Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  “I can’t sit here and let him die! Eddie risked his life trying to help me. Now it’s my turn. Please, get out of my way and let me do what has to be done,” she said as she pushed past the priest and staggered into the aisle. Squaring her shoulders against the pain, she took a step forward, only to collapse onto the floor.

  Father Eamon knelt down, cradling her limp body in his arms. He gingerly removed the mirrored sunglasses, flinching at the sight of her blood-filled eyes with their elongated, reptilian-slit pupils. “You’re dying,” he said quietly.

  “So I noticed,” Sonja whispered.

  “You need blood.” He glanced up at the saints lining the walls, then at the cross suspended over the broken altar. There were no miraculous tears or dripping stigmata to be seen. But he no longer needed such crude signposts to show him the way. He calmly reached up and pulled the clerical collar from his from about his neck. “Take mine.”

  Sonja’s blood-red eyes widened in horror. “Father, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Yes, I do,” he assured her as he pulled her close, lifting her head so that it rested on his shoulder like a sleeping child’s. “There is much I don’t know or understand, but I know one thing for certain: all that has gone before in my life was to bring me to this place, so that I would be the one kneeling beside you at this moment. No one else could make this sacrifice.”

  Sonja closed her eyes, trying to blot out the sight of the veins pulsing in his neck. She could smell his blood, lurking just beneath his skin, and hear it rushing through his arteries. Her fangs ached to plunge into his bared throat and claim that which called to her.

  “Don’t do this to me,” she whispered as she tried to pull free of his embrace. “Don’t make me kill you.”

  “It’s okay, my child,” he replied. “I’ve been dead for years.”

  She licked her lips, her tongue flickering across the skin of his throat. He tasted of sweat, dirt and humanity. She trembled as she felt her resolve give way to the voracious need within her. She opened her mouth wider, her fangs automatically unsheathing themselves from her gums, like the claws of cat.

  Do it, the Other’s voice hissed inside her. We’ll die if you don’t—and then where will we be? Heaven? Hell? Or something even worse?

  Father Eamon flinched as she penetrated him, then relaxed as the anesthetic in her saliva began to kick in. He could feel his blood being drained, but it was all very painless—even pleasant, kind of like the buzz from a bottle of whiskey. There was no fear, no anger, no hate—only the dreamy detachment that comes the split-second before falling asleep. He turned his gaze to the plaster saints and saw tears of milk and blood streaming down their cracked and peeling cheeks. Something fluttered in his chest, like a piece of paper caught on barbed wire, and he heard what sounded like the beating of muffled wings. He looked up towards the roof of the church and saw a small boy sitting on a rafter, surrounded by a host of white doves, kicking his tiny legs back and forth. Christopher smiled down at Father Eamon and waved.

  Sonja licked the priest’s blood from her mouth. She could not remember the last time a kill had died so easily. Father Eamon’s pale, grizzled features seemed peaceful, almost beatific, in the flickering light from the votive candles. She could feel her body regenerating itself, her strength returning. She still wasn’t in peak condition, but there was no helping that. She was sound enough to go up against Esher, and that was all that mattered.

  She got to her feet, carrying Father Eamon’s body effortlessly in her arms, and placed the priest’s body atop the altar, carefully folding his hands across his chest. She then looped his rosary about his neck and arranged the votive candles so that they formed the stations of the cross. Finally she took her switchblade and carved into the wood of the altar this epitaph: “Here Lies Saint Eamon: Protector of the Damned.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The House of Esher stood stark and alone amidst the rubble of Deadtown, its bulk silhouetted ominously against the rising moon. The graveyard quiet of its surroundings made it seem even more like a mammoth tomb, where the dead held sway. The only sign of life was a handful of guards loitering on the curb, smoking cigarettes and talking among themselves in hushed voices.

  Sonja watched them from the shadows, pondering her options. Was it worth going into overdrive in order to gain entrance to the stronghold? Ghostwalking ate up a lot of energy reserves, and she didn’t have much to spare. Besides, the moment she set foot overs the threshold, Esher would know she was there, and the element of surprise would be over before it could begin. She would be better served sneaking in via the catacombs.

