The Vampire of Rome

By Lincoln S. Farish

A prisoner in Vatican City, Brother Sebastian must endure an ordeal to prove he is still pure, re-qualify to demonstrate he still has the skills required of an Inquisitor, and then figure out where the Vampire Lord who is picking off Cardinals is hiding and Purge him. The hunt is on, but who is hunting whom?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lincoln S. Farish
• Release date: Oct 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370717798

Lincoln S. Farish

A story teller that wove the real with the fantastic since he was a child, Lincoln is an Army Reservist who has had the pleasure of visiting the Middle East five times so far. He currently resides in the Commonwealth of Virginia with his lovely wife, and little girl. When not doing obscure jobs for the Government or shadowy corporations he works at honing his craft and defeating the neighborhood ninjas.

Book preview

Prologue

Deep in his underground lair Rigir the Vampire Lord brooded. The cardinal had been a good meal, the note and ravaged body easy to find. Terror would stalk the halls of the Vatican. But it was not enough. The black imp had mocked him that his time was short. It paid for that affront. The waxy simulacrum was buried alive in a landfill. Unable to die, or return to hell, it decomposed and suffered.

I must kill them together, then I can master Rome. The imp told him he'd fail, then laughed. Undeterred, Rigir plotted, schemed, and moved pieces just so, until everything was ready, the trap almost sprung. And now he had to wait.

Elaine, his blood helot, returned to this plane. That made him sit up. He slipped into her eyes and watched. The Minotaur was ready, the channelers sacrificed to bring her here already turning to dust. Then came the pain.

Rigir reveled in it. Pain was something he'd not felt in centuries, hunger yes. Hatred always, but pain? It was almost a new sensation. Her flesh burned and he almost sighed in contentment. The Witch's Bane would kill her if she did not get out of Rome and fast.

Run little one, he whispered in her mind. Run fast and true." He watched through her eyes, as she fled. If she wasn't strong enough for this she'd never survive ascension. The flames snuffed out once she crossed the A90, and she never slowed.

Perhaps she is worthy, not that he'd ever tell her that. Rising from his chair, he ignored the bowing undead and as he wended his way to the coffin.

It may be time for another visit, he thought idly, while stroking the engraved crest. He flickered inside, to keep up appearances. It would be play time soon, and she did not need to know he already knew everything. He relaxed his body and continued to watch as she slipped into the graveyard, flitting past the partying students and arrived at the entrance mausoleum.

Elaine spoke a word of power, and an archway that hadn't existed before glimmered into view. With one last look around, she went through, and into the mausoleum. The archway folded back onto itself and returned to brick.

Rough stone stairs traveled down into the blackness. She whispered another word of power, and bronze lamps, forged by the insane smiths of the doomed city of Xilichbe, wailed in pain as they flared to life. Elaine paid no attention to the tormented ones as she walked down the stairs, until she came into a triangular room. There was a shiny new coffin in the center, a large throne like chair and table on one side, and a few undead standing around.

The undead, after a moment's notice, moaned and started for her. She held up a hand ringed with the glow of purple-black and commanded them back. The undead wavered then shuffled off to stare at the walls. She tilted her head slightly at a thick shadow flitting about in a corner. It glared back in response.

Rigir, she called out, I have returned.

The coffin banged opened, there was a rush of a solid-seeming wind, and then he was sitting at the desk, in a relaxed pose despite being dead for 550 years. The undead knelt as one, heads sunk down to their chests, awaiting their next command. Looking over his lair with his one eye, as though ensuring all was as it was supposed to be, he gave off a small nod. Rigir wrapped the long spindly fingers of one hand around his protuberant chin, keeping the halves of his jaw together. Dark fluid wept from the juncture where his split jaw met his neck and dribbled onto his shirt.

He smiled, showing just a hint of red-stained teeth. It is a pleasure to see you again, Elaine. Tell me, how was your journey?

I have brought him here, as you commanded.

His gaze bored into hers, and she flinched at the intensity. It did not all go to plan?

No, Master. Bertrand fell, and the rest of the coven were wiped out. They were of no concern, pawns were meant to be sacrificed.

You didn't flee until it was necessary, did you?

No, Master. I waited until Bertrand and the roaches died, and made sure they saw me escape through the portal. I left the Minotaur behind, and came here. I felt its death cry five minutes later. There is no way he can know we wanted him here.

Good, he replied. Elaine did not know all, nor did she need to. His fingers on his free hand did a slow drum on the desk as he pondered the report. The witch remained motionless awaiting what would be next. He stretched out the silence enjoying her discomfort.

But why so troubled? Your safety was assured, he asked once he grew tired of her torment.

I know, Master, it was just a bit closer than I expected, and Mal— I mean, the one you have chosen did not come alone. He has an apprentice.

