Renaissance Hotel
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Morning of the Red Storm
There are days, Swann knew, when the world seemed to shudder as if in erotic anticipation of all the ways it was going to hurt him. Since the outbreak of the Vampire Wars he’d had too many days like that. At first they were rare enough to catch him unawares. Back then he was trusting enough to think the battle won, the worst over. When the world proved otherwise, he often felt hurt. Not physically hurt, though there was some of that, but emotionally hurt. Betrayed. The world was not supposed to be like this. He knew that some of his own inability to process the pain came from who and what he was. A professor of folklore, a respected lecturer and author, a white male in the academic world. His vanity was the first thing the world took from him. His feelings of comfort, even of privilege went next, stripped away by exposure to a greater variety of people and circumstances than he had ever previously considered. Swann, a liberal and humanist, had thought he understood the world; he believed he was in touch with the range of human evil and human goodness, of sacrifice and pain and greed and intolerance and misery and hope.
The learning curve had cut him like a sickle.
Day after day. Event after event. Battle after battle.
When the Ice Virus triggered the dormant genes for vampirism, Swann became part of the national conversation. He was the world’s foremost expert on the folkloric versions of vampires. There were hundreds of kinds of vampires in world culture. They were all so different from one another and none of them resembled the pale, tragic romantic figures of Hollywood and popular fiction. When a barista named Michael Fayne was arrested for the savage murder of several women and claimed to be a vampire, police brought Swann in as a consultant. Not that anyone actually believed that Fayne was a supernatural monster, but the detectives hoped Swann’s knowledge of the subject matter could help decode Fayne’s delusion.
That worked and it didn’t.
Because Michael Fayne was an actual vampire. The first human to manifest what appeared to be supernatural powers. Enhanced strength, heightened senses, an insatiable bloodlust. The reality of what Fayne had become shocked Swann perhaps even more than it did the police. Or, if not harder, then it shook his core beliefs.
Then the medical test results came back. Fayne was a vampire, yes, but he was not a supernatural creature. Vampirism was genetic. The gene was an old one, but it had become dormant because all through history people with an active V-gene had been viewed as monsters and hunted to extinction.
Now that had changed.
Even with the horrific nature of Fayne’s crimes, Swann had been reluctant to view all vampires as monsters, as enemies. And he was right. As more and more cases emerged it quickly became apparent that there were as many vampire personality types as there were other human personalities. Evil and good, predatory and not, violent or passive. None of those belonged to either species. Sadly, both sides seemed to produce true monsters and enthusiastic killers.
And that was how the war began.
Well, wars.
Large and small, there had been a lot of battles since the Ice Virus took hold. The media reported everything. Every drop of blood, every life taken, every burning city. Every life lost. It was great for ratings. Some reporters seized the outbreak to make careers for themselves. Even Swann’s friend, Yuki Nitobe, had done that. She was the first to break the story and had ridden the wave all the way to international celebrity. Though, to be fair, the closer Yuki got to the story behind the story, the more it hurt her, too.
And now there was today.
On the TV the news cameras were showing pictures of Hell itself. Raging fires rising from a cluster of medical buildings. The news anchor cut in, looking both appalled and excited.
“I’m told we have received a video from the persons responsible for the attack on the Texas Medical Center,” he said. “I need to caution you that we have not had the chance to review this tape. Viewers are strongly cautioned. Here we go. This is from a group claiming responsibility for this attack.”
The screen split into three images. The burning medical center, the news anchor, and then a box that was at first just a square of dark red. Swann realized at once that it was a backdrop. A figure came into shot and sat as the cameraman tightened focus so that the person’s head and shoulders filled the screen. He was male, Swann could tell that much, from the breadth of shoulders. However, he wore a red cloth mask that hid his features, and there were small wire mesh screens covering his eyes. His voice was mechanical, clearly filtered through a device that made it sound coarse and inhuman.
“I speak to you now at the dawn of a new era,” said the man. “I do not speak for the vampire nation. I do not speak for the world of cattle. We are not bloods, we are not beats.” His voice was loaded with contempt as he spoke those common nicknames. Bloods and beats. Vampires and humans. “I speak in the name of He who was and He who is to come. I speak for the true faith, for the red faith, for the blood of the Eternal. I speak to the world that was and will be no more, and I speak for the world that has come to replace the old, the decayed, the corrupt, the impure, the diseased, and the blasphemous. I speak for the glory of the one, true god. The red god. The god of blood. The god of purity. The god of this world. Our world. Listen and understand, the world you knew is over. It is gone and it will never come back. The old world has died. And you have lost your right to be alive in the world that will come. You have one chance. Vampire or human, you have a hope yet and that is in repentance and acceptance. Recant your old sinful ways. Fall to your knees and take responsibility for what you have done to their world. Beg for the mercy of god, and god will answer. Be warned, though, god is harsh and god is jealous and god will know if your repentance is genuine.” He paused. “If you are watching this message, then you have already seen the hand of god. You have already witnessed punishment. You have already seen his power.” Another pause, longer this time and then he leaned a little closer to the camera. “You think you have seen war, but you have not. You think you have seen the rise of vampiric power, but you have not. You think that your armies and your police are strong enough to protect you, but they are not. Not now. Not any longer. The Red Empire rises. All hail the Red Emperor!”
He screamed those last five words, and then the screen went dark and was immediately replaced by the anchor, looking shaken.
Luther sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed in socks, boxers, and a dress shirt, staring at the TV screen.
“Oh my god,” he said.
And he slid slowly off the bed and onto the floor.