“What… ?” He was letting her go; he was leaving her. “No,” she said, gathering her gown around her as he donned his hose. “You can’t—”
“I have to, angel.” He kissed her mouth again, so quickly she barely felt it. “Go upstairs and wait for me.” He pressed a kiss to her hand, first the palm, then the pulse at her wrist. “I will be right back.”
8
Simon saddled Malachi more by feel than vision, his mind so full he could barely see at all. The hunger for blood possessed him now like a demon indeed, more powerful than it had been since his first night as a vampire. No deathless feeding on a stag or sheep would satisfy him now; he needed human blood.
Malachi shied as he tried to mount, sensing the change in his nature, no doubt. “It’s all right, friend,” he promised, climbing into the saddle, keeping his seat with an effort as the animal pranced and pawed. “You know now I mean you no harm.” The stallion was still restless, but he made no effort to throw him off, even when Simon let the reins go slack. With barely a nudge to his sides, the horse broke into a gallop, thundering over the drawbridge as if the demon was behind him rather than on his back. Once clear of the castle, they turned and plunged into the forest, the trees whipping past them in a blur, and Simon relaxed somewhat. But where could he go?
He thought of the peasant festival Isabel had spoken of, the May Night dance. Not so long ago, such a gathering would have been like a banquet for him. In a hundred different cities, from the carnivals of Italy to the harvest rites of France, the vampire had moved among the revelers, the noble stranger with an angel’s face, feeding lightly here and there from any likely-looking wench and leaving her weakened but elated. Sometimes he even committed a murder outright; such festivals nearly always attracted at least one or two hearts black enough to satisfy his craving for evil as well as for blood. But here at Charmot, he was no stranger; he was Sir Simon, protector of the castle, the lady’s sometime suitor. Even if he should find some peasant blackguard who knew nothing of him, he would almost certainly be spotted by someone else who did. He didn’t dare risk it, even now. But somehow he had to feed.
Malachi broke from the trees onto the king’s road, and Simon let him make the turn onto the easier ground, the sudden burst of speed exhilarating even in his distress. But when his demon’s hearing detected voices some half a mile ahead, he slowed the horse to a walk, long before whoever was speaking could have detected him.
“Turn off the road,” a man with a thick Scottish burr was saying, and the vampire smiled. Even from this distance, he could smell the malice on this one. He would do nicely. “We have brought him far enough.”
Simon left his own horse hidden in the trees and crept closer on foot, moving silently through the woods on the other side of the road. There were three horses stopped in a clearing, but only two of them were properly mounted, one by the brigand who had spoken, the other by another man a little smaller but dressed much the same in dark leather armor. A third man was slung over his horse’s saddle like a sack of grain, to all appearances dead. As Simon moved closer, he could hear a third heartbeat, weakening but still alive.
“We should see if there is a house nearby,” the second brigand was saying. “We do not want him found.”
“Why not?” the first one said with a laugh. “Who will know him here?” He cut a strap binding the third man to his horse and gave him a vicious kick, making him slump to the ground. “Farewell, Lord Tristan DuMaine,” he said, spitting on him for good measure.
“Aye, my lord, farewell,” the second one said, standing in the stirrups to make a mocking bow. “We will enjoy your castle.”
Simon sprang out of the shadows, transforming himself as he went into the great, black wolf. “Damn me, Christ!” the first brigand swore as the vampire lay hold of him, a manly oath that rose into a scream as the fangs tore into his flesh. Simon felt his body come alive as the blood rushed down his throat, warming him at last as love could not. He fell to the ground with his prey, curving over him in ecstasy, roaring in rage as he transformed back into the shape of a man. The brigand shuddered, too weak now to scream, all but an empty husk. His horse reared away from them in terror, and Simon snarled, baring his fangs. The animal cried out and fled, dragging his dying master behind him, one foot still tangled in his stirrup.
The second brigand had drawn his crossbow and managed to aim it at Simon, but as the vampire looked up, he froze, apparently too terrified to fire. Simon smiled, wiping his bloody mouth on his bare arm. “What the devil are you?” the brigand stammered, the crossbow twitching in his grip.
