Of Masques and Martyrs

by Christopher Golden

  “Where’s Rolf, Erika?” he asked, taking another step back.

  For the first time, Allison noticed the tension that had descended among them. She glanced up at Will, saw something in his eyes, and took a step away from Erika herself.

  “Will?” she asked. “What is—”

  “Rolf?” Erika interrupted. “Well fuck, Will, I figured you already knew. He’s dead.”

  “Jesus!” Allison said, bringing a hand to her mouth. “How?”

  Will just watched Erika. Her face was calm, almost amused. But there was a pain in her eyes. He didn’t understand the dichotomy.

  “Very dead, actually,” Erika continued. “Two silver bullets in the head, execution style. Hannibal has a fondness for Martin Scorsese movies, apparently. Wants to track Scorsese down and turn him, I think.”

  Erika’s eyes twitched left, toward the Avis counter across the hall. That decided it for Will. He spun, grabbed Allison, and got her moving away from Erika instantly. He gave her a shove, propelling her along the corridor so that she nearly fell, blond hair tumbling over her face. But she didn’t fall, and that was the key.

  “Run!” he roared.

  Allison had been through enough with him not to argue. She ran.

  In the torn jeans she’d had on the night before and a Tulane University sweatshirt she’d borrowed from Peter’s closet, Nikki Wydra stood and stared out the bedroom window. She hugged herself tightly, partly because it was a bit chilly in the convent, and partly because she was scared.

  Not terrified, though she might well have been. But scared and excited and anxious all at once. She looked at the lights of New Orleans in the distance and realized that the safety it had once represented to her was an illusion. Not completely, of course. But if George was telling the truth, and she had no reason to think he was lying, that meant that nobody was safe.

  A civil war between vampires. Oh, my God, she thought, what that could mean. The horror of such a thing was almost unthinkable. But the world had survived the unthinkable before.

  Nikki thought about Reggie, who’d hired her to work at Old Antoine’s to begin with. And Pepper, her best friend from high school. She’d had a fight with Pepper two years ago and had spoken with her only once since then. She thought about her father, Craig, who’d taken early retirement and moved to La Jolla, California, to relax and “watch the waves come in and the girls go by,” he’d said.

  As terrifying as the evening news had become, for them and most of the other people Nikki cared about it was no more real, no more a threat to their own existence than a war in some third world country.

  They had no idea. Just from the little George Marcopoulos had told her, Nikki had a sense that unless something changed dramatically, this horrible civil war and its aftermath were going to be just the beginning to a much darker world.

  That was the irony. She was in the enemy camp. The convent was filled with vampires, shadows, whatever they called themselves. And yet, she felt profoundly that she was safer here than almost anywhere else in the world. Certainly safer than out on the streets of New Orleans tonight. The previous night’s events had already shown that the more savage tribe of vampires was beginning to cross over into what she presumed was Peter Octavian’s territory.

  As she thought of his name, she hugged herself again and glanced around his bedroom. One wan light was all she had to keep the darkness at bay, but even in the dim illumination it cast, the room felt comfortable. Its decoration was Spartan, but warm.

  Human.

  That was what had taken her off guard at first, and again when she’d woken just before dark. It was the bedroom of a man with good taste and simple needs. But a man, without question. It was not the lair of some blood-ravenous monster, stalking the night. On the bedside table were several items she hadn’t noticed before: an antique silver hairbrush, a small photograph of an attractive blond woman, and a hardcover book, The Life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  A man.

  Behind her, someone began to sing.

  “Come on, into my kitchen . . .”

  Nikki turned, startled, and stumbled slightly against the window. Fortunately, it didn’t break. Peter Octavian stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his eyes closed as he sang softly. Badly.

  “It’s going to be raining outdoors,” he finished.

  Nikki stared.

