Dead Souls Volume One (Parts 1 to 13)

by Amy Cross

  Part Eleven

  I

  Opening her bedroom door, Kate leaned out into the dark corridor and listened for a moment.

  Silence.

  And yet she knew what she heard just a moment earlier.

  She waited a moment longer, and finally it happened again: a shout in the distance, almost like a cry of rage. Seconds later, she heard another voice, Didi this time. Assuming that she was merely hearing another argument, Kate turned to go back to bed, but at the last moment she realized the voices weren't arguing; it was more like Didi was trying to calm Edgar, or to console him. She sounded pained, almost traumatized.

  Pausing to listen for a moment, Kate finally heard a door being opened and then pulled shut, followed by footsteps hurrying toward the stairs.

  “Goddamn idiot,” she heard Didi muttering, although it sounded as if she had been crying.

  Again, Kate turned to go back to bed, before realizing that curiosity had already woken her fully. Grabbing her dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door, she headed out of the room and made her way to the top of the huge staircase that ran through the heart of the mansion. She could hear Didi clattering about downstairs, evidently making herself some food in the kitchen.

  Figuring that she should at least go and see if anything was seriously wrong, Kate headed downstairs and finally reached the door to the dark kitchen, which was illuminated only by the light from the open fridge door; in that patch of light, a shape was shuffling about, and it took a moment before Kate realized that Didi was leaning so far into the fridge, there seemed to be a danger that she might fall in.

  “Tough night?” Kate asked.

  “Jesus!” Didi yelled, leaping back. The fridge door swung shut, plunging the room into darkness.

  “Sorry,” Kate continued, hitting a nearby light switch. “I didn't mean to make you jump.”

  “Then you should try not sneaking up on people,” Didi muttered, pouring herself a glass of white wine. “Jesus Christ, do you make a habit of wandering the corridors of spooky old mansions in the dead of night?” She took a swig from the glass, although it was noticeable that her hands were shaking.

  “Only when I hear people arguing in the distance.”

  “Who's arguing? I wasn't arguing.”

  “I heard -”

  “I was trying to get Eddie to calm down,” Didi continued, before finishing the glass and pouring herself a second. “He's having one of his bad nights again.”

  Making her way over to the sink, Kate poured herself a glass of water.

  “What kind of bad night?” she asked.

  “You know, the PTSD or whatever it is.”

  “Edgar suffers from that?”

  “He gets these nightmares,” Didi continued, rolling her eyes as if she wasn't entirely convinced. “He never really says what they're about, just that they're memories of something bad he went through once. Happens about once every couple of months, I don't know what triggers it but... Anyway, he ends up shivering in bed, sweating and calling out in his sleep.” She takes another gulp of wine. “When it happens, I always try to calm him down, but there's not much point. All I can really do is leave him to it and then try to deal with his bad mood in the morning.”

  As if to prove her point, Edgar called out from the bedroom, his voice filled with fear.

  “Should we go to him?” Kate asked.

  “He doesn't like being woken when it's happening.”

  “But -”

  “He doesn't like it,” she said again, more firmly this time. She took another gulp of wine. “Trust me, I've tried that. It's best to just let him push on through.”

  “But what could he have been through that had such a bad effect on him?”

  “Beats me. It's not like he's ever gonna tell me, either. To listen to him, though, you'd think he'd been in some kinda war.”

  “Something awful must have happened to him,” Kate replied, fighting the urge to go up and wake Edgar. She hated the idea of him suffering alone, but at the same time she knew it wasn't her place to go charging into his bedroom, especially not with Didi standing right in front of her.

  “I catch occasional words,” Didi continued. “He talks in his sleep sometimes.”

  Kate paused as she thought back to her conversation the previous day with Edgar, when he'd told her about the wooden panels beneath the stones.

  “Gothos?” she asked after a moment.

  “How'd you know that?” Didi replied with a frown.

  “Is that one of the words he says in his sleep?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And... Karakh?”

  “What are you, his new best friend?”

  “It's just a story he told me,” she continued. “Something he was taught as a child. I guess it must have really traumatized him, although it's strange that it would have affected him so strongly. I'm not sure I've ever heard of someone developing PTSD as a result of a traumatic piece of fiction. I thought it always had to be something real, something the individual had lived through himself.”

  “What are you, a psychiatrist now?”

  “I'm just saying,” Kate continued, “that something specific must have happened that caused Edgar to be like this.”

  “He has these scars,” Didi replied after a moment, as if she wasn't certain she should be giving out so much information. “Like, there's this big scar on his right arm, just below the shoulder. He's never told me where he got it.”

  “Everyone has scars,” Kate pointed out.

  “Not like this. This one's... deep, like his flesh was gouged away. It's kinda messy, too. You'd think a guy like Edgar would be able to afford the best doctors in the world, but this scar looks like it was just left to heal without any treatment, 'cause it's all ridgy and bumpy. I mean, the guy's got a rock-solid body, but I've always wondered about that scar.”

  “You think something happened to him?” Kate asked.

  “I don't think he did it sitting by himself in his bedroom,” Didi replied, “that's for sure.”

  “How much do you know about Edgar's early life?”

  Didi shrugged.

  “But you'd know if he'd been in some kind of major accident, wouldn't you?” Kate asked. “Or if he'd, I don't know, been in the military or something like that.”

  “Sure,” Didi replied. “I mean, I guess I'd know. He doesn't talk about stuff very much, and even when he does, I kinda have a hard time concentrating. I guess he just grew up rich, with like a silver spoon in his mouth, so even the mildest thing can screw him up. Guys like Eddie, they don't have to be exposed to the harshness of the world. They get all, like, cocooned. And then one day, when they stub their toe or something like that, they think it's the worst goddamn thing that ever happened to anyone.” She took another swig of wine. “Try growing up in South London,” she muttered darkly, turning to look toward the hallway. “You wouldn't last five minutes on the Tyfield Estate, Mr. Billionaire.”

  “Does he ever mention his parents?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “You don't pay very much attention, do you?”

  “I'm busy!” Didi protested. “Jesus Christ, just 'cause you're with someone and engaged to them, you don't have to hang on their every word. I'm sure he's talked about his childhood a few times, but it's just kinda gone in one ear and out the other. I'm more interested in the present and, well, maybe the recent past.”

  “Like James Nixon?”

  At the mention of Nixon's name, Didi fell silent for a moment, as if some switch had been pushed in her head.

  “What if I told you that I found something that might help you locate Nixon?” Kate continued. “Something in the archive?”

  “Did you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Didi paused again, as if her mind had finally clicked into gear.

  “Why are you really here?” Kate asked. “I can see it in your eyes. You're after something specific.”

  “What did you find?”

&nb
sp; “Answer my question first.”

  “I'm here for a few different things,” Didi replied cautiously. “The thing is, before I marry Edgar, I need to find out what really happened between him and Nixon. I can't marry a guy if there are... doubts about him, can I? I mean, hell, some of the rumors are pretty extreme.”

  “Do you think Edgar had Nixon killed?”

  “I don't know what I think,” Didi continued. “Please, as one woman to another, if you've found something about what happened, I'd really like to see it. I can even pay you.”

  “Pay me?” Kate smiled. “You don't have to pay me. Why don't you come to the archive room with me right now, and I'll show you what I've got? And in return, you can tell me the real reason you want to know, because I'm not buying any of the stories you've given me so far.”

  “Whoever thought that pile of dusty old papers would actually be useful?” Didi replied, as she topped up her glass. “Wine?”

  “Not right now, thanks,” Kate told her as they headed through to the hallway. At that moment, Edgar could be heard crying out in his sleep again, as if he was being subjected to some kind of mental torture. “Are you sure you shouldn't go and check on him?” Kate asked, turning to Didi.

  “Nah. Let him suffer a little. It's good for the soul.”

  “You can't mean that.”

  “Why not?” Didi asked. “Edgar Le Compte has caused a lot of pain for a lot of people over the years, so why shouldn't he get a little in return? It's karma. Now come on, let's get to the archive. I wanna see what you've found.”

  As Didi led the way, Kate couldn't help but glance up the stairs and listen to the sound of Edgar calling out in his sleep. He sounded as if he was in the throes of some terrible nightmare, and Kate couldn't shake the feeling that someone should go and check on him. At the same time, she was also curious about the cause of the nightmare. Whatever was going through Edgar's mind, it was clearly something horrific, something that shook him to his core.

