Mortal Souls

by Amy Hoff

  “An altruistic vampire. I never thought I'd see the day,” said Magnus.

  Desdemona glanced up sharply.

  “It's not altruism,” she growled. “It's common sense, Magnus Grey. Humans are mortal. They die, we starve without dying. Selkies starved of love, your people wandering lonely. Gregoire's people never find the acceptance of the humans, or even the possibility of it. If you can name me one supernatural that doesn't need humanity I will be amazed. Humans need faerie stories. And we need them.”

  There was silence in the tent as they considered this. Desdemona stood.

  “Right, men,” she said. “Get some rest, if you're the kind of creature that needs it.”

  ***

  Robert grinned and stretched. Leah appreciated it. Dorian was blushing a strange colour Leah would never have expected to see in his pale cheeks.

  Gregoire stoked the fire. Robert stood up.

  “That's enough stories for one night,” he said. “I need to get back to the hotel. Get some rest, Leah.”

  “Sure thing,” she said. “Thanks, Robert.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I'll be back tomorrow to check on you.”

  Robert left. Gregoire watched him go, warily.

  “Wow, Dorian, you've had one hell of a life!” said Leah. “These stories are incredible! I wish you'd told them to me before, but I have to admit that having Robert Burns tell me bedtime stories is not something I'm going to complain about.”

  Gregoire looked into the fire.

  “Well, there is one story Robert doesn't know. Isn't that right, Dorian?” he asked.

  Dorian looked nervous.

  “I don't think now is the best time,” he began.

  “Now is definitely the time, Gregoire. What do you mean?” asked Leah.

  Gregoire glanced at Dorian, who stared at him, silently begging him not to speak.

  Gregoire had other plans.

  CESSNOCK BANKS

  “Gregoire, can you move the most badly injured here to the front, please?” Desdemona called out.

  The entire glade was filled with the groaning injured and the dying. Gregoire, the urisk medic, was tending to his patients as well as he could, given their limited supplies. He looked up at her and nodded. A few of his assistants set about making litters for the patients.

  Desdemona knelt by one of her dying soldiers, her hand on his shoulder, whispering something. She rose to see Dorian and Magnus approach from the treeline.

  “Hello,” she said to the selkies. “If you want to make yourselves useful you can grab some of this ointment. We have other wounded to attend to; one of the Fae lost an arm but with Gregoire’s stitching we'll get him back together again. It'll attach itself in no time.”

  She saw their stony expressions and her soldier’s intuition told her something was wrong.

  “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

  “Desdemona,” said Magnus stiffly. “We are here on official business. Caledonia Interpol.”

  Desdemona barked a laugh.

  “Those idiots?” she said. “Yes, well. What do they want now? There's a war on.”

  “You are under arrest for smuggling fae opium into Scotland.”

  Desdemona stared at them for a very long time.

  “Interesting,” she said evenly. “And exactly who informed Caledonia Interpol of that?”

  Dorian looked at the ground. Magnus stepped forward.

  “As of today, you are exiled,” said Magnus. “Your offence is serious, but not serious enough to warrant execution. You have –”

  Desdemona stepped into his space, ice and fury.

  “Magnus Grey,” she said, “I am the commander of the entire Fae battalion. If you remove me from duty I do not know what will happen. You must know that I would have nothing to do with the Smoke –”

  “You are an addict,” Magnus said in disgust.

  “That was a long time ago,” she replied. “I am not that person anymore. You cannot remove me from duty.”

  She put her face very near his, and spoke softly.

  “I trusted you,” she said, “and protected you on the battlefield when all the two of you could do was stir up some wind! I will not forget this betrayal.”

  “Magnus, maybe we should –” Dorian began.

  “No, Dorian. Addicts are often liars,” said Magnus, not taking his eyes off of Desdemona.

  “So be it on your head, Magnus Grey,” she said.

  Magnus tied her wrists behind her. She stared at Dorian, who averted his eyes.

  “Don't think you're innocent in this, Dorian,” she said. “He's doing this out of sincere belief. You didn't defend me out of weakness. That's dishonourable, and unworthy of a warrior.”

  Magnus pushed her away from Dorian, toward the edge of the clearing.

  “Good luck with the rest of the war,” she told Dorian, as she passed by.

  ***

  Robert walked through the forest, trying not to smile to himself like an idiot and failing spectacularly.

  He’d gone on a few of his own adventures now as a vampire and noticed that he no longer marked time in the way he once did. It had been many years but he was eager to see the people he once fought side-by-side with, and he was fairly certain they would be where he had left them so long ago.

  Robert was thrilled to be returning after all this time, to join his friends and Desdemona. Learning to be a vampire was not easy for him; it went against many aspects of his nature and his love for small living things.

  He turned the corner in the wood, and it was empty.

  Puzzled, he turned around himself. This was the clearing, he was certain of it. It had been several years since he’d been there, but he knew Desdemona hadn’t moved camp in some time.

  Had she left and not said goodbye?

  “She’s gone,” said a voice. He turned to see Gregoire standing in the trees.

  “Gregoire!” he said. “What’s happened? Did you move camp?”

