One With the Night (37 page)

When Asharti had drunk her fill, she motioned to one of her lieutenants. “Bring one for my slave. Not too lively.”

It was a boy, sixteen, perhaps seventeen. One of them had already been at him, for his neck drooled rivulets of blood from twin wounds. His great dark eyes were so suffused with fear Callan was afraid he’d lost his mind. The vampire pushed the boy to his knees in front of Callan.

Callan swayed. The thing in his veins shouted at him. The itch inside his body made him want to scream. He wouldn’t do it! He clenched his fists against the roaring in his ears.

“Do it,” Asharti commanded. He could hear her in his mind, if he could hear nothing else. “Else I’ll think up new punishments for you.”

He didn’t care. He wasn’t an animal, to feed on humans like an animal. His blood rushed about in his body. His vision dimmed.

And went red.

Nae,
he thought.
I’ll no’ tear a human throat.
His breath wouldn’t come. He bade the thing in his blood stand down, but it wouldn’t and the red film would not clear. He stood, trembling with effort, but he felt his canines lengthen.
There is such a thing as free will,
he told himself.
If ye do this thing, yer just as bad as they are.

With a rush the world went carmine. He stood shuddering against the demand of the thing in his blood as it suffused him with power. He wrenched his head away.

Then, as though pulled by a force a thousand times stronger than he was, he slowly turned back toward the boy. The boy lifted his chin. Callan bent, so slowly, and felt his canines pierce the throat. He cried out as he gripped the boy’s shoulders and sucked. Blood flowed in over his teeth and tongue. The thing in his blood rejoiced. It sang in a great chorus through his veins.
Alive!
it sang.
Alive! The blood is the life.
On and on he sucked. A little breath crossed his face, a sigh almost. The boy slumped in his arms.

Callan blinked as the red drained away. The boy’s doe eyes stared up, unseeing. He had a sunken look about his face. The singing in Callan’s veins sank to a satisfied hum.

The boy was dead.

Callan let him drop with an anguished cry.

Behind him, Asharti laughed, a deep contralto chuckle. “Ahh, we think there are things we will not do. But are there?”

Callan’s stomach rebelled. He vomited blood onto the hard sand of the market square. But as quickly as the spasm came, something suppressed it. He knew he would not retch again. A sob caught in his throat.

“Come, slave,” she said, alighting from her litter. “I am not done with you.” She reached for the chain that hung down from the ring at his neck. He stumbled to his feet, dazed.

Asharti took him to the cluster of remaining villagers, cowering, their screams now swallowed and gone. “You there!” she called to one of her lieutenants. “Bring me a man.”

I will no’ suck another one,
he thought. Now that his terrible hunger was assuaged, he could resist, could he not? He must. And if she made the pain inside his head, he’d still resist. He’d grown too afraid of that pain. It was time to challenge his capacity to endure.

The lieutenant grabbed an older man, his beard just going gray. His burnoose was ragged, his sandals worn. A woman screamed and tried to pull him back into the circle, but another of Asharti’s minions jerked her away. She fell to her knees, sobbing. The Arab was pushed to his knees in front of Callan.

“Now your sword,” Asharti commanded. The lieutenant hesitated before he pulled his great scythe of a curved blade and handed it, hilt first, to Asharti. He was afraid she would decapitate him. “Not to me,” Asharti barked. She gestured to Callan.

The man held out the weapon to Callan.

Callan shook his head, horror blossoming in his heart. “Kill me then. I will no’ kill him.”

“But you will. Because it isn’t you I’ll kill if you refuse. I’ll kill the children.”

Callan looked up at the clutch of children in the corner of the square. There must be twenty. “Ye canno’ mean it.”

She smiled. “What are they to me? Kill him and I’ll spare them.”

He turned on her, sword in hand.

She pursed her lips in disgust. “You know I’d never let you kill me.”

He did know it. But she wasn’t bringing up her power. Her eyes weren’t red. A knot twisted his stomach. She wouldn’t grant him the refuge of compulsion. She required him to choose the evil. The sword hilt seared his palm. He shook his head. “I will no’ choose.”

