Part 1 (1/2)

BEYOND THE PALE.

The Darkwing Chronicles.

by Savannah Russe.

Acknowledgments.

I wish to express my grateful appreciation to the world's bats, those astonis.h.i.+ng, maligned creatures who inspired this book. The victims of many myths, in truth they are not blind, they aren't rodents, and they don't get tangled in your hair. They are gentle animals who are meticulously clean and seldom transmit disease. Bats are essential to the balance of nature and deserve our protection... and our awe. To learn more about bats, please visit Bat Conservation International, .

Introduction.

I never wanted to be a spy. Of all the careers I've envisioned for myself in 450 years, secret agent never made my top ten. But fate doesn't give you a choice. At least it never offered one to me...

Chapter 1.

Uncle Sam Wants Me?

I was between relations.h.i.+ps, 180-some years between relations.h.i.+ps, to be exact. No long, sweet kisses, no I love yous, no moans of ecstasy or s.h.i.+very release since the Greek rebellion against the Ottoman Turks. It had been a wee bit more than a dry spell. I called it the Sahara when I got into it with my girlfriends. You'd think I'd be used to a solitary existence by now. After all, being a female vampire tends to discourage long-term relations.h.i.+ps because even a casual fling can have serious consequences. Indeed, my last affair nearly killed me, literally.

What put me off the whole man-woman commitment thing happened back in 1824, when I was a dark-haired beauty in Missolonghi. The affair had the potential to be a great love, one for the history books. Then, practically overnight, it ended badly. No, that's an understatement. To tell the truth, it ended tragically tragically.

Talking about truth, let me tell you, do not believe for a moment the story that the great poet and revolutionary George Gordon, Lord Byron, died of a fever. I can't believe the public bought that, but then people believed Nixon when he said ”I am not a crook.” The real cause of Byron's death was a love bite gone bad-gone septic, to be medically accurate. I remember the incident as if it were yesterday.

We were strolling hand in hand near the inn where he had set up his temporary living quarters. We entered a rose garden arduously created by the innkeeper out of the swampy surroundings of this mosquito-ridden town. It wasn't the first time we had walked there, but it was to be the last. The April day had faded into a purple haze on the verge of turning into a black velvet night. A slight breeze stirred the foliage; the air felt heavy with the smell of flowers.

”Tell me more about London, George.” I said, fanning myself feverishly, and not just from the warm temperatures. ”Do you miss it? Is it difficult to be so far away from the parties?” I made sure I walked very close to him, my breath like a flower petal caressing his cheek.

”The parties provided an agreeable distraction from the rather frightening solitude of a poet,” he said vaguely. Then he gazed out over the Gulf of Patras, lying flat and still to the west. A s.h.i.+p anch.o.r.ed far off the sh.o.r.e. I could easily discern it amid the scattered silver waves that leaped up and caught the last light. I don't know that Byron saw the vessel, but I think he did. She floated there at the starting point of a long journey, the shadows of her masts stretching eastward in the setting sun.

”So why did you leave?” I asked.

His face stayed turned toward the gulf when he answered. ”I became tired of listening to hired musicians behind a row of artificial palm trees instead of to the single, pure-stringed instrument of my heart. I knew it was time to go.”

Seeing him in profile, his face inexpressibly sad, I couldn't keep my eyes off him. Byron had a wide forehead, sensual lips, and long, dark lashes over bedroom eyes. He was as finely featured as a Greek G.o.d, certainly better-looking than his portraits, which I think make him look gay. In real life he was an unmistakably male, high-testosterone type, filled with energy, turned on by taking risks.

I admit that if I looked closely, dust soiled his clothes and grime blackened the inside of his collar. Deep lines fanned out from his eyes; his skin was sallow and dry. And when he became fatigued, his twisted foot pained him and his limp increased. Lately George looked especially worn out, dissolute from too much has.h.i.+sh and too many women. Yet, so little in life looks as pleasing under bright lights and cold scrutiny as it does by candlelight and heated glances exchanged over gla.s.ses of wine. Tonight Byron was incredibly handsome. I was enchanted. I fairly trembled to be near him. He could have so many women-he had had so many women-but for the past few weeks he had wanted me, only me.

Nonetheless, there were hours when he seemed far away in his thoughts, crossing some inner geography of his mind. ”Let's not talk about England. Talking bores me,” he said. ”I'm much more interested in this.” He pulled my face to his, kissed me hard and long, his mouth tasting of wine. When he stopped, he looked deeply into my eyes. ” 'She walks in beauty, like the night,' ” he recited, ” 'of cloudless climes and starry skies.' ” I virtually swooned.

