Sacrament

by Susan Squires

  "I choose to tell you," he said roughly. "Since you know, in some sense, already." He fingered a small statue of Diana on the sideboard. "The Hunter tribe had drunk from the Source on one of their expeditions into the mountains. Some survived ingesting the Companion. They raided and ravaged for their blood our tribe of Gatherers below." Sarah heard the words through a haze of pain, her own, and his. They jerked out of the old man as though they were spoken at great cost. "Then once, in a struggle, one of our tribe inflicted a wound. The attacker's blood mingled with her own. We watched her fall terribly ill. But then she recovered." There was a long silence. Was that all? "We knew then it was a secret of the blood that made our tormentors strong. The night her eyes grew clear, some of us took her blood that we might help her fight our enemies on their own terms. I needed more blood than the others, but I too survived. We began the Great War against the Hunters. The outcome was inevitable. They didn't know about making reinforcements. We did."

  That was his secret then. He was made. But there was more.

  Why else would he be in sympathy with their cause? "Were you made for love?" Sarah asked softly.

  He turned back toward them and examined Sarah. He made a decision. "I was too old. I would never have been chosen to protect the tribe. But it was my daughter who was made by the Hunters. She insisted I be given the strength she had found. She gave her blood afterward to give me her immunity."

  "Are they all gone, the original ones?" Julien asked abruptly.

  "Over the years, yes. Accidental dismemberment, murder. I am the Eldest now." He looked up at them steadily. "And in my countless years, I have learned that obedience is a thin defense against our nature, against insanity. I cannot sacrifice the order we have constructed here, no matter that you find the prohibition hypocritical. The Sanctuary is everything."

  No, Sarah thought frantically. He couldn't intend to kill them anyway. Not when he himself was made for love. "Killing us now is far worse than the violence of your primitive Hunters. They killed for blood. Your action is premeditated murder!" she cried.

  "I will tell your secret," Julien warned.

  "We will close our minds against you. The others will follow my lead. I have given them the only peace they have known in long, painful lives." Rubius's voice had grown hard with all his years. What could move a man who had seen the rise of the whole human race?

  "Rubius," Julien almost pleaded. "We are the hope for the future. I know you believe that we are doomed to a solitary existence." Julien leaned over him. "Do you also think life in Mirso Monastery is inevitable? I don't believe either anymore. Sarah and I will prove it."

  "I would it were true," Rubius whispered. "But I know the odds better than you do. We are not meant for the solace of love. And sooner or later, you will want to take the Vow more than anything else in the world."

  "For God's sake let us try!" Julien cried. "Banish us, forbid us for eternity the Sanctuary. But don't keep us from a life together!" A look of astonished horror crossed Rubius's face. The key, Sarah thought with rising certainty. Julien had found the key!

  "You do not know what you are saying," Rubius stammered. "You would be better dead than prevented from joining our Sanctuary. How could you live knowing you were cut off forever from the only source of peace our kind has known?"

  Julien looked at Sarah. Victory shone in his eyes. "The monks will think we have been punished more severely for our sin than merely killing us, Rubius. And you will be rid of us, without any more trouble."

  The fever in her blood rose up around her. She was lightheaded with risk. She, who wanted peace so badly a few hours ago, now put peace aside. "Banish us," she said clearly.

  Julien embraced her and stroked her hair as he turned back to Rubius. Sarah's knees threatened to abandon her, but Julien's arm about her was strong. She could see astonishment in Rubius's eyes, glowing with all his years. Banish us, she shrieked silently. Banish us to living.

  "What is your word, Rubius?" Julien's voice rumbled in the ear she pressed to his chest.

  "You have made your choice. You are both forbidden for eternity from taking the Vow to join our order. The Sanctuary of Mirso Monastery is lost to you," the old man intoned. Just like St. Nick giving gifts at Christmastide, Sarah thought, through the haze of fever. He gave her the gift of life with Julien. The room began to spin as Julien picked her up in his arms and her world turned bloodred then black.

  Julien roused himself from the chair he had drawn up next to the great bed with a start. Pounding. Someone was pounding on the door. As his head cleared, his gaze jerked to Sarah, her form so small amid the red velvet hangings, the carved pilasters of the bed. She no longer tossed with fever, but lay dreadfully still, her eyes hollow, her skin translucent. The sheets were twisted and disheveled. He pushed himself out of the chair, ignoring the calls from the corridor, and pulled the covers over her, smoothed them gently. Both his wrists were crisscrossed with blue-black lacerations, but they were swollen closed for the moment, healing, if slowly. He placed the chalice she had brought, his memento to her from long ago, upon the table. He had never been more glad that he was weak enough to leave it for her. Now it was stained with his blood. She had not been able to drink from the cup for some time, but suckled directly from his wrist. He glanced in the mirror as he pulled away to answer the door. He looked as ill as she did. The thumping on the door, the muffled cries of "Davinoff," made his head ache.

  He shoved the heavy latch back and swung the door open. Sarah might be past eating, but he dared not refuse food. He had to make more blood for her. One monk held the tray, the other's fist was frozen in midair, prepared to pound the door again. "Good evening." A whisper seemed all he could muster. He took the offered tray. "Thank you." He moved to close the door.

  "Uh… Davinoff." The monk stayed the door with one hand. It might be Brother Flavio.

  "What is it?" he whispered. He had no wish to spend strength on these two.

  "Well, some among us think your punishment too harsh. No one has been refused sanctuary in a thousand years." The monk looked down. "We wanted you to know."

