Fallen Embers

by P. G. Forte

“Perhaps you’re correct,” Damian replied. “I’m sure you think so, anyway. Which is also ‘as usual’, I suppose.” His gaze flickered over both Georgia and Christian, with a thoroughness that suggested he was making note of every detail. “I beg your pardon. I would not have interrupted you had I realized you were entertaining guests tonight. Will you not introduce me to your…friends?”

  Georgia studied Damian with the same attention to detail, barely listening while Conrad made the introductions. She already knew who Damian was, of course, although this was the first time she’d seen him. He was quite beautiful. The rumors hardly did him justice. His face was pale and aristocratic. His hair was ebony and his eyes—those were so dark and rich a brown they appeared almost violet. There was only the petulant expression on his face to spoil the effect—that and the jealous gleam in his eyes.

  Mine, those eyes seemed to say as their gazes met. Mine, mine, mine.

  Georgia fought back a bitter laugh. Yes, little man, put away your daggers; he is yours. But he was mine once too, for a sweet though far too brief a time and I share a bond with him that you will never know.

  Sighing softly at the memories, Georgia slipped from Conrad’s arms. “Well, my friend, I fear I’ve disturbed you quite enough for one evening. I should go.” But then the fear hit her again and she grabbed at his arm. “One final favor,” she whispered. “Tomorrow, if I fail—”

  “You will not fail!”

  “Yes, but, if I do. Kill Rupert for me? Don’t let him live to seek revenge against…against anyone else.”

  Conrad nodded, his expression solemn. “It will be my utmost pleasure to do so.” Then he pulled her close, just long enough to press one final kiss upon her lips. “Until tomorrow.”

  Georgia nodded. Until tomorrow. After which, if all went well, she too might have what Conrad had found with Damian—a love that nothing short of death itself could ever wrest from her grasp.

  “What was that about?” Damian asked, after Conrad’s visitors had departed. It annoyed him that he’d felt so jealous—after all, he and Conrad had taken many lovers into their beds over the years. The two desires to feed or to fuck were so closely aligned that a certain amount of overlap was inevitable. But those lovers had always been human. Conrad had never shown any interest before in another vampire, particularly not someone with whom he’d clearly once been intimate.

  Conrad stared grimly at the door. “That was my past, come back to haunt me.” Then he shrugged. “It’s nothing you need worry about. She merely came to ask a favor.”

  Damian sniffed. “Indeed. I was certain the subject of ‘her favors’ formed much of your conversation. But surely it was not that which put so dour a look on your face. What did she want from you?” Conrad hesitated, and the doubtful, closed expression on his face drove daggers through Damian’s heart. “Do you not trust me with her confidence?”

  Conrad shook his head. “It is not that. But…I am well aware of your love for gossip. If word of this got out aforetime, it would spell grave danger, for me as well as for the lady.”

  Damian stiffened. It was the first time Conrad had ever cautioned him so, the first time he’d ever seen his lover appear anything less than confident. “If it’s that dangerous, why would you not refuse? Who is this woman that she should ask for such perilous favors—or that you should feel yourself bound to entertain them?”

  Conrad sighed. “She is the woman to whom I owe my life. She set me free—and though I tried several times in the past to return the favor, I was always unsuccessful. Now that she’s finally ready to seek the same for herself, I cannot refuse to try again.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next night, Conrad found himself entering Rupert’s hall once again. It wasn’t the same hall of course, nor anywhere near the same location. Indeed, in terms of layout and decor, this room, with its black marble columns and floor—the better to hide the bloodstains, he supposed—its raised dais at the front, its severe and somber throne, bore little resemblance to its predecessor. But the anger and disgust that gripped him, the bleak atmosphere that lodged in his chest as though it would strangle him—that was all too familiar. A miasma of anguish and despair clung to the place. It was a feeling that Conrad remembered far too well from his own early days.

  Tonight it felt particularly foul, the pain and fear especially sharp. Perhaps that was because eons had passed since he was last exposed to it; he had almost forgotten what it could be like. It seemed even the blood that had been shed here called his name, as though begging to be avenged. The agony was all too personal, all too familiar—and all the more daunting because of it.

