In Memories We Fear

Maxim stumbled out of the alley behind Adalrik, feeling better physically, but nearly sick with relief that this whole “feeding” ordeal was done, and they could ride back to the library. His fantasies of traveling with Adalrik were fading by the moment, and he was desperate to go home and lock the doors.

Maxim looked toward the horse and wavered in indecision. Could he simply flee? Swing up onto the animal and race back to the house?

They passed by a number of closed shops, and Maxim soon heard voices up ahead. Adalrik walked into a busy pub five blocks from where they’d left the unconscious man in the alley.

The place was crowded but clean, with a long polished bar. Several men behind it served drinks and chatted with patrons. A few of the locals turned to look their way, and Maxim’s stomach tightened. He almost turned around and walked back out.

“When the serving girl comes over,” Adalrik said, “I want you to speak to her directly, and I want you to think of feeding at the same time. Imagine her as you would if you pressed against her and fed from her wrist. Think on that image as you speak.”

After a year alone with no one but Adalrik, Maxim was overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of so many people. He was overwhelmed with worry that the man in the alley might wake up at any moment and come accuse him. He was overwhelmed by a need to be safely locked away in the library.

Maxim was frozen for a few seconds, and then he tried to do as Adalrik asked. Strangely, it wasn’t difficult, and he almost could not help picturing himself pressed against her, swallowing her blood.

When he spoke, his voice sounded . . . different. She gazed down at him, momentarily shaken, and then she smiled. “Pewter goblet indeed. You think you’re drinking with the queen?”

Something warm began to build inside him, and it felt as if it were seeping outward. The girl’s eyes locked on him in fascination.

Adalrik was watching them both, and he said to the girl, “My dear, have you ever read ‘The Nun’s Priest’s Tale’?”

Grasping for a moment of security, safely ensconced inside the words of Geoffrey Chaucer, Maxim began to spin the colorful story of Chanticleer, a clever rooster who outwits a fox. As he spun the tale, several other patrons stopped their drinking and moved closer to listen. The girl’s fascination with his face, with the movement of his mouth, only increased.

When he finished the story, everyone around applauded and cheered. He did not know how to respond, but Adalrik stood up. “We must be on our way.”

“No, sir,” the girl protested. “You’ve not even had your drinks yet.” She looked to Maxim. “Please, tell us another.”

Against other protests, Maxim followed him numbly to the door, wondering what had just happened. He knew it was something important. He simply did not know what.

They mounted their horses and rode out. Once they were well away from the village, Adalrik finally said, “I suspected. But I had no idea you would be so strong, so soon. You were meant to exist as one of us.”

Adalrik started slightly at the outburst and pulled up his horse. “Your gift.” He paused. “We all have gifts. Some are straightforward and easy to name, such as mine. Did you feel it in the alley? Mine is trustworthiness. When I speak while hunting, any mortal within earshot will trust me absolutely, and so I am able to seduce him or her quietly. We could not survive without our gifts.”

“I’m not sure I can name it, although I could feel it as deeply as everyone else. It is a kind of awe. Everyone there saw you as brilliant, gifted . . . a scholar. They wanted to be near you, to be part of the world you were spinning with those words.” He paused. “I cannot help feeling envious. I could only hope for such a gift. Do not squander it.”

The following night offered no time for literary discussion, and to Maxim’s further anxiety, Adalrik seemed determined to quit this place as soon as possible. There was a great deal of packing to be done—mainly books—and instructions to leave and arrangements to be made. The two of them would be traveling light, but Adalrik was having a number of boxes shipped to wherever they were going. As of yet, he would not say the destination.

“Must we go?” Maxim asked, wringing his hands. “No one bothers us here. I don’t see why we cannot stay.”

Who was this family he always spoke of? Part of Maxim wished to know, and another part wished they didn’t exist. The library looked ugly with so many books missing from the shelves, like an old woman who’d lost half her teeth.

He sat in his chair by the fire, and Maxim joined him reluctantly. So far, with the exception of Maxim’s gift, every “important” thing Adalrik had to tell him had been unpleasant.

“There are a number of others like us,” his mentor began, “and we have existed in secret for centuries among mortals by following four unbreakable laws. As I tell you each one, you must swear an oath to uphold it. Do you understand?”

