Susan Squires - [Companion Vampires 0]

by The Companion

“You can be so boring, Rufford.” She sat forward. “You know why. There is something which must be done. You may be able to do it.”

  “I am doing nothing but going to White’s for some deep play,” he said, still angry. He would indulge no more of her games. He rose and stood over her.

  “You must find Asharti.” Her contralto voice throbbed with emotion, not compulsion. “You must kill her. We should have done it years ago.”

  “I could not kill her. And I will not put myself in her power again. I’ll go to America.”

  “She will find you. She has guessed you may be a threat to her.”

  “Then after America, China and after China, India.”

  “A life on the run? And it is a very long life. She has eternity to find you, you know.”

  Ian sagged as the truth of her statement penetrated his anger.

  The Countess turned deadly serious. “I said you would have a choice and you will. Normally we would kill a made vampire like you without thinking. But Asharti cannot be allowed to start a cult of new vampires. She cannot bring down governments so blatantly. Rubius needs you. We need you. And when it comes to the sticking point, you will choose to help us.” She examined him. “There is something more important at stake for you even than her threat to your life.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Her eyes were hard. She was about to tell him something he would not like. “Your soul is not your own. Your experience at her hands has scarred you. I have seen her wound that way before.” Her eyes flicked over some painful memory before she turned her face up to him again. “She may have dealt a killing blow to all you were, all you are capable of being. You must get over Asharti, somehow. You cannot run from her, because you will take her with you.”

  Ian breathed out slowly. He could not answer. He stared in accusation.

  The Countess met his eyes. “Only one with the blood of the Old One in his veins has a chance against her. You must stop her. For your new kind. For the world. For yourself.”

  “I am no match for her. I have a drop of her blood after she had a drop of his blood. Who knows how much she has taken since I saw her take it from his finger?”

  “You saw the Old One yourself?” The woman’s delicate brows drew together.

  “I saw him.” Ian remembered the cold, dead air of the temple, the otherness that had sat there in the dark. “She called him He Who Waits.”

  Lady Lente looked stunned. “None of us has seen him. For us, he is only a legend.”

  “So, tell me the legend.”

  She gathered herself. “There was a race from. . . . somewhere else, so long ago that only Rubius remembered them living among humans. Normally, they dwelt in the lands around the Fertile Crescent. Our people were hunters dressed in skins and gatherers of grain and berries in the high valleys of the Carpathians north of the strangers and their monuments. But One among them came north. The Companion in his blood infected a fountain; no one knows how. We call it the Source. The legend has it that he wanted to make humankind over in his own image. He did, at least in part. At first all who drank there died. But one or two survived. We discovered that blood from the survivors could save others. That was how our race was born.”

  “Immunity,” Ian muttered. “And what of the Ancient Ones?” Ian felt he was listening to a story told around a campfire with beasts roaring behind him and sparks flying into the darkness.

  “They left,” she said simply. “The One who infected our fountain remained behind; either as punishment for his hubris or because he missed his time of going. No one knows which.”

  “So he waits.”

  She nodded. “He waits for their return.” They thought about how long he had waited.

  Ian came to himself. “But I still do have a choice?”

  “Yes.” The dark eyes looked at him calmly.

  “Well then, you’d better send to this Rubius and tell him to deal with Asharti, because I am not up to the task. My only choice, even if it is a bad one, is to keep one step ahead of her. If he wants to kill me for refusing, let him.”

  The Countess pursed her lips and lifted her chin, then sighed. “Very well. In the meantime, we will take care of loose ends in preparation for your journey to America.”

  Ian glared at her. Had she given up on getting him to go after Asharti so easily? And there was another thing. “I do not care to have Miss Rochewell’s memory tampered with.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She almost spoke. Finally she said, “I reserve judgment until I have seen her. From your reaction I surmise she is in London. Who else knows about you?”

  “No one,” Ian said emphatically. Then he was struck by a thought. Blundell!

  “What? You cannot hide from me.” She must have seen his mulish look, for she said, “I will hurt no one. Can you not accept that? But we cannot have everyone knowing what we are.”

