Prologue

 

Doctor Raul Pakow blinked twice into the scanning-tunneling microscope. He was exhausted, but couldn’t even rub his eyes because of the damn biohazard suit he was wearing.

He sat back and activated the heads-up display on the faceplate of the suit. 11:58:59. Almost midnight here in Seattle. Three am, in New York. Two months already he’d been in Seattle, but his body still seemed back on East Coast time. Back in New York, where Shiva would be sleeping soft and warm in their bed right now, where he’d left behind everything he’d ever been and ever loved…

From where he sat Pakow had a clear view through the Plexiglas into the private lab of the man who’d brought him here from New York. He was surprised not to see Doctor Wake also hard at work in there, where he’d been just minutes before. Pakow closed his eyes wearily, thinking how it was only Plexiglas separating them but that it could just as easily have been a gulf of a thousand years.

Pakow’s lab had the sterile feel of every clean room he’d ever been in, but Wake’s work area was an almost frightening mixture of science and the arcane. To himself, Pakow had silently begun calling it the mad scientist’s laboratory.

Science had been turned upside down by the return of magic some fifty years ago, and Wake’s lab was no exception. Medical equipment rested side by side with fetishes and magical implements that Pakow couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Long golden rods and books with rams heads on the covers. Parchment scrolls and strange diagrams covered with indecipherable symbols in faded ink. The entire floor of Wake’s lab was coal black, throwing into sharp relief the blood-red pentagram that stretched almost ten meters in diameter, completely encompassing the carefully arranged implements he had gathered for his use.

Pakow gave himself a mental shake, knowing he couldn’t sit here dreaming all night. It was time to run his final check. He tapped a key on the terminal beside him to record the hour and date-00:00:00/l2-08-2058-then turned back to his microscope.

Picking up the datacord set into the microscope’s base, he ran it through the small, clean port in the helmet of the biohazard suit, easing the cord through the tight. sterilizing passage. Pakow had been fitted with three datajacks into his right temple. One for the Matrix, one for off-line memory, and the third to jack into the virtual-reality equipment used in most labs. As the datacord clicked softly into the third port, his vision blurred for an instant, seeming to condense down to a pinpoint and then expand at lightning speed, exploding into lurid purples and yellows.

To Pakow, the infinitesimal virus he’d been studying was suddenly five meters high. He turned and stepped into the heart of the rocket-shaped image, double-checking the projected outcome of the new RNA sequence. He had predicted that even though the virus would be similar to the original, the injected transposon cocktail would suppress the expression of certain detrimental genes.

Inside the core of the virus, Pakow reached out a chrome-gilt hand to touch the spongy mass at the center. He loaded the new RNA sequence, which took the form of a large, neon-green hypodermic needle filled with glowing amber fluid.

Using his free hand, Pakow separated the proteins of the virus and stabbed upward with the needle, releasing the fluid.

A stream of amber coursed outward, greedily attaching itself to the viral protein matter and insinuating flecks of golden material at different places along the RNA strand.

Within seconds it was finished, and Pakow stepped out of the virus to observe the effects of what he’d done.

Outwardly, the virus stayed stable, one of the concerns Doctor Wake had expressed early on, but its shape began to shift subtly. Where it had started out looking like a hexagonal rocket, the new sequence bulged slightly at the head, taking on an almost circular form.

As soon as the virus had mutated completely. Pakow pulled his view back until the image was tiny again. He turned to his left and lifted one hand, causing a small digital display to form in mid-air. Entering the combination he wanted, Pakow overlaid the display of the virus with a simulated projection of a human already infected with the original strain.

Placing the newly formed virus into the subject’s bloodstream, Pakow was able to track its amber-colored progress.

As predicted, the new virus assimilated the older version and supplanted it completely. The effects of the modified strain altered the subject exactly as planned. Many of the deleterious effects of the original were modified or eradicated completely.

Pakow smiled to himself. Send a killer to kill a killer, or something like that.

Reaching once again for the digital display, he sped up the time lapse, and watched as the final modifications to the new virus did their work. Within the first year, nothing new showed. By the beginning of the second year. however, the new virus began to deteriorate. Slowly at first, then much more rapidly, eventually killing the host.

Satisfied, Pakow jacked out.

“Well?” The voice came from directly behind Pakow, making him jump in his chair.

Turning, Pakow found Oslo Wake looking over his shoulder. Even in the biohazard suit, Wake was a thin man, and possibly the tallest human Pakow had ever encountered. Well over two meters tall, he was a skeleton wrapped in the florescent orange suit that clung to his frame.

Through the clear helmet, Wake’s face was gaunt to the point of emaciation, cheeks hollowed and sharp, his forehead stretched parchment-tight over an angular brow. His blue eyes were sunk into the sockets of his skull like some childhood nightmare his head covered in a snow-white mass of hair that tangled and spiked off his scalp like some live thing trying to fight its way free.

“Provided the other aspects of the procedure go as you’ve suggested, I feel very confident in this Beta strain,” Pakow said. “You realize, of course, that without extensive testing, I can’t promise anything. With a virus of this nature, there’s always the chance I may have overlooked something. What I can tell you is that the virus will remain stable, will negate any previous infection, and will deteriorate within two years, killing the host.”

Wake rocked back on his heels, smiling. “My dear, Doctor Pakow, you have more than justified my faith in you. Once again, I apologize for the conditions under which you’ve been forced to work. And despite it all, you have outperfomed even my highest expectations” A small tic in Wake’s right cheek made his face jump in a second-long, lopsided grin.

Something in the other man’s voice raised the hackles on Pakow’s neck. Looking at Wake now, it was hard to believe this was the same man who’d approached him just two mouths ago at the conference where Pakow had been giving a paper on viral mutations in specific metahuman genotypes. The lecture had been poorly attended, and Pakow had come to the conclusion halfway through that maybe a total of two people in the whole room had any idea what he was talking about.

After the lecture Wake had come up to him, speaking in that soft voice about a new direction for his research-something totally out of the mainstream-and a chance to push the parameters of lab work farther and faster than would be possible under any laboratory conditions Pakow had ever heard of, here or anywhere else.

And so far, all those promises had come true. Wake had lived up to his reputation as a genius of the first caliber, proposing methods and directions that would never have even occurred to Pakow. He himself had managed to identify certain problems in Wake’s research, but he couldn’t help wondering if Wake might have let those flaws remain on purpose, just so Pakow could feel like he was contributing.

Still, it had been Pakow who’d made the final breakthrough on the Beta strain, or the “mystery virus.” At first the virus had been resistant to every form of mutagen, but he’d finally cracked it. That was about the time he’d first noticed the changes in Wake. The mood swings and the secretive tendencies, and now the facial tic.

Despite Pakow’s fears about Wake, he couldn’t help a flush of pride at his praise, as well as a healthy dose of curiosity. “Is it my imagination, or have I actually passed some sort of test in your mind, Dr. Wake?”

Wake’s smile faded, and for just a moment, Pakow thought he’d pushed too far. Then, Wake nodded gently, and spoke in that soft voice of his. “You’ve worked very diligently without complaint, and have proven yourself invaluable to this project, Dr. Pakow. I think the time has come for you to be given the whole picture. Follow me.”

Pakow rose and trailed after Wake without another word being spoken. Skirting the workbench that held the scanning-tunneling microscope, the two moved to the decontamination chamber at the far end of the lab. As they stepped into the small room, a spray of white mist showered over them. They gave the mist a moment to clear, then changed out of their biosuits and continued out into the corridor. The relative dimness of the white-tiled hall was gloomy to Pakow after so many hours under the bright glare of the florescents illuminating the clean room.

Wake had still not uttered another word, but Pakow continued following him to the elevators. Wake pressed his palm to the DNA scanner, saying, “Wake, Oslo.” There was a small beep from the scanner as it confirmed, then Wake said, “Level eight.”

A small shiver of anticipation ran through Pakow as he watched the elevator numbers, which ran in descending order. They counted down from the first floor, which was above-ground, to the tenth, at the lowest level.

When Pakow had first arrived at this small compound out in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, a wasteland just on the outskirts of the Seattle sprawl, it seemed that he and Wake were the building’s sole occupants, though there was room enough to house a small army. And even though he’d been given the complete run of the top four floors, he was restricted from visiting the bottom six. That hadn’t really bothered him. He knew all about life in a research facility. Even with his high security clearance at Universal Omnitech, many areas had remained off limits to him. Still, he couldn’t help wondering about those bottom six floors.

The prospect that he was actually going to see what went on down there gave him chills.

The elevator reached level eight and stopped. The door, however, didn’t open. Pakow looked over at Wake. “Is there a problem?”

Wake had a strange look on his face. “There are things in this world that no human being should have to know.”

Involuntarily, Pakow took a step back. “Excuse me?”

Wake turned to him, tic jumping, and smiled softly. “I’ve had my reasons for keeping you in the dark about certain aspects of my research, but the gravest of them is that no person should have to know how close metahumanity is to extinction.”

Pakow was about to speak, when Wake raised his hand. “You are on the brink of learning something that will forever change how you view the world, Dr. Pakow, and if I didn’t need your help, I would never subject you to this knowledge. I’ve reached the extent of my skill in metagenetics. That’s why I drafted you.”

Fear pushed its way down Pakow’s spine. “I don’t understand.”

Wake nodded. “I know. Have you ever heard of an organization calling itself Ordo Maximus?”

Pakow thought a moment. “I think so. Aren’t they a bunch of rich British snobs with nothing better to do than play cricket or polo and flirt with magic?” He shrugged. “What have they got to do with any of this?”

“Everything. The fact that you think of them in those terms shows that their propaganda has been very successful. They are masters of misdirection, and they would like nothing better than for the entire world to believe the way you do. However, the truth is something far more sinister.”

Pakow laughed, though he didn’t know why. “You must be kidding.”

Wake smiled strangely. “Unfortunately, I’m not.”

Pakow stared at the other man for a moment. “All right,” he said. “I’ll bite.”

Wake’s chuckle was a soft, almost frightened thing. “Appropriate choice of words, my friend, how would you feel if! told you that Ordo Maximus, those cricket-watching, polo-playing snobs, was actually a front for something very evil, something like a secret society of vampires?”

Pakow wanted to laugh again, because the idea was absurd, but the sound stuck in his throat. “You say ‘something like,’ but what you really mean is that Ordo Maximus actually is a bunch of vampires?”

Wake nodded.

“And just how do you know this?”

Wake laughed again. “Because they’re the ones funding this project.”

With that, Wake tapped a pad next to the elevator door, which immediately hissed open. “Welcome, Doctor Pakow, to the Terminus Experiment.”

The first thing Pakow noticed was the drop in temperature. The air from the room beyond was chill and damp. The next thing he noticed was the graveyard silence.

Peering around the door, he saw a cavernous room, stretching back into blackness, the ceiling shrouded in shadow.

“After you,” said Wake.

Pakow took a cautious step forward onto the bare cement flooring, and the room instantly flared into light. Brown acoustic tiling on the walls diffused the harsh light somewhat, but Pakow barely noticed.

To his left, a bank of plexiglass windows sloped upward to the ceiling, and a garish blue light filtered from somewhere below.

“This way,” said Wake, directing him to the windows. “I have plans to make this room a bit more comfortable, seeing as we’ll be spending a lot of time down here, but that will take a few weeks. Still, the facility is up and running.”

Wake stepped up to the plexiglass barrier overlooking a room roughly thirty meters in diameter. Like Wake’s lab upstairs, this one also had a pentagram carved into the flooring. Only the colors were different. Instead of black on red, this was green on white. Directly in the center, where the star formed a hexagon, rested a massive tank with plexiglass sides. The tank was filled with a glowing blue fluid, and it was from here the garish light originated. Pakow could make out the form of a naked man floating lightly in the fluid. The face was covered with a breathing mask, and wires attached at various places to his bare flesh.

“What is this place?” Pakow’s voice was a whisper, though it sounded loud in the quiet room.

“This, my good Doctor Pakow, is the culmination of all the work you have done in the last month.”

Pakow turned slowly to find Wake’s emaciated features looking at him thoughtfully. “You know,” said Wake, “its kind of ironic. When the people funding this project decided to give it the name Terminus, they were thinking of a terminus line, the line that separates day from night. Of course, terminus also means the end of something.”

Pakow looked down at the tank, at the man floating there.

“I don’t understand. What’s going on here? Who is that man, and what are you doing to him?”

Wake laughed. “What’s going on here is the biggest double-cross ever pulled off in the name of metahumanity. As far as that ‘man’ down there is concerned, his name is Marco D’imato, and he is a vampire. He was infected with the HMHVV virus about six or seven years ago, and he’s been leading a double life ever since. And with regard to what I’m doing to him, the answer is nothing. However, what we’re about to do to him is something that goes beyond anything this world has ever seen.”

Wake’s words hit Pakow like a bullet train. “You can’t be serious. You’re not going to-”

Wake smiled. “Oh, but I am. When you came on board, I promised that you would see applications of your research faster than you ever dreamed possible. Well, here it is-instant gratification.”

Pakow put up a hand. “You can’t. That virus is totally untested. It would take months of work to make sure I had all the bugs out.”

Wake shrugged. “Then think of this as the first phase of testing. The process has already begun. Look.”

Pakow turned back to the window, and looked at the man in the fluid. It was hard to tell from this distance, but he looked strong, virile, his pale skin ghosting through the fluid. As Pakow watched, a familiar trail of amber began to cloud the blue and turn it green.

Pakow couldn’t tear his eyes away from what was happening, even though Wake had started talking again. “The solution in the tank is actually a fairly simple DMSO-based liquid with a few other things thrown into the mix. Things not of a strictly scientific nature.”

What was going on before his eyes was the antithesis of everything Raul Pakow believed in. Products were to be tested first, extensively. Still, he felt a small thrill run through him. Every other product whose development he’d been part of had been beaten to death before it could ever be actually tested on people. And by the time that happened, all the thrill had gone out of it. Right here, right now, Pakow’s skill and knowledge were being put on the line, the ultimate high-wire act without a net.

Filled with apprehension and anticipation, he watched as the tank turned fully green. For the longest moment, nothing happened, then Pakow’s worst nightmares came to life.

The figure in the tank convulsed, in an undulating, rippling movement that no normal human should have been able to accomplish. Even through the green of the liquid, Pakow could tell that the man’s skin was darkening, as if he were being slowly roasted alive.

“What’s happening to him?”

Wake sounded almost disconnected as he answered. “The pigmentation of his skin is changing. That’s to be expected. After all, the virus you tailor-made for him is designed to allow a vampire to survive in the sunlight. One of the basest defenses against ultraviolet burns is darker skin.”

Suddenly, the form convulsed again, and this time it didn’t stop. The thrashing seemed to roll through the body at such a fast rate that for a moment, Pakow couldn’t believe what he was Seeing.

“Well,” said Wake lightly, “that certainly wasn’t part of the game plan.”

The form in the tank twisted, its spine shrinking and corkscrewing until the man’s right hip bone jutted forward at a ninety-degree angle.

As the shuddering stopped, Pakow finally managed to tear his eyes away from the utterly deformed thing that had been a perfectly formed man just moments before. “I told you,” he said. “I told you it needed further testing, that it wasn’t ready.”

Wake smiled, and put two skeletal hands on Pakow’s shoulders. “Relax, Doctor. Nobody is blaming you for anything.”

Pakow felt a rage building in his gut. “Blaming me? Are you out of your mind? We’ve just killed a man!”

Wake shook his head softly. “No, my friend. We haven’t killed anyone. Mr. D’imato is still very much alive. The anger you feel right now is completely misdirected.” Turning Pakow’s head back to the tank, back to the blackened, twisted form floating there, Wake said, “That thing down there is a vampire. I know that’s hard for you to understand at this moment, but you’ve got to trust me, because I can prove it to you. Even if were true that Mr. D’imato had died, we’d merely have rid the world of one more bloodsucking leech.”

Pakow turned back and looked Wake in the eye. The man was completely serious, and the tic in his cheek had become much more pronounced.

“What have I gotten myself into?” Pakow said, the words coming like a kind of moan.

Wake laughed, and drew Pakow away from the window, back toward the elevator. “What you’re involved in is a plan to save the world. Come back upstairs, Dr. Pakow, and I’ll explain everything to you.”

 

1

 

Vampires are stronger and faster than metahumans. and driven to kill by a combination of hunger and homicidal rage. Yet, most exist as solitary monsters or small bands of outcasts. Be warned, my friends. One faction of vampires, hiding behind an innocent facade, is even now working to release all vampires from their dark hiding places and let them walk free as masters of metahumanity. This group extends its web of treachery and deceit through many nations and countless organizations, but its roots lie in England’s Ordo Maximus.

– 

Martin de Vries, Shadows at Noon, posted to Shadowland BBS, 24 May 2057

 

I don’t know if you’ll get this, but I have nowhere else to turn. Some people say you’re not even real, yet you may be the only person in the world who can help. I’ve read the Shadows at Noon posting from hack in ‘57. That’s why I’m trying to contact you. There something going on here in Seattle, something you should know about.

– 

Dr. Raul Pakow, message posted to “Stalker,” Shadowland BBS, 02 May 2060

 

Hot July sweat, cool bay breezes, and the sounds of far-off laughter. Twilight, a dangerous time, second only to the wee hours. A time when joy girls are made to swallow industrial solvents, when gogangers beat the homeless to death for sport.

With the coming of night, the humid smell of the Seattle sprawl grew overpowering, and down by the dockside the sick essence took on a dangerous feel. In the deepening gloom, the scent of industrial garbage was like the rot of an open, malignant tumor, the sour brine odor… gangrenous.

