Don't Talk Back To Your Vampire

by Michele Bardsley

  We didn’t soul-kiss or speak about binding. As much as I would’ve loved to play smoochy- face with Lor, it wasn’t fair to act on our feelings.

  I missed Tamara dreadfully, though she sent notes and bad jokes and funny drawings to me several times a day. Then Lor brought me a video-camera phone so I could see her face as I talked to her using the speaker function. Though I could tell she was worried about me, she still had that spark in her eye—and I attributed it to the flush of first love. Oh, I wanted the world for my baby. I hoped that for however long they had together, Durriken and Tamara would be happy. Well, that’s how I wanted to feel. Mostly, I worried about my teenage daughter being so near a teenage boy. My only comfort was that Helene had become a vigilant chaperone, much to the kids’ chagrin.

  I tried to be brave and to emulate my mother, who carried the burden of her illness fully. She didn’t want us to be weighed down with her pain or her worries. Only now did I comprehend how much suffering and how much fear she had kept from us. Or maybe Mom hadn’t been afraid of her illness or of dying.

  But I was.

  One evening, after Bert had fulfilled his meal-ticket duty and lay contentedly next to me, Lor revealed a spectacular surprise: a thick leather-bound volume. When he opened it, I nearly went into bibliophile orgasm. The pages were like those of medieval manuscripts—handwritten meticulously in a beautiful script. Each gilded page was painted with gorgeous flowers, mythical creatures, and other fantastic images.

  “Some of my original works, before computers,” said Lorcan.

  “Better than Microsoft Word,” I murmured as I drew my finger along the thick parchment. “What language is it?”

  “Magic,” he said. He whispered in Gaelic. Then handwriting glimmered gold and suddenly I could read the pages.

  “That is the coolest!” I read the title at the top of the page: “‘Legends of the Ancients, Ruadan the First.’ ”

  “All the stories of the six vampires are in here,” he said.

  “I thought there were seven Ancients.”

  “There are. When the first council convened more than four thousand years ago, my father and the six vampires he made created the rules and the binding magic to keep their children, born and made, in line. Every hundred years, the council meets to revise the policies and procedures, hear grievances, render judgments, issue edicts, and so forth.”

  “What do vampires with grievances do between council meetings? A hundred years is a long time to hold a grudge, even for a vampire.”

  Lorcan chuckled. “Each Ancient handles a certain section of the world. Vampires must go to their Family headquarters with their problems. If a problem makes it all the way to the hundred-year meeting, it’s like a case going before the Supreme Court.”

  “That makes sense.” Even though I knew it wasn’t close to sunrise, I still felt really tired. Bert whined, lifted his head, and licked my hand. I petted him and he snuffled, then returned to his nap. “But what happened to the seventh Ancient?”

  “Three thousand years ago, he went to ground. The Ancients issued what amounted to a memo saying that Amahté had chosen to rest and when the time was right, he would return to the world. In his place stepped his blood-son, Khenti, who was turned vampire like me and Padraig.”

  “Didn’t your dad tell you why Amahté really went to ground? Or maybe he’s dead.”

  “We know that he’s not. We have no idea what would happen if an Ancient was killed, Eva. Each Family is interconnected with their abilities and their magic. If the originator passed from this realm, it might be the end of the entire Family.”

  “Not good,” I said. My thoughts drifted like the gel bubbles in a lava lamp: slow and wobbly, bumping into each other and getting stuck. “Amahté is in the Sudan. That’s the hubbub there, right?”

  “We’re trying to find his temple,” admitted Lorcan. “Though we seemed to have stumbled on a site dedicated to Seth—the Egyptian god of chaos. We believe Amahté might’ve been the first to get the taint and may have created the cure. But our efforts are slow going. The dig has suffered continual setbacks, not the least of which are sabotage and murder.”

  “The Ancients probably don’t like the idea that you’re poking around.”

  “We have Khenti’s permission, so there’s not much the council can do.” He sounded so defiant, I smiled.

  “So, you got the stories of six of the first vampires. That must’ve been interesting research.”

