Ghosts of Atlantis (Immortal Montero Book 3)

by Greg Mongrain

  “You are Aliena’s man, aren’t you?” Pinkie asked in Russian, her mouth a crimson scythe against the whiteness of her face.

  “Sebastian Montero,” I replied, inclining my head politely. My heartbeat slowed a bit. If they knew who I was, they knew not to attack me. “Priyatno Poznakomit'sya.”

  “Is it true immortal blood tastes like honey?” asked the twin to my right.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, smiling at each girl in turn, “I did not catch your names.”

  Pinkie grabbed my jaw painfully tight and shook my head, her skin as chill as a coroner’s gurney. Her brown eyes sparkled with unholy mirth. “Such a bold man,” she said, releasing me, “to walk to our gathering unescorted.”

  I had a permit to carry concealed and packed a Beretta 92, but I never bothered to reach for the stick. Even if I could get it out, the weapon would be as useless as a crucifix.

  “You know who I am,” I said. “The rules say you can’t harm me.”

  “There’s an old Russian saying about rules,” the twin to my right replied.

  Her sister ran a fingernail along the side of my neck. “You have a firm, masculine throat.” Seductive and low, she tried to tempt me into an invitation, her voice a siren’s song.

  Shaking my head slowly, I refused. With all three of them surrounding me, their combined presence had a profoundly erotic effect, hammering at my senses.

  “You could feed us all,” Pinkie said. “My name is Natasha.” She had apparently painted on her black knee-length silk sheath. “This is Ingrid,” she said, gesturing to the blonde on my right, “and this is Lara.”

  I realized their dresses really were painted on them as the twins pressed their bodies against me.

  “Hi, Sebastian,” Ingrid said with a tremor. “We promise to be gentle, so gentle and soft.” A chill, squishy hip pressed against mine. Ingrid’s hand pushed up the sleeve of my coat, long nails gliding over the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist.

  “Sooooo gentle,” Lara cooed in my ear. Tapping fingers traveled my waist. “And we’ll take turns, we won’t attack you—I mean, drink you—all together.”

  Working to clear my head of the darkly sensual visions their voices and physical proximity conjured, I managed to say, “As much as I would love to accommodate you, ladies, I am dating Aliena, and I know she would be unhappy to learn that I had shared myself with another woman or three.”

  Natasha’s smile disappeared, eyes blazed. She flicked her fingernail across my jugular and, in a flashing cobra strike, licked the blood off my neck before the wound healed.

  “That hurt,” I said, keeping my voice calm. I was anything but. These three could do what they wanted with me. Only sunlight can kill a vampire. Dawn loomed many hours away, leaving me devoid of defensive options. If the women decided to become rough, this could turn into a bad mistake on my part.

  Having said that, I feel compelled to admit: slowly losing consciousness from blood depletion did not cause one pain after the initial bite. And when the last physical sensations a man will ever have are those of three gorgeous, painted women pressed against him, moaning his name, death by vampire bite a la ménage à quatre probably wouldn’t strike a member of the Inquisition as an unpleasant way to shuffle off this mortal coil. In fact, if the women didn’t kill, the experience wouldn’t have a downside. Many people (principally long-deceased enemies) would argue my death required horror of biblical proportions, not such a sensuous slide into the big sleep.

  “Delicious,” Natasha purred. “I had heard immortal blood was rich, but I never knew it could be so luscious.”

  Now that Natasha had put the scent of my blood on the air, the three of them clawed at me as if mad with hunger. Lara’s hand tightened in my hair, bending my head back. “Oooh, you smell so good. My turn for a taste.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, her pale, lupine face, with distended jaw and red eyes, approached. The odor of baked metal wafted into my face.

  The three of them snickered, an obscene cackle in the silent woods.

  Ingrid lifted my hand, shoved my shirt and jacket sleeves up, exposing the inside of my wrist. “Let’s see how much he has in him tonight.”

  Aliena fed on me regularly and could drink enough of my blood to cause unconsciousness. If Natasha, Ingrid, and Lara decided to drink their fill of me, I did not know if my internal engine could compensate for such a draining.

