The Spider Dance

by Nick Setchfield

  There was a soft click at his ear. He turned and saw that Libby had a subminiature Minox camera pressed to her eye. She was taking reconnaissance shots, capturing the scene for London. Again the camera clicked, the sound barely registering against the deadening silence of this space.

  Then Winter caught another noise, almost as soft. It had come from behind them, he was certain. He turned to look back at the tunnel.

  It came again. The sound of rock striking rock, no more than the briefest scratch of impact.

  He stared into the passageway. It looked like a black wound. The walls, he swore, had tightened, squeezing the light into nothing.

  He rose to his feet and stepped cautiously into the mouth of the tunnel. The chill inside had intensified, just as the darkness had deepened.

  The sound multiplied as he stood there. In seconds it had become a steady, brittle patter. It wasn’t quite loud enough to attract the attention of the men below but the volume was building with each echo.

  Winter peered into the opening. Fragments of sandstone spat like hail from the shadows, as if shaken free by the earth itself. Was it an aftershock of the detonation that had levelled the wall? No, the ground was too steady for that. But the tunnel was crumbling just the same.

  Winter turned to look at Libby. She had pocketed her camera and was moving to join him. He raised a hand, directing her to stay where she was.

  Winter’s eyes moved across the surface of the rock. It had the texture of skin, pitted and porous, a lattice of veins chasing through it. He could almost see musculature in the contours of the wall, places where the sandstone bulged like a twist of limbs, folded upon themselves.

  There was silence in the passage now. The patter of rock had stopped.

  A shape very like a man erupted from the tunnel wall.

  It tore itself free, its hands breaking through the crumble of compacted ash, the entombed torso following with a hard, wrenching movement. As Winter stared through a tumult of dust he saw desiccated flesh, husk-dry and tight against the bone. The face of the thing was paralysed in torment but the eyes had an awful stillness, black and emptied, as if time had burnt the life from them.

  He saw the mouth, then. It was crisscrossed with twine. The lips had been stitched shut.

  More rock shattered behind him. Another buried body, shrugging away the sandstone like a chrysalis. Just like its counterpart it was swathed in grimy strips of cloth, tied like a toga.

  They were the ancient dead, barely lit with existence.

  Winter backed out of the tunnel as the cadaverous forms advanced. Libby was at his side now.

  ‘Sodding hell,’ she breathed, equally transfixed.

  They both knew there was only so much precipice left behind them.

  In unison the creatures flexed their jaws, traces of wasted muscle shifting beneath the ash-spattered flesh. The lips struggled against their stitches. Slowly the mouths began to peel open. The withered twine strained to contain them, drawn taut across the widening slits. Finally the stitches snapped and the teeth were revealed, filthy but knife-sharp.

  They were vampires, and they had the thirst of centuries.

  A punch of white light hit the revenants. The creatures recoiled, flinching at the sudden brightness. As the spotlight struck them Winter saw the faintest spark of sentience in their calcified eyes.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ demanded a voice from the cavern floor. It rumbled around the high rock walls, the words echoing and echoing.

  ‘Not much in the way of choice, mate,’ retorted Libby.

  Cautiously, Winter took his gaze from the creatures. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes pinching against the brilliance of the light. One of the lamps on the ground was tilted upwards, targeting the ledge. The men of the Shadowless stood behind it, some with guns in their hands.

  Cesare was with them. He spoke again.

  ‘So you dare to come here, do you, Englishman? I truly wonder if it’s courage or ignorance that compels you.’

  Winter traded a glance with Libby. Her gun was hidden in her jacket. They both knew it wouldn’t be enough.

  ‘We should talk, Cesare.’

  For a moment the only reply was his own voice, reverberating through the cavern. And then a dry, dismissive laugh chased after it.

  ‘Oxygen is precious down here,’ Cesare taunted. ‘No sense wasting it on conversation with a man I fully intend to kill.’

  ‘Shame. We have so much more to discuss. As a businessman you should be open to possibilities.’

  ‘My friend, at this moment you have no possibilities.’

