I awoke from the dream as the landing gear of the 737 bounced on the runway. One minute I was dreaming that the waves of the Atlantic Ocean were rolling over my head, the next I was descending to earth from a sojourn in the skies.
I had expressly forbidden Deirdre and Suki to come to New York with me. That's why they were sitting three rows behind me instead of occupying the seats on either side.
I tried to ignore them but it finally became necessary to fake a trip to the restroom so I could lean over and speak to the Asian vampire. "Stay out of her head," I whispered. "Out of respect for me if not her."
Deirdre's distress level dropped a little after that but Suki's amusement only grew. Bad enough that the blood-bond made me sensitive to the redhead's emotional state; I had no idea why I was tuned in to Suki's broadcasts, as well.
The rest of the flight was uneventful except for the dream. Nightmares are bad enough when you're asleep. When you wake up you should be able to shake it off, dismiss it as a bad dream, and know that you are safe in the bright light of day.
I couldn't do that. Something was stalking me. The dreams were merely progress reports, reminding me that the Darkness was drawing closer, even when I was awake.
At least I had two small consolations.
First, this trip was buying me time on the demon front.
And second, I hadn't embarrassed myself by screaming during my in-flight nap.
There was no avoiding my two shadows as we deplaned at La Guardia. It was just as well. A limo driver was wandering about holding a placard with my name written on it.
I grabbed Deirdre's hand before she could point. "No, dear, a limo isn't for us," I murmured. "We'll take a cab." We ambled past the chauffeur and I exerted all the mental influence I could muster to keep Deirdre's and Suki's attention diverted until we were out of earshot.
"That driver was looking for you," the redhead said as soon as I released my grip, both mental and physical.
"A lot of people are looking for me," I said. "Not all of them are friendly. Ah, here we go . . ."
Another limo driver had come into view. This one wore mirrored sunglasses and held a placard with the name Henry Clerval printed across it. I steered in his direction.
"Mr. Clerval?" he asked as we approached. He was shorter than me, slighter of build, and I could probably knock him down and run before he could get a weapon out. He didn't seem old enough to grow the moustache and goatee that narrowed his already narrow face. Adding to the oddness of his appearance was his apparent lack of an Adam's apple.
"No," I said, "the name is Murnau. Friederich Wilhelm Murnau. But you can call me Fred."
He looked at me uncertainly. "That's not part of the password."
"Yes, it is."
"Not the Fred part."
"Okay, call me Mr. Murnau. Listen there's another limo driver back there holding a card with the name of Chris Cséjthe on it. Who sent him?"
"I don't know, but we expected this might happen. Follow me."
We followed him out to a black stretch limo with black SUVs parked in front and behind. All had their engines idling. Five other people followed behind us: two businessmen, a woman pushing a baby stroller, a college student with a backpack, and a kid who looked like he was lost but wasn't. They flanked us as the heavily tinted passenger window rolled down in the back.
A very angry master vampire sat inside just beyond the sunlight's reach. "I am not pleased," Kurt Szekely announced with a scowl.
Actually, he was furious.
Furious at me for coming with no more than a moment's notice. Furious that I was flying commercial with next to no security precautions. Furious at the ladies for letting me.
And, I suspected, for necessitating his traveling about in the light of day.
The risk was relatively nil, however. Back in Louisiana the expected high was a balmy sixty-four degrees under sunny skies. Here in the northeast the sun hadn't made an unshrouded appearance for days. A storm front had dropped a foot of snow from the Canadian border to the Jersey shores and the wind chill was rumored to be in the minus twenties. I should have brought a coat—more for camouflage than comfort as my transformed flesh was becoming less sensitive to temperature variables.
Sitting in the car, we were treated to a detailed explanation of his ill temper while our luggage was attended to. The limo was stretched and armored, outfitted with a wet bar, and occupied by another familiar face. Stefan Pagelovitch sat across from me, wearing a dark double-breasted suit, dark shirt, dark tie, and very expensive wingtip shoes.
"Hello, Dennis," I said as the girls slid in next to me.
