by Aderyn Wood
“What do you want?”
Nathaniel reclined onto the nearest chair. “Information.”
Gerold’s eyes narrowed. “About?”
“I’ve got this urge, Friar.”
Gerold waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You’re a vampire. I don’t want to hear of your needs.”
“It’s a new one. I’ve never experienced it before. Not in all my years as a creature of the night.”
“Creature of the night,” Gerold spat the words. “Your lot always wants to romanticise your existence.”
“This urge, it draws me east.”
That got him. Brother Gerold’s scowl changed. An eyebrow jolted upward. A glint of curiosity sparked in the old man’s eye.
“Every night I awake to find my body craving to move. And the further east I venture the more intense the feeling becomes. And I’m dreaming. I’ve never dreamt, not once since I was turned. But every day I experience strange dreams of an ancient forgotten world.”
Gerold frowned. “Dreams?”
Nathaniel’s right hand was taking its sweet time to heal and the burn in his left was now too intense. He rested the talisman on his right forearm, it sizzled as it came into contact with the soft skin. His vision shifted, just a touch, and his incisors lengthened. No. He forced his body to obey. It wouldn’t do to invite the red haze now. He needed to be in control of his thoughts and not let his growing hunger drive him. He probably should have fed again before embarking on this fool plan. The wench from the train had bad blood. All that cocaine and too little food, he’d supposed.
“You don’t need to know the details of the dreams, only that they call me east.”
“But—”
“Hear me out, monk. Then ask questions.”
Gerold nodded.
“Last night I met a Young One also heading east – to Egypt. He informed me he’d met another of us with the very same mission. So here is my question; why on God’s earth is every vampire and his progeny making their way to Egypt? There must be a reason, and if you don’t know it, no one will.”
Gerold blinked. “Do you mind if I make tea?”
“Talk as you do and be quick about it.”
Gerold stood and went to the small kitchen area in the corner. Nathaniel followed and leaned on a column, wincing with the pain from the talisman.
“It is interesting that you feel the call, and I’ll be honest with you and tell you that it is not the first instance I’ve heard of it.” Gerold turned to the little sink and filled the kettle, placing it on the small cooker. “But why should I tell you anything, Chartley? What makes you think you deserve such knowledge?”
“Perhaps I should simply kill you then. I am growing rather hungry.”
Gerold shrugged. “You know that’s impossible.” He angled a devious smile at Nathaniel. “There have been better vampires than you who have tried and failed, Nathaniel Chartley.”
Nathaniel narrowed his eyes at the monk. Yes, he knew he couldn’t kill him. “Are you a slayer then?”
The monk’s grin tightened. “No. And I won’t tell you what I am. Not now. Not ever. So now we’ve finally had that conversation, do you want to try to convince me some other way?”
Nathaniel couldn’t help but grimace as he tipped the steaming talisman onto his left forearm. Now he had pain in four different places and his control was slipping with every passing minute. The red haze drew closer.
“I do hope you don’t melt it down to nothing,” Gerold said, glancing at the amulet. The smugness in his tone did nothing to quell Nathaniel’s rising ire. “It would be a bother to create another.”
Nathaniel snarled. “I have information you may value. I will tell it and give you my word that none of your monks here will be touched by me when I’m done with you.”
Gerold’s eyebrows drew together. “What kind of information?”
“Information about a certain French policewoman and her new friend, an ex-priest I believe.”
“D’Angelo? You know his whereabouts?” Gerold asked with quick words.
“They have something of yours.” It was a stab in the dark. Nathaniel had no clue whether the information he had perceived whilst digging around in Georgette’s mind would be of value or not. But, she had stolen the lance and now headed east. The same way Emma and the priest did. Schleck had wanted that lance, which meant Amynta wanted it. Which meant, ultimately, Gerold would want it, and Nathaniel wanted to know why.
“Very well, Chartley. I confess I am curious to learn what you have to tell me. But why should I trust your word?”