  Sliding through the shadows, she located one of the open cellars that pock-marked the area like bomb craters. A rickety wooden staircase that was little more a ladder lead down into the darkness. Barely twenty feet later, she was greeted by a horrific smell. With a start, Sonja realized that she was climbing down into a mass grave, filled with the dead bodies of those who had died in the riots.

  Upon reaching the bottom, she searched among the fly-blown corpses until she found a trapdoor the size of a manhole cover. Such a small tunnel probably meant it wasn’t frequently used, which suited her just fine. She lifted the trapdoor and saw that the walls of the tunnel were not shored up, looking more like it had been clawed out of the earth by a huge burrowing creature some kind. She dropped down on her belly and began worming her way forward on her elbows, praying she wouldn’t come face-to-face with one of Esher’s brood crawling in the opposite direction.

  After several long, claustrophobic minutes, she finally spotted something resembling light up ahead. Carefully edging herself forward, she found herself at the far end of the subterranean vault that served as the barracks for Esher’s followers. Luckily, the room appeared to be empty. She quietly slipped out of the tunnel, knocking the dirt from her hair and clothes with a couple of brisk swipes of her hand.

  As she made her way through the central barracks, a thought entered her head without warning and proceeded to claw at the inside of her skull, like an animal trapped in a cage. A sourceless voice whispered in her ear, assuring her that if she did not hurry to the audience chamber, something horrible was going to happen. Her heart began to race and the palms of her hands started to sweat. She realized was she was experiencing was Esher’s will trying to work its way into her mind, replacing her thoughts with his own, like ivy breaking down a wall by forcing its tendrils between the bricks and mortar. Any other vampire would have been tricked into mistaking Esher’s inner voice for their own thoughts and acted on them without question. Then again, most vampires hadn’t spent the last forty years wrestling their own inner demon. If anything, decades of combating The Other had given her an edge against such tactics. Still, if Esher wanted her to come to the audience chamber so badly, the odds were good that Eddie was there as well. Why not give the bastard what he wanted? Let the bastard think he was pulling her strings—he’d find them wrapped about his throat soon enough.

  “Ah! Look who’s in the House!” Esher said with a mocking laugh as Sonja strode into the audience chamber. The Noble reclined on his throne, one boot casually resting on Eddie’s neck. The old hippie’s beard was stained bright red and his left eye was so swollen it couldn’t open, but he at least seemed to still be breathing. Vampires and human gang-members, greatly reduced since the uprising, crowded the room, their eyes glittering like those of rats in a sewer.

  “Let him go, Esher,” Sonja said. “You’ve got me, now. That’s what you wanted, right? Eddie’s nothing to you.”

  “On the contrary,” Esher grinned, nudging his captive with the toe of his boot. “He is the brat’s protector; therefore he must know where Nikola is.”

  “Nikola’s dead,” Sonja replied tersely. “She died in the Black Lodge.”

  “Don’t piss on my head and tell me it’s raining, bitch!” Esher snarled. “I now realize my beloved’s abduction
was your doing, not Sinjon’s. If Nikola was in the Black Lodge, the old reptile would have gladly tossed her off the balcony to save his life. I see now that you deliberately maneuvered Sinjon and myself into a full-fledged brood-war. What where you planning? Did you think we would destroy one another so you could take over Deadtown unopposed?”

  “You wouldn’t understand my motivations even if I told you,” she replied with a bitter laugh. “But you’re right about one thing—I came here with the express purposes of getting rid of you and Sinjon.”

  Esher stood up, his boot-heel grinding into Eddie’s neck hard enough to make the old hippie cry out in pain. “Who are you, woman? Did the Synodus send you? Are you one of their assassins?”

  Sonja gave a humorless laugh and spat on the ground. “I have no use for the Nobles and their constant bickering. What I do, I do for my own reasons.”

  “Where is Nikola? Answer me, damn you!”

  “She’s beyond your reach, now.”

  Esher’s eyes widened in alarm. “You killed her?”

