Dead By Dusk (34 page)

“We can't talk long,” Grant said. “I have to go now. I have to get to Stephanie.”

“You have to wait,” Lucien said firmly.

“I can't wait long,” Grant said, then fell silent, staring in amazement. In Lucien's wake, Drew, soaked to the bone, walked in. And behind him, Suzette and Lena. They were both naked, and their eyes were like saucers. They seemed to be entirely unaware of their state of undress, or anything else, for that matter.

“What the hell?” Grant said, looking at Lucien.

“They're tainted, under the power of François,” he said.

Something tightened in Grant's gut. “Then . . . do we . . . cut their heads off?” He didn't know what was really going on here, what was in the mind, what was real. The concept of murder, however, was a terrible one to him. Somewhere, it all had to end.

It was going to end with him in an Italian prison, he was afraid, or facing execution under Italian law.

Not even that mattered now. Stephanie mattered now.

“They don't need to die—I don't think,” Lucien said. He glanced past Grant to his wife. “Jade?”

“I'm on it,” she murmured, heading up the stairs.

Grant turned back to Reggie. Lucien and Drew were staring at her as well. “So, you're—Reggie?” Drew said.

“Yes, how do you do.”

“Great. Thanks for the job here. I think,” Drew said awkwardly. He seemed in a real state of hell, and surely thought himself in the worst nightmare. The girls, naked and dazed as zombies, were there, dripping on the carpet. Reggie wasn't noticing them, and both Grant and Lucien seemed to be taking the moment in stride.

“You lured Stephanie here. On purpose,” Grant accused her.

“That's a lie!” Reggie protested. “I wanted to open the theater here. It all came about before the wretched dig that set François free. Don't be idiots, either of you. I came here, I tried to get Stephanie to come to me. I—I even used François. If I could have spoken to her and to him at the same time, well, I . . . I believe I could have gotten her out of here!”

“François is . . .” Drew asked.

“Giovanni,” Reggie said absently.

“The baggage boy!” Drew said, astounded.

“Have you known who I am?” Lucien asked her.

“Recently, yes, but only recently. I could feel that one of your particular breed was here . . . and I'd heard of you, throughout the centuries, of course . . . but you have your own strength, don't you?” she asked.

Jade came back down the stairs. She seemed to be carrying handfuls of silver bracelets. Grant was baffled, wondering what good they were going to do.

Tension ripped through him with a jolt of deep agony. He was standing around here, watching this ridiculous Q and A, while Stephanie . . .

A cold sweat broke out on his hands.

“I have to get there!” he repeated vehemently, turning to Lucien.

Lucien placed a hand on his arm. “No. The time isn't right yet. I know it's hard. You must wait, you must listen to me, and we must play by the rules.”

“The rules?” Grant demanded.

Lucien looked at Reggie. “Yes, the rules of destiny,” he murmured.

“I can't wait for the rules,” Grant said, fighting down the frantic need for action that was tearing at him, muscle and gut.

“It's the only way to win. The only way to get her back alive,” Lucien said.

Jade stepped up to the girls. As Grant watched, she began to wind the silver bracelets around Suzette's wrists, and then Lena's.

“Blessed silver,” Lucien informed Grant.

Reggie stepped away from them both. She stared at Lucien. “All right, yes, obviously, I knew when François awoke. But this was all already under way. At first . . . at first he said he would spare the populace here, if I would just bring Conan back. I had already arranged for Stephanie to come because . . . because she needed a job! You don't understand, either. I couldn't just leave her in the United States. He would have found her. Without me there to protect her. She had no intention of telling Grant . . . but it didn't matter. He'd already felt the draw. It had to happen; he had to come here. So . . . I'm not evil! François lied to me, and used me . . . and all he wanted was Stephanie. I can help you, don't you understand? I know him, I know what he's doing!”

“So do I,” Lucien said softly. He turned to Grant. “You have to beat him again. And this time, you have to destroy him. Yourself.”

By that time, Jade had led Suzette and Lena to the sofa, and seated them. “They really need . . . clothing,” she murmured.