  II

  “This isn't going to work,” Edgar muttered as he rolled over onto his left side. The bedsheets had long ago been tossed to the floor, leaving his naked, sweating body to glisten in the moonlight. “You can't be serious,” he whispered, clenching his eyes shut tighter than ever. “We'll be killed before we get more than ten paces.”

  In his dream, he was standing on a rocky ledge, overlooking a vast gray landscape filled with fire and smoke. Pockets of violence were still breaking out sporadically under a blood-red sky, but for the most part the latest battle had drawn to a close after more than a hundred days and now the armies had retreated. Thousands had died, their bodies left to be picked clean by scavengers, and in the distance the howls of the dying could be heard rising from the dirt. Already, new battles were breaking out many miles away as the endless war rumbled ever onward.

  “We need to buy some more time,” Cassandra replied, crouching on the ground nearby as she drew shapes in the mud. “They say Oncephalus is working on a new strategy.”

  “Oncephalus has lost her mind,” Edgar muttered. “Everyone knows it. She spent so long trying to find order in all this chaos, her sanity has unraveled. The war is drawing to an end and soon Gothos -”

  “Don't say it!” Cassandra hissed.

  “You know it's true! Unless we launch a counter-offensive -”

  “Don't say it!” She glanced over her shoulder, as if she was worried that they might be overheard. “If he hears you...”

  “So what if he hears me?” Edgar asked. “I'm not going to let his stubbornness push me into another unwinnable fight. We've spent too long scurrying around at the edges, trying to delay the inevitable. We have to face the enemy head-on. I for one won't hesitate to slaughter every last one of those cold-bloods.”

  “You need to trust Patrick,” Cassandra continued, drawing more shapes in the dirt, as if she was trying to work on some kind of plan. “He has more experience than both of us put together. He knows what he's doing, and he thinks we still have a chance, especially if Oncephalus is able to come up with something. The cold-bloods are massing to the north, which means they have to pass through the winter-lands if they're going to attack Gothos.”

  “That'll just delay things,” Edgar replied. “Gothos thinks it'd be better to seek peace talks, but that's just going to make things worse and open us up to the risk of being double-crossed. There's no way we can trust the cold-bloods. They'd sooner slaughter us all than honor any agreement, but we can still end things if we just meet violence with violence. This is a war, not a debating contest!”

  “He's coming!” Cassandra hissed. “Don't let him hear you talk about more bloodshed!”

  “Why not? At least we could -”

  Before he could finish, he spotted a figure moving through the shadows, and finally Patrick strode into view. His clothes were torn and fresh blood flowed from several deep cuts on his face, but it was his eyes that spoke of the true horrors that all three of them had witnessed. As he wiped his bloodied hands on his jacket, he looked down at Cassandra's drawings.

  “You're hurt,” she said, looking up at him with obvious concern. “Patrick, we need to rest before we try to get back to Gothos. I've been trying to plan the safest route. It's not the quickest, but it avoids all the obvious attack points. We're stranded out here. We need to get home.”

  She and Edgar watched as Patrick stood by the edge, watching the carnage that filled the great plain.

  “She's right,” Edgar said finally. “There's no point in constantly throwing ourselves into these little skirmishes. We need to be smarter. I've lost track of how many times I've fought, how many times I've bled, how many times I've thought I was on the verge of death. I don't want to see any more blood being spilled by our side, not unless it means we have a chance to win this thing. It's time for the final battle, the one that'll end this war forever. We're stronger than the cold-bloods, at least for now, so we have to press that advantage home while we still have a chance.”

  Slowly, Patrick turned to him, and it was clear from the look in his eyes that he didn't agree.

  “What's wrong?” Edgar asked. “Cat got your tongue?”

  Patrick parted his lips as if he was about to speak, but no words left his mouth.

  “Aren't you sick of this war?” Edgar continued. “Aren't you both sick of it? We've come so close to death on so many occasions, and now I can't even remember what we're fighting for. The worst part is, now that the spiders are gone, we should be rebuilding, but instead we're killing each other. The cold-bloods -”

  “The cold-bloods are our brothers,” Patrick said darkly, his voice filled with anger. “Every last one of them. They're vampires, just like us.”

  “They're not like us,” Edgar replied. “They're cowards.”

  “You're young,” Patrick told him. “You don't understand how war works.”

  “Don't patronize me,” Edgar continued. “I've been fighting long enough to know what's really happening here.”

  “Patrick has a plan,” Cassandra said cautiously.

  “Another famous plan?” Edgar replied, turning to her. “Great. The one thing this whole mess needs is another idiot with a plan.”

  “It's a prophecy,” Cassandra continued. “It could end things, if we need to... I mean, it's a last resort. It would change our world forever. The Book of Gothos mentions a prophecy of silence, but it only works if someone is willing to take the weight of guilt on his shoulders. Gothos himself insists that it must never be done, but -”

  “It will be done,” Patrick replied, interrupting her. “If it needs to be done, it will happen.”

  “You can't,” she told him, getting to her feet. “Patrick, even you -”

  “If it ends the war,” he continued, “then I have no choice.”

  “And you can live with that?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “You'd be the last one,” she continued. “You'd be alone, and you'd have to rebuild our world without any help.”


  “You're insane,” Edgar muttered, staring at Patrick. “How much more blood has to flow before you all realize that this war is out of control? We could fight like this for another thousand years and still nothing would be resolved. The cold-bloods are massing, which means they're ready to strike a final blow against us. Our only hope is to beat them at their own game. We have to stand and fight! Sure, we'll spill our own blood, but so long as we spill more of theirs, we'll end up winning.”

  “That's something the prophecy is designed to address,” Cassandra told him. “It would wipe us all away and allow the vampire race to start again. Warm-bloods, cold-bloods, everyone would be affected. Some of us could slip through the cracks, though. We'd cease to exist for the duration of the prophecy, but once the new world had been established, we could come back. It's not a perfect plan, but at least it allows us to have hope.”

  “This is madness,” Edgar replied. “It's just delaying the inevitable. I'm ready to taste their blood again.”

  “You're a fool,” Patrick snarled. “Do you think I want to be the last vampire? Do you think I want to take a vow of silence? Every other plan has failed, and always for the same reason. No-one has been willing to contemplate a world in which the vampire race, as we know it today, ceases to exist. That's the problem, though. You're right when you say that this war has become part of our souls. We no longer know how to live in peace and even if we destroy all the cold-bloods, we'll find some other division within our ranks and the war will continue forever, until only one of us is left standing. And then he will tear himself apart in rage and frustration, because that's what happens when you fight for too long. War becomes a habit.”

  “What's wrong?” Edgar asked. “Are you scared? Is the great Patrick too frightened to stand and fight a pack of cold-bloods?”

  “Say that again,” Patrick replied darkly, “and I'll separate your head from the rest of your body.”

  “You don't scare me. You're old, Patrick. You're yesterday's soldier. What we need now is young blood, men like me who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty.”

  “Someone needs to get a message to Gothos,” Cassandra pointed out. “They need to know that the cold-bloods are coming from the north.”

  “No,” Patrick replied. “If we tell them, they might decide to fight.”

  “But you just said -”

  “I'll go,” Edgar said firmly. “I can move faster than either of you, and I can be at Gothos by dawn tomorrow.”

  “It's not safe traveling at night,” Cassandra replied. “There are cold-blood scouts out there, they'll ambush you.”

  “I can handle them,” Edgar told her. “If it means that there's a chance we can end this war, I'll deliver that message to Gothos in my own blood. I can cut through the ruins of Seppho, there won't be any cold-bloods down there.”

  “Returning to Gothos would be a futile gesture,” Patrick muttered. “We all know which way this is going. The spiders are already recovering and the cold-blooded vampires sense their chance. The prophecy will have to be invoked, and the sooner it happens, the sooner we can move on from this madness.”

  “I'll set off immediately,” Edgar replied, turning from both of them. “Cassandra, try to keep this madman under control for a little while longer. See if you can make him understand that the war isn't just about him. It's about the future of our species, and his prophecy won't help. We need to make one final stand and draw the cold-bloods into the final battle.”

  “We'll meet again at Gothos,” Cassandra called after him. “I don't know how, but we'll find a way through all of this!”

