Vampires Don't Sparkle: Deathless Book 3

by Chris Fox

  Trevor did so, unsurprised that he recognized the path Anubis led him down. They wound through many corridors, arriving at a familiar room, one Trevor had used often in Blair’s Ark.

  It was a spacious chamber, with an enormous ring in the center. The ring was set about two inches above the rest of the floor, black stone with a gold trim just like in the Ark of the Redwood. Trevor had used it many times for training bouts against his sister. Liz had almost always kicked his ass, though he’d definitely improved through the experience.

  “Who’s that?” Trevor asked, nodding at a pale-faced deathless that knelt next to the edge of the ring. It was a man of perhaps sixty, or had been before he died and risen as a deathless. Now, alert grey eyes sized up Trevor from a rotting face as he approached.

  “I am Abdul Azked Akbar,” the man said, his voice hollow and raspy. He rose slowly to his feet, and Trevor noticed a scimitar belted at his waist.

  “Is this guy going to teach me the basics?” Trevor asked, turning to Anubis. The jackal watched him impassively.

  “In a way,” Anubis growled, blurring across the chamber so quickly Trevor couldn’t track the movement. The jackal reappeared next to Abdul, his fan-bladed weapon scything through the man’s spine with alarming ease. The man’s broken body collapsed to the stone, his eyes now dull and lifeless. “Abdul was barely more than a nascent deathless, but he retains something you are in grave need of. Knowledge. He spent a lifetime learning the sword, though I gather such knowledge was deemed of little use in this age.”

  “You want me to eat him,” Trevor said. It wasn’t a question, because he already knew the answer. He’d feasted on zombies before, but never one that could speak. It smacked of cannibalism. “And if I refuse?”

  “Refuse?” Anubis asked, kicking Abdul’s body to the ground outside the ring, near Trevor’s feet. “Why would you do such a thing? If you wish to survive, you require this knowledge. We don’t have years for you to learn to wield a blade. You must gain that knowledge swiftly, and this is the only way for that to occur.”

  Anubis speaks wisely, my host. If you do not accept this gift he will think you weak. He will be right.

  Trevor hesitated, staring down at the corpse at his feet. Somehow this was crossing a line he knew he couldn’t uncross, though he couldn’t find any logical fault with feeding on a corpse specifically to gain memories. He’d done that, back in Panama, when he’d devoured a man’s mind to learn how to pilot an aircraft.

  He knelt swiftly, embracing the decision. Abdul’s body was nothing more than matter now, and feasting on it was no different than a normal human eating a steak.

  Trevor began to feed. It was quick, grisly work. Before long, a torrent of memories flooded his mind. A young man on the streets of Cairo, born in a time when survival meant quick work with a knife. That man had been adopted by a beduin, the last of a breed that still valued the sword. Decades passed, and with them Abdul’s mastery increased. He trained dozens of students, some idly, others going on to become masters in their own right.

  The knowledge of sword forms seeped into Trevor, first into his mind, and then into his body as muscle memory. Fascinating, but terrible. Part of Trevor cried out at the crime of it, but mostly he was grateful for the knowledge he gained. Only through strength could he ever hope to escape Ra’s court.

  “I am a blade master,” Trevor said, rising to his feet. He whipped his weapon from its scabbard, twirling it expertly as he tested the weight. It wasn’t identical to the scimitar that Abdul had known so well, but it was close enough that he was confident he could fight with the weapon.

  “Show me,” Anubis said, stepping into the ring. He beckoned for Trevor to follow as the ring flared white. The steady rhythmic pulse he’d grown used to was gone, perhaps because neither he nor Anubis had a heartbeat for it to sync with.

  Trevor entered the ring, which instantly shifted. There was a moment of vertigo, then everything changed. A deep, otherworldly cavern sprang into existence around them. Stalactites and stalagmites broke the room at uneven intervals, and the floor was slick with condensation. It was damnably hot, and a faint red glow came from the corridor leading into the distance. It played across the jackal’s golden armor, glinting off the fan-bladed axe. The rest of the jackal was lost in darkness though, his midnight fur blacker than whatever Trevor was allowing himself to become.

