Blood Eternal (5 page)
“However,” the announcer read, “no casualties have yet been reported. The epicenter of the quake was in a remote, mountainous region of the country which is very sparsely populated. Peruvian sources say several scattered villages have been destroyed by the shock itself and by subsequent landslides and avalanches, and it’s possible casualties will still be discovered beneath the rubble by the rescue workers already on the scene. But, as our correspondent in Peru reports, there may be more than a miracle involved for the survivors of this earthquake.”
The screen switched to a shot of carnage, dusty men digging through rubble that appeared to be all that remained of a village. Although a few poorly dressed people stood by, some picking through their demolished homes as if looking for valued possessions, there was, strangely, no grief-stricken wailing, no urgency or desperation about these people’s searches. They were almost frighteningly calm, considering what had just occurred to their village, their families and neighbors.
How could there possibly be no casualties?
The camera homed in on a woman smiling and nodding, with a thin child in her arms.
Smug,
Elizabeth thought.
She actually looks
smug
.
Smug,
Elizabeth thought.
She actually looks
smug
.
“The few villagers we’ve met here tell us that no one was left in the village when the earthquake occurred,” the reporter went on. “And the reason for that, they say, is this man.”
A photograph flashed up on the screen, causing Elizabeth’s heart to lurch into her throat. After which it seemed to cease beating altogether. The photograph was of a young, extraordinarily handsome man with long, thick black hair and stunning dark eyes. A faint, sardonic smile played about his full, sensual lips. He looked as if he knew everything and cared for nothing.
“Saloman,” she whispered. “Oh, God . . .”
There were no casualties left in the village because he’d killed them all beforehand? Would he really regard them as of so little account? Her alien, unpredictable lover . . . Jesus, could she really love him after this? Gagging, she covered her mouth with her hand.
“Eccentric Hungarian millionaire Adam Simon,” the reporter said. “He appeared in these remote mountain villages a week ago and somehow persuaded everyone in them to leave before the earthquake struck. One of the young men from this village took video footage at the time, using his mobile phone.”
Saloman disappeared from the screen, and, as if this granted her permission, Elizabeth began to breathe again. Now a grainy, shaky picture filled the television, showing a ragged line of people, many of them in native Peruvian dress, all carrying small bags, trailing down a mountain track. And there, carrying an old lady on his back and several rucksacks over one arm, was Saloman.
Stupidly, it took several moments to penetrate.
“You didn’t kill them,” she whispered. She wanted to sing; she wanted to throw her arms around the television and hug it. Tears forced their way up her throat, spilled from the corners of her eyes, and trickled over her smiling lips. “You didn’t kill them; you saved them. You saved all of them. My God . . .”
My people had an affinity with the earth that gave them senses way beyond those of humans. . . . The world could use that.
He’d spoken those words in New York during their pursuit of Dante, and only now, at last, did she understand at least some of what they meant.
An affinity with the earth
. He’d predicted this earthquake and somehow persuaded the people to believe in him and flee their homes.
An affinity with the earth
. He’d predicted this earthquake and somehow persuaded the people to believe in him and flee their homes.
The reporter’s words broke briefly into her chaotic understanding. “A spokesman for Mr. Simon, whose whereabouts now are unknown, said his boss has opened a charitable fund to help rebuild these people’s homes. Apparently he has also donated a large sum to seismic research.”
This was huge. Bigger than anything that had come before. Saloman was ruthless, pitiless in his extermination of those whose deaths he perceived to be necessary for one reason or another. The reasons weren’t always clear to Elizabeth, but she should have known by now that he would care for the innocent, not exterminate them.
And she’d foolishly imagined she could help the world by
limiting
him in some way! My God, what she had ever done, what
could
she ever do, that would even come close to this? And he’d achieved it so casually, fitting it in between a punitive expedition to Afghanistan and a propaganda exercise with the vampire Travis in the United States. To say nothing of his business interests and his befriending of powerful politicians all over the world.
limiting
him in some way! My God, what she had ever done, what
could
she ever do, that would even come close to this? And he’d achieved it so casually, fitting it in between a punitive expedition to Afghanistan and a propaganda exercise with the vampire Travis in the United States. To say nothing of his business interests and his befriending of powerful politicians all over the world.
