by DB Nielsen
Caleb was silent, but it was the silence associated with a sudden alertness, a watchfulness. “Someone attempted to suppress the knowledge of the dark mages. Someone erased them from the annals of history. Who was it, I wonder?”
“The report Styx gave me was redacted. Whoever did it doesn’t want to be found or known. Besides, that information is classified.” Aislinn leaned her head back on the cool glass of the refrigeration unit wearily. “Does it matter by whom? Honestly, I’m not interested in the mages in Esper. I’m only interested in the two dark mages on Earth who have gone rogue. Specifically, the two Druids who killed my sister.”
It was like she had seen into his head, but as she was the one hellbent on vengeance, she should have been interested.
Caleb’s eyes were still mostly brown, not obsidian. He was exasperated and frustrated, but he wasn’t totally pissed off with her yet, despite her uncooperative mood.
But that didn’t stop him from stating in a tone bordering on slightly incensed, “Haven’t I taught you anything? Don’t you remember your lessons on ‘The Art of War’?”
Ugh. How could I forget? Caleb had spent centuries kicking her ass until she’d memorized it, word for word in the original Chinese, and also the French and English translations. And she still didn’t understand even half of it. But she remembered it all right.
“Not ‘The Art of War’,” Aislinn whined. “Can we do this tomorrow? It’s late. I’m tired.”
His eyes darkened. “Vampires don’t get tired. Vampires don’t sleep. You’re not tired, Aislinn. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re not tired.”
He was such a smart old bastard—even if he didn’t look old since, like all vampires, he’d stopped ageing when he was turned.
“Fine,” she grumbled. “Know your enemy.”
He said nothing. He was as unyielding as stone. He didn’t move a tattooed muscle. Not even the corner of his mouth or eyebrows twitched. The only sign that he was unimpressed was his black stare.
Aislinn tried not to grind her teeth. “Vlad’s nuts. All right already. Sun Tzu wrote, ‘It is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles. If you do not know your enemies but do know yourself, you will win one and lose one. If you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperiled in every single battle’. Is that it? Are we done now?”
“Not nearly,” Caleb told her quietly.
She groaned. She’d been afraid of this. Caleb was like a dog with a bone. He wasn’t going to let it go. Since he wasn’t bored or drunk, despite consuming three times as many blood bags as her, she could only conclude that he was genuinely concerned.
The muscular Malum snapped his fingers, calling her to focus. “Vlad’s teeth. Pay attention. An especially corrupted dark mage’s blood is so tainted that when it drops on the ground, it creates—what? What does it create? What did you see?”
Aislinn shrugged. “Nothing. The shapeshifters came at us. Then the hunters arrived. Like I said—chaos.”
“Well, we can’t assume that the hunters dealt with whatever the blood taint created.”
“Why not?” Aislinn asked stubbornly. “I’m certain that the Immortal Huntress was more than capable of dealing with it.”
“And that’s another thing.” Caleb glared furiously at her as if it was her fault. “Why did she let you go?”
“She didn’t exactly let me go.” Now it was Aislinn’s turn to glare furiously at the beefy Malum, offended by the implication that she couldn’t handle herself against the Immortal Huntress. “We disengaged from battle. The agreement was mutual.” If unspoken—though Caleb didn’t really need to know that part.
Caleb grunted, making her wonder if he doubted what she had told him. She held his gaze. Well, an omission wasn’t exactly a lie in her opinion.
A deep silence descended on the storeroom. Caleb began to pace the cellar again. She wished he wouldn’t do that. She much preferred when he was still. His pacing made her nervous as it reminded her of the days when, as a drill sergeant, he would pace in front of the new recruits before singling one out for punishment. More often than not, it was her, since she had a habit of being unable to do the wise thing and keep her mouth shut when it came to unquestioningly obeying orders.
The silence lengthened between them. Aislinn made no move to break it. She was done with pouring out her confession and was emotionally drained. If Caleb wanted to speak about it, Aislinn decided, he could damn well ask the questions. After all, he was an expert interrogator.
