Too moody to think about eating, he resumed wandering the streets. The night was raw and wet, and people scurried from cabs and buses to doors as quickly as they could, struggling to keep umbrellas and spirits intact. Two men were having a heated debate over who had gotten to a cab first, and the disgruntled driver was just waiting for the way to be clear so he could speed off and leave them to their argument.
Eamon watched the men for a moment, then couldn’t resist interfering.
“Why don’t you see if you’re going the same route? You could share the cab.”
The driver, interested, turned to gauge the men’s reaction.
“Fair enough, just to save trouble. Are you heading Chelsea way?” The more polite of the two waited for a response from his adversary.
The man studied Eamon with a distinctly nasty smile. Eamon realized he’d had a little too much to drink after work, and needed more outlets for his contentiousness.
“Which are you, a Jew or a queer?” asked the man. “You must be one of them, they’re the only ones who suggest strange men getting together and saving money.”
Both the driver and the Chelsea-bound man were disgusted and took advantage of the other’s new showdown to shut the door and drive off. Before there could be any shout of protest, Eamon was in front of him, his gentle smile intimidating. The man hadn’t realized how tall Eamon was, how much power was in his shoulders and arms. He wanted to step back, or yell for help, but was frozen to the spot. No one noticed them.
“As it happens, you can’t really call me either,” Eamon informed him helpfully, His voice singsonged in a cadence that sent a sudden warmth and buzz through the bustling passersby, but left the man feeling as though he’d been clouted round the skull.
“But you shouldn’t insult anyone in such a way. You know that, don’t you? It’s just not polite.”
And he pressed his hand on the man’s shoulder, nodded, and strolled away through the gathering fog.
Later, though, in the hospital, when the doctors were struggling to repair the man’s shattered clavicle, he couldn’t remember how he had been injured.
Waste, waste, waste. Eamon clutched the back of his head and swayed precipitously in the winding stairwell leading to the library storage room.
I should not have done that. I should not. He’s young enough still, and able-bodied. I’m too upset, it’s clouding my judgment. I’m lonely. I’m not good when I’m alone.
Anyone would comfort him, if he asked, would remind him that they were only creatures, that no matter how old and circumspect they grew, this was still the sort of behavior to which they were prone, and besides, it wasn’t too terrible an injury and the fool deserved it. Perhaps. But it really wasn’t for them to police the human world, to overly interact—it upset the balance.
Except where we have to, of course. That’s different.
He hoped.
His insides were roiling. He thought he was going to be sick and pressed his cheek against the cool stone, closing his eyes. A peculiar sort of guilt was coursing through him and he couldn’t stop it. It wasn’t about the man he’d injured, or his inability to assist on the mission, or the familiar ancient ache, the one that had plagued him with varying degrees of intensity for centuries. It was something new and disgusting to him. Outwardly, everyone knew he was frightened of that strange fire inside Brigit, the one only he seemed to know how to control. But there was another fear inside him. She might change. She might come back and not be his same darling beloved. He was being unfair, he knew it, hence the guilt. But how long, how long could they all eat people so full of hate and fear and anger? With no other variance to the diet, or to the air surrounding them, even if they didn’t have to breathe, what might happen? The refugees might never be the same again. Could his Brigit be marked in the same way?
Please, Brigit. We are so right together. We’ve worked so hard to get to this place. Don’t be different. Don’t grow from me.
The age difference between them rarely touched him. What was 274 years when they had lived nearly three times that together? It only mattered now, because age gave her a strength he didn’t yet have. But he knew where she was weak, too, weaker than he, and who else could protect that?
Then again, what if she doesn’t really need me?
Hating himself for that thought, he reached down his shirt and pulled out the ancient locket he always wore. A lock of her hair lay coiled inside.
I know you. I know you so well. Your hair was long and anarchic then and your eyes were wild and you were a lonely, hungry thing. You were buried in darkness and lost in air, as though you were Caliban and Ariel together. You were Brigantia and before that, you were human, and all those years you were searching, searching, and your search ended at my eyes.
He knew. He knew it all. She had opened up her history to him as if from a treasure chest, and he’d absorbed it as readily as though it had been his own. And the parts she couldn’t see, he knew through his own powerful inner eye. To replay her from the beginning, to feel the whole of the story, to remember yet again what he knew so intimately, to keep her present, even when far away …
He pressed the locket to his lips, and concentrated.
One thousand and twenty-three years before, a tiny Brigante community continued to live in the manner of the ancient Britons, curiously untouched by either Roman or Viking, though the latter was now thriving in the city they called Jorvik, only a half-day’s walk away. Whether because their hillside welter of shallow caves and farmlets was too unworthy to settle and tame, or because they were wholly unnoticed, no one knew or cared or discussed. Only some of the names that had blown through with the various invaders stuck in the minds of these people, which is how the prettiest of the younger maidens among them had come to be called Hilda.
