by Graham Brown
Here Akash began to dig into the man’s mind. He saw that there were others of the family in Muscat. Generation upon generation remaining anonymous as they protected the hiding place of the Dark Star.
Tell me! Tell me!
The town of Ibis flashed into the man’s mind. More family members were there. Akash saw a rental place where heavy trucks and four wheel drive vehicles could be rented. He saw a course on the compass on the dashboard of one, saw an oasis which the Watcher had driven to.
“Akash!”
The voice echoed down the length of the ditch. Akash looked up to see Tereza standing there with her sword in hand.
“Time to pay for your treachery,” she yelled.
Akash threw the Watcher aside and pulled out his machete. He and Tereza clashed in the ditch and despite his fury, Tereza quickly got the upper hand. She knocked his weapon from his hand and threw him through the walls of one of the nearby homes like it was paper.
As she rushed in, Akash got her with a forearm to the face and then kicked her through a window. She landed hard and her sword was knocked free. He charged forward, determined to finish her. But she spun his way with long knife in her hand.
It almost decapitated him, but he ducked at the last second and the blade missed the mark. Instead of killing him, it carved the flesh from the left side of his face.
He screamed in agony and sprinted off into the night, clutching his face and blind with the pain.
Chapter 24
Overleek Village,
North of Amsterdam
The light from the setting sun filtered through the broken slats of the old barn. Specks of dust caught in the light glowed as if powered from within.
Naturally, Christian avoided every last photon, but its beauty did not escape him.
From the shelter of the upper level he watched a small figure hike up a dirt path and across a cow pasture to his fortress of solitude, an old church. As he had earlier, Faust entered the church and barred the door. At that point Christian got bored with the show.
Christian needed Faust to leave at night, but he wasn’t about to do that for the same reason he was hiding in a church in the first place. Faust knew there were Nosferatu after him. And he wasn’t interested in seeing them face-to-face.
Little progress, Christian thought, but the surveillance was worthwhile based on something Christian overheard.
He put the binoculars down and descended a wooden ladder to the level below. The car he’d stolen was there along with his passenger. She’d been recovering for three days. At times Christian thought she wouldn’t last the next five minutes, but she was a survivor and she never gave in.
He opened the door to check on her. She was awake for the first time in days.
“What happened?”
“Your ex-partner, Ashley, shot you.”
Kate held her head in her hands as she tried to focus and make sense of where she was. “I was hoping this nightmare was going to be over when I woke up.”
“Be glad you woke up at all,” he said. “Ashley hit you once in the center of your back and once in the right shoulder blade. I took the bullets out and sewed you up, but the damage was done.”
“I don’t understand?” Kate said. “I thought we were bulletproof. Or invisible or something.”
“I am,” he said. “But you’re still part human, so the bullets didn’t pass through you. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. I’ve never seen a Half-Lifer shot before.”
The two stared at each other.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Kate asked.
“I just...”
“You just what?”
“I don’t know what to expect when we finally get you to the angel. Your body took a pounding; it’s pretty bad. We never repair once we’ve changed. You know that. I have burns and scars, like my neck wound. I just don’t know what will happen if the angel turns you back.”
“You mean the wounds might kill me?” she said.
“They might kill us all.”
“What does it matter?” she said. “I’ll never see my family again, even if I do live. With what just happened to Ashley and her team, the FBI isn’t just going to forget that and let me play soccer mom for the rest of my life. You saved me. But I’m just as dead as you. Even if this insanity ends, the only way I’ll see my son is when he visits me in prison.”
Christian recognized the despondence, the blackness enshrouding Kate’s mind. This was an extremely dangerous place for a Half-Lifer to go. He’d felt it many times himself. Most of what she was saying was true, but he couldn’t let her fall into despair.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “You’re doomed.”
She cocked her head at him.
“I’m just being honest,” he said. “There’s no hope for you. No chance. No way at all that it can work out.”
She looked at him harshly. “Clearly you’re not a grief counselor.”
“Not my strong suit.”
“In that case, shut your pie hole,” she said.
He grinned. “That’s more like it. Now listen. One thing long life brings is money. I have it. Lots and lots of it. You’d be shocked what compounding interest can do for you over fifteen hundred years.”
“You have bank accounts?”
“Hundreds of them. For centuries.”
“Where?”
“All over the world. At one time I banked with the Medici and the Rothschilds.”
She laughed for a second and then winced as it sent waves of pain through her. “That’s absurd.”
“If we live,” he continued, “you can have a bunch of it. Go to a country with no extradition. Bribe the hell out of someone. I’m sure you’ve chased enough criminals that bought their way out of prison in your time. Why shouldn’t you be able to do the same?”
She smiled. “I just want my son back. I want to see him smile. He means everything to me.”
He nodded. “Hang onto that thought. It’ll save you.”
“And what saves you?”
He hesitated.
“Come on,” she said. “Fess up.”
He looked away. “I want to feel the sun again. When I was young I worked in the fields planting crops. I used to work till the late afternoon and then jump in the river to clean off and then climb out and dry in the sun. I want to feel that again.”
