by Aderyn Wood
He tried the door. Locked. He spun and turned to the window, closed his eyes and slammed his fists on the wall. He needed the red haze to dissolve so he could think! The warmth of Georgette’s blood flowed through every crevice of his being and recharged him. It was a nourishing feed. One ounce of the Frenchy’s fluid would go twice that of the average rat. Gradually the new blood reinvigorated his entire body and his muscles newly hummed with life. With an effort he brought the red haze to heel, the talons retracted, his skin took on its usual pallor, his teeth returned to inoffensive squares. And the pull to flee to the desert returned in force.
He paced the room, thinking what to do next. Whatever he did, he had to hurry. He’d been given an opportunity, a strange one, but one he couldn’t ignore. Amynta would never release the binds or feed him. Yet here she was, doing just that. He stopped pacing. Perhaps it was someone else who called the shots now. This Dux, person.
“Yes,” he whispered. That would make sense. Gavius had spoken to Nathaniel of some entity known as The Dux. Gavius’ interest with vampirism and slayers had bordered on obsession. He’d even written a book about it. A risky thing, for it now educated humans about their kind, and such secrets were not to be shared. Though it was harmless enough, the rats in their blindness would consider it nothing but fantasy fit for their plastic Hollywood films.
Nathaniel shook his head. “Think, Chartley!”
He strode to the cabin door once more and tried the handle. Definitely locked. He grasped the knob and thrust it forward, the lock clunked loudly as it broke and the cabin door swung on its hinge, opening an inch. Out in the passageway it was dark, but his newly-focused vampire senses determined instantly that no one lingered nearby.
He had to act, and he had to act now. The time for thinking would have to wait.
A glint of gold caught his eye. He turned to the bench and grabbed the lance. It felt good, like it belonged to him. The fleeting thought that Amynta may have left it there as bait crossed his mind, but it felt so right in his hand he dissolved the notion to focus on escape. Out the door he strode through the passage until he came to a stairwell, the very one Amynta must have ascended. He took the steps four at a time until he came to another passage. Tilting his head he inhaled a large mouthful of air and the strong scent of Georgette thickened. He followed the trail and paused outside a cabin, the door closed, but the scent of Georgette was so strong here he knew she was within – another one of Amynta’s prisoners.
Nathaniel burst through the locked door and into the dark cabin. Georgette lay on the bed. Had they taken her blood while she slept?
He went to her. “Georgette?” he hissed.
Heavy snores, her only reply.
He clutched her broad shoulder and shook. “Georgette. Réveillez-vous!”
“Casse-toi!” Georgette shouted and threw something.
Nathaniel cried out as a vial of water splashed against his face. It burned and the stench of his scorched skin once again filled his nostrils. “Holy water?”
“Stay back.” Georgette held a cross before her. Not a crucifix, a cross, both arms even. It held power. Weakness turned his legs to jelly.
“What are you doing? You must come with me.”
“Why should I go with you, bastard?”
“Better to go with the devil you know then stay with the one you don’t. And for better or worse, you lunatic frog, that devil is me. Now put your damn trinkets away and get moving. This is the only rescue you’re going to get.”
Chapter 17
The way Michael sleeps reminds me of a very specific statue in Barcelona – the Kiss of Death. His face is similar to the beautiful subject who gives himself eagerly to Death. Am I the Angel of Death who has seduced Michael into an early grave?
Lamp light casts a glow over his high cheeks and the masculine curve of his lips is heavenly, so like that statue. I want to sit beside him and watch him until the dawn, but a vigour within me forces me up. A laugh breaks from me, and I quickly throw a hand over my mouth. I don’t want to wake my lover. He needs his rest if we are to continue down this path. Making love too often, and the rest of it… the feeding.
I am concerned though, and I cast my gaze over Michael’s form once more. Much of his pale flesh is on display, only his middle is covered by the sheet and it makes me want to rip it off him completely to expose his nakedness, his beauty, so that my eyes may feast as well.