  Peter opened his eyes and his mouth stretched into the same lopsided grin that had attracted her at the club. He really was a handsome man. His hair and goatee were cropped close and gave him a look that was both rugged and somehow neat. He was tall and thin, but still muscular. For the first time, she noticed his eyes. They were a stunning green, a deep, almost artificial color that she’d never seen before. They couldn’t be real, she thought. Maybe contacts . . . or maybe just whatever Octavian wanted them to be.

  “You’re still afraid,” he said matter-of-factly, and the grin went away.

  She wanted it back.

  “No,” she said quickly, snapping out of the defensive stance she had unconsciously taken, straightening up, trying to loosen up and failing miserably.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Yes, I’m afraid.”

  “You’d have to be a fool or a little crazy not to be,” Peter said gravely. “But I promise you, Nikki, as long as you’re here with us, you’ll be safe.”

  She stared at him still, unable to respond. Nikki wanted to take offense at his so intimate use of her name. But that would be foolish. It was the dawn of the twenty-first century. Nobody called each other Mr. and Mrs. anymore. Nobody under fifty. But coming from him, it sounded so . . . personal. Nikki realized she liked it.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  “Oh,” she said nervously, “I mean, of course you can. It’s your room, isn’t it?”

  Nikki let her auburn hair fall across her eyes, hiding behind her long mane a moment. It was a habit of hers. But she’d spent enough time hiding as a girl, and had vowed years ago to stop. She tilted her head back, letting the hair fall to her shoulders and meeting Peter’s gaze with all the strength she could muster.

  He stepped into the room, and she had a moment to think about that old myth, the one about vampires having to be invited into a home. But that was foolish. This was Peter’s own room.

  “I . . . borrowed your sweatshirt,” she said, at a loss for anything else.

  “It looks nice on you,” he said.

  She wanted to snicker, to think of it as the kind of bullshit line guys just couldn’t help but spout. But coming from Peter, it seemed different. He meant it. How he could think the baggy sweatshirt did anything for her appearance was beyond her, but maybe when you lived forever, your standards changed.

  Nikki actually laughed, then caught herself, brought a hand to her mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, smiled again, then shook her head as if she could shake it away.

  “Not at all,” Peter said. “I’m glad you can laugh. Sometimes it isn’t easy. Laughter is a gift.”

  He came further into the room, and this time Nikki didn’t feel the urge to withdraw. Peter sat down in a black wooden chair, where George had been sitting earlier. He leaned back, comfortably, as if he spent a lot of time in that chair.

  Nikki sat on the edge of the bed, both feet on the ground. She’d never been so aware of the distance separating her from another person. It was like being in the room with a nuclear bomb, she thought. Not that it was going to explode, but that it had the potential to destroy her in an instant. Still, such feelings were at war inside her with other, more curious thoughts and emotions.

  Peter’s presence made her feel safe. His easy smile and natural confidence were winning, attractive.

  “I’m told you have some questions I should answer,” he said. “George seems concerned that you might run off and get into trouble. Unfortunate as it may be, and I’m sorry because it’s mostly my fault, Tsumi will probably be watching for you.”

  “Run off?” Nikki repeated.
She glanced out the window at the lights of New Orleans again. Thought of Tsumi and the other vampires from the club. “Not much chance of that,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, where I’m going to go, but I’m starting to think the farther from a major city I can get, the better chance I have of staying alive.”

  Peter leaned forward now, fingers stroking his goatee as he looked at her intensely. It made her uncomfortable, but in a way, she liked it also.

  “You’re wise to want to leave,” Peter told her. “But I want you to know that you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. We’re a family here. We call it a coven, but that’s only to illustrate the ties that bind us. You’ll be protected as long as you’re here.”

  “I’m kind of used to protecting myself,” Nikki said, surprising herself with the tiny sting of angry pride in her voice.

  Peter smiled. “Of course. I can see that. But the world is changing, and I thought you should know what we’re about here.”

  “What are you about?” she asked.

  “Living,” he replied simply. “Surviving. Trying to live with what we are, trying to stop the vampires from killing us, or from spreading any further. We’ve done a poor job of that, I’m afraid.”

