by Trisha Telep
Darkness could not come soon enough for Justine. Unsure of where the vampires would have taken her sister or what they would do to her, there was nothing she could do but wait until nightfall and her scheduled meeting with Devlin. She penned a note to the stage manager at the opera, explaining that her sister had been abducted and informing him that she would not sing tonight. She hoped that Devlin would be in the audience again and that when he realized someone else was singing the role of Media he would come quickly to their meeting place.
After sunset, with nothing but a small lantern to light her way, Justine walked purposefully through the Luxembourg Gardens. The trees were like dark skeletons against the sky and the moonless night cast the waters of the Fontaine de Medicis an inky black. Setting her lantern down, she paced and fumed until one sharp turn sent her crashing into Devlin’s chest. He reached out to steady her and she grabbed the lapels of his coat.
“They have her Devlin. They took her right off the streets,” she cried.
He put his arms around her to steady her. “When?”
“This afternoon.”
“In daylight? Darling are you sure that it is Francois’ men who have done this?”
“Who else could it be?”
“I don’t know,” he said, absently raking a hand through his short dark hair, “but for vampires to go about in the middle of the day, let alone to abduct a novice off the street, is a sign of insanity or desperation.”
“Or both,” came a voice from the darkness.
Devlin drew his sword and pushed Justine behind him as a vampire she had never seen before stepped from the shadows. He was a handsome man of average height with honey-brown hair and intelligent, pale-green eyes.
“Antoine,” Devlin said, with a nod.
The vampire returned the gesture, spreading his hands out to show that he was unarmed.
“Who are you?” Justine demanded, “And what have you done with my sister?”
“You are correct, Francois has the girl. She was unharmed when I last saw her but an hour ago.”
“What do you want Antoine?” Devlin demanded.
“I want to tell you a story and I want you to tell me how it ends. But first I have a question to ask of you, my friend.”
“All right,” Devlin agreed.
“How is it that you came to be in Paris?”
Justine gritted her teeth, not seeing how such a question was relevant to her sister’s abduction.
“I was sent here on the command of the High King himself.”
Antoine nodded, seeming pleased. “Were you sent here to kill the woman?” he asked, motioning to Justine.
Devlin shook his head. “I was only told to come to Paris.”
“C’est bon.”
“Now tell me your story Antoine.”
“The vampires of Paris are divided into two groups. Tjose who enjoy the kill support Francois and demand the death of your slayer. But there are those, such as myself, who would be content to follow the laws of the High King and who consider the abduction of an Ursuline novice to be a sin of the greatest magnitude.”
“Then why don’t you simply overthrow him?” Justine asked.
“A century ago Francois and I challenged the old Regent for the rule of the city. Francois won and I lost. The other vampires will not follow me. Now, if a righteous man, or woman,” Antoine said with a nod to them both, “were to challenge Francois and win then I could guarantee the support of those who would follow the High King’s laws.”
“Your men would follow an English mercenary and a slayer?” Devlin scoffed.
“My men would follow the representatives of the High King and the woman who brings justice to those of us who break his laws. I don’t guarantee an easy fight, my friend, but I feel that we would prevail.”
“Devlin,” Justine said, tugging on the sleeve of his coat, “does your offer still stand?”
He looked down at her, confused.
“The offer to turn me,” she explained.
“Do you realize what you’re asking?”
“Devlin, I cannot go into a nest of vampires as a human and hope to survive. And I an assuming that is the only way I will get my sister back?” she asked Antoine.
He nodded gravely. “Francois will use her to draw you out and then he will kill you both.”
Her blue eyes pleaded with him. “Devlin she’d lived most of her life in that convent. I have to get her back and if this is the only way to do it, then that is what I must do.”
“Are you ready to be Regent of Paris?” he asked.
She gave him a look. “And not have to spend my nights fighting vampires over the bodies of my fellow Parisians?”
He smiled. “Yes, I can think of much better ways to spend our nights. But, Justine, even if I turned you now you would not rise as a vampire for three nights.”
She paled, thinking of what Francois could do to her sister in three days and nights.
“I will guarantee the girls safety,” Antoine volunteered.
Justine narrowed her eyes. “How?”
“Francois had to hire humans to abduct her. None of our vampires will touch her because of the habit and the crucifix she wears. One of my men had the care of her. I will see to it that she is well cared for and unharmed until you come for her, but you must come. Francois is a man of few scruples. If you do not come, eventually he will screw up the courage and kill her. He will have to, or risk losing the respect of those loyal to him.”
“I will come for her. You tell her that I will come for her.”
Antoine nodded. “Francois has a chateau just outside Paris in Montrouge. You will find her there. My men and I will be waiting.”
Antoine turned to go but Justine called after him. “Antoine! I expect you to hold your end of the bargain. If there is one scratch on my sister’s body I will hold you personally responsible.”
He turned and with a flourish of his plumed hat, bowed low to her and then disappeared into the darkness.
“Do you think we can trust him?” Justine asked.
