Shadows of the Midnight Sun

by Graham Brown

  It was I who took the lash to Jeshua, the one you call Christ. It was I who scourged him until blood ran on the stones like water. Fear spread through me as my hand rose, for I began to feel he was more than a man, but to crush the fear, I swung the lash harder and harder. To destroy the doubt in my mind, I tried to punish its source. I wished to break him. I wished to prove this Jew was mortal. When I was finished, I could not believe he still lived. He looked at me from a mask of blood, and I froze.

  On the day of the Crucifixion, I watched as his hands and feet were pierced. The sun grew dark, and I fell. When I awoke, it was night. I was alone. And I could feel the draining of my soul.

  Three hundred years now, I have existed in darkness only. God has cursed me for my acts. I cannot live, but I do not age. I feel no pleasure or peace or even the sweetness of life, unless I take it so briefly from another. In torment and fear, I beseech you, Cyril. I know of whom you serve. I beg of forgiveness. I ask for your intercession. It is said your Pope, your Holy Father, holds the keys to Heaven and Earth. If this be truth, he can forgive me, and it shall be forgiven. And then I can die and find peace.

  I am known to you as the deceiver or the corruptor, but I sign my true name.

  Drakos, member of the legion.

  A wave of shock barreled through Christian.

  Drakos, member of the legion.

  For a long moment, he could not move. Could it be true? Could it possibly be true?

  Drakos, the corruptor, the deceiver. The one who had taught him to fear the Church above all else. Could he have been the one?

  In the years Christian had spent searching for the truth, Drakos had been both a guide and roadblock. He’d shown Christian many things, teaching him about his power and his vulnerability. But on other subjects, his explanations were vague. He claimed that certain lines of thought were not valid or worth looking into. He claimed to have searched in vain for the originator, the dark Adam some believed in. He claimed not to know the reasons the Church had taken to hunting the Nosferatu with such mercilessness.

  All these were lies. Drakos, the corruptor. Drakos, the deceiver. The clarity hit Christian like a blast of arctic wind.

  Among all the tortured denizens of the dark, Drake was the only one Christian had ever feared. He’d always thought that fear came from the manner of their meeting, from the fact that Drake had found him and slit his throat on that Roman battlefield, imprinting on him his power, or some portion of it. Perhaps because Drake had then prevented his death—saved was not a word Christian chose to use—it had left him with a sense of mastery. All who were turned felt this way toward their creators. But if Drake was the first…

  “You know this letter to be authentic?” he asked Faust.

  Faust spoke. “Every item in this vault is authentic. That is why this place was spared in the Great War.”

  Christian knew he welded great power, but he had never known why. Now he thought he had an answer. Drake was the first; from him, all the Nosferatu sprang like a pyramid. Those at the bottom were little more than scavengers, far down the lineage, but if Drake was the first, then Christian took his power directly from the Nosferatu king.

  “The Church rejected his plea,” Christian said, thinking aloud. “He crawled for three hundred years and then found the strength to ask forgiveness, and they rejected his plea and stirred the hatred in his heart.”

  Christian turned back to Faust. “What else is in here?”

  “The rest will not concern you,” Faust said. “Edicts, accountings, reports of your kind, and the linage of those who led the Ignis Purgata—none of that would help you.”

  Faust was speaking differently, no longer entranced. And with the noise of the church inside his head, Christian could not concentrate sharply enough to reach him again.

  “You’ve helped me for reasons other than coercion,” Christian said.

  “I fear you,” Faust said. “Where could I run that you would not find me? Some who have encountered your kind have been left catatonic, others made slaves or turned to darkness.”

  “I will not harm you,” Christian said. “I’m not like the others.”

  Faust seemed to consider that for a moment. “So what are you, then?” he asked.

  Christian paused. He had no answer for that. “I was told there were documents of prophecy here.”

  Faust stared back, able to look Christian in the eye now. “There are,” he said.

