by E. M. Knight
His finger lands on Eleira.
She steps around me. “What did you do to these men?”
“I gave them what they wanted, my sweet,” he says. “They asked for the Dark Gift, and I obliged. But not before making some… adjustments… to the process.”
The man behind me moans another time. They rest of the bodies are still as stone.
“I hope you don’t mind,” James says, “but I have to attend him.”
With barely a glance in my direction, James walks up to the man and drops to his knee. He cradles his head between his thighs, and then—to my horror—bites a small incision into his own wrist and brings it to the man’s lips.
“Drink, drink, there you are,” James coos, with all the tenderness of a father attending his child.
I watch the display with a mixture of fascination and disgust.
When the man’s had his fill, James lays him back down. Instantly, he drops into a perfect rest—just like the remainder of the crew.
“You turned them into vampires,” I accuse. “That is forbidden by the oldest of rules.”
“Yes, but they are rules established by your ruler,” James reminds me. “If you recall, Mother cast me out. No—she did me one worse. She sentenced me to become one of The Convicted. Well.” He flashes a winning grin. “Good thing I didn’t go along with that plan so easily.”
“What happened to you, James?” I ask. “How did you escape, why did you come back? How are you here now?”
He shrugs and offers a one-word answer. “Father.”
“What did you do to these men?” Eleira repeats. “Why are they so sickly?”
“Ah. That. Well,” James taps his lips. “You can thank your little black-scaled friend for that.”
“What?” Eleira and I ask in unison.
“Just before the sun came up,” James explains. “The Narwhark appeared. It ran around, quick as a bunny rabbit, in tight little circles...” he makes the appropriate hopping gesture with his hands, “...and stabbed each one of these beautiful, beautiful men with its tail.”
“Just like it did Mother,” I breathe.
I share a concerned look with Eleira.
James catches the words. “Morgan succumbed?” he asks, feigning a casual indifference.
“The Queen still lives,” I grate. “It would take more than a demon to strike her down.”
“My, my, aren’t you fiercely loyal?” James questions. “A very interesting position for you to take. Have you forgotten all that our Mother has put you through?”
“Of course not,” I begin.
“Ah,” James sighs. “But it is I who took the brunt of her hatred, isn’t it?”
“She does not hate you,” I say.
“Then what? Surely, she does not love me. No, no parent can love their offspring and put them through what she did me.”
“This is going nowhere,” Eleira interrupts. “The Narwhark was here? It did this?”
“Yes, yes,” James says. “The damn thing nearly ruined all of my handiwork. I’ve been keeping them alive, with small infusions of my blood, but...” He spreads his hands. “I cannot tell how long it will stave the effects off.”
“Raul.” Eleira takes my hand. “If these people were stabbed by the Narwhark, we should definitely bring them with us. If they’re suffering from the same thing that Morgan is...”
“We can test the cure on them, first,” I finish for her. “Eleira, that’s brilliant!”
“That isn’t what I was going to say.” She makes a face. “But—”
“Hold on now. Don’t get too hasty,” James interrupts. “These humans belong to me. Who says I’m going to allow you to take them anywhere?”
Eleira takes an aggressive step toward James. “They’re clearly suffering,” she says. “They need proper help.”
James laughs. “And you want to give it?”
“I’ve been given The Ancient’s blood.” Eleira says haughtily. “Only I can.”
James goes very still.
His eyes flash. There’s a sudden, inexplicable rage behind them.
It’s quickly covered up. But I know my brother well enough to know that he won’t be able to control it for long.
I come up beside Eleira and put a hand on her shoulder, reminding James subtly that there are two of us.
“What… did you say?” he asks softly.
Eleira shrugs. “The Ancient fed me his blood,” she tells James. “Just like you fed yours to that man.”
James looks at me. “Is this true?” he asks.
I don’t know what possessed Eleira to confess such a secret. But now that it’s out in the open, it’ll do little good to deny it.
“Yes,” I say.
“How?” my brother hisses. “When?”
“We just returned from The Crypts,” I volunteer. “If you want to know any more, you’ll have to come with us.”
“Back into Mother’s stronghold?” He scoffs a laugh. “I could hardly be expected to do that of my own volition. Don’t you think?”
“Things in The Haven have changed.” I say. “After the attacks...” Something in my mind clicks. “After the attacks you orchestrated!”
“No,” James says. “I was used, Father wanted something that the Queen had and sent me to retrieve it. I was not given a choice.”
“Yet here you are now,” I say. I gesture at the strange, decrepit circle. “Amongst these rotting bodies.”
“These rotting bodies,” James says, stressing his annoyance, “Represent the coming of a new age. How long has it been since a vampire coven has been made? These vampires are mine, brother, they answer only to me, and in time, they will make up the most powerful coven the world has ever seen!”
Behind me, Eleira stifles a laugh.
