Santorini could see that this lack of aggression was costing the creature greatly, and in that moment the man behind the hideous features and the maddened eyes slipped through for an instant. Not the best of God’s servants, the bishop was also not the least. He moved forward swiftly, took the steel cords in hand, and began to quickly, almost frantically, drag the prone man-thing’s body toward the doorway to the interior of the keep.
As he moved, he prayed. It had been some time since Antonio had felt the spirit truly move him to prayer, but in that moment his faith, or the hope of that faith, was renewed. The strength that drew him onward did not feel as though it were his own. He used the words that flowed easily from memory and heart to shield him from the images that assaulted his mind. The creature spinning, breaking free, rending him limb from limb, or worse yet, Montrovant returning, coming suddenly up behind him and asking just what he thought he was doing removing a prisoner from the ramparts of a keep that did not belong to him.
It didn’t matter. His captive was bound tightly…and though the thing had shown remarkable strength and ferocity while hanging on the wall, it was growing very weak. As they moved to the doorway it was necessary to pass through another patch of bright sunlight. The sudden assault of the sunlight caused the thing to burst into flames again, all over its body, and Antonio rushed it into the shadows beyond the first door he came to, not looking behind himself and nearly toppling them both down the long, winding stairs.
By pressing into the wall frantically, the creature was able to quench the flames, but the gibbering, hopeless sounds continued. They were no longer screams, but the depth of the pain they bespoke, the anguish in the deadened sockets that had once been eyes tore at Santorini’s soul. He almost took a step forward, so strong was that pull. Almost.
“Blood.” the thing croaked. Antonio didn’t really hear it—could hardly distinguish the words from the harsh, grating cough that was the creature’s voice.
“What?” He stepped carefully closer, leaning as near as he dared. “What did you say?”
“Blood,” Abraham repeated. “Bring me blood…please.”
Santorini lurched back, staring. What was he doing? Here was this thing, this half man, half God knew what, lying in a heap, nearly burned to the death he should be embracing, and Antonio had stopped that from happening. Now it asked the impossible, asked for blood, and the bishop had made himself responsible.
Seeing the look of disgust, and terror, that flashed across Santorini’s face, the creature that had been Abraham spoke again. “Animal,” he croaked, “is fine. Please.”
Antonio turned and ran. He did not look back, and if he could have done so without losing his balance and toppling down the steep stairs, he would have clasped his hands over his ears, closed his eyes tightly and screamed.
All the years, all the secret late-night talks with Montrovant, the innuendo and the threat—all of it fell to naught against the backdrop of final truth that lay on the floor above him. This creature was like the dark one, like Montrovant, and it fed on blood. Heart pounding, the Bishop raced into the yard and made for his horse, not stopping until he held the reins in his hand and his foot was firmly planted in the stirrup.
Then he saw the keep again, and he remembered who and what he was, and why he had come. He did not mount his horse. He stared up at the keep, at the walls far above, the hook on the wall where short moments before a man/creature had hung, burning in the sun. Then he turned, making his way to the stables, and began a long prayer for forgiveness that would not end until late that night when sleep overwhelmed him. There had to be animals, something. He prayed, as well, that it would not be a horse.
As it turned out, there were plenty of pigs in the sty and several of them were younger, not too hard to handle. It had been a few years since Antonio had slaughtered a pig, but such lessons of childhood are not easily lost. He had saved the blood, still warm, in the only thing he could find for the task, a feed bucket. The heady, cloying scent of the fresh blood nauseated him as he climbed, but he forced himself back up those stairs, to that thing, now scrabbling feebly on the floor, and he tipped the bucket, dribbling a small trickle of blood onto its lips.
The reaction was instantaneous and sudden. It lurched up, nearly spilling the bucket from his hands, mouth open wide and impossibly long, extending, stretching toward the blood. Antonio pulled back, steadying himself, then moved close again, holding the bucket further up and away and pouring the blood carefully, letting it fill the thing’s mouth, waiting, then filling again.
