Only Lycans Need Apply

by Michele Bardsley

  “Especially when you have the goddess of healing on call,” I said.

  “True.” He looked over my shoulder. “There is another passage.”

  I turned to see. Just as the other one had, the wall here had disappeared. Once again, magical torchlight flickered off stone walls, beckoning us on to the next part of the journey.

  “Shall we?” I asked. I felt tired, no doubt from the blood loss. I really needed to, pardon the vampire humor, suck it up. I had a feeling the vampires weren’t on the other side of the door. We were on a journey here, and if I was going to die from blood loss, it might take a few tries.

  Awesome.

  • • •

  Drake grasped my non-injured hand, and stalled my progress. I was hyper-aware of him, not only because he was gorgeous, but also because I knew I had to keep ahead of him so I could conquer this pyramid with this whole blood sacrifice thing.

  I only hoped the ambrosia was real. I would be really pissed off if I died.

  He pulled me back, swung me around right into his embrace.

  “One kiss,” he murmured.

  I could not deny him—or me—that one simple request. He cupped my face, staring deeply into my eyes. Electric thrills raced up my spine and spun like an out-of-control Ferris wheel in my belly. He pulled out the band holding my hair in its requisite ponytail and spread his fingers through the silky layers. (Okay, look, I know describing my own hair as having silky layers is somewhat arrogant, but it’s also the truth. I have an awesome stylist.)

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  He angled his head and brushed his lips over mine. My entire body went still, except for the tingles. Oh, holy hell, these were some bad-ass tingles, too. His lips cavorted over mine, teasing me. He captured—again and again—but did not conquer.

  By the time his tongue pierced the seam of my mouth, I was clinging to him, if only because my legs were so shaky I didn’t think I could stand on my own.

  His tongue drew mine into a mating dance. My heart pounded erratically, and I felt so electrified, so hot for him. The passion of our kiss intensified, and I started to think that we had too many clothes on. And there were others part of me that needed kissing. And other parts of him that I wanted to kiss.

  Then he drew away, panting, his eyes dilated, his lips swollen and wet. He leaned forward and licked my bottom lip. “Later,” he promised in a growling voice. “I will take you, Moira.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.” I looked up at him and brushed my fingers over his cheek. His kiss, his passion, had quite the rejuvenation effect. My exhaustion faded, and I felt ready for the next task. I looked at him and smiled. “I’ll hold you to that, Drake.”

  He gifted me with that wicked, wicked grin, and suddenly I had a whole new reason to get out of the pyramid and, you know, not die.

  Not dying would be good.

  At least, not dying forever.

  I moved through the door, and down the hall. I could see stairs through the next archway, and as we made our way up the stone steps, I explained my second vision to Drake.

  “You experienced the first time Gabriel took blood from Patsy?” he asked.

  “Seems like,” I said. “But there wasn’t any talk of objects. I mean, unless we take into consideration the beauty shop aspect . . . combs . . . scissors . . . hair.”

  “I do not think what you are supposed to learn has much to do with objects,” mused Drake.

  “Then what?”

  We reached the top of the staircase, and found yet another narrow hallway lit with torches. “Well, here we go again,” I said.

  For whatever reason, Drake felt compelled to take my hand, and as I stepped into the hall, cold air blasted us from the other end.

  An otherworldly voice rang out: Know the beginning . . .

  I blinked against the fierce wind, and when it stopped, we were no longer in the pyramid. Or so it seemed. We were walking in a faded landscape. It was not like the previous visions I’d experienced, the main difference being that Drake walked beside me, still clasping my hand. It was like we had been tossed into the ghost of the land that had once been ancient Egypt.

  I was enthralled.

  Ahead of us walked a tall man with a shaved head wearing some sort of white dress that looped over one shoulder. I knew from the wall reliefs and the architecture that we were in a temple, one devoted to the god Anubis.

  “It seems we are visiting a memory,” said Drake. He nodded toward the man. “That’s Amahté.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Who else would it be? Amahté was the high priest of Anubis. Khenti, his son, once told us that the god gave him the ability to speak to the dead and he also gave him the ability to raise the dead.”

