Old Sins, Long Shadow

by PG Forte

  Conrad stalked, ghost-like, through the castle’s deserted upstairs hallway, while the laughter of imbeciles rang in his ears and a fire raged in his heart. Nearly six hundred years he had roamed the earth, visiting destruction wherever he wished, withholding it at his pleasure, and they dared make mock? They dared make him the butt of their jokes? His fangs throbbed. The beast within him demanded he seek retribution.

  By now, he should be beyond caring what mere men thought of him. They and their lies and their petty, insubstantial little lives should be beneath his notice. But this, he supposed, was what came of his futile attempts to live, once again, among them. He’d tried to turn his back on his own kind; tried to forget what he’d become, all that he’d lost. He should have known better.

  A peasant am I? At one time that may have been true, but that was at least several lifetimes ago. In the centuries since he’d been turned to the dark, he’d fought and murdered his way up through the ranks of the undead. He was now accounted practically a prince among his own kind, the undisputed lord and master of his own unruly nation. Just because he had never felt the slightest inclination to actually rule over his people, that did not mean they were not still his to command should he ever wish to do so.

  Perhaps, after tonight, he would. Perhaps he would take up the reins of power and transform his clan into a fierce and fearsome tribe such as the world had never before seen. Then his name would be one to cause even the wisest and most powerful of men to tremble—and not just those who were simpering, witless fools!

  Such glory would have to wait for another time, however, because tonight, he had a small score to settle with two of the fools.

  Arriving at his destination—the suite of rooms reserved for the baron with whom he was traveling—Conrad let himself into the baron’s bedchamber. It did not take long to find what he sought. The baron was in the habit of taking a mild soporific to help him sleep. A few grains of the substance would also suffice to put el Duque into a long and heavy slumber, granting Conrad the space and time he needed to exact his revenge.

  After pocketing the potion, Conrad left the baron’s chambers and retraced his steps down the hallway. He smiled grimly as he considered what lay ahead. There were many other punishments he could have contrived for the duke. Few would have been as entertaining. None would have provided him the same level of enjoyment.

  How better to humble the pompous, arrogant duke than by seducing away his favorite plaything? And, if it so happened that the plaything in question must also suffer—from the ruining of all his prospects and the blighting of his future—well, what of it? It was surely no more than the young man deserved.

  Ever since his arrival in Sevilla, Conrad had been almost painfully aware of the oh-so-charming Viscount Montoya. As was clear to him now, the admiring glances and shy-seeming smiles Damian had been wont to cast in his direction had unbalanced Conrad’s mind and seriously clouded his judgment. It was one thing, after all, to appreciate a young man’s good looks, anyone might be excused for doing so, but he had allowed himself to fall victim to the ridiculous fiction that the spoiled, pampered object of his infatuation actually returned his feelings. It was a fantasy. A dream. One he could neither excuse nor forgive.

  I should have made a quick meal of him the very first night and put an end to the craving. He was still not sure why he had not done so. It had not been from fear of discovery. Over the years, he had become so adept at his feeding, so subtle in his technique, that his prey rarely even realized they’d been caught, unless he wished them to. Damian wouldn’t have even known what had happened to him. He could have gone his own way afterwards, just as Conrad—his hunger pleasantly sated—would have gone his, and no one need ever be the wiser.

  But, it had been such a very long time since anyone had gazed at Conrad in so adoring a fashion, if, in fact, anyone ever had. His wife may have done so once, he supposed, but that good woman had been dust for so very long now Conrad could no longer recall her features. He still retained a vague impression of dark eyes and dark hair, but it was possible he was wrong even about that, and it certainly didn’t help his recollections any that when he closed his own eyes now and tried to think back and remember the only face that came to mind was Damian’s!

  It had felt good to bask in the young man’s apparent regard. It had felt too good—like warm, spring sunshine after a too-long, too-bitter winter. Conrad should have realized that anything that reminded him of sunshine could never be a good thing. Not for him. Not anymore. Not for a very long time.

  With the sins of six centuries weighing heavy on his soul, he had supposed himself immune to all the more tender emotions. Love, devotion, compassion, remorse—he had assumed his ability to feel such things had been lost along with the rest of his humanity. Yet, Damian, clever fool that he was, had found a way to slip his blade past Conrad’s defenses, to pierce the heart he hadn’t even known he still possessed.

  Perhaps the boy had not even meant to do so. Perhaps the touch had been completely unintentional. Intentional or not, Conrad could not allow such an attack to go uncountered.

  He looks to be extremely dangerous…

  Out of all the nonsense Damian had spouted this evening that was the one bit of sense. Tonight, he would find that out. Tonight, he would learn, to his sorrow, just how dangerous Conrad really was.

  Chapter Five

  San Francisco

  Present Day

  As Armand worked out at the barre, he kept one eye trained on Julie, watching in the mirror as she drifted about the room, moving from one machine to the next, seemingly without any kind of a plan. No surprise there. When had she ever done otherwise?

  In contrast, his own routine was unvarying. He’d been doing the same set of stretches, in the exact same order for so long, he was sure, by now, he could run through the entire routine in his sleep.

