He pressed himself back into the protection of the alcove and extinguished his flashlight. The train screeched by him, a moving wall close enough to touch. It was already slowing to a stop. The air resonated with the screeching of its brakes.
The train was short, only a few passenger cars long, and it passed from in front of him as quickly as it had appeared. As soon as the last car slid by Stefan grabbed the satchel and stepped out on the tracks. The train was receding down the tunnel, slowly coming to a stop. Stefan ran after the train.
He caught up with the rear car just before the train came to a complete stop. He grabbed a rung on the rear of the car, pulling himself up as he flung the satchel over his shoulder. When the train had stopped completely, Stefan was laying flat on the roof of the rear car.
Stefan buried his face into the roof, praying that his dark clothes helped him blend into the gloom in the top of the tunnel. The concrete ceiling of the tunnel lay flat above him, pressing down. Below him, he heard motion on the platform. People moved down there, oddly silent.
Carefully, Stefan turned his face to look down on the lighted platform. It was almost a shock to actually see him, Melchior, Eric Dietrich, standing on the platform. Melchior stood oddly still as others moved bags around him. He stood, hands wrapped around a long cane, long pale face framed by a mane of too-long blond hair, his shoulders covered by an ankle-length fur-lined coat that seemed more appropriate for a prior century.
He radiated power. Just standing there, Stefan could feel that he was the axis on which everything in his field of vision was turning. He could feel that, even though Melchior didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even turn his gaze away from the middle distance where he was staring. He didn’t do a thing, but still, when Stefan saw him, he had an urge to turn and run, to abandon what he was doing, to leave the whole city and whatever else to Melchior.
He closed his eves and prayed for himself, and for his actions. He hoped to God what he was doing was right. If the creature down there was merely a man, what he was going to do was no more than murder ...
He told himself that Melchior, at best, was a murderer. And what Stefan had seen made him much darker.
As he prayed, he felt a burning awareness cross over the side of his body. He carefully looked back to the platform, and for a horrified moment he thought Melchior was looking directly at him.
The moment passed as Melchior’s head kept moving. He hadn’t seen Stefan. Still, it was a few long moments before he was comfortable breathing.
He lay there for what seemed like hours before the train was loaded and began moving. It slowly pulled out, through the tunnels under the terminal. The car slid through the echoing darkness, slowly at first. Concrete passed over his head, much too close. Stefan hugged the roof of the car even closer.
Even though it couldn’t be more than a few minutes, it seemed an eternity before the train left its underground warren, before the concrete ceiling opened up into a cold winter sky. All Stefan could think of was getting this done as quickly as possible, before someone discovered him.
Stefan pushed himself to his knees, icy wind searing his face. He had to turn his face to blink away the tears the wind burned into his eyes. He tied his satchel to the roof of the car and reached inside, taking out sticks of dynamite and the cloth tape.
Stefan crawled to the four corners of the car, anchoring the explosives, setting blasting caps, and wiring the deadly elements together.
As the darkened cliffs of Kingsbury Run slid by him, Stefan made a dangerous climb down the side of the moving car. He planted dynamite at the base of the car as he held on to the side one-handed. He scrambled up just as the train began reaching the lights of the East Fifty-Fifth railyard.
He’d been making good time. He had a lot of the car wired in just a few minutes. But as he pulled himself up onto the roof of the car, he had a sick realization.
The train was slowing down.
This wasn’t in his plan. The train was supposed to leave the city limits. It was supposed to be on some tracks through some abandoned countryside when he pulled the switch—
But the train was going into the yard, not past it. He was losing his chance. Not only was the light enough that someone would see him up here, but there was no telling what would happen to Melchior when the train stopped. He could leave the car, change trains....
He wasn’t fully set up, but it was now or never.
Stefan maniacally connected the last two wires to a spool, grabbed the hand-held plunger out of the satchel, and began moving, trailing wire, toward the front of the train. He stood upright and ran, the wind dying as the train slowed. He jumped the gap between cars twice before he lowered himself on a ladder between a pair of cars.
