by Sarah Hoyt
Porthos frowned. “We presume,” he said. “That if he comes in the night, you’ll open the door for him.”
“Or not,” Aramis said, and frowned slightly.
D’Artagnan’s throat constricted at those last words, and looked questioningly at Aramis, just as Porthos said, “Aramis, Athos is not—”
Aramis turned his clear eyes in d’Artagnan’s direction, quite ignoring his friend. He’d removed his gloves, while they inspected d’Artagnan’s new lodgings, and now he put them on with exaggerated care, “Athos is not dangerous is what Porthos would say, if I allowed him, and to an extent he’s right.” He pulled the glove tight to his hand and looked up. “Athos, our friend, whom we’ve known for so many years, is both far above and far below the common run of men. In matters of nobility and mind, he is the highest of men, his mind schooled far beyond most of his kind, his principles disciplined with rigid but enlightened exactness. He was the only son of a most noble couple, born late in their married life. As such, he was the repository of all their hopes and desires. They formed him as their ideal of perfection.” His eyes were intent, giving d’Artagnan a stern look, as though warning him of something. “But he is now a vampire and vampires are more animal than we are, but there is more to it than that.” He sighed. “If you want the explanation of their nature from a . . . theological perspective I can offer it. I was destined for the Church and close to ordination when the Cardinal disbanded the seminaries and forbid anyone from becoming a priest. What they told us in seminary, as the plague of vampires blotted out the Church, is that vampires are like animals in as far as having extra senses, but like angels in that they share their minds with others. Athos does not do that, but I don’t know for how long.” He shook his head. “You wonder why, then, I allowed him to live?”
“It does . . . beg the question,” d’Artagnan said, and found his hands were clenched one on the other, forcefully. He’d trusted the vampire, even though his father had told him not to. He’d fought by his side, and now his oldest friends cast doubts on his character.
“But it’s not so easy. If anyone can beat this—if anyone can resist the mind-blighting, the craving for pleasure that are part of vampirism, it will be Athos. It’s just—” He sighed deeply. “It’s just that to my knowledge no vampire ever has. Not for long. Whichever vampire turned him . . . they . . . as I understand it, they take the measure of the man when they taste his blood. And whomever that vampire is, he or she knows where to push—where the weak point in the defense is and how to break through. Lock your door, my friend. And do not open it at night, even if the voices of those asking you to do so are well known and trusted. In the streets of Paris, in the dark of night, friends become strangers, and acquaintances hideous enemies.”
And thus they had left d’Artagnan alone, in his commodious lodging, behind two locked doors—one at the bottom of the steps that led up to the first floor, and one at the top, where his lodgings proper started. Both doors were marked with large embossed crosses. The shine from those crosses alone should blind any vampire attempting to approach the door, much less to break it down. If they persisted, it would burn out their eyes. For younger vampires, d’Artagnan had heard and didn’t know how much of it was a legend, it blotted out their thoughts as well as their vision.
Behind his two closed doors, with his windows well shuttered against the waxing moon outside, he was safe. As safe as he could be in this time of ruin and evil.
He paced, by the light of two candles—provided by his new landlord—placed on cracked plates, one on the table in the front room—a large table with more chairs than d’Artagnan ever could hope to entertain guests—one on the clothes press in his bedroom, at the foot of the bed. The bed must once have belonged to a much grander household, its posts and headboard carved in curlicues and turns, the gilding on them worn thin in spots.
From outside came a sound that might be dogs, but which reminded d’Artagnan of the wolves that haunted the night of his native Gascony. He’d heard that in Paris no one could leave their dogs outside, lest they fall prey to vampires. But the howling continued, fraying the nerves. Perhaps the wolves—their fear of vampires that roamed the countryside less than their fear of the humans in Paris—had been driven into the city, looking for the scraps that humanity discarded even in these lean times when most of the kingdom lay fallow.