James glares at her. “You think I jest.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “But your coven will collapse before it even has a chance to rise. Use your eyes, you idiot! None of these fledglings will live. The Narwhark possesses a dark type of magic that cannot be healed by the mere transfusion of more vampiric blood. If you want these… creatures… to live, you require the help of a witch.”
James scoffs. “And you propose to give that?”
“No,” Eleira professes. “I do not know enough.” She looks at me. “But Morgan does.”
Chapter Three
SMITHSON
THE ORDER’S SECRET FACILITY
The stack of papers that had built up on my desk in my absence calls for my attention. They are reports of The Order’s goings-on around the globe. New memos of supernatural sightings, deaths, of the flow of our vast fiscal wealth, updates on our projects and involvements with governments worldwide.
As the very highest of The Vorcellian Order, my responsibility lies with reading, cataloging, and responding to those reports.
Yet my mind cannot focus on anything but the witch.
The Black Sorceress. My horrifically ugly sleeping beauty. The one creature in the whole world who has the ability to grant me what I want. To give me what I’ve always been after:
The complete and utter annihilation of the vampire seed from this earth.
In light of that, nothing else matters. Not the reports of werewolves and talking spirits. Ridiculous, of course—the most senior member of The Order knows that no such things exist. But the younger, upstart members, those recruits fresh out of college, over-eager to prove their worth, file those findings with an erstwhile zeal. I cannot deny their enthusiasm for our purported purpose. Some of those young men and women will rise through the ranks and, in a number of years, be given the information that opens their eyes to the reality of the world—the information that only The Order has, and the information that we guard fiercely.
It is only after years of serving on the ground, so to speak, that those recruits are given entrance to our facilities worldwide. Not this one, of course not—this hideout in the depths of The Rockies requires the highest clearance to even be acknowledged, spok
en of—much less granted access to.
Most of those reports are properly filtered out before they reach my desk. But every once a while, one or two get through. The clerks who decide which briefings are important enough to warrant my attention are only human. They do not have the benefit, as I do, of centuries on this earth.
So I do not fault them for troubling me with the trifling things. In fact, it is those reports that do make it through, and the ones I know for a fact are about falsities, that pique my interest. Not for the content, but for the fact that the young Order member who wrote it was so persuasive that it got all the way to me. I have a tally of how many times that has happened. Every single instance of it, without fail, results in my discovery of a new Order member who had the fortitude and intelligence to skyrocket through the ranks of the organization.
Such things speak well of them.
But I’m getting distracted. In truth, my thoughts have been in shambles ever since Sylvia showed me the slumbering witch. I have waited so long—so very long!—for just such an opportunity. Everything The Order has done, all the riches it has collected, all the things I have overseen and commanded… all of them culminate in this.
It’s ironic, how impatient I am. I’ve waited centuries for this chance. What are a few more hours, a few more days, a few more weeks?
But since seeing her, and seeing the brainwave monitor that gave a historical account of her activities, there is no doubt. She is awakening. She will soon rise.
The Black Sorceress fascinates me in a number of ways. First is her age. How old is she? From all I’ve learned, witches are still human. They age and die like all the others. Only vampires have immunity from that affliction—and that, perhaps, above all, is why vampires are such a scourge on the earth.
Magic can do many things. But it cannot extend life. In The Order’s archives, there are many accounts of witches and sorcerers who have made the attempt. Each one of those attempts ended disastrously. When the magic-wielder directed those otherworldly forces on herself, with the intention of stopping—or slowing—the clock, it never worked. From everything I’ve gathered, it’s as if the energy the sorcerers control rebels against such use, and destroys the person attempting to alter time.
I’ve spoken to my small clan of witches about it, to try to understand. Even though I trust them, and they trust me, they would not budge on being stubbornly mum when I questioned them about why. There seems to be some tenet, some type of innate, subconscious knowledge—or maybe fear—within each and every witch and warlock about manipulating the magical energies for lifespan extension.
So be it –the fewer supernatural creatures that can persist throughout the ages, the better.
But the Black Sorceress has persisted.
She is old. Over a century old, at the very least—but perhaps a whole lot more. The scans and analysis we conducted on her body when we first brought her in put the biological age of her cells at merely thirty.
Of course, that cannot be true. Our equipment was, and is, the very best. The only explanation any of us could come up with was that she had done something to herself that made such analysis impossible. Perhaps a warding spell, of a spectacularly impressive sort, that forever camouflaged all of her most vital elements and made them impervious to scientific analysis.
Yet anybody with eyes can see how old she looks. Her skin is blotched and marred, the lines on her face deep enough to be craters, and the physical state of her body was near-impoverishment when we brought her in. And the fact of the matter is, she’s been here for over ten years—and all her cells and DNA samples still show an age locked at thirty.
Astounding.
There was also the fact that she had no trace of vampire inside. I made certain of that. No trace, not a shred, not even the smallest hint of the blood mutation that gives and sustains eternal life.
She is a creature of darkness, of course. The runes and parchments discovered in her lair were cryptic, but all hint at an underlying greed and hatred that colored all she did.
