The Darkest Colors

by David M. Bachman

  Raina let go of his wrist and began to flail her arm in a desperate reach for the rear door handle. Her fingers just barely could hook into the handle, but at a point so close to the pivot point of the lever that there was no way she could pull back firmly enough from that angle to actually open the door. She only tried to push back against his weight for a moment, but quickly abandoned that idea. He had almost fifty pounds’ more weight than she did, and an incredible amount of strength to hold his body in position atop her by pushing a foot against the back of the front seats. If the act of covering her nose and mouth didn’t suffocate her first, the crushing pressure of him would be enough, as even those brief gasps she’d been spared were the limit of her breathing capacity under his weight. When she finally managed to halfway reach under his arm, intending to either put a thumb through his eye socket or into his windpipe, he grabbed the wrist of that hand with almost crushing force and pulled it across her own chest, thereby completing his physical dominance over her.

  She was completely at a loss for defenses. She could not kick or knee him. She could not blind him, choke him, or apply a joint lock of any manner. She couldn’t squirm around enough to snake her way out from under him. She couldn’t even bite his hand through the thick, soft, fluffy cotton cloth, though she tried it again and again. She wanted to scream, but even then she had the presence of mind to know that doing so would use up what little oxygen she had left in her lungs; her scream would surely never be heard, and the need to inhale immediately afterward would only give her another huge dose of whatever he’d used to soak the cloth. Already, her whole body was growing numb and tingly, much like the feeling she would get after taking that one last shot of liquor that she knew she would regret the next morning.

  Raina gave in to the last hope for defense that she had. She decided to play possum. True, that first breath of what was surely chloroform was enough to give her one hell of a buzz, but it was not enough to do her in. She was aching for a breath, her chest constricting with the painfully automatic need to inhale, but she held on. She thought it was a convincing enough attempt at acting under stress. Raina allowed her eyelids to flutter closed, rolling her eyes upward as she did, and she slowly allowed her whole body to go limp underneath him. There was no hope for relaxing that last inner part of herself, the burning need for air feeling like a knife in her chest. She could only pray that the rest of the gesture would be convincing enough for him not to notice her chest and stomach clenched so tightly.

  It didn’t work … or, if it did, his intentions seemed to go beyond the act of rendering her unconscious. He kept the cloth pressed over her nose and mouth. For all she knew, the liquid he’d applied to the cloth may have been something lethal in nature. Was the Duke a necrophiliac? Would he do her when she was dead? She had often wondered about what sex was like with a vampire, even having subconsciously given a brief thought to the idea of this particular High Court vampire just moments before, but she didn’t want to be deceased when it happened.

  It was only as he spoke the last few words of his incantation that she suddenly became consciously aware of what he’d been saying throughout the attack. The realization horrified her so much, even more than the prospect of death or rape, that her eyes flew open wide. Her act of unconsciousness ruined, she fought against him with sudden and renewed vigor. The apparent resurrection almost caught him off guard, enough that she was able to force her head aside and get the cloth away from her mouth long enough to take a full gasp of air. She tasted and smelled the strange chemical substance as she did so, but the breath was invigorating, so very welcome, and it gave her enough strength to stay conscious for a few moments longer.

  “I’m sorry, Raina. I’m so very, very sorry,” the Duke said as he got the cloth over her mouth and nose once more. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

  Bursts of bright color flashed throughout her vision, and blackness crept in around the edges. It was time to go. She knew it was over. Like the time she had been put under anesthesia for the surgical removal of her wisdom teeth, she felt her body shutting down before her conscious mind could follow suit. Her brain was sending commands to her muscles, but her limbs were simply not functioning at all. This time, for real, she turned limp underneath the weight of that seemingly noble, gentlemanly High Court vampire, and with her last two breaths, she screamed … or at least she tried. The first was loud and long, even though muffled by the cloth, more of a despairing wail of defeat; the second, after taking in another full breath of fumes from the cloth, was little more than a shuddering groan. The sight of Duke Sebastian Fallamhain’s face, his eyes still staring into hers with an almost pitying look, was the last she would see before the comforting, deafening blackness stole away the last of her senses. She dove into that endless sea, the darkest colors of nothingness, with regrets for her failures and fears that she may never emerge from the void that swallowed her whole.

