Shackles of Sunlight

by J. Daniel Layfield

  When her vision cleared, she was no longer holding the gun, and the only evidence of her shot was a thin red line across his cheek. Point-blank range and the best she’d managed was a graze. To add insult, even that small victory began to disappear before her eyes.

  He slid silently from the table, leaving her baton and pistol behind. Her eyes went to them, her brain working frantically. Maybe she could reach them, or maybe she should just bolt for the door. The only thing between her and either option was him, and anything was better than just standing there.

  Her father had made sure that even when unarmed she would be able to defend herself. Her captor took a step forward and she delivered an upward blow to his nose with the palm of her hand. There was a satisfying crunch and his head snapped backwards, but she barely noticed. She dashed around the edge of the table and sprinted for the door.

  Please, please, please, ran through her head as she reached for the door handle. She held her breath and pushed down. It didn’t budge.

  “No, no, no!” she yelled as she vigorously shook the handle. She alternated between pulling on the door and pounding her fist against it while yelling, “Somebody help me!” until her throat and hand both throbbed. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she put her back against the door and slid to the floor.

  “No one is coming for you,” he said, crossing the room towards her. His boots stopped right in front of her bowed head, and he added, “You’re dead.”

  Right. Of course she was. Soft sobs shook her body, and more tears fell into her lap as she accepted the truth. There was no escape.

  A silver key dropped into her lap. “Before you use that,” he said, “ask yourself what you are so eager to get back to.”

  She reached out and closed a hand around the key. It was a fair question, and considering her morning ritual of needing a reason to get out of bed, she had to admit there wasn’t much. Still, it did raise a question of her own.

  “What do you want from me?” she whispered.

  He offered her a hand, which she accepted, and he pulled her to her feet. The bullet track was completely erased now, and under what should have been a broken nose was only a small trail of dried blood. If he’d wanted her dead, really dead, he’d had plenty of opportunities. She was relieved to see his eyes had returned to normal, though she could still feel power in their stare. Would she be able to deny him whatever he wanted from her?

  “I need your help, Elizabeth,” he said, sliding his hand behind her neck. “Will you help me?”

  Help. It was a simple word. Deceptively simple. She helped people every day. What kind of help did he need? And why from her? It made her head spin. So many questions for such a simple request. He was staring at her. Waiting on her to make a decision. Did she have a choice?

  Of course she did, but the truth was every one she had made so far had led to him. She had put herself here, chosen to be right where she was with every turn. Even now she could feel her body trying to bring her even closer to him. Whatever else her future held, he was a part of it. Why turn back now?

  Her assent was a small, nearly imperceptible nod, but he saw it. He bent his head down towards her face, and as she closed her eyes she could almost feel the touch of his lips on her own. Sealed with a kiss, she thought off-handedly, but their lips didn’t meet. Instead, she felt a small sting on her neck, then a bit of warmth being drawn from her body. It rushed from her toes and flowed over her entire body, rocking her with gentle waves. It lasted only long enough for a small part of her to wish it wouldn’t stop.

  Her eyes opened and his face was in front of her again. His hand left her neck, but she remained close. A small blade appeared in his hand, but she barely noticed. A small wince twitched the muscles of his face, parting his lips just enough to glimpse his teeth. Pointed, covered in a faint tinge of red. They quickly disappeared, as his wrist was brought to her lips.

  Hot liquid poured from the wound on his wrist into her opened mouth. It was a sickly sweet taste, with a bitterness that lingered as it burned down her throat. It hit her stomach like a pile of bricks, dragging her to the floor, where she lay doubled over, coughing and gagging.

  The feeling passed after a few moments, but she remained still, catching her breath, wondering at the new sensations now blossoming within her. He hadn’t moved, but she could feel him over her. More than that, she could almost see herself through his eyes, and even feel what he was feeling. Guilt, regret, anger, and more, all combined with her own fear and doubt, swirling around in her head until she sat up and faced them. She looked up at him, meeting his eyes this time without fear. She knew now, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

  “Yes, Braughton,” she said. “I will help you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Three times now she had surprised him. Four, technically, if you count the brief shock he experienced when he first saw her. Either way, it was more than any of the others before her, and they had been together less than forty-eight hours.

  Twice it had resulted in him getting shot. The first time, next to her cruiser, had been his own fault. He had misjudged the strength of her will, and taken a bullet to the chest as punishment. The second time, it was almost as though she had tricked him, lulled him in to believing she was under his power. She would never know how close she came to putting a bullet square between his eyes. It wouldn’t have killed him, but it would have given her the opportunity to escape. Plus, it stung like a son of a bitch.

  The third time though, that one made him wonder. How different from the others was she? He knew they could all sense things from him – feelings, mostly, but none of them had ever pulled a piece of information from his mind. Yet, it was the only explanation he had for her knowing his name. She had called him by his name. Braughton, not Master. They all called him Master, instantly and constantly, even when he requested otherwise. Not her though. Why?

