by M. L. Desir
Lilith had released him.
He managed to raise his eyes to her.
She loomed over him, a peculiar look on her face. Was it fear? Fear from the Lady who drank it? Her eyes glanced past him, into a distance that he couldn’t see. She turned around and began to walk away.
Over her shoulder, she threw him an indifferent glance. “That little bit with your sister was a demonstration of my power. What came afterward is simply a taste of what I can do to you. Sweet dreams.” Then she vanished.
Gabriel’s eyes grew heavy, losing consciousness. Farcical. If he had the strength, he would laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. He, who didn’t need sleep and never tired; he, who knew the secret of immortality (supposedly—a sardonic voice reminded him) had fallen in a dirty alley unable to move, while his senses surrendered to oblivion. Gabriel would’ve laughed if he had the strength.
Sweet dreams, indeed.
* * *
By the time the sun had set, Michel had already drunk eight glasses of wine. Genevieve hadn’t come down to join him. Her absence neither disappointed nor pleased him. Indifferent to the solo evening, he played a few more ditties on the piano. Golden and blithe Mozart concertos deepened and darkened into Beethoven sonatas. Michel rose from the piano and entered his bedroom.
Genevieve sat on a satin-covered stool. Her saffron hair fell in heavy curls as she removed the pins. She placed teardrop earrings onto her dressing table. Dressed in a pale blue sleeveless nightgown, white slippers that he had given her, she glowed in the thick flaxen light. While she brushed her hair, she glanced at him, and he held her gaze until she turned away. How pretty she looked. What a blessing it would be if she just remained quiet so he could admire her. But no. She’d spout some poison. He could hear her complaints already: I saw you looking at that servant girl. Or: You’re such a child, Michel. Maybe she wanted him to hate her.
The alcohol hadn’t affected him as much as he thought. He should’ve been passing out. His body must’ve been building resistance. Pity. Michel undressed himself and slipped into a dark blue robe. He sat down on the bed and waited.
Without looking at him Genevieve asked, “Are you sober?”
“I don’t know. Come closer and find out.”
She set down the brush. “Will Monsieur Lennox and Monsieur Gray be visiting us? You know how I love having guests. Tomorrow evening would be divine.” She chattered on about Nathaniel’s crude behavior and Gabriel’s grace. He noticed a small smile on her lips as she spoke about the latter. A little girl’s blush put color in her cheeks.
Michel shrugged. “Invite them, if you desire. But you haven’t found out if I am sober or otherwise.” He crossed his arms against his chest. “I wonder what Gabriel would prefer?”
In two footfalls, Genevieve sat down beside him. She placed her hands on his arms. “You’re drunk. You really must stop doing this. Honestly, you’re drinking yourself to death. All I love is you. From the bottom of my heart. You, darling. Please.”
Michel nearly broke into laughter. His wife, an amazing actress, had performed all over England, and audience after audience spoiled her ego with lofty praises and showers of roses after every show. Her blue eyes gazed at him with feigned remorse. While she fussed over him, he suspected she only moved closer to smell the wine on his breath and to confirm he was a drunkard, a wastrel. Instead of facing the real issue at hand (her philandering heart), she set the spotlight on him and his flaws. When she kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair, he wasn’t certain of her sudden affection. He smothered his face on her shoulder, crooned that he knew she loved only him, while his mind screamed “Lies! Lies!”
Pulling away from her, he protested that he had a headache and wanted only to sleep—finally, she left him. Michel lay and chuckled to himself, curled on his side like a child, at last laughing at Genevieve, for a long while. Silly Genevieve, if only you knew my secrets.
Then, he found himself crying.
He felt arms embrace him from behind. Perhaps Genevieve had never left the room. He asked her to bring him more wine. Four glasses later, he realized he was going to do something outrageous.
Making love to Genevieve this drunk was much easier. He felt detached, barely there, lying on top of her, scarcely feeling the warmth of her body and the pull of her sex as she wrapped her arms and legs round him, caging him in her pale, slender legs. All the while he knew that she thought of an emerald-eyed man.