  * * * *

  Chapter Five

  Sebastian’s hands were shaking so terribly, so damp and slick with sweat, that even if he did manage not to crash his vehicle on the way to his destination, he doubted he could hold a proper grip upon his sword once he arrived. He considered calling Duvessa once again during the drive there, but he had already discarded his cell phone. He loved his Maker dearly, not a bit less now than he had a century before, and he felt that he hadn’t adequately made that clear to her in his last call. And, indeed, it might very well have been his last conversation with her. The conveniences of modern technology had spoiled him; he had fallen out of the wise practice of treating any farewell as a final goodbye.

  Did he truly hold so little faith in his own abilities? Was he so scared by the deaths of his brethren in blood that he had already surrendered the fight before his foe had even drawn her sword upon him? He was not afraid of death, certainly not with so many years of countless prior close calls and deadly risks, and he had long ago made his peace with God. Still, he cherished life. It seemed a shame that it should ever have to end, even if for a righteous cause. He could only hope to do his best, praying that it would be enough to keep his beloved mistress and Maker safe. Even if he failed to stop Countess Wilhelmina’s murderous conquest from taking his own life, he could still die with the comfort of knowing he had not failed Duvessa completely.

  It was regrettable to have found it necessary to do such a terrible thing to such a kind, intelligent, and lovely young woman as Raina Delgado, but her sufferance was a small price to pay for the success of larger matters in the overall scheme of things. He had left her slumped in the back seat of her car, having positioned her to appear as though she were merely resting comfortably. It was late enough in the evening that anyone able to see through the tinted windows of her car might have only suspected that she had passed out, either from tiredness or intoxication.

  The taste of Raina’s blood and the scent of her breath had told him that she had been no stranger to alcohol that evening. So sad it was that such a beautiful girl with such talents and skills as hers should have such poor self-esteem that she should find it necessary to dose herself with liquor to find comfort. Indeed, she had been a very unique and appealing young woman in so many ways, such a very rare soul. At the very least, he wondered if Duvessa would have shared his opinion of Raina; he had long been a snap judge of character, yet his conclusions quite often fell in harmony with the more deliberate and calculated evaluations made by his Maker. There was so much he would have liked to know about her, so much he wished that he could have afforded to tell her than he had, but that was nothing to consider now. He had done what he had needed to do to her, and she was gone, gone from this world as much to him as the rest of the House of Fallamhain … and even Duvessa, if he fell to the Countess this night.

  Had he been wrong to take her? No, he could not lie to himself. He had wanted her, and not simply because the stress of this night’s many tragedies had pushed him to the edge of bloodlust. He had made his duty an excuse to indulge in sin. She ha
d drawn from him, and he had drawn from her – she with a needle, and he with his fangs. The guilt of his intrusive extravagance ate at him from within more than anything else. If Duvessa learned of it – and she would, if he survived the night – she would punish him severely. Rather than playing out his sword movements in his mind for the duel to come, he was instead preoccupied and aroused by the memory of Raina Delgado. Her taste, her warmth, her silken softness … the experience lingered as much in his mind as did the effects of having sampled her blood remained with the rest of his body.

