The Oldest Living Vampire Betrayed (The Oldest Living Vampire Saga Book 4)

by Joseph Duncan

  “Lipsky,” he sighed, tongue wriggling over the word as if he were tasting it. Then he frowned, the muscles in his stocky body going lax. “Ah… the lawyer.”

  “Yes, the attorney. Would you mind putting some clothes on? Mr. Lipsky must think we’re the worst kind of vampire trash.”

  Lipsky glanced in my direction, but he didn’t contradict me.

  Lukas grinned insolently, looking from the attorney to me and back again. My acolyte is a handsome brute, not very tall, but powerfully muscular, with a heavy, angular jaw and lush features. Full lips. Heavy-lidded eyes. The Strix had bleached his skin as white as bone. He looked like a marble sculpture standing in my parlor. Aries, the Greek god of war, perhaps. He flicked his raven black bangs out of his eyes, standing boldly with his hands upon his hipbones, fingers angled toward his pendulous cock. Finally, he laughed. “Ja, sicher.”

  I apologized to the attorney as my fledgling vanished down the hallway.

  “It’s quite all right,” Lipsky said. He looked as if he wanted to ask me something. Probably what in the world I was thinking making an immortal of such an obviously irredeemable human being. Or perhaps he didn’t wonder that at all, and it was just my own guilt whispering in my ear.

  Lukas returned almost immediately.

  “Is this better?” he asked, stuffing his legs into a pair of leather pants. He tucked away his privates, buttoned his fly halfway up, and crossed the room to flop down on the sofa. He grinned up at Lipsky hungrily.

  The attorney was unflappable. He introduced himself to the fledgling vampire, taking a card from his inner coat pocket. “If you ever require our services,” Lipsky said. Lukas looked at the card with a sneer and tossed it aside.

  I hustled the attorney toward the door. The way Lukas was staring at the man was making me decidedly anxious. I’d never let the fiend harm a guest in my home, of course, but it would be terribly embarrassing if Lukas lost control of himself and I was forced to restrain him.

  Lipsky resisted at the door, opening his mouth to speak, and I released him to smack my palm against my forehead. “Ah, yes! I am so sorry! I nearly forgot!”

  The boon!

  As Lukas watched, suddenly intrigued, I used my eyeteeth to gash open a vein in my wrist. My flesh heals almost instantaneously, but a tiny globe of glistening black blood welled up from the wound.

  I held my wrist out to the lawyer, holding it steady so the blood didn’t trickle down the side.

  “In gratitude for the services you have rendered,” I said gravely. The old ritual, but spoken sincerely.

  “I accept this boon in payment for my silence,” he replied. He seized my arm then and slid his tongue across my wrist.

  I glanced at Lukas, mildly embarrassed, as the lawyer suckled on my forearm greedily. Lipsky made a soft sound of pleasure. A sexual sound. After a moment or two, I extricated myself as gently as possible from the mortal, endeavoring to hide my distaste.

  “That is enough,” I said.

  Lipsky swayed, eyes closed, mouth agape. He ran his tongue along eyeteeth that were just the tiniest bit too long. He smacked his lips, shivered, then opened his eyes and grinned at me. The expression looked quite perverse on his face.

  “Pardon me,” he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “Your blood… it is quite potent… It’s somewhat overpowering.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Well, I, uh… I suppose I should be going.”

  “Good night, Mr. Lipsky.”

  “Yes, good night” the man said distractedly. I opened the door for him and he tottered into the corridor. “I’ll return tomorrow evening with your protégé’s documentation,” he promised.

  “That will be fine.”

  I started to shut the door.

  “Oh, wait!” Lipsky called out.

  “Yes?”

  Lipsky leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Is there a particular name your friend would like to have?”

  I relayed the question to Lukas.

  My fledgling thought about it. I could tell that he was taking the matter seriously for once. He flicked his fangs with the tip of his tongue. “My mother’s maiden name was Eberhardt,” he said finally. “And I’ve always liked the name Rodolpho. It means wolf. I’d like my new name to be Rodolpho Eberhardt.”