  Looking at her quietly sleeping form now, two hours later, it was easy to dismiss. It had been nearly an hour since her last convulsion, her body finally accepting his blood, just like they all did. She would sleep well into tomorrow, and then her training would start. The same training he gave all of them. Yes, he convinced himself, she would be just like all the others.

  He felt the familiar change in himself as well, his thoughts cleared and the itch became nothing more than a dull memory. Satisfied all was as it should be, his mind returned to its previous obsession – Malock.

  He had blindly followed Malock for days before the bonding, and during it there had been the nagging insistence he should be looking for him. With the bonding complete, that voice was quiet, and he wondered, had he been chasing Malock or was Malock leading him?

  He was nearly convinced it was the latter. Now he asked himself, how long before Malock noticed he wasn’t following? How long before Malock came looking for him again? They were not safe here.

  He looked again at her peacefully resting body. Elizabeth. Another life he had brought into this master and servant bond, another life doomed. Truthfully, she would never be safe again. And it was all his fault.

  She moaned and nearly rolled off the bed. Still resisting? He would give her another hour, and then they needed to leave. One hour. Plenty of time to leave a note for anyone who might come looking for them.

  * * *

  It was nearly dark by the time they reached the small mountain monastery. Elizabeth’s breathing remained slow and deep during the entire trip, the rhythmic up and down of her chest was the only movement she made. Even when he lifted her from the seat, she was dead weight in his arms. Just like the ones before her.

  Braughton followed the middle-aged monk through narrow hallways, until he reached a door that looked to Braughton like every other door they had passed. The monk pulled a large ring of keys from under his robe, unlocked the door, and moved aside to allow Braughton entry.

  Inside the room was a small bed, desk, dresser, and a single chair. Nothing adorned the walls b
esides one plain, silver cross. Braughton laid Elizabeth gently onto the bed, then joined the monk in the hall. The monk closed the door, but didn’t lock it.

  “A woman?” he said, passing Braughton as he headed back down the hall. “That’s new.”

  “I trust you will remember your vows, Monk?” Braughton replied with a small smile.

  Monk laughed. “It would take a lot more woman than that scrawny girl to make me forget!” He looked back at Braughton, his face serious now. “She will be safe here. You have my word.”

  Braughton nodded his thanks. “I should be back by this time tomorrow. She’ll probably sleep the entire time I’m gone.”

  “And if she wakes?”

  Well, that would be different, he thought. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he answered as he disappeared into the darkening night.

  Chapter Nine

  Malock hated this room. The sputtering torches threw dancing shadows on the walls and wreaked havoc with his eyes, which he assumed was the point. Not that there was much to see. The walls, floor, and ceiling were plain blocks of stone without even the simplest rug or painting to catch the eye. Beyond the lighting and decor, there was also the air. It was stale, old, like a tomb that’s been sealed for a hundred years.

  A tomb. Yes, that was it exactly. How had he not seen it before now? He had to stifle a laugh at the realization. He knew there were those of his kind who actually slept in coffins, waving their immortality in the very face of death as it were, but he’d never understood it. Having achieved the very thing every mortal seeks, these misguided miscreants then spent their existence surrounded by death. What was the purpose of cheating death if you remained constantly in its cold shadow? It was no wonder he hated this room.

  His eyes went to the back wall, which the darkness made impossible to see, but he knew what was there. Somewhere in the gloom even his own eyes couldn’t penetrate, was his master. No doubt seated on his throne, watching Malock draw ever closer.

  Throne. He had to stifle another laugh. How long had it been since he first laid eyes on that chair? It must have been nearly seven hundred years ago. Crafted entirely from the bones of Master’s victims, Malock remembered marveling over it, and the power it seemed to hold.

  The room it occupied back then had been much brighter, and he didn’t remember hating it so much. The bones were so white it had been difficult to look at, and a radiant glow appeared to emanate from Master when he sat upon it. There had been no denying the power it commanded for the one seated between its arms. Much had happened since then, and power can fade as fast as the brilliance of something new.

  The last time he had seen it, the throne was a dull, dirty gray, and, like everything else around it, had worn out its usefulness. The only thing it made him think about now was how uncomfortable it must be. Master, however, clung to it, and Malock had no idea when Master might have last left it. Or this room.

  As he neared the back of the room, Malock had to step over a lifeless body. No doubt the remains of a meal not yet removed. Yes, this place was more tomb than anything else. It had certainly held more bodies and memories of death than most cemeteries.

  He stopped when he reached the edge of the light. The boundary was one he’d never been told not to cross, but he respected it anyway. Also, he found the thought of passing into that absolute blackness more than a little unnerving. He imagined, not for the first time, that if he stuck his arm across it would disappear, as if neatly severed. An interesting image, but not one he wanted to recreate.

  He really should be on his knees, and had this been two centuries ago, he would be picking his broken body up off the ground, begging for forgiveness. Time had changed things though, and he struggled to remember the last time he had even seen Master. There was a time when his strongest desire had been to see approval and pride in Master’s eyes, but that had faded with the memory of his face. So, why had he stayed with Master when so many of his followers had abandoned him?