Pagelovitch's face began to sag, melting and rearranging itself until Dennis Smirl sat across from me in the Seattle Doman's place. "How did you know?"
"The outfit's too monochrome for one. Stefan likes color; he wouldn't wear black to a funeral much less a business meeting. Those shoes? Nice, but not imported. Stefan favors the Italians. And, as a master vampire, he has a palpable aura. You? You're surrounded by—" I sniffed. "Brut?"
"Hai Karate."
I blinked. "You're kidding."
"You're one to talk, Old Spice boy."
"But how? Where do you get—?"
"There's this warehouse—"
The door opened again and the limo driver passed Kurt a note while the hired muscle stood around outside with their gun hands inside their jackets. The snow had picked up again and it looked like Paul Bunyan had flicked his cigar ashes over their heads and shoulders.
"Nothing like a low-profile meeting at the airport," I said as the ambiguously gendered driver closed the door and walked around to sit in the front seat.
Kurt gave me the look. "Do you think your arrival here is a secret? Under the circumstances this is the best I could do with short notice. Besides, we must demonstrate a level of security befitting your status."
"I'm impressed."
"The idea is to impress your enemies." He turned the lapel of his overcoat and spoke into a tiny microphone. "As soon as the luggage is secure, we drive."
Kurt Szekely could have been a Doman, himself. He had spent over a hundred years in the service of a Great Evil—an ancient demon who had pretended to be the bloodthirsty Countess Elizabeth Báthory. When I unmasked her perfidy he executed her physical body, himself. Then he and the Szekely Clan swore fealty to me, declaring me the new Doman of the New York demesne. It was an honor Kurt might have taken for himself. Instead, he assumed the role of majordomo and ally as other fanged wannabes stepped forward to contest for the throne.
I still was unsure of his motives at times.
But I was pretty much out of alternatives.
The fact that he was out and about in the day—albeit under a ton of sunscreen despite the solid cloud cover—bespoke his age and power.
He wasn't especially tall—just under six feet—but I had met undead with a six-inch or hundred-pound advantage that didn't exude half the menace that Kurt put out. As we used to say in the broadcasting biz, he had a face made for radio. It wasn't that he was ugly or even unattractive; there was just something about even his most casual expression that made you want to look away. And you didn't turn your back on him without that unpleasant prickling sensation between your shoulder blades.
The funny thing was I seemed to amuse him. When you've spent the last couple of centuries scaring the hell out of everyone you met, it's a refreshing change of pace to run into someone who actually goes out of his way to irritate you.
At least that's what he once told me.
As far as I'm concerned, that assurance belongs on the list of other trusted expressions which include: "I'll still respect you in the morning," "the check is in the mail," and "I'm from the government, I'm here to help you."
"So," he said, fixing Suki with a jaundiced eye, "you are the Oriental vampire."
"Asian."
"What?"
"Asian." She refused to be intimidated. "'Oriental' is a misnomer."
"Misnomer?"
"It's her politically correct way of telling you that 'Oriental' is politically incorrect," I said. "She's Asian."
He waved his hand in dismissal. "I was curious as to your ability to move about after sunrise. How old are you?"
She favored him with a smile. I knew Suki's smiles: there was nothing behind it except teeth. "One should never ask a lady her age, Kurt-san."
"Asian vampires differ from the European," I offered. "The differences are more than just cultural."
"You saved her life, too," he said, changing the subject abruptly.
"Um. Not really. At best, we all saved each others' lives—it was sort of a tag team approach."
"I speak of before. When she was helpless, with a broken back, in the lair of your enemies."
I pointed at Smirl. "More his doing than mine."
"It proves my point," Kurt said as our limo, flanked by the SUVs, caravanned away from the loading zone and began plowing through ripples of miniature snowdrifts. "Your greatest strengths lie in marshalling the talents and abilities of others. A Doman is more the general than the lone warrior."
"How about 'distant figurehead?'"
