Afterimage

by Jaye Roycraft

  Adelle’s anguished cry sounded behind Marya, echoing her own feelings. “Leksii, don’t, please. Let them take me, but save yourself!”

  Drago looked past her to Adelle. “No, mon chou. We will do this with dignity, if nothing else. What weapon, Philippe?”

  Adelle was crying now. Marya felt too stunned to cry.

  “Nothing less than a death’s-head would be appropriate in this case, I think,” said Philippe, the gloat in his voice adding to the pain his words caused.

  “Bring it, then.”

  Philippe seemed to float to his car, his steps as light as air. He opened the trunk and took out a long bladed weapon. When he returned to Drago, he held the apparatus point up and rotated it for Drago to see. Marya recognized the instrument from her father’s journal. It was a Vampire Hunter. For those who stalked vampires, it was salvation. For the Undead it was the wicked manifestation of mortality. Death. The most ancient of weapons for the killing of vampires. This one appeared to be of silver instead of wood, and was elaborately carved. The sunlight winked off the silver blade with white fire.

  “One condition, monsieur. Allow me to say my farewells.”

  Philippe held onto the polished, wooden handle and brandished the death’s-head as if he were about to fight a duel with it. “Agreed. A small enough price for your true death.” He motioned with a jerk of his head for Scott and the other vampire to bring her and Adelle closer.

  Marya was able to get a closer look at Adelle and the vampire holding her. Adelle had stopped crying, but silent streams of tears still coursed down her face. The vampire was one Marya didn’t recognize. He was about Drago’s height, with short dark hair and a small goatee. He still held Adelle firmly to his body.

  Drago took a step closer to Adelle, prompting the strange vampire to speak for the first time. “No closer, Drago.”

  Drago halted. “Reno. A pity you’re involved in this.”

  Reno laughed. “That’s rich. The great enforcier having pity on a brother. Say what you want to say to the woman.”

  Drago ignored him and shifted his attention to Adelle. “Mon chou . . .”

  She started to cry softly again. “Leksii, please don’t do this. I beg you.”

  “It will be all right. No good-byes, ma chere. Do not be afraid. It will be over soon.” He turned and took a step in Marya’s direction.

  Revelin pulled her backwards. “That’s far enough, Drago.”

  Drago’s feet brought him no closer to her, but the power of his blue gaze reached out and touched her as if he were but inches from her, sending a torrent of shivers raining down her back. There was no sadness in his eyes, only a calm acceptance of his fate. A fleeting image of the warrior Ilya flashed through her mind. Drago, like Ilya, at the end of the final road. The thought robbed her of strength, though, and if Revelin hadn’t been gripping her so tightly, she would have collapsed to the ground. But she would not cry.

  “My brave little Roma. What I do is right, cherie.”

  She didn’t know what to say. If Adelle’s heartfelt pleas couldn’t sway him, clearly nothing she could say would change his mind. “Damned vampire,” she breathed.

  “Do one thing for me, cherie. Forgive your grandfather.” His gaze shifted just slightly, and she knew he was fixing a long stare on Revelin.

  An instant later Drago stood once more before Philippe. In one fluid motion Drago peeled his T-shirt off and tossed it to the ground. “The finale, then, to this macabre play, Philippe.”

  She watched the bright badges of sunlight dance over the lean torso she had so recently adored with her lips and hands. He had reeled in the power he’d cast out moments ago, and his eyes had lost some of their mad light, but the muscles of his abdomen and arms were still contracted with tension. More images marched across her mind like the shutter of a camera opening and closing. Drago, being declared unclean and unholy. Drago, officially damned by his fellow man. Branded a heretic for all eternity. Her mind saw the glowing brand forced against human flesh. She heard the hiss of living tissue seared by unbearable heat. He would not go quietly, then. She stared, holding her breath.

  Philippe struck a pose with the death’s-head held at an angle, his arm cocked as if waiting to deliver a blow. “No, Drago, I’m not going to hurry. I’ve waited too long for this moment. I’m almost tempted to do the deed myself, but it’s better I don’t. This way I can never be accused of murder, and I have two witnesses who will swear you took your own life on my command without so much as a compelling glance.” He paused, rocking the flat of the blade lightly against his right shoulder. “My reputation will be cemented forever with this one act. Perhaps I’ll be chosen for your spot after all.”

