by Nancy Morse
His arm felt like an iron bar at her back as he pressed her to his chest. Pru was too frightened to even shut her eyes, but stared wide-eyed at the unnaturally pale face that hovered so close to hers. Dark lashes swept down to conceal his beautiful eyes. His mouth opened. She saw the fangs.
She recoiled and was seized by an impulse to scream. No, no, I’ve changed my mind! But the words hovered like cowards at the back of her throat.
At the first prick of her skin from the knife-sharp fangs, white-hot panic surged through her being. It hurt, and she let out a cry. His thumb was at her throat, pressing against the jugular, forcing the blood to the surface and into his waiting mouth. That’s when she felt the sucking begin, soft lips drawing the precious fluid from her heart, a little bit at first, then more, stronger, faster, keeping rhythm with the awful sucking sounds. She struggled in his locked embrace as terrifying thoughts began to swirl in her mind, caught like so much flotsam in a whirlpool. What had she done? Was it better to be scorched alive in a burning building than to have the blood drained from her body in such a gruesome manner as this? Would he stop drinking in time? Did it matter?
Then, ever so gradually, like dawn breaking over the treetops after a night of terrorizing nightmares, something strange began to happen. She became aware of a shocking sensation that accompanied the sucking. It was not unlike her first experience of passion when he had entered her with a thrust of pain that coalesced into indescribable pleasure. Now, as then, the pain subsided into a promiscuous rush of excitement, a shameless titillation that spread a warm, wet feeling throughout her entire being. Through it all she felt the strength increasing in his arms that crushed her to him so tightly she could scarcely draw breath. Despite everything that was going on around them and the desperate immediacy of their situation, she felt a surge of unrestrained satisfaction knowing that it was her blood that was providing the strength he needed to save them from certain doom.
It was over in seconds. She was standing upright before him, his arm around her steadying her on her feet.
Panting heavily, Nicolae took a step back. “That’s enough,” he said between breaths. “Are you all right?”
Pru nodded. Her fingers sought the puncture wounds at her neck, and the pleasurable spell she’d been under vanished at the hideous reality of what had just occurred. A small gargle of shock rose in her throat.
“Don’t worry,” he told her, “the wounds will heal. Now stand back while I give it another try.”
He drew in his breath and charged the door. This time it gave way, splintering beneath the force of his superhuman strength fortified by her blood.
An explosion of scorching heat slapped them in their faces. Pru screamed and shrank back. Nicolae issued a harsh epithet through gritted teeth.
Beyond the remains of the oak door an old wooden staircase wound its way upwards.
“Come on!” Nicolae yelled.
Pru’s eyes were wide and terrified, and she dug in her heels at the sounds of the fire that was in full rage on the upper floor. Its lurid light could be seen dancing over the wooden walls of the staircase.
“The building’s on fire!” she screamed. “We can’t go up into it.”
“We have to. It’s our only chance!”
“No! No! I can’t! I won’t!”
He grabbed her as she tried to run back into the cellar and spun her sharply around. “Damn it, Prudence, we’ll be burned alive if we stay here.”
“No! Let me go!” She fought him harder than she had ever fought anything in her life, struggling desperately to wrest herself free of his powerful grip.
His eyes went wide with rage as he brought his hand up and struck her sharply across the face. She stumbled to the side and would have fallen to the ground had he not scooped her up in his arms and carried her kicking and screaming toward the staircase and the fire that raged above.
Mindless of the thick clouds of smoke that billowed at the top of the staircase, Nicolae ascended to the demon fire with uncontrollable fury. No sooner did he reach the top of the stairs than the old wooden staircase collapsed behind them, leaving them no way to go except toward the seething mass of flame, and not a moment too soon. With a crash heard above the din of the flames, the cellar ceiling fell in.
