by Jan McDonald
“They have been waiting,” said Mihai. “Waiting for another. I believe it to be Drakos. If my information on the Born is correct, Drakos is Gregori’s heir, he is his oldest surviving son. And when I say oldest, I mean centuries oldest. Drakos was born in Athens in fifteen hundred and ten. He is also Undead.”
“Great,” said Beckett, “Over privileged and immortal.”
Mihai remained serious, “The Undead are not immortal, as you know. They just take more killing. I need to speak to you on a serious matter, Beckett.”
Beckett second guessed him, “I can’t prayer for their souls. Apart from the fact that I’m not exactly a fan at the moment, they deserve to rot in Hell.”
Mihai was quiet then he said solemnly, “And what of you Beckett? Or Lane? What of me? Do we too deserve to rot in Hell? Evil is created and born into this world but it can’t live when there is love in the heart but it can be healed as the soul leaves the body. You pray for a departing soul and the evil is neutralised. You can leave the judgement to the one who is entitled to judge.”
“Is that a lecture? It sounds familiar. I used to believe that.”
“You still do, you’re just a stubborn priest with too much pride.”
Beckett was shocked at Mihai’s verbal attack. “Pride? I don’t think so.”
“Of course it’s pride to believe that you know the plan for you better than its architect. Have you for one minute stopped to consider what a difference you can make in this world, given your abilities and your understanding? Is it not pride to ignore what could be considered a gift and not suffering?”
“I don’t care about me, but why Grace?”
“Perhaps it took the loss of someone so dear to spark the sequence of events that have brought you here. Especially here. You think of him as a son, I sense. Then be a father and teach your son the value of redemption. His and yours.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE: THE HEIR
Days earlier, Drakos had left his villa in Athens forsaking his view of the Parthenon and had travelled to south eastern Iraq. Two hundred miles south of Baghdad, between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, the ancient civilisation of Sumer had flourished four thousand years ago. This had been the home of The Ancient One and so it remained. Drakos knew that to inherit Gregori’s territory he would need the sanction of The Ancient One. But the oldest vampire alive spent long centuries in vampire sleep only waking in times of crisis, communicating only through telepathy to Lamia, the youngest female of the bloodline, whose sole purpose was to care for the sleeping vampire.
Few vampires knew that The Ancient One still lived, believing that Gregori had been the oldest vampire. But Drakos knew, and so did Vasile, for it had been The Ancient One that had brought about the death of his great grandfather, Vlad Tepes. The Ancient One was high in their consciousness.
It had been twelve centuries since The Ancient One had awoken to reveal the prophecy that had long since slipped into vampire mythology. The prophecy that foretold the end of all the great vampire houses.
The cave entrance was well concealed and without vampire sight that is all it was; a cave. But to the vampire, what lay behind the cave entrance was their sacred, almost holy ground. Almost.
Drakos trembled as he approached the entrance; he sought an audience with The Ancient One through Lamia. Without that sanction he could not assume Gregori’s position. He knew it was going to be difficult; although he was Gregori’s son he had been born in Dacia, in the heart of the Carpathians and his alliance with the House of Tepes could cause a problem. It was this alliance that Vasile Tepes sought to strengthen. The two houses joined as one would make a formidable empire. But first Drakos needed the all important agreement.
As he entered the cave an opening appeared in the rear wall, triggered by the genetic signature of the vampire. Once through it, corridors and rooms led off in several directions. Everything was dimly lit and Lamia was nowhere to be seen.
He waited, unsure, a condition with which he was unfamiliar. After hesitating for several moments he began to walk slowly along the half light of the corridor. No sound reached him, everywhere was eerily silent. Even his footsteps caused no sound from his leather soled shoes. His dark hair and beard were neatly trimmed perfectly framing the blackest eyes. At home with the elite of Athens, Drakos was out of his comfort zone.
As he neared the middle of the corridor a movement of air from behind made him halt.
“Who seeks the Ancient One?”
Lamia’s voice cut through the atmosphere like steel.
He turned to her, drinking in her cold beauty. Waist length hair reflecting blue black hues draped her upper body, and a skirt of dark silk reached her bare feet, caressing the floor as she glided towards him, staring at him with sightless eyes.
“Drakos of Athens. I seek the sanction of The Ancient One to inherit my father’s territory.”
“Wait here Drakos of Athens; I will seek such sanction for you.”
She left him standing in the corridor as she glided past him to a door at the end. He didn’t see her enter; she simply melted from his sight.
The room was barely lit and the massive carved marble platform upon which The Ancient One lay was all that it contained. Lamia approached, head bowed, preparing to link her consciousness with the oldest vampire. She knelt at the side of the platform and raised her head.
It had been twelve centuries since The Ancient One had awoken but now the eyes were open.
The voice was barely a sigh, “Help me to rise, child. Bring him to me.”
Outside in the corridor Drakos felt the shift. The air became rarefied and ice cold, even to him. Something was different.
Moments later Lamia reappeared, her demeanour unchanged.
“Come with me,” was all she said.
