In the first relief, a city fell to invaders. On the left side, it showed tall, beautiful buildings, on the right, the warriors outside the gates. In the second panel, the towers fell, the warriors controlled the streets, and the refugees poured out. Larger than the rest, and so, probably, more important, ran a strange man. Elizabeth studied him carefully. He bore a few of the symbols assigned to demons—rakshasa or asura or the evil dead—but his eyes were clearly the most important feature in the artist’s mind. They didn’t match. One was at least three sizes larger than the other, and the remains of the paint showed irises of different colors. In the third scene, the asura stood in jungle, surrounded by mountains, and in several poses across the landscape seemed to be commanding the construction of a temple or palace in the distance. In the fourth panel, the demon, large and central, took the left side to fight a band of invaders from the captured city, shown in miniature high in a corner of the design. On the right, he dispensed justice to prisoners tied to columns of his nearly finished building.
In the fifth section, by far the busiest and most difficult to interpret, an army from the distant city came to conquer him. Even understanding that the scene progressed side-to-side, Elizabeth found herself defeated. There was an army; there was the palace of the asura; the asura fought; but on whose side did the animals battle? If the demon commanded the beasts of the field, why were some of them in aggressive postures inside the palace’s courtyard? If the creatures fought for the army, why were so many facing away from the asura and attacking, apparently, their own?
Unfortunately (Elizabeth listened to the sound of that word, and admitted she was biased against the demon with the mismatched eyes), the last panel showed a clear triumph for the asura. In his finished temple, he held court. Behind him, a large (or immensely important—size could mean anything at this level of pictography) demon-god with a hundred heads and arms stood in state. He, or she, or it, Liz concluded, must have sent the animals to help the demon win the battle. At least half its heads weren’t human, and she picked out a number of rats, dogs, cats, monkeys, and asses among the crush.
Without warning, Elizabeth found herself flying back from the wall. Sprawled on her back by the steps, she looked around frantically, wondering who’d hit her. She realized, in terror, that the earth itself was moving. The tremors raised dust from the cracks in the floor and pelted the flagstones with grit from the ceiling. Elizabeth crab-walked to the balustrade and grabbed it for support. She braced for the worst. The Lord’s Prayer shot to her lips, and “Hail Mary” followed it. The last shock rolled through the ground as she got to “now and at the hour of our death.” The vault blocks stayed where they belonged, the floodwater stopped jumping out of the staircase, and the gravel near the broken door lay still.
Her phone beeped, and she jumped. After the angry earth-rumbles, the modem, friendly, staccato tone seemed absurd. Elizabeth almost giggled in relief.
“Hello?” Thompson’s voice, she thought. The static was so bad it was hard to tell. “Still with us?”
“I’m here,” she answered.
“Hello? Hello? Anyone there?” The signal broke up entirely for a second, then: “Circuit’s open, just…no one…can’t get an answer.”
“I’m here!” Liz shouted into the phone. “I’m here. What happened? Can you hear me?”
Thinly, through the noise, the Asp’s voice: “Try again…street….”
The line went dead, and Liz stared at the little handset in disappointment. She racked her brain for Have survived earthquake and can hear you. Connection too bad to speak, but the situation seemed too specific. She sent four-nine-four, then holstered the phone and looked at the pool. The sloshing water revealed nothing of the situation below. She checked her camera for damage, retrieved her light from the corner it had bounced to, then pulled her legs up and sat tailor-fashion on the railing. Adrenaline—the second jolt of it that night—spread out from her stomach.
Elizabeth waited patiently for half an hour or more, just watching the water calm down. At length, she noticed a new ripple on the surface. She felt the railing cautiously for new tremors, found none her fingers could detect, and smiled as the pool moved more dramatically. The other two were returning; in a little while they could be out from under the ruins. She slid off the balustrade onto the flagstones, and walked around the railing to meet Hesha and the gypsy as they came out.
The water surged, and Khalil leapt up from it like a rocket. He shook himself like an animal in the air, flinging spray across the room. Liz shielded her eyes with her hand and kept her attention on the pool. A heavy thud reached her ears—she looked up and saw the guide bashing his body against the door seal. He hauled back and threw his shoulder against it again—he was trying to batter his way out, though the opening was in his arm’s reach.
