CHRISTIAN’S TRAINING
The massive mountain of fire lit up the night sky before quickly disappearing underneath a thick fog, but the manor’s high stone wall remained ever-visible as he neared it.
The Dragon still remained.
It was this thought that propelled him forward with haste. He stepped soundlessly across the soft ground, pressing past the remaining tall trees. He had passed several Pixies, Fairies, yes, but he paid no mind to the buzzing blue and gold Creatures, for the thought of seeing the Dragon at last would not hold itself at bay. He had not seen the magnificent Creature the last time he was here, indeed, he had only heard, while he rested within those stone walls, the terribly loud roars every night. Perhaps, he thought, tonight I will win the Vampire’s favor to greet the Dragon.
When he reached the long stone bridge, he stared at the manor for a moment, taking in its high black doors, the silver knockers shining in the moonlight above. Let us see how he takes this news, he thought warily, letting a cold sigh leave his lips. He reached the tall black doors at last, lifting a gloved hand to touch the silver knocker nearest him.
He tapped it against the strike place twice before he heard the faint footsteps beyond the doors. “Who,” the rough voice said once the footsteps stopped just beyond the black wood, “dares venture to my home at this ungodly hour?”
He smiled, despite himself, and cleared his throat, smelling the blood of the Vampire quite clearly. “My Lord, the moon graces us with her glorious presence and you dare call her ungodly?”
The doors opened with ease and there stood a dark man with jet-black hair that settled upon his heavily cloaked shoulders. The brown eyes explored his face as though searching for his reasoning for venturing here, and it was a while before he said, “Christian Delacroix. I should have known. Something has happened?”
“Yes, my Lord,” he said with a short bow, hand over his dead heart. “Something has happened to another.”
“Another?” he repeated, severe question lining his brown eyes. When Christian would say no more, he softened his gaze. “I see. Well then, Delacroix, come in.” And he turned from him, stepping farther into the long hall.
Christian followed him through the tall doors, trying to forget the last time he had passed through them, slung over the dark Vampire’s shoulder.
I am not here to feel sorry for myself, he thought darkly. With a squaring of his shoulders, he matched the Vampire’s footsteps, keeping his eyes on the long red traveling cloak the Vampire wore, how it swayed around his finely tailored boots. But Christian had made only several strides before the massive doors closed, causing him to whirl around in bewilderment. No one else was there.
A soft chuckle arose from the down the hall, followed by the rough voice behind it. “I’ve enchanted my home since you’ve last been here, with the aid of Madame Blavatsky…it just so happened that a few Orcs were ruining her garden. I got rid of them for her and she protected my home.” He turned from Christian once again, a dark hand gesturing toward the large room at the end of the hallway. “Now, please, let us continue.”
Polished shields, beautifully crafted daggers and swords gleamed in the light of torches along the walls, Christian eyeing them in earnest.
“Funny that you should come with news now, Delacroix,” the dark Vampire said as they walked, “we’ve come to a decision regarding your training,” and after a brief pause, “they’ve chosen myself for the job.”
“It took so long to come to that conclusion?” he asked, knowing fully that he wanted only the Master of Weaponry to train him, should he be inducted into the Vampire Order at last. “I would have thought they would have chosen you sooner, Lord Damion.”
Damion chuckled, stopping just before the entrance into the main hall. “There was a bit of back and forth on who would do it, but ultimately since it was I who...saved you before...even Xavier could not see a better choice.”
Finding this quite hard to believe, he merely gave a short hum, but quickly smiled, for there was a terribly loud roar that shook the foundation of the manor. “Dammath, correct?”
“Correct you are,” Damion said. He walked farther into the main hall, bidding Christian to continue with him. “I know the last time you were here you didn’t get the chance to meet her. Granted, that damn Dragon cannot control her thirst for blood—you’d swear she was a coldblooded Vampire herself...able to withstand the sun, shoot fire from her nostrils...”
Christian grimaced, remembering vividly the time he indeed was not able to walk through the doors. Damion had carried him on his shoulders, blood pouring from his severed leg, making quite a mess of his home.
Christian had been urged not to speak before being given fresh blood from dark hands. After a time, when all was in order and Christian was able to stand once again, the Vampire had then given him fresh clothes and a brand new traveling cloak.
He’d been grateful beyond words, but deemed it important to know the Vampire’s name. “Damion Nicodemeus,” the Vampire had simply replied, “First Seat to Lord Xavier Delacroix.”
Christian had taken in the Vampire’s dark skin, the regal coldness to his countenance forbidding evasion. “You’re…a part of the Order?” He’d heard that the Vampires chosen for the Order were of profound strength, skill, and standing—he could scarcely believe at the time that one would help him, never mind that he was Xavier Delacroix’s brother.
