by Trisha Telep
The stairwell leading up to his throne had twenty steps. By the time Tomas reached them, he was panting like he’d run a mile.
“I challenged you once before,” he said around the mass that had risen in his throat, huge and cold and sickening. “But you were too cowardly to face me. I have come –”
It was a good thing he hadn’t worked too hard on his speech, because he never got to give it. The vampires had closed in on every side, jostling each other, trying to get up the courage to attack him. Tomas had hoped that Alejandro’s pride would force him to fight his old servant himself, especially with the odds so heavily in his favour. But Alejandro remained seated, letting his men get more and more worked up until, finally, two broke away from the crowd and dashed in snarling.
They came from opposite sides, and while Tomas was dealing with the one on the left, turning his own knife back against him, the one on the right smashed something heavy against his leg. It was the one he’d injured earlier, the one that had yet to completely heal. He fell to his hands and knees, the jar of landing on the shattered kneecap turning the whole room white hot with blinding pain.
He pulled the knife out of the first vamp, who retreated back into the crowd, howling and clawing at his wound, and rolled in time to slash at the second’s throat. He missed because the vamp dodged, lightening fast, at the last minute, but Tomas didn’t need weapons to crush his throat, only an application of raw power. The vamp was young and that effectively put him out of commission. But it also used power Tomas couldn’t afford to lose, and there were doubtless dozens of others that the family would consider expendable if their deaths served to further weaken him.
Tomas dragged himself back onto one leg, momentarily crippled while his system fought to rebuild torn cartilage and shattered bone. Alejandro leaned forwards, still not bothering to get to his feet. “Do you really believe you will make it all the way up here, Tomas? Because I believe I will sit here and watch them gut you as you try.”
Four more vampires rushed him, all from the same side and although he dealt with them and with the low-level master who had waited on the other side for them to distract him, he missed the axe that someone threw from the crowd. Alejandro made a small gesture and the assault halted, for the moment, while Tomas shuddered and leaned his fore head against the slick, cold surface of the third step, a buzzing uproar surging all around him. On the third or fourth or tenth try, Tomas managed to take a couple of shallow breaths. He brought up shaking hands and tore the weapon out of his belly.
“Really, Tomas. I’m disappointed. I remembered you as better than this.” Alejandro had finally bothered to get out of his seat, but he didn’t come any closer. “And to think, I was contemplating offering you a position at the head of my new army. I really will have to reconsider.”
Hot tendrils of agony shot out from Tomas’ stomach wound as he tried to stand. At least he couldn’t feel the throbbing in his leg any more, Tomas thought, and laughed to cover the scream that wanted to tear out of his chest. An all-out assault on Alejandro was the only chance he had. If he hurt him badly enough, the family might back off, waiting to see the outcome before they risked attacking the man who might be their new master. Slogging slowly up these steps, one by one, being battered from all sides and buffeted by Alejandro’s power, was a sure recipe for disaster. But it was also the only hope the humans had.
He couldn’t hear anything from the back of the cave, from the mass of 400 or 500 people who had been corralled there. And there was no way so many could remain silent while witnessing something like this. Not unless they were being shielded and hopefully guided out. But it was a long way through the maze of hallways, as countless mortals had learned to their terror, and even further to the town beyond. He had to give them time if they were to have any chance at all. And in this slice of hell, time meant pain.
Pain wasn’t a problem, Tomas decided, looking into Alejandro’s amused black eyes. He’d brought it to enough people through the years. It was his turn.
“Still a coward posing as a gentleman,” Tomas gasped, and threw the gory axe straight at Alejandro.
His old master turned it aside with an elegant wave of his hand, but anger and surprise caused his attention to waver slightly, allowing Tomas to make headway against the stream of power opposing him. He made it to the tenth stair before the world spun around and dropped out from under him, and he hit something hard and unyielding. Only when the pain receded a fraction did he realize he’d been dumped on the floor by another axe, this one to the spine.