It wouldn’t be the first time wolves came into Paris and preyed on the weak there. And even had they come—d’Artagnan paced his floor, measuring forty steps from bedstead, out the door of the bedroom, and across the front room to the door at the top of the stairs—they wouldn’t be the most dangerous creatures in Paris at night. Nor the most vile. Compared to a vampire, a wolf was almost a brother of men, an open and honest natural creature.
He paced again, from doorway to bedstead. From outside, through the shutters, came a scream, and the sound of running feet and coarse male laughter.
In his mind, thoughts assembled themselves then drew his attention—one by one—as if they were the beads of a rosary, slowly told through clenching fingers. He’d come to Paris to cleanse it of vampires. His anger so fierce it seemed as though it could, by itself, scour every building of the city, right every upended cross, and rebuild every desecrated cathedral.
He’d come to Paris to serve Monsieur de Tréville’s musketeers, but he’d been turned down—put off with pretty words—and Aramis had said that the numbers of the musketeers could not be augmented. That too, was part of the treaty between the cardinal and the king. And the king was not, despite his crown and his anointing, the more powerful of the two.
Until a musketeer died—or enough musketeers died, since there was a waiting list—d’Artagnan would not receive the tunic of a musketeer. And until then, he had no sanction, no help in killing vampires. Even after that, if he understood it properly, he would have to do it stealthily, in the dark, and silence, as though it were a shameful thing. Monsieur de Tréville—or the king himself—might approve of it in secret but would disown him if he were discovered killing registered vampires, the proper subjects of the cardinal.
So why was he here, locked behind safe doors? Safe shutters? Porthos and Aramis had said to stay there in the dark of night, in the dangerous hours, and not to open his door to anyone.
But if that was what he wished to do, then surely he could have stayed in Gascony barricaded himself in his parents’ house, and kept away from vampires—thus wasting his life as solidly as he was wasting it here in Paris.
Oh, there was a good chance—and he suspected that was Porthos’ and Aramis’ and even Athos’ fear—that if he went out in the dark of night, he would find himself facing a vampire he could not conquer.
He clasped his hands and unclasped them, the tightening of his fists so close that his nails drew blood from his palm. Yes, he was but seventeen. What they called a child and little more. Seventeen or not, what good was life to him? And what did it matter?
On that day when he’d come home to find his parents turned, he’d faced his own death—or at least the death of everything dear to him. Until then, they’d been living peacefully, telling themselves the horrors that ravaged the rest of France could never reach their little domain where they knew everyone and everything. His father had personally made sure the village church’s bells continued tolling over the sleepy countryside and that every peasant had plenty of holy water as a defense. He’d sheltered the parish priest, so he could go on blessing holy water.
But no part of the world could be safe when monsters strode abroad spreading their corruption. D’Artagnan knew that now. And his father had known it before he died. As he died, he had blessed his child and told him to kill vampires. To go to Paris and kill vampires.
D’Artagnan took a deep breath, sudden and shattering, as though it had been forced on him from the outside, so violent he felt his ribs would crack.
To kill vampires.
With sudden decision he reached for the sword in its scabbard, which he
’d flung on the table. He strapped it on and nodded, as if to a challenge, though he wasn’t sure from whom—perhaps from within himself.
He paced to the bedroom and blew out the candle atop the clothes press. Then he blew out the candle on the table.
In the dark, the sounds from the street seemed magnified. Screams and shouts and, now and then—he would swear to it—the clash of metal on metal.
He threw his cloak over his arm—more as a defensive device than as a garment. At the top of his stairs, he opened his cross-marked door and rushed outside into the musty darkness of the stairway. Down, down, down, by feel and not by sight, to the front door.
He checked he had his key in his sleeve, then opened the door and rushed out, slamming the door behind.
Outside the air was clear and cool and the moon in the sky so brilliant it rivaled the sun.
