by Phil Tucker
“I, uh, I’m not sure. I’m kinda new to all this? I’ve only been involved like a month or two. But I think there’s, like, thirty? Maybe forty? They don’t always stick around, you know, they come and go.”
Selah looked out the window to hide her shock. Thirty? Forty? In one gang alone? “How many gangs are there? Vampire gangs.”
“I think there are … hold on.” The boy looked up as he thought, mouthing out names and numbers. “Like five main ones? And then a whole bunch of little ones.”
“And is Louis’ gang the biggest?”
The kid shook his head. “No. I mean, who knows, really? But I think Arachne’s is the biggest.”
They turned off onto I-10, and began to drive away from downtown. Toward the San Bernardino Valley, she realized. They’d passed the Pueblo Hills on their right. She shook her head. To think. All that effort to get to Buena Park only to drive right back up.
“How many people are still living in the Core?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. I mean—lemme think about it. Like, maybe some two million or something? One million? Nobody knows. There’s a lot of people, though. I mean, the city’s mostly empty, the Core is, compared to the city outside the walls, but yeah, still a ton of people. It changes, though. A lot of people going over the Wall, a lot coming in. Hard to say.”
“People go in and out a lot?”
“Yeah. All you need is to get a gang to sponsor you, pay them some cash, and you can get smuggled in or out pretty easy. Everybody does it.”
“And the military? Don’t they watch the walls?”
The kid blew out his lips in amusement. He seemed to be relaxing, realizing that she wasn’t about to tear out his throat. “Fuck the military. They don’t do shit unless something really bad happens, and then it’s all like, ‘We are the military, give us the person who did this shit, we need to tell the press we have the situation under control.’” The kid shook his head. “Hell no, the military don’t do shit unless you pay them first.”
“Huh,” said Selah. She might as well forget everything she learned in Miami.
The kid eased off on the gas, and took an off-ramp down into the city. They swung around and began to head north. Selah caught sight of the sign, but failed to read the name. It was a residential neighborhood, a broad avenue cutting past single-story white homes, their lawn grass desiccated and rank with weeds, bushes gnarled and overgrown. A few were shuttered tight, others were obviously abandoned. Most fell in between, not clearly marked as inhabited either way.
Selah rested her chin on her knuckles. Think. This was probably her last moment of calm before everything came to a head. What did she have to ask? To know? It was too hard to muster the energy, though, the thoughts. She tried to summon hope, hope that she was finally going to be meeting with vampires that could direct her toward the cure, but what if they didn’t know? Sawiskera’s ritual had been ancient, and only Karl had seemed aware of it—and that due to his extensive research. What if these vampires were ignorant, had no idea, and just laughed at her?
More turns. A broader avenue, divided down the center by a long island of trees. The voices in the back were silent now. Every so often another car would drive by, or they would see a small cluster of people standing to one side, walking together or simply watching them pass.
They reached a great verdant wall, and the kid began to drive around it, following its circumference as they sought an entrance. Selah sat up, nervous energy cracking her apathy and despair. They found the main entrance, twin columns with elaborately carved headstones flanking the road, great bushes that grew like firework explosions beside the gate, sharply pronged and vibrant, trees looming up beyond the chest-high fence, blotting out the stars. The kid released a sigh of relief as he drove in, and they cruised down a long drive flanked by royal palms on one side and mountainous bushes on the other. Around a traffic circle, and then deeper into the complex. The grounds were dark, shadowed, and Selah captured only hints of grand lawns, great buildings built in what seemed a Grecian style. Trees everywhere, plants grown wild, choking each other as they fought for space.
The van passed a vast building on their left and then entered the circular driveway before a second, smaller building. Painted a delicate cream, its high walls seemed to glow under the moonlight. It was a mansion, a palace, something out of old Europe. Two wings extended as if to embrace the driveway, while the building’s main body hung back, so that it seemed to wait for them, crouched with arms outstretched.
The kid parked the van under an elegant stone awning that emerged from the left wing, treelike columns rising up around them, pale and smooth as bones. Before Selah could give him a command, he threw open the door and took off running, yelling at the top of his voice. Selah leaped out after him, completely taken by surprise. A cluster of men turned toward her from where they’d been standing by the left wing’s entrance. She came to a halt. The kid had run up to them, behind them, and was babbling to them as fast as he could talk.
