They Come by Night (24 page)

“I will not trade words with you, and I will not warn you again.” The rege’s eyes glowed red. “Leave!”

“Highness.” De Vivar bowed stiffly and left, not that he was going far. As soon as he felt the rege’s attention shift from him, he slid into the shadows cast by the trees that bordered this property. He knew he wouldn’t be seen there, and he’d be able to hear what went on.

The arrival of the rege had prevented him from making a very risky move, he mused. No vampyr entered a sabor’s home unless he was invited, and to force his entry would have seen his talisman rescinded. He’d avoided that numerous times, when other, less crafty vampyrs had paid the ultimate price. Of course he intended to change all that once
he
became rege, for himself at any rate, but he wasn’t about to grow careless now.

He crept closer, using all the stealth at his command. He needed to be cautious. Even more so than other vampyrs, Mondragon had preternatural hearing, and in spite of de Vivar’s own powers, the king vampyr could still overcome him.

The sabor didn’t invite Mondragon in, and wasn’t it like such an effete rege to permit that? De Vivar sneered. He would have quickly demonstrated who was in charge.

And then he heard Mondragon say, “I would like to express my regret to you for de Vivar’s behavior. He forgets this is the twenty-first century and things are different than when he was a young man.”

Once again he felt rage begin to consume him, and he gnashed his teeth. He was
el Duque de Málaga,
and
no one
apologized for him!

De Vivar was so infuriated he almost missed the rege’s next words.

“May I come in?”

“I have a headache.”

The cheek! He would soon teach the sabor manners!

“No, I promise you, I won’t touch you.”

Of course the rege wouldn’t feed from the sabor, and how foolish was that, wasting a perfectly good opportunity?

The sabor stepped aside and let the rege enter, and the door closed, leaving de Vivar alone and hungry in the night.

He climbed the stairs to the porch and pressed his ear to the door.

The conversation the two were having was immaterial. Did the rege think informing Tyrell Small of what de Vivar had done to others of his line would keep this sabor from becoming his?

The Dragomirs and Lupescus had originally belonged to the royal family. They were rumored to have the finest-tasting blood, although even after the Plague most vampyrs never got to taste them, having to make do with lesser sabors if they were fortunate enough.

That had grated on de Vivar, as well as the fact he could never be rege, so when he’d had the opportunity to feed from a Dragomir, he’d seized it. What did it matter if the boy was too young and had died? There were more where he came from.

However, de Vivar was no fool, and he knew Mondragon would not see it the same way—another reason why that line needed to be replaced—and so he’d decided playing least in sight would be a good idea for the time being.

And hadn’t he been right? When he’d reappeared, no one had questioned what he’d done. Of course if they’d challenged him, he would have denied all accountability in the matter.

It was only after it was too late that he realized the unthinkable was happening—he was aging! He could tell by the wrinkles on the back of his hand, by the gray hairs of his chest and his loins.

Feeding from a sabor helped postpone the inevitable, but he needed his own sabor, and there were too many vampyrs to allow for that.

But now there was this sabor, who combined the best bloodlines—Dragomir and Lupescu.

De Vivar turned his attention back to the rege and the sabor who should have been his this night.

And then de Vivar swore mightily. For all the rege’s fine words, he was going to feed! De Vivar could hear the fangs extending, could hear them entering the toothsome flesh, sipping at the warm blood.

His mouth began to water, and his own fangs extended.

He wanted to howl with frustration. The sabor should have been his from the beginning!

Well, that would be remedied.

De Vivar had been too impetuous. He knew the sabor would never permit him to enter his home. He’d need to devise a plan that would gain him admittance.

But first he needed to feed.

In the blink of an eye he was in his own lair.

“Antonia!”

A voluptuous wench appeared, her skirts swaying about long legs, her hands on her hips. Even after all these centuries, she still dressed in peasant garb, the same manner as when he’d first seen her. Sometimes he wondered how a Spanish whore had wound up in Rome, but it never roused his curiosity enough that he pursued the matter.

“¿
Sí
?”

De Vivar scowled at her. “I wish to feed!” Not many vampyrs would permit another to feed from them, but belonging to him, she had no choice.

He’d turned others before, but she was the first he’d created; it had been done accidentally, some years after he’d been turned himself.

H
E
FOLLOWED
Terese Mondragon to Rome, but no matter how he tried to convince her otherwise, she would not elevate him to the status he’d anticipated.

And then she returned one night, giddy as a girl. With her was a tall, blond Italian vampyr, Flavio Dasani. “Wish us happy,
Duque
! We’re married!”

De Vivar would have attacked Dasani and ripped his throat out, but there was an air of age and power about him, and so he gave a brittle bow and left the besotted couple.

To take a measure of revenge, he went out and looked for the coarsest whore he could find. His intention was simply to fuck her, but she caressed his buttocks with such knowledgeable fingers he lost control and sank his fangs into her, draining her at the same time he climaxed. He rose, leaving her body sprawled obscenely on her squalid pallet. Disgusted, he wiped himself off on her petticoats, righted his clothing, and left.

He was astonished the next night to find her on his doorstep. Usually a vampyr was turned by the exchange of blood. Apparently he’d created one through the exchange of his manly essence.

Excited by this knowledge, he’d taken her again and again. If he could get her with child, the title of rege might still be within his reach. And when her monthly courses hadn’t come, hope bloomed within his breast.

But the months had passed and her belly stayed as flat as when he’d first bedded her. Unwilling to believe his expectations had been within his grasp only to slip away, he came to the conclusion it was her lowly station that caused her infertility. That night he’d gone out and seduced a noble’s daughter.

