New Order

by Max Turner

  “But he has already been stopped,” said the Countess. Her lips curved into a wicked grin. “The boy is dead.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd when she spoke. I could hear Pestilence laughing quietly, blood bubbling in his mouth. All eyes in the courtroom passed to Ophelia, mine included. I thought these words would crush her, but she was made of sterner stuff than that.

  “Zachary has died before—ending the reign of Vlad, and again when the Beast of the Apocalypse ran rampant in the New World. I have no doubt he will die again in the service of our kind. I have heard it whispered among the prophets that he will have nine lives. That his reign will last a thousand generations. Repent now, all of you, before it is too late.”

  “Your loyalty to the boy is misplaced,” Timur said. “He cannot save your cause. The future belongs to us.”

  “Believe that, Timur, if it helps you. But the four of you were depraved in life, and you are depraved now. If the future were in your hands, I would weep for all assembled, but I have faith that it is not. Your nights are numbered.”

  Timur seemed unperturbed. “And yours have ended—”

  “Unless you have something else to say in your defence?” interrupted John Tiptoft.

  Ophelia paused for a moment, then raised her chin. “Only that I have no regrets. If guardianship of Zachariah passed to me again, I would do as I have done. To have touched a life so pure is a reward beyond measure.”

  “He is the spawn of Vlad,” said Famine. “The Dragon’s Son. A parasite. There is a madness at work in him. I have seen it.”

  “Then you have gone where you have no business being,”

  Ophelia snapped. “No doubt it was others who paid for your folly, and not you. But so it is with cowards.”

  Famine looked ready to respond, but she was cut short by John Tiptoft. “If you have nothing else to add in your defence, this court will adjourn.” He stood. “We will announce our verdict at midnight.”

  There were murmurs in the crowd as the judges rose to their feet. Then a commotion in the hall started people chattering in the balconies. Tiptoft asked for silence. The gallery grew hushed. The doors at the back of the room slowly opened and Vlad walked in, his iron boots echoing loudly on the stone floor. Each left a bloody footprint on the ground. His Dragon armour was dotted with crimson spots. The four guards in the adjoining room obviously hadn’t fared well keeping him out. I expected him to move as he usually did, in stops and starts that were dizzying to watch. Instead, he strode slowly to Ophelia’s table and rapped an iron-clad knuckle against the edge of the wood a few times. His face was composed, but I could sense his fury boiling just beneath the surface.

  “The court has already reached its verdict, Ophelia, and for your unwavering commitment to the preservation of order as a prefect within the Coven of the Dragon, you are acquitted on all charges and are free to go.”

  CHAPTER 31

  SON OF THE DRAGON

  VLAD LOOKED DOWN at Ophelia with a softness in his expression I never imagined he could possess. Her eyes were tearing up. A hint of a smile quivered on her lips, but I could tell she was still frightened. Thoughts passed between them, then his face hardened and he turned to face the spectators. When he unleashed his voice, the anger within it was colossal. It seemed to come from every point in the room.

  “It seems the rumours of my destruction have been accepted as truth by too many, for here you sit idly by, allowing this offensive charade to take place. But I am not without mercy …

  “For this act of disloyalty, you will all be forgiven. But understand, from this moment forward, you are either for me or against me. Once I have dealt with this usurper, this Changeling, I will find each and every one of you and ask a simple question: What have you done to help me and my Coven maintain order? I will not accept any pleas of neutrality.”

  The panic in the crowd rose to such a pitch, I was surprised I could hear anything over the sound of frantic hearts and shuffling feet. Although he had told me his presence was expected, those in the crowd were clearly shocked to see him. Many fled openly. Others made their way out more cautiously.

  After a minute, only a handful were left watching from their seats. One I recognized. He was wearing a round-brimmed leather hat with red tassels and a tight-fitting black vest studded with rhinestones. His outfit had changed, but there was no mistaking the Arabian Elvis. He crossed his feet on the seat in front of him and lounged back with his hands crossed in his lap, the rings on each finger so thick that together they looked like a row of gem-studded brass knuckles. A muscular Asian woman was sitting beside him. Her thick dark hair was cut in a straight line above her eyebrows and at the back along her neck. Her green, almond-shaped eyes almost glowed in the dark. She whispered something to the King, who sat up a little straighter and looked in my direction. I wondered if she could see me.

