by H. G. Parry
“Do it,” Wilberforce said to Pitt, very quietly. He hadn’t meant to speak; he had been painfully aware, all this time, that this was a duel of blood and magic that he had no part in. But he had never been good at keeping his opinions to himself.
Pitt nodded and turned his pistol around so that he gripped it by the barrel. “If we’re to disarm,” he called down the stairs, “we’ll do it together. On the count of three.”
The pistols hit the stone floor below with a satisfying clatter; from below, a distant echo told them that the enemy had thrown two weapons of his own. Wilberforce should probably have felt defenseless without the cold metal in his grasp. Instead, he could feel nothing but relief, as though he’d thrown aside a serpent. Whatever he told himself, he knew in his soul that he could not fire a chunk of hot lead into another human being. He couldn’t believe it was right.
“Very well,” the voice said. “You can come down now.”
The stranger was sitting on one of the many crates stored in the cellar since the army had taken quarters there. As they descended the stairs, he rose to his feet and stepped into the shaft of moonlight.
His fair hair was unpowdered, his dark jacket was plain, and he wore no cravat. His face was thin, all sharp angles and cheekbones, and his blue-green eyes regarded them with the wary reserve of a young man in an assembly making a new acquaintance against his will. He looked, as Fina had said, ordinary, even a little fragile. And yet Wilberforce noticed how fluid his movements were, how much energy was barely contained in his long limbs. It wasn’t simply life. He was incandescent with magic.
“Good evening, William Pitt,” the stranger said. He ignored Wilberforce entirely. “May I call you Billy?”
“Not really,” Pitt said. “No.”
“Your electorate call you Billy. So do those amusing papers. I read them, you know. Master Billy, the schoolboy to whose care the nation was entrusted.”
“You’re not my electorate,” Pitt said. “And you’re not really very amusing. Let’s stay on formal terms, shall we?”
“What is your name?” Wilberforce heard himself asking. It probably would have been better to have kept his mouth shut. But he didn’t know, after all these years, and he wanted to. They weren’t really strangers anymore, and it was too easy to call him the enemy. “Your full name.”
The other man’s eyes darted to him for the first time, and his mouth twisted in a wry smile. For a second, he looked horribly like Pitt. “William Wilberforce. We’ve never met, though I think we’re each familiar with the other’s work. I tried to enter your dreams once in the middle of the night, when you were very young. That night in Rheims, the night the three of you broke into my attention. You wouldn’t let me visit.”
“Really?” Pitt said. “My congratulations. You must be the only person in the relevant world who hasn’t been allowed to visit Wilberforce.”
Wilberforce smiled a little, and felt the ground a little steadier under his feet. “I wasn’t aware of your visit,” he said, “but I remember the undead you sent to kill me.”
“You do.” There was a thoughtful note to the lilting voice. “Robespierre’s first undead. You’re very scared right now, aren’t you?”
“If I am,” Wilberforce said, and he tried to make his own voice firm, “it won’t stop me.”
“I understand your fear. You’re not like your friend here. You have so much to lose if you fail.”
“And that,” he said, “is why it won’t stop me.”
“No, I can see that. To answer your question, I’m sure you’ve heard I’m not in the habit of giving away my name. I’m not even sure it would help you very much to know it. I’ve half forgotten it myself.”
“Your family name was Lestrange,” Wilberforce said. “Wasn’t it?”
Something shadowed and soft flickered across his face. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it was. A very long time ago.”
Wilberforce nodded. He felt on firmer ground now. “Were you given your father’s name?”
“It sounds as though you already know.”
“I don’t. But I know blood magicians value lineage even more than most, so it wouldn’t surprise me. Pitt was named after his father.”
“Very well,” he said. “I was.”
“His name was Alexandre. Alexandre Lestrange.”
“Alexandre.” It was almost a question. “Yes. Yes, that was my name. Alexandre Bonnaire Lestrange. Perhaps it still is. I don’t know how long it takes a name to starve to death from lack of use. Now, what did you want to speak to me about?”
