There was a sudden clatter of fabric, and then a sound like the flap of a bat's wings. With this came a flurry of black, and instantly it seemed that the kingly figure was back on his throne, poised again like a painting.
James' heart fluttered on its own, and in it nested its own blackness, the rot of the soul when touched by the undead.
“I am Lorcan,” the king said, and it was clear that he was king. The audience bowed, willingly or not. Even the woman at his side tilted her head to him. “Of House Caomhánach,” he continued, “or Kavanah, as the English have it.” He didn't sound Irish, nor English, nor really from any place James knew. It brought to mind: What accent do they have in Hell?
“And I am Ruagruaim,” the queen said, and more than ever it was clear that she was queen. The chamber curtsied again, and even her king nodded in acquiescence to her. “Of that same noble house, but you may call me Rua.”
What little Irish James knew was enough to tell him that Rua meant Red. It was a fitting name for her, with her scarlet smock and crimson lips. Her hair was the black of deepest night, and her eyes were not far off that colour, but her face was paler than even the most sun-shy Irish cheeks.
Her companion took her hand, and they looked to one another fondly, and then back at James with the kind of fondness for a feast.
“What do you want from me?” James asked through his gritted teeth. He realised he was sweating profusely, and that his hands were clenched tight. The muscles of his stomach were tense, and his shoulders were hunched, as if to reflexively guard his neck.
“You come at a time of turmoil in our world,” Rua said.
“At the prelude of a great war,” Lorcan added, rolling his tongue, and licking his lips.
“Among vampires, there are many long-held and valued traditions. One of them is this,” Rua said, holding up her and her husband's clasped hands, “our sacred and perfect marriage, built upon the line of queens and kings.”
Lorcan turned to her and stared into her eyes. He smiled, and she smiled. Then he caressed her hand, before she turned her attention back to James.
“Another is the long line of blood wardens, of whom you are one of the last.”
“I'm not anyone,” James protested.
“Be careful,” Lorcan responded, with that same look of genuine worry. “If you are not a blood warden, then what is there to stop us bleeding you?”
From the corners of his eyes, James saw the assembly of vampires shifting in place, coming forward a little. They moved like spectres, with no bobbing up and down, just a graceful approach. They came on either side, like the walls closing in—if the walls had teeth.
11
The Five Families
With a flick of Rua's wrist, a royal gesture, the wall of vampires halted. How terrifying it was for James to think that with another tiny movement, she might authorise them to advance again. The power she had was unstoppable. It was the power of life and death.
“Tradition forbids us from harming a blood warden,” Rua revealed, much to the scorn of one or two of the vampires in the shadow-draped crowd.
“Tradition is our guiding force,” Lorcan added. “It is our … light.” He shuddered at the word, and James saw others in the audience recoiling. It seemed even the word itself brought a flicker of brightness into the room.
Rua drew up, letting go of Lorcan's hand, and she descended the three steps at the foot of her throne, letting her dress cascade down behind her like a sanguine waterfall. Her hips swung from side to side, dragging the dress one way and then the other, until she stood in the centre of the room before James.
“There are five claims to the vampire thrones of Ireland,” she said. “Only one of those can be true. We are that truth.”
There was a murmur of dissent in the assembly, silenced by the crack of her wrist, which was like the lash of a whip.
“Some would question that,” she acknowledged, casting the evil eye at one or two in the audience. “Some would question us. Tradition requires that when there are such … disagreements … that we bring in a blood warden to settle the dispute. Or at least to delay it.”
“But I know nothing about you,” James said. “About this world.”
“He's no warden!” one of the audience cried. James turned to see a curly-haired man pointing an accusing finger at him.
“Come and have a taste then, John,” Rua replied, “if you doubt him.”
John retracted that finger, and then the arm. He didn't come to taste. He didn't even make a step forward.
“He is a blood warden,” Lorcan said, coming up beside his wife. “There is no doubt. It has been confirmed by Mr. Constant. This is James Halmorris. You all know that name.”
There was a flurry of nods, and a mumble of ascent. Rumour swept through the wave of vampires, all separated into their varying factions, all vying for the thrones, but all respecting the long-held traditions—for now.
It was odd to see that there was a look of hate in the eyes of some, and a look of fear in others. Every time they said “blood warden,” James felt some of his own fear fade away, and in its place came courage and strength. Where it came from, he did not know, but it was the same kind of courage and strength his father had, and his grandmother before. Maybe it was in his blood.
“Will you accept this then?” Rua asked the crowd. “Will you accept that we have brought a decider among us? We have brought a peace-keeper. Can we then have peace, and let our disputes be put on hold?”
There was some discussion among the various families present. It was clear that they were kin, for they huddled together, eyeing the others suspiciously. Some said little, turning quickly to nod and bow to Rua and Lorcan. Others talked a lot, and loudly, making condemnatory remarks about the couple, and casting doubt on James.
“How much does he know of us?” John asked in time.
“Not much,” Rua replied.
“He should know all.”
“Would you trust a blood warden with all?”
