Lord of the Shadows (7 page)
The rest of the game was a tense affair. Now that they were a goal down, the other team had to attack in search of an equalizer. Tommy’s teammates were forced farther back inside their own half. There were dozens of desperate defensive tackles, lots of free kicks, more yellow cards. But they were holding out. Tommy had to make a few fairly easy saves, but apart from that his goal wasn’t troubled. With six minutes to go, the win looked safe.
Then, in virtually an action replay of the first goal, a player slipped free of his defender and found himself in front of the goal, with only Tommy to beat. Once again the ball was struck firmly and accurately. It streaked towards the lower left corner of the net. The striker turned away to celebrate.
But he’d reacted too soon. Because this time, somehow, Tommy got down and across, and managed to get a few fingers to the ball. He only barely connected, but it was enough to tip the ball out around the goalpost.
The crowd went wild! They were chanting Tommy’s name and singing, “It’s not unusual, he’s the greatest number one!” Tommy ignored the songs and stayed focused on the corner, directing his defenders. But the save had sapped the other team of their spirit, and though they kept coming forward for the final few minutes, they didn’t threaten to score again.
When the whistle blew, Tommy’s team wearily embraced each other, then shook their opponents’ hands and swapped jerseys. After that they saluted their fans, acknowledging their support. We were all on our feet, applauding, singing victory songs, a lot of them about the incredible Tom Jones.
Tommy was one of the last players to leave the field. He’d swapped his jersey with his opposite number, and the pair were walking off together, discussing the game. I roared Tommy’s name as he came level with the dug-outs, but of course he couldn’t hear me over the noise of the crowd.
Just as Tommy was about to vanish down the tunnel to the locker rooms, a commotion broke out. I heard angry yells, then several sharp bangs. Most of the people around me didn’t know what was happening. But I’d heard these sounds before — gunfire!
I couldn’t see down the tunnel from where I was, but I saw Tommy and the other goalkeeper stop, confused, then back away from the tunnel entrance. I immediately sensed danger. “Tommy!” I screamed, then knocked aside the people nearest me and forced my way down towards the pitch. Before I got there, a steward reeled out of the tunnel, blood pouring from his face. When the people in front of me saw that, they panicked. Turning, they pushed away from the field, halting my advance and forcing me back.
As I struggled to break free, two figures darted out of the tunnel. One was a shaven-headed, shotgun-toting vampet with a disfigured, half-blown-away face. The other was a bearded, purple-skinned, crazy vampaneze with silver and gold hooks instead of hands.
Morgan James and R.V.!
I screamed with fresh fear when I saw the murderous pair, and shoved aside everyone around me, drawing on the full extent of my vampire powers. But before I could bruise a way through, R.V. homed in on his target. He bounded past the dugouts, ignored the players, coaching staff, and stewards on the field, and bore down on a startled Tom Jones.
I don’t know what flashed through Tommy’s mind when he saw the burly purple monster streaking towards him. Maybe he thought it was a practical joke, or a weird fan coming to hug him. Either way, he didn’t react, raise his hands to defend himself, or turn to run. He just stood, staring dumbly at R.V.
When R.V. reached Tommy, he pulled back his right hand — the one with the gold hooks — then jabbed the blades sharply into Tommy’s chest. I froze, feeling Tommy’s pain from where I was trapped in the crowd. Then R.V. jerked his hooked hand back, shook his head with insane delight, and retreated down the tunnel, following Morgan James, who fired his gun to clear a path.
On the field, Tommy stared stupidly down at the red, jagged hole in the left side of his chest. Then, with almost comical effect, he slid gracelessly to the ground, twitched a few times, and lay still — the terrible, unmistakable stillness of the dead.
B
URSTING FREE OF THE CROWD
, I stumbled onto the field. Those around me were staring at the fallen goal-keeper, paralyzed with shock. My first instinct was to run to Tommy. But then my training kicked in. Tommy had been killed. I could grieve for him later. Right now I had to focus on R.V. and Morgan James. If I hurried after them, I might catch up before they got away.
Tearing my gaze away from Tommy, I ducked down the tunnel; past the players, staff, and stewards who had yet to recover their senses. I saw more shot-up bodies but didn’t stop to check whether they were living or dead. I had to be a vampire, not a human. A killer, not a carer.
