And all the while, she tagged behind him. He could hear the buzz of her unspoken thoughts, feel her mouth open and then close, and took some pleasure in her uncertainty. She had pulled him from where he belonged and set him here, on this peculiar precipice, and although an echo whispered that he’d wanted that, that the song which breathed through him when she’d summoned him forward was the song he had always wanted to sing, was meant to sing, his propensity at this moment was not to forgive. The weight of his partial soul was too heavy.
They were there, as he had known they would be. The vultures. Not even vultures, for the bold and determined had raided the homes of the Jews the previous day. These were the weak parasites who were suffered to pick at bones and privileged to keep a morsel of cartilage, should they find one.
The small, shabby house in which he’d been born and lived his short life still smelled faintly of bread. He could open the door and enter, which meant the house knew its people were gone and would not come back. It was stripped bare. Furniture, crockery, linens, the children’s whittled toys. Other children had played with those toys on this day. The vision filled him with a rage he hadn’t thought possible.
He tucked the rage away for later use and concentrated on the smell. She was in the bakehouse. Searching through the cupboards by the light of a single candle for things overlooked. Already she had found some salt and a dull knife. She was enjoying her luck.
“Go away, this is my spot!” Her cry was an echo from inside the cupboard, her impertinent bottom an obscene protrusion.
“Is it now?”
The voice was pleasant, leisurely, and tinged with sarcasm. Her bottom froze. There was an alertness about it, like a fox who hears the distant baying of hounds. It amused him, and he wondered how much mileage she’d gotten from that communicative round rump.
She backed out quickly and looked up. Yes, he knew her. One of those flirts who sometimes came to buy his bread and ogle his face. Giggle, and even wink. Exactly what she expected from him, he never wanted to know, but if she thought her own face and patronage meant anything to him, she was quite wrong. He was not so foolish as to refuse to sell, because that could have led to trouble, and the entire Jewish community had always been determined to avoid trouble. But trouble came anyway. Didn’t it just?
The girl had enough grace to look abashed. She brushed a loose curl out of her face. Flour clung to her cheeks and hair, making her look foolish. She tried to smile.
“You are back. I thought …”
“That I wasn’t coming back? That I was taking up permanent residence in the castle, perhaps? I, and all my people? Well, why not? We could earn our keep there, certainly. Mop up after the pigs. I suppose that would be appropriate. The animals dirtiest to you tending the animals dirtiest to them. What a charming entertainment.”
“No. No, I … you don’t understand. I’m not like that. Some Christians are, I suppose, but that’s not proper Christian behavior, not really. You must believe me.”
“Oh, I do. I suppose you only thought that since everyone else had stripped our homes, you may as well come along and see what could be yours. Why should only the people who want us dead get to prosper off us?”
“But you are not dead. Are you all coming back?”
“That would be a sight, wouldn’t it? Such a welcome for us.”
“I’m sorry, Jacob. I am sorry. And I’m glad you’re well.”
“Where are my brother and sister? My uncle? All my friends?”
“What?”
“Do you wish them well, too?”
He didn’t want to enjoy her fear so much, but he couldn’t help it. Such a tiny thing he could do now, such a meager offering to the universal determiners of retribution. The fear emanating from the souls in the castle, as against the swell of fear inside this silly rabbit of a woman. As neither man nor vampire did he believe in the mantra of an eye for an eye, but right now, in this empty room, feeling chaos closing in on the distant castle, he wanted this fear. Perhaps if he had smelled remorse in her, sorrow, if he knew she’d come to salvage in penance and grief and resignation. But she was only sorry to be caught, inside her she knew that her word against a Jew’s would be believed, though she was a woman. He could bring no charge against her. He had nothing.
The sureness of her superiority, the blessing of God that let her be born a Christian, the feeling that he and his fellow Jews, hardworking and quiet and decent though they were, deserved the fate storming in on them … no, it would not stand. She may only be a trivial symbol of the thinking that doomed them, but it was enough.
