CHAPTER 20

 

 

Ariadne leapt at Bourne, fangs bared, claws extended.

He was ready. With speed belying his bulk, he seized her arms in mid-charge and redirected her momentum, slamming her into the wall with such force that the plaster dented and flaked.

“You’re losing your edge, kiddo.”

Ariadne shook her head, white paint chips spraying from her hair. Instinctively, she reached to the guitar case that should have been on her back, only to feel her splayed fingers grasp air. Of course, she had left her sword back at the sanctuary. It had seemed so easy at the time, like discarding clothes that no longer fit. Now, she felt as if she were missing a limb.

Bourne moved to the far edge of the room, drew a pistol.

Ariadne crouched on the bed, teeth glistening in the dim light. “You know I could kill you seven different ways before you could pull the trigger.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Bourne’s tone was maddeningly jovial. “The Silent Knife may have gone a little soft and bendy since she decided to spend her time Cleavering, thinking she can play nice little family games with mortals, but I’m sure she’s still too much for fat old Bourne to handle. Still, you do that, and you never find out where I’ve stashed your favorite toy.”

Ariadne tried to keep her face expressionless, and suspected she was failing. So violence wouldn’t solve this situation. Fine. Andrei had been teaching her all sorts of other tactics. She had to think of one, and quickly.

“Fat old Bourne,” she said, “is now threatening Liliane’s Hand. During a time of war. Clear treason, punishable by destruction. Even Silas won’t be able to countermand me.”

“Treason’s kind of like a tree in the forest,” said Bourne. “If no one’s around to see it, is it really there? I may or may not be holding a gun on you. Without a witness, who’s to say?”

“Liliane will believe my word over yours.”

“Probably. Your voice is a lot sexier than mine. But, it happens that I have at my disposal some cold, hard evidence of your treason, love. Our commander in chief, during wartime, spending half her nights banging some mortal Lick-stick. And look what happens! We lose Archibald. Now, I’m a pretty slow guy, but I figure that rates a little higher on the treason scale than aiming a gun at the person who failed to do her job.

“As for Liliane, well, we both know she’s shown herself quite capable of turning on treasonous Seneschals. Two for two turn traitor? You ask me, she should just eliminate the position altogether.”

Ariadne stared at him with directionless hatred.

“For Christ’s sake, Ariadne, just sit in the goddamn chair, okay? We’re going to be here a while. You’re tall enough as is, and I don’t feel like straining my neck.”

Ariadne backed her way to the chair, never taking her eyes off Bourne, and sat. In silence, she sliced Bourne into a million pieces with mental swords.

“Whew. Glad to get those preliminaries over. Right. Now, it’s time to play a little game. It’s called twenty questions. I ask, you answer.”

Ariadne kept staring. There was plaster in her hair and an icy rage in her stomach. What would Andrei have her do in this situation?

“Question number one: How long have you been seeing him?”

“Let him go, Bourne. He’s not involved in this.”

“Well, that answers question number five,” Bourne checked off a phantom box with an imaginary pen. “Just how close are you two? I guess the answer is: close.”

He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “What a waste.”

“Excuse me?” Ariadne’s voice was a low hiss, barely audible.

“What a waste.” By now Bourne’s own voice seemed to have lost a little of its jovial quality. “I mean, look at you. The Silent Knife. Sheriff. Seneschal. At ten years’ dead. Do you have any idea what you’ve achieved? And you’re going to throw it away for this slob? Who the hell is he?”

She remained silent.

“I mean seriously, I just don’t get it. After thirty years living and, I dunno, maybe sixty years dead, I still don’t get it. You’re really, really good at what you do. You actually say what you mean and don’t play stupid games—a habit it looks like you’re actually starting to grow out of, which is a shame, because innocence has a certain charm. And with all your strengths, you decide to waste yourself on someone like him.”

“You don’t know anything about him.”

