by Sarah Hoyt
D’Artagnan took his sword and charged the vampire king, knowing it was likely to be the last thing he did. And almost without knowing he did it, he shouted, “To me, musketeers, to me, of the king!”
Waking
THE pleasure and pain together blotted out Athos’ mind, made him forget everything. But his own true mind and thought—like a man locked in a stone chamber—pounded on the walls and doors screaming. He was aware of himself as a location, a thing, inaccessible to the body losing strength in the grasp of the vampire king; unresistant to the grip of the fangs on his neck, to his life evaporating.
And the voice in his mind whispered: What other purpose can you have, little one? What greater purpose but to allow your king to live forever and rule forever?
Not my king, Athos’ voice surged. Inside. He tried to form the words, but his lips were like something carved in stone and inaccessible. Not my king. The prisoner locked in his own body tried to rise, a scream forming inside him, To me, musketeers, to me, of the king!
As if by miracle, he heard the shout echoed, nearby and close, and in a Gascon accent.
Athos’ eyes flew open, answering a call that had been his reason for waking and sleeping now for over a decade, his reason for moving, his reason for fighting.
His eyes focusing, he saw the boy charge the vampire king, sword in hand. He felt the king move, as though it were his own body that moved. The massive arm drew back and struck at d’Artagnan’s head as the boy awkwardly tried to charge and behead the king without hurting Athos.
The king’s fist, more massive than any human fist, stronger than any vampire strength caught the boy on the side of the head and sent him flying.
For a moment, for a bare second, his fangs pulled out of Athos’ neck, ripping flesh and veins as they did, and the king’s grip became fractionally less strong on Athos’ shoulders.
And Athos’ mind was free. His lips, finally able to move, shouted the words, “To me, musketeers, to me, of the king!”
I am your king, the voice in his mind said, trying to sound as compelling as it had before, but with something akin to hesitation behind it.
“Not my king,” Athos said, as he twisted, and reached for the sword beside the king, the sword that had been left by him as he slept through the untold millennia. “Not my king.”
The vampire discerned what Athos was doing, and grabbed both the sword and Athos’ shoulder. Athos wrenched his shoulder, feeling as if he’d dislocated every bone, and, screaming against the pain, tightly held on to the sword. The king lifted it and Athos with it, as he refused to let go—and used the sword as a handle, pulling it back and flinging the sword and Athos away from him in one swift movement.
Athos flew through the air and landed, every bone and muscle jarring, against the hard stone wall of the cave, hitting his head very hard. He could feel the blood running from the torn vein at his neck, and his shoulder hurt as if it were on fire.
Every breath drawn into his body hurt his chest hurt too, as though the knock had injured his lungs or his heart, or perhaps cracked his ribs. He felt his eyes close. It had been a good try, while it lasted.
Footsteps, heavy, as if bearing a great weight approached, and then there was the sound of the king of vampires kneeling beside him. A gentle touch on Athos’ shoulders told him the sovereign of the dark was about to resume feeding.
“To me . . . musketeers,” Athos said, in little more than a whisper. “To me . . . of the king.”
As though the words were invisible strings pulling at his battered body, he surged to his knees, twisting free of the grip on his shoulders, ignoring the pain. With the sword of the vampire king clasped hard in his hands, he took a swing at the creature who tried to grab him again.
The swing was no harder than what a child or an old man might manage. The sword was almost too heavy for Athos’ ravaged body. It started with hope, but lost all strength when it hit the vampire, and then slid harmlessly down the vampire’s chest, leaving a shallow cut in its wake. It brought Athos down with its weight.
The king looked shocked, raising his hand to his chest, as though he couldn’t believe the cut on his skin or the blood on his fingers.
“To me, musketeers,” Athos said, his voice slightly stronger. “To me of the king.” He dragged himself up, and tried another riposte to the king. This bounced harmlessly off his arm, making another shallow cut and causing more blood to flow.
The blood smelled strong, intoxicating, and Athos inhaled deeply, while the king looked puzzled, Athos mustered another attack, this time managing a cut across the king’s scalp and face, crying again,. “To me, musketeers! To me, of the king!”
