A Vampire's Dominion

by Vanessa Fewings

  Chapter 7

  THE FEMALE, TWENTY-TWO year old Gothica Anaïs, stood barefoot on the floor’s ornate hexagon. Long, black hair and heavy make-up emphasized her delicate features bestowed by her Japanese heritage. She wore the classic attire of a servant of Belshazzar’s, and her body was kissed here and there with tattoos.

  Twenty or so other elders stood a little way behind her, all eager to watch the proceedings of the Gothica’s initiation on her day of decision.

  Zachary approached Anaïs, sharing words of reassurance with her.

  Marcus was seated in the center of one of three high-backed chairs upon a high platform. I sat to his right.

  His ironclad grip brought my attention back on him. “Sunaria’s hurting,” he said quietly. “She’ll come round.”

  “I’ve lost her again,” I whispered, not believing it possible.

  Marcus looked away, unsure how to placate me.

  This was one of Belshazzar’s largest subterranean chambers, reserved only for the elite, all mortals forbidden unless expressly authorized by the elders for occasions such as this, tonight’s ruling in our vampire court.

  But right now my mind was far from this place.

  Marcus admired my fresh clothes that Zachary had bought for me. “They fit you well,” he said.

  I tugged on the pinstripe shirt. “You do realize Jadeon dressed like this.”

  Marcus looked stunned. “I don’t pretend to understand any of this but I know it’s you, Orpheus, and this is your home.”

  “My sanctuary.”

  He seemed to take comfort in that.

  My gaze found the room again. “Not really in the mood.”

  “What goes on in here is never about us,” he said. “You always insisted on presiding.”

  “Not today.”

  Penthea, the tall slender nightwalker who managed the bar, took the seat on Marcus’s left. Zachary stood nearby, waiting on his master’s next order.

  “You know why you’re here?” Marcus addressed Anaïs, gesturing for her to speak.

  Anaïs looked to Penthea for guidance, though Penthea ignored her, hinting the girl was to look at Marcus.

  “It’s five years to the day,” Anaïs began, “that I swore allegiance to Belshazzar’s.”

  Marcus leaned forward. “And what were you promised?”

  “If I served loyally, I’d be rewarded.”

  “And in your opinion have you fulfilled your part?” he asked.

  Anaïs froze.

  “Answer the question,” Penthea commanded.

  “I believe so. Yes, mistress,” said Anaïs.

  Marcus leaned over to Penthea. “Covent Garden?”

  “We found Anaïs begging,” said Penthea.

  “She was only sixteen,” Marcus said, remembering. “So, today we decide.”

  Anaïs’s seemed fascinated with me and her attention was making me uncomfortable.

  “She’s your Gothica?” Marcus asked Penthea. “Anything you’d like to add?”

  Penthea gave a bored sigh. “Anaïs has served me well.”

  Anaïs reacted to her name being spoken as though only now understanding what today was, realizing the door was closing on her once unremarkable life where days, weeks and years had passed ordinarily. As much as it can for a Gothica.

  Marcus reached into Anaïs’s thoughts. “Come here.”

  She stepped forward, warily.

  “You were good friends with Gill?” Marcus asked flatly.

  Anaïs shrugged. “Sort of.”

  “Shall I ask the question again?” he asked.

  Anaïs’s pupils dilated. “We were friends.”

  “And you think your fate could end up like hers?” Marcus glanced at me.

  She shivered. “Gill served her years as a novice . . .”

  Marcus gestured for Anaïs to come closer and took her hands in his. “Gill was saved by Orpheus. He was planning on making her a Gothica. Gill took advantage of her position.”

  Penthea added, “A faction of vampires in Scotland bought her loyalty with drugs. They paid her to spy on her master and report back to them. They were plotting to take over Belshazzar’s.”

  “Do you know what Orpheus did?” Marcus asked Anaïs.

  “He killed her,” she whispered.

  Marcus let her hands go. “And then he paid the clan a visit.”

  “We laid Gill’s body out at Stonehenge,” Penthea said with pride.

