Kardinal
Copyright © 2013 by Thomas Emson
Cover and internal design ©
Thomas Emson; photo from Shutterstock
All rights reserved.
Published in 2013 by Snowbooks
ISBN-10:
1906727325
ISBN-13:
978-1906727321
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
K
ARDINAL
Vampire Babylon: Book 3
THOMAS EMSON
SNOWBOOKS
CHAPTER 1. THE SHEPHERD AND THE CROFTER
CHAPTER 8. THE GENERAL AND THE MERCENARY.
CHAPTER 20. DESCENDENTS OF KINGS.
CHAPTER 32. A COUNTRY OF GHOSTS.
CHAPTER 34. THE BEGINNING OF A LONG NIGHT.
CHAPTER 35. GOGA BRICKS HIMSELF.
CHAPTER 36. MY BROTHER, THE PM.
CHAPTER 37. THE WELCOMING COMMITTEE.
CHAPTER 38. BRITAIN IS BABYLON.
CHAPTER 40. JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH.
CHAPTER 41. THE LAST RESORT AND OTHER OPTIONS.
CHAPTER 45. THE ROAD TO BAGHDAD.
CHAPTER 50. RUN FOR YOUR LIFE.
CHAPTER 52. THE GLINT OF DEATH.
CHAPTER 55. DANGER ON EVERY CORNER.
CHAPTER 56. THE SCHOOL PHOTOGRAPH.
CHAPTER 59. POSITION OF POWER.
CHAPTER 60. THE “SOME GOOD NEWS, SOME BAD”.
CHAPTER 61. SPILLING THE BEANS.
CHAPTER 65. ENEMIES AND ALLIES.
CHAPTER 66. THE GATES OF IRKALLA.
CHAPTER 67. THE FAR, FAR DISTANCE.
CHAPTER 68. HURT FROM SOUL TO SKIN.
CHAPTER 69. INTO THE COMPOUND.
CHAPTER 70. AN IMPOSSIBLE ANGEL.
CHAPTER 73. DISCIPLE OR SACRIFICE?
CHAPTER 74. WELCOME TO THE NEW ORDER.
CHAPTER 75. BLOOD FOR THE BEASTS.
CHAPTER 76. REJOICE! REJOICE! REJOICE!
CHAPTER 77. WAITING FOR UNDEATH.
CHAPTER 78. QUEEN AND COUNTRY.
CHAPTER 79. DESPERATE MEASURES.
CHAPTER 81. LEAVE NO ONE BEHIND.
CHAPTER 88. TOO MANY DOUGHNUTS, NOT ENOUGH PORRIDGE.
PART ONE.
AFTERMATH.
CHAPTER 1. THE SHEPHERD AND THE CROFTER
.
Outer Hebrides, Scotland
– 5.01pm (GMT), November 28, 2016
“IF you would have asked me seven years ago,” said the shepherd, “I would not have believed that vampires existed. Who would?”
The crofter shook his head. He had a shaven scalp and a heavy, black beard. It was a winter’s evening, cold and gloomy, but he wore aviator-style sunglasses.
Scars criss-crossed the crofter’s skull. Blood spattered his face. Although the temperature was barely above 4ºC, he wore only a T-shirt. The material clung to his lean, powerful body, and muscles corded on his strong arms. His flesh was stained with gore. The smell of raw meat hung in the air.
“They said it was drugs that started it all,” said the shepherd. He leaned on his crook. He scanned the landscape. It was barren. The crofter’s cottage was the only building for miles. The shepherd’s flock dotted the fields. He’d come out to check on them before nightfall. He was new to shepherding. Only a few months of experience, despite being in his sixties. He continued. “Some red pill at a nightclub in London. It is always London, isn’t it, sir?”
“Always London,” said the crofter.
He had a deep, quiet voice. The kind of voice you’d listen to. The kind that was laced with authority.
