Words And Meanings
by Bonnie Rutledge
(copyright 2001)When I found him, he looked like death. We all do, in a way. It's not a concept of nuclear physics or anything. That first night, we capture our own mask of death, the one we'll reveal whenever the occasion warrants. It's appropriately painted in red, gold and white - blood, fire and purity - the colors of what we crave staining our lips, what we fear burning in our eyes, and what we have lost bleaching our skin.We carry that mask for the rest of our existence, most features tucked out of sight, ready to spring on the gullible and innocent when their throats are yielding and their chances of escape are slim. Believe me, their chances are always slim, and yielding is always the easier route. Fighting, resisting, taking the path that only a fool or a martyr would travel, that's much trickier to handle. I should know. I wore a rut in the path of rebellion until my tires jammed and spun, leaving me stuck where I am now ... in Toronto ... waiting ... and he still looks like death, looks like it for real this time.
But that's not what I'm trying to explain. This isn't a story about the finer points of rebellion; it's not about death; it's a story of respect and love, how you find them for people and things that you never see coming.
So he looked like death - not 'death warmed over.' Vampires may be the equivalent of Hell's soldiers on a weekend pass, but when our eyes are closed, we just look cold. He was no different.
He was like something primitive, early man thawed out from a glacier, gone on a binge to make up for ten thousand years with no woolly mammoth bones to pick clean as the remnants of frost clung to his jaw. He'd made do with what was at hand. That's what he was - his teeth buried in the belly of a rat - he made a portrait of survival, the things we'll do when our urges drive us onward, the choices you make when you abandon the notion of rolling over and starving just because the alternatives aren't pretty. I didn't find him disgusting or repulsive. I didn't see him as a subspecies, something inferior to me. I admired him. I liked him. It was as simple as that.
You don't get it. I can tell from the look on your face.
Just think about it: he became a carouche, not because he was more evil or more depraved than the rest of us. Evil had nothing to do with it. Yeah, maybe he is amoral compared to you and me. Maybe not. Since when are we the experts on morals? When push came to shove, he didn't roll over and starve. I don't think that's a crime. No. Absolutely not. That is not a crime, and it's not something that makes him deserve belittling. That doesn't make him an abomination to the vampire race, if that's what you want to call us.
What he does, what he's always done, is kill to live. He's not a glutton, not where life is concerned. He'll squander money like it was sand on the beach, he'll steal pennies from a blind man's cup, but when it comes to drawing a mortal's last breath, a rat's last breath, even, he paces himself. He takes his time, he has a method, he consumes as needed.
We should all be so tidy.
It's the gluttony that makes us evil - not what we do, but the how and why we do it. It's the needless violence, the treating of humans like cattle, not like what they are: precious, every drop. That is evil. Sure, we want to kill. We're vampires. Drinking blood is the end all, be all, of pleasure for us. It's our vicarious existence. It's how we feed our hunger. It's how we find ecstasy. It's the one way we have to connect with other creatures that eclipses and obliterates anything else imaginable.
Sure we want to kill. We want to kill all the time. Being tempted, though, is nowhere near doing the deed. Temptation never put anyone in a coffin. Acting on temptation - now that's the type of greed that's buried civilizations and created legends.
So there he was, a cold caption of death, feeding out of necessity on your standard brown and scurrying breed of stowaway, and for the first time since I'd kissed the sun goodbye some sixty years before I saw someone that I wanted to know better. I wanted to talk to him, to understand where he found the strength to be who he was - someone who didn't fit in with the grand scheme laid out for vampires, soldiers, humans...
His head shook in a spasm as he sucked the final drops from what was now a corpse. The night was windy, and we were nearing land - expected to drop anchor by sunrise. As I supported myself, perched on the yardarm overhead, I watched how his body rocked to the sway of the waves beneath the ship's hull, like a cradled infant being soothed out of the pain of teething.
And, just like an infant, he worked on instinct. He didn't realize I was there because I'd made a sound, or because he'd caught a glimpse of me from the corner of his eye. Once the rat ran dry, his attention began to focus on other things and he simply knew. His posture became contradictory, crouching toward me, even as his face showed suspicious rebuke.
"Pri-va-see, mindja!" His eyes narrowed - they had subsided to a curious green once he stopped drinking - and I could guess that he'd begun to speculate that a stranger to bite on this quiet nook of the deck might be to his advantage. He lifted his nose as if to test the scents carried on the sea air, his nostrils twitching for information. He tilted his head toward me, a sailor searching for a siren.
After a moment, he frowned, boxed his own ears to teach them a lesson, then leaned forward to give listening for my heartbeat another shot.
I let go of my grip on the spar, my landing on the deck causing a soft rush of sound like the echo of sea spray against the hull. To counter that fluidity in my movements, I deliberately scuffed the leather soles of my boots against the wooden planks as I approached him, an amiable and casual fellow. "Your name's Screed, isn't it?"
He was a member of the crew. I'd seen him before, during one of my brief nighttime forays out of my cabin. He was always the last to leave the rigging and join the drinking and songs, but he was equally the last to leave the drinking, the last to stop the dance, the last to drop the tune. I'd observed him and the rest of the hands going about their toil and their - far-rarer, but well-earned - spates of leisure, but I always held back from any attempt to mingle with their group. I wasn't being exclusive, nor were they. And when I watched them, it wasn't longing for something I'd lost, but a simple acceptance that once you slipped the bonds of the mortal coil, you couldn't go back.
