Of Masques and Martyrs

by Christopher Golden

  “You’ve all been asked, in the past twenty-four hours, to make a momentous decision,” he continued. “A decision that will alter your lives irrevocably—and possibly end them. Believe me when I say that this coven, the family of Peter Octavian, does not ask this question lightly. There isn’t time to be gentle. Hopefully, as each of you searches your heart and mind for an answer, enough of you will join us that the odds against us will be greatly lessened.

  “But they are still extraordinary. And I firmly believe that we will need more than force if we are to even survive—never mind triumph—in the coming days.”

  Kevin Marcus looked around the room. He had their attention. That was a good start. Even this newcomer, Kuromaku, gave a respectful nod when Kevin mentioned the odds.

  “By now, even if you don’t know me, I’d lay odds you all know my story. Joe meant everything to me, and I want to thank all of you who offered your condolences. But I’m tired of it!”

  Kevin had yelled out this last, and everyone in the room twitched a little. He was surprised at the vehemence in his own voice, but forged ahead.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That didn’t come out right. I appreciate your sympathy, all of you, but I’m afraid that I’ve had to put my grief on hold for a while. The reason I wanted everyone in one place is that I need to ask a question that I don’t think anyone has an answer for. That question is: what next? I mean, we all know the shit’s about to hit the fan, and other than recruiting, and doing a bit of recon . . .”

  He chuckled. Actually smiled.

  “Never thought you’d hear me use the word recon, did you, Caleb?” he asked and looked around for the blond vampire who’d been somewhat homophobic when they’d first met.

  Caleb laughed. They’d become friends since then, and Kevin trusted Caleb Mariotte to watch his back in any fight.

  “Anyway, all I want to know is, what are we planning?” Kevin went on. “Anyone? Does anyone have any idea what we’re doing next?”

  When Kuromaku lifted his hand, Kevin frowned. They barely knew this shadow.

  “Sorry, Kevin,” Kuromaku said, “but I think it’s the question that’s flawed. You don’t need to determine what you’re going to do next so much as who is going to make that decision. I share your frustration. I came here to lend my sword to the service of a cause I thought was led by Peter Octavian. While I hope, for myself and for us all, that Peter’s absence is only temporary, we have no promise of that. As well, George has told me that your entire hierarchy has been disrupted in the past few nights.

  “All of that said, I presume that this is entirely your point, and that you have some kind of plan. At least, I hope so. We cannot simply sit here and wait for that cocoon out in the garden to hatch.”

  The room was silent a moment. There appeared to be some kind of tension there, perhaps a perception that there was hostility between Kevin and Kuromaku. Which couldn’t be further from the truth, after what the warrior had just said.

  “Thank you,” Kevin said and offered a grim nod. “That’s exactly where I was headed. Rolf and Erika and Cody and Allison have all disappeared; they might even be dead. Peter is . . . out there.” He nodded toward the courtyard. “They killed Joe. The rest of us have little or no experience with Hannibal.”

  Now Kevin got to the point, staring quite pointedly at the far side of the center table.

  “All except for George,” he said. “I think we should—” he began.

  George wouldn’t sit for it.

  “Not a chance!” he barked as he rose angrily to his feet.

  The entire room stared at George Marcopoulos, a man none of them had ever seen lose his temper.

  “George?” Kevin asked, bewildered.

  “Don’t put this on me, Kevin!” George shouted. “I’m not one of you, not really. Not a shadow. And I’ve never made it a secret that I’ve no desire to become one.”

  “There isn’t anyone else,” Kevin said simply.

  George sighed, frowned.

  “I’ve been there from the beginning, at least since things started to change for the shadows,” he said. “I stood proudly at the United Nations and told the entire world that they had nothing to fear from you!”

  “Well, what better reason?” asked a voice from the back of the room.

  “I was wrong!” George roared.

  He put a hand to his chest then, and Kuromaku reached a hand up to steady him.

  “God help me,” George whispered, but his voice was perfectly audible in the stone silence of the room. “I was wrong.”