But her sudden humility was of as little importance as her shame. Pride in him, happiness at this outcome of his work, swamped everything else. What mattered was that she could help him now, that she was wholeheartedly behind him and needed to tell him so.
Peru. He must still be in Peru, lying low. Did she need a visa to go there?
Saloman!
she called urgently.
she called urgently.
No response. No matter. She’d buy her ticket and then phone him. Her reasons for not contacting him before now seemed so trivial as to be laughable. Grabbing the laptop, Elizabeth set about finding the cheapest ticket, using one hand for the mouse and keyboard and the other to dig her battered credit card out of her purse.
When the phone rang, her heart soared. She seized the handset, stabbing the “receive” button, and, gasping, said, “Hello!” She braced herself for his voice, for all the melting, delicious things the sound of it did to her body and mind.
There was a slight pause; then a very different voice said hesitantly, “Elizabeth?”
She hadn’t even glanced at the number. Wrestling with unworthy disappointment that her friend Mihaela certainly didn’t deserve from her, she said, “Of course it is. Who else would answer my phone?”
“Sorry. You sounded different. Are you running for a train or something?”
Elizabeth quashed her rising laughter. “A plane, actually. No, I’m at home. What’s happening? Nothing bad, I hope?”
Over the last three months, since Mihaela had learned of her relationship with Saloman, their communications had been less frequent than before. Elizabeth always had the feeling that when Mihaela called she was checking that Elizabeth was still alive, while Elizabeth herself found conversation difficult now that she knew she faced the hunter’s unspoken but constant disapproval. It saddened her, as she’d always known it would, but she still hoped Mihaela would come to understand.
“Actually,” Mihaela was saying, “it
is
bad. Very bad. There have been mass killings in Turkey tonight—a vampire on the rampage, completely out of control.”
is
bad. Very bad. There have been mass killings in Turkey tonight—a vampire on the rampage, completely out of control.”
“Oh, dear. Are you over there? Are there not hunters in Turkey?”
“Yes, but they’re a little tied up, since the vampire revolt seems to have spread into Turkey now that Afghanistan is quiet again. They asked for our help, as I’m now asking for yours. You see, we think the rampaging vampire is an Ancient.”
Elizabeth closed her mouth and swallowed. “It can’t be. I’m sure Saloman’s in Peru.”
“Not Saloman. Luk.”
“Luk?”
Elizabeth stared at the phone as if it weren’t working properly, then clamped it back to her ear. “Saloman’s cousin? How could it be Luk?”
Elizabeth stared at the phone as if it weren’t working properly, then clamped it back to her ear. “Saloman’s cousin? How could it be Luk?”
“He was buried in the Turkish hills. The exact location wasn’t known to any hunters—it was never well enough described in the sources—but it could conceivably have been tracked via local folklore. Much as you did with Saloman.”
“You mean he’s been awakened? My God, who would . . . ? Oh, shit.”
“ ‘Oh, shit’ indeed,” said Mihaela heavily.
“Not Dante,” Elizabeth begged.
“We should have let Saloman kill him.”
“
I
should have let Saloman kill him.”
I
should have let Saloman kill him.”
“We were all on your side,” Mihaela said impatiently. “We just didn’t have the guts to step in. No point in casting blame now.”
“But how could Dante or anyone else awaken Luk? It would have to be Saloman, wouldn’t it? The blood of his killer.”
“Yes,” said Mihaela in an odd, distant voice. “It would. Look, Elizabeth, you awakened the last Ancient and so you know the most about the early stages of his revival. We could use your help.”
And Saloman’s?
The words hung unspoken between them. Neither would bring it up. But if Luk was really awakened, Saloman would already know. . . . Or would he? Could he “feel” the awakening over the huge distance between Peru and Turkey?
“Can you come?” Mihaela asked.
Elizabeth’s eyes strayed to the computer screen. Slowly, she reached out and hovered the mouse over the “Buy Ticket” button, like a caress.
Soon.
She shifted it to “Cancel” and clicked. “Of course. I’ll book the next flight I can and call you back.”
