by S. E. Lund
"What's the matter?"
"It's very explicit. Are you certain you want me to continue?"
I nod, embarrassed that I'm such a voyeur for their pain.
"Very well," he says, as if he's reluctant. He reads for a moment and then clears his throat.
"Strangely, my flesh doesn't respond to the sight of her naked breast. Yes, I admire its heavy fullness, but whether it's my headache or thirst – I can't tell which – I don't feel the familiar ache in my groin that I expect when a beautiful half- naked woman stands at the foot of my bed.
"I need something strong," I say. "I feel like the dead."
She laughs, a light sound like crystal being struck.
"You're more right than you think."
"How did I get here? I have no memory..."
"I'm not surprised," she says and comes closer to me, but stops at the edge of the beam of sunlight that streams into the room and falls over me "I found you near death on the battlefield and brought you to my tent. I," she says and hesitates. "I healed you, beautiful Sir Knight. I brought you here. I saved your life."
"Thank you, of course," I say, squinting against the light. I hold up a hand and shade my eyes. "Do you think you could close the drapes? The light is murder on my eyes."
She goes to a small table by the hearth and rings a bell to summon the servants. When she turns back to me, she examines me like I'm a new toy or prized possession. I don't remember her, but I must have been with her. I'm naked. She's practically naked. My body feels – well, it feels as if I've bedded a dozen women and been beaten by each one of their husbands.
In comes a servant girl, her head bowed as she stands in front of Marguerite.
"My Lady?"
"Close the drapes. And bring in the girl. Quickly."
The servant bows and then closes the drapes so that the room is now dim, lit only by several candles and the light from a flickering hearth. I exhale in relief. My eyes felt somewhat better but my head still aches and my throat feels as if it's lined with sand. My belly growls with a hunger that seems to fill my veins, and my upper jaw throbs as if I've had my teeth kicked in. I run my tongue over my teeth. Two protrude, unfamiliar in their prominence, sharper than I remember.
The servant returns and following her is a young woman dressed in a thin nightdress with its neck open. She's lovely, with long dark hair and wide green eyes. Marguerite smiles and takes her hand, pulling her over to the bedside.
"She's a gift for you, Julien. Do you like her?" Marguerite pulls back the girl's long hair, drawing down the gown's shoulder to expose her neck. "You need her to complete the ritual."
Ritual? Does she expect me to bed the girl? I rub my forehead and grimace in pain from the ache in my teeth. There's no way I can – not the way I feel.
What's wrong with me?
Marguerite pushes the girl onto the bed beside me, so that she half-lies half-sits on me, her hands on either side of my hips. Marguerite crawls onto the bed as well, and once more pulls back the girl's long hair, exposing the creamy smooth skin of her neck.
"Take her, Julien," Marguerite says. "You need her."
"Take her?" I say, confused. "I'm in no condition..."
"Of course you are. You have a need and so you take." The girl's nearness seems to intensify all my senses and the ache in my veins grows stronger, my teeth hurting, my vision focusing in on the girl's neck. I can hear her heartbeat from where I sit, feel her warmth radiating from her body and most of all, I can smell her blood. It stirs something in me that I've never felt before.
"Bite her, Julien," Marguerite says. "The skin on her neck just under her ear. You know it's what you need. Do it now, and you'll feel better. If you don't, you'll die."
"What?"
Marguerite creeps closer to me on the bed, and pulls the girl into my arms. The girl complies as if she's drugged, tilting her head to reveal more of her neck. I can't help but inhale sharply. Now I feel a need for blood. My heart pounds, and the ache in my teeth grows unbearable. I run my tongue over my teeth and the canines have become longer, sharper as if I'm some predator ready for the kill.
"Bite her," Marguerite says, her voice soft but compelling. "Drink her blood. It's what you need. If you don't do this, you'll die forever."
"Is this some kind of devilry?" I say, staring into Marguerite's eyes. She shakes her head.
"Only that which will make you immortal." She pushes my head down towards the girl's neck. "Take her."