  “Right now,” Edgar replied, as he set out on the path that led down the mountain toward the great plain, “I'd settle for finding a good place to fight. By the time this war is over, I'll have drunk the blood of a thousand cold-bloods.”

  III

  “Don't worry,” Captain Hamilton said with a smile as he poured a glass of red wine for Fernando. “The boat might seem rather old and creaky, but I'd trust it with my life. There's no need to be worried.”

  “Does it have a name?” Fernando asked, watching as Hamilton made his way back to the other end of the table. The whole situation felt almost like a dream, but he knew deep down that it was real.

  “The boat? Of course, it's...” Hamilton paused, as if for a moment his memory was fogged. “I'm sorry, I'll have to check later, I don't quite...” Taking a seat, he seemed momentarily confused, and finally he looked across the room, almost as if he expected the answer to magically appear to him. “I'll find out. I must...”

  “A captain who doesn't know the name of his own boat?” Fernando replied, raising a skeptical eyebrow

  “Things have been so busy lately,” Hamilton continued, lifting his glass, “and it has been so long since we first set sail. Those few days in Parios were a welcome relief, but we're generally at sea almost all the time. I'm afraid that life in the service of our master is always hectic.”

  “How long have you served Baron Le Compte?”

  “Who?”

  “Your master.”

  “Oh...” Again, Hamilton seemed somewhat confused, as the hull of the boat creaked and groaned. Outside, a fair storm seemed to be building. “So long... So long that I can barely even remember. You're a sailor yourself, I believe? Surely you know what it's like when you're constantly moving from one port to another. Days blend into one another, weeks...”

  The old man's voice trailed off.

  “Baron Le Compte keeps us running to a very strict schedule,” he continued. “We always have our route mapped out a few weeks in advance. Lately things have been a little different, since there seems to have been a problem with the paperwork at Thaxos, but for the most part we're never able to stop for more than a few hours at a time. We just keep working all the time, never even getting time to sleep... I suppose the rigorous schedule has somewhat taken it out of us all.”

  “I never forget the name of my boat,” Fernando muttered darkly. “Or where I've been, or where I'm going, or who I'm sailing under. It's kinda hard to believe that anyone could lose track of the important stuff.”

  “Singapore,” Hamilton said suddenly, with a broad smile. “That's right, we'd been to Singapore and we...” Again he paused, as if that one brief memory was all he can manage. “Now, I know we were definitely in Singapore at one point, but after that... We must have gone through the...”

  The boat creaked again, as if the storm was getting stronger.

  “Exactly how long have you been at sea?” Fernando asked.

  “Long enough to have forgotten a great deal, evidently. But for now, we must simply enjoy our meal.” He smiled, as if he was determined to convince himself that everything was okay. “Please, it's not often that I'm able to entertain a guest, and I have had this food prepared with great care by the ship's cook.”

  “There's a cook onboard? I haven't seen anyone else.”

  “Oh, he's around somewhere. He... Well, I imagine he's rather busy at the moment.”

  Fernando looked down at the steak that had been placed before him a few minutes earlier. It certainly seemed to be good food, although he couldn't shake the feeling that it might turn to ash as soon as he began to cut into the meat.

  “Forgive me for asking,” he continued, looking back at Hamilton, “but when I was on the boat a few days ago, on the journey from Thaxos to Parios, it seemed as if there was no-one else here, almost as if the entire boat was deserted. I mean, I didn't even see any sign of you, and believe me, I was poking around plenty.”

  “I can assure you that this vessel is never deserted,” Hamilton replied. “It takes the combined efforts of more than twenty men to get us through even the calmest of seas, and that's...” He paused, as if suddenly he'd remembered something. Turning, he looked over at the door. “Singapore,” he added finally. “Yes, we were in Singapore, but that was so long ago, it was back when Clementi-Smith was in charge... And then there was a storm, a typhoon perhaps, and then...”


  Fernando waited for him to finish.

  “And then we were supposed to head for... for... But the storm was so strong and so sudden, and the waves came over the side and it seemed as if we were going to sink, but... Oh, but all of this was so long ago, I must be mis-remembering what happened.” As he spoke, the hull of the boat creaked again and the entire vessel seemed to pitch briefly, as if the storm outside was getting stronger by the minute. “Anyway, somehow we reached Gibraltar, and by then our cargo... There was something precious in the hold, something that absolutely had to reach its destination on Thaxos. We'd picked it up from a port named... Seppha or Seppho or... Something like that.”

  “I've never heard of it,” Fernando replied.

  “No, I looked on a map later and I couldn't find it anywhere. We were there, though, briefly, so I know that it exists. There was so much fog everywhere, it was impossible to really see the place. I was under the impression that there had been a great deal of conflict, and there were fires burning in the distance. We were told to load our cargo quickly, and we were warned that under no circumstances were we to interact with anyone we met. A woman came onboard and paid the full fare in gold coins, and then she hurried back to shore. Her name was... Well, I don't remember, but I'm sure it's not important. And then... Singapore, I think it was. I'm quite certain. Yes, I remember the Chinese were causing problems, but Governor Clementi-Smith had their measure.”

  With that, he fell silent and looked down at his food.

  “Where are we going now?” Fernando asked.

  Hamilton looked back across at him, but it was clear from the look in his eyes that he had no answer.

  “Back to Thaxos?” Fernando continued.

  “Thaxos? Yes, I think so. We were simply told that it was safe to return.”

  “Told by Le Compte?”

  “I assume so. You must forgive me for being so vague, but sometimes it's hard to remember exactly what happened. One voyage after another, and...” He paused again, staring into space. “Seppho... There were flames all around. It was late at night, and a large box was brought onboard. Nothing more. We were told to stay below deck while the box was loaded, so we didn't really see the people who brought it into the boat, we only heard them. There was chanting, almost as if it was a funeral... The woman who came onboard, she asked to see me and that's when she gave me the gold. She said it was vitally important that we should deliver the box to Thaxos. I could see the terror in her eyes, almost as if she feared for her life. I offered to grant her free passage with us, but she refused. She said she had something important to do, and then she headed back into the ruins of the city.”

  “And you have no idea where this Seppho place is located?” Fernando asked.

  “None.”

  “How long did it take to get there?”

  “I...”

  “You must have had a map,” Fernando continued. “How did you get there?”

  “It was many years ago. Maybe a few hundred...”

  A cold shiver passed through Fernando's body as he stared at the old man.

  “And then,” Hamilton continued, “as we sailed away, one by one... We started to lose the crew.”

  “What do you mean, lose the crew?”

  “They just started to disappear, and then eventually we found a pile of them down in the engine room. We sealed that part of the boat off, but whatever was down there, it managed to get out and...” He reached up and put a hand on the side of his neck, as if some long-lost memory was briefly surfacing from the depths of his subconscious mind. “It was as if, each day, we lost a few more, and then a few more, until finally there were only a couple of us left. We sealed ourselves into the main cabin, but then we heard something at the door. Eventually it got through and...”

  “You said you have a full crew on the boat at the moment,” Fernando pointed out. “So you recruited some more people to run things?”

  “No, it's the same crew, they just...” He paused. “No, you must be right, mustn't you? I swear, it's so hard to remember these days. So much has happened.”

  “Either your crew died or they didn't.”

  “Listen to me,” Hamilton added with a broad smile, “rambling on like a madman. You must think I'm drunk or something. That's the problem with these long, lonely voyages. A man's imagination can rather get ahead of him, and eventually it becomes difficult to distinguish between fiction and reality.” Holding his wine glass up, he took a sip before raising it toward Fernando. “We must drink a toast. To Queen Victoria, to the health of the world and the British Empire in particular, and to the safety of our vessel and all who sail in her.”

  “Queen Victoria?” Fernando replied.

  “We must toast to the sovereign's continued good health, must we not?”

  “Sure,” Fernando continued, raising his glass for a moment before taking a sip. “I think you might be a little late, though. Queen Victoria died more than a hundred years ago.”

  “Did she?” Hamilton paused. “Yes, of course she did. Silly me, I...” He stared down at his glass for a moment, as if once again he couldn't quite remember something important. “Yes, she died, didn't she? Word came long ago, it was quite a shock. And now there's... someone else on the throne...”

  “Never mind,” Fernando replied. “Easy mistake to make.”

  Outside, howling winds continued to whip great waves up from the sea, as pitch-black clouds rolled across the night sky. There was lightning in the distance, getting closer, and the huge black boat was pitching and rolling in all directions as the waves continually lifted it up and then sent it crashing back down. All around, there was only darkness, with no sign of land on the horizon as the boat continued its lonely journey through the night.

