Sand Storm, page 15
part #11 of Wildcat Wizard Series Series
Instead of having a map in my head, I had something more akin to an inkling of a feeling of a suggestion of them maybe being somewhere nearby as I scoured the city by foot, not risking transport for fear of ending up gridlocked or going in completely the wrong direction.
I wandered, had to stop repeatedly to fine-tune my senses; frustration grew as I got no closer to putting an end to this. Several times I thought I had him, or was close, only to find I was wrong, had picked up on nefarious magic or wards guarding other artifacts I currently had no interest in but at other times would have been itching to take for myself.
On and on it went throughout the day. The heat of the city was stifling and claustrophobic. Countless thousands of people rammed into the city made it unbearable, yet bear it I did, along with the rest of them. My sweat-stained clothes that stuck to ravaged flesh were covered in dust and grime, and it became increasingly difficult to breathe as I moved through heavily congested traffic that blocked the roads at every turn.
By late afternoon I was dashing about like the demented Englishmen I surely was, causing quite a stir as locals watched me hurry this way and that, repeatedly passing them as they sat in the shade watching the world go by or languidly got about their own business, still amazed I was out in heat they knew you should never rush through.
I was going round and a round in circles, no closer to catching him. What was I thinking? Why had I stopped yesterday? I should have kept going until I couldn't move another step. Haha, that's exactly what I had done, and that hadn't worked. No, I'd made the right call, and I would catch him. He would not escape me, he couldn't, it didn't bear thinking about.
And so it continued. Me getting closer, narrowing down the search as he kept on the move, still not risking holing up somewhere. Maybe he'd rested during the night same as me. Maybe he could sense if I was close, he was certainly powerful enough if he was focused, so he would be rested of a sorts and able to carry this on until I gave up or he succumbed to true madness, which he would eventually.
Then, just like that, even though the day had been never-ending and had sapped what little energy I'd regained, darkness fell like a hammer on the city and once more everything changed.
Criminals emerged from their lairs. Pickpockets, chancers, gangs, lone assassins, the desperate, the needy, the homeless, all of them woke as the sun set. But that wasn't the whole story. Along with the troublesome came the hard workers, those looking for cheap food, and company. People who had worked hard all day and wanted to enjoy the cool evening of the city. It became vibrant in a different way, but there was an edge to the atmosphere in the places I moved through, and I kept wondering why he had chosen the rougher side of town rather than somewhere more suited to his needs and preferences.
It was obvious he liked his comforts even though he'd lived in the desert. He had a nice home with plenty of convenience, this was the last place you'd expect to find him. Maybe he thought it would throw me off, maybe he liked it, maybe he knew it better, or maybe he figured he could hide easier. I assumed the latter. Of course, he was right. It may have been dangerous to some, but it was one hell of a place to hide.
I searched, I got no closer. He was good, and he was bloody annoying.
"That's it," I said as I stopped in my tracks. "If you want to play hard to get then it's time I upped my game."
With a dramatic swish of my jacket, which didn't quite work as it wasn't long enough or swishy enough, I spun on my heels and went to pay a group of "people" a visit much as I was loathe to do so. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and boy was I desperate.
Drama Much?
Africa as a whole, maybe Ethiopia in particular, is a place of vast contradictions. Modern yet steeped in history, forthright yet shy, striving to become first world, yet unable to pull away from third world poverty. Rich yet incredibly poor, Christian yet entrenched in much more ancient religions, traditional and yet many people strove to pull away from the old ways and become part of the new. And definitely brimming with magic.
People here believe. Not just willing to consider the presence of magic, they embrace it, accept it, know it exists. From witch doctors who ran the villages, wise elders, witches, and spell casters, the history of magic use here goes back to the beginning. Everyone knows it is a real thing, everyone understands there are those who can contact the dead, that spirits and ghosts, demons and angels, are real entities, that other dimensions exist, and there are things we cannot see let alone understand. It is accepted as part of being human, that there is more to the world than we could possibly know, and everyone in their right mind is scared of such things.
Which is why cemeteries here are such strange places. The dead are venerated, sometimes even worshiped, and graves are either well-tended with flowers and beads, trinkets and candles lit regularly, or nobody goes near them for fear of having their souls taken.
At my wits' end, I had come to visit one such cemetery, a place full of spirits and the dead refusing to rest. Haunted, and overflowing with magic because people believed and thus their belief was manifest.
This was no modern cemetery, no traditional resting place as we in the west think of one. The sacred ground was old, older than the city as it now stood, older than many countries. This was a place where the land was so ancient, the bodies buried so long ago, that they were laid to rest on top of each other. Graves dug on the old ones covered by sand over the centuries until the original inhabitants were so deep they couldn't claw their way out no matter how much their ancestors wished them to be re-animated.
There was also the ongoing problem of disinterment, which was why so many graves were deeper than usual and why so many people buried their relatives not in ordinary plots but in small rooms with locked metal doors or had the entrance bricked up entirely. Those who embraced the dark arts of re-animation loved nothing more than an unattended grave of the recently deceased to practice their craft on. It wasn't as much of a problem as in the old days, but it still happened on occasion. What was more likely these days was for the spirit to be contacted by distraught relatives, often coming to the place of their burial.
