Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  As Sinjon was wanted in London for beating a footman to with his cane while in a drunken rage, it was considered prudent that he be sent to the New World to keep watch over his older brother’s investment. So, in 1587, the nineteen-year-old set out for the Roanoke Colony which, if anything, proved far worse than the Tower. In the summer it was hot and fetid, while in the winter it was bitterly cold and damp. In between those seasons the colony was assailed by fierce coastal storms that snapped the trees like kindling. Insects, poisonous snakes, alligators, and other bothersome fauna existed in abundance. Disease was constant, as was hunger, since the settlers, most of whom were “gentlemen” such as himself, didn’t know the first thing about farming, and were ill-suited to the privations and rigors of such a primitive place. Indeed, those of the upper class mostly waited on those of the lower order, or the few surviving women, to do for them while they sat about and smoked their pipes. However, Roanoke was not London, and the supply of social inferiors was finite. To make matters worse, when the colonists attempted to make slaves of the local natives, called the Croatoans, the savages had the bad manners to resist, adding warfare to the Englishmen’s tribulations.

  Over the course of the next two years Roanoke gradually shriveled up and died, the majority dropping dead from disease or malnutrition, while the women were claimed by childbed fever. Many of those that survived the pox and starvation ended up claimed by the surrounding swamps, or fell into the hands of the Croatoans. As Sinjon watched his fellow colonists dwindle away, he silently prayed for the day Raleigh’s ships would return and he could escape the green hell to which his brother had banished him. Anything—even the gallows—was preferable to such a horrid place.

  But it was not to be. One moonless night in 1589, a ship indeed arrived at Roanoke Island, but it didn’t belong to Sir Walter Raleigh, nor did it fly the English flag. Sinjon was awakened by screaming and the sound of people running about in a panic. His first thought was that the Croatoans had mounted another attack. He grabbed his sword and charged outside in his nightshirt, only to find the village overrun, not by red-skinned savages but by pirates!

  The invaders were everywhere at once, dragging the few surviving colonists from their homes by their hair. Sinjon leapt forward, swinging his sword, and ran one of the pirates through his liver. However, instead of dropping to the ground dead, the bastard merely laughed, revealing fangs as white and sharp as a wolf’s and eyes the color of fresh wine. Before he could react, the undead pirate struck him with the back of his hand, rendering him unconscious.

  When Sinjon next awoke, it was to find himself in chains, along with a few surviving colonists and a handful of captured Croatoans. There were twenty of them in all, locked inside in a large metal cage lashed to the deck of a ship with black sails. He soon learned that the ship’s name was The Osiris, and while a handful of human servants tended the ship during the day, come sunset a host of vampires swarmed from the holds to take their places on deck and in the rigging.

  The captured colonists’ fate proved to indeed be a cruel one. One by one, they were dragged from their prison and bled dry by the ravenous crew. Once they were drained, the bodies were turned over to the human servants, who jerked them for their meat and then fed what was left to the sharks that followed The Osiris like faithful hounds. He, too, might have found himself in a hammerhead’s belly if not for Captain Blood.

  The fierce pirate-king, who claimed to have sailed alongside Odysseus in his day, dressed all in red and wore his dark hair in a single plait that hung down to the middle of his waist. Perhaps the vampire looked into the young Sinjon’s eyes and saw the murderer that lurked within, or perhaps he was inspired by baser impulses, but in any case he decided to make him his cabin boy instead of his evening meal. Although at first terrified, Sinjon soon learned to respond to the captain’s cold caresses, and it wasn’t long before he was helping his master plot raids on other holdings in the New World.

  Two years later Captain Blood rewarded his loyal cabin boy by Making him in his image and appointing him First Mate. And so Captain Blood and The Osiris continued for ten more years, raiding throughout the Spanish Main, from the Windward Islands to the Yucatan, until meeting its match in the until The Osiris finally met its match at the hands of a Papal naval vessel called The Lazarus.

