Darkness In The Flames

by Kelly, Sahara

  Setting the horror aside, setting the sexual abuse and tragedy aside, he was left with one question—who was the old crone?

  He replayed her words over and over, led inexorably to one conclusion.

  It had been Saint Chesswell who had betrayed her. His very own saint, a cleric revered by so many—a vision who had done his best to save Sidney’s life and steer them along a path that would defeat Thérèse.

  Had he done so out of a selfish desire to suppress the truth of his own involvement? Or had he done so out of a genuine desire to end this period of horror he may have inadvertently begun? And had he lied to Sidney during that momentary vision when he’d sworn he’d not touched Thérèse?

  Probably not. He’d never known Thérèse. He might, however, have known her predecessor. Was it this woman Saint Chesswell had referred to? He’d flat out denied ever fucking her.

  Did saints lie? Could saints lie without being de-sainted or something?

  Sidney sighed. He needed information he just did not have and it was very frustrating to his fundamentally ordered mind. In his neat way, his thoughts skirted around the issue, trying to view it from a new perspective, search for concepts or ideas that might have eluded him, or discover some element he’d overlooked.

  And sure enough, there was one.

  He eased himself from his bed. The book—the book he’d found after St. Chesswell had appeared to him—the one with the clue about unmaking the maker. Why he’d never thought of deciphering some of the other material, Sidney had no idea. But then again, he forgave himself. There had been quite a bit going on recently.

  It was still where he’d left it, on the desk in his study. Awkwardly struggling into his robe, Sidney grabbed his cane and made his way downstairs. Perhaps there was more in that book than he’d realized. He’d never even figured out who’d written the darn thing, let alone what else was contained in its texts.

  He shook his head at himself. It was unlike him to overlook something that could be of vital import, but next to the experiments on his family’s blood samples, the urgency with which he pursued a “cure” of sorts for their vampirism—well, there were only so many hours in a day and he was just one man.

  And a man who relished his new son—just being surrounded by the family he’d never imagined he could have. So many changes wrought in his life…it was no wonder one or two things had slipped past him.

  With a renewed sense of urgency, Sidney recovered the ancient tome, placing it carefully on his desk. And then he sat down to read.

  Not too far away from the old man and his studies a sword hung on a wall—and began to glow.

  *~*~*~*

  Cheverly was lighting the lamps as Adrian and Katherine walked in to the parlor, followed by Nick and Verity. Rowan and Marcus were already there, quietly chatting about inconsequential matters far from what really occupied their thoughts.

  Marcus glanced at the couples as they entered, quickly realizing they’d fed from each other. He knew enough now to tell that the slight flush on their skin, the energy radiating from them and the closeness between them indicated an exchange of passion—and blood.

  He understood. They’d needed each other’s comfort as much as Rowan had needed his. Perhaps they too had awoken close to each other, nestled in arms that clung desperately, as Rowan had clung to Marcus.

  His heart ached for them all, for this new knowledge of pain and suffering that had altered so much of what they’d lived with—perceptions, beliefs, even the anger that may well have sustained them for some time. Rowan had awoken slowly then jerked—once.

  It was at that moment Marcus knew the recollections of Thérèse and their previous night’s experiences flooded back into his mind. They’d never really left Marcus’ thoughts—even his dreams had been troubled.

  He’d heard distant screams, even waking several times to listen and assure himself they were not real. He lived with the knowledge that his days were numbered. He even lived with some pain and discomfort from time to time. He certainly experienced exhaustion to a greater degree than was expected for a man his age.

  But Marcus could not begin to imagine what Thérèse had suffered. Nor could he imagine Rowan’s agony at hearing such things about the woman he loved to the edge of madness and beyond.

  Thus he kept their conversation light and undemanding, letting his friend dictate the paths of their discourse. If Rowan needed a shoulder, Marcus was there. If he needed to discuss the weather, then that was acceptable too.

