Creche (Book II of Paranormal Fallen Angels/Vampires Series) (14 page)

“What is home?” I laughed it off. “In centuries I have not known such a thing.”

“Some say home is where the heart is.” She floated toward me through the flowers and put her hand on my chest.

Then I am at home in the sea, and in Hell,
I thought, masking it.
And here, in my chest.

“The heart is its own country,” I answered glibly. “It is at home wherever I am.”

Her eyebrow quirked up, and she removed her hand and set off again toward the tent. “May one travel there?”

“Where?”

“To the country of your heart.”

I felt a chill run through me. I wanted to answer her “yes,” to open a door there for her, or at least to grant her the asylum she had offered me in Silvenhall, but I could not.

“I have been much alone there,” I replied. “It is a cold place, and dark, changeable, and with many dangers.”

“A traveler might bring a woman’s touch.”

I kept my face blank, expressionless, as I walked beside her. Spreading my hand out to the field, I added, “It is not so magical as this. A traveler may find it not to her pleasure.”

She chose to ignore my mood. “I imagine it is not always cold there, Ame. Though there are deep chasms to fall in and mountains to traverse, rivers running through.” She glanced sideways. “Come, King Amedeo, it must rain laughter at times in your country. In the autumn, I hear that feathers fall like petals.” She laughed. “How is the weather? How might I dress?” She tilted her chin up, one finger upon it in mock-thought.

I played along, bowing low to her and then reaching for her hand to spin her towards me, a whirl of white feathers. “Dress as you are, my lady.” My tone turned serious. “But you must wait until the snow melts.”

“In the spring then. Can we walk there, Sir ...?” She paused, and the gray eyes met mine. “Surely it must now be not so far from here.”

I sighed. The time for make-believe had passed. “Is Delphi far from here.” I spoke softly, but I knew the weight of the words.

Rain returned to her eyes.
“Not far enough.”

She did not pick any more love-in-a-mist while we walked.

“F
orgive me if I have neglected you, Amedeo.” Shintaro, his white robes lacking the fringe of feathers that adorned my outfit, smiled uncertainly and extended his hand when we reached the tent. Daneo, as second Proxim of Silvenhall was beside him, greeting guests, but as I had expected, his only greeting for me was a sneer.

“I ask your pardon for a moment, Daneo.” Shintaro nodded at him. “Walk with me, Amedeo.”

He led me away from the line of Cruxim to a bench at the side of the tent. “Milandor’s ... defection ... has somewhat overshadowed your orientation,” he said, by way of apology.

“So I saw.” I was grateful for his courtesy, if nothing else.

His head, tilted as it always was, shook a little, and his voice was grave. “Tell me.” He swung one arm toward the mountainous parapets that fringed the field. “Out there, beyond Silvenhall, how many Vampires are there?”

I cocked my head too, not to mock him but in surprise. “You are the Speaker of the Council of Paleon, yet you know not the number of your gravest enemies?”

He hemmed and hawed to clear his throat. “Regrettably. But as Skylar has no doubt told you, without Milandor, we lack strength.”

“Yes.” I tried to stop coldness from seeping into my tone. “When did you last leave the Crèche, Shintaro?”

“I visit the other Crèches frequently. That is my role as Speaker.“ Some authority returned to his voice, but it was not enough to impress me.

“Outside of the Crèches, it has been a score ... or more.”

“Twenty years since you saw a Vampire in the street. Twenty years, or more, since you trapped them in the shadows.” It was all I could do not to whistle through my teeth. “Two decades since you have done what we were made to do.”

Shintaro’s head was bowed, his eyes on his hands shaking in his lap.

I lowered my voice and continued. “You are right to be afraid. Every day there are more, and already there were many, many thousands. Now, perhaps there are millions. They grow smarter, too. They have already formed large, impenetrable covens. Some are wealthy, having usurped the riches of their victims. They invest wisely, it seems, and conceal themselves among humans—some they even keep alive as blood slaves. You ask me to update you on a score or more years of their debauchery, yet even a year would be too long, for they devise fresh hell daily, new ways to terrorize us and the humans we protect. By strength of number alone, they could defeat us, but their desire to destroy us is their true advantage.”

Shintaro nodded.

