The Damned (29 page)

“From the dawn of time we walked. Immortal, invincible. We witnessed the birth of the stars.”

The room filled with blazing points of blue-tinted light, which danced without any apparent means of support. One landed on Skye’s shoulder, another on the lip of Eriko’s Coke glass. The two looked at each other, startled.

Magick
, Skye mouthed, and Eriko knew what she was afraid of, or rather, who: Estefan. “I should go.”

Eriko shook her head. “You’ve warded yourself. Stay. You’ll be noticed.”

“We witnessed the birth of the oceans.”

The lights disappeared. Over the walls silhouettes of whales undulated with slow, stately grace. The keening of humpback whales mingled with the pan pipes. Eriko smelled the sea.

“And saw the birth of humanity.”

Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. On the stage, rain began to fall. The white figures all fell to their knees, and a holographic Greek comedy mask appeared on the ceiling, gazing down on them. The audience applauded.

“But what of myth?”
it demanded.

“It is a myth that magick is not real,” the white “statues” chorused. “Magick lives among us.”

Then smoke and lightning billowed around the guests’ tables, and when it cleared, some of the audience rose, appearing in different clothes: vampire actors in formal Victorian evening attire, Chinese robes, and the flounces of Gypsies.

“Magickal humans! Harry Houdini!”
the voice announced, and a man in a tuxedo rose, bowed, and headed for the stage.

“Doug Henning!”

A man with dark brown hair and a mustache also stood, inclined his head, and walked from his table to the “temple.”

“Harry Blackstone! Fu Manchu! Cardini! Kuda Bux! Dedi! Katterfelto!”

The magicians mounted the stage, some in tuxedos, others in Grecian togas. Fu Manchu wore rainbow-colored silk robes and a cap over his long, streaming white hair, his mustache just as long. They aimed their hands at the white figures. Suddenly the figures were encased in blocks of ice; then fire blazed around them. Steam rose, obstructing Eriko’s view.

As the steam dissipated, women dressed in outfits from a 1950s evening gown to a grass skirt to a bustle to 1980s glam to the more understated post-vampire-war fashions appeared. They bowed and curtseyed, and the magicians approached them. They formed pairs.

“Assistants,” Skye murmured. “From our tradition, only very mixed up. These aren’t actual magick users. These are stage performers.”

The audience began clapping as each magician performed a magick trick, aided by his assistant—rabbits appeared out of top hats; scarves became parrots or black cats. Enormous trees grew from seeds placed in palms. The assistants acted like spokesmodels, showing off their magicians’ magical skills.

But three of the magicians had no assistants.

“Magicians require the yin and yang,”
the hologram announced.
“Magick works with male and female, positive and negative. Humans and vampires. Vampires, the true magickal beings.”

And at that moment Houdini’s face vamped out—fangs extended, eyes glowing red. There were giggles and cheers from the audience. No fear whatsoever.

“What are they going to do?” Eriko asked Skye as she went on alert. “What does this mean?”

“I don’t know. But I’m freaking out,” Skye whispered back. “This is not leading to something good. I can feel it.”

“Houdini requires an assistant. Who will volunteer? A human, please. A lovely lady, hmmm?”

Hands raised. The hologram gazed down with red light gleaming from its eyes, scanning the audience until a redhead was selected.

Then “Fu Manchu” went vampire, his long “Chinese” mustache framing fangs that had been covered in jewels.

“And Fu Manchu also requires a lovely human. Perhaps . . . that beauty there!”

The red eyes gleamed over the audience, then focused on Eriko. There were good-natured groans from those not chosen. Then applause. Eriko sat frozen. Was this some kind of setup? A trap?

She glanced at Skye, who had gone pale. Then carefully looked for Jenn. She couldn’t see her.

“Come, don’t be shy!”
the head exhorted her.

Eriko shook her head. The audience began applauding in rhythm, and a spot blazed down on her.

Fu Manchu headed for the stage steps. Obviously he was going to fetch her out of the audience. He wove his way through the tables.

Eriko got to her feet just as he reached her. There was no escape. He took her hand firmly, kissed it, and began to lead her back to the stage.

High-pitched squeals, almost like wounded piglets, made Eriko jump. Startled, she turned at the sound.

The Japanese girls in the audience had leaped to their feet. They were screaming and pointing at her.

“Vampire Three!” one
of them cried.
“Vampire Three!”

The man sitting with them slowly took off his shades. Her blood ran cold.

His almond eyes were the color of cherries, and as he grinned at her, she saw his dimples.

He was the vampire the Vampire Three—she, Yuki, and Mara—had been planning to meet on the night Yuki went missing. Shell Ghost Shogun.

In Las Vegas? Now?

In Las Vegas.

Now.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

We weave a spell for all to see
With whispers of eternity
We are the past, the future, too
All you are and all you do
That is why we’re here today
We’ve come in peace, and we will stay
Those who do not take our hand
Will find they make their final stand

L
AS
V
EGAS
A
NTONIO AND
A
URORA

Antonio wanted with all his soul to die.

No, that was a lie.

He wanted to sink his fangs into Aurora’s long, sculptured neck. Aurora, the vampire queen, whose once-beautiful gown was now spattered with blood. Some must be his, but he had lost consciousness so many times, awakening to screams—human screams, his own—that he had no idea what had been happening. He smelled human blood, both fresh and aging, and the death scent carried by all vampires.

His desire for blood was as overpowering as the desire to exhale would be to a human holding his breath. If he could get free from his chains, he would tear open her neck and drink until every drop of her blood pulsed out of her body.

Her blood was dead.

But it was still blood.

Then I will take human blood. I’ll drain one, then two, then three of them. Oh, dear God, no
, por Dios.
I will never do that again.

