The Rift Walker

by Clay Griffith

  Flay had been lucky to survive the fall and luckier still that Cesare hadn't simply executed her in a rush to cover his failure by rewriting history. Instead, Cesare had sent her to Alexandria. He had made it clear to wait for the signal from his human ally, Lord Kelvin. The signal was supposed to come on the princess's wedding day, but that day came and went without word from Cesare's toady.

  Flay wondered why the attack was going forward now without the prize kill present in Alexandria. She knew that Princess Adele was gone from the city, spirited away by the damnable Greyfriar. Even though this Greyfriar was a mere human, Flay longed to kill him more than anyone else alive, except perhaps Prince Gareth, who had rejected her.

  Before he slipped away to hide himself, Kelvin had told her that plans had changed. The targets were Emperor Constantine and Senator Clark. The heads of the Equatorian military were useful secondary targets. As important as the assassinations were to Flay, her true object was sowing terror among the Equatorian citizens. They should be made to believe they were starting a war they could not hope to win, or even survive.

  Flay's intention was to make this night so apocalyptic the Equatorians would count their calendars forward from it.

  She climbed the rough steps to the warm night air, followed by the light footfalls of her pack. The weight of the day's heat still pressed down on her. Plus, the air was noxious. It was full of sweat from people, and rife with cloying undercurrents from chemicals poured into the air by the human industries. She couldn't wait to return to the freshness of England.

  Flay smiled. The wind was strong, which was good. Her packs could fly fast and strike hard. The temperature was relatively mild, so there was no danger of heat failure, at least in the next couple of hours.

  She leapt into the air and gave a cry too shrill for humans to hear, but it carried across the city. Inside the catacombs and ancient cistern systems, the screech was heard and passed on. Rocks were shoved aside and dirt shifted as shapes scrabbled from holes in the ground. Those people who were about at the late hour doubted what they saw. Arms and legs pushed free of the soil, or figures emerged from inside rock faces or scrub. Witnesses saw ferocious eyes lock on them, and in a blur they were dead.

  Flay floated above Victoria Palace and drew in a deep breath. She had planned for this night with the same thoroughness that had allowed her to successfully marshal the depopulation of Ireland in the Great Killing. That island had properties that made it a likely haven for resistance; it was full of stone circles and reeked of power from the earth. Cesare had ordered her to brave its painful shores and slaughter everything that moved, which she had done. In this city, she sensed none of that power, or at least none that was active. There was nothing to hinder her rampage.

  From testing the air, she knew where to find the emperor. Senator Clark, the American butcher, was farther away, but detectable. She even caught the scent of Prince Simon. Her objectives loomed before her and her mood lightened. Her lust for slaughter rose as she laughed and dropped heavily toward a huge palace window.

  Glass shattered. Flags and tapestries fluttered in the rush of bodies as Flay and over thirty vampires poured into the grand chamber where four old men in uniform sat around a table with startled eyes. Hands reached for weapons on instinct and nearly cleared holsters and scabbards before three of the old men dropped dead.

  The chief of staff of the army.

  The first air lord.

  The admiral of the Blue.

  All gone in the first rush of claws.

  Emperor Constantine was not so easy to kill. He kicked back his chair as he tore free a Fahrenheit saber. Putting his back against a gilt wall, he shouted angrily and the blade became a blur of green and crimson. Creatures surged and fell back, clawing, ripping his uniform. The saber connected, cutting a bloody swathe, and several of the monsters scurried back, screeching. He grabbed a chair and heaved it ineffectually, shouting in rage at the circling vampires.

  Flay reveled in the despair that flickered briefly in Constantine's gaze as his eyes darted to his dead officers, old friends from many battles, their spilling blood red on the pristine floor. She snapped a command, and her blood-slicked creatures moved away from the old soldier who stood red-faced and bleeding, his chest heaving.

  Flay said in English, “Emperor Constantine, I pronounce the death sentence of Prince Cesare upon you as an enemy of the British clan.”

  He squeezed the hilt of the saber with an age-spotted hand. “Come, my dear, and carry out your sentence, then.”

