Brand New Night

by Nathan Spain

  Draven twisted his face into a humorless smile. “Really now? A surviving member of the Sons of Helsing, perhaps? If so, it will be a privilege to kill him. And here I thought I’d have to go out and search for my next meal.”

  “You shouldn’t be so overconfident,” Damian said, a pleading note in his voice. “This man could be a formidable opponent, even for you.”

  “Well, I appreciate the warning. But that’s not why you came, is it? Listen, if Selene has sent you to drag me to the Manor for breaking the terms of my exile, we –”

  “No, no,” Damian interrupted. “It’s not like that. Quite the opposite, in fact.” He took a step closer to Draven, a sudden sincerity filling his eyes. “The world has changed for us, old friend. Vampires are still outnumbered by humanity, but now that contrast is much less stark. We’re left to scrounge for food among increasingly slim pickings. To be frank, the situation is unsustainable.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “The point,” Damian stressed, “is that all four clans have agreed the time has come to convene, to gather representatives of the country’s vampires together and discuss our options for the future. A sort of summit, if you will.” After a brief pause he added, with a touch of pride, “I was the one who proposed the idea to Selene, actually.”

  It took Draven a moment to wrap his head around the implications of Damian’s words. “And you’re inviting me? After what I did, the taboos I broke?”

  “Your past has not been forgotten,” Damian said patiently. “But Lady Selene is prepared to put the past aside for the sake of the future. She is offering you a full pardon. As far as she’s concerned, you have already paid your penance through your past thirty years of exile. All she asks in return is your participation in the summit. You stood by her side for many years. She would have you there again as we build a new future for our clan.”

  “An intriguing proposition,” Draven said, and it was; the offer seemed almost too good to be true, so of course his mind was already racing to find the catch. “But what makes Selene think the clans can be united now? It sounds like an impossible task.”

  “Perhaps,” Damian replied with a shrug. “But the attempt must be made. It wasn’t easy to get everyone onboard with such a gathering, but the winds of change are blowing, and it’s imperative that we evolve. We must change our habits, reach new agreements. Anything we can do to stem the tides of entropy, before both our race and humanity gradually wither on the vine.”

  Draven scoffed. “I have a hard time picturing you reaching an agreement with the Nightcloaks or the Blackwings. You’ll be facing an uphill battle.”

  “But we must try,” Damian insisted. He spread his arms out, as if gesturing to the entire world. “What’s the alternative? Acting like nothing has changed and continuing our tribalistic ways? Wandering the Earth as lone parasitic scavengers like you have done? We would only hasten our own end, were we all to follow your example.”

  Draven glowered at him. “You are young and idealistic, Damian. In all my many years, I have never seen the clans reach consensus on anything, let alone work together. At the end of the night we are just as petty and divided as the humans.”

  Damian returned the glare, narrowing his wrinkled brow. “It’s true, I haven’t been a vampire as long as you. But that also means I’ve lived as a human much more recently than you have. They are resilient, but I fear their species will never fully recover from this catastrophe. And like it or not, our fate is tied to theirs.”

  Draven sighed. “I don’t disagree with you that things look bleak,” he admitted. “But what exactly would you have our people do about it?”

  A passionate enthusiasm filled Damian’s eyes, and his reply came quickly to his lips, as though he been waiting for the question. “New arrangements must be made. Perhaps instead of a parasitic relationship to the humans, we could have a symbiotic one – reveal ourselves, step out of the shadows and forge alliances with the cities of men. We could establish systems by which the blood we need for our survival can be willingly donated in exchange for our services. With our collective centuries of knowledge and experience, there is much we could offer them toward the goal of rebuilding civilization, if only our races were to pool their resources and –”

  “Your idealism is worse than I thought,” Draven interrupted. “We’ve spilt too much human blood over the centuries to seek forgiveness now. They will always see us as an enemy. You of all people should know that – or have you forgotten what happened with the Sons of Helsing thirty years ago? I’m sorry, Damian, but humanity would never accept the existence of vampires.”