He didn't bat an eye. "Figurehead, perhaps . . . in the best sense of the word. Distant . . . under certain conditions. But, for now, you must prove yourself a diplomat and formidable adversary. At tonight's reception—"
"Tonight?" Suki protested.
"Do you have any idea of how difficult it is to run security on a room full of people?" Deirdre demanded.
The temperature in the back of the limo dropped a good ten degrees. "First of all," Kurt said quietly, "you are in my demesne, now. I act as seneschal for the Doman and administer all matters in his name. As you are guests here, I extend certain courtesies but those courtesies have limits. If you are here as Christopher Cséjthe's consorts, you may enjoy a greater degree of informality with him . . . but not with me.
"If, for example, he takes Darcy Blenik as another consort while he is here—and through ignorance or design she brings him harm—I will be obligated to kill her and go to war with her family. Do not presume that I would treat you any differently."
"Uh, Kurt," I said, being careful not to look at either Deirdre or Suki, "neither one is a consort . . ."
Kurt addressed Suki and Deirdre directly, saying: "Then I am even less inclined to cut you any slack." He turned back to me. "Please keep your friends on a short leash until the formalities of the next three nights are concluded."
Deirdre was not sufficiently cowed. "I'm your Doman's Chief of Security," she told Kurt.
"Not here you're not. Here, you are an unnecessary complication. All security matters are my concern, now. Tonight Christopher Cséjthe will meet with representatives of other enclaves and factions who will offer tribute and seek alliances. Tomorrow night he will address the families of this demesne and settle any challenges to his succession as Doman. Your only real value lies in your unique biochemistry and which clan alliance he might purchase by offering you for their study."
"I would never do that," I said.
Kurt answered me by continuing to speak to Deirdre. "He has not sufficiently transformed to consider sacrificing you for his own personal gain. Yet." The last word hung out there in midair, resonating with all of its implications. "However the time may come when he must choose to sacrifice one life—or two—to save many. And that time may come quickly."
"So," said the shapeshifting gangster from the Chicago demesne after the silence had lengthened, "how have you been?"
As I opened my mouth, Deirdre asked: "Who's Darcy Blenik?"
We took the Queensboro Bridge into the city and drove down 60th Street, skirting the boundaries of Midtown and the Upper East Side, passing by Bloomingdale's. I knew that the enclave owned a number of properties from Morningside Heights and Harlem all the way down to Lower Manhattan. Kurt briefed us on the various "safe houses" in hotels, churches, synagogues, office buildings, brownstones, warehouses—even a bank. We didn't go to any of those. Instead, we took a right on Madison Avenue, passed by the Museum of American Illustration, then a left on 81st Street, and another left on Fifth Avenue. We drove into the parking garage for the Metropolitan Museum of Art at 80th Street as a parade of snowplows passed by, flanked by a pair of sand and salt spreaders.
Our driver produced some sort of pass and we drove in and eventually down. We parked on an underground level that had no painted slots and was occupied by a few old service vehicles.
"How can you have a vampire safe house in a church?" I asked as we exited the car and entered an elevator set in a bare concrete wall.
Kurt slipped a plastic card into a slot below the panel of buttons as Deidre guessed: "I suppose you defile all visible icons and religious symbols." She steadfastly refused to act abashed in Kurt's presence. I liked her all the more for it.
"Actually, a simple unconsecration ceremony is sufficient for most of us," he answered grudgingly. "As long as the demesne recognizes its ownership of the property, the décor is muted, and no actual handling of consecrated materials is required, we are able to pass through such edifices and access the prepared habitats below. It's the synagogues that are the challenge . . ."
"More potent iconography?"
He shook his head. "Observant Jews. Too observant. The orthodox congregants notice the least little discrepancy even if they've never been in the building before." He contemplated the concert-tour tee-shirt she was wearing as she slipped out of her light jacket. "Slayer," he read across the swell of her bosom. "Do you fancy yourself a 'slayer', Ms—?"
"Just call me Deirdre, Kurt," she answered, working her own brand of intimidation. "After all, we're all family, now. And no."