  Some people might consider such repetition tedious and lacking in imagination. Armand found it comforting. He had always been a creature of habit, a lover of order. The change to Immortal Being had made that tendency infinitely less practical. The gym was one of the very few areas in his life where he could still indulge his need for stability.

  The most successful vampires are those who have learned to eschew the comfort of the familiar, or so Conrad had always insisted, to let go the habits of the past and eagerly embrace the unknown in all its glorious uncertainty.

  Armand was certain Conrad was right about that. With twelve hundred years of experience, he was sure Conrad was right about most things. But, all the same, Armand found the idea particularly difficult to put into practice. The “unknown” held very little appeal for him. Habits, memories, routines, souvenirs, they were so very dear, and entirely too painful to part with.

  For years, he’d considered himself the nest’s sole misfit in this regard; the only one of Conrad’s spawn who still occasionally felt the need to cling to that which was no more—to all the little quirks that had defined them as humans. When he met Julie it was like discovering a kindred spirit. Though she never talked about her past, Armand had caught glimpses of something in her eyes, a yearning she refused to acknowledge, a sorrow too deep for words. Or maybe it was nothing of the sort and he was only seeing what he wished to see.

  Perhaps, what they were both suffering from was nothing more than vampiric adolescence; a phase they’d yet to outgrow. Maybe, with the passage of a few centuries, they, too, would learn to break free of the chains that bound them to the past.

  Julie abruptly left the weight area and went to the mats. Armand grew restive. Did this switch to floor exercises signal that the end of her workout was near? If he wished to talk to her, now was the time to do so. But, what approach should he take this time? Most of what he’d tried up until now, rather than drawing her out, had sent her scurrying back into the arms of her human pet.

  “So what’s the trouble with Brennan tonight?” he asked, grasping at the first topic that came to mind and giving up on his hopes for a m
ore subtle approach.

  Julie glanced up from her stretch, her expression typically wary. “What makes you think there’s trouble?”

  Armand nodded toward the door. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Damian. It sounded as though you hadn’t eaten. I thought, perhaps, Brennan wasn’t feeling well.”

  She looked away, not meeting his eyes. “No, he’s fine. We’re just taking a bit of a break. That’s all.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Armand lied, trying hard not to show how pleased he actually was. It was about time she overcame her dependence on the human. “It must be hard on you. If you’d like some help finding something to eat, I’d be happy to be of assistance.”

  Julie shook her head. “I’ll get by. There’s the party tomorrow night, right? I’m sure there’ll be plenty to eat there.”

  “That goes without saying.” For a moment, Armand couldn’t help picturing it. He imagined watching her feed, scenting the blood and heat and venom as they mingled on the evening air. He thought of the sounds she might make, the quiet suction of lips against flesh. It was enough to make his mouth water. Suppressing a shudder of desire, he turned away from the bar to face her. “But twenty-four hours can be a long time to go without. I had assumed Brennan would be accompanying you to the party—is that no longer the case?”

  “It never was the case.” Julie drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “He doesn’t like the parties here. He says he’s been and they make him nervous. He says he doesn’t like the way everybody looks at him, like he’s nothing more than a dessert cart on legs, or a…or a lobster in a tank.”

  “A lobster?” Armand thought about that. It seemed an accurate enough assessment, even though, personally, he would have picked something other than a shellfish for the metaphor—something softer, sweeter, less crunchy. “Ah, well, I suspect he’s correct.”

  Julie bristled protectively. “And why exactly is that? Why can’t we all treat people like people? Why can’t everyone just leave him alone?”

  Like you’ve been doing? Armand bit back the retort. She’d been quick enough to stake out her territory there, hadn’t she? Much to the chagrin of at least several of the others who’d been quite fond of Brennan as well. “It’s the way of the world, chérie. It’s the way we are. You can’t fight it.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not the way I am, okay? Just because he isn’t vampire, doesn’t mean he’s less than we are. He’s not just a piece of meat, you know. He’s—”

  “He’s human,” Armand said gently. “As were we all once, n’est-ce pas? But for some of us that wasn’t enough. We made the choice to become something different, something greater than what we were born to. How can you fault us for feeling superior about it at times?”

  Julie’s eyes darted away from his face again. She hung her head. “I’m not. It just seems wrong, that’s all.”

  “So, what are your plans for the night?” he asked in an effort to change the subject. “Why don’t you let me take you out? You don’t really want to wait until tomorrow to eat, do you?”

  Julie shrugged—and neatly sidestepped the question. “What I really need is to do a little shopping, maybe hit a few vintage clothing stores. I still need to come up with a costume for the party tomorrow.”

  “Why bother with stores?” Armand asked. “We have over a hundred years’ worth of vintage clothing right upstairs in the attic.”

  “Really?” Julie’s eyes lit up at the thought. “But doesn’t it belong to someone? I mean, won’t anyone mind if I borrow their clothes?”

  “I seriously doubt anyone will care. If it’s up there at all it’s probably unwanted. Even if someone were to recognize your outfit as something they’d once owned, it’s unlikely they’d mention it and risk dating themselves. As Conrad is fond of saying, ‘It’s one thing to be able to recognize a carefully preserved antique when you see one, it’s another thing entirely to dress in such a fashion that you advertise the fact you are one’.”