I raced down the tunnel until it branched off in two directions. Left or right? I stood, panting, scanning the corridors for clues. Nothing to my left, but there was a small red mark on the wall to my right — blood.
I picked up speed again. A voice at the back of my mind whispered, “You have no weapons. How will you defend yourself?” I ignored it.
The corridor led to a locker room, where most members of the winning team had gathered. The players weren’t aware of what had happened on the field. They were cheering and singing. The corridor branched again here. The path to the left led back towards the field, so I took another right turn, praying to the gods of the vampires that I’d chosen correctly.
A long sprint. The corridor was narrow and lowceilinged. I was panting hard, not from exertion but from sorrow. I kept thinking about Tommy, Mr. Crepsley, Gavner Purl — friends I’d lost to the vampaneze. I had to fight the sorrow, or it would overwhelm me, so I thought about R.V. and Morgan James instead.
R.V. was once an eco-warrior. He’d tried to free the Wolf Man at the Cirque Du Freak. I’d stopped him but not before the Wolf Man had bitten his hands off. R.V. fled, survived, and blamed me for his misfortune. Some years later, he was discovered by Steve Leopard. Steve told the vampaneze to blood him, and the pair plotted my downfall. R.V. had been in the Cavern of Retribution when Mr. Crepsley was killed. That was the last time I’d seen him.
Morgan James was an ex–police officer. A vampet, one of the humans the vampaneze had recruited. Like the other vampets, he dressed in a brown shirt and black pants, shaved his head, painted circles of blood around his eyes, and had a “V” tattooed above each ear. Since he hadn’t been blooded, he was free to use missile-firing weapons such as guns. Vampaneze, like vampires, swear an oath when they’re blooded not to use such weapons. James had also been in the Cavern of Retribution. During the battle he was shot, and the left side of his face had been torn into fleshy strips by the bullet.
A treacherous, deadly pair. Again I found myself wondering what I’d do if I caught up with them — I didn’t have any weapons! But again I ignored that problem and concentrated on the chase.
The end of the corridor. A door swinging ajar. Two police officers and a steward lying slumped against the wall — dead. I cursed R.V. and Morgan James, and swore revenge.
I kicked the door wide open and ducked out. I was at the rear of the stadium, the quietest part of the area, backing onto a housing project. The police who had been posted out here had been attracted to the sides of the stadium — there was some kind of a disturbance at the front, no doubt timed to tie in with the assault.
Ahead of me I saw R.V. and Morgan James enter the projects. By the time the police turned their attention this way, the killers would be gone. I started after them. Stopped. Hurried back inside the stadium and frisked the dead police officers. No guns, but both had been carrying batons. I took the clubs, one for each hand, then fled after my prey.
It was dark in the projects, especially after the brightness of the stadium. But I had the extra-sharp vision of a half-vampire, so I was able to negotiate my way without any problems. The road branched off at regular intervals, one or two buildings per stretch. I paused briefly at each junction, looking left and right. No sign of R.V. and Morgan James. Forward again.
I wasn’t sure if they knew I was following. I assumed they knew I was at the game, but they might not have counted on me being the first to break out of the stadium and pursue them. The element of surprise
might
be on my side, but I warned myself not to count on it.
I came to the last junction. Left or right? I stood in the road, head twisting one way, then the other. I couldn’t see anyone. I’d lost them! Should I take a direction at random or backtrack and —
There was a soft screeching sound to my left — a blade scraping against a wall. Then someone hissed, “Quiet!”
I turned. There was a tiny alley between two buildings, the source of the noise. The nearest streetlights had been smashed. The only illumination came from across the road. I had a bad feeling about this — the screech and hiss had been far too convenient — but I couldn’t back off now. I advanced.
I stopped a couple of yards from the alley and edged out into the middle of the road. My knuckles were white from gripping the batons. I came into gradual sight of the alley. Nobody near the dark mouth. The alley ran back only five or six yards, and even in the poor light I could see all the way to the rear wall. Nobody was there. I breathed out shakily. Maybe my ears had been playing tricks. Or else the sound had been a TV or radio. What should I do now? I was back where I’d been moments before, no idea which way to —
Something moved in the alley, low down on the floor. I stiffened and lowered my sights. And now I saw them, crouched where it was darkest, one hugging either wall, practically invisible in the shadows.