  Marcus sat back. “Betrayal is always dealt with.”

  “Gillian never made it to where you stand now,” Penthea added. “She wasn’t worthy.”

  Marcus rose, towering over Anaïs. “Gillian was never allowed into the heart of Belshazzar’s inner circle. But you’ve been welcomed in.”

  “I didn’t betray you, I swear,” Anaïs said.

  Marcus raised his chin; his demeanor proud. “Anaïs, from the day you stepped into Belshazzar’s and took the oath of allegiance, the elders have accessed your every thought.”

  Anaïs’s jaw slackened.

  “It is our privilege as elite nightwalkers to read the minds of mortals,” he said.

  Penthea shrank back, revealing she was not among the privileged to share such a gift, and she threw me a look.

  Marcus sat again. “That’s why you’re still alive, Anaïs.” He pointed. “See that door behind you?”

  Anaïs turned to where Marcus was gesturing.

  “If you choose to go through that door, you’ll be well taken care of,” he said. “As your contract stipulates, five-hundred thousand pounds will be deposited into an off-shore bank account for you. Your memory will be wiped.”

  Anaïs showed her understanding, seemingly hoping for Marcus to say the words of what was once promised back when misery was her only friend.

  “Or . . .” Marcus gestured to Zachary.

  Zachary approached, holding a scarlet pillow, atop which rested a black collar, like the one he was wearing.

  Marcus ran his fingertips over it. “You can wear this adornment of a fledgling and continue to serve within these walls. Your elders will show you the way of the vampire.”

  “I want to be a vampire,” Anaïs didn’t hesitate. “I want to be beautiful like them.”

  “No going back, Anaïs.” Marcus waited for Penthea’s gesture of confirmation that she’d been prepared.

  “She knows what it entails,” Penthea answered.

  Marcus held Zachary’s gaze, trusting his opinion over Penthea’s.

  Zachary gave Marcus a nod, agreeing he too believed Anaïs was ready, and proceeded to guide her over to the long oriental-carved table. He assisted her upon it.

  Marcus beamed me a smile. “Don’t you just love birthdays?”

  I wanted to reply I’d never been one for celebrating the day I was murdered and transformed into a being who sucks the life out of another in order to survive. But fearing it might ruin the mood, I kept that to myself.

  Marcus picked up on my reservation and whispered. “These feelings will pass.”

  “And you know that for sure?” I threw him a strained smile but it faded all too quickly.

  “Apparently,” Marcus deftly changed the subject, “Anaïs has a knack for doing the Times crossword puzzle in less than five minutes.”

  Fascinated, I tried to imagine what event in her life might have sent her spiraling and ending up here as a servant of the undead.

  Anaïs lay on her back staring up at the ceiling, her hands across her chest as instructed, her heart beating faster, her thoughts trying to grasp the idea that her life was about to change irrevocably and that a kind of death was just minutes away.

  Penthea rose up and headed over to her.

  “Does it have to be her that performs it?” I asked, concerned.

  “Anaïs is Penthea’s Gothica,” Marcus murmured.

  “Still,” I said.

  Penthea’s bite was so fierce that even I flinched.

  I clenched my teeth, hating the way Penthea took no reg
ard for Anaïs’s need for reassurance and the girl gripped the sides of the table, trying to remain still as ordered, her knuckles white, her eyelids squeezed shut.

  There’d been no sensuous gesture to lull her, no delicate foreplay to ease her transition. Penthea had gone in for the kill with an unmatched ferociousness.

  And by the expressions of the onlookers, I wasn’t the only one appalled.

  “You approve?” I asked Marcus.

  “Her technique lacks panache, I admit it.”

  I rose and made my way toward them.

  Stroking Anaïs’s hair, I whispered to her, “It’ll be over soon. Try to relax.” I grabbed Penthea’s arm and sent her a mind message. “Lighten your bite or you’ll feel mine.”

  Penthea’s face flushed with anger, her mouth still clamped onto Anaïs’s throat, draining her.

