Of Masques and Martyrs (10 page)

It occurred to him, then, that there was probably a lot more parking in New York these days. And a lot of empty apartments. People were moving out in a rapid exodus, according to the media reports. And nobody was moving in. One poll suggested that in another year’s time, Manhattan would be a ghost town.

Will didn’t believe for even a moment that it was going to take that long. Hannibal wouldn’t wait a year. Of the ten or twelve cities around the world that his clan was feeding on, New York was clearly suffering the greatest number of attacks. It made a kind of sense, though. Up until recently, the city had had the highest concentration of human beings in America.

His boots clicked on the terminal floor, echoed along the corridor. Up ahead, Will could see the Avis sign burning red. There were only two people behind the counter. The night shift probably stayed through until morning, Will realized. It would be safer than going out at night, though not much.

In addition to the two Avis employees, there was an elderly couple at the counter. They were angry that neither of the employees was willing to take them out to the parking lot to show them
exactly
where their rental car was parked.

“Lady,” one of the employees snapped, “you can stand here and shriek at me all night if you want. No way in hell am I going out there. My advice is, take a long nap right here. When the sun comes up, I’ll carry you out to your car on my back if you like. But until then, forget about it.”

Will let out a breath and shook his head slowly.

“I knew it was bad . . .” he began.

“But you never realized how bad,” Allison finished for him. “Me either.”

“Will?” a voice said from up ahead.

He scanned the Avis waiting area. For the first time he noticed a petite brunette woman, a girl really, sitting in the shadows near the restroom doors. Will blinked, but it only took him a moment to realize who it was.

“Erika?” he asked, incredulously.

“Oh, thank God,” Allison sighed, and Will shared her sentiments.

Together, they rushed forward. Will threw his arms around Erika, and the vampire girl returned his embrace. She was smiling broadly, her relief just as plain as his own.

“I don’t understand,” Will said. “I’m thrilled to see you—we didn’t even have any idea where to begin to look. But how did you know to meet us here?”

The smile disappeared from Erika’s face; she fell into a dark, grim expression, her eyes downcast. Will backed up a step, surprised by the sudden change.

“Well, you had to come, didn’t you?” Erika said, something like grief in her tone. “When Rolf dropped off your radar, we knew you’d be coming. It was easy enough to hack the airline computers and search for Allison’s name and your many pseudonyms.”

Will still stared at Erika. He was tense now. There was a danger here, and he didn’t quite understand the feeling. Erika was one of them, but it was almost as if this wasn’t Erika at all.

Allison didn’t see it.

“Well, I for one am just happy you figured it out,” she was saying. “I don’t want to spend any more time here than necessary. It’s like New York is one big game reserve for Hannibal’s vampires.”

While Allison spoke, Erika paid no attention to her. The vampire girl’s eyes were on Cody. When he was alive, truly alive, he’d trusted everyone. It had led to a less than glorious death. He’d passed on after losing everything he had because of his great debts and bad business deals. He’d been too nice a guy, too trusting, too willing to help.

Death had taught him.

“Where’s Rolf, Erika?” he asked, taking another step back.

For the first time, Allison noticed the tension that had descended among them. She glanced up at Will, saw something in his eyes, and took a step away from Erika herself.

“Will?” she asked. “What is—”

“Rolf?” Erika interrupted. “Well fuck, Will, I figured you already knew. He’s dead.”

“Jesus!” Allison said, bringing a hand to her mouth. “How?”

Will just watched Erika. Her face was calm, almost amused. But there was a pain in her eyes. He didn’t understand the dichotomy.

“Very dead, actually,” Erika continued. “Two silver bullets in the head, execution style. Hannibal has a fondness for Martin Scorsese movies, apparently. Wants to track Scorsese down and turn him, I think.”

Erika’s eyes twitched left, toward the Avis counter across the hall. That decided it for Will. He spun, grabbed Allison, and got her moving away from Erika instantly. He gave her a shove, propelling her along the corridor so that she nearly fell, blond hair tumbling over her face. But she didn’t fall, and that was the key.

