"But you're too sheltered to know the details. Too precious to hear tales of scandal and suicide. How the Duke's cousin threw herself from the tower after she found her husband and a young boy in her wedding bed, both killed by poison!" Zim pointed at Perdama's pocket, at the vial hidden there.
This was too much. With all her strength, Perdama slapped her maid across the cheek. The girl only laughed. "Ask him, if you dare. Ask him if it's true."
Perdama turned and saw her father in the doorway. His face was pale. "Well, Father? Is it true?" Her voice sounded tiny in her ears.
"My pixie…" he said, then stood mute and staring.
"Well? Did you poison a man, and bring shame and scandal to his house?" Why didn't he deny it? Every moment that he withheld his denial her dread grew, until she knew that something terrible was about to happen.
"Daughter," he said, in a tone she had never before heard from him, "the Duke… I had no choice."
Perdama gaped at him. She felt dead, as if a stroke of lightning had blasted the life from her. Her father was a poisoner. The words themselves struck like thunderbolts. Poisoner. Assassin.
She stepped toward the door, and her father raised his arms, as if she might actually embrace him.
With Zim's harsh laughter and her father's pleas that someone stop her echoing through the halls, she ran out of the room and down the stairs. No one could catch her. She bolted across the courtyard and through the gates.
Everything she held dear was gone. Her father was more than a man to her, more than a part of her family. He was a place. A haven where honesty and good will held a cruel world at bay. But now that tiny shelter had collapsed, if it had ever existed, and the vices of the world rushed at her like a storm from the ocean. Worse, she could not flee from it, because that baseness swarmed in the streets around her, in the courtyard of the inn, in the dining halls and rooms, and in everything.
She ran through the starlit streets, hearing the clop of hooves as Tunj gathered men to collect her. Her every muscle was rigid with fear and disgust. Laughing figures emerged from the shadows to grasp at her. Greasy hands tore the lace of her gown, or smeared her with gutter filth. Someone clutched her hair, but she tore free. A beggar swung at her and scratched her arm… or had she been cut with a knife?
She didn't know or care. Any pain she felt was dwarfed by the emptiness inside. Her world was gone, her faith lost. She ran downward, through streets more narrow, steep and twisting with every corner. Hadn't the priests carried their dead downward to the heart of the city? Wasn't that where people went when their lives had ended?
She stumbled into the square at the heart of the city. A great purple-black mausoleum squatted there, ringed by cedar trees that had seemed to have been dying for centuries. Perdama ran across the open square, toward one of the yawning, unguarded portals. This was where she'd find an end to deceit and avarice.
A priest emerged, huge and powerful, and held up one hand, bidding her come no closer. She didn't need to look at the hem of his robe; this was the same figure. Wasn't he showing her kindness? Wasn't he warning her that she endangered herself by approaching the lair of the dead?
She drew the striped vial from her pocket, unstopped it and gulped it down. A wave of dizziness engulfed her and thunder filled her ears. No, not thunder, hoof beats. Her father and his men had found her, and rode into the square even now.
She lurched toward the priest. It lowered its arm. It knows, she thought, and she smiled. It understands. It grants me haven.
She stumbled, but it caught her and lifted her in its arms, carrying her as no one had done since she was a child. It turned, walking toward the temple, and through her fading vision, Perdama saw flitting shadows that would not come near. Perhaps they were people she had once known.
The stars turned to water, and the priest's funereal robe swirled with bright yellow, like flower petals in a whirlpool. My mark has taken, she thought. My goodness has added to its own, and it has given me its care. Even if it will last but a moment, I am safe in its arms.
Tunj, struggling with his terrified horse, watched the priest carry his daughter into the temple. He was close enough to hear her last breath, and he thought it sounded like a sigh.
Preservation
What's this? A second, secret Twenty Palaces short story in the collection?