“Yes,” had been the reply.
He’d knelt with reverence then, not knowing what more to do, but to this Damion had said, “Christian, I assure you, there is no need to show such formalities.”
At this, he’d looked up in shock. He had never told the Vampire his name. “How do you—”
But Damion had gestured for Christian to rise from the floor. “I have known who you were from the moment I saw you, Vampire—I would be a fool not to know my superior’s brother.”
“Ah,” he’d managed to breathe, ignoring the apparent slight on his person. After a few more nights, clinging to Damion’s every word, his every movement, Christian decided it was time to leave. He never did ask to meet the Dragon that roared ever so loudly every night. He was simply fascinated by Damion’s headstrong demeanor and his skill with advanced weaponry, a grace unmatched by the severity that seemed permanently set upon his face.
A large library opened up before them. The set of spiral stairs in the center of the room shined underneath the grand chandelier that loomed overhead far, far away from where they stood.
Christian turned his gaze to the vast number of books nested in the walls around them.
“It has been a long time since you were here,” a voice said quietly, startling him: as he strode to the books, he’d momentarily forgotten that anyone else was in the room.
Damion walked to a desk in a corner where a low table sat. A lit candle shed dim light there, its wax dripped steadily down its long holder. He touched the globe that sat on the desk beside it; Damion let a dark finger trail around the many countries and seas as it spun. With a sudden sigh, his voice almost a whisper, he said, “I have been to many, many places. I have travelled the world in a few years’ time. And do you know what I have witnessed in all of my adventures, Christian?”
He continued to stare, The Art of Time Travel open in a gloved palm. “No, my Lord.”
Damion sighed again, his eyes appearing nostalgic in the faint light. “I have seen a stunning amount of death and destruction. Creation yes, but more death than birth. Mankind has learned nothing from their forefathers. Their ancestors. It is true what they say: history does repeat itself, Delacroix, and those after history are left to make it, but how can they,” he removed his hand from the globe, waving it thoughtfully through the air, “when it has already been made?”
Christian closed The Art of Time Travel and placed it back on the shelf. “Was that a rhetorical question? Because, I assure you, I know not the answer you seek.”
Damion let out a rough laugh. “Of course it was rhetorical, you fool. Do you think, being the Creatures that we are, that we know why humans continue to destroy themselves? It is a mystery that boggles the mind of any man—any Creature at best!” He chuckled to himself again as another terribly loud roar filled the manor. “Ah,” he gasped. “It appears Dammath grows hungry. If you’ll excuse me, Christian...” He moved to open a door that led to another room.
Christian saw his chance. “My Lord, could I possibly accompany you? I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting the Dragon.”
Damion stopped abruptly, his hand still on the door. His eyes shined with thought before he said, “I don’t see why not. Dammath hasn’t seen any other Vampire besides myself and Xavier…another friend would be fine.”
Christian followed him through the living room, where more books lined the walls. It was dark except for a bright fire in the fireplace. They passed two armchairs at the center of the room, and more beautifully crafted shields and swords were placed carefully upon the walls, their shadows dancing in the firelight. He eyed an empty spot on the wall where the Ascalon was rumored to have once rested.
“Xavier has it,” Damion said simply.
“Of course.”
Damion opened another door, which led to what looked like a training room. Swords of all kinds were placed on shelves, their shields on another shelf right next to them. Blood could be seen along their bodies.
“I have never seen this room before,” Christian said. “You train here?”
“Train, sharpen the blades of my favorites, what have you. This is my personal room. I come here to think and I come here to train those who hope to one day break the Armies’ many ranks.”
“I had no idea there was such desire for—”
“Protection?” Damion interjected with a curious look. “But of course you wouldn’t, Delacroix. Women are more your calling.”
He said nothing. The Vampire spoke truth.
The corners of Damion’s mouth stretched upwards. “That shall change once you get a taste of Lycan battle, my friend. Now come, we cannot leave Dammath waiting any longer…and afterwards we can talk business.”
He stepped with ease from the Vampire, turning toward a stone wall, and without another word, stepped straight through it.
Christian stared at the mass of stone before him. He walked toward it cautiously, looking for any sign of Damion beyond its exterior. “My Lord? Sir Damion!”
The laugh was rough, though slightly muffled, followed quickly by the deep voice, “Christian…this is no time for games, walk through the wall with your head high and all will be fine.”
He studied the wall, never having encountered this kind of magic before. It was a full minute before he exhaled and did as Damion instructed. Holding his head high, he walked straight into the wall. A stinging coldness claimed him and then dispersed, and he opened his eyes. A bright torch blazed near the Vampire’s head. The high orange light illuminated a stone staircase that headed down into what looked to be utter darkness.
