by Lucas Thorn
Heavy cloven hooves drummed the ground as it ran.
Flashed a leer.
Then darted ahead.
She followed it. Past more burning lakes. Past dead trees laden with strange eyeless corpses.
A little group of creatures, green and feral. Froglike goblins with monstrously heavy knives. Green eyes bubbling with menace.
One lifted a small hand and waved. Out of place, the little creature looked shy as she met its gaze.
The others tittered quietly.
Little crickets waiting to pounce.
To rip and tear into her flesh with sharklike teeth.
She pulled her gaze away. Ran onward, not looking back.
Past countless hideously deformed creatures, each more bizarre than the last.
And then, finally, saw the temple.
Saw it shining like a beacon behind a swarm of dark hills. As she passed each mound, she could see they weren’t made of earth. Broken bones. Chewed and abandoned. Crawling across the discarded shards of life, small critters. Rodents and spiders. Worms and centipedes.
Hunched figures wielding scythes stalked the spaces between, slicing anything which came close. Hoods and long cloaks hid what horrors might lie within. Hate flowed on their twisted chants.
Chants which promised deeds the Devil favoured above all others.
Depravity and sickness drowned in their voices.
Salacious and sadistic.
Agony and ecstasy.
And, above all, corrupted and unending desire.
In front of the temple, it was as she’d dreamed. A sea of perverse rituals performed by human and demon with wild abandon. Dead, undead, and possibly alive. It didn’t seem to matter. Sadistic dreams were fulfilled in this garden of unholy pleasures.
Revulsion sickened her as she ran.
Her bare feet stained with mud, blood, brimstone, and bodily fluids she didn’t want to think about.
Stink of it all was enough for her to gag.
When she made the stairs, she was panting. Couldn’t believe she’d been running for so long.
How long had it been?
It felt like days.
Might have only been minutes.
Seconds.
Stood staring at the structure. Unable to comprehend the cyclopean stone draped in cords of pulsing slime. Slime which looked like flesh.
She clawed her way up each stair, sometimes on hands and knees.
Left a trail of filth as the slime burst and ruptured at her touch. Releasing foul stench and even fouler fluid.
“Senka,” a voice crooned from the peak.
She flopped over the edge. Exhausted from the climb.
Lay on her back.
Chest rising and falling. Hard.
Turned her head.
And saw.
The Devil.
“But, you’re a man.”
Thin. Aristocratic. Tight cheeks and a mouth which looked constantly amused. Older, but of an age hard to determine. Older than forty. Younger than sixty. Brush of white in his hair.
Dressed in a long coat. Clean suit. A cane in one hand.
He bowed. Long and with a flourish, then placed his top hate smoothly on his head. A gentleman’s crown.
“I can appear however you wish, Senka. What would you like me to be if not this? Would you prefer a beast? As if from the fields? A boar. I can be a boar, if you want. A razorback. All muscle and meat. I’ll huff and squeal for you. Let’s rut in the fields below.”
She grunted, lifting herself up. “This is fine.” Then, remembered to add somewhat late; “Master.”
“She remembers manners,” the Devil said. Glinting white teeth behind his smile. So white they didn’t seem real. “Such a devoted servant.”
Sarcasm.
Bitterness, too.
Mostly doubt.
Senka dropped to her knees. “I do serve!”
“Then why is the world not in my fist?” Hissed. “I was promised, Senka. This was sworn to me. I gave Dracula the power to create you for this purpose. Why is it not in my fist? Did our Bargain mean so little?”
His shadow stretched across her. Bringing a boiling heat which stifled and radiated through her bones. She flinched from his raw power.
Wanted to cry out.
To tremble.
Beg like a slave.
Instead, she clenched.
Waited.
Waited for her breath to slow. Then said, evenly; “We remain true to the Bargain, master.”
“Do you?” Soft. “Do you really, Senka?”
He squatted beside her. Took her head in his hands.
