City of Night by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online

hold the cell phone to his ear.
    After a moment, William stiffened and seemed to listen intently to Victor. He stopped chewing. When Christine let go of his hair, he took his finger out of his mouth and stared at it, bewildered.
    A tremor went through his body, then another. He toppled off his knees, collapsed onto his side.
    He lay with his eyes open, fixed. His mouth hung open, too, as red as a wound.
    Into the phone, Christine said, “He’s dead, Mr. Helios.” Then: “Yes, sir.” Then: “I will do that, sir.”
    She terminated the call and solemnly regarded Erika.
    All of the staff members were staring at Erika. They looked haunted, all right. A shiver of fear went through her.
    A porter named Edward said, “Welcome to our world, Mrs. Helios.”
     
     
     

Chapter 11
     
    Meditation is most often done in stillness, although men of a certain cast of mind, who have great problems to solve, frequently think best on long walks.
    Deucalion preferred not to walk in daylight. Even in easy New Orleans, where eccentricity flourished, he would surely draw too much attention in public, in bright sun.
    With his gifts, at any time of day, he could have taken a single step and been any place west of where the sun yet reached, to walk in the anonymous darkness of other lands.
    Victor was in New Orleans, however, and here the atmosphere of looming cataclysm sharpened Deucalion’s wits.
    So he walked in the sun-drenched cemeteries of the city. For the most part, the long grassy avenues allowed him to see tourist groups and other visitors long before they drew near.
    The ten-foot-tall tombs were like buildings in the crowded blocks of a miniature city. With ease, he could slip between them and away from an impending encounter.
    Here the dead were buried in aboveground crypts because the water table was so near the surface that coffins in graves would not remain buried but would surge to the surface in soggy weather. Some were as simple as shotgun houses, but others were as ornamented as Garden District mansions.
    Considering that he had been constructed from cadavers and had been brought to life by arcane science—perhaps also by supernatural forces—it was not ironic but logical that he should feel more comfortable in these avenues of the dead than he did on public streets.
    In St. Louis Cemetery Number 3, where Deucalion first walked, the mostly white crypts dazzled in the searing sun, as if inhabited by generations of radiant spirits who lingered after their bodies had turned to dust and bones.
    These dead were fortunate compared to the living dead who were the New Race. Those soulless slaves might welcome death—but they were created with a proscription against suicide.
    Inevitably, they would envy real men, who possessed free will, and their resentment would grow into an irrepressible wrath. Denied self-destruction, sooner or later they would turn outward and destroy all whom they envied.
    If Victor’s empire was trembling toward the point of collapse, as instinct warned Deucalion that it was, then finding his base of operations became imperative.
    Every member of the New Race would know its whereabouts, for in all probability, they had been born there. Whether they would be willing or even capable of divulging it was another issue.
    As a first step, he needed to identify some in the city who were likely to be of the New Race. He must approach them cautiously and gauge the depth of their despair, to determine whether it might have ripened into that desperation which is vigorous of action and reckless of consequences.
    Among even the most controlled of slaves there simmers a desire—even if not a capacity—to rebel. Therefore, some of these slaves of Victor’s, all enemies of humanity might in their hopelessness find the will and the fortitude to betray him in small ways.
    Every member of the household staff and landscaping crew at Victor’s estate would be of the New Race. But an attempt to get to any of them would be