His apprentice. Malock glanced across at his black-garbed student, still and quiet, as always. Only his eyes were visible, and they remained focused on the road ahead. Malock allowed himself to feel some pride. He had spent over one hundred years converting his apprentice into a vampire. It had not been easy, and his student had the scars to prove it, but it had been worth it. His calm was infectious. Maybe it would go smoothly, he thought as he checked his watch again.
After what seemed an unbearable amount of time, the car finally stopped. They were still nearly a hundred meters from the house, and Malock hoped it was far enough away to keep from being spotted. Without a word, Malock and his apprentice stepped out onto the road. The gravel crunched underfoot as Malock scanned the house for movement. Satisfied, he turned to his apprentice.
“This is the place?” he asked, and received a silent nod as his answer. “And no one saw you?” A negative shake of the head, and Malock smiled. “Good.” He waved his hand to the car behind, and all four doors opened as his five tag-alongs piled out. He took one more look at the quiet, dark house, then said, “Let’s go.”
All four doors slammed shut at once, the noise carrying across the still night. The one closest to Malock found himself on the ground, his neck pinned under Malock’s boot.
“You idiots!” Malock hissed. “Why don’t we all just go up and ring the doorbell now! Or maybe we can catch him while he’s on the floor laughing about what incompetent neophytes I’ve brought with me.” They stood silently as he eyed them with disgust. “I don’t have time for this. We don’t have time for this. Understand?” He pointed towards the eastern horizon, and they all nodded. “Good.” He gave a swift kick to the one he had been standing on and growled, “Get up.”
He almost killed them all, right there, then thought, why bother? All he needed to do was get out of the way, and these children would get themselves killed. In the process, perhaps they would slow Braughton down enough to allow him to end this quickly. Besides, it might be satisfying to watch Master’s men fail and die.
He moved close to his apprentice. “I don’t care what happens to these fledglings,” he whispered, “but remember, we need Braughton and his slave alive.” His eyes remained on the house, answering with a barely perceptible nod. Not good enough. Malock grabbed his chin and pulled, forcing his eyes to meet his own. “I have promised him to you, and you know I keep my promises, but now is not the time.” A firm nod this time. Better.
Malock leaned down to his human driver and said, “Wait here,” then glanced over his shoulder at his inept crew and the lightening horizon behind them. “Let’s make this quick.”
Something was wrong. He stopped less than fifty feet from the house, letting the others pass by him. Only his apprentice paused at his side, perhaps thinking the same thing as he: this was too easy. One didn’t live to be as old as Braughton by being careless, and the same could be said for those of Malock’s age as well.
He looked again at the empty windows. Not even a flutter of stirring air moved a curtain inside. The house was most assuredly empty.
His group of thugs was on the porch now, peering into windows. One of them tried the door, and, finding it unlocked, pushed it open to reveal an empty room. They all stopped, turned, and stared blankly at Malock.
“My god,” he mumbled, “I’m going to have to kill them all myself.” He rolled his eyes, then waved his hands, motioning them to move into the house. Even if Braughton was no longer here, maybe he left behind a hint of where he’d gone. Although, he doubted any of those bumbling fools would recognize a clue even if they tripped over it. He turned to his apprentice, the command to help them search the house on his lips when he heard it.
When you become a vampire, you realize you’ve been experiencing the world as though underwater. When you break the surface of that stagnant pond of mortality, your senses are nearly overwhelmed. Malock could remember being driven nearly into a frenzy by the combination of his prey’s quickening heartbeat and the smell of their fear, until he learned control. Even as you learned to filter most of these new sensations, there are certain things of which you always want to be aware. For instance, the sound of a trap being sprung.
“What have those idiots -,” was all that escaped from his mouth before his arm was jerked roughly from behind and nearly pulled him off-balance. He turned to regain it, and found it was his apprentice dragging him. His first instinct was to rip his apprentice’s arm off and beat him with it, while demanding to know what he thought he was doing. That instinct was quelled by a much more basic one though as he heard another of those unfiltered noises coming from the house – a low rumble, quickly growing in power. He stopped resisting and ran with his apprentice to the cinderblock shed, hoping it wasn’t too late.
The rumble erupted into an explosion, and Malock felt a small push of hot air on his back just he ducked behind the shed. The yard was lit brighter than the pressing dawn, and flaming debris began landing around them. Malock peered cautiously around the shed and knew the others had not survived.
“Remind me to thank him for killing those idiots for me,” he said to his silent apprentice. He looked around the surrounding landscape. Were they being watched? If it were him, he would want to see if the trap worked, but Malock was realizing he knew precious little about his adversary. One thing he did know for certain, he would not allow himself to be caught by surprise again.
“Let’s go,” he said taking one last look at the eastern sky. “There’s no need to add our own ashes to this fire.” His apprentice nodded and followed him back to the waiting car.
Malock slid into the seat behind the driver, absently commanding, “Drive,” before putting all of his concentration towards planning his next move. There were several minutes of silence before his thoughts were interrupted by a grunt from his apprentice. Malock looked at him, and he cut his eyes towards the driver. Malock followed his gaze, and saw they were not headed in the right direction.
