I never should have left you there, he thought. Thoughts of Danica filled him, her voice, her touch, the feel of her in his arms. He remembered their bodies pressed together, recalled looking into her eyes. I’ll see you again, he thought. I have to.
Until they’d finally thrown aside their fears and realized what they felt for each other – first in Rimefang Loch, and later in Nezzek’duul – Cross had never been whole, even if he hadn’t known it at the time. All his life he’d drifted, moving towards a distant shore, never fully realizing just how alone he really was. Only looking back did he realize how desolate he’d been, how hollow, and when he and Danica had finally spent that first night together they’d melted into one another, joined spirit and body in a way he’d never thought possible. He’d realized then how he never wanted to be without her.
And yet here I am, he thought bitterly. Wulf was watching his every move – he had no doubt the bastard had his Reza witches scrying him right then and there with some reconnaissance Soulrazor/Avenger was incapable of counteracting – and if he so much as acted suspicious that could be the end of Danica’s life. I have to figure a way out of this. But if it came down to a choice of keeping Danica alive versus doing something horrible to keep Wulf happy, Cross knew that wasn’t really a choice at all.
He sat with his back against the wall. Grime and soot had caked to his skin, the by-product of Night’s foul air, and the wind cut like a razor through the broken brick walls and sandstone towers. Cross breathed into his hands. Fear clawed at his insides, and it took everything he had to steady himself. His chest rattled like he’d drawn an icy breath.
Keep it together. You can’t afford to make any mistakes now.
Even though he’d done everything Wulf had asked Cross was constantly on edge. Tension knotted in his back with such force he felt sure it would rip through the skin. The things they’d made him do... even if Wulf didn’t seem to fully grasp the significance of the swords his Raza advisers had made clear how vital it was they keep the blades intact.
It’s a key, Cross had heard them tell Wulf, when they’d either been oblivious to his presence or else hadn’t considered his hearing them a threat. But a key to what?
For the most part Hasker had busied Cross with clean-up duty, eliminating people who’d been exposed to zombie viruses. When he wasn’t doing that he was largely ignored or placed on guard duty, sometimes sequestered to work with the Raza deciphering encoded vampire texts or solving arcane algorithms they’d uncovered in the territories they’d conquered, since they knew of his eidetic memory and his ability to retain facts and calculations. Sometimes Cross had trouble remembering what he’d eaten for breakfast that morning, but he could recall a hex code or thaumaturgic formula he’d read years ago without missing a beat.
It was what he hadn’t been able to do that maddened him the most. He’d watched city blocks full of people wiped out, sacrificed to defeat the invading vampire hordes, and he’d seen uncooperative towns, settlements and refugee camps put to the torch. The fact that the Coalition had recently halted expansion was the only reason more people hadn’t been slaughtered, and Wulf had reigned in his drive to conquer only because he’d essentially run out of lands that didn’t belong to someone he couldn’t easily defeat. The Coalition controlled everything east of what used to be Dusk and south of Ath, with the exception of those territories Wulf had handed over to the undead of New Koth, including Kalakkaii and Black Scar.
Now the Coalition was busy solidifying their territories and preparing for the inevitable conflict against the Ebon Kingdoms. It had already begun, but it was only about to get worse. The vampires were amassing forces along their eastern borders, and concentrated attacks had been launched against the ruins of Ath and the free city-state of Meldoar.
And now Bloodhollow. I have to get word to Danica.
It would have helped to have more information, but no one, not even the Raza or the vampires Cross had been forced to help interrogate, seemed to have any indication as to why the underground city was so important. Rumor had it the prophetic Lith had seen signs indicating that whoever controlled Bloodhollow would be able to turn the tide of the war, and while Cross had encountered little hard evidence everyone from the Coalition to the upper echelon of the Grim Father’s personal vampire advisers seemed convinced it was true.
But no one seemed to know exactly why. For all he knew it was a trick, a ruse created by one side or the other to lure their enemy into a trap...but Cross didn’t think so. Too many spirits whispered the truth of that place, and though he’d never heard of it before he imagined that was because of the re-constructed reality he and the team had been shielded from in Nezzek’duul.
