"I feel it too," she said. "God knows I almost died down here." She took my hand. Squeezed it. "But my hero saved me."
I blew out a breath. "Well, your big hero is scared." With an effort of will, I pushed myself across the threshold. Kissed her hand. "Let's kick some ass." My bowels still didn't appreciate being thrust into danger, but I was the boss of them, dagnabbit, and there was no way I was going to let them mess up a nice pair of jeans.
We crept our way down the winding staircase and reached the crypt—or what used to be the crypt. Instead, the area, where before there had been tombs, skeletons, and all sorts of other creepy stuff, was a bare dirt floor and building supplies. Crates of floor tiles, bundles of lumber, and an assortment of tools like nail guns and power saws sat in neat piles. Someone had strung up lights on a wire leading around the corner and presumably into the cave beyond. Despite the new construction, a musty, dank odor still hovered in the air—a smell I much preferred to the fresh aroma of rotting vamplings we'd encountered the last time.
Elyssa crouched and peeked around the corner. Motioned me to follow. The corridor beyond was clear of coffins up to a point. Beyond lay a pile of rotted wood, stone, and skeletal remains. Her face went livid. "That son of a bitch. Clearing out the dead like they're trash."
I pointed to a tall stack of wooden crates, some stamped with "Property of United States Military" on them. "He's trying to build an armory. Just like in Bogota."
Voices echoed from farther down. While I couldn't make out what they were saying, it was evident someone was seriously ticked off. We skulked onward, using crates and refuse piles as cover until we reached a place where the old crypt ended and the natural environs of a cave took over. Several figures gathered in front of an outbuilding I recognized—the one Maximus had used to imprison my father. The string of construction lights hung to the sides of the cave, illuminating the small group.
A tall man in a top hat and suit, appearing like someone out of a classic movie, stood with his back to me, an ivory cane in one hand. Beside him stood the pale form of Bigglesworth.
"I daresay you have failed us most miserably, Maximus," the man said in a southern genteel accent. "If not for the patience of our patroness, I would have already ended your little rebellion."
"Patience?" Maximus spat. "You mean insanity. That crazy bitch doesn't know her head from her ass half the time."
The man stiffened. "I suppose I should expect such disrespect from your ilk."
"You want I should teach him some manners, sir?" Bigglesworth said, his fist swelling to grotesque proportions as he pressed it into his hand.
"No, Mr. Bigglesworth. I believe it would be a waste of time."
Maximus showed his teeth. "I'd like to see you try, goo-ball."
The man rapped his cane against the floor. "Did you ever stop to think what a vampling plague would do to the mortal realm?" He paused for a second. "Centuries of planning wrecked because you couldn't control your ego, sir. Humanity reduced to worthless rotting corpses. What use would the Brightlings have for the walking dead, I ask?" He didn't wait for an answer, instead, lashing out in a blur with his cane to smack Maximus in the head. The end of the cane rapped against the floor again. "Why, no use at all, sir."
Maximus reeled from the attack as dark blood welled from a cut on his cheek. He growled. Lunged. His body smacked against an invisible barrier, the only evidence of its existence a ripple in the air.
"What in Heaven's name is this about?" said a voice to the side of us.
I nearly had a heart attack as Barclay strode in from our left. Had he not been so focused on the unfolding drama between Maximus and the rebel South, he would have seen Elyssa and me before we dropped flat on our stomachs behind another set of crates about twenty feet to his right. The vampire wore a bowler and a suit which matched the other man's in that it looked out of an era long past. He adjusted his monocle as he slowed his stride to a saunter.
Barclay stopped a few feet from the other man, tweaked his oiled moustache, and said, "Mr. Conroy, I will know the meaning of this visit and why you're provoking my protégé."
I almost gasped out loud, instead, sucking in a breath, an even bigger mistake as dust went up my nose thanks to the close proximity of my face to the ground. Pinching my nostrils in an attempt to prevent a sneezing fit, I looked to Elyssa with watering eyes. Her mouth hung slightly open, eyes tight with apprehension.
Somehow, I avoided the classic sneeze and give away your position scenario and climbed cautiously back to my knees to peer over the crates as Barclay took up a stance to Conroy's left.
"Mr. Barclay, so good of you to put in an appearance," Conroy said, turning to present his thin profile to me. He wore a graying mustache, long goatee, and a pair of round spectacles on a nose of generous proportions. He immediately made me think of Mark Twain. I figured my mom must look like Mrs. Conroy, because she looked nothing like this guy.
