A Vampire's Hunger

by Carla Susan Smith

  It had not been so long ago that both of them had witnessed firsthand the debacle humans called double-you-double-you-eye-eye. Seeing the sadistic brutality of the concentration camps had changed something in the silver-eyed vampire.

  “They have the audacity to call us monsters.” Ryiel’s tone had been chilling enough to make the hairs on the back of his sentinel’s neck rise, making him wonder if the vampire was thinking the same as he. Had Gabriel permitted the destruction of a generation, as Ryiel had once suggested, would it have prevented such madness, or merely postponed it? Since then Ryiel had ventured even less into the outside world, preferring to keep to the monastery and have contact only with those humans he wished to. Except now it seemed someone had decided the vampire had kept to himself for too long. If he wouldn’t rejoin the modern world willingly, a way would be found to change his mind. Although why it was so important that he do so was the mystery.

  The coppery smell of blood hit them a quarter mile out. Thick and heavy, it caused Stavros to bend over and eliminate whatever was in his stomach. After that, both of them breathed through their open mouths as much as possible.

  In the spring, Ryiel would allow his sentinel to leave him and travel to Japan in order to see the sakura, or cherry blossoms. Stavros would spend a week in Osaka and Kyoto, admiring nature’s perfection, before returning to the monastery. Now he wondered if someone was playing a cruel trick, because the trees on either side of the road were awash with pink and red blossoms. It took a few moments for his mind to comprehend what he was seeing were the trees’ natural foliage stained with blood and tissue matter.

  Bodies were strewn everywhere.

  Young, old, male, female, it made no difference. The villagers lay where they’d fallen. Most of the dead showed evidence of having been mauled with varying degrees of savagery. On some the skin at the throat had been ripped open, so the network of veins and arteries were more easily found amongst the muscles and sinews. Others had been attacked so violently that spinal columns were completely severed.

  “If this is the work of vampires,” Stavros observed in disgust, “it’s vampires who don’t know how to feed.”

  “They don’t,” Ryiel agreed. “What you are seeing is evidence of newly made vampires. With no one to guide them, no code of conduct to follow, they rely on instinct alone.”

  “They’ve been turned and let loose?” Stavros found the idea incomprehensible. “You have seen such behavior before?”

  Ryiel nodded his head. “Indeed I have.”

  “Where? When?” It wasn’t only curiosity driving the sentinel’s question. Never having dealt with a newly made vampire before, he was hoping for an edge to use against an unknown enemy.

  “How do you think we started, Stavros? Myself and every Original made have, at one time, left bodies like these in our wake.” His mouth fashioned itself into a grim line. “It is why the act of turning a human is never taken lightly.”

  “I think someone in your fraternity no longer shares the same philosophy.”

  “So it would appear,” the vampire reluctantly agreed.

  They moved systematically through the village, checking every building, every barn and stable, every chicken coop. An avenue of carnage lay before them, its broad width littered with dead bodies, both human and animal. Whoever was behind the slaughter had not discriminated. Cattle, horses, goats, and dogs had also had their throats ripped open. Blood was blood. It wasn’t until they came to the large building that served as the village’s meeting hall that they saw signs of a different vampire involvement.

  Several young women lay side by side on the floor, all carefully positioned with hands folded neatly on their chests, feet crossed at the ankles, and eyes closed. They looked as if they were sleeping, drugged perhaps. Stavros gave a murmur of thanks, until Ryiel corrected him.

  “They’re not under some spell. They’re all quite dead.”

  “But they look . . . peaceful.”

  Ryiel moved to the closest female and squatted by her head. With careful movements, he gently rolled the woman’s head, exposing the wound in her neck. The slice was elegant, its precision boasting centuries of practice. As the wounds were deep enough to cut the carotid artery without having to waste any additional energy, Ryiel suspected each woman was dead before she realized her murderer was standing next to her.

  “Are they all like that?” Seeing Ryiel nod, he queried, “A different vampire did this?”

