Immediately, text filled the right margin. Though he had left only one comment, Spellman’s message required me to scroll down to read the entire contents. I began reading, heart sinking with every sentence.
My Dear Mr. Montero,
As you may know by now, when I said the safety of our reality depended on you protecting this information, I was neither deranged nor jesting. An interdimensional doorway exists in the office at my house. The council members and my fellow acolytes know of the portal and where it leads, but no one else is aware of its existence.
I suspect there is a second, but have never seen it.
Since Spellman felt it necessary to tell me there was a portal in his home, he obviously had not left it open for us to discover. That made it very likely his killer had escaped to the other dimension through it, perhaps minutes before our arrival. And that killer was a woman named Morgan.
What about the second doorway he believed existed?
The portal in my office leads to an adjacent universe, which contains Atlantis. Many millennia ago, this parallel world intruded on yours through an interdimensional rip which extended the island into the Atlantic Ocean. A woman named Morgan rules that world now, due to the power of her massive enterprise. I know all of this because I, too, am Atlantean.
Morgan’s goal is the recovery of the Apollo Ring. I stole it from her. She intended (and still intends) to use the ring as the power source for a vast machine her company has constructed, designed to create a massive black hole in a parallel universe. She has picked the reality in which you live as the target dimension.
You must journey to Atlantis and insert this USB device into a slot on the mainframe controlling the interdimensional grid. The portal in my house will deliver you into the building in which the network computer resides, at a point not far from the panel where the drive must be placed. The slot is one-of-a-kind. From your landing position, you move forward and then to your left. The port is in one of the panels on the right. It is at chest height, about five paces down. The Trojan will run automatically. I have set a five-hour window to give you time to get back to your reality.
You open the portal with my telephone, calling the number for Atlantis. I can’t tell you where I will hide my phone, because I don’t know yet. I can only promise I will make sure it gets to you.
With my death, I believe you will become intimately involved in the protection of the Apollo Ring. The ring must have a daytime guardian now that Morgan knows its whereabouts. I have advised Marcus of this necessity.
Morgan controls the Ghosts of Atlantis. These are enormously powerful entities in the flux corridor, produced by lengthy exposure to interdimensional forces. The ghosts exist within the flux, but Morgan has created a device to extract them and contain them. She looses them upon her enemies and likes to implant one in any enemies unfortunate enough to be captured. After years of gruesome tests, she knows these entities will consume a mortal body in a few hours.
However, vampire bodies can survive as long as four days to four weeks with the entity inside them. I believe she determined that by experimenting on a vampire living in the Los Angeles area. Unless bottled inside a host, the entities can survive only a few hours outside the flux.
There are only two ways to remove a Ghost from a person’s body. Morgan wears a silver glove to pull the entity out, and control it. The other way is for the impregnated person to pass through an interdimensional tunnel.
In the latter case, however, the Ghost automatically homes in on its vessel when reaching the other side.
The only known force capable of killing the Ghosts of Atlantis is the beam of the Apollo Ring, activated by the phrase, “Eye of Apollo.” In order for it to work, the speaker must of necessity bear the ring on one of his fingers.
After extraction, the victim should be unharmed. We believe Morgan removed the entity she implanted in her test subject, discovering the person remained the same as before the inhabitation, but we don’t know for sure. To my knowledge, no one but Morgan has accomplished such an extraction.
Morgan uses these entities as security guards in the sensitive areas of her facilities, housing them in magnetic cases. Once released from their vessels, the ghosts home in on any living entity. However, they can detect vampires even within their cages. Once they do, the magnetic doors of their pens unlock and set them free to hunt. I can only remain in certain sections for a few minutes before they detect me, so I have had to install the program in bits and pieces. I did not make it back to our reality unscathed every time.
The new scar I had seen at Carmen’s execution must have been the result of a visit last night. Perhaps all three injuries had been inflicted by these ghosts.
You have an advantage in that the ghosts will not attack you automatically since you are not a vampire, which should give you the necessary time to finish the installation and activate the program.
I do not believe the Council will tell you all four of the powers inherent in the Apollo Ring. Activating the shield protects the wearer—and subsequently the Ring—from outside forces, so they will probably not see a need to entrust you with the other three. Forewarned is forearmed in my book. The other three incantations I mention in my journal produce the following effects: “Eye of Apollo” is the incantation to unleash the Ring’s killing bolt, “Arrow of Artemis” releases a line of energy as powerful as the solar charge, but leaves no residue of either its target or itself, and finally, “Chamber of Eternity,” where one might keep a captive forever.
I wish you luck. I remain your honorable,
Darius Spellman
Chapter 20
I entered Aliena’s room, made the bed, then climbed on it, pressing my head into the pillow. Closing my eyes, I thought about her. If not for this sickness, she would be here now, perhaps in my arms while we made love.
As soon as my mind drifted, the warm room where I spent my first wedding night appeared . . .