"No?" His eyebrow underscored the question but also suggested he wasn't sure of exactly which question it was.
"I don't fancy myself a slayer. Buffy's the Slayer."
"Buffy?"
"It's television," I whispered. "Ask her if she fancies herself The Executioner."
"It's a comic book," Suki coached.
Smirl shook his head. "You're thinking of The Punisher."
"Anita Blake is The Executioner," the redhead said.
Kurt sighed. "Then, thankfully, you are not subject to delusions of grandeur."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," I said as the elevator stopped five floors down.
"What would you say?" he asked patiently, as the doors opened and he led us into an underground corridor as wide as a suburban street.
"Well," Deirdre took the ball, "I'd say that I'm not Buffy and I'm not Anita and I'm not Sookie, either . . ."
Kurt looked at me.
I shrugged.
" . . . I'm just Deirdre . . ."
We entered an electric tram that seated six plus luggage.
" . . . the undead ass-kicker."
Which pretty much ended that conversation.
The driver joined us while the other security personnel were taking the elevator in shifts and bringing the luggage. We started off with the understanding that he (or, as I suspected, she) would return with the vehicle to get the rest of our belongings and the handlers.
There were side tunnels heading off toward Central Park, but Kurt drove us toward the museum's location. Underneath the massive structure's subbasements, he explained, were living quarters as tastefully appointed as any five-star hotel.
We pulled up to an unloading zone and Kurt led us through a set of doors and into a nicely appointed hallway as the driver began to turn the tram around. Eventually we arrived at a large oaken door.
Kurt produced a large brass key from his pocket and inserted it into a plated keyhole.
"What?" This time it was Suki asking the questions. "No electronic passkeys? No biometrics? No retinal scans?"
He pushed the door open. "Biometrics can be hacked, electronic passkeys jacked. Sometimes the old ways are the best ways."
I was about to say that keys could be duplicated. Then I got a second look at the key as he extracted it. The design looked old but the brass gleamed as if new. And the teeth—or prongs—angled off the circular barrel in three different directions. It couldn't be copied on any known key duplication machine that worked with prefabricated blanks. Likewise a sideways mold impression would not capture the three-dimensional configuration. No lock and key system was completely foolproof but this would come closer than anything.
He handed me the key, saying: "Don't lose it."
"What about us?" Deirdre asked.
"Why would either of you need a key?" he asked.
"Well . . . you know . . ."
"No. I don't. Why would you need to leave unless it was to accompany the Doman? And if you are with the Doman, he has the key."
And with that, he ushered us into the suite.
Actually, it was more like a house than a suite. A house with five bedrooms, each with its own private bath. It was really a small underground mansion with living and recreational space sufficient for a small army. And that wasn't counting the staff and servants' quarters.
Kurt gave us a "quick" twenty-minute tour, introducing us to the service personnel and acquainting us with the amenities and the security systems. He concluded by inviting us to unpack, rest, and refresh ourselves while he finalized preparations for the pending reception. Then he left, promising to return around seven p.m. for a pre-meet strategy session.
The house chef stuck his head in while I was unpacking and asked if I would care for an aperitif.
That was a big affirmative. The Hunger had kicked into overdrive since I'd been shot. One or two blood packets from the blood bank every week or so was all I'd needed up till now. Suddenly, a couple of warmed over meals in a pouch—even on a daily basis—seemed woefully inadequate.
"And what would the master prefer?" the chef inquired, sounding more like a wine steward at the moment. "A generous 'O'? A dry but slightly sweet 'A' or a fruity 'B'? Or shall I bring you something exotic from our rare stock?"
Okay. This was weird, ordering blood by type as if it were like differing years and vintages of wine. But, hey, it beat going out into the streets and hunting mystery meat at night. . . .
I shook my head: Where did that thought come from?
"Do I take that as a 'no,' sir?"
"Sorry, just thinking." Or not thinking . . . "I'll tell you what; I've never had any AB. Do you have any in stock?"
"Positive or negative, sir?"
