by Aderyn Wood
The page ended once again with the final image that Michael had taken of the book in the library. There was no more Gavius to explore.
Michael stood and paced the room, thinking through all he’d gleaned. The Sanguis Sicarri it seemed were more than just assassins hunting vampires with wooden stakes. They were something special. What had the Foliss originally said of them?
Michael picked up his tablet and scanned through the notes. He found the section and whispered the note out loud, “Nature has thrown up an enemy – the Sanguis Sicarii.”
What did it mean? That these people, whoever they were, were some kind of natural opposite to vampires? It seemed possible. The cosmos, both corporeal and ethereal, was bound by binary forces – a world of competing opposites in which the push and pull of dichotomous points of reference and the tension they created made up the very basis of life: light and dark, matter and antimatter, order and chaos, God and Satan. It was a basic tenet explored and adopted by scientists, mathematicians, artists and religious adherents for centuries. And here was another: the vampire and the slayer. Dark Ones and Sanguis Sicarii.
Michael’s heart raced, and adrenalin pushed through his system the way it did when Emma was near. He put the tablet down and turned to watch the door, somehow knowing she was close. Within seconds his premonition proved correct and the cabin door opened as Emma strode through it.
“There’s no sign of either of them, not on the boat, or nearby,” Emma said as she opened the whisky and drank the rest of its contents down.
“Nearby? You’ve left the boat?”
“No need to worry about it,” she gave him a grin that made her cheeks dimple and the lust in him rose once again. “I’ve been on the riverbank a few times now. There’s something about your blood. The power it grants me is awesome.” Her eyes grew wider as she spoke. “It’s as though I’m invincible. I mean, I know I was before, but now I really feel it. My powers seem limitless.”
Her excitement seemed to fill the cabin, and it was hard not to get caught up, to encourage her exploration of these new powers. To discover where the limit existed, if it existed at all. Could she truly read minds now? Could she fly? Could she transmogrify? Something in her words caused him to stall such flights of fancy. ‘Something in your blood,’ she had said.
Emma threw the empty whisky bottle away and turned to him with lightning quick movement. “Perhaps I need to explore further afield.” Her lips turned up into a snarl and her eyes were radiating a definite glimmer of red. “I need to find that bitch, Amynta, and deal with her once and for all.”
Michael frowned, his hands suddenly buzzed with renewed violence. Something in him wanted Amynta dealt with too, but where did it come from? How could his animosity toward her be so strong? Amynta had imprisoned them, but did that warrant her death? “Emma, we need to talk. There’re things I’ve discovered. Things I need your help with.”
Emma nodded. “Go ahead.”
He considered telling her all he’d learned of the Sanguis Sicarri first, but he hadn’t come to his own conclusions yet. He folded the thoughts away, he would meditate on them later. “About that lance.”
Michael retrieved the Foliss and showed Emma the hidden page with the illustration of the lance.
She studied it a moment before looking at him. “The Lance of Constantine was thought to be a fake. Many claimed it was the spearhead used to inflict the final wound on the Christ, but there are a handful of other such lances claiming that honour also.”
“Perhaps the Lance of Constantine is not a fake after all.” Michael’s hands buzzed with renewed vigour as he said it.
“Perhaps.” Her finger traced the words on the hidden page. “But what does it mean by the final reckoning? And the spawn of Chaos?”
“The spawn of Chaos,” Michael whispered recalling the demon who’d possessed Kallum. The tingling shot up to his arms and Michael gasped.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, as he shook his arms out. “Do you know anything further of this artefact? What happened to it?”
“It was lost to history, I think.”
Michael frowned.
“The final reckoning, do you think this is what I am called to? Some kind of vampire death? It would make sense if Amynta is also heading there.”
“I don’t know,” Michael said with a sigh as he removed his glasses to clean them. “And what of Georgette? I’ve tried to call her but her phone must be dead. I’ve emailed, but there is little use in that. Amynta has clearly imprisoned her.”
“I can’t sense her.”
“What about Nathaniel.”
“What about him?” Emma hissed, her teeth bared.
“You said you could sense him when Georgette was close, because he’d taken her blood. Can you sense him still? Perhaps it would indicate Georgette?
“No.”
Michael ran a hand through his hair.
“She shouldn’t have got herself involved. It is her own fault.” Emma sniffed.
Michael put his glasses back on. “She had to leave Paris, she was in danger—”
“Because she got herself into trouble.”
“Emma.”
Emma looked at Michael and his fingers tingled anew. Her eyes were larger. Her fangs had extended. Michael’s throat went dry as the lust returned like a slap in the face. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m hungry,” she almost whispered.
“Again?”
“I’m hungry for you, Michael.”
He folded his arms in front of him and could feel the pulse quicken in his wrist. They needed to control themselves. Something tried to warn Michael to stop it, but in the next instant he stepped toward her with renewed desire and offered Emma his neck.
