The Oldest Living Vampire In Love (The Oldest Living Vampire Saga Book 3)

by Joseph Duncan

  Mortal children appeared from some of the hovels as we marched past, racing in pursuit of our caravan. I feared the wolf Vehnfear might attack them, but the animal merely glowered at them, a low growl emanating from his breast. Keeping their distance from the ill-tempered beast, the children held their hands out in pitiful supplication, calling “Zele! Zele!” until Zenzele slipped some food discretely from her hip pack and cast it to the ground beside her mount.

  The sight of the children, grubbing naked in the dirt for the nuts and roots that Zenzele had brought back for them, won black tears from my eyes. It was, for me, the most terrible sight of all.

  The temperature dropped precipitously as we ascended. There were no trees to shield us from the wind when we left the Shol, not on the narrow road that snaked up the side of the mountain. The rock the winding passage was carved into was mostly columnar basalt, which looks a lot like the pipes of a steam organ, and the wind whistled in all its tiny crevices, slicing into our procession from the south, so cold and fierce that even I became uncomfortable after a while, but by then we were passing through the ramparts of the upper district, and our long journey was nearly at its end.

  4

  In the middle of a broad piazza, Zenzele raised her hand, signaling the caravan to halt. She slipped from the back of her mount as mortal attendants rushed out to meet us. These were men and women of the Arth, the high caste mortal denizens of Uroboros. Slaves, yes, but most of them were affiliated with one Clan or another, and some might even be given the Strix one day, made into a blood drinker by an indulgent patron—a status that was tantamount to godhood in this depraved and brutal society.

  They were plump and healthy and dressed in fine warm clothing, these repulsive traitors-of-their-own-kind. I could not help but bare my fangs at them.

  “Mistress Zenzele! We heard you were on your way home!” the man in charge of the group called. “What a glorious surprise on such a cold and miserable night!” I watched in disdain as the mortals groveled. A few of them even gashed open their arms so that their blood might serve as refreshments.

  One such man approached me, holding out a bleeding wrist. Though I was obviously Zenzele’s captive—she had put my leash back around my neck when we drew near to Uroboros—I was still a blood drinker, and he was eager to curry favor with any blood god he could. He had even painted his face in imitation of his masters. White face. Red lips.

  “This must be the wild blood god from the Western Dominions,” he said to Zenzele. His blood dribbled to the stone cobbles, steaming in the cold.

  I was tempted to throw myself upon him. I could always claim that I had lost control. I was, after all, a “wild blood god”.

  As if sensing my thoughts, Zenzele gave my leash a tug. “Careful, Strudo!” she warned the man. “This one does not know our ways yet! He might just make a meal of you.”

  The fat man jerked back, clamping his hand over his dribbling wrist. Eyes flashing in my direction, he veered toward one of the other vampires, stuttering an apology.

  “Palifver’s tongue has been restless,” Zenzele murmured, inclining her head toward mine.

  “Let us hope he has not spoiled my prospects,” I whispered back.

  Her eyes darkened and her lips pressed together, but she did not comment.

  More mortals were coming out to greet us. Two young men dashed around the perimeter of the plaza, lighting torches. A runner was dispatched to the Fen to inform the gods that new slaves had arrived. Before long, the courtyard was thronged with mortal and immortal alike. The blood gods had come down from their aerie, descending the long stairway or crawling straight down the face of the mountain like spiders. Our captives were forced to their feet (they had collapsed as soon as our caravan came to a halt) and were dragged one at a time to stand upon a dais in the center of the excited crowd.

  There was no exchange of money. We had no concept of such a thing in those ancient days. The slaves were bartered for with the promise of goods or services, or simply claimed outright by clan leaders and other citizens of high rank, as was their right by status. Several mortal functionaries kept track of the bargains that were struck and the goods that were exchanged. They yelled out, pointing at this one and that one, making inscrutable gestures with their hands, and collecting barter. For a simple hunter-gatherer like me, the entire episode was chaotic and incomprehensible. If you’d like a modern analogy, visualize the trading floor of the Wall Street stock exchange. Yes, it was that mad! Humanity was the lifeblood of Uroboros, the coin of the realm, and that night its dark heart beat vigorously.

