Fiends of the Rising Sun (2 page)

Guido was happy to linger in the background at official ceremonies like the signing of the Tripartite Pact, ready to be called upon at a moment's notice if required. His presence was not strictly necessary, but he liked to be there, just in case. The one time in the past five years he'd taken a day off - to attend the funeral of his beloved mother at Cortona - Mussolini had split a pair of trousers and was left screaming at his staff, wondering why there was nobody present to make the invisible repairs. After that Guido had forbidden himself ever to leave Il Duce's side again. They needed each other, in their own ways.

"Excuse me, is your name Fioravanti?" a voice asked in impeccable Italian.

Guido turned to find he was being addressed by a tall, austere man in a handsomely cut, blue uniform. The speaker had a thin face with piercing eyes, the pupils dark as night. Fioravanti found himself staring into those eyes, drawn towards them, quite unable to resist the pull of those bleak, malevolent pupils. "Yes?"

"I understand you're Il Duce's dresser?" the stranger continued.

"Master of the Wardrobe," Guido replied, instinctively reciting the rather grand title he'd bestowed upon himself.

"Quite." The stranger gestured towards a nearby doorway. "The Führer asked if you would come with me, to participate in a demonstration."

Guido didn't understand. "Demonstration?"

"The Führer was admiring the cut of your leader's jacket and wondered if you might be persuaded to show his tailors how you achieve such finesse."

"I would be honoured, of course, but I should like to check with-"

The stranger stepped sideways, putting himself between Guido and the rest of the room. "We had a word with a senior official from the Italian delegation and he said you could be spared for an hour." He moved closer to Guido. "You would be doing the Führer a great service if you agreed."

Guido could feel those dark eyes boring into him, as if they were scouring his soul, searching for any sign of resistance and crushing it. He wanted to say no, that his place was at Il Duce's side, but his lips mumbled yes. "The honour would be all mine," he heard himself reply.

"Excellent. If you'll follow me?" The stranger strode out through the door and Guido trotted meekly after him, hurrying to keep pace with his escort's lengthy gait. They moved quickly through corridor after corridor, until the little dresser had lost all track of where they were or where they'd come from. Hopefully, one of the German tailors would help him find the way back.

After passing through a dizzying number of doorways the two men reached a spiral staircase, and hurried down the wrought iron steps, descending into the bowels of the Chancellery building. When Guido thought they could go no further without descending into hell itself, the staircase came to an end, terminating in a dimly lit corridor. His guide strode briskly onwards into the darkness, while Guido paused to look back up the steps. He could see no other souls, nobody around who might help reunite him with the rest of Mussolini's entourage. The dresser felt a cold shiver run up his spine at the idea of getting lost down here. It didn't bear thinking about. He thrust his hands into his waistcoat pockets, seeking the two things most familiar to him in the world: his rosary beads and his measuring tape. The nimble fingers of his right hand worked the beads while his left hand clutched the cold metal clasp on the end of the measuring tape. With these in his grasp, Guido had always felt nothing could harm him - until today.

"Hello?" he called out, his words trembling at the edge. "Is anyone there?"

This way
, a cold voice crept into his mind.

Guido wanted to run back up the stairs, but found himself walking away from them instead, his feet involuntarily taking him into the darkness.
Closer
, the voice whispered in his thoughts, its sibilance grating and grinding at his will. Guido's body jerked and twitched, trying to fight against the force impelling him into the blackness, but the dresser was quite unable to resist. He stumbled on in the shadows, unable to see where he was going, his other senses just as useless.

Finally he saw a door in the distance.
Quicker
, the hissing voice snarled, and Guido's legs responded, taking him ever closer to the rectangle of light ahead. Beyond it he could see nothing but pure white. What was happening to him? Was this all some terrible dream? Yes, that must be it, he had fallen asleep and this was the nightmare that troubled his slumbering. Guido willed himself to wake, but to no avail. Even his fingers holding the rosary were beyond his control, unable to move from one bead to the next, denying him the reassurance of the holy catechism. He wanted to pray, but something, some force, stopped him.
Forget the Nazarene
, the voice whispered in Guido's mind.
He has forgotten you. He has left you in my power, little man.