  “His son was a vampire, too?”

  “All Ancients turned at least one of their biological children.”

  “Well, that’s weird.” I pondered that idea for a moment. “Ruadan is an Ancient, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. He was the first to make his own children into vampires. His twin sons, Patrick and Lorcan, were both Turned.”

  Patsy had mentioned Lorcan in her conversation with Gabriel. Something about suffering from the Taint, and vampires who could turn into werewolves. Shape-shifting didn’t seem to be a common element of being a vampire.

  “What exactly are Patsy and Gabriel?”

  “Werewolves who must drink blood to survive. It is a very small pack. Only Gabriel, Ren, and Anise existed, until Patsy was Turned and had children with her mate.”

  “I’m starting to feel like I need a flowchart,” I said.

  He nodded to the ghostly image of the priest. “Every vampire family has certain abilities. Amahté’s Family gift is the ability to see ghosts and communicate with them.”

  I remembered the strange moment during our rescue/re-kidnapping when Patsy had gone off to a corner to have a conversation with the air. Gabriel had said then that she could speak to spirits. “So, Patsy was a vampire before Gabriel . . . er, made her into a vampire-werewolf?”

  “Yes. She was part of the Amahté Family. But now she is also loup de sang. And as queen of the vampires and, for a time, the werewolves, she absorbed seven powers of the Ancients.”

  I stared at him. “You know that I have no idea what’s going on, right?”

  “I’m not a flowchart kind of guy. I’ll tell Lorcan to make you one when we return to Broken Heart. He keeps track of all the vampire history.”

  We reached the end of the temple’s hall. The man ahead of us had barely cleared the doorway, which led outside, when we heard noises of a scuffle.

  We stepped out of the temple and saw three men, all of whom were naked, struggling with Amahté. He was putting up an impressive fight, and for a moment I thought he might actually win.

  Then the attacker behind him took out a dagger. He drew it across Amahté’s neck. The blade slit his skin easily.

  Blood spurted everywhere.

  The man dropped his victim, then fled with his companions.

  Amahté lay on his back, his hands pressed against his gurgling throat.

  “You see why they wore no clothes,” said Drake. “They can go to the Nile and wash off the blood. Then get dressed, and no one would know they committed murder.”

  “Bastards,” I muttered. “Why would they kill him?”

  “Jealousy about being a favorite of both a god and the ruling pharaoh,” said Drake. “At least that’s what Khenti had told us.”

  Amahté was a handsome man, mid- to late forties, with doe-like brown eyes and muscles that denoted hard work. Not what I would call a priest’s body, which I figured should be soft and pudgy.

  No one was around the temple. The path was lined with trees and bushes, and down the road I could see flickering lights. I realized the lights were torches left on the outside of buildings. That was a village down there. In the far distance, the pyramids glowed big and white against the night sky.

  We heard the sound
of running feet and then a stream of words I didn’t understand, but the musical flow of them was familiar.

  Ruadan appeared.

  “Wow. What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s not only an Ancient, Moira, he’s also the first vampire ever to walk the earth,” he said. “He made all of the Ancients.”

  “Holy crap! I met the first vampire ever and I didn’t even know it?”

  “Ruadan likes to keep a low profile.”

  Ruadan looked horrified as he knelt down and spoke to Amahté, this time in a different language. And yet we understood the words.

  “My friend! It is me, Ruadan. We have talked much these last few nights, remember?”

  Amahté’s eyes clearly showed that he did.

  “I can save you. But my gift has a price. You will not be able to see the sun again, but you will live forever. You will be among those I have chosen to rule our kind. Do you accept my offer?”

  Amahté took an inordinate amount of time to decide. Blood seeped from between his fingers and pooled blackly on the ground. Finally, he managed a weak nod.

  Ruadan removed Amahté’s hands from the wound. The blood poured out. My stomach jumped. I could barely stand to keep my eyes on the action. Ruadan didn’t move, merely watched the life drain from his supposed friend.

