Authors: Marie Treanor

Tags: #General, #Romance, #Fiction, #Paranormal

Blood Eternal (3 page)

BOOK: Blood Eternal

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Dante crept around the dark chamber. The beam from his flashlight bobbed erratically around the rough stone floors and walls, barely penetrating the profound blackness more than a couple of feet beyond his unsteady fingers. He hoped that if he couldn’t see the body, at least he might feel it with his hands or feet. Even so, when his foot struck something it felt like stone, part of the floor’s uneven surface, and he almost paid it no attention. Then he paused and placed his finger over the vial’s opening before he shook it and removed his finger.

Drawing in his breath with a quick, silent prayer to no one in particular that it would be enough, he shook his whole hand out in front of him. His finger tingled as the tiny spatter of blood sprayed downward. And there in the darkness, without suddenness or shock, was what he’d been looking for all these weeks.

A stone table on which lay a sculpted body. Almost exactly as Elizabeth Silk had found the body of Saloman a year earlier.

Mehmet’s breath sounded like a wheeze. “My God, I almost didn’t see it. I thought there was nothing. . . . Is this it? Is this your nobleman’s tomb?”

“Almost certainly.” Dante felt dizzy. His whole body trembled, not just with reaction to his first glimpse of the deeply sinister figure illuminated by their flashlights, but with the enormity of what he was doing. He found it difficult to get the words out, and yet he had to concentrate, to ignore his sudden fears and stick to his plan. Mehmet had to continue to believe in the fiction that this was merely the lost tomb of a historic nobleman. And then, finally, Dante would reach his goal. Eternal life. Eternal power. Damnation, if it existed, was a small price to pay.

With carefully judged casualness, he passed the vial to Mehmet. “Here. I want to photograph this.”

Even shining his flashlight on the tiny drop of dark liquid, Mehmet could have no idea what it was. He seemed happy that Dante had found what he sought—even if only so that he could get back into the fresh air and climb down the mountain again.

Dante produced his camera and pointed it at the tomb. “When I say ‘now,’ ” he directed, “pour the contents of the vial over the carving.”

“Why, what is it?”

“It’ll make the tomb stand out more in the picture.” Dante lied easily. He wasn’t a politician for nothing. “Okay . . . Now!”

Dante held his breath as Mehmet shook the tiny drops of liquid over the carved face. This was it, the moment of greatest risk and greatest hope, on which all Dante’s ambitions rested. Religion, decency, nature itself—none of those things counted beside the huge power Dante was about to take. . . .

At this point in the earlier awakening, Saloman had clamped his teeth into Elizabeth’s neck. Dante had been torn over this part of his plan. The blood used in the awakening had to be Saloman’s—Luk’s killer’s—or it wouldn’t work, but Dante didn’t know whether any of the mystical attributes of awakening would be bestowed on whoever did the pouring. No one had ever done it like this before, to his knowledge. If there was power to be had from awakening, he naturally wanted it for himself; but on the other hand, he needed Luk to be as strong as possible, which meant drinking the blood of his Awakener and killing him to absorb his life force. So far, Saloman had failed to kill Elizabeth, and therein lay his weakness. Dante did not intend for Luk to make the same mistake.

It was a pity for Mehmet.

Dante shone his flashlight unwaveringly on Luk’s dead face. It did indeed look like stone. He’d expected it to be more lifelike, to give some hint of his Ancient strength, a clue that he could be awakened. Tiny droplets of blood splashed on Luk’s cheek, his nose, lips, and chin. Nothing happened.

Oh fuck. It isn’t enough. After all this, I needed more blood. . . .

“Did you take it?” Mehmet asked.

“What? Oh, the photograph—yes, I got it. Thanks.” He took a step forward, meaning to take back the vial and see if there was anything at all left in it. But before he could touch it, a sound like a faint groan issued from the carving.

Oh, yes. Hallelujah.

