by Jan McDonald
She said that Dan was drunk and I should pay no attention and she hinted that I should perhaps be more sociable and a part of the group. She persuaded me to go back in with her, pushing a glass of the local plum brandy into my hand – the cause of Dan’s condition, I thought.
Dan appeared flustered and was quickly at my side and, I was greeted with enthusiasm by the others. A few sips of the fiery, local spirit warmed me but couldn’t dispel the feeling of quiet dread. This was stupid; I had to get a grip of myself and enjoy what I had looked forward to, seemingly forever.
Later, when I asked Dan about Sally, he told me I was paranoid. Perhaps he’s right
Tomorrow we head for Bistrita for lunch at The Golden Crown; Paprika Hendl no doubt, another nod to Jonathan Harker, or to give it its anglicised name – Paprika Chicken. After a tour of the city we head over the Borgo Pass to Castle Dracula Hotel and the masquerade ball. The thought cheers me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: DONORS
Lane was first to react to Mihai’s statement.
“What do you mean, ‘it wasn’t where you left it?’ What are you saying, Mihai, old friend?”
“I’m saying: I made the seal. And I did so at the instruction of the one who made me, long before Vlad was an ink blot on his family tree.”
It was then that Lane realised something, she had no idea of Mihai’s true age.
He read her and laughed, “I was born to our world before the one you call ‘Christ’, walked the earth. I’m old!”
They all laughed and their spirits lifted.
Beckett was the first to break the silence. “So, this chalice, do you know its whereabouts?”
“Yes and no. My maker took it into a lengthy, vampire sleep. But, if the rumours are correct, he died at his own hand at the turn of this millennium.”
Beckett persisted, “So, if you don’t know, then perhaps no-one else does.”
Mihai was thoughtful. “Sorry, Beckett, that’s a false assumption. I don’t know because I haven’t been looking for it. Whoever is looking for it could be very close. And, as I said, the seal is missing.”
Lane was about to speak when she suddenly doubled over in pain.
Beckett was at her side so quickly that even Mihai didn’t see him move.
“What is it?” His voice betrayed his inner panic.
She gasped as another wave of pain hit her before collapsing against him. Mihai was at her side then too, as Beckett lowered her gently to the ground.
“How many donors?” Mihai demanded.
“Just one, a young nun, you remember her? She’s the one who just let you in.”
“Yes, and, knowing Lane, she didn’t take from her often enough. She needs to feed.”
“I fed her when she woke,” Beckett muttered, as he began to push up his sleeve.
Mihai stopped him, shaking his head slowly. “You can’t do it again so soon. It has to be me.”
Beckett’s eyes were wide and his face displayed myriad emotions as he realised that Mihai was right. He nodded and bent to lift Lane, pulling her into a sitting position, leaning her against his chest. He could feel her heart slowing its already slow beat.
“Better hurry, then.”
Mihai understood him instantly; with no time for refinements he tore open his sleeve and, canines down and ready for action, he tore into his wrist and held it over Lane’s mouth.
The first drops landed on her motionless lips and ran down her chin. Beckett gently opened her mouth and watched as Mihai’s ancient blood welled into it. She swallowed once, then again, and then opened her eyes.
She hesitated, so Mihai commanded her, “Drink!”
He lowered his wrist to her mouth and she drank – drank the most ancient of their blood; blood which was of the line of the First One. And with it went his ancient knowledge and his power. Beckett could almost feel it; Lane now had the most ancient of vampire blood in her veins and the power and knowledge of the ancients would grow in her with every deliberate beat of her heart.
She opened her eyes. Normally the darkest brown of ancient bog-oak, the irises of her eyes were now jet black and the whites were laced with red. Her body, still weak from hunger after her vampire sleep, had responded to the inflowing of the ancient blood in dramatic fashion. Was this to be the moment she was lost to him, Beckett wondered? Deep though their relationship had become, there had always been the fear of loss. Now that all the knowledge of the First One surged through her consciousness, would she still feel the first stirrings of love that had marked their last moments before she had drifted into five years of oblivion?