Well, technically, yes this is a Twenty Palaces short, but Ray and Annalise appear in it only indirectly. What's more, I wrote it long, long ago when I was still working out the magic system and tone of the series. As you can see, the books went in a very different direction from what's here.
So I would consider this a proto-Twenty Palaces story, outside the true canon, which might be an interesting glance at the way writers (meaning me) flail about a bit before the tone and style can be truly nailed down.
------ ---- ------
"Use your hands now." I pointed to a spot at the bottom of the hole. Ann couldn't see our prize through the dirt, but I could.
She knelt and scooped at the soil with trembling fingers. She was no longer capable of vigorous work, but that's what brought her here. Within seconds of careful scraping, she uncovered a shriveled face.
I expected her to sigh with relief, but instead she grunted with fear. "I found--"
The face opened its eyes. Ann gasped and drew back, despite herself. She had chosen this, but at the final moment she shrank from our prize.
The vampire's gaze fell on her and he exploded out of the dirt. He bit into Ann's throat like a starving animal.
Would I have saved her if she had changed her mind at the last minute and reached out to me for help? I'll never know. She did not reach to me. She had accepted death as I will never do.
As he drank, the vampire's flesh filled out and turned pink. Eventually, he released her, letting her fall into the bottom of the hole. Then he staggered and covered his face with his hands.
"What have I done?" he said, his voice rough. "Lord Jesus, what have I done?"
"Starved yourself," I answered, "until your hunger was all you had left."
The vampire sprang from the grave. He bared his long teeth at me. "You did this to her--"
I turned up the brim of my hat. He glanced at the tiny sigil drawn there and collapsed onto the grass. I knew he could not hurt me in a fight--I doubted he could even pierce my flesh with his fangs--but that didn't mean I wanted a physical confrontation. The man was covered in mud.
He lay on the grass and wept. "I have killed again."
"She was very sick, if that's any consolation. She chose to free and feed you rather than die in slow, terrible agony. You should respect her choice." The creature was not consoled. "Now it's time for you to choose: will you bring her back?"
The vampire would not look up at me. He only shook his head.
Fair enough. Ann knew this was a possibility. I reached into my jacket and removed a pin. It was large, like a heavy nail, and I had affixed a yellow streamer to the back. On the streamer, I had drawn a sigil, similar to the one on my hat.
I threw the pin into Ann's body. She burst into flames.
The vampire had not moved. The spell I used to subdue him must have been stronger than I thought, or he was weaker. Either way, dawn was coming. There was no choice; I picked him up and carried him to my car, lamenting that I had not thought to wear an anorak or something equally practical and unfashionable.
"Do you see these digging machines?" I pointed to the construction equipment along the road. "In the morning, one of them would have uncovered you."
"I would have preferred that, sir."
"Ah, but the sun would have had quite a reaction to your blood-starved flesh. The resulting fire would have killed the driver, I'll bet, and possibly others, too."
"So we slew that woman to save other men's lives." His sarcasm ended the conversation.
The drive home was uneventful. The vampire, whose name was Thomas Cale, was not amazed by my car, nor was he offended by the plastic drop sheet I
draped over the passenger seat. He sat beside me, sulking, for the entire ride.
I decided to take a slight detour and we drove I-5 through downtown Seattle. Thomas gaped at the skyline, finally startled by the modern world. We discussed the number of people now living by the Sound, and what he could remember about how long he had been in the earth.
Judging by his clothes and the rusted sidearm he wore, I guessed he had buried himself shortly before the turn of the 20th Century. Thomas could not or would not confirm this. He claimed his memories were jumbled, perhaps because he had not fed enough. We would take care of that soon.
My house was far from the general population on the other side of the city, and the sun had almost risen when we pulled into my garage. Monica was waiting for us.
"Nathan, I was afraid you wouldn't make it."
"I'm sorry to worry you, love." I kissed her. Her skin smelled like rose petals. I could have held her for hours. "Have you seen anything suspicious today?"