“Oh, don’t I? I know his name is Andrei Montague, that he’s a stuffed shirt busybody who used to push papers in some office doing something with computers and stock markets. Some kind of crap that helps rich sods get richer without having to work. Now it’s all fallen apart and he’s boo-hoo-hooing, and here you are to stroke his head. Is that the appeal, Ariadne? Playing mommy?”

“Shut up,” she growled. Inside, she was panicking. How long had Bourne been spying on her? How much else did he know? Did he really have Andrei prisoner, or was Andrei heading for the train station right now and this was all some elaborate bluff? The image of Andrei waiting vied with visions of him, bloody and bruised at Bourne’s hands.

“If you’ve hurt him, I’ll destroy you.”

“If you kill me, you’ll never find him. We’ve been over this. Now behave.”

Ariadne clenched her fists uselessly. Bourne had always had the edge on her in these kinds of games. She had to focus, look for an opening.

“You seem awfully determined to bring me down, Bourne. Let’s say you do. The war’s not quite over. Aren’t you worried how you’ll beat Roarke without me? Of course, you could be secretly working for him.”

Bourne opened his mouth to say something, but at her last comment, he stopped and gaped. She imagined he looked like a donkey frozen in mid-bray, and indeed, a moment later he started producing hee-haw noises that rolled the flesh along his belly in great heaving waves. Bourne laughed for half a minute straight before composing himself.

“Oh God. Oh Christ, Ariadne.” He wiped away imaginary tears. “Please, don’t ever change.”

Ariadne felt like knives were raking her flesh. Somehow, his mockery cut worse than his threats. But she had to keep probing.

“Why do you care about Andrei and me, then? What do you want from all this?”

“Maybe I get a kick out of playing mommy, too. It’s time someone kicked some sense into you—the hard way, if necessary.”

“Bullshit,” said Ariadne, pressing. “You don’t want to help me. Your own mommy, Silas, just wants a lever to unseat me as Seneschal. Is that it? Just give Andrei back and Silas can have the damned position. Is that what this is all about?”

“Hey, I’m asking the questions here. But yes. And no, as generous as your offer is, Silas isn’t going to rest easy until you’re done away with permanently.”

“Oh. So just let me get this straight: You’re loyal to your sire. Just not your Seneschal. Or your Prince, for that matter. You know, I still haven’t told her how you cut out on the Fresh Pond battle weeks ago, putting all of us at risk, to go on an errand for Silas. Who’s to say that’s not the reason Roarke’s still around today? Maybe if we’d had one more soldier on the ground that night, we could have ended this war then.”

Bourne ground his teeth for a moment, then broke out into a smile.

“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad. As far as threats go, that might actually have worked. But as much as Liliane loves you, she needs Silas. The other elders are all powerless, penniless windbags who fled other courts. Silas actually brings a small fortune with him.”

“He’s not the only source of money out there,” Ariadna countered. “My ‘lick-stick boyfriend,’ as you put it, makes a living out of making rich people richer. I don’t know about you, but when it comes to cash flow, I’m thinking Liliane might prefer a malleable, seduced mortal to a pompous old codger who constantly needs to be appeased. Come to think of it, Andrei and I just might stick around.”

Bourne pursed his lips. “Hmph. You are getting better at this.” He shifted. “I suppose it’s something of a gamble. But then, that’s Silas’s call. Mine is but to serve, eh?”

“You have no will of your own?”

“Has it ever crossed your mind, Ariadne, that I might actually like the man who sired me?”

Ariadne raised an eyebrow.

“Oh no, of course not. To you, Silas is just a—what, now?—‘pompous old codger.’ He doesn’t dress nearly as nicely as Andie-poo, doesn’t jet-set with the rich and famous, doesn’t have soft blond hair and a dashing, put-it-on-my-credit-card smile. Stick around long enough, kid, and you’ll see that looks fade. Mortals age and lose ’em, and us vamps? Well, soon you start to see that beauty doesn’t count for spit after a while.”

There was feeling in what he said. Ariadne sensed it, could almost smell it. Somehow, she had hit a nerve. She had to push.

