Kardinal (6 page)

THE big man hit the ground next to David, who winced and waited for the thug to attack. But he didn’t. He just stayed on the ground. Stayed very still, with two swords sticking out of his back.

“I came to help,” said a voice, and David looked up to see Mei standing there.

She bent down and plucked the swords out of the thug’s back. Blood ran along the steel. She sheathed the weapons. They were wakizashi swords. Fourteen-inch long samurai blades. Not that Mei was a samurai. She wasn’t even Japanese. But she was deadly with those weapons. As the big man in the bomber jacket proved.

“I kill Fuad with you,” she said.

“OK,” he said. “Uh, thanks for… for saving me.”

She nodded.

They looked at each other.

Someone screeched and broke the moment.

David’s nape prickled. The cry came from the red and silver trailer in the clearing. And whoever it was in distress shrieked again.

Mei reacted first. She shot out into the clearing. David raced after her. He was reaching into his jacket for the gun.

“Fuad’s in there,” he said to Mei.

“Someone in trouble in there,” she said.

Another scream came from within.

David’s heart thundered. He was so close to Fuad. He had been determined to kill the man. He dreamt about cutting the bastard’s throat, shooting him in the head. And now, with his nemesis within reach, he was hesitating. He was a coward.

What would Jake do? What would Jake say?

“Please, no… no… ” came a voice from inside the trailer, a desperate, terrified voice.

Mei whipped her swords out. She kicked down the door. She bolted inside, baying like a banshee.

David followed her.

He quickly scanned the room. Ten vampires at least. A blonde girl lying on the floor. Mei screaming, slashing with her swords.

She’d already killed two vampires by the time David made a move.

Their burnt bodies left an odour of seared flesh in the air.

The vampires had recognized the red marks both David and Mei wore. The creatures bristled and panicked. They threw themselves at windows. They clawed at the walls.

David drove his stake through the back of one creature, and it turned to ash in seconds.

Screams filled the trailer. The smell of fiery flesh was strong. Everything went by so quickly. David didn’t think, he just killed. And he thought he’d killed four or five by the time it was over. Mei might have killed four or five, too. But some of the vampires had escaped. Now only David and Mei, and the blonde girl lying on the floor, remained.

“She dead?” said David.

“Will be soon,” said Mei. “Look… neck.”

The girl had bite marks on her throat. Wounds also peppered her arms. Her clothes had been torn by teeth trying to get at her skin. She had bloody holes in her legs and back, where fangs had torn into her flesh. She was breathing rapidly.

“Let’s get her out of here,” said David.

Then the blonde girl looked up. Her face was smeared with blood and tears. She looked pale.

“Please… ” she said. “Please… ” Then she coughed. Blood spurted from her mouth. She arched her back and a terrible noise came from her throat. An animal noise. A noise of anguish. Her body became rigid. And then she sagged and lay still.

“She’s… she’s dead now,” said David.

“And we have to kill her again,” said Mei.

David swallowed. A chill ran through his blood. His mother had been forced to burn his father’s body after he was attacked by vampires. David knew she’d had no choice, but at the time he had hated her. And the anger had never gone away, despite the fact he knew what she did was right.

“We have to kill her,” said Mei. “We have to.”

He shook his head. He wasn’t sure if he could. He was hesitating, staring at the girl.

He slowly turned away, tears rolling down his face.

Mei tutted.

And then David heard the swish of her wakizashi and the thump of its blade striking the floor after penetrating the girl’s body.

He smelled flesh on fire. He shut his eyes and tried to think of a time when all this would be over. But he couldn’t.

Tălmaciu, near the Transylvanian-Wallachian Border, Romania – 10.30pm (GMT + 2 hours), 17 May, 2011

“WHY do you wear a patch over your eye?” asked the old man.

“Easier to aim when I’m shooting,” Lawton answered.

“What do you shoot?”

“Anything that moves.”

Lawton dropped the backpack on the floor of the pub. The backpack contained the Spear of Abraham. It contained water, bread, some forged papers.

He’d hitchhiked to Tălmaciu after getting off the train when it stopped at a rural station, soon after he’d killed the vampires.

