"Good lord, man—don't you understand? What if the skin truly
is
that of Kali the Destroyer?"
"Yer daft! All that book learnin' has turned yer brains t'mush! Now let's clear off before Naga's boys learn we're here!"
Ghilardi pointed to the subterranean pool, the middle of which had begun to bubble like a pot on the boil. "Something tells me we're too late."
Their argument forgotten, the two men fled back up the steep black marble stairs.
Ghilardi's heart was lodged just below his tonsils as they reached the entrance, and for once he was glad to see Gupta.
"Did ye place th' charges?" Multoon wheezed, his face so red it looked like he had painted it with tandoori paste.
"Yes, sahib," Gupta replied.
"Good man!" Multoon grinned.
"Charges? What charges?" Ghilardi asked, baffled by the exchange.
"I took th' liberty of plannin' against the likelihood of our bein' pursued," Multoon explained. "But this tisn't the place to stand an' talk about it."
The Irishman took off in a dead run in the direction of camp, Ghilardi at his heels. Seconds later there was a thunderous explosion and the entire canyon shuddered as if in the grips of an earthquake, knocking both men to the ground. When Ghilardi looked again in the direction of the entrance to the Black Shrine, all there was to see was a pile of rock. Gupta came trotting up, a demolitionist's detonation box tucked under one arm.
Ghilardi sat in the dirt and stared at where the Black Shrine used to be. It was impossible to tell whether the blast had merely sealed the tunnel or demolished the entire cave. Not that it mattered. Something inside him shriveled up and died as he realized he had played a major part in destroying all traces of the greatest archeological discovery since the unearthing of Tutankhamen's tomb.
And all in the name of a silver knife.
Upon returning to camp Ghilardi was so depressed it was all he could do to wash the grime from his face. Multoon and Gupta, on the other hand, seemed in exceedingly high spirits. Ghilardi retired to his tent early, leaving the two to regale the bearers with tales of their daring exploits in the search for treasure.
Too weary to write in his journal, Ghilardi placed the Demon Knife under his pillow and
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) stretched out, fully clothed, on his camp cot. His mistrust of Multoon was now greater than ever, but he was simply too exhausted to sit up half the night, waiting for the Irishman to drink himself into a stupor before going to bed.
Within moments of lying down, he fell into a deep sleep. His dreams were troubled, and he found himself back inside the Black Shrine, kneeling before the image of the Dark Mother.
As he looked upon her, Ghilardi realized that she still wore her garland of skulls and skirt of hands, her eyes and tongue were still intact in her head, and the Demon Knife was once again in her hand.
Erich Ghilardi. . .
The voice that spoke in his ear was as clear and pure as the peal of a crystal bell, yet it filled him with a dread that had no equal to any he had known before.
Behold the Mother of Vampires: She Who Cannot Be Turned Aside; She Who Is Terror;
Queen Of Night and Slayer Of Demons. Behold her in her fierce glory and be afraid, and
through your fear made brave.
As his dream-self stared up at the restored idol, the figure lowered its up-raised foot and turned so that its ruby-red gaze was fixed directly on him. Ghilardi felt the dread in his heart blossom and become a terror as pure and primal as a mother's love. As the Divine Monster descended the dais and moved towards him, he saw that the skulls she wore about her neck were no longer made of ivory, but those of dead men, and the severed hands fashioned of jade that encircled her waist had metamorphosed into the genuine article. Even though he knew he dreamed, Ghilardi closed his eyes and turned his head away.
Look upon me, Erich Ghilardi, and fear me as you have feared no other thing; for only
then can you open your third eye and look into the Real World without losing what you
humans call sanity. Open yourself to the Real World, my son, for Kali-Yuga is at hand,
and the avatar's arrival is not far away.
Although he knew what would greet his gaze would be horrible beyond all mortal ken, Ghilardi could not keep himself from opening his eyes. With the inevitability of nightmare, he turned his face to that of the Holy Monster and screamed as hard as a woman giving birth.