In its luminescent glow every aspect of the buildings stood revealed—the stones visible through the worn-out whitewashing. At the corner stood the desecrated chapel, its cross broken. In its half-ruined tower, a bell shone, silver-bright.
And in the middle of the street—like ghostly figures, outlined in the silver-blue moonlight, there fought Porthos and Aramis, crossing swords with six men—no, six vampires—in the uniform of the cardinal’s guards.
Angels and Demons
HIS parents had given him the name of an angel. The man who for the last fifteen years had called himself Athos, had been baptized in holy water with the proper rites as Raphael de la Fère in peacetime, or at least in a peaceful region, in the bosom of his noble and ancient family, in its secluded and fruitful domain.
Born when his mother was approaching fifty years of age, he’d been viewed by both his parents as a miracle, as amazing—a portent as absolute—as the Biblical Isaac born to the aged Sarah when all hope was past. And like Isaac’s, his mother held him to be the gift of angels, or of one angel in particular: Raphael, archangel of the presence, whose power and righteousness had cleansed the Earth after the deluge.
By the vacillating light of the only candle remaining lit, Athos looked at himself in the mirror trying to see any sign of that holy promise, that divine gift.
There was none.
It was not true that vampires couldn’t see themselves in mirrors. Or at least, Athos saw himself clearly enough—his pale hair, his square chin, his eyes looking slightly red-rimmed as though he’d slept too little or cried too long. He had done neither—sleeping nor crying.
During the day he’d remained in his lodgings, refusing to give in to the urge—the overwhelming desire — to sleep. He would not be like them—not in what he could control, not in what he could force to obey him. He would force himself to stay awake by day and sleep by night.
But now that it was night, he wondered if that made any sense after all. He could not go out during the day nor keep the duties that would usually be allotted to him—and how he could explain that to Monsieur de Tréville remained to be seen, at least once the period had passed when the captain would be expecting him to recover from his injuries—and he dared not go out by night. Oh he wanted to . . . .his body trembled with the eagerness to go out. It was like a call—and that call he feared.
What he most dreaded was that once outside he might very well—he probably would—follow the urge to seek Charlotte wherever she was and surrender to her entirely. He could feel heat radiating from her bite, and could hear in his mind Charlotte’s brilliant laugh.
But he would not give in. He was not just a man. He was Raphael, Comte de la Fère. However pitiful he might be compared to his parents’ great dreams, this much he owed them, and this much he would do. He would not succumb to evil. He would not become one of them; a monster in mind and body, whose very essence served evil.
Clenching his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, he reached for the candlestick on the table and clasped it firmly. In his mind, arising from that safe childhood in which he’d been little more than a promise and his parents dreams, came a litany taught him by his preceptor—an aged Jesuit—“The enemies of the soul are three: the flesh, the world and the devil.”
He’d repeated those words as a child, not knowing what any of it meant, and now he refused to dwell upon them as he trod out of his little sitting room into the main room. Grimaud had bid him good night an hour since and gone up to his room, calmly, to sleep. How the man could sleep like that in a house with a vampire, Athos didn’t know. Why his old servant trusted him more than Athos trusted himself, Athos couldn’t fathom.
He knew only that at this moment he’d not given in yet. He was certain of the solidity of the candlestick in his hand, and the light cast by its single candle made the shadows recede.
He hoped, without being able to say it, that Grimaud had set a chair against his door. He didn’t want to attack Grimaud. He wouldn’t go after Grimaud’s blood and soul. Not while he was himself. But how long would he be himself?
It seemed to him as if the shadows themselves called to him and beyond that, those other shadows—the greater night outside and the not-quite-full moon shining over Paris. Outside . . . outside his kind would be rampaging: the Lords of the Night whose every whim could be indulged, every desire gratified. Outside, Charlotte would be awake, silk skin and moonlight hair, her high, firm breasts, her narrow waist . . .
He clenched his teeth so hard he thought they’d crack, and held the candlestick tighter. The enemies of the soul are three. The flesh . . .
