Shadows of the Midnight Sun

by Graham Brown

  Despite his discipline, Christian felt what all Nosferatu felt—the pull of a life they no longer possessed. Denied long enough by one who possessed enough willpower, the hunger for life faded, but the energy reaching him from the forest had reawakened something within him. And even as Christian gripped the reins of resolve with an iron fist, the desire to cross the void and feel alive once again pulled at him.

  With candles lit around him, he meditated in a quiet apartment on Frenchman Street. He focused on Elsa, on her words, on her love, and on the task at hand. He would not give in.

  But the drums continued to sound, never stopping, and soon the walls began to close in.

  There has to be a way, he thought. There has to be a way.

  An image flashed into his head—a memory of blinding pain, of something more powerful than Drake’s voice, of something more powerful than the drums and the calling that now weighed on him. Desperate like he’d never been before, Christian stood abruptly and marched out the door.

  Twenty minutes later, he was walking down St. Bernard Avenue. It was 3:00 in the morning. The streets were deserted. Finally, he found what he was looking for—a small church in the old precinct. It appeared dark and deserted.

  In there, the pain would die.

  He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to gauge the sanity of what he was about to do. And then he stepped onto the path.

  As he approached the church, the drums banging inside his skull were joined by the high-pitched sound of the Cruciatus. As he reached the door, the two sensations became evenly matched.

  He reached for the handle, turned it, and found the door unlocked. Surprised and suspicious, he opened it slowly. The church was dark inside except for two security lights high in the rafters and a row of candles burning at the far end by the altar. It appeared to be empty, but it was hard to tell. Christian felt his eyes failing once again.

  He hesitated, but pain and blindness were preferable to a craving that he could no longer resist. He pushed through the door and stepped inside.

  The white noise rose up, and Christian pressed forward until it drowned out the pounding drumbeat from the forest. He stopped and squinted, blinded as if looking at sunlight on the snow. He felt around with his hand, touched the edge of a pew, and sat down.

  He put his hands on the row in front of him, steadying himself and fighting against the waves of anguish that washed over him. Strangely, there was relief in this pain, like a muscle long cramped finally easing. Christian soaked it in, his eyes closed and unmoving. He lost all track of time, until a voice broke the silence.

  “You’re not a member of the faith.”

  Christian straightened. The voice had spoken quietly from behind him. He turned his head slowly.

  Two rows back and across the aisle, he could just make out a figure in black.

  “No,” Christian said. “I’m not one of you.”

  “Do you know who I am?” the figure asked.

  “Are you a priest?”

  “Once,” the man said. “Now I lead the order. My name is Simon Lathatch.”

  Christian tried not to react. But it was almost impossible that this man did not know what he was.

  “And what name do you go by?” Simon asked.

  “I’m called Christian now,” he said.

  “Really? Do you mock us?”

  “I didn’t choose the name,” Christian said. “It chose me.”

  The priest looked at him skeptically.

  “A dying soldier asked that I take it,” Christian said. “He was an honorable man. He had no children, no brothers or sisters. He wanted his name to live on.”

  “And you needed a new identity,” Simon suggested.

  “I did.”

  “I see.”

  “If it bothers you,” Christian said, “call me by another name. I was known as Tiberius once.”

  “Who am I to decide what you should be called?” the old man said. “Perhaps the name is correct. You are here, despite the pain this place must cause you.”

  Christian wondered if that would prove to be a grave mistake.

  “In a way, I envy you,” Simon added. “I have faith, but have not seen or felt what you must know firsthand—the power of God. I would be interested to know how it feels.”

  Christian saw no reason to hide the truth. “Blinding noise,” he said. “Blinding light, so bright it hurts the eyes.”

  Simon’s eyebrows went up. “And yet, you’ve chosen twice to expose yourself to such blindness, to risk what I would have believed impossible. What is it that compels you to seek out our holy ground? What do you expect to find here? Or do you think us so weak?”

  Christian blinked. It was difficult to move, as the slightest effort was painful. He tried not to show it. He wondered how many hunters might be hidden in the blinding light. They were probably all around him.

  “I don’t find you to be weak,” Christian said. “Nor do I find your order to be particularly righteous. I’ve seen the pain you cause, the arrogance and hypocrisy. You talk of love, but your history is dominated by cruelty and murder.”

  He got the sense that Simon was staring at him, not in anger to what he’d said, but more like Christian was a curiosity, something to be studied and pondered. Instead of signaling the attack that Christian assumed was coming at any moment, Simon Lathatch took a deep breath and looked to the altar and the crucifix above it.

  “Our hands are not bloodless,” he admitted. “In fact, they are drenched in it. I often wonder how many tears Christ must have shed while watching his children stray.”

  The surprise Christian felt at hearing this admission could not be measured.

  “Nevertheless,” Simon continued, “we’re not as we once were. We have evolved. The Pope is no longer a king with lands and desires. Our concerns are for spiritual welfare. We have returned to our task of saving souls. And while the number is unknown, the truth is your kind have damned millions throughout their time. Given the chance, you’d spread your curse like a virus, to the whole world if you could.”