“I am a good judge of men, Justine, and of soldiers in particular. Antoine is an honourable man. He was one of King Henri II’s most trusted chevaliers. Let’s just hope that he is an equally good judge of the vampires he represents.”
She turned and looked up at him. “Devlin, why are you doing this?”
He cupped her face in his large hands. “I have been lost for so long, Justine. You make me feel alive for the first time since . . . since well before I became a vampire. You make me want to be a better man. Let me be your knight, my lady. Together we will take this city and bend it to your will.”
She laid her head on his chest so that he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. “Then take me home, my knight,” she said softly, “and make me yours.”
Naked in her bed, Devlin was everything she’d imagined he would be and more. She ran her fingers through the crisp hair of his chest, marvelling at the solid muscle beneath her hands. He allowed her this liberty only briefly and then he flipped her onto her back and proceeded to do things with his hands and mouth that even an experienced courtesan would not admit to in light of day.
Justine felt a small pang of regret that the light of day was not something she would enjoy again after this night. Her regret, however, was short-lived as Devlin entered her and all thoughts fled her mind except for the utter triumph she felt in the knowledge that she would have this spectacular man in her bed for nights, years, centuries to come. It had been so long, for both of them, and within minutes they exploded together like fireworks over the palace at Versailles. At the height of their pleasure he sank his teeth into her neck and drank from her. The rush of sensations Justine felt as he bit her hurled her over the edge once more, leaving her spent and quivering in his arms.
Devlin pulled her on top of him and ran his tongue over the fresh puncture marks on her neck. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked.
She sighed. “All I remember about the night
I was attacked is the unimaginable pain.”
Worry crossed his face and, as if he were unsure of her response, he asked. “And tonight?”
She smiled a coquette’s smile and began kissing her way down his hard belly to that part of him that was again flagrantly demanding her attention. “Tonight there was only unimaginable pleasure.”
Three times during the night he drank from her. When she was nearly unconscious from blood loss, he sliced open his wrist and spilled his blood into her mouth, forcing her to drink. As the sun rose on another glorious spring day, Devlin held her in his arms and watched her die.
Three nights later Justine, the Devil’s Justice, rose as a vampire, and Paris was never the same again.
Castle Tara, Ireland,
Morrigan, Great Phantom Queen, war goddess and harbinger of death, leaned over her sleeping warrior, brushing a lock of his multicoloured hair from his face. His hand came up and caught her wrist as his eyes flew open.
“Why are you here, Morrigan?” he asked, surly even in his sleep.
“Solange Rousseau died in her sleep in the convent of Rue Saint-Jacques last night.”
He frowned. “So soon?”
Morrigan shook her head. “The years pass quickly, do they not? She was 68 years old, my love.”
He nodded. “So Devlin and Justine will be content to leave Paris now and bend the vampires of the Western Lands to my laws?”
“Yes, they have groomed Antoine to take the Regency of Paris.”
“Do you know that already vampires call them ‘The Righteous’?”
Morrigan smiled. “We did well.”
The High King reached out and ran the backs of his fingers across her cloak of raven feathers. “Yes,” he murmured, “we did.”
Morrigan dropped the feathered cloak to the floor, revealing the long pale lines of her naked body. The High King pulled her down into his bed.
“I still hate you,” he whispered, as he pressed her soft body against the hard length of him.
The goddess smiled as her lips trailed down the side of his neck. “I know.”
Knowledge of Evil
Raven Hart
I am a scholar. I know more about human history than anyone, yet I am not human. I have learned more about the natural world than anyone alive, yet I am not myself alive and assuredly not natural. I am a vampire.
I have travelled the world in search of knowledge, studied with every important intellectual from da Vinci to Hawking. And still the question that has burned inside me for thousands of years remains unanswered. Wherefore the blood drinker? What is my purpose?
I have entertained the notion that my purpose might be to kill other vampires. I have hunted them almost to extinction on every continent. I have saved the Americas for last.
Why do I destroy other blood drinkers? Because I despise them. A newly minted vampire is subhuman, a barley sentient creature whose bloodlust overwhelms reason. As a man for whom intellect is the most prized of all human attributes, I despise the primal baseness of my own kind. So much so that I cannot suffer them to live.
A young blood drinker is born with the survival instincts to appear and act human, but it is a ruse. It takes decades for the immature vampire to regain the intellect he or she was blessed with as a human being, if they survive that long.
I am a refined, sophisticated, creature of the night. I feed on humans, but never to the point of exsanguination. My blood-sucking leaves them weak and my glamour leaves them with no memory of having been preyed upon. Younger vampires tend to seek out the anonymous unfortunates in our culture – the homeless, the addicted, the mentally ill – those who won’t be missed. Fledgling blood drinkers are all about the kill.
For my part, I prefer to obtain sustenance from other seekers of knowledge. Thus, I have haunted university campuses all over the world. These venues afford me an abundance of young, sweet smelling blood upon which to feed, plus the occasional stimulating conversation. And then, of course, there’s always the sex.
After I came to the New World, I worked my way down from the universities of the north-east until I found myself in the southern United States, where the mild climate suited me well.
