“Good.” Vulkan’s eyes were bright and giddy. He grinned and clasped his hands together, like a child at a carnival who sees so many lights he doesn’t know where to turn first. He wished his father could see him now; he knew the Hawk would be very proud, perhaps even a bit envious. His father’s greatest campaign—a war of revenge into the wild northland after rampaging barbarians had set two of the Hawk’s villages to the torch—had lasted almost six months and resulted in a critical weakening of his army. Now here was Prince Conrad Vulkan, son of the Hawk, who would be young and strong forever, on the eve of conquering a city the size of which might have driven his father to madness. His army could never lose its strength; it would only grow in power, night after night, faster and faster, until the world trembled at its thunderous approach. Oh, he thought, how good it was to be alive! He looked at Kobra. “And the armored infantry? How many do you command now, Kobra?”
“The Death Machine, the Ghost Riders, most of the Angels, and the Undertakers—about thirty-five hundred able to ride right now, another fifteen hundred who’ll be ready tomorrow night. We’ve got the hogs in a warehouse over near the river, but I don’t know how long the engines are gonna last with all this sand blowin’ around. That shit gets in the carbs and the fuel lines, and there’s hell to pay. ‘Course, we’ve got mechanics workin’ on ’em, but…”
“You won’t have to deal with the sand much longer,” Vulkan said. “Once our objective is reached, the storm will pass. Until then you’ll have to make do.” He looked to the center of the table where the sand was beginning to corkscrew faster in the gleaming golden bowl. The others had stared at it fearfully when they’d come to the council, and none of them dared touch it.
“What powers that, Master?” Roach asked, his voice brimming with wonder. It looked to him like some gleaming jewel, a golden mechanism sent spinning by a force he couldn’t even begin to understand.
“The hand that powers us all,” Prince Vulkan said. “It’s a holy object, and you would do well to remember that.” He cast his gaze along the table. “Any more comments, reports, or suggestions? No? Then it is time to sleep. The council is adjourned.” They rose from their chairs and moved toward the door. “Sleep well,” Vulkan told them, and then looked up at Roach, who’d lagged behind. “Yes?”
“I just wanted to…say…I want to be like you someday. I want to…live forever, like you and the others. I want to know what it feels like, Master.” His eyes were huge and shining behind his glasses, and he was almost panting. “Will you make me like you?”
Vulkan regarded him in silence for a moment. “Perhaps someday,” he said finally. “Right now I need you as you are.”
“I’ll do anything for you, I’ll follow you anywhere! Anything you ask, but please let me feel the power, too!”
Vulkan said, “Leave me. I want to be alone now.”
Roach nodded and backed away. He stopped at the door. “Do you want me to go down and feed the dogs now?”
Someday, Vulkan thought, you shall. Just as Falco did when his usefulness had ended. “No, not yet. But make sure they’re out at sunrise.”
Roach left the room, his footsteps scuttling away down the stone-floored corridor. In the firelight the golden urn winked like a maleficent and beautiful eye. The sand had begun to spin with greater force. Vulkan watched it, mesmerized.
And now he could sense the presence of spirits around him, shades of beings who had lived and died in Los Angeles for scores of years. They were everywhere now, floating through the castle like silver cobwebs. His activity had stirred them up, brought them back from the dead in defiance. He recalled the night he’d intercepted the messages flowing between the spirit that had walked here when he first came and a house in that section of the city called Bel Air. The dead were restless and trying to halt his advance. But what should he care about them? They were phantoms, things that moved without shape or substance, and he was well beyond their grasp. Now he was Prince Conrad Vulkan, King of the Vampires, and no power on or of earth could ever stop him! He stared at the urn and thought he saw a specter moving toward it, trying to pass a shadowy grip through the spinning column of sand. Of course, that couldn’t be done, and Prince Vulkan began to laugh with childish glee. The laughter grew, echoing in the rafters like a demonic chorus.
