‘I could kill you. No one could stop me.’
‘And yet you don’t.’ Though wary, she gave him the full weight of her stare, studying him. ‘Why?’
He had no answer. Stepping back, he turned aside and stared at the floor. ‘You confuse me with your fancy words. There is some magic about you. Why do you not fear me?’
‘Because I recognise myself in you. Through that, I see the truth.’
Still reeling from the ineffectiveness of his power, Saar chewed his thumbnail. ‘What truth is this?’
‘That you have given up.’
‘You know nothing. I am the most powerful creature on this earth. Men fall before me, armies attack at my command. You . . . you are human and beneath my notice.’
Celeste cocked an eyebrow and massaged the side of her throat. ‘Then leave. Make your wars and lead your armies. Leave my mother and I to go about our lives. I will even swear that no one will learn of your presence from us.’ She stepped around him and through the door, pausing long enough to add, ‘After you are rested, of course.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rest.
Never before had Saar so longed for it and yet, he couldn’t. Grief over Mosi and fear for his other children wouldn’t let him. Worse yet, he had no plan or clear idea of what to do next. He longed to leave, but each time he tried, something pulled him back.
Every day he left the house and walked into Waterloo, the nearest town. There he made enquiries as to the motion of the army. Then, he would procure a horse, and ride the beast to the outer edge of the town. But, each time, he would turn and gaze south, back towards the small house in which Celeste lived with her sickly mother. Each time, he would bring the horse around and trot back, often via the river where he would stop to wash.
In the house, neither of the women appeared surprised at his constant visits to town, though Gerda often commented on his health when she thought him out of earshot. It became clear that she wished he would go and that she regretted her decision to allow him space within the house. Yet never once did she ask him to leave.
Celeste refused to speak to him after that first day. She kept her distance, leaving breakfast on a table for him to fetch at his leisure, or piles of clothes on the bed he’d claimed. But she never spoke to him. Or smiled. And yet she watched.
Her gazed prickled against Saar’s back every waking moment. When he woke from restless sleep, he found her peering in through a crack in the door hanging crooked from its hinges. When he bathed, she would loiter near the river on the pretence of repairing fishing nets. During the evening meal, the one time all three might sit together, she would spoon soup or soggy vegetables into her mouth with half an eye on her bowl, while Gerda coughed and spluttered through her own meal. When he stole away from the hovel in the dead of night, seeking drunk or sick men to feast upon, she would follow until he managed to lose her in the darkness.
He longed to ask what she saw as she studied him so earnestly, but couldn’t bring himself to voice the question. The answers, he feared, might be ones he didn’t like.
#
On the fourth night, Saar left the small house and aimed for his favourite tavern, a small, dingy place named The Ox and Wagon. In the narrow alley along the right hand edge, the usual assortment of stumbling drunks and barely clad prostitutes lined the walls, many of them already locked in elicit embraces. Shadows and small nooks towards the rear offered a modicum of privacy from all but Saar, who watched with vision enhanced by blood lust.
He found a woman near the doors, short ruffled skirts hitched high around her knees, showing off pale skin and narrow boots. Her eyebrows lifted on sight of his face in the firelight, but when he held out a handful of coins, the smile returned instantly.
She led him away from the alley, tip-toeing around piles of rubbish and the odd carcass of some long dead animal. She held her nose as she walked, though disguised her distaste under a veil of coquettish modesty. ‘This way, Sir,’ she told him in broken French.
He stopped, holding her back from the building she sought, no doubt full of troublesome witnesses. With a quick twist of Shalat he turned her to face him and stared deep into her eyes. ‘Be still. Be silent.’ He stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers. ‘Hear only my voice, see only my face. You are mine now.’
The woman nodded, her dirty, yellow hair a thatched tangle around her head. ‘Yes, Sir.’