  “No,” he replied, “the camp is through here. Medical bay was too full, so we adjusted the location.”

  Robert began to follow and then stopped short.

  “You just said she’s gone,” he said. “Gone? From here? From the war? From Scotland?” “Yes,” Gregoire said.

  “How?” he asked. “Why?”

  Gregoire shrugged his shoulders, although he knew.

  They entered the camp.

  Robert’s stomach revolted.

  Blood and ichor was everywhere, the stench of the place was unbelievable. The cries of the wounded went to his heart and stayed there. As horrific as his first encounter with the medical area had been, it was nothing compared to the suffering spread out before him.

  “What’s happened, Gregoire?” he whispered.

  “Without her,” Gregoire said faintly, “this is how the tides of war have turned.”

  ***

  In Paris, the moon shone on cobblestone streets.

  Desdemona was baobhan sith.

  She’d been foolish to sacrifice the strength and tradition of life as a vampire in order to help the Fae and the humans.

  Her hair was long and red again, her smile razor sharp, her eyes blazing green embers into the night.

  Her clothes were green, and the robe fell away from her body, shimmering, as she stepped on the stage. The music began to play, and she swirled the veil around herself.

  Forget.

  This is who you were meant to be.

  War, and fighting, and Robert Burns –

  Forget.

  Ridiculous human nonsense.

  Be beautiful. Dance. Feed.

  That is all you are worth, after all.

  CESSNOCK BANKS

  The battlefield at Cessnock Water was silent.

  Birds had returned to the forest, and made sleepy coos from the trees.

  Iain sat morosely with his gun by his side, forgotten. He loved that thing and polished it like it was his prize possession. Now, he just sat, staring off into the d
istance.

  Robert approached and sat down beside him.

  “Hello, Iain,” he said. Iain’s eyes flicked toward him and then down.

  “You miss her too?” he asked. No response but a quick tightening of the seal-man’s lips.

  Robert looked out over the forest, the cots of the wounded.

  “Well, I miss her,” he sighed. “I always do. Now it’s worse.”

  He put his arms on his knees, his hands hanging down. He sighed, and closed his eyes.

  Gregoire stepped out of the last remaining tent. He would be the last to leave, as he was looking after the sick and dying. He looked up at a sky, the gloaming filling the place with purple and lavender darkness.

  There was only a split second of silence.

  Then there was a pinprick of light in the sky.

  And Gregoire knew, as the light fell and expanded, that once again he would have to collect the scraps in the aftermath. He shielded his head with his arms and braced himself, wondering how they were able to get such an accurate bead on their location. He didn’t even have time to call out a warning to the others.

  Without Desdemona, there was no respite, and no hope.

  The explosion shook the earth, down deep where the creatures that had no interest in the ongoing war for humankind lived.

  The light was brilliant, and consumed them all.

  ***

  In Paris, the moon shone on.

  ***

  Rain fell softly on the cobblestones, the murmur of the water turning the street silver-white. Two figures stood waiting in front of a door that suddenly opened, suffusing them in a warm and intoxicating glow of incense and candlelight.

  The room was a dark and gaudy fantasy of Arabia, rich hangings and cushions, smoke curling from pipes. Young men lounged in various attitudes around the room.

  The woman at the centre was more stark than beautiful. Her white skin stood out against the cushions; her fiery hair curled over a bare shoulder. She put a cigarette to lips as red as the velvet, with delicate fingers ending in long nails keen as razorblades. Colours around her brightened in comparison.

  Life is livelier around death.

  The door opened, and a breath of night air moved through.

  “Messieurs Dorian et Magnus Grey,” announced the man at the entrance. The men in the chamber turned towards the door, vaguely curious in their opium haze.

  Desdemona sat up as she recognised the newcomers, shaking the rain from their cloaks.

  “Seals,” she said, “What are you doing so far from the sea?”

  “We could ask you what you are doing here,” said Magnus, his voice gentle, soft, insinuating, as he looked around the room. The young men struggled to their feet, despite their state of delirium, and crowded around her in defence.

  “It's all right,” she said to them, smiling with white teeth, “these are...old...friends.”

  The young men resumed their original positions, but all had turned toward the selkies, watching them with wary eyes.

  “Desdemona –” Dorian began.

  “You had me banished, Dorian Grey,” she snarled, “You know exactly what I am doing here. Your kind is not welcome.”

  “You'd prefer life in the Highlands? Everyone died, Desdemona! Everyone. The Highlands are empty. You don't want to be there.”

  “You had no right to make that choice for me,” she said. “They were my people too.”

  “You fed on them,” said Dorian, “Your kind were making things worse.”

  “I'm a vampire, Dorian!” she said, “It's what I do. Humans eat steak. Selkies eat fish. You're a hypocrite. You can't banish an entire Highland species! They are my people too.”

  “You're set up well here,” said Magnus, looking around the chamber, and at the plentiful supply of both food and wine, “You're in Paris, in the centre of art and culture, with men on whom you are able to feed. I don't see what you have to complain about.”

  “When you are exiled, you can tell me how it feels,” said Desdemona, “Come with me. I’ll show you something.”