Nathaniel shook his head. “I don’t need to explain that. You’ve not forgotten Spain, all those centuries ago. I’ve not changed on that score.”
The monk looked him over with his small eyes, scrutinizing him. The kettle boiled, its whistling sharp and echoey beneath the lofty ceiling. Gerold turned to make his tea.
“Well?” Nathaniel said.
“I remember our pact. Your word was good enough then, but vampires do change. They like to think they don’t, but the older they become, the less honour means to them.”
Nathaniel gritted his teeth as the pain penetrated to the very bone. “I haven’t told Amynta of your past. I’ve kept my side of the bargain, and I see no reason to alter that… unless you don’t give me the answers I seek.”
“Very well, I will take your word.” Gerold poured a dollop of whisky into his tea and turned to face him. “There is an ancient prophecy, several actually…” He paused to sip his tea, making Nathaniel bite his tongue with the urge to tell the monk to hurry the fuck up.
“You’ve heard all the end of days prophecies – Revelations, the second coming, the rapture… the resurrection of the dead?”
“Of course, is there a point to this? Does the rapture occur in Egypt?”
“It will.”
“You’re jesting.”
“No jest. Raphael thought he dealt with me aeons past, binding me in a rock, but I would not remain there in the darkness. And besides, the master I serve is far more powerful than Raphael, Gabriel, Michael, or any of them.”
Nathaniel frowned. The monk’s demeanour had changed. His eyes blackened as he gazed to a faraway distance, and a strange new fervour seemed to grip him, like one of those annoying tele-evangelists preaching to the stupidest rats of them all, only Gerold’s sudden fervour seemed genuine.
“Gabriel and Michael? The archangels?” Nathaniel recalled the reading on Azazel in Gerold’s room and narrowed his eyes at the little man. “Who are you, monk?”
“A great reckoning is stirring, and the balance will swing one way, or the other, and that is what calls you. It is the darkness in your blood, it beckons you to the reckoning.”
It was Nathaniel’s turn to gape.
“Now,” Gerold appeared to come back to himself as his gaze focused on Nathaniel once more. “Your turn to speak. What possession of mine is held by Michael and his friend Emma?”
“That’s all you have to tell me? I’m to face a reckoning in Egypt? Don’t tell me I’m to believe in biblical fantasies. Archangels. Really, Friar? And you’ve mentioned nothing of my sweet maker. I know she’s involved somehow.”
Gerold shrugged. “That’s all I know.”
“Liar.”
“Will you keep your word, vampire? What information do you have for me?”
Nathaniel shifted the talisman further up, failing to stifle a gasp as he did so. “They have an ancient relic I think you’re interested in.”
“Which relic?”
“The Lance of Constantine. It would be worth thousands, possibly millions on the black market.”
Gerold’s eyes widened. “The Lance.”
“Steel with a golden sleeve? That’s the one.”
“Cazzo!” The monk stepped to the bench and slammed his cup down, tea splashed everywhere, and he swore again, in English this time.
“Why is it important? Does it have something to do with this reckoning you speak of
?”
“That is no concern of yours, vampire.”
Nathaniel sent out his sense to read the monk’s mind, before recalling he’d tried that before and it hadn’t worked. Now, with his pain as a distraction, there was no point in attempting further. He did manage to catch something, though. An image, or diagram, with various lines and squiggles on parchment. An illustration of some kind? Perhaps he should probe a little further after all.
“You’ve got what you came for. I wish you to leave,” Gerold said, not bothering to hide a scowl.
Nathaniel agreed. It was tempting to get more information about that lance, but Gerold was not easily fooled and the pain was now overbearing. The red haze threatened, and he needed his wits about him. He stepped away from the column. “I bid you farewell, Friar. It’s been a pleasure to work with you again. I would stay and catch up on old times, but I’ve a train to catch.” He turned and strode out of the library, and as soon as he was through the arched doorway he tossed the talisman away, eager to be without pain and to stop the red haze building. He force his legs to sprint, but something like a giant fist flattened him to the ground and a heaviness like a boulder pinned him to the floor. Brother Gerold’s chanting echoed through the halls. Nathaniel swore loudly, he’d let go the talisman too soon. Stupid! Then came the pain, a hundred times the intensity of the talisman and Nathaniel opened his mouth to scream, his fangs elongating and grazing his lips, the red haze had him.