Ghilardi awoke with a start so violent it was as if he was jolted by electricity. After the horrid vividness of his nightmare it was almost a relief to find himself staring up the barrel of Gupta's pistol. Despite the gravity of his situation, he found himself wondering whether he had actually cried out in his sleep or not.
"Sorry to awaken you, sahib," Gupta said, his smile displaying no sign of regret. "But Sergeant Multoon says you are to die now."
"Sergeant Multoon — ?"
As if summoned by incantation, the Irishman stepped out of the darkness, holding aloft a camp lantern like a perverse Diogenes.
"Master-Sergeant,
if ye please! Me an' Gupta go back to regiment days.
We was cashiered for attemptin' t'loot some raja's summer palace. We been workin'
together ever since. Ain't that right, Gupta?"
"Yes, Master-Sergeant."
"And now that we got what we come for, 'tis time to close shop. With th' haul from th'
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) shrine we got enough to live like bloody princes for th' rest of our days. Gupta here already drugged th' men, so's we're saved the trouble of payin' 'em—or havin' 'em bear tales of what went on durin' th' expedition. If they ain't knackered already, they'll be so by sun-up. Then everything will be tidied up nice an' proper. Once yer took care of, of course.
"Of course," Ghilardi said, echoing his assassin. He was astounded how calm he felt.
Although he realized his situation was indeed a dire one, there was no panic crowding his brain.
"Just so's ye know, sorr," Multoon said, with a crooked grin. "There is no hard feelings on me part. 'Tis business only." He paused, a frown creasing his brow, and lifted the lantern higher. "Here now—what's that hissin' sound?"
Gupta's eyes bulged like hard-boiled eggs as he screamed, jerking his pistol away from Ghilardi's head and firing at his own foot. Multoon whirled about, dropping the lantern, and fired blindly at the shape that had appeared behind him. Gupta fell to the floor, clutching his calf with both hands.
Ghilardi saw the unmistakable outline of a king cobra, its upper body raised to strike, lined against the canvas wall of the tent. Multoon must have seen it, too, for he cursed and fired again. The cobra silhouette snapped forward like a whip. Multoon screamed even louder than Gupta and then dropped heavily to the ground, clutching his cheek, his florid face already growning black and swollen from the venomous bite.
Ghilardi remained on the cot, watching his would-be murderers die before his eyes. Still possessed of his eerie calm, he watched as the head of a cobra, its hood flared, rose at the foot of the cot. The deadly serpent swayed like a reed in a gentle breeze as it balanced itself on its tail, fixing Ghilardi with unblinking eyes. Then the outline of the cobra blurred and grew indistinct, to be replaced by the figure of a man.
Ghilardi recognized the shaved head, black robes and shiny black eyes immediately.
"Naga? What are you doing here?"
"I may have fallen from grace, but even a depraved addict would not sell his god for the price of a year's supply of
chandu.
After you left with the map I drew for you, I could no longer find paradise in the smoke. My pipe dreams were replaced by nightmares. Where once there was peace, all that remained was torment. I cannot rest until I have paid for my transgressions—just as Multoon has now paid for his."
"Naga—please—you must believe me, I had no idea what Multoon was up to."
"Indeed," Naga said, the greenish-gray scales covering his naked arms and upper torso glittering like armor. "
Your
motives, of course, were pure. All
you
were interested in was stealing a solitary item, not looting an entire temple and then wiping it off the face of the earth as if it was no more than an anthill. Tell me, thief, when you saw your good friend Multoon gouge the eyes from the Holy Monster, did you stay his hand, or did you merely stand and watch?" The priest opened his mouth, revealing a pair of short, sharp fangs, and, hissing like a fakir's basket, lunged at the prone Ghilardi.
The silver blade of the Demon Knife flashed like a meteor in the dim light, slicing through the serpent-priest's neck. Ghilardi flinched in disgust as a gout of blood, far darker and nowhere near warm enough to be that of a human, splashed across his face.
As he staggered to his feet, the calm that had kept his mind clear and his hand steady receded. His heart felt like a captive bird battering itself against the bars of its cage.