She sighed and Beckett felt her body relax into his. He cradled her head against him, hardly daring to hope.
Mihai took a step away and watched the wound on his wrist begin to heal. He had done the unthinkable. He had transferred some of the blood of the First One, a forbidden act and one that he would be answerable for – if any of the Ancients were still walking the earth.
His thoughts drifted to the First One, his maker and mentor.
Images of Ancient Egypt and the familiar scents of the temples filled him, comforted him. Intoxicating scents of rising incense smoke and the tinkling sound of tiny cymbals in the hands of the nubile women played in his ears and he closed his eyes, content for now to bathe in the memories that were usually held at bay.
Lane sat upright; the red lacing in her eyes had faded, revealing the jet black centres that would never leave her. The surge of telepathic senses, thoughts and visions from Mihai would also lose their intensity, though never fade completely. The ancient knowledge, however, would remain always.
She jumped to her feet with an energy that took hold of her suddenly, bringing Mihai back to the present with a jolt and sending Beckett’s thoughts into the stratosphere as he leaped to his feet with her.
She turned on Mihai. “You knew! You knew that Vlad Dracula’s body wasn’t interred at Snagov – Vasile has him! If he gets hold of the chalice there is no hope for the Created – for any of us!”
Further words were halted as Beckett’s phone rang in his pocket, bringing them all down a notch or two on the tension scale. He glanced at the number on the screen. Why, in God’s name, would Mike Travis be calling him when he knew he was in Greece?
“Mike? Not great timing. Can I get back …?” He stopped, went even paler than usual and slowly, very slowly, sank back onto his knees.
CHAPTER TWELVE: THE GRAND TOUR
Mike hadn’t waited long for Darius to arrive and he greeted him with a warm smile. He had met him on several occasions and taken to him instantly, but those occasions had been when he had visited Beckett for his professional help, therefore their contact had been brief.
He knew nothing of Darius’s background except that he wasn’t vampire. He knew also that he was a loved and trusted assistant to Beckett, and that was a good enough character reference for anyone.
Darius greeted Mike as if he were an old friend. “Hi, sorry if you had to hang around. Did you hear? Lane is waking up!” The joy on his face completed Mike’s impressions of the woman that, it was obvious, Beckett loved. He could see a different kind of love shining in the adoration in Darius’s eyes. Mike smiled and nodded.
“So,” Darius enthused, “have you seen everything? Beckett was giving you the grand tour, wasn’t he? He told me to look after you and tell you everything you wanted to know about The Sanctuary. He was going to, anyway. Or would you prefer me to take you home?”
“I’m in no hurry,” Mike said. He knew if there was any change in Beth’s condition, either way, Roman would call him immediately and, besides, he liked Darius instinctively and wanted to know more about him. Apart from the sparkle of youthful adulation when he spoke of Lane, Darius obviously cared deeply for Beckett, like a son would.
“Unless I’m keeping you?” Mike continued.
Darius shook his head. “No. I was coming here anyway; keeping an eye on things. We can use Lane’s sitting room and you must say when you are ready to go
home.” He led Mike back to Lane’s room, pausing at the reception desk.
“It’s quiet tonight, but I’m staying for a while. You know where I’ll be if you need me.”
The Goth girl nodded at him and returned to her book.
In the sitting room, Darius flicked a switch and the gas fire burst into blue and yellow flame. It wasn’t cold, but he sensed Mike’s need for comfort. He leaned over the elegant, low table and poured a healthy shot of whisky into a sparkling crystal glass and grinned at Mike.
“While the boss is away … enjoy!”
Mike allowed himself a small laugh; something that was rarer than angels in hell recently. The boy’s youthful enthusiasm must be rubbing off on him. He sipped at the very old, single malt whisky from one of the oldest distilleries on the Scottish islands.
