Blood Memories vm-1

by Barb Hendee

  John roared and lunged for him again, but he was off and running for the nearest tree. These were good times. It seemed strange that both his brothers and his master tended to change once they were alone with him, dropping all that intellectual nonsense and living like real hunters, wild and strong. John most of all… Julian least of all.

  "Climb up and get me!" Philip called from a low branch, knowing John was no climber.

  "You can't stay up there forever. Might as well come down now and let me break that foot."

  "I think not." Philip's mind switched focus so quickly he often frustrated people. "Let's go into town. I'm hungry."

  "How could you possibly be hungry? You fed last night."

  Philip dropped to the ground. "I'll race you."

  "No, if you really want to go that far, we should saddle the horses."

  "All right, but my horse is faster than yours."

  Wrestling match forgotten, they were soon flying through the icy air down the road toward Harfleur proper. Angelo's winter home stood four miles away from the city, giving him easy access without being too close. The muscles of Philip's horse felt solid yet fluid beneath his knees. He liked his bay mare, Kayli. The trip from Gascony would have been lonely without her. He didn't function well without company.

  "Slow down," John called.

  Reining Kayli down to a walk, Philip swiveled his head back. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing, it's still early and a crisp night. I thought we might talk awhile."

  "Talk?"

  Their horses fell into step along the snow-packed road. "I was just watching you ride," John said. "Strange how you remember things like riding and where to grow the best grapes, how to speak both French and English, yet you don't recall anything of your mortal life."

  Philip shifted in his saddle, bored already. "That's old hat."

  "You couldn't even speak at first, not at all. Frightened Angelo pale. You were like a newborn babe. Did you know I met you once, before he turned you?"

  "You did?" Philip was suddenly interested. "What was I like?"

  "Different than you are now. Almost timid. The idea of filling your father's shoes as marquis seemed a death sentence. When Angelo offered you a way out, you jumped on it."

  "Angelo asked me?"

  "Of course he did. It was Julian's idea. Angelo wanted three sons, you know."

  Philip did know. In fact, he knew more than his brothers suspected. Not that they would have minded; they simply viewed him as mentally deficient. John had been turned in 1801, Julian in 1818, both emerging into the undead world exactly as Angelo wanted them.

  But Philip woke up in darkness, unable to communicate, yet terrified to be alone for fear that without someone else in the room to prove his existence, he might disappear. Then Angelo showed him how to hunt, and he found purpose. Language came back to him slowly, and the memory of a face, ivory with brown eyes and chocolate hair.

  "Why did you turn Edward?" Philip asked suddenly.

  "To see if I could," John answered. "And because he's the right type."

  "Did Angelo mind?"

  "No."

  "Then why was he so angry when I turned Maggie?"

  "Because you were too young and incapable of teaching her. And you might have damaged yourself. You aren't like the rest of us, you know." John's broad face clouded slightly. "Promise not to laugh if I tell you something?"

  "I'd never laugh, just kick you in the face."

  "No… listen. I've been having dreams lately."

  "Dreams? Have you told Angelo?"

  "No, but they might not be dreams, more like premonitions. Something dark hides on the edge of my vision. I can almost see it, but not quite."

  The switch in topics disturbed Philip. John shouldn't be discussing this with him. He knew nothing of dreams or visions. And anyway, this psychic nonsense bored him beyond words. They ought to race again.

  "Something is coming," John said with his eyes fixed on empty space. "I don't know what, and I can't stop it. But it is coming."

  Too much. Philip kneed Kayli into motion. She leapt forward, kicking up small clods of loose snow. A second later, he heard John coming up behind, and he smiled into the wind.

  At the Wayside Inn, Philip reveled in the scent of pipe smoke along with the pleasant aroma of warmth and life. A human smorgasbord to choose from. After they had stabled their horses, John's dark mood passed away, leaving his usual good-natured self in its wake.

  Indoor hunting was best for winter nights. Inns like the Wayside teemed with customers who sought out company, wine, and hot food. Round barmaids with reddened cheeks maneuvered trays of cups and tin plates among sweat-scented bodies and laughing faces.