One of the men held up his hand and the kid snapped his mouth shut. He drew Selah’s attention like no other, despite being surrounded by larger men. Of medium height and slender build, his skin seemed akin to the surface of a marble statue, smooth and inhuman, polished to a near gloss. His hair was long and pulled back into a ponytail, his face aristocratic, mouth cruel, his black eyes so intense that they seemed to glow like coals thumbed into his skull. When he moved forward, it was not as other men walked, but rather a drift, as a boat might float upon calm waters. One moment he was amongst the other men, and the next he stood poised before her, eyes burning as he studied her face. Then, to Selah’s shock, he bowed deeply, if a touch mockingly, in a fashion she’d never seen before, one arm crossed over his chest, the other extended out to the side.
“Welcome, Arachne. You do us much honor.”
Arachne? Selah schooled her features, forced herself to not react. What did he—suddenly the pieces slotted into place. She recalled Padrino Machado, his face spasming into alarm at the sight of her. Confusing her for somebody else—somebody who terrified him.
Selah raised her chin, and allowed her most disdainful sneer to emerge. The vampire held his bow, and then slowly, gracefully, straightened. Selah felt her heart skip a beat, and reached up and removed her sunglasses. There. Let him see her vampire eyes, and allow his assumptions to guide him.
“I’ve come to speak with Louis,” she said. “Is he here?”
“You have, have you?” There was too much mockery in the vampire’s cultured voice, and he continued to study her avidly. “Then, by all means, let us effect a meeting. You have come … alone?”
“Yes. I mean, no. A … companion of mine is in the van.” Selah realized she was trying to match his tone, his fancy language. Was this how Arachne spoke?
“Bring forth your companion. Let us not leave him squirreled away in the bowels of your van.” He smiled, a half smile, and suddenly Selah had no idea if he believed her charade.
“Your name?” She strove to make her words an order.
“A question I often ask myself. What is my true name? That which my mother bestowed upon me, that which my truest enemies know me by, or that which I currently enjoy wearing, like a mask at a masquerade?”
Selah didn’t know what to say.
“Call me Tybalt, dear Arachne, if your memory fails you so.”
Selah turned and stepped to the back of the van. No more questions. They only revealed her ignorance. She yanked the doors open. “Cloud, come on.” She ignored his guarded expression. There was no time for that.
She turned back and walked up the steps, directly toward Tybalt, who gave way graciously, opening the door that led into the mansion. She heard Cloud spring lightly to the red tiles and hasten to follow.
They entered a great hall carved as if from the heart of a wedding cake, everything white, stiff and formal, with columns along the wall, gleaming floors, and high, vaulted ceilings. Tybalt strode down the hall to a vast stairc
ase. Selah heard Cloud’s every step behind her, but didn’t look around. Would he play along? Would he control his emotions enough to get them through the night? She wanted desperately to take him aside, to speak with him, but there was no time. He would simply have to keep his wits about him.
Up they went, Selah striving to emulate Tybalt’s effortless grace, and along the hallways and through grand rooms that had been clearly turned into art galleries, endless portraits and paintings hanging on the walls, the floors devoid of furniture. Finally they entered a large room that seemed cast from another world, another time, brought straight out of history into the present day.
It was opulent, the walls paneled in glowing wood, a great mirror doubling the number of chandeliers that hung from the white ceiling. A faded rug of yellow, white, and blue was cast over the parquet floor, and bookcases stood behind glass, embedded in the walls. Heavy curtains were drawn aside to reveal windows that reached from floor to ceiling. Yet for all the size of the room, there was little furniture: an ornately carved table with stiff-looking chairs around it, low coffee tables gleaming under layers of varnish, their panels intricately designed, a few uncomfortable couches, and a great lacquered harp that stood in the corner of the room.
A man was at the harp, his back to the door, dressed in a felt coat that looked as antique as the furniture. He was bent forward, head lowered as his hands glided over the harp strings, not touching them but moving furiously, fingers plucking the space just before each string as if he played a ghostly counterpart.
