by Jonah Hewitt
Nephys opened his eyes and stood still and wondered to himself. Was he gone? Was Hokharty dead? It didn’t seem like it could be that easy. Even Hiero was silent and turning one way and then the next, prepared for another sudden ambush, but no one could tell from where. Then Nephys noticed the already dim room began to grow even darker, until there was virtually no light left. Nephys closed his eyes, but even with the Death Sight the room was getting darker and he could no longer see through the walls. It was Hokharty’s shadow. He was smothering the room in darkness. He was drowning them in his own shadow! Hiero flailed with the blade. It cut the shadow and pushed it back in wide swaths like a scythe against the grain, but everywhere he didn’t swing, the shadow pressed in closer, like a rising tide. Soon it had him and swallowed him up. The bagpipe went limp and hooted out one last “Parnt!” before collapsing.
Nephys himself was plunged into icy darkness and cowered, but he didn’t fade. His own Yib, his heart, was still burning brightly. Fed on just these last few hours of life, it refused to go out. Soon, the shadow gathered all together into a familiar human form. Hokharty reached down and picked up Hiero by his goose leg. He ignored Nephys, who was shivering, huddled on the floor.
The poor little bagpipe was deflated and looked dead and forlorn, with one back pipe already snapped.
“Is he…dead?” Nephys asked shivering.
“No…not yet.” Hokharty replied coldly, “Creatures of shadow are not completely invulnerable, Nefer. They can die, but only by being consumed by another being’s shadow. This imp is a tough little one, though I wonder…whose heart did he eat out?” With that Hokharty’s hand turned into a long tentacle of shadow, and he plunged this into the poor little imp’s body like a dagger. Hiero’s body shuddered for a while, as if Hokharty was fishing around his empty innards and then slowly the imp began to dissolve, as if being disintegrated into Hokharty’s essence.
Nephys looked on in horror, not knowing what to do. He leaped on to Hokharty’s back and yanked him backward by the neck.
“Arrgh!” Hokharty yelled in frustration. He flung the imp to the side and turned violently on Nephys, striking him first across the face and then with the back of his hand against his head sprawling him across the stone floor.
“You will not learn. Will you?!” He yelled with more rage and venom than Nephys had ever seen him muster. Nephys lay helpless on the floor as Hokharty grabbed him roughly around the neck with both hands and began wringing his life out of him. As the life left him, he could feel his memories going as well. Date palms and honey cakes and days on the river amongst the reeds, sunlight pouring down, hunting ducks with his uncle’s dogs. Hokharty’s hands tightened and slipped further up around the large gash on his neck, the one that had taken his life, and as he felt his mind slipping away Nephys finally remembered. He remembered everything.
A long night with lamps lit everywhere. He was just a little boy. His father, his father! kneeling at a couch with carved ram’s heads on the posts. A woman lying on the couch. It was his mother. She was beautiful and dark eyed. She was dead. Died of illness. His father stood up and left the room and never looked at him, but brushed by him as he went. Nephys was pulled away from the room by his grandmother. He went to bed and awoke the next day to discover that his father had left Egypt for an assignment somewhere in another part of the Roman Empire. Nephys never saw his father again after that night. He was a good man, kind and he taught Nephys to read and write, but he had ambitions, like Falco, ambitions that required a proper Roman wife, and not an Egyptian one. He went to Rome and remarried and had other children, but Nephys and his grandmother went to live with his uncle, a centurion. Nephys had forgotten it all. His mother, his father, even his death. His death! He remembered his death now.
Life with his uncle’s family was good until the day of the wheat riots. The crowds were too much even for the guards of the house. They killed everyone. It wasn’t anything personal, his uncle was merely the closest symbol of the emperor that they could strike at. The emperor had withheld wheat to subdue the people, but there was only so much the people could withstand. His uncle died outside the gates with the guards. Nephys had watched him die from the roof. He ran to his grandmother, only to find her in the atrium, already dead with her throat cut. He ran to her side but never reached her. As he ran, there was suddenly a hand on his neck, a quick flash and then a feeling like warmth leaving his body. It was over before he had even known what had happened. He never even saw who had killed him. He arrived, stumbling on the far side of the river of Acheron in Limbo near the statue of Anubis and that’s how his “life” in Limbo had begun.