“You’re a Londoner, sir?” said the shepherd. He plucked the red cloth from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket, and touched his forehead with it. His skin still itched after all these years. The fire had melted the flesh on the left side of his face. He’d suffered a great deal of pain. The anguish had caused him to lose a lot of weight over the past four years – he’d gone from eighteen stone to nine stone. “From the big city?”
The crofter nodded. He leaned against the doorway of his cottage. It was made of stone, a single-storey structure with a thatched roof. A fence enclosed the crofter’s land. He had only a couple of acres. But on it he kept chickens, goats and a vegetable garden.
“You’re far from home,” the shepherd said.
“So are you,” the crofter said.
The shepherd silently cursed himself – he’d been found out, he was sure of it. He tried to hide his discomfort. He was a disciplined man, so it was relatively easy to keep his feelings under wraps.
The Atlantic Ocean whispered in the distance. The shepherd’s dog barked from his 4x4, parked outside the cottage gate. The crofter picked up a cane that was propped against the wall. It had a gold ferrule. He tapped it against his shoe in a menacing way.
“Safer here than in England,” the shepherd said after a while. “But the plague reached these parts, too, you know.”
Again the crofter nodded. The moonlight splintered off his sunglasses.
The shepherd had been watching him for a few weeks. The villagers had said he’d moved here four or five years ago. No one knew who he was. They’d not asked his name, and he’d not given it. They said he was a refugee from the wars between humans and vampires. Some said he was a vampire. Others said he was a villain. One of those Nebuchadnezzars who supported the undead.
As he was surveying his flock, the shepherd had seen the crofter skinning the animal in front of the cottage. He’d stopped the 4x4 and shouted, “Hello,” from the gate, before entering the crofter’s territory.
At first, the shepherd thought that either the crofter would go inside the cottage and shut the door, or he’d use the knife he wielded.
He’d done neither. He stood there, staring at the shepherd through those dark glasses.
Now the shepherd said, “They said that soldier chap was the hero.”
“They said lots of things.”
“One thing’s for sure: London was in ruins. That war, five years ago. Fighting in the streets between humans and vampires. The government falling. Terrible business.”
“Terrible… ”
“And that soldier – hero one day, villain the next.”
The crofter dipped his knife in a barrel of water.
“And they damn well poisoned the water in London, didn’t they?” said the shepherd. “Awful thing to do. Making all those people dead and then alive again. Making them hunger for blood. Spreading the plague. What do you say to that, fellow?”
“I say nothing,” said the crofter. He was wiping his hands on a cloth. The shepherd couldn’t tell if the man was looking at him or not, the dark glasses hiding his eyes.
“Best to say nothing sometimes,” said the shepherd. “There was a time you couldn’t say a thing. Vampires everywhere. A dictatorship of the undead, someone called it, I think. And those Nebuchadnezzars listening at every door. Human scumbags, don’t you think? Would you say? Quislings, eh? Looking for rebels or traitors. Like that soldier chap.”
“I have to go now,” said the crofter.
“Oh yes, very nice to meet you. I’m Ronan, by the way, Jim Ronan. What’s your name?”
“Nice to meet you, Ronan,” said the crofter, and he went into his cottage and closed the door.
THE man using the name Jim Ronan drove home. He was sweating. The collie in the back seat whimpered. The dog sensed evil.
Night had fallen fully. Ronan had never minded the dark. Not before she came. But three days ago she had arrived.
He should have gone straight home from Meg’s house in the village on that night. But they’d had an argument. He was fuming and needed a drink.
So he had dropped into The Sheep a
nd Anchor and drank two pints of Guinness and four scotches.
He had staggered the two miles home. By the time he got back to the smallholding, it was after midnight. Cold and pitch black.
Staring towards the front door of his home, he felt queasy. His vision blurred. He blinked, trying to clear away the haziness. And trying to get rid of the two, tiny red spots glittering at head level near the door.
He swayed, feeling sick.
The red points blinked.
Like eyes
, he thought.
Just like –
Her voice was a blade, slicing through his bowels.
“He’s here?” she said.
