Never Show Fear

by Nicola Claire

  I check on the young ones first; they are playing a board game. How Gaspard managed to grab one of those before we fled our home in Ventimiglia surprises me. Chaos had reigned; if it had not been for Augustine’s efforts in rounding us up and supplying us with coin and weapons, we would have fled with little more than the clothes on our back. But Gaspard has always enjoyed a good game, so he prioritised under pressure.

  It is a good sign he will be a formidable Nosferatin when he ages.

  Suzette creeps down the dank hallway toward me.

  “You have been gone all night,” she accuses, but I can tell she has been worried.

  “I met with the Champion,” I tell her.

  “Alone?”

  “I had little choice.” I purposely close the door to the young ones’ room; the most secure room in the crumbling building.

  Suzette steps closer, no doubt aware I’m about to impart something grave. I take a breath in preparation and smell a plethora of scents that consume me — the perfume of a hunter; sweat, soap, and something that is all hers. For a second, I am distracted from what I was about to say.

  “What is it?” Suzette asks, placing her hand on my forearm to encourage me. It does anything but.

  I wish to grasp it, to pull her toward me, to take her away.

  It reminds me why I am here, why I brought the last of my nest to Paris.

  “An Evil One,” I say, and she sucks in a fiery breath of air. It only makes me more aware of her standing so close to me.

  She is too young for me to feel this way, so I forcefully push those thoughts aside and concentrate on making it possible for her to grow up; to mature in all ways. I can be patient. I am a hunter. Patience is in my blood; it is what I am trained to be.

  “The Champion has agreed to allow us to stay in her city,” I tell Suzette.

  Suzette lets out a prayer of thanks.

  “There is more,” I say, but I do not get to finish my sentence; Gregor steps out of the shadows, his face sober.

  Suzette’s arm across my chest is the only indication I have of her moving. The glint of a silver stake in the dim hallway is all I see as she makes her move to protect me.

  I am momentarily touched and alarmed and bemused all at once, and so do not act swiftly enough to halt the unnecessary chivalry.

  The stake meets flesh. Gregor’s fangs appear behind a snarl on his lips. And then Michel is there, hand wrapped securely around Suzette’s wrist, eyes shining a magenta colour I have not seen on him until this second.

  I do not know these vampires well, even if I believe them trustworthy. They are still vampyre.

  “Unhand her,” I demand. My stake is also in my palm, but I do not raise it.

  “Easy, little hunter,” Michel says to Suzette. “We are friends.”

  Suzette snarls and pushes against Michel’s hold, trying to make the stake sink in further.

  Gregor’s lips widen in a part snarl-part grin, and then he leans into the stake, tempting fate.

  I step forward and wrap my hand around Suzette’s forearm, above Michel’s hold on her wrist.

  “Suzette,” I say. “They are with me.”

  “You brought vampires here? Into our nest?” She is enraged.

  It is beautiful to witness.

  “They have protected me,” I tell her. “Michel stood with me against the Champion. Gregor has found us a safe place to stay.”

  The look she gives me is priceless. She wants to turn the stake on me, I think. I stay perfectly still and offer only a serene face.

  “You are mad,” she finally says.

  “Desperate,” I whisper, and she breathes out a sigh of capitulation. The stake is removed. Michel’s hand vanishes. I can’t seem to let go of Suzette’s arm, but I make myself drag my fingers down to her hand at least and grip it tightly.

  “There are vampires in the vicinity,” Gregor says as if we haven’t just had a near-staking.

  “The Evil Ones?” I ask.

  Suzette pales. “They are here? Already?”

  I squeeze her hand in reassurance.

  “They haven’t located your building,” Michel says, glancing around the dank and dark space with ill-concealed disapproval. “But they are closing in as we speak.”

  I open my mouth to say something, and the door to the young one’s room opens, a sleepy-eyed Pierre peering up at us from under a blond mop of hair that has not seen a comb for days.

  Everybody stills.

  Suzette and I manage to breathe a little unevenly, but the vampires do not breathe at all.

