Rift Walker, The (Vampire Empire, Book 2)

by Clay Griffith

  However, even this furtive lot looked with derision on the other humans in town—the herds—soulless husks who typically stood in groups waiting to be culled by their owners. They were nothing more than blood afoot, and the city's parks and squares were bulging with these ragged masses.

  A few humans actually hailed Prince Gareth, and at first he wondered if they recognized him. They openly greeted other vampires too as respectful underlings. Gareth then noted the jealous lunacy in their eyes.

  Undead.

  Here in London, clutches of these fanatics were practicing for the day when they could greet their brothers as equals. They believed in the legends of old and longed for the chance to become undead like their masters, believing that upon their death they would rise up as vampires. It was ludicrous, of course. Vampires were no more undead than were humans. However, Cesare brilliantly used their ignorance to his benefit. Gareth shook his head. Perhaps Cesare was doing more to unite vampires and humans than he was, in a terrifying way.

  Gareth strolled past cadavers in all stages of decay, from fresh and bloated to awkward skeletons. London was full of the dead left to rot like garbage. Carrion birds couldn't be bothered to lift their well-fed bodies away from the piles of food, staring and cawing contemptuously as he stepped by.

  Gareth paused in his stroll as the toes of his boots touched the body of a young woman. She was around Adele's age but looked so much older due to the life of fear and despair she had no doubt lived. She lay bloodsoaked on the paving stones with her throat torn open. Her eyes were wide, and Gareth could smell she was still alive, but not for much longer. Her mouth parted as if to speak. The vampire who had fed off her was nowhere to be seen, but from the enormous amount of blood soaked into her clothes and pooling around her twitching body, her killer had just taken a small taste and left the dying girl gasping on the ground.

  Typical.

  “I'm sorry.” Gareth knelt and killed her swiftly. He wished the vampire had been nearby, because he would've killed that wasteful cretin too.

  Gareth entered the cool stone cellars beneath Buckingham Palace where his father slept. He was dismayed to see King Dmitri on his bed, stinking and covered in dried blood. The old man seemed unaware of his miserable state, which frightened and infuriated Gareth all the more.

  “Why is he so dirty?” Gareth snarled at the blank-faced attendant. “He's the king. Have him cleaned.”

  “We bathe him once a day, my lord. If we clean him now, he will be dirty again in an hour.”

  Gareth breathed sharply through his nose. His father's eyes fluttered at the sound of voices, and the bearded face turned slowly toward the visitor. The prince demanded of the attendant, “Has he eaten today? Has he been on his feet at all?”

  “Of course, my lord. Prince Cesare is very attentive to His Majesty's needs.”

  The Scottish prince hissed with derision, trying to ignore the terrible smell in the room. “Yes, my brother is so solicitous. Get out. Leave us.”

  The attendant departed noiselessly as Gareth moved to his father's bedside. The king mumbled wetly as grey eyes struggled to focus on the tall figure standing over him. Gareth bobbed his head to match his father's gaze.

  “Can you see me?” he asked. “Do you know who I am?”

  “My brother?”

  The nonsensical answer crushed Gareth, but he would not let his father know that. He braced himself for the despair that was to come, though his walls were never strong enough.

  “No, I'm Gareth. Your son.”

  Dmitri reached out a clawed hand. “Have you seen the king today? I want to see him.”

  “You are the king,” Gareth replied quietly. “Are you referring to your father?”

  “Yes. I want to see my father. He said he was coming.”

  Gareth took the gnarled claw and squeezed it hard, his nails actually pressing against the aged flesh, hoping his father might see him for the son he was. Dmitri gave a brief smile. There was no point in repeating that the king's father had been dead for five hundred years.

  Dmitri asked, “Have you eaten? We can find something, if you'd like.”

  “I'm fine. I've eaten. Have you?” Gareth suspected the frail old creature was starving despite the evidence of dried blood on his face and beard.

  “Oh yes. We fed near Inverness this morning.”

  Gareth shook his head. The king hadn't set foot near Inverness in many decades. He dropped the hand and went to a table where a pitcher rested; it was full of slimy water. Perhaps the attendant wasn't lying and they made some pale attempt to wash the king every day. “Are you able to stand?”