Shadows congealed in the alleyways, feeding off, growing from the stench. It was always this way, because something gets loose in those fleeting moments between day and night. Something travels on the foul breeze. Like nerve gas on the wind.

The dim alley faded to darkness. Even the bright bulbs from the loading docks-the ones designed to burn during the long night hours-were black. Smashed into thousands of twinkling crystals that reflected the aching red skyline.

Hookers and homeless had been avoiding this stretch of alleyway ever since the first hint of night. Mostly it was instinct, that, and a knowledge of the twilight rules. They knew Death was on the wind and the best way to avoid meeting it prematurely was to stay out of the way.

Tonight, Death’s angels rested in the alcove of a warehouse’s loading dock. Two forms, their shadows bloated by the sharp angles of automatic weaponry.

The younger man wore no shirt, only dark trousers, combat hoots, a black headband to hold back his long blond hair, and a single diamond stud in his left ear. He sat with legs folded, his bare back to the cool concrete wall beside the heavy corrugated doorway. Not a muscle moving, his breathing deep, steadied with the aid of his magic. He had been seated in exactly the same position for almost two hours.

The older man moved about from time to time, rough camos hissing quietly with each step of his cybernetic limbs as he paced in the dark silence. His artificial joints were stifler than the younger man’s natural ones. His required stretching every once in a while, but he didn’t complain. The time was near, and everything was ready.

Ready and waiting.

These men’s existence had become a process of patient immobility, then quick action, then stillness again. They had become masters of the waiting game. Head-trick kings. They used various mental exercises to make the time pass quickly while still remaining alert.

Because it was patience that assured no mistakes were made, and these men could afford no slips when the time came to move. To strike. Not tonight.

If ever they needed all their hunting skill, it was now. If they moved a millisecond too slowly, or made the slightest misstep, they would instantly change from hunter into the hunted. Soon the moment of quick action would begin, and the bright curve of headlights told them their waiting was almost at an end.

Two slices of lacquered midnight, the lead Ford Americar and the trailing Rolls Royce Phaeton, slid down the deserted alleyway. Both cars boasted powerful engines that rumbled quietly, the sound bouncing off the tall brick canyons on either side. Headlights cut crazily as first the Ford, and then the Rolls Royce, swerved to avoid the piles of refuse filling the narrow passageway.

The Americar was occupied by three humans and one ork, all in dark suits and minored sunglasses, despite the dim lighting. The Phaeton’s driver was a powerfully built man, also in dark suit and glasses. He held the wheel with one hand, the hand made of articulated chrome.

Sitting next to him was Derek D’imato, a man of thirty-five, or he had been once. Before the treatment, Now he was something else entirely. Something a whole drekload more powerful than any human could hope to be. More powerful, more intelligent. More fragging everything.

In air-conditioned comfort, Derek looked for the sign-a quick flash of headlights in the dark of the alley. He was angry, hot, despite the cool air blowing from the Phaeton’s vents.

Derek was on time, and he hoped Burney Costello would be, too. Burney had a reputation for being punctual only when it suited his purposes. Derek hoped it suited Burney’s purposes tonight. Anything to finish this bit of business and get back home.

Derek would never have agreed to meet here. This was not a place for a man who wielded power. Even less a place for a man who wielded the power of a god among men. But Derek hadn’t made the arrangements, hadn’t been part of the planning.

Shock tactics. Surprise deployments. Aggressive maneuvering. All these things were part of the plan, a plan made by a soldier. Derek’s father, Marco D’imato.

It sounded like so much bulldrek to Derek, who had begun to wonder if maybe his father was starting to lose it. He’d heard the men talking when they thought no one could hear. Heard them saying that his father seemed to be going around the bend. Derek had understood why it seemed that way to them, and had dismissed their muttering dissent, There was too much they didn’t know.

Now, he wondered if they were right. This plan, his father’s plan, was forcing him to run an errand that should have fallen to a messenger, not the son of Marco D’imato-owner and CEO of Fratellauza, Inc.

Marco had been uncharacteristically patient when assigning Derek the job, and Derek had been quick to grasp his father’s logic. If Burney Costello was to give up the beach-front property willingly, he would have to be convinced of Marco’s determination. Nothing would convince him more than Derek showing up for the meet. For the heir apparent to the family empire to put in a personal appearance… well, it would help Burney realize that Fratellanza, Inc. was serious.

There was also the fact that Burney would surely give in to Derek, where he might not yield to a mere messenger.

Marco had insisted that the switch be a surprise, and at the time Derek had agreed. Now, however, trolling down the dirty alleyway, looking for headlight flashes from a car he couldn’t see. he was having second thoughts.

It wasn’t that he was afraid. That was laughable. No, it was that this errand was interfering with his nightly routine, and that made Derek feel anxious, a hungry knot tightening in his chest. He hadn’t fed, and didn’t like going this long without quenching his thirst. Derek looked at the man sitting next to him, deftly maneuvering the car, and had to put a damper on his desire to simply take the man, here and now.

They passed the loading dock of a warehouse, and were almost to the end of the alley, when a sick feeling began to burn in the pit of Derek’s stomach.

They eased past a shadowy alcove, the glint of a corrugated metal door flashing briefly in the headlights.

Did they hide the fragging car?

Then he saw them. Out of his side window, dark splotches casting giant shadows in the afterglow of his headlights. Like demons in the night, something out of a cheap horror trid. He saw the muzzles of the guns, and the horror trid became a full-fledged nightmare.

Derek moved, with a swiftness that no metahuman could hope to match without spending hundreds of thousands of nuyen, but it was too late. The lead car exploded in a ball of flame, and the night was lit up by automatic gunfire, the sound like rumbling thunder in the narrow alley.

The Phaeton, suddenly without direction, rolled further down the alley until it gently bumped into the burning wreckage of the lead car. And all the while the barrage continued until there was no glass left intact, until great, gaping holes formed in the driver’s side. Big enough that the two angels of Death could see most of the effects of their work.

On cue, the flying bullets ceased.

With practiced speed, the two men dragged the eviscerated passenger from the Phaeton over the decapitated body of the driver, whose mangled head dropped to the pebbled pavement. Lifting the body of their target, still miraculously intact, the two men quickly sealed it in an airtight bag that the younger man had flipped out onto the ground littered with broken glass. When the bag was secure and all the air evacuated from it, each grabbed an end and moved swiftly up the alley, past the burning wreck, to the minivan parked at the corner.

The night was empty once more, empty except for hot sweat, cool breezes. The sounds of far-off laughter.

And the smell of new blood and gunpowder.

“He’s sparking. Should be coming round soon.” Short Eyes voice drifted through the hollows of the warehouse.

Martin de Vries stood as still as stone and tried to block out the cacophony of sensations. The warehouse smelled of old tires and oil, a residue from its days as storage for an auto shop. Over the hum of the portable generator that provided power to the place, he could hear the sounds of ships’ engines out on Union Bay, the sounds of people moving about on the street. even the murmuring of men speaking to each other down on the docks.

The night air of the warehouse was cool against his skin. tingling with salt from the sea and pollutants from the factories in Ballard. Reaching into the pocket of his vest, he pulled out a small jade statue. Carved in the likeness of a four-armed demoness, the statue seemed to glow in the dim light, as if the small stone creature had swallowed something of incredible power.

One more time into the breach for you and I, thought de Vries, as he felt the calm strength of the statue pour into him, though this isn’t how you and I like to do things, is it? No fight, no struggle, simply putting evil out of its misery. Takes all the pleasure out of it.

“Is everything in place?” De Vries glanced at Short Eyes as he once again pocketed the statue.

Short Eyes grunted, running her long fingernails though her hoop-length hair, pushing it back to slot a datacord into one of her five datajacks.

De Vries knew that she was now getting a fully recreated view of the entire room as she brought the four trid cameras on-line. That was part of Short Eyes’ talent. To most, four simultaneous points of view would be disorienting, maybe even nauseating. But de Vries knew that Short Eyes welcomed the view.

De Vries glanced briefly at the trideo screen next to one of the cameras as Short Eyes used her headware to meld the composite into a comprehensible image. In the screen, de Vries saw a close-up of his own face. Pale skin gleamed like polished marble against the black of his hair, and his hazel eyes narrowed over an aquiline nose.

“Stay chilly,” Short Eyes said. “Everything’s rock.”

As de Vries watched himself on the screen, a small grin spread across his full, slightly bluish lips. The tips of his delicately curved incisors showed twin crescents of stark white against the skin of those lips. “Excellent, my dear. The priest?”

“Give me the go, and I’ll slot,” she said.

“In a moment,” de Vries said. “First I must tend to our guest. He is already awake, although he’s trying to hide that fact.”

Derek D’imato was strapped to a metal chair in the center of a ritual circle, his face reposed in what appeared to be sleep. Severely chopped black hair framed strong masculine features, a straight prominent nose, and a wide, sensuous mouth. Long lashes fell almost to his aristocratic cheek bones. Close scrutiny, however, revealed make-up. In fact, it was caked on, though artfully done, and where Derek’s sweat had run down his face, tracks of darkness invaded the healthy-looking tan.

Despite appearances, de Vries knew Derek was faking. No matter how much he tried to maintain the illusion of stupor, the drug would have worn off more than two minutes ago.

The man’s thousand-nuyen suit was ripped to shreds in places and showed stains all down the front, though there were no wounds visible on him. The stains didn’t look like blood. De Vries knew blood, knew all of its stages, all of its secrets. These dark stains were too black, too shiny, to be what the uninfected would call blood.

“Derek, you may stop pretending now. I’ve done this far too many times to misjudge the sedative you were given.”

Derek didn’t open his eyes, but simply said, “Old man, you have no idea how deep in drek you’ve decided to go wading. When I get out of this, I’m going to rip you apart piece by piece and suck the marrow from your bones.”

De Vries noticed there was something definitely wrong with Derek’s mouth, but he couldn’t place it. It was just wrong, that was all.

Short Eyes gasped, a clearly audible hiss of breath through her human teeth.

De Vries just laughed. “I have no doubt you would try, my young friend, though it’s my guess you’re the one with no idea how deep your troubles are running.”

Derek opened his eyes with a snap, and the deep blue screamed into de Vries’ mind like pallid, vile lasers. Though this young man and he shared a common bond of sorts, de Vries felt a momentary shock at the sheer hatred and barely hinged insanity in those eyes.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” Derek’s voice was almost a screech.

De Vries smiled. “Of course. You’re Derek D’imato, son of Marco D’imato, principal owner of a private security corporation named Fratellanza, Inc. I also know what you are. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

A look of stunned incredulity crossed Derek’s rugged features. “Who in the hell are you?”

“My name is Martin de Vries.”

Sudden, unearthly silence. Derek had gone completely still. When he spoke, his tone was soft, cautious. “Bulldrek. De Vries is a myth”

De Vries was surprised to hear Short Eyes answer. “Shut your hole, simpey.”

De Vries shot a glance at Short Eyes as he pulled a pack of Platinum Selects from the pocket of his duster. Lighting one, he inhaled deeply and let the smoke jet out in twin plumes from his nostrils. “My dear, it is time to set things in motion. Why don’t you load up our special surprise for our guest?”

De Vries smiled as Short Eyes reached to the chipjack interface set into the back of her skull, just below her scalp. Instantly, her mannerisms changed as she became Priest, the BTL personality chip she’d obtained just for today. Her facial expression went from confronting to solemn; she straightened her back and brought her feet together, bowing her head in de Vries’ direction. She looked like a different person altogether.

Short Eyes’ voice came deep and accented. “Priest here.”

De Vries looked back at the greasy face of Derek D’imato, whose confusion was obvious. “You are wondering about Priest, yes?” He took another drag on his Select. “Actually, you have my sincerest apologies at not being able to obtain a bona fide member of the holy cloth. You see, I know of your family’s background in Catholicism, and seeing as I’ll be sending a trid of this evenings activities to your father, I thought it would console him to know that his son had something of a proper send-off.”

Derek shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

De Vries looked down at his cigarette, noticed it was burning low, and pulled another from the pack. Lighting the second with the glowing butt of the first, he said, “You don’t think your father will appreciate my sense of humor?”

Derek said nothing.

“Prepare for last rites,” de Vries said. He took a deep drag off the fresh Select while tossing the butt of the old one to the floor and crushing it with the heel of his boot.

“What the frag are you talking about?” Derek’s carefully cautious facade went ragged at the seams, then unraveled. “I don’t believe any of this. You’re just a vampire with delusions of grandeur.”

“No,” de Vries said. “I am a living dichotomy.” He gave a harsh laugh. “A vampire who hunts vampires.”

Priest walked up to the edge of the ritual circle. “You are the devil’s work, Mr. D’imato,” she said in deep, solemn tones. “Martin has salvaged his soul by forfeiting the taking of blood from innocents. God has made him an agent of His vengeance.”

Derek’s face twisted with rage, his eye flicking to de Vries. “You’re insane, old man. Just because you despise what you are doesn’t make you the agent of God.”

“You’re wrong,” said Priest. “That’s exactly what it makes him. And as his witness and priest of the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, I pronounce sentence on you, Derek D’imato. Witnessed and recorded.”

De Vries smiled. “She has a way with words, don’t you think?”

“I declare you an abomination in the eyes of the righteous,” said Priest.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Foam-flecked spittle flew from Derek’s mouth, and his incisors tore a small, bloodless wound in his lower lip. “How can you do this? We’re the same.”

De Vries felt his anger surge. “We are nothing alike, you and I.”

Derek’s torn lip healed up almost immediately. “Whatever you say, vampire. But you and I are not that different.”

De Vries ignored him and turned to face Short Eyes. He gestured with one fine-boned hand. “Priest, it is time.”

Priest walked across the room and picked up a ceramic basin filled with water, a silver spoon, and a large sponge. She carried them back to the edge of the circle. “I am ready.”

De Vries silently acknowledged her, then gathered his power around him. When he was ready, he drew himself up and stepped close to Derek.

“Don’t come near me.” Derek’s voice was calm again, the edge of insanity turned to something far more cunning.

“You were raised Catholic, weren’t you, Derek? I should think you would appreciate all the trouble I’ve gone through for you. For you and your father, who has forgotten his faith.”

Derek just grunted, his unreal blue eyes tracking de Vries. De Vries took the towel from Priest and wet it in the basin’s water. “Are you ready for your final baptism?” He wrung the excess water from the sponge.

“After all,” de Vries continued, “you were baptized as a child, and seeing as you have just recently been born a child of darkness, I thought baptism was a fitting way to prepare you for what I have in store.” De Vries chuckled as he moved the sponge close to Derek’s face, watching carefully as the man’s neck muscles bulged, trying to move away.

Abruptly. Derek’s head lunged violently forward and he tried to sink his fangs into de Vries’ wrist.

De Vries spoke a word, and the air around Derek’s head seemed to crackle with magical electricity. Derek’s fangs stopped a mere centimeter from contact with de Vries’ skin.

“You like that?” asked de Vries. “I learned it from a young woman in New Orleans about a year ago. You feel the pressure on your throat? You move too much, and you lose your head. You know what happens to a vampire who loses his head?”

With a soft chuckle, de Vries wiped at Dereks immobile face, and with each touch of the sponge, the caked make-up disappeared. Underneath, Derek D’imato’s skin was black. Not the black of someone with African blood, no, the intense sun of that continent had never touched something so dark. As the make-up was patiently washed away, the darkness became so absolute that Derek’s features began to meld with each other. Even in the camera’s floods, the black flesh absorbed the light and gave nothing back.

When de Vries was done, Derek had become a faceless nightmare, with only the tiny crescents of his teeth and the violent white and blue of his eyes to testify that this was a face, and not some black pit.

De Vries dropped the brown-smudged sponge, and took the small silver spoon from the bowl. With two swift, precise motions, he used the lip of the spoon to pluck the blue discs from Derek’s eyes. Then he dropped the spoon back into the bowl.

Derek didn’t blink, and now his eyes were simply white, with two small pinholes of night at their center.

“Holy mother of God,” whispered Priest.

De Vries stepped back. “What did I tell you? If his kind is allowed to spread its infection, metahumanity is doomed.”

Priest shook her head as if to clear it after too much strong drink. “Are you ready, then?”

De Vries laid a hand on Priest’s shoulder, and looked at Derek. “You are familiar with the sacrament of extreme unction? As a good Catholic boy, you should be.”

Derek glared at them both.

Beside him, Priest chuckled. “You know, last rites? I even know it in Latin.”

De Vries grinned at Derek, who still couldn’t move. “You see, I have taken pains to make this as formal as possible. Your father should appreciate that.” He made a small passing motion with his hand, and Derek’s nothing face continued its truncated arc, his teeth snapping shut on the air where de Vries’ hand had been when Derek had begun his attack.

“You’ll pay for this, de Vries!” he screamed. “My father will make you and this chiphead priest suffer beyond anything you’ve ever imagined.”

Priest began to chant as de Vries lit incense along the edges of the circle. “Per istam Sanctum unctionem et suam piissimam inisericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid deliquisti…”

Priest finished anointing Derek, though instead of actually touching him, she simply sprinkled water at him from outside the circle.

There was one final touch de Vries wanted to make. He turned to face one of the cameras, looking straight into it. “Marco D’imato,” he said. I have taken your son, and he is no more to you. Soon, you will be visited in the dark of night, and I will set you on the road to follow him.”

It was time.

