StoneDragon

by Adrian Cross

  JP stumbled.

  Clay steadied JP. It was his first time seeing the Tower up close, Clay realized.

  The teenager’s eyes were fixed on the building overhead. Horror swirled in his eyes, to a degree that surprised Clay. The Tower wasn’t pretty, but JP had survived the Last Great War.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure.” JP’s gaze slid away. “Have you been inside?”

  “The Tower? No. Everything I’ve heard says that’s a bad idea. Most people who try climbing it come back down the hard way—outside the window. Or they don’t come back at all. I’ve never heard anything that made me want to risk it.”

  “Okay.” JP nodded jerkily. “Let’s go.”

  Clay frowned but let the subject drop. The stairs up to the base of the Tower were steep, and he soon had to focus his attention on each new step. By the time they reached the upper section of the stairs, his breath rasped in and out and his thighs trembled. He put a hand on the low stone wall and straightened, drawing in deep breaths.

  The Tower had been built for defense, each section of stairs growing progressively narrower, with walls on either side and rough, steep and uneven footing away from the stairs. The slope was defined to funnel attackers into a kill zone, where archers could ravage them. Clay admired the grim beauty of the design.

  A hot wind swept over him, gusting his coat away from his body. JP staggered up the last few steps. They looked out over the city. It was pierced with flame, like someone had swept a boot through a campfire, scattering embers. The largest fire rose up where Rhino’s castle had once stood. Clay stared at it numbly.

  “I’m sorry, Clay.”

  He swallowed. A hard knot grew in his stomach. He remembered Rose’s flashing eyes, Rhino’s indomitable presence. He recoiled from imagining either of them dead. “Just because the castle is burning, doesn’t mean they are.”

  “Of course.”

  Clay pushed away from the wall. “Let’s go.”

  JP followed silently as they skirted the great Tower and headed down the western stairs.

  It was easier going down than up, but not so easy Clay’s legs didn’t ache in a different way by the bottom. But he welcomed the pain, using it to push out unwelcome thoughts. At this point, he didn’t want to think at all. He simply walked, until they reached the border of what once had been the Club District.

  “What happened?” JP asked.

  “The Earth army.”

  At one point, Candiman had replaced the solid black cobblestones with rainbow-colored crystal-flecked bricks. These had been torn up and scorched, with great gaping scars that showed the clay beneath. Ivory pillars were snapped in half, and iron light posts sprawled onto the street. Windows were shattered, and signs sprayed with blood.

  “They seem to be drawn to resistance,” Clay said. “Candiman put up a fight.”

  He walked slowly down the street, boots clacking and fingers resting on the warm plastic of his pistol’s butt. The only sound was a soft rustle as the wind played with a torn canopy. They were alone in a street that was normally packed with adrenalin-spiked thrill-seekers and cold-eyed vampires. Or at least it had been the one or two nights Clay visited this part of the city.

  It had always amazed him that the population of the Club District—who were non-infected, almost entirely—was as large as it was, given they were ruled by an unrepentant blood drinker. But Candiman was clever, and he made a powerful promise: as long as the citizens of the Club District followed his rules, absolutely, they would be safe as gold. Safer, in fact, since Candiman exceled at separating the people of StoneDragon from their money. He insisted anyone who went missing had simply crossed the Wall and not returned. Clay wasn’t so sure that was always the case. But people were pretty good at believing what they wanted to believe.

  The colorful windows were dark and broken. No music shuddered through the walls of the buildings. Fire lapped the edges of a porch extending out from a great bluestone edifice.

  The building was the Last Emporium, the largest club on the Strip. Peaked roofs topped vaulting towers, and gilded posts and walls pierced the space within, more like a medieval cathedral than a night club. No praying happened inside though—or at least, not to any normal god. Its clientele worshiped the chemicals in their veins, the pounding music in their ears, and the pale-skinned masters who watched from ledges above. The leader of whom sat on the steps ahead.

  A tall hat shadowed his lowered head, but Clay knew who it was. A trickle of unease danced down Clay’s spine.

  “You sure about this?” JP whispered.

  Clay drew a breath. It was too late to turn back. “Candiman.”