Some lines weren't wise to cross - I was on a cramped ship with a limited blood supply in my cabin meant to last me until I could fly safely to land - why risk revealing what I was by getting too close to two dozen heart-pounding, fresh feasts? I hadn't had a decent meal since leaving port in St. Augustine, and I'd been limited to poorly preserved rations poured from a cask for weeks, but I'd resolved to avoid draining anyone aboard ship. The middle of the ocean was no place to inspire a vampire hunt.
That's what I felt as I watched them: not longing, but acceptance of my place in the world as someone apart, someone bounded.
That bothered me. I spent my days shifting restlessly in my cabin wondering over it. I was over eighty years old. I'd played a part in conquering an empire and had roamed from one end of a continent to the other. I could fly. I could obfuscate a mortal's thoughts. I didn't age or feel injuries that would cripple most humans. Give me any five men on the ship, and I'd have the strength to beat them. Eight? Maybe. Ten? If I was lucky, I could handle ten, but why ask for trouble?
The complacency gnawed at me. Since when had I stopped asking for trouble? When had the promise of adventure begun to outweigh the risk? When had I begun to accept that there were things I couldn't do, battles I couldn't win? When had I started to give in to inevitability?
At another time in my life, I wouldn't have been a passenger with the luxury of keeping myself below deck during daylight hours. I would have worked side by side with the ship's crew, hard labor my only currency across the Atlantic. It wasn't that I'd paid for this voyage in coin; my payment had taken the form of the power of suggestion. The point was, in other circumstances, mortal circumstances, I would have numbered among those men. We would have been compatriots, shipmates, maybe some of them would have even been friends.
I realized that I didn't have any friends. I hadn't had a soul I could speak my mind with since the day I died. All I'd had for the past sixty years was The Inka on my tail, running me to ground. No one had conversations with The Inka. No one hung out with The Inka, shooting the breeze. One listened. One ignored and looked for a way to escape. Meanwhile, The Inka ranted on about moon goddesses, eternal marching orders and responsibility. It got to where one picked fights with The Inka just to get him to shut up. It got to where one forgot how to listen, where one simply reacted without making a conscious choice. It got to where one fell into habits. It got to where the only face you ever recognized belonged to the only person you couldn't stand, the person responsible for you being dead in the first place.
That's where I was. The only person I could count on to be around - I couldn't be friends with him. He was my enemy, a materialization of everything I didn't want. He applied his mortal pecking order to everything he did, as if he was still some kind of chosen warrior, as if his entire empire hadn't been disemboweled by the Spanish, as if becoming a vampire was simply an extension of Inkan manifest destiny to guard the four corners of the earth.
My world was round. It had no corners. It just kept running and moving. It had no end, no goal. It kept going until it reached the point where it started, then kept on, passing over the same ground but never stopping.
I never could settle for other people's expectations - that's why I'd left my apprenticeship in Trujillo and joined with mercenaries. I'd always resisted the pecking order - that's why I'd ended up scouting, working in Pizarro's advance troops. I had more autonomy that way; it gave me the feeling that I didn't belong to the Spanish Crown, but that things were the other way around - that the world belonged to me.
See, at this point I only wondered if The Inka wasn't getting to me. I hadn't figured out the entire problem, only the part where I recognized that, as much as I'd always pushed to be on my own and call my own shots, without the mortal ties of family or soldiering to pull against, I was at loose ends. I needed The Inka to chase me. It grated. It bothered the hell out of me, and I had a lot of hell in me to bother.
So looking down at Screed - he hadn't answered me, but I was pretty sure I'd gotten his name right - I felt relieved. I felt distracted. I felt interested. I'd found another New World, another vampire, and I hadn't even been looking.
I bent at the knees, crouching so that I could meet his gaze at the same level. Yeah, I hadn't seen that much of him in my time above board. I hadn't spoken with him, but that didn't mean I hadn't gotten a sense of the man he was.
He was different. The other mates on ship were on a job. They set foot on this boat looking for the payday when they reached home port again. The others had families on shore - wives to miss, children to feed. Ferrying goods across the ocean from colonies in the New World was a means to an end for them.
Screed was a seaman. He treated the ship as though she was fashioned out of gold rather than wood. He looked at the water as though it was a lover. He had a passion for it, a delight in it, and it didn't seem to bother him that everyone else aboard didn't share emotions for the same target as he, even though they were all supposed to be sailors together. His pride in himself and what he loved was enough to make him satisfied. Even from a distance, I could see that Screed was a man happy and content with his lot.
And now I found he was a vampire, a vampire with the taste for rats. For the first few moments, I wondered how he managed. No, not how he managed his diet, but how he satisfied the curiosity of the rest of the crew and the captain, how he avoided swabbing, polishing and securing during daylight hours without drawing comment. Sure, he didn't put aside ship work in the evenings in favor of leisure. He toiled until he was done, but while I had observed him see to the ship after dark, I'd never seen him take a night watch. Curiosity brimming in my thoughts, I asked him again, "Your name is Screed, right?"
While I stood there expectantly, waiting for him to talk, to answer my questions, his expression transformed. Suddenly, he wasn't leaning forward, but jerking back to press against the wall, as though I'd just informed him we'd gone aground, and we were never leaving.
