Of Masques and Martyrs

by Christopher Golden

  The Asian vampire stood atop the hood of the police car. She looked down at the bullet holes in her chest and belly and laughed, teeth stained red, lips dripping with gore. Her tongue flickered out like a serpent’s, ran lovingly over those lips, wiping them clean, savoring the taste.

  With an almost dainty jump, she dropped down from the car hood onto the pavement near Lambert’s corpse. With a bloody hand, she pushed her long black hair from her face. She wore a predator’s smile.

  “You shot me?” she asked incredulously. “You’re standing out here as if you serve a purpose, and the best you can come up with is bullets?”

  Japanese, LeeAnne thought, as she studied the vampire woman more closely. The undead threw her head back and laughed heartily. LeeAnne let her service weapon fall to the ground and whipped the H&K out of her waistband before the vampire’s laughter subsided.

  The creature stepped forward, shaking her head and sighing.

  “A bigger gun?” she asked. “You think that’s what’s called for here?”

  She raised her arms.

  “Well, go ahead then!” she cried joyously. “Let me have it!”

  LeeAnne squeezed three rounds off from the nine-millimeter. The first went wide. The second and third caught the monster in the breast and shoulder respectively.

  The vampire screamed. Doubled over in pain. When her head came up, teeth bared in a bloody snarl, there was a wary look in her eyes.

  “Fucking bitch!” she roared, and tensed to spring.

  “Don’t even twitch,” LeeAnne whispered, knowing the vampire could hear her. Her aim was rock steady. “These are silverpoints,” she said, nodding toward her weapon. “I’m glad they hurt. And I’m willing to bet I empty the whole clip into you, it might make you a little more agreeable.”

  In her peripheral vision, she sensed Jack staring at her.

  “Just do it, LeeAnne,” he snapped. “What the hell are you waiting for? You’ve heard how fast these things move!”

  “She’s got poison in her system, Jack,” LeeAnne replied. “We’ve got a minute or so. I just have a few questions for her.”

  She glared at the vampire again. “How many of you in New Orleans, right now?”

  The vampire’s aquiline features curled into a cruel smile.

  “One too many for you,” she said.

  Jack grunted. LeeAnne risked a quick glance at him. Her partner looked as though he were about to throw up. Then she saw the way his stomach bulged . . . just before a clawed hand exploded from his belly. She hadn’t noticed the mist behind him, but now it coalesced into a man. A blond, bearded vampire pulled his fist from the hole in Jack’s back and let his corpse hit the pavement. LeeAnne thought absurdly that the undead thing might have looked like the comic book Thor if not for the fact that he was naked.

  LeeAnne Cataldo was a good cop who planned to one day be a great one. She’d always been bright. Sharp. Quick to analyze and react to any crisis. Nothing in her life had prepared her for something like this, and yet her mind still functioned as it always had. The blond vampire might reach her, rip her heart out or snap her neck, before she could even turn the gun on him. The Asian was in her sights already, slowed by poison. If she was going to die, she’d damn well not make it easy for them.

  Her finger drew the trigger back and the H&K began to pop in her hand. In that moment, something she never expected saved her life. The Nordic vampire moved faster than her eye could follow, faster than her semiauto could fire, and threw himself in the path of the silverpoint bullets.

  Love. He loved the other one. It stunned LeeAnne to think that such savage monsters could even recognize the emotion.

  But that didn’t make her let up on the trigger.

  “Sima!” the Asian vampire screamed as the blond monster was riddled with silver-tipped bullets.

  Even as his lover reached for him, the bearded vampire exploded in a flash of cinder and smoke, of smoldering ash that floated to the pavement and was spurred along by a light breeze from the river not far away.

  Already the female was moving on her, eyes wide with rage. LeeAnne swung the H&K slightly to the left, felt her aim, and shot the Asian vampire woman through the cheek, shattering bone and severing muscle as it exited at the back of her neck. The monster’s head drooped slightly to one side, its wounds trying desperately to repair themselves despite the poison in them. And soon enough, they would. But LeeAnne wasn’t about to let it get that far.