  Crewed by Inquisitors, the war ship had been sent by Innocent IX to eradicate the undead menace on the high seas once and for all. The warrior-priests were armed with a battery of cannons that fired cannonballs cast from blessed silver, as were their cutlasses and musket shot.

  Captain Blood was high in the rigging, bellowing his defiance at The Lazarus, when he was felled by consecrated gunfire. Sinjon watched, helpless, as his lover’s body plummeted into the water below, where it was savaged by the sharks that churned the sea foam to a crimson froth.

  Sinjon managed to survive the battle by tossing one of the waterproofed coffins in the hold overboard and then climbing in, closing the lid tight behind him. Days later he made landfall on the coast of Portugal. For several years afterward he wandered the great cities of Europe, drifting in and out of both vampire and human society, until finally returning to England, where he murdered the brother who had sent him off to Roanoke, twenty years before. He also made sure that his nephews and nieces all met with quick and mysterious ends by a strange wasting sickness.

  Having cleared the way for himself, he came forward, posing as a distant cousin, and claimed the ancestral title and lands for his own. Thus camouflaged, he returned to high society, where he became known for his taste for London’s nightlife.

  Over the next century Sinjon orchestrated a series of false identities for himself, being careful to drop out of various social circles before his failure to age could draw undue attention. Often he would have an older human servant pretend to be him, so he could accompany ‘himself’ in public as his own look-alike son or grandson. It was a time of great change, both political and social, what with the Counter-Reformation and the Enlightenment. Religion’s chokehold on the minds of humanity had finally started to weaken, and the centuries-old superstitions gradually began to give way to rational thinking. As science began its rise in the minds of men, belief in such things as vampires began to fade away, making it easier for Sinjon to mingle in human social circles without fear of raising suspicion.

  However, although the dogma that had given birth to the Inquisition was beginning to disappear, humanity was still unprepared to stride naked into the cold, stark light of the Rational Universe. During this time there was a growth in “secret societies,” the largest since the days of the mystery cults that infested Rome during the age of the first Caesars. Sinjon saw the emergence of the Rosicrucians, Freemasons and other quasi-mystic fraternities as a unique opportunity to do what his kind had always done with human society—run it from behind the scenes, but this time using the complicity of unwitting humans.

  In 1717 Sinjon joined the Grand Lodge of London, the Master of which was Desaguliers, the founding father of modern Freemasonry. Not long after, he also became a member of the notorious Hell Fire Club, a secret society composed largely of free-thinkers, libertines and philosophers, who played at Satanism while enjoying the occasional orgy. It was through these two organizations that he became familiar with the American inventor and diplomat, Benjamin Franklin.

  Sinjon was nearing his second century and Franklin nearing fifty years of age when they first met. The printer was representing the Pennsylvania legislature in London, petitioning for the right to tax the lands of the Penn family in order to raise revenue for the colony, which had suffered financial setbacks following the French and Indian War. Six years earlier he had published Experiments and Observations on Electricity, where he detailed his adventure of flying a kite in a thunderstorm, and soon won international fame for being one of the world’s leading scientific thinkers.

  Perhaps it was his bad experience with Roanoke, but up until then Sinj
on had normally viewed those from the Colonies as bumpkins of the worst sort. But Franklin possessed a quick wit and quiet dignity that affected the vampire unlike any other human before him. He found himself enjoying the American’s company and relishing their conversations. Franklin talked a great deal about his home, Philadelphia, and the more he spoke of the Colonies and the activities going on there, the more Sinjon came to realize that America was on the verge of becoming a brand-new nation—one in which the potential for advancement and success for those brave enough to realize their dreams was boundless.

  The more Sinjon thought about it, the more he came to realize that there were still plenty of Nobles wandering about the Continent who could date their origins back to Troy or beyond. Competition among these older, more powerful vampires was keen, as they constantly jockeyed amongst themselves for the title of Prince or Duke or Margrave. There was little opportunity for a vampire as relatively young as himself to make his mark in Europe. Sinjon knew how resistant the Ruling Class was when it came to acknowledging change. The New World had been added to the globe nearly three hundred years before, but the Nobles were just starting to notice it. So he resolved to go someplace where it would be far easier to establish a foothold and make a name for himself. Once again he abandoned the nightlife of London, but this time around his accommodations were far more to his liking than those on Roanoke Island, even if he was surrounded by bumpkins.

