Sunset (Pact Arcanum)

by Arshad Ahsanuddin

  When he awoke, still sluggish and dizzy, he immediately tried to assess his situation. He was in a medium-sized room with concrete walls, and a quick glance down at his body revealed he was sitting upright in a metal chair, his arms bound to it by heavy steel manacles. A bag of clear fluid hung from a rack next to his chair and a tube ran from it into an intravenous catheter in his left arm. The chair was drawn up to a wooden table and faced an empty chair opposite. The room was otherwise bare, and accessed only by a heavy metal door set in the wall behind the table. Looking up, he noticed the ceiling was made of clear glass covered by a number of hinged metal panels.

  The sound of shifting metal came from the direction of the door and it opened to reveal a man in his thirties, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and dressed in a simple white shirt and gray pants. He held a small transparent bottle filled with a colorless liquid in his left hand. The thick metal door closed behind him, followed by the clatter of heavy bolts sliding into place.

  “Good morning, Mr. Giordano,” he said in Italian, sitting in the chair opposite. “My name is Andrew Kensington. I have been quite looking forward to meeting you.”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Alaricus demanded angrily in the same language. “Have I been kidnapped?”

  The man across from him shrugged. “I just wanted to talk to you, Mr. Giordano. I apologize for our necessary precautions.”

  “If you wanted to talk to me, you could have picked up the phone.” Alaricus snarled. “Who sent you, and what do you really want?”

  Without answering, Kensington unscrewed the cap on the small bottle, leaned forward and tilted it, allowing a single drop of the clear liquid to land on Alaricus’ right hand.

  Instantly screaming in agony, Alaricus reflexively tried to jerk his arm away. A metallic squeal rang out as the right manacle bent under the strain, but it remained intact. A crimson, caustic burn marred the back of his hand.

  Kensington nodded in satisfaction and put the bottle down on the table, leaving the cap off. He met Alaricus’ stunned gaze. “Holy water,” he said conversationally. “Amazing. A month ago, I would have dismissed such things as superstition, but it’s a whole new world now, isn’t it?”

  Alaricus growled. His irises flamed as he struggled to break free so he could reach across the table and kill this miserable human for his presumption. The metal of the chair arms twisted beneath his supernatural strength, but the manacles did not break.

  Kensington watched him impassively. “Mr. Giordano, I should warn you that it is well after ten o’clock in the morning. Even if you do break free and kill me, my men have orders to open the shutters over the ceiling and expose this entire room to direct sunlight.”

  Alaricus stopped dead. Kensington was telling the truth. His vampire senses detected not even the slightest trace of a lie. Alaricus tried to gather his will and teleport away, but he remained strangely disoriented and could not get his balance. He looked at the IV in his arm and swallowed in sudden fear. “What do you want, human?” he growled.

  “I want you to answer some questions.” Kensington leaned forward, casually crossing his arms on the table. “I need information about you and your kind.”

  Alaricus let his fangs show. “You appear to be well informed already.”

  “Most of what we know is based on folklore and superstition. I require hard intelligence.” Andrew Kensington smiled coldly.

  “We are not as corrupt as your kind, human,” spat Alaricus. “I will not compromise my honor to save my life, no matter what tortures you may have devised from your childish fairy stories.” He sat up straight in the chair, his voice proud. “I am Alaricus Praetor Ellestan, and my words are true.”

  “I have no intention of killing you, Mr. Giordano. You’re the first viable lead we have conclusively identified. Your capture is the end result of almost six weeks of deep research, investigation, and surveillance. In the end, we found you only by a fortuitous accident.”

  Alaricus narrowed his eyes. “What accident?”

  “Ten days ago you were involved in a motor vehicle collision in Milan. You escaped the hospital immediately after you awoke, but not before they drew a sample of your blood for analysis while you were unconscious.”

  Alaricus visibly paled. “I was not aware of that,” he said.

