Burning Ashes

by James Bennett

  I hope it was worth it. He sent a silent message to the envoy, who probably stood before the gate as he lingered here, preparing the way for the Fay. A darker thought followed this one, the memory of the dead king’s eyes, that strange, sour blue light. Ben would never forget it. You should be careful what you wish for.

  At last Ben reached the staircase that spiralled down into the depths of the tomb. Skulls filled the nooks and crannies around him, forming a wall of a thousand grins, a thousand hollow eyes. But the well between them was empty, a shadowed mouth screaming absence.

  There was no sign of du Sang.

  Ben let out his breath, his shoulders falling. He realised then that he hadn’t honestly expected the Vicomte to greet him, all open arms and fangs. His luck had never been that good. The truth was du Sang could be anywhere—that’s if he still lived. Lived. Right. The thought had crossed his mind that perhaps Mauntgraul had given the Remnant what he was looking for, a swift and fiery end. If that was the case, then the Vicomte’s absence was more than unlucky. It was tragic. Ben swore, the fact sinking in. No du Sang, no information. No information and he was facing King Arthur’s army on his own.

  Caliburn, hearing him sigh, chose that moment to pipe up.

  “I told you this was—”

  “Really? You’re saying that now?” Ben raised the blade, glaring at the jewels on the pommel. “See that well? I’m not even sure if there’s a bottom.”

  The sword appeared to decide that the argument wasn’t worth it. It shone a little brighter, but fell silent.

  It was only when Ben lowered the weapon, squaring his shoulders for the long march back to the world above, that he heard a soft snapping sound and noticed the faint glimmer in the gloom. In the brief time he’d stood here, spiders had gathered, emerging soundlessly from socket and jaw, spinning silvery tendrils back and forth. By chance, Caliburn had cut through the strands, his magical radiance picking out the gossamer web that the bugs were currently weaving around him.

  No. Not around him. From the wall at his back to the wall opposite, the web stretched over the mouth of the well. Even as he watched, the strands met and grew thicker, the spiders clicking and rustling along the fast-expanding web. In the space of a minute, a frayed fan of silk spanned the drop, reminding Ben—with no small degree of discomfort—of the strings of a harp.

  But du Sang liked a different kind of music. The whispers of whispers, their desire and design … Isn’t that what he’d said?

  The thought prompted Ben to picture the Vicomte, a memory of the last time he’d come here. Usually resembling a nineteen-year-old boy (though he was obviously much older, with nothing youthful or innocent about him), du Sang had looked terrible, a sack of mismatched bones and rags, a hunger in his rubylike eyes. He remembered du Sang crawling over the web in the middle of the well and plucking at the strands, bending his ear to listen.

  The spiders had retreated, bristling on the walls. Ben bristled too, goosebumps sliding under his scales. Every eye in the chamber seemed fixed on him, an expected audience of millions. Were the bugs trying to tell him something?

  Don’t mind my little spies. It is in their nature to gossip …

  Ben snorted, uncomfortable. Hadn’t he learnt a damn thing? Carefully, he reached out a hand and strummed the taut mass of fibres that stretched beside his head. The web gave a twang, reverberating across the drop below him.

  “What is it?” the sword asked, alert in the gloom.

  “Shut up and I might find out.”

  With a wince, Ben lowered his head to the web.

  At once, he heard voices. Voices in his skull. A man speaking.

  Poor Lambert. Did you honestly think you could hide from us? Your treachery stinks as much as your pit!

  Next, he heard du Sang, a velvet knife in the shadows.

  Pardonne-moi, sweet Bernat. I did all I could to ensure our survival.

  The one called Bernat didn’t sound convinced.

  You deceived us, amigo. His accent was deep, a rich Spanish drawl. Consorting with humans behind our backs. Six nights ago, on the night of our rising, we learnt of your Pact. Your bargain with the English devil.

  And du Sang replied. Then it must fall to the Five Families to judge me, non? I see only one here, the don of House Artigas. What a pity. That the weakest should throw off their coffin lids first. He gave a chuckle. The blood blooms in your cheeks, brother. It was always such a handsome face, even in your rage.

  The creature called Bernat hissed.

