SILENT KNIFE
A Vampire: The Requiem Novel
by David Nurenberg
PROLOGUE
Blood ran in rivulets down the walls.
Crimson tendrils spread like spider-plant shoots, indifferent to the paintings suspended in their path. The Christ in the Rueland Frueauf original now hanging askew was wet with fresh blossoms of scarlet. His placid face was buried under a bright, bloody starburst, all save his left eye. The orb stared from the blot with a promise of judgment on what was transpiring in the candlelit foyer.
In a rough circle formed by upturned furniture, two men struggled. Behind one of the toppled couches, two women crouched. Somewhere an old phonograph played an aria from Donizetti’s La fille du régiment, skipping every few seconds.
The women turned to face each other. Red beads spattered the platinum-dyed hair of one. When the flickering candlelight caught her locks just right, the bubbled blood shone like rubies. “We need to get out of here,” she whispered, tugging at her companion’s black silk sleeve.
“No.” The other woman, olive skinned and soft featured, pulled her arm away, reached for the straight, double-edged sword that lay beyond her grasp on the carpet. She couldn’t grab it, not without disobeying orders and moving from cover.
“Don’t be an idiot, Ariadne. Let Wilson take care of this.”
Ariadne turned back to the fight, a whip of her jet-black hair snapping in the air. She peered over the makeshift barricade to see Wilson, the larger of the two combatants, wrap his fingers around his opponent’s neck. A gash several inches long ran in a half-moon across Wilson’s scalp, as if his bald head were smiling back at Ariadne, reassuring her that things would be all right. His actual face was locked in a crooked expression that could have been a grin or a snarl of pain. Wilson’s black leather jacket was soaked with blood, torn and rent to reveal skin, tissue, and bone beneath. Seeing the damage to the coat pained Ariadne more than the wounds to his flesh; it was his badge of office as Sheriff, enforcer for the local Prince. It had taken Wilson decades to earn, and Ariadne hoped he intended to make his adversary suffer for every rip and scuff.
The smaller man struggled in Wilson’s grip. His unshod feet slipped and slid in the red puddle beneath them, his callused fingers clutched at Wilson’s shoulders. Then he went suddenly still. A strangely amiable smile crept across his lips, as if he had bumped into an old friend he only now recognized. Ariadne watched as he straightened his fingers and calmly jabbed the tips into the enforcer’s sides. They began to sink in, displacing pools of red and white ooze.
“Sorry, Sheriff,” the smaller man said, “but this fight’s over. I’m leaving.”
“Roarke!” Wilson barked his opponent’s name, coughing blood into the other man’s face. The hands in his sides were buried now up to the wrists. Roarke tensed, then moved his arms in a zigzag. They cut through flesh as if it were water, severing sinew and bone and organ. Wilson’s torso exploded, splattering Ariadne’s face with gore.
Beside her, the other woman screamed. Ariadne snapped around to see her backing away, mouth wide, fangs jutting. She was right next to the fallen blade.
“Hera,” Ariadne hissed. “Quick. The sword.”
Hera stared through a gap in the toppled furniture. Her gaze fixed on Roarke as he wiped a few chunks of Wilson off his arms, then bent down and retrieved a large leather-bound book from the floor. He shook his head at the blood that now stained its pages.
“Hera!”
Wordlessly, never taking her eyes off the victorious Roarke, Hera kicked the sword over to Ariadne. Then she scrambled to her feet and fled.
Roarke regarded Ariadne warily as she stepped around the couch. She held the sword with both hands, the tip slightly raised toward her opponent. She straightened her back.
“You’re between me an’ the door,” he drawled calmly, advancing toward her. “I’m gonna be walking out now, with the grimoire. The only question is how many more Licks I kill before I leave.”
Ariadne bristled at the insult; she had long ago passed beyond the ranks of those mortals kept around as food. She bared her fangs and raised her sword. “Stay back.”
“You’re a young’un, so I’m going to give you some choices. You can just stand there, all threatening, and let me go. Tell the Prince you did your best, but I knocked you flat. Tell her whatever you want. Or you can forget the Prince’s little pipe dream and join me. We’ll clean up this pus-covered world the right way.”
He took another step forward, then nodded toward the corpse behind him. “Or maybe you want to end up like the Sheriff. . . .”
“We trusted you.” Ariadne’s dark eyes flashed. “We thought you believed.”
Roarke kept advancing, his left hand outstretched.
