Forbidden Drink (43 page)

There is no need, I do not want to escalate this further. We will be off their land in less than a minute.

He grunts in reply. It has already escalated beyond acceptable levels, but still I can't help holding back. For Lucinda. For my heart.

Bruno is not holding back, several of his strikes will be fatal, but still I strike to only wound with the intent of finding a way to stop this altogether. We have almost made it to the gate when I acknowledge that approach is a futile hope. There is no stopping this.

I sense it before I see it. So does Bruno.

Move,
I yell in his head. But it is too late.

A long length of silver chain wraps around his wrist. Not a point on his body that would halt his progress significantly, but it's not alone. Another snakes out from a different direction, a different attacker, wrapping around his leg. I move to intercept and face the same fate. They miss, I flash behind them and strike a killing blow. No more holding back, the tide has turned.

By the time I reach the Taniwha holding the silver wrapped around Bruno's thigh, my Second is down on one knee. Still striking out with his free sword, but the smell of burning flesh intersects the smell of Taniwha blood.

Go!
he shouts in my head.
Leave me and retreat. I'll hold them as long as I can.

Not an option.

I renew my efforts to reach the shifter at the end of one of his chains. I manage to separate him from his end of the silver links. His arm falls uselessly to the dirt ground, twitching spasmodically as he howls. Another takes his place. I swipe again and again. I hear more silver rattling as it is hurriedly brought out from one of the houses. I smell the silver. I know what awaits us both if I do not get us free now.

I call on my inner vampyre, I unleash him from his binds. I let a primal war-cry out between my lips and move with the force of a tornado through the surrounding shifters. A slash of my sword here. A swipe of my hand with unbearable force there. My fangs are down, my eyes have bled all colour other than magenta. I am vampyre.

But I am tiring. This is something new. It takes me several strained moments to realise what will cause my downfall. What Bruno and my fates now rest on. An unhealthy joining, a lack of connection to my kindred. Three days we have been apart. One day too long. Three days too much. It's as though, as soon as I acknowledge this fatal flaw and mistake, my body begins to shut down. I fight it, I battle through the fatigue, the nausea, the dizziness.

From one minute annihilating those who come against us, to the next, I watch in stunned horror as Bruno recognises my plight and launches himself towards me. Despite the now three chains of silver that lace around his body. One arm, one leg. And now his neck.

No!
I command telepathically. Whether he hears my voice in his mind, or my weakness has interrupted that talent, I can't be sure. But he keeps coming. His sole goal, my protection. I see it on his face. I see the desperation to reach me. I see it and my heart bleeds, because I know he cannot make it. And I cannot stop him.

Our eyes are on each other, as the battle rages on around us. I strike and parry, I thrust my sword without breaking eye contact with my closest and most trusted friend. I will him to save himself. I shout it in my head, I am sure the thought has reached him, but he grits his teeth, pulls against the silver that binds him and laboriously drags the Taniwhas who attempt to subdue him in his wake.

The world stalls and memories flash through my mind. I realise they are his. I am in his head, he has heard every command I have thrown his way. But now, I watch as his life plays out before me. A silent movie in technicoloured splendour on the screen of Bruno's mind. Accompanied by the rage of war and the sense of futility that surrounds us now.

Childhood at my home in France. His father teaching him to hold a sword correctly at the age of three. His slightly older face peeking out behind a bush as I practise my swordsmanship with Giani in a field. We are miles from home, yet the young lad has snuck out and followed us here. I don't give away his secret. I just offer him a surreptitious wink. A dinner in his family's honour, me making a speech at the head of the table. The emotions of pride and wonder and respect he felt at being mentioned in my words. The long, boring months when I was in Paris, working, politicking, battling the day to day life of an
Iunctio
Council member. The thrill of my return. His mother's death when he turned fifteen. His heartache. His illness at nineteen. His pain. His delight when he was reborn. His conviction that he owed me his life.

