The King's Vampire (8 page)

She’d barely finished feeding on the cat, and only had time to wipe the blood from her lips, when she ran into a group of men leaving a tavern, laughing and shoving one another.

“Hey there, love,” one of the men called out. “Where are you going in such a rush?” He grabbed hold of her, pulling her close. She lashed out and pounded on his chest.

“Let me go, you varlet!” She felt the four men closing in on her, and her breath constricted in her lungs. Panic built up in her chest when she noticed by their bone-white faces that these were other vampires preparing to feed on her.

She struggled to get away, and the mask she held by her teeth, dropped from her face.

A whiney, familiar voice came from one of the men. “I know this woman. She’s one of us, only she thinks she’s better. Let’s show her different.”

“Godfrey,” she blurted out. “Would you dare break Darius’s peace?”

“He said we weren’t to feed on humans, but he never said that we couldn’t feed on each other, now did he?”

She struggled against their mindless violence, kicking out at Godfrey. “You know Darius has plans for me to help save the king from the psychic vampire demons.”

He jerked out of her reach. “What good is that to us? Why should we care if you become the king’s whore? It’s not like he doesn’t already have a plenty. What’s one more to us?”

A tall, thin vampire with hair whiter than his skin spoke up. “It would be of more use to us if you’d turn King Charles into an immortal vampire. That way we might rule the entire world, and have all the humans as our slaves.”

“Now there’s an idea, Your Ladyship,” Godfrey said with a nervous twitch of his mouth. “Whyn’t you turn Old Rowley into one of us?”

“Who’s Old Rowley?” Elizabeth asked.

Godfrey laughed. “It’s the name of one of Charles’s racehorses and that’s what some call the king.”

She looked around in desperation. Nobody appeared to be stirring in this part of town.

The others drew closer, leaving her unable to breathe, while her heart pounded against her ribcage. She watched Godfrey’s colorless lips part, as he bent her neck back to get a better angle at her throat.

Elizabeth wasn’t going to let the little brute feed on her, but the more she struggled, the tighter he held her in his grip. A fury built inside her, and she focused on that rage. She managed to raise her leg, and in spite of billowing petticoats, she kneed him in the groin with all her strength, then giving him a swift kick with her high heel. She shoved another vampire so hard with the square toe of her shoe he tumbled to the ground.

Not wasting another second, she lowered her head and streaked away from them, moving so fast her feet barely touched the ground. At last, she saw the lights and heard music playing in full force at the Boar’s Head Inn. Her dress torn, face streaked with tears and dirt, she must have looked like a crazy person when she burst through the door. The men sitting around the fire looked in stupefied amazement, their mouths dropping open at sight of her.

The mistress of the inn came into the great room. “Is Your Ladyship, all right?” Taking in Elizabeth’s bedraggled appearance at one glance, she led her into another room where she kept her records of the inn.

Choking back a sob, Elizabeth said, “I’ll be fine, Beth. Have you heard from Darius yet?”

A dark look flitted over Beth’s olive, round face. “Not yet, but we’ll hear from him soon, I promise you. Are you all right, Your Ladyship?”

“I’m fine, Beth, it’s just that—” Elizabeth collapsed to her knees.

The older woman pulled her to her feet and led her to her rooms, gently stripping the ragged clothes from her body, washing the dirt from her face, putting ointment on the scrapes and cuts, and then helping her pull a white linen nightgown over her head. “You get a good rest, Your Ladyship. Things always look brighter in the morning.”

Elizabeth sunk her head down on the pillow. “I hope so. I certainly hope so.” But her heart cried out for Darius, even while she tossed and turned. What would happen if the demons killed him? It was too horrible to imagine trying to go on forever without him. She knew she’d have to wait for nightfall if she were to be of any help to him. If only she hadn’t had to waste time on feeding.

“Darius,” she whispered, and a soft burst of warm air brushed across her lips. At last, she could sleep.

Chapter 6

Darius lay on a cold block of stone, trying to slow his heartbeat while waiting for his tormentor to return. The scent of mold and dampness, pervaded by an even darker, more sinister smell, perhaps the scent of dead corpses, surrounded him and crept into his lungs, threatening to suffocate him. He stared up, seeing nothing except the rough undersurface of a stone lid, probably one of the empty sarcophagi in the crypt at St. Paul’s.