He followed her as she glided into the chamber containing the marble platform that now stood empty. Across the room another door stood open. Lamia passed through into the room beyond without a word. He followed her.
The room was again lit only by the light of one flame that cast dancing shadows in every direction. In the darkest corner, buried in deep shadow, stood a huge seat carved from a single piece of marble on which sat The Ancient One, cloaked even against the vampire sight. The silhouette was motionless.
The sigh wafted to him on the meagre air. “Hhhhhhhhhh Drakos of Athens, you have the sanction you seek. Take the territory of your father, Gregori. But take this also with you. The prophecy is upon the Great Houses.”
Drakos didn’t move, straining his vampire sight to see through the shadows.
“The prophecy?”
A sigh like the rustling of leaves on the autumn wind filled the room.
“A warrior who is neither beast nor man has allied with those who would seek to destroy us. Our own kind has turned against us in defence of those not of pure blood. They must be eliminated. It was written in ancient times that when the man beast fought alongside the Created, the great Houses would be doomed.”
Emboldened by The Ancient One’s attention, Drakos pushed the boundary.
“But I thought that was a myth, perpetuated by our ancestors.”
The sigh became an audible hiss and the sudden sound of wings in flight accompanied the movement now in front of Drakos.
The silhouette was changing, growing, rising. And then in front of him, open to his vision, stood The Ancient One.
Ancient hair coiled onto an ancient head, clouded eyes near sightless, were wide open. Shrunken, pendulous breasts hung low on a skeletal frame, and the wings were unfurled though not completely open. Drakos’ eyes moved downwards to where the feet should have been and saw instead the talons of an eagle.
Lilitu stood before him in all her terrifying aspect.
Lilitu, the illegitimate daughter of Sargon who had once ruled all of Sumer and Akkadia, was terrible to behold and had been feared as a demon throughout all Mesopotamia. Part demon, part vampire, she was known as The Storm Bringer.
Drakos felt his ins
ides turn to ice under her gaze and dreaded the utterance of another word. He trembled as he bowed his head whilst the rustle of folding wings announced Lilitu’s return to the marble seat.
He uttered a startled cry and jumped at the sudden and unexpected touch of Lamia. She didn’t speak but turned him towards the door. He knew when it was time to leave.
Now he was on his way to the gathering of the Great Houses to take his place as Gregori’s heir. His confidence and arrogance returned once he had left the borders of Iraq. The House of Vasilakis would answer to him. But he had no intention of secluding himself in the rural coffin that had satisfied Gregori. Drakos would reside where he belonged, at the heart of Greece, in Athens.
Lilitu’s words of the prophecy burned in his heart but he strove to push them aside dwelling only on his new position and territory. Things were going to change. And he was going to change them. He wasn’t concerned about an old myth.
Vasile had told him everything about the pretender to his throne, the upstart protégée of Gregori who had created the means of his own destruction along with the destruction and cleansing of all but the Born of pure blood. He believed that he would take Gregori’s place with the arrogance of his House, but it was his arrogance that would be his undoing. They would allow him the rope to create his own noose. And then the House of Tepes would rise supreme.
CHAPTER THIRTY: BRING THE GIRL
Vehicles outside the monastery walls would have announced the gathering to any who cared to venture there. But those that lived in proximity had long since barred their doors and windows.
Sister Maria had sent word to the outlying districts of the Feast Day but had silently prayed for them to stay away. Their lives and their souls depended on it.
In the dark cold of her cell, she prayed. She prayed that the sounds she had heard were born of fear and not reality. She had heard the opening and closing of a door opposite and the muffled sounds of someone receiving a beating and then the door opening and closing again. The retreating familiar footsteps told her that it was Santorini.
The scraping of iron in the lock meant that there was no entry for her to tend whoever was within. Her fingers worked the wooden rosary.
Santorini had changed his clothing, adopting a heavy black brocade frock coat and breeches in an effort to appear as one of them. He strode forwards to greet the latest guest. Drakos had arrived to be a part of the bargain. The anti HVV for the territory.
Drakos’s penetrating black eyes briefly met Vasile’s. Their understanding unspoken, Drakos extended his hand to Santorini.
“A pleasure to meet you and to hear of your achievement. Is there to be a demonstration? Or do we simply have your word on the properties of your creation?”
Santorini withdrew his hand. “Welcome, Drakos. Thank you for coming from Athens, I understand that you rarely leave the city. It is therefore an honour to receive you.”
He led the way into the chapel that had undergone a serious transformation. The small wooden chairs occupied by the sisters during their devotions had been removed and replaced by elegant couches. In the centre of the chapel a large carved wooden table that served as their altar, was now spread with wine bottles, goblets and bowls of fruit. The latter for decoration and not sustenance. That would come later. The huge silver crucifix lay where it had been cast aside.
No-one had questioned Santorini’s claim as Gregori’s heir, allowing him the belief in order to bring out his ego, which in turn would lead him to revealing the secret of his serum. It was Drakos who first brought up the subject.
“So tell us, Santorini. Do you have a demonstration for us or not?”
“It would require the presence of one of the Created, and as we all know, this is a gathering of the Born.”