  “I went to a doctor, looking for a cure. A specialist in blood.”

  “Does he have a sample?” she asked sharply.

  Ian nodded.

  “Well, then that shall be our first exercise in translocation. We will retrieve this sample, and induce the good doctor to forget about you.” She stood and looked down at him. “You fear me, even despise me. But I am your kin. You can learn to find joy in your condition, even as I do. But to be at peace you must get beyond your time with Asharti.”

  She held out her hand. “Come. I will teach you to control the darkness. It is unlikely he can discover our true nature by studying the Companion under one of those modern devices—what are they called? Microscopes? But we can take no chances.”

  She beckoned. Ian stood. There was so much to learn from this woman. He would deal with the consequences at some later date. And he would prevent her from violating Miss Rochewell’s memory, by some means. For now, she took his hand in hers. She smiled, and the glow of strength from within her was almost blinding.

  Ian stripped off his waistcoat and tugged his shirt over his head in his rooms at Albany House as dawn began to light the sky. He rubbed the stubble on his chin as though that could banish the confused feelings in his breast. He had seen wonders tonight—the wonders of what he was and some glimpse of what he could become. Beatrix Lisse had taught him, in that accent he had decided was Dutch laid over some other accent, even older, how to direct the power of his Companion. He had felt it cycle up until he could hardly think and he blinked out of space and time to reappear in Blundell’s study. Materializing in the midst of all that glass in the dark when one was trying to keep the household from awaking—such a risk! They had taken Ian’s blood sample back and the Countess—Beatrix, as she insisted he call her—compelled the doctor’s mind into a pleasing blank when it came to vampires.

  The shudder that coursed through Ian now had nothing to do with the adventure, nor with the draft against his bare chest from the window he threw open. He breathed in the predawn foggy air to clean his lungs. He had reveled in his power tonight. He had fed with Beatrix and she had not tried to compel him. Beatrix! He was still afraid of her. But she was of his kind.

  His mind came again to what she had said about Asharti: “You cannot run from her, because you will take her with you.” Beatrix was right on two levels. She had posted a letter to Rubius. The leader of his new kind lived in some monastery in the craggy Transylvanian Mountains. Beatrix said he would gather the others. But if Beatrix was right and they could not stop her, Asharti would hunt him across the world. Why would she not? She intended to conquer it anyway. He would leave a trail of grisly death and servitude to Asharti behind him in his travels. And his leaving would not protect Henry’s family or Miss Rochewell. Could he abandon them to the fate that tortured him?

  But Beatrix was right on a spiritual level, too. The shame and the self-loathing that constantly washed over him were rooted at least in part in the time he had been Asharti’s slave. Flashes of degradation from his months in the desert raced through his mind until he was breathing fast and shallowly. She would h
aunt his soul as well.

  He leaned out into the dark of a London night, sweat beading his forehead. A crier told the hour somewhere. Lamps burned in Albany Court, haloed with mist. A late carriage clattered on the stones of Piccadilly past the entrance to the Court. God, but he just wanted to be what he was before this whole nightmare had begun!

  But he couldn’t. He stood and shut the window. He could not cure his new condition. He could not outrun it. Damn her! A flare of anger burned in his breast. Asharti was going to destroy, not just him and all hope he had of a meaningful life, but everything, for everyone. Beatrix may have given him a choice, but Asharti had not, bitch goddess that she was.

  He had to face her.

  He was not enough. But who else was there? He would need more strength if there was to be any hope at all of winning against her. He knew where to get that strength; from blood—the blood of the Old One. It was his only hope. Then, when he was stronger, he would accept Asharti’s invitation to meet her in Tripoli.

  Though he had been to Kivala in person, he did not know its location. But he knew someone who could help him find it, someone who could read the tablature that told how to gain entrance to the inner sanctum of the Old One. His mind raced. His heart thumped against his ribs as the plans slipped into place. It was not fair to ask her. She would be shackled to a monster. What could he give her in return? She had mourned for Africa on the ship. Perhaps he could give her something she loved and escape from a life she must find as empty as he found his. He would endanger her by taking her to that temple. Was she not already in danger? It was too horrible, too perfect, that it was she who held the key. But there was no choice.