He looked up to see a blurred vision of the monk. Some object, a syringe perhaps, in his hand. “You’ve always been too cocksure, Chartley, too impulsive.” The monk’s voice came to him as every inch of Nathaniel’s veins seared with ice-burn.
“What have you done?” Nathaniel managed to rasp.
“Silver nitrate,” Gerold replied calmly holding up the empty syringe. “The burning in your veins will ease eventually, though you’ll pass out before it does so. Do you realise you’re now the second oldest vampire in the world today? If you had a brain you could be as powerful as Asha herself, but you waste your existence doing nothing but brooding, preying on the innocent—”
“The second eldest? What happened to the others? Gavius?”
Gerold smiled, and it looked entirely unnatural on the old man’s weathered face. “I told you we’ve been busy.”
“Amynta,” Nathaniel scowled.
“Indeed. And she’s coming for you too, Chartley. Mark my words.”
“I’ll tell her,” Nathaniel mumbled. “I’ll tell her about the Gigas. That you were its author.”
“Too late for that. The Reckoning comes.”
Chapter 11
I sit on the edge of the bed watching Michael sleep. I wear a smile, a natural one just like when I was human. His blood was beyond any pleasure. Warm and full of his goodness. It has done much to sate my dark musings and my new deadly instincts remain suppressed. I feel more like the old Emma, the real Emma, and it is wonderful.
My gaze holds his sleeping form. I’ve tried a handful of times to tear it away. I should leave the cabin, check on Georgette, and scan the river for any sign of Amynta, but it’s too hard to leave his side. He sleeps, his ash hair a bird’s nest, and a light stubble has cropped up on his jaw. He has long eyelashes I note for the first time, a wondrous discovery, and I ponder what other surprises exist I am yet to discover. I yearn to reach out to touch his skin, which I know will be warm, but keep my hands firmly on the bed beside me. I spot the wound, twin pricks nestled at the base of his neck. I long to kiss it better, but I don’t want to wake him, to interrupt such peace. So I remain still, sitting on the bed, inhaling the scent of his goodness.
The clock by the bed reads four am. With a sigh, I force my body to stand and with one last look over my shoulder I take in his beauty and shut the door.
I check on Georgette first. Her breath remains heavy and regular. Her blood still gives off that rich scent, it’s good, not near as good as Michael, and I suddenly wonder how it was I was tempted by her. But that was before. Now the world is a different place. I smile again, glad Georgette is safe, and doubly glad I don’t have to deal with the crippling guilt. I shut the door and ascend the steps to the deck. I feel light, both from feeling so human again, and from a new power that rushes through my veins.
The night is dark, though the stars burn brightly in the desert sky. Beyond the lush growth on the riverbank, sand extends to a starry horizon. Great hills and dunes roll before us like a purple sea in the night. The lightness makes me dizzy with joy and I suddenly open my mouth to laugh. The giggle startles me and I promptly stop though the smile on my face broadens. It is as though I am on a high. As though Michael’s blood is a drug. A thread of warning weaves through me and the smile fades. I must tread carefully. I don’t want to endanger him. He is the only thing in the world I now care for and my urge to protect him overrides all else. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to ensure his safety. Nothing.
The serious moment soon passes, and I walk the deck with a feather-light step. Though I wish to wake Michael to enjoy the beautiful night with me, I won’t – he needs sleep. I must look after him. Ensure he eats enough too. He needs nourishment. I want him healthy, strong.