  “Got that?” I asked the lawyer.

  He was scribbling onto a pocket-sized notebook. “Spell it.”

  Lukas sidled to the door, catching me between the two men. He spelled both names for the attorney.

  “Want to suck some of my blood now?” Lukas leered.

  “All right, that’s enough,” I said, pushing Lukas back into the apartment. “Good night, Mr. Lipsky. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

  Lipsky waved, sauntering dreamily away.

  I shut the door. Turned to Lukas.

  “What was that all about?” Lukas laughed. “I thought the old bastard was going to cream in his pants! Why did you let him drink your blood?”

  I sighed wearily, then explained the ritual to him. I thought I had already told him about it. Perhaps not.

  He was impressed. Lukas walked to the end of the sofa and plucked the attorney’s business card from the floor. He read it again, then carefully placed it on the coffee table. “Might need that someday,” he said. “So, have you taken care of your final arrangements?”

  “Yes, for the most part,” I answered. “In two weeks time, a minor nobleman named Gaspar Valessi, a man who never existed, will die of natural causes while vacationing in Germany. His estate, which is extensive, shall be divided among those he cherished most in the world, as well as a variety of worthwhile charities.”

  “What about me?” Lukas demanded. He said it like a man accustomed to slight.

  “I have designated a small portion of my fortune to be deposited into an account in your name. Your new name, I should say.”

  “How small?”

  “Twenty million euros.”

  He did not comment, but I could tell that he was pleasantly surprised. Twenty million euros was nothing to me, but to him, a child of the slums, it was almost unimaginable wealth.

  There was a part of me that was loath to give him any money, but I had pondered upon it and decided that he would cause a lot less trouble if he were rich. Squandering his newfound wealth would keep him occupied—at least for a little while. And when he had exhausted his modest inheritance… well, I’m certain it wouldn’t take long for my sociopathic fledgling to run afoul of a powerful immortal… one who was a lot less tolerant of youthful folly.

  “It will get you started,” I said.

  Lukas nodded, eyes far away. I could practically see the fantasies swirling in his head. The bright shining baubles he could purchase, like children’s toys, the debauches he could fund, the depravities that only the rich can afford. It would not take him long to burn through it all.

  Then his face crumpled and he doubled over. His thick lips split back from his teeth. Even from the other side of the room, I could hear his stomach snarling.

  “Fuck, that hurts!” he hissed. He looked at me, face contorted with pain. “I need to eat!”

  “All right,” I soothed him. “Just relax. We’ll feed early tonight. Only, try not to get any blood on your clothes this time. We need to take a photograph of you after we have fed.”

  5

  Normally I’d leave by the balcony, leaping to the apartment building across the street. I couldn’t do that tonight. Lukas was still having trouble overcoming his mortal instincts. He couldn’t seem to get a handle on his amplified senses. He couldn’t control himself when he moved at full speed, overshooting his mark or crashing into his surroundings. And he was frightened of heights. I had assured him time and again that he could fall from the tallest building in Liege and get up and walk away. Rationally, he knew I was telling the truth, but his mind couldn’t let go of the fear. His muscles locked up when he was more than a few stories in the air, and it took a great act of willpower to force them
to move again. I think he was one of those people who had to fall before they got over their fear of heights. It was an unexpected weakness. One that worried me. Would he have the strength to do what was required of him, once we got to Germany and it was time for him to kill me?

  We took the elevator instead.

  He knew why I had elected to take the elevator and pressed himself into the corner of the conveyance with a sullen expression on his face. He stared at his reflection in the brass panel walls as we descended, arms crossed.

  “It still surprises me when I see my reflection,” he said.

  “Superstition,” I sniffed. “There are a great many fallacies regarding our kind. Sunlight will not kill us. Garlic does not repel us. We are not repulsed by religious artifacts. And we do indeed cast reflections.”

  We both regarded our reflections then. I, dressed in a dark turtleneck sweater and jeans, my hair pulled back straight from my brow and tied with a leather thong. Lukas in a close-fitting long-sleeve shirt and leather pants, his bangs hanging like crows’ wings over his eyes. Two very handsome, albeit pale, men. I had showed him how to apply cosmetics so that we did not look like walking cadavers. Instead, we looked like two thirty-year-old “bros” headed out for a night of clubbing.

