"But how can I know what he really feels? Is he going to change?"
Michael got to his feet. This was really too much for him. "Kristen, remember those sacred vows. That half-defrocked Boer gave us a pretty traditional variety. You
promised to obey your husband, I'm afraid. Terribly incorrect politically. But that's what you said. So, you ask Serrin when he gets back; I know him even less well than you do. For now, girl, keep quiet and let me get back to work." He wagged an admonishing finger at her in fun; she just smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
Michael prepared to jack back in. He wasn't going to wait for Serrin and Tom to return. Confronting HKB's defenses would at least let him do what he was good at. Then, cursing himself for his stupidity, he retired to his bedroom and made the call to London.
"Geraint, old boy, can we get an encrypted line?"
"Sure." The Welshman's rich voice greeted him with the old familiarity. "How's it going?"
"You owe me a fortune, term. Wait until you see my bill."
Geraint sighed, running the fingers of one hand through his dark hair. "Is it finished, then? You're through?"
"Not quite. Listen, old friend, I need some help."
"Fire away."
"You're not going to like this," Michael warned him.
"So?"
"I mean, you're really not going to like this," Michael stressed. Geraint waited, his face on the screen expressionless. "I've got to find out something about corporate ownership of a certain subsidiary. HKB is handling it through the corporate licensing division."
"I can't do that," Geraint said. "Everything's traced. Not a chance."
"You don't have to deck into their system to do it. There are records, hard copy. You're a director, after all. This little corp is obscure and poses absolutely no threat to HKB's interests. The information wouldn't be sensitive in any way."
"I'm afraid, old boy, that everything in those files is sensitive information. If it wasn't, people wouldn't pay us to handle anonymous ownerships," Geraint said drily. "They pay us precisely to make sure that no one finds out."
"Geraint, we're on to something big. To borrow an old line of the Dame's, this ain't rock and roll, this is genocide." Michael then gave his friend a rundown of what they'd learned and seen.
Geraint had finished his first cigarette and was halfway through a second, lit from the first, by the time Michael fell silent.
"We don't know exactly what this elf is up to. Except that he's concocting some kind of drug, and it wipes humans out. That's you and me, old boy. Fancy turning into a zombie?"
"You don't know that for sure," Geraint said nervously, but sounded dubious about his own statement. "Strath, this is more than my own life's worth. Decking into HKB records."
"But you can do it," Michael insisted.
"I need four hours. I've got to cover my butt somehow," Geraint said. His face had turned very pale now.
"You've got my number."
Michael wouldn't need the double-check on the Squeeze connection now. Which saved him a double-dip into the 1C.
The telecom beeped at half-past two, then the image of Geraint's face came on the screen glowering at Michael.
"I'm going to Hong Kong for a few days on business," the Welshman said quietly. "I've fixed it so someone else will take the rap on this one. I don't want to be around when it happens."
"Well?" Michael urged him.
"The company's registered in Vienna. You'll have to deal with the Viennese matrix; I wasn't going to try to find out who owns the damn thing from the HKB files," Geraint muttered, and gave him the address. He didn't even wait for thanks or goodbye, breaking the connection as soon as Michael had written down the details.
The Englishman was about to jack into his deck when Serrin and Tom came into the room, back from their visit with Julia Richards.
"We've got two possibles," the elf said urgently. "One in the Ukraine and one outside Regensburg. Julia's got a friend who's still scoping it for us."
"The company that owns Amalgamated Photosynthetics is based outside Vienna," Michael told them. "I'm about to go hunting for the owners. If we get a match to a name, or a location, then we know."
"Then what are we going to do?" Kristen asked.
"That's a bloody good question," Michael told her. "We'll be damned lucky if we can come up with an answer."
Luther rampaged through the corridors, bellowing like a minotaur, smashing everything around him with inhuman strength as Martin watched him on the closed circuits. Luther had foreseen this, of course; he had sealed the laboratory behind himself to make sure he didn't destroy his precious work. Now he was wholly out of control, blood raging in a torrent of fire through his body. When he was done smashing the serried ranks of statuettes and busts, he finally caught sight of the young mage.
Luther threw himself onto the young man, like a hyena pouncing on a fallen member of the herd. Jaws clamped like a vice on his throat, one clawed hand gripped for the ribs, the other for the mage's chest, over his heart. The man screamed, writhing, unable to bring his hands up to defend himself. They twitched in their bonds at his back. Luther's canines struck the carotid and salty blood filled his mouth, running down over his chin as he sucked greedily at the warmth of it. He drew his face away from the man's throat and gazed into his eyes.
Forcing the mage down to his knees and then prone onto the floor, he crouched over him. The young elf's face was distorted into a living death mask, his eyes wild and unfocused. Luther knelt over the body and drank in his victim's terror and fear as eagerly as he had the blood. The man's deathly fear and panic excited him, fed him as surely as the blood did; he loved the leeching away of a living soul, drew power from it.
Luther struggled to hold back the ravenous beast inside, savoring every second of exultation and pleasure the dying gave him. Then the hunger burst like a disintegrating dam and he tore the elf's throat apart, hands clutching
either side of the lolling head. He fastened himself to the neck, the blood saturating his hands and chest. The rich crimson flood held the last of the agonies of the dying mage, life-blood filled with death-fear, the delight of it overwhelming him. Luther's body spasmed like a huge, pallid leech rippling with peristalsis as it gorged itself.
Martin came to him as he lay whimpering beside the corpse, wiping great smears of sticky blood from his face and hands. Luther's hands shook uncontrollably. Martin took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and tended to him as lovingly as any mother to her newborn.
"I knew, Your Grace," he said softly. "I knew it would be necessary. Now all will be well."
Luther looked at him with a momentary incomprehension. He coughed, a choking heave from the back of his throat, and his eyes glazed over. He vomited dark, sticky blood onto the floor, retching horribly. Martin put his hands under the other elf's arms and dragged him to his feet, holding him upright until he could stand on his own again.
"Ah, Martin." Luther was calm again, or at least in control of himself. "You always provide."
"Will you bathe, Your Grace?"
"There is no time," Luther said, irritably picking at the clotting viscosities on his sleeves and collar. "It is so very close. Perhaps by noon. The first batches after nightfall. The helicopters should be here by dawn tomorrow. We can begin distribution then."
He looked down at the ruined corpse. "Who was he?"
"A local mage, Your Grace. I know that it was risky taking him, living so close to us," Martin said, answering the look in Luther's eyes. "But time is so short, Master, and we couldn't get any of the others in time."