The Four Realms (8 page)

Metzger shrugged, not really understanding where the man was driving with this line of questioning.
 
"They knew it was a dangerous errand, but what choice did they have?"

"I guess, what I want to know, is whether the vampires are cowards when faced with extinction."

There was something calm yet sinister about the man's voice.
 
But Metzger wasn't a man to cower.
 
He'd taken on the whole of the German army, been brandished a traitor to the entire Third Reich.
 
One little man who could get through their defences was nothing, no matter who or what he was.

"I think you'll find that many have made the mistake of thinking that the vampires would back down, retreat or give up, only to later find us standing over their bed ready to take their head.
 
As people have learned, we are not a race to be fucked with."

"Indeed," said the man.
 
If Metzger's warning had affected the man in any way, he wasn't showing it.
 
He wandered back to the centre of the room.
 
Good
, thought Metzger, and was about to give the signal when the man spoke again.

"One of your vampires took something that belongs to me that I'd very much like to take back."

Metzger laughed.
 
"What is this?
 
Some lost and found department?"

The man didn't share his humour.
 
"It's very important that I get it back," he stressed.

"I do not track where our vampires go and what spoils they take.
 
Maybe you should take it up with them individually."

The man’s smile said one thing, the serious look in his eyes saying something entirely different.
 
Whoever he was, whatever the item he wished to retrieve might be, there was no question of his determination to get it back.

"You are the leader of the vampires, are you not?"

Metzger stopped laughing; he was beginning to tire of the little man.
 
"Head of the Vampire Council, Dark Prince to the One Fallen, King of the Vampires," he said re-enforcing his credentials.

The man was starting to undo the buttons on his shirt sleeves.
 
"Then you are ultimately in charge."

Metzger looked at him blankly.

"You are responsible for the actions of your race?"
 
The man said firmly, more a statement than a question, as he rolled his shirt sleeves up.

Metzger was bored with the man now.
 
He ran his finger across his brow in a very natural movement that also signalled the Vampirwaffen to attack.

From the balcony several vampires jumped, swords drawn, whilst vampires armed with semi-automatic rifles charged out of side doors.
 
Twelve of Metzger’s best men encircled the man, weapons raised.

“Ah,” said the man.
 
“The infamous Vampirwaffen.
 
I wondered when you lot would show up.”

Metzger laughed.
 
“Now before I kill you,” he said, “you will tell me how you managed to get past my shield.”

The man rolled his eyes.
 
“You wouldn’t understand the technology,” he muttered.

Metzger only half-heard. “What?”
 
He felt he had the upper hand now and as a result had raised his voice to a bark.
 
This man would tell him everything he wanted to know, even if he had to torture out of him.
 
And vampires could be quite sadistic bastards when it came to torture.

The man sighed.
 
“Let me show you.”

Metzger saw the pigment of the man's skin on his arm start to change.
 
Blotches of green, black and brown spread like bruises before merging into black.
 
The man’s fingers started to conjoin, elongating as they did so, and what looked like spots started to form on the underside of his arms as the top of the limbs started to widen until his shirt ripped to the shoulder.
 
The spots grew, turning into what looked like hundreds of tiny suckers.
 
In a space of a second, the man’s arms had transformed into gigantic tentacle limbs.
 
These grew and split until six limbs coiled where each hand had been.

Before Metzger could even question what nature of creature or demon this man could be, the limbs shot out at the surrounding Vampirwaffen.
 
They wrapped round each vampire’s head and squeezed, turning them into a red squishy pulp before most of them could react.
 
Those that did, did little more than let loose a short burst of semi-automatic fire, none of it hitting their intended target.

The man released his grip and let the lifeless bodies drop to the floor.

There was a shriek from his entourage as undercover Vampirwaffen amongst them, drew guns and started firing back at the man.
 
But his limbs were there before they managed to let off a steady shot, swatting the guns out of their hands, crushing some, hurling others with great force across the room.

Metzger himself fumbled inside his gown, trying to free the gun he always carried, but the garment was complex and he had trouble releasing it from its holster.
 
His entourage was fleeing, the cowards. But the distraction, as the tentacled stranger hooked them by the ankles and brought them back screaming to the centre of the room before being silenced forever, bought him time.

Finally releasing it from its holster, he pulled out the gun and pointed in the man’s direction, only for his hand to be swatted aside.
 
He stumbled backwards but another limb was there wrapped around his neck before he even had chance to fire a single shot.
 
He felt the tentacle starting to choke him.
 
He started clawing at his neck, trying to reduce the constriction of air to his lungs.
 
He felt the corners of his world start to turn black as he fell to his knees, powerless to do anything but watch as the headless bodies of his men crumbled to dust.

Metzger felt sadness as he realised that his little unit, the unit that had run special missions against the allies, and then evaded capture from the Nazis, was no more.
 
People could come and go, Metzger didn’t care for friendships, but his vampirwaffen, that was something special to him.
 
They had fought valiantly, had earned honour countless times over.

Metzger found the tentacle around his neck tighten as he was pulled to his feet.

"Now then," said the man, the tip of his tentacle stroking the side of Metzger's face, "you and I are going to have a very long conversation."

CHAPTER SEVEN - Death And Opportunity

Maureen was spoiling for a fight.
 
If they were going to shut down her gateway then she wasn't going to make it easy for them.
 
As it was, she'd already insisted Abbott Rofen make her a cup of tea.
 
