by Declan Finn
The vampire smiled, and so did the eyes of the demon within. “Think again,” they said and threw forth their hands. Black fire poured forward in an endless stream.
Marco stepped forward, into a kneeling position, and crossed his wrists in front of them. One of the multiple things that Amanda had given him was a collection of rosaries. He had wrapped them around each of his wrists.
And now he was glad he had.
The stream of fire struck just at the point where Marco’s wrists crossed. It stopped at an impact point three inches in the air in front of him, held back by the power of God.
And that was enough for Marco.
Except the darkness didn’t stop there. The darkness inched towards him, spreading out around Marco and his rosaries. The fire and the flames covered his entire body. As though the grace of God formed a shield around him, the fire flowed around him, creating a bubble. It protected him from the darkness.
The darkness still wanted in.
It fell all around him. Marco felt the darkness push against him, a physical and metaphysical force. It wanted him. It wanted in.
And the darkness began to whisper to him. The darkness knew him. It spoke of his lust for death. His murderous impulses. It spoke to every thrill he had ever had when deliberately hurting someone. Every time he had his hands on someone’s throat. Every time he broke bone and felt a rush go through his body. It knew that Amanda wouldn’t marry him because he was evil. Without vampires, he would just be another serial killer, roaming the streets for prey. He was the darkness, so why not let it in? Marco knew it to be true, didn’t he? The darkness was his life. He played with it routinely, and always came back unharmed. That was his sin. It was his life.
It was as though every doubt, anxiety, and fear he had ever had in his entire life came for him. They would devour him whole because they were all him. He couldn’t really defeat himself. If he could overcome his own weaknesses, why hadn’t he yet?
He leaned into the spiritual attack. Still it pressed him backwards. Despite starting forward, like a football player with his arms crossed before him, his back was almost straight. The next step would be a full retreat. And he had no place to go. His left foot touched the mausoleum, his knees in the dirt.
Though the darkness moved around him like an endless tide, it didn’t mean that anything else was safe. The ground beneath him stayed stable, but the cemetery itself burned and corroded. The Soul Fire cascaded over him in waves, and ate away at the headstones, the grass, consuming the trees as they disintegrated.
There was no way for him to win.
In the small, still roar of Soul Fire, in the white noise (perhaps “black noise”) that consumed Marco’s world, he heard one tiny voice in the back of his head. A sardonic voice that sounded much like Marco himself. It was something that was as integral to Marco as Marco was himself.
It was a voice that he had only heard once, on a San Francisco pier, after it had first defeated “Mister Day.”
The voice belonged to someone named Da’ni’el, and it was Marco’s guardian angel.
It simply said, “Remember who you are.”
Only four words. But the phrase triggered other memories for Marco, from another conversation: Have you ever considered that you’re just a soldier who merely enjoys his job? … You both choose to stand between the darkness and everyone else on the planet. Sometimes, you die. Welcome to being a soldier … a soldier in a war where evil cannot be stopped without lethal force. You were prepared early for a war that would come with or without you.
No. God wanted him like this. Maybe not exactly like this, but enough. He was a soldier. He was a killer. He was the slayer of God’s enemies. He was the destroyer of evil. He was going to mutilate, slash, burn, and destroy anything that got in the way.
Perhaps that was what Hendershot had tried to tell him with his dying breath: Deus vult.
God wills it.
Perhaps this was what his entire life was building to. He didn’t like destiny, as a concept or as a video game. But if this was something God had in mind, then it was time for him to embrace it.
In the end, all that mattered was he remembered who he was. He was a monster to other monsters. He was the terror the darkness had feared. He had persevered against demons direct from Hell.
Amanda loved him, and he was a soldier for God.
He held onto that thought, onto this moment, and would never let it slip away. His was a good life. Amanda loved him. As long as she did, his life was a gift, filled with infinite possibilities. He was going to fight for it, and everything he loved. Even if he died for it.
One more line he remembered from Da’ni’el: You spend half of your time either angry or in prayer. You think that doesn’t make a difference? There is holiness in you. Mikhail could not have savaged your mind any more than Asmodeus could possess you.
Which meant that Marco already knew what to do. It was what he always did in the still of the night when the anger reached out for him and drove him to distraction.
“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle,” Marco intoned as he leaned forward into the black Soul Fire that threatened to consume him. “Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.” Marco stood and took a single step forward. “May God rebuke him, we humbly pray.” Another step. “And do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host—” Step. “By the Divine Power of God.” Another step. “Cast into Hell, Satan and all the evil spirits, who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”
The eyes of Misha and Asmodeus grew wide as Marco proceeded to walk towards him, arms crossed at the rosaries at his wrist.
“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” Marco intoned, and then started with the Our Father.
The vampire-demon roared. He stopped pointing one hand at Marco, and swiped the fire along the ground, creating a trench between him and Marco.
Then the onslaught of black fire stopped. Misha drew it back into his body like breath.
Misha smiled. He looked around the graveyard and shook his head, sighing. “I have been giving you too much credit. Why bother striking you with supernatural power …”
Stone broke a little further down the cemetery, to Marco’s right.
“…when I can throw the cemetery at you?”
