~*~
Jacques watched dispassionately while the great vampire ravished the girl. It seemed to Jacques that Charles Upton didn’t possess a brilliant mind. Upton thought these spectacles of murder bonded Jacques to him, made him at least an accessory to the crime. But Jacques was unmoved by murder, no matter how grisly, and his opinion of Upton was not raised an iota because he was obliged to view it.
Upton had brought him into his clan and given him an apartment of his own on the top floor of his villa. Jacques spent his time there thinking about what it was he hoped to accomplish with the vampire. Power, surely, more power than any normal man could hope to secure on his own. Luxury without earning it, that was something, too.
But fate had something in store for Jacques that neither he nor the vampire could envision. Jacques knew this because of the midnight visit of a scampering demon. The little monster came in the dark, tugging at Jacques’ toes beneath the sheet. Jacques woke, drew back his foot quickly, and reached to turn on the table lamp. When he saw the demon, he merely stared curiously.
“I didn’t call for you. Go away,” he said, despairing that he’d get any sleep now.
“Jacques, Jacques, you break my heart,” the little monster cooed. He came close to the bed, grimacing into Jacques’ face.
“You don’t have a heart. You’re something defiled and dirty and ignorant that blows on the wind.”
“I know something you don’t know, how’s that so ignorant?”
Jacques grew alert. Demons lied, it was their mission to cloud a man’s thoughts with lies, but this sounded like truth. “What is it you know that might involve me?”
The demon, light of foot and mischievous, danced away from the bed and leaped atop a chair back. He sat hunched in the shadows, but Jacques could see his horrific grin floating like the Cheshire cat’s. “The vampire will lead you to near doom, but you’ll narrowly escape.”
“So?” Jacques asked, exasperated. Even if he was lead straight to his doom, he did not care.
“When the vampire dies, you will become his clan’s general.”
“Ah. That’s more interesting.” Jacques found this bit of information more worthwhile. If he’d been told he would die, the news wouldn’t have caused a ripple in his mind. But to think he might command a vampire clan…now that was something he’d never imagined.
Something occurred to him. “Must I become vampire too?”
The demon cackled and leaped from the chair to the floor and ran up a wall to the ceiling where it hung upside down like a bat. With twinkling eyes it said, “Wouldn’t you like to know!”
“Oh, be gone with you, brat.” Jacques turned his back to the creature. He no longer wanted to see the bulbous head, the skin like dark cracked leather stretched over the demon’s skull. The thing made him gag it smelled so horribly of long dead fish and ripe carrion.
“I’ll take my bit of flesh first,” the demon said, dropping from the ceiling onto the bed and latching onto Jacques’ leg. Before Jacques could even move to defend himself, the demon had clamped long teeth into the muscle of his thigh and torn out a small chunk. Blood rushed, filling the bed, as the demon jumped away, chomping with delight on the human flesh between his teeth.
Jacques let out a cry when he’d first been bitten, but then he held his pain in silence. He didn’t want to wake Upton in the rooms below. “You little bastard,” he said. “You’ve wounded me.”
“For the information I imparted, I should have taken your nose. What an ungrateful wretch, you are!”
While Jacques rose from the bloody sheets and hurried to the bathroom to stem the flow of blood, the demon disappeared.
It was days before the wound began to heal. During that time Upton had smelled his blood and inquired of the injury. Though the vampire could read his mind when he wanted, Jacques took the chance this time he wouldn’t. He lied, saying he’d punctured his leg when outside in Upton’s garden. He had fallen on one of the iron spikes of the fence, he said, but his leg was better now.
Jacques did not for a moment suspect the little demon who had visited him was telling a lie this time. If he’d been lying, he wouldn’t have extracted payment.
There were all these forces beyond the pale of reality that continued to intrude on Jacques’ life. Angels, ghosts, demons, gargoyles, witches, and now vampires. He knew in his heart that he was specially picked to be witness to these otherworldly beings and to incorporate that knowledge into his life’s plan in some way. Or else why was he privy to the knowledge, he asked himself?
He had begun a journal to record the fantastic episodes soon after the first event happened years ago with the angel. Today, just before meeting with Upton and going to the basement to retrieve the girl victim he had written:
She is a virgin, young and supple. Upton claims a virgin’s blood is pure and sweet. Although I don’t find his actions distasteful in any way, as nothing a creature does to another surprises me, it does seem simple superstition to believe a virgin’s blood better than any other.
Then again, I am not a vampire, so I could be talking out of my hat.
This house I live in is often silent as a tomb, especially when the vampire sleeps. He seems to be dead, as his chest does not rise in respiration, and his eyes are closed and the muscles of his face limp. He told me he could not be killed with a wooden stake through the heart, that many myths of the vampire were entirely fictional, but he failed to tell me what WOULD kill him. I suspect he does not trust me fully yet. For when he sleeps, he seems vulnerable, and it is in sleep that a human could perhaps dispatch him.
Not that I wish to. For now I’m intrigued with the old vampire and his ways. He has told me some of his history and his vengeful plans. I would like to be involved just to see what transpires. Life is so much more interesting when lived in tandem with a monster beneath a craven moon.
