A Time to Rise_Second Edition

by Tal Bauer

  “We should be under the Capitoline Hill now.” Lotario looked up, as if he could see the Roman buildings astride the hill above hundreds of feet of earth. The weight of the land above their heads stilled Alain’s breath.

  “The vampire nest should be close.” Alain shifted, reaching for the iron daggers he kept secreted in double sheath holsters at the back of his waistband, beneath his suit jacket. His fingers closed around the hilts, one at a time.

  “Do you sense anything?” Lotario’s pistol chambered in the darkness, silver bullets locked and loaded. It was the only sound in the impenetrable tunnel. Alain’s ears strained for something, anything, beyond their fast breaths and slow footfalls.

  Frowning, Alain pushed past the fear sluicing through his veins. He opened his mouth, tasting the air. It was damp, a cold, dark earth that hung on the back of his tongue. A whiff of death, of rot, and of ancient history. The tunnel they were in had to have been formed in the depths of Rome’s prehistory.

  But there was no dust, no snakeskin or shadow or desert. No electricity arching between his molars.

  “No,” he whispered. “I don’t.”

  He didn’t hear the vampire sliding in front of him, but between one breath and the next, in the light of his headlamp, a fierce face, long fangs cutting down from an angular grin, appeared like a camera flash a hands breadth away from his face. The vampire’s sallow skin shone sickly transparent in his headlamp’s harsh beam.

  Shouting, Alain jerked back. His foot slipped on the edge of the catwalk. His head hit the arched bricks behind him. As he fell, a hand shot out, scratching at his scalp. His headlamp went flying, sailing into the darkness before landing with a crunch as the bulb cracked.

  Alain heard Lotario shout, curse. Heard the sound of glass breaking.

  Lotario’s headlamp winked off.

  Darkness enveloped the tunnel, sealing them in.

  A single gunshot erupted, a brief flash of flame kicking from Lotario’s pistol and lighting up his face. A bloody cut wept from Lotario’s temple.

  Howling erupted all around them, coming from every direction, above, in front of, and behind them. Alain kicked, trying to fight off the vampires. A hand grabbed his ankle, bruisingly tight. He tried to kick again. Tried to swing with his daggers. Fear choked his throat, strangling his breaths as his heart pounded. Not again, not again.

  “Alain!” Lotario shouted. He grunted as if hit by something heavy. Alain heard a body slam against the brick wall. Another gunshot cracked. In the muzzle flash, Alain saw Lotario wrestling with a vampire on his back on the catwalk, one hand pushing the vampire’s neck away, the other trying to aim his pistol at the vampire’s head. Long fangs, milk white, curved like scythes, arched out of the vampire’s mouth.

  Another gunshot. The vampires roared, a cacophony of voices and screams and howls that made Alain’s blood shriek. He scrabbled against the hands holding him down, but the howling rose, roars rising until his ears popped. Blood trickled down his neck.

  He heard a wild snuffling behind him. A scratch, like talons on stone. A single claw shivered down his cheek, breaking the skin and letting his blood run free.

  Rumbling shook the ground around him, the tunnels, the bricks overhead. Dust rained, spraying his face. He heaved, trying to rise, swinging his dagger in a high arch. A clawed hand caught his wrist and twisted.

  He cried out, collapsed, and felt the brick archway around him give way.

  Closing his eyes, Alain tried to curl into a ball, but clawed hands grabbed him, pulled hard, and the last thing he remembered was free-fall and the whistling wind of the sewer whisking over his body as he plunged down into the blackness of the earth.

  * * *

  Scraping—skin over stone and earth—woke Alain.

  He grimaced and he tried to roll away from the pounding in his head.

  A hand gripping his ankle shook him. He jerked. He was being dragged on his back, and the pounding was his head, bouncing off the ground.

  Growls bounced off stone walls. Alain reached out, fingers scratching in damp earth and loose pebbles, searching for a grip, anything to stop the claws and the creature hauling him by his ankle. His hands slipped through loose dirt.