“Well, get some blankets. Jade, don't forget their ankles. And make sure you have them down with crosses on their chests. I don't want to have to kill them. God knows how many he will have in his little army he's been tainting when we get there, so they must be secured here.” He paused, staring hard at Drew and Grant. “You will have to be careful of everyone. Some will be with us. Some will pretend to be with us—and turn on us. When we ride to battle.”

“We're riding to battle?” Drew said, his voice weak.

“And Valeria,” he said, looking at her.

Reggie had always been a beautiful woman, Grant thought. And she was never more so than now, standing at her full height, her chin high. A strand of dark hair fell over one eye, her lips trembled. Her near-violet gaze was steady. “I'm trying to help you!” she told him passionately.

She ran to Grant suddenly, seizing his arm. “You know how long I have been dear to Stephanie! Yes, I have been caught up in this, but only because . . . Grant, I am so sorry! But I thought that if François could just . . . well, if he could kill you, then his hatreds would be at an end. He would learn the simple survival that can be for us, without bloodshed and harm to others.”

She was so sincere! As he looked at her, Grant found himself believing her.

“Ah, but, Valeria!” Lucien said softly. “You've been shielding François from me. It's your powers of protection that have blinded me for so long.”

“I didn't know who you were!” she swore, turning from Grant to Lucien, then back to Grant. “Please, you may not be able to save her without me!”

Grant looked at Lucien. “Is that true?”

Lucien was steady, but shrugged. “She is a sorceress of the oldest variety. She can protect them, or she can protect us.”

“Which will she do?” Drew interjected.

“I don't know,” Lucien admitted.

Grant shook off Reggie's—or Valeria's—touch. “We have to find them. Now. I feel it. Darkness has fallen, and the moon will be rising.”

“The full moon,” Lucien murmured. “Yes, it's time. Valeria, wear a cross, if you would ride with us.”

She balked. “Wait . . . I haven't spent all these centuries being an angel.”

There was a sudden banging at the door. Even Lucien seemed startled, but then he strode to it.

Grant followed quickly behind him.

And when they opened the door, he was amazed.

He felt as if he had walked into an old Hammer film, and Vincent Price or Bela Lugosi would appear at any minute.

Beyond the cottage door, night had fallen. But it was illuminated. There were dozens . . . maybe a hundred people out there. Some were carrying torches. Some were armed with pitchforks, some with kitchen knives . . . some with medieval weapons, apparently looted from a museum.

It wasn't Bela Lugosi or Vincent Price at the head of the crowd.

It was the old man. Adalio. Slim and fragile, yet he carried a heavy battle ax.

“It's time!” he announced loudly and clearly, his English accented but sure.

Grant looked behind him. There were a number of people on horseback. He recognized some of them. Both policemen were there, Merc and Franco. There were a number of waiters from the clubs, and from the local restaurants. There were hospital employees, shopkeepers, and local farmers.

Lucien turned to Grant. “Tonight, I am your squire,” he said. He looked back to his wife. “Jade . . . ?”

“They're secure,” she told him.

“Come on—they're prepared for you.”

“The sword is in the car,” Grant said.

“I'm sure that someone has gotten it for you,” Lucien said.

They walked out. The crowd parted for Grant. Someone came forward with armor. He stood still, letting the villagers heft the plates on him, buckling the leather straps and fasteners. He heard the clank of metal as Lucien and Drew were likewise attired.

Merc came forward with the sword.

As Grant stood there, he was startled to hear a whisper in his ear. Reggie's voice. “I'm with you all, fighting for goodness and life, I swear it!”

Startled, he swung around. Reggie was nowhere near him.

“Where is she?” he demanded, staring at Lucien.

“Gone.”

“I heard her—she said that she is with us,” Grant said.

“She's a sorceress,” Lucien reminded him dryly. “For good, or bad, she is part of this battle, and in the end, we'll know the truth.”

“In the end?” Drew said weakly.

Grant saw the horse that had been brought for him. He thought it was the same huge black that had drawn the hearse that afternoon.

He mounted with ease—thanks to a life in theater and film. He turned the horse, ready to start for the hills.