“We didn’t necessarily want to speak to you,” Pitt said.
“Oh, of course you did.” The confidence was back in the enemy’s voice. “You two do little else but talk. Besides, if you’d really wanted to kill me, you would have tried the instant you came down those stairs. Wilberforce wouldn’t, of course, but you would. You don’t want me dead, or not like that: quick and dishonorable. You want to know me. You can’t help it. You know we’re the same.”
“Be careful,” Wilberforce said to Pitt. He couldn’t explain why, but he was filled with a sudden foreboding that had nothing to do with death. “I… Remember what he convinced Clarkson to do.”
The enemy cast him a brief, dismissive glance. His eyes were black in the darkness. “You remember that shadow very well, don’t you, Wilberforce? The one I sent to kill you.”
That was all the warning Wilberforce received before a knife was plunged into his side and drawn out again with a vicious twist. There was no knife—he knew that even as he gasped and collapsed to the stone floor. But the memory was there, and so was the agony, perfect and ice-cold and coal hot. The world around him grew dim, and he was going to die this time. All he could see was the terrible eyes of the man standing opposite him, and he couldn’t think of him by his name. He was the enemy, elemental and terrifying, and he always would be.
Dimly he heard Pitt’s voice. “Stop it.”
“I’m all right,” he tried to say, as he had tried to say twenty years ago, and like twenty years ago he couldn’t say it and he couldn’t hold back a cry as the knife twist came again.
He had been so scared then. He wasn’t scared now, not of dying, not like that. But he didn’t want to fail, and it hurt so much.
“I said,” Pitt’s voice came again. It sounded very deep and clear. “Stop.”
And suddenly the blade withdrew, and the pain unsheathed with it. He lay there on the stone floor, completely drained but gasping with relief.
“Wilberforce?” Pitt checked. He was standing straight and tall. His eyes were locked on the enemy, and they burned with mesmeric fire.
Wilberforce struggled to find his voice. “I’m all right.”
“Don’t you dare touch him again,” Pitt said to the enemy.
The enemy laughed. “I promised not to harm anyone on British soil. I think you’ll find there’s no harm been done. A memory never hurt anybody.”
“Nonetheless, you will stop immediately.”
“Why? What will you do?”
“I will stop you.”
“Do you really think you can?” The terrible eyes were locked on Pitt now instead. Wilberforce hated himself for how glad he was for that.
“If I’m not mistaken, I just did.”
“You’re not mistaken, entirely,” the enemy conceded. “But you’re mistaken if you believe you could hold out for long. Do you have any idea of whom you’re facing? I’m the last true-blooded vampire in all of Europe. I’m over three hundred years old.”
“I’m only forty-six,” Pitt replied. “But I started very young. And you’re in my territory.”
The enemy looked at him. Just for a moment, doubt flickered across his face.
“You’re only forty-six,” he repeated finally. His tone had changed. “And you’re dying.”
Pitt said nothing.
“You know you are. You can feel yourself slipping away every hour, can’t you?” He tilted his head to one side, as if list
ening to something. “Or is it every minute? Every second? How fast does it feel to you? Your limbs are turning to ashes as you stand there, and the worst part is that your mind is still burning so very, very brightly. That must be the most exquisite torture. To know that you can control figures and numbers and armies and ships, but you can’t control the disintegration of your own body.”
“Nobody can do that.”
“I can, in fact. And so could you.”
“No,” Pitt said, “I couldn’t.”
