by Casey Lane
Her voice rang out now, and echoed through the small room. “Mortuus est, exaudi vocem meam, mortuus est, exaudi vocem meam. Ades ante mihi ante lapsum.”
His eyes sprang open, dark and obsidian.
Before she even saw him move, his hand was on her neck, squeezing it tight. She choked and grasped his hand, trying to push it off as he pulled her to him. His grip was a vise on her throat, crushing her esophagus, and she struggled to push it away.
Slowly she descended, and she counted the seconds it took to reach him. One. Her daughter, still enfolded in her blankets, safe and sound under her protective spell. Two. Her secret. The secret she’d guarded close. Too close. The one she never told anyone. And now she never would. Three. The woman buried under her house, that she hoped would never rise again.
The man’s breath reeked of rot and lust, and it flit through her nose as he sat up, slightly loosening his hold.
“Baash…” She pulled him close so that his lips were on hers, dropping the athame. “…Tard.”
“I know your thoughts, witch.” He tasted like death as his tongue slid through her lips, searching for any remnants of the feathers. Finding none, he twisted his fingers, splaying her bare as his sliding incisors bit into her neck. Her breath caught in her throat, and she grinned as a warmth spread down to her privates. At least she would be satisfied in death.
Chapter One
The funeral began at dusk. I approached the church, keeping a leery eye on the other strigoi lined across the walk. They made to appear as casual observers but they were waiting until the funeral was over; they couldn’t enter the building. One in particular watched me closely from the bench nearby. Her honey-brown hair floated down to her mid-back and had eyes as dark as the murky skies overhead. I trailed my eyes to her legs which stretched from the slit in her skirt. She hissed at me, while positioning her skirt so that I could see right up it. Her eyes roamed over my thick body, entwined with rippling muscles and olive skin that wrapped around my physique, and then up to my face where my dark hair masked my sharp eyes, and smirked. I showed her my teeth and she slunk back into the shadows, hiding behind the bulky male strigoi sitting beside her. I would find her later.
The door to the church creaked loudly as I opened it, and the sound reverberated off the high ceilings of the inner chamber. As I stepped inside, there was a collective gasp behind me. I entered, and turned to shut the door. Forgetting all pretenses, the group of strigoi, or vampires, huddled together at the entrance to the church. Their eyes were wide as they stared at me and as I stared them down, their expressions turned from shock to fear. The woman with the honey-brown hair fell to her knees and bowed her head, showing the milky whiteness of her cleavage. As I shut the door, I envisioned the satisfaction I would feel as my fangs latched onto her.
I walked down the middle aisle of the main sanctuary and studied the intricate details of the ceiling, ignoring the fact that all eyes were drawn to me. Traveling from Italy on a ship was perilous, especially for a strigoi such as I, and I had not arrived comfortably. I was the only one who was late. Even in death, the living did not disrespect the man in the wooden box at the front of the room: the ‘young,’ rich bachelor, and the most powerful man on the coast.
Or, the man that they thought was in the box.
There was no body, it had blown away with the winds of death. But we paid well for the illusion of death, and the church was happy to take our tokens. Women lined the pews, their handkerchiefs to their eyes, their thoughts on the fortune they would never have. As I passed, they peeked at me, wondering if I was just as profitable as the dead man. One of them waved her handkerchief, her grief exaggerated, hoping to catch my attention. I grunted and turned my head.
The priest, his hair silver with age, called for prayer and he closed his eyes. I continued up the aisle and stood before the box.
Suddenly, grief struck me. I lay my hand on the casket and stared woodenly at the priest.
His hand waved in the air, stirring the incense, and his empty words crowded out the cries of grief of the audience. He peeked at me and his face paled as I stared him down. He ended the prayer quickly and called for the casket to be taken to the graveyard. The living stood out of respect as I led the pallbearers, their faces stoic and somber, towards the yard.
The strigoi followed the end of the funeral procession and, as they lowered the empty box into the ground, I stood back, watching. Real tears were spent now, mostly from the strigoi, and I noted the ones who contained their grief. I recognized the pock-marked one, standing off to the side like an outsider, yet I knew that he knew my master the best. His eyes glistened, wet with tears but he held them in as he stared silently across the bay.
A handful of dirt was thrown onto the box and the wails grew louder. Then the priest stepped to my side and we watched as single red roses were thrown and finally the crowd began to drift off.
“I see my handiwork has stood the test of time,” I said to him.
“Yes, among other things.” The priest didn’t like to speak much, but when he did, there were always layers of meanings. “You were young when you carved that ceiling.”
“No I wasn’t. You were young back then.”
The priest laughed. “Yes, I guess that’s true.”
“I remember when you had that crude cross erected. It seemed to diminish my work.”
The priest eyed me. “Your handicraft was commissioned as a gift to God. And while beautiful, it only holds a candle to the Glory of the Savior.” He watched as the mourners began to drift away, pausing to let his harsh words settle. “Things were simple then. When my understanding of the world was only seen in terms of good and evil.”