  Amusing.

  The cab of the elevator stopped unexpectedly. With a chime, the door slid open and my downstairs neighbors, Henri and Josette Geroux, smiled in at us.

  “Mr. Valessi!” Josette cried, striding into the elevator. “What a pleasant surprise! How are you this evening?”

  Her husband was right behind her. He offered his hand and I shook it gently. I clasped his wife’s fingers, bowing slightly at the waist. “Madame Geroux. Monsieur Geroux. How nice to see you. Lobby?”

  “Yes. Henri is taking me out for dinner tonight. It’s our anniversary!”

  “How wonderful!” I smiled, careful not to let my eyeteeth show. “How long have you two been married now?”

  Josette glanced at her husband, fingering the jewels at her throat. She was dressed in an ankle-length maroon evening dress and fur stole, her blonde hair fetchingly styled.

  “Thirty-seven years now,” her husband answered, and she smiled, pleased that he was so ready with the answer. He was dressed in tux and tails.

  Of course, I knew how long the two had been married. Josette had been discussing it with her husband all week. Over the last ten years, I had eavesdropped on them far more than was seemly, enjoying their happy marriage vicariously.

  The door slid shut and the elevator resumed its descent.

  “Thirty-seven years,” Josette mused. “We’ve lived here fourteen years.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Josette’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Fourteen years, and you haven’t aged a day, Monsieur Valessi,” she said, as if I had done it specifically to vex her. She laughed and placed her hand on my chest. “You really must share your health regime with me! Whatever it is, it’s certainly working!”

  “I wish that were true,” I said. “I’ll be visiting a specialist in Germany next week.”

  “Oh?”

  “My ticker,” I explained.

  “Oh, goodness! It’s nothing serious, I hope.”

  I shrugged. “The outside has held up well, but the inside is going to pot, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m so sorry!” Josette exclaimed.

  “Yes, so sorry,” Henri added. “I hope everything turns out well.”

  “I’m in good hands. My friend Lukas here is driving me to my appointment. We plan to leave in the morning. I wanted to do a bit of sightseeing along the way. Might be my last chance.”

  They turned to my companion.

  “Oh, he doesn’t speak French,” I said. The Gerouxes smiled and nodded at my fledgling like he was mentally deficient.

  Lukas shifted uncomfortably, tormented, I’m sure, by the smell of their blood. I could see his nostril’s flaring, the lines of tension radiating down his neck.

  Fortunately, the elevator dinged again and the door swept open. The Gerouxes bid us good night and strode purposely through the lobby.

  “What was that all about?” Lukas wanted to know.

  “Just saying goodbye,” I answered placidly. It pleased me to see the Gerouxes one last time. Their marriage had been a pleasant backdrop to my life here in Liege. My mortal neighbors for over a decade, their routine was a kernel of normalcy in my bleak and chaotic existence.

  “You told them you were going to a heart specialist in Germany,” Lukas said. “Why bother?”

  I was surprised he could follow our conversation that well, then I remembered his friend, Maurice Fournier, had been French.

  “I don’t want them to be overly concerned when I fail to return,” I replied.

  Lukas exited the elevator with an amused snort.

  I followed him out, nodding to the doorman as I passed.

  “Franz.”

  “Mr. Valessi.”

  Franz tipped his cap, an older gentleman in a maroon and gold uniform. He had been the doorman for as long as I had resided here.

  “Do you think they even give a shit?” Lukas demanded, waiting for me outside on the sidewalk.

  If you want to spot a vampire on the street, look for the clouds of condensed vapor coming from the mouths of men and women on a cold winter night. We don’t have them. Strangely, most mortals don’t seem to notice.

  Tiny white flakes drifted from the lowering sky, adding to the snow that lingered stubbornly on from the last storm.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked. I threaded my way through the pedestrians passing between us.

