Hibernian Blood (A Vampire Urban Fantasy) (Hibernian Hollows Book 1)

by Dean F. Wilson

  He flinched, and felt the tight grasp of rope around his wrists and ankles. This summoned back the panic of the beast's restricting weight, and his eyes involuntarily sought out that creature, sitting at the foot, and slightly to the side, of a large throne, where the red-dressed woman sat like a queen, her dress flowing down to the floor, her figure etched into the shadows, her silhouette sculpted like a statue. She sat perfectly still, her right hand resting on the beast's head, and her left held up, poised and delicate, yet revealing her own chiselled claws. Upon her hand was a crown of many jewels, and resting by the arm of her throne was a serpent-headed sceptre.

  Beside her sat another, who wore a kind of long tunic, dark blue in colour, over a well-fitted and somewhat archaic suit, with frills and chains. He was the epitome of what people thought of when it came to the Victorian era, as if, indeed, he had crawled out of a painting from that time. It did not surprise James that he found himself thinking: maybe he had. This man, if he was a man, also wore a crown, though somewhat smaller than his companion, and there was no sceptre in reach for him.

  Around the large meeting room were many others of all types, yet all dark and sombre, with dour, pallid faces that best belonged in the grave. All those eyes were upon James in the centre, tied to a chair, which itself was fixed to the floor with bolts, suggesting that he had not been the first to be restrained there.

  “Our guest,” the woman said, rotating the wrist of her left hand, until it gestured outwardly, as if to take his own. Perhaps it was meant as a symbol of welcome, but since he could not shake it, it seemed more like mocking.

  Suddenly the entire room of people—if they were people—stood up, all in unison, a kind of militarism that was off-putting, like the fists of the dead punching through the earth together. Some seemed a little reluctant to stand, but they stood all the same. All but the woman and the man at the front, who stayed seated on their thrones, and the beast at the woman's side, which purred through its blistered lip.

  “You look frightened,” the kingly figure said, drawing up suddenly from his seat, and seeming to float across the floor, his gown covering his feet. His shoes made no noise, and only the crumpling of his clothing would have alerted anyone to his movement. He came up close to James, bringing his hand to James' face, caressing his cheek gently, though brandishing his own pointed nails much too closely to James' widened eyes.

  “Do not fear,” he said. His accent was strange, perhaps of Eastern European origin, albeit mingled with a hint of others. He seemed genuinely concerned, even pained, that James was afraid. He sucked a long breath of air through his teeth, through his fangs, and spoke swiftly, “We mean you no harm.” Something about him came across convincing, but James was not sure if this was a mere display, or yet another demonstration of those fiends' hypnotic powers.

  The man moved around behind him, and James' eyes followed, until the trail of the vampire's gown vanished into the shadows. He could feel something behind him, but it did not feel like a man. He felt the shiver of someone walking upon his grave, yet the thought came to mind that in this room—this tomb—he was walking inside another's.

  “We have called a council,” the woman said, stealing James' attention once again. Her voice was as seductive as her dress. He found himself staring at her ruby lips, feeling a sense of yearning, and yet wondering if the ruddiness was from lipstick or from blood.

  There was a sudden clatter of fabric, and then a sound like the flap of a bat's wings. With this came a flurry of black, and instantly it seemed that the kingly figure was back on his throne, poised again like a painting.

  James' heart fluttered on its own, and in it nested its own blackness, the rot of the soul when touched by the undead.

  “I am Lorcan,” the king said, and it was clear that he was king. The audience bowed, willingly or not. Even the woman at his side tilted her head to him. “Of House Caomhánach,” he continued, “or Kavanah, as the English have it.” He didn't sound Irish, nor English, nor really from any place James knew. It brought to mind: What accent do they have in Hell?

  “And I am Ruagruaim,” the queen said, and more than ever it was clear that she was queen. The chamber curtsied again, and even her king nodded in acquiescence to her. “Of that same noble house, but you may call me Rua.”