  “George,” Kevin said again. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say ‘Yes,’ ” Kuromaku replied, his deep voice booming. “Say ‘Yes, George, you were wrong. The world should fear us, just as every waking moment, we must fear ourselves.’”

  Kevin had lost control of this meeting. Nothing was happening as he’d planned. He’d never imagined that George would react this way. He had so much knowledge to share with them. If anyone had the instinct to lead them, to try to predict what would happen, it was George. Even the eldest of the shadows among them hadn’t had George’s direct contact with Hannibal.

  “Hey, Kuromaku,” Caleb said, standing and striding toward the ancient Japanese warrior. Kevin could see it coming, could read it on Caleb’s face without any trouble. Kuromaku would have seen it too.

  “Caleb, no!” Kevin shouted.

  “Fuck you!” Caleb sneered at Kuromaku. Then he spit blood in the other vampire’s face and reached out to poke him in the chest. “We’re the good guys, you asshole.”

  Kevin moved, then, as swiftly as he could. The humans in the room would barely even have seen him, so fast did he cross the space between himself and Caleb.

  But Kuromaku was faster. And in that split second, that heartbeat, Kuromaku did something Kevin would never have dreamed possible. He reached to his waist, to his belt, and withdrew a katana—a Japanese long sword—from a scabbard that had not been there an instant before.

  Damascus steel whickered through the air, and even as Kevin pulled him backward, Caleb’s right hand was sliced cleanly off. Blood spurted and the hand thunked to the tile floor in a red spray.

  “You fucking bastard!” Caleb shrieked, staring at the spouting stump, struggling against Kevin’s hold on him.

  “Caleb, stand still, you stupid shit,” Kevin said finally. “He’ll kill you if you approach again.”

  Kuromaku’s eyes narrowed, stared at Caleb.

  “Kevin’s right, you know,” he said, then he slid his sword back into its scabbard, and both seemed to shimmer out of focus slightly and disappear.

  “How the hell did you do that?” Kevin asked.

  “Another time,” Kuromaku replied. “You’ve got more important things to worry about.”

  The Japanese warrior knelt and retrieved Caleb’s hand, then reached for his arm. Caleb flinched and backed away, but Kuromaku looked at him sternly, nodded, and Caleb allowed him to hold his severed wrist. Kuromaku held the bleeding hand to its stump and met Caleb’s eyes.

  “Think about it, boy,” he said.

  And then there was only the blood on the floor and on Caleb’s arm and Kuromaku’s hand. Otherwise, it might never have happened at all. Caleb flexed his fingers and stared at Kuromaku with a bit of awe and a bit of rage. Kevin knew how he felt.

  “You shouldn’t have poked me,” Kuromaku said simply.

  Kevin waited for him to smile.

  He didn’t.

  “You know I’m right,” Kuromaku said, staring at Kevin.

  “I know,” Kevin agreed, and heard the collective intake of unneeded breath in the room. He turned to look around at all of them.

  “It’s true,” he said. “And maybe that’s where I went wrong with my plan. George has been through a lot with and for us. He’s lost a lot, more than we have a right to ask of any human. And his experience and wisdom can still benefit us greatly, if he’s willing . . .”

  Kevin glanced over at Ge
orge, and the old man nodded.

  “But I guess it’s too much to expect of any human to lead us. They don’t share our instinct for our own survival, only for their own. Just as all species do.”

  “Kevin,” George said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve given us enough,” Kevin told him. “And you keep giving, every day. No, it’s got to be one of us.”

  “Not just anyone,” Kuromaku said. “It must be you, Kevin. I think you know that.”

  Kevin was silent. Murmurs of assent began to spread through the room. His heart leaped at the idea that, after all he’d lived through, these people would be willing to follow his lead. But doubt surged up as well. And, finally, the heat of his hatred for Hannibal—his thirst for vengeance. That last made the decision a simple one.

  “If no one objects,” Kevin said softly.

  Nikki Wydra, who had sat quietly through the entire thing, rightfully realizing that she was merely a visitor here, spoke up first.

  “So, to repeat your earlier question, Kevin, what next?” she asked.