  “Oh, of course.” Dmitri struggled to lift himself, flailing from side to side until he was in danger of falling off the bed and hurting himself.

  “Stop! I'll help you!” Gareth snapped anxiously at the pathetic sight. He took his father's dead weight under the arms and eased him into a sitting position. The man was so light. He couldn't be so light.

  The prince shouted for the attendant, and when the door cracked open, he snapped, “Bring a new mattress and bedclothes, and several more pitchers of water. And make it fast.”

  Gareth knelt beside his father, idly tapping the old man's knee. This was outrageous. The king could not be allowed to stay in such a condition. How dare Cesare leave their father down here wallowing in his own filth. It was unacceptable.

  Dmitri seemed content to sit with no thought of moving farther. He touched Gareth's arm. “Good to see you, Carolus.”

  Gareth exhaled with annoyance. “I'm Gareth. Your son. Carolus was your brother.”

  “Ah. Where is Carolus?” Dmitri looked deeply concerned at the fact that his brother was suddenly not there.

  He's dead too, Gareth thought, but he merely said, “I don't know. I haven't seen him today.”

  “You look like him. You have that same grimace from worrying too much. Are you sure you aren't him?”

  “Yes, sir. I'm sure.” Gareth laughed against his will.

  Then the door opened and several humans entered laboring under a heavy mattress and piles of blankets. They were followed by others carrying numerous large pitchers sloshing with water.

  Gareth asked his father, “Can you stand now?”

  “Of course I can. What am I, a child?” And the king began to mime the act of standing, apparently without realizing he was still sitting.

  Gareth stood, swallowing his bitterness, and pulled the old man to his feet. He held the wavering figure until the king gathered his balance. He backed away only when he assumed Dmitri would stay aloft. Gareth gestured to the disgusting bed and silently commanded it be removed and replaced. After it was done, he ordered all the servants from the room. Once the door was closed, he removed the stinking robe from his father's body.

  Gareth nearly gasped to see the withered old thing before him. His father had been a giant, a titan, stronger than anyone, with arms like trees and legs like temple columns. This sagging husk, caked with filth, was unrecognizable as King Dmitri. Gareth hurled the robe across the room and collected his temper. He needed his father, not this shell.

  He grabbed the man's gnarled hand and demonstrated what he wanted Dmitri to do. “Wash yourself.” He lifted several pitchers and poured water over his father.

  The drenched old man stood motionless as dirty water sloughed off him and pooled at his feet.

  “Wash!” Gareth commanded again, hoping to cut through the old man's fog of the past and jar him to the present.

  “I am,” Dmitri replied, dripping but not moving.

  Gareth angrily seized another pitcher and doused his father again. He threw it aside and began to run his fingers through matted hair, scraping old blood from the beard, wiping muck off the leathery frame. He then poured pitcher after pitcher over the old man, who spit water but otherwise stood complacent. Gareth was soon soaked and covered with filth as well, but his father was passably clean.

  His father's vacant eyes locked onto the distant walls as if he saw
beyond them, lost in his thoughts. Gareth's breath was ragged in his throat, his jaw clenched tight against the ache of his anguish. He draped a blanket around the naked Dmitri and wiped him dry. He threw the wet blanket aside and found a passably royal robe across the chamber, holding it open behind the king.

  “Sir, your robe.”

  “Oh, thank you, Carolus.” Dmitri slipped into the robe naturally and cinched it around his waist.

  Gareth moved to face him, tight-lipped. “My name is Gareth. Do you remember me at all?”

  The king nodded as he laid his arm across the prince's shoulder. “I have a son named Gareth.”

  “That's right.”

  “He is a good son. A bit bullheaded, perhaps. I taught him to think for himself, and he learned that very well.” Dmitri narrowed his eyes in thought, actual deep thought. He worked his jaw side to side in contemplation. “But he didn't learn when to put the clan above himself. Sometimes you can be right, but you still have to give way to others. That can be a terrible undoing. I don't know if he ever grasped that.” Then the king smiled generously. “But I've always been proud of him. Will you tell him so, if you see him today?”

