Fallen Embers

by P. G. Forte

  Marc nodded. “Fine. Just make it quick.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain.” Julie gave Marc a mock salute. “Whatever you say.” Really, playing king of the hill over at that warehouse of his had clearly gone to Marc’s head. He’d always been more than a little bossy, but this was ridiculous.

  Linda returned just as Marc was leaving. “Here you go, hon,” she said as she extended a manila envelope toward Julie. But when she caught sight of Marc exiting the shop, she stopped dead in her tracks. Her jaw slack, she continued to stare at him through the window as he crossed the parking lot and climbed into the car. Then she turned back to Julie. “Was that your…brother?”

  “Yep. I’d have introduced you but, as you can see, he’s kind of in a hurry.”

  “Wow.” Linda shook her head, her expression bordering on bemused. “I can’t believe it. The resemblance is amazing.”

  Julie shrugged. “I guess.” She’d heard it all before. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Oh, no, no, no.” Linda shook her head. “This is a gift, honey. You just put your money away. But, listen, I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you leave me your address? I’m pretty sure I have more photos lying around someplace. If I can dig them up, perhaps you’d like me to send you copies of those too?”

  Julie smiled. “Sure. That’d be great. I’d love that.” She was pretty sure Conrad would not love the fact that she was handing out his address to a virtual stranger, and she was doubly glad that Marc wasn’t around right now to interfere. They’d both just have to deal with it—if and when it happened. Who knew if Linda would actually follow through? Besides, Conrad would likely come around pretty quick, once she explained how important it was, and as for Marc…well, what was it to him? He didn’t even live at the mansion anymore!

  “So how’d things go at the gallery?” Julie asked as they sped back to the city. “Did you find anything out about your friend?”

  Marc glanced across at his sister. She’d been unusually quiet on the drive, her fingers lovingly caressing the manila envelope she held on her lap and refused to put down. He’d be lying if he’d said he wasn’t curious about the envelope’s contents, he just wasn’t curious enough to mention it and open up a discussion about his own morning. It seemed, however, that that discussion was inevitable.

  “Yeah,” he replied repressively. “I got a lead.”

  “So it was her work?”

  “Yeah.” It was definitely Elise’s work. New work. Work that spoke to him about her fear of being found, her hopes of staying hidden—hopes he would shortly put an end to.

  The guilt he felt about that, however, was nothing compared to his concerns over what he might have done to the gallery’s manager when she resisted giving him Elise’s address. He’d lost his temper and actually felt her mind begin to crack under the weight of his will. He’d reined in his anger just in time—or so he hoped. Who knew his thoughts could be so powerful?

  Conrad would know. The thought whispered through Marc’s mind. Conrad would definitely know. It looked as though Marc would have to talk with his sire soon—much sooner than he would have liked.

  Julie was studying him. “What?” Marc snapped, more sharply than he intended.

  “We really didn’t get a chance to talk much on this trip, did we?”

  Marc sighed. “No. We didn’t. And I’m sorry about that. I just…had a change of plans. But we’ll do it again. Soon. I promise.”

  “Uh-huh.” Julie sounded unconvinced. “And, given how you’re in such a hurry all of a sudden, I don’t suppose I can talk you into coming in with me when we get back, either, huh? Not even just to say hello?”

  “Not today.”

  “You can’t keep ignoring each other forever, you know.”

  “I just don’t have time right now. I’ll stop by soon though—like I said.”

  “I hope so. And, after all, time is on our side.”

  A small smile glimmered on his sister’s lips as she turned her head to stare out through the windshield. Her fingers tightened around the edges of the envelope in a gesture Marc couldn’t quite identify.

  Was she being protective? Possessive? Was she seeking comfort from whatever was inside? And what was with the faintly wistful tone of her voice? The soft tune she was humming to herself sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t like her to sound so melancholy—or so philosophical. Time is on our side? At the moment, that sure didn’t seem to be the case.

  “Soon,” he repeated yet again. He reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “I promise.”

  The sun was just sliding beneath the horizon when Georgia woke up. She sat up slowly, feeling stiff and cold—not surprising given that she’d spent most of the day asleep in the forest. It had been a very long time since she’d last slept outside, on the ground, with naught but a cloak for shelter. It was every bit as uncomfortable as she’d recalled. She had not missed it in the slightest.

  It was also dangerous to do such a thing, especially unarmed and in so urban an area. She could only imagine how furious Conrad would be if he learned of it. But, in truth, despite the discomfort, despite the vulnerability, she’d felt far safer here, far more relaxed, than she would have felt at home.

  Christian’s behavior was becoming more worrisome with every passing day. She didn’t know how much longer either of them could hide what was happening. At least, in her absence, it would not be as obvious to the others that she was losing control of him. She should have been expecting it. As she grew weaker, so did her hold on him. And his desire—nay, his need—to kill her, to absorb her essence and preserve their bloodline, would only grow stronger.

