by Barb Hendee
“Leisha?” he said.
She sat up, startled. “Yes, Maxim.”
Rose was awake, watching them both. “Have you felt a hint of his gift?” she asked. “Anything at all?”
“No, and he doesn’t seem to even know he could push me out of his head if he tried. The only power he seems to have is controlling the behavior of animals.”
Rose didn’t know that Eleisha had already seen some of Maxim’s memories. Eleisha wasn’t sure how to tell her that even in life, Maxim hadn’t exactly been a poster boy for mental health. He’d been an odd young man, brilliant, but cold to the point of expressing total disregard for others. However, he’d also not expressed any affinity toward animals. When had that started? And what was his gift?
Before Eleisha could make any further progress with him, she had to know what had happened to turn a scholarly, fastidious young vampire into a feral creature who’d forgotten how to speak.
Only then would she know how to move forward.
“Rose,” she said slowly, “Maxim seems to feel more comfortable outside. I’m going to take him for a walk, and we may be a while. Is that all right?”
Rose watched her for a few seconds. “Yes, of course.”
Rose never needed to have anything spelled out for her. Eleisha stood and headed for the door.
Let’s go into the trees, she flashed to Maxim.
He didn’t need to be asked twice and hurried after her. Soon, they were half a mile from the shack, running through the forest, and Eleisha could not help enjoying the sensation. Since being turned, she’d always lived in cities . . . New York, Seattle, Portland. But in her youth, she had run among the trees at Cliffbracken, and tonight brought back pleasant memories.
Maxim jerked to a halt, his head swiveling. She stopped beside him.
“What is it?”
“Shhhhhh,” he said.
His eyes narrowed, and a large rabbit hopped toward them. It kept coming without fear, as if being called. Maxim suddenly stepped forward and picked it up, sinking his teeth into its throat and gulping. For some reason, Eleisha looked away. This brought back different memories.
Maxim fed on rabbits? No wonder his undead signature was so weak. She’d known only one other undead who’d been able to feed on rabbits.
When Maxim finished, he hid the animal’s small body under a patch of ferns, but he did not bother wiping his face. His movements were fluid, and he seemed more at ease than Eleisha had ever seen him. He was at home out here.
“Maxim,” she said, sinking down beside a wide tree trunk, “come here.”
He came to sit beside her, his skin even less pale now, and he pointed back toward the patch of ferns hiding the dead rabbit. “One,” he said, “for you?”
She sat up straight. He was combining words . . . and if she understood him correctly, he was offering to bring a rabbit for her. The rapid forward movement of his progress had begun when she’d forced his memories to surface, leading him to remember Brandon and Adalrik.
“No . . . no, thank you,” she said. She leaned toward him. “Maxim, I need to see more, like last night.” She reached out and touched the back of his hand, and he did not pull away.
What she asked of him was complicated, and she gave up on speech.
I need you to think back to that night Adalrik took you out to feed in the village. Can you go back to that night?
His face was close to hers, and he was clearly uncertain about doing what she asked. The first session had been brutal for him. But he was a good deal more coherent and aware now.
He closed his eyes, and she slipped deeper into his mind, locking onto the memories and propelling them forward.
chapter eleven
MAXIM
Maxim stumbled out of the alley behind Adalrik, feeling better physically, but nearly sick with relief that this whole “feeding” ordeal was done, and they could ride back to the library. His fantasies of traveling with Adalrik were fading by the moment, and he was desperate to go home and lock the doors.
He started toward his horse.
“Not yet,” Adalrik said, and his tone brooked no argument. “Follow me.”
Maxim looked toward the horse and wavered in indecision. Could he simply flee? Swing up onto the animal and race back to the house?
“Now,” Adalrik ordered.
Long accustomed to obeying his mentor, Maxim fell into step.
“This is all wrong,” Adalrik said more kindly, “and I know I’m rushing you, but we have no choice.”