He didn’t expect anyone to answer him. The boy, he saw, had fallen against the wall as limp as a flour sack, and remained motionless. He looked dead, and might well be.
But the gallant Gascon had acquitted himself better than Athos. He had not let darkness control him. He had fought as a free man. Hell would lose its fires and the sun would go out before Athos allowed the boy to have died in vain. “To me musketeers! To me of the king!”
He had no strength. Everything hurt. The sword was almost as tall as he was, and it weighed too much for his arms at his full strength, much less now.
But come hell or the devil, Athos was going to kill the king or die trying. “To me musketeers. To me of the king!”
The king’s fist shot out again and punched at Athos. He caught him in the head. It was like being hit by a hammer. Athos’ skull rattled. His vision blurred. He heard a low whimper, and recognized it was himself.
“To me musketeers,” he said, gritting his teeth against the pain. “To me of the King!”
No one would answer. He was the only one here. The only one who could keep France free. The only one who could keep the world free. The only one who could avenge the young Gascon who had saved him from a fate worse than death.
Up went the sword, Athos’ arms hurting. Up and up and up, as if by an incredible feat of strength, by the power of a miracle, by the power of prayer. Up and up and up, slowly, slowly.
And the vampire king smiled, reaching with his giant hand for the sword, intending to wrest it away from Athos. Intending to--
Athos swung. “To me musketeers!” It seemed to him that the weight of the sword itself pulled it and himself along with it, until his feet left the ground and he jumped a little, landing on the other side, the sword completing the arc to bury itself in the sand and the force pulling Athos with it to sprawl him on the ground.
He looked up through blurry eyes at the king. There was a very small cut in the king’s neck. He would now finish what he started. He would now drain Athos. Athos could not move, even if he tried.
But I AM your king, the voice in his mind said, in shocked surprise.
And then slowly, very slowly, as though it were beyond space and time and the law of mortals and the world, the king fell. He fell sideways, like a large tree falls. As he hit, his head rolled from his neck, ending near Athos’ own head, looking at him with reproachful eyes.
The scent of the most intoxicating of all liquors enveloped Athos, full of temptation and promise. Athos gagged and turned on his side, to vomit without choking.
He didn’t have much in his stomach. Just a few drops, and then endless dry heaving, which left him even more exhausted.
He imagined he’d been nearly drained again, and then, with the battle . . . But he’d won. And if he died now, it would all be worth it.
A Life for a Life
D’ARTAGNAN woke up surrounded by the most foul odor he’d ever smelled. It seemed to him as though he’d traveled a long distance away from his body, but he came to suddenly, with a shock.. He ached; the soreness of bruising, the pain of having hit the wall.
Memory trickled back more slowly. He’d tried to attack the vampire king, and managed nothing but to get himself thrown with force against a wall. By now Athos would be dead and the king—
The sheer terror of the thought caused
his eyes to fly open. He sat up, as the room seemed to spin around him. He swallowed hard against nausea clutching at his stomach.
The way his eyes failed to focus and his suddenly disturbed sense of balance made him feel as if he’d drunk too much, but even so it was enough to see there were two bodies in the room. Two.
He blinked. Athos lay nearby, on his side. Judging from the liquid by his mouth, he’d been violently ill. By his side lay the vampire king’s head, his body a little further off, surrounded by black blood trickling into the sand.
Athos’ upper body was a mass of cuts and bruises; the place where the vampire had bit him was a deep trench oozing very little blood—which meant Athos would be nearly drained.
What did happened when one drained a vampire?
D’Artagnan didn’t know. He imagined, considering the animal instincts that seemed to animate the creatures, that it made them all beast, all thirst, and caring for nothing but satiating themselves. Only perhaps that was true of all other vampires. All vampires that weren’t Athos.
D’Artagnan tried to raise himself to his feet. He must get out of here. He must get help. The feeling of evil that had twisted and wrenched all his thoughts was gone. His mind was clear.
