He went back to the slab and held his hands over it, hoping that he really was a true blood warden, that it didn't have some penalty instead. He pressed his hands into the indentations and waited for something to happen. It didn't seem like anything did. Then he thought he heard something, like moving stone.
He stood up, feeling a slight smile form on his lips. But the sound didn't come from the hall of mirrors, so it wasn't a door opening there. No. It came from back upstairs, from that circular chamber, where the remaining five coffins opened up.
He felt a sudden panic, which propelled him on into the hall of mirrors, feeling his way against the glass. He could hear the vampires snarling upstairs, and knew it wouldn't be long before they found out where he was. For all he knew, they were already in the reflective labyrinth, but no matter how many times they showed himself, those mirrors would never betray the location of the hunting vampires.
He continued on, faster now, feeling his heart pounding, his pulse racing, his breath fleeting. He crashed into mirrors, stubbing his toes, bashing his nose, feeling out for them, and not knowing if maybe he wasn't just going in circles, but was making his way back out to the where the vampires came from, back into their waiting claws.
Then he saw something in the mirrors: a pedestal, with a golden Celtic cross perched upon it. Yet the mirrors were no aid to him, for they showed it in all directions. He might have been close, or he might have been very far away from it.
He felt the presence of the vampires in the maze, so he went even faster than before, charging through, until he no longer saw the pedestal. He turned back, feeling the presence approaching, but knowing he had to go that way, to search for another turn he must have missed before. He found it with one scrambling hand, just as he caught sight of the shimmering cloak of the vampire. That was no reflection. It was here, just within reach.
Then, even as he heard the vampire start to run for him, he emerged from the hall of mirrors and saw the pedestal ahead. There was the golden cross, similar to the many high crosses that dotted the landscape of Ireland, and which were, according to Mr. Constant, employed as barriers against the vampires and other evil creatures of the land. This gold cross, however, was small enough to be held by hand, and James felt an instant attraction towards it, and a sense of ownership over it, as if he had just stumbled upon a lost toy. Yet this was no toy. It was a weapon.
And he needed a weapon. The vampire came out behind him, snarling.
James ran, feeling the presence charging behind him. The pedestal was just within reach, but he could still die here, stretching his arm out, trying to grasp something, but feeling life slip between his fingers instead.
He arrived at the pedestal, and reached out for the cross. Even as his hand neared it, it started to buzz with energy, and the light around the cross grew suddenly very bright. The creature that was drawing near gave out a fierce cry, and when the light subsided, and James turned with the cross in hand, the creature burst into flames, wailing, until it formed another layer of dust upon the ground.
James stepped down, still clutching the cross, feeling the energy of it travel through him, washing away his doubts, burning away his fears. The weeds of uncertainty were sliced down, and that little seed of strength within him grew suddenly into a great tree of life and light. He knew his calling, his purpose in life, and now felt the blood of the blood wardens pumping through his veins.
30
The Kiss of Death
The return to Umbra Montis was a jubilant one. James had emerged from the passage tomb changed, and yet unchanged. It wasn't so much a transformation as a realisation of who he always was.
“The Cross is just a symbol of your power,” Mr. Constant said. “It has its own energy, true enough, but the real power is in your blood.”
“I can feel it,” James said. “For the first time, I actually feel alive.”
“Well, don't get overconfident,” the magician warned. “You can still die yet.”
James went with Rua and Caoimh to the old hotel, where Mr. Constant and Lilly said their goodbyes. Lilly would stay with the magician until she found a new place, less for her safety and more for him to keep an eye on her.
The hotel seemed very empty now, more than ever. Rua called out for Lorcan, but there was no response.
“He's probably at the lake,” she said.
“Or in it,” Caoimh added.
“Get James some new quarters. I have some things to attend to. Now that we have a proven blood warden, that should be the end of all these claims to the thrones. I will start writing the summons to the various families.”
She headed off, and Caoimh brought James to one of the larger bedrooms on the top floor, which looked a lot more lavish than the one he had stayed in previously.
“You be good to her,” the driver told him.
“What? Me be good to her? Should be the other way 'round.”
Caoimh sighed, but said nothing more.
James took a bath (he preferred showers, but this place was lucky to even have running water) and got into some fresh clothes. It was odd, but they didn't quite feel like his clothes any more, even though he'd brought them with him from the States. He found a tiny handheld mirror in one of the drawers and used it to shave. Just as he was finished, mopping up a few cuts, he heard a voice.
“You look good.”
“Jesus,” James said, jumping. He turned to see Rua there, wearing a red lace nightgown.
She tried to stifle a snarl. “You shouldn't use that name.”
“Sorry, it's instinct.” He paused. “Does that mean the Christians got it right?”
“No. It's just one of many holy names, in many traditions and tongues, that scathes us so.” She glanced at the golden Celtic cross on his bed, seeming pained by its presence. “And the cross is just one of many holy symbols of warding. Many others will work just as well.”