“The more dark magic they use, the more corrupted they become,” the other vampire said at last, musing speculatively. “Question: is all magic the same, or is it different and dependent on the mage who wields it? And, by extension, is all dark magic the same or different?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” She looked up at him, surprised.
She had never thought much about the actual magic. Her only thought, her only priority, was to gain justice for her sister by avenging herself on her murderers. But now, because of Caleb’s reasoning, she wondered at the nature of magic—magic that was powerful and dangerous.
Caleb rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “When I was a boy, there were tales of sorcerers. Some called them wizards or warlocks. Your brother, Marduk, might call them by other names: genies, jinn, magicians. But the mages have existed for as long as vampires. And they are known to wield great power. Not from the elements but from living energy.”
Aislinn nodded. She’d once believed in the pagan gods of the Otherworld. But no longer. None of them had saved her sister, nor had they provided the divine justice she so desperately sought. Only Kayne had heard her plea and responded to it. Her Father. The god of wrath.
“But their power from blood and suffering must allow them to somehow control living energy to extend their mortality,” Aislinn clarified, tilting her head to the side to look up at him where he leaned against the wooden post. “So how does that work?”
Caleb shrugged nonchalantly. The gesture made the white T-shirt taut over his solid chest. “I’m not the one you should be asking.”
Aislinn nodded in agreement, understanding his meaning perfectly. “Benjamin.”
Chapter 4
Aislinn strode through the enormous doors of the manor house which automatically opened into the London Coven’s luxurious entrance hall, bearing a distinct similarity to the fashionable, luxurious hotels in New York and Paris. Her entrance took the younger, more hedonistic members of the London Coven lounging around on the plush, velvet divans in the middle of the Vestibulum by surprise, since only visiting dignitaries normally arrived by the formal entrance.
Not that anyone was going to kick up a fuss, more than raising a few eyebrows. The daughter of Kayne could come and go as she pleased. And even if she decided to descend from the enormous glass ceiling dome naked on a wrecking ball, then that was nobody’s business but her own. Except that there’d be hell to pay with the Cleaner—and no amount of Aurum Julius coins would be enough to cover the damage. If she ever did something like that, she was sure Brian would be sweeping the floor using her skinny ass as a broom.
As it was fast approaching dawn, alloy steel leaf shutters fanned out to block the strength of the sun, shielding those reclining in the Vestibulum beneath from imminent death. Under the Vestibulum’s vaulted ceilings, domestic staff were busily at work. Every morning, a discreet team of cleaners toiled silently and efficiently around the vampires who languished on the divans like pale lilies, drinking blood cocktails and conducting tawdry affairs and diva dramas and powerplays well into the following night.
Aislinn crossed the vast chamber, careful to leave no footprints on the cream-and-gold mosaic marble floor which had just been spotlessly polished by a cowering cleaner.
She sighed. It was annoying being the direct descendant and only daughter of Kayne, the first of their kind and Father of their race. Half the vampires in the coven lived in fear of her. The other half wanted to
be her or sleep with her or kill her. Only a handful could lay claim to being called a friend. But her brother, head of the coven, wasn’t one of them.
“Prima Aislinn,” a polite but cool voice called out to her.
“Not now, Usain. I have an appointment with my brother.” She dismissed him in a flat tone as she marched across the Vestibulum alone.
Moving swiftly through the labyrinthine galleries, the well-guarded halls, and stone stairwells, she reached the long corridor heading toward the Inner Sanctum. During the day, this part of the manor house was like a tomb, silent and empty, except for the Sanguis security guards who continued their regular patrols.
Darius, one of the Sanguis guards on duty who flanked the entrance, stood at attention, his posture straight as an arrow. Aislinn genuinely liked the young vampire who was dressed in the customary chainmail and leather uniform with a long javelin braced in his right hand and a sheathed, wickedly sharp gladius on his opposite hip. His reddish-gold hair fell to his shoulders from beneath the Celtic-style helmet he wore, which also covered his habitual expression of friendly openness.
