Solange was still shrieking, holding her injured cheek and cowering in a corner.
Kobra’s eyes widened slightly, then he began to grin again. “I’ll blow this little shit’s head off, old man!”
Palatazin writhed on the floor, pressing the crucifix against the ragged, bloody bites on his throat. Blue flames hissed, searing the wounds closed. Pain shook him, twisting him inside out. He hung on to consciousness by a thread and saw Solange throwing up his blood into a steaming puddle. Then he lifted his head and saw the albino holding the gun’s barrel between Tommy’s teeth.
“Eat it,” Kobra snarled. “Right now! Want to see his brains?”
“Oh, God,” Palatazin breathed, fighting dark waves that crashed within him. “Oh, my God in Heaven…”
“Eat it!” Kobra shrieked.
Palatazin looked into Tommy’s eyes and saw the boy shake his head no. Very slowly, with numbed hands, he worked the tiny crucifix off its chain and put it in his mouth. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Put it down, fucker! Lemme see that throat work!”
Palatazin tried to swallow, but the crucifix, as small as it was, caught in his throat and choked him. He coughed it up. Kobra’s eyes were blazing. Tommy staggered, about to fall, but the albino wrenched him upright again. “Either that goes down,” Kobra whispered, “or the boy gets blown away. Your choice. Make it FAST!”
Palatazin looked into Tommy’s glazing eyes for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and swallowed. The crucifix scraped the back of his throat going down, hung in his esophagus. He swallowed again, harder, and felt it sink to his stomach like a infant must feel a penny or a metal button going down, cold and coppery. He felt shamed, blighted…but at least Tommy was still alive.
“Reallll good!” Kobra crowed and flung the boy aside. Tommy slithered to the floor and lay still. Kobra looked at Solange and shouted, “Stop whining! Your pretty face’ll heal soon enough! Stupid bitch, you should’ve seen that chain around his neck!” She slid down into the corner, clasping her arms around herself and rocking, her eyes wide with terror. Then Kobra stared at Palatazin and stepped forward. “How do you like the pain, fucker? Get up!”
“Can’t…” Palatazin said, shaking his head. “No.”
“She just bit you enough to give you a good buzz. Now get on your feet!”
Palatazin staggered up, then fell back to his knees. He was terribly weak and only wanted to find a warm place to sleep.
“How’d you and the kid get in here? You kill Roach? I hope you did. I didn’t like him anyway.” His gaze fell upon the backpack and the fallen hammer. “Brought the heavy artillery, didn’t you?” He grinned widely, the fangs giving his lean face the look of walking death. “Yeah. Sure did. The Master’s going to want to find out more about you two. And now that Roach’s dead, Kobra don’t have a fuckin’ thing to worry about. You!” He glared at the whimpering female vampire. “You’re going before the Master, too! Get yourself up!”
Kobra nudged Palatazin in the ribs with his boot and motioned with the gun. “Man, you must crave pain,” he said softly. “You’re going to get it soon as the Master finds out what you’ve done. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, no way!” He reached down, grasped Palatazin’s shoulder, and hauled him to his feet. Palatazin staggered, so dizzy from loss of blood he was about to pass out. Bright motes of dust seemed to be floating before his face, exploding like multicolored novas. He still felt slimed by the vampire’s kiss, but the wounds on his throat had been cauterized. They were achingly raw, and he could smell the faint charred odor of his own burnt flesh.
“Get the kid,” Kobra said.
Palatazin walked over shakily to where Tommy had curled himself up into a ball on the floor. Tommy’s teeth were chattering; his eyes were dull and glassy. Palatazin figured he might have gone into shock. But then Tommy recognized him and allowed himself to be helped up.
Kobra felt an icy spear of hunger pierce him. He could smell Palatazin’s spilled blood; the delicious odor made him shiver. Double needs twisted through him. He’d always been a death junkie when he was human, and now he needed human blood to stop the mounting pain. But he also knew that the Master would want to see these two humans, would want to find out how they’d gotten into the castle and where they’d come from. He hoped that the Master would reward him for his self-control with these two when the interrogation was done. “Upstairs,” Kobra said. “The Master’s waiting.”