“And what about mirrors?” James said, holding it up to her. She placed her hand up, as if to block what she thought was an ugly reflection, but there was none. He placed it back on the table, adding: “It's the only mirror you've got in this place.”
She tapped the mirror quickly over the edge of the table into the open drawer, which she closed just as quick.
“It's not the only one.”
“What, the mirror of the soul?”
She cocked her head. “At least we have one between us.”
She took his left hand and placed it on her waist, and interlocked her fingers with his other hand. She stared into his eyes, but that hypnotic gaze did not have the same power as it once did. It didn't need to though. James was already entranced.
“Is this not … forbidden?” he asked her.
She drew in close to kiss his neck. “Yes,” she whispered. “The forbidden fruit.”
“Does that make you the serpent?”
Before he could quite finish the sentence, she kissed him, then bit his lower lip. It was a tender bite, a playful bite, not the snap of the snake.
She pushed him back onto the bed, where he landed on the cross. He pulled it out from beneath him and cast it onto the floor, where its light dulled almost entirely. She crawled onto the bed, and onto him, ripping his shirt open and running her sharp nails down his chest. He pushed her off and rolled around on top of her, pinning her down.
“Turn off the lights,” she whispered.
James reached over to the oil lamp and blew out the wick.
“I like the dark,” she added.
The room fell into shadow, but the Cross of St. Benedict still gave out a faint glow, just enough to see meeting lips and pressing flesh, just enough to show the silhouette of Lorcan peering through the slightly open door, and just enough for whoever was at the window, taking photographs of that not-so-perfect marriage.
31
Sacrifice
They heard Lorcan give out a terrible roar and cast over tables, and tear down bookcases with his telekinetic pull.
“I have given my
life to this lie!” he shouted. He continued through the castle, breaking anything in his path.
Rua urged James to leave him be, but James was pushed on by guilt.
“What has he given me?” she asked James as he left the room.
James followed the trail of destruction, finding Lorcan out on the highest ledge of Umbra Montis, his legs dangling over the vast precipice. His right arm leant upon a frowning gargoyle, whose face matched the dour expression upon the vampire's. His left hand held a chain, from which hung a locket.
“You have come to console me,” Lorcan said, before James had even drawn near. That superior sense of hearing, and sense of smell, was weakened by the protective powers of a blood warden, but it was still stronger than a normal human.
“Maybe I've come to seek consolement myself,” James replied.
He stepped out onto the ledge, catching sight of the sheer drop below, and felt suddenly a little dizzy. The ledge seemed smaller than before, barely big enough to stand on. The gargoyle appeared to be taking up far too much space, and even it clutched the protruding platform with its stone claws.
“You jest,” Lorcan said. “What is there that I can aid you with? No. I am no counsellor. You seek not the madman for his wisdom. You seek not the broken for advice on building.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“What I have always been doing. Brooding and pining, and trying to take that little extra step towards the edge, towards the end.”
“Why do you want it to end?”
Lorcan looked at him with sorrow in his eyes. “Why do you want it to continue?”
“Because I haven't experienced it all.”
“Well, I have. Or enough of it to know that I want no more.”
“I'm sorry,” James said. He wasn't even entirely certain that Lorcan had seen him with Rua, or that he cared. Yet to find him up here on the ledge suggested he cared too much.
“You can have her,” Lorcan replied. “Have what I never had. That is what I miss most: love. But love is for the living. I have not seen a drop of it since I became undead. Yet the memory of it lives, perhaps only to taunt and torture me. But what of her? You cannot have her heart if it does not beat. My own? I lie to my ears to make it seem that it still has a rhythm. We are shells, houses for the demons in us. Perhaps when human, we were the same, but at least we shared that house with a soul.”
“For a vampire, you kind of sound like you've got a conscience.”
“That is perhaps the only thing not yet dead in me. It would be easier if it were buried too, but no! As much as I thirst for blood, I yearn to be free of this curse, and to do some good before I pass.” He scoffed. “What passing waits for me? The old may look upon their life and count regrets, and yet may still see those good deeds done, and die happy. For me, the regrets keep counting, and even if I do a deed worthy of honour, I live on to quash it with a dozen deeds of horror.”
He moved a stray tile from the roof with his telekinetic powers, grasping it with his hand, before letting it fall down below. There was a clatter as it broke apart on the ground. He looked down on it, and perhaps, if he had some power of foresight, he could see his broken body down there too.
“Do you know what it is like to die every day? It is my eternal torment, my hell on earth. The Devil does not need to come for me, for he resides in me.” He tapped the side of his head. “The prodding pitchfork is in my mind. The piercing spear is in my heart. To live without a soul is not to live. You feel always empty. Is is to leave space for the demon to come in.”
Lorcan rose suddenly, with a dexterity that dancers would have dreamed of, and a balance envied by acrobats. He seemed well suited to that platform, as much a home to him as it was the stone figure he stood beside.