  We will serve till the others awaken. I cannot see the Five chastising us. There came an echo of clapped hands. Ignasi, Lucia, grab him. Let us take this wretch to the castle. There he will answer for his crimes.

  The web hummed. Ben heard a scuffle, hisses and laughter in the dark. Then the strand fell still, returning to silence, the spiders as watchful as before. Waiting. But not before Ben had caught the impression, independent of sound, that the encounter had taken place on this very spot—and mere hours ago—du Sang snatched rudely from his web. Not before he’d heard the curse of the one called Bernat, cold and faint, betraying where he meant to take the Vicomte.

  Paris was a dead end. In more ways than one.

  Time, as ever, was short.

  ELEVEN

  Barcelona

  Barcelona. The Great Enchantress.

  Ben flew south, a tailwind speeding him through the night, skimming the teeth of the Pyrenees. The great crags rose shrouded and dark, a majestic wall between France and Spain that tore at the straggling clouds. Coasting at a low altitude, he saw the flash of rivers in the moonlight, the flicker of campfires below. In a rush of wind, he was over the Andorran heights before he knew it, swooping down into Catalonia and racing for the sea. Hilltop villas and farms went by in a blur beneath him, his tail straight, an arrow slicing over the land. By the time he laid eyes on his destination, he judged the hour at around 5 a.m. In the distance, a jewelled labyrinth blazed with light, luring him on.

  Barcelona, the ancient city, spread out from the summit of Tibidabo, the tallest mountain in the Serra de Collserola. Crowning the highest church, Christ spread his arms to bless the glittering vista, the famous grid of streets that stretched, narrow and rolling, to the edge of the Balearic Sea. From above, Ben made out the spires of La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s monstrous vision of Gothic and Art Nouveau, rising over the district like an ornate cake or a giant spider, depending on one’s point of view. A warmth filled him at the sight of the surrounding alleyways, the soft green glow of absinthe bars and rustling trees, shadowed in the wind. In years gone by, he had taken his pleasure in these dark and winding streets, in taberna and bordel, soothed and entranced by the city’s Romanesque chic. He hadn’t been here since the end of the Civil War and he greeted Barcelona with a sigh that the locals might call enyoranca, a longing for a more peaceful, happier time.

  That had been eighty years ago. Barcelona was a faded place, yet her glory lingered, a trace of magic in the soil. In her tall, shuttered facades, her leafy courtyards and broad boulevards, she wore her history with pride. Always a dark city, a maze where lovers kissed in hidden gardens and under archways, there was something that struck Ben as odd as he swooped down from the heights, alighting on the rocky outcrop of Mount Carmel. From the crumbling bunkers, he had a clear view of the city below, and when he closed his wings and held his breath, the wind confirmed his impression.

  “Silence,” he muttered, keen to break it.

  He left the word hanging, an ominous note in the gloom as he drank in the view. This was far from a quiet city. From the rattle of trams to the honking traffic to the music pumping from the all-night clubs, Barcelona threw her revelry into the sky, unashamed of her splendour. Usually. Tonight, her streets lay under a strange calm, a stillness that held anything but peace. There was death in the wind too, Ben thought. Death and something else, a flat, metallic sweetness that made him wrinkle his snout and growl. Even the faintest trace of blood at this distance spoke of ple
nty spilled in the streets below, reminding Ben what he was dealing with, even before the sword piped up.

  “Remnants have taken the city,” Caliburn said. “Vampires, to be precise. Just like London, everyone has fled.”

  As if drawing himself in for comfort, Ben rippled and changed, his wings, tail and snout melting into the shape of a man standing on the ledge, his legs parted, the silver blade clutched in his hand. Vampires. What next? Such creatures, he knew, possessed eyesight to rival his own and he wasn’t about to broadcast the news of his arrival for fear of risking the safety of the one he’d come for. Du Sang was down there somewhere, in the clutches of House Artigas, one of the Five Families. And like it or not, the Vicomte was his only hope of finding out the location of the other Remnants. The Wakeful, like himself, and any others that might’ve risen from their ancient beds. The matter at hand would take speed and stealth, if he hoped to get out alive. Or—he shuddered at the thought—uninfected. Nobody needed a seven-ton undead dragon feasting on the panicked masses right now; humanity had it bad enough as it was. He had no way of knowing how many vampyri infested the city or what that might mean for the residents, but his extraordinary senses had given him an insight as sharp as the sword. And he didn’t like the smell of it.