  Zachary stood on the other side, holding Anaïs’s hand, doing his best to comfort the girl with whispers of reassurance. There was a flurry of activity as Penthea pulled Anaïs up into a sitting position and then bit into her own wrist, pressing it up against Anaïs’s mouth.

  Sucking as hard and fast as she could, Anaïs swallowed just as she’d been schooled in preparation for this night, blood seeping from the corners of her lips and trickling down her throat.

  I rubbed Anaïs’s back, trying to teach these barbarians a better way of performing our sacred ritual, hating myself for receding my power.

  Anaïs’s doubt echoed like the darkest silent scream, fearing she’d failed to think this through, the once seeming glamour of transformation savagely stolen by Penthea’s ignorance of the art. I caught Anaïs as she fell back shuddering in my arms, her thighs trembling from the blood she’d imbibed. This was what I wanted for her, a mortal’s privilege of experiencing such sensuousness, snatching not only her breath away, but also soothing her.

  Anaïs’s future beckoned. Endless nights filled with uncharted territory of luscious delights, adventures so rich in promise that immortality seemed the obvious choice as all doubts dissipated.

  Her convulsions shook the table beneath her. Whispers carried from the onlookers and voices rose in concern. Anaïs’s eyes bulged, her chest heaving, her pallor morphing into a grayish hue; death’s rattle enduring.

  Marcus shot beside me, trying to stir Anaïs, but her pallor remained blue; her flesh mottling.

  “Out of the way,” I commanded Penthea.

  “How dare you speak to me like that!” she said.

  “She’s dead!” Zachary’s voice trembled. “Master, please help her.”

  “Out,” I ordered Penthea.

  “She’s mine to save,” she hissed back.

  I glared at her. “You’ve done enough.”

  Gasps echoed behind me and though I didn’t turn to see them, I knew the others were leaving and that even for them this was too much.

  “I want you gone from Belshazzar’s,” I told Penthea.

  Her lips curled in a scowl. “How dare you!”

  “Do as he says,” Marcus said.

  “Who is he to order me?” Penthea demanded.

  “A Status Regal,” he answered.

  “Then he can bring her back?” Penthea’s voice cracked with guilt.

  I raised my right hand and imagined squeezing Penthea’s throat and she choked, gasping for air, her eyes widening in surprise, proving I was making my point.

  She fled, leaving a whirling breeze.

  Marcus stroked Anaïs’s forehead. “Is it too late for her?”

  Lying before me was a rail thin girl, her flesh blue and blotchy like a dead rag doll with all life gone from her.

  I glanced back up with my answer.

  Chapter 8

  THE TOWERING FOUR FACED clock kept perfect time.

  I slipped passed the lone security guard and headed through the low doorway, ascending the winding staircase toward the tower, trying to think of anything but how high I’d be going.

  Or how I was going to achieve anything when I got up there.

  Counting at least one hundred steps of the three hundred and thirty-four to the belfry so far, I peered down the way I’d come at the wrought iron staircase, marveling at how Big Ben was still boasted as one of the largest clock’s in the world, recalling its construction in 1859 when Queen Victoria had ruled; this darling of landmarks having since survived two world wars as well as the Blitz.

  Vertigo hit me and I stepped back.

  Again that issue with heights and I questioned if it was a passing phase, a symptom of more recent events. I tried to shake it off and forced myself to look over the banister and face this new fear.

  I rallied the courage to continue.

  There it was, the other side of the huge clock face made up of stunning cast iron circle sections with twelve or so white pieces of glass perfectly designed within and it was well over twenty feet across, the faint shadow of the small hand inching its way every two seconds closer to the fourth Roman numeral.

  The minute hand was carved expertly in solid bronze and beyond the glowing clock face was a spectacular view of the grey city skyline, the grand metropolis below showing signs of life stirring.

  Attached to the wall was a brass stairwell that I assumed led to the rooftop and I reached for the first rung and began the short climb upward.

  With a nudge the skylight lifted and I rose onto the roof; my long coat flapping.