The tombs, the mausoleums, and the stone coffins with slabs of rock for lids were so old and weather-worn many looked like they had been carved from single pieces of rock, the joins and the inscriptions long gone, filled by sand compressed through the ages until it was hard to tell what was a natural rock and what was man-made. Built in an unusual spot on the outskirts of the city, the whole area was stepped with large rocky outcrops perfect for sitting and surveying the strange place.
I sat on one such large flat expanse at the top of a series of winding steps carved directly into the rock and dangled my feet over the edge thirty feet above the ground.
In many ways it was a beautiful sight, the worn stones, the headstones, the many and varied mausoleums that housed the dead and the not-so-dead. Plastic flowers caught the light from candles and the more modern lights strung along wires laced haphazardly throughout the whole area. It was peaceful after the chaos of the city but not as silent as you would imagine, especially for a wizard attuned to the cries of the tormented. Those who either refused to accept their fate or who preferred to hang around their final resting place, unwilling or unable to pass on for one reason or another. The people buried here had believed in the spirit world, so were more capable of resisting the lure of the afterlife and embracing the next stage.
They understood it and thus could choose more readily what their fate would be. It was never a good choice. Once you're dead you should move on, but they made the decision so had to endure the consequences.
I shut my ears to their cries, their moans, their wailing, their lamenting, and steeled myself for what I was about to do.
Was it a good idea? No, probably not. Did I have any other ones? Absolutely not.
With a sigh, I got to my feet and went to call on some old acquaintances. They were still here, I knew that. What better place than this for those who didn't fear death like mere mortals? Plus, there was always somewhere suitably spooky to rest during the day, and they did enjoy the drama.
Second Thoughts
"What am I doing?" I muttered as I stood outside the crumbling mausoleum with my hand raised to the rusty iron gates.
I shook my head to dispel the doubts; I'd already changed my mind a handful of times and now wasn't the time to change it again. Did I have a choice? Of course. Did I have a better plan? No. Would this work? Probably not. Was there a chance it would? Yes. Should I go get a coffee first? Undoubtedly.
Without further ado, I turned the handle on the utterly oversized and ridiculously spooky gate and pushed inward. It opened with a blood-curdling creak that rose in pitch as the hinges swung the heavy gate inward. They actually worked on the hinges to make them like this, all part of the drama.
Inside was pitch black, no light entered from outside, as if too afraid of what it might find, and I didn't blame it. The entrance had no locks for one simple reason. Nobody would dare disturb the occupants unless they had an excellent reason, because if they didn't, it would be the last thing they ever did.
The door banged open against the stone wall and a dull thud echoed around the chamber before it was sucked up by the vastness. The air was cool in here, and the thick stone walls kept the temperature relatively constant, just how the occupants liked it. I'm not afraid to admit that I was close to freaking out a little, even though such dramatics weren't anything new. But it wasn't the spooky effects or the place itself that bothered me, it was what was inside, or more correctly, who was inside.
There are vampires, and there are Vampires. There are those back home and those who are things apart, of a very different breed. Sure, we get the spooky ones in the UK too, all countries have them. Those who live as close to the old ways as possible, who embrace what they are and have no interest in blending in with society, hiding in plain sight. Who grow their nails long, their hair likewise, and remain aloof and apart from citizens, mixing only with their own. But even those types are modern in many ways, liked comfort and money, dress normally when out and about, venture into the world of man and appear mostly normal, if a little odd.
And then there are true vampires, old skool to the max, who are nothing like the humans they once were. Vampires in every regard, utterly unlike any you are likely to meet. Why? Because chances are very high that if you ever meet one of these guys it would be curtains for you.
These were traditionalists in every regard. Had no interest in money, houses, cars, jewelry, kitchen gadgets, even a nice coffee machine. Never wore modern clothes, never cared what others thought, and never, ever mixed with humans. They thought of us as little but food, fodder for their powers, and so far beneath them we were hardly even thought about. To them we were animals that occupied the same planet but little more. We were there for them, to feed them, and what we got up to, human politics, the rat race, the jobs, the striving to make things better, any of it, they simply did not care one iota. We were an infestation, and they paid us absolutely no mind.
And I'd come to ask them a favor.
I stepped inside. The gate clanged shut behind me.
Waking the Beasties
It seemed like a good idea to have light, so I pulled a sleepy Wand out and shook him to life. He wasn't happy about it, grumbled semi-coherently about him being magical wood from the land of the fae, not a bloody torch, and blah, blah, blah, but he brightened the room with a cool orange glow that cast deep shadows and did nothing to improve the ambience. I'm sure he did it on purpose. If he wanted, he could have lit it up like daytime, but I wasn't about to get into an argument in the middle of a vampire den about light quality. Plus, they might have objected if it was too bright. They did like to keep it dark in these here parts.
