Rift Walker, The (Vampire Empire, Book 2)

by Clay Griffith

  “It's a story. About you and me. They're very popular. And there are also plays. That's where people pretend to be others on stage, for an audience.” She showed him the playbill for Desire in the Dead North.

  “People pretend to be us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they good at it?”

  “They're all right. I've seen a few dramas starring us. Some were better than others.”

  He opened The Princess and the Swordsman and saw a black-and-white drawing of a man in a flowing long robe with a head wrap similar to Greyfriar's, carrying a broad-bladed scimitar. Cowering behind the dashing adventurer was a frightened young woman dressed for a harem. Under the picture was the legend: The Greyfriar stands ready to defend the helpless Princess Adele.

  “That looks nothing like either of us. And why are you cowering? That's not like you.”

  Adele shrugged. “It's just for entertainment. Accuracy isn't the point. Here, this is my favorite drawing.” She flipped to another picture of a man with a cape and a sword, his arm around the waist of a beautiful woman. The two were on the verge of a kiss. In the air around them were hairy, clawed beasts with wings. Adele read the caption in a melodramatic voice, “She was betrothed. He was a hero. But they found forbidden love in the crypts of Scotland.” She laughed. “But at least all the stories have happy endings.”

  “Are we always together?”

  “Every time.”

  “Good.” With that knowledge, Gareth relaxed, and he fell asleep.

  COLONEL ANHALT CLOSED the drawer of his desk and locked it. He turned off the gas light on the wall and glanced around the small office he maintained but rarely occupied—perhaps for the last time. As he reached for the door, it flew inward and the shadowy space was filled by a small figure in a Bedouin robe. For a moment, Anhalt thought a street urchin had found his way into the palace.

  “Colonel!” Prince Simon exclaimed. “Have you heard anything?”

  “I have not, Your Highness.” Anhalt stepped into the corridor, pressing the boy out, and closed the door behind him.

  “Then where are you going?” Simon indicated a fat valise in the colonel's hand.

  “I am going to investigate a report of Her Highness in Damascus. But it is likely false, as usual.”

  “Can I go?”

  “May I go.” Anhalt immediately assumed the corrective role of Adele in her absence. “No, you may not.”

  “Why? It's boring here. Everyone's all upset over Adele. Senator Clark walks around like he owns the place.”

  The colonel started down the hall with an arm looped over the boy's shoulders. “I understand, but you must remain. Until your sister returns, you are the heir.”

  “That's stupid!” Simon shouted. “She's the real heir, but she's the one always out having adventures all the time. And I'm stuck here in boring Alexandria!”

  “It does seem silly, doesn't it? But your sister is a unique individual. And if you leave, who will care for the cat?”

  “I'll bring him.”

  “Cats don't travel well.”

  “This one does. He came all the way from the north.”

  Anhalt chuckled. “True. But even so.”

  “And I didn't get to meet the Greyfriar,” Simon grumbled. “He was here and I didn't even talk to him.”

  “He was busy. Perhaps he'll be back.”

  “If he does, Senator Clark will shoot him.” The boy brightened. “Or maybe Greyfriar will shoot Clark!”

  “No one will shoot anyone.”

  “Please let me come with you. Please!”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Prince Simon. But where I'm going, you can't follow.”

  “Damascus? I've been there.”

  Colonel Anhalt halted before the prince. “There are times when we all must do what we'd prefer not to. You have been called on to do such things more than most your age. But you are a prince, and it is your lot in life. I have been very proud of you. No matter what happens, please don't forget that.”

  Simon regarded Anhalt with a curiously adult gaze. “You are coming back, aren't you?”

  The Gurkha paused. He reached up and touched the Imperial Service Medal he wore on the chest of his red tunic, the only decoration he displayed despite earning many. He saluted the boy.

  “It has been an honor to serve you, Your Highness.”

  Anhalt spun swiftly and strode away.

  The candles that lit the interior of the Djibouti tavern were guttering and stank of cheapness. The entire room reeked of sweat, beer, hashish, and repressed fear and anger. Hushed conversations buzzed along with the flies.