  “So that’s where your mind automatically goes, huh?” she sneered. “Is that because it’s what you’d do if you were in my shoes?”

  Esher’s assembled audience whispered among themselves, shifting about uneasily until their master gestured for silence with a sharp cut of his hand. “Big talk from a little traitor!” he said. “I demand that you tell me what you’ve done with my bride.”

  “You can threaten me all you want, Esher. It’s not going to work.”

  “You seem to forget that you have willingly partaken of my blood. That binds you to me and makes you my serf. And as your lord and master, I command that you bow down before me,” the vampire lord said, stabbing downward with his index finger.

  Sonja could feel his will inside her, hammering away at her self-control. It felt as if an invisible hand had grasped the back of her neck and was trying to force her to her knees, but she set her jaw and refused to budge.

  “I said bow!” Esher repeated, his eyes flashed angrily at her defiance, and he redoubled his efforts.

  The surrounding audience echoed their master’s cry, their voices merging as one: “Bow! Bow! Bow!”

  Sonja grimaced as her muscles spasmed and went rigid. Esher’s will burned inside her like a red-hot coal, worrying her mind with the savagery of a pit bull. She staggered under the psychic onslaught, but still managed to stand her ground, even though it felt as if she were playing tug-of-war with a length of piano wire.

  “Defying me will do you no good, traitor!” Esher snarled. “Kneel before me, and at least I will grant you an easy death!”

  One of Esher’s brood darted forward and grabbed Sonja by the hair. “You heard the Master!” he exclaimed. “Kneel, bitch!”

  The vampire let go of Sonja’s hair as she drove her elbow into his vampire’s ribcage, then grabbed him in a headlock and gave it a quick 360 twist. His neck made a noise like fresh celery as his head came off in her hands.

  “Head’s up!” Sonja said as she tossed the grisly trophy in his direction.

  “You fool!” Esher snapped. “I didn’t need your help to bend her to my will!”

  The severed head opened its mouth to apologize, but there were no lungs to fuel the larynx, so it could not speak. As its eyes darted about, a look of terrified realization crossed its face and the mouth opened wider, in a silent scream. Esher snorted in disgust and tossed it over his shoulder.

  The assembled brood pressed forward, surrounding Sonja on all sides, a hungry gleam in their dark-adapted eyes as they licked their lips and tittered among themselves like bats.

  “Get away from her!” Esher bellowed, booting aside his followers like a hunter kicking bothersome hounds off a wounded stag. “She’s mine!” The lesser vampires scuttled out of his way, lowering their heads in deference.

  Esher began to cautiously circle Sonja like a wary panther, growling deep in his throat, his eyes burning like twin hellfires. Sonja pulled the switchblade from her pocket. Esher’s eyes widened in surprise and alarm upon seeing the silver knife, but stood his ground. The stranger darted forward, slicing at his chest, only to find he had sidestepped her with the grace of a matador caping a bull.

  “You’re fast, traitor—but are you fast enough to escape magic?” he jeered, lifting a hand that glowed with crimson fire. Esher feinted, grabbing at her with burning fingers, only to have her pirouette like a jewel-box ballerina on a mirror lake, narrowly avoiding contact. She came out of the spin and slashed at the vampire lord, but he quickly whirled out of range of her weapon.

  Esher’s followers watched from the sidelines, hooting and chanting as the two vampires danced their deadly challenge. Sonja darted forward and Esher moved to meet her, catching her right wrist in an iron-hard grip. She bit back a cry of pain as liquid fire shot up her arm. The pain was excruciating; it felt as if an acetylene torch was being held to her skin. She tried to wrench herself free of his grasp, but it was no good. Esher would not let go, no matter how she struggled. Her fingers spasmed and the switchblade fell to the floor with a clatter. Esher grinned and quickly kicked it out of reach. The members of his brood gasped and quickly moved out of the way, for fear of being nicked by the deadly silver blade.

  “You are indeed strong and clever, traitor,” Esher said as he tightened his grip. “But you never stood a chance against me, just like that mincing old museum piece, Sinjon! You are nothing compared to me! Nothing!”