  “Where?”

  Faust froze and made no sound, but Christian heard a voice whispering anyway.

  You’ve come a long way to find what I would have shown you in time.

  The voice spoke inside his head. The words came from elsewhere, from a presence that must have been nearby. Only one voice could reach inside his head like that. Only one mind on this earth had the power to do it.

  Drake.

  CHAPTER 16

  CHRISTIAN HANDED the protected sheet of parchment to Faust. The wiry man began to shake.

  Drake’s voice spoke inside Christian’s head. What a strange place to find you after all these years.

  The words came through clearly, Drake had to be nearby, just outside the cathedral somewhere. Christian closed his eyes, trying to blank his mind and block the invading consciousness.

  Have you forgotten what they do to us? Have you forgotten what they did to your beloved Elsa?

  Christian winced in pain. It was no good. Those who were turned always heard their corruptors. Their minds were briefly joined during the transformation.

  Beside Christian, Faust gulped at nothing. He moved to put the document back in its slot, trembling uncontrollably.

  “His is the name of horror,” Faust said. “We know what he does, what he’s capable of!”

  “Maybe you should have forgiven him,” Christian said, fighting to control his own thoughts, well aware that Faust had nothing to do with what the Church had done seventeen hundred years ago.

  I offer you what they would not give us, Drake’s voice taunted. I offer you absolution. Just return to me. Join me once again, and I will forgive your transgressions and all those of the Brethren you’ve dispatched.

  Christian moved about the tiny vault, trying to figure out what to do. He went to the stairs. Faust followed, sealing the treasury of records behind them.

  Christian began to climb the spiral staircase. He slowed as he neared the top, confronted with the blinding pain once again.

  As he re-entered the church proper, Christian put a hand on the wall to steady himself. He stared down the long, narrow nave toward the altar. All he could see was light—blinding light. All he could feel was pain—blinding pain.

  At least he understood now. This was punishment—never again to be part of the light.

  In a strange way, it helped him at this moment. The blinding pain made Christian feel weak, but it also seemed to dampen the power of Drake’s voice. Christian could still hear the corruptor’s thoughts, but they did not reach him with the same power, and at least Christian knew that his mind was his own.

  Perhaps because of this, Drake somehow turned his thoughts toward Faust.

  So, you have a friend with you, he said. Come to me, little man. Your knowledge shall be of great use.

  Faust looked woozy, as if entering a daze.

  Christian grabbed him. “Don’t listen.”

  “He’ll turn me,” Faust said.

  “Not in here, he won’t.”

  Faust continued to shake. It seemed as if Drake might overwhelm the small caretaker’s thoughts at any moment.

  “Go to the altar,” Christian said. “Even Drakos can’t reach you there.”

  Faust did not move.

  Christian shook him. “Go!” he shouted. “I can’t help you anymore, but I won’t have you damned because of me.”

  Faust began to move off and then stopped, turning back toward Christian. “The prophecy you asked about, I know only rumors of it.”

  “Tell me,” Christian asked, fighting agai
nst the agony he felt.

  Drake’s voice came crashing through. Do not speak!

  Faust fell to his knees, as if fighting to hold up a tremendous weight. He put one hand to his head. He struggled to get the words out. “It is said a time will come when the sentence ends. Perhaps two thousand years punishment is enough.”

  It had been nearly two thousand years for Drake, Christian thought. “What are you saying?”

  Faust began shaking. Drake was trying to block him from speaking.

  “Forgiveness for the Nosferatu is not—”

  Faust doubled over, calling out in pain. Drake was crushing him. Burning his mind.

  Christian dropped beside Faust and grabbed him by the shoulders. “What forgiveness?”

  Christian could barely see, but his presence and his own will seemed to shield Faust from Drake, if only a little.

  “Forgiveness is not denied forever,” Faust managed. “A messenger will arrive. An angel that brings mercy.”