The years we battled side by side. The moments of quiet companionship. The many times of heady sate-filled life. The years flick by before me and in all of them he is happy, content, proud. Proud to have served me. Proud to have been called my friend. Proud to die at my side.

I cry out, a lament for my friend. He is on both knees now. I falter as he falters.

Run.
His words are just a whisper in my mind. The silver is leaching his strength.

No!
I reply. He continues to valiantly struggle, but I see his weakening form.

I am also weakening. Silver laces around me, seeps into my muscles and bones. It hurts, but the pain I truly feel, is the recognition of our plight. This is not good. I am not sure if I can free us.

I am numb from the heartache this realisation causes. I am unable to think clearly at all. Silver binds my wrists, my ankles. Wraps around my waist. I fall sideways to the dirt below. I watch as my friend looks up toward where I lie, horror at my plight outweighing horror at his own. This cannot be happening.

A sword, his sword, is thrust through his abdomen. I am unsure if there is any stopping this now. The world has become a blur, my thoughts of escape are dwindling. My mind returns to the fate that awaits us both. The consequences of our deaths.

Lucinda. If I can resist a little longer, I may be able to prevent her death too. I will not call my vampyres to me, in my current state it would be too difficult to keep this from my kindred. If she knew our plights now, she would come. I cannot risk it.

Another sword is raised above Bruno, a blur in slow motion.

The sword strikes true. I do not allow myself to close my eyes. I watch as a deep gouge is sliced through his back. Bone breaks, muscle is torn, blood spills. This cannot be happening.

The cry I make stills all living creatures in the Hapū woods this night. Full of anguish and pain, heartache and the potential for loss.

"Holy crap, Rick," someone says off to my side. I am too busy to listen further. Lucinda is becoming aware of my predicament. I spend several moments ensuring she does not recognise the emotions she has just sensed from me and then the next several moments blocking her access to my mind.

The Taniwhas slowly creep closer. I wish I could use their fear, but I am spent. Silvered beyond any healthy vampyre can handle. My heart heavy in my chest. I cannot even reach out to my stricken comrade. Right now, I am not too sure we can escape this at all.

The most brazen of the Taniwha to approach haul me to my feet. None wishes to touch me. It may be because right now I am consumed in magenta. My vampyre has risen to the surface, I let him take control.

I have rarely allowed him such freedom before, but right now I am weak and he is stronger.
Trust me
, he whispers in my mind.
I will not fail you.
I wish I could believe him. I am without a compass, I let him lead the way.

A table, hard and cold beneath my back. A poke in the ribs, a slap on the cheek. I do not respond. If my vampyre wishes to he will, I am sinking, falling, the Dark is nearing. All I smell is the burning flesh from silver. All I feel is numb.

Then pictures before my eyes. Lucinda. Laughing, crying, fighting, loving. So full of life and Light. Beautiful beyond the ages. She captures my heart. She holds it in her hand. Her sweet voice whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Her smile, her hair. Her scent. I swear I can smell candied apples and sunshine, honey and Spring. I taste her blood. Thicker, richer, a fine wine. The power she gives me. The strength she binds in my soul. To her I am not a soulless demon. To her I am a man. I am her love.

My vampyre chuckles in the recesses of my mind.
Fight back
, he says.
For her
.

My eyes open to the dim surroundings of the Hapū clearing. Slightly worn houses on all sides, thick woods forming dark shapes at their backs. Heartbeats. Many. The smell of blood. Bruno's and mine in amongst it. My vampyre roars. I roar with it.

The numbness recedes and I feel the silvered pain. I embrace it. I acknowledge it. I use it to bring me back to the present and I let a roar out that causes windows to shatter and young Taniwha to wail in fear. Hear me. You may have me bound by silver. You may threaten the lives of those I love. But you will not get Lucinda. Never. I begin the laborious task of shifting against the chains, seeking a weakness. I am only vaguely conscious of Bruno's current fate.

