Necroscope: The Plague-Bearer Read Online Free Page B

again, but I’ve missed you.” Then that note of concern crept back into her voice. “There’s…there’s perhaps a problem. Here in Edinburgh, I mean.”
    “A problem? What, with the wine bar, or your girls? Someone sick, maybe? What sort of problem, B.J.?”
    Another pause, until:
    “Oh, it’ll keep until ye’re back, mah wee man. And if ye’re back early…maybe we’ll have a wee while to oursel’s, before openin’ hours eh?” B.J.’s voice was less troubled now, even seductive, with her warm Edinburgh accent firmly back in place.
    That voice, and those words…oh, B.J. knew how to do it! Harry pictured her in his—in her—favourite position, with her backside raised, her face side-on in a pillow and her sweet mouth open, gasping—or snarling? Tonight, in Edinburgh, yes.
    He went downstairs to the desk, checked out, and paid the skinny, weasel-like proprietor in cash for the few nights he’d spent here. He hadn’t needed to stay here; he couldn’t be sure that he’d ever want to be back this way again, but in any case it wasn’t his style to leave a trail of bad debts behind him.
    The man counted his money and cocked his head on one side. “And your suitcase?”
    “Still packing,” said Harry. “One or two items, that’s all. It’ll take a minute.”
    The other nodded. “Well, you get home safe, and come see us again some time.” And that’s precisely why I’ve paid you, Harry thought, going back up to his room.
    He had literally a couple of items: spare slacks, socks, an extra shirt, washing and shaving kit. And it didn’t even take a minute to throw them into his battered old suitcase. As for the skinny little proprietor: Watching the stairs for a further half hour, he still didn’t see the Necroscope leave.
    And neither did anyone else…



III
    Some fifteen days earlier, about 11:30 p.m. in Sicily:
    Mike Milazzo—now a vampire, but once a “made man” who had got above himself in New York and been required to flee home to the Old Country—had been called to attend the brothers Francezci at Le Manse Madonie: not a good omen. Common soldiers were only rarely invited to visit with the Francezcis in their mountain retreat, which normally occurred only when there were questions to be answered; and Mike’s activities had never been less than questionable. Moreover, this was his second visit. He considered his past as his car groaned up and around the precipitous route of stone-walled or metal guardrailed hairpins—the only route of access—to the high plateau.
    Mike, a darkly handsome, third-generation Sicilian-American thug, had been caught banging his capo’s slut wife at her Hamptons home. Still the boss’s wife, she was now scarred for life, her mouth slit open so wide she could give blow-jobs to rhinos, and no young Turk (or Italian) was ever likely to find her fuckable again. Only Milazzo’s “made man” status had saved him from similar treatment. Oh he’d been badly beaten, but at least they hadn’t rearranged or enhanced his features.
    And so he’d come back here: back “home” to an uncle also in the Mob, who had reduced him to a soldier in charge of collections and corrections in Palermo. But just like most dicks, when Mike’s was hard it had no conscience, no memory, and absolutely no respect for the usual conventions. By all means take advantage of those you prey upon—which is simply the nature of the work, “the business”—but do not fuck their virgin daughters! Men can be coerced into paying for your so-called “protection,” but only as long as they, and their families, are protected.
    Mike’s uncle had been bombarded, overwhelmed by complaints. Moreover, despite that Mike was paid a decent percentage of the produce of his rounds, he was not above “skimming” the take, to such a degree that his uncle’s profits were much reduced. Also, Mike found himself accused of dealing drugs within a neighbouring boss’s territory, and his use and abuse of