He pulled her to her feet and kept an arm on her, smiling that bright, twinkling smile that had haunted so many girls’ dreams. The blush overspread her cheeks and neck. How much atonement would be necessary for reaching out to touch a beautiful Jewish man? Let a hand wander through his hair? Let her breasts brush against the thin fabric of his tunic? His fingers ran down her spine, pressing her further into him the lower they went. So this was what it took: Reduce a man to nothing and now he is putty in your hands and will fulfill your desires. She was getting married soon, it wouldn’t matter. So many men in town had wanted her, with her giggle and wiggle, but it was this man, this forbidden man with his sensual eyes and that smile, around whom she wanted to wrap herself.
She put her arms around his neck and pulled him toward her, eyes open just enough, hoping to see the delight in his face. Yes, he was smiling again, slowly, a thin smile growing wider … she was too frightened to scream.
The fangs were out before the eyes turned red. He felt them elongate and found it a peculiar and exquisite sensation. She struggled, and he enjoyed that, too. The round, wriggling little body. The obnoxious flesh she’d wanted him to touch. She’d wanted his mouth on her, although she would not have been above spitting at his sister.
“You bought my bread, but you would have died rather than break it with me. Still, let’s have one last supper together, shall we? Well, your last. My first.”
But the sweetness of relief drained from him as he left the house without a backward glance. There was no comfort in Brigantia’s watchful presence, no desire to delve his new world. To his surprise, he found himself back at his own grave, half wishing to get back in it, draw the dirt over him like a blanket and stay. There could be only two places he belonged—on this earth as he had come onto it, or in it, disintegrating.
Brigantia stood beside him and he finally met her eye. Now that he was on the same side of the divide with her, the shadow that encircled them repelled him. He felt how she radiated life, even warmth, and there was a sparkle about her and a deep energy that enticed him, much the way her expressive, overflowing eyes were lighting tiny fires under his skin. He could not dismiss any of that, but neither did he want to kiss her.
“You’re dead. We’re dead. We are the walking dead.”
“That is the simplistic definition, but not wholly accurate.”
“You killed me.”
“Saved you.”
The words were arrogant, but the tone placating. Even desperate. She was strong, far more powerful than he, as was the privilege of age, but right now, he had a power she did not, and he savored it.
He was wasting time. He knew where he had to be and his new strength and power meant that he could do all that he’d wanted and more to set the world right. Her eyes were standing in his way.
The speed with which he could now travel was exhilarating and he reveled in it. His body had always been powerful, but this, this sense that he could rip through a fortress, destroy a man with his fingers, it was deliciously frightening and he wanted more.
As the castle came into view, he hesitated, sniffing the air for life. Yes, they were still there. Frightened, but alive. Now he moved slowly, the beginnings of a plan revolving in his mind.
Brigantia’s finger brushed his cloak.
“Friend, wait.”
“Friend? Am I your friend?”
“I, well, I …”
A tiny wave of understanding washed over him. They were family, whether he liked it or not, but really, she was waiting for him to tell her his name. She wanted to address him, and chose the only polite way available, however inaccurate. He appreciated her manners but wasn’t ready to answer her. He wasn’t ready to let go of Jacob, not when so much of Jacob was still bound up in him and in the castle. If he had no good reason to be cruel to her, he was certainly not disposed to be kind. She waited, patience and hope in her eyes, but once again, he turned from her.
As soon as she understood what he was hoping to do, she was after him in a rush of speed and strength that showed him what it meant to be a double centennial. Her hands were hot on his arms and her eyes fiery.
“You can’t, you mustn’t.”
“You’re telling me what to do?”
“Please believe me. I saved you, but there is no saving them. It is too late and there are not enough of us. No one would survive.”
“You dare tell me not to try to save my own flesh and blood?”
“They aren’t, not anymore.”