  The vampire’s head tilted up, the Wall’s light flowing over bone-white features, sharp and predatory.

  “Clay.”

  Candiman rose, a hand on the iron saber at his hip. A red and white-striped suit fell elegantly over his body, and a crimson tie rippled in the wind. Clay thought the vampire looked a little bit like a candy cane.

  “So you met the Earth Army.”

  “It might be more appropriate to say they met us. I’d say they found it memorable, except,” Candiman showed delicate fangs, “they won’t remember it.”

  Clay noticed for the first time a dark trail of liquid leaking out from the Emporium’s doors. His stomach twisted. He didn’t want to know what was on the other side. There were some cold hard truths about vampires.

  Another shape materialized from an alley. Raol, Candiman’s top enforcer. He looked like a well-muscled leopard, his skin even darker than Dante’s had been and his movements quick and lithe. His black cotton pants, high boots, and sleeveless shirt emphasized the lean power of his build. The only color on him was a brilliant red scarf knotted around his neck.

  Raol’s hand rested on the hilt of a curved sword, still sheathed. Clay had heard rumors about that sword.

  “Why are you here, Clay?” Candiman asked. “I thought you found the Strip’s entertainments … excessive.” His tone was light, but his eyes were dark. Regardless of what he claimed, the vampires had taken losses this night.

  Where to start? Clay needed to make sure Candiman knew where Mendonia stood, if he didn’t already. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Clay hoped.

  “Dante is dead.”

  Candiman stilled, the inhuman lack of movement that only statues and vampires can achieve—and for vampires, it was usually just before attack. Candiman’s lips stretched back from his fangs.

  “Did you kill him?”

  Candiman was on a razor’s edge. If he fell off, Clay would have no time to explain. Adrenalin pulled his vision into sharp-edged clarity. He saw Candiman’s pupils dilate, a slight sliver of Raol’s sword as the vampire pulled it ever so slightly from its scabbard. The metal had disturbing red veins running through it. Clay’s fingers tingled, hanging over the black pistol.

  “No,” he said. “But I know who did.”

  The tension ebbed slightly, but it didn’t completely go away. Candiman hadn’t moved, his gaze locked on Clay.

  “Who?”

  “Mendonia.”

  “Ah.” Rage flickered across Candiman’s face, quickly veiled. “How?”

  Clay told the vampire, casually easing sideways while doing so. Clay wanted to bring Candiman and Raol more in line, in case he had to shoot at both of them. But Raol wasn’t stupid. He moved just as casually in the opposite direction. His sword was fully sheathed, but his hand rested on it. Clay wondered if he’d imagined the red veins.

  “So you just watched Dante die?” Candiman asked softly.

  It snapped Clay’s attention back. This was tricky ground. He couldn’t show weakness, not here in the center of Candiman’s power. Clay no longer had Rhino behind him. He and JP could disappear and no one would know.

  “I thought your soldiers could take care of themselves.”

  “I see. What do you want, Clay?” Candiman asked coldly. Trying to mend bridges probably wouldn’t be a bad idea.

 
“Mendonia didn’t escape entirely,” Clay added. “He came after us later.”

  “And?”

  “He’s hurt, maybe dead. I didn’t stick around to figure out which.”

  Raol looked at Clay thoughtfully, as if reassessing his threat. Not necessarily a bad thing, under the circumstances.

  “So, to repeat. Why are you here?”

  “I need to find Mendonia’s lair. He has something I want.”

  “And why me?” Candiman asked.

  “You keep track of your enemies. I figured you’d know.”

  Candiman pursed his lips. He didn’t ask what Clay was looking for. “You don’t work for Rhino anymore. Are you asking for just a location or reinforcements, too?”

  Clay chose his words carefully. “You will want revenge for Dante. If Mendonia survived, he’ll head back there. He will be wounded and vulnerable. But if you’re afraid of the Spartans…”

  Candiman’s expression flattened. Clay had just threatened him, and they both knew it. At minimum, Raol had heard that challenge and most likely other vampires in the shadows, listening. If Candiman backed down, after the death of one of his top men, he would look weak, especially if Clay succeeded without him. Knives would sharpen and even as old and powerful a vampire as Candiman had to worry about that. His options had narrowed. He could either help Clay—or kill him.

