Something in the Shadows

by Elle Beaumont

  “Please help me,” he begged softly.

  “I am sorry my son, but I cannot,” Father Cassian spoke gently.

  “But, you must!” He could feel tears of devastation pooling beneath his lids. The abbot was his only hope.

  “I cannot,” he returned once more. “Brother Ezra was slain by a vile creature without hope, one of the damned. Vampyr.”

  Tommaso shook his head, denying it. Creatures of such name did not exist, they were naught but stories to frighten children into coming home before the wild animals of the night could harm them.

  “Please, you’re the only one who can save me. You need to exorcize the demon from me, please.”

  Father Cassian moved over to the desk at the side of the room, retrieving a small rectangular box from the depths of it.

  “You do not carry within you a demon that can be exorcized…You are one of the damned. You have bonded with the demon Tommaso.” There was a deep sadness within Father Cassian’s voice as he spoke, a finality to his words. “There is no hope for you now, but the quick and merciful strike of an ash stake through your heart.”

  The abbot turned slowly to face him. Within his grasp he held a long piece of wood, shaved down to a bone-piercing point at one end. Tommaso felt his insides revolt at the notion he was beyond saving, that the demon within him was not a being striving to take control, but his own nature.

  “No,” he protested.

  Slowly, Father Cassian came towards him, like a man approaching a snake about to strike. “There is no other way.” His statement was followed by the soft chanting of a prayer Tommaso recognized. Father Cassian was praying for his soul, whatever may be left of it.

  If he had been a truly decent person, he would have closed his eyes and allowed the blow to come, ending whatever terror he had already inflicted upon the world. His hands had other ideas. Father Cassian came at him quickly, a cross raised in one hand and the stake in the other, his Latin prayer spilling out rapidly. Tommaso caught his wrist in the air on its descent, crushing the fragile bones which caused the abbot to drop the stake to the floor with a clatter.

  “Tommaso—“ he began, bringing the cross up to press to his cheek. It did nothing, except annoy the monster inside him.

  They were too close, and Father Cassian had intended harm towards him. What little restraint Tommaso had over himself slipped. As the red haze swam over his vision entirely, he knew that when this was over, there would be more death upon his hands.

  He lost count of how many died, the bloodthirsty monster inside him having taken over entirely. Tommaso became lost to himself and the taste of blood flowing so freely over his tongue. When it was over, he knelt upon the steps of the abbey, his robes soaked through and his body satiated for the first time since he had woken in the darkness of that cave—a monster born from death and blood.

  There was still movement in the abbey, he could hear the cries of horror and shock as the bodies were discovered by those who remained. He could not stay here, but he had no place to go and daybreak would be upon him soon enough. With little thought of what to do, Tommaso left the final body he had drained—another of the younger brothers who’d thought to stop the monster before it could escape—and walked solemnly across the courtyard, passing the holy water basin as he did so.

  It crossed his mind to stop and douse himself with it, see if it would perhaps burn away the evil, stripping him down to whatever was left. Instead, he carried himself out the gates of the Monte Casino abbey, and wandered deep into the woods. When he was far enough away that he could no longer hear the screams, but only the distant ringing of the warning bells, he knelt upon the forest floor and began to dig. He dug until there was a hole wide enough and deep enough to encase him, and then he slipped into it. Pulling the soil over him, Tommaso successfully buried himself within the dank earth and found himself wishing it truly was his grave that he lay in.

  Perhaps it was the added shade of the trees, or the fact he had fully covered himself with soil, but Tommaso did not wake from his death like sleep until the sun had set. He woke to find himself whole and unscathed. It wasn’t fair, nor was it right.

  Damned, without hope, and with too much blood on his hands to ever wash away, Tommaso didn’t even try to fight the beast inside him when it reared its hungry head. Instead he followed the scent of fresh blood to a small cabin in the woods. He couldn’t enter the cabin, something held him back at the threshold, but his hunger pushed him forward. When he called out to the man and woman who lived inside, Tommaso felt a connection form between himself and the couple, a bond that allowed him to feel their emotions to twist and contort them.

