Chapter Eighteen:
I opened my eyes once more to the nightmare that had befallen me, again seeing the blue beams of Augustin’s candlestick flickering off of the stone ceiling far above me. I lay still for an infinite moment, the realization dawning upon me slowly that I yet lay on my back upon the writing desk, those two ancient books propping my head up, my uncertain gaze directed straight above me. I heard my own breathing, low, shallow, and felt the weakness of blood loss weighing down my entire body. I heard my heart beating within my chest, its movement pitiful but steady. I smelled the blood—my blood—saturating the record room of Muniche.
A dull but healing pain stung the right side of my neck, where that vampire had bitten me . . . and I could feel a new pain, a cleaner one, tingling in the palms of my hands, which lay somewhere at my side. Something warm touched my wounded palms, covering my entire body in fact, from my feet to my collarbone. As my eyes drifted downward from the eerie lights on the ceiling, I found myself meeting the intense gaze of Augustin himself, his face just centimeters from mine. And I shut my eyes once more against the truth, against the events that had just transpired.
He had killed me, bled me to death . . . almost. He had drained my life to the point at which I could actually see the gates of time, my portal to home. I could have touched them. I could have leapt through them . . . I could have opened my eyes to those bucolic woods behind my house . . . to the stream, the gazebo . . . to the face of Hans, his dark gray hair, his deep blue eyes, his friendly and knowing smile. But no.
I remembered the emotions that had overtaken me right before this madman had cut off my escape. Excitement had consumed me, optimism had flooded my veins. I had been minutes away from seeing Hans—my priest, the man I loved and trusted, the man who had tried to dissuade me from my dangerous ventures into time despite my rejection of his advice. I had felt so peaceful, all of the trials I had faced in the eleventh century forgotten. I had resolved not to travel time again, whether the Torstein came back with me or not. I had recognized that leaving my home, my family, the man I loved, was too high a price. I would have been satisfied evermore with the inadequacies of my twenty-first century life.
But now, I lay upon the writing desk of Augustin von Bayern, a slave to his will, to his wicked desires. He had bled me almost dry, and I had no strength to fight him. He had brought me back to this place where nothing made sense, where my foolish curiosity that held me captive to his influence chained me to the ground, dragged me into the abyss, distorted my innocence, ruined my judgment. What would he do with me now, as I lay without the power to move, having experienced only moments before something that no man, no woman, should ever have to face—standing on the precipice of death, yet unable to cross over.
He had pulled me back, given life to me again.
Why?
I opened my eyes again, my breathing speeding just a bit when I met the gaze of my tormentor once more. He stared back at me silently, forcefully, waiting for me to speak first, waiting to see if I had the strength to speak. A thousand things I could have said ran through my mind, questions, accusations, frustrations. But in the end, when my weak lips parted, a simple statement whispered forth from them. “You brought me back . . . .”
A look of concern and perhaps even regret crossed his face, and his reply reached my ears soothingly, like a devil attempting to calm his victim. “Yes, I did. And I must greatly apologize for my actions, Swanhilde. I had not intended to kill you . . . but I discovered that your blood tastes so refreshing . . . compared with the blood of foreigners. And your memories . . . .” Augustin’s voice trailed off, and he averted his eyes from mine, his expression growing rather disturbed.
“Were they that bad?” I whispered, trying to understand the look of terror that seemed about to break out upon his face.
“No.” Grief touched Augustin’s eyes for a moment, quickly transforming into agitation and then pure bewilderment. Breathing heavily, his light blue eyes locked with mine as he said, “They were . . . astonishing.”
I had the feeling that his words were not a compliment. My strength had begun to return, and I suddenly noticed why I could feel each of Augustin’s breaths against my body, as if he were breathing for me. He was lying completely on top of me, his robes spread out over us both. My lips curled downward into a weak frown at this setup, my tortured mind forming all sorts of horrid conjectures regarding his body covering mine. I still wore Freia’s dress; I could feel it against my skin . . . and he yet wore the black clothing of the Teuton priest. I recognized the heat of his fire warming my body, the skin of his powerful hands touching my enfeebled palms.
“Augustin . . . why are you . . . laying on top of me?” I asked him, fearing the worst.
