Of Masques and Martyrs

by Christopher Golden

  “Look, Detectives, why don’t you just ask me what you really want to know?” Peter snapped, still watching Kevin and Kuromaku in the garden below, though he could sense the growing agitation of the detectives in the small, now smothering room behind him.

  “And what do you think that is?” Michaud drawled in his best tough guy.

  “You want to know why nobody here called an ambulance after we’d realized that George had had a heart attack,” Peter replied, his voice just above a whisper as grief and frustration nearly overwhelmed him. “As long as the coroner confirms our story—and he will—you want to know why I let my best friend lay around waiting to die instead of getting him to a hospital.

  “George chose not to call an ambulance when he had his heart attack,” Peter said through gritted teeth. “Instead, he sat in the convent’s chapel and prayed. When we found him, he asked to be brought into his room, asked that no doctor be called. He’d been a doctor himself. He knew what he was asking. We all did, though maybe we pretended it wasn’t . . . ”

  His voice trailed off. After a moment, he cleared his throat. Then he turned to face the detectives, getting a good look at them for the first time. Michaud was a big, broad, angry local boy. LeeAnne—he remembered now her last name was Cataldo—was attractive, Italian, a city girl, born and bred. Both of them looked at him expectantly, surprised that he’d finally faced them.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been rude, Detectives,” he said. “But now I want to tell you something that’s going to be very important to your inquiry—and to your careers.”

  That got their attention.

  “We would never have called the coroner at all, if we’d had a choice,” Peter said and smiled sadly. “We would have given George an honorable burial in that garden out there. The only reason we called at all was to make sure that his corpse would be treated with respect, that whatever happens to us and to this place, his remains would be buried the way he would have wished.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Octavian,” Detective Cataldo said. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand. Why would you—”

  “For God’s sake!” Peter shouted. “You can’t tell me the cops haven’t heard the rumors going around about this place!”

  Both detectives backed off slightly. Michaud let his hand fall to his side, not far from the pistol he wore on his hip. LeeAnne Cataldo frowned, tilted her head, and stared at Peter.

  “Of course we’ve heard the rumors,” she said. “What has that got to do with your friend? Superstition and nonsense doesn’t make that man any less dead.”

  Peter shook his head, lip curled in disgust. “No,” he agreed. “You’re right about that. But this isn’t about superstition, Detective Cataldo. It’s about death, really, and not the death of George Marcopoulos. You mean to tell me word hasn’t filtered down to your office that the locals are abandoning this area of the Quarter right now? That shops and restaurants are closing for the night?

  “You mean to say you didn’t notice there really aren’t many people on the streets? That even the tourists seem to be steering well clear of my property?”

  Michaud and Cataldo looked at one another. Michaud shrugged. Cataldo looked back at Peter, sized him up.

  “Mr. Octavian,” she said cautiously, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come along with us. Maybe there’s a place we can speak about this more reasonably.”

  She stepped forward, left hand up to grasp Peter’s elbow.

  “Are you fucking blind?” he snarled. “What do I have to do?”

  His anger boiled over. Here they could be helping, but they were so unwilling to see what was really happening that they were wasting their time—and, more importantly, his own.

  The magick nearly burned out of him, pulsing green light that seemed to suck the sunlight from the room and cast all their faces in a sickly glow. Cataldo was pushed roughly back but kept her footing, even as Peter rose to hover just slightly off the ground.

  “Back off!” Detective Michaud shouted, a quaver in his voice as he brandished his gun with an admirably steady hand. “Just back the fuck off, mister.”

  Peter did. The magick dissipated and he settled to the floor as if nothing had ever happened. Both detectives stared at him, but every few seconds Cataldo would look down at the hand she’d gone to grab him with, as if it were somehow responsible for what had happened. Michaud still held the gun steady, though his eyes were wide with astonishment, fear, and maybe a little horror.

  “You don’t honestly think I’d let you shoot me with that?” Peter said, glaring imperiously down at the gun in the detective’s hand.