Satisfied, Saar unleashed his fangs and put them to her throat. The crunch of her flesh brought on a wave of pleasure, and the blood filling his mouth set his tongue tingling. He moaned, pulling the limp form close to his chest, cradling her as he might have done a lover. Her hands tangled in his hair and her breasts heaved as she succumbed.
Her memories poured in, every moment of her pitiful life filling his mind and settling.
Her name was Alida. Her two brothers were killed in the war. Her sister died from a terrible affliction that left her coughing blood for two weeks before death claimed her. No home but for a room rented with the proceeds of her nightly business, courtesy of a madam by the name of Margriet. More came, but he didn’t want to know, couldn’t bear to take on the horrors of yet another life.
Even as the memories came he shut them away, locking them in that part of his mind where the lives of all his other conquests resided. Then, for one small, glorious moment, Saar forgot the terrible circumstances that put him in that stinking alley. He forgot Mosi, the war, his children and revelled in the familiar glory of tribute.
Fresh power flooded his limbs, sinking into every bone, every muscle. Strength returned to him, just a little more to join that gathered from previous days of feasting. Soon he would be strong enough. Soon he could leave.
A gasp from the end of the alley jerked his head up. He growled.
Celeste stood in the narrow opening, her hands pressed tight to her mouth. She wore a thick woollen cloak over her dress, but it was unmistakably her. She stared at him for agonising seconds then ran, her footsteps pounding the road.
#
Saar caught up with Celeste half a mile out of Waterloo. Though easier to catch her sooner, the risk of discovery so close to town was too great.
Out on the road, beneath the pale glow of silver moonlight, he caught up with the fleeing woman and shoved her face down into the dirt.
She whimpered, crawling away on hands and knees.
‘Foolish woman. Now I have no choice.’
Celeste stopped crawling and flipped over to her back. She dragged the hood from her head and begged with her eyes. ‘Please, I meant no harm.’
He dropped to the ground beside her, gripping her shoulder. She resisted, but her physical strength paled in comparison to his. Even if her mind could resist him, her body could not.
‘You did me a kindness when you rescued me. Even now I wear your clothes. I’ve eaten your bread. I’ll not quickly forget . . . but you cannot be permitted to share what you know.’
‘No one will know. Please, Mama can’t survive alone. She needs me.’
Saar knew she spoke truth. Though his interactions with Gerda were minimal, the old woman grew visibly weaker by the day. He was stunned she had lasted so long. ‘I don’t care.’ He lowered his lips to the side of her throat.
This second infusion of blood seemed less sweet than the first. Though warm and thick, a bitter taste loitered on his tongue.
The whole time Celeste fought with him, scrabbling at his hands, kicking at the earth. Her terrified moans of pain filled his ears.
When the memories of her life began to filter through, Saar gave a sharp grunt.
He saw her mother and another man, no doubt her father, arguing over money. They stood on the grounds of a rich manse with gardens, horses and tall trees. The scenes shifted and Saar watched through Celeste’s eyes as maids helped her into wide, colourful dresses of lace and silk. He saw her hands skim over her belly, swelling slightly with the child growing within.
Gasping, he jerked away. Blood dotted t
he ground, a crimson trail back to Celeste who gripped her throat and lay panting on the road.
‘A child? Where is your child?’
Her eyes widened. ‘How can you know?’
‘Where?’
‘She—it died.’ Her voice trailed off but Saar knew.
A soldier, tall and dark-haired with a commanding voice and gentle hands. Saar lived through the passion that created Celeste’s lost child and the agony as that same soldier failed to return from war. ‘Sebastian.’
She flinched but said nothing.
‘And a child outside marriage . . . you lost everything?’
Celeste no longer stared at him but at her own bloody hands. They shook as she spoke. ‘He had debts he never spoke of. When he died it fell to me and mother to pay them. His family had no means to do so and neither did we; our union was the only thing promising a home and money. Without him debtors took the house.’