Elizabeth gasped, “What are you do—” and broke off when she caught sight of his face. Khalil’s eyes stared out at nothing, so far open that the whites showed all around the iris. Stark, unreasoning terror filled them, and his wild-animal glance returned to the pit over and over again. His mouth hung open like a panting dog’s, and his bared teeth were clear enough in the light: The canines, elongated into fangs, glittered cruelly.
“Oh, my god,” whispered the mortal woman. She backed away from the monster and from the unseen danger down the stairs.
The Ravnos ran against the wall another time, so forcefully that he bounced back and fell howling onto the floor. His eyes began to change—the lids narrowed— now predatory slits, they searched the room for prey, not escape. The creature rushed Elizabeth, picked her up in clawed hands, and threw her into a corner. He pounced on the huddled body, stuck his nose into the crook of her neck, smelt her, pawed her collar half off her shoulders, and licked her bare skin. She scrabbled away along the wall. His face grew puzzled for a moment. Then all expression dropped from it, and the animal came back. Khalil jumped to her side again, seized her shoulder, and—a noise came from the pit, and his eyes changed again. He began to turn around.
Instantly, Elizabeth was aware of Hesha as a blur between herself and the monster. The scene froze: Khalil Ravana, spread-eagled on the floor, Elizabeth pressed up against the wall, Hesha in front of her, his hand still holding the blunt end of something pale piercing the other man’s breast.
“Don’t scream,” the Setite said calmly. “The earthquake may have weakened the tunnels. Have you been wounded?”
“Just bruised, I think.”
“Good. Now help me with him.” Hesha dragged the Ravnos’s corpse as far as the door. “Climb over. Now, steady the body as I pass it to you. Don’t try to take the weight yourself.” Together they manhandled the stiff through the opening, and Hesha began tying nylon cord around the dead man’s torso. Elizabeth looked at the weapon in Khalil’s chest and confirmed her suspicions.
“He’s a vampire,” she said, and her tone was so strange that for an instant Hesha stopped what he was doing.
Smoothly, he went on with his knots. Equally smoothly, he told her, “No. He’s a shilmulo.”
“He grew fangs. You staked him and he’s dead, Hesha. He’s a vampire,” she insisted coldly.
“Elizabeth,” said the Setite, with a trace of impatience, “if I staked you, would you still move around after the fact? If I pierced your heart, would you survive? Khalil will, shilmub do, humans do not.” He tied the rope ends to his own feet, and bent down to enter the tunnel. “Watch the stake. If it shows signs of coming loose, tell me immediately. I would rather not have to repeat the procedure in a more confined space.” Liz hesitated, and he caught her eye. “What is it now, Elizabeth?”
“Does he drink blood? And don’t go on about mosquitoes or leeches or Maasai. You know what I mean. Truth, Hesha.”
Hesha looked down at the gypsy’s face. Maverick eyes stared back at him, and flickered hungrily.
“He does,” said the Setite, and he crawled into the hole, dragging the paralyzed Ravnos after him.
Sunday, 25
July, 1999 4:45 AM
The Oberoi Grand Hotel
Calcutta, West Bengal
“The room is secure, sir,” Thompson’s voice came from three earpieces in three different parts of the resort. “Hallway unobserved.”
“Bring him around. Transport, watch for opening doors. Distraction, report and delay anyone coming up. I will come by the center route to provide a more attractive target.”
Transport, in the form of the Asp, a bellboy’s cart, and a suspiciously bulging garment bag, crossed the lobby and entered the service lift safely. Distraction, in the form of Elizabeth, stationed herself by the passenger elevators and played convincingly with camera, watch, notebook, sandal strap, and the morning newspaper. An early hotel maid found herself accosted for directions to a prominent shrine in an unmappable portion of the city. As Hesha passed by, Liz professed her thanks, double-checked a street name, and let the woman go.