“Andrei’s generous,” she said. “You don’t know him at all. He’s always planning to make life better, not just for him but for others.”

“What others? His own darling little broken family, behind the white picket fence?”

“More. Even if it were just his own family that still means he cares about something beyond himself. Which makes him a better man than you.”

Bourne’s fists clenched.

“You’re a cowardly, spineless, fat little man who’s been kept alive far longer than he should have,” she sneered. “You just do lapdog work for a wizened elder who protects you from all the schoolyard bullies.”

“Right. You just keep thinking that.”

“Everything’s a joke to you,” she pressed. “You miss no chance to knock someone down, because then maybe they’ll fall a little closer to the ground, where you crawl around, nipping at Silas’s feet.”

“You don’t know a goddamn thing about me!” Bourne cried.

Inside herself, Ariadne cheered.

“You have no idea what kind of man I am,” Bourne said, trembling, “what kind of life I lived.”

“Life? Really? Were you an errand boy during your living days, Bourne? A stoolie? A pimp? A petty thief? Come on now, I’m curious.”

Bourne’s already puffy face reddened in a paroxysm of rage.

This was more than Andrei’s teaching at work. Liliane’s tutelage had taught Ariadne all too well about torture, how it wasn’t even about the physical pain. It was about breaking the other person, and right now Bourne looked close to the breaking point.

“Sounds like you have all the evidence you need against me,” she said. “Why ask the questions? Why not just bring the evidence to Liliane now?”

“Maybe I just like playing with my prey before I eat it.”

“You’re bluffing, Bourne. You’re a spineless coward with no hand to play.”

“Oh really?” he said. “I might not have a hand, but I have a finger.”

With that, he plunged his hand into his pocket and returned with a severed digit, red and cakey brown at the stump.

Ariadne had seen plenty of severed limbs. But the thought that this might be Andrei’s sent a ripple of fear and disgust through her.

“That could be anyone’s finger.” She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. “Prove you have him. Take me to him.”

“Oh, I’ll take you to him. I’ll take you to him so you can watch me gut him before your eyes!”

Bourne had lost control. Bourne, who was always removed, detached, above feeling. The pieces started to fall into place. Ariadne finally realized why she was succeeding.

“Gutting a helpless mortal?” Ariadne laughed, laying her cards on the table. “Is that supposed to prove your manhood?”

“What . . . what is that supposed to mean?”

“Yes, Bourne, what does all this mean?” Ariadne rose from her seat, walked up to Bourne. “You’re not just in this for Silas, are you?”

She leaned in close. “This isn’t just business. This is personal. You . . . you’re . . .”

She couldn’t even form the words, for the laughs escaping her mouth. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

The more she laughed, the more Bourne seemed to gnash his teeth.

“You are such a bitch, Ariadne,” he whispered. “Such an ungrateful bitch. After all I’ve been trying to do for you.”

“Such as kidnapping the people I care about?”

“It’s for your own good! You can’t even see what’s going on around you.”

“A few moments ago you were praising my abilities. Now I’m an idiot?”

“You’re naïve,” he said. “You don’t understand that you’re being used.”

“Used?”

Before he could even open his mouth, she cut him off. “No. Save it. I don’t want to hear it. I’ve seen the man behind the curtain. Either show me Andrei or start running. I’ll give you a head start before I chase you down, rip off your limbs, and bring your torso back for Liliane to drink from.”

Bourne hissed, his eyes narrowing to snakelike slits.

“You’re playing the wrong game, Ariadne,” he said softly. “But for what it’s worth, I’ll concede you the win. Follow me.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 21

 

 

The creeping clouds of mildew in the Fresh Pond Motel’s hallways were but shrines in the face of the mecca of decay that was the motel cellar. Bourne led Ariadne through cobwebs and clouds of flaky asbestos that floated down from the pipes above. Their boots slid through the thin layer of grimy water that coated the concrete floor.

She watched Bourne warily, alert for traps or tricks, but he led her straight to a storage room. Several crates were piled against the door.

“Um, a little help hauling these aside?”

