Immortal War v-6

by Justin Somper

  Mimma gave a wink with her right eye so that Lilith could appreciate the full effect.

  “Oh, yes!” Lilith said, her own eyes bright beneath her crème-de-menthe sparkle-effect eye shadow. “Love it! I’m going to do one of those hearts around my own eye.”

  Mimma chuckled at her girlish enthusiasm.

  Encouraged, Lilith inquired, “And why is that young Vampirate lad of such interest to you, I wonder?”

  Mimma smiled. “Loose lips sink ships,” she said, raising a finger to her mouth. She winked again, then turned and sauntered back out the way she had come in.

  Grace took the flask of berry tea and her cup and walked over to the counter. As she sat down, she realized she was no longer alone in the room. She looked up with some surprise to see Sidorio closing the door behind him and stepping toward her. She set down her cup carefully, determined to remain in control. Was there any point in even asking how he had managed to evade the fortresslike security here at Sanctuary?

  “What are you doing here?” she inquired instead, her tone neutral.

  “I came to see you, of course,” Sidorio answered brightly, approaching the counter. “You haven’t forgotten what day it is, have you?”

  Grace glanced at the wall-clock, which read twenty after midnight. She turned back to Sidorio, puzzled. “It could be Tuesday or Wednesday. I’m so busy here, one day bleeds into another.”

  Sidorio smiled at her and, despite everything that had happened between them, there seemed to be genuine warmth in his smile. “You’ve forgotten,” he said, producing a package from the folds of his coat and setting it down on the counter. “It’s your birthday, Grace.” He tapped the package. “And this is your gift from me.”

  It was a tubular shape, wrapped roughly but evidently with some care and finished with a dark red ribbon, tied in a bow.

  Grace was taken aback. She had genuinely forgotten that it was her and Connor’s birthday. It was a sign of just how hectic things had been at Sanctuary. This war didn’t take a convenient break for birthdays—this war which, she reminded herself, the man in front of her had initiated.

  As if reading her mind, Sidorio’s eyes met hers. “I know there’s a vast gulf between us,” he said, “but when all is said and done, you are my daughter. Biologically speaking, at least.” He looked suddenly awkward. “Look, I know that this is the first birthday since your dad died. I’m not trying to replace what he meant to you, but, still, I wanted to do something for you.”

  Grace nodded. She was unsure how she was supposed to react. There were no familiar rules to her relationship with Sidorio; it was far too extraordinary to be forged along conventional lines. Biding her time, she took a sip of the tea.

  “What’s that you’re drinking?” Sidorio asked.

  “A blend of seven mountain berries. It’s a temporary substitute for blood.”

  He grinned at that. “Come off it, Grace. There’s no substitute for blood.”

  Shrugging, she took another sip. “I think we both know there are some things we will never agree on.”

  Sidorio tapped the package on the counter again. “Aren’t you going to open my gift?” His eyes were wide, like a child’s somehow. He still hadn’t sat down. How long was he planning to stay?

  She reached forward and took the package in her hands, unlacing the bow and then slipping off the brown paper wrapping. Inside was a roll of canvas. She began unpeeling it, wondering what on earth it could be.

  “It’s the portrait we all sat for,” Sidorio said. “For Lola’s arty friend. Whatsisname… Caravaggio, that’s it!” His momentary elation soon dissipated as his eyes fell to the torn canvas. “Well, what’s left of it after your brother set about it with his sword.”

  Grace opened up the remains of the painting, which someone—could it have been Sidorio himself?—had gone to some trouble to patch together. It wasn’t the whole portrait. Perhaps out of sensitivity, Sidorio hadn’t patched Lola back in. Instead, it was just Sidorio and his two children. It was a shock to see it again, especially the image of her own eyes filled with the fire of hunger.

  “I wanted to give you something to remind you of your family,” he said. “Whatever you think of me, I helped bring you into this world. Surely that has to count for something.”