Guido stepped through the doorway into a cold concrete bunker, its grey cement walls and floor made brilliant by blazing white lights overhead. The dresser could see a hole, high up on one wall, an opening. Beyond that, he could make out the silhouette of somebody watching him, a lone figure with its arms folded.

"Begin the demonstration." The words drifted down to Guido from above, the voice that of the Führer. The dresser wanted to reply, wanted to say there must be some mistake, but he couldn't speak. Words caught in his throat, trapped in vocal chords tightened by terror.

He was aware of a presence in the room with him. A low, translucent mist floated above the floor. No, not floated, hovered. How was that possible? That question was forgotten as the mist coalesced, forming itself into a distinct shape. The mist became a pallid silhouette, the size of a man. A face formed within the fog, features emerging from the mist, dark eyes solidifying, their penetrating gaze rooting Guido to the spot, forbidding him to run. In another instant the mist was a man, the same man who'd lured Guido down into this forsaken chamber.

The dresser watched in bewilderment as the figure changed again, hunching down on all fours, transforming from a man into a wolf. Just as quickly the wolf was a bat, flapping its wings in the still, cool air. Then it was a man once more, all these transfigurations taking place within a matter of moments. The man took three brisk strides closer, opening his mouth wide to reveal grossly enlarged canine teeth. Guido watched as they grew larger still, extending down from the upper jaws to form fangs. He whimpered as the apparition buried his fangs in the side of his throat, pain lancing through his body as the skin was broken. Then came the suckling: an unearthly feeling that his life's blood was being drawn out from the carotid artery, accompanied by the hungry, wet sounds of an animal feeding.

Guido's eyelids fluttered and his limbs went limp, brutal terror undoing him. But the thing that was feasting at his throat would not let him go, not yet. Strong arms embraced him like a lover, and a searing warmth invaded the dresser's body, penetrating at the neck and spreading out through his bloodstream. He felt pleasure beyond anything he'd ever experienced, and a sense of excitement and wanting that he'd never known before. Yes, he thought, take my blood. Take it all. I give in to you willingly.

The Italian gave a sob of dismay as the fangs came away from his neck. The man sucking Guido's blood leaned back to meet the Führer's gaze. "Having taken the victim's blood, he is now utterly in my thrall, a slave willing to say or do anything I command. If I drain them, they can become like me, one of the undead, a vampyr, if I choose. They will possess much of my strength and abilities. They will be able to change their shape and survive on blood alone. Alternatively, I can take enough blood for the victim to die and remain dead. If needs be, I am able to resurrect the dead as cannon fodder, lifeless warriors for the battlefield."

Guido listened to all this with dispassionate annoyance. He wanted the suckling to continue, wanted to feel those twin fangs buried inside his body again. He knew he was dying, but he had never felt so alive.

"What is your wish, Führer?"

"Get rid of the victim, Lord Constanta; he's of no further use."

The vampyr bowed his head to Hitler before turning back to Guido. Constanta licked his lips, removing the last morsel of blood from them. His cold, leathery hands took hold of Guido's face, cradling it like a lover would.

"More," the dresser heard himself whisper. "Take more of me."

Constanta ripped the head sideways, bones inside the neck snapping like brittle twigs. Guido was dead before his broken body slumped to the floor.

Zenji Hitori wished he was anywhere but in Berlin. Until two weeks ago, he had been fighting for the Imperial Japanese Army in China, leading a crack squad of warriors into battle. His grandfather had been a samurai in the days when that meant something, and the day Hitori first strapped on the sword once worn by his father's father had been among the most important of his young life. He was wearing the sword, as he stood in the Chancellery building, dutifully keeping watch over General Tojo. Adjutant to the minister of war, it was Hitori's task to keep the general safe from harm. There was great honour in dying to protect a man so important for the future of the Japanese Empire. Alas, Hitori felt the only danger to the general's life at this dry diplomatic reception was dying of boredom. The likes of Mussolini could talk anyone to death.

