by Lucy Blue
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing her cheek as he held her upright. “I will be back.” He cradled her jaw in his hand as he kissed her. “I swear, I will be back.”
“What… ?” He was letting her go; he was leaving her. “No,” she said, gathering her gown around her as he donned his hose. “You can’t—”
“I have to, angel.” He kissed her mouth again, so quickly she barely felt it. “Go upstairs and wait for me.” He pressed a kiss to her hand, first the palm, then the pulse at her wrist. “I will be right back.”
8
Simon saddled Malachi more by feel than vision, his mind so full he could barely see at all. The hunger for blood possessed him now like a demon indeed, more powerful than it had been since his first night as a vampire. No deathless feeding on a stag or sheep would satisfy him now; he needed human blood.
Malachi shied as he tried to mount, sensing the change in his nature, no doubt. “It’s all right, friend,” he promised, climbing into the saddle, keeping his seat with an effort as the animal pranced and pawed. “You know now I mean you no harm.” The stallion was still restless, but he made no effort to throw him off, even when Simon let the reins go slack. With barely a nudge to his sides, the horse broke into a gallop, thundering over the drawbridge as if the demon was behind him rather than on his back. Once clear of the castle, they turned and plunged into the forest, the trees whipping past them in a blur, and Simon relaxed somewhat. But where could he go?
He thought of the peasant festival Isabel had spoken of, the May Night dance. Not so long ago, such a gathering would have been like a banquet for him. In a hundred different cities, from the carnivals of Italy to the harvest rites of France, the vampire had moved among the revelers, the noble stranger with an angel’s face, feeding lightly here and there from any likely-looking wench and leaving her weakened but elated. Sometimes he even committed a murder outright; such festivals nearly always attracted at least one or two hearts black enough to satisfy his craving for evil as well as for blood. But here at Charmot, he was no stranger; he was Sir Simon, protector of the castle, the lady’s sometime suitor. Even if he should find some peasant blackguard who knew nothing of him, he would almost certainly be spotted by someone else who did. He didn’t dare risk it, even now. But somehow he had to feed.
Malachi broke from the trees onto the king’s road, and Simon let him make the turn onto the easier ground, the sudden burst of speed exhilarating even in his distress. But when his demon’s hearing detected voices some half a mile ahead, he slowed the horse to a walk, long before whoever was speaking could have detected him.
“Turn off the road,” a man with a thick Scottish burr was saying, and the vampire smiled. Even from this distance, he could smell the malice on this one. He would do nicely. “We have brought him far enough.”
Simon left his own horse hidden in the trees and crept closer on foot, moving silently through the woods on the other side of the road. There were three horses stopped in a clearing, but only two of them were properly mounted, one by the brigand who had spoken, the other by another man a little smaller but dressed much the same in dark leather armor. A third man was slung over his horse’s saddle like a sack of grain, to all appearances dead. As Simon moved closer, he could hear a third heartbeat, weakening but still alive.
“We should see if there is a house nearby,” the second brigand was saying. “We do not want him found.”
“Why not?” the first one said with a laugh. “Who will know him here?” He cut a strap binding the third man to his horse and gave him a vicious kick, making him slump to the ground. “Farewell, Lord Tristan DuMaine,” he said, spitting on him for good measure.
“Aye, my lord, farewell,” the second one said, standing in the stirrups to make a mocking bow. “We will enjoy your castle.”
Simon sprang out of the shadows, transforming himself as he went into the great, black wolf. “Damn me, Christ!” the first brigand swore as the vampire lay hold of him, a manly oath that rose into a scream as the fangs tore into his flesh. Simon felt his body come alive as the blood rushed down his throat, warming him at last as love could not. He fell to the ground with his prey, curving over him in ecstasy, roaring in rage as he transformed back into the shape of a man. The brigand shuddered, too weak now to scream, all but an empty husk. His horse reared away from them in terror, and Simon snarled, baring his fangs. The animal cried out and fled, dragging his dying master behind him, one foot still tangled in his stirrup.