  When Anhalt entered, bleary eyes turned on him. Then some swung away, but others continued to stare at the stranger. Despite the nondescript khakis, this man was clearly not a regular. He was firm and straight, not bent with secrets. His eyes were not red with alcohol or hatred. The curiosity was palpable as the stranger crossed to the bar. His hands rested on his holstered revolver and the hilt of his sword, but he was likely the most lightly armed person here. That included the bartender, who regarded him without moving.

  Anhalt said, “I'm looking for someone.”

  “Don't know him.”

  “I am not with the authorities.”

  The bartender grinned at the unintended joke. “Oh, you're not, are you?”

  Several men at the bar turned to the newcomer, annoyed at being interrupted from their quiet quest for cirrhosis. One of them growled, “There's no one here. Be on your way before we get annoyed.”

  Anhalt ignored the man and continued, “I'm looking for Captain Aswan Hariri. I am a friend of his.”

  “If you're a friend, then you'd know where he was—if he existed, which he don't, so far as I know.”

  Anhalt felt sweat dribbling down his neck. The air was stifling. “I was told Captain Hariri frequented this establishment.”

  The bartender rubbed his dark Somali face. “I'll give you some free advice, mate. Leave now. And don't come back.”

  A man laughed as he lay in the corner working the overhead fan by pulling a string attached to his big toe. Dust sparkled in the sun shafts penetrating the broken window shutters. Chairs across the room scraped as more men took interest in the scene. There were murmurs of “imperial” and “police.” As they found more bravery in numbers, figures moved toward Anhalt with open sneers and hands in pockets or on belts where weapons rested.

  “Attention, gentlemen.” The colonel inched away from the bar in case he needed more room to maneuver. “This is a simple transaction. I am looking for my friend. If I find him, I will go away. No one needs to die.”

  Several men snickered and made comments about exactly who would die today. Then a thin European seated at the bar came at Anhalt with what he must have felt was a cunning move, swiping with a dagger.

  Anhalt easily slipped the strike, kicking the man in the chest and knocking him off his stool while drawing his Fahrenheit saber. The glowing green sword held the room in amazement for a few seconds, since such finely wrought examples were still rare in such sordid environs.

  Another blade came at Anhalt and he struck the man's arm, raising a scream of pain from the attacker. Now the colonel's revolver was out too. A large brute lunged and he sidestepped, bringing the pistol butt down on the back of the man's head. A glimpse of a threat from behind brought the saber in an arc so it ripped through a man's shoulder with fire.

  Anhalt vaulted onto a table, scattering liquor bottles and beer pints. He kicked a large hookah at a man who caught the glass and water full in the face. At the first sign of a pistol in the mob, he fired and dropped the gunman.

  The door was blocked by a crowd, some of whom were rushing out, but others stood and waited, smiling and hoping for a chance at loot when the foolish intruder was eventually brought down.

  “Kill him!” came a shout. “Damned imperial! Kill him, boys!”

  Anhalt slashed again and again, driving the mob back, leaving streaks of gre
en chemical in the air. He fired at another man who reached for his leg. The bullet impacted the table, spraying shards of wood. Then the man's hand separated from his arm. Anhalt watched curiously as the disembodied hand slid off his boot to the tabletop.

  A man jumped onto the table with him, and he saw behind the trailing turban the dark face of Aswan Hariri. “Follow me, my friend. I'll cut a way out!”

  Instantly, Hariri leapt from the table, swinging a broad scimitar and firing point-blank into the crowd. The drunks fell back, shouting and screaming, flailing to be out of harm's way. Anhalt followed, striking around him with the saber, firing only when a threatening blade or gun came too close. Hariri kicked a man through the door and they surged out into the bright African sun. The two men spun in the dusty street and fired around the tavern's door frame to drive their pursuers back inside.

  “Run!” Hariri shouted.

