Dante unscrewed the lid with great care.
“What is that?” Mehmet, his Turkish guide, whispered.
It’s the blood of the Ancient vampire Saloman, with which I hope to awaken his cousin and enemy, Luk, whom Saloman killed more than three hundred years ago. Would Mehmet run or laugh if he said such a thing aloud? Instinctively, Dante knew his need for Mehmet was almost over. But only almost. The Turk had one more purpose to fulfill.
Dante crept around the dark chamber. The beam from his flashlight bobbed eratically around the rough stone floors and walls, barely penetrating the profound blackness more than a couple of feet beyond his unsteady fingers. He hoped that if he couldn’t see the body, at least he might feel it with his hands or feet. Even so, when his foot struck something that felt like stone, part of the floor’s uneven surface, he almost paid it no attention. Then he paused and placed his finger over the phial opening before he shook it and removed his finger.
Drawing in his breath with a quick, silent prayer to no one in particular that it would be enough, he shook his hand out in front of him. His finger tingled as the tiny spatter of blood sprayed downward. And there in the darkness, without suddenness or shock, was what he’d been looking for all these weeks.
A stone table on which lay a sculpted body. Almost exactly like the one Elizabeth Silk had found a year earlier.
Mehmet’s breath sounded like a wheeze. “My God, I almost didn’t see it. I thought there was nothing. . . . Is this it? Is this your nobleman’s tomb?”
“Almost certainly.” Dante felt dizzy. His whole body trembled, not just as a reaction to his first glimpse of the deeply sinister figure illuminated by their flashlights, but as a result of the enormity of what he was doing. He found it difficult to get words out, and yet he had to concentrate, to ignore his sudden fears and stick to his plan. Mehmet had to continue to believe in the fiction that this was merely the lost tomb of a historic nobleman. And then, finally, Dante would reach his goal. Eternal life. Eternal power. Damnation, if it existed, was a small price to pay.
With carefully judged casualness, he passed the vial to Mehmet. “Here. I want to photograph this.”
Even shining his flashlight on the tiny drop of dark liquid, Mehmet could have no idea what it was. He seemed happy that Dante had found what he sought—even if only so he could get back into the fresh air and climb down the mountain.
Dante produced his camera and pointed it at the tomb. “When I say ‘now,’” he directed, “pour the contents of the vial over the carving.”
“Why? What is it?”
“It’ll make the tomb stand out more in the picture,” Dante lied easily. He wasn’t a politician for nothing. “Okay . . . now!”
Dante held his breath as Mehmet shook the tiny drops of liquid over the carved face. This was it, the moment of greatest risk and greatest hope, on which all Dante’s ambitions rested. Religion, decency, nature itself—none of those things counted beside the huge power Dante was about to take.
At this point in the earlier awakening, Saloman had clamped his teeth into Elizabeth’s neck. Dante had been torn over this part of his plan. The blood used in the awakening had to be Saloman’s—Luk’s killer’s—or it wouldn’t work, but Dante didn’t know whether any of the mystical attributes of awakening would be bestowed on whoever did the pouring. No one had ever done it like this before, to his knowledge. If there was power to be had from awakening, he naturally wanted it for himself; but on the other hand, he needed Luk to be as strong as possible, which meant drinking the blood of his Awakener and killing him to absorb his life force. So far, Saloman had failed to kill Elizabeth, and therein lay his weakness. Dante did not intend Luk to make the same mistake.
It was a pity for Mehmet.
Dante shone his flashlight unwaveringly on Luk’s dead face. It did indeed look like stone. He’d expected it to be more lifelike, to give some hint of his Ancient strength, a clue that he could be awakened. Despite the tiny droplets of blood splashed on Luk’s cheek, nose, lips, and chin, nothing happened.
Oh, fuck. It isn’t enough. After all this, I needed more blood. . . .
“Did you take it?” Mehmet asked.
“What? Oh, the photograph. Yes, I got it. Thanks.” He took a step forward, meaning to take back the vial and see whether there was anything left in it. But before he could touch it, a sound like a faint groan issued from the carving.
Oh, yes. Hallelujah.
Under Dante’s riveted gaze, the dead eyes of the sculpture opened and the lips parted. The skin moved, shifting slowly into an expression not of triumph but of shock. Even . . . fear. Luk sat up and Mehmet fell back with a low moan of terror. Luk’s twisted mouth opened wider, revealing his long, terrifying incisors as he stared at Mehmet.
The vampire’s scream started low, like a rattle in his throat, then rose quickly into the most horrific, gut-wrenching howl Dante had ever heard. Like all the pain of everyone in the world rolled into one pure, dreadful sound.
This isn’t meant to happen, Dante thought in panic. Something’s gone terribly wrong. I must have got the wrong vampire. . . .
Then in fury the creature who may or may not have been Luk swung himself off the stone table, and Dante stepped circumspectly behind Mehmet before giving the Turk a sharp shove into the reaching arms of whatever they’d awakened.
ALSO BY MARIE TREANOR
Blood on Silk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Teaser chapter
Blood Sin (2) Page 33