Demon Moon

by Meljean Brook

  “No.” She shrugged. “I read a biography once, and you said last night that a vampire had fed from you. Byron had strange eating habits, uncertain health toward the end of his life, and a beautiful face. And he was considered a hero, a celebrity. Why wouldn’t he have sought true immortality if he knew he could? But not from you.”

  “He did not seek it at all; it was forced upon him by a vampire who admired him and wished to give him eternal life and beauty. It did not take well.”

  “Because he didn’t choose it?”

  “Yes. And the doctors around him mistook his affliction, kept him bled out, weakened and starving. He wrote to me in desperation, deciding that even vampirism was preferable to death.” Colin grimaced. “Good God, but he’d have been an intolerable sort of immortal, constantly lamenting his existence. An eternity’s worth of brilliant poetry wouldn’t have compensated for such dreariness.”

  “It’s fortunate, then, that most choose it.”

  “Yes.” He watched her carefully as he admitted, “I’d have refused his entreaty; I’d have left him to rot. Only at Ramsdell’s insistence did we travel to Greece.”

  “You didn’t leave Varney and Paul to rot last night. I’ll weigh the two events, and decide whether to hate you.” She tilted her head, as if considering. “No, I still love you.”

  There was but one response: to kiss her senseless. Her lips were smiling beneath his, ripening with hunger and need as he continued.

  Only the onset of the bloodlust made him stop—he’d had more than he should’ve the night before, and dared not take more—but he found his pleasure in the knowledge that she was, indeed, senseless, her gaze soft and unfocused, her skin flushed.

  Irresistible.

  Best to finish quickly. “His end was the same as the others: he took the blood—which should have strengthened him immediately—and his life was snuffed. We felt the heat emanate from him, though his skin did not burn; a difference caused, most likely, by his transformation and the manner in which the blood is processed.”

  Her expression sharpened. “A normal vampire transformed him?”

  “Yes. Ramsdell returned home, and I hunted her down.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “No. I warned her.”

  Savi’s lips pressed together, and her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Taught her a lesson?”

  “Suggested that she might refrain from forcing the change onto humans, and find a companion. Which she did, transforming him with no complications. That letter is included as well.” He took a long breath. “There was another vampire. A female. Osterberg’s partner.”

  Her mouth rounded in surprise. “When?”

  “Thursday evening, after I left you in Castleford’s house.”

  “Oh,” she said. Her shields weren’t up; he could feel the spin of her emotions as she worked it through. Confusion, realization. “I’d heard that you had to slay a vampire who’d broken the rules—who’d killed a homeless man. That was her?”

  “Yes.”

  “She fed from you? And she died the same way as the others?” At his nod, her brows drew together and she looked down at her hands.

  His throat felt swollen. “It wasn’t a…kind way to do it, Savi.”

  “No.” She raised her dark gaze to his. “Perhaps next time you should use your swords.”

  Relief rushed through him, but he held himself still. “Yes.” He swallowed thickly. “She was old, Savi. Perhaps a hundred years or so. Strong.”

  Her eyes unfocused as she thought it over. “So perhaps vampire blood can’t overcome the taint; it has to be nosferatu blood. But you’d have thought of that.”

  “Yes.”

  “So even your blood, from the strongest nosferatu-born vampire alive, isn’t enough to overcome it during transformation. Or feeding, in Byron and the female’s case.”

  A confirmation of what he’d already determined: both transformation and feeding, too much the risk. “No.”

  “But there are a lot of variables,” she said quietly. “Polidori’s transformation was interrupted; Shelley was strong, but…” She glanced down at the letters. “I don’t know. I’ll read these and talk to Hugh and Michael.”

  “I’ve already—” He couldn’t finish; she raised her eyes to his again, hope glimmering within them. He shouldn’t have put it there, but he couldn’t crush it. “I’ve already made arrangements for us to meet with them at the warehouse today.”

  It wasn’t a lie, but she’d likely protest his true reason. Nor was he looking forward to another visit to the Room—but the wyrmwolves’ connection to Savi rather than himself made discovering the reason behind it vital.

