Chapter 3
Rahab's Manor
That next evening, Rahab awoke to the sounds of a fight. Looking outside through the stained-glass windows of his personal apartments, he saw a kid, a regular at his nightly raves, staked to a tree and three of his friends circling around Vincent.
Vincent, his bike knocked over beside him, had his stake gun pointed at the heart of another would-be victim.
Hoy, he thought, why so early? No good can come of this.
He got dressed and walked over to the tabletop that currently displayed his favorite pistols. Something big. Beretta? No. Not big enough. He grabbed the Desert Eagle, put it in his back holster and went outside, calling his servants Jake and John to help with the possible problem.
"What the hell is going on?" Rahab asked as he pushed open the double-doors that lead to his outer courtyard.
Immediately, all three remaining ravers started talking, pointing at Vincent and re-enacting how their friend was staked.
Annoyed, Rahab rolled his eyes, pulled the gun from behind his back and shot a few rounds in the air.
"Now that I have your complete attention," he said, pointing his pistol at all of them in turn, "I want one, and only one, of you to tell me what is going on."
One lad stepped forward.
"I'll tell you, Mr. Alexia," he pointed at Vincent and started screaming hysterically, "That blue-purple-or whatever-haired freak shot Billy with that stake gun! And for no apparent reason!" The other boys started cheering their comrade, all screaming at once, the whole mess sounding like chickens fighting.
Rahab rolled his eyes and shot the lead youngster in the chest.
The other two stopped, turned and watched the boy fall flat on his back. They then turned to Rahab, a look of shock on both of their faces.
"What? He'll be better by morning," he said, gesturing with his gun, "just give him some blood." His gaze and gun-sights fell on Vincent, who was now placing his bike back on its wheels and polishing the gas tank. "Now, Vincent, what happened?"
Vincent never looked up from his bike.
"You either stop pointing that thing at me, or I jam it squarely in a very uncomfortable place."
Rahab couldn't help thinking of a Volkswagen.
"Fine." Rahab lowered his gun, "Now will you tell me just what the hell this," Rahab swept his arm around, indicating the boy who was still lying on the ground, and the other, who was being helped by his friends off the tree, "is all about?"
"Well, you saw my friend, Mr. T-Bone, over there," he pointed behind his back to the boy who was staked, "he decided that it would be a good idea to try pissing me off. I don't get aggravated easily. When shouting unimaginative taunts didn't work, he kicked over my bike. That was not a good idea.
"My only thought was that this little punk didn't like his chosen career, so I chose a new one for him. The rest, I guess, are his friends, and they, apparently, don't like his new station in life."
Rahab looked at Vincent blankly, "So all of this was over some motorcycle?"
"Not just a motorcycle," Vincent said proudly, looking Rahab in the eye, "but a 1952 Harley-Davidson Panhead Custom Special. It's the only one like it in the world. It's got a 1200 cc/74 cubic inch FL-Edition Sportster V-Twin engine running a freshly rebuilt tranny and a fat back tire. See these fishtail pipes? Had them imported from Milwaukee, man. The seat? Custom made. I even have stronger springs and shocks in the forks and in the rear suspension to accommodate for my weight. Do you see that drive-chain? That drive-chain is a titanium alloy. I rebuilt the engine and tranny myself to put out extra torque so I can still catch you fast fuckers, and this is the only chain that won't break under that kind of pressure. The saddlebags that your lackeys took off were made especially for my reaching parameters, so I could more easily pull out my pump-action or stake gun.
"This bike is tits. Your shaved-and-trained monkeys were lucky that they didn't scratch this fine piece of art, otherwise they'd end up with that little bitch stapled to a tree."
Rahab continued to stare blankly. "Yeah. A motorcycle." He shook his head. "You need a woman. I'm going inside. John, Jake." With that, the three went inside, Rahab slamming the door behind him.
"What was that all about?"
Rahab looked up to see the lucious form of Ashley leaning over the rail of the second-story hallway.
"I'm still not entirely sure. Something about some bike and a kid knocking it over."
Sixty came running out of his rooms, holding a very worn teddy bear and a rubber chicken, wearing a faded pink nightgown. "You mean Vincent's '52 Panhead? Who knocked it over? Do we know them? I'll kick their ass!"
