“Acalan,” said Kwetz. “His name was Acalan. The last time I saw him, he was dying from the same sickness that had struck me down. A band of warriors who had been away during my coronation arrived at the gates of White City. Acalan ordered them to stay back, since we were all infected. He charged them with the sacred duty of keeping my memory alive.”
“Who taught you the Vambir language?” asked Boris.
“My father,” he said.
“Not your mother?” asked Boris.
“I never knew my mother,” said Kwetz. “She was imprisoned on my father’s orders when I was a baby.”
“Did your father tell you about Vambiri?” asked Kevak. “Did he mention what name he went by on our home world? Were you originally given a Vambir name?”
“He taught me the ancient language of the gods’ home world, Vambiri. He called me Kwetz, and I called him Mix,” he said.
“Do you still wish to be called Kwetz?” asked Kevak.
“It is all I have ever known,” said Kwetz.
“Very well, Kwetz,” said Kevak, “did Mix ever mention the red nectar of a plant from our home world? It was called ‘hemo-nectar.’”
“Acalan used that word,” said Kwetz. “He said my mother had a dwindling supply of it and preferred to starve rather than accept blood. Her vanity nearly killed us.”
“It wasn’t vanity,” explained Kevak. “Your mother was right to reject blood. It is highly addictive, and the contagion that took over your system is only in remission now because hemo-nectar has been reintroduced. You can never partake of blood again. The infection will return if you do. While you are in your Vambir state, the contagion is dormant.”
“Kwetz, do you know what happened to Mix?” asked Boris.
“He was driven out by Acalan and the other priests,” answered Kwetz. “Where is my mother?”
“She is recovering,” said Kevak. “Acalan did an extraordinary job with his efforts to use pod technology to save her, but her sarcophagus was not supplied with adequate power to keep her in healthy stasis. She was barely clinging to life when we found you both. Hemo-nectar has been reintroduced into her system as well, but she won’t be strong enough to be revived for a long time.”
As Kevak spoke, Kwetz was momentarily distracted but quickly regained his composure. Someone had used their finger to draw a circle containing a small dot on the window of the isolation lab. He had seen it when light reflected off the smudged surface.
The sacred Venus symbol! There is a Traveler here!
*******
“What’s to be done with him once he recovers?” asked Emanui.
“He is a unique case,” said Kevak.
“He partook of human blood, just like the Newlunders,” said Tariq.
“Newlunders made a conscious choice as adults to do so,” said J’Vor. “Kwetz was given blood as an infant and has never known anything else.”
“He also has no conception of consequences,” said Emanui. “He was spoiled by the priests and never had to hunt for himself.”
“He doesn’t appear petulant,” said Kevak, “but I understand that we can’t have him at liberty. Has he recovered enough to have the cerebral implant?”
“Does he even need one?” asked Boris. “If he ingests blood again, the contagion in his system will be reactivated.”
Kevak sighed. “We don’t know how long that would take. He could kill for months before the disease finishes him off.”
“Are we going to tell him everything?” asked Boris.
“We owe him that,” said Kevak.
“I assume both mother and son are bound for Newlun,” said Tariq.
“Eventually,” said Kevak. “They would draw strength from a community of their own kind, but they must be thoroughly debriefed first. From all indications, the mother wanted nothing to do with blood ingestion. She would be a positive influence over Kwetz once she is restored to health.”
“But the mother might not recover for years!” exclaimed Boris. “I don’t trust Kwetz being in close proximity to Vambir technology. He knew enough about it to teach it to the Aztec priests, and he may know far more than he is revealing to us.”
“You’re right,” said Kevak. “We will transport him to Newlun, and his mother will follow once she has recovered. But before Kwetz leaves, it is imperative to find out all he knows about this ‘Mix.’”
*******
“It’s been three weeks!” exclaimed Maz. “When can I see him?”
