Blood on Silk

by Marie Treanor

  “Mihaela,” she said helplessly. How did you give sympathy for such a thing? What words could possibly make a difference to what Mihaela had suffered?

  But the hunter clearly didn’t want sympathy. The instant of vulnerability, if it had ever really been there, had vanished. Mihaela reached for the wine bottle. “Growing up, I spent a lot of time with vampire hunters. It seemed natural to follow them.”

  “You’ve been a hunter all of your adult life?” Elizabeth held out her glass to receive the offered top-up.

  “Yes. Dull, isn’t it? Cheers.”

  Elizabeth blinked. “Dull? Terrifying. Amazing. Entirely admirable. But surely not dull!”

  Mihaela laughed. “You’d be surprised,” she said, unwinding herself from the chair and standing up. “Mostly it’s keeping track of and dispatching weak, fledgling vampires before they can cause any trouble. Hungry? I’ll check on dinner.”

  Saloman almost missed the Angel Club. Its entrance was on an insignificant side street, close to the Danube in the old district of Buda. The faint echo of pounding rock music, picked up by his sensitive ears, could have come from any number of nearby clubs on either side of the river. Over the last few nights, he’d visited most of them, drawn by their sheer energy and the strange excitement of the unnecessarily loud, compelling music. He’d learned quickly to distinguish between the various types of modern music, and rejected jangly dance music in favor of live rock bands.

  And so, hoping to follow the sound to its source, he nearly walked past the Angel. It looked too insignificant, not just sleazy but boring. Even the angel carved into the stone above the door had no class. There was no doorman or sign. It might have been the entrance to a run-down apartment building or a cheap and nasty office block, except for the rather dull angel that drew his attention back again.

  He stopped and gazed at it some more. In fact, it wasn’t dull at all, but one of the finest architectural carvings he had ever seen. His lips twitched. “Enchanting,” he murmured, and turning, he walked up the steps and pushed open the door.

  Music rushed at him, the hard, heavy rock beat pounding behind the scream of electric guitars. He could smell humans, hear the rush of blood in their warm, excited veins. But more than that, his senses picked up several vampire presences, faint, almost fluttering through the second layer of general masking that surrounded the establishment.

  It was a steep climb up the unappealing and none-too-clean stone stairs. Saloman didn’t mind. He was intrigued. Since he kept his own far more powerful masking in place, the vampire in denim jeans and a black T-shirt who lurked outside the double doors at the top of the stairs barely blinked at him. He gave him a half-admiring up-and-down scan, which presumably approved his attire as suitable for the establishment—these were casual times, and Saloman rather liked the freedom to wear less—and then waved the Ancient through without even troubling to open the door for him.

  The casual gatekeeper did follow him inside, though only to drop down at a table shared by two other vampires—females—and gaze with interest at the band occupying the stage opposite. They weren’t bad, but Saloman found other aspects of his surroundings more interesting.

  It was a large, open-plan area, and someone had achieved an extremely clever conversion while maintaining the original internal opulence of the eighteenth-century building. Paintings on the walls and on the curved, dome ceiling had been lovingly preserved and repaired, while the glass at the apex of the dome was retractable. It had been partially opened to let in the cool evening air. A modern bar occupied all of one wall, but table staff milled among the patrons seated at the many tables surrounding the dance floor, taking orders and delivering drinks. The area immediately in front of the stage was occupied by dancers and the more thorough appreciators of the band’s particular brand of rock music.

  The lighting was good too—warm and intimate without being so dark that one couldn’t see the person sitting next to him. On the dance floor, it was dimmer, striving for a more exciting feel. Here, the lights moved, and occasionally settled, creating shadows and quick, alluring glimpses of the beautiful and transported individuals they selected.

  Saloman, aware he had the full attention of the two waitstaff bearing down on him, and of several other occupants of the club, strolled to a vacant table of his own choosing in the shadows and ordered a bottle of vintage champagne. The world had not changed so much. People still jumped to obey the wishes of the obviously rich.