This man, hard and hungry, had come to fight for Greek independence. He was a hero. I was starstruck. He was h.o.r.n.y. I was flirtatious. He was thirty-six. I was a little over 274.

”Daphy,” he said, ”come on, sweet thing, give me a little. You know you want to.”

Oh, yes, I did want to. I laughed and let him move the length of his body against me. I knew his reputation, and I knew what he was after, but I didn't care. He moaned, and whispered in a low hoa.r.s.e voice, ”Girl, you're going to be the death of me. It's been a long time since I've wanted a woman this much. There's something about you. Something... something mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”

He clasped my hand. As he entwined our fingers, his ring bit into my flesh. The sensation made me tingle. He led me to a bench, putting one arm around my waist. I can still remember the feel of the hard muscles in his forearm through the thin silk of my camisole. He pulled me down onto his lap, his hand slipping up under my skirts. I didn't stop him. His mouth felt like silk as he lowered his lips to my heaving breast. My blood was racing, my head was spinning, and that was when the rising moon lit up the white skin on the back of his neck. I couldn't resist. I wanted to, I tried to. but I was carried away with rapture... and I bit him. Losing all control, I drank too much, too soon. He looked at me with stunned eyes, suddenly understanding, and then he slipped into unconsciousness. Poor George. And that's the truth about his death, but don't expect to hear about it in Lit 101. It still hurts me to talk about it.

After barely escaping from Missolonghi before Byron's comrades put a stake through my heart, I decided celibacy was the wiser course. But now even I, resolute as I am, have my limits. I was climbing the wails. A girl has her needs, and I certainly had mine.

And one of the needs I had was getting a new ID every twenty years or so. Vampires don't age. On the plus side, I'll never need Botox. In the minus column. I have to keep changing my birth date.

And that was how I got busted.

The earth turns on its dark side. It is winter.

You can get just about anything in New York City.

Even a vampire can get a fake ID, and when the time came, all of us went to Sid. He worked out of a wretched walk-up apartment on Ninth Street between Avenues B and C. The neighborhood gave me the creeps. And of course, I had to go there after dark. We all complained, but Sid just said, ”And vhat do you vant? Park Avenue?” I knew I could get mugged. I just never expected what was about to happen...

The day had been bl.u.s.tery, rain and sleet taking turns pelting the streets, and tonight the temperature was plummeting. As I trudged up the subway stairs onto the street at St. Marks Place I wondered whether spring would ever return. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets. The wind seemed to cut right through me. I have thin blood. I get cold easily. And tonight I had a feeling-a very bad feeling that wiggled around like a maggot in my gut. Something wasn't right. Something was dangerous out here tonight.

I've learned to listen to my instincts, so I kept aware of the people around me as I headed east on Ninth Street. It wasn't late, only around seven, yet the buildings already sat in murky darkness. The sidewalks glistened in the streetlights from the earlier rain. ”d.a.m.n it!” I said out loud. ”d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l, it is frigging cold!” I s.h.i.+vered. The chilly damp was coming right through the thin soles of my Nine West boots.

I had gone two blocks when I heard footsteps behind me. Some black teenagers came up fast and pa.s.sed me, elbowing each other and twirling around, laughing and jiving as they half danced, half ran down the block. But that wasn't what I heard. My hearing is extraordinarily discriminating. Behind me a different kind of footstep kept a measured, steady beat. Dread fell on me like a black curtain coming down.

I pa.s.sed a fortune-teller's storefront. A Gypsy woman leaned against the doorjamb, smoking a cigarette in the open doorway. ”Strega!” she shouted at me and cringed backward, clutching the crucifix around her neck.

”b.i.t.c.h!” I hissed back, showing my teeth. I gave her good scare, I think. I don't like Gypsies. They're all thieves.

I didn't slow my pace. I wanted to reach Sid's as fast as possible. I crossed Avenue A. I had to exercise self-control to keep from breaking into a jog. I made it to Avenue B. Another half block and I reached the stoop in front of Sid's building. I took the stairs two at time, stopped at the top, and looked back up the block.