  Vlad ignored them. His attention was focused exclusively on the Horsemen, none of whom seemed surprised to see him.

  Tamerlane was the first to respond. His skin blackened and he rose above the bench, his legs a serpentine coil of smoke. “Enough of your parlour tricks, Impaler. We can settle this ourselves, you and I.”

  Baoh started backing towards the large set of double doors at the back of the room.

  Vlad smiled. “Timur the Lame, you claimed that if you rose from the dead the world would tremble. Well, men can tremble in laughter as well as fear. Do not flatter yourself. In this world of darkness, I have no equal.”

  Ophelia still hadn’t moved. A tear spilled down one cheek and her hands shook. She looked as though she was about to have a nervous breakdown. I slid down the wall and moved towards the bench nearest her table.

  Patience, little cub. Do not reveal yourself yet.

  Tamerlane swooped forward. Vlad was enveloped in sulphurous smoke. For a second I lost sight of him, then his hazy silhouette came into view, arms spread wide, fists clenched. An explosion of light followed. Golden-yellow flame erupted from every square inch of him. He was on fire, just like the jet-black vampire Charlie and I had seen on the stairs of Iron Spike Enterprises. Vlad had self-immolated somehow. His fists shook, and the heat intensified. Smoke burned. Tamerlane cried out. Vapour and ash spun back to the dais. When Tamerlane took form beside the other Horsemen, his skin was charred and steaming.

  The fire died. The darkness that fell was more complete than before. The candles in the chandelier above Ophelia’s table had melted. Vlad’s outer clothing had been incinerated and his armour was scorched black. The rest of him seemed unaffected. Not one hair on his head had been singed.

  “You must do more than toss your cap if you wish to be lord here, Timur,” Vlad said.

  A wave of energy passed through me as Famine brought her voice to bear. I did my best to shield myself. Vlad seemed unconcerned.

  “You wish to control my thoughts, Elizabeth. Tread carefully. Not all who die go to the light. We are the damned, you and I. Keep digging, and I’ll give you a taste of the hell that awaits you in the next life.”

  The voice of the Countess faded and she drew back a step into the protective space behind John Tiptoft, who had risen from his seat.

  “Fortune favours the bold, Bathory,” Vlad said. “It will not favour you. You are a disgrace to your family.”

  Tiptoft reached inside his robe to where his sickle was belted and placed a hand over the grip. “You cannot stand against all of us, Vlad. Come to your senses. Your crimes are many, but not unforgivable. You and Ophelia must confess and atone.”

  “John Tiptoft!” Vlad exclaimed. “The Butcher … You have been irrelevant for so long, one easily forgets you are present. I will atone in my own way, by my own prescription. As for you, if you leave now and never interfere in my business again, I will not avenge myself for the dishonour you have done my wife, parading her about in this manner. That is my peace offering. Accept it or I will destroy you.”

  Tiptoft stepped off the dais and stopped several paces from where Vlad was st
anding. His confidence was unsettling. “You know that will not happen, Vlad. But it does not have to end badly for you. Agree to serve us, and your place in the New Order will be assured.”

  “Serve us?” said Vlad. “Who is this us you speak of?” His eyes passed over Pestilence, the Countess, Tamerlane and then Tiptoft. “I see only the depraved, the dispossessed, the delusional and a lapdog. Let your master show himself. I am beginning to wonder if he exists at all.”

  “He will reveal himself to you at a time of his own choosing, not yours. Stand down, Vlad. Your reign has ended. It is time for others to lead.”

  “Others?” said Vlad. “Perhaps you are right.”

  I heard his voice whisper in my head again. Move behind me now. Let them see you. Remember, you are my progeny. A Dracula. Be bold. And terrible.

  I was already in position at the table. I rose up from the floor and stood behind Vlad. He was about half a foot shorter than me. I made myself even taller, and broader, so I’d stand out even more.