Concern touched his gaze afresh. “Because not long ago, your body had become as cold as a corpse, and it was not from your ice,” he said. “You had very little blood left when I finished with you, and your skin felt dead to me. You needed warmth and blood, not simply a devilish savior to carry you back into this world.”
He lifted one of his hands to show it to me. To my surprise, I saw that he had cut himself with a knife, a long line of blood seeping from the base of his middle finger to the top of his wrist. His mouth twisted into a ghastly smile as he clarified, “I had to cut both of our palms and use blood control to grant you enough of my own life to keep you here. I regret that I had to hurt you more, but it was necessary.”
My mind whirled at his uncanny efforts to keep me alive, this frightening man who gloried in murder. Why had he not simply killed me and left it at that? He placed his hand back upon mine, likely still performing some sort of blood control—perhaps that was why my strength had begun to return, because of his blood . . . Augustin’s blood.
“I actually saw the gates of time through the mist, between life and death,” I recalled.
“You reached the very edges of the spiritual realm, that perilous level from which it is difficult, if not impossible, to return to this world,” Augustin told me, his expression guarded.
“But you followed me. You brought me back.” I frowned again, struggling to understand his motives, his intentions. Was it just for the challenge? Why would he hazard his own soul for mine?
“I did.” He said nothing more on the subject, lifting both of his hands off of mine, bringing them up so that he could look at them himself. “I have stopped the bleeding of our wounds now, for I believe you have received sufficient blood to ensure your survival. However, I fear that you also need food and wine, and in my shortsightedness I failed to bring victuals with me. Therefore, once you have regained strength enough to stand, I shall take you back to the Meldorf estate myself.” He eyed me seriously, his stern expression ordering no protests.
I drew in slow, shaky breaths, my gaze drifting to the right, toward the shelves of the archives. I could not piece together Augustin’s reasons for keeping me here. What good had I done in the eleventh century thus far? I should not be here . . . I should be at home, where I belonged . . . he should not . . . .
Then the thought crossed my mind, as I had known it would, that perhaps Augustin’s mad dash to save my life could have resulted from other reasons. Maybe reason itself had nothing to do with his actions. I shuddered at the concept, noting that he still lay atop my body, though he had finished granting me his blood . . . the folds of our clothing the only barrier holding us apart. My heart began to pound as those foolish hormones entered my veins, and I directed my gaze back upon my savior, whose gorgeous face hovered only centimeters from mine.
“Why don’t you . . . get up?” I asked, dread overtaking me, warring with my youthful desires.
He raised himself up onto the palms of his hands, his cuts now completely healed, a disquieting smile appearing on his face. “Do I frighten you, Swanhilde?” His smoldering eyes carefully watched every reaction that sped across my face.
He did, but I was not about to admit that. Instead, I found myself speaking the ridiculous truth, voicing the childish whim that had surfaced in my mind. “You . . . you just look like . . . you’re thinking about . . . kissing me.” An instant later, I wished I could call the words back. I was such an idiot.
A ghostly chuckle escaped Augustin’s lips, his smile growing evocative. “Would you like me to kiss you, Swanhilde? Or would you like something more?” The fire in his eyes deepened, and he pressed his body upon mine again, his right hand sliding toward my face to touch my trembling cheek. I could not move; I could not breathe. I stared into his mesmerizing eyes, unable to look away as he went on, passion layering his words.
“In spite of what you have seen . . . my darling . . . I am well versed . . . in the methods . . . of seduction . . . . Even I . . . Augustin von Bayern . . . Wuotan’s servant . . . can be kind . . . to you.” His gaze moved downward to my lips, then my body; his right hand smoothed the green fabric of Freia’s dress just below my neckline. His lips parted, revealing his teeth bared in anticipation, his left hand winding itself around the back of my head.
My heart began to sprint as sear and shock flooded my veins. I desperately wondered how it had come to this, and so suddenly. I should have kept my muses to myself. Just moments before, this crazed sex addict had been speaking about taking me back, back to the relative safety of the count’s manor. Now . . . . “Augustin . . . .” I choked on his name, my mouth as parched as a desert. “Augustin . . . please . . . .”