He hadn't technically offered, had simply said, "Are you all right sitting here for a moment?" after placing her in his office.
 
Maureen presumed this was to keep her away from anywhere she could cause further trouble.
 
Joseph had been sent off on some errand, leaving her alone with the Abbott.

"Oh, a tea would be lovely," she had replied to him.
 
"Two sugars, not much milk."

Give Rofen his due, when he had returned, he had done so armed with two mugs of tea, making Maureen feel a little guilty.
 
So much so that she didn't bother to comment on the chipped mug - she wasn't a snob by any means but had been brought up to believe that tea should always be drunk out of a cup and saucer.

Rofen's office was a grotty, tiny place.
 
The high thin window gave very little light, and the overflowing bookcases that lined the walls gave the room the feeling of a stock cupboard rather than an office.
 
It was small enough that Rofen's large oak desk only just fitted in the width between the two lines of bookcases - so much so that Rofen had to breathe in to squeeze through to reach his chair.
 
Everywhere there were piles of paper, his desk buried under them, even the chair he'd got for Maureen had to be liberated from a huge pile which he dumped rather unceremoniously on a rare patch of floor.

"Right," he said, setting himself down in his seat and peering over the jetsam of his desk to look at Maureen.
 
"I suppose you're wondering why you've been brought here?"

"It had crossed my mind," Maureen replied, sipping at her tea.

"Look Mary..."

"Maureen," Maureen corrected.

"...Maureen, there's no easy way to say this," he lent across the desk.
 
"It's about Ernest.
 
He's... well he's dead."

There was suddenly emptiness in Maureen, a space where disbelief took the space of sorrow.

"Ernest?
 
He can't be.
 
He was only..."

"He was murdered in London this evening.
 
I'm sorry"

"Murdered?
 
But how?
 
Why?"
 
She'd been so sure Rofen was going to close down her gateway, she'd not been prepared for this possibility.
 
She felt numb.
 
Was this shock, she asked herself?
 
Why wasn't she crying?

"I understand the two of you were very close."

Maureen was unsure of what he meant by that.
 
There was something fake about the sympathy.
 
They'd always kept their affairs private, a wizard and a gatekeeper having any form of friendship, any form of relationship, was frowned upon.
 
What did Rofen know?
 
She wasn't going to betray Ernest's trust even if he was dead.

"I've known him a long time," she replied.
 
Thoughts of them as children brought sadness to fill that empty void in her gut.
 
"He and his friends used to come round for jam sandwiches when they were acolytes."

She smiled at the thought of this, but stopped when she saw Rofen smiling too.
 
The thought of him smiling at an experience he'd not been part of, made him seem false, unsympathetic.
 
But then, he'd invited her over the gateway, had told her face to face.

"Why call me here?" she asked, trying to push down those memories less they make her cry.
 
"Why not get Joseph to tell me?"

Rofen knotted his fingers together.
 
"I thought the personal touch would be more applicable given the circumstances."

Maureen viewed him suspiciously.
 
There's something he isn't telling me, she thought to herself.

"That's very kind of you, Abbott," she said.
 
"I take it that it'll be all the usual arrangements."

It was not unheard of for wizards to die whilst inter-realm, but it was very rare.
 
There was someone - the Inquisitor they called him - who would pose as a relative and make the arrangements to have the body brought back to one of the gateways.

"I've instructed the Inquisitor to visit tomorrow."

Oh dear
, thought Maureen.
 
I'm not sure if I have enough milk.
 
What will I offer him to drink?

"How's the tea?" Rofen asked.

Maureen offered a weak smile.
 
How surreal this evening had become.
 
One minute she was trying to keep her neighbour from letting snow into her house, and now she was in an entirely different realm talking about tea and worrying about milk, whilst a man she'd loved was dead.
 
She put her mug down and fished in her handbag for a tissue with which she dabbed her eyes.
 
She felt she should be crying but her tear ducts were dry.
 

"I'm sorry," she said.
 
"It's all been a bit of a shock."
 
Half way through the sentence, her eyes finally began to moisten.

"There, there," Rofen said.
 
"I'm sure it has."

Maureen fought to bring her emotions under control.
 
Rofen might be trying to be sympathetic, but she'd never liked the man and for that reason she had no intention of him seeing her vulnerable like this.

"What do I need to do?" she sniffed, trying to compose herself.
 
"You know, for the Inquisitor?"

"He'll discuss all that with you tomorrow, don't worry.
 
We're a bit better prepared for these eventualities these days."

Had there been more recent deaths she didn't know about?
 
Surely things like that would get told to her via Joseph?
 
There had been a time when she'd known all of the Friary's business.
 
Not that she was a gossip, there was no-one other than her cats to tell any titbit of information to, and all they cared about was their next meal.

Sat there in Rofen's office, sat in a realm she'd dreamed of for nearly eighty years, she suddenly felt so out of touch.
 
Now one of her few links to that world was gone, and she felt she was somehow losing it, as if Venefasia was some huge ship, and those friendships she had were the anchors that stopped it from sailing out to sea.
 
There was only Joseph left now, but if they closed the gateway, she'd lose him as well.
 
Sat there, she felt old, even beyond her years.

Rofen was looking at her, his hands knitted with his chin resting upon them.
 
It wasn't an uncomfortable stare, just someone thinking of the right thing to say in an awkward silence.
 
She looked anywhere but at him.
 
Doing that would have meant engaging in conversation and she preferred the silence.