Alex’s smile flashed again. “Of course.” His gaze held Brody’s. “Why haven’t you presumed so, Brody? Rafael has as much claim on you as he does upon Veris. For that reason I expected you to include yourself.”
Brody’s heart stirred. “We’re long past such silly considerations—”
“No.” Alex shook his head. “Two years ago, we were. Only Dara fucked up your life in the meantime and that changes things.” He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t dispute me about Rafael’s claim upon you.”
Brody drew in a breath and let it out. “Lucky guess, Alex? Or has Rafael indulged in pillow talk?”
“Rafael is as discrete as you two. Molten iron brands wouldn’t open him up if he didn’t want to talk about it.” Alex shook his head. “I had a suspicion, fed by hints and implications over the years. And Veris, of course, let slip about their shared past, years ago. It was a short reach to consider Rafael may have also found you somewhere in history, too.”
Brody cracked his knuckles, an absent-minded motion, as he weighed his options. Centuries of conditioning had built a solid reluctance to dredge up the past. Yet there was a worn look around Alex’s eyes, which spoke of deep fear held in tight control. Alex was urbane and polite as always, and still thinking of others, even now. He’d sought out Brody on nothing more than a suspicion.
Brody decided abruptly. “It’s not just a simple claim, Alex.”
Alex’s brow lifted. “Oh?”
Time and The Celt
Constantinople, Eastern Roman Empire. 491 C.E.
The endless run of bewildering days and nights ended twenty-two days later, when Breandán detected a familiar scent from among the stenches and aromas which wafted through the open window high up near the roof of the room in which he had stayed.
He sat up on the wide, far too soft bed he had not needed for sleep. His heart, which had been still and silent, gave out a single beat. It stirred in his chest.
Breandán put his hand against his chest, detected the coolness of his skin and the organ beneath.
Then a voice he recognized sounded from the same direction as the scent.
How could he recognize both sound and smell, out on the busy road beyond the house? How could he have survived for twenty-two days and not felt hunger or thirst? The questions which had circled in his mind for too many days now crowded to the forefront.
The man…Rafael, he had claimed his name was. Rafael would have answers.
Breandán listened as the man came closer to the house. He was talking to the people who lived in the houses on either side. Laughing.
Talk about a journey to Pergamum…
Breandán didn’t know where Pergamum was. He had heard the name before. Merlin had spoken about the place with reverence and awe…
Breandán gripped the covers on the bed and gave a soft gasp. Merlin! He had not thought about the druid for years and years. The old man who had advised Arthur had died when Breandán was small, yet now the memory of the tall, silver-haired wise man formed completely in his mind. He could even hear the old man’s voice as he spoke about the advanced knowledge on healing which he had learned at the hands of the masters in Pergamum….
Breandán gripped his temples with a finger and thumb and squeezed. How could he possibly remember something from such a young age, and so clearly? He had not thought of his childhood for many years. He had almost forgotten he had one. Each day in the slave pit had been the same as the one before, blending into each other. Each day had required concentration and cunning to survive it and all his energy and focus. Nothing else had entered his thoughts but the will to survive at least until tomorrow.
Breandán shuddered.
The heavy front door of the house closed. He had not noticed it being opened.
Breandán clutched the side of the bed again, his heart thudding, as he listened to footsteps softened by leather soles patter through the vestibulum and into the peristylium. The room Brody was in came off that open area. He had stepped out once, and stared at the riotous growth of green things, smelled the sweet scents and the buzz of bees. The sun had blazed through the open roof above, direct and without shutters or bars crossing the blue sky.
Breandán turned and stumbled back into the room and slammed the door shut, his heart strumming as it was now. He’d put his back to the head of the bed and drawn his knees to his chest and gripped them, waiting for the trembling to pass.
The door eased open. “Brody?”
