I have to make a small digression to share something that still cracks me up.
When Du la Font pulled Irene out of Hell, he didn't do it for free. He told me he had to leave another soul in her place. I asked him if he was going to grab one of the souls around us, and he answered—in that classic Du la Font tone:
"Don't be stupid, boy. Use your brain, if you've got one. If I take a soul from here, your precious Irene won't be born in the fifties. She'd be born in the present. Well—your present. Which might be the future for some, or the past for others. But let's not get lost in metaphysics now. The point is: I need a soul that's meant to be born in 1955. That one won't be born, and your Irene takes its place."
I said:
"Right, right, makes perfect sense, Edmundo. Sorry for my momentary lack of lucidity. I suppose the whole stealing-souls-to-make-miracles thing caught me a bit off guard."
And then—don't ask me how the hell he did it—we shifted into the past of that same desert, the one where souls wait their turn to be born. Du la Font explained that, technically, we weren't in the past, because in that place, time doesn't exist. I was about to ask why time doesn't exist there, but Du la Font gave me a look—one of those "don't start with questions, I'm not explaining shit" kind of looks. Like I was an insolent waiter approaching a nobleman's table uninvited. So yeah, I kept my mouth shut.
Then he said:
"Choose, boy. Which one of these wretched souls do I throw into the pit?"
I stopped cradling Irene's featherlight soul with both arms, shifted her to one, and with the free hand, I played a round of eeny, meeny, miny, moe. When I finished, I pointed at a particularly grumpy-looking soul, completely distracted, lost in its own mess. Du la Font went straight for it. Grabbed it by the waist with one hand. The soul snapped out of its daze, started kicking and screaming that it wasn't its time, that it didn't belong in Hell. Du la Font didn't blink. He dragged it straight into the cave—and vanished. The other souls just stared, stunned.
When Edmundo came back, I pointed at another soul and said:
"Take that one too."
That one dropped to her knees at Du la Font's feet and begged—forgive the redundancy—for her soul. Du la Font kicked her across the sand like trash. God, I burst out laughing. Full jaw, full volume. I wish Irene had been in a state to witness that. She would've laughed with me. But of course, she wasn't.
Every time I remember that scene, I can't help but laugh. Just did it again, actually. And then, I go still. Any second now, there's going to be a knock at the door. I wait for the bell. The bell rings. I know exactly who's coming to visit: the four vampires from the Chevrolet Bel Air. I've felt their presence, smelled their scent. I've heard their thoughts, getting clearer as they approached.
Normally, visiting vampires show respect to the locals and then disappear. And just to be clear, these tourist vampires aren't low-tier scum. They're middle-class, so to speak. Because low-tier vampires don't get to travel anywhere. They're not allowed in other cities—especially not big ones. Those are reserved exclusively for high-bloods. But anyway, why go on about it? It's a waste of time. Long story short: low-tier vampires live miserable lives. Just like the poor in the human world. I wouldn't want to be in their shoes. I've been poor. I've been low-class. As a human. I'm not going back to that shit ever again. Thankfully, now that I'm a vampire, I'm untouchable. Funny, isn't it? As a human, I had no lineage and suffered for it. And then—wish granted: from poor human to vampire with illustrious blood. Not bad at all. I've moved up. No one can say otherwise.
I knew this was going to happen. The four vampires are now sitting in my living room. The leader introduces himself as Tony. But based on his accent and his face, I'd say he should be named Otto. Or Rudolf. Or Franz. The bastard is German. They all are. Fucking German vampires.
Tony tells me they were all soldiers in the First World War. Though he doesn't call it that. He calls it the Great War. Says they were turned during the war.
"Best place to find candidates for vampirism, don't you think?" he says with a crooked smile.
I get the joke. I don't laugh. Of course—if you need to be a killer before becoming a vampire, then war is a damn buffet.
"What's your point, Tony?" I ask.
"My creator is a count. Someone important."
"More important than mine?" I reply.
"Maybe not. Who turned you?"
"None of your business."
Tony tries to read my mind. I block him easily. I, on the other hand, can read his just fine. He doesn't have the power I have. Not just some random bloodsucker, though—he's slightly above average. He and his vampire brothers—who were also trench brothers in the Great War—were all turned by the same count. Apparently, the count was handing out immortality like Halloween candy.
"We heard you're the one running things around here," Tony says.
"You heard right," I answer.
"My brothers and I are planning to stay in the city for a while."
"I don't think that's going to happen, Tony."
"I think it will."
I feel like killing him right then and there. But the other three wouldn't just stand by and watch. I pause for a second. Could I take all four of them down in a heartbeat? Maybe. Maybe not. I once heard a line from Mark Antony in that HBO series Rome. Stuck with me: "When you go to war, make sure you have every chance to win. And don't trust that feeling unless you know your enemy—know him as well as you know yourself. And don't be a fool—never forget: a hundred mangy dogs can kill a lion."
"I recognize that look," Tony says.
I stare straight at him. Shit. I just heard Agnes in his thoughts.
"You're more powerful than us. That's clear," he says. "But we need a place to settle. Somewhere away from the big cities, where the high-bloods want everything for themselves. We were in Tokyo recently. Thought we'd be treated well there—decent vampires from the old continent. But no. The city's controlled by one of Edmundo Du la Font's creations. The great Edmundo. A vampiress who's completely out of her mind. Too powerful. Agnes."
"Why do you say you recognize my look?" I ask.
"Because you were with her. Her pet. I know it's you."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, you do. You smell the same. You've got the same eyes. They're not as melancholic as they were in Tokyo, but they're still the same eyes."
"You can't be in two places at once."
"I know. You're a reincarnation."
"A soul can't split in two to be reborn in different people."
"Of course not. But you're from another time. And you're running from someone."
"And how the hell do you know time travel is possible?"
"Come on. I may not be a great vampire, but I know what can and can't be done. You're running from Agnes. From an Agnes that exists in another time. Aren't you?"
"What do you want?" I ask.
"I already told you. We want to live in peace. This city is beautiful. And I think there's plenty of blood to go around. I promise—we'll behave. You won't even notice us."
When someone says that with the kind of smirk Tony just gave me, it means exactly the opposite. I think to myself: Fucking German vampires. Fucking miserable Germans. I'm going to make bratwurst out of their hearts, devour every bite, and still have room for strudel.