Kardina
KARDINAL
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2013 by Thomas Emson
Cover and internal design © Thomas Emson; photo from Shutterstock
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
KARDINAL
COPYRIGHT
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART ONE. AFTERMATH.
CHAPTER 1. THE SHEPHERD AND THE CROFTER
CHAPTER 2. THE VISITOR.
PART TWO. DREAMS.
CHAPTER 3. BLOOD DEATH.
CHAPTER 4. SAVING BRITAIN.
CHAPTER 5. LORD OF HELL.
CHAPTER 6. BRANDED A TRAITOR.
CHAPTER 7. BROTHERLY LOVE.
CHAPTER 8. THE GENERAL AND THE MERCENARY.
CHAPTER 9. SPIES.
CHAPTER 10. THE RALLY.
CHAPTER 11. THE SPEECH.
CHAPTER 12. KILLING FUAD.
CHAPTER 13. POP-STAR VAMPIRE.
CHAPTER 14. WAKIZASHI.
CHAPTER 15. A RUIN.
CHAPTER 16. AS PALE AS DEATH.
PART THREE. POWER.
CHAPTER 17. BEAUTIFUL MONSTER
CHAPTER 18. DEATH’S KISS.
CHAPTER 19. SHE IS THORNS.
CHAPTER 20. DESCENDENTS OF KINGS.
CHAPTER 21. VAMPIREOPHOBIA.
CHAPTER 22. A SACRIFICE.
CHAPTER 23. EXCAVATED.
CHAPTER 24. DESTINY.
CHAPTER 25. TV STAR.
CHAPTER 26. FRONTIER.
CHAPTER 27. DIGGING DEEPER.
CHAPTER 28. WHAT DO YOU WANT?
CHAPTER 29. THREE SECONDS.
PART FOUR. DESTINY.
CHAPTER 30. ELECTION DAY.
CHAPTER 31. DESPERATE DAYS.
CHAPTER 32. A COUNTRY OF GHOSTS.
CHAPTER 33. HUMANITY.
CHAPTER 34. THE BEGINNING OF A LONG NIGHT.
CHAPTER 35. GOGA BRICKS HIMSELF.
CHAPTER 36. MY BROTHER, THE PM.
CHAPTER 37. THE WELCOMING COMMITTEE.
CHAPTER 38. BRITAIN IS BABYLON.
CHAPTER 39. NOTHING BUT WAR.
CHAPTER 40. JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH.
PART FIVE. FAITH.
CHAPTER 41. THE LAST RESORT AND OTHER OPTIONS.
CHAPTER 42. THE STAIN.
CHAPTER 43. ONE SOLDIER.
CHAPTER 44. PLAN OF ACTION.
CHAPTER 45. THE ROAD TO BAGHDAD.
CHAPTER 46. SPYCATCHER.
CHAPTER 47. ANOTHER BULLET.
CHAPTER 48. TRAFFIC PROBLEMS.
CHAPTER 49. WE’LL BE BACK.
CHAPTER 50. RUN FOR YOUR LIFE.
CHAPTER 51. STREET FIGHT.
CHAPTER 52. THE GLINT OF DEATH.
PART SIX. JUDGMENT.
CHAPTER 53. CUTS AND WOUNDS.
CHAPTER 54. BEING BRAVE.
CHAPTER 55. DANGER ON EVERY CORNER.
CHAPTER 56. THE SCHOOL PHOTOGRAPH.
CHAPTER 57. DARK DAYS.
CHAPTER 58. ESCAPE.
CHAPTER 59. POSITION OF POWER.
CHAPTER 60. THE “SOME GOOD NEWS, SOME BAD”.
PART SEVEN. RESURRECTION.
CHAPTER 61. SPILLING THE BEANS.
CHAPTER 62. HIGHWAY 8.
CHAPTER 63. THIS IS OUR TOMB.
CHAPTER 64. ISLANDS.
CHAPTER 65. ENEMIES AND ALLIES.
CHAPTER 66. THE GATES OF IRKALLA.
CHAPTER 67. THE FAR, FAR DISTANCE.
CHAPTER 68. HURT FROM SOUL TO SKIN.
CHAPTER 69. INTO THE COMPOUND.
CHAPTER 70. AN IMPOSSIBLE ANGEL.
