Afterimage

by Jaye Roycraft

  “My eyes, first and foremost.”

  She took a moment to examine both the shackles on his arms and the helmet more carefully. It appeared that both operated by key. A key that only Verkist would have, she was sure.

  “Go, cherie, please. Talk to Scott. Trust him for now. As long as he believes there’s a chance I’ll prevail, he won’t give Evrard more than lip service.”

  She didn’t want to leave. What if Verkist refused her more visits? The thought that this might be the last time she saw Drago scared her. “Drago . . .”

  “Tell Scott I understand Voltaire’s words. Go now.”

  It wasn’t much of a reassurance, but it wasn’t his words that scared her. It was what he hadn’t said. He hadn’t promised her he would overcome the pain and hopelessness of the situation. He hadn’t reassured her that he was stronger than Verkist. And he hadn’t said he wouldn’t give up.

  She touched his cheek one more time then ran out of the room and up the stairs. She prayed that Revelin hadn’t been moved from her room, because as far as she could see, it would all be up to Revelin and her.

  DRAGO DREW IN a long, slow breath and let it out just as slowly. It didn’t help. He leaned forward, balled his fists, and yanked the chains as hard as he could. Over and over he pulled and jerked at his bonds, until the silver armbands bit into his skin. The burning pain shot up his arms, and he slumped against the wall. He welcomed the agony and exhaustion. It masked the bittersweet anguish and sexual frustration he had felt during Marya’s visit. He had to give credit to Evrard Verkist for one thing. Evrard had known exactly how best to torture him, both physically and mentally. There was only one thing Evrard could have done that was more cruel than the silver apparatus, and that was allowing a mortal to see him like this.

  Drago had always been strong. As a human, he had never known humility, even during the darkest months of the Muscovite invasion and with all the horror they had inflicted on him. He had held his honor, dignity, and self-esteem through every human nightmare. But his journey to the Demi Monde of the Undead had perverted everything he had been, as was the way of such things since time immemorial. Self-respect had become arrogance, and dignity had become conceit. All vampires by nature were proud and vain, but Drago had had more years than most to nurture and dwell in that pride. For a mortal, especially an aberration, to see him brought so low was the ultimate humiliation.

  And yet, as disgraced as he had felt, he had been glad to see her and to know that she was thus far untouched by Evrard. And the simple touch of her hand had pervaded his entire body with waves of desire that not even the silver burn could match in intensity. For him to feel her and not be able to respond had indeed been every torture Evrard could have hoped for, and more.

  Time meant nothing in the silver prison. It could have been fifteen minutes after Marya’s visit, or six hours afterwards when Evrard appeared. Regardless, it was an unpleasant moment when his nemesis’ odor assailed his nostrils. As was the way of older vampires, Evrard in fact exuded very little scent, but the odor was recognized and hated nonetheless.

  “Come to gloat, Evrard?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do find I’m enjoying this even more than I had anticipated. The great enforcier Alek Dragovich chained to a wall like a dog. Where’s your power now, Drago? You’re no vampire anymore. The noble Russian, so proud of your glorious, tragic country. You’re no high and mighty prince now, either. You’re not even a man—just an animal, a beast, tied to a wall. I wish every vampire you’ve ever administered your twisted form of justice to could see you now. Well, as long as your memory functions, I want you to remember that it was the Belgian who did this to you. The lowly mercenary.” Evrard no longer bothered disguising the vehemence in his voice. “I heard a song long, long ago. ‘Every one who flies too high is sure to go amiss; presumption, aiming at the sky, must pay in hell’s abyss.’ You’re paying now, Drago, aren’t you?”

  “Why, Evrard? You and I have had our differences over the years, but nothing to merit this.”

  Drago heard a laugh, but bitterness tightened the sound. “That’s just it, though, isn’t it? To you I was nothing. Just like my country meant nothing to its oh-so-powerful neighbors. For centuries Belgium was nothing more than a convenient killing field for everyone else. And I’ve been nothing but a convenient dumping ground for all the muck you’ve stirred up in the Brotherhood.”

