Manifest (The Darkening Trilogy) (7 page)

“Stop the car,” he demands, sitting forward and locking his eyes onto the scene.

Without a movement from me
, Rolla obeys his words and we spin fully and half again, facing back the way we came.

I stopped the car, Del, now you do what
I
say
.  “Stay in the car.”  I grab two hunks of metal from the duffle bag and secure them to my harness, under the trench coat.

I throw
open the door and spend precious reserves to instantly
long-stride
the distance.  A handful of chyldrin walk brazenly into the middle of a cracked parking lot in the street-light shadows of a derelict building.  Bits of black trash bags caught in a nearby barbed wire topped fence, flutter in the breeze.  Maybe some of these little shits would learn a lesson, but that’s not their fate tonight as the clouds race through the sky above. My brother is.

Lies are exchanged
between the gang and me.

“You don’t feed from the ward.” I tell them.

“Bitch,” the big dick in the group says.  He thinks he’s a safe distance away.  “We’re ‘bout to feed on
your
ward.”

“You’re going to die slowly for this.”  I tell them, a pang of guilt in me for
their need to die and an even worse guilt for feeling sympathy for them in spite of Delano.  He wants to save all the damn ilk, but why are these kids beyond redemption?

I get my answer as the
leaderish one pulls out the desiccated infant corpse and throws it at my feet.  It looks like a deflated doll, grey and flimsy.

Why did they do this?  Why did they have to be so stupid?  So selfish?  I pull metal and spray into the crowd of them.  The fire bullets Delano favors find their mark and most die.  I hear Rolla open a door and loose Delano.  He has a knife drawn, clenched tightly in his hand.  The pain is written across his face.  The memories and agony.  The loss, half a millennium old, reignited.

†
Delan
o
†

I
move around the group digging the blade deep into their ankles and pulling out against the Achilles tendons to make sure they don’t wander off, then go back around and work each one methodically. 

“I’m sorry Delano,” Sabetha says.

“Just get the tarp,” I reply flatly.  It’s not easy to torture chyldrin – they don’t have the same nerve endings as their previous ilk selves – but I’ve learned a few techniques.  I continue to work each individually, whispering in their ears the whole time while Sabetha brings the tarp out from the trunk and spreads it out on the pavement.

I leave all but one body on the street, placing that last one inside the tarp and then putting him into the trunk.  The scene is left as is, seven dismembered chyldrin and four dead babies.  Any darkened will know what it means. 

I can’t change the city – I can’t even try – but sometimes, sitting by and watching is too much, despite the Hyperion code.  I know the probabilities and odds, the statistics which all but eliminate those infants’ chances of becoming potential saviors, but the change I foresee isn’t about numbers.  I have to believe that one of those infants might grow up to change this world and do what I cannot.  To overcome what others have not.  I have to.  I have to have that hope for the city or I would have swallowed a grenade a thousand years ago.

When these diluted, week-old vampires kill babies simply for the thrill, for the sake of rebellion, or for spitting on taboos, my blood boils.  They destroy things because they can’t possibly fathom the value of life or love; they destroy my hope for no reason.

And so I torture them.

As a warning to other chyldrin I find the nearest hospital, the one from which the babies were taken, and then kill all informants and vampire friendly staff before taking the chyld’s body from my trunk and hanging the dismembered corpse on the back door of the hospital.

As I change out of my blood soaked clothes in a public bathroom in the hospital basement, clean my knife, and reload my pistol, I start to go over my oath as a sentiner. 

“Observe and learn; do not interfere.  Wisdom hampers rash action; seeing is our survival, action is our downfall.  There is always more to learn; more to see, more to know.  Our quest is never ending; there is no final answer.  Only questions; only knowledge.  Salvation through knowledge; knowledge is salvation.”

Just before acknowledging that I have broken every rule we have, and some that we should, I feel better about what I have done – even for the immense danger it brings on me.

