Darkness In The Flames

by Kelly, Sahara

  And she prayed for her own death.

  There could be no more of this horror. No more infinities of pain or blackness. No more resistance. She had nothing left with which to fight. Thérèse had reached the end, pushed there by the hand of a Bishop whose powers had been challenged and whose friends had been insulted. And held fast by the sounds of her sister’s terror.

  It must end. It had to end and end now.

  Sliding to a crumpled heap, Thérèse surrendered to what she knew awaited her—the welcome darkness of death. Yet, to her surprise, no dark angel arrived to claim her soul.

  Hearing a sound outside, she drifted back into consciousness only to see a light wavering beyond the barred cell door. She was still alive, apparently, numb to her injuries but still alive.

  She wondered why.

  The door clanged open and something was tossed inside, falling heavily across Thérèse’s legs. By the dim light she could make it out—it was a body.

  Frail and limp, the flesh was cool and Thérèse instinctively shuddered away. Then a brief ray of moonlight shone from above and illuminated the corpse at her feet.

  It was Katya.

  Madness descended on Thérèse, the madness of a pain too great to bear, an agony that ripped her humanity from her and drove her past any trappings of sanity.

  She sobbed and mumbled sounds that would have been screams and curses on other lips, from other throats. She cradled Katya in her one good arm, gently stroking her swollen and useless hand across her sister’s cold forehead. A sticky dampness met her touch—Katya was bloodied, mottled with the evidence of savage abuse.

  Tracing the delicate skin, Thérèse sensed the wounds, freezing as she found more wetness soaking Katya’s slim thighs. She needed no light to tell her that her sister had been brutally raped.

  It was a horror too great to be borne and it swamped Thérèse with a mixture of desolation and agony.

  Holding the lifeless body of her sister, Thérèse cursed those who had done this. She began to curse the Hun, the Bishop, Simon Montreaux and even God himself. Wrapped in her pain, she let anger build inside her, the only emotion that could sustain life within her damaged body.

  She howled at last, an animalistic sound of desperation. Her cries went on and on until her voice gave out, reducing her to whimpers. It was too much. She surely must now give up the fight.

  It was time to die and be with Katya.

  Gently she let Katya’s head rest on a pile of straw and lay down next to her, awaiting the inevitable.

  It seemed unsurprising when a figure loomed into her vision. “Do you wish to die?”

  The question was croaked softly and Thérèse did her best to focus on the speaker. Surely this crone could not be the angel of death…

  Resolved, Thérèse nodded. “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?” The figure blurred then resolved itself into an old woman, shrunken and shriveled, but with traces of red hair still gleaming here and there around her withered frame.

  “I have nothing left.” Thérèse fought to shape the words.

  “You have your anger.” The woman nodded at Katya. “If I could give you the chance to avenge her death…”

  Something stirred within Thérèse. Her temper—that volatile and often troublesome characteristic that had been such a strong element within her personality—flickered to life as she struggled to consider the question. Would she take revenge for Katya? Would she punish those who did this to her?

  Sanity had fled and where there should have been rational consideration there was only fury. Thérèse’s humanity had departed with Katya’s soul. What was left—

  “I would take that chance. I would be avenged.”

  “So be it.” Two fangs appeared in the old woman’s mouth.

  Thérèse watched dispassionately as the lips bent to her neck. She did not even feel the piercing bite, nor did she suffer through the transition as she became something new and strange.

  It was much later that she opened her eyes—both eyes—to find herself completely recovered.

  “I…I…” She stared at her hand, whole and functioning. She touched her body only to find the burns healed, her toes perfectly formed—all her injuries had disappeared.

  “I gave you my gift. Some say ‘tis a curse.” The voice came from a heap of straw against one wall and Thérèse saw the woman’s face peering from beneath its limited warmth.

  “Who are you? I don’t understand…”

  The woman sighed. “Once I was beautiful like you. Once I loved unwisely. And then I was given this gift—though some call it a curse. We are blood drinkers. Night dwellers. We live in the shadows, in the darkness. And we are immortal.”