  IV

  In his dark and feverish dream, Edgar was still making his way across the great plain, heading for his ancestral home of Gothos. He was forced to pick his way past thousands of dead and dying corpses, some of which called out to him for help. He ignored them all, determined not to allow himself to be slowed, and by the time nightfall came he had already managed to reach the ruins of Seppho, where one of the newer vampire cities had long ago fallen to dust.

  As he made his way past burned buildings, he couldn't help remember his childhood, when he used to pay in the city's bustling streets. Now those same streets had been destroyed, razed by an army of invading cold-bloods who had swept through the area several years earlier and killed every warm-blooded vampire they could find. Whole families had been staked through the heart and left hanging from the doors of their homes, drained of blood and with their necks ripped open as a final sign of disrespect. Bleached bones now lay in the dust, and Edgar knew that some of those bones must belong to the friends and family-members who now existed only in his memories.

  The fall of Seppho had been one of the darkest days in the war, and every warm-blooded vampire knew that it was with this atrocity that the cold-bloods had abandoned any right to be treated mercifully. When word of the city's fate reached Gothos, the story was seen as final confirmation of the cold-bloods' inhumanity. It was at that moment that any lingering opposition to the campaign was finally snuffed out. In many ways, Seppho had been a turning point in the course of the entire war.

  Edgar's progress slowed as he reached the old town square, where hundreds of sets of bones had been left on the ground. Night was closing in fast, and although he did not much like the idea of being caught in the ruins of Seppho after sun-fall, he told himself that in some strange way this was where he belonged. He was still making good time as he journeyed to Gothos, and he knew these streets so well that he would require no light to find his way. Besides, he was still fueled by his anger at Patrick's words, since he felt that many of his warm-blooded brethren were losing the will to fight. IT was as if the memories of Seppho were starting to fade.

  Stopping at the edge of the town square, he looked over his shoulder. He had heard, just for a fraction of a second, a faint scratching sound, but h
is senses indicated no-one nearby. He waited for a moment longer before continuing on his way, determined to -

  Suddenly something heavy crashed against him, sending him into the wall of a nearby house. He turned just in time to see a dark shape lunging at him, and he heard the unmistakable hiss of a cold-blooded vampire. Ducking out of the way, he grabbed the figure's shoulders and twisted him around before slamming him down into the dust. Although he kept expecting his assailant to fight back, he found to his surprise that the attacker seemed strangely weak, and finally he looked down and saw that the cold-blood was already badly injured, with a chunk of flesh and bone missing from his torso. He was clearly a survivor of a recent battle, struggling to survive in the ruins.

  “A straggler, huh?” Edgar asked, unable to stifle a faint smile as he realized that this lone cold-blood soldier was ripe for the picking. “You picked the wrong man to challenge.”

  “I killed thousands of your sort here,” the cold-blood hissed, his yellowing eyes filled with scorn. “I think I can manage one more before my injuries overcome me.”

  The creature tried to break free, but Edgar held him down firmly. Gaunt and thin, with the pale hollowed-out features of a typical cold-blood, the enemy was nevertheless obviously weak, and Edgar's only concern was that he could not spare the time to truly torture the miserable wretch.

  “I thought you cold-bloods preferred traveling in packs,” he sneered.

  “You think I'm alone?”

  “I don't see any more of your scum,” Edgar replied. “I'd be able to smell them if they were near.”

  “They're probably sleeping off their latest feast,” the cold-blood told him. “You have no idea how much warm blood we drank during the final days of this city. The vampires of Seppho were among the most pitiful in all of creation, but at least they had plenty of children! The blood of the young ones was delicious. I can still taste it now -”

  “Enough!” Edgar shouted, hauling the creature up and then slamming him back down so hard against the dirt that he could feel several of his victim's bones breaking.

  “You seem particularly angry,” the creature gasped. “Did some of your family die here?”

  “My name is Edgar Le Compte,” he replied, “and yes, members of my family died here in Seppho.”

  “Describe them to me,” the creature whispered with a smile. “I might remember killing them!”

  “How do you want to die?” Edgar asked, leaning closer to him.

  “Quillian,” the creature replied.

  “What?”

  “That's my name. I know your name, so you should at least know mine.” He paused. “And don't worry, I have no doubt that you're going to kill me. After all, I'm at a disadvantage, and everyone knows that cold-bloods and warm-bloods always kill one another on sight. That's just the way things have to be these days, isn't it?”

  “Do you have any idea how many of my people you killed here in Seppho?” Edgar asked.

  “About as many as your people killed when they attacked El-Haim?”

  “El-Haim wasn't a city,” Edgar replied. “It was a garrison.”

  “There were women and children there,” Quillian told him. “Thousands of them. You warm-bloods swarmed through the streets and slaughtered as many as you could find!”

  “And before that,” Edgar pointed out, “cold-bloods had killed thousands when they attacked the city of Narm.”

  “And before that,” Quillian replied, “warm-bloods destroyed...” He paused, and finally another smile broke across his face. “Listen to us, rehashing all the old points. Who killed who first, who attacked who first? Does anyone even remember? Sometimes I think that when one kills children, one loses all right to claim the moral high ground. Maybe we're as bad as each other.”

  “I'll tell you what I remember,” Edgar replied. “I remember hearing about the misery that had been brought to Seppho. I remember hearing first-hand testimonies from women who had managed to flee before your kind arrived and began to drain the blood of our babies. I remember seeing smoke rise into the crimson sky. The sound of screams was overwhelming. Even at Gothos, we could hear what you were doing. Gothos himself is said to have turned his face to the shadows when he realized that Seppho had been destroyed.”

  “Funny,” Quillian replied, “I could say the same thing about the siege of Narm.” He paused. “Face it, both sides have committed horrific acts in the name of peace, and no-one can unravel the causes and consequences. There's only one way this war can end.”

  “Too bad you won't live to find out,” Edgar snarled.

  “That's fine by me. Do you think I want to witness the cold-bloods being ground to dust beneath warm-blood boots? Or what if my side wins? I don't think that would be much better. I'll happily die right now if it means that I can pretend there's going to be a happy ending. You're the one who's going to have to survive and witness all the pain and misery that comes next. So get on with it. Finish me off. Drink my blood.”

  “Your blood is cold,” Edgar replied. “I wouldn't let it past my lips.”

  “Then kill me some other way,” Quillian continued, with pain in his voice. “Please, as one soldier to another, show a little mercy. I've fought in so many battles, I've seen people who took days to die. I'd rather it's quick. Just turn out the lights for me.”

  “I...” Edgar stared at him, and he could already feel his pure, blinding anger beginning to abate. “I have no choice. I have to... I can't show you any mercy. I could never live with myself if I went back to my brethren and had to admit that I'd granted a quick death to one of your kind. You're my enemy.”

  “I understand. If our positions were reversed, I would have no hesitation in killing you. Just make it quick and -”

  Pausing, Quillian seemed suddenly to be looking over Edgar's shoulder, as if something nearby had caught his eyes.

  “Don't move,” he whispered.

  “Don't try to trick me now,” Edgar sighed. “We -”

  “There's a spider,” Quillian continued breathlessly, as if panic was starting to fill his soul. “I heard there were some still around, but -”

  “There are no spiders,” Edgar told him, before realizing that he could hear a scratching sound nearby. He turned to look, but it was too late: a shock of pain jolted his body as a huge spider fell onto his back and bit down hard into his right shoulder, almost severing his arm.

  V

  “This is a cargo manifest from Edgar's boat,” Kate explained as she placed a folder on the table and opened it to the first page. “It lists everything that he's been importing to Thaxos. I've got to hand it to him, he sure keeps detailed records.”

  “One hundred and twenty cases of wine,” Didi read out loud as she scanned the list, “fifty boxes of caviar... Eddie doesn't even like caviar and neither do I, I don't know why the hell he keeps buying it. And all these cases of champagne seem crazy. I mean, I like the stuff, but there's no way we've been getting through twelve cases a month. We'd all be dead on the floor from liver failure.”

  “So where does it all go?” Kate asked.

  Didi shrugged.

  “He's been importing the finest food and wine known to mankind,” Kate continued, turning to the second page, “and apart from the occasional glimpse at dinner, I don't understand what happens to it all. Is there some kind of store-room that I don't know about?”