  She nodded and pressed a kiss to his mouth. “I need to phone Nani before we go.” Wrapping the sheet around her, she crawled toward the foot of the bed, reached out to pull back the curtain. “You’ll have to lower the shields around the house; should I call from the room in the basement?”

  He gave an automatic assent; distracted by sight and sound of the silk sliding over her bottom, he’d barely an instant in which to remember what she’d see. But an instant was all it took to crouch behind her, cover her eyes.

  “Wait, Savi,” he said urgently. He felt her body tremble, as if in laughter—then still when she realized he’d not detained her for play.

  His heart pounded in his chest, his blood racing through his veins. He should ask her to shut her eyes until he carried her from the room; she would, he’d no doubt—but his request would only torturously pique her curiosity.

  And hadn’t he brought her up here so that she would see? So that she would know why he’d given her the letters? He’d told her his reason…but he’d not told her the whole of it.

  He needed to prepare her, though—and himself. He’d not thought he’d be anxious. “They’re not intended to…I hope you do not think them creepy.”

  She blinked rapidly, her lashes tickling his palms. “Let me look.”

  He inhaled the warm skin at her nape, held the sweet scent in his mouth. Then he lowered his hands and waited.

  She clutched the sheet to her chest. The drape of the material at the bottom of her spine swayed gently with her steps; the silk trailing on the floor made her seem to glide rather than walk.

  He did not tear his eyes from her as she stared up at herself, enthralled and beautiful. Or as she moved on, examined her wary expression when she encountered him outside Castleford’s home the night of his return from Caelum—and at the next, the curiosity and confusion in the glance she’d given him when she’d turned to leave. As she placed her palm against a small study of her hands, measuring the likeness.

  “Was I so judgmental—disdainful?” she asked suddenly, coming to a halt in front of another.

  The tension holding him frozen on the bed dissolved, and he crossed instantly to her side. “I believe I’d just said something to the effect that there were few things I enjoyed so much as women who walk alone at night—”

  “—but finding two eager to bend over a park bench after they’ve had a glimpse of your face is better. You deserved it, then.”

  “Yes. For its banality, if nothing else. You always ran so quickly; I found myself saying the most ridiculous things to make you stop for a moment and look at me.”

  He heard the effort it took her to swallow before she whispered, “Is it just an obsession?”

  “I thought it was,” he said quietly.

  Her eyes glistened; she averted her face and dragged in a trembling breath. “The one from Caelum is wrong,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  “No.” He didn’t need to glance at the painting to confirm it. “I perfectly remember your appearance; do not be modest and protest you could never be that beautiful.”

  “Not me; I wouldn’t know what I looked like, only what I see. It’s the water—you’ve depicted it reflecting me, the obelisk, and a few of the spires surrounding the courtyard.”

  “The angles are correct,” he said, turning to scrutinize it. H
e’d not sketched the water, but he’d been certain of the perspective.

  “Yes, but I was the only thing that reflected—the sky did, I guess, because the surface of the water was so incredibly blue. Nothing else. It should be as you’ve painted, but it wasn’t.”

  “Bloody marvelous,” he said, though the familiar, giddy wonder rushed up within him. “Caelum is cursed.”

  “You would choose the most melodramatic interpretation. More likely, the curse is made of the same magic that holds Caelum together,” Savi said, leaning back against his chest. His arms circled her waist, and she tilted her head to look up at him. “Or Chaos and Caelum are made of similar stuff. Or it’s impossible to see what it truly is.”

  Surely it was equally impossible—and melodramatic—to love a woman this much. “What would you choose?”

  Her brow lifted and she glanced over at the painting. “Lacking evidence, I’d play the odds and choose ‘All of the above.’”

  Hypothesizing that the curse might be more of Heaven than Hell did not make it easier to experience—or to watch its effect.

