Uprising

by Mariani, Scott G.

  Quarter of a second was enough. Alex stepped back out of the swing of the blade and let herself drop down twenty feet, landing on a broad strut below. She’d lost sight of Greg in the forest of white steel. Where was he?

  Lillith peered down at her for an instant, then launched herself into space and landed ten feet away.

  The motion of the wheel had brought another pod level with them – and Alex saw that the massive black vampire was in it, accompanied by his weaselly little friend and the blonde in the white leather jacket. The big guy crashed through the glass as though it was nothing and walked out towards them, a 9mm pistol like a toy in his fist.

  ‘Leave her to me, Zachary,’ Lillith yelled. But before she could finish, the weaselly one had produced a gun and let off a shot. The bullet sang off a thick pipe inches from Alex’s head. At the same instant, Lillith let out a shriek and dropped the sword, clutching her wrist. She’d been hit by the bullet’s ricochet. For an instant there was wild terror in her eyes as she anticipated the first bite of the Nosferol’s effects; then she peeled back the sleeve of her red jumpsuit, and Alex saw the dented gold bracelet on her wrist that had saved her.

  ‘Anton, you fucking moron!’ Lillith hissed furiously at the weaselly guy.

  He frowned apologetically, letting the gun waver, then tightened his grip and started to bring it back up to aim. His second shot was going to find its mark. But Alex wasn’t hanging around for it.

  Instead, she threw herself off the wheel.

  The white pipework flashed by as she went hurtling down in freefall, and the ground rushed up to meet her. Vampires could take a lot of damage, but she’d never pushed her luck as far as leaping two hundred feet down onto concrete. She was about to find out whether it was survivable.

  The impact knocked the breath out of her. She knew to flex her knees to prevent her thigh bones spearing up through her shoulder blades, and to roll like a parachutist. Stunned, she lay there for a moment or two while she tried to ascertain whether her body was still intact or whether she was going to spend the rest of eternity as a pile of mincemeat. Someone screamed in horror. Voices around her.

  ‘Jesus Christ. Did you see that?’

  ‘She fell.’

  ‘Fuck no, she jumped.’

  ‘Ambulance must be on its way.’

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘I think she is, yeah.’

  ‘Course she’s bloody dead.’

  ‘Oh my God…’

  Alex stirred, then picked herself up off the concrete and dusted her hands. She seemed to be okay. The crowd that had gathered round her backed off sharply. People were gasping, pointing. Another scream, if anything more shocked than before. Apparently, the only thing scarier than witnessing a suicide was when the body upped and walked away.

  Partygoers were milling around at the foot of the Eye in the wake of the shooting. Most were pale and silent, huddled in corners like disaster survivors as they waited in shock for the emergency services to arrive. Women wept in their men’s arms. Someone had laid a coat over the dead body of the security guy. The howl of sirens was getting close. It sounded like half the police force and a hundred ambulances were carving through the London traffic towards them.

  Alex peered up at the towering wheel. No sign of Greg anywhere. Maybe the fight had given him the chance to escape – but she hadn’t seen him come down. Had he managed to board another pod? She narrowed her eyes.

  Greg, where are you?

  Lillith was a tiny figure perched high above. Not even she was crazy enough to attempt a leap like that.

  Alex knew what she was thinking. We’ll meet again.

  And it was something Alex was looking forward to as well.

  She let her gaze linger just a moment longer. Then, as the ambulances and police cars came screaming into sight and the place was suddenly swirling with blue lights, she slipped away.

  Chapter Thirty

  Oxford

  12.50 a.m.

  The rain was turning heavy as Mickey Thompson walked through the empty city centre, but he didn’t care about getting wet. The atmosphere of the party he’d just left was still with him, making him smile. But the thing that was really putting the spring in his step as he walked past Carfax Tower and headed down the slick High Street pavement towards his digs was the memory of Sally Baker.

  He’d worshipped her from afar ever since he’d first bumped into her in the mathematics section at the college library. Three whole terms had gone by, and he’d never been able to pluck up the courage to ask her out. But tonight he’d done it. And she’d said yes.

