My Demon's Kiss

by Lucy Blue

  Simon laid the shovel aside and bent down in the grave, bracing himself for a pitiable sight as he brushed the last of the dirt away with his hand. But what he saw still made him cry out in shock. Staring up at him in the dim light of the lantern was his long-lost patron, Francis, the duke of Lyan.

  “Holy Christ,” the vampire rasped in his own native Gaelic, a language he had not spoken in years, the words burning his tongue as he stumbled backward, almost falling on the corpse. “Sweet Mary of God… this cannot be.” The duke had been buried in the cursed mountains where he died; Simon had dug the grave himself. And even if he had not, his body had been without life for ten years; it should have rotted and crumbled to dust long before now. Yet here was the face Simon had loved so well he had followed it across the world, lifeless and pale but intact. He brushed more of the earth away and found that the head had been cleaved from the shoulders, and a wound gaped in the chest over the heart. He stepped back and looked up at Orlando, who still stood at the edge of the grave. “How can this be?”

  “Kivar,” Orlando said. “It must have been Kivar.”

  “Why are you so shocked, my love?” a woman’s voice spoke from the shadows. “You put him there yourself.” Susannah emerged from the trees, even more beautiful in cursed death than she had been in life, her Maying gown translucent in the moonlight. “You told me,” she finished with a beatific smile.

  “I told you?” Simon said, climbing from the grave.

  “Two nights past, in the grove,” she answered. “Do you not remember?” She came closer, madness gleaming in her eyes. She had not just been taken by a vampire; her innocent mind had been broken. “Don’t you remember your promise, my lord?” She laid a hand on his chest, an obscene parody of her old flirtatious smile on her lips. “You told me that you loved me.”

  “Susannah, I did not,” Simon said, taking her hand.

  She frowned. “You promised I would be lady of Charmot.” She bent her cheek to his hand like a kitten begging a caress. “I didn’t want to kill Lady Isabel, but you said you must.”

  “Susannah, listen to me,” he said, putting a hand on his sword. “I never saw you that night. I never made you any promise—”

  “You made me what I am!” She smiled, holding her pale arms up to the moonlight as if to admire their beauty. “I am perfect now, you said.” She looked at him in hunger that could almost seem like love. “You said I will never die.”

  “Susannah, I did not do this,” Simon said, his heart aching with pity for her even as his stomach crawled with revulsion.

  “Kivar,” Orlando repeated. “He must have changed his shape to look like you.”

  “Is she dead?” Susannah said. “I must weep for her.”

  “Susannah!” Tom came running toward them, his boyish face alight with relief. “You’re alive.” Before Simon could stop him, he had run to the vampire and taken her into his arms.

  “You see?” she said, smiling over his shoulder, her fangs pure white in the moonlight. “Tom still loves me, at least.” She tilted the boy’s head to one side, baring her fangs for the bite.

  “No!” Simon roared, his horrorstruck paralysis broken. He raised the sword and struck Susannah’s head from her shoulders, the mouth still screaming as it fell. Tom stumbled backward as Simon drove his sword point into the vampire’s breast, the body lurching and writhing as he pinned it to the ground, then exploding over all three of them in a shower of foul, blackish blood.

  The boy stared at him, aghast. “You killed her.”

  “No, Tom.” He took a step toward him, using his vampire’s power to entrance him. “She was already dead.” A trickle of blood flowed down the boy’s neck from the vampire’s bite, but he didn’t seem badly hurt. “Susannah was not here.”

  “Not here,” Tom answered, his eyes locked to Simon’s. “Susannah is dead.”

  “Tom!” Kevin came toward them, freezing when he saw his son. “Holy Christ, my lord…” Simon, Tom, and Orlando were all three covered with the vampire’s blood. “What happened?”

  “A demon,” Simon answered. I didn’t want to kill Lady Isabel, Susannah had said. But you said you must. “Take care of him, and of Orlando.” Kivar or whoever had murdered Susannah meant to kill Isabel as well. “I have to go back to Charmot.”