He struggled to push the stone away, but it barely moved an inch. He tried to recollect what had happened between him and the demons, but the only memory he had was of John pushing the women out of St. Paul’s, while he’d been engulfed by Julian’s giant jaws.

Although the situation appeared desperate, he’d been in far worse conditions when going into battle in the name of Charlemagne, and he’d always managed to escape. He recalled being human and battling the Saracens, imagining the blare of trumpets, the screaming agony of men and horses dying, and the metal clashing of sword upon sword, armor upon armor, with the taste of dirt and grit upon his lips.

His mind hurtled back to a further time on a wintry day when Charlemagne came to the monastery to personally deliver an endowment to the Benedictine monks. Darius had been industriously sweeping the courtyard outside the chapel when Charlemagne rode up on his mighty black stallion. Darius had paused in his sweeping when that mountain of a man climbed down from his stallion. He wore a white tunic of wool with a sleeveless purple surcoat, and in his scabbard, he carried a jewel-encrusted sword. Darius had been struck speechless at the king’s grand size and his royal presence.

“Here you are my boy, see to my horse,” the king had said.

Darius led the proud black stallion to the stable and fed him oats and hay. But the trouble had started in the kitchen where Darius helped prepare the meal for the monks and Charlemagne, who sat humbly at the rough wooden table with the monks in the refectory. When Darius handed the king a goblet of wine, his hands shook so badly he dropped the brass goblet.

It clanked to the floor. The monks glared at him. Darius went numb with humiliation.

“Prostrate yourself before your king for your foolish clumsiness, boy,” one monk ordered.

“I’m sorry, my liege, for my mistake, but I’ll not prostrate myself.”

“And why is that, my son?” Charlemagne asked.

Even though his cheeks flamed with his humiliation, Darius had been surprised by his king’s high-pitched voice, but he refused to let that distract him. “I will prostrate myself before you in order to show my obedience to you, my lord, but I’ll not prostrate myself for a simple mistake anyone might have made.”

All the monks drew in a collective breath at the young boy’s impertinence.

Silence rang through the kitchen until Charlemagne spoke. “You are correct, my son, it was nothing more than a petty mistake. I need men of honor such as you. Will you come swear fealty to me and train to be one of my warriors?”

“I will with all my heart, my liege.” Then Darius dropped to the floor and prostrated himself before Charlemagne. He left with the mighty king the very next day, never seeing or thinking about those monks again until this day.

So he’d become one of Charlemagne’s warriors and had never regretted it a day in his life. But now, back here in the present, a taste of salt reached his lips. He lifted his hand to his face, and touching the wetness, surprised to find it was the taste of his own tears—he who hadn’t cried in eight hundred years. What might this mean? Feelings had been rushing at him ever since he’d drunk of Elizabeth’s blood. By drinking her blood, he’d let down barriers he’d never intended, and with the sense of vulnerability came a greater capacity for emotion.

He forgot about his past memories when he heard the grating sound of hacking away at chains. The stone lid scraped slowly open and Darius sprang up, heart rate accelerated, fists clenched, prepared to defend himself. He found he was within the gloomy ruins of St. Paul’s.

He blinked once, and then he blinked twice. Towering above him, stood Charlemagne with his hands fisted on his hips, his burning eyes locked in a battle of wills with Darius.

Darius suspected his memories of the past had conjured his former king. “Are you a ghost, my lord?”

“Spirit or flesh, it is of no importance. We have always conquered by the sword and the cross, do you remember?”

“I’m not likely to forget, Sire. Unfortunately, now I fight only to survive another millennium as the undead.”

“Foolishness,” Charlemagne roared, his strong teeth gleaming through the thickness of his beard. “You were once much more than a son to me. I’ll not abide a coward for a son.”

“What must I do for you, my liege?” Shame caused Darius’s voice to descend into less than a whisper.