By the time he’d arrived in Tălmaciu, the heavens had opened. The rain fell heavily. Lawton was drenched.

It was a small town, set in a rural landscape. The Făgăraş and Cibin mountain ranges loomed over the settlement. Ploughed fields indicated the agricultural nature of the region.

Why here? thought Lawton. Why have my dreams brought me here?

He was soaked when he got to the pub. Only two customers frequented the drinking hole. He asked the old man behind the counter if he spoke English.

“Cateva cuvinte,” came the reply.

“What?” said Lawton.

“A few words,” said the old man.

He knew more than a few. His English was good. He’d learnt it for the tourists, he said.

He made Lawton a very strong coffee. The odour was pungent and the taste bitter, but it made Lawton alert. He rolled a cigarette and offered one to the old man, who shook his head.

“You are from England?” the old man said.

Lawton nodded. He lit the fag.

“We hear terrible things from England,” said the old man.

Lawton shrugged. He smoked.

“Vampir,” said the old man. “Demoni, yes? Our government warn us not to travel to UK. The news tells us it is war in your country. War against the dead. Is it war?”

Lawton asked for another coffee.

The old man, preparing it, said, “We have legends here in Romania.”

“I know.”

“Vlad Tepes?”

“I’ve heard.”

“Mr Bram Stoker bases Dracula on our Vlad Tepes.”

Yes, thought Lawton, but according to Apostol Goga, Stoker got it wrong. Vlad Tepes was not a vampire, he had been a vampire killer. He’d spent years preventing the Nebuchadnezzars from resurrecting the vampire trinity in Europe. But fighting the undead had taken its toll on Tepes. It corrupted him. It drove him mad. During his last few years, he could barely tell the difference between human and vampire, and innocent people suffered in his purges.

The old man served Lawton the coffee.

“You stay here long?” said the proprietor.

“I’m looking for… for something.” He furrowed his brow. The truth was, he had no idea why he was here. He had been led here by his dreams. Years ago he would have dismissed what he’d seen in his sleep. But not now. Not in the days when the dead drank your blood.

His eye suddenly ached, and he put his hand over the patch.

“Are you all right, friend?” said the old man.

Lawton nodded.

“So, what are you looking for, Englishman?”

Lawton gave himself a moment, allowing the ache to dissipate. Then he said, “Is there an old church or an old castle in the area? A ruin?”

“Many ruins.”

“Something isolated, surrounded by – ” He nearly said, “surrounded by a forest of stakes”, but stopped himself. Instead, he said, “Surrounded by fields, trees.”

“There is the ruin of an old church to the north, about three miles. They say a ghost lingers there, a witch.”

A knot tightened in Lawton’s stomach.

A voice echoed in his mind:

“Voivode… voivode… ”

The old man said, “They say she is
străine… foreign.”

Lawton felt cold. The pain in his head had returned. His glass eye throbbed, the strand of skin in the globe writhing.

“It was abandoned maybe five hundred years ago,” said the old man. “Burned by the Dracul, some say.”

“The Dracul?”

“Tepes.”

“Who’s the ghost?”

“No one knows for sure. Foreign, as I say. But no one speaks of her. When we were children, we were warned never to visit the ruin. Children who did never came back.”

“Is that true or just a scary story?”

“It is true.”

“How do you know?” said Lawton.

“Because one night my brother, who was nine, went there with his friends. He never came back. Men searched the fields and the forests, but no one went too close to the church. I wanted to. I said to my father, ‘He has gone to the ruin, father, he has gone to the ruin.’ But my father said, ‘No, Viktor, no… he is lost in the forest, that is all, he is lost… ’ and my father was crying, crying all the time.”

“What do you think happened?”

The old man shrugged. “Romania has many legends. But we are a modern country. No one is superstitious any more. It is backward to be supertitious. I don’t know, and I will never know – that is how it is.”

“Which way to this ruin?” said Lawton.

The old man gave him directions before adding, “But not in the dark, Englishman. Wait until the dawn.”

Lawton left.

11.57pm (GMT + 2 hours), 17 May, 2011

IT was like in his dream.

