Ten years passed, during which time Esher honed the occult skills he’d learned while still alive, growing even more adept in the dark arts. He curried favor with his sire, and was granted permission to leave Europe in order to prepare the way for Gabor’s eventual relocation to the New World. In 1848 Esher returned to America and claimed the “inheritance” he had arranged for himself, all those years ago. He then drifted up and down the eastern coast, from city to city, marveling at how the Industrial Revolution had transformed sleepy Colonial ports into burgeoning metropolises.
It was during one of these forays he spotted the poet lurching out of a grog shop on the low end of town. He was exceptionally drunk and looked to be in very poor health. Esher followed at a discrete distance as the poet continued on his bender, making sure he kept to the shadows in order not to betray his presence. The other passersby on the street gave the poet plenty of room as he babbled to himself, calling out the name of his wife and quoting fragmented lines of his own poetry in a slurred voice. Esher followed him into an alley and watched from a safe hiding place as the poet leaned against a wall and vomited noisily onto his own shoes. Only then did he step forward and tap his old school chum on the shoulder.
“I say, old fellow, are you all right?”
The poet wiped at his mustache and turned around unsteadily, doing his best to keep from collapsing. “I know that voice-or at least I used to.”
“I’m insulted, old man!” Esher laughed. “Don’t you recognize me?”
The poet’s brows knotted tight, then suddenly went slack, his eyes widening in a mixture of surprise and horror. “My God! They said you died of typhus in Austria!”
“You shouldn’t believe all that you read—and half of what you write, old friend!” Esher chuckled, clapping the ailing man on the back. “Come—allow me to buy you an absinthe! We have so much to catch up on!”
It wasn’t hard to cloud the minds of the patrons of the bar, since their minds were befogged to begin with. Still, Esher did not want anyone to notice that the poet’s last hours were spent in the company of anyone but the green fairy. As he drank, he told Esher of his life—or what was left of it—since last they met. It seemed that although the poet had experienced some success with his writing, there had also been an unfortunate scandal involving a poetess and a libel suit, which eventually robbed him of what little money he’d managed to accumulate, and not long after, his young wife succumbed to tuberculosis. He abandoned New York City, returning to his native soil in hopes of overcoming the temptation of drink. But then a friend invited him to a birthday party in the city, where he made the mistake of toasting the hostess with a sherry—he did not remember much after that, but he was certain that several days had passed.
As Esher listened to the poet weep and babble, he contemplated, for the briefest second, on bestowing the gift of immortality on his old drinking buddy, only to quickly cast aside the notion. The poet was simply too romantic and weak-willed for such a transformation. So when he finally suffered a seizure and collapsed in the gutter, Esher quietly left him there to die of exposure. After all, he had more important things to attend to. And with the poet’s death, the last tie to his mortal identity was finally severed.
In the years since his return to America, Esher’s had worked hard to become one of the most feared and respected Nobles, the Ruling Class of vampire society. But it wasn’t until five years ago, that he’d dared to make his boldest moves: the usurping of Deadtown.
The inner-city neighborhood had been damned for a very long time, and as such he could operate openly, without fear of discovery from the human authorities. However, it had been Lord Sinjon’s stalking grounds since the War of 1812. Compared to the elder vampire, Esher was little more than a pimply-faced teenager. Most Nobles would have been intimidated by the fact Sinjon had one of the largest broods in North America. But then again, Esher wasn’t one for being timid. It was his goal to move in and shatter the old fool’s power base and take over his turf. But in order to do so, he had to match his rival’s numbers. That meant creating his own vampires while also recruiting as many orphans and castaways possible. Luckily, he had no shortage of raw material to work with.
Thanks to the rise of modern technology and the downfall of superstition in the years since the First World War, there were probably more vampires wandering about than ever before. The vast majority of them were garden-variety undead, ignorant of their potential, struggling from one feeding to the next, in constant fear of being found out by the humans on whom they preyed. Without a sire or dame to claim them, they meandered, eternal and alone, in search of security. And Esher was more than happy to give it to them.
Throwing caution to the wind, he set out on a blatant campaign against the Lord of Deadtown. He opened the Dance Macabre, which acted as a magnet for orphaned vampires, especially those new to unlife. Most were so pathetically desperate for someone to tell them what to do and explain the intricacies of their new existence to them that they gladly swore allegiance to him by allowing him to taste of their blood in exchange for a sip of his own. From that moment on they belonged to him, both body and mind, as they no longer had a soul to barter.
Esher much preferred recruiting orphaned vampires than to spawning his own brood. He was nowhere near as prolific as most Nobles, some of whom created new undead every time they fed. Like his own sire, Lord Gabor, Esher preferred quality over quantity in his progeny. He’d been forced to destroy the first one he had created after she ran away to be with a human male. He’d ripped her unliving heart from her breast and squeezed the blood from it as punishment, but not before gouging out the eyes of her mortal paramour. He never spoke her name after that and his servants had been instructed never to mention her again on pain of death. In time he had replaced her with Decima, who had served him well for several decades. But all things fade with time, including a vampire lover’s passion, and now his precious Nikola was being prepared to take her place as his bride …
Esher was suddenly drawn from his reverie by the sound of the disco music being switched off. He straightened himself and leaned forward in his seat. The floor show was about to begin.
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About the Author
Nancy A. Collins has authored over twenty novels and novellas and numerous short stories, and worked on several comic books, including a two-year run on Swamp Thing. She is a recipient of the HWA’s Bram Stoker Award and the British Fantasy Society Award, and has been nominated for the Eisner, John Campbell Memorial, and World Fantasy International Horror Guild Awards. Best known for her groundbreaking vampire series Sonja Blue, which heralded the rise of the popular urban fantasy genre, Collins is the author of the bestselling Sunglasses After Dark, the Southern Gothic collection Knuckles and Tales, and the Vamps series for young adults. Her most recent novel is Left Hand Magic, the second installment in the critically acclaimed Golgotham urban fantasy series. She currently resides in Norfolk, Virginia, with a Boston terrier.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Nancy A. Collins
ISBN 978-1-4976-6175-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Paint It Black (Sonja Blue) Page 24