When True Night Falls Read online

  For a moment Damien had no words. Speech seemed an alien concept; words that he might have spoken jumbled in his brain, caught on his tongue. He forced them out. They weren’t the words he wanted to say, but words that he was bound to. Because fairness was part of his duty, too. Perhaps the most important part.

  “What you’ve seen here is very impressive, I understand that. But when our business is done here you’ll be leaving, and this night will be no more than a memory. In the world we came from, will that be enough? Mine isn’t an easy faith, captain, or a popular one. Are you sure it’s what you want?”

  “Father,” he answered, “The way I see it, you go through life in stages. First you’re young and ambitious and you think nothing’s going to get in your way, not ever. Then you get to the point when you realize that the world’s a damned hard place to live—downright nasty on occasion—and it’s hard enough to keep your head above water all the time, much less come out on top like you want. At that point you figure if some god can make it all a little easier, why not? What’s a prayer or two to you, if it gets you what you want? But then,” he said, “when you get older, you realize there’s something else you want, too. Something that’s harder to put a name to. Something a man gets when he writes a song that’ll be sung long after he’s dead, or paints something that his great-great-grandchildren will hang on the wall ... or helps change his world. Do you see, Father? There’s a lot of things this world might become, and before tonight I didn’t much bother to think about it. My own little piece of the present was enough, and the rest could take care of itself. But now ... I’ve seen what the future could be, Father. I’ve seen what this world can become. And I want to help make it happen. Even if it’s just a little bit. I want to do my share.” He hesitated. When he spoke again there was genuine humility in his voice, a tone no man could counterfeit. “Will you take my oath?”

  Damien nodded.

  The captain knelt before him; it was clearly a position to which he was not accustomed. After a moment’s hesitation he lifted his hands, clasped palm to palm, before him. Damien folded his own about them, his pulse warm against the callused skin. And he spoke the same words that had been said to him so very long ago, so very far away, at the birthtime of his soul.

  “This is the way of the Lord the One God, who created Earth and Erna, who led us to the stars, whose faith is the salvation of humankind....”

  And as he intoned the words that would bind yet another soul to his mission, he whispered silently, Thank you, God. For giving me this moment. For showing me that I wasn’t alone tonight. For showing me that none of us are alone, not ever. Not in Your service.

  And thank you for touching this man’s soul. For letting him taste of our dream. There is no more precious gift.

  “Welcome to God’s service,” he whispered.

  Nine

  A study in silence: the jagged peak of Guardian Mountain, granite-clad and still. No life stirred on those harsh slopes, nor anything that might attract life. No breeze swept across the bare rock, though winds had gusted strongly up to half an hour before. The storm which had been headed this way had been turned aside, for no better reason than the one with the power to do so had no patience left for storms. The peak was as still as death itself, reflecting the mood of the one who stood upon it. Reflecting his soul.

  And then there was movement. Not visible to most, perhaps, but visible to him. A tremor of earth-fae; a whisper of foreboding. The power that was near him thickened, focused, began to coagulate into solid form. Flesh. A woman’s body at first, and then—as the body became more solid—it shifted to a man’s form, draped in a man’s attire. Velvet robes, priceless jewels, fur collar that rippled as if in the wind, despite the lack of breeze. As he changed form, so did the surroundings. The cold peak disappeared, to be replaced by a palace interior. Rich silk tapestries, frescoed walls ... the fae-creature waited a moment for the man on the peak to react, then shrugged. The tapestries gave way to trees, the walls to a brilliant Coreset. Still no response. He let that fade to a church interior. When even that image failed to stir the man’s interest, he let it fade as well, and replaced it with a scene out of nightmare. A vast field of skulls stretched for miles before them, and in its center—at the feet of the man—an offering cup of blood. About its brim was engraved a ribald limerick in ancient Earth-script. He saw the man glance down to read it, then turn slowly toward him. His expression made it clear he was not amused.

  “You really have no sense of humor tonight,” Karril said.

  “I Called you five nights ago,” Gerald Tarrant pointed out.

  “You did. And someday when you’re in a better mood I’ll tell you just how much fun it wasn’t to cross Novatlantis. My kind rides the earth-currents, remember? Do you know what they’re like in that region? If a horse did to you what the fae did to me, you’d unevolve the whole species.” With a short wave of his hand the demon banished the nightmare images. Black walls took their place, dressed with crimson curtains and golden sconces: the trappings of the Hunter’s palace. “You want to tell me what’s eating you, or you want me to guess?”

  “I thought you could read my soul.”

  “I can’t read pain. You know that.”

  “Is it that?” he murmured. “Already?”

  “You tell me.” When the Hunter said nothing he pressed, “You Called me for a reason.”

  “I Called you to see if I could Work through to the west from here.”

  “Well?” He spread his hands generously. “I heard you. Here I am.”

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “With you it worked.”

  For a moment the demon studied him. Then, very softly, he ventured, “I wasn’t your first effort, was I? You must have tried other times, without result. Tried to call up some power from your western reservoir, and it wouldn’t respond. Is that it?”

  The Hunter nodded tightly.

  “I suppose it makes sense, you know. Summon a demon who has a will of his own, and maybe he’ll choose to make the trip. Summon the power of the Forest, which has no independent spirit....”

  “I couldn’t,” he whispered. “The distance was too great. And Novatlantis—”

  The demon shuddered dramatically. “I understand.”

  “You know what that means, don’t you?” His voice was quiet but strained; evidently his self-control was being pushed to the breaking point. “I can’t go home. Not the same way I got here.”

  “I thought your priestly friend was willing to support you.”

  “Yes. He fed me his blood and his nightmares for half a year ... and I starved, Karril. I starved. Even now the hunger still resonates within me. Why? It’s never been like this before. Never been something I couldn’t master. Until now.”

  “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 tow
ard 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.

  Ten

  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.