* * *
Gabriel woke to find himself in the carriage, Nathaniel sitting across from him.
“You were foolish to have gone alone. Why? Because you didn’t believe me about Lilith and her plans?”
Gabriel clasped his hands in his lap. “When Lilith released me, she looked almost afraid. Was it you?”
Nathaniel nodded. His blue eyes dulled noticeably.
“How long have I been unconscious?”
“An hour.”
What in the hell had Lilith done to him? He wanted to ask, but he feared Nathaniel wouldn’t give him any straight answers. Pretend not to care to know, that’s the best way to find out.
“You’re angry with me?” Gabriel almost wished that he hadn’t asked. Since when did he care what Nathaniel thought of him?
The other man nodded again. “Yes and no.”
“You want an apology. Is that it?”
“Not necessary. Your trust is more important. I saved you from her. Now you know what she’s capable of and where I stand.”
“You stand by me. That’s no mystery.”
“But you have your doubts. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be in this predicament, now would you?”
“Why exactly is she after me? The nonsense about me Enlightening others—that couldn’t be all, eh?”
Nathaniel leaned back and crossed his arms. “Of course it is. You do as you’re told, or you suffer the consequences. It’s quite simple, really.”
He seethed in silence. Consequences. He wondered how Lilith could kill him if he were indeed immortal.
Immortal? Maybe I’m not immortal after all. I didn’t choose this, he wanted to tell Nathaniel. I didn’t choose to be anyone’s messenger. But instead he closed into himself as a child closes his eyes to the surrounding darkness until morning comes and with it a solution to its monsters. He stared at the velvety night framed by the carriage window. His gaze traced over his faint silhouette against the glass. He wondered how the rumor about vampires not having incarnate . . . whatever that meant. Was that blue light that Lilith had sucked out of him somehow a part of his soul? If so, it could explain why he had fainted. She could weave illusions. She could suck him nearly dry. You know no Chosen like this, a dark voice nagged at him. Perhaps, the voice went on, she is something more.
He focused on Nathaniel’s reflection and flinched when he saw his friend staring at him.
“What are you thinking about?” Nathaniel asked.
He made his face a blank mask. “Nothing.”
Nathaniel shrugged and rolled his eyes. “While you were ‘sleeping,’ our driver informed me that we received an invitation from Michel for a late dinner tomorrow night. At midnight. Will you go?”
Midnight. Late dinner indeed. “I suppose so.” As if you have a choice. As if.
Nathaniel uncrossed his arms and smiled. “Good.”
Gabriel breathed in deeply. He had a feeling there would be nothing good about it.
CHAPTER 6
You Are Their Conduit
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, Michel greeted Gabriel and Nathaniel at the door with a smile. The pianist was dressed in a black, high-collared shirt, oriental in style, with matching pants. The wide sleeves nearly covered his hands. Against the dark cloth, his pale, smooth skin looked almost radiant. He ushered Gabriel and Nathaniel through hallways and chambers over rosy-hued, lush carpets. Giant tapestries with scenes of barefoot, oriental women
robed in lilac silk draped the walls. In one of the many rooms, an enormous chandelier gleamed with gold and crystal. Gabriel had to admit that their host blended in nicely with the décor.
Michel opened another set of doors. “Please,” he offered with a slight bow and a graceful wave of his hand, “enter and dine with us.”
Nathaniel stepped inside while Gabriel lingered behind, looking into a large room with a low table at its center. He entered, stepping over giant pillows spread across the floor. Several man-sized torches in metal holders formed a circle around the room, glowing and casting shadows. The furniture and overall ambience created an exotic and somewhat erotic mood, like walking into a story from the Arabian Nights. Perhaps an entourage of scantily clad, dancing women would come in to entertain.
“Are you not fond of the Orient?” Michel asked, his tone soft and playful.