  If I should lose tonight…

  No. He brushed the thoughts aside impatiently. He could not afford to think that way. If he were a more superstitious man, or a more fearful one, he might have considered that the odd emotions plaguing him were omens or premonitions. He was not, however, so he forced his mind to turn away, to rise above the psychic noise.

  But if I should lose…

  No. He would not think it. For the first time he finally understood Georgia’s earlier fears—the ones that had driven her to refuse him. For the first time—possibly in his life—he, too, had too much to lose. If Rupert killed him, his own death would be the least important detail; it would also mean enslavement, pain and ultimately death for everyone Conrad held dear.

  Damian.

  For just an instant a vision flashed before Conrad’s eyes. He saw Damian, helpless and bound, crying out in agony. A premonition?

  No. For there is no such thing.

  What men choose to term “premonition” was usually nothing more than fear run astray. Fate was what you made of the circumstances in which you found yourself. And destiny? Nothing more than a word, useful if you wished to ascribe meaning to what would more accurately be termed an accident. Pretending there was anything else at work would only distract him from the tasks at hand. And he could not afford distractions.

  The large chamber was reassuringly empty. No more than a half-dozen fledglings loitered about, all of them Invitus; they drew back as Conrad approached and their conversation ceased—with eerie abruptness, as though all their throats had been simultaneously slit. Revulsion stirred within Conrad’s heart. He hated Invitus. He knew he should feel sorry for them. After all, he knew as well as anyone what they had been through—it was everything he had been through himself, everything he’d been determined to spare his own people. But it was hard to feel too much pity for those whose very presence here tonight testified to the fact that they had recently proved themselves willing to kill without mercy.

  Once again, thoughts of Damian flashed through Conrad’s mind. The idea of subjecting Damian to the kind of nightmare that Conrad had lived through, that Georgia had lived through, that all those here tonight had lived through, sickened him. The thought of taking away Damian’s innocence, of turning him into a monster repelled him.

  If I should lose…

  No. Once again he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind. Nothing good could come of them. It was dangerous to feel so torn before going into battle.

  Before Conrad had traversed even half the length of the room, the curtains at the back of the dais were pushed aside and Rupert emerged. Conrad slowed to a stop as he studied his opponent. That Rupert had just finished feeding was obvious. His eyes were glazed with bloodlust. They lit up, however, when he caught sight of Conrad. A cruel smile twisted his lips.

  “Why, my lord Quintano, what a very great pleasure it is to see you here tonight.” He pulled a cloth from his sleeve and made a big show of wiping blood from his hands and the corners of his mouth. “But what a surprise! To what do I owe the honor of this visit? Perhaps you’ve come to welcome me to my new home?”

  An uneasy feeling raised the hair at Conrad’s nape. “Welcome you here?” He bit back a growl. It was a struggle, forcing his expression to remain unco
ncerned, forcing his voice to replicate Rupert’s insouciant tone. Oh, how he despised the need for these games. How much simpler it would be if he could just kill the man and be done with it. “Alas, my lord, I fear not.”

  Rupert’s mocking tone struck all too false a note. He did not seem at all surprised to see Conrad. Rather, he seemed to have been expecting him, waiting for him. And that was a serious cause for concern—far more serious, and more real, than any nebulous sensation of dread. Had they been betrayed? Had Georgia been caught, somehow, and tortured into revealing their plan? Was that what he had been feeling? Her pain? Her despair?

  No. It couldn’t be.

  “Then perhaps you’ll be so kind as to explain your presence here?” Rupert said. His tone was still far too placid.

  “I’ve come to make you an offer,” Conrad replied in as off-handed a manner as he could manage. Lacking any clear idea of what game was afoot, he had no choice but to brazen it out. “One very similar to the offer you made to me, when last we spoke.”

  A speculative expression crept into Rupert’s eyes. “I’m afraid I do not understand your meaning. Are you saying you’ve come to offer me tribute?”