“You have to understand, Dr. Pocatello,” said Tariq, “that he was addicted to blood and must learn how to put aside the cravings. Your presence would tempt him, as he would immediately recognize that you are a Native American, from your unique 9-repeat variant, and that might induce feeding memories. If he ingests blood again, the contagion will return.”
“Could I not wave to him through the window of the isolation lab?” she asked. “Generations of Travelers devoted their lives to saving him.”
Tariq had hoped Kevak would order the troublesome woman to be returned to her people as soon as she had recovered from the snakebite. It had been prudent to keep her near in the first weeks of Kwetz’s hemo-treatment in case it failed, but it was clear now that her native blood would only serve as a deadly temptation to him.
Maz saw Kevak approaching and looked imploringly into his eyes.
“Escort her to the window so she may say her goodbyes,” said Kevak to Tariq. “You will be returned to your home soon,” he said to Maz. “Kwetz will never take on human form again. For this reason, he must remain in isolation from human society. Find solace in the knowledge that your sacred mission was accomplished.”
Maz smiled, masking her contempt for Kevak. Although he possessed the same divine form as the ancient gods, he had turned his back on everything the Aztecs had held sacred and had chosen to worship the Spanish invaders’ god. As she stepped up to the window of the laboratory, she watched as her Aztec god lifted his head and acknowledged her.
Kwetz instantly recognized from her features that she must be the Traveler who had drawn the sacred symbol.
“Greetings, faithful servant,” he called out to her in the Náhuatl language.
“Mocayahua,” she responded, smiling broadly, “Quetzalcoatl quizaz.”
“Ticmictia eztica,” said Kwetz. “Ohontetl, ohontetl, macuil, chicuei, eei.”
“Go in peace, blessed descendant of White City,” he added in Vambir, for the benefit of Tariq’s ears.
As Tariq escorted Maz back to her cell, he was pleasantly surprised that she seemed satisfied with such a short meeting.
THE MAD MONK
Russia, 1916
As Dujot made his way to Yusupovsky Palace, he relished how the extended nobility had gone out of their way to cultivate his favor. He knew they despised him, believing him to be a low-born peasant, but the Tsarina was completely devoted to him and would hear nothing against him. It had been an easy matter to diagnose what was wrong with the Tsarina’s son, Alexi. The boy suffered from hemophilia, unknown to doctors at the time, and the quacks had given him Aspirin, the latest medical “breakthrough,” in an attempt to cure him. What the fools did not realize was that Aspirin, a blood thinner, only worsened Alexi’s condition. As soon as Dujot had examined him, he told the Tsarina that God had informed him that the boy’s medicine was killing him. Once the Aspirin treatment ended, Alexi rallied, and Dujot became indispensable to the Tsarina.
For six years, Dujot had tried to convince the Tsarina to send Alexi to his salon for private treatment, but security officials had convinced the Tsar that it was out of the question. Dujot could not press the matter, because it should have made no difference where the boy was treated as long as the monk brought any necessary medication with him. If he could only get Alexi into the stasis pod, it would cure his ailment, and his position of favor would be unassailable.
Once again, Dujot had chosen to blend in among humans as a holy man. Once again, he had bewitched a first lady of the rea
lm with his mysticism and unkempt appearance. The jealous courtiers could never figure out what the attraction was, but Dujot knew. The luxurious lifestyle royal women enjoyed came with intense social restrictions. Many attempted to escape the stifling boredom by throwing themselves into religion, and his reputation as a holy man had brought him into their inner circle. His eccentric and even scandalous behavior secretly excited them. The confidence he exuded in spite of his low birth and manners only served to impress them, since they were used to being pursued by gentlemen who constantly paid them vacuous compliments.