Nothing could stand in his way now; nothing could halt the advance of his army. When darkness fell again, the divisions would secure their own areas and then begin to radiate outward, like an exploding star, while the Central Division continued to explore the inner city in wider spirals, searching for stragglers. But Prince Vulkan knew there would not be many.
It was almost dawn. He could feel the coming sunlight—which this day would be no more than a faint glow in the thick, amber grain of the sky—with a sense of unease at the pit of his stomach. He left the chamber, left the swirling, helpless ghosts, and went down into the murky depths of the castle where his ebony casket filled with coarse Hungarian dirt waited.
SIX
Father Silvera was guiding a long chain of people toward his church from a decrepit, tottering tenement. The storm was furious, sand lashing his face like a cat-o’-nine-tails. He gripped the hand of the person behind him, and now he was stepping over half-buried corpses at his feet. He could see the church ahead, the vaguest dark outline in the yellow wind. When he reached the steps, he felt a shudder vibrate up his arm and looked back. They were all gone, all the people swept away either by the storm or by the vampires. He’d been gripping empty air, and his dead hand hadn’t even registered the difference. In the distance he could hear people shrieking for his help, calling out his name, sobbing. He shouted “Where are you?” but then the sand whipped into his mouth and began to choke him, and he knew he could never find all of them, he knew he’d let them go, and there was nothing he could do for them, nothing…nothing…
His head jerked upward. His eyes opened. He lay in deep blue light, the pounding of his heart making his entire body tremble. He was aware of three distinct sounds—the tolling of Mary’s Voice above his head, the muffled sound of voices talking and weeping, and the steady roaring of the wind. He sat up from where he’d fallen asleep—how long? An hour or more?—on a pew and found that someone had spread a striped blanket across him. There was someone else asleep beside him, and at the end of the pew, a girl who looked no more than fifteen was nursing an infant. From the rear of the sanctuary, a woman began to weep in long, agonized moans; someone else whispered to her, trying to calm her. A baby began to wail. Father Silvera suddenly realized that there was a trace of light within the church from outside. He looked at the stained-glass window and saw some of the blue panes beginning to glow. On the altar most of the candles had burned themselves out.
Morning, he thought with a surge of relief. Oh, thank God! We’ve survived the night! He stood up, stepping over and around people huddled both on the pews and the floor, and peered out the front door. Sand whipped into his face; the wind had risen, and now it screamed violently around the church. The dunes had already shifted, and now they were building up eight and nine feet high against those walls that cut the wind’s force. No one could go out in that and live very long, he knew. He closed the door and rebolted it, grit prickling the stubble of his beard.
He was walking back toward the altar when someone huddled on the end of a pew with a blanket draped around his shoulders said, “Father?”
Silvera stopped. It was the young man he’d found sprawled on the ground. He was shirtless, his broken ribs now bandaged with the torn strips of a woman’s brown dress. “Did a woman come in last night?” the young man said, his eyes sunken and dark with hopelessness. “A black woman, very beautiful…?”
“No,” Silvera said. “No one else came in after I found you.”
The young man nodded. There were deep lines around his eyes, as if he’d aged twenty years in one night. He looked dazed, on the verge of tears. Silvera had seen that look of shock often enough now to become familiar with it. �
�They took her,” the young man said softly. “The ones on the motorcycles. I’ve got to find her, Father…I can’t let them…make her one, too…”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Name? Wes. Wes Richer. Where is this place?”
“My church is in East L.A. Where did you come from?”
Wes seemed to be trying to remember, but was having difficulty. “My car,” he said. “The freeway…”
“The freeway? The nearest off-ramp is over a quarter-mile away!”
“I heard the bell,” Wes said. “I knew if I kept going, I’d reach it. I wasn’t aware of how far away it was, I just knew I…had to get there. Her name was…is…Solange. The ones on the motorcycles took her.” He pressed a hand against his side and winced. “Broken ribs, huh? I figured as much. How bad am I?”