  Drago reached out a hand. “Then do it. Give me the death’s-head.”

  Philippe smiled. “In good time. I’ll be savoring the memory of this moment for decades to come. I want it to last.” With that Philippe brought the blade forward and drew the point across Drago’s chest. The touch was light enough not to draw blood, but the cords in Drago’s neck stood out with the pain of the caress. The silver blade continued to stroke Drago’s skin like the hand of a lover. He emitted no tortured cry, but she knew the narrowing of his eyes and the tightening of the lines in his face showed only a small part of the agony he felt.

  Philippe raised the tip of the blade to Drago’s face, tracing a line of fire down across his cheek and throat. Then the blade flashed, a blur of white so blinding she had to turn her head away. Drago’s silence was finally ruptured by a groan of agony, and when Marya looked back at his face, blood ran down both cheeks.

  Marya struggled in Revelin’s grasp, but his only reaction was to clinch her tighter than before. Her breath gone, she sagged against him. It doesn’t matter what happens now. I’ve already died. She closed her eyes, but Philippe’s voice forced them open again.

  “A parting gift, Drago. Something to remember me by. Au revoir.” Philippe took several steps backward and tossed the weapon to Drago. He caught it deftly by the wooden grip. Marya took one long, last look at Drago’s eyes, trying to ignore the blood that trickled like the tracks of red tears, then squeezed her own eyes shut again. Of all the images that would haunt her until her own death came, she didn’t want the sight of the silver blade piercing his heart to be one of them. She couldn’t watch him die.

  Nineteen

  DRAGO HELD THE Vampire Hunter, feeling its heft and balance. It was a good weapon, as such evil devices went. The silver cutting edge, as he knew only too well, was razor sharp. The blade itself, about a foot in length, was heavy but well balanced, and the grip was sturdy and comfortable. It would do.

  He took a deep, calming breath and blocked the pain of the scorching silver burn from his mind. He looked at each of the people around him in turn. Philippe stood poised like a general drinking in the victorious execution of his battle plan. Adelle’s eyes were closed, but her mouth worked in the silent recitation of a final prayer. Marya caught his eye briefly, then shut her eyes as well. Reno’s rounded eyes and creased brow showed a tense expectancy. Only Scott’s expression was cool and detached, as if the death of a vampire, as dramas went, was neither comedy nor tragedy, but a mildly boring affair. Drago nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

  Scott yanked on Marya’s arms again. “Come, girl. You have a bloody front seat. Open your eyes!”

  She cried out, and Drago felt all eyes on her.

  His were on David Reno. Drago flew at Reno with the speed of the gift of celerity, hurling the death’s-head at the side the vampire had exposed when he had turned toward Scott. Reno and Adelle both screamed, their voices merging in a gruesome harmony.

  Scott’s voice rang out above both Reno’s and Adelle’s. “Philippe!”

  Drago had no time to react. He felt a body slam into his, and the momentum carried him to the ground. He rolled forward into a somersault, gain
ing his feet in the process. He spared a quick glance at Reno and Adelle. Both were on the forest floor, but while Reno writhed in pain, Adelle was still.

  Reno jerked the Vampire Hunter’s blade from his side. “Scott, damn you, help me!”

  Revelin ran to Reno, knelt beside him on one knee, and took the death’s-head from the hand still clutched around the handle. “I’ll help ease your pain, mate.” With that, Scott, in one smooth-as-silk motion, lifted the weapon, flipped it in midair, grabbed the handle so the blade faced point down, and staked David Reno through the heart.

  A high, keening cry rent the stillness of the glade. When the final death rattle gurgled from Reno’s throat, Scott stood up. “You’ve a level playing field now, Drago.”

  Philippe, like Drago, had stopped to witness the subplot in the drama. “You Irish scum! Your alliance was with me!”

  Scott smiled, and the chilling power that glimmered in his ice-blue gaze was the only reminder in a face full of dimples and white teeth that he was more than a flippant young man. “My alliance was forged long before you came along, Chenard.”

