Realm of Shadows (Vampire Alliance)

by Heather Graham

  In those days he learned that he would never judge any man, or woman, by their nationality. By their color, their religion, their sex. Goodness came in many guises, including this man, his friend, Weiss, and the others, whose humanity continued to override their fear.

  He didn’t know how long he had been there; it felt like years. Pain could make a moment an eternity.

  But there was a change. And one night, and when the others were gone, Weiss sat next to him and he spoke about the collapse of the empire, and that the commanders, beginning to realize their own brand of fear, were planning to raze the camp.

  The gas chamber would work around the clock; the crematorium likewise. Prisoners were to be killed, rather than left to be found. Credence could not be given to what the world suspected.

  “I have to get you out ... out ... and yet, you know nothing yet. Nothing. Nothing of what you are, of what you have become, of what you must do, how it must be.” The doctor was distracted. The lieutenant thought that the pressure had at last unhinged his mind.

  “They’ll come for you. They’ll want you to disappear, they’ll make you nothing more than ashes, and there will be nothing to know, nothing to speculate upon.”

  “Guard yourself, my friend,” the lieutenant said softly. “Your people will need men like you.”

  “My people—no people—will ever believe that I did my best in my small way.”

  “If what you say is true, and the war is lost, there will be trials. You will stand trial, and there will be those who have survived who will speak for you.”

  Tears fell down the doctor’s cheeks. “I have not done enough. Like others, I have been too afraid for myself.”

  They were both startled when the door suddenly burst open. The head “physician,” Andreson, strode in, followed by four of the guards. They were gaunt, tense, angry and—as customary—armed. There was an aura of something more about them today. It was visible in the way that their eyes flicked around nervously. In the way they wet dry lips far too often.

  “Weiss!” Andreson said coldly, eyeing the good man. “Well, I knew you were a traitor! I knew all along. Not that it mattered. You did nothing that I didn’t allow. But the time has come for change, and well, I didn’t really intend that you should survive the war at any time.”

  Weiss suddenly found a great deal of courage. He stood with tremendous dignity. “No, sir! I have not been the traitor, never to my land. Never to her true heart. And never to my God. And I have never expected to survive the war.”

  Andreson turned to the men who followed him.

  “Kill him,” he said flatly, but raised a hand. “Slowly. Shoot where he will feel the pain long before he dies.”

  The lieutenant didn’t know what it was that surged into him. But it was power unlike anything he had ever felt before in his life.

  Adrenaline.

  Fury.

  Suddenly, his rage was such that he was able to break the bonds and shackles that had held him prisoner for so long. He didn’t struggle.

  He merely burst free.

  Andreson shouted out orders that his men must fire quickly. He fell back.

  Yet none of it was to any avail.

  The lieutenant could move with a speed to match his strength. Bullets were fired, yes, he could feel them tearing into him, but they did not stop him.

  He reached for Andreson. The man who had tortured him day after day. Who had threatened and attempted to humble and kill Weiss.

  Reached for him ...

  He remembered that much.

  Then he saw that Andreson lay before him, in a pool of blood, as if he had been wrapped in barbed wire. And the others were shouting something, words in their language that he didn’t understand. They were taking aim again, and trying to kill him, trying to kill Weiss. He knew only that he had to stop them, and that, amazingly, he was still able to move as their bullets ricocheted wildly around the room.

  The first two ...

  He grabbed both by the throat. Slung them together, dropped them. Then the second set of men stood before him, white as sheets, still trying to kill.

  Like Weiss, they fell to the floor.

  Like Weiss, they were torn to shreds.

  And the sounds of bullets striking walls, floor, glass vials, bedding ... came to an end.

  All was silent.

  Someone was touching him. Weiss. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now. You’re bleeding, you’re . . .”

  Weiss stared at him. He was breathing hard. “Can you still hear me? Do you recognize me? Come, come, I have to get you to safety.”

  He realized he was hurt. Half dead, probably. He’d been riddled with enough bullets. Weiss was pulling on him ... strangely. He was crawling along on all fours, sliding along the blood-spattered floor. He looked back at the tangle of dead men. He blinked the blood from his own eyes, thinking he had seen movement.

  “They’re not ... dead.”

  “God, yes, they’re dead!” Weiss told him.

  There was a roaring in his head. The lieutenant was afraid he was going to pass out. Weiss led him from the building, toward the rear, and the break in the back of the high, barbed wire fence.

  He knew why the break was there without being told.

  It was the path through which the bodies of the dead were taken for disposal.

  “Guards,” he managed to say.

  Men started to cry out, to come rushing toward them. To the lieutenant’s amazement, they started shouting hoarsely, and backing away. Shots were fired, but they were panicked and hurried, and horribly off aim.

  The lieutenant didn’t understand why. He was surely a bloody pulp of a mess, but he didn’t know why that would make the guards stop in horror, making strange signals with their hands, and crying out that they must leave. They seemed in more fear than they would have been of the American army—or even the Russians.

  “Come, come, come!” Weiss kept on urging him.

  He looked back. Prisoners, gaunt as skeletons, barely able to stand, were looking on.