“These psychic vampire demons are attacking the son of my namesake.” He strode over to the moss-covered broken stones that led down into an endless chasm. He leaned over and drew in a deep breath. “They’ve either left the abyss or descended into the bowels of hell. Their stench is no longer present. They’re probably out looking for more souls to claim for the devil’s own. Since the Great Plague, the Great Fire, and the wars with the Dutch, there are too many weakened souls for the demons to steal. And now, they dare seek out the son of my namesake, while he grows weaker and more desperate.”

“Who do you mean, my Emperor?”

Charlemagne looked down his hawk-like nose at Darius. “I was first crowned Charles, the Great, King of the Franks. So who do you suppose I’m referring to?”

“You think that King Charles is truly in danger?”

“He’s cynical, he trusts no one, and he is without morals. Yes, I think Charles is in desperate danger.”

“I’m an immortal vampire. What can I do?”

“You’re no longer a vampire.”

“I don’t understand, Sire.”

Charlemagne drew out a sword bedecked with precious stones of emeralds and rubies and possessed of a solid gold hilt. He gently tapped Darius on either shoulder and said, “With the authority vested in me from above, I declare you, Darius Einhard, to be now and forever, Darius, demon slayer. You have the capability of immortality, but you also possess a soul. You have the right of heaven as well as earth. The only creatures with the power to destroy you are the psychic vampire demons. May they all be damned to Hell.”

Darius dropped to his knees, and when he dared look up again, Charlemagne had vanished. Surely, he’d dreamed the entire scene. But when he looked down, he saw he clutched Charlemagne’s jeweled sword in his hand. The enormity of what had happened left him shaking and weak. He ran his hand along the jewel-encrusted hilt of the sword, making sure it was real before placing it carefully inside the crude sarcophagus he’d just inhabited. There it would remain for safekeeping until he had need of it. Surprised, he found he now had the strength to push the lid of the sarcophagus back into place with little effort.

He must now seek out his true purpose as a demon slayer. No longer a vampire, he must seek spiritual forgiveness and guidance, but how to achieve this, how to acquire the necessities of a spiritual life? He closed his eyes in prayer. Inside his mind a total revelation struck him, only one alternative, it was his only choice. He had to find the soul translator, the one being that could provide him with the answers to his new quest, and guide him to a new immortal path he was destined to follow. Where would this teacher come from—from the ancient past, or from the present time? Would Darius know him when he found him?

He struggled to separate his ego from his spirit, releasing his fleshly body so he could enter the kingdom of spirits. The mediator between both worlds would be where he’d find a protector who could guide him on the path he sought. In the spiritual world, he’d gain admission to the knowledge of spirits, then doors would open and truth would prevail. But he knew an earthly mentor could bridge the gap between the two worlds and he then could fulfill his destiny.

He felt his skin tightening and knitting together, healing itself from the gouges and lashes Julian had inflicted on him in his attempt to force him to persuade the immortal vampires in joining with the vampire demons.

He shuddered to think what the demon might have done to him next if Charlemagne hadn’t rescued him. His new path might be filled with obstacles, but faith and guidance from above would help overcome the challenges ahead. He knew what to do, and it must be done soon.

Darius left the abandoned ruins of St. Paul’s and rushed back on foot toward the inn, praying he’d find Elizabeth safely home. The morning light was breaking over the rooftops of London, and at first he cringed, fearful of how the sunlight might affect him. The light started out pale, but soon grew brighter and brighter. Lifting his face upward, feeling the blessed warmth of the sun on his skin made him realize it was true. He was no longer a vampire, but rather a demon slayer.

He wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry, but he did neither. Relieved, he found he hadn’t lost his swiftness, because he skimmed across the cobbled streets. Crowds surged into the city, street vendors crying out their wares, donkey carts filled with vegetables or carcasses of meat. A coach rattled by, and shopkeepers opened the shutters of their shops. Light from the sun hit the red bricks of the new buildings, making them gleam ruby-red. He’d once been blind, but now he had been given the gift of sight.

A rosy-cheeked girl walked the streets crying “Milkmaid,” carrying her heavy yoke across her shoulders.

With a wave of his hand, Darius stopped her. He handed her a few coins, and she set down her yoke, pouring him some milk into a bowl. He tipped back his head while the warm, fresh milk ran down his throat. Nothing had ever tasted so good. It was sweeter than wine, warmer than the sunshine beating down upon his skin.