The man called Rafael stepped in. He was richly dressed. His tunic was clean, the dalmatic brightly colored and the sash a good, wide cloth without stains. Like every man in Constantinople, Rafael’s hair was black. Only, his skin was different. It had a pleasant cast to it which meant he was not a Byzantine.
Breandán’s gaze drifted to Rafael’s wrists. The skin was still paler than the rest of his arms, yet it was not as washed out as it had been the first time he had displayed where slave bands had once been sewn about his wrists.
It had been twenty-two days since that time.
The man’s gaze settled on Breandán. “You are here, still. Good.”
“Where would I go?” Breandán’s voice emerged scratched and strained.
“Anywhere you want,” Rafael said, sounding amused. “You are a free man, now. More than that.”
Vampire.
Breandán recalled the term Rafael had used to describe what he had now become. “Vampire,” he said softly, tasting the word in his mouth. He looked at Rafael. “Evaristus was one, was he not? I have been thinking about it.”
“Evaristus was in the slave pit with you?”
“He did not eat. Nor did he drink. I do not remember seeing him sleep. Just as I have not eaten or drunk or slept since you left.”
“He is the one who was to turn you, only he was killed before he could,” Rafael said, his tone distant, his gaze on somewhere unknown to Breandán.
“Who did turn me, then?” The phrase was an odd one, although he understood the meaning. Turned. Changed. Different.
“Another vampire. They have left the city now.” Rafael moved closer, examining Breandán carefully. “Have you not moved from this room since I left?”
Breandán swallowed. As the man drew closer, his scent grew stronger. It triggered a yearning in Breandán that was similar to hunger, only far more powerful. Breandán clutched at his chest as the pressure built there. Something moved in his mouth. The teeth…fangs…which Rafael had explained were for feeding.
Breandán pressed his fingers to his upper lip, tracing the shape of the fangs beneath.
The light in the room became dazzling, as if a thousand lamps had been lit. Breandán could see everything, from the smallest speck of dust in the corner, to the threads of the cloth on the bed, to the finest hairs on Rafael’s head. Rafael himself was picked out in an odd light. He glowed.
Breandán got to his feet. There was no thought in it.
Rafael’s eyes narrowed. Then he sighed. “You need to feed.” He made an impatient sound. “Why is this my burden?” he muttered.
Breandán shook his head, barely processing the words. “I feel…” His chest rose and fell as his breathing hastened.
“I know,” Rafael said. He unwound the belt and took off the bright dalmatic, leaving him in a good, whole, white tunic. He came closer. “Control yourself,” he said, his tone one of warning. “There is a cudgel right beside the bed and I will use it against your head if you take too much.”
Nothing the man said made sense. Breandán could only focus upon the bright line running down the side of his neck. It beckoned. His fangs stirred, lengthening and Breandán’s lips parted by themselves. He brought his mouth down upon the tender flesh there, bit and tore. It was instinctive.
The spicy, delicious flood of rich liquid was ambrosial. He fed, swallowing eagerly. This was better than any meal he remembered.
“….Stop! Stop! I said to control yourself!”
Rafael beat his fists against Breandán’s h
ead and shoulders and back, pummeling sense into him. Breandán staggered back, his lips and chin damp. The fangs drew back up into his mouth, hiding themselves. The ravaging need for more faded.
Rafael turned his shoulder and strained to peer at his neck from the corner of his eyes. A great wound gaped at the base of his neck, pooling with blood. “Christ and Mother Mary,” Rafael breathed. He turned his shoulder toward Breandán and beckoned with his fingers. “Now you must heal it.”
Breandán wiped his mouth and chin. “I must?”
Rafael rolled his eyes impatiently. “You lick the flesh. That makes it heal, much faster than humans do. Go on. You’re supposed to just know how.”
As he had just known how to feed? Breandán stepped closer to the man and bent toward his neck. Saliva filled his mouth…only it was not saliva. It was cold and silvered and sharp. He let it pool on top of his tongue, then closed his mouth over the wound he had made and let the sharp liquid bath the wound.
