The Devils Due

The Devil’s Due

The Devil’s Due “Bloody hell,” Gwen muttered into her drink. “One last night of freedom.” She drained the glass in one gulp, shuddering as the scotch burned its way to her stomach to join the party already started by the previous three shots.

Gwendolyn Brand, Ph. D., fully intended to drink herself into oblivion.

She’d have a headache tomorrow, but she regarded that as an acceptable compromise. Where was that bastard Johann when she really needed him?

The lazy fuck got her into this mess, then vanished just when she needed to get out. A smuggler like him should have The Devil’s Due no trouble sneaking a thief like her out of the law’s long reach, right? Gwen signaled the barkeep for a fifth shot and took a moment to watch the room swim around her. It looked unreal, like her time around Johann. Something about him made the world fuzz out at the edges.

The barkeep tapped her on the shoulder, “Don’t you think it’s time to go home?”

Gwen shook her head and tried to focus both eyes on the balding older man. He was looking annoyingly paternal. “A young lady like you should be home with your boyfriend on a night like this.”

She shook her head again, partly in denial and partly to reduce the number of barkeeps in her vision to one. “Nossir.”

Damn, I’m slurring already. “No… sir. I’m waiting for him. Gimme… Give me another scotch, please.” With any luck, she could perforate her liver enough to die before she grew old in prison.

The barkeep nodded and shrank into the shadows, leaving Gwen in peace. She stared into her empty shot glass. “Bastards. You buy them books, you pay their way, and what do they do? They eat the bloody teacher. Fucking bastards.”

The final time had been in Istanbul.

She’d met with Johann in the Kumkapi district, in a nice, modern nightclub.

Clanbook: Ravnos The dance floor flashed with a million colors while young people from a dozen different nations thrashed around each other to the music of an Israeli pop sensation named Dana International. The mingled smells of sweat, alcohol and a lesser cloud of illicit drugs lent an air of unreality to the proceedings. Gwen sat at a corner table, her flight bag filled with portable treasures for Johann to auction in the States.

Johann, the bastard, was late again.

He’d never been on time and refused to try to change his habits. The treasures she was holding for him had come from one of the endless digs intended to identify the real Plain of Ilium, where the Trojans and Greeks supposedly fought the Trojan War. The trinkets certainly looked like they dated from the Achaean period, but could easily have been later imitations. Gwen didn’t care beyond the generous finder’s fee Johann always had ready.

She thought she recognized an Anglo face near the bar, but the light was too dim in contrast to the strobes for her to be sure. Before she could take a closer look, Johann appeared and sat opposite her. She studied his narrow, pale features, marked by an unusually high flush in his cheeks — probably from the close heat in the club. As usual, his pupils were slightly dilated and his otherwise stylish clothes unkempt, as if he’d been sleeping in them for a week. He stared at a point just beyond Gwen’s left shoulder, focusing owlishly for a moment before asking in his clipped New England accent, “What’d you bring me this time? I hope you have some intact pottery. One of my buyers has been on my case for ages—“ “Hush!” Gwen cut him off and glanced around. No one was looking her way — wait, had the Anglo at the bar just turned around fast enough to get whiplash? He was leaning against the bar now, his pose casual. She kept half an eye on him as she spoke to Johann. “I can’t even count all the laws I’m breaking by meeting you here. Could you at least keep it down?”

Johann’s eyes widened at her impertinence. He stared for a few moments, then shook himself and shrugged with a forced smile. “Sorry baby, got carried away. The The Devil’s Due hash here is the living end, I tell you. So, what’d you bring me?”

Mollified by his softer tone, she ticked off the acquisitions again, forgetting about the Anglo, the music and the club in general. The Gwen in the present-day Horse Brass Pub cursed herself for the hundredth time for that moment of inattention.

Johann interrupted her halfway through the list. “Hey, kiddo, that sounds good, but can you show me something? I’d like a look before I commit to anything.”

He patted his jacket, where he usually kept his wallet. His cavalier attitude always amazed her. The cocky bastard could walk through the nastiest part of any city in the world in the middle of the night and show not a single care for the fact that his presence screamed “Victim!” to the moon, stars and every predator who walked the streets. Even more amazing was the fact that he never seemed to suffer for it. The sod.

She slid the green flight bag over to him. Let him open it up. She didn’t want to get caught handling this stuff in public, but she couldn’t let Johann go. She needed the cash. Johann seemed happy enough with the trinkets and tossed her an envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. Bloody Yank couldn’t be bothered to exchange the money before paying off his faithful thieves.

Apparently satisfied with the transaction, Johann got up, slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the exit. A black-haired woman Gwen had seen a dozen times but never met caught up with Johann half way, and the two left the nightclub for the warm, Mediterranean night.

A week later and back in London, Gwen received a letter from Dean Wellesley. The missive demanded an immediate meeting and explained little, though she had a definite feeling the man wanted her head on a platter.