  “Once we had your description and the fingerprints from your vehicle, we were able to track you. We watched you for some time. When we saw you hunt down a tourist two days ago, we were finally sure. The rendition protocol we had previously prepared was activated, and we brought you to this specially-modified facility for interrogation.”

  “You set this all in motion on the basis of a single blood sample?”

  “No. The altered blood groups in your sample were quite perplexing to the hospital laboratory, so they referred it to a reference center for more detailed analysis. By itself, it probably would have been discarded as a curiosity—but we were watching for that specific pattern of abnormalities, a pattern that matches the sample recovered from an article of clothing left behind in Los Angeles, heavily stained with the blood of Nicholas Magister Luscian.”

  Alaricus went still. “You’re American,” he said in English, having finally identified the faint accent to his captor’s speech.

  “Yes,” Kensington said simply, switching back to his native tongue.

  Alaricus considered him calculatingly. “You are seeking knowledge of the Triumvirate, and of the Armistice.”

  “We are.” Kensington stretched his hands in front of him, the tips of his fingers lightly touching. “From the information the Armistice has released, your own leaders are somewhat opposed to their interests.”

  “That is a fair statement.” The vampire considered Kensington shrewdly. “My direct knowledge of the Armistice is limited, but I might be able to persuade my superiors to trade intelligence, if you had something of value to offer in exchange.”

  His interrogator chuckled. “We have the biochemical signature associated with vampirism, Mr. Giordano. Currently, the significance of that information is restricted to a select group of people at the United States Central Intelligence Agency. The other intelligence agencies of the world were asked to monitor for that signature, but we told them it was simply the blood picture of a high-profile assassin. What we have to offer is the opportunity to convince us not to inform the human governments of the world exactly how to detect your kind. Whether your superiors consider that information valuable is up to them.”

  Alaricus tilted his head in amusement as he studied his opponent. “You would try to blackmail the Court of Shadows with the threat of genocide?”

  Kensington scowled. “Genocide only applies to human beings, Mr. Giordano. You and your kind are not people. You are simply bloodsucking parasites, mosquitoes with delusions of grandeur. Sooner or later, I will see to it that you are all expunged for the sake of the public good. I am offering you the chance to make it later, instead of sooner. If it were up to me, alone, I would order that information released in a heartbeat. But my superiors believe you could be useful in dealing with the threat from within our own borders. That takes precedence over my desire to see you all destroyed—but make no mistake, your time is coming to an end.”

  Alaricus laughed out loud. “Ah, the human penchant for self-righteousness. I remember such words from the mouths of the Inquisitors, the Crusaders, and the Fascists as they swept through our lands.” He grinned and his fangs gleamed. “They came and went, and we are still here.”

  “I assure you that we will not be so transient, Mr. Giordano.” Kensington looked at him sourly. “If you have nothing useful to say, I’m afraid this conversation is at an end.” He got up and turned to the door.

  Alaricus snorted. “Don’t bother to try to manipulate me so transparently, spymaster. You need the knowledge we possess or this conversation would never have taken place. Sit down like a civilized man and we will discuss how this situation can be made to benefit both our peoples.”

&nb
sp; Kensington sat back in his chair. “I’m listening.”

  “Then let us begin again, and we shall negotiate for real.”

  CHAPTER 15

  May 2040; the White House, Washington, D.C.; Four months after public exposure

  Nick stood silently on top of the presidential seal that was woven into the carpet as Ana and the Secret Service agents stepped out of the Oval Office, leaving him alone with the President. Outwardly, he was calm, composed even, but inside, the tension made his nervous system hum like a violin string. He held out his hand. “Mr. President, it’s an honor to meet you.”

  President Daniels gave him a severe stare, and then sighed and shook Nick’s hand. “Why don’t you sit down, Ambassador?”

  Nick took a seat across the desk from him. “You asked for this meeting, Mr. President. What can I do for you?”

  The President was silent momentarily, studying him. “Your people have caused me a lot of headaches, Mr. Jameson.”