Derek screamed as de Vries turned back to him. And there was little wonder why. Short Eyes had taken the Priest chip, and was back to her normal self. She had also pulled a small surgical pump from out of her bag and was holding it out to de Vries. This wasn’t how de Vries preferred to work, but if the information he’d received was correct, for him to ingest Derek’s blood would have devastating consequences. So new methods had to be found. Stepping up to Derek, he spoke the word he’d learned in New Orleans last summer, and Derek’s head snapped into stillness once again.

De Vries attached the surgical pump to the side of the chair and fastened the drain tubing to the side of Derek’s neck, The surgical pump had been modified so that it would clamp independently onto Derek’s head, and the hose would drain the blood from his jugular. At the same time, the silver needle on the pump would stop Derek’s natural regeneration from closing the wound. Clamping the needle into the skin of Derek’s neck, causing it to puncture the jugular, de Vries started the small motor a the base of the pump.

A tiny whining noise filled the warehouse as the suction pump began to siphon Derek’s black blood from his neck, down the tubing, and into the large bucket Short Eyes had placed on the floor at de Vries’ feet.

Like petrol from a car, thought do Vries with a sad smile. With a wave of his hand, he released Derek’s head from the barrier.

Derek screamed, a loud piercing wail that shattered one of the windowpanes, high in the warehouse.

 

2

 

Hey, Stem, I need a favor-off the record. I thought you OC guys might be able to get me something on a small security corp named Fralellanza. inc. here in town. I hear the name means “brotherhood” and that these guys popped up out of nowhere about seven years ago. The scan I got says they’re a little family-owned organization, which is growing fast. Some of my snoops say they’re Mafia, and considering what happened today, it seems plausible. The son of Fratellanza’s owner died in a very peculiar way a few weeks back, and we’ve been holding the body pending certain tests. Then, today I found out that the stiff had been released to the family and that my captain had closed the case. I don’t want to get in his face on this. but the whole things got me wondering. Think you could do a little legwork on your end? I’ll owe you one.

– 

Inter-departmental email, Lone Star Security Services Inc., Mike Powell. Department of Homicide, to Stem Carlson, Department of Organized Crime, 03 August 2060. Transmission intercept by Fratellanza deckers. Scan word: Fratellanza, 05 August 2060

 

Rachel Harlan stood naked in the cluttered studio, her strawberry-blonde hair cascading down her back and shoulders. She wiped sleep from her eyes, then walked over to Warren’s latest sculpture and threw back the cover cloth. Underneath was a demon, vicious and cruel, straining to break free of its marble prison.

Rachel studied the creature’s partially formed wings, outspread and anxious to take flight. The face was unfinished, but she could picture what it would look like when Warren was done sculpting it-a ruined visage, scarred and twisted with a rage so intense it scared her.

Rachel reached out and ran her fingertips over the hewn stone. Anyone watching might have been struck by the sharp contrast of her beauty to its ugliness. Where Rachel’s nose was pert and straight, the sculpture’s hooked into a hideous beak. Rachel’s eyes were wide and blue, her lips full and naturally red. The demon eyes would shine with dark intensity, Its lips would be torn by its jagged line of teeth.

Rachel shuddered. She didn’t understand Warren’s choice of subjects, but he was the artist, not her. This demon sent a chill like ice running all the way down her spine.

She stepped back from the table-actually a large wooden door propped up on twin metal filing cabinets-and studied the block of marble from a distance.

The damn thing is ugly, she thought, then quickly tossed the cover cloth back over it.

When Warren had selected the marble block from the quarry, Rachel thought he was seeing an angel inside the large chunk of rock. An angel would have been sweet.

But now she knew that he’d been seeing a demon all along. And she didn’t know what was more frightening, the demon or Warren’s mood while carving it. He’d been distant and sullen all week and she couldn’t figure out why.

She turned from the block and crossed the large, open studio, her bare footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors and bouncing off the high, white stucco ceiling.

She walked to the trid, past the midnight-blue futon couch that was the large room’s only furniture, except for easels and worktable. She slipped a chip of Cool Phantom’s “Millennium Bygones” into the rack, letting the lead singer’s soothing voice pour out of the wall speakers. She swayed to the music as she made her way into the kitchen.

A surprise August drizzle spattered against the window pane, clouding her view of the tire retreading shop across the street. It was cool in the kitchen, and she felt a tightening around her nipples as the chill did its work on her skin.

She poured two cups of fresh-brewed soykaf into the mugs she’d gotten Warren for Christmas that year.

“Babe?” From the bedroom, Warren’s voice was an early morning rasp, harsh against the background of soft music and slow rain; still, it made her smile.

“What?”

“You making ‘kaf?”

Rachel’s smile stretched into a grin as she looked out the kitchen window at the early morning drizzle. “Already made.”

She could hear Warren shifting in bed. “You bringing me some?”

She laughed. “Already poured.”

“I worship the ground you walk on.”

She picked up the mugs, ready to head for the bedroom, then hesitated an instant, looking out at the cold rain. There was something perfect about the moment, and she wanted to let it linger, like the scent of perfume hangs in the air after the passage of a beautiful woman.

But the moment passed, and she sighed as she crossed to the bedroom, holding the steaming mugs in front of her.

The bedroom looked as if a small hurricane had hit it. The walls were crammed with prints of various artists, but the dominant force was Michael Parks. His surreal pictures hung at angles, overlapping the others.

The futon, twin to the one in the studio, was opened into a bed and occupied the center of the room. Sprawled across it was Warren, his long, dark hair spreading against the white pillowcase as he turned to look at her.

Rachel paused, her sense of the sublime triggered. It Still amazed her that they were together. He was gorgeous; he was an artist. What had she done to deserve him?

Warren stared back at her with gawking admiration, and Rachel felt self-conscious. She smiled and put the coffee mugs in front of her breasts.

“Oh, that certainly covers up a lot,” Warren said, laughing. “I can still see your-”

“You want kaf or breakfast?”

“Kaf first,” he said. “Breakfast later.” He struggled into a sitting position, revealing his tightly muscled stomach.

Rachel handed him one of the cups. “Black,” she said, “with tons of sugar.”

Warren blew on the soykaf, making the steam billow out gently. He took a sip, then another, but his eyes never left her body.

His look was devilish and aroused the first stirrings of desire. Her skin tightened again, but this time it wasn’t from a chill. “Just ‘cause they’re hard,” she said, “doesn’t necessarily mean I’m horny.” A smile played at the corners of her mouth.

Warren laughed. “And just because I’m looking at the menu doesn’t mean I want to order.”

Rachel moved fast, grabbing a pillow with her free hand and targeting Warren’s face with an expert throw. The pillow hit him in the side of the head.

He grinned and set his soykaf on the floor beside the bed. “Oh course you know…”

“Yeah, yeah… this means war.” She leaned over and set her mug on the lamp stand. Then, with a laugh, she was on him. She swarmed over him, her naked body covering his. She pushed him onto his back, her desire for him suddenly urgent.

They wrestled for a moment, Rachel straining to pin his arms above his head, and finally succeeding. I’m getting stronger, she thought. Those workouts with Flak are helping.

“I win,” she whispered.

Warren’s breath was warm on her face. “The battle, maybe.” He kissed her on the lips, softly. A brush of skin on skin.

She released his arms and returned the kiss, a little more forcefully, then harder and harder.

Warren’s skin was warm against her, and he smelled of sleep. He tossed the blankets off and pulled Rachel onto him so that she straddled his hips.

Rachel brushed her fingernails along the ripples of his stomach, then bent to take his left nipple in her mouth. Her hair tumbled over his chest as she bared her teeth against his nipple and suddenly bit it.

Warren gasped, and grew hard against her.

Rachel looked him in the eye, resting her chin on his chest. “Are you ready to order now, or do you need some more time with the menu?”

He reached down and took her face between his hands. Pulling her toward him, he kissed her fiercely, suddenly out of control.

She plunged her hands into his long hair and kissed him hard, sucking his tongue into her mouth. He tasted of fresh soykaf.

Warren ran his fingers down her back, making her shudder and moan into his mouth.

He pulled back. “Miss, I’m ready to order.”

Her voice had grown throaty. “Oh?”

“I think I’ll have the special, with orange juice in a tall glass.”

She laughed again, and began a smooth rocking motion of her hips. “One special,” she said. “Coming up.”

She leaned over Warren, her hair cascading down over his face. She covered his mouth with hers, biting his lip as she pushed her hips down over him.

Warren moaned, holding her tightly, forcing her to take it slow. Prolonging her pleasure.

By the time they were done, their soykaf was no longer steaming. Rachel was covered in sweat, her hair a damp tangle down her back, which quickly chilled in the cool air. Her throat was dry. “Water,” she croaked, as she fell off Warren and lay on her side.

Warren laughed and got out of bed, the sheen of sweat on his back making him look like he’d been dipped in oil. He returned a few moments later with two bottles of mineral water, and Rachel chugged half of hers before pulling the bottle from her lips.

Warren lay down beside her, and she ran her fingers through his hair. “Baby, that was so rocket.”

He smiled, and gently reached out to tweak her nipple. “You say that as though it hasn’t been good every time.”

“Well, your mood this past week has been pretty fragging dark.”

Warren shot up suddenly and started pulling on his clothes. “Oh, drek!” he said.

“Were are you going now, Storey? You can’t just jam and run. I’m not that kind of girl.”

Warren threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt. “I completely forgot about something I’ve gotta do today.”

“Forgot?”

“Oh, I’ve got this damn funeral.”

Rachel was suddenly sorry she’d been joking. She stood and hugged him. “Oh, baby.” She kissed his neck softly. “I’m sorry.”

Warren reached for his black engineer boots and pulled the right one on, without socks. “Don’t be, He was a real prick.”

“Whose funeral?”

Warren pulled on the other boot. “You remember the telecom call I got from my dad, about a few weeks ago?”

Rachel frowned. “The same guy?”

Warren nodded.

Rachel shook her head. “I don’t get it. If he died back then, how come they’re just burying him now?”

Warren shrugged. “There was some big investigation, something to do with the way he died. Lone Star wouldn’t release the body until now.”

Rachel reached out and touched Warren’s shoulder. “Do you really have to go?”

He twisted to look Rachel into the eyes. “Rachel, believe me, there’s nothing I’d rather do than stay here and make love to you until some time tomorrow morning. And barring that, I was hoping we could catch some breakfast, and then maybe a matinee.”

Warren stroked her cheek. “And maybe some time real soon I’ll be able to explain why I have to go to a funeral for someone I could give a frag about. But for now, you’ll just have to trust me when I say that I wouldn’t go if it wasn’t important.”

“When will you be back?”

Warren shook his head. “Not sure, but it’ll be a couple hours, easy. Maybe more. Will you be here?”

She shook her head. “No. I think I’ll head over to my place. Get cleaned up to go to work.”

Just the thought of the having to go to The Joy Club made her tense. It wasn’t too far from Warren’s doss, just a few blocks over in yakuza turf downtown, but to her it was another world. She didn’t do any horizontal bop, so she didn’t make the money some of the other girls did, and she was sick of the whole thing. Rachel shook her head at the thought. There weren’t very many opportunities for someone like her, and strip-dancing was still one of the most lucrative. It was only lately that she thought she might have found a better way.

Rachel hadn’t told Warren yet, but she wanted to become a shadowrunner. The Joy Club’s bartender, a troll named Flak, had a team of his own and he’d been teaching her. Maybe he thought she was just another wannabe, but Rachel didn’t care. She was serious. From the scan she’d heard, running the shadows brought better nuyen than flashing your goods to drunk idiots. And according to Flak, every once in a while-not often, but every now and then-you got to do something good. Something that could help somebody.

She’d been practicing with a gun and saving up for a datajack. Recently, she’d helped Corinna, another dancer at the club, hire Flak and his team. Some guy had been abusing Corinna and she wanted to teach him a lesson. Flak had assured her that his team was more than up to the task.

Acting as a fixer for a friend had given Rachel a feeling unlike anything she’d ever felt, especially considering that her means of livelihood was taking off her clothes for the men and women who came into the club. The only thing that might have made it better would have been participating in the run herself. Flak had told her just the other day that she was close to ready, that her progress was excellent.

She looked at the small, old-fashioned clock on the night table. If his timetable were correct he and his team would be making their run in just a few minutes. Just thinking about it sent a small tremor of anticipation through her. Finally, a way out of the life she was leading.

Warren gave her sad eyes. “I’m sorry, Rach,” he said. “If I didn’t have to go. believe me, I wouldn’t.”

Rachel sighed, then nodded. “I know. But you remember this, Warren Storey. You owe me. A full day, no less.”

Warren smiled and kissed her. “Promise.”

He retrieved his sweatshirt from the floor and pulled it over his head.

Rachel leaned back against the wall and stared at him.

“You’re going to a funeral dressed like that?”

Warren looked down at his ripped Harvard sweatshirt and ragged jeans tucked into his boots. Then he grinned up at her. “I figure if the little shit is in Hell looking up, I should let him know exactly what I think of him.”

Rachel didn’t return his smile. “Be careful, Warren. You scare me when you’re in this mood.”

Warren bent and kissed her, then turned and walked out. He grabbed his black leather jacket and motorcycle helmet on his way out the kitchen door.

 

3

 

The racists of the Sixth World tell us that the newly Awakened races are demons, monsters-not human and therefore our enemy. But even as they rouse the ignorant masses against our harmless brothers, the real demonspawn lurk in the shadows, growing stronger on the blood of the living. They are the vampires, the so-called living dead.

– 

Martin de Vries, Shadows at Noon posted to Shadowland BBS, 24 May 2057

 

Light morning rain spattered against the rusted, pitted metal of the fire escape as Sinunu Sol climbed, her heavy boots making so little noise as to be completely silent against the backdrop of the soft Street noise from below. The Capitol Hill district was unusually quiet this morning, with only the occasional car rumbling through the twisting, turning streets of downtown Seattle. That was fine with Sinunu. Considering the whammy she and her team were about to pull, the less people watching, the longer it would take Lone Star to scan to what was going on.

Dressed in skin-tight black synthleather and a dark brown wrap-around duster that contrasted with her albino skin, Sinunu caught a glimpse of herself in a dirty pane of glass as she topped the last landing before the ladder to the roof. Her shock of white hair was slicked back by the rain, and her pink eyes seemed to float in her ghost face, She smiled at her reflection as she moved past.

Sinunu was riding the groove, everything clicking on all twenty-four, and in the slot. It felt just fine. She and the crew hadn’t worked for almost a month, and she’d thought she might go crazy for the want of action, So. even though this was mostly a charity gig-with the little dancer squiff only able to cop up enough to pay expenses-it just didn’t matter.

She climbed the ladder quickly, feeling the grit of time under her pale hands. Stepping over the dirty brick of the caping wall, her foot touched the rooftop just as the rain started to slacken. Bits of grainy sand skittered under her heavy boots as she moved quickly across the roof.

She reached the large ventilation intake, and opened her duster. Strapped there, in six separate leather holsters, were the pieces of her Barret Model 121 sniper rifle. With precise moves that wasted no energy. Sinunu assembled the rifle in less than twenty seconds, taking the time to double-check the silencer’s fitting. Slotting the caseless ammo, she lowered the tripod and quickly carried the weapon over to the edge of the roof top.

From there, she could see the target’s front bay window on the second story. Through the window, the man himself was visible, talking to someone out of her Line of sight.

Probably that damn ork he’s got for a bodyguard, Sinunu thought. That puffed up razorboy couldn’t guard water from getting wet.

The target, a rich weasel named Carlos Sevase, didn’t look too happy, and that made Sinunu smile. Carlos was everything she detested about men. He was small-minded, petty, and came complete with a mean streak that included hurting pretty young girls who didn’t do exactly what he wanted.

Sinunu was fairly sure that Carlos had just earned that his latest punching bag had booked, and was nowhere to be found. At least not by him. The crew had moved her out of town last night, after Truxa had done her best to patch the girl up. Corinna was the girl’s name, and when Sinunu had seen that bruised face, she’d had to do a full ten-breath count to get her anger under control.

Corinna was going to lay low for a few days, just long enough for Sinunu, Flak, Truxa, and Sandman to convince Carlos that maybe he should learn to play nice.

Sinunu smiled again when she thought about how this was going to go down. Looking across at Carlos, her smile grew into a grin. Thirty seconds with Flak will have that boy in tears.

Sinunu forced the grin from her face, and Concentrated. She subvocalized into the headset mike of her Philips tacticorn. “This is Bird’s Eye, got the-”

Suddenly her senses kicked into high gear. The patter of rain had covered the approach and dampened the smell, but she still knew he was there before he even spoke.

“Well, well. What do we have here? I suggest you release your hold on the rifle slowly and roll over onto your back, hands on your head.”

Sinunu cursed under her breath and did as she was told.

The man towering over her was elven, a fact that surprised her because the only meta of record Carlos had on the payroll was the ork. This guy was tall, with jet black hair done in dreds down his back. His dark skin glistened in the rain.

He held a Cobra Colt in his thin hands. The weapon’s stubby design made it look as if the designers had forgotten to add a barrel.

“Hey, there, pretty boy, you know how to use that gun, or do you just think it makes you look tough?”

The elf grinned, “I know a bit more than you.”

He took one more step toward her, and without lowering the weapon, held up his left hand. Talking into a headset almost identical to Sinunu’s, he said, “Got one on the roof. I’ll finish this and find the rest of the mice for you.”

He took one more step and Sinunu moved. Everything slowed around her as her talent took over. The elf’s face froze in that stupid, mean-looking grin as Sinunu cocked her right leg back and rammed it straight through his kneecap, splintering bone.