Inside the burning building the old timbers creaked and groaned as they succumbed to the ravenous flames. An explosion on the upper floor blew off the distillery roof, shattering windows and throwing large embers into the street. The heavy gray smoke was so thick Pru couldn’t even see Nicolae’s face as he carried her in his arms. It was the kind of smoke that stuck to everything, skin, clothing, hair, even their eyelashes. Up, up the burning walls he climbed toward the gaping hole that used to be the roof.
Pru buried her face in Nicolae’s neck, her cries muffled by the roar of the flames. The scorching heat was painful against her skin. Every breath she took was like swallowing boiling water. Showers of burning splinters fell on her arms, singeing her flesh. Through the abject fear that enveloped her one persistent thought reverberated through her brain.
We’re going to die.
We’re going to die.
***
At the end of the street, away from the blinding glare of ignited spirits, Edmund de Vere stood watching the spectacle. Masses of glowing wood blown hither and yon by the wind set nearby shops ablaze. Sparks and burning flakes fell onto the roofs of rickety wooden tenements which proved good kindling for the hungry flames. The fire swallowed everything in its path and threw massive pitches of flame into the sky, illuminating the night with a blaze brighter than the light of day.
Beyond the smoldering walls of the distillery, gushes and eddies of wind blew this way and that, wrapping the street in fire until the whole district looked like an erupting volcano. Crowds of onlookers gathered in the overcrowded warren of narrow, cobbled streets to watch the terrible spectacle. With a furious clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, a pumper arrived. Men with hooks and axes could do nothing but stand by and watch helplessly. Others formed a brigade of leather buckets that continuously supplied the engine’s tub, while a hand-operated piston pump forced the water out through a nozzle onto the raging fire, with little effect.
The fire was given ferocious life when an engine commandeered by unwitting spectators began pumping through its hose not water but gin from the stills that were in a portion of the cellar miraculously untouched by the flames and whose crumbling walls provided easy access. Some of the onlookers, seizing the opportunity to get something for nothing, raced into the raging building and came back out choking, faces blackened, eyes bloodshot, carrying untapped casks of gin. Soon, the heat below ground became so intense that the stills burst and overflowed and the gin gushed up into the streets where it ran in warm currents in the gutter and over the cobbles. Men and women knelt down and dipped their faces into the river of fiery gin, gulping down as much as they could before their throats were burned raw. Downing the gin in its raw state, they writhed in the street, screaming in pain, their faces blue, tongues swollen from the poisonous liquid. Some who had run down the stone steps and into the gaping holes in the cellar wall were trapped by the flames. Overcome by fumes, they were scorched to death.
Edmund was unaffected by the sounds of death and dying that rose into the night, a cacophony matched only by the hideous roar of the flames. From his father he had been taught that at times it was necessary to sacrifice a few innocents for the betterment of all humanity. Nobody could have survived the inferno. Confident that the beast that had drained his ancestor and eluded every first born son of a first born son since that time was, at last, destroyed, a slow, sinister smile spread across his lips. His work here was finished. He bent to pick up his black bag. Casting one last long look over his shoulder at the blazing distillery, he walked off into the night.
CHAPTER 20
Edmund de Vere stood at the window of his shop looking up at a gray sky that covered the city like a shroud. Even now, days later, the sten
ch of burnt timbers, mortar and bodies could be smelled throughout London. His head ached from the amount of sherry he had consumed since that night to help dull the guilt. Killing the undead was one thing, but sacrificing innocents always left a bad taste in his mouth. Alas, he’d done what had to be done. There was no sense brooding over it. The only thing he remotely regretted was Prudence.
It was too bad, really, that she had to die. Perhaps in time she could have been made to see the error of her ways. But it mattered naught. As he watched the flow of carriages and pedestrians pass his shop, his face screwed up against the hurt she had inflicted in choosing that evil demon over him. She had caused him great pain and paid for it.
In the days following the fire, as he settled back into his work preparing a shipment of hollow ware for the colonies, he was able to lose himself in the business of accounts and customers—although it did seem odd to him that Simon Cavendish had not called to pick up his latest order—and it was only when he stopped for a few moments to contemplate what he had done that a small measure of guilt infiltrated his conscience. He turned from the window, forcing his morbid thoughts aside, and returned to his desk.