Under Dante’s riveted gaze, the dead eyes of the sculpture opened; the lips parted. The skin moved, shifting slowly into an expression not of triumph but of shock. Even . . . fear. Luk sat up and Mehmet fell back with a low moan of terror. Luk’s twisted mouth opened wider, revealing his long, terrifying incisors as he stared at Mehmet.

The vampire’s scream started low, like a rattle in his throat, then rose quickly into the most horrific, gut-wrenching howl Dante had ever heard. Like all the pain of everyone in the world rolled into one pure, dreadful sound.

This isn’t meant to happen,
Dante thought in panic.
Something’s gone terribly wrong. I must have gotten the wrong vampire. . . .

Then, in fury, the creature who may or may not have been Luk swung himself off the stone table, and Dante stepped circumspectly behind Mehmet before giving the Turk a sharp, ungentle shove into the reaching arms of whatever they’d awakened.

Chapter Two

A
pale, watery sunshine shone feebly down on the grounds of Glasgow’s Southern General Hospital, flickering intermittently through the ward windows and across the floor in front of Elizabeth as she made her way to Private John Ramsay’s room.

The British hunter, tied down in Cornwall tracking a bizarre but elusive vampire who seemed determined to introduce himself to every member of a village community, had sounded harassed when he’d asked her to get Ramsay’s story.

“It sounds like a mixture of fever dreams and trauma to me, but we’ve been asked to look into it, so see what you think.”

She’d been aware, then as now, that she was being used as a filter. The hunters, who were based in London, didn’t want to come all the way up here for nothing. If there was anything in Ramsay’s story, they’d make it their next assignment once the Cornish vampire was dealt with. If there wasn’t, they would simply report Elizabeth’s findings.

And Elizabeth was glad to help, not just because she was bored, but because she valued their trust, perhaps as a counterbalance to the growing
dis
trust of her friends the Hungarian hunters, who’d recently discovered her relationship with Saloman, their greatest enemy.

The final room in the ward, to which she’d been directed, contained three beds. Two were empty, and the third was occupied by a fully dressed young man stretched out on the top of it, staring into space. His shaved head revealed a long red scar above his left ear. He wore a short-sleeved khaki T-shirt; no arm protruded from the left sleeve.

When Elizabeth gave a tentative knock on the open door, the young man’s eyes drifted toward her without much interest.

“Are you John Ramsay?” she asked hopefully.

“Aye.”

Ignoring the lack of encouragement in his curt response, she stepped inside the room and held out her hand.

“Hello. I’m Elizabeth Silk.”

The soldier glanced at her hand, and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t trouble to shake it. His eyes were unfriendly and cold as flint. In the end, he did lean forward and reach up with his remaining hand to take hers. It was firm but brief, and he fell back against the pillows with an odd expression of mocking tolerance on his young face.

“You another shrink?”

“Oh, no. I’m not a doctor at all.”

“Really? That why it says ‘Doctor’ on your label?”

Elizabeth frowned, trying to think what he meant, before she remembered the name tag she’d been given at reception. It hung around her neck, and when she picked it up and read it, she realized it did proclaim her to be Dr. E. Silk. Perhaps that was how the hunters had made the appointment for her so easily. There was clearly nothing wrong with Private Ramsay’s powers of observation.

“Ah. Well, I have a PhD, which gives me the title, but I’m not a medical doctor. I’m a historian.”

John Ramsay curled his lip. “I’m not history yet,” he observed, but a faint spark of interest did cross his face. “What do you want with me, then?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind talking to me about what happened after the ambush.”

“So much for medical confidentiality.”

“I represent an organization that takes paranormal experiences very seriously.”

“Aye? Sure you don’t represent the
News of the World
?”

“Or any other newspaper,” Elizabeth said steadily. “I wouldn’t have been allowed to see you if I did.”

Ramsay shrugged. “Doesn’t matter anyway. My ‘experiences’ are post-traumatic stress and fever-induced dreams. Ask anyone.”

