The Hunger (36 page)

He could judge her, but he could not blame her for turning him. If she had been infected with this cursed parasite, he would have given every drop of his blood to save her. She had saved him, by her lights. She might even care for him.

If he stayed she would seduce him to her way of life, just as she had seduced him to drink her blood. He imagined existence stretching on into eternity, sucking human blood, being the stuff of nightmares. He closed his eyes. The joyous feeling in his body was Satan’s lure. He was a monster now, like Asharti. He had drunk blood as she did. He felt his insides go cold. Thoughts tumbled through his mind in dark chaos. What should he do? What
could
he do now? He had to think, think without the lure of loving Beatrix poisoning his reason.

He disentangled himself from her arms and slid out from under the coverlet. He stalked over to where his clothes were hung upon a peg. His cock had softened, finally. That was good. If he stayed with Beatrix, he would accept his condition. He would suck the blood of innocents. He did not know what other choices there were, but he would never make them if he stayed.

He had to go now, before the thrill of life along his veins became the most important thing in the world to him—more than human life. Before he went mad, or became like Asharti. He heard a dog on the prowl in the street below and the late step of a streetwalker. He pulled on trousers, a shirt, its ruffle open at the collar. He had no money, no way to live. He glanced at Beatrix’s delicate bead reticule lying on the rickety table.

No. He would not take her money. Some part of him gave a cruel laugh. He would take her blood but not her money? He turned to look at her, sleeping peacefully under the quilt, her auburn hair spread over the pillow. It was not right that she should look so innocent.

He turned to the door. He dared not look longer at her.

Time to go, before he stayed forever.

Beatrix stretched. She was stiff from sleeping for what must have been hours on the pallet. John. She smiled and put out her arm, wanting to feel his flesh under her hands.

Her eyes snapped open. No John. She scanned the room even as she sat up. Had he gone down the hall in some misplaced fit of modesty rather than use the chamber pot? But she sensed no vibrations near. She pulled on her muslin night shift and pattered barefoot down the hall in spite of the light making its determined way through the grime on the windows. Jerking open the door to the necessary room, she provoked a yelp from the fat baker’s boy relieving himself. But no John. She flung herself back to the darkened room. Only a whisper of smoke said the coals had ever burned. She went to the window and peered out, eyes squinting against the painful day. It was raining and gray. But John could not be out in daylight, new as he was.

She pulled herself from the window. He was gone. She had thought . . . after the blood . . . Perhaps the exhilaration was too much for him. Damnation! She should have
forced him. Then he could have hidden his joy from himself until he had time to get used to it. Beatrix paced in front of the dead coals. She had rubbed his nose in what he was.

How would he survive on his own? He was new and weak. She put a hand to her mouth. If he got desperate enough to feed he might kill inadvertently and hate himself the more. And the daylight . . . had he found a place to go to ground? She hefted her reticule and felt its weight. He had no money. She looked around wildly. She must find him, bring him back . . .

Beatrix darted to the bare pole and pulled one of her only two dresses off its hanger.

The hum of power behind her made her go still. She clutched the dress to her breast.

Enough power to cause an audible hum meant there was more than one of them. They would materialize before she could dash through them, before she herself could translocate. So it would be a fight. She turned slowly.

There were six, including Asharti. The men stood around her once-sister in a semicircle, some smug, some wary. They were not strong in themselves, but all had called their Companions, and they used their power to augment Asharti, who fairly buzzed in the center.

A heavy cloak of red wool swirled over a cream-colored kerseymere dress embroidered with spider delicacy in matching red. The borders of the cloak were worked in gold pictographs. Her eyes were venomous black slits in her face. “I warned you once you would not be welcome back in my life,” she said, and her voice echoed in the room with the power of her five minions added to her own. “Now you have stolen what belongs to me.”

Beatrix swallowed. The hum of power hemmed her round. Only a vampire much older than she was or several setting their power together could pinion Beatrix. It
had never happened to her. With one vampire to a city, there was little possibility of combining powers. Beatrix lifted her chin. “Actually, you told me I would regret leaving you. I have not. And he was mine.” It sounded petulant but it was the best she could do.