“Wait, wait!” Drew called out. Grant looked back. Drew was pale, and hobbling along as he tried to mount up, weighed down by the armor. “Ah, come on! I've been in improv . . . and comedy. I never worked for a horse farm, I wasn't a stuntman . . . and I don't know a damned thing about medieval armor!”

Amazingly, Grant realized that he could smile. He turned to Lucien. “Is he going to be all right?”

“I think so,” Lucien said, watching Drew and nodding slowly. “It's what's inside the man that matters,” he told Grant.

“It's time!” the old man shouted, his English fine.

It was then that they heard the first howling.

A sound that was unearthly, as if all the demons of hell had awakened.

“The devil dogs,” Lucien said.

Every hair on Grant's body seemed to stand up. The sound was bone-chilling, horrible in its eeriness.

He spurred his horse.

Stephanie was up there, somewhere in the hills.

“Kill me now,” Stephanie said. She stared coolly at François, since it seemed she had control of her own eyes, and no more.

He smiled. “Kill you now? Are you mad, dear girl? Kill you . . . oh, I would not. You are not Valeria, you know. I control you completely.”

“Why? Have I died already?”

He shook his head, smiling, amused, and lifted her hair from her shoulders. She couldn't pull away when he pressed his lips to her neck. She felt the slide of his tongue . . . his breath.

The rasp of his teeth against her flesh.

To her horror, she felt a faint stirring of . . .

Excitement.

He whispered against her flesh. “I've had just the most gentle of a lover's game with you . . . I enjoy my meals when they're awake, you see. Ah, poor child, but you're a great deal like Valeria was . . . once. I teased you in your dreams with the form of your lover cast over my own being, and yet . . . you knew, I think, that it was me.”

Grant.

She closed her eyes. And she could see him. Grant, as he was in her dreams. Larger than life. And she saw him as he was. His smile. The darkness in his eyes, when they filled with passion. The way he walked to her, so aggressive in his confidence, beautiful in his nakedness, supple in movement. She was in love with him, had been, always would be . . .

“Rather,” she murmured, ignoring his touch, “I think you tried to enter my dreams, but could not, because I will always see him,” she said softly.

She felt a rip against her flesh.

“You are mine,” he told her. “I haven't taken your petty mortal life as yet. But I've taken enough of your life's blood to see that you will obey me. Now . . . the devil dogs. You will raise them now.”

“The devil dogs? I don't even know what they are.”

He rose, irritated. He looked around the cave.

Someone entered—Doug. He looked at Stephanie, and smiled slowly. Perhaps something in his glance annoyed François, because he snapped out, “Has she come?”

“Not yet, my lord.”

“My lord!” Stephanie echoed.

“It is what you will call me, too,” he informed her.

In a sudden fury, he came to her, wrenching her to her feet. Her limbs felt like lead. She couldn't resist him, couldn't fight.

“The devil dogs! It's in your power. Raise them, now! All of them. I've heard the cries of the wolves, so the time is right. Now. Think of them . . . think of the corpses out there, rotting in the ground. Those that came before, you will make them come again!”

His grip on her arm was punishing. Yet . . .

She willed herself to ignore it.

“It's time—oh, I have waited, anticipated this day!” François said. “The horses, now!” he commanded Doug.

And Doug turned without question to obey, just as he had been ordered.

François stared at her, let out a cry of rage, and walked to her, falling on his knees before her. “Do you know what I can do to you? Do you know I can begin to make you suffer? The devil dogs. I need them now!”

 

 

It was as he had dreamed.

And, he began to believe, as it had been before.

They had ridden a distance from the seaside when another group, some mounted, some on foot, came to join them.

And there, at their head, was the priest. The same man who had so recently read the rites for Maria Britto.

Grant urged his horse close, and he bowed his head while the man said prayers in Latin. He came forward; Grant knew he would offer him a cross, but he wore one already. The priest did bear a cross, but a huge one on a large chain. He set it around the horse's neck, and Grant readjusted the reins, thanking him.

Then, they were both sprinkled with holy water, and more prayers in Latin rose to the heavens.

The demon dogs howled again.

They rode.

The moon sat high and full above them; a strange, cold wind whipped at them.