Lowering my voice, I added, “I know this because my entire life I have been denied the peace and security of Silvenhall. Many times have I been forced to flee from them, even as my desire to destroy them kindled in me like hellfire. My entire life, I have fought them. Silvenhall’s exile has been my savior, Shintaro. For all your Itsomai, your gleaming armor and your marching Proxim, you have made your charges soft and weak. ” 

He cleared his throat again and gave an agitated little flap of his wings. “Regrettably,” he said, eyes downcast.

“Regrets,” I said. “The one thing longevity bestows.”

His head seemed to tilt to the side even further as he examined me. “You take some pleasure in this, Amedeo. Tell me, what do you want from Silvenhall?”

“Only the Sphinx’s riddle. Nothing more.” It was a lie. I had come to crave more already. Companionship. Belonging. Sanctuary. But I would not expose my heart to a man who, despite offering me salvation, might yet deny me my freedom.

His head swiveled to Skylar, who was conversing casually with my sister at Daneo’s side.

“Nothing more,” Shintaro repeated thoughtfully. 

He swung an arm toward the Cruxim entering the tent, all smiling and laughing, all wearing white and silver. “Look at them. They are mine to protect, although I cannot save them from everything, not from the Crux. They will die one day, all of them, cradling a newborn babe in their arms. But such is the sacrifice all parents would make: to give their lives for their children. Is it not? These are my children, Amedeo.” A twitch tugged at his lip. “I will have none of my own, for my betrothed joined the Sibylim.”

“Samea?” I asked.

“No, Eresia. Many centuries ago now. It is a loneliness I would not wish upon anyone; not you, nor Skylar.”

“Loneliness I am accustomed to.”

“For your suffering, I am sorry. But it is as I said: they are mine to protect, and I must guide them and lead the way for them. This ritual you have been allowed to share serves that purpose. The blood-troth unites them. The nesting, the belief in the Swan, gives them hope and warmth in a world that grows so cold to us.”

“By the day, colder, Shintaro,” I agreed. “While you have tarried here drinking each other’s blood, there are rivers of blood out there for the lonely like me to drown in.”

“Yes,” he sighed again. “The time to hide here in Silvenhall, in Dusindel, Argentil, or Milandor has passed. But this place must remain a sanctuary when we need it.” He stared at me over lowered brows, as if warning me. “And we may need it, Cruor. We may need it soon.”

I shivered at the word.
He believes it then,
I thought.
Whatever this Cruor is, he believes it to be me.

“Forgive me, Shintaro,” Daneo interrupted, one hand on the Speaker’s arm. He glared at me. “Samea has asked that we meet with her before the festivities.”

Shintaro nodded and mumbled, “I ask your pardon, Amedeo. Duty calls.”

“By my leave.” I spread my hand before me, gesturing to Daneo. “Duty should never be ignored.”
Yet it is,
my mind followed, my eyes locked on Daneo’s glower.
Even this feast is frivolous if the time has come to smite them. Our duty is to put an end to Vampires, not to dance like swans.
My wings gave an involuntary flap at the thought, propelling me forward slightly.

“Be calm, brother.” Kisana laughed by my side, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “The dancing does not begin until after the formalities.”

“It is nothing, sister.” I smiled as Daneo and Shintaro moved away, a smile as false as the smile my sister wore. I was not surprised. Today she would watch other couples unite in love, while she and Daneo were united only in loss.

“It is a lot to live up to, trying to be Calira.”
Kisana’s thoughts filled my head. I mentally berated myself for not masking my thoughts again.

“Whatever they say about her,” I whispered, “whatever else she was, Mother knew how to love.”

My sister sighed and glanced over at Daneo. “I fear you alone have inherited that trait.”

“Sister,”—I embraced her—“you are wrong in that. You love too well. He deserves less than what you give him.”

Skylar, listening, said nothing.

“Let us make our vows,” Kisana changed the subject. Taking my arm in one of hers and Skylar’s arm in the other, she led us down a petal-strewn path to a stone fountain. Skilled hands had chiseled the white marble bowl of it into the outstretched, upturned wings of a swan. Each tiny groove and plume was so well defined that the polished stone seemed alive. From the fountain’s center, the slender neck of a stone swan curled upward, its eyes glittering with precious stones. Each part of the bird’s open beak was of silver, polished as thin and sharp as a blade, and from its mouth gushed a cascade of blood, which pooled in the bowl of the fountain, stark against the marble’s whiteness. The basin drew into a funnel, and several stoppered vases nearby indicated blood had already been removed.

