Knightfall: Book Four of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “Can’t you shut them down the same way you turned them on?”

  “Yes, if I just want to stop the bombardment. It’ll take more of the personal touch, I’m afraid, if I want to re-seal them.”

  “Once you figure out how to do that—assuming it can be done—can you shut off the bombardment and seal one of the nexuses remotely? Then you could turn the bombardment back on to keep magi away from the open nexuses while we head for the next underwater one.”

  “Maybe. It depends on how sealing it goes. If the technique is too involved, I’ll have to be on-site for it. My main concern is to keep away any magi being influenced by the Black Ball of Demonic Influence. More regular magi will be more cautious about getting their souls fried by the voltage involved. But I suspect the Evil Orb is somewhere near one of Johann’s nexuses. I don’t think it will want to be far from the centers of power and people it can influence. It’s just a matter of finding it before the military—or the magi—start crawling all over the sites. The psychic awfulness is keeping them away for now.”

  “Hmm. As an alternative, could you shut off the bombardment, gate to an open nexus, seal it, gate back, and resume the bombardment?”

  I stared at her.

  “You know, when I first saw you in an underground rave, you attracted my attention for reasons having nothing to do with your brains.”

  “I know. Dreadful makeup. Good camouflage, though.”

  “And a roguish tendril trying to siphon off some of my energies.”

  “Yes, but the makeup was dreadful.”

  “No argument. But you persist in being smarter than I am.”

  “I have a different perspective than you,” she corrected. “I’m a thief. It’s what I do. I steal things for the fun and for the money. You, on the other hand, are a wizard. You do things with spells—offhandedly, casually, as a matter of course—that make me scratch my head and wonder what you need me for. It makes me a little insecure.”

  “Technically, it makes you feel insecure. You’re completely secure even if you don’t feel like it.”

  “Am I?” she asked. She sounded sincere. I moved over to her and snuggled up to her.

  “Yes. You worry about being useless to me. You’re never useless. You have enormous talents and versatile skills. Even if you really were useless, you’re highly ornamental. So don’t worry about your utility. It all comes down to whether or not I like you—which I do, quite a lot. I’ll even go so far as to say I love you, once in a while, because I think we’re past the ‘I like you a lot’ stage. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She started to say something and visibly changed her mind. I pretended not to notice.

  “Now,” I went on, “if you’d like some insecurity, you can have some of mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “Mine. I’ve got lots.”

  “What do you have to be—or feel—insecure about?”

  “Aside from people and things who want to kill me? Let’s see. I’m slightly crazy because I have a leaky mental basement, a personification of my over-achieving perfectionist nature who wants to be my conscience, a lot of repressed guilt over a bunch of children—in various times and places, and for various reasons—as well as a lingering fear about how I’ve handled everything in my life and an ongoing terror of what is yet to come. I’m uncertain about the future, agonized about the past, and barely managing to cope with the present by a rigorous regimen of distraction and denial. Plus, I’m flippant and whimsical about my personal problems, mental problems, political failings, and parental insufficiency in order to conceal how badly I want to have a quiet breakdown. Which, of course, only points up the fact I desperately need you and I’m terrified you’ll decide I’m no better than the Demon King and leave for parts unknown. How’s that for an off-the-cuff list of insecurities?”

  “It’s… impressive.”

  “Give me a minute. I’m sure I can dredge through my denial and find a few more.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” She rested her chin on my shoulder and squeezed me. “You’re telling me in that flippant manner you mentioned. How serious are you?”

  “I’m as serious as a plutonium kidney stone. I only sound lighthearted.”

  “Like the clowns,” she murmured.

  “Like… what?”

  “I can’t recall where I read it, but there’s something I half-remember. Clowns have smiles and make us laugh, but they really don’t seem funny. It’s because the smiles are all painted on, I think. And because, while we watch them trying to be funny, we all know, somehow, deep inside, their hearts are broken.” She turned my head toward her and removed my disguising sunglasses. “You’re a clown. You leap in and out of the car, through the hoops, fail to juggle most amusingly, all the rest, so people will laugh with you instead of at you.”

  I looked away.

  “Maybe.”

  “You’ve been afraid of something for a long time. What is it? Being a vampire? Losing who you are? Or just outliving everyone you ever cared about?”

  I recalled a time—how long ago? —when I decided to give up being human. I’m not a human being. Not anymore. I’m a blood-drinking monster. Or so I thought. Looking on events since then, I haven’t really held up my end of the deal. I keep caring about people as more than simple pets. I feel responsible for them and to them.

  If I’m such a monster, why do I protect and avenge children? Because it’s part of who I am, that’s why. What does that mean? Am I a monster? I most assuredly am. But how many human beings are monsters?

  “I’m not sure what I’m afraid of,” I admitted, “although your suggestions certainly fill me with no uncertain amount of terror.”

  “Well, then, I’ve given you something important and I’m pleased with that.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. I’ve given you the gift of something to think about. A first question to answer on your never-ending road of self-discovery.”