His murder spree in Whitechapel nearly thirty years earlier had been his only departure from his modus operandi. During that turbulent period he had been happy to live in squalor in order to kill for nothing other than the sake of it. Instead of being forgotten to history, the unsolved murders gained more attention as new articles published by amateur sleuths and pseudo-intellectuals attempted to identify the killer. The competing theories suggested a butcher, a doctor, an escapee from a mental institution, a Jewish immigrant, and even a member of the British royal family. Dujot snickered whenever a new story surfaced. He alone knew the truth, and since the truth was far beyond the comprehension of early twentieth century humans, it was guaranteed to remain a secret.
He had learned from his experience as Friar Alonso that his avoidance of food and daylight had all too quickly drawn the attention of those who sought to bring him down. Recently, he had used the stasis pod to medically alter himself by constructing a second esophagus that carried food and drink to a silicon-lined chamber, preventing absorption into his system. He merely needed to evacuate the contents when he returned home from a night of revelry.
As for the matter of making daylight appearances, the amount of power required from the stasis pod to emit a protective solar shield was excessive, and he had used it just enough to quell any whispers about him being a creature of the night. But even that had its risks; when the solar shield was activated, mirrors could not capture his reflection.
The man who was attempting to curry favor with him this evening, Prince Felix Yusupov, was a flamboyant fop who had a penchant for cross-dressing in his youth. Dujot resented the fact that the aristocracy overlooked that kind of behavior by one of their own.
Dr. Lazaret, one of the precious few in the medical community that did not treat Dujot as if he were a charlatan, had made the introductions on behalf of Prince Felix. Apparently Felix’s wife, Irina, was wasting away from a mysterious disease, and Dujot saw a fresh opportunity to bind another royal couple to him after he “cured” her.
“Ah, Grigori,” said Dr. Lazaret to Dujot, “thank you for coming. Allow me to present his royal highness, Prince Felix.”
Dujot looked over the dandy with his piercing gray eyes. His acute Vambir senses detected elevated heart rates in both men, but that was a common effect he had on people, and he thought nothing of it.
“The Princess Irina is entertaining guests who will be departing soon,” said Felix. “I have organized some refreshments in the downstairs dining room, where you can rest until they leave. Dr. Lazaret will come and fetch us when the princess is ready to receive you.”
As Dujot descended the stairs, he detected the life signs of two other individuals nearby. The heartrates of both Prince Felix and Dr. Lazaret were still highly elevated, and he became wary. The “dining room” was nothing more than a damp basement with a table and chairs haphazardly assembled for the occasion. At the center of the ornate tablecloth, a plate was overflowing with cakes and pastries.
Immediately, he detected the scent of poison.
Cyanide!
“This is a fine vintage from Crimea,” said Felix as he poured a large glass of wine and offered it to him.
“Your hand is shaking,” said Dujot without accepting the glass.
“I am most anxious about my poor Irina,” replied Felix, who began to perspire heavily. “Won’t you try one of the sweets?”
“I don’t like sweets,” grunted Dujot.
“But I have heard that you like wine very much,” said Felix with a nervous laugh.
“Alas, I am observing a period of fasting,” said Dujot.
Several seconds of awkward silence followed. Dujot knew he had walked into a trap and prepared to go into berserker mode.
“I will see if I can speed up the departure of Irina’s guests,” said Felix as he made a hasty retreat.
*******
“That animal is not eating or drinking!” cried Felix to his co-conspirators, Vladimir Purishkevich and the Great Duke Dimitri Romanov, who were hiding in the music room.
“Not drinking?” asked Vladimir. “That’s a first.”
“Get back down there,” ordered Dimitri. “He’ll grow suspicious if you leave him alone too long.”
“How am I to pass the time?” demanded Felix. “It’s impossible to have a polite discussion with that low-life.”
“Here,” said Vladimir, picking up Felix’s guitar from its ornate stand. “Sing to him. He loves Roma music, which consists of three chords. You should be able to manage that.”
“You could always perform in one of Irina’s gowns,” laughed Dimitri.
Felix glowered at him, but the dictates of protocol prevented him from calling Dimitri out on his insult. When he returned to the dining room, Dujot was sniffing the opened bottle of wine.