  Clay was gambling. But he was running out of time and he needed the vampire’s help.

  Clay waited.

  Candiman inclined his head. “Raol will accompany you.”

  Clay nodded back. It was a clever response. Raol was formidable, but he was also only one man. It limited Candiman’s risk of loss, but still, no one could fault him for not providing a real contribution.

  “Raol, take them to where the freaks live.” The head vampire rose and turned toward the Emporium’s doors, then paused and looked back. His smile flashed with unexpected warmth. “I know I’ve asked you in the past, but I wish you’d join me, Clay. I could use a smart soldier like you. I make a better friend than enemy, you know.”

  Clay kept his face composed, hiding the way his skin crawled at the thought. “Thank you, but I’m good.”

  “So you say. Think hard. The offer is not forever.” Candiman bent his knees and disappeared, jumping so fast and high Clay’s eyes barely followed. Candiman was old and extremely strong. All around, shadows shifted. Vampires making their presence known. Not threatening, but not welcoming either.

  “Time to go,” Raol said. He strode off, heading southeast.

  “Why do I feel like a bottle of wine hitching a ride with an alcoholic?” JP muttered sourly.

  Clay grinned. “Try to keep the cork in.”

  They headed after the vampire.

  32

  Wasteland

  Raol led them deeper into the Club District. As he did, the cost of the invasion became more evident. Sullen fires licked broken walls, and crumpled roofs spread into the street. Blood gummed the gutters in places, and doorways gaped like dying men. Clay saw a woman lying behind a low fence, her neck dented horribly and her arm stretched out, as if pleading. She had a mess of pale scars on her wrists. Vampire inflicted, he guessed.

  “So you beat Mendonia?” Raol was looking at Clay, eyes measuring. The vampire walked with a long springy stride, his shoulders hunched forward, emanating coiled intensity. The hair on Clay’s neck prickled.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Raol opened his mouth to respond, but his words were buried in a low whooshing sound. On the other side of the Broken Tower, flame spurted up to touch the roiling clouds of StoneDragon’s sky.

  “We’re losing,” JP said quietly.

  He was talking about the Earth gods. Clay’s jaw set.

  “One problem at a time.”

  The houses became fewer, forming periodically from the mist and then being swallowed again. Sound became muffled, as a pale yellow and white fog swirled around them. Then, out of the mist, a line of poles appeared, curving away on either side. The poles were slender and barbed. Thin metal chains joined them. They’d reached the border of the Club District.

  Clay’s stomach roiled. He’d forgotten what was south of the vampires.

  “What are we doing?”

  Raol ignored him. He paced along the fence, as if looking for something, and then stopped in front of a narrow gap. It wasn’t so much a gate as a place where someone had grabbed the poles and pushed them out, bending the metal through brute strength and snapping the chains, which hung loose. Clay wondered who had had the motivation to break the fence—and which direction they were going. Beyond the fence, two lines of pale white stones extended away from the gate and into the mists, as if marking a path.

  “What is this?” asked JP. “Where are we?”

  Raol just watched the fog, his forehead creased.

  “The Wasteland,” Clay answered. “The better question is why?”

  Raol looked around. “The Spartans live in Spiders Way. You asked us to show you their home. If you want to get there quickly, this is the best way.”

  “We could go around,” Clay said, but without conviction. The trek back to the Tower would waste time they couldn’t afford. “They say no one comes out of the Wasteland again.”

  “The vampires do,” Raol answered. “It’s their path. You want to take it or not?”

  Clay’s fists tightened. If Mendonia was alive, he could be torturing the girls at this moment, starting his plan. Sinking his great teeth into their shoulders, draining their blood near death, then tossing them into the pit he’d described. They could be facing each other, wounded and feverish, fighting the infection that blazed through their veins.

  “You first.” Clay growled.

  Raol nodded and passed through the gate. Clay and JP followed.

