“Well, all right,” Josh said reluctantly, “but it still won’t be for sale, whatever figure your guys come up with.”
This was apparently a great joke to Dante, and Josh found himself smiling at the sound of the senator’s mirth. But as he rang off, uneasiness tugged at him again. He was not a superstitious man, and he didn’t believe in magic of any kind, but the last time he’d touched the sword . . .
He shook his head to clear it. Dante had turned up to visit unexpectedly after learning they had apartments in the same block of New York City; and after a couple of beers, when the conversation had veered toward antiques and heirlooms, Josh had shown him the sword. Something, whether static electricity or imagination, had made Josh drop the weapon, feeling a sharp pain in his hand that couldn’t possibly have been there. It was no more real than the weird vision that had flashed in front of his eyes, of a young and bloodied stranger demanding the return of his sword in dark, threatening tones.
Josh shivered and shrugged the memory off. He’d been drunk at the time. But what had really bothered him about the whole episode was the unpalatable idea that the sword was not Josh’s own. When it bloody well was. It had been in his family for generations, and was all he now had left of his father—that and the horrible old coat in which it was wrapped. And Josh was damned if he’d give either to anyone for any price.
It was late by the time Elizabeth got home to her flat in St. Andrews, but she knew she wouldn’t sleep.
Turning on the gas fire to allay the gloom, she went to the CD player, discarded the classical disk that was already there, and replaced it with a rock one. Hoping the beat would reinvigorate her suddenly dismal mood, she sank onto the sofa and picked up her paperback book. But instead of reading it, she found herself gazing into the fire while her thoughts drifted without permission.
During the journey, she’d hovered between satisfaction at having finally warned Josh Alexander of the danger he faced, and frustration because she hadn’t been able to make him believe any of it, let alone to act on it. She just hoped now that he’d never discover he was wrong. He was a nice bloke, for a film star. In fact, he was a nice bloke period, and she wished him well.
After all, she’d no proof that Saloman was responsible for the deaths of the other two descendants in the last couple of months. They’d been old and death was certified as natural causes. But still, Elizabeth doubted.
She closed her eyes, letting the familiar emptiness and loneliness engulf her. Nights were the worst. When she couldn’t sleep and there were no distractions, no jobs that had to be done by morning, then her thoughts inevitably turned to him, to memory and need and loss.
A wild guitar solo filled her ears; the relentless rock beat from the CD vibrated softly under her feet and through the sofa into her body. She could almost imagine herself back at the Angel in Budapest, dancing in Saloman’s arms with guilty, sensual enjoyment. Or lying here on this sofa watching his naked back as he chose the CD. Rock music had fascinated him, aroused him. . . .
With sudden, painful intensity, she wanted him here, now, to enjoy it with her. She wanted to watch him prowl toward her, his pale, smooth skin gleaming in the dim light, rippling over muscle and sinew as he walked and sank onto the sofa beside her, touching her with his clever, demanding hands, caressing her breasts and hips while the weight of his body pressed into her, and he bent to bite into her throat and drink her blood. She’d love the weird, wicked rush of his touch drowning the instant of pain, but he wouldn’t let it go on too long. Instead, he’d heal the wounds with the tip of his knowing tongue, and before entering her body he’d move on to kiss her mouth. Saloman’s kisses . . . She’d never know them again, never feel the excitement or the joy of his unique, overwhelming passion. Sex with Saloman . . .
She squirmed against the cushions, drawing in a shuddering breath to banish the fantasy. She couldn’t allow herself more than a moment of remembrance. If she lingered on his memory, the loss felt too great.
She sprang to her feet, determined to change the direction of her wayward thoughts, even if just through the familiar routine of clearing up for the night and preparing for bed. Talking to Josh about vampires had brought it all back. Thinking hard about tomorrow’s classes would make it all go away again. And tomorrow, in daylight, at the start of her busy day, she’d call Mihaela and tell her about Josh.
