Of Masques and Martyrs

by Christopher Golden

  For the first time in his life, the world turned against Will Cody. He was reviled instead of applauded. It had been that way for more than a year now, and Allison had come to believe firmly that it was killing him, destroying her lover as surely as some horrid disease.

  Hannibal’s betrayal had not only changed the world, but it had changed them all individually as well. Allison had abandoned her life as a broadcast journalist to disappear into the shadow of America. The world knew her lover was a vampire, of course. So Hannibal had destroyed her life as well. Living in fear changed her priorities, that was for certain.

  Her generation had never known what war really meant. But Allison knew now. War was living, squeezing life from every second.

  Will had become more serious, more intense, over the past year. That had been the whole purpose of this trip, to relax, to forget Hannibal, at least for a little while. They’d reasoned that in places like North Platte and Cedar Mountain, there wouldn’t be any shadows, nor any vampires. Except Will.

  It had helped some. But not enough. Allison still felt as though her presence was the only thing that could make Will happy. That was a lot of responsibility for a woman in any relationship, but living on the run, in the middle of a guerilla war, it was even harder. The hardest part was not becoming just as dependent on him as he was on her. It might already be too late, she thought. Nothing mattered to her the way Will did. Allison didn’t know what she would do without him.

  Then there was Peter. She didn’t know if it was his new familiarity with sorcery, or the unfathomable time he had spent away from anyone who cared for him, but Octavian had set himself at a distance from everyone. He still had a certain nobility and charm, but his warmth seemed to have disappeared. Except with George Marcopoulos, the aged human doctor who had been Peter’s friend through it all.

  “You ready?” Will asked, his fingers lightly running through her hair. She wore it cut fashionably shorter now, at shoulder length.

  “So we get breakfast after all?” she asked with a smile.

  “I suppose you deserve it,” Will replied archly.

  “Suppose?” Allison cried, feigning insult. “You wound me, sir.”

  Will leaned in and kissed her then. For a long moment after, he rested his forehead against hers. Then he sighed and withdrew, eyes closed a moment and with a tiny smirk on his face. Allison began to reach behind his head to pull him close for another kiss, but Will waggled a finger in front of her eyes.

  “Now, now, young lady,” he said sternly. “Let’s not start that again, or we’ll be out here all morning.”

  Allison laughed, summoned up her strength, and with one mighty shove pushed Will off the hood of the Jeep. With the speed that was a trademark of his kind, he could easily have turned and landed on his feet. Instead he offered her a look of mock hurt and despair and plummeted to the hard-packed dirt road with a grunt.

  “Come on, old man,” Allison said as she slid off the hood. “I’m getting hungry.”

  As she opened the passenger door, she saw Will pop up just beyond the Jeep, chuckling to himself. Sweet relief washed over her. For once, he was relaxed. He’d forgotten his troubles, just for a moment.

  Inside the Jeep, the cellular phone trilled. Allison frowned and looked down at it. When she looked back up at Will, the smile had vanished from his face. At the third ring, he started for the driver’s door.

  “Peter knows this is supposed to be a vacation, right?” Allison asked, forcing levity into her voice.

  Will shot her a glance that she read all too easily. Peter Octavian was the only person with their cell phone number. He knew how important this trip was to both of them. If he was calling now, it could only be bad news.

  He reached for the phone and flipped it open; Allison watched his eyes as he said, “Cody.” After a few seconds, Will winced and began to grimace, and Allison began to gnaw her lip and rock a bit, almost unconsciously, as she wondered what had prompted the call.

  “We’re on our way now,” Will said, and slapped the cell phone shut before dropping it on the console between the front seats.

  He hung his head, and Allison just waited. Finally, Cody looked up at her.

  “Rolf and Erika were in New York trying to track Hannibal. They were supposed to check in last night but nobody’s heard from them,” Will explained.