  I thrashed now, and tried to get my hand in Ingrid’s hair.

  “I love when they struggle,” Natasha whispered, clamping one hand on my shoulder and the other across my mouth. “Hold his hair tight, Lara. You take the left, I’ll take the right.”

  Lara dragged my head back until I was staring through a screen of branches, noting Orion in his usual pose, wondering if I my next stop was Infinity where I might finally see him bring down that club.

  As if on cue, they struck simultaneously. My muffled grunt of agony warmed the hand over my mouth.

  When the new voice spoke, it sounded unreal.

  “This is hardly the way to introduce yourselves to the City of Angels, ladies,” Marcus said in beautifully accented Russian.

  The claw in my hair vanished. My forearm was once again shirted and jacketed. The Russian women no longer crowded me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Aliena said in a voice pulled from the last ice age.

  “We wanted to see his teeth,” Natasha replied. “If he’s immortal, he shouldn’t have any dental work.”

  The newcomers glided over. Aliena took my arm. The warmth of her flesh radiated through my clothes, a sign she had dined recently. She stood five-seven and had curves a suit of armor couldn’t hide, with a wicked waist-to-hip ratio punctuated by an indecently bounteous gluteus maximus.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “I’m fine.” After a brief, itching burn, my wounds had healed.

  “Sebastian,” Marcus said. He gave a small nod, which I returned.

  My heart rate returned to normal. Not too many things could raise my blood pressure. Being attacked by three vampires was one of them.

  “Well, ladies,” Marcus continued, “what is your explanation for this behavior?”

  “We were playing with him,” Natasha said.

  “It looked as if you were preparing to dine on him,” Marcus commented in a voice as dry as Tutankhamun’s wrappings.

  “We only wanted a taste.”

  “You know better than to attack a sponsored human.”

  “Marcus,” Lara said, “we only wanted to taste him.”

  “Did Sebastian give you permission?”

  The three remained silent.

  “You know the rules,” Marcus said.

  While Natasha and Aliena eyeballed each other, the twins continued to stare at me. “Nice to have met you, Mr. Montero,” Ingrid said in Russian.

  “The feeling is not mutual, madam,” I replied in English.

  Chapter 3

  Friday, February 13, 9:24 p.m.

  The three interlopers strolled toward the firelight.

  Aliena watched them. “Trampires,” she said. She continued to frown at the Russian girls.

  I blew on her cheek. She turned dark brown eyes on me, her face framed by tousled golden hair. The mole above her upper lip enticed, her beauty this close still staggering after more than a century.

  “Remember what I said about vacationing at my vineyards in Spain?” I asked. “You’ll love Tarragona. The pace of life, the beauty of the warm seaside nights. Very soothing.”

  “And so few vampires,” Marcus said. “You’re an immortal man, Sebastian. That makes you a prize, especially for the women.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” Aliena said. She squeezed my arm. “I would love to vacation with you in your Spanish estate,” she whispered, kissing me on the ear.

  “How about tonight?”

  With Marcus in the lead, we hiked over soggy sagebrush, and passed through a wide stone tunnel, the tall walls streaked with o
chre and rust.

  As we emerged into the secluded glen, the surrounding knots of people turned toward us. Many pairs of fangs were bared in my direction—my usual reception. They all knew who I was and had been able to smell me long before my arrival. My Slavic welcoming party watched us covertly.

  The clearing formed a rough triangle, bordered by tall oak and sycamore, with fires burning in the dozen stone pits spaced around the sides. At the tip of the triangle stood a tall polished wooden box, shaped like a coffin standing on end. Intricate carvings covered the burnished black wood. Two doors formed the front, opening outward, exposing the inside of the chest. Blistered and scarred, the interior had clearly undergone terrific heat. One of the doors had a heart-shaped opening. Golden hoops lay in the grass, encircling the box.

  People stood in small groups, about a hundred in all, talking in low voices, like a crowd of moviegoers waiting for the box office to open.