  I watched in disgust as our captives were dragged to the auction block. Some of them were so exhausted from our long trek they could barely stand—even fortified by vampire blood.

  “What do you offer for this raven-headed beauty? Look at these childbearing hips, and these fine, big udders. This one was made for bearing children,” the mortal auctioneer cried out. Moments later: “Look at the size of this brute! Imagine the uses you can get out of this one, once he’s been properly broke in!”

  What paltry rags they still bore were torn from their bodies. The most comely, the most generously endowed, were purchased as body slaves, to be used for the sexual gratification of their masters, or employed in the brothels. They were, perhaps, the luckiest of the lot, though the sturdiest men and women were snapped up almost as quickly. Physical vitality was just as valuable a commodity as ample breasts or an impressive cock. The ugly, the diseased, the scrawny and the old were dragged back down the road to the Shol, to labor in the mines, or, if they were too weak to work, to be bled and butchered, their carcasses tossed into the charnel pits.

  The slaves were poked and prodded. Their assholes were checked for tightness. Their breasts and cocks weighed by eye and by hand. Every now and then, a vampire would step forward and demand a taste of a mortal captive’s blood. The slave’s arm would be forced to the mouth of the vampire, and the crowd would lean forward, almost as one, and watch avidly as the blood drinker’s fangs sank into the proffered flesh.

  Each time an immortal brought attention to his or herself, Zenzele leaned toward me to identify the blood drinker.

  “That tall one is named Maubis. He is one of Khronos’s most trusted advisors,” she murmured. Later: “That one is Eyore. He is House Daunis. Very low status. Their House Mother is scarcely older than I. Topol will not cut him a deal!”

  Vehnfear sidled up to her as we watched the proceedings, and Zenzele squatted to run her fingers through his pelt. The immortal animal, canny beast that he was, sensed her anxiety and licked her on the mouth to comfort her.

  She turned her face aside with a smile, and the animal trotted away, tongue lolling.

  “Home, Vehnfear!” she called after him, and the wolf broke into a lope. She looked up at me, still smiling. “It is almost over,” she said.

  5

  I found myself intrigued with the Arthen architecture.

  After the slave auction, we wandered around the mortal district for a while. Zenzele went to the livery to check on the horses, and then we visited the home of some minor functionary. I guess you could call the man an accountant, though commerce in that era was still a very rudimentary thing. They conversed as I examined the construction of his dwelling, wondering how stone slabs that large could be shaped and moved into position so precisely. Grooves and ridges were carved into the edges of the blocks so that they slid neatly together and held one another in place. In some spots, the seams of the stones were as narrow as a fingernail. So clever!

  I wouldn’t want to live there, should the earth shudder and send all those blocks tumbling down upon the occupants. I’d feel much more at home among the blood drinkers. They lived below the surface of the mountain, in a great warren of interconnected chambers, hiding from the sun like moles… or bats. Nevertheless, I lingered over the ingenious stone dwelling of the mortal Uroboran, running my fingertips along its powder-smooth surface. I’d never seen anything like it!

 
Zenzele indulged my curiosity for a little while, but as the night wore on, and the crowds in the streets dispersed, she grew increasingly nervous. I think she feared a confrontation with her ex-lover.

  Tribtoc, Goro and Bhorg met with her briefly as I wandered through an enclosed garden. They talked in low voices while I perused the frozen flora. I could hear them perfectly fine, of course. They were talking about me. They wanted to know what Zenzele intended to do if our audience with Khronos did not go well.

  “I do not know,” she sighed.

  “Whatever happens, we will stand with you, Zele,” Goro said, and she nodded, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  They departed, and Zenzele strode into the garden. She had wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold.