EIGHTEEN
Palatazin was shoved into the council room first. He stopped, frozen with dread and wonder, when he saw the king vampire—a young boy with green cat eyes—sitting atop the table. Prince Vulkan stared at him, betraying neither concern nor surprise. Palatazin heard Tommy’s stunned gasp, and then Kobra shoved Palatazin forward, brought Solange in, and closed the chamber door. “Found these two in the basement,” Kobra said. “They got past Roach, must’ve killed him because the kid had the stick he used to work the dogs with. The man was carrying a packful of stakes, a hammer, the whole fuckin’ number…”
Vulkan’s eyes began to scorch Palatazin’s skull with their intensity, but he didn’t move.
Wes, his heart pounding, slowly rose from the floor. “Solange?” he whispered.
She looked at him through frightened, feral eyes and took a step backward. Kobra’s hand snaked out and clamped around her waist. She tried to cringe away, to turn her head away from Wes, but Kobra laughed and grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her to look at him.
“There’s your lover, baby. Like what you see? Can you see the veins running through his body, the sweet, hot blood flowing like a hundred fountains? That’s life, baby. Your life from now on.”
“Leave her alone!” Wes shrieked. He started to move forward, but Prince Vulkan stopped him with a single glance. He heard the command in his head like a shout about to split his brain: “SIT DOWN.” He had no choice but to obey and, when he had, he began to shake uncontrollably, the tears burning his eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at her again because there was nothing left of Solange anymore.
Palatazin had seen Father Silvera lying on his side near the hearth. He didn’t know how the priest had gotten up here, or why he’d decided to come, but the man looked weak and haggard and…yes, very near death. As they all were. Silvera lifted his head and looked at him, but no recognition flickered in his dazed eyes. His head sank back down, and he lay still like a wounded dog. Palatazin saw the trap clamped around the man’s leg.
Now Prince Vulkan, the king of the vampires that Palatazin had dreaded all his life, uncoiled himself from his sitting position and came across the room, his face caught between black shadow and flickering orange light. Vulkan examined the seared wounds on Palatazin’s throat with an almost clinical interest. Then he lifted his gaze and said, “You know our kind, don’t you? Yes. You do. I see it in your eyes. You know…me. How is that?”
“I know of you,” Palatazin replied, trying hard to keep his voice steady. He was caught between the burning eyes of Kobra and Vulkan, his head filled with fiery torment.
“How?”
“I was…a boy in Krajeck…”
The king vampire’s face was expressionless, a carved thing of flawless white stone. Palatazin could imagine the ancient, dark secrets that lay behind his eyes; they were hideous things, secrets from Satan’s black magic box. “Krajeck,” the vampire said and nodded. “Yes. I remember Krajeck. And you were one of those who escaped.”
“My father didn’t,” Palatazin said softly.
“Your father? His name?”
“Emil Palatazin.”
“So. You came to destroy me because I gave your father the gift of eternal life? I don’t think he’d like that, do you?”
“Where…where is he?”
Prince Vulkan smiled and touched the wounds on Palatazin’s throat. Palatazin jerked his head back. “Don’t you know who you’re in the presence of?” Vulkan whispered, his voice like a cold night breeze through silk curtains. “I’m a king.
The greatest king this world has ever known or ever will know. I can stop time. I can…do magic. I can end all Death. Your father is one of my servants now, in the monastery atop Mount Jaeger. Oh, he’s in good hands. They all are. The Countess sees to that. But time is so cruel to the human kind, so terribly cruel. Here stands a son who is older than the father, who fears Death as an enemy while his father has learned to use it as a friend. And now the son has come to put an end to me.” He grinned and grasped Palatazin’s collar, pulling his face forward. “It’s not to be!” he hissed. “Your kind is slow and stupid and weak! The vampir will win!”
Vulkan suddenly blinked, released Palatazin, and stepped back. There were four now, he realized, just as the Headmaster had warned. An ancient emotion that might have been fear began to crawl within him. Not The Headmaster was wrong! These four couldn’t hurt him!
“Why here?” Palatazin asked him. “Why this city?”
“Why?” Vulkan hissed. He wanted to grab this human and shake him until his neck snapped, but now he feared stepping too near. The Headmaster’s warning was echoing within him; he was confused and couldn’t think. “Because this is the city of youth!” he said. “They worship youth here, in their clothes and cars and dreams! Their youth gives my army eternal strength. I don’t want the old, I don’t want the infirm. Only the ones who can be of use to me! And what better place to conquer than this…young, shining citadel? We’ll live forever, don’t you see that? Never age, never, never, never!”