  “Nowhere that holds all of this stuff. It's almost as if he's bringing it in one day and then sending it back out the next.”

  “He's not doing that,” Kate replied. “He brings it ashore, he has it brought up here to the mansion, and then... And then it disappears. It has to go somewhere.”

  “Eddie's always been a little peculiar,” Didi replied. “I mean, I love him and all, but I can't deny that the guy's got weird tastes and weird habits. Sometimes I think he buys things just to amuse himself. I guess it's easy to get bored when you're that rich, huh?” She pointed at a line on the latest page. “Diamonds. He's been importing diamonds
with a total value of more than ten million pounds, but I haven't seen any of them.” She turned to Kate. “Do you know what he's doing with them? He hasn't been giving them to you, has he?”

  “Seriously?”

  “He sure as hell isn't eating them, so what's he up to?”

  “An investment?”

  “No goddamn way. He's keeping something from me.” She flicked through some more pages of the folder. “It's like a parody of wealth,” she continued. “It's like he's just buying anything he can think of that flaunts his money. I get that, it's cool, but then what the hell does he do with it all when he gets it here? Eddie's no fool, so he wouldn't just toss it in the garbage. He's up to something.”

  “I get the feeling he's up to several things,” Kate replied. “He seems to be a man who thrives on secrets.”

  “So what's this got to do with James Nixon?” Didi asked. “You said you'd found something that might help.”

  “First tell me why you care so much about Nixon,” Kate replied, “and give me the truth this time. Don't try to claim you're just worried about marrying a guy with a dark past. I'm not an idiot, and I can see through all that crap.”

  “Nixon...” Didi paused. “If I tell you the truth, can you promise you won't tell Eddie?”

  “I promise.”

  “And can you also promise that you know something that'll really help me? 'Cause right now...” She glanced over her shoulder, almost as if she was worried that they might be overheard. “I'm getting desperate,” she added, turning back to Kate. “I need a result. Otherwise I wouldn't even consider letting you in on this, okay?”

  “Someone sent you, didn't they?” Kate continued. “You're a plant, or a spy. Someone sent you here specifically to dig up information about Edgar and James Nixon.”

  “There are certain interested parties,” Didi replied cautiously. “Powerful people, people with money, and they wanna know the truth. They don't like it when Eddie tries to pull the wool over their eyes.”

  “What's your real name?” Kate asked.

  “I've told you enough of the truth for now,” Didi continued. “Now spill what you know.”

  “You might have a hard time believing it.”

  “Hit me. Trust me, I've got some practice when it comes to believing weird stuff. Living with Eddie tends to throw up surprises on a regular basis.”

  “A man was transported here,” Kate continued, turning to another page in the ship's manifest. “There are notes here, and also in a few other folders. They're enough to make me certain that Edgar's boat was used to transport a live human being, and I think he arrived in...” She paused, as if she wasn't sure she wanted to say the word. “If I didn't know better,” she added, “I'd say that someone was brought here in chains. Look, there are several very clear references to a prisoner.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Didi muttered as she looked at the next page, “you're right. But that means...”

  “That means James Nixon was brought to Thaxos alive,” Kate continued. “If Edgar went to all that trouble, he must also have wanted to keep him alive once he got him here, but I don't understand where he could be hold him. We've been in the basement, and there's nothing down there.”

  “This is a big house,” Didi replied, “and even I don't know all of it. There could easily be a few hidden rooms, maybe even sound-proofed. Eddie's got a lot of locked doors around the place.”

  “But if Edgar did this,” Kate continued, “that makes him... I mean, it's monstrous.”

  “What's wrong? Don't you believe he's capable?”

  “I...” Pausing, Kate realized that even though it pained her to make the admission, she did believe Edgar could do something so cruel. At the same time, she couldn't help thinking that he must have a reason. “Why would he want to do something like this? What does James Nixon really mean to him? Does he stand to make money from his disappearance?”

  “It's not about money,” Didi replied. “It's about power. Eddie's got all the money anyone could ever need. All that matters to him is showing that he's in charge. If James Nixon started to challenge him, Eddie would want to put him in his place, and a flick around the ear wouldn't be enough. He'd want to destroy him.”

  “You don't have to kidnap someone and hold them captive to do that,” Kate pointed out.

  “Eddie always goes to extremes.”

  Kate stared at the documents for a moment. “We should go to the police,” she said finally. “If there's evidence that someone has been kidnapped -”

  “That won't do any good.”

  “Of course it will! Edgar doesn't exist in his own bubble world, completely separate from the rules and laws of everywhere else!”

  “Sure he does,” Didi replied, closing the folder. “Eddie's one of the elite, Kate. Men like him, they don't care about the rule of law. They use their money to get what they want, when they want, and how they want it. If you don't realize that, you're more naive than I thought. His enemies are the same. These people have their own private war going on, and they don't give a damn about what the police or anyone else might think.”

  “I refuse to believe that anyone is above the law,” Kate told her. “The law -”

  “Here's what we're gonna do,” Didi replied, interrupting her. “I'm gonna find where Nixon's being held, and then I'm gonna tell the people I'm working for. And then I'm gonna run and I'm gonna get so far away from Thaxos, I won't be able to hear Eddie's screams of rage. If you're smart, you'll do the same, 'cause he sure as hell doesn't like being crossed, and he's gonna know who to blame. Trust me, I've seen what Eddie does to people who betray him, and it's not pretty.”

  “That's the other thing that I don't quite understand,” Kate continued. “This cargo manifest, it spells out the truth pretty clearly, right? It explicitly mentions a prisoner being transported.”

  “Lucky break for us, right?”

  “No,” Kate replied, “exactly the opposite. Edgar hired me to go through this archive, and he knows I do a thorough job, so he must have realized that I'd find this.”

  “He got sloppy,” Didi suggested. “He forgot it was in here.”

  “Do you really think Edgar is ever sloppy?” Kate asked. “What if he left this document here deliberately, so that I'd find it?”

  “As a kind of trap?”

  “Or a test of loyalty?”

  “I wanna say that you're barking up the wrong tree,” Didi replied cautiously, “but knowing Eddie...” She paused for a moment as a thousand different possibilities raced through her mind. “Give me twenty-four hours,” she said finally. “I can talk to someone who might have an idea of what's going on. After twenty-four hours I can come up with a better idea, some kind of plan. Until then, just put this document back where you found it and pretend you never laid eyes on it. Deal?”

  “I...”

  “And do not ask Edgar any leading questions,” Didi continued. “Seriously, if you wanna keep breathing, just seal your lips.”

  “Edgar's not a killer,” Kate told her.

  “That's a nice sentiment, but don't bet your life on it. Keep your mouth shut for one more day, Kate, and then I'll have a better idea of what's going on. Until then, just bury your nose in some books and try to stay out of the way. You're mixed up in something that's much bigger than you could possibly imagine, and I'm sorry about that, but you need to keep to the margins. Trust me, anyone who's on center-stage when this all blows up is gonna end up hurt.”

  “And that includes you?”

  “Probably. The wrath of Edgar Le Compte ain't a nice thing to face.” She paused, before taking a step back. “Twenty-four more hours, Kate. That's all. This time tomorrow, I think things are gonna get resolved one way or another. A whole lotta stuff has been building to a head, and now it's ready to blow. The only question is, who comes out on top and who takes a tumble?”

  “And Edgar?”

  “He's asleep,” Didi continued. “Let him dream a little longer. It might be the last chance he get
s.”

  VI

  “Easy!” Quillian hissed as he tried to push Edgar back down into the dirt. “Calm down, you're alive!”

  Panicking, Edgar pushed the cold-blood out of the way and scrambled to his feet, only to turn and spot the crumbled form of a large, dead spider just a few meters away. He paused as his dream seemed to shimmer and flex for a moment, almost as if he was on the point of waking up, but finally the world stabilized around him.

  “It shrieked as it died,” Quillian explained, with a hint of amusement in his voice. “I've got to say, I'm glad I got to kill one more of those beasts before my own death. It reminded me of the old war, before we vampires turned on one another.”

  Feeling a sharp pain in his right shoulder, Edgar looked down and saw that his arm was almost hanging off.