  Once they beckoned him in, he found all hesitation at the doorstep gone, and soon he fell upon them, feasting until the hollow feeling inside him disappeared.

  624 CE Cordoba, Hispania

  * * *

  The rain was heavy on the dark streets as Tommaso slunk through the shadows. His cloak was sodden and clinging to his shoulders, trailing through puddles, as bare feet slapped against dirt and stone. Travelling the roads to Cordoba, sustenance had been hard to come by; his hunger was now at a ravenous stage that made him more prone to risky behaviours. This life of hunting and feeding in the night was one of stealth and secrecy, lest he expose himself to the church, who would surely put a stake through his heart as Father Cassian had desired those many years before.

  While there was a dark, self-loathing undercurrent to everything Tommaso did, there was also a strong fervour for life. It had kept him in the shadows, hiding where none would ever know he existed, and leaving quickly before the trail of death could be traced back to him.

  Tonight, he was not thinking of stealth, nor of secrecy. He was following the most delicious scent that had chased away any conscientious thought of caution. Dark hair already plastered to his face, Tommaso pushed his hood back and allowed the rain to land directly on his head. Drops collected in his hair only to stream down over his forehead. Long lashes gathered together in sharp spikes over his dark brown eyes, which were locked upon the figure moving quickly between the empty market stalls ahead.

  Tommaso did not know the reason for the figure being out in this godforsaken weather, only that the blood pumping through their veins called to him. Having found the source of the divine scent, he moved more quickly, his bare feet taking him up to them in seconds. Grabbing the person by one arm, he tore off their hood to expose a young woman, fear in her eyes as she peered back and screamed.

  Not allowing her youthfulness to stop him, Tommaso used his free hand to take a fistful of auburn hair and pull her head to the side, exposing the vulnerable expanse of neck. Biting into her did not silence the cries of pain and fear, but did begin to satiate the hunger clawing at his insides. Greedily gulping down each mouthful, their bodies gradually sunk to the ground below them. Her cries became whimpers, and the hand once beating at his side now clung to his drenched cloak.

  Before he could have his fill, strong hands fell upon them, and tore Tommaso from his prey, tossing him effortlessly across the market to land upon his back in the mud. Panting not from need, but surprise, he pushed himself up. A dirty hand swiped matted hair out of his eyes as he watched the figure leaning over the young woman’s body. An unnatural hiss escaped Tommaso’s curled lips as the scent of something not-quite human reached him.

  “She’s mine!” he roared, teeth still sharp and aching to finish what he had begun. The hunger inside had been denied for far too long.

  The other man looked back at him, shooting him a silencing glare across the divide between. “Hush you fool, have you not made enough infernal racket? Do you seek to expose us to all of Cordoba?”

  The male, whose shoulder length dark hair was tied together at the nape of his neck, brought his hand to his mouth, pricking his fingertip on a sharp fang which he then swiped over the wounds on the girl’s neck. Staggering to his feet and moving closer, Tommaso watched as the puncture wounds healed over, and left her unmarred. Then, wit
hout even a blink of remorse, the other man snapped her neck, leaving her lifeless on the ground as he stood back up, pulling the hood of his cloak up over his head.

  “Why did you…” Tommaso began, only to falter.

  “You cannot leave the body of a victim in the midst of a well-populated area, with marks upon her throat that lead humans directly to us. Now, come with me before we are both discovered.” There was only command within his tone, and Tommaso found himself unable to refuse, despite the thirst of hunger still pulsating within him.

  The girl had been enough to sate his stomach, but not to fully quench his need. Yet, he pulled the hood of his own cloak up over his head and followed the stranger down through barren allies until they reached a doorway set inside a stone wall.