They passed by a number of closed shops, and Maxim soon heard voices up ahead. Adalrik walked into a busy pub five blocks from where they’d left the unconscious man in the alley.
“No, not here,” Maxim whispered in panic. “We’re not far enough.”
“Quiet.”
The place was crowded but clean, with a long polished bar. Several men behind it served drinks and chatted with patrons. A few of the locals turned to look their way, and Maxim’s stomach tightened. He almost turned around and walked back out.
“Sit down,” Adalrik told him.
He sat.
“When the serving girl comes over,” Adalrik said, “I want you to speak to her directly, and I want you to think of feeding at the same time. Imagine her as you would if you pressed against her and fed from her wrist. Think on that image as you speak.”
After a year alone with no one but Adalrik, Maxim was overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of so many people. He was overwhelmed with worry that the man in the alley might wake up at any moment and come accuse him. He was overwhelmed by a need to be safely locked away in the library.
“Focus,” Adalrik whispered.
A pretty girl with thick brown hair and a clean apron came to the table. “What’ll you have?” she asked.
Maxim was frozen for a few seconds, and then he tried to do as Adalrik asked. Strangely, it wasn’t difficult, and he almost could not help picturing himself pressed against her, swallowing her blood.
“Red wine,” he said, “preferably in a pewter goblet.”
When he spoke, his voice sounded . . . different. She gazed down at him, momentarily shaken, and then she smiled. “Pewter goblet indeed. You think you’re drinking with the queen?”
Something warm began to build inside him, and it felt as if it were seeping outward. The girl’s eyes locked on him in fascination.
Adalrik was watching them both, and he said to the girl, “My dear, have you ever read ‘The Nun’s Priest’s Tale’?”
Maxim blinked at his mentor. What a ridiculous question to ask a barmaid.
She laughed. “No, sir, I certainly have not.”
“Tell her the story, Maxim.”
Grasping for a moment of security, safely ensconced inside the words of Geoffrey Chaucer, Maxim began to spin the colorful story of Chanticleer, a clever rooster who outwits a fox. As he spun the tale, several other patrons stopped their drinking and moved closer to listen. The girl’s fascination with his face, with the movement of his mouth, only increased.
The warm feeling continued flowing from his body, gaining strength.
When he finished the story, everyone around applauded and cheered. He did not know how to respond, but Adalrik stood up. “We must be on our way.”
“No, sir,” the girl protested. “You’ve not even had your drinks yet.” She looked to Maxim. “Please, tell us another.”
“The hour is late,” Adalrik said. “We must be heading home.”
Against other protests, Maxim followed him numbly to the door, wondering what had just happened. He knew it was something important. He simply did not know what.
They mounted their horses and rode out. Once they were well away from the village, Adalrik finally said, “I suspected. But I had no idea you would be so strong, so soon. You were meant to exist as one of us.”
“What are you saying?” Maxim cried, unable to keep the questions and the fear inside any longer.
Adalrik started slightly at the o
utburst and pulled up his horse. “Your gift.” He paused. “We all have gifts. Some are straightforward and easy to name, such as mine. Did you feel it in the alley? Mine is trustworthiness. When I speak while hunting, any mortal within earshot will trust me absolutely, and so I am able to seduce him or her quietly. We could not survive without our gifts.”
Maxim turned his horse to face Adalrik’s. “Then what is mine? I felt . . . something back in the pub.”
“I’m not sure I can name it, although I could feel it as deeply as everyone else. It is a kind of awe. Everyone there saw you as brilliant, gifted . . . a scholar. They wanted to be near you, to be part of the world you were spinning with those words.” He paused. “I cannot help feeling envious. I could only hope for such a gift. Do not squander it.”
Maxim rode in silence the rest of the way home, thinking on all of this, even growing slightly excited.
He could inspire awe by simply opening his mouth.