The frantic motions stopped slowly as the thing guzzled the offered blood steadily. It was like watching a drunkard gulp a tankard of ale without taking a breath. The entire bucket was empty in only a bit more time than it would have taken him to pour it out on the floor, and suddenly the thing lifted its face to him…only it did not seem a thing any longer.
The young man had deep, earnest eyes, and the blood smearing his face no longer gave him the aspect of a slavering beast, but of a wounded, needy youth, sorely used. Santorini moved forward a bit, but hesitated. Finally, still impossibly weak, the boy said, “Take me to a place of darkness and leave me. When I awake, and the sun has left us, we will speak.”
Antonio hesitated, still uncertain.
“Who are you?” he asked softly.
“My name is Abraham,” the young man gasped.
Antonio made his decision in that moment. It was a sign, there was no other way for him to interpret it. Abraham, but in this case, it was not Isaac who’d been offered as sacrifice, but Abraham himself, and it was up to Antonio to see to it that the sacrifice was made where it mattered most, in the heart. A creature of the devil and blood this Abraham might be, but he was also a creature of God. There was no way to deny that truth if one was to believe the Scripture, and the Christ, and to turn from him was a sin as surely as to turn from a dying child, or a woman in need.
The bishop grabbed the wires again, careful to remain behind the prone body of his still-bound captive, and dragged him down the stairwell toward the darker rooms below. There was a storage cellar just off the main hall, and the darkness there should be sufficient.
The crashing, violent descent must have been painful, but Abraham uttered not a sound. The young man’s eyes were closed, his hair matted with pig’s blood and his clothing in tatters. Antonio’s breath was coming in heaving gasps, and it was all he could do to continue the exertion. He had no energy or inclination to make it a pleasant journey.
They reached the bottom in silence, and after only a brief hesitation to catch his breath, Antonio slid Abraham through the door to the cellar, not bothering to drag him to the bottom of the stairs, and turned to leave.
“Wait…” Abraham’s words were clearer now, but still very weak. Antonio leaned as close as he dared, waiting.
“When you return,” Abraham gasped, “bring more blood.”
Antonio reeled back. It was too much.
“You must.” Abraham fought to get the words out, his eyes closing as he fell toward a darkness the bishop could not even fathom. “You must, for your own protection.”
Antonio did turn then, tearing his eyes from the young man’s ravaged face and flinging himself through the doorway and out into the hall beyond. He slammed the door behind him, but even the finality of that portal closing did not abate his fear.
“Blood,” he whispered. “For the love of all that is holy, I have become a thief, stealing blood.”
He staggered into the courtyard and to his mount, wheeling it clumsily and nearly collapsing over the beast’s neck as it cantered off toward Rome. He closed his eyes and clung to the reins, whispering over and over, “Dear God, I must be strong. I must bring him the blood.” His mind seethed with images of punishment and redemption. He had to follow his heart, and his heart said not to let the thing die.
As he rode, he felt the horrible weight of Montrovant’s dark eyes boring into his back, seeking his soul.
THREE
As strong an emotion as the memory and promise of terror can be, immediate danger is always more prominent in the mind. Bishop Santorini was back at Montrovant’s keep long before darkness fell, stoking up a strong blaze in the fireplace in the sitting room. He could not bring himself to use the den, with its superior comfort, even though he was certain that the dark one had left. The sitting room seemed the least used of Montrovant’s spaces…a place maintained for appearances, but avoided in reality…and that suited Antonio fine. The less the space stank of Montrovant and his knights, the more it appealed to the bishop at the moment.
In the corner was a basket from which the tops of a half a dozen wine bottles poked. Each was filled with fresh cow’s blood and stoppered carefully. He’d paid a pretty penny both for the blood itself, and for the anonymity of going through three separate intermediaries to isolate himself from the event. The notion of the Pope being notified that one of his bishops was supplying a vampyr with blood was not one that made him comfortable.