  Philippe cast an accusing stare at Drago. “You knew about this the whole time!”

  “No. But you didn’t really think I’d sacrifice myself for you, did you?” Without waiting for an answer he lashed out at Philippe with the cutting power of his mind, aiming right for the golden eyes and pretty face.

  Philippe snarled, more an animal sound of defiance than a human laugh. Drops of blood barely reached the white collar of his silk shirt before the wounds healed themselves. “Had you forgotten, Drago? My invulnerability is a match for your power of destruction. Any injury you attempt to inflict on me is no more than a nuisance.” By the time he finished his declaration, only the drying blood was evidence he had ever been cut.

  It had indeed been a mistake on Drago’s part. Philippe had been an ally, not a foe, for so long that Drago hadn’t thought of all he was capable of. Philippe Chenard was no mere desk clerk. He was a member of the Directorate, and the fact that he wasn’t an enforcer had nothing to do with his lack of power. Drago called on a different weapon in his arsenal, the most basic of all, but eminently effective. Simple dominance. He widened his eyes, loosing arrows of command more forcefully than if his mouth had shouted mandates.

  Philippe’s own eyes took on the dull luster of tarnished brass, but Drago could see the muscles twitching in Phillipe’s pale face and knew he was fighting the power. “No more . . . will I do your bidding, Drago!” The words tore from Philippe’s mouth in a supreme effort of defiance.

  Drago added weight to his compelling stare, the kind of look that could wither a man as easily as the cold hand of Death. “You will stay your onslaught at once, monsieur, and submit to me. You have not the power to challenge me, and you know it!”

  Philippe’s gaze remained trapped by Drago’s dominance, but even as his eyes strained against the snare of supremacy, Philippe tilted his head back. He held his chin high and flared his nostrils, like a beast of prey testing the wind. Drago could afford to lose no more time. Philippe’s resistance was formidable.

  Drago soared at Philippe, circling to position himself to snatch his quarry. But just as Drago closed in, Philippe broke the hold of Drago’s eyes and sprinted into the trees, his movement so fleeting he was no more than a haze of foul, mummy-brown smoke. Drago gave chase without a second thought, his own progress no less swift. He wove through the trees, a kaleidoscope of life spinning around him with the lushness of the canopies of the giant oaks above him and the verdant carpet of emerald below. And mixed throughout was the dappled sunlight, sprinkling brilliance and energy like a trail of bright crumbs to be followed. Drago pursued blindly until the overpowering stench of death drew him to a sudden halt.

  Drago stood, struggling for breath, and turned his head from side to side to take in his surroundings. It wasn’t just the shadows or the aged oak trees, covered with a patina of verdigris moss. It was the cold aura of Mistress Death herself, presiding over the tombstones, family plots, and monuments that encircled him. Philippe stood some fifty feet away, a wide smile cutting a swath of white across the dark of his beard.

  Too late, Drago recalled Philippe’s fascination, along with le docteur la mort, Ricard De Chaux, with death. The obsession with unlocking the mystery of the fatal hour had been the common thread linking the two together long before l’alliance.

  Philippe raised his arms and prayed to his Mistress.

  The hour of death is a pretty lie,

  For time crosses not the threshold.

  Of decay of age and days gone by,

  You are surely uncaring and cold.

  Sensible still, today as yesterday,

  Undiminished by that which touches you not.

  Rise, then, my children, to the light of day,

  And heed the commands long forgot.

  DRAGO LAUGHED, but it was a nervous laugh. He had indeed forgotten about Philippe’s ability to call spirits. “You fool! There are no fresh corpses here. These graves are too old to hear your babbling, Philippe. You’re on your own.”

  Philippe’s mouth curled downward in disdain. “What do you know about such things, Drago? Long ago, while you were touring the continent, I was roaming the cemetery at les Innocents. Even now, for every hour you spend making love to courtesans in your grand castle, I spend two hours in the catacombs with the dead. Revivification is a reality, not a fantasy, and the passage of time means nothing to them, as they themselves will tell you.” He spun in a circle, his arms raised again, and when he next spoke, his voice was as cold and hollow as a winter wind. The words weren’t French, Latin, or any other language Drago recognized, but an incantation of sounds as primitive as life and death.

