The Oldest Living Vampire In Love (The Oldest Living Vampire Saga Book 3)

by Joseph Duncan

  Of course, dreams and prophecy have long been closely related. It is a phenomenon common to all human societies, from modern times to the most ancient civilizations. I myself have dreamed the future. Once. When I was still a mortal man. I dreamed of my doom, personified by the snake god of the Grey Stone People. Was my dream of the vampire Zenzele a premonition of doom as well? I had dreamed of my maker’s coming. Was this spiteful beauty, then, fated to be my un-maker?

  O, Ancestors, let it be so!

  If death was come for me, it could not have bore a finer countenance.

  We had come to the peak of the great wooded ridge. The ground here was open and strewn with slabs of weathered granite, frosted in ice. Far below, in the distance, the forest gave way to a rolling plain, and there, twinkling like distant stars, the lights of many small fires. Torches, I realized, squinting to bring them into focus; a procession of torches wriggling eastward like a snake.

  “How is it you speak the tongue of the Tanti?” I asked, returning my attention to the mounted woman.

  She rode silently for several minutes. I did not think she was going to answer, but then she sighed and said, “I speak all the tongues of this region, beautiful one. These lands are my keeping, as they have been for many cycles of the seasons. The Tanti are known to me. We have many Tanti slaves in Uroboros. They are strong, obedient workers.”

  “Uroboros?” I asked.

  “The city of the gods!” the woman shouted in disbelief, wheeling around on her animal. “Yahi, beautiful one! Do you know nothing of the world? Who is the blood god who made you immortal?”

  “My maker taught me nothing,” I said. “He made me a blood drinker against my will. For that transgression, I took his life. I am far from the lands where I was born a mortal man. I know nothing of your blood drinker ways.”

  I saw a flicker of compassion in her eyes. It was fleeting—there, then gone an instant later—and then she merely looked annoyed. Perhaps I’d only imagined it.

  “Do not expect me to be your wet-nurse,” she said, sliding back around on her animal. “We are returning to Uroboros. When we arrive, I will present you to our ruler, Khronos. He will decide your fate. Until then, you are bound to me. You have sworn on your honor.”

  I nodded.

  She knew that I could escape her. It was the promise I had made to her which restrained me, not the rope around my neck. She had spared the life of my son, and in return, I had made an oath to serve her, and I intended to honor that oath—for the time being.

  Until we were far away from the Tanti. Until I felt sure that Ilio would be safe.

  When we had travelled far enough away, when I was certain that my loved ones were safe from retribution, then I might think of… renegotiating the conditions of my surrender.

  Until then, I would be her obedient slave.

  Also, I wanted to see this “city of the blood gods”.

  Uroboros.

  Just the sound of it excited me.

  2

  We left the forest behind and started across the plains, headed toward that wavering line of torches. The snow had begun to fall more heavily, the wind blowing fiercely east to west. The great beast that Zenzele rode upon snorted and shivered, its breath coming out of its wide nostrils in puffs of steam, but the woman did not seem bothered by the whorls of cutting ice, despite the fact that her legs and arms were mostly bare. No more than I, walking barefoot at her side. She was a powerful blood drinker. I knew this the way all vampires know the strength of other blood drinkers. It is an instinctive thing. From the moment I saw her, I knew that she was every bit as powerful as I.

  Our going was slow in the plains. The snow had bent the high grass into great white humps, and the ground was a soggy morass. If I were free, I would have taken to the heavens, crossing the snowy field in great bounds. But my mistress would not allow it. The animal she rode upon was a mortal creature, and she showed no inclination of abandoning it, though the poor thing was having as much trouble walking in the muck as I.

  My captor seemed to have a great affection for her beast. She stroked its thick neck and murmured words of encouragement into its ear, speaking in a tongue I did not know—the language of the T’sukuru, I assumed. When the animal’s legs became mired in the mud, she slid down from its back and helped to pull them free.

  “I shouldn’t have ridden her through all this mud and snow,” she said, and then her eyes flashed at me meaningfully, as if to say that this was all my fault.