“Run!” he roared.

Allison had been through enough with him not to argue. She ran.

 

In the torn jeans she’d had on the night before and a Tulane University sweatshirt she’d borrowed from Peter’s closet, Nikki Wydra stood and stared out the bedroom window. She hugged herself tightly, partly because it was a bit chilly in the convent, and partly because she was scared.

Not terrified, though she might well have been. But scared and excited and anxious all at once. She looked at the lights of New Orleans in the distance and realized that the safety it had once represented to her was an illusion. Not completely, of course. But if George was telling the truth, and she had no reason to think he was lying, that meant that nobody was safe.

A civil war between vampires. Oh, my God, she thought, what that could mean. The horror of such a thing was almost unthinkable. But the world had survived the unthinkable before.

Nikki thought about Reggie, who’d hired her to work at Old Antoine’s to begin with. And Pepper, her best friend from high school. She’d had a fight with Pepper two years ago and had spoken with her only once since then. She thought about her father, Craig, who’d taken early retirement and moved to La Jolla, California, to relax and “watch the waves come in and the girls go by,” he’d said.

As terrifying as the evening news had become, for them and most of the other people Nikki cared about it was no more real, no more a threat to their own existence than a war in some third world country.

They had no idea. Just from the little George Marcopoulos had told her, Nikki had a sense that unless something changed dramatically, this horrible civil war and its aftermath were going to be just the beginning to a much darker world.

That was the irony. She was in the enemy camp. The convent was filled with vampires, shadows, whatever they called themselves. And yet, she felt profoundly that she was safer here than almost anywhere else in the world. Certainly safer than out on the streets of New Orleans tonight. The previous night’s events had already shown that the more savage tribe of vampires was beginning to cross over into what she presumed was Peter Octavian’s territory.

As she thought of his name, she hugged herself again and glanced around his bedroom. One wan light was all she had to keep the darkness at bay, but even in the dim illumination it cast, the room felt comfortable. Its decoration was Spartan, but warm.

Human.

That was what had taken her off guard at first, and again when she’d woken just before dark. It was the bedroom of a man with good taste and simple needs. But a man, without question. It was not the lair of some blood-ravenous monster, stalking the night. On the bedside table were several items she hadn’t noticed before: an antique silver hairbrush, a small photograph of an attractive blond woman, and a hardcover book,
The Life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A man.

Behind her, someone began to sing.

“Come on, into my kitchen . . .”

Nikki turned, startled, and stumbled slightly against the window. Fortunately, it didn’t break. Peter Octavian stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his eyes closed as he sang softly. Badly.

“It’s going to be raining outdoors,” he finished.

Nikki stared.

Peter opened his eyes and his mouth stretched into the same lopsided grin that had attracted her at the club. He really was a handsome man. His hair and goatee were cropped close and gave him a look that was both rugged and somehow neat. He was tall and thin, but still muscular. For the first time, she noticed his eyes. They were a stunning green, a deep, almost artificial color that she’d never seen before. They couldn’t be real, she thought. Maybe contacts . . . or maybe just whatever Octavian wanted them to be.

“You’re still afraid,” he said matter-of-factly, and the grin went away.

She wanted it back.

“No,” she said quickly, snapping out of the defensive stance she had unconsciously taken, straightening up, trying to loosen up and failing miserably.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Yes, I’m afraid.”

“You’d have to be a fool or a little crazy not to be,” Peter said gravely. “But I promise you, Nikki, as long as you’re here with us, you’ll be safe.”

She stared at him still, unable to respond. Nikki wanted to take offense at his so intimate use of her name. But that would be foolish. It was the dawn of the twenty-first century. Nobody called each other Mr. and Mrs. anymore. Nobody under fifty. But coming from him, it sounded so . . . personal. Nikki realized she liked it.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Oh,” she said nervously, “I mean, of course you can. It’s your room, isn’t it?”

