Devil's Dream

by Shayne Silvers

  I scoffed. “Hardly. And I still counsel that this journal is a foolish risk. It only paints a target on your back—another reason for the settlers to hunt you down. Trust me, I know the minds of the men from across the ocean—and I’m not even speaking of my own cursed offspring.” I winced as a nearby child giggled upon falling to his rear.

  My son.

  He was not the cursed offspring I had been referring to, of course. I had been speaking of the vampires I had left back home—my first children.

  I found myself smiling as I watched my new wife laugh as she helped the tan-skinned young boy back to his feet, encouraging him to try again. The moonlight struck her black hair, glinting like polished obsidian.

  I had taken to calling her Bubble. She hadn’t liked that at first, demanding to know why I wanted to steal her name. It had taken some time to convince her that it was a term of endearment—because the tribe used their full names in all but the most intimate of situations.

  I was stubborn and had eventually won out.

  Even more impossible than finding the beginnings of what I hoped would one day become a deep love, we had conceived a son together—no doubt thanks to her powerful bloodline from her father, the tribe’s Medicine Man. On that note, the boy was growing faster than naturally possible. It had only been a few months, and he was already on the cusp of walking. From conception to birth had also been concerningly fast—much to the anxiety of the midwives.

  The world’s First Vampire had conceived a son—something that had been deemed impossible.

  “You know what I mean,” I finally said, turning back to Deganawida. “My story is dangerous to tell. If the wrong people heard it…” I trailed off, knowing the futility of our endless debate.

  “That describes men everywhere, Sorin.” I shot him a dubious look and he waved a hand. “We have monsters here, too, Sorin. Skinwalkers are rare, but they can be unspeakably evil.” I nodded somberly, having heard only a single story—in the privacy of a closed tent—about the dreaded skinwalkers. “I’m certain there are as many good settlers as there are evil settlers. Men struggling to find a new life…” he said, arching a pointed eyebrow at me.

  “Doesn’t seem that way,” I said, thinking of the settlers constantly herding us further inland.

  “I hold the same fears, Sorin. But this journal is just for our family—only to be spoken around our fires. Rest easy.”

  With a tired sigh, I let it go. He closed his journal and continued standing beside me. I studied the man sidelong. In him, I saw a greatness waiting to emerge. Whether that would be as a warrior drenched in blood or a statesman brokering peace between the white settlers and the numerous—sometimes ruthless—other tribes living in this brave new world.

  I turned at a strange sound from Deganawida to find him staring in horror behind me towards the tree-line.

  The hair on the back of my neck suddenly stood on end as my senses informed me that something was very, very wrong.

  Then came the screams.

  2

  Everyone leapt to their feet, snatching up weapons as a small army descended upon our camp, having silently overrun our sentries. I pulled back my lips in a snarl, frantically searching for my wife and son as fire erupted across the tents and the longhouse. It hadn’t rained in some time, so the land was dry and barren, the perfect tinder.

  I dove behind a stump as arrows slammed into the dirt all around me, preventing me from diving deep into the mayhem. Screams filled the night, and time seemed to slow as my predatory senses took over. I hadn’t feasted on much blood in recent days, so my powers were limited, but I had more than enough strength to slaughter our mortal, human attackers—unless I was feathered with arrows. I wore none of my old armor. I’d only just woken up, after all.

  But my family was out there—two people who depended on me to keep them safe.

  It was time for the Devil to go to work.

  Smoke filled the clearing as the tents raged with flame, obscuring the vision of the archers, and I began to sprint with unnatural speed from cover to cover, searching out any of the invaders. Through the smoke, men in armor and leathers stalked the camp, laughing as they searched out victims for their blades.

  My claws tore and rendered flesh from bone, removed organs, severed limbs.

  I didn’t even have time to feed for fear that I was too hungry and might lose myself in the meal, providing a perfect target for the next attacker. Death now, dinner later.

