Excerpt
Aramis looked over d'Artagnan's shoulder and his eyes narrowed. The sword he'd never sheathed rose as he stood straighter and called, loudly, "To me, musketeers," a call echoed by Porthos, in stentorian tones. "To me, to me of the king."
Their shouts peeled echoes from the surrounding buildings, reverberating in the night with an edge of despair.
Half-fearing that a gross joke was being played on him; ignored by the musketeers; frightened of the bleakness in their gazes, d'Artagnan turned around.
A wall of vampires advanced toward them. So dark that they seemed to meld with the surrounding night, three rows of vampires, at least, walked toward them—shoulder to shoulder, rank on rank, all of them strange, thin, almost insectile creatures, their faces frozen masks showing no emotion at all. They weren't even dressed but looked, rather, as though the clothes they'd worn while living had fallen to pieces on their bodies, and remained attached only by dirt or rot.
Pieces of them, ragged and encrusted with dirt, flapped with their movements. But the blades they held shone bright and sharp.
Porthos leaned forward, spread his feet further apart bracing for better balance, and spared one brief look at Aramis. "To me of the king," he shouted. Then, in a lower tone, "No one else is coming."
"No musketeers in this part of town," Aramis said. He sounded very calm. "We made sure of it. If we could toll the bells . . . If the churches were still ours. If anyone still knew what the bells meant, and if that chapel weren't sure to be crawling with vampires." He shrugged gallantly, his expression frozen and lost. "As it is we die here, my friend. We die here. It has been an honor, Monsieur du Vallon, my dear Porthos, to fight evil by your side."
"Likewise, Chevalier d'Herblay, my dear Aramis," Porthos said, his voice light and airy. His features settled in lines like granite.