No one could have known when she was born how apt the name might be, for there was a hot, warring spirit inside her. Her temper was frightening, particularly because it was so unpredictable. Some wondered if it might be an ill omen, and there had been a few attempts to sacrifice her, if that was perhaps what the gods wanted, but she had outwitted every endeavor. Or, as the elders put it, the gods had intervened. They couldn’t understand where such anger had come from, and concluded that her mother must have been too near a fire when Hilda was conceived. The women took care ever since to keep their distance from the flames during such delicate moments.
Adulthood had not improved her temper, although it was noticed that she was as quick with a sharp laugh as a nasty word. At seventeen, her parents were several years’ dead and there had been no siblings. People were less afraid of her than they had been—she was just part of the scenery, the prettiest and most interesting part. No man was intrepid enough to disrupt her solitude. Even if she could be chased, she was not one to be caught—she could run faster than even the strongest youth. They admired her, though. She liked to climb trees and stare out over the land. The sun glinted in her golden hair and her eyes were the color of the sky she studied so much. She sometimes seemed not entirely real.
Only the healing woman, Ceana, who had taken some care of her, knew of Hilda’s passion for herbs, and especially the things that could grow in the night. Had anyone else known of her creeping about in all that fearsome dark, she would have been banished for sure. But Hilda saw nothing to be afraid of in the dark. Things happened then. There were creatures, some that could never be seen but were wonderful to hear. During storms, there was lightning, which thrilled her to the core. And there were things that grew. Herbs had power. They could chase sickness out of you. Some could even blow away despair with their scent. There was no anger in her when she was among the herbs, coaxing them gently out of the earth.
On hot summer days, she liked to walk to the mouth of the spring that fed their river. She filled a flask with water, to which she then added some sprinklings of rosemary, having discovered it made for a pleasant drink. Then she climbed a tree and looked out at the faint rising smoke that indicated Jorvik. Hi
lda had little patience for Vikings or, anyway, the stories thereof. For all her temper, she saw no reason for violence until provoked, so men who used violence to plow through the world were automatically distasteful. Still, the idea of the Vikings intrigued her. They had come from somewhere else. They could make things happen. They thrived in a place that the smoke suggested was active, and perhaps even interesting. No, it must be interesting. Lively. To step into the city would be to step into a world where perhaps the days were not guided by invariable sameness. If she did not suspect that a lone girl wandering into a city would be instant prey for men of action, she would go directly, without a single regret.
She also wondered what lay beyond the world of the Vikings. There was that other thing she yearned for, that which seemed wholly unattainable. She didn’t know the word for love, but knew there was something she needed that was bigger than the city, the river, or the forest. She might have been comforted knowing that poets had written about such desires, even if she was certain she couldn’t achieve them. As it was, she only knew that there were moments of joy and longing that she wanted to share with someone who could understand, who could speak a language that went beyond words, and knowing such a person would never be there for her sometimes constricted her heart so much she thought it would burst, and she had to bury herself in foliage, lest her sobs be heard.
This day, however, she only sighed. Tears and wishes made no difference. She walked home slowly, by the river, enjoying the squish of the mud between her toes and the play of sunlight on the water’s surface. There were pleasures in her world, and she was not the sort of girl to discount them.
Six months later, a band of Vikings was traveling far too late for a dark winter’s day. They stumbled down into the hills, but would not have found the community had it not been the winter feast day and a large ceremonial fire blazing. Perhaps, if no one had screamed, it might not have gone quite as it did. There was food enough to feed the community and a horde of hungry Vikings. But there were screams, there were invocations. A fiery log was thrown. So it went.
Hilda found the sound of screaming repulsive. Why scream when you could fight? What good did screaming ever do anyone? And she swung a log, and the sound of it making contact at the back of the man’s head through his matted hair—the thick crunch—was intoxicating. He fell at her feet and she snatched the sword from his fist.
But in the space of a moment, two things happened that changed her course. The blast of fury within her, useful at last, seemed to make sense and almost calmed her with the realization that it was this, this that she wanted. Action. The tininess of this life was what fueled such frustrated passion. She wanted to be out, to be running through the world, doing things. Learning. Living. Actively hunting for something that might be called bliss. There was nothing here for which she wanted to stay and fight. She was meant to fly.
The second thing that happened was that her eyes, glowing with the delight of awareness, were seen. And she saw that they were seen. Only a human girl who had spent so much of her life exploring the darkness could have spotted those eyes. Though she didn’t know what they really were, she sensed what they intended. Capture.
No. Oh, no. I have not come to this moment to be tethered like a slave to some brutish man. That is not the life I’m going to have.
So she turned and ran.
For some years afterward, her thoughts often wandered to that run. What she must have looked like, to eyes that could see so much better in the dark than her own. The strong back, the slim waist. Miserly bits of moonlight occasionally flicking over a flash of leg under the ragged cloak. The tangle of golden curls flying straight out behind her as she tore through the woods, as fast as a wild young mare. She was the ultimate temptation, a feral creature whom it would be a pleasure to domesticate. And the attractive look of her was nothing compared with that intoxicating scent. The herbs she grew, the determination and the laughter deep within her, all wafting out like a heady vapor. And, of course, the rage, the searing rage that tickled around her pores and spelled pure allurement for the sort of temperament that had been drawn to her even before she’d swung that log. The scent lingered … was the flaxen rope through the labyrinth.