His posture did not change, but his right hand traveled upward to my neck and then my chin, pausing at my quivering lips, fingering them carefully. “Why is it that you recoil so harshly at the mere suggestion of losing your precious virginity? But I suppose I cannot, for then I would have to grant you something in return for my release . . . and I know not what could constitute itself as a fair trade, for such a precious commodity.”
The intense passion in his eyes faded little by little, his expression growing dissatisfied, even petulant. My muscles loosened, and a sigh of relief escaped my lips; but before I could draw my attention back to the matter at hand—my safe return to the Meldorf estate—Augustin brought his face even closer to mine, his hands cradling my head. “Swanhilde,” he murmured, staring into my eyes. “Do you trust me?”
I remembered the last time he had asked that question, the instant before he had bled me. I also recalled my reply, an abject lie. Now, he asked the same query . . . after he had bled me, dragging me to the very rim of the grave . . . now, as he lay firmly upon me, his strength pinning me to the desk. What could I possibly say this time? My heart fluttered uneasily, my body quaking . . . and I managed, just barely, to nod my head once.
“Then close your eyes . . . my darling.” Impossible not to obey. As I trembled upon the wooden desk, my eyes closed, blinding me to the truth, I felt his lips brush my forehead like a mother comforting her child. He stroked my cheeks tenderly and kissed both of my eyelids, his breath warm upon my skin. Finally, while my body relaxed at the softness of his touch, his lips touched mine for a fleeting instant, sending my hormones racing, my senses tingling. He could be kind. How could this man do such things to me, twisting my mind, confusing my heart?
I opened my eyes when I realized that he had finished. I blinked in amazement at the fondness in his gaze, so unlike the Augustin I knew, the Augustin I secretly feared. Where had that familiar hatred gone? How had this happened? I parted my lips to sigh, wanting to speak, not knowing what to say. Augustin smiled at me, a genuine smile, a brilliant smile, sending shivers up my spine. “Beautiful . . . dazzling swan princess.”
I gasped at his words, a short intake of breath. No one had ever called me that before. His smile turned slightly mischievous as his eyes traveled down to my lips. “Do you still trust me?” he asked, his fire heating his blood. I nodded wordlessly, feeling no fear now. His smile widened, his teeth bared once more, and he said ardently, “Then kiss me back.”
A moment later, I found my mouth pressed against his, our lips molding together, fire and ice. I felt Augustin’s strong arms pulling me to him, lifting me from the desk, the fingers of one of his hands twisting in my hair. I raised my own arms in response, wrapping them around his shoulders, my fingers grasping at his black hair, his neck. He kissed me with no ethics, no shame, his tongue entwining with mine, exploring every portion of my mouth. I had never been kissed like this before, and it awakened all of my lust.
When we parted at last, my vampire priest placed both of his hands on my shoulders, raising his eyebrows at me as we sat facing one another upon his desk. “Satisfied?” he inquired, smirking. I stared at him in amazement, panting, trying to steady myself. Augustin nodded sagely at my lack of response. He took his hands off of me and backed away from the desk, straightening his garments. “We should go, or you may be late for your dinner,” he said, his eyes on the fading rays of sunlight creeping through the small windows into the shadows of the archives.
The sinful part of me screamed in my mind, What? Go? After that?! “Now?” I asked, my voice tainted with ludicrous disappointment.
Augustin tilted his head at me suggestively and folded his arms across his chest. “Unless my ardor has altered your standards?” I sighed, knowing that it had not, though my hormones believed otherwise. I shook my head at my companion, a hint of regret belying my virtuousness. “I thought not. Have you brought a horse with you?” I nodded and said that I had brought Count von Meldorf’s tan mare, the one I usually rode. Augustin held out a hand to me with the words, “Come. That horse can carry both of us from here to your home. We must hurry.”
I took his hand, allowing him to help me from the desk, my feet somewhat unsteady as they touched the floor for the first time in what seemed like ages. Augustin held my arm in a strong grip while he led me from the archives and up the stairs to the main floor of the town hall, muttering that I needed to work on my balance.
I hardly noticed much during the ride back to the Meldorf estate, since I had to sit behind Augustin with my arms wound around his waist. I endeavored to hide my face in the folds of his robes, just in case we passed by any noblewomen in the city. I certainly did not need any of the nobles to speculate further on my fate. Some of them had probably begun to take bets on how long it would be before the eldest Bayern brother sacrificed me. The local lords had grown disinterested in me over the past few weeks; even Lord Paulus Schwabing of the salt mines had stopped visiting. At first I had figured that word had spread about Joel’s interest in me. But of course I knew the truth, though I hesitated to admit it. None of the local families wanted their sons defiled by the rebellious student of Augustin von Bayern.