  Alkaios was a Grecian man who lived in a well-established villa within the walls of Cordoba. His garments were of the finest fabrics, and his countenance and bearing that of someone born into a family of influence. He gave little time for Tommaso to think. Instead, once inside the sanctuary of his home, he took Tommaso’s cloak from him, and sent him into a small side room to change into a pair of spare trousers and a fresh tunic.

  Now he sat before a roaring fire in one of the common rooms, feeling more put together with the rain and mud wiped away. He had finger-combed his dark hair, which was shaggy and unkempt, falling about his proud cheeks and tickling along his angular jaw. It was something he hadn’t put much thought into. At the abbey, their heads had been clean shaven, and his hair had only returned after the demon had attacked him. Now, living through each day seemed of more value than the state of his appearance. Yet something about this man, and his home, spoke of propriety which Tommaso had thought he’d well and truly left behind.

  Having changed as well, Alkaios brought a tray into the room, set it down on a small table beside his chair, then proceeded to hand Tommaso one of the goblets from it. Inside, he was shocked to find a dark, crimson liquid which made him gaze at Alkaios in surprise.

  “You are wondering how I’ve come by blood in my home, in the middle of the night,” Alkaios murmured while taking his own seat, as if reading his mind. “There are less obvious means of doing so, without informing an entire population of your presence amongst it. I have lived here for five years without detection.” He took a sip from his goblet, his tongue capturing a wayward droplet from his lips as he set it back down in his lap.

  Unable to restrain himself, Tommaso lifted the goblet and gulped down the fragrant blood, a hint of honey accompanying it. When he was done, he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and found Alkaios watching him with a dark look in his eyes.

  “When were you made?” he questioned, his own glass still sitting in his lap. Tommaso found his eyes upon it, thinking of the dark liquid that was safely nestled there inside the bronze.

  “554,” he responded, having no clear inclination to the present date.

  “Seventy years…And you’ve learned nothing of self-restraint or culling the bloodlust.” Alkaios clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Did your sire teach you naught of control?”

  “Sire?” Tommaso frowned, uncertain of whom he was alluding to.

  “The vampyr that made you into what you are now,” Alkaios clarified.

  The frown upon Tommaso’s features hardened into something dark, and dangerous. Untouched feelings of anger and pain rose once more to the surface. “The monster who damned me to this life of hell left me to wake alone in a cave near my parents’ home and never returned for me,” he snarled, hatred dripping from his tongue.

  His host scoffed in disgust at this news, drinking from his goblet once more. He then leaned forward to hand the rest to Tommaso, which he accepted greedily, without protest. Resting forward, elbows on his knees, Alkaios gazed upon him intently.

  “There are those among the vampyr families who fear we are not reproducing naturally at a speed which the continuation of our race demands. As an immortal race, I’ve no idea what it is they fear…However, because of this, some have taken it upon themselves to choose humans from among us to transform, rather than waiting for more to be born. In their haste to do so, they are often leaving the fledglings on their own, near vulnerable places they hope will cause them to frenzy feed, and then turn more.”

  Having downed the remainder of what was in Alkaios’ glass, Tommaso found himself staring at the other man in astonishment. He was speaking as if there were creatures out there, other demons such as themselves, who were having children in the natural sense of the word. Yet, there was nothing natural about what he was saying.

  “Born?” was all he found it in himself to say.

  Alkaios nodded. “Yes, born. Some of us have always been vampyr, and can trace our lineage back to the very first to walk the earth.”

  “No.” Tommaso was shaking his head. “God would not allow such an unnatural thing to occur.”

  “God has no place in this, fledgling. Our origins are of a darker sort.”

  “Easy…easy… Maso!” Alkaios shouted, ripping him from the blood haze that had settled

  upon him. “Remember what I said, you must drink only until you hear the heart begin to weaken, and then you must stop. This is about control, not killing.”