She lifted her head with the insistent pull of his grip and wondered at the absolute emptiness of his gaze. How could his eyes be so cold? The fires of Hell should have kept them warm.
But she shivered under them. “We do.”
“You think to speak for all of you?”
“I speak for us.” She licked her lips. “For his Brides.”
“Yes. For the Brides.” He turned away, face aimed toward the Felstone. The massive stone burned in its altar. Its song calling to her. Every toll made her bleed inside. She wanted to shove him aside and reach her hand out. Touch the Felstone. Be devoured by it. “But you cannot speak for the one who made you, can you? The one whose Bargain binds your soul. For Dracula, you have no words.”
She wrenched her attention back to him. “He remains true.”
“No,” the Devil twirled the cane in his hand. Anger flared and bolts of lightning tore across the vast cavern. Witness to his rage. Thunder cracked and the air boiled humid. “He does not! He has tired of the Bargain, Senka. He seeks escape. He seeks an exit from our deal. He searches for redemption.”
Senka felt a cold needle drive into her chest at the word. “No. He can’t be.”
“Yes.”
“But, if he does…”
“Then he will kneel before Hljod to be judged. There will be no redemption for him. Our Bargain was struck. It cannot be undone. You serve Dracula, as he serves me. Isn’t that true?”
“We respond to his Call.”
“Then you shall kneel with him. Hljod will decide your doom.”
“Please, Master…”
“Please? Please?” He laughed, a mad laugh which echoed into the furthest reach of Hell. Demons flinched at the sound. Souls cowered. Creatures scuttled out of sight. “Ah, Senka. You beg so prettily.”
Which made her burn.
“I don’t beg!” She reared high, floating off the ground. Arms wide and her own fury awakening within. “I won’t beg!”
Unimpressed, he stared back at her. Cold eyes. Cruel smile. “Then, what will you do?”
“I’ll bring the world to you, Master. I will do what Dracula could not.”
“And how will you do that?”
“The Fel. Give me the Fel…”
“Give you the Fel?” He turned on her, his eyes flaring with venomous fire. “Why would I do such a thing? How could you think you even deserve such a gift?”
“You gave it to him.”
A guess proved right by the scowl which tore his face.
“And he betrayed me!” The Devil roared. Huge black wings thrust through air as he soared across the ground, a corrupted trail of Felfire in his wake. His fists took her dress in one hand and the other raised high above. Not to strike flesh. But to rend her soul. “The conduit was not opened. The world does not kneel. Felfire does not consume. He has broken the Bargain!”
“But we did not!”
The words rang heavily, amplified by the Felstone which flared even brighter.
He looked over his shoulder at it.
Scowled.
Then dropped the young vampire and spun away. “It seems the Fel agrees with you.”
“Release us from Dracula’s Bargain.” She stood tall, fists at her sides. “We want a new Pact, Master. One without Dracula.”
“One without ties?”
“We are the ties, master. The th
ree of us.”
“There are only two.”
“With Fel, we can bring Hailwic back.”
“She is destroyed!”
“The Fel. I can bring her back.”
“Can you?” He whispered the words. He refused to look at her. Dark wings quivering down his back. “He couldn’t do it. Dracula couldn’t. Even the Necromancer of Skellig’s Watch believes it cannot be done.”
“I can do it. I’ve seen it.”
“Dreams.”
And she pointed, now knowing the source of her dream. “The Felstone has shown me.”
“You want too much, Senka. You reach too far.”
“All I want, master, is to fulfil the Bargain.” She pulled her lips back into a grin, fangs sharp points. “And to bite forever!”
The Devil nodded.
His wings whispered gently as they folded away, tucking somehow under his coat.
He looked tired. Pressed a hand to his head.
Pointed to the burning stone.
“Take a piece, Senka. Reach out and it will share itself with you.” His own smile was sardonic and more than a little bitter. “It will give you the power you seek. Or it will obliterate your soul. Either way, never forget that your soul is mine…”
Senka held her breath as she glided forward.