  Drago heard the scrape of a boot and realized his foe had stepped closer to him. “Yes, all our encounters were of scant importance in your mind. But to me they were everything. You never conceded a thing to me, not even the smallest point. You said earlier that all our meetings ended in a stalemate. Well, not from my point of view they didn’t. You cut me off at the knees every time, and never thought twice about it. Remember Memphis two years ago? You unilaterally decided to transfer half my Southeast enforcers. Eight years ago in Chicago? You publicly chastised me in front of two dozen of my top officers. I could go on and on. But all that was nothing compared to Paris in 1935. The Directorate meeting to choose a new Patriarch, remember? You championed the Coterie Paramount Ricard De Chaux instead of me. And where is De Chaux now? Playing amongst the mortals in some northern burg, local Overlord to a handful of backwoods vamps. You were the only vote against me, Drago. I’ve never forgotten that.” The vitriolic words seemed to drip from Evrard’s mouth to fall right on Drago’s head.

  “De Chaux’s got more integrity than you or I will ever have.”

  “No matter. Because now it’s more than payback. You know that, don’t you? I’ve always yearned for the power and position of the Directorate. Well, now I’m going to have it.”

  “Then do it properly this time. Unchain me. Guerre a l’outrance, d’egal a egal. Fight to the finish, man to man. No interference.”

  “Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll admit, the thought of inflicting more pain on you is tempting, but then again, I think that all I have to do to accomplish that is send that mortal in again to see you. How did that feel, Drago? In five hundred years has such a lowly being as an aberration ever looked at you with pity and disgust? There isn’t a fantasy in all Midexistence that would make that girl see you now as anything other than what you are—a foul creature brought to a just end.”

  Drago didn’t answer.

  “Good. I’ll see that she comes again.” Drago suddenly felt a cloth being stuffed inside his mouth. He swung his head, but had no strength against Evrard. “In the meantime, Drago, feast on this.”

  A Belgian lace handkerchief. Drago spit it out. Only after Verkist’s scent was long gone from the room did Drago allow himself a small smile.

  Fourteen

  REVELIN WAS STILL in the room when Verkist’s vampire unlocked the door and let Marya in. She described Drago’s condition to him, but neglected any mention of the pain she knew he was in. She thought Revelin would be more inclined to try to help if he thought Drago was in better shape than he really was.

  “He told me to trust you. He said he understood about Voltaire. That it’s the best shots that count, not the biggest battalions.”

  Revelin smiled a cocky grin that lifted only one side of his mouth. “I knew he’d understand. He’s lived in France too long not to.”

  “But what can we do? Even if you were to overpower the guard and get into the room, there’s no way to unshackle him without a key.”

  “Describe the mechanism to me. How big are the keyholes?”

  She told him. Revelin sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful. “I was a bloody soldier in Wellington’s army. Did you know that?”

  She shook her head, but refrained from asking what that had to do with anything.

  “But before I was a soldier, I was a thief. The reason for my fighting for the king’s shilling, as a matter of fact. I was a picklock. Quite a good one, actually. ‘Til I was caught, that is. Anyway,
you know what they say about habits.” He bent down and twisted the heel of one boot. It came off in his hand. “They’re bloody hard to break.”

  He showed her his varied assortment of picks. “Everything from some very old skeleton keys to some very new picking needles and tension wrenches. I never leave home without them. One of these should do the trick.”

  “But we still have to get you into Drago’s room.”

  Revelin shook his head. “Naw. Too risky. If I’m caught, we lose all chance of succeeding. You’ll have to do it.”

  “I don’t know how to use any of these things.”

  “By morning you will, one way or the other. Tell me more about this very unusual dhampir blood of yours.”