Suddenly without any balance, the elf tumbled forward, a scream giving away his pain. With ease, Sinunu lifted herself off the rooftop with her left leg and caught him just under the chin with the toe of her right boot.

The elf’s head shot back, blood spraying as teeth splintered in his mouth and flew through the air.

He collapsed into a heap at Sinunu’s feet. “You don’t know squat, you damn amateur. Maybe that’ll teach you not to get too close.”

Without another look at him, she rolled back over to the sniper rifle, and subvocalized into her tacticom. “Like I was saying, this is Bird’s Eye, and I’ve got the back door covered.”

Sandman’s voice in her ear sounded like a ghost through the headset. He was in the stepvan parked just down below in the alley. but his transmission via the Matrix always gave his voice an ethereal sound. “Front doors pop. No auto see devices, and just the three of them in the room. You can party whenever you’re ready to put on your boogie shoes. Just give the door a little push.”

Then she heard Flak’s voice. “You ready with the bang-bang, Trux?”

There was a pause that stretched long enough for Sinunu to realize she’d stopped breathing. Take it easy. Truxa can handle anything these punks throw. Even as she thought the words, she had a hard time believing them.

Truxa Fin was the team’s elven mage and she was also Sinunu’s lover. Sinunu knew she had a problem being overprotective, but there was nothing she could do about how she felt.

After a second more, Truxa’s voice, bright and cheerful, sounded over the tacticom. Sorry about that, Had a problem with the now previous tenant of the apartment It seems he took exception to my presence, but he’s feeling much better about things since he decided to vacate, I’m in the slot and ready to roll.”

“Then it’s party time.”

Through the window Sinunu watched as Carlos suddenly whipped around toward the front door, and even though she couldn’t see it. she knew what had happened. Two hundred kilos of very pissed-off troll had just smashed through his front door.

There was a brief pause, and a body flew through the air, crashing into the wall Opposite the bay window. So much for the ork.

That’s when things started to go south.

“I got heat signatures on the floor above, moving fast, and it don’t look like a meeting of the glee club.” Sandman’s Matrix-distoned voice sounded harried, and Sinunu briefly wondered what had gotten him so agitated. Then, she knew.

The Sound of gunfire rolled softly across the Street, and she could hear the distinctive screaming roar of Flak’s Vindicator as it cranked up to rock and roll.

Carlos was still standing with his back to her, and now she could see Flak, facing away from her, the spinning barrel of the Vindicator spitting fire.

in the same instant she also saw Carlos reach into his suit coat to pull out an Ares Predator.

Without thinking, Sinunu triggered the Barret, and felt the small recoil as the heavy slug shattered the bay window. The round caught Carlos in the back of the neck almost taking his head off as the force spun him completely around. The sounds of gunfire echoed loudly through the streets now that the window was gone.

Sinunu spoke quickly into the tacticom. “Back door is Open.”

The wall at the back of the apartment seemed to come apart, blowing inward, and suddenly, there was Truxa alongside Flak, her tiny hands making complicated motions in the air.

A ball of flame about the size of a small car ripped through the air and flashed out of sight toward the front door, and Sinunu could hear the screams of men who couldn’t get out of the way in time.

Flak never let up on his spray of lead as he and Truxa backed to the window, stepping over the body of Carlos.

From far away, the wail of Lone Star sirens could now be heard over the din of the firefight.

lust below her, Sinunu watched as the blue stepvan peeled out of the alley and stopped just under the second-floor picture window.

“Flak, back door. Go!”

In a simple motion, Truxa grabbed the big troll’s back and hung on as he turned and leapt from the window, landing with ease on the roof of the stepvan, which buckled slightly under his weight. The van accelerated back out into the street, with Truxa and Flak still on the roof.

Sinunu watched as smoke began billowing out of the window. A couple of men in dark body armor made their way through the smoke and tried to level their weapons at the fleeing vehicle.

Too bad you spent so much on body armor; boys. All the less nuyen going to your grieving widows. With that thought, Sinunu opened fire.

Three rounds, three head shots, three kills, clean and by the book.

Climbing rapidly to her feet, she took the Barret apart quickly, placing each piece back into its individual holster.

Slowing only to pick up the Colt Cobra from where it had fallen, then putting two rounds into the unconscious elf’s head, Sinunu exited the roof top.

When she reached the alley, she carefully wiped the Cobra clean and dropped it into a dumpster. Then she tightened her duster around her and headed toward the Street, where a gaggle of Lone Star patrol cars had just arrived screaming on the scene.

She figured she might as well watch the show. That, and make sure Carlos was hauled out in a body bag. She’d meet up with the rest of the crew after.

 

4

 

Mike, got your request and did a little digging. Unfortunately there isn’t much to tell. Fratellanza, Inc. seems to be legit, despite the fact that they’ve got contracts with some high-ranking Mafia and Yakuza members. Especially since Butcher Bigio got the nod as the new capo of Seattle. Fratellanza’s small, but they got a rep for doing personal security like nobody else. I’ll keep my ears open on the son’s death, but I think you’re probably wasting your time on the Mafia angle.

– 

Inter-departmental email, Lone Star Security Services Inc., Stem Carlson, Department of Organized Crime. to Mike Powell, Department of Homicide, 03 August 2060. Transmission intercept by Fratellanta deckers. Scan word: Fratellanza, 05 August 2060

 

The morning rain felt in gentle sweeps, bordering on mist. Tall, opulent gravestones lined the roadway, extending back as far as the eye could see through the drizzle. Dotting the landscape were spires of rock topped with everything from carved angels and lions to robed saints and mitered popes.

The graveyard was a huge, grassy expanse near the University of Washington. Founded in the early eighteen hundreds, it was old enough that even the burial ground’s thirty thousand square meters had become crowded.

Stone statues fought, elbow to elbow, with granite markers for the remaining clear areas. The only free space was deep in the heart of the grounds. There stood the small mausoleum where the city’s founding father was buried.

The cost to bury a loved one here was astronomical. But to the people attending the funeral today, money was no object.

Just behind the founding father’s mausoleum, a group of the city’s wealthy had gathered to bury one of their own. In their tailored suits and designer dresses, with not an income in the group below several hundred thousand nuyen a year, most of them would have found the idea of an annual salary ludicrous. One had money, and it was managed. There was no thought of a wage.

Among the dead man’s mourners were a number of the family’s business acquaintances, those whom Fratellanza, Inc. counted among its stable of clients.

The corporate brotherhood.

Fratellanza Inc. had started small, but rather than trying to compete with Lone Star or Knight Errant, its owners had taken a different angle. Instead of trying to offer comprehensive protection for their clients’ assets, they’d concentrated strictly on personal security, leaving all other Sec duties to the bigger boys. This had allowed them to offer a level of personal service and pampering that the larger, more unwieldy corps didn’t even try to match. In this way. Fratellanza had carved a small niche for itself that had become immensely profitable beyond what the size of the corporation might have indicated.

Many of Fratellanza’s best and brightest had also turned out for the funeral. Derek D’imato was the son of CEO Marco D’imato. Showing respect was important to an employee’s long-term health and prosperity.

Old men and young, with their wives. All of them appropriately grim-laced, a few even shedding tears. For some, however, the demise of Derek D’imato was a priceless gift in an ugly wrapper. Some of the mourners stood to gain much by this burial. So for many, tears were harder to find, unless they were tears of joy.

Also present were three solo women, each from a distinctly different social circle. The chesty brunette was a high-society girl. used to fast cars and faster men. The two blondes looked enough alike to be sisters though one was originally from Sweden, where her father had made his money in pharmaceuticals, and the other was from the Confederate American States, heiress to nearly a hundred million nuyen in real estate. Each woman cried, foolishly thinking the same thought. That she had been the only one to lose her lover.

Then there was the D’imato family.

The man in the dark overcoat pushed his older brother’s wheelchair to the grave site. Twin wheels left deep grooves in the lush green of the immaculately kept lawn.

The priest began his benediction. The crippled man did not cry, and no one expected him to. This was Marco D’imato- Derek’s father and founder of Fratellanza, Inc.

No, Marco D’imato was not the type to shed tears at a death. Though if any of those present had known the reason behind that implacable calm, that steely expression their horror would have far outweighed their grief.

“The light burns me, brother,” Marco said, sitting in his wheelchair, relishing the sprinkle of rain. “And yet I endure it and survive.” Through the heavy makeup he wore, the daylight was a glorious scalding on his skin. Everything seemed so bright that it took all his willpower to remember why he was here. He felt a mad desire to grin, even though he knew that would be deemed inappropriate by the lovely, blood-filled humans who surrounded him.

Julius touched Marco’s shoulder. “You should be considering the death of your son,” he said.

Marco nodded, but he was thinking, Derek’s body and soul died long ago, as did mine. Marco turned his head and glanced upward into Julius’ somber, grieving brow, and the slightest hint of a smile touched his bloodless lips. Everything about his brother seemed to pulse, vivid with life. Marco could smell the faint odor of sweat under his sharp cologne, could hear, dimly, under the patter of rain and the shuffling of feet surrounding the grave site, the gentle thump of his brother’s heartbeat. Could see the coursing of blood through Julius’ veins that stood out like some glorious road map through his skin.

Marco tried to bring himself under control. The ability to withstand the light of day had also brought with it increased bloodlust. I must maintain my restraint around Julius. His feelings about my most recent change have not gone unnoticed, but he will understand in time.

Marco glanced around at those gathered around the grave of his son, all of them listening to the droning of the priest. So purposeful, so intent, all of them. Marco forced down a small chuckle. These petty humans with their stupid ideas about life and death they thought they were looking at their own mortality in this place, but in reality their own mortality was busy Watching them, seeing nothing more than a delicious feast.

Julius laid his hand on Marco’s shoulder the weight a chafing comfort, as if he could read Marco’s thoughts and was trying to help him stay calm. Julius knew of Marco’s condition, and supported him, though of late, his support had been more formal, more stiff than ever before. Julius’ feelings came through most strongly whenever the subject of the procedure came up. His vehement reaction to Marco’s proposal that he himself undergo infection was simply the most obvious change in Julius’ attitude.

In time he will be persuaded.

Marco’s thoughts shifted slightly, settling on the plan, his plan. The men of Ordo Maximus had made his role in their scheme clear, but they were short-sighted, thinking only of walking in the daylight again and the power it would give them. They seemed oblivious to the next steps, to where that power could take them. To them, he was simply another cog in the wheel, a vampire who would be in the right place at the right time. It had been their idea for the personal protection angle exploited so profitably by Fratellanza, Inc., and it had been their money that had funded it. All so that when the moment came, certain powerful individuals-individuals who might be in position to cause problems for Ordo Maximus-could be quietly disposed of. It angered Marco to think that they could discount him as a simple tool, but soon they would learn of their mistake.

With considerable effort, Marco stifled a surge of anger. “Thank you, brother,” he said to Julius.

Sorrow, he thought, sorrow is what I’m supposed to be feeling. He looked at the bronze-tinted casket, and forced himself to think about Derek. His son, his heir, his dreams for the future. The casket was normal size, though Marco knew that Derek’s body, once so strong, so commanding, only took up a small portion of the casket’s interior.

The only way Lone Star had been able to identify the eviscerated, burned thing that now rode inside the plush interior of the metal box was by Derek’s credstick, which had been jammed into the blackened, cracked mouth. That mouth had been stretched into an eternal scream of fear and anger. That scream had been so hard, so violent that it had actually unhinged Derek’s jawbone.

There were doubts at Lone Star whether the body was actually Derek’s, but Marco had known instantly. He’d been expecting news of his son’s death ever since the trid chip had been delivered. Silent anger began to build inside as he remembered the trid recording. He felt an itch of madness take hold as the face of Martin de Vries came into his memory-the smug self-assurance in those undead eyes, the casual way a fellow vampire could torture and kill one of his own.

Even now, Marco’s men and hired mercs were scouring the city for any sign of the rogue vampire, searching with extreme prejudice to find the man who had murdered the heir apparent to Fratellanza. Inc. And when they found him, Marco would be there.

Now. Marco looked down at the skeletal ruin of his legs, the vicious twist of his hip bones that spoke of the helix that had been his spine. He looked like a cripple, but Marco knew that if needed, his body would respond in ways that would surprise even another vampire. When the moment came, he would be the one looking down at Martin de Vries’ dead-white skin, and de Vries’ death would make the murder of Derek look like a mercy killing.

The pressure of Julius’ hand increased ever so slightly on Marco’s shoulder, and Marco could sense his brother leaning in to whisper in his ear. “There he is. I told you he would make it.”

Marco squinted to see into the distance and through the hazy drizzle, he saw the metallic-gray Saab Dynamit in the cemetery’s roughrock gateway, idling behind the electrified wrought-iron fencing.

Marco watched as Biggs, a big red-haired ork and one of Fratellanza’s best captains, checked Warren for ID. Biggs was in charge of today’s security arrangements and had personally taken over the gate. He was ambitious for a meta, and Marco had even considered breaking one of his unspoken rules for the man. No meta had made advancement past captain in Fratellanza, Inc. Riggs might just be the first.

Tires hissed on the wet pavement as the sleek car rumbled through the now-open gate and accelerated up the narrow asphalt path into a forest of granite and marble.

Marco watched as Warren got out and walked across the wet grass to the gravesite, stopping at the outer fringe of mourners.

The young man was dressed in a suit just barely appropriate for the occasion, not nearly somber enough for a member of the family. He stood there, head bowed, his spine rigid and angry.

He is no Derek.

The thought brought just a hint of bitterness to Marco. There had been a time, not so many years ago, when Marco and Julius had discussed Warren as the logical heir to Marco’s wealth and power. There had been no doubt that Warren was far more intelligent than Derek, but Warren lacked other qualities that Derek had possessed in spades. Where Warren was soft, Derek had been hard, where Warren was understanding, Derek had been demanding, where Warren was squeamish, Derek had shown delight. Derek had been a warrior. Warren an artist.

Now, the situation had been forced. Warren would have to be the first step on the path to Marco’s realizing his dreams, and the thought galled him. Not just because Warren was not his first choice, no, it went deeper than that. What galled him most was that he had been short-sighted. He’d placed so much faith in Derek, who’d seemed so untouchable. Derek had shown himself able to kill, burn, ravage.

Marco had come to believe that Derek would always be around. Now, Warren was untried, untested, and certainly not ready to captain Marco’s forces into the upcoming alliance with Don Maurice Bigio that would be the first step in Marco’s double-cross of Ordo Maximus. He’d use both of them as long as he could, until the day he had so much power than even they would have to bow to him.

I am to blame for his lack of conditioning. And I must correct this error.

Marco looked across the grave site and tried to picture Warren, not as he saw him now, a delicate creature that pulsed with lifeblood, but as the rest of these fools must see him. He let a small smile creep onto his heavily made-up lips.

Warren was strong, standing tall, his long hair beaded with rain. Despite Warren’s seeming gentleness, Marco believed that he could be fashioned into a warrior, molded into something more than the self-absorbed brat Julius had allowed him to become.

If Warren could be made to understand, he might still make a better leader than Derek ever would. Recently, Warren had been going through a rebellious phase, and Julius had given the boy entirely too much slack to pursue his whims. Warren had taken all that slack and had demanded more.

He was even seeing a stripper. Marco knew all about Warren’s secret life as Warren Storey. All about the fact that Rachel Harlan, Warren’s current quim in residence, knew nothing of Warren’s connection to Fratellanza, Inc.

Frag, the boy has convinced her that he’s poor.

Marco knew that Warren had been slumming, merely to gain attention from Julius and himself. He would come back around to the corporate way, eventually. Of that Marco was certain, which was why he’d allowed his brother to be so lenient with his son.

Now that Derek was gone, Marco could no longer afford to be so lax. Derek’s death was a setback, but I can’t afford to let that affect the plan. I will rule the entire earth one day, with my offspring crushing all opposition in my path.

Marco knew of one sure way to exorcise all of Warren’s faults, without jeopardizing his good qualities. An exorcism involving a vampiric virus tailored by Dr. Olso Wake.

He thought about the day Wake had come to him, telling him that Ordo Maximus believed Marco had potential and should be the first of the vampires to walk in the light of day.

At first, Marco hadn’t believed him, but one quick telecom call to London had put Marco’s suspicions to rest.

Despite the crippling outcome of the procedure, Marco held no grudge against the man. Marco knew that the leaders of Ordo Maximus had been the ones to rush the procedure, had been the ones to force Wake’s hand, even though the doctor had warned them of the risks.

It was worth it, Marco thought as he looked around, seeing his natural prey by the light of day. I’d do it again in a second. Now how do I convince Warren to undergo Doctor Wake’s procedure?

Where Derek had welcomed the transformation, Marco knew that it would offend all of Warren’s tender sensibilities. However, once Warren had been… changed, once he saw the world as it really was, once he’d tasted the true fruits the new life had to offer, he would fall into line. Marco had no doubts about that.

Still, there was another possible complication involved there. Julius would never be party to coercing Warren. Julius’ love for his son would be his downfall if Marco didn’t solve the problem soon. And it might only widen the rift that’s come between us. That would not do. Julius knew too much, and Marco wanted to avoid any action that might turn Julius definitively against him. Julius could ruin everything.

Marco thought of de Vries and Derek, and then of Warren, and a plan came to mind. It was so simple, so ridiculously simple, that for a moment, he let his smile out in force.

Luckily, none of the mourners happened to be looking in his direction when he made the slip. Because, in that smile, even the simplest person would have realized that there was nothing remotely human hiding behind the mask that was Marco D’imato.