“Then what was he doing in Paris? He was fair game,” Asharti hissed. Her figure seemed to grow larger in the darkened room. “Where is he? Thierry said he sensed two vibrations, so you must have made him.” She sneered at Beatrix. “Hardly your style.”

“He has gone.”

“He left you twice?” Asharti laughed. “You are sunk quite low in the world, Bea.”

“He was . . . upset. You of any know how unsettling your first days as one of us can be.”

“We will find him, never fear.”

Beatrix did fear it.
I hope you have run far and fast, dear John
.

Asharti began to fidget. Her gaze darted about the room. “Do not think that just because he has escaped you that I forgive your betrayal. You hamper me at every turn. How can I be what I am destined to be, with you always looking over my shoulder?”

What? She hadn’t even seen the woman in six hundred years. “And what are you destined to be?” she asked, just to say something.

“I was made by Robert le Blois, as you recall,” she said, drawing herself up. “In the way of our kind, I am his descendant. That means France belongs to me . . .”

“France belongs to the French people, little though Bonaparte likes to own to that.” Beatrix realized Asharti must be teetering on madness.

Asharti snorted. “I suppose you supported the Republic, with all its bloodletting. Almost as bad as the first Crusade, I assure you. Not that I cared. I am after something more important than a human empire.”

What was Asharti up to? Beatrix felt a thrill of fear move up her spine.

“You always thought you were better than I am,” Asharti raced on, her voice ascending the scale. “Even
Stephan
thought you were better. Well, I am going to prove just who is better.” She began to pace inside her circle of consorts. “What have you done with your life, Beatrix? Even when you fought wars, they were human wars, wars of their conscience or struggles for their freedom. Wasted effort. And now I hear you love only art and music. Silly.”

Beatrix was stung enough to retort, “Is that any different than supporting Bonaparte?”

“Controlling all of Europe and Africa is just the means to an end. We vampires will feed as we choose, live as we choose. Humans will take their rightful place as the cattle we raise for our use. I will set our kind free.”

“An unusual concept of utopia,” Beatrix said tightly. “I assume you mean you and the vampires you make. By the way, if everyone makes vampires, there is an end to it.”

“A case of the pot calling the kettle black if ever I heard one,” Asharti sneered.

“Rubius and the other Elders will not allow it.”

“Allow
it? Even now, through Bonaparte,
I
control the mountains that hold Mirso Monastery. Rubius exists upon my sufferance.” Her voice shook. “His time is past. His Rules keep us from any kind of life. One to a city!” This last was said with such a maniacal gleam in her eye, Beatrix realized that hatred must have been brewing in Asharti ever since they parted. Had she ever been sane? Or was she driven mad by that horrific experience in the first Crusade?

“I will not stop you,” Beatrix murmured. “I acknowledge your power.” There was no use in antagonizing her. If Beatrix could get away she could go to Mirso, warn Rubius. No matter what Asharti thought, Rubius and the
other Elders could stop Asharti’s mad career. But what about the others? How many vampires had Asharti made?

“I think you know where your precious Langley is,” Asharti hissed, and the sibilance coruscated back from the walls of the dingy room. “You can’t hide him from me.”

A shudder went through Beatrix she hoped Asharti missed. “I swear I do not.”

A slow smile spread over Asharti’s face. “He had begun to respond to my training, you know. He needs a strong hand.” She raised her arms and the power of the lesser vampires behind her seemed to focus even more intently upon Beatrix. “Now he is vampire, he will be stronger. I can draw out his service even longer. But first, my sister, I must deal with you.”

The power of the six combined made it difficult to breathe. Beatrix must find a way out of this. The others’ forms were shrouded in darkness. Only Asharti seemed to draw the light of the flickering candle on the table. “What have such as you to fear from me?”

“You came to Paris. You stole your Englishman from me. You killed Quintoc!” Her voice lowered. “I deal with challenges most directly.”

“Then call your Companion and fight me for control right now,” Beatrix gasped. She knew she could not win, but she could think of nothing else.

Asharti’s throaty chuckle echoed around the room. “No. Even though I bested you in Krakow, who knows what has happened in the intervening years? I like inevitability. No, dear Bea, Napoleon says the French mob needs periodic lessons in passionate devotion to the cause.” She paused, and the red of her eyes grew even deeper. “Traitors get a very public execution and by means most fatal to our kind. I shall introduce you to Madame Guillotine.”