Chapter 16
The dream took him to a dark chamber deep within the palace. Flames guttered in their sconces on stone walls. The large space, a dormitory of sorts, contained a number of straw sleeping mats upon which lay the slumbering forms of palace slaves. In a dim corner the young woman lay on her side, her hand gripping the vial about her neck. A single tear lined her cheek and she wiped it away with marked annoyance. She hissed quiet words in the darkness and shook her head, refusing to allow another tear to fall. Her words, a long-forgotten tongue, in the dream were readily understood.
“Beauty is a curse.”
Nathaniel woke, but kept his eyes shut in an effort to hold the dream, and this time it didn’t fade so quickly. The girl had grown into a woman, and she’d been gifted as tribute to the pharaoh – a gift for his eldest son the prince. Nathaniel’s eyes filling with moisture and his chest heavy with grief and fear. It was because she was beautiful. That’s why she’d been given by the tribe. Nathaniel sat up, blinking, realising once again who she was – Asha, the gypsy woman, and his maker.
Before he could ponder more of the dream’s mysteries his body was jerked sideways and finally the dream let go and he grew aware of his surroundings. He was in a moving van again, but different to the last one, and this time he was alone. His wounds had healed somewhat, despite his need to feed. His hunger gnawed at him, every cell demanding nourishment. Only a thin strand of silver bound his wrists, but he was too weak to break it. Still, the pain was nominal compared to all he’d been through over the last few days. And that pull, urging him east pulsed deep in his core.
He raked his fingers through his long hair. He stank to high heaven, his clothes – the rat’s clothes from the train – reeked of stale blood. He wondered just how long he’d been captive. His last recollection was of Schleck, and the fire in his veins seemed to come alive at the memory of the liquid silver she’d injected into his arteries.
How long ago had that been?
Nathaniel shrugged off the thought as he struggled to his feet. Stepping to the back of the van he attempted to peer out the small window, but it proved too high and only the starry sky above could be seen. He sniffed the air. Desert air. Egypt?
The van came to an ab
rupt halt. Nathaniel stumbled as footsteps sounded either side. The door was wrenched open and four silhouettes stood facing him, each a Young One and each holding a gun.
Nathaniel slowly raised his hands. “No need to fire, friends,” he cooed in his most velvet voice. “I will gladly come with you—”
All four weapons fired a sliver blast in the darkness, and agony filled his world once more.
Another dream. Asha made love to the prince who was now Pharaoh. It was a slow, adoring lovemaking, so different to the gypsy woman she would one day become. She was a tribal girl, too lowly to enter the harem, and certainly not eligible to become the pharaoh’s bride. But she was the new king’s favourite, indeed his only lover, and now the whisperers referred to her as the Pharaoh’s Mistress.
Her beauty was like none other. In all the centuries, in all the lands, Nathaniel had never met her like and he could understand with ease the young pharaoh’s obsession with her. Those red lips, dark eyes, fulsome breasts. He’d felt the same…
Nathaniel sat up with a jolt and his head spun. “Asha!” he yelped, despite the pain that gripped him.
Laughter, sharp and for too familiar filled his ears.
“You’ve been dreaming then? Good.”
Nathaniel scowled as he wrenched his arms in an effort to free them from the silver bindings that crisscrossed his flesh causing it to sizzle and steam. More pain.
Amynta flicked back her red hair and laughed again. “What have you learned in your sleep, Old One?” The slayer’s eyes glinted almost as though they were red. “Tell me all and you may survive, a few more days at least.”
Nathaniel glanced around. Two small windows lined one wall and outside the night-time shadows moved past at a steady pace. He could hear the soft lapping of water. The Nile? “We’re in Egypt.”
“Very astute, Chartley.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“East.”
“Why?”
Amynta gave him another dark look as she stood. She was dressed in her typical attire. Black leather from neck to foot that gleamed with her curves. Her dark red hair contrasted her pallid skin and fell in full waves over her shoulders. Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. She never used to look so pale.
“Tell me of your dreams,” she commanded.
“Why?”
Amynta strode with long legs to a nearby bench and placed a hand on one implement or another. Nathaniel couldn’t quite see from his angle on the floor, but she always kept an array of torture devices close.
“Do you know what this is, Chartley?” She held a weapon in front of her.
Nathaniel focused on it and his mouth fell open, he quickly shut it again. “Yes,” he said quietly.
“Of course you do. One day you must tell me how exactly you managed to steal it from my collection.” She studied the golden sleeve. “It’s called the Lance of Constantine. There’s been many replicas, all claiming to own the glory of delivering the final blow to our Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ. But the others are fakes. This is the real deal. A weapon of pure death.” She gave Nathaniel one of her sinister smiles, the one she did right before she embarked upon a new brand of torture.
“Are you going to use it on me?” he asked. It was supposed to have silver beneath the gold, but he’d never detected any when he had it in his possession. The blade would inflict pain to begin with, there was no doubt of that, but his body would heal, even in its malnourished state.
Amynta’s lips twitched. “I thought I might. You see, this weapon is rather different from all others. It is blessed in a way, and it has a remarkable effect on vampires. One I’ve never seen before.” She lifted her chin. “Stretch out your arm, Chartley.”
“Which one?”
“Don’t be obtuse. Any one.”