  Grace was speechless. She couldn’t ever imagine putting this canvas in a frame and hanging it on a wall. Not like the beautiful picture of Dexter and Sally, in the early throes of romance, which Lorcan had given her. And yet, though this portrait was utterly grotesque, she couldn’t help but feel touched by Sidorio’s tortuous thought processes in bringing it to her. It was not at all the kind of gesture she would have expected. She looked up from the rather imperious rendering of Sidorio in the portrait to the real Vampirate and found he was smiling at her tenderly.

  “You think I’m a brute,” he said. “Now, don’t bother denying it, you know it’s true. You believe me to be a monster and, mea culpa, many of my actions might have led you to that conclusion. I’m a Vampirate and I’m the commander of a vast empire. But that’s not all I am, Grace. I also happen to be your father, and Connor’s, too. And that matters to me.”

  “Are you planning on paying Connor a visit tonight, too?” Grace asked.

  Sidorio shook his head, his eyes downcast. “No, things didn’t end well between us,” he said, his finger tracing the slashes on the surface of the portrait. “He’s going to need a little more time.” He raised his eyes again. “You were always more open-minded.”

  Grace looked at Sidorio. “I am open-minded about many things but, all the same, I know which side of this war I’m on.”

  Sidorio nodded. “I’ll allow that,” he said. “After all, it’s clear you owe your stubbornness to me. It certainly wasn’t part of Sally’s character. I know we’re on opposite sides, and I know there’s probably nothing I can do to change that, but I’ll ask this one thing of you, Grace. Just the one. Please never forget that I am your father and that I do have feelings for you.”

  Grace looked him in the eye. “You could change everything by agreeing to a truce. I could summon Obsidian Darke to join us right now. We could end this war here, tonight.” She took a breath. “Now that would be a truly amazing birthday gift—one that you, and only you, could offer me.”

  For a moment, Sidorio was silent. Was there even the remotest possibility he was considering her proposal?

  At last he shook his head. “The painting and the chance of a family is my gift, Grace. I know both are a little ragged, but, well, they’re all I can give you right now.”

  She nodded. She hadn’t realistically expected him to say anything different. “Thank you again,” she said. “I’ll tell Connor about this when I next see him.”

  Sidorio glanced at the clock. “I had better be going. Lola is in the midst of labor.”

  Grace’s mouth gaped open. “Lola is about to give birth to your children and you’ve left her to come here?”

  Sidorio shrugged. “I already have two children,” he said. “Besides, I’ll be back at her side in time to cut the cords.”

  Grace closed her eyes for a moment. Somehow, she was transported to the scene on board The Vagabond. She could visualize Lola lying on her bed and the eager faces and hands circling around her. Opening her eyes, Grace looked back at Sidorio. “You’d better hurry,” she said. “It will be soon now.”

  “It’s funny,” Sidorio said. “All four of you will share the same birthday.”

  “Yes.” Grace nodded. “I suppose we will.” She had another thought. Surely Sidorio’s new kin would count her and Connor as half siblings. It was strange to contemplate. But the thought was soon pushed away by other urgent matters. “Are you aware of Mosh Zu’s prophecy?” she asked.

  There was a silence between them and she wondered if she had made a mistake by bringing it up. If Sidorio didn’t know and he asked her about it, wasn’t she in danger of disclosing important information? Well, it was too late now.

  “Yes,” he s
aid. “I know about that prophecy. Olivier was very eager to share the information with me.”

  Of course he would have been! Grace shook her head, unsure how to frame her next question. But Sidorio seemed to have anticipated it.

  “You’re wondering how much store to set by it, aren’t you? You think the prophecy foretells your death, or perhaps Connor’s?”

  Grace nodded. “It does foretell someone’s death. One of the twins, so me or Connor. Though I suppose it might equally refer to your new children.” As the words came out, she rather regretted them. Still, he didn’t seem perturbed.

