The Stone Warriors: Nicodemus

by D. B. Reynolds

  When Nico finally stood to leave, he was surprised to note that he’d spent more than an hour learning about Vital and recent French history. He still didn’t understand the many changes of rulers and rules in a relatively short period of time, but he did understand Parisians better than he had, which might turn out to be useful.

  “You should come to my home for dinner, Vital. We’ll have greater privacy to discuss our projects.”

  “You have no family living with you?”

  “No. My family is gone.” Which wasn’t even a lie. He’d left behind his blood family, and didn’t expect to ever see them again. And the five people he considered to be his real family were out of his reach . . . for now. “There is only me and my butler,” he told Vital. “And the house is more than big enough that I can set aside a room to be our regular meeting place, somewhere we can leave research and fabrication in place and untouched.”

  “It sounds like a very peaceful place to work,” Vital said with a wistful note. “If you’re certain it wouldn’t impose.”

  Nico laughed. “I’m not easily persuaded against my will, mon ami. Once I commit to a project, I devote every resource I can muster to it.”

  Vital chuckled in agreement. “Then I accept your invitation.”

  He fished out one of his cards and handed it to Vital. “Shall we say, two days hence? At the sixth hour of the evening, if that’s amenable to you. Shall I send a carriage?”

  “Mais non, I’ll make my own arrangements. I don’t want Violette getting too curious about my destination and inviting herself along. She is very persistent, and was overly indulged by our parents. Even I have difficulty denying her what she wants.”

  Nico suspected his friend was gauging his response, wondering if Violette would be welcome in his home. Since she definitely was not, he said only, “Best if we keep this between us, I think. Until we have something to share with the entire group.”

  “Just so. I agree. Do you require a carriage now? It’s very late.”

  “No, my man will have sent one to wait for me. Merci, Vital. I expect our next meeting to be both enjoyable and productive.”

  “Moi aussi. Bonne nuit, Nicholas.”

  David was surprisingly excited at Nico’s announcement that he would have a dinner guest on Mercredi, as the third day of the week was called in France. The boy was somewhat less enthusiastic when Nico explained it was dinner with a male colleague to discuss business, but was still eager at the opportunity to be a “real butler,” as he said.

  “If you’re bored with your duties, I can contrive something more for you to do. The shutters could use painting,” Nico commented, his tone dry enough that David seemed to take him seriously.

  “Mais non, Nicholas. I would be terrible painter.”

  “And that is why you’re a butler whose duties don’t include painting. I have an excellent chef in mind for dinner. I’ll provide you with a list of everything he’ll need, including good wine and cognac. Very good, non?”

  “I would offer you nothing less, my lord.”

  Nico fought back a wince at the boy’s jocular use of the title. He wasn’t a lord in this world, and didn’t want to be. But he’d owned the title in his home world for so many years that hearing it brought an unexpected pang of longing for the life he’d had before . . . . Hell, just before.

  He shook off the feeling, reminding himself that there was no going back to that time or place, and that every day, every act he took, was aimed at restoring his people, if not his former place. He would build a new sort of empire for this new world, with Antonia by his side, and his warriors all around him. He considered that future, and amended it to include Sotiris’s death, so that his warriors would remain lifelong friends, but have a chance to build lives of their own that didn’t revolve around constant warfare. And families. What an idea! Neither he, nor any of his four had ever included wives and children in their futures, not with always planning for the next battle. But they would. Once Sotiris was dead, they all would.

  “Nicholas?”

  He was jarred back to the present by David’s concerned voice. “Yes?”

  “Are you well? You seemed . . . not here.”

  The observation was more astute than he’d given the boy credit for. “Just thinking. Vital and I are joining forces with some others to rid Paris of its vampires.”

  “Oh, sir, please be careful. There are more of the creatures every day, and they’re very dangerous.”

  Nico clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “So am I, David. So am I.”

  Chapter Six

  1824, Outside London, United Kingdom

  ANTONIA STOOD AT one of the large windows in the big, cold room, in the huge, cold house that the man had brought her to. Yes, she thought, that much was true and accurate. She found it difficult to keep useful thoughts in her head lately. Whenever she tried, her mind would . . . go elsewhere for a while. And when she returned, she always found herself at the same window, in the same room, in the same house. She had no memories of what happened in between. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but she knew it had, because the light would be a little bit different, the sun higher or lower in the sky, the clouds high above and raining, or foggy and low to the ground. And sometimes, there would be no clouds or rain, just sunshine. She liked those days best, though she didn’t have the words to say why.

  Her attention returned to the green forest outside the window. It was no wonder these trees were so green. It seemed always to rain here, or if not rain, then it was so foggy that the clouds seemed to have settled on the forest with no intention of ever lifting again.

  Green, she remembered suddenly. Yes, she’d been thinking how green the trees were, because of the rain. She understood that sort of thing, she realized. Understood why some hills were green and others brown, why some trees flourished in this wet place, while others would have withered and died.