  Christian struggled with the accusation, partially because he had no way to refute it and partially because he knew it was Drake’s plan. For many centuries, he’d helped Drake to do just that. Christian himself had turned many to the darkness in his attempt to assist Drake. He wondered if they looked at him from the fires of hell now, waiting for him to join them.

  “That isn’t my way,” he said. “I too have evolved.”

  Simon seemed to accept that. “Then I ask again,” he said, “what do you seek? What does a demon look for in the house of God?”

  Christian hesitated. The answer seemed absurd, but it was the only thing he could come up with amid the blinding light, and it was also the truth. “Peace,” he said finally. “In a way you could never possibly understand.”

  “Perhaps I understand better than you know,” Simon replied. He moved to a spot directly across from him, pausing. He changed the subject, speaking more quickly and more directly. “You are the one who fought Drakos,” he said. “Tell me why.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “It is rare enough for your kind to leave humans unharmed, but we have never seen one of you challenge your master. You bow down to each other like animals, the alpha always getting its way. Yet you fought him, and more surprisingly, you still live.”

  “Our world is not as simple as you’d like to believe.”

  “Do you seek to usurp him?”

  “No,” Christian said, growing angry at the game this man seemed to be playing, and stood abruptly. “Why are you asking me these things?”

  Simon stepped back. Christian saw that he was unarmed. And he was old and slightly lame. His right arm seemed withered.

  “Where are the hunters?” Christian asked.

  “Out looking for you, and for Drakos, and for the dozens of Nosferatu who now run amuck in this city. You must know you’re not alone here.”

  “But you are,” Christian said, gues
sing at a fact he could not be sure of. “And yet, you’re not afraid. Why?”

  “Because I believe your coming here was not by chance. Because I believe you wandered into this particular church, on this particular night, at this exact hour, for a reason. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I feel you’re here not to fight with us, but to face Drake once again.”

  The surprises continued. Christian wondered how much he should say. It seemed this aging hunter was astute and farseeing. He was also cagey and most likely had yet to reveal all his thoughts.

  Christian chose to remain silent. Simon did the same, shifting his weight and leaning against the back of the wooden bench. The old pew creaked and groaned. It was tired and worn down, like the former priest himself.

  “I know of the prophecy,” Simon added. “But the Midnight Sun, shining above us now, is slowly burning out. The newspapers say we won’t see its light more than a day or two longer.”

  “You know of the prophecy,” Christian said. “But do you believe what it promises—forgiveness for my kind?”

  “Yes,” Simon replied plainly.

  “Then why do you fight us?”

  “Don’t fool yourself,” Simon replied. “Most of your kind would not take forgiveness even if it were offered.”

  Christian didn’t dispute that. “But some would,” he said. “I would. If this angel has come from God, those who would accept the gift should not be denied its mercy.”

  “And what would you do to bring it to them?”

  Christian hesitated. He remembered what Elsa had said. His death could bring nothing to pass, but his life…Perhaps his existence, even in this twisted form, could have meaning.

  The ex-priest came to the point. “Would you destroy Drakos?”

  He nodded. Of course he would. That, he’d do for nothing.

  “Can you?” Simon asked.

  This was a deeper question. If Elsa was right, he didn’t have the power within him to do so. Four times, they’d fought. Four times, Christian had barely escaped with his life. “My powers come from him. I cannot overcome him.”

  “But you don’t give in to him,” Simon noted.

  “My will, at least, is my own.”

  Simon nodded thoughtfully. His gaze dropped. “We have also failed to destroy him.”

  “So then he cannot be destroyed,” Christian said. “There must be another way.”

  Simon looked up. He seemed to come to some decision. “We have a weapon.”

  “What kind of weapon?”

  “The greatest relic of our order,” Simon explained. “Its holy power will weaken Drake merely by its close proximity to him. He will feel like you feel right now, but worse. If we’re right, it will affect him far more than any other Nosferatu, including you.”

  Christian knew the order had relics and old-world items, some of incredible power and strength; the Staff of Constantine was one, the sword of St. George another. But he could see no reason for Drake to fear these any more than Christian would.

  “What weapon are you talking about?”

  Simon took a deep breath. “A sword. Forged with the nails that pierced the hands of Christ. Like the pain you feel now, or that of the sunlight, it will bring agony to Drake. You entered the vault in Cologne. Surely you know the origin of your curse. Surely you must understand why this artifact would affect him more than any other.”

  Christian froze, his mind turning in circles of wonder and disbelief. Yes, he could understand it. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “The champion of our order should wield it against him,” Simon said. “But I’m too old and worn-out. I could not stand before Drakos even with this weapon in my hand.”

  “So give it to another.”

  Simon shook his head. “The one who would take it stands at the edge of his own abyss. Power and its very nature obsess him. If the sword were in his hands, I fear to think what might occur. Drakos would destroy him, or take his mind, or turn him and all he knows against us. At the very least, he would fail in a different way than I, but just as disastrously. You, on the other hand—you who’ve set foot on holy ground and lived, you who’ve faced Drakos and survived—my heart tells me you could wield it like no other and bring a final end to him and this dark curse.”