Lucien rode closer to his side. “I believe that the devil dogs are the corpses of the dead who have died on the side of evil—murderers, rapists . . . destroyers.”

Grant glanced at him quickly.

“You must sever their heads,” Lucien said.

“I . . . knew that,” Grant murmured.

They rode hard, the hordes on foot following behind them. They neared the site.

As they rode, the wind whipped higher, cold and strange, for there was a fog upon the ground, and the wind did not disperse it. They could hear screams and cries, and still, that unearthly howling sound.

The encampment was under attack, Grant realized.

Reaching the higher ground at last.

They saw the troops of François de Venue emerging through the fog, making a line before them. They were made up of others of the townsfolk. Grant could see Doug was at his right-hand side. There was the pretty nurse from the hospital . . .

Arturo. Men he had met at the dig.

They were, indeed, an army.

François led.

Stephanie was at his side.

Her dark hair billowing down her shoulders . . .

Her eyes, so deep and magnetic a blue they were almost violet, dazed. And yet . . .

There was a glow about them. A glow like . . . tears.

“Let her go!” Conan roared. “She isn't really a part of this.”

“If you would have her, you'll have to die.”

“She is no part of it! I will face you gladly—you don't need to hold her.”

François rose in his shadow. “Before, Conan, I let you live. Tonight, by all the fires of hell, you will perish, and no power will ever bring you back!”

The dark, handsome face of François de Venue, the man he had once know as Giovanni, darkened into a scowl of fury. “Tonight is the night you die!”

“We shall meet in hell, then, François. Indeed, if need be, we will meet in hell!”

“Now!” François roared to Stephanie.

“Stephanie!” Grant called to her, his voice rising above the howl of the dogs.

The wind began to whip anew in an eerie, dark swirl of fog and night. The baying increased.

And then the demon dogs came rushing through the throngs of horsemen and foot soldiers that flanked François and his troops.

And Stephanie.

The first animal leapt upon him. His horse staggered. Grant looked at the thing in amazement. It was a dog, and not a dog, huge in size . . . but not a wolf. Its teeth were those of a great cat, a tiger in the night.

It was a corpse. Not dog, wolf, or great cat. It was a corpse, summoned from the grave with the unholy power of a sorceress . . .

Stephanie?

No!

Corpse or not, it was vicious and powerful. Its shoulder muscles were gigantic, and its massive paws held great, tearing, catlike claws. The sheer power and size of it was so great that it knocked over his horse, and unseated him.

The head! Sever the head!

With a massive blow, he did so.

But looking up, he saw that they were coming in waves.

Near his side, Lucien was slashing away at the creatures with a practiced fury. Lucien glanced at him.

“Call out to her—call out to Stephanie! She can order them back to hell.”

“Stephanie didn't call these foul beasts from the dead!” Grant shouted back.

“Whether she did or didn't, she can send them back to hell!”

He paused, shouting as loudly as he could, “Stephanie! Stephanie, for the love of God, you can do it! Send them back!”

Screams rose around Grant. But it seemed that they were pushing forward. He went to swipe at the head of a devil dog and then froze where he stood.

He never slashed into the neck. The thing, just suddenly, in mid-leap, turned into a pack of dust and bones and fell harmlessly to the earth.

“Forward!” He heard himself rage out the command.

He turned back to see his haphazard army ready to obey. There . . . just feet from him, locked in battle, he saw Drew and Doug.

“Ah, come on, buddy, put down the sword!” Drew pleaded.

Grant saw the fierce twist of Doug's lips as he formed them into a snarl. Doug raised his massive, blood-drenched sword, ready to strike with a vengeance.

“Shit!” Drew cried.

And he rose, with tears in his eyes, and made a clean swipe with his weapon that sliced right through Doug.

He fell.

Someone lunged against Grant's back. Someone in full armor. He nearly fell, then staggered, gained his balance, and turned back. His opponent was fierce, driving him to defensive measures as onslaught after onslaught came his way.

He swung the great, double-handed blade with all his strength and agility, catching his opponent just under the neck.

The helmet flew from the fighter.

And he paused.

Catching at her throat, trying to stanch the flow of blood, was Valeria.

