by Shawn Lane
“Well, you should think about it,” Seymour said. “Your old manager is gone, but I am sure we can cover things up enough to make it go away and you can continue singing. We can make you famous. If that is what you desire.”
Morton laughed hollowly. “What I desire? When has that mattered to you? It has always been what you desire.”
“Ah, but, Morton, if I had always gotten what I desired, you wouldn’t have been parted from me for all these years.” Seymour’s hand cupped his chin and forced Morton to look his way. His thumb brushed Morton’s bottom lip. “When we have gotten far enough from your lover I will see that you understand just what my desires are.”
“You bastard,” he whispered.
Seymour smiled. “Perhaps. But I am your master and you will not deny me. Not anymore. You won’t get away from me again, Morton. Your lover will not be able to rescue you this time.”
“You leave Graham alone.”
“I cannot. He is the reason you were taken from me.”
Morton swallowed, fear gripping him. “You…is he all right?”
“You cannot tell?” Seymour smiled mockingly. “Most of us can tell when harm has come to those we have made. You are still so weak, aren’t you, my dearest one?”
“I hate you.”
Seymour laughed. “I care not. I love you. I’ve always loved you since the moment I first saw you hundreds of years ago. You were beautiful and I knew I had to have you.”
Morton tried to shake his head but Seymour’s grip on his chin was tight. “That’s not love, that’s obsession.”
Shrugging, Seymour released his chin. “Your lover lives. Temporarily.”
“You said—”
“Only that I would let him go if you came with me. I said nothing about killing him after.”
Morton looked away once more, unable to face the triumph in Seymour’s eyes. He had to find a way to end this. But what would be the best way? Sunlight, of course, but what were the chances he’d ever be left alone to escape into the sun?
“It won’t be all bad, you know.” Seymour’s oily voice cut into his suicidal thoughts.
“Really?”
“Remember when I first made you? I was very generous to you.”
Morton rolled his eyes even though he still refused to look at Seymour. “You took me away from my life. From my love.”
Seymour snorted. “Your life, your love. You had neither. You were a mere servant for some pompous lord who kept you in secret. Who had a wife and children.”
“That’s the way it was then,” Morton protested.
“I took you away from that. Made you the only one I wanted.” Seymour sighed. “You are still the only one I have ever made immortal, Morton.”
“I never wanted immortality. I just…wanted to be ordinary.”
“With your looks, you could never be ordinary,” Seymour said. “And with your voice, you sing like an angel.”
“I should have died seven hundred years ago,” he insisted. “I despise you for making me a monster.”
“Yes. I know you do. I was once as you.”
Morton did look at him then, surprised to even hear words from Seymour that implied he was anything other than the evil creature Morton knew.
Seymour smirked. “Did you think I just grew out of the ground one day as I am?”
“I didn’t know, you never said.”
“I was not as young as you, but I had lived a full life before the change,” Seymour mused. “I had a wife and children, much as your lover did.”
“What happened?”
“It was several years before I found you. As you say, I did as I was supposed to and married, produced heirs. But women did not satisfy me so I sought out assignations.”
“Were you really different then?” Morton asked.
Seymour shrugged. “I dabbled in black magic and I was cruel to my wife, but I wanted a mortal life then, just as you.”
“Who made you?”
“A man I had arranged to meet,” Seymour said. “I did not know such creatures even existed then. There had never been rumors or gossip about those who consumed blood. At least none that I heard. After we had finished, I fell asleep and when I woke up he was feeding on me.”
Morton grimaced and withheld a shudder. He should be used to such things, but he didn’t know if he ever could be.
“I convinced him to change me rather than kill me, and he did.” Seymour leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Only a few years later he was killed himself.”
“How? Did you kill him?”
Seymour didn’t open his eyes, but he laughed. “No, Morton. You should know enough to know you cannot really kill your maker. He can kill you, but you don’t have the power to kill him. Haven’t you realized that after all this time?”
“Not until I learned you had survived this last time, had I guessed it might be true.” Morton had tried ending Seymour’s life a few times. Most often, Seymour had fled before he or Graham had done much damage. He’d never gotten as close to succeeding as he had the last time, in the early twentieth century. Exposing Seymour to the sun should have destroyed him. He and Graham had believed he’d been successful. But Seymour had been revived and here he was. Haunting him, tormenting him forever.
“It is. I did not even attempt to murder my maker. Someone else stabbed him with a stake.”
“Did it bother you, Seymour? Or were you glad?” he asked.
Seymour opened his eyes and stared at Morton with his cold, silvery eyes. “It did not bother me. Nor was I glad. It did not matter to me.”
“You did not feel the bond?”
“I felt nothing.” Seymour frowned. “Until he was dead. I felt great emptiness then, as though a part of me had gone with him. I was not the same.”
Morton bit his lip. “And now?”
Seymour shook his head. “You never get that back, Morton. You feel that emptiness for eternity.”
Chapter 8
Graham surveyed the ruins of what had once been the home he’d shared with Morton. Though they hadn’t lived there for centuries, in the scheme of things not long at all, they’d loved their house. They’d felt safer there than they’d felt anywhere.