  “Huh.” I considered it. If I knew what it was I was running from, I could run more effectively. Maybe find a place to hide from it. Or—vaguely possible—I might be able to confront it.

  “Come with me. We need to shower during our change. Then I want you to make love with me all morning.”

  “And afterward?”

  “I plan to be too tired to do anything.”

  “Ah.”

  Tuesday, February 23rd

  Mary wasn’t kidding. I felt sorry for Ludmilla.

  Steve—the houseboy-waiter-whatever—wheeled lunch into the master suite after Mary phoned in the order. Mary was in the shower while I waited on the food. He did a decent job of keeping his expression neutral, but I thought I detect a hint of male camaraderie and congratulations as he left. I didn’t stand on ceremony; I ate and regretted the loss of my sensory-damping device. I really need a new one.

  Mary joined me shortly thereafter, wearing a robe, hair done up in the twisty towel thing women do.

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  “Yes. Did you leave anything for me?”

  I pulled more dishes from the undershelves of the cart and presented them to her. Fresh-caught fish of some sort. Some of the crew enjoy using the deep-sea fishing gear on the yacht. More power to them, I say.

  As we ate, Mary talked around her food.

  “You know, we’re not doing this right.”

  “Eating?” I asked.

  “Having deep, emotional discussions.”

  “How are we not doing it right?”

  “I’m supposed to be in tears and you’re supposed to yell and wave your arms. I think I’m supposed to throw things, too.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s how it works in all the literature.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever read a romance novel. What do you suppose it means?”

  “We’re not human?”

  “Not normal, that’s for sure,” I agreed.

  “If we were normal, would we be here?”

  “I suppose not
. Maybe it’s because we’re older than we look?”

  “Never mention a lady’s age,” she advised.

  “Noted. But why would you be in tears?”

  “Because the thing you said about needing me really struck a nerve.”

  “Like a root canal?”

  “No.”

  “Funny bone?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. I just don’t show it worth a damn.”

  “I am going to shove this celery up your nose.”

  “You don’t want to see the sneeze. How about I ask what you meant about striking a nerve, instead?”

  “Oh. Yes. That.” Mary ate another couple of bites and I did the same. Never pass up an opportunity to eat quickly during a significant discussion. At any moment, you may lose your appetite.

  “Thing is,” Mary said, “I need you.”

  “No, you don’t. You may be the most independent and self-sufficient person I’ve ever known.”

  “Don’t contradict me.”

  “I see you’re armed with celery. I surrender. Please proceed.”

  “I mean it, even if it’s hard to tell from my tone.” She paused to sip some juice. “You know, we’re impressively weird.”

  “I agree, but how do you mean it?”

  “Remember how I said we do this sort of thing all wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shouldn’t we be on a bearskin rug, in front of a fire, cuddled up against the winter chill, having a deep and tear-filled discussion of our feelings?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a leather couch with a bespectacled old man asking, in a German accent, about our mothers. I’m more concerned about my sanity than I used to be.”

  “That’s fair. Still, it strikes me as strange how our… defense mechanisms, I guess… call for us to be so tongue-in-cheek about it all.”

  “Part and parcel with our denial,” I suggested.

  “Could be.”

  “So, what are you denying?”

  “Everything. I’m a professional criminal. It’s a reflex. Unless you want to put me in handcuffs again?”

  “No. Your wrists are bruised as it is.”

  “I’ll get some furry ones.”

  “Fair enough. Go on.”

  “Yes… the whole needing you thing. You’re right, I’m a pretty self-sufficient person. I still have needs, though—and before you make a crack about doing your best to satisfy them, let me get this out.”

  “You keep handing me straight lines,” I complained, “but I’ll try.”

  “I used to belong to a community of undead. I had a whole social structure. I wasn’t at the top, but I wasn’t at the bottom, either. I knew people on a pretty permanent basis, had friends, had a social life, all the security and safety things, as well as the occasional thrill of my hobbies.

  “Now… I’ve seen other worlds. My universe is bigger than I ever dreamed. I’ve also lost all my old friends and my old social structure. I can’t go back. I don’t even dare take the chance someone I know will be glad to see me.”

  “What about the pilot? Begins with an ‘M’…”

  “Martin.”

  “That’s him.”

  “Martin’s mortal. He’s a smuggler, as you probably guessed, and doesn’t know anything about vampires. He probably suspects a little, but he’s also well-paid, tight-lipped, and something of a thrill-seeker himself.”

  “Oh. I thought he was under exclusive contract to the Elders, or something.”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard. He’s an old fighter pilot who got his aeronautical engineering degree, or something. When he’s not flying at unreasonable speeds between mountains, he’s taking planes apart and putting them back together.”

  “I thought… Baby?”

  “He calls it his baby. It’s named the Night Flyer.”

  “I thought it looked a bit of a custom job.”

  “It’s not invisible to radar, but it’s got a very low signature. He says every little bit helps.” She smiled smugly. “I provided him with some electronic modules, once.”

