Vampire The Requiem ed 3 - Carthians.pdf - Requiem - Kubz

S OMEHOW

BY G REG S TOLZE

The first time Duce Carter saw Ofelia Chase,

he wanted to kill her. More than that, though, he wanted

to annihilate her, wanted to violate her, wanted to do some-

thing to her so awful there was no name for it, some obscene,

absurd, overblown punishment for her temerity, for daring to

exist in the same place as he did. Instant, total loathing. That’s

how he knew she was a vampire.

He blew it off and put on an easy smile. He cleared his

throat to get her attention and kept the smile going as she

instinctively snarled at him. The man across the table from

her twitched, clearly uneasy.

speed date men, or the glances of interest or intimidation or

both commingled from the speed date women.

The singles were taking their five minute turns in a Holiday

Inn conference room, with a few pathetic flower arrangements

trying to make it less sterile and more fun. Duce told himself that

he’d never hunt in this terrain even if the alternative was starva-

tion. He knew, of course, that if push came to shove he would.

He left for the bar. It was better, and he’d gotten a phone

number by the time Ofelia entered. She gave him a suspicious

glance, hesitated, but sat down by him.

“It’s all right,” Duce told him. “She’s not mad at you.”

“Um,” the guy said. “This is . . . uh . . . ”

“I’m her old boyfriend,” Duce said, tipping her a wink. “I’m

sorry to interrupt and everything.”

“This is his five minutes,” Ofelia said, even as a woman with

a clipboard and a strained smile came over to ask if Duce needed

any help. Her tone told him she was silently praying that he

was not going to make a scene, was not going to kick up a fuss,

was not going to disrupt this evening’s round of speed dating.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Duce said. “I’m very sorry.” He

let the woman with the clipboard pull him away, and he en-

joyed her relief as much as her nervousness, much as he en-

joyed the looks of curiosity or sour competitiveness from the

“Duce Carter,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Ofelia,” she replied. Her skin was lighter than his, but not

by much. Her features, however, were sharper, more typically

white. There was a dusting of darker freckles on her straight

nose, and on her cheekbones.

“You can do better, right?” he said. “I mean, sure, you can . . . ”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Her voice was sharp.

“Now, now, sister. Don’t purse your lips and schoolteach at

me,” he said. “I’m just observing, all right?”

“Checking out the new meat on the street, is that it?”

“No need to make everything sound ugly. You and me, we

have our needs, and if we’re not meeting them together, we

should at least keep out of each other’s way.”

áyouäre trying to be courteous?à

áyou ainät making it easy.à

He gave her a smile. He turned on the charm. She thawed a

little, he could tell.

“You’re new,” he said. “I saw you at court, and I was going

to introduce myself, but your Crone crew seemed to be

keeping you under pretty tight wraps. Your sire finally let

you off the hook to try something on your own?”

“Not quite.” It was a new voice that spoke, one mar-

ginally feminine and entirely humorless. It was un-

expected and unpleasantly close to Duce’s ear.

He did not flinch in surprise. He turned and kept

the smile working as he said, “Moyra. Didn’t see

you there.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re try-

ing to do,” Moyra hissed. Her face was tight

with anger.

“You might want to check your tone,” Duce

said. His face was still mild and pleasant, but

he put a little steel behind his words.

“Keep away from my offspring, Douche .”

“Put the fangs away, Moyra. They’re making you lisp.”

Moyra ground her teeth, and he grinned wider, and then

she grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him toward the back exit.

“Wait!” Ofelia called, but Duce gave her a little wave.

“You wait,” he said. “One way or the other, I expect this won’t take long.”

They were barely out the door be-

fore Moyra took a swing at him, but

Duce ducked it, giving his eyes a

moment to adjust, making sure no

one else was . . . .

Moyra had vanished.

“Aw shit,” Duce said, and

got his arms up around his

head before she reappeared,

this time holding a board

and swinging it into his

side. Since his arms were

already up, it was natural

to give her a series of quick

jabs to the face, snapping her

head back. Bruises rose on her

flesh and then faded as quickly as breath

on a cold windowpane.

“This is stupid,” Duce said as they circled.

“I know what you’re doing!”

She swung again, and this time he was ready. He grabbed the board and yanked hard, sending her face-first into a wall.

“But do you know what you’re doing?” he asked, then grunted. He looked down and saw a throwing knife in his gut.

“Bitch!” Now it was his turn with the board, and he cracked her on the skull, no subtlety, just rage and brute force.

It went like that for what seemed like a long time but was only a couple seconds before Duce realized that it was a pretty close

fight. Moyra just might kill him. So he said, “This is really stupid,” again, and swung the board close enough to make her cringe,

but checked the blow.

Her face was badly bruised, and this time the marks weren’t fading. She had a

second knife in her hand. Duce looked at it and dropped the board. He figured he

could always pull the blade out of his stomach if he needed to rearm. But Moyra

seemed to reach the same conclusion, that the match was too close to call, and

her knife disappeared as quickly as she’d drawn it.

“You’re not going to take her away from me,” she said.

Duce grunted as he pulled out her weapon and closed his belly wound.

“That sounds like a bet to me.”

When they went back inside, Ofelia was gone.

# # #

Initially, Duce hadn’t even wanted to go.

A couple of older, respected Carthians had

dropped by his place and shot the shit for

a while, watched some of the Duke game

on TV, grumbled about the crazies in

the Lancea Sanctum. Then they’d

gotten to the point.

“She’s a Crone neonate, just

brought in during the Indul-

gence,” Pete said. Pete was

gruff, blue-jeaned, wearing

a truck-stop cap and a

Teamsters ring. He had

clout. “Knock her.”

“Aw c’mon,” Duce said.

“You can’t expect me to

just walk on by, give her a

wink and bring her into the

Movement. Be real.”

“This is real,” the other

Carthian said. Her name

was Brenda, and she was

from the intellectual wing,

dressed in Elizabeth

Arden and wearing

jade earrings that

clashed with

her shoes.

“The re-

cently Em-

braced are the

most vulnerable

to recruitment,

and that’s especially

true of the Circle,

where the, the spiri-

tual milieu is alien and

therefore alienating . . . ”

While she prattled,

Pete dropped a folder on

Duce’s table. Duce opened it,

still grumbling.

“Why do I have to do it. Just last

month I . . . ” He saw her picture and

grimaced. “Oh, it’s like that .”

“No, it’s not,” said Brenda as Pete

shrugged and said, “I guess.”

“To lure away the black Acolyte, you figure

you need your go-to brother . . . ”

“We can talk around race all night,” Brenda

said, “But we’ll never get around it. She’s just started

her Requiem, she’s scared, she’s alone, anything fa-

miliar might . . . ”

“What the hell is biomolecular chemistry?” Duce asked.

“I’m curious ‘cause, y’know, when I got my GED in the

slammer they skipped that class, and she’s got a PhD in it.”

“How would I know?” Pete asked. “You gonna do this

thing or not?”

“Do I have to?”

Brenda and Pete exchanged a glance. Pete looked down at

his ring and turned it so the face was in.

“No,” the union man said coolly. “Not at all. No big thing.”

Vampire The Requiem ed 3 - Carthians.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: