he used to ride the whole city. He could also give me a lift up there. But crossing Coalition turf on the sissy seat of his Harley with a dozen top-hatted, howling-mad Dusters on hogback isn’t the subtle play I’m looking for. When a renegade Clan of Vampyre bikers crosses onto your turf, you’re bound to notice. Scratch Christian.
Chubby Freeze might have a name. He’s also about the only brother I’m tight with. That could mean something when you’re talking about dealing in the Hood. But it’ll be someone on the fringe. Chubby’s porn business keeps him in touch with the kind of people who are in touch with my life. But he’s not of the world. Any names he gives me will be a couple steps removed from what I need. And he won’t be able to help me with transport. Chubby’s not in the know enough to see the dangers involved with getting from 14th to 110th.
There’s really only one name. I’m running circles around it, but there’s really only one guy who might be able to help me here. One guy who doesn’t have any skin in the game, who won’t be looking for a payday for giving me some information, who won’t be looking for ways to stick it in my back if he sees an angle. But he’ll sure as hell find a way to make me pay. And whatever he wants, I’ll have to come across with it.
So I stuff the final remains of my emergency fund in my pocket, tuck my switchblade into my boot and the.32 into my waistband, lock up tight, and head west to see Daniel.
– Simon.
– Daniel here?
– Naturally. Where else would he be?
– Can I talk to him?
– Certainly. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you, Simon.
– Don’t call me that.
– You would prefer?
– Joe.
The bony Enclave runs his eyes over me.
– Joe. It doesn’t suit you.
– Just use it.
– Of course, Joe.
He gives me one of those oh-so-meaningful smiles these fucks are always giving and leads me inside. The door rolls closed behind us and we cross the warehouse’s concrete floor. My eyes adjust to the near pitch black and the Enclave emerge from the darkness. Two rows of about fifty emaciated sickly pale men and women in white sit on the floor facing one another. In front of each is a vessel of some sort; anything from a thimble to a cracked coffee cup to a pewter wine goblet. Two Enclave, one for each row, work their way down the lines pouring blood into the vessels. One of the servers carries a Pyrex measuring cup, the other an iced tea pitcher with a much-chipped smiling sun enameled on its side. The Enclave accept a tiny amount of the blood, some no more than a teaspoon, some as much as a quarter pint. Several hold up their hand, refusing any at all. Whatever they take, it’s all they’ll have for a week, maybe longer. Feeding time at the asylum.
These crazy fuckers, sitting here in the dark, fasting, meditating, and practicing their crazy martial arts. And Daniel, lord of the crazy fuckers, thinks I’m one of them. He says that’s my
It’s weird shit. Far weirder than I’m willing to believe myself. Or it was anyway. Before Daniel showed me some weirder shit. Before he told me about that thing. The Wraith. Now I’m not sure what to believe. But it’s still not for me. No matter how many times Daniel says it is.
– Simon. Look at you. So healthy and well fed. You’re just about glowing.
– Daniel. You’re looking fit yourself.
He laughs, unbending his skeletal frame from the floor of his little cubicle in the loft above the warehouse floor. He takes my hand. I feel the heat that pulses from his fingers and palm. I run hot, anyone with the Vyrus runs a little hot; Daniel scorches.
He holds my hand and looks me over.
– Yes. Just about glowing.
– Thanks.
He releases my hand.
– It wasn’t meant as a compliment. I was trying to express displeasure.
– Sorry, missed it.
– Oh well, passive aggression was never my strength. With my own children. Did you know I had kids?
– Nope.
– I did. Long time ago.
His eyes drift.
– Two girls. Twins. And a wife. I wanted boys. A cliche. She gave me the girls. And several miscarriages. She died of one in the end. Girls. I could never get them to do as I said. A poor father.
His eyes come back to me, refocus, and he shakes his head.
– Odd. I don’t think of them much. That other life, I hardly think of it at all. The sleep before waking. Before I discovered my true nature.
He shrugs.
– Senility at last. Sit.
He points at the floor and I take a seat. He takes a place across from me and rests his back against the wall.
– What’s on your mind, Simon? I assume you’re not here to reconsider joining us.
– Nope.
– Something else then. Information I suppose.
– Yep.
He waits. I wait. He waits longer and I give in.
– I need a name.
He rolls his eyes.
– A name. You already have two. The one you were born with and the one you gave yourself.
– Someone else’s name.
– Whose?
– I don’t know. I need an Uptown name. I have to go above One-ten and I need a contact, someone to help me with the territory.
He scratches the ribs that protrude from beneath his skin, his fingers all but disappearing into the gaps between them.
– Above One-ten. The Hood. Luther X’s turf.
– X is dead.
– Is he?
I watch his eyes, trying to see if he’s playing me. They’re unreadable; black stones sunk deep in dark wells.
– He got taken out over two years ago. Coalition assassins. They say. His warlord runs it now: DJ Grave Digga.
–
– Tell that to the guy stuck the daggers in X’s eyes.
– The instrument is immaterial. The Vyrus has him now.
