Bjorn swung his broadsword in a wide arc across the table. With a single mighty blow, he swept nearly all of the gear and computer equipment from its surface. The music stopped instantly. The young vampire on the other side of the table turned and looked on his unexpected critic with shock.
“We care not if others find entertainment in our battles,” snarled Bjorn, “but I will not perform like some animal at a circus!”
“Okay, dude! Okay! Chill! Holy shit, dude!” the DJ balked. “Sorry you didn’t like the music! Should’ve asked if you had a request! My bad, bro! My bad!”
“Bjorn,” called Unferth. “The others will be waiting. Let’s go.”
The other Viking gave the DJ one last glare, then turned and left as he sheathed his sword once more. He joined his brother at the entrance to the mansion. “I hate this city,” Bjorn grumbled. “It is too warm, and everyone we meet here is a sycophant.”
As he entered the house, a pretty mortal servant girl knelt before him with a towel in hand and a wordless offer on her face. Bjorn motioned absently to her. She rose and wiped the blood from his shirt, his bared arms and his face. A second servant, this one a slender young man, came forward with a bowl and more towels.
The slaves of vampires learned quickly how to clean up spilled blood. Bjorn eyed them as they worked. He felt like devouring them both just because he could. At least they were fresh. Drinking from a fellow vampire was an effective combat technique, but the blood of the undead always tasted stale.
“Not everyone, I hope,” someone voiced in the Queen’s English. He stepped up to them with an entourage of vampires and mortal servants. His darkly-colored suit came closer to modern fashion than the clothes of most of the vampires present, but its style and wool fabric were at least a century and a half out of date. He walked with a cane that he did not need and a polite smile.
“Wentworth,” nodded Unferth.
“You will address him as Lord Mayor-“ objected one of the newcomer’s retainers, but the leader interrupted with a casual gesture of his hand.
“There’s no need for that,” he said. “Unferth and Bjorn are honored warriors. The least I can do for them is forego the lofty titles.”
Bjorn snorted. “Yours is less pretentious than most. The whole practice is ridiculous. Claim a city, claim a title based on nothing but a whim. We met the Marquess of San Francisco an hour ago. I hear Hawaii has a shogun, for fuck’s sake.”
Wentworth tilted his head in deference to Bjorn’s disdain. “The pace of the modern world encourages a bit of creative license, but I do prefer humbler titles.”
“Nothing like our host’s,” grunted Bjorn.
“Yes, well. Let’s not bring that up in his presence, shall we?”
“He has a millennium on us as well, Wentworth,” frowned Unferth. “No one has dared challenge him since before Bjorn and I last saw the sun. We didn’t survive this long by being stupid. It’s just too bad that this mess didn’t turn up on your side of the continent instead of hers.”
“Let’s hope it’s still her side,” put in Bjorn. “If not, we may have to leave this coast for saner territory.”
Unferth nodded. “As I say. You may be young as lords go, Wentworth, but at least you aren’t raving mad.”
Wentworth’s clipped smile twitched a bit as if to convey his thanks. “I’m sure we’ll be able to resolve this mess with your help. I will try to mitigate our host’s… eccentricities.” He spotted a servant at the top of a broad, open staircase nearby. “Is he ready for us?”
The servant nodded. “Lords and ladies, honored guests, your attention, please.” He spoke loudly enough to break into every conversation within earshot, but with a tone that dripped with respect and subordination. “Gaius Cornelius Vaspasianus, sole Consul of the Republic of Los Angeles awaits his most honored guests to take counsel with him in his audience chamber. He bids you attend at your convenience.”
Unferth and Bjorn shared a glance and a roll of their eyes, but only Wentworth saw it. Even they did not want to directly insult their host. Cornelius was mad, but powerful in a great many ways.
Arriving in the audience chamber, the guests found faux-Imperial Roman décor and the usual assortment of vampires wearing outfits that spanned centuries of fashion. At the center of the room on a large oaken throne sat Cornelius himself in a red toga and laurel crown. Never a noble or even a leader in life, Cornelius ruled now through awe of his age. It was hard to find so old a vampire anywhere in North America. Few wanted to test his prowess.
Only one vampire kept him from claiming the whole of the West as his own… and no one knew if she still walked.
“Unferth! Bjorn! So good to see you,” Cornelius smiled. He rose and crossed the room to clap them both on the shoulders. They felt the great strength of his hands-surely the only reason he made such a gesture-and nodded politely, but did not return his smile. “I witnessed your victory from the balcony. The outcome was never in doubt.”
“We thank you for putting us in the same room as the Spaniards,” said Bjorn. “Finally.”
Unferth wanted to cuff his brother for daring to hide a veiled complaint in his words of gratitude, but he decided not to bring attention to it. “This night has been a long time coming for us, Lord Cornelius,” he nodded.
“Yes,” Cornelius smiled, “I know it has. I am glad your dispute is put to rest. Far graver concerns await our attention. I’m afraid I must ask you to repay my favor more or less immediately.”
“You have a lead?” asked Unferth.
“I do,” nodded Cornelius. He stepped back from them and looked briefly to Wentworth. “Lord Mayor, if I may?”
Wentworth bowed. “You are the host, after all, sir. And the one responsible for locating this vital information.”
“Thank you. My lords and ladies,” Cornelius said, holding his arms out wide, “as you all know, I have searched tirelessly for our vanished friend and ally to the north and her court. From across the continent, Lord Mayor Wentworth offered his aid, and together we have labored to find answers. We now have the scent of blood, and we will follow its trail.”
He gestured grandly to a lovely young Latina woman in a white toga beside his bed. Her skin was still flush with warmth. Only a mortal slated to receive the gift of eternal night from the host himself would be allowed in such private counsel. She raised a small plastic remote to one wall and pressed a button, causing the wall panels to slide back and reveal a large, state of the art flat screen television.
The image that flickered to life was of a scrawny, bald, broken man. His hands were cuffed to the arms of his chair. Not all of his fingers remained. The evil eye tattooed at his neck and other symbols on his skin suggested much. Dozens of small scars covered his head, neck and shoulders, all of them looking to be fresh but at least sealed.
“This is Kenneth,” explained Cornelius. “He was a member, though junior in rank and likely not valued, of a group of sorcerers in Seattle that called themselves the Brotherhood of Apollo.”
Murmurs broke the silence of his audience. Cornelius continued. “As you may or may not be aware, it is difficult for mortals to cast spells without fingers. It also requires a certain precision of speech,” he added with a smile, waving one finger around his own mouth. “Please forgive Kenneth’s lisp. He had only recently lost his front teeth when this video was made. But I bid you pay close attention. He tells an interesting story.”
***
“So Jason turns up at mah place the next night, right? An’ he’s got this bewildered look on his face like he’s jus’ come outta combat or somethin’. He’s got every inch of his arms covered with stuff in pink marker, like hearts an’ X’s and O’s, an’ ah swear t’ God one hand is marked ‘shock’ an’ the other says ‘awe,’ an’ his neck is jus’ covered in hickies…”