  Christian’s heart pounded from the tension, from the torment of the Cruciatus, but above all else, from what he was hearing. A glimmer of hope he had never heard whispered before.

  “What are you saying?” he shouted to Faust.

  “An angel for the Fallen. The prophecy says it will come.”

  “How will I know it? How can I find it?”

  Drake’s will bore down on them both like a weight that crushed the breath from its victims.

  “You…will see…shadows,” Faust managed.

  “What shadows?” he asked. “We live in the dark.”

  “Shadows…” Faust said. “Beneath…the Midnight…Sun.”

  With all his mental energy, Christian tried to throw off Drake. Leave us!

  It was not enough. Drake’s voice returned, breaking through once more, crashing over them in a crescendo.

  No more words!

  Faust screamed in pain and stiffened as if convulsing. He fell over, shaking, and his eyes rolled up in his head. Christian picked him up and carried him toward the altar.

  The blinding light cut through his mind like knives; the noise rang in his head like pounding bells. He struggled forward, dropping to his knees as it reached an intolerable level.

  From there, he shoved Faust forward, sliding him along the floor and into the rail upon which the priest would offer Holy Communion.

  Faust lay there, unmoving, but he would be safe.

  In agony, Christian turned and crawled away. As he distanced himself from the altar, the pain faded, but as it did, Drake’s voice returned.

  You can’t stay in there forever.

  Drake was right. Christian was growing weaker with every moment. If he collapsed, either the death squads would find him or Drake would find a human to come in and take him.

  Christian staggered to his feet, gazing along the aisle toward the rear doors of the church. The length of the nave seemed endless. He stumbled along it, grabbing hold of a pew and steadying himself. He edged his way to the far wall, his head clearing a bit more with each step away from the altar.

  He gazed at the great doors at the back of the cathedral, then glanced over to the side entrance. Where was Drake? Even he could not be everywhere at once.

  Gathering his strength, Christian headed for the great doors at the back. He ripped two long pieces of wrought iron from an elaborate display on the wall. He would use them as staves, his only weapon.

  He picked up the pace, fell to one knee just before reaching the exit, and then rose again, busting through the doors and out onto the front steps of the cathedral.

  A tall, broad-shouldered figure stood in the darkness on the far side of the street. He wore a long gray coat that fell around him like a cloak. He stared at Christian without moving.

  “Hello, old friend,” Drake said. “It’s been a long time.”

  CHAPTER 17

  AT 2:00 in the morning, the streets were dark and deserted. A slight breeze ruffled Drake’s gray coat. It opened slightly, revealing the glint of a sword Christian had learned to fear, a curved samurai blade forged by a master in ancient Japan. None made since was its equal.

  Drake seemed content not to raise it just yet. “You don’t look quite yourself.”

  Either Drake was gloating at Christian’s weakened condition or it was his idea of a joke. Like Drake, Christian looked exactly as he had seventeen hundred years ago.

  A second figure came from the shadows, his shaved head and cruel eyes looking the same as they had been when Christian last saw him in the sixteenth century. He was not as tall or strong in the shoulders as Drake, but he was Christian’s equal in stature. The sight of him turned Christian’s stomach.

  “You remember Lagos,” Drake said.

  Indeed, Christian remembered Lagos, a murderer long before Drake turned him. “The executioner,” Christian whispered. “One day, I’ll kill him for what he’s done.”

  Drake nodded, taking it in. Lagos didn’t react; he knew better than to steal his master’s thunder.

  For whatever reason, Drake still hadn’t moved. Christian found himself thankful for the delay. Now that he was outside the church, his strength was slowly beginning to return.

  When Drake eventually took a step forward, Christian raised the two staves he’d gathered in the cathedral. He began to wield them, whirling them around in the style of an Indonesian stick fighter.

  He took his stance with a half turn, one stick high across his shoulder, the other pointed opposite and low across his waist.

  “A new style for you,” Drake noted.