  Christian could barely focus. The request seemed like madness. He and the Church were mortal foes. And yet, they seemed to have a common enemy now.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re suggesting?”

  Simon nodded. “They will banish me for this,” he said, “but I have peace with the decision. If you would have it and use it in your clash with Drakos, I will place the Sword of God in your hands.”

  Christian did not know what to make of it. It was too new an idea, too radical. He thought of Elsa and Ida, both of whom had suggested he must find another way. Could this be it? He thought of the danger to them and to others and to the world at large. If it was possible, even slightly possible, how could he refuse?

  He tried to get his bearings and clear his head. He thought of looking for Elsa again, seeking her out and asking her advice. But even if he could find her in time, she wouldn’t choose him.

  The sound of latches unlocking at the rear of the church reached him.

  “The hunters return,” Simon explained. “You must leave.”

  Christian wanted to speak further.

  “You must go now,” Simon whispered sharply, “or they will destroy you.”

  He had no choice. He began to move to the front of the church. His head was spinning from what he’d been offered as much as it rang with the pain and noise of the holy light.

  As he reached the front door, Simon spoke again.

  “If you accept, return two nights from now at midnight. I will leave a single light on, which you will see. The outside lights will be dark. If anything is not as I say, do not come inside.”

  Christian nodded and stepped out through the door. The calling from the marshlands returned, but something new had entered his soul: hope, given to him by the most unlikely of allies; hope that there was a way to end this madness; hope that he could destroy Drake and save those who would choose to be saved. It filled his mind and dulled the drumbeat that fought to lure him away.

  He moved quickly down the street, disappearing into the shadows, never realizing that his conversation with Simon had been overheard.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE AIR was crisp and cool at 5:30 in the morning as Kate Pfeiffer walked across the ramp at Washington National Airport. The noise and bustle of the airport were beginning to rise, and the unmistakable smell of jet fuel scented the air.

  Kate walked with a purpose, the heels of her shoes clicking hard on the tarmac. She carried a briefcase in one hand, a large cup of coffee in the other.

  If she ever thought about it, Kate would have pegged dawn and the first light as her favorite time of day. At this hour, the ledger of progress was still a blank sheet yet to be scribbled on with wasted meetings and hours spent chasing dead-end leads. At this hour, it seemed anything could happen. Today they could catch a break. Today they could bust the case wide open. Today had limitless possibilities.

  And while most days ended in failure, leaving only grim determination to keep going, that single thought always returned: Tomorrow could be different. To keep ahead of her, the bad guys had to win every day. She only had to win once. Today seemed like it might just be that day.

  Billy Ray caught up to her, huffing as he tried to match her pace. “Easy, Kate,” he said. “The plane’s not leaving without us.”

  She dialed the pace back a notch. “Just anxious,” she said.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Didn’t anyone brief you?”

  “Kim Tan called me at four o’clock and told me to be here by five. He also said you’d catch me up on the details. I’m guessing we got a break.”

  “Yes and no,” she said, thinking how everything in this case was one step forward, one step back.


  “All hell’s broken loose in New Orleans. A dozen people have gone missing in the last three days. On a tip from a junkie, NOPD checked out an abandoned house in the Ninth Ward. Since Katrina, FEMA has never let people back into the area, so it’s become a ghost town and haven for drugs and crime. Inside, they found six bodies, all matching the MO in our case.”

  “Six?” Billy Ray said.

  She nodded.

  The number was shockingly high. They’d never found more than two in a single place.

  They reached the jet, climbed the stairs, and flashed their IDs to the pilots. Moments later, with Kate and Billy Ray strapped in, the jet began to move.

  “They’ve ID’d three bodies from their prints,” Kate said.

  “What about the others?”

  “Nothing yet, but New Orleans PD can’t do too much because I asked them not to.”

  Billy got that suspicious look in his eyes. “Why?”

  “They think the bodies were dumped on different nights. That means the killer keeps coming back to the same place. So I told them to leave everything exactly as it was—no police tape, no presence. All they’ve done is slip in a medical examiner for a quick look.”

  He shook his head. “Kate, you can’t do this. You can’t leave bodies rotting in some house.”

  “They’re going to come back, Billy, I know it.”

  “They?”

  “It can’t be one person. It’s got to be a cult, or at least a group of people with the same sick ideas. Maybe even our missing executive from Boston.”

  Billy Ray glanced out the window. “It doesn’t make sense. She’s probably making a million dollars a year. Even if she was involved, could she really be stupid enough to dodge a bullet up here and then immediately go on the rampage down there?”

  “How many times have you seen a defendant walk, only to do something worse months later? Sometimes dodging a bullet makes people think they’re invincible.”

  He nodded. They’d both seen that happen plenty of times.

  “You’ve got a camera team on the way, I assume?” Billy asked.