“The blood-troth is begun,” Kisana said. “For Crux,” she whispered, crossing her arms over her chest. “And Crèche.” She slipped back the sleeve of her gown to expose her wrist. Reaching up, she then smoothly slid her bare wrist across the blade-like beak of the swan. Kisana made no sound as the first stream of blood left her wrist. She held her arm beneath the crimson shower that gushed from the swan’s mouth for a minute or two, biting her lip slightly as her own blood fell into the fountain and mingled with that of others.

Skylar nudging me forward. “All who celebrate the Cygnus Amoratus must bloodlet. You too must make your troth.”

My sister moved to the tail of the swan, where a crystal chalice sat in the curling tail feathers. As my sister drew out one feather, I noticed they were not stone but carefully folded strips of ivory linen. She pressed one to her wrist until the bleeding stopped, then she took up the chalice and dipped it deep into the swirl of blood. When she had finished drinking from it, and her lips were crimson with the tribute from her Crèche-mates, she set the chalice back and stepped aside, smiling.

I stepped forward and rolled the sleeve of fringed feathers back from my forearm, making a fist until the vein stood out blue and thick. I glanced back at Skylar, uncertain.

She nodded, her eyes shining. She must have been hungry too, I noted. Her tongue wet the shining tips of her fangs. 

The blade was scalpel sharp, but I did not feel its bite, rather the gnawing teeth of hunger. The blood that spurted over my wrist filled me with ravenous desire. How long had it been since I had fed? Since Piraeus. I was suddenly glad for the rites, for the Haemil I would drink tonight at least.

My blood had barely streamed into the fountain when Skylar hurried forward to clasp my forearm. “It is enough,” she said, pushing me in the direction of my sister. She looked flushed, unlike herself, her stare fixed on the blood that streamed from my wrist. When I moved, I found myself dizzy with the loss, or was it with hunger? It was all I could do not to plunge the chalice in again and again, to drink my fill, but I set it back, concentrating on watching blood from Skylar’s sliced wrist flare into the fountain. I felt my groin tighten, seized with a sudden urge to fasten my lips to her wrist, as I might to a Vampire’s neck. It was so strong, so consuming that it forced me to look away.

Soon after Skylar had dried her wrist and taken up the chalice to drink, the merry tune of a reed pipe sounded from inside the tent, accompanied by a timbrel.

“We must find our place at the feast table.” Skylar directed me to the tent. “Kisana, will you join us?”

My sister shook her head. “No, go on. I should wait for Daneo to make his troth also.” She kissed Skylar’s cheeks. “You look beautiful,” she whispered.

Skylar smiled her thanks. I had noticed her shake her head slightly, almost imperceptibly, at my sister’s equally cryptic nod.

I thought I heard her thoughts, but they were so faint I could not be sure.
“He is not trusted enough yet. Nor, perhaps, am I. Maybe now, after the blood-troth.”

“They trust you more than you know, Skylar. As do I, for you have returned my brother to me.”
Kisana’s expression was blank, but her eyes gleamed, as if she believed their discussion to be private. I did nothing to convince them otherwise. Whatever Skylar planned, she had brought me here, garbed in feathers, and I had offered her my blood and, for a moment, a journey to my heart. For today, that was enough.

She led me through the tent, nodding and smiling at Cruxim, addressing them by name as we passed. All of them wore white, flowers or feathers in their hair, although some were dressed in what I had come to see as the standard military garb of Silvenhall: a pale linen tunic, or soft kidskin trousers with a loose overshirt and silver chainmail, feathered helm and leather or silver wristbands. Some wore the casual attire Skylar usually favored, a loose white shift of silk or linen embroidered with an intricate cross of silver thread, with smaller crosses adorning the sleeves and the neckline.

We wound between tables decorated with snowy ribbon and feather lace. Platters of venison and fruit, nuts and cheeses made centerpieces. Although I was hungry, it was not for them. Goblets were set for the Haemil to follow.

“I see no infants here,” I said to Skylar. “No Cruxim with child. You said betrothals were made early.” 

A strand of pale hair slipped forward over her shoulder and she pushed it back. “Cygnus Amoratus is celebrated only by those who have reached adulthood.” She hid her eyes with the flutter of an eyelash. “It is only then the nesting begins. It is an exciting day for a Cruxim. Most girls have spent decades collecting for their nest, and some have spent centuries.”