  “Next,” he said darkly, “we take the offensive.”

  Several hours before dawn, thirty-seven shadows moved across the city toward St. Louis Cemetery number one. Kevin’s mind had returned often to Kuromaku’s sword, and the way he had seemed to produce it from thin air, though the warrior claimed no magickal knowledge. When they had time, Kuromaku said, he would explain it, perhaps even teach Kevin how to do the same.

  But he was right that they didn’t have time now. In fact, Kevin had barely had time to speak to Caleb about not starting trouble with Kuromaku, no matter how badly he might want revenge on the ancient shadow. Kuromaku was a formidable being, but he was also, quite obviously, a great asset. For the good of them all, he’d asked Caleb to behave.

  Caleb had only growled at him a little and muttered something nasty.

  George had let them into Will Cody’s armory. Kevin had been astonished by the stores there. Dozens of automatic rifles and handguns, cases of bullets, both silver and otherwise. Grenades. Flame throwers. Crosses. And blades. Swords and daggers of all shapes and sizes. While a shadow’s own hands could become bladed weapons, it did not hurt to have an actual sword that could be left behind in a victim.

  Now, except for those who had been left to guard their home and those still doing recon out in the city proper, Peter Octavian’s coven swept across the French Quarter with Kevin Marcus leading them. Kevin had a lot on his mind, but the moment he saw the cemetery itself, all of it was wiped away.

  Erased and replaced. By memory.

  Joe. Screaming.

  Kevin strode along Bienville Street with visions of death in his mind. Gleefully murderous thoughts filled his head. He lusted for it. For vengeance. He felt his lip curl with his hatred and disdain for his intended victims. It filled him like venom, racing through his veins.

  And it felt good.

  At the gates, they simply flowed over and through, the way he’d instructed. Let the vampires come. If Hannibal had already arrived with greater forces, this would be the test, and they would retreat instantly.

  But if he hadn’t yet arrived, this would be a chance to thin his ranks a little bit. And, perhaps, to find out a bit more of what he had planned.

  The cemetery seemed deserted. Kevin moved silently, with Kuromaku on one side and Caleb on the other. They did not look at one another, and Kevin thought perhaps that was for his own benefit. There was no doubt in his mind that diplomacy was the only reason Kuromaku hadn’t killed Caleb back at the convent.

  They scoured the cemetery, moving in a wedge toward the corner where he thought Tsumi and the others had ambushed Joe. There was no trace of his lover when Kevin arrived at the spot. Nor of any of Hannibal’s clan.

  “What the hell does this mean?” he asked aloud.

  “Perhaps Hannibal has arrived, and they’ve moved to another location?” Kuromaku suggested.

  “Too close to dawn for them to attack now, though,” Caleb added. “No way would Hannibal try anything now. We’ve got at least until dusk tonight.”

  From the far side of the cemetery, they heard gunfire.

  “Here!” somebody cried.

  That was enough. They were all changing, to mist or bat or bird or wolf or tiger. Changing. All but Kevin. He needed to be just Kevin for now, and so he sprinted across the cemetery until he came to a junction where the rows of crypts met. He leaped to the top of the nearest and then set off across the tops of them, inhumanly surefooted and swift.

  At another junction, he stopped. Stood atop a vault staring down at the scene, as more gunfire erupted, silver bullets ripping into two vampires who cowered from the crucifixes held in a circle around them. They’d been cornered like animals.

  The thought made Kevin smile. They would die like animals as well.

  There were three others, and they screeched their hatred and tried to attack, shifting forms rapidly. But they were greatly outnumbered and didn’t stand a chance.

  When one remained, Kevin opened his mouth to order them to capture her—she would be needed.

  Filled with fury and a need to release it, Caleb was too quick. He leaped past the gunfire and the crosses, his body elongating and changing in midflight. When he landed on the remaining vampire, a once-beautiful woman whose savagery made her ugly, he’d become a huge mongrel dog, something Caleb remembered from his childhood, Kevin suspected.

  “No!” Kevin cried.

  Too late.

  The woman lasted seconds.

