The Last Vampire- Complete series Box Set

by R. A. Steffan

  “Done?” the vampire echoed. “What’s done? Have you... stopped the weapon somehow? Saved them?”

  Nigellus opened his eyes, looking down at the last vampire in existence. “No,” he said. “No, Ransley. I haven’t saved them. I’ve saved you.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Hell

  RANSLEY THORPE backed away from Nigellus until his shoulders hit the carved stone wall with a soft thump.

  “What are you saying?” he demanded. Blue flared in his gaze. “Nigellus, your vow...”

  Regret washed at the edges of the demon’s thoughts. “I vowed not to allow your race to perish to extinction. And it has not. You survive, protected by the walls of Hell from the weapon that flooded the human realm with Fae magic moments ago. I will work to ensure that you continue to survive, so that the blood in your veins may one day beget a new vampire race.”

  Ransley’s eyes went wide, his head jerking back and forth in a tiny movement of negation. His fingers curled into claws against the wall behind him, fingernails gouging small furrows in the ancient limestone.

  “No. Nigellus... no. That’s not—”

  “It’s already part of time’s turning,” Nigellus told him quietly.

  The vampire continued to shake his head jerkily from side to side. He slid down the wall to sit in a heap, his glowing gaze of accusation never wavering. When he finally closed his eyes, it was to tangle his fingers in his wild mop of black hair, clutching at the tangled strands in desperation.

  Nigellus seated himself on the cushions of the low divan against the opposite wall, knowing there was really nothing to be said that would improve the situation. So he kept vigil, watching over the battered survivor across from him until Baalazar arrived to confirm what he already knew—the weapon had worked, and with it, the Fae had struck a blow that would decide the war.

  For now.

  Outside, the unforgiving evening heat of the demon realm mellowed gradually into balmy night. Even here in Hell, darkness was a salve to one who’d lost his humanity to the blood-laced siren song of undeath. Ransley looked up for the first time in hours. Though he’d been as still and silent as the wall behind him, rusty tear-tracks stained his cheeks—a testament to the vampire’s grief.

  “If I’d understood the price you intended to extract from me, I never would have agreed to your bargain,” he said in hoarse tones.

  “I know,” Nigellus replied evenly.

  Stillness reigned again for several long minutes.

  “I require a favor from you,” Ransley said, at length. “It cannot be another bargain, since I have nothing left to offer in return. You’ve already taken everything of value I possessed.”

  “What favor is that?” Nigellus asked, already suspecting the answer.

  “You must ensure that I forget the terms of the agreement I have just accepted,” he said. “Because—Nigellus. I cannot live with it... and yet, you won’t even let me die to escape it. Not now that I’ve become your bargaining chip against the future. I’ve heard the stories—I could stake myself a hundred times, and you would only bring me back.”

  “You think not remembering will be any kinder?” Nigellus asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ransley replied. “But it can hardly be any more cruel. You have the power to grant me this. I entreat you on the strength of our centuries of association... please use it.”

  Nigellus tilted his head, considering the ramifications.

  “Very well,” he said eventually. “I will agree, with two provisions. First, as you have correctly ascertained, I will not allow you to die, Ransley Thorpe. Second, I will not allow your precious blood to go to waste. When the Fae declare victory and I have struck the deal with them I intend to strike... when your safety is assured by a signed and sealed agreement... I will escort you from Hell and alter the weft of your memories. You will have no recollection of what passed between us. Then, whenever I have need of your blood, I will acquire it from you—but you will know nothing of it.”

  Ransley’s hands had crept back into his hair as he sat hunched at the base of the wall. They were shaking. “Anything. Anything, Nigellus. Just... not this.”

  Nigellus nodded. “It will be done.” He rose, stretching his spine against the confines of his human form. “Edward will be returning here soon, with one of the other demons. Do you wish to wait for him? Perhaps to feed?”

  Ransley shook his head sharply. “All I wish is oblivion, Nigellus. If you care for me at all, you’ll grant me that much until it’s time for me to leave.”