Gabriel shrugged and began to answer when he heard giggling behind him. He turned around to see Genevieve and Adele. The two sisters stood there, holding hands and staring at him. While Genevieve had light hair and eyes, Adele’s brown hair and eyes possessed a softer, quieter beauty set in a pale round face. They were dressed in kimonos with wide, flowing sleeves and long trains. The cut of Genevieve’s scarlet outfit was a little less modest than her sister’s. The revealing square décolletage left little to the imagination. The clothing looked like garments one would wear to bed, but definitely not to sleep in. He appraised them from head to toe, staring until Genevieve looked away.
Adele had the grace to blush. “Michel, no one is as fond of the Orient as you,” she commented, a nervous trill in her voice.
A soft laugh spilled from Michel’s throat. “There’s a certain tranquility about it that I admire. The people of Japan are most intriguing. I’d love to go back, but I fear that I might stay, and I don’t think they’d like a permanent foreigner.”
“You’ve traveled abroad, Monsieur?” Gabriel asked.
Michel laughed and told him not to be so formal. “Why, yes,” he went on, “haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t had the luxury.”
“Luxury?” His dark blue eyes glittered with humor. “Money is an object meant to be used, my friend. And what better way to use it than by travel? By the look of you and what Sevien has told me, you come from an affluent lineage. Don’t be what you English call a Scrooge—especially when it comes to yourself. I don’t know about you, but just talking about money piques my appetite. Let us eat.” Stepping to the side of the dining room’s entrance with an elegant wave of his arm, he bid Gabriel enter.
Gabriel walked in after the two girls. Nathaniel was already ensconced amongst the floor pillows, looking as comfortable as a cat with cream, stretched out on his left side and propped up on one elbow. The other hand fingered the fringes of a beaded cushion. He had placed a violet flower in his long, blonde hair.
Gabriel sank onto a pillow. “Don’t you look content.” He made his tone as flat as possible with a stab of sarcasm.
Nathaniel’s expression remained blank. He stopped rolling the glass beads between his thumb and forefinger. “Hungry. That’s all.”
Servants came in with trays of food. No, the dishes that they served on silver trays were too beautiful and decadent to be called food. They were masterpieces of rich images and delectable smells. Art that should not be devoured, yet it would be sacrilege to let it go to waste. So, Gabriel ate and drank, tasting curry and other spices. He felt detached from the conversation, which focused almost entirely on the Whitechapel Murderer. But like all other fads, the murders by the “ripper” would dull and be forgotten—until someone either mimicked or surpassed the killings. As Gabriel had observed, history had a way of repeating itself, but few cared to take notice and learn from it.
“Stop,” Nathaniel ordered suddenly. His voice echoed for a moment. It was one of the few words that he had spoken during the course of the long night. Gabriel glanced at the guests who were no longer talking or eating or . . . anything. It was unnatural, like the scene from Sleeping Beauty when a sleeping spell fell over the castle. Time itself had stopped at Nathaniel’s command. He wondered if the others were aware of their state.
“Watch.” Nathaniel rolled over onto his back and levitated into the air before descending feet first onto the floor. He floated, glided—certainly not walking. He stood beside Michel and waved a hand in front of his eyes, which had a glassy stare.
“Come, Gabriel, closer to me,” Nathaniel demanded.
He hesitated, reluctant to get a closer view. As he drew nearer, he wished that he hadn’t.
Nathaniel lowered his lips to Michel’s ivory throat, fixing his pale, icy eyes on Gabriel’s. Those eyes, how they sparkled with pleasure as Nathaniel drank from Michel. While Gabriel watched, he saw Michel’s youthful beauty begin to fade. His skin dried and stretched over the delicate bone structure of his face, wrinkles deepened around his beautiful, blue eyes, and his lustrous, black hair begin to blanch.
“No,” Gabriel protested with an outstretched hand. “No—what are you doing? Stop!”
Nathaniel wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled. “I can’t,” he replied.
He swallowed hard. “What do you mean can’t?”
“I can’t reverse the hands of time, Gabriel. Every second, every fleeting moment, mortals slip closer into the clutches of death. But you. You’ve conquered it. You’ve taken hold of your divine right of godhood. Would you deny others their divine right?” His long fingers played through the gray and white strands of Michel’s hair.