"Yes, we know him, but Vincent already staked him to a tree."
"Serves him right, the bastard."
"Yes, yes, he got what he deserved and whatnot. Vincent's outside the front door working on his bike now..."
Before Rahab could finish his sentence, Sixty sprinted into Steveoh's room, screaming at the top of his lungs. The next sound was Steveoh screaming back, hitting the floor and then something breaking.
Sixty then ran, still screaming, with his arms flapping, into his room and slammed the door.
Rahab and Ashley looked at the scene, then at each other, and then shook their heads.
Ashley decided that it would be a good idea to go up to her room. Halfway up the stairs, she ran into the groggy Steveoh, still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, his Mohawk more than a little disheveled.
She continued to her room.
Rahab shook his head. "John, please come here." the human walked cautiously over to his master. "I'm going up to my library before I get caught in tonight's rave. If anyone calls, forward it there." The servant bowed and went into the next room.
They're crying, he thought, those boobs are actually crying over that bike with the imported things, titanium whatnots and custom hoo-has.
Rahab walked back into the library from the balcony, looking up to the moonlit sky.
Why, oh why do I have to work with such idiots?
What was that? There's something on the third-story mezzanine. What is it?
"Hello-o. Is anybody there?"
His nightly messenger flapped from the book-lined balcony and flew down to Rahab, who raised his arm for it to perch upon.
Rahab stroked the bird tenderly, "Now, my dear, tell me what you see tonight."
The owl proceeded to tell him everything it had seen thus far: the geese had started flying south, tonight's party just started, there were man-beasts on the outer edge of the property and the mouse population was growing well.
Rahab thanked the owl, kissed its head and released it up to the aviary dome.
"Sounds like I have to accelerate my plans." he thought out loud, pressing the buzzer on his desk.
John walked through the door immediately.
"Yes, Master?"
"John? I wasn't expecting you...unless those two baboons are still bawling over that thing of Vincent's."
"No, sir, they are no longer crying over it." Rahab let out a small sigh of relief. "They have moved on to kissing it."
Rahab groaned.
"Get those three in here as soon as possible. I have a mission for them."
As John left, Rahab picked up the phone.
"Get me Tony Fingers. Tony, my friend. How are you doing? How did your boss like the gift? Great! Now, however, you need to do me a favor. I need you to lie for me."
Steveoh, Sixty and Vincent walked into the library, Sixty and Vincent deep in discussion.
"You gotta come down and see it, man. It's nothing like yours, but it's still cool. Yours is the only one I've seen cooler. I don't have all the neat, custom stuff you do, but I can proudly say that all the parts are original."
"Sounds great," Vincent returned, "I'll have to take a look. Maybe we can go riding after this mission. Brandon isn't much of a rider, he's more of a mechanic. I could use a riding buddy, especially one that rides an original Indian."
"Ahem," Rahab interrupted, "I'm sorry to interrupt such a meeting of the minds, but I'm sure that my mission is a bit more important than some pair of motorcycles." Rahab waited for absolute silence. "Thank you. Now, Vincent. I have need of your abilities." He slid a photograph across the desk.
Vincent looked at the picture. "The Great Clave of the Glass Walkers, forged by the first of that Lupine tribe. It was said to be lost in 1854 in a card game in San Antonio. It hasn't been seen since."
"In fact, it was August 31st, 1854," Rahab said, "and my winning hand was two small pair - nines and nines. He thought he had me beat with a straight flush. I heard he was later killed by his comrades for even betting it, let alone losing it. I guess werewolves don't take kindly to the frivolous waste of their artifacts, especially ones made by the progenitor of their species."
"So you mean to tell me that you have been holding this arcane artifact for, what, the last hundred and fifty years?"
"Yes, and two days ago, it was stolen from me. I want it back, and this," he punched a few numbers into a calculator, "is what I'm willing to pay you." He pushed the calculator over to Vincent, who looked at it, astonished.
"My, my. That's a whole lot of zeros." He pulled his laptop out of the saddlebag he brought with, "I guess I can do business with you in this venture. I merely need to know a couple things, first.