But standing only made the room spin, and he fell back to the ground, heavily. Walking, let alone running, was impossible.
By supreme effort he managed to get onto his hands and knees and transverse the two sword lengths that separated him from Athos. He must find a way to save the musketeer, vampire or not . . . he must.
He touched Athos gingerly on the shoulder and saw the musketeer’s eyelids flutter. For a moment his heart clutched, tight within his chest, afraid of what would look at him from Athos’ eyes.
But Athos blinked once, then twice; it was undeniably his eyes and his gaze that looked back. “D’Artagnan,” he said, or rather formed with his lips, with no sound. Then he made an attempt to clear his throat. “D’Artagnan. Go. You are free. Give me mercy before you go. I can’t . . . I’ll not get out of here. I can’t. Go, quickly . . . tell the others how I died.”
D’Artagnan felt a lump form in his throat. He could feel the tightly controlled hunger, the despair behind Athos’ words. And he understood what Athos was saying. The vampire musketeer was drained and he had fought while drained. Even the way he’d kept himself, by dint of broth, would not heal him now, not in time to get him out of here. And yet, d’Artagnan tried. “I’ll crawl out,” he said. “I’ll get help. If our friends . . . ”
Athos shook his head. “No,” he said. His voice was little more than a raspy whisper. “No. If I wait . . . any longer . . . I’ll attack whoever . . . I’m barely keeping the beast under control. I couldn’t . . . if I wait . . . it will win.”
D’Artagnan looked into the jade-green eyes and saw the beast trying to take over, trying to erupt. As if from very far away, a memory came to him, of Rochefort saying that if blood were freely given, feeding would not destroy the vampire’s soul.
He swallowed hard, then chuckled and saw the surprise in Athos’ eyes and shook his head. I went to Paris to kill vampires, he thought. And now, I’ll feed one.
The Beast and the Angel
“YOU cannot mean it,” Athos rasped, as the boy made his offer and explained what he had learned from Rochefort.
But d’Artagnan meant it, just as he’d meant the offer to fight by their side in that alley, just a little over a week ago. Brave and gallant and foolish beyond measure, the Gascon bent his head, and pulled his disheveled black hair out of the way. “I’d prefer you don’t take more than you need. I would prefer you don’t drain me,” he said, his voice tight and trying to be strong, but with an edge of trembling behind it.
“But . . . Can we trust Rochefort?” Athos said, even as his fangs descended, even as his whole body hurt with the desire to feed. “How can we? What if—”
“He wasn’t lying,” d’Artagnan said. “I’d wager on it. I’d . . . ” He laughed. “I am wagering my life and your soul. He wasn’t lying, Monsieur Athos. He was genuinely puzzled as to why my parents had not done this.” He lay down beside Athos, offering him his neck.
Athos’ finger seemed to move of its own accord, tracing the blue vein under the young man’s olive skin. So soft, so warm, so alive. He’d resigned himself to death. He’d accepted it as the price to save mankind, and now—
“Please,” d’Artagnan said, softly. “If you don’t take what I offer, we will, neither of us, leave here. When I hit my head against the wall . . . I cannot walk. I cannot traverse those long corridors of stone on my hands and knees or reach those places one must pull himself by the force of his arms . . . ”
Athos understood. But it seemed to him no more than a difficult reasoning, a way to justify what he really wanted. What he really wanted was to tear into the living vein under his finger. His lips followed his finger and touched, just touched, the warm pulsing vein beneath the soft skin.
He pulled back, by a superhuman effort. “You don’t know what you’re offering. What if I can’t stop? What if—”
“It is a risk I will take,” d’Artagnan said. “And less dangerous than trying to crawl out. Please, let us dare it, and perhaps save both of us.”
Athos could no more have stopped himself from taking the proffered blood than he could have stopped himself breathing.
He let his head move, as though pulled by a force stronger than himself. He let his lips touch the young man’s neck. His fangs were out already.
He tried to make the piercing of the skin as soft as possible, but his craving had its own power. His fangs bit deep into the youth’s neck.
d’Artagnan trembled and a long exhalation escaped him; his body tensed and a low, deep moan escaped him, just as the blood poured out and onto Athos’ tongue.