Then out of nowhere, she is there. Like a ray of sunshine, she fills me with so much warmth. But I baulk at her presence. She must not come. She must not rush to my side. I temper my relief at having that connection to her again, with caution.

She has sensed my dire situation, I feel her fear. My heart aches more, I thought that not possible.

Then she asks, without knowledge of the pain she dregs up inside me, the one question I am not strong enough to reply to just yet.

Is Bruno still with you?

Read on for the first chapter in book four of the Kindred Series:
Giver of Light:

It was the drop of liquid on my eyelid that woke me. The warm wet pearl slowly working its way across my closed lid and out past the corner of my eye, then down my cheek, leaving a wet trail in its wake. I brushed it away without opening my eyes, I was tired, so tired and nowhere near ready to face the day.

The first drop was followed by a second. Same spot, same routine. Across my eyelid, out past the corner of my eye and then slowly, following the track of the previous drop, down my cheek. This time making it as far as my neck before I reached for it. As soon as it was wiped away another followed.

If this was Chinese water torture, it was doing a damn fine job. I gritted my teeth, but still didn't open my eyes. Choosing instead to pound my pillow into submission and roll over on to my side.

The next drop landed in my ear.

Bloody hell, can't a girl get some sleep around here? I swiped at the drop and then felt another and another and another, until I realised it must be raining in my bedroom. I opened my eyes in a rush, expecting to see the window open and a storm in full swing outside, but what met my gaze was far worse and deeply coloured.

Red.

Red everywhere.

I was drowning in red. Red drops so thick and sluggish I could watch them fall from the ceiling in slow motion. If I'd had the inclination, I could have rolled out of the way, missed their trajectory altogether, but I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe. I knew what this red liquid was. I could smell the metallic scent of it. It was as familiar to me as my own skin. My life was perpetually surrounded in, coated in, red liquid.

And now I felt the mattress shift, floating like a boat. I turned my head to the side and looked over my shoulder. Floating. Floating in a sea of red. I scrambled to the centre of the mattress, but it wouldn't help. I knew this as though I had been here before. First the red would start to seep into the mattress from the edges, closer and closer, reaching for me across the white expanse like spidery fingers, colouring everything in its path red.

And it did. Slow at first, I watched it inch its way closer and then all of a sudden, as though it had reached a critical mass, it accelerated and rushed towards me, wetting my knees and hands, making the mattress heavy, making it dip beneath the waves of red liquid as it washed against the side of my raft, the only thing between me and drowning in a sea of red.

I looked down at my nightdress, which once was white and now was a deep bright red, and watched as the red liquid lapped up my thighs, across my waist and then higher and higher. Quickly now, the mattress long gone beneath me to the deepest depths of the red, now just my legs kicking, trying to keep myself afloat, but feeling a pull downward that I knew I could not fight.

It was hard to move through the thick sludge that surrounded me, threatened to engulf me. I knew what this red was, but I didn't wanted to voice it. To say it, was to acknowledge this was real and to do that was to let it cover me completely, drown me forever, wash away all thought of clean and safe, replace it with death and destruction and the finality of
the end.

As soon as I thought that it came to me unbidden. What this red liquid, splashing in my mouth, running down my throat, covering my head, filling my eyes, reeking in my nose and consuming my body, was.

Blood.

Nero's blood. There had been so much blood, so much. There was nothing I could do to stop the flow of blood. Just like now, it was going to win, to drown me. It took Nero, now it would take me too. There was no fighting the blood. My life was full of blood. Nero's death. Vampires' lives. It all needed blood to happen, blood to make the world go around. I lived in blood and it was now coming to finish me too.

I hated blood, but I could not escape it. I could not escape this.

I panicked and I thrashed. If I had just relaxed and let my body float it might have been OK. I think I could have floated in this thick sludgy blood. I think I could have been light enough, but I couldn't relax. I couldn't think straight. I wanted out of this nightmare, out of the blood. I wanted to be clean and fresh and covered in sea salt breezes.

