Vampires Don't Cry: The Collection

by Ian Hall

  “Gregor.” I swept my hood back and crossed the room.

  “Vizier Vyhovsky. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I need a favor, Gregor. I need to know the mood of the people, and I need clothes for two assassins.”

  “You plan a murder?”

  “Nay. There’s been enough death with the blood sickness. I just need disguise for myself and my companion.”

  Gregor nodded, and looked at Samara. For a second, jealousy tinged my emotions, and I swept it away.

  He motioned to the large man. “Get them clothes, weapons, too. You can’t be disguised as assassins and not be armed.”

  “Thank you, Gregor.”

  He waved away my thanks. “No matter, I will earn its worth back with interest.”

  “Oh, no doubt.”

  “Now, your question. The will of the people?”

  “With Apostol dead, and Tomas waiting to take the mantle, how do they feel?”

  Gregor looked uncomfortable for the first time. He seemed to weigh each word in his mouth before spitting it out.

  “There have been rumors.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, they centre on Tomas’s pale skin.” He paused, as if awkward.

  “Well, out with it, no matter how bad it sounds.”

  Gregor swallowed hard. “Well, some say he’s a homosexual recluse, some say he’s not of the Lucescu blood.”

  I laughed. “Oh, he’s his father’s son in many ways. He’s had his share of women. Is that all?”

  Again, he hesitated. “I don’t want to say it, Vizier, but there have been some vile rumors of late.”

  My brows narrowed. “And these rumors are?”

  “Well, there are those in town that say Lord Tomas has been seen at night. It’s difficult to hide his pale skin and hawkish profile. The witnesses are certain it’s him; and there are many.”

  “And what has he been doing?”

  “The rumors are of Strogoi,” Gregor blurted. “Girls have gone missing. Many are being blamed on Tomas. The rumors are already in the taverns.”

  Strogoi; the ancient Romanian word for vampire, the crude nickname for the Order. The word held so much evil that I had not heard it spoken for many years.

  But the gossip had seeped out, and it seems that in my absence, Tomas had not conducted himself well. I’d returned too late to prevent the first mistakes. I hoped the new training would curb this insanity.

  Samara and I dressed in the black leather trousers and jerkins of the assassin, and took our leave of Gregor.

  Silently we slipped into the dark backstreets.

  I found this newest one to be no rebellious carper. The lady rode in near silence, only small whimpers as she hugged my back as if I were her champion rather than assailant. We rode at a good clip and returned to Lucescu stables long before sunup.

  Once inside my private quarters, Nicolette was nowhere to be seen, the lounge empty. My new acquisition and I moved easily through the east parlor to the false wall behind the bookcase. I led the way in pitch darkness; even my astute eyesight could make little of the narrow, stone passage. Yet, I knew the way by feel alone. Apostol had drilled his family well in making quick escape, should the occasion arise.

  I kept her hand clasped in mine, pulling her from behind, until I felt the walls separate. The air of the chamber felt moist and bitter with chill, despite the coming of summer.

  “I’m afraid the accommodations are less than ideal,” I apologized. “This is a utilitarian room and not meant for long-term use. There is no fireplace; neither any egress nor natural lighting. However, somewhere in here there are wool blankets and a supply of candles that you will get by one for a while. Water and bucket will be brought in.”

  I set her free to roam the dark expanse; however my guest seemed quite satisfied to press herself up against the wall, nearly becoming one with the cobbles.

  My mother kept a cabinet stocked with some bare necessities; yet, it seemed there were limits to even a vampire’s vision, and I could not make it out from where I stood. I left my petrified guest by the entrance while I fumbled about the dark. At the expense of many a knee-jarring, I located the whereabouts of the cabinet and one guttering taper still within the brass holder atop it. Barely a wick seemed left to it, but it lit after much coaxing.