  Then slowly, Gregor lowers himself to a crouch and smiles a closed-lipped smile at our youngest Nosferatin.

  “Hello,” he says.

  “Hawo,” Pierre replies, his gaze steady. “You shine,” he adds and reaches out a hand to brush across Gregor’s face. “Owie,” he remarks when his fingers touch on the vampire’s scar.

  “Oui,” Gregor manages, emotions flashing across his face.

  I let go of Suzette and reach down to pick up Pierre. He is not usually so trusting. It could be a good sign; Gregor has passed a test of sorts. But it could also be a sign that the youngest member of our nest requires further training. Training which now falls to me.

  “Get the others,” I say to Suzette, not taking my eyes off a still crouching Gregor.

  Suzette flits past me and into the low lit room. There are no windows in the room we have kept the nest in for sleep and play. So the light only carries when the door is opened. It is opened now, so we must hurry.

  “How close are they?” I ask Michel; Gregor has still not risen from his couch. The vampire is more fragile than I realised. It is alarming.

  “Two streets away,” Michel offers, watching the crouching vampire also. I cannot discern what he feels about his friend’s demeanour; Michel can hide his emotions well.

  “Then we don’t have much time,” I say, turning with Pierre in my arms to offload him to Gaspard who has emerged from the room, a sack on his back already. No doubt the board game is safely ensconced in there along with our clothes and the basic supplies we’ve managed to gather on our travels.

  The rest of the nest emerges with varying looks of surprise and wariness on their faces. One or two even hold stakes in their hands. They look to me for guidance.

  “You can trust them,” I say. “But keep your stakes out.”

  Michel smiles, self-deprecatingly. Gregor wakes from his trance and stands, his eyes flicking over the nest, pain so great I almost feel it as it washes across his face.

  Gregor may well be a problem. But a problem of a different kind to the Evil Ones who hunt us to extinction. A deep-seated part of me wishes to help him. But first, we must reach safety.

  “Which way?” I ask Michel.

  He looks at the young ones, takes in their meagre ages. The rooftops would have been an obvious escape route; one I have used already in this city. But Pierre and Fabienne must be carried, and although Gaspard and Suzette could certainly manage, they couldn’t while holding the youngest, and Yvette who is too big to carry is also too small to jump the gaps between houses.

  We must escape on the streets, and Michel agrees. It will be more dangerous.

  “We stick together,” I say.

  “I will lead them from you,” Michel offers. We need Gregor to show us the way. I nod my head, give the dark vampire a look I hope conveys my thanks.

  I am not sure if he could battle the Evil Ones alone and survive. He is stronger than the vampires in our former nest. But they had mature Nosferatin by their sides. And they did not survive the encounter.

  “Good luck,” I say.

  “And to you also, Hunter.”

  We leave the dank smelter’s house and take to the shadows, our movements swift and silent, mist rolling in from the shadows and wrapping around us.

  “Are you doing that?” I ask Gregor.

  He shakes his head, a look of concern deeply etched on his face. “Hurry,” he says. We do not need further enco
uragement.

  But we are a group of seven, six immature Nosferatin amongst them; two of them being carried. Our chances of avoiding the Evil Ones are slim at best.

  But when I feel them nearing, the mist thickens.

  It changes the sounds on the air, the scents that reach our noses. But if it changes them for us, it also changes them for the vampires who hunt us.

  Why do they wish for our deaths? Why not aim to join with us and double their power base? There is something wrong with these vampires. Even Michel, who denies wanting a kindred-joining with me, does not deny wanting a kindred-joining eventually.

  Vampires crave power. Power and blood. Perhaps it is the taste of our blood that urges the Evil Ones down this Dark path they tread.

  Nosferatin blood can be very addictive, they say.

  I shudder, my eyes tracking across the alley to the shadows that hide Suzette and two of the others. Gregor is also on their side of the street. I trust the vampire enough to keep them safe. If anyone is to be attacked, it will be Gaspard, Yvette and me.

  “Stay close,” I whisper and dash across an intersection.