  Anhalt followed the flowing robes of his friend, slipping between tan brick buildings, hurdling low fences, cutting through open doorways of homes. He occasionally turned to fire back at dogged pursuers, who became fewer and fewer with every twist and turn through the chaotic town.

  Finally, Hariri stopped, with chest heaving, to scan the empty street behind them. He kept his pistol extended, waiting, as many faces stared out from behind doors and windows.

  Anhalt said, “We're attracting attention with weapons in the street.”

  “This is Djibouti, not Alexandria. Count yourself lucky children aren't returning fire.” Hariri then took off at a trot. “Come. I've a safe place not far from here.”

  Apparently, not far meant fifteen minutes running through the searing heat. Finally, Hariri led them through a nondescript archway into a courtyard with a cooling fountain. They passed into a dim room looking out on the blue harbor crowded with dhows and steamships, while the achingly blue sky was full of airships.

  Hariri pulled off his gun belt and sword, stretching with relief. He was tall and dark and thin. He wore a slight beard that curled off his chin. His deep brown eyes were quiet and haunted, no matter the smile beaming from his lips. He tossed a heavy water skin to the colonel.

  Anhalt downed the water greedily and wiped his mouth. “Thank you.” But he didn't mean for the drink.

  “You're welcome. To say that I'm surprised to see you is an understatement. Someone found me on the street telling me that a policeman was asking for me by name. I had to see for myself who would be so bold or desperate. Or stupid.” Hariri laughed and dropped onto a pile of cushions. “And behold, it was you in the process of being killed.”

  “I did not realize I stood out so. Apparently polite enquiries are frowned upon in that place.”

  Hariri nodded with a sly eyebrow. “I'll never be able to drink there again. Ah well, their ale was like bath water.”

  Anhalt sheathed his sword and sat on a bench along one wall. “I'm glad to have found you, in any case.”

  “It has been years, my friend. Was it Zanzibar when we last fought together?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm surprised you can afford to be seen with one such as I.”

  “What passed between you and the Imperial Air Command isn't my concern.”

  “Of course. I hear you have done well. Commander of the princess's guard?”

  “That is correct.”

  “The lady Adele is quite the handful, so I've heard.” Hariri laughed, but when he saw Anhalt's grim reaction, he became serious. “I'm sorry. Can I assume she is the reason for your visit to my humble home?”

  “You can. I need your help, Aswan. I need a trustworthy captain and crew who can handle a brig in the face of difficulties. Without questions.”

  Hariri sighed. “I can always find men who have no curiosity. But, forgive me, they will require payment.”

  “I have money,” Anhalt said. “And if we succeed, there will be great rewards. If we fail—” He shrugged.

  “It is not for me I ask.” Hariri sat forward earnestly. “I would serve you for no reason other than that you are Colonel Mehmet Anhalt, commander of the White Guard.”

  The colonel finished reloading his pistol. He sat back and crossed his legs. “I am no longer commander of the White Guard. As of yesterday, I am a traitor and deserter.”

  “Well, who among us is perfect?” Hariri pursed his lips with concern. “Is this turn of events something you have done for your lost princess?”

  “It is.”

  “If I may, my friend, you were always the most loyal Equatorian I ever knew. Why do you risk everything for her?”

  “I promised her mother.”

  AS THE WEEK passed sailing up the Nile, Gareth was forced to retreat to the hold of the boat. The air was livid with heat that sapped his vigor and his wits daily, leaving him panting and weak. When he was able, he read from the book that Adele had bought. During the worst baking midday heat, he used the blanket from the market in Cairo. It was an invention used primarily by the army; its chemical coating gave off cooling vapors, but it only lasted so long and this one was already fading.

  When Gareth opened his eyes, he saw the wooden beams of the ship's hold above him. His shirt was open and damp, a wet rag pressed on his forehead. He tried to rise but only managed to make it to one elbow, cursing the weakness that seeped through his frame. He couldn't remember ever feeling so helpless and sick. He fell back, breathing roughly, sweat dotting his skin, the back of his dry throat convulsing as his nausea flared. He lay motionless, trying to think of what needed to be done, but his brain was consumed with fatigue. Footsteps sounded on the ladder, and Adele came down with a bucket dripping with water.