A young man stood on the far side of a fenced-in basketball court, watching me. I knew without a doubt that his had been the footsteps behind me. He turned away quickly. I didn't see his face, but a ponytail of blond hair poked out from beneath a black watch cap. I didn't hesitate any longer. I ducked inside Sid's vestibule and pushed the doorbell for his apartment. No one answered. Fear was cras.h.i.+ng down on me now. I kept pus.h.i.+ng the b.u.t.ton. d.a.m.n it, Sid, where in h.e.l.l are you d.a.m.n it, Sid, where in h.e.l.l are you?

Finally the door buzzed and clicked open. I fairly flew through it. It shut and locked behind me. I took some deep, cleansing breaths. I told myself to calm down; it was nothing. The man was no one. He had nothing to do with me. I always get anxious when I have to see Sid. Needing to get an updated birth certificate rakes up a lot of my issues. It means another twenty years have pa.s.sed, but I'm still the same. People I once cared about are gone. I'm still here. A yawning chasm of loneliness opens up inside me. I am always the outsider. Misunderstood. A freak. A monster. Unable to have the milestones that mark the lives of other women, I throw a pity party for myself. Yet, to be honest, I'm not alone. There are a lot of us who see Sid. A lot more than you'd ever suspect.

Relieved to be inside. I started up the stairs, unb.u.t.toning my coat as I climbed. The hallway smelled of cabbage and urine. I never breathed deeply going up these stairs. d.a.m.n Sid for working out of such a dump. The lighting was dim. It was better that way. Sid's ”office” occupied a tenement apartment on the fourth floor, the kind that has a bathtub in the kitchen covered with a board to make a table. He didn't live there. I don't know where he lived-a homeless shelter or Scarsdale, I never knew; he never said. When I got to the top of the stairs, I could see he had left his apartment door cracked. I pushed it open and went in.

”Sid? It's Daphne Urban, your seven-fifteen appointment,” I said as I stepped into his apartment.

The light wasn't on. I felt a sudden panic as someone grabbed me. I was flung against a wall and held there with a hand between my shoulder blades. My arms were yanked behind my back, and the cold, hard steel of handcuffs bit into my wrists.

”h.e.l.lo, Miss Urban,” a silky voice said as I was shoved into the living room and pushed roughly down onto a hard wooden chair.

”Who are you? What do you want?” I began to shake from head to toe. From inside my coat came a sound like the rustling of fluttering wings. I started to rise up. A guy in a suit put his fat hand on my shoulder to keep me still. He had cop cop written all over him. Across from me sat another man. He was middle-aged, well dressed in a gray suit, clearly Saville Row and newly pressed. His legs were crossed, so I could clearly see he wore Gucci loafers, since one shoe was only about two feet from my knee. The man sat back in one of Sid's green easy chairs, the kind with wide armrests and a low, blocky profile, very 1950s. His face was lit by a quiet pool of yellow light from a table lamp. His gray hair was long, but pulled back neatly, giving him an artistic look. He was cleanshaven. His features were regular but bland, nothing notable, nothing unusual. His fingernails were short. He wore a silver wrist.w.a.tch; I'm guessing it was a Tag. Everything about him was clean, neutral, and nondescript. The only thing out of the ordinary was that half of his left index finger was missing. Overall he seemed relaxed as he sat unmoving, studying me. written all over him. Across from me sat another man. He was middle-aged, well dressed in a gray suit, clearly Saville Row and newly pressed. His legs were crossed, so I could clearly see he wore Gucci loafers, since one shoe was only about two feet from my knee. The man sat back in one of Sid's green easy chairs, the kind with wide armrests and a low, blocky profile, very 1950s. His face was lit by a quiet pool of yellow light from a table lamp. His gray hair was long, but pulled back neatly, giving him an artistic look. He was cleanshaven. His features were regular but bland, nothing notable, nothing unusual. His fingernails were short. He wore a silver wrist.w.a.tch; I'm guessing it was a Tag. Everything about him was clean, neutral, and nondescript. The only thing out of the ordinary was that half of his left index finger was missing. Overall he seemed relaxed as he sat unmoving, studying me.

”Miss Urban,” he said, making eye contact with me and not blinking at all, like a lizard or a snake. ”I-actually we-have been watching you. We have been waiting to contact you at a time and a place where we have the... shall we say, privacy and anonymity to meet you without being observed. Why? To put it very simply, the United States government wants you. And I have an offer you can't refuse.” He gave a half smile as he said that. But he wasn't being funny. ”That's not quite accurate,” he added. ”You can refuse our offer. Of course you can. But your refusal means you're tired of living.”