CHAPTER 71. MEETING A GOD.
CHAPTER 72. INFECTED.
CHAPTER 73. DISCIPLE OR SACRIFICE?
PART EIGHT. SACRIFICE.
CHAPTER 74. WELCOME TO THE NEW ORDER.
CHAPTER 75. BLOOD FOR THE BEASTS.
CHAPTER 76. REJOICE! REJOICE! REJOICE!
CHAPTER 77. WAITING FOR UNDEATH.
CHAPTER 78. QUEEN AND COUNTRY.
CHAPTER 79. DESPERATE MEASURES.
CHAPTER 80. THE WOMAN.
CHAPTER 81. LEAVE NO ONE BEHIND.
CHAPTER 82. CHAOS.
CHAPTER 83. DEATH AND ROSES.
CHAPTER 84. KILL THEM ALL.
CHAPTER 85. THE BROADCAST.
CHAPTER 86. “DIE SLOWLY”.
CHAPTER 87. BAD DECISIONS.
CHAPTER 88. TOO MANY DOUGHNUTS, NOT ENOUGH PORRIDGE.
PART NINE. IMMORTALITY.
CHAPTER 89. INTO DARKNESS.
CHAPTER 90. HALF-THING.
CHAPTER 91. PROTECTED.
CHAPTER 92. THE HUNDRED BRIDES.
CHAPTER 93. MONSTER.
CHAPTER 94. LIKE THEM.
CHAPTER 95. SANCTUARY.
CHAPTER 96. THE LAST BATTLE.
CHAPTER 97. ASHES.
CHAPTER 98. KISSED BY HIM.
CHAPTER 99. BETTER DAYS.
PART TEN. REUNION.
CHAPTER 100. THE CROFTER.
THE AUTHOR
THE LAST PAGE.
PART ONE. AFTERMATH.
CHAPTER 1. THE SHEPHERD AND THE CROFTER.
Outer Hebrides, Scotland – 5.01pm (GMT), November 28, 2016
“IF you would have asked me seven years ago,” said the shepherd, “I would not have believed that vampires existed. Who would?”
The crofter shook his head. He had a shaven scalp and a heavy, black beard. It was a winter’s evening, cold and gloomy, but he wore aviator-style sunglasses.
Scars criss-crossed the crofter’s skull. Blood spattered his face. Although the temperature was barely above 4ºC, he wore only a T-shirt. The material clung to his lean, powerful body, and muscles corded on his strong arms. His flesh was stained with gore. The smell of raw meat hung in the air.
“They said it was drugs that started it all,” said the shepherd. He leaned on his crook. He scanned the landscape. It was barren. The crofter’s cottage was the only building for miles. The shepherd’s flock dotted the fields. He’d come out to check on them before nightfall. He was new to shepherding. Only a few months of experience, despite being in his sixties. He continued. “Some red pill at a nightclub in London. It is always London, isn’t it, sir?”
“Always London,” said the crofter.
He had a deep, quiet voice. The kind of voice you’d listen to. The kind that was laced with authority.
“You’re a Londoner, sir?” said the shepherd. He plucked the red cloth from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket, and touched his forehead with it. His skin still itched after all these years. The fire had melted the flesh on the left side of his face. He’d suffered a great deal of pain. The anguish had caused him to lose a lot of weight over the past four years – he’d gone from eighteen stone to nine stone. “From the big city?”
The crofter nodded. He leaned against the doorway of his cottage. It was made of stone, a single-storey structure with a thatched roof. A fence enclosed the crofter’s land. He had only a couple of acres. But on it he kept chickens, goats and a vegetable garden.
“You’re far from home,” the shepherd said.
“So are you,” the crofter said.
The shepherd silently cursed himself – he’d been found out, he was sure of it. He tried to hide his discomfort. He was a disciplined man, so it was relatively easy to keep his feelings under wraps.
The Atlantic Ocean
whispered in the distance. The shepherd’s dog barked from his 4x4, parked outside the cottage gate. The crofter picked up a cane that was propped against the wall. It had a gold ferrule. He tapped it against his shoe in a menacing way.
“Safer here than in England,” the shepherd said after a while. “But the plague reached these parts, too, you know.”
