“Yeah, about thirty miles out. This place looks like a ranch, ’cept there’re no horses, no tourists and the ranch hands dress a little funny. ’Course, it don’t matter, since all any humans ever see is a big, bare canyon with a lot of keep-out signs.”
“Thirty miles?” Billy could draw energy from the stored reserves in his necklace for up to fifty. “Don’t tell me that while I’ve been bespelled, moved halfway across the country, threatened and imprisoned, you’ve been at the casinos!”
“Now, Cassie darlin’…”
“I can’t believe this!” I don’t get angry with him often, since it’s mostly a waste of time—he is the definition of incorrigible—but this was the last straw. “I was almost killed! Twice! If you don’t care about that, think about what happens to your precious necklace if somebody guns me down or rips my throat open. Let me spell it out for you: it ends up in some old lady’s jewelry box in Podunk, USA, a hundred miles from nowhere!”
Billy Joe looked chastened, but I doubted it was guilt over what might have happened to me. He is unable to stay away from his home base for too long or his power runs dry—which was why I knew he’d be along sooner or later. The farther from the source he gets, the faster his strength bottoms out. His nightmare is getting stuck in a rural, one-horse town with no honky-tonks, strip clubs or gambling dens within reach. For him, it would be the equivalent of Hell. With me he had a guaranteed urban environment, since it’s hard to hide in a small town. He also had something even more important.
Over time, we’d developed a sort of symbiotic relationship. Billy Joe is one of those spirits who can absorb energy from a living donor, rather like a vamp. Vamps take life energy through blood, which in magical terms is the repository for the life force of a person. When they feed, they receive part of the donor’s life, which substitutes for the one they lost when they crossed over, at least for a while. Some ghosts can do the same thing, and like vamps, they don’t always ask first. But Billy Joe vastly prefers a willing donor, not to mention that he says the “hit” is much longer lasting from me for some reason. In return for my agreeing to give him additional energy from time to time, he had agreed to keep watch for signs of Tony’s impending return. Right then, I felt cheated.
“If you aren’t going to be any use, I should sell this ugly thing.” I rubbed some steam off the mirror and took a look at the monstrosity around my neck. It was hand-wrought gold, heavy and intricate, with a mass of squirming vines and flowers around a central cabochon ruby. The junk dealer had assumed it was glass, since he wasn’t used to seeing nonfaceted jewels and it had been encrusted with years of accumulated dirt. Even all cleaned up, it was, without doubt, one of the ugliest necklaces I’d ever seen. I usually wore it inside my clothes.
“I’ll have you know, I won that off a countess!”
“And judging by all the pawn marks, it was real important to you, wasn’t it?”
“I always redeemed it, didn’t I?” Billy Joe was starting to sulk, so I decided to lay off. I needed him cooperative if I was going to find out anything.
“I don’t want a fight. I’m not up for it tonight. I just need to know some stuff, like why the Senate grabbed me and…”
Billy Joe held up a hand. “Please, I know my job.” He settled back on the tub and talked while I examined my knees. Raw-looking scrapes and bruises had flowered on both of them despite the height of my boots, promising stiffness by tomorrow. I knew I should feel lucky that I was alive to be an aching mess, but somehow that thought failed to cheer me up. Maybe because I didn’t think I’d stay that way for long. “That vamp outside, Louis-César, is on loan from Europe. He’s some kind of dueling champion. It’s said that he’s never lost a fight, and from what I hear he’s been in hundreds.”
“He can add another to the total after tonight.” Not that it had looked like the guard was much of a challenge, but I guess it counted since he had decapitated the guy. “Did you know Tony bribed some lunatics to kill me right in front of the Senate?”
“That’s nuts. Mircea’d kill him.”
I brightened slightly. I hadn’t thought of it that way. If Tony had been behind the second attempt on my life, he’d just made Mircea look bad, since nothing lowered your rep quicker in vamp circles than not to be able to control an underling. Even though I usually liked him, I’d always gotten the impression that Mircea would be a bad person to cross.