Gabriel narrowed his eyes with contempt. “Divine right, huh? If you think that people deserve to live forever, you’re madder than I thought! And if you want me to be their leader, then you’d better think again because I guarantee that you won’t like my demands.”
Nathaniel didn’t reply, but instead moved onto Genevieve, feeding from her in the same manner. In an instant, she too wrinkled and became old—no—ancient, as old as time itself. Gabriel feared that if he touched her—any of them—they would crumble into dust. Dust. Wasn’t that all that humanity amounted to?
Nathaniel moved closer to him “Think of the world as you know it. You are born; you live a little, only to die. The world, I’m afraid, is nothing like it used to be. A time when the comely daughters of men danced with the Bright Ones. In those days, the Tower spiraled into the heavens with its turrets and gables as a tribute to mankind’s great work. A time when all men learned the secrets of the Divine. It can be like that again, Gabriel. You, my prince, can usher it in. You are their conduit. Their hope.”
Gabriel stood up. “Who cares what the world had been like before? I live in this present one. Immortality isn’t the answer.” He slashed the air between them with his hand. “There are some people that deserve to die.”
His friend smiled. “You mean murderers and their ilk?”
Gabriel nodded, well aware Nathaniel had set one of his traps. Their arguments were oftentimes like fencing matches with quick jabs and fast retreats before lunging in to feign a strike in order to catch the other off guard. He could feel another touché coming, and he sensed he wouldn’t be the one calling it.
“If that’s the case, then you should be dead,” Nathaniel said. “Your demands may be obnoxious and self-defeating, but you are still their only hope. I find no error in that.”
“Their hope,” Gabriel replied bitterly. “You contradict. You confuse. You once told me that I wasn’t the Prince of your fairy tale, and now you say I’m humanity’s only hope.” He threw his head back, laughing hard and long before cutting it off with a curse under his breath.
“That Prince is merely symbolic. You’re better than that Prince. You’re what this world needs.”
“What this world needs, eh?” he echoed matteroffactly. “And what would that be?”
Nathaniel’s pale blue eyes were tinged with a cold sadness. H
e sighed. “Well, Gabriel,” he whispered, “that’s your choice, isn’t it?”
A popping noise, like a wine cork being pulled from its bottle, broke the silence. Michel, Genevieve, and Adele reverted to their young, beautiful, and ignorant selves. Gabriel sank back to the floor, perplexed and a little shaken.
“Monsieur Lennox,” Michel called, “does our chatter bore you?”
Gabriel shook his head and mumbled an apology. His host’s and his other guests’ eyes were fixed on him. He glanced at Nathaniel, who sat with a wide grin, his eyes like crescents.
“Tell me, Monsieur Lennox,” Michel went on, “do you like poetry?”
“Certainly,” Gabriel replied, “but I’m partial to those of the British vein.” He smiled then, but he knew that it hadn’t reached his eyes. He couldn’t shake the image of Michel, haggard and old.
Michel laughed, his fingertips brushing at his lips. “My wife is a lover of verses and the like. Genevieve, recite a poem.”
She arose, all grace and loveliness. She curtsied low to Gabriel and recited the first few lines, a poem Gabriel had heard before. They painted an image of a woman mourning her lover who had been buried under a willow tree. The words rose from his heart and he recited it with her:
“Black his cryne as the winter night, White his rode as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.” Gabriel paused, tilting his head to the side. “Chatterton’s ‘Song from Aella.’”
“You, too, are fond of Chatterton, monsieur?” Genevieve asked.
“I suppose I am.”
“Good. Then we’re similar creatures.”
“Come to think of it,” Adele said, “he rather resembles Milais’s Chatterton. Don’t you think so, Genevieve?”
Gabriel caught Genevieve’s quick, furtive glance. He reasoned that she couldn’t look at him long, unless she wanted to give herself away. How ironic that her actions screamed the obvious: I want you, Gabriel.