I didn’t tell him about how Smitty had wanted to take Jackson’s deal. “They were rolling with Hitch. You can know people by the company they keep.”
“I keep company with you and Fedgov. What’s that make me?”
“Bad,” I said honestly, “whether you like it or not.”
He nodded. “Hitch will be in hiding. His relatives won’t be, though. I’ll get to them, eventually.”
The bodies carbonizing in the furnace, the Nightfallen equivalent of a romantic fireplace. I edged closer to him. He didn’t push me away.
• • •
Fallen Messiah
(Nightfallen #4)
1
Church Going
“I thought being undead meant you didn’t have to go to church,” Jackson Wheel said when I first told him about Endet Hibernis. “In fact, I thought it meant you’d combust if you set foot in one.”
“It won’t be on consecrated ground, silly,” I said as we sat across from each other in our usual Dominion Street coffee shop. We were a week or two before spring break, and the place was packed with Ramsgate College students studying for midterms. Notwithstanding all the open books, enough of the human bipedal buffets were talking that Jackson and I didn’t have to keep our voices too low. “It might be good for you to attend. For your mission, and all. See how real Nightfallen interact en mass. Get to know our culture.”
“How many we talking, Ginny?” he asked. “Just Matheson class ones like you, or other kinds too?”
“Twenty or thirty, Mathesons only. We tend to segregate by race.”
“They’re that many vampires in Echo Valley?”
“If there were, there’d be way more unsolved homicides in this town. The Endet Hibernis ceremony will be a draw for those in the region, though.”
“You think it’s a good idea? A fake like me among all those genuine articles?” he asked.
“You’ll pass inspection,” I said.
He had been successfully faking it, after all, the past several months. True, crosses might not work on him, but it wasn’t like anyone at the ceremony would—or physically could—hold one to see if it blinded him. In most other ways, his Defense Department-provided modifications were pretty good—the reason we always sat away from the windows in here was so no one would notice that neither of us had reflections.
“Besides, I’ll be there to help smooth things over. As per usual,” I added.
“I get why it might be worth my while to go. What’s in it for you?”
“I just want to help you,” I said.
“You’re lying,” he said. “We all know your kind doesn’t do anything except out of self-interest.”
He was right. Altruism? Kindness for its own sake? We just weren’t built that way.
“I used to go to church with my parents,” I said. “Southern Baptist. Mom and Dad were more sedate, but the church we frequented had older members that didn’t even have the good taste to keep to themselves that they thought the pope was going to Hell. Attended into high school, up to a few weekends before I died.
“You know what?” I continued. “I believed in Him. God. It was nice knowing someone was always on your side. Now, He hates me. His symbols burn and blind us on earth, and we’ll burn forever when we’re finally killed.
“I miss knowing someone’s got my back. If I can’t have Jesus, I’ll take what I can get, even if it’s a demon god. Maybe he’ll help me, keep me animate in this world longer. Maybe he’ll be able to help me when I end, and my agony in the hereafter will be a little less.”
Jackson seemed to buy it, and it was true as far as it went. But there was another reason I wanted him to come.
Here he was, a good man—and a living man at that—sent out into the night with us. His body altered by his government, and commanded by it to act evil so he could blend in, the better to spy on us.
In my three Nightfallen years, I’d come to believe that more than our thoughts, and certainly more than our intentions, we are our actions. To act evil, even if you tell yourself it’s all pretend, is in fact to be evil.
How delicious if Jackson accepted that. Embraced it. How strong might he be, liberated from his conscience, lacking most of our weaknesses, yet knowing everything about the mortal world’s clandestine war against us. A sword of lightning in the Devil’s hands.
With me at his side.
2
Midnight Mass
“Such a target-rich environment. If I were back in Afghanistan, I’d call in a drone strike,” Jackson whispered, three nights later.
We made our way through the woods. These were the mountains ringing Echo Valley. No houses built up here, no streetlights on the few winding roads that connected town to the rest of the world. The clouds blocking even the wane light of the stars. Blackness everywhere.
We can see beyond the visible spectrum. To us, the living are knots of delicious light, the life licking from their skin like flares from the sun. When we see others of our kind it’s another matter: the absence of life, a blackness that pulsates. Jackson, though a fraud, had been changed enough so that he looked to me now as a slim shadow.
The older the vampire, the more power. And the more powerful the larger the darkness that leaked from them. Winter was only just giving way to spring, the trees still bare but preparing for life’s return. I could see the still sleepy life of the forest, a calm, even backdrop of blue. Against that backdrop, moving in the same direction as Jackson and I, were pulsating shadows, some thin and therefore newer Nightfallen like Jackson and me. A few, though, radiated churning storms of nothingness.
From the woods, we emerged in a clearing that sloped still higher—the mountain’s bald crown. There was a boulder in the clearing’s center. Squat, misshapen so that its flat top was slightly larger than its base, I wondered if it was a natural formation or the weathered remains of an altar brought here long before white men came this deep into the New World.
There was no graffiti on the rock. That surprised me. Maybe Echo Valley’s teens sensed what else might be drawn here.