“We can only hope so.”
“Yeah, well, it don’t sound like Tony’s style to me.” I shrugged. In my opinion, Tony didn’t have any style. “Anyway, when I learned Louis-César is second in the European Senate, I did some digging for you.”
“Great. So tell me something I care about.”
Billy Joe gave a long-suffering sigh. “All right. You’re in the main headquarters of MAGIC, the Metaphysical Alliance for Greater Interspecies Cooperation, better known as party central for things that go bump in the night.”
“I know that.” Actually, I think I had figured it out, at least subconsciously. I’d never been there before, but where else could a mage bust in on a Senate meeting and a vamp greet a were like an old buddy? I just hadn’t had time to think about it, and it wasn’t like I knew a lot about what passed for the supernatural UN. Tony wasn’t interested in talking through problems. He was more the stake-’em-and-forget-’em type, a practice that worked on much more than vamps. It’s one of the similarities among species that MAGIC hasn’t chosen to highlight: nothing lives too well with a big piece of wood stuck through its heart.
“Well, maybe here’s something you don’t know. The Senate is leading on this one because it’s a vamp who’s causing the trouble, but everybody’s upset. You know that Russian master Tony used to do business with, the guy running half the rackets in Moscow?”
“Rasputin?” The old adviser to Nicholas II, the last tsar of all the Russias, had been poisoned, shot, stabbed and drowned by some prince who thought he had too much influence over the royal family. He was right: the tsarina loved the unkempt, self-proclaimed monk because her son was a hemophiliac, and only Rasputin’s hypnotic stare was able to heal him. In return, Rasputin got power, and a lot of his friends were appointed to important government jobs. The prince and the group of nobles he’d talked into helping him remove the new power in town had been real surprised that poison, stabbing and gunshot wounds hadn’t seemed to faze Rasputin. It wasn’t until he fell off a bridge and they hauled his apparently lifeless corpse out of the freezing water that they were satisfied. Historians had been arguing ever since about why it took him so long to die. The Russian mafia could have told them: it’s hard to kill somebody who’s already dead.
“Yeah, that’s the one. Rasputin got annoyed ’cause the Senate seat he wanted went to Mei Ling. He doesn’t stand a chance of getting onto the European Senate—most of those crazy sons of bitches make even him look soft—but he thought he was a shoo-in over here. Word is, he didn’t take the rejection well. He disappeared for a while, then about six months ago showed up again and began attacking Senate members. He’s killed four and wounded two others so bad, no one knows if they’ll pull through, and now he’s challenged the Consul to a duel to try and take over the whole shebang. She called in a favor from the Consul in Europe and brought this Louis-César over as her champion. But, of course, that didn’t make Mei Ling happy.”
“I bet.” I’d met the Consul’s second, a tiny Chinese American beauty who was all of four foot ten and weighed maybe eighty-five pounds, when I was seven. She’d left quite an impression. The second’s position isn’t like that of an American vice president. He or she isn’t there to take over if the Consul is killed—the remaining Senate members will vote on a replacement unless a duel decides it, in which case it’s winner take all. The title also doesn’t imply that the holder is the second most powerful member on the Senate—it’s possible, but it isn’t a job requirement. Each Senate member has a specific function for that body, sort of like the presidential cabinet. Seconds are appoin
ted for one reason and one only: they’re intimidating. Whoever holds the office is also known as “the Enforcer,” because he or she enforces the decrees of the Senate by whatever means are necessary. Those can include everything from diplomacy to violence, but Mei Ling was known to prefer the latter.
She’d made that clear the day she’d visited Tony’s audience hall to drag off one of his vamps for questioning. Whatever the guy had done, he definitely didn’t want to talk to the Senate about it. In fact, he was so opposed to the idea that he issued a challenge. Mei Ling was new to the position and didn’t have much of a reputation; she was also only about 120 years old and looked like a China doll, so I guess he thought he could take her.