The second brigand had drawn his crossbow and managed to aim it at Simon, but as the vampire looked up, he froze, apparently too terrified to fire. Simon smiled, wiping his bloody mouth on his bare arm. “What the devil are you?” the brigand stammered, the crossbow twitching in his grip.
“You guess it already.” He grabbed the brigand by the tunic, and he fired, the bolt passing through Simon’s shoulder with a sickening thud. “I am the devil.” The vampire yanked the pointed rod of metal from his undead flesh almost without thinking as he dragged his prey down from his horse, using it to stab a fountain in the thickly muscled throat. Still holding the man dangling before him by the tunic, he bent his head and drank, an evil parody of a lover’s embrace. Mine, a voice murmured deep inside Simon’s mind, the voice of the demon Kivar. You are mine.
“No!” the vampire roared, flinging the dying man from him. The brigand’s head struck a tree with an ominous crack, lolling on his shoulders as he slumped, lifeless, to the ground. “No,” Simon repeated, sinking to his knees. “I am not… I am done.” But it was always the same when the hunger took hold of him; he always heard the voice of Kivar, reminding him of what he was. And even now, the demon was not satisfied.
Before him lay the dying knight the brigands had meant to abandon. His armor had been stripped from him, his clothes underneath soaked and stained with blood from wounds in his chest, stomach, and arms. His face was a bruised and bloody pulp. But his eyes were open.
Simon bent closer, listening to the fading music of the fallen warrior’s heart. What had he done to make those others so despise him? The vampire could sense no evil in him, only rage, a desperate desire for revenge more powerful than his own impending death. If he saw the monster bending over him, he did not show it; Simon smelled no fear. But he was dying; nothing could save him now. Acting as much for mercy as for his own waning hunger, he struck, sinking his fangs into the young man’s throat.
The knight, Tristan, they had called him, lurched upward with surprising strength, fighting death with a will Simon could taste in his blood, the power of the righteous and the wronged. One of his shoulders had obviously been shattered, but with his other arm he struck at the monster who would finish him with a true warrior’s fury. Simon sank his fangs in deeper, unable to stop himself, drawing the blood from the man’s very heart, his goodness like the sweetest wine after ten years feeding on the bitter bile of evil.
Then suddenly he howled in pain as the knight bit him back. Unschooled human teeth tore into the bare flesh of his shoulder, and a power like nothing he had ever felt before swept through him, making him feel faint. Furious, he devoured the last drop of life from his prey in a single gulp, making the living heart stop dead in an instant. But this knight, this Tristan, still clung to him, still fed from him, his teeth growing longer and sharp. “No!” Simon roared, flinging him away, and the knight flopped like a rag doll on the ground, his green eyes staring as in death, his mouth smeared with blood. But his bruises were already fading.
“No,” Simon repeated, pressing a hand to the wound in his shoulder, but it was already healed. In his mind, he saw the face of Kivar as he made Simon what he was, thin, cracked lips drawn back from his ivory fangs. Now Simon had done the same.
“No,” he said again, climbing to his feet. He had not made another vampire; surely he could not. He had never done such a thing before in ten long years and a thousand murders. He had briefly thought when Isabel had told him about that dead girl and shown him that cross that he
might have, but Orlando had been convinced that had been a wolf, and Simon had soon known he was right. He had killed the wolf himself, just as he had killed this man before him. The man was dead; the healing Simon thought he saw was only a trick of the moonlight. He tried to walk away, backing into the trees.
Then the knight sat up.
He sprang to his feet with feline grace, falling to a crouch when he saw Simon was still there. “Stay back,” he ordered, reaching for the fallen brigand’s sword.
“Stop,” Simon answered, cursing himself for a fool. He had no sword; he hadn’t bothered to bring one. Indeed, he was barely dressed. “You don’t understand what has happened—”
“I live,” the new-made demon cut him off. “That is enough.” Standing, he was nearly Simon’s height, but his complexion was slightly darker even as a vampire, and his hair was blond.