"Not ya bleedin' business! Lawkes, but tha' 'old's brimmin' wit' tha' Señors Fang-You-Very-Much, innit? Gets ta where h'a mate can't pull h'a line wi'out trippin' oe'r som'in wit' tusks! H'a very too close h'encounter, mindja. Aye liked me neck wit' h'a few less 'oles 'n tha' juice ta spare, kennay? Now git scrammed. Aye've got riggin' ta h'un-tangle."
I had to listen to Screed, to listen intently, otherwise I'd have had no idea what he'd just said. It took me a moment to decipher, but I caught on to a couple of things. "There's another vampire on board?"
"Didn' Aye jes' say that h'in tha' Lizzie's H'english?"
"No."
"Spaniards." He shook his head in disgust as he stood. Caution abandoned, he began to swagger across the deck, full of himself. He had some reason. It hadn't been that long since the defeat of the Armada. Spain may have dominated a glorious domain of riches and power thus far this century, but the past couple of years, my homeland had screwed up a pretty good deal. I'd have joined him in shaking my head, but that wasn't what interested me so much at the moment.
"Vampires aren't tied to borders," I said dismissively. I wanted to believe it. "Where?" I demanded. "Who is the other?"
"Not too jolly, 'e was. Like you," Screed said. "Dark hair like ya, double." He added, encouraged by my obvious displeasure at the news he was sharing. "Spoke Spanish - h'at least ya don' do that. Ya got h'a funny h'accent h'on ya tongue, s'don't git h'excited that Aye'm h'impressed," he added. "Nah, tha' h'other bloke's was h'enough like ya ta pod h'a pea. 'E was triple h'all yar yar yar wit' tha' questions, h'all 'Oo's h'on tha' ship?' 'Where h'is 'e?'" Screed waved his hands in the air, whipping up his conflagration of memory.
I'd straightened, but remained stationed in place. My eyes followed Screed's path as he rambled and complained his way around the deck. "Did you tell him?" As soon as the question left my mouth, I realized the answer.
"Wot's ta tell? Didn' bloody know ya from King Triton h'at tha' time, now, did Aye? Rotten bit o' navigation, that. Fella went straight from tha' shakin' ta tha' growlin'. Nip an' tuck h'on ol' Screed." He rubbed the side of his neck as if it troubled him. Drawing his hand away, he stared at the clean lines of his palm with a frown. I could see he was mystified. He apparently expected to feel a wound, but the discontinuity of finding his flesh undamaged left him bewildered. "Aye've not felt roight since 'e put tha' bite h'on me. H'a fever, like. S'all strange, like there's som'thin' h'under me skin dancin' h'a jig." He held out one hand angrily, confronting me with it. "Me 'ands. They've gone h'all lady-lily-white. H'a mate 'asn't got 'ands like this. H'all tha' rough Aye worked inta h'em - finito - like Aye nev-a' 'eaved h'a rope h'in h'all me days."
"He brought you across," I said quietly.
Screed looked at me, his eyes uncomprehending.
I tried again, wondering if it was my supposed accent or a simple desire to disbelieve that lay at the root of his mystery. "You're a vampire. Like he is. Like I am." I let loose the reins of my control a little, donning my death mask just long enough to flash the hungry glow buried in my eyes and stretch my aching teeth.
My display snapped him out of silence. "Like ya Aye'm nev-a'. Didn' catch me suppin' h'on tha' bos'n, didja? Aye ... " Screed's voice trailed off, his gaze drifting to the planks, to the torn body of the rat. He knelt beside it, scooping the inanimate creature off the deck, pushing a finger wonderingly into the teeth marks. Pulling it back, finding his finger glazed with red, he spontaneously sucked the tip into his mouth on an in-drawn breath. He understood now. "Like ya Aye'm nev-a' not."
The Inka had obviously stowed away on the ship. I didn't understand why he'd waited the entire voyage to look for me, unless he'd wanted the option of flying to land, just in case things didn't work in his favor. I wasn't sure why I hadn't felt his presence, though I suspected it had something to do with him not budging an inch from his hiding place the entire trip. Starving, in need of building his strength before coming after me, The Inka had drained the first mortal he'd come across - Screed.
I doubt he'd meant to convert the sailor. I was certain The Inka had left him for dead. He'd carelessly left Screed to wake up with the first hunger gnawing in his gut and no one but a brown rodent to give an explanation as to what came next.
I gave Screed a half-hearted smile, echoing his words. "Like me, you're never not." I wanted to believe it. I wanted to be different, like Screed. I sure as hell didn't want to be like The Inka.
"Least there's always plenty o' squeakers h'on board. Occupational diet, come ta think h'of h'it." Screed began to whistle, then started to look around for his next course.
I watched the content expression on his face, and I became humble. Here's a guy who's just found out he'll crave sucking on rats for all eternity, and he didn't even blink. No dramatic problem, no quest for revenge, no recriminations - Screed just clapped his hands and got on with it.
It might sound crazy to you, but when I first met Screed, it never occurred to me that his hunger was something to revile. I never imagined he was some lower form of vampire, and if anyone had called him a carouche then, I would have thought the title was meant as a compliment. I thought he was stronger than me. I thought he was better than me, I really did.
I wanted to stick around and talk to him some more, but I knew the score. "I'm glad for you." Now I was the one clapping my hands together, getting on with it. "You'll do all right, and maybe I'll see you next time I travel by sea."
Screed paused, a squirming rodent dangling in one hand. "Wot? Ya kin stay h'an 'elp me catch h'a nibble, V-Man y V-Man, roight?"