  Winter pushed the only advantage he had. ‘We could talk money, Cesare. Contracts, perhaps. Maybe discuss the elimination of the competition. Every businessman’s dream, isn’t it?’

  Libby gave a private smile, knowing the game he was playing.

  This time there was a beat before Cesare replied. If he was rattled by Winter’s knowledge he took care to conceal it from his men.

  ‘With respect, Englishman, you are hardly in a position to make me an offer.’

  ‘Oh, but I so nearly was, Cesare. One million pounds could have bought us both a lot of possibilities. I’m sure you’d have considered it an investment. You might even have made a killing.’

  Winter’s final words became a diminishing echo, trailing away beneath the dome of rock. For a moment silence held the cavern. And then, at last, Cesare spoke.

  ‘Get down from there. Both of you.’

  Winter eyed the revenants. They seemed less wary of the light now. He saw ribs scrape against skin as their chests heaved, clutching air into their exhumed lungs. The teeth of the creatures slid against withered lips, hungering.

  ‘You might want to call your boys off,’ he shouted down. ‘Assuming these are your boys.’

  Cesare cast his voice past Winter and Libby. The words he used were guttural, impenetrable, seemingly remnants of some long-dead language. They were also clearly a command. Hearing them the figures in the tunnel retreated, dragging their parched and atrophied limbs away.

  As Winter watched they pressed their bodies against the walls, as if surrendering to the rock. Moments later pieces of sandstone tore from the ground in an upwards hail. They spattered against the undead things, encrusting them. The walls were restoring themselves, sealing and entombing their occupants once more. Soon only hints of the creatures remained, embedded in the protrusions of the tunnel’s sides.

  Winter walked to the lip of the ledge, the cavern yawning precipitously beneath him. Turning around he grabbed the rails of the ladder and began to descend, rung by wooden rung. Libby followed him down.

  The men met them with a raft of raised guns. Cesare dismissed the weapons, stepping through the pack with an easy confidence in his own invincibility.

  ‘They were the first of my kind in this city,’ he said, expansively. ‘The Romans brought slaves here from every outpost of their empire. Hispania. Gaul. The deserts of North Africa. Every race and creed. Among them were the undead, those who craved the sweetness of a stranger’s blood as much as their freedom. Their seed took hold. In time they would claim Naples for their own.’

  ‘They’re guarding this place,’ said Winter, his eyes straying to the antechamber, its contents still just out of sight. ‘Is that it?’

  Cesare nodded. ‘They are of the lowest caste, mindless but loyal. Even those who ruled this city feared their thirst. They bound their lips before sinking their bodies deep in sanctified land, far to the north. Centuries later they were disinterred and brought here, given a new purpose, a new duty, protecting this precious place.’

  Cesare switched his attention to Libby, recognition in his eyes. ‘I have seen you before.’

  She met his gaze and said nothing.

  ‘Of course,’ Cesare continued, placing her. ‘The club. La Salamandra.’

  He kept his eyes on her face but directed his next words to Winter, puzzlement and distaste in his voice.

  ‘Why have you brought a wait
ress with you?’

  Libby glared back at him. ‘You can go to hell.’

  Cesare took her chin in his hand, thrusting her head back. He smiled as he spoke. ‘You weren’t born to be a waitress, piccolina. Who would tip you with that attitude?’

  He flung her jacket open and tore the gun from the inside pocket. ‘Webley and Scott,’ he stated, examining the weapon. ‘British Intelligence, then. Is the Crown so desperate that it arms a girl?’

  Libby shook her face free from his grip. ‘I’ll let you know, mate. Once I’ve killed you.’

  Cesare thrust the gun into her hand. ‘Keep it. I insist. It’s entirely useless against me but it’s Her Majesty’s property, after all.’

  Libby received the gun with a glower. ‘I can still kill your men.’

  ‘I can buy more men. This is Naples.’

  Cesare moved to Winter, peeling aside a lapel to expose the empty shoulder holster.

  ‘One gun between the pair of you. And I thought the British economy was improving.’

  ‘We can’t all pay a million for a hit, Cesare. Or were you using Daddy’s money?’