C
arlos is a wealthy chyld who lives in eastern Central Gothica and Sabetha knows him as one of her main contacts in chyld society.  He owns a private estate with trees and a park, the grandeur of which are not seen in such abundance this far south.  He’s an arrogant prick to be sure, but he does like to know what’s happening in ‘his’ city.  He’d like people to think he did own it, but fortunately for us and fashion, he doesn’t.  We arrive at the rusty, vine covered gate the following night.  A high brick wall lines the perimeter of the obsessively maintained grounds.  The security guard takes one look at our car and opens the gate.

Sabetha pulls Rolla around a circular fountain of a beautiful stone girl spewing out water from her pursed lips, and stops in front of the concaved stairs leading to the front door.  Large marble columns support a rich display of architectural beauty while cross-tipped and iron-spiked steeples of the estate pierce the low foggy sky.  We exit the car and approach the mahogany, brass-studded doors.  Two guards appear from the shadows of the columns and begin their security protocol. 

“What can we do for you?” One of the chyldrin asks.  Both wear sunglasses and are dressed in black suits and ties with white shirts.

Sabetha answers coolly. “Is he in?”

They look at me and hesitate.  “And who is your guest?”  I grow suddenly impatient and sneer, “It’s mister Manuel.”

They let us by and right on cue the doors open.  We are greeted by a middle aged ilk with slick black hair matted to his head with oil.  His dress is meticulous; the white gloves, tailed suit, and dress pants are flawlessly creased and spotless of soil; not a single detail overlooked – and I notice the little things.  “Won’t you come in?” he asks, standing aside.

The main lobby area looks more like the set of a play than a functional home.  It feels hollow and lonely, a façade which holds up only from one angle.  The seats would be stiff and uncomfortable to sit on, the end tables wobbly and impractical to rest your cup on.  Not unlike Carlos’ frequent guests, his décor is fancy but without function or substance. 

I detest him for various reasons.  Apart from his overly dramatic sadism, I hate him for his infatuation with Sabetha and even more because his sincerest efforts to woo her are never attempted in my absence.  Like the rest of his
sycophantic endeavors, his affection for her is an empty obsession, the pursuit of things beyond barriers simply because the barrier exists.  All else forgotten, he’s just a giant cunt. 

I look around the room, keeping my eyes from prying too much but trying to pick up anything unusual.  The staircase which runs from the left side of the room up to a balcony overlooking the area is adorned with a new, vibrant red carpet.  The last time I was here it was a moldy green.  The grand crystal chandelier, gaudy and oppressive, is dusty and still fastened with candles which kharma keeps from burning too low. 

Through a door on the upper balcony, Carlos enters.  He wears a burgundy, velvet dressing gown.  A cigar rests in his mouth and a glass of blood and cognac is cradled in his limp wrist.  He swishes it around to mix the two separated liquids as he looks over the banister.  Normally when he wants a cocktail, Carlos has someone drink himself literally to death, then puts a spigot in his arm and a glass under it.  He must have frantically thrown together his you-caught-me-by-surprise outfit.  After a moment, he crosses the balcony and roll-steps down the stairs like a ballerina.

Sabetha starts towards him and I follow.  She meets Carlos one stairs from the bottom and he opens his arms to her handshake, taking her into an embrace.  Over her shoulder he looks at me challengingly with his pale white eyes.  He offers his hand, palm down with
fingers and wrist slightly bent, while still holding Sabetha.  As I take his hand I get the image of a woman tumbling down the stairs while Carlos, wearing nothing more than a butcher knife and a tribal mask, chases her falling and screaming form to the bottom.  I pull my hand away and he cocks his head dramatically to the side, stepping away from Sabetha.

“Delano,” he says half in greeting, half in question.  Delicately, he touches his cheek with the very tips of his fingers and looks me over, then turns back to my sister.  “To what do I owe this auspicious honor, my dearest Sabetha?”  Carlos takes her hand and kisses it softly, the cigar now in the same hand as his bloodgac.