I'm unable to resist the pull of the girl's blood. I bend down, my mouth hovering over the girl's skin just below her ear. I press my mouth against her and feel the thrum of her heartbeat against my lips. My desire almost overwhelms me, my lust building – bloodlust – an overwhelming need.
"God help me." I take the girl more firmly into my arms and bite down and the sensation is so powerful. When my teeth break her skin, cutting into her flesh, releasing a pulse of blood into my mouth, and I shudder from the pleasure of it.
"That's it," Marguerite coos, and her voice sounds as if from a great distance. "Drink, beautiful Julien, and live forever."
Michel reads silently, and I blink rapidly as if awakening from a dream.
"There's much more explicit material coming," he says and glances up at me. "Should I continue?"
"How bad?"
"Bad enough."
I hesitate. "Read. I'll just blush."
"Yes, you will." He smiles softly and looks back at the manuscript, tracing ahead on the text with one hand, touching his lips with the other. "You do it very well."
He pauses and then starts reading again.
"I pull my mouth away from the girl's neck and the girl is limp in my arms, her skin pale, twin gashes where I bit her oozing blood, the skin around the wounds bruised from me sucking. The fog of pain and lust that shrouds my mind lifts. I no longer feel that pull, that need, and the pain is all gone. I feel – alive. I feel completely energized, my hearing acute, my vision sharp.
I see things – details of everyday objects – that I've never noticed before. The minute threads in the girl's gown, the fine down of hair on her cheek, tiny blood vessels in her skin. I hear noises I've missed –the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the wind underneath the windowpane behind the curtain, a branch tapping against the leaded glass window. Every thing, every sense, comes into sharp focus.
The girl's heart beats very fast, far too fast, and I know then that I drank too much. She exhales suddenly and her heart stops.
I killed her.
"No." I shake her but it's no use. "No, don't die." She's dead, her eyes staring blankly ahead, her head and limbs flopping. Marguerite's smiling as if supremely pleased with me. "I killed her!"
"Shh," Marguerite says and strokes my brow. "Beautiful Julien. You drank what you needed, no more. She was mortal. Mortals are meant to die."
She pulls the girl out of my arms and lets her fall to the floor with a thump. Then she crawls into my lap, her legs on either side of my hips, her hands stroking my face. She kisses me, licking my bloody lips. It's then I see her sharp teeth – just like mine.
"You're now immortal," she says. "I gave you the gift of eternity. These mortals – they exist for your pleasure. Look at them as if they were your servants, your toys, your food. You are a hunter, now. The supreme hunter. They are your prey."
"They're humans," I say in protest.
"And you're no longer human. You're superior. You can run faster, you're stronger, your sight and hearing and touch and smell and taste – every sense is heightened. Every emotion magnified."
Even now, so soon after my metamorphosis, I know I'm no longer the same. I'm no longer one of them.
"What am I?"
"You," she says and kisses me again, deeply. "You are vampyr."
Michel closes the manuscript and my cheeks are hot from the description of Julien as he kills his first human.
"The rest is not for you to hear," he says quietly as he flips through the pages. "It concerns my own
debasement." We sit in silence for a moment and I can tell he's uncomfortable.
"Is yours worse than Julien's?"
"Much worse. Sacrilegious would be one way to describe it," he says, his voice quiet. "I was still a believer, and a priest."
Of course, I want more than anything to read it, but I feel very sorry for him and for Julien after hearing about Julien's turning. They didn't ask for this existence. It was forced on them.
"Now, I must leave," he says, not meeting my eyes. He returns the manuscript to its envelope and gets up, shrugging on his coat. He walks to the door and I follow, feeling very awkward.
"I'm sorry," I say, after opening the door for him, not able to think of what else to say.
"For what?"
"That you both were made into vampires against your will."
He turns to me and smiles softly, reaching out to touch my cheek with the backs of his fingers.
"Sweet Eve," he says. "Little ballerina and child prodigy. Sad for a vampire even though one took your mother from you and left you alone?"
"You were human once."