As I struggled and flailed and thrashed around in the liquid, I smelt that sea salt breeze, so fresh and clean. I concentrated on it as hard as I could manage. If only I could reach the beach, pull myself up on the sand, let the fresh breeze wash away the metallic scent, all would be OK.

I reached out to the beautiful fresh sea breeze and the red world around me shattered. I took a crushingly deep breath in, realised my throat was raw and opened my eyes.

“
Ma douce, ma douce
. It is all right. I am here. It is merely a dream.”

Michel's voice so strained, so tight, his warm strong arms wrapped around me, rocking me. A hand in my hair stroking me, his lips against my cheek, his breath hot, his body warm.

Thank God. It was just a nightmare. This was real. This was my life.

I let a shuddering breath out and collapsed back against his body.

Just a nightmare. But, I knew Nero was dead. Vampires would always need blood. And I was neck deep in the red stuff, in or out of my dreamscapes.

I sighed. “Sorry, I woke you.”

“It is nothing.” He paused. “How are you?”

Tired. Exhausted. Fed up with blood.

“You didn't drown this time. That is good,
non
?”

The fact that French had seeped into Michel's vocabulary said more than the words actually did. He was exhausted too. Worried even, I bet. This was about the sixteenth or seventeenth nightmare like this in the past three weeks. Each time he had woken me, reached me somehow through all that red, saved me. But I knew he felt as helpless as I did. These nightmares weren't going away and he had no way of controlling them. Just like me. And as he can read my mind when he wishes, a recent development which I am hoping will not be permanent, he often experiences the nightmares right along with me.

We were both tired.

He pulled me back down on the bed. I stiffened as my back came in contact with the mattress, expecting to find it wet, but it was just warm and dry and solid. I wasn't floating anymore. I was wrapped up in my kindred vampire's arms. I was OK.

Yeah, right.

“Have I told you about my time in Wallachia?”

I shook my head, unsure if my voice and throat had fully recovered yet. No doubt I had been screaming. Michel never said, but I always felt like my throat was raw after one of these dreams, like I'd been yelling at a rock concert, or screaming in terror.

He settled back against the pillows, making himself comfortable. This had become a routine for us. First the nightmare, then Michel distracting me with memories of his past. I couldn't complain. One, it worked, my heart rate returning to normal after only a few minutes of listening to his soft, steady voice re-tell stories of a life lived so long ago. And two, I always wanted to know more about Michel. I was fascinated by him. How could I not be?

“I decided it was time to educate myself in my new found life. It was not too long after I had been turned by Amicus and had accomplished my revenge on those who had killed my family and tried to kill me. There was a strong seat of the
Iunctio
in Wallachia. Not so much today, too many stories of Romanian vampyre princes have made that part of Europe undesirable to my kind. But, at the time, it was an outpost for Paris, where the
Iunctio
, as you know, has been based for millennia.

“Wallachia was then ruled by an extremely powerful and somewhat surprisingly well educated vampyre called Neagoe Basarab, part of the powerful Craiovesti family. He was a peaceful ruler, which in itself was unusual for the time and his race. Vampyres were not known for there cultural influences at the time, but Neagoe was different. Perhaps that is why I was attracted to his principality. Word had reached Paris that there was much to be enjoyed at the Craiovesti court.

“Neagoe was a lover of the Renaissance aspect of art and culture and had spent the first few decades of his reign enlightening those around him. I spent sixty years as a member of his court. It was perhaps the most influential of all the experiences of my life for the next few centuries. He was a mastermind politician, enabling his countrymen to expand their arts and crafts in order to pay their exorbitant tribute to the Ottoman Empire and also giving them employment and a sense of pride.

“He was also a consummate diplomat. He not only kept close ties with Wallachia's neighbour, the then powerful Hungary, but re-established connections with the Republic of Venice and the Papacy. He revolutionised religion in the area and made generous donations to various Orthodox Monasteries. He built fine buildings, emboldened his people and wrote works of art on philosophy, ethics, morals and diplomacy.”