The shepherd whined. He dropped to his knees. Nausea swept over him. He bent his head and retched, his vomit splashing across his knees. It smelled like acid. He moaned and slowly looked up.
She stood over him. He quaked. She was beautiful and terrifying.
The surviving Nebuchadnezzars had spoken about her.
“One lives,” they’d whispered in all the secret places where they were forced to meet. “One lives, and she’ll bring us victory. She’ll bring us Babylon.”
And when the rumours of her existence proved to be true, he was sent north to Scotland on an errand. He was just a foot soldier these days. A grunt in the new army. Not so long ago, he was important, and he often pined for the days when he had wielded power.
Terror had clutched his heart. He dropped his gaze. His eyes fell on her bare foot. He didn’t want to look at her face, but he couldn’t help it. She was alluring. His gaze started up her leg. Her skin was smooth and dark. At her knee, the hem of a white gown fluttered. If he just dipped his head slightly, he would be able to see up her dress. Up, up…
He moaned, his groin aching.
“Is he here?” she said. “Look at me, shepherd.”
He was scared but aroused. A terrible concoction. A dangerous one.
He looked up at her face. Her beauty chilled his blood. Crow-black hair cascaded down her shoulders, over her breasts. The tresses framed a picture-perfect face – high cheek bones, full lips, almond-shaped eyes.
The eyes
, he thought.
Those awful eyes
.
Red like blood. Red in the blackness. Like two warning lights,
alerting him to the danger ahead.
She drew back her lips, and he saw her fangs.
His bladder nearly emptied there and then, but he managed to control himself.
“Stand,” she told him.
He struggled to his feet. His legs felt weak and shaky. He instinctively reached out to stop himself from falling. But there was only her to hold on to. She hissed and swatted his arm away. His knees buckled, and he nearly fell flat on his face. But he managed to stay upright.
She tore the red cloth from the breast pocket of his jacket. She sniffed it, rubbing it against her face. He gawped. Every fable he’d heard told him she shouldn’t be able to do that. She shouldn’t be able to be near that ancient, scarlet flesh. She tossed the cloth aside.
“This is no protection from me,” she said. “I didn’t come from that flesh. I am new. I am young. I am strong. And you… you are weak. I don’t need you. The new breed won’t need humans at all. This time we won’t be sharing power with you. All of you will be our slaves.”
He whimpered.
“Is he here?” she had hissed.
Ronan tried to speak but just couldn’t, so he nodded instead.
“Where?” she said.
He managed to tell her where he lived before adding, “But no one has seen him for weeks.”
“Go to his house,” she had told him. “Speak to him. Make sure it’s him. I’ll be back in three nights. If you do well, I’ll give you a reward. You won’t have to fuck sheep and old women again.”
He groaned and came, without her laying a hand on him. He collapsed, and she swept away, sailing through the night until her white gown faded into darkness.
He parked the 4x4 in the farm yard.
I’ll be back in three nights
, she’d said.
Tonight was that night. She had promised him pleasure.
She might be dead
, he thought,
but she was more alive than Meg and her stinking house and her smelly skin
.
He stepped out of the vehicle. His legs were weak. His throat was dry. The collie barked and whined, but Ronan didn’t let him out. He didn’t want the dog to die.
He stared towards the house, and she emerged out of the darkness like a ghost, her red eyes glittering, her white gown floating.
As she approached, he again felt dread and lust. He fell to his knees.
“You’ve found him?” she asked.
He nodded.
“It’s him, you’re sure?”
He nodded again.
“Good. I’ll kiss you.”
He nodded once more.
“Stand,” she said.
He struggled to his feet.
She smelled of death – a beautiful odour. She raised her hand and held it in front of his face. It was supple and soft, the fingers long and lithe. The inch-long nails were sharp and painted red. Red like her eyes. Red like his blood. Her hand moved swiftly across his throat. He felt the nails rake his flesh. The hot blood gushed from his open vein. He became cold and weak very quickly. His blood sprayed across her dress, staining it. She laughed and massaged the blood into her gown. And the man who’d named himself Ronan died slowly and coldly.