Barclay ignored the jibe. "Again, I ask you, sir, what is the meaning of this intrusion?"
"I believe that to be rather evident," Conroy said, spreading his arms. "My disciples have spent countless days cleaning up the messes left behind by this fool. Already, we have quashed five different outbreaks of vampling plagues where he has attempted to convert people into vampires despite his obvious inability to do so." He shook his head as if to exaggerate his disappointment. "And let us not forget Bogota. Had a plague descended upon such a large populace, the results would have been catastrophic." He leaned forward on his cane. "Just what, may I ask, do the vampires intend to use as a food source should humanity fall victim to such a plague?"
"I believe our original deal with Daelissa was to sow chaos, Conroy." Barclay took off his monocle and polished it on a handkerchief. "I fail to see the problem."
"I'm rather surprised a vampire of your age doesn't grasp the obvious, sir. We have cautioned you to keep your protégé under control. We have, time and time again, told you a vampling plague is unacceptable. You then created a serum and used it willy-nilly in the mortal population without properly testing it to see the results, ending up with a massacre at a high school when your recruiter turned into a vampling."
"Blah, blah, blah," Maximus said. "How was I supposed to know the serum would have that effect? Besides, no lasting harm came out of it."
"Oh, I disagree," Conroy said. "An unknown third party with access to quicksilver cleaned up the mess. I even found out from police reports my grandson was party to this debacle."
Grandson? It felt so bizarre hearing this man I'd never met—or at least remembered meeting—spoke of me like a family member. Hearing a third-party recounting how poor Brad Nichols had been infected with the vampling curse seemed even stranger.
Barclay flicked aside the criticism with a hand. "Yes, well, with any great undertaking, mistakes are bound to happen, Conroy. How do you Americans say it—ah, yes. To make an omelet, you must first break some eggs."
"Exactly," Maximus chimed in. "And don't forget it was you people who asked us—" he jabbed a thumb at his chest, "—for help. Your crazy angel chick begged us to help her. And that's what we've been doing."
"Daelissa never begged, boy. Your organization was starved for money and you, Mr. Barclay, feared for your life." Conroy sighed and shook his head. "No, I'm afraid the experiment is over. We have fingers in enough other pies that your organization is no longer needed. If anything, it has become a threat to the greater good."
"Then, by all means, Mr. Conroy, take your leave, and consider our business concluded," Barclay said, waving a hand toward the exit. "I think you can see yourself out."
Conroy put both his hands atop his cane and smiled. "Perhaps you misunderstand, gentlemen. Your organization is far too dangerous to leave to its own designs. The Red Syndicate, despite its many flaws, does an excellent job keeping youngsters from trying to spread their gift prematurely, if at all. Not only do you two not care about the dangers, but you have done nothing to educate your group of renegades about the dangers of the vampling plague." He put hand on his chest. "I feel we bear some responsibility for not seeing that potential pitfall."
"Are you threatening us?" Barclay said.
"You've got one way out of here, old man," Maximus said. "And that's through me and my people. So why don't you shut your mouth and haul your old ass out of here before I call down a hundred vampires to tear you and pudding boy to shreds?"
Conroy took off his spectacles and stowed them inside a front pocket. "I do apologize for the necessity of this, Barclay, but we have recognized the error of our alliance with you and have decided an amputation and cremation is the most effective solution."
Elyssa and I exchanged horrified glances. What the hell did this mean?
Barclay's calm composure faltered. "Surely that's a bit extreme. W-w-we could come up with procedures to alleviate your concerns."
"Oh?" Conroy leaned back and regarded the other man. "And if I told you the only way we would consider your proposal is if you handed us your associate's head on a plate?"
Maximus tensed, his burning red eyes going back and forth between Barclay and Conroy. "You aren't seriously listening to this jerkoff are you, Master? He's bluffing us."
"I'm sorry, son, but these people do not bluff." Metal rasped as Barclay whipped a long blade from his cane and flashed it at Maximus's neck.
Elyssa and I both gasped.
Maximus blurred. An explosion boomed through the cavern. Barclay's head turned into red mist. The sword dropped from limp fingers as his headless corpse tumbled to the floor. The big pistol in Maximus's hand snapped to Conroy.
It boomed several more times until clicking empty. Half a dozen smashed bullets hovered a foot from Conroy's face before dropping harmlessly to the ground.