It might be too close, but he was out of time. They were in the yard, and the train was maneuvering itself into a siding. Stefan stood between cars and fumbled with the end of the spool, attaching wires to the plunger.
He only had one wire attached when the door between the cars opened.
In front of Stefan, caught in the cadaver glow of one of the yard’s arc lights, was the face of Detective Simon Aristaeus. He saw Stefan and grinned. Stefan dropped the plunger, letting it dangle from one attached wire, and went for his gun.
His hand never reached it.
Aristaeus’ arm shot out, faster than Stefan could fully react. He grabbed for Stefan’s neck, and Stefan tried to dodge. It wasn’t enough. Aristaeus grabbed hold of his shoulder with enough force that Stefan could feel his collarbone snap.
Aristaeus pulled him back through the half-open door. Stefan felt wood slam into his side, and he heard glass shattering. Then he was in the air, flying through the aisle between banks of empty seats. He landed on his wounded shoulder, and he felt the end of his collarbone tear through the skin. He shuddered with pain as the warmth of his blood spread across his chest.
“Detective Ryzard,” Aristaeus said, walking slowly up the aisle. He shook his head, tsking.
He stopped to stand over him. “Aren’t you a pain in the ass?” He laughed. “You think you can fight this? You think you can do anything to stop what is going on?”
He knelt and grabbed Stefan by the hair, pulling his head up to face him. Stefan groaned as the fractured bone in his shoulder withdrew.
“You killed me,” Aristaeus said. “You know that? Stone dead, through the heart.” He grinned, and the grin was predatory. Aristaeus’ nostrils flared, and Stefan realized that the strongest smell in here was his own blood.
“Killed me, but there was enough of the Master in me that it didn’t even slow me down. You didn’t save the old man, and now I’m stronger than ever. You’re a sap if you think you can fight something like this.”
Aristaeus’ face was twisting. Stefan could hear the skin protest as his jaw distended and the skull began twisting into a muzzlelike form.
Stefan pulled the rosary out of his pocket and called on the name of the Lord.
God must have been with him, because Aristaeus backed up as if he had been struck. Even in the distorted face, Stefan could see signs of shock and surprise.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Stefan said, holding the small crucifix out before Aristaeus. Aristaeus let go and Stefan fell to the ground, unable to break his fall with his bad arm. With the good arm he held up the rosary as he pushed himself past Aristaeus, toward the door, using only his legs.
“I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;”
He made it to the door, and he strained, his back to the door-frame, to push himself upright using only his legs. Aristaeus watched him, and Stefan kept the rosary between them.
“Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me—ugh”
He made it upright. He was standing next to the ladder, the plunger still dangled from its single wire. All it needed was for him to finish the connection.
He couldn’t lower the crucifix.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of min
e enemies;”
As he spoke the words, he raised his right arm, feeling the broken bones dig inside his shoulder. His eyes watered with every movement, and his face had broken into a sweat in the winter air.
“Thou anointest my head with oil;”
His hand found the other wire, and with trembling fingers he managed to hook it over the unused terminal in the plunger.
“My cup runneth over.”
He spun the wing-nut tight. But there was no way to activate the dangling switch one handed. He had to drop the crucifix. He looked at Aristaeus, who had become a slavering fiend, with a razor-toothed muzzle and claws dangling to his knees.
It was his only chance.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”
Stefan dropped the rosary and grabbed the plunger. Aristaeus began moving instantly, but this time Stefan managed to move faster. He clutched the plunger to his chest, shuddering with the pain of his wounded arm, and twisted the switch home.
Nothing happened.
Somehow, before Aristaeus descended on him, he managed to try it again. Nothing.
Stefan looked up, and Aristaeus was just standing there, in front of him. In the distance, down the car, Stefan heard someone clapping. Aristaeus stepped aside, and there, at the other end of the car, stood Melchior.