  “I believe you are acquainted with my son. It seems his work is not yet finished. Like me, he has risen again. If my reign has ended, Tiptoft, it is only so that his can begin.”

  Tamerlane scowled, as though he could hardly believe his eyes. Pestilence backed away from his chair until his feet were rooted in the shadows along the wall. Tendrils of thought passed over me. Famine, the Countess Bathory, was searching the room. She might have been looking for my body—or perhaps she thought I wasn’t real and was trying to find the source of my shadow. Tiptoft didn’t move.

  I drew my feelings inward, then I took Vlad’s words to heart and changed my shape into something that suited one of the Draculista.

  Vlad’s father was named Dracul, which means “dragon” in old Romanian. Oddly enough, the word also means “devil.” Dracula, the name Vlad made infamous, means “son of the dragon” or “son of the devil.” Vlad must have liked the dragon handle better, because he made it his family symbol and, later, the symbol of his Coven. Since he was my vampire father, I was also the son of a dragon, and after years of indulging in comic books and fantasy games, my mind had no difficulty drawing from a catalogue of images one that was both awesome and startling. My arms became talons. Wings the length of the Council Chamber unfurled from my back. I dwarfed the company assembled as my torso stretched upwards past the top of the chandelier. This I crowned with a long head of teeth and horns and spikes that would have had Tyrannosaurus rex begging for a one-way ticket back to Jurassic Park.

  Tiptoft seemed unimpressed. If I wasn’t mistaken, he actually sighed as he drew his sickle.

  “I am sorry it has come to this,” he said. Then he stepped forward and attacked.

  CHAPTER 32

  TRIAL BY COMBAT

  VLAD DID NOT have time to draw his sword before Death was on him. He raised both arms and stopped a stroke that was so fast and hard it made my shade ripple. Sparks flew. Ophelia cried out. Vlad skipped back and pulled out the Dragon Blade.

  “Go, love,” he said to Ophelia. “I will meet you in the tunnels.”

  She hadn’t moved from behind the table. Baoh was gone. I was angered that he would leave, but he was over twelve hundred years old and had probably survived to that age by avoiding men like Vlad and Tiptoft.

  They began to circle each other.

  I spread my wings to block the view from the dais so Ophelia could leave unseen, but she didn’t budge. You have to go, I said. We can’t leave until you do.

  Ophelia looked at me, confused. Until that moment, I don’t think she realized I was really there. Perhaps she thought I was a trick of Vlad’s. Some phantom conjured up to distract his enemies.

  You have to go, I said again.

  Her eyes shifted from me to Vlad. A feeling of sick disappointment came over me. She wouldn’t leave him. It didn’t matter what I said.

  Vlad was perspiring heavily. And he was losing. Tiptoft was faster. More precise. As their weapons sang through the air, punctuated by clangs and bangs and sparks, I realized that Vlad was the stronger of the two, but he was too exhausted for it to matter. The energy he had used to self-immolate had drained him. His chest heaved and his shoulders sagged. When Tiptoft took his next stroke, a clean overhead, Vlad brought his sword up too slowly to block it, and the edge nicked the bridge of his nose, opening a deep gash across it. Blood poured in thick ribbons down his cheeks.

  I glanced back at Ophelia. Her eyes were locked on the Countess. The two were waging a silent battle. I moved between them, thinking it might release Ophelia from Famine’s gaze, but it made no difference.

  Pestilence took notice. He backed into the corner then dove into the shadow of the bench, emerging an instant later in the tiered seats behind Vlad. I shot across the room to attack him, but all I managed to do was cover him with my shadow. It was about as effective as smashing someone with a flashlight beam.

  Pestilence leapt at Vlad’s back, his hands stretched out for the Prince’s neck. Vlad spun and grabbed him by the throat, then hurled him into Tiptoft. The taller man moved aside deftly. In one fluid motion, he switched his sickle to his other hand and caught Pestilence as he was tumbling to his knees.

  “Stay out of this,” Tiptoft snapped. “You insult me with your cowardly antics.”

  “If he shadow-jumps again, meet him in the darkness and kill him,” Vlad said to me.