"Negative if you have it." AB negative was the rarest of the ABO groups and existed in less than one percent of the population. The fact that I wasn't that concerned about how they came by it was a little disturbing. Perhaps the mood elevators that Dr. Mooncloud had prescribed were blunting my conscience along with my angst.
Or maybe it was finally eroding under the transmutative onslaught of the virus.
He nodded. "Very good, sir, I shall send something right up." He disappeared as I closed my empty suitcase and set it in the walk-in closet. Then I flopped on the tennis court–sized bed and ran down my mental checklist.
The Kid's ashes were now in Billy Bob Montrose's custody. He wanted to postpone any sort of memorial until I got back. I left him with instructions as to what to do if I didn't come back. It was a distinct possibility and I wanted things done right by the little twerp. With me or without me, his ashes were to be taken to California and spread across the intersection of Routes 46 and 41 just outside Cholame at precisely 5:45 p.m.
The house, property, and most of my secret bank accounts were deeded over to Lupé in the event of my death or disappearance. I had arranged for some tidy sums to be forwarded to Deirdre and Mama Samm. Also a charitable bequest to Father Pat's missionary work—if anyone could find him. Olive would become full owner of After Dark Investigations.
Had I missed anything?
There was still my to-do list on the adversarial front. Several individuals or families in the New York demesne were trying to kill me and would keep trying until they either succeeded or I did something to discourage them. Back home I could only keep dodging. Here, I could explore the old football maxim—the best defense is a smashing offense.
If I could just figure out who my enemies were and how to do that before the game went into sudden death overtime.
And then there was this Dr. Pipt. The not-so-good doctor had gone to a lot of trouble to make his Frankenstein monster into a walking autolancet. To what lengths might he go on his next attempt? And how did Theresa, the Patchwork Girl of Ozymandias Industries, figure in?
It didn't seem likely that I was destined to lead a long and happy life. But I'd settle for short and scrappy if I could take a few of the bastards with me.
I was musing on the theme that Dr. Mooncloud's happy pills should be renamed "Jimmy's Cracked Corn" when there was a knock at the bedroom door.
Come, I thought.
The knock sounded again.
Come!
Oh.
"Come," I said.
A woman entered the room. Her hair was white. Her skin had that fish-belly, glow in the dark, had-to-lie-out-in-the-sun-just-to-neutralize-the-blue-tones kind of whiteness. All she lacked were the pink irises to be a true albino.
If she was one of the maids, she wasn't dressed for it. Her strapless evening gown was an eye-catching claret that was all the more fascinating as I couldn't see how it stayed up. She was thin and angular, no bosom and very little hip to provide anchor points.
She extended a white arm as she approached the bed. "Master Cséjthe," she said in a surprisingly husky voice, "I am Bethany."
I sat up and noticed three things.
First that the hair on my arms—and apparently all over my body—was starting to stand away from my skin.
Second, Bethany was human, not undead.
And third, the vein that ran along the side of her neck was very prominent.
"Yes," I said, not sure of what I was saying yes to.
"Chef said you requested AB negative," she said, leaning toward me.
"Yes?" Her hands were empty, neither a bottle nor a pouch in sight.
"Where would you like me? On the bed?"
Oh God . . . "You're it. Her. You're AB . . ."
"Negative."
"Negative?"
"AB negative," she clarified with a twinkle in her eye. She reached behind her and I heard a zipper clear its throat. "I hope you like me. I've always feared that I might be an acquired taste."
The dress came down and she was white marble with blue veins.
"You must be under some compulsion," I whispered as she crawled onto the bed and rolled into my lap.
"I am here of my own free will," she answered. "I'm not a fang-banger . . ." she looked up at me with pale blue eyes, " . . . but for you I'll make an exception."
"Why?"
"You are the Doman, for one reason."
"No, I mean, why are you . . . a willing occupant of my wine cellar?"
She gazed up at me with eyes so pale they almost seemed empty. "The money is very, very good. Especially since I am a statistical rarity. And there are benefits . . ."