  Sonja could feel her blood scalding her arteries, as if acid were sluicing through her veins. Tears of blood began oozing from her eyes, leaving crimson streaks in their wake as they rolled down her cheeks. Esher was going to boil her brain until it was pudding and her organs cooked and ruptured inside her like sausages in a microwave. It was a horrible way to die, even for the undead.

  Sonja swooned and dropped to her knees as if felled with a hammer. Esher let go of her wrist and grabbed her about the throat, holding her head so that her blood-filled eyes could not look away from his own.

  “And so you kneel before me! But what to do with you—? Shall I use your skull as a wine-cup? Or shall I dissect you, piece by piece? A kidney here, a uterus there—while letting you regenerate just enough so that you are forever on the verge of True Death, but never cross its threshold? Yes, that last one appeals to me. You have cost me much, traitor. It will take me years to find and train another lieutenant like Decima.” Suddenly a slow, evil smile spread across Esher’s face. “Yes, that’s it! You bear a close enough resemblance to her already; with a few dozen piercings, the physical transformation will be complete. You will drink of my blood until my will fills you like an empty vessel, and I will shape you in Decima’s image and call you by her name. In time, it will be as if Decima never died—and Sonja never existed!”

  “Not that! Anything but that!” Sonja gasped.

  Esher continued to grip her throat as the pulsing energy shrouding his hands flickered and died. He motioned to one of his nearby servants. “Bring me the dagger!” The lackey hurried forward with the same ritual knife Esher had used to open his veins during the unholy communion at the Dance Macabre. Esher held out his wrist and the servant obediently sliced into the exposed flesh, gasping in excitement at the sight of his master’s blood slowly welling from the fresh wound.

  Esher pushed his bleeding wrist against Sonja’s lips, like a mother trying to get a baby to nurse. She shook her head and tried to pull away, but was held fast. “Take this, my blood!” he intoned. “Drink—and be damned!”

  “Drink it! Drink it! Drink it!” the others chanted.

  Sonja closed her eyes as she took Esher’s blood into her mouth, her face contorted in disgust. A few moment later, her grunts of protest morphed into moans of abandon as she reached up of her own volition to grab his wrist and pull him closer. Esher’s grin grew even wider. This was better than killing her. True Death was far too easy and swift
. The complete and utter destruction of her identity, however, was a far more fitting punishment for one so arrogant. To turn such a proud, stubborn individual into a continuation of his faithful Decima was far more inspired. He’d gotten the idea from his own biological father, who had a habit of replacing his gun-dogs and wives with look-alikes whenever one or the other died, in order to create the illusion continuity.

  As he began to feel light-headed, Esher moved to pull his wrist away, but Sonja’s grip tightened and she began draining the wound in earnest. A look of alarm rose on the vampire lord’s face as he attempted to pull away a second time.

  “That’s enough!” he whispered.

  Sonja opened her eyes, peering up at him over the rims of her sunglasses, but continued feeding. A mantle of purple-black light suddenly crackled into existence about her head and shoulders, like the halo of a fallen angel.

  “Let go!” Esher barked, grabbing at her hair with his free hand. The dark energy flared and spat like an electric fence, causing him to jerk away. He stared in disbelief at his hand, which looked like he’d just stuck it in a deep-fryer. “Don’t just stand there!” he shrieked at his gathered followers. “Get her off me!”

  The vampire who had sliced Esher’s wrist for him came forward, grabbing Sonja by the collar of her leather jacket. He raised the dagger in order to sever her spinal cord—the one sure way of disabling a vampire—only to spontaneously combust in a column of flame. The other vampires drew back, hissing in fear as they shielded their faces against the blaze, but it was to no avail. The burning vampire staggered into the crowd, igniting several of the brood with his death-throes. All the while, Sonja continued to feed on the Noble, whose hair was rapidly turning gray.

  Esher gave a sob of pain and dropped to his knees, too weak to stand. Only then did Sonja finally break off her feeding.

  “Oh, please don’t throw me in that briar patch, Br’er Fox!” she laughed as she got to her feet, wiping her lips on the back of her hand. “Anything but the briar patch!”