“Women!” cried Felix with a shrug. “They are still nattering on about inconsequential things! I thought we could pass the time with some music. Won’t you reconsider breaking your holy fast? I need you to be strong for my Irina.”
“Very well,” said Dujot as he drank the entire glass of wine Felix had initially offered him. The contents flowed harmlessly into his fake stomach.
For two torturous hours it continued. Felix played the guitar and sang while Dujot silently partook of the tainted sweets and wine. With each bite, Felix’s heart skipped a beat, yet the great lump of a man showed no signs of being affected by the poison.
Dujot calmly considered his options as he listened to Felix’s feeble attempt at singing. If there were more soldiers concealed in the palace, he would be no match for their rifles, even in berserker mode. It had been a little thing to overcome vast numbers of humans centuries before when their weapons consisted of mere swords and axes.
“This time I promise I will get rid of Irina’s guests,” said Felix as he exited the basement again.
When he returned to his co-conspirators, he was shaken and pale. “He ate and drank every poisonous morsel and nothing has happened!” he whined.
“Give it more time,” said Dimitri.
Nerves got the better of Felix, and he decided to end it. Snatching a revolver, he returned to the basement and found the monk staring at an ornate cross. Without hesitating, Felix shot him in the back, and Dujot fell to the floor.
Upon hearing the gunshot, the other conspirators rushed down and saw Dujot’s seemingly lifeless body with Felix standing over him.
“The blood is seeping into the bear rug!” exclaimed Felix. “Help me move him so he won’t stain it!”
“He’s still breathing!” cried Vladimir as Dujot’s body convulsed then suddenly fell still.
“Death throes,” said Dr. Lazaret.
The conspirators watched him closely for several minutes until they were satisfied that Dr. Lazaret was correct.
“Come,” said Felix, “let us go upstairs and celebrate and wait until the early morning hours to dispose of the carcass.”
*******
An hour later, Felix could not resist the temptation to have another look at the body. As he poked at it, he was surprised that it still felt warm. Placing both hands on the monk’s shoulders, Felix violently shook him. There was no reaction. Breathing a sigh of relief, Felix started to turn away to go back upstairs, but something made him abruptly stop. One of Dujot’s eyes started to flutter open. Before Felix could scream for help, Dujot sprang to his feet and grabbed him around the shoulders and neck, but
Felix managed to struggle free and rushed upstairs.
“He’s still alive!” he shouted.
By the time the others made their way downstairs, Dujot had escaped and was running across the courtyard.
“Felix!” Dujot roared. “I’ll tell everything to the Tsarina!”
Vladimir chased after him, firing his revolver, but kept missing. As Dujot staggered through the courtyard, he turned his head to see where Vladimir was. Willing himself into berserker mode, he faced forward in preparation for a burst of speed but collapsed as another bullet found its mark in the center of his forehead. As his vision began to fade, he saw a new attacker emerge from the shadows just long enough to ensure that the bullet had found its target. Dujot’s last thought before falling into unconsciousness was sheer disbelief with the identity of the attacker.
Brother Albinus!
*******
On the outskirts of St. Petersburg, Cadmael and Eadrich knelt before Albinus and received his blessing.
“You have served the Lord admirably,” said Albinus as he made the sign of the cross on each of their foreheads, “but the time of parting is upon us. Stand back now, lest you be harmed by the flames.”
Eadrich began to weep.
“Do not be sad, Eadrich,” he said. “I will shortly be face to face with my savior.”
Albinus turned away from them and walked toward the lightening horizon. The bitter cold suddenly gave way to an enveloping warmth.
“It is accomplished!” he cried, standing still with outstretched arms. “It is accomplished!”
For a brief moment, Albinus took on the shape of a flaming crucifix, and then he was gone.
LURE
Newlun, 1948
“Proximity alert!” exclaimed Gyran.
“Get Senfo down here at once,” ordered Johep.
The Nosferatu Chronicles: The Aztec God Page 17