  “Have you seen enough?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

  I nodded.

  “Let us retire to my chambers then.”

  Up, up, up we climbed, until the mortal district had receded to the size of a child’s plaything. My head spun when I peered over the side of the staircase. It was a sheer drop, some 1,200 meters. I wondered if such a fall would end my immortal existence, and I was suddenly, perversely, tempted to try it. I had never thrown myself from such a height.

  It would be simple enough. There were no rails. I need only lean out and let the world sweep me to its breast. I probably wouldn’t even feel it when I hit the ground. My cold white body would simply smash to sparkling dust, all my cares and concerns brought to nothing in an instant.

  I moved gingerly toward the flank of the mountain, unnerved.

  How sorely it tempted me!

  “A view like this would make any creature feel like a god,” I said, turning my attention to the great vista stretched out around us. It was a vast panorama of forests and mountains, valleys and rivers, and just at the rim of the world, the shores of the Black Sea. The wind swooped across the face of the volcano, making my hair whip to and fro, plucking the words from my mouth even as I spoke them.

  But Zenzele heard. She spared me an inscrutable look, then continued up the roughhewn steps, her shadow in the lead, folding itself back and forth upon the risers. The sun had just breached the low mountains to the east, and its orange and pink light glinted off her smooth, black skin.

  We came to a cleft in the mountainside. The stairs continued upwards, but Zenzele turned right and vanished inside the earth. The narrow passage wound back and forth for twenty-five meters or so before expanding into a broad open chamber. Torches flickered, their dancing light gleaming on the sweating stone walls. Stalagmites and stalactites jutted from the ceiling and floor like fangs. A dozen passages led off from this echoing chamber. Zenzele bowed to a passing blood drinker, a tall white creature in flowing garments, and then took one of the corridors on the left.

  “This way,” she said.

  I followed her down the passageway, which was dank and dimly lit. At random intervals, the corridor gave access to other caverns, some large, some small. Most were the habitations of the Fen’s immortal residents, their lairs stuffed with the detritus of their inhumanly long lifespans: wall hangings, weapons, tools and furnishings. Most of the residents had already bedded for the day, their mates at their sides, mortal servants sleeping lightly at their feet. Other cells were abandoned or unused. A few more were like the first juncture we had encountered, a hub from which other winding passages radiated. I was reminded of a termite nest.

  “In here,” Zenzele said, and she ducked through an ornate door hanging. Before I could follow, she leaned back out. I waited as she lit a torch off the oil lamp burning in the corridor, and then she disappeared again.

  I pushed through the curtain.

  “Home,” I said as she moved around the perimeter of the chamber lighting torches.

  She smiled at me and nodded.

  “Home.”

  The main compartment was spacious, with a smaller secondary chamber, which was where she slept. Though she did not linger in Uroboros, she had still managed to amass quite a collection of personal belongings. I meandered around her quarters, examining the wall hangings and decorations. She had collected many souvenirs from the various cultures of the Western Dominions: fertility idols, war masks, weapons and religious artifacts. There were brightly colored prayer sticks, gambling bones and stone jewelry. All covered in a thin layer of dust. I picked up a large stone phallus and grinned over my shoulder at her.

  “That’s a good luck charm!” she said, and snatched the stone cock from my hand.

  “What else would it be?” I asked innocently.

  Zenzele glowered at me, tossing the “good luck charm” into the corner. She went to her sleeping area and began to prepare her bed. Kneeling down, she unrolled her furs. “Help me beat them,” she said. I went to her side and held up her bedding so that she could whomp it with a small cudgel. When the dust had settled, she laid the various pieces out. She did this with little jerking movements.

  “What is wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, still on her knees.

  I sighed. “Do you take me for a bachelor, Zenzele?”

  “Then you should not need to ask!” she snapped. Her shoulders slumped and she confessed, “I am scared, Gon. They will come for you tonight, and when they do, they will take you before Khronos, and your fate will be decided.”