  She’d always known it would come to that, in the end, and for the longest time she’d foolishly believed she would welcome it. If one could ever, truly, welcome death. It had consoled her to think that it would be Christian who killed her, for he was the only one who could safely ingest her blood now that it was tainted. At least in this way she’d be able to live on, for a short while longer, within his cells. In return, she would, perhaps, bequeath him a little more strength and a fighting chance at a longer life.

  To end in such a fashion would at least give meaning to her death—or so she’d told herself. Now, however, as that inevitability grew close, she found her courage failing her.

  Her death, if it came by Christian’s hand, would likely be harsh and violent, an ugly way to make one’s end. He would give no quarter. She would go down fighting. And even in the event she did not succeed in fatally wounding him and dooming them both to immediate oblivion, their final battle would still befoul everything that had gone before. All his memories of her would be tarnished, all his love for her destroyed.

  She should send him away now, while she still had the strength to do so, while he still might feel compelled to obey her. She should go to Conrad and confess everything, throw herself on his mercy and hope that, for the sake of their long friendship, he would grant her one last boon and kill her himself.

  To choose that course would be to truly die. Her blood, useless and diseased, would be received by no new host. No one would benefit by whatever small strength she still possessed, and she would leave Christian with nothing, unprotected, alone, at risk…

  Faced with such choices, how could she choose at all? She felt cornered, trapped, hemmed in by guilt and fear and all but overwhelmed by grief. If only there were someone she could talk to, someone to guide her through this morass of indecision. But there was no one.

  Summoning her last remaining strength she squared her shoulders. Her death was inevitable—yes. “But not today,” she murmured stubbornly, as she got to her feet. She’d been in tough places before. She’d fought her way through and she’d endured. Someday soon her luck, her strength, her life would leave her. But not today.

  Chapter Eleven

  Britannia

  Mid Fifteent
h Century

  Conrad fought his way against the tide of people who swarmed toward the waterfront. Goaded by his need to distance himself from the open water, he moved as quickly as he dared, not slowing his pace until he’d gotten far enough from the harbor so that he could take a deep breath without having his senses assaulted by the taste of acrid salt. His relief was short-lived. As the softer, all-but-forgotten summer-scents of Britannia washed over him they brought such bittersweet memories rushing to the forefront of his mind that he nearly turned in his tracks and headed back toward the seaport.

  Better the brackish atmosphere he’d been so anxious to escape than the agony of having to recall with such crystal clarity the love he’d lost.

  He’d seen his share of death over the centuries and dealt out a goodly portion of it himself. But, in this moment, in this place, it was Georgia’s death that weighed the heaviest on his conscience. If only he’d taken the time to think, to listen, to pay attention to the weather—or to the warnings of those more knowledgeable about such things than he—she might still be alive today. And now, if he’d had his choice, if he were not constrained to return to this cursed island where he’d spent some of the happiest days of his life, he’d have gladly stayed away forever and been content to remember from a distance.

  He had not had a choice, however—not entirely. While it was true he was his own master now, that did not mean he could always follow the dictates of his heart. His freedom had come at a price, and that price was the burden of responsibility. He had to consider the welfare of his entire House—including the small nest he’d encountered on his first trip to Britannia, the one he’d so unwittingly acquired for his late mistress. The one that now looked to him for leadership, for protection, for salvation.

  Something would have to be done about them. Determining what that “something” should be was what had brought him here—wending his way through the narrow, cobbled streets of this tiny coastal town. Not that he’d exactly rushed to their defense the moment he’d learned they were in trouble. At first, he’d questioned whether there was any need for him to get involved at all. He’d had no real contact with them in centuries—why should things not continue in that vein? Even after learning that they were under siege, he’d been reluctant to intervene.

  To be sure, such a state of affairs must always be distressing for those involved, but life was frequently distressing. And a few less vampires in the world hardly counted as a tragedy. It was only upon learning the name of the vampire responsible for their misfortune that he’d changed his mind.

  Rupert—the same vampire who’d turned Georgia. Conrad might not have been able to save her life, but to honor her memory he would do what he could to thwart her former master and prevent him from torturing others. Unless, of course, he determined those in question were not worth rescuing.

  His first encounter with this particular band of vampires did not bode well. Sent there as an envoy, he’d been attacked without provocation and barely escaped with his life. If that meeting was indicative of how they typically treated those with whom they came into contact, it was no wonder they now found themselves in difficult straits. And if it turned out they’d brought this doom upon themselves, if he determined their deaths were at all justified, he would not intervene on their behalf.

  Guilt pricked at his conscience. He did not enjoy playing the role of judge-and-executioner, but it was occasionally necessary. This, perhaps, was one of those occasions. Conrad picked up his pace once again. Whatever he decided to do, it would be best for all involved to decide it quickly, and get it over with.

  As he left the small village behind and headed into the surrounding countryside, it became quickly apparent that he was not alone. Someone was following after him. He almost stumbled in his surprise. Most of the people he encountered—human and vampire alike—correctly identified him as a threat. The vast majority found it prudent to keep their distance.

  He turned swiftly, his hand going at once to the hilt of his sword. “You. Halt where you are and come no closer. What is it you want?”