She chuckled, low in her throat. “Even refusing to choose is a choice, slave.” She nodded to the lieutenant. “Kill a few of the little ones.”

Callan spun. “Nae! Ye canno’ kill bairns!” he cried.

The lieutenant paused, glancing to Asharti.

“You can stop it,” she whispered. “A single thrust. A quick death. He’s an old man.”

Callan felt himself go slack, in mind as well as body. He stared at the man, burning the frightened features on his psyche. The man began to murmur prayers. He clasped his hands convulsively at his chest and put his forehead to the sand at Callan’s feet. Callan couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t breathe. How would he bear what he would do here? He glanced to the crowd of children, quiet now except for the wail of a babe in an older child’s arms. “Dinnae make me do this,” he whispered, knowing it was hopeless.

“But I shall.”

Those three words damned his soul more surely than the thing in his blood.

He raised his sword.

*   *   *

Jane was about to reach out to touch his arm when he turned on her. The look in his eyes was so fierce she sat back, surprised. It was as if he wanted to punish her for excusing him. “If ye want th’ truth, Jane, then here it is and ye’ll be sorry ye asked.” The words were ripped from a raw throat. “I killed for her. No’ in battle, no’ as justice or retribution, and no’ because my life was threatened. I executed innocent people just because she told me ta do it. Explain that away.”

Jane felt her mouth fall open. He’d killed innocent people?

His breath was ragged now. The words pent up for years seemed to tumble out as fast as he could make them come. “She did no’ use compulsion on me. She gave me a choice. She wanted my soul, no’ just my body, and she got it, Jane. She got it. At first she just gave me a boy, maybe sixteen, when I was sorely in need of blood and others had been at him first. I sucked him dry. That was bad, certain. But I did worse. There … there were men, with their wives wailing as I hacked off their heads. And I did no’ even drink from them. I used a sword. I did
anythin
’ for her. I … I killed fathers, brothers, husbands. I destroyed their families’ lives.”

He’d killed wantonly just to please a woman
?
Jane felt nausea pour bile into her throat.
This
was evil! How could it not be? And she
was
sorry she’d asked him. How could she know he’d done something so horrendous? She imagined he’d killed in battle or in a hand-to-hand contest—some conflict where there was an equal chance for his opponent or at least some reason for the death. But there was no honor in killing unarmed peasants, no reason.

But … wait. She swallowed and licked her lips. She mustn’t just give in to disgust. He couldn’t really be blamed for draining a boy when the need for blood was on him. She knew that firsthand. And this was Callan, who had put himself in Elyta’s power to protect her when he knew only too well how horrible that would be. This was the man who told the truth even when the truth was incredibly hard. And this was a man who never forgave himself. He was worth reserving her disgust until she knew more about the circumstances.

She steadied her breathing. “Did … did you want to kill them?”

His head shook as if words were too much for him.

“But you were afraid of what she would do to you.” It was hard to imagine him afraid.

“Nae. I mean I was, but it had gone beyond that. She’d kill th’ others. She had nae compunction about killin’.”

Jane leaned in. “She would have killed others if you hadn’t?”

“They always rounded up th’ village children while they fed from th’ parents.”

Jane sat up. “And why isn’t that compulsion?” She was so glad she had not given in to her revulsion.

“I’m damned, Jane. She gave me a choice and I made it, every time.”

“Instead you should have let her kill—how many children were there?”

He raised his head. His eyes were dead and flat. “Twenty sometimes. And aye, I should ha’ let her kill them. Her soul would ha’ been damned, no’ mine.”

“Well, the God I know doesn’t damn someone’s soul for saving the lives of children. Your only recourse was to kill yourself and the church would damn you for that, too.”

“But I could no’,” he muttered, looking around wildly. “I had tried. Th’ Companion, it will no’ let you kill yerself once it has firm hold on ye. I managed to put a stake inta my heart when she first infected me, but I healed and then I found out it takes decapitation ta kill us, which is hard ta arrange, and … by then I could no’ let it happen anyway. After th’ first time I killed a man, I begged Fedeyah ta do it. But he would no’ help me. He said th’ Companion would make me defend myself, and he did no’ care ta bleed.”