  “No,” he said. “Some people are still here. Fear like that is strong enough to bottle.”

  With that, Ben leapt off the ledge. Like a fallen angel, he made his way down into the city, his wings carrying him in half-human form over the rooftops below. He dodged aerials and weathervanes, steering himself against the wind. Rooftiles, plant pots and washing lines scattered in his wake, but no lights came on in windows, no one cursed or shouted, and even the whine and hiss of pets sounded muted to his ears. There were people inside the buildings, however. Hiding. The tang of dread never left his nostrils.

  And garlic. Entering the city proper, crouching on the roof of a bank that overlooked the Plaça de Catalunya, the odour mingled with the blood, drawing his eyes to the surrounding buildings. All the windows were dark, every shutter closed, but even from a distance he could make out the strings of bulbs hanging from every ledge, along with a veritable armoury of crucifixes, candles and saintly icons. He imagined that the sight would repeat itself all the way down La Rambla, the long, leafy thoroughfare plunging into darkness to the south of him, a city in hiding.

  Judging by the splotches that peppered the plaza below, broad and empty under the streetlights, Ben assumed that the locals knew exactly what creatures had come to the city—or they had soon found out. Myths come to life, bringing death … But the old tales had served as a warning, at least. That was the best he could hope for. He snarled, trying to dispel the thought of human terror, a sudden shift in the world they knew knocking them from the top of the food chain. The vampyri might be few, but the creatures had a funny way of reproducing themselves, tainting the chosen with undeath. With a grunt, Ben accepted it as a threat that the Lore could no longer prevent. In the past, the humans had found ways to protect themselves, with crosses, with holy water and fire, but the memory gave him no comfort. Soon enough, other cities like this one would fall, a realisation he loathed, but couldn’t deny. Sea monsters would attack New York. Tokeloshe run riot in Johannesburg. Rusalki rise from the river in Moscow, red-haired and pale, luring men to their deaths by drowning … And around the world, would the Remnant leaders, the guardians of the Lore, find themselves as unprepared, as besieged as he was? The thought made sense, for all the threadbare hope it offered him. If I can somehow reach them … It was too late to restore the Sleep. That ship had sailed. All he could do was find a way to resist, to fight back. Despite the coming terror and destruction, it was a battle he could understand, at least. The old scores rising to the surface. The old war resumed.

  Thinking this, he focused on the task at hand. The blood glittered in the plaza, not quite dry, and Ben reckoned that this invasion was recent; it had happened a couple of days ago at most. A police car parked askew by a statue, its doors open, its sirens flashing, told him that there had been the expected armed response. He saw further police cars down the Ronda de Sant Pere, one of them wheels-up in the road. The carnage implied that he was looking at the scene of some clash or other and he could only hope, as he tarried here, that the army was already mobilising, preparing a raid on the city. He’d sensed the same atmosphere back in London, the air of a coiled spring. When the humans struck back—as he knew they would—everything would go to hell in a handbasket.

  The Remnants were few, granted, but among the risen were things long dead. Things that magically healed and things with untold strength. Dark things. Giant things. Things that the humans only recognised as fiction, bogeymen from storybooks, far from a threat in the “real world.” And here, with the presence of House Artigas, Ben had witnessed the first Sleepers to rise without the aid of Arthur’s horn, a fact that hadn’t escaped him. Nor did it surprise him that the vampyri, ruled by sunset and sunrise, should be the first to throw off the long enchantment, roused by the echoes of the shattered harp. Scant consolation, too, that only one house had risen, indicating that his suspicions were correct, that the Sleep would unravel slowly. Perhaps as slowly as it had taken to come about, the creeping song of a hundred years …

  He bit his lip, chewing on misplaced optimism. What did it matter anyway? Most of the Remnants had gone kicking and screaming into the Sleep, or at least unaware of the spell that bound them. Better to expect them to emerge the same way, desperate and wrathful, seeking revenge. Best to prepare for the worst. In the meantime, the humans had grown idle and soft. These days, few carried weapons in Europe, no swords and flintlock pistols on the road. Fighting was expressly a military affair. For the most part, capitalism had bred a society of pampered fools, leaving the poor to scrabble in the dirt, ignored and defenceless. The times had exposed every man, woman and child to a great and terrible truth. Disbelief was no armour at all.