It was the clinging vestiges of the man, not the demon, who struck her hard across the face. Her hands flew to cover the pink cheek, a faint outline of fingers sketched across it, her eyes wide and devastated. Jacob stepped back, stunned, and gazed at his stinging palm. He had a new relationship with humans, and so the woman he’d eaten was no longer his equal, but this creature was meant to be his family, however much he wanted to deny it. And while he was ready to defend his family against any who would harm them, he’d never willingly caused the smallest injury to a single soul. But that realization steeled him, chased the guilt and horror out of his heart. There was no soul inside the pretty vampire. No matter how many fat tears rolled down her face as she sat on a rock and glowered at him. Anyone could feel pain, that was not the same thing as having a true soul. But a swathe of his soul stretched around his chest, pulled him toward the castle, and it gave him an intoxicating sense of superiority. Whatever else she may have, she didn’t have this, a shred of humanity and a cause. Maybe later he could pity her, but for now he had to go.
He knew before he reached the castle that something was wrong, horribly wrong. Worse than he imagined. There was a smell he couldn’t define, but as it engulfed his senses, he knew he’d never forget it, that it would permeate his nightmares for years. He didn’t register starting to run, to cry out their names; it was only when he hit what he thought was a tree and fell backward that he realized his muscles were shaking.
The vampire, and he knew it was a vampire, who looked down at him was a terrible thing to behold. A bald creature with hypnotic eyes and a powerful mouth set in a cold, cruel, ironic smile. He squatted over Jacob and set a hand on his shoulder. There was nothing inherently unfriendly about the gesture, but fear rose in Jacob’s stomach.
“You are the vampire Brigantia made last night.”
It wasn’t a question, and Jacob was too unnerved even to nod.
“I am Mors. You can ask them all questions about me, and you will get a different answer, every time.” Mors paused, and smiled as a dog trotted up to join them and licked his hand. The scene was so incongruous Jacob almost wanted to laugh. He suspected the vampire of sensing as much, because the look Mors fixed him with drove any kind of laughter far away.
“Brigantia has waited a long time to make a vampire. A long time. And I have been her friend, even her brother, all during that time.” The words were casual, but Jacob bristled at the subtle warning, even as he paid it close attention.
“There is much to learn, entering this world. Heedless recklessness, that won’t do. Not if you wish to survive.”
With that, he seized Jacob’s hand and jerked him to his feet. It would almost be friendly, except that Mors was gripping the hand that had struck Brigantia and clutched it so hard, Jacob could feel the cartilage disintegrating. He gasped, struggling, but Mors only grinned.
“Dawn is less than an hour away. We’re going home now. That’s not negotiable.”
Jacob knew better than to argue. He wondered if Mors had seen the slap, because he was certain Brigantia would not have told anyone about it. Mors definitely sensed something and was going to brook no nonsense from this hatchling. The power he radiated was intimidating. Jacob desperately wondered if vampire limbs grew back once ripped off and decided he had no interest in finding out.
Inside the caves, Mors shoved Jacob into an empty chamber that he could tell from the scent was next to Brigantia’s. A tiny tug inside him told him he belonged in the chamber with her, but he ignored it. Mors studied him, still grinning. His eye slid from Jacob to a dusty book on the table. He picked it up, twirled it thoughtfully, then remarked to its spine: “Some things can’t be interfered with. Some things have to just be let go.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, nothing. Only that human chaos is just that. Human.”
“I’m not following.”
“No. You’re not. Not yet. Sleep well.”
It was only when Mors left that Jacob realized how exhausted he was, and how much his hand hurt. It was covered in dark, finger-shaped bruises. He lay down, staring at the dark ceiling, wondering if the sobbing he heard as he drifted into uneasy sleep was the lonely, brokenhearted vampire next door or the frightened family and friends locked up in the castle tower several miles away, praying for a miracle.