He stepped forward, closer to the edge. He cast his gaze down to the earth, that global burial mound. His intent was clear.
“Lorcan,” James said.
“You are powerful now, James,” Lorcan replied, “but you have not the power of the vampire. Your words carry the weight of the living. Mine carry the weight of the dead. Oh, how terrible that weight is. If I could but fix it about my feet, then perhaps I would sink in some ocean, and drown, but instead I float. Gravity is my iron ball, and yet it fails me too.”
“Lorcan, don't do this.”
“Your worries are wasted. See!”
Suddenly he leapt off the edge, and James ran towards him, reaching out, but caught nothing. He heard the flutter of fabric as the vampire plummeted down, but then it changed to the flapping of wings as Lorcan rose again in a cloud of bats. They flew in place for a moment, staring at James, before they spun in a whisk of shadow into the figure of Lorcan again, standing once more upon the edge. He turned to James with tears in his eyes.
“See!” he repeated, anguished. “The demon in me won't let me die. I leap, but it pulls me up. I fall, but it makes me fly. I do not have the freedom that you do, the freedom to let it all turn to black. I have tried everything. I have bolted myself to an anchor, and cast it and I into the sea, but no chains can hold this demon in me. I have lain upon the tracks, but I stop the train, not my life. I have taken many wooden stakes and driven them towards my heart, that empty vessel, and my hand stops, like a robot, before it pierces my rotten flesh. I have launched myself against the sharpest blades, and set myself beneath the razor of the guillotine, but it has all been to no avail. I have even asked Rua to do it for me, to give me this sweet release, but she refuses. I just want it all to end!”
James was overcome by sympathy for the vampire, or rather that tiny element of humanity in him, buried by the demon. There was no redemption for it, and no freedom. Eternal life was a prison.
It dawned on James then that he could do it, that he could free the vampire from this prison. Yet he knew that just like Lorcan's own attempts, any attack on Lorcan's life would be met with resistance by the demon in him. Lorcan was a formidable vampire, one of an older caste, with powers beyond many, and speed beyond most. It would not be easy.
Lorcan turned and looked at him.
“I know your thoughts,” he said.
“It would be asking a lot.”
“It would be asking everything.”
“I'm not sure I'm strong enough.”
Lorcan forced a smile, which was overshadowed by the sadness in his eyes. “I'm not sure you are either. It will fight you. I will fight you, even though I do not will it. Such is the way. We pretend we are kings, but we are pawns. When we are gone, the battle will continue without us.”
“The problem is,” James said, “we need you for the battle now.”
“And there it is,” Lorcan replied, “that same argument that Rua made. She made it a hundred years ago too, and here I am still, still fighting! I'm not sure there is any more fight in me left. I drain people of their blood, of their vitality, and yet I am drained of my will.”
“But this is different, right? There hasn't been a war like this in a long time. People depend on us. The world needs us right now. I didn't want this either, Lorcan. You're not the only one who didn't get a choice. Maybe this is bigger than us. Maybe this is how we make a difference. Maybe this is how you make amends.”
Lorcan bit his lip. “I am done fighting. I have already made a difference, and it was an evil one. If this empire is to fall, then let it fall! Maybe then I can die in the ashes.”
He shifted again into the cloud of bats and flew off into the night sky. Where he went, no one knew. Perhaps he tried, as he so often did, to help some poor living soul, a token effort to appease his not yet rotten conscience. And perhaps, as equally often, the demon in him took that poor living soul and made it into a meal.
32
Too Many Fangs
The Gorman family never got Rua's summons. They were out on the road, close to Ballyboden, where it seemed there was a lot more activity than there should have been.
“I don't like the looks of it,” John Gorman said.
“I can scou
t,” his son, Frankie, responded. He was just twelve years old when he was turned, and that had only been less than a year ago. He'd stay that age forever, even if he lived a thousand years. Normally it was forbidden to turn a child, but John Gorman risked everything to save Frankie from a life-threatening illness. He even risked his soul.
“G'wan then,” John said.
He knew there was no one faster than Frankie on his feet. They parked on the road, far enough away from the O'Neill stronghold to stay out of sight, but close enough in case of an emergency. They didn't know how close to war they were.
Frankie sneaked up to one of the lower walls and peeked over, straining on the tips of his toes. What he witnessed almost knocked him from his feet. There, down in the circular chamber, were dozens of people, all being turned, several at a time, into vampires.
It was a violation of the blood quota enforced by the government, the only reason they let the vampires continue to operate in the country without resistance. So long as they kept their numbers down, and the number of meals down too, the people in power would turn a blind eye. But the O'Neills were making an army. There was no way you could ignore this.
Frankie watched as Dearg marched through the formations, shouting orders, sending her kin to go out and drag more hapless humans into the chamber. She hauled some of the new vampires up, charging them to give an oath of allegiance to her and the family name. They obeyed, swearing even to die for her. They'd already done it once.
Legends of the Damned: A Collection of Edgy Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels Page 242