She shook her head. Using my sight, I looked up into the master bedroom. I could see the shadowy figure lying in the bed. It still clung to life, however perverse that form of life might be. There was still time.
Thomas climbed from the car. Monica smiled, picked up a bowl from a shelf and approached him. "Welcome to our home."
Thomas recoiled from her. "Ma'am, please, don't--"
I stepped between them. I did not want Monica getting close to this vampire. "No one died to produce this." I held out the bowl of warmed blood. "It will ease your hunger and your urge to kill."
Thomas took the bowl hesitantly then gulped down the contents. When he finished, his eyes were gleaming. "How...?"
"Hospitals have perfected the storage of blood donations. We can feed you without loss of life now that you are conscious enough to drink from a bowl."
When Thomas had cleaned up and and changed into modern clothes, we sat down to a meal. A blood-rare steak lay on my plate, while Monica's was bare of any meat. Thomas selected a sampling of foods, delighting in each. He would draw no sustenance from them, I knew, but he still had a sense of taste. We also provided him with a tea pot filled with warmed blood.
"How is the food?" Monica asked.
"Amazing, ma'am. I've never had anything like it in all my days. What are these, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Preserved lemons. May I ask you a question? Why did you bury yourself?"
"The killing, ma'am. I could not eat without harming folk, and I've never been a killer. How did you become sorcerers?"
Monica laughed. "I don't know any magic. Nathan has promised to teach me someday, but I'm just an everyday woman."
"Not everyday," I said. "I have lived a long time--longer than you, Thomas--and I have never met another like you. You are rare and precious, like a jewel."
Monica squeezed my hand, then turned back to our guest. "How did you become a vampire?"
Thomas stopped eating. "I'd rather not go into that."
"I'm sorry if it's a painful subject."
Thomas picked up a slice of preserved lemon. "When I was just a man, I wondered if I would be graced to see my seventieth birthday. Now that I'm no longer a man, I've doubled that. I have survived for quite a spell, but I'm not the same. Me and this lemon are preserved, but preserving us, lengthening our life, has changed us. In my case, into a thing I can't--couldn't abide."
He laid his hand on the tea pot full of blood and stared at it in silence.
There was a crash of breaking glass from another room. We jumped from our chairs.
"Is there someone else here?" Thomas asked.
"No," I said, and started toward the noise.
But Thomas was closer. He shimmered and went flat, sliding under the closed door like a folded piece of paper.
I rushed after him. I'd spent two years looking for that vampire. He was not powerful enough to face my enemies--if that's what the noise was--and I needed him alive. So to speak. For Monica's sake.
I found Thomas in the den. He stood beside an open window out of direct sunlight. A jar had fallen from the sill.
"It could have been a cat," Thomas said.
"I'm sure you're right." There was no sign that someone had entered the house and no one within limits of my sight.
I led him back to the table. I didn't mention that we keep our windows shut and our curtains closed. If someone was peeping into my house, it was time to move on. Again.
Thomas didn't sit in his chair. "Thank you for the meal, but I don't think you brought me here for that."
I nodded. "Come with me," I said.
I led him to the master bedroom. I drew out a heavy knife and, using my considerable strength, managed to pierce my skin. I wiped a spot of blood on the sheet. It vanished even faster than the cut on my arm. "I know you're tired from the blood and the daylight. When you've slept, I'll be able to explain." Then I took out the shackle. It had once been an ordinary iron manacle, but I had enhanced it with my magic. "You are a guest in my home," I told him, "but the woman I love is down the hall--"
He interrupted me by extending his forearm. I attached the shackle and left.
Monica had not slept for 24 hours, being extraordinarily nervous about this latest errand, so I put her to bed as well. I laid garlic all around her, despite her assurances that she trusted our new guest. I have lived too long for trust. Not with a prize as precious as her. Not when I have found love again, after so, so long.
I spent the day cleaning and preparing spells. I also scanned the house with my sight. Thomas did not leave the master bedroom. He lay in the bed all day, next to the other.