Standing next to him was a Negro woman holding in her hands two lengths of severed wire.
Stefan dropped the plunger, but Aristaeus grabbed him before he could make any move at escape. Stefan didn’t even try.
Melchior looked at him with bottomless eyes that seemed to grab his soul and tear it from his body. Stefan prayed to himself as Aristaeus reached into his bloodied jacket and pulled his revolver from his holster. Then, with his foot, Aristaeus kicked the rosary off of the side of the train.
“You’ve done something impressive,” Melchior said, ceasing his applause. His face was hawklike, more predatory in its human form than the distorted mask that Aristaeus’ face had become. His mane of blond hair seemed to blow around his shoulders wildly, even though there was no wind inside the car. “You’ve attracted my attention.”
He stepped next to the Negro woman who held the wires. She didn’t move, even to breathe, as if she was a statue. Stefan wanted to run, to escape, but Aristaeus held him fast.
“You see, I decide who among the herd is important to my purpose. I pick those who will be in thrall to me. Of the countless, pointless millions, a handful are worthy of my touch, my direct control.” Melchior drew a hand across the woman’s shoulder. “Fewer come into my fold.”
He nodded to Aristaeus, who pushed Stefan down to his knees. Stefan felt dizzy from blood loss and the pain in his shoulder.
“You’re at the beginning of a new age, Stefan Ryzard. Soon the human trash will be burned from the face of the land. When the foundations of your civilization are stripped away, what’s left of the cattle will call me Lord.”
Stefan closed his eyes and shook his head. He felt as if he were in the train car with Satan himself.
“You think not?” Melchior’s voice was soft, seductive. “The work you’ve seen was part of my plans before your ancestors decided to accept the middle-eastern cult you hold so dear. I knew when those of my own great race deposed me, nearly a millennia ago, that I would eventually reduce Europe to ashes. Within a decade, this land’s troops will march from Paris to Moscow. I will follow that army, to rule those occupied lands.”
He’s insane. It was too much for Stefan to credit. Aristaeus grabbed Stefan’s jaw and pulled his face upright. Stefan looked into Melchior’s eyes, and his doubt dropped away.
Melchior nodded at him, still standing behind the woman. “My world is come. You cannot fight it. Those of my own race are impotent. Those such as you are less than nothing. And despite that, you interest me.”
The train jerked, and Stefan heard the cars jostling against each other. Melchior waved to Aristaeus, and Stefan felt two inhuman hands clamp down on his shoulders.
“I’ve decided that I want you.”
Stefan’s heart shuddered and struggled against Aristaeus’ grip. In response to his futile struggles, Aristaeus increased his grip, driving sharp daggers of pain into his broken shoulder. Stefan groaned. “God!”
Melchior shook his head. “Such misplaced faith.”
Suddenly, and without warning, Melchior struck out at the woman before him. Stefan saw the flash of a silver blade reaching over the woman’s shoulder. It slid through her neck without slowing. Stefan couldn’t close his eyes or turn away, and watched horrified as the woman’s head tumbled down the front of her body.
Blood didn’t spray. It simply oozed weakly as the headless body dropped to its knees and fell forward, the mortal wound facing Stefan. Melchior stood over the corpse and stared at Stefan. “An act as simple as that is beyond your omnipotent God. Thousands have called upon Him to strike me down, and I still walk the earth.”
Stefan stared at the body, lying in a small pool of thick blackish blood. He couldn’t help thinking of the other bodies he had seen.
“You wonder why I killed her? My own thrall?” Melchior stepped over the body and began walking toward Stefan. “She had been corrupted by the blood of another. Not enough to displace my will within her, but enough to make her offensive to me. She suffered the fate of all those who offend me.” He knelt down in front of Stefan, close enough that Stefan could feel his breath in his face. His breath was cold. “I offer immortality to all those who serve me by taking of my blood. I offer it, and I can take it away. I can give you more in this world than the empty promise of your tortured savior.”