The following night offered no time for literary discussion, and to Maxim’s further anxiety, Adalrik seemed determined to quit this place as soon as possible. There was a great deal of packing to be done—mainly books—and instructions to leave and arrangements to be made. The two of them would be traveling light, but Adalrik was having a number of boxes shipped to wherever they were going. As of yet, he would not say the destination.
“Must we go?” Maxim asked, wringing his hands. “No one bothers us here. I don’t see why we cannot stay.”
“It’s not safe,” Adalrik answered. “It is too well-known among my family.”
Who was this family he always spoke of? Part of Maxim wished to know, and another part wished they didn’t exist. The library looked ugly with so many books missing from the shelves, like an old woman who’d lost half her teeth.
“Come and sit for a moment,” Adalrik said. “There are important things to tell you.”
He sat in his chair by the fire, and Maxim joined him reluctantly. So far, with the exception of Maxim’s gift, every “important” thing Adalrik had to tell him had been unpleasant.
“There are a number of others like us,” his mentor began, “and we have existed in secret for centuries among mortals by following four unbreakable laws. As I tell you each one, you must swear an oath to uphold it. Do you understand?”
Laws? Maxim had never broken a law in his life. Well, until last night. But hearing about laws sounded safe. Perhaps tonight’s lesson would not be so unpleasant after all.
“I understand.”
“I’ve already told you the first law,” Adalrik went on. “No vampire shall kill to feed. This assures our safety and secrecy. Swear this to me. You will never kill to feed.”
“I swear.”
This was the first time Adalrik had used the word “vampire.” Somehow, it did not startle Maxim.
“The second law,” Adalrik said, “is that no vampire shall make another until reaching the age of one hundred years as an undead, and no vampire shall ever make more than one companion within the span of a hundred years. The physical and mental energy required is so great that any breach of this law will produce flawed results. Do you swear your oath?”
“I swear.”
“The third law is that no vampire shall make another without the consent of the mortal. Do you swear?”
“I swear.”
“The fourth and final law is that the maker must teach the new vampire all methods of proper survival and all four of the laws in order to protect the secrecy of our kind. Do you swear?”
“I swear.”
This rather lengthy exercise struck Maxim as pointless. With the exception of the first law, he gave no thought to any of this. He certainly had no desire to make another vampire—even if he knew how.
“There is a reason I am telling you all this tonight,” Adalrik said. “One of us has broken the laws and placed the rest of us in danger.”
The word “danger” got Maxim’s attention.
“One of our most trusted elders lost his reason, and he made three sons in the span of a scant few years. As a result, one of them was born unto us with no telepathic abilities at all. None. His name is Julian. He cannot follow the first law.”
This puzzled Maxim until he remembered how Adalrik had replaced the man’s memory the night before. “Oh . . . so he cannot . . . ?”
“You understand.” Adalrik’s eyes drifted. “None of us would ever harm another, but this situation has no precedent, and his maker refused to destroy him. Several of us had decided to take matters into our own hands . . . and then Julian began murdering us.”
“Murdering? You said we would live forever.”
“Some things can still kill us: fire, the sun, and decapitation. Julian is coming from the shadows with a sword and taking heads. No one knows quite how he always succeeds. But no one he’s attacked has survived.”
“Taking heads?”
The very thought of this, the image of some great vampire coming from the darkness with a sword, filled Maxim with a dread he’d never experienced. It almost made him ill.
“Do you see now why we have to leave?” Adalrik asked. “Why we must go someplace no one would associate with me?”
“Yes,” Maxim said, nodding. “I will help you pack the books.”
The following night, the deliveryman from Shrewsbury arrived after dark so Adalrik could discuss some final details for closing up the house. Maxim no longer feared leaving. Rather, he couldn’t wait to get away from here—the sooner the better.
Finally, a few hours past dusk, everything seemed settled.
“I think we’re ready,” Adalrik said. “We’ll ride into Shrewsbury, sell the horses, and hire a carriage for the journey to the coast. We’ll be more comfortable in a carriage.”
“The coast? Will that be far enough?”
