Afterimage

by Jaye Roycraft

  “No, cherie. Like fire, I am not to be played with.”

  MERDE! DID SHE have any notion at all what her innocent kiss had done to him? She was scared. He knew that. But drowning her fears in misplaced passion was not the answer for either of them. She was too quickly forgetting what he was, seeing in him only some savior on a white horse, wielding an all-powerful magic sword. At any other time he would revel in her acceptance of the fantasy and immerse himself gladly in the sweet energy of her innocence, but the situation was too dangerous. She needed to be rooted in reality, and he needed to keep a clear head. He would need to build perfect control of his mind, his passions, and his body for his next encounter with Verkist, and each touch of Marya’s lips and hands threatened to undo that control.

  He rolled over and off the bed. “Yes, I want to live, but not for you. I want to find the bastard who wants me dead and see that he pays for his impudence.”

  She flinched, almost as though he had hit her, and something twisted deep inside him at the shock and humiliation that flashed over her face. He wanted to go to her, wrap his arms around her, and assure her he hadn’t meant it. But he couldn’t. If they were both to survive, she would have to think of him as the demon he was. There was no savior, only a creature trying to save himself, and no magic sword—only the weapons of cunning and command.

  He pulled on trousers and a white shirt. “Get dressed. I’ll tell you a story to pass the time.”

  She rose from the bed without modesty, and he could see that the look of hurt on her face had swiftly turned to anger. She stalked to where she had left the outfit she had last worn and snatched up the blouse and skirt.

  “Then tell me another story about your city.”

  She yanked on her skirt, and he watched the enticing movements of her slim body as she did so.

  “No.” Not Novgorod. No stories of when he was human. She would know him for what he was now.

  “Then tell me how you got the scar on your arm.”

  He had hurt her, and she, in return, knew exactly how to repay him in kind. “No.”

  She glared at him and gave him a twist of her mouth that could hardly be considered a smile. “Afraid, Drago?”

  He gave her a wide grin, but not, he imagined, a very pretty one. “I would not allow Evrard to manipulate me with that trick, and I certainly wouldn’t let a mortal trap me like that. You will hear only what I wish you to hear, mademoiselle.” He sat on the bed and leaned back against the headboard. “I will tell you a ballad. You like crossroads. This is a story of such a road, and of a warrior named Ilya who came upon it in his old age.” He interlocked his hands behind his head and let his eyelids half close. “The signposts were of stone. Three stones at the intersection directed three paths. One led to a wife, one to riches, and one to la mort, death. Ilya was too old to care about a wife or riches, so he chose the road to death, but on the way he was attacked by thieves. He killed them all and returned to the crossroads. His second choice was the road to the wife, but she was a sorceress. Again, he was cunning enough to prevail, and returned to take the final road to wealth. Ilya found it, a treasure fit for an emperor, but he gave it all away to the poor.” He paused and looked at Marya. Her eyes hadn’t left his since the first word of the story had been uttered. “Each road had been taken. He was penniless and without a wife, but Ilya was unafraid. He went on to fight many battles in the years to come.”

  Marya sat curled in her chair, silent for a moment before she spoke. “So, Drago, is that you? The warrior who searches for death?”

  He lowered his arms and smiled. “It’s a byliny, mademoiselle, a folktale. Nothing more. A very common one, in fact, still told today.”

  Her answering smile told him she didn’t believe him. “How does it end? What happens? Surely the warrior can’t go on fighting forever.”

  He parried her smile with another of his own. “He is finally slain in a great battle and turns to stone, like those that directed him at the crossroads. But fear not that I am Ilya, cherie. The Undead cannot turn to stone.”

  She crossed her arms and hugged herself, as if suddenly cold, but said nothing more.

  “I need to meet with Scott. Afterwards, Evrard and I will make another attempt to resolve things. When I’m gone I want you to stay as close to Scott as possible and do whatever he says. You’re under no obligation to do anything Evrard or his people want you to do, so if you’re ordered to go somewhere, don’t unless Scott tells you to. Understand?”