Before I could find out about the benefits there was another knock at the bedroom door and Deirdre started to come in. "You forgot to pack your—" She stopped as she took in the tableau. Her face colored in stark contrast to the feminine snow sculpture lying across my lap.
"I thought you might need—that is, I brought . . ." She walked quickly forward and handed me a familiar inlaid wooden box. "Here. Bon appetit." She turned and left as hurriedly as decorum would permit.
I opened the box as the door closed behind her.
"What is it?" Bethany asked.
"My teeth," I answered as I pulled the fanged dental appliance out of its velvet-lined case.
"They told me that you didn't have—that you weren't fully transformed. There's a small knife in the bedside drawer if you would prefer."
I looked at the ivory points in my hand and then down at Bethany, her head thrown back, her neck a creamy arch of pale flesh and blue veins, her small breasts pulled taut and flat like a boy's.
What the hell was I doing here?
It was hard to think when I was so very, very thirsty!
Her snow-white hand took the fangs from my untanned but darker palm. She began to hum as she drew the twin points across her throat. Her skin was not broken but two faint, parallel red lines followed in their wake. She turned her head and drew the teeth up the side of her neck . . . and then back down again.
"Bethany . . ." I said hoarsely.
She dragged the incisors down over her chest, across her breasts until a sharpened tooth caught on a nipple. It rose, tumescent, a pinkish pencil eraser, and a drop of blood formed, like crimson mother's milk.
I snatched the fangs back and hurriedly set them in my mouth. To delay now was to risk a dangerous loss of self-control: I slid an arm beneath her and raised her snowy neck to my icicled mouth.
Bethany was subdued when she left. I soon found out why.
Chef appeared as I was cleaning up. He knocked hesitantly and I found him standing nervously, fingering his white hat, as I emerged from the bathroom. "Yes?"
"Did the master find his selection to his taste?"
"What?"
"You ordered AB negative."
"Yes. Bethany. Well." To my taste? The truth of the matter was I had not yet come to note the differences in blood and donor types to be any kind of a gourmand. Part of me was still not over the ick factor. And, until recently, I had only required small amounts of blood on an irregular basis. But Bethany had tasted . . . different. How much of that was the blood and how much the vessel?
"Bethany is one of the rarest flowers in our hothouse," he continued.
"I know. AB negs constitute only one percent of the population."
"Oh, she's rarer than that. Bethany's also a Lutheran."
I was trying to figure out what her religious affiliation had to do with anything when the antigen association clicked into place. "LU-a or -b?"
"A."
I whistled. "That makes her a double neg!"
"Then you know what I'm talking about?"
"Hey, when you find out you have a rare blood disorder, you tend to do the research. Lutheran, Kell, Lewis, Duffy, Kidd, Fisher—even some of the antigen classifications that just use the alphabet. LU-b is rare enough; LU-a drops her off the population charts and onto the Endangered Species list."
He nodded. "All of our consensual donors are precious to us. We treat them well and make sure the symbiotic relationship is a rewarding one. I think you can see why an exotic like Bethany is particularly special in our eyes . . ."
"And upon our palettes," I said. "Now, I know I'm the new boss and most of the staff is anxious to mind their p's and q's—but you really need to stop beating around the bush and get to the point. What seems to be the problem?"
"Well, that is . . ."
"Come on, I don't bite." I felt a bead of moisture at the corner of my mouth, touched it with my finger, and looked at the remnant of Bethany's blood on the tip: I had missed a spot.
"Well, it's just that she seemed dissatisfied as she was heading back to her quarters."
"Dissatisfied?"
"Master . . ."
I flinched inwardly. It was a hateful appellation and far too reminiscent of really bad, two-a.m.-on-the-telly monster movies. I forbade anyone to use it in my presence back home. Kurt, however, had repeatedly impressed upon me the need to establish my dominant status here. Reform, he argued, was best administered from a position of strength.
" . . . it is just understood that the donor will be pleasured in exchange for the wine of their body."
I stared at him. "Pleasured . . ."
"Yes, sir."
"You mean, have sex with her?"
"Only if you wanted to, master."