  I wasn’t certain what he meant, but it didn’t matter. Pestilence wasn’t the threat. Death was, and after a good half minute of fighting, he didn’t have so much as a crease in his crimson cowl. Vlad was up to his usual trick of skipping through space without seeming to move, but Tiptoft wasn’t fooled. Time and again he parried each stroke. It looked effortless.

  I glanced at Tamerlane. He hadn’t moved. I couldn’t figure out why. Did he not think it necessary to help? Was he too hurt? Was there some kind of code—that you didn’t interfere when two men were engaged in solo combat? Or was it something else? A deep malevolence was evident in his expression. It made me wonder if there was some animosity between the two Horsemen. I had assumed, since both served the Changeling, that they would work together, in the same way Charlie and I might, as friends, but things may not have been that simple.

  As Vlad and John circled one another, I realized that the questions were irrelevant. Vlad was finished, whether Tamerlane helped or not. The Prince must have known it too, because he growled and let loose a flurry of clumsy strokes. One missed wide and carved a chunk out of the bench to his right. Tiptoft ducked the next, then met the last two cleanly with the flat of his blade. He flicked Vlad’s sword aside and smashed a blow down on his arm. It bit into the armour and I heard the sound of bone cracking. Vlad fell to his knees.

  “Will you yield, Vlad?” Tiptoft asked, wrenching his weapon free.

  Vlad’s eyes were glazing over.

  “Kill him,” said Tamerlane.

  Pestilence started laughing. He took a step towards the shadows as if he might do the deed himself but saw me and stopped.

  Zachary, Vlad whispered to me. You must get Ophelia out.

  Tiptoft brought his sickle crashing down towards Vlad’s neck. The former Grand Master raised his arm to ward off the blow, but it got battered aside and the metal blade bit through the raised neck guard on the side of his breastplate. Blood splashed his cheek and ran down the inside of his armour. Tiptoft raised his weapon to the other side. In desperation, I hurled myself at him, but my shade just spread over his cloak. Vlad tried to lift his other arm, the broken one, but Tiptoft kicked it away. His sickle crashed down against the other side of Vlad’s neck, opening a gash that mirrored the first.

  Ophelia darted forward and reached for the fallen Dragon Blade.

  Tiptoft raised his sickle. “Three strokes for the Trinity,” he said.

  Ophelia lunged forward as he swung. She braced the flat of the Dragon Blade across the back of Vlad’s armour. When Tiptoft’s weapon hit the black metal, his blade shattered.

  Attack, someone whis
pered to me.

  I quickly glanced around. The voice was familiar.

  Strike now, he said. Before it is too late.

  There were only a few vampires present. One was tucked into the shadows of the upper balcony. His long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, just as it had been on L’Esprit Sauvage, the ship in Montreal, when he saved me from Death. If Istvan was correct, it was the Baptist.

  Shadows can go where light can go, he told me, tapping the side of his head near the temple.

  He was right. Light could penetrate the eyes, and so could I.

  Tiptoft’s weapon was now short by a good foot of steel, but enough blade remained that when Ophelia attacked, he was able to deflect each stroke. Then he pushed her back so that she crashed into the table in the centre of the room. Before he could turn and take another swing at Vlad’s unprotected neck, I shot myself at his eyes. I expected something supernatural to occur. If eyes were the windows to the soul, I thought I might come face to face with his inner self, but all that happened was I moved through his pupils and collided with the lens at the back of his eyeballs. It was about as spiritual as walking face first into a door.

  Tiptoft slapped his hand over his face and stepped back. “Who are you, boy?” he said. There was no anger in his tone. He was genuinely curious, perhaps even amused. It upset me, because he sounded exactly like John Entwistle.

  I was your friend once, I said. When you were a better man.

  He didn’t answer. But I heard Famine shout, “Stop them!”

  I couldn’t see what was happening, but there was a gap between the fingers of John’s hand, so I slipped through. Vlad’s Dragon Blade was lying on the ground. The large stone tiles around it were stained with blood. A long smear led to a bench, which was tilted upwards, like a trap door. Vlad and Ophelia were gone.