  Saloman sat back and observed. Because he liked it, he let the relentless beat of the music insinuate itself into his consciousness, raising his awareness and his excitement on two levels. This, he thought, was a place where he might well have fun conducting business. It was certainly a good start. Judging by the number of vampires present, it was the place to come. This was intriguing in itself, since vampires tended to be solitary creatures, jealous of their own territory and power. Here, they mingled with the humans who came for the opulence, the comfortable coolness mixed with the only-just-sweaty-enough atmosphere of the dance floor. For them, it was something different too. And they no doubt provided meals for the vampire patrons. And all was accomplished with discretion, safe from prying or disapproving eyes.

  Cleverness. Discretion. Organization. Artistic taste. None of them spoke of Zoltán. So who ran this establishment?

  He scanned the room as the music urged his feet to follow the rhythm and his analytical brain processed information, faces, and possibilities.

  You do. His gaze lingered on the beautiful woman who was watching him without embarrassment or apology from a high stool in front of the bar. She masked well, using a technique of the Ancients, which was interesting. She was definitely a vampire. She had stylish, short black hair, and a short, equally stylish black dress worn with elegant boots that emphasized the length of her long, alluring legs, which, under his blatant scrutiny, she uncrossed to stand.

  Saloman smiled at her.

  She spoke to the waitress who was just passing her with his bottle on her silver tray, and an instant later, it was the beautiful vampiress who bore his champagne. Saloman watched her approach. She walked briskly, neither seeking nor avoiding his gaze as she swerved among the patrons, greeting and speaking to those she clearly knew best. Saloman leaned his head against the velvet back of his sofa to look up at her as she deposited his bottle and his glass on the table, and then without fuss or explosion, removed the cork.

  “Would you like to taste?” she inquired.

  “Always. Will you join me?”

  “There’s only one glass.”

  “Not a problem for the owner of the establishment. Or even for me,” he said, raising one finger to the nearest waiter who swerved toward him and then away again as he recognized the signaled order.

  “You make assumptions,” the vampiress observed.

  “I make observations,” he corrected, and indicated the seat beside him. This time, after a moment’s hesitation, she sat.

  “Welcome to the Angel,” she said. “It’s always a pleasure to see new patrons.”

  “I love the angel statue. Who taught you to enchant like that?”

  Her eyes widened, the only sign of surprise or consternation. “What makes you think it isn’t a gift?”

  This close, she smelled of power, lightly worn but indisputable. He liked that. The paler, almost indistinguishable scent of Zoltán that clung to the edges was perhaps inevitable.

  “All those layers of hidden beauty, masking layers of magical protection. Your angel makes a perfect base for a powerful disguising charm.”

  She glowed in his praise. Only the tiny, agitated movement of her thumb and forefinger rubbing together in her lap betrayed her unease. Clearly, no one before him had discovered how she protected the club and its vampire patrons. He smiled and, looking into her eyes, let a layer of veil fall from his mask.

  She smiled back. “I thought so. But you mask like a master.”

  “Trust your observation,” he said, and let ano
ther veil of protection slip away.

  Her lips parted. “My God,” she whispered. “You’re him. Saloman . . .”

  She wasn’t the only one who’d picked up the signals. The vampire who’d let him in was staring. Several others were casting quick glances, intrigued or nervous, in his direction. They might not all have identified him, but they knew power when they were allowed to see it, and he was more than capable of hiding its current limitations.

  “I am Saloman,” he agreed. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Angyalka.”

  Saloman smiled. “The Angel. I like that. I like what you’ve done here. Does Zoltán?”

  “Of course.” Her shields were up, but he had no need to pry. He understood. She had worked at this, building her own little power base in Budapest while letting Zoltán believe it was for him. And she would pay lip service to his leadership.