  Something swipes at me from the mist. Yvette screams. Gaspard grunts.

  And then there is a tearing sound and a wet splatting sound and commands in a gruff language.

  I did not hear the Evil Ones speak when they attacked us in Ventimiglia. Augustine managed to rouse us and get us out of the building we called home via a secret passageway. We saw them from a distance as we ran. They did not see us, but they must have discovered our existence when they searched the house.

  No one, I fear, was alive to tell them. Or, at least, I pray they were long dead before the Evil Ones decided to ask their questions.

  But I hear them talk now; harsh commands in a foreign language. I cannot identify it. I am not well travelled. Our elders kept us in Ventimiglia and did not let us stray.

  I am relieved the Evil Ones are not French or Italian, but not knowing much else about our attackers causes anxiety.

  I cannot guess how they will behave.

  Michel keeps them busy, though, and the mist keeps us as hidden as we could possibly be.

  It takes a while, but finally, I realise, that the mist is corralling us; guiding us away.

  “What is this mist?” I ask Gregor when we stop sometime later to catch our breaths and listen for pursuit. There has not been any sign of the Evil Ones for more than an hour. And also no sign of Michel, which is a worry.

  “I am not sure,” he says, but he looks at it with his head cocked to the side, and his eyes narrowed.

  Pierre is snoozing on Gaspard’s shoulder. Suzette is wiping sweat off her brow, and sucking in lungfuls of much-needed air. Yvette is softly crying as she clutches onto Fabienne’s fingers, her entire frame shaking. Fabienne, for her part, is stunned silent. I am failing them.

  But I keep trying.

  “I have seen this mist before,” Gregor remarks.

  “Where?”

  He looks at me, offers a roll of his shoulders and a crooked smile. His fangs have not retracted, but he hides them well. “The house,” he says. “I do not know why, but I believe the mist belongs to the house.”

  It is a ridiculous notion, but the look on Gregor’s face tells me he thinks it is ridiculous also, so I do not argue.

  We move off. The mist hides and guides us. The Seine appears out of the gloom, and a bridge across to the Île de la Cité awaits. I am not happy that we must come so close to the Iunctio. But we have been given free passage from the Champion and are being escorted by a councillor, so no vampyre dares touch us.

  It also means the Evil Ones who may still be following are forced to break off their pursuit.

  We cross the river without incident, and then the mist clears, and something else calls.

  I still. My nest comes to a halt behind me. Gregor glances at my face, from where he stands beside me, waiting, and then he turns to look up the hill toward what is calling.

  “Montmartre,” he says. “I hope you enjoy stairs.”

  The same sensation of being called toward something familiar is there as it was there yesterday. I have a feeling I know what it is, but how it is doing it, I cannot say.

  “Why this house?” I ask Gregor as we start to climb a never-ending rise of stairways.

  “It is an old house,” Gregor says. His words are slow and carefully chosen. “Long since deserted.”

  He does not say abandoned, and I think that is important. Abandoned means the occupants had a choice. Deserted means they possibly didn’t.

  “Who used to live there?” I ask, but I fear I know the answer.

  Gregor looks up the rise of Montmartre; takes in the lightening sky as the sun threatens to crest the horizon. His face is austere; stark in the brightening light of a new day. He cannot chance the sun’s rays, and yet, he does not hurry. His steps measured, sure, precise. As if he works to put one foot in front of the other.

  “Gregor?” I press. “Who used to live there?”

  He lets out a breath of air that makes me ache, his eyes shining; wet with his unshed tears.

  He does not look at me when he answers. He is looking up the hill, toward the house.

  Or perhaps, he is looking into a past; his past, but I cannot say for sure which it is.

  “Who used to live there?” I repeat in a whisper, my heart breaking.

  “I did, mon ami,” he says.