Soon.
She shifted it to “Cancel” and clicked. “Of course. I’ll book the next flight I can and call you back.”
Dante said, “Luk.”
The vampire glanced up from his bonds, which he’d been studying with dispassionate interest. When Dante had finally managed to persuade him to leave the terror-stricken village, Luk had walked passively at his side to the hidden car and sat silently through the remains of the night until they’d reached this ruined hut. Here, he’d submitted to be being retied too, just as if the ravening monster who’d spread horror and carnage through an entire village were another being altogether.
Dante said gently, “That
is
your name, isn’t it?”
is
your name, isn’t it?”
“Luk,” the vampire repeated.
“Luk, the Ancient vampire.”
“I wanted blood,” the vampire said vaguely.
“Well, you got it,” Dante said grimly. “And now we’ll have a plague of angry villagers, police, and probably vampire hunters down on us before we can do what we have to do. You were only meant to bite the one man.”
“I was hungry.”
“Why didn’t you come back when I called you?”
“I was hungry.”
Dante sighed in frustration and crouched down to face his companion at a safe distance. According to Elizabeth Silk, Saloman had been physically weak on first awakening, but had talked with perfect lucidity. What was more, he had possessed enough self-control to pace his feeding until he was strong enough to take it. Luk, if this was indeed Luk, had drained Mehmet dry and then slumped down the wall like a drunk passing out. Dante had brought him another unsuspecting victim later on, but then what was supposed to be Luk’s first hunting expedition had gone disastrously wrong.
The vampire had seemed to be intoxicated with blood or the desire for it, with no concept of discretion or moderation. In fact, he behaved more like Dante imagined a fledgling might than an awakened Ancient. The senator was just grateful Luk hadn’t turned on him. Yet. Of course, treating the vampire like a pet animal who had to be tied and dominated had helped instill in Luk a sense of Dante’s superiority and, hopefully, untouch-ability. But Dante was a worried man.
“How did you die, Luk?” Dante asked.
Luk stared at him without obvious comprehension. Although he was a good-looking man, and dark in coloring, there wasn’t any other resemblance to Saloman that Dante could discover. A little older in appearance, his face was broader, squarer at the chin, which was partially covered by a hint of a dark goatee. His shaggy hair bore streaks of gray at the temples, and his eyes were more hazel than black.
“Who killed you?” Dante persisted. Until now, he’d refrained from asking the questions that might upset his unpredictable potential ally, but the matter had just become urgent.
The vampire frowned, shaking his head like a dog in the rain.
“Was it a stake through the heart?” Dante prompted. So far as he knew it was the only possible way to kill a vampire, and yet there had been no stake in Luk when they’d found him.
Luk’s frown deepened. After a moment, he took hold of his shirt in both hands and tore. Both he and Dante gazed at the crack in his chest. Some vaguely red fluid that wasn’t quite blood seeped out of it.
“Is that why you need so much blood?” Dante asked. “Because you just bleed it out again?”
Luk laughed, a wild, eerie sound that set Dante’s tight nerves on edge. Dante rose and fetched a first-aid kit from his rucksack, but when he tried to bandage Luk’s wound, the vampire jerked in his bonds, flinging Dante and the dressing off with a bewildering speed of movement that nevertheless filled Dante with much-needed fresh hope, because whatever else he was, Luk was damned strong.
“Okay, no bandage,” he allowed.
Luk began to hum a vague, mournful tune from which he suddenly broke off in order to let out another of his wild laughs.
Not for the first time, it crossed Dante’s mind that Luk truly was insane. Although the sources had claimed this to be the case, they’d said the same thing about Saloman, who certainly was not. At least, not once he was awakened. Somehow, Dante had assumed Luk would follow the same pattern. But Luk didn’t even seem to know who he was. Mostly, he seemed frightened and miserable. He rarely said anything that wasn’t simply a repetition of Dante’s own words. Except, “I’m hungry.” He said that a lot.
Dante thought hard. Perhaps when Saloman had killed him, for whatever reason it truly had been Luk’s time to die. In which case it was possible Luk would be of very little further use.
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