After we made love a second time, Karina fell deeply asleep. She lay in the crook of my arm, curled against me, her cheek on my chest, her soft breath caressing my skin.
The dying fire splashed the ceiling with capering figures. I thought about Count Santella while watching the dancing shadows.
Many people had attended our wedding. Santella’s castle lay in neighboring Sant Adrià de Besòs, five kilometers northeast of Barcelona. The Count had undoubtedly been informed of the marriage many hours ago.
It was not necessary to wait and see if Santella would react to my interference. He had set up this betrothal with great care, and he would never allow me to take Karina. Knowing that made my decision automatic. I prefer to bring my enemy to battle at a time and place of my choosing.
I had said nothing to Alejandro or Karina’s parents about my plan. They could not be involved in what I was to do, nor even know of it.
Sliding carefully out of bed, I dressed quickly in traveling clothes and riding boots. Leaning over, I kissed Karina softly on the cheek. Her arm went around my neck.
“Sebastian,” she murmured. She released me and was instantly asleep again.
Gathering my sword and hat, I crept out of the room and downstairs to the dining hall. Three of my men waited there, also dressed for riding—and fighting.
“Carlo,” I said, addressing the eldest of them, one of my lieutenants. “Good morning.”
“Morning, sir.”
“As we discussed, you are in charge. Get everyone organized. Tell the Lady Montero I will join her in Tarragona shortly after you arrive.”
He hesitated. “Yes, sir.”
“Travel safely.”
He glanced at the others, then said, “We have thirty men here. It’s madness to go to Count Santella with a two-man escort. It’s crazy to go to him at all. He’s going to slit your throat.”
“Thirty or three, we’re heavily outnumbered in his stronghold.”
“Exactly. Why go like a lamb to slaughter?”
“Because he will not be expecting i
t. That gives me an advantage.”
He looked mystified. “To do what?”
“To offer a reconciliation.”
Carlo’s expression said he thought me demented. “In Tarragona, we can defend ourselves against any force he might send.”
“I will not lose men over this. And there will be no conflict between Santella and me.” That would call untoward attention from Ferdinand and Isabella. I did not need the King and Queen of Spain focused on my existence.
Carlo took me by the elbow and led me a few steps away. “Are you sure you want to take these two? If you are injured, as you certainly will be, they will discover your secret.”
“It is time for them to know.”
“I thought you’d say that.”
Revealing my true nature to anyone in the modern world presented numerous risks, most of them unacceptable. In fifteenth century Spain, my uniqueness helped me control my men. It was problematic anyway. As members of my fighting force, they must witness my recovery from nicks and scrapes, even mortal injuries.
I paid them well, and treated them as family. They regarded me as a benign head of household. But I knew they kept my secret and were loyal to me for one reason.
They feared I was an angel or demon who would condemn their souls to Hell if they crossed me.
Outside, two grooms waited. My horse, a black courser named Perseus, snorted softly when he saw me approaching. I put my arm around his head and he rested his cheek against mine. After stroking his silky nose, I hoisted myself into the saddle, made a clicking sound with my tongue.
The air was cool and the sky clear, the Milky Way a golden ribbon. Esteban and Ramon positioned themselves on either side of me and we galloped off.
Sunrise was an hour away.
Getting close to Santella would not be easy. A castle manned by experienced soldiers is difficult to attack. The drawbridge was the only way in, and it was narrow, designed to seal immediately on the approach of an attacking force. Sentries posted on the tower battlements could see for kilometers in every direction.
Count Santella conducted business every day, supporting a large force of soldiers and servants, and nearby farmers and merchants provided them with food, clothing, and durable goods. In such a prosperous county, it was common for visitors to arrive at the castle, offering goods and services, seeking employment, or requesting shelter.
The stars had disappeared by the time we rode past the Sant Adrià parish church where Saint Olegarius had lived before becoming the archbishop of Tarragona in 1118. As we topped a rise, Santella’s castle appeared, the first rays of the new dawn lighting the top of its battlements.
Reining Perseus in, I signaled to Ramon and Esteban. We dismounted and walked our horses into the small forest next to the road. The loamy surface deadened our footsteps. Under the dark trees, the steady puffing of our horses was the only sound.
We worked our way to the bank of the Besòs river which flowed through the city on its way to the Mediterranean Sea. While the horses drank, we sat and I passed around hard salami slices, soft goat cheese flavored with rosemary and red wine, and dark bread.
The business I must transact with the Count would result in violence. When the fighting began, if Ramon and Esteban were with me, Santella’s men would certainly kill them.
“The two of you will wait for me here,” I said when Perseus had finished drinking.
“What?” Ramon said. “Sir, you can’t—”
“You would not be able to protect me.”
“You’re going to walk in there and give the count your head on a platter?” Esteban said. “For the love of God, why?”
“I will be back in an hour.”
“You will never be back.”
I mounted Perseus. Looking down at the two of them, I said, “Be ready.”