It was so completely tragic and meaningless and he had forgotten it all, whether intentionally or unintentionally, he couldn’t tell. Though both of them had left him too early, he had loved his mother and father, his grandmother and uncle too. And though the memories were filled with pain and sorrow in his short life, now that he had them back, he never wanted to forget them ever again.
Then there were other memories too: odd memories that he knew were never his. It was still Egypt, but at a far earlier time. There was another boy, younger than him, and he still had the lock of Horus. He was being held aloft and spun around by a man in a priest’s robes. A beautiful woman, not unlike his mother, was smiling beside them. It was a great and large house, like the house of a king. There were many slaves and servants. They were happy. Who were these people?
He saw the house again, in the pre-dawn hours. Thieves had broken in and killed the guards and the servants. One man was left, the boy’s father. The father was struck with a hoe in the chest, but as he lay dying he called out for vengeance to any god that would listen, Nut, Horus and Anubis, even the dark ones, Sakhmet and Set. Set heard him. His heart left his body, but his shadow didn’t. He transformed into something else. He became something dark – a monster, a demon of vengeance. He had the fangs of an asp and the speed of cheetah, the stealth of the owl, the senses of the jackal, and the hunger of the hyena. He had become a vampire. The very first vampire. It was Hokharty. In his last dying act, Hokharty, the Necromancer, priest and advisor to the Pharaoh, had turned himself into a vampire to save his family.
He tore through the house wielding horrible vengeance on all those that had invaded his home. As he killed the thieves, he drained them of all life, until their hearts left, and only their shadows still remained. Having turned them, they were his to command, his children, the very first vampires, and the more he killed, the more powerful he became. Growing in numbers and strength, they tore through the house killing or turning all the others, even the dying servants, but he was too late to save them all.
Then Nephys saw the boy again, only this time dead and cradled in the arms of the man who had become the first vampire to save him. With all his minions gathered around him he was holding his child. He wanted to weep, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t human anymore. The beautiful woman was sprawled out dead beside them. As Lord Aten, the brilliant Egyptian sun crept over the eastern horizon, he saw Hokharty begin to burn, giving off thick plumes of dense, red smoke. Having died, his heart had departed for the afterlife. Without the heart, only the shadow existed to animate the body, but shadow is driven out of the body by light. Hokharty had survived death, but at a terrible, terrible price. He had become a thing of darkness. Nephys watched as Hokharty threw his head back and screamed.
Maggie struggled as hard as she could, fighting the specter every inch of the way. She desperately tried to cling to the ground and stop the ghost from dragging her away, but the street was just sand and loose rubble – nothing that gave her enough to hold on to. The phantom was dragging her by her ankles in the direction of the Gates of Erebus, she just knew it. She wasn’t entirely certain what would happen when they reached them, but she knew it wouldn’t be good. She was in a broad rubble-strewn plaza. The spirits of the newly arrived dead were screaming and running in every direction. The blind children were stumbling around too, uncertain of what to do
or where to go and everywhere were the shades, gathering, marching slowly towards the gates, and the land of the living. Some of the panicked spirits accidentally ran right through the oncoming shades and disintegrated, instantly turning into shades themselves. It was terrifying. Maggie clawed impotently at the ground and stared back at the phantom hauling her away.
Where it held on to Maggie, its touch burned like dry ice on bare flesh, but Maggie was not disintegrating. The phantom was no shade, but something else, something far worse. She wasn’t certain how, but the longhaired phantom could touch her and she wondered if she could touch it back. She tried kicking at the specter. She managed to kick one of her feet free of its grip and landed a blow to the back of the thing’s head with her favorite flats. The specter staggered but did not let go. Instead, it turned its hollow eyes on Maggie, enraged, and reached around and pulled her back by her hair. It began hauling her away by her hair and neck with even greater dispatch than before.