The words There are many rooms in my Father’s house had deeper and darker meaning for one who had spent time in those rooms. There were those in the service of the Mother Church who marched to the beat of their own drums, some beating more deeply in the shadows than others. Shivering, he tossed another log on the fire.
The sun had been set for some time, and he knew he could put it off no longer. Taking one of the bottles in hand, not willing to open it until he was nearer his goal, he headed for the stairs and his fate. In his other hand he gripped a bottle of rich, deep, red wine.
He tucked the wine under his arm and reached for the door handle. He knew that Abraham was still bound, and that those bonds had been sufficient to bind the creature to the wall of the keep, but it did nothing to abate his fears. He meant to release it. He meant to make a bargain with a creature who must surely come from the depths of hell itself, and he meant to do it for the sole reason of keeping his own sorry reputation and life intact. He needed to find Montrovant, or the Order, and he needed to get back what had been stolen, or lost. If that meant chancing death, or worse, at the hands of this Abraham, then so be it.
He pressed the door wide, letting the dim light from the flickering fire down the hall seep into the interior darkness. At first he thought he was alone. Then he saw a leg extending from the darkness like a shadow and he let his eyes follow that leg, accustoming themselves to the lack of light slowly. A soft sound, the scuff of cloth on stone, nothing more. Antonio’s heart was hammering, and he couldn’t explain why…until the oddness of the silence struck him. No breathing.
He moved in quickly…worried now that it had all been for nothing, and that his captive was dead. He flung the door wider, stepped fully onto the landing, and it was then that he saw the eyes staring at him from the darkness. Resting low against the stone wall, shoulders leaning easily into the stone, hair a bit less wild than the last time they’d met.
“You have returned.” Abraham’s words were formed as a question, but something in his tone led Antonio to believe there had never been any doubt.
“I brought blood,” the bishop stuttered, moving no closer.
Abraham nodded.
“First,” Antonio added, “we must talk.”
Realizing that the vampire was not going to be launching at him from the darkness, he moved a bit closer, squatting so his eyes could pierce the gloom and make out his captive’s features.
“I have to know that you will listen. I have to find a way to believe that if I release you, you will not kill me, or worse.”
“You saved me…” Abraham said slowly. “For that alone I would spare you. What is it that you want of me?”
The trembling in Antonio’s shoulders did not cease immediately, but he found his voice again.
“I seek the one who left you on that wall. Montrovant, damn his black heart. He has put my life on the line. Alone, I have no chance of finding him, or, even if I did so, no expectation that I would end up any better than I am now.”
“You want me to hunt Montrovant?” Abraham’s eyes flashed briefly, then the laughter started. It began as a soft chuckle, building in strength and rising to such a volume that the sound filled the room, and still it did not stop.
Antonio backed off a step…eyes going wide. As the volume increased, he covered his ears, but he could not block that mocking, half-insane sound from his mind. With a cry, he spun on his heel and launched himself through the doorway once more, fleeing down the hallway toward the fire, the haunting sounds of Abraham’s mirth floating after him.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the laughter stopped, and in the silence, a single word.
“Yes.”
Antonio stopped in his tracks, hands still pressed to his ears, wondering if he’d heard correctly. Then the word was repeated, removing all doubt.
“Yes,” Abraham repeated. “Return to me, man of God, and bring the blood…all of it.”
The laughter resumed then, but not so loud, or so cold to the heart. Antonio moved quickly to the wine bottles, grabbing the basket quickly, nearly overturning it in his eagerness, and started back down the hall.
Abraham did not speak as he entered the small space, merely watched with a dark, unreadable expression planted on his pale features. The bishop opened the first bottle, stepping closer and tipping it to his captive’s lips. The vampire drank like a child from the bottle, gulping the blood greedily. The container was empty in moments, and Antonio was reaching for a second when Abraham spoke again.