  Tommaso lifted his head, panting from the exertion of stopping himself in the feed. In his arms lay a naked concubine, young and supple. She had sated first one hunger raging within him, and then offered her throat unknowingly, to sate another.

  “But, she is an undesirable—” He was cut off with a stern look from Alkaios.

  “That is not the point of this instruction, now is it?” His dark coils of hair fell in soft layers about his face, and down to his shoulders. Along his jaw, a shadow had been allowed to grow, giving the handsome features before him a sense of roguish appeal which was only emphasized by the sultry look always there in the depths of his light green eyes.

  “No,” Tommaso murmured, bowing his head in submission. He bit the top of his thumb so that he could press his healing blood to the wounds in the young concubine’s throat.

  “Good. She must be left with only the memory of having fed the hunger of our loins, her body offering no indication otherwise. That is how we feed and sustain ourselves, how we keep our place in society undetected.” He reached out to smooth Tommaso’s hair back from his face, his own straight locks now trimmed and neat, but still long enough to fall into his eyes. “As for the rest…When the desire for a blood bath overtakes you, even then you must cover your tracks.” He wiped away a droplet of blood from the corner of Tommaso’s mouth, bringing it to his own lips to taste.

  “Of course, Aios.” Tommaso nodded. It was not his desire to bring ruin down on the man who had taken him into his home, and taught him the truth about himself.

  “Now, wake her, and give her the memories you wish her to have.” Alkaios stood up, his bronze flesh glowing in the dull lamplight inside the girl’s chambers.

  He stepped over to a young man, half-drunk and half-glamoured into compliance. Situating himself on a mound of cushions beside him, he pulled the lad into his lap, biting into his throat as he locked eyes with Tommaso. At his side, a young woman stirred, making her way over to Alkaios and his snack on hand and knee. She slipped a hand between the two, fingers exploring bare flesh with intent.

  1191 CE Paris, France.

  * * *

  A supple maid sat perched in his lap, feeding him bits of pork from her fingertips which he took as offered, despite them tasting like ash in his mouth. Though his body had ceased requiring such sustenance long ago, and anything ingested now would need to be brought up later, appearances must be maintained. So, as another juicy peace of roasted pork was brought up to his lips, Tommaso accepted it with grace, his eyes meeting those of the young woman as he purposefully grazed her fingers with his teeth while doing so. He watched the responsive shiver travel through her body, and noted the slight elevation in her breathing.

  “Maso, how is it your name speaks of Italy, but your
voice has no hint of your homeland?” Marie asked in a breathy tone, her hazel eyes silently offering what her body had been all evening.

  “I have not lived there in many years,” he murmured in response, his own gaze taking him away from her face and to the room at large instead.

  Across the great hall Alkaios had gathered a small harem of beautiful and willing supplicants of all shapes, sizes and sexes. It was always the same, no matter where they went. His aura was an allure many could not resist, and Tommaso was certain any number of them would be joining them back in their guest chambers once the banquet had concluded. However, none of them would be calling it a night until King Philip had retired for the evening, and His Royal Highness seemed in no hurry to end the celebrations for his return from the crusades.

  King Philip was deep in the spirits, and it would seem the whole of the court had followed suit with frequent laughter, riotous conversation, and a continuous flow of wine. Tommaso found himself embittered by it. A sea of sordid souls partaking in gluttony and lasciviousness to their hearts’ content, all morality a thing forgotten until the morrow’s façades were slid back into place.

  As he fought to stave off the frown of displeasure, he was reminded of Alkaios’ words. “We are here to feed upon the dregs of this life, who waste away what is at their fingertips. Do not regret ending what was not valued, or has been tainted."

  Marie had moved on from the morsels of pork, and instead was busying herself attending to the column of his throat and the lobe of his ear, her lips pressing soft kisses to the flesh she found within her reach. His own hand slid beneath the layers of her skirt, slipping over stocking clad knees to tickle at bare thighs. She offered him a breathy moan of encouragement.