Immortal

by Christopher Golden

  Veronique heard the pounding of boot heels upon her stairs and felt more curiosity than fear. There was very little that could frighten her, save perhaps the displeasure of her masters, the Triumvirate. So she stood with her arms crossed in front of her, angry at this intrusion but also looking forward to the violence she felt sure would follow.

  She was not to be disappointed.

  The door to her chamber was thrust open, to slam against the wall. There on the threshold stood a man whose face had become very familiar to her in the foregoing years: Jacques de Molay, grand master of the Order of the Knights Templar. De Molay’s forehead was cut above the right eye, and the wound bled down into the orbit, making for a grotesque countenance. His clothes were torn and dirty, and as she examined him, Veronique thought she saw a bloody wound in his abdomen through a tear in his clothing.

  He’d been run through with a sword.

  Veronique smiled pleasantly at the panting, bleeding man.

  “Monsieur de Molay,” she said. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit? If I had known you would be gracing me with your august presence today, I would have asked Antoine to prepare a meal for us to share.”

  De Molay sneered at her. “Antoine? Your man, then? I don’t think he’ll be able to serve you any longer.”

  “Yes, well, there are always more willing to serve, are there not?” Veronique said, and now she allowed her disdain, her hate, and her glee at his condition to show through. “You look as though you’ve had a bit of trouble. Might I be of any help?”

  To his credit, de Molay was through talking. He reached down to his scabbard, wincing at the pain from the wound in his gut, and drew his sword. His eyes moved from Veronique to the pale, naked form of Collette, which lay so still upon the sheets.

  “Monster,” the Templar hissed, and he lunged for Veronique with his blade flashing.

  She leaped to one side, but the point caught her side nevertheless. Blood seeped out from the small wound like tears, staining the robe instantly.

  “Do you think I don’t know what you are?” de Molay demanded, and he brought his blade to bear again.

  Veronique knocked the sword aside with her arm, felt it carve the flesh to the bone, but ignored the pain. She grabbed de Molay around the throat with both hands, and her face changed, became gloriously hideous, yellow eyes glowing in the semidark of the heavily draped room, lips drawn back to reveal gleaming fangs.

  As she choked the man, she whispered to him.

  “I don’t think you have any idea what I am.” She sneered. “For eleven years, I have tried to use this city as my home, tried to create an environment suitable for the arrival of those I serve. I have spread the seed of my blood throughout the city, hoping that when the stars were properly aligned, I would be prepared. Time and again, you have thwarted me. You have crushed my offspring, you and your self-righteous knights, those foolish warrior monks who continue to believe in their own place in the hierarchy of religious power, when any idiot can see it has long since disappeared.

  “But you have thwarted me for the last time, dear Jacques. For now the Templars are no more. Philip is my puppet. You are alone, and soon you will serve the very horror, the very darkness you have feared and battled against for so long.”

  “Never!” de Molay croaked, eyes beginning to roll back in his skull.

  “Oh, no,” Veronique whispered. “I won’t let you die yet.”

  She threw him at the wall. His head slammed hard against it, and de Molay flopped to the ground, disoriented. His sword clattered down beside him. She was about to go to him, to drain him, to turn him. It would have been the ultimate humiliation for him, and thus the ultimate victory for Veronique. But then she heard the shouts from downstairs, and the saber rattling of knights who had come in pursuit of the very man she had just thrashed.

  Veronique cursed softly and thought quickly. More swiftly than any mortal could have moved, she went to the bed and drew the bedclothes from Collette. She lifted the dead girl and ran toward de Molay, dropping the girl to the floor by his feet, even as the Templar began to rise again, reaching for his sword.

  De Molay looked up at her with hatred burning in his eyes, this righteous, pious soldier of the Lord. And Veronique screamed.

  Seconds later, three soldiers tramped through the door. Veronique swooned, leaning against the posts of her bed, her robe hanging open to reveal her nakedness, to draw their eyes not merely to her unclothed form but to the bleeding wound in her side.