  Gareth stared deep into his father's gaze, seeking a hint of recognition, a flicker of the past, some shadow from their time together. Dmitri's eyes were honest, even charming, but they were deep chasms with no bottom. There was nothing in them to assuage Gareth.

  The prince paused to find a steady voice. “I will.”

  Dmitri looked wistful. “I miss him. I miss seeing him.”

  “He misses you as well.” Gareth looked at the floor as he adjusted the king's robe. His chest ached that his father had no idea how often Gareth visited him. He then guided his father back to the bed and helped him to lie down again. “I must go, Your Majesty. I hope to see you again soon.”

  “Good,” Dmitri said. “You've been very kind.”

  Gareth cupped the back of the king's damp head. Then he silently turned to leave.

  “Why don't you want to be my brother?” Dmitri asked.

  Gareth smiled sadly. “I will be your brother if you wish it.”

  “Good. Everything is all right, then.” Dmitri drifted off toward a satisfied sleep. “Good night, Carolus.”

  “Good night, Dmitri.”

  “Gareth, can't you even pretend to care about your people?”

  “I care, Cesare. More than you know.” It took all of Gareth's reserve to maintain an air of disinterest when speaking to his despised brother. He was seething over their father's terrible condition, which Cesare supervised. He wondered how difficult it would be to assume the care for Dmitri, or even to remove him to Edinburgh. That would certainly be impossible. “I must say, I admire the new version of the events surrounding your capture of Princess Adele where you've somehow come out the victor.”

  “I am the victor.” Cesare laughed loudly and slapped Gareth on the back. It was an act that surprised Gareth at first; his brother was never one for cheerful bonhomie. But this was, in fact, an act of superiority. The younger prince was so secure in his hold over the clan now, he could flaunt it with displays of filial affection that neither brother felt. As with all things between them, it was nothing but pretense. “I'm so powerful now, I even control history.”

  The two princes strode the musty corridors of Buckingham Palace, and Cesare moved through his domain with complete confidence. He was fine-boned but powerful, with close-cropped hair. He was prone to smug expressions and icy glares, and he enjoyed making dramatic gestures with his hands because he liked to watch them move. He tugged the cuffs of his formal coat and checked the cravat that had been carefully tied by a human slave. Cesare took pride in his appearance. Most vampires were festooned in garish combinations of colors and styles, even mixing clothes typical of male and female. They wore human clothes not because they needed to, since the cold didn't affect them, but because they liked to mock humans. Living as parasites scuttling in the dark for millennia had made vampires particularly showy conquerors.

  “This is what you want anyway, Gareth.” Cesare continued his bubbling chatter. “You don't want to be king after father dies. You want to play brooding benefactor to your herds in Scotland. I still don't know why you felt compelled to meddle when I captured the princess, but I forgive you. You've stayed quiet the last few months, and you sulked around London without bothering me.” The younger prince attempted a sincere, “Thank you, Gareth.”

  The Scottish lord's sharply chiseled face remained down without apparent reaction, and Gareth wished again he had killed Cesare when he had the chance. His jaw was clenched tight against the urge. Unlike the blatantly sartorial Cesare, the elder prince was in his trademark simple black trousers and frock coat, highlighted by a bright white shirt. His arms were clasped behind his back. His dark hair was a little longer and wilder than normal.

  Cesare continued, “It's best you steer clear of politics anyway, Gareth. Thanks to your ill-timed interference in the spring, the Equatorian princess escaped me. That loss means that the Equatorian-American alliance continues. For now. I hear reports of airships massing at bases in Gibraltar and across the sea in Cuba. Had you just stayed away, the princess would be dead now, as would the butcher Clark. The war would be over and I would have won. As it is, I have work to do. Fortunately, I have plans in place that will strike at the heart of Equatoria, and this time I will tear it out.”

  Gareth's stride almost broke, but he caught himself and continued walking beside his conniving brother. “What do you mean? What are you planning?” He looked up, staring hard at Cesare with dark intensity from inside his icy blue eyes. His brother's words frightened him. Cesare did not boast, at least not idly. The elder prince feared new schemes targeting Adele. Whether or not she was Equatoria's heart, she was certainly Gareth's.

