probably require me to haul his ass to the hospital if his stupidity made it necessary, but I didn’t expect
it to happen. He could function even after some pretty unique drug cocktails, so he must have years of
self-abuse under his belt.
I heard something behind the door to the main room. Almost in a single movement the three of us
turned to face the possible threat. Bob shifted his weight, his hand hovering near the butt of his
weapon.
The manager of the club stepped through the door with a bouncer at his heels. They came through at
warp speed, slamming the door behind them with a level of control ed panic that made my neck hairs
rise. The manager was a smal man but tough looking. He had tiny, shrewd eyes and a sharp nose. But
by far the most notable thing about him was his scars. A group of them ran from a mangled left ear
down to and across his neck. It looked as if someone had tried to slit his throat with a beer bottle or
claws.
He slid home the bolts and turned to face us. He didn’t look alarmed or afraid, more
nod the bouncer crossed the room to a second door and started to use keys on a number of locks. I
assumed the door led outside.
“The cops are out front.” The manager sounded disgusted. “It’s a raid. You’ve got to get out of here.”
A couple of the girls shrieked and I saw the flash of naked flesh in my peripheral vision as they
scurried out from the pile of bodies to start dragging on the nearest discarded undies.
“I have diplomatic immunity.” The prince’s words were slurred, but there was no mistaking his
condescending tone.
It occurred to me that the purpose of having a double had been to give the prince discretion
—discretion that would be ruined if he got caught, immunity or no, but maybe he was just too
stoned/drunk to care.
The manager was unimpressed. “Wel ,
that wil come with you being caught here,” he snarled, “so get the fuck out.” He pointed at the door.
The bouncer opened it on cue. A dim beam of yel ow light overhead revealed a narrow, filthy al ey. A
strong wind blew through the door, hard and cold. The stench it brought with it was horrific, even at this
distance.
His Highness shrugged and seemed bored, as though this was a frequent occurrence. “Oh, very
wel .” I saw him pul ing together his clothing with uncoordinated movements. His eyes were unfocused,
but his speech wasn’t too bad. “You, and you—” He waved in the general direction of Bob and me.
“Take the lead. We’l fol ow.”
Someone had to take point. I would’ve done it, but Bob moved into place ahead of me. He brushed
past the bouncer, deliberately giving the larger man a little shove on the way. The bouncer growled but
didn’t start anything. Probably a smart move, as Bob had pul ed and worked the slide on his nine and
was holding it with the kind of confidence that didn’t bode wel for anyone who posed a threat.
I moved two steps behind Bob. I’d pul ed my gun as wel , a 1911 Colt. There are other 1911s, but
they’re clones. The Colt is the classic design that was military issue in WW I and is hard to improve on.
Other people have argued with me about modifying the barrel, but I like it just the way it is. It’s my
favorite gun, and completely reliable. It fits my hand wel and has plenty of stopping power. If I shoot
something, I want it to
gun loaded with silver-plated bul ets.
There were three steps leading down from the back door. To the immediate left was a Dumpster. Up
close, it stank badly enough to make me want to vomit. In the background I could hear the manager’s
swearing and the prince’s laconic response.
The only light was from the doorway behind us and the distant glow of a halogen streetlight past the
al ey entrance some twenty yards away. The odd lighting made the shadows deeper, so that every
recessed doorway seemed sinister, every Dumpster perfect cover. I kept my eyes moving, scanning
not only ground level but also the metal fire escape ladders and the tops of the flat-roofed buildings.
The door we’d come out of was the fourth down in the row of buildings, giving us about twenty yards to
traverse to the main street if we went right, almost a hundred yards if we turned left.
I stared down the al ey, catching a glimpse of the front of the building reflected in the porn shop
window display across the street. I didn’t see flashing lights reflected in the glass or any sign of a
police cruiser. Before I could piece together what that might mean, a sound made me turn.
A rat skittered. It was bigger than some of the more fashionable dogs, and had been startled by
something. I didn’t fire, but it distracted me, costing me a valuable second of concentration.
As I turned back there was a wet, tearing sound … then a grunt of pain. A shot rang out as a warm
rain splattered my face and I smel ed raw meat and fresh blood. Just that fast, Bob was down. I fired
into the eye of his attacker that was visible above the throat where he was feeding. The entry wound
was deceptively smal , but blood, brain, and bone splattered against the wal behind him, sliding in
runnels down the rough surface of the brick. The vampire dropped Bob, lunging for me with (literal y)
mindless rage. I fired two more shots directly into his chest until he went down for good and I was sure
there wouldn’t be enough heart left to stake.
on instinct to fire at a shape moving at me with blurring speed from beside a Dumpster. The vampire
shrieked but kept coming, swinging a clawed hand at my head. I ducked the blow and waited for that
split second when the momentum would swing his body around, then fired a pair of shots through the
back at an angle intended to take out the heart.
He fel , like a puppet whose strings had been cut. I fired into his head. My last shot in the Colt.
My hearing was almost completely gone now, too much gunfire echoing off the metal of the
Dumpsters and fire doors, but if there were more vamps, they were holding off. I cal ed for the others
to cover me, holstered the Colt, and grabbed Bob’s body under the armpits. I started dragging him
backward toward the light stil coming from the door to the strip club. He was hurt badly enough that he
was going to die in minutes without help. A pair of dark shapes were closing in from either end of the
al ey, moving with that eerie grace some of the older vampires have.
I was almost to the base of the stairs. Bob’s body wasn’t moving, but blood was stil pumping, leaving
a wet trail in our wake that was dark and al too visible as I backed into the light.
I risked a glance backward. There was a scuffle going on inside the door. I couldn’t see the young
bodyguard, but I caught a glimpse of the prince. As I watched, the royal body began to shimmer,
features moving as if made of badly molded clay until another man stood where the prince had been.
He and the manager were firing steadily into the doorway where the refrigerator was stil upright,