“Lord protect me,” Stefan whispered.
He felt Aristaeus back away from him, but Melchior only smiled. “You think your lord intervenes? You think He causes those of the blood to shy away from you or your cross?” Melchior shook his head. “It is nothing more than you, Stefan Ryzard. Your faith is unpleasant for some, an annoying itch. They can see the devotion in your eyes and it drives the weak ones away.”
“Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou—”
Aristaeus let go of him, but Stefan never had a chance to react, because Melchior’s left hand grabbed his shoulder. “Look at me, Stefan Ryzard. I am not weak.”
Stefan’s gaze fell into Melchior’s eyes, pulling his soul after it. He fell into a void, surrounded on all sides by Melchior’s irresistible presence. Melchior’s will pushed against him like a tidal wave, swamping Stefan’s feeble resistance. Every effort Stefan made to resist seemed to suck him deeper into Melchior’s twisted soul.
With one set of eyes, Stefan was sinking into the depths of hell. With another, he could see Melchior before him, waving Aristaeus to the side. When Melchior raised his hand, Stefan was unrestrained, yet he couldn’t move. It was as if his mind had been totally severed from his body. Even the pain of his injury seemed remote now.
Stefan tried to call for help, at least in his mind. But under the force of the mental undertow, he couldn’t remember his prayers.
“Bare your chest to me,” Melchior said.
Far away, Stefan felt his hands raise to tear open his clothes. It was hard to concentrate. It was becoming less clear to Stefan where he was, and what was happening to him. Even the basic knowledge of who he was seemed weak and eroded.
It would be very easy to forget, to give up. Somewhere inside his mind, that thought inspired a mortal terror. He couldn’t give up his soul. What was left of Stefan didn’t give up, it retreated. Everything he was, everything that trembled at Melchior’s presence, drew back as far into his mind as it could. Stefan’s identity shrank under the flood of Melchior’s will and disappeared somewhere far from his conscious mind. Melchior’s mind filled the spaces it left behind.
“Many give themselves to me willingly.” Melchior raised his arm before the shell that had been Stefan Ryzard. He held his hand before him, and the skin split apart alon
g the lines of the palm. Blood pooled in Melchior’s cupped hand, spilling over the edges. “It pleases me to take from you.”
With those words, Melchior took the blade in his other hand and brought it down across Stefan’s chest. Even when the sword separated the rib cage, opening Stefan’s heart to the air, his body didn’t topple. Melchior’s will was like a physical force holding the body immobile.
After the sword fell, before Stefan’s blood had time to pool at his feet, Melchior’s bloody hand entered the wound. The hand grabbed Stefan’s still-beating heart, coating it with Melchior’s own blood.
Melchior held him like that for an eon, Stefan’s blood drenching the floor of the car below them. Stefan’s heart slowed to a stop, and with it, the bleeding. Stefan’s body never moved, and his eyes never closed. His gaze remained locked upon Melchior.
Eventually, Melchior smiled and withdrew his hand. It came out of the wound, soaked with gore, but as he held it in front of himself, the blood moved with a life of its own, drawing back into his palm, sinking into the raw meat of the palm before Melchior’s skin pulled itself over the wounds in his hand.
As if an imperfect imitation of Melchior’s hand, the edges of the massive wound in Stefan’s chest began to pull themselves together. Now Stefan’s body moved, collapsing to the floor, shuddering as the flesh and bones of his chest reformed themselves. Even the bone that pierced the flesh of his shoulder withdrew as the skin pulled itself over the wound.
In moments, Stefan lay on the floor, curled in a fetal position, eyes blankly staring. He lay in a pool of his own blood, but his body showed no sign of any injury. He breathed, and his heart beat, but both so shallowly that there was little sign of life. His clothes now hung upon him as if he had lost forty pounds.
“Rise up,” Melchior said.
Stefan’s face gave no sign of understanding the words, but his body obeyed. He got unsteadily to his feet. His eyes still stared blankly ahead.
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