When True Night Falls (21 page)

“You fed, I take it.”

He shut his eyes, remembering. “As soon as we landed, and many times since. Fear so rich it made me giddy to taste it, blood so hot with terror that leaching it of warmth should have cooled my hunger for a decade. This land is ripe for me, Karril, and its people are unprotected. And yet ... I feel empty again. Desperately empty. The scent of a victim makes me tremble with hunger ... even though I know that my physical need has been satisfied. Why? It’s never been like this before.”

“You never starved yourself for that long before.”

“Why should that matter? You can starve a vampire for centuries, but within a night after he’s fed—”

“You haven’t been a mere vampire for centuries now. Remember?”

“It shouldn’t make a difference.”

“Of course it does! You have a complex soul, my friend. A
human
soul, for all its hellish trappings. Such a thing takes time to heal. Hells, even a housecat that’s starved for five months will hoard its food for a while. Give it time.”

“I haven’t got time,” he muttered. Turning away. His hands, clenched into fists, trembled slightly. “Our enemy must know we’re here,” he whispered. “I have no time for weakness.”

“I would help if I could,” the demon said softly. “You know that. But my powers are limited.” He indicated the room that surrounded them, as if to say,
this is it
. “I can give you illusion. I can intensify the pleasure of killing, perhaps even offer a brief euphoria of forgetfulness. But escapism’s never been your style, I know that. What more can I offer?”

“You can give me information.”

The demon chuckled softly. “Ah, now it all comes together. Is that why you called me here?”

“It’s why I chose you, as opposed to half a dozen other spirits who might have made the trip. For all your shallow posturings you’re a good servant, Karril. And I know I’m not the only adept who’s felt that way.”

The demon grinned. “How much effort does it take, really? The most precious thing in an adept’s world is knowledge. And what is that to me? How hard is it to part with a simple fact or two? And being demonic myself, I do have an advantage in research. So tell me what you need, Hunter. If I can help, I will.”

The Neocount turned so that his eyes were on Karril’s; black fire stirred in their depths. “There was a demon we fought in the rakhlands. He came to me later and....” He shook his head sharply, banishing the memory. “Simply put, he tried to destroy me. And almost succeeded. I’m here to keep it from happening again.”

“A worthy crusade.”

“I can’t Know him without increasing the power that binds us together, and that would make him even stronger. Too risky. Yet I need to know who he is,
what
he is, what his parameters are ... can you tell me that?”

“If I know him. If not....” he grinned. “Let’s say that for an old friend I’d do some research. Did this creature of darkness have a name?”

“He called himself Calesta.”

The demon’s face went white. Utterly white. Not the fleshy pale color of human surprise, in which blood leaves the face and all else remains, but the total colorlessness of one whose face is but an illusion, responsive to one’s moods on a much more primal level. “Calesta?”

“You know of him?”

A long, strained pause. “I know of him,” he said at last. “But I didn’t know....” He left off helplessly.

“I need information, Karril.”

“Yes. You would.” He turned away. “But I can’t help you, Hunter. Not this time.”

“Why?”

A pause. The demon shook his head. “I can’t answer that either.” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re playing games with me—”

“No. I’m not. I swear it.”

“Then help me!—or tell me why you can’t. One or the other.”

The demon said nothing. The brightness of the walls about them faded; it was possible to see the lights of a nearby city through one curtain.

The Hunter took a step toward him; his pale eyes flashed in anger. “He tricked me, Karril. He meant to destroy my soul, and he almost succeeded. Now I’ve crossed half a world so that I can have my vengeance, and I will. And you will help me.” When the demon failed to respond, his expression darkened. “If I suffer in this because you refused to help me, so help me God, I’ll bind you to my pain—”

“I can’t!” he whispered fiercely. “Not this time, Hunter. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” he demanded. “You’ve never failed me before. Why is this time different?”