  “I interviewed them all and bugged them incessantly until I was sure I got everything right. Still, I wonder if choosing a fairy-tale format was the way to tell the stories.”

  Lorcan suffering from a writer’s insecurities struck me as silly. Here was a man whose career spanned four millennia. I’m sure he’d had all the time he needed to perfect his craft.

  “Read it to me,” I asked.

  He sat in the wingback, put the tome on his lap, and said, “‘Once there was a great warrior-magician whose name was Ruadan. To know a man, you must know his story, and all the stories of men begin with their mothers....’ ”

  On the story went: Bres, an immortal king who wanted to win back Eire—even to the detriment of his sons. His wife, Brigid, an immortal queen who wanted nothing more than peace for her people and for her family to be safe. But Bres lost the war and Brigid lost her sons. All but one . . .

  “ ‘Morrigu heard the keening of her daughter, so she turned into a crow and flew to the land of the Fomhoire. Though the dark queen craved chaos over tranquillity and war over peace, she felt pity for her daughter and offered one chance for Brigid to regain her son.

  “ ‘Give Ruadan a cup of my blood, but be warned! When he awakes, he will not live as a man, but as a deamhan fola. He will never again walk in the light. He will not consume food or drink, but shall siphon the blood of the living. Neither will he have breath nor beat of heart. Never will he sire another child by his own seed.’ ”

  In desperation, Brigid agreed to the terms of the spell—or curse, depending on your point of view. That night Morrigu turned her grandson into the first vampire. Ruadan awoke and returned to his family, but his wife went mad. Rather than be married to a monster and allow her sons to be raised by him, she planned to kill herself and their twin sons, Patrick and Lorcan.

  Ruadan stopped her and convinced her to go to Eire with Brigid. For twenty-five years, he wandered the earth, making six more master vampires, before the need to see his sons overcame him. Unfortunately, his arrival in the small seaside village brought terrible consequences. His wife killed herself and the villagers killed Patrick.

  “ ‘As his son passed from the mortal realm, Ruadan drained him and, tearing open the vein in his own neck, forced his son to drink his tainted blood. And so Padraig was Turned,’ ” read Lorcan in his rich voice. His brogue was deep and lyrical. “’Ruadan took Padraig to the cave where Lorcan lived and bid him to care for his brother. He instructed Lorcan on the ways of the deamhan fola, and warned him that his brother was no longer a man but a creature destined to walk only in the night.

  “ ‘But Lorcan did not heed his father’s warnings. When Padraig awoke, he was mad with grief and hunger. He tore open his brother’s neck and drained him to the point of death. When he realized what he’d done, Padraig saved Lorcan in the same manner Ruadan had saved him.

  “‘Now both of Ruadan’s sons were deamhan fola.’ ”

  When he was finished, I clapped. “Bravo! Bravo!” I pressed my hands against my heart. “You did a great job, Lor.”

  He smiled shyly, as though he wasn’t sure how to respond to praise. “There are days that it’s still strange to know that my family started the vampire race. My great-grandmother Morrigu is very powerful and truthfully, she scares the bloody hell out of nearly everyone.”

  “I hope never to meet her,” I said, yawning. “No offense.”

  “None taken, especially since I feel the same way.”

  “How long did it take you to forgive Patrick?”
/>   Lorcan blinked. “For what?”

  “For murdering you and making you into a vampire.”

  Shock etched his features. “There was nothing to forgive. He was starved and didn’t understand his new nature. He wasn’t in his right mind.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “Eva . . . it’s not the same as what I did. I’ve lived for four thousand years—that’s more life than most get. It was selfish of me to try anything, to do anything in order to keep it.”

  “It’s not wrong to want to live,” I said quietly. “Whether you’re forty or four thousand.”

  “Eva.” He leaned forward and squeezed my arm. “You will not die. I won’t let that happen. But as for me . . . If I had simply accepted my fate, I would’ve saved the lives of eleven innocents.”

  “And Marybeth?” The only daughter of Linda, Stan’s not-girlfriend, she had been killed by another lycan hybrid. Lorcan had saved her life by Turning her.