He hadn’t realized until afterward she wasn’t a virgin, and he blamed her failure to conceive on that.

He needed to find a woman who was wellborn
and
a virgin.

The problem was there seemed to be a dearth of women with both those qualities in the Holy City, and so he returned to Spain, where he learned of
Sor Belicia
. The little nun was the daughter of a lesser nobleman, and her piety and purity were renowned throughout the land.

The
Convento de Nuestra Señora Estrella del Mar
, where she resided, was in Navarra, and de Vivar lost no time in going there to seek her out.

Some would think him mad to fix his intentions on a bride of Christ, but that merely guaranteed she was a virgin. And he knew he could avoid the rosary and the crucifix she’d be wearing—all he needed to do was toss her habit over her head.

With every confidence, he appeared in her tiny cell.

“Fear not, my child,” he told her solemnly, all the while laughing up his sleeve. “For I am an angel of the Lord.”

“Indeed, you must be, for my door is barred and how else could you enter if not for the Lord God’s intervention?” She appeared dazzled by him and dropped to her knees, her hands clasped to her breasts. “What would you ask of me, Holy One?”

“It is God’s will that you lie beneath me.”

Abruptly she didn’t appear quite so dazzled, and he frowned. She rose to her feet and began backing away from him, and he smoothed the frown from his face.

“Why would God ask this of me?” She reached for the silver-and-sapphire rosary that hung from her girdle.

“God has chosen you to bear another Blessed child.”

“I’m not worthy to be another Mary.”

“Do you question God’s will?”

“No, of course not. But it would no longer be the Holy Trinity.”

“It will be the Holy Quartet.”

“I do not understand….”

He lost patience. He didn’t care whether she understood or not. He threw her down onto her pallet and drove into her with brutal thrusts, ignoring her cries and prayers, and the small fists that pushed at his shoulders.

Once he’d drunk his fill of her blood and filled her belly with his seed, he wrapped her lifeless body in a cloak and carried her to a castle in Ferrol. In northwestern Spain, it overlooked
el Atlántico
, and it suited him well enough, since the town had only recently burned to the ground and had yet to be rebuilt. He knew it would be a safe and secure place to remain until she gave birth.

She awoke the next evening, and he could see immediately that she remembered what had transpired the night before.

“You have debauched me!” She touched the two puncture wounds at her throat, which oddly enough hadn’t healed. “I might have had the comfort of doing God’s will, but you’ve taken even that from me!”

“No.” He smirked. “But you’re mine now, and the child you bear will be mine and not His.”

She reached for her rosary and cried out when the image of the cross burned into her palm. It was only then she began to weep, bloodred tears. “You are a creature of the night! You are not an angel of the Lord! And I am damned to everlasting hellfire!”

De Vivar had never had any patience with weeping women. “Enough of this! Accept that I have taken your virginity. Christ no longer wants you. You are my bride now,
Sor Belicia
. You will make an excellent mother to my children!”

Tears continued to flow down her cheeks, but she bowed her head and folded her hands. “As you say, my lord.”

He spent the night fucking her, determined to get her with child as soon as he could.

Finally he rolled off her. “It will be dawn soon. We’ll sleep, and in the evening I will take you out and teach you how to feed. A child would have been best for you to begin with, but….”

“Not one of God’s innocents!”

“No, no. If I had turned you in the way other, less potent vampyrs are wont to do….” He tapped a long finger against his chin. She was a small woman, but size in a vampyr was irrelevant. Age was what gave a vampyr power. “I’ll find a man for you.”

“You would give me to a man?” She shuddered.

“Of course not.” He continued before she could breathe a sigh of relief, which he could tell from her expression that she was about to do. “Since I created you, you will feed in another way: you will take a man’s member into your mouth and suckle him to completion.” He found himself becoming aroused at the thought of watching this pious woman becoming more and more dissolute.

“Mercy, I beg of you!” She was even paler than most vampyrs after they had been newly turned. “Do not force me to do something so unnatural!”

“Unnatural? Bah! You must feed well in order to bear me a healthy son!”

“I cannot! I cannot!”

He’d thought his plan was falling neatly into place and she was growing accustomed to the notion of being a vampyr. Stubborn woman!

“You will do as I say!” he snarled, and he struck her across the face. The print of his palm gave a touch of color to her translucent cheeks.

He admired the effect and determined to strike her often.

She shuddered but said once again, “As you say, my lord. May I sleep now?”

“Yes, yes.” He was pleased she knew her place. She would make a splendid addition to his household. He yawned widely, making sure his fangs were evident.

The following evening she was not beside him. Scowling, for he was hungry and had intended to feed immediately upon waking, he searched the castle. She was nowhere to be found.

Foolish little nun. Did she think to escape him and her destiny?

He stormed out into the courtyard and then came to an abrupt halt. At the foot of the stairs was a mound of ash.

Beside it was the silver-and-sapphire rosary.

“Stupid woman!” A single finger bone remained, seeming to point reproachfully at him. He spat out a curse, trod upon it, and ground it to dust. “Together we would have created a new dynasty!” Now she was truly in hell, not that he cared, and he was left without a vessel to bear his children. He should have expected this of a woman whose name meant Dedicated to God.

For foiling his plans, he would see she found no peace. He scooped up her ashes and poured them into a leather pouch. She would remain at his side, fastened to his belt.

Meanwhile, he would need to seek out another woman: pure, but not so enamored of God she would prefer death to eternal life; strong, but not so strong she would walk into the morning sun rather than give him the sons who would help him overthrow the rege.

C
ENTURIES
PASSED
,
but no matter what he tried, nothing worked. He refused to give up his fondest wishes, however. He would find a way to succeed!