It amazes me how even old vamps sometimes forget that it isn’t size but power that matters, and while that often correlates to age, it doesn’t always. Some vamps many centuries older than Mei Ling will never have her strength, and I’ve seen hulking bruisers forced to their knees by the glance of a child. The transition to vampire doesn’t make you gorgeous if you were plain, intelligent if you were stupid or powerful if you were weak: a loser in life is a loser vamp, spending his or her immortality serving someone else. It’s one of the major drawbacks to the condition, something the movies never seem to highlight. But occasionally it does give someone who was overlooked as a mortal a chance to shine. That day I saw a tiny, fragile-looking flower literally rip a vamp into bloody shreds. I also saw how much pleasure she took in it, how her dark eyes glowed with a fierce joy at the fact that she could do this, that once again a man had underestimated her, and this time he would pay for it.
She never did kill him that I saw. His head was intact and screaming when she ordered the pieces packed into baskets to be carted off to the Senate. I never saw him afterwards, and nobody present that day, to my knowledge, ever again challenged Mei Ling.
“Why did the Consul bring in a ringer? I’d think she or Mei Ling could deal with a simple challenge.”
“The Consul’s powerful, but she ain’t a duelist. And Mei Ling don’t have Rasputin’s experience. He was already old when he tried to take over in Russia; rumor is that he’s never been defeated in a fight, and that he don’t much care how he wins. No one saw the fights with the dead senators, but the first two to be attacked are still alive—so to speak. And Marlowe stayed conscious long enough after they found him to say that Rasputin somehow turned three of his own vamps against him, and one of them had been with him over two hundred years.”
A few scattered puzzle pieces started to come together. I filled Billy Joe in on my most recent escape, and he looked thoughtful. “Yeah, that would make sense. I don’t know how the Senate guards are chosen, but it’s almost sure to be from the stable of one of the members, since who’d ever think any of them would turn?”
“But why would Rasputin want me dead?” I shivered, and it wasn’t from cold. I was used to the idea that Tony wanted to kill me, but there were suddenly a whole bunch of newcomers trying to jump on the bandwagon. And any one of them would be enough to give a sane person a serious case of paranoia.
“Beats me.” Billy Joe looked way too cheerful and I glared at him. He enjoys recounting a good fight almost as much as being in one, but I wasn’t his entertainment. He hurried on. “But you haven’t heard the best yet. Marlowe took out a couple of his attackers before passing out, and the bodies were left behind when his reserves showed up. But nobody can ID the dead vamps. It’s like they came outta nowhere.”
“That’s impossible.”
I didn’t doubt the part about Chris Marlowe being tough to kill. Before he crossed over, he’d been the bad boy of Elizabethan England and had been in a few hundred bar fights in between writing some of the best plays of the era. The only ones anybody thought rivaled them were by a guy named Shakespeare, who conveniently showed up a few years after Marlowe transitioned and had a real similar writing style. Eventually, when the two-bit actor he’d set up as a front died, Marlowe turned to his other hobby for kicks. He’d done some spying for the queen’s government in life, and he added to his bag of tricks afterwards. He was now the Senate’s chief of intelligence, using his family of vamps as spies on the supernatural community in general and the other senates in particular. He helped ensure the peace by taking out anybody likely to disturb it, which might explain why Tony had been more worried about Marlowe than about Mei Ling. The only time I’d ever seen him, when he dropped in to talk to Mircea one night during his visit, I’d thought he looked rather nice with his laughing dark eyes, messy curls and a goatee he kept getting in the wine. But, of course, I hadn’t been planning to take out the Consul. If I had, I might have hit him first, too.
The part of Billy Joe’s story I found hard to credit was the two unidentified vamps. That was literally impossible. All vampires are under the control of a master, either the one who made them or the one who bought them from their maker or won them in a duel. The only way not to have a master is to reach first-level master power yourself. Anything else, including killing off your own master, won’t do any good; someone else will simply bind you to them. Since there are fewer than one hundred first-degree masters in the world, and they mostly hold seats on one of the six vamp senates, this makes for a nice hierarchal structure and keeps everyone organized. Most masters give their more powerful followers some freedom, although a certain amount of their revenues are sent as yearly “presents,” and any servants they make are subject to their masters’ whims. The masters also check on them from time to time, like Mircea with Tony, because they are always responsible for them. If Tony had ordered an attack on me after he knew I was under Senate protection, it would be Mircea who would be expected to deal with him.