The only person to see that smile stood just outside the high stone wall that marked the perimeter of the cemetery. The high-powered digital camera on the telescoping boom was capturing every moment of the funeral.

Jacked into the camera, Short Eyes saw everything. She shuddered as the camera zoomed in on Marco D’imato’s face.

Acting as de Vries’ daylight eyes took its toll on her, and the security here was very high. She simply needed to get some good trid of the funeral and then she could call it blowtime.

Since meeting de Vries last year, Short Eyes had felt purpose come back into her life. Before, she’d been nothing more than a second-rate media snoop and a chiphead. Now, she had direction.

She remembered the night she’d met de Vries in the alley behind a club in Amsterdam, the night he was hunting a vampire named Carlson. When Short Eyes first saw him stalking through the club, tall and stooped, chain-smoking his cigarettes, she’d thought he was a chipdream. But then she’d quickly realized what he was, and had followed him. She was the only witness to the magical vampire duel that had taken place in the deserted alleyway behind the club.

As de Vries was taking Carlson’s life, she’d tried to get away, but somehow, de Vries had known. He’d cornered her before she’d taken ten steps. She thought she was dead, but instead of draining her blood, de Vries said he wanted to speak with her.

They began to walk and by the end of that fifteen-minute conversation, Short Eyes knew she would follow de Vries anywhere. When he told her he would be headed for UCAS soon, and asked if she would accompany him, she hadn’t needed to think twice before accepting. She pledged her life to the cause, and no force of darkness, no matter how terrible, would ever sway her from her course.

Through the boom cameras field of vision, Short Eyes saw that the funeral was over and that Marco D’imato was being wheeled away from the grave as the casket finished its short descent.

The man standing behind Marco stopped for a moment and gestured for a younger man to approach. The latter was the one who’d come speeding up to the funeral gates, his sports car moving like the devil himself were giving chase.

Short Eyes zoomed in to catch a close-up of him, and she didn’t have to be a genius to see the physical similarities between the young man and the older one pushing Marco’s wheel chair.

Something in the young man’s manner caught Short Eyes attention. Unlike the rest of the mourners, who had approached both of the older men with respect and deference, this one seemed to show Marco cold indifference. That only broke when he shook the hand of the other man, whom she guessed was his father. The respect and admiration were apparent on both of their faces.

They talked for a moment, and Short Eyes wished she had a shotgun mike to catch the conversation.

Finally the man in the wheelchair frowned and motioned with his hand toward the waiting limo. The young man shook his head, and pointed toward his car. The two older ones nodded, reluctantly, and the three separated.

Short Eyes collapsed her equipment and stepped further back into the tree line as the funeral procession began to leave the cemetery. Then she loaded the equipment into the rented Ford Americar and drove it back to the hotel, where de Vries slept the day away.

 

5

 

Vampire, sanguisuga europa. Vampires are not a true species. but rather they are individuals of a human subspecies who have been infected with an agent that causes the vampiric condition. The infection only seems to reach its full virulence in a magic-rich environment, but there are indications that both the Human-Metahuman Vampiric Virus (HMHVV) and vampires were present before the Awakening.

– 

from Dictionary of Parabiology, edited by Professor Charles Spencer, third edition, MIT amp;T Press, Cambridge, 2053

 

Summer had returned with a vengeance to the Seattle sprawl. Even this near midnight, the air was close and humid, the heat still well into the eighties. No breeze stirred the noxious brew, and the night stank of hot desperation.

The normal noises of the city seemed muted and faraway as the sound waves struggled to penetrate the sluggish air.

Two vampires climbed out of a stepvan, leaving it running. They left a third vampire inside the vehicle and walked across the street toward a low tenement. At their signal, the two Fratellanza guards parked in a black Chrysler-Nissan Jackrabbit near the tenement’s front door pulled out onto the street and disappeared around the corner. Within seconds, the sound of the car’s motor had faded to nothing.

The two vampires continued on foot and walked up the steps to the door of the doss in the middle of the block.

Behind them, on the roof of the tire retread shop across the street, a clinging shadow disengaged itself like a slice of midnight, and vaulted silently to the ground. What the two vampires didn’t realize was that this piece of darkness had been with them ever since they’d left Magnolia Bluff.

Martin de Vries watched the two inhuman monsters dressed in double-breasted suits step lightly across the street. conscious of keeping their movements slow and controlled. De Vries watched carefully, studying them, searching for their strengths and weaknesses.

He knew that to these two vampires, the putrid night was a thing of beauty, something that still held incomparable wonder. These were young bloodsuckers, new to their enhanced senses and fantastic powers. It had only been a month since they’d been mere humans, trusted captains in Fratellanza, Inc.’s corporate structure, with nothing much of distinction to their lives.

Now, the whole city was their playground, and the night was the most magical time they’d ever experienced.

De Vries could sense their hunger, their bloodlust so strong it threatened to consume them. He could tell that they’d stifled it for now. Tonight, they were not abroad to feed, they were on business.

They passed the Honda Viking that was chained to the mangled parking meter, then walked calmly up the stairs to the doorway of the doss. One of them knocked three times.

It took a moment, but finally a man’s voice answered, full of suspicion “Who’s there?” De Vries could here it clearly even from across the street.

“Mr. D’imato? It’s Max Fein. I’ve been sent by your uncle. He needs to speak with you, in person. It’s very urgent.”

“Spirits be fragged!” came the muffled voice through the door. Then, “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to come here?”

De Vries moved a step closer, wondering at the disappearance of the first pair of Fratetlanza guards. These vampires were from Marco D’imato, so why had the guards left? Why weren’t they used as travel insurance? Things didn’t seem right.

De Vries got his answer as the young man, so familiar from the trid images Short Eyes had obtained, opened the door.

Both of the vampires moved, and with a speed no uninfected could even hope to follow. The young man was knocked unconscious and carried across the street.

De Vries slid backward, blending perfectly into the darkness at his back.

The vampires toted the man’s still form to the van, then one of them opened the door.

“We got him, sir.”

De Vries heard the grunt of Marco D’imato from where the crippled vampire sat in the back of the stepvan. “Get him loaded. We don’t have much time to get to Hell’s Kitchen.”

De Vries stiffened at the sound of that voice, a voice he had studied and had begun to know so intimately. Then the van was gone, accelerating up the Street and taking the corner with precision.

Alone now in the darkness, de Vries stepped from the shadows. A moment later he was joined by Short Eyes.

“Your take on what just happened?” he said.

Short Eyes shrugged. “Body snatch, natch. Chum Boy got an invite he couldn’t refuse.”

De Vries nodded. “Sloppy work for someone as sharp as D’imato, unless he planned it that way.”

The two crossed the street and walked up the stairs to the still open doorway of Warren’s doss. Moving silently, de Vries stepped inside.

He let his vision shift into the astral, then gave a low whistle. When viewed in this manner, the entire room seemed to come alive. Small statues glowed with magical light, paintings seemed luminescent.

“Our boy Warren is no ordinary mundane.”

Short Eyes, just a step behind de Vries, giggled like a school girl. “Corner of the eye trick?”

De Vries walked over to the table that dominated the center of the room, splinters of stone crunching beneath his boots.

On the table, the crude form of a demon was taking shape in the marble block. De Vries looked straight at the form, and it seemed like nothing more than a statue, but as he shifted his eyes to the astral, the little demon seemed to move, straining to take flight.

As he studied the rest of the carvings, he noticed they all did that. When looked at directly, they seemed like nothing more than exquisitely carved pieces of art, but when viewed from the astral, the pieces seemed to come alive.

“They’re flip,” said Short Eyes, just a hint of wonder in her voice.

“Yes,” said de Vries, knowing that Short Eyes was seeing only one aspect of the sculptures. “It would seem that our boy has a talent of major proportions. I wonder if his uncle knows about this? I wonder if the boy himself even realizes what he can do? Though someone must have noticed it by now.”

Short Eyes started talking, but suddenly de Vries was no longer listening, no longer able to breathe. In the corner stood a sculpture unlike the others, slightly smaller, but formed with such care and attention to detail that he almost cried out.

Barely aware of his own movement, he crossed the room and stood there in front of the small stone statue.

It was a woman. reclining on a small divan, her arm was stretched out, in a beckoning manner, and the slight smile on her face was half playful, half seductive. She was beauty itself.

“Josephine,” whispered de Vries. “It’s impossible.”

Then Short Eyes was at his back, and he heard her sharp intake of breath.

Short Eyes had never known de Vries’ wife. The woman had been killed before Short Eyes was born, but she’d seen holopics.

“What is…” But de Vries was already past her, moving through the doss, heading for the bedroom. Short Eyes followed.

In the bedroom, de Vries found what he was looking for. A holopic of Warren and the woman who had obviously been the inspiration for the statue.

By the time Short Eyes had caught up with him, he’d flipped the pic over, and was reading the inscription. “Me and Rachel at Lake Washington.” It was dated just a couple of months before.

De Vries flipped it back over and looked at the image closely. In the background, Lake Washington gleamed like a blue-gray crystal. Rachel had her arm around Warren, staring straight into the camera as he kissed her neck.

“She loves him,” whispered de Vries.

Short Eyes sighed. “Changes are a comm’.”

De Vries glanced up at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Changes? Yes, this changes things for me.”

“Sensei, plans are laid, and they’re golden. Changes now could shuck us to the bone.”

De Vries looked back at the pic, at the woman who could have been his dead wife’s twin, at the love that was displayed so freely in the image. “You let me worry about that. There’s no way I’m going to let Josephine down again.”

Short Eyes reached out and touched the holopic with one elongated fingernail. “Not Josephine. Rachel. Not the same thing.”

De Vries rubbed a thumb over that perfect face. “Tell that to my heart. We have to make sure that boy doesn’t die.”

In the dust bowl of Hell’s Kitchen, the stepvan plowed along, its headlights cutting through the swirl of volcanic ash that still plagued the area despite the many years since Mount Rainier had last erupted.

The van pulled up to an armored gate, passing the small camp of denizens who were already forming up for the free meal that would be passed out just before dawn.

Marco shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair and listened as Max and Sonny spoke in the front seat. Max chuckled and looked over at Sonny. “That was us, just a few weeks ago.”

Sonny didn’t seem to find the memory so humorous. “Yeah. and by tomorrow, some of them will have disappeared. I wonder what happens to the ones who don’t turn out?”

Max laughed. “Who gives a frag? The ones who can’t cut it get removed. That’s life. And death.” His own wit caused him to laugh so hard that he almost missed the stop.

Marco was not amused. “Damn you.” he said, as the van skidded to a halt. “Pay attention to what you’re doing, or you’ll find out what happens to fools who think they are immortal.”

Max keyed his window, letting a swirl of gray dust into the van. The speaker, mounted on a thin post, crackled. “Business?” came a thin, distorted voice.

Max leaned out. “Marco, with a special delivery for Wake.”

“See some ID.”

Max slid the ID card into the reader below the speaker.

The armored gate slid backward, and Max pulled the van inside. This was the first of two walled partitions that separated the compound from the outside world. Through the swirling dust, Marco could make out the subtle forms that roamed the fifty meters separating the two walls. Cyberdogs and their handlers. But no ordinary dogs. These were beasts, their thin, cadaverous bodies supporting cyber headgear that made them Look impossibly top-heavy.

They passed the second checkpoint, where the van was sniffed by a small Doberman with a telescoping cybercamera cut into its head, just behind the dog’s ears. Cleared through, they entered the main compound proper. Max backed the van up to the loading bay, then stepped out and set up the ramp for Marco’s wheelchair.

As Marco rolled out behind Max and Sonny, who were carrying Warren’s limp body from the van, someone Marco had met only once came out onto the loading bay. Dr. Raul Pakow was a short man, with a heavy shock of sable hair that continually threatened to fall into his eyes. He was forever pushing his hair back with an impatient gesture.

“What’s going on?” asked Pakow, the low undercurrent of anger in his voice telling volumes about his frustration. “Dr. Wake didn’t authorize any new acquisitions.”

Marco’s anger at the man’s tone blazed, and he stood, his twisted hips jutting forward as he maintained his balance with difficulty. “I authorized it. And if Dr. Wake wishes to remain in my good graces, he will do as I request.”

Pakow showed neither surprise at Marco’s twisted appearance, nor did he back down. “That is something you will have to take up with Dr. Wake, Mr. D’imato.”

Marco smiled, and for just a second, Pakow seemed to shrink back. “Oh, I intend to. Now get Wake down here. Time is short.”

“I’m already here, Mr. D’imato.”

The man had approached so silently that even the vampires were caught unaware. Marco twisted around painfully.

Wake stood on the opposite side of the loading bay. He had risen to his full height, which allowed him to tower above all those present, but his skeletal frame made it seem like a strong wind would carry him upward like some crazy, human kite. His white hair jutted painfully from his head, crowning his look of complete exhaustion. “What is it that I can do for you?”

Marco let his body go, and felt his very atoms begin to flow, until he was nothing but mist. He let his essence guide him until he was in front of Wake, then he willed his body to coalesce again.

Wake continued to look at him casually.

“You know of the troubles of the last few weeks?” Marco said.

Wake nodded. “Of course. I’m very sorry for the loss of your son. Still, I’m confused by what you’re doing out here in the middle of the night.” He looked over Marco’s shoulder at the still form lying on the concrete. “Is this some form of retribution? Or do you have something even more… diabolical in mind.”

Marco laughed, a short bark completely devoid of humor. “The only thing I have in mind is the continuation of my lineage. I’d have preferred to keep my options more open, but I’ll simply have to work with what I’ve got.”

Wake nodded again. “And this young man has something to do with that? I’m sorry if I seem a bit slow, but I was given to understand that you had only one son.”

Marco looked behind him, and a fierce grin spread across his face. “That is correct. This is my nephew. I want you to perform the process on him.”

Wake looked at the body and his eyes took on the faraway look that told Marco he was peering into the astral. With that distant look still in his eyes, Wake said, “And it would seem that he isn’t undertaking the process with the same… gusto displayed by your son.”

Marco laughed, a low angry sound. “He would have taken some convincing, but unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of the time it would take.”

Wake snapped back to the physical world. “Are you also aware of his talent?”

Marco paused for a moment, puzzled. “Are you talking about his sculpting? I’ve seen some of it. It’s not bad, if you like that sort of thing.”

Wake smiled, a small thing that refused to reach his eyes. “No, I was speaking of his magical talent.”

“He’s got no magic.”

“In that you are mistaken, I’m afraid. In the astral, his ability is obvious.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Wake laughed. “You already are.”

The two vampires at Marco’s back joined in the laughter until Marco’s glance silenced them.

Marco turned back to Wake. “Your attempts at humor are on the verge of being offensive.”

Wake looked into Marco’s eyes, as though measuring him somehow. “Is it still your wish that the process be performed?”

“Of course.”

“Even though you know the the procedure affects magically active creatures in different ways?”

Marco shook his head. “You don’t understand. This is my last chance to keep my legacy within the family.”

Wake looked at the body of Warren, who was beginning to stir. He paused for a moment, as if making a decision. Then he nodded. “Dr. Pakow, ready room number three. Put this young man on a saline IV with Syndorphin infusion, and prepare the vat. We have quite a bit of work ahead of us.”

Pakow nodded, and stepped up to a wall-mounted telecom next to the bay doors Team alpha, report to bay six, priority red.”

Marco grinned at Wake. “Make sure he comes through this and I’ll triple the monies I’ve been funneling to you. If he dies, I’ll cut you off at the knees.”

Wake simply smiled.

A new voice sounded on the loading bay, one groggy and unsure of itself. “Uncle Marco, is that you?”

Wake moved before anyone else. Pulling a patch from his coat, he knelt by the struggling form. “Rest now. You’ve had an accident, but we’re going to take good care of you.”

Wake slipped the patch over Warren’s jugular, and Marco watched him drift immediately back into oblivion.

 

6

 

At its highest levels, Ordo Maximus is the tool of a secret cabal of a: least half a dozen vampires-perhaps more-all skilled initiates who use the Ordo’s funds and political connections to conduct biomagical research well hidden from the public eye. Their goal is simple and terrifying; they seek to create variant strains of HMHVV, new viruses that will confer the strengths and weaknesses of vampirism at the Ordo’s sole discretion.

– 

Martin de Vries, Shadows at Noon, posted to Shadowland BBS, 24 May 2057

 

The following morning, seagulls swirled in an azure sky over Marco’s mansion in Magnolia Bluff, some four kilometers from the heart of downtown Seattle. The area was favored by the sprawl’s elite and wealthy, including those who earned their nuyen on both sides of the law. The mansion was surrounded by a three-meter stone fence topped with wrought iron spikes, track-mounted Ares security drones, and trid cameras. This served to deter all but the most well-equipped burglars from even thinking about attempting a break-in.

The mansion grounds were spacious and well-landscaped in Italian-garden style, with roses and olive trees and fountains shaped into the forms of Roman deities. Today, the sun glimmered off the moving water, though Marco, groggy and just awakened from his daily slumber by an irate Julius, could not see it.

The two men were in Marco’s inner office. High ceiling fans provided the only movement of air in the completely enclosed room. Even though Marco could now sustain the touch of sunlight, on days like today, with the light so blazing and clear, he would still be severely burned.

Marco shook his head. He hadn’t anticipated Julius learning of Warren’s disappearance so soon.

“And I’m telling you he’s gone!” Julius’ voice was like a diamond saw cutting through stone. “Warren’s been taken by someone who knew our release codes.” Julius turned and paced across the Persian rug.