I moved slowly, trying my best not to appear threatening, which wasn't difficult. I was in a single large space with flagstone floors and stone walls, stone roof, and stone sarcophagi. Large ones, with lids no human could hope to move, made from single slices of thick rock in daily use for centuries if not millennia. But they no longer housed the original occupants, they'd been evicted long ago. Now they had new owners, and they weren't dead, not really, although maybe a bit. It's always hard to tell with vampires just what the deal is and if they're even alive in the traditional sense at all.
Whatever, they were here, they were resting, but soon they would awake and I didn't want to make our first meeting in decades begin on the wrong foot.
As true night fell, so they began to slowly stir. Old vampires go into a deep rest akin to hibernation, slow down until they are almost dead. They take a while to come out of their slumber, for their bodies to get up to speed, and the ones I was visiting were mostly very old, with a few newcomers thrown in to keep things interesting and the gang with sufficient numbers. But there was a hierarchy, and the younger ones, those turned in the last century or so, the babes, knew better than to get out of their beds before the old dudes. It was just good manners.
Noise filled the musty room. Raspy breathing, clawing at stone, that kind of thing. Either they knew they had company, or they were amusing themselves and gearing up for a night of fun.
I moved to the middle of the room, stepped cautiously around the large coffins until I was standing next to the largest, simplest, and oldest of them all. The massive lid shifted, grinding stone against stone, and I took several steps back to allow the sleepy vampire some space to move.
The lid slid sideways until half the interior was exposed and a black, clawed hand gripped tight to the side. A torso slowly sat upright, naked, well-muscled, skin smooth yet covered in dust sticking to streaks of dried blood and who knew what else. He was filthy, made me seem like Mr. Fresh and Sparkly, but this was their way. They reveled in their base nature, got all kinds of crazed when they fed, and loved the scent of their victims on their skin.
The vampire's head turned to face me, a handsome face in many ways, but the eyes stopped him being attractive. They were cold, and pale, and icy blue. He looked at me like I was dirt under his feet, of no importance and less interest. The look of a predator. Wand's orange glow bounced off his bald head, reminding me of a bowling ball. I held my mirth at bay; he probably wouldn't see the funny side if I mentioned it.
"Arthur," he hissed, the single word conveying so much about him. That he was truly African, but had traveled and knew many languages, that he found me tiresome, that he thought nothing of me, and that he was my superior.
"Otangu," I acknowledged with a nod of the head.
"You have returned."
"Looks that way. Not for long, hopefully." I offered my hand and he took it with a slight incline of his head, as if it was expected and I should be pleased to serve him. He gripped firmly, but not unkindly so, and I helped him out of his bed.
Otangu stretched his arms overhead and yawned; his teeth snicked down as he did so. "Hungry," he said, as he turned to stare at me with a wide smile.
"Yeah, I bet. Have you grown? You look like you have."
"Haha, always the funny man. No, merely still taller than you puny humans."
Otangu, like the others in his intimate tribe, was tall by any standards. Seven feet at least, but in proportion, and quite buff with it. His diet obviously agreed with him. If his gang ever decided to take up basketball they'd be winners for sure.
"So, what's new?" I asked as other lids were scraped aside and his posse emerged. In the blink of an eye, I was surrounded by giant, dark-skinned vampires eyeing me greedily, craning forward on strong necks to sniff me and lick their lips. I really wished I was at home snuggling up to Penelope, that would have been much nicer times a billion.
"We feed, we play, we revel in the gift we have been bestowed. We are the true ones, we flourish. Our numbers grow and the humans run in fear. Life is good, Arthur Salzman, same as always." Otangu put an arm around a naked female vampire with huge pendulous breasts and fondled her gently. She purred at his touch, her head flung back, then when he stopped she turned on me and hissed.
I jumped. They laughed. Vampires and their games, never ceases to be hysterical.
"You busy?" I asked, not wanting to push things but wanting to get going on what I had planned.
"I would rather do anything than help you, Arthur, but if I must," he said with a sigh, knowing as well as I did that he had no choice. It still meant I had to tread carefully, he wasn't to be trusted, but he was in my debt and that debt had to be paid if I asked.
"Hey, no pressure," I said, holding my hands out. "It's up to you. I have a favor to ask, is all. If you don't want to do it then fine. Just thought I'd ask." This was all part of the game, to make it seem like I wasn't bothered, that I didn't have a hold over him, so he could reluctantly agree to help without losing face or it appearing like I was telling him what to do. Because, whether he owed me one or not, if I made him lose face he would rip my throat out and live with the broken favor he was duty-bound to repay.
It was all about tradition, about repaying your debt to someone, and he owed me big time. He knew it, I knew it, they all knew it, but that didn't matter as much as maintaining the facade of superiority, that he was royalty and I was the peasant who should prostrate himself before the king and be thankful he was in his presence at all.
It went against everything I believed in, for normally I would bow to no man, and wouldn't even to him, but this was how the game was played and I wanted his help so what was a poor wizard to do?
"I may have a little time to help you if you would like?" he said, not sounding like he was too keen.
"That would be most kind. Hopefully it won't take long, and it would mean a lot. I know it's beneath you, such a paltry thing to ask, but I'm sure if you did this thing then we would be free of any further obligations to one another."
