They Thirst (76 page)

"The
vampir
shall win!" he shouted at them in a voice that cracked from a man's to a boy's. "I don't need the Headmaster anymore! I don’t need his protection, I don't!" He scooped up maps and flung them at Palatazin. "I'll have it all, every bit of it!" He looked at Kobra. "Won't I? SAY IT!"

"Yeah," Kobra nodded, but now his voice was uncertain. "You will."

Vulkan swept over to Father Silvera and roughly pulled him to his feet. Silvera bit his lip to hold back a scream. He could feel the cold radiating out of the vampire. "
You!
Death is so close for you . . . so
close!
I can feel it in you now, chewing through your body! I can stop it! I can make you whole if you will serve me!"

Someone knocked at the door. Vulkan called, "Enter!" and two vampires—one a young boy with long blond hair and the other a husky man with curly gray hair—stepped into the room. They glanced around at the wreckage, and Vulkan snapped, "What is it?"

"The trucks, Master," the boy said. "They're ready to go down."

"All right! Go ahead!"

The boy hesitated, glancing at Wes's corpse and then back to the vampire king.

"Well? What else?"

"Some of the others . . . are afraid, Master," the boy said. "They want to know why the . . . storm's dying down."

"Tell them not to fear," the vampire king said quietly, green embers glowing in his gaze. 'Tell them Prince Vulkan is in control. And one other thing—bring back enough to feed everyone in the castle tonight. I want a celebration!" Vulkan released Father Silvera and stepped back from the blazing hearth. "I want a report from the factory as soon as possible. Send a courier. And you, Asher!" The husky vampire looked up fearfully, the golden chains around his neck catching red light. "Those holes are to be filled tonight, do you understand that? I want none of them escaping! Either cut them off or . . ."

He let the alternative hang in the air like a sword suspended by a hair. "Can West supply Central with another thousand?" he asked the younger vampire.

"My sergeants are already moving the Western Division into Marina Del Rey, Master. When we secure that area, Central can have the extra troops."

"Good. Now go, both of you. And good hunting." When they'd left the room, Prince Vulkan stared at Palatazin and Tommy for a few seconds, then back at Silvera. "You see?" he said softly. "It's happening. Street by street, house by house . . ."

"You'll be stopped . . ." Silvera began weakly, trying to keep his weight off his cracked ankle, but then the vampire king's face pressed toward his, his lip curling with disgust. "By
whom?"
Vulkan sneered. "By you? By them? By that dead man there on the floor? I think . . . not. Oh, priest, I can feel the blood roaring through your veins. I can
see
it! I'm going to have it inside me, warming me like a sweet flame. And tomorrow night you will have forgotten everything and everyone but me."

Vulkan glanced quickly at Kobra. "The priest is mine. You and the female can have those two." He motioned toward Palatazin and Tommy. "When you're finished, take that dead filth and feed him to the dogs. Now, priest, you come with me." He clamped a hand around Silvera's arm and pushed him across the room to the door. Silvera, grinding his teeth with the pain, had no choice but to follow. As he passed Palatazin, he recognized the man but only hazily, and as he started to speak, Vulkan opened the chamber door and shoved Silvera through into the corridor. The door closed with a solid, terrible finality.

Instantly Kobra moved in front of it and slid a bolt across to lock it. Palatazin began to back away from him, trying to shield Tommy. From the far corner Solange's eyes seemed to shine, faintly and malevolently. Kobra grinned and slid his Mauser back into his jacket. He would be happy to take his time now. "Nowhere to go," he taunted. "Nowhere to run. Ain't that a shame? You're gonna live forever, old man. And if you're realllll good, tomorrow night I might even let you lick my boots clean. How about that?" He started to move forward, his black-gloved hands twisted into claws.

Palatazin and Tommy kept backing away, stepping

through a puddle of blood that had seeped from what was left of Wes Richer's head. "You! Solange!" Kobra said. "You can have the kid. I'm taking old Palatazin."

Solange rose to her feet. Her gaze was fixed on the corpse, and she walked toward it as if in a dream, one unsteady step after the next.