  “I thought he was supposed to drink the blood.”

  Drake shook his head. “What would be the point of drinking from a dying human? Ruadan’s dark blood is what Amahté needs to become a vampire.”

  Ruadan watched calmly, waiting patiently as Amahté bled to death right in front of him.

  “If vampires get different powers from the various Ancients . . . ,” I whispered. Silly, but I just couldn’t raise my voice with all that was going on with the vampires. “. . . then why isn’t everyone just from Ruadan’s line?”

  “His grandmother is Morrigu, and it was she who made him into a vampire—after he was killed in battle.”

  “I know that story.” I liked ancient myths and legends, though I tended to save most of my brain files for ancient Egyptian facts. Still, I thought about what I knew of the fae battle for Ireland. I blinked. “If Morrigu is Ruadan’s grandmother, then Brigid is his mother.”

  “Yes. Ruadan asked Morrigu for the secret for making others of his kind. She gave him the spells and the instructions, but said he could choose only seven others to Turn. And only they would be his equals with their own powers. I’m sure she hoped it would cause strife and grief.” He glanced at me. “She really takes the queen of chaos thing seriously.”

  The crow queen was real, too? How many more gods and goddesses from the mythologies of various cultures were actual beings?

  Now, Amahté lay still, his caramel skin graying, his eyes wide and unstaring. Ruadan muttered over Amahté, pressing his palms against the man’s chest. I couldn’t understand these words and I looked at Drake, frowning.

  “I’ve seen a few Turnings,” said Drake. “Once the human’s blood is drained, you must keep the soul within the body. Ruadan is uttering a spell designed to do that. If any part of the process goes wrong you can kill the person you are trying to Turn.”

  “What about those who try it without knowing what to do?”

  “The person merely dies, which is the better option.”

  After Ruadan had secured Amahté’s soul, he removed a small gold knife from his wide belt. He punctured his forefinger and rubbed it on Amahté’s neck wound.

  The skin started to mend.

  Then Ruadan began to carve symbols into Amahté’s flesh: one on each wrist, one on the top of each foot, one on the forehead, one on the chest, and two on the belly.

  He pierced his finger again, and with his blood, he retraced all the symbols he’d cut into Amahté. As he did so, they all glowed gold.

  “Only the Family’s symbol must be cut into the flesh of the one being Turned,” said Drake. “Each Family was assigned one of the sacred symbols given to Ruadan by Morrigu. That’s why all eight are used to make Ruadan’s equal.”

  “Eight?” I murmured. I seemed to recall that Monroe’s book had mentioned seven vampire lines.

  “Everyone believed that the eighth vampire line was destroyed when Shamhat died. It was centuries before Ruadan let a few know that Shamhat lived . . . but barely.”

  I heard what Drake said, but I was fascinated by Ruadan’s actions. Now Ruadan slit his wrist and pressed it against the lips of the man he hoped to save.

  For a moment the blood merely seeped into Amahté’s open mouth. Then, somehow, he revived and began to drink.

  Minutes passed, but it felt like years before Ruadan finally pulled his wrist away.

  When Amahté’s body started to convulse, I yelped and jumped back. What happened to him was a terrible thing to watch. His eyes rolled back in his head and his arms and legs went wild. The symbols went bright white and Amahté screamed.

  He went still. The symbols burned into his skin. The blackened marks faded slowly, until they couldn’t be seen anymore.

  “Some vampires can lose their souls,” said Drake quietly. “They become droch fola. They are vicious. They have no conscience, and do not conform to the rules created by the Ancients.”

  “Like the one you killed in the Sudan. And Karn is a droch fola.”

  “Yes. And so are most of his minions. They tire of staying in the shadows, of keeping parakind hidden.”

  “Not to mention that they think they’re the top of the food chain.”

  Drake nodded. “Exactly.”

  We returned our attention to Ruadan. He had finished his gruesome work. Blood splattered the man on the ground, staining his white clothes. Ruadan had fared no better—his own clothing was soiled with his victim’s blood.

  Ruadan picked up the priest and carried him away.