  There was a flare in Cesare’s eyes then, something hot and sharp that was checked as quickly as it surfaced.

  ‘You imagine you have power over me, Englishman. But this knowledge you possess means nothing to me, or my men. Look around you. They are loyal to me, not my father. You, on the other hand, are a failed assassin. Is there anything less worthy of respect in this world?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure patricide comes close.’

  Cesare stepped away, turning his back. He took a few measured paces and then pivoted to face them again. He wore a bitch of a smile now.

  ‘Let me show you my inheritance. It will enrich your final minutes. It may even give them meaning.’

  He led them through the rubble, to where the remnants of the wall stood, reduced to blackened lumps of granite. The almond tang of gelignite was strong and tufts of smoke still drifted between the chunks of rock. As they approached the shattered entrance Winter began to glimpse what waited for them in the antechamber.

  At first it was no more than a mirroring of light, the blaze of the lamps striking a reflective surface and bouncing back into his eyes. And then, as he squinted, the light appeared to solidify, hardening into bright, glistening objects. A multitude of them, scattered haphazardly across the cavern floor.

  It was a sea of bones.

  They lay in fossilised drifts, skeletal remains that glinted cold and white as if freshly skinned. There were great, shining tangles of them, bones enmeshed with bones, interlocking, embracing. Some reached from the burial mound with a clawing of fingers, fixed in the moment of their demise. They were immaculately preserved.

  This was a necropolis.

  Winter forced himself to look away. The presence of so many bones left him sick with craving. He could feel magic stirring inside him, empowered by the remains. These bones, he knew, were potent. They had to be more than human. It made the ache in his veins unbearably keen.

  He raised his eyes. A statue towered over the frozen swarm. It was some kind of holy figure, a man in robes, arms spread as though dispensing benediction. The blind marble eyes were compassionate even as wine-dark smears trailed down the cheeks. Stains of the same colour streaked the fingers. It took Winter a moment to realise that he was looking at dried blood, the residue of stigmata.

  The outstretched arms cast a crucifix shadow across the gleaming remains.

  ‘San Gennaro,’ said Cesare, gazing up alongside him. There was a reverence, almost a tenderness, to the way he said the saint’s name, lingering on the syllables. ‘Martyred at Pozzuoli in AD 305 under the purges of Diocletian. He is the city’s saint, the saviour and protector of Naples. His blood is a miracle to my kind.’

  Winter took his eyes from the statue and swept the chamber. He saw long-faded frescoes and crumbling mosaics on the rear walls, depictions of what he took to be pagan rites, acts of worship for the old, abandoned gods, Mithras or Demeter or Dionysus. This sunken chamber had obviously been a place of sacrament for some time.

  To his left was a gallery of tall hollows carved into the sandstone. Each niche held a single skeleton, positioned in a semi-foetal crouch. Above the bones were a succession of stone masks, imprints of faces, the eyelids closed, the features lean and aristocratic. Winter instinctively knew that these were the high-born of Cesare’s race.

  Now he understood the purpose of the icy, echoing space he was standing in. This was an elephant’s graveyard of the undead.

  No, he caught himself. The dead. Somehow these creatures had found an end here, in this cathedral of bone and rock, entombed beneath the city.

  ‘They came here to die?’

  Cesare nodded. ‘The blood of San Gennaro confers that gift. The statue weeps for my kind. Tears of sacred blood. For some this endless thirst, these centuries of need, is too much to endure. They would hear of this place. The Mortal Sepulchre, as we call it. The promise of death, at last. And they would come here, the old and undying of every land. Pilgrims in search of oblivion.’

  Winter returned to the saint’s face, drawn to the rust-coloured tracks beneath the eyes. ‘What are you saying? The blood from this statue has the power to kill your people?’

  ‘God’s mercy, I imagine. He made us, but I doubt we are in his image. Perhaps the Almighty knows guilt. Perhaps this is compensation. It removes the weak from our ranks, at least. Natural selection, you could say.’

  ‘This chamber was sealed,’ said Libby. ‘You’re not meant to be here.’