  "This is a fine tavern," John commented. "See the woodwork on that door?" He leaned back in contentment. "I like the scents and the wine and the way everyone tolerates each other because there's nowhere else to go in this weather."

  Philip nodded. "Good hunting."

  "Oh, will you look around?" John said. "Listen with your mind. Most of these people haven't two francs to their name, and everyone's still excited about Christmas."

  "What is that?"

  "You don't remember?"

  "No."

  "It's a celebration, a religious holiday. Perhaps your family didn't practice such things. I wouldn't be surprised. Your father is the coldest man I've ever met."

  "My father?"

  "He's a bastard. I saw your shoulder once. Those burns. You panicked a few nights after being turned. I tried to hold you down and your shirt ripped. Angelo thinks you're such a mystery, but I told him to use his mind. You don't remember anything because it's too black."

  "Do you think I care? None of that matters. Let us hunt now. We have forever to talk."

  "Can you feel anything? Anything at all?"

  The din around them grew louder. Philip leaned forward. "I feel like hunting."

  A bit of light left John's eyes. He nodded with a sad smile. "Of course. Who have you picked out this time?"

  "Those two whores by the bar. See them? I want the one in the green dress. She's been staring at me."

  "How strange," John whispered in a cynical tone, "that she should be staring at you. I've often wondered how someone with your face can think only of blood."

  "What would you do if you had my face?"

  "Do you really want to know?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, for one, I wouldn't have joined with Angelo. I'd have lived on as a mortal searching the world for that one perfect love, who adored me for myself, yet thought herself lucky that my soul and mind were housed in such a form."

  "Sickening. You would not."

  "Oh, yes, I would."

  "I'm sorry I asked you."

  Philip used his beauty at every opportunity, and then despised those who succumbed to it. Fools. If women were taken in by long, red-brown hair, a tall form, and ivory skin, that was their weakness-part of the game.

  "Here they come," he said.

  The woman in green looked about twenty-four, with dull brown hair and too much rouge. Her companion was a dark blonde in cheap blue velvet. Philip knew a lot about prostitutes. Many of them were alcoholics. Most of them had several children they couldn't afford to feed, and nearly all of them hated men no matter how much they smiled. He liked them because they were easy to draw off alone.

  "Buy us a drink?" the blonde asked.

  "Depends," John answered. "How much will it cost me?"

  "No need to worry about that yet." She flashed him an almost genuine smile and sat down. John wasn't handsome, but Philip always marveled at the number of women who fell into comfortable conversation with the oversized Scotsman. This was John's gift. In his presence, all worries faded and vanished. He put everyone's mind at ease.

  Philip, on the other hand, was no master with words, and used his foot to push a chair out for the woman in green.

  "You asking me to sit down?" she said.

  "If you like."

  S
he had eyes like glass and a false laugh, but not many wrinkles from wear and no visible scars. "What's a fine gentleman like you doing here?"

  "Getting out of the cold. Our horses were tired, so we decided to stop."

  "Travelers?"

  "Yes, on our way to Nantes."

  "Staying the night?"

  "Looks like we'll have to."

  This was an old game, one she'd played a thousand times. "I have a warm place where you can sleep. Won't cost you much."

  "Will you wait outside for a moment?" He pushed a small pouch into her hand. "I need to speak with my friend."

  Surprised at her own good fortune, landing a generous young man so easily, she nodded and stepped out the door. Philip waited a bit, then went out after her. Being seen leaving with her might cause him problems later. Her companion wasn't a concern since she'd be dead within the hour as well. He had been ordered to play by Angelo's rules when it came to hunting.

  "My name is Camille," the woman said when he came out.

  "Where do you live?"

  She led him down ice-covered streets, past dingy buildings to the oldest part of Harfleur. "I have only one room," she said. "But there's a stove and coal."

  Her home was small, on the ground floor, but Philip cared nothing for aesthetics. She lit a candle and the dark room came alive with flickering shadows across dirty walls. "Do you want a drink, sir?"