If the information they’d gathered from the latest vampire was accurate, the Ebon Kingdoms were making a push to reach Bloodhollow that very moment, and Cross guessed Wulf had committed resources, as well, and would be committing more before all was said and done. He wondered if New Koth or Meldoar would get involved.
This will get messy. If the Coalition deployed troops to Bloodhollow’s rumored location they’d have to move on Meldoar, which would very likely trigger a full-scale conflict. Wulf’s forces had the advantage of sheer numbers and their powerful military technology, but the Gol had the Doj of Ath on their side, as well as highly advanced thaumaturgy, decades of magical research and bio-arcane weaponry they’d developed for Thornn. Fane might have once been the center of industrial weapons production for the Southern Claw, but the majority of the arcane research had taken place in Meldoar, and they’d rightfully guarded their secrets with their lives.
If those two get into it, the Suckheads will move right in and mop up the mess. The world was an open can of gasoline, just waiting for someone to drop the match.
“Cross.”
He jumped at the sound of the Raza’s voice, the same one who’d help capture him. The cold-eyed woman was pale and slight, with her signature white-grey robes and alabaster skin. She floated inches over the ground, just inside the doorway which led to the rest of the ruined building. He didn’t know her name – he wasn’t even sure if she had a name. He’d once had teammates, Kyver and Tayanna, who’d left the order and reclaimed their lives, and they’d explained it had been the nature of the Raza to wipe individual identity away.
“Jesus,” he said.
“Not exactly,” the Raza replied.
“What do you want?”
“Hasker wants to see you.”
“He knows where I am,” Cross said. “Tell him to come see me himself.”
“Are you sure that’s the message you want me to take back to him?” she asked with acid pleasantness. Cross watched her, those black eyes, that gelid flesh. She was practically a vampire herself, at least by appearances, and based on the things he’d seen the Raza do they were in many ways much worse. Human organizations like they, the Crimson Triangle and the Revengers embodied everything that had gone wrong with humanity After the Black. The vampires were utterly inhuman, driven by a need to destroy, to annihilate – humans had no excuse.
“No,” Cross said. He wasn’t afraid of Hasker, not really, but he wasn’t afraid of Wulf, either. He was afraid of what they could do to Danica.
They’ve got me firmly by the balls, and they know it.
The Raza led him out of the building and onto Night’s soiled streets. Drifts of ebon fog caged the area, and within a few minutes the once seemingly endless sky was completely enshrouded by drifts of carbon cloud. The air tasted of sulfur and blood. Night’s roads were covered with rubble, smashed glass and broken shards of wood. Fires burned inside those buildings left unaffected by the recent attack, and even the unscathed areas of town seemed particularly dark and quiet, keeping still as if afraid of being discovered. There was little sound save for the grind of military vehicles, little motion but that of soldiers and mercenaries on patrol. He heard Troj in the distance, battling each other in ridiculous displays of brutality, their capacity for violence pronounced by the fact
that they could regenerate almost any injury.
They passed open camps and hollow homes; frightened faces peered out into the dark. Night’s people had become creatures of the shadows, terrified to venture out for fear of Wulf’s retribution. Cross felt a chill run up his spine. He hated seeing them like this, hated seeing anyone live under the yoke of another.
I have to kill the bastard. If only it were that simple.
The Raza left him at the foot of a tall set of stone steps leading up to an open courtyard atop a low hill, in front of the remains of a once-exquisite manor. War and time had torn away much of the facade, leaving a crumbling stone and iron structure stained with soot and powder burns. Red flames in sconces lined the winding stairway, grim rows of funeral flames lighting the way to the raucous party up above. Cross climbed the steps slowly, Soulrazor/Avenger slung across his back, his dark armor stained with blood and necrotic remains, his sweat staining his face. He was so tired – every muscle ached like he’d been twisted inside out, and a knot of stiffness was lodged in his neck and back like he’d been nailed to a post.