  She glanced over her shoulder, studying the house, searching for . . . her greenhouse. She frowned, and looked outside instead. A greenhouse wouldn’t be inside this elegant mansion. It needed whatever sun could be found in this gray place, and coal pots to warm the air so the plants would thrive. She started for the door, intending to walk around the building and find the greenhouse. She liked working with plants. It was her magic, what she’d been born to. She reached for her coat on the hook near the door, and . . .

  Antonia stood in front of the window, gazing out at the rain, and the lovely green trees. Her mind was blank, not a single thought to trouble this peaceful moment. Some part of her—a tiny voice deep in the back of her mind—knew this was wrong. She wasn’t a person who had no thoughts, no curiosity or questions. But now, she was so very tired. She turned from the window and sank to the floor. The rug was dense and so soft, and someone was draping a thick blanket over her, making her warm, so she could sleep.

  Antonia stood at the window, staring at the fog, watching it tumble slowly, sluggishly, as if hoping no one would notice it had come to earth, so it could stay a while longer. She blinked. That was a fanciful thought, wasn’t it? She wasn’t a fanciful person. Was she?

  “Antonia.”

  She turned to face the man, the one who’d brought her here. He said she was ill, and he was here to take care of her. She had no memory to say otherwise, and he had provided this elegant mansion for her, with thick rugs and warm blankets. She frowned. That was another odd thought. Rugs and blankets? But then, her mind was so utterly muddled recently. Some days, she didn’t even know her name.

  “Antonia,” the man said again, and she knew she’d drifted off the way she always seemed to do lately. Was it only lately? She glanced at herself and saw a grown woman. So there must have been something before “lately,” mustn’t there?

  “How old am I?” she asked the man.

  He regarded her in s
ilent appraisal and said, “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because there must have been something before ‘lately.’”

  He frowned, as if her answer displeased him. But then, he raised his hand and . . .

  Antonia stood by the window, staring . . .

  Chapter Seven

  1824, Paris, France

  MERCREDI ARRIVED right on schedule, as it had for countless millennia, regardless of its designation. Vital Bellamy was equally prompt, tapping the door while the pendulum clock in Nico’s sitting room was still tolling the sixth hour. David, who’d likewise benefitted from a visit to the tailor, was dressed in his finest garb. And with his neat hair and clean-shaven face, he looked a proper butler.

  The house smelled wonderful, the air redolent with the scent of spiced meats and other delicacies, which had been prepared by the chef at Nico’s favorite café. He’d stolen the man’s services for the night, paying him well enough that he’d been willing to make an excuse to the café’s owner to come cook for Nico. He and Nico had sat together late after dinner a few nights ago, planning the menu. The chef had also given Nico a detailed shopping list that included the tools he would need available in the house. Nico ate out most evenings, while his other meals were fairly simple and prepared by a woman who came in every morning to cook and clean. He didn’t have any idea what implements his kitchen cupboards might be hiding, so he’d simply turned over that list to David as well. The boy had wanted more excitement, after all.

  “Vital, welcome,” Nico said.

  “Thank you, Nicholas. You have a beautiful home.”

  Nico looked around, as if seeing it for the first time. It was a very nice house, he supposed. Most of the furniture and décor had come with his purchase, though he’d replaced a few pieces that David had pointed out as too worn to be suitable. Nico would have left them as they’d been. He’d bought the house for privacy, not to impress anyone. But now that he had a guest—something he hadn’t envisioned even two weeks ago—he was glad his home was elegantly inviting.

  “Thank you. Join me for an aperitif while the chef completes the meal.”

  Once they were seated, with drinks in hand, they settled into the true purpose of the evening—the most efficient means of finding and killing vampires.

  “Tell me, Vital. I know why I hate vampires. They very nearly destroyed someone close to me. I admit, I’d hoped all of that was well behind me, but the viciousness of my recent encounter with them made it clear they’re as deadly as ever. The only way to stop them seems to come down to wiping them from the earth.”

  “I am as reluctant as you to destroy an entire species of God’s creation, but I can see no alternative.”

  “You believe God created such vile creatures?” Nico asked, questioning Vital’s beliefs, not his own. He’d been raised with a plethora of gods, none of whom had shown themselves to have the slightest concern for humans or any other creature, other than as occasional playthings to be used for their own amusement.

  “God’s truth permits no other interpretation,” Vital replied. “Man was expelled from paradise for disobedience. This earth is man’s chance to earn his way back into God’s grace and return to paradise, is it not?”

  Nico made a noise of agreement. He’d been made aware early on of the importance of religion in almost every aspect of French society and culture, and had made a point of studying its tenets and history. It was a topic that he and the old priest at the cathedral had discussed at some length. He’d even permitted the priest to baptize him, simply because it had made the old man happy. As a result, he probably knew more right now about the Catholic church’s teachings and history than Vital did, despite having been raised in the faith. That knowledge had more than once eased his assimilation into this world and time.