She stared at him and then reached up and kissed him. Pressing her lips to his and pulling him close. He kissed her back once, but only because he knew what she wanted.
“Do you feel that?” she asked.
He could feel it. Somehow, perhaps because she was still in the Half-Life or because he turned her, he could feel the passion flowing through her to him. But he hesitated.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have…”
“No,” he said. “Don’t be.”
“I’ve lived without passion for long enough,” she said. “I just thought we could share some, before the feeling dies.”
“I want to feel passion again, too,” he said. “But there’s…”
She sat up taller. “What?”
“It’s just…”
“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re holding a candle for someone. Who is she? Is she alive? Is she a vampire?”
He held up a hand. “Stop.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, persistent questioning is my business. Now who is it? Who are you saving yourself for Christian Hannover?”
“Her name is Elsa,” he said. “She’s waiting for me on the other side. At least I’d like to believe that.”
Kate smiled. “That’s so romantic I could punch you in the face.”
“Don’t,” he said. “You’ll pull your stiches out.”
“You really think you’ll see her again?”
“Maybe,” he said. “If we can finish this and I can die as a human. Then maybe. I hope so anyway.”
“Pretend I’m her,” Kate said. “And kiss me one more time.”
> He leaned forward and held her face and kissed her softly and for a long moment it almost seemed like he was human again. And then they parted.
“Yeah, I’d wait for that,” she said, grinning.
He smiled. “Back to work,” he said. “Faust is about to make a move; he’s heading into Amsterdam and we need to follow him.”
Kate’s eyes lit up. “We found him? You mean we’re not just hiding out?”
“No,” he said. “We’re multi-tasking. We’re camped outside his sanctuary. He’s found himself an old church. But he’s tired of being cooped up. He’s been hiding here for weeks. Later today, he’s going to see a friend at the new Van Gogh exhibit at the art museum in Amsterdam.”
She glanced out through the gap into the pasture beyond, studying the distance. “You can read all that in his mind from this far away?”
Christian laughed. “No,” he said, pulling a hi-tech scanner from his pocket. “But I can listen to his phone calls on this.”
“You’d have made a good FBI agent,” she said. “Bullet proof, mind reader, with no need for sleep. I’m thinking if this angel thing doesn’t work out, maybe you can change the whole bureau into vampires. We could put a stop to crime in all fifty states.”
“Except for the ones we’d cause ourselves.”
“There’s always a catch,” she said, then added. “You know, back when I was still an agent I met your friend, Drake, once. We thought Vivian Dasher was our number one suspect in the Boston murders and went to find her. He ran interference for her. I felt something was off that day with that man; in fact, I knew something was wrong.”
“Well if you ever see Drake again, you run.”
“Why? You don’t think I can handle myself.”
“He’s the King of the Undead. His abilities are extremely powerful, and he is highly intelligent with a psychopathic personality. He likes to inflict pain and, more so, he loves to deceive and distort others’ thoughts and reality. No need for you to ever interact with him. Our goal is to find the angel and get you back to your son. Period. So if you meet Drake again, you run and keep running.”
A strange look came over her face as if she didn’t quite believe him, but she nodded. “I got it. Run.”
Chapter 25
Central Amsterdam,
Museum of Art
Dr. Faust and his longtime friend, Hans Daimler, slowly toured the museum with glasses of red wine in hand. Faust could not describe the relief he felt at being out of the small church, though he knew he’d be back there by nightfall.
With this sense of fleeting freedom on his mind, Faust strolled through the Van Gogh exhibit, it was comprised mostly of his early works. Daimler spoke about each piece, but it wasn’t the artwork that Faust was interested in as much as the knowledge that his friend was reiterating about the life and death of the master painter. Besides, the more his friend spoke, the more Faust could drink and the longer the tour went. Soon he’d forgotten all about the demons and the danger and the time of day.
“…and unfortunately Van Gogh was misunderstood,” Daimler continued. “Trouble followed him wherever he went. After some years, the citizens of Arles signed a petition saying that Van Gogh was a dangerous man and he was forced to leave.”
“He had some kind of mental illness,” Faust said. “Didn’t he?”
Daimler nodded. “No one’s quite certain of the diagnosis, but even Van Gogh seemed to know something was wrong. He moved to an asylum in Provence. In May of that year he began painting in the hospital garden. The next year he was invited to exhibit his art in Brussels. He sent six paintings including ‘Irises’ and ‘Starry Night’ to the exhibit. Can you imagine seeing all those paintings in one showing?”
“I can hardly think of it,” Faust admitted. “They probably rode together in the back of some carriage, handled by the most regular of people, placed and delivered for a pittance.”
“Little did they know,” Daimler said, “that angels were rubbing shoulders with the common folk.”
Faust paused, taken aback by the statement. “Yes. Of course.”
“Shortly thereafter, Van Gogh traveled to Auvers. He did less well there, I’m afraid, and soon became distraught. It seems he thought his brother, Theo—who had been his most stalwart guardian—had grown tired of helping him sell his paintings.”
Faust took another sip of wine. “He shot himself, didn’t he?”