  “‘Nick’ is fine, sir.” He shrugged. “Would you rather we had remained hidden and let millions of people die?”

  “I suppose not. You saved a great many lives that day, Nick. Has anyone ever thanked you for it?”

  Nick swallowed, slightly off-balance. “Not exactly. The fan mail I used to get increased a hundred-fold before my record label began refusing delivery. By then, the death threats outweighed the encouraging ones by about three to one.”

  President Daniels allowed himself a half-smile. “If it’s any comfort, my daughter still speaks highly of your music. She was quite disappointed she wouldn’t get to see you in concert after the North American leg of your tour was canceled.”

  “I could always leave her an autograph if you like.”

  President Daniels snorted. “I think she’d be thrilled.” He leaned forward, steepling his hands on the desk. “Let me be blunt, Mr. Jameson. You and your Armistice represent an unknown and extraordinary security risk to the people of the United States. That is totally unacceptable.”

  “I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have, Mr. President, but it’s too late to close Pandora’s box. The truth has set us free. Now there’s nothing left but finding a way for our peoples to coexist, if we can.”

  “It seems I don’t have a choice,” the President said grimly.

  Nick straightened. “There’s always a choice, Mr. President,” he said. “If you wish, you can reject our overtures of peace, try to lock up the people you think you know about, and do everything in your power to destroy us.” He glared across the desk. “Rest assured, however, we will not take such actions lying down. Magic requires sacrifice. If you declare war on us, keep in mind that your people are in a much more exposed and vulnerable position than mine. But the decision of how to proceed is yours.”

  “Very well.” Daniels folded his arms and watched Nick carefully. “You said you would answer my questions. You can start by telling me what you are.”

  “I am a Child of the Dawn, or a Daywalker, one of three metahuman races known to exist on Earth.” Nick relaxed a little, now back on familiar ground. “The others are the Nightwalkers, or the Children of Darkness, and the Sentinels, called the Children of Twilight.” He smiled briefly. “Humans are sometimes called the Children of the Day in Nightwalker literature. Nowadays, it’s more of a poetic term than a practical one.”

  “You actually have your own literature?”

  Nick frowned. “Of course. Our cultures have existed for thirty thousand years, Mr. President. Sentinel history is somewhat fragmentary, having had to pass on their knowledge by oral tradition and caches of their writings, but the Nightwalkers have an unbroken historical record dating back tens of thousands of years. It is maintained by telepathic transfer of memories and testimony to multiple curators for safekeeping. Vampires don’t forget, Mr. President. We remember everything we’ve ever experienced with perfect clarity—forever—even the memories of when we were mortal. We may have been at war all that time, but even the best soldier can’t fight every hour of the day. Sooner or later, he has to find something worth fighting for or he doesn’t survive. Even without souls, the Children of Darkness have had a long time to develop the finer points of their civilization. It would be a mistake to sell either side short.”

  The President frowned. “You said the Nightwalkers don’t have souls. Exactly what do you mean by that?”

  “Where do I begin? I guess I should explain what a vampire is, the way I learned it.” He settled down in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair, ordering his thoughts. “All living creatures are composed of three parts: the body, the soul, and the spirit. The body is the physical vessel for the soul, while the spirit is the animating breath of creation that moves the body and gives it life. The soul is the essence of individuality, the embodiment of choice, the instrument of free will. At the moment of death, the three separate. The spirit dissipates, the body dies, and the soul moves beyond time to face judgment and its final reward.

  “When a human dies the first death and rises as a Nightwalker, a new form of spirit takes up residence—a demonic power of the lower planes called the Red Wind. The soul is cast out from the body, but it doesn’t progress to judgment. It wanders in torment, earthbound, until the body is destroyed and the Red Wind dissipates. Then, and only then, does the soul ascend, carrying the scars of both the first and second life.”

