Nothing about the story was any different from a hundred other king fu movies. But it moved me. The hero knew he couldn’t set things right. He couldn’t bring back the villagers that had been killed or take away the survivors’ pain. But he could restore the balance of power. That was the problem: the warlord had all the power; the villagers had none. And it shouldn’t be that way. Power not held in balance would always lead to tragedy, to exploitation and abuse. Juliet was wrong in thinking that tapping into Difethwr’s power would be a rush. The Hellion’s power was excessive. It wasn’t in balance. It could never create or build up, only destroy.
With the Destroyer in Boston, it was up to me to restore the balance of power. Not because I was the best or even all that good. But because I was willing. And because, win or lose, I was the only one who could.
The movie’s big battle scene had some interesting sword techniques I wanted to try. I turned off the TV and moved a couple of chairs to make room. I rolled up the Persian rug, then picked up my falchion. The sword felt good in my hand. My arm felt good, too—stronger, not sore. Concentrating, I played back the sword-fighting scene in my mind, then slowly started to follow the hero’s moves.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lucado’s voice came from the doorway.
“Practicing.” I didn’t even glance at him. That was good; left-handed fighting was going to require absolute focus. “Don’t worry, Frank. I’ll put the furniture back when I’m done.”
“Well, watch what you’re doing, will ya? I’ve got some priceless antiques and shit in there.” He watched me for a second. I could sense him, feel what he was doing on the periphery, but I kept my focus on my moves. “Jesus,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”
“Nighty-night, Frank.”
He grunted.
After I’d had a good workout, I put the sword away. Then, having second thoughts, I took it out again. Better to keep it close by. I was warm from practicing, so I opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony to cool off in the night air. I leaned the sword against the wall and looked out into the night. It was eleven o’clock on a Friday—the night before Halloween—and Bostonians were out and about for the weekend. An almost-full moon shone over the harbor, silvering the water. Sounds of laughter, music, and cars drifted up from the streets. When I looked to the right, I could see the North End’s waterfront, down to Christopher Columbus Park. Couples strolled, hand in hand, on their way home from romantic dinners at cozy Italian restaurants. I sighed. With Kane mad at me and Daniel out of the picture, I didn’t see any romantic dinners in my future any time soon.
Watching the norms, I felt the strangest sensation that someone was watching me. It started with goose bumps on my arms, then built to a creepy, prickly feeling along the back of my neck. Gradually, like a movie scene fading in, I realized that I was staring into somebody’s eyes. Somebody who was standing on thin air, nine stories above the ground.
I leaped backward, groping for my sword, and the figure came into focus. Putting my hand on my crazy-beating heart, I let out a sigh of relief. It was only a vampire. Had to be an old one, because they didn’t gain the ability to float or fly until they’d been dead a few centuries. Another minute, and I recognized him.
“Good evening, Councilor Hadrian.”
“You know me.” His dark eyes showed vanity, but not a jot of surprise.
I’d never met Hadrian, but I did know him. Everyone in Deadtown did; he was leader of the Council of Three and top dog among Boston’s vampires. His photo was always on the front page of News of the Dead.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Awaiting your invitation.” As everyone knows, vampires can’t cross your threshold unless you invite them in. It’s one of the legends about vampires that’s actually true.
“Gee, I don’t know, Hadrian. This isn’t my condo. Tell you what. I’ll invite you onto the balcony, but not inside.”
“Hardly hospitable. But for now, it will do.” The vampire rose high enough to clear the railing, then slowly, gracefully, alighted in front of me. “Shall we have a seat?” he asked, gesturing toward the patio chairs arranged at the other end of the balcony.
Hadrian believed he was the epitome of civilization. You could see it in the graceful way he sat, smoothing invisible creases from his four-thousand-dollar suit. You could hear in his accent—proper Bostonian tinged with something European—and in the soft modulations of his voice. You could almost taste it, because looking at Hadrian made you think of full-bodied vintage Bordeaux and foods like truffles and escargot, foods you’d always heard about but never tried. Everything about him screamed—no, make that murmured—culture.
Only one thing was wrong with this picture. Hadrian ate people.
Well, not anymore; not officially. Now he’d take his legally allowed pint and say thank you and goodnight. But as a three-hundred-year-old vampire, he’d sucked his share of human bodies dry. And I had a feeling that whatever Hadrian wanted, Hadrian took.
