by Karen Dales
Elizabeth stared in awe at the object laying securely in its case. She could not believe what her eyes beheld and she reached out to touch a sword that should be crumbling from age. Her fingers came to rest on a dragon’s face that made up the tip of the guard. The details were smooth. Only slight indents and dark tarnish where cleaners could not reach delineated the creature’s features. Caressing her fingers along the dragon’s back to wrap around the black grip, Elizabeth lifted a blade that was witness to numerous nicks but still retained an edge. The blade was well taken care of.
The details, weight and even the texture and appearance of the metal revealed its origins. There was no doubt in Elizabeth’s mind that what she held was the most perfect example of a sixth century British nobleman’s sword she had ever seen. Jaw slack and eyes wide, excitement shuddered through her. Such a find should be in a museum!
“Put. It. Down.”
The venom filled voice spun her around.
Elizabeth realized she still held the sword when its point floated an inch away from a muscular pale chest. Lifting her head, Elizabeth’s eyes widened at the sight of blood red eyes menacing down upon her. There, before her, the sword pointed at his chest, was Paul’s companion appearing as if he just climbed out of bed, beautiful as an angel with demon red eyes.
She noticed his jaw clenched and his eyes harden a fraction of a moment before he lifted his arm. Catching the flat of the blade with his forearm he swept the deadly point from his chest. His other hand clasped around her grip on the sword, his icy fingers forcing hers to relinquish the blade. Stepping out from between this strangely alluring young man and the table behind her, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of a thick white silver scar slicing diagonally across his right breast before the white cotton shirt obscured the view.
Following his fluid movements with her eyes, Elizabeth noticed his fingers trembled as he placed nearly five feet of sword to rest in its wooden case. It was the thick band of scar tissue around his wrist that caught her breath.
Lowering the gold velvet lined lid, the Angel gently secured the sword into its resting place with the sound of the clicks of the latches. Witnessing the woman handling his precious belonging startled him, but it was seeing its point so close to his chest the rattled him. It was too much like his recurrent nightmares.
He rested both hands flat on the wooden case, its texture smooth despite the visual grains. Simple in its construction, the maple had been carefully sanded down to belie the fact that it was made of wood and not of silk. His hair swooped forward, obscuring his face, as he bent his head and closed his eyes in an attempt to push down the surging emotions that her act had evoked in him. Taking a deep breath and releasing it, he stood back and swept his hair from his face, letting his eyes rest on Dr. Bowen. He did not care if she grew uncomfortable with the scrutiny of the Angel upon her.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. His arms crossed his chest as he glowered into her ice blue eyes.
His gaze penetrated and caused Elizabeth this shift in her stance. She did not like how this young man made her felt. Not one to back down, she lifted her chin and met his eyes. He was the first man to truly force her to look up at him. “To pick up Paul and take him to the press conference, as I explained last night.”
“That does not explain why you felt the need to pry into an individual’s private property.” His eyes narrowed as he spoke through a clenched jaw.
Surprise washed over Dr. Bowen’s features. “The sword is yours?” incredulity coloured her intonation. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe what you will, I care not.” He brushed past her in an attempt to go back to his bedroom. With his sword secure, he could try and catch up on some sleep.
Elizabeth was taken aback by the young man and shook her head. Nobody talks like that anymore, and no one owns a sword a millennium and a half old. Emboldened by her own rising irritation at this strange young man a thought exploded into her mind, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I borrow it for the museum exhibition.”
Almost to the hallway that led to his door, he spun around, shocked at what Dr. Bowen was asking.
“It would be a perfect addition to the exhibition,” continued Elizabeth, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she came to stand before the stunned young man. “I could guarantee its security and it would return to you at the end of the exhibit, if in fact the sword does belong to you.”
“I think that is a marvellous idea, my dear.” Notus walked out of the other hall, fumbling with the adjustment of his green and yellow striped tie.