  Julien nodded, then nudged the door closed. He didn't bother to throw the latch. He had to get back to Sarah. It took longer with the strong ones. They struggled too hard against the Companion. She would need more of his blood to stop the warring in her body. His blood was her life, literally. He set the tray down on the table and uncovered a steaming bowl of venison stew. All the while he ate, his gaze flitted to Sarah. Grow strong, he urged himself. Was his immunity too weak to help her? But he was all she had. No other would give her blood. He didn't know how much more he had to give. He only knew that she must come out of it soon, or she might not come out of it at all. That was unthinkable. Not when he had just begun to believe that a lifetime of love was possible, even a lifetime such as his kind was cursed with.

  Was it really a curse? A trial, perhaps, a test of courage that most failed? But if one could survive experience and win through to acceptance, was that not a prize worth all? Hardly won, but valued more. He had begun to believe in that damned William Blake's second innocence, the ability to find love and joy even though you knew the truth about the world. Gods, he must be hallucinating. Had he not always thought Blake a lunatic?

  Julien barely tasted the thick broth laced with paprika, the musky meat, the root vegetables in the stew he gulped. The moment he saw Sarah commit suicide at the fountain, he had made the leap to faith. He knew that by saving her, at whatever cost, he might save himself and perhaps all of his kind. Now, he could just be on the verge of accepting what he was and who that made him, after nearly two thousand years of struggling against it. Sarah accepted him. It was she who had pressed him to embrace his nature. But he must take the final step himself.

  He pushed the bowl aside and rose, knocking over the chair. His realization was worth nothing without her to share it. He leaned against the table, staring at her wraithlike countenance. Without even looking at his wrist, he drew the dar
kness and opened a vein.

  Sarah slept fitfully and tossed with fever. Waking and sleeping merged into an awful concatenation of wracking chills and burning veins and periods when she could not think where she was. She dreamed she had turned into a monster with dreadfully long canines, howling like the wolves at Tirgu Korva, bestial and supernatural at once. She dreamed of Sienna, and Julien's naked body bathed in Tuscan light. At times she knew she was dying, and she was afraid that vampires really were undead things. Her reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall opposite the bed looked as though she were long dead, with glazed eyes and putrefying flesh. When she cried out at these visions, Julien would come and rock her like a child.

  Through it all there was the blood. She drank his blood again and again, from the chalice, sucking at his wrist, his neck. And she wanted it. She wanted the warm red fountain to flow over her lips and tongue and down her throat, the red of life, the red of death, the red of vampires.

  Finally, she became aware of herself once again. All she could see was red. A red blanket of pulsing life covered everything. She took a sharp breath and realized her eyes were closed. She snapped them open to morning light leaking through the velvet window hangings. Above her, Julien's head drooped as he held her in his arms. He was asleep. Numbly she noted the dark circles, the drawn lines about his mouth. He had weakened himself to give her new life.

  She did have new life. Wondrously, her eyes coursed over the room, noting every detail, every mote of dust in the light. She could feel the blood coursing through her, full with the presence of something new. She felt strong, stronger than she had ever been. No, that was wrong. She was whole, for the first time in her life. Did the Companion bring this sureness, this feeling of being more together than any one being could be alone? She looked across the room at the mirror that hung over the washbasin. Her reflection would not change, perhaps forever.

  She raised her eyes to Julien's face and saw the dark fringe of his lashes flutter. His eyes came open. She smiled at him, ever so slightly. His eyes swept over her face.

  "Sarah?" he asked tentatively. Then he held her so tightly she could hardly breath. "Welcome, my love. You are reborn."

  "Shall we dance?" she whispered.

  He nodded, eyes brimming with emotion. "The world is ours. I will show you things…" He stopped. A crease appeared between his brows. "Are you afraid?"

  "Yes." She managed to chuckle, though her eyes brimmed. She reached up to smooth the crease away. "There is no life without a little fear. We must take risks to know we are alive."

  "I may be cynical, still." He shook his head in apology.

  "You gave me the blood of life. Doesn't that mean you hope as well?"

  His eyes said yes, no matter how tentatively. The dark lock of hair dropped over his forehead. But it was her turn to doubt. "You loved me for my naïveté," she whispered. "What will happen if I lose it?"

  "Nothing is certain." He warned himself as much as her.

  "We can but try," she said softly, feeling the new power course within her. Then she lifted her lips to his as though for the first time.

  Author's Note

  I must admit that I have bent historical accuracy to serve the needs of my story. The historians among you know that medical texts do not credit the discovery of blood types until the first decade of the twentieth century. I can't think why George would not have published his work, but so it must be. And if waists in dresses did not come in until 1820, one can only assume that Sarah's innovation was slower to penetrate the world of fashion than the marquise surmised. For these and any other small inaccuracies, my apologies.

  "Susan Squires has a fascinating, unique voice; is a rare talent, an absolute must-read."

  —New York Times Bestseller Christine Feehan

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  SUSAN SQUIRES

  Susan Squires grew up among the giant redwoods of California. She thought she was being practical by changing her major in college from theater to English. But, immersed in a Ph.D. program, she slowly realized that none of her graduating friends had work. So she dropped out to take an actual paying job in the business world. UCLA gave her a Master's degree as a consolation prize. She used tales of romance and adventure to escape budgets and projects. Now she researches and writes her books at the beach in Southern California, supported by three Belgian Sheepdogs, a thoroughbred mare and a wonderful husband named Harry who writes occult mysteries.

  Danegeld won contests all over the country and was a finalist in the 2000 Golden Heart. Ms. Squires would love to hear from her readers. Contact her at the website she shares with Harry at www.squiresbooks.com.