Palatazin stumbled over the splintered remnants of the council table. One intricately-scrolled black leg stuck up like a bull's horn; it was almost cracked away so when Palatazin wrenched it with his last wave of ebbing strength, it came loose in his grip, a formidable, two-foot club with one splintered end. Still Kobra came, more cautiously now, sidestepping and feinting, low laughter bubbling in his throat. His eyes bored into Palatazin's, and Palatazin could feel his nerve being scorched away. His hands were slippery with sweat on the table leg.

Behind Kobra, Solange bent down over the 'Corpse. The scent of the spilled blood, fiery sweet, was driving her mad. She hadn't drunk enough of Palatazin to warm her, and now she had to drink—she
had
to—and stop the freezing in her veins. She put her head down into the puddle and lapped at it with closed eyes, like a starved animal. She knew the odor of this one. Memories welled up in her head like iridescent bubbles from a black pool of stagnant water. She thought she was about to wake up from a nightmare in a sun-filled room that smelled of flowers, and when she rolled over in bed, she would put her arms around Wes and press very close to his body. She lifted her head, blood dripping from her lips, and realized she couldn't see her reflection in the shimmering puddle. There were memories in the blood, and they made her cold, very cold. She touched his head, the familiar tangle of hair on a dead skull. Currents twisted and raged within her, armies battling over a single foot of earth. She was dead. Dead but not dead, not living. Darkly existing. That one had done this to her, the one who now laughed and moved toward the two humans. That one had taken her from light into dark. That one had killed Wes. Not dead. Not living. Not dead. Not. Not She put her hands to her head and screamed.

Kobra, startled, looked back at her.

And Palatazin plunged the jagged end of that table leg toward his heart.

The point struck, but, deflected by the Mauser in its jacket holster, only staggered Kobra. At once Kobra gripped the makeshift stake and wrenched it from Palatazin's grip, flinging it aside. "Not that way, Van Helsing," Kobra sneered. "Can't finish off old Kobra that way!" His hands struck, lightning fast, pushing back Palatazin's chin and exposing the scarred throat. Kobra bore him down to the floor. Tommy grabbed Kobra's hair and tried to gouge out his eyes, but Kobra struck him a backhanded blow across the cheek, as if he were swatting at a fly. Tommy fell, dazed.

Kobra's mouth opened. Palatazin struggled, knowing that now he was only an instant away from joining the ranks of the Undead. Kobra's head lowered, the fangs sliding out and ready.

And suddenly Solange's fingernails were digging into the flesh above his gaunt cheekbones. They sank deep, ripping away hunks of meat that did not bleed. Kobra's face contorted; he shrieked and threw himself backward from Palatazin, trying to crush the female vampire who clung to his back. They rolled on the floor, hissing and shrieking. Palatazin staggered to his feet and saw Solange plunge her fingers into Kobra's eye sockets. The eyeballs burst, leaking great spurts of black fluid. Kobra howled in agony, twisted around, and got his hands on Solange's throat. They rolled through Wes's blood and across the floor, into the maw of the raging fireplace.

"Look over, priest," Prince Vulkan commanded. He grasped Silvera's collar and thrust him against the balcony's parapet. Silvera could hear the growl of engines in the holes of the storm's fading scream. A yellow bulldozer was pushing mounds of sand to each side as it moved away down the mountain, followed by three orange U-Haul trucks.

"They're taking my lieutenants down to the battle," Vulkan said. "They'll be returning with food—humans to feed the king's court. We'll have a good celebration. Now look out there." He pointed into the far darkness, and Silvera's heavy-lidded gaze followed. "That's where your city lies, from horizon to horizon. Do you see any lights? Any cars? Any blinking neon signs that shout the names of your idols on billboards and marquees? No. My army marches the streets and boulevards, and your kind hides in holes. I've already won. The world has begun to bow to me, starting right here. Did you really think you could destroy the king of the vampires?"

Silvera didn't answer. He was so terribly tired, so beaten. His head pounded, and he had no feeling in his arms or in that injured leg. It was all over now; a better man, a better servant of God, would have to carry on the fight. He looked down and saw his own body in his mind, spinning down after he'd jumped. Because that was the only escape now.