With a coy red smile she tosses her hair.  “We’ve come for your help, Carlos.”

“My help? Command it and I will have him killed,” he says proclaiming it to the empty room.  Sabetha looks at him, holding back disgust with a confused but entertained look.  Apparently, neither of us can wait to hear the second half of
this
one.

He continues in her silence, explaining his prior statement with a suave manipulation of his eyebrows and lips. “This vagabond who most undoubtedly tried to woo you with his words.  I’m sure they fell far short of justice and thus I say again I will have him killed for his crime.”

Sabetha smiles and lets out a coy laugh which I mimic silently from behind Carlos.  What an asshole.  I’m told we need him for information.  

“You’re too kind,” she manages.

“And intuitive,” he slips in not-so covertly followed by a yacht-club chuckle.

“It is much more serious than that, I’m afraid.”  I let her do the talking and just stand behind Carlos as he completely ignores me.

“Oh?  What is it my sweet?”

“A violation of sanctuary,” she counters seriously.

His bravado lessens. “I see.  Please, follow me.  Your coats?”

“Thanks but we won’t be staying long,” I state though I know he won’t respect my wishes.

On cue he has an attendant take Sabetha’s trench anyway.  I wait for someone to come for mine so I can push them into a tacky antique mirror but the coat boy only takes Betha’s.  I can sense Carlos smile as I sizzle, following him down a long and poorly decorated hallway. 

“I was just on my way to the dining hall,” he says.  “You will join me.”

Not a dining room – but a dining
hall
. 

Sabetha follows him and gives me a
behave yourself
look.  I grit my teeth and follow silently.  Carlos leads us through his candle lit mansion until finally we come to a set of large double doors with iron gargoyle heads set in the face.  Without speaking, he stands with his feet together in front of the door.  I can already sense a multitude of guests on the other side.

“Some accuse me of wasting my blood on enhancing my tongue and enlarging my stomach, but I cannot find a better use for my life-force.  My chef is very talented.”  He turns back and speaks softly to us before opening the double doors, “She cooks better than she tastes...” then, looking to Sabetha pointedly, “but then again I am a chyld.” 

What does that even
mean
?

The hall before us stretches out in perfect dimensional evenness with the dining table, decorated with a white lace cloth, candelabras, and a feast of gourmet foods.  The scene to the sides however is a nightmarish painting which undulates like an hallucination.  Huddled against the walls are rocking forms that rub against each other and claw softly at one another’s skin.  They move nearly in unison, swaying to each other’s thrusts and to the soft piano music.  Some are male, some female and some are visually indistinguishable due to masks and leather apparel.  They are all chained in one way or another, either to clothing or to skin.

A few are gagged while hooks are driven into their flesh and strangled if they make a noise.  Others need not be strangled having already suffered the penalty for squealing during dinner time.  Compared to what I have seen in my lifetime, this is not even noteworthy, and compared to Carlos’ basement it’s a kindergarten class, but he didn’t
have
to take us here.  It’s the principle of it.  He wants to make a point.  To get a rise out of us; me.

A young ilk girl, too young to bear children, lies naked at the end of the table.  Carlos takes his seat there and offers Sabetha the position at his left.  I stand.  The girl has been beaten and her teeth knocked out.  Bruises cover her neck in yellows, purples, and greens and the internal damage is bad enough she has to gasp for each breath.  Carlos leans in and bites the femoral artery, high up on her inner thigh.  She moves in pain but makes no noise
whatsoever.  Keeping his bite clean, Carlos comes up to dab his mouth with a napkin while putting pressure on the wound.

I’m not one to be easily angered, but Carlos doing this just to evoke an emotion in me is another thing entirely, and as he finishes dinner to the sounds of the girls screams, I’m pretty close to grabbing Betha and leaving.  With an inviting smile he turns to Sabetha.  He’s always tried to make her more of a “true chyld,” by being an example of embracing one’s desires.