Rigir waved his free hand nonchalantly, disguising his thrill of a well-placed trap springing closed. The boy is nothing. In five years, maybe, but for now he's just an ignorant, deluded little man.

He is skilled, Master, and when I entered his mind—he's protected.

Rigir gave off a cackling laugh. One of God's creatures can do nothing on this plane. I have met so-called protected ones before, and they did not survive.

Yes, Master. There was another long contemplative pause as Rigir stared at the wall considering plans and options. He finally dragged his eye over to Elaine, and stared at her as a predator eyeing prey. It was fun, and as it should be, for the strong to torment the weak. She shivered again, wondering if she was about to be consumed. She would be tasty, but might be a better subordinate. He relaxed his gaze and asked, You are wounded. How did that happen?

The city, it was like it hated me. It burned. I ran as fast as I could, but the pain. . .

Ah, I see, he said leaning back in the chair. The Bane of the Magi. Yes, I should have warned you about that. He never had any intention of doing such, but was seeing if she was strong enough and still servile.

It is no matter, Master, Elaine said giving the correct response. As I crossed over, my strength returned. A few conies, and I will be whole.

Rigir, gave off a nod and with a slow flip of his free hand said, You have my leave to hunt. No, witnesses or bodies.

And the ascension?

You are weak, he scoffed. You would not survive. You know it will cost you an eye, and then there's this— Rigir let go of his chin, and the lower jaw unfolded.

The two halves spread wide, ready to strike. Arrowhead-shaped fangs, long and sharp, emerged horizontally from either half. When the fangs closed on a neck, they would line up with the carotid arteries and tear them open in a spray of blood. Rigir's tongue, unsupported by the open jaw, hung down his neck and twitched in anticipation of a meal. Spittle dripped from the fangs in slow, fat drops.

Elaine shivered, both in fear and longing. I understand, Master. It's a small price to pay. I am ready when you are.

Slowly, to emphasize his point, Rigir brought his jaw back together, and kept it closed with his hand. He stared at Elaine for a long moment. She was determined, and had provided loyal service. She would be no threat to him if she did arise.

I have sired few children, and none of the women survived. It can be done—I have seen the results—but I cannot guarantee you will transform. If you are weak – if you do not ascend- he paused waiting as she shivered. I will put you down myself.

Staring back at him rapturously, Elaine said, Yes, Master. I am prepared.

No, he said harshly, chopping the air with one hand. What pain she experienced so far was a pale shadow of what would come. You are not. Hunt. Replenish your strength. When you are whole, we will discuss it again and then we shall see. He'd already decided to allow her the chance at immortality, but now was not the time to tell her that.

Thank you, Master.

Chapter 1

Waking up on the scratchy, bare concrete floor of an underground cell beneath the Vatican in a puddle of my own saliva wasn't the worst thing that had happened to me that day. Father Guillermo was the nicest torturer one could ever imagine. His overly large basset-hound eyes proclaimed his concern and sadness at what had to be done. Father Guillermo had a deep, rumbly bass voice, like an Italian version of James Earl Jones, and it swaddled me in comfort and concern. I almost felt like apologizing to him for even being there.

It was a long, slow ascent to wakefulness. My closed eyes burned from the light, but I slowly dragged them open to squint blearily at the rough, grayish floor in front of my face. I had to close them again before I went blind—the light jabbed into my eyes like icepicks.

Movement was another battle of will, won in small skirmishes. First, I closed my mouth, pulling in the dry stick I called my tongue. I slid my head along the floor and out of the puddle. Eventually, after what seemed like hours of effort, I elbowed myself up enough to sit.

I looked around, my brain just taking it in, refusing to think, to remind me of where I was and what had happened. I tried to cudgel my brain into giving up its secrets, but it was down for the moment. My movements were slow and poorly coordinated, thinking was the mental equivalent of running in waist deep peanut-butter. And yet I was calm. I knew some, a lot of things were wrong, but I was sheathed in a floaty apathy of unconcern. Good drugs I thought as a slow smile stretched my face. And then it hit me. Drugs. That's what's going on, I've been drugged. My eyes skittered around trying to understand where I was, what was going on, trying to remember how I got here, but there was nothing. The gentle tug of soporifics tried to lull me into quiet acquiescence, but I was determined to figure out –something. Already I was feeling weak, and a nap seemed like a good idea.

Focus, I told myself, or they win. I wasn't sure who they were, but I knew they were out there. With some effort I brought my hands up to my face, trying to remember what I looked like, and failing. My hair was cut short and the thought reminded me of when I wanted a mohawk back in – school somewhere.

Bet I look good in a mohawk, I told myself, and my voice sounded weird, flat, and toneless.

They stole my voice box I thought as I ran my hand over my neck sure I'd find a scar, but only finding stubble. Looking at my hands, I could see they were a mess.