“Shall we go then?” Damion asked, not waiting for a reply. He lifted the torch from its stand and headed down the staircase into nothingness Christian in tow.
They walked quickly down the narrow steps and Christian felt they were indeed heading nowhere for quite some time.
Damion held the torch aloft, shedding light over the next few steps below them.
Christian had just begun to think they were never going to see ground again when his companion reached the last step and said, “You first, Delacroix,” gesturing towards a well-kept wooden door the size of the narrow passageway.
He steadied himself, stepping toward it, allowing himself a small, needless breath before he pressed down on the silver handle and pushed it open.
The night air was crisp. A sweeping, cold breeze churned in the tunnel, blowing out the torch, throwing them into complete darkness, save the faint starlight above.
An array of trees, tall as they were dark, spread out before him. A steady glow around them, faint enough for one to notice if one looked hard, gave him the feeling that magic was at work here.
“I suppose you have enchanted this forest as well,” he said, watching the Vampire who had remained in darkness behind him.
“I see nothing escapes those eyes,” Damion said lightly, settling the blackened torch on the mount most near his head before approaching him. With a wave of a hand, he closed the door they had exited. “We should hurry, Delacroix. This way,” he said, already walking ahead of him into the line of trees.
Christian hesitated for a moment before giving pursuit.
Several Orcs, Fairies, Pixies, Gnomes, and Goblins appeared, but upon seeing Damion, they hid once more behind their trees.
Before long, they came to a massive wall where the source of the loud roars seemed to be loudest. Just as Christian began to guess what the Dragon would resemble, a large stone door appeared in front of them.
“Are you ready?” Damion yelled over the low grumbles.
“Yes,” he said—although he wasn’t sure if that was entirely true.
“Let us go, then.” Damion stepped forward and grabbed the impossibly large handle, pushing it open.
The dark Vampire walked through the archway toward a massive beast whose scales glittered green and black against the night. Its gaze held on them, a steady blackness, and when it eyed Damion in earnest, it rose from where it lay atop stone, and spread its massive wings. A huge gust of wind blew up around them as they stared.
With one massive flap, it rose into the air, climbing higher and higher, swooping into low circles around them, its yellow underbelly barely scraping the ground.
Damion extended a hand to the Dragon.
It spun in circles around them, until at last it slowed, landing smoothly atop its large silver claws.
Christian’s hair blew away from him, as did his clothes. When the wind died, he saw Damion running a careful hand along the Dragon’s long snout.
Opening his mouth to ask how on Earth it allowed him to touch it, it was abruptly closed when the Dragon let out a burst of black smoke directly toward him.
“Come now Christian, she is quite the baby once you get past her deadly exterior,” Damion said, the black smoke billowing his traveling cloak and hair across his body and face.
“It’s a girl?” he asked incredulously, never once realizing a Dragon could be more than solid scale.
The stare Damion placed him with caused him to shut his mouth yet again. He realized his outburst unwarranted, indeed, and he reluctantly stepped toward the Creature now submissive in Damion’s hold.
She let out a particularly powerful gust of wind as she gazed upon him, and he did not move, not even as the Dragon jerked its head away from Damion’s hold, her stare never wavering.
His eyes fluttered to the Vampire at her side. What was she doing? What…do I do?
“Dammath,” Damion said after a few awkward moments, “meet Christian Delacroix.”
Before he could say anything at all, Dammath lifted her head and let loose a large burst of fire, before returning her intense gaze to Christian. “He is a friend of yours, Damion?”
Christian could not be sure of what he just witnessed. The Dragon before him opened her mouth and spoke. Words.
“Not only a friend, Dammath. He is here to train,” Damion said, and he looked at Christian once more, “in the hopes that he may one day be as powerful as his brother.”
She grunted her disapproval, turning away, nearly hitting him with her dangerously sharp tail, its end littered in silver spikes.
Damion said, “Ah, come now Dammath, there’s no need for such a green face. Mister Delacroix is only here for training; he will leave as soon as it is done.”
She swished her tail dismissively before ascending into the air, sending another large gust of wind to spread past them both.
He watched her fly away, her large wings beating the night air mercilessly as though she desired nothing more than be far away from here. Yet Christian could only begin to wonder how it was she could fly freely without being seen.
Damion walked across the massive yard toward a door Christian saw nestled within a stone wall. And as he reached it, it flew open, with Damion disappearing inside it for a few moments, then emerging with two human corpses resting on each shoulder.
Christian said nothing, the Vampire dumping the bodies on the ground at his feet, venturing back to the door, emerging moments later with two more dead bodies. Damion did not cease in this labor until ten corpses littered the ground.
Christian looked down upon them. They were drained of all of their blood.
Damion said, “I feed on them and give Dammath their remains. It makes the cleanup far easier.”