“Wake up,” Aurora said, slapping his cheek, then tickling him under the chin like a doting mother. Her eyes glowed with hellfire.

“Buenas noches, mi macho.”

Antonio remained silent.

Aurora ran her fingernail along his jawline, slicing it open. He was already in so much pain that this new injury barely registered.

“You’ve been very strong, and stoic, and priestly, but it’s time to let go of that, Antonio. With your behavior you’re shaming your sire, and his sire. And me. The entire Vampire Kingdom.”

“It’s a kingdom now?” he managed to slur out. “I thought it was a vampire nation.”

“Nation? That’s Solomon’s idea. Not ours.” She showed him the knife, the one she had been using to cut open his chest.

Ours.
Who was she working for? Who was she allied with? She seemed to be competing with Sergio.

Antonio fought to stay calm, though the reflexive urge for self-preservation screamed at him to buck and struggle.

“The humans are falling because they are so divided,” she said. “Into nations. They’ve deluded themselves into believing that their little bits and pieces of territory are worth fighting for. If they were united,
one
, they might have beaten us back. Once the Vampire Kingdom has been formed, we vampires will never have that problem.”

She pressed the knife against Antonio’s chest. He forced himself to focus on what she was saying. This was vital information.

“You’re so handsome,” she said with a sigh. “It’s really too bad that I hate you as much as I do. And do you know why?”

She shoved in the knife, hard. But Antonio would not scream.

“I
don’t
hate you for leaving Sergio. Or for betraying our kind. I hate you because of your loyalty to your church.”

She shoved again. He grunted in pain.

“The Catholic Church condemned me to die a hideous death,” she told him.

The knife twisted. He wrapped his fingers around his chains and gripped them, struggling to ride through his agony. Aurora’s face filled his field of vision, her eyes glowing, her fangs sharp and white.

“My entire family was tortured and burned at the stake, and for what? Because we were Jews. Because we owned lands that the Catholics wanted. And
he
came to me, and offered me eternal life. And here I am.”

The knife twisted again. He moaned, and detested himself for it.

“Is that not what your Savior offers to you?” she hissed. “Eternal life? Is it not said that the Pope speaks for God on earth? My sire has no spokesman. He’s the Devil himself.”

Antonio didn’t respond. She jabbed the knife.

“The Devil,” he rasped, to appease her.

“Yes. The Devil.” She made a sound deep in her throat like the purring of a cat. “We vampires worship many gods—Sergio worships Orcus,
sí
? God of the underworld, bringer of light, punisher of those who break their vows. Are
you
in for it.” She purred again. “Or you would be, if Orcus were more than a myth.

“The vampires of New Orleans worship Baron Samedi. That idiot Dantalion? Perhaps he worships Veles, the Slavic god. But all that will wither away, all the false gods will be extinguished, when
his
kingdom is established.”

Is Dantalion still alive?
Antonio wondered.

Silence fell. He realized she was waiting for his response.

“God did not torture you for being a Jew,” he managed to say. “God did not torture you at all.”

Her red gaze seethed with hatred. “I was tortured in
His
name. My baby sister was killed in
His
name. I watched my father burn!”

“It was not Go—”

“My sire will free us all from persecution. No one will dare to raise a hand to us. To try to
stake
us.” Her voice rose, and she threw back her shoulders, raising her chin. Her blue-black hair tumbled down her shoulders. “What you see before you is the natural state of the vampire. Unbridled and passionate.”

She yanked on the chain around his right wrist, forcing him to let go of it. The metal clanked as he dangled above the floor, head dropping forward.

“You’re a sad dream, Antonio. You hold yourself down. You were wearing chains long before I put these on you. Your belief restrained you.”

“No,” he managed. Her talk of God made him wonder if this was the night he would die. If somehow it was for the cause—if it was for Jenn—he would gladly accept the Final Death.

She yanked again, harder. “I see how hard you’ve struggled against your true nature, and I don’t admire you for it. I pity you. And I despise you. But you’re the prize.” She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back. “My sire wants to study you, then make an example of you.”

She let go of his hair and leaned over him. “Just as I’ll make an example of every single human being in Salamanca. Of
her.”

“No.” His voice was deep, loud, in command.

But after another twist of the knife he screamed.

“There’s a way to stop all this,” she whispered. “Let me tell you what it is.”

AD 1490, T
OLEDO,
S
PAIN
A
URORA DEL
C
ARMEN
M
ONTOYA DE LA
M
OLINA
A
BREGÓN AND
H
ER
S
IRE

“There’s a way to stop it,” the vampire had said, as he reached for Aurora in the filthy cell. His hooded robe concealed his features; she had seen only the crimson light of his eyes. It was the light of hell and of the bonfire that waited for her in the town square. “You have but to consent, and I will save you.”

She had consented.

Gates and doors remained unlocked as he carried her lifeless body from the prison. The black coach that transported her to his castle raced against the sunlight, reaching the rusting portcullis as the first streaks of dawn washed over the wood piled in the main square of Toledo, where she was to have been burned.

Not a word was uttered on the streets about Aurora Abregón’s disappearance. No one ever looked for her. Perhaps money had changed hands when she was carried out. Perhaps the guards knew what had happened, and had stepped aside out of fear
.
Maybe Aurora’s rescuer had made a pact with Tomás de Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor by the grace of Their Royal Majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain. Torquemada, the sadistic fiend whose name would ring out through the ages as the destroyer of innocence, under the guise of defending the Church from sin.

“I am forgotten,” she had told her sire, as the nights became months, and then years, and then decades. And then the decades became centuries.

AD 1793, M
ADRID,
S
PAIN
A
URORA,
S
ERGIO, AND
T
HEIR
S
IRE