Tybalt drifted into the room, and Selah saw a number of other men and women seated around the walls, each either lounging or sitting upright, eyes fixed on the harpist. They wore all manner of clothing, from the same historical garb of the harpist to modern dresses and jeans. Black eyes slid to examine Selah, and a number of them stiffened, one even bolting to his feet, mouth opening in outrage.
Selah didn’t know how she could tell, but the music stopped. The invisible, silent music. It was as if a tension had ceased, been released, and she looked back at the harpist to see his hands frozen beside the strings. He sat still, head bowed, and then turned smoothly and stood, his caramel-colored curls free and wild about his narrow face, tumbling to his shoulders. He was as pale-skinned as Tybalt, paler; she could trace the faint trails of veins across the tops of his hands and up the side of his neck. His lips were as wan as his skin, and his chin narrow, while his cheekbones were prominent, framing his wide, liquid-black eyes and casting his face in a manner inhuman yet alluring.
“Selah Brown,” he said, and his voice was silk running over her skin, the sigh of the wind over a wild mountain meadow. She froze. He strode toward her, moved with that fluid speed that made it hard for mortal eyes to follow. Her eyes were no longer mortal, however, and she tracked him as he appeared by her side, and took her hand in his. She chose to not pull away, to persist in the charade. His touch was cool, his skin as smooth as porcelain, his fingers long and as firm as iron.
“The resemblance is remarkable,” he said. “I owe Machado an apology.”
“You’ve spoken with Padrino Machado?” Anger battled with her need. “Then he’s told you that I’m from Miami. That Sawiskera’s blood runs through my veins. That he tried to steal my humanity, but failed.” Selah felt trapped in a prism of predatory eyes, all focused on her. “Did he tell you that I’m turning into a vampire? Because I am, which is why I’ve come for your help. To find a way to stop that from happening.”
Louis—for it had to be him—still held her hand in his, her palm upturned. He was as immobile as a statue, and in his black eyes she saw no pity, no compassion, no flare of understanding. How ridiculous her words sounded, her plea for help, here amongst so many monsters. She felt her heart quail, felt sweat break out in tiny pinpricks along her brow, her stomach knot. Why had she ever thought that vampires would help her?
“To think,” whispered Louis. “That I hold the very hand that killed the Eldest.”
Selah swallowed, and then gave a slight shrug. “I had help.”
“You had help.” Louis released her hand and stepped back, a single, gliding step, never turning his face away from hers. “You had help in slaying the greatest, the most ancient of our number, and now you come here to ask us for assistance? Oh, that is precious folly, that is delicious naiveté. Or is it arrogance, a hubris most outrageous? I cannot decide.” His pale lips bent into a smile, and a murmur of amusement rippled through the vampires.
“Don’t fool with me,” said Selah. She could feel Sawiskera’s curse, feel his blood within her, that depth of power, that hunger for conflict. “I’ve come to ask for help, yes. But not to put up with mockery.”
Louis arched a brow, and walked back toward the harp. “Tybalt, kill this importunate pest. She has interrupted my concert.”
Chapter Ten
Selah’s blood thundered, a torrent of dark flame rushing through every vein and capillary. She felt Sawiskera’s might, his pride, his fury, course through her, sear every synapse and nerve in her body. She was no longer merely Selah. She felt Sawiskera’s presence, as if his ghost rode her body, emerged from the pounding center of her heart. He would not be spoken to thus. He would not be so easily dismissed. Selah felt his power awaken within her, blossom like a black fire rose, and she welcomed it.
Tybalt was fast. Inhumanly, impossibly fast. He was a fencing sword, flexible and deadly, and he came at her before Louis’ command was complete. As elegant and deadly as a thrusted blade, he leaped directly at her with terrible speed.
But Selah was faster. No matter what Tybalt’s age, his lineage, he was nothing before Sawiskera, the Eldest, the Ancient, who’d styled himself a literal god—and had been believed. Selah turned on the ball of her foot, spun around, everything around her grinding down to a halt as she moved. Tybalt surged toward her as if through honey, hands outstretched, nails turned to claws, lips pulled back from his fangs. Selah reached out and took him by his right wrist. Allowed instincts foreign and honed by millennia of practice to command her. She grasped his wrist, and pulled it straight down, around, and then up.