“Because you can’t imagine ever doing what needs to be done. That’s it, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I used to wonder, you know, how you could resist it. That was why I spent so much time visiting your head. I wanted to understand. I sifted through all those memories of your father and your mother and your childhood. But it was so simple. Blood magic isn’t a physical temptation for you at all. How could it be? You’ve been brought up to find the thought utterly distasteful. Gentlemen, after all, do not kill others and take their lives. I grew up in a different time—an age of true magic, when wind and water and fire moved with the will of magicians, and blood magic and necromancy were a ripple of darkness under the skin of the world. It was nothing for us to slit the throats of enemy magicians and Commoner sacrifices, and nothing for us to watch as their blood flowed and their life poured into our veins. It was no more a breach of decorum than eating or drinking in this anemic age.”
“I think most would agree that murder is distasteful on moral grounds. It isn’t a question of decorum.”
“I believe it is. You still think of blood magic as uncivilized. What you don’t understand is that it’s the most civilized magic there is. Civilization has always been fed by the blood of lesser mortals.”
“Metaphorically speaking, perhaps. This isn’t a metaphor.”
“It isn’t a metaphor to the dead. How many people have died for your country in the years it’s been at war?”
“Too many.”
“That’s an evasion. I have no doubt you of all people could give me an estimate. But very well: too many. And yet you accepted their deaths, sitting at a desk thousands of miles away. Allow me to put a question to you. What if in the case of blood magic, the messy physical act of murder was removed from the equation? What if you didn’t have to draw a blade across flesh and look into your victim’s eyes? What if all you had to do was close your eyes, open them again, and the act was accomplished?”
“And somebody was dead at my feet?” The familiar bite of sarcasm was there. “Of whom were you thinking? Should I be economic and dispose of my political rivals at the same time, as Robespierre did? Fox has a good deal of magic in his blood, perhaps, although I’m not sure how healthy that blood is, with all those years of indulgence floating around it. Perhaps I should be truly democratic and pick a victim off the street at random.”
“Somebody dead at your feet,” the enemy agreed. “And you alive. Truly alive, not clinging onto life and watching it slip further and further from your grasp. Do you even remember what it felt like, being young and strong and brilliant and in control of a nation? It was all so easy then, wasn’t it? The sleepless hours used to fly by, and your mind would dart over problems so quickly you felt half-mad with the possibilities. You used to keep your face calm and collected every second of every day so that nobody could see how excited you were.”
“I do remember,” Pitt said. The dry humor had gone from his voice. “I remember it a great deal better than you do. And before you ask, no. Not at that cost, no, I would not have it back. I understand your argument, but it doesn’t work that way. If people die in war, it’s for the safety of the country, not my own private benefit.”
“Your survival isn’t a matter of private benefit, though, is it? You’re not a private individual. You’re the head of the British government. And, frankly, doesn’t it deserve a better one than the burnt-out wreck you’ve become?”
“Since we’re being so frank,” Pitt said tightly, “then yes, of course it does. I hope it finds a better one. For now, I’m what it has.”
“You know it won’t find a better. This country needs you—it always has. That’s why you came back. The trouble is, they need you as you were, and you can only be there for it as you are. And soon you won’t even be able to do that.”
Wilberforce had regained his voice now, most of it in a surge of indignation. His limbs were still weak and shaky; still, with more will than strength, he pushed himself to sit. “Leave him alone.”
“Don’t worry,” Pitt said, though his head had risen again at the support. “I had far worse directed against me the last time I was in the House of Commoners. If this person wants to insult me, he will have to try harder than that.”
“I’m not trying to insult you—well, not to no purpose, though it is fun,” the enemy said. “I’m trying to offer you an opportunity.”
“To be strong and brilliant and live forever? Forgive me, but since you mean to conquer my country, I don’t see how it would be to your advantage to have me achieve this.”
“Ah, but what if I did not mean to conquer your country?” the enemy said. “What then?”
There was a long pause.
“Explain your proposition,” Pitt said finally. He sounded for all the world as though he were negotiating a trade deal with a foreign diplomat.
“Surely you’re not going to listen to—” Wilberforce broke off with a gasp as the enemy idly flicked a finger in his direction and the memory of the knife stabbed again. It was more of a warning twinge this time, but it was still a knife.
