Call of Blood: A Novel of The Unnatural Brethren

by Silvana G Sánchez

  “I know you’re only here because Phillip insisted…” Marianne walked beside him and for a moment she didn’t seem as much as a vampire brat.

  “That’s true.” Phillip had all but twisted his arm. Let her make things right, she wants to apologize… Those had been his powerful arguments. But the sole reason he’d agreed to hunt with Marianne was this: Satisfying Phillip’s belief in redemption. He’d never be here otherwise. In fact, the most pressing need to be at Deveraux Hall ticked inside him as they moved further in the street.

  “Can we be friends?” she said with an expectant look.

  “Wait.” Ivan stopped. With one hand he drew her back into the shadows. Then finger by finger, he removed his black leather gloves. Four men approached them unknowingly from the other end of the alley. “Here’s a bit of advice, Marianne,” he whispered. “Always read their thoughts before choosing your prey from a gang. You’ll want to strike the strongest first, then the other’s disadvantage will play in your favor.”

  Marianne tilted her head as she studied them. “That one killed mother and child,” she said. Was there a hint of prejudice in her voice? Perhaps she had a conscience after all. “But who am I to judge, right?” she added.

  “What?” Ivan hissed. “Listen carefully. We are not the same. We will never be the same.”

  “I don’t understand… We’re both killers.”

  “They kill with no sense or reason.” Ivan almost lost his wits. “Their survival does not rely upon the act of killing as is our brethren’s prerogative.”

  Marianne stopped to consider his words. “What you really mean is we’re on top of the food chain, and they’re pretty much screwed.”

  Hopeless.

  “Hush. Here they come.” Three were tall and of a heavy build, the other one…

  “Please, help me!”

  To his surprise, Marianne stood in the middle of the alley. She fell on her knees and pretended to weep—that devious fiend. The tallest one approached her.

  “Don’t you worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.” The minute he offered his hand, Marianne seized it tight and pulled him close to her lethal fangs. In one ruthless bite, she tore his neck open, exposing muscle and blood vessels, even a glimpse of his windpipe. Then she drank, voraciously so. But what struck him even more horrified was that she had left enough blood in him to keep him conscious.

  Withering from life, her prey spoke. “Don’t… kill me…”

  “Say your prayers, killer.” Marianne dipped her fingers in his hair and gave it one quick tug, pulling his head back until the neck cracked. And that was that. A vicious attack, finished in seconds. Harrowing, appalling, heartless… a dozen words came to Ivan’s mind, but the one that echoed in his soul and sent chills down his spine was her name—Alisa.

  Alisa… How very much Marianne’s killing style resembled her merciless tactics.

  Struck with horror, the gang’s members watched as their partner in crime bled to death on the pavement. The second their own disadvantage became clear to them, they backed away and ran.

  “No, no, no!” Ivan cried moving out of the shadows. “That was badly done, Marianne!” Frustrated beyond his wits, he roared. “You are such an amateur! Now I’ll have to clean up your mess!”

  It would take him at least fifteen minutes to finish off the rest of them. Ivan could well spare fifteen minutes of his precious time, and then head up to Russian Hill, to where his heart instigated him to go—Deveraux Hall.

  “Dammit, Marianne!” she muttered. “You really are a vampire brat—an impatient one.” She got on her feet. For a minute there, she’d actually thought she was showing off before Ivan, but it turned out to be the opposite.

  “Oh, well… There’s nothing I can do now,” Marianne said. “Sorry, man.” She spoke to the corpse lying on the ground.

  Ivan was long gone. It troubled her to know that her actions had earned her yet another reason for him to—what was that?

  A strong presence drew perilously close. Unlike her vampire stalkers, this presence did not exude fear. He longed to be discovered, making no effort to conceal his proximity.

  Marianne slowly moved to the end of the alley.

  “Fara svo fljótt?” a seductive voice said. Out of the blue, the same voice echoed inside her head: “Going so soon?”