  Armand knew the twins, generally acknowledged as being Conrad’s current favorites, could get away with almost anything right now. No one would dare complain no matter what they did.

  “That’s so cool,” Julie said, flashing a wide smile. “I’ll have to check it out. Thanks, Armand.”

  Armand nodded faintly. Her smile had a funny way of confusing him, of making him forget too many things, like where he was or who he was with. The year. The date. His name.

  “You should think about eating first,” he insisted, scarcely aware of what he was saying. “The clothes aren’t going anywhere. Why not come out with me tonight? We’ll find you something to eat and then…perhaps you’d like to go dancing?”

  Julie hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve been to the clubs with Marc a time or two but I don’t really like feeding there.”

  Armand could easily believe that. “I don’t find the atmosphere especially appetizing either. The crowds there have been picked over too often for my tastes. Personally, I prefer to frequent the strictly human clubs when I’m in the mood for dancing and to do my hunting out on the street.”

  “But, don’t you mostly eat here?” Julie asked.

  Armand smiled. “When I want something convenient, yes, of course. But we were talking about you. You’ve made your preference for Brennan abundantly clear—everyone knows of it. If that is no longer an option for you, I thought you might find it more discreet to dine elsewhere. Perhaps in a more secluded venue?”

  A blush colored Julie’s cheeks. “Yes. I-I would like that, actually. Thank you.”

  “Besides, you did promise, when you first arrived, that you’d let me show you around town,” Armand said, pressing his advantage. “So, why not make a night of it?”

  For a moment longer, Julie vacillated. Armand held his breath, watching her, awaiting her decision. Say yes, he silently urged her. Give me a night with you, just one night.

  At last, after a seemingly endless wait, she nodded. “Okay,” she said and, taking a deep breath, she met his gaze head-on, sending a surge of triumph racing through Armand’s veins. “Okay, sure. Why not? You’re on.”

  Still licking the last traces of blood from the corners of his mouth, Marc skirted the dance floor on his way to the bar. For just a moment, as one song shifted into the next, the amplified patter of human hearts snagged his attention, but he quickly tuned it out again. He’d been coming here long enough that, by now, he’d learned how to ignore all the sensory embellishments that contributed to Akeldama’s atmosphere—the sounds, the suggestive pulsing of the lights, the enticing fragrances circulating in the air. And although he was well aware of the various eager glances cast his way by many of the club’s patrons, he found it easy to ignore those too.

  Most of the attention came from people upon whom he’d fed at one time or another, some came from strangers, all telegraphed the same clear invitation to dine, but he wasn’t biting—not now, anyway, not in either the literal or the figurative sense.

  He’d just come from feeding, as any one of them might have noticed if they were actually interested in what he was up to. They weren’t and he knew it, just like they probably knew he wasn’t all that interested in them. He still found it annoying.

  Though he was far from being sated yet tonight, he did like to pace himself—something he thought he’d made pretty damn clear in the weeks he’d been coming here! Where was the sense in frequenting clubs such as this if you didn’t take the opportunity to sample from as many necks as possible? Why would he wish to glut himself so early in the evening and likely spoil his appetite for later? What else did he have to do with his nights anyhow?

  The bartender had obviously seen him coming. He slid a tall glass of water, no ice, onto the bar just as Marc reached it. “Thanks, Danny.” Marc acknowledged the bartender with a nod as he lifted the glass to his lips.

  Danny nodded in response and flashed him a small, rather hopeful smile. “Sure thing, Marc. Any time.”

  Ma
rc didn’t miss the unspoken question in Danny’s smile, but this time he didn’t take offense. For one thing, he liked Danny. While Marc definitely preferred his sexual partners to be female, he didn’t discriminate by gender when it came to his meals. Danny had a satisfying flavor, a nice texture to his neck and shoulder muscles. In short, he felt good in the mouth. For another thing, Marc had no problem with a little quid pro quo. Superlative service inside the club set against a few hits of venom out in the alley made for a good trade, in his opinion.

  Most importantly, however, since one of the club’s strictest policies was that employees were not to be fed upon during working hours, Marc knew Danny wasn’t asking or expecting anything from him right now. He was strictly an after-hours snack and that was doubly fine by Marc who could think of only a very few ways he’d rather end an evening.

  “You got anything going on after work tonight?” Marc asked, earning himself another smile.

  “Nope. Not so far.”

  “Hit you up before I leave?”

  Danny’s smile blossomed wider. “Sounds good to me, boss.”

  Yeah, I’ll bet. Marc hid his own smile behind his water glass. He had been more than a little shocked when he first arrived in the city, to learn that not all vampires were created equal. Biting styles and venom strength not only differed wildly, but were widely commented on and catalogued by the humans who considered themselves aficionados.

  As luck would have it, Marc had apparently been blessed with a gentle bite and stronger than average venom, a winning combination. Word spread, and Marc quickly found himself very popular, and very much in demand with the club’s regular clientele. Soon, Akeldama had become his own private version of Cheers: a place where everyone knew his name and was always glad he came.