  He snapped the book shut. “Do not do an immoral thing for moral reasons!”

  “Thomas Hardy,” I said. “No evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after death.”

  “Plato. But . . . the yoke a man creates for himself by wrong-doing will breed hate in the kindliest nature.”

  “George Eliot.” I pursed my lips, thinking. Then I grinned. “When choosing between two evils, I always like to try the one I’ve never tried before.”

  “What?”

  “Mae West.” I looked at Lorcan, wishing I could hold him in my arms and show him he was worthy of forgiveness and of love. “Here’s a little armchair psychology. It’s easier to mentally flail yourself and stay away from those you hurt. If you never forgive yourself, you don’t have to risk that those you killed won’t forgive you.”

  “You’re saying that I’m afraid to face what I did and make peace with it.”

  I nodded.

  “I will consider your words,” he said.

  I could tell by his expression that he meant what he said. I had given him something to chew on, and I was glad. Maybe, just maybe, he could build a real life in a community that would, I was certain, welcome him.

  Lorcan leaned forward and tapped Bert’s hip. “C’mon, boy. We need to let Eva sleep.”

  “I’m not tired,” I whined. “I want to hear another story. What about Koschei? I’d be interested to know more about my Family.”

  Bert stood on all fours, shook himself so hard that drool flew everywhere, and jumped off the bed. I wiped off my slimed cheek and laughed. The Great Dane looked at me, pushed the image of a ham bone into my mind, and barked. “He wants a—”

  “Ham bone,” said Lor. “He has a one-track mind. He’ll get one, along with the ham.”

  “What about the story?” I asked. I didn’t want him to go. Being left alone drove me batty. I had everything in the way of entertainment, from the flat-screen TV to PlayStation 3, but I rarely used either. I hadn’t thought I’d ever tire of books, but I felt restless and bored every time I picked one up. My skin itched and I felt like a thousand ants marched up and down my body. I tried not to react to the sensations.

  “Solas,” whispered Lorcan.

  Pink, gold, and red orbs glittered into the room. They floated like chubby fairies above me, twinkling and swirling. Delighted, I watched them dance and play. Suddenly I felt better.

  “The book will read to you,” said Lor. “Close your eyes and listen. And try to rest.”

  “Okay.” I agreed reluctantly, not energetic enough to ask questions about a book that could talk. More sidhe magic from Lor, no doubt.

  I yawned again and lay flat, tucking myself more comfortably under the thick quilt. I watched him place the open book on his chair. He pressed his palms to it and muttered. The book glowed.

  Leaning down, Lorcan kissed my forehead. I caught his face and put my mouth to his. Warmth and need flooded me instantly, but Lor’s kiss was too gentle, too brief. He brought the quilt to my chin and then he turned away. He flicked off the lights, whispered good night, and he and Bert left. I sighed as the door banged shut.

  I hate to be alone. Why do they leave me alone?

  Clenching my teeth, I shuddered violently. If only I could breathe . . . if only I could breathe . . . oh, you don’t need to breathe, remember? Slowly, I got hold of myself. Everything’s okay, Eva. Just chill out.

  My gaze was drawn to the glowing book. As the fairy lights engaged in a whimsical ballet in the soft darkness, Lorcan’s brogue filled the room. . . .

  I closed my eyes and listened.

  Chapter 19

  Legends of the Seven Ancients Koschei the Second

  As written by Lorcan, Filí don Tuatha de Danann

  It was said that Koschei the Deathless kidnapped women from their beds and killed men with only his stare. Others told of a skeletal man with black hair and wild eyes that stole brides from their husbands on the wedding night. Some said that his soul was hidden inside an egg stored in a chest without a key. And there were those who said that Koschei was merely a ghost, a harbinger of bad luck.

  But Koschei was not a ghost, a kidnapper, or a soulless creature.

  He was deamhan fola.

  After Ruadan the First was banished by his wife, he traveled by boat to a cold and barren place far from the land of Eire. As his nature dictated, he drank the blood of mortal beings. Doing so was arduous because no victim was willing. Though Ruadan was clever and brave, he was unable to convince mortals that he was not a monster. In every village, he had to lie in wait for the unwary and take his sustenance by force. Soon Ruadan gained a reputation as a strigoi mort—a vampire.