Beatrix sucked in breath as her Companion rebelled in protest of giving up its grip on life. She felt it as a wave of
nausea. “You’ll . . . you’ll never get me to put my head on the block.” But she glanced to the phalanx of vampires who held her motionless and knew they could do whatever they wished if they worked together.

Asharti’s eyes narrowed and her smile grew unctuous. “I see you realize your words are mere bravado. Gentlemen? Let us help our sister to the coach. I think a little time in the Conciergerie will help her reflect on her sins.”

The shadowy phalanx closed in around Beatrix. She had to do something.
Come to me, Companion!
she thought. Life surged up along her veins. But against her will she took a step toward the door. She had never been stronger than Asharti and now she was weakened by loss of blood. Asharti grabbed Beatrix’s cloak and reticule and stood aside. It was now or never.
Come now!
A red veil dropped over the room. Darkness whirled about her feet, pushing up toward her knees, her hips. A moment and she would be free!

“Stop!” Asharti commanded. It came to Beatrix as from a distance. Asharti pushed through the circle. The other vampires turned. The blackness sank.

Come, Companion mine!
she pleaded. The blackness pulsed upward. Everything seemed to slow. Asharti’s red eyes gleamed, even redder than the red haze. Beatrix could not get her breath. The others pushed at her. Asharti pushed at her. Beatrix gasped for air, her hands clasped to her breasts, wringing the last bit of power from her Companion.

All at once the blackness dissipated. Air surged into her lungs. The red film faded.

Asharti grabbed Beatrix’s jaw in one hand and turned her face, so she could not escape staring into Asharti’s red eyes. “You see?” she hissed, their noses almost touching. “You are not better than I am.” She pushed Beatrix away. “You never were.”

Beatrix half fell. Several hands gripped her elbows and propelled her to the door. Asharti stalked after her. She could do nothing. She was at Asharti’s mercy.

The night was wet as John stumbled down the narrow Rue Montmorency. Around him he heard the whispered propositions of the prostitutes, the crisp steps of gendarmes, revelers’ drunken calls, the clatter of wheels on stone, and the clop of horses’ hooves. Cats yowled, doors banged; the night was alive with sound. And sound was only half of it. The city reeked with competing smells: the rot of vegetables, pungent horse manure, cooking cabbage, unwashed men, and early summer rain. John was almost overwhelmed by the evidence of his senses. His hair was dripping, his clothing plastered to his body. The hollow feeling in his center had nothing to do with hunger or thirst. In fact, he felt strong and dangerously alive. It was a heart-sickness that could not be cured. He would deal with that later. He must get out of Paris, as quickly as possible. Asharti was here. And Beatrix.

He would not think of either of them, or of himself, or of the horror they all had in common. He needed a horse or a coach and he had not a sou to his name. He walked north toward prosperity.

After a time he leaned against the corner of a small house half-timbered from a former century. Boxes filled with geraniums clung to the windowsills. He glanced up. He could hear the snoring even behind closed windows on the first floor. It was a well-to-do house. Perhaps a merchant lived here. He glanced to the door. Might as well try the latch. He glanced up and down the street, then took hold of the knob and twisted slowly. There was a little resistance, but it opened with a snap. He slid inside.

He hadn’t remembered a moon, but there must be one, because he could see inside the house quite well with
only the light from windows that looked out upon the night. He avoided the front parlor and made his way to the library. He could smell the leather and the paper of the books. The desk drawers had keyholes. He thought they would be locked, but they opened easily. The third drawer had bills, and gold. This was too easy. He stuffed his pockets, then took ink and quill and scratched the address of the house on a scrap of paper. Then he wrote a note. “I regret the necessity of borrowing your monetary resources. I shall return them with interest.” He glanced up and saw a cloak laid across a chair by the cold fireplace. “And the cloak.” The pen hovered over the paper. It seemed too churlish to leave it unsigned. Then he shrugged. If he was captured by Asharti and her minions, this petty thievery would not matter, and if he was not, they would have their stake returned and more. “Langley,” he wrote with a flourish.