It was time.
Derek screamed as de Vries turned back to him. And there was little wonder why. Short Eyes had taken the Priest chip, and was back to her normal self. She had also pulled a small surgical pump from out of her bag and was holding it out to de Vries. This wasn’t how de Vries preferred to work, but if the information he’d received was correct, for him to ingest Derek’s blood would have devastating consequences. So new methods had to be found. Stepping up to Derek, he spoke the word he’d learned in New Orleans last summer, and Derek’s head snapped into stillness once again.
De Vries attached the surgical pump to the side of the chair and fastened the drain tubing to the side of Derek’s neck, The surgical pump had been modified so that it would clamp independently onto Derek’s head, and the hose would drain the blood from his jugular. At the same time, the silver needle on the pump would stop Derek’s natural regeneration from closing the wound. Clamping the needle into the skin of Derek’s neck, causing it to puncture the jugular, de Vries started the small motor a the base of the pump.
A tiny whining noise filled the warehouse as the suction pump began to siphon Derek’s black blood from his neck, down the tubing, and into the large bucket Short Eyes had placed on the floor at de Vries’ feet.
Like petrol from a car, thought do Vries with a sad smile. With a wave of his hand, he released Derek’s head from the barrier.
Derek screamed, a loud piercing wail that shattered one of the windowpanes, high in the warehouse.
2
Hey, Stem, I need a favor-off the record. I thought you OC guys might be able to get me something on a small security corp named Fralellanza. inc. here in town. I hear the name means “brotherhood” and that these guys popped up out of nowhere about seven years ago. The scan I got says they’re a little family-owned organization, which is growing fast. Some of my snoops say they’re Mafia, and considering what happened today, it seems plausible. The son of Fratellanza’s owner died in a very peculiar way a few weeks back, and we’ve been holding the body pending certain tests. Then, today I found out that the stiff had been released to the family and that my captain had closed the case. I don’t want to get in his face on this. but the whole things got me wondering. Think you could do a little legwork on your end? I’ll owe you one.
–
Inter-departmental email, Lone Star Security Services Inc., Mike Powell. Department of Homicide, to Stem Carlson, Department of Organized Crime, 03 August 2060. Transmission intercept by Fratellanza deckers. Scan word: Fratellanza, 05 August 2060
Rachel Harlan stood naked in the cluttered studio, her strawberry-blonde hair cascading down her back and shoulders. She wiped sleep from her eyes, then walked over to Warren’s latest sculpture and threw back the cover cloth. Underneath was a demon, vicious and cruel, straining to break free of its marble prison.
Rachel studied the creature’s partially formed wings, outspread and anxious to take flight. The face was unfinished, but she could picture what it would look like when Warren was done sculpting it-a ruined visage, scarred and twisted with a rage so intense it scared her.
Rachel reached out and ran her fingertips over the hewn stone. Anyone watching might have been struck by the sharp contrast of her beauty to its ugliness. Where Rachel’s nose was pert and straight, the sculpture’s hooked into a hideous beak. Rachel’s eyes were wide and blue, her lips full and naturally red. The demon eyes would shine with dark intensity, Its lips would be torn by its jagged line of teeth.
Rachel shuddered. She didn’t understand Warren’s choice of subjects, but he was the artist, not her. This demon sent a chill like ice running all the way down her spine.
She stepped back from the table-actually a large wooden door propped up on twin metal filing cabinets-and studied the block of marble from a distance.
The damn thing is ugly, she thought, then quickly tossed the cover cloth back over it.
When Warren had selected the marble block from the quarry, Rachel thought he was seeing an angel inside the large chunk of rock. An angel would have been sweet.
But now she knew that he’d been seeing a demon all along. And she didn’t know what was more frightening, the demon or Warren’s mood while carving it. He’d been distant and sullen all week and she couldn’t figure out why.
She turned from the block and crossed the large, open studio, her bare footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors and bouncing off the high, white stucco ceiling.
She walked to the trid, past the midnight-blue futon couch that was the large room’s only furniture, except for easels and worktable. She slipped a chip of Cool Phantom’s “Millennium Bygones” into the rack, letting the lead singer’s soothing voice pour out of the wall speakers. She swayed to the music as she made her way into the kitchen.
A surprise August drizzle spattered against the window pane, clouding her view of the tire retreading shop across the street. It was cool in the kitchen, and she felt a tightening around her nipples as the chill did its work on her skin.
She poured two cups of fresh-brewed soykaf into the mugs she’d gotten Warren for Christmas that year.
“Babe?” From the bedroom, Warren’s voice was an early morning rasp, harsh against the background of soft music and slow rain; still, it made her smile.
“What?”
“You making ‘kaf?”
Rachel’s smile stretched into a grin as she looked out the kitchen window at the early morning drizzle. “Already made.”
She could hear Warren shifting in bed. “You bringing me some?”
She laughed. “Already poured.”
“I worship the ground you walk on.”
She picked up the mugs, ready to head for the bedroom, then hesitated an instant, looking out at the cold rain. There was something perfect about the moment, and she wanted to let it linger, like the scent of perfume hangs in the air after the passage of a beautiful woman.
But the moment passed, and she sighed as she crossed to the bedroom, holding the steaming mugs in front of her.
The bedroom looked as if a small hurricane had hit it. The walls were crammed with prints of various artists, but the dominant force was Michael Parks. His surreal pictures hung at angles, overlapping the others.
The futon, twin to the one in the studio, was opened into a bed and occupied the center of the room. Sprawled across it was Warren, his long, dark hair spreading against the white pillowcase as he turned to look at her.
Rachel paused, her sense of the sublime triggered. It Still amazed her that they were together. He was gorgeous; he was an artist. What had she done to deserve him?
Warren stared back at her with gawking admiration, and Rachel felt self-conscious. She smiled and put the coffee mugs in front of her breasts.
“Oh, that certainly covers up a lot,” Warren said, laughing. “I can still see your-”
“You want kaf or breakfast?”
“Kaf first,” he said. “Breakfast later.” He struggled into a sitting position, revealing his tightly muscled stomach.
Rachel handed him one of the cups. “Black,” she said, “with tons of sugar.”
Warren blew on the soykaf, making the steam billow out gently. He took a sip, then another, but his eyes never left her body.
His look was devilish and aroused the first stirrings of desire. Her skin tightened again, but this time it wasn’t from a chill. “Just ‘cause they’re hard,” she said, “doesn’t necessarily mean I’m horny.” A smile played at the corners of her mouth.
Warren laughed. “And just because I’m looking at the menu doesn’t mean I want to order.”
Rachel moved fast, grabbing a pillow with her free hand and targeting Warren’s face with an expert throw. The pillow hit him in the side of the head.
He grinned and set his soykaf on the floor beside the bed. “Oh course you know…”
“Yeah, yeah… this means war.” She leaned over and set her mug on the lamp stand. Then, with a laugh, she was on him. She swarmed over him, her naked body covering his. She pushed him onto his back, her desire for him suddenly urgent.
They wrestled for a moment, Rachel straining to pin his arms above his head, and finally succeeding. I’m getting stronger, she thought. Those workouts with Flak are helping.
“I win,” she whispered.
Warren’s breath was warm on her face. “The battle, maybe.” He kissed her on the lips, softly. A brush of skin on skin.
She released his arms and returned the kiss, a little more forcefully, then harder and harder.