by Armae
Large gold crosses sat at even intervals and lined the underground abbey illuminated by a thousand candles. To Artemis, the room seemed brighter than the sun itself. He squinted his eyes and felt a slight twinge of pain in the presence of so many crosses. Like all his kin, despite still being Vampyre, his soul had been exorcized and freed of the need to drink mortal blood. Because of this, he possessed the ability to withstand the minor discomfort.
Artemis approached the crypt where Lazarus lay sleeping, lost to a world of limbo, and prepared to do his part in resurrecting his master.
An icy cold hand reached out to grab his arm. Octavia's frozen touch did little to calm his nerves. He turned his head in the other direction as she sank her fangs into his flesh and drew forth a warm, flowing stream of blood. The red liquid that sustained his life-force pooled in a brewing cauldron and was mixed with herbs and cursed with magic. The Tribe believed heavily in the power of words and the magic of spoken spells to strengthen their rituals. The energy produced by this simple act was believed to go out into the elements to mix with the powers that be. Artemis turned away from Octavia. Behind him filed a line of his kin, each waiting to do the very same as he had just done.
Guarding Lazarus, Montgomery stood at the head of the stone tomb. His massive wings unfurled touching the edges of his nephew's resting place.
His mind still unsettled from the night before, Artemis paced up to him and leaned over the opened sarcophagus.
“Do you think he will return to us, Monty? Or do you think death will claim him before we can give him back his strength?”
“I cannot say. Lazarus has endured a lot in his years, but never a blood loss like this. Let us pray he is strong enough to survive.”
“If he does not,” said Artemis, “the Tribe will be in great danger. We will be weak from the bloodletting and the Dark Breed can then easily storm Sanctum Hall and take us without a fight.”
Monty shook his head. “I would never allow such an event to occur. I may not be kin to you, Artemis, but to Lazarus, I am all that remains of his Paradisian bloodline. For that ancestral connection, I must protect him and all that is his. Therefore, I protect the Tribe.”
Artemis found comfort in the angel's words. “To me you are the same as kin, Montgomery. I can never repay you for your constant guarding of the Tribe.”
Carrying a steaming chalice of frothing broth, Byron walked up to the crypt. He approached Montgomery and handed him the cup.
“Octavia says the deed must be done by you. She believes Lazarus will refuse and only your angelic powers will be forceful enough to stifle his fit. The essence of Paradise lingers in your soul, Montgomery. Hell has no power over you like it does Lazarus. He is of this earth, the Devil's playground.”
Monty reached out for the chalice and accepted the task proposed to him. He nodded to Artemis.
“I will lift Lazarus up and then you must hold him there.”
Montgomery took the cup and placed its gold rim on his nephew's lips. The warm, burgundy-colored brew mixed with a variety of herbs smelled sweet. Slowly he tilted the chalice forward. Its contents flowed freely into Lazarus’ mouth and he drank the fluid in large, loud gulps.
The members of the Tribe watched in silence, holding their breaths as they waited to see their patriarch's reaction to the life-restoring brew he now drank.
A fit of heated anger overcame Lazarus. He thrashed his hands out in front of him and cursed in the language of Hell. His voice was gruff, tainted with the evil of a damned soul. His eyes rolled back into his head. Hell was making its greatest attempt at bringing Lazarus to his death to claim his soul as one of its own. In obvious torment, Lazarus clutched at the chalice and tried to force it away from his mouth. But Montgomery refused his pleas. The angel held the cup steady and continued to flood his nephew's soul with the essence of life.
The fight went on for what seemed like hours. Cupful after cupful, Montgomery fed Lazarus the never-ending contents of the Tribe's gold chalice. Each drink went down alternated with a glass of Paradisian wine. The challenge of saving Lazarus from death proved to be a task more difficult than originally thought, but Monty did not relent. Lazarus had never lost so much blood in the past and therefore had never had to ingest as much to restore his loss.