  The scene faded, just like a movie getting ready to switch scenes, and we found ourselves at the end of the hallway, facing another stone door with its familiar circular hole.

  “I won’t let you do that again,” said Drake. He moved in front of me, his expression stubborn. “Step away, Moira.”

  His tone rankled me. I got that he was a he-man type, or he-werewolf type, but I was strong, capable, and already bleeding for our cause. I stepped into his space, jutted my chin out defiantly, and said, “Or what, wolf boy?”

  “That’s wolf man,” he corrected. “And I will put you over my shoulder and carry you the rest of the way. With your mouth bandaged shut.” He patted the pocket with its stash of Band-Aids. “I can better survive being the blood key.”

  “Blood key” was a good way to describe my current role in this situation. “You can’t,” I said. “It requires my blood.”

  “I know,” he said, his gaze narrowed, “but I don’t have to like it.”

  “Just for the record, I don’t like it, either. I have to do it, Drake. So just let me stick my poor, abused hand into the creepy hole, and move on to the next phase of Rescue the Ancient Vampires, okay?”

  His lips thinned, and he crossed his arms. For a moment I thought he wouldn’t move, and we’d be stuck staring daggers at each other—at least until one of us thought of some way to outwit the other. But then Drake begrudgingly moved aside. I have to admit, I was surprised he’d given in so easily. I hadn’t expected him to be reasonable.

  No need to have two injured hands, right? So I took off the T-shirt bandage, handed the bloodied cloth to Drake, inhaled deeply, and stuck my hand into yet another hole.

  Something cold and metallic slithered over my entire hand. For the first time, fear chilled me. The sacrifices required were getting more profound. I wonder how many more doorways were left, and how much more blood I would have to give to the Ancients, and their pyramid, before I breathed my last.

  My entire hand started to burn, and the pain sizzled up my arm. I couldn’t stop my scream, or my instinct to pull my hand out. But it was too late.

  • • •

  I was floating again, this time in a room t
hat felt . . . strange. It was a living room, but felt almost like I was on a movie set rather than in an actual space where people lived. And maybe that was the real issue . . . I don’t think these were people.

  Unlike the previous visions, in this one I wasn’t slipping into someone else’s skin. Instead I was like a ghost, floating among the people in the room.

  A woman stood in the doorway.

  She was otherworldly: pale-skinned, with bow-shaped lips as red as candy and green eyes as soft as moss. She wore a ribbed green T-shirt, tight black pants, thick-soled black boots, and on her waist was a weapons belt. On one side was a Glock and three cartridges, and on the other a series of small silver daggers. Her raven hair hung in ringlets down her back, like those of a medieval princess. “Beautiful” wasn’t a decent enough word to describe her. The only visible flaw I could see was the jagged pearlescent scar that wrapped around her throat like an ugly necklace.

  Information floated into my head . . . her name was Larsa, and she was a vampire . . . and she was the daughter of Shamhat.

  “The demon Lilith killed my mother,” Larsa explained to the room of people. Obviously I had arrived in the middle of a conversation. “The Ancients learned a harsh lesson the day Shamhat died. All of her line died when she did. Because of the bonding magic, all of their mates died, too.”

  “Shamhat was the eighth vampire line. Vampires with earth magic,” said Larsa. “They’re very sensual creatures, in tune with creation. With life. Ironic, in a way, since we’re undead. But you know how it was. Ruadan sought out others who had supernatural abilities. It’s no coincidence that all the Ancients have specific gifts.”

  “Why?” The question came from a lithe brunette. Her name floated into my mind: Phoebe.

  “Eight vampire Families had existed once,” said Larsa. “And Lilith had effectively wiped out one-eighth of the vampire population by killing its founder.

  “Ruadan always had the goal of bettering the world. Even then, belief in magic was dying out, giving way to science and cynics. He wanted to preserve as much as possible, to pass it along to the world when it was needed.”

  “Patsy saved the vampire lines because she was the queen of all,” mused Phoebe. She sent a questioning glance to Larsa. “If Patsy dies . . . we all die?”