  She nodded, somewhat reluctantly, he thought. The girl didn’t like taking orders any more than he did.

  “Stay here for now. I’ll be back before I go to Evrard. If anyone knocks at the door, don’t answer, just come into Scott’s room.”

  MARYA WATCHED Drago go into Revelin’s adjoining suite and pull the connecting door closed behind him. She swore under her breath, a very old Romani curse, then wondered why she was bothering to whisper. She didn’t care if every vampire in the building heard her.

  Damn Alek Dragovich! He had done it to her again. What had happened? She didn’t have the slightest idea what she had done to transform the very hot man into the very cold vampire. Did he just enjoy torturing her? She hadn’t had a lot of experience with men, true, but she was certain he hadn’t been repelled by her kiss. His groan had not been one of annoyance or disgust. Of that she was sure. Did he simply resent a mere mortal taking the initiative to kiss him? She sighed and sat back down in the chair. And the story . . . In spite of his protestations, she was sure the story of the warrior had been about Drago himself. When his eyes had slid nearly shut he had looked every bit as worn-out as the hapless Ilya.

  Trying to figure out men was a difficult enough task in itself. Trying to figure out a five-hundred-year-old vampire was next to impossible.

  Twelve

  DRAGO STOOD ON a broad patio that faced the city below and the heavens above. The obligatory southwestern privacy wall surrounded the patio, constructed of concrete block, but with numerous geometric holes to provide an artful touch to the cold barrier. He faced west and gazed at the evening sky. The sun had just set, the far off mountains on the other side of the Valley of the Sun having swallowed the final flare of coral fire. A halo of lemon yellow crowned the modest peaks, and above the yellow the western sky glowed a phosphorescent green. Higher still, the clear aquamarine sky was already deepening to its shade of night. The night lights of Phoenix were beginning to twinkle across the valley floor.

  Evrard stood at the wall and watched as well. “I hope you don’t mind our continuing our business out here. I don’t fancy you tearing up my house.”

  Drago paced along the opposite end of the wall. “Is that what you’re afraid I’ll do?”

  “Your temper is well known. As well as your ability to cause damage in unique ways.”

  Drago ran his hand along the top of the wall, feeling the rough texture. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Let us hope it does not come to that, monsieur.”

  “Then you’ve reconsidered your position?”

  “I think you know me better than that, Evrard.”

  The Patriarch spread his arms and leaned against the top edge of the wall. “Then you and I are at a stalemate, Drago, because I don’t have what you want.”

  “I think you do. How can I be sure you’re not lying? Will you submit to my mastery?”

  Evrard turned to Drago and laughed. “Now I think you know me better than that.”

  Drago did know him, at least as well as one vampire was able to know another. The two had fenced with each other many times over the years, yet Drago had always felt there was a part of Evrard’s past that remained cloaked from him. It was what all master vampires strove to do—to veil their abilities and intentions from the world—and Evrard had done it well. “We have had too many stalemates over the years, my friend. No more. It ends tonight, one way
or another. We will find out at last which of us is the stronger. Are you prepared for this?”

  “I have nothing you want, but you have everything I want, Drago. I think that gives me the advantage, don’t you? Yes, I’m prepared.”

  Something in Evrard’s voice more than his words gave Drago pause. Not that he had instilled fear in Drago, but he had instilled caution. Drago’s gaze panned his surroundings one more time. The patio was empty of furniture. A metal gate at one end of the wall led to a series of steps and landings that traversed the side of the mountain downward. Evening shadows swallowed the rust-colored rock, slowly erasing color and dimension from the landscape. Drago’s vision, however, had no trouble discerning that which the light of day stole. Perceiving Evrard’s true nature was a different story. Drago looked at him, and his opponent shone like a silver knight even in the shadows. How many of the rumors shrouding Evrard Verkist over the centuries were true?

  Drago knew with a sudden certainty that Evrard had brought the battle outside not for fear of what he might do, but of the damage Evrard himself could do. Evrard was said to have been a sorcerer both in life and in death. It was time to find out.