  I recognized most of the faces from my visits to the vampire club 49, including Carl, the black-leather-clad young man who usually sat to my right at ringside. I nodded at him and he gave me a lupine leer, dull red spots glowing behind his Ray-Bans. Always cordial.

  Marcus walked to the center of the clearing and stopped near a stone pillar about a meter high. An object sat atop it, covered by a velvet drop cloth. Five vampires in monastic robes stood around the column like an honor guard. One of them wore crimson robes, the other four brown.

  Marcus took one of the brown robes by the elbow and turned him away from the others, speaking in a low voice. The monk pushed back his cowl.

  Darius Spellman.

  Aliena and I stood next to one of the twinkling stone pits. I put my arm around her and pulled her curvy body close. Soft, sparkling firelight danced across her glowing features. I kissed her ear.

  To say I met Aliena one night is to say the coq au vin met the connoisseur of an evening. On that first encounter in Paris, before I knew she was there, she had lifted me off the ground like the bag of blood we all are, deposited me on the snow-covered roof of the nearest building, and proceeded to siphon off five pints of the best. Only the robustness of my immortal engine thwarted her attempt to put me among the dearly departed.

  The incident was not without its moral, however. It was my first encounter with one of these night demons, and she had drained me to the edge of consciousness. By herself. These days, whenever we attend a gathering containing hundreds of vampires, I have natural reservations. And though I am a curious man, I had no urge to test my ability to feed many diners at once.

  Ancient protocol forbad them from attacking me as long as I had a sponsor. At least, that was the rule. My introduction to Natasha and her friends tonight was an excellent example of what rules are made to be.

  Most of the time, I encountered vampires en masse only at their infernal club 49, where they served up lurid entertainment. Raucous fun always filled the vampire club, a stark contrast to the somber mood permeating this shadowed glade.

  Marcus returned to us, bringing Darius with him.

  “Ah, Mr. Montero, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Darius said, holding out his hand.

  Marcus introduced us. “Sebastian, Darius.”

  “A privilege,” I said. I could not help but flick my gaze at a new scar on his cheek. I had assumed he had received the other two while still mortal. But this mark looked the same, and it wasn’t healing either.

  “Who are those men?” Aliena asked Darius, indicating the other monks.

  “We are the Guardians of the Apollo Ring. The high priest in the red robes will be conducting tonight’s ceremony.”

  “What is the Apollo Ring?” Aliena asked.

  Darius glanced at Marcus, who turned expressionless eyes on me. I knew the ancient vampire did not want me here or, at least, party to this conversation. It was on the tip of my tongue to apologize, but I kept my expression bland. Several long moments passed before he answered her.

  “The ring is a treasured possession with rare properties.”

  “Why did you bring it tonight?” I asked.

  “For an execution.”

  Startled, I said, “I thought you executed people at 49.”

  “Forty-nine is for human sport. Tonight, we are executing one of our own.”

  “How are you going to execute him out here, at night? I thought only sunlight could kill a vampire.”

  “The Apollo Ring fires bolts of solar plasma.”

  “Solar plasma?”

  “Yes.”

  “As in, ‘plasma from a star’?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “We don’t know all the details,” Marcus said, “but we believe advanced technology powers the ring, not magic.”

  “Dear me,” said a voice filled with naughtiness. A stunning woman with auburn hair and twinkling green eyes sashayed up to us wearing a curve-hugging black dress. “You men are looking very handsome. Sebastian, you look tastier every time I see you.”

  With Aliena at my side, I knew better than to return the compliment. “Nice to see you, Rachella,” I replied.

  “Hi, Aliena.”

  “Hello.”

  Standing close to the two of them when they exchanged greetings exposed me to arctic breezes.

  Rachella had made it quite clear that if I ever decided to leave Aliena, she would happily be my girl—and she had said it in front of Aliena. In private, she had offered me her body whether I left Aliena or not—as long as I gave her a drink of my immortal blood. Though Rachella’s temptations tantalized, I had politely refused her numerous advances.