“I see,” he muttered, thinking only of the Dragon munching happily upon her owner’s leftovers.
Without another word to each other, they stepped together through the forest, and back up the narrow staircase, darkness clawing at their backs as they returned to the training room. Once inside, Damion said, “I believe you had something you wished to tell me, Delacroix.”
“Yes, that I do, my Lord,” he said, eyeing the dark Vampire, turning his thoughts from the Dragon to a more serious matter. “Most recently, a Vampire by the name of Eleanor Black was murdered in a cabin not far from here.”
“What?” came the delicate, whisper. “What happened?”
“Xavier was sent there to receive information from Miss Black. I left early, my Lord, so I am not at all sure as to the events that followed...”
Damion looked around the bloody room as if trying to make sense of what was supposed to be there and what wasn’t, and then at last he spoke, although he did not stare upon Christian anymore. He shifted his gaze to a particular bloody sword. “What did he tell you? Did he even tell you anything specific? Details?”
He hesitated. “No, my Lord, I was only told to tell you of what happened. I myself know nothing more than what I have said.”
Damion’s eyes were no longer a light brown, but now a deep, crimson, and his voice was low, the anger clear. “I’m a Member of the bloody Order and still I am told nothing. How much longer do we have until he tears us apart?”
“My Lord?”
Damion turned, giving him his back, the touch of finality not to be denied. “Find a place to lay your head. I must feed.” And he was gone.
Christian awoke later that night with an intense thirst for blood. He found his way to the dungeon Damion had placed him during his last visit, and though cold and dark it was, he decided it fitting for his absolute ineptitude as a Vampire.
There was a small opening within the wall, high above where he sat and he stared at it, remembering how he had struggled to remain alive whilst the moon’s light beamed past the two black bars that formed a cross within the opening.
Xavier knew of the Dragon... He knew of the sword... He knows everything, and I... I know nothing of...of anything. Why did I leave that night? For bloody blood?
Christian rose from the stone floor, feeling overcome with the immense desire for the liquid all at once. His mind throbbed madly within his skull.
Where is he? he thought as he journeyed up the stairs to the door at the top. It opened easily. He pushed through and blinked in the light of the chandelier before moving past the spiraling steps in the center of the large room, stepping for the door the dark Vampire had walked through, the door that led to the book-lined room, its two large armchairs just before the high fire.
He sank into one without seeing, mind lost on thoughts of Lycans, Dragons, and most-upsettingly, Damion’s reaction to the news of Eleanor’s death. Why had the Vampire reacted so strangely? But as soon as the thought reached him, it was gone, for how could he expect the Master of Weaponry to tell him anything, indeed?
I am no one, he thought. No one worth spilling secrets to, no one worth the kindness Lord Nicodemeus showed in seeing me healed, housing me, allowing me to gain my strength.
He raised a shaking hand, removing the glove still on it, staring at his deathly white skin, doing his best to still the tremor, but failed wonderfully: It shook far too much to be controlled. “I must feed,” he said quietly, although he remained in the chair, never wanting to leave the mesmerizing fire that blazed on in front of him. His mind was moored to a past most dour.
Xavier, Christian thought, do you blame me for becoming what we are?
If he had never seen the enigmatic man, he would have never have been bitten, killed, given the Vampire’s blood for his own. And Xavier would not have had to follow suit....
A door opened and he heard the familiar footsteps moving to where he sat, but he did not turn. He had little desire to face Damion after the night’s words (whatever the news he relayed had done to the dark Vampire), and his head ached. He needed fresh, warm blood. It was with a cold sigh that he closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the armchair, imagining the flames against his skin.
“You are a fool to welcome such thoughts, Delacroix,” the deep voice drifted from overhead.
He did not stir. He remained motionless, feeling his body drain of all energy and hope, for he knew he could not match his dear brother in skill, in cunning, in maddening charm...
And then he smelled it, right underneath his nose: thick, warm blood. With a start, he opened his eyes. The chalice the dark Vampire held before his face was full. The golden ring upon the Vampire’s dark finger gleamed in the fire’s light. “Take it,” Damion commanded.
He did not need to be told twice, he moved to grab the cup, sure to throw his head back and inhale the liquid in one large swallow. He did not look up at the Vampire as he placed the cup in his open hand and returned his gaze to the fire, only listening as the Vampire’s heels clicked against the hard floor as he left the room.
He sank back down into the soft armchair. His sharp eyes wandered the room, catching the swords that gleamed with a yearning to be used in battle. The feeling of hopelessness engulfed him with ease again, and he stood, walking out of the living room, past the tall bookshelves and down the great hall, the Vampire nowhere to be found. When at last he reached the large doors, he took one last look toward the marble staircase before opening them, stepping out into night.