He is not as smart as he thinks he is, but he’s still somewhat clever. I enjoy handling his cadres of malcontents he’s drawn to him from all over Europe. Each and every one has a gleam in his eye for mischief and mayhem. The only reason they don’t drink from me is their fear of reprisal by Upton.
And they all have such individuality! Not one is like the other. Some are hungrier and always on the prowl, though they have to feed elsewhere besides Cannes by Upton’s order. Some brim with hate so real it is palpable. Some are ambitious, lured to the new army only to find a way to rule it.
And they have varying scents about them. One, a big hulking creature with a large square head that sits on wide shoulders smells like cabbage. Strange, since they don’t eat food as I do so it couldn’t possibly be because of that. Another smells like roses. He’s rather effeminate, prancing as he does, flinging his hands around in wild gestures when he speaks. Some, of course, smell of decay. Those are the ones who fail to bathe regularly so the dried old blood of their victims remains on their clothing and sometimes even in their hair, their ears, and the corners of their eyes. Though I have no evidence, I think they let the blood stay and the death scent grow stronger in order to paralyze a prey when they get near.
The one thing they all have in common is their fear of Upton. It seems none of them are bright enough to understand he is not of great intellect. It’s his passion to persevere and overcome that raises him above the others and makes him a commander.
He does not want simple things. He wants the most complicated—namely, the power over the earth and all its inhabitants. In that way lies his folly and the failure of his reason. Not even Jesus Christ ruled the whole world. Not even Alexander the Great. Not even Julius Caesar.
Nevertheless, I would not leave him now if wild horses were tied to me. Life can be so tedious. At least life lived close to the old vampire is never that.
In his way he is patriarchal and likes to play the father to me. My own father early on showed a dislike for me that in the end caused me to severe the relationship. I’ve no use for fathers and mothers and none at all for my sister living outside of Pari
s. But I do have this fondness for old Upton and his egomaniacal need to control the world.
He already has power over life and death, he owns his immortality, and he can surround himself with anything he wants from the world. But he wants more. He wants to lead.
I think I like him because I understand. All the greatest beings of history wanted the same thing. Charles Upton will join that roster of greats.
And I will be at his side.
Chapter 6
Malachi saw Jacques in his dreams. Over and over, night after night, there he was, a man with jet black hair and eyes like navy blue-black ingots. He didn’t know this man’s name for a long time. He only knew the face. He saw him inside a house moving like a satellite around Charles Upton. The dreams were so real he could hear their voices clearly, smell the exotic cinnamon scent that wafted off the stranger, and feel the sullen air as it lay against his skin, unmolested by breeze or movement.
At first Malachi dismissed the dreams as just that—dreams. Made up figments of imagination. But as the dreams continued, and the two people were always in them, Malachi realized he was being shown things that must mean something—the way he’d dreamed about Balthazar before the vampire uprising.
He went to Mentor, worry evident on his face. Mentor sat him down in the empty living room and said, “So what’s the trouble?”
Malachi glanced around nervously to see if they were alone.
“She’s not here,” Mentor said, referring to Bette. “We won’t be interrupted. She’s taking her judo lessons.”
Malachi launched into it. “I’ve been having dreams again.”
“About the pit?” He meant the earthen prison Malachi had occupied as a prisoner in Thailand.
Malachi shook his head. “No, those dreams went away—well, almost. These new dreams are about Charles Upton and…someone else who stays with him.”
Mentor was obviously intrigued. “Could you tell where they are? What area of the world?”
“No, they’re always indoors, in a house. It’s more like a mansion than a house. It’s huge, with many rooms. But I can’t tell where it is.”
“Who is this other person with Upton? A woman?”
“A man. And I have the impression he isn’t vampire.”
“Is that so?” Mentor looked down at his hands in contemplation. “Not a vampire,” he repeated. “That’s extremely odd.”
“I think so,” Malachi said. “I didn’t think Upton had any fondness for humans.”
“He hadn’t before this, that’s for sure. Except as victims. Tell me more about the man. Your impressions of him. Does he ever speak in the dreams?”
“Sometimes. He doesn’t seem afraid of Upton. He isn’t exactly his friend, maybe more like a collaborator. I think Upton’s given him control over some of his Predators.”
Now Mentor showed real shock on his face. “He wouldn’t do that.”
“According to the dreams he has. He trusts this man. He…likes him.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, I don’t mean sexually. I mean he seems to like him as a person. He tells him things, like about his past and how he became a vampire, how Ross made him. He’s told him about the uprising he and Balthazar brought against you. He treats him like a Mafia don might treat his counselor.”
“That’s very interesting. I wouldn’t have thought Upton would ever bring anyone into his confidence. I just wish we knew where he was hiding.”
“What I want to know,” said Malachi, “is why I’m having the dreams. What does all this have to do with me?”
Mentor templed his fingers and touched them to his lips. “Some dhampirs are tortured with dreams and nightmares all of their lives.”
“You never told me that!”
“I didn’t want to. I was hoping you’d escape it. Not every dhampir is so afflicted. But you’ve been plagued with prophetic dreams since you were a child. I don’t think they’ll go away, Malachi, I’m sorry.”