  Damian…

  Again, thoughts of his lover intruded. This time Conrad grasped at them. “Not in the least,” he answered, intentionally copying the look of disdain with which Damian had favored Georgia the night before, the aristocratic drawl. “I fear you’ve misunderstood me. I’ve come to collect tribute from you.”

  “In exchange for…?”

  “Why, friendship of course. What other currency have we to trade in—aside from blood?”

  “And why not trade in blood?” At the mere mention of the word, the bloodlust gleamed more brightly. “I suspect you’d find me more amenable.”

  “Of that I have no doubt. Especially since the ‘friendship’ I’m willing to extend you is likely far less than what you’re hoping for.”

  At that, Rupert’s eyes narrowed. Conrad was pleased to see the first faint cracks begin to appear in his up-until-now flawless veneer. “How much less?”

  Conrad shrugged. “Give me what I want and I will likely leave you alone, for the most part. Interfere, and I will still take what I want and lay waste to the rest.”

  “I see.” The barest hint of a smile had reappeared on Rupert’s lips. The sight ratcheted Conrad’s inner tension even higher and set his teeth on edge. “I take it you’re abnegating our former agreement then?”

  “Our agreement was void the day you set foot in this place. It never extended to this continent—as well you know. When you crawled out of the bog in which you made your home and dared step foot in my domain you set yourself against me.” Another flash of fury made its brief appearance on Rupert’s face. Another crack in the façade. Conrad rejoiced and pressed on. “But do not concern yourself overmuch about that now. After all, I am well known for my compassion for those weaker than I.”

  “Weaker? Why, I was ruling a kingdom when you were still groveling at your mistress’s feet.”

  “That may be.” Conrad shrugged again. “But times have changed and our fortunes with them. You may once have been considered a great and powerful lord, but I am told that is no longer the case—not even in that provincial backwater where you used to dwell. Here in the larger world you are as nothing.”

  “Bold words,” Rupert snapped. “Especially from someone who dare not even face me alone, who needs send his spy into my hall ahead of him. Did you imagine I would not know it instantly? You underestimate me.”

  Spy? Conrad fell silent, all his senses on alert. Something was terribly wrong. As the seconds ticked by, Conrad sought vainly for a reply he might make, something which would not betray his complete ignorance…but it was too late. Rupert had either seen his hesitation, or read the confusion in his eyes.

  A disbelieving smile curved Rupert’s lips. “You have no idea what I am talking about, do you? How fascinating. And yet you presume to lecture me on power and strength and leadership? Your time would have been better spent in training your people, rather than in idle boasting.”

  His people? For just an instant, Conrad felt relief. At least it was not Georgia who had betrayed him this time. But relief was quickly replaced with fear, for among all those who could be considered “his people” were several he held quite dear.

  “Guards!” Rupert called over his shoulder. “Bring out the prisoner.”

  Who could it be? Conrad wondered. Who would be so reckless? So careless? Who even knew I would be coming here tonight? Later on, he would be forced to admit to himself that his indefensible ignorance at this point was a form of defense. It was nothing more than a desperate refusal to face reality. In his heart of hearts, he knew the answer. And when the curtains parted again, and a familiar figure was shoved forward, so that he landed on his knees at Rupert’s feet, Conrad was not surprised.

  “Damian.” A low growl rumbled in Conrad’s chest as agony warred with anger in his heart. What was he doing here? His lover’s arms were pinioned behind his back. A gag filled his mouth—perhaps to prevent his cries from alerting Conrad too soon, perhaps so that he might not have the use of his fangs, perhaps merely for cruelty’s sake.

  Rupert snapped his fingers and his guards hauled Damian to his feet so that Conrad could get a better look at him. He was relieved to see that at least Damian’s face had not been scarred. It was unnaturally pale, however, as though his skin held too little blood. His tattered garments, on the other hand, held too much. Conrad’s nose twitched at the rich, familiar scent of it. His tongue lashed in his mouth, craving a taste, until, with an effort, he stilled it. The beast roared within him, rattling the bars of its cage, demanding release, demanding vengeance. Mine…

  Rupert’s laugh brought Conrad back to himself. “Ahhh! I see you have a special fondness for this one. How delightful.” Eyes gleaming with enjoyment, Rupert turned his gaze on Damian. “He is pretty—I’ll grant you that. But why did you not make him Invitus? These lesser vampires are far too weak. I fear he’ll not survive the lesson I intend to teach him.”