  The answer was always the same: even though his body had been ravaged by sunlight at the failed summoning, Master’s mind had remained strong. A vampire of his age should not be underestimated. To reach that many years required more than blind luck or brute strength. It took power of mind and will to outlast and outwit those who meant to see you dead or powerless.

  Slowly though, Malock had begun to have doubts. It started with Master’s self-imposed isolation, which marked the beginning of the end of his reign. Not that Master even noticed once he learned of Braughton’s existence. The hybrid became Master’s obsession, which meant it also became Malock’s obsession. It would be decades before Malock pieced together the connection between the ritual and Braughton. It would be nearly a century after that when he realized Master’s plans were flawed.

  He honestly had no idea what Master was thinking. They had both seen the same texts, read the same lore, but must have come to completely different conclusions. Master’s interest in not only preserving Braughton’s life, but also that of his human slave was baffling.

  Malock could see no use in such a thing. What was needed was a release. What they should be focused on was completing the ritual. Somewhere along the way, Master had lost sight of what was important. Just as he and the other Elders had allowed themselves to be distracted by a pretty face, now it was the wench’s son clouding his mind.

  Just as he was thinking perhaps the elder had fallen asleep, Malock heard the rustle of robes within the blackness. It may be impenetrable to his eyes, but sound travelled through it freely.

  “Explain to me how you failed to follow my simple instructions,” Master’s voice commanded from the dark. No matter what shape Master’s body might be in, his voice was as deep and strong as ever. If he could have just projected a large scowling face to go with it, he might still have much of his power. He didn’t give Malock a chance to speak before continuing, “I was told you had found Braughton, so why I don’t see him with you?”

  “The guard you sent along to assist in the capture got a little … overzealous,” Malock explained. It was a bit of a risk pointing out the guard had been Master’s idea, but Malock was growing bold. “He knew your wishes as well as I, but you know how eager they can be to spill blood. I think we were both surprised by how easily he killed the human. I had no idea he would be so frail. Then Braughton killed the guard, and I did the only thing I could think of to salvage the situation.”

  “Enough!” Master’s voice boomed across the room. “If you can’t control one simple-minded guard, how can you expect to ever sit on the Council?” Malock nearly rolled his eyes, but covered it by bowing his head. Another one of Master’s schemes to regain power – getting Malock placed on the Council. The very idea proved how isolated Master had become. Outside of a small region, most of the Council’s power had dwindled to little more than waning influence over the vampire population. It was a body dangerously close to passing into insignificance, and Malock refused to become tied to it.

  “You are right, of course, Master,” he said, now sorry he’d even tried to explain. He was only prolonging the inevitable threats that must be made before being allowed to return to his task. What he really needed to do was speed up the process. “I can only hope my plan has worked, and Braughton has found another servant by now.”

  He heard the rustle of robes again, and nearly fell backwards when an arm extended from the void. The arm and hand protruding from the black robe appeared to be little more than bone covered in a thin layer of skin. The spider leg-thin forefinger pointed at Malock, then the hand turned over and the fingers curled, beckoning Malock to come closer.

  This was new. Malock leaned closer, keenly aware of the light boundary and still unwilling to cross it. The hand reached over, grabbed his shirt, and dragged him into the darkness with a strength he had not thought possible. The throne of bone materialized from the gloom as Malock was lifted off the ground. Another hand appeared and pushed back the hood covering Master’s hea
d.

  The face in front of Malock was one he barely recognized. Exposure to the sun had seared most of the flesh, and in some places exposed bone. Where it wasn’t burned, what remained was dry and cracked. Again Malock marveled at Master’s voice as he watched what was left of his lips form words.

  “From now on, you will follow my plan. Understand?” Master said. Malock nodded. “Good. Now fetch me Braughton and his new slave.”

  With another show of unexpected strength, Master tossed Malock back into the light, and halfway across the room. Malock tumbled across the floor, rolling several times before coming to a stop. When he sat up, Master spoke again.

  “I’m sending more of my faithful with you, Malock. Try to keep them in line. I will not summon you again on this matter.” Whether it was a threat or promise, He didn’t specify, and Malock did not ask.

  “As you wish, Master,” he replied with bowed head, then quickly left the room.

  Master certainly still had some surprises left in him, but Malock was more convinced than ever that his will was fading. The fact he left the chamber with little more than ruffled clothes was proof enough. It was almost time now. Time to fix mistakes of the past and seize a power restrained for much too long. He only hoped this detour hadn’t taken too long, and his apprentice had been able to keep track of Braughton.

  Chapter Ten

  He checked his watch for the tenth time in the same number of minutes. It was going to be tight. Everything needed to go smoothly if they were going to avoid sunrise. How often did things like this go according to plan though? Malock grimaced at the thought, and cursed Master.

  Why did Master have to bring him all the way back just to chastise him? Hadn’t he ever heard of a phone? And why had he insisted on saddling him with the inept group of fledglings following in the car behind? He and his apprentice were more than a match for Braughton and his new slave.