Small cuts abounded and one nail was partly ripped away. I was wearing a ring, black onyx etched with little gold crosses; Spinning it around my finger, I couldn't figure out why I was wearing it. My arms also had cuts and bruises on them. I ran my hands over my chest, finding some sore spots, and then my stomach. No wetness or bandages. My crotch seemed fine, but my bladder was threatening mutiny.

Gimme a sec, I told it as I continued my survey, but finding no injection marks or needle tracks. It also felt like they hadn't taken my kidneys. Yet.

Survey complete, I looked about the room. In one corner was a metal toilet—no seat, of course. My bladder twitched again reminding me that it was working fine. Next to the toilet was a metal sink, with a single faucet. Then it was just blank wall, painted a depressing industrial color, somewhere between white and gray.

The door was big, appeared thick, and old, and old fashioned with painted-over rivets and cross pieces to add strength. There were two slots, both closed. The top one was eye level.

So they can watch me I realized. I wasn't paranoid, I was a prisoner. I counted down the rivets and metal bands until I got to the floor, because knowing those numbers seemed important. There was another slot at the base, and in front of it were two trays of food. My stomach rumbled, and my mouth watered. I was beyond hungry. Still not ready to stand up but ravenous for food, I crawled over. The trays were made out of cardboard, and there were finely chopped veggies in one and slices of apple and sections of oranges in the other. There was no flatware, not even a plastic spork. Nor was there a napkin, and I didn't care. I used one hand and dug in.

I dislike eating with a full bladder, but what they'd given me was some of the best food I'd ever eaten in my life. Strength flowed into my limbs with each bite. With the tray on my lap, I cleaned one then the other. I tilted the tray to drink the juices then licked them. It was a start, but I wanted, I needed, more.

I looked around for more food, convinced there was more, but hidden. In the middle of the floor was a brass cover for a drain. The floor appeared to slope slightly down to the drain, for easy cleanup. A bump of concrete made a crude bed. Feeling stronger, I decided to try to stand. I had to brace myself against the door, and, as my bladder refused to be ignored any longer, slowly inched over to the toilet, leaning heavily on the wall for support. When I was finished, I washed my hands then drank greedily from the faucet. The water was cold enough that it made my teeth ache but I kept at it until my thirst abated.

The bed beckoned me, and I staggered the two steps between us before nearly falling into it. I managed to wriggle onto my back and found myself staring up into the reflecting fish eye of a camera set just above the door.

They're watching, they want your kidneys, stay awake.

Despite knowing I'd soon be gutted, my organs sold on the black market, I was ready for sleep.

Chapter 2

I'd barely closed my eyes when I heard the sound of the door opening. Someone stood in the doorway. Instinct took over, and I swung my legs off the bed and partly turned to make myself a smaller target and to be able launch myself forward, if needed. My hands quivered, a couple of knuckles popping, as I clenched them into fists, ready to hurt.

The man raised one hand, palm facing me. Peace, Brother, we are here to help you. Deep and resonant, his voice was soothing.

I relaxed just a little. I was still concerned about the kidney taking, but now that seemed silly. They want something even worse. And you are? I asked as my eyes darted sizing up potential ways to attack if needed.

He dropped his hand and gave me a faint bow. I am Father Guillermo, assistant to Cardinal Eugene, head of the Order of the Poor Brothers of Gethsemane.

I recognized the name. Cardinal Eugene had taken over when I was in Arizona doing training with. . . The memory faded away. The name of the order I recognized as well—it was our public name, but we were actually Inquisitors charged with hunting down witches, their minions, and other evil in the world. Again, the memory stopped. I shook my head, and furrowed my brow, trying to physically force the memories to the surface. Trying to remember, but it was of no use. Something wasn't right.

Maybe it's the drugs.

How are you feeling? he asked, the words slow and comforting.

I'm very tired and confused, I answered honestly. They were watching me and probably already knew. What did you give me, I can't remember how I got here. Or. . . well, anything. What happened? What's going on?

I wouldn't say I was hysterical, more very concerned. He waited a beat to make sure I was done, and then asked, Do you remember your name?

I shook my head angry and embarrassed at not knowing something so simple.

Your name is Sebastian.

Sebastian, I repeated. It felt right, calming. Like the phone number from my childhood home. Something I'd known for a long time, and just now remembered. I nodded acceptance.

Thanks.

Does that help? Do you remember anything else?

Not really. I've got bits and pieces that make no sense.

Your memory is a mess, you're probably a bit paranoid, he said calmly.

I'm not paranoid, I lied. I just don't know what's going on.

He breathed in deeply through his nose and let out a sigh. I could feel the sadness coming from him across the room. It is to be expected, I'm afraid. You used magic, it's tainted you. We must find what part of you is corrupted and remove it.

