The Maestro's Maker (2 page)

He looked at Claude-Michel. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“The rantings of a madman,” Claude-Michel snarled.

Gunnar’s laugh, a loud, open-mouth roar, revealed his enormous canines. Claude-Michel

furrowed his brow. Gunnar shook his head slowly. “No, my friend, you are not seeing things.”

He bared his fangs. “I am, indeed, vampire. And one day soon, you are going to see what it is

like to be devoured. What delicious poetic irony. I’m sure you’ve been devouring people in your

own way for years.”

Claude-Michel swayed for a moment, as if on the edge of some terrible understanding.

His legs buckled beneath him. The wall caught his weight as he slid back to the floor.

Gunnar smiled and turned away, put his hand in the priest’s greasy hair, and forced his

head to the side. Claude-Michel watched as Gunnar licked the young man’s neck before

fastening his mouth upon the flesh. Gunnar held the priest tight through the screams

and struggles, and through their finish. I knew the young man’s breathing would slow

to mimic the rhythm of Gunnar’s deep, hungry breaths. His frail fingers clutched his

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tormentor.

Claude-Michel crossed himself.

Gunnar raised his head, holding the priest against him. The young man’s eyes were

open, and blinked occasionally, but appeared not to see. “Not bad,” Gunnar said. “But we

should feed these people better. It would improve their taste.”

“He was a man of God,” Claude-Michel whispered.

“Was?” Gunnar replied. “He is yet. For a little while longer. And soon he’ll collect

his reward.”

“What
are
you?” Jean asked.

Gunnar pushed the dazed priest at the Cockney, who nearly dropped him. The

priest’s dulled eyes tried to follow Gunnar as he sauntered over to Jean. Claude-Michel

stiffened.

“What am I,” Gunnar said, emphasizing his words with movements of his hand. His

movements were not so delicate as those of Claude-Michel, but they were graceful. “I

live off the blood of others, my dear boy. The mere sight of meat, which I once ripped raw

from the bones of my enemies with my bare teeth, now turns my stomach. I must pierce

living flesh and dine on the sweet juices beneath. I am a
vampire,
” he nearly whispered,

smiling. “You will see.”

“Monster,” Claude-Michel hissed.

“Probably,” Gunnar said. “But what does it matter? I live, and I’ll go on living. I’m

afraid neither can be said about any of you. Come, Chloe.” To the Cockney, he said,

“Bring him.”

The sound of my name startled me. I looked at Claude-Michel before turning to

follow.
I will save him,
I thought.
Somehow, I will save him.

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I walked among men without fear. I dressed like a boy in trousers and loose blouses,

and tied back my hair with a thin strip of leather. It had been used to bind documents

belonging to one of Gunnar’s unfortunate meals, who were usually men caught off-guard

or drunk in alleys and bars, or boys looking for a new life. These were desperate boys

who thought going to sea would keep them from starving; boys in search of adventure;

lonely boys who wanted nothing more than to belong somewhere. Those who couldn’t

prove themselves to Gunnar’s satisfaction found themselves chained below, awaiting a

slick, messy death.

My stomach rumbled at the thought of so much blood. I hadn’t fed in days, and was

beginning to feel the first pangs of a deep hunger that would grow quickly. I felt annoyed

that my body would try to drive me inside on such a beautiful night. Even after most of

a year, I was still amazed at the things I could see in what I had once called darkness.

My eyes had learned to capture even the faintest bit of light, which revealed to me all the

secrets and wonders that humans could never see—the tiny mouse cowering in a corner,

the things that swam beneath the surface of the water, the faintest tic in a man’s face.

Shadows had no power over me, nor did darkness or the venomous whispers through

clenched teeth of cowardly men.

I had passed several of them after leaving Gunnar’s cabin. Some sneered even while

long-buried instincts swam up from the deep and pleaded with them to take flight; others

cast down their eyes and pretended not to see me. All of them, afraid.

I wondered why I had ever found these men threatening. They were weathered and

rough looking, yes, but very young. Bloodthirsty boys with ragged faces and knobby

limbs, teeth brown or black or missing, breath fetid. The stench was always present, that

poisonous mortality rising through bodies that begun to rot the day they were born. With

eternity surging through my own veins, I was exquisitely aware of the slow decay of

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normal human flesh, and that made me feel vastly superior.

The Cockney with limp, yellow hair who had chased me through the woods 10 months

before now sat in my favorite spot on an overturned barrel near the rail, smoking. Anger

prickled down my spine. Fear of Gunnar was the only thing keeping me from ripping out

the Cockney’s throat, and he knew it.

I slowed my pace, planting one boot on the deck, waiting for the sound to register

before planting another. The Cockney began to fidget. He took a long drag from his pipe

and turned his tiny, vapid eyes on me. He had the look of a cowardly, feral dog. And,

because of the change, I was several inches taller than I had been when Gunnar had first

brought me on board more than three seasons earlier.

My eyes narrowed. I wondered if my hands would one day murder him on their

own.

The Cockney looked away, as though sensing the thought. Every detail of his face—

from week-old stubble along his jaw to an enflamed fly bite on the side of his neck—was

as clear to me as it would be by daylight. I kept my eyes on him as I drew near the deck

rail. Fear wafted from his skin as pungently as did the odor of unwashed flesh, and that

made me smile.

When his hands began to shake, he stood and forced himself to keep his eyes on me

as he passed by before retreating below. I wondered if he realized I could hear him mutter

“Bitch,” when he thought he was safely out of reach. He knew I could snap his neck

without trying very hard, and that was all that mattered.