In fact, the first of The Order’s witches who ventured inside instantly ran out. She was so traumatized by what she saw or experienced that she would not speak for days. And when she finally did, the words that came out of her mouth were such nonsense that it was clear her mind was gone.
We only had one option, and that was to put her down. I did the deed myself, taking her blood and discarding her body so it would never be found.
After, I spoke to my witches about it. They suggested that when the first walked in, she triggered a powerful defensive spell that broke her mind. They claimed to have heard of such things, passed down in whispered warnings from their elders, but had never actually had experience with such dark magic themselves.
My understanding, as it stands is such:
There are two brands of magic. The regular, ‘normal’ kind that most, if not all, active witches of the world can channel. The sort that Morgan, and yes, even Eleira, are renowned for.
Then there is the dark kind, the dangerous half, the part of magic that taints the user and corrupts forever. A corruption that is undoubtedly similar to the vampire curse.
The dark part is not well known in our world. The simple reason for that is that it is not part of our world. Not naturally. It has to be called forth from a different plane, another dimension.
From the planes of demons. From the underworld. From hell.
Not hell in the metaphysical, religious way of the word. Hell in the most literal sense. The realm of demons and demonkind is forever linked to our world, in little intersects all over the globe. They are inaccessible to us, though I’ve tried my damndest to break through.
The reason for my interest? Demons, and more importantly, demon blood, holds the key to vampiric transcendence.
The problem with the current crop of vampires is that they are not distinguishable enough. They hold so much power in their stolen bodies, but really, what do we do with it? What do we use it for?
Small purposes. Selfish pursuits. The powers are there to help us feed, to make us the most fearsome predators. They are there, they exist, solely for us to be able to hunt humans.
What trifles! What laughable desires! The vampire in his current form is an affront to nature. He is as affront to God.
I was raised to believe that, and that belief was hammered into me as I transcended the ranks of The Order, and the belief has remained unwavering as I’ve made my journey through the eons.
Vampires are not meant to be. They are a horrible scourge that needs to be wiped out. They need to be utterly annihilated. And for that… for that, I need transcendence.
I rub my hands together with greed. I walk up to the clear glass wall of my office and direct my gaze up, to the walkways leading to the vault where the Black Sorceress is being held.
She is the one who will give me transcendence. She is the one who will grant me power to destroy every last vampire on earth.
But for that, I need not only her… but the Narwhark as well.
I suspect it no coincidence that the Black Sorceress stirred when Eleira brought the horrid creature out of the void. I’ve lived too long in the world of the occult to believe in coincidences.
Beatrice never believed in coincidences, either. She always spoke about the Great Vision written in the stars.
A sudden pang of longing for my ex-wife takes me. I turn away from the window and let my hand fall on the pommel of Witchbane. I grip it tight. The sword has been my constant companion, even after I’d turned the woman I loved, even after she had abandoned me to go tie herself with that despicable vampire king.
I don’t know who I hate more, her or him. Or perhaps myself, for allowing such weakness, such frailty of thought, to linger in my mind? How long has it been since I saw her last? Twenty, thirty years? It seems like a lifetime. And the way she’d looked at me then… as if I were worth no more than a grovelling worm…
I never did allow her to know the full extent of my involveme
nt with The Order. She thought I was a simple foot soldier, nothing more. My morals prevented me from telling her the truth, lest it undermine the secretive structure of the organization. I always knew that Beatrice was drawn to power. So, I had allowed to let myself hope—foolishly, perhaps—that she would recognize those natural qualities in me, without being made explicitly aware of them.
But I had fooled myself into believing such lies. And when she abandoned me for the King… well, that was when my hatred for our kind truly flared.
I run my fingers over the hilt of the weapon. The cool metal calms me. I know that it will never abandon me. Hell, it came back after being warped by demon spit—if that is not utter loyalty, I do not know what is.
Of course, I’m thinking metaphorically. I know that a hunk of metal possesses no more loyalty than a rock. But it is the meaning that we attach to things, as sentient beings of this world, that grants them all importance to us.
Yet, perhaps Beatrice’s betrayal is exactly what I needed to remind me of my purpose. In the years before, I had started to waver. Maybe vampires were not all bad, maybe some of the tenets of The Order were wrong. Maybe they had been written by old men, afraid to die and full of hatred for the world.
Maybe, that is, all that I had been taught was a lie.
I scoff. Even the barest whisper of such thoughts amongst any of The Order’s members would be treason. We are old-fashioned in some of our ways, and the punishment for treason here is the same as it would have been centuries ago:
Execution without trial.
But back then, I was growing more enamored with my vampire nature. It seduced me, if you will. Having a companion at my side, having someone to go through all the trials with me, and having someone—most of all—who believed that vampires represented the highest echelon of existence… it made me soft.
Only when Beatrice left was I jolted back to myself. That was when I dove back into the business of The Vorcellian Order with all I had, and when I discovered the key to what I hoped to achieve.