02 - Blood Enemy

by Greg Cox

  Her fingers gripped the raised metal V, and she tried to rotate a circular segment of the disk, about ten inches in diameter. Untouched for precisely two centuries, the ancient hatch resisted her at first, but Sonja exerted her pureblood strength, and the miniature disk turned beneath her grasp, setting in motion a concealed clockwork mechanism. The intricate designs adorning the hatch shifted position as Sonja heard the muted rumble of long-dormant machinery awakening from slumber. The entire bronze disk sank into the floor, then split apart into four triangular segments that retracted from sight, exposing the top of the stone sarcophagus below. Another V, illuminated in lapis lazuli, identified the upright coffin as her father’s.

  The ponderous sound of stone sliding across stone resounded within the crypt. Propelled by hidden counterweights, the vertical sarcophagus rose from the floor like the Devil ascending from beneath the stage of a traveling mystery play. The coffin thrust upward until it towered above Sonja like a pagan monolith. She waited for it to come to a halt, then stepped forward and released a catch concealed in the sarcophagus’ elaborately carved exterior. The coffin slowly pivoted on its axis, then snapped into place horizontal to the floor.

  A supine figure was laid out within the sarcophagus, held in place by embossed metal bars. Sonja stepped toward the bier, then placed a hand over her mouth. Although she had been cautioned about what to expect, she still had to hold back a gasp at what she beheld.

  After two hundred years of hibernation, her father bore scant resemblance to the regal monarch she recalled. The skeletal figure within the coffin looked more like an ancient Egyptian mummy than a vampire: dry, withered, and seemingly lifeless. Sere gray skin was stretched over his bony frame like age-old parchment. The bones of his rib cage jutted beneath his skin like the flying buttresses of an abandoned cathedral long since fallen into ruin.

  Her father’s pate was as bald as the skull his emaciated visage so resembled. Closed eyes rested at the bottom of sunken black sockets, while his desiccated lips had peeled away from his gums, revealing jagged fangs locked in a corpselike grimace.

  A gilded pendant, akin to her own, rested on his still and silent chest. A jeweled belt and black satin leggings spared her the sight of his shriveled manhood.

  Oh, Father! she lamented silently. What has become of you?

  No sign of life, not a single breath or heartbeat, hinted that her sire yet lived. Any mortal observer would have readily believed her father’s body to be long dead. Even Sonja, knowing better, found it hard to accept that the horrid corpse before her would soon be walking among them once more.

  “Well done, child,” Marcus said softly. “You may prepare for the transference.”

  A polished metal rod, containing a hollow glass ampule at its center, stretched across the top of the open sarcophagus. Sonja guided the rod along a built-in track until the empty ampule was positioned directly above her father’s mouth. Then she stepped aside to allow Marcus to approach the bier.

  “Now let the sacred rite proceed,” he declared. Drawing a golden dagger from his belt, he extended his left arm and drew the tip of the blade across his wrist. A streak of crimson blossomed on Marcus’ pale skin.

  An audible gasp broke from the audience as the tangy scent of an Elder’s blood filled the air. Nicolae licked his lips, and even Sonja’s mouth watered as she lusted for a taste of the potent nectar.

  Ignoring the crowd’s visceral reaction, Marcus held his bleeding wrist above a series of shallow silver bowls embedded in the edge of the sarcophagus. Scarlet droplets fell into the first of the concave receptacles, beginning a gradual procession from bowl to bowl, where the spilled blood mixed with arcane catalytic residues to undergo a sublime alchemical transformation before flowing through the metal rod into the ampule above Viktor’s petrified jaws. Slowly, meticulously, Marcus’ blood dripped from the cavity into Viktor’s mouth.

  “My blood to thee, my thoughts to thee,” Marcus chanted. “Partake of my memories, Viktor of Moldavia, and those of Amelia before me, so that the Chain shall not be broken.”

  Sonja held her breath in awe. Only an Elder possessed the knowledge and concentration to accomplish what Marcus was now doing: transferring a complete and coherent record of the last two centuries into her father’s quiescent consciousness, so that Viktor would awaken with full knowledge of all that had taken place while he slumbered. Not only Marcus’ memories but also Amelia’s, passed on to Marcus at his own Awakening one hundred years prior, were being transmitted to Viktor by the absorption of Marcus’ immortal blood.