All the things Saar planned to say fled his mind. He stared and saw not Celeste, the dark-skinned Dutch girl, but Kiya. They didn’t look alike—Celeste had skin far darker than Kiya and her hair was coarse and curly rather than fine and straight—but her eyes . . . they had the same depth of sadness.
‘They took everything. I couldn’t tell anybody about the child. With no home or proper food, I became sick. I bled. The child didn’t survive.’ Celeste sat up on the road, still gripping the side of her throat. Though the flow of blood had slowed, her face was pale. ‘You know all my secrets. I see it now. You drink blood and bewitch people with your eyes. You are a demon.’
His heart ached. Her pain mingled with his and touched a part of him few others had. How much her life had changed, and in so little time because of the actions of another. Every sensible part of his body screamed at him to end her, to finish his tribute and take her life as well as her blood. But he couldn’t move.
‘I am god-touched. A creature of ancient times given long life by the gods I serve.’
‘There is a word for men like you. Mama once told tales of dead creatures, walking the night draining the souls of living men. She told me they stole blood because they craved it. You’re a vampyre.’
Saar grunted. ‘Use that word if you wish, but I am not evil.’
‘No, even evil things change.’
He gave her a blank look.
She raised a hand to encompass the road. ‘You are here, Saar. The day we first spoke, your wounds were already healed. You might have left us then, and yet you remain, avoiding the truth.’
Saar ground his teeth hard enough to crack three of his rear-most molars. After so long avoiding the woman and she stepping around him, to speak this candidly made him uneasy. But he had to know. ‘Tell me this truth.’
‘Things will never be the same again.’
He reeled as though punched. ‘You don’t know that.’
‘I do. So do you. I lost everything when Sebastian died, but now I live what remains of my life as best I can. You are stuck in the past, clinging to a desperate hope that your life will be as it was. I don’t know what you lost, or who, but in seeking to recreate the past you cripple your future.’
He leapt up, pacing away from her, then back again. His fingers itched with the desire to punch or claw or tear. But the weight of her steady, knowing gaze followed him, drawing him back, laying the truth of his heart bare before him like an open wound.
‘No.’ Saar glared at her and focused his will as he had thousands of times in the past. He fixed on her mind and rushed in with Shalat, seeking to claim her thoughts as his own and bend her to his will. But his power slid passed without touching, like the blade of a knife turned aside by steel armour. ‘What are you?’ he roared. ‘Why does your mind resist me like no other? The metal of your mind is stronger than steel.’
A smile tugged the corner of her mouth, a flash of white teeth in the moonlight. ‘Mama didn’t want me to marry Sebastian; she thought a soldier was unsuitable. I have a strong will. But, perhaps, it is because you do not wish to silence me. Perhaps this is the only way you’ll accept the truth. ‘
His mouth opened, but no words came. The tang of her blood still lingered on his lips. ‘I lost someone, as you did. He was dear to me though we fought constantly. But we loved each other until the end. He is gone now and the fault is mine.’
Saar returned to the battlefield in his mind’s eye. He saw the clouds of smoke, felt the squelching mud beneath his water logged boots. The boom of a cannon filled his ears and, as a smile touched Mosi’s lips, the twelve pound cannon ball struck his face and reduced it to a lump of sticky, crimson gore.
He choked on a sob. The prickle behind his eyes warned of tears to follow.
‘I killed him. This is my fault—all of it. This war and dozens of others.’
The words lingered on his tongue, but as he finally spoke them, their full weight hit him and knocked him to the ground. He would never see Mosi again. He would never see his children again. All of them, just like before, gone, turned to sand. And Mosi, who survived it all, even above Kiya, was finally gone too.
‘My Mosi. Sweet, loyal Mosi. When I first decided to build my army from Cleopatra’s palace I condemned him to die. Perhaps when I first touched him with my blood—then I sealed his fate.’
No raging this time. No frantic breaking of furniture or cursing. Just tears. Gut-wrenching tears drawn from the very depths of his tainted, tortured soul. He sank on to his face in the road and wept.