Jacob woke with a start, feeling he should not have slept, that he should have kept vigil, that he should be somewhere else. He splashed his face with water and hurried up the tunnel to the lair’s entrance, only to be struck with the full force of a late-afternoon sun. He cried out and collapsed, rubbing his stinging eyes with cool dirt. It was only as the pain subsided did he realize his hand didn’t hurt anymore. He looked at it: The bruises were nearly gone. The wonders of this new body, its strengths and weaknesses, held deep fascination for him and he could not help looking forward to learning this self, once he had leisure to think.
But I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m a dead thing. What more is there to learn than that? What else matters?
Even as he thought it, some small part of him knew it wasn’t true, but he was too furious to care. He sat safely outside the sun ray and wrapped his arms around his knees, waiting for the moment he could venture out.
It wasn’t long before he felt Brigantia behind him, her eyes boring into his skull. He resolutely ignored her. Much later, he could feel Mors sitting just behind Brigantia, watching her as she watched Jacob. He didn’t give a damn. He was feeling the waves of horrible energy emanating from the castle and bitterly, impatiently counting seconds, even though the familiar feeling told him he was already far too late.
When the sun finally dropped over the horizon, he took off at a gallop. The smell was worse than ever, a gut-twisting smell.
Once again, it was Mors who caught him, and once again, Jacob felt that thrill of fear and wonder at the speed and ability of such a powerful ancient vampire. The look in Mors’s eyes was one almost of pity and understanding, rather than anger, and this frightened Jacob far more.
“You shouldn’t go.”
“I have to go.”
“There’s nothing left.”
Jacob stared at him. Now Mors’s eyes glazed over with a kind of resigned fury, the look of someone who’d seen something he did not want to see, but it didn’t surprise him because he’d seen so much that should never be seen. Jacob waited, knowing before Mors opened his mouth what he was going to be told.
“The militia came. The mob was excited. The Jews knew what was going to happen … because what else could happen? We all know what a promise of mercy means from a mob. Your rabbi was a brave man. They were all brave. He said it would be better to die at their own loving hands than face them outside. The men killed the women and children first and then themselves. There were a few who thought they’d take a chance, no point detailing what happened to them. Then there was a fire. And the Gentiles are happy. They’ve
destroyed all the records of money they owed the Jews. They’ve burned the last of your houses. I suppose the king won’t be pleased, but do you reckon there will be any reprisals? It won’t matter anyway. Dead is dead. You should be proud, though, and grateful. Those were good deaths. That matters.”
And it did, of course it did, but the cold reality of it wound through Jacob’s intestines. How Mors knew all these details he didn’t want to even imagine, but he knew it was all true, every bit of it. Mors released him and Jacob could feel his eyes on him as he trudged to the castle to see it all for himself. He sensed Brigantia out there somewhere, too, but all he wanted now was to say one more good-bye.
Cruel black smoke wafted from the ruins. It stung his eyes and he grimly enjoyed the discomfort, feeling the weight of how much he deserved it.
I should have been there. I should have done something. It should have been me.
As he pushed through the scalding, broken doors and descended into the charred remains of his human community, the smell choked him. He sifted through the ash, knowing there was no way to find the pile that had been his family, but unable to stop searching. The scene played out in his mind, as certainly as if he’d been there. Uncle would not have been able to do it, he would have refused, was probably one of the hopeful men who’d stepped out into the mob looking for their mercy. Alma, though, she would have negotiated with whoever wielded the knife, protecting Abram from the full horror of it all.
“Take him from behind, be quick and firm, spare him the worst of it,” she would have insisted. And although barely twelve, and small for her age, there was that in her face and voice that made the unwilling assassin obey.
And she smiled at her small brother, and held his hands, and sang the family song, the silly nonsense ditty Jacob had made up when he himself was a child and had teased Alma and Abram with from their cradles on. Abram did not register the blow from behind that pierced his heart, it was too quick, and his last memory was his sister’s loving, smiling face and the beloved tune that made them all so happy.
The Midnight Guardian Page 18