"I was."
A flood of warmth goes through me from his touch, taking away the sadness I feel from the story I've just heard. I feel so sorry for him and for Julien. It's then, of course, that I think of meeting Julien earlier before the test and then afterwards. He frowns, for he's found my memories. He drops the manuscript and takes my head in his hands, staring in my eyes.
"You met with Julien, twice?"
"He found me. He followed me after the test."
He shakes his head and I feel him probing my memories, and as he does, I relive them. Michel goes over each word, each gesture.
"Stay away from him, Eve. You're not for him."
I pull away and he lets me go.
"He said my mother wanted him to have me as his Adept. That he was supposed to train me."
"We don't always get what we want." He frowns at me, then he takes in a deep breath and exhales. "Eve, I don't want to forbid you. But if you're going to be my Adept, you have to just accept my will. Don't see Julien. He'll only try to make things more difficult." He bends down to pick up the manuscript, but his face is dark now, his brow furrowed.
I don't say anything. I want to be Michel's Adept, I think. I'm not sure what I feel.
"Good night," he says and strokes my cheek.
Then he's gone.
Chapter 6
"Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs."
William Shakespeare
After Michel leaves, I return to my mother's file boxes and take one that's still unopened and sift through its contents.
About an hour in, I come across a file with a thick document inside. I look at the cover and then my heart jumps. It's a full line-by-line translation, the original French above and English below. It must have been misfiled when my mother's work was packed up after she died.
I sit on the sofa with it in my hands, filled with guilt at reading it, but there is no way in hell I can put it down. I realize that this is a betrayal of Michel's trust. I know he wouldn't want me to read it. It's painful for him to even remember.
I turn to the page where Michel left off and I can't not read it. I rationalize that he can read me anytime he wants simply by touching my skin.
Turnabout is fair play.
Basilica of St. Nazaire and St. Cerse, Carcassonne, France, 1224
Je me tiens dans l'ombre et je regarde mon frère prier.
I stand in the shadows and watch my brother pray. The sanctuary is filled with the scent of incense and the candles on the altar burn down low, wax pooling on the base and dripping down the sides. With the walled city of Carcassonne now abandoned, the Basilica is under French rule and Michel has been appointed Bishop by the Pope's envoy to claim it for his own. He's been here for hours, praying, his hands clasped in front of his forehead, kneeling on the hard stone floor of the Basilica before a statue of the Madonna holding a dead Christ.
He's whispering his desperate prayer, but even at this distance I can hear every word and it breaks my heart. I thought he hated me.
"Blessed Virgin, let him live," Michel says, his voice breaking. "Please, Blessed Virgin, hear my prayer. Intercede on my behalf. Let him have survived and escaped to some place where he is even now recuperating from his wounds..."
Marguerite pushes past me, unwilling to wait any longer. We've been together only one short week but already, I feel enslaved. She looks beautiful as usual, her fair hair piled high on her head and adorned with pearls, tendrils falling out and cascading around her shoulders. Her skin is pale and her lips a deep red – crimson – stained with fresh blood.
"Who let you in?" Michel demands when he sees her.
"Your servant, I believe," she says and motions behind her, where I stand with his servant in my arms, having just finished drinking his blood. Michel frowns and watches as I drop him to the stone floor and wipe my mouth on a sleeve before stepping over the body like it's nothing more than a sack of grain. I draw back my hood and reveal myself.
"Julien!" Michel rises from his knees, hobbling over to me, almost falling several times and I know he's been kneeling for hours, his knees bloody. He clasps his arms around me, drawing me into an embrace, his joy at my presence making my heart squeeze.
"I thought you were dead," he says, kissing both of my cheeks.
"I am."
"What?" Michel examines me – my face is now as pale like Marguerite's – deathly pale. My cheeks are cold. "Julien!" He reaches down and takes my hands – they, too, are like ice. "You're so cold..."
"Cold as the grave, perhaps?" I can't resist saying it, unable to keep a dark note of humor out of my voice.