  DRAGO FLOATED in and out of consciousness. The pain was too great to allow a deep sleep, but he was too drained to remain fully awake. During those moments when he was alert, he tried to concentrate on what he needed to do to survive, but he couldn’t. He was tired, but now it was more than that. The silver prison slowly consumed each idea as he tried to form it, like a slow fire catching a piece of kindling. The periphery of thought burned first, darkening slowly, until nothing was left but the essence. Then that died, too, and grayed to ash. His will tried to latch onto something that wouldn’t wither under the assault, but there was nothing he cared for enough to fight the pain. Nothing, except the one thing in life he had always sought. The one thing that made Eternity bearable. The elusive affaire de coeur. A matter not of principle or self-interest, but of the heart.

  A vision of the slim, sable-haired Gypsy with eyes that made the dark come alive arose before him and kept him from madness.

  A draft of air, created by the opening of the door, carried Marya’s scent to him. He thought he was dreaming. Slow to realize the truth, he lifted his head in wonder an instant before his ears heard her voice.

  “Master.”

  It wasn’t her voice. Yet his mind persisted in the dream. It was Marya. Her scent was unique among mortals. No one else exuded the bewitching combination of the sweetness of innocence and the bitterness of death.

  “Cherie?”

  “Call me ‘cherie’ one more time, and I’ll change my mind about helping you.”

  “Scott?”

  “Your faithful apprentice, at your service.”

  His mind refused to function. “How?”

  “Possession. You have your talents, I have mine. I simply imposed my will on her and took control of her body. However, with the help of her dhampir blood, I can also see the world through her eyes. But I’ll have to hurry. Neither one of us has the strength to maintain this for long.”

  “The helmet first, then.”

  Drago felt Marya’s body next to his; felt her hands at his head. But it was Scott’s dexterity that manipulated the lock.

  “Hold still, Drago. This device must be as old as you are.”

  Drago heard the lock pop open, and seconds later the chin strap was pulled free and the helmet was jerked from his head. Relief flooded his body and his mind, and he drew a deep breath, trying to summon the energy and power that had been so cruelly held at bay. He blinked his eyes and saw Marya’s face before him, but the dark eyes that stared back at him were vampire eyes.

  “Don’t thank me. We’re not out of here yet.”

  The shackles were next. When they dropped to the floor Marya slumped into his arms. Scott was gone. He held her like that for several moments, knowing she needed time to recover her strength as much as he did. What surged through his veins first, though, wasn’t strength or energy, but lust. He desired this warm female in his arms more than he’d wanted a woman in years. But it was the unthinking lust of the Undead for sustenance and survival, not the desire to cherish the woman who had just saved his life. He had been badly injured, and if the scent of her tainted blood hadn’t reminded him of what she was, he would have burrowed at her neck, sinking his teeth into her soft flesh and drawing on the rich life force of her blood.

  But he couldn’t take her, and he spent the moment instead shackling his base instincts as ruthlessly as the silver had bound his body. A sound escaped the binds of his control, the half-moan, half-growl of a beast in pain, but Marya didn’t stiffen in fear or revulsion. If anything, she held him all the tighter. He waited, not thinking, not feeling, but summoning the vestiges of his control. He sealed his senses from her, lest her fragrant, yielding body undo everything his mind was trying to muster.

  A moment later, he drew a deep breath and grabbed her by the shoulders. To wait any longer would give the power of her heated body time to assault his control again. “Cherie, can you hear me?” He pushed her away just far enough to read her eyes.

  She nodded. “Vampire, can you see me?”

  He smiled. “You look beautiful.”

  “You look horrible.”

  He could well imagine. And yet Marya didn’t seem put off by the vision in the least. “What time is it?”

  A small pout pursed the mouth he wanted nothing more than to ravage. “You’re welcome, vampire,” she said in response to his unspoken thank you.

  “We’re not out of here yet. What time is it?”