  “But…” Thérèse stared at the old woman. This was not an immortal.

  The crone chuckled, a raspy sound. “I know. I am dying. My time is near and I could not evade these humans who search for such as myself. We are not truly immortal, but I have several hundred years to my credit. Eventually even our bodies must surrender. And we must pass on this gift to another. I have chosen you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of her.” The woman looked at Katya, cold and stiff now on the floor of the cell. “Because I had a daughter once by a man I loved, but that love was not returned. He denied me most cruelly and cursed me. I lost my child. I lost my soul. I took revenge. Now ‘tis time for you to take yours.”

  Thérèse stared anew at the body of her sister, able to clearly see through her restored eyes the damage that had been done. A fire began inside her, an anger so enormous that it threatened to choke her.

  Katya had been brutalized, savaged beyond belief. Torn, bruised and beaten, her body clearly bore the traces of rape and forced sex, by something so violent it had nearly ripped her body apart. Her neck was oddly twisted, cracked by what must have been one sharp blow.

  The Hun.

  Thérèse stretched out her legs and stood, holding her balance for the first time in she knew not how long. She was vaguely aware of her hair tumbling down over her naked back. She neither hungered nor felt thirst. There was no pain, just an odd emptiness within. Something was gone and something new was arising even now to take its place. And she knew what that something was.

  It felt good, this anger, this fury that swelled from her loins to her throat. It satisfied her, encouraged her and strengthened her.

  “There is much to learn, but you will find a way.” The woman’s head sank back onto the straw. “I have done what I can. You have taken the last of my life. Make it yours. Make them pay for what they have done.” She coughed and sighed. “Never let the sun’s light touch you. It will be instant death.”

  Slowly, the ancient body began to disintegrate, shimmering into bones and then dust.

  Thérèse watched dispassionately. Death could no longer move her. Death was not something she feared anymore. She leaned over and dropped a light kiss on Katya’s cold cheek, wondering why she felt no need for tears. It was as if she embraced the corpse of a stranger.

  Her lips curved back from her gums and she explored the sensation of two long sharp fangs emerging to lie coldly on her lips.

  Thérèse smiled.

  She would learn what she needed to learn to survive. And then she would make them pay.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marcus sat quietly next to Sidney, the two men scarcely daring to take more than a quick breath.

  Rowan lay as one dead, unmoving, his face an expressionless work of art, his beauty highlighted by his pallor. The soft light of the waning moon dusted his naked torso with silver, highlighting the sculpted muscles and firm flesh.

  There were no marks to show where the others had fed from him, nothing to mar his perfection.

  Marcus risked a small sigh, only to feel Sidney’s hand reach out and press comfortingly on his arm. “’Twill be all right, Marcus.” A low whisper, nothing more, but Marcus was warmed by it all the same.

  “Thank you.” He covered the older man’s hand and sq
ueezed back.

  Adrian and Katherine lay close to each other where they had stumbled and collapsed, as did Nick and Verity.

  Both Sidney and Marcus had been astounded at the speed with which they fell—mere moments after drinking from Rowan they had crumpled into a kind of stupor, a lethargy that had initially frightened Marcus witless, but then—reassured by Sidney—he knew they merely slept.

  It was not usual, that much was certain. Sidney had endorsed Marcus’ opinion that after feeding, they normally betrayed energy and vitality, not this comatose slumber. This event was different, strange to all of them, a mystery Sidney was anxious to solve.

  Marcus was just anxious. More than two hours had passed—two hours too long for his liking.

  His gaze strayed once more to Rowan, still as the effigy of a knight on a tomb. Sir Galahad, perhaps. He certainly possessed the beauty for it. Though delicate of feature, Rowan’s bones were strong, his masculinity never in doubt. The fullness of his lips, the firm slant of his nose, the wide brow—all contributed to the face of a saint. Or a warrior. Rowan could have modeled for either, plus probably a few other heroes as well.

  Marcus knew he had been blessed on the day they’d met. For Rowan’s soul, though troubled, was fundamentally a beautiful one. His friendship was something Marcus would treasure for the rest of his life.