Again the crofter nodded. The moonlight splintered off his sunglasses.
The shepherd had been watching him for a few weeks. The villagers had said he’d moved here four or five years ago. No one knew who he was. They’d not asked his name, and he’d not given it. They said he was a refugee from the wars between humans and vampires. Some said he was a vampire. Others said he was a villain. One of those Nebuchadnezzars who supported the undead.
As he was surveying his flock, the shepherd had seen the crofter skinning the animal in front of the cottage. He’d stopped the 4x4 and shouted, “Hello,” from the gate, before entering the crofter’s territory.
At first, the shepherd thought that either the crofter would go inside the cottage and shut the door, or he’d use the knife he wielded.
He’d done neither. He stood there, staring at the shepherd through those dark glasses.
Now the shepherd said, “They said that soldier chap was the hero.”
“They said lots of things.”
“One thing’s for sure: London was in ruins. That war, five years ago. Fighting in the streets between humans and vampires. The government falling. Terrible business.”
“Terrible… ”
“And that soldier – hero one day, villain the next.”
The crofter dipped his knife in a barrel of water.
“And they damn well poisoned the water in London, didn’t they?” said the shepherd. “Awful thing to do. Making all those people dead and then alive again. Making them hunger for blood. Spreading the plague. What do you say to that, fellow?”
“I say nothing,” said the crofter. He was wiping his hands on a cloth. The shepherd couldn’t tell if the man was looking at him or not, the dark glasses hiding his eyes.
“Best to say nothing sometimes,” said the shepherd. “There was a time you couldn’t say a thing. Vampires everywhere. A dictatorship of the undead, someone called it, I think. And those Nebuchadnezzars listening at every door. Human scumbags, don’t you think? Would you say? Quislings, eh? Looking for rebels or traitors. Like that soldier chap.”
“I have to go now,” said the crofter.
“Oh yes, very nice to meet you. I’m Ronan, by the way, Jim Ronan. What’s your name?”
“Nice to meet you, Ronan,” said the crofter, and he went into his cottage and closed the door.
CHAPTER 2. THE VISITOR.
THE man using the name Jim Ronan drove home. He was sweating. The collie in the back seat whimpered. The dog sensed evil.
Night had fallen fully. Ronan had never minded the dark. Not before she came. But three days ago she had arrived.
He should have gone straight home from Meg’s house in the village on that night. But they’d had an argument. He was fuming and needed a drink.
So he had dropped into The Sheep and Anchor and drank two pints of Guinness and four scotches.
He had staggered the two miles home. By the time he got back to the smallholding, it was after midnight. Cold and pitch black.
Staring towards the front door of his home, he felt queasy. His vision blurred. He blinked, trying to clear away the haziness. And trying to get rid of the two, tiny red spots glittering at head level near the door.
He swayed, feeling sick.
The red points blinked.
Like eyes, he thought. Just like –
Her voice was a blade, slicing through his bowels.
“He’s here?” she said.
The shepherd whined. He dropped to his knees. Nausea swept over him. He bent his head and retched, his vomit splashing across his knees. It smelled like acid. He moaned and slowly looked up.
She stood over him. He quaked. She was beautiful and terrifying.
The surviving Nebuchadnezzars had spoken about her.
“One lives,” they’d whispered in all the secret places where they were forced to meet. “One lives, and she’ll bring us victory. She’ll bring us Babylon.”
And when the rumours of her existence proved to be true, he was sent north to Scotland on an errand. He was just a foot soldier these days. A grunt in the new army. Not so long ago, he was important, and he often pined for the days when he had wielded power.
Terror had clutched his heart. He dropped his gaze. His eyes fell on her bare foot. He didn’t want to look at her face, but he couldn’t help it. She was alluring. His gaze started up her leg. Her skin was smooth and dark. At her knee, the hem of a white gown fluttered. If he just dipped his head slightly, he would be able to see up her dress. Up, up…
He moaned, his groin aching.
“Is he here?” she said. “Look at me, shepherd.”
He was scared but aroused. A terrible concoction. A dangerous one.
He looked up at her face. Her beauty chilled his blood. Crow-black hair cascaded down her shoulders, over her breasts. The tresses framed a picture-perfect face – high cheek bones, full lips, almond-shaped eyes.