  Driving far above the posted speed limit on the Loop 202, passing the sparse midnight traffic with easy grace, he found himself running his tongue over his lips and teeth again and again. The sharp coppery flavor of human blood was so different than that of the sweet, almost sugary taste of another vampire’s. It lingered for much, much longer, and the intoxication it offered was much stronger. It had been a strict taboo imposed upon all of the House of Fallamhain, that none were to partake of an unwilling human’s blood. Admittedly, it had been a few months since he had last savored that guilty pleasure … and the death of that lovely young woman of downtown London haunted him still. He had not taken it as far with Raina as he had with his last victim, but the uninvited caresses and other intrusions he had indulged in as she had lain there were no less damning. And at least he had always been discreet about it … and, sadly, that was more than he could say for others of the House of Fallamhain, including Duvessa. Their penchants for sadism and even torture were but fearful whispers among those of the High Court, but universally notorious, nevertheless. He had touched her, tasted her, and taken her … but only out of necessity. Was it wrong to find pleasure in doing what one was told?

  When he arrived at the parking lot of his hotel, he was hardly surprised to find it completely surrounded by police, media personnel, and curious onlookers. His place of temporary dwelling had been a secret to nobody, but he had deliberately chosen it with the hopes that its layout would allow for more privacy than he might find elsewhere. The media were not allowed inside of the fenced grounds of the downtown Tempe resort hotel, so they had adhered themselves to nearly every foot of the iron fence, like moths beating against a window that kept them from a light bulb. A police officer halted him as he turned to attempt to enter the front gate, and directed him to roll down his window.

  “Where you headed?” the officer demanded of him, rudely shining a very bright flashlight directly at his face.

  “My destiny, as it would seem.”

  “Got your VIC handy?”

  Sebastian was ready for this, and readily handed his Vampire Identification Card to the policeman. The officer eyed the VIC for a moment with uncertainty, glanced twice at its owner, and then handed it back with a nod. He waved to another two officers.

  “This is the guy! Clear a path!” he shouted. He then nodded to the vampire. “Go ahead.”

  The three officers promptly began to push away the throng of news photographers, cameramen, and reporters that were nearly spilling over the crowd-control fences they had erected around the front gate. He paid no mind to any of them, their flashing lights, or their shouted questions as he drove through the gap in the human wall that the policemen created. He glanced at his rearview mirror and saw the gap fill itself again behind him twice as quickly as it had been made like a school of fish cautiously making way for a passing shark. Nearly all of the residents and employees of the hotel were milling about in the parking lot and on their balconies, eager to see what the fuss was about. As he rounded the bend of the large circular drive that went around an immense water fountain, he immediately saw why.

  The bloodshed had already begun in his absence. He had insisted that he leave to meet Raina on his own, and that his escort should contact him immediately if anything should occur while he was away. Lord Christopher and Lady Kathleen were young and bold Commoners, their loyalty unfailing, and their friendship valuable … but they were fools. And now, one of them was already dead.

  The blood surrounding Lord Christopher’s decapitated body glistened wetly with colors of surreal vividness in the glare of his Lincoln’s headlamps. His severed head lay about a meter away from his feet, his face obscured by the spill of his long, dyed black hair that had wrapped around itself during the tumble from his shoulders. Something about the way his body was positioned, as well as the visible lack of any other wounds, told Sebastian that his death had been sudden, instantaneous … and probably the result of a youthful bullishness to stand up to his foes.

  He left the engine running and the headlamps on as he saw Lady Kathleen standing at ready with her sword clenched in both hands, still squaring off with the killer of her partner and lover. She bled profusely from several cuts upon her arms, legs, and body, her blouse and pants sliced to reveal the deep laceration wounds she’d endured in what was surely her first actual sword battle. She was still standing at ready, but tears streamed down her face, and she was struggling to stifle her own miserable sobs. He could feel her misery and fear, even at a distance – the emotional empathy of his telepathic bond was not limited to the High Court race – and her rage was only barely held in check by the relief she felt for his arrival.