“New Jerusalem means that much to you, girl? You’d lay down your eternal life for it, right here an’ now?”
“Yes!”
Back still straight, Ariadne charged. Roarke moved to intercept with an empty-handed blow, but at the last moment she ducked, spun along his side, and brought her blade around in an arc. It lopped off Roarke’s left arm at the elbow in a clean, perfect cut. The limb and the large book in its grasp thudded dully onto the carpet.
Roarke buried his head in his shoulder, face twisted in pain, but let loose no cry. With half-closed lids he eyed the arm where it lay, then turned to regard Ariadne.
For a moment, time froze. Then both moved at once. Ariadne’s blade swept low, slicing through the book’s thick pages, its binding barely slowing the upswing. Roarke howled curses as he landed beside the ruined tome, grasping uselessly with his good hand at the sundered halves.
He stared up at her, his eyes a maelstrom of hatred. Ariadne raised her sword again and moved in, only to find Roarke had somehow produced a blade to parry hers.
Then Ariadne realized it wasn’t a sword. The severed bone from his left shoulder had grown down, extended to twice its former length. Lined with serrated edges, the bone-blade ended in a tip as sharp as any stiletto’s.
Ariadne did not permit herself horror or revulsion. They circled the room, testing one another, thrusting and retreating.
Footsteps thundered close. Ariadne could hear the shouts of the Prince’s soldiers. Roarke could, too. He inclined his head to her in a curt nod, then dove low, barreling into her legs and using his body as a battering ram. She toppled and landed with her face just inches from the grimoire.
The tattered page fragments twitched before her eyes, blackening and combusting of their own volition. She glimpsed groups of swiftly vanishing letters, written in a script she could not read. More than anything, it seemed to her like musical notation.
Forcing herself to turn away, Ariadne rose up, but it was too late. Roarke was fleeing into the hallway.
A dozen figures trampled past in pursuit. Shouts echoed down the hall.
The needle on the phonograph finally fell off the record. The Donizetti aria abruptly ceased, as if cut off by sword stroke. Ariadne steadied herself, wiped her blade, and took off in pursuit.
PART ONE
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me. . . .
—Emily Dickinson
CHAPTER 1
Ariadne’s mind was quiet at last, because she was breaking someone’s jaw.
Human figures swayed and bent all around her like stalks of wheat blown helplessly by the wind. Fast as they were, she was always faster. One of the few rebels still standing managed to draw a pistol. A jump, a pivot, a swing of Ariadne’s sword, and the hand that held the gun fell to the ground. Just as a scream began to bubble in the rebel’s throat, Ariadne’s next slice took off his head.
The hum of industrial machinery and the buzz of electric streetlights created a cocoon, demarcated by a hazy yellow-white aura within which the rebels stumbled as if bound by its edges. Outside the glow, in the thin fog that hung over the city of Cambridge, the crumpled metal frame of the Stata Center loomed Behemoth-like over the MIT campus. The blue police assistance lights on nearby call boxes shone dimly, like the impotent torches of distant angry villagers.
One of the rebels centered himself and lunged at her. She let him come, chose not to stop his knife as it took a slice out of her cheek, scraping bone. The drops of red scattered in front of her eyes and then merged with the fog. She ducked in under the arm, her fist pounding beneath the rib cage in a mockery of the Heimlich maneuver. He crumpled but did not let go of his weapon.
His control, however, was gone. He jabbed out madly. The edge of his knife scraped at Ariadne’s arm, her shoulder, even her long hair, now half loose from its ponytail. A lucky stab found the tendon of Ariadne’s wrist, and her hand released her sword. The fog did nothing to absorb the sound of its clatter against the pavement.
The rebel grinned, as much in surprise as triumph. He advanced and Ariadne gave ground, until she felt the presence of the concrete wall behind her. The rebel shouted as he lunged.
At the last moment Ariadne seized his knife-hand and, with a gesture made no less swift by its familiarity, snapped it at the wrist. She followed with a punch to the stomach that breached flesh and bone until she felt the wet, intimate kiss of what lay inside. Then she withdrew, pushing his body with her foot as she did. He clutched at phantoms in the air as he fell backward to the ground.
Between eye blinks, Ariadne swooped down to seize her fallen blade. She swung it in an arc that tore the rebel’s head from his body, giving birth to a tiny bouquet of sparks as the blade’s tip scratched the pavement. It would mar the blade, but blades could be repaired.