“You guess it already.” He grabbed the brigand by the tunic, and he fired, the bolt passing through Simon’s shoulder with a sickening thud. “I am the devil.” The vampire yanked the pointed rod of metal from his undead flesh almost without thinking as he dragged his prey down from his horse, using it to stab a fountain in the thickly muscled throat. Still holding the man dangling before him by the tunic, he bent his head and drank, an evil parody of a lover’s embrace. Mine, a voice murmured deep inside Simon’s mind, the voice of the demon Kivar. You are mine.
“No!” the vampire roared, flinging the dying man from him. The brigand’s head struck a tree with an ominous crack, lolling on his shoulders as he slumped, lifeless, to the ground. “No,” Simon repeated, sinking to his knees. “I am not… I am done.” But it was always the same when the hunger took hold of him; he always heard the voice of Kivar, reminding him of what he was. And even now, the demon was not satisfied.
Before him lay the dying knight the brigands had meant to abandon. His armor had been stripped from him, his clothes underneath soaked and stained with blood from wounds in his chest, stomach, and arms. His face was a bruised and bloody pulp. But his eyes were open.
Simon bent closer, listening to the fading music of the fallen warrior’s heart. What had he done to make those others so despise him? The vampire could sense no evil in him, only rage, a desperate desire for revenge more powerful than his own impending death. If he saw the monster bending over him, he did not show it; Simon smelled no fear. But he was dying; nothing could save him now. Acting as much for mercy as for his own waning hunger, he struck, sinking his fangs into the young man’s throat.
The knight, Tristan, they had called him, lurched upward with surprising strength, fighting death with a will Simon could taste in his blood, the power of the righteous and the wronged. One of his shoulders had obviously been shattered, but with his other arm he struck at the monster who would finish him with a true warrior’s fury. Simon sank his fangs in deeper, unable to stop himself, drawing the blood from the man’s very heart, his goodness like the sweetest wine after ten years feeding on the bitter bile of evil.
Then suddenly he howled in pain as the knight bit him back. Unschooled human teeth tore into the bare flesh of his shoulder, and a power like nothing he had ever felt before swept through him, making him feel faint. Furious, he devoured the last drop of life from his prey in a single gulp, making the living heart stop dead in an instant. But this knight, this Tristan, still clung to him, still fed from him, his teeth growing longer and sharp. “No!” Simon roared, flinging him away, and the knight flopped like a rag doll on the ground, his green eyes staring as in death, his mouth smeared with blood. But his bruises were already fading.
“No,” Simon repeated, pressing a hand to the wound in his shoulder, but it was already healed. In his mind, he saw the face of Kivar as he made Simon what he was, thin, cracked lips drawn back from his ivory fangs. Now Simon had done the same.
“No,” he said again, climbing to his feet. He had not made another vampire; surely he could not. He had never done such a thing before in ten long years and a thousand murders. He had briefly thought when Isabel had told him about that dead girl and shown him that cross that he
might have, but Orlando had been convinced that had been a wolf, and Simon had soon known he was right. He had killed the wolf himself, just as he had killed this man before him. The man was dead; the healing Simon thought he saw was only a trick of the moonlight. He tried to walk away, backing into the trees.
Then the knight sat up.
He sprang to his feet with feline grace, falling to a crouch when he saw Simon was still there. “Stay back,” he ordered, reaching for the fallen brigand’s sword.
“Stop,” Simon answered, cursing himself for a fool. He had no sword; he hadn’t bothered to bring one. Indeed, he was barely dressed. “You don’t understand what has happened—”
“I live,” the new-made demon cut him off. “That is enough.” Standing, he was nearly Simon’s height, but his complexion was slightly darker even as a vampire, and his hair was blond.
“But you do not,” Simon said, taking a step closer.
“You killed them,” Tristan said, looking at the dead brigand slumped against the tree. “You killed them both with no weapons; I saw you.” He lifted the sword and stared at his own arm as if amazed to find it whole. “Will I now kill in this fashion?” He spoke English with a careful accent, as if it were not his native tongue—a Frenchman, perhaps, though his name, Tristan, was Irish or Scots.
“You can,” Simon admitted. Somehow he must get the sword away from this new brother and destroy him, now, for his own good. This man was no demon murderer.