  “Then let the game begin, monsieur.” Drago opened his eyes wide, locked his gaze on his opponent’s, and unleashed the dazzling energy of command. “The truth, Evrard. Did you have my order forged?”

  Evrard laughed, a ringing sound that echoed in the evening’s stillness, and his eyes swiftly altered, gleaming like polished chrome instead of living tissue. “Truth? There is no truth I can give you. We each take bits and pieces of reality and fantasy and forge our own truths, don’t we? Our truths aren’t for mortals, and mine is not for you!”

  “You’re mine, Evrard, as is everyone in the Brotherhood. You will tell me what I wish to know.” It was a bold boast, but Drago had always had confidence that his mastery could indeed overcome any vampire’s resistance. But Evrard was different, and thus far, Drago’s commands were having little effect. Drago’s mind reached out for Evrard’s with increasingly stronger tendrils of dominance and command, but Evrard managed to stay just out of reach.

  “Fantasy, Drago, fantasy. You think you have me, but you don’t.”

  Drago circled his opponent. It was a movement more out of habit than anything else. On the empty patio, there was no way to gain a physical advantage.

  “I’ll tell you what’s fantasy, Evrard, and that is any aspiration you have of ascending the hierarchy. You will never be chosen by the Directorate. Never.”

  “Coming from someone with so little Directorate support, that’s as meaningless a statement as any I’ve ever heard. When your position becomes available, I will be the new enforcier.”

  Drago’s anger surged, and with it, a new release of power. The cutting blades of energy, Drago’s most unique and potent weapon, slashed out at his opponent’s mind. It was energy that could shred ideas and hack at a man’s will until nothing was left except a muddle of confusion and disjointed thoughts. “How many other vampires have you killed in your ascension to Patriarch, Evrard?”

  Evrard laughed again, and the sound seemed to come at Drago from every direction. “Killing is forbidden, Drago. You know that.”

  The invisible knives carved and cut, but their target always seemed just beyond Drago’s range. Drago’s mind hurled the force, over and over, but Evrard avoided every slash of power. It was almost as though Evrard was clouding Drago’s mind, making him believe he was here, when in fact he was there.

  “I know killing is forbidden, monsieur. But do you?” Drago tried another tactic. He extended one hand in Evrard’s direction, then swung his arm in an arc, like a maestro conducting an orchestra. The flow of energy jerked Evrard’s feet from under him, and he landed heavily on his back. Drago immediately worked on Evrard’s mind again, hoping the jolt of physical pain would weaken his concentration long enough for the slashing power to do its deadly work. Evrard cried out and lifted a hand of his own at Drago.

  Drago thought it was a “stop” gesture of submission, but immediately a fireball formed and appeared to hurl itself right at Drago’s head. He dodged the flames, but surprise at such power broke his own hold on Evrard.

  Evrard sprang to his feet. “I know more than you ever will, Drago. Are you even now asking yourself if that fire was real or just in your mind?”

  Another white-hot sphere, like a tiny sun, flared and launched itself at Drago. Fire was as deadly to vampires as silver, yet somehow Evrard had found a way to harness a bane to vampires as a weapon. Drago, standing next to the wall, had nowhere to go. He used his arms to vault himself over the wall and fell a dozen feet to the ground below. The slope of the mountain lessened the hard impact of the fall, but his momentum as well as the loose stones carried him downward to the first stairway landing. With vampiric speed to match his own, Evrard was halfway down the stairs to the landing before Drago could get off the ground. Drago wasn’t injured, but the break in concentration made him too vulnerable. Another fireball flew at him, and he rolled away, gaining his feet in the process.

  Was the fire real? Drago didn’t want to find out the hard way. There was only one thing to do. Drago hurled his mental knives again, this time at Evrard’s body, simultaneously extending his arm and flicking his wrist in a ‘come hither’ motion. Evrard fell forward, as if pushed from behind, and somersaulted down the stairs. He tumbled to the landing, and when he stood, his lace cravat hung in shreds, and the front of his white shirt was covered with a crosswise pattern of blood.