  “Most definitely,” Ryiel told him. “You don’t go from that”—he pointed to the doorway where a man who had been nearly decapitated lay—“to this in the blink of an eye.”

  “He took his time with them. Not the killing,” the sentinel clarified, “but afterward. Laying them out in such a way.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “So why do you think he didn’t feed from them, or want any of the others to?”

  Each woman had been positioned so her blood would drain through a slat in the floor and flow directly into the ground supporting the building.

  “He’s sending a message,” Ryiel said, coming upright.

  “A message? To whom?”

  The vampire arched a brow. “As these are all women I have fed from, I can only assume it’s meant for me.”

  Stavros opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of another howl ripped through the air. Part human, part animal, it was all vampire—and close by. The sentinel was nearly knocked over by the force of the enraged vampire moving past him, and the bloodlust howl was suddenly cut off in mid-shriek.

  Still trying to regain his equilibrium, Stavros stumbled out of the building to find Ryiel standing no more than a few strides away with the body of an apparently dead vampire crumpled at his feet. The sentinel arched a brow. “What happened to keeping one alive?”

  “I didn’t kill him.” Ryiel’s eyes flashed a mercurial silver.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Stavros looked around, immediately on the alert.

  “Yes, he’s dead . . . he just fell down.”

  Stavros approached the body with caution. The vampire was male, in his early twenties, the sentinel guessed, although it was difficult to be sure because his face was locked in a spasm of excruciating pain: brows drawn tightly together, eyes squeezed shut, and nostrils flared wide open. His lips were pulled back from teeth clenched in a snarl, with fangs fully extended. “I don’t understand,” Stavros said. “How did he die?”

  He wasn’t doubting the word of the Original. If Ryiel said the vampire fell down, then he fell down, but what had caused the newly made vampire to collapse in agonizing pain?

  Ryiel pointed at the body. “Look at his fangs. They haven’t retracted.”

  Stavros reached out a finger to touch one of the incisors, hearing a warning hiss of caution from above his head as he did so. Whenever a vampire was incapacitated and unable to function or defend itself, its fangs automatically retracted. Although it had been many years, a few centuries actually, since Stavros had last come across the body of a dead vampire, Ryiel’s statement suggested the mechanics had not changed. He pushed on the dead vampire’s upper gum with the pad of his thumb. Even as long as an hour after death, applying pressure to the correct part of the gum would still make the fangs retract. These did not.

  “I don’t think they can,” Stavros said. “Have you ever seen this happen before?”

  Ryiel shook his head. Even Oscar, the vampire deliberately starved by Katja, was still able to retract his fangs. It was agony for him due to his debilitated condition, but not impossible. “No,” he replied, “never.” Ryiel paused and frowned as he looked at the dead vampire’s face. “They’re too big.”

  “What are?”

  “His fangs. A newly made vampire shouldn’t have fangs so big. Look—” He dropped his own to demonstrate. Fully extended, Ryiel’s fangs fell past his chin, and like all vampires, he only exposed as much length as was needed. The dead vampire had fangs that were almost as long as the Original’s: something impossi
ble for a newly made vampire. And yet the evidence was impossible to ignore. Ryiel retracted his own fangs with a soft click. “See if he’s carrying any identification.”

  Items such as driver’s licenses and ID cards remained viable for some time after a human was turned, and even when they were no longer relevant, many vampires were loath to relinquish a reminder of the person they had once been. It seemed a safe bet that the vampire’s wallet would contain a wealth of information. Unfortunately, it was a bet neither Ryiel nor his sentinel was going to collect on.

  The moment Stavros’s fingers grasped the edge of the vampire’s coat, he felt a band of steel wrap around his upper body as he was slammed back into the hard wall of Ryiel’s chest. The Original Vampire pulled his sentinel away from the figure on the ground, and they both watched the corpse before them disintegrate until it was nothing but a pile of ash.

  “What the fuck . . . ?” Stavros muttered under his breath, hearing a grunt of agreement as Ryiel relinquished his hold. “I didn’t know a vampire could do that,” the sentinel said.