  Thoughts somber, Marcus remained silent in his chair, knowing that the older man next to him was equally somber. Sidney’s adopted son and daughter-in-law were risking much, as were Nick and Verity.

  Chance—or fate—had brought them together into what was becoming a tight family unit. Should one suffer, all would suffer. Any kind of loss would leave no one untouched.

  There was a stirring, a change in the air around them. Both Sidney and Marcus leaned forward, aware that something was happening.

  Katherine was the first to move—jerking upright with a cry on her lips, a sob that erupted with surprising violence.

  Verity moved too, shivering and shuddering, her dark eyes suddenly wide and terrified. She clapped a hand over her mouth, struggled to her feet and ran for the French doors, crashing through them and disappearing into the bushes where the sounds of her distress could be heard quite clearly.

  Adrian shifted and sat up as did Nick. Both men were weeping, pink-tinged tears falling freely down over their faces.

  “Dear heavens.” Sidney awkwardly struggled to his feet as Marcus moved toward the distraught threesome on the floor, helping them find chairs, fussing over them, ensuring they were still alive and aware of their surroundings.

  Katherine was beside herself, flinging her arms around Adrian and shaking with the ferocity of her sobs. He held her tightly, his own chest heaving as he wept too.

  Nick seemed stunned, unaware of his tears, blindly reaching out for Verity who reappeared looking wan and distressingly pale. She rushed into his embrace, also clinging to her mate with a desperation that surpassed anything Marcus could remember seeing.

  Tears sprang to Marcus’ eyes as well, tears of sympathy for what they must have suffered—what they’d experienced.

  How terrible it must have been to reduce such strong people to such agonies.

  Sidney poured brandy into glasses, his hand shaking so much the decanter clattered against the crystal. It would do little for the vampire taste buds, but it was as if he found some sort of distraction and normalcy in the actions.

  And Adrian took a glass without hesitation, tossing back the draught of liquor immediately. Katherine still clung to him, seated in his lap, refusing to let go until he coaxed her to sip some brandy as well.

  Finally a kind of order was restored and their emotional state eased a little. Katherine and Verity wiped their eyes and sniffled, while Nick and Adrian did much the same only more self-consciously.

  Rowan—Marcus glanced at him with more than a little concern. But he slept on, undisturbed by the swell of pain the others had brought into the room.

  Reassured, Marcus sat down once more and looked at the four people still in the throes of distress. He remained silent, though. It would fall to Sidney to uncover the cause.

  Adrian was the first to speak. “My God.” Just two words, but spoken with such emotion that Marcus felt them like a physical blow to the gut.

  Nick tried to say something but could not. He just shook his head.

  “Katherine?” Sidney looked at her. “Are you all right?”

  She lifted her head from her husband’s shoulder. “No. No, I don’t think I’ll ever be all right again.”

  “Me either.” Verity agreed. “I can’t forget those screams…” She cried softly, an aching sound of loss and desperation that touched Marcus’ soul.

  Eventually Nick found his voice. “I think I understand.” He lifted his black gaze to Marcus and Sidney. “At last…I think I understand.”

  Sidney eased himself back down onto a chair. “When you are ready, tell me. Tell us.” He waved a hand toward Marcus. “Help us understand too.”

  Marcus looked over at Rowan once more and swallowed hard. “We should wait until he—recovers.”

  Sidney nodded. “He will.”

  Adrian squared his shoulders. “Yes, he will. I took no more than one swallow—I’m sure the others did the same. I needed no more than that to—to—”

  “To what?” Sidney asked the question seconds before Marcus could voice the words.

  “To drop into the past, I suppose. Thérèse’s past.” Adrian looked at his father. “’Twas as if I was there, Father. There with her, inside her, experiencing what she experienced.”

  “Me too.” Nick chimed in, his words still catching in his throat. “I felt her horror.”

  “I felt her terrible agonies.” Katherine moved a little.

  “I felt her unspeakable loss.” Verity shuddered.

  And Rowan finally stirred.

