F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 by Midnight Mass (v2.1) Page B

an elaborate Marie Antoinette wig over her
own hair which Gregor knew to be short and mousy brown.
                 Their
guards—she'd brought six with her—stood around and between them.
                 She
smiled. "I'm sure." She waved her hand. "Step back, gentlemen.
Gregor and I have private matters to discuss."
                 They
did, albeit reluctantly.
                 Gregor
shook his head as he watched the ten form a rough circle around Olivia and him.
Considering recent events, he should have taken comfort in the number. That
didn't make them any less of an inconvenience. One or two get-guards at all
times were a nuisance, but four—he felt strangled. And Olivia with six tonight.
How did she manage?
                 "You've
come about Angelica, I suppose," he said in a low voice.
                 She
nodded. "You knew Franco would send someone."
                 Yes,
he had. Somehow, some way, someone had killed Angelica last night. Gregor—over
the objections of his get—had personally tracked down her remains before dawn
and had them removed to a place where they could be burned. Secretly burned. It
wouldn't do to let the cattle know that one of the undead elite had been
brought down while on the wing.
                 But
Angelica's death was no secret among the undead. Gregor had been expecting an
emissary from New York tonight, but Olivia of all people. Raw ambition from a rival get-line.
This would not do.
                 "It
could have been an accident, you know."
                 "I
doubt that," Olivia said. "Angelica was too experienced."
                 Angelica—Gregor
had never liked her, and hated her now. The old bitch had to go out and hunt
alone. Not that any of her get-guards could have accompanied her—none of them
had wings. No reason for Angelica to hunt. With her status she could have had
cattle brought to her every night.
                 Gregor
pressed his point. "It's not as if Angelica was shot down with a crossbow
or the like. She was pierced with a tree branch, one that was snapped off a
tree not a dozen feet from where we found her. It was quite evident that she
flew into the tree and—"
                 Olivia
smiled, showing her fangs. "I certainly don't believe that, Gregor. And
neither, I dare say, do you. The situation around here has been precarious for
some time, what with some sort of vigilante group running around killing your
serfs. How many dead now—four?"
                 Gregor
stiffened. "Where do you get your information?
                 "That's
not important. Franco is concerned that the situation is getting out of
hand."
                 "Nothing
of the sort." He was sure she was overstating Franco's concern.
"Everything is under control. As for these so-called vigilantes—"
                 "Four
serfs in four weeks, Gregor. Not just killed—their throats are slit and then
they're strung up for all to see. Bad enough. But now these vigilantes have
taken down Angelica."
                 "We
don't know if it was the same group."
                 "That's
the trouble. You don't know a thing about the perpetrators, do you."
                 Too
true. Whatever group was killing the serfs—an older term; Gregor had become
used to calling them cowboys—wasn't announcing itself. No fliers, no graffiti,
no name, no identity. Just a corpse twisting in the wind. They did their dirty
work and then faded away.
                 "Some
of the killings could be by copycats," Gregor offered.
                 "Even
worse! Our hold is fragile, Gregor. We need our serfs. We can't have the night
if they don't hold the day for us. The carrot-and-the-stick approach is usually
sufficient, but they're as loyal as cockroaches, and if someone else comes
along with a bigger stick, our carrot may not be