  * * *

  The house Gregor leads us to is old. The cream brickwork is worn, but the wear seems kind as if a loving hand has brushed against it most fondly. The small windows which are dark now are covered in ornate bars that twist and turn like gnarled tree branches. The arched window frames and doorways soften what would be considered harsh angles. It is a square building, two storeys high, with a walled garden off to the side. I can see a tall tree peeking over the top of the solid brick wall, its leaves rustling in a gentle wind.

  The house calls to me.

  As we approach the rise it perches upon, light begins to shine inside the windows. It casts long shadows across the worn cobblestones, the delicate bars making it appear as if twisted fingers reach out to greet us. The house groans as if settling on a cold night, its ancient bones aching.

  We stop just shy of the summit to the rise, our hearts in our throats; all of us staring at the sight that greets us. The house is out of place on the Montmartre hillside. The low lying homes that share this hillside are mere huts by comparison.

  How has it gone unnoticed?

  Gregor lets out a soft sound of relief as if he wasn’t sure the house would be there to greet us.

  “It is warded?” I ask.

  “In a manner of speaking,” the vampire tells me but does not elaborate.

  We keep walking toward the building, and as we get closer, the light in the windows brightens, the chimney puffs out a cloud of smoke, the scent of blossoms from the garden reaches us. The house settles, its groaning and creaking quietening. The still air hangs around us thick with anticipation.

  Gregor stops beside the double-wide, thick wooden gate in the wall to the garden. He turns and looks at me, then his gaze scans the rest of my nest. There’s something in his eyes I can’t decipher, but it speaks to me. This vampire who is so powerful when still so young, who wields that power with such control and impunity, feels so much in that moment that the cumulative effect of his emotions is as if a different language to me.

  “Yves Bertrand of Ventimiglia,” he says solemnly. “Do you accept the responsibility of caring for this house?”

  It is a strange thing to request. The house will provide us with shelter, perhaps protection of a sorts. Safety.

  What will I provide it?

  “Of course,” I say because it feels like the right thing to say and I will look after this gift Gregor is giving us.

  “Will you tend to it as you would a member of your own family?” Gregor asks.

  “Yes,” I murmur, beginning to feel a little uncomfort
able at the penetrating look on the vampire’s face.

  “Will you shed blood for it as it sheds blood for you?”

  I swallow thickly. There is something strange afoot here. But what choice do I have? I look at my nest; what is left of it. At the young, frightened, exhausted faces that surround me. My eyes meet Suzette’s. She nods her head, encouragingly.

  I turn back to Gregor and say, “Yes, I will.”

  “Will you keep the fires lit and a candle burning for those who search out the Light in the Darkness, who hunt Evil for the betterment of Good, who sacrifice their children and their children’s children for the honour of all Nosferatin?”

  It hits me in the chest as if I have been stabbed through the heart with a very sharp sword.

  This is a Nosferatin House. A keystone in our history. A waypoint on the road we must travel. A Light in the Darkness, calling out to all Hunters as they walk the dangerous path we are born to tread.

  Perhaps it is the very home the elders fled from when they left their former lives so many decades ago. I cannot be sure, because they forbade any reference to our past and what brought them to Ventimiglia. But it is conceivable that the elders have at one time been here, to this home.

  I stare at Gregor for a moment longer, thinking that he might be handing over a role he once could have claimed. He has guarded this house, despite what he has become. He has watched over it as if he, too, has made the pledge I am now making. Time does not erode it. The passing of a soul does not break it. Only Nut can relieve us of such a weighty thing.

  I look back at the house. The chimney is puffing away merrily now; the windows glow with inviting warmth. The scent of jasmine and lavender and other sweet things hangs on the air. Paris is silent as if we are in a bubble. The wards do not extend here; they stop at the walls of the property. But something is at work to seal us from sight and sound.

  Something powerful like a deity.

  Our goddess Nut watches and I know without a shadow of a doubt that this moment defines my future.

  I am to become the custodian of a Nosferatin House.

  “Yes,” I say, my eyes returning to Gregor’s. His shine a platinum and silver that proves beyond anything that he is no longer human. No longer Nosferatin. “I will keep the fires burning, and a candle lit for those who seek the Light in the Darkness,” I say.