"Who?" Valentine asked as Duvalier did everything but lick her lips in anticipation.

"A friend."

She described her contact as they rattled south in the back of the carbon-spewing truck, which due to some idiosyncrasy in its suspension shimmied side to side like a duck shaking its tail feathers.

"Roland Victor is an odd sort of black marketeer. Lots of contacts in the Militia; Roland's so well connected, he might as well be part of their logistics support."

Valentine didn't hear her refer to other men by their first names.

"He deals in items appealing to Kansas Society's women, but ninety percent of his clientele is men. He's also something of a loan shark. I think every Militia officer above the rank of lieutenant owes him money or a favor. He gets clothes, jewelry, wines, chocolates, teas, and almost any kind of luxury you can think of, little favorites that powerful men like to give to their whores after giving the wife a new apron for her birthday. He's not the sort of man you invite to your daughter's wedding, but when you and your brother officers are planning a binge, he's the one to see for a case of Canadian whiskey. You wouldn't think wealth meant anything anymore, but it does to Roland."

"Know him well, do you?"

"He has very good manners, and he has a lot of-what's the word, style?-no, call it class. He plays he's a baron and looks the part. You're going to have to see him to believe it."

"I suppose he knows better than to paw at you."

Her eyes pleaded with him as much as her voice. "Drop it, Val. Please? I'm sorry about back there in the train, okay. Cross my heart."

"We got away. I'm ready to forget it."

"Start trusting me again. You've been all stiff and watchful lately."

"I don't mean to be. Sorry."

"Buddies, you know? Like before?" She held out her hand, turning her palm up so he could see the scar she'd made at his Cat invocation.

He shook it, their common wounds touching. But it was still hard to meet her eyes. He'd found a soft spot in a woman he'd come to respect as he respected only a handful of other teachers in his life: the Padre, Eveready, Captain LeHavre. He relied on her, and up until the incident on the train, would have gladly followed her into any danger.

He sneered at himself: Who was he to judge? Had he always made the perfect decisions?

The Kurians would have relished the moment. Sworn allies suspicious of each other despite the danger all around. They would have gladly sacrificed the Overland guards to set a pair of Cats against each other. He had to quit letting his sensibilities do the enemy's work for them.

By the time they reached Manhattan, Valentine knew as much about Roland Victor's operation as Duvalier did. She explained that his couriers always showed a V somehow when in public. For example, the driver of the truck they had swayed southward on had a pocketknife open in a V shape resting on his dashboard. Victor had his own network, which extended to Canada, the Mississippi, and down into Mexico-a web of friends of friends of friends who specialized in the underground trade the Kurians didn't bother to suppress, as long as it was furs instead of firearms.

The driver had his own legitimate market to visit at a Militia camp, so they had to travel on foot the last few miles. They walked through the empty husk of learning that once was Kansas State University. They saw crates being taken out of a from a three-story hall, with new bars on the tall windows, but most were burned-out shells.

"Just warehouses now," Duvalier explained as Valentine instinctively counted trucks and guards.

She turned them up a road, the asphalt as black and smooth as molasses.

Valentine marveled at Victor's well-tended grounds on the shores of Lake Milford. The smuggler made no attempt to hide the fruits of his luxury-goods labor. Clipped lawns, statues, neatly trimmed trees, decorative gardens, flower beds, and shrubs arranged to form secluded grottoes were a new experience to Valentine. He found himself estimating how many potatoes could be grown on the front lawn before him.

The sturdy pinkish-gray brick house seemed built to flaunt its ostentatiously oversize door. Val wondered if guests dismounted outside or rode their horses into the entryway.

"We'll go around the back. He uses the front door for Society. He has a smaller door to his office for business."

Roland Victor greeted them after a discreet tap from Duvalier on the plain wooden door. He already had company in the form of a sawed-off-looking man in a leather cap. Or perhaps Victor's companion just looked small in comparison with the big, bluff smuggler. Victor had the hearty, meaty features of a beer-and-beef diet, concealed to advantage by a well-fitted suit. Valentine had seen only a half-dozen suits in his entire life, and never one with a starched shirt underneath.

Victor's square face, framed by thick black sideburns and an equally bristly mane, broke out in a welcoming smile. "Ahh, out-of-town guests. From Nebraska, judging from the uniform, Trooper. Please, come in and don't worry about the boots. Can this be my dear Dee? It's been too long." He turned to his current guest. "I'm sorry, Mr. H, but we'll have to cut our pleasant afternoon short. Can I look forward to the pleasure of your company when you get back from your commission?"

"Gladly, Mr. Victor," the man said, aping Victor's pleasantries if not his educated accent. "I'll be sure to stop by directly."

Victor escorted his courier to the door. Mr. H was slightly hunchbacked, and seeing the two of them move toward the door together made Valentine think of an entertainer with a trained monkey he had glimpsed during his time in Chicago.

The smuggler returned to his new guests. Duvalier introduced Valentine as simply David, and Victor shook his hand and gripped him by the upper arm as he did so. From another man his size, the gesture might be intimidating, if not overpowering, but from Victor it conveyed only bonhomie. "Coffee? Something to drink?" he asked, moving to a mirrored liquor cabinet.

Valentine and Duvalier accepted Victor's coffee with appropriate oohs and ahhs at its aroma, and sat. At the first taste, Valentine's eyes widened in pleasure; the coffee had a rich, smoked chocolate taste and a stimulating kick. He watched Victor pour something from a crystal decanter into his own coffee and looked around the room. Victor had a fondness for statues, mostly blackened bronze interpretations of cowboys, riding like fury with horse, lariat, and gun. Valentine looked at the label. He'd never known the old Remington gun company made art, as well.

Tags: E.E. Knight Vampire Earth Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net