Could hear the denizens of Hell shriek and wail as one.
Lifted her hand.
Reached.
And, when the Felstone flared, began to laugh.
And laugh…
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A bullet smashed through the door.
Tumbled in the air.
Winged past Frederic’s arm, snagging a corner of his rumpled robe.
With the ritual complete, his senses returned in a panicked rush.
“We’re being shot at!”
“Get down, you fool,” Dimiti yelled.
Outside, someone rammed the door with their shoulder.
Vasilja floated over to Dimiti and peered through the window to where a small group of vampire hunters stood about with torches in one hand and rifles or revolvers in the other. They aimed at the doors and windows.
Air thick with gunsmoke, they shouted and bellowed at advancing Frenchmen to keep back.
“What are you doing there?” An angry Frenchman called. “You are shooting a church.”
In English, one of the hunters shouted; “Keep down!”
“What are we going to do, Lady?” Dimiti didn’t look nervous, but she could feel his concern.
At the altar, Senka slumped to the floor. A ghastly chuckle bubbled in her throat.
Her eyes had returned to normal, but they were wide and Vasilja didn’t think the younger vampire was quite back yet. Little green fires burned where the sparks had leapt from her eyes only a short time ago.
Hector’s body shivered and shook where one had landed on him.
Fel.
The thought excited her, but frustration swamped exultation as a few more bullets cracked through the door.
Vasilja sighed.
Again, she was forced to make the decisions.
“Is this the only door, Freddy?”
“Yes, Lady,” he whined, crawling across the ground. Splinters dug into his palms as he went, but the bloody trail was mostly the blood of sacrifice. “It is a church! A holy place. How dare they defile it with bullets.”
His outrage was genuine, and the vampire raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“What an odd man,” she said to Dimiti.
He ducked a spray of bullets. “Aye, Lady. I didn’t want to say it, but there you go.”
More Frenchmen were converging as the vampire hunters stopped firing and began attacking the church door with axes.
“Hey! We asked what you’re doing!”
One of the hunters shouted to the others; “Any of you speak French?”
“What’d you take us for, Harold? We ain’t had no fucking schooling like you. Weren’t your dad some snobby cunt or something?”
“Fuck off.” Pause. “Okay, you French bastards, do any of you speak the King’s tongue?”
A French voice spat; “King? What are you talking about, bastard? Are you a Royalist?”
“How delightful,” Vasilja murmured. “Dimiti, would you kindly smash that window over there, please? Without shooting out of it?”
He shrugged.
Grabbed hold of one of the smaller pews and tossed it at the window. Smashed glass and shattered the frame.
“What are you doing?” Frederic cried.
Vasilja ignored him. Went to the window. Let her power trickle outward on ethereal tendrils. Humming unseen in the air. A vibration only she could hear.
Shoved her fist out the window at onlookers scowling by the verge.
Yelled, in perfect French; “Liberty! Equality! Fraternity! You slaughtered our children. Our sister! You foully desecrated this church! But we’ll never submit to you wretched Royalists. We shall have our freedom. Long live the Republic! The Republic! You hear me? You can kill us, but you shall never kill the Revolution! Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!” As a few Frenchmen echoed her cry, she turned to Dimiti in satisfaction. “Shout that out again a few more times, will you, Dimiti? It does excite the locals ever so much as I recall.”
She moved quickly, ducking down beside Senka as the first Frenchmen brave enough or drunk enough, charged the English trying to get inside.
“Freddy? Will you give me her coat, please? And you might as well find her awful hat. Hurry now. And try to do something about the pentagram, will you? The doors will come down shortly. We’ll need to leave as fast as possible.”
The door heaved as the English, desperate to get inside, hammered on it with everything they had.
It bent, almost giving. Wood groaning as the grain reached its limit.
Dimiti, shouted; “Liberty!”