  Cesare regarded her, still amused by her spirit. ‘My father’s choice. At the war’s end he was aware that these bones would soon be a significant resource. The military of many nations desired them, wished to unlock their secrets. He trusted your country, piccolina, and he was betrayed. And so he saw to it that no one would find them. Not my people. Not yours.’

  ‘I saw Russian Intelligence at the villa,’ said Winter. ‘I take it your father’s changed his mind?’

  ‘The Soviet consulate has been making overtures of late. But he doesn’t need their money. And he’s certainly not persuaded by their ideology.’

  ‘So it’s your deal, then? You’re a pretty unlikely communist, Cesare. The heir to a crime cartel. Tell me, where exactly do you stand on the distribution of wealth?’

  Cesare cast his eyes across the bones, indifferent to the jab. ‘It’s not about wealth. I have wealth.’

  Winter began to sense the reach of his ambition. The contract on his father had only been a prelude. ‘You’re not in this with the Russians. This is part of your deal with the Erovores, isn’t it?’

  Cesare stepped into the shadow of San Gennaro. ‘Two great empires divided by an ancient enmity. Centuries of pissing matches over territory and status. One day you realise… what a waste of possibility.’

  He plucked a femur from the sprawl of bones. ‘DNA, they named it. Our biological heritage. All that makes us what we are. We have science on our side, just like you. If we can unlock our own secrets then we can unlock the secrets of demons, too. Incubi. Succubi. Even the sons and daughters of Lilith have genetic code tattooed in their bodies.’

  The bone turned in his hand, the fissures gleaming as they caught the arc of the lamp.

  ‘Nature has always insisted on our separation, forbidden procreation between our species. Maybe now science can unite us. Find a way to entwine our DNA with theirs. That would be a template for true power in this world, don’t you think?’

  ‘My God,’ said Libby, understanding. ‘You want to breed with them…’

  ‘A hybrid race, part Erovore, part vampire. Its thirst alone would be phenomenal. They would tax the blood of humanity and feast on its senses, too. True apex predators. Just imagine their hunger. How could they not rule?’

  ‘So why do you need these bones? Why not just use the DNA of the living?’

  ‘The living…’ Cesare spoke the word with contempt. ‘The very l
anguage you use… It’s another facet of our physiology. Just as we cannot be reflected or photographed our genetic code cannot be recorded. It exists in flux, ever shifting. Only in the state of death does it stabilise.’

  ‘The Russians have already found bones. I’ve seen the creature they’ve created. What makes these bones so crucial?’

  ‘These are the remains of the high-born. The ultimate incarnation of our kind. The paragon, if you will.’

  Cesare lobbed the bone back onto the pile, then smacked the dust from his hands. ‘This graveyard is my inheritance. And the Mortal Sepulchre will bring the Glorious and I dominion over your species. I imagine you’ll wish my father had cut a deal with the Russians.’

  ‘Don Zerbinati’s still alive,’ said Winter. ‘I’m a failed assassin, remember? You’re not inheriting this, Cesare. You’re stealing it from under him. That’s quite a risk you’re taking.’

  Cesare walked back from the bones, his body language assured.

  ‘It would have been easier if you’d killed him. But he’s abandoned this place. I can still take what I need. I’ll deal with him soon enough. Believe me, I’m impatient for my empire.’

  ‘You really think he’ll be that easy to depose? A vampire king?’

  ‘Tomorrow’s on my side, Englishman. I’ll find the bullet I need. And a more reliable assassin.’

  He gave an imperious snap of his fingers, summoning the nearest of the Shadowless.

  ‘Take them outside. Kill them in the tunnels. Their blood doesn’t belong here.’

  Two of the men moved forward, revolvers in hand, ready to march them out. As they did so Libby levelled her gun at Cesare.

  ‘What about your blood, mate? Good enough for this place, do you reckon?’

  Cesare regarded the weapon with disdain. ‘Don’t embarrass yourself, waitress. That’s useless against me. I’ve told you.’

  Libby kept the gun tight in her hand, aiming it squarely at Cesare’s chest. ‘Well, that all depends on the bullet, now doesn’t it?’