  I suppose it was, if she had ridden to the assistance of the little blood drinker.

  “Why don’t you give the living blood to this beast, too?” I asked, after we had moved on.

  “It kills the horses,” she answered. “Only the wolves can be transformed as men are transformed, and then only a few survive. Vehnfear was a gift from our god king. In honor of my service to him.”

  “So it is called a horse. I have never seen a horse before,” I said, stroking the haunch of the beast. It twitched at my touch, snorted in complaint. “I have never seen a person ride an animal in such a manner either. The children in the village where I was born would sometimes play at riding the dogs, but—“

  “You talk too much,” Zenzele snapped.

  I held my tongue.

  It was merely my excitement. I had long wondered about others of my kind. What they were like. How they had come to share my fate. What strange powers they might possess. Their myths and social customs. I had planned to seek them out after Ilio struck off on his own, when I tired of living among my mortal kin.

  Only they had found me first.

  But in truth, I did not feel as though I were defeated. I wanted to be taken to the city of the blood drinkers. I wanted to feel the dust of its streets with my feet, to see its sights, smell its odors, good or bad, harken to the chorus of the creatures who peopled it. Only there would I find the answers to all of my questions. They would know the secret of our beginnings… and perhaps even the method of putting this life to an end, if that was something that I decided again to do.

  That was my hope, anyway.

  And this woman, to whom I’d sworn myself to servitude… I wanted to know her as well. She was the first female blood drinker I’d met, and what a vampire she was! Fiery. Confident. Regal. Cruel. She was a goddess of death, and I could not help but wonder what it would be like to worship at her altar. I would do it! By her leave, I would commit myself, body and soul, to glorious veneration, despite her harsh nature. To lie down with such a woman…! I would not have to guard my passion as with a mortal woman. Her flesh, every bit as resilient as my own, could withstand the ferocity of my lust, and no doubt respond in like kind.

  I felt a stirring in my loins at the thought. It had been four years since the last time I’d made love to a woman, and that was with a mortal. Before that: a seeming eternity. Vampires might not be driven by the physical need for sex as mortal men are driven, but I was still a man, and I still had a man’s desires.

  A billow of snow and ice stung my cheeks, and I hunkered down and tried to put such trivial thoughts out of my mind. Now was not the time for idle fantasies. We were approaching the column of torches that I had glimpsed from the clearing: the procession of the blood drinkers.

  No column now, the phalanx had come together at both ends, forming a circle. The storm was growing more severe, the windblown ice hissing across the plains, flying almost horizontally. If not for the storm’s increasing fury, I might have sensed the mortals sooner and would not have been so horrified when I suddenly laid eyes upon them. But I did not sense them, not until we were nearly upon them, and then I could do ought but gape at them in dismay.

  There were at least four dozen of them.

  They huddled inside the circle of fluttering torches, men and women in tattered garments. They were tied to long wood poles, bound around the neck and wrists by intricately knotted cords. Grouped by sixes and eights, the poles running along the right and left shoulder of each group, they hunched thei
r backs against the scathing wind, their bodies packed closely together.

  Captives of the T’sukuru, being marched to Uroboros.

  Moving among the slaves: several unbound mortal men. Perhaps a dozen of them. Brawny, cruel-faced brutes, servants of the blood drinkers no doubt, warmly dressed and tending to the captives. Some of them were throwing furs upon the shivering prisoners. Others distributed food and drink, or worked at erecting shelters alongside their vampire masters. One of the slave-tenders was beating a man with a whip, flogging him across the back and shoulders without mercy.

  Anger subsumed my horror. My head began to throb. Slavery infuriated me. What, save greed, gave one man right to claim ownership of another? I had destroyed the Oombai Elders for this very offense, and here I was, confronted by the same outrage! I was sorely tempted to renege on my bargain with the vampire Zenzele. To cast off all pretense of submission and throw myself upon these cursed slavers!

  But I was outnumbered. And I had already been defeated by them once. Would the battle go any different if I revolted against them now? And what would they do to the Tanti, to my adopted son Ilio, if I did not honor my bargain with their mistress?