  Dropping to his haunches, Ryiel sifted a handful of the fine, pale gray ash between his fingers. “They can’t.”

  “Not even if they’re fried by the sun?”

  “Not even then. Sunlight will burn them, but it always leaves enough remains to be identified, besides . . .” Ryiel made a point of looking at the dark, star-filled sky.

  “Oh . . .” Feeling slightly foolish, Stavros blushed.

  “There’s nothing here to make you think this was ever human,” Ryiel continued. “It could just as easily be the remnants of a chair as of a vampire.” He got to his feet, brushing the remaining ash from his hands. The hope of finding any survivors was no longer an option. If there had been a single heart still beating, no matter how faint, Ryiel would have heard it. But the valley was eerily silent, offering nothing audible from man, beast, or vampire. “Let’s see how many more of these we can find.” He kicked at the remnants, turning the toe of his boot gray.

  “You think there will be more?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  In the end, they counted seventeen piles of cinders. All that remained of the attacking vampires.

  “Seventeen vampires to slaughter a population of almost a thousand in less than, what? An hour at most?” The warrior side of the sentinel’s nature couldn’t help but be impressed by the efficiency.

  “Eighteen,” Ryiel corrected. “You forgot the one who let them loose.”

  Stavros shook his head. He was having difficulty processing the deaths of so many people for no apparent reason. Farmers he had planted springtime crops with, harvesting the same in the fall. Comely young women who had willingly invited him to share their beds. Smiling mothers who allowed him to cradle their infants in the safety of his huge hands. And none tore at his heart like the children. Girls who had sat on his lap sharing their secrets as they wove garlands of flowers for him to wear on his head and around his neck. Young boys also wanting to confide secrets of their own as they played rough-and-tumble games and climbed all over him. Now they were all gone.

  “Why would someone do such a thing?” he asked, hearing the hitch in his voice as he covered his eyes with a weary hand.

  Ryiel placed a hand on the back of Stavros’s neck and pulled him into a fierce embrace. “I don’t know, but they will pay for what they have done,” the vampire promised. Releasing his hold, he looked into his sentinel’s eyes. “In the meantime, we must take care of the dead.”

  “You think they will rise?”

  “I don’t know. They should not, but the vampires that slew them . . .” His voice trailed off, letting Stavros see he was not the only one sickened and left disheartened by the massacre of an entire people. And these murderers were no ordinary vampires. There were too many unknowns. “There is no way to be sure, but I will take no chances.”

  Stavros watched as Ryiel pulled free the claymore strapped to his back. It was a beautiful weapon measuring seventy-six inches overall, far longer than any other sword of its kind ever created, the sentinel wagered. Even now he could still recall the look of disbelief on the face of the swordsmith. The man had pointed out, as politely as he could without giving offense, the possible inaccuracy of the specifications he was being given. No one had ever made a sword of such size.

  “Are you saying it is beyond your ability to fashion such a weapon? That you lack the skill?” The man had bristled at the insult. “Perhaps I should ask another,” Stavros had murmured slyly. “I’m certain there is one here who could accommodate my request with fewer questions.”

  The sound of clinking coins overcame the last of the craftsman’s objections, but he was not, however, entirely finished with his protest.

  “If I agree to make this sword to the size you require, you must promise not to hold me at fault, and you must guarantee me your protection when your master demonstrates his displeasure.” There was only a hint of belligerence in the man’s tone.

  “Why do you suppose the sword is for another?” Curiosity made Stavros ask the question.

  “Hold out your arm.” The swordsmith was barely able to contain his glee when Stavros complied. With an expert eye he gauged the distance from outstretched limb to the ground, checking the instructions on the parchment he had been given. “I’ll wager the man who will wield this weapon is at least half a foot taller than you, wider at the shoulder with a broader stance.”

  Stavros grinned. It was a small thing to allow the swordsmith his victory, especially when it guaranteed Ryiel would have the weapon he desired. He left, promising to return at the specified time and wondering if the man would be as insolent before Ryiel. He was not, but in all fairness it was probably difficult to talk with his mouth gaping open at the sight of the vampire brandishing the massive sword with only one hand.