  It was all Marcus could offer—friendship and a steadfast commitment to do whatever he could to help. As the others settled themselves, Marcus knew that commitment now went further than just Rowan.

  He liked Adrian and his wife. He liked Nick and Verity as well. He was becoming most fond of Sir Sidney Chesswell—developing a profound respect for the older man’s intelligence and vast storehouse of knowledge.

  It would seem that in spite of his reclusive habits and detached emotional state, Marcus Camberley had found himself friends—possibly even a family. One that he would find it hard to leave when his time came.

  Of course, that presupposed they’d all survive what lay ahead.

  “It’s…different today, isn’t it?” Katherine spoke quietly, smoothing her skirts with an absent motion that told Marcus her thoughts were not on her wardrobe.

  Nick nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is.” He glanced up as the door opened to admit Sir Sidney.

  Beneath Sidney’s arm was a large book, a very old one by the looks of the bindings. Adrian quickly rose and relieved his father of the burden, helping him to his customary chair and making sure he was comfortable.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re all here.” Sidney nodded his thanks. “I need a cup of tea. No, wait. Make that brandy.” He grinned at Adrian. “While you slept, I worked. I think I’ve earned a sip or two.”

  Adrian narrowed his eyes as he poured the requested liquor. “You have a look about you, Father. You’re on to something, aren’t you?”

  “Sir Sidney?” Rowan leaned forward. “Is he correct? Have you discovered something?”

  “Patience, lad.” Sidney took an appreciative sip of brandy. “Ahh. Better.” He put down the glass and picked up the old book. “Now, let me see here…”

  Marcus could sense the anticipation rising within the room like a breath that suddenly becomes a gasp instead of a sigh. And when Rowan’s hand touched his in a brief gesture of excitement, Marcus knew his friend felt it too.

  Sidney arranged the book comfortably and looked around at the little gathering. “Last night,” he began, “I remembered this book. Adrian knows that it came originally from Saint Chesswell after our first encounter with Thérèse. I know not how he delivered it, or if it was already here waiting for the right moment to make itself known. Honestly, I don’t think that matters. What is important is that it’s here—now. And that I was able to decipher some of the other writings, not just the clue Saint Chesswell pointed out to me.”

  “I remember the clue.” Verity nodded. “I never thought to ask more about the book, though.”

  “Neither did I.” Sidney sounded rueful. “But in my own defense, I did have a few other matters to occupy my thoughts.”

  They all smiled in agreement, smiles that varied from warm to thoughtful. Marcus knew his own lips curved as he considered the “other matters” sitting across from him. Sidney would always put his family first. He must have labored for many long hours to develop the potions he constantly offered to them—combinations of herbs that lessened the urge to feed and strengthened the still-mortal components of their blood.

  “However, last night I recalled this book. This grimoire—only it’s not a real grimoire. It’s more of a memoir. Saint Chesswell’s memoir.”

  Adrian blinked. “Really? Saint Chesswell wrote his own biography?”

  “He was a monk, Adrian. He would have had the ability to read and write. And it turns out he was from a fine family too. Well-educated before taking his vows. Ther
e was certainly time for him to turn to writing. And his interests…well, they didn’t quite match those of his superiors.”

  Katherine nodded. “That, I do remember. He was a bit of a dabbler in the black arts or something, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s where it gets interesting.” Sidney flashed an approving glance at her. “Yes, he was—as you so appropriately put it—a bit of a dabbler. But he had good reason. Let me tell you about it.”

  A silence fell as Sidney turned a page or two looking for something. “Ah, yes. Here we are. This passage was written quite early on in the book, in between recipes for herbs to cure various ailments and observations on lunar cycles and the behavior of his parishioners.”

  “Goodness.” Verity chuckled. “He was a man of many talents, wasn’t he?”

  “He was indeed.” Sidney pursed his lips. “Sadly, the same cannot be said for his brother.”

  Silence fell as Sidney’s audience absorbed these words.