By dawn, the deed was done. Lazarus lay in his crypt, his body still and quiet, but far from the realm of death.
* * * *
The Tribe members settled into their own crypts and left their patriarch to his uncle's care. With the help of Artemis, Montgomery carried Lazarus upstairs to his own private bedchamber.
“Are you sure he will be better off here than in the abbey?”
“Yes.”
Artemis pressed the issue. “But what about the sun? Shouldn't Lazarus remain underground at least for a day or so? His body is still weak. In this state, he will have an aversion to the sun and all else that threatens the common Vampyre.”
“No. He needs to fight all his fears and meet all his challenges immediately. If not, he will never overcome them. He is a patriarch of the New Breed and therefore he has a responsibility to the Tribe. He cannot simply give up as can another Vampyre. No patriarch can. Lazarus must face the sun and challenge it along with many other obstacles.
“His ability to live a somewhat normal life similar to that of the mortal he once was has faded since he was attacked and lost so much blood. Now go. I can tend to things from here. I will watch over Lazarus and see to it that Hell refrains from touching his soul again. He is still in a very vulnerable position.”
Artemis lowered Lazarus’ body to the bed, left the room and closed the door behind him.
Montgomery stared at his nephew. There was much work left to do if the man was to resume his rightful place among the Tribe. He wondered if Lazarus was strong enough to overcome the obstacles that threatened the Vampyre in this mortal world. The act of bringing his kin across was a transgression allowed by God and thus Lazarus’ rehabilitation had never been severe in the past. But this time, to save his own life, Lazarus had had to feast on the blood of each member of the Tribe and Montgomery wondered how God would look on such an act. He prayed his nephew would survive.
He went first to the drapes. The heavy velvet panels sprang open on his insistence and flooded the room with morning's first rays of light. A moan escaped Lazarus’ throat. He sucked in a deep, harsh breath as if he had never lived before. The Vampyre inside was finally returning from limbo.
Monty kept his distance from the bed.
“You have to do this alone, Lazarus. You must rebuild your strength by facing and conquering the weaknesses of the Vampyre.”
Lazarus reached out his hand from behind the thin veil of ivory silk that shadowed the bed. He pleaded for help, but none was given.
Montgomery eyed the window and forced it open by mere thought. Cool, crisp air drifted inside.
Lazarus let out a cry. His voice grew raspy and unsteady.
“The pain... I can feel a burning pain scorching my soul, Monty. Bring me a wolf.”
“No. Now that your senses are returning, you must begin your fight.”
“To hell with this fight, I need the wolves’ blood to ease the pain. I keep them penned on a tract of land to the north of Sanctum Hall. Get one and bring it to me.”
“No, I cannot do what you ask of me,” said Montgomery. “According to the ordinances of good and evil, when a patriarch has feasted on the blood of his entire Tribe, the wolves are off-limits. You know that, Lazarus. Your weakness is only the Devil trying to tempt you.”
“But I will not take the wolf's life, only a small taste of its blood. They are kept specifically for a moment like this one.”
“I said, no.”
“But you always allow me a wolf when I am in need of being rehabilitated from bringing across a member of my kin. I have suffered this fate each time a member of my family is made Vampyre. How does the present differ from the past?”
Again using thought, Montgomer
y forced the bed to move to the center of the room. The sound of wood scratching against wood echoed about the chamber and heavy marks appeared on the floor. He marched continuously around it and paced away the energy building inside him. He hated being at odds with the Devil but knew full well the leader of Hell's kingdom was still tempting Lazarus. Treading the room allowed him to release his anger without antagonizing God's fallen son.
“If you are to resume your duties as Patriarch of this Tribe, then you must face your challenges with only your inner strength. Your kin have given you back the essence of life and now you must fill it with substance. You must regain the strength you lost when you were staked.”
“And should I desire to fill this renewed life with that which comes from outside my soul? Such as with sin?”