Dean Wellesley was well into his 50s, probably on the verge of his sexagenarian decade. His age only added to his formidable presence. Rumors around the college claimed he could stare down the most incorrigible student in seconds, with only the lift of an eyebrow to indicate his displeasure. Despite the stories, Gwen was not prepared for the full force of the man’s anger that assaulted her the moment she entered his office. “What on Earth were you thinking, Doctor Brand?”

His emphasis on “doctor” gave her the distinct impression that he did not view it as an honorific.

Startled into speechlessness, Gwen could only shake her head. The dean barely noticed her reaction and thundered on.

“Oxford is England’s most prestigious university. It exists to provide the youth of every generation the very best opportunities for education to better their lives and their careers.” He paused, his gaze boring into her skull.

Gwen nodded, suspicions developing.

“Yes, sir.” She took a breath and started to ask what was going on, but the dean was off again.

“Oxford is not here to provide petty criminals with a venue in which to pracClanbook: Ravnos tice their illicit activities. Do you think this university has stood for as long as it has, maintained its reputation for as long as it has, by coddling reprobates?”

His volume increased until the final word literally rattled the windows.

“No sir.” Now Gwen knew that the dean had learned of her dealings with Johann. But how?

The answer arrived moments later.

Dean Wellesley turned from Gwen and spoke into his intercom. “Miss Wallace, could you please send the boy in?” He barely waited for the affirmative and waved Gwen to silence before she could ask a question. “All will be clear in a moment, although I am certain you already know why you are here.”

When the door opened, Gwen stared.

The young man standing in the doorway was Edward Taylor, her research assistant from the Ilium dig. With a sudden chill, she realized it was him she’d seen in the Kumkapi nightclub. The dean directed Edward to sit — something he had not invited Gwen to do.

“Now, Mr. Taylor,” Wellesley said in a more controlled tone, “could you repeat for Dr. Brand what you told me a few days ago?”

Gwen’s heart sank as Ed — whom she had considered a friend — produced photographs of the stolen materials and described her rendezvous with Johann down to the exchange of goods for money.

Ed also produced the note Johann had sent to arrange the time and place — not damning in itself, but in combination with the rest….

Wellesley turned his formidable gaze back to Gwen. “Now, young lady, have you anything to say in your defense? Before you begin, you should also be aware that I have authorized the hiring of investigators to check Mr. Taylor’s claims before summoning you here. Such accusations leveled against one of our faculty — even one as new as yourself — are very serious indeed. We have evidence of your thefts from dig sites stretching back to the beginning of your archaeological career. I am appalled that you would not only risk your own professional standing, but also the reputation of our alma mater.”

The Devil’s Due Gwen stood straighter and met Wellesley’s gaze. “Yes, Dean, I do have something to say.” If he could use honorifics as weapons, so could she. “I did it.

What else could I do? I couldn’t afford to live on the pittance this university laughingly calls a salary. Perhaps if the ancient and famed Oxford University paid me as much as any male professor receives, I would not have been compelled to seek an alternate form of income. However, I have committed no crime on English soil. My solicitor will contact you shortly.” Before Wellesley or Taylor could stop her, she stormed out of the office, slammed the door and ran for her automobile.

She drove to Piccadilly Circus, spent several minutes looking for a parking space, and then took the tube somewhere else. She didn’t care where, she just rode until she found someplace promising and stopped. She had no intention of calling a lawyer, but she did want to call Johann.

The bastard got her into this mess, he could get her out. She didn’t believe she could stay out of prison for a minute, not without help.

She didn’t dare return to her flat or her car. The first order of business was to call Johann and lay out her situation without incriminating him as well and to arrange a meeting. The second was to keep moving until Johann could reach her. She placed the call and waited, stomach roiling.

“Hello?” came Johann’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Listen, you Yank idiot. I need help. My boss said he knows about us and I know he’s called the police. They’ve probably put out a bulletin with my picture on it.

If you don’t help me, I’ll tell them everything I know—“ “Whoa, whoa. Slow down, baby. Just how deep is the shit you’re in?”

“I could drown you in it.”

“Right, then. I’ll be over as fast as I can.”

They had made arrangements to hook up at the Horse Brass Pub. And so now here she was, getting drunk on Scotch, never a brilliant move when you haven’t slept in two days, but she was so tired of running.

Clanbook: Ravnos Johann arrived at the pub four hours late. Gwen had chased off a second attempt to wave her home with a tip in the double digits. The Yank was his usual unflappable self. “So, what can I do for you — Holy shit, how much have you been drinking?”

Gwen looked at her glass. “All of it.”

Johann grinned. “Well, at least you made it interesting. Let’s go, shall we? I’ve prepared a room at the Royal Garden. Only the best for my ladies.” He helped Gwen to her feet. “When you get in trouble, you don’t do it in small doses, do you?” She mumbled an answer, fatigue and alcohol carrying her beyond verbal responses. By the time Johann got her into his rented car, she was out cold.