  “We did,” Damian said simply.

  A long silence fell before Draven muttered, “You were dying. I gave you no other option. And Ariadne…” He swallowed, trailing off. How long had it been since he’d said her name aloud?

  “Ariadne was different,” Damian finished for him. “But she learned what you were and she didn’t turn against you. In a way, doesn’t she prove that coexistence is possible? It is a radical idea, I realize that. And I fear the clans will have the same reaction as you. Nevertheless, we shall gain nothing if we don’t make the attempt.”

  Draven shook his head in disbelief. “By all means, make the attempt. But leave me out of it. I won’t waste my time on a lost cause.”

  “It seems to me,” said Damian, irritation in his voice, “that you have plenty of time to waste. Look at you.” He spread his arms again, gesturing to the dusty chapel surrounding them. “Squatting alone in an abandoned church in the ruins of the world. Tell me, when was the last time you did something meaningful with your long life? You’ve become a stubborn old survivor, jaded and cynical, clinging to your continued existence. But you could be so much more. You could be part of the future – even instrumental in shaping it.”

  Damian’s accusations were nothing that Draven hadn’t already leveled at himself. Perhaps that was why it stung so much to hear.

  “Really,” Damian pressed, looking at him with an infuriating expression of uncomprehending pity, “what have you got to lose?”

  Draven clenched and unclenched his fist. “You’ve made your case, Damian. I think you should go now.”

  For a moment, Damian looked hurt, but he regained his composure quickly. He drew his cloak around his shoulders. “As you wish. I’ll tell Selene that I relayed the invitation. Should you reconsider, the summit will be held south of here, in Oregon, at the place known as Crater Lake. You can still make it there in time.” He paused on his way to the door. “And Draven – Ariadne will be there. I think she would very much like to see you again.”

  There it was, one final stab of annoyance. Leave it to Damian to unwittingly pinpoint exactly what his hesitation was. Because of course Ariadne would be there, if only to support Damian. She would have accompanied her father to the ends of the Earth.

  “Duly noted,” Draven said, keeping his voice as free of inflection as possible. “Farewell, Damian.”

  Damian hesitated on the threshold, turning back to face Draven again. “Before I go, I have one more thing to say.” He held up a hand to preemptively silence Draven’s protests. “Please, just listen. Do you know why I volunteered to personally deliver this invitation to you, when any messenger could have done so? I missed you, Draven. I wanted to see the man who sired me thirty years ago, the man to whom I owe so much.”

  “Siring you was impulsive of me,” Draven muttered. “A moment of weakness. You know I made the decision hastily and under pressure from your daughter, when it should have been carefully considered. Meaning no offense, but I often wonder if I did the right thing that day.”

  Damian shrugged. “Who can say? I certainly don’t regret it. You saved my life, after all, and Ariadne’s, too. More than that. You helped us to unlock our full potential. I only ask that you try to live up to yours.”

  He opened the church door, stepping out into the night. “Oh,” he called back to Draven over his shoulder, “and do watch out for that v
ampire hunter. You won’t have the chance to be part of any future if you let your guard down and get yourself killed. I wish you luck, old friend. Farewell!”

  With a whoosh of his cloak, he changed form and flew away.

  Draven closed the door behind him, and then leaned against its old, sturdy wooden surface, looking up at the rafters.

  Damian’s idealistic dreams of unity between vampires and humans had no chance of ever coming to pass. And yet, he had to admit that Damian had a point. He was not content with his current lifestyle, and the last few years had been tough going. And yet, now that it had become a possibility, he wasn’t certain how he felt about rejoining Wineblood society. Would he be welcomed back? After everything that had happened since, would anyone still care about what he had done? It seemed like Selene was willing to leave it in the past, so perhaps…

  He shook his head, dispelling the thought. He had more pressing problems to deal with. The sun would soon rise, and with it, if Damian was to be believed, would come a man to kill him. His forgotten thirst gnawed at him again, and a slight smile of anticipation made its way across his face.

