Sacrament

by Susan Squires

  She had to rest for some time before she could make her way to where Davinoff lay. Her grasp was unsteady on the precious bottle. She hung her head as she knelt beside him to keep the room from fading and weaving. Finally, she sat heavily and leaned over him. This time he was easier to wake. She struggled to lift his head. He examined her face with eyes more puzzled than terrible. Again she poured the warm life into the cup and bade him drink.

  This time she saved the second cup for later. She lowered his head and pulled the quilt up about his shoulders. "Sleep now." Then she closed his eyes with her fingertips and watched him sink into unconsciousness. Rising too quickly, she did a graceful pirouette as she grasped for the chair, failed to reach it, and fell to the floor.

  Julien woke slowly to the dim room. He felt the air in his lungs and realized with a small sense of disappointment that he had come back from the brink, had almost seen his own death firsthand. He wondered briefly whether he was glad to be restored to the dilemma of living. He must be, else why had he made the tremendous effort required to fight the drug? Because he had been afraid he would continue and continue in that terrible stupor. That was not the same as embracing life.

  He was weak but his will was his own. He felt the presence of his Companion, the one who shared his blood. Together they were Julien Davinoff. Together, they would be strong again, whether he would or no. With some effort he turned his head.

  She lay on the floor, her blue dress floating on the stones. He remembered her face smiling above him, lifting the cup to his lips. Her outstretched arm was bruised from the needle. That meant the blood she had given him was her own. It was amazing that she knew the technique, more amazing yet that she used it to help such as she knew he was. She might be dead. He tried to move, but he could not raise his head. He sank back, sweating with exertion.

  Why had she done this thing? He had known many women in his time. Many had loved him, some against their will. They bared their necks to him because he demanded it, and one way or another, they could not resist. But he had learned long ago that unless he sapped their will and replaced it with his own, fair, fine eyes shrank from him when the word vampire was whispered in the recesses of their souls. Fear and disgust, even hatred were the consequence of knowledge. He had not wanted Sarah Ashton to see what he was while he depended so completely upon her. He even managed to resist the call of her blood when he needed it badly.

  But he had failed. She knew he was vampire. The cups of blood were certain proof. Yet she had given it freely. Her own. He did not understand how she had conquered fear, or why. He remembered a fugitive coil of dark hair brushing his chest, clear green eyes searching his face. Now he must go slowly. He still depended on her. He must not frighten her. Marshaling his small resource of strength, he made another effort and rolled onto his side. Then he saw her stir.

  Sarah struggled to a sitting position, unsure of where she was. She was alive, at least. Turning she saw him, awake and clear-eyed, across the floor. A trace of fear tickled along her spine. There was no drug between them. And she knew what he was.

  "Thank you," he whispered, "for your gift." His eyes were ringed with shadows.

  Sarah parted her lips as if she would speak, but no words came.

  He tried again. "I was not myself." He smiled, a touch of a smile. "I will not hurt you."

  Sarah's eyes filled with tears at that prosaic statement. After all these nightmare days, it was very well for him to say he would not hurt her now. She wanted to shriek, in laughter or in anger. What could she say to such a creature? But he still looked sick. "There is one more cup…"

  "Yes," he breathed. "The blood is the life."

  She got unsteadily to her feet and came to sit beside him, hesitant. Everything had changed. She could see for the first time in a long time the force of personality behind his eyes. He was a man, but not a man. Some part of her gibbered that she did not know what he was.

  She reached for the bottle, half full of the dark, red liquid. "I think it has clotted."

  "It does not matter, if it is not spoiled." With effort, he struggled up to prop himself against the wall. Sarah moved to help him, drawn by his weakness in spite of her fear. She handed him the cup without looking at him. Had she not read that vampires could hypnotize their victims? It was true. She had felt his power. He reached for the cup of her blood, trembling.