I started to automatically reply, There's no such thing as magic, but stopped because I knew that magic did exist. Witches used magic, and it turned them into monsters. That's why we hunted them, why we killed them, to protect innocents. The thought burned itself out.

Oh, ummm. . . so what happens next? The kidney thing still seemed possible. I'd not go down without a fight.

That is up to you. Do you renounce Satan and his minions? Do you want to fight the darkness? Do you wish to purge the world of evil?

I'd been asked these questions before. A long time ago when I was in an asylum. . . The memory squirmed away.

I answered as I'd answered then. Yes. Part of me was worried I'd been snatched up by a cult, and it was join or sacrifice your kidneys time.

Good. You are going to have to endure an ordeal of purification. It will take about a day, and it will be messy, painful, and humiliating, but very necessary. For that, I am sorry, but I will guide you through the process, and will be with you every step of the way. Do you agree? Will you do what is necessary to once again be righteous?

Yes, I replied, afraid to say anything else.

Good. First, we pray.

He walked in, and behind him were almost a dozen others. Right after him were two extremely large men; one held a shotgun pointed right at me, and the other had a series of tanks strapped to his back. I recognized it as a Holy Water Thrower, but couldn't remember where I'd seen it before. They moved to separate corners, weapons pointed unwaveringly at me. Their faces were fixed masks of resolve, and it came to me that they would put me down without a thought.

Next in was a short man who held a small incense brazier, already lit. Little puffs of smoke came out with each move he made. Others were still in the hall, but they remained outside.

Kneel, Brother, and let us begin the Act of Consecration to the Holy Spirit. I moved slowly because of the guards and my exhaustion. I did as he commanded and, without knowing how I knew the words, said the prayer.

As I finished, Father Guillermo went through the ritual of exorcism, in Latin and from memory. The ritual isn't short, and my knees were screaming when he finally placed the stole on me. By the time he was done, my legs had gone numb and I was swaying, trying to stay upright.

He smiled and gave me a hand up. I had to hang onto him as the nerve endings of my legs cried out.

He waited patiently as I got steadier. I'll need you to disrobe. Take off everything. You will be getting a shower.

I'd never really been overly body modest, but to strip in front of people who were staring at me like a lab experiment gone wrong was dehumanizing. I blushed as I took off my clothes bit by bit. A man in scrubs entered the room and had me turn as needed so he could examine me without getting into the guards' line of fire. When my back was to him, he had me bend over then scuttled back with a clear.

Father Guillermo instructed me to stand back up and turn around. He was holding a bar of soap and a towel.

Time to get clean, Brother, he said, and I was hosed down.

The shower turned out to be a soaking from the Holy Water Thrower. The water was so cold, it should've been ice.

I used the soap, which smelled like flowers, to lather up and was rinsed off. Water swirled down the drain in gulps, like a giant sucking through a straw.

When that was done, I snatched the towel offered by Father Guillermo and dried off and dressed as quickly as I could.

Despite my near hypothermic experience, I felt better. Stronger. My mind less fuzzy.

I was escorted out of the room and into one set up as a surgical theater. A short, dark man in surgical scrubs waited there for me. The bed behind him, held an amazing number of straps and restraints.

This is Father Timothy, a doctor who'll be assisting in the rest of the purification, said Father Guillermo, who stayed close to me but just out of easy reach.

Please, said Father Timothy, get on the bed and get comfortable. My eyes darted around, but there seemed to be no way to escape. Yet. Almost as though they could read my mind, everyone tensed. Even Father Timothy who was maybe five and a half feet tall, and 125 pounds seemed ready to throw down. I held up my hands in surrender and lay down on the table. Once I was strapped in like a mental patient, everyone seemed to relax, but only a little.

I was hooked up to a variety of machines. Some I recognized—like the heart monitor—but others seemed primitive and dangerous. One looked just like a mechanical gargoyle built in the Victorian era, all brass and black metal. The round glass eyes seemed to watch me, waiting for the command to attack.

It took three tries to find a vein for the IV, which I bore as stoically as I could. They waited for a minute then Father Timothy rolled over the gargoyle. He pulled on the head, and the neck elongated, the head arching over me, mouth opening, ready to bite into my chest.

Be ready, Brother. This will hurt, said Father Guillermo in soothing tones.

Father Timothy turned and opened a door in the gargoyle's chest, pulling out long, sharp stainless steel needles with trailing copper wires feeding back into the cavity. Next came the bayoneting. One went into each bicep, one into each quadriceps, and one into my abdomen. They weren't just stabbed in, but fed lengthwise through muscle.

I yelped and cringed with each piercing, trying to remain calm and failing. Not too bad, I panted, lying to everyone when the last needle was in place.

That was not the painful part, I'm afraid, said Father Guillermo, but I will be here with you for all of it. His tone was reassuring, but the words were not.

What—?

Father Timothy moved around the back of the machine. There