  She stood and walked into the back of the room, and pulled on a golden rope. A red curtain moved aside to reveal a staircase winding away into darkness. They followed her down the steps into the underground chill. At the bottom, the staircase opened out into a cavernous wine cellar. Countless bottles lined the walls, and stood lone sentinels on barrels, covered with dust. Her white hand touched one of them, and she pulled out a bottle from the rack, handing it to Dorian.

  She looked at him, her green eyes bright.

  “I have travelled the entire world, Dorian Grey,” she said, “I hadn't returned to Scotland in centuries. Word came to me of the suffering there, and so I returned in secret. Although it had changed much and seemed strange to me, the land – the bones of the country – remained the same. I knew it as I know myself.”

  She paused, remembering. She indicated the bottle Dorian held in his hands.

  “Here,” she said, “is blood from a woman in 1746, just after Culloden. I taught myself how to bottle it. Like wine, it improves with age.”

  “You were part of the suffering!” said Dorian, “how could you do this at the worst possible -”

  “Dorian,” Desdemona interrupted gently, “let me explain. This woman gave me her blood in exchange for safe passage out of the country for herself and her children. A vampire, by night, can do many things – and inspire fear – when others cannot. Especially a baobhan sith who knows the dark and lonely roads of the Highlands. The loss and suffering was too much for us to bear, and many of us – including me! – changed our ways to prevent the further sorrow of our people. Then, as now, I drink only enough to stay alive. I drink what is freely given. This woman lived a long and full life! So do her children, who today prosper because we monsters chose to do what others would not.”

  Desdemona gestured at the bottles.

  “All of this comes from people I helped,” she said, “escape to America, to France, to anywhere Scotland was welcome. There are Scots all over the world because I helped them. Think of how they may have been annihilated if they had not been able to emigrate! Scotland's children survive, the various bloodlines intact, because vampires helped them cross the sea. So get off your high horse, selkie, you have limited imagination.”

  Dorian stared around the room. He touched one of the bottles.

  “And this?” he asked.

  “That's the champagne rack,” said Desdemona, “I like to drink the blood with alcohol, since this commitment means that many baobhan sith are in a state of permanent near-starvation. Absinthe is best, and seems as though it were made for the purpose. The alcohol doesn't do much for me, but I enjoy the flavour.”

  She sighed, folding her arms across her chest.

  “I'm a vampire, in the end,” she said, “There is no real way I can be considered on the side of good. I saw what happened to our people, the starvation and the suffering. I watched the soldiers...Scottish soldiers, on King William's side. It seemed, in fact, that King William's side was the Scottish side, as there were more Scots with him than with Charles. The soldiers refused to help any of their own, even women who were not allowed to drink the blood of their own slaughtered cattle. They starved to death. Starved, while the soldiers watched and laughed."

  She looked down, tears in her eyes.

  "I saw our people die too, Dorian. So I helped in the only way I knew how. Even monsters have their limit, and that was mine.”

  “I am sorry, Desdemona,” said Dorian, “I had no idea.”

  “Of course you didn't,” she said, rounding on him, “that's who you both are – strike first, ask questions later. Your recruitment to the police force is not a surprise.”

  “I like to think I am not like my brother,” offered Magnus.

  “I know you do,” Desdemona replied, “and you're wrong.”

  She shook her head, and turned away. She climbed the stairs again, returning to the warmth of the room above. The selkies follo
wed her, and as she returned to her seat the doorman announced another name.

  “If you'll excuse me, boys,” she said, “I have some friends coming to visit, and you must go. Give my love to Scotland. I will return one day, despite the edicts. It is my home, whether you like it or not.”

  A handsome young man had entered, and he bowed to them as they were ushered by the doorman out into the night. The room with its rich tapestries and pillows vanished like a fevered dream as the door shut, leaving the two men alone on a front step that gave no indication of the world behind the front door.

  Outside, the fresh and damp air of a spring evening seemed too real, as Dorian and Magnus breathed in the cool night and exhaled steam. As if the door had closed on another world, Paris by comparison seemed to hold no magic. The sky was dark, and rain fell as the selkies pulled their cloaks close around their shoulders.

  “Well, that shows us,” shrugged Magnus.

  Dorian said nothing, but kept his head down as they walked, and spoke not a word the rest of the evening.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  GREGOIRE’S CAVE

  The silence in Gregoire’s cave made the crackling of the fire sound even louder.

  Leah stared at the urisk and her partner in turn.

  “Did she do it, Dorian?” Leah murmured. “Did she smuggle opium during the war?”

  Dorian looked at the floor, wretched.

  “No,” he said flatly. “We were wrong.”

  “So that’s why she hates you,” said Leah. “Did Robert ever find out what happened to Desdemona?”

  “No,” said Gregoire. “But he assumed the worst. Eventually, he gave up looking. As far as I know, he never stopped loving her. I sometimes wonder if he'd have been a different man. I wonder many things.

  “He had a good life, for all that.”

  The intensity of Leah’s air of consternation would not have allowed her eyebrows to stay on her forehead with the way she was raising them.

  “What the hell, Dorian? You have to tell him!” said Leah.

  Dorian shrugged.

  “She never loved him,” he said. “It's for the best.”