  The scarlet teardrops elicited an immediate response from the apparent corpse. Viktor’s eyelids flickered as the blood trickled down his throat. A rattle escaped his withered lungs. Drawing away from the catalyst drip, Marcus placed his fingertips against Viktor’s throat. He nodded with satisfaction as he detected the faint pulse therein.

  “The Elder awakes!” Marcus announced. A few stray drops of blood fell onto Viktor’s skin before Marcus’ sliced wrist healed itself. Minute patches of healthy pink skin appeared wherever the scarlet droplets touched Viktor’s epidermis. “The Chain endures!”

  A full-throated cheer arose from the assembled vampires, albeit with a half-hearted huzzah from Nicolae. Sonja’s throat tightened with emotion. She wiped a blood-red tear from her eye.

  Her beloved father was not yet himself, of course, but Sonja knew that he would recover quickly, given sufficient time and blood. The latter was already waiting for him in the private infirmary at the rear of the crypt. By this time tomorrow, he would once more be the proud and majestic father of her memories.

  “Many thanks for attending this hallowed event,” Marcus informed the audience, “but now Viktor requires his privacy. You may all return to your various duties and diversions.”

  One by one, the Council members and their associates filed out of the crypt. Nicolae exited the chamber with unseemly haste, but the rest took their leave in a measured and dignified manner. Only Sonja lingered behind, to further assist Marcus with her father’s restoration. Marcus waited until the last of the attendees had departed before beckoning to Sonja.

  “So much for pomp and ceremony,” he remarked. “Let us now see to your noble father’s recovery.”

  The infirmary was hidden behind a pair of thick oak doors directly opposite the front entrance of the crypt. While Sonja hurried to draw open the doors, Marcus slid the massive sarcophagus upon a set of tracks laid into the tiled floor. Within minutes, the bier rested at the threshold of the infirmary, between two colossal stone pillars.

  A Roman-style bath waited within the infirmary, the rectangular marble pool filled to the halfway point by a tremendous quantity of steaming red blood. A brace of healthy bulls had been sacrificed to replenish the bath, while a furnace beneath the tub kept its sanguinary contents as warm as though freshly spilled. An ingenious potion, extracted from the maws of leeches, prevented the crimson pool from coagulating.

  The aroma of so much fresh blood was intoxicating. Sonja tried to imagine what it would be like to bathe in such a tub; her skin tingled beneath her gown. It was said that Amelia herself sometimes indulged in such luxurious ablutions in order to enhance her beauty.

  The sarcophagus slid on its tracks into the bath, so that Viktor’s body lay half submerged within the gore. His thirsty body absorbed the crimson fluid like a sponge, drawing new life from the abundant blood. Brilliant blue eyes snapped open, looking out at the world for the first time in two centuries. A hoarse whisper issued from his throat.

  “Ilona… dead?”

  Sonja fought back a sob. Marcus’ blood had indeed conveyed the hideous truth to her father.

  “Yes, my friend,” Marcus said, leaning over the submerged bier. “I fear it is so.”

  The Elder turned toward Sonja, who stood nervously at the foot of the blood bath. “Leave us now, child. Your father and I have much to discuss.”

  Sonja paced back and forth within the frigid crypt. She gazed at the sealed doo
rs of the infirmary, waiting for Marcus to emerge. Although anxious to converse with her father once more, she was apprehensive as well. Who knew how he was going to react to her mother’s death? As far as she knew, they had been devoted to each other for almost six hundred years.

  May fate grant that I someday know a love such as theirs, she thought wistfully. Beneath her feet, a bronze disk sealed her father’s now-empty tomb. Sonja found herself alone in the silent crypt, save for the sleeping form of Amelia, still residing undisturbed beneath her bronze marker. The lonely sepulcher instilled a sort of melancholy in her, and she wished that Lucian were there to keep her company. Was this how my mother felt, she wondered, whenever Father spent two centuries within his tomb?

  At last, the oak doors swung open, and Marcus exited the infirmary. “Your father will see you now,” he informed her, heading for the arched doorway at the opposite end of the crypt. “I will leave you to your reunion, while I go to prepare for my own internment.”