  “You think it will go badly?”

  “I saw the contempt in your eyes when we traveled through the mortal districts.”

  “Is there no room in Khronos’s kingdom for sentiment other than his own?”

  She looked up at me, eyes wide. “No!” she breathed. “None!”

  I did not reply. Instead, I thought of the atrocities I had witnessed as we journeyed through the city. Mortal men and women, worked to death in the quarries. Raped. Murdered for sport. Butchered like animals to quench the bloodthirst of their ruthless masters. Were I truly a god, I would throw the whole mountain down on these soulless fiends!

  What would Khronos think if he divined such thoughts in my blood? Would he be charmed by my sentimental feelings for the mortals? Would he be indulgent of this “wild blood god”? Or would my sympathies bring down his wrath upon me?

  Zenzele crawled across her bedding. “Come lie down with me,” she said. “Let us sleep together like man and wife.” The sight of her on her hands and knees distracted me from my brooding. I wanted to drop to the ground behind her, slide my hand over the soft curve of her hip.

  She was undoing the laces of her tunic.

  I disrobed and slid onto the bed beside her.

  She rolled toward me, bringing the furs up over our bodies. Laying her cheek upon my chest, she murmured, “I can lower my guard when you hold me in your arms, Gon. It is a good feeling.”

  “Then rest with me,” I whispered, trailing my finger down her cheek.

  She smiled and closed her eyes.

  “Tell me what you are thinking,” she said softly, her lips moving against my skin.

  “I miss my family,” I said to her. “I miss my son. I miss my friend Valas. Most of all, I miss my granddaughters, Irema and Aioa.”

  Zenzele pressed her lips together, smiling faintly. She scooted closer, hugging me tight to her body.

  “Still,” I said, “I am glad that we have met.”

  “Even if it ends tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  Zenzele was quiet for a moment. Finally, she spoke: “If it goes badly with Khronos, I will look after the Tanti for you. They will not be raided, so long as I am mistress of the Western Dominions.”

  “Thank you,” I said, struggling to contain my emotions.

  Come what may, we slept.

  6

  I snapped awake. Someone had stolen into Zenzele’s quarters. I started to sit up, then realized it was her wolf, Vehnfear. The animal padded into her bedchamber and lay down a short distance apart.

  “Hello, old boy,” I said affectionately. I was fond of canines. We had shared our camp with several canine fam
ilies when I was a mortal man.

  Zenzele’s torches had burned out, but a bit of low light was coming through some small chinks in the upper curve of the wall, and the animal’s gold eyes glimmered as he stared at me. Again, I sensed an eerie, near-human intelligence in the beast’s keen gaze. And he was beautiful, with gray and white patterned fur. The Strix had made a wolf-prince of the animal, regal and powerful.

  He looked from me to his mistress. Finally he came to a decision. Scooting closer, he nosed my hand. I stroked his head and he lapped at my forearm. His tongue was icy cold. I laughed, and Zenzele stirred.

  “Gon?” she mumbled.

  “We have a visitor,” I said.

  She peeked over my shoulder, alarmed, then chuckled. “Vehnfear! Come here, boy!”

  The wolf rose and hopped into our bedding, settling between the humps of our legs. He wagged his tail and grinned at us.

  They came for me a short time later.

  7

  There was a disturbance in some distant corridor, one that grew in volume as it approached Zenzele’s quarters. We had arisen and were waiting for someone to come for us when we heard the great warren of the blood drinkers stir to life around us. Vehnfear heard it first and rose, his hackles standing up. Zenzele stroked his back. She looked at me gravely, her eyes wide, her face drawn. I did my best to comfort her. I smiled placidly, my palms resting on my knees, trying to project an air of calm, but my stomach was churning. So much rode on the god king’s approval! My fate. The fates of my loved ones. All of the Tanti.

  “Gon…” Zenzele murmured.