He lifted his mouth and examined the wound. Blood stained the flesh where the edges of the wound had been, while the wound itself was gone. Breandán licked the blood, grimacing at what would be a salty, bitter taste, yet the same ambrosial delight filled his mouth.
He cleaned the flesh. Then, remembering Rafael’s warning about controlling himself, he stepped back. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do about the tunic. The blood has stained it.”
Rafael moved his shoulder experimentally. “Considerate of you. Perhaps there is hope for you yet, Brody the Celt.” He laughed. “What strange times these are. A human teaching a vampire…” He shook his head. “I must eat, myself. Something hot and plenty of it, for I have eaten too little these last few days on the road.”
“You ate no meat at all,” Breandán said. His lips parted in surprise and his eyes widened.
So did Rafael. “No, I did not want to take the time to hunt,” he said. “Traveling alone was risky enough. You tasted that?”
“I didn’t know it until I said it,” Breandán replied.
Rafael shook his head again. “Very well. Food and conversation. There is much we must discuss. Come.”
Rafael sipped the second cup of wine he had poured himself, after eating a stew he had warmed upon the stove in the kitchen. Breandán watched Rafael move about, competently building the fire and making the meal. There was cheese and bread to go with it, which Rafael said he had brought from the market stalls on his way through the city from the western gates. The wine had been in the wagon all along.
Breandán could smell the food and the wine, although nothing stirred hunger in him. The dried blood on Rafael’s tunic held more appeal, even though it was stale.
Rafael insisted Breandán join him in the triclinium. Breandán awkwardly arranged himself on the couch, Roman style, while Rafael rested upon the other to eat. After a few minutes, even Rafael had sat up with a soft curse. “Who do I think to impress with such a pose? I have eaten sitting upright all my life. Sit, Brody. We’re both fools if we do anything else.”
“I should let you eat undisturbed,” Breandán said. “There is no point in me sitting with you.”
Rafael’s glance was sharp. “The point is to appear as human as you once were. I do not insist upon you pretending to eat and drink, not tonight, although you must learn the trick of it.”
Breandán blinked. “I must hide what I am?”
“Your nature is one of the greatest secrets in the world, Brody.” Rafael sighed. “If Evaristus had turned you, then you would have been taught these things. As it happened, your maker cannot be your teacher, so it must fall to me.” Rafael went on to explain about the Blood and the necessity of hiding from humans while living among them and passing as one of them.
“Sooner or later, you will meet another of the Blood, and you can learn more from them. For now, though, if you retain the importance of staying undetected, it should be enough,” Rafael finished. “I know too little about vampires to be of use beyond that point.”
“You know more than I,” Breandán pointed out.
“Not anymore. What I understand, I have shared with you.” Rafael relented and gave him a small smile. “Be at ease. I’m told that most of what you need to know is instinctive. Such as feeding. It will come to you, Brody.”
Breandán frowned. “Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Breandán.”
“You are not that human slave anymore,” Rafael said, his tone sharp once more.
Breandán considered that. “You said…I died?”
“In the amphitheater. You remember none of it—and you should be glad you do not.”
Breandán frowned, hearing the odd note in Rafael’s voice. “You saw it. You saw me die.”
All the pleasant aspects of Rafael’s expression froze. “I did,” he said. He reached for the wine jar and refilled his cup. “You have a new life now. You will need a new name. Brody seems like a good one.”
“Where did you learn this name?”
Rafael shrugged. “I heard it, in my travels.”
Breandán frowned. “I do not like it.”
Rafael scowled. “Then choose any name you like. Just as you can choose any life you like. Do you have any idea what you want to do?”
Breandán stared at him. “Any life?”
“Anything at all. You must have some thoughts about what you might do, now. You have sat here for nearly a month, doing nothing but thinking.”
Breandán felt suddenly breathless. “I have not a single thought at all.” He gripped his knees. “Anything?” he repeated.
Rafael considered him. “Anything,” he said flatly.