“Beckett pretty much gave me the low-down on this place. Impressive to say the least – and an eye-opener. I had begun to think I had seen most everything; I was wrong and I’m humbled. Actually, Darius, it’s you that interests me. We’ve met occasionally but I’d like to know you a little better. If that’s okay?”
Darius was thrown off-guard by this; more used to living in Beckett’s shadow – in a good way – he had been prepared to talk Mike through the routine and not-so-routine operating of The Sanctuary, not to talk about himself. He appeared flustered.
Mike took another sip of the fiery, liquid gold that mellowed on contact with the back of his mouth and gave way to an earthy, smokiness.
“I’m sorry; that was rude of me. I’ve embarrassed you.”
“No! No, not at all, I was surprised that’s all. There really isn’t much to tell in fact. I’m Beckett’s assistant and, for ‘assistant’ read ‘does everything else’.” He laughed, but Mike saw through the bravado, that Darius did ‘everything else’ for Beckett because he wanted to and not because he was employed to. He wanted even more to get to know him.
“Do I hear the remains of an Eastern European accent?”
“I was born in London, but my parents had only just arrived from Budapest. Our neighbours and friends were all Hungarian and, though we integrated with our British friends and neighbours, the accent somehow stuck. Both my parents and my … brother … are dead. Beckett is all I have really. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not sad or looking for sympathy, life is what it is. I’m lucky to have Beckett and Lane. They are my family now.”
Mike settled back against the gold silk brocade of the sofa and sipped his whisky, saying nothing, allowing Darius to untangle the threads of his history.
“My brother was a vampire of the most cruel and ruthless kind. He killed my parents and I spent years trying to track him down, with the intention of killing him. I believed myself to be a Hunter. I knew nothing. I found my brother’s nightclub, Danse Macabre, here in Newport and lay in wait for him one night. I took the elevator to his apartment above the club and stood in the shadows for however long it would take. The elevator door opened and I wasted no time in thrusting an Ash stake into the heart. The only problem was, it wasn’t my brother; it was Lane and I almost killed her. Luckily, Beckett and another vampire were outside and they saved her. I have never been so thankful for something in all my life. After Beckett threatened extreme bodily violence against me and advised putting a great distance between us, he began listening to my side of things. And even though I had almost killed her, Lane gave me a home and a job. It’s been just Beckett and me for a while now, but it will be a relief to have Lane home again. And, you are right, he’s very special to me; he calls me ‘Son’. So, there you have it; Darius in a nutshell!”
Mike took another sip of whisky. “I think there’s a lot more to you than that. But thanks for sharing. I see why Beckett cares for you.”
Before Darius could reply his phone rang, the telephone on the low table rang and, outside in the hall, phones were ringing, alarms were shrieking and the front door entry system buzzed, flew open and a self-propelled missile in the form of a young woman wearing a military-style coat over tight black jeans and knee-high boots, crowned with a black top-hat over her impossibly black hair, shot inside at speed. Her face was smeared with blood and her clothes bore the same sanguineous stains. Her face was deathly pale that owed nothing to her Goth make-up.
Her voice was high-pitched and laden with panic. “Where is Beckett? Help me! Help all of us! They’re coming!” The next second she had collapsed in a heap at Mike’s feet.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: ATTACK ON THE SANCTUARY
Darius was galvanised into action and ran towards the reception desk, where the emergency electronic locks were hidden from sight. He was only half way across the huge room when the door burst open again and three thugs, loyal to Vasile Tepes and his House, were inside before he or Mike could gather their thoughts.
Mike was bending over the inert young woman, relieved that she was breathing. It took him only a heartbeat to see that the blood splatters all over her had not come from any wound of hers and, satisfied she would recover, he sprang to Darius’s side.
The young receptionist was pale and shaking, standing behind the desk in shock.
Three against two is crappy odds at the best of times but, when two of the three are vampires lusting for blood, well, someone is going to get hurt – bad.
