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Forbidden Drink

Page 41

by Nicola Claire


  I let a shuddering breath out and collapsed back against his body.

  Just a nightmare. But, I knew Nero was dead. Vampires would always need blood. And I was neck deep in the red stuff, in or out of my dreamscapes.

  I sighed. “Sorry, I woke you.”

  “It is nothing.” He paused. “How are you?”

  Tired. Exhausted. Fed up with blood.

  “You didn't drown this time. That is good, non?”

  The fact that French had seeped into Michel's vocabulary said more than the words actually did. He was exhausted too. Worried even, I bet. This was about the sixteenth or seventeenth nightmare like this in the past three weeks. Each time he had woken me, reached me somehow through all that red, saved me. But I knew he felt as helpless as I did. These nightmares weren't going away and he had no way of controlling them. Just like me. And as he can read my mind when he wishes, a recent development which I am hoping will not be permanent, he often experiences the nightmares right along with me.

  We were both tired.

  He pulled me back down on the bed. I stiffened as my back came in contact with the mattress, expecting to find it wet, but it was just warm and dry and solid. I wasn't floating anymore. I was wrapped up in my kindred vampire's arms. I was OK.

  Yeah, right.

  “Have I told you about my time in Wallachia?”

  I shook my head, unsure if my voice and throat had fully recovered yet. No doubt I had been screaming. Michel never said, but I always felt like my throat was raw after one of these dreams, like I'd been yelling at a rock concert, or screaming in terror.

  He settled back against the pillows, making himself comfortable. This had become a routine for us. First the nightmare, then Michel distracting me with memories of his past. I couldn't complain. One, it worked, my heart rate returning to normal after only a few minutes of listening to his soft, steady voice re-tell stories of a life lived so long ago. And two, I always wanted to know more about Michel. I was fascinated by him. How could I not be?

  “I decided it was time to educate myself in my new found life. It was not too long after I had been turned by Amicus and had accomplished my revenge on those who had killed my family and tried to kill me. There was a strong seat of the Iunctio in Wallachia. Not so much today, too many stories of Romanian vampyre princes have made that part of Europe undesirable to my kind. But, at the time, it was an outpost for Paris, where the Iunctio, as you know, has been based for millennia.

  “Wallachia was then ruled by an extremely powerful and somewhat surprisingly well educated vampyre called Neagoe Basarab, part of the powerful Craiovesti family. He was a peaceful ruler, which in itself was unusual for the time and his race. Vampyres were not known for there cultural influences at the time, but Neagoe was different. Perhaps that is why I was attracted to his principality. Word had reached Paris that there was much to be enjoyed at the Craiovesti court.

  “Neagoe was a lover of the Renaissance aspect of art and culture and had spent the first few decades of his reign enlightening those around him. I spent sixty years as a member of his court. It was perhaps the most influential of all the experiences of my life for the next few centuries. He was a mastermind politician, enabling his countrymen to expand their arts and crafts in order to pay their exorbitant tribute to the Ottoman Empire and also giving them employment and a sense of pride.

  “He was also a consummate diplomat. He not only kept close ties with Wallachia's neighbour, the then powerful Hungary, but re-established connections with the Republic of Venice and the Papacy. He revolutionised religion in the area and made generous donations to various Orthodox Monasteries. He built fine buildings, emboldened his people and wrote works of art on philosophy, ethics, morals and diplomacy.”

  Michel kissed my forehead as he took a break from his memories. Then murmured against my skin. “I was fortunate to have called him a friend. He has influenced my life and I will always remember him, will always honour that friendship. Much of what I do today is as a result of his teachings. He was a fine vampyre. A fine man.”

  His hand brushed down my cheek, where only moments before I had felt the warm wet track of blood.

  “He died the final death not five weeks after I moved on from his court. I have asked myself if things would have been different if I had remained behind, if I had been there when the Ottomans invaded. Perhaps. I can not say. But, I have learned to not dwell on what would have or could have been. He is dead, he would have died then or at another time, but I will not let his death detract from what he gave me.”