Marco knew he had to handle this with extreme care. “Maybe he simply went to one of his art shows.” He made sure to add just the hint of derision that Julius would expect.

Julius shook his head impatiently. “Impossible. When I tried to get in touch with him this morning. I got no answer. So I checked the guard logs, which showed he was left unattended from just before midnight last night. I went over there personally, and his front door was wide open. There was no sign of forced entry and no sign of a struggle, but Warren is gone. He would’ve told me if he was planning to leave Seattle.”

“And who do you think did this?”

Julius stopped pacing and turned to face his brother. “I’ve been warning you for months that something like this was bound to happen. Our contract with Don Bigio makes us a target. The yaks, the Seoulpa, it could be anyone. But whoever it was, it looks like they took a page from Derek’s killers and decided to get to us through Warren.”

Marco suppressed a smile. This anger on his brother’s part would serve his purposes nicely. “First off, we have contracts with a number of Mafia families as well as with the yaks. None has ever considered it a conflict of interests, and I don’t see why they would start now. Also, if you say there was no sign of forced entry, then it’s nothing like what happened to Derek. In case you’ve forgotten, Derek’s car was completely shredded. If Warren has been kidnapped, then he must not have put up a fight. Therefore, it might be something you haven’t considered, though I don’t think you are too far wrong.”

Julius’ face grew still, and in a soft voice he said, “You’re keeping secrets from me.”

Marco nodded. “I’m sorry, brother. Derek’s death seemed like a personal attack, and it pained me so much, I didn’t want to share what I’ve learned. However, in light of Warren’s disappearance, there’s something I’ve got to show you.”

Marco crossed the room, his nearly useless legs dragging on the floor as his will carried his misshapen body. Sitting down heavily in the overstuffed chair behind his desk, he pulled the trid recording from the center desk drawer. “Have a look at this.”

Julius’ face became even more still. “What is it?” His voice was little more than a whisper, the soft buffeting of a breeze through fallen leaves.

“It’s from the man who killed Derek.”

As if reaching for a live scorpion, Julius took the chip over to a tall bookshelf. He put his race to the hidden retinal scanner that had been placed in an ancient hardcover of Moby Dick. Then he stepped back, and the book case recessed and slid down into the floor, revealing a security console and a large trideo rig.

Marco slotted the chip and stood there as Martin de Vries came into view. Julius watched the whole thing without making a sound. When the monitor faded to black, he turned back to Marco.

Julius was nearly shaking with anger. “This explains a few things, like the unusual distribution of our Sec forces for the last couple of weeks. You shouldn’t have kept this from me.”

Marco forced himself to seem contrite. Bowing his head, he said, “You’re right, brother. It was short-sighted of me to think that this de Vries was through, that he would only come after me.”

“I want him. If he’s taken Warren, he’ll find that we have ways of making even vampires suffer before they die.”

Marco nodded, once again keeping a smile from his lips only by force of will. “Find him. If you can get to him soon enough, Warren might still be alive. Go, use whatever resources you need.”

Julius turned and headed for the door. “I will, brother. I will hunt this Martin de Vries, and if he’s hurt Warren, then I’ll make sure his death is neither clean, nor painless.”

Marco squinted at the bit of sunlight that peeked through as Julius opened the door and left. Be careful, brother You’re still human. At least for a little while longer.

 

7

 

A creature with the power of mist form can transform its physical body into a mist by controlling the molecular cohesion of its cells. The mist can pass through any crack or crevice that is not airtight, even penetrating filtration systems that are proof against gases or pollution.

– 

from Paranonnal Animals of Europe. first edition, by Charles Spencer, Department of Parabiology, University of Oxford, 2053

 

While Short Eyes slept the night away, de Vries hunted. This nights hunt was just part of the long hunt, the kind that required months of tracking, preparation, and that would culminate in violence and death.

Short Eyes was one of only a few humans who understood his hunt. But de Vries had a feeling about this other one, this stripper who looked so much like Josephine. He wanted to believe she would be another, even if it was only to help retrieve the one she loved.

From across the street, he watched her exit The Joy Club. He crouched on the roof of The Headlight Factory, just behind a monstrous set of neon breasts. De Vries took in the sight of her and found himself forgetting to breathe.

With a sharp intake of smog-laden air, he tracked her as she walked through the early evening heat. it was Josephine, and yet it was not. He trembled slightly at the proud way she tossed her head not letting the heat humble her as it did the other denizens of the district.

She walked through the others like a princess among her subjects. Her see-through plastic micro that clearly showed the hot-pink g-string underneath, her azure blouse that left nothing to the imagination, showing perfect little breasts that swayed naturally-no augmentation there. These things were not Josephine. No, Josephine would never have worn those clothes even in the privacy of their home, let alone out on the Street. Also, this girl was muscular where Josephine had been frail.

Still, the tilt of her head, her grace as she dodged the press of foot traffic, these things were Josephine through and through.

He watched her strut, the tips of her stiletto heels dragging sparks from the concrete, her open sexuality taunting those she encountered to do anything other than look, then cast their gaze back down to the filthy pavement.

De Vries knew that this section of downtown was controlled by the yakuza, and considered “safe.” Patrols of yak kumi-in kept the streets free of gangs and organized violence, but that wouldn’t stop sex-starved, drunk corporate slots from attacking a barely clad stripper on her way home.

De Vries knew where she was going, knew it as he knew that she was aroused. The scent of her came to him, strong enough to overcome even the stench of the streets, and he knew she was headed toward Warren’s doss. It was only five blocks over, though a dangerous five blocks. Still, she walked without fear, almost as if daring anyone to accost her.

De Vries knew what she would find when she got to Warren’s, however. He thought about the night he returned home to find Josephine gone, to find that she had been taken by a dark one. He remembered the sense of void and loss as he searched for her.

As he watched Rachel swagger down the Street, he decided to spare her that pain, even if it meant revealing things she might not want to know.

Silent as a wraith, he crept along the building tops, trailing her, gliding from rooftop to rooftop as she crossed the streets. Finally she turned down the one leading to Warren’s doss. Here the shadows would make her more cautious, but would give him the cover he needed before revealing himself.

Still, he found himself hesitating.

Then he smiled to himself in the darkness. He was the vampire, and a caster of spells, yet this mortal creature had captured him with a spell far more powerful than any magic at his own disposal.

He took a deep breath, pulled a pack of Platinum Selects from his pocket and gently swooped to the ground, almost half a block in front of her, just meters from Warren’s front door.

De Vries watched her approach, only remembering his cigarette when she was close enough for him to catch her scent. The scent of roses.

She flinched a little when he touched flame to his smoke, but didn’t pause in her stride.

“Miss Harlan, a moment of your time?”

She kept on walking, and only someone whose eyes were bred to the dark, as his were, would have caught the slight lengthening of her stride, the defensive swing of her arms.

“Rachel?”

“Frag off.” Her tone was a quiet rasp, no fear, no anger, just the words. spoken with enough edge to give a normal human pause.

He smiled to himself again, knowing that Josephine would never use that kind of language but then again, Josephine had been sheltered from the dark, dangerous world this beautiful creature took for granted.

“He’s not home.”

She passed him by. the subtle shift of her stride the only indication that she was attempting to place herself outside the edge of his grasp. If he had been a normal human, she would have succeeded nicely.

He made no move. “Miss Harlan, please. You won’t find him there, and we need to talk. There is much you don’t know, and if Warren is to survive what’s going to happen, there’s not a moment to waste.”

Without warning, she spun on him, a heavy Seco LD-120 pistol emerging from her purse.

Her aggressive stance caught de Vries off guard. “Back off,” she said.

Her hand was going for something else in her purse, and de Vries recognized the shape of a screamer alarm.

If she sets that thing off the yaks will be here any minute. He needed more time than that.

He stepped to the side, too fast for her to track. She didn’t shoot, though she shifted her stance, trying to keep her aim.

De Vries pulled the electronic screamer from her hand before her finger could touch the button.

Rachel spun around again, trying to find her elusive assailant. When she found him again, her eyes locked onto his face. Whatever went through her mind, it only lasted an instant. The next moment her decision was made.

She raced toward Warren’s doss.

De Vries’ smile turned into a full-fledged grin of admiration, watching the line of her back, that rapid undulation of her buttocks, the way she managed to get up so much speed. wearing heels. That was the part that made him smile.

De Vries let her make it to the stairs, then up to the door, which she was trying, vainly, to unlock. Then he spoke a word. The birthplace of that word had died thousands of years before, in a tiny little village just north of what would one day be Pompeii, but he spoke it now, and felt the cool fire build in his back and in his arms.

Time dilated, and Rachel seemed to slow until she looked more like a waxen figure than a human, and the sounds of traffic faded to a dull wash of lazy noise. De Vries moved.

When he was a step or so behind her, he let his body slow down, and Rachel resumed her pounding on the door.

“Miss Harlan, I told you, he’s not here and his father has changed the locks on the door. Your key won’t work, and if you keep pounding you’ll only attract the wrong kind of attention.”

Rachel turned quickly, pressing her back to the door. Her eyes moved quickly to the left and the right, judging her options.

De Vries saw the look of quiet acceptance as she realized she had no options, not even the ghost of an option.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” Her voice was breathy, but the note of resignation it carried made de Vries sad. Such a beautiful creature, such strength, but with an air of fatality that made her seem tragic at the same time.

De Vries took a step back. “Miss Harlan, my name is Martin de Vries, and I know what has happened to Warren. You and I need to talk.”

A look of deep suspicion took its place on her fine-boned features. “What have you done to Warren?”

De Vries smiled. “I have done nothing to him. But I know what will happen to him if I don’t help him. All I’m asking for is a moment of your time.”

Rachel shook her head. “Why would anyone want to harm Warren? He hasn’t done anything.”

De Vries laughed. “Of course he hasn’t. People want to do things to him because of who he is, not because of what he does.”

Again, her eyes shifted from the left to the right. “You’re crazy. Warren is a good guy who spends all his time trying to be an artist. Why would anyone want to hurt him for that?”

Suddenly it dawned on de Vries. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

De Vries let a slow, tired laugh escape his lips. “I should have guessed. You have no clue who Warren D’imato really is.”

Rachel began to slowly edge to the left, and her intentions were clear to de Vries. If she could vault the low railing, she could hit the street running, maybe get away. “Now I know you’re crazy. Warren’s last name is Storey, not D’imato.”

De Vries shook his head. “Miss Harlan. First off, let me clear up something for you. Even if you could jump over the rail without breaking an ankle in those shoes, it would be a simple task for me to catch you before you took more than a step. I suggest we go inside before others take too much of an interest in this meeting.”

Rachel laughed, and it was a rasping, ugly sound. “Yeah, right. Even if I could open the door, you think I’m insane? You get me in there, and I’m never coming out alive.”

De Vries moved again, faster than the normal eye could follow, and he watched as Rachel stifled a scream when he seemed to suddenly appear, his nose just millimeters from her own. She shrank back against the door as if she were trying to worm her way through its molecules.

“Believe me, Miss Harlan, if harming you had been my intention, you would never have seen me, and my breathing as I drained the life out of you would have been the last sound you ever heard. I don’t mean to frighten you, but time is very short, and there is much you need to know.”

De Vries reached out with his left hand and stroked the new lock on the door. Once, twice, and on the third pass, he felt the lock give way. The door swung inward, and Rachel would have fallen to the floor if de Vries hadn’t caught her.

He picked her up gingerly, and walked her into the doss, gently kicking the door closed behind him. He set her on the futon, then thumbed the switch for the small lamp on the work table.

He turned and Rachel gasped. “What… what are you?” De Vries smiled, feeling his curved incisors dimpling his bottom lip. “I think you know exactly what I am, Miss Harlan, but for now, what you must understand is that I am the only friend you have in the world. The only person who is in a position to help Warren.”

Rachel struggled to sit upright, and after a moment she made it. “What is going on?”

De Vries opened his duster and pulled out his pack of Selects. He offered her one, and she took it with a trembling hand. He lit it for her and then one for himself. Taking a deep drag, he let the smoke drift out of his nostrils. “Let’s take things one step at a time. If I had known your ignorance of even the basic facts involved in your situation, I might have approached you somewhat differently, but there you have it.”

Rachel looked at the cigarette in her hand as if she couldn’t remember how it had gotten there. Finally, she put it to her lips and took a long pull, holding the smoke as if it was the very air of life in her lungs. Finally she exhaled, and when she spoke, her voice had calmed considerably. “All right, I don’t accept this, but because this is my delusional episode, I’ll play along. You’re a vampire. Am I correct in assuming that?”

De Vries smiled and nodded.

“Okay, now that I’m sure I’ve fallen over the deep end, just go ahead and lay it on me. What have you got to do with Warren, and why did you call him by the wrong name?”

De Vries was silent for a moment. “Miss Harlan, there are things I wish I could spare you, but I want you to listen to everything I have to say and to keep an open mind. The man you know as Warren Storey, a very talented artist, is actually Warren D’imato, and he is something else entirely.”

Rachel sighed. “Why would he lie?”

Once again, de Vries was surprised. “You aren’t familiar with the name D’imato?”

She shrugged. “Should I be?”

De Vries sat next to her and was impressed when she didn’t shrink away from him. “This is going to seem a bit far-fetched to you, but your Warren is a very rich man and the son of a powerful corporate honcho. He is also the nephew of Marco D’imato, who is head of the D’imato family. The D’imatos are sole owners of Fratellanza, Inc., a provider of private security in Seattle and other cities across UCAS. They’re not Knight Errant by any stretch of the imagination. but that hasn’t prevented them from making Fratellanza immensely profitable. Warren is a rich, rich man.”

Rachel laughed “Far-fetched? That’s a huge understatement. You must be mistaken.”

“Miss Harlan, understand this, I’m neither mistaken, nor crazy. It’s obvious that Warren has been hiding these facts from you. Most likely in an effort to shield you from a very ugly situation.”

“What situation?” She took another drag on her cigarette, and de Vries noticed that the slight tremble had returned to her hand.

“You must have heard something about the mob war that went on here in Seattle? The trid was full of it.”

She sat up straight. “Are you trying to tell me Warren was involved in alt that bloodshed? You really are crazy.”

De Vries shook his head. “No.” He stood, and walked to the center of the room. “One of the reasons I’m here is that I’ve done some checking on your Warren D’imato. He wasn’t an easy nut to crack, because his self-extraction and cover were immaculately pulled off. The only advantage I had was in knowing both identities.”

De Vries shook his head again. “No, even though Fratellanza did phenomenal business during the recent mob infighting, Warren was not personally involved. In fact, he has tried to isolate himself from the family business for some time. His uncle and his father have permitted him to disguise his identity and live apart from it all. However, I would guess that he was trying to protect you from learning things that would endanger your life.”

De Vries leaned over, stubbed out his cigarette, and pulled the holopics from his pocket. “Warren attended a funeral yesterday. Were you aware of that?”

Rachel nodded, looking at the pics in de Vries’ hand as if be were holding a viper. As if she knew what was coming and wished to avoid any proof that what de Vries said was the truth.

“Here, take a look at this.” He handed her the top picture. one of Warren is his sharkskin suit.

Rachel took it, looked at it, and flipped it onto futon between them. “So Warren owns a nice suit, so what?”

De Vries showed her the rest of the pics, explaining each one. He finished up with a close-up of Marco D’imato smiling. “And this is his uncle, the man who had Warren kidnapped.”

Rachel shuddered visibly at the look of animal cunning on that ravaged face. “Is he like you?”

De Vries took the holopic back and placed the bundle of them in his pocket. “Yes, and no. I am simply a creature of the night. He is an abomination, even compared to my kind. He plans to do to Warren what he has done to himself. If he succeeds, Warren will no longer be human, will no longer be the man you love. Do you understand this?”

Rachel slumped over, and put her head in her hands.

“Miss Harlan?”

Without looking up, she said. “Just give me a damn minute, will you? This is a lot for me to absorb in a short amount of time”

“I wish I could give you the time you need, but time is the one thing we don’t have right now. By my calculations, we have until morning to extract Warren from the place in Hell’s Kitchen where he’s being held, or it will be too late. Once started, I understand the process is irreversible.”

Rachel looked up at him, and there were tears in her eyes. “Well, then, we must go and get him. What are we waiting for?”

De Vries smiled gently. “Slow down, Miss Harlan. It isn’t quite that simple. If it was, I’d have gotten Warren out of there and delivered him back safely without involving you in any way. No, the reason I am involving you is that the place is too well-defended. I could get inside, but there’s no way I’d get out again with Warren intact. It’s going to take a full team.”

Rachel thought for a moment, then said, “I know some runners who might be looking for work, but I could never afford to pay them.”

De Vries stood and turned from her, looking around the room at all the pieces waiting to be finished. “I was hoping you would, and I’ve got a few contacts of my own here in Seattle. But for this job, we’ll need all the help we can get”

Rachel gave a sigh of great weariness. “This is all so unbelievable. Even if I could convince them to do it, they cost big nuyen. They’ve been known to do favors for a chummer, but not anything like this. I could never cop up the nuyen they’d want.”

De Vries turned back to her. “You just get them to agree. I’ll take care of the rest.”

 

8

 

The vampire may appear human, but the resemblance stops at the beast’s cold, clammy skin. Once infected, the human or metahuman victim of vampirism is dead. In the victim’s place is born a devil from the darkest heart of Creation, a thing reared in darkness and nurtured on innocent blood.

– 

Martin do Vries, Shadows at Noon, posted to Shadowland BBS, 24 May 2057

 

As Rachel stepped through the door to The Joy Club, her senses were assaulted. She came into the strobing black lights in a daze, the scent of incense choking her, and the music-scant decibels from being ear-shattering-hit her like a physical blow.