Ariadne stood, arms folded.

“Fine, be that way, Princess. Let it never be said that Bourne isn’t good for some hard, honest work.”

As Bourne freed up the door, Ariadne fought the urge to push past him and tear it down herself. But if this was a trap, Bourne was going in first.

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey,” Bourne called out as the door opened with a creak. The small shaft of light it let through revealed Andrei’s form bent over a folding chair, slouched in broken-doll posture.

It was him. Ariadne charged past Bourne, pushed him aside, scrambled up to Andrei. His face was bloody and his eyes moved in and out of focus. He murmured something through the dirty towel gag in his mouth. She tore it away, slashed his bonds with her claws.

“I’m here, Andrei. I’m here, darling. It’s all right—”

He flinched from her, pushed back, fell off the chair. She reached for him and he skidded backward, eyes wide in terror. He threw an arm up to cover his face, an arm ending in a hand dripping blood . . . missing a finger.

Ariadne whipped back around to Bourne, teeth bared.

“I’ll kill you, you fat piece of—”

“Maybe.” Bourne backed away a step. “Maybe not. See that video tripod in the corner? I wasn’t just making snuff films. Andrei said a lot on tape about him and you and what you’ve been up to. That tape will reach Liliane and all the elders unless I give the word to stop it.”

She rushed to the camera, tore it open.

Bourne sighed. “Of course the tape isn’t still in there. And no, it’s not on me, either.”

Ariadne looked to Andrei, then looked to Bourne. Too much was happening at once. This wasn’t neat and clean, like a battle. Until she knew the rules, she couldn’t act. But her blood was screaming for her to leap at someone.

“You said you were doing this to teach me a lesson.”

“Yes.” Bourne drew nearer but kept well out of what he figured to be Ariadne’s striking range. His voice seemed to be shaking; his words fell over one another in a cascade. “You can’t waste yourself on men like him. What’s done is done, of course. No use crying over spilt milk, which’s what I always say.”

“Bourne, spit it out! I’m seconds from killing you no matter what.”

“You need to focus on your priorities!” Bourne shouted, and she felt his spittle land on her face. “If Silas presents Liliane with that tape, he’ll have all the warrant he needs to have you destroyed. You have to come to her yourself, admit it, but shape the story your way. You have to do it before Silas gives her his version.”

Ariadne charged him, battered easily past his defensive posture, slammed him up against the wall. She pressed her forehead to his as one hand pinned his gut and the other grabbed his throat. She held him there, squeezing his neck. He gave a token struggle, and Ariadne felt her fangs push out of her jaws and inch, of their own volition, toward his jugular.

She managed a growl, barely able to form words. “Why are you saying this? Whose side are you on?”

“Now,” Bourne coughed, his voice barely a whisper, “you’re finally asking the right questions.”

She eased up the pressure, only a little.

“I’ve been trying to protect you, Ariadne. I’ve been busy, real busy, in the time you’ve been all distracted. I’ve spent a lot of time away from Eagle Hill. Amazing what you can see from a distance. Something’s wrong. Ever asked yourself why you’re winning the battles, but losing the war?”

“We’ve won the war,” she lied. “Roarke’s finished.”

“But so is Liliane. Archie’s gone, right? A pretty Pyrrhic victory if you ask me.”

“Fine. That’s my fault. Happy enough? Want to say ‘I told you so?’”

“Sure. Put a ten-years-dead neonate in charge of a political bramble, and what does anyone expect? That’s been my problem all along. Either Liliane’s gone insane in her old age or she’s setting you up for a fall.”

“You’ve always been jealous, Bourne. Liliane’s idea of New Jerusalem, her meritocracy, that allowed me to rise to—”

“Oh, get real! You asked what I was back in my living days? Let’s just say I had all sorts of experience with dreams of a better world, justice and equality and all that jazz. I mulled them over in my head for hours while hauling and packing and toting, read books full of them. I read them at night, holed up in my rack where the bosses wouldn’t see. I marched for them, I got my head bashed in for them, got gas in my lungs for them, and sooner rather than later, gave my life for them, just like I’d always dreamed. And then the good Lord saw fit to give me a postscript after death, just so I could see how wrong me and Uncle Karl had always been.”