  Sidorio shrugged. “I don’t set much store by prophecies and portents, Grace,” he said. “Now Lola, she loves all that hocus-pocus. And that’s fine by me—it keeps her entertained, gives her plenty to chew over with Olivier and her girlfriends. But here’s the fact of the matter as I see it. People like me—people like us—we write our own destinies. I’ve defied mortal death and immortal oblivion many times already. The more others try to cut me down, the stronger I become.” He smiled at her. “I’m sure the same is true of you and Connor, and it will be true for Lola’s twins when she brings them into the world. The Sidorio clan was born to rule—not to be ruled over.” He stepped closer toward Grace. “It’s time you understood that your powers now outstrip Mosh Zu’s, just as Connor’s rival those of any other pirate’s. Don’t let a prophecy conjured up hundreds of years ago put the frighteners on you, daughter. Someone of your lineage, of your rare gifts, truly has nothing to fear.”

  As he finished speaking, he pulled her toward him and folded her into his arms. Grace gazed up at her father. What an endlessly surprising creature he was. It was, she reflected, a good thing they were both immortal. It might take all eternity to understand him and get their relationship on anything like a workable footing.

  Releasing her from his arms, he nodded once more, then turned and stepped out into the corridor. The room felt more deeply silent after he had gone. Grace knew his stirring words had been intended to give her strength and support. Nonetheless, she could now think of only one thing: Lola’s going into labor signaled the time of the prophecy. The war between the Alliance and the Vampirates was reaching its endgame. And either Grace or Connor would soon die!

  Inside Room Six, Connor sat at one end of a chaise, staring through a hole in the rotting floorboards. He was fairly sure he’d just seen a mouse dart across underneath. At the other end of the chaise lay a “tav”—Vampirate parlance for a tavern girl, or indeed boy. A girl in this case. Her shirt was unbuttoned, her arms cupped softly in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her mouth slightly open.

  “I’m sorry,” Connor said, his own eyes still on the floorboards. “Could we just talk for a bit?”

  She didn’t answer, and, after a short wait, he turned to face her. He realized she was out cold. Connor felt a sweep of panic. He had been beside himself with hunger tonight. Had he taken too much blood? They didn’t usually pass out after only a pint.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, leaning closer and taking the girl’s pulse. To his relief, it was still beating, albeit slowly. She’d come back to life soon enough. He decided to wait here until she did—for his sake as much as hers. His own pulse was racing now. The new energy he had drawn from her was fizzing and snapping through him.

  What was her name? Had she even told him? Names were of little importance here, especially at the outset of an urgent transaction. But now, seeing her properly for the first time, rather than through the red mist of his hunger, he wished that he’d paid more attention. Noticing the almost dry puncture wounds on her thorax, he drew the sides of her shirt back together to protect her modesty. As he did so, he saw that a tarnished gold necklace hung around her neck. The chain was askew and he reached forward and carefully straightened it. Suspended on the chain was something he first assumed to be a random pattern. Then he saw that it was a name. Petra. He smiled.

  His attention was diverted by the old clock, ticking on the mantel. The light in this room, like all the others, was meager. Lilith kidded herself it was all in the cause of “mood-lighting,” but more likely it was a matter of simple economics. Connor squinted to read the clock face through the gloom. As he did so, he smiled with wry recognition.

  “After midnight,” he said. “You know what that makes it, Petra?” He turned back toward her. “My birthday. Not much to celebrate today, however.”

  He gazed at Petra, wishing that she would respond. He experienced another wave of panic and guilt and reached for her wrist again. The pulse was stronger than before. Good. But he was in no doubt now. He’d fed too hard. Just how much had he taken to bring her to this state?

  He kept hold of her hand, reluctant somehow to let her go. “Of course, I don’t know if birthdays really mean anything to me anymore,” he mused. “Now that I’m a dhampir, that is. Now that I’m immortal, do birthdays even count? Maybe next year, I won’t even bother marking it.” He paused, aware once more of the ticking of the clock. “Does time have any meaning at all now?” He squeezed Petra’s hand for comfort, but the cool limpness of her hand made him feel lonely and he released it, placing it back on her diaphragm.