  “Vampires,” she said, chewing her lip slightly. “I understand, and I think I can even accept, that your people here aren’t like the rest. But I guess what I don’t understand is why.”

  Peter smiled again.

  “I’m not sure you’ll believe me,” he said.

  “I think I’ve got a pretty open mind,” she said, gesturing to indicate the room around them, the convent itself, and the indisputable truth of its residents. “Try me.”

  So he told her. About the first vampire, a claim that challenged her childhood faith, but made a great deal of sense. About a war with the Catholic church that lasted nearly two thousand years. About the Venice Jihad, and how for a time even the most savage of shadows were forced to behave with the spotlight of the world’s media shining down on them. And about Hannibal, and his quest to return to the past. To the terror and the dark mythology of another age.

  “And no matter how badly the U.N. and the president want to destroy us all, they can hardly be expected to track and kill a race of beings who can be literally anything,” he said.

  Nikki only stared at him.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Tell me more about yourself.”

  “My father was the last emperor of Byzantium,” Peter said proudly. “Though he never acknowledged having sired me. The night before Constantinople fell to the Turks, I met a man, a shadow, who offered me a way to have vengeance upon the enemy. They wouldn’t be able to kill me, he promised. But I could kill hundreds, thousands of them.

  “How could I say no?”

  Peter held his hands up, a small, sad smile on his face, as if part of him regretted that decision of long ago.

  “History was never my best subject. What year was that?” Nikki asked. When the answer came, she wasn’t prepared for it.

  “1453.”

  “Fourteen . . .” She put a hand to her forehead and let her hair fall in front of her eyes again. “I don’t think I can handle this after all.”

  “Actually,” Peter said, “I think you’re doing remarkably well. I suppose when a person’s life is in danger, it becomes a lot easier to accept the incredible.”

  “I’d like to know more,” Nikki said, surprised at her curiosity—and at her own candor. “About you. About all of you, but about your own personal history as well.”

  “Anything you like,” Peter replied. “But it’s past nine o’clock, and you really haven’t eaten anything since last night. Why don’t we have dinner first? I know a little place just off Jackson Square with the greatest jambalaya in town, and they do these Creole boiled potatoes that are amazing.”

  Nikki blinked several times. “Are you . . . ?” she began, but let the question go unfinished. “Never mind,” she said. “Just, uh, give me a few minutes, okay?”

  “When you’re ready, I’ll be in the foyer,” he replied.

  Peter had already turned to go, flashing her a smile, when Nikki called his name.

  “Hmm?”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked. “I mean, you saved my life, but that doesn’t make you responsible for me. There are a lot of people in this city who could use your help. So why . . . I guess, why me?”

  Peter cocked his head slightly to one side. He stood with one hand on the door frame, about to leave. After a moment, he raised his eyebrows and looked over at her.

  “I love your voice,” he said softly. “The way you sing, the way you talk. You have a kind of weary wisdom, a warmth and humor that somebody your age has no right to. It’s extremely . . . provocative. I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Nikki didn’t reply.

  Peter shrugged a bit, his smile twisting further, a bit of irony there.

  “You asked,” he said. Then he turned and left.

  In the rush of confusion that filled her in his absence, Nikki was surprised to find herself blushing.

  “We’re not going about this the right way,” Joe said suddenly.

  He stood just outside the Café du Monde at the edge of Jackson Square. Kevin was there, and he reached out to rest his right hand on Joe’s shoulder then, trying to alleviate his lover’s frustration, or at least to share it. Joe offered a weak smile, but shook his head at the same time. He was at a loss.

  They had searched all day, with a much larger group. After dark, they’d split up into teams of four, trying to scout the major tourist spots. It was only logical that Tsumi and any other of Hannibal’s clan who had arrived in New Orleans would hunt in the most highly populated areas.

  “No, we’re using logic,” Stefan said. “It made sense that they’d hide out in the warehouse district during the day, and it makes sense to search for them in the Quarter now.”