  What little Irish James knew was enough to tell him that Rua meant Red. It was a fitting name for her, with her scarlet smock and crimson lips. Her hair was the black of deepest night, and her eyes were not far off that colour, but her face was paler than even the most sun-shy Irish cheeks.

  Her companion took her hand, and they looked to one another fondly, and then back at James with the kind of fondness for a feast.

  “What do you want from me?” James asked through his gritted teeth. He realised he was sweating profusely, and that his hands were clenched tight. The muscles of his stomach were tense, and his shoulders were hunched, as if to reflexively guard his neck.

  “You come at a time of turmoil in our world,” Rua said.

  “At the prelude of a great war,” Lorcan added, rolling his tongue, and licking his lips.

  “Among vampires, there are many long-held and valued traditions. One of them is this,” Rua said, holding up her and her husband's clasped hands, “our sacred and perfect marriage, built upon the line of queens and kings.”

  Lorcan turned to her and stared into her eyes. He smiled, and she smiled. Then he caressed her hand, before she turned her attention back to James.

  “Another is the long line of blood wardens, of whom you are one of the last.”

  “I'm not anyone,” James protested.

  “Be careful,” Lorcan responded, with that same look of genuine worry. “If you are not a blood warden, then what is there to stop us bleeding you?”

  From the corners of his eyes, James saw the assembly of vampires shifting in place, coming forward a little. They moved like spectres, with no bobbing up and down, just a graceful approach. They came on either side, like the walls closing in—if the walls had teeth.

  11 – THE FIVE FAMILIES

  With a flick of Rua's wrist, a royal gesture, the wall of vampires halted. How terrifying it was for James to think that with another tiny movement, she might authorise them to advance again. The power she had was unstoppable. It was the power of life and death.

  “Tradition forbids us from harming a blood warden,” Rua revealed, much to the scorn of one or two of the vampires in the shadow-draped crowd.

  “Tradition is our guiding force,” Lorcan added. “It is our … light.” He shuddered at the word, and James saw others in the audience recoiling. It seemed even the word itself brought a flicker of brightness into the room.

  Rua drew up, letting go of Lorcan's hand, and she descended the three steps at the foot of her throne, letting her dress cascade down behind her like a sanguine waterfall. Her hips swung from side to side, dragging the dress one way and then the other, until she stood in the centre of the room before James.

  “There are five claims to the vampire thrones of Ireland,” she said. “Only one of those can be true. We are that truth.”

  There was a murmur of dissent in the assembly, silenced by the crack of her wrist, which was like the lash of a whip.

  “Some would question that,” she acknowledged, casting the evil eye at one or two in the audience. “Some would question us. Tradition requires that when there are such … disagreements … that we bring in a blood warden to settle the dispute. Or at least to delay it.”

  “But I know nothing about you,” James said. “About this world.”

  “He's no warden!” one of the audience cried. James turned to see a curly-haired man pointing an accusing finger at him.

  “Come and have a taste then, John,” Rua replied, “if you doubt him.”

  John retracted that finger, and then the arm. He didn't come to taste. He didn't even make a step forward.

  “He is a blood warden,” Lorcan said, coming up beside his wife. “There is no
doubt. It has been confirmed by Mr. Constant. This is James Halmorris. You all know that name.”

  There was a flurry of nods, and a mumble of ascent. Rumour swept through the wave of vampires, all separated into their varying factions, all vying for the thrones, but all respecting the long-held traditions—for now.

  It was odd to see that there was a look of hate in the eyes of some, and a look of fear in others. Every time they said “blood warden,” James felt some of his own fear fade away, and in its place came courage and strength. Where it came from, he did not know, but it was the same kind of courage and strength his father had, and his grandmother before. Maybe it was in his blood.

  “Will you accept this then?” Rua asked the crowd. “Will you accept that we have brought a decider among us? We have brought a peace-keeper. Can we then have peace, and let our disputes be put on hold?”