  “We can’t leave them,” the lieutenant muttered. But what could they do, the fragile old doctor and himself, barely hanging on?

  “We’ll come back,” Weiss assured him. “We’ll come back. In just a few hours. When the moon is full.”

  The lieutenant would have smiled if he could have done so. In a few hours! He could see the trail of blood he was leaving behind.

  In a few hours, he thought, he would be dead.

  And that was before they came at last to the stream, and he saw his own reflection.

  She was exhausted and furious.

  The evening should have been swift, and sure, but it had not been, and she had barely escaped. And the fact that she, Louisa, should have been frightened and on the run, was galling.

  And yet, she thought, trying to soothe herself, she would have her revenge. She would take it slowly, and it would be delicious. She had to remember that, when dealing with a similar power, it was best to have numbers on her side. But then again, she hadn’t even suspected that she might come across such a danger.

  It would be met.

  And obliterated.

  And as to the inhabitants of Château DeVant ... those women ...

  They, too, would be made to suffer.

  Where was Claremont? She closed her eyes, and tried to concentrate. But again, she felt the presence of danger, and she closed her mind.

  She walked through the streets, aware that too soon, dawn would come.

  Anger churned, and with it came raw hunger. Desperate hunger.

  As she traveled, senses heightened to a peak, she became aware of a presence that was near. She allowed her instinct to take flight, moved like the darkness, and like shadow.

  She found the prey she had sensed.

  Bearded ...

  Filthy, lying against a wall in an alley, a paper bag with a liquor bottle in it by his side. He was not awake, and not asleep. He sang softly.

  She came close.
<
br />   He blinked, eyes still half closed.

  His song stopped.

  She moved in.

  The man’s stench was overwhelming. Louisa thought that the drunk had not bathed in years. His clothing was caked with mud. He wore jeans that were all but stiff from dirt, spilled alcohol, and from being worn day in and day out, for however long. Bits of leaf and dirt streaked his hair and beard. It didn’t matter, she told herself. In fact she would unintentionally be doing humanity a service by ridding the streets of such trash.

  But as she moved in ...

  No.

  No, he was simply too filthy. The smell was not bearable. He was unbelievably disgusting.

  Despite her rage, she began to move on.

  A second later, he was singing again. His song was interrupted by words as he laughed at himself for his folly in fearing the shadows.

  Again, Louisa concentrated. The darkness still surrounded her, and she became a part of it. Then ... ahead of her, laughing, talking, passing a bottle of wine between them as they ambled down the streets, was a threesome. Two men, one woman.

  Her hunger, heightened by that rage that still burned within her, suddenly filled her anew.

  And yet, she knew, rage would not serve her well. It did not matter so much with a drunk in an alley, but finesse was more enjoyable.

  She walked behind the group, then quickened her step, passing them ... by just a few feet, and walking as if she had somewhere to go.

  “Ah, mademoiselle! Bonsoir!” one of the men called to her.

  “Pieter!” the woman chided. “Leave her be!”

  Louisa allowed herself to turn slightly, to survey the group. Hardly la crème de la crème of society. The woman’s skirt was too short, her blouse was low cut, and her breasts all but spilled from it. And there was something about the way she moved ...

  Ah, well. A lady of the evening. Louisa did not really judge this at all; a woman did what she did to get by. But alas, this one was somewhat coarse. The breasts were there, and so were the hips. In time, she would be quite large. Not the one to be courtesan to the rich and mighty. And not smart enough, not in the least educated, she would not even know that what she sold so cheaply could have been refined and improved ... and used for power.

  And the men ...

  A bit coarse as well. Past their first youth, but not yet old. Married? They wore no rings. Yet they had the look of men on the prowl for illicit pleasure. And still drinking, and looking for their place, at this hour.

  Cheap, oh, yes, very cheap, perhaps, if they could only afford one woman between them.

  Not at all the type she would really choose ...

  But then, they had, at least, bathed during the past decade.

  “Marie, you sound jealous, the more the merrier!” the second man said.

  Louisa allowed herself to slow down. The first man, Pieter, matched his stride to hers. “Mademoiselle ... I don’t mean to disturb you, but you are walking alone, and there is a murderer loose in the environs.”

  She took a moment to look at him. Ah, yes. A fellow a bit old before his time. Too much drinking. Too much debauchery.

  So many entertaining men went this way!

  She shuddered slightly.

  He took it as a sign that she was afraid.

  “You must have some wine. It will keep you warm. I didn’t mean to frighten you, only to protect you.”

  She accepted the bottle of wine and took a long drink, watching the man’s dark eyes. She saw the light of cunning and pleasure that touched them. Ah, yes, big fellow, he had made another conquest.

  “There is a hotel straight ahead. Perhaps you could spend a little time with us there, until it grows light, and you are not walking alone in the streets.”

  She took another swallow of the wine.

  “I’m Pieter. My friend is Jorge. And our companion is Marie.”

  Louisa nodded in the direction of the threesome.

  “I know where else we can go,” she said, her voice silky—and just a touch tremulous.

  Pieter looked her up and down, at the obvious fine cut of her clothing. And surely, that of her figure and poise. He must be thinking that he had struck gold.