“Shit,” Wes muttered. “Peter Pan.”
“What?” Vulkan said, staring at him.
“A fucking black-as-sin Peter Pan,” Wes said. “You’re going to fly everybody away to some vampire Never-Never Land. Step right up, sell your souls, and come on in. That’s not the way the world works. That’s not the way it should be.”
“That’s the way it shall be,” Prince Vulkan said softly, stepping menacingly toward Wes.
“Death isn’t an enemy,” Wes said. “It makes things new again, and anything that doesn’t die just…rots and mummifies. Or becomes like you are.”
“Like you will be,” the vampire whispered. “If I choose to let you.”
Wes stood up. He looked across the room at Solange for a few seconds, then back at Prince Vulkan. “Nope,” he said quietly, “I don’t think so.” And then he threw himself at that table, reaching for the ’45. A voice cracked through his head like a whip—“NO, YOU WILL NOT,” and he was flung aside by some intangible, terrible force as his hand closed on the gun. He was thrown to the floor as Prince Vulkan swept forward like a black wind, all claws and teeth, in a whirl of rage.
Wes wheeled around, aimed upward, and fired.
The bullet passed through Prince Vulkan’s chest and struck stone on the opposite wall, spraying sparks past Solange’s head. Wes fired again; there was a metallic crack! and then he felt Prince Vulkan lifting him up by the throat with both hands. The vampire shook him violently. Wes dropped the gun, his eyes bulging from their sockets. Bone cracked. Tommy clutched Palatazin’s arms, trying to hide his eyes from the sight of Wes’s face. Palatazin held him tightly.
Prince Vulkan shrieked and threw Wes to the floor. Wes was trembling like a shattered marionette, his head twisted at a hideous angle. Vulkan began to kick him, each kick breaking another bone. Kobra came forward, his eyes bright with the prospect of death. He whined, “Let me kill him, Master. Let me, let me, please…”
Vulkan kicked Wes again and stepped back. Kobra grinned widely and shot Wes twice in the head from less than three feet away.
Across the room Solange screamed and sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands.
“Now you’re three!” Vulkan said, grinning at Palatazin. “You can’t hurt me! The Headmaster was—” He stopped suddenly, his head cocking to one side. His eyes widened.
Palatazin’s heart thumped. In the distance he could hear the great whine of the storm, slowly—very slowly—winding down like the dying of a huge, infernal engine.
“NO!” Prince Vulkan shouted. He looked at the table and saw the shattered gold urn. Wes’s second bullet had hit it as it passed through the vampire’s stomach.
The funnel of sand had stopped, and where the sand hissed out onto the table it burned with a faint blue flame. Prince Vulkan picked up the urn, his face contorted with rage, and flung it against a wall. It hit a gilt-edged painting before clanging to the floor.
“No!” the vampire shrieked, shaking the rafters with his fury. He overturned the table in a frenzy; the maps fluttered down like dead leaves in a hurricane, and the table shattered, splitting into pieces like a gleaming black mirror. The vampire turned his burning gaze upon Palatazin and Tommy.
“The vampire shall win!” he shouted at them in a voice that cracked from a man’s to a boy’s. “I don’t need the Headmaster anymore! I don’t need his protection, I don’t!” He scooped up maps and flung them at Palatazin. “I’ll have it all, every bit of it!” He looked at Kobra. “Won’t I? SAY IT!”
“Yeah,” Kobra nodded, but now his voice was uncertain. “You will.”
Vulkan swept over to Father Silvera and roughly pulled him to his feet. Silvera bit his lip to hold back a scream. He could feel the cold radiating out of the vampire. “You! Death is so close for you…so close! I can feel it in you now, chewing through your body! I can stop it! I can make you whole if you will serve me!”
Someone knocked at the door. Vulkan called, “Enter!” and two vampires—one a young boy with long blond hair and the other a husky man with curly gray hair—stepped into the room. They glanced around at the wreckage, and Vulkan snapped, “What is it?”
“The trucks, Master,” the boy said. “They’re ready to go down.”
“All right! Go ahead!”
The boy hesitated, glancing at Wes’s corpse and then back to the vampire king.
“Well? What else?”
“Some of the others…are afraid, Master,” the boy said. “They want to know why the…storm’s dying down.”