  By tradition, Marcus’ burial would take place the next night, after Viktor had a full day in which to recover his strength. During that time, Marcus would remain sequestered in his chambers unless an emergency arose, so as to provide for an orderly transition of power as laid out in the Covenant.

  “Farewell, my lord,” Sonja said dutifully. “May your meditations be fruitful.”

  Sonja watched the ageless Elder depart, then hurried toward the door to the infirmary. “Father?” she called out. “It is I, Sonja.”

  “Enter, daughter,” a raspy voice croaked from the chamber beyond. Although rough from disuse, the voice was unmistakably her father’s. “My thirsty eyes long to look upon your face once more.”

  Stepping inside, Sonja found her father seated on a marble throne at the opposite end of the pool of blood. His feet were still immersed in the crimson waters, like the roots of a mighty tree drawing strength from moist earth.

  Although he remained as gray and wizened as a corpse, he had already regained much of his vitality. Azure eyes, alert and penetrating, stared out from sunken sockets. Strength and authority radiated from his commanding presence. Sonja detected no trace of infirmity in his manner, aside from his grotesque appearance.

  “Greetings, Father,” she said. “How fares your recovery?”

  Viktor dismissed his emaciated state with a wave of his hand. “My vigor returns forthwith.” He gazed at her, and a gentle smile softened his fearsome visage. “Ah, my beautiful Sonja… look at you! When I last went into the earth, you were but a mere slip of a girl. Now I find you transformed into a fetching young woman!”

  His loving words brought joy to her heart, and she hurried around the edge of the blood bath to kneel beside his throne. She clasped her hand over his own skeletal claw. “Oh, Father!” she exclaimed. “I have missed you so!”

  “You and your dear mother were ever in my dreams,” he assured her. He stroked her flaxen hair with his free hand and looked down at her with great affection. “Imagine my dismay to discover what dreadful fate had befallen my beloved wife.” He gnashed his fangs in frustration. “If only I had been there to defend you both from that mortal rabble, not buried impotently beneath the earth when you needed me most!”

  “Please, sire, do not torment yourself thus!” Sonja pleaded. “Who could have guessed what fate had in store for us?” Tearful eyes beseeched him. “Voice your grief as you surely must, but I beg of you, do not blame yourself for events no civilized being could have ever foreseen. We were taken unaware at dawn; there was naught you could have done!”

  “We are not all quite as civilized as you,” Viktor said ominously, “but you are correct. Now is not the time for recriminations.” His rueful gaze drifted between their matching pendants. “I should be thankful that you at least survive, to continue our bloodline. You are my greatest treasure, Sonja. Never forget that.”

  “I shall not, Father.” A look of relief came over her face. Guilt would only prolong her sire’s suffering. “Nor shall I consider myself without family as long as I can call you Father.”

  “Which will be for all eternity,” he assured her. “We shall always be together, no matter what fate has in store for us. Nothing will ever come between us.”

  A knock on the door disturbed their tender moment. Soren’s gruff voice invaded the infirmary. “You asked to see me, Lord Viktor?”

  The Elder’s face hardened. Sonja rose from her father’s side and stepped quietly behind his throne. “Enter,” Viktor instructed.

  The overseer came into the chamber. His dark eyes briefly registered Sonja’s presence before turning their full attention to the seated Elder. He gave no reaction to Viktor’s debilitated appearance, but Sonja sensed a degree of apprehension beneath Soren’s stoic expression.

  “Yes, milord?” he said.

  “I understand that you were present when the Lady Ilona’s procession was waylaid at the keep,” Viktor said severely. “And yet you failed to prevent my lady wife’s brutal murder and, furthermore, left my only daughter for dead.” He shook his skull-like head in disappointment. “I am sorely disappointed in you, Soren.”

  The overseer’s face blanched behind his beard. “Forgive me, milord! It will not happen again.”

  Viktor looked unconvinced. “Your repentance will not restore my lady wife to immortality. No amount of apology can ever atone for my loss.”

  “But I have served you faithfully for nearly four hundred years!” Soren protested, and Sonja thought she detected a tinge of resentment in his voice. “I have fought at your side!”