You cannot be serious, sent the Angel to his Chooser. He could not believe what he was hearing. Notus understood, more than any other being on the planet, what that sword meant to him. He could not let it go to be an object for people to stare at.
Why not? Notus tucked the gaudy tie into the waistband of his brown wool slacks and then buttoned the single breasted matching jacket. You carry it from place to place. You cannot use it any more. I’m sorry, my son, but I think that for our duration here in a land populated by hidden Vampires, having the blade securely ensconced in a high security venue such as the ROM is an excellent way to keep it safe. Elizabeth, without knowing it, may have solved this dilemma.
Dilemma to you, maybe. I disagree.
Chooser and Chosen stared at each other, one calm and patient while the other stood with folded arms, clearly not willing to acquiesce.
Elizabeth stared from her co-worker to his travelling companion. She knew something was going on between the two. It almost felt as though it were a contest of wills.
Notus lifted a brown brow and tilted his head. And what would you do? This flat is not nearly as secure as the museum. What would you do if a Vampire came here and tried to take away what they believe holds your power to destroy them? You can’t carry a sword around with you everywhere you go. Not anymore.
The Angel broke eye contact with his Chooser and glared at a nondescript spot on the floor. He hated to admit that Notus was right. Carrying a sword around wherever he went would invite more trouble than negate it, and leaving it here unprotected on occasion would be nerve-wracking. He should have left Geraint’s sword in Fernando’s safekeeping just as Notus originally suggested. He knew that as he had always known it, but he had never gone anywhere without it before. It was too much a part of him.
Raking his hair back with both hands, he let out a huff. “Fine.” He turned around to head back into his room. “But I am going with you tonight.”
Notus smiled warmly up at Dr. Bowen, triumph written over his gentle features. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Confused, Elizabeth shook her head. “What just happened?”
“You won the battle without having to lift a finger, my dear.” Paul turned around to walk into the living room and sat down on the brown leather sofa.
Chapter IX
The soft cushions of the chocolate leather sofa sighed as it accommodated his weight. Leaning back, eyes closed, he released the breath he held and inhaled the luxuriant scent of leather polish that helped keep the cow hide newborn soft. It was his daily ritual, a way to begin in calm serenity before delving into the chaos of death and wrought emotions that was the nature of his business. He sat there, meditating upon the silence of peace, waiting.
A new scent floated to his sensitive nostrils, sparking his hunger. He opened his dark brown eyes to see Godfrey walking towards him, a delicate China tea cup and saucer, decorated in hand painted roses and gold filigree, carefully held between his large hands. The contents wafted translucent steam and he knew that his servant had heated the contents to perfection. He waited until Godfrey’s bulk stood in front of him before he outstretched his hand to take the drink.
“Thank you, Godfrey,” he said, sipping the contents and leaning back against the cool leather.
The young man solemnly nodded his short cropped blonde head and backed up. “Did you wish to see the paper
, sir?”
Tilting his head to gaze up at Godfrey’s impeccably tidy appearance, he nodded. “Why not? It has been a while since I peeked into the goings-on around me. Maybe there will be some good news for a change.”
“Yes, sir.” Godfrey backed up to the doorway before turning to leave the parlour.
He relaxed into the sofa’s comfort and sighed. When returning home he would repeat the ritual before turning in. Taking another sip of the dark liquid, he surveyed his surroundings.
Cathedral ceilings played in shadows with the decorative plaster swirls and mouldings. Books in ceiling high mahogany shelves lined the opposite wall where a small fire flickered in the grand hearth; its orange gloaming married with the soft electronic lights ensconced between the ceilings patterns. Dark cherry stained the ornate wainscoting that blanketed the walls, lending the room its sweet warmth.
It did not take long for Godfrey to return with the newspaper.