“Well, you're asking us to trust him with the thrones.”
“Then quickly now, say your piece.”
John turned to address James. “I represent the Gorman family. We are An Lucht Siúil, the Travelling People. No land holds us. No grave restricts us.” It seemed he was making a special effort to speak more slowly for James' benefit, and to avoid using the Cant of his people. “At one time we ruled, but because we would not commit to one location, would not sit in but one adorned chair, our claim to the crown of Ireland was ridiculed and dismissed. We were usurped by the settled people.”
“You were not, ya liar!” another in the crowd yelled. He was with the O'Connor clan, and James only knew that by the fact that they were carrying banners bearing their family name and crest of arms.
“Speak when it's your turn to speak!” Rua barked back.
“For now,” John continued, “we support the Kavanaghs' claim to the thrones.”
“That's because you've got none yourself!” the O'Connor spokesman said.
“Speak then, Cathal,” Rua said, “since you find it difficult to do otherwise.”
Cathal could barely be seen with all the banners and bunting, but his voice could be heard well and clear. “We go back to the last High King of Ireland, before the Normans came. Of all of us, we have the greatest claim. A hundred of my ancestors held the crown of Connacht, but because the Kavanaghs held the crown of Leinster, where our capital is, they get first call as ever! It isn't right. It wasn't right then, and it's not right now. Tradition might be on the side of the Kavanaghs, but history is on our side. There's more royal blood in my left toe than there is in the rest of ya!”
“Perhaps we should have a toe for a king then,” Rua said, without a hint of a smile.
There was a snicker amongst the audience, and Cathal faded back into the shield of banners.
Then an older woman rose on the other side, where a family of clearly noble birth sat quietly, observing, but taking no part in the b
ack-and-forth of the other families. When she rose, Lorcan stood and bowed, and the entire chamber went quiet.
She spoke in a soft, but firm tone. “I am Ioana, and we are House Danesti from Romania,” she said. “We support the Kavanaghs' claim. The traditions of our peoples must be upheld.”
She sat back down, but even James could tell that her short speech of approval was largely for show. She looked at Lorcan softly, and James wondered if perhaps they were related, if that explained Lorcan's accent, but she eyed Rua coldly, as if she did not wholly approve of their marriage.
“That just leaves the O'Neills,” Rua said, “who are, as always, absent from these meetings.”
“A disgrace,” the woman from House Danesti said. “We had the same problem with House Draculesti in Wallachia.”
“I will speak for them then,” Rua continued. “They are descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages, and claim links to the High King of Ireland, the Kings of Tara, Ulster, and others. Yet it is there claim to Niall Noígíallach that they say matters most, for they say that the hostages offered to him by nine different families were, in fact, the first vampires of Ireland, offered not as gifts, but as an attempt to end the O'Neill line. They say then that they are the origins of us all, not necessary as living, but as undead. Any historian, of the mundane or magical world, would dispute their claims.”
Lorcan rose. “You have heard enough,” he said. “Five families, three of which are in agreement with the Kavanagh claim.”
“This isn't a vote,” Cathal said.
“Perhaps not, but while it is unwise to fight one army, it is madness to fight three.”
Cathal was silenced by that comment. James had little to go on, but instinct told him a lot that the vampire clans would not say: that the O'Neills, if they had been there, would not have been silent at all—that they might have spoken with the tongue of a blade.
12
Window
The council room cleared, and James was freed from his bonds, though not before being forced to promise that he would not run, and warned that if he did, they would chase him. It took a great deal of effort to pretend that he was strong, that he did not fear them, and he was almost certain that they saw right through it.
“Good night,” Rua said, as she sealed him back inside his bedroom. She retreated through the closing door, with the flicker of a smile upon her face.
He heard the clang of the old bolt locking into place, and felt Rua's presence shifting down the hallway. Perhaps she walked, but she made no noise. There was a grace about her and her husband, but James knew that it was a shell that covered an ugly, evil core.
As soon as he felt he was outside her gaze, James let out his long-held breath. It was not a sigh of relief, because there was still no relief to be had. His own shell of false courage crumbled, and he felt himself tremble. As far as he could tell, there was no one else in the hotel but him—well, no one living anyway.
He rushed over to his bed and grabbed his mobile phone from the bedside table. One bar. While this was Dublin, it was the outskirts, the so-called “best of both worlds” of the city and country life. There were two worlds here all right, and he had the worst of both.
He tried to call Lilly, but he couldn't get through. It didn't ring at all for ages, and then when it did, it went straight to voicemail.
Damn it, Lilly, answer!
Then the bars dropped to zero. He was on his own. His life or death was in his hands, and the claws of the vampires.
He looked around the room for some means of escape. There was nothing but the window, and he was three floors up. He opened it and looked outside. It was a long drop. He would be lucky to get away with just broken legs—and with them he wouldn't get away at all.
He sighed. He was trapped. He would have to go along with their plans, even though he was certain he was no “blood warden,” that he had no power against these fiends, and that his only contribution to them would be his very blood.