Without stopping, he began his walk back into town. Having not been able to fly, for he had no amount of proper human blood in his system, he sighed, knowing himself wholly unworthy to train with the likes of Damion Nicodemeus. He drew his hood up over his head and made his way into the woods.
An eerie silence greeted him. It was not long before he knew something was wrong.
The Pixies weren’t flying about his head. The Gnomes weren’t trying to knock him over with stones. The Fairies weren’t fighting with the Pixies. It was all was far too quiet.
Twigs beneath his feet snapped, causing disturbing echoes to ring out into the night, and yet, no Orcs sprang out of the darkness to scratch and bite the cloaked stranger in their territory.
“Odd,” he muttered to himself as he walked further.
A loud roar exploded through the air, causing Christian to stop dead in his tracks, his whisper instant: “What on Earth…?”
The sound came from the clearing directly in front of him. He took slow steps forward, more out of plain curiosity than anything else. He peered around a tree and gasped at the sight.
Every possible Creature in the forest was here, it seemed, and they all stared at the human that stood in the middle of the clearing.
Her eyes were closed, her face directed at the moon, her dress torn and dirt-stained. She did not to move. All eyes looked upon her, and yet, no Creature dared step nearer than the trunks of trees they stood behind.
Christian took in her features intently. Her hair was dark brown, long and wavy as it fell along her back. She had a delicate chin graced by the light of the moon, which only softened her features further, and Christian was sure if she opened her eyes, he would find them just as fascinating as well...
“You have found her, Wengor, very good job indeed,” a loud, haunting growl boomed through the forest.
The Creatures surrounding the clearing stood still, every heart seemed to stop beating as a massive beast standing on its hind legs walked forward. Its beady eyes took in the woman in front of it, and with a low growl, it opened its mouth, revealing several rows of long, sharp teeth.
At once, a surge of great disgust filled him. A horrid stench pierced his nose, something he had never smelled before: He found it quite revolting.
But before he could think more on what this beast was, another sauntered forward, right behind the larger one, and dropped on all fours, hissing and growling at the human in front of it.
Christian was astounded further to see she never moved, her face remained directed toward the moon, and her eyes never opened to the lunar light.
His fingers pressed into the hard wood he hid behind. His blood steamed with an insurmountable desire to kill. His gaze took on a familiar red hue, his dead heart beating a mad rhythm against his chest. And all at once, he remembered the words Xavier had bequeathed some time before:
“Your blood will warm, your rage will overwhelm you, and your gaze, brother, will redden. It is the way of the Vampire to despise the—”
“Lycans,” he whispered aloud, remembering in full what Xavier had said was the name of the hairy beasts. Lycans, here. But why? Why had they been looking for the woman?
His thoughts were broken abruptly, the larger beast having reached toward the woman with large claws and a sudden snarl left his lips.
But before he could even think about stepping forward, a burst of red light blinded him and a buzz pierced his ears. He raised an arm to block the light from his eyes. And when at last the strange light died, he stared at the scene before him, confusion gripping his senses.
The larger Lycan had done the same, blocking its eyes from view with a hairy arm, but not before staggering backwards in clear alarm. It had even fallen to the ground, arm still raised.
It was quite alone, the other Lycan nowhere to be found, the rest of the Creatures running madly in other directions, growls and feverish mutters of fright leaving their mouths.
And the woman had fallen to the ground as well, though she looked quite peaceful.
She could be mistaken for slumbering, Christian thought, though his enraptured mind told him otherwise.
His gaze was pulled from the woman as the Lycan staggered to its rear legs, its head jerking erratically, and he had the strangest feeling the Creature knew he was there.
It was not long before it sniffed the air deeply, and growled low, turning its head toward him, a moment of remarkable fear marring the bloodlust under that bemused gaze.
“A Vampire?” the Lycan growled.
The voice snaked into his mind, almost mesmerizing in its horridness. He felt as though he were being pinned to the ground with that voice, but his blood boiled, his desire to kill higher than it had ever been—
He was flying through the air before he knew it, mind gone. His only focus was the large, snarling beast—
And he was brought back down to Earth with the intense pain of terribly sharp teeth, the rip and crack that sounded in his ear quite loud as he felt a sudden release. He felt the ruinous tear, and he flew backwards through the air, the vision of blood, hair and clothes flying before his face amidst the maddening pain—
His senses turned black when he came to an abrupt halt, the smack of his back against a rough, hard surface issuing a scream from his lips. He felt his body crumple to the ground, slack against a tree. A pain still pulsed at his right shoulder. He could not look to see the damage done, but knew it vast. His side, as well as the ground, was slick with wetness, and he could smell the blood in the air. His blood.
Damn.
A fresh burst of wind blew past his face next. The thick scent of Lycan reached his nose, causing him to cough, and against all thought—against all reason indeed—he opened his eyes against the disturbing pain.