Monty stopped at the side of Lazarus’ bed. He peered through the thin silk and met his nephew's blood-red eyes.
“Then you would be no better than those of the Dark Breed. You will continue to feed off living things and your powers would pass to the kin next in line. Under normal circumstances, I would bring you a wolf. But after we had to restore almost all your blood, feasting on a wolf would only doom your soul and slowly destroy your powers. The act would reverse your rehabilitation.”
Lazarus thought about that. In silence he lay in bed and wondered who would be next in line for patriarch of the Tribe. Artemis would be his choice should anything ever happen to him, but it didn't work that way. Patriarchs or matriarchs had to be of direct descent from the original forefathers. Artemis was Octavia's cousin. Lazarus had brought him across after a thief who invaded his home in Rome had murdered his wife and children.
He considered the dilemma. Most but not all of his kin were descended from Octavia's brothers and sisters. He thought back to the order in which those siblings had been born. After his mother came Cassius and then there was... The realization hit him hard and fast. Cassius. The Tribe would fall to Byron and Althea should anything happen to him unless he had a son or daughter of his own.
“Neomina...” His thoughts echoed on his lips.
“Do you still wish me to fetch a wolf, nephew?”
“No. In my present state I had forgotten who where my heirs. The Tribe would never sustain itself left to the twins. They simply do not have the type of souls meant to lead my grandfather's kin.”
“Then I advise you to heal thyself, Lazarus. Rise above the challenges and above the pain.”
“Stay with me, Montgomery.”
“I shall be here until you fight the last of your demons and you have conquered the sun and the hunger and the devil's temptations. And, until you realize you are the only soul strong enough to be patriarch of the Tribe.”
CHAPTER 8
At dawn, they brought Neomina to her father.
A band of Trackers led by Gerard's brother, Roderick, accompanied Neomina down the cliff to where her father lay dying. They descended in silence, every one of them pained by the inevitable. Gerard was a soul rehabilitated by Trackers from the darkness of the Vampyre, rehabilitated from the demons of a living Hell, but death was an entity none of them could fight.
A cold, damp chill tainted the air carrying the sea's scent to her nostrils. She could also smell the essence of death hovering over her father's soul. Pain filled Neomina's heart as she saw him below, twisted and broken on the sandy shore. Flashes of the past came back to haunt her again. She remembered the day her mother had died. Drained of life, her body had been found on the edge of Tracker territory. A Dark Breeder had killed her in a vicious, cruel manner by turning her first into his slave, then into his creation and finally sucking her dry of every last spark of life. She died in agony, no one ever learning the name of her murderer or the reason for his kill. Neomina pushed the thoughts from her mind.
On the beach, she rushed to her father's side. She threw open her arms and cradled the man's broken body and all the while wept uncontrollably. Neomina hadn't remembered what it was like to feel such pain, such torment and such loss. After her mother's death, she had fought desperately to push the ache from her heart and hide the pain so deep it no longer stirred her emotions. Now it all came back, every twinge of grief, sorrow, and despair. Agony flooded Neomina's soul. She saw the wound inflicted on her father's chest and knew he been staked. The realization caught her by surprise.
“Why would someone do this to you, Father? Who would kill a man in such a vile manner?”
“Go...to Monty...tell him...Percival lives,” Gerard whispered to her in a harsh, broken voice. “And...Lazarus... Lazarus needs you. Do not stray from his shadow, Neomina. Go to Lazarus.”
She wanted to tell him Lazarus wouldn't allow her to live among the Tribe. She wanted to tell him her husband cared more for the Vampyre than he did her, but it was too late.
She felt death coming nearer. The strange sensation caused the hair at the nape of her neck to stand on end. An entity not of man's world surrounded Gerard and she sensed its presence.
“Promise me, Neomina. Promise me you'll go to Lazarus.” Gerard pressed a folded note into his daughter's hand. “Take this to Lazarus. Promise me...”