  Instantly, the three turned their swords on de Molay. One of them stood atop his blade so that he could not lift it.

  “Madame —” one of them began.

  “He is a devil!” she cried, staring fearfully at de Molay, ignoring the soldiers. “He burst in, killed my man downstairs, and then began to babble in some tongue I did not recognize. Not a minute ago, my cousin, sweet Collette, was standing by my side, cowering in fear as did I. He merely pointed to her, and she fell to the floor just as you see her! What manner of demon is this? What horrible magick? Is she dead?”

  “Demon!” de Molay shrieked. “You fools, it is this creature, not me, who is allied with the darkness! She’s the queen vampire. Look about this room. Do you not see the heavy drapery? See how the sun will burn her, and then we shall discuss these accusations about the Templars!”

  Veronique looked pained and clutched her wound. As the soldiers looked at her with suspicion, she pretended only now to notice her near-nakedness and pulled her robe around her, glancing away in shame. Her eyes went to the dead girl on the floor, and she whispered her name.

  “Collette.”

  The soldiers looked at de Molay with pure hatred and malice.

  “Get up, monsieur,” said the knight who stood upon de Molay’s sword. “The word has come down from the king himself that you and your brothers are to pay for your idolatry. I have a family. If it were not for his orders, I would cut off your head for the horror you Templars have committed, the blasphemy! Demons cannot speak the truth, save under the pain of death.

  “Rise, now, and come with us, or die there on the floor like the animal that you are,” he said gruffly. “This lady has suffered your evil enough.”

  De Molay rose slowly. The soldier turned to another and gestured toward Collette’s corpse. “See to the girl.”

  The other nodded and knelt beside the dead girl to examine her. Even as he did so, de Molay lunged forward. In that moment, the soldiers made a single error. A terrible mistake. They assumed that de Molay was going to attack them, to try to make good his escape, so they stepped back and held up their swords, prepared to defend themselves.

  De Molay dove between them, then leaped up, powered by rage and perhaps even madness now. His wounds seemed to bother him not at all. With the swords of the soldiers close behind him, he lunged at Veronique.

  She hesitated. It would not do for these soldiers to see her true face.

  And in that moment of hesitation, he had her. The Templar’s weight and momentum caught her off guard, threw her off balance, and then he was carrying her backward, completely out of control.

  “No!” she shrieked.

  “Oh, yes,” de Molay grunted.

  Then they were crashing through the windows, curtains tearing away, glass shattering. Dawn had come, and the sun shone warmly down upon Paris. Together, the master of the Templars and the creature who had engineered their destruction fell from the window to land hard on the road below.

  Veronique roared in pain and fury as she burst into flames.

  De Molay lay, broken and bleeding, on the road. But his eyes were clear and sharp, and he smiled at the sight of her agony.

  “You may have destroyed the order,” de Molay choked, blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth. “But we are yet victorious. Your evil is . . . expunged . . .”

  His eyes went wide, his chest heaving, and more blood spilled down his chin.

  Her skin blackening, hair engulfed in flames, burning down to her scalp
, Veronique found the strength to stumble toward him.

  “Your death is meaningless, mortal,” she rasped. “Oblivion has come to claim you. All that you worked for is through. But I will be back. I shall return again and again, until I have fulfilled my masters’ purpose. Until I have drunk the blood of the last man on Earth. Nothing can truly destroy me.”

  Then she began to laugh, as the roaring blaze withered her flesh and her eyes burst in their sockets.

  At last, Veronique exploded in a cloud of fiery ash.

  When the soldiers came to drag the broken and bleeding Jacques de Molay off to prison, he was weeping.

  Within the condemned police station, Veronique stood just inside the nesting room and watched as the demon hatchlings ate. The sight suffused her with pleasure. But there was another feeling that lingered beneath the surface of her mind.

  Frustration. Even despair.