  Allison let that sink in for a moment. Will seemed so angry, so anxious, she wanted to assuage his fears. Erika they didn’t know all that well, but Rolf was a blood-brother to both Will and Peter—they shared the same vampiric father—and meant a great deal to both of them. To the entire coven, actually.

  “Well, he’s alive, anyway,” she said. “If the worst had happened, you and Peter would both have felt his passing.”

  Will wouldn’t look her in the eye.

  “What?” she asked. “You didn’t feel anything, did you?”

  He shook his head, and when he looked up, there were tiny tears of blood on Will Cody’s face.

  “No,” he replied. “But I reached out for him just now—Peter’s already tried—just to check and make certain he’s all right. See if he needed help. And there’s nothing there, Alli. Nothing.”

  “How . . . how can that be?” she asked, horrified.

  “I don’t know,” he growled, and slapped his right palm on the side of the Jeep. “I can’t even guess what it means, because my only guess is that he’s dead and somehow we couldn’t hear him. But I’ll tell you this much, I’m going to find out.”

  “We’re going to find out,” she said. “I’m going to New York with you.”

  Will nodded slightly, then looked up at her.

  “Get in.”

  Nikki swam, disoriented, through unconsciousness. Just above the surface, she could hear garbled, fluid voices. She swam toward them as if toward the sunlight streaming down through the waves. When her eyes flickered open in the dimly lit room, her mouth felt parched and she couldn’t focus her vision.

  “. . . drugged . . .” she managed to say.

  She was startled when the face of a white-haired old man burst into her line of sight. Nikki blinked several times, then realized the old man was speaking to her. His voice seemed familiar, though she didn’t recognize him, and she wondered how long she’d been unconscious.

  “Ah, you’re finally awake. You’ll feel better in a moment,” he promised. “Your arm will heal nicely, by the way. It wasn’t even a full break.”

  The old man went on like that for a bit. It took her clouded mind a moment to realize he was a doctor.

  “How . . . how long have I been out?” she asked, voice hoarse from disuse.

  “Just since last night,” the doctor said. “Perhaps twelve hours or so, but that was partially because of the medication. You’re going to be just fine, Miss Wydra. Really.”

  She nodded slightly. Then, belatedly, Nikki noticed how odd her surroundings were. She lay in a king-size cherry-wood sleigh bed, in a room with little decoration—yet enough to show that it was unlike any hospital room she’d ever seen.

  “Is this—” she began, then had to clear her dry throat. “Is this a hospital?”

  The doctor smiled. If he was a doctor. He shook his head slowly.

  “No, miss,” he said kindly. “Peter was concerned about your safety at a hospital. That’s why he brought you here to the convent.”

  Convent? Nikki was about to ask for clarification, but she didn’t get the chance.

  “That’s enough, George,” a low, commanding voice said from the doorway.

  Nikki turned to see the man—Peter?—who had saved her life the night before. He stood at the threshold of the room, his hair and goatee well groomed, his smile white and wide. Handsome and intelligent and soft-spoken and kind in a way that so few men were. Those were all her impressions of him from the night before, from the minutes before the . . . attack, and from the chaos itself.

  She didn’t smile back, though. Instead, Nikki shivered and turned away, pulling hers
elf up into a fetal position. Her heart raced the way it had when she was a little girl afraid of the dark. The sun shone warmly through the window of the bedroom. She wondered if it was his bedroom, and closed her eyes against the light.

  “Miss Wydra?” the old doctor said, and she fought the urge to block her ears.

  Peter was an illusion of a good and decent man. A mirage. Reality was as deadly and unforgiving as the desert. Reality was, he was a dead man. A monster. A vampire, who preyed on human beings to survive long after nature and God had decided his time was up.

  “It’s all right, George,” she heard him—it—say. “Nikki’s got a lot to deal with right now.”

  Then he was gone. She didn’t turn to watch him go, but she knew he had gone just the same. For an instant, she regretted having been so cold to him, after he’d done nothing but enjoy her music—and then save her life. But he wasn’t even . . . human.