  “May I know why you are executing this person?” I asked.

  Darius said, “She has killed two vampires.”

  “Why did she do that?”

  “We believe Carmen has succumbed to longevity madness,” Marcus answered.

  Darius turned to him, frowning.

  “And you believe her madness is now dangerous?” I asked.

  “With two vampires dead,” Marcus said, “and witnesses seeing her at the home of the second victim, we no longer believe we can reason with her. We sent someone she trusted to ask her to come in on her own so we could talk to her. She refused, flying off at high speed.”

  Vampires had few social rules. The right to absolute solitude topped that short list. Very few night-biters formed lasting friendships. (Many vampire philosophers believed this emotional lack was an evolutionary adaptation, born of the necessity for vampires to distance themselves from the human group upon which they now had to feed.) That Marcus had sent someone to intrude on the woman’s privacy indicated the seriousness of her crimes more than anything else.

  “How did the victims die?” I asked.

  Darius said, “They were burned to ashes.”

  “How could she burn up a vampire?”

  “I don’t know,” Darius answered.

  “I still can’t believe we have to do this,” Rachella said.

  Darius touched her briefly on the shoulder. “I am sorry.” He nodded to Aliena and me, returned to his fellow acolytes.

  The explanation of longevity madness didn’t sound quite right. Couldn’t they handle a single woman? Vampires were not insensitive to the needs of individuals within the group. Since Carmen’s crimes were the result of a condition she couldn’t control, execution seemed unreasonably drastic.

  Holding Aliena close, I glanced around the glade. Darius approached a woman in a long cloak and began speaking to her. He was still talking when she abruptly turned and walked away. He took a step as if to follow, apparently decided against it. He watched her for several moments before returning to the other monks.

  The woman glided to the edge of the clearing. She had nearly melted into the dark fringe when she turned, her pale oval face barely visible in the flickering firelight. Chinese, I thought.

  Everyone looked up as a commotion shook the trees overhead. A writhing group crashed through the upper boughs. Three vampires descended, two men grippi
ng a woman who struggled mightily against them. Fangs and claws were extended, all of them biting and scratching, their wounds opening and closing.

  Three of the acolytes flew up and slammed into the woman, one of them grabbing her hair and pulling her head back.

  When they hit the soft earth, Carmen screamed.

  “Let me go! Please! I didn’t do any—”

  One of the monks reached down, scooped at the ground with sharp nails, and came up with a handful of earth. “Shut your face,” he said, shoving the large clod of dirt into her mouth.

  The woman to whom Darius had been talking edged nearer the Russian women.

  The five men dragged the berserk prisoner to the tall cabinet, secured her inside. The heart-shaped opening shone along its edges. The four golden hoops that lay on the ground glowed, then slid slowly up the wood, sealing the chest at intervals. After the third locked in place above chest-level, the fourth continued climbing, its surface shimmering with heat.

  Carmen spit out the dirt. With blackened teeth, she continued pleading with the assemblage.

  “Wait! It wasn’t me!” She turned to her right. “PLEASE!” she screamed. “TELL THEM!”

  I followed her gaze. She was looking at the group that contained the Russian women.

  Carmen must have felt the rising heat of the last band, because her eyes snapped down in terror. The final golden circle rose slowly over her chin, hovered over her lips, then tightened onto her head, burning a groove around her jaw, searing off the lobes of her ears. The bottom half of her long hair fell away, spilling over the back edge of the casket. Silent agony bulged her eyes, bringing forth a sympathetic buzz from the spectators.

  The head priest stepped up to the pillar, his hands steepled in front of him. His murmurs were the only sound now, a low chant. He pulled back his hood, exposing a bald head with shiny, scarred skin. His hands, covered with small pustules, turned aside the velvet drape.

  A square gold container lay beneath it, the size and shape of a cigar case. Jewels encrusted the outside. The monk lifted the lid, exposing a signet ring with a blazing white diamond at its center. Humming, he picked up the bauble, turned toward Aliena and me.