“Uncle who?”

“Marx. Karl, not Groucho. Although I think Groucho was the smarter one. Point is, if you want anything like a better world, Silas is the only way that’s ever going to happen. People like Liliane? At best they get cut down. At worst, they’re just selling you a line of shit.”

“Why should I believe a word you’re saying?” She hurled Bourne to the ground. “You’ve never cared about anything but yourself.”

Bourne coughed, staring back up at her from the grimy cement floor. “You think because you’re pretty and can screw pretty mortals, that makes you better than me? You’re fooling yourself. That old life’s gone. The Danse is all that matters, and you’ve got to learn the damned steps before—”

Andrei groaned, and Ariadne turned to see him struggling to rise.

“Get out of my sight, Bourne.”

“The tape—”

“Screw you and your tape. I’ll deal with it later.”

“You’re going to help him?”

“I love him, you fat piece of shit! Do you even understand what that word means?”

Bourne rose, shivering, the flesh of his face trembling as his eyes narrowed.

“Yes. Yes, I know very well what that word means.”

She blinked. A growing shadow of dread rose inside her. Quashing it, she ran to Andrei, cradled him, wiped the blood from his wounds.

“Oh, I barely roughed him up.” Bourne seemed now as if he were standing a galaxy away. “Nothing broken, nothing cut off—’cept one finger. I could have done much worse, you know.”

Andrei murmured some incoherent questions. Ariadne shushed him, kissed him, smoothed his hair. She helped him to his feet, where he joined her in a daze.

She looked up to see Bourne standing there, almost at a loss for what to do. The momentum, the haughtiness, seemed to have fled his body.

“Do you have a car?”

He nodded.

“We’re taking him to a hospital.”

“Why on earth would I help you take him to a—”

“Because I’ll kill you if you don’t and just take the damned car, understand me? No matter what Silas will do.”

“You love this guy that much?”

“I hate you that much.”

“It’s one and the same,” he said heavily.

“Either help me or get out of my way.”

Andrei looked from Bourne to her and back, as if he was a child, for whom everything in the world was new, confusing, and equally deserving of attention. His mind had shut down. Ariadne envied him. Hers was racing.

Wordlessly, Bourne led her to the parking lot, held the door open as she laid Andrei’s unresisting body across the back seat. Then she motioned for Bourne to give her the keys. He complied and sat down beside her.

They drove down Fresh Pond Parkway, past the towering housing projects where teens in heavy sweaters and coats played late-night basketball in the gloaming cast by a half-dead floodlight. They drove down Storrow Drive where stubborn ice-fishers had set up shop along the riverbank. The Kindred’s empires rose and fell, but the city persevered. Why not? No amount of lion attacks, it seemed, ever convinced gazelles to abandon the savannah. What choice did they have?

“Where are you going?”

“Longwood. The hospitals there are the best.”

“You really should take him to Liliane.”

She blinked. “Are you out of your mind? Why would I ever consider bringing Andrei there?”

“Because once Silas sees that tape, he’ll know everything about Andrei and where to find him. Ironic though it may be, the safest place for that boy of yours now is right by your side.”

“I thought you wanted me to give him up,” said Ariadne. “Now you want me to keep him safe?”

“Look, I botched this up.” Bourne was wringing his hands. “I thought this was going to turn out differently. I thought . . .”

“You’re such a liar, Bourne, you even confuse yourself. Is that it?”

They were passing Simmons College. The tree-lined canopy of the Riverway darkened their drive.

“Silas sent me on a mission, all right? To find dirt on you, to expose you, to give him an excuse to have you destroyed. I have a hard time refusing his orders. He’s my sire. It’s a respect thing. Can’t you understand that?”

“No, I can’t.” Acid dripped off Ariadne’s words.