  Mickey made a fist as he walked. Yes! So it was dinner, tomorrow night. Then he remembered how late it was. Not tomorrow, today. Even better. He began to worry about where to take her. He couldn’t afford much on his postgrad allowance, but he really needed to make an impression here. How about that nice little French brasserie on Little Clarendon Street? Or maybe Chinese? Or was that too obvious? Mexican? Too spicy, maybe.

  Those were the happy concerns that filled his mind as he wandered all the way down the High Street, humming a little tune to himself, until he reached the cobbled lane that wound past the Radcliffe Camera.

  Mickey Thompson suddenly froze. Stopped, and very slowly turned.

  No, he must have imagined it. But he could have sworn someone was there behind him.

  He shrugged and kept walking through the rain.

  Must have been the wine.

  He walked on under the looming shadow of the circular Radcliffe Camera building.

  Hold on. There was someone there.

  He could hear padding footsteps a few yards behind him. He turned again, and this time he saw the figure.

  It stood on the edge of a sodium streetlamp’s diffuse amber haze. A tall man, dressed all in black, his body seeming to melt into the shadows. But Mickey could see the long, lean face, and he could see that the man was looking at him. There was a strange glint in his eye. Was that a smile on his thin lips?

  Mickey walked faster now, his steps becoming jerky with tension. He glanced over his shoulder through the wet mist. The man was still there, keeping pace with him. Should he turn and confront him? If this was a mugging, could he avoid trouble by offering the guy some money to go away? But something about the man told Mickey he was no mugger. He wanted something else. But what?

  Mickey couldn’t stand it any longer – he broke into a run. His heart was in his mouth and the sound of his footsteps echoed off the college buildings as he rounded the corner and headed down New College Lane. Up ahead of him, the gothic archway of the Bridge of Sighs hung darkly over the narrow street, the streetlights glinting off its rain-streaked leaded windows. Just a hundred yards further and Mickey would be at the door of the flat he shared with two other postgrad mathematicians. He fumbled for his keys as he ran – and dropped them.

  As he groped cursing in the shadowy gutter to retrieve the keys, he realised the man was gone. He let out a wheezing gasp of relief.

  ‘You stupid bugger,’ he muttered to himself. ‘What’s got into you?’

  That was when the chill feeling of dread came over him. It started at his toes and spread quickly through his body, and it wasn’t because his clothes were damp. It was that horrible feeling that he was being watched. As if by a predator.

  He looked up, afraid of what he was going to see.

  It was the man in black. He stood framed in the ornate centre window of the bridge, ten feet above his head.

  Mickey backed away. His jaw dropped open.

  With a crashing of breaking glass, the man leapt from the window and landed on his feet like a cat on the pavement in front of Mickey.

  And before Mickey Thompson could turn and run, let out a scream or wet his pants in terror, the man was on him and he felt the teeth savaging his throat.

  London

  Alex flipped open her phone and speed-dialled Rumble as she pressed the Jag through the night traffic. It was just after one a.m.

 
‘Jesus, Harry, I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘I was feeding. What’s happened?’

  ‘It was a trap. We walked right into it. Becker and Mundhra are down. Greg and I got separated and I can’t find him. I’ve tried his phone about a hundred times. I think they might have taken him.’

  Rumble was quiet for a long moment as the news sank in. ‘But who—’

  ‘They’re vampires. They’re better funded than us, they’re better organised than us, and they’re not fucking about. They have Nosferol, Harry.’

  A sharp hiss as Rumble drew a breath on the end of the line. ‘Where are they getting it from?’

  ‘There’s only one way. Someone on the inside.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You tell me. All I know is, we’re under attack.’

  Rumble fell silent once more for a few seconds. When he spoke again, she could feel the urgency in his voice. ‘I need to make some calls. Are you coming in?’

  ‘No, I have a visit to make.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Greg felt an enormous hand press into his back and shove him forward. He could see enough through the black hood over his head to know that he was in a dark place, like some kind of tunnel or cellar. His captors had shoved and prodded him a long way through corridors and down steps after they’d hauled him out of the car. If they were inside a house, it was a big one.

