A Dozen Black Roses by Nancy A. Collins Page A

greeted his rival in the middle of the dance floor, flanked by his elite guard. "Welcome to my club!
    I am pleased you are here, Sinjon," he smiled.
    "I could not ignore such a gracious invitation, Esher. You are right; there is much we must discuss."
    Esher nodded and motioned for Sinjon to join him. "Come—let us retire to my private box. We can talk undisturbed there."
    "I trust your men are unarmed?"
    "Indeed. I trust yours are as well."
    "Of course."
    The stranger watched the elaborate charade of cordiality between the two rival lords. Despite their viciousness—or perhaps because of it—the ruling classes of the Kindred observed rigid rules of conduct when dealing with one another. One of which was ritual politeness. Since she had come of age on her own, she had never been absorbed into Kindred society and did not accept its labyrinthine codes of behavior. But she had learned to exploit it for her own uses.
    One thing she knew from past experience was that while they were eternal, the Kindred were not creatures of change. Most were like Sinjon— elders who preferred the garb and customs of centuries long dead to the age in which they currently dwelt. Given time, most would succumb to such anachronistic eccentricities. After all—who could bother keeping up with human fashions? Those who remained in the past too long eventually found themselves out of touch—and under the heel of the younger, more vital Kindred.
    As she watched Sinjon and Esher exchange their ritual pleasantries, she knew at once which of them was the stronger. Doubtless, so did Sinjon. That's why he had come in the first place.
    The stranger turned away from the stage and headed for the exit. She already had a good idea of what Esher was pulling—or trying to pull—on his rival. Now it was up to her to see if she couldn't put her own personal spin on the situation.

    ***
Father Eamon sat in the bell tower of St. Everhild, nursing his bottle of no-name bourbon as he watched the lights of the city glitter on the river's dark surface. He had to marvel at how close and yet so far the rest of humanity was from Deadtown. He felt a certain hot excitement, not unlike that kindled by pornography or self-abuse, when he thought about how easy it would be for him to walk out the front doors of St. Everhild and through the blasted streets and enter once more the world of stockbrokers,
    Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) housewives, shopping centers and fast food. His exodus would have to occur during the day, but still it could be done. All it took was the determination to leave St. Everhild behind.
    Of course, that would never happen. He was tied to Deadtown as tightly as a mother to her unborn child.
    He could no more walk away from his church than he could fly from the bell tower. He was bound by chains of guilt and sin just as Christ was nailed to the cross.
    Still, there was a certain titillation to be had from fantasizing about leaving—
    Father Eamon's attention was drawn to a shadow flickering across the street below. When he looked again he saw that the shadow was actually a creature of substance. He felt his skin crawl with the realization that he was watching one of the demons that wandered Deadtown after dark. Although he had seen several of the monsters during his years as St. Everhild's curate, he had yet to lose the sense of horror that came from spotting them on their unholy rounds. Some, like the thing below, took the shape of comely women, while others wore the flesh of handsome young boys—but Father Eamon knew them for what they truly were: the living dead.
    The vampiress paused for a moment, the dim light reflecting off the mirrored sunglasses she wore, but it was long enough for Father Eamon to get a good look at her. At first he'd thought she was Esher's witch, but now he could see that that wasn't the case. As he watched, the female vampire ducked down the alley that led to