  It was time to strike a bargain.

  Beth and Miss Fairfield sat with Major Ware at Lady Jersey’s evening of cards and dancing. In the lull of a musicians’ break, the swirl of conversation, laughter, the clink of glasses, all receded. Beth pressed the Major to return to the subject he had raised the other night.

  “I understand the fall of Morocco is serious for British interests in the region.” She noticed that Emma Fairfield took her attention from the Major’s handsome, very English face with some difficulty. “But we mere mortals are interested in more thrilling fare. When did these killings start? Do they continue even now?” What she wanted to know was whether Ian Rufford was responsible for the killings. If so, they would have ended with his departure.

  The Major glanced between the ladies. “You will find the details distasteful, I’m afraid.”

  “You underestimate us, Major. Doesn’t he, Miss Fairfield?”

  “Of course he does. Men always underestimate us.”

  Beth knew she could count on Miss Fairfield.

  The Major sighed. “Well, the leader of the cult is a woman.”

  Beth felt a shudder of anticipation. “Her name?”

  “She is called Asharti.”

  Beth kept her face still and hoped that her shock did not shine from her eyes. Asharti!

  “The nomadic tribes serve her with a zeal they never showed for their own leaders,” Ware continued. “It is said she can be in two places at once, that she has a black nimbus of pure energy around her and she cannot be killed. That is what they say, at any rate.”

  Mr. Rufford’s persecutor was real, and only Beth knew that all those rumors were most dreadfully true. The independent confirmation of Asharti’s existence made the pain she had seen in Rufford’s eyes take on a new resonance. “So, the drained bodies, they are hers?”

  “Hers and her followers’. Who knows how many there are now?” Rufford was not to blame for those at any rate. Beth peered at the Major. He was hiding something. His eyes contained a pale echo of the pain she had seen in Rufford’s eyes. Had he met Asharti?

  Miss Fairfield chuckled. “The power of a pretty face.”

  “Perhaps. But I have seen things in Africa . . .” Major Ware’s attention drifted, remembering something horrible, something that struck him to his soul.

  The quartet in the back of Lady Jersey’s long ballroom struck up a waltz. Mr. Blakely, whose offer of marriage she had refused two days ago, came up and pointedly claimed the hand of a reluctant Miss Campton to Beth’s left. The major’s light blue, protuberant eyes shifted to Miss Fairfield, almost unconsciously, as though she were a counterweight to the thoughts that circled so like vultures behind his eyes. He set down his delicate china cup on a side table. “Miss Fairfield,” he bowed formally, “may I ask you for this dance?”

  Emma Fairfield blushed, cast down her eyes, and stood. Somewhere Beth was conscious that the attention of the room had turned to the doors. She watched Miss Campton and Miss Fairfield place their hands on their partners’ arms and circle into the dance. She realized she was standing alone and looked around for some acquaintance. Miss Belchersand turned a deliberate shoulder to talk to a young man. Beth felt the prickle of a blush creep up her throat.

  Slowly her gaze rose as if commanded, though she wanted to conceal her embarrassment with downcast eyes. There, across the room, stood Ian Rufford, bowing to his hostess. He was dressed in a perfectly cut black coat, the evening breeches demanded by Lady Jersey clinging to his muscled thighs. His snowy cravat was impeccably tied, his softly curling hair confined imperfectly in a ribbon. His cuffs were tailored a shade too long to conceal his scars. Beth felt a stab of something she could not name shudder down her spine. To see him after nearly two months . . . she had almost forgotten how magnetic he was.