  Maybe, if he played it right, he could kill two birds with one stone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Draven stood statuesque in the shadows of the church’s bell tower, surveying the landscape through the open windows. The morning sun was already bright and hot.

  Whoever this vampire hunter coming for him was, he would be hoping to catch Draven unawares, sleeping through the daylight hours. But Draven had patiently stayed up until first light and beyond, keeping a watchful eye on the horizon. He was ready to give this hunter a taste of his own medicine.

  Barely an hour had passed since dawn when he spotted the vehicle approaching, a little speck of black in the distance among the empty streets and abandoned houses. It parked a few blocks away. Draven watched from the shadows of the tower as a tall, muscular figure stepped out of the car. With his sharp eyesight, Draven could just make out the diagonal scar across the man’s face. The hunter wore a shotgun across his back and a row of metal stakes strapped to his belt, and from his hip dangled a machete.

  As the man retrieved a red gasoline can from the trunk, the pattern on his leather jacket caught Draven’s eye. It depicted a fanged skull overlaid against a pair of crossed stakes. It had been a long time since Draven last saw that insignia.

  The Sons of Helsing, just as he’d suspected. They never were very subtle bastards. He’d had run-ins with them before, but their ranks had dwindled over the years, even before the Devastation. Once a proud order, and now, from the looks of this one, the discount biker gang of vampire hunters.

  His brow knitted with hatred as memories from thirty years prior flashed to the forefront of his mind, no less vivid than the day they were made. Images of Damian and Ariadne’s startled faces as the door to their house was kicked down…

  He shook his head, casting off the memory like a cobweb. This was not the moment to reflect on the past. He retreated down the bell tower stairs and into the main chapel to take his position.

  Time to settle some old scores.

  ----

  Experience had proven to Draven, time and time again, that even a cautious, well-trained human rarely thought to look directly above them upon entering a room.

  Bodrock proved to be no exception.

  Draven watched as the hunter cautiously cracked open the church’s wooden door and slipped inside.

  Three…Two…One.

  He dropped from the rafters.

  Draven landed directly on Bodrock’s back. The hunter cried out and dropped the can of gasoline, struggling to keep his footing. Draven clung to him, his legs pinning Bodrock’s arms as he leaned in for the kill, lunging with bared fangs toward his opponent’s neck.

  Bodrock’s head thrust backward and smashed into Draven’s face.

  The sudden shock of impact lessened the strength of Draven’s grip. With a snarl, Bodrock shook him off and shoved him away. In one fluid motion, the hunter spun around, pulled the shotgun from his back, and pointed it at Draven.

  He pulled the trigger, but Draven sprang away, gritting his teeth in pain as buckshot grazed his arm.

  Using all his considerable speed, Draven rolled in an evasive half-circle as Bodrock fired shot after shot. All the while, Draven counted the bullets in his head. He knew Bodrock was out of ammo a split-second before the hunter did. Giving him no time to reload, Draven leapt toward him and batted the shotgun out of Bodrock’s hand.

  But before Draven could strike, Bodrock delivered a heavy kick to his chest that knocked him off his feet.

  Bodrock lunged, a long metal stake in hand, pointed downward in a blow aimed at Draven’s skull. But Draven, flat on his back on the floor, saw him coming. With a deft upward kick, he intercepted the hunter’s leap, redirecting his momentum and sending him flying over Draven’s head. Bodrock collided with the solid wooden pews in front of the altar.

  There was a moment of respite as they both picked themselves off the ground, groaning.

  Draven’s cold, glinting eyes sized up his opponent. “Not bad, Son of Helsing,” he growled. “You’ve got some skill, I see. Good. That will make killing you all the more satisfying.”

  Bodrock returned the vampire’s gaze with a steely glare of his own, sliding the machete loose from his belt. “You know who I am, then. And apparently you knew I was coming. How? Are there more of you monsters hiding in Sanctuary?”

