The Darkening Dream (40 page)

A
L-
N
ASIR CLUNG TO THE CLAPBOARD
siding not five feet from the infidel crypt-breakers. They’d surprised him, these light-handed whelps: the Greek boy had denied his glamour, and the dark-haired girl had invoked her god against him. He shouldn’t have lost his temper with her last week.

Now, how to enter the house? Perhaps the girl’s prayer-ward didn’t extend to the entire dwelling. He could hear almost a dozen heartbeats inside, and some of these others might be more amenable to persuasion. The vampire was climbing down when he sensed something hurtling toward him. He fast-stepped off the wall, throwing himself clear.

Quick as light, the blur corrected its trajectory and collided with al-Nasir as he landed in the yard. Pain jabbed his leg, and he toppled to the frozen ground. Instantly he found himself in a furious bite-and-claw match with a ball of silver fur. As soon as he could, he wrenched the creature off, fast-stepped around the corner of the house, and leapt up to an overhanging tree branch.

Below him circled an enormous wolf, its ruby-red eyes matched by the blood on its silver muzzle. No ordinary animal, of course. A real wolf would have run, tail between legs, at a mere whiff of the vampire’s scent. Al-Nasir checked his wounds. The scratches were nothing — they would heal in minutes — and even the gash on his leg would vanish as soon as he fed. Still, he needed to be careful. The pastor was almost finished with his model. Tomorrow night or the next they would strike, and he couldn’t risk being in anything less than perfect condition.

“To what do I owe this unprovoked attack?” al-Nasir called down.

Below him, the wolf shimmered and was replaced by a lanky white-haired man, eyes still scarlet. Another vampire.

“You offer me parley?” the man said in Ottoman Turkish so perfect it could have been Suleiman himself.

Vampires that favored the wolf form were always several centuries old, but al-Nasir didn’t recognize this one.

“Name yourself and your line.” Al-Nasir’s Turkish was rusty but still serviceable.

“You may call me Wolf,” the man on the grass said. “As to my line, it is your own, spawned that dark night in Ravenna.”

Ah, the Greek. They’d never met — al-Nasir wasn’t much for family.

“The Dung God told me he killed you at Mount Athos.”

“He tried,” the wolf said. “I’ll have to return the favor.”

Al-Nasir’s laugh sounded like a bark even to himself.

“I’ve no quarrel with you. I always liked Isabella.” He had, but he never should have sired the bitch.

He hopped down to the ground. The other pulled a pair of purple suede gloves from his jacket and tugged them on. The wolf was half al-Nasir’s age and no match for him, but such confrontations were always dangerous.

“I claim blood-right,” the other said. “Two of those inside the house are my property.”

Al-Nasir leapt back to the window and sniffed, careful to avoid being seen by the occupants. He couldn’t be sure of the other humans, but the dark-haired she-bitch and the Greek boy did have the foul stench of wolf on them.

“I, too, have claim,” al-Nasir said. “They killed my thralls. But swear blood-oath to me now and I shall withhold my vengeance.”

“The Dung God killed my mistress and tried to kill me.” The wolf spat. “I forsake your line.”

Al-Nasir had only seen Isabella a handful of times — again not much for family — and although he’d felt her die, he hadn’t thought much of it. Khepri claimed the Greek had followed him for decades. Al-Nasir had always assumed it a matter of vengeance, but the stink of archangel on the girl inside told a more complicated story.

Al-Nasir gnashed his teeth. “Did your humans attack me with your knowledge? If so, you inherit their debt, and there can be no peace between us.”

“I swear I forbade them,” the wolf said.

For this one to admit such weakness meant truth. He could deal with the wolf later, after they had the Horn. For now, he’d have to rely on the warlock’s plan.

Al-Nasir thought back to Isabella in Ravenna. Her girlish form lying naked in the pool of her child’s bloody afterbirth. Her white skin, her red hair, and the red red blood. The stink of it had excited him so. To give her the dark gift had seemed so delicious, so perverse.

“Tonight, because of flame-haired Isabella, I offer you truce.”

The other vampire grimaced but nodded. “Because of blood shared, I agree. Both of us are to leave and neither return until the sun has risen and fallen.”

“But if you want this mess cleaned up,” al-Nasir said, indicating the dismembered policemen, “do it yourself.”

“Fouad?” Al-Nasir pulled himself into his townhouse window. “Has the portrait been asking for me?”

“Not that I am aware of, Great Master. Shall I look?”

The Moor looked to be praying the vampire would spare him the task.

“No matter. I’ll check myself.”

Al-Nasir hurried to the portrait chamber and pulled back the curtains. The painting snored gently, eyes closed and lips slack. Asleep, the Painted Man looked vaguely translucent.

The vampire patted an ancient cheek with the back of his long fingers. It would be satisfying to slap the man, but he dared not damage the delicate image. As it was, a few chips of colored wax flaked free and tumbled onto the rugs below.

The Painted Man yawned and rubbed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was rough with phlegm.

“That you, al-Nasir?”