  The young man jerked to a stop. He pulled off his cap and bobbed his head in a show of respect. “I-I beg your pardon, my lord. But are you…? Are you he?”

  An eager light burned in the lad’s eyes, brightening his otherwise anxious expression. Tall and sturdy, he possessed the kind of build that would have likely become quite powerful had he been allowed a few more years to develop. One glance was all Conrad had needed to know that aging was not an issue the lad need ever worry about. He was Vampire. Moreover, if Conrad’s senses were not completely in error, the boy belonged to him.

  “I am Quintano.” Conrad studied him more closely. The lad, whoever he was, was not Invitus—which was a point in his favor. It still struck Conrad strange that he could feel the difference where once he could not, that he could sense the power in another vampire or, in this particular case, the almost total lack thereof. In all likelihood he was a fledgling then.

  “Yes, M-m-master. I thought you must be. I am called Tannar. I w-was sent to meet your ship.”

  “Master?” Conrad snarled in sudden fury. No. Not that. “Never address me as such.”

  Tannar stared at Conrad in wide-eyed confusion. “S-sir?”

  “You may call me Quintano. I require no special honorific—least of all that one.”

  Following his mistress’s death, at his hands, Conrad had been dismayed to realize that all that had been hers—power, riches, even people—now belonged to him. He hadn’t wanted any of it. What he had wanted was to annihilate all trace of her existence, to walk away a free man and leave her House and his cursed memories behind. That had proved impossible.

  Resigning himself to the inevitable, he’d ordered Lavinia’s stronghold razed to the ground. He changed the name of her House, establishing new rules and a new code of conduct—and, yes, all of this required him to take command, to issue orders and demand compliance.

  He’d accepted his fate, but only reluctantly. Allowing himself to be called “Master” was a bridge too far. He would not set himself in his late mistress’s place, nor would he allow anyone else to do so. Domus Hera Noctis was dead, long live Casa di Quintano.

  Tannar continued to watch him—silent and bug-eyed—until Conrad took pity on him. “Do you understand?” he asked, as calmly as he could manage.

  “Ye-yes, Ma-ma-ma…Quintano…sir…my lord.”

  Conrad sighed. He supposed that would have to do. “You said you were sent here. Why? By whom? How did you know what ship I’d be on?”

  There was a reason Conrad had told no one of his plans—not the specifics, anyway. He’d sent word he would be arriving, but he hadn’t said when. He’d planned to observe the little nest quietly, from a distance, not making his presence known to them until he’d determined that he was actually going to step in and save them. That way, if he chose not to intervene, if he chose to leave them to their fate, he would not also be robbing them of their hope.

  To die hopeful—was that not a better fate than to die in despair?

  “It was my lord Kendrick, sir—m-my sire. He’s sent someone to meet every ship that’s come in since we first received word that you were coming.” Tannar paused before adding fervently, “We are all so very glad you’re here. And that you’ll help us. You will, won’t you?”

  Conrad nodded in reluctant acknowledgement. “We shall see.”

  Once again his conscience troubled him. They might be glad now, but only time would tell whether their faith in him was justified. They would not be the first members of his House that he’d condemned to death.

  Indeed, he’d originally planned to rid the world of every vampire Lavinia had sired. A simple goal, and one that should have been easy to accomplish. After all, the entire tribe was bound in fealty to him, helpless to disobey his command. But that was precisely the problem.

  Killing those who could neit
her run away, nor raise a hand in their own defense—the very idea turned his stomach. Forcing them to fight one another to the death, the second option he’d considered, was even worse. That was something the Hera Noctis herself might have done.

  So he’d relented. He’d put to death only the worst, most unregenerate of the monsters, those who continued to take pleasure in the pain they caused, and spared the rest.

  “Tell me about this Kendrick of whom you speak.”

  “Sir?”

  “Who is he that he should have sent you to me? Why did he not come himself?”

  “Oh, but, sir, he could not leave the nest! He’s the strongest among us and, as such, is needed at the keep. It must be guarded night and day now. Indeed, my lord Kendrick has ordered all who are able-bodied and can wield a sword to stay close at hand.”

  So it was an armed camp he was headed for? Splendid. Conrad eyed Tannar curiously. “And what of you? You seem able enough. Why do you not have a weapon?”

  Color suffused Tannar’s face. His gaze dropped to his feet. “I am still learning such skills, sir. I do try, but my lord tells me I’m not very good as yet.”

  “I see.”

  “If you please, sir. Might we not get started?”

  “Very well. Lead on.” It had been a while since he had been there, but Conrad was confident he could have found his own way, guided by instincts he still did not fully understand. It was one thing for Tannar not to be aware of that fact, but should not Kendrick know? “You’ve still not told me very much about this lord of yours,” Conrad commented as he kept pace at Tannar’s side. “I assume it was Kendrick who sired you?”

  Tannar nodded. “Aye. He is father to almost all of us, or so I believe.”

  “How many would that be?”

  “We were nearly two dozen souls, sir,” Tannar answered. “We are less than half that now, thanks to Rupert. I do not know the exact number.”