Laws? Maxim had never broken a law in his life. Well, until last night. But hearing about laws sounded safe. Perhaps tonight’s lesson would not be so unpleasant after all.

“I’ve already told you the first law,” Adalrik went on. “No vampire shall kill to feed. This assures our safety and secrecy. Swear this to me. You will never kill to feed.”

“The second law,” Adalrik said, “is that no vampire shall make another until reaching the age of one hundred years as an undead, and no vampire shall ever make more than one companion within the span of a hundred years. The physical and mental energy required is so great that any breach of this law will produce flawed results. Do you swear your oath?”

“The fourth and final law is that the maker must teach the new vampire all methods of proper survival and all four of the laws in order to protect the secrecy of our kind. Do you swear?”

This rather lengthy exercise struck Maxim as pointless. With the exception of the first law, he gave no thought to any of this. He certainly had no desire to make another vampire—even if he knew how.

“There is a reason I am telling you all this tonight,” Adalrik said. “One of us has broken the laws and placed the rest of us in danger.”

“One of our most trusted elders lost his reason, and he made three sons in the span of a scant few years. As a result, one of them was born unto us with no telepathic abilities at all. None. His name is Julian. He cannot follow the first law.”

This puzzled Maxim until he remembered how Adalrik had replaced the man’s memory the night before. “Oh . . . so he cannot . . . ?”

“You understand.” Adalrik’s eyes drifted. “None of us would ever harm another, but this situation has no precedent, and his maker refused to destroy him. Several of us had decided to take matters into our own hands . . . and then Julian began murdering us.”

“Some things can still kill us: fire, the sun, and decapitation. Julian is coming from the shadows with a sword and taking heads. No one knows quite how he always succeeds. But no one he’s attacked has survived.”

The very thought of this, the image of some great vampire coming from the darkness with a sword, filled Maxim with a dread he’d never experienced. It almost made him ill.

“Do you see now why we have to leave?” Adalrik asked. “Why we must go someplace no one would associate with me?”

The following night, the deliveryman from Shrewsbury arrived after dark so Adalrik could discuss some final details for closing up the house. Maxim no longer feared leaving. Rather, he couldn’t wait to get away from here—the sooner the better.

“I think we’re ready,” Adalrik said. “We’ll ride into Shrewsbury, sell the horses, and hire a carriage for the journey to the coast. We’ll be more comfortable in a carriage.”

“No.” Adalrik smiled. “I don’t think anywhere in Europe will be far enough. We’ll book passage on a ship and spend a few decades in the New World.”

This left Maxim uncertain. He had no knowledge of New York. But then . . . perhaps Adalrik was right. If they wished to avoid Julian’s sword, the farther away the better.

As if reading his face, Adalrik grew more serious. “Listen to me. I’ve told no one, no one among our kind, that you exist. Should anything happen to me, you must disappear. You mustn’t let anyone know of your existence.”

“I need a few travel documents from my desk in the library,” Adalrik said. “You get your bag, and I’ll meet you in the foyer.” He looked around. “I will miss this place. You and I have spent many happy hours here.”

His bed was made, and a small bag of his clothes was neatly packed with a spare suit, toiletries, and undergarments. All his other clothes were boxed for shipping. His long coat lay across the bed, and he slipped it on before turning to leave. His attachment to this place had vanished the moment Adalrik told him of Julian. Now it was a house of threats.

They had not bothered lighting many candles tonight, and the hallway was dark, but as he stepped from his bedroom, a cool gust of air blew against him, and he turned to see the back door was open.

He frowned, certain he’d locked it earlier, but when he moved to close it, he looked down to see the jam was broken. Someone had forced the door. His throat began to close up, and he did not call out. Instinct told him to remain silent and to locate Adalrik immediately. The safest place was behind Adalrik.

He put down his travel bag and walked silently down the hall. The library had two entrances, and he headed for the main one. The door was half-open, and he could see his mentor standing inside, shuffling through a desk.

This seemed a pleasant, normal sight, and Maxim walked faster. He was only ten steps away when something caught his eye . . . a glint of reflective light from the other entrance on the east side of the library, very near to Adalrik. The same survival instinct surged up in Maxim, causing him to change plans, and he stepped behind the door, peering through the crack beside the wall only a few seconds before the fear hit him.

He’d never experienced anything like it in his life—and he knew a good deal about fear. Waves and waves of gut-wrenching fear poured from the library, hitting Adalrik at the same time.