Not for the first time since arriving in Berlin, Hitori wished he was not fluent in Italian, German or English. Had his father not insisted young Zenji learn the languages of other nations and other peoples, the adjutant would have been able to occupy his thoughts more usefully at such functions. Instead the general insisted Hitori maintain a constant watch on what was being said. Once they were back in their own quarters, Tojo would expect a blow by blow account of everything that had been uttered within earshot. It did not matter that the Japanese embassy had provided a perfectly adequate translator. The general did not trust diplomats and certainly did not trust translators. So Hitori was required to listen and file away everything he heard for later regurgitation, no matter how dull.

He had noticed the Führer slip away from the champagne reception as soon as possible, and envied Hitler that freedom. As adjutant, Hitori was expected to stay alert and awake as long as his master did. He would have given anything for the chance to return to their quarters, rather than endure another hour or more of pitiless tedium at the hands of these sallow faced officials. I'm a soldier, Hitori thought. I should be on a battlefield, fighting for the good of the empire, not fighting to stay awake in some distant drinks reception!

But his boredom vanished the moment Hitler returned to the room, striding straight towards Tojo. The Führer invited the general out into the corridor, and Hitori followed them, determined not to be left behind if something interesting was going to happen. He noticed Mussolini was not honoured with an invitation to join them, something that left the Italian dictator visibly angry. Good, Hitori decided. The man stinks of wet pork and has all the manners of swine too. Let him stay in here and stew in his own fetid juices.

Once they were out in the corridor, Hitler waved away his own underlings, choosing to use Hitori as translator. The adjutant was surprised by the choice, but did his best not to let that show. The Führer focused his attention on Hitori, his eyes staring at the adjutant. "Tell the general there is someone he should meet, someone who might be useful to him in the future."

Hitori passed this on to Tojo, who merely nodded. The adjutant looked around, expecting to see someone else in the corridor, but it was empty. "Excuse me for asking, Führer, but where is this person?"

Hitler smiled. "Is that you asking, or the general?"

Another exchange of translations took place before Hitori replied, "Both."

"Allow me introduce you to Lord Constanta, from Rumania," Hitler said.

"It's an honour," another voice interjected from behind Hitori. A tall, upright figure strode past the Japanese delegates and stood beside the Führer. He bowed low, keeping his eyes cast down to the floor before straightening up. "May I say how much I admire the activities of your Black Dragon Society? It sets an example other nations would do well to follow."

Hitori was about to translate when he realised the newcomer was already speaking Japanese. Curious, since Hitler also seemed to understand everything that Constanta was saying to the general. Hitori risked a glance over his shoulder, trying to ascertain where the Rumanian had come from, but there were no doors close to them. It was almost as if Constanta had appeared from thin air - a ridiculous notion. The adjutant decided to focus his attention on what was happening here and now. The general was shaking hands with the new arrival, speaking with him as if they were old friends. No doubt it was praise for the Black Dragons that had smoothed the way. The society was a strident right-wing paramilitary group affiliated with the Japanese secret service. To get anywhere in the imperial government these days, you had to have connections with the Black Dragons. Fortunately for Hitori's career prospects, his father had been an active member between the wars. Still, the adjutant was surprised this outsider had even heard of the Black Dragons. They were a secretive society and few acknowledged their existence within Japan. How had this thin-faced, austere figure from Rumania come to know about them?

The general exchanged a few words with the Rumanian, asking him many of the same questions that had occurred to Hitori, but Constanta deftly avoided giving any direct or meaningful answers. "As yet my country is not part of the war that rages across much of Europe," the Rumanian said. "But I believe it will not be long before my people find themselves on the battlefield, fighting for what we believe in. Those of us who hail from the province of Transylvania have particular talents that will stand our allies in good stead. I have offered those talents to the Führer, once Rumania joins the Tripartite Pact. I make the same offer to you, general, as minister of war for Japan."