  Flay moved with a grace and speed honed to perfection. In a blink, the sword fell with a loud clatter to the marble floor and Constantine dropped to his knees for the first time in his life.

  “I had hoped for more.” The vampire constricted a clawed hand around the old man's throat. “You are not the warrior your daughter is.”

  “No,” the emperor gasped and looked her cold in the eye. “And neither are you.”

  With a spray of blood, Flay ended the reign of Constantine II.

  “THE REPORTS TO the palace,” Mamoru said quickly, “have the princess in Suez, Damascus, and Cyprus. Among others.”

  Sir Godfrey regarded his friend. “Any validity to the reports, old boy?” He reclined on a low settee, smoking a hookah and dressed in a fine worsted wool suit and leather shoes with spats. He held the long tube to his lips, seemingly lost in the moment. Sanah sat next to him on voluminous pillows with her gaze clear. Nzingu stood strangely calm in the corner under cheap paintings of blood horses, prize cattle, and voluptuous harem girls.

  Mamoru paced. He no longer even pretended to retain his normal façade of serenity. His face was drawn and pale, and he exuded a tragic energy. “There are stories from all across the Empire of Adele in her wedding dress and Greyfriar in his cloak dashing pell-mell through the night. All romantic nonsense. There have been no sensible leads to her whereabouts.”

  Sanah asked hesitantly, “You have heard nothing from her, then?”

  “No.” Mamoru stopped pacing and rubbed his bristly hair. “No.”

  Nzingu said, “Where would this Greyfriar take her?”

  “I don't know. I don't know enough about him to predict. Adele would hardly speak of him, despite my best efforts. Of course, I must assume they've left the Empire, but he doesn't seem to have a single base of operations in Europe. He's everywhere.”

  “She'll contact you in time, surely,” Sir Godfrey said with a drowsy smile. “Or contact someone. The emperor, perhaps? She wouldn't just run off with some chap and turn her back on her responsibilities, would she?”

  All four of them stayed quiet.

  The old gentleman blew smoke into the air and continued idly, “Well then, do you think it was planned? Did she stage the whole event?”

  “No,” Nzingu replied firmly. “If she had wanted to run off with him, they would have run off quietly. Why put her man in danger? No, that disaster was a man's idea. Or a boy's. Shattered windows. Sword fights. Escapes. I fear that Greyfriar has read too many cheap romances.” She smiled.

  “Perhaps,” Sanah added. “But this city has never seen anything like it, and its daring has swept through the heart of the people.”

  Sir Godfrey nodded in agreement. “Certainly. But my colleagues in Commons want the princess removed from succession so Simon can be handed the mantle. Being a folk hero doesn't translate into being a proper empress.”

  Mamoru sipped a small cup of dark Turkish coffee. “That may work to our advantage ultimately. If she is passed over in favor of her brother, then there is nothing to distract her from training. And the marriage would be a moot point as well. Senator Clark would have no interest in marrying some cast-off dowager, so he would be out of the picture. If Adele does not become empress, it would certainly not be catastrophic for us.”

  “If we can find her,” Nzingu muttered.

  “Just so.”

  Sanah asked, “What shall we do with the Greyfriar?”

  Mamoru stared into spa
ce for a moment. “He will either cooperate with our goals or he will be eliminated.”

  Sir Godfrey stirred uncomfortably. “Dear me. So harsh? He seems a very useful fellow to have around.”

  “If he proves so, I welcome him. But I distrust anyone we don't control. This event only demonstrates his disruptive nature. We are too late in this game, and the stakes are too enormous, to allow some duelist to endanger our plans.”

  The Persian woman gestured with her hennaed hands. “I caution you, Mamoru. The girl's feelings for this man are deep.”

  “I well know that, Sanah,” the Japanese man snapped. “But we are dealing with the fate of the world. Immature infatuation must be put aside.”

  The other three members of the cabal exchanged worried glances. Nzingu was about to speak when several loud crashes from outside interrupted her. She went to the door, and her sharply drawn breath caused the others to turn in her direction.