  “Don't be too impressed,” Quillian continued. “After the spider attacked you, I fought back and I got a lucky strike, straight in the damn thing's cranial cavity. More or less finished it off with one strike. If I hadn't been so fortunate, we'd both be dead by now. Don't worry, though. I don't expect you to thank me. If you've not got the strength left to kill me, you can just leave me here to waste away. I doubt any other cold-bloods are gonna return in time to help me.”

  “I need to fix this,” Edgar grunted as he used his left hand to push his right arm back into its socket. The pain was intense, but he'd learned long ago to withstand even the greatest agony. “I can't lose my arm.”

  “It'll repair within a few days,” Quillian told him. “There might be some poison in the wound, but hopefully not too much.” He paused, eying Edgar with a hint of curiosity. “You're young, aren't you?”

  “I'm old enough.”

  “But in terms of this war, you're still young. I can see it in your eyes. Most warm-bloods have been fighting for so long, they're growing weary of all the bloodshed, but not you. You still think the war is a noble thing, don't you?”

  “I think it's noble to fight for my kind,” Edgar replied. “To stand for something, to believe in something -”

  “Something that justifies all this death?”

  “You attacked first.”

  “Funny. We're always told that you attacked first.”

  “It's not my fault if you're too stupid to fall for propaganda,” Edgar sneered. “We're taught the truth, we're shown evidence.”

  “And everything's still black and white,” Quillian continued. “I remember when I saw the world in the same way, back when the war against the spiders was still in full swing. Vampires good, spiders bad. But then once the spiders were beaten back, things became more difficult to understand. Some vampires were still good, but others were bad, and it was hard to know who was who. And now, I can't even tell whether I'm one of the good ones or not. All I can do is keep killing the warm-bloods and hope that I'm making the right decision, but sometimes I have moments of doubt. Don't you?”

  “No,” Edgar replied cautiously, even though he felt that he understood Quillian's position. “I know enough about the cold-bloods to realize that you're all evil. I've seen the bodies of children left behind by your armies. I've seen what you do to them.”

  “Clearly your ministry of propaganda is as good as ours. Maybe they should merge. After all, they basically do the same thing, just with different targets. Change the names around and they're basically peddling the same lies.”

  “Cold-blooded vampires are murderers,” Edgar said firmly. “Your hearts are frozen.”

  “I wish I still saw the world in such a simple way,” Quillian replied. “When I die -”

  “You're not dying yet,” Edgar said suddenly, grabbing his arm and trying to haul him up to his feet. Seeing that Quillian's legs were too badly damaged, he resolved instead to start dragging him across the dirt. “I'm taking you with me.”

  “Where?”

  “To Gothos. We have people there who can interrogate you.”

  “Are you serious? I just saved your life!”

  “Which makes you a very bad soldier,” Edgar replied. “Killing you would be too easy, and I'm not in the business of making life easy for my enemies. I'm taking you to Gothos so you can be forced to reveal everything you know. Trust me, our specialists can scrape every last piece of information out of your head, even things you've forgotten. On the downside, you'll be dead by the end of it, but that can't be helped.”

  “You're truly addicted to this war, aren't you?” Quillian replied, his eyes widening with shock. “It's in your soul...”

  “I'm a soldier,” Edgar said firmly. “I do what's right for my people.”

  “Even if that means delivering a man to be tortured? A man who saved your life just a few minutes ago?”

  “I didn't ask you to save me,” Edgar replied. “You made that mistake all by yourself.”

  “I hope you realize your idiocy one day,” Quillian told him. “I can't imagine a worse fate that spending the rest of your life trapped by this anger. It'll consume you, you know. If you let this anger blossom in your soul, it'll be all you ever know. Even if you run out of enemies, you'll still feel that urge to kill, and you'll end up hurting the people who are closest to you.”

  “Shut up,” Edgar replied, starting to haul him along the street. “This journey is going to be a lot easier if you keep your mouth closed.”

  “Were you always like this?” Quillian asked. “When you were young, were you already a soldier?”

  “I was born a solider.”

  “That's pitiful.”

  “It's true. I was born strong and proud, with faith in my heart.”

  “You sound like a robot,” Quillian continued. “We had men like you on my side too -”

  “You have no men like me,” Edgar said firmly. “Men of honor, brave men, are on the warm-blooded side only.”

  “My God, it's worse than I thought. You've been brainwashed to believe all this garbage!”

  “I've seen it with my own eyes,” Edgar replied. “Cold-bloods aren't capable of courage. You're craven animals, scurrying through the shadows and never standing to fight unless the odds are massively stacked in your favor. That's why you're always so quick to kill children whenever you take control of a city. They're easy targets and the piles of corpses make you feel better about yourselves.”

  “Would it surprise you to learn,” Quillian continued, “that there are men on my side who believe the same thing about the warm-bloods?”

  “Those men are wrong.”

  “If you say so. Alternatively, you could argue that -”

  “Silence!” Edgar roared, stopping and turning to him. “One more word out of you, and I'll break your jaw! Do you understand? It's all the same to me. Our interrogators don't need you to be able to speak; they can reach directly into your mind and trace every thought you've ever had.”

  “You'll learn,” Quillian replied, before glancing over his shoulder as if he'd heard something nearby. “Or maybe you won't get the chance.”

  “This way,” Edgar replied, dragging him along the ruined street. “You're already slowing me down enough as it is.”

  “Do you really think you can get me all the way to Gothos?”

  “It's not far now. You wandered a little too far from the rest of your unit.”

  “Is that so? Then who, pray, is following us at this exact moment?”

  Stopping and looking back, Edgar scanned the horizon, looking for any hint of movement. His senses were burning, but he picked up no hint of any other vampires in the area. He knew the streets of Seppho like the back of his hand, thanks to his childhood days spent nearby, and he was convinced he could pick up the scent of another vampire from at least a couple of hundred meters. At the same time, he'd heard rumors about the cold-bloods, and about the methods they used when they wanted to disguise themselves.

  “Nice try,” he muttered.

  “You don't think they can fool you?” Quillian asked. “You don't think they have the ability to hide their scent? Has it never occurred to you warm-blo
oded idiots that our cold blood makes it much easier for us to move through the shadows? There are advantages to our physiology, you know.”

  “Say what you want,” Edgar replied, “but it won't do you any good. There's no -”

  Before he could finish, however, he spotted a figure standing on top of a nearby house. He felt a shiver pass through his body as he realized that another cold-blooded vampire was watching him, and seconds later he spotted more movement a little closer. Within seconds, he could see a dozen of the creatures, and then more besides, surrounding him and slowly advancing.

  “You were too slow,” Quillian gasped. “You should have killed me and run while you had the chance. Instead you decided to indulge your lust for blood, and now you're going to pay for it.”

  “Wrong again,” Edgar replied, pushing him down into the dirt before turning to face the nearest creature. “This just means I have to fight my way out.”

  VII

  “What was that horrible noise?” Alice asked as she hurried along the corridor. “Is someone in pain?”

  “It's Edgar,” Kate replied. “He's having a nightmare.”

  “I've heard people when they're having nightmares,” Alice replied, stopping at the top of the stairs and looking up toward the bedrooms. “That scream just now, it sounded more like -”

  As Edgar called out again, his voice wracked with pain and suffering, Alice turned to Kate.

  “How can we leave him like that?”

  “Didi said it's best not to disturb him,” Kate replied. “She said that when these nightmares come, he has to go through them. If we woke him up, the dream would just resume when he went back to sleep. She thinks it's just something he has to experience, some kind of coping mechanism that's linked to something that happened a long time ago.”

  “It sounds as if he's being tortured.”

  “Apparently it happens sometimes,” Kate continued. “He just... Didi says he has these nightmares every few months, and it's best to just let him ride it out. I know it's hard, but maybe this is one time when we have to accept that she knows what she's talking about.”

  “But how can we listen to such agony?” Alice asked. “When someone is suffering -”

  “Just let it be,” Kate told her. “I was going to come and find you in the morning, though. I think it's time for you to leave this house.”

  Alice shook her head.

  “Seriously,” Kate continued, “something might happen soon -”

  “I can't leave,” Alice replied, interrupting her. “Not yet.”

  “Then when?”

  “Soon. I don't know, just... Not yet. I tried, but...”

  “But what?” Kate waited for a reply, but she was slowly starting to realize that she and Alice might share a common problem. “You felt ill, didn't you? When you tried to leave the mansion, you felt weak, as if you might faint?”