  “From a secret government laboratory, I’ve no doubt.”

  We ate in silence for a bit before Mary resumed her train of thought.

  “Thing is,” she began, “you’re the only person I have. You’re the only one who can… You’re the one man who… I’m not sure how to say this.”

  “No rush. It’s a big lunch, and I don’t plan to go anywhere.”

  “You know how I said I had a social structure, I was a part of it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Everyone has that. A circle of friends, a neighborhood, a city, a nation, a school, something.”

  “Right.”

  “My circle of friends is you. You’re all I have.” She frowned. “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Why not?”

  “It sounds as though I only care about you because you’re the only game in town. Last man on Earth kind of thing.”

  “It didn’t take it that way.”

  “It’s just… see, you matter a lot to me, and not only because you’re… I’m making a hash of this, aren’t I?”

  “You’re trying to put complex thoughts and feelings into words. Sometimes you don’t know what you think or feel until you say it. Try writing me a letter. You can re-read it, change it, tear it up and start over, whatever you want. Or keep talking. We’ll get there eventually.” I pretended to examine a nonexistent wristwatch. She bounced a croissant off my forehead.

  “Look, all I want to say is you’re important to me and I need you, too. I don’t know if it’s the same way you need me, but the need is mutual, okay? Maybe that’s part of why we’re so hesitant to talk about love, because we know we need each other. Need isn’t the same thing as love. And maybe we’re both afraid our feelings will change if we ever discover there are… I don’t know. Other options? I know I didn’t feel thrilled to my core when you started talking about Tort. So I want you to know I know you know… dammit!” Mary clanged her fork off the little dining table and dabbed at her eyes with her napkin.

  “If it matters,” I told her, “I not only need you, but I respect you. I also like you a lot. I’m also firmly convinced you will someday despise me and want to leave me—and that will be long before I even think about feeling that way about you. We’re immortal. I have no doubt you’ll get tired of my face and need to take a century off to have fun without me. And, a century later, when you start to miss me, you’ll be welcome to walk in the door and hang your knife-harness up in the bedroom. Is that fair?”

  “It’s more than fair. It’s remarkably generous and understanding. It’s so tolerant and easygoing it almost makes me think you don’t care where I am.”

  “I only care where you are in the sense of how easy it is it grab you and pin you down on the bed. And the occasional bank robbery, of course. But the most important thing about you is that you even exist. You prove to me the universe isn’t completely out to get me.”

  “I find that very hard to believe.”

  “So do I. Yet there you are.”

  “That’s not what I meant!”

  “But it’s what you prove.”

  “Hand me my fork.”

  “Promise not to stab me with it?” I made along arm and leaned, picking it up and handing it to her.

  “I’ll think it over.”

  “Wipe it off and finish lunch, first.”

  “Probably the best choice. I do want to ask you something, though.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You told me about being the Demon King for a day and establishing Lissette as the Queen…”

  “What brings this up?”

  “Our talk about needing each other, love, and me being your proof that not everything is a conspiracy to annoy you.”

  “Not exactly how I put it, but I get your meaning.”

  “Yes. And all that reminded me of Lissette. You like her.”

  “Yes, I do. Quite a lot. She
has my respect and confidence.”

  “And you went to great lengths to preserve your kingdom under her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it for her, or for the kingdom?”

  “Both, I think. I’ve asked myself—indirectly—that sort of question. I feel responsible for the kingdom, but also sad for Lissette, since she’s stuck running the place.”

  “Fair. And the handoff, when you put her on the throne. You didn’t tell me much about it, aside from the fact you put on your Demon King hat and performed the handoff. I get the impression something about it bothered you. Was it just pretending to be the Demon King?”

  “No. I could stand that. There were other things, too—and I’m not ready to talk about those, yet. Maybe in a week, maybe in a year… maybe never. But if and when, we’ll discuss it when you don’t have any vegetables handy.”

  “I’ll improvise,” Mary warned.

  “How about we try for the bearskin rug and the fireplace? Firebrand would be happy to lurk there instead of listening to us patter on about feelings and other suchlike dreckola.”

  I’d enjoy a nice fireplace right now, Boss. I’m developing a headache, I think.

  “You’re what?”

  I have a sort of throbbing pain. It’s been going on for a while, Boss.

  “As we get farther from the land-based nexuses, it should lighten up. I’m surprised you even noticed.”

  Yeah, well, I think you may have overdone it a little bit.

  “I’ve had that very thought. I’ll start toning it down when we get to the nexus in the Bahamas.”

  In the meantime, is there anything you can do for me?

  “If Mary will excuse me, I’ll take you down to Bronze and work some defensive magic for you both.”

  “Go deal with your metallic friends,” Mary advised. “I’ll finish your lunch.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  Bronze had no complaints about the distant rumble. She knew it was there, but it didn’t bother her. Firebrand had some comments about that, which Bronze ignored with dignity.