I shook my head, holding back a smile. V-Man. He coined terms out of the blue and called it the Queen's English. What was 'V-Man' supposed to mean? Vamp-man? Very-not mortal? I tucked the term away, promising myself that I would remember it even as I turned him down. "You said it yourself - The Inka's looking for me. I'm jumping ship."
"Too bad fer you," Screed said. I could tell he meant it sincerely. Heading for land was not his idea of a welcome destination. "Tha' H'inka, hmm? Fine part o' yer 'Vamps 'Ave No Borders' jammie. You, mate, h'are in- ... in- ... " Screed rubbed the fingers of his rat-free hand together. "Wot h'is h'it? Wot's tha' word?"
"Inconsistent," I suggested.
Screed snapped his fingers. "In-consissy-tent. That's wot ya h'are, innit?" He didn't wait for a response, sinking his teeth into the rat's belly, letting its protesting squeal work as a conversation closer.
Inconsistent? Me? I shrugged. There were worse things to be.
I turned to go, lifting my face to the night sky, pulling a direction from the stars. My feet seemed glued to the deck. I wanted to leave, but yet I didn't. Inconsistent...
I considered the possibilities. What if I remained on ship? What if, instead of running again, I stuck around and had this war out with The Inka once and for all? That was a piece of inconsistent that sounded appealing.
I didn't have a chance to congratulate myself, though. I had already run out of time and the advantage of striking first. I could feel The Inka behind me, rushing closer. I whirled around to block him and grunted in astonishment when he didn't hit me.
I saw him land a blow instead, saw him plow into Screed's side while the sailor was still preoccupied with his meal. I heard Screed shout an expletive involving goats and unusual husbandry practices, and I felt the urge to laugh. I gave in to it. The Inka glared briefly over his shoulder at me, a look that meant both the sailor and I must be mad or simply mentally inferior. He didn't get it, couldn't understand a word of Screed's verbal jigsaw, especially the best abusive parts. I'm the one who understood. What I didn't glean out of Screed's scrambled vocabulary, I let my imagination wander the meaning, and I laughed all the harder.
All at once, my laughter choked me. Inconsistency choked me. Not mine, but The Inka's. The Inka wasn't acting like a vampire with distinct desire and purpose of beating me to a pulp so he could give me a lecture on my failings as a soldier of honor. No, The Inka wasn't focused on me at all. I was scenery. I watched as he pushed Screed against the railing, and I struggled to make sense of it.
Screed launched over my enemy's head, grabbing the yardarm above, swinging so that he would land by the short steps leading to the lower deck. The Inka predicted his target and was waiting as Screed landed. He slammed one fist into the sailor's stomach, then, gripping Screed by an upper arm and knee, flung him down the stairs toward the hatch leading to the hold. I heard the sound of wood breaking, followed by shouts from the other shipmen, roused by the noise of a brawl. I raced forward, snapped out of my surprise at The Inka's determination to throttle someone other than me. What I saw - The Inka standing over the heap of a sailor - what I saw in The Inka's hand - it all clicked.
"No!" I shouted.
As he brought his arm down, I jerked him from behind by his tunic with one hand while I seized his elbow with the other. He waved his fist with the stake in it rebelliously, jerking it so I had trouble grabbing the weapon. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't quit fighting me, and it made me furious. A small voice in my head argued that I was the one who wouldn't give in, that I was the one who wouldn't quit fighting The Inka. That subconscious similarity just made me see red. I let go of The Inka completely, and while he was dazed at his sudden freedom, I rammed his nose using my head.
His face was bleeding, and I was happy to see it. The fact that The Inka could bleed at all was thanks in no small part to Screed losing his mortal life earlier in the evening. I wanted to see The Inka bleed, to see him give back every drop of it. He didn't deserve being conveniently fed any more than Screed deserved a stake in the heart for not remaining conveniently dead.
The Inka stumbled, still shaken by my blow. I kicked his legs out from under him, and, once he was down, let my boots meet his rib cage and jaw to my heart's content. Deciding that I'd worked the resistance out of him, I straddled The Inka's chest, now easily plucking the stake from his fist.
I tightened my fingers around the piece of wood until it began to splinter, holding it in front of his face until I saw The Inka's lids crack open to see what I was doing. "You're not staking him." My tone of voice didn't ask for an argument. As far as I was concerned, the argument was over.
"He drinks from vermin," the Inka hissed. "He desecrates the vision of our moon mother, Mamaquilla!"
I rolled my eyes. In The Inka's estimation, plenty of things desecrated Mamaquilla's vision, myself included. The guy didn't have vast room to criticize - he came from a civilization that served up guinea pigs on special occasions. Like that didn't count as consuming vermin because they were fluffier and some guy with earrings had deemed them sacred instead of wharf rats. Inkan asshole.
"He doesn't have a problem with it," I said obstinately, "so neither do I."
Apparently that was the wrong answer, and I'd overestimated just how badly I'd whipped The Inka. I'd wanted to thrash Screed's blood out of him, but then I wasn't the one rosy and sated from a fresh kill. I'm the one who'd kept to sea rations. The Inka figured that out and flexed his muscles, flying us both off the deck as he jammed me into the mast, then let go of me to watch as I crashed into the planks below. The stake dropped from my fingers on impact, and The Inka was immediately in my face again, holding my arms to keep me prone.
