Of Masques and Martyrs Read Free Page A

vampires might be heading for Tarrytown, or Sleepy Hollow, which she thought might have suited Hannibal’s taste for the perverse. Less than a decade earlier, before running away to become a capricious and clever little goth girl on the streets of Atlanta, Erika had lived in Tarrytown. She wondered if her too-straight parents still lived there, still mourned her; and suddenly she was revolted by the thought that Hannibal might have tainted the peaceful little town.
    But no, the vampires flew on. What had once been an automobile manufacturing plant passed by below, and now Erika was insanely curious. This would have made an ideal headquarters.
    Where then? What better place could he have? . . .
    Then she saw it, in the distance, stark and cold against the trees, with the railroad tracks running alongside. A mountain of ugly gray stone and glittering silver wire, hard and silent. The Hudson River flowed past to the west, complement and counterpoint, showing the mountain what it could never have, could never be.
    Up the river . The phrase came unbidden to Erika’s mind. In gangster movies it meant being sent to prison. This prison.
    Sing-Sing.
    Of course, she thought, letting Rolf see into her mind, hear her words.
    The vampire bats dipped on the night air, gliding down toward the prison walls. Rolf swooped low to follow, but Erika held back a moment.
    What’s the plan, Rolf? she asked. How do you want to go in?
    She sensed his confusion, and realized that, so driven was he by his obsession, he had nearly forgotten she was there at all. It hurt. Erika knew that, fond of her as Rolf may be, he’d never really loved her. There had never been room in his heart for her. not with all the hatred there.
    We’re in this together, damn you, she thought, and directed her mind at him.
    I know , he finally replied. I’m sorry. Part of me wants to just fly right in and wait for Hannibal to come to us.
    Erika flew into the branches of a massive oak tree across the street from the prison, and Rolf circled to join her there a moment later.
    He might not come to us at all, she reasoned. They might just kill us .
    He’ll come, Rolf argued. But we’ll exercise a little caution. We’ll wait until morning to go in. Then all we’ll have to do is slaughter his human servants—
    It isn’t that simple, Erika thought.
    Yes , Rolf replied. Yes it is.
     
    At dawn they dropped from the oak tree and landed next to one another on the paved sidewalk of a nice suburban town called Ossining, New York. A nice prison town. They were themselves again, Rolf Sechs and Erika Hunter. Lovers. Shadows. Briefly, they embraced, then turned to walk toward the prison hand in hand, as if they were tourists.
    At the front gates of the prison, four men stood guard. It should have seemed odd to the townspeople, having four men in front of an empty prison. Erika figured over time they’d grown so used to seeing armed personnel there that it never occurred to anyone to question it. And Hannibal’s coven didn’t kill the people of Ossining. Or even nearby. That was a tenet of the old covens: you don’t hunt at home.
    Erika’s long, tattered jacket flapped behind her in the breeze off the Hudson. Rolf’s broad shoulders were straight as he marched determinedly toward the gate, toward the guards. Somewhere far away, a child screamed with pleasure, already awake with the risen sun.
    Every muscle tensed, Erika brought her hands up inside her jacket, reaching for the twin nine-millimeter semiauto pistols that Will Cody had given her as a gift for her birthday several months earlier. She felt the hardness of the pistol butts beneath her touch. Her lip curled in disdain as the guards suddenly noticed her and Rolf approaching. They snapped to attention, whispering between themselves like amateurs.
    Traitors to their own race; Erika hated them.
    No . Rolf’s stern voice entered her mind, and he tapped her on the shoulder.
    Erika looked at him and saw his eyes flicker