Just inside the entrance, to the right, the long bar stretched back into the darkness. To the left, Lindsey was doing her thing on the main stage, her high, elven features making her look a bit vulpine in the flashing colored lights. Lindsey was the only elf who danced, and she usually went home with the most nuyen. Norms of both sexes loved having her for lap dances, thinking they were getting something exotic as well as erotic.

Rachel knew that Lindsey was far from the best dancer there, but it seemed that few could resist that extra twinge of strange that accompanied her wide, sensuous mouth and platinum-tipped ears.

Screams from backstage attracted Rachel’s fogged attention for a moment. It was Mia.

Rachel frowned. Mia must need nuyen bad if she was going into her act this early in the week.

Mia sat, naked, in a chair center stage, her back arched, sweat dripping from her forehead as a young ork pushed the head of a large golden pin through her soft flesh. Mia whipped her head around, her shoulder-length black hair covering her face in sticky strands, her scream drowned out by the roar of twenty male voices, as blood welled around the pin.

At fifty nuyen a pin, Mia was working on pretty close to a thousand nuyen for this set, but Rachel knew, no matter what painkillers Mia was dosing, she wouldn’t make it more than another set or two. Not to mention if some customer wanted a little more intimate lap dance. However, that seldom happened to Mia, because she charged five hundred for a table dance. All for the customer to have the privilege of actually drinking any of the blood they shed from her body.

Before tonight, Rachel had found the blood-drinking thing a bit disturbing, but now it made her shiver, imagining what de Vries could do to Mia with those sharp teeth of his. She turned back to the bar and walked down toward the end as the music came to an ear-rending crescendo, barely drowning out Mia’s screams.

Suddenly, Rachel felt two small hands slip under her shirt and cup her breasts. She turned and saw Celone standing there, a wide grin on her sensuous mouth. Celone was the tallest of the night girls, with brown hair just past her shoulder blades and incredibly long legs. She was also the nastiest dancer.

“Hey, you working a double?” Celone yelled.

Rachel shook her head, still in a fog.

Celone’s grin turned to a frown. “Devon and I got a guy who wants a three-girl shower show. He asked for you.”

Rachel’s eyes tracked to the back of the bar where the shower slash hot tub set-up rested. Devon, a tiny girl with muscular thighs, over-sized breasts, and long, dirty-blonde hair, was already in the shower, letting jets of neon-colored body paint spatter her body.

The customer was just getting undressed, smiling at Rachel and trying to suck in his hairy gut.

Rachel shook her head. “You know I don’t do the live sex thing.”

Celone smiled. “He promised no touching, so it would just be you, me, and Devon. Sex with girls isn’t the same thing.”

Rachel frowned. “Sex is sex, no matter who you do it with, and I don’t do it for nuyen.”

Celone frowned, “Hey, that’s not fair to Devon and me. Besides, when was the last time you made five hundred nuyen in under ten minutes?”

Rachel shook her head again. “Sorry, I’ve got to find Flak. You seen him?”

Celone’s frown turned into a full-fledged pout. “Come on, Rachel. I’d do it for you.”

Rachel doubted that, but she just smiled. “Why don’t you ask him if he wants Jessica? Everybody says we look like sisters.”

Celone’s big brown eyes widened. “Rocket. He probably won’t even know the diff.” Then she started to turn around as the music began to wind its way back upward.

Rachel grabbed her arm. “Have you seen Flak? I’ve gotta talk to him.” Her frustration bled through into her voice.

Celone turned, and pointed behind the bar. “In the office, with Lucus.” Then she was gone into the smoky depths of the bar.

Rachel turned back to the bar, and saw who she was looking for.

Flak, the bartender-doorman, steped from the gloom at the rear of the club, and walked toward her with a smile on his face. That smile had been known to make norms weep with fear. Flak stood over two meters, small for a troll, but there was no mistaking the sheer power in the ripcord twist of his muscles. His massive head was shaved, and his knobby left arm was covered with a huge tattoo that he’d once told Rachel was a Special Forces tat.

“Rachel!” he bellowed over the music. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Rachel gestured toward the back, behind the bar, and screamed, “I need to talk to you!”

With a nod, Flak led her back through the tiny kitchen area, and past a storeroom to the cramped office.

Lucus, the owner was just getting up. He was an older man, turning heavy, but with the most gorgeous mane of salt and pepper hair Rachel had ever seen.

“Boss,” said Flak. “can I use the office for a minute?” Lucus looked at Flak, then at Rachel, and for just a moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he looked more closely at Rachel and grunted. “Yeah, but make it fast.”

After he was gone, Rachel sat down in front of the desk, while Flak tried to fit his bulk up onto the side of the desk itself.

“What’s on your mind, Rach?” Flak’s voice was soft, gentle, and completely out of place coming from that mouth full of tusks.

Rachel looked up into the huge man’s eyes, and she realized for the first time that they were black, with absolutely no delineation between where the pupil ended and the iris began. It had never occurred to her before, even in their workout and training sessions, but now she wondered if they were natural or augmented in some way.

“How did the run go?” she asked.

Flak grimaced. “We had some minor frag-ups,” he said. “Pretty standard really.”

“Did you convince Carlos to stop beating Corinna?” Flak gave a harsh laugh. “You could say that. Carlos won’t be beating anyone anymore. For the rest of forever.”

“Oh.” was all Rachel could say. She had no sympathy for Carlos, and if anyone deserved to die, he was her number one candidate.

“Why?” Flak asked. “You got another job for us?” He started to smile, but it faded the moment he saw the look on her face.

Rachel felt the laugh bubble up in her throat and it came out dry and brittle, the laughter of someone who’s seen too much and gone quietly insane. The sound of it scared her.

Flak’s expression didn’t change, but his voice took on a hard tone Rachel had never heard in it before. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Rachel laughed again, trying to bold back the tide of emotion running through her. “What do you know about vampires, Flak?”

Flak’s eyebrow arched, but he didn’t laugh at her, and for that Rachel was grateful. “Not as much as some people, but more than you might think. Why do you ask?”

Rachel took a deep breath as Flak reached his mammoth paw into the desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Petron tequila and two shot glasses. “You look like you could use one.” He poured the drinks, and handed one to her.

Without a word, they slammed the liquor at the same time. Rachel let the smooth, bitter liquor slide down her throat like a tiny bit of molten lava. It was real tequila, not the synth stuff, and started a small warm glow as it hit her stomach.

Flak smiled as he took the glass from her. “Better?”

She nodded. “You remember my man, Warren?”

Flak’s small eyes narrowed. “He do something to you?”

Rachel laughed again, and was relieved to hear it come out sounding normal. “No. No, I think something’s happened to him.”

“Go on.”

Rachel pulled a smoke from her small purse, and before it I was even to her lips, Flak had magically produced a small golden lighter.

She took a deep drag. “I got off work tonight and headed over to his place. We always get together on Wednesdays. Just before I got there, I met this guy. He told me Warren was gone, and that the people who had taken him away were going to do horrible things to him if we didn’t get some help.”

Flak leaned forward. “You know this guy?”

Rachel shook her head. “No. He said his name was DeVreece, or de Vriss, something like that.”

Flak rocked back on the desk. “Martin de Vries?”

Rachel started. “You know him?”

Flak shook his head, and let out along breath that sounded like a balloon being slowly deflated. “Know him? No. I know of him, though, provided this slag really is de Vries. The guy’s a fragging legend.”

Rachel’s voice turned bitter. “He’s a fragging vampire.”

Flak chuckled. “I’ve heard that. But what he’s famous for is hunting other vampires.”

Rachel took another drag from her cigarette. “Well, this de Vries says he knows where Warren is, and can get to him, but can’t pull him out without help. When I told him I knew some people, he said that was one of the reasons he was telling me any of this.”

Flak nodded thoughtfully, and reached out to lay one of his huge hands on Rachel’s shoulder. “Where’s this de Vries now?”

“He’s still at Warren’s place. He said he’d wait there for your answer.”

Suddenly, there was a pounding on the door, and Lucus’ voice yelling, “Flak? We got a situation here!”

Flak moved so fast that to Rachel, he suddenly blurred out of sight. The door banged open, and the sounds of shouting invaded the office.

Rachel leapt to her feet and ran out of the office, through the kitchen and into the bar, just in time to see Flak, over by the shower area, pulling the naked customer out of the hot tub by his hair.

Flak dragged the dripping man grimly toward the door, while Devon, also naked and trailing splatterings of neon body paints behind her, followed after the two, pausing every couple of steps to kick the customer as hard as she could. With every kick, the man let out a short, high-pitched scream.

As he passed Rachel, Flak yelled, “I get off in an hour. I’ll talk to some people and meet you at Warren’s in an hour and a half.”

Rachel turned, catching the fierce light in Flak’s eyes. “You know where it is?”

Flak smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll find it.”

Then he was gone, still dragging the man toward the front door.

Rachel used the ensuing confusion to slip quietly out the back.

 

9

 

I’ve been monitoring some closed-door proceedings here at UniOmni. and there is a certain research scientist who night be of interest. He fits our profile, and his expertise is unparalleled. I think we may have struck orichalcum.

– 

Email transmission, J. B. Darl, Communications Support Team, Universal Omnitech, New York City, to blind account. London, England, 19 September 2051

 

Dr. Oslo Wake walked through the decon unit on level 7, beta wing. The decon area had been shut down ever since he and Pakow had converted beta into the stasis floor.

Passing row after row of long, rectangular canisters, Wake checked the status of each vampire stockpiled there. It had been Pakow’s idea to store the vampires when they weren’t needed. It was a brilliant idea and easy to implement. Depriving vampires of air put them into a coma state, shutting down their physiological functions. That meant all he and Pakow had to do was keep them comatose, which let them house as many as two hundred at virtually no cost.

As Wake checked their status, he also double-checked the datajacks inserted into each unit. When Pakow had suggested the stasis chambers, a light had come on in Wake’s mind. In the early days of the Terminus Experiment, he’d been plagued with the problem of how to keep independent and very powerful creatures from taking matters into their own hands once they’d served their purpose as test subjects. Several of those first vampires had managed to escape their holding cells, and had to be killed.

Now, Wake had each subject implanted with both a datajack and a chipjack before undertaking any other procedure. The chip Wake had decided to use was strictly psychotropic in nature, and guaranteed that the compound’s experimental vampires looked on Wake and Pakow with a kind of blind love and adoration. They would do anything either man commanded. The datajack simplified how the vampires would be controlled. Depending on what tasks the comatose vampires were required to do upon waking, the datajack allowed Wake to instantly download instructions to scores of them without any effort.

The plan had worked perfectly.

Wake paused for a moment, feeling the exhaustion deep in the backs of his legs and in his shoulders. He concentrated for a moment, willing his muscles to relax. As he did, his mind drifted to the path he’d taken in the last six years. He turned his head to the left and the right, looking down the line of long canisters, and he let a small smile touch his lips. They should have known, he thought. Those fools at UniOmni should have known nothing could stop me. that every obstacle only sharpened my resolve. They should have realized they couldn’t deny me my destiny.

Wake’s tall frame was wrapped in the second skin of his envirohazard suit, and he refitted his face mask. The suit was merely a precaution, because without the special chemical bath, the contaminants in the room couldn’t find purchase on the human form. Still, better safe than sorry.

Wake yawned, suddenly finding himself exhausted. He bent to check the computer readouts again, satisfying himself that all was as it should be. Then he went over to the large stainless steel tank that dominated the far end of the large room.

The subject, one Warren D’imato, seemed to be taking the first step of the procedure well, his vitals strong, his brain patterns registering as normal.

Behind him, he heard Pakow shift in his chair and call out the reading. “One-oh-one… one-oh-two…”

Wake ignored him. it wasn’t that be didn’t appreciate Pakow’s attention to detail, it was more that he was so tired that the other man was beginning to become distracting.

Finally, when the body temperature was close enough for them to begin pumping the first of the chemical compounds into the tank, Wake let himself relax.

“I know him,” Pakow said abruptly.

For a moment Wake wasn’t sure if Pakow had actually spoken, or if his tired imagination was playing tricks on him. The words were uttered so softly, and Pakow wasn’t one to make idle conversation. He turned to his assistant. “Did you say something?”

Pakow didn’t look up from his work, but spoke again. “I know him.”

Wake was confused for just a moment then he understood. “You mean the subject?”

Pakow nodded.

“A friend of yours?” Wake could not imagine that Pakow would have refrained from speaking up before this, but they were still in the first stages of the process, and no damage had yet been done to the subject. In fact, it would be another twenty hours before Warren D’imato would be prepped enough for the actual transition to take place.

Pakow shook his head. “No, but I’m a big fan of his work.” He looked up and met Wake’s eyes, and for just a moment Wake caught something in the other man’s gaze, something vaguely disturbing, but then it was gone, and Wake wasn’t sure if he’d seen it at all.

“A fan?” Wake laughed. “You don’t strike me as the fan type, Dr. Pakow.”

Pakow frowned. “That’s because you’ve never seen this man’s sculptures.”

Despite his exhaustion, Wake found himself interested. It wasn’t that he cared about getting to know Pakow on a personal level. In fact, Wake could foresee a time when he would have to eliminate Pakow to cover his own tracks. Still, this display of emotion was so uncharacteristic that Wake couldn’t help but be intrigued.

“So he’s good?”

Pakow looked back down at his console. “I wasn’t completely sure it was him, because I only met him once at a show of his work a couple of years ago. And the name he was using then was Warren Storey. But the work was unforgettable. I even bought one of his pieces.”

Wake walked over to the smaller man. “An appreciation of the finer things in life is commendable, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at here.”

Pakow fidgeted. “The piece I bought is an African tribal warrior killing a lion. The craftsmanship is so fine and detailed that it took my breath away, but that wasn’t why bought it.”

Wake continued to stare, but said nothing.

“The reason I bought it was because of what I seemed to see inside it.”

Wake kept his voice soft, almost a whisper. “And what was that?”

Pakow looked up, and there was a quiet pleading in his eyes. “When you look at the piece, it’s obviously a marvelous stone sculpture, but if you stare at it long enough, the marble almost seems to come to life.”

Wake smiled. “Really?”

Pakow nodded vigorously. “All his things are like that, all exquisite, but when you begin to watch them, they seem to literally live and breathe. You can almost see the lion preparing to leap, and you can feel the deep fear of the hunter.”

Wake placed a long forefinger to the side of his mouth. “Sounds amazing, though I’m still not sure why you’re telling me all this.”

Pakow looked back down, and squirmed for another moment, “I know you’re planning to use HMHVV-Charlie on him, and I worry.”

Suddenly it alt made sense to Wake. “You’re concerned about the anomalies we’ve discovered when using Charlie on magically potent creatures?”

Pakow nodded. “I know we’ve taken steps to reduce the risk, but I… I think it would be a mistake to allow any risk to his talent, it would be a shame if this man lost his ability.”

Wake thought about it for a moment. “And what do you suggest we do instead? You know what the Beta strain would do to him.”

Pakow shuddered visibly, then swallowed. “I guess I just don’t understand why we have to do this at all.”

Wake frowned. “We are at a very delicate juncture. If something were to interrupt the work, we could lose valuable time trying to back-track Marco D’imato’s our most successful subject so far, and I’m not ready to lose him. We may need to study him further. All we’ve got to do is keep him placated a little while longer. After that, D’imato’s inevitable deterioration will no longer make him a problem for us.”

Pakow’s shoulders sagged just a bit, but his face remained defiant. “Then I suggest we use the Delta strain.”

Wake laughed, throwing back his head. “By the gods, Dr. Pakow, those are words I never thought to hear coming out of your mouth, especially with Delta being virtually untested.”

Pakow leaned forward, his forehead covered with a sheen of sweat. “We know that Delta should have no adverse affects on his talent, and if Delta proves out, then he would be the first to be unaffected by bloodlust, the first to be able to eat normal food. If this man is the kind of person I think he is, I know he would rather have his life endangered than to risk losing his art.”

Wake’s smile widened, “That is, of course, if strain Delta proves out.”

Pakow nodded. “I understand the possible ramifications, as well as the potential for something unforeseen happening. God knows we don’t want another Marco on our hands, but I think he would rather-”

Wake held up his hand to silence the other man, and turned to look at the tank. He thought about it for a moment. Finally he turned back to Pakow and clapped one skeletal hand on the small man’s arm. “You make a good point, though it’s not so much that which sways me. No, you’ve shown me something else, If Delta doesn’t prove out, the young man will die. No exceptions. However, if Delta works, then our problems with Marco D’imato may vanish.”

He laughed again. “All right, Dr. Pakow, you have my permission. However, before we administer the treatment, I want a full battery run on Delta, from RNA reversion to white cell count. The works. You’re going to have to bust your hump to have all that ready by the time he’s finally prepped.”

The relief on Pakow’s face made Wake a trifle uncomfortable, but he let it pass. “I’ll do it all, no problem,” Pakow said, and even managed a smile.

Wake looked at him for just a moment longer before getting up to leave the room. As he waited for the contamination seal to begin unlocking, he spoke over his shoulder. “This man’s work must be extraordinary. Remind me to come to your home to see it some time.”

In the glass, Wake caught Pakow’s shudder of revulsion, but his voice was steady. “Of course, Dr. Wake. I would be most pleased for you to come over and see it.”

Wake walked through the door and headed for his personal quarters, two levels down.