I note the pallor of his skin – pale, yes, but no more than before. He looks healthy and the goodness and sunshine in him reeks forth stronger than ever. I slowly shake my head at the wonder of it. It’s impossible, but if anything his loss of blood seems to make him stronger.
“And me,” I whisper.
Energy fires in my blood and I take a little jump in the air that surprises me as my head nearly hits the ceiling. My strength is growing two-fold, three. Last night I jumped the width of the Nile, tonight I could fly its very length,
My gaze returns to Michael and I follow the line of his veins that mark his arms so prominently. There is something about his blood that does this to me. It makes me strong and I feel a kind of power like I can do anything.
Perhaps it is a sign that we are to be together.
Michael moves then, rolling over so his back turns to me and the sheet shifts with him revealing the tablet he’d been reading earlier.
I pick it up and tap it, an image fills the screen. A picture of the old book Michael found at the library. The one by Gavius. He has mentioned it a couple of times. I step away from the bed and sink into the chair to read. It takes me only a few of Michael’s breaths to finish it and I quickly skip to the next image then the next.
Gavius talks of the Sicarii, an entity with just one purpose, the destruction of vampire kind. They lure their prey before they kill them and the irony of that makes me want to laugh. In my current state, I don’t believe anyone could face me and win. Not Amynta, not Nathaniel. No one. I turn to throw the tablet on the bed, bored with such ridiculous notions but a high-pitched ringing sound comes from the tablet. I hiss and swipe it. The sound stops; Michael has not stirred, but there on the screen is an image of my sister, Susan. She looks around.
“Hello? Michael?”
I gasp and reach my hand toward her. Susan looks exactly the same. Black hair, flawless skin, perfect makeup.
“Hello? Can you see me?” Susan asks.
I nod and open my mouth to answer, but then I remember what I am. In the corner of the screen is a little square that is supposed to show my own image on the video call. But all it shows is the lamp in the background. I am invisible to Susan.
“Michael?”
My hand hovers over the tablet, and I finally shut the call down. Susan disappears from the screen and I know it is the last time I will ever see her. “Goodbye, sister.”
I don’t feel sad. I don’t want to see Susan again, or my father. I was only ever a disappointment to them. This time I do throw the tablet on the bed, but throw too hard, underestimating my strength and it lands on the floor with a soft thunk. Michael remains asleep and I consider waking him so that he can comfort me.
“No,” I whisper. “Let him sleep.”
Soon enough I will forget all about my family. I have Michael, and he is all that matters.
On the other side of the bed, on the side-table, rests the Foliss. I consider the secret illustration of the lance, hidden within the old parchment. The picture flares in my mind, imprinted there for eternity. One thing I’ve noted is the way in which my mind has evolved since my transformation. I only have to read or see something once and it is forever registered in my memory. A page, a painting, a face. It doesn’t matter. Once I see it, it’s locked in forever.
But the notes on that secret page. I need to see them again. I stare at the little book. The red leather cover was worn in parts. It really needed a conservator’s attention if it was to remain intact. I reach out without thinking, willing the ancient book to my hand and in the next instant I g
asp as it flies across the room, as though thrown at great speed, and I clasp it.
I stare at the book for a moment, not believing what just happened. Telekinesis? “It’s not possible.”
I drop the book on the carpeted floor and stare at it a moment longer before holding my hand out once more. It remains still, unmoving by my foot. I think of the desire to read it. To hold it in my hand and once again it rises, defying gravity and all laws of physics to launch into my grasp.
I shake my head but I’m soon smiling. I’m some kind of fucking superhero. I turn to the bench where my stash sits and raise my other hand and will the bottle of vodka to fly to me. It does so, and I will the glass tumbler after that.
“Fuck,” I utter, a smile wide on my face. “You’re not going to believe this, Michael,” my whisper is as quiet as his breathing.