“It’s just ... I can’t.” If he were human, he might have been sweating heavily; as it was, his gaze flickered nervously from side to side as if trying to escape Tarrant’s own. “I’m forbidden to get involved. Forbidden to interfere. All right? Is that enough?”

The Hunter’s voice was like ice. “Forbidden by whom?”

“No one you would know. And not for any reason you would respect. But it’s binding, I assure you.”

“I can fight it—”

“You can’t.”

“I could Banish—”

“Not this! Not this time. I’m sorry.”

“And I’m supposed to just accept that?” he demanded.

Karril said nothing.

He grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him to face him. “My life is on the line here, demon. I must use the resources that are available to me. You are one of those resources.” He paused, giving that a moment to sink in. “I’ve always valued our relationship. Since the moment you first came to me, centuries ago, I’ve dealt with you honestly and openly. And you’ve always returned that courtesy. Until now.” Earth-fae began to gather at his feet, ready for Working. “For the last time, Karril. Will you tell me what you know of your own accord, or do I have to Summon it out of you?”

For a long moment the demon just stared at him. At last he said, in a low voice, “You can’t, you know.”

“Can’t what?”

“Summon me. Force the information out, in any way.”

“Are you claiming some special protection?”

“No. But I’m telling you that my kind isn’t affected by such things. Never has been.”

“Your kind ... you mean your sub-type?”

“Yes, my sub-type. My family, if you will. The demons you call
Iezu
.”

“I’ve Summoned Iezu before. I’ve Summoned you, in fact—”

“And I played along. Because those are the rules of the game as humans define it. I know my place. We all do. But the truth is that your sorcery can’t control any of us. Never could.”

The Hunter’s face was a mask of fury, and something else. Fear? “You’re bluffing,” he accused

“Have I ever bluffed with you? Is that my way? Summon me, if you like. See for yourself. Humans need the illusion of control, but maybe you’re the one exception. Maybe you can handle the fact that your precious Workings won’t affect me. Go on, try!”

Tarrant turned away from him. His hands were shaking. Black fire burned in his soul.

“There’s nothing I can say or do to make a difference in this conflict,” the demon told him. “There’s nothing you can ask me for that I can give you if Calesta’s involved. I’m sorry, old friend. More sorry than you can imagine. But the laws that bind me are older than you or I, and stronger than both of us combined. I wish it were otherwise.”

“Go,” he whispered hoarsely. “Get out of here! To the west, if you want, or feed on these people for a while. God knows they’re ripe for it. Just get out of my sight.”

“Gerald—”

“Go!” His shoulders were trembling, the motion slight but eloquent. In all the time that Karril had known him—nearly nine centuries now—he had never seen him this upset. Never seen him this close to losing it.

It’s the lack of control,
the demon thought.
The one thing he can’t handle. The one thing he could never handle.

“I didn’t know you meant to fight him,” he said. Softly, oh so softly, hoping that the words would reach him through his rage. “I would have tried to warn you. I would have tried to talk you out of it....”
And why?
he thought.
Because I care? That’s not supposed to happen at all. You see, I break the rules just by knowing you.
The thought that he was causing pain ran counter to his every instinct. The knowledge that he could do otherwise with a few simple words was almost more than he could bear.

“Be careful,” he whispered suddenly. “He can read you like I do: see into your soul, uncover all your weaknesses. Trust nothing that you see or hear; remember that the senses are flesh-born, and flesh can be manipulated.” He looked about himself nervously, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Gods of Earth! I’ve said too much already. Be careful, my old friend. The price of defeat is higher than you know.”

Tarrant whipped about as if to confront him, but Karril was already gone: sucked into the night along with all his illusions, dispersed on the evening breeze. For a moment Tarrant just stared at the space where he had been. Then, mastering his rage with effort, he worked a Summoning. To force Karril to return. To force him to respond to him.

Nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

He looked back toward the city lights below, and felt an unaccustomed rage stab through his flesh. Anger, hot as brimstone, set his blood to burning.

“Damn you,” he muttered. “Damn you to Hell!”