  Word about the strigoi mort spread quickly. Villagers and farmers begged their gods, their wise men, and their healers for protection, but though they laid herbs on their doorsills and curses around their houses, Ruadan was not affected. Superstition was not magic; he knew the power, beauty, and truth of real magic.

  One night, Ruadan attacked a farmer, who fought so fiercely that Ruadan let him go. Though the vampire fled, the farmer and other terrified villagers chased him relentlessly. Forced to travel deeper and deeper into the craggy, snow-filled mountains, Ruadan subsisted on animal blood and slept in caves.

  Three days passed. On the fourth evening, he discovered a small village tucked into the mountainside. Cold and hungry, he managed to subdue a young woman long enough to drink what he needed. But she was the favorite wife of a powerful wizard named Koschei. Vowing revenge, Koschei used his magic to track Ruadan down.

  Koschei had a more fearsome reputation than even a strigoi mort. He was bone thin and wore only black robes. His hair was long and dark, his eyes hard and green as jade. Through his magic and his psychic abilities, he coaxed food, entertainment, and companionship from other villages. Many people in the region feared Koschei and sent gifts to the dark wizard so that he would not leave his mountain home. And so Koschei had all that he needed to live a comfortable life, including many wives, concubines, and children.

  Ruadan was surprised to find himself at the mercy of a mere mortal. Koschei’s most powerful gift was the ability to glamour. Within moments, Koschei compelled Ruadan to tell all his secrets.

  After hearing his enemy’s stories, Koschei revealed his own secret: He was dying. He told Ruadan that he feared that his village and his family were in jeopardy, that if he died, rival peoples would attack.

  “They will not fear me as a ghost,” he said. “I will make a pact with you, demon. Give me immortal life and I will teach you my magic. I will show you how to draw a human to you, to drink, and to make him forget.”

  Ruadan agreed, though he warned Koschei that becoming a deamhan fola was a terrible risk. “I’ve never made another,” he said, “and this may end your life that much sooner.”

  But Koschei was determined to become immortal. They agreed that he would teach Ruadan the magic first, in case the transformation failed.

  The bargain struck, Koschei spent every evening with Ruadan showing him the
ways of the mind. He showed Ruadan how to alter his voice and how to create illusions. “People believe so easily,” he said. “Show them what they expect and they will not question you.”

  After thirty days had passed, Ruadan had learned all that he could from the wizard. On the thirty-first day, Koschei said, “It is time for you to keep your promise.”

  Ruadan drained his new friend of all his blood. When Koschei breathed his last, Ruadan tore open his own wrist and pressed the bleeding wound against the man’s pale lips. His magicked blood flowed into the body of Koschei and soon the wizard awoke—as deamhan fola.

  Koschei easily learned all the ways of the deamhan fola. Ruadan was pleased by the kindness of his friend and knew that Koschei would continue to bless those under his care.

  Yet Ruadan was a restless soul and he wished to resume his travels. The night before Ruadan’s parting, a great celebration was held. Dancing, drinking, and feasting went on through the night.

  In the wee hours, as everyone fell into drunken sleep, the village was savagely attacked.

  Though Ruadan and Koschei combined their powers to fight the unknown invaders, nearly all of the villagers were slain and the buildings burned. Koschei tried to Turn his sons, his daughters, his favorite wives, but it seemed none could survive the change.

  “Help me,” begged Koschei. “Save my children. Save my beloved wives.”

  But even Ruadan’s attempts at Turning them failed. All of Koschei’s wives died. One son and two daughters barely lived; Ruadan and Koschei escaped with them deep into the mountains. Koschei led them to a cave where he often stayed when hunting and they made the mortal survivors comfortable.

  Koschei’s son had seen only ten winters. His daughter Ina was barely seventeen. Tritsu was nearly twenty, already married with daughters of her own.

  All but these five souls perished that terrible night.

  Koschei’s grief could not be contained. He begged Ruadan to turn his children into deamhan fola.