“He’s in,” Ron announced. “Everyone come home.” “Distraction” strolled along the corridor to the suite. The Asp opened the door for her, smiled wearily, and they bolted behind them in unison. Elizabeth moved to the big table and began unstrapping gadget after gadget. She threw the film into the refrigerator, ducked into her room and changed her mud-stained clothes for fresh pajamas, and collapsed onto the couch to watch the others. Khalil, unwrapped but still frozen, lay on the floor in the middle of a bed quilt. Thompson and the Asp counted down, lifted, and carried the body into Hesha’s quarters. They took the corner into the sitting room, and Liz picked up the sounds of final adjustments to couch, windows, and shilmulo. Thoughtfully, her fingers played over the keys of the little computer in front of her.
“Asp,” said Hesha, “our guest will not be in the best of health or temper when sunset comes. Find a blood bank or hospital and steal ten or fifteen units from their stores. Cold supper will serve better than none….”
“Yes, sir.” Raphael vanished into his bedroom.
“Thompson—I want you and Janet to find out everything you can about the tremors tonight. I want local coverage here, I want local from the source, if Calcutta was not the center. Full report on BBC, CNN, Voice of America, NPR, Chinese governmental, Russian public and private and pirate stations. Pick up the wire services, as well.”
The old cop nodded, picked up his phone, received the laptop from Liz, and walked out, dialing.
Hesha turned, seemed to notice the last member of the team for the first time, and looked at her curiously. “Elizabeth? What do you want?” the Setite asked cautiously.
“You saved my life tonight, didn’t you?” Elizabeth said, her voice full of wondering gratitude.
Hesha nodded. He felt better; he was on solid ground again. A thankful attitude opened up vast avenues of control over the girl. He raised one hand in a subtle, nobly deprecating gesture, and stepped closer to the couch. He decided to sit on the cushion beside her. He moved to do so, and she smiled at him. “You nearly got me killed tonight, didn’t you?” she said, in an utterly different tone.
Hesha sat down on the coffee table. Warily, he waited for the rest of it.
“I looked shilmulo up on the Internet just now. Five links to various Rom dictionaries…several dozen links to pages devoted to vampires, Hesha.”
“There is no such thing as a vampire, Elizabeth. It is a buzz word that incompetent translators to English tack on to any mythological creature that survives by feeding on something in a fashion repugnant. The monster need not even drink blood to qualify for the honor, nor human blood, nor be undead—”
“Stop,” Liz said abruptly. “Listen,” she asked earnestly, looking into his ebon eyes with her amber-brown ones, “I…I think I may be in love with you.” Just as solemnly, with the same serious yet uncertain cadence, she went on: “I think, also, that I would be better dead than feeling this way toward you…that I would rather see you dead, than to feel like this. And I don’t understand why, after everything I have seen, I can still feel anything toward you.” She took a moment’s breath, and the creature in front of her thought of a little blue glass left in a refrigerator in Brooklyn, and thought he knew the answer. “Please, Hesha…tell me the truth. What are you?” The Setite paused, weighed the moment carefully, and slowly let his everyday mask slip away. Revealed, his skin was slightly lighter-colored. His bare scalp sported a detailed, coiling snake tattoo in deep black ink that had never faded. Open and unguarded, honest eyes looked out at the woman on the couch, and as he spoke his voice trembled a little.
“I am the dead priest of a dead god. That is the truth.”
Elizabeth smiled bitterly. “You give me a different answer every time.” A tear rolled down her cheek, and she rose to go.
“They might all be true,” he said softly.
She kept walking and did not answer. Hesha stood, caught her door before she shut it, and gazed at her in appeal. “Close your eyes,” whispered the Setite, slipping into the girl’s room.
In surrender or weariness or hatred or lust or love, her lids dropped, and Hesha leaned down to kiss her lips. After a moment’s hesitation, she kissed him back. The Setite felt her mouth move, but felt nothing beneath the surface of his skin. The Beast drove forward, listening hungrily to her heartbeat, thrusting the sound to the forefront of his consciousness. Elizabeth’s arms stole up his back, drawing their bodies closer, and the Beast picked out the vibration of her life and savored it—cut off Hesha’s connection to the floor, to the feel of her nightshirt under his fingers, even took the simple pressures of holding her, and of the fingers digging into his back. With an immense effort, he drew away—shook the veils from his senses—and took the clear moment to carry her to the bed. The Beast threw itself at his mind, but to the Setite’s surprise and relief, the anger over Calcutta was gone. Without that aid, the curse was weaker than himself, and he locked it away.