  “Where is this?” Trevor asked, circling a stalagmite as he assumed a combat stance. It felt so natural, something he’d been doing his entire life.

  “The underworld,” the jackal rumbled, also dropping into a combat stance. He began twirling his axe in slow arcs as he circled the same stalagmite.

  Trevor blurred, rushing the jackal. He came in low, aiming an upward slash at the jackal’s belly. There was a surge of elation as his blade closed in, apparently faster than Anubis could track. The instant the blade touched fur, the jackal exploded into green mist. Trevor’s weapon sailed harmlessly through the cloud, and he stumbled forward. It only took a fraction of a second to recover, but that might as well have been an eternity. Fire exploded in his back as the fan-bladed axe burst through his chest. Trevor toppled to the ground, dropping his weapon with a clatter.

  Chapter 20- Vampire

  Awaken, master.

  Mark tumbled from the bed, rolling to his feet with an arm extended protectively. He took several deep breaths as he attempted to calm his thundering heart. Or rather, he tried to. Only he wasn’t breathing. His heart wasn’t beating, not that he could feel anyway.

  It is part of the change, master. You are greater than you were. Beyond the ravages of time, or the need to draw breath.

  “Fuck,” was all Mark could manage. He straightened, drawing on decades of discipline to still the tempest of rage and loss. What the hell had Osiris done to him?

  He has imparted the greatest of gifts, master.

  “Do not speak, unless I direct a question at you. Do you understand?”

  As you wish, master.

  He remembered stories from Jordan about the beast in his head, and this thing sounded a great deal similar. That terrified him, because he knew it could hear his innermost thoughts. Yet he couldn’t change it, so that left only one option. He’d use it. Treating it like a virtual assistant was a good start.

  “Osiris slipped me the virus, or some version of it. Is that correct?” Mark asked. He squared his shoulders as he studied his surroundings. The room was small, containing a narrow metal bed with a stained mattress, and a single nightstand and lamp. It smelled like grease and dust.

  That is correct, master.

  “I’ve retained my memories. Why aren’t I like one of the zombies we saw just after the CME?” Mark asked, moving to a thick metal door with a slot set at eye level. He threw back the slot, peering as best he could into the hall. It was dimly lit, and empty.

  You are no paltry deathless, my host. The oily tone was layered with disgust. You have become a Draugr, what you would know as a vampire. We are more noble, more graceful. Deathless are brutes. We are artisans.

  “I see,” Mark said. There was still no movement in the hallway, not that he could see anyway. He reached down to the cool handle, turning it gently. Much to his shock it opened. “These vampires. How are they, we rather, different than the deathless?”

  All he knew of deathless came from Jordan’s reports of Irakesh, and from the brief studies they’d conducted on zombies back in Syracuse. That was precious little, other than the fact that they possessed fantastic abilities and were very, very difficult to kill.

  Vampires are always sentient, always retain the greater part of the master’s consciousness. We require less direct sustenance, and prefer blood over flesh. Blood contains the helixes of the host, giving us what we require without the need to kill. As I said, artisans.

  “Great,” Mark muttered, stepping into the dimly-lit hall. There was a single lightbulb at the far end, which flickered dully. The walls were whitewashed concrete, and hadn’t been tended
to in at least a few years. The place was also damp, as if they were underground. “So you’re saying I drink blood instead of eating people? That’s loads better, thanks.”

  In time you will understand the benefits, master. Our strength will be needed in the coming days. We feed upon the unblooded, but use that strength to protect.

  Mark moved up the hallway, rounding the corner. He passed two more doors and one flickering light before the hall ended at another door. He stopped in front of it, listening. To his amazement he could hear everything beyond. Heartbeats. Breathing. The clacking of keys, and the low hum of computers.

  He took a deep breath, then opened the door. The room was a low-tech version of the ops center back in Syracuse. Perhaps a dozen techs worked at hastily erected stations, each tapped into data feeds he recognized. Most were the satellites Mohn had launched prior to the CME, but several techs were doing simple data analysis.