  There was some discussion among the various families present. It was clear that they were kin, for they huddled together, eyeing the others suspiciously. Some said little, turning quickly to nod and bow to Rua and Lorcan. Others talked a lot, and loudly, making condemnatory remarks about the couple, and casting doubt on James.

  “How much does he know of us?” John asked in time.

  “Not much,” Rua replied.

  “He should know all.”

  “Would you trust a blood warden with all?”

  “Well, you're asking us to trust him with the thrones.”

  “Then quickly now, say your piece.”

  John turned to address James. “I represent the Gorman family. We are An Lucht Siúil, the Travelling People. No land holds us. No grave restricts us.” It seemed he was making a special effort to speak more slowly for James' benefit, and to avoid using the Cant of his people. “At one time we ruled, but because we would not commit to one location, would not sit in but one adorned chair, our claim to the crown of Ireland was ridiculed and dismissed. We were usurped by the settled people.”

  “You were not, ya liar!” another in the crowd yelled. He was with the O'Connor clan, and James only knew that by the fact that they were carrying banners bearing their family name and crest of arms.

  “Speak when it's your turn to speak!” Rua barked back.

  “For now,” John continued, “we support the Kavanaghs' claim to the thrones.”

  “That's because you've got none yourself!” the O'Connor spokesman said.

  “Speak then, Cathal,” Rua said, “since you find it difficult to do otherwise.”

  Cathal could barely be seen with all the banners and bunting, but his voice could be heard well and clear. “We go back to the last High King of Ireland, before the Normans came. Of all of us, we have the greatest claim. A hundred of my ancestors held the crown of Connacht, but because the Kavanaghs held the crown of Leinster, where our capital is, they get first call as ever! It isn't right. It wasn't right then, and it's not right now. Tradition might be on the side of the Kavanaghs, but history is on our side. There's more royal blood in my left toe than there is in the rest of ya!”

  “Perhaps we should have a toe for a king then,” Rua said, without a hint of a smile.

  There was a snicker amongst the audience, and Cathal faded back into the shield of banners.

  Then an older woman rose on the other side, where a family of clearly noble birth sat quietly, observing, but taking no part in the back-and-forth of the other families. When she rose, Lorcan stood and bowed, and the entire chamber went quiet.

  She spoke in a soft, but firm tone. “I am Ioana, and we are House Danesti from Romania,” she said. “We support the Kavanaghs' claim. The traditions of our peoples must be upheld.”

  She sat back down, but even James could tell that her short speech of approval was largely for show. She looked at Lorcan softly, and James wondered if perhaps they were related, if that explained Lorcan's accent, but she eyed Rua coldly, as if she did not wholly approve of their marriage.

  “That just leaves the O'Neills,” Rua said, “who are, as always, absent from these meetings.”

  “A disgrace,” the woman from House Danesti said. “We had the same problem with House Draculesti in Wallachia.”

  “I will speak for them then,” Rua continued. “They are descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages, and claim links to the High King of Ireland, the Kings of Tara, Ulster, and others. Yet it is there claim to Niall Noígíallach that they say matters most, for they say that the hostages offered to him by nine different families were, in fact, the first vampires of Ireland, offered not as gifts, but as an attempt to end the O'Neill line. They say then that they are the origins of us all, not necessary as living, but as undead. Any historian, of the mundane or magical world, would dispute their claims.”

  Lorcan rose. “You have heard enough,” he said. “Five families, three of which are in agreement with the Kavanagh claim.”

  “This isn't a vote,” Cathal said.

  “Perhaps not, but while it is unwise to fight one army, it is madness to fight three.”

  Cathal was silenced by that comment. James had little to go on, but instinct told him a lot that the vampire clans would not say: that the O'Neills, if they had been there, would not have been silent at all—that they might have spoken with the tongue of a blade.

  12 – WINDOW

  The council room cleared, and James was freed from his bonds, though not before being forced to promise that he would not run, and warned that if he did, they would chase him. It took a great deal of effort to pretend that he was strong, that he did not fear them, and he was almost certain that they saw right through it.