I’m tempted to go out into the night and experiment more with these new-found powers. Perhaps I could hunt down Amynta, bring back that French fool and we could all be on our way without a concern in the world.
Something pulls at my gut. A pressure that is so strong I almost mistake it for pain. But when I consider it I realise it is the same pull I’ve felt for days now, weeks even. That pull to go further into the desert. It grows with intensity so that now all I want to do is fly my body toward it.
I put a hand on my stomach to ease the tension there and pour a glass of vodka, right to the rim. I sip the way I used to when I was human and open the Foliss. I need to think, just the way Michael does. I need to help solve this mystery rather than blindly walk into whatever it is that awaits me in the desert.
I open to the hidden page and reread the handwritten notes.
… And the guardian Michael shall bear the Lance of Constantine that smote the Son of Justice, and with which he shall vanquish the Spawn of Chaos in the final exorcism, the final reckoning.
“The guardian Michael,” I whisper.
I snap my head up as a thousand different sources of information fill my mind. “Michael vanquishing Satan.” It was a biblical reference, a prediction of the war to come with the End of Days. The Christians believed the archangel Michael would lead an army to fight a war, the final war. The fate for humankind would hang in the balance.
“But that’s all a myth. Nothing but a fairy tale.”
My gaze returns to Michael and once again I’m reminded of that statue in Barcelona.
I put the Foliss down and the vodka too and go to the bed to sit beside Michael.
He groans as his golden lashes flutter open, but soon enough he is smiling. “What is it, Emma?”
“I’m hungry.”
His smile broadens as he drukenly rolls over and offers his arm. I lick my lips and imagine my own drunken smile as I bend to drink his sun-drenched blood.
Chapter 18
Michael D’Angelo’s Case Notes – from the Foliss Abesse
* Vampyres are creatures of dangerous beauty and most humans will fall victim to their charm…
* The vampyre is a predator, their only equal, the Sanguis Sicarii…
Michael slept for a few short hours. When he woke his body felt energised like a storm cloud ready to strike its web of lightning. Once again, he considered the strange fact that he was losing blood with every one of Emma’s feeds, but it far from hindered him. He’d never felt so robust, so healthy, so alive. He couldn’t recall reading anything about this feeling of vigour on the part of the victim, and he scanned his notes in an effort to find some clue he may have overlooked.
He read his notes on the Foliss again, noting the tingling in his hands every time he came to the word ‘vampyre’. But there was no mention of this energy. This feeling of being so vibrantly alive. Only the very opposite. The victim should begin to experience fatigue and exhaustion, just as Nathaniel and Emma had done before they were turned. He lowered the tablet onto the bed, careful not to wake Emma beside him.
Her beauty arrested him. His heart lurched every time he allowed his gaze to fall on her. This obsession became more intense with every day, every hour.
Tearing his gaze away, he stood, dressed, then forced himself to leave the cabin to face the mid-morning sunshine on the deck. The cruiser moved as slow as ever. Grey clouds covered the sky, and Michael thought he could smell rain on the air.
He stood on the stern deck, watching, but not watching the gushing white of the river water as the cruise yacht churned through. He considered all that had happened since he’d met with the Farleighs and agreed to find Emma. Susan had held faith in him that he could find her sister. But what could he tell her?
Finding Emma had not been the end, rather the beginning of something that cast him in a strange new role. He’d met strange people, like Brother Gerold – Michael shivered when he recalled the monk’s words, ‘guard your heart’. The old brother had channelled Michael’s grandmother. But was that even true? Or was Michael looking for excuses now to ignore the warning. Now that he and Emma had…
The thought petered out. What had they done? Fallen in love? Michael sighed. He’d never felt this way before, not with Judith, not with anyone. It was more than love. And it demanded more of him.
He thought of Amynta and her castle in Greece. He’d killed the vampire, Vincent, with his stake, turning him to dust and blood. But it was the words he’d said before his death that caused Michael’s heart to skip a beat now as he recalled them.