Two sleepy sentries greeted me at the castle gatehouse when I led Perseus across the drawbridge. They were armed with swords and dressed for light skirmishing.
“What business do you have with the Count?”
“I am merely here to present my compliments. Victor Rojos,” I said, giving a small bow. “I fought alongside Count Santella at Toro.”
Nine years earlier, the army commanded by Ferdinand II of Aragon had clashed with the Castilian knights of Alfonso V near the town of Toro. With this battle, Ferdinand and Isabella stopped Joan of Castile’s attempt to be Queen, and took possession of the monarchy themselves. My men and I had supported Ferdinand, as had Santella and his army.
“I fought at Toro,” the sentry said. “Rafael Zuniga.”
“So did I,” said his partner. “Stancio Taciano. We were part of the left wing under Captain Pedro de Guzmán.”
“I also had that honor.”
“You look young to have been there.”
“I was sixteen. It was my first battle.”
Taciano laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “It was a pisscutter! Well done. That was hairy.” He studied me. “You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve never been there.”
Zuniga laughed. “The Count is having an early breakfast with Captain Vazquez and some of the men. They’ve just returned from a little outing.” He exchanged an amused glance with Taciano. “In the keep, to your left. Follow the smell of baked bread.”
They passed me through. Once inside the compound, I handed Perseus over to a groom who led the stallion to the stables.
I moved toward the great stone keep, noting the positions of the sentries on the battlements. None watched me.
Steeling my nerves, I climbed the steps and passed through the wide doorway into the dining hall. The skin of my testicles crawled at what I was about to endure.
Six men sat at a large round table near the fireplace, drinking beer and talking. They looked up as I approached. Santella had his back to me. Directly across the table sat his captain, Ernesto Vazquez. A vicious swordsman, as I recalled, he had also served at Toro. His eyes widened in surprise when he recognized me.
All of the men wore sweaty, dirty uniforms, as if they had been riding. I wondered where they had gone so early. A moment’s reflection gave me the answer. I cursed inwardly at my stupidity.
Conversation died. The captain stood, and his men followed.
I stopped next to the table, my arms at my sides, a pleasant smile on my face as I regarded the Count.
Santella had turned slightly at the captain’s reaction, but remained seated. Even forewarned, he could not keep the surprise off his face when he saw who his morning visitor was.
“Good day,” I said.
“My dear Montero.” He recovered quickly. “We were only this moment discussing you.” He smiled. “How convenient that you should come to me. Would you join us for breakfast?”
“I would be delighted.” I nodded at Vazquez. “Well met, Captain Vazquez.”
“Your reputation precedes you, sir,” he said with a small bow. “Congratulations on your marriage,” he added ironically. Laughter circled the table like stale bread. I pretended not to notice.
“Thank you.”
We all sat, I on the Count’s right. A soldier filled a mug with beer and set it in front of me.
“Your visit is a surprise,” Santella said.
“I thought we should talk.”
Count Nicholas Santella was an overflowing man, florid of skin with a quadruple chin. Balding. He looked like an overfed fifty-year-old friar. His clothes were rich, and the ring on his right hand, adorned with a blood-colored stone in the middle, was a beautiful heirloom. Although he had inherited his lands, he had earned his title fighting for Ferdinand and Isabella. He commanded an army of a thousand experienced soldiers.
I did not have a title, though I was a favorite of King Ferdinand’s. He had offered me a dukedom for my service to the Crown, but I had refused, saying I was content to tend my vineyards and enjoy a quiet life. Immortality and notoriety are not compatible bedfellows.
“You have fought
for the King for eleven years,” Santella said. His gaze roved my face. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
Vazquez said, “You look twenty.”
“I live right.”
“Apparently so.” The captain’s black eyes were sharp with interest. “I don’t see a scar on you anywhere. After so many battles?”
“I have scars,” I told him, taking a drink. “They’re just not where you can see them.”
He scrutinized my hands and forearms, places that took a beating when soldiers fought with swords, even protected by heavy leather gauntlets. All of the men at the table, including Santella, had rough, scarred skin where mine was unmarked.
“You don’t look like a soldier,” the Count said.
“May I take that as a compliment?”
He didn’t say anything, his smile lopsided, his eyes savage.
“When we were at Toro, you had cuts on both sides of your face,” Vazquez said. “I remember seeing you. I do not see scars, Señor.”
“The blood on my face that day was not mine, Captain.”
“I see.” He raised his glass. “Long life.”
Another smattering of low laughter.
“Tell me, Señor,” Count Santella said, “why have you interfered in my business with Don Alejandro?”
We had done with the small talk. Now to the business at hand.
“I was visiting and fell in love with the girl. I was unaware of your claim.”
“Did someone finally mention my interest?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you married Karina anyway.”
“We’re in love. I knew you’d understand. She does not love you—does not even know you,” I added.
He frowned. “What does love matter? My arrangement with Alejandro was none of your business.”
Ghosts of Atlantis (Immortal Montero Book 3) Page 12