“I’d rather ask you. Will you tell me what happened ?”

“I got posted to Afghanistan. Helmand. We got ambushed, and I got my arm and half my head shot off. But I’m fine now. Waiting on redeployment.” He winked. “Helmand’s still favorite.”

Elizabeth sat down without invitation. “Will they really send you back there?”

Ramsay shrugged. “Why not? I’m a soldier.”

True, but surely they wouldn’t return him to the front line? The truly baffling thing was that he obviously wanted to go back. “How old are you, John?”

His eyes changed. “Twenty. What difference does that make?”

He was younger than some of her students last term. “None,” she said. “None at all. So what did you see after the attack? What do you remember?”

He looked at her, then let out a quick breath of laughter that lightened his too-harsh young face.

“What?” Elizabeth asked.

“I was just thinking: I’m used to telling this story to people who think I’m a nutter. Now I’m telling it to someone
I
think is a nutter.”

“Maybe neither of us is.”

“Maybe.” He shifted position with a twinge of pain that Elizabeth seemed to feel physically in her left arm. Irritated, she shook it, while John said, “What is this organization you represent? What do you do?”

“Primarily,” Elizabeth said, “we hunt down and kill vampires.”

With undisguised mockery, John looked her up and down, no doubt taking in the deceptively frail body and her careless, academic appearance: long red-blond hair imperfectly confined behind her head, well-worn jeans, and a comfortable if pretty secondhand top. She knew she didn’t look threatening, and John confirmed it.

“Get many kills, aye?”

“Aye,” said Elizabeth, and unexpectedly, John grinned.

“Buggered if I know why, but I believe you,” he said. “You remind me of my English teacher in third year. She scared the shite out of me too.”

“Did
she
kill vampires?” Elizabeth asked lightly, playing along.

“Nah. I fancied her something rotten.”

Surprise at the implied compliment brought an annoying blush to Elizabeth’s cheeks. However, this seemed to give John some kind of reassurance, for without any further warning, he began to talk.

He spoke matter-of-factly, relating how he’d been on patrol when the ambush occurred. He’d been injured right away, his left arm shattered and his head bleeding profusely, but attempts to crawl to safety had been thwarted by his own dizziness as well as the intense firefight going on around him. By the time his comrades got to him, the Taliban were running, though from whom John hadn’t known—not until the majority of the British force had set off in pursuit and the comrades who’d stayed with him both lay dead.

“I saw them die. Two blokes in turbans just disarmed them, picked them up as if they were kids, bit them in the throat like dogs, and then threw them back on the ground. One said to the other, ‘Good blood.’ Only, the funny thing was, his lips didn’t move.”

Elizabeth leaned forward, frowning. “What language did he speak?”

John grimaced. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. I only remember the meaning. The shrinks reckon that proves I was dreaming.”

“It could mean he wasn’t speaking in words,” Elizabeth said slowly. “You could have heard him telepathically. Was he speaking to you?”

“Don’t know. His pal answered. I wasn’t in any condition for conversation. I don’t even remember exactly what they said after that. I just remember their voices going on all the time, arguing over me. One of them was scooping my blood off the ground with his fingers and licking them. I thought they were going to torture me before I died. Then . . .”

His gaze slid away. He tugged irritably at the empty, flapping sleeve of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, low. “I know this must be painful—”

“It wasn’t,” John interrupted. “It wasn’t painful. Maybe I was already out of it. Or my arm and my head hurt too much for me to notice the rest. But when he bent over me and bit my neck—still bloody talking—I didn’t feel anything except curiosity. It was only later I thought it was fucking disgusting. Sorry.”

The apology for his bad language touched her. Perhaps she was reminding him of his English teacher again. “Show me where he bit you,” she managed.

He reached up quickly, pinching at the vein on the side of his neck. There was no sign of any wound. Elizabeth shivered.

BOOK: Blood Eternal

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