  A familiar one looked up as he entered, her jaw dropping. She shot to her feet, snapping to attention. “Director on the floor.”

  The techs rose as one, delivering a hasty salute. His attention was reserved for the first woman who’d risen, though.

  “At ease,” he said, threading through the workstations until he reached Benson. “You’re looking well. I was worried you’d be brought up on charges for your role in my little coup back in Syracuse.”

  “No, sir,” Benson said, giving him a wide smile. It made her almond-shaped eyes crinkle in a way he found damnably attractive. Should he be able to do that now that he was dead? “I was detained briefly, then brought to London to meet with the Old Man. He explained that I’d be reassigned, and you’d still be my CO. He didn’t give me a lot of choice, but I’d have agreed to pretty much anything once I heard you’d still be in charge.”

  “Your loyalty is appreciated,” he said, giving her the warmest smile he could muster. She blanched, face draining of color. “What is it?”

  “Your, uh, teeth sir,” Benson stammered, blinking rapidly. “They’re, uh sharp. The canines.”

  “Lovely,” Mark said, feeling his teeth with his tongue. Sure enough, his canines were elongated. Whatever monster Osiris was, he’d become the same. “I can’t change it, so I’ll have to adapt to it. Give me a sitrep.”

  “We’re observing points of interest, sir,” Benson said, clearly relieved to slip back into routine. She glanced at her computer, exposing a delicate neck. A vein thudded there, in time with her heartbeat. “Stonehenge was given a priority of ten, with Cairo at nine. Cambodia, San Francisco, and Peru are all listed as eights.”

  Mark processed that. Mohn Corp was focused solely on London.

  “Flags?” Mark asked, focusing on Benson’s heartbeat instead of her neck. It was slow. Steady. She wasn’t alarmed by his condition. Part of him found that flattering, but the analytical mind knew it had to be deeper than that. If she wasn’t alarmed, then seeing monsters like him had become normal. She’d been working heavily with Osiris, in all likelihood.

  “We haven’t seen anything of note in London,” Benson said, gesturing at her screen as she pulled up several feeds. “Cairo has been the most interesting. Whoever or whatever is in control there has gathered an army, a large one.”

  The satellite feed showed a massive cloud of dust. Benson zoomed in, and he could see row upon row of figures. Dead figures. Someone clearly possessed the ability to control tens of thousands of zombies. Who? And what were they planning on using them for?

  “Noted,” Mark replied, filing the events away. He’d dissect them later. “How about the other targets?”

  “Peru has been quiet, for the most part,” Benson said, sweeping dark bangs out of her face. “It looks like whoever is in charge there is rebuilding Cajamarca. There’s a lot of traffic going back and forth, but beyond clearing the city of undead they haven’t made any notable advances.”

  “Interesting. San Francisco?” Mark would have held his breath, if he had any.

  Benson pulled up the feed. She was quiet for a moment as the camera focused. “We’re not entirely sure what happened—but, sir, look at that blast crater. It’s consistent with a nuclear detonation, but the devastation stops after just a few hundred yards. It’s too small to be one of our assets.”

  She was right. The first quarter of the Golden Gate bridge had been melted to slag, but the latter section hadn’t been touched. The entire area around the San Francisco side was a charred hole, but that hole was far smaller than the hole the 500-megaton nuclear asset Irakesh had stolen should have created. A lot smaller.

  “Theories?” Mark asked, holding off on speculation until he’d gathered all available data.

  “None, sir,” Benson said, giving a very uncharacteristic shrug. “The energy had to go somewhere, but it isn’t clear where.”

  “Show me the Ark,” he said, pointing at the object at the corner of the screen.

  Benson zoomed in, revealing a massive pyramid twin to the one in Peru. It stabbed out of San Francisco bay, not more than a mile from Angel Island. The bulk of the structure was covered by water, and there was no visible means of entrance. If it resembled its counterpart in Peru, the entrance would be under five hundred feet of frigid water.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at Angel Island.

  “That’s the new settlement Commander Jordan has created,” Benson explained, zooming in on the island. She continued to zoom, past the clusters of tents and the small army of boats tethered to the dock. She didn’t stop until she reached a small cluster of men.