There was laughter up above, and he heard the crackling sound of an arcane gramophone splaying something like old show tunes. The music was tinny and distant and entirely at odds with the somber and grim-faced mercenaries drinking on the terrace, stoic and humorless men in mismatched armor and second-hand weapons, their eyes locked on the dead sky, their hands on their drinks or the scantily clad whores who traipsed around, drugged up and unaware of what they were doing. The girls dressed like gypsies, old world Eastern European peasant’s clothing hanging loose off their voluptuous bodies, long skirts cut up the sides to reveal legs addled with track marks and bruised veins.
Hasker was at the center of it all, short and slim, bald and severe, too thin to be a warrior but far too death-like to be anything else. He didn’t drink, didn’t smile, just stood at the edge of the stone terrace and stared out over the city.
Cross walked up to him.
“Yeah?” he asked brusquely.
Hasker snickered.
“Who do you think you’re impressing with this act?”
“I’m fairly impressed,” he said. “But I’m easy to please.” The clouds and smoke were so thick they couldn’t see more than a few city blocks away. Night had been built atop a sloped and unstable hill, the roads twisted to match its unorthodox topography, the buildings alternating in height to accommodate for the uneven ground.
“I don’t find you funny,” Hasker said, still not looking at Cross.
“That’s too bad, because I think you’re hilarious.”
“Good,” Hasker said. “Then you’ll find this particularly amusing. General Wulf is dispatching an advanced force to head to Bloodhollow. The information you acquired from the vampire confirms other reports we’ve already received of the city’s whereabouts. You’re to accompany me and my unit.”
Shit, Cross thought. Wulf wasn’t screwing around – he was deploying his most formidable warriors. Hasker’s unit, The Bloody Teeth, had a bad reputation in an army built on bad reputations. Cross had dreams of making Hasker pay for some of the things he’d seen those men do. Their cruelty knew no bounds: they weren’t soldiers, just sadists with guns.
“No quip?” Hasker asked. “No snappy comeback.”
“I just learned I have to go traipsing into a war zone and sleep under a tent with you,” Cross said. “Not much needs to be added.”
Possibilities raced through his mind. They’d be going near Meldoar, which meant maybe he could figure out a way to get word to Danica. Maybe there was a chance, however slim, that he’d figure a way out his situation without getting her killed.
“Get some rest,” Hasker said. “We leave at first light.”
Cross walked away without a word. His breath caught in his chest. He should have felt a spark of hope, but he was more frightened than ever.
ELEVEN
FORGOTTEN
Year 35 A.B. (After the Black)
10 A.S.C. (After Southern Claw)
Vehicles sputtered across the broken wilderness, four armored dune buggies and one small airship they’d purchased off a black market dealer in Blacksand. Shiv remembered strongly disliking the man, but the vehicle had proved useful, and with their limited resources the White Children needed all of the help they could get.
She rode with Ione, another witch, in one of the dune buggies. Normally Mace insisted she fly, claiming it was safer, but Shiv was sick of flying. She’d never liked it much to begin with – she’d always felt more comfortable closer to earth.
The landscape was blunt and ugly and full of clouds of smoke and gas. Her breathing filter tightly hugged her face and she swore the goggles were just tight enough that they seemed to be slowly crushing her skull.
She spied empty settlements in the distance. Abandoned vehicles littered the desert like shells on a shore. The sky was clear and cold, while the land was brown and dead. They drove fast across the region east of the ruins of Ath and north of the Nightblood River, careful to keep to the shallow valleys and only moving during the daylight in the hopes of avoiding vampire patrols. They were just inside the Ebon Kingdoms borders but far enough from the outposts they could elude notice, at least for a time.
The air was full with dead wind and mongrel smells. Shiv focused, tried to keep the voices of the forgotten at bay. They hounded her, screamed for her, their sundered souls tied to the landscape like tethered animals. The smell and touch of those unquiet spirits spilled in towards her, smeared her consciousness. It took all of her concentration to block them out.
