The Gathering Dark

by Christopher Golden

  They stayed that way, there in the dark of the night, for a very long time. Yet as safe as Peter made her feel, as glad as she was that they had learned this terrible lesson and been given a second chance, she knew that morning was going to come too soon.

  Allison flew above the streets of London. The sun was high and the sky uncharacteristically blue and clear for springtime. With falcon’s eyes she gazed upon the city below, laid out in patterns that described its history, from the most ancient foundations of London—the portion of the city that had once been walled in—to the neighborhoods at her edges that had been built to house the less fortunate and were now the trendiest spots in the city.

  Exultant, she soared higher, glided on warm air currents above the River Thames, admired the sprawl of the Parliament building.

  This was what she was made for. Allison despised what she was, mostly because she had not chosen to become this thing. Her kind had painted its history across the ages in the blood of innocents, thriving on terror. But not all of them. Though she would never be able to shake off the loathing she felt completely, she had at last come to terms with another emotion inside her, rare and often hidden.

  It was glee. She hated what she was, but she loved the gifts it gave her. Others had shown her that pleasure could be taken from her immortality, from the malleability of her flesh, but for a very long time, she did not believe it. That had changed.

  Allison Vigeant soared, powerful wings outstretched, feathers flat and smooth, over the city of London, and she relished every moment of it.

  But her moments were not her own. Once more she circled Westminster Abbey and then she struck off toward an engagement she wished she did not have to keep. It was not long before she found herself flying above the Kingsway, wings fluttering as she alighted upon the roof of the nine-story structure where she was due for a meeting called by her superiors.

  It surprised her that there were no guards on the roof. To the innocent passerby, the faithful subject of the Queen, it was just another office building along the Kingsway. But the British government owned that structure, it housed various ministry offices the sort of which they did not discuss in the papers. From time to time, the Prime Minister also offered certain rooms in the building to the Secretary General of the United Nations for use in the international crusade to erase the last of the shadows, the last of the vampires, from the face of the earth.

  Allison had been thinking of late that this crusade was destined to failure. They could bluster as much as they liked, but she had no doubt that there were shadows hidden away in the darkest and most secret places of the earth whom they would never find, not even with her aid. It had also occurred to her that perhaps it was best they were never allowed to think they had succeeded . . . because that would make her the last vampire in the world, and it would be simple logic for them to want to remove her as well.

  Still, no guards on the roof. That was something, at least. There would be sensors and alarms, but that was to be expected.

  With a strangled bit of birdsong that evolved into a human groan, she transformed from falcon to woman once more. Her wings unfolded as she stood, becoming a long brown duster jacket. She was clad in denim and leather boots and a beige turtleneck sweater beneath the duster. It was still chilly this early London spring day.

  Allison stretched and glanced around at the other rooftops and into the windows of the buildings that stood taller than this one. She inhaled the scents of this world capital, the heart of an island in motion. London was an old place, and though she herself was young, it always made her feel like a conspirator, as though she had been a part of this city for ages.

  It was a shame she could not enjoy it more, a shame she had to come here to deal with these people. But it was either that, or have them begin to hunt her instead of employing her to hunt others on their behalf.

  Enjoying the warmth of the sun on her, she strode across the rooftop to the structure that jutted upward, housing the door and stairwell that led down into the building. The door was a heavy metal thing, wired with alarms and certainly barred on the inside. She could have torn it off its hinges and tossed it aside as though it were made of cardboard, but they would only have billed her for it, deducted the cost from her paycheck.

  Allison let her molecules drift, became a fine white mist, and she slid around the edges of the door, finding the thinnest of entries despite the weather-proofing meant to keep the chill wind outside. With a thought, she effortlessly coalesced once more on the top step inside the door, then walked down the narrow staircase to the top floor of the building.

  No guards up here, but there were cameras mounted all along the hallway. She smiled at the first one she passed and waved amicably. The urge to brandish her middle finger was powerful but she managed to contain it.

  She was meant to be here. Security would have been told to expect her and prepared to witness the reality of what she was. The Brits wouldn’t have put anyone in the job who couldn’t handle that.

  Halfway down the corridor, she found the office she was looking for. It had no name on the door, only a number: 913. Allison rapped lightly on the door to Room 913 and from inside she heard a familiar voice calling for her to enter.

  She pushed the door open. There were only two men inside. One of them was Ray Henning, the Commander of Task Force Victor. The other was Rafael Nieto, a lanky, serious man whose hair had thinned and gone silver in the years since she had first met him, but otherwise looked much the same. Nieto was a good man, dedicated to his job. Which was a positive trait to find in one of the most powerful men in the world. Nieto was the Secretary General of the U.N., a job that had, in recent years, nearly outstripped that of the American President in its importance to the peace and security of the planet.

  “Allison,” the Secretary General said. He smiled and waved her in. “Have a seat. It appears we have a lot to talk about.”

  “Mister Secretary,” she said, nodding a greeting as she closed the door behind her. “Commander,” she added, acknowledging Henning, who neither smiled nor greeted her with more than a grunt.