  She squeezed the trigger again.

  Klik.

  Empty cartridge.

  Survival of the fittest.

  She screamed as the vampire tore her belly open, and she wept as the monster left her there to die slowly.

  “Are you feeling better?” Hannibal asked and smiled politely as Tsumi walked over and took her place at his side.

  They stood together on Chartres Street, at the front gate of the old convent. All around them, the city was filled with the cries of the dying, the crackle of fires, and the distant sounds of cars driven by the fortunate majority who’d escaped Hannibal’s followers as they’d swept across the city, hunting sustenance in preparation for this very moment.

  Hannibal stared at the gray walls of the building. It annoyed him to no end that Octavian had chosen as his headquarters a building that had been consecrated to God centuries earlier. When the church splintered, it had never been desanctified. Clever boy, that Octavian. Hannibal looked forward to eating his all-too-human heart.

  “Octavian!” he roared, and then paused and listened as his thunderous voice echoed from empty building to empty building.

  “I have come for you, Octavian!” he declared. “It is time now to put an end to this, to determine once and for all who is the lord of vampires, the king of shadows! Your cowardly philosophy is a distraction I will no longer tolerate.

  “But never let it be said that I am unfair. Oh, no! If any of your handful of followers wish to join me, to return to the night and live in the manner of our ancestors, to be a part of the race that will conquer the Earth, let them come now and be at my side!”

  Hannibal paused then, watched and listened. His own warriors were silent, but he could feel their anticipation of the battle to come. And he felt his power through them, their great numbers giving him a strength he’d never imagined.

  The only response to his words were echoes. Hannibal was neither surprised nor terribly disappointed. They followed Octavian. He wanted to kill them.

  “The die is cast!” he proclaimed. “The battle will be engaged! You and the cowards who follow you will come out and face your betters, and you will do it now, or I will order my legions to slaughter every human left in this city!”

  Again there was no response. Hannibal was about to order his warriors to do just that, to go and find human captives to slaughter at the gates until Octavian emerged. But there came a light from beyond the gate, in the convent’s courtyard, and that stopped him.

  The light glowed green, and Hannibal had seen its like twice before. Then, the magick had been in the hands of the Vatican sorceror Liam Mulkerrin. Now . . . he knew who wielded it.

  A burning ball of green fire rose above the courtyard, and at its center was Peter Octavian. He wore a long sword at his side, and Hannibal studied it curiously. Though he would not show it, he was startled by Octavian’s obvious facility with the sorcery he had learned. Still, his numbers were greater by far.

  “Welcome, Hannibal!” Octavian shouted, his voice booming, perhaps even enhanced by the magick. “Why don’t you come in? You have my invitation, vampire. Enter freely and of your own will!”

  Hannibal sneered.

  “Taunt all you like, coward,” he roared. “I will have your head by dawn!”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Octavian replied, feigning surprise, “you can’t come in, can you? Sacred ground and all that! Well, my apologies. I’ll just have to come out there, then.”

  The magickal sphere seemed to shiver, then it began to rise over the gate
. Hannibal raised an eyebrow, wondering what Octavian was up to. His warriors were all watching, however, so he kept his reaction minimal. They would be impressed, no doubt, by Octavian’s magick.

  “By morning, only the one true lord of vampires will remain,” he said sternly, his deep voice enough to carry to all of those warriors gathered in front of the convent, and even to some of those who flanked the block to the east and west.

  “Hannibal, you are a fool,” Peter Octavian said as his feet touched ground and the magick crackling around him diminished to only the most gossamer of spheres. At certain angles, it seemed to disappear altogether. Octavian’s sword now blazed with green energy, sparks flying off it to the pavement.

  “I never wanted to be lord of vampires or king of shadows. Nor did I want to rule my father’s empire when I was a boy. But you are a disgrace to our true heritage, and an abomination in the eyes of both God and man.

  “None of which matters, actually. I could never be the lord of vampires now. I’m not even a vampire anymore.”