A barren landscape. Scorched fields. A dark forest. Black mountains tearing at the horizon. The moon full and glowing. Rain lashing down.

And the ruin. An old church, battered by time and the elements. Vines coiled around the bell tower. Weeds clawed at the foundations. The stonework was charred by fire. The windows were like empty eyes, its doorway like the mouth of some monster, permanently open and waiting for prey.

The old man had told him no one came out here. He realized why. Firstly, it was quite a way out of town. Why would anyone make the effort? Secondly, the ruin could well have triggered irrational thoughts. It was difficult to weed out superstition, even among the most educated and rational of populations. As Lawton had witnessed during his time in Romania, the idea that rural parts of the country were still mired in legends and folklore was way off the mark. This was a modern country. This was a successful country. A small, European nation, marching forward, and seemingly overtaking the traditional big nations. It was certainly now in a better way than Britain. But peel away the veneer, and you could still find those traditional beliefs, those ancient fears. People crossed themselves. They prayed. Why was that any different to hanging garlic on your porch or putting a pumpkin in your windowsill?

All of it is superstition
, thought Lawton as he approached the abandoned church’s entrance.

He gripped the strap of his backpack. The spear was in there. He’d arm himself if he sensed any danger. And he was very good at picking up on any threats. His military training had honed his instincts. Fighting vampires had sharpened them further.

At the moment he felt no dread. Only cold. Only wet.

But once he stepped through the entrance and into the ruin, the atmosphere changed. His skin crawled, and he gasped for breath. He quickly got the spear out, grasping it tightly. A cold sweat broke out on his back. His nerves tightened. His heart pounded. Blood thundered through his veins, and his dead eye pulsed, sending a jolt of pain into his skull. He gritted his teeth. Something was here. Something that had been inside his head over the past few weeks. The thing that had been calling to him in his dreams. The dreams that were impossible a few years ago because he didn’t sleep.

An image flashed in his head, staggering him.

It was of a woman in white, her skin pale like the moon, her eyes red like blood, her hair a crow-black waterfall.

His chest tightened.

He held the spear in his sweaty palm, fearing he would drop it, fearing he would be vulnerable without a weapon.

He’d never sensed anything like it.

He could almost taste the fear, and he tried to lick it off his lips. Lawton scolded himself. Told himself to take control. Tried to master his alarm and his body’s reaction to it. Slowly, he grappled himself out of dread’s tight grip and focused on where he was.

He looked around. The rain came in because there was no roof. The wind howled through the relic because the windows and most of the walls were gone. The altar had been destroyed. The pews were rotted away. No icons remained, no images of faith. But one thing still stood. Lawton fixed on it. He narrowed his eyes, wondering how it was possible, after all these years, that the structure remained.

It was the confessional. A wooden cupboard, its door ajar as if inviting someone to step inside and unload their sins.

Lawton strode towards the confessional. He ignored the rats that spilled through the door. They squealed as if they’d been scared by something. Lawton walked through the vermin, scattering them. Without fear, he ripped open the confessional’s door.

The smell hit him.

Death.

Sweet and rotten.

He reeled away.

He coughed.

He retched.

Hot water filled his throat.

He nearly threw up but managed to stop himself.

He grabbed some water from his backpack and drank. It was tepid, but it washed away the sour taste in his throat.

He steeled himself and entered the confessional.

There was a door at the back, hanging off its hinges. Cold air came through it. Lawton nudged the door aside. His sense of smell was adjusting to the rancid odour, and he was getting used to it.

“Christ,” he said, staring at some stone steps that were covered in moss and damp. The steps spiralled downwards. He felt he had to go down them. He had no choice. Whatever he was looking for, whatever had been calling him, was at the bottom of those steps.

He shook his head.

Was he going mad?

Was he losing his mind?

Four years ago, he would never have believed dreams were anything more than emissions from the sub-conscious. They had no meaning. They had no message. But things had changed. He now believed in vampires. He now believed the undead lived. He now believed everything, because if you didn’t, you could die.

Scepticism in this new world could kill you.

Belief could save your life.

If you doubted that vampires existed, you’d stroll out after dark without a care in the world. Accept they were real, and you’d stay indoors after sunset – and that, in 21
st
-century Britain at least, would ensure your survival.