  “How y’all plan to . . . ” Michaud began, then let his words trail off.

  He holstered his weapon.

  “Jack, what are you doing?” Detective Cataldo cried incredulously.

  Michaud just looked at her, then back at Peter.

  “I never heard tell of no voodoo vampires before,” Michaud said carefully.

  “It isn’t voodoo, Detective,” Peter replied. “And I’m . . . not a vampire. Now, why don’t you respond to my inquiry? Save us some time and tell me you know what I’m talking about regarding the weird happenings in the Quarter today.”

  “Today?” Michaud muttered.

  But Cataldo had finally gotten her mouth working again.

  “We know something’s going on,” she admitted. “And we figured it had some connection to this place, and when your friend’s death was phoned in, it gave us an excuse to start looking into it.”

  Peter nodded, allowed a picture of George’s corpse being zipped into a black bag to enter his thoughts, and then pushed it away.

  He was numb. That was it, really. The battle coming up, the danger to his latest adopted hometown, to his coven, to himself. He was numb. Or, at the very least, he was trying to be. Trying to keep the sorrow at bay until a more . . . convenient time. He almost chuckled at that, but didn’t want the detectives to get the wrong idea.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” he suggested.

  Both detectives nodded warily.

  “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” he explained so very matter-of-factly. “I don’t want that. What I want is your help.”

  “How can we help?” Michaud asked, but it wasn’t an offer. It was a question filled with doubt and disbelief.

  “I was in Venice,” Peter said softly.

  Silence.

  “And Salzburg,” he added.

  “Dear God,” LeeAnne Cataldo whispered. “Are you saying that the same thing . . . ”

  She couldn’t even finish.

  “Not necessarily,” Peter said. “But it’s possible. I honestly don’t know how bad things are going to get. The U.N. knows about it already, as of this morning.”

  “Well, we’ve got to stop it,” she said, eyes wandering as if in search of an answer.

  “Oh, be my guest,” Peter said and actually laughed a little, though he knew how cruel he must sound. He didn’t really care. About anything. Not now.

  “You want to help?” he said. “You want to do something? My people have been spreading the word through the city, especially the Quarter. I need them back now, to prepare for nightfall. Take over. Get as many civilians to safety as you can.

  “And then, if you’re smart, stay the hell away from here come dusk,” he concluded. “Your families will thank you for it.”

  Michaud seemed about to ask something else, but Peter turned his back on the detectives, looking back out the window, and noted how much longer the afternoon shadows had grown, just in the past few minutes. He heard them whispering behind him, but didn’t bother trying to hear them anymore.

  “Thank you,” Detective Cataldo said softly. “Mr. Octavian?”

  Peter said nothing.

  “What the hell are you?” Michaud asked, half in fascination and half in disgust.

  For a moment, Peter was tempted to ignore him as well. But he thought of George, and then he thought of Nikki. Sweet, s
mart, talented Nikki. Maybe he wasn’t completely numb after all?

  “I’m a man,” he replied. “Just a man.”

  George, and Nikki, and Will, and Allison, and Kuromaku. His entire family.

  “Just a man with a lot to lose,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

  Kevin sat silently, alone, in a rear pew in the chapel. The afternoon light had dwindled, so that the stained glass windows seemed to have fire burning dimly beyond them. A pulse of light, rather than a stream. It cast a sickly pallor over the chapel, and Kevin thought that was only appropriate.

  Soft footsteps padded up the aisle behind him.

  “It is time, Caleb?” he asked.

  “Damn, how’d you know it was me?” Caleb cussed good-naturedly.

  Kevin turned to look at him, unable to disguise the admonishment on his face, or in his tone.

  “Who else would be playing fucking games and trying to sneak up on me in the middle of all this hell?” he said coldly.

  Caleb’s head snapped back as if he’d been slapped.

  “Christ, Kevin,” he said grimly. “I reckon I’ll end up dead a little later tonight. What’s the harm in havin’ a little fun ’til then?”