I turned away from him and watched as a single woman stood silently at the grave. Her hair was tucked tightly under her hat, her black veil hiding her face. But I knew that under that hat, long tresses of black hair waited to be unfurled and curled under my willing hands. Her body, ready to be stroked under the caresses of my trembling fingers. I gripped my hand in a tight fist and brushed that image from mind. She was mine no longer. She had given herself willingly to him, and, because of that, I would never cross that line again.
I tried not to hear the words she mumbled at his grave, her hands clasped tightly at her chest and her body so rigid and tight. If only I could—
“I am glad that you have come to pay your respects.” The priest put his hand on his chest and bowed slightly. “And I wish you safe passage home.”
“I will not be returning home.”
He stood back up, his eyes fixed on mine. “I would that your interests at home not become neglected. You know that I pray for your success always.”
I grabbed him by the neck and leaned in. “If you have something to say to me Father, I recommend you speak plainly.”
“I only wish,” he choked on his words, but I did not let up. “To keep you safe.”
“What do you mean?” I growled, my voice menacing.
“This land is cursed. Agosto’s power waned, and every man was at his neck. They mean to crucify any who dare interfere. There is no one you can trust.”
I raised my eyebrow. “Not even you, Father?”
“You would be crazed to take on his businesses.”
I released my hold and he gasped in a breath. “I have no intention of taking on his businesses.”
He put his hand to his neck, rubbing it, his breath still raspy. “You are wise then.”
I shot him a dirty look. “No one who knows me would consider me wise. I do intend to find his killer.”
The priest was silent for a moment, considering my words. “I’ve heard the rumors that have drifted across the ocean. The things you’ve done, the way you’ve done them.” He looked up at me. “You have changed.”
He eyed me silently, his eyes fearful and cautious. I turned my back to him and walked towards the grave as the darkness settled in my bones, comforting me. I recognized the sound of the priest as he stumbled away and I blocked
out the noise. With a quick glance at the gravediggers who scrambled away, I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath.
Biting my wrist, I held it over the grave, letting my blood drip onto the casket. “With the blood of my fathers, I swear to you Agosto Romano that I will discover your killer and avenge your death.” Letting go of the grief that I’d been holding back, I allowed it to flow through my body and into my words, sealing the promise.
My grief poured through the graveyard in waves and the sound of a flock of flustered crows in flight caught my attention. I turned. It was Sophie, the woman at the grave. I quickly turned my face, hiding my surprise that she’d been watching me. Silent as the grave itself. Then I strode away, motioning for the gravediggers to begin.
The night was beginning to turn, and many of the weaker strigoi had returned to their graves. The living long having left the gothic mansion as the night developed, instinct warning them for survival, and only the older strigoi delayed leaving the wake. Glasses with the liquid of the damned cluttered every counter, filled by the living whose instincts were feeble. Or by those already in the service of the strigoi.
I lounged in the chaise, watching the woman across the room from me. The same woman from the church. My intoxicated eyes, filled with need, took in the curves of her body and the way she caressed the shoulder of the gentleman next to her. She glanced towards me and lowered her eyes, looking up through her long lashes. I raised my eyebrow but did not invite her to me; it wasn’t time yet.
The pock-marked man stumbled towards me, drunken with too much blood. The idiot. I stood and grabbed him, pulling him into a hug. Rowan pushed back, eyeing me carefully. A grin spread across his face and his dull eyes lit up. Throwing his glass over his shoulder, he fell into my arms.
“Master, you’ve come home.”
“You saw me at the grave.”
He laughed. “That I did. But so torn up with grief, I couldn’t approach ya.” His slurred speech was barely understandable. “Besides, I hardly recognize ya.”
I shook my finger at him. “I don’t look a day older.” I grinned and threw my arm around his shoulder. “I’ve missed you.”
“And I, you.”
I stood back, holding him at arms length to study him. “Did you serve our Agosto faithfully?” I’d left Rowan in the care of Agosto, my maker and friend, now dead.
He bowed his head, his grief weighing him down and now I understood. He drank too much because of his grief. “I did, sir. And the others will witness for me.”
“I know you did. And you shall be rewarded for it.”
He looked up, his eyes sparking with hope. “You are too kind.”
“I am a man of my word.” I gripped his arm and nodded towards the woman from the church. “Tell me. Who is that?”
He turned towards her. “Lily is her name. Stefano is her sire.”
“And is he attached to her?”
Rowan shook his head. “She has been forgotten.”
“Send her to me, then.”
“Master?”
“I will be in my old room.”
He bowed. “As you wish.”
I moved to stop his approach. “And Rowan, I have a present for you also.” His fangs extended; he was never good at holding back. “She is in the master’s room, waiting for you. I’ve held her there for a while, so she will be ready and willing. Go to her after you have spoken to Lily.”
His nostrils flared, anticipating his reward. Hopefully he had not drunken too much, or he would be sick when he awoke.
I waited in the corner of the room, invisible to the eye. I could feel Lily’s presence as she glided towards my room but I made myself wait. She drew closer and I vibrated with need as I anticipated her taste on my lips. The smell of her hair, bathed in honey, covered up the stench of her rot and I breathed it in deeply. It reminded me of days long ago when I worked in the field and could allow the pleasure of the sun on my back.