  A warm, sticky wetness plastered one side of his face. Blood, he realized. Blood pouring from his shredded temple and sliced cheek and gashed jaw. Dirt had ground into the cuts, leaving them open and oozing. One shoulder burned, twisted hard from the fight in the tunnels.

  He tried to look around. Green light, putrid and sickly, misted over the stone and earth walls, barely penetrating the pitch-black of the underground cavern. It was just enough light to glimpse the shadowy figure hauling him by his ankle and others hovering around him. Vampires. Made of darkness and twisted by evil until they’d lost every touch of their humanity, the vampires moved without making a sound.

  He couldn’t feel the weight of his weapons. His daggers were gone, the double sheath at the back of his waistband empty. He hadn’t carried his pistols with him that morning. The Holy Water flask he kept in his suit pocket was missing. The silver blade he kept in his ankle sheath was gone as well.

  Just him, then, against a nest of vampires.

  Where was Lotario? He couldn’t hear Lotario’s cursing, the sound of anyone else breathing. Anyone else alive. Had Lotario made it out? Had he fought the vampires off? Or had he been trapped? They’d been so far underground, deep in the ancient regions of the sewers.

  No. He couldn’t be killed by a sewer collapse. Sheer stubbornness would keep Lotario alive, at the very least. He wouldn’t die like that.

  Wherever Lotario was, he wasn’t trapped with Alain. That had to be good. Angelo would find him. He had to. Alain had to believe that. He had to believe Lotario would be all right.

  They were supposed to track the murderer, sneak into the vampire’s nest during daylight when they should be resting. Reconnoiter. Try to understand why their twelve-year-old pact of silence had shattered with the brutal, targeted murder of a lonely alcoholic woman.

  It seemed, he thought, scraping over the stone and dirt as claws dug into his foot, that they had walked into a trap.

  And Alain had been snared.

  Had the vampires been lying in wait for them? Luring them to that tunnel to spring their trap? Where were they taking him? To the nest? It was apparently far deeper underground and more hidden than he or Lotario had thought. Why had the vampires gone so deep down into the earth?

  The green mist crawling along the walls on either side of him skittered away, snaking upward and crawling higher as they entered an underground cavern. Green flame flickered inside recessed slits in the cavern walls, casting the open space in the same grim pall. It was just enough light to know he was in the vampires’ nest. That he was in the heart of their sacred bone cathedral.

  Skulls hung on the walls, lit from within by a dim glow he couldn’t see. Some skulls he recognized as human. Others came from ghouls, revenants, wraiths, and other dark creatures long dead. Still others were monsters and beings he didn’t know and never wanted to meet.

  Death suffused the cavern, a dank rush of sour air filled with the stench of rot and grave dirt. Lightning arced behind his molars. He felt the weight of a hundred pair of eyes staring down at him. Whispers in a language he didn’t know seemed warm as silk as the words caressed his bones.

  Somewhere nearby, Alain heard the trickle of water, a burbling that flowed and tumbled around rocks and lapped at a pebble shore. He frowned, trying to place the sound. Tried to orient himself.

  The vampire dragging him kept going, hauling him into the center of the cavern. A hiss rose around him. The blood weeping on one side of his face chilled against the open air.

  He was in the center of a vampire nest, and bleeding. He swallowed. Gritted his teeth.

  Memories tried to force their way into his mind, scenes and screams and panicked pleas and desperate actions from so long ago. He shook his head, physically pushing the memories away.

 
; The vampire flung him by the ankle as if he weighed nothing. Alain landed hard against packed earth and polished stone, sliding and skidding on his burning shoulder and his bloody face. He closed his eyes, holding his breath as his lungs ached and his ribs burned.

  A ring of burgundy flame rose around him, a perfect circle, trapping him in the center.

  Pain forgotten, Alain pushed to his feet, staring at the flames. Demon Fire in a vampires’ nest? His heart hammered as his eyes darted over the flames. Why would vampires have Demon Fire? Only demons wielded the dark flames. And demons despised vampires. There hadn’t ever been an alliance between the two. Never. Not in all the lore and history Alain knew.

  Just what was in the darkness with him?