  “Here’s what Saint Chesswell says. I’m paraphrasing a little bit here, since his language is stilted and not as clear as ours in this day and age.”

  Sidney lowered his head and began to read.

  “I met with my brother today, an unexpected visit and one I shall never forget. He seemed distracted, uneasy with any refreshments I could offer him, unsettled and fidgety until I had to chide him and bid him sit down and tell me what was the matter.

  “He unburdened his soul in a rush of words that nearly knocked me off my stool. He’d taken a woman, a red-haired beauty. He’d seduced her, lured by the perfection of her body. And such phrases he used I never thought to hear from his normally closed lips.

  “He raved of her breasts, perfection in cream and roses, mounds he suckled to ruby-tipped hardness as he bared them.”

  Sidney cleared his throat. “You will have to understand this passage is very—er—blunt. I do not intend to edit it, since we’re all adults here. But be prepared.”

  Nobody spoke. Marcus waited along with the others for the tale to continue.

  “My brother was unrestrained in his discourse, going further and telling me of the feel of her skin, silken and unblemished. He told me his passion was met with a like passion, her lips seeking his with all the fire he brought to their encounter. He told me of her strength and her desire and the flames he could see dancing in her hair as the firelight bathed their naked bodies.

  “He told me of her taste—he’d devoured her pussy, drinking her juices and finding them as sweet as honey from a thousand bees who’d fed on the blooms in Heaven’s garden. He was beside himself as he went on to fully reveal the extent of their coupling, describing the sensation of thrusting into her slick heat, taking her virginity as he went, wanting to cry out with the arousing knowledge he was the first to claim her, the first to touch her secret places, the first to make her shake and shudder with explosive passions as she came to her peak around him.”

  Sidney paused and took another, longer, drink of the brandy before continuing.

  “My brother even went so far as to relate how his seed filled her, overflowing in a heated river. And how this event was repeated, again and again, in so many different ways I lost count. I could only listen to the eruption of his sensual tale, so unusual from one I had come to know as reserved and quiet. Eventually he ceased, yet I could not help but notice the effect his revelations had caused. His cock was hard, distending his robes. He excused himself abruptly and went outside for some little time, returning eventually with no evidence of arousal. I can only assume he took care of his fierce desires himself.”

  “Goodness me.” Katherine was listening, wide-eyed. “That’s quite a tale to tell one’s brother.”

  “It is indeed. But he had good reason to unburden himself. You’ll see.” Sidney read on.

  “After my brother’s return, I ventured to ask him if he planned to wed this girl. To my surprise, he shook his head and said it was not possible. Upon further questioning, it turned out that he was already pledged to another. His mood darkened then, he told me of his future bride and her dowry. It seemed a good and logical match, one I would have endorsed had our father asked me. Of course, that would not occur to him, being what and who he is.”

  Verity blinked. “Any idea who their father was?”

  “No.” Sidney rubbed his chin. “I assume he was a local landowner. I have found references to his estates, which seemed expansive even for those days. So there’s no question he was—if not titled—then certainly quite wealthy. He would have made sure his oldest son married the right girl. Unfortunately, that would seem to not be the woman of his desires.”

  Verity nodded. “Agreed. Sorry to interrupt…please go on?”

  “My brother’s anguish was evident and I began to sense there was more than just a thwarted desire at play within his mind. I questioned him further and eventually he answered, although seeming loath to reveal the rest of the matter. I persisted, asking about this woman. Where was she? What had happened to her?

  “Tears started to his eyes as he sat slumped beneath my window. His voice trembled as he told me she was dead. It shook further when he added the fateful words—‘or worse than dead’. I could not believe the desolation in his eyes. I pressed him to tell me the whole of it. Perhaps I should not have done so. The horror is frightful, still shaking my soul.