Michel frowns and reaches out to touch my face. His fingers come back stained blood red. Flecks of it are on my chin and white collar. Michel looks at the servant – the man's throat is bloody – the red gash visible from where we stand.
"What did you do to him?" He bends down at the man's side, reaching for his wrist to feel a pulse, but there is none. He's dead. Michel glances up at me. "You killed him."
"Mortals are meant to die."
"Have you joined this Cathar heresy?" he says, his voice soft, filled with horror. "Has the witch possessed you?"
I smile, purposely revealing my sharp teeth. "This has nothing to do with the Cathars or witches."
"What evil is this? What have you become ensnared in?" He turns to Marguerite, who's lifted herself onto the altar, pushing the reliquary and chalices out of the way. She releases the tie on her cloak to reveal a very low bodice, displaying her ample bosom. She smiles, her own lips stained with blood.
"Get off!" Michel says, trying to shove her off the altar. "Don't pollute the altar with your baseness."
She laughs. "Silly Michel. It's just a slab of marble." She grabs him with her legs and pulls him into her embrace and she's so strong – monstrously strong – he won't be able to fight her. "There's nothing holy about it, Michel, except in your mind."
"Let go of me," Michel says, his voice low. He tries to twist out of her grasp but he's trapped. When she grabs his face and kisses him, he jerks his head away. "I'm a priest."
"You're a man," she says and runs her fingers through his hair. "A beautiful hot-blooded man who's wasting all that beauty and passion on a preacher who died over twelve centuries ago, who is now nothing more than a ghost. I want your passion and your blood." She turns to me. "Shall I take it?"
Michel glances to where I stand but I'm helpless to defend him.
"You'll do as you wish, Marguerite," I say, for I'm unable to deny her anything.
"Yes, I will, won't I?" She turns back to Michel and runs a finger over his mouth. He tries to pull back from her touch, but he's immobilized by her powers, frozen in place. "I wish..." she says slowly. "I wish to drink your beautiful priest-brother's blood, Julien, until he's almost dead, and then, I think I'll turn him into an immortal. I'll do it right here on the altar. How gloriously blasphemo
us would that be?"
"Very gloriously blasphemous, Marguerite," I reply.
"And you'll watch, won't you, Julien?" she says, her hands running down Michel's cheeks to his shoulders.
"I am your servant, Marguerite," I say. "I do your bidding."
"Please," Michel says, a look of abject horror on his face. "Please don't... Mother of God, I beseech you..."
"Your holy Mother won't help you now, Michel," she says. I close my eyes against my brother's pain, and at that moment I hate her more than anything.
"Witch," Michel whispers. "Demon."
"No, Michel," she says. "Not a witch or a demon. Now, up you get onto the altar. Lie down, your arms spread. Think of your Lord with his own arms on the cross, dying to save the world from its sins. You'll die, sweet priest, to help me sin even more."
"Please, have mercy..."
"I have no mercy," she says. "No god or virgin showed me any. Why should I show it to you?"
Then I feel her eyes on me.
"Julien, you must watch," she says, and I'm unable to deny her. I turn back and watch as Michel climbs onto the altar, lying there with his arms spread beneath the Basilica's flying buttresses.
She climbs on top of him, leans down and turns his neck to the side.
"Sweet, sweet Michel. How good it will be to corrupt you." She bites down on his neck and I know how she feels at that moment – the blood lust, the desire, the warm rush of blood into her mouth...
Michel cries out, his body arching from the pain and horror.
"You see," she says, her mouth bloody, her teeth sharp. "There was no bolt of lightning to kill us both for this sacrilege. There was no avenging angel come to rescue you. Free your mind, Michel. There is no God but there are gods. Us." Then, she bites her wrist and presses it against his mouth. "Drink."
Michel does, for he's so weak, like me before him, he can't stop himself.
Later, Michel lies on the bed in our residence, his surplice bloodied. On either side of him are two young women, a redhead and a brunette. He wakes with a gasp, pushing their hands away as they try to undress him, pulling away the woman who has her hands in his breeches.