She awoke briefly on the most comfortable bed she’d ever slept in. Halfconscious, she was aware that Johann — who else could it be? — was doing something to her that felt good — better than the best scotch and the best sex rolled into one. She’d take him to task if she could only stop melting into the mattress. She slipped back into sleep, haunted by dreams tainted with the paranoia of the past two days.

She awoke fully sometime in the late afternoon. The sun’s rays shone through the open curtains and hammered at her eyelids like a bad bass rhythm. She forced her eyes open through the pounding headache. She could taste her tonsils — and they did not taste good. She turned her aching head and saw a note on the pillow next to her, in precise handwriting: Don’t go anywhere, don’t use room service. I’ve left you food and drink for the day. I’ll be back this evening and we can leave.

Kisses, Johann “Wonderful,” she muttered. “Trapped in a hotel next to Kensington Palace with the police no doubt scouring the streets for me.” She straggled out of bead, closed the curtains, shut off all the lights, and sipped as much water as she could hold down. Solid food was beyond her. “I’m such a bloody fool.” Through a miracle of biology, she dozed off before evening.

Johann woke her hours later, on time for once. “I’m sorry I had to leave you.

You’ll understand why soon enough.”

The Devil’s Due He helped her into a chair. “I had hoped to hold off for awhile, at least until I could explain everything, but things are tense, and the only way I can get you out of London — anyway, whatever you do, whatever happens, don’t panic.”

Gwen opened her mouth to argue, but all the fight suddenly drained from her.

She knew that Johann had somehow caused her lethargy, but couldn’t find the strength to confront him or even move.

She even lacked the energy to find the experience frightening.

A small part of her mind remained alert through the last vestiges of hangover and whatever was smothering her soul. That part saw Johann’s perfectly normal teeth grow into frighteningly sharp fangs. That part of her mind screamed bloody murder when he sank those knife-like teeth into her throat. She swooned as he drained her blood in swift gulps. She barely felt the intense pleasure the feeding instills in victims before she passed out.

Gwen stood on a flat plain, mountains in the distance, heavy clouds obscuring the stars. A red light flashed in the distance, searching. The red was not so much a color as an emotion — intense anger and hatred mixed together, emanating from a source so strong it was visible to the naked eye. She knew she could not allow it to find her, but lacked a place to hide. She turned to run— Johann pressed his wrist to Gwen’s mouth, staining her face with a thick, cold liquid that burned her throat as she drank like no scotch ever could and barely satisfied a hunger that permeated her being. “Drink, damn you.” She swallowed a large clot that had pooled in her throat while she was unconscious and drank, unable to think of anything else.

She kept drinking until the hunger subsided to a controllable level and her mind returned to rational thought. Then she snapped her head away from his wrist, stared at him for a moment, and slapped him as hard as she could. “You. Filthy. Yank.

Bastard!” She ran out of breath and had to consciously take in more air. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

His nostrils flared and he snarled before visibly regaining control. “I’m saving you from a prison sentence, just as you asked.” He spat each word as if it were a dagger. Blood trickled from the corner Clanbook: Ravnos of his mouth, where one of Gwen’s rings had caught the skin. He wiped the blood with the back of his hand and stared at it for a moment before licking it clean.

Gwen stood, shaking with rage.

“What have you done to me?” She couldn’t feel her heart beating and didn’t bother to check for a pulse. “I wanted to live somewhere that wouldn’t extradite me, not get into kinky… whatever this is!”

Johann wondered briefly if he’d done the right thing, but bulled ahead anyway.

“Look, I can understand your outrage. I mean, someone did this to me once. Anyway, we need to get you a vessel — some sustenance before you lose control and start snapping at throats. Call room service.”

“And order what? Steak tartare?”

“It doesn’t matter if you want the bellhop, but you can’t kill him. I like this hotel and I want to come back.”

She laughed at him. “Maybe I will kill him.” Then she stopped, surprised that such words had come from her lips. “No. Wait.

This isn’t right.”

“Fine; I’ll call room service.” Johann started for the phone, but Gwen beat him to it.

She smirked. “I’ll handle it, just like you told me.” She picked up the phone and dialed.

“What’s the most expensive item on your menu? What’s in it? Very good, I’ll take some. And send up some of your best wine, if you please.” She winked at Johann as she hung up. “I’m sure you can afford it.”

The wait was nerve-wracking for Gwen and frustrating for Johann. When the bellhop finally brought the meal, Gwen briefly snapped out of her mood and latched onto the poor man’s throat.

She would have killed him, lost in slaking the hunger that threaded through her body and soul, had Johann not pulled her away. “Lick the wound,” he hissed. Too startled to argue, she obeyed.

As soon as the dazed bellhop left — with a hefty tip and apologies for his “unhealthy wife” from Johann — the Yank turned to The Devil’s Due Gwen. “We must leave now — we can’t let Queen Anne catch us here. Especially after that little episode. I’ve arranged transportation for tonight. Move.”

Gwen, reeling under too many unnatural surprises for one evening and still tasting human blood on her lips, couldn’t muster the will to argue. She followed Johann into the night, and the new existence that awaited her.

Clanbook: Ravnos