  As if he’d been deflated, Kevin let out a long breath he’d never needed, and nodded slightly.

  “I’m sorry, Cay,” he said. “It’s just . . . I don’t know, all of this. We’ve got Peter back, and I know he’s the man, y’know? He’s the boss, the one who brought us all together. It’s his right to lead, not to mention that he’s had the most experience. It’s the way it should be. But he’s . . . I don’t know, he’s . . . ”

  “Human?” Caleb offered.

  “Human,” Kevin agreed. “But it’s not as if . . . I mean, George was human. We need his wisdom now, more than ever, despite his misgivings at the end. But Peter started it all. He defined the difference between shadow and vampire. Without him, you have to start to wonder how much of a difference there really is.”

  “There’s a difference,” Caleb said proudly. “You know the difference.”

  “I know,” Kevin sighed. “It just isn’t the same without Peter kind of leading the way. Of course, he’s got all that magick and shit, and I’m sure he’ll do more than hold his own. And all his plans sound pretty straight up so far. But everything is just going wrong. It’s like we’ve lost all our big guns, just when we needed them the most.”

  They looked at one another for a quiet, joyless moment. Then Caleb shrugged.

  “Fourth and ten yards to go, Kev,” Caleb said. “Only one thing left to do.”

  Kevin smiled, but then his face crumpled a little, just for a moment. He bit his lip, wiped a tear from his eye before it could fully form. And then, finally, he laughed.

  “No fag jokes, okay?” he said, “but I don’t know shit about football. Joe loved it. I could never understand the allure.”

  His smile then was bittersweet. They’d all lost so much, and the real fight hadn’t even begun. Kevin thought of Job, and it was only this Old Testament tale that kept him from believing God had abandoned them. That, and those of the coven who remained. Who would fight until the end.

  Caleb stepped closer and opened his arms. Kevin allowed himself to melt into Caleb’s embrace. It was love, pure and simple, despite any arguments they’d had in the past. Not sex—Caleb wouldn’t have been his type even if he was interested—but intimate just the same. Love. Caring.

  “Fourth and ten,” Caleb said, his voice choked with emotion. “We punt, I reckon. That’s all we can do now. We punt.”

  They held one another for a moment longer, and then Caleb broke the embrace. He didn’t seem uncomfortable, but Kevin kept his distance anyway. Didn’t want to send the wrong signals, make Caleb feel awkward.

  “They’re ready for you,” Caleb said, after a moment.

  Kevin nodded, and they walked out of the chapel side by side. At the entrance to the large dining area where the Ursuline Sisters had once convened for meals, he stopped abruptly. Where there had been more than one hundred bloodless corpses only hours ago, there now sat a small army of shadows, patiently awaiting guidance as though they were a movie theater audience waiting for the trailers to start.

  The tragedy of the sight did not escape him, but there was a glory in it as well, a glory that lifted his heart. They were murmuring among themselves, but as he walked to the front of the room, they fell silent. He turned to face them, smiled sympathetically, and closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head.

  “You are, without a doubt, the most courageous group of men and women I have ever seen,” he told them honestly. “I didn’t make the same choice you made. My choice, to become one with the shadows, was made out of selfishness and fear of what lay beyond death. Some of you might not really have been prepared for this. I know for certain that there were some thrill-seekers among you, some groupies, if people even still use that word.

  “Well, you got what you wanted. But even those of you who did this out of some odd obsession are to be commended. You had life ahead of you. Normal human existence. You chose the shadows in order to protect this coven, your families maybe, and maybe even society as we know it.

  “That sounds dramatic, I know. Shit, it is dramatic, don’t you think?

  “Our odds tonight aren’t very good. With your brave sacrifice, they just got better. But still, there’s no way to tell how this is going to go. In a little while, Peter will be in to discuss our strategy with you, and maybe to share a little bit of what he knows about Hannibal and the way that son of a bitch thinks.

  “For right now, Caleb and I want to just give you a general idea, in very practical ways, of what you’re now capable of,” Kevin concluded.