“You’re one of them,” the vampire had said.
Michael swallowed thick saliva as the words repeated themselves in his mind.
You’re one of them.
One. Of. Them.
Them.
“Who?” he whispered.
His phone rang sharply, jolting him from his thoughts and he grasped it from his pocket, his heart lurching once again at the name on the screen. He pressed the button and snapped the phone to his ear. “Georgette?”
Laughter. “Of course not.”
“Where’s Georgette?”
“Oh, dear.”
“What?”
“I was hoping you could tell me where your French friend was.”
“Don’t play games, Amynta.”
“I never play games.”
“Where is she?”
“Turn around, Michael.”
Michael’s stomach plunged, and his hands buzzed so that he had to grip the phone to avoid dropping it. He turned slowly to see Amynta herself standing at the bow of her boat, which powered closer. No more than an arm’s length separated both cruisers. She wore the black leathers that reminded him of the bike gear he had Emma wear when they’d escaped Amynta’s castle in Greece. His guess had proved correct and the leathers had protected Emma from the sun. Michael narrowed his eyes on Amynta and wondered again whether she was herself a vampire, but though she’d covered her body, her head remained opened to the daylight, dull as it was, and her red hair streamed back in the breeze.
Amynta put Georgette’s phone in her pocket, and still wearing that smug smile she suddenly launched herself through the air and landed next to him on the deck. Michael gaped as he glimpsed the churning waters below, but soon regained his composure.
“Where’s Georgette?” he asked. Amynta’s boat had eased off a bit, but he still had to raise his voice to be heard over the two motor yachts.
Amynta gave him a smirk, her face deathly pale in the grey light of the day. “I do not know, but it is inconsequential. How goes your lover?”
Michael froze.
Amynta laughed again. “You’re wondering how I know. Oh I have many tricks, but it was only a matter of time. You have much to learn about the nature of vampires.”
Michael scowled. The truth in what she said was impossible to deny, but it only served to spike his anger.
“Something big is about to happen,” Amynta said, her chin lifting to indicate the direction they headed—up the Nile. “Your vampire will know when it is time to head inland, and I suspect that time is nearly upon us. I’ll be following you all the way, M
ichael. You’ll need me.”
“Listen, we don’t want you—”
“You will need me, Michael.” Amynta’s ruddy eyes caught the light. “You’re about to wander into an infestation. Do not shake me off. I’ll be in contact again.” Amynta raised both gloved hands in the air and clapped once, and her boat moved closer to the Shakra. She gave him another menacing smile as she prepared to jump, but rage still fired in Michael’s blood and he grabbed her arm.
“Ow, what are you—”
“Where. Is. She?” Michael snarled.
Amynta looked at him with a mix of anger and shock. “Let go—”
“No.” Michael tightened his grip. His gift had been summoned involuntarily and the heat in his palm was already building. “What have you done with her? Have you given her to your vampire slaves?”
“What?”
“You had a vampire working for you. I know, I slew him. And you brought his brother back from the grip of death with vampire blood. I’ve seen his hulking form on your boat. Is that what you’ve done with Georgette? Has she become your feed pool?”
“Victor?” Amynta’s eyes filled with surprise, before she tilted her head back and laughed.
The action summoned Michael’s rage to intensify and the storm inside him fired once more. Unwittingly he funnelled his anger at the slayer and a bolt of blue heat sparked from him, catapulting Amynta up and back through the air, her legs and arms circling until she landed on her back with a loud thump on her cruiser’s front deck.
She leaned on her arm and, breathing hard, gave him a slack-jawed stare. “You will need me!”
Her cruiser then abruptly turned and sped away.
Chapter 19
Nathaniel paced like a trapped wolf, glancing at the recumbent form of Georgette who slept as peacefully as a kitten with a belly full of cream. She mystified him. He’d never known a human to sleep so soundly while in the presence of a vampire. But sleep she did, and her snoring was frightful.