"Ow." The admission that my spine felt like a shell that had made the acquaintance of a wagon wheel sprung free before I could stop myself. To rob The Inka of any sense of accomplishment at the syllable, I immediately drew my mouth into a big smile, knowing it would offend him. To The Inka, battle was supposed to be taken seriously. Death was supposed to be taken seriously. He could get screwed. He had no business knowing how seriously I took death.
The Inka growled at my glib expression. I chuckled. He returned the favor by crashing his forehead into my nose. I saw stars, but I kept chuckling. I felt like a poker had been lanced through my brain, all in all not the funniest of experiences, but the more it hurt, the more I laughed.
"How long are we going to keep doing this?" I wondered aloud. The Inka jabbed me in the eyes. "Ow," I repeated. As an answer, it was blinding. I heard the friction of hemp sliding against hemp, felt the rope scratch my skin as he slipped the noose around my neck. The only thought that would focus in my pounding head was the abstract notion that I'd favor a sailor tying knots to an Inka for any account.
The Inka heaved, and I felt the rope constrict around my neck as my feet lifted in the air. I heard a yelp, but that could have just been me saying "Ow" again. Before I even had a chance to hover, the pressure pulling the rope taut disappeared, and I plummeted to the deck with a thump. My eyelids flickered. Worried and weakened, I turned my head, searching through fractured vision for Screed, for the stake, and for The Inka. Where were they?
I needn't have worried. Screed had taken advantage of the stake abandoned on deck while The Inka had fun stringing me up by the throat. No sooner than my feet had left the boards, Screed had impaled our enemy.
I unfolded my body, pulled loose from the rope, and took in another glance as my eyesight began to recover. Climbing achingly to my feet, I commented for Screed's benefit, "You didn't stake him in the heart."
The sailor looked no less pleased with his accomplishment. "Aye didn' mean ta stake 'im h'in tha' 'eart. Hit tha' proper traject'ry, mate. Smacked me h'a wooden cannonball, Aye did."
Having lost his hat in the scuffle, Screed untied the stretch of cloth that had been wound around his skull and knotted at his nape, revealing the sheen of his head shaved to the merest fragment of stubble with a sharp knife. It's a habit he's never given up on - something to do with avoiding lice and fleas in his hair.
He spat into the fabric, then used it to scrub the blood from my face. I made a sound, not totally into the cleansing properties of saliva. "Screed, you have to stake a vampire in the heart to destroy them."
He appeared affronted. "Wot? H'are ya tellin' me h'a vampy bloke's got no feelin' h'in 'is bangers 'n mash?"
I pulled the rag away from my face and stared over Screed's shoulder for another inspection of The Inka and the stake extending prominently from his groin. I winced. "On second thought, your way is pretty effective." I clasped one of his lower arms and tugged. "Come on, we have to go."
Screed tugged in the opposite direction, uncertain. "Where're we goin'?"
"Dry land." I jerked my head toward his shipmates, some of them already advancing on us with torches and knives. "You don't really want to take them on, do you?"
Screed shook his head, but he still didn't appear convinced about departing. "Aye've nev-a' felt roight h'on land."
"I never said you had to stay there forever."
That statement seemed to satisfy him. "Roight, time ta make like tha' fishes."
I shook my head, then pulled him behind me as I ran for the upper deck. I climbed onto the prow railing, announcing, "We make like the birds."
"Flyin'?"
"Flying," I confirmed.
"Roight," Screed grumbled as he climbed to stand beside me. "Aye've been turned h'into h'a bleedin' forever h'albatross."
When we reached land, we were only two miles away from Cadiz. Screed sampled the local wildlife as we hiked, but I waited until we were on the fringes of the city to hunt. This was a sea town, filled with traffic to and from the colonies, and the wharves were rife with aimless people easy to lure.
Screed immediately wanted to jump another ship out of port, but I told him that was what The Inka would expect.
I decided we should go to Trujillo. It was a stupid idea, I know. I'd left there alifetime ago - a little town built on granite, birthplace to so many conquistadors, or what some would say, the home of so many devils. I don't know what I expected to find. Some things were exactly as I had left them - the smells of orange blossoms and jasmine, the kestrels and the swifts circling the pan-tiled roofs, the same placard in the window of the shop where I'd been an apprentice carpenter when I was fifteen. Strangers were living in my house, though. Six children and their parents crammed into a space that had seemed small when it was just my mother and I. I didn't approach them, I simply watched and imagined how they came to take the place of the ghosts.
The thought of ghosts meant a visit to the churchyard, crosses everywhere. Screed complained, but he didn't hold back as I weaved between the graves, careful not to touch anything sacred. I was searching for a name, my mother's name, but I never found it. As I tried to not dwell on the implications of that absence, another name leapt from a gravestone to sting me. I felt I should turn away from it, lower my gaze or at least bow my head, but I couldn't bring myself to move.
Clouds passed over the moon and moved on through the sky. Curious and uncomfortable, Screed read the grave marker aloud. "'Jésus Domingo de Valdez ... 1506-1532 ... Hijo Querido ... Soldado De Dios'" He looked at me quizzically. "Who's he?"
I'd kept my expression impenetrable as he spoke. It struck me as odd that, with all the methods Screed had to twist words about, this time he hadn't warped a single syllable. "Like the slab says - dead guy, beloved son, soldier of God." The last phrase felt especially bitter and ironic on my tongue. These emotions felt strange and unwelcome, and I resolved to bury them, to refuse these moments of regret for every night to come. What-ifs would not become my kingdom, not if I could help it. I finally moved, angling my head so that my eyes met Screed's stare. I tilted up one corner of my mouth as I added with bravado, "Nobody I know."