  “Damn it, Caleb—” Kevin began, but his rant was cut off by an agonized wailing just off to his right.

  Kevin looked in the direction from which the scream had come and saw Kuromaku emerging from a nearby vault with a vampire in front of him. The captive walked on tiptoe, as if every step might cost him his life. And it might. Kevin had never seen anything like this before. Kuromaku had made his left hand into a long, silver spike and punched it through the back of the vampire’s neck until it came out where the creature’s nose had once been.

  “Shut up!” Kuromaku snapped.

  The vampire stopped wailing. So great was his horror, despite his own bloodlust, that it took Kevin a moment to realize what Kuromaku’s captive meant for them. Then he leaped down from the crypt and stalked up to the skinny male bloodsucker.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked, beginning to like Kuromaku more with every passing second.

  The vampire didn’t respond. Kuromaku growled, and Kevin winced as another silver tendril punched out the creature’s right eye in a spurt of optical fluid.

  “My God,” Kevin said, “how can he even think? You’ve got to have injured his brain.”

  “He’s got access to the rest of it,” Kuromaku said vaguely.

  Then he leaned forward and whispered into the vampire’s ear, pulling his hand up so the creature struggled, whimpering to balance on his toes.

  “Now, listen carefully,” Kuromaku said. “This silver is poisoning your brain. The longer it stays in there, the more pain it will cause, and the more damage. If I tear up your head, you may never re-form, and even if you do, you probably won’t be able to function properly. It’s the poison, you see.”

  Kuromaku looked at Kevin. “Ask your questions,” he said.

  “Simple,” Kevin began. “Where is Hannibal now, and what is he planning?”

  The vampire snorted blood onto its chest.

  “Think carefully,” Kuromaku whispered.

  “The dark lord is here now,” the vampire croaked. “In the city. We were to . . . guard this place so that some could sleep here tonight. The rest . . . I don’t know. To kill you all, at least.”

  “You don’t know?” Kevin asked, surprised.

  “As long as . . . you die,” the vampire said through a mouth full of blood, “I don’t care how he does it.”

  Kevin glanced at Kuromaku, who raised his eyebrows as if to say there was no more he could do. Then Kevin shrugged.

  “Thank yo
u,” Kuromaku said. “Now, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  He ripped his silver spiked hand up through the vampire’s head, spraying brain and bone shards and scalp all over himself. Then he looked up at Kevin again.

  “Burn them,” he said. “Just to be safe.”

  Kevin gestured for a female shadow named Bethany Hart to move in with the flame thrower. Then he just stood back and watched them all burn.

  “What next?” Caleb asked.

  Kevin regretted ever asking that question in the first place.

  “We do all we can,” he replied. “Get all the reinforcements we can, warn as many humans in the French Quarter of what’s coming, and start searching for Hannibal’s hiding place. If we can find out where he and his clan are before sundown, we might have a chance.”

  “And if not?” Bethany asked, looking up from the flames, shadows flickering across her face.

  “If not,” Kuromaku said, answering for Kevin, “then we can only pray.”

  The huge Greek Revival mansion on First Street in the Garden District had been built in 1847 as a wedding gift. Its size contributed to its allure, but what truly impressed Hannibal were the fluted Corinthian columns and detailed ironwork on its facade. At first. Upon entering, he’d found the house to be even more beautiful on the inside, complete with elaborate ceiling medallions, black marble mantelpieces, crystal chandeliers, and wide, polished pine floors.

  It was, in its way, an even more exceptional home than the one he’d been forced to abandon six years earlier in Venice.

  And now it was his. In a manner of speaking.

  Hannibal stood in the parlor, admiring the oil portrait on the center of one wall. When Tsumi came in, with her love, Sima, trailing behind like an obedient dog, Hannibal turned calmly and offered her a beatific smile.

  “You’ve done me proud, Tsumi,” he told her. “I’m very, very pleased with our new home.”

  Hannibal frowned a moment, having sensed someone hovering beyond the parlor doors. Tsumi stepped back and gestured for this lingerer to enter. It was a woman, somewhat attractive despite her obvious disorientation.