  In spite of her impending triumph, Veronique could not forgive herself the centuries that had passed while she attempted to fulfill her masters’ plan. Certainly, she knew that it was not solely her fault. Many hundreds of years had passed before it even occurred to her to wonder if, perhaps, there was a way to achieve their desired ends other than the one known to the Triumvirate. As many times as she had tried the ritual as they outlined it and failed, she had begun to realize that it was not she who was at fault, really, but the ritual itself.

  The Three-Who-Are-One could not be brought into the mortal world in their pure form.

  Once she had realized this, it was merely a matter of trying to find another way to go about it. Finally, after several more centuries, she had happened upon a ritual that might be altered to fit her needs, to split the Triumvirate and have them hatched anew upon the Earth, where they might later be reunited to bring horror to the world, to the mutual benefit of the Triumvirate itself and the race of vampires.

  Veronique’s masters had been very pleased with her when she discovered that truth.

  Which was, perhaps, part of the reason they had been so very enraged after her first attempt at performing the hatchling birth ritual had failed in Venice. And all thanks to that damned Slayer, Angela Martignetti, and Veronique’s own overconfidence.

  Slayer, she thought, the word like a brand upon her cold, dead heart. Now here was another of the accursed trollops, preparing to interfere once again.

  Not this time, Veronique thought. For the Slayer was but a girl, a child. And now Veronique was prepared. The centuries had made her clever. The shadow of the demon beast, the Triumvirate, will darken the streets of this place before the Slayer even realizes that it has come. And as the shadow falls, so are the souls of the humans in this little town damned for eternity.

  Even now, it was almost too late for the girl to prevent what was to come. Veronique was not satisfied with almost, however. They would stay well clear of the girl, and when the time came, they would kill her. For the moment, she had far more important matters to attend to.

  “Catherine!” she snapped.

  Even as she did so, the vampire was there. Veronique looked at her and smiled. This one had seemed almost soft at first, but she felt that Catherine would grow to become very powerful. Veronique was proud.

  “They are growing, Harbinger,” Catherine said, staring into the nesting room at the three demon hatchlings that writhed in the bloodstained remains of their most recent feeding.

  When they moved, almost slithering as they’d yet to be able to walk, the bones of their many meals rattled beneath them.

  “Yes,” Veronique replied. “Aren’t they beautiful? They must be fed again in four hours. I leave it to you to remember.”

  “As you wish, mistress,” Catherine said, eyes downcast.

  “Good girl,” Veronique replied, and smiled thinly. Oh, yes, she thought. I like this one very much. “Now, gather the others and bring them here.”

  Several of her offspring were still sleeping, but Veronique knew that Catherine would rouse them. Very shortly, they gathered in the foyer of the building, waiting for her to address them. Veronique stared longingly into the nesting room, still filled with awe at what she saw there: the Triumvirate incarnate. They might be merely hatchlings now, almost mindless because they could not properly function until they were reunited, but still they were sublime.

  “Harbinger,” Konstantin said quietly. “You wanted us?”

  Veronique turned and frowned at him. “I favor you, Konstantin,” she said curtly. “But that favor buys you no quarter from me. Impatience is not a quality I would cultivate, were I you.”

  The vampire dropped his gaze. “Yes, mistress. My apologies.”

  She glared at him a moment longer. Veronique had chosen Konstantin to be at her right hand, but she was beginning to wonder if that had been an error. Time, she supposed, would tell. Finally, she let her gaze drift over the others gathered before her. There were six, all told. One a newborn just this evening. But that was not nearly enough, and time was wasting.

  “There must be thirteen of you when the stars align, thirteen of my blood children,” she told them. “Thanks to this Slayer, your numbers have not been growing quickly enough. It is dusk now. This very night, we will remedy this situation.

  “Each of you must feed this night. Feed, and, more importantly, you must turn a mortal. As I have sired you, so you will sire them, and they will also be my offspring, as the ritual requires. If you should see the Slayer, avoid her at all costs. Do not let her take you or your chosen. If you must fight her, then you must kill her.”

  Veronique turned to look back into the nesting room, heard the slither of scales and the clacking of bones.