  “You are young for such an achievement,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Not so young. I died nearly two hundred years ago.”

  He let that one pass, merely accepting the glass from the waiter and pouring champagne. “To the Angel,” he said, raising his glass to her.

  “To your awakening,” she returned. He could almost see her wondering what difference this would make to her here. If she was as smart as he thought, she’d know she needed his alliance, and yet her allegiance was already promised to Zoltán.

  They sipped champagne. Saloman flexed his fingers. This was good. Wild music in his ears, drumbeat blasting up through his body from the floor, wine bubbles on his tongue, while he and this clever young vampiress hovered on the cusp of a new alliance. After which, possibilities were endless. All he needed to make life perfect at this moment was for Elizabeth Silk to walk through the door.

  He even cast a glance at it, but only an ordinary human couple came through, throwing themselves straight onto the dance floor. Angyalka was right. He did make assumptions. He’d assumed Elizabeth would follow; she would know where to look, if not to find. But he hadn’t sensed her presence in the city so far. And he knew nothing about her, whether or not she liked, or was even aware of this kind of place, this kind of music. Perhaps she was too unworldly, too isolated in her ivory tower. Perhaps that was what drew him, why he wanted her to experience this newness with him. The excitement would thrum through her veins as they moved to the music, her soft, luscious body clamped to his, aroused and aware and ready. He remembered the taste of her blood, the scent of her skin, and his body stirred, demanding repetition and more. Elizabeth’s end would be his beginning, but deep within her passionate, giving body, it would also be his joy—and hers.

  Angyalka said, “I’m honored that you came to the Angel. There’s no need to mask here. All we insi—ask—is discretion. Which means no fighting, no killing, no public feeding. Nothing must ever be traced back to the Angel.”

  “Sensible rules.” He sat back in his chair and regarded her, banishing all thoughts of Elizabeth until he had opportunity to savor them. “Do you have plans for expansion?” he inquired.

  In Budapest, Elizabeth’s life took on a new routine similar enough to the old to keep her feet on the ground. Staying with Mihaela, she rose shortly after dawn and drove through the still-quiet streets to the hunters’ headquarters. There, in the specially constructed gymnasium, she worked out for an hour with a fitness specialist, and then, after a short break, spent another two hours learning combat—both unarmed and sword fencing.

  “You’re not serious,” Elizabeth had quibbled when Konrad first mentioned swords.

  “Deadly serious,” Konrad reproved. “The older vampires still use swords against humans, especially in a large fight—which I hope you never have to witness, let alone take part in, but you have to be prepared. Remember with whom you’re dealing.”

  She wasn’t likely to forget it. He was rarely out of her thoughts, since every waking moment seemed to be devoted to learning about him and how to combat him.

  Her muscles hurt with the unaccustomed exercise, though not so badly as she’d expected them to—or at least not yet. Instead, she found a new pleasure in the physical activity that stretched her body well beyond what she was used to. On top of that, she loved the speed of combat and was surprised by how quickly she learned and improved. So, it seemed, was her coach.

  “Your reflexes are quick,” he told her on the fourth day. “And you fight intelligently. You’re a natural.”

  Elizabeth remembered to pick her jaw off the floor. “I never was before,” she managed. “I was a poor athlete at school. I didn’t exactly shine at netball, and I positively stank at hockey. Sports and I separated as soon as we could!”

  The fit young man looked skeptical. “Then you never discovered the right sport. Until now.”

  Elizabeth laughed, then went off to shower, buoyed up by his praise. There was a time, she thought as she washed the sweat of exertion from her body, that such praise from—to say nothing of such close physical contact with—such a stunningly attractive young man would have embarrassed her into a stuttering, clumsy fool. Today, she was just glad to have pleased her teacher, who was clearly an expert in his own field—not that she was immune to his handsome face or his bulging biceps. Her eyes were not beyond straying to his taut, sexy bum, but she felt only a kind of dispassionate appreciation. Although she didn’t consider herself beneath his notice, if he’d asked her out, she’d have said no—not through fear because he was out of her league, but because they had nothing in common. And in fact, even his tanned, muscular body didn’t move her—not like Saloman’s.