It was a good plan, and similar strategies had worked before, but as she lay down, drawing the quilt up to her ears, and switched off the bedside lamp, she imagined she lay in Saloman’s powerful arms, as she had done six months ago on the night before they’d parted at her insistence. She turned her face into the pillow, imagining the smell of him lingered there.
I love you. I still love you.
But he couldn’t hear her. He’d gone for good.
It was at least a sign of trust that the English vampire Mort invited him freely into his lair. A bleak, uncomfortable home—spacious but with few added luxuries since the days when cars had been manufactured there. As the vampires closed in on Saloman from all sides, the atmosphere bristled with suspicion and hostility.
Only Mort, easily the most powerful among them, made any pretense at welcome; and when he’d made his grudging little speech, the others continued to stare at Saloman in what they no doubt hoped was an intimidating manner. Certainly, their fangs were on display.
In fact, they reminded Saloman of sullen schoolkids being obliged to toe the line and acknowledge their headmaster’s discipline.
Saloman introduced his companion. “This is James,” he said, and everyone’s attention switched to the still human by his side. Youthful and vigorous, if rather shabbily dressed, he happened to be a student of economics.
“What’s the matter with him?” Mort asked. “He looks asleep.”
“He is.”
“Did you bring him as a present for us?” sneered one of the vampires. He was young and arrogant and his name was Del.
Saloman didn’t trouble to glance at Del, but looked instead around the bare, echoing east London factory. “No, I brought him as a demonstration. When I’m finished, I’ll take him back where he came from. Do you like living here?”
Startled by the abrupt change of subject, Mort dragged his gaze from the sleepwalking human. “It’s big and it’s safe.”
“Don’t you ever miss basic comfort?”
“Carpets and sofas and televisions?” Mort snorted. “A two-up, two-down terrace house, perhaps? With the neighbors getting restive as their numbers dwindle?”
Several of the vampires sniggered. Saloman spared each of them a glance, then, in the silence, let his gaze linger on the bloodstains on the floor, the rough resting areas that seemed to have developed in various corners of the factory.
“Well,” he murmured, “it seems to me your lives are a little . . . bestial.” On the last word, he hooked Mort’s gaze again. “And you are better than that. As you swore allegiance to me and I rely on you, I would like to see you more . . . contented.”
Surprise ensured the vampires’ long silence. A few glanced for guidance to Mort.
“You are strong vampires,” Saloman said. “There is no need to live like rats or feral dogs in deserted sewers and condemned buildings, where the most fun you have is when you drag a few humans down here to have a party before you kill them.”
“It was only two humans,” Mort said hastily, “and we got rid of the bodies. It’s not a normal occurrence. We don’t wish to draw the attention of the human police or the hunters.”
“Very sensible,” said Saloman. “And yet you’d find it quite easy to live in more pleasant surroundings without hassle if you just learned not to murder your prey.”
“Are you denying us existence now?” Del demanded.
“I might, if you don’t stop interrupting me.” Although he spoke mildly, Saloman let Del have the full force of his gaze, and the sneer froze on the young vampire’s lips. “A vampire needs blood; he does not need to kill. Take my friend
James here.” Drawing James’s unresisting body a step closer, Saloman bent and sank his teeth into the man’s throat.
Or rather, Saloman added telepathically, I’ll take James. I met him in a pub and we just happened to leave at the same time.
His words made it directly to Mort and a couple of others. A few struggled to receive the telepathic message; a couple didn’t receive it at all. Saloman felt their bafflement and detached his teeth from James’s neck before he’d drunk more than a taste. He glared at the confused vampires who’d heard nothing. One of them was Del.
“Open your minds, fools,” he uttered with contempt. “You are more than human. Use all the senses you have been given and learn before you perish like the sewer rats you’ve let yourselves become.”
Saloman had no patience with such a waste of existence. Reaching out with his mind, he brutally wrenched open the paths the vampires should have been aware of since their turning. They’d ignored the psychic routes until, like an overgrown track, they’d become impassable. The vampires cried out in shock as he cleared the way in their minds, and Saloman returned to James’s throat.