  “I can leave the mansion,” Alice replied hesitantly. “I came to the stones with you, remember? It's just that the further I go, the worse I get, as if something inside my body is going to fall apart. Once I get more than a few hundred meters from the door, I start to feel faint, almost fragile, and I'm quite certain that if I went all the way down into the town, I'd barely be able to breathe.”

  “The same thing happened to me,” Kate told her. “I was going to leave a while ago, but when I got on the boat I almost collapsed. If Doctor Young hadn't been there to help me, I don't know what would have happened.”

  “I want to go home,” Alice continued, with tears in her eyes. “I miss my parents terribly, but I know I can't spend too long away from this house. Baron Le Compte has told me I can stay for as long as I wish, and I know he's being terribly kind to me, but at the same time I feel as if I'm trapped here. This place is so gloomy and old, I almost feel as if it exists in another time.”

  “Staying isn't an option,” Kate replied. “Not forever.”

  “Is something going to happen?”

  “I think there's going to be a big change,” Kate told her. “I was talking to Didi and... I think soon we won't have much choice. Staying at the house would be a huge mistake if Edgar -”

  Before she could finish, she heard Edgar crying out in his sleep again. She turned and looked along the corridor, while fighting the urge to rush to his room and help him. She had never heard anyone experience such obvious agony, and although she was starting to have doubts about Edgar's character, she still hated the thought that he was in pain. A part of her felt that if Didi's claims were true, Edgar deserved to suffer, but another part of her felt that until she'd heard Edgar's side of the story, she couldn't bear to hear him in such agony.

  “What kind of nightmare could make a man scream like that?” Alice asked. “What could he possibly be dreaming about?”

  “The past,” Kate replied, staring at the door to Edgar's bedroom. “I think he's dreaming about something that happened to him a long time ago.”

  VIII

  When he opened his eyes, Edgar found that he was surrounded by darkness. Thick metal manacles were secured around his wrists and he was hanging naked against a stone wall, with another manacle around his neck. As soon as he tried to breathe, he felt sharp pains shuddering through his body, and finally he remembered what had happened to him, or at least parts of what had happened.

  There had been twelve cold-blooded vampires, and they had all attacked him at once. Several of them had been easy kills, but finally he'd been dragged down and subdued. At the time, he had assumed that he was going to be slaughtered there and then, on the streets he had once called home. Finally, however, he'd felt himself being dragged away, and it was at that point that he'd understood his true fate. The cold-bloods were famous for their love of torture, and he'd heard plenty of stories about their cruelty. Realizing that he faced endless agony, he'd tried to get away again, not because he believed he had a chance but because he hoped to die in the attempt. He'd managed to kill a couple more of them in the process, but finally he'd been forced down.

  And now he was trapped, chained to a wall with no option but to wait for the agony to begin.

  After several hours, the door opened and a figure entered the room, keeping to the shadows over in the far corner.

  “I'd beg you to end it quickly,” Edgar said, his voice cracked with pain, “but I know there's no chance of that. I've heard stories about the way cold-bloods like to treat their prisoners. It's said they gain strength from hearing the screams of their victims.”

  The figure placed a set of knives on a nearby bench.

  “What's your record?” Edgar asked. “I know cold-bloods like to see how long they can keep their prisoners alive while still hurting them. What's the longest you've ever managed?”

  He waited for a reply, but the figure seemed more interested in setting out his knives and other tools with careful, methodical precision. There was something strangely calm about the way he was getting to work, as if he preparation ritual was of vital importance. This, too, was something that had long been rumored about the cold-bloods: they forced all anger from their minds when they were torturing their victims, preferring to base their decisions on logic and calm.

  “A week?” Edgar continued. “Two weeks? Don't tell me you've managed to keep it going for a whole month. I'd never believe you.” He paused. “I guess you'll just have to prove it.”

  The figure began to sharpen one of his knives, using a flint stone that screeched with every stroke. He spent a couple of minutes on the job, before starting on the next knife, as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Just so you know in advance,” Edgar told him, “I have nothing very interesting to tell you. I'm basically just an ordinary soldier, so I'm not privy to advanced strategic plans. I'm just told where to go, who to fight, who to kill... It's not exactly honorable work, but it's the only way I can help my people. I always knew I'd probably have to lay down my life one day, and now it turns out I have to face the worst death imaginable.” He waited for a reply. “I w
on't beg for mercy,” he added finally. “I might scream, but I won't beg. I won't give you that satisfaction.”

  “I'm sure you won't,” the figure said, stepping forward until his face was just about visible in a shaft of light that was leaking into the room.

  “Quillian,” Edgar replied, shocked to see the features of the man before him.

  “Among my people,” Quillian continued, with a hint of sadness in his voice, “it's considered traditional for a man to torture his own finds. Since I was technically the one who located you first, it falls to me to...” He paused, as if he was genuinely struggling with the words. “I thought I was dead, you know. I thought there was no chance for me to survive, and I'd begun to make my peace with Ashalla, but you showed mercy.”

  “That wasn't mercy,” Edgar sneered.

  “Yes it was,” he continued, heading to the far side of the room and removing a shutter, allowing light to enter and pick out every contour, every muscle, of Edgar's naked body. “It was vanity too,” he added, picking up a knife from the counter and making his way back toward Edgar. He stopped for a moment to admire the body before him. “You should have killed me immediately, but you tried to be clever. When will you people learn that anything other than instant death is a mistake? When you have your enemy in your grasp, you have to finish him off. Anything else is just inviting trouble.”

  “Says the man who's about to torture me to death.”

  “That's different,” Quillian replied, placing the knife's blade against Edgar's knee. “You've been captured. There's no way you can possibly escape, and there's a very slight chance that you might know something useful. When all the advantages and disadvantages are weighed up, this is the best option.” He ran the blade gently up Edgar's leg, under and then across his penis, and onto his chest. “I hope you know that there's a part of me that doesn't want to do this. Torture has never been my favorite activity, even though I'm told I have a real knack for the game. Even among my peers, I'm regarded as being something of an expert. Others come to me for advice, and I'm glad to help them. Everyone has a talent in life, and this is mine.”

  “I've never been tortured before,” Edgar told him, “but I'll definitely give you some feedback.”

  “I'm sure you will,” Quillian replied, running the knife up to his face and pressing the blade against his cheek, until finally a trickle of blood ran from Edgar's flesh. “First blood. What do you think about that?”

  “I think it won't be the last.”

  “True.” Leaning closer, he licked blood directly from Edgar's cheek. “So warm,” he said after a moment. “I can't imagine what it's like to have warm blood in your veins.” He licked some more blood. “The sad thing is, by the time it gets to the back of my throat, it has already become cold. I suppose I could try to link your veins directly to mine, and after a while your warm blood would be pumped inside me in sufficient quantities to...” He pauses. “I'm just being fanciful now. My blood will always be cold, and yours will always be warm. My core is like ice. My soul is frozen.”

  “Is this your idea of torture?” Edgar asked. “I was expecting -”

  Before he could finish, he felt the knife sliding into his belly until the tip came out the other side and grated against the stone wall. He let out a gasp, although he had felt much worse pain in the past and he knew that a simple knife wound was the least of his worries.

  “Is that better?” Quillian whispered. “You want something boring, like a few blades here and there? Don't worry, my dear Edgar; I'm far, far better at this than you could possibly imagine, and we're going to have a real good time together.” With that, he began to slowly twist the knife while keeping his eyes fixed on Edgar's face, watching his expression with a growing sense of anticipation. “Soon,” he continued, “you'll look back on this moment fondly. You'll wish that this was all I'd done to you.”

  “Do your worst,” Edgar grunted, trying to show as little discomfort as possible. He knew that cold-bloods enjoyed their victims' suffering, and he was determined to deny his torturer the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

  “I don't know my worst yet,” Quillian continued. “Let's find out together. I just... I hope you know that I meant everything I said to you when we first met. The problem is, torture is just a part of my soul, and none of us can ever change our souls. We can change the way we act, the way we talk... We can filter certain parts of ourselves and pretend they don't exist, but we can never get rid of the truth entirely. Remember that, Edgar. Remember that who you are, deep down, is who you'll be forever. You can't change your soul.”

  He pulled the knife out and licked the blade, shuddering slightly as he felt warm blood on his tongue.