Silence on the street. The billowing clouds from the steam vents merged with the fog that wrapped the campus, turning buildings into the crudely rendered legs of indifferent giants, cars into blind rats scurrying about between their feet. Occasional shadows moved behind lab windows lit up for late-night research. MBTA trains rumbled beneath the pavement, the ripples teasing Ariadne’s toes within her boots.
By the time the yowl of the police siren and the subsequent footfalls announced the arrival of would-be investigators, Ariadne was gone, moving through the shadows and the fog, dragging the headless corpses behind her into a service alley. She dropped them unceremoniously to the damp pavement and stared at them for a long moment. Her eyes were trained on her victims, but she was really searching herself for some ember of pity, or even revulsion. She found nothing.
Even letting the rebel disarm her, raising the stakes for a few moments, hadn’t stirred her. Inside, there was still just a cloud of white, like the static on a broken television set.
Ariadne rubbed the torn tendons of her arm, the pain finally starting to register. She gritted her teeth through the discomfort as she ripped off a storm drain cover, then shoved the bodies of the slain rebels into the sewer. Their skin and muscle were already beginning to come off in chunks between her fingers. She flicked the dead matter idly onto the curb, where it crumbled into oozing dirt.
Ariadne reached behind a dumpster and pulled out a guitar case. She removed the leather jacket and jeans inside, drew them up over her blood-soaked bodysuit. She then placed her blade neatly inside the now-empty case and slung it around her back. There was no easy way to clean her hands, so she shoved them in her pockets and began walking.
Start to finish, leaping upon the rebels to cleanup: four minutes. It wasn’t her best time ever, but it would do.
Another four minutes later, Ariadne stood expectantly, her hands in fists inside her jacket, before a parking garage. In the fog the entrance ramp looked like the maw of some squatting beast, its concrete tongue revealed in flickers by the dying halogen lights.
The soft sound of flesh meeting flesh resounded from inside the tunnel. Ariadne heard no footsteps as some of the fog around the unmanned attendant booth coalesced into the shape of a man. His wide hands separated and collided slowly in applause.
Still Ariadne waited, brown eyes unblinking. Her hair merged with the darkness around her. So, too, did Mister Rose’s ebon skin; it seemed an extension of the murk from which he emerged. As he moved closer, his finely tailored suit gave him definition, a framed container for his bulky mass. By the time he stood before Ariadne, his face appeared to have been sculpted out of obsidian—a statue in some Egyptian museum brought to life.
“Acceptable, Sheriff,” said Mister Rose. “For now.”
* * * * *
Ariadne and Rose walked slowly through the gauntlet of parking meters on Amherst Street. The fog was departing, driven east to the harbor by a now-steady breeze. Whenever the two passed under a streetlight, it seemed to bleed away some of their mystique, turning them into an unassuming pair. Ariadne, tall and lithe, looking barely older than the occasional MIT student who sped past them on a late-night bicycle ride. Mister Rose, stout and distinguished, was dressed in a suit out-of-fashion enough to let him pass as one of her professors. Only the fact that no puffs of air escaped into the cold night air as she and her companion spoke betrayed them as something extraordinary.
“With you as the new Sheriff, Prince Liliane expects this crisis to be over by week’s end. Isn’t that what she said?”
Ariadne stared ahead at the boxy laboratory buildings that were just tall enough to dash all hopes of seeing Memorial Drive, or even most of the Boston skyline that lay beyond.
“It’s not a crisis.” She spoke toward the buildings, not Rose. “It’s an internal matter. A dispute between the Prince and her former Seneschal.”
“Well practiced. Not only can you fight, you can parrot the party line. The younger generation has ever-so-many talents.”
Ariadne did not take the bait. To do so would have been suicidal. “Roarke’s rebellion is no threat to the Masquerade. We engage only at night, in secluded areas, with due discretion. The kine know no more about us than they ever did. You have my word.”
“How comforting. The word of a neonate.”
Ariadne kept her gaze fixed ahead of her, although she slowed her pace. “You saw what I can do. You saw how well I kept that last fight under wraps, even in a populated area such as this. I spotted the rebels in a crowd, lured them to an alley, and took care of them.”
“Encouraging, yes. You do impressive work.”
Before she could stop herself, Ariadne said, “The Prince told you that. Anyone in the coterie could have told you that.”