Malachi hung his head in despair. “You don’t know how this wears me thin. Every night a new dream. Every night it’s like I’m somewhere else, walking like a spirit beside one or the other, either the strange man or Upton. I wake up worn to a frazzle, as if I never even slept.”
“It’s sort of an astral projection,” Mentor said slowly. “You may be actually traveling to the place where they reside and wander there for hours in your sleep, disembodied.”
“Then how do I stop it?”
Mentor spread his hands palm out to show his own helplessness. “I don’t think you can.”
“What am I going to do then? I’m already a nervous wreck.”
“Try to find out where they are. If we know, we can send a force to deal with them before they raise another army.”
“But how am I going to find out?”
“Go to a window, look out. Leave the house, wander around the place to find out where you are.”
“In the dream, you mean.”
“In the spiritual projection.”
“Christ.” Malachi stood wearily. If he could have lain down on Mentor’s sofa and taken a long nap uninterrupted by dream, he would have collapsed there. But he knew he wouldn’t rest. He might never rest again and the thought drove him mad.
“Life’s never easy,” Mentor said, rising to walk him to the door. He patted him on the back.
“You’re telling me.”
“I know that doesn’t help, but the sooner we accept the torturous paths we’re led down, the sooner we escape them—or at least the sooner we accept the burdens placed on us.”
Malachi drove home to the ranch going over what Mentor had told him. He was leaving his body as he slept, involuntarily he assumed, and kept finding himself in the presence of his old enemy. Could he really control his actions in the dreams, as Mentor suggested? Could he move freely in the big dark house where the two men lived? Could he leave it?
Tonight he would try. Rather than being a silent, unseen spectator, he would try to move about on his own; he would enforce his own free will on the landscape of his dream.
Even Danielle knew something was awfully wrong, though he hadn’t told her of the dreams.
He had to find a way out of them. He didn’t care what Upton was up to—even if the monster was again raising an army. He was curious about the human he kept in his house, but it was really of no momentous concern to him. Why did he have to be plagued this way, on and on, year after year, with things he didn’t want to be involved in?
Life was not only difficult, it was unfair in the extreme.
~*~
Extreme. That is what Jacques would call the old vampire. He fed too often. To excess, actually, even until his skin turned rose red and his strength was so vast he grew awkward and knocked over objects in the room or broke them from clutching a thing too roughly.
Now he was excessively haranguing his followers until they were on the brink of mutiny. “Bring some more to me,” he shouted to each group of Predators he visited in their various lairs around the city. “We’re not enough. I had as many as you before and you know what happened. Mentor is smart, he’s formidable, don’t mistake it!”
Jacques stood on the sidelines during these exhortations and could feel the uneasiness that slipped through the vampires like a fever, a contagion passed one to the other. They glanced at him surreptitiously as if he could control the old vampire. They looked at him as if silently pleading: Make him stop.
It was during one of these chaotic sessions when Jacques turned his head at the feeling someone was too close to him and watching. He saw something…someone. A young man, not a vampire at all, a young man in spirit form, watching closely everything going on. Jacques knew with a shock that this was not a real person, or if it was, he wasn’t in his real body. What could he be? A ghost who had come from the old walls of this decrepit lair below the ground to see what his visitors were up to?
He was certainly no angel or demon.
Jacques’ frown deepened as he stepped
closer to peer at the apparition. Couldn’t the vampires see him? Couldn’t Upton? They didn’t appear to know he was there at all.
The ghost man stared back at him and then abruptly his countenance changed, as if he knew Jacques knew he was there. He faded suddenly, his presence winking out. Jacques reached out to the air, dumbfounded. What did the Fates want with him now? This was a whole new equation. Was he going to have to deal not only with vagrant vampires boiling with hardly suppressed rage and a leader who was quickly losing his composure, but also with a peeping Tom of a ghost?
“Merci,” he mumbled, turning his attention back to the horde of vampires and Upton who shouted at them to do more for him, show some eagerness to please their master.
A vampire near the front of the group caught Jacques’ eye and smiled at him evilly. Had he also seen the apparition? Or was he just one of those willful vampires Upton warned him about who might watch for him to be alone so he could drain his blood?
Jacques smiled back to signal his fearlessness. Although he was Upton’s protégée, it never hurt to let the rogue vampires know he did not fear them. It was fear they feasted upon quite as much as it was blood.
Before he could stop himself, his gaze left the smiling vampire and glanced to the left of him again, just to be sure the ghost man was still gone. When he returned his gaze, the vampire was no longer smiling. He looked perturbed—as if his smile had not managed to do the job. So he had not seen the ghost, after all. He just wanted to catch Jacques and kill him.
That was much less a worry than if he’d been able to see the young man on the periphery of the group, watching them, then winking out. Much less.
Should Jacques tell Upton about it? About the Watcher?
Not yet, he decided. Upton did not really understand the links Jacques enjoyed with the subterranean underworld. He thought it remarkable he might have wrestled with an angel, but he hadn’t realized to what extent Jacques communicated with these other beings.
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