  I lowered myself to the short cabinet’s doors, careful not to peep into the glass lest I be greeted by my own reflection staring back at me, and made quick work of taking inventory; it seemed Mistress Lucescu had been quite thorough. Candles enough to last a lifetime. Thick, if somewhat prickly, blankets; enough to lay a decent palate over the cold floor and still have cover. A box of my father’s preferred cigars and full canteen of brandy wine; those I would take for myself.

  “Ha!” I said, celebrating my mother’s prudence. “She’s even included a cache of preserves and some dried fruit. I can’t attest to the flavor but at you’ll have something to eat.”

  The girl turned out to be quite the ungracious guest, giving nothing in the way of reply. Were it not for her hysterical breathing and rapid heartbeat, I would have thought myself very much alone. I made one last attempt at engaging her.

  “There’s a small selection of books to occupy yourself with,” I said, at last turning back to face her, candle in hand. “I assume you are literate?”

  The dim glow of the candle proved more than adequate to illuminate the frightened creature’s reaction of me. Her eyes narrowed, mouth gaped. She craned her neck, straining for a better view. I lifted the candle to aid her inspection, coming in a few steps closer.

  As I approached and her eyes adjusted to the meager light, the lady clutched her heart, silently screaming, and fainted at the first good sight of me.

  It took her only minutes to recover her senses; myself a while longer to recover my dignity. I crouched above her when her eyes flittered back open; she gasped and tried once again to become as mortar between the stones.

  “What is your name?” I snapped.

  She turned her head from me, away from the light that showcased my anomalous features. I lifted her chin, not gently, and forced her to meet my eyes.

  “Do not mistake it as a request. Your name.”

  “Faina,” she whimpered.

  “Faina,” I repeated as if it were a curse. “I am not a monster, Faina. You will not be mistreated or violated so long as you do not countermand my wishes. My intention is survival and you have just become an integral part of that.”

  Her small weeps slowly became a continuous bawl.

  “Please stop that. I have no use for frantic women and your tears will serve you no purpose.”

  Faina muted her wailing behind a cupped hand, an effort at least. So, I reined my composure and continued more gently.

  I reprised my earlier question, “Do you read?”

  She shook her head in a vehement “no”; I dare say her entire body wobbled a response.

  I gave her a disapproving look, my brows heavy with disappointment.

  “How do you spend your leisure time?”

  Faina did not seem to understand the question. I suddenly came to suspect I’d been too hasty my selection.

  “What skills do you possess?”

  Her first utterance to me had been but a squeak, “Skills?”

  “Good lord, woman – what do you like to do? Or are your interests limited to gratuitous trysts in dark allies?”

  Faina at last stifled her crying with a severe sniff. I presented a handkerchief from my pocket and she blew into it with the force of a gale wind. Two sorely red eyes peeked out from above the material.

  “I enjoy my needlepoint on Sundays after church,” she said with the voice of a child.

  “Needlepoint?”

  “Yes, sir. I am very accomplished; my work takes top coin at bizarre, sir.”

  “And that should serve me quite well should I ever get the itch to begin embroidering on doilies.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never
mind. Your blood will sate the hunger, inferior as it may be.”

  Faina’s eyes grew to saucers. I thought to relieve her of a pint right then but had no immediate craving for the taste of mediocrity.

  I snuffed out the candle and left her to brood in darkness.

  Tomas took no finding. We were walking the dark streets no longer than an hour when I heard the clip of horseshoes on cobbles. At first I was surprised at the metallic sound, then recognized my own horse by his sweat.

  Tomas’s rendering of the poor gentleman was crude, his snatch of the maiden was adequate, but he left a witness in his wake. It was the job of a bungling idiot rather than the finest the Lucescu line could offer.

  I shook my head in complete despair as he rode off.

  The young man rose to his feet, and was heading for the nearest doorway when my sword entered his throat. Silenced, he fell into my arms, and I used all my senses to identify any sign of witnesses.

  Samara and I quickly dragged him into an alleyway where we drank our fill from the recent holes in his neck. I then searched his pockets, and emptied them of every item. I ran my sword over his neck a few times, cutting his bloodless flesh, disguising the puncture marks. The killing would go down as a robbery, and hopefully the affair would go no further.