Rose stared sidelong at her. “Liliane will simply have to forgive me if I didn’t just settle for reading her memos—or accepting the boasts of her minions without some proof. And that’s what I’ve seen: some proof. Nothing more.”
Ariadne pushed down the knot in her stomach. Icily, she said, “All I meant was that the Council has nothing to fear.”
Rose placed a restraining hand on Ariadne’s shoulder. “The Council only wishes to help.” He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t have to. “Even a Prince needs to look to those above her from time to time. For guidance. It’s the way of things, and there’s no shame in that.”
Ariadne stared at the sidewalk, counted to three, and then turned to face him. His eyes seemed more tired than she had been expecting, but no less alert for it.
“Liliane will make sure the Masquerade holds. We have the strength to deal with the uprising and the resources to contain mortal press and police as we do so. We don’t need any . . . assistance.”
Rose stared at her, and Ariadne could almost feel vibrations shaking her body, though this time not from any passing subway train. His face began to twist, and she tensed until she saw it was twisting into a smile.
“I can tell you don’t even believe that yourself. You’re worried. You have your own doubts.”
Ariadne opened her mouth, but Rose shook his head.
“Liliane is right about one thing, little one: Your fighting prowess is remarkable. The Council could make good use of someone with your talents. You like swords, yes?”
Still keeping one hand on her shoulder, he pulled aside his blazer to reveal a shoulderholster. Instead of a gun handle, a jeweled hilt peeked out over the lip of the leather.
“I’m sure you’ve never seen a sword like this before. It’s one of only two ever made, and the Council owns both. Do you know what it can do?”
The pattern on the hilt changed each time Ariadne refocused her eyes. One moment it bore a simple fleur de lis pattern, the next it was made of small sculpted figures with gargoyle features. She cocked her head, and from the new angle the hilt looked to be made of petrified wood carved with runes.
“It’s not charged yet—” Rose tapped the blade gently with his finger “—but draw blood once to feed it, and on its next cut, it steals a soul.”
He drew his coat back to conceal the weapon once more. Rose smiled as he watched Ariadne fight the urge to reach for it like a child baited by a shiny toy, then added, “We have all sorts of wonders, for our worthiest hands to wield.”
The image of the sword flickered on Ariadne’s retinas, like the visual residue of a fireworks display. For a moment, she had lost track of just where she was.
Then, with a start, she yanked herself away from his grip. Her hand flew instinctively to the guitar case at her back, but she stopped there.
Rose stared expectantly, his smile instantly gone.
“I have my own blades, thank you. And they are sworn to the service of Prince Liliane.” She lowered her hand to her side, turned, and resumed walking.
“The so-called Dame of Eagle Hill,” Rose said as he drew up alongside her, adding a low rumble that passed for a chuckle. “I’ve never liked this city. It’s a bad place for our kind. Too many wizards asking too many questions. Your Prince surprised all of us with her success here, and the Council certainly appreciates an Invictus presence in Boston. But the Masquerade must be held even tighter here than elsewhere. If Liliane cannot control her brood—”
“The war will be won.” Ariadne narrowed her eyes. “And we’ll win it quickly. I’ll do everything necessary to ensure that.”
“What is necessary right now is that you find a way to return to your Prince without drawing undue attention. You’re not expecting to ride the subway, buying tokens and holding onto rails with those blood-soaked hands, I hope.”
“Of course not. I’ve already arranged for a cab.” And the subway doesn’t even take tokens any longer, you dinosaur, she thought. They have plastic scan-cards now.
They emerged onto the grassy plain that preceded Memorial Drive on the banks of the Charles River. The fog was almost completely gone now. The skyline stretched before them: the monolithic Hancock Building, the snub-nosed and pugnacious-looking Prudential Center. The smaller skyscrapers clustered at a respectful distance like attendants, casting their lights obediently into the midnight dark. At their base, the water of the Charles turned the city upside down, blurred and distorted it, and not for the first time Ariadne entertained the thought that the warped city in the water was in fact the real one, all bent and murky.
Pairs of white and red lights zoomed past between Ariadne and the two skylines, an ever-shifting barrier of cars like flaming swords barring her passage. The city was not for her, not her place to work and love and gawk and enjoy. Here, she was allowed only to hunt.
But she had another city awaiting her. It didn’t exist yet, but she was helping Liliane build it. Once this war was over, once they were rid of Mister Rose . . .