I frowned. "Well, I didn't want to. So, I didn't. So, what's the problem?"
"The problem, sir, is that she didn't enjoy it." He bowed his head. "I'm terribly sorry, sir."
"Well, why should she enjoy it? I put my teeth into her flesh and drank her blood! Being on the receiving end is not my idea of a good time. But I did try to be as gentle as possible and stop that bowing and cringing! I'm not going to kill the messenger." Unless he continued to drag this conversation into further obfuscation, that is.
"Well, some do engage in physical coupling while feeding . . . and there are some donors who relish the pain, the restraints, the slow, excruciating—"
"Yeah, I get the picture. So what does Bethany expect in return? What's her kink?"
He looked up at me, his face blank with astonishment. "Didn't you read her?"
"Read her what? A menu? A bedtime story?"
"You entered her throat without entering her mind?"
Oh.
"Master?" he inquired after a painfully long silence.
"Chef, please send for Bethany and tell her to return to my quarters. Tell her I was . . . tell her I will . . ."
"You cannot drink from her again, this day, unless you mean to bring her over."
"I won't." Another file drawer opened in the back of my head. "Chef," I asked as he turned to go, "does part of Bethany's contract include the promise that she will be turned someday?"
"But of course," he said, hesitating at the doorway, "and therein lies another reason to treat the donors with special care. For if you mistreat them while they are still human, what sort of monsters will they be when you finally give them like power over others?"
Nearly a half hour into Bethany's orgasm there was a knock at the door.
"Come," I called, careful not to take my hand away from the small of her back.
Dennis Smirl walked into my field of view. "What are you doing?" the Chicago shapeshifter asked, looking first at me lying on the bed and then at Bethany sitting primly on the side, fully clothed and facing away from me.
"Tipping the waitress."
He circled around where he could see her vacant, empty stare. He took in the perspiration that misted up from the white flame that burned beneath her skin, the tremors, the clenching and unclenching of her hands, and then listened to the soft gasps and quiet moans that punctuated the paragraphs of silence.
"What is she seeing?"
I shrugged, careful again not to break physical contact. "I'm not a mind reader, yet. I can make suggestions. Force them, if necessary, through mental domination. And my psionic influence is greater if there's a blood-bond, even if it's only a one-way sharing. I'm not really privy to Bethany's fantasy life. I just probed a little to find her pleasure centers and she seemed happy to have me stimulate them."
He grinned. "Probed, huh?"
"Talking above the eyebrows, Dennis. What are you doing here?"
"Do you mean here in New York or here in your bedroom?"
"Both, actually. Though it looks like you're attempting psy-coitus interruptus at the moment."
"Well," he said, pulling up a chair, "as you may have heard, a new Doman is being elevated to the throne of the New York demesne and all the other enclaves are sending representatives to the ceremony—"
"Or bloody coup."
He nodded as he sat. "Obviously, whoever sits on the throne when the dust settles will be a power to reckon with. So, there're going to be a number of ambassadors lining up to reckon, negotiate, and curry favor. I'm just presuming on our friendship to push my way to the front of the line."
I nodded. "And?"
"And," he reached inside his suit coat and pulled out a thick envelope, "my Doman sends this with his compliments. He hopes you will find the information useful and will remember Chicago favorably in any future business dealings."
"What is it?"
"Intel on your enemies."
I broke contact as I reached for the package. Bethany fell back across my lap with a gasp as I took the envelope and opened it. There were thirty or forty pages, typewritten, all on very thin, slick-feeling sheets.
"Flash paper," Smirl said as Bethany heaved and thrashed a bit. "A match, a candle flame—and the evidence is all gone." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that!"
Bethany sat up, startled at her emergence from the interior world to the exterior.
"Just in case I don't come out on top," I observed.
"Might be safer for you if your enemies don't find it in your possession."
"Yeah, that's Chicago, the city of altruism."
"I wouldn't be comparing urban reputations if I were you."
"Where am I?" Bethany gasped.
"New York, New York," I said, "it's a hell of a town."