  “You know somewhere else?”

  “Oh, I do.”

  She could see him calculating the money he would save if he did not have to rent a hotel room for his few hours—no, no, with these wine-sodden fellows, it would only be a few minutes’ pleasure—with his whore.

  He smiled broadly, his face appearing all the more fleshy and bloated. Was he married? If so, she’d be doing the poor wife a favor.

  “Lead on!” he told her. “Jorge, Marie, this lady has a place for us to go!”

  “Mais oui!” she murmured. “Come, come...”

  The house was not far from the ruins of the old St. Michel. She had seen the signs upon it, but she had known it once ... long ago.

  They followed her. Pieter remained beside her. From behind, Jorge ribbed him, apparently unhappy that it now appeared he had the chubby Marie while his friend had the newfound beauty. Louisa smiled. She could almost hear Marie’s pout.

  They came to the house.

  “It is condemned,” Pieter said.

  “Ah, but I’ve been in! she told him. ”There is a problem with the roof, and an upper room where a storm has weakened the supports. You must trust me. The grand salon remains ... quite grand.”

  She pulled off the boards that had sealed the entrance with so little effort that Pieter talked about the carelessness of the village in sealing a place so poorly. Louisa smiled. He must think what he liked.

  “Will we find more wine in there?” Marie whined.

  “Well, for me, I can say that there will be plenty to drink,” Louisa assured them. She looked the three over. “Perhaps it will not be the finest vintage, but ...”

  “At this point, it doesn’t matter in the least,” Jorge said.

  “No,” Louisa agreed, “I guess that it does not. We must all ... stoop beneath us a bit now and then, n’est-ce pas?”

  She didn’t wait for a reply, but slipped through the door she’d opened. The others stepped in. They looked around at the remnants of the beautiful old place, and did not notice that the door closed firmly behind them without being touched.

  “This way . . .”

  Louisa led them first to the ladies’ salon, a small room off the entryway. There was a delightful couch, and a cart with a crystal decanter of brandy upon it. Cobwebs clung around the crystal, but the stopper remained firmly in place over the contents of the bottle.

  “Jorge ... Marie, perhaps you would enjoy the splendors of this room for a moment. I think that I must get to know Pieter on a more personal level ... first.”

  Marie clasped her arms around Jorge’s waist, laughing with pleasure. “The brandy must be fine, Jorge! And see that little settee?”

  “It’s too small.”

  “You haven’t seen how I can manage furniture as yet!” Marie insisted.

  “Enjoy.”

  Louisa beckoned Pieter with a crook of her finger. He followed her out, eyes filled with anticipation. She closed the door to the salon and led him across the foyer to the men’s smoking room. A huge leather sofa faced a fireplace. Pieter did not notice that a fire burned within it, awaiting them.

  “Do you know who owned this place?” he asked.

  “Once,” she said.

  Another cart held a large choice of liquors. Pieter went to it, prowled among the bottles, and poured himself a large scotch. He drank it down in a swallow, then turned to her.

  “Let’s see what you have.”

  She arched a brow delicately.

  “You first.”

  “I will not disappoint you.”

  “No, you will not. I know what I am getting,” she said.

  He smiled, kicking off his shoes, sloughing off his jacket, then practically tearing off his shirt. He slid from his pleated pants.

  He wore some sort of underwear in
a ridiculous flag pattern. Tight, skimpy little underwear, designed, apparently, to increase the size of his bulge.

  “Pieter . . .” she purred, coming toward him. “You must show me what you’ve got. Everything you’ve got.”

  His grin deepened ridiculously and he made a point of thrusting his hips as he skimmed away the last garment. He spread out his arms. “Now, belle dame, you come and show me what you’ve got,” he said.

  “Oh, yes, certainly.” She walked deliberately toward him. She slid off one shoe, and then the other. She made an elaborate display of removing her beautiful new clothing, piece by piece, as she came near him. Of course, it was not necessary, but she did love her beautiful new contemporary designs.

  She stood before him, smiling, running her hands down the length of her body, pausing at strategic places. “I have got this ... and this . . .”

  She paused, certain that he was going to pop on the spot.

  “And this . . .” She rubbed her hands low over her abdomen, pressing with slow eroticism against her mound. “This ... and . . .”

  She walked the last step toward him, just out of arm’s reach.

  “And I have got these,” she told him.

  She opened her mouth wide. For a moment, his wine-sodden mind was so befuddled that he did not grasp what he saw.

  She heard the inhalation of his breath. And she knew that he was about to scream.

  She did not allow him to do so. Her assault was instantaneous. Rich, warm nourishment flooded into her body. She gripped her prey as he shook spasmodically in her grasp. He never let out a sound, for she had dealt with his windpipe.

  She allowed herself the luxury of sinking to the floor. Of drinking slowly and surely, savoring every drop, lapping up each tiny bit, all but writhing in ecstacy at the luxurious meal, taken at her full leisure. It didn’t hurt at all that this drink was so heavily ... spiked.

  When she had finished, she tossed the remains aside. She would deal with them later.