 

10

 

Susceptibility to sunlight is the only thing preventing vampires from becoming the dominant lift form on this planet. If Ordo Maximus succeeds in creating an HMHVV strain without that weakness, vampires will no longer be detectable except by sophisticated blood tests, and this new anonymity will enable them to take over every institution in society with no one the wiser until it is far too late. Humans and metahumans will be doomed, save for those few kept alive to breed the vampires’ food supply.

– 

Martin de Vries, Shadows at Noon, posted to Shadowland BBS, 24 May 2057

 

By the time Rachel had walked the five blocks back to Warren’s doss, the anticipation of the upcoming meeting was making her giddy with excitement. Finally, she was going to meet Flak’s team of runners.

She was worried about Warren, but she had confidence in Flak; his team’s rep was among the best. Also, de Vries was obviously a creature of uncanny power and resources. How could Warren’s captors hope to succeed? They had no idea who and what they were up against.

Rachel tried to calm herself, but the excitement that kept grabbing hold also kept her from paying attention to what she was doing. She’d already walked the final half-block to Warren’s doss before she realized something was different, and by then it was too late.

A Toyota Elite limousine idled in front of Warren’s place, its huge engine making just the slightest vibration in the muggy air.

Rachel was so busy wondering why de Vries had ordered a limo that she didn’t even notice the two armed men standing in the shadows near the doorway until she was only steps away.

She took a deep breath to keep from screaming, and continued walking past the doss. Her mind kicked into overdrive. and the only thing she could think was what a fool she’d been to trust de Vries. He was obviously in cahoots with the sick vampire from the picture. Who else but a corporate boss would roll around in a car like that and have huge bodyguards with such obvious mods?

She was just past the doorway when one of the guards stepped up to block her path. He was human, standing just shy of two meters, and was impossibly wide. His brown suit fit awkwardly over his misshapen frame, and the gleam of metal in the socket of his left eye gave him a corpse-like expression.

“Miss Harlan,” he said. “Where are you going?” He smiled, but that did nothing to quell the bolt of fear that shot through Rachel, turning her bowels to water.

“You got the wrong chica, chummer.” She tried to sidestep him, but he moved easily to block her.

“Please, Miss Harlan, no harm will come to you. We were told to expect you, and Wolf and Mister de Vries are waiting.”

That stopped her. “Wolf?”

“Yes, he’s inside, and he is somewhat pressed for time.”

Rachel knew about Wolf and Raven. What runner didn’t? They were like the Robin Hoods of the Seattle sprawl, like white rumors starving mothers might tell their children when the little ones had to go to sleep hungry. Something like, “Go to sleep and maybe tomorrow Wolf and Raven will stop by. Then everything will be all right. But if you’re bad. Kid Stealth will come with his metal feet.”

Rachel had heard about them too often, and from people she trusted, for there not to be something behind the tales. Still, she couldn’t believe that the man she was about to meet could possibly be the same person.

She turned and climbed the stairs to the door, then went inside. Warren’s doss was better lit than it had been last time she’d been here, and she could smell fresh coffee. Not soykaf, but real, honest-to-god coffee. The smell made her mouth water. She’d only had real coffee once, and the taste was unforgettable, so rich and dark and strong. It made soykaf taste like bitter swill.

Rachel became aware of low voices as she stepped into the living room.

“Welcome back, Miss Harlan. Did everything go well?” It was de Vries. He was sitting with his back to her, not even bothering to turn to see if it really was her. She shrugged the thought away. If he was so powerful, he would have known she was coming even before she entered the doss.

Still, de Vries wasn’t what held her attention.

The man sitting opposite him was small, but exuded power. a brutal physical magnetism that at once attracted and repelled her. He was older by a good twenty years, going gray around the muzzle and on the sides of his full head of hair, but his face was smooth. Except where scars tracked its surface.

He wore a gray flannel suit that showed off his powerful physique without sacrificing class. His back was straight and proud, and in one hand, he had a cane. Its tip rested on the floor as he twisted the silver wolf’s-head handle in a lazy circle.

Even as all these things registered, she caught his eye, and for just that instant, she knew how a wild thing must feel when caught in the glare of headlights. Fascination and fear threatened to overwhelm her, and she thought she would just stand there, mid-stride, and stare into those killer eyes until he casually walked over and ripped out her throat.

The second passed, and suddenly she was looking into a normal pair of eyes again, pleasant brown with flecks of gray. The man smiled and stood up, leaning heavily on his cane for support. His grin was the most comforting thing she’d seen that night.

“Good evening, Miss Harlan. My name is Wolfgang Kies. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

Rachel swallowed and forced herself to continue into the room. “It’s a pleasure to meet you… Mister Kies.” This was more than she could ever have imagined. In all those nights, lying awake and thinking about the shadows, thinking about what it would be like to run them, she’d never imagined that one day she would be face to face with the man known as Wolf. The tremor of excitement shed felt walking back to the doss was replaced with a quake of excitement, and for the briefest instant, she let herself forget why she was here, forget the reason behind Wolf’s visit.

He walked painfully over to her, favoring his left leg, but the smile never left his face. He took her hand gently in his, and led her to the chair he’d just vacated. “Please sit. Martin was just filling me in on what’s been going on. I sympathize with your situation. Miss Harlan. But-”

“Rachel.”

Wolf turned to her with a look of mild surprise, as if he were unused to being interrupted. “Excuse me?”

“My name is Rachel. Everybody keeps calling me ‘Miss Harlan’ tonight, and it’s making me uncomfortable. Miss Harlan was my mother.”

Wolf turned to de Vries, who smiled as Wolf let out a small laugh. “You’re right, Martin. I like her.” He turned back to Rachel. “As I was saying, I just got the scan on your situation, and I was telling Martin I wish I could help. Unfortunately, my own team’s got some big problems right now.”

De Vries laughed softly. “I must admit, I was surprised to see you in a limo, let alone with bodyguards.”

Wolf’s smile faded slightly, “Raven’s orders. Until this whole matter is settled, no one in the organization is to travel without protection. It chafes a bit, but I understand his reasoning. And that, of course, is the same reason I can’t give you much help at this moment.”

De Vries sighed, but Rachel didn’t think he looked especially surprised. “I thought you might say that, but I had to ask. I know you’ve got your plate pretty full right now. I could probably convince you that this situation is big enough to warrant you leaving off whatever else you’re doing and help us, but I wont put you in that position. Still, I thank you for coming down on such short notice.”

Wolf’s smile faded completely for the first time since Rachel had entered the room, and a look of infinite sadness crept into those deadly eyes. “Of course, Martin. It’s been too long, and I know you wouldn’t have called if the situation weren’t dire. I simply don’t have the resources to back your play right now. After what happened to Kid Stealth, we’ve been up to our neck in this thing.”

De Vries nodded. “Will he pull through?”

Wolf smiled again, but now it was a tight thing, one just barely holding back the anger. “Yes. But it’s put us in a very awkward situation, and Raven’s out for blood.”

De Vries stood, in a swift motion that made Rachel wince involuntarily, but that seemed to have no effect on Wolf. The two shook hands, and she got the feeling they had once been very close.

“My friend,” said Wolf softly, “don’t let it be so long next time. The rest of us age a lot faster than you do.”

De Yries laughed. “If I live through this, I promise we’ll head to the country and do some night hunting. Swear.”

Wolf held de Vries’ grip for a moment more, then dropped his hand and began to limp to the door. At the door he turned, as if he’d just remembered something. “The least I can do is arrange safe transport through Hell’s Kitchen for you. We don’t want things to go south on you before you even get to where you’re going.”

De Vries nodded without saying anything.

Wolf smiled, and pulled a card out of his jacket. “Call this number when you’re ready to go in. Use my name and you won’t have any problems.”

“Goodbye, my friend.”

“Goodbye.” Wolf turned his gaze to Rachel again, and gave her a brief, sad smile. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Rachel. What you’re up against isn’t going to be pretty, but trust Martin. He knows what he’s doing, and despite how he looks, he really is one of the good guys.”

Rachel watched silently as the man left, feeling as if she’d understood only about a quarter of what had just transpired.

De Vries turned back to the room and smiled, but unlike Wolf’s good-natured grin, the vampire’s made her shiver. “Well, I wasn’t actually expecting his help, but it never hurts to ask. How did things go on your end?”

Rachel pulled a smoke out of her bag, and lit it. She checked the clock on the trid rig. “Flak’ll be here in about an hour. He and his friends will hear you out, then decide.”

De Vries’ smile grew even wider. “Excellent.”

 

11

 

You’re telling me that after all I’ve done for you, after I’ve discovered a procedure that will net you billions in nuyen, you now have the audacity to question my methods? The Leonizarion process is the pinnacle of life-lengthening procedures, and you now seek grounds to dismiss me? Are you mad?

– 

Oslo Wake, defending his use of metahuman subjects before the Board of Ethics and Review, Universal Omnitech New York City. Transcript #ETH678 p. 347, 20 September 2051

 

Raul Pakow pulled the needle from Warren D’imato’s arm and set it on the small metal tray. Warren looked op at him, dazed. He’d come to in the operating theater, where Pakow was carrying out various preparatory procedures. Pakow was trying to tell him quickly what was going on.

“Which piece did you buy?” Warren asked.

“I purchased ‘Past Battles’ at a show of your work a year or so ago. Down in the 11 District.”

Warren’s look of confusion turned to one of distant pleasure. He was about to speak but Pakow cut him off. “That piece of stone is the only thing keeping you alive right now. Like I said, the man who owns this place has plans for you that you couldn’t imagine in your worst nightmares. I was blind for awhile, but not anymore. Now. I know I’ve got to try and stop this madness, but if Wake were to find out what I’ve done, there’s no telling what might happen. I’ve put my whole family at risk trying to help you. Something’s happened to him, and it gets worse everyday. He was always strange, but now he seems downright certifiable.”

Pakow looked down at Warren, whose eyes had become unfocused. “You rest now. Someone should be coming soon to help you. I make no promises, but I’ll do what I can to get you out of here.”

Pakow put the protective straps back in place, then went over to the deck on the console. Jacking into the Matrix, he followed a series of maneuvers he’d been using for almost four months, and found himself in a small drop box.

As quickly as he could, he left a message. I’ve bought us some more time, but not much. You must pick up the package within forty-eight hours, or else it will be spoiled.

Pakow didn’t bother putting a name to the message. He knew that de Vries would figure it out. Jacking out, he took one last look at Warren D’imato, and shuddered. He hoped the vampire hunter was as good as his word, because he suddenly felt as if he’d put all of his chips into one slot, and if that slot didn’t hold, he wouldn’t survive.

 

12

 

De Vries uses a variety of strategies when hunting vampires. He prefers to battle them hand-to-hand, draining blood and essence from his targets. A curious magical artifact he discovered on an Indonesian trip in 2045 is said to give him an edge in such duels, though its nature is unknown. However; in the case of an exceptionally dangerous opponent, he has been known to hire samurai with extreme capabilities-explosives and frag-lethal fire and blast results.

– 

Posted to Shadowland BBS by Doktor Freeman and the Deathcore Kid, 22 March 2055

 

Rachel paced her way around the living room for what seemed the thousandth time. Then she walked over to the now-overflowing ashtray and stubbed out her cigarette with a fierce jabbing motion.

Seated on the blue futon, de Vries reached into his duster and pulled out his pack of Platinum Selects, Rachel had run out of smokes almost thirty minutes ago, and they had fallen into a pattern. She would pace, gulping coffee and smoking until she’d finished her cigarette, at which time de Vries, without being asked, would give her another. Then the process would repeat while he himself continued to chain-smoke.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Rachel, if you have one more cup of coffee, I think your head might explode. That is, if your lungs don’t collapse first.”

Rachel turned to him angrily. “I do mind,” She took a deep drag of her cigarette.

De Vries laughed. “Well, it’s nice to see that you no longer have any fear of me. But you might want to consider being more polite. After all, I’m the one doing you a favor.”

There was a small beep, and De Vries looked at his wrist-phone. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” He answered the call. Rachel watched him talk quietly, expecting bad news, but suddenly his face brightened. “That is good news. You’re sure of the origin of the message? Excellent.”

He disconnected, and looked up at Rachel with a small smile. “It would appear that we’ve been given a little more time than I’d originally thought. Still, it isn’t as much as I’d have liked.”

Rachel turned toward the door again, and her frustration boiled to the surface. “Where in the hell are they? They should have been here already.”

She turned to look at de Vries, who had a faraway look in his eyes. “Your friends are very close, my dear. Very close, indeed. In fact, I’m quite impressed.”

Rachel’s forehead suddenly prickled with sweat. “What are you talking about?”

De Vries’ eyes snapped back into focus. “Your friends are most cunning. Tricky, tricky, tricky. They’ll be here in a few moments, so I suggest you have a seat. It wouldn’t do for them to get over-anxious, so why don’t you come and sit next to me?”

Rachel continued to look at him without comprehension.

“My dear,” said De Vries again. “What I’m trying to tell you is that you’re about to be treated to a sight few people not connected with the military ever get to see. So, sit down. Now.”

Almost without realizing she was doing it, Rachel crossed the room and sat down shoulder to shoulder with De Vries.

As she relaxed into the sofa cushions, the lights in the apartment seemed to dim, flickered twice, and then came back up.

Rachel jumped as the figure of Flak seemed to materialize suddenly in the center of the living room. Towering only a few steps away. Flak had changed out of his work outfit, and was now dressed in heavy camos that seemed to shift and swirl in the light, making it hard for Rachel to look at them. He wore a hood she recognized as a balaclava, even though it was pushed back upon his forehead. She could just make out the handle of a big gun strapped to Flak’s back, but near his hip, where the barrel should have been, she could see six small barrels, configured in a circle. She’d never seen anything like it, and just the sight of such a piece of hardware sent a small thrill through her.

“There won’t be any show,” said the troll, opening his hands to show they were empty.

“What the hell is going on?” said Rachel, her voice too loud in the ensuing silence.

Flak ignored her. “Mister de Vries, if that is who you are, please be so good as to remain seated, with your hands grasping your knees. It would be appreciated.”

Rachel turned to de Vries, who wore a small grin, but did as he was told.

“Now, Rachel, if you will slowly rise to your feet, and walk directly to your left.”

“Flak? What’s going on?”

“Rach, just do it.”

Rachel stood, and moved to her left as Flak said, “Very good. As you probably already know, you’re being covered from four different directions, and even though only an idiot might not be able to tell that you’re a vampire, I trust you understand that every weapon trained on you is capable of killing you. Even if you managed to dodge, or deflect the first volley, eventually one will find its mark and you’ll be yesterday’s news. Are we clear on this?”

Rachel turned her head, but she couldn’t see anyone but de Vries, herself, and Flak in the room.

De Vries laughed, a soft, deep sound that seemed to fill the room like thunder.

“Is there something about this situation that you find amusing, Deadman?” The low growl in Flak’s voice made the hair on the back of Rachel’s neck stand on end.

De Vries’ laugh died to a chuckle. “Absolutely not. I’m impressed. I thought you and your compatriots were going to put on the full pageant for us. It shows an encouraging amount of self-control for you to handle things this way.”

Rachel shook her head. “Will somebody please tell me what the frag is going on here?”

De Vries turned his head in her direction, but his eyes never left Flak. “Your friend is very concerned about your safety, and obviously knows enough about me to comprehend that I could use a spell to influence your thoughts, or make you lie to him, or do whatever I desired. So he’s decided that until he has a better grasp on the situation, he’s going to remove you from the equation, at the same time limiting any possible retribution I might bring into play. Provided, of course, that I’m not who I’ve claimed to be, or that I mean you any harm. Does that about sum it up?”

Rachel looked to Flak, who gave her a tight, quick smile. “Close enough, Deadman.”

“Fine,” said de Vries, standing slowly. “Now, if you’ll be so good as to let the rest of your team come out of their hiding places, we can get down to business. I’ve been able to smell them since they came in, and I know exactly where every one of them is. I can also hear that the heartbeat of your elven mage has just increased slightly in tempo. Your human physical adept is holding steady, though I believe she will find that her weapon is useless against the barrier I have erected.”

De Vries sighed. “But I didn’t really ask Rachel to invite you for banter like this. Time is short, and while I’m sure you could easily spend the next twenty minutes trying to determine if I’m on the level, I think that would be less than prudent. So I propose we dispense with the preliminaries.”

For the first time since Flak had appeared in the room, Rachel saw a look of unease cross his face. “Just what did you have in mind?”

Though de Vries seemed not to move so much as a muscle, a small card appeared in his hand. “This is the private number of a person you know very well and whom you trust completely. He’s expecting your call.”

With a flick of the wrist, de Vries sent the card spinning toward Flak, who snatched it out of the air in a lightning motion, never taking his eyes off de Vries.

From off to her right, near the doorway of the kitchen, Rachel heard a soft, female voice say, “I got him, Flak.”

Rachel turned, but she couldn’t see where the voice came from. “Hey,” she said. “This is starting to freak me out a bit, all right, and just when I was beginning to think that nothing was ever going to freak me out again. So could we just knock it off with all this macho bulldrek and get down to business?”

Once again, Flak ignored her. He turned the card over in his hand, and Rachel saw his eyes go wide. “Wolf?” He looked back up at de Vries, who nodded.

“All right, everybody. Unpack.” Without another word, he slipped the card into his camouflage vest, as if he were returning a holy relic to its resting place.

Rachel turned just in time to see one person step in from the kitchen, one from near the front door, and one from the bedroom, How they had all gotten there without making any noise boggled her mind. All three were dressed like Flak, in camos and ski masks that hid their faces from view. All three carried high-tensile crossbows and tacticom gear.