  Saloman . . . She’d never even seen him with his shirt off; yet one glance reduced her to butter, a useless, helpless blob of lust who’d never even gotten as far as wondering whether she could possibly please a being as sexually aware as he. . . .

  She snapped off the shower and grabbed the towel. Well, that was before—before she’d taken control and made her decision; before she’d realized what the hell he was or what her own body could do. When they met next time, it would be different. She’d stake the bastard and enjoy it.

  Well, no, she wouldn’t enjoy it. In fact, she probably wouldn’t even do it. All the plans the hunters had discussed so far involved using her as bait, with her being able to defend herself long enough only to let the cavalry arrive and do the actual killing. Konrad, as team leader, would put himself at the forefront, with István and Mihaela as backup in case he was killed.

  Weird how normal such thoughts had become.

  Dried and dressed, she shouted good-bye to the coach, then headed down to the library to continue her research into vampires in general and Saloman in particular.

  She had her own table now, near the front of the library, piled high with bound volumes and document folders. Just about over her awe of the age and rarity of the material, she was working her way through it, learning about the contribution of vampires—especially Saloman’s—to the history of the region. So far as she could tell, the contemporary documents were genuine, and mostly supported by other sources, even if she’d never heard of those either. Miklós was happy enough to discuss sources with her, telling her the most trustworthy. But if only half the stuff she read about Saloman was true, he’d had just about as much influence on this part of the world as Jesus Christ. Military commander, governor, friend of princes and kings, diplomat, politician—it seemed there was nothing he hadn’t done in the five hundred years of records covering his first life—or at least his second.

  Frowning at the sudden thought, she glanced across at Miklós, who was fetching a large volume from the glass case nearest her. The only other occupant of the library she could see was a researcher, tapping away at one of the computers.

  “Miklós? May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.” He came toward her, laying the book on the edge of her desk.

  “How did the Ancients come about? From what I can gather, modern vampires—that is, all other existing vampires apart from Saloman—are some sort of h
ybrid of dead human and Ancient. What exactly are the Ancients?”

  Miklós sank into the seat beside her and took off his spectacles. “Well, that’s a difficult one. Their origins are lost in the mists of time. Most of the documents we have are only speculation, and the Ancients themselves were oddly reticent. I don’t think they knew either. But look, there’s something in here, a fragment, possibly from a letter, written by Saloman himself. . . .” Miklós rummaged among the document folder until he came up with a brittle piece of vellum.

  Elizabeth, her mouth inexplicably dry, gazed down at it. A jumble of medieval Latin danced before her eyes. Miklós’s finger pointed to the signature at the bottom, one word, Saloman, in bold, sloping letters. The “S” was large and ornamental, the upper loop covering half of the rest of his name. Her stomach twisted. He wrote this. Centuries before Vlad the Impaler. Before the Romanian principalities were even formed.

  “It’s undated,” Miklós observed, as if reading her mind, “but that doesn’t really matter for our purposes. He’s defending the alliance of humans and vampires—possibly to a churchman or a prince; it’s impossible to tell from this fragment—by stating that humans and vampires were once the same species, but that at some point, they diverged, like races within humanity. When some died, they died, their souls moving on. But others, it was possible to revive with the blood of others, and these so-called vampires were more or less immortal. They were given this gift, he says here, in order to protect their weaker, mortal cousins.”

  Elizabeth dragged her eyes away from it. “Is that true?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I have no reason to doubt it. He sounds like an eminently sane and compassionate being, does he not? The contrast with the later Saloman in the seventeenth century is sharp and tragic. The collapse into insanity of the last Ancient, and with him, any real control of the far more bestial modern vampires.”