  But as I slaughtered and eviscerated invader after invader, I caught faint glimpses of superhuman speed, heard feral roars and screams that didn’t belong to anything natural.

  The invaders weren’t all human. So, not an enemy tribe or conquering settlers. Something from my side of the world.

  I screamed and roared, my fury redoubled to learn of the non-human threats, and my arms soon glistened with hot, crimson blood, but the invaders had targeted our warriors first, and it seemed I was the only one fighting back. The only man left to defend the women and children.

  I listened in distant horror as my tribe was mowed down by both traditional weapons and blurs of monsters tearing my tribe limb from limb, faster than I could protect them.

  I lashed out, snatching up a creature as it tore past me. I sank my fangs into his shoulder, risking a swift drink before ripping a chunk of his flesh from his body as easily as a razor-blade. The man gasped and shrieked as he went down, clutching at his wound and screaming with abandon.

  But as I stared out through the smoke, I realized his allies had already fled, likely knowing full-well the sound of my hunting cry. Their attack had been surgical in its swiftness. No matter. I would feast and pursue every last one of them.

  The parched earth gorged on the spilled blood and I had to force my baser instincts to ignore the savory hunger it ignited within me. The thirst for blood was overwhelming, even knowing it belonged to my family. Because everywhere I looked, the dead I had left in my wake were mingled with those of my tribe, making it impossible to see where one body ended and another began.

  Impossible to discern enemy blood from the blood of my tribe.

  Impossible to find clean blood not tied to my own family.

  I screamed in rage, even my own ears popping at the sound. I needed blood to pursue the cowards—especially since they had their own monsters in their number.

  I had scented both werewolves and vampires and…

  My lips curled back. A merchant of magic. A warlock of some kind. That was why I hadn’t sensed the attack until they were already upon us. Someone had blanketed the clearing with magic, dulling my senses. Dulling even Deganawida’s senses, apparently.

  But there were no warlocks or werewolves here in the Americas—other than Lucian and Nero. And I had heard of no new boats landing ashore.

  Where were my wife and son? Where was Deganawida?

  I prowled the camp, searching for survivors, enemies, anyone who could give me answers, stumbling at each scream and cry. Dead, glassy eyes stared up at me, piercing my soul, praying to their great protector to help them…

  Me.

  But there were so few actual survivors.

  Finding all my enemies dead, I finally made my way back to the last man I had attacked. Surprisingly, he wasn’t supernatural at all, but a human. I snatched up a fallen spear and slammed the butt into a puddle of soaked earth hard enough for it to sink a foot into the ground. Then I hoisted the man up with one claw and carefully impaled him on the blade.

  It never ceased to amaze me how quickly a man could wake up when a spear entered his rear.

  But I didn’t have time to enjoy this justified torture. I let him scream and beg, so terrified and tortured that he dared not kick his feet for fear of increasing his current level of agony. I supported him enough not to let him die too quickly, literally holding his life in my claw, as I leaned in close to reveal my fangs. It took everything in my power not to drain him dry, but I needed information.

  And he was soaked with b
lood from my own tribe; he had been lying atop a trio of young girls. Young girls who had earlier made me a wreath of white flowers, singing and laughing as they danced up to me.

  “What was the meaning of this attack?” I demanded. “Who are you?”

  The man’s eyes were wild with horror and pain, his neck bleeding freely. I shook him and hissed, opening my jaws wide. His eyes finally locked onto mine and a look of smug pride briefly flickered across his face as he saw that his fate was sealed. “No one can escape their past,” he rasped. “Dracula sends his regards, Devil.”

  Before I could press him on the answer, I felt a sudden bloom of pain in my chest. I dropped him instinctively, the tip of the spear tearing out through his throat as he let out a gurgling gasp. I stumbled back as fire raged through my body. I stared down to find a rough wooden stake in my chest, close enough to shave my heart but not pierce it or I would have already died. I blinked in disbelief, staggering. The human had been sent by Dracula, my old servant—the first man I had turned.