When he had Morton back, and he told himself he definitely would have Morton back, and Seymour had been obliterated once and for all, they’d build a new house. One he hoped they would make their home for a very long time.
He’d been forced to steal a car to get back to Los Angeles and he’d driven as far as he dared, almost pushing it too far when the sun peeked over the horizon. Seymour had quite the head start on him, unfortunately.
Right now he needed access to the underground storage they had carefully created, so he went to the back of the ruined house to where the secret entrance had been located. His axe didn’t have any particular magical powers, but he loved its familiarity, its sharpness. Graham kept it that way himself with diligent care.
Holding his flashlight, Graham lifted the old wooden flat door hidden in the ground and walked down the stairs into the chamber. At the bottom of the chamber he flicked on the light switch and was glad to see the electricity still worked here.
Really, he didn’t know why the fuck he hadn’t decapitated the fucker before this, but this time he certainly would. Over the hundreds of years they’d tried traditional, known methods of killing vampires on Seymour and somehow Seymour had survived or escaped or was helped by someone.
The last time the bastard had been exposed to the sun and still Albert had been able to revive him, though admittedly it had taken years. A headless Seymour would definitely be harder to revive. Hell, Graham was so pissed, he might hack the fucker to bits. And then he’d turn his wrath on the too pretty, too sweet Albert.
He turned the corner in the underground passage and headed to the storage area. They also had created it to escape through, if the need had arisen. The tunnel ended several miles away from their house.
There, in the little alcove where he stor
ed weapons, stood a centuries old wooden cabinet with a padlock on it. Graham unlocked it and opened the doors to reveal his axe. As his fingers closed around it, his cell phone rang.
Graham frowned at the unknown caller. “Graham,” he answered.
“It’s Albert.”
“Albert, you son of a bitch—”
“I don’t have time for your tirade, Graham,” Albert interrupted. “I have called to tell you how to rescue Morton.”
“What trick is this?”
“No trick. This time, Graham, we are on the same side.”
Graham pinched the bridge of his nose. “Since when? You’re the reason Seymour has Morton now.”
“Sometimes one has to do what one wishes not to in order to get the result one is seeking.”
“What the fuck?” Graham growled. “Don’t do your high and mighty act with me.”
Albert sniffed. “Very well. This is what you need to do.”
* * * *
Graham stepped off the plane in Vienna. He looked around, watching carefully for any sign of this being a trap. He’d be stupid to trust Albert. For too long Albert had worshiped Seymour because Seymour had saved him from being destroyed. Graham didn’t know why Albert suddenly claimed to be helping him.
Austria, of all places. A long time ago, they’d spent time in Vienna and Salzburg. Back in Mozart’s day. A place they’d once loved before, spending long nights walking the cities, listening to the musicians, blending in with the artists. But then it had soured with Seymour’s arrival. Strange how Seymour had chosen to bring Morton to Austria.
Graham hadn’t been back here since a few years before Mozart’s death. But now, here he was. So far, as he walked through the exit gates and outside, there had been no sign of any immortal hunters.
He’d been forced to ship his axe to a shipping office Albert had told him about since he didn’t want a bunch of questions about an antique axe in his checked luggage. As it was, he’d had to tell the shipper in the United States it was for a medieval reenactment show he was performing in in Austria. He only hoped Albert would have the axe for him when the time came.
After picking up his axe, where he was to get further instructions from Albert, his next destination was going to have to be a hotel for the day. He might have a couple of hours of darkness left but he was exhausted and hungry so he didn’t have much time to do anything but hunt for food and then crash until the next night. Then he would get Morton back and Seymour would be out of their lives for good.
* * * *
Morton paced back and forth in the windowless room he’d been put in upon their arrival in Austria. He’d been left alone for hours.
In a way, that was good. The less he had to deal with Seymour the better. But it also left him nervous and jittery. And more determined than ever to put a permanent end to this seemingly endless misery.
He did not like the idea of leaving Graham with the empty feeling Seymour spoke of, but better that than to be at Seymour’s mercy. No more. At any time now, Seymour would come to him and expect Morton to submit to him. The thought of lying with Seymour again filled him with revulsion.
The easiest way to end his life, Morton thought, would be to expose himself to the sun. He didn’t relish the thought of being burned to a crisp, but it would be the fastest way to manage his suicide. But in order to do that, he’d have to escape this room. Morton figured Albert or whomever he had guarding his room would be too smart to trick with the old “I’m sick, come help me” act.
He didn’t carry a spare wooden stake to stab himself with. Grimacing, Morton stopped pacing and sat in the only chair in the small, narrow room. The wooden slatted chair had been placed in front of a small Queen Anne style desk. The only other furniture was a single bed covered in a big fluffy white down comforter.
Leaning forward, Morton reached into his right black boot for the dagger he kept there. He could cut his jugular and bleed out. It might take longer than he had, and someone, Seymour probably, would feed him blood and heal him before it was too late. His only chance, Morton figured, would be to disable whoever came to this room. Just enough so he could get out and head for the nearest exit. If it were night, he’d have to keep running from his pursuers until daylight, when he could expose himself.