  The main floor of the hashish house was in chaos. Men and women scattered with shouts of fear and alarm, running into tables, scrambling for a back way out. At the front door was a vampire, red-faced and clutching a writhing man. Three other people lay dead at its feet.

  Nzingu shouted in her native tongue and reached for the cinched waist of her elegant gown. Both hands came away from the embroidery with six-foot wires. She leapt over a collapsed table while whipping the silvery lines over her head with a high-pitched whine. The vampire saw her and started to move. The thin whips cut the creature across the face, slicing to the bone. Nzingu spun and dropped while claws raked the air above her and she lashed the thing again, her limbs whirling a macabre dance. The vampire staggered, but came again at the woman, whose movements were hampered by her clumsy dress.

  Mamoru appeared with a small, flashing blade and planted it deep in the vampire's chest. It screeched and turned its palsied hands to the hilt.

  “Get down!” Nzingu rose and drew her arms back almost in slow motion. Mamoru dropped flat to the wooden floor. Both razor whips gracefully encircled the woman before they slung forward and wrapped around the vampire's throat. A snap of her elbows sent the creature's head somersaulting.

  Both Mamoru and Nzingu heard distant screams. They ran into the chaotic lobby of the Hotel Saladin and to the ornate entryway only to see a multitude of figures floating in the air above the dark cityscape of Alexandria.

  “My God,” Nzingu breathed. “My God. How is this possible?”

  Sir Godfrey and Sanah attempted to help the wounded or comfort the shocked in the decimated room. Sir Godfrey knelt beside a man choking on blood and did what he could to assist him.

  “Sir Godfrey!” Mamoru tossed a small bag of crystals to Sanah. “You and Sanah go to Rue Karam, to the rift at the Gate of the Moon near the old Franciscan school. Do what you can from there. Nzingu and I will go to the palace.”

  The old man looked up. “This fellow needs a doctor, Mamoru, or he will die.”

  The samurai yanked his blade from the vampire. “Leave him or thousands will die!”

  Sanah laid a gentle hand on Sir Godfrey's shoulder and gave him the strength to rise from the injured man. Taking his place, she bent close and whispered to the dying man, who immediately stilled at her words, his eyes focusing strangely on the Persian beauty before him. In seconds, his life fled silently from his body. Then Sanah followed her colleagues into the horror of the street. Godfrey stood there, taking in the carnage erupting over the city. She said, “We must go. There is too much at stake to pause for even one life.”

  “Then what's the point?” he muttered. “What's the point?”

  Mamoru and Nzingu ran without speaking, but their gazes were riveted upward. The sky over the Imperial Quarter was thick with hundreds of vampires floating in the stiff wind, diving in horrifying flocks. Gunfire was audible from around the city. The two pretended they didn't see vampires striking people dead in the street as they ran on. The samurai gripped his small blade tightly.

  The grand avenues were chaos. Theaters, restaurants, and clubs were scenes of panic and inhumanity. Masses streamed in different directions seeking to flee attacks, but then grew confused by encountering another terrified crowd from the opposite direction. Men and women sought refuge inside shops or warehouses. Moments of civilization punctuated the horror as some paused to help those who had fallen or who were in danger of being trampled. Carriages and steam cars struggled through the wild mobs, or were abandoned.

  Mamoru tugged on the taffeta sleeve of his companion and jerked his head toward a narrow door in what appeared to be a long-abandoned building. He quickly pressed several carved lions in succession and the door clicked open. The two started down a stuffy corridor lit by dim chemical bulbs. They ran for several minutes, turning so often that Nzingu was soon lost. Then they emerged into the night air with a great complex of buildings looming before them. Nzingu realized they were inside the walls of Victoria Palace, surrounded by shouting and weapons fire and a sky dark with Homo nosferatii above them.

  “Stay close to me,” Mamoru commanded without breaking stride. “Our talismans will keep us only so safe in such a frenzy.”

  Nzingu fingered her crystal pendant as they crossed manicured grass between marble sculptures and fountains. They leapt over a few bodies and raced up the wide sweep of stairs into the main entry of the palace. Soldiers ran around them in all directions, attempting to combat the unthinkable.