  As he rose from kissing his hostess’s hand, he turned. His blue eyes searched the room and caught hers. She meant to look away, but she was trapped, staring into those familiar blue eyes. The pain she was accustomed to seeing there was shielded somehow—not gone but set behind a hard glass wall. He seemed . . . resolute. He straightened, murmured something to Lady Jersey, bowed his excuses to the woman on his right—the wonderful redheaded woman who had recognized the marks of his feeding the other night. He made his way through the crowd straight toward Beth. The throng melted in front of him. He looked so alive he fairly glowed. Mothers whispered in their daughters’ ears; daughters curtsied as he passed. He did not notice. One bold mama accosted him. He nodded briefly and then bore down on Beth again.

  “Miss Rochewell,” he said, standing awkwardly in front of her, if any man so handsome could ever be called awkward. He nodded. She made her bow in confusion.

  “Mr. Rufford. I . . . I hope you are well.” She could feel the eyes of the room upon them.

  He cleared his throat and looked around as if he were on some foreign terrain. “Would you . . . would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

  She shot him an astonished look. “Dance?”

  He raised his brows and smiled, shrugging. “It is the custom in England. Do you waltz?”

  She felt the blush rise farther. “Yes.” Her aunt had considered the waltz indispensable.

  He held out his hand. She placed her brown fingers over his pale ones. He led her to the edge of the whirling sea of couples. Swallowing, she placed her left hand on his shoulder. He encircled her waist with his arm. She seemed to watch herself place her right hand in his outstretched one. The touch of his bare palm shivered up her arm. She was very glad she had eschewed gloves this evening. They stood, poised on the brink of the music. Then he stepped out, flowing away on the strings, and she floated with him, conscious of his hand on her waist, her palm in his, the bulk of muscle in his shoulder under her hand. Her brain was suddenly overloaded, and only her senses remained. They whirled in circles, drifting past other couples as though they were standing still. No one blocked their flow as the music carried them through the crowd. Beth found she was breathing hard, not from exertion but from exhilaration.

  “You give me much credit with the world by dancing with me,” she said in her blunt fashion, so that she would not have to say anything important. “Was it your purpose to be kind?”

  “I . . . I wanted to see an old acquaintance.”

  She could practically feel th
e rumble of his voice in his chest. She was closer to him than she had been since the night of the pirates, before the battle, when he had brushed her lips with his, and after, when she had bandaged his naked body. She could not think of that now.

  “How do you go on, Mr. Rufford?” she managed, looking up into blue eyes.

  “Better, thank you. And you? Your . . . your aunt is well?”

  “Yes, quite well,” she answered the easier of the two questions. She did not say she had no money and was about to be put out of her aunt’s house, or that she was afraid of being locked up until she ran mad with some irritable old lady on a remote estate.

  “Good.” He cleared his throat. “That is good. And . . . and how do you find England?”

  Oh, this was asking too much of her! She had done her share of banal civilities, even if she had not yet gotten to the weather. “Stifling.” She glanced up again, this time defiant.

  The rigid muscles in his shoulders relaxed under her hand. “I expect so,” he said. “I am finding it moderately difficult myself.”

  “Have you found your cure?” she ventured.

  “No.” His voice was bleak, contained. “But I have found one who can help me.”

  They whirled past the Countess of Lente. All thunked into place with a dreadful finality. Both Rufford and the redhead glowed with vitality. With a start, Beth realized that the Countess’s perfume was cinnamon, a feminine version of Ian’s seductive scent. The Countess had recognized the signs of his feeding, too. Beth jerked back to Rufford’s face and saw him grow uncomfortable under her gaze. Of course! He had found another like himself. She drew a long breath and ventured a smile she knew would be weak. “Ah. I am glad.” He had found his society, his destiny. She wished she could say the same.

  The music ended. “I wish you the best,” she murmured as he led her from the floor.

  “And I, you.” He returned her to her chair. “May . . . may I have leave to call upon you?”

  Beth blinked at him in astonishment. “Uh . . . yes. Yes, certainly.”

  Major Ware returned with Miss Fairfield. Beth woke to her responsibility. “Mr. Rufford—may I present Miss Fairfield and Major Ware?” She saw at a glance that Rufford and Ware knew each other and that there existed some constraint between them.