  “We must make plans to leave.” I cradled Samara in my arms, our bodies hot and glistening. “We must have horses at the ready, and our funding in some kind of viable form.”

  “Do you think it will come to that?”

  “I hope not.” I teased some stray wisps of hair from her forehead, then kissed her. “But we must be ready for flight. If the stories of Tomas’s indiscretions find their way to the ears of the Hetmanate, they will act for the good of all. Until we complete Tomas’s training, and put a few years of normality behind us, our position here is not secure.”

  She fell silent for a moment, then her fingers began to trace spirals on my chest, the pattern advancing lower and lower. “Will you take me with you?” she asked, her eyes pleading and tearful.

  “Of course, my love. You are part of me now. We are the teachers of Tomas Lucescu, and through us, he will know the Path of the Wraith. We will hone the rough edges from this new Strogoi, and set him firmly on the path to the Hetmanate.”

  I smiled at my strong words, but felt no passion from them. I knew that training Tomas would test my patience to its limits.

  How their prejudice barbed me. In mortal life, my greatest moment came when the blood fever overtook me for I knew it would put an end to my miserable existence. Mistress Lucescu had warned me, hidden me. And she had been right to do so. Now I knew first-hand; the world held no tolerance for the unbeautiful and took every liberty to balk about it.

  Faina’s blatant revulsion of me stuck in my side the whole way back through the maze, stirring memories better left suppressed. All too clearly I recalled the day my father first presented Nicolette to me in my bedchamber; how he brought her to me in darkness, how easily she came to my bed, how she melted to me and welcomed me eagerly. Only the next morning to run, shrieking, from my room; even through the many years since I’d never known her such a willing hostess as our first encounter.

  Greedy eyes, forever in search of perfection but never willing to look beneath the skin. These women may never acquire affection for my face, but they would learn respect by my hand. And so would their replacements.

  With these dark sentiments occupying me, I emerged from the tunnel, quite startled to find company waiting in the parlor. He’d been peeping out the window, anxious as a bridegroom. Realizing my approach, he quickly snatched the curtains shut and an expression of utter relief relaxed his tense features.

  For the first time I felt grateful for Ivan’s demeanor towards me. Besides my immediate family, he was unique for his acceptance of my appearance. Because of the events of the last few days, I felt glad to see him.

  Even his demanding tone did not put me off.

  “Has something happened?” he asked.

  “Happened?”

  “You were down in the secret room – I assume for good reason.”

  I made with a hasty excuse. “Just being prudent; you were well overdue and I feared the worst. I’m afraid my nerves got the better of me and thought it wise to keep hidden ‘til morning.”

  For once, Ivan afforded me an approving nod. “You were well to do so, Tomas. This is no time for any of us to lower our guard.”

  Ivan made for the lounge; in a very uncharacteristic fashion, he draped himself over it like an empty garment. All his extraordinary strength had evaporated. Even the effort to speak seemed nearly too much for the man.

  “So, no word of any kind from Moshny?”

  “Not so much as a pebble at the window,” I said, attempting levity. “I don’t believe the villagers will be surrounding the castle with pitchforks and torches anytime soon.”

  “Do not think yourself out of the woods so soon, boy,” Ivan snapped, gaining some of his usual potency back. “There are rumors being spread about the streets of Moshny.”

  “Of what sort?”

  Ivan glared at me then said, “Is your head empty as well as bald?”

  “Rumors of the ambush that befell us in the forest?” I grinned at my own irony.

  “Do not be glib, Tomas! Eye witnesses have made testimony and their account grows more fantastic with every telling.”

  “Precisely!” I exclaimed jubilantly. “Barstool tales dribbled through the lips of drunkards! Who’s going to believe them?”

  “The Order believes them!” he barked, rising to pour a snifter.

  Ivan’s foul mood began to ebb my enjoyment of his company. I took his place on the lounge and allowed him to pace the room, swirling brandy in a slow and thoughtful motion.