  In the dimly lit observation room, Savi’s heart lodged in her throat as Colin slid one foot slowly in front of the other, inching along the mirrored floor. The effort whitened his lips; his face was set in a rigid mask.

  “When you said you wanted to conduct an experiment, I didn’t think you meant this.” She forced the words out; if he heard screams, even inanity must be a welcome respite.

  A smile flickered over his mouth, quickly erased. He closed his eyes and swayed, then braced his hands on his knees as his body heaved violently.

  Her eyes burned. Could he smell it, as well? Taste it? She turned to Hugh, who met her panicked gaze with a reassuring nod.

  “He’s doing well this time, Savi,” he said.

  This was well in comparison to other times?

  Colin lifted his head and looked in their direction. “Yes, sweet, I’m quite alright. Smashing time to be had in here.”

  His ragged breathing, his sudden recoil from an invisible threat told her better than his flippancy how much the words were a lie.

  She felt like breaking the glass in frustration, but settled for clenching her teeth. He was doing this for her, and she didn’t know whether to be angry with him for torturing himself, humbled by it, or sickened by the realization of what he’d gone through so many times before.

  She only knew she wanted him out. “Do you see the pack yet?”

  “No.” He shuddered and retched.

  Lilith drummed her fingers on the glass. “You know, Colin, when we said you should accept some responsibility, we didn’t think you’d embrace the concept so wholeheartedly. It’s disgusting. Somewhat plebian, as well.”

  “Sod off, Lilith,” Colin said harshly, but his eyes opened again. How many times must have Lilith drawn the focus away from Chaos for him in that manner? “It’s philanthropy, which is a privilege of the upper classes.”

  Savi added, “And entirely for self-serving reasons, not out of any moral obligation.” He’d never have gone into that Room for anyone other than the few people there: Michael and Selah, Lilith and Hugh.

  And her.

  “Precisely.” Colin slid forward another inch, then two.

  “So Savi must be a charity case,” Hugh said.

  “I’d have thought you were Savi’s. The homeless Fallen angel.”

  Savi frowned; a sneer had worked itself into Colin’s voice. Not himself when he comes out, Jake had told her. Was this part of it?

  Hugh only looked amused, as if the banter had not taken on an ugly cast. “Aye. Desperate for a family, I took advantage of the girl who’d just lost hers.”

  “Ah, yes. Desperate. Little wonder you did not tell her—”

  Savi jumped in surprise as a sharp slap against the glass cut him off.

  “Colin,” Lilith ground out. “Don’t.”

  Tell me what? Her mind screamed for answers, but she forced herself not to ask. Hugh’s hands were fisted in his pockets, his legs braced apart as if readying for a blow.

  Colin’s eyes narrowed at the glass for an instant, his gaze almost silver in his anger. Then his chin dipped and he said quietly, “My apologies, Castleford. I could not bear to lose her, either.” He blinked and stared downward. “I’ve found the wyrmwolves.”

  Savi’s hands shook, and she willed them to stop. What the hell had just happened? What did they think was so terrible that she couldn’t forgive Hugh for it? She forgave fucking everything.

  She looked to Hugh, but he only said, “We’re lowering the spell around the Room, Colin. Block as much as you’re able.”

  Not now. Savi drew in a deep breath. Selah’s wings rustled as she erased the symbols from the door; Michael stepped forward, spoke for the first time.

  “Are they in the same formation? One large group?”

  “Yes.” It came out as a hiss, and Savi stifled her cry as Colin flinched and dropped to his knees. Sweat beaded on his forehead; his mouth drew back in a grimace of pain, his fangs slicing into his lips. His eyes lost their focus.

  “Colin! Goddammit.”

  “Come back, Colin,” Michael commanded, and his voice took on a melodic resonance. “Come back now.”

  Savi flattened her palms against the glass. Colin kneeled there, unmoving, unresponsive. “What’s happening?” The vagueness of his gaze tickled a memory. “A hallucination?”

  “Yes,” Hugh said quietly.

  “Can we go in there? Help him?” She was already moving toward the door when Hugh caught her arm.