The eyes, he thought. Those awful eyes.
Red like blood. Red in the blackness. Like two warning lights, alerting him to the danger ahead.
She drew back her lips, and he saw her fangs.
His bladder nearly emptied there and then, but he managed to control himself.
“Stand,” she told him.
He struggled to his feet. His legs felt weak and shaky. He instinctively reached out to stop himself from falling. But there was only her to hold on to. She hissed and swatted his arm away. His knees buckled, and he nearly fell flat on his face. But he managed to stay upright.
She tore the red cloth from the breast pocket of his jacket. She sniffed it, rubbing it against her face. He gawped. Every fable he’d heard told him she shouldn’t be able to do that. She shouldn’t be able to be near that ancient, scarlet flesh. She tossed the cloth aside.
“This is no protection from me,” she said. “I didn’t come from that flesh. I am new. I am young. I am strong. And you… you are weak. I don’t need you. The new breed won’t need humans at all. This time we won’t be sharing power with you. All of you will be our slaves.”
He whimpered.
“Is he here?” she had hissed.
Ronan tried to speak but just couldn’t, so he nodded instead.
“Where?” she said.
He managed to tell her where he lived before adding, “But no one has seen him for weeks.”
“Go to his house,” she had told him. “Speak to him. Make sure it’s him. I’ll be back in three nights. If you do well, I’ll give you a reward. You won’t have to fuck sheep and old women again.”
He groaned and came, without her laying a hand on him. He collapsed, and she swept away, sailing through the night until her white gown faded into darkness.
He parked the 4x4 in the farm yard.
I’ll be back in three nights, she’d said.
Tonight was that night. She had promised him pleasure.
She might be dead, he thought, but she was more alive than Meg and her stinking house and her smelly skin.
He stepped out of the vehicle. His legs were weak. His throat was dry. The collie barked and whined, but Ronan didn’t let him out. He didn’t want the dog to die.
He stared towards the house, and she emerged out of the darkness like a ghost, her red eyes glittering, her white gown floating.
As she approached, he again felt dread and lust. He fell to his knees.
“You’ve found him?” she asked.
He nodded.
“It’s him, you’re sure?”
He nodded again.
“Good. I’ll kiss you.”
He nodded once more.
“Stand,” she said.
He struggled
to his feet.
She smelled of death – a beautiful odour. She raised her hand and held it in front of his face. It was supple and soft, the fingers long and lithe. The inch-long nails were sharp and painted red. Red like her eyes. Red like his blood. Her hand moved swiftly across his throat. He felt the nails rake his flesh. The hot blood gushed from his open vein. He became cold and weak very quickly. His blood sprayed across her dress, staining it. She laughed and massaged the blood into her gown. And the man who’d named himself Ronan died slowly and coldly.
PART TWO. DREAMS.
CHAPTER 3. BLOOD DEATH.
Southern Carpathians, Romania – 8.35pm (GMT + 2 hours), 16 May, 2011
SORIN and Ionuţ were hungry. They had not eaten in two nights. One more night without blood and they would die. This would be their last chance to find prey.
They had been huddling on the old railway station for a day and a night. The rain had poured. A fierce wind lashed the platform. Not even a lone guard supervised the station.
“I’m dying,” Ionuţ said.
Sorin ignored him. His younger brother had been a pain in life, and now he was a pain in death.
“I’ve got to feed,” said Ionuţ. “We’ve both got to feed, Sorin, or we’ll die – we’ll die at dawn.”
Sorin was cold and shaky. His stomach ached.
Blood death was near.
They had to kill and drink blood in the next few hours, or they’d be dead at sunrise.
Sorin sniffed the air. Not a human scent anywhere. He thought of London and the food stocks there. It made him salivate.
The brothers had moved to England in 2005. They had always dreamed of coming to London. They supported Arsenal. They liked to speak English and particularly liked to swear. They wanted to go on X-Factor and become pop stars.
When they got there, they’d lived in Edmonton. It was rough and poor, and crime plagued the estates.
But the brothers did OK, starting a mobile disco service and making their way in the world. Not a long way. But enough to get by. Enough to rent a flat. Enough to buy food and beer.
But then the vampires came. And in February of that year, war broke out between humans and nosferatu. The brothers were killed by the undead and became alive again.