  “Yes,” Hannibal said. “So I’ve heard.”

  Octavian’s face betrayed his surprise for just a moment. Hannibal was pleased. Octavian was just a man. A sorceror, perhaps. But still just a man.

  Hannibal laughed the devil’s laugh and grinned the devil’s grin. Where once he had seen a battle to come, now he saw only the celebratory feast and a ceremony to crown him lord of vampires. And king of the world.

  He opened his mouth to give the order to kill Octavian, but felt Tsumi’s fingers on his bicep.

  “Lord, let me,” she said, and her voice was filled with such pleasure that he did not have the heart to deny her.

  “Of course, Tsumi, darling,” Hannibal replied.

  The beautiful Tsumi began to move forward as the other warriors looked on. Hannibal did not expect Tsumi to be able to destroy the sorceror Octavian by herself, but it would be interesting to see.

  “It’s been too long, lover,” she whispered, but Hannibal could hear her perfectly. “What happened? You gave up all your power, gave up the Gift, for that little human whore of yours?”

  “I’ve received a new and better gift, Tsumi,” Octavian replied. “I wish I could share it with you, but somehow I don’t think you’d appreciate it. Before we begin, I want you to know that I did care for you once, a long time ago. For that alone, I wish you would withdraw from this fight. Just stay out of it.”

  “Hannibal is my lord,” Tsumi replied. “It will be my pleasure to take your life for him.”

  Octavian actually seemed saddened. Hannibal shook his head, almost insulted by his enemy’s disgusting humanity. Then his eyes widened. From within the gates of the convent, a small cloud of mist emerged and coalesced into a Japanese man, a vampire. He stood next to Peter, traditional set of long and short swords hanging at his waist.

  Tsumi hissed, and Hannibal realized that she knew him.

  “You have other battles to fight this evening, sister,” the new arrival said grimly. “I brought you into this life. Giri now demands that I take it from you.”

  This was becoming too complicated.

  “Kill them both,” Hannibal roared. “Then find some humans to slaughter here at the gates until the others are drawn out. I will not suffer a vampire to live who does not kneel at my command!”

  His warriors rushed to obey him, but Hannibal was distracted by the shouts of battle and cries for blood from behind him. He turned to see dozens of unfamiliar vampires wading into his warriors at the flank, hacking into them with swords, firing conventional weapons—that was the first wave. The second wave were all changing into a menagerie of beasts of prey, claws slashing and fangs snapping . . . or simply changing their bodies, hands becoming rows of silver spikes.

  For just a moment, Hannibal frowned in concern. Octavian had outwitted him. He’d had the convent surrounded, but now his own warriors had been surrounded, and by vampires whose control over their powers was not handicapped by the ways of tradition, the way his own followers’ was.

  But no! His followers were far superior to Octavian’s spawn, in every way. And it was clear from just the first glance that his clan outnumbered the blasphemers by far, perhaps as much as four to one.

  It would be a bloody night, true. But, really, there was only one way for it to end.

  Nikki stood in the darkened chapel, awash in muted color as moonlight streamed through the stained glass windows. The courtyard was empty. Sounds of battle came from beyond the walls. Where once there had been screams of terror, there were now roars of fury, cries of pain, the clash of metal on bone. And gunfire. A lot of gunfire.

  Behind her, she heard something move with a whisper.

  With a sharp intake of breath, she turned and peered into the darkness of the pews. Another soft sound, like a blade slicing the air, came from off to her right. She narrowed her eyes but still could see nothing. Nikki wanted to shout, to cry out for help or at least to ask who was there, in the dark. But she thought better of it. There was a war raging outside. No one to come to her rescue. And to ask who was there, stalking her in the blackness, would be the height of idiocy. If they wanted her to know who was there, they would not be hiding in shadows.

  Only her eyes moved. Every muscle was frozen. Her lungs stopped sucking in air. She supposed even her heart had stopped beating. Something appeared in her peripheral vision. Nikki turned and saw it, illuminated by the soft hues of stained-glass moonlight. A demon of some kind, she was convinced. Flesh as sharp and glistening as black, shattered glass. Smile like some savage sea monster. The creature was unlike anything she had ever seen.