  Draven’s pale lips twitched in a mocking half-smile.

  Bodrock sneered. “Maybe once I’ve delivered your head, I’ll track down your kin in the area and exterminate them as well.”

  Draven shrugged. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, hunter. First you must –”

  He broke off mid-sentence as Bodrock flung the machete at him, swift and sudden. Draven had no time to dodge, only a split-second to brace himself.

  With a wrenching thud, the blade buried itself in his chest.

  The force of the blow sent him staggering back. It wasn’t a fatal wound, of course, any more than the bullets from Matthew Clark’s gun had been. His body would heal quickly. But that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt.

  Bodrock vaulted over the church pews, another stake held high to finish the job.

  Draven backed up against the wall. As Bodrock rushed toward him, he pivoted his body to the left and grasped the handle of the machete embedded in his torso. With one swift, strong motion, he pulled it free from his chest and swung it in a deadly arc through the air.

  The blade’s tip sliced devastatingly across the hunter’s face.

  Blood flew off the tip of the machete in a beautiful spray as Draven finished his movement, spinning out of the path of the hunter’s charge. Bodrock, screaming in pain, crashed headfirst into the wall where Draven had just stood.

  The enticing scent of blood hit Draven’s nostrils, and his mouth watered. He glanced down at the hunter’s prone form; out cold, blood dripping from the fresh cut.

  Draven pressed a hand to his chest wound and grimaced in pain as he pondered his options. He could finish the man off where he lay...but then so much blood would be wasted. Times were tough, food was scarce, and fresh leftovers – well, that was a rare opportunity.

  He gritted his teeth. He ought to take no chances, to rid himself of this threat without hesitation, yet something stayed his hand, something more than mere frugality.

  His prior words to Damian floated unbidden to the forefront of his mind. We’ve spilt too much human blood over the centuries to seek forgiveness now.

  With a sigh, he strode to the storage room in the back of the church, where the former bandit occupants had left behind a supply of rope.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bodrock regained awareness of his surroundings one piece of information at a time. The first thing he recognized was the pain; the hot, stinging sensation across his face, the ache of bruised shoulder and back muscles stretched taut. Why were his arms stretched out like that? He
tried to bring them down to his sides, but they wouldn’t come.

  The surprise of his immobility snapped him fully awake. Wincing as he opened his eyes, he realized that he was upright, but his feet were off the ground, his legs straight and pressed tightly together. He couldn’t move them either. His weight was supported not by his legs, but by ropes, tightly binding his wrists, ankles and waist to –

  The understanding hit him of what, exactly, he was bound to: the man-sized wooden cross affixed to the wall at the back of the church.

  Damn vampire has a sick sense of humor, he thought, straining against the ropes fixing him to the cross. He spotted his belongings piled in the corner of the room, left tantalizingly within sight, but beyond his reach.

  His face throbbed, a bright line of pain from temple to chin, across his nostrils and his lips. Dread briefly took hold of him as he remembered what had happened right before he lost consciousness. Someone had evidently staunched the flow of blood, because he felt no wetness on his face, but the pain was unbearable.

  He strained against the ropes, attempting to fling his weight forward again and again in hope of jarring the cross loose from the wall, but it held fast.

  Movement from the shadows caught his eye. He froze.

  The vampire looked up at Bodrock, his head tilted to one side. He wore a gray shirt, the sleeves neatly folded up at his wrists.

  “You put a nasty tear in my favorite vest while you were trying to kill me,” Draven deadpanned, eyeing him. “However, since I put a nasty tear in your face, we’ll consider it even.”

  “Filthy bat,” Bodrock growled, his mounting anger doing nothing to lessen the pain. “What have you done?”

  “Less than I could have. You’ll live, and the new scar will complement your existing one nicely. Combined, they’ll make an X across your face.” A slight, ironic smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I wish I could claim it was deliberate, but at the time I wasn’t thinking about the artistic effect of my actions.”