  Marianne turned. A man emerged from the shadows, a little over six-feet tall. He wore blue jeans and an Oxford gray pullover, his short mane of golden hair gathered into a low coil, gleaming under the streetlamp’s mercurial light.

  The man moved closer, and it was then that she noticed his ice-blue eyes. His smooth full lips curled in the hint of a devious smile.

  He slipped his hands into his jeans pockets and slightly raised his chin, never once parting his gaze from her. A sharp sense of entitlement emanated from him. There was a rawness to his general demeanor, despite his casual appearance.

  “I’ve seen you before,” Marianne mused. “In Lockhart’s soiree… You were standing by the anemone bushes.” This was no man, he was a vampire.

  “Why do you follow me?” she asked him in silence.

  “I wanted to be seen by you,” he replied in the same way, enticing her with half a smile. “Do not be frightened, Marianne.”

  They stood a few feet away from each other. Lured like a bee to a honeycomb, Marianne drew closer to him. There was a tigerish quality to his fierce blue eyes and the way he smiled.

  “Who are you?” she asked, tired of these games.

  “Does it matter?” he said, his sensual lips moving to the sound of his velvety voice. “Please, do not fear me.” It was the second time he gave her such reassurance… Why should she fear him?

  “Tell me your name, vampire,” Marianne insisted, pressing the message through her thoughts.

  “You need a name… How endearingly mortal of you.” He extended his hand, offering her to move out of the alleyway into the desolated street.

  Compelled by his charm, Marianne held his hand before even realizing it. And a sudden notion became clear—she would follow him out of this alley, into the street, away from this neighborhood… anywhere he pleased.

  Aware of her infatuation, the vampire smiled, and without parting his penetrating gaze from her, he spoke:

  “My name is Eirik Bjorn.”

  Part II

  THE SKULL SPLITTER

  Sá einn veit

  Er víða ratar

  Ok hefr fjölð um farit

  Hverju geði

  Stýrir gumna hverr

  Sá er vitandi er vits

  *

  He alone knows,

  He who wanders widely

  And has travelled a great deal,

  What disposition

  Each man possesses.

  He is knowing in commonsense.

  The Hávamál

  verse 18.

  Eirik Bjorn

  He had heard about her six years ago, through the brethren of The Devil’s Coven. Their eldest member, the one they called The Dragon, had requested to speak with him. Eirik had granted him this rare audience in one of his many lairs outside the city. It was his favorite one, settled on top of a hill within a large estate, distanced from the city’s bustle. More than a home, the manor was his castle.

  Eirik valued his privacy, and his castle provided him all the secrecy he could desire. On that occasion, however, he’d made an exception. He had received the Coven’s emissary because he claimed the matter he wished to present was urgent. He usually didn’t concede these sort of meetings, they ultimately bored him out of his wits, and this often ended in the requester’s destruction—immortals didn’t call him The Skull Splitter in vain.

  Bring Jiao Long here, Eirik had told his personal assistant as he prepared for a swim in the Roman-styled indoor pool.

  He found solace from the world’s ongoing turmoil whenever he went for a swim. The comforting amber gleam of the room's lamp posts soothed his racing mind. One-inch square gold and lapis lazul
i mosaics tiled every wall, gold and blue smalti covered the vaulted ceiling... But it was the dome that stood out from the treasures in this room. Tiled in night-blue colored mosaics powdered with gold, the dome created the illusion of a starry sky.

  Marble sculptures decorated the room like everlasting guardians. Roman effigies to the untrained eye, but in reality the human-sized statues represented Odin, Freja, and other Norse deities.

  It was a magnificent room, fit for a king.

  Eirik swam across the warm water, covering the pool’s length fairly quickly. He closed his eyes and dipped his head back into the water, combing his golden hair with his fingers as he emerged.

  With arms crossed over the pool’s edge, The Skull Splitter fixed an expectant gaze at the doorway. A minute later, the blood drinker walked into the room following his assistant.

  “Any sudden movements, and it might be the end of me.”

