Moon Child (2 page)

“Yes,” she said in a small voice, smile lost to her sadness. “I was born here… and died here.”

He squeezed her hand, giving her a soft sympathetic look and then they were marching off again through the brush towards the home. When they reached the front of the house, Tristan let go of her hand and stopped to take a look around him. There was nothing else out here, just this little stone home with its crumbled stone fence. A mile, maybe more, to the west there was the glow of an electric light from a private home, but that was the closest anything to this place.

She gave a dejected little laugh. “Even after all these long years, people still fear the home of the witches.” She knelt near the wall of stone that’d surrounded the home to inspect the weeds. “It is sad really. It was such a beautiful home. But I suppose after so much death, a home is forever cursed.”

“You don’t really believe that do you?”

She looked up. “Oh yes, we Maniots were a very superstitious bunch. Even as a vampire, knowing what I know, I have a hard time letting go of those thoughts, silly as they might be. One cannot help the way they are raised.”

He smiled and held a hand out to her. “That’s true.”

“Like Master.”

Tristan frowned, taking a step back before she could touch him.

“As the bastard son of a whore, he should have served the house of pleasure as a mere house boy: cleaning and such. Instead, he was forced into service at the age of four.”

Tristan scoffed in disgust. He’d known Malik was a bastard child, but had no idea he was forced to become a whore and at such a young age.

“Despite his impressionable age and being told what he was doing was right, he hated it and wished to be free of his disgusting life. It was just a few years later that the rage reached a peak and he snapped. He savagely killed a cruel prince of the empire. It was only the unfortunate attention of a vampire that stayed Malik’s hand in taking his own life. Instead, the vampire directed that shame and hate onto Malik’s own mother. After he and his new patron killed every last living being in that place, Malik was given a new life.

“Vladislav, the vampire called himself. Vlad raised Malik in a very untraditional manner, even for a vampire. He taught Malik to kill efficiently and enjoy it with a perverse sense of pride. And once the boy was a man, a full-grown man with more worldly experience than most old men die with, Vlad killed him, making him the perfect murderer. A highly functioning sociopath with a lust for life and death.”

“So what, you’re saying you regret killing him now because how he was wasn’t his fault?”

Ash flicked him a dark look. “Being raised by Vlad did make Malik the way he was. He could not help but be the man he was. But no, I still believe he deserved to die. He was too sad and wretched to continue on. He knew he was wrong, deep down, but was unable to overcome his upbringing, centuries of being told wrong was right. It is nearly impossible to overcome something so engrained into a person.”

Tristan nodded his head slowly. He’d always known Malik was broken in a special way and now he understood that more clearly. There was a small part of his conscious that regretted the kill—he was raised knowing that killing was wrong. But the larger part, the part he was afraid he was losing to the Uruwashi in him, was glad. It was piece of mind, the small piece that it was, knowing that man was no longer around to hurt anyone else Tristan loved.

“Thank you,” Ash said softly as she wrapped her arms around Tristan’s waist.

He flinched, not even having notice her come up to him. “For what?”

She just smiled knowingly at him, giving him a warm hug. “Should we go inside?”

He nodded and motioned for her to go first.

She couldn’t pass the threshold. It had nothing to do with ancient, and inaccurate, vampire lore and everything to do with her own psyche. There was so much happiness and sorrow in this little home and all those feelings flooded her at once. It was hard to accept the good over the bad, but she wanted to remember this place fondly, not as the grave of a life she mourned.

“You okay?” Tristan asked softly, putting a hand on her shoulder.

The old Ash would have shrugged him off, insisted that she was fine and faced it alone. But this was the new Ash, no longer a child blundering around lost in the world. She was a woman now and would face her world with the understanding that no matter what, Tristan would be there to help her. It was okay to rely on him, even if meant looking weak. That’s what love was all about, right?

Ash sighed, looking up at him with admiration in her eyes. Sometimes she wished that he could read her mind as easily as she could his. Then again, perhaps that was not so wise after all.

She leaned into Tristan and gave him a small reassuring hug. “Yes. There are… so many memories.”

“Just take your time, I’ll be right here.”

She gave his hand a squeeze before turning away to wander about the room. Everything was as Ash remembered it. No, as Asta remembered it. Asta Moirakos, null pythia. That’s who she was in this home, not the person that died on the floor just there.

Ash stepped lightly across the floor as if it were made of glass that would fracture at any misstep. The cold hearth, the place where meals and spells were always on heat, was nothing but a big cave cut into the brick of the home. Some of that brick had started to crumble and weeds had grown through. She stopped just past the hearth, unable to take another step. There was an alcove on the left, a pair of small rooms to either side of the stairs that let up to the sky.

She was quiet for so long, Tristan was nearly unnerved by her stillness. Finally, he couldn’t cope with it any longer. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer right away, but eventually said in a small voice, “Father. I remember…
Patera
.” Her voice caught and she had to take a moment to gather herself again. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger, almost distant. “I cannot recall his face, but I remember the day he cut into our sleeping quarters to make these steps.” She turned her back on Tristan to look at them. “I was five, maybe. Eva and I stood by, hand in hand, asking question after question as if we’d practiced it, parroting off each other… Would have driven anyone mad, but not Father. He was patient and smiling, dripping with sweat and covered in dirt, answered every single question with that unwavering smile.”

Ash wrapped her arms over her stomach, head tilted to the side in consideration. “Eva and I, we were so confused about the reason why. Why stairs, where do they go, what happens at the top and such. His answer was different every time, but I remember one in particular. Asta, he said, these stairs will lead to the stars, just for you. And Eva, these stairs will lead to the truth that should be told to all.” She sighed, relaxing. “We were both so tickled, we stopped asking after that.