The storm was winding down. The wind had stilled to a soft moan, and the sand had stopped blowing. Prince Vulkan looked uneasily at the sky. He felt alone. The Headmaster's protection was gone, the final gift lying broken on the council chamber's floor. He felt vulnerable now, a soldier without armor. But no! He'd learned all the lessons, he'd sat too long at the Headmaster's knee. It was time to put his mark upon the world, and the Headmaster be damned! "I am Prince Conrad Vulkan, king of the vampires!" he shouted into the darkness, his eyes blazing. The wind whispered around him in an empty reply.

And then the wind died.

Silvera peered out over the city. The storm had stopped. Now from the darkness he seemed to hear the screaming and shrieking of vast multitudes of the Undead down in the city that had once been known as Los Angeles, as they danced and celebrated to the strains of a Luciferian symphony heard only by vampiric ears. The shrieking went on and on, hideous and obscene, echoing through the hills like mad laughter. Silvera put his hands to his ears. "Listen to them sing!" Prince Vulkan shouted. "They sing for me!"

In the distance, over the ocean, lightning streaked through the night.

Silvera grasped the edge of the parapet. He couldn't even feel the cold stone. When the next flash of lightning came, much closer, he could see the streets and buildings of the metropolis below him illuminated for a split second, like rows of stones in a graveyard. There was a faint rumble of thunder from the west.
Now,
he told himself.
Go now!
He tensed to leap.

And suddenly the castle shook beneath his feet.

Thunder rumbled. In its wake there was no sound but the fading echoes of the vampires' shouting. Then total, utter silence. The world stood motionless.

And then again, the rasping of stones rubbing together as the castle trembled. Silvera could feel the vibrations rippling up his uninjured leg, hammering into his body.

Prince Vulkan gripped the edge.
"No!"
he hissed. His eyes were wild, the pupils narrowed into slits.

Silence. Lightning flashing in the distance, its flare illuminating the naked fear etched across the king vampire's face. He was watching the ebony sky, his head cocked to one side as if he had heard a terrifying, long-dreaded voice. Thunder welled, rolling through the hills, and when the castle trembled again, a great black slab of stone broke away from an upper parapet and pitched downward, crashing into the balcony just behind Father Silvera. The balcony shuddered, cracks zigzagging in all directions.

Silvera could see earth and boulders sliding off the edge of the cliff just underneath the castle. Part of the wall sagged and disappeared in a tumble of stones. From somewhere there was a terrible splitting sound, a rending of the earth that seemed to Silvera like the noise of a thick telephone book being torn by muscular hands. He clung to the parapet as the balcony began to heave and buck beneath him. Mounds of earth pitched off the cliff, rolling down in an avalanche toward Hollywood. More of the wall vanished, and now the courtyard itself was beginning to slide away. The castle started leaning toward the precipice, ancient stones groaning in agony.

Earth cracked, opening huge fissures that snaked beneath the castle. In the next bright gleam of lightning, seemingly directly overhead, Silvera saw a stunning and terrible sight. The entire basin of Hollywood and L.A. was pitching, heaving like a Doomsday bellows. He saw buildings sagging, splitting apart, and falling one after the other, at first silently, but then the roar of destruction swept up into the hills like the shouting of an advancing army. A fissure had begun to run the length of Sunset Boulevard, and in the intermittent flashes of lightning Silvera saw its advance, swift and relentless, sucking down entire blocks in its wake. He could hear screaming now, coming from the guts of the castle. When he looked down, he saw several vampires trying to run across the courtyard to the main gate vanish into a fissure than ran along at their feet just before overtaking them.

"NOOOOOOOO!" Prince Vulkan wailed, his voice drowning out the next drum roll of thunder. His fingers dug into the parapet, his eyes glowing with green fire. His mouth worked with silent rage. From above came a loud grinding noise, and when he looked up, he saw a dunce-capped tower fall like a head being lopped off. The stones and slate struck the parapet, knocking great chunks out of it. Father Silvera threw himself back as a stone struck the parapet just in front of him, collapsing it. Prince Vulkan stood in a rain of slate, the pieces striking his back and shoulders. Silvera pressed himself against the wall for safety.