His hand crept under her shirt. Her heartbeat pulsed through her ribs and flesh and into his palm. Hesha sought the woman’s mouth again, and found it soft, warm, and more eager than before. His fangs slid down, and he tore the slightest wounds in her lower lip. She flinched, but he brought blood through the pin-prick holes. He drank slowly, hardly drawing more from the cuts than they bled of their own, and the mortal’s gasping, shuddering breath told him the struggle was over. Elizabeth relaxed into his arms, unresisting, still holding him.
Hesha sipped delicately from the veins of his lover; the monster went on devouring his victim. Hesha savored the taste of Elizabeth’s strangely sweet, adrenaline-sour blood; the Setite fed off a captive. Hesha felt the pounding of the girl’s heart and was glad to know she shared the ecstasy; the calculating coldness of his mind counted the beats and measured their strength. When the steady rhythm broke and fluttered, he licked her lips clean, sealing the cuts.
He looked into her puzzled face, smiled, and whispered sleep to her. Elizabeth curled up under the blanket, and he put an arm over her. She slipped off into dreams, and Hesha looked sluggishly to the window. Dawn…he might make it to his room…but the drapes were closed tight here, the blanket thick…mortal women placed a particular importance on staying after…it might be useful…for controlling her…with his free hand, he pulled the discarded counterpane around himself in double and triple folds and piled the pillows over his head. Ra gained the horizon, and his descendant fell safely into slumber.
Thompson, checking around the suite for the last time before retiring himself, found Hesha’s casket open. In dreadful anticipation, he opened the door to Liz’s room. He watched her breathing for a moment, then went back and dug a mylar sheet out of the emergency case. With an air of duty done despite better judgment, he made Hesha’s burrow sun-proof, and left them together.
Alone, sitting on his own bed, he stared at his hands. If he bent the wrists back and held them up at an angle, Ron could just see the pulse under the skin. He stood up suddenly, opened the curtains, and let the morning light strike him. He lay down and the sun came up, and he fell asleep basking in it.
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br /> Sunday, 25 July 1999, 8:32 PM
The Oberoi Grand Hotel
Calcutta, West Bengal
“Khalil? Can you hear me?” Hesha bent delicately over his guest’s paralyzed body. “Have you recovered? Look to your left, twice, if you understand me.”
The jetty eyes signaled intelligently enough.
“Good. Brace yourself.” The Setite put one hand on the gypsy’s chest, the other on the stake. He pulled.
Whatever mysterious…compulsion, aggressive compulsion, had taken hold of the undead in Calcutta seemed mostly to have abated. Hesha thought Khalil should be harmless enough now.
The Ravnos sprang free, flailing wildly to get away from the older monster. Khalil scurried, rat-like, to the opposite corner of the room, and crouched defensively.
Hesha let him go, backed up a trifle, and sat down on the arm of the couch with his hands in view. “I apologize,” he began, “for the manner in which I put an end to your…seizure…last night. You passed very quickly beyond reason, and, having promised to protect you, I could hardly let you run out into Calcutta in such a state.” At his feet lay a small blue cooler; he opened it, drew out a blood bag, and tossed it underhand to his guest. “I assure you, none of that is mine.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Hesha snapped the stake in two and shrugged. “I assume, Khalil, that your employer has you fully bound to his service. You hear his voice from a distance; you obey him when you clearly would prefer not to. I have a great deal to accomplish and no blood to waste where another has gone before me. Drink that and fix your chest. There are more in here.” The Setite leaned down and picked up a bag for himself, then pushed the cooler halfway across the room. He sank his teeth into the plastic and winced at the taste. Khalil, after a moment, joined him. The Ravnos was a messy eater. He tossed the empty bag aside, seized the cooler and went through six or seven more before stopping.
“There are fresh clothes hanging in the closet for you, if you would like to dress. And a shower, of course. Hesha eyed the mud-caked hair and dirty feet of the shilmub pointedly. “It is my custom to hold a meeting among my staff at sunset. If you have anything you care to contribute, you are welcome to attend, provided you mind your manners—I do not allow my retainers to be interfered with, even by allies.
Clan Novel Setite: Book 4 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 22
