbolism of standing before a gateway was not lost on him. He dropped his duffle on the floor near a black Italian leather chair in front of a spotless glass desk that had some serious acreage. He hooked his thumbs into the empty belt loops on his faded jeans and stood at his ease as he regarded the Vampyre.
Duncan did not sit behind the desk, nor did he invite Rune to sit. Instead he moved to the window and looked toward the west. He put his hands in the pockets of his twenty-five-hundred-dollar suit and, for a moment, he went completely still as only Vampyres could. He looked like the airbrushed front cover of a GQ magazine.
Here it comes, Rune thought. Mow the lawn for the next thousand years. One single favor, stated in quite a simple sentence. Yeah Dragos, I know quite fucking well what I gave away.
“It’s disappeared again,” Duncan murmured.
“What?” Rune said.
“The island. It’s disappeared again.”
Rune looked out the window as well. The residual blood-red sunset glow was all but gone, but his sharp predator’s eyes could pick out the details in the night as well as the Vampyre’s could. The island had indeed faded from sight.
He shrugged and said, “Okay.”
“That is where you are supposed to go,” Duncan said.
Rune sighed. “When I got your email, I thought you would be giving me the instructions for this favor.”
Duncan turned away from the window to face him. “From what little I understand, any instructions I might give you would not release you from your magical obligation. Your contract is with Carling, and she must order you in person. She is currently at her home on the Other island, and of course time flows differently there. I am merely supposed to verify you made it here by the stated deadline, and to give you directions on how to get there.”
“So Carling lives on Blood Alley, huh?” Rune shook his head. Way to build an all-over fearsome rep
utation, Carling. Much like the feudal Wyr society, in the Nightkind demesne, might often equaled right, and Carling had ruled as Queen for a long time before she gave the crown to Julian. She had abdicated to take advantage of a loophole that had then existed in inter-demesne law, which allowed her to become the Nightkind Councillor for the Elder tribunal. The legal loophole had since been closed. Former demesne rulers were now barred from sitting on the tribunal, but Carling maintained her unique position. She was not just a Councillor on the Elder tribunal. Since Julian was Carling’s progeny, he might rule the demesne, but Carling ruled Julian.
Duncan shook his head. “Blood Alley is a very unfortunate label and not at all accurate. The crossover passage and the island were discovered around 1836, and as soon as she had become aware of its existence, Carling laid claim to it. There were a few times when she was Queen that she had to take action against warring Vampyre families. Her response had to be severe enough to quell the upsurge in violence.”
“Oh-kay,” he muttered. “Been there, done that. I’m sure I’ve got a T-shirt somewhere to prove it. Why don’t you hit me with those directions?”
“You must fly westward for a mile or so and circle around to fly back. As you return toward the Bay, keep the Golden Gate ahead of you, to your right about ten degrees, and fly low over the water. At that point you should feel the crossover passage down below. It follows a fissure in the ocean bed, so you’ll have to dive and swim it. For those of us who no longer need to breathe, the swim is not an uncomfortable one. I have an oxygen tank ready for you to use should you need it. The technology is passive enough that it works.”
What Duncan referred to was how the concentrated magic in Other lands suppressed certain technologies, especially those that acted on some principle of combustion. Among other things, electricity, guns and other modern weaponry did not work in Other lands, or if they worked, they did so only briefly and with chaotic and destructive consequences, which was why Niniane’s friend Cameron had died when she shot Naida Riordan.