“One of the women looked after you. She says you’ve got two fractured ribs on the left side. How bad do you feel?”
“Pretty fucking bad. Oops, sorry.” He looked at the brightening window. “Is it morning?”
“Yes. Where did these motorcycle riders go?” The idea of vampires on motorcycles chilled him. It was bad enough that they were on foot, but vampires with vehicles was almost too terrible to think about.
“I don’t know. East, I think. They were members of some kind of biker gang, and they said they were going to connect up with some others.” He coughed a couple of times and winced. “Shit. My throat and lungs feel like they’ve been sandpapered. Do you have any water?”
“I’ll get you some.” Silvera went back to his room where he’d taken the case of bottled water and packs of paper cups that he’d gotten from the grocery store down the street. Two of the bottles were already empty. Silvera poured just a little into a cup and took it out to Wes. “Make it last,” he told the young man, who nodded and drank gratefully.
“I’ve got to go,” Wes said when he’d finished. “I’ve got to find Solange.”
“No one’s going anywhere. The storm’s gotten stronger. You couldn’t walk two blocks in it before you laid down and died.”
“It was my fault they found us. I stood there and waved and shouted like an idiot, and then they swooped right down on us like fucking vultures. I should’ve known what they were! I should’ve known that only the…the vampires would be out there. Now they’ve got her, and God only knows what they’ve done to her!” His lower lip quivered. He crushed the cup and flung it aside. “I’ve got to find her!” he shouted, his eyes flaring with defiance.
“And where will you start looking?” Silvera asked him. “They could’ve taken her anywhere. And by now they’ve…” His voice trailed off because saying it would be unmerciful.
“NO!” Wes said. “I don’t believe that!”
“You can’t go out in this storm, Mr. Richer. Do you want to die so much?”
Wes smiled thinly. “Man, I’m half-dead already. So what does it matter, huh?”
Something about the cold logic of that pierced Silvera. It seemed to him that only the half-dead might have the courage to fight against the vampires because the living would have too much to lose. He had refused to help Palatazin, and that man had surely gone to his death. He remembered Cicero’s triumphant shriek: “The Master lives!” Yes. Palatazin—or what had been Palatazin—was dead by now, and the Master’s flock had increased. Only the half-dead, only those who had seen the limits of their lives and accepted that end as a fact, could hope to find the strength within themselves to fight back.
Silvera held his hands up before his face. They were shaking like the hands of an elderly man with the palsy.
How much longer could he hope to live? Two years? Three, possibly? Incurable, the doctors had said. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Lou Gehrig’s disease. First weakness and atrophy of the muscles in the hands coupled with fibrillations and spasticity. Muscular atrophy spreading to the forearms and shoulders. Wasting away week after week. Incurable. Lying in a hospital bed, probably in some charity ward, softening into a gray mass of jellied flesh. Nurses with grim lips hovering at his bedside. Incurable. Being fed through his nostrils. Time creeping. Messing his pants and being wiped clean by the nurses, trembling in bed, caged within a house that had gone rotten but refused to fall until all the dignity of its tenant had been thrown out into the garbage with the rubber diapers and the bibs and the nasal catheters.
Is that how I want to die? he asked himself. Now he saw his impending death as a gift from God. He had been given the opportunity to choose death with dignity.
The Master lives, Cicero had said. And Silvera knew it was true. In that castle somewhere in the Hollywood hills, the Master lived and plotted his moves for the next night’s assault on the remaining humans of Los Angeles. A knot of dread was slowly gathering in his stomach. Palatazin had surely been killed. Who else but he knew that the Master had taken refuge in the Kronsteen Castle? Calm determination set in, but the fear kept jumping in his stomach like something trying to draw his attention. How could he get through the storm to the castle? He really didn’t even know how to find it, and there were hundreds of roads, both paved and dirt, twisting through the hills. And what about the people here in the sanctuary? He couldn’t just leave them to fend for themselves. But tonight the vampires would be back, maybe many times stronger than the night before. He was going to have to pray and seek guidance.