Tears flooded her eyes.
“I promise.” Neomina's voice trailed to silence as her father's body fell limp in her arms. A Tracker pulled her back gently.
“Turn away, Neomina. Let your father's soul leave in peace so he may now finally know rest. If he sees you weeping so, Gerard will not want to leave this existence. He does not deserve to linger in man's world. He has earned his redemption, his right to eternal peace. Besides, there are things you know nothing of and now is not the proper time for me to discuss them with you.”
She didn't understand the man's words. Her father had been staked and she wanted to know why. Only Vampyres were killed in such a manner, not men, and her father was mortal. An odd thought struck her. Slowly, she studied the Trackers that surrounded her. She was one with them. She sensed it in her soul, but her father had always been different. She had heard whispered rumors since she was a child, rumors that stated Gerard was of a different breed than the Trackers, but she never once believed them. She never wanted to. Now she began to think that perhaps the rumors were true, perhaps her father was not the mortal she thought him to be. But, then, what exactly was he? She simply didn't know.
Trackers led her off the beach away from Delacroix. When she glanced back, a silver streak flashed in the sun's bright rays.
“That was the St. John's Stake, the weapon used against the Dark Breed. Why are they staking my father's heart?” She cried out in anguish. “My father is a mortal. What are they doing to him? God, no!”
She struggled against the tight grip of those accompanying her away from the shore. “Let go of me. I want to see what they are doing to him. Let me go!” she shouted.
“No,” said Roderick. “There are things you know nothing of, Neomina. And now is not the proper time for me to discuss them with you. As your father's brother, I tell you this. My own father welcomed Gerard among the Trackers as if he had always been one of us, as if he had always been mortal. My father welcomed him as a son. I favored Delacroix as if he was my brother and as that I shall always remember him. Now, let your father have some peace.”
She broke down, falling hard to her knees on the wet, sticky sand, lost to the pain of grief. She told no one about the note folded in her palm.
CHAPTER 9
Neomina waited three days before venturing to Sanctum Hall, enough time for her father's soul to ascend to Paradise. As a born Tracker, she followed her people's customs and in their belief system, it took three days for a soul to ascend to Heaven. The Trackers had laid Gerard's body to rest in a private ceremony attended only by his brother, members of the Tracker Council and herself. Neomina's uncle wanted it that way, and at the time, she felt too ridden with grief to argue with the man. Like Gerard and her late mother, Roderick was a member of the council, an elite group of Trackers who knew the Vampyre better than they knew themselves.
Disturbed by her father's death and the circumstances surrounding his burial, Neomina fled the cottage. Under the cover of midnight, she made her way to Sanctum Hall. Her heart raced with fear, but she ignored the stirring sensation. She didn't want any of the Trackers to know what she was up to and she certainly didn't want them to follow her. Putting her hesitation to rest, Neomina continued her trek through Vampyre territory. She entered the massive stone keep by way of a secret passage leading to an underground abbey.
Inside, a haunting chill wrapped around Neomina's goosebump-covered flesh and caressed every nerve in her body. Her sense of awareness had never seemed as heightened as it was at present. She felt the Vampyre everywhere—in the shadows, in the light—even within her own soul. The strange consciousness unsettled her.
They slept. The sudden realization struck her oddly. Many members of the Tribe preferred the old ways of the Vampyre and chose to sleep in crypts as opposed to beds as did Lazarus, but surely they would be awake at this late hour. Why did the Tribe remain in their crypts now? To her knowledge, the Vampyre lived for the night even those of the New Breed. They existed in the day, but thrived in the hours of darkness. Lazarus never spoke of his kin resting after sunset.
The strange sensations stirring in the air disturbed her. Unsettled, Neomina scurried past the stone sarcophagi lining the ancient abbey. Her feet barely touched the floor in her haste. She felt her heart racing at twice its normal rate as an unknown fear overwhelmed her and shadowed her every move.