“Don’t you dare,” Pitt snapped. His eyes flamed once more.
“Oh, please don’t try to fight me on my terms,” the enemy said with a sigh, but the pain receded. “You were quite impressive the first time, but it’s been, oh, a good two or three minutes since then and you’re so tired. It’s embarrassing.”
“Apparently not embarrassing enough to stop you from wanting to negotiate. And if you hurt Wilberforce, in any way at all, I will not listen to a word you have to say. That is not negotiable.”
“None of this is negotiable,” Wilberforce said. He turned to the enemy. “We didn’t come to listen to your terms. We came to offer ours. Either you agree to end this war and come to terms of peace that involve no further deaths, or we carry out the duel we came here to fight. That’s—”
“Do shut up, little Wilberforce,” the enemy said blithely. “Everybody gets so annoyed when you pop up every five minutes in the House of Commoners. Half the time you’re not even sure of your own opinion.” He paused. “Very well, Mr. Pitt. As long as we’re negotiating, little Wilberforce is safe. I’ll give my word on that.”
Wilberforce got to his feet, although his head swam and his limbs trembled. He tried not to give the enemy the satisfaction of seeing how shaken he was.
“There. Safe and sound,” the enemy said. “Shall we talk?”
“Don’t,” Wilberforce said to Pitt flatly. He didn’t care if he was swatted briskly aside again; that was designed to make Pitt think of him as small, and possibly because the enemy was thinking him the same. Pitt, he hoped, had known him long enough not to be deceived, and if the enemy was, so much the better.
“I’m listening only,” Pitt said. It might have been to Wilberforce, or it might have been to the enemy; he was keeping his eyes on the enemy the entire time. For the first time, it occurred to Wilberforce that this might not be entirely safe. “If I don’t like what I hear, I won’t listen any further.”
“Shall we sit down?” the enemy inquired courteously. “I’m sure you want to.”
“We shall not,” Pitt said. “Talk.”
The enemy circled them slightly, like a cat stalking a bird. Pitt turned with him, keeping their gazes locked. Wilberforce didn’t.
“I might have underestimated you,” the enemy said. “When I felt you enter my territory all those years ago, you were such a brief, flickering light. Yet you did blaze quite brightly for a
while. You’re nearly out now, of course, but still.”
He was trying to sound unconcerned, but Wilberforce realized that he truly was worried. The world had changed in the years since it had belonged to his kind, after all, and the rules were changing every day with them. And he had been too slow to see it. He had overlooked Toussaint, and Fina, and too many others he had felt beneath his notice. He had overlooked Bonaparte and lost control of him in the process. He had nearly died in the attempt to invade England by sea. And now he was here, no longer a nightmare figure but a vulnerable human body, and he was…
More than worried. Wilberforce felt a surge of hope. Frightened. Despite his bristling magic, despite the fact that he had sought this confrontation out, now that he was here, he was frightened. And that meant, somehow, they could harm him.
He glanced at the pistols on the ground. One shot each. Was that really all there was, though? Was there no other way?
“Here are the possible ways this could play out,” the enemy said. “We could duel to the death by magic, right now, as we intended. I have a strong suspicion I would win, but who knows? I can’t be certain. If I were to win, however, you would be dead, and our war would be at an end. Your territory would soon pass into my hands.”
“We knew that was a possibility when we invited you,” Pitt said.
“But I doubt you expected it to be quite so likely. You were a good deal stronger a few weeks ago, weren’t you? Or you thought you were.”
Pitt said nothing.
“You are right, though,” the enemy said. “We can duel. Before we do, though, there’s something you may wish to know. Have you ever wondered why I’ve been so eager to push back against abolition in England?”
“I know you have the slaves in Jamaica in your power,” Pitt said. “Yes.”
“Yes. Fina would have told you that. Where is Fina, by the way? Did she make it back from Trafalgar?”