Chartley gave Amynta a level stare and considered his options. She was a strong woman, supernaturally so, and no doubt stronger than him right now. It would go better for him to play along, for the moment at least. He stretched out his arm and rolled up the blood-stained sleeve. The silver threads sizzled anew. “Do your worst, Slayer.”
Amynta grasped his arm and struck, deftly slicing skin.
Nathaniel cried out and waited for the pain to subside. But it didn’t. He brought his arm up to his face to get a better look at it. The cut was a shallow one. A dark line of sluggish blood appeared and slowly fattened. While he needed feeding, his body should have already begun healing, but it didn’t. It remained open, the blood thickening. “It’s not healing.”
“No. I told you this weapon was special. You won’t heal either. Best keep that wound clean, if it gets infected it could be the very death of you. A mortal death too.”
A knock made both slayer and vampire snap their attention to the cabin door.
“Come,” Amynta said.
A Young One entered. He was very newly turned and was a veritable giant with arms and legs like trunks and long hair down to his waist.
“What is it, Victor?”
“Mistress, I’ve been sent by The Dux.”
Dux? Nathaniel had heard that term before.
Amynta cast a furtive glance at Nathaniel, before returning her focus to the giant. “I’m needed?”
Victor gave her a nod.
“Very well.” Amynta jabbed a finger at Nathaniel. “You can wait, Chartley. We’ve much to catch up on.”
“I look forward to it, Slayer. I always enjoy our little chats.”
Nathaniel counted Amynta’s steps. There were ten of them before she ascended a stairwell somewhere at the rear of the boat.
He brought his arm up to his face once more and examined the wound. A slim line of blood continued to stream from it, and the pain, while small, was there. It felt hot too, as though infected. Nathaniel frowned as he watched a drop of blood fall onto the carpet. He would slowly bleed to death if this didn’t heal. Or if he didn’t feed.
He flung his arm down to his side and looked up at the little square windows in the cabin. The odd star poked through the curtain of night, but the sky was filled with cloud, not all that unusual for winter in Egypt. The urge to move quicker, to some unknown destination deep within the desert, pulled at him again.
Images of the dreams returned unbidden to his mind and it seemed he could watch them against the cloudy sky. Asha, so young and pure, had fallen in love with the pharaoh. Nathaniel could feel her passion in the dream, almost as though it were his own. The sense of doom that surrounded the young couple was palpable. It wasn’t acceptable for such a noble, a veritable god, to associate himself with a lowly tribe girl, given as tribute, because her clan was too poor to give ought else. Nathaniel wanted to return to his sleep, to learn more of Asha’s story. Why it was unravelling for him in his sleep remained an utter mystery. Amynta knew of it, somehow, and wanted to know more. Nathaniel considered the reasons why and the answer became clear when he recalled the brief conversation with the young vampire in the van. Jayden also had mysterious dreams about a young woman with raven hair, though his recollection was much more fragmented than Nathaniel’s. It was true then, Nathaniel wasn’t the only vampire dreaming of Asha.
He frowned, realising he felt somewhat betrayed by this revelation. But it explained why Amynta knew about it at all. She now retained vampires as slaves to do her dirty work. Clearly this Victor was one of them. He was barely a month old.
Perhaps all vampires in the entire world were dreaming. The same dreams, or something different? And why did Amynta want to know what Nathaniel specifically saw in the dreams? He felt sure of one conclusion – they were heading to some point in this vast ancient land, and there would come an end for someone. Nathaniel? Asha herself? All vampire kind?
Nathaniel turned his attention to the bench that held the lance. Strange that Amynta had left it there, and all her sharp little knives. But then Nathaniel remain bound by the silver, he was no threat. Yet. He studied the lance from his crouched position. Its gold radiated a dull blue in the faint light. Amynta had somehow
managed to get her hands on it. She must’ve stolen it from Georgette. Perhaps Schleck had caught the big girl after all. Nathaniel closed his eyes to reach for Georgette with his mind, but the sound of the cabin door unlocking broke his concentration.
The hulking new vampire, Victor had returned, and he carried a tray which he placed on the bench. He then crouched by Nathaniel and unlaced the silver binds.
“I’m being released?” Nathaniel asked.
“No,” Victor said with a gravelly voice, his accent touched with an Eastern European influence. Victor stood and retrieved a cup from the tray. His movements were slow for a vampire. Perhaps because he was so big. “You need to feed. To heal.”
Nathaniel narrowed his eyes on the cup. It looked silver.
“No trick, Old One. Amynta wants you well, for now.”
Nathaniel took hold of the cup which didn’t burn his hand. Not silver, then. He stared down into the liquid. The blood was fresh, still warm.
“Drink.”
“It’s not Amynta’s is it? I won’t touch her blood.”
Victor gave him an impatient stare. “Drink,” he repeated, before leaving.
Nathaniel inspected the blood and smelled it. The red haze came for him. His incisors grew to two short blades, the talons on his hands became elongated and sharp, and it wasn’t until he’d swallowed half the blood that he realised he was doing it. He slowly became aware of something else as well. The blood was familiar. He’d had it before. The thickness of it, the butteriness…
“Georgette,” he hissed, and sprung to his feet.