Monica awoke first and joined me in the breakfast nook. We spent an hour talking about small, silly things. I listened to her voice, watched her eyes and was happy.
After sunset, Thomas joined us. "There is a vampire inside the bed. I met him in my dreams."
I smiled. I felt pretty good. "Do you understand now?"
Thomas nodded. "He's dying. You need a replacement."
"We are offering to share our dreams with you, and a safe place where you can rest undiscovered for centuries. Once inside the bed, you could never leave. You'll never kill again."
"Until I die like the man whose dreams I shared," Thomas said. "In return, Monica will share my extended life."
"She has another 50 years left to her as a human being," I said "and that is not enough. Not for someone who will live as long as I will. But she will not accept the spells that extend my life."
Monica interjected, "I would have to eat meat."
"Every day," I said. "And your condition would force her to consume blood, which she won't do. But in the bed..."
"She will only have to feed off of me."
Monica jumped at that. I was startled, too. I had not expected him to see it that way. And at that moment, an explosion made the entire house shudder.
I turned to Thomas. "Take her to the basement."
"I'll guard her with my life." He led my Monica away, and I went to meet our attackers.
With my sight, I could see there were two of them, one assassin and her servant. They were a part of a syndicate that had once offered me a choice: Join them or die. So far they had been unable to make either happen.
They had forced their way into the library, correctly guessing that it was where I kept most of my weapons. But not all of them. I ran to the kitchen and retrieved a tiny blue box.
My enemies were ideologues: forbidden to use magics like the one I held in my hand. It was a creature called the Claw-In-Shadow which I had summoned from the Empty Spaces. The assassins advanced into the hall, and I opened the box. Our battle began.
It would take too long to describe what happened. Much of our fight took place within the Empty Spaces themselves, and the assassins, while limited in their abilities, were dangerous opponents. In the end, I could not kill either one, though I did hurt them enough to drive them away. I, too, was wounded.
When I returned to my home, all was quiet. The li
brary was still damaged, but there was no yellow police tape. Good. I hated dealing with local authorities.
A glance at the computer screen confirmed that a full day had passed, and it was now the next evening. I was too drained and injured to use my sight, but I could hear movement upstairs. I went to the master bedroom.
Thomas was there, chained to the wall with my shackle. He pulled at it, tore at it, trying to free himself. Monica was nowhere to be seen.
He saw me in the doorway and turned pale. "You're hurt."
My injuries would have killed a normal man. I wasn't normal. I also wasn't very healthy at the moment. I tried to use my sight to scan the house for Monica, but my vision was fuzzy, and the effort nearly made me fall over.
It was then I noticed that Thomas had been injured as well. His face and hands were red and swollen, and sliced cloves of garlic lay all around him. Had syndicate assassins attacked while I was fighting in the Empty Spaces? I panicked.
"Who did this to you! Where's Monica?"
"She's here," Thomas said. "She's the one who did this to me."
I stared at him. Monica refused to wear wool because she thought it cruel to shear sheep. I couldn't imagine her torturing a guest in our home.
"She loves you," Thomas said. "She wants to spend centuries with you. But she knew she had to change to do that, and she thought this was the best way. Nathan, she forced me to do it."
I noticed a sheet of paper on the coverlet. Her stationary. Her handwriting. I knew what it said before I read it.
I released Thomas from the shackle. "Take the blood from the refrigerator and get out. I don't blame you for this, but if I see you again I'm going to destroy you."
He left, no doubt to search out blood banks and live a modern life in a world where he no longer had to kill. I turned to the note she had written.
It read: "Nathan, I love you more than anything in the world, but would you still love me if I changed into something else? And could I bear centuries of killing the man who stood guard over me today?
"Please understand why I did this, and come share your dreams with me. All My Love, Monica"
Bad Little Girls Die Horrible Deaths: And Other Tales Of Dark Fantasy Page 16