  A vampire appeared from the darkness, standing before the ring of aubergine flames. Yellow eyes, like burning sulfur, stared at him from his gaunt face, stretched long and out of proportion, lengthened to grotesque limits. His ears had turned animalistic, curved like a bat’s, and ran along the side of his head. Tangled dreadlocks woven with bells and beads and bits of bone were half tied on top of the vampire’s head.

  “Your heart is racing,” the vampire purred. His voice was dry, dust against parchment, a snake shedding its skin across the Sahara. Alain felt the roll of his words in the marrow of his bones.

  He stayed silent.

  “I can taste your blood from here. It’s filled with your fear.” The vampire opened his mouth, and his fangs glinted in the dark light of the Demon Fire. He breathed in, hissing, rapture spreading over his face. “You will taste exquisite when I drink you dry.”

  A shadow stepped close to the vampire, whispering in his ear. Alain could barely make out the shape of the second vampire, but he saw the glittering heat of the yellow eyes in the blackness, staring at him like he was a starving man denied a feast. Alain wiped sweat-slick hands down his filthy pants. He listened desperately, trying to hear anything in the cavern. The water, again, lapping at a shore, teased the edge of his mind.

  The first vampire stepped to the edge of the Demon Fire. By the way he moved, he was the alpha. But a different alpha than twelve years ago. Alain held his gaze.

  “Who are you?” the alpha asked. “Why does a priest crawl through the sewers?”

  Alain frowned. Were they not expecting them? Was this not a trap? Vampires and hunters had warred throughout the millennia, though not for years in Rome, since the pact. Still, the blatant, daylight murder of a targeted human demanded a response, and an explanation. Why had things changed? Why kill Madelena? Why put an end to their pact of silence that let the vampires feed on the edges of society?

  “You carried silver and iron. Are you a hunter?” The vampire’s long fingers curled.

  Silence.

  “Why would a hunter penetrate our darkness? Why would you enter our solitude? We have done nothing to bring you here. We have a pact, do we not?”

  “After the murder, how could you think we wouldn’t hunt you down?”

  “Murder?” The vampire bared his teeth, a mockery of a smile. “Who has died, little hunter? And why do we care?”

  “The woman in the Campo. Her name was Madelena. You slew her.”

  The alpha stilled, all movement freezing, and for a moment, it seemed like all the air had fled from the cavern, sucked out in a silent rush. “Madelena is dead?” The alpha’s voice could have cut diamond. His sulfuric eyes pierced Alain.

  It was Alain’s turn to still. Did the alpha not know? “Slain by a vampire. By one of yours.”

  “Not by one of mine!” the alpha roared. Snarling, he snapped his fangs, a savage flash of teeth and terror.

  A shout broke the darkness, words barked out in a language Alain didn’t know and couldn’t understand. Still glaring at Alain, the alpha backed away, disappearing into the darkness outside the ring of fire. More ancient words cut the darkness before stillness and silence stole over the cavern once more. Even the Demon Fire flickered silently, giving off waves of frigidity instead of heat. The flames seemed to leach whatever warmth Alain still had inside him away, and the ground around the ring of fire grew colder than ice.

  “Before you die, you will answer our questions.” The alpha spoke again, hidden from sight. His voice seemed to echo, to come from everywhere, above and behind, from left and right, all at once. “Tell us about the hunters in Rome.”

  “Why? What do you want to know?”

  “We’re searching for someone. You will tell us what we need to know.” A hiss followed the words, the alpha scenting the air again. “Hurry. Your blood calls to us.”

  Alain’s gaze darted sideways. He could still hear the water burbling. Maybe twenty feet to his left, deep into the darkness, outside the ring of Demon Fire. He rubbed his hands on his pants again, hiding the way he shifted his body.

  “Answer my question,” he called. “Why did you kill Madelena?”

  “We did not kill the girl,” the alpha spat. “She was one of ours.”

  “She was not a vampire.”

  “She was one of ours. Answer us, hunter. We may take pity on you and gift you with a new life. You can be very useful to us.”

  There were no footsteps, no sounds to indicate the vampires had moved closer, but Alain could still feel their presence, the pull of their darkness on him.