  Nigellus crossed to him, crouching in front of him. “Then oblivion it shall be.”

  He reached out a hand, but Ransley looked up and met his eyes, giving him pause.

  “No dreams,” the vampire said, the words somewhere between a demand and a plea.

  “No dreams,” Nigellus agreed, touching fingers to Ransley’s temple.

  Ransley’s eyes rolled back, and his body slumped sideways against the wall. Nigellus caught him, lifting the limp form easily and carrying him to a quiet room where he could wait out the political machinations that were sure to come in the following weeks and months.

  As Nigellus laid his heartbroken burden down on the bed, he reflected that in a lifetime spanning uncounted eons, success had seldom tasted so bitter.

  NINETEEN

  St. Louis, present day

  NIGELLUS SAT IN my grandfather’s armchair, his legs crossed primly and his fingers steepled before him as he systematically dismantled the last two hundred years of Rans’ history, piling the pieces like discarded rubble at our feet.

  “And so,” he finished, drawing the story to a close, “once the treaty was struck and your life was protected as part of it, I escorted you out of Hell and removed your memories of the whole thing—as you had requested of me.”

  “Leaving him with a hole in his life that he’d never quite be able to fill,” I said in a low monotone.

  My hand was still tangled with Rans’, but the man next to me might as well have been a marble statue. His fingers were cold—not just room temperature, but frozen. Meanwhile, I struggled to deal with yet another emotional calamity on top of the mountain of emotional calamities that had already comprised the last several hours.

  Though... the word ‘struggling’ might have been too kind. I wasn’t struggling. I was failing to deal with yet another emotional calamity. Aside from the vague, dull sense of achiness I felt on Rans’ behalf, this particular calamity just seemed to sort of be... sliding off. Not sticking properly.

  Maybe that was a good thing.

  “No wonder you were so livid when you found out about the life-bond,” I told Nigellus, my voice sounding almost conversational. “Bad enough trying to keep one suicidally reckless idiot alive. Much less, two.”

  “I wouldn’t care to comment on the matter,” Nigellus said, and while his tone was perfectly civil, I suspected that the retort would have left burn marks if I could actually feel anything right now.

  Rans shifted next to me, a tremor taking up residence in the long fingers laced through mine. He leaned forward on the sofa, his eyes burning as they fixed on the demon.

  “Why me, of all the vampires in existence?” he asked. “Why me, Nigellus?”

  Nigellus’ brow furrowed, emotion leaking into his expression for the first time since he’d taken up the story.

  “Because I cared for you... a great deal, Ransley,” he said in a voice gone heavy with things unspoken. “I still do. Unlike incubi and succubi, demons of fate can never have offspring, even indirectly. But... if we did, I would be proud to consider you a son.”

  Rans jerked to his feet, his hand sliding free of mine. I let him go, and watched him pace around the room as though ghosts were nipping at his heels. Perhaps they were—the ghosts of ten thousand vampires snuffed out of existence between one second and the next.

  He scrubbed a hand through his ragged fringe of hair, ruffling it with an angry movement.

  “I can’t... do this
now,” he said. “There are too many other things that, frankly, strike me as more important and deserving of my attention at the current point in time than hashing this out with you.” The last word contained venom, but also pain.

  Nigellus gave a slow nod. If the barb had hit home, he didn’t show it.

  “As it happens, time is something I have in abundance, Ransley.” The demon’s eyes flicked to Edward, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. “Edward and I will return to Atlantic City. You may find me there when you are ready to talk.”

  He rose, and Edward followed suit. I experienced a moment’s indecision as the urge to thank Nigellus for saving Rans’ life warred with the urge to spit something cutting at him. In the end, I stayed silent. Edward gave both of us a look of quiet compassion. I turned my face away, not ready to deal with kindness from that quarter. A moment later, a pop of displaced air announced the pair’s departure.