“Why here?” Jackson had asked, as we had driven to the site. “What makes this place so special?”
“To understand that, you have to know something of our theology, the stories in our black bible,” I had said.
“I’m guessing vampire religion consists of mocking the Bible.”
“No,” I’d said. “We believe in Him more fervently than any fundamentalist, and so take every word of it as truth. Metaphorical truth at a minimum, but more literal truth than I realized in Sunday school. The key difference is that we also understand that its silences are as important as the Bible’s words. There are a lot of ugly truths that were edited down to PG-13 for the masses. What we read from is more the unedited director’s cut.”
“Like what?” Jackson had asked.
“You know the Creation story, right? How on the first day, He separated light and darkness?”
“Sure.”
“The living only get that first part though, about separating light and dark. We get the whole story, about how He saved some of that darkness—an especially virulent piece of it—and encased it as He formed the earth. You asked why we were having our service here. It’s because there are certain fissures in the earth, where that original piece of buried evil seeps out. This is one.”
“So this world is a prison for evil,” he’d eventually said.
“Pretty much. Poisoned to its core, right from the beginning.”
As we approached the boulder now, I shifted my vision to infrared to better see the congregation’s faces.
While there was much diversity in age and power, as far as appearances went, the crowd was largely from the same demographic. Entirely white and mostly younger—teens and twenties, with a sprinkling of thirties. There were nonetheless a handful that had become Nightfallen much later in life.
One had a beard, his gray hair combed back to proudly display a prominent forehead. A striped shirt, khakis,
and a blazer, he looked like a Dumbledore groomed for the country club. Notwithstanding his physical age, he was clearly new to the Nightfallen, radiating less blackness than Jackson.
A fair amount were in leather coats, nothing so overdone as all-out Goth, but definitely giving off a vaguely BDSM vibe. A few of the women were in leather pants, but most had opted for skintight jeans.
Aside from race, another common factor was that they were all fit looking. Mate preference and selection in action. Who would want someone obese and gross to be part of the club?
There were a couple of harems—a male sire with serving females here, a female sire with serving males there. For the most part, though, it was just boy-girl pairs. These pairings were also mostly newly Nightfallen. It made me wonder if only the young were dumb enough to believe in eternal love.
One of these newer couple was particularly into public displays of affection. The guy was in a University of North Carolina fleece, his hair stylishly messy. The girl, also in a UNC sweatshirt, had her back to him, grinding her ass against him as he kept his hands warm in her pockets. He was smiling, as was his Carolina Girl. They may have been sporting college swag, but the whole thing looked so high school.
Sires control those they make, and you can usually tell who’s in command. If it’s the guy, the girl will look devotedly at him. If it’s the girl, she will look at the male contemptuously.
With the UNC couple, the male was clearly the sire, but it looked like he ruled her with a light touch. She was genuinely happy, rather than just smiling like the lobotomized chimp my sire had once reduced me to before Jackson had killed him.
We didn’t speak to the others, but simply hung towards the edge of the loose semi-circle forming around the altar rock.
The wind picked up. It was still chilly, but it lacked the bite and sterile purity of true winter. There was an ever-so-slight sweetness in the air—plants just beginning to bud. Spring’s vanguard. Our beloved nights had been growing shorter since the solstice, but this was the time of year that the process seemed to begin in earnest. It’s why we were marking it with a ceremony, after all.
From the other side of the hill, three robed shapes approached in single file. I could tell by the blackness exuded that they were old and powerful, and to be so high in the Church of Demarrkad that was to be expected. The first two were ordinary priests, and in the arms of the one leading the way was a woman. The last of them, whose black robe was differentiated from the others by the purple and gold snake symbols on his chest, was the high priest.
At the sight of the girl in the lesser priest’s grasp, Jackson’s right hand drifted to the 1911 beneath his coat. I was about to whisper that she was dead—no need to play superhero—but evidently, his Pentagon-provided vision was good enough that he’d figured it out himself.
Unlike all of us, the corpse didn’t radiate blackness, but simply contained the color in a flat, matte. She had been in her early 20’s—probably a Ramsgate undergrad. Her long blonde hair whipped on the breeze. The bit of gossamer, red silk she was wrapped in hid nothing about her body.
It was easy to see why, looking at her in the visible spectrum, Jackson would have thought she was alive. No rigor mortis, no skin discoloration like one would expect as un-circulating blood settled in the body. Not even puncture marks on her neck, though of course the priest’s saliva would have healed those.
She looked like she was sleeping. Knowing this service’s liturgy I realized that, in a sense, she was.
She was placed on the boulder, and the lesser priests took their places on either side. The high priest stood before the altar rock. “Nachtkinder,” he began, “in the name of the Mother Ereshkigal, the Consort Namtar, and of their son Demarrkad.”
“Amen,” all the undead flock except Jackson responded.
“The strength of our Lord Demarrkad and the boldness of the Mother and the luck of the Consort be with you.”
“And also with you.”