“Where exactly do you think you’re going, you incompetent mortal?” Malock asked the driver.
“I have orders to deliver you to the Council,” he replied.
The Council. He did not have time for this. Malock’s hand wrapped around the driver’s throat and he leaned close to his ear. “Who gave these orders?” He enjoyed the feeling of the driver’s quickening pulse under his fingers as he squeezed just hard enough to make swallowing a chore.
“They come direct from the Council,” he answered with a strain, then quickly added, “from Master Sartius.”
Sartius. Of course. “I have only one Master,” Malock hissed, “and it is not the Council.” The driver swallowed hard, and Malock considered simply snapping his neck and ignoring the Council. Did he really still need them? Malock didn’t get the chance to decide.
“You might want to pull your hand back now, sir,” the driver calmly suggested. “Here comes the sun.” Malock felt the blindingly painful burning before the driver even finished his warning. He pulled his hand back into the shadows, noting with some relief the exposure was not long enough to do any permanent damage.
“How about you close the partition before you cook us both back here, bloodsack!” Malock shouted as he hid from the encroaching sunlight. Without a word, the driver flipped a switch, raising the wall between them. Malock sat up in the darkness, absently flexing his slowly healing hand.
What did the Council want? And did he care? Pretending to support them was becoming more trouble than they were worth. Much like with his master. If he had captured Braughton, his answers would have been much easier. As it was, he would have a long ride to think them over.
* * *
He couldn’t believe it actually worked. The remote detonator fell from Braughton’s hand, unused. He was worried it might not work from this distance, but it turned out not to matter. The still smoldering remains of the house told the success of his trap.
Now, if only he had been smart enough to wire up the
storage shed. Or at least moved a little closer, he thought, watching the lone two survivors disappear into their car. He was certain one of them must be Malock, but still had no idea what he looked like. At least he knew Malock had noticed his absence.
His eyes followed the car and raised towards the horizon. It couldn’t be more than thirty minutes to sunrise. There were only two of them, and he would have the perfect weapon to destroy them in minutes. Would he ever get a better opportunity? Most likely not, but he wasn’t sure he wanted Malock dead … yet.
Following them wasn’t an option either. Elizabeth would certainly be awake by this evening, and she would need him. The transition was confusing, but always went smoother when he was close. And after that, then the training. It was always the same.
Wasn’t that the intent here, he reminded himself. He needed to buy them some time, or Elizabeth would soon meet the same fate as Garrett. He wouldn’t allow himself to follow that thought any further. Instead, he watched the car disappear from view, then turned his attention to the house.
He watched for any sign of movement in the smoking rubble. He doubted anything could have survived the blast, but wanted to be sure. A wounded vampire was a desperate creature he’d rather catch by surprise.
When the sun finally pushed past the horizon, Braughton was ready to leave. Whatever the fire had failed to kill would certainly be finished off by the sun’s lethal rays. He had a long ride ahead of him, and had wasted enough time here.
Just moving in the direction of the monastery he could feel a tension in his body ease. His confidence in the decision not to chase Malock grew stronger, and he was anxious to get back. Ready to begin her training, to test her. It was strange, like nothing he had experienced with any of the others. Perhaps there was something different about her after all.
* * *
Why weren’t they being attacked? Malock peered out the heavily tinted back window at the fading line of smoke on the horizon, but saw no one following them. If he were Braughton, with the sun in the sky, he would have given chase. Especially considering how hard he had chased Malock only a week earlier. What had changed?
The new slave. She must be near. He wouldn’t dare risk his fledgling slave’s life. Not after what happened to the last one. Malock shook his head. These slaves, they made him weak. The beast was definitely there. He had seen it clearly in the flash of rage after his last slave was killed, but something was keeping it suppressed. Caged. As if his humanity kept it bound with shackles of sunlight, and these slaves of his strengthened that hold. Did he have the power to break such bonds?
Master believed the slave was key to controlling Braughton, but Malock wasn’t interested in controlling him at all. Not that Master cared to listen to him. He had his own plans, and Malock was fighting to stay ahead of him. Being called in front of the Council was a delay he couldn’t afford.
“When we stop,” Malock said to his apprentice, “you will come back here. Find his trail and follow it back to whatever rock he’s slid under.” His answer was a silent nod. Satisfied for now, Malock leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes.
Chapter Eleven
It was the quiet that woke her. She was unsure how much time she had spent actually conscious in Braughton’s presence, but it seemed like he never stopped talking to himself. Her eyes had been too heavy to open when her mind managed to climb out of the darkness, but every time she surfaced she heard his voice. Mumbling. Repeating the same word over and over. No, not a word. It was a name.
Malock.
This time was different. Her eyes were still closed, but she knew she was alone. The stillness around her was almost palpable, and the silence pressed against her ears. At least I’m not on another metal table, she thought, although she was getting tired of waking up in strange places.