  “By dawn, I will have my thirteen. Then, all we need do is wait for the stars and portents to fall into place.

  “And the gutters of this horrid little town will run with blood.”

  Chapter Seven

  Just before the end of last period, Buffy received a note asking her to come to the vice principal’s office. She was dizzy with apprehension as she wove down the corridor, hall pass in hand, not able to put into cogent thought the fear that was eating her up inside: Mom is . . . Mom . . .

  She’s fine, she insisted to herself as she waited for the vice principal in a chair beside the attendance desk. They got me out of class to tell me that she’s just ducky.

  Vice Principal Anderson was a well-meaning person. Rather nice, actually. Too nice to survive the regime of Principal Snyder. Buffy and Xander had a bet that she wouldn’t last more than two semesters in Sunnydale. She’ll be begging to get transferred to a prison school. “You, one more tardy, and it’s the Big House for you —”

  “Your mother called. She wanted us to know what’s going on, in case you have some kind of emergency.”

  When Buffy said nothing, the woman pressed on. “You know we’re here to support you if you need anything. The district provides a number of services —”

  “We’re fine,” Buffy snapped. She couldn’t help her angry tone. She had read somewhere that firefighters have problems with stress because they never know when the alarm will go off in the fire station. Maybe, say, they’re watching a movie, or fast asleep, or talking to their kids on the phone, and the siren blares so loudly they all take to wearing ear plugs. It wears on them after a while. It makes them jumpy.

  Huh. All they have to do is put on their little yellow outfits and slide down a pole with their buds, Buffy thought. Then they go put out a fire.

  Me, I never know when something’s going to jump out at me. Or at Willow, or any of them. Sometimes I walk around like I’m on a mine field. And I’m still supposed to study, and I’m still supposed to handle it like a champ when something’s wrong with my family.

  It wasn’t self-pity; it was more a realization. So she didn’t smile and thank the vice principal for her concern.

  Instead, she walked straight out of the woman’s office—cutting the rest of class—and ran to the hospital as fast as she could. As she was the Slayer, she could run ve
ry, very fast.

  Sweat beaded on her forehead and chest by the time she burst through the door to Room 401. The curtain was drawn across the room.

  “Mom?” she called, shouting, not meaning to. She lowered her voice. “Mom?”

  There was a lot of coughing, followed by, “Hi, honey. Come on in.”

  Buffy was flooded with relief. Okay, she’s fine, she told herself, tensing nevertheless as she drew the curtain back.

  Her mother was sitting up in bed. An overhanging table had been pulled across her lap. On it sat a mauve plastic cup and a straw. There was more gray in her hair than Buffy could recall ever seeing, and she was pale and drawn. Her nose looked raw.

  “Hey,” Buffy said.

  With a forced smile on her face, her mother picked up the plastic cup and took a sip. “Hi, honey,” she answered. “How was school?”

  “Schoolful. Filled with things of school.” Buffy felt cold. She crossed her arms over her chest and realized that she was also a bit dizzy. Her throat constricted painfully.

  Oh, no, she thought. I’m getting sick, too. I can’t get sick. I’m the Slayer. And I’m her daughter.

  I have to take care of her.

  Her mother didn’t seem to hear her. She coughed and sniffled, cleared her throat, and patted the bed.

  “Sit down, Buffy.”

  Slowly, Buffy sat by her mother’s feet. Her body was tingling. Her face was hot

  “I had an X ray this morning. It showed a mass on my lung,” Joyce said carefully.

  Buffy tried to be strong, tried not to react. Willow had prepared her to expect exactly this, but the reality of it was something she could never have prepared herself for. A mass. What the hell is that? There was a word forming in the back of her mind, but she didn’t want to find it there, didn’t want to speak it, or even think it.

  The word was tumor.

  Taking a breath, Buffy nodded. “So now what?”

  “Tonight I’m going to have a CAT scan. They’ll be able to tell a lot more after that.”

  “A lot more about what?”