  She knelt beside him. “You're awake! I've been frantic.” Her cold hands touched his fevered face and offered a respite. She sank the cloth in the water and then pressed it against his skin.

  “How long?” he muttered.

  “Almost a full day. It's evening now. I've put to shore.”

  “It's still hot,” he panted.

  “I know. It was blazing today. It will cool off soon.”

  He nodded, willing himself to stay awake. Despair ate at him. He had hoped to leave the boat to try to find food. He must feed soon or he would be unable to move. And then he would die and Adele would be alone.

  “There's a town ahead,” Adele said. “It's not very big, but I'm sure we can find you someplace better than this stifling hold.”

  “It's too dangerous. We were lucky in Cairo, only a hairbreadth from discovery.”

  “I'm willing to take the risk!”

  “I'm not. I won't be of any help to you if we're discovered. There are airships everywhere. And we've seen the river patrols every night. It's only luck that has prevented us from being boarded. And I'm certain I've seen a boat following us.”

  “You're exhausted. I haven't seen anyone following us. Every boat on the river looks alike to you.” Still, Adele knew that Gareth was extraordinarily observant. If they were being trailed, pulling ashore for the night could be disastrous. Better to continue through the night.

  She would have to stay awake. Gareth was too weak to sail. His skin was sallow and his eyes glassy, as if he were running a fever. His cheeks were peppered with a raw rash from the heat. Even the water of the Nile was slowly becoming ineffectual at keeping him cool. It terrified her.

  “I'm not going to die from the heat,” he assured her. “It won't be much longer.”

  “It's been three days since you last fed from me, and I'm fully recovered.” Adele rolled up her sleeve on the arm that was unmarked by his teeth. At his hesitation, her hand stroked his cheek, gazing into his light eyes. “You worry too much about me. But can't you see that I'm fine with this? I'm offering and I gladly give it. I'm frightened of losing you. You can't even stand. Please. For me.” She kissed him. It was a gentle caress to him, though she pressed her lips hard against his.

  “You can never lose me,” he said softly as she pulled slowly away. He felt her hand against the back of his searing neck.

/>   “Then show me.” She again offered her wrist to him, her olive skin even darker in the filtered moonlight while he appeared a pale wraith. His exhale shook with longing as he lifted her arm and quickly sank his fangs just deep enough to catch the shallowest of veins. Adele stiffened for a moment and then relaxed as she grew accustomed to the rhythm of the feeding.

  Gareth lay on the deck losing himself to the intensity of her life-giving blood. The spice of her anxiety for him spoke clearly, as did her robust devotion. He could feel his awareness becoming sharper, his body stronger. The blood sang with power and filled him with sensations both bad and good. As it seeped through him, his own blood caught the awareness of what she was in body and spirit, and the dreadful strength of which she was capable. No human's blood had ever told such a story of marvelous life and complete death.

  Gareth listened carefully to Adele's pounding heart. It didn't take long for it to start laboring. She was exhausted too. The feedings, combined with working in the unforgiving heat, were draining her. Afraid he would hurt her, he let go and sank back. He needed more blood, but he refused to place her in harm's way. The fitful feeding would have to be enough.

  “Thank you.” His eyes closed as the call of misery-free oblivion beckoned and he willingly gave in to lethargic slumber, conserving what strength her blood provided. He would rise when the desert air had released its taxing heat and allowed the land to cool once more.

  Adele watched him slip away from her into what she hoped was just sleep. She tied a quick bandage over the small wound on her wrist. Usually, Gareth was the one to do that for her, always thinking of her first. The fact that he was barely aware enough to feed, much less worry about her, was frightening. She soaked the rag again before placing it on his forehead, hoping it still offered him some relief.

  There was still much to do tonight. Adele was almost too tired to eat, but she knew she had to keep up her strength if she was to continue her vigil. Wearily she shoved herself to her knees, but not before she kissed his damp forehead.