He steepled his fingers and smiled that closed-lipped smile vampires favored. His brown eyes seemed to vibrate slightly. They made you want to lean in, look closer, and as you did, something in those eyes reached inside you, all the way down to your toes, and started to tease you out of yourself, slowly drawing you into those liquid depths.
I coughed and sat back, making him blink with surprise. “I’m a demi-human,” I said. “Vampire tricks don’t work on me.”
He smiled again, this time showing a little fang.
“Forgive me—force of habit. After a few centuries of seducing attractive females . . .” He shrugged.
I’d bet his track record was pretty damn good. Hadrian was a little old for me—he looked like he must’ve gone vamp when he was about fifty, fifty-five—but he definitely had that sexy older man thing happening. A touch of gray colored his temples and shot through his neatly trimmed beard. He moved with casual elegance, and he had the kind of long, slim fingers that were made for bringing up goose bumps on naked flesh—
Whoa. Maybe those vampire tricks half worked on demi-humans.
I coughed again. “So what’s up?”
“Juliet happened to mention that you were in the employ of my enemy. I wanted to see for myself.”
“Enemy, huh? Good thing I didn’t invite you inside, then, isn’t it?
“That depends on how one defines a ‘good thing.’ ” He smiled again. “I suspect that our definitions regarding the current situation might not mesh.”
“Well, as you can see, yes, I’m working for Lucado. Believe me, I don’t like the jerk any better than you do. But a Hellion came after him, and I’m not letting it get away.” Aunt Mab’s voice echoed in my mind: You know what to do. I shivered, then glanced at Hadrian, hoping he hadn’t noticed. If he had, he didn’t let on.
“You know that Lucado has contributed a significant amount of money to Baldwin’s campaign?”
“Yeah, and Kane’s not too thrilled about that.”
“No. I wouldn’t imagine he would be.” He leaned closer. “What I’d like to know is what kind of return our Mr. Lucado is expecting on that investment.”
I shrugged. “Maybe he just doesn’t like PAs. Or maybe it’s you. If you get kicked out of the state, that’s less competition for him.”
Like Lucado, Hadrian was a real estate developer. After the plague, the state had taken control of both the quarantine zone—now Deadtown—and the buffer zone around it. Hadrian was the developer for Deadtown; he’d made a fortune using cheap zombie labor to reconstruct the area, then leasing residences to PAs for high rents. It was a captive market, since PAs weren’t allowed to live anywhere else.
Frank Lucado didn’t employ zombie workers—there was too much paperwork for norms who tried—so he had to pay union wages and carry workers’ comp and unemployment insurance, expenses that would make it hard for him to be competitive if Hadrian was allowed to start bidding on projects outside of Deadtown. And to save money, Governor Sugden had proposed opening up state-financed construction projects to PA-owned companies.
“Yes,” Hadrian agreed, “Lucado would undoubtedly prefer that I not compete with him. He’d lose. Presumably, he’s also expecting to get preferential treatment from Baldwin for government jobs. Has he mentioned anything else?”
Hadrian was smiling, lips closed, as though he were just making pleasant conversation. Vampires rarely made pleasant conversation. He wanted something. “What’s your angle, Hadrian?”
“My angle?” He shrugged, and there was something French about the gesture. “Know thine enemy, I suppose. I want a better understanding of the relationship between Lucado and Baldwin. Something there doesn’t feel right to me. Have you met Baldwin, by any chance?”
I considered lying but didn’t see any reason to. “Briefly.”
“What was your impression?”
“Let’s just say I’m not inviting him over for dinner anytime soon.”
He half smiled. “And what was your impression of the relationship between Baldwin and Lucado?”
“They seemed friendly enough. Lucado joined Baldwin at a campaign event this morning.”
“Yes, I saw that on television. The Liberty Diner, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. Hadrian sat back, stroking his chin as though thinking.
“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” he said after a few minutes.
“What is?”
“Don’t you find it odd that Baldwin has cultivated a friendship with your boss?”
“He’s not my boss. And why wouldn’t Baldwin want to pal around with him? Lucado’s contributing enough to his campaign.”
“That’s what surprises me, though. Lucado has a . . . shall we say ‘shady’ reputation. Baldwin has no qualms about being seen with him. Doesn’t that strike you as strange in an election as close as this one?”