It’s a fairly uncomplicated system, at least for a government, because there aren’t that many vampires powerful enough to have stables of followers. Unlike Hollywood seems to believe, not every vamp can make new ones. I remember watching an old Dracula movie once with Alphonse and having him laugh himself sick at the sight of a vamp only a few days out of the grave supposedly raising another one. He’d been impossible for weeks afterwards, mercilessly teasing all the weaker vamps in court about the three-day-old baby that was more powerful than them. But for all who do reach master level and create new vamps, it is a requirement that they record them with their respective Senate. As a result, there simply aren’t any unknown vampires running around.
“Were they babies?” It was the only thing I could think of, although that didn’t make sense, either. What good would a couple of newly made, and therefore weak, vamps do against any Senate member, much less Marlowe? It would be like sending children off to fight an armored tank. And what master would risk his head and heart by failing to report any new vamps he’d made? All the senates were strict on the rules, since anything else raised the specter of a master secretly assembling an army, and brought back memories of the bad old days when there had been almost constant war. As it was, the number of vamps anyone could have under his or her control at one time was strictly regulated to maintain a balance of power.
“Nope. It’s kinda hard to tell with only the bodies to work with, but based on how much damage they did, the rumor is that they were masters.” At my expression, he put up placating hands. “Hey, you asked me what I heard, and I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Where’d you get the info?”
“A couple of vamps in Mircea’s entourage.” Billy Joe didn’t mean that he’d asked them. He has the ability to drift through people and eavesdrop on them mentally, picking up whatever they’re thinking at the time. It isn’t as good as real telepathy, since he can’t go digging for information, but it comes in handy surprisingly often. “It wasn’t hard to get. It’s the main topic of conversation these days.”
I shook my head, puzzled. “I don’t get it. If Rasputin has been messing with the rules and ambushing people, why is the Consul preparing to fight him? He lost that right when he ignored the rules, didn’t he?” It seemed to me that Rasputin was in deep shit,
a thought that made me feel much better. If he got himself killed, it was one less bad guy for me to worry about.
The problem wasn’t the attacks on senators—that was perfectly legal—but rather the way he’d gone about them. During the Reformation, the six senates had collectively banned open warfare as a way to solve problems. After the religious divide, both the Catholic and Protestant clergy had been supersensitive, warning their flocks to be watchful for evildoers who could rob them of God’s favor. Religion had also been a big political issue, with Catholic powers trying to assassinate Protestant leaders and vice versa, a Catholic armada trying to invade Protestant England and a major holy war going on in Germany. Everybody was spying on everybody, and as a result, more people were beginning to notice supernatural activity. Even though most of the accused were as human as their accusers—and usually more innocent—the authorities occasionally got lucky and staked a real vamp or burned a real witch. Open warfare between senates or even feuds between prominent houses were only going to draw more notice to the supernatural community. So dueling became the new, approved way of solving disputes.
Of course, Tony wasn’t about to risk his fat little neck in open combat, and there were plenty of others whose skills didn’t run to battle who also didn’t like the new system. So the practice evolved into choosing champions to fight for you if you didn’t want to do it yourself. Once the two duelists were agreed on, though, the rules were very strict about what was and was not allowed. Ambushes were definite no-nos, and what Rasputin had done would earn him an automatic staking anywhere in the world. The North American Senate would never stop hunting him, and the others would lend a hand to discourage this type of thing in their own areas. I decided that he was either crazy or really, really stupid.
“I guess she figures it’s better than letting him pick off people one by one. Besides, unless Marlowe or Ismitta pulls through enough to testify, there’s no actual proof he cheated. Right now he can say he challenged them and they lost, fair and square.”