Daimler nodded. “On July 27, 1890, Van Gogh went off to paint, but he took a loaded pistol with him. He shot himself in the chest, but the bullet did not kill him. Theo arrived and tried to nurse him back to health and for two days they talked, brother to brother. Man to man.”
“What did they talk about?”
“Van Gogh, wanted Theo to take him home,” Daimler said. “He didn’t want money or an apology or anything at all; he just wanted to go home. Two days later he died in his brother’s arms. He was only 37.”
“So young.”
The sound of clapping arose from somewhere behind them. It was slow and almost mocking in its tone. “An excellent story,” a voice announced.
Both Faust and Daimler turned. A group of men stood on the far side of the exhibit room. They were well dressed and wearing long black overcoats. Funny, Dr. Faust thought, since it was summer. Even in Amsterdam, no one needed a long coat at this time of year.
The tallest of them stepped forward, his boots clomping on the floor like wooden blocks.
At the sight of him, Faust dropped the glass of wine from his hand. It fell as if in slow motion and shattered against the marble floor, the red wine spilling out in all directions like blood from a terrible wound.
Faust went weak in the knees and had to put a hand to the wall to keep himself up.
“Morgan?” Daimler cried out, grasping at his friend.
“Let him fall,” the tall man suggested. “He knows what’s about to occur. It’s not fair to ask him to stand against it.”
“Who are you?” Daimler said. “What are you talking about? And how the hell did you get in here? The museum is closed except for private guests.”
“How the hell indeed,” the man said.
“Don’t…” Faust managed, shaking and pawing at his friend, “…don’t antagonize him.”
Daimler looked confused but acted quickly, lunging for the emergency alarm button.
The tall figure shot forward, grabbed Daimler by the collar and flung him back, slamming him to the ground in what appeared like the blink of an eye. “That won’t be necessary, Herr Daimler,” the tall man said. “Dr. Faust and I are old friends.”
Faust wanted to run, but couldn’t move. His legs were jelly. His heart pounding uncontrollably, he wanted to tell Daimler to run, to tell him the truth, but who would believe it?
“Now…” the tall man said, lifting Daimler back up and shoving him against the wall with Faust. “I’d like to thank you for that wonderful history lesson. However, like most of the history told and retold on this planet, the truth has been lost with time, replaced by fiction, and then myth. The ending of your glorified tale about Mr. Van Gogh is incorrect. On that fateful day in July, I remember it was hot and the breeze was from the southwest. Mr. Van Gogh was painting in the fields that morning, but he didn’t shoot himself.
“The truth is that some children in the town knew him and how different he was. They knew of his mental illness, his strangeness, and his proclivity for talking to himself. They teased him relentlessly, but for some reason, Van Gogh not only put up with them, he seemed to take a liking to them. Perhaps they were his only friends—how pathetic. At any rate, on that fateful day, the boldest of these young men took Van Gogh’s pistol and while showing off to his girlfriend—waving it around in the air like a fool—he shot Van Gogh in the chest.”
Drake paused before finishing. “Van Gogh’s death was no suicide. He was murdered by those who couldn’t accept what is different. The great irony of story is that he didn’t tell anyone because he didn’t want the chi
ldren to have their lives ruined. A very selfless final act, wouldn’t you say, Dr. Faust?”
“Angels,” Faust said, repeating what Daimler had said. “Rubbing shoulders with the common man.”
“Fools,” the tall man replied. “Dead ones at that.”
By now Daimler seemed to be getting his wits together. “Morgan, what is this man taking about? What does he mean, he remembers that day?
“I’m sorry,” Faust said. “I shouldn’t have come. I thought that in the day I would be safe. But I stayed too long. I’m so sorry.”
“Safe from what?”
Faust trembled with fear. “From the King of the Nosferatu,” he said, nodding towards the tall man. “Or as he’s called by the Church, Drakos.”
“What on Earth are you talking about?” Daimler said. Confused or not, Daimler had had enough. “That’s it. I’m getting security.”
Daimler went for the alarm button again. This time Drake cocked his head and instantly reached into Daimler’s mind. The torment was fast and painful, and before he’d taken another step, Daimler crumbled to the ground and began screaming.
Dr. Faust tried to aid his friend, stepping in front of Drake and holding up his crucifix.
Drake reacted as if he’d been blinded. He covered his eyes and buckled back in pain. But one of the Drones ran forward and snatched the crucifix from Faust, crushing the small medallion in his hands, and tossing it to the floor. As the Drone stepped back, smoke poured from his palm.
Drake straightened up, regaining his strength. He looked at the Drone. “You shall be made a Prince in my new world for your actions.”
Drake looked back at Dr. Faust still standing foolishly in front of Daimler as if he could do anything to stop Drake or the Drones at this point.
“Please,” Faust said. “I beg of you. Don’t harm Hans. He has nothing to do with this. I will help. I will go with you willingly.”
“Of course you will,” Drake said. But he didn’t stop. And within seconds Daimler was screaming in torment again and then foaming at the mouth, his body in full convolutions.
When Drake was satisfied, he released the man and turned to Faust. “You understand, that if you do not help me I will force you to. And furthermore that I’ll harm you and then hunt down all that is precious to you in this world if you try to deceive me.”