  In the years following, Ryiel had found a need to use the claymore no more than a half dozen times, and always for the same purpose: to separate a vampire from his head. He had not brought it with him when Gabriel requested his help in dealing with Katja, but that was because both of them had seriously underestimated her hatred of Rowan. Knowing she would never have Gabriel for herself, she was prepared to see his Promise dead, and had starved another vampire in order to achieve that end. Killing Oscar had been a kindness, and on reflection, Ryiel decided being without the claymore had probably been just as well. The shock on Rowan’s face when he had used his hands to put the starving vampire out of his misery had been bad enough. Would seeing his blade slice through tissue, bone, and muscle have been better or worse?

  Now the hilt of the claymore rested lightly in his hand, the weight of the blade perfectly balanced. Becoming a vampire was always a choice, and these bodies strewn before him had been given no choice. He had been truthful in telling Stavros he had no idea if they would rise as some form of vampire. They should not because they did not possess the required gene in their DNA, but he knew less than nothing about the vampires that had killed them. How had they been made?

  Deciding it was not a risk he was willing to take, Ryiel nodded at his sentinel. Stavros would build the pyre while he decapitated each body he came across, and together they would burn them all.

  Chapter 9

  Katja scowled as she watched Ryiel and Stavros make their way down the side of the mountain. She could follow Ryiel with her senses until the vertical drop of over a thousand feet to the valley floor made it impossible for her to track him. She wasn’t sure if it was the drop itself or the Original Vampire’s will that interfered with her ability. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t hold onto him, letting out a snarl of frustration every time he slipped away from her.

  It had crossed her mind to defy Ryiel and test the seriousness of his threat if she were to follow him into the valley, but an inexplicable feeling of terror had filled her when he spoke of shattering her legs. She told herself it was nothing but coincidence, her mind momentarily succumbing to the power of suggestion, but why take t
he chance? Though the silver-eyed vampire had made her, she knew little about him. For centuries the only recollection she had of her maker was a vague memory of liquid platinum eyes and glossy black hair. And no matter how hard she tried to get a feel for him, she was not strong enough to take advantage of the connection they shared. She could sense his presence within her but could not follow the thread back to him; thus he remained elusive.

  The only vampire she had no difficulty sensing at any place or time was Vladimir, the Carpathian goat herder who had begged Ryiel to turn her for him, but the desire was one-sided. Once in his presence, Katja could hardly wait to be away from him. No matter how much time passed or how urbane his lifestyle, Vladimir always smelled like goat piss to her. She didn’t remember it bothering her when she was human, but then her senses were not as heightened. He was the first male ever to fall so completely under her spell, and she reveled in her power over him. When he told her the truth about what he was, and how she could become a vampire too, Katja had jumped at the chance. She’d embraced her new life as if she had been born with fangs.

  But even with her heightened senses and newfound awareness, Katja never saw Vladimir as anything more than a coarse, uncultured peasant. She barely made it through her first year before deciding there was nothing left he could teach her. It wasn’t until a few centuries later that she learned the sad-eyed goat herder was a particular favorite of Ryiel.

  Then, older and shrewder, Katja wondered if she had foolishly overlooked an opportunity. Few vampires enjoyed any type of regular contact with an Original, but if Vladimir was able to boast of such a connection, it was an opening worth pursuing. She sought to rekindle their relationship, but her former lover had changed during her prolonged absence. No longer a lovesick puppy, Vladimir had grown up. He did not welcome her back with open arms. Instead, he was suspicious and openly questioned her motive for seeking him out. What was more, he showed his disdain by refusing her his bed. Unused to rejection in any form, Katja’s pride was hurt by his cold manner. For someone who had once been so enraptured by her beauty, who had begged his reluctant maker to turn her, Vladimir’s change in attitude was wounding. But Katja was, if nothing else, tenacious. If Vladimir no longer wanted her as a lover, she would become what he did want—a surrogate daughter, obedient to her father’s bidding for as long as it suited her purpose.