A slab of marble the size of Misha slammed Marco into the side of another mausoleum, pancaking him. It wasn’t full-bore Wyle E Coyote, but it smashed in his body, crushing him into the rock.
Misha’s resulting laughter cut off as someone grabbed his ankle, and twisted, hurling him like a discus. He smacked face first into a headstone. A sword rammed through his body.
The vampire ripped himself from the stone and turned on his assailant.
Merle smiled and gave a little finger wave. “Hi there.”
He raised a brow. “You did that?”
Merle shrugged. “Eh. You’ll find my fingerprints on the sword hilt.”
“You’re not a threat, you’re a snack. But Marco first.”
The vampire-demon turned back to face Marco, and had an encounter with a headstone across his face, knocking him off his feet.
Misha felt his teeth, and found his canines missing. He looked up at Amanda in front of him.
“If you touch him, I will kill you.”
Misha’s eyes narrowed. “Alina…I have the army here, child.”
“Oh?” Amanda said, amused. “Where would they be?”
His eyes flared with Soul Fire. He gestured around the cemetery.
Marco looked up from the ground, slowly letting the world come back into focus. Even though marble didn’t hurt him like silver, his body still needed fuel to power through an impact like a wrecking ball.
Marco’s eyes narrowed, but his vision wouldn’t clear. It was still foggy. He refocused to the ground, and slowly looked out and away from him … and he saw that it wasn’t his eyes. A heavy mist covered the area. It stayed outside the bounds of the cemetery, as though the fog itsel
f had been a spectator to his battle royale with Misha.
“Come!” they said, in a voice as deep and as forbidding as death.
The mist flowed into the cemetery, and solidified. Solid figures materialized. One by one, vampires appeared from the mist, surrounding Misha, Marco, Merle, and Amanda.
Merle backed towards Marco, and Amanda came with him, keeping an eye on the vampires as they emerged from the fog.
Amanda whispered one word, “Smoke-eater.”
Marco looked over at Merle and Amanda and made certain to turn back to the encroaching legions of the damned. They didn’t look particularly happy to see him. “Hey, love.”
“Hello,” Amanda said. “Good fight?”
“It’s been interesting,” Marco drawled, still not looking at the others. Amanda bumped into his left side, and Merle his right. “I don’t have to tell you that Misha’s possessed, do I?”
Merle scoffed. “Even I saw the eyes. I hope it’s not anyone we know.”
“It’s Day. He’s back.”
Amanda frowned, and pieces fell into place. “If he has the same powers as before, that explains why Misha could be out in daylight.”
Marco nodded, even though she wasn’t looking at him. “Day was healing him so fast, it only looked like the sun didn’t damage him.”
The three of them watched as the others closed in. “I hope someone sent in a memo for a MOAB,” Marco said.
“That worked so well on Nuala,” Merle muttered.
Marco nodded. That was true. He frowned as he eyed the legions. “Should I ask what ‘smoke-eater’ means? Some obscure Russian swear word that only sounds like English?”
Marco was so focused on the threat in front of him that he didn’t notice the steady beat of propellers in the air until they were already well within range of standard human hearing. The regular beating grew closer and louder as they closed in.
Helicopters.
Misha ignored the threat. Both the vampire and the demon within listened to the helicopters. They were not gunships. They were not troops carriers. They were nothing but regular helicopters.
Marco, however, laughed.
Misha rolled his eyes and stalked towards the trio. He stepped within six feet of Marco. “And what do you think is so funny?”
Marco merely grinned. “I got the joke.”
“About?”
“Smoke-eaters.”
Misha looked up. The helicopters came to a stop overhead, and hovered in a formation over the cemetery. They had encircled it…
They floated directly over his vampires. He only realized the threat as doors in the bellies of all the helicopters opened and released their cargo.
Misha threw himself against the wall of a mausoleum, seeking protection from the death from the sky.
The helicopters weren’t anything particularly hazardous. They weren’t gunships. They hadn’t carried men, or weapons, or guns.
They were firefighting helicopters, only this time, they carried holy water. With the ten helicopters, several hundreds of gallons of water poured onto the cemetery.
Every vampire melted away faster than Nazis in front of the Ark of the Covenant.
Chapter 33
All the Forces of Hell
The possessed vampire watched from safety as all of his vampire legions were wiped out. The holy water rained down from the sky like a waterfall. The flood swept away hundreds of men. In some places, only body parts remained. Even those began to dissolve as the holy water seeped into the ground.
Misha and the demon felt the holy water wash in like the tide. It swept over the ground, and Misha stood there, looking at the trio of heroes as they turned to face the combined threat.
Marco smirked. “Oh, look who we’ve caught on holy ground. Your powers are suppressed by holy water. I’d like to see just how well Asmodeus heals you when we push you face-first into ground soaked with holy water.”
Marco stepped forward. Amanda caught his arm, and shook her head.
And then, the vampire-demon laughed. Misha spread his arms out, roaring with laughter. He sounded like thunder ripped from the Heavens.