To think he had been so despairing he had driven a stake into his own heart made her clench against tears. There hadn’t been any choice for him about killing those men. She had to make him see it rationally, unclouded by the emotion twisting in his heart.

“Clara says there are all kinds of compulsion,” she said, almost conversationally. “The kind vampires have and the kind that anyone can bring to bear. Asharti compelled you to kill those men. She just didn’t use her vampire powers to do it.”

“Ye’ve a generous spirit, Jane,” he muttered.

Why couldn’t he see in himself what she saw in him? “What did you do when you discovered the vampires in your cause were killing for blood?” she pressed.

He shook his head, looking bewildered. “Nothin’. Stephan Sincai killed them. When he spared me, I … I wandered. All I could do was … sometimes … use my strength … small acts … inconsequential … I did no’ make a difference.”

“You used your power to help the powerless.”

“It did no’ stop th’ cruelty or th’ avarice for long. It was all stupid. Useless.”

“You are the one with a generous spirit, Callan.” Too direct!

He chuffed a bitter laugh. “I’m no’ ye, Jane. Dinnae try ta make me over in yer image.”

“Was it not you who submitted to Elyta in a bargain for my life?” she cried. She’d pushed him too hard, and now all she could think to do was push him harder.

“It was nothin’ I had no’ done before.” His voice was bleak. “Ha’ done now. I told ye about th’ evil in my past. Keep yer bargain.”

Her belief that if Callan could talk about the wounds festering inside him he could overcome them seemed suddenly naïve. Probing them only made him suffer more. And he was too damaged to make peace with himself. But she couldn’t let it go without making one more try. “Asharti compelled you to kill those people as surely as if she had red eyes at the time,” she said as clearly and as seriously as she could. “Even good men can be made to do bad things.”

“Believe that, if it will make ye give me yer blood.”

Jane felt as if she had been slapped. She sucked in a breath involuntarily, then let it out slowly. Very well. If blood was all he cared about, he would have it. “Give me your knife.”

He felt in his pocket and came out with a small utility knife that folded in on itself. He pried it open and handed it to her. She snatched it from him and grabbed his hand. He held it out, palm up. Before she could lose her courage, she sliced across the pad just below his thumb. Blood welled immediately. The smell of it was intoxicating. Then she held her own hand out and did the same. “It’s yours, if you want it so much,” she said, holding out her hand.

He hesitated only a moment before he pressed his palm to hers.

Their fingers twined, pressed the wounds together and sparked with that familiar tug, one to one, flesh to flesh, blood to blood.

It was done.

*   *   *

He sat huddled under the window, silent, as the fever came on him. He couldn’t speak to her, not after what she’d made him do. Did she have to rake through the ashes of his soul as the price for infection? Recounting all his failures as a man, all his crimes … And in the next days, he’d have to drink her blood. He’d wait as long as he could, take as little as he dared, just enough to give him immunity once more to the parasite.

If only Flavio didn’t tell Elyta when he’d seen them leave. Would he find the courage to lie to her? Then if Elyta assumed they’d gone to Inverness … if it took her two days to search for their trail … if she believed Callan’s planned lie when she finally did find them … if Flavio felt guilty enough about abandoning Stephan Sincai to help them when the final confrontation came, as come it must … if Clara loved Flavio enough to take his side against Elyta …

A lot of ifs. And if the ifs failed, his rash action in escaping would have doomed them to death. He didn’t care for himself, of course, but Jane …

He glanced over to where she was using the little knife to cut up carrots. He wouldn’t be able to eat soon, but she would. He hoped he’d brought enough to sustain her …

He stood, a little shaky, and went over to the valise to retrieve the leather waterskin. She looked up at him with hurt in those big violet eyes. Well, she’d best get used to hurt. There was a lot of hurt in the world and she was going to live for thousands of years if they survived Elyta. So was he, if he survived the first infection. He’d teach her, tell her everything of course, set her up in a city … there was no vampire in Edinburgh, was there? She’d be the toast of the town in no time. As for him … it didn’t matter. He had half a mind to go north, where it was frozen. The Orkneys, or the land of the Finns. Cold might suit him after all that time in the heat of the desert. Bleak might suit him. He wouldn’t think about why.