Read Online Of Masques and Martyrs by Christopher Golden - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Golden
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had. But, of course, this one couldn’t be. . .
“It was a gift,” George said admiringly, and Nikki turned to him again. “It’s one of my favorites as well.”
“A gift?” she asked.
“Certainly,” the old man replied. “The Greek still paints, you know. Well, I’m sure you didn’t know, actually. But he does.”
“Oh, my God,” Nikki said and put a hand to her forehead. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“You should rest now, anyway,” George said and went to the door. “I’m not being a very responsible doctor, am I? Try to sleep, and I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Nikki glanced around the room again. At the paintings. At the bed. Finally, at the flowers.
“George,” she said, just as he was about to turn away.
“Yes, Nikki?”
“It was . . . very kind of Peter,” she said. “To bring me here. To let me stay here.”
The doctor beamed with pleasure and relief.
“I’ll tell him you said so,” he replied, and then he was gone.
And Nikki was alone in a house full of monsters. Monsters who loved art and flowers and music, who were gentle and kind, and who killed without hesitation when necessary.
Nikki tried to go back to sleep, but she couldn’t push the image of Peter’s eyes from her mind. His eyes, and the eyes of the grieving mother in the extraordinary painting on the wall. And she realized, just as she finally drifted off, that despite the smile and the joy she saw in his eyes, there was a horrible sorrow there as well. Like the mother in the painting, he had seen too much.
She dreamed of him. And in her dream, she comforted him.
3
I had a dream last night. . . .
The whole world was standing still,
and the moon was turning red.
—THE NEVILLE BROTHERS, “Fire and Brimstone”
IN HIS DREAM, THE YEAR IS 1199 AND KUROmaku is a samurai in the service of the shogun Yoritomo. But the dream does not progress along the same path as reality. That was the year the shogun died, and the year Kuromaku gave up his blood to the shadows, became a vampire, to take vengeance upon Yoritomo’s killers: the shogun’s own sons.
In his dream, Kuromaku is killing Yoritomo himself. Stealing through the darkness into his home and tearing the black-robed man’s throat out with his teeth and drinking down the life-blood of the most powerful man in Japan. When he wakes, Kuromaku will know that the false dream reflects eight-hundred-year-old guilt for not protecting the shogun. In truth, after the shogun’s murder, he went rogue, became a ronin, and an immortal as well. He savaged the shogun’s duplicitous sons and turned the shogunate over to Yoritomo’s father-in-law.
In his dream, he is in Japan. In reality, he has not returned to his native land since leaving eight centuries earlier. As a ronin, he wandered the nations of the world, serving no one master but fighting and killing in honorable wars, and for righteous causes, down through the years.
Without preamble, the dream changes. This is closer to memory. Not a nightmare, but a fond remembrance of his subconscious mind.
It is January 1820, and Kuromaku finds himself marching on Madrid with the revolutionary forces of Colonel Rafael Riego. The colonel is familiar with the shadow race and has more than a dozen shadow warriors serving alongside his men. The Spanish king, Ferdinand, has abandoned the constitution. Riego’s troops force Ferdinand to yield; they keep him in their control, almost a prisoner, for more than three years.
Side by side with Kuromaku in this triumphant strike against tyranny is the finest warrior he has ever seen. Octavian is his name, and he is fierce and swift, with flashing sword and regal bearing. A finer, more loyal friend and ally Kuromaku has never known. Together, they bathe in the blood of the oppressors, the moon turning red above them with the spray. Cannon fire fills the air, pounds their ears. When the battle is over, Octavian makes a gift of his sword to
“It was a gift,” George said admiringly, and Nikki turned to him again. “It’s one of my favorites as well.”
“A gift?” she asked.
“Certainly,” the old man replied. “The Greek still paints, you know. Well, I’m sure you didn’t know, actually. But he does.”
“Oh, my God,” Nikki said and put a hand to her forehead. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“You should rest now, anyway,” George said and went to the door. “I’m not being a very responsible doctor, am I? Try to sleep, and I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Nikki glanced around the room again. At the paintings. At the bed. Finally, at the flowers.
“George,” she said, just as he was about to turn away.
“Yes, Nikki?”
“It was . . . very kind of Peter,” she said. “To bring me here. To let me stay here.”
The doctor beamed with pleasure and relief.
“I’ll tell him you said so,” he replied, and then he was gone.
And Nikki was alone in a house full of monsters. Monsters who loved art and flowers and music, who were gentle and kind, and who killed without hesitation when necessary.
Nikki tried to go back to sleep, but she couldn’t push the image of Peter’s eyes from her mind. His eyes, and the eyes of the grieving mother in the extraordinary painting on the wall. And she realized, just as she finally drifted off, that despite the smile and the joy she saw in his eyes, there was a horrible sorrow there as well. Like the mother in the painting, he had seen too much.
She dreamed of him. And in her dream, she comforted him.
3
I had a dream last night. . . .
The whole world was standing still,
and the moon was turning red.
—THE NEVILLE BROTHERS, “Fire and Brimstone”
IN HIS DREAM, THE YEAR IS 1199 AND KUROmaku is a samurai in the service of the shogun Yoritomo. But the dream does not progress along the same path as reality. That was the year the shogun died, and the year Kuromaku gave up his blood to the shadows, became a vampire, to take vengeance upon Yoritomo’s killers: the shogun’s own sons.
In his dream, Kuromaku is killing Yoritomo himself. Stealing through the darkness into his home and tearing the black-robed man’s throat out with his teeth and drinking down the life-blood of the most powerful man in Japan. When he wakes, Kuromaku will know that the false dream reflects eight-hundred-year-old guilt for not protecting the shogun. In truth, after the shogun’s murder, he went rogue, became a ronin, and an immortal as well. He savaged the shogun’s duplicitous sons and turned the shogunate over to Yoritomo’s father-in-law.
In his dream, he is in Japan. In reality, he has not returned to his native land since leaving eight centuries earlier. As a ronin, he wandered the nations of the world, serving no one master but fighting and killing in honorable wars, and for righteous causes, down through the years.
Without preamble, the dream changes. This is closer to memory. Not a nightmare, but a fond remembrance of his subconscious mind.
It is January 1820, and Kuromaku finds himself marching on Madrid with the revolutionary forces of Colonel Rafael Riego. The colonel is familiar with the shadow race and has more than a dozen shadow warriors serving alongside his men. The Spanish king, Ferdinand, has abandoned the constitution. Riego’s troops force Ferdinand to yield; they keep him in their control, almost a prisoner, for more than three years.
Side by side with Kuromaku in this triumphant strike against tyranny is the finest warrior he has ever seen. Octavian is his name, and he is fierce and swift, with flashing sword and regal bearing. A finer, more loyal friend and ally Kuromaku has never known. Together, they bathe in the blood of the oppressors, the moon turning red above them with the spray. Cannon fire fills the air, pounds their ears. When the battle is over, Octavian makes a gift of his sword to
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