Breandán’s heart stirred. It was not a pleasant sensation. Tension coiled in his gut. His chest tightened. “How am I to choose among anything?” he demanded.
Rafael’s gaze dropped to Brody’s knees, where he gripped them tightly. He put his cup down and held up his hand. “Be at ease,” he said gently. “The decision overwhelms you. I can see that.”
A tiny tendril of relief eased some of the ache in Breandán’s chest. “You can?”
“I recognize it,” Rafael said, his voice harsh. “I felt fear, just as you are, when I first confronted the idea of freedom. A…friend helped me through it.”
“The friend you traveled to Pergamum with?” Breandán asked.
“Yes.” Rafael drained the cup and put it down with a decisive tap. “There are rare treasures from the far western and northern borders of the known world tucked away in the wagon I brought back with me. The markets here are the ideal place to sell them. Merchants with an eye for rarity and quality gather there from far-flung places and have the coin to pay for them.”
“Constantinople is the center of the world.” Breandán had heard the city spoken of in that way before.
“A fact which will serve us,” Rafael replied. “For the next few days, we will sell everything of value in my possession. The treasures, this house, the goods in it, even the wagon itself. We will need a better wagon. A stronger one which will last the journey.”
“Journey?” Breandán repeated.
“West,” Rafael replied. “You and I are leaving this city of miserable memories behind.” He held out his wrist, to display the pale flesh. Brody’s wrists were unmarked, even though he had been wearing slave bands on them for decades. “We were slaves. We are no longer. We came from the west, you and me. That is where we will go, with the wealth we raise from the sale of everything we cannot take with us, to start us on a new life.”
Breandán swallowed as the tension of too many choices formed in his chest once more.
“The way to the west,” Rafael continued, “to Iberia and the Hyperborean Isles of your birth, Brody…it is a long road. It will give us both time to think and to adjust.”
“I am Breandán.”
Rafael scowled. “Tell me, Breandán. You must know this much. Do you want to return home?”
Breandán recalled the clear, bright memory of Merlin. Other associated memories st
irred. His mother, laughing and lovely. His father, writing upon parchment. “I was happy there…” Breandán murmured. “Yes, I want to go home.”
The selling of the house and all the goods Rafael did not want to risk carrying with him took another month. “Winter will soon be upon us,” Breandán pointed out. “Should we even leave until next summer?”
Rafael shook his head. “We will be traveling through winter no matter when we leave. No one is certain how long it takes to reach the western wilds. Do you remember how long it took?”
Breandán shook his head. “I came by boat and saw no daylight. I lost count of days.”
Rafael tilted his head, considering him. “I was brought to Constantinople when I was five. I didn’t know what this place was. I just knew it was not home. I have no idea how long it takes, either. There are few merchants in this city who dare travel so far, so we cannot take advice. I only know I cannot stomach lingering here for another year.”
Breandán made himself consider the matter, as Rafael had been nagging him to do.
“You have a mind. You have opinions. You’ve forgotten how to form them, for you haven’t been asked what you think since the Saxons slapped you in irons,” Rafael had said, more than once. “Think, Brody.”
Breandán thought it through now. “I believe I do not want to wait, either,” he said at last.
Pleased, Rafael went back to the merchant who was trying to decide if he wanted the gold plate with the curious angular patterns around the edges, which Rafael had shown him.
Rafael used money from the sale of the house to buy a stout, new enclosed wagon. “The roof will provide shelter in bad weather,” he told Breandán, as Breandán circled the curious contraption.
“As long as you do not ask me to drive the thing,” Breandán said. “I have had enough of driving to last me a lifetime.”
Rafael’s eyes widened. “Is that a jest?”
Breandán raised his brow. “It was not amusing?”
Rafael gave a soft laugh. “For a former chariot driver, it was thigh slapping. It just caught me by surprise. I didn’t think you knew how to laugh.”
More Time Kissed Moments Page 15