  “Birthdays are a time for friends,” he said now, eyes seeking out the clock face once more. “I should get back to The Tiger. Maybe Jasmine will make a fuss over me.” He smiled at Petra. “Jasmine’s my girl,” he said. “The thing is, she doesn’t know about me. About me being a dhampir, I mean.” He suddenly smiled. “Maybe it’s time I just sat her down and told her. That could be my birthday gift to myself. Jasmine’s a really amazing girl. If anyone would understand, she would. It’d be such a weight off my mind. That really would make it a birthday to remember.”

  “Birthday? Whose birthday?” Petra’s speech was slightly slurred.

  “Petra!” Connor turned to face her and saw life blooming in her eyes once more. It was a huge relief to see that she was all right. She began drawing herself up straight on the chaise.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Some water, maybe?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “Well, then.” He stood up. “I think I’d better go. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He couldn’t wait to get out of this dingy room. He strode toward the door, then, having second thoughts, returned to the chaise, reached into his pocket, and took out a roll of notes. He placed them in Petra’s pale hand.

  “Here’s some extra,” he said. “I may have taken more than I paid for, but Lilith doesn’t need to know, does she?”

  Petra smiled softly and shook her head again. “Whose birthday is it?” she asked once more.

  “No one that matters,” Connor said, then turned and slipped out through the door.

  27

  THE VORTEX

  There was a spring in Darcy Flotsam’s step as she made her way along the passageway. In her hands was an old guitar she had found in the Corridor of Discards. She realized she must have walked past it a hundred times or more but today it had seemed to be calling out to her, winking beneath the light of the butter lamps. The guitar would make the perfect present for Jet now that he was firmly on the road to recovery. It might not be the Fender Strat ’54 he talked about with the fondness of a lost love, but he could certainly make music on this, and, as one musician to another, Darcy felt sure this would be solace enough. She would give it a good cleanup and then surprise him with it when she visited him again that night.

  As Darcy turned the corner, she found Grace striding toward her. It took Darcy only an instant to notice the familiar bag in Grace’s right hand.

  “So,” Darcy said. “This time you’re really leaving.”

  Grace nodded, pausing before her friend. “You know that I have to.”

  Darcy nodded, too, her eyes already wet. “Yes, but weren’t you even going to say good-bye to me?”

  Grace placed the bag on the floor and reached out her hand to Darcy. “I was just coming to find you,” she said.

  D
arcy looked at her askance for a moment, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Grace. It’s just I’m going to miss you so much. We’ve been through so much together, especially these past few months. You’re the one who’s gotten me through.” Tears began to fall. “It’s selfish, I know, but I just don’t know how strong I am on my own.”

  Grace gripped Darcy’s arm tightly and pulled her friend toward her. “You’re so much stronger than you realize,” she said. Then they hugged, holding each other tightly for a time, as if their very lives depended on it. When they finally broke apart, both young women had tears in their eyes.

  Darcy, of course, was equipped with a lacy hankie. “I guess I hoped you’d change your mind about leaving,” she said as she blotted away her tears, then passed the hankie over.

  “I’ve been torn,” Grace said. “If I had left the other day, I wouldn’t have been here to heal Jacoby or”—her voice dropped lower—“Johnny. I know someone else would have done the job perfectly well. It’s just that everyone is being pushed to their limits right now. The thing is…” She paused, handing the hankie back to Darcy. “The thing is, my father paid me a visit last night.”

  “Sidorio!” Darcy exclaimed. “Here at Sanctuary?”

  Grace nodded, shrugging. “It’s no surprise really. He comes and goes as he pleases now. Whatever we may want to believe, his powers only seem to be growing. He knows no bounds.”

  “You say he came to see you?” Darcy asked.

  “Yes.” Grace nodded. “And to bring me this.”

  She unzipped the bag and retrieved from within it the canvas, which she held up in front of Darcy.

  “Hmm,” Darcy said, clearly none too taken with it. “It’s not my kind of artwork, though I suppose it’s a reasonable likeness of you and Connor.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be getting it framed anytime soon,” Grace said, folding it up again and putting it back in her bag. “But the portrait is unimportant, Darcy. You remember the prophecy: that one of us, Connor or me, must die?”