  Inside, they passed a formal ballroom hastily converted to a surgery. Wounded lay on tables and on the floor. Doctors and attendants hovered, and a few rough operations were taking place under the sparkling light of chandeliers. The smell of blood and gore was all the more revolting for the ornate setting.

  Mamoru paused to unbuckle a saber belt from a moaning soldier. “Find a weapon.”

  “I have these.” Nzingu held up the razor whips which she now had looped in each hand.

  “Dr. Kemal!” the samurai called out. “Where is the emperor?”

  “I don't know.” A man wearing a blood-soaked tuxedo didn't pause from sewing up a gash in a soldier. “I haven't heard anything about the family. I only know they are not here.”

  Mamoru and Nzingu continued up another marble flight. Gunshots erupted nearby, then quieted. The carpet runners in the hallway were stained with blood. They nearly slammed into two figures at an intersection of corridors. Mamoru brandished the saber, and it clanged against glowing steel.

  “Wait!” a voice shouted.

  Senator Clark stood with his Fahrenheit blade pressed to the samurai's saber and with pistol pointed at Mamoru. Major Stoddard gripped his commander's gun arm, and the American leader stepped back. His uniform was spotless, but Stoddard's was torn and bloody.

  Clark squinted and growled, “Schoolteacher! What are you doing here?”

  Mamoru asked, “Where is the emperor? Is he safe?”

  “He's dead. We're going for Prince Simon.”

  Mamoru steadied himself from the shock. His mind raced with implications from the loss of his great patron in court. Still, there was no time to worry about that with fresh blood still running through the palace and vampires gliding freely around the city.

  The two Americans started running again, so Mamoru and Nzingu followed. After a wordless minute of pounding feet and jangling steel, they entered an airy atrium with a small tiled fountain and lush green potted plants. All the doors stood wide open, but for one. The four gathered at the closed door.

  Clark tried the handle and pushed, but it refused to give. He pounded with his fist. “Prince Simon! If you're in there, open up! It's Senator Clark!”

  “Smart boy.” Mamoru gave an approving and hopeful nod. This was the servants' quarters with no windows. He called out, “Your Highness, open the door, if you please. We must get you to safety.”

  “I'm already safe!” came the defiant reply from inside. “Where's Colonel Anhalt?”

  Clark slammed against the door again. “Open up, boy! We've lost the top floor and we have to ta
ke you below!”

  They heard the sound of objects being moved away from the inside of the door, which then swung back. Prince Simon stood barefooted in a linen robe and pants. He seemed composed enough, given the circumstances.

  Mamoru heard a soft wind behind him and turned. Several figures detached from the shadows of the cupola above the atrium and hurtled down like cannonballs. The samurai shoved the boy back into the room. “Brace it!”

  The four humans took the vampires' charge with their backs planted against the wall. The creatures lunged with claws and teeth, ripping and shredding, but they were driven back with steel. Those monsters that grabbed the two occultists hissed in pain and recoiled. Mamoru moved with a speed that rivaled the vampires. His sword was a constant blur, his face a mask of concentration. Mamoru knew that as fast as the vampires seemed, it was the heat that hampered them, giving the humans a fighting chance.

  Mamoru and Nzingu were machines of violence, striking and slashing. The Zulu's whips sang a horrific dirge as they sliced the air about her. Clark and Stoddard exchanged quick glances of surprise and admiration as the samurai and Zulu actually took ground from the vampires and relieved the pressure from the two Americans and their exhausted arms and empty revolvers.

  A shattering screech tore through the air, and the vampires suddenly drew back. Clark lowered his sword arm but noticed Mamoru stood firm, so raised it again. Her whips coiled momentarily, Nzingu drew closer to the Japanese swordsman. Stoddard leaned against the wall, fighting for breath.

  “What is this?” Nzingu asked.

  Mamoru didn't reply. His eyes flicked over the bloody, exhausted mob in front of them. The vampires were badly wounded, and a few were actually dead. He didn't want to admit it, but his sword arm was numb and bleeding. This respite from the fighting was actually hurting him; he could feel his muscles stiffening and his adrenaline slowing. Without help, this standoff would be over soon. And they would lose.