At the steps to the driver’s cabin, I surprise myself when I bound up all fifteen steps in one giant leap, as easy as I might have jumped one. A breeze blows from the east and I look out over the bank of the river. A few streetlights sparkle in the distance. A fishing boat trawls past and I shout, “Hello!” and wave. This strip of the river is narrower than other parts. It doesn’t seem impossible to extend my arm and touch the palm leaves with my hand. I can sense the life of those plants. The slow-moving cellulose like a sluggish river in the veins of the stems. The earthy scent of it wafts over the water and I almost want to reach out and bite those plants and drink their goodness too. I laugh again. My thoughts are racing to such strange places this night.
I step into the wheelhouse and give the driver a wide smile. He grins back and greets me with his well-practiced platitudes which, for a change, I find rather quaint. Quaint that a mortal should ask a vampire if she is enjoying the night.
“We’ll be at Asyut by the dawn. We can stop there and refuel. You wish for us to continue after that?”
I nod. “Yes, we have not yet arrived at our final destination.” I still don’t know where we are going, not exactly. I only know the tug on my mind, on my very body, that pulls me deeper into the desert. The urgency grows the closer we get, but Michael’s blood has dampened the intensity of that pull that resides in my blood.
“Whatever you say, Mistress Emma.” The driver, like all the crew, remains firmly locked under my spell, but I sense his genuine pleasure at my presence, and it’s nice. Usually, humans become afraid of me in mere seconds. Humans are animals, regardless of their endless efforts to delineate themselves from their primitive origins, and it is that primal instinct – well buried and almost forgotten, but there nonetheless – that sparks the human into action. Or tries to. Their wild-self registers something wrong the very instant they come into the vicinity of a vampire. It is why the insane are so very good at sensing us. They have no ego protecting them from the chaos of their instincts. I’ve read about it in some of the books Michael has been researching. Stoker knew of course. Renfield, utterly insane, is the one character who knew what Dracula was. Of course another character knew too – Van Helsing.
Something like a shiver creeps up my spine. Was Van Helsing like Amynta? Some kind of slayer? I wonder how Stoker knew all he did. I asked Nathaniel once, not long after he changed me, but he ignored the question, as he always did. Too intent on his games to be bothered helping a Young One, even one he created.
I step from the wheelhouse and gaze to the stars. Something weighs me down now. I’ve lost the headiness from before, and I suddenly realise why.
“Nathaniel,” I whisper.
A seething anger boils deep in my core, but it is countered by the conflicting urge to seek out my maker. When I detected
his scent in Georgette’s blood, it had smelt like home, and I had wanted to drink the French woman dry to sate that desire. But now there’s only rage and neglect that Nathaniel has left me to my own fumbling devices. I recall the way he treated me before he changed me and now a new emotion fights the fury. Shame. He manipulated me, and the truth is I too easily gave into him – a most pathetic human. A sadness blooms inside me – regret for the woman I once was. I will never treat Michael that way. I will only ever protect him.
Nathaniel has become like a father. A neglectful one. Not all that dissimilar to my real father. I clench my teeth hard before whispering my father’s name, “Earl Edward Farleigh.” The words sound cold, and that is apt. My father never cared for who I was. He only ever wanted me to fit the mould he had predetermined. I recall the arguments when I told him of my newly-won employment in Paris. Any other parent would have been over the moon to have their child attain such a position in the Louvre, to have the opportunity to work on such rare texts as I did. My mother would have been proud. But father sneered his upper lip and told me there were perfectly good careers to be had in Britain. It was the last thing he ever said to me, and I very much doubt I will see him again. Not that I want to.
The heaviness grows, and I frown with the realisation that yet again it is Nathaniel who has inflicted this state on me. In truth, I rarely think of my maker, or my father. Damn Georgette and her blood. I force the cool night air into my lungs in an attempt to get my instincts under control. I’ve become very good at avoiding any thought of Nathaniel, but his scent lingers. Even standing here, two decks above the cabin in which Georgette sleeps, the subtle stench of him wafts, like old, dry bones. He drank of Georgette’s blood and I realise with a cold sense of warning that he will be able to track Georgette now. And if he tracks her, he will track me.