  The man I had left everything to when I fled Europe.

  But to a man who lived on a never-ending thirst for blood…even my last gift had not been enough. He had finally sent men for me, and that mistake had slaughtered my new family.

  It was the move of a man desperate enough to bite the hand that fed him, in hopes that it would be enough to let the world think he was more important than he truly was. A man so terrified of letting the world discover that the only reason he held my throne was because I had cast down my crown, giving it to him without so much as a backward glance.

  Dracula…that pestilent, pitiful plague of paranoid paucity.

  I fell to my knees, staring at the dead man. But his lifeless gaze stared into the eyes of the Devil, and I wanted nothing more than to bring him back to life so that I might kill him again. Slowly. Over centuries. All the while, imagining him as Dracula—the spawn of my hubris.

  The world began to spin and my claws sank into the bloody earth. I spat dark blood, grimacing at the strange taste in my mouth. His blood. It…was tainted with something.

  And I had drank from him.

  What was it? What had he done? What had Dracula made him do to his own blood?

  I knew that his claim must be true. No one I had met in the Americas knew of vampires—and they definitely hadn’t heard of Dracula. Deganawida had said so, asking me to explain what was different about me since he had never run across a man such as myself. He had kept that secret—mostly—from the rest of the tribe. They knew I was a man with demons and that I had some sort of power, that I drank blood, but none of them had seemed to particularly care, being well familiar with magic since they had a powerful Medicine Man like Deganawida to guide them. If he thought me and my friends were safe, that had been enough for them.

  So how had these invaders known? How had they found me?

  “I need to find Bubble…My son,” I mumbled, realizing I was now sitting in a pool of bloody mud beside the trio of young girls. Their hands reached out to me, begging for my help, my vengeance.

  Some of those arms were no longer attached.

  And as I stared down, struggling to fight down my own dizziness, I heard their laughter from earlier—superimposed over their lifeless bodies. I began retching, desperately trying to expel the poisoned blood from my body, but each attempt reminded me of the stake in my chest.

  Deganawida shambled from around a smoldering tent, his eyes locking onto me. His face was covered in ash and mud and blood, and his fingers were blistered and burned—either from using his magic or from pulling survivors from the flames. But the look in his eyes told me there weren’t many—if any—of the latter.

  He stumbled closer, eyes riveted on my chest wound, and his lips tightened.

  “Sorin,” he whispered. “What do you need?” He crouched down to study the stake in my chest. It was obvious he wanted to help me in the only way he knew how—to heal—but with me being different, he didn’t know what that entailed.

  “Blood,” I admitted with a pained groan. “And I see no enemy bodies to drink,” I snarled, scanning my surroundings. My previous victim was dead, not far away, but his blood was poisoned. Likely, all of the invaders had poison in their blood—to practically guarantee my death. If I hadn’t been the target, I would have been impressed at the tactic.

  I’d taught my protégé too well.

  I stared out at the moaning tribe, those still alive, knowing they were only moments from death—if they were lucky. All the blood. The only thing that could help heal me was all around me.

  And I knew that I would forever damn my own soul if I tasted even a single drop of my own tribe. And with a wound like mine, a simple taste would not help. I needed buckets of blood. The kind of blood I had once celebrated with, enough to make me drunk with rapture.

  The situation sickened me. “I need to find my family,” I rasped, grasping at his sleeve desperately. It was shredded from claws, and I saw angry gouges in the meat of his shoulder. He didn’t wince at my grip so I looked back up at the tough bastard. “Bubbling Brook. My son,” I whispered desperately. “I need clean blood!”

  His filthy face was streaked with trails of tears. “They burned the tent with your blood stores, and—” his voice choked off and his shoulders slumped. “My daughter and grandson…did not make it,” he whispered, his voice cracking at the end. “I could not find them!”