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) Ghilardi peeked out the hole Multoon's bullet had made in the tent and saw shadowy figures dressed in robes similar to Naga's, flitting in and out of the bearers' tents. Clearly the Black Shrine had another exit beside the one Gupta sealed. Naga's brothers were looking for something they had yet to find, their agitated hissing as loud as that of a steam engine sitting at the station.
Ghilardi tore open the back of the tent and fled headlong into the night, too frightened to think of anything but escape.
When Ghilardi awoke all he could see was white. After his eyes focused, he saw that he was staring at a whitewashed wall. He attempted to lift his head and look about, only to have a gentle yet firm hand place itself on his shoulder.
"Lie still, my son," said a man's voice. "You are safe here."
As Ghilardi relaxed and dropped back, he realized that the voice had spoken in German.
"Wo bin ich?"
he croaked.
"You are at the Lutheran Mission of the Lower Himalayas," replied his benefactor, a tall, raw-boned man with a salt-and-pepper beard and piercing blue eyes. "I am Brother Heinrich."
"How long have I been here?"
"You have been with us for over a week, my friend. One of the parishioners found you unconscious amongst the goats in his pasture and brought you to me."
"Did I—did I have a weapon on my person when he found me?"
Brother Heinrich lifted an eyebrow. "You mean the kriss? It took three strong men to pry it from your hand. "
"Where is it?"
"There will be time enough for that, later, friend. First you must rest—
"You don't understand!" Ghilardi said, his voice raised in agitation. "Where is it?"
The door to the sick room opened and a native hill-tribesman, a hand-carved cross dangling from a thong about his neck, stuck his head inside, a look of concern on his face.
"Brother? There is trouble?"
"No, Kakar, there is no trouble!" Brother Heinrich said reassuringly. "Could you be so kind as to bring me the kriss our friend was carrying?"
Kakar disappeared from the doorway, only to return carrying a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth. He glanced at the missionary before handing the package to Ghilardi. Brother Heinrich smiled and nodded, signaling to the hill-man that it was safe to do so. Ghilardi threw back the fold of oilcloth, sighing in relief at the sight of the silver blade.
"How is it you came to our valley, my friend?" Brother Heinrich asked. "Kakar and the others believed you were set upon by bandits. Is that true?"
"Yes," Ghilardi said, sliding into the lie as easily as bathwater. "The party I was traveling with was attacked by thieves. They slaughtered them to a man—I was the only one who managed to escape."
"Kakar said there was blood upon the kriss."
"Yes. I had to fight my way out." That, at least, was true.
"Most unfortunate, but praise be to Our Lord And Savior for delivering you from evil. I have heard tell of the cutthroats and brigands that haunt the passes. You were saved by the grace of God."
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)
"And a sharp knife," Ghilardi said flatly.
He slept with the Demon Knife under his pillow that night and every night after during his convalescence. When he boarded the ship that would take him back to the ordered world of bankers and clock-makers that he had left behind, the silver blade was close at hand.
As the steamer left the harbor, Ghilardi stood at the railing and wondered if he could ever truly escape the nightmare he had become a part of. Something told him that no matter how hard or long or far he might run, the horror of the divine would always be with him.
Cold Turkey
She had to give the dead boy credit; he had the trick of appearing human nailed down tight. He'd learned just what gestures and inflections to use in his conversation to hide the fact that his surface gloss and glitz wasn't there merely to disguise basic shallowness, but an utter lack of humanity.
She'd seen enough of the kind of humans he imitated: pallid, self-important intellectuals who prided themselves on their sophistication and knowledge of "hip" art, sharpening their wit at the expense of others. Like the vampiric mimic in their midst, they produced nothing but thrived on draining the vitality from others. The only difference was that the vampire was more honest about it.
Sonja worked her way to the bar, careful to keep herself shielded from the dead boy's view, both physically and psychically. It wouldn't do for her quarry to catch scent of her just yet. She could hear the vampire's nasal intonations as it held forth on the demerits of various artists.
"Frankly, I consider his use of photo-montage to be inexcusably
banal
—If I wanted to look at photographs, I'd go to Olan Mills!"