  He paused, scanning the faces of the newborn shadows for questions. After a moment, he realized that there was one face in particular that wasn’t there. Denny, the big Cajun who had agonized so much over his decision. He looked at Caleb, who leaned in so that Kevin could whisper to him.

  “Where’s Denny?” he asked.

  Caleb seemed uncomfortable. “I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “Where is he?” Kevin insisted.

  “He’s dead,” Caleb whispered. “After he woke up . . . he just couldn’t . . . He killed himself, Kevin. Said he didn’t know it would be like this.”

  Kevin nearly retched, but controlled himself, barely. He scanned the newborns again and had trouble, suddenly, thinking of them as immortals.

  “Before we begin, I’d like us all to take a moment,” he said. “Look around at one another. Think about your loved ones. Remember what you’re fighting for. Take a moment, quietly, to remember those we’ve already lost, including George Marcopoulos, who always tried to see the little bit of heaven in us, and Dennis Gautreau, who couldn’t live with that little bit of hell.”

  The moment of silence lasted more than two full minutes. In the room filled with the undead, for the full duration of that silence, no one drew a single breath.

  “So we begin,” Kevin said at last. “And the first thing I want to tell you is this. No matter how tempted you are to believe this illusion you’ve woven about you, there’s something you should never forget.

  “You’re dead.”

  Roberto Jimenez was walking across hard-packed earth in the middle of the temporary camp his troops had established outside Atlanta, when he saw Will Cody and Allison Vigeant emerge from their tent. He’d left Sebastiano with the CDC people, and come back to check on the readiness of his forces, and to fill the two vampires . . . the two shadows, in on what they’d accomplished.

  Cody and Vigeant both smiled at his approach, and Berto nodded in return, offering a polite smile of his own. He wondered if they sensed the falseness of it, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “Commander,” Will Cody said by way of greeting.

  “How’s it coming?” Vigeant asked. “Any progress?”

  Commander Jimenez narrowed his eyes slightly and hesitated a moment before responding. He scrat
ched idly at the back of his neck.

  “Actually,” he said warily, “we’re making excellent progress. Using the samples you brought, it was relatively simple for the CDC people to make more. They didn’t even need to synthesize it, which is good, because it never would have been ready in time.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Vigeant cried and turned to Cody. “Will, this may actually give us a chance!”

  But Cody was still looking at Roberto.

  “I get a feeling there’s more to this,” Cody drawled.

  “Well, it’s still not bad news,” Berto replied. “They’ve been able to replicate the serum, which is very potent. I’ve ordered all small arms ammunition coated with it.”

  Cody nodded.

  “But since we’ve got no way of knowing how many vampires Hannibal’s got in New Orleans, it’s likely to be a very bloody, very nasty one-on-one throwdown. That it?” Cody asked.

  “That about sums it up, yes,” Jimenez agreed. “Of course, CDC is trying to make a gas out of the serum now, but they’re not making any promises. Also, it should have zero effect on the human populace. So if we could get it airborne, get them to inhale it, that would really help us, but—”

  “Commander,” Vigeant said grimly, frowning at him. “I understand you’re exhausted, but you’re not thinking clearly.”

  Roberto looked at her. “I’m sorry?”

  Cody shook his head, almost amused. “Vampires don’t need to breathe,” he said. “Sure, a lot of them do, by instinct, but that’s only going to help so much. Especially once they figure out the stuff is hurting them. Then . . . they’ll just stop inhaling.”

  Berto blinked twice. They were right; he had forgotten. But there was nothing to be done for it now.

  “I’ll have a talk with CDC about making the gas contact-effective. We’ll just have to take our chances,” he said. “Hope we’re not outnumbered as badly as we think we’ll be.”

  He would have continued, then, into small talk, then moved on and left the shadows to themselves until it was time to head out for Louisiana. The military transports were already on the way. The highway was closed off for two miles heading out of Atlanta, plenty of room for them to land and load up vehicles and weapons and troops.