  The brothers reached a door where Cesare's bailiff, Stryon, waited patiently. As Cesare checked his suit, he said to Gareth, “Here we are. Listen to me, on the other side of this door are the keys to my new grand alliance to counter the humans. Three clan leaders from Europe and North America. King Ashkenazy of Budapest. King Draken of Munich. And the amazingly still-living Queen Fen of New York.” Cesare paused to eye his companion with enormous self-satisfaction.

  Gareth felt his breath quicken with surprise, but he struggled to maintain a steady stare. Three clan rulers here at Cesare's beck and call. It was an amazing feat given the increasingly fractious politics of the clans since the Great Killing. And it was startling proof of Cesare's political skill and growing power.

  Cesare said in a confidential tone, “Now, King Ashkenazy and King Draken are completely with me on the war. Queen Fen has concerns, the vile hag. We can't wait, of course. If we wait, we die.” He took his brother by the arm and whispered, “Gareth, if I need you to seduce that old crone, I'll give you a sign. Females seem to fancy you. Even my Flay would've turned against me for you, I think.”

  Gareth started with true surprise. It was shocking enough that Cesare was including him in his plans, even in a half-joking way. But Cesare's former war chief Flay had indeed offered to betray her master for Gareth before her death in Scotland. He couldn't tell if Cesare knew or suspected or was just making a jest.

  Cesare shook his head in annoyance at the conference to come and said, “Follow my lead,” by which he meant don't cross me, but it sounded more pleasant.

  The chamberlain swung back the door, and the two princes entered the spacious chamber, once grand but now mildewed and faded, to find the three rulers waiting. Two males were finely attired in dress uniforms of old central European style, and an aged female wore a gown of shimmering silk.

  “Your Majesties!” Cesare boomed. “Thank you for meeting with me. These matters shouldn't detain you long. Once we finish here, you can enjoy the prodigious hospitality of our clan.”

  The aged queen of New York shifted with a rustle of plentiful fabric. She turned her sallow, bloated face to Cesare. “We may not be so close as you imagine, y
oung prince. I am not satisfied. Not at all.”

  Cesare reared back with pretended concern. “Indeed? I am saddened by that. Then we shall address all your issues, Queen Fen.” He smiled. “Oh forgive me. I have the honor to present my brother, Gareth of Edinburgh.”

  Gareth bowed, noting the absence of the title prince in his introduction and the fact that his realm had been reduced from a nation to a city.

  King Ashkenazy of Budapest was young, younger even than Cesare, and had recently displaced his father. With newfound power he had launched a series of stunning raids in the southern Balkans. Once thought a rival of Cesare's for leadership of any clan alliances, the two upstarts seemed to have formed a bond. Ashkenazy was tall and willowy thin, pale even for his species. His blond hair hung straight to the small of his back. He wore a relatively restrained uniform of navy blue, with highly polished shoes and a half cape thrown off one shoulder. He fidgeted nervously with the unpleasantness of a writhing eel.

  Draken of Munich was heavier and more stable; in fact, he was virtually immobile. He had a florid, pleasant face with eyes full of perpetual distrust. He said little and meant less. Draken loved garish uniforms—today he wore scarlet trousers and a violet tunic festooned with gold braid on the shoulders and collar. His round chest and belly jangled with old decorations of valor nestled alongside strings of finger bones and human teeth. On his head he wore a helmet with a silvery peaked crest on which one of his human slaves had painted the image of a skull.

  Queen Fen croaked again. “And where is my old friend, Dmitri? I should not like to come across the sea to treat with a boy.”

  Cesare nodded gravely and calmly, but Gareth noted with satisfaction that his brother was growing irritated.

  “The king is unwell,” Cesare replied with appropriate sadness. “His age is great, as you surely know. He is the oldest of the clan kings. Fortunately, I have been his right hand for years, so there is no distance from my ear to his. I am, for all intents and purposes, the king of Britain.”