And master or no, no one healed a wound like that instantaneously. Suddenly his limbs didn’t work: his arms and legs flopped uselessly around him, his head fell back into a puddle of his own blood. Alejandro waved off the guards who were rushing to finish Tomas, as he slowly descended the remaining stairs.
He stopped directly in Tomas’ line of vision, his booted feet just touching the bloody pool. He unsheathed a rapier, good quality Cordoba steel instead of wood, making it obvious that this wasn’t going to end quickly. “How the mighty have fallen. That is the phrase, isn’t it? From my lieutenant to this, all because of ambition.”
Tomas tried to tell him that ambition wasn’t the point, that it never had been, but his throat didn’t seem to work either. Although that might have been because of the sight that suddenly loomed up behind his former master. At first, Tomas was sure he was imagining things. But not even in a pain-induced near faint could his brain have come up with something like that.
Behind Alejandro, a withered arm encased in a few rotting rags appeared, a tracery of thin blue veins pulsing under the long dead skin. A head followed, cadaverous and brown, but with two enormous, glittering eyes rolling in the too-large sockets. They stared at Tomas for an instant, full of terrible ancient fury, before the arm caught Alejandro around the neck and a mouth full of cracked and yellowed teeth clamped onto his neck.
Alejandro gave one sharp gasp before the others were on him, a crowd of dry, old bones and tanned leather skins that glowed slightly from the inside, like someone shining a flashlight through parchment. And although Alejandro’s power still surged around Tomas like a hurricane, they didn’t seem to feel it. There was a crack, a thick, watery sound, and then silence – except for the ripping, chewing noises coming from the middle of the once-human mass.
The kings had returned.
Another pair of feet came to rest beside him, just brushing his hair. Tomas looked up to see Jason, slack-jawed no longer, but with a quiet intensity in his eyes. It seemed Alejandro had kidnapped one necromancer worth his salt, after all.
“You brought them back,” Tomas managed to croak after a moment.
Jason didn’t look away from the creatures and their meal. “They brought themselves.”
Tomas didn’t have a chance to ask him what he meant, because the earth began to move in a very familiar manner. Jason grabbed him under the arms and pulled him backwards down the stairs. No one tried to stop him. It was as if the court was frozen in place, staring in disbelieving horror at the sight of their master being attacked by supposedly harmless sacks of bones.
They made it to the edge of what had been the holding pen before Alejandro’s power suddenly cut off, like someone throwing a switch. A ripple went through his vampires as they felt it too and realized what it meant. They came back to life with a vengeance, but too late; half the roof collapsed in a cascade of limestone.
Sara and one of her men ran up, dirty-faced and panting. Forkface grabbed Tomas, yanked the axe out of his back and threw him over a shoulder. Then they ran.
The doorway collapsed behind them, dust billowing into the air while rocks and gravel nipped at their heels. The entire tunnel system was buckling, floor heaving, ceiling threatening to crush them at any moment. His helper lost his footing and they both went down, Tomas managed to catch himself on arms that, while unsteady. Actually seemed to work again. He grabbed Sara, attempting to shield her, at the same time she grabbed for him. And ami
d stones falling and dust clouds choking them, they braced together, Sara saying things that Tomas couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears. But their small patch of ceiling held and, after they limped across the boundary from the caves to the old temple, the rumbling gradually petered out.
They emerged at last into the jungle, where a mass of dazed people huddled together in small groups under the dark, star-dusted sky. Forkface dumped Tomas unceremoniously beside a small pool just inside the temple, where people were scooping up water in hats, hands or flasks. It was green and it stunk, with slimy ropes of algae clinging to the sides, but nobody seemed to mind. Some were hugging, more were crying and one, amazingly, was laughing. Tomas blinked at them, disbelieving, seeing for the first time in 400 years the Day of the Dead celebrated in this place by the living.