"Good thingee, likely. No mate wot runs wit' this crew makes fer h'any bleedin' Jesus."
I rested my hand on his shoulder as I turned my back to the grave. "My sentiments exactly." We stepped selectively between the granite stones, heading back through the shadows toward the entrance of the churchyard.
"While ya stinkin' h'up tha' place h'exactly, riddle me wot Aye'm supposed ta call ya 'til Aye ship h'out from this crony 'andshake. Ya gonna h'answer ta 'V-Man' h'indefinite-like?"
I shrugged. "Why not?"
He remained silent as we left Trujillo, heading northwest across Spain toward Barcelona, but I knew that he'd understood the significance of that headstone, even as I denied it. Most of the time, my name stayed 'V-Man.' Every now and then - like when I'd argued for heading across the Pyrenees and into Languedoc instead of journeying out to sea - he'd address me as 'Señor J-D-Kiss-Me-Ass,' but I was willing to put up with that. It didn't matter what he called me as much as it mattered what he didn't.
Screed never mentioned Trujillo again, never spoke of that secret, even when he had reason to be roaring pissed enough to throw it back at me. I'd earned discretion from a man who'd sell anything for the right price. I've always tried to remember that. I haven't always been successful, but it has to matter that I remember it now, when he's so far gone ...
Look at him. Your doctor friend said that Screed is in the final stage. Do you think he can even hear me ... telling his story? Not telling it like he would, that's for sure.
Even if he doesn't know it, it has to matter that I remember ... doesn't it?
"Is that why you told me? You're giving Screed his last rites?"
Last rites. That's not the wording I'd use. I don't like the implications.
"The religious aspect. I noticed. Interesting how you claim you realized your respect for religion after your mortal death, yet you choose to haunt a church."
It's not a church. It's deconsecrated, just like me.
"Point taken."
And it's off the subject. I haven't finished the story yet.
"What's left?"
The best part. The worst part. The part where Screed never stopped being my friend. The part where I became 'Javier Vachon.'
Chapter Two It was during the next century. We were in France, around Lyon to be more specific. Our current hang was a bustling inn along the outer edges the town, the banks of the Saône in view to soothe Screed's spirits. We hadn't been there very long; most recently, we'd managed to get into a few scrapes during the English Civil War.Cromwell's massacre of any and all we'd helped through minor rebellions around Drogheda had taken some starch out of me. Once the slaughter and executions extended to decapitation, Screed announced, "Tha' Lion, tha' h'Unicorn, 'n tha' Pinhead Prince O' Parliament. Let h'em h'all sod h'off. Not wot me neck h'or ya Spanish ass h'is worth." With that, we crossed the Channel, ready to try our luck trawling in the shadows of the Sun King.
The Inka had become a rare occurrence. Sure, we'd had a few scuffles and sightings - my enemy still seemed enthusiastic about wasting Screed and hauling me into a confrontation with responsibility, but by this time, he'd faded from being a constant concern. Europe was experiencing changes. It was a different place from the setting of my mortal life. Both Screed and I had adapted to some of the differences. For The Inka, though, this land was completely at odds with the place from which he'd come. I liked to imagine that he'd turned tail and run back across the ocean, waiting until I stepped onto his territory once more to pick the next fight. Sure enough, I didn't have another run-in with The Inka until I returned to what had become the British and French colonies. It fostered the idea in my head that I was stronger than him, more adaptable, and that I would always get away.
Much to Screed's dismay, I'd taken to giving our innkeeper a fair stipend in exchange for a room. In his words, "H'iffen h'a vamp was meant ta pay fer 'is loot 'n lodgin', 'e wouldn' be h'unborn wit' tha' boozle jammie." True to his words, Screed kept to sacking out in the inn's stables free of charge. "Jes' like rollin' from tha' cradle ta tha' kitchen. Nev-a' short h'of h'a snack where's there's hay."
So, while I paid for the privilege of a mildly lumpy mattress, heavy curtains, candlelight, and slightly fewer rats, Screed did little but eat his days away, settling in whatever stall was unoccupied for privacy while he cut into the local vermin population.
He tended to cause comment wherever he went, drawing a rough crowd open to his kind of folk songs, his kind of cussedness, and his kind of dirty deals. He had no trouble fitting in among the common folk in the towns and villages we passed through. When we stayed long enough, Screed found a tie to every piece of business under the table and managed to work out his cut of it. He redirected every livre and pistole of his ill-gotten gains to his favorite pastime after sailing - squandering.
Though the daylight sent us in different directions, the night invariably found Screed and I in the taproom of the inn or one of its sister establishments in the quarter. Screed had no shortage of cronies willing to throw dice with him, and on this occasion he'd found a gambling mark that didn't bleed him dry for a change.
"Up h'a milley this week, V-Man," he chortled as he bought another round of ale for the house, financed, of course, by coins he'd 'borrowed' from someone else's purse. "H'at this rate, Aye'll h'own me h'own fleet. Wot say we take h'a run back ta tha' sea when we dust this joint?"