Hot blood, living blood. Nothing like the experience of draining the wolf pup. This was like feeding and like drinking. The finest liquor, the best food.
And his mind linked to d’Artagnan’s, feeling the pleasure that coursed through the young man’s body, the same pleasure that had consumed Athos at being drained, and feeling at the same time the pleasure of draining, the pleasure of feeding.
Oh, Charlotte, he thought. No wonder you fell.
He heard d’Artagnan’s heart beat slower, straining. d’Artagnan’s warm hand clasped his cold one, hard.
And Athos told himself, No more. He would not kill the boy.
The beast raged, wanted more, but Athos pushed it down, controlled it. He pulled back from the living vein, painfully willing his fangs to retract.
Opening his eyes, he saw d’Artagnan look back at him. Alive. The boy was alive. Athos would keep him alive. He didn’t need another death on his conscience.
The beast was pushed away, locked tight within him. It was there. He could not deny it. He could feel it clawing at him, demanding more blood, demanding the pleasure of sucking a life, of consuming it entire.
But even as he looked at d’Artagnan, and saw the blush climb to the Gascon’s cheeks, he felt the blood he’d swallowed speeding to every broken corner of his body, healing him, erasing his fatigue.
“Are you—” He asked d’Artagnan. “Did I take too much?”
D’Artagnan shook his head slowly. “No. Did you take enough?”
Athos rose to his feet. “I believe so,” he said. Somehow, in the grip of his frenzy, he’d gotten rid of doublet and shirt and lost his sword, but his cloak, twisted and dirty, was still clasped around his neck. He now unclasped it and wrapped d’Artagnan in it.
His tiredness, his pain was but a memory. He lifted d’Artagnan easily, with one arm, and with the other lifted the vampire king’s sword. And walked out to meet any perils that might come.
This Son of Mine
IT seemed to Athos he walked for miles. Not that it was tiring, but more that he didn’t know what would meet them at the other end, or even if it would be day or night.
Most of the torches in front of the pictures had g
uttered to embers, but even dimly lit, Athos averted his eyes from Charlotte’s painted countenance. He could feel her shock, her grief, her rage, even at this distance. He did not know where she was, but he could feel her pain at the death of her true consort.
I was never her husband.
D’Artagnan was very quiet, though alive, his heartbeat and his warmth reassuring against Athos’ chest.
He passed a place where it looked like someone had burned a lot of old vampires. Bones stuck out of a black, burnt mass at odd angles. “I found that they catch fire,” d’Artagnan said, guessing his thoughts, or perhaps they were still linked through the mechanism of feeding.
“Yes,” Athos said, looking at the remains. He climbed up and out of two shafts, pushing d’Artagnan upward with an ease he wouldn’t have believed possible, and then pulling himself up, by force of his arms. His shoulders still hurt. They felt bruised, but nothing like the pain he had felt before.
But worry pounded his mind and wormed into his brain. Would his other friends even be alive? Would they emerge from this cave into a city entirely controlled by vampires?
Along another corridor, and, suddenly, a voice boomed and echoed, “Athos? D’Artagnan?”
Athos leaned against the wall, holding d’Artagnan, weak with relief, recognizing Porthos’ voice. He replied, as heartily as he could, “To me musketeers! To me of the king!”
As Aramis and Porthos appeared around a bend in the tunnel, Porthos limping, Aramis cradling his arm, Athos saw Aramis’ eyes alight on d’Artagnan bundled in the cloak. His eyebrows rose. The only words Athos could find were those of scripture, “This son of mine was dead, and is alive. He was lost and now is found.”
And he knew he was speaking as much of himself as of d’Artagnan.
To Paris
“IT was badly done, Athos,” Aramis said. He’d tested Athos’ retention of a soul by means of blessed salt and cross, and now Athos—properly dressed, in a spare room in the d’Astarac home—now free of vampires—wore a crucifix once more. “You didn’t know if it was true. The boy might have found himself facing a true vampire.”