I leaned against the rail and , and refused to think about him any more, preferring

instead to fix my mind on the water below, which told me secrets, showed me the sharks

keeping pace with the ship in the dark wetness, the school of fish that darted ignorantly

in their wake, keeping blissful company with predators. I shifted my gaze to the expanse

of tiny waves and undulations between myself and the horizon.
If I could see eternity
, I

thought,
it would look like that ocean, murky and infinite
.

I began to think about the man in Gunnar’s cabin, whimpering for his life. His veins

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were a tangle of sweet tendrils, his pulse a tempting fruit ripe to bursting. There was

no guilt for me in wanting his throat, since I discovered they didn’t die when I fed.

Gunnar killed them for pleasure. He had told me this when he first brought me on board.

I assumed he was trying to scare me, but I was already ill from the bite. It hurt so badly:

my body devouring itself from the inside out. When it rebuilt itself, I wanted to die. Then

the hunger came, and nothing else was important. A new strength surged through my

veins. I had been reborn.

Part of that strength, I now knew, was the hatred I felt for the men who had murdered

my husband and children. It gave me such pleasure to see them m slink away at my

approach, to hear their hearts flutter like little rabbits in my presence.

And to dream of cutting off Gunnar’s head and feeding it to the sharks.

When I arrived in the captain’s quarters, where I lived with him, Gunnar was propped

in his bed, reading a book with a peeling spine. Several of its pages were loose. It had

to be held together with an old piece of leather like the one I wore in my hair. I had seen

it many times, and thought the gold lettering on the cover was pretty, but could not read

what it said.

Gunnar’s room contained many books secured in cabinets, piled on the floor, and

tossed aside without care. But Gunnar always knew where each one was. He was a

shepherd of lost words. To me, they were mysterious, forbidden things.

“What is that book?” I asked, careful to avoid the puny, frightened creature cringing

in the corner, his ankles and wrists raw from the metal cuffs. The priest’s fear-crazed eyes

followed my every movement.

“
Paradise Lost,
” Gunnar replied without looking up.

“Oh,” I said. “What is it about?”

He turned the page. “Devils who were once angels but were cast into the pits of Hell

by a vengeful god, like Hephaestus, falling forever among the ruins of earth, crippled and

despised.” Without warning he turned his white eyes on me. “Like us.”

I caught my breath when he said that, but recovered quickly. “I have never been an

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angel,
Monsieur.
But I am nothing like you.”

Gunnar shifted his jaw to the side the way he always did when considering what to

do with me. He put aside the book and got to his feet. I think I felt, more than heard, the

movement of the man in the corner. My fangs extended from my gums like cats’ claws. I

ran my tongue over them, grimacing when it came in contact with the points.

Vampires’ fangs extend themselves for three reasons: hunger, sexual desire, and fear.

I felt humiliated that my body would show such an obvious sign of alarm, so I shut my

mouth tight and made myself concentrate on this tower of a man who stood too close

to me, and who smelled like the dust of long-forgotten ruins. Gunnar’s voice seemed

monstrous and opaque like the ocean, which cradled foul, ancient creatures.

“You’re not like me?” he asked.

My heart fluttered but I stood my ground, focusing on the shocks of white hair falling

jagged over his massive chest and the tiny white bone dangling from his ear. I’d never

had enough courage to ask who it had been.

“What was your last meal?” he continued. “Or should I say, who?”

I involuntarily looked where he looked, at the priest. He had explained in broken,

terrified sentences that he was on his way to help the poor when he had been captured.

Maybe God would have some mercy on our souls, he said that day. But he had been

desperate. I knew most men didn’t believe we had souls in the first place; that we were

condemned to Hell simply for being what we were.

This man was young, on his first assignment alone. He felt he was too young to die.

He had wandered too far from the carriage when it was time to relieve himself in the

woods. Gunnar himself had been there, and had taken him swiftly, without a sound. Now

he was cringing in the corner, naked. His ribs moved too quickly with his panting breaths.

Even now his lip quivered.

“Please,” he whispered, barely loudly enough for even a vampire to hear.

“Quiet,” Gunnar said, “or I’ll slit your throat tonight.”

The priest linked his fingers and began to pray.

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Gunnar smirked at me. “I haven’t touched him, other than to bring him here. I got him

for you, my darling little French milkmaid.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I said quietly. “I’m not a—” I couldn’t quite say it,

because I was afraid I was becoming like him. I closed my mouth and bit my lips shut

like I had done since I could remember. But now, the points of my teeth made me bleed.

The blood tasted like pennies.

“A what?” Gunnar sneered. “You’re not a what?”

“A murderer.”

He laughed. It was a deep sound. He came closer and closer, but I curled my toes

tightly inside my boots and did not move. His voice slithered out. “Not a murderer? Oh

yes you are. In the eyes of the world, and that’s all that matters. Perception is truth, my

dear Chloe. If they get you, they’ll try to hang you with the rest of us, for piracy on the

open sea. Do you know what will happen then? When they discover they can’t kill you

by hanging you, they’ll devise a thousand tortures to prove you’re a witch. You’ll be

better off telling them you’re a vampire right away.”

“I’ll tell them you forced me.”

“They won’t care. Don’t you understand? There is no compassion in men’s hearts

for what they don’t understand. I’m all you have in this world. Your only protector.” He

sneered down at me, and flipped a lock of my hair in his fingers. “Even with all your new

strength, you’re still just a girl. A scared little girl who can’t take care of herself.” He

narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice until his words ran out in a smooth, liquid hiss.

“Except to the world. To them, you’re a monster, and they would love to rip you apart.”

He drew out the word “love,” letting me see his tongue linger on his sharp teeth.

I tried not to, but I shuddered. I hated him for being so aware of my weaknesses. And

I hated being so hungry.

“You had better eat,” Gunnar said, turning from me.