  From the echo of the footsteps ringing off stone walls, he figured there were two of them marching him along, one big and heavy, the other light on his feet, like a fox. The two male vampires from the London Eye.

  ‘Move your ass faster,’ the big one said in his impossibly deep bass.

  ‘We should have just finished this bastard back in London.’ His companion sounded agitated with fury. ‘He’s the one who did for Petra.’

  ‘Uh-uh. Gabriel wants him.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You know Gabriel. Didn’t say.’

  For an instant Greg thought about lashing out behind him with his foot. He might get lucky. If he could get the element of surprise, if he could somehow shake off the hood, he still could have a chance of getting out of it.

  But he knew there were too many ifs in that sentence. He kept walking, his mind working furiously. Why were vampires fighting vampires? And who was Gabriel?

  A huge hand grabbed his arm and jerked him to a halt. A moment’s pause, then he heard the creak of a heavy door. Down more steps, and the echoes intensified. He could see patches of light through the material of the hood.

  ‘Take it off him,’ the deep voice said, and the hood was ripped away.

  Greg blinked. They were standing at the bottom of a murky passage facing an ancient studded door. Burning torches flanked the arched stone entrance.

  He glanced at his captors in the firelight and saw his guess had been right about the big guy. The giant had to keep his head bowed as he stepped forward and turned the iron handle. The door swung open and Greg was shoved through.

  He looked around him at the shadowy, sumptuous room in which he found himself. The air was rich with the tang of candles, and their glow shone across gilt furnishings and red velvet. Snarling ebony tigers loomed out of the shadows from the ornate carved fireplace. The walls were covered with age-worn tapestries depicting battle scenes from a period of history that he could only guess was beyond ancient.

  ‘Second-century Carpathia,’ said a voice. Its tone was smooth, almost musical. Greg turned to see a man standing in the shadows behind the flickering candelabras. ‘Magnificent, aren’t they?’ the man said.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The man stepped forward into the candlelight. He was tall, but not brutish like his men. He exuded an air of aristocratic grace, regal, utterly relaxed and self-assured.

  ‘My name is Stone. Gabriel Stone. Welcome to my little retreat.’ The smile on his lips was warm. ‘Do you like it? Speaking as one vampire to another.’

  Greg didn’t reply. Glancing around him, he could see the items his captors had taken from him earlier laid out on a table a few feet away. His weapon, stripped and unloaded of its Nosferol rounds. His VIA ID, his phone. The pouch containing his Solazal pills and his blood surrogate food supply lay unzipped, its contents spilled across the table’s leather top.

  Following Greg’s gaze, Stone walked over to the table. He picked up the VIA ID wallet and flipped it open, running his eye over the laminated card printed with Greg’s name, his turn date and the bold red letter ‘P’ that denoted his probationary status.

  ‘Just a baby,’ Stone chuckled. ‘So fresh I can still smell human on you.’ He flipped the wallet shut and tossed it down on the table. ‘I almost feel sympathy for you, Agent Shriver.’

  Greg stared at him. ‘Why am I here?’

  Stone smiled. ‘Have a seat, Greg. May I call you Greg?’

  ‘I prefer to stand.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Stone settled elegantly into a plush armchair before reaching for a decanter and pouring a measure of sparkling red juice into a crystal tumbler. ‘Care for a drink? Oh, I’m sorry. You’re still on the surrogate stuff they give you.’ He took a sip of the blood, then reclined in the armchair and looked long and hard at Greg. ‘You really have no idea of the kind of organisation you’ve joined, do you? All you know is what you’ve been told by your colleague, Agent Bishop.’

  ‘You know her?’ Greg said, surprised.

  ‘I know all about her,’ Stone replied. ‘She’s made quite a reputation for herself. Shame, because she’ll be destroyed. Every one of them will, and soon.’

  ‘Why do you hate the Federation so much, Stone?’