“But you do not,” Simon said, taking a step closer.
“You killed them,” Tristan said, looking at the dead brigand slumped against the tree. “You killed them both with no weapons; I saw you.” He lifted the sword and stared at his own arm as if amazed to find it whole. “Will I now kill in this fashion?” He spoke English with a careful accent, as if it were not his native tongue—a Frenchman, perhaps, though his name, Tristan, was Irish or Scots.
“You can,” Simon admitted. Somehow he must get the sword away from this new brother and destroy him, now, for his own good. This man was no demon murderer.
Tristan smiled. “That is all I need to know.” The horse he had been carried on was still waiting behind him, apparently unalarmed by this change in his master. Before Simon could stop him, Tristan had leapt onto the horse’s bare back and galloped away. Simon gave chase for a mile or so, even transmuting into the wolf to run faster, but it was no use. His new-made brother was gone.
“Lovely,” he muttered, turning back. “Orlando is going to kill me.”
Isabel sat in the window of her tower room, wearing only Simon’s shirt and watching for his return. In the distance, she could see the smoky, orange glow of a fire rising from the trees. She tried to imagine what it must be like to be Susannah, the Queen of the May, dancing at the center of the throng instead of watching the lights from above, or to have been her mother so many years ago, the peasant beauty who had won a foreign noble’s heart. But she couldn’t even imagine it; she had no frame of reference. Her whole world was this castle, her legacy and prison. But tonight, if only for a moment, she had broken free. “I will be back,” Simon had promised, leaving her again. “Go upstairs and wait for me.” And so she had. But had he meant his promise? Even if he did come back, would he be coming for her?
She went to the table and opened her father’s scrolls. She had meant to show them to Simon weeks ago, show him the strange patterns she had discovered in the corner notes, thinking it might help him find whatever it was he was seeking in the catacombs. But he had made her promise to leave him alone, and Orlando had warned her of some great danger if she did not, some mysterious evil that would destroy her and Simon both. So she had stayed away.
But now… were things really so different? Simon had made love to her, but he still hadn’t told her why he believed he was cursed or what it was he hoped to find at Charmot. Whatever it was, it obviously had nothing to do with her. So why should she want him to find it? If he did, he would almost certainly leave; who would protect the castle then? Angry tears rose in her eyes, the tears she had refused to shed before when she had raged at him. As if she cared for nothing but Charmot… what would she do if he left her?
She tore off the corner of a scroll, a blasphemy— these had belonged to her father. But her father was dead. She looked down at the writing, trying one last time to read the words, but the meaning still refused to come. This wisdom, whatever it was, would never be for her.
She tore the corner into tiny pieces on the table, feeling like a fiend. Then she reached for the next scroll and tore off its corner as well, and the next, and the next, tearing each one to bits as she went. If somehow this was Simon’s secret, he would never find it. He would never go.
The edge of a page sliced into her hand, making her wince in pain. She let the scroll fall to examine the cut, bringing her candle closer. It was tiny but deep in the web of skin between her thumb and palm, and blood dripped on the scraps of paper before her. “Damnation,” she muttered, putting the cut to her mouth.
Then she froze. The torn bits of parchment were moving, shuffling themselves like a deck of gamesman’s cards, and the droplets of her blood writhed over them like tiny, living creatures. As she watched, stunned between fascination and fright, three of the bits aligned themselves into a rough triangle, the edges knitting themselves together to form a single piece.
Half-certain she was dreaming, she shredded another corner and dropped it on the pile. The new bits riffled through the others, and two more pieces found each other and knitted themselves into one. But the drops of blood were almost gone, shrinking as if consumed by the parchment. More curious than squeamish, she squeezed another drop from her cut, and the shuffling started anew, the scraps fairly dancing on the table as they writhed and reformed, two of the larger pieces coming together in a rough square nearly the size of one of the original corners.