"The sea, it is," I agreed, making no mention of the fact that Screed's plucked goose was an officer in the local treasury, not at liberty to settle the degree of debt he'd accumulated in any fashion that didn't involve robbing the king or the peasants. Any gold or silver my friend scored from either quarter would be ill-gotten gains of the most troublesome kind. Chances were Screed would never jingle a single livre of the thousand in his pocket, and, if he did, hitting the open ocean to escape prosecution for some minor bureaucrat's crime or oppression would become a necessity rather than a preference. I held my tongue and wished Screed well in his fun. "May Lady Luck go with you, my friend." Looking exceedingly pleased with himself, he returned to the gambling with a feverish glint in his eyes - not inspired by the hunger, but by Screed's favorite mistress - the promise of money.
What did it matter if we had to flee Lyon in a hurry? He was having a good time, at least, and I ... well, I was feeling restless, as if I was searching for something I couldn't name. Whatever it was, I certainly hadn't found it in France, so it would be just as well if we moved on to the next destination.
Pulling myself from my thoughts, I scanned the faces of the taproom - the rowdy jubilance of the gamers surrounding Screed, the gusto of the travelers taking a hearty supper after a day on the road - and I decided that my restlessness was simply my own hunger in disguise.
I carelessly met the gaze of one of the blowzy women looking for some paying company, but found myself turning away from the invitation in her eyes. No, she wasn't what I was hungry for. Shaking my head, making an apologetic motion to imply that my pockets were to let, I silently turned her down. When she moved closer anyway, in the mood to make an exception for my sake, I ducked out into the yard.
I covered myself in the darkness as the woman peered out from the inn, easily disappearing from sight within the hood of one of the many covered walkways that wound between and alongside buildings in Lyon. Relaxing as she gave a disappointed sigh and retreated to safety indoors, I decided to stretch my legs, strolling casually about the yard. It made for little more than a mild widening in the cobblestone street. I thoughtfully watched the movements of the other bodies who braved the night as I contemplated exactly what I might have a taste for if tavern wenches were no longer appetizers on the menu.
The rapid beating of hooves approaching gradually overwhelmed the quiet. It was rather late for a wise traveler to be on the move, and the speed of the impending horse implied some urgency. I settled myself by the trough, crossing my arms over my chest, and prepared for whatever entertainment the intensifying clatter brought with it.
Sure enough, the arrival consisted of a lone rider. I paid no attention to the horseman at first, because the horse - it felt like an insult to lump it as just another sample of the species. The power, the sleek dark beauty, how the hard journey left it barely winded - this animal easily outmatched any I had handled over my considerable journeys. I began to consider thoughts of 'boozling' myself a fine ride for my imminent exodus from Lyon.
I turned my attention to the horse's current owner, evaluating my potential prey. The fabric of his garments, the sweep of the plume that extended from his hat - both suggested that he came from the upper echelon of French society. A leather baldric embedded with gold crossed his chest that matched the quality of his saddle. It housed a rapier, the pommel of which reflected at me with the distinct sparkle of encrusted rubies. His boots had been polished to such a degree that, even after a rough gallop in the countryside, a mask of dust couldn't eclipse their gleam. All in all, he looked better suited to visiting with the Quartermaster at Hôtel de Ville than tramping through this old corner of the city. He looked out of his element.
Nobility, I thought to myself, can spare me a horse.
The rider called for an ostler, his voice a haughty command that had the man who scrambled from the stable practically falling to his knees for absolution. It struck me that the rider was recognized in these parts, making me revise my previous assumption. A component of the stable hand's reaction was fear. But if the rider was local nobility, why was he here ... a place for transients and craftsmen?
The rider did not dismount, but snapped an order for the worker to immediately present him with someone capable of making vehicle repairs. "I have a damaged carriage an hour south of here, less on to D'Asile."
While the ostler sputtered an apologetic reply, I mulled over what I had heard. Headed for D'Asile, were they? Even I, in the short sojourn we'd had in this town, had heard the rumors concerning this chateau on the other side of the Saône. The locals believed it haunted. Warnings circulated that those who ventured too near vanished in the night. I'd already decided it must be overly large, with drafty corridors, and the local hot spot for young lovers set on elopement.
The sharp bite of the traveler's voice brought my attention back to his exchange. Apparently the hand had reluctantly informed him that there were no men with the skills he required available at this hour of the night; he could only offer the inn's spare traveling coach for conveyance; repairs would have to wait until the morning.
"Unacceptable!"
"A thousand pardons, M'sieur, but..."
The rider removed his hat, pinpointing the ostler with his focused gaze as he sneered from the saddle. "I do not wish to hear your feeble excuses. The carriage will be fixed tonight!"
Normally, I would have stepped in at this point and shared a few orders of my own, "You will give me your horse. You will stick your big French nose in a pile of shit," but the hypnotic quality of the rider's tone shot my Plan A out of the water. I'd let admiration of his stallion distract me from other signals.
Hell, he was a vampire!
"Oh, yes, yes, M'sieur," the stable hand agreed wholeheartedly. "The carriage will be fixed!" The hand's face fell into despair. "But, by my life, I don't know who will do it!"
My ears picked up a barely perceptible growl of frustration. My nerves tingled as I felt the rising blood lust. I saw his eyes begin to change, channeling the fever of a hunger waiting to be satisfied. "On your life ... Yes. That can be arranged."
I'd found my cue. I stepped forward, clapping my hands together in sarcastic applause as I approached. The rider's gaze narrowed, judging my arrival down his nose as though he needed a spyglass to pick me out from the other peons. The temptation gnawed at me to yank him out of that fine saddle and dump him into the water trough, but I wasn't looking for a fight, at least not yet.