  “Miss Wydra?” the doctor ventured.

  A chilling thought struck her, made her breath catch in her throat. But she had to know.

  “Are you—Are you like him?” she asked, still not turning to face him.

  The doctor chuckled softly.

  “No, dear,” he said. “There’s really nobody like Peter. But I do know what you mean. And no, I’m just an old man, a mortal man. I’m not a shadow.”

  “A vampire, you mean,” she corrected, her voice heavy with indictment.

  When she heard the old man’s heavy sigh, she did finally turn around. He looked worn, and tired, and far more decrepit than her initial impression had implied.

  “I understand,” he said, and she stared at him quizzically.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I understand,” he repeated. “How you feel. How you all feel. But I’ve known Peter Octavian since you were in grade school, young lady. He isn’t a vampire.”

  She stared even harder at that.

  “None of them are,” he added.

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?” she asked, angry now.

  “You’d be surprised,” he said, and finally a small smile returned to the old man’s face. “You can learn more later, if you’re so inclined, but what it comes down to is this: there is no such thing as a vampire. Not the way you think of them. But these people, these undead, shapeshifters, whatever you want to call them . . . they are the root of all the legends.

  “And they’re at war with one another.

  “It’s a civil war, you understand,” the old man went on. “Ever since Salzburg, when the United Nations and part of the Shadow Justice System fought together, and against one another, it’s been a war. The lunatic in the White House isn’t helping matters any, either.

  “You see, the world is changing because, for far too many centuries, the shadows lived the myth. And when the myth was exposed, some of them didn’t want to change. Some of them—sadly, most of them—liked the old ways. Liked the power of terror and the taste of death. Hannibal leads them, now, and his ‘family’ is spreading across the globe. The cities where people fear the dark, his power has done this.

  “But New Orleans is different, you understand. For this city is where Peter Octavian makes his home. Octavian’s coven is vastly different. I am human. I don’t want immortality; perhaps I don’t have the courage for it. But I am a member. There are a lot of humans in the coven, people who want to work with Peter’s shadows, to aid them.”

  It was all too much for Nikki; she shook her head, shivered, turned away. On the nightstand was a small pitcher of water and a glass. Slowly she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Nikki gritted her teeth against the pain in her belly and arm, but she tried not to let her pain show.

  After she’d had half a glass of water, she spoke again. Without turning, she asked, “Why? Why would you want to help them? Even if they aren’t like the others, they are still vampires. I’m sorry, but they are. And they drink blood, don’t they?”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” George said, obviously beginning to lose his patience. “But you should rest. Maybe later we can talk about it more. Suffice it to say that Peter’s coven is the only thing standing in the way of Hannibal eventually turning the entire human race into slaves or, even worse, cattle.

  “I know it’s a lot to handle all at once, but he’s a good man, Miss Wydra. If he weren’t, do you think you’d still be alive? Maybe you ought to think about that a bit,” the old doctor said.

  “I’m Nikki,” she said quickly, before he could leave. It was almost an apology, offering him her first name. Almost, but not quite.

  “I’m Dr. Marcopoulos,” the old man replied. “But please, call me George.”

  “Will you come back, George?” she asked, feeling very lost.

  “Of course. I’ll just let you sleep a bit more, and then we can talk again. You have a lot of deciding to do. Old Antoine’s is gone, I’m afraid. And Tsumi, the woman who attacked you, is still out there in the city somewhere. If she thinks you mean something to Peter, she’ll be looking for you.”

  “Wonderful,” Nikki sneered, and the sarcasm somehow made her feel better. “But I don’t understand why she would think I meant anything to your friend.”

  George smiled warmly, and for a moment it was almost as though he were the grandfather who’d died when she was too young to remember.

  “Ah, but you fail to see the obvious,” he said. “Peter has shut out pretty much everyone since the traumatic experiences he had in Salzburg and in—and before that battle. Everyone with the exception of myself, for which I am grateful.