Some time later a knock at the door forced his head up from his ledgers.
The apprentice poked his head in. “There’s a gentleman waitin’ ter see yer. Do yer want me ter tell ‘im yor not in?”
“Do I look like I’m not in?” Edmund snapped.
“Right then, right. I’ll send ‘im in.”
“Is it Simon Cavendish?” Edmund shuffled through some papers, searching for the alchemist’s latest order.
“No sir, it’s some bloke I ain’t never seen before.”
“A new customer?”
“Don’t ‘ave a look like a new customer ter me.”
Something in the lad’s voice made Edmund pause. “What does he look like?”
“Tall. Right. Well dressed. Has a scar on ‘is boat race.” He pointed to his cheek. “Sort of like ‘e were burned. Maybe ‘e were one of them that got too close ter the fire.”
Edmund frowned uneasily. The reminder of the distillery fire made his head ache even worse. “Send him away. I have no wish to see him.”
“Yo’ doesn’t look like yer feelin’ too fine. Ah can helter-sketer an’ git th’ docko fo’ yo’.”
“I don’t need the bloody doctor. What I need is to be left alone.”
“Right then, as enny fool kin plainly see. I’ll git back t’mah wawk. Th’ shipment’s almost ready.”
Edmund closed his eyes and rubbed his temples in a vain attempt to ease the pressure. When he heard the click of the closing door, he shoved himself away from the desk and rose. Taking the back staircase up to his living quarters, he flopped down onto his bed with a cloth of camphor across his eyes, and fell asleep.
When he awoke and removed the cloth from his eyes, it was dark in the room. Tatters of pale moonlight hovered just beyond the window that was swung wide open on its hinges. That was odd. He could have sworn he had closed that window.
A scent permeated the air, not the strong, aromatic aroma of camphor but of corruption and decay. His headache had dissipated, but the scent that invaded his nostrils made his stomach lurch. He hoisted himself onto his elbows and drew in a deep breath that caught in his throat when he heard the sound of breathing close by. A rustle of movement of something coming nearer, and then a touch, as cold as ice, upon his shoulder, paralyzed him with fear.
“You and I have a score to settle.”
The voice that spoke at his ear was smooth, mellifluous, almost like a song. A dizzying contrast to the odor that spilled from the speaking mouth. He knew instantly what it was and shrank back in horror. Something—fear or survival, he was too frightened to know which—made him reach for his pants pocket and fumble for the cross inside. With fingers shaking and eyes ground shut, he drew it out and thrust it forward.
Laughter, scornful and mocking, followed the action. “The cross is effective only against the weakest of us. Now, if you had the sense to brandish a cross bearing the form of the crucified Christ, that would be different. Or a consecrated host. But as a member of the Sanctum, you already know that, don’t you?”
The hand tightened on Edmund’s shoulder. He winched at the fingers that grew long and taut and the sharp claws that bit into his flesh through his shirt.
“You have grown lazy, pewterer. Or is it a case of overblown confidence?”
The cruel hand withdrew and Edmund heard the click of boot heels retreat across the wide-planked floor. Somehow, he found the courage to open his eyes and turn his head. The creature stood now gazing out the window, his back to the room, a tall, lean figure silhouetted against the pale moonlight, a gentle midnight breeze rustling the ends of his dark hair.
“After all,” that beautiful voice spoke again against the glass pane, “you thought you had destroyed me, didn’t you? You know there is only one thing that can destroy me. Well, two things, really.” He ran his finger along the mullion as he spoke. “But you are too cowardly to get close enough to me to drive a stake through my heart, so you chose fire.” He sighed. “I could almost forgive you for what you tried to do to me. But not for what you did to Prudence.”
Edmund sat up. “Is she—?”