Placing the teacup and saucer onto the mahogany side table, he took the paper and shook it out to its full length. He ignored Godfrey’s departure as he thumbed through the news print. It was much of the same, he noted, skimming past article after article. Politics, murder and mayhem ranked top, pushing uplifting stories of simple folk to lines of text that were lucky to be inked. He sighed and pulled out another section of the paper, this time taking pleasure in reading articles that lay black against the white. Science was a love he caressed as often as he could and reading about new discoveries and inventions always uplifted his heart. He sipped away at the teacup’s contents until the dregs lay thick and cold at the bottom, enraptured at what visions the print opened to him.
Finished the section, he placed it back onto his lap and pulled out another section. The one that was local to the city, explaining the intimate goings on for individuals in search of culture and entertainment. It was this that caught his attention.
Ignoring the placement of the saucer, he clunked down the cup, unaware that it toppled onto its side. A small pool of dark fluid dribbled out of the now chipped China, marking the tea cup’s demise. He was unaware of the mess, his eyes widening at the sight of the photo on the front page and he laid it on his lap, smoothing out the wrinkles until the image was as clear as the newsprint could allow.
Staring at it, through black and grey rasterization stood Father Paul Notus and the Angel beside a tall smiling woman in the Garfield Weston Exhibition Hall of the Royal Ontario Museum. His jaw dropped in reading the bi-line and he carefully looked at the photo. There, on the table, was the Angel’s sword laying securely in an open case. Scanning the image to the Angel he could see that the Chosen was none too pleased even with the sunglasses obscuring his eyes. The monk seemed happy yet there was a disturbance in his features. It was the woman, the curator of the event, who was unaware of their discomfort and was positively beaming.
“I–I can’t believe it,” he exclaimed as he quickly read through the article. No matter the names the Chosen used, he knew them upon sight.
Lifting his gaze from the paper to land upon an empty room, he had thought that not much could surprise him or elicit a response that electrified through him, but this had proven his assumptions wrong.
Another look at the photo and he shook his head.
“Are they crazy?”
Chapter X
The music pounded through her body, its rhythm vibrating through every cell as the volume made it nearly impossible for anyone to speak to each other. Then again, this was not a place for conversation. Flashing strobe lights of black, green and purple tainted the darkness. Each danced to the beat, changing and modulating as the music flowed, catching individuals unaware in sudden illumination before plunging them back into darkness, never knowing when next they would be thrust into the light. It was a place where one lost oneself to the throbbing pleasure the trance provided. It was her place and she revelled in it.
She kept her eyes closed as she moved her body on the dance floor, allowing the beats to lead her body as the scents around pressed and caressed. So many mortals came to this place, to her place in hopes that she would join them for just one dance. If they were lucky she would invite them for a second and then they would be begging for the joy of pressing themselves up against her as she undulated to the nightclub’s heartbeat. Men and women flocked to her, some brought by others she had kissed so that they too would understand the rapture she bestowed. Little did they know with each sip of their blood they became more and more hers, and she revelled in it.
Hot hands pressed against her belly, drawing her closer until a mortal’s heat fired along the length of her back. For any other she would have turned and sent the offender fleeing into the night. No mortal touched her without her permission save one. She leaned her head against his shoulder, their bodies moving together in time with the music.
Opening her eyes she smiled up into Terry’s blue sapphire eyes. There was a hunger, a longing that pained his features, widening her smile. She knew what he wanted and she was more than willing to give it to him. Terry was hers as completely as any mortal could ever be. She was his drug, and at his pitiful young age of seventeen she was hoping she would eventually be given permission to turn him.
His long corn silk hair and a face and body of an angel had drawn her to him the instant he had tentatively walked into The Veil. His tall, slim swimmers body titillated her and she knew she had to have him. That night she had danced the whole night with him, ignoring the rest. It was not long before he would come back almost nightly, dancing with her, letting her drink from him. She had read the Vampire stories and knew the terms mortals called such creatures; pomme de sang, Renfield, and others. The true word was slave.