  “True enough,” Viktor admitted. “We have a long history, you and I.”

  “I beg of you, milord. Do not condemn me. ’Twas the wretched mortals who slew Lady Ilona, not I!” Soren fixed his gaze on Sonja as she stood silently behind her father’s throne. “I swear that henceforth I will watch over your daughter with the greatest of care, so that nothing ill will ever befall her again!”

  A shiver went through Sonja at the prospect of the brutal overseer serving as her self-appointed guardian. I would have chosen another protector.

  Lucian, perhaps.

  His fervent oath appeared to satisfy her father, though. “See that you do,” Viktor charged him. The Elder’s mummified face settled into a fearsome scowl. “You are correct in one respect. It is the mortals who are ultimately to blame for my poor wife’s death.” Bony fists clenched atop the marble arms of his throne. “But their treachery will not go unpunished. I swear upon my immortal blood that ere long, I shall wreak unholy vengeance upon all who are responsible.”

  The unalloyed hatred in his voice, so very different from the loving tones she was accustomed to, frightened Sonja. She had never seen her father so angry before… like a demon made flesh.

  “They shall rue the day they dared to rise up against their betters—before I cast them screaming down to hell!”

  Chapter Nine

  STRASBA

  Strasba wasn’t much of a village. Nestled in a secluded valley, the tiny hamlet consisted of perhaps a dozen shops and a score of crude peasant huts. The two-story wooden shops occupied the head of the village, facing an unpaved road lined with thatch-roofed hovels. A modest stone church resided at the opposite end of the road, as though the town’s founders had been determined to place as much distance as possible between God and Mammon.

  The village slumbered beneath the light of a full moon, its narrow streets dark and deserted. Sunset had long since come and gone, so all of Strasba had retired for the night. Doors were bolted, windows shuttered, and every light extinguished. The hanging signs of the tradesmen blew in the cold winter wind. Only the faint glow of the night watchman’s lantern disturbed the shadows draped over the unsuspecting hamlet.

  They have no idea what awaits them, Lucian thought.

  In wolfen form, he looked down upon Strasba from the western slope of the valley. It was February, a full month since Marcus’ internment, and the moon had once more liberated his bestial alter ego. Bristling bla
ck fur covered his towering form. Claws like daggers extended from his hands and feet.

  A company of mounted Death Dealers, led by Viktor himself, also gazed down upon the village. The silver hooves of their mounts pawed the earth impatiently, and steam jetted from the chargers’ nostrils, as the armored vampires awaited the Elder’s command. Drawn swords and lances gleamed in the moonlight.

  “Is that the place?” Nicolae asked archly. Like the other warriors, he wore a crimson surcoat over his chain mail. Unlike them, he wore rings of precious gemstones over his gloves. He drew his horse up beside Viktor’s. “Why, it hardly seems worth sacking.”

  “My informants tell me otherwise,” Viktor replied. Now fully restored to his prime, the regal Elder sat astride a coal-black charger named Hades. Fierce blue eyes glowed through the slits of his Corinthian-style helmet. Molded batwings formed a crest upon the helm. A heraldic dragon adorned the front of his surcoat. “The one we seek lies below.”

  He leaned in his saddle to address Lucian. “Stay close to me, werewolf. I shall need you anon.”

  Unable to do more than growl, Lucian nodded in assent. Once again, he was the only werewolf in the company, which also numbered Kraven among its warriors. Not Soren, though; he had been left behind to guard the castle and the princess, much to the overseer’s obvious irritation—and Lucian’s amusement. It will do Soren good to be humbled, he thought, and it is no less than he deserves for leaving us behind at the keep.

  Viktor raised his mighty broadsword, easily holding it aloft with one hand. The sword’s silver pommel bore the same capital V that marked the flesh beneath Lucian’s fur. Celtic runes were inscribed on the blade’s brightly polished guard. Viktor’s imperious voice rang out in the night. “Death Dealers, ride now for vengeance!”

  Racing hooves thundered down the slope into the muddy streets of Strasba. War cries trumpeted from the bloodthirsty throats of the vampires. Lucian loped alongside the horses, racing to keep up with the mounted Elder. His hot breath fogged the cold night air. Foam dripped from his panting jaws.