  Sarah's hand, too, shook. She tried to keep any judgment, any trace of fear or disgust from her expression, but he must have guessed what she was thinking, for he took the cup and gulped the thickened claret-colored liquid hastily. Then he set the bottle down with a sigh and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  He studied her as she removed the cup and the bottle to the table. "My race draws many of its most… peculiar qualities from a parasite in our bloodstream. It lives on red blood cells and it must be fed. It is difficult to resist the demands of our Companion when it calls for blood."

  Sarah hazarded a glance in his direction. She had never considered that there might be a natural explanation for his blood-lust. The explanation, true or not, aroused her curiosity. Man or monster? But she had nearly fallen victim to his needs. Only the drug and his weakness prevented him from taking what he wanted. What would prevent him now?

  She gathered her courage. "You are better. You will not need the nutrient again, I think."

  "The One who shares my body helps me heal. The drug suppressed the healing, but now the addiction is gone, to your credit."

  He was testing her, she thought, as she clipped the tube and removed the needle from his arm, testing her courage, her resolve. He still wore the manacles. Did she dare free him now that the drug was gone? She must have time to think. Taking the key from her pocket she studied it, uncertain. "Until we are sure that the effects of the drug are gone, I think it might be better to leave these locked." She said it without looking at him.

  "Of course," he murmured. His gaze was much too penetrating.

  She hurried up the stairs in confusion. Outside, she leaned against the door, her head sunk to her breast. Her hair fell forward, a comforting curtain to hide her tears. The last days had been unreal, an endless round of fear and nightmares. Now the nightmare should be over. She had done what she set out to do. But the nightmare wasn't over at all. She had not stopped to consider what would happen when the drug was gone. She had discharged her obligation. But she was left harboring a monster who drank blood, who would soon be incredibly strong and dangerous.

  She went wearily up to her own bedroom and lay on the bed. It was morning once more. The rays of the sun leaked through the curtains, suffusing the room with motes of life, so different than the dim room in the cellar. After all, it was just Davinoff. She had dined with him, ridden in his carriage, talked with him about the stones at Avebury, argued with him about her land. Commonplace experiences. He had been a vampire then, too.

  She had nearly come to grips with Davinoff as man, rather than as supernatural horror, when she remembered the murders in London. My God, she gasped. Drained blood. Thirteen bodies. Who else but a vampire could have done those murders? Who but Julien Davinoff? Even if he was not a monster, he was at least a murderer. The urge to run out of the house and straight to George was almost overwhelming. She clutched her knees convulsively.

  "What to do?" she heard herself whispering. "What to do?"

  It was that phrase, turning over and over in her mind, which brought her up short. She sounded exactly like Corina. Worse, she had chained what she did not understand to her cellar wall. She knew very well those shackles were no longer needed, except to comfort her. Would she now condemn him and begin to plan his death, as Corina had done? Would she turn away from darkness once again out of fear?

  Well, Sarah, she said to herself as she sat up into a beam of the sunshine. You committed yourself when you decided to stop running from Corina. The game is a bit rougher than you thought. But the rules have not changed at all.

  She took two deep breaths. He migh
t be a murderer. She had decided once that the Davinoff she knew was too rational to have committed those murders. But the beast she had seen in the cellar was not rational at all. It was not possible to run away from that fact. She would look squarely at him. She would confront the vampire, the murderer accused. If she looked straight at him, she would know the truth. And it would change her, one way or another.

  She rose deliberately, bathed, and put on her plain cherry-striped dress of lustring. She brushed her hair dry and drew it up into a knot. Then she went downstairs.

  Chapter Thirteen

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  Inside the dim cellar, Julien wakened as he heard her pass above him. Her steps sounded resolute. He sighed in defeat. She had decided what to do with him. Would she go for help? Would she resort to drugs? He was still so cursed weak! He could not yet escape the manacles. He was not used to illness. He was not sure he could resist her if she chose drugs. Could he force her to do his bidding? Not even that was certain in his present state. If he tried, he would lose all possibility of her willing help. He had to admit he had hoped for that. She had given him her own blood, after all. Perhaps he just wanted the comfort of her understanding.