  Now or never.

  Diving to the left, Alain covered his head and rolled through the Demon Fire. Burgundy flames wrapped around him, trying to pull him back, but he pushed on, forcing himself through the ring of fire.

  Ice slammed into him, grasping his heart, freezing it. He screamed through gritted teeth as his whole body spasmed. Lashes opened on his back, the licks of the flames peeling away his skin as he broke free. Blood welled from his torn skin, dripping across the cavern floor.

  Shouts rang out, roars from the vampires. There were so many more than he had thought. Alain crawled forward, scrabbling toward the sound of the water. The river beckoned, a tributary of the Tiber deep underground, lapping against the vampires’ subterranean cavern and their rocky shore.

  He hit the riverbank face first, taking a mouthful of dirt and rocks before he plunged deeper. Water hit his arms, pulling him forward, and he scrambled into the river, plunging into the depths as a clawed hand slashed through his side. He screamed underwater but stayed submerged and let the flow of the river carry him away.

  He stayed down until he thought his lungs would burst, and then for another ten seconds, counting the moments as spots floated in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision. Only then did he kick to the surface, gulping lungfuls of air as he spat and coughed against the swells of the Tiber smacking him in the face.

  An eddy swirled him around. A swell crested over his head. He coughed, tried to clear his eyes, but didn’t see the plank that slammed into the side of his head until he heard the crunch of wood on bone.

  * * *

  Alpha Lycidas stared across the swell of the Tiber, the great river that fed the vampires’ nest.

  Behind him, his lieutenants waited for their orders. The Demon Fire lay banked, subdued by Alpha Lycidas. Lycidas held out his hand, drops of Alain’s blood staining his claws. “Track this hunter,” he growled. “Learn everything about him.”

  His lieutenants nodded.

  Lycidas turned away from the river. “Find Linhart. Bring him to me.” His yellow eyes flashed. “I will unmake his blood, scatter his bones, and banish his soul to nothingness.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Cristoph upended the wine bottle into his plastic cup. Dark Chianti sloshed. How many cups was this? He couldn’t remember.

  He pulled out the bottle of painkillers the clinic had prescribed and shoved two in his mouth, washing both down with the wine before slumping against the low wall circling the rooftop of the Swiss Guard’s enlisted barracks. His crutches lay scattered on the ground beside him. To his right, the dome of St Peter’s stood against the setting sun, burnished in the amber dusk. Rome stretched before him, sprawling history and a
snaking river tangled with tourists and priests and too many cars and scooters. Car horns jockeyed with cathedral bells. Smog choked the air.

  Not even Muller and Zeigler, his supposed friends, had tried to find him over the long hours of the day. When his roommates had returned after their shifts, they’d found him drunk in his barracks, scowling out the window in their shared common room. Silent as they’d changed out of their uniforms, the others had fucked off, leaving him alone with a slam of the door behind them.

  He’d grabbed a fresh bottle of wine and headed for the roof. He knew when he wasn’t wanted. It was a skill he’d acquired, along with an above average sniper rating, superior hand-to-hand combatives, and always being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Cristoph drained the last of the wine and reached for the bottle. He upended it again, but nothing came out. Groaning, he rolled the bottle across the roof, glaring at its uselessness.

  Useless. That’s what he was, too.

  It was a mistake to come here. What had he been thinking? A few quiet nights listening to the shaman down in the darkness of Africa, and he’d decided to run for Rome? Had he really thought this place would hold the answers he needed?

  He’d made bad decisions in his life, terrible, stupid decisions. Trying to start something with Marco, and then with Dimitri. Almost all of his crushes.

  Going to Africa.

  But this… Oh, this had to be the worst bad decision of his life. He’d signed up for the Swiss Guard, enlisted in their ranks, and now he was stuck. Stuck in a place where he was hated and even the people he thought had been in his corner had turned him out, and in the end, wanted nothing to do with him.

  The words of Job came back to him, sliding along memories of heat-soaked jungles and rivers of blood.

  Therefore I will not restrain my mouth;

  I will speak in the anguish of my spirit;