  "No."

  "What's in Nantes?"

  "Business."

  He didn't want to talk. Words were pointless. She took off her cloak and dropped it on a chair. Walking past the candle, he grasped her neck with one hand and jerked open the front of her dress with the other.

  "Careful," she whispered, not startled by his actions. "Don't rip it."

  Her mouth moved up to his, and he kissed her. Although never admitting the fact to John or Julian, he liked affection from some of his victims. It felt good to put his lips against warm flesh and let the hunger build, feel the blood with his tongue just below their skin's surface, knowing he had only to take it.

  Her hands pulled off his cloak and tugged at his clothes, while she made small, gasping sounds. Candlelight danced across his cheek. He stopped long enough to take his shirt off and pin her down onto the bed, pushing the dress below her shoulders to expose large, white breasts that tasted good in his mouth.

  Sometimes he took them quickly, killing swiftly before they even knew death had arrived. Sometimes he took longer, letting them flail and beg in a useless attempt to invoke his pity. How they died changed the pictures that flowed into him along with their blood. It all depended on his mood.

  Events from tonight had driven his mind into forced motion. Julian's growing dissatisfaction and John's visions filled his thoughts with unease. He wanted to forget.

  Camille writhed beneath him, trying to raise her heavy skirts. He moved up, crushing her breasts with his chest, to kiss her mouth again. Slowly, inch by inch, his lips brushed down her cheek with feather breaths to her jawline, to her throat. He bit down gently on the top layers, not puncturing deeply, just enough to taste. She stiffened slightly.

  "Sir, don't do that. I know you paid me well, but-"

  He struck hard, like lightning, not for the jugular, but slashing a wound big enough to drink through. She screamed, pushing at his chest. Oblivious, he ignored her voice. Women screamed in the night all the time. Nobody cared.

  Images of lying beneath many men entered his head.

  "Don't." She was sobbing now. "Please."

  He felt nothing beyond the need to forget, and so he bit deep enough to absorb her life force completely. Pictures of inns and wine and flushed faces passed by him. A kind man named Pierre who was already married. A pale girl named Katrina who came from the east, but who shared clothes and food and remembered how to laugh. The birth of a child who died. Being beaten with a riding crop. Smothering an old man who slept and taking his purse.

  Camille's arms ceased flailing. Her heart stopped beating. Philip raised his head to look at her, flesh torn and shredded, black-red liquid seeping down her collarbone, eyes locked on the filthy ceiling. She had helped him to forget, at least for a little while.

  Getting up, he used her chipped washbasin to rinse himself clean, and then put his shirt back on. Would John be finished by now? Perhaps not. He always spent more time wining and dining his victims than Philip could even comprehend. Whatever did they talk about?

  Leaving Camille's body on the bed where it lay, he picked up his cloak and stepped outside into the sharp air. The temperature had dropped, but Philip knew it would keep going down until dawn, part of their inverted world. Mortals felt the temperature rise all day. Undeads felt it drop all night. Master Angelo taught him that as a defense mechanism. "Never forget the passing time, my son. Watch your sky and feel your air." Good advice. Angelo knew many things.

  Philip quickly moved down the empty streets, back to the Wayside Inn. Although the hour neared two o'clock, a mass of people still milled around inside, eating, drinking, talking-a few playing at cards. No sign of John. Philip moved around the back of the building, looking for too-large footprints in the snow. Then he changed his mind abruptly. No sense disturbing his brother's kill. He was just about to turn and go back inside the inn to wait when a slight shuffling sound caught his attention. A small, faded toolshed sat directly behind the Wayside's back door. Someone was in there.

  Boredom and mild curiosity rather than any real interest drove him to walk over and peer inside. What he saw caught him by surprise.