Down the hallway, in the cool darkness, his heightened sense of smell detected a trace of everyone who had occupied this dwelling before him. Earlier, after his friends had left, he had forced another four cups of broth down, though quite a lot of it had come back up. Still he was not hungry. Or not exactly. His body did not thirst for liquid or nourishment. His body was craving. A craving spun and woven, and made flesh. A craving for comfort, for union, for pleasure, for . . . Charlotte.
In his room, he set the candle on a table beside the bed, the same table that held his copy of Virgil, thumbed through and marked with a thin ribbon ending in a silver medallion showing the arms de la Fère given to him by his father. He’d started reading that while he was still a living man.
He slid off his boots, a feat that usually required Grimaud’s help, but which he managed by dint of struggle and force. Barefoot, he unfastened his old-fashioned breeches and pulled them off with his stockings and his undergarment, and carefully hung them up.
His nursemaid, who, in the way of an old and affectionate servant, had looked after him long after he’d reached adulthood—in fact, until his marriage—had drummed into him that a nobleman simply did not leave his clothing and possessions lying about. Having met and known many other noblemen in the last fifteen years, Athos begged to differ. But at the time, his pattern of perfection had been his father, an exact gentleman and never untidy.
His shirt, no longer tucked into his breeches came to his upper thighs. For many years it had been his habit to sleep in his shirt. Tonight he wondered if he should remove it, lest blood, seeping through his bandages, would stain it.
But in the end, he decided tonight, of all nights, if he was going to attempt to sleep—when he didn’t even know if vampires slept and knew for a certainty they didn’t sleep at night—everything must be as familiar as possible.
From his bedside table, he got the leather strap that he used to tie his hair overnight, so it wouldn’t become tangled about him, and then he slid into bed.
The linen sheets were cool and strangely rough against his exposed legs and hands, coarser than they’d ever felt before, and they smelled of his own sweat from the previous night.
He didn’t think what he’d done was sleep. His friends had found him, crawling in the street, weak, half-dead, undeniably turned. Undeniably turned that is, unless it were to the embracing arms of friendship, which refused to believe it, which held out hope against hope that he would still live, that he would still be human.
His friends had dragged him home a
nd to bed. He retained a blurry recollection of being shoved—naked, bloodied and filthy as he’d been—between his sheets. And then there had been the darkness of death until he’d wakened, dewed in sweat and trembling, in the morning, images of blood and need in his mind.
There was a faint, lingering smell of death in the bed. Not as though someone had died in it, or at least not recently. It was more like the odor from a tomb many centuries old.
In the churchyard of La Fère there were three raised sarcophaguses, each of them surmounted by the statue of a crusader, his arms crossed, his blank eyes looking beyond the sky at eternity. Athos’ father had told him they were his ancestors, good and revered men.
A solitary, quiet boy Athos might have been, but he would have been more than blood and flesh if, in the daring years of his adolescence, he hadn’t opened the tombs, just a crack, to peer inside.
Perhaps others had done so, in the untold centuries since interment. Or perhaps grave robbers had at some point despoiled the tombs. They were empty, nothing within but a little dust.
And the smell from them was age and incense. Something very old and vaguely musky. This smell, Athos now detected on his sheets—not unpleasant, but strange, as though he were dead and buried at the bottom of a tomb.
He closed his eyes and told himself he had to sleep, but the candlelight, shining through his eyelids, made him open them again, and glare at the brightness. The light kept the shadows at bay. But he’d not slept with the candle lit since he was two.
Rising on his elbow, he blew the flame out and the shadows closed in. Cool shadows, scented of powdery death.
His hand went up, by accustomed rote, to trace the sign of the cross on his forehead, but he could not let himself do it. He could not profane with his unnatural hands a sacred gesture. He turned in bed, and then again, his arm paining him, his middle sticking to the bandages by seeping blood.