  “But somehow, you do mean something to him. Your music does, at least. That’s why he kept going back to the club. He hoped to meet you last night, though I’m sure the horror of the circumstances weren’t what he had in mind,” the old man said.

  Nikki remembered the way Peter had looked at her, when she’d thought he was just another man. Remembered his smiling eyes, and the easy intelligence with which he carried himself. Remembered, with an embarassed flush, that she’d walked offstage and been about to approach him at the bar, when all hell broke loose. But she couldn’t help also remembering the killing and the fire and the screaming. And that he wasn’t just another man. Wasn’t a man at all, despite everything George had said.

  “Is this his room?” she asked.

  The doctor looked at her oddly, cocking his head slightly.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, it is.”

  Nikki glanced around the room. A large cherry wardrobe stood against the far wall. On a small table in front of the window was an array of flowers that looked several days old. Not for her, then. Just because he liked them? The walls were bare but for two large paintings. One was an apparently unremarkable seascape, the kind of thing she had seen bedraggled fishermen working on in beach parking lots her whole life.

  The other was an extraordinary portrait of a woman grieving over the body of a child, a domed cathedral in the distance. The eyes reminded her of something by El Greco, a painter who could give more life to a face on canvas than anyone else ever had. But, of course, this one couldn’t be. . .

  “It was a gift,” George said admiringly, and Nikki turned to him again. “It’s one of my favorites as well.”

  “A gift?” she asked.

  “Certainly,” the old man replied. “The Greek still paints, you know. Well, I’m sure you didn’t know, actually. But he does.”

  “Oh, my God,” Nikki said and put a hand to her forehead. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  “You should rest now, anyway,” George said and went to the door. “I’m not being a very responsible doctor, am I? Try to sleep, and I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  Nikki glanced around the room again. At the paintings. At the bed. Finally, at the flowers.

  “George,” she said, just as he was about to turn away.

  “Yes, Nikki?”

  “It was . . . very kind of Peter,” she said. “To bring me here. To let me s
tay here.”

  The doctor beamed with pleasure and relief.

  “I’ll tell him you said so,” he replied, and then he was gone.

  And Nikki was alone in a house full of monsters. Monsters who loved art and flowers and music, who were gentle and kind, and who killed without hesitation when necessary.

  Nikki tried to go back to sleep, but she couldn’t push the image of Peter’s eyes from her mind. His eyes, and the eyes of the grieving mother in the extraordinary painting on the wall. And she realized, just as she finally drifted off, that despite the smile and the joy she saw in his eyes, there was a horrible sorrow there as well. Like the mother in the painting, he had seen too much.

  She dreamed of him. And in her dream, she comforted him.

  3

  I had a dream last night. . . .

  The whole world was standing still,

  and the moon was turning red.

  —THE NEVILLE BROTHERS, “Fire and Brimstone”

  IN HIS DREAM, THE YEAR IS 1199 AND KUROmaku is a samurai in the service of the shogun Yoritomo. But the dream does not progress along the same path as reality. That was the year the shogun died, and the year Kuromaku gave up his blood to the shadows, became a vampire, to take vengeance upon Yoritomo’s killers: the shogun’s own sons.

  In his dream, Kuromaku is killing Yoritomo himself. Stealing through the darkness into his home and tearing the black-robed man’s throat out with his teeth and drinking down the life-blood of the most powerful man in Japan. When he wakes, Kuromaku will know that the false dream reflects eight-hundred-year-old guilt for not protecting the shogun. In truth, after the shogun’s murder, he went rogue, became a ronin, and an immortal as well. He savaged the shogun’s duplicitous sons and turned the shogunate over to Yoritomo’s father-in-law.

  In his dream, he is in Japan. In reality, he has not returned to his native land since leaving eight centuries earlier. As a ronin, he wandered the nations of the world, serving no one master but fighting and killing in honorable wars, and for righteous causes, down through the years.