This, he said, showing them, is how I blocked his mind to what is happening. Some humans can be irreparably traumatized by vampire bites, so unless you have an understanding with your prey, always block them from remembering. Then drink. He sucked James’s blood, and even through his trance, James sighed in pleasure. Saloman made sure the vampires picked that up, let them see in turn the pleasure this gave to him. And if you feel this—he paused as James’s pounding heart began to struggle—then you’ve taken too much.
Saloman detached his teeth once more, licked the wound to heal it.
“He’s going to feel a little weak for a day or two, but he’ll remember me as no more than an amiable drinking companion. If I hung around London long enough we might even become friends. In the meantime, I can move among humanity with no one hunting me. I can do more than rot in a disused factory and move on when I need to. I can make my existence more enjoyable and worthwhile.”
Releasing James, he looked at Mort. “What you do with that existence is, of course, your own choice. But it is a crime to do nothing. It is a crime to kill without reason. Vampires do not need the kill, only the blood, to survive.”
“Killing strong humans can make us stronger,” one of them said with a hint of desperation. An end to chaos was not universally appealing.
“A very few humans.” Saloman waved one dismissive hand. “Those who’ve killed strong vampires, or their descendants. But these are rare, even among hunters. You gain nothing and lose everything by killing unnecessarily.”
“Saloman is right,” Mort said with the sincere determination that had been Saloman’s main reason for handling matters in this way. “We will no longer kill as a matter of course. And we can do better than this.” He waved one hand around his home, indicating not just the bleak surroundings but their whole existence. “Surviving one more day doesn’t need to be an end in itself.”
“Exactly,” Saloman said. “Find occupations that enrich that existence. I have taught this lesson across the world. The lot of vampires has already improved, and it will continue to do so. Under my leadership, the world is changing and you will have an important role to play. You must be worthy of it.”
Or else. He didn’t need to say the words. They were understood, if not universally liked. Among the sparks of thoughtful excitement the odd trace of pointless, mulish defiance still lurked. But he’d be back to deal with any rebels, and he would not be so forbearing then.
With a sudden swirling motion designed to impress the vampires, he swung around and sat on a disused bench. “Now, tell me about the American actor who passed through your city recently. I’m anxious to make his acquaintance.” He smiled beatifically around his audience. “I believe I knew his ancestor very, very well.”
The vampires laughed, as they were meant to. And Saloman thought of Scotland and his sword, and Elizabeth.
The morning dawned fair and sunny. Refreshed, Elizabeth rose and showered and dressed between gulps of coffee. Gathering together the papers and books she needed for the day’s work, she stashed them in her backpack and sat down with fresh coffee and a slice of toast, which she ate with one hand while the other held her phone and rang Mihaela’s number.
“Elizabeth!” came Mihaela’s voice, as crisp and close from Hungary—or Romania or wherever she happened to be this morning—as if she’d been in the same room. “How are things?”
“Good,” Elizabeth said enthusiastically, switching to speakerphone mode and laying the instrument down on the table. “Well, pretty good. I finally got to speak to Josh Alexander.”
“Fantastic! Well done!”
“Not so well,” Elizabeth admitted, smearing butter on her second slice of toast. “He’s a confirmed skeptic and convinced I’m the stalking nutter from hell. But at least he heard me out. And he’s got the numbers, which he’s promised to keep.”
“Can’t do more than that at this stage,” Mihaela said comfortingly. “Where is he now? Heading back to the US?”
“In a few days, I think. He said he wanted to see a bit of Scotland now that he’s finished filming here and he has some time off.”
“I’ll have another word with our colleagues in America, get them to keep a closer eye on him when he goes home, even if he never calls them. We still haven’t located Saloman.”
“How long has he been off your radar this time?” Elizabeth asked, biting into her toast.
“A couple of weeks,” said Mihaela. “This time. Almost since he came back here from Spain, in fact. I wish we knew what he was up to. Word is, since Spain has submitted, every vampire community in the world now pays homage of some kind to him. Apart from North America. Opinion is divided there. Apparently the Los Angeles vampire community wants an alliance with him, but the more powerful vampires on the East Coast are still holding out for independence.”