  My captor took note of my shock and revulsion. One of her delicately shaped eyebrows rose, and she grinned as if to say, Well, what did you expect?

  The other vampires had spotted us and paused at their labors. One of them waved Zenzele over.

  “Come, beautiful one,” she said, and with a jerk of my leash, she delivered me into the hands of the blood gods.

  3

  I had yet to meet the one who’d waved her over. This one had been absent from the battle in the forest. As Zenzele’s horse stepped into the circle of torches, he left off from his toils and met her halfway across the grounds. He appraised me with a scowl-- from my tangled hair and muddy face to my torn clothing and bare feet-- and then he turned his attention to the woman. He spoke in the tongue of the T’sukuru, the words still gibberish to me, but it was obvious that I was the subject of their conversation.

  He was a tall man, broad across the shoulders, and with features that could only be described as beautiful. Large, pale blue eyes, a small upturned nose and dimpled cheeks. He might have looked childlike but for his powerful jaw and jutting chin. He had shoulder-length brown hair, pulled back by a leather thong, and wore intricately inscribed bone-plated armor.

  Zenzele answered him, her voice purring with mockery—yet, I detected an undercurrent of defensiveness in her tone. Her posture was stiffly erect, as if she did not fully trust the man.

  The handsome blood drinker looked at me again, clearly unconvinced by whatever it was she had said to him, and she snapped at him.

  He ran a tongue along the tip of one of his upper fangs, the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk, then he shrugged and ambled away. I watched as he returned to his labors, helping several mortals to erect a high-peaked frame tent.

  Zenzele sighed, then urged her mount forward. A mortal attendant came trotting toward us, and my captor slid from the back of her beast. She turned the horse over to the care of the mortal, then led me toward their captives.

  “That one is Palifver,” she said in a low voice, nodding toward the handsome blood drinker. “He is my second-in-command.”

  “You do not trust him,” I murmured.

  Her eyes flashed at me. “Khronos is his patron.”

  I glanced at the man over my shoulder, impressed that he could unnerve such an imperious woman.

  Most vampires are like my adopted son Ilio, stronger and faster than a normal human, more resilient, able to survive physical trauma that would kill a mortal man-- but not completely invulnerable. Decapitation, dismemberment, grievous injury… these things will kill most vampires, and we can all sense those vulnerabilities in one another. Palifver was strong. He was a bit more powerful than my maker, perhaps, but not much more. He was not a true immortal like me… or my beautiful obsidian mistress.

  Khronos must favor him greatly, I mused, to make a true immortal so wary.

  I thought for a moment that she intended to bind me with the rest of the captives, but she did not. She inspected them, paying particular attention to the bite marks on their necks and wrists. I guess she was checking them for disease. A vampire’s bite can transmit infection just like any other animal’s bite.

  I followed Zenzele as she circled the captive mortals. The sight of them filled me with great pity, yet what could I do? If I defied these ruthless blood drinkers, they would surely visit retribution on my loved ones.

  The mortals were haggard, their bodies bruised and riddled with teeth marks. They were filthy and tattered and hollow-eyed. Hopeless. Pushed to the brink of collapse. I wanted to save them. I wanted to deliver them from bondage, but I was as much a prisoner as they.

  Some of them looked at me, their eyes beseeching. Others sneered with revulsion or contempt.

  I turned away, ashamed.

  At least they had shelter: a crude lean-to. Several fires blazed near enough to keep their bodies from freezing. They would survive this howling blizzard… but to what end?

  My mistress finished her inspection. She gave some orders to the mortals who tended the slaves, then ducked from their shelter and led me toward the big tent that Palifver had been laboring over.

  It was fully erect now, its peaked roof shaking in the whistling gales. Zenzele bent through the flyflap and surveyed the interior. Waterproof skins had been laid out on the soggy ground. In the center of the tent, Palifver was working to build a fire. A couple mortal attendants dashed to and fro, putting down sleeping furs and woven mats. Soon the shelter would be cozy and warm, while the captives of the blood drinkers shivered outside.