The dancing figure of the large, hairy beast stalking toward him seemed impossible, if only for a brief moment. Yet a raucous laugh filled the air after he thought this, and he was returned to sobering reality with the sound.
I am a fool, he managed to conjure as he stared up at the doubling figure of the beast that loomed over him. Its breath thick against his face. He could no longer feel the persuasive hate burn within him, gone with the pain that coursed through him. And he knew he had acted wildly. He had not done what Xavier would have done. He had not assessed the situation. He had not realized the massive size of the beast, the quickness with which it would move...
The black eyes covered his vision of the night sky. No words able to rise to blood-drenched lips, they were lost was in his throat and the fountain of blood that filled it.
How he wished to scream, to cry for help—
“Christian!” a startled voice yelled.
Before he could know who it was, a white arrow darted through the sky and struck its target.
The beast stood straight, and then fell to its side, its eyes still placed on him, unmoving.
His eyes closed with the lack of blood, his vision unable to keep on the frozen beast just at his boots, despite the movement of the Vampire (for who else could it be) at his side. It was only when the hand graced his shoulder softly that he opened his eyes.
“Christian,” she whispered, “why did you attack him?”
His black eyes grazed over her face. Her dark blue eyes returned the look with clear concern, yet he could not bring himself to speak. Blood left his lips in earnest.
She nodded.
A strong gust of wind blew up his hair and bloodied clothes, and he felt her hand tighten on his collar. He looked at her, her gaze upon the dark sky, and it was a while before he saw it clearly.
The massive Dragon hovered above them, its large wings flapping slowly to keep it airborne. It snorted, and as waves of thick gray smoke filled the air, something like relief covered Christian’s pain. Dammath. He managed to keep his gaze on her as she descended, the dark Vampire leaving her back before her large claws touched ground.
There was a strange ringing in his ears. The dark Vampire moved swiftly toward him, a strangeness upon that face he had never seen before—a look of stark apprehension. It was then that he wondered, indeed, if his injuries were truly so bad. He had lost the ability to feel his pain when the Dragon had appeared, the relief the sight had given him had never gone.
“Lillith,” Damion said, and the brown gaze would not leave his own, “how long have you been here?”
“Only a few minutes. I was able to stop the Lycan from tearing off more than his arm and shoulder.”
What? He examined his shoulder at last, and indeed, where his arm should have been there remained only a gaping hole. A slim trail of blood leaving it, creating a greater puddle along the soft ground. He stared in horror until a glint of gold caught his eye, and he turned his gaze to the black and white rags most near the Lycan’s head. He watched them for a moment, recognition not reaching his numbed mind, until he saw the golden ring planted atop the ash that spilled out of the sleeve’s opening. My ring. My arm. And just as greater horror reached him, he was pulled back into a deep sleep, the glint of gold the last thing he saw before all went black.
Damion stared at the mass of Lycan, disbelief marring his greater senses. Felled a Lycan. Impressive, Miss Crane.
“We must leave quickly, the spell is wearing off,” he said, eyeing the white arrow lodged deep in the beast’s side.
It will not last. They never do…
Without another thought, he lifted an unconscious Christian carefully over a shoulder, Lillith’s gaze on his actions dressed with bewilderment. He felt her glare with his every step.
He placed Christian cautiously in-between Dammath’s neck and wing blades, and then scanned the clearing for anything more, a strange scent reaching his nose. He gestured to the human woman lying motionless some feet away from the Lycan’s body. “Who is that?” he asked Lillith.
“I’ve no idea, my Lord,” she said, and it seemed she only just realized the woman had remained there. It was so surprised her blue eyes appeared through the gloom.
Before either of them could say a word, a weak growl rumbled the ground at his feet, and he stepped away. The Lycan’s growling growing louder the more the arrow’s spell faded.
“Damion,” Lillith said in a fear-gripped voice; it shook as her hand reached for a fresh arrow.
“Hold, Miss Crane,” he whispered, never tearing his gaze from the Lycan’s trembling body.
It dug a clawed paw into the dirt as it attempted to stand, though for every slow rise, it fell back down to earth.
“You’re the one,” it said at last, gaze hard on Lillith, whose hand was still frozen on an arrow at her back, “that struck me?” It then lifted a claw and pulled the arrow out of its side. Blood poured forth and Damion watched as it swayed on its knees.
Lillith lifted her bow, spurred by the beast’s voice. She pulled back another arrow. “It was me, and I’ll do it again.”
Damn it, Lillith, Damion thought, hold! He moved toward her. Yet with his movement, the Lycan’s sights shifted. He stared upon the black eyes, their gaze never leaving his own.