The phantom poured on even more speed, pushing through the crowd and on towards the causeway and across the stygian waters to the Gates of Erebus, throwing aside spirit, shade and child of Limbo alike. As she winced in its icy grip, Maggie began to despair when she saw the last person she had ever expected to see here: a tall, gaunt man in a long, olive drab overcoat. “That can’t be possible,” she thought, but then she noticed that unlike everyone else, he wasn’t running around in a blind panic. Instead, he was standing there with his hands on his hips looking very annoyed and cursing the whole time. It was him. It was Moríro. His presence here meant no one was with Lucy, and she didn’t know if this made her feel better or worse, but at the moment she didn’t have anyone else to call on.
“LAZLO!!” she screamed, but no sooner had she done so that an icy palm was slapped over her mouth and she was yanked away into the frigid river of souls still emerging from the causeway.
Lazlo Moríro for his part was certain he had heard someone call his name, but by the time he turned around, all he could see was the frantic crowd of spirits, shades and blind children running in terror. He was still somewhat disoriented. The trip from the land of the living had not been an easy one. So many souls! For a moment he had been lost like a drop of water in the ocean until he had reached the other side of the causeway and found it in a state of utter chaos. The sound of someone calling his name was still echoing in his ears as his mind started to come back to him.
What was happening? It was so hard to concentrate. She was doing it! His mad godmother had actually persuaded Lucy to open the gate, which meant that she could be here now…looking for Lucia’s mother. He had to find Margarita, and then as he thought this, the cogs finally fell into place inside his recently disembodied mind. “Who knew his name in the afterlife?”
“Margarita!” he said out loud in sudden realization. He took a step forward. Where had the voice come from?! For that matter, where was the causeway to the Gates of Erebus?! He couldn’t find his way in the maddening crowd and didn’t know the terrain.
“Demonios!” he cursed, uncertain of where to go, but he quickly made up his mind and was about to push forward. He had to reach her and stop his mad godmother before….
A great shriek traveled through the mass of souls, like a tidal wave. The entire crowd stopped running and came to a sudden halt. Each shade, spirit and child of Limbo stood frozen to the ground by the sound, as if by command, and countless, sightless eyes turned to the edge of the city where a cloud of dust illuminated by a sickly, amber light was gathering. A huge section of the city gave way and fell forward, crumbling like a sandcastle in the tide. And behind it stood a gigantic monster covered in dozens of shrouds that concealed all but its many clawed feet that tread the ground relentlessly as the very earth seemed to decay and wither away at its touch. After more than 340 years of service, Moríro had finally come face to face with his employer.
Lucy looked up at the open tunnel. Amanda had been gone for what seemed like a very long time, but it was hard to tell. Her arm was getting very tired. The stone seemed heavier and heavier with each passing moment and the force of the gate against her arm felt like it was going to pop her shoulder out of joint. That was probably making the time seem longer than it was. All the while, Yo-yo’s arms tightened around her middle as he kept on saying encouraging words.
“Not long now, Lucy! I know you can do it! Just a little while longer and you’ll have your mother back, and then maybe she can bring all the mothers back! Even my mother! You two will be the greatest heroes of the world, the greatest heroes in history!!”
Lucy squeezed her mother’s hand tighter. She certainly wanted to believe it, but as she looked down the tunnel, she wasn’t so sure anymore. It was like she was looking at something forbidden, something beyond the limits of human understanding, and she just shouldn’t be here doing this. In fact, if it wasn’t for Yo-yo, she wouldn’t have even gotten this far, but he was clutching her so tight and spoke with so much faith in her she just had to try a little longer. She looked up and thought she saw something coming, a faint grey light approaching. Was that Amanda?! Had she found her mother?! She dared to hope, but even now, at the end of this long, dark tunnel, beyond that little grey light, she was feeling something approaching and it wasn’t her mother. There was a sound of something like thunder, only more frequent and ominous, rhythmic and terrible, and whatever that was she knew it was something no human was ever intended to meet face to face, at least not while still alive.
“Wake up, Miles! Wake up!!”