By the time the tan mare’s hooves began to clump upon the familiar wood of the drawbridge, my musings had shifted from my reputation to all of the intriguing things I had learned that afternoon. I had succeeded in shifting my blood flow away from my index finger for about half a minute—and then Augustin had proved himself far more adept at that practice than I could ever be, having granted me a portion of his own blood to preserve my life. Some of his nearly pure Teuton blood pulsed through my veins now, a tonic almost as mystifying as his practiced kiss.
He dropped me off at the front porch of the Meldorf estate, leaping off of the mare and handing the reins to the stable hand who came to meet us. I paused after ascending the stairs and placed a hand against one of the awning’s supports as I turned to regard Augustin one final time, where he stood watching me at the foot of the stairs. “You’ll come here tomorrow evening for our studies?” Tomorrow was Tuesday. I had to be sure that nothing had changed.
Hesitation clouded Augustin’s characteristically sure features, and he took a step back from me, toward the road. “Unfortunately, I likely shall not see you tomorrow, Swanhilde, and I do apologize. I should not return . . . I cannot return . . . until I have fully pondered everything in my own mind . . . regarding your memories.” His eyes met mine for the briefest of instants, his expression contrite. Then he spun around swiftly on his heels, striding toward the road with nary a goodbye.
I froze, staring after him, then burst out with the most important question, the one that demanded an immediate answer. “But why, Augustin? Why did you pull me back?” My fingers gripped the post like it was the only solid thing left in my world. Perhaps it was, for the majority of my intentions had been cast to the whirlwind that afternoon.
Augustin halted his retreat and whirled to face me, his feet planted firmly, his eyes blazing with his fire. He articulated every word of his response carefully, “Swanie, you heard what I said before I pulled you back. That is reason enough.” Before I could comment on this, he shot down the path to the road in a fiery storm, blue overtaking the darkness of his robes as he disappeared from my sight.
I stood frozen at the top of the stairs, leaning entirely against the post now, gazing after that mad priest with my eyes half-closed, the many possible meanings of his parting words swirling through my mind. You heard what I said . . . . Swanhilde . . . I cannot follow you there . . . . That is reason enough.
He wanted to follow me. There could be many reasons for that. He was a sadist, a power hungry egoist who dreamed of the day he could rape me like he raped the Saxon girl, using me for his own disgusting pleasures. My blood was ninety-five percent Teutonic, and therefore tasty and apparently intriguing. His influence had already warped my mind, rendering me unable to refuse him no matter what he asked. He knew this, and he gloried in his power, in my compliance. He did not want to lose this feeling of authority, this hero worship from the only one who seemed unable to see him for what he was—a pervert.
But the other possibility crossed my mind at the memory of his kiss, his tenderness, his wondrous compliment, and most importantly, the fact that he had risked his life for mine. He was not a time traveler; death of any sort would send him straight into eternity. I had been taught throughout my life that offering one’s life for another was the pinnacle expression of human love. Augustin claimed that his heart could not love, yet he had risked his life for mine. If that was not love . . . .
“Swanie, is something wrong? Where have you been?” Freia stepped out of the front entry, her voice pulling me from my thoughts. She likely wondered why I had not come inside for dinner. The sky darkened; evening had descended.
I turned slowly to face her, tearing my eyes away from the path to the road, where that fiery priest had vanished. He had probably made it back to Muniche by now. I took a deep breath and unfroze my body at long last, pushing my ice back inside my spirit where it belonged. “Freia, you were right from the very beginning,” I admitted. “I should have stayed away from Augustin von Bayern while I had the chance.”
Horror appeared on her face, superseding her concern. “What has he done to you?” she whispered. She looked me up and down, undoubtedly noticing my disheveled hair and wrinkled dress.
“Everything . . . and nothing . . . I’ll have to tell you about it tonight. But it’s happened, just like you said.” I shuddered once, accepting the truth with all of its desolate implications. “I have fallen in love with Augustin.”