“Come to me, my minions!” they roared. The twin voices sounded more like they came from Godzilla a puny human being. “Come, every foul thing and creature. Come unto your master!” The black, insectoid eyes looked at the three of them, alight with unholy mirth and damnation. “And now, you face me, Alina, and all the forces of Hell!”
Marco raised a hand. “Excuse me?” He looked around the cemetery. “Your minions are now only so much dust. Where exactly do you think they’re going to come from?”
The world shook, catching Marco off-guard. Years of riding the subway had taught him how to adjust for when the ground gave out beneath his feet, and his head whipped around, looking for the next threat.
They came up from the sewers for miles around. They marched in military-straight lines with coordinated footwork to put Riverdance to shame. And they marched. They marched like the Roman days of old, down the alleys and the side streets, as many as five abreast, each line never longer than the width of the street. And they marched onto the cemetery, their lines crossing and merging. When the lines each hit the end opposite from which they came, and they stopped, as one, and turned on their heel in a right turn so perfectly timed that engineers at NASA would marvel.
Their faces were clearly demonic, their teeth straight, their postures erect. They looked like the Teutonic Knights ready for battle against Alexander Nevsky. There had to be at least two thousand of them, fangs bared, all ready to drink blood. Their faces made for nightmares.
More vampires came to Misha. Black tactical vests and hats made them hard to see against the dark of the night. And they wore boots. High-laced, military boots, perfectly waterproof. Treading over the holy water-soaked ground caused no issues.
“Did you think we didn’t remember?” Misha and Asmodeus asked. “You laid in wait for my brother, a trap in this very cemetery. Marco was bait in San Francisco—twice. You can have all the tricks in the world. But you’ve sprung your trap. You’ve shot your bolt. It’s time for my trap.”
Amanda nodded her appreciation.
Kraft did as well. “How Mordor-esque.”
Misha gave him a toothy grin. “Yes, and now we’re going to play a little Helm’s Deep.”
Merle frowned. “Aww, and I wanted to play a little Apocalypse Now.”
Swooping in from under the 59th Street Bridge from upper Manhattan, down the East River, came the two scariest notes outside of O Fortuna—the opening notes to Flight of the Valkyries.
Misha barely heard it at first, but as the notes chewed up airspace, the picture in his mind formed with crystal clarity. His eyes widened in surprise.
It was too late.
The gunship fired its napalm.
The rockets hit the ground with devastating effect, vaporizing rows of vampires in one flash of light apiece. The rocket impacts drew closer to Misha, but he didn’t care. He grabbed a lamp post, bellowing, “Disperse!”
He disappeared into a ball of fire.
The anti-tank Gatling gun mounted on the military gunship quickly picked off the stragglers. Each burst was enough to blow apart a jeep.
As the flames subsided a little, Amanda could see Misha, standing in the glow of the fire as the heat bent around him and his own personal telekinetic shield. The iron pole still in hand, he hefted it and hurled it. The metal rod pierced the helicopter’s bulletproof cockpit glass, through the pilot, his chair, and the roof of the helicopter, damaging the engine. It floated off, the copilot taking control.
Amanda flinched at the helicopter going down. But it disturbed her even more that Misha already had his power back.
But as the napalm burned the ground, she realized why. The flames that scorched the vampires down to their boots also evaporated the holy water.
Misha whirled on them. He laughed as his men from other sections of the cemetery closed in on the trio.
�
�You think you can stop us!” Misha roared. “I have endless resources. I have thousands of my brother’s men!”
Marco winced as the vampires closed in. He focused on his hands, and felt them shift, twist and change into claws. “We always knew Mikhail had nests all over the world. I guess Misha brought them all here, just for us.”
Amanda whispered. “Fight until you die or drop.”
Marco blinked and looked at her. It was a line from one of his favorite songs, March of Cambreadth.
He eyed the ground around him. They seemed to be waiting on the order. The demonic vampire was probably considering whether he wanted to murder the three of them himself or if it was too much trouble for personal indulgence.
“How many of them can kill?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Amanda whispered harshly, but not to Marco.
This time, the vampire army reached back over the hill of Mount Olivet, flooding out into the street. More of them even came over the fence from the houses on the other side.
Marco saw something else, though. A wave of dark green started interweaving throughout the black. There were so many vampires that the ones in black hadn’t noticed. For everyone in black, there was at least one other in green. Marco couldn’t tell if these were two different units, or if there were just so many vampires from all over the world, they just didn’t know each other. After all, it would be impossible, unless there was some sort of FangBook or Flitter, or some sort of social media for vampires.
Misha stepped through the waves of vampires, coming for the three of them.
“I think he’s decided to kill us himself,” Marco said.
Misha waded through the ranks of his men when another vampire stepped in front of him. Misha blinked, confused for a moment. She wasn’t wearing tactical black but tactical green camouflage. She at least had the combat boots. But her head was uncovered, and her gold blonde hair stood out in the barren night. She had two men on either side of her. One was either an Irish cop or an Irish bartender–Misha had met both and could never tell the difference. The other was a taller, slender, Indian chap with a cane. He also wore digital camouflage, but his looked as though it had been supplied by Armani. In the back of Misha’s head, even Asmodeus, who had been a bit of a clothes horse when alive, had never seen such a thing.