  “If I ever get free,” Edgar said firmly, “I'll make you suffer a thousand times more than you can even imagine. I'll drive pain so deep into your heart, you'll never be able to free yourself, and I'll make sure you lose your mind completely.”

  “You don't have it in you,” Quillian replied.

  “Wait and see. I won't be in these chains forever, and when I get loose, we'll see who's the real master of torture. I can already think of a few things I'd like to do to you. I know cold-bloods have a reputation for being good at this kind of thing, but that doesn't mean warm-bloods can't pull out a trick or two.”

  “Fascinating,” Quillian said with a smile. “There's even a part of me that would like to see your potential.” Turning and heading over to the bench, he picked up a metal contraption that looked like a crown with a large spike on the top. “Let's start with something fairly easy,” he continued, carrying the device back toward Edgar. “This is called a Bloody Halo, and it has a quite catastrophic effect on the skull. Honestly, you won't believe how slowly and perfectly it can pick apart your head, while increasing the pressure on your brain to an unbearable level. Our torture architects have spent thousands of years perfecting these devices. Then again, no warm-blood could truly understand the importance of such things. You just don't have the necessary appetite for torture.”

  “Maybe,” Edgar replied, “maybe not.”

  Quillian slipped the device over Edgar's head and began to secure it in place.

  “Trust me,” he continued, unable to hide a cruel smile. “By the time I'm done with you and death comes, you're going to be a true connoisseur of the torturer's art. And that's what it is, you know... It's a real art-form. Wait and see. I'm going to open your eyes to a whole new world of exquisite pain. I only wish you could enjoy it with me. One has to learn to truly appreciate the art of pain and torture, and you're going to get a first-hand lesson from a master. Unfortunately, you'll never get a chance to act on what you learn.”

  IX

  “I've never seen a storm like this before!” Fernando shouted as he grabbed onto the the door-frame for support. “Are you sure we shouldn't put in to port somewhere?”

  “There are no ports nearby,” Captain Hamilton explained calmly as he made his way past Fernando and stopped next to the ship's navigational console, which was flashing up various diagnostic reports. “Our best option is to continue the journey to Thaxos.”

  “What kind of evac pumps do you have?” Fernando continued. “Do you use -”

  “Water won't be a problem,” Hamilton replied, interrupting him. “Trust me, we've been through worse storms than this, and the boat won't have any issues. The worst we'll have to deal with will be the -”

  Before he could finish, a huge wave crashed against the side of the vessel, pitching it violently to the starboard side with such force that Fernando lost his grip on the door-frame and was sent sliding over to the far wall. As he tried to regain his balance, another wave struck and sent him tumbling down to the floor, and he was only able to steady himself when he finally grabbed hold of one of the consoles. Hauling himself up, he looked out the window and saw a flash of lightning arcing across the night sky.

  “That's an electrical storm,” he muttered, watching as a section of rigging seemed to be lowering itself withou
t any manual intervention. Despite the poor visibility, he could tell that there was no-one out on the deck at all. “This is madness,” he continued, turning to Captain Hamilton. “There's no way we can make it through this kind of weather!”

  “On the contrary,” Hamilton replied, “we've been in much more treacherous conditions.”

  “And how did that work out for you?”

  “We were fine,” he continued, with a hint of doubt in his eyes. “I mean, we must have been fine, mustn't we? After all, we're still here.”

  “I'm starting to doubt that,” Fernando muttered, making his way carefully over to the communication panel and picking up the microphone. He flicked a few switches and tried to tune in to a frequency that might allow him to talk to someone on the mainland. “Is anyone out there?” he shouted. “Come in, we need to make port immediately!”

  “There's no point trying that thing,” Hamilton told him. “It's been out of action for a very long time.”

  “How can you go to sea when you don't have any communication systems?”

  “We never really need to communicate with anyone. When there's a storm, we just ride it out.”

  “This is madness!” Fernando shouted, tossing the microphone down before turning to Hamilton. “This boat isn't even seaworthy!”

  “It's gets us from port to port.”

  “Maybe not this time,” Fernando replied. “I think you've .”

  Suddenly there was a rushing sound nearby. Turning to look over his shoulder, Fernando saw a huge wave crashing down onto the deck, sending a torrent of water surging straight toward the window. Before he could react, the water hit with full force, smashing the glass as it broke through into the cabin. Stumbling back, Fernando felt a shard of broken glass slicing against his arm, and as he fell to the floor he was briefly submerged by the remnants of the wave. He stumbled to his feet just in time to feel the boat tilting back, allowing most of the water to run through the door and down into the lower parts of the vessel.

  “We're going to sink!” he shouted.

  “We're not going to sink,” Captain Hamilton replied calmly, apparently unfazed by the chaos all around them. “We've been in much worse situations in the past, and everything has always worked out just fine.”

  “There's water below!”

  “One cannot sail if one is afraid of water.”

  “This is madness,” Fernando continued, hurrying to the navigation console and trying desperately to work out how far they still had to go before they'd be close to Thaxos. The screen blinked a few times, as if the main system was struggling to operate, and finally the lights all flickered off. Looking down, Fernando saw that there was a pool of water around the base of the terminal.

  The boat pitched starboard for a moment, and the entire hull seemed to creak under the strain.

  “We could be miles off course,” Fernando shouted, turning to look over at Hamilton. “You don't even know if we're going in the right direction, or if -”

  He froze as he saw that there was no sign of Captain Hamilton anywhere. Having been right next to the door that led down into the lower parts of the vessel, he was certain that no-one had walked past him, but at the same time there was nowhere else for the man to have gone. Hurrying to the door that led out onto the main deck, he found that it was still locked from the inside; turning to look back across the bridge, he was convinced that somehow he was missing something obvious, but finally he realized the truth: it was as if Captain Hamilton had simply vanished into thin air.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Where the hell are you?”

  He waited, but all he could hear was the howling wind outside, and the crashing waves that continued to pitch the boat into a series of tilts.

  “Hey!” he shouted again, making his way over to the main control system. He looked back across the bridge, but there was still no sign of anyone else on the entire vessel.

  Before he even had time to react, he heard another crashing sound nearby, and he turned to the window just as another huge wave came crashing through. The wall of water carried him straight past the main console and slammed him into the opposite side of the room with enough force to knock him out cold.

  X

  “It's over,” she whispered, lifting his head until she could finally see his battered, bloody face. “Edgar, you're free. Can you hear me? Edgar?”

  Staring back at her from deep in his haze of madness, Edgar tried to claw his way back to sanity. The pain in his body was intense, but worse than this was the pain in his mind, the memory of pain that shivered in his every nerve. Blinking furiously, he tried to see past his anger and fear, and finally he was just about able to make out the face of Cassandra staring at him with concern. He could barely believe that she was really standing in front of him, and for a moment he felt certain that this must be just another of Quillian's tricks. Slowly, however, he realized that he could feel her scent, and that was one thing the cold-bloods could never fake.

  “We thought you were lost,” she explained as she began to loosen the manacles that had held him up for several months. “I never thought we'd find you when we overran this place.”

  “The war...” Edgar stumbled forward as soon as he was free. “Is it over?”

  “No, it's -”

  Before she could finish, Edgar dropped to his knees. Naked and covered in his own blood, he was still waiting for his body to begin the healing process that had been continually interrupted by torture over the past few months. Strips of ragged flesh were hanging from his torso, while flaps of muscle were encrusted with infection.

  “We need to get you to Gothos,” Cassandra told him. “You're in no fit state to -”

  “Where is he?” Edgar whispered.

  “Who? Patrick? He's... He's putting his plan into action. It has been so long since we last saw you, and now he's going to use the prophecy to end the war. He's giving us time to hide first. We can survive and wait until -”

  “Not him,” Edgar sneered. “Quillian. Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “The man who spent the past seven months torturing me.”

  “I have no idea. We're driving out the cold-bloods. Some have been captured, but many of them are dead now. When we finally broke through their defenses, we had no choice but to kill.”

  “Let me see,” Edgar barked, getting to his feet and stumbling forward.

  “Please, Edgar,” she replied, trying to steady him. “After everything you've been through...”

  “I need to see him,” he told her, pushing her away as he headed toward the door. “I've been here for so long, I barely even remember my old life. I need to see the man who did this to me, and I need to make sure I deliver on a promise I made to him a long time ago. Take me to the prisoners. If he's among them, I want the chance to show him the true meaning of pain. I need to show him that I've learned from his example!”