Industrial Magic

Disconnected



VAMPIRES ARE A RACE OF CITY DWELLERS. THAT MAY SEEM obvious, since it’s far easier to kill undetected in a city with hundreds of annual unsolved murders, rather than in a small town that might see a single homicide a year. In truth, though, that’s not a major factor in their choice.

Real vampires aren’t the marauding bloodsuckers you see on late-night TV, racking up a dozen victims every night. A real vampire only needs to kill once a year, though they must feed more often than that. Feeding is easy enough—if you ever pass out in a bar and wake up the next morning with a hangover that seems worse than normal, I’d suggest you check your neck. You may not find the marks, though. Unless you know what you’re looking for, vampire bites are nearly impossible to see, and the aftereffects are no more debilitating than donating blood on an empty stomach.

Since a vampire bite is rarely fatal, it would be easy enough for vamps to live outside the city and commute for their annual kill. It might even be safer. The problem is that pesky semi-immortality. When you don’t age, people notice. It may take a while, but they eventually start to ask what brand of moisturizer you’re using. The smaller the town, the more people pay attention, and the more they talk. In a big city, a vampire could stay in one spot for fifteen to twenty years, and never hear more than a few snide Botox comments. Plus, there’s the whole boredom issue. Small towns are great for raising a family, but if you’re single and childless, Saturday nights on the front porch swing get a little dull after the first hundred years.

So, vampires like the city life. In North America, they also prefer the sunshine belt, with over half of the continent’s vampires living below the Mason-Dixon line. Northern winters probably lose their appeal pretty quickly when you realize you could lie on the beach all day and never risk so much as a sunburn. And it’s much easier to bite someone in a tank top than to gnaw through a parka.



Cassandra had arranged to meet Aaron in a bar on the south side of Atlanta. I’d never been to Atlanta, and our quick taxi ride from the airport to the bar didn’t provide much opportunity for sightseeing. What I noticed most was how modern it was. It looked, well, it looked like a northern city, very high-tech, very efficient, very un-southern. I’d expected something like Savannah or Charleston, but I saw little that reminded me of either. I suppose if I’d considered my history first, I’d have known better than to expect much Old South in Atlanta. General Sherman took care of that.

The taxi drove us to a neighborhood best described as working-class, with row houses, postage-stamp-size lawns, and streets lined with ten-year-old cars. The driver pulled up in front of a bar sandwiched between an auto-supply store and a Laundromat. The sign on the door read LUCKY PETE’S BILLIARDS, but the BILLIARDS part had recently been stroked out.

Cassandra paid the driver, stepped from the car, looked at the bar, and shook her head. “Aaron, Aaron. Two hundred years old and you still haven’t developed an iota of taste.”

“Seems fine to me. Hey, look, the sign says Fridays are Ladies’ Night. Cheap beer after four. Is it past four?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

I spotted Aaron on my first survey of the bar. I would say, with some certainty, most women would spot Aaron on their first survey of any bar. He’s at least six feet two, broad-shouldered, and tanned, with sandy blond hair and a ruggedly handsome face. Aaron sat at the end of the bar, engrossed in a beer and a cigarette, and ignoring the glances of a secretarial quartet behind him. As Cassandra approached, she took in his muddy work boots, worn jeans, and mortar-dust-coated T-shirt.

“How nice of you to dress up for me, Aaron,” she said.

“I just got off work. You’re damned lucky I even agreed—” He saw me and blinked

“This is—” Cassandra began.

“Paige,” Aaron said. “How’re you doing?”

“Good.” I slid onto the stool beside his. “How have you been?”

“Keeping out of trouble.” A quick grin. “Mostly. And watching my back a little better. Still damn embarrassing, getting kidnapped like that. Beer?”

“Please.”

He motioned to the bartender. “I won’t ask you, Cass. There’s nothing here you’d touch. Probably not even the patrons. Are you going to pull up a stool or just stand there?”

“This hardly seems the place for a private conversation,” she said, then wheeled and headed for a booth near the back.

Aaron shook his head. I ordered my beer and he took a refill on his. As he pushed aside his empty glass, he noticed his cigarette in the ashtray and stubbed it out.