The steps were narrow and dark. The walls dripped with water. Thick cobwebs draped from the ceiling. Large insects Lawton could not identify scuttled over his shoes as he walked down. It was slippery, and he had to be careful. He used his torch to guide him, but the beam was weak in the deep darkness.

He kept descending.

Water dripped. Rats skittered. Lawton braced himself. He was ready for an attack. Human or vampire, he would deal with it. He feared no one. Vampires baulked at the sight of him, armed with the spear, marked by the red skin of the trinity – he was their nemesis. And no human worried Lawton. He had faced the strongest and the deadliest as a soldier, and, during the past three years, as an illegal bareknuckle fighter. He’d retired undefeated. But he’d come out of retirement if anyone fancied their chances.
Right now
, he was thinking.
Right now. Bring it on
.

Down he went, spiralling deeper into the bowels of the ancient church. Finally, he reached the bottom of the stairs. Ahead of him, another door, hanging off its hinges. It led into a dark room. Lawton threw a beam of light into the darkness. Images flashed in the illumination. He saw two rats eating raw flesh. He saw another rat cocooned in cobwebs. He didn’t want to imagine the spider that had trapped the animal in its silk.

Entering the room, the air grew colder. The sound of water dripping became louder. He scanned the room with the torch.

Something hissed. Lawton stiffened. It sounded like a voice, a whisper. He shook his head, dismissing his initial judgment.

It couldn’t have been
, he thought.

He traced the beam around the room. The
light fell on a pile of bones. Lawton froze, holding the remains in the torchlight. Even before he started to approach, he knew what animal the bones belonged to.

They belonged to a human animal.

He cursed as he surveyed the skeletons. There were dozens. Children among them.

Something scraped along the wall. Lawton jerked the flashlight towards the noise. He staggered in horror at what the beam showed.

Pinned to the far wall, there were more skeletons. They had been crucified. Their jaws hung open as if in eternal agony. He moved the torchlight along the remains and counted fifteen before the wall turned a corner. Shining his torch around the bend, he caught glimpses of more human bones, either piled on the floor or nailed to the walls.

“Jesus,” he said.

It was a charnel house.

These people had been murdered.

They’d been tortured.

But why?

“… voivode…
” came a whisper.

Lawton wheeled. The torchlight sliced the darkness. In its beam, Lawton was sure he saw a figure. But in that split second he decided it was his mind playing tricks. He had to keep calm. He had to stay in control of his body.

He kneeled, gripping the spear tightly, and raised the torch slowly towards the area where he thought he’d seen the figure. A cell was tucked into the far corner of the cellar. The bars were rusty. They were bent outwards. He lifted the flashlight slowly, and the beam settled on the hem of a white dress.

Lawton’s bowels turned to ice.

He stood.

He aimed the light at the figure in the cell.

He clenched his teeth, trying not to pass out.

The woman sat calmly. She had coal-black hair, and her skin was snow-white. Her red eyes burned in the gloom, and the dress she wore seemed to float around her.

Lawton’s throat locked.

It was the woman from his dream.

The one who had been calling him.

She was incredibly beautiful. He could not take his eyes off her. He was transfixed, and his body suddenly ached for hers. But there was something abominable about her. Something that made him sick. He was desperate to touch her skin, but knew if he did it would be cold and dead.

Then the woman smiled, revealing her fangs.

She said, “
Am asteptat 500 ani pentru tine, voivode
.”

Lawton tried to say he didn’t understand. The woman rose and floated through the buckled bars of the cell. Lawton tried to move away. But he was frozen to the spot. He was terrified. He’d never known such terror. His hand tightened on the spear. But he felt weak, his body sapped of energy.

She came to him, and he smelled her – roses and death.

With one hand, she held his wrist, preventing him from lifting the spear. He had been right: her touch felt cold and ancient.

She said, “
Vorbi cu mine
.”

“What… what did you say?”

“Vorbi cu mine.”

“What are you saying… saying to me?”

“I say to you, ‘Speak to me,’ and you do, and I have your language. I know it. I have waited 500 years for you, prince.”