  Jiao Long’s thoughts shone through and made Eirik smile. The Dragon was right, the slightest provocation would ensure Jiao a trip to Hel.

  The vampire’s gaze widened as he absorbed his surroundings. To his left and right, the pool spread in glorious splendor.

  Eirik moved to the pool’s steps. Climbing slowly, one by one, he emerged, water dripping off his bare chest and strong arms. A chilling wave spread over his body as he arrived at the poolside where his assistant waited with his robe extended in her arms.

  Delighted by the warmth of his royal red and gold brocade robe, Eirik swept his visitor with a slow gaze, measuring his worth.

  “Follow me.” The silent command compelled The Dragon out of his contemplative state.

  They moved into the Grand Room. A vast collection of Oriental rugs, ancient tapestries, and red velvet Victorian furniture fed the vampire’s curious eyes.

  Jiao Long stopped before the fireplace, admiring its Calacatta marble mantel.

  “Three angels chiseled in stone… How odd,” he thought. Reading Jiao Long’s mind meant no difficulty to Eirik’s preternatural power.

  He smirked. The carvings of his fireplace eluded Jiao Long’s understanding. Eirik lay on the comfortable chaise lounge, two fingers pressed against his temple, positively imperial.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  The blood drinker turned. He bowed and approached him. “It’s been fifty years since you’ve last presided an assembly at The Devil’s Coven—”

  “I will return when I see it fit,” Eirik dismissed. Had The Dragon come here to lecture him?

  “Of course you will, Your Majesty.” A quick reply to mend his mistake.

  “State your business, then.”

  “There is rising discontent amidst our brethren.”

  “Go on.”

  “It's the youngest of the Lockhart household.” He paused. “She hunts in our grounds, breaking the agreement we struck with Ivan Lockhart decades ago. She mocks the Dark Veil’s rules and poses a great threat to us all… She must be stopped.”

  The certainty with which Jiao spoke stung Eirik’s feline curiosity.

  “Must she?” Eirik whispered. “What harm could she possibly mean to you?” And that easily, he’d detached himself from the matter. I’m not the one in danger, why should I care?

  “She has also taken several mortal lovers. I must emphasize the peril this represents to our Kin. If our existence were somehow exposed—”

  “I will take into consideration the facts you’ve laid before me.” Eirik got on his feet. “You will know my decision… soon.”

  A quick bow, and Jiao Long had retired, and Eirik had once more regained his precious solitude. With his hands clasped on his back, he strolled in the room and stopped before the blazing hearth.

  “They are no angels,” he mused, studying the mantelpiece’s carving. They were the three winged Norns at the Well of Urd. Urd and Skuld sat, and Verdandi stood between them. Urd represented the Past, she sat as Saga, the goddess of History, inscribing the tread of time on her golden tablet. Skuld represented the Future, her gaze lost in the horizon, dreaming of things to come. Verdandi held the Heavenly scale in her hand, standing as the ever-present Now.

  The three Norns determined the fate of humanity at the Well of Urd, threading every man’s destiny.

  “Angels…” He uttered a mirthless laugh. Jiao Long’s judgment was far from reliable. “I’ll have to see this rebel vampire…” Only then—as if he were indeed one of the Norns—would Eirik decide her fate.

  Channeling his unnatural abilities to pick up her voice from all others in the city had been child’s play. Being the sole female member of the Lockhart household made her an easy target, but even then her voice was unique. It was pristine and mortal, but not mundane—never mundane.

  Scanning her vampiric mind, he learned of her lair in Pacific Heights. Although she belonged to the Lockhart household, Ivan Lockhart was not her maker.

  For years, he had made a game out of prying into her life, learning her interests and discovering the nature of her defiance of the vampiric rules. No plots to destroy her brethren dwelled in her mind, no schemes to expose the Coven. A deep sense of rebellion was inherent to her personality. She gained no satisfaction in breaking the Dark Veil’s code. She longed to be free from all boundaries.