Miles was struggling to open his eyes. He was dreaming he was driving a team of draught horses plowing a rich field in the bright sunlight of early spring, but he knew it wasn’t real. He hadn’t seen sunlight since he had become a vampire and he had never been a farmer. Even though he had run teams of horses driving lorries in Belfast, no animal would come near him since he had turned. It had to be a dream. He could hear a voice coming from far away, calling to him, but he just couldn’t wake up. There was a farmhouse and a woman calling to him from the porch. He turned to look at her. She was beautiful and wearing a light sun dress. He almost went to her, but just then, the plough knife hit a rock, snapped and the broken piece sprung back at him, striking him mid thigh.
“AAAAAARGH!!!” Miles sat up and looked in horror to see the imp standing over him with his butcher knife buried in his right thigh.
“Geroff, ya’ bloomin freak!” Miles yelled. The imp yanked the blade from his leg and hopped away chortling and honking something that sounded suspiciously like a sarcastic, “You’re welcome.”
Nephys was right there beside him. “Sorry about that, but we couldn’t wake you up any other way.”
As he helped Miles to his feet, Miles looked around. They were still in the larder.
“What ‘appened?! How long have I been out?!”
“Not long, but we need your help.” Miles hopped around to get his bearings. Hokharty was kneeling at the far end near the coffins, rocking and holding himself talking gibberish. He wasn’t crying but it looked like he could start any minute.
“Sweet St. Columkille!” Miles muttered, “What did the little imp do to him?!”
Hiero spit out a phlegm-coated raspberry.
“Nothing, but we have to hurry and I can’t get him moving!”
“Nothin?!” Miles limped over to Hokharty and knelt by him.
Hokharty was muttering like a madman in a language he didn’t understand.
“What’s he sayin?” Miles asked.
“Something about his boy, Hotep. I think he was murdered, long ago, but I can’t get him to listen to me.”
“Geez when you break ‘em, you really break’em, dontcha kid.” Miles turned his attention to the old vampire. “Hokharty! Listen to me!” Miles bellowed in the old vampire’s ear. “We have to stop Lucy! We have to stop Lucy from opening the gate! How do we do it?” There was no response – he just kept muttering. “Do ya understand what’ I’m tellin’ ya, ya stupid ol’ bloodsucker?!! The world
is about to end and ya gotta help us stop it!”
He kept on muttering in some unknown language.
“What’s the crazy blighter sayin’ now?”
“He’s just going on about his son being murdered and how he couldn’t stop it.”
Miles smacked his hand to his forehead in frustration. He looked back at the gibbering vampire and decided to give it one last try. “OY! YA CRAZY BLIGHTER!! I’m sorry ya’ lad died, but iff’n ya don’t get up and do somtin’ about it, RIGHT NOW, there are gonna be a lot more dead boys and a lot more grievin’ fadders! Now snap outta it!” Miles was about to smack Hokharty hard across the face, but before his hand got there, the vampire’s reflexes caught Miles’ hand inches from his face. For a moment Miles thought the fight was about to start up again, but Hokharty just stopped and looked up at Miles. Then he instantly came to himself, stood up and reassumed all the familiar impassive mannerisms that Miles had grown used to, except his eyes did still seem sadder somehow.
“Of course,” he said simply, “Follow me.” He turned and sped up the stairs and out into the kitchen.
“Finally!” Miles groused as Nephys helped him limp up the stairs and Hiero followed.
Most of the guests of the manor had wisely cleared out after the fight began, but a few of the vampires, including Betty and Mikhail were hovering around in the kitchen near the larder door wondering what the heck was going on.
Hokharty paused only long enough to give them orders, “Mikhail, Elizabeth, gather as many as you can and meet us in the ballroom.” Both looked nervously at each other before bolting off.
Miles was already shaking off the limp in the stabbed thigh. Imp blades hurt, but they didn’t seem to harm you very much, at least not vampires. The bruises from Hokharty and the blisters from the silver chains would take longer. The three charged down the hall and through the parlor to the foyer. Hokharty didn’t hesitate but walked straight in through the doors.