  11

  Isabel lit the candles in her bedroom, moving quickly, barely wincing as a drop of melting tallow burned her finger. Compared to what she meant to do, that tiny hurt was nothing. She fished her father’s torn and crumpled parchments from the chest at the foot of the bed and threw them on the table along with the purse of coins Mary had given her and the silver cross she had found in the churchyard, then dug through another, smaller cask on the table beside her bed until she found the tiny dagger that had once belonged to her mother, a simple peasant’s knife with a handle of bone and a blade so thin and sharp it could cut through leather and barely leave a mark.

  She sat down at the table and arranged the shredded corners of her father’s code she had already torn from the parchments before her, then used the knife to carefully cut away the ones remaining and added them to the pile, tearing them to pieces as she went. Setting the rest of the scrolls aside on the floor, she spread the bits in a single layer, making sure they touched. Then she picked up the knife.

  “Forgive me, Papa,” she whispered. This magic was not for her; she had no business attempting it. But she had no other choice. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she sliced open her palm, spilling her blood on the parchment. Spinning and tumbling in a chaotic frenzy, the pieces writhed and shifted on the table, some tearing themselves into even smaller bits as others joined together until at last she saw a single page before her. Tunnels twisted over most of it like water snakes, but she could make out a larger, rounded gap in the center where three of the tunnels converged—her father’s study. A single character sketched in her blood marked this spot, and a scarlet trail led out from it into the labyrinth, marking a pathway just as she had guessed. Somehow, she had made a druid’s map.

  “This is it,” she whispered, tracing the path with her fingertip, thinking of Simon’s curse, his belief that the key lay somewhere in the catacombs. “This has to be it.”

  A gust of icy wind rushed through the open window, much too cold for May, and the candles on the table sputtered and went out. Still holding the map, she got up to take the candle from her bedside to relight them and almost screamed aloud. Simon was standing behind her.

  “God’s faith,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest. “You scared me.”

  He smiled. “I’m sorry.”

  “Aren’t you always?” she retorted, but she couldn’t really be angry. “What are you doing back here so soon?”

  He touched her, picking up a lock of her hair and examining it with a bemused smile as if he had never seen its color before. “Where else should I be?” He looked just the same as always, his angel’s face just the same, and his voice with its hint of Irish brogue was just as deep and soft as ever. But something was different; a different sort of light was shining in his deep brown eyes.

  “You went to the churchyard.” She backed away from him a step, her skin prickling with unreasonable fear, the map still clutched in her fist behind her back.

  “Oh, yes,” he nodded. “That.” He touched her cheek, and an icy shiver raced down her spine. His hands were always cool to the touch, but never like this. “That didn’t take long.” He traced the shape of her mouth with his fingertips. “Didn’t I say I would be back as soon as I could?”

  “Yes.” She turned her face away from his touch, the tip of her tongue barely tasting his skin as she flinched. He tastes wrong, she thought, her heart beating faster. But surely that was madness. “But I didn’t hear your horse or the wagon.”

  “You must not have been listening.” He moved closer, putting a restraining hand on her upper arm when she started to move away. “What are you hiding, love?”

  “Nothing,” she insisted, ducking t
o escape, but he kissed her, a rough, brusque kiss that was like nothing he had ever done before, his tongue stabbing into her mouth as his hand tightened almost painfully on her arm. She made a small sound of protest, and his arms closed around her, crushing her to him even as she put her wounded hand against his chest to hold him off.

  “Stop it,” she ordered, tearing her mouth from his. “Simon, let me go.” He did taste wrong; it wasn’t madness or her imagination. “What is the matter with you?” She tried to break free, but he wouldn’t allow it, pushing her back against the table. “I said stop!” She raised her hand to slap him, and he caught her wrist.