  Heat from the inn leaked inside, keeping the temperature above freezing. John's enormous hands were gently resting the dark-blond prostitute on a tattered blanket. In a deep sleep, her chest rose and fell lightly. Her neck was undamaged, but two small red punctures glowed out against her white shoulder. John drew a dagger and connected the punctures, making the wound appear as a jagged cut. Then he covered her with the wool cloak she'd been wearing earlier.

  "What are you doing?" Philip asked.

  John's head whipped up, all traces of joviality or good nature absent. "Get out."

  "But she's still-"

  "Get out!"

  Philip stumbled back out in the snow, bewildered. This didn't make sense. Why was John shouting at him? He stood in the snow for ten minutes, until the shed door opened and his brother ducked beneath the arch to step through.

  "Is she dead?"

  "Yes." The anger had left John's voice. "Let's get the horses."

  "Can I see her?"

  "No, it's growing late. We have to get back."

  For an answer, Philip moved quickly around him and made a grab for the latch. His feet left the ground as John picked him up and threw him backward.

  "Philip, I'm not playing with you! You get up and get your horse, now."

  "We can't leave her alive. She saw both of us. We'll never be able to come to this part of the city again."

  "Trust me now," John said in what looked like despair. "Let us go home."

  Neither one spoke for the first half of their ride back through the trees. Doubts swirled in Philip's mind. He hated them. What could he call these unwanted thoughts? Concern. Yes, that's it. He was concerned.

  "Why did you leave that woman alive?" he asked finally, breaking the tense silence. "She will remember us."

  "No, she won't."

  "Of course she will."

  "Angelo warned me about hunting with you," John said quietly. "Try to remember that you aren't like me. Master wants you to grow and develop at your own pace with no preconceptions of what you should be. Do you understand?"

  "No."

  "I can do things you can't. Believe me, that woman won't know us if we go back to town. She won't remember anything."

  Philip pulled up his horse. "Oh, it's a trick? One of your little psychic tricks? You made her forget?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, why didn't you tell me?" Relief and annoyance replaced concern. "You've ruined the whole ride home for nothing. We c
ould have raced or chased down some peasants."

  John laughed and kicked his horse into motion. "Still plenty of room for that," he called. "I let you win last time."

  Unpleasant thoughts forgotten, Philip urged Kayli to bolt, leaping forward across the snow.

  "Julian?"

  A few nights later, Philip searched the upper west tower for companionship. Master Angelo had gone out on business, and John was cloistered with a book again. This tower hadn't been cleaned in years, and he felt uncomfortable here in this dead, cheerless place filled with ancient ghosts. Not that ghosts bothered him, but the outdoors beckoned, fresh air and wind rushing through the trees.

  Dust flew up into his mouth as he called out. Julian's company didn't appeal to him any more than this tower did, but talking to someone else, anyone else, was preferable to being alone. Loneliness hurt more than hunger, and he was no good at entertaining himself. Angelo tried to teach him a game of solitary cards once, but he couldn't sit still or focus long enough to learn.

  "Julian?"

  "Who's there?" a dull voice called from somewhere ahead.

  "It's me. Where are you?"

  "Philip?"

  "Yes, of course. Which room are you in?"

  A tall form dressed in black stepped into view down the hallway. "Down here. Are you alone?"

  "Quite alone. I'm so bored even you sound like good company right now."

  "Come ahead then."

  He followed Julian into a small, alcove-styled room with an open window that faced Harfleur. Lights and smoke from city fires glowed in the distance. Julian looked terrible-and he smelled stale. His skin was sallow with dark circles under his eyes. His hair was lank and uncombed, and he was wearing a cloak that had not been brushed out for weeks.

  "Shouldn't we light a candle?" Philip asked.

  "No," Julian said. "You're a vampire. You can see in the dark."

  "I suppose."

  "Why did you come here?"

  "Looking for you. Come out hunting?"

  "Not tonight."

  Philip rolled his eyes and dropped into a dusty wooden chair.

  "What's a bastard?" he asked after a few moments.

  "Someone without a legitimate father." Julian was looking out the window, but his profile was clear, and his expression lost its melancholy cast. He sounded mildly interested. "Why would you ask me that?"