  Yet somehow, it was familiar.

  “Nikki . . . ” it said, its voice an intimate whisper.

  Startled, she sucked air in again and began to back away from it, toward the chapel door.

  “Don’t run away, sweetheart,” it said. “You know what I want. You want it too, don’t you? Don’t you want to be with me?”

  The words froze her again. But not their implications. It was the tone, the voice, that chilled her soul. Made her look at the thing’s face. She knew what it was, then. Had seen it once before, though quickly. It spoke with the voice of a man she had come to love.

  The vampiric shade of Peter Octavian had come to claim her, for whatever it remembered of its old life included Nikki Wydra.

  It loved her too.

  16

  I’ll be there to hold you. Don’t be afraid of

  the dark.

  —ROBERT CRAY, “Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark”

  KUROMAKU MOVED WITH A FLUID GRACE, HIS face stern but otherwise without emotion. His thoughts were sublimated to the haze of battle, to the elegant dance that killing had become for him long years ago. Katana and wakizashi, long and short swords, flashed in horrible symmetry, punctuated by a brief pause, a grunt of effort. The spray of lifeblood fell upon him like rain. He was the eye of the storm, the center of an internecine struggle waged all around him.

  Centuries after they had first fought side by side, Kuromaku and Peter Octavian were brothers in arms once more. Peter was several feet away, and his own sword was singing. But there was no harmony to his swordsmanship. Its song was harsh and bitter as he hacked and stabbed and brutally slashed his enemies. The sword sizzled with magickal energies, and where it cut Hannibal’s kinsmen, they burst into green and orange flames and screamed as they died.

  It was not pleasant for them. But Kuromaku knew Peter well enough that he would never have expected it to be.

  They stood back to back, then. All around them, vampire killed vampire. Peter’s coven were more durable, more versatile, and their ability to take the form of birds of prey, bears, and a whole range of big cats gave them the physical advantage as well. But Hannibal’s clan were more savage and far more experienced. They had a vicious confidence and their numbers were so much greater. Yet the shadows fought on, for they had a nobler purpose, and that, Kuromaku knew, made all the difference.

  Even tho
se born into the shadows only hours earlier fought admirably. Some died instantly, but others adapted to their new lives and abilities swiftly, and were so fervent in their belief in Peter’s philosophy that they became bloody zealots, warriors terrible to behold.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  “We’re losing ground already,” Kuromaku told Peter. “Is there nothing you can do, with your magicks?”

  “I am adept,” Peter replied through gritted teeth, as his sword fell yet again, “but magick must be used carefully. It’s a blade, not a bomb. And I won’t use it to call up demons the way Mulkerrin did. There are too many risks, and our own people would be in just as much danger as Hannibal’s.”

  Peter grunted. Out of the corner of his eye, Kuromaku glanced over to see that a vampire had clawed him in the side. His dream came back to him, the dream that had guided him to bring Peter’s sword to New Orleans. And now it had come true. Peter was human, and where he was wounded, he bled like any other man. His shirt began to soak with crimson stain.

  “You should heal that,” Kuromaku told him.

  Peter looked up, frowned at the tone in his voice. But he nodded, and Kuromaku was satisfied. The wound might not have been deadly, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  All around them, the battle raged on. Blood flew and burning piles of ash blew in a light breeze whose calm belied the rage there in the streets. There were no costumes save masks of fury, but Kuromaku could not help but see a bloody Mardi Gras of violence and death, a celebration of killing.

  He parried a blow with his short sword, then used all his vampiric strength to swing his katana, neatly beheading his attacker. Blood gouted from the severed neck as the body stumbled two steps and fell to the ground, crumbling to dust and cinders. Kuromaku’s sword alone did not kill, but if he could inflict wounds traumatic enough, Hannibal’s vampires would die. They believed it, and that made it true.