“Well, in this case, you’re damned lucky your sire took off for the hills after Embracing you. In any case, I have to bring Silas proof of your affair. One way or another, he’s going to make me. But I don’t . . . I don’t . . .”

He swallowed. “I don’t want to see you dusted, okay? So for your sake, play things the way I tell you to.”

“She’ll kill Andrei the moment he steps inside the sanctuary. Kill him or ghoul him.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. This could play out in any number of ways. I can help you.”

“You’re asking me to trust you?” Ariadne gave a short laugh. “Right. Sure. Look, we’re going to the hospital, and that’s—”

Something landed hard upon the hood, smacking up against the windshield with a deafening crack. Ariadne lost control of the car, which barreled off the road and between two trees along the Riverway drive. Before she could get her bearings, she heard the screech of metal tearing and felt the cold wind from outside sting her skin.

She just had time to think someone’s torn the door off, before rough hands hauled her out. She heard Bourne shouting protests, and then blows began raining down on her face and body.

Reacting on instinct she lashed out, trying to unbalance her attacker. They fell into a tousle, one in which Ariadne quickly gained the upper hand. All she could see was the denim of a jacket obscuring her vision, but she could judge that the attacker was male by feel and by weight, Kindred by strength, inexperienced by his form of attack. Had he known how to truly press his advantage, she would have been done for.

Ariadne threw him off, rose to a crouch, senses searching the area.

Impact. First from one side, then the other. Ariadne twisted and pulled, trained habit guiding her limbs. She kneed one attacker in the groin, slamming the base of her palm into the other’s neck. Before either could recover, she had spun, pulled away, kicked one in the base of the spine and sent him flying, face first, to the ground.

Her original attacker approached her from behind, knife in hand. She swiveled, grabbed his weapon, flung him around to use as a shield against her new attacker’s thrust. Then she wrenched the knife away, drove it deep into the closest man’s skull. Pushing hard, she sent him into the other, knocking both to the ground.

Ariadne had just enough time to wonder whether Bourne had set this trap for her, to wonder from what crevice he had summoned these novitiate thugs, when a new attacker sprung out of the shadows, a blade flashing in his grip.

Ariadne knew swords, and there were two swords in particular she could spot from half a mile away. This was one of them. One of hers. How?

That moment’s shock almost cost Ariadne her life as her opponent swung the blade in a clumsy arc, trying to lop off her head. Only his lack of skill with the weapon saved her, and she pressed her advantage, charging into her now off-balance enemy. She freed her blade in one instant and turned it on him the next. His head fell to the floor, and his body slumped in the other direction.

At least, Ariadne thought with the kind of nonchalance that only came in insane moments such as this, someone’s been keeping my katana sharp.

Her katana. The one she had lost in the subterranean caverns while fighting the golem several weeks ago. Which had to mean—

Properly armed, Ariadne surveyed the scene. Her attackers didn’t seem to have reinforcements. She swiveled to watch the car. There was Bourne, struggling with someone.

“Bourne,” she cried out, “we need to get out of here!”

“Um, I’m a little busy,” Bourne wrenched the baseball bat from the hand of his foe, slamming the butt end of it into the attacker’s stomach. He rolled away, hissing. Bourne helped him along his way, flipping him over the car hood.

“Bourne, now! Before—”

It was too late. Ariadne could feel it already. Could feel him. A wind must have kicked up, or there was a crackle of static electricity in the air. Bourne snapped the neck of his dance partner just as the tree limbs parted to admit a towering figure whose eyes blazed red in the night.

“Hello, little Sheriff,” said Roarke. “I knew we’d meet again.”

 

 




 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

 

DAVID NURENBERG, PhD, is a teacher, freelance writer, and social activist who lives in the Boston area. His credits with White Wolf include writing for the Vampire: The Requiem, Scion, and Exalted lines. His nonfiction has appeared in the Boston Globe, Newsweek, USA Today, and Multicultural Review, as well as many lesser-known papers, ’zines, and blogs. Silent Knife is his first novel published by a major press. His favorite animal is the wombat.