  “Things did not go well at your meeting I surmise?”

  “A scout was sent to Moshny,” he said, as if recalling a bitter dream, “upon his return he reported loose tongues in every tavern and on every corner, all wagging the same story.”

  Ivan stopped, his back to the window, the dim glow of the curtains engulfed him in a red halo.

  “I assure you, Tomas, your fate is being decided this very hour.”

  When the coup came, three weeks later, it proved to be swift and bloodless, and to my eternal remorse, unforeseen by me; Cossack Vizier Ivan Vyhovski.

  I lay in bed with Samara when I realized the first incursion; hundreds of shuffling feet running in our own corridors. I rose with curiosity, but the unfamiliar colors of the troops made me startle, and I stood for a moment at the open door of my quarters with my jaw dropping to the floor in shock.

  Suddenly, the towering figure of Boran Pugachev stood far closer than he’d ever been.

  “Vizier,” he nodded. “You’d be prudent if you went back inside.” He looked past me to the sight of a half-naked Samara clutching a robe to her bosom. “Feast yourself on your woman for a while and leave the Lucescu line to its destiny. It ends here, now. The Hetmanate have spoken.”

  I poised, ready to throw myself at the man, but Samara’s hand on my arm held me back.

  Swallowing chunks of pride, I bowed my head slightly. “The Igmars were always the Hetmanate’s favorites.”

  Boran grinned, his stained gravestone teeth parting wickedly. “You think low of me, Vizier. The Hetmanate will still decide its own leader; we are an alliance. Men of all three families now infest your Lucescu lands. My Igmars march with the Lugar men and the Eastern Tatars.” Boran grabbed the next four men who filed past. “Guard this door with your lives. No one in, no one out. Kill all who attempt to disobey.”

  I took a step back, and let the lead man pull the door closed. Turning, Samara looked as ashen as I felt.

  “What do we do?” she shook her head feverishly.

  I put my hand on hers, and patted it lightly. My mind reeled from news of the alliance of the three houses. Yes, my Lucescu line diminished as I pondered, but Boran’s news brought a ray of hope for the plague-r
avaged region. If Boran had indeed allied with Yermak Ifkoshev of the Lugar men, and Azov Kuban of the Eastern Tatars, then perhaps my new thoughts should be to the greater good; the restoration of a powerful Cossack nation, rather than an ungrateful albino whelp. “We wait, my dear.”

  I wondered at the scale of the coup. In my quarters, I had heard no resistance, no fighting. I could smell no telltale smoke. There must have either been help from the inside, or the force must have been so great that resistance failed immediately.

  “We must be grateful that he did not mention Strogoi.” I threw my robe to the floor and strode naked into my bedchamber, determined to dress for the most lavish of state occasions. Ivan Vyhovsky would not disgrace the Lucescu line. “Perhaps there is a way to salvage a position for me in all this.”

  “For us?” Samara drew close to my back. Her warm breasts pushed into my kidneys, and her hands ran delicately forward to my already swelling member.

  “Yes, my dear,” I smiled, wallowing in her attention of her firm grip. Despite the bedlam outside, I began to think of the Order, rather the Lucescu line. “For us.”

  They dispatched me at late morning, the sun nearly at its peak. One man to each limb they dragged me from the dim refuge of my parlor and into the full and bright daylight. It scorched my sensitive eyes and I thought for certain my very flesh would be charred off the bone.

  As they carried me to the makeshift gallows, Nicolette chased after, screaming and cursing the way only a woman of her station could do. Her shrill, banshee cries rose high above all other voices.

  They pushed me against the great oak, bound my hands and legs, and lifted me to the platform. As the noose slipped over my head, I saw her pushing to the front of the throng. I’d never seen her hair in the sunlight before; brilliant and dazzling as the sun itself. For that split second, I loved her without limits.

  Nicolette collapsed to her knees, her body heaving in manic sobs. When she lifted her head, I saw the fire from her hair ignite her eyes.