And for a moment, past images flooded into his vision. Valeria . . . beautiful, laughing at his side, long ago . . .

When she had been young.

Innocent . . .

And he hesitated.

She'd had a daughter. She'd ridden with François . . . because he had threatened the girl. The daughter had lived . . . and the centuries had gone by . . .

And now, she screamed in rage, rising, catching her sword from the ground, and flying after him again. Her sword caught him such a blow against the chest that he went down.

Her arms stretched out to the heavens. Lightning cracked against the sky. The wind roared, and he heard again the baying of the demon dogs . . .

“No!” he roared.

He grabbed the cross he wore around his neck, rolled when her sword would have rent him into pieces. Staggering, he found his feet again. He didn't try to collect his weapon, but charged at her with the huge cross held high in his hands. He slammed against her, pressing the cross hard to her forehead and face.

She screamed with rage and pain that rose above the howling.

She fell to her knees.

Looked up at him . . .

And he knew. He saw her just as he had seen her centuries ago. He saw the snarl of triumph, the vicious snarl she had given him before . . .

François had not been all that had driven her to evil. She had found power, and she had loved it. And he had saved her life long enough for the earth to tear and crumble . . .

And crush all her enemies beneath it. And since then, she had been waiting.

He caught up his sword, and prepared to deal the death blow.

“
Conan!”

The cry caused him to pause. Then, he saw again the change begin to take place in her eyes, in her features . . .

A smile . . .

That faded.

He heard the
whoosh
of the sword. For a moment, Valeria remained, frozen in time with that smile on her face.

Then . . . her head fell to her side.

“Move! He went to Valeria to fight his arm-to-arm combat this time!” Lucien told him. And he pointed.

The precipice was not what it had been before. It barely jutted from the cliff. But François had dragged Stephanie there. She was openly fighting him now, but he had her by the hair.

And there was Arturo, ready to help him, dragging Stephanie down, down by the shoulders, forcing her to her knees.

“No!”

Again, his cry rose to the night sky, to the darkness, to heaven, and beyond. He bounded upward, catching tree limbs, branches, anything to hurry his assent.

“She is Valeria!” Someone shouted. “She is the evil!”

They were mad; they were insane. They had ridden with him, and they knew . . .

Or did they?
They only knew that evil had been dug from the past, from the ground, and that it was living among them again.

Above the roar, he could hear the rise of François's laughter.

With a desperate, mighty push, he thrust himself from the trail, jumping up on the edge where too many people struggled desperately.

He caught Arturo first, sending the man over the edge with a massive right to the jaw. Freed, Stephanie leapt up.

“Get behind me!” he ordered her.

“Grant! He's a vampire. You . . . you . . . haven't . . .”

Grant swung the sword. He knew he had a perfect and sure shot at the man's neck.

But François disappeared, and all he could hear was laughter.

“Stephanie, get away!” he urged her. He couldn't fight François, and hold off the people who were slowly but steadily making their way up the trail.

“I can't . . . I can make you see him. Grant!”

He turned just in time. Leering, furious, all but frothing at the mouth, François was at him again. Grant deflected the blow, and started to swing.

Again, the man started to disappear.

“No!” Stephanie shouted.

The image of the man wavered, but remained.

Grant swung.

The head of the man went flying.

Stephanie fell, first to her knees . . . and then, to the earth.

The wind ceased instantly.

The clang of steel was hushed.

The baying of the demon dogs had long since quieted.

“Stephanie!”

Grant screamed her name, falling down beside her.

And then, the noise began. A trembling that shook the earth. It was deep, horrible, a rumble that seemed to shake all the world . . .

From below, someone, it sounded like Carlo Ponti, shouted, “Quake!”

Stephanie was out cold. He could barely reach her, the earth was so volatile. He stretched out his arms . . . caught her, drew her to him.

It was going to go. The little piece of precipice that remained. He was bogged down in armor, so heavy laden. Still, he got her into his arms . . . he began to run.

Behind each footstep, more of the earth gave.

He hit the trail.

The ground jolted.

He fell himself . . . fell . . . flew.

They rolled . . .

Downward, downward, downward . . .

And the world was black.