“I want to find Solange,” Wes said grimly. “I don’t care what I have to do or where I have to go.”
“Don’t be a fool. How far could you get with those broken ribs? You don’t even know where you’d be going. You’d wind up suffocated on some East L.A. side street.” He paused because he could see the anger in Wes’s eyes quickly giving way to pain. “I’m sorry,” Silvera said quietly. “How about some more water?”
Wes shook his head. “No. I…I just want to try to sleep…”
“All right. And I have some thinking to do. If you’ll excuse me.” He moved away from Wes without looking back, because he’d seen the young man’s face and heard his first strangled, hopeless sob.
SEVEN
The boy on the sofa suddenly screamed and jerked his head up.
Jo, sitting in a chair beside him, leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right,” she said soothingly. “No one’s going to hurt you. Come on, lie back.”
“No! House is on fire! They’re burning up, both of them!” His eyes were wild, and he was fighting the bedspread that covered him.
“It’s morning,” Jo said, putting more pressure on his shoulder to keep him still. “Whatever happened to you last night is over. Everything’s going to be all right now.”
“Huh?” He looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jo, and that’s Gayle over there. What’s your name?”
“It’s…uh…” He squinted and touched the back of his head. The wound had been covered with a couple of large, square Band-Aids. “Head hurts,” he said. “My name is…uh…Tommy!” Everything but his own name seemed dark and jumbled together. Strange backward images of things were caught in his brain like distorted reflections in a hall of mirrors. “Head hurts bad,” he said.
“It should. But I guess that’s a good sign. You’ve been shot.”
“Shot? Like with a bullet?”
“Well, grazed is the right word, I suppose. Come on, lie back down. You don’t want to start bleeding again, do you?”
He allowed her to push him back down on the pillow. Thunder crashed between his temples, and he felt sick to his stomach. He was trying to remember his last name and where he lived and what he was doing on this sofa with this woman sitting next to him. He concentrated on making sense out of one of the funhouse mirror reflections. There was a bed, and on that bed there were shapes covered with the sheets. They were lying very still. Something painful struck him across the top of the head, making him wince and whimper, and that mirror shattered to pieces. He decided not think about any more reflections, not just y
et.
“He’s been gone a long time,” Gayle said, standing next to the window. Her voice was as taut as overstretched cable, and all she could see out there were blowing currents of white and yellow.
“He knows what he’s doing,” Jo answered. Something cold leaped up around her heart; she forced it away and smoothed the spread up under the boy’s chin. Tommy was as pale as death, and now she could hear him whimpering softly. What kind of hell did he go through last night? she wondered.
In another moment Gayle said, “There he is!” and opened the front door. A swirl of wind and sand blew in, and at the center of it Palatazin, a sheet around his head and face like an Arabian headdress, stepped across the threshold, carrying the cardboard box of stakes he’d just retrieved from the Falcon. Gayle quickly closed the door, having to push hard against it. Palatazin laid the box on the floor and unwrapped his protective shroud. It had strained the air enough for him to breathe through his teeth, but walking out there was like struggling through glue while being struck in the face with buckets of sand. His shirt was soaked with sweat.
“Could you see anything moving out there?” Gayle asked him.
“I could hardly see five feet in front of me,” he said. “I walked right past the car before I realized where I was. But there’s one blessing. Our friend with the rifle can’t see either. How’s the boy?”
“He was awake a few minutes ago,” Jo said. “He says his name is Tommy.”
Palatazin came over beside the sofa and looked down at him. “Do you think he’s going to be all right? He’s so pale!”
“You would be too if you’d taken a bullet across the back of your head.” She lifted the cold washrag and felt his forehead for perhaps the twentieth time in an hour. “He doesn’t have a fever, but I wouldn’t know whether he had a concussion or not. At least he was coherent when he spoke.”
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