Adalrik staggered back from the desk, attempting to turn around, and a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair stepped from the shadows of the other doorway and swung with both hands gripping the hilt of a sword.

His blade sliced right through Adalrik’s throat, severing his head, which flew off and bounced against the red carpet. Maxim pressed against the wall behind the door, willing himself not to scream.

Image after image of Adalrik’s life erupted inside his mind. But the fear was still choking him, and few of the images even registered. He saw foreign places and countless people. A gypsy girl. A hardened soldier with a broken nose. Scene after scene of Adalrik leaning over a book with some stranger, and then . . . images of Brandon. Many images.

Then he saw memories of himself here in the house, studying in the library, and his panic increased. Was Julian seeing these memories, too? If so . . . he would know! He would know about Maxim.

The pain and the images faded, and he forced himself to open his eyes. Julian was standing over Adalrik’s body, looking down. He did not appear to have suffered the same onslaught. Perhaps he had not seen any of the memories?

Julian had not heard Maxim out in the hallway and didn’t know he was there. Maxim looked behind himself toward the broken back door. Then he peeked back through the crack. Still gripping the sword, Julian watched Adalrik’s headless body as it began to change, to lose its form. While Julian’s attention was so absorbed, Maxim slipped silently down the hallway and out the open door, leading to the untended gardens behind the house.

The fear that Julian had projected was still with him. It permeated deep inside his mind, mingled with his own natural fears, and became trapped there. All Maxim could feel was terror. All he could see was the sword swinging and Adalrik’s head hitting the carpet.

Within seconds, he reached the beginning of the dense forest behind the house. He’d never cared for forests, but now the trees and the darkness were a haven—the only place to offer safety. He had to disappear.

Shortly before dawn, he stopped running. He didn’t know where he was, but it didn’t matter. As long as he stayed in the forest, away from people, Julian would never know he existed. All he could feel was fear, and all he could see was the glint of the swinging sword.

He chose a spot with loose soil and dropped to his knees, digging. The strength and durability of his slender hands surprised him. He dug himself a grave.

Once the hole was deep enough, he crawled inside and buried himself completely. Feeling safe for the first time in hours, he fell dormant.

He woke up that night with a stab of fear piercing through his brain. In the darkness of the grave he saw Julian’s cold, pale face.

He quickly dug himself out, not caring that he was filthy—barely even noticing. The fear in his mind had only increased during his sleep, and he began looking around for a place to hide. Yes, that was the answer. Find a place to hide, somewhere Julian would never find him.

He found a patch of heavy shrubs beneath an oak tree and crawled inside the prickly branches. He could see in front and to the sides, and the tree was behind him. He felt safe here and remained hidden like that all night.

That night, when he awoke, he decided it was time to change to a new location. It wasn’t safe to remain in the same spot for too many nights.

This pattern continued for six nights, and then he realized he was hungry. He needed to feed. Somehow, he knew the direction back toward the house without even thinking about it, but he could not go back there, never back there. Instead, he headed in the same general direction, until he reached the road that he and Adalrik had taken to the village.

Slipping through the trees beside the road, he kept moving until he smelled smoke, and he peered out through the edge of the forest to see a small, isolated house. By now the hour was late, but he could hear people moving inside. His hunger grew, and he forced himself to creep up and peer through a window. Being out in the open was the worst thing he could imagine now, but he peeked inside a window to see an old woman, a young woman, a man, and several children. The children were sleeping.

He longed to feed on any of them, but to do so would mean luring someone outside, and he did not know if he could replace a memory as Adalrik had done. And what if someone else in the family saw him? His existence would be exposed. Julian would find out about him. He knew it.

What if he simply killed the victim or even the whole family? That would silence them. Adalrik’s laws no longer seemed to matter.

But . . . if he couldn’t replace memories, he’d have to kill every time he fed. Adalrik’s logic about secrecy tied to the four laws drifted through the terror in his mind. Stories of blood-drained bodies would reach Julian.

He slipped away from the window, running back into the forest in despair. How could he feed? How could he survive if he could never expose himself to mortals? The hunger and sorrow and terror caused him to stumble and fall. When he looked up, he saw a rabbit staring back at him from under the brush. The creature was frozen still, as if it could hide itself by virtue of not moving. Maxim didn’t blame it. He’d subscribed to that philosophy for the past six nights.

