“Let him pass!” Cardinal Archivist Farina yelled.
The guard frowned but moved aside. The others of the Swiss Guard let the Heliwr pass as well. Striking the floor with the Dark Thorn to gather all attention to him and with Berrytrill hiding in the crux of his armpit, Charles strode through the glass door designed to keep moisture and contaminants out and into a situation he immediately did not like.
Cardinal Archivist Cesare Farina, also a member of the Vigilo, sat next to the vampire at one of the dozens of tables used for the maintenance of the Secret Archives’ precious documents. He did not move. The vampire had fingers about the old man’s neck, his grip absolute, one that could end the mortal’s life instantly. The creature had also taken two other prisoners; two restorers, undoubtedly working the late shift with their Cardinal, sat at the rear of the room, both men staring blankly as if in a trance.
“Charles Ardall,” Cardinal Cesare Farina greeted with a weak smile.
“Are you three okay?”
“We are,” Cardinal Farina said. “The vampire has not harmed us.”
With Berrytrill now hovering nearby, Charles gazed then at the subject of his hunt. The intruder from Annwn was definitely a vampire. Thin skin. Prominent fangs. Eyes set within gaunt features. But he was unlike any Charles had seen too. Instead of possessing the northern European features that marked those who had entered Annwn millennia ago, the vampire had a dark Middle Eastern aspect to him. It told Charles that this vampire was likely not bitten and turned in Annwn, but in this world long before the fey had left, and had ventured to Annwn at a time much later.
Knowing that, it made the creature ancient beyond belief. It did not stop there. The eyes proved the theory if his heritage did not. The entity that stared back at Charles bore the weight of ages, a depth of soul the knight had only seen in the eyes of Merle. It was more than that though. Power radiated from the vampire, old power derived from centuries of experience that reverberated the air like a high-tension power line.
Charles had encountered several vampires in his time as Heliwr but none like this.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he questioned finally.
The vampire smiled, fangs born. It was a smile that lacked humor. “I want what you want, knight.”
“What would that be exactly?”
The vampire cocked his head. “For me to gain that which I desire, of course.”
“You have broken into the home of the Catholic Church,” Charles said unflinchingly. “You have killed many men this day, your own as well as those from the Swiss Guard. My fellow knight lays wounded. Not the best way to ensure aid in your quest.”
The creature shrugged. “I had to gain your attention, Heliwr.”
Charles did not like the sound of that.
“Why do you have need of me?”
“Besides the ancient wizard who yoked you into service, Heliwr, you are the only one with the respect needed to enter areas of this city that I wish admittance to,” the vampire said. “You and you alone.”
“Hate to break it to you, vampire,” Berrytrill chimed in smugly. “But the Knights of the Yn Saith are despised by the Church.”
“That may be, fairy,” the other said. “I still have need of your master.”
“My master, he is not, not at al—”
“I am Charles Ardall,” the Heliwr said, cutting his guide off before the conversation turned ugly. “And this is my quiet guide, Berrytrill. Who are you and why are you here?”
The vampire grinned self-mockery. “I have been called He Whose Life Dies Not. The Sable Warlock. The Fatal Revenant of Scarl. In this land, long ago, I was Mortuis, The Dead Who Walks. The world has wept ever since those days. Because that was not my birth name. Once, I was dead, the result of illness, and entombed for four days before being resurrected and returned to sunshine, a light that holds no love for shadowkind. A miracle some called my return. The miracle turned to ashes in my mouth long ago. I have learned to hate that day I entered the world with a second life.”
It didn’t take Charles long to realize what the vampire’s true name was but he could not believe it.
It was impossible.
“You are Lazarus of Bethany,” Charles said finally. “Or you think you are.”
The vampire nodded. “One of many names, but that was my first.”
“Blasphemy,” Cardinal Cesare Farina growled.
The vampire squeezed the old man’s neck, snarling. “The only blasphemy, priest, is what your God did to me that day. Do not believe me? Open your mind.”
The Cardinal Archivist squawked in sudden pain and his eyes rolled back into his head as magic filled the room. Charles could feel it, ancient and potent. Unsure of how the knight could even act to prevent what was being done, Cesare Farina breathed in suddenly, eyes returned to normal, body shuddering and fear twisting his features.