Athens, home of the University of Georgia, calls itself the ‘Classic City’ after the ancient city of my birth. Intrigued, I’ve settled here for the present. My fake identification papers, in addition to cash, of course, allow me to audit any classes I choose. I drift from night class to night class, absorbing new ideas on everything from philosophy to veterinary medicine.
Fall semester was about to get under way, but the oppressive southern heat still saturated the air with humidity and emboldened the young women to clothe themselves in short, strapless dresses and midriff-bearing tops that exposed their tanned flesh. Their bodies were as ripe for sex as their eager young minds were for higher education.
On this particular night I seated myself on a wrought-iron bench near the library on north campus and engaged in what the moderns call ‘people watching’. Students walked purposefully to and fro, besides the clothing and the mores, not too very different from university students of days gone by.
The breeze rustled the pages of the campus newspaper, Red and Black, which someone had left on the bench next to me, and I idly picked it up. It had been turned back upon itself to the features section: ‘HOLD ONTO YOUR HAEMOGLOBIN: NEW ANTHROPOLOGY PROF. IS EXPERT ON VAMPIRES’ read the headline.
Delighted, I read further. Noted cultural anthropologist Professor Victoria Lenox, author of the book Vampires Through the Ages, was teaching this semester at UGA as a visiting professor. According to the article, she had devoted her academic career to studying vampire folklore in cultures all around the globe.
A folklorist devoted to vampire myths. How perfectly marvellous. A quick phone call to the college of anthropology indicated I was in luck. The first lecture by Professor Lenox was later that night, and I attained consent to audit the class. I headed off to Baldwin Hall prepared to be highly entertained.
When I arrived a teaching assistant was calling roll. As I entered the hall I attracted the notice of a pair of young women students a few rows in front of me. One elbowed the other in the ribs and inclined her chin in my direction. The one who’d been nudged stared at me wide-eyed for a moment before getting her reaction under control. I smiled at them and they each blushed prettily and turned away.
It has been thousands of years since I saw my reflection, but I have been assured that I am beautiful. In my youth I was adored and was even called upon to model for Charioteer of Delphi, one of the most famous of the great surviving sculptures of ancient Greece. I was made a blood drinker as a man of 35 years, so I will always be in my prime.
Today, young women praise my dark hair, green eyes and flawless skin. I say these things not out of conceit but by way of explanation. I do not need to use coercion to obtain my food. Young women follow me willingly into the shadows – or wherever else I choose to lead them.
I seated myself, and the teaching assistant launched into an awkward introduction of the professor. Her academic credentials and list of publication credits were impressive. I pictured the anthropologist as a middle-aged, bookish and bespectacled scholar along the lines of the late Margaret Mead.
When the young graduate student finished the introduction, he scurried to shake the hand of the professor, who rose gracefully from a seat in the front row. As the tall, willowy academic walked to the lectern in a beige linen blazer over a coral shift dress and matching high-heeled shoes, I noted the regal nature of her carriage, not to mention the shapeliness of her legs.
The scholar who turned to face the lecture hall was not a frumpy, middle-aged matron but a rare beauty. As one, the young men in the hall gathered themselves from their slouching posture and sat up straight. The professor scanned her audience, as if taking their measure, paused only long enough to smooth her long black hair over one shoulder, and began her lecture.
When she began to speak I was as mes
merized by her words as I was by the perfection of her fair skin, the fullness of her lips and the lovely almond shape of her dark eyes.
“The myth of the blood drinker cam be found in almost every culture through the ages,” she began. “they are powerful, immortal and seductive. Their preternatural strength and beauty make them the stuff of our nightmares and sexual fantasies alike. And yet for all their power, we also feel for them, because they are cut off from the grace of God and cannot walk in the sun.
As she spoke, she stepped out from behind the lectern and walked slowly back and forth, her every movement and gesture elegant and sylph-like. Watching her was such a feast for my eyes it was difficult to concentrate on her words. I let the honeyed tones of her voice flow over me as she lectured about the Mayans and their propensity for filing their teeth into pointed fangs and anointing their nobility with sacrificial human blood.
It seemed in no time at all that the lecture was nearly over. When she’d finished with her prepared remarks, she asked if the students had any questions. Many hands shot upwards, and she called upon a young man a few rows in front of me.
“Do you believe in vampires?” he asked. “Real ones, I mean?”
The audience tittered for a few moments as the professor considered the question. A coquettish smile played over her face and she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I’ll never tell,” she said.
The students laughed.
More hands were raised. When she scanned faces in the crowd to pick the student for the next question, her gaze met and held mine for a moment. Without thinking, I raised my hand and she nodded.
“If you did meet a real vampire, I said, “What would you do with him?”
The students laughed again and she smiled. “Why, study him, of course. I yearn for knowledge above all things.”
Be still my unbeating heart.
After a few more questions, from the students, Professor Lenox dismissed the class. Four or five pupils stayed to ask additional questions while she put some papers into her briefcase, so I took my time walking to the front of the class. By the time I reached her, she was alone.