The silence implied that they were all aware that one among them was most certainly not of the Born. Santorini was enraged but managed to keep cool. A created he may be, but he was created by Gregori and it was Gregori’s blood that ran in his veins.
Markos Vasilakis diffused the situation. “That is certainly not an obstacle. As I understand it we have two guests who may qualify. I am certain it would be a pleasure for any one of us to turn one of them for you. Then we can see your handiwork.”
Santorini was thoughtful. It was obvious his word alone would not be enough. They had to see for themselves. Well that was fine by him. He nodded assent at Markos.
Vasile Tepes picked up the thread. “Mircea, perhaps you would bring the girl to us.”
Mircea smirked but left the room in silence. His anticipation in high gear, he hoped that he would be the one to have the pleasure. He ran his tongue over his elongated white canines. He could almost taste her.
Sister Maria heard his approach and stood against her door, straining to hear who it was and where he was going. The footsteps halted outside her room and for a heart stopping moment she thought it was her door that would be brutally thrust open. Instead she heard the lock being released opposite her. It was slightly further down the corridor from hers and she understood then. There were two prisoners.
She heard a small cry. A girl. Her heart froze as she immediately understood the implications and then shame engulfed her sending her to her knees clutching her rosary but unable to finger the prayers. How could she dare to intercede when it was she that had sheltered the evil, fearing for the life of her child? A child she had only seen fleetingly at her birth. But her child nevertheless. She had no doubt that Santorini wouldn’t hesitate to suck the life blood from her daughter, no longer a child but a young woman. And she was right. Sister Maria was in torment.
She heard the girl being dragged from the room, and the whimper that came from the terrified voice. Her fingers were moving over the wooden beads without her realising it.
In nineteen years she had kept her promise and had never sought her daughter out, leaving her in the care of her adopted parents, devoting her life to God and the convent and unwittingly, Gregori. Now she was swamped with the desire to find her and warn her, to get her out of danger.
Sister Angelique had told her that the child’s parents had given her the name Antheia, which meant ‘flower’ in Greek and she tried to visualise how she may now look. She wondered if the girl opposite looked like her daughter.
Her hands were on the door handle before she was aware of them.
The corridor was dark and silent but Maria was used to moving about soundlessly. The kitchen door stood ajar and she was inside in seconds. The window was larger than the ones in the cells and she could climb through with ease. The outer wall was a different matter. There was only one means of exit for her and that was through the front gate.
She slipped off her sandals and picked up the hem of her habit, unwilling to make any sound. Making her way silently around the outer wall she hoped that whatever was happening inside was keeping them focussed. Her heart was racing as she reached the front angle of the wall. Slowly, footstep by footstep she walked.
The night air was ripped by a series of tortured screams. Her imagination filled in the gap with a familiar sucking sound. Her hand was over her mouth to drown her own scream as she threw herself through the wooden gate.
The waning moon had appeared from under the thin clouds, giving light onto the dusty road. She ran until a pain in her chest made her bend forwards, gasping for breath. Gradually the pain subsided and her breathing began to return to normal and she stood upright.
The dark shadow seemed to materialise in front of her and a voice almost made her heart stop.
“Hello Sister Maria.”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE: A DAUGHTER
She tried to scream but no sound came from her and she felt her legs weaken then a rushing sound in her head just before she fainted.
Only moments later she opened her terrified eyes to look into the refined features of Mihai leaning over her. Other concerned faces gradually joined his and one in particular made her relax.
“Thank you, God,” she whispered.
Beckett put his arm under her shoulders and helped her onto her feet.
Lane was looking at her in horror. “Maria … what happened to you?”
Maria’s disfigured hand flew to her face. “The fire,” she said, “I went back to rescue something. I … I’d rather not talk about it.”
Beckett leaned forwards and drew her to him, planting a gentle kiss on her scars.
“Take your time Sister; tell us what’s happening in there. Have you seen Darius? The young man who was with us last time?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him, but they have two people locked up. I … I’m afraid one of them has had a good beating. I heard it, but the door is locked and I couldn’t get to whoever was in there.”
Beckett went pale, “He’s got to stop doing this, young idiot!” He exhaled long and hard. “I’m not waiting, I’m going in.”
A restraining hand was on his arm before he could move. Mihai was staring hard at him.
“Wait, Beckett. We go in there without thinking, we’re finished. They will already know we are coming because they have Darius and they know we wouldn’t leave him. While we wait, they will keep him alive.”
“You don’t know that, Mihai. While we wait, he’s in there and they are doing God knows what to him.” He wrenched his arm free of Mihai’s grip and turned back to Sister Maria.
“What about a young girl?”
Maria dropped her head.
“Sister?”
She lifted her face slowly, and tears were falling down her scarred cheek. She let them fall.
“I’m sorry. I think that you are too late.”
Muscles twitched along Lane’s jaw line but she didn’t speak.
“I think there are about twenty of them,” Maria said, glancing around at them pointedly. “I overheard some of their conversation. I think they were waiting for someone to come from Athens.”