  Guthrie had been keeping himself firmly in the background during the conversation. Now, he stirred in his chair. I could imagine how awkward the situation must be for him—he had cause for a celebration decades in the making, but he’d ended up stuck at someone else’s wake instead. Dark eyes looked me over carefully, seeing too much.

  “Go on... go to bed, you two,” he said. “You obviously need it, and it’s not like you don’t know where the guest room is.”

  For some fucked-up reason, that was the thing that brought the burn of fresh tears to my eyes and throat. Maybe it was the familiarity implicit in the order; the vague hint of paternal caretaking. I stuffed the reaction down deep, and nodded agreement.

  “Yeah. Thanks, Guthrie.” I swallowed, trying to wet my throat. “You should... uh... go out and celebrate or something. God knows you’ve earned it.”

  He tried on a small smile, but it was strained. “Maybe later tonight. For now, I’ll be in my office if either of you need anything.”

  I nodded, too choked up to trust my voice anymore. Instead, I looked up at Rans, but that only made it worse. He held out his hand. I took it, and he led me to the comfortable guest room with its elegant furniture and cheery blue duvet. Then he closed the door behind us, and I allowed him to peel my bloodstained clothing away, until I stood before him clad only in a practical cotton bra and panties.

  When he stripped off his shirt with the small tear over his heart where Myrial’s silver dagger had taken him, I shivered. His boots and trousers followed, then he was pulling me down to lie on the bed with him, curled against his side with my head pillowed on his shoulder. I ran shaky fingertips over the dried flakes of blood still clinging around the knife and bullet wounds Nigellus had healed with his power.

  Rans captured my hand, stilling it.

  The silence stretched. There were words piling up in my throat, but I wasn’t sure how to say them, or even if I should. Still, the pressure built.

  “My blood doesn’t work right,” I blurted after a few minutes. Foolishly, I’d thought maybe that would be a safe place to start. The moment the sentence spilled out, I realized I’d been wrong.

  Rans frowned down at me. “What?”

  I gulped down the thick, choked feeling clawing at me.

  “I tried to use my blood to heal Dad’s bullet wound. But he couldn’t keep it down, and when I poured it directly into the wound it still didn’t work.”

  His arm tightened around my shoulders. “Zorah... he was a titheling—infused with Dhuinne’s magic. Fae energy interferes with other forms of power. It’s the same thing that happened when I tried to save you on the boat after you were shot.”

  “I know,” I said, nodding too quickly. The skin of my temple and cheek rubbed against his chest. “But... your blood still closed my wound, even if you couldn’t heal everything else. Mine... didn’t.”

  Though Guthrie’s hadn’t either—

  “I’m seven hundred years old, love,” Rans said quietly. “You’re a brand new vampire. My blood packs a fair bit more punch, by virtue of being so far past its sell-by date. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “He wouldn’t let me turn him into a vampire,” I whispered.

  It was Rans’ turn to swallow. “Perhaps his decision was a selfish one.” The words emerged hoarse. “But... I’m glad you respected his wishes. Forcing undeath on another person who doesn’t want it—” He broke off. “It leaves a stain on your soul,” he finished eventually.

  I was muddled enough that it took me a moment to remember that Rans had been turned without his permission, and left alone afterward with no way of knowing or understanding what he’d become. It took another few moments to realize that while he was, in fact, talking about himself, it was in a different sense than what I’d been thinking.

  The last two people Rans had been responsible for turning, he’d done so without permission.

  I’d been one of those people. Guthrie had been the other.

  “Hey... no. I wanted this,” I told him. “I would have asked for it if I’d been in any condition to do so. And Guthrie may have bitched about it, but in the end you’re the only reason he lived to see Myrial neutralized. He’s free now.”

  “For the time being,” Rans said reluctantly.

  “For the time being,” I agreed.

  Rans swallowed, consciously easing some of the tension out of his shoulders. “Your father...” he began. “Zorah—he radiated old pain. One conversation with the man was enough for me to feel how desperately unhappy he was.”

  I tensed, irrational defensiveness creeping in. Before I could speak—not that I had any idea what to say—Rans continued.