Nikki let her auburn hair fall across her eyes, hiding behind her long mane a moment. It was a habit of hers. But she’d spent enough time hiding as a girl, and had vowed years ago to stop. She tilted her head back, letting the hair fall to her shoulders and meeting Peter’s gaze with all the strength she could muster.

He stepped into the room, and she had a moment to think about that old myth, the one about vampires having to be invited into a home. But that was foolish. This was Peter’s own room.

“I . . . borrowed your sweatshirt,” she said, at a loss for anything else.

“It looks nice on you,” he said.

She wanted to snicker, to think of it as the kind of bullshit line guys just couldn’t help but spout. But coming from Peter, it seemed different. He meant it. How he could think the baggy sweatshirt did anything for her appearance was beyond her, but maybe when you lived forever, your standards changed.

Nikki actually laughed, then caught herself, brought a hand to her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiled again, then shook her head as if she could shake it away.

“Not at all,” Peter said. “I’m glad you can laugh. Sometimes it isn’t easy. Laughter is a gift.”

He came further into the room, and this time Nikki didn’t feel the urge to withdraw. Peter sat down in a black wooden chair, where George had been sitting earlier. He leaned back, comfortably, as if he spent a lot of time in that chair.

Nikki sat on the edge of the bed, both feet on the ground. She’d never been so aware of the distance separating her from another person. It was like being in the room with a nuclear bomb, she thought. Not that it was going to explode, but that it had the potential to destroy her in an instant. Still, such feelings were at war inside her with other, more curious thoughts and emotions.

Peter’s presence made her feel safe. His easy smile and natural confidence were winning, attractive.

“I’m told you have some questions I should answer,” he said. “George seems concerned that you might run off and get into trouble. Unfortunate as it may be, and I’m sorry because it’s mostly my fault, Tsumi will probably be watching for you.”

“Run off?” Nikki repeated. She glanced out the window at the lights of New Orleans again. Thought of Tsumi and the other vampires from the club. “Not much chance of that,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, where I’m going to go, but I’m starting to think the farther from a major city I can get, the better chance I have of staying alive.”

Peter leaned forward now, fingers stroking his goatee as he looked at her intensely. It made her uncomfortable, but in a way, she liked it also.

“You’re wise to want to leave,” Peter told her. “But I want you to know that you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. We’re a family here. We call it a coven, but that’s only to illustrate the ties that bind us. You’ll be protected as long as you’re here.”

“I’m kind of used to protecting myself,” Nikki said, surprising herself with the tiny sting of angry pride in her voice.

Peter smiled. “Of course. I can see that. But the world is changing, and I thought you should know what we’re about here.”

“What are you about?” she asked.

“Living,” he replied simply. “Surviving. Trying to live with what we are, trying to stop the vampires from killing us, or from spreading any further. We’ve done a poor job of that, I’m afraid.”

“Vampires,” she said, chewing her lip slightly. “I understand, and I think I can even accept, that your people here aren’t like the rest. But I guess what I don’t understand is why.”

Peter smiled again.

“I’m not sure you’ll believe me,” he said.

“I think I’ve got a pretty open mind,” she said, gesturing to indicate the room around them, the convent itself, and the indisputable truth of its residents. “Try me.”

So he told her. About the first vampire, a claim that challenged her childhood faith, but made a great deal of sense. About a war with the Catholic church that lasted nearly two thousand years. About the Venice Jihad, and how for a time even the most savage of shadows were forced to behave with the spotlight of the world’s media shining down on them. And about Hannibal, and his quest to return to the past. To the terror and the dark mythology of another age.

“And no matter how badly the U.N. and the president want to destroy us all, they can hardly be expected to track and kill a race of beings who can be literally anything,” he said.

Nikki only stared at him.

“What about you?” she asked. “Tell me more about yourself.”