“He never had the chance to finish as he was called off to war mere days after he started the those stairs, the last thing he touched in this place.” She turned slowly to face Tristan again and pointed to a spot on the floor a few feet away. “And that, that spot on the floor looking like every other speck of stone, that was the last thing I touched in this place.”

Frowning, Tristan stalked slowly across the room towards her. “Where Malik—”

“Yes, and Eva, just there.” She motioned to the left.

Tristan stopped an arm’s length from her. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and take her into his arms, but hesitated. Why? Was it fear that she’d turn him away like so many times before when he tried to comfort her, show support for her? No. It had nothing to do with her and everything to do with that nagging—that feeling on the back of his neck, deep in his belly.

“Tristan?” Ash asked, voice full of concern. “Is there something the trouble? You seem uncomfortable.”

“You don’t feel that?” he asked in a whisper.

“What? What is it you sense?” Ash trusted his base instincts and wished he would learn too as well.

A voice from the front door said, “Me.”

Tristan spun, hand going to his jacket to open it and stopped, dumfounded for a moment as he tried to figure out who he was looking at. The face of this newcomer was remarkably feminine, but the sideburns and thick beard said otherwise. Even under the hijab, he could make out the very shapely physic of a woman. The breasts, they were bigger than Ash’s.

He forgot all about his gun for the moment. “Who the fu—” His question ended in a gasp when strong hands jerked him back, nearly taking him off balance. “Ash!” he hissed, “what the hell?”

“Vasco?” she whispered in disbelief. And hope. By the Goddess, she hoped this was Vasco and not the other one.

“
Khat'e
,” the newcomer answered in the negative.

Ash stiffened and Tristan reached inside his jacket for his gun. “Oh Goddess, please, no…,” she said in a shaky voice.

The newcomer’s mouth opened in a big smile, showing a set of rather grown-into fangs. This…
person
, whomever, he—she was, was a vampire and an old one at that. This vampire was the one Tristan had been feeling, there was no doubt. So why, when it was less than a dozen feet away, couldn’t he feel it?

“Ash?” Tristan questioned nervously. He had no idea if this vampire was friend or foe or what he/she’d been saying. And despite his profession, new as it might have been, Tristan wasn’t going to shoot the vampire for just being a vampire. He needed solid proof of wrongdoing again humans.

“Vasco, he is a dear, dear old friend.”

Ash had friends? Like, real friends?

“And this isn’t Vasco?”

“No.”

“Then who is he?”

“
She
,” Ash corrected in a low hiss. Across the way, the vampire lifted her chin, eyes full of amusement as she watched in arrogant silence. “Genoveva. And she is far from friend.”

“I’m sorry, I’m confused here…” Tristan was sure he was looking at a dude. Sure, the face was soft like a woman’s, but after spending six months in Japan, he realized that faces weren’t always an indication of sexual identity. He couldn’t even count anymore how many times he miss-guessed dude or chick from face alone—they all had such pretty, soft faces. But this person, this was the first vampire he’d ever seen with even a shred of facial hair. Full sideburns that lead into a healthy thick beard. Caterpillar eyebrows to match, all in virgin white. Master vampire to boot.
Great
.

The vampire across the way harrumphed and lifted the hem of his robes to flash what was hidden within.

“Holy Christ,” Tristan whispered unable to avert his eyes. There wasn’t enough darkness to obscure Tristan’s view of the disfigured form of what he could only assume was meant to be a tiny penis and an even smaller sac, or flaps, he couldn’t tell. There was definitely something wrong with the general anatomy of it though. What, he couldn’t say right then, and no way was he getting closer to figure it out.

“I must share this wretched body with Asta’s dear, dear old friend, Vasco…,” she said in a mocking tone. “There’s more, below. Would you like to see? It’s a
gashly
bone
…” She stopped long enough to chuckle at her own joke. “Of contention between dear, dear Vasco and I, what’s below.”

Tristan jerked out of Ash’s hold, position shifting into a ready stance. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m a one-vampire at’a time kinda guy.”

“How human of you.” The statement was simple enough. Only, the word “human” slithered down Tristan’s spine like an electric eel, overwhelming him with fear and anguish to the point where he was nearly paralyzed. Just nearly. The show of power did it for him and the gun came up, trained steadily on Genoveva’s head.

She gave the gun in his hand a dirty look, as if to say, “pa-lease”. “There is no reason to be violent. While I rather enjoy the sight of blood, I’m not in the mood. I just came for the witch.”

Witch
? Did she mean Ash? “Why?” he snapped and then gave a little groan as he felt Ash tap into her deeper power. She was going to draw on her seikonō. That wasn’t like her at all.
Just what the fuck is going on
?

Genoveva tisked. “Still holding a grudge, Asta?”

“You tried to destroy me, everything that I was and believed in!” Ash yelled, sounding scared but fiercely determined. “You spent years and years torturing me. You are utterly mad and tried to take me with you!”

Tristan was finally starting to understand just who this Genoveva might have been to Ash.

“Yes, that’s right,” the epicene vampire said to him, making him realize he’d lost the hold on his mind, allowing the vampires in. “We’re related, in a sort. My Master is Asta’s Great, Great Grand Master. So you see, we’re bound by blood.”

“Good for you, but she’s free to be with whomever she wants and that’s not you, pal.”

“Never again!” Ash screamed and then the entire building shook as she sent out a burst of seikonō energy, calling upon the earth beneath their feet.

Tristan lost balance and was tossed backwards as the earth rippled up under him. Ash was already across the room and on Genoveva by the time Tristan realized he was on the ground. He grunted, lifting the gun to fire but the earth shuddered again. He didn’t even see it coming, the chunk of rock that made up the ancient ceiling. The damn thing was the size of a grapefruit and took him right in the temple and then it was lights out.