  He closed his eyes, suppressing unease. He didn’t hold out much hope for them.

  It was then that he heard the chanting, a sonorous chorus rising from the tangle of streets to the east of him, deep in the heart of the Gothic Quarter. The dirge of many voices—not one of them living, he presumed—seemed to encapsulate his fear, and sweat prickled on his skin, even as he strained to trace the source of the sound. On silent wings, he bounded over hotel sign and rooftop café, leaping the deep and narrow streets that cut the ranks of new and medieval houses. From the crumbling crenellations of the old Roman wall, Ben peered down into the Placita de la Seu, scanning the cathedral square with wide golden eyes.

  The procession emerged from the alleyway under him, passing under a restored arch and filing out into the open. Six abreast and at least fifty long, the train of creatures flowed across the square, each pale face raised to the moon in song. Ben grimaced to hear them, the rude mix of Latin and Spanish offering up the odd legible word of justice and awakening and fathomless thirst. All in the throng wore rags, the dusty leavings of velvet and silk from once-noble finery, all eaten away by the grave. That’s where the unholy mob had climbed from, of course, creeping and crawling from some forgotten cemetery or crypt, long buried by layers of Renaissance mansions, Castilian forts and modern-day stadiums. Each glowing ruby eye must’ve blinked in the shadows of a new age, then grown wide in the sight of a swollen population and the promise of a banquet of blood. A strange mist wove around every pair of marching feet, bearing the crowd in a smoky cloud across the flagstones, past the darkened shops and the abandoned market stalls, under the ornate spires and the leering gargoyles of the cathedral.

  From above, the parade resembled a line of insects. Parasites. That’s what these creatures were, Ben knew. He was thinking how good it would feel to dive from the wall and turn the plaza into a gauntlet of fire, see the dry flesh and brittle bones go up like kindling, when he caught sight of the figure at the head of the crowd.

  Du Sang!

  Borne aloft by the chanting throng, the Vico
mte had been bound by the vampyri to a large wooden cross, its hooked, broken arms reminding Ben of the symbol etched outside the boy’s tomb in Paris. If he could call du Sang a boy. The creature had endured for nine hundred years, crawling into the modern age like the spiders that he employed as spies, surviving on a diet of rats and God knew what else in the darkness. He had only grown colder and harder with time, as was his nature, eventually able to withstand sunlight and grievous wounds. But handy as that was, Ben didn’t think that du Sang would survive this. If anyone knew how to kill him, then it was his kin.

  As a Remnant, Ben found it hard to shake off the sympathy nudging his heart. Du Sang had been his friend once, back in a debauched and dissolute time, but those days were long gone. Where Ben had chosen honour and to uphold the Lore, others, like the Vicomte, had merely chosen to suffer it, suppressing a natural inclination to conspiracy and carnage under threat of death. With the collapse of the Curia Occultus, of course, there was no one left to punish him. Duped, betrayed, House Artigas had stepped in to fill the gap.

  Stripped to the waist, his alabaster flesh exposed to the night, the Vicomte’s body was riddled with stakes. A dozen or more stuck out of his chest, his neck, his arms and legs, the rough jags of wood seeping with blood, staining the ropes around him. Du Sang’s wounds belied the withered state of him, his limbs hanging like twigs at his side, his ribcage stark, his cheeks drawn. Even his forelock of hair had crumbled, leaving his head a raw skull, his eyes glowing deep and dull in their sockets. The Vicomte didn’t struggle or cry out, seemingly resigned to his fate. With a hawk’s gaze, Ben could see the garlic bulb stuffed in his mouth, presumably keeping him weak, unable to vanish in mist or turn into a bat and fly away, if one credited such tales.