“Will they succeed?” Elizabeth asked doubtfully.
“Who knows? It’s causing some worrying unrest in the States, but at least the East Coast’s stubbornness has to slow Saloman down, postpone whatever his next plan is.”
“True. He might even have grown content ruling the vampire world. Perhaps it will be enough for him.”
Mihaela snorted. “For him? I doubt it.”
“Well, you never know.” It was hard not to sound as if she were pleading for leniency, so she kept her voice deliberately light. “You thought he’d bring chaos and carnage to the world and so far it hasn’t been like that at all.”
“True,” Mihaela allowed. “In fact, the vampires here are quieter these days. Fewer lethal attacks, fewer fledglings. To be honest, that’s what freaks me. No one should be able to control them like that. God knows what he could make them do now, if he felt like it.”
Elizabeth shivered. She didn’t know if there was more fear than happiness in remembering what he’d made her do, what he’d made her feel in his arms, in his bed. . . . Stop!
“Anyway,” Mihaela continued briskly into the silence, “he could be anywhere by now, so you’d better be especially careful.”
“I told you, he won’t touch me.” Elizabeth tossed down her final crust and reached for her coffee.
“If he doesn’t change his mind,” Mihaela said dryly. “Vampires are not known for keeping their word. Anyway, what’s he like?”
Elizabeth froze with the cup resting against her lips. Shite. Had Mihaela found out? Was she asking for salacious details of her turbulent but passionate relationship?
Elizabeth set her mug back on the table. “Saloman?” she said weakly. How did you describe a man, a being, of so many contradictions and attractions and sheer, unimaginable power? Sexual and otherwise.
Mihaela laughed. “Josh Alexander! Is he as gorgeous in real life?”
Elizabeth, trying not to collapse with sheer relief, gasped. “Yes! I think he is. A tiny bit craggier, maybe, because he’s definitely in his lat
e thirties, at least, but I think that improves him. He’s got an edgy look, although he isn’t at all like that underneath. He’s rather sweet, really, very polite and good fun.”
“Fun? Did he make a pass at you?”
“Don’t be—” Elizabeth broke off and smiled. “Actually he did, at first, but I suspect it was just habit, because we both forgot about it afterward. We went out for dinner and he insisted on paying and then dropped me off at the station. I’m afraid I let him.”
“Bloody hell,” Mihaela said with awe. She’d learned the phrase from Elizabeth. “You had dinner with Josh Alexander.”
“Wow, so I did. Think of the kudos I’m going to have in the staff club now. And I can finally impress my students!”
It was good to end the call on a laughing note and go immediately off to work. Talking to Mihaela generally buoyed her if she was down, and she was grateful again for the unusual friendship. It had begun last summer, when she’d been researching her thesis in Romania, and three vampire hunters had come to her door to tell her she’d just awakened the most powerful vampire of all time. Josh’s reaction to Elizabeth’s warning last night had actually been quite tame compared to Elizabeth’s response to Mihaela, István, and Konrad. Until she’d discovered the truth.
Once, she’d nearly wrecked the spontaneous friendships that had begun to form, by storming away because they hadn’t revealed all the truth to her; but she was wiser now and appreciated what she had with them, especially Mihaela.
She walked to the department, enjoying the rare sunshine. As always now, when she passed the ruined cathedral, with its tall, distinctive towers, she recalled the disastrous and terrifying showdown with Saloman that had taken place there last Halloween. The fight had been meant to finish him. Instead it had built him another legend on which to base his power in the vampire community. But in the end, this hadn’t spoiled Elizabeth’s feeling for the cathedral itself. The atmospheric ruins had always moved her. Now they made her physically tingle, because what had happened there with Saloman after the fight—her desperate confession of love and the fierce, urgent passion with which he’d taken her under the east gable arch—had washed away the horror and given her the strength to move on.
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