I wish this would get easier. It wasn’t – it was getting harder. The older she got the more difficult it became, and like a warlock she feared eventually her own so-called gift would destroy her.
“You okay?” Ione asked. The Mexican woman’s arms were painted in vivid tribal tattoos, a conglomerate of collapsing blades and female angels strewn together by barbed wire. Her eyes were soft green like the lights on the console, and more than once Shiv wondered how many hearts she’d broken, for she was a truly beautiful creature.
“Yes,” Shiv said, not caring how much her voice sounded like she was lying, because she was. “I’m fine.”
Ione gave her a look, but said nothing more.
The procession raised dust as they traveled across the desert. Spined bushes and fractured trees rattled and fell. The region grew more stark with each passing mile, a flat vista of oily red and white like snow stained with blood and ashes mounded high. They spied lines of towers, abandoned crenelations and forlorn strongholds long cleared of any occupants. Blasted fields of rock and toppled monuments marked where civilization had once stood, but now the area smelled of burning metal and old tar.
They drove on, not stopping, their purpose set. It was ironic that the entrance to Bloodhollow lie so close to Crucifix Point, that symbol of humankind’s failure to defend itself, and a testament to the vampire’s increased aggression. No one had visited the site for several years even before the war had ended but numerous disturbances had originated from the region, spectral anomalies and random vanishings, unexplained time gaps and dimensional folds. There were plenty of places that were equally unstable, especially in the south along the Ebon Coast, but that was to be expected in a world that had been ripped inside out and thrown back together with pieces of others, a patchwork assembly of random landscapes and ruined cities, sundered civilizations and ransacked realities. Things vanished in those caustic zones, people and places, even time. Caravans disappeared and were never seen again, but they didn’t go missing so much as they were erased, torn form reality and cast off so deep into the void between worlds it was as if they’d barely existed in the first place.
Shiv felt herself fading. For the first fifty miles her brain had rattled in her skull from the repetitive motion of the dune buggy and her back and butt were sore. Gyver and Cask rode behind her and Ione, but no one really spoke except to ask for food or water. They hadn’t had a
pit stop in some time, but likely wouldn’t be resting for another hour.
She kept herself alert even though she felt like she drifted half in a dream. Everything she saw seemed drug out, like they left trails. She focused so much of her mind on keeping those wastelands spirits at bay she only dimly registered anything else. Dead trees seemed to walk, the blasted plains bled into one another. Hills chattered like teeth.
The further south they traveled the stronger the stench of the dead. After another hour, right when the convoy was prepared to stop, they came across the bodies.
Fields of them, scores, but not organized, not neat. Corpses thrown together, piles and flames, limbs and innards splayed and left to freeze in the ashen snow that fell from some unseen fire in the grey heavens. Lines of char linked those mounds of cadavers, and craters had been filled with wrecked airships and shards of vehicles. Thick plumes of green-grey smoke pillared into the heavens and vanished before an onslaught of moldered wind. The plains went on and on, no border and no end. The horizon was a vague slash of black.
They didn’t stop. No one wanted to halt the vehicles while they traveled between those mounds of bodies. They’d reach Pyramid Station by nightfall to refuel and gather supplies; Shiv wouldn’t be surprised if Mace insisted they wait until they reached the station to rest.
The dead were fighters, mostly, Southern Claw corpses a decade old that had yet to fully decompose, likely preserved by some necrotic mist that allowed them to be more easily harvested for the ranks of the undead. The dune buggies navigated around flesh piles and corpse dioramas.
Shiv couldn’t focus: there were too many voices. These bodies hadn’t been reanimated yet so their spirits lingered, trapped in this charnel field and clinging desperately to the ruined shells they’d once been tied to. She should have said something, anything, begged the convoy to carry on faster or told those spirits to leave her in peace, but she couldn’t voice her fears, couldn’t speak. No one knew to worry about her because no one knew she had this problem.
Vampire Down (Blood Skies, Book 7) Page 16