  “No, Savi.” The understanding in his voice did not soften his implacable grip. “We’ve each tried; even Selah, who was in Chaos with him. He has attacked—and attempted to feed—from us all. Lilith barely survived, and only because Michael was here to heal her.” He let go her arm. “He’ll come out of it.”

  She started to protest—he’d hallucinated before and hadn’t hurt her, but this wasn’t Caelum.

  “Okay. Okay.” This time, she gave in to her frustration; the glass rattled under her kick. Still no reaction. “What happened to him?”

  Silence greeted her, and that frightened her more than anything they could have said. When he’d fed from her at the fountain, she’d felt the horror he’d gone through, but only the emotion; she didn’t have a memory to go along with whatever had caused it. Was he reliving it now?

  “Savitri, your shields are failing,” Michael said. “If you do not hold them until he is ready, his pain now will be for nothing.”

  How many times had they asked him to go in? Had it ever been good for anything?

  “Sorry,” she bit out, but carefully rebuilt them.

  Thirty endless seconds passed before he dropped forward onto his hands, a harsh sound tearing from him, a scream muffled only by clenched teeth and will.

  “Colin.” She was shaking as hard as he was. “Let’s do this and get you out.”

  Panting, he wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his hand and nodded. “Do it slowly.”

  She’d have preferred to lower her psychic blocks all at once, get this over with, but it was best to be thorough now. At her natural state—high for normal humans but unconsciously shielded for her—she paused. “Anything?”

  “No.” Colin absently licked the blood from his skin. “Though it is a pleasant distraction for me.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, she continued. Colin climbed to his feet, his brow furrowed as he watched the wyrmwolves in the flat, empty mirror. The tension had eased from his expression; though he still shied to the side now and again, once muttering of a dragon, he seemed to hold on to her scent as armor, using it to keep the rest of Chaos at bay.

  She was almost completely open when he frowned and said sharply, “Stop, Savi. They’re moving. Toward the mountain.” He took at step forward, turned to look behind him. “I’m there—they still come this way. All of them. Piling over one another like rats in a bin.”

  Wet, exposed flesh sl
iding against scales and fur. Savi fought her involuntary gag, immediately pushed the image from her mind to prevent adding her revulsion to what must already be a bombardment of psychic and physical sensations.

  “Are they headed to the caves?” Selah asked, coming to stand beside Savi.

  “No, they’re running up the side of the—” Sucking in a harsh breath, Colin fell to his knees again, stared intently down. “A symbol is carved into the stone. Near the peak.”

  “From the nosferatu? Are there any still there?” Perhaps they’d practiced writing the symbols before they’d moved to the frozen ceiling.

  “No, sweet.” Colin wiped a shaking hand over his face. “Oh, good God.”

  “Draw it into the air,” Michael said softly.

  Colin hesitated, then clenched his jaw and traced a design in front of him. As soon as he finished, he swatted his hand through it as if to erase the invisible mark he’d created.

  “‘Reflect’?” Lilith turned to Michael for confirmation. “That symbol could not work alone to cross the realms. The nosferatu would have returned long ago, if it were that simple.”

  The Doyen was shaking his head. “Colin, did you write it as you see it, or reverse it so that we see it correctly?”

  “I reversed it.” He stared down at his palms, his fingers curling into fists. “I’ve not the courage to write it again.”

  “Fuck me,” Lilith breathed. “Written the other way, it’s ‘bridge.’”

  The blood against her tongue alerted Savi to the force with which she’d been biting her lip, desperately trying to put the pieces together. They wouldn’t fit.

  “You wrote it?” When? Hadn’t he and Selah fled to the caves? Inside the mountain?

  “Yes, sweet. I do not remember doing so, but I must have. Perhaps in the hope the curse that had brought me there would take me away.” His hands lowered to his sides. “They’re tearing into one another now.”

  Michael did not seem surprised. “Likely an instinctive response; the blood will activate the bridge.”

  Hugh frowned. “Did you not see the symbol when you retrieved him?”