It said, “More of you?” But as it spoke, it attempted to rise to trembling legs once more, much more blood leaving its wound, dousing its brown fur red.
To his left, he barely saw it, the swiftness with which the young Vampire released the arrow, letting it fly, the sharp point ripping the air in two.
He moved toward it before it could hit its target, ignoring the sting of its tip in his hand. “No more, Miss Crane!” he said, eyeing her, the arrow clenched tight in a fist, his blood dripping down its glowing body. His back was to the Lycan as he moved toward her. “We must secure Christian, the sooner we do so, the sooner—”
“Damion,” she whispered, her eyes glued to something behind him, and he knew what had happened before he turned around to see.
It had fallen to all fours, having lost a lot of blood, but it did not seem concerned. It seemed to be shrinking. Its fur began to disappear. Its long face became a more human mask and its appendages lost their sharp nails, lessening into plain dirt-filled fingers. The only hair gracing him was that which covered his head and stopped at his tanned shoulders.
He lifted his head, human-sized, yet still twisted into an expression most animalistic, indeed. From the ground, the man glared up at them, his brown eyes deep with a terrifying wildness before he threw back his head and howled, desperate and loud, the sound filling their ears. And it was all they could do to take several steps backwards against its threatening call.
It was not long, indeed, before the low rumblings shook the ground.
Lillith’s gasp was what made Damion turn his sight from the man at last. The black eyes of many more Lycans around them held his shock. His hand moved to the sword at his waist without fail.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered, grand hesitation keeping him from pulling the blade. There were far too many, far more than he’d ever faced alone, indeed. “Lillith, grab the human and let us go. We’ve over-stayed our welcome here.”
“You are not leaving bloodsucker!” the man yelled, and Damion released the sword from its sheath.
The man was rising to his bare feet, and at his voice, the Lycans surrounding them prodded the ground in earnest, moving closer as to encircle him. “I can’t let you leave.” His stare was resolute.
Damion narrowed his own eyes upon him. What the devil was he? For he had never seen a Lycan show its human face.
The man moved a hand to the gash at his side where the arrow had struck, blood pooling past his fingers, but still he spoke, his voice belying the weakness he must have been feeling. “Stay your sword, Damion. I come not for you.”
“Silence,” he hissed. He stepped forward, ignoring the surprised gasp of the woman behind him, the warning snarls of the Lycans around him. “How do you know my name? Why are you here?”
The laugh was rough as it shook the air, the cough that soon followed it hard, splatters of blood leaving his lips. A Lycan nearest him whined, but the man merely wiped his mouth with a free hand. “How I know your name is not important, Vampire, but what you have is.”
“What do you mean, ‘what I have?’” he whispered. “Christian Delacroix?”
“Do not patronize me, Lord of Weaponry!” the man said, his lips curled into a horrible grimace. It was clear his pain was far too much now. “The woman. Dracula’s granddaughter! Your kind are not the only ones that know of Dracula’s descendant!”
Damion blinked. His sword lowered, but only an inch, and he eyed Lillith Crane, her bemused expression matching his own.
“You don’t know, do you?” the man said with a cough, the noise bringing Damion’s gaze back around. “You don’t know that that woman is Dracula’s only living relation?”
The ground trembled again. Even more large Lycans appeared from around trees, growling and howling threateningly. Their eyes scanned the human woman in the middle of the clearing, the Dragon who paced nervously in her place.
The man did not bother to stand. He remained upon one knee, breathing heavily still. “Damion, you must learn…to take notice of what surrounds you…but of course,” he breathed with a painful-looking grin, “that must be hard with those rings the Vampire has given you.”
What on Earth? He snarled and tensed.
Lillith raised her bow again, and in reaction, the Lycans bared their rows of fangs, daring the Vampires to strike first.
“No,” the man shouted to the Creatures, and much to Damion’s continued surprise they recoiled. “We won’t do battle here.”
“Won’t,” Damion snarled, anger brewing deep in his dead heart, the Lycan spoke far too easily for his liking, “or can’t?” For he had noticed how pale the man was becoming, the blood still spilled from beneath his hand, staining it red.
He growled and said, “We are leaving.” And at his words, the Lycan nearest him bent its head and body low to drape him across its large back. Without another look to its brothers, it turned from the clearing and ran through the trees, picking up speed as it moved. The remaining Lycans followed suit, howling as they disappeared into the night.
“Damion,” Lillith whispered.
He faced her. She still held the bow aloft, her hand trembling greatly.
“At ease, Miss Crane,” he said, his own sword still tight in his grip. What the bloody hell was that?
She lowered the bow before she exhaled. “That—that is what it’s like?”