“No.” Adalrik smiled. “I don’t think anywhere in Europe will be far enough. We’ll book passage on a ship and spend a few decades in the New World.”
When Maxim shook his head, Adalrik’s smile broadened.
“New York,” he said.
This left Maxim uncertain. He had no knowledge of New York. But then . . . perhaps Adalrik was right. If they wished to avoid Julian’s sword, the farther away the better.
As if reading his face, Adalrik grew more serious. “Listen to me. I’ve told no one, no one among our kind, that you exist. Should anything happen to me, you must disappear. You mustn’t let anyone know of your existence.”
The very thought terrified Maxim. How could he travel without Adalrik? Survive in a foreign land?
“I need a few travel documents from my desk in the library,” Adalrik said. “You get your bag, and I’ll meet you in the foyer.” He looked around. “I will miss this place. You and I have spent many happy hours here.”
The night before, Maxim would have agreed. Now he just wanted to saddle his horse.
“I won’t be long,” he answered, heading off to his room.
His bed was made, and a small bag of his clothes was neatly packed with a spare suit, toiletries, and undergarments. All his other clothes were boxed for shipping. His long coat lay across the bed, and he slipped it on before turning to leave. His attachment to this place had vanished the moment Adalrik told him of Julian. Now it was a house of threats.
They had not bothered lighting many candles tonight, and the hallway was dark, but as he stepped from his bedroom, a cool gust of air blew against him, and he turned to see the back door was open.
He frowned, certain he’d locked it earlier, but when he moved to close it, he looked down to see the jam was broken. Someone had forced the door. His throat began to close up, and he did not call out. Instinct told him to remain silent and to locate Adalrik immediately. The safest place was behind Adalrik.
He put down his travel bag and walked silently down the hall. The library had two entrances, and he headed for the main one. The door was half-open, and he could see his mentor standing inside, shuffling through a desk.
This seemed a pleasant, normal sight, and Maxim walked faster. He was only ten steps away when something caught his eye . . . a glint of reflective light from the other entrance on the east side of the library, very near to Adalrik. The same survival instinct surged up in Maxim, causing him to change plans, and he stepped behind the door, peering through the crack beside the wall only a few seconds before the fear hit him.
He’d never experienced anything like it in his life—and he knew a good deal about fear. Waves and waves of gut-wrenching fear poured from the library, hitting Adalrik at the same time.
Adalrik staggered back from the desk, attempting to turn around, and a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair stepped from the shadows of the other doorway and swung with both hands gripping the hilt of a sword.
His blade sliced right through Adalrik’s throat, severing his head, which flew off and bounced against the red carpet. Maxim pressed against the wall behind the door, willing himself not to scream.
Then the memories hit him.
Image after image of Adalrik’s life erupted inside his mind. But the fear was still choking him, and few of the images even registered. He saw foreign places and countless people. A gypsy girl. A hardened soldier with a broken nose. Scene after scene of Adalrik leaning over a book with some stranger, and then . . . images of Brandon. Many images.
Maxim wanted to scream, but something, some shred of survival instinct, kept him silent.
Then he saw memories of himself here in the house, studying in the library, and his panic increased. Was Julian seeing these memories, too? If so . . . he would know! He would know about Maxim.
The pain and the images faded, and he forced himself to open his eyes. Julian was standing over Adalrik’s body, looking down. He did not appear to have suffered the same onslaught. Perhaps he had not seen any of the memories?
Adalrik’s words came back to Maxim.
Should anything happen to me, you must disappear. You mustn’t let anyone know of your existence.
Julian had not heard Maxim out in the hallway and didn’t know he was there. Maxim looked behind himself toward the broken back door. Then he peeked back through the crack. Still gripping the sword, Julian watched Adalrik’s headless body as it began to change, to lose its form. While Julian’s attention was so absorbed, Maxim slipped silently down the hallway and out the open door, leading to the untended gardens behind the house.