  “Come closer,” Christian urged. “I believe you’ll find it painfully effective.”

  “You believe…” Drake began to laugh. “That’s your problem, my friend. You don’t believe anything. You never have. Not since the day I met you. Not since you grasped for power and killed the commandant of the legion and then fell into fear over what you’d done. You should have seized the reins instead of crawling away to die.”

  Christian’s mind briefly traveled back to the moment of their meeting.

  “You were lost then,” Drake continued, “and you’re lost now. Come back to the Brethren. I will give you purpose once again.”

  Drake must have been insane if he thought Christian would ever rejoin his cause after all he’d done.

  “You lied to me all those years ago,” Christian pointed out. “‘No road back to the light,’ you said. But you’re wrong. A change is coming. A chance for mercy.”

  “There is no forgiveness,” Drake said. “Not for us. Not for them. We will fight to the death—the Church and the Nosferatu. Only one entity can survive.”

  “And what could possibly make you think it will be our side?” Christian asked. “The curse fell upon our souls. We’re the ones dammed by it.”

  “No,” Drake said, beginning to move forward, sword held point down. “You see things backward. We have been given power to punish them—for their arrogance.”

  “You’re more delusional than I thought.”

  “Am I?” Drake said. “You’ve seen what I asked of them. Don’t you understand? Do you think I hid in the sewers and the caves for three centuries and then decided to fight? No. I had no power until they denied me mercy. I was a worm in the earth until they rejected me!”

  He was bellowing now, raging against the past and not thinking. Christian felt his own strength growing, but in a full fury, Drake would be unstoppable.

  “What are you saying?”

  “The law of unintended consequences. They gave me this power by their own selfishness. Everything has balance and an opposite. Their arrogance disturbed this balance. We are chosen to restore it.”

  Drake continued to approach. Lagos shadowed him like a wingman. They were no more than twenty feet from Christian now. The time for talk was ending. Christian tensed for a furious and, most likely, hopeless battle.

  “I will no longer beg,” Drake spat. “I will eclipse them. And they will beg for mercy from me.”

  “An
d the angel of forgiveness?” Christian asked.

  “I’ve been waiting for a thousand years to see it,” Drake said. “And when it comes, I will destroy it.”

  Christian’s mind whirled. He felt almost as dizzy as he had in the church, but for different reasons. Drake has known of the angel for a thousand years? How? And why would he want to destroy it?

  Christian banished the confusion and questions in his head; he had no time to consider the possibilities, no time to be distracted. But even as he cleared his mind, a thought came forth with such power that he could not keep it to himself.

  “I won’t let you! Not after all you’ve done to the world.”

  “Then you’ll die!”

  Drake lunged and swung the samurai blade. Christian stepped back and countered as the blade sliced the air in front of him. He feinted with his left hand and swung the other pike in his right on a sharp, descending arc, hoping to cave in Drake’s head. It whipped through the air in a blur, coming down from above. But Drake pirouetted to the side, and the pike missed his head by inches, catching the front of his coat and slicing the fabric with its jagged edge.

  Drake took a step back, evaluating the attempt. “My tailor will be very unhappy with you,” he said calmly. And then he raised his sword and stepped forward. He snapped his arms, and the polished blade flashed once again.

  Christian avoided the first slash, but a second almost caught him. He parried it with the makeshift spike in his hand and was forced back even farther. Drake continued the assault, whirling the blade like a master.

  Blow after blow came Christian’s way as the onslaught grew. He could hardly keep up with it. He parried one thrust, then dodged and stepped back, and then parried again.

  Drake’s blade caught one of the pikes square on. It took the top half with it, decapitating the length of metal as if it were a rotten stick. Before Christian could react, Drake’s blade came back toward him on a downward arc.

  Christian dove away and rolled. Coming up, he flung the remnants of the first stave at Drake like he was throwing a knife. Drake swatted it away like a baseball player fouling off a pitch.