“It’s not enough that I’m a vampire, I gotta kill people with secondhand smoke, too.” He pushed the ashtray up beside the empty beer glass. “I heard a rumor about you hooking up with the Cortez boy. That true?”

I nodded, took my beer from the bartender, and laid down a five. Aaron waved it back and exchanged his fresh beer for a ten, with a murmured “no change.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I owe you more than a cheap beer. Now, this Cortez, it’s Lucas, right? The youngest? Doesn’t work for the family?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s good, because someone was trying to tell me it was the next older one. You don’t wanna get mixed up with those Cabal guys. But, now, Cassandra said she wanted to talk about a Cabal situation, and since you’re here, I’m assuming you’re involved. But if you’re with Lucas, and he doesn’t work for the Cabals…”

“Let’s go sit with Cassandra and I’ll explain.”



I told Aaron the story. When I finished, he leaned back and shook his head.

“F*cking unbelievable. We need that kinda trouble like we need a stake through the heart. You find this loser, you make sure the Cabals know the rest of us had nothing to do with it.” He took a gulp of beer. “I guess you want to know whether I have any idea who might be behind it. I’m also guessing you’ve already checked out John and his gang.”

“John?” I said.

“John, Hans, whatever he’s calling himself today. You know who I mean, Cass.”

“Oh,” Cassandra said, lip curling. “Him.”

“Well, you’ve told Paige about him, right? His little anti-Cabal crusade?”

My head snapped up. “Anti-Cabal crusade?”

She frowned. “When did he start this?”

“Oh, only about a decade or so ago.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Aaron shook his head. “No, it’s just the first time you’ve heard it and paid attention.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Aaron turned to me. “Guy’s name is John, but he calls himself Hans; thinks ‘John’ isn’t a proper name for a vampire. He’s one of the New Orleans vamps.”

“Oh.”

Aaron grinned. “That explains everything, doesn’t it? John’s got this burr about Cabals. It goes with the whole mentality of those guys. They’re vampires, so they’re ‘special’ and they should rule the frigging supernatural world. If it wasn’t for that damned writer…It’s gone straight to their heads. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were behind this.”

“Any idea where we can find them?” I asked.

“I can get John’s address but it might take a day or two. He’s not exactly on my Christmas card list. But if you’re in a hurry, his posse hangs out at the Rampart in New Orleans.” He looked at Cassandra. “But you check it out for her, Cass. Don’t be taking Paige in there.”

“Vamps only?” I said.

“Nah, just not a very nice place. I’ll put out some feelers, too, see if I can pick up any rumors.”

I pulled out my notepad to give him my number.

“Hold on,” he said, and took out his cell phone. “Safer this way. Every damned piece of paper I stuff into my pockets winds up in the washing machine. I can tell you where I was when I heard Lincoln had been shot, but do you think I can ever remember to empty my pockets before doing laundry? Not a chance.”

I dictated my phone number and Lucas’s, and Aaron entered them into his cell directory. Then he returned the phone to his jacket, lounged back in his seat, and cracked his knuckles.

Cassandra sighed. “What is it, Aaron?”

“Hmmm?”

“Whenever you do that”—she waved at his hands—“it means there’s something on your mind. What is it?”

He paused, then looked over at me. “The Rampart. It’s a problem, and it’s been a problem for a while, which brings up something else. The interracial council. I know you have Cass, but maybe you’d consider taking another vamp—”

“Excuse me?” Cassandra said.

“Oh, get your back down. I mean a second vampire, someone who’ll bring forward vampire concerns, like the Rampart. I’ll do it, but if you know of someone better, that’s cool. There aren’t enough vamps to have our own governing body, and the council used to perform that role—”

“Used to?” Cassandra said. “If anyone has concerns, I’ll take them to the council.”

Aaron turned and met her gaze. “Cass, you stopped doing that years ago. Decades. You’re not…You’re not part of anything anymore. You’re disconnected.”

“Disconnected?”

“I’m not trying to give you a hard time. There have always been two vampire delegates for a reason, one as a resource and one as an ombudsman. Now that Lawrence is gone, you’ve taken over his old role and, well, someone needs to do yours.”

When she didn’t respond, he touched her elbow, but she yanked her arm back.

“I am not disconnected,” she said.

Aaron sighed, and looked at me. “Think about it.”

I nodded. We finished up and left.