  “They don’t give a shit about you,” Lukas glowered.

  “Whom?”

  “Them! The Gerouxes! Upper class fucks.” He fell in beside me as I continued down the street. He had pressed his hands into his pockets, lowered his shoulders to the wind, as if the cold still had power to pain him. “They won’t even notice you’re gone,” he said, then laughed contemptuously again.

  “Perhaps not,” I said, looking up at all the lighted windows.

  Traffic moseyed in the street beside us like a herd of sullen wildebeest—bawling and snorting. High overhead, a cargo plane from Liege-Bierset glided into the heavens. It rose with a sound like rolling thunder, the rumble of its engines echoing through the canyon of glass and concrete we were traversing. Suddenly I longed to be far away from there, away from the city that I loved, and out into the countryside. I wanted the organic curves and spiraling fractals of the natural world, not all these boxes and hard pointy edges!

  Patience, old monster. We will be leaving the city soon enough. Just a few more hours.

  “I hate them all,” Lukas muttered. He was glaring down the street ahead of us, shoulders hunched, but I had a feeling he wasn’t seeing the cars, the snow, the people. “I told a social worker my father was buggering me,” he said. He glanced at me, eyes glinting. “When I was thirteen or so, I got in trouble with the police. Nothing big. Got nabbed for running from a police officer. He just wanted to question me about some kids, a gang, that was causing some trouble in our neighborhood, but I was scared, so I ran. He hauled me into the station for making him chase me. Guess the fat ass didn’t like to sweat. They questioned me about the gang, but I didn’t know anything. I wouldn’t have told them if I did. Anyway, I suppose I acted funny somehow, because one of the cops got the idea there was something going on at home. They sent me to talk to a social worker, said I couldn’t go home until I’d seen him. I didn’t put up a fight. It was an opportunity. It was a chance to get us removed from my father’s house. Me and my sisters. So I decided to tell the guy everything. How my father was buggering us. How he prostituted me and my sisters to his friends. The drinking. The drugs. The gambling. The social worker listened to all of it with this expression of… pure horror on his face. Horror and sympathy. I just knew he was going to swoop in and save us. Like Superman, or something.”

  He laughed.

  “Do you
know what happened?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “He signed me out of custody. Told the detective he was driving me home. Said he wanted to talk to my dad. On the way home, he pulled his car over in a park. Locked the doors. Turned around in the seat, and told me I was going to blow him. Blow him or he would tell my dad I’d ratted him out.” Lukas shook his head, smiling. “After you’re dead and I’m on my own, I’m going back home and finding that social worker. I hope he’s still alive. I don’t know. Maybe he’s dead by now. That was twenty years ago. But if he isn’t… if he’s still alive… I’m going to pay him a little visit, only this time it won’t be his cock I suck.”

  We had found our way onto the Rue du Papillon. Low-slung brick buildings. Cobbled streets. Graffiti scrawled over the walls. If memory served, we were not far from the neighborhood where Lukas had once lived. Where he had filmed his kiddie porn with his friends Maurice and Hans. We walked uphill where the street narrowed, and just past the spot where Rue Strivay split off from Papillon, we heard mortal voices echoing in a lightless alley.

  “Owwwww! Stop it, Gerd! You’re hurting me!” a woman whined.

  “I said shut up, bitch!” a man snarled, and then a sharp clap as an open palm met an unseen cheek.

  “OWWW! Why’d you do that? I’m doing what you asked me to!”

  “Hee hee hee! Slap her again, G!” a third voice screeched. “How her who’s boss!”

  Lukas grinned, back arching like a cat. He bared his fangs and glided forward.

  I grabbed his arm, shook my head when he glared at me. I nodded toward the rooftops. “We attack from above,” I whispered.

  The buildings here were only two or three stories high. I leapt silently to the roof of an abandoned garage. Lukas followed.

  He should have been able to make the roof easily, but he could not quite clear the top of the structure. He clung to the brick façade, cheeks puffed comically out, then scrambled over the ledge, huffing and making a lot of needless scratching sounds.

  We crept across the roof of the garage until we could see into the alley below.