  Damn it, he was weaker than he thought. Where is your strength, Companion mine? He thought. Why do you forsake me now? He heard her step upon the stair. Grow strong, and quickly, he commanded silently as she descended into view.

  Sarah saw Davinoff lying on his pallet, eyes burning in his hollowed cheeks. She fingered the butcher knife she held concealed in the folds of her skirt and came to stand over him. The knife seemed small and silly. But it was all she had. "We must talk," she said.

  He eyed her warily and nodded.

  "You did those murders in London, the ones where the blood was drained," she said, almost without emotion. "Don't bother to lie to me." She wondered what she would do if he admitted it. Would she simply turn and run?

  "I cannot remember that I have ever felt the need to explain myself." His tone was as urbane as it has always been, but his voice cracked with strain. "The murders were done by one of my kind, but not by me."

  "I saw you at the murder scene," Sarah accused.

  "That was the moment I knew it was Magda."

  "I don't believe you," Sarah said, wondering how she ever expected anything but a denial, or how she would ever believe. "I don't know this Magda."

  "But you have seen her," Davinoff said. "She is the redheaded woman who gave the constables my description. That was clever, really."

  "It doesn't explain why you were there."

  "I came to stop the murders. Such public killing attracts… attention." His gaze was steady. "Not something my kind tolerates."

  "Killing is wrong!" Sarah cried. He must be a monster if he didn't know that.

  "I did stop it," he noted. "I convinced Magda to reform her ways."

  "How do I know it wasn't you?" Sarah asked in a small voice. "How can I know?"

  "You want a proof you can test here?" Davinoff lifted an eyebrow. "You ask much."

  Sarah clenched her eyes against the tears that welled up. What had she expected? A moment of silence scraped along her raw nerves.

  "Wait," he said, his eyes casting about. "The murder before the one where you saw me happened the week previously, on the second of October, I believe. Did you read the list that was published so incessantly in the papers?"

  "Yes. Yes, I remember that." Sarah searched her mind. "Yes, it was the second."

  "And where was I on the second of October?"

  "How should I know?" Sarah retorted. "Killing people in London, probably."

  "I was in Bath. And you know that, because I was with your solicitor, Lestrom the Elder. He verified my deed. I don't suppose he mentioned that when he saw you in London."

  Sarah stared at him, trying to remember. "You're right," she said slowly. "I saw him the day after the ball. That was the tenth. He said that he had verified your deed late in the afternoon of Tuesday last when he was in Bath. That would have been…"

  "The second," Davinoff confirmed. "Not by the greatest stretch of the imagination could any man be in Bath at dusk, and murder in London that very evening."

  "No, no, he couldn't." Sarah chewed her lip. "But that means only that there is one in that string of murders that you didn't do."

  Davinoff sighed and leaned his head against the wall. "I can't prove my whereabouts for all the murders. Are there not some crimes, somewhere, of which I could be innocent?"

  Sarah looked down at the stone floor and let the hand with the knife peek out from the folds of her dress. She stared at it pensively.

  He glanced at the knife and raised his brows. "I see you came as executioner as well as judge and jury." It was said with some of his old sardonic tone.

  "I came with scant protection against a murderer, or something worse," Sarah retorted.

  "My apologies." He grew serious. "You have saved my life and something that I value more. You have nothing to fear from me, I swear."

  "And what about the world at large? You must promise not to harm anyone!" she begged. Was it any use asking a vampire to promise that?

  "We of Transylvania are haunted by myth because we are strange to you. We have our outlaws and our villains. But I no longer kill for sport or for blood. You have seen how I get what I need. The Countess Delmont showed you. She gave willingly and is none the worse for it. If you give me time to recover I will leave you in peace."

