‘Dreaming, Shaithis?’ that one called out to him, his words chasing themselves to and fro in the bitter, echoing air of the place. ‘An omen, perhaps? You cried out, and it seemed to me you were afraid.’
Shaithis wondered if the dream had been self-contained, like his inward-directed thoughts, or if Fess had been ‘listening in’ on it. He hated the idea that anyone should spy on him, especially in his subconscious, where the seeds of all of his ambitions – indeed his intentions – were stored in darkness, awaiting their germination. ‘An omen?’ he eventually answered, but quietly, hiding what confusion lingered still. ‘No, I think not. Nothing portended, Fess. A pleasurable dream, that’s all, of woman-flesh and sweet traveller blood.’ Of the Lady Karen rotting on my couch, and the entire Wamphyri race wiped out in the sunburst of an alien mind!
‘Huh!’ the other grunted. ‘I dreamed only of ice. I dreamed I was frozen in an ice-tomb, and that some unknown thing was melting its way in to me.’
‘Then it’s as well my cry of sweet pleasure woke you up,’ said Shaithis.
‘Aye, but too early,’ the Ferenc grumbled. ‘Arkis sleeps on. In this he’s the wise one. Let’s drift a further hour or two before we’re up and about.’
Shaithis agreed; and grateful that the giant had not read him, he settled down again and closed an eye . . .
And again Shaithis dreamed. Except that this time, even more certainly than the last, he knew it was much more than any common dream. The setting was a meeting between himself and the being known as Shaitan the Fallen, whom he recognized at once as that selfsame Dark Hooded Thing who had been his sinister, frowning familiar – perhaps even his alter-ego? – in his nightmare of frustrated revenge.
He was aware of the Thing as a shadow among lesser shadows in a cavern of black rock, unsuspected except for the red glow of its eyes where they floated in luminous yellow orbits. What he, Shaithis, was doing in such a place he could not say, except that he felt he’d been called here. Yes, that was it: he was not here entirely of his own free will but mainly because this enigmatic being had called him here.
And as if to confirm that thought: ‘Shaithis, my son,’ said the Dark Hooded Thing, whose true voice was deeper, darker, and probably more deceiving than any Shaithis ever heard before. ‘And so at last you’ve answered me. Difficult to reach you, my son, through that clever deflective screen of yours, else I had known you and called you here long before now.’
Shaithis’s Wamphyri eyes and awareness were accustomed now to the gloom of the place. Indeed he saw and sensed as well as ever, which is to say very well indeed: as a cat at night or Desmodus on the wing. The darkness made no difference; in fact, and with regard to his whereabouts, it merely served to confirm his first instinctive guess that he was in some natural chamber deep in the belly of the slumbering volcano. Which would appear to make Shaitan the Lord of these subterranean regions.
In such close proximity, the other read his thoughts as if they’d been spoken words and answered: ‘But of course, just as I have been since . . . oh, a long, long time.’
Shaithis peered intently at the crimson-eyed shadow which was Shaitan. It was strange, but for all his vampire-enhanced awareness he saw only an outline of the other’s form. No fault of his; his senses were not impaired; Shaitan must be shielding his physical self in a manner like to Shaithis guarding his thoughts. But . . . Shaitan the Fallen? Could it really be – was it really possible – for any creature to live so long? He made up his mind that indeed it must be, for here he stood in the presence of just such a one.
And: This isn’t just a dream,’ said Shaithis then, with a shake of his head. ‘I can feel your presence and know you are real: that same Shaitan of whom Kehrl Lugoz was, and is, so mortally afraid, that ancient Being out of the first annals of Wamphyri legend. You were banished here in prehistory, and you live here still.’