  He pulled me closer, lifting my body up on top of his. It was but a mere movement for him, as though I was a weightless piece of fabric and he simply picked me up and draped me over his body like a blanket. His hands reached up and cupped my face. His eyes, that beautiful rich blue with the odd indigo and violet swirls deep within, held my gaze.

  “Do not forget what Nero has given you, honour his memory, cherish his lessons, but” - he kissed my forehead, my eyelids, each cheek - “do not let his death invade your soul. We each have our time on this earth and no one can alter that for us. Now, you must live yours, by honouring his memory, not his death.”

  He continued to stare at me for a moment, then slowly brushed his lips against mine. So soft and warm and beautiful. I craved his kisses, I longed for them. Sometimes he would tease me. He knew how much I adored his touch. Sometimes he would hover over my mouth, wait for me to bridge the gap, deny me that final perfect touch of his warm, soft lips, only to make me beg. It was a game for him. A way of taking back some of the control he had lost to either me or the claiming that we were still battling. His vampire inside of him had decided it needed to stake a claim on me, to let everybody and their dog know I was his. Michel found the claiming a force he could not control. His body responded to situations without the cool, methodical and thoughtful approach he normally has. It was because of that loss of control that he teased.

  But not now. No teasing. He simply pulled me close, brushed his lips one more time across my face, my neck and then repositioned me in the crook of his arm. Cradling me, like you would a baby. Lovingly, carefully, innocently. It never failed to surprise me how lucky I was to have found this man. Granted, he had found me, but I still thanked my lucky stars he had. Right now, so full of memories of Nero's death, so full of my disgust for blood, I would not welcome an intimate coupling. I loved him and part of me always wanted him, but what I needed now, more than sex, more than making love, was to be held. To be cherished and not to be pushed.

  Despite the claiming, despite the fact that he had established morning routines that involved saying hello to his marks when we woke, which never lead to more. He was able to restrain himself, for me. He gave me comfort and love with the thought of nothing in return. He defied the claiming and his natural vampire instincts and gave me what I needed.

  I smiled to myself, an amazing feat in itself considering the nightmare that had just woken us. But I couldn't help it. I had been so numb lately and I knew I was nowhere near out of those woods yet, but I took what little joys I could find to help me through. Michel helped me through. I honestly didn't know how I could face the hurdle of accepting Nero's death without Michel.

  Even the routines we had established, him waking me, talking to me, distracting me. Even the way he was drawn to my marks each morning. They all held me firmly to this Earth, prevented me from floating away. It dawned on me that we had quite a few routines now. That we knew each other so well, that we had spent so much time together, that we had formed regular patterns in our life. He could still surprise me, but that familiarity was a blessing. When so much of my world was out of control, was one unexpected shock and then another and then another, that sense of belonging I had with Michel was a god send.

  My life had changed when I moved from my parents' sleepy farm to Auckland two years ago, but it wasn't until just before I turned 25, about three months ago that it really took on the bizarre. I found out I was descended from
a race similar, if not originally the same, as the Nosferatu. That I was a born vampire hunter, a Nosferatin and that in order to live, I would have to tie myself to a vampire and entrench myself in their world. Now, not only is my life in peril daily, I kill, I have had friends killed and I am surrounded by blood. Sometimes, I live it, breathe it, am consumed by it.

  Is it no wonder I dream of drowning in blood?

  But, Michel has always been there. At first, he was just another vampire in a scary, but slowly revealing, night time world. The Master of Auckland City. He knew who I was, but he didn't tell me at the beginning. I can hardly blame him. I would have run a mile, but he did manage to draw me in, far enough, so that when I was faced with what I was, I didn't run, I listened and I chose. I chose life over death. I chose Light over Dark. I chose him.

  Without doubt, the familiarity is a god send. I wouldn't want to wake up any other way.

  He must have heard my thoughts, they are with him frequently nowadays, because he kissed my forehead softly and whispered against my ear. His arms, strong bands of warmth around me, his body blanketing me in his presence and unconditional love.

  “Whatever you need, I will provide it. Whatever you want, it is yours. I am yours, ma douce. Forever”

  Find more Nicola Claire books at: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5831941.Nicola_Claire

 

 

 


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