There was a shallow cave near the river, by the place she liked to fish, and it was here she took shelter. Finding it in the dark was nothing, and she slipped inside and headed straight for the mossy corner that formed a pleasant nest. There was a puddle just beside it, and she bent over to splash her face. The drops were still in the air when her distorted reflection startled her. Not because of it, for she had seen her face in water many times, but because it was light enough that she could see. There was a torch. She had been followed.
Her instinct was swift and impressively sure, but his hand clamped around her wrist just as the sword grazed his stomach. The man grinned. He wasn’t dressed like the other Vikings, and there was something in his face that made her think he was even more foreign than they were. It was unsettling. She didn’t find him attractive, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from him. What she could do was glare, and so she did. Whatever he planned to do, there was no chance she was going to let him enjoy it.
“What a funny, volcanic girl you are. Yes, this is the sort of heat one could enjoy for years.”
She didn’t know what he meant, but the tone was making her want to vomit.
“I’m Aelric. Tell me your name.”
“You’re going to take what you’re going to take, but I will give you nothing.”
He seemed to find that funny. Which in turn made her more determined to kill him. He must have sensed it, because he wriggled the sword from her fist and slammed it into the cave’s rocky wall.
Hilda had never known fear in her life, but now something prickled under her scalp. That wasn’t human strength. There was something else happening here. The night was cold, but sweat pooled under her arms.
He smiled, and it was an unexpectedly sweet smile. Hopeful. He whispered and caressed her in a manner that would melt any artless, impressionable virgin, but though Hilda was certainly a virgin, her nascent fear morphed to amused condescension, combined with scornful resignation. As she had ever expected, this was what it came to. Such stupidity. Such a waste. Wasn’t there more than this—somewhere, anywhere? And couldn’t he hurry up? All this hot breath at her neck, hands kneading her spine. A new impatient fury welled up inside her. He seemed to be growling, like an animal. She felt as if her organs were expanding and she was going to spew molten rage and she hoped he’d drown in it. She hadn’t even felt the bite, and she’d ground her teeth into her inner cheeks so hard, it was her own blood she tasted, more than his, when he’d slashed his shoulder and pressed it into her mouth.
There was but one coherent thought running through her head, pulsing so hard as to overwhelm any other sense:
You won’t own me, you won’t own me. You’ll do whatever you will, but you won’t own me. You won’t. You won’t.
And one final “you won’t” was the last human thought she ever had as she dropped into her death sleep.
As with any sort of phenomena, there is a ritual involved in the making of a vampire. A powerful, long-lived vampire is always made under certain laws. Were Aelric even the sort of vampire who listened with any level of attentiveness, he would still not be given to following a prescription, particularly one laid out by Otonia. He stayed with the tribunal only because he innately knew he didn’t have the ability to lead a small family of his own, and no reasonable family would adopt such a brash, vain, foolish vampire into their midst. It was only the protection of the tribunal that had allowed him to live some fifty years, and even that was astounding to Otonia.
But nothing was so astounding as the fortune that made the vampire who had been Hilda. There could not have been another lucky star in the universe the whole of those twenty-four hours—it must have all been on her. There were so many chances for her to have gone wrong. Aelric hadn’t realized that the heat in her when he’d
bit was fury and scorn. And he was almost too late with his blood offering—his blood was still wet on her lips when her eyes closed.
He’d done a poor job of burying her, not paying attention to the rocks in the soil. Digging one’s way out of the grave was supposed to be hard—fully half a vampire’s virility was gained in that dig—but if it took too long, a vampire could become faint, could even starve to death. But she was strong, and the anger she’d died with was still bubbling inside her, and she impatiently hacked her way through. A vampire should be born with passion, with desire, not anger, but it was the anger and the stubborn soil that combined to give her the strength of a centennial on her rising. The hunger for blood and life was not the delicate interest it should be, but a raging storm, so that when Aelric stupidly held out a hand to help her out of the dirt, she pushed past him, knocking him down.
He tagged after her as she strode with perfect instinct to where she knew food was waiting.
“How about I capture a nice morsel for your first meal?”
It wasn’t that he didn’t know you’re supposed to let your hatchling find their first meal, there was just that in her that made him revoltingly eager to be solicitous. The age-old dance of foolish men and women—the less interested a woman is, the more a man tries to please her. Even a vampire wasn’t immune. But she’d carried over her human disdain for help, especially of the male variety. The only answer he received was a snarl, one that couldn’t have been more intimidating if her fangs were extended. He finally paused and waited, anxious and intrigued, watching as she descended the hill toward her former home.
The Midnight Guardian Page 7