He saw the single bar on his phone come back, and his heart fluttered. He bashed 999 into the keypad, and was thankful that the operator answered immediately.
“P-p-police, please,” he stuttered.
There was a momentary dial tone, but just as swiftly he got through to the police.
“What's the emergency?”
“There's been a murder here. I don't know what to do.” He thought it best not to tell them about the vampires. He needed the men in blue. He didn't want them to send the men in white coats instead.
“Where are you?” the operator asked.
“I'm at—”
Then the call cut off, and he saw he was down to zero bars again.
No! he cried internally. He might have cried aloud too, were he not fearful that it would attract the attention of the vampires again.
Yet maybe something heard him all the same.
His eyes were drawn to the open window, where he felt a presence approaching.
Then a hand reached up from the outside wall and gripped the window sill with its long, pointed nails. Then the other came, reaching through the opening and grasping the interior wall. Then the head and body came, and Lorcan crawled into the room.
James dropped his phone, and Lorcan swiftly advanced and caught it. He drew up slowly, clutching the device in his bony fingers, with his nails pointing outwards so as not to scratch the screen.
“Be careful,” he said, soft and sweet. He handed it back to James. “Best to put that away,” he continued. “Out here, the signal … is not great. Besides, in this land you are the stranger. So, pray tell, who would you call?”
“No one,” James uttered.
Lorcan smiled. “No one, yes.” He circled around James, so that his gown wrapped around James' legs. If he kept going, it would wrap around his neck like a noose.
“Why are you keeping me here?” James asked.
“To keep you safe.”
“I don't feel safe.”
“Good,” the vampire said. “It is better to be afraid and be vigilant, than to think yourself protected, and let down your guard.” He walked towards the open window, letting his gown unwrap from James' legs and pull along behind him. He gestured to the opening.
“For example,” he said. “It is not wise to leave an open window here. You never know what might crawl in.” He smiled. There was something very intimidating about his friendliness, as if he never once in his life—or death—had to make an explicit threat.
“I … I can't breathe in here,” James said. “I feel suffocated.”
“Yes,” Lorcan said. “Breathing. Sometimes I forget these things that the living do. For us, air comes in, like it comes into a deep, dark chamber beneath the earth. It does nothing there. It means nothing to us. But for you, it is different. I barely remember those times. So long ago!” He seemed pained to think of it. “Good riddance!”
He pulled the window shut.
“I know this is all very strange to you,” he acknowledged. “It shouldn't be, by right, for your own family should have explained these things. They have taken for granted the peace we have now. Like my forgetting the feeling of air inside my lungs, they have forgotten the wars of the past, and thought little to plan for the wars of the future.”
“I don't want anything to do with your wars.”
“Neither do I, but we don't get that choice. With or without us, they come, like night comes to smother day.”
“Like day comes to douse the night,” James said defiantly. He didn't know where that defiance came from.
Lorcan smiled. “See. There is some fight in you. You came here to learn about your roots. These are your roots. This is who you are, who you were meant to be.”
“Not who I want to be.”
Lorcan scoffed. “Do you want to be afraid? Do you want to live a meaningless life? There are millions who live such … boring lives. Once you enter our world, there is no going back. Even if you returned to America, you would start to see the unseen, and hear the unheard.
The secret life, the hidden world, is now unlocked. It cannot be sealed again. Like it or not, this is your path now. Here in Ireland, you were reborn, like I was seven hundred years ago!”
Despite James' fears, he knew that everything Lorcan said was true. After seeing what he had seen, he wondered if he could ever get it out of his mind. He wanted to forget. He wanted to go back to his old, boring life, even though it was that boredom—and a sense of calling—that prompted his current expedition.
“It will take time to adjust,” Lorcan said. “But for you, time is short. Time is fleeting. Death for you means death. Death for us means life. We cannot turn you, and we are obliged by tradition to not harm you. Yet tradition does not stay all hands. It does not hold back all fangs. We are at the turning point where the blood wardens are needed again, where mortals referee immortals. I despise that it is so, but like you I have no choice!”
“Why do you need me?” James asked. “What power do I have that you don't? I don't understand any of this. How can I stop a war? How can I compel vampires when you have the power to compel and control minds? I am powerless!”
“You only feel powerless. Trust not those feelings. You know not what is in your blood. It is the bloodline of royalty that rules the vampire world, but it is a holy bloodline that runs through warden veins. I abhor it with a deep and powerful hatred! Yet here I am, asking your help. Evil, so-called, beseeching good … so-called.”
“And what if I don't help?” James asked.
“Then it matters not that you can now see the unseen, for if this dynasty falls, then chaos will erupt here, and all will see it, and hear it, and feel it. This world will go to ruin. Dark as we may be, we hold back darker forces, bent on destruction. For we may be undead, but be believe in order. We work with the living. Some would have it all destroyed. So then, my fearful warden, do not fear us, but fear what would happen without us.”
Legends of the Damned: A Collection of Edgy Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels Page 236