  Countess Wilhelmina only became visible to Sebastian as he stepped closer to Lady Kathleen, her tall and lithe figure obscured by the large base for one of two tall statues at the walkway leading up to the hotel’s entrance. She was dressed entirely in a black cat suit of some manner, sporting thigh-high leather boots with agile soles, her long blonde hair tied up neatly in a braided bun atop her head. A sheathed dagger was strapped securely to each of her shapely, firm thighs. The sheath of her short, straight sword was strapped securely to her back, and the toes of her boots were precisely fitted even to the form of her toes, looking something like a ninja in both her attire and her choice of an edged weapon. Her stance was nothing at all for fighting, but rather for mocking; she stood with her blade drawn, but her arms folded under her modestly-sized breasts as she leaned against the base of the large statue of a seated lion. The bold, angular features of her face were quite striking in the bleaching light of the SUV. Yet again he could not lie to himself, feeling almost shamed to admit that he did find her to be among the most beautiful members of the IVC. She was the picturesque ideal of the Aryan High Court vampire race that Nazi scientists had attempted to replicate in the 1940’s, and it was more than just her appearance that lent credence to the rumors that still circulated about her past involvement with that nefarious chapter in world history.

  What she held in physical beauty, however, she more than counterbalanced with a cruel nature and a thirst for blood that went beyond mere vampirism. The Countess had long been the most outspoken opponent of the Grand Duchess’s plans to reveal the IVC to humanity and to become harmonious with their governments. She preferred the days of old, the dark ages of taboo bloodlust, inhuman depravity, and racial exclusivity. More than that, however, she was completely unforgiving. Not even the passing of a century’s time could have changed her feelings … and indeed, it had not.

  “Sheathe your weapon, Lady Kathleen,” Sebastian commanded as he stopped a few meters away from her right side. “This is not your fight.”

  “On the contrary, the fight is hers to finish,” the Countess answered with her very mature, silky, mildly accented tone – British, not German, in spite of her name. “Your guard has elected to directly challenge me. However, it appears that she cannot finish what she has begun.”

  Sebastian was about to ask for clarification when he noticed the way that Lady Kathleen was standing. She had placed all of her weight upon her right foot, barely touching the ground with the toe of her left dress shoe. A small pool of blood was forming under her left foot, trailing from the deep gash in her left thigh. It was not an arterial blow, but the cut was deep enough to be nearly crippling. Had she struck the limb more squarely, the Countess could have severed it as cleanly as she had removed Lord Christopher’s head.

&nbs
p; Even if the fight were stopped now, it would take Kathleen days to heal all of her wounds completely, due to the weapon the Countess employed. The mirror-like gleam of her blood-smeared sword reminded him that, like all of the High Court, she had coated her blade in pure silver, a substance that was poisonous to most vampires. Wounds inflicted by an edged weapon with a particular kind of silver coating were exceptionally painful, reluctant to stop bleeding, and almost human in their healing time. Sadly, the amount of silver exposure to which Lady Kathleen already had been exposed was possibly fatal. Sebastian’s intervention at this point would have been just as futile as Kathleen’s attempt to continue fighting. Still, he would have preferred that she die gently and in peace than directly at the hands of someone as sadistic as the Countess, someone that would make Kathleen’s death as agonizing and traumatic as possible while enjoying every moment of causing it.

  “Kathleen, please. Let me stand in your place,” he told her gently. “You cannot defeat her.”

  “She killed him! She fucking murdered him!” she cried aloud through her tears, jabbing the tip of her sword in her foe’s direction.

  “I was within my rights to cut him down,” Countess Wilhelmina insisted calmly, glancing almost lazily at her victim’s remains. “He challenged me as soon as I introduced myself. I accepted the challenge, and he failed to win. That is not murder. That is our Code. That is the law your Grand Duchess, herself, has written.”

  “He never even drew his sword, you bitch!” Kathleen screamed. “He never had a chance to do anything! All he did was stand in your way, and you cut off his fucking head!”

  “You Americans always refuse to accept responsibility for your own actions,” she admonished the younger vampire with a wagging, leather-gloved finger. “He challenged me before he was even ready to fight. He made a very stupid mistake. You did, as well. You should never allow your emotions to overtake your common sense. You challenged me to a fight that you knew that you could not win. That is why you now stand bleeding and ready to die.”