  Franklin proved quite eager to introduce his well-born expatriate friend to his social circle, which included the likes of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, the Adams brothers, Alexander Hamilton and Paul Revere. Jefferson had eyed Sinjon far too sharply for his tastes, but otherwise he found his way into America’s power elite as easily as he had Europe’s.

  The upheaval of the Revolutionary War was a convenient excuse to kill his former identity yet again and emerge, phoenix-like, as his own heir. He left Philadelphia and went in search of a city where he would not be so easily recognized. He ended up in a seaport that sat at the head of an estuary, a stone’s throw from the huge bay that had welcomed many of the original settlers who came to this strange new world. It was there that he arrived at the idea of Deadtown.

  Using different names and various dummy companies, he set about buying up property. It wasn’t difficult, as the neighborhood was seedy and rundown, even back then. Using his Freemason connections, combined with prodigious bribes, Sinjon arranged it so special provisions were written into the city charter; provisions none but a handful of mayors and aldermen would ever lay eyes on.

  In the long decades since then, Sinjon’s human agencies had made sure the proper amount of money got into the proper hands at the proper time, effectively keeping Deadtown ‘sub rosa’ for over two centuries. It was this arrangement, sealed with secret handshakes, that kept the lights running and the water flowing in a part of the city that, on paper, didn’t exist.

  Deadtown was Sinjon’s finest achievement, and he had been its undisputed lord and master for generations. Those who dared challenge his supremacy in the past had tasted Death Everlasting. Now he was being confronted by yet another intruder, in the form of the wizard Esher. But now, but for the first time in his almost four hundred and fifty years of existence, Sinjon was afraid. Not that he would ever show it, of course. If his human servants caught wind of his being intimidated, they would abandon him in droves. Unlike the Gypsies of old, who could be counted on for their tribal loyalty, the Black Spoons followed the bastard with the most power, the hardest heart, and the coldest blood. Any sign of weakness on his part was thereby cause for a vote of no confidence.

  As he headed up the grand marble staircase to his favorite’s boudoir, Sinjon thought about Esher’s pet human and shook his head. He had no true desire for the fragile little ballerina—he’d merely asked for her to embarrass the wizard and force him to show his real colors. Still, he couldn’t blame his rival for being so attached; after all, it was in their nature to fall in love with the living.

  Sinjon pushed open the boudoir door, tossing his tricorner hat onto the purple coverlet on the canopied bed. “Johan—Daddy’s home! Where are you, my boy?”

  Something stirred from behind the Chinese screen in the corner of the room and a sixteen-year-old boy with the face of an overripe Cupid stepped out into view.

  “What were you doing behind there, you silly?” Sinjon chuckled. “Were you hoping to surprise Daddy, eh?”

  “No,” replied a female voice. “But I was.”

  The boy took a second hesitant step, revealing the female vampire standing behind him, an open switchblade pressed into his back. Sinjon’s eyes blazed and he advanced on the intruder, fangs bared, hissing like a basket of angry cobras.

  “Keep back!” she barked, twisting the boy’s arm behind him so he yelped. “Stay your distance or so help me, I’ll slice his spinal cord in two!”

  Sinjon drew back, glowering at the intruder. “Who are you, woman?”

  “My name is Sonja.”

  “Are you one of Esher’s wretched recruits?”

  “That’s what he’d like to think.”

  “What are you doing in the Black Lodge?”

  “I’ve come here to do you a favor.”

  “Somehow I doubt your sincerity.”

  “Maybe this will prove I mean you no ill-will, then,” she said, shoving the frightened boy in his direction. “Here, take your sex-toy back! And by the way—Esher is setting you up!”

  Johan stumbled but recovered his balance before he could fall, turning to give her the finger. “Fuck you, bitch! Kill her, Daddy!”