And so he waited.
Morton wasn’t sure how long he waited but, eventually, the door rattled a little, indicating someone was about to enter. He stood, holding the dagger out of sight. He hoped whoever it was would be alone. It would be easier. Hell, he hoped it would be Seymour. Morton might not be able to kill him but hurting him was better than nothing.
The handle twisted and Seymour stood there, bare-chested, wearing only a pair of black slacks. His long auburn hair had been tied back. His feet were also bare. He smiled an ugly smile that made Morton’s blood run cold.
Seymour stepped inside and closed the door. “Good evening, Morton.”
Morton knew what Seymour wanted. Knew all too well. But all he said was, “Seymour.”
He waited as the ancient immortal came closer, self-confident in his approach. So sure of his appeal, Morton thought derisively. But he continued to wait. If he acted too soon, Seymour could move out of the way and he wasn’t foolish enough to believe he could physically overpower the larger vampire.
“Are you hungry?” Seymour asked. He placed one hand on Morton’s waist.
Forcing himself not to flinch, Morton shook his head.
Seymour lowered his head, his lips hovering just above Morton’s. He parted his lips, waiting for the dreaded kiss, even as his hand tightened on the hilt of the dagger.
The trembling began when Seymour’s mouth covered his. It was nearly too much, but he knew he couldn’t weaken and let Seymour win. When Seymour’s tongue slipped out to push Morton’s lips apart, he lifted the dagger and shoved it hard into Seymour’s throat.
Seymour’s eyes widened as blood spurted from his neck. Morton pushed and Seymour dropped to the floor, the dagger still stuck in him.
Morton ran for the door and wrenched it open, his whole body shaking with adrenaline over what he’d done. He turned right and fled down the hallway, looking for the exit.
* * * *
Graham parked the red German sports car he had rented two streets down from the building where Morton was being held. He lifted the black leather case he had shipped his axe in out of the trunk and slung it over his shoulder.
He walked the two blocks to the rented house Albert had told him of in the instructions left at the shipping office, watching carefully all the way for any sign he’d been set up. Other than normal every day citizens and a handful of tourists, he saw no one suspicious. He sensed no immortals.
Stopping before the house, Graham slipped behind a tall hedge when he saw someone running out of the house. Whoever they were they were too small to be Seymour. Or one of his giant henchmen who’d ambushed him in New Mexico. Albert?
Graham stepped around the hedge, ready to confront him.
The man stopped short when he saw Graham and gasped.
“Morton,” Graham whispered, elated. He crushed his lover to him.
“Graham, how? How’d did you find me?” Morton’s arms tightened around Graham, his breath hitched.
“Albert told me. Where is Seymour?”
“Inside. I stabbed him in the neck.”
“Where were you going?” Graham held him a little away from him to study Morton’s face.
Morton lowered his eyes. “I sought to end it.”
“End it?”
His lover nodded. “The only way to end this once and for all is to kill myself.”
Graham shook his head. “I have a better idea.”
“You do?”
Graham took the case off his shoulder and unzipped it, removing his axe. Morton’s dark eyes focused on the big axe. He cupped Morton’s jaw. “It will probably be better for you if you stay out of the way.”
“Maybe I could help,” Morton protested.
&n
bsp; He shook his head. “I don’t want him trying to use his powers on you. I’d feel better if I don’t have to worry about you.”
Graham didn’t wait to see if Morton did as he’d been told. Instead he headed up the stone path to the front door of the house and went inside.
Before he got too far, the two large immortals from New Mexico appeared, one on either side of him. Graham swung his axe at the one on the right, cleaving him in half. He flipped the axe and turned to his left, ready to chop the other one. The vampire backed up, scrambling away from Graham.
“Wise decision,” he muttered, continuing on down the hall toward a set of stairs at the back left of the house.
Albert came running down the stairs, looking a little paler than usual. “Seymour is up there. Second room on the right.”
“This better not be a trap, Albert, or you will be begging for mercy.”
Albert shook his head as he reached the foot of the stairs. “It’s no trick.”
“Why are you betraying him now?” Morton asked from behind Graham. He shouldn’t be at all surprised that Morton had followed him inside.
“I realize now that reviving him was a mistake,” Albert said. “I thought…well, it doesn’t matter, really. He’ll never be satisfied with anyone but you. And you belong with Graham.”
“Why should we trust you? You’ve betrayed us before,” Morton pointed out.
Albert stepped around them, holding his hands out in surrender. “I want to be free. Just as you do, Morton.”
“We’re wasting time.” Graham headed up the stairs, axe at the ready. He turned to the right and kicked open the door of the second room. Seymour was rising from the floor. Blood pooled around him and a dagger still protruded out from a wound in his neck. He had to hand it to Morton. Nice handiwork.
“Graham,” Seymour snarled, baring his fangs as he leapt toward him.
His own fangs lengthened in response and his fingers changed to claws. Bracing for the impact as Seymour launched himself at him, Graham still found himself knocked to the floor. His axe fell from his grip.
Seymour’s hands wrapped around Graham’s throat, squeezing. Graham kneed Seymour’s groin hard.