  He paused, glancing at the President to ensure he was still following. “The existence of the Daywalkers is a much more recent event. Toward the end of 2020, a Nightwalker, now called the Traveler, repented what he’d become. He invoked an ancient ritual that dated back to the start of the war, the same ritual that created both Nightwalkers and Sentinels. It allowed him to project his soul beyond time and speak to an agent of the higher planes directly.”

  “What exactly do you mean by an ‘agent of the higher planes’?”

  “An angel, Mr. President. He bargained with an angel and walked away with an ability that we call the Grace, which is the power to raise the dead.” Nick laughed at the President’s incredulous look. “You’ve seen me use magic, sir. You saw me when I showed my true form. Is it so hard to accept that all the things you want to believe in are real?”

  “Finish your story, Ambassador.” The President’s voice was clipped.

  “The Traveler’s power allows him to call the soul back to the body after death and substitute another spirit principle, called the White Wind, from the higher planes. When used on a human or a Sentinel, the Grace restores them to life. When used on a Child of Darkness, however, it purges him of the Red Wind and replaces it with the White, allowing the Nightwalker to reclaim his soul. He stops being undead and becomes a Daywalker—that’s if the soul is welcomed back. If the Nightwalker rejects the power of the Grace, the White Wind and the Red fight for dominance of the physical body and cancel each other out. The body dies, and the soul is freed to seek judgment.”

  “Is that what happened to you? Someone made you a Nightwalker, and this Traveler gave you back your soul?”

  “Yes,” Nick said softly, “that’s exactly what happened.” A frown creased his forehead at the memory. “Nightwalkers are creatures of rage and domination. Although there’s a range of personalities in the Nightwalker community, they have an instinctive drive to destroy and conquer. Some adapt to the change better than others, and are better able to leash their instincts. When a vampire’s soul is returned, it removes much of the bloodlust and rage, returning a greater measure of control. Choice is restored. We Daywalkers have a stronger sense of free will than our dark brethren.”

  The President sighed heavily, opened a drawer of his desk, and lifted a cut glass decanter into view, along with two glasses. He poured himself a shot and looked quizzically at Nick. “Do you like scotch?”

  Nick stared at him in amazement, then shook his head. “It’s a little early in the day for me, Mr. President.”

  “Until your performance in Los Angeles, I would have said exactly the sam
e thing.” Daniels took a sip of his liquor. “Please go on.”

  “Once the possibility of a cure for vampirism existed, the Traveler offered a truce to the leader of the Sentinels, called Shadowhunter. Shadowhunter accepted the bargain. The two began to recruit other Sentinels and Nightwalkers to join them. As the number of Daywalkers grew, the Children of Darkness began to believe in the possibility of redemption, and they began signing on in greater numbers. The Sentinels were happy to stop fighting, as long as the Nightwalkers left them and the human population alone.

  “In less than a year, the truce spread throughout the United States, Canada, and Mexico. At that point, it was formalized into a treaty—the Armistice Declaration of 2021. A ruling council was set up, called the Triumvirate, composed of the North American leaders of each of the three races: Sentinel, Nightwalker, and Daywalker. A watchdog organization known as Armistice Security was also created. It enforces the terms of the treaty and punishes any breach of the Armistice. Other than one major incident, the truce has held rather successfully for almost two decades.

  “Since the time we stopped fighting and started working together, we’ve made huge advances, starting with the creation of artificial intelligence, modeled after the Gift of Air. Our technologies truly began to accelerate after that, once the AIs formed their own research teams with all of human science at their disposal. In just a few years, the Armistice has grown in power and knowledge to the point that we’ve actually built entire hidden cities without humanity suspecting a thing. We call ourselves the Free People now.”

  “Free from what?” asked Daniels, skeptically.

  “Free from the war, from the mindless hatred and killing that plagues the rest of the supernatural world. It’s an ongoing struggle—the vampires rising above their nature and the Sentinels repressing their instincts, with the Court of Shadows always watching for a moment of weakness so they can invade and take back their territories in North America.”