  He turned his cruel gaze back to Conrad. “But perhaps next time you’ll know better. You’ll toughen your spawn right from the start—as I do mine. Perhaps you’ll realize, finally, that spawn are made to serve their master’s needs. They have no real value beyond that. It’s useless sentimentality to think elsewise. Maybe next time you will know better than to attempt something like this—and in my own house!” Anger flared in Rupert’s eyes. “How dare you?”

  Conrad was silent. He was far too angry, and far too terrified on Damian’s behalf, to trust himself to words. Torture his loved ones in order to turn them into monsters? No. Never. He could still remember the dungeon where he’d been spawned. The scent of death. The sounds of humans, vampires, even other Invitus, screaming in pain.

  Anger melded with disgust and self-loathing as it all came back to haunt him. Once, it was he who had caused their deaths and made them scream. He had not wanted that for Damian. He did not want it for anyone. In this moment, it felt almost as though it had been Damian he’d killed each time he’d taken a life.

  Rupert turned back to Damian and lifted his chin, forcing him to face him, taunting him with his words. “I am not sure what I should do with you. Should I scar you, maim you, give you to my children to play with? Or maybe I should kill you outright to teach your master a lesson? Better yet, perhaps I should kill him instead and make you my pet? With your master dead, you will belong to me, you know. Would you like that? Will you beg me to make it so—to kill him and spare you—spare both your life and your pretty face?”

  “Rupert…” Conrad growled in warning. Rupert’s words were worthless. The offer with which he tempted Damian was an empty promise and they both knew it—although Damian, perhaps, did not. Rupert would let Damian think it was a possibility. He would give Damian hope, he would make Damian beg. Then h
e would kill him. Conrad steeled himself, resolving not to hold it against his lover when fear broke him and he begged Rupert to take Conrad’s life instead of his own.

  Damian’s head bobbed weakly. His mouth worked around the gag as he tried to respond, but the low sounds that issued from his mouth were unintelligible. Rupert snapped his fingers and one of the guards holding Damian jumped to remove the bloody gag from his mouth.

  More blood. Conrad growled at the sight of it.

  Damian turned his head at the sound. His gaze raked over Conrad, coming to rest on his face. For just an instant, their eyes met. Conrad read pain in Damian’s gaze along with sorrow and possibly regret. Those he had expected. But where was the panic, the hopelessness, the wild despair he’d also feared to see? Rather than any of those, Damian appeared…angry?

  Before Conrad could be certain, Damian was turning away again. He leaned upon his captors to pull himself erect and faced Rupert squarely with his head held high. Then he spat in his face. “¡Payoso! ¡Me cago en ti! You’ll never be my master. I’d rather die.”

  Rupert hissed in rage. His fist flashed through the air to land in Damian’s face, so hard it knocked him out cold. Conrad heard the crunch of bone as Damian’s cheekbone shattered. He could smell the blood as his face was split open. And, in that same instant, all his restraint, everything he had ever used to hold the beast in check, dissolved.

  He launched himself at Rupert and knocked him to the floor. All of Georgia’s warnings were forgotten, everything she’d said about keeping his temper, staying alert, staying safe and alive… But it no longer mattered. Perhaps it was his love for Damian that made him the stronger. Perhaps it was nothing more than his training, thousands of battles fought over the course of hundreds of years. Or perhaps, they owed what happened next to the beast itself—finally set free to act as it pleased, spoiling for a real contest after centuries of being denied.

  Only one thing was certain. In that moment, Conrad was Conrad no longer. He was Quintano once again. Quintano the killer. Quintano the monster. Quintano the warrior who knew nothing of fear or mercy, who knew nothing of what it meant to lose a battle. And who wouldn’t have cared if he did. Win or lose, it didn’t matter. It was all the same, as long as someone died.