Jason brought him some water in an old canteen and, while Tomas didn’t particularly need it, he drank it anyway. The fanatic came over to join them after a moment. It seemed he’d been delegated to lead the way out while Sara and her remaining associate remained behind to rescue Tomas. He seemed perturbed that they hadn’t brought him any bones, and eyed Tomas speculatively for a moment before moving off, muttering.
Tomas’ whole body hurt and he was ravenously hungry, but he was alive. It didn’t seem quite real. “How did you do it?” he finally asked Jason.
“I didn’t. I only woke them up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Inca kings were believed to watch over their people even after death, and to demand good behaviour of the living. Any who defiled them soon learned that they also had within their power to reward or to punish.”
“That’s a myth.”
Jason smiled, an odd, lopsided effort. “Really. It seems strange, not to mention expensive, to tie up most of the revenues of the state in the care of creatures who have no ability to hurt you.” He shook his head. “The ancient priests prepared the royal dead well. I only had to give them a nudge.”
“You mean –”
His eyes went soft and dreamy. “They said that they had been watching Alejandro for a long time. And they were hungry.
“Well they’ll have the whole court to snack on now, once they finish with him,” Sara commented, stopping by after locating enough local people to serve as guides for everyone else.
Tomas had a sudden image of vengeful Inca monarchs pursuing Alejandro’s vampires through the halls where they had once done the same to humans. He smiled.
“Attacking that thing on your own was insane,” Sara said bluntly. “I like that in a person. Want a job?”
Tomas just looked at her for a moment. He was a first-level master, one of only a handful in the world. Others of his rank were either sitting in governing positions over his kind or were powerful masters with their own courts. They were emphatically not running around with a motley crew of mercenaries carrying out jobs so crazy no one else would touch them. He’d killed Alejandro, or close enough by vampire law. He could assume his position, round up whatever vampires had made it out before the cave-in and claim to be the new head of the Latin American Senate. That would put him beyond the jurisdiction of the North American version – which wanted him dead – and his master – who wanted him back in slavery. He could rebuild Alejandro’s empire and walk these halls once more, this time as their master. He would be rich, powerful and feared . . .
And, in time, just like Alejandro.
“Well?”
Sara didn’t seem to be the patient type. It was something else they were going to have to work on. They weren’t touching, but she was standing so close that he could smell the vestiges of her perfume mingled with gunpowder and sweat. It was strangely comforting, like the lingering warmth of a touch even after it’s gone. Tomas looked up at her face, surrounded by stars, and, for the first time in longer than he could remember, he saw a future.
“Where do I sign?”
Vampire Unchained
Nancy Holder
In the tunnels beneath Central Park , New York City
High midnight, vampire’s delight; black as a coal mine or an empty mirror; the wind shrieked like the bringer of the one true death. It was raining hard enough to soak through gravestones, and the damp, slimy brick tunnels stank like a bog. Vermin squealed in the candlelight as the vampire nest of 16 waited for Andrew Wellington, their sire. Firelight from twin, old-fashioned wooden torches set in sconces on the wall flickered on glowing red eyes and jewelled fangs. Fear and bloodlust floated in equal measures through the tunnel like a miasma.
And yet, it was a better place than the city above them. New York was a war zone, over-run by Supernaturals – rival vampire nests; voodoo bokors with their zombies and loa gods; succubi and incubi . . . the list seemed endless. A group of human magic users called the House of the Blood had ripped the veil between good and evil and the world writhed in chaos.
All I wanted to do was give our people safe harbour, Liam Cadogan thought. He was Andrew’s second-in-command, and there was good chance his life – such as it was, for he was a vampire – was about to end.
Struggling against the grip of the nest’s four strongest enforcers, Liam bared his fangs in futile rage. He hissed and snarled, his vampiric nature taking over; he was cornered and he was in fatal danger. A few of the nest laughed; others stared in horror; a few more drew back into the shadows – the guilty ones, his allies.
Then Elizabeth, the sire’s consort – she went by Liz these days – glided from the darkness with a prize in tow. It was Claire Rossi, his woman. His human woman.