"Number one: is there a time-frame?"
"Unfortunately, there is, and a very tight one at that. A little birdie tells me that a sect of the tribe of werewolves known as the Get of Fenris wants this clave more than its original owners, their long-time rivals, the Glass Walkers. It seems that the Glass Walkers believe that whosoever possesses this clave rules the tribe.
"My source tells me that the Get of Fenris has finally figured out that I have it, and since I am not particularly partial to being ripped apart by lupines, I intend to deliver it to them."
"I don't want to know any more about your political agenda." Vincent said, "The less I know, the better.
"Secondly: if, along the way, I happen to kill a couple vampires that are not employed by you that I know of, I reserve the right to drain them completely of their blood, and thus, their soul, in the unlawful act of diablerie. Do you agree to this?"
"Only if you bring me a pint of their blood for myself."
"You must be kidding me. I'm no fool. You have to consume down to the very last drop to diablerize."
"No, no. You only have to consume the last drop. You can drain a pint into a jar for me before you feed."
"Fine. Looks like we have a deal, then. I hope you don't mind, but the printer behind you is printing out my standard contract. Read it over if you like, but it's got no surprises. The only variables are your name, what you want me to do and how much you're going to pay me.
"What form of transport are we going to be using? I'm assuming that you are sending these two buffoons with me, and the three of us can't fit on my bike."
Rahab looked the contract over carefully, signing his name at the bottom.
"I will provide transportation. A modified Humvee with a bit of a sassy side named Sydney. Sixty will drive, as much as is needed, and you can bring one to two others of your choice. No more. Sydney will be told how many are to be coming, and will not allow any more on." He handed the signed contract to Vincent.
"You rich pricks and naming your freaking vehicles. I don't even have my bike named." He looked at the contract. "Nice signature. This is East Arabic, is it not? Looks like you spent a lot of time in the Iranian Desert."
"Why, yes. Thank you for noticing. And Sydney is a very special vehicle."
"And so is my bike, which I'm going to right now." He rose to leave. "I will see you for mission briefing at 10:00 tonight, Mr. Alexia."
With that, he walked out of the library.
While marching through the hallway, saddlebag slung over his shoulder, he ran into Ashley.
"You know, it isn't very often that he uses a person for more than one mission. He usually has them eliminated after their first."
"Oh, yeah? And how come you're still here?"
"Because I proved myself."
"Yeah, well, I don't intend to do that. I intend to do this job, and get the hell out of Rahab's service permanently, so you don't need to worry about my taking over the second-in-command position."
Ashley's eyes shot open, rage filling her. "Listen here, you half-breed! You couldn't do half of what I do for him! You are nothing but a walking accident waiting to happen! There's no way you could take my place, even if you tried! You don't know him the way I do! You can't carry out his orders before he gives them like I can! You don't lov-" she cut her sentence short, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Vincent bent down to see her at eye-level.
"I know that you think I'm a threat. I know that you feel for Rahab, and I also know that he barely notices you. You are nothing more than a servant to him. A good servant, I'll admit, but a servant nonetheless. The sooner you get that through your head, the better off you will be." Leaving her that raw bone to chew, he stood up, turned down the hallway, and began to walk.
"You bastard half-breed!"
Vincent turned in time to see Ashley's knife slice across his throat, exposing the veins and airways within. Almost immediately, the hole closed itself up, not even leaving a scar.
He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the ground.
"You have tried my patience for the last time. I despise vampires, but the only reason I have not killed you yet is because you are in Rahab's service, and I wanted to stay on his good side. Now, since you have attempted my life, I am going to take yours – and your soul."
As he bared his teeth, ready to start draining her of vitae, he looked across to see Rahab, Sixty and Steveoh all standing outside the library door, watching him.
He put the petrified Ashley down on her feet gently, bending down to whisper into her ear.
"Let this be a lesson. I don't want to stay here. You can have the old bastard as much as you damn well please. You got lucky this time. Don't try your luck with me again."
He then stood straight up, look squarely at Rahab, bowed and left the manor, skirting the rooms that the rave was in. The next sound was his bike starting and taking off down the driveway.