  There, leaning precariously over the edge with his back to me, was the man I’d followed up here.

  The handsome, dark complexioned young man, pulled his tatty jacket tight around him, trying to shield himself from the cold. His jeans were dirty and ripped. He peered over, seeming hypnotized by the drop.

  I’d found his name amongst fifty or more Stone Lords stored on the flash drive stashed in Belshazzar’s safe. I’d been tracking him for just over an hour and was initially annoyed with his choice of locale until I realized his intentions.

  The first hammer struck one of the smaller bells and I pressed my hands against my ears, knowing that any second the largest of the three bells would strike.

  He stared back wildly, squeezing his hands against his ears.

  Despite being in his mid-twenties the lines around his eyes aged him, and his fragility hinted at misery.

  There was a mutual sigh of relief when Big Ben finished announcing it was quarter past the hour, though the ringing in my ears was still terrible, and from the stranger’s expression he too was suffering the after effects.

  His attention fell once more onto the city below. “To die . . .” he whispered with a Welsh lilt, shifting closer to the edge. “To sleep.”

  I took a step toward him. “Perchance to dream.”

  He tipped back, frowning. “Don’t come any closer.”

  I peered to my left and a wave of vertigo struck again. I turned back to face the man who was now squinting at me. He pulled his grey worn coat around him.

  I glanced at my wristwatch.

  “You don’t need that.” He pointed downward. “You’re standing on one of the world’s finest time pieces.”

  “Can’t see the clock face from here.” A wave of vertigo hit and I coughed it off. “Nice view.”

  “Yeah right.” He gestured. “You first.”

  I pressed my fingertips against my forehead, trying to decide whether to go back inside the bell tower.

  “What’s your reason?” he asked.

  I ignored him.

  “Not so easy, is it?” he said, interrupting my thoughts. “What if we jump together?”

  “I came up here to think.”

  “Sure.”

  “The vista’s something else.” I found myself drawn to him, as though his dark irises might just answer all my questions.

  He raised his hand. “If you take one more step . . .”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted?”

  “In my own time.”

  Lost amidst his rambling thoughts, gauging where to go from here; I noticed his worn shoes. />
  “This is not who I am.” He tugged his tatty shirt and his eyes glistened as though dwelling on what had led him here.

  “Not that it matters now,” I said.

  “Does to me.” He adjusted his footing, revealing an unsteady gait as he favored his right leg.

  “Trust me, whatever I’m thinking right now will be surpassed by those who stroll past your mangled corpse.” I pointed. “Down there.”

  “Grief counselor are you?”

  “Is that why you’re here? You’re grieving?”

  “And you?”

  “I have a problem with timing, apparently.” I marveled how I’d almost forgotten why I was here, becoming so engrossed in this man’s life and impending death.

  “You remind me of one of my old professors,” he said.

  “You studied at Cambridge?”

  “Law.” His frown deepened. “That was a good guess.”

  “Your accent.”

  “I’m Welsh.”

  “With a hint of Cambridge.”

  “Really?”

  “Family tradition?”

  He studied me. “My father met my mother there. What do you do?”

  “What does it matter now?”

  He peered down the side of the tower. “I tried to explain to my father that I found no passion in law.”

  “He wanted the best for you.”

  “Much to my father’s embarrassment, I left.” He pulled his lips into a frown. “We were never that close.” He raised his chin. “Instead of following his dream, I followed mine.”

  “Good for you.” Though the irony of that statement now sounded ridiculous. Trying to save the moment and somewhat intrigued, I asked, “What did you do?”

  “Why?”

  I gave a shrug. “Talking is helping me right now.”

  He hesitated and then said, “I joined The National Ballet.”

  “As a dancer?”

  “Yes, as a dancer.” His head snapped my way. “What about you? What do you do?”

  “Art,” I said it softly.

  “You’re an artist?”

  I thought about how best to answer; the question forcing the deception out like lava, erupting a scolding truth that yes, some part of me had once been hopelessly in love with art. I kept silent, hoping the attention would fall back on him.