  “What’s this?” He brought her palm to his mouth, tasting her blood, and for a moment, she thought she must be losing consciousness; the outline of his body seemed to melt and waver before her eyes. Then his tongue swept down the cut, cold as a snake, and he was solid again, a jolt of fury passing through her. “Why have you hurt yourself?” he said with an exaggerated tenderness that she didn’t believe for a moment. This man was not Simon. He let go of her wounded hand, now healed, she saw with horrified surprise, and took hold of the one that still held the druid’s map. “Oh, my,” he said, catching sight of it. An evil smile that was nothing like her lover’s spread over his face, making her blood run cold. In the distance she heard hoofbeats, Malachi crossing the drawbridge, the shouts of the men standing guard.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, trying to break his grip.

  “Aren’t you the clever girl?” he said, still smiling, paying her struggles no mind as he lifted her wrist to examine the map more closely. “Did you work this out all by yourself, or did the little wizard help you?”

  “You are not Simon.” She reached behind her with her free hand, hoping to reach the dagger to stab him or even the purse so she could bash him in the face. But her fingers found the cross instead.

  “No,” he admitted, his voice changing, growing thicker. “But I will be.”

  He moved to kiss her again, and without thinking, she punched him, the chain of the cross tangled in her fist. He howled in pain out of proportion to the blow she had managed, flinching backward. She saw the shape of the cross burned into his jaw, still smoking. “Bitch,” he snarled, slapping her hard across the cheek, sending her sprawling as the real Simon burst through the door.

  “Get away from her!” he roared, the sight of his own image striking his beloved making him livid and dizzy at once. The other vampire turned on him, baring his fangs, and he saw the cross-shaped wound. “You will not touch her again.” He bared his own fangs as he advanced, his sword held out before him.

  “Think you not?” the other vampire rasped as his shape melted and changed to the shape of Michel, the brand still livid on his thick-lipped face. “I will touch her in ways you have not yet imagined.”

  Isabel huddled against the side of the bed, the cross still clasped in one hand, the map crumpled in the other. The demon who had struck her had changed his shape to a shorter, stockier bull of a man with a thick French accent—Michel, she realized with horror. Simon advanced on him, protecting her, but he was a demon as well, she saw, a monster with the same cruel fangs.

  “I killed you once already,” Simon snarled, advancing on this creature, whatever it was. Isabel was safe; that was all that mattered. “I see no reason why I cannot do it again.”

  “You didn’t kill me, precious son,” Michel said with a thin, bitter smile that looked completely out of place on his coarse, drunkard’s face. “You released me.” His features shifted again, his body convulsing as he grew taller to become the duke of Lyan. “Were you glad to see my face again?” he said in the duke’s own kindly tone, but his smile was unmistakable, the leer Simon saw in his dreams. “I know how sorely you have missed me.”

  “Kivar,” Simon said raggedly, the word catching in his throat.

  “You have done so well, my Simon,” he said, for all the world Francis, the duke of Lyan, returned from the grave. “For centuries, I waited for you, knowing you would come.” He smiled, retreating slowly in a circle as Simon advanced. “But I never dreamed you would be such a success as this.” He turned his gaze on Isabel, his smile becoming the devil’s leer again, obscene on the face of the good man Simon had loved. “Look at the treasure you have found.”

  Isabel scrambled to her feet, tripping on her skirt but determined to stand even so. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you?”

  “Don’t you recognize me, pet?” The demon’s face was changing again, his body reforming. Suddenly her father stood before her, looking just the way he had the morning before he died. “You know me in your blood.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, trembling all over. She wanted to run to Simon, to hide behind him from this horror, but how could she? He was a horror himself. Every detail she had ever perceived in his arms and forgotten came back to her in a rush. His skin was cool, not warm. He had no heartbeat. But he was her beloved—even now he meant to protect her. You will mourn him, Mother Bess had said. He carries a mark himself.

  “What did you think I was doing all those years in the catacombs, sweet daughter?” the demon said. “Writing my memoirs?”

  “He lies, Isabel,” Simon said. “You know he lies; you have seen what he is.”

  “You have the evidence there in your hand,” the demon insisted. His voice was so familiar and suddenly so kind. She wanted to hear him, to stand there and listen to him speak to her forever, to give him whatever he asked if it would keep him from leaving her again.