  For a few moments there was confusion once more as gentle hands reached for Rowan, helping him, touching him, reassuring him he was still there, among his friends.

  Marcus was the first to reach his side, dropping swiftly to his knees as he slid an arm around his friend’s shoulders and assisted him to rise. “Rowan—Rowan, my dearest—come back to me. To us.”

  Shaken by what he’d seen on the faces of the others, Marcus trembled as he raised Rowan and watched the dark eyes flicker open, blank for a minute or so then returning to their normal brilliance.

  “Did it work?”

  A sigh of relief echoed through the room.

  Sidney’s shoulders sagged. “Thank God. Yes, Rowan, it worked. How are you feeling?”

  Rowan straightened, smiling a quick thanks to Marcus and sitting upright by himself. “Tired. A little weak. But otherwise quite well.” He glanced down at himself. “I see no wounds or lasting injuries.”

  Then he looked around him at the faces staring at him in concern. “But I see something else in all of you.” His expression sobered immediately. “Something dreadful has happened. Tell me.”

  Katherine and Verity moved as one to sit on either side of Rowan, almost protectively tucking their arms through his.

  “’Twill be hard, Rowan.” Katherine’s dark blue gaze was troubled and the marks of her tears still evident on her cheeks. “Your blood opened a door for us. A door that led back in time.”

  “To Thérèse?” Rowan’s question was simple and immediate.

  “Yes, Rowan.” Verity answered softly. “To Thérèse.”

  Rowan glanced at Marcus and Sidney. “You know?”

  “Not yet.” Marcus stared back, gaze steady. “We would prefer to share this moment with you. If there are terrible truths to be revealed, best to do it only once.” He passed a hand over his face. “When they awoke just now, Rowan…it was…well, I have never seen anybody react so strongly.”

  Rowan moved his head in question.

  Sidney responded. “They were shattered, Rowan. Devastated beyond words. Whatever they saw, whatever they felt after sharing your blood, it m
ust have been terrible indeed.”

  Adrian agreed. “It was. Even now I can feel it choking me.” He turned his head to look at Rowan. “You saw nothing?”

  “Nothing at all. I barely remember the first bite, then I drifted away. All was darkness until just a few moments ago.”

  “Perhaps ‘tis better that way.” Nick stood and stretched his shoulders. “We were very much affected, Rowan. And our emotions toward Thérèse are the opposite of yours. If what we saw could do that, then I cannot imagine how you would deal with it. You love her. We do not.”

  Sidney glanced at the clock. “It is past midnight. If we are to hear this tale it should be soon, I think. Have you recovered sufficiently to relate what you can? To begin to paint the picture I believe you saw?”

  Adrian sighed. “I am prepared to try.”

  Katherine returned to his lap. “As am I.”

  “Yes.” Nick nodded.

  “I think I must.” Verity’s voice followed rapidly. “Perhaps the telling of it will ease the pain of it.”

  “Very well.” Sidney sat back in his chair as Marcus slipped onto the couch to sit beside Rowan.

  Marcus had no idea what was to come, but he knew it had to be bad. And he knew that Rowan loved Thérèse beyond comprehension. Therefore, Rowan would need a friend beside him for support should he find it too overwhelming to bear alone.

  Rowan seemed to understand, flashing Marcus a grateful smile and laying a hand briefly on the other’s thigh. “Thank you.”

  A mere whisper, but between them—it was sufficient.

  Marcus merely nodded and leaned back to listen.

  *~*~*~*

  And so the story unfolded, told in halting words by Adrian at first, harsh descriptions of Thérèse’s capture and questioning. Katherine followed him, vividly describing her experiences at the hands of the two witch hunters.

  It was raw and sexual, but she held nothing back, simply holding Adrian’s hand and letting the words come from someplace deep inside her.

  Sidney realized that only a woman could tell this part of the tale. He interrupted frequently; questions that helped him put a time to this event, asking details about the clothing, the surroundings—all designed to flesh out the location and the era. They also served to pull Katherine back from the edge of these horrors, to distract her—distract all of them sufficiently to distance themselves from what they’d experienced.