Sent a few rounds into the door. One went clean through, taking an Englishman’s jaw with it as the bullet smashed into one side of his face and spun out the other.
“Quickly, Freddy.” She looked him up and down. “Don’t you have another coat, too? You’d best put it on. Your robe is a mess.”
He struggled quickly, tugging off his robe while his feet smudged the runes around the bloody circle. “Oh, Lady. Lady, they’ll kill us. Kill us for sure. We’re dead. Why, oh why did I do this?”
“Hush, Freddy. You’re annoying me.” She rushed to the twitching body of Hector. As she touched it, the corpse stilled. Lifted it and carried it to the other vampire. “Senka, darling, I need you to wake up now. Can you do that?”
The Frenchmen roaring; “Liberty!”
“Death to the Royalists!”
Englishmen shouting.
Vasilja put her fingers to her temple.
Pushed outward. Power bubbling through her body. Tearing at her veins.
Grit her teeth, still trying to push the boy’s desecrated body into Senka’s limp grip.
Frederic, on hands and knees. Cuff of his jacket making a mess of the demonic circle.
Dimiti, pressed hard against the door as though he alone could stop it from bursting inward.
Couldn’t hold much longer.
Vasilja drew lips into snarl.
Squeezed eyes shut.
And sent a wave of power rippling outward.
An axe hit the first English skull. Split it in two. Sent brains spilling down the chest of the man behind.
Who lifted his revolver.
And, though someone else tried to stop him, pulled the trigger.
A young man, no hair on his chin. Dressed in rich clothes. Took the bullet through his forehead.
Head snapped neck back and he dropped onto his side.
Never moved again.
The crowd gasped.
Looked at the corpse.
Back to the English. Fury rising.
“Oh, fuck,” one said. “Julian, that was a stupid fucking thing you just did.”
“Fuck it,” someone e
lse spat. “They’re only French.”
Guns spat death one more time before the horde of fuming Frenchmen charged in a flood of howling hate. Heading the crowd, blood burning with heat of outrage, Jean Doinel wrestled an Englishman for his revolver.
Won.
Pressed the muzzle to the frightened young man’s temple.
Shouted; “Death to Royalists! Death to all of you and your fucking King!”
Pulled the trigger, reducing the Englishman’s head to a bright red mist across the church doors.
Then lifted his leg and kicked the doors.
Which burst open as though waiting for him.
And his jaw dropped at the horrific sight.
He saw the table.
Saw the naked girl on her side, chest ripped open. Knife still buried in her sternum. Blood, smeared around the table. A horrible smeared circle.
Against the pews, two more women. Young.
Beautiful.
Two men. Old. One so frightened he looked about to die.
The other old man had a revolver. He pointed it at Jean. “I’ll kill you,” Voice rang through the church, igniting fear and pride in Jean’s heart. “Filthy Royalist!”
“Hold,” Jean cried. Held a hand up. “Liberty, friend! We are not Royalists. We have killed them. You are safe now, I swear.”
The other old man wiped his sweaty face.
His jacket was on inside out. Covered in blood.
“Liberty,” Frederic sighed. “Oh, thank you, Jesus. Liberty.”
One of the women, so beautiful it made Jean almost take a step back from her, lifted a hand and pointed to the dead woman. “They killed our sister! They raped and murdered her! Look what they’ve done. They were going to do the same to us in the name of their King! Avenge us, we beg of you.”
The other woman lifted a small wet bundle. Eyes dead and lost. Empty, Jean thought.
What horrors had she seen to have such cold eyes?
His heart burned with a need to protect her as she revealed the bundle to be a small boy.
Her words carried to every ear. Said, without tone or inflection; “They killed my boy. My little boy.”
“Monstrous!” One of the Frenchman grabbed a surrendered Englishmen and dragged him into the church. Lifted the grizzled old man’s head so he could look at the dead girl. “Your evil dies here, Royalist!”