“Is she what? Burnt to a crisp? Is that what you would like her to be for choosing me over you?”
“No!” Edmund cried. “I never meant to harm her. You must believe me.”
“Must I?”
“Prudence is—”
The figure at the window whirled suddenly to face the darkness that blanketed the room. “You will not speak her name,” he demanded, his voice sounding now like a half-strangled groan. “You will never again speak her name.”
The palpable silence that followed the outburst was broken by the ticking of a clock and by Edmund’s erratic breathing.
“You will notice I did not say that you are to never speak her name again or I will kill you. But that does not mean I don’t intend to kill you anyway.”
Edmund cringed at the soft, toying quality of that voice. Making no attempt to mask his hatred, he said, “The way you killed my ancestor?”
“Philippe de Vere deserved to die.”
“What’s that you say?”
“He was a traitor, giving up innocents to the Dominican friars in return for a portion of the wealth they stole from those they burned at the stake. How else do you think your family acquired its wealth?”
Edmund sprang to his feet. “You lie!”
“I have no reason to lie. I was there. I witnessed it. I confronted him with his treachery and he did not bother to deny it. The only thing that prevented me from killing him that night was the crucifix he waved at me. I wasn’t as strong then as I am now, and it forced me to flee. But I returned.” The voice hardened like rock. “And he paid for his treachery with his blood.”
Edmund’s heart beat wildly in his chest. His eyes scanned the darkness and spotted his black bag on the floor across the room. He had to find a way to divert the fiend’s attention and get to the bag.
“I cannot see you in the darkness.”
“Ah, but I can see you, pewterer. I have spent countless lifetimes shut away from the light. My eyes have acquired the ability to see quite clearly in the dark. I can also hear the beating of your heart and smell your fear.”
“I would see the face of my killer,” Edmund said.
“Why, of course. Light a candle, if you wish.”
Rooted to his spot, Edmund made no move.
“Oh, very well, I’ll do it for you. Where do you keep your candles?”
Edmund nodded toward the dresser. The creature moved toward it in a flash of movement so swift it scarcely registered.
A single candle sputtered to life, illuminating the walls and draperies of the room.
“Is that better?” He turned back to Edmund, the candlelight falling upon his face.
Edmund could not answer, shocked by what he saw.
&nbs
p; Why, it was a man. Just a man.
Where was the terrifying demon that had saturated the room with its foul countenance? He could have passed him on the street and never guessed the evil that lay beneath the all-too-human-looking face with its finely sculpted features and beautiful green eyes. His fingers flexed at his sides as his gaze strayed to the ominous black bag. Within it lay the hawthorn stake that would accomplish what the fire had failed to do and put an end to the creature once and for all.
“How did you gain entry to my room?” Edmund asked, stalling for time. “I always latch the door.”
A lazy smile spread across the lips of that impossibly handsome face. “Through the window. But you already know that.”
“There are no stairs outside leading to my window.”
“I am as nimble as a spider.”
Edmund inched closer to the bag. “Can you fly?”
“Do you see wings?”
“Can you control the elements?”
“You give me too much credit if you think so.”
“Do you have the strength of ten men?”
“More like a hundred.”
“Can you transform into vapor?”
“Now, that is true, and particularly useful when there are no windows.”
The bag was so close to Edmund’s foot now he could almost touch it with the toe of his boot. “Before you kill me, I would like to know your name.”
“Ambrus Nicolae Tedescu, at your service.” He bowed from the waist in a gesture that was both grand and mocking at the same time. “Is there anything else you would like to know about me?”
Edmund licked his lips. “Yes. Out of curiosity, would you mind telling me if any of the Sanctum’s methods of destroying your kind are accurate?”
“Such as?”
“The use of Sabbaratarians.”
“Only if they wear their clothing in a particular fashion, and therefore hardly worth the effort.”
“Stealing a left sock.”
“Oh, come now. I would expect something like that from a child, not from a seasoned vampire slayer.”