“Tell them not to fear,” the vampire king said quietly, green embers glowing in his gaze. “Tell them Prince Vulkan is in control. And one other thing—bring back enough to feed everyone in the castle tonight. I want a celebration!” Vulkan released Father Silvera and stepped back from the blazing hearth. “I want a report from the factory as soon as possible. Send a courier. And you, Asher!” The husky vampire looked up fearfully, the golden chains around his neck catching red light. “Those holes are to be filled tonight, do you understand that? I want none of them escaping! Either cut them off or…” He let the alternative hang in the air like a sword suspended by a hair. “Can West supply Central with another thousand?” he asked the younger vampire.
“My sergeants are already moving the Western Division into Marina Del Rey, Master. When we secure that area, Central can have the extra troops.”
“Good. Now go, both of you. And good hunting.” When they’d left the room, Prince Vulkan stared at Palatazin and Tommy for a few seconds, then back at Silvera. “You see?” he said softly. “It’s happening. Street by street, house by house…”
“You’ll be stopped…” Silvera began weakly, trying to keep his weight off his cracked ankle, but then the vampire king’s face pressed toward his, his lip curling with disgust. “By whom?” Vulkan sneered. “By you? By them? By that dead man there on the floor? I think…not. Oh, priest, I can feel the blood roaring through your veins. I can see it! I’m going to have it inside me, warming me like a sweet flame. And tomorrow night you will have forgotten everything and everyone but me.”
Vulkan glanced quickly at Kobra. “The priest is mine. You and the female can have those two.” He motioned toward Palatazin and Tommy. “When you’re finished, take that dead filth and feed him to the dogs. Now, priest, you come with me.” He clamped a hand around Silvera’s arm and pushed him across the room to the door. Silvera, grinding his teeth with the pain, had no choice but to follow. As he passed Palatazin, he recognized the man bu
t only hazily, and as he started to speak, Vulkan opened the chamber door and shoved Silvera through into the corridor. The door closed with a solid, terrible finality.
Instantly Kobra moved in front of it and slid a bolt across to lock it. Palatazin began to back away from him, trying to shield Tommy. From the far corner Solange’s eyes seemed to shine, faintly and malevolently. Kobra grinned and slid his Mauser back into his jacket. He would be happy to take his time now. “Nowhere to go,” he taunted. “Nowhere to run. Ain’t that a shame? You’re gonna live forever, old man. And if you’re realllll good, tomorrow night I might even let you lick my boots clean. How about that?” He started to move forward, his black-gloved hands twisted into claws.
Palatazin and Tommy kept backing away, stepping through a puddle of blood that had seeped from what was left of Wes Richer’s head. “You! Solange!” Kobra said. “You can have the kid. I’m taking old Palatazin.”
Solange rose to her feet. Her gaze was fixed on the corpse, and she walked toward it as if in a dream, one unsteady step after the next.
Palatazin stumbled over the splintered remnants of the council table. One intricately-scrolled black leg stuck up like a bull’s horn; it was almost cracked away so when Palatazin wrenched it with his last wave of ebbing strength, it came loose in his grip, a formidable, two-foot club with one splintered end. Still Kobra came, more cautiously now, sidestepping and feinting, low laughter bubbling in his throat. His eyes bored into Palatazin’s, and Palatazin could feel his nerve being scorched away. His hands were slippery with sweat on the table leg.
Behind Kobra, Solange bent down over the corpse. The scent of the spilled blood, fiery sweet, was driving her mad. She hadn’t drunk enough of Palatazin to warm her, and now she had to drink—she had to—and stop the freezing in her veins. She put her head down into the puddle and lapped at it with closed eyes, like a starved animal. She knew the odor of this one. Memories welled up in her head like iridescent bubbles from a black pool of stagnant water. She thought she was about to wake up from a nightmare in a sun-filled room that smelled of flowers, and when she rolled over in bed, she would put her arms around Wes and press very close to his body. She lifted her head, blood dripping from her lips, and realized she couldn’t see her reflection in the shimmering puddle. There were memories in the blood, and they made her cold, very cold. She touched his head, the familiar tangle of hair on a dead skull. Currents twisted and raged within her, armies battling over a single foot of earth. She was dead. Dead but not dead, not living. Darkly existing. That one had done this to her, the one who now laughed and moved toward the two humans. That one had taken her from light into dark. That one had killed Wes. Not dead. Not living. Not dead. Not. Not She put her hands to her head and screamed.
They Thirst Page 56
