Of Masques and Martyrs (28 page)

It had surprised him how easily they, and even he, had slipped back into that old modus operandi. Though he denied it to his flock, he knew that most of the myths he now perpetrated had been introduced almost as shackles to his race by the Vatican. But what were once weapons to be used against them were now tools they might bring to bear in their quest for dominance.

For the vampires of myth which he forced his clan to emulate were far more terrifying to the human mind than any cooperative “shadow” might be. Indeed, the Americans—who had been his first and greatest target—already cowered in fear, hiding behind their shuttered windows in those cities his clan had infiltrated.

“Hmmm?” Hannibal grunted and looked down at the spot where his elbow was propped on the arm of the leather library chair. The sunlight had finally reached him, falling across the sleeve of his white cotton shirt.

It burned him. Hannibal stared in fascination as smoke began to rise from the cotton. The flesh beneath cracked and blistered. Finally he pulled it away not because of the pain, but because he feared he would actually be set aflame, ruining a perfectly good shirt.

As his flesh healed, Hannibal pondered what this meant. Even subconsciously, his philosophy had begun to take effect. It had been his doing, his plan all along, to convince vampires once more of the ancient myths—trusting their cellular consciousness to obey even destructive commands. But obviously there were drawbacks to his plan. After all, he knew the truth, and yet had become so enamored of the myth that it was affecting him. That it could do so even slightly was amazing to him.

But it couldn’t be helped. And since so few humans truly understood the nature of vampirism, even such handicaps would not prevent his quest for dominance over humanity from coming to fruition.

Hannibal rose and moved his chair. Once more, he bent his head to pore through the pages of a nineteenth-century translation of
The Arabian Nights
. After that, he thought he would amuse himself with a work of fiction masquerading as history, a book with the longest title he’d ever seen.
A History of the World, with All Its Great Sensations, Together with Its Decisive Battles and the Rise and Fall of Its Nations from the Earliest Times to the Present Day: Volume One
had been compiled by one “Nugent Robinson.” Of course, “present day” to Mr. Robinson had been 1887, the time of the book’s publication. It was certain to be filled with all manner of rubbish Hannibal might have corrected Robinson on, if only he’d been asked.

It did have lovely, delicate fold-out maps, however. Hannibal enjoyed maps, particularly historical ones. They revealed the true history of conquest, and that was what interested him most.

He settled in to finish
The Arabian Nights
with a last, appreciative glance at the gold filigreed lettering on the cover of the history book. A few moments later, something moved in his home.

Hannibal looked up from his book with a frown. He listened intently and allowed his senses to expand, his mind searching for any unwelcome presence in the mansion. Nothing human, at least, had entered the house. He would have been able to smell the blood.

And yet . . . something.

In his peripheral vision, a shadow moved. With a snarl, Hannibal leaped up and back, fangs bared, claws protruding. What he saw astonished him. A thin ebony creature, whose fangs and claws were its only distinguishing features, a thing simply made to kill. Its black eyes watched him.

“How?” was all he said.

The question filled his mind. Not only how the thing had managed to come upon him without him sensing its approach, but how it had come to be there at all. It was one of the demon-wraiths that Mulkerrin had called up during the final battle in Austria last year. One of the true vampires, according to Octavian’s coven. A thing not of this Earth, or even, if any sorceror could be believed, of this reality.

“Speak quickly, before I take your head,” Hannibal demanded in his most imperious tone. “What do you want here? How did you find this place?”

The wraith moved forward slightly, deeper into the shadows of the room and away from the sun streaming through the high windows. Its voice, when it spoke, was horrible.

“Don’t you know me?” it asked, and each word seemed scraped raw from its throat.

Hannibal blinked. Stepped back, completely off guard. For there was something all too familiar about the thing’s face. Its features were flat, more angular, and its mouth distended with ebony needle-fangs. But it resembled his greatest enemy. The thing looked like Octavian!

“What are you?” he asked, astounded.