  Cold air and shadow wrapped around them. The skin between Clay’s shoulder blades tightened, even though the landscape seemed empty. The ground was black and gritty, charred and empty of life. Tortured trees clung precariously to the soil, their limbs bare and black, especially on one side. It looked as if an explosion of heat had rolled out of the center of the Wasteland, then sucked back in. A line of sweat tickled Clay’s neck. It felt like walking through an old charnel oven.

  JP’s foot collided with one of the white stones, and he recoiled with a small sound of disgust.

  Clay looked closer and realized that what he’d thought were small white rocks were actually skulls, half-buried in the loose soil. He felt a wave of nausea as he estimated how many hundreds or thousands of corpses would be needed to cross the wasteland. Some were so small they had to be children. Outrage swelled up.

  “Who built this?”

  “The Prophet,” Raol said.

  JP looked at Clay. “Wasn’t the Prophet one of the old Bosses, before Rhino?”

  Clay nodded. “I’ve heard some people claim he was dead.” Although they weren’t eager to enter the Wasteland to prove it.

  “He is still alive.” Raol’s eyes swept the horizon.

  “So what happened?” JP asked.

  Raol bared his teeth. “His disciples made a mistake. Two mistakes. First, they chose the wrong master. Then they tried to betray him.”

  “Didn’t he have some kind of magic tongue?” Clay asked. “I thought someone told me that he converted hundreds of StoneDragon’s citizens when he first arrived.”

  “Not hundreds,” Raol said. “Thousands. He spoke in front of bigger and bigger crowds. It was like a fever sweeping the city. The Bosses eventually stopped him, but by then he had a huge army of followers. Almost all of them died, on one side of the Disciple’s rebellion or the other.” He shook his head. “They should have known better. The weak are always victims of the powerful.”

  Some of Clay’s anger spilled over. “But not all the powerful create victims.”

  Raol shook his head slowly, but he said nothing.

  “Is that why you became a vampire?” JP asked. “So you wouldn’t be on the victim
side of the equation?”

  “Enough!” Raol barked, spinning around. His hand dropped to his sword, and anger flamed in his eyes.

  Instinctively, Clay found his own hand on his pistol, but Raol didn’t draw, so Clay didn’t either.

  “I don’t kill!” the vampire snarled. “Not innocents. Only those who harbor evil in their souls, those who attack me first or want to tear me down.” His face twisted in rage, frustration, and a frightening, soul-twisting hunger. His lips drew back to show fangs beaded with saliva. “People who take what they like. People like you, right, Clay?”

  Clay held the vampire’s gaze, not saying anything. He didn’t want to fuel Raol’s rage further, but he didn’t know how to calm it. The sudden flare of anger seemed to come from some internal battle in the vampire warrior. Clay felt the calm of battle settle over him.

  “What’s that?” JP asked.

  Raol’s gaze darted sideways, then back, as if afraid it was a trick to distract him, but Clay didn’t move and finally Raol looked to where JP was pointing. Clay saw the rage drain away, to be replaced by wary intensity. Raol looked more sane, if no less dangerous.

  Clay relaxed slightly but kept his hand on his pistol. Raol hadn’t been working himself up to anything good with that tirade. The vampire warrior wasn’t balanced. Clay would have to be careful around him. He looked where JP pointed.

  A creature crawled across the Wasteland, solidifying out of the mists. It moved slowly, painfully, dragging a dark furrow through the soil.

  “Dear God,” JP muttered.

  Wrapped in rags, the creature had only nubs of limbs so it seemed to swim more than crawl. Its lumpy torso rocked back and forth with each movement. On the front left side, Clay caught a flash of white, as a splintered claw dug into the soil. It looked as if the creature’s arm had been chopped off at the elbow, its bicep stripped off, and the underlying bone carved into a mockery of a hand, hitting the soil like an awkwardly slapping oar. Clay felt bile rise up into his throat.

  More shapes formed out of the mist behind the limbless traveler. A cluster of Earth warriors moved casually forward, weapons held loosely as they paced their prey. The mixed group included patchy-furred rats with iron spears, a half-man half-crocodile with a stone hammer, and leading them all, a bulbous white-skinned warrior with rolls of fat that sagged and swung with every step. A cave frog cross, maybe?