  My world jolted as if I had been struck upside the head, and a steady whining sound filled my ears. No…that couldn’t be right. They had been so close to me when it all began. They had to be just around the corner. My vision swam and spun wildly as I waited for my wife and son to walk out from behind one of the burning tents, eager to show me that they had survived—that my unnamed son had learned to walk!

  Seeing my son walk unaided might have been enough to cure me. Even if it cost me the last of my strength to avenge the tribe. Surely, it would. I just wanted to see that my son could walk. Was that too much to ask?

  Had the Oracle of Delphi been right?

  As if in answer, all I heard were more moans, wails, and cries of anguish. The hellish choir of the damned. The Devil’s prayer.

  Deganawida slapped me across the jaw, snapping me out of my nightmare. “Sorin! You are the only one who can avenge us. You must feed.”

  I shook my head adamantly, gagging at the thought. “Never. You cannot ask such a thing of me. Their blood has been poisoned. And yours would likely kill me!”

  We’d tried that once—just a sample. It had been disastrous. I had sworn to never again drink the blood of a Medicine Man. I would likely end up killing the few who had survived in my wild, uncontrollable bloodlust.

  Understanding dawned upon Deganawida’s face and he shuddered, nodding sadly. “There is…perhaps one other way, Sorin. Someone must make them pay for what they did, and I must assist the wounded. Get them to safety…”

  I locked eyes with him, momentarily forgetting the flame of pain within my chest. “Tell me.”

  He was silent for a moment, his eyes distant as he weighed options or perhaps considered whether his plan could even work with a man like me—a vampire. “I can put you into a sleep that would heal you. I think. It has worked on other patients—even a few with unique abilities,” he added with a meaningful glance. “But not specifically one such as you. I could bind us together.”

  I nodded. “Do it. If it will heal me, I must try. I will return and track down every last Godforsaken soul who dared harm our family this night,” I swore. “My family will be avenged. Our family will be avenged,” I told him, my voice oozing with anticipation. “Do it. Now. I don’t know how much longer I have without blood to sustain me.”

  “There is a chance it will not work,” Deganawida admitted. “And it will also put me at great risk,” he said, not in fear, but in responsibility. If any had survived, they would need Deganawida.

  I grimaced. “Then nothing changes, for I will surely die without blood, and I don’t
think I have enough time—let alone the strength—to go hunting now. You need to heal those who you can. I will be our vengeance if I am able, but the survivors will need you. Do as you must, and I swear I will do the same. You must find Lucian and Nero. You will need them for protection until I return. And I will need their righteous fury when I return,” I snarled. “Just don’t wait too long to wake me.”

  My wife’s father nodded as he placed his hands upon my forehead. I heard a wolf howl—too late if it was my friend Lucian—as my spirit was suddenly cast up into the heavens to drift among the stars, seeming to leave my shredded heart and my mortal coils far, far below…

  A phoenix of vengeance rising up into the stars, waiting for the day, in a few weeks, when it would return to rain fire down upon every member of the invaders—and every blood relative of theirs I could find.

  I would return and make Dracula choke on the blood he had spilled this day. Choke on the blood of his own people.

  Because those people were rightfully mine.

  I, Sorin Ambrogio, would remind the world who truly ruled the night—the vampire who didn’t need a crown to reign.

  The Devil would rise again…

  Darkness consumed me for a time, and then the haunted memories started all over again…as it had repeated countless times before—an eternal pit of woe and shame that I could never escape.

  A Devil’s due—a Devil’s Dream.

  I stared out at the forest, smiling absently at the sounds of laughter and conversation coming from around the crackling campfire behind me. I felt like the luckiest man in the world as I let the vibrancy of the American Indians’ lifestyle—my new family—pour over me. None referred to themselves as Indians, of course—that was a term my fellow Europeans had given them.

  3

  God damned me.

  He—in his infinite, omnipotent wisdom—declared for all to hear…