“Prima Aislinn,” he greeted her formally. His voice held none of its usual warmth, and she could tell he was nervous and unsure of how to behave in her presence. She nodded, the dark Mark of Cain on her forehead flaring in recognition.
To his left, the other Sanguis personal guard, didn’t deign to acknowledge her.
Her bright blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. His insolence was a breach of propriety. Perhaps she had been away from the coven too long, though she had been busy creating a new vampire, hunting dark mages, and decapitating enemies.
She moved to stand in front of the other Sanguis, staring into cold blue eyes behind the metal helmet. She could let it go, but then the rest of the coven would think she was going soft. And that would cause more problems for her.
Unblinking, holding the stare, Aislinn asked Darius, “Does your partner talk? Or has he lost his voice?”
She could hear Darius silently swallow with her acute ability. He stammered a reply. “No, Prima Aislinn. I mean, y-y-e-es, Prima Aislinn. He talks. No, um, he hasn’t lost his voice.”
“No, I didn’t think so,” she said with a charming, deadly smile. “It would be a first for my brother to have a mute for his personal guard, though it might be an improvement.”
She knew that Gaius was struggling hard not to grind his teeth. There was little he could do. If he spoke now, she would crucify him. If he didn’t, then he had deliberately disrespected Kayne’s handpicked Twelfth Disciple, an insult that demanded punishment.
Either way, he was fucked. And it was his own fault.
Yet, Aislinn wasn’t in the mood to kill another of Julius’s minions so soon after Orlando. She still had to live under the same roof with her brother, after all, and she’d never hear the end of it. Instead, she gave the insolent Sanguis a onceover and said coldly, “Gaius, you have blood on your uniform.”
It made him look down.
He didn’t see the punch coming.
Aislinn drew back her arm and gave a powerful right jab at lightning speed, breaking Gaius’s nose with a loud crunching of metal and cartilage. The force of the blow was like a low-velocity gunshot, the metal meant to protect his nose keeping most of the blood off Aislinn and instead directing it in a gush down Gaius’s chin and onto his chainmail as his hands flew up automatically to cover his bloody face.
“Fuck!” Gaius howled in pain.
Aislinn immediately followed up with a throat strike, leaving him gurgling. “Watch your language. Go clean yourself up. I expect that next time, you will show the proper deference to your superiors. And be thankful that I am allowing you to keep your head on your shoulders.”
She rolled her eyes as Gaius whimpered and groveled. She was probably going to end up regretting her decision to let him live later. But that was usually the case.
Maybe Caleb had been correct. Julius had been expecting her to attend upon him before now, and she had ignored him. Intentionally. Now she was going to pay the price for her folly. Julius wasn’t the forgiving sort.
“Darius,” she said to the shocked Sanguis guard whose eyes were round as saucers as he looked on in awe and horror. “Be so good as to announce my presence to my brother.”
“Y-y-es, Prima Aislinn.” He bowed and did as he was bid.
“My dearest sister,” Julius pronounced. “Welcome. We’ve been expecting you. This is a happy reunion.”
I’ve definitely been away from the coven too long.
It was never a good sign when her brother was in a good mood. It was always better when he was in a blood rage. At least then, his behavior was more predictable. At times like these, when there was a feral hyperactivity exuding from him, he was at his most dangerous.
In mortal life as a Roman general, he was cruel and ruthless, ruling over his region with an iron fist and little mercy. When fatally injured in a raid, Kayne turned Julius to propagate a new dynasty of immortals. But like so many vampires, the infectious blood rage which her father had blessed—or perhaps cursed—them with led to a constant struggle to retain reason over uncontrollable rage. The older Julius got, the crazier he became. And Aislinn had learned that it was never a good idea to underestimate someone who was crazier than the guy in The Shining.
“Julius. Forgive my absence.” She kept her voice flat, emotionless, showing neither deference nor fear. In truth, Aislinn didn’t fear Julius at all. She was probably one of the few vampires in the coven who didn’t. But she had been taught by Caleb to be cautious and politic, something which she was exercising for the first time in a millennium. Her former drill sergeant would have been most proud of her. “I have been carrying out the wishes of our Father as I’m certain you are aware.”