  “Shut up and sit down,” Sinjon replied. “I would talk to our visitor.” “But, Daddy—!”

  “Sit down and shut up!” The vampire hissed, flashing his fangs.

  Johan grudgingly did as he was told, but not before shooting a venomous look in Sonja’s direction.

  “Now, as you were saying, my dear?” Sinjon said, gesturing for her to continue.

  “Earlier this evening, about the time you were received your invitation to Esher’s club, I followed three of his goons out to the waterfront. Funny thing was, they were all wearing Black Spoon colors. Imagine that. They were there to meet with a friend of yours called Borges. The goons smoked him and his bodyguards and made it look like the Spoons did it. I have to say it was a pretty sweet frame-job. You should be hangin’ in the Louvre.”

  “I see,” he muttered, his voice little more than a whisper. “What else do you know?”

  Sonja moved to stand in front of the fireplace, leaning against the mantelpiece. “I know that Esher’s men took Borges’ stash when they whacked him. Esher’s sitting on it, for now. Oh, and he’s arranging a get-together with the bereaved siblings. He figures they’ll want to avenge their brother’s death, but might be unwilling to go up against you without some vampire muscle on their side. Once you’re out of the picture, he’ll give ’em back their rock candy, tell them he pried it from your cold dead fingers, and then he’ll end up with both the arms and the hard drug business for the East Coast, and Deadtown will belong to him.”

  “How can we be sure she’s not lying about all this?” Johan asked, keeping a cautious eye on Sonja.

  “Because I know she’s not!” Sinjon growled. “You don’t get to be as old as I am without learning to recognize the truth when you hear it. I can feel it in my bones. It explains a lot of things—especially that ridiculous attempt at a truce! Esher is hardly the type to fear the censure of the Ruling Class. But what I don’t understand, my lovely, is what do you get out of all this?”

  Sonja shrugged. “I have my reasons. What does it matter to you, as long as you benefit?”

  “True enough,” Sinjon agreed. “The enemy of my enemy is my ally. So what do you propose we do?”

  “I will notify you as soon as “I know when and where Esher will rendezvous with the Borges Brothers. My messenger wil
l be a small boy named Ryan. I want it made clear to your followers, undead and human alike, that he is not to be harmed in any way. And if they see any of Esher’s men trying to hurt the child, they’re to intercede on his behalf—is that clear?”

  “Perfectly. But what is this child to you?”

  “He is the son of Esher’s bride-to be. Esher wants the boy dead.”

  Sinjon grinned, exposing his fangs. “Say no more, my dear! If the child’s existence is a thorn in Esher’s side, then I shall see to it that he makes old bones! But what do you suggest we do?”

  “You will attack Esher during his rendezvous with the Brothers outside of Deadtown, and therefore he will not be able to escape to the safety of his wizard’s den quite so easily. While you keep him and the Pointers busy, I will search the House for the stolen drugs. Only by returning the cocaine can you hope to clear your name with the Brothers. If anything, they are even less trusting than vampires when it comes to these situations.”

  “When do you think Esher will rendezvous with the cartel?”

  “Did you agree to the truce tonight?”

  “No.”

  “It will be soon, then. Esher is not one to waste time.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The sun was already brightening the morning sky when Eddie answered the door, the abbreviated double-barreled snout of his shotgun thrust between the doorjamb and the security chain like a suspicious animal. “Who the fuck is it?” he growled.

  “It’s me, Eddie.”

  The shotgun was quickly withdrawn and the door opened, allowing her to enter. Eddie stood in his book-strewn front parlor, dressed in a pair of tattered jeans and a bowling shirt, his wispy white hair still tousled from bed. Along with the sawed-off, there was a knife tucked into a sheath on his hip. There was no such thing as sleeping easy in Deadtown.

  “Where’s Ryan?”

  “He’s out like a light. He usually crashes an hour or two before dawn. He might as well be nocturnal, for the hours he keeps.” Eddie motioned to the kitchen. “C’mon, I’ll fix us some coffee. Oops—sorry! I forgot.”