  Palifver’s glinting blue eyes followed us as Zenzele led me to a particularly luxurious pile of furs. She took the rope from around my neck and put it aside. She watched me warily for a moment, as if she thought I might attack her or try to escape. Like my flimsy leash was anything more than symbolic! When I did not immediately revolt, she smiled and called out to the domestic slaves.

  They were still readying the tent for occupation, but at her summons, they came scrambling to assist her.

  They were small males. Young. Androgynous. More finely attired than their slave-tender counterparts. Their faces were painted white with red lips and dark-circled eyes.

  “Hold my hand,” she said to me, and when I took her tiny cold fingers in mine, she lifted her left foot and allowed her attendants to wash it. She smiled at me, her teeth very sharp and white in the dim interior of the tent, then she lifted her other foot, her perfectly formed toes slightly curled.

  They helped her out of her body armor and cleaned and dried her flesh, then eased more comfortable garments onto her.

  I stared into her eyes, trying to ignore her nakedness, trying to will my body not to respond to those brief glimpses of bare flesh.

  I should feel only hatred for this woman, I thought.

  She represented all that I found repugnant in this world. Arrogant. Cruel. She was a slave trader. A killer.

  And yet, the sight of her small breasts, the smooth curve of a flawless thigh, made my stomach flutter like an adolescent boy. I wanted to circle my lips around her nipples. I wanted to lick my way down her body, part the coarse fleece of her maidenhood with my tongue.

  She belted the bright red frock they’d put on her, grinning at my studied neutrality, then lowered herself onto her furs and gestured for the mortal attendants to clean me.

  One of them asked her something, and she replied curtly, looking annoyed. With a flick of her fingers, she sent them hurrying away. I watched as the little mortals crossed to the other side of the tent and started searching through a large sack.

  While the attendants were digging through the bag, Palifver stared at Zenzele. He had built up the fire to a crackling blaze and his eyes glowed in the dancing yellow light. She ignored him, looking after her attendants. Finally, she grew annoyed and called out to them in a
sharp voice. The fussy little men rushed back to us, one of them clutching a long strip of cloth.

  They cleaned my feet, then relieved me of my tattered clothes, curling their noses in distaste as they handled my mangled garments. Zenzele appraised my nakedness as they cleaned me. I cupped my genitals in my hands, submitting meekly to their care as they swabbed the mud from my flesh. Some of the other blood drinkers pushed through the flap of the tent as I stood there exposed and I endured their mockery without expression. I still did not understand what they were saying, but their amusement was quite evident. They pointed and laughed. Made crude gestures with their hands.

  “If’v ever d’moii?” one of the little mortals asked, looking up at me. When I didn’t reply, he glanced toward his mistress.

  Zenzele nodded and flicked her finger at me.

  I jumped as he slid his forearm between my legs.

  “D’moii,” he said, smiling up at me.

  I raised my arms to allow the attendants to clothe me. The garment they’d taken from the sack was a loincloth. It was made of tree bark, cut into a long, narrow strip and beaten soft. While the first man held one end up over the front of me, the second twisted his end into a rope, yanked it between my buttocks and passed it around my waist. They circled the strip around to the back again and knotted it, cinching it tight. When they had girded my loins, Zenzele dismissed the two mortals to tend to the other blood drinkers. The little men bowed and scurried away, and she gestured for me to sit.

  “Are you comfortable?” she asked in Tanti, and I shrugged. In truth, I wanted to pick that prickly cloth out of my buttocks. I kept my features devoid of expression, however. Emotionless. She smoothed her bedding as if she did not notice and said, “It will be dawn soon. We sleep during the day, of course, while the slave-tenders look after our captives. When night comes, we continue to Uroboros.”

  “How far is it?” I asked.

  “Many nights past the mountains. We can only travel as fast as the slaves can walk. Alone, I could make the journey in two nights, but only if I ran without stopping. With as many slaves as we have this time: three fists, maybe four.”