  Drago’s laughter died in his throat. Whether or not anything could or would respond to Philippe’s summons, the time to press the attack was now. Philippe was distracted. Besides, the blood was still running freely down Drago’s face, and the burn of the silver was as debilitating to him as a gunshot wound would be to a mortal. He leapt over the ornate wrought iron fencing of a family plot, but as he did so, a wraith rose up before him. As formless as mist, as insubstantial as shadow, yet the creature was as real as Philippe had boasted. A whistle, like a gust of air through a drafty house, tore through Drago. He had no defense against such a being, and when the gray specter reached out feathery arms and passed through him, there was nothing he could do to stop it. Dizziness washed over Drago, and he fell forward across a table-type gravestone. The cool granite felt good against his burning skin, and he wanted nothing more than to rest against the stone, but he forced himself to his feet. He stepped out of the fenced square of the family plot, but as he did, another spirit rushed at him and through him, sapping his strength. Drago gasped for breath, the odor of decay robbing the air around him of oxygen. The silver wound burned more than ever.

  His only hope was to reach Philippe, who was still chanting to the netherworld. Drago stumbled forward, winding his way around boxed tombstones, the crumbling brick walling of plots, and monuments that were nearly twice his height. The wraiths seemed to have the power to appear only for a short time, but as soon as one dissipated into a plume and vanished, another one rose to confront Drago. Some whistled, some wailed, and one even shrieked, but all took their serving of life when they touched him.

  Philippe was only twenty feet away. His eyes were closed, his face was slack, and the mouth that had beckoned the spirits moments before hung open. Perhaps Philippe was summoning more strength, or maybe he was simply in rapture. It had been long seconds since the last apparition had wafted away, and another one had not yet formed. Now. Drago flew at Philippe will all his available speed, and the collision of flesh and blood bodies did more than knock the wind out of Drago—it propelled both of them over the edge of the high, steep ridge housing the cemetery. Drago, unable to hold onto Philippe,
tumbled and rolled down the embankment. Fallen logs and dead branches tore at Drago’s bare skin, but the pain only helped to rouse the bloodlust for Philippe’s demise. Drago rolled to his feet and saw Philippe, only yards away, trying to scamper back up the hillside on all fours.

  “What’s your hurry, mon ami? Your friends can’t help you any more. You don’t have the strength to call them again, and even if you did, they’re far too old to bridge the gap between worlds a second time.”

  Philippe turned, his teeth clenched and his fangs bared. A wild gleam lit his eyes, and all pretense at civilized elegance was gone. “You know nothing of what I can do! You never concerned yourself with me unless there was some menial task to be done. De Chaux and Scott were no better. Only the spirits have been faithful. They will rise again!”

  Drago allowed Philippe to expend energy in climbing the slope, while he himself followed at a more leisurely pace. Each time Philippe got too far ahead of him, Drago reached out an arm and flicked his wrist, the resulting energy knocking Philippe’s legs out from under him. Philippe finally reached the top of the ridge, but kept running in spite of his words. At the rear of the cemetery a long, narrow trench ran along the ridge. When Drago came upon a historic marker mounted on a square wooden post, he paused just long enough to wrench the post from the ground. The end tapered to a convenient point.

  Drago pursued again, but unhurriedly. Exercising any vampiric discipline was tiring, but Drago imagined that summoning the dead for roll call was more draining. He ran down his prey at last, using a final wave of energy to send Philippe’s silk covered knees to the grass again. Drago stood beside him and waited.

  Philippe eyed the marker with its sharpened post. “I’ll not meet la Belle Mort on my hands and knees. Grant me that, at least.” Drago dipped his head.

  Philippe pushed himself to his feet and brushed his hands together to dislodge the dirt. “You never understood. None of them ever did—not even De Chaux.” A lurid gleam came into his eyes, and they focused on a point somewhere over Drago’s shoulder. “It was never about death, but the élan vital, the impulse of life. Don’t you see? It’s not just the beating heart that sustains us, but the spark of life, the vital force that animates everything around us.”