  “Darryl Bright was a man who’d lost the other half of his soul. It’s... not a feeling I would wish on anyone. And while it doesn’t excuse the extent to which he failed you over the past twenty years, it does, perhaps, explain his unwillingness to face a future as a vampire that could potentially span centuries.”

  Air caught in my chest, and a choked noise escaped. Grief loomed, an empty pit sucking away my comforting veil of numbness without warning.

  “He said he wanted to be with my mother.” I had to force the words past the constriction in my throat. “He told Nigellus to give his life-force to... to someone more deserving.” My voice had started to waver; I swallowed convulsively, but it didn’t help. “N-Nigellus... gave it to you.”

  Rans’ arm tightened around me. “He gave it to both of us. Nigellus must have been pouring power through to you the whole time, to keep you alive when I was as good as dead. Darryl Bright’s animus is in both of us now. In a very real sense, your father gave his life to save you, Zorah. And that is the instinct of every parent when their child is in danger.”

  I tried to control the hitching jerks that wracked my chest as I took in his words. I tried. It was useless, though. Turning my face to hide it in the space between Rans’ neck and shoulders, I clutched at him as the tears came anew.

  My father had watched the woman he loved fall prey to a madman’s gun, and been unable to do anything to stop it. Twenty years later, with an enemy’s weapon leveled at his daughter’s chest, he’d flung himself into the path of a bullet rather than see the same thing happen again.

  The bitter irony burned like hellfire. That bullet probably wouldn’t have killed me—even if the silver had pierced my heart. But Darryl Bright hadn’t known that. He’d only known that his daughter was in danger, and he had to act. From his point of view, he’d saved me, and in doing so, he’d gained his best chance of being reunited with his dead wife in the afterlife.

  Even if I hadn’t already been crying too hard to speak, I wouldn’t have been able to bring myself to ask if they were together now. Nigellus had claimed my father’s animus through the soul-bond he held. I had no way of knowing if that meant he’d lost his chance at an afterlife, and in the end, neither did Rans.

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  I wept bitter tears against Rans’ neck, my body jerking in time with my sobs as I tried to fit my father’s final, selfles
s sacrifice into the framework of our troubled relationship. Rans held me close. He made no sound, no effort to shush me or tell me not to grieve. After a time, though, I thought I could feel an answering hint of dampness against my scalp, where his face pressed against my hair.

  TWENTY

  AS WAS INEVITABLE, exhaustion eventually overcame grief. We slept, and woke many hours later to the comforting depths of night’s darkness. My stomach rumbled, and I hoped with something like desperation that blood would be enough to sustain me for now, because succubus or no, I couldn’t face the idea of seeking out anything else.

  We’d barely moved from the position in which we’d fallen asleep. That made it easy for Rans to press my lips against his jugular in a clear directive.

  “Feed, love,” he said. “I’ll find someone to drink from later.”

  I did, tasting the metallic rust of my dried tears on his skin, and feeling new tears prickle behind my eyes. The hours of rest had gone some way toward dulling the razor’s edge of fresh grief, but I had a feeling I’d be shedding a lot more tears at random moments over the coming weeks and months.

  A shower also helped place a little more distance around the previous night’s events. Once we were both clean and dressed in fresh clothing, I felt able to face Guthrie—assuming he hadn’t taken up my earlier suggestion to go out and celebrate.

  He hadn’t. Though he, too, was showered and changed, we found him in the penthouse’s cozy office, just where he’d said he’d be if we needed him. At our approach, he looked up from whatever he’d been doing on his laptop and raised an eyebrow at us.

  “Morning, you two,” he said, and then paused. “I suppose one a.m. qualifies as morning, anyway. Did you sleep?”

  “We did,” Rans replied. “Thank you for the bed. And... everything else.”

  Guthrie gave him the faint twitch of a smile. “Room’s always available, asshole. Good call, hitching yourself to my granddaughter, by the way... because now I guess I’m stuck with you.”