  ‘The Federation,’ Stone echoed with a shake of the head. ‘Even after all these years, it’s astounding to me that this obscene gang of despots had the temerity to call themselves a vampire federation, as though it truly had the collective interests of all our race at heart – as though it had been created by unanimous consensus. The truth is, your precious Federation is no more than a crude dictatorship that simply stormed in and took what it wanted by force. It never tried to win the hearts and minds of the vampire race. It doesn’t have our blessing. And it will be obliterated.’

  ‘By you?’

  Stone gave a thin smile. ‘I’ve been a vampire for a very long time, Greg. I remember the way it once was. A time when humans lived in fear of us, a time when we truly ruled. Look at the vampire race now. A hunted minority, lurking in shadows like rats in holes. The price of four thousand years of apathy and complacency, during which time we allowed the tables slowly to turn on us. Before we knew it, the humans were out of control. They were too many, too powerful and too organised. It’s time for a change.’

  ‘The Federation is that change,’ Greg said.

  ‘The Federation is a craven betrayal of everything our race once stood for,’ Stone said angrily. ‘It imposes heresy under the guise of order. It wilfully denies vampires their heritage. It perverts tradition. Don’t be fooled by them, Greg. They are the cancer, not the cure. They are evil.’ He smiled, his anger fading as quickly as it had risen up. ‘You know, there are still options open to you. Your friends haven’t completely brainwashed you. Not yet.’

  ‘I get it. This is a recruitment drive. I should be honoured.’

  ‘You should certainly have a think about it. It’s very generous of me to be willing to overlook the fact that you and your associates murdered two of my brethren this evening. And I don’t open my door to just anyone.’

  ‘You want people inside VIA.’

  ‘I already have people inside VIA, and a host of operatives working across the globe to further our plans. But I could always use more.’

  ‘I wouldn’t come over to you, Stone. Not in a thousand years. Stick it up your ass.’

  ‘A thousand years is a long time,’ Stone said. ‘I ought to know.’ He shrugged. ‘Fine. Have it your way. You’re going to deliver a message for me.’

  ‘I think you’re getting old, Stone. Your hearing is gone.
Didn’t I just say you could stick your offer up your ass?’

  ‘I heard you fine,’ Stone said. ‘Then it’s adieu, Agent Shriver.’

  ‘A-what?’

  ‘Adieu. It’s French for “see you in hell”.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you there, all right.’

  Stone laughed. ‘You’ll be waiting a long time.’

  Before Greg could say another word, he felt a presence coming up behind him and half-turned to see the big vampire stepping up fast. The fist lashed out of nowhere, and everything went dark.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Last Bite Bar and Grill

  1.41 a.m.

  The party was in full swing, music thumping loudly as Alex walked up to the bar.

  ‘Is Rudi about?’ she shouted over the noise to one of the barmen.

  ‘Rudi’s got company right now.’ The barman raised his eyebrows suggestively. ‘They’re upstairs.’ He jerked his thumb at the ceiling. Rudi’s private suite of luxurious rooms occupied the top floor of the building.

  ‘A woman?’

  The barman nodded with a sly chuckle. ‘We get some hot stuff in here, but this one…hoo hoo. And if I know Rudi, there’s a red leather jumpsuit lying on the floor up there as we speak. So I’d leave it a while before disturbing them.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Bout an hour. Hey. I said—’

  Alex was through the STAFF ONLY door before the barman could stop her and running up the backstairs. A spiral staircase wound up from the second floor to the opulence of Rudi’s private domain.

  Alex emerged onto a landing that was on the gaudy end of opulent – white satin on the walls and an oversized sparkling chandelier. A gilt-framed oil hung near the double doors of the apartment, depicting Rudi dressed as Napoleon Bonaparte; his chin was raised proudly and his hand was slipped inside his jacket as an epic battle raged in the background, complete with cavalry charges and artillery. But Alex wasn’t here to appreciate Rudi’s taste in art. She kicked in the door and stormed inside the huge marble-floored entrance hall. A Tom Jones CD was playing from hidden speakers.