Julius flashed across the Inner Sanctum in a dark blur and stopped just an inch away from her, close enough that she was able to look him directly in the eye. Despite being of average height for an ancient Roman, he held an ugly, ruthless authority.
Aislinn didn’t flinch. Not even when he drew her into a surprising, cold embrace.
Not that she reciprocated the attempt at a familial gesture, since it was not only unexpected, but she hated being touched and was often uncomfortable with displays of affection.
“Death has been swallowed up in victory. We rejoice at the success of our younger sister. Come, join us. Sit.” Julius’s sugary words were laced with an arrogant benevolence as if he were conferring a great honor upon her. As tradition decreed, he had intoned their motto and acknowledged the “victory” of rebirth, but these were mere formalities which the head of the coven was expected to perform.
Having done his duty, his movements back to the dais were a pale blur.
Aislinn looked at the dais dubiously, at the only seat which her brother now occupied, and remained in a tense and uncertain stance. If he thought she was going to sit at his feet like some tamed pet or harem girl, then he was in for a rude awakening.
Primus Julius leaned heavily against the back of the throne-like chair and imperiously snapped his fingers twice. The sound reverberated around the hollow chamber, echoing and growing in volume, demanding to be answered. It allowed Aislinn a moment to take stock of her brother’s peculiar behavior as the heavy doors to the Inner Sanctum were thrown open.
“Your will, Primus Julius,” Darius stated respectfully. Aislinn could hear the whisper of movement, suggesting the Sanguis’s low, deferential bow made to the head of the coven, as he stood some distance behind her.
“Bring my sister a seat,” he commanded the young vampire sentinel.
“At once, my Lord.”
Julius’s eyes narrowed. Aislinn read disappointment in her brother’s face as his gaze roved over the vast room within a split second.
Its beauty was bathed in pools of golden light from the row of gas lantern pendants hanging from the enormous hammer-beam timber roof and never ceased to amaze Aislinn—as long as she did not look down from eye l
evel too often, since Julius’s feeding habits bordered on the bestial.
But fortunately, the Inner Sanctum had been cleaned recently, and incense was burning in the wall sconces. Despite this calming beauty, on this occasion, Julius did not find what he was searching for. He raised a white hand negligently, preventing Darius from leaving. “Wait. Where is Gaius?”
Aislinn could almost feel the anxious adolescent vampire’s eyes flicker toward her and back again to focus on the head of the coven. She could smell the fear on his skin as he opened his mouth to offer an explanation. “My Lord, Gaius—”
“Offended me,” Aislinn cut in, saving the powerless personal guard an account of Gaius’s actions that would not have gone well for either of the sentries. She felt the air move around her as some of the tension left him and briefly wondered what explanation Darius would have given. She fixed her gaze upon her older sibling. “I do not demand obsequiousness, brother, but I do demand respect.”
“Yes, I see, indeed,” Julius agreed. To Aislinn’s incredulity, he sounded almost amused. “Darius, the seat for Prima Aislinn. Let us not keep her waiting.”
If she had been standing beside the Sanguis guard, she would have noted the same incredulity on his expressive face as she felt, yet he managed to mask his amazement by bowing low. Then he turned on his heel to leave the Inner Sanctum with enough dignity to suggest the makings of a disciplined sentry and not a scared rabbit. Almost instantaneously, a chair arrived and was placed next to Julius on the dais. It wasn’t quite as elaborate in detail as her brother’s, but it was roughly the same height, suggesting a degree of equality between them, though Aislinn noted that it was slightly awkward to converse in this manner since they were both facing the vast, empty chamber.
Aislinn decided to turn her chair toward Julius, hoping childishly to antagonize her brother by deliberately scraping the wooden feet upon the mosaic floor, which appropriately held images of an ancient Roman big-game hunt. The sound that she made was like fingernails on a chalkboard.
