The Night Man Cometh by Tony-Paul de Vissage
Meet Damian la Croix…
Immortality with a vengeance.
A new novel by Tony-Paul de Vissage, in the
tradition of Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Anne Rice’s Interview with the
Vampire.
A return to the traditional vampire, who neither
apologizes nor regrets what he is….Immortal…Undead…and Loving every century of
it.
…for when The
Night Man Cometh, Death is never far behind.
“Nothing Like It
Anywhere, 5 Star Epic” --Douglas C. Meeks, Book Reviews@Large
Vlad
Tepes, Voivode of Tara Romaneasca,
and Prince of Wallachia and Transylvania,
was
allowing himself a rare moment of relaxation in his private study. He was
examining a gilded and bejeweled cross, a gift from the local priest for his
contributions to the church,
rumored
to be the voivode’s attempts to buy
his way into heaven. It was a lovely thing, hand-crafted and precious, and he
was trying to determine where it should be kept.
There
was a sound at the window but he paid it no mind. Doubtless some bird striking
the outward-opening shutters.
When
the sound came again, he gave the window a negligent glance, and stiffened as
he saw someone standing there, an extremely pale young man looking about the
same age as himself. His unexpected visitor closed the window. He was dressed
in a split-skirted riding coat and thighboots, the heavy ringlets resting upon
his shoulders as dark and lustrous as the Prince’s own.
“How
did you get in here?” Vlad demanded, placing the cross upon the desk. “Did you
fly?”
“As
a matter of fact, I did.” At the look of disbelief on the voivode’s, he went on. “You shouldn’t leave your windows
unshuttered, Sire.”
Vlad
chose to ignore his statement, knowing full well no human had wings. If the stranger had somehow managed to
scale the castle walls, he might be someone to reckon with. In a disdainful
tone, he asked, “What do you want? That you brave my guards, and my own wrath,
no
matter
how you got here?”
“To
offer you the services of myself and my men.”
“A
mercenary, eh? If you wish to join my army, see my recruiting sergeant.”
“Ah,
but he’s probably sound asleep at this time of night. As are all your soldiers,
except for your stalwart sentry...and yourself. Besides—” The broad shoulders
shrugged negligently. “—recruitment’s for peasants. I prefer to speak to you
directly, my Lord. As noble to noble.”
“A
noble, you say? And who are you?” It was a challenge, intimating the young
man's nobility was of such a low degree he wasn’t worth a glance from the
Prince, that no one was of the same status as the voivode, and so could not speak to him as a peer.
“Marquis
Damian LaCroix, Le Chevalier du Morte.”
“The
one they call L’homme de nuit?” Vlad
managed to hide his surprise. His Transylvanian accent mangled the French
pronunciation.
“You’ve
heard of me, then?” With a flourish, the stranger bowed. He appeared slightly gratified.
“I’ve
heard of you. And your garde noir.
But I thought you a fable.”
“Hardly, my Lord.” The young man smiled
slightly, revealing slender, needle-sharp fangs.
“Sweet
Jesu!” The Prince reached for the crucifix, thrusting it toward his visitor who
immediately put out a hand to shield his face, turning his head.
“Put
away that holy relic, Sire.” The words were soft but anxious. “You’re in no
danger.”
“Why
should I believe the word of such a despicable creature?”
“Because
I was once a noble such as you and, in some ways, still am.” As the Prince
placed the cross behind him on the desk, the stranger straightened and
continued, “I’ve come to offer you my services, and that is all.”
“So
you did fly through my window.” The Prince stared at him, barely hearing his
words. “I always thought those tales were just that...stories to frighten
children into obedience. Nevertheless, I prefer proof of my own eyes. Let me
see your wings!”
“If
I must.” With a slight sigh, the creature calling itself Le Chevalier turned his back.
The
voivode saw that the riding coat was
slashed from shoulder to waist on either side. As he watched, the broad
shoulders flexed and twisted, there was a ripping sound and through the long,
narrow slits, slender wings protruded. With the crackle of sails unfurling,
they opened, to swirl about him like a wide and fluid cloak.
“Is
your curiosity now fed, my Lord?” He whirled to face Vlad again, the wings
disappearing in a whispered rustle. “Do we have an accord?”
“All
mercenaries serving me are paid on their skill. What is your kind’s price?”
“My
kind—” Briefly, the words had a venomous edge. “—wishes only one payment, Sire.
That which all men have in abundance.” Briefly, the blue eyes seemed to hold a
scarlet tinge. “We'll fight for you, my Lord. For your glory...and all the
blood we can drink.”
The
Prince forced himself to stifle the shudder that statement caused. Instead, he
nodded and held out his hand. With startling swiftness, Le Chevalier seized and pressed it to his forehead as he dropped to
one knee. A second shudder threatened to escape and was quelled with difficulty
as the back of his hand touched that chill flesh.
Blessed Christ,
he’s as cold as a corpse! And why not? This creature kneeling before him,
who looked like a man. Wasn’t he, in reality, one of the nosferatu, the walking dead? And he had just received them into the
ranks of his army. Dear God protect us
all!
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