A long time passed before Celeste touched his shoulder. ‘You take on too much blame. You are one man. How can you be responsible for everything?’
But she was wrong.
Since the night he touched that cracked stone bowl to his lips and sucked down the life-changing black fluid, Saar became responsible for more than he ever thought possible. Thousands, if not millions of lives became his to influence and he’d betrayed them all.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. When Celeste’s hand tightened on his shoulder he gripped it with both hands. ‘Will you forgive me?’
‘Yes. But you must forgive yourself first.’
A sigh slipped from his lips. ‘I don’t know that I can.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gerda died two days later. She spent the last hours of her life in bed, staring sightlessly at the ceiling while Saar watched. Celeste held her hand and as the day passed through light then dark, he shared his life with them. From his training as a boy to serve in Cleopatra’s army, to his decision to exasperate Bonaparte’s war to further his own goals. Though difficult, telling his story from start to finish lifted a great weight from his weary shoulders. More than once he faltered, but Gerda’s muccoid breathing assured him that she wouldn’t live long enough to share the truth, even if she wanted to. Celeste he would have to decide about when the time came.
By the end, the old woman’s breathing was a low, dry rasp and her grip on Celeste’s hand barely there at all. But she faced Saar and spoke, the gruff Dutch she favoured over those other “barbaric” languages.
‘You’re just a boy. For all your years, fights and power, you’re but a boy in man’s clothing. No older than my dear daughter. Younger maybe, for she is wiser than you deserve. And she cares for you, though she’ll never admit it.’
Saar glanced at Celeste and found her blushing.
‘I led Cleopatra’s army. I had thousands of men under my command.’
‘And you lost them over a lover’s quarrel.’ Gerda coughed. When finished, her white sheets gleamed with pink and red spots. ‘Don’t mistake power for wisdom. A man must live a long time before he learns wisdom and you’ve lived more years than a hundred men. Waste no more.’
‘Who are you to speak of waste?’
Gerda snorted. ‘I’ve done all I can with my life. I was never beautiful or smart like my Celeste. The man I married wanted my father’s money, which he squandered well before it could be of use to my daughter. I did what I could with what I had. You are capable of so much more.’
&
nbsp; She held on for another hour before her heart slowed.
Celeste gave a soft whimper and began to pray.
Saar touched her shoulder. ‘I can save her,’ he murmured. ‘A simple thing—one touch of my blood to her lips and she will live on.’
She gave him a look sour enough to curdle milk. ‘I will kill her myself if you try.’
He jerked back. ‘Would you not have her stay with you forever?’
‘No, Saar. Do you still not understand? All things must end. Even good things.’
So Saar stood back and watched the woman die.
When the last breath fled her body he turned away, conscious of his damp cheeks.
Celeste watched him, her gaze as hot and intense as ever. ‘Why do you weep?’
‘I don’t know. For you, perhaps.’
‘You’re not the same man I rescued.’
‘I don’t know what I am any more. But I do know I must leave . Tonight.’
She nodded. ‘Where will you go?’
‘I will think on that later. First, we must see to the dead.’
#
Later, with his hands thrust into the damp earth near the river, Saar thought back to Kallisto’s mother. He remembered digging in the sand while his chest ached with the wound that refused to heal. He remembered rubbing oil into the body and wrapping her in linen while the child Kallisto once was spoke prayers and wept.
There were no tears during this burial.
Celeste spoke some words from the text sacred to her own strange God and fashioned a marker for the grave out of two wooden sticks.
Though familiar with the sign of the cross, Saar disliked it immensely. What faith would base their worship around something symbolising the death of their Messiah? The fact that he had witnessed that barbaric ritual made no difference. The tragic instance in which that kindly man died was particularly wretched. Yet sight of the cross gave Celeste comfort. Her shoulders lowered, her eyes grew clear. She smiled.
Saar touched her cheek. ‘Join me.’
‘And be like you? I don’t have the will for it.’
Walking The Razor's Edge Page 19