  “May God forgive my brother for his sins. I do not know if I have the strength to do the same. As his words began anew, he told of more passion, more desire, rising between them until it threatened to devour them both. He told of the exquisite delight he’d found as she sucked his cock into her mouth and the peaks they’d shared joined together in unnatural ways far beyond God’s teachings. He told me things that forever changed my perception of human intercourse, things that will haunt me and—yes—probably make me regret now and again that I am, by choice, celibate. I am also, to my sorrow, weak and human.

  “But I digress. My brother’s tale drifted on until he stumbled, seeking for the words to tell me that his lover was with child—his child. She had come to him, desperate for assistance, knowing she would be shunned once her babe began to show within her womb.

  “And my brother—curse his soul—denied her.”

  Marcus felt the bile rise in his throat. It wasn’t an unusual tale, but even so he knew anger was running through him at the ease with which some men refused to acknowledge the results of their lusts.

  Rowan was sharing his thoughts. “Some things never change, do they?” His words resounded through the room as Sidney nodded sadly.

  “Given that I estimate this story came from the twelfth or thirteenth century, lad, I’m forced to agree. Some things never change.” He bent to the text once more.

  “My brother’s confession seemed to ease his mind a little, but then he became tense once more. He had done more than deny her, I felt sure. When pressed, he admitted he had indeed done more. She had returned, asking again for help, for assistance. He’d become angered, the evidence of his lusts before his eyes, reminding him of his sins with this woman. He’d turned her away—and cursed her.”

  Silence fell. “Cursed her?” Adrian looked curious. “Cursed her how?”

  “That’s where it gets really interesting…you’ll recall Saint Chesswell’s interest in the black arts?” Everybody nodded. “Well, this explains it.”

  He returned to the page. “To my horror, my brother admitted he’d used sacred words from the past, words he’d discovered some time before in carvings deep within the caves along the shore. They’d erupted from his lips—he said—as he’d cursed this woman. She had threatened to end her life and that of the babe’s if he did not assist her. He called down whatever powers obeyed such words and cursed her to never die. He cursed her to live an eternal life sustained only by the blood of others—since she wished to extract blood from him, she would do so for the rest of eternity, in the darkness and shadows within which she’d seduced him in the first place.”

  “What an unmi
tigated bastard.” Katherine snapped out the words angrily. “It was his fault as much as hers. Would it have killed him to settle some money on her?”

  Sidney raised an eyebrow. “I cannot tell, my dear. Certainly bastards—in the real sense—were thick on the ground in those days. It would have been a sensible option. However, this man doesn’t sound sensible. He sounds seriously annoyed, afraid of something or someone—perhaps he felt he was jeopardizing his future marriage? I don’t know. And Saint Chesswell doesn’t say.”

  “And so a vampire was born.” Rowan spoke the words absently, almost as if talking to himself.

  “Yes, Rowan. I believe a vampire was born.” Sidney nodded. “How? Once more I do not know. But this is certainly strong evidence for the fact that it happened. Mysterious and powerful words—a man enraged—and the end result?”

  Rowan swallowed. “Centuries of pain and suffering. And us.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rowan sighed. So much information—so much to think about, to absorb and put into context. And above it all was the shadow of Thérèse, a creature of such darkness and evil, yet suffering such pain within her own soul.

  After Sidney’s disclosure, the questions came thick and fast as the others tried to absorb it too.

  “This wasn’t Thérèse, was it?” Katherine spoke with conviction. “It couldn’t have been her.”

  “No.” Sidney nodded his assent. “I believe it was her predecessor. Perhaps the woman who bequeathed this curse to her in that cell. Which would, by my reckoning, give these beings a lifetime of something around three hundred years or so.”

  “But I thought I recall you saying that Saint Chesswell had seen her?” Adrian frowned.

  “He certainly told me he’d seen a luscious red-haired woman. Described her quite accurately too, sensing her evil nature. I assumed he was talking about Thérèse, given that she was uppermost in our thoughts. Never occurred to me there might have been another.”