  Eirik had not planned being spotted by her during Lockhart’s annual soiree, though he secretly wished it. It happened too quickly but that brief encounter had made him want more than the occasional sighting.

  And then, he tracked her to The Devil’s Coven. And though he had avoided the place and its vampires for decades, he did not hesitate to make an appearance. Most blood drinkers had recognized him, of course. Eirik despised the sort of blood drinkers the Coven rallied. They lacked any bearing and had no sense of their heritage, no passion, and no purpose.

  The Coven's vampires recognized in him a superior being—he was after all two thousand years deep in Darkness. They strived for guidance, a standard by which to lead their immortal lives. Eirik had agreed to counsel their elders and even offered his judgment. But by no means was he their leader—although they proclaimed him as their King.

  King… It had a nice ring to it, but titles often wore off and Eirik had grown tired of them after two millennia. Fortunately, the vampires of The Devil’s Coven dared not contact him for fear of his reaction, which was wise of them.

  It was then that his eyes met her—the rebel vampire, Marianne Taylor. She was not alone, but engaged with a midblood. Five or six vampires tracked her, but if she’d noticed them, she showed no concern for their actions. The difference between those insipid vampires and her was clear.

  “You shouldn't disregard your brethren’s envy,” he mused, settling into the settee. The Coven wanted her. They craved what was naturally hers, and impossible as it was for them to have, they plotted against her. They yearned for her blood.

  I’ve seen enough. I will take no part in the Coven’s vicious plan, but not only that. I will stop them—even if it means destroying them all.

  It was a promise he meant to keep.

  The time for them to meet had arrived tonight. Eirik could not postpone it any longer. He found her hunting in this ghastly borough, a dumpster of Ivan Lockhart’s choice.

  Ivan prompted Marianne to hunt amidst the lowest of humanity, comforted by a twisted sense of morality. There had been a time when Eirik believed this as well. He’d relished in becoming both judge and executioner, if only for a century or two. He had been naive, of course. Time had taught him otherwise.

  It made no difference whether or not his victims were criminals. Why go through the hardship of hunting exclusively in the midst of human depravity? Nature itself unleashed its catastrophic rage at random, unaware and uncaring of the hearts of men. The righteous and the corrupted, men died all the same.

  Eirik Bjorn was a force of Nature, and he acted accordingly—killing in random incisive attacks, leaving always a trail of devastation.

  The Kill was not a question of morality, but a question of p
urpose. Ivan’s choice of hunting grounds led him astray from his purpose which was surviving by drinking the best blood available. But alas… There she was, alone, standing in this dreadful alley of Lockhart’s preference.

  Reluctant to conceal his presence, he’d stepped out of the shadows. The blood in his veins slowed its course, the air stayed in his lungs a moment longer. Time froze.

  “My name is Eirik Bjorn,” he’d said. A sudden unsteadiness overcame him. Nevertheless, the words had been cast in the air. The dread his name evoked whenever pronounced was both a curse and a blessing, a predisposition imposed by his past actions—and a few recent ones too. But it was also true that his name inspired respect and admiration amongst his brethren, even devotion.

  Unlike other members of his kin who changed their identities with each mortal lifetime, Eirik had kept his name across two millennia. His Scandinavian lineage carried too much meaning to wither with each passing century... If his name frightened or stunned her, Marianne did not reveal it.

  My heritage is my pride. I bow to no one. I am the almighty Skull Splitter, the powerful long-living blood-drinking unnatural son of a bitch who claims what he pleases and takes what he wants. No questions asked.

  Then why—for the first time in centuries—did Eirik fear rejection?

  “We should know each other,” he whispered, stopping beneath the streetlamp’s pool of mercurial light. “But not here… This place is deplorable, unworthy of our unworldly presence.” And taking her hand, he led Marianne away from that ghastly alley.

  Antoine & Denise

  “She’s going to kill me.” Antoine paced in Deveraux Hall’s backyard, biting his nails. “Oh, right... She can’t kill me, I’m a vampire.” He feared his footsteps had flattened the grass into one of those mysterious crop circles.