  “Why did you leave me?” she asked him, taking a step toward him. “Why did you never tell me the truth?”

  “Darling, he’s entrancing you; it’s a trick,” Simon insisted, taking a step toward her. “Any vampire can do it.”

  “Vampire,” she repeated, but the word meant nothing. “Papa…”

  “Come to me, ’Bella,” the demon in her father’s shape entreated. “Bring me the map.”

  “Yes.” Suddenly everything made sense, every doubt she had ever felt was gone, her confusion clearing like soft clouds before the wind. “You made it.” She took a step toward him. “It belongs to you.”

  “No!” Simon roared, human voice becoming wolvish howl as he transformed. Isabel screamed as he lunged for Kivar, the ancient vampire melting back into the shape of Michel as the fangs of the wolf tore at his throat.

  Isabel watched as the two creatures rolled as one across the tower room, Michel shifting again into the great black dog she had mistaken for the peasant’s grim, and she grabbed for Simon’s fallen sword. But where could she attack? Simon rose up, fangs bared and hackles raised, and suddenly he was a man again, her lover transformed to a monster. The dog lunged at his throat, and he grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, shaking the great beast like a rat even as it tore at his arms and chest with its curving, ivory fangs. The dog changed back into a man, another stranger, tall and thin with hair the same shade of red as her own.

  “You cannot kill me, Simon,” Kivar said, laughing, and Simon punched him in the face. He laughed harder as he fell back against the table, licking the trickle of borrowed blood from his lips.

  “Watch me,” Simon answered, charging him with all his strength and lifting him from the floor. He flung him backward toward the open window, and Kivar’s eyes widened as he felt himself falling, but still he laughed, changing back into the dog as he fell, twisting in midair. Simon rushed forward, flinging himself toward the window as well, but something stopped him—Isabel, grabbing him from behind.

  “No,” she said, falling back from him again. “Don’t.”

  He turned back to the window just as the dog hit the ground at the foot of the tower, crumpled and broken, but in a moment, he was up again. Still a dog, he turned and looked back at the castle before plunging into the lake, disappearing in the dark.

  “Isabel!” Brautus shouted, running in, sword drawn. “What is it?”

  Simon turned again. His love was watching him in horror, tears
streaming down her face. “Isabel,” he said, starting toward her.

  “Stay back!” she ordered, holding up the cross, and he recoiled, blinded with pain. “Don’t touch me!”

  “Darling, please,” he said, weeping blood tears of his own. “Let me make you understand.”

  “Would you entrance me, too?” she demanded.

  “No, I swear.” He reached for her, the cross holding him at bay. She had no evil in her heart, no malice, and he had betrayed her, brought hell itself into her sanctuary. “That creature was never your father—”

  “And what are you, beloved?” Even now, she could not help but love him; even stained with blood, his face was beautiful, the face of her angel. But how could she believe him? “What is it you want?”

  “Just you,” he promised, moving closer in spite of the pain, desperate to reach her. “I love you, Isabel.”

  “No,” she said softly, barely louder than a whisper.

  “Yes,” he promised, coming closer still. “I love you.” He reached out to touch her.

  “No!” she screamed, backing away, and Brautus attacked, plunging his sword into Simon’s stomach. Isabel’s screams dried up into a gasp as the vampire stared down at the blade, then back up into Brautus’s eyes. “No,” she said more softly, almost a whisper. “Brautus, no…” She took a step toward him, a sob rising in her throat.

  But her lover didn’t fall. Suddenly he started laughing, so much like the demon, the vampire who had fallen from the window, she thought she must be dreaming. “Simon?”

  Simon fell to his knees, still laughing, and Brautus let go of the sword. “The Black Knight,” the vampire rasped, drawing the blade from his stomach, his frozen flesh hissing as it healed.

  “Sweet Christ,” Isabel said softly, clutching the cross. “Save us, please, dear God…”

  “He will,” Simon answered, letting the sword fall from his hand. “You are innocent.”