  They waited while she moved the chair beside Henning, sliding it away from him in a subtle indication that she considered herself apart from him. This would hardly hurt the commander’s feelings, for Allison knew that he disliked and perhaps even feared her. It accomplished something else, however. Rather than the two of them facing the Secretary General across the large desk in the room, it was now the three of them set in a sort of triangle, changing the dynamic in the office. Henning stared at her with pale blue eyes. He was fifty-two but very fit, balding and yet his features were striking. A handsome man.

  But not her friend. Not even close.

  The silence ticked on a few seconds too long, into awkwardness. Allison shot a glance at the Secretary General, one eyebrow raised. Nieto sat up straighter and smoothed his jacket, which hung oddly on him as though he were a department store mannequin.

  Outside the window, the unusually beautiful London day was wasting.

  “Are we waiting for someone else?” Allison asked.

  “No,” the Secretary General replied. “I’m sorry. I was thinking for a moment. On to business, then. Do you know why you’re here?”

  A smiled teased the edges of Allison’s mouth. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

  Commander Henning cleared his throat and the balance of power in the room tilted in his direction. “What did you and Carl Melnick talk about in Venice?”

  Allison stiffened, her gaze ticked from Henning to the Secretary General and back again. “Come on, Ray. We both know you’re not in the business of asking questions you don’t already know the answer to.”

  Commander Henning stared at her but said nothing. Allison turned to Nieto again.

  “Mister Secretary, given that we’ve now got thirteen towns and cities worldwide that have apparently been erased from the map, I’d think the United Nations would have better things to do than spy on its employe
es. It hasn’t been lost on me that my position as a scout for Task Force Victor is not unlike the position Will Cody once held for the U.S. Army. If he was alive, he’d be horrified.”

  Henning sniffed. “If he were alive, we’d be hunting him.”

  Cold fury spread through Allison and she turned slowly to regard Henning again. The two men must have felt her anger, for in that moment the balance of power in the room shifted to her. Allison could taste it. Perhaps they remembered, in that moment, that she was not merely a scout, that she could have killed every living creature in that building and walked out unscathed if she were so inclined.

  Nieto gazed at her, clearly taking her measure. “Twelve.”

  “I’m sorry?” Allison asked.

  “Twelve. There are twelve cities and towns that we know of that have been affected by this . . . crisis. The town in Vermont, Wickham, is . . . back.”

  All the rage left her and Allison sank into her chair, staring first at Nieto then at Henning. “Back? What do you mean, the town is back?”

  “Just as I said,” Nieto replied. “Our troops report that one moment the energy field that seemed to have enveloped the town was there and the next it was gone and the town was visible again. Entire blocks had been destroyed by fire. Most of the townspeople were dead or missing. The survivors are talking about demons.”

  “What sort of demons?” Allison asked.

  Once more the two men were silent. After a moment the Secretary General rose and went to the large window that overlooked the Kingsway below. He spoke without turning.

  “Allison, Roberto Jimenez was a good man. A good soldier. I had the utmost respect for him and he, in turn, trusted you. But Roberto is dead and Ray Henning is your commander now. He asked you a question. I would like you to answer it.”

  Slowly, she nodded, but in understanding rather than agreement. Allison did not like what was going on here, but it did not surprise her. She lowered her chin slightly, staring up at the Secretary General from beneath heavily knitted brows.

  “’Berto trusted me. That’s right. Commander Henning doesn’t. Not for a second. In fact, I’m fairly certain if he had his chance, he’d be more than happy to burn me right along with one of our targets. So you’ll forgive me if I’m wary of the recent changes in the chain of command.”

  Nieto turned to face her. He was silhouetted by the blue sky beyond the window. On the opposite side of the street, atop a centuries-old hotel, Allison saw two snipers side by side.

  A surge of adrenaline went through her and she tensed, about to dive at the Secretary General, to drive him to the ground and to safety, out of sight of the snipers. But then she noticed Henning glancing out the window as well and she at last translated the tense undercurrent in the room, realizing that they were not assassins here to remove the head of the United Nations.

  The snipers were for her.

  She smiled. It was not a kind smile.

  “What did you and Carl Melnick talk about in Venice?” Nieto asked, repeating Henning’s earlier question.

  Allison glared at him, studiously refusing to look at Henning. “Old times.”

  The Secretary General shifted his position, stepping a bit closer to the desk, giving the snipers a clearer shot. Allison wondered if they were to kill her, or simply incapacitate her. Years earlier, a toxin had been developed that would arrest the molecular process that allowed vampires to shapeshift, making them killable. Or simply controllable.

  Allison was nearly indestructible. But take away her control over her molecular structure and it would be possible to do her enough physical damage to kill her.

  She leaned slightly forward in her chair as if the conversation had suddenly become fascinating, using the Secretary General himself as a shield.

  “Why don’t you ask Melnick what we talked about?”

  “We tried,” Commander Henning said. “Nobody can find him.”

  Allison laughed. “Not if he doesn’t want to be found.”