“Unfortunately,” he answered, knowing the youngest Vampire of the Order had never laid eyes on a Lycan Creature, let alone one with the power this particular Lycan had shown tonight. “I must admit, I have never seen that beast before, I’ve never seen one brave enough to show its true face.”
She placed the bow along her hip and withdrew a dagger that hung from her many sheaths. She looked toward the human woman on the ground, deep in sleep, it seemed. “What do we do with it?” she asked.
Damion turned to face the woman, realization sparking. “Dracula’s granddaughter?” he said, staring upon the woman’s closed eyes. How curious things had become. “We take her.”
“You’re not serious?” she asked incredulously, her voice rasped with thirst.
He glanced at both her hands and saw no golden ring nestled upon any finger: She was most unguarded.
“I am,” he said, hating himself for it. If it turned out she was nothing more but a meal they were wasting... “You heard what that beast said. If we drink from her and she turns out to be Dracula’s relation it’ll be on our heads.”
He cast his eyes to Christian atop Dammath’s back and the Dragon turned her long neck to meet his gaze.
“He is losing far too much blood…it won’t be worth the dive into a lake that I must take to get rid of his stench if he dies for good.”
Damion nodded, knowing they had no time. They would have to worry about the human woman later. Christian Delacroix was much more important—it seemed the Delacroixes often were. He told Lillith, “Take the human woman to my manor. Ride Dammath if you must, as I know you have no energy to fly. I am the same.”
She moved to the woman on the forest floor and lifted her over her shoulder, her blue eyes turning red as the smell of human blood reached her senses. “Damion,” she groaned.
“Deal with it,” he commanded, yet he gritted his own teeth at the smell of her, a taunting curse indeed, and for the first time, perhaps, Damion Nicodemeus ached for the damned ring that would stifle his very nature. Anything to be rid of the heavenly scent.
He was broken from his reverie with the words, “Are you not coming?”
He blinked. Lillith had nestled herself atop the Dragon, settling the woman beside Christian, secured against the Dragon’s other wing blade, her red eyes pressing.
“No,” he said at last, “I would rather walk…there is much I must think over.”
“What shall I do for Christian?”
“Several goblets of Unicorn blood—don’t worry about running out, I have ways of collecting more.”
She nodded and patted Dammath’s back. The Dragon beat her massive wings and several trees bent away from their roots as she lifted into the air and shot off toward her home.
Damion felt his blood continue its incessant boil, and knew it would not fade, not for some time. How odd for so many to be in one place. How odd for one to seem to control them all. How odd an effect those beasts had on their blood. How daring that one Lycan was to allow them to see his true face.
Who was this mysterious beast revealing himself? And for a human woman—a woman he claimed was Dracula’s descendant?
He recalled the smell of the woman’s blood. It still burned his nostrils. He almost shook his head as the memory of it hit him. Power. There was definitely power in that blood. Delicious, yes, but could it really be the blood of Dracula? Diluted, of course, with the passing of blood through humans…but truthfully?
No, he corrected himself, that is not my focus—it is the sword. It is always the sword.
But how thickly the thought of Eleanor would wrap itself around his dead heart, a great grip of grief.
He was only told of Eleanor Black’s death hours ago, and still he found it amazing Xavier was the last to see her alive.
What had happened? And why, he thought for the millionth time since Christian told him of what took place, was Xavier ordered to go see her? Was their relationship not over? Were they not finally at rest?
The skip of his cold heart had nothing to do with the remaining aroma of Lycan now. He had always known that she had never truly gotten over him, —had always known she’d reserved a special place in that presumed emotionless heart of hers. She had always looked upon the Vampire longingly, lovingly…never did she look at him that way. Never. And now she was dead and Xavier was the only one to have witnessed it?
Deceit.
Damion had always harbored a feeling of resentment for Xavier, but it had transformed to incredible rage with the smell of the beasts’ blood. Lycans be damned, the Vampire was always in the know—where Damion should have been, indeed. There was no doubt in his mind that Xavier knew all about this human woman, that he knew just what the Lycan had been talking about, that he’d known of Dracula fathering a granddaughter.
Of course he’d have known! He was bloody Xavier Delacroix. Dracula’s boy, his pet, his ever-strong soldier.
And I am the dirt beneath their boots, the Master of Weaponry.
He sighed, his warm blood never cooling. Ah, yes, he licked his lips, remembering the taste of Eleanor’s blood on his own, how many times they had shared in the forbidden practice.
But she was gone, and he needed warm blood now. She was gone, and how funny it was that the world seemed to fall when she had. Lycans showing their face, strange human women, Christian Delacroix attacking beasts... Dracula’s granddaughter...
Damion shook his head free of the strange thought. He was not prepared to face what it meant, for he knew it something terrible, and instead focused on the smell of human blood through the trees, stepping through the puddle of Lycan blood that remained in the middle of the clearing.