Mike threw himself onto the nearest of them, who was lunging at him with a savage-looking blade. Blades, Mike could deal with – his attention was more on the snarling mouth with fangs ready for action.
He side-stepped the blade and brought his arm up, defending his throat as he swung his fist towards the offending maw. His knuckles split open as they made contact with the vicious fangs and he swore, loud and meaningfully, casting doubt on his attacker’s lineage. A fleeting glance at Darius fending off the second blood-drinker and his attention was back full-on to his own plight. He swung his fist again but lost his balance and hit the floor with such force it knocked the breath from him. The last thing he saw before oblivion was the triumph on the face of his attacker as it loomed over him, his intention clear.
Images swam in his unconscious mind: Beth and their daughter Adain were playing happily on a beach. Suddenly, from nowhere, the image of a demon watching them, coming closer, loomed onto his mental screen. He cried out in silence as the image faded into an ocean of crimson. He felt as if he were floating on a red sea and, somewhere in the background, there was a curious sucking sensation at his throat.
His senses began to return slowly and he could smell smoke. What was this? Another unconscious game that his mind was playing? The smell of the smoke intensified and he felt the burning in his throat. And then the heat.
His eyes were open and his comprehension was instant. The Sanctuary was on fire. He leaped to his feet and peered through the smoke, covering his nose and mouth, coughing until his lungs felt as though they would burst into flame too.
Darius was lying on the floor, still and silent, with a gash at his throat that had strangely ceased to pump blood. Mike felt an icy claw around his heart as he dragged him towards the door. Feeling for a pulse on the uninjured side of Darius’s neck, he felt it – weak and feeble but present. And then he saw it – the blood that was covering Darius’s mouth and chin – the blood that he had been forced to drink from one of Vasile’s vampire henchmen.
He cursed again, this time at his own lack of knowledge. He had no idea what to do for him.
He ran to the inert body of the dark-haired beauty who had raised the alarm; maybe she would know how to help Darius. She too was breathing and, as he touched her, she sat bolt upright, coughing, her eyes streaming. He left her and ran towards the reception desk, cloaked now in a pall of smoke. The young receptionist lay on the floor behind it, eyes open in death, her throat open, glistening in gore and her chest soaked in her own blood.
The entire room was alight now and raging flames filled the stairwell, preventing Mike from running towards the screams that were coming from one of the rooms on the first floor. He remembered the receptionist tel
ling Beckett that there was a fledgling vampire there for help. There was no help for him now.
He turned back towards Darius as a beam crashed down on him, rendering him unconscious again and this time there were no dreams or visions, just oblivion.
The darkness shifted momentarily as searing heat hit his throat but, unconsciousness was so swift in its return he had no time to react to the pain. Blackness enveloped him again.
When the blackness faded and awareness gradually seeped through, the first thing that Mike saw was Roman Woolfe bending over him, concern etched into every pore of his face. He took a step back as Mike opened his eyes.
“Welcome back,” he said, his voice grave. “You gave us quite a fright.”
Mike gingerly raised his hand towards the massive lump on his head. A gentler hand prevented it from making contact. He turned towards the owner of the hand and flashes of lightning passed through his head, leaving a wake of nausea. He closed his eyes and then, as memory returned, he tried to sit up. Unhindered this time, he made it and leaned back against soft pillows.
“This admirable young lady has explained what happened. Incidentally, when you’re better we need to have a discussion about going off on your own without leaving word of your whereabouts and perhaps you will take the time to report on this support network for vampires that we seem to know nothing about. At least you had your phone switched on, and she answered it when I called. You might like to thank her, Mike; she saved your life.”
Mike grinned at her, about to voice his gratitude, and then as more memory asserted itself, his expression changed.
“Darius!” he exclaimed, “and those young people!”
He tried to get out of the bed. The restraining hand returned.
“He’s here, Mike” she said. “I’m afraid there was nothing I could do for the others, but Darius is here, though I’m not too sure where ‘here’ is. But … he’s in a bad way. I’m afraid he’s turning.”