“It would be much easier if you untied me and allowed me to open the bottles myself.”
Antonio started back with a second bottle, ignoring the words, then stopped as he drew near. He met the vampire’s stare, and he found nothing there to fear. The features were fuller, younger, the eyes earnest. He knew he might be making a fatal miscalculation, but if so, at least his end would be swift. If he had to return to the Church with the news that he had lost their most precious treasures, and had no idea what to do about it, that death would be painful and prolonged.
Setting the bottle aside, he moved closer, examining the steel bands that bound Abraham. It was going to be no simple task, even with his freedom, to remove them. He would need time, and tools.
“I will try.” Hesitantly, he added, “My friend. I will have to find something that can cut these, and a way to do so without severing any limbs.”
“Do not worry too much about wounding me,” Abraham replied softly. “I have—amazing recuperative ability.”
Antonio met Abraham’s gaze full on. He no longer faced a withered, drawn creature fighting for its existence. Staring back at him was a handsome young man, if a bit burned and scarred from the ravages of the sunlight and the flames. Nodding slowly, the bishop moved back into the hall and made his way toward the fire. As he entered the sitting room, his eyes latched onto the wall above the mantle. There, hanging with handles crossed, were a battlestar, and a heavy axe. The blade glistened brightly in the flickering firelight.
Antonio moved to the wall and wrested the weapon free of its mount, nearly losing a foot as the full weight of the heavy blade surprised him. As the blade glanced off the stone floor, he lifted it again, testing the weight. He could lift it, but he knew that to strike the metal bands from Abraham was going to take a steady hand indeed.
He dragged the axe down the hall and through the doorway, leaning on it heavily.
Abraham took in the bishop’s pudgy form, the blade, and his eyes flickered darkly.
“Can you even lift that blade, man of God? Have you rescued me only to lop the head from my body with a single mishandled stroke of the axe?”
“I don’t know what else to do,” Antonio breathed heavily. “I am no blacksmith.”
The bishop felt suddenly very weary, although the walk down the hall should not have tired him so, even carrying the unaccustomed weight of the heavy axe. He started to seat himself and relax, just for a moment.
Abraham’s gaze was locked onto his, hol
ding him easily now. Antonio thought, just for a moment, that the intensity of the young man’s stare was odd. He wanted to turn away, or to rise and make his way to the hall in search of some other tool, some other means of cutting that steel, but he could not bring himself to move.
“I…”
His words trailed off, and darkness swallowed him, the floor wavering, moving closer and at odd angles, the blade slipping from his hand and clattering against stone. He tried with his last coherent thought to drop his hands beneath him and break the fall, but they would not move. Then there was nothing.
Abraham concentrated. He was still weak, and he didn’t know how long he could maintain control of the bishop’s form, or to what extent that control would allow him to manipulate the other’s body. He did know that with the bumbling fool of a clergyman wielding the axe, the chances of surviving his release were minimal.
He closed his eyes against the pain of the bands, which bit into his flesh again as he recovered his strength and his flesh filled out. There was one point where the metal was joined by a single, thick lock. It was there that the blade must strike, and it would have to be a single, hard stroke…backed by stone, or it would be in vain.
He let his mind reach out…tugging at the threads that bound the unconscious bishop’s body to his mind, binding them to his own thoughts. He wanted to roll, to position himself more perfectly, but he could not. While he controlled the bishop, his own body lay inert. He could not see it, but he could sense the roughened metal hasp resting against the cool stone.
The bishop’s body stirred…then rolled a bit itself. In silence, Antonio Santorini’s body rose, eyes dark and vacant. Abraham concentrated hard…and like a huge puppet, Antonio picked up the axe once more. There was a difference. Without the hindrance of his own mind, the axe swung up easily, resting across his shoulders.
To Dream of Dreamers Lost: Book 3 of The Grails Covenant Trilogy Page 3