  Rachel shook her head. “No, I don’t think so,” she said.

  Stefan glared at her. He didn’t like her at all, Joe knew that. She’d been a volunteer until a few weeks ago. She was the youngest shadow in the coven, and there were times when she did appear a bit too gung ho even for Joe. But she was smart, and fast, and reliable in a fight. Had been, even when she was still human. They needed more like Rachel, and Joe wasn’t about to let her overconfidence make him forget that.

  “Go ahead, Rachel,” Joe prompted. “What do you think we’re missing?”

  “Well,” she said, obviously enjoying the attention, “warehouses and the basements of abandoned buildings make a certain amount of sense. Even clubs, which are closed during the day, I can understand. But when you really think about it, with this obsession Hannibal has with the old myths, with the trappings of the legendary vampire, there’s one place we haven’t discussed. I suppose because it wouldn’t have occurred to any of us.”

  They looked at one another. Joe frowned, not understanding right away. Rachel smiled, waiting for them to get it, and for once Joe agreed with Stefan. Her cockiness was a bit annoying.

  It was Kevin who got her point first.

  “Of course!” he snapped, scowling instead of pleased. “We should have thought of it today. It won’t help us much now until morning.”

  “What?” Stefan asked grumpily.

  “Why, cemeteries, of course!” Kevin replied excitedly. “They’re laying around in coffins or crypts or some silly bullshit like that!”

  At first, Joe wanted to shake his head, to say that was only one possibility. But the more he thought about it, the more he examined internally what he knew of Hannibal’s philosophy, the more sense it made.

  “All right, then, smart girl,” he said, smiling at Rachel. “Which cemetery?”

  “Well, where would you want to be if you were hunting?” she asked.

  “Close to the action,” Stefan replied.

  “St. Louis number one,” Joe said aloud.

  It had to be. Rachel was
correct. Tsumi and her crew would want to be as near as possible to the highest concentration of humans. That would be the French Quarter, of course. And St. Louis Cemetery number one was at the far outer edge of the Quarter, on Basin Street.

  “Let’s go,” Joe said. “Maybe some of them are still there. ”

  “Right,” Kevin agreed. “Or they might bring a ‘date’ back there for a quick bite.”

  Joe frowned and looked over at Kevin. He was relieved to see that, despite the play on words, his lover was merely being sarcastic, not actually finding humor in their situation. Their relationship was young enough that they were still finding out new things about each other every day. Yet with Kevin, he hadn’t been disappointed yet. It kind of scared him.

  The four shadows were silent as they descended upon St. Louis Cemetery number one. They moved across the street in a dark wave, blending with the night, and each kept his or her own counsel. In the event that there were still members of Hannibal’s clan at the cemetery, they didn’t want the vampires to have any warning of their arrival.

  Like all the local burial grounds, the corpses in St. Louis number one weren’t actually buried. Instead, the cemetery itself was like a miniature stone city, with row after row of granite and marble crypts, inside of which coffins would be laid on the ground or stacked on top of one another, depending upon how large the family had been.

  Hundreds of crypts. And a long stone wall, with sealed “doors,” six high and an infinite number of corpses wide, where those who could not afford crypts would lay shoulder to shoulder until the apocalypse, or until the stone crumbled away untended. Whichever came first.

  Somewhere, not far from the entrance if the guidebooks were to be believed, was the grave of Marie Laveau, the legendary voodoo queen of New Orleans. Having seen more than his share of real magick, Joe had a healthy wait-and-see attitude toward voodoo. But so far, the coven had had no contact with voodoo or its practitioners, and certainly not with the supposedly immortal queen of them all.

  With Rachel and Kevin on his left and Stefan on his right, Joe stepped deeper into the cemetery. There was a long aisle in front of them that ran off deep into the darkness. It was the path obviously most traveled by tour guides and their charges during the day. It didn’t make sense that Tsumi and the others would have broken into a crypt where their vandalism could so easily be discovered.