  “But you agree they must be eradicated?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve wondered more than once—privately, of course—if they might be the devil’s creatures, sent to tempt us.”

  “How do they tempt? Surely, their lives are dreary by comparison to our own?”

  “What does man fear most, mon ami, despite the teachings of the holy church?”

  Nico didn’t have to think about that one. The fear and denial of death was everywhere—in the religion and culture both. “Death.”

  “Exactement. And vampires offer eternal life.”

  He frowned. “But at what cost? And what kind of life? I would not trade my life for theirs.” Of course, he thought privately, he didn’t have to worry about dying after a few short decades, either. Maybe if he did, he’d have made a different choice.

  Vital shrugged in a way Nico had come to equate with other Frenchmen of his acquaintance. “I agree with you, but I know many who wouldn’t.”

  Nico smiled. “Perhaps their lives are such that they fear the final judgment.”

  Vital chuckled. “You might be correct.”

  He took another sip of his wine, then set the glass down, and leaned forward slightly. He enjoyed talking to Vital, but this evening was about more than polite conversation, even if it was also interesting. “Tell me,” he asked intently. “What is your strategy, or that of the group, for eliminating the vampires? For every one we kill, their masters create two more.”

  “Then we must destroy the masters.”

  “That is not an easy task. The old ones can repair almost any injury, and their creations will sacrifice themselves ten times over to keep their master safe.”

  “So we do as we have always done. We search out their nests, the places where they hide during the day when they are vulnerable, and kill them as they sleep.”

  Nico tilted his head curiously. “How long have your people been fighting this war with vampires?”

  “A very long time. Any records we know of, ones that go so far back, are scattered and not always precise in their descriptions. But we believe it began hundreds of years ago, perhaps even before the time when written histories first began.”

  Nico thought of his own world and the vampires who lived in it. Thought, too, of the progress of time evident between then and now. It had to be several hundred years, he thought. And the vampires he’d had knowledge of—those who’d kidnapped and turned Gabriel, for existence—had been old already. “I believe,” he said quietly, “that you must be right. The stories from my own country are very old, and yet there is no description of how vampires came to exist.”

  “Do we conclude from that that we’ve been fighting them as long as man has existed?”

  “Perhaps not that long,” he said. He’d never thought much about vampires before, not until he’d met Gabriel.

  He was tempted to tell Vital of Gabriel and the spell he’d created to cure him, but that would only reveal too much about his power. He did, however, have a set of rather unique manacles that could be very useful in capturing and holding even the strongest of vampires. The handcuffs would then permit him to do whatever was necessary to gain the knowledge he needed to wipe vampires from the earth. It was an odd stroke of luck that he’d brought the manacles with him at all. It had been a last-minute addition that he’d spontaneously decided to shove into his pack, and it was fortuitous enough that he wondered if it had been a flash of foresight, more instinct than premonition.

  At that moment, David entered the room to announce dinner, sparing Nico from deciding how much to share about the amber manacles, as he called them. They would probably require a design change or two, since he’d created them to hold human prisoners, not vampire masters. Yes, he decided. He would tell Vital about them once they were better suited to the task.

  He stood with a smile and said, “Let’s see what the chef has prepared for us, shall we?”

  Chapter Eight

  THE NEXT DAY, Nico finished unpacking everything he’d brought with him into the unknown future of
Sotiris’s spell. He’d removed the notes and journals as soon as he’d moved into the townhouse, but had left the manacles and a few other objects hidden. When he’d purchased the house and moved out of the hotel for good, he’d still considered this to be a temporary home. If he discovered any sign of Sotiris, or his own people, he would stay as long as necessary. But if not, he would search elsewhere.

  He was carefully optimistic that the sorcerers and other magic-users in Charron’s group would turn up some hint of Sotiris. His enemy might be using a different name, but he couldn’t disguise his power. He might shield himself long enough to fool a single person, or even a group, but he couldn’t hold the disguise forever. Besides, Sotiris had never been one to hide his power. If he was around, he would make himself known, one way or another.

  But if Nico wanted information from the group, he had to contribute something valuable in return. And the amber manacles were certainly that. Made of ensorcelled steel, they were powerful enough that even he preferred to wear gloves when handling them. They were icy cold to the touch, even through gloves, as if the spell that had made them so dangerous had somehow touched them with evil. That touch had troubled Nico when he’d created them, but it hadn’t stopped him from using them, just as it wouldn’t now. He’d designed them for human prisoners, but had used them only in the most extreme circumstances. They were a terrible weapon. The pain they caused the confined individual was to the mind and spirit, rather than the body. The few prisoners he’d questioned had quickly lost the will to live, and eventually stopped responding even to threats against their own families. Before they reached that point, however, they’d been willing to tell him anything he wanted to know. Because if nothing mattered, then any secrets the prisoner held didn’t matter either.