The result was explosive. Tybalt’s forward momentum flung him into a vicious somersault as his arm whiplashed him around. He hit the parquet floor with sufficient force to crack the wooden slats. Selah released his wrist, and stared over the stunned Tybalt at where Louis had stopped, midstride. He didn’t turn, but she saw him stiffen.
Tybalt wasn’t finished. He coursed up into a crouch, and with palms on the floor swung his left leg in a great sweeping arc, seeking to kick Selah’s heels out from under her. Selah simply stepped back and then kicked Tybalt under the chin as if punting a soccer ball. His head snapped up, and the force of the blow lifted him into the air to crash down onto a coffee table three yards behind him, shoulders and neck shattering into the table’s surface before the rest of him fell bonelessly amidst the wreckage.
Tybalt, enraged, sprang back to his feet, but froze at the sound of Louis’ voice.
“Enough.” The vampire leader finally turned back around. “That table was priceless.” His eyes narrowed. “An original from the court of the Sun King.”
Selah lowered her arms but said nothing.
“Tybalt, you are excused.”
The other vampire turned in shock to Louis, opening his mouth to protest, but quickly changed his mind. He sketched a curt bow, one completely devoid of mockery, and fled the room.
“Are you ready to talk?” asked Selah.
“Am I ready?” Louis studied her. She couldn’t read his expression. Nothing at all. They locked eyes for what seemed like an age, till the tension began to mount within her, till she felt the desire to do something, anything to break the silence. At last, he nodded and smiled. “Yes. I am. Come, sit with me. Let us converse. Tell me of your desires, and I, in turn, shall tell you of mine.”
Selah turned to meet Cloud’s eyes. He stood as a man buffeted by a storm, lashed by the waves on some raw coastal outcropping, fi
sts clenched and face strained. The room was filled with vampires. Realization hit her: he had no direct experience of their company, had not frequented their parties in Miami as she had done, spent time conversing with them, interacting on various levels. He was exposed, vulnerable, surrounded by his most dreaded and hated enemies. Was she to leave him standing alone?
Cloud took a deep breath. Met her eyes, and then forced a nod. Feet shoulder width apart, he stood as if prepared to fight, to be attacked from any angle, yet there was in his stern expression an understanding, a willingness to stand alone. Selah returned his nod. Any expression of compassion or concern would be immediately picked up by the vampires. So instead she simply turned and followed Louis, to stand across from him as he resumed his seat on the stool, the majestic harp between them so that she saw him through the bars of its strings.
“Tybalt will be quite upset at you,” said Louis, voice idle as if observing some item of no consequence.
“That’s his problem. I didn’t command him to attack me.”
“No, you didn’t, but pride is such a strange and dangerous thing. He will blame you for his humiliation, though we all know there is nobody to blame.” He glanced up and smiled at her raised brow. “You think it my fault? Hardly. It was a necessity. I was but observing social niceties. Had I not forced your hand, my cherie, you would have been tested by all our kind until your social standing were determined. Now you are free of such tiresome games, and can focus on the matter at hand.”
“I’m not part of your kind.” Selah raised her chin. The words felt hollow on her tongue.
“No? Your eyes speak otherwise. You fought with such elegance that it transcended mere movement and became eloquence. Yes, your heart still beats, and your blood is warm, but that cannot be for much longer. Am I right?”
“No. I’ve come for a cure. I don’t plan on letting this go any further.”
“But why not? Stay your tongue before you blurt out your first addled thought. We must all learn to master our reflexes. You do not wish to become a vampire? I imagine you have never allowed yourself to consider the … benefits. Shall I elucidate them for you?” His smile was as slight and sharp as a razor’s edge. He lifted his hands and began to strum the harp’s cords, fingertips never actually touching the strings. “Immortality. Yes, you may die by violence, but otherwise, the eons are open to you. If you have any measure of curiosity in your being, how can you not wish to see what Fate shall ordain for this planet and its species? How shall we fare a century from now? What shape will our societies take, a thousand years hence? By then, some thirty human generations shall have passed, but you shall resist the cruelty of time and still walk this earth, your memories of the twenty-first century as fresh as those of this morning.”