Liam’s knees buckled at the sight of Claire, captive and afraid. Her auburn hair hung in sopping ringlets past the shoulders of her black raincoat. Her eyes, the colour of dark chocolate, stared out at him beseechingly from her heart-shaped face. Her breath puffed like steam as she panted, whether from the cold or terror he had no idea.
“No,” Liam whispered, heartsick.
“Yes. Oh, yessss,” Liz replied with a cruel chuckle. “Come on now, Liam. After all those years at his side, you know you can’t hide anything from Andrew. Especially not someone as fetching as your whore.”
Liz’s waist-length white hair dangled at the small of her back as she tossed her head, showing her jewelled fangs in the torchlight. Whatever they had planned tonight, Liam would drink them dry before he let them hurt Claire.
So he supposed he was a traitor as his sire insisted.
Liz’s long scarlet fingernails pressed deeply against Claire’s beautiful neck. He wondered if Claire was wearing her crucifix. Little would it matter.
Liz didn’t draw blood; that wasn’t her place. The other vampires watched on in silence, resembling Liz far more than he: bone white in the flickering flames, eyes glowing like red embers; fangs long and heavily decorated. Though almost all of them wore modern clothing – both sexes favouring black leather trousers and jackets, the same as Liam – he was the only one who looked completely human. Liam was pale, yes, but not bone white; his hazel eyes gleamed red when the bloodlust was on him, but at no other time. And his hair was the same chestnut brown it had been on the night he’d been changed.
Andrew had told him that the centuries would leach his skin. That his fangs would grow and his eyes would glow crimson. But he’d been a vampire over 150 years and as far as he could tell – from videos and pictures of himself – he looked the same as ever.
Andrew had been wrong on a number of counts lately.
Flanked by torchlight, Claire’s trip hammer heartbeat pummelled Liam like physical blows. He wanted to tell her she wouldn’t die. He had lost one beloved woman; he would not lose another. Nor would he allow them to drag her into this twilight world of blood and death. She was a daughter of the sun, and she would remain so.
But to what purpose? He thought miserably. Demons cloud out her sun. Wraiths scream and caper like packs of animals. Heaps of garbage line the streets; whole city blocks are on fire. If I could take her away from all this, I would. But where could we
go?
Liz grinned a challenge at him and rippled her finger against Claire’s neck as if she were playing a cello, her favourite musical instrument. Her other favourite instrument was a cat-o’-nine-tails, and she’d asked Liam more than once if he would care to play with her. He suspected Claire was paying for his constant refusals. Liz didn’t take rejection well.
As if she could read his mind, Liz hissed at him and pressed harder. Claire whimpered, and some of the vampires chuckled. She was wearing black wool trousers and boots, and the neck of a red turtleneck sweater poked from above the black coat. She was exquisite, as always. A breathtaking woman, warm and passionate, far more sensual in her humanity than the wanton sexuality of female vampires.
Overhead, thunder rumbled. Liam heard the distant howls of the werewolves that had overrun Central Park, and the flapping of vampire minions’ wings as they clustered beneath the venerable old bridges.
Then he heard the familiar footfalls of his liege lord, his sire Andrew Wellington.
For Claire and him, the nightmare was about to get worse.
He gazed steadily back at her as a ripple moved among the vampires. The men not restraining him dropped to one knee and all the women curtseyed. Liz stayed as she was, keeping Claire prisoner. Liam’s four nestmates held him tighter, as if they thought he would bolt and attack Andrew.
A wise precaution.
“Ill-met by moonlight, Liam Cadogan,” Andrew said as he appeared in the black circle of the tunnel. His deep voice echoed. He loomed tall and alabaster white, with white hair and eyes that swirled like blood and long fangs that were not only jewelled at the tips but carved with elaborate Chinese-style bats, like pieces of elephant ivory. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and black jeans.
“Andrew, may the blood run red,” Liam said, inclining his head. There was no sense antagonizing his sire.
“Don’t pretend,” Andrew flung at him. “It’s done. We’re . . . done.”