  “Damn you, Drago . . .”

  But Drago was on his feet and ready for him. Evrard’s eyes would be next. He couldn’t hurl a fireball if he couldn’t see his target. “I was damned over five hundred years ago, monsieur. Nothing you can do to me can surpass that.” Drago loosed his cutting power on Evrard’s face, not bothering to aim too finely.

  Evrard screamed, trying to cover his face with his hands, but the only result was that they, too, became targets. Blinded, he never saw Drago whip behind him and catch him in a chokehold. The vampire’s bloody hands tried to dislodge Drago’s, but his hold was secure. And while Drago’s size was no match for Evrard’s, his superhuman physical potency was.

  “I could break your neck before you draw your next breath, monsieur.”

  Evrard’s reply was a strangled cry. “You can’t kill me.”

  “I’ve lost count of the number of vampires who have said that to me, thinking it would save them. It was their last words. So think carefully, Evrard. I’ve become quite adept at ripping spines out. You can die, or you can submit. Your choice.”

  “This round is yours.”

  Drago curled his lips back as he tightened his grip even more. “Say the words!”

  “I submit.”

  “A good choice, mon ami. Your sight should restore itself in a few moments. Change your clothes and we will meet again to discuss our business without fireballs and knives. Yes?”

  Drago felt Evrard’s nod against his forearm. He leaned his mouth very close to Evrard’s ear. “Play me false, monsieur, and I will kill you. Never assume for a moment that I won’t.” He flung the vampire’s body away from him. Evrard smacked the far side of the landing and rolled into the red dust of the hillside.

  Drago looked down in disgust at the splatters of blood on his shirt. He ripped the shirt off just as Evrard stood up and flung the shirt at the man’s head. “I detest the stench of vampire blood.”

  Drago made his way back through the great room and across the foyer to his room unescorted. None of the vampires he met in the hallway dared to challenge him, and most went so far as to show him deference by lowering their eyes. Drago didn’t know if it was the sight of the blood on his hands or the look he imagined was on his face. It didn’t matter. If he was smart, he would take Marya, Scott, and Callie and leave now. He had the upper hand, something he may not be able t
o maintain. But there was still Nikolena’s assignment and his own mission. He hadn’t found out if Evrard Verkist was responsible for Marya’s order, and he hadn’t learned if Evrard had risen in the hierarchy through forbidden means. The thought spoiled any pleasure he had derived in besting the Patriarch.

  He pushed in the door to Scott’s suite without knocking.

  Marya jumped from her chair. “My God!”

  Scott kept his seat, but raised his brows. “Bugger me!”

  “There’s blood all over you. What happened?” asked Marya.

  Drago strode into the bathroom and washed his hands and arms. “The Belgian’s wardrobe is short one overpriced shirt and one very expensive lace necktie.”

  Scott stood and leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his chest. “As apparently is yours, Drago.”

  Drago dried his hands and looked at Scott. He had done him the same disservice, in a much smaller way, to be sure, but he knew Scott hadn’t forgotten. “Just so, my friend. But I didn’t bleed all over my shirt the way Evrard bled all over his.” It was vital that Scott understand that. Drago had no misconceptions about Scott’s loyalty. Orders notwithstanding, if Scott detected any weakness in Drago at all, Drago had no doubt the younger vampire would back Evrard Verkist if forced to take sides.

  Scott didn’t smile. “You didn’t kill the bugger, did you?”

  Drago shook his head. “La directrice would be proud of me. I exercised restraint. Something I’m sure she believes to be totally lacking in my character.”

  A small smile finally pulled at Scott’s mouth. “So what now?”

  Drago exited the bathroom and paused at the connecting door. “Now that the posturing is over, we will sit down and play at being gentlemen. He will tell me what I wish to know, and then we can leave this godforsaken desert. I don’t much care for the heat.” He opened the door, crossed into his own suite, and slammed the door shut behind him.