“I am he whom you see in me,” the vampire-wraith replied. “That is, once upon a time I was. Now I am free of him. As to how I found you . . . ”

Hannibal could not tell if what he saw on the shadow-beast’s face was a smile and yet—though he feared nothing on this Earth—he knew he did not want to see it again.

“I called to you, brother to brother,” the thing whispered, its words like shattering glass. “Just as I was one with Octavian, so each of your kind is kindred to my race. Only the Spirit itself keeps you from becoming one of us completely.”

“But how did you come to leave Octavian?” Hannibal asked, fascinated. “Is the darkness in me capable of doing the same?”

Its laugh was the snapping of bones and the tearing of flesh.

“Not at all,” it said. “Don’t be foolish. You are not three beings, but one. Octavian has magick in him. Sorcerors are a different breed. The magick didn’t want me there. I was forced to leave, as was the Spirit. It wanted me . . . him, all to itself.

“Do not misunderstand,” the creature hissed. “I am Octavian, just as the fleshling himself is still himself. But we are no longer one.”

Hannibal struggled to understand how such a thing could be. Magick had always confused him. But an even greater question loomed in his mind.

“So you are Peter Octavian?” Hannibal asked, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You are my greatest enemy, then, and yet you’ve come here, to my home. Did you think to kill me, then?”

“Not at all,” the thing answered. “I’ve come to help you. For I won’t really be Octavian until the fleshling is dead. And he is flesh now, Hannibal. Human, but for his magick.”

A smile teased the corners of Hannibal’s mouth. He liked that idea. Octavian human. A ripe, bloody target.

“How can you help me?” Hannibal asked. “Your kind can withstand the sunlight, true. But I’ve seen what silver does to you. And you don’t heal the way we do. Any novice vampire could kill you, given half a chance.”

The ebony eyes narrowed, the dark face split into a sneer.

“You underestimate me,” the thing croaked. “But I don’t need to offer myself as a warrior. I came to aid you with knowledge. You see, I know everything that Octavian knows. I am him, after all.”

Hannibal raised his right eyebrow, and the smile threatening his lips opened into a wide, fang-bearing grin.

Then Hannibal, the lord of vampires, began to laugh.

 

“So . . . are you going to stay like this?” Nikki asked, her hair across her face so that Peter would not see the hope in her eyes.

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “I don’t know what to think. Obviously this happened for some reason. And it isn’t as if I can’t protect myself.”

Nikki nodded silently, watching green energy spring up from Peter’s right hand, light dancing on his palm. He was right. In fact, his command of magick had grown immeasurably, even by his own admission. It was as though he barely had to think about it now. The magick was more a part of him than it ever had been.

“It isn’t that I didn’t like you the way you were,” she began, then offered a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Listen to me,” she said. “I’m trying to influence a decision that may be the same as life or death to you, and we’ve known one another only days. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even have brought it up.”

Peter looked at her, trying to peer past the curtain of her hair. He reached out and gingerly brushed it aside, traced her face with his fingers.

“It’s okay,” he said, and she knew he meant it.

“I’m not so sure,” she replied. “Hell, you might be a total asshole once I really get to know you. In a week, you might think I’m the biggest bitch you’ve ever met. In a sane world, we’d put all this on hold until this . . . this war was over.”

Peter laughed, but his gaze never left her eyes.

“This isn’t a sane world, Nicole,” he said, and she didn’t even mind him using her birth name. “And you do know me. And I know you. There’s a lot more to learn, I’m sure, and I look forward to the pleasure, but we already know each other. Don’t we?”

She nodded, looked away, somewhat embarrassed by the strength of her feelings for him, after such a short time, and after the intense weirdness of their brief courtship. But then again, he wasn’t a monster anymore, was he?

“On top of that, if we put off talking about this—” he began.

She held up a hand. “Don’t,” she said, and he stopped. Nikki didn’t want to think about the night to come, and she knew that Peter had been about to speak of it. To warn her that one, or both, of them might not live until morning.

“Just don’t,” she repeated.

“All right,” he replied.