But he could smell the blood, the life force in the small creature, and he imagined himself biting through its fur.

“Have I ever told you the story of Chanticleer?” he asked, and then he laughed, hearing madness in his own voice. The rabbit darted, but Maxim reached out for its thoughts, as he had for Adalrik’s that night in the alley.

It turned and hopped toward him. As soon as it was in reach, Maxim grabbed it with one hand, bit down, and began feeding. He’d fed on a mortal only once, but he was aware that the taste and the entire experience were different. He did see some flashes of memories, but they were simple . . . mating, eating clover, sleeping in a deep den. However, the blood quelled his hunger, and he felt better afterward, not as strong or as sharp as when he’d fed on the man, but he wasn’t starving anymore.

Here, Eleisha became aware of herself again as she almost lost the connection, and she fought to keep his memories flowing forward. But his nights began passing in a blur, one after another, almost always the same, of Maxim using his telepathic ability to call upon animals, of him feeding, and running in the trees, and burying himself before dawn.

Eleisha realized the difficulty in channeling his memories came from his mental processes breaking down between a combination of his twisted fear, feeding only on the life force of animals, and his complete separation from humans. She had no way of accurately knowing how much time was passing, and his clothes appeared to almost rot off his body overnight. He didn’t like being completely naked, and so when his clothes were beyond tatters, he would sometimes creep up to an isolated house and steal what he could. He didn’t care about shoes after a while.

He forgot how to speak. He forgot his gift. He forgot his name. He even forgot about Julian—except for the shadow of absolute belief that he must remain in the forest.

Still aware of herself, aware she was reading memories, Eleisha began to gauge time better as the number of dwellings he stumbled upon grew more numerous and more modern. The forests began to feel smaller and smaller. The population of England was growing, and the forested areas were vanishing at a rapid pace.

He was hungry and knew he could call a rabbit, but he smelled something good—something better. Crouched on all fours, he listened as the good thing came toward him.

She walked on two legs like him, making strange sounds like the birds as she came through the trees while moving her mouth. Something in the back of his mind told him to stay hidden, but he was hungry, and she smelled so good.

He tried to call her with his thoughts, as he would a deer or a rabbit. She didn’t hear him. But when she walked right past the place where he hid, he couldn’t hold himself back. Launching at her, he was surprised by how easy it was to knock her down, to hold her down even while she fought him and made much louder noises—which did not sound like the birds.

He bit down on her throat, gulping and drinking as fast as he could. The taste was unbelievable, so different, so much better than a deer or a rabbit. He drank and drank, feeling his body grow stronger, more alert, more aware. Unwanted thoughts tickled the back of his brain—thoughts that he should not be doing this—but he pushed them away and drank until he could take no more. When he finished, she stared up at the night sky with dead eyes.

He knew he’d done something wrong, but the taste of her blood was still in his mouth, and he already wanted more.

Over the following nights, he tried to feed on rabbits and squirrels and deer again, but they tasted like sand in his mouth. He knew where many of the two-legged things lived, and he began to seek them out, to try to catch one alone.

Sometimes he succeeded and sometimes he had to settle for the animals of the forest. They were so easy to call. They always heard him. The two-legged things did not.

After he’d drained a few more of them, the voice in the back of his mind grew stronger, telling him he was doing something wrong and he should flee once he was finished feeding. He moved south, farther and farther, leaving the forests behind. He learned to hide among the dwellings of the two-legged things. He learned he could call the creatures that lived to serve them. The animals always came to him when he called. They would always do as he asked with his desires. They heard him.

The bright lights and rushing squares of metal frightened him at first, but he used every bit of knowledge from the forest to find places to hide, to lie in wait, to try to feed.

One night he found himself in a place bursting with light and rushing metal squares and countless numbers of the two-legged things. He was starving that night, and he smelled someone alone.

He moved between two solid walls to a dark place where he saw her walking. He rushed her, trying to pin her against a wall, but her clothes were slippery, so he lost his grip for an instant and she made a very loud, high-pitched noise. He dived in again, snapping for her throat, biting her hard, but more of the two-legged things came running toward him, including two big ones with large animals held by some kind of thin rope around their throats.

Using his mind, he cried out to the four-legged beasts to protect him. They did. He heard the snarling and the tearing teeth as he ran away, disappearing into the darkness.