The high priest began chanting in Sumerian. I wouldn’t know Sumerian from Cantonese, but in the back of my skull, I could hear words that matched the high priest’s. It was my predator mind, that little piece of the Devil inside all Nightfallen. Now, it was something like a newscaster’s earpiece, telling me the Sumerian words which I dutifully repeated.
Repeating them, I could feel the stolen blood inside me begin to course more strongly. An energy gripping us all, but I wasn’t sure if it was faith alone, or the actual gentle stroking of a demon reaching into me.
Meanwhile, like a lapsed Catholic doing his Easter checkin, Jackson babble-hummed to the chant—serviceable enough to blend in.
The high priest reverted to English: “We ask you now to give us your protection as the days grow longer. Shield us from the Sun, God’s judging eye.”
“Protect us, Lord Demarrkad.”
“Hide us from knowing eyes of living men.”
“Conceal us, Lord Demarrkad.”
“Grant us high rank when we must inevitably join you, and spare us what agony eternal that you will.”
“Have mercy on us, Lord Demarrkad.”
“Blessed winter and its long nights give way as it must to hated summer and its long days. Before the cold nights wholly slip away, give us signs!”
The wind began to pick up.
“Give us warnings that we may protect ourselves and so serve you longer on Earth!”
There was no flash of lightning, but the cloudy sky still grumbled as though it were a thunderhead.
“Give us commands that we may better inflict your will against the living!” The high priest pointed to the dead girl on the stone altar before him. The stone began to gleam emerald.
“Lord Demarrkad, fill this vessel—make her your Oracle!”
Wisps like incandescent steam began to quickly rise around the body, and engulf it.
“Speak through her as she awakens to eternal Night! Speak to your flock! Speak to your army!”
The high priest raised his hands towards the sky, as did his fellow priests. The dead girl’s mouth suddenly snapped open, and the mist quickly piled into it until the fog that had been clinging around her was gone.
I sneaked a look at the other parishioners, faces transfixed in anticipation. Even Jackson stared at the corpse, waiting.
And waiting.
It was taking longer than in the other ceremonies I’d seen. Usually, the girl on the altar would slowly rise, possessed by our demon god, and utter something appropriately sage-like. The possession would quickly be released, and the she would then simply be a normal Nightfallen.
Yet the body just lay there.
The priests were still holding up their arms, but dared to peak down at the girl’s corpse.
Whispers shot through the crowd: “Nothing’s happening?” “Something’s wrong.”
I looked at Jackson, wondering if it was something about him, his false nature polluting the ceremony. Would the others realize? Would they turn on us, and I’d find myself sent headlong to Demarrkad before the night was through?
Then suddenly the dead girl sat bolt upright, and I watched as the legion of undead jumped back—even the priests.
Her head turned to the crowd, lips curling at the side into a rictus grin. Her eyes opened, and red light burned within them.
She opened her mouth to speak, but it wasn’t the sweetness or desire you’d expect to come from a young woman’s throat. The voice that issued from her was like gravel grinding beneath a 4x4’s tires. “There will come Three Sons,” the voice came through her.
“The First Son shall be the son of light who dwells in darkness, and under his reign the seeds of destruction shall be sown.
“The Second Son shall be the son of darkness who dwells in the light, and under his reign the seeds of destruction shall take root.
“The Third Son shall be the son of darkness who dwells in darkness, and under his reign the seeds of destruction shall bear their fruit.”
She paused, and I expected
it to stop there, the demon energy leaving the body. But instead she turned towards us—me and Jackson—and stared with those horrible, crimson eyes that yawned not life or death but simply consuming pain. Her hand rose, and she pointed at Jackson.
“That one,” she said. “He is one of the Sons.”
3
Flocks & Shepherds
All eyes were on Jackson, but their attention’s intensity reflected on me. I felt like I was in a rock star’s entourage.
The Endet Hibernis ceremony was supposed to go on after the Oracle’s pronouncement. The priests would decipher whatever words had issued from the vessel, offering closing prayers for the continued existence of the congregants.
This service, however, had ceased as soon as the Oracle had stopped speaking, the light leaving her as she collapsed back onto the altar rock. The crowd couldn’t stop looking at Jackson, like rubberneckers staring at a crash scene. They slowly gathered around us. All this beneath the priests’ disapproving glare.
The older and more powerful hung towards the back of the crowd, their decades and sometimes centuries of existence giving them a certain a detachment from everything. The newest Nightfallen, though, worked their way closest to the front.
I thought the UNC couple was going to rub Jackson like a Buddha statue’s belly. “You’re chosen,” the boy said, his Southern accent more twangy than my genteel, Tidewater version.
Jackson said nothing, but I could guess he was wondering, Chosen for what? He shook his head. “I’m nothing special,” Jackson said, but his modesty just confirmed their belief in him.
“I remember my Sunday school classes. Those Biblical prophets were just normal dudes too,” the Carolina guy said. His voice was slow and firm, full of the same certainty and confidence that had no doubt allowed him to collar lovely girls in life. But his eyes … they were wide, yearning for purpose, wanting to believe. “It’s not the man, but what chooses to work through him.”
“Like a dark messiah,” his girlfriend said, her own eyes less like she was looking for purpose than gushing over a celebrity.
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