Michel kissed my forehead as he took a break from his memories. Then murmured against my skin. “I was fortunate to have called him a friend. He has influenced my life and I will always remember him, will always honour that friendship. Much of what I do today is as a result of his teachings. He was a fine vampyre. A fine man.”

His hand brushed down my cheek, where only moments before I had felt the warm wet track of blood.

“He died the final death not five weeks after I moved on from his court. I have asked myself if things would have been different if I had remained behind, if I had been there when the Ottomans invaded. Perhaps. I can not say. But, I have learned to not dwell on what would have or could have been. He is dead, he would have died then or at another time, but I will not let his death detract from what he gave me.”

He pulled me closer, lifting my body up on top of his. It was but a mere movement for him, as though I was a weightless piece of fabric and he simply picked me up and draped me over his body like a blanket. His hands reached up and cupped my face. His eyes, that beautiful rich blue with the odd indigo and violet swirls deep within, held my gaze.

“Do not forget what Nero has given you, honour his memory, cherish his lessons, but” - he kissed my forehead, my eyelids, each cheek - “do not let his death invade your soul. We each have our time on this earth and no one can alter that for us. Now, you must live yours, by honouring his memory, not his death.”

He continued to stare at me for a moment, then slowly brushed his lips against mine. So soft and warm and beautiful. I craved his kisses, I longed for them. Sometimes he would tease me. He knew how much I adored his touch. Sometimes he would hover over my mouth, wait for me to bridge the gap, deny me that final perfect touch of his warm, soft lips, only to make me beg. It was a game for him. A way of taking back some of the control he had lost to either me or the claiming that we were still battling. His vampire inside of him had decided it needed to stake a claim on me, to let everybody and their dog know I was his. Michel found the claiming a force he could not control. His body responded to situations without the cool, methodical and thoughtful approach he normally has. It was because of that loss of control that he teased.

But not now. No teasing. He simply pulled me close, brushed his lips one more time across my face, my neck and then repositioned me in the crook of his arm. Cradling me, like you would a baby. Lovingly, carefully, innocently. It never failed to surprise me how lucky I was to have found this man. Granted, he had found me, but I still thanked my lucky stars he had. Right now, so full of memories of Nero's death, so full of my disgust for blood, I would not welcome an intimate coupling. I loved him and part of me always wanted him, but what I needed now, more than sex, more than making love, was to be held. To be cherished and not to be pushed.

Despite the claiming, despite the fact that he had established morning routines that involved saying
hello
to his marks when we woke, which never lead to more. He was able to restrain himself, for me. He gave me comfort and love with the thought of nothing in return. He defied the claiming and his natural vampire instincts and gave me what I needed.

I smiled to myself, an amazing feat in itself considering the nightmare that had just woken us. But I couldn't help it. I had been so numb lately and I knew I was nowhere near out of those woods yet, but I took what little joys I could find to help me through. Michel helped me through. I honestly didn't know how I could face the hurdle of accepting Nero's death without Michel.

Even the routines we had established, him waking me, talking to me, distracting me. Even the way he was drawn to my marks each morning. They all held me firmly to this Earth, prevented me from floating away. It dawned on me that we had quite a few routines now. That we knew each other so well, that we had spent so much time together, that we had formed regular patterns in our life. He could still surprise me, but that familiarity was a blessing. When so much of my world was out of control, was one unexpected shock and then another and then another, that sense of belonging I had with Michel was a god send.

My life had changed when I moved from my parents' sleepy farm to Auckland two years ago, but it wasn't until just before I turned 25, about three months ago that it really took on the bizarre. I found out I was descended from a race similar, if not originally the same, as the Nosferatu. That I was a born vampire hunter, a Nosferatin and that in order to live, I would have to tie myself to a vampire and entrench myself in their world. Now, not only is my life in peril daily, I kill, I have had friends killed and I am surrounded by blood. Sometimes, I live it, breathe it, am consumed by it.