The figure to my left chuckled, then stood — R.V. I raised the baton in my left hand defensively. Then the figure to my right rose, and Morgan James stepped forward, bringing up his shotgun, pointing it at me. I began to raise the baton in my right hand against him, then realized how worthless it would be if he fired.
I took another step back, meaning to run, when a voice spoke from the darkness behind R.V. “No guns,” it said softly. Morgan James immediately lowered the barrel of his shotgun.
I should have run, but I couldn’t, not without putting a face to that voice. So I stood my ground, squinting, as a third shape formed and stepped out from behind R.V. It was Gannen Harst, the prime protector of the Lord of the Vampaneze.
Part of me had expected this, and instead of panicking, I experienced something close to relief. The waiting was over. Whatever destiny had in store for me, it started here. One final encounter with the Vampaneze Lord. At the end of it, I’d kill him — or he’d kill me. Either way was better than the waiting.
“Hello, Gannen,” I said. “Still hanging out with madmen and scum, I see.”
Gannen Harst bristled but didn’t reply. “Lord,” he said instead, and a fourth ambusher stepped out from behind Morgan James, more familiar than any of the others.
“Good to see you again, Steve,” I said cynically as the grey-haired Steve Leopard slid into view. I was partly focused on Gannen Harst, R.V., and Morgan James — but mostly on Steve. I was judging the gap between us, wondering what sort of damage I could do if I hurled my truncheons at him. I didn’t care about the other three — killing the Vampaneze Lord was my first priority.
“He doesn’t look surprised to see us,” Steve remarked. He hadn’t stepped out as far as Gannen Harst, and was protected by the body of Morgan James. I might be able to hit him from this angle — but it was a very big
might.
“Let me have him,” R.V. snarled, taking a step towards me. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been wearing red contact lenses, and had painted his skin purple, to look more like a vampaneze. But his eyes and skin had changed naturally over the past two years, and though his coloring was slight in comparison to a mature vampaneze, it was genuine.
“Stay where you are,” Steve said to R.V. “We can all have a slice of him later. Let’s finish the introductions first. Darius.”
From behind Steve, the boy called Darius stepped out. He was wearing green robes, like Steve. He was shivering, but his face was set sternly. He was holding a large arrow-gun, one of Steve’s inventions. It was pointed at me.
“Have you started blooding children now?” I growled disgustedly, still waiting for Steve to move out a little more, ignoring the threat of the boy’s arrow-gun.
“Darius is an exception,” Steve said, smiling. “A most worthy ally and a valuable spy.”
Steve took a half-step towards the boy. This was my chance! I began to draw my right hand back, careful not to give my intentions away, totally focused on Steve. Another second or two and I could make my play . . .
Then Darius spoke.
“Shall I shoot him now, Dad?”
DAD?
“Yes, son,” Steve replied.
SON?
While my brain spun and whirled like a dervish, Darius steadied his aim, gulped, pulled the trigger, and shot a steel-tipped arrow straight at me.
T
HE ARROW STRUCK ME HIGH
in my right shoulder, knocking me backwards. I roared with agony, grabbed the shaft of the arrow, and pulled. The shaft broke off in my hand, leaving the head stuck deep in my flesh.
For a moment the world around me turned red. I thought I was going to pass out. But then the crimson haze faded and the road and houses swam back into focus. Over the sound of my pained panting, I heard footsteps coming towards me. Sitting up — grinding my teeth together to fight back a wave of fresh pain — I saw Steve leading his small band in for the kill.
I’d let go of the batons when I fell. One had rolled away, but the other was close by. I snatched for it and for the shaft of the arrow — the splintered end could be used as a crude dagger. When Gannen Harst saw this, he stepped in front of Steve. “Fan out!” he commanded R.V. and Morgan James. They swiftly obeyed. The boy, Darius, was behind Steve. He looked sick. I don’t think he’d ever shot anyone before.
“Keep back!” I hissed, waving my pitiful weapons at them.