  Henning angrily slapped the arm of his chair. “Damn it, Vigeant, what kind of game are you playing here? Melnick gave you information about this crisis and I think you gave some in return. I want to know exactly what was said and I want to know now. That’s a direct order.”

  Her lips curled up in a sneer and she lowered her head to look at him, her red hair falling across her eyes like a veil. “An order, is it? All right. I had the conversation with Carl Melnick that I ought to have had with you, Commander. But given that you don’t see fit to share any information about this crisis with me and in the interest of world security, I had to go elsewhere.”

  “World security, my ass!” Henning roared, standing up. “You know more than you’re telling!”

  “Careful,” Allison said, gesturing toward the window. “You might catch a bullet.”

  Startled, Henning glanced past the Secretary General at the snipers across the street. In the same instant, Allison turned to mist, sliding impossibly fast along the floor and coalescing once more on the other side of the room, just to the right of the large window.

  Out of sight of the snipers.

  Henning reached for his sidearm. Nieto snapped at him, glaring at the weapon, and the commander put it away. At last the Secretary General sighed deeply and regarded her, and Allison thought he looked very, very tired.

  “Allison, please—”

  “If I was your enemy, or the monster Henning thinks I am, you’d both be dead now. I could tear the heads off both those snipers before they realized I had left this room and be back before their bodies hit the street below.”

  The Secretary General gaped at her.

  “If that’s a threat—” Henning began.

  “Ray,” Nieto said, voice cold. “Shut up.”

  Commander Henning stared at him, eyes ticking back and forth between his boss and his scout.

  “Did you hear what she just said? Allison doesn’t need threats,” the Secretary General said. “Do you?” He glanced at her.

  At length she relaxed her guard, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, ignoring Henning.

  “What’s this all about, Rafael?”

  Nieto slid into the large black leather chair behind a desk that wasn’t his. “Peter Octavian.”

  Allison stared at the Secretary General. “What about him?”

  “He was in Vermont when the town of Wickham . . . rematerialized. We have firsthand reports.”

  Allison nodded. Things were starting to click into place. It seemed inevitable that Octavian would have gotten involved at some point, given his power.

  “He’s the most powerful mage in the world,” Allison said. She frowned. “You don’t need me to tell you that. You’ve read his file. Hell, you’ve done business with him in the past. If Wickham has returned from wherever it had been taken and Peter was there, you’ve probably got him to thank for it.”

  Commander Henning glared at her, still standing, and a ripple of revulsion went across his face. “Or him to blame.”

  Allison rolled her eyes.

  “You said yourself he has power,” the Secretary General said, trying to sound reasonable. “It’s possible he could be responsible for this.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head in disgust. “No, it’s not. Not a chance.”

  “Fine,” Nieto said, walking to the window again.

  He pressed a hand to the glass and for a moment she had to wonder if that was a signal of some kind. But no, it seemed he was only thinking. Commander Henning was on edge, his jaw set angrily. This had been a confrontation long in coming. He had obviously been saving up his ire for just this occasion and she wondered if he was disappointed that nobody had shot her yet. Come to think of it, she was sure Henning was fuming over it. That was good.

  The Secretary General turned from the window. “I’m going to give you a chance to prove you’re right about Octavian.”

  “What?” Henning snapped. The Secretary General shot him a withering look and Henning stood a little strai
ghter, suddenly reminded to whom he was speaking. “Sir, this is not the course of action we had agreed upon.”

  “No,” Nieto agreed. “No, it isn’t.” He loosened the thin red tie that slashed down his white shirt like a wound. “Allison, I have been in constant contact since the beginning of this conflict with officials from the Church of the Resurrection. They’re far more familiar with the workings of the supernatural than we are. Task Force Victor has been assigned to work with representatives from the church to find a way to breach the barrier surrounding Derby, here in England.”

  “Task Force Victor is a bunch of vampire hunters, sir,” Allison said. “What do they know about this situation?”

  The Secretary General smiled, his charm returning now that the tension of the moment had passed. “Very little. The church representatives do, however. And the men and women of Task Force Victor are not afraid of anything. Demons have now been added to their target list.”

  “But I’m not going with them, am I?” Allison asked.

  “No,” Nieto said. “I want you to find Octavian. He’s probably still in Vermont but refused to stop for our forces there. If you’re wrong, and he’s involved in this, you’re to terminate him. But if you’re right, and he has the power to break through these barriers, even to tear them down, then I want him working with us and immediately. Every day we lose another city. Every hour more people die.”

  Allison eyed him a moment then walked right past the Secretary General to the window the man had been staring at moments before. Across the street on the roof of the ancient hotel she saw the two men with rifles, side by side, sighting carefully through their scopes, watching her.

  With a bright smile, Allison waved and blew them a kiss.

  “I have a condition,” she said without turning.

  “This is the Secretary General!” Henning sputtered, and she could picture his face reddening. “You can’t—”

  “What is it?” Nieto asked.

  Allison raised her hands to either side of her face, pressed her thumbs to her temples, and waggled her fingers at the snipers, sticking out her tongue. Then she turned to the Secretary General, ignoring Henning, and her smile was gone.