  No longer! The words quivered in her brain. That meant he had killed in times past. Then again, everyone in this room had a past. And Sarah wanted to believe him. She did not want to be locked up in the Dower House with a murderer. "You say you kill no one for blood anymore…" she murmured, trying to come to a conclusion. To her astonishment, a consternated look appeared on Davinoff's weary face.

  "That is not quite true either," he admitted. "If I vow to tell the truth, I must tell all."

  "Whom did you kill?" Sarah wasn't sure she wanted the honesty she required of him.

  His eyes rose steadily to hers. "Corina's butler, Reece."

  Sarah's eyes narrowed. Of course, Reece. She said nothing. She only waited.

  "I had been locked in Corina's cellar for a long time." His eyes unfocused, remembering. "I needed blood. They had withdrawn the drug to punish me, which gave me back some strength. Reece was careless. I throttled him unconscious trying to escape. There he was, lying there with the one thing I needed running in his veins. I took more than I intended. Or maybe not. Maybe I wanted to kill him for his role in my… detention." He took a breath, coming to himself. "I was alive, but I could not escape. She had the other thing I needed. I stayed for the drug."

  Sarah squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. What more could she ask him to say? He had admitted killing a man who tortured and abused him. That might be called self-defense. The other murders were at least in doubt. Now was the moment of epiphany she had told herself she wanted. She had looked at him squarely. Was anything clear? Yes. Surprised, she knew what she must do. It would be the hardest thing she had ever done.

  She must unlock the darkness and set it free. Drawing the key from her pocket, she looked at it. Then she knelt beside him. He offered up his wrists. She pretended absorption in unlocking the manacles, brows knitted in concentration, but she could feel his breath, smell his scent. Man, yet not man. Musky, sweet. How had she never noticed that signature of strangeness? The manacles clattered against the stone as she rocked back on her heels.

  "I should have done that earlier. I was afraid." She owed it to him to admit that.

  "I know of no other woman who would have given her blood to save a vampire's life." His voice rumbled in her ears. "I will always be indebted to your bravery and your sympathy."

  He talked so naturally of vampires. She raised her eyes to find his eyes smiling at her. There was no evil in that expression. It was utterly human, only too self-aware. He was many things, things that were frightening and strange. But those murders were
stupid for one who wanted to conceal his nature. And Davinoff was not stupid.

  Sarah stood abruptly and went to get the plate of food, just ham and parsnips, and a pitcher of water. She came back and helped him sit without a word. There were so many things she wanted to ask; she asked none at all. He was still weak. It would be enough if he could eat. She sat beside him on the floor with her own plate and ate in silence. His food was not half finished when he leaned wearily against the wall.

  "Rest," she said, taking the plate from him. "You should not forget that yesterday you were near to death." She pushed him down on the pallet.

  His eyes closed as he murmured, "Yes. I will rest a moment. You must rest as well…"

  Sarah stood staring at him. He looked like just a man. She had bathed and tended him. She had seen him sick and weak. He had tried to shield her from his nature. It was a bond between them that could not be broken just because the safety of the drug was gone. He had agreed to go away once he was stronger. For the time being, she would take him at his word.

  She turned to go upstairs to bed. He was right. She was weak. But it was almost better to stay here where she could see him than to turn her back on the unknown. This house was isolated. No one knew she was here. She had not seen another face but his for days. In some way she had already given her life over to him. Some part of her was given with the blood.

  She slept fitfully, red glowing eyes dogging her dreams, until the gray light of morning came peeping through the draperies. She was not rested, but sleep would not come again. She rose and pulled on a silk dressing gown that swirled gay-colored birds around her.

  Opening the door to her nightmares, she saw only his sleeping form in the dim stone room. But as she turned to go, his eyes snapped open and darted in confusion about the cellar. She moved hesitantly to his side as he focused on her with something like fear. He struggled to sit, no recognition in his eyes. She thought suddenly that he, too, might have nightmares. With some chagrin he found himself still weak and sank into his pillows.