  The men were drilling, and the drill was a familiar one. As familiar as the man leading those drills. “My god. Yuri survived.”

  “Indeed he did,” came a polished voice from behind. Mark whirled to find Osiris just a few inches away. He could hear the creak of every shoe, yet this man’s approach had been completely undetected. It underscored just how new his abilities were, and how little he knew about them. “I’ve worked with Yuri in the past. I’m not surprised he found his way through the CME.”

  “Have we attempted to establish contact?” Mark asked, choosing not to react to Osiris’s arrival.

  “We don’t have the means,” Benson said, shrugging helplessly. “If they have a surviving sat phone they haven’t used it, so as far as we know they’re off grid. We’d have to physically send a bird to make contact, and we don’t have more than a handful left.”

  “Those birds are needed here, for the time being,” Osiris said, turning to Mark. “Will you take a walk with me, Director Phillips? I’d like to discuss your new condition, and your role here going forward.”

  Chapter 21- Collared

  Jordan came to with a start. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d been down here. It was difficult staying alert when you couldn’t mark the passage of time, especially when there was no apparent end to your confinement. That was no excuse, though. He couldn’t let himself get weak. Now, more than ever, he needed his strength.

  There is truth in that, Ka-Dun. Yet you cannot blame yourself for our current circumstances.

  “Who the fuck else is there to blame?” Jordan replied, rising from the bench and approaching the crackling blue bars to his cell. He knew roughly where he was in the Ark, and he also knew how to reach the light bridge where he’d entered.

  That knowledge was useless, though. Steve had been able to escape a cell like this one, but he’d been an Ark Lord and had used his ability to light walk. Jordan had no such ability, and that meant for the time being he had no method of escape.

  Heavy footsteps clinked their way on the marble in the distance. They were growing closer. Jordan tensed, moving to the far side of the cell so he had the best view of the hallway where the steps had originated. Long moments later, a familiar jackal-headed figure stepped into view. It carried the same golden staff, each end capped with a fan-blade like some wicked doubled-bladed scythe.

  Jordan could immediately see the usefulness of the weapon, which capitalized on
the wielder’s speed. You were always in a position to launch a blow at your foe, and the force of that blow couldn’t be countered with a conventional parry. If you hit your target, your target died.

  The jackal stopped outside of his cell, tapping a blue sapphire set into one golden gauntlet. The crackling bars of energy abruptly ceased. He said nothing to Jordan, instead gesturing at the hallway. The meaning was clear. Walk. Now.

  So Jordan walked. There was no point in resistance. Not yet, anyway. This thing had already mopped the floor with him, and if he got into another confrontation it would have the same end. He needed to bide his time until he understood exactly what this thing was. It had to have a weakness, and if Jordan had enough time he’d find it.

  The jackal shoved him roughly from behind, and Jordan stumbled forward. He regained his footing quickly, resisting the urge to round on his tormentor and attack. That was no doubt exactly what the jackal was goading him into. Jordan kept walking.

  Eventually they reached the central chamber. Jordan slowed his pace slightly, a play for a bit more time to study his enemies. Irakesh stood on the lowest step of a short stairway leading up to a massive throne. Below him stood Steve on one side, and Trevor on the other. Right now Jordan wasn’t sure whom he disliked more.

  A few steps above Irakesh stood a woman with long dark hair. To her left, another attendant to the throne, a wolf, but something was off about the creature. Definitely male, but he stood a good nine feet tall, on par with most females. As Jordan approached the throne, he caught a whiff of something rotting.

  That is no Ka-Dun. It is a dead wolf, shaped into being by the twisted deathless. Wepwawet, he is called. A vicious, cruel god.

  Then his attention shifted to the figure presiding over the court. A warrior goddess occupied the throne. Dark red hair spilled down well-muscled shoulders. Piercing green eyes studied him, exactly the way he was studying her. This woman was the veteran of a thousand wars, a soldier born and bred. She was gorgeous, long-limbed and pale skinned, but then so was his ex-wife.