He started down the mountainside, toward the city and its innocents.

The Consecration of the Faithful took place on the fifth day after Damien’s arrival, the evening of the local sabbath. He was invited to participate. Toshida had supplied him with full sweeping robes in the local style, emblazoned with the golden flames of his Order. Hurriedly made, he guessed, but no less opulent for it. He tried to get Hesseth to attend, but the mere mention of his Church brought a hiss of distaste to her lips. She had been playing Sanctified Woman for several days now—the role forced upon her by her costume—and the continual stress of faking an identity she didn’t understand was beginning to take its toll on her nerves. Damien wished they could find a safe forum in which to ask for information about the Sanctified, but neither he nor Hesseth thought it would be wise to admit their ignorance. It was simply too valuable to have such a role, which permitted her to cover her alien body without raising suspicion; they dared not do anything that would put it at risk.

She was in their rooms when he left her, poring over maps of the region. They had yet to locate anything which might be termed a
stronghold of the enemy,
although several locations were suspect. Whatever game their nemesis was playing here, it was clearly more subtle than the one he had played in the rakhlands.

If he could ask Toshida openly about it ... but no. For some reason that thought made him uneasy, and he had learned over the years that his instinct was a thing to be trusted. Maybe it was Toshida’s rank that made him anxious, his obvious power over their situation. But that had never stopped Damien with Jaggonath’s Patriarch, had it? No, it was clearly something more than that. And the thought that there might be something wrong here—subtle enough and unpleasant enough that he had not yet acknowledged it in his conscious mind—was doubly unnerving.

By the time he arrived at sunset the cathedral was full, and he gazed at the assembled faces of the Mercian faithful with wonder. They were darker than his own people on the average, with few blonds among them; no wonder Toshida was so fascinated by Rasya. Tarrant would stand out like a sore thumb, he realized, with his light brown hair and melanin-deficient skin clearly declaring him a stranger. He hoped the Hunter had the wherewithal to notice that, and to compensate. Wherever the hell he was.

The assembled faithful stirred as Toshida made his entrance. Resplendent in the robes of his Church, he was the living image of authority, both temporal and ecclesiastical: a flawless synthesis of power. Against the copper-toned darkness of his skin the white robes gleamed like a beacon; it was impossible for the eye not to be drawn to him, impossible for the soul to resist his mastery. As he raised up his arms in a gesture of benediction the full sleeves spread like wings, and Damien felt rather than heard a hush come over the assemblage.

“May God protect us from the faeborn,” he intoned. “May He defend us from the assaults of the nightborn, the darkbound, the ones who would devour us. May He safeguard our bodies and our souls, so that we may live to praise His Name.”

And the assemblage responded, as one voice,
Amen.

Even as he listened to the rest of the service, Damien found himself appreciating its flawless design. The faith of thousands had been harnessed here, not only to worship the One God (or perhaps to create Him, some theologians might argue,) but to turn each city into a fortress, impregnable to demonic assault. In this it had succeeded, utterly. He had been on land two nights now, had already witnessed the unheard-of-freedom that these people enjoyed. Because no demon made it past the city gates. Not ever. There might be a few faeborn dangers spawned inside the city itself, but the kinds of horrors that the west endured—vampiric spirits who went from city to city in search of sustenance, who withdrew to the solitude of the great forests in order to escape the sunlight, then returned again at nightfall—were all but unknown here. Any faeborn wraiths that left the city could not come back. Period. Which made the odds of being attacked by something nasty on a parallel with the odds of being mugged. Not very high, in this carefully policed region.

“Humble we stand before You,” the Regent pronounced, “obedient to Your Law.”

He had yet to meet the Matria. He had thought he understood her position in this city, but the more he learned the more uncertain he was of that. If anything, she seemed to be a creature of utter mystery, who came and went with such unpredictability that she was more a symbol-in-absence than a vital part of this thriving theosystem. Which was strange. Very strange. And not like the Church he knew at all.