She squinted, waiting for the expected yellow-and-white blur of an approaching cab. She and Rose exchanged no more words until it arrived. Rose entered first, certain to make eye contact with the driver. Ariadne could feel the pulse of energy exchanged between them, knew that after this gaze the cabbie's eyes would never quite fall on them. She knew that the cabbie wouldn't be troubled by the blurry features in the rearview mirror, that he would fail to recall any of the words he might overhear during the ride. She could have planted the subliminal message herself, of course. She wondered if Rose had done it just to feel useful.
Sunken into the back seat, Ariadne stared without seeing, letting the passing lights and the rhythm of the car as it passed over the uneven pavement lull her almost to sleep. Except she hadn’t slept, not like a human being, in ten years.
The cab radio was playing an old Aerosmith song. Ariadne reached for a memory that eluded her, and then for the feeling that should have accompanied that loss, with no success. It reminded her of a different song, one she had been trying to remember for months. She only seemed able to recollect it when some other music was playing, but then the notes in her mind got scrambled with the notes outside it.
Somewhere in all of that reaching, Ariadne’s eyes settled on the driver’s license pasted on the back of the glass window that bisected the cab.
For the first time all evening, Ariadne felt terror.
It ran through all her nerves at once, a lightning strike that nearly spasmed her limbs. Mister Rose’s eyes slid toward her, questioning, and she quickly tried to compose herself.
The cabbie’s name.
Ariadne knew she had to glance in the mirror, but postponed it for long, torturous seconds. Having stepped off a precipice, though, she could only resist gravity for so long.
The mirror moved slowly into her field of vision, and there he was. The same blond hair, a little thinner and more matted, but she could feel its texture under her fingertips just by staring. The same stout nose, the same rough skin, the same brown-red lips, the same small, intense blue eyes, each cradling a ring of gold at the center, staring ahead into the road. Then they suddenly glanced up, dimly aware of some unseen scrutiny.
The cabbie searched the mirror for a long moment, as if he thought he saw something, but quickly returned his gaze to the road. Ariadne was safely hidden. Still, her blood was seething like it hadn’t all through the battle.
Andrei.
Andrei Montague.
She wanted to speak the name out loud, almost had to cover her mouth not to. Rose was staring at her impatiently. She looked at her lap.
The cab had reached East Boston, was already turning onto Porter Street. Only a few minutes remained. Ariadne’s fingers flexed helplessly. She bit her lip. She could last a few minutes. She had to. Why weren’t they on Shelby Street yet? Were they going to hit every single red light in East Boston?
An advertisement jingle was playing on the radio, and Ariadne swore she could remember that damned song if only it lasted a little longer.
Then “Imagine” came on and shattered her concentration. She glanced up to the mirror. Andrei’s face loomed. He was humming, harmonizing with John Lennon when the “ah-ha, ah-ha-ah” came along. Within her pockets, Ariadne began softly tapping her thighs in rhythm.
Instead of the constant stale iron of blood, she tasted orange pekoe tea. Claws began tearing into her brain, pulling out memories like entrails: a dormitory lounge, a checkered dance floor, and, before she could stop the mad rush of images, a covered bridge at midnight.
Her mouth opened. Her lips began to form a word. Her throat cracked as she began to speak his name.
The cab pulled abruptly to a halt. Ariadne, jarred back to her senses, threw open the door and raced out. Later, she would wonder if Rose even bothered to pay the fare or if he’d just made Andrei forget the ride had ever happened. She would wonder if Rose had taken note of her own discombobulation. For now, she just shot ahead, scrambled up the side of Eagle Hill to the looming Victorian that presided over the neighborhood. She pushed herself as fast as she could fly to the door, grasping for the handle, not nearly as frightened of Mister Rose’s reaction as she was of the thought that she might stop, might look back, might chase down the cab, get inside, and never emerge again.
Outside, the Boston skyline continued casting its light into the dark night, which gobbled it up and demanded more. In the Charles, the upside-down mirror-city mocked its parent, grinning with streetlight eyes, flashing its crooked set of beacon teeth.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DAVID NURENBERG is a teacher, freelance writer, and social activist who lives in the Boston area. His credits with White Wolf include writing for the Vampire: The Requiem, Scion, and Exalted lines. His nonfiction has appeared in the Boston Globe, Newsweek, USA Today, and Multicultural Review, as well as many lesser-known papers, ’zines, and blogs. Silent Knife is his first novel published by a major press. His favorite animal is the wombat.