  She sighed. “Morning. The sun’s up. Rev wanted to do this when as few of Verkist’s vamps as possible would be awake. Rev doesn’t think more than three or four of the vamps here are day vampires.”

  “Including the guard that brought you down here.”

  She nodded.

  “Scott is smart. Good odds. I want you to go outside and call for the guard. Tell him I’m dead, or that I’m bleeding all over the floor. Anything to get him to come in here.” He held her face. “C’est compris?”

  She dipped her head again. “I’ve got it.”

  He rose to his feet and drew her up with him. He felt the lust stir again with the prospect of battle, and he couldn’t resist pulling her to him. He bent his head and kissed her mouth, opening his senses enough to savor her soft heat. It was Marya who pulled away, and a questioning look puckered her brows before she turned and ran out the door. Seconds later he heard her voice on the stairway, calling up to the patio above.

  “Come quickly! I think he’s dead! He’s not moving, and there’s blood all over the place.”

  Drago heard the vampire on the stairs. An instant later, the heedless vamp rushed into the room. Drago was ready and waiting behind the door. He grabbed the vampire by the arm and whipped him into the concrete wall.

  Still pressing the man against the wall, Drago growled in his ear. “If you value your life, you’ll be quiet, monsieur. Understand?”

  The vampire nodded. Still holding him by the arm, Drago snapped a silver shackle on the vampire before he could recover from being slammed into the wall. A quick search of his pockets produced a room key. He tossed it to Marya, who waited just inside the door.

  “The key to your room. Let Scott out and tell him what happened. Tell him I authorize him to kill any vamp who gets in his way.”

  “What about you?”

  “I owe Evrard payback. And Marya . . .”

  She looked at him expectantly.

  “Once you set Scott free, lock yourself in that room. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s go.” They exited the room, and he led the way up the stairs, opening his senses fully to the scents and sounds around him. They traversed the patio to the door leading to the hallway running through the southern wing. There was no one in the hall, and Drago could hear no voices emanating from nearby rooms. He signaled for Marya to run down the hall to Scott’s room. She did, and unlocked the room. Drago paused outside a closed door just down the hall. He’s here. Verkist’s scent was faint, but present. Scott appeared in the hallway, and Drago cocked his head. Scott glided to his side.

  “Watch my back.” Drago silently mouthed the words, and
Scott nodded. Drago tried the knob. The door was locked. He raised a booted foot and lashed out at a spot on the door near the lock. The door shattered, and Drago was inside before the splintering sound faded away. Evrard jumped out of bed, but Drago was on him before he could react or prepare a mental defense, knocking him backwards. Both men bounced heavily on the bed and were launched to the floor. They rolled into the wall, and by the time Drago gathered his feet beneath him, he had his hammerlock hold on Evrard.

  “No games this time, monsieur. It’s simple. Life or death. I either kill you right now or you tell me what I wish to know, and I allow you to live.” Drago tightened the hold for emphasis.

  “Go to hell!”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” With an expert twist, Drago snapped his neck. “One more and I’ll sever the spine.”

  “What do you want?” The words were little more than a croak, but Drago heard them.

  “The names of the brethren you killed to ascend.”

  Evrard answered through teeth gritted together in pain. “Just three. Michael Caley, Franco Loria, and Cain Rogan.”

  “Did you hear that, Scott?”

  Scott’s voice floated to him from the doorway. “Bloody hell. I knew Caley and Rogan. I always wondered how they came to meet the True Death.”

  Drago kept the hold’s pressure and addressed Evrard again. “And if De Chaux had ascended to Patriarch, he would have been the fourth?”

  Evrard nodded as best he could.

  “Say it!” commanded Drago.

  “Ricard De Chaux would have been the fourth.” The words were nearly spit out.

  Drago loosened his grip, only to crank it tighter than before. “And was I on your list as well, Evrard?”

  “No. Not until I saw the opportunity to bring you here. But I didn’t forget that order.”