I sensed her outside the door now and she hesitated. She would not deny me. Her hand trembled as she raised it, and she knocked softly.
“Come in.”
The door opened slowly and she stepped into the room. Her chest rose and fell, a habit from her old life that had yet to subside, and I could feel her fear, and her lust.
“Sir?”
I did not answer, and so she deliberately circled the room, studying the faded paintings on the wall. I studied the way her long legs swayed as she moved, and my eyes slid up the slit, giving me just a glimpse of what I desired.
She moved closer, and her scent pulled me towards her. I gripped the wall and held myself still, forcing my will over the vampire part of me that lived off its baser instincts, my strigoi. Her lips turned up in a half smile, as if she could sense me. She stopped at the drawing of a woman, who lay half-naked on a bed, and Lily studied the strokes of pencil closely. She was so close I could almost touch her. Instead, I reached out with my senses, stroking her neck.
She took in a sharp breath, and I smiled. I had her exactly where I wanted her. Feeling her desire, I flooded her senses with warmth, the kind that was no longer a blessing of the strigoi, and a reminder that she was alive once. The young don’t generally appreciate this gift, but she had been happy as a human, and I could feel her satisfaction at my gift.
I moved my senses so that they surrounded her, feeling every part of her body as they drew her in. Her breathing hitched and a hint of red touched her porcelain white cheeks, unknowingly, she opened herself to me. I could see her every longing, exploit her every need. She gasped as I released the fullest of my senses, touching her in her most intimate places and giving her every pleasure that she could only imagine in her favorite dream. After a time, she grabbed the wall, breathless and unable to stand the onslaught any longer. “Arrêtez.” Her voice was a moan and I drew my senses back in slowly, until only a tendril of them stroked at her lips. When I was done, she leaned back, her face turned towards me, open.
Then her eyes opened and they fell on me. I masked my surprise, but only barely. So she had the gift then.
“Is that why Stefano turned you?”
She nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was soft. “But I have been no use to him.”
Then I was at her side, my breath on her neck, and she took a step closer. “I have a use for you.” I traced my finger down her throat.
She pressed against me, her eyes an invitation. “I am at your service, Monsieur.”
The front of her black dress dipped low, showing her pushed cleavage and I ran my finger down it. “You are young.”
She didn’t answer, and I yanked the dress down. Her breasts pushed against her corset, begging me to release them. I teased her, playing with the clip that would open her to me. “I don’t usually partake in someone so childish, but for you, I will make an exception.” I gripped her hips and pushed her back against the wall, determined to fulfill her every need. She put her arms over her head, showing me what she was willing to offer, as her breasts pushed against each other. My eyes traveled higher as she moved her fingers down her neck, baring it open to me.
Growling, I leaned in, and she stilled while I smelled her sweat and desire. I stood back up and yanked her towards the bed. I ripped open her corset and, extending my fangs, tasted her as she howled in pleasure.
Rowan lurched, and the blood leaked from his mouth. I could hear it stream into the bucket and I grinned. “Was she good?”
Breathing heavily for a moment he called back to me from the other room. “Shut up.”
I laughed now, and sat at the ornately carved desk. “As long as she went home unaware.”
“I’m not a child, Detrand.”
My fingers nimbly thumbed through the neatly stacked paperwork and sighed. It was only the next evening, but there was work to do.
Agosto made me a strigoi, mostly because he wanted a loyal servant. I served him faithfully, which was easy because he was good to me and taught me how to use my powers conscientiously, so that they grew to be as
powerful as his. Back then, many of the strigoi were in hiding, our covens were few. After we were able to come out of hiding, we multiplied, and once there were enough for me to branch out, I traveled back to my Italian roots. I hadn’t been gone long, before someone ended him.
I would discover his killer, and in order to do that I needed to establish my presence here. “Where’s Agosto’s papers?”
Rowan leaned on the doorway, wiping his lips. “Everything is there.”
I turned in my seat. “I cannot find what I need.”
He shrugged and turned from the room.
I opened the top compartment to the desk and rummaged through it. “Bring me some gin.”
After a moment, I sensed his presence behind me and I stilled. His grief leaked into my senses and I blocked them out. Melancholy would do me no good.
“He hid things from me.”
“He always hid things from you.”
He clicked his tongue. “No. This was different.”
I turned towards him, and his eyes searched mine.
“If there’s something that he was hiding from you, something important, then he had good reason.” I stood up, taking the glass of gin from his hands and went to the window. The night was still and heavy and my strigoi called out to me. It was a ravenous and insatiable god, always yearning for blood and the hunt, but tonight, I thrust it down. It could wait.
I sensed the wickedness that stretched through the streets, and even as I watched, blood was spilt, seeping through the grounds and calling for revenge. I took a sip of the gin, and let the warmth travel to my chest, where it settled.
“Where are his accounts?”
“I told ya. I don’t know.”
“I need to settle his debts. And collect mine.”