She picked this up and examined it, her scalp starting to tingle. The words no longer looked like words at all. The characters had stretched and twisted as the parchment reformed to make what looked like a piece of a maze, tunnels twisting in every direction, doubling back on themselves. “The catacombs,” she whispered to the empty air. Her blood had not been consumed at all, she saw; it was still there, a path of red traced through the twisted maze. “Papa… this is a map.”
Suddenly she heard a sound from outside, hoofbeats on the drawbridge. She ran to the window, the scrap of parchment still clutched in her fist. Simon and Malachi were coming back. Her heart leapt up, and she ran to gather up the parchment, eager to show her love what she had found. Whatever this enchantment was, surely it must be connected to his quest. Then she stopped. What if she were right? What if this were a map to the catacombs that would lead him to his prize? What reason would he have to stay at Charmot?
She kicked open the chest at the foot of her bed with her bare foot and shoved the magical parchment inside, then slammed down the lid. She would show him, she promised her conscience, but not until she knew that he loved her, that he wouldn’t leave her once he found his prize. She would tell him everything. Just not yet.
Simon left Malachi in the stables and started across the courtyard. Dawn was only a few hours away, and surely Isabel would be asleep by now, but he had to see her even so. He had to be certain she was all right.
He stopped at the rain barrel and washed what was left of the blood from his skin—what clothes he wore were still black and mostly unstained, he was relieved to see. He plunged his head under the water and washed out his mouth as well. But as he straightened up, he felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, as if he were being watched.
A massive black dog was sitting on his haunches just inside the castle gates, staring at the vampire with eyes so blue, they seemed to glow in the moonlight. A crimson tongue lolled from the creature’s mouth between curving, ivory fangs, and malice rolled off him in waves, the stench of pure, uncomplicated evil.
For the second time that night, Simon wished he had a sword; for the first time in ten years, he felt real fear. “Begone from here,” he ordered, taking a step toward the dog. “Leave this castle in peace.” He had grown up on tales of the grim, the devil’s black dog who appeared to those about to die, but he had never believed them. Of course, he had never believed in vampires, either. “I said begone!”
The dog stood up, its expression unchanged. With a final look over its shoulder, it trotted through the castle gates, disappearing into the night.
Isabel had begun to think Simon didn’t mean to come upstairs at all, it had been so long since she’d seen him ride in. Just as she
was deciding if she should go look for him or give him up and go to bed, she heard a knock on the door. Smiling, she opened it barely a crack.
He pushed his way inside and gathered her into his arms. “Surrender or be lost.” He kissed her, lifting her completely off her feet, and she laughed as he did it, twining her arms around his neck. His bare skin felt warm against her through the thin linen of the shirt.
“I am lost,” she admitted, caressing the wet curls of his hair at the back of his neck. “But I will still surrender.” She kissed him, first deeply, then more lightly, a dozen silly little kisses as he spun her around. “So where did you go?”
“To the dance, of course.” Holding her this way, he could almost forget the evil he had seen and done that night. He had expected to find her unsettled, perhaps even grieving; he had never expected this. “I told you, I like dances.”
“You did not,” she corrected. “You said there were dances in Ireland, and you hinted that you went. But you never said you liked it.”
“I liked it very much.” The wreath of flowers Susannah had left for her was still on the table, and he twirled her across the room to put in on her head. “We used to have a harvest dance in autumn and a May dance every spring.”
“And you danced with every maiden there, no doubt,” she teased, trying to take it off again.
“Only the prettiest ones.” He stopped spinning her around to use both hands to fasten the rosebuds in place. “Though I have to say in God’s own truth, there was none there as pretty as you.”
“Aye, I’m certain,” she said sarcastically, pleased nonetheless. “’Tis my costume that makes me so fair.”
“That’s part of it, for certes.” He kissed her again, pulling her close until her body molded to his. “Though I think I recognize that shirt.”
“Do you, in faith?” she said with a giggle that sounded like someone else, some much more frivolous girl than she had ever allowed herself to be. “Methinks it belonged to me first.”