Then he leaned forward and kissed her, beard stubble rough on her chin. She returned his kiss, her heart racing. Nikki had secretly wished that Peter were not a shadow, a vampire, whatever they wanted to call themselves. Now she prayed fervently that he chose to stay human.

It was Peter who broke off the kiss.

“I should get cleaned up,” he said, and then laughed at his own words. “That’s odd. I’ve always showered because I enjoyed it. And when my hair was longer, because I could never get it to look quite the way I wanted it. Vain, aren’t I?”

She grinned, nodding in agreement.

“But now I actually
need
to take a shower,” he said and seemed absurdly pleased with the idea.

“And shave,” she added.

Peter rubbed a hand across his face. Nikki liked the goatee, that wasn’t her point. When Peter’s eyes widened, she knew he’d found the stubble on his cheeks.

“And shave,” he agreed, slightly astonished.

Then his face changed, the smile disappearing, and his hand went from his face to rasp across his close-cropped hair. His eyes searched in vain for some distraction.

“Peter?”

He sighed, and she knew what he was thinking about. Or, rather, who. It occupied his mind far more than even Hannibal’s presence in New Orleans.

“How is George?” she asked.

“Not well,” he replied. “Not well.”

 

Peter walked down the corridor toward George’s room, still cognizant of the different sensations in his body now that he was a man again. He’d showered and shaved, and it felt good. Even got rid of the goatee. His skin tingled all over. There was a new, overall weakness that would take some getting used to. But he had time.

Time. It meant more now. Where once it had seemed almost an abstract concept, it meant more than ever.

The idea that time could run out in any natural way, instead of violently, had always seemed so distant. But ironically, now that it mattered to him personally, he was seeing its effects horribly illustrated. Time was running out, indeed, for George Marcopoulos. The most steadfastly loyal friend Peter had ever had.

After Peter had emerged from his cocoon, after he’d . . . split, George had been found in the chapel. Apparently he’d had some pain in his chest and, rather than sound any kind of alarm, he’d gone to the chapel to pray. Peter wasn’t surprised. Nothing had been the same for George since his Valerie had passed away.

Down the hall, the door to George’s bedroom swung in, and Kevin came out. His face looked drawn, saddened, and heavy with responsibility.

“How is he, Kevin?” Peter asked, always hopeful.

Kevin looked up at him, and a mix of emotions played on the shadow’s face. Peter understood them all. For, despite his magick, and although Peter would orchestrate the strategy for that night’s conflict, it appeared that Kevin would have to lead the charge. There was that.

And then there was all the death. All the loss, in general. Cody had called from Atlanta, and it was clear that he and Allison would be coming home. But the unspoken message was that Rolf and Erika were dead. Joe, of course, had been dead only a couple of days, and his loss was an open wound on Kevin’s soul.

Peter was just a man now, but he could see the agony in Kevin’s eyes as well as an immortal might have.

“Kev?” he asked, because the other man was taking too long to respond. “Has something happened?”

Kevin blinked. “He’s asking for you,” the shadow said.

Then he was gone, down the hallway, and Peter was left to stand with his hand on the doorknob, dreading what he would find inside. He turned the knob, pushed the door in. Bethany sat on the edge of the bed, wearing a smile and holding a nearly whispered conversation with George. Peter felt indebted to her then, for her kindness to his old friend.

George looked up to see who had entered, and he offered a weak grin. He looked horrible. His face was gaunt and pale, his eyes sunken into black circles. His thinning white hair jutted in odd patterns around his head. In that moment, Peter recalled all the times they had spent together, the first time he had saved George’s life, and how the old doctor had offered to repay him with blood stolen from Boston City Hospital.

Late-night conversations. George’s fascination with the mysteries Peter became involved in when he fancied playing at detective for a while. His love for his wife, Valerie. His courage in the face of horrible adversity, when even the president of the United States wanted him dead.

He heard a dry chuckle from across the room.

“Well, what are you staring at?” the dying old man said cantankerously. “I’m old, Peter. You’d better get used to it.”