  “Good night,” Rua said, as she sealed him back inside his bedroom. She retreated through the closing door, with the flicker of a smile upon her face.

  He heard the clang of the old bolt locking into place, and felt Rua's presence shifting down the hallway. Perhaps she walked, but she made no noise. There was a grace about her and her husband, but James knew that it was a shell that covered an ugly, evil core.

  As soon as he felt he was outside her gaze, James let out his long-held breath. It was not a sigh of relief, because there was still no relief to be had. His own shell of false courage crumbled, and he felt himself tremble. As far as he could tell, there was no one else in the hotel but him—well, no one living anyway.

  He rushed over to his bed and grabbed his mobile phone from the bedside table. One bar. While this was Dublin, it was the outskirts, the so-called “best of both worlds” of the city and country life. There were two worlds here all right, and he had the worst of both.

  He tried to call Lilly, but he couldn't get through. It didn't ring at all for ages, and then when it did, it went straight to voicemail.

  Damn it, Lilly, answer!

  Then the bars dropped to zero. He was on his own. His life or death was in his hands, and the claws of the vampires.

  He looked around the room for some means of escape. There was nothing but the window, and he was three floors up. He opened it and looked outside. It was a long drop. He would be lucky to get away with just broken legs—and with them he wouldn't get away at all.

  He sighed. He was trapped. He would have to go along with their plans, even though he was certain he was no “blood warden,” that he had no power against these fiends, and that his only contribution to them would be his very blood.

  He saw the single bar on his phone come back, and his heart fluttered. He bashed 999 into the keypad, and was thankful that the operator answered immediately.

  “P-p-police, please,” he stuttered.

  There was a momentary dial tone, but just as swiftly he got through to the police.

  “What's the emergency?”

  “There's been a murder here. I don't know what to do.” He thought it best not to tell them about the vampires. He needed the men in blue. He didn't want them to send the men in white coats instead.

  “Where are you?” the operator asked.

  “I'm at—”

  Then the call cut off, and he
saw he was down to zero bars again.

  No! he cried internally. He might have cried aloud too, were he not fearful that it would attract the attention of the vampires again.

  Yet maybe something heard him all the same.

  His eyes were drawn to the open window, where he felt a presence approaching.

  Then a hand reached up from the outside wall and gripped the window sill with its long, pointed nails. Then the other came, reaching through the opening and grasping the interior wall. Then the head and body came, and Lorcan crawled into the room.

  James dropped his phone, and Lorcan swiftly advanced and caught it. He drew up slowly, clutching the device in his bony fingers, with his nails pointing outwards so as not to scratch the screen.

  “Be careful,” he said, soft and sweet. He handed it back to James. “Best to put that away,” he continued. “Out here, the signal … is not great. Besides, in this land you are the stranger. So, pray tell, who would you call?”

  “No one,” James uttered.

  Lorcan smiled. “No one, yes.” He circled around James, so that his gown wrapped around James' legs. If he kept going, it would wrap around his neck like a noose.

  “Why are you keeping me here?” James asked.

  “To keep you safe.”

  “I don't feel safe.”

  “Good,” the vampire said. “It is better to be afraid and be vigilant, than to think yourself protected, and let down your guard.” He walked towards the open window, letting his gown unwrap from James' legs and pull along behind him. He gestured to the opening.

  “For example,” he said. “It is not wise to leave an open window here. You never know what might crawl in.” He smiled. There was something very intimidating about his friendliness, as if he never once in his life—or death—had to make an explicit threat.

  “I … I can't breathe in here,” James said. “I feel suffocated.”

  “Yes,” Lorcan said. “Breathing. Sometimes I forget these things that the living do. For us, air comes in, like it comes into a deep, dark chamber beneath the earth. It does nothing there. It means nothing to us. But for you, it is different. I barely remember those times. So long ago!” He seemed pained to think of it. “Good riddance!”