“Who else?”

The painted eyes narrowed. “Soon the passage shall open. The lost Horn shall be found.”

“The warlock’s convinced the Horn lies within this celestial temple,” al-Nasir said.

“It is true that such a place exists.”

“Are the defenses and the hiding place one and the same?”

“It may be so,” the Painted Man said. “I think the witch keeps or is kept by some kind of demon. A hell-bitch. The aura was familiar.”

The ancient sorcerer was so old everything must feel familiar.

“Isn’t that why you selected him?” the vampire said. “We knew he swims in those waters, likely he was bitten.”

“Undoubtedly correct,” the painting said.

“I called for a reason,” al-Nasir said. “The wolf that haunted Khepri is in Salem, sniffing around like he smells a bitch in heat.”

“Indeed.” The portrait rubbed his hands together. “Your sounding call has drawn an unexpected player back into the game.”

It was hard to imagine how bleeding a boy on a tree could have such an effect, but he wasn’t the magician.

A female voice from inside the painting called out, “Grigori.”

The Painted Man turned and mumbled something to an unseen listener. Al-Nasir didn’t understand the language, but it sounded like Russian.

The vampire rapped on the wall. “Sorcerer, in which king’s ear do you whisper now?”

“Not a king — a
czarina
.” The Painted Man made an odd palsied gesture with his large hands.

“One of the wolf’s humans — a girl — is the one who reeks of archangel. Three times has she escaped my grasp.” Al-Nasir felt his lips quiver at the words.

The portrait’s skin glistened green and his single curling horn grew more apparent.

“The beetle crosses under the Western Sea as we speak—”

“Goat-fucker!” Al-Nasir cried.

“He will emerge in your basement the dawn after next.”

“Accursed bug!” Only two days and the vampire could lose control of everything.

“You must prepare. He needs a human form to assume so that he may walk among his forgotten flock. You remember the details of the ritual?”

The vampire nodded, teeth extended but clenched.

“This should do poor Khepri a world of good,” he said. “He still isn’t feeling his old self after his little romp in Vienna. No fun, baking his dung.”

The portrait snickered. “Fun! Dung!”

Bother, the old man was coming apart again, and it wasn’t even a proper rhyme. Al-Nasir reached over to the painting and pinched the waxen lips closed.

“Sir,” he said, “keep yourself together. We’ve not finished our discussion.”

But the battle was already lost. The painted image laughed hysterically, tears rolling from his eyes. He grew fainter, almost like a water color, then so translucent al-Nasir could barely make out his features.

Forty-Seven:

Confessions

Salem, Massachusetts, Wednesday, November 19, 1913

A
LEX INSISTED
S
ARAH CLOSE
her eyes while he led her to the street, hoping to spare her the grisly sight of Bucephalus’ remains. But she cheated, peeping through her lashes at the yard in the dim light of dawn.

All she saw were dark stains on the patchy snow.

Had the vampire cleaned up his mess for some perverse purpose? Or had ghastly police-part-theatre merely been forced into their minds by some undead power?

On the way home she considered what to tell her father. He’d let her stay over because returning after dark hadn’t been an option. But she owed him a full accounting.

She slunk in by the back door.

“Sarah, that you?”

“Yes, Mama?” She finished pulling off her boots as her mother entered the mudroom.

“We don’t mind your staying over at the Williamses’, but you left us sleepless with worry. What kind of daughter does that?”

One who doesn’t want to be ripped apart by a malevolent demon.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “It got late.”

Her mother clucked her tongue. “If you expect me to believe that’s the whole story, then I’ve got a bridge in Prague to sell you.”

Sarah and her mother hadn’t exchanged a word about this whole business, but Sarah was sure Papa kept her informed, at least to some extent.

“Your father’s already canceled a class waiting for you,” Mama continued. “Go, and feel free to share everything with him. I’m not hurt. Who am I? Just your mother.”

Sarah cringed. “That’s not fair, Mama, it’s not like I tell him everything either.”

Papa stood in his office, his briefcase on the desk.

“Last night, Sarah?”

She told him about her chat with the Caliph, then last night’s horrors. As she spoke, the image of the vampire licking the man’s severed neck sprang to mind. She squeezed her eyelids closed. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes.

“What you just told me — having unwisely withheld it — confirms my suspicions. These monsters are convinced the Horn is here, or that we can lead them to it.”

“But they’re wrong?” she said.

“The passage to the archangel’s realm is very narrow and requires specific celestial alignment. Gabriel celebrates his feasts in September and March, not November.”

“Still they come, Papa.”

“You must ask your friends to sleep here until they do. We can’t afford to be picked off one by one. We must provide a single tempting fruit — but a poisoned one.”

“Won’t that be dangerous?”

“And chatting with a vampire at the door isn’t?”

Sarah tried to look contrite.

“I’ll send your mother to the Hoffmanns in Boston. They have their own defenses.” Papa jabbed his pipe at her. “You’ve been reckless, young lady.”

“I know.” It was true.

“And I’ve been blind.”