She felt his need rise, pressing hard against her and she turned to face him without losing the beat. His breath came fast and hot on her face and she luxuriated against it, throwing her head back to expose the length of her pale neck and the full mounds of her breasts that pressed up from the leather bodice. The invitation was clear and he lowered his head to kiss them, his hands resting on her hips.
Opening her eyes, she did not care what occurred in the middle of the dance floor. Other Vampires took their pleasures as did mortals, though there were more private rooms for those more squeamish about voyeurs. She brought her head up and watched him enjoy himself. No pleasure stirred within her. That part was dead. It was the intoxication of aroused blood that lengthened her fangs.
Fumbling with the buttons of his leather pants she managed to free his stiff member. Its heat scalded her as it jumped to her touch. She would never let him enter her. Her body was her own. It was the taste of his orgasm enriched blood that drove her to sweep her fingers against him, making him dance to her beat.
A groan escaped him as he pressed close. Her hand found his sack and played with the delicate balls within before rising to find the tip of his shaft. He was closer, oh so close, and with her other hand she gripped his hair and yanked his head away from her breasts. His gasp of surprise coupled with the beginnings of his shuddering release. Her teeth set into his jugular as the first spill of his seed washed over her hand.
Sweet, sex flavoured blood pounded into her, riding out the music’s pulse. Only Terry’s orgasmic heart satisfied the longing in her soul. Each pulse, each spill, he gave everything he could and she received it. It was only when the throbbing of his member ceased that she pulled out, a rivulet of blood leaking from the two puncture marks next to all the old and new scars. All came from her. He was her property and all the other Vampires knew it.
Terry wobbled, his breath coming in quick shudders and he smiled at her as she licked his blood from her red stained lips. With a glance at his now flaccid member, his eyes following, he tucked himself away. He had done well, and as with any dog she threw him a bone. Leaning close, she pressed herself against him, depositing a kiss on his smooth cheek before turning away to lose herself in the rhythm of a new beat.
The tempo accelerated into a new song, sending the dan
cers into a frenzy of movement. With Terry’s blood warming her, she took up the dance once again. She did not care with whom she shared the dance, her body moved as her mind set itself free in ecstatic rapture. This was freedom. This was the life she was born to live and she excelled at it.
An unexpected tap on her shoulder brought her out of her trance and she looked behind to view the offender. If it had been most anyone else, she would have ripped out their throats. No one interrupted her dance. Lips drawn back, her fangs fully extended, she hissed at the man who had interrupted her pleasure.
“Give it a rest, Rose,” stated Brian Haskell, shouting above the din. His short dirty blonde hair was gelled back into a slick style and his storm grey eyes appeared bored. Dressed in black slacks and t-shirt, his muscular pale arms crossed over his chest, straining the cotton.
Halting her dance, Rose brushed her stray copper curls from her face before resting her hands on her leather miniskirt covered hips. “What does he want now?”
Brian crooked a finger at her and motioned for her to follow.
Huffing her displeasure at the interruption, Rose set her jaw and followed. The crowd parted to allow their exit. The music was too loud to converse over so she had no recourse. Brian had always been in her life since her birth over a century ago. Her initial memories had him holding her first meal. She had remembered how the creature had screamed before giving way to her feral need for food. It was only after she had wiped the blood from her chin that she realized it was a child. A part of her knew she should have been upset at the revelation, but the blood had tasted so good and its heat had enlivened her newborn body.
Brian was the first person she saw that night. His strong square face held a business like seriousness. It was he who had given her the handkerchief to wipe her dripping chin. No smile, only calm as he pointed with his chin to the one responsible for her birth. Now it was Brian who led her back to him, to Corbie Vale, the Father of her soul and the ruler of the Vampires since his own Mistress died at the hands of the despised Chosen. Of course, that was before her time. Curious about the strange creatures that threatened their very existence she would ask for more details, only to be told to hold her tongue.