Her eyes opened, and the first thing they fixed on was a plain, silver cross hanging on the wall across from her. The sight of it was both comforting and soothing at the same time, though not for the regular reasons. She had never been particularly religious, but being able to lie here and stare at the cross meant, in her mind, she couldn’t be a vampire.
She admitted it was a strange thought. She didn’t believe in such things, of course, but she couldn’t deny what she had experienced either. Braughton’s speed, his strength, the healing, his control over her, his teeth, the blood … She closed her eyes, and shook her head to clear it. There may have been rational, reasonable explanations for all of it, but right now, she couldn’t come up with a single one. She knew who would though.
She opened her eyes again and sat up. The room was plain – bed, chair, desk, dresser, cross – but something was wrong. No light. Not even a window. She should have been in complete darkness, but instead everything was lit as though under a full moon. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and rested her head in her palms.
It was completely normal, she told herself. Her eyes had simply adjusted to the darkness. There must be light coming from under the closed door. Her mind grasped for one of those rational answers even as she knew none of them were right. It was something he had done to her.
With her head in her hands, she realized things were not as silent as she had first thought. Noises were all around her. Her head shot up, and she looked around the room. Definitely still alone. Anyone else in this small room and it would have felt crowded. She listened again.
Breathing. It was coming from both sides of her. Deep, heavy, slow breathing. Sleeping. There were people around her asleep. But where were they?
Another sound, fainter, caught her attention. Running water, and the clank of dishes. Someone was awake, and she was going to find out who.
The door opened easily and silently into an empty hall. She noticed, but refused to acknowledge, the hall was dimly lit with only a few candles. Not nearly enough light to brighten a dark room through a closed door. Instead, she moved quickly down the hall, passing several closed doors, drawing closer to the sounds of activity.
A few turns later, Elizabeth was headed towards a brightly lit room at the end of a corridor. The noises were definitely coming from there. When she emerged into the light, she was standing in a large kitchen. On the far side, washing a stack of dishes, was a plump, balding man in a plain, brown robe. Most definitely not Braughton.
“Excuse me,” she called out. “Where am I?”
He froze for a moment, then turned off the water, and turned to face her. “You’re early,” he said with a small smile. “Braughton said you wouldn’t be awake until tomorrow.”
He knows Braughton. Good. “Well, obviously he was wrong,” she said, returning the smile. “So, tell me. Where is Braughton?”
His head cocked slightly to the side as he studied her a moment. “You call him Braughton?”
“Yeah,” she answered with an irritated laugh. “So did you. Isn’t that his name?”
“Well, yes, but,” he shook his head dismissively. “Doesn’t matter.” He cleared his throat and continued, “I’m not sure where he went, only that he left you in our care until he returns tomorrow evening.” He dried his hands and extended one to her. “Most people just call me Monk. Well, those that speak do, anyway. Welcome to our home, the Ortus Monastery.”
She knew that name. She couldn’t be much more than fifty miles from home. Home. It was a strange word in her mind. The image it conjured was of her town, but what did she have there? A house filled with nothing more than memories of a life she no longer had? A job where she was most likely to be recognized as the punchline to a joke rather than any of her accomplishments? Was that really home?
Still, she had no idea what she was involved in now. The one thing she remembered clearly since meeting Braughton was the moment she agreed to help him. That desire was still strong, but part of her still wanted to rebel.
She looked at Monk’s outstretched hand, then glanced around the otherwise empty room. “What if I decide to just leave?” she asked.
<
br /> “The door is right through there,” his head nodded towards an open doorway on her left. “There is a car in the drive, with the keys in the ignition. No one will stop you. This is a refuge, not a prison.”
His hand was still out, waiting for her. “Call me Liz,” she said, finally accepting it, to which he simply nodded. “So, you’re a monk, and your name is Monk?”
He laughed lightly. “Yes, I was a young boy when Braughton delivered me here, with almost no memory of who I was, and I’m afraid my brothers are not very imaginative.”
“You don’t remember your parents? Your family?”
“No. A side effect from being fed upon at such a young age, and for so long.”
She stared at him blankly for a few moments. “I don’t understand. Fed upon? By what?”
“Vampires, of course,” he answered, watching her closely. “Although they weren’t any more creative, simply calling me ‘boy’.”
Of course it was. She had known it just as surely as she’d known Braughton’s name. Hearing someone else speak it aloud, though, made it suddenly real. Vampires. Vampires are real. But what about, “So, Braughton … he’s a?”
“Mystery.” His eyes softened and his smile saddened. “He hasn’t told you anything, has he?” She shook her head. He let out a deep sigh. “It’s not really my place, but he’s left me little other choice.” He looked around, then said, “Follow me,” as he headed towards a closed door on the far side of the kitchen.
Behind the door was a long, descending flight of stairs, followed by a narrow stone corridor. He moved faster than she expected, but she had no trouble matching his pace.
“Are there others here like you?” she asked. “Others Braughton has dropped off?”
He nodded and spoke over his shoulder. “He has delivered many souls to these doors over the years. Most recover and move on, but a few have remained.”
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