Like I said before, it's not the temptation itself that leads to evil, it's the acting on temptation. The closest I'd ever come to a well-meaning Samaritan, I held the image of a drenched courtier impotent in my thoughts, while I offered aloud with conversational helpfulness, "Not really a bright idea, taking a bite out of him. You never know who may come along." I smiled, letting my teeth glint just enough to show that, yes, I was mocking him. As if on instinct, I realized that he couldn't be that old for a vampire. If he'd been around as long as I had, snot-nosed nobility or not, he'd have learned that killing based on a quick temper was a quick way to get chased out of town by citizens wielding torches and long, pointy sticks, especially in France. Then again, maybe he believed he was exempt because he was snot-nosed nobility.
I stopped as I reached the ostler's side. "You can go," I told him, using my own brand of vampire persuasion. "You're not needed here anymore."
I watched the man walk blank-faced back into the stable, then glanced up at the rider. He'd caught on that I was a member of the undead club, but he wasn't impressed. The feeling was mutual. I didn't see much to like about him beyond his horse.
"If you have finished wasting my time ... " He tightened the reins, and the stallion began to dance, anticipating their departure. "I still need to find someone to do my repairs."
Really, this guy was unbelievable. I had the feeling he expected me to tug my forelock and back away. Instead, I folded one arm across my chest, propping my other elbow on that hand as I stretched to rub my chin in speculation. "Actually, I was going to offer to help you out. I've done my share of repairs over the years ... built stuff, broke the stuff, put the stuff back together ... you get the picture. But if you'd really rather terrorize the locals, no problem, I can just as well hang around here and do ... whatever." I let the last word dangle to suggest that 'whatever' might involve some protection of any terrorized locals.
The rider summed up my offer in two words. "Of course." As if he should have known I could work with my hands just from the look of me. I shot a swift glance at the water trough again, reconsidering my decision to not dunk his big head. Acting on temptation could lead to trouble ... but, in the meantime, it could be pretty damn fun.
The other vampire donned his hat once more, accepting my offer with two additional words: "Follow me." With that, he and his fantastic horse spun and shot out of the yard in the direction from which they had come.
"Didn't offer me a ride," I muttered, shrugging. "Figures."
As swift as the stallion's pace measured by mortal standards, it wasted my time to fly at a speed allowing me to dutifully follow this stranger as he rode to the closest bridge and crossed the river. I asked myself why I was bothering, and my answer came as the twin sister of temptation: I was curious. What was this other vampire escorting in a carriage that required such urgency and attention?
I grew impatient with my repetitive circling over the water, starting to feel more like a vulture than a bird of prey. I gave up following and pushed ahead, figuring that if I failed to locate the disabled vehicle, I'd have no trouble tracking down my new arrogant acquaintance again. I loved to fly; I loved moving fast. Proceeding with caution had never been one of my strong suits. I carelessly forged ahead.
It turned out our destination hadn't been a single carriage, but a quartet of them. Three were black, hardy, functional and loaded with trunks. The other conveyance owned nothing to functionality and everything to appearance. The front half of it tilted at a lopsided angle toward the ground.
A confection in gold and white, gilt covered even the wheels to give the carriage the royal treatment. This vehicle had delicate lines, yet a matched team of four waited impatiently to continue the journey. They looked to be of the same prime quality and power of the stallion I'd coveted earlier. As the animals hooved their eagerness to gallop down the dusty road, I immediately untangled the nature of the problem. The coach was barely sturdy enough to withstand the force of a choirboy pissing on it, much less a hell-bent road trip. It was astounding that the thing hadn't shattered in two as soon as it began to roll.
A set of servants - an outrider, a coachman, a team of men in uniforms that reminded me of the coordinated collection of horseflesh they were trying to soothe - milled in the area around the vehicles. I'd landed quietly within the cover of the forest, but as soon as I stepped into view, the lot of them snapped to attention. The coachman pulled a pistol. "Move along, stranger!"
Yeah, I moved along - I moved along in his direction. If he really wanted me to leave, he should have been more specific. "It looks like you have a problem," I called, gesturing toward the toy carriage's splintered axle.
"That may be," the coachman replied, "but Monsieur de Bourbon has it well in hand. We do not require your assistance, sir." The look he sent me as he cocked the firearm was puritanical in an 'I'll kill you for your own good' way. "It would be best if you left, sir. I have my duty."
I ambled up to the front pair of the horses and began to unfasten them from their harnesses. The servants holding the reins appeared baffled, as though I was some otherworldly creature doing mischief. Surprise, surprise: I was.
"I have to part ways with you on that one," I replied, casual of the pistol still pointed my way. "Duty is only someone else drafting you to handle their dirty work. I'll pass." Loosening the last of the buckles, I slapped the hindquarters of each of the horses, then watched as they bolted for freedom.
"Driver! What is happening?"
I glanced over my shoulder at the sound of a woman's inquisitive voice originating from the toy carriage. I shot the coachman a questioning look. He shook his head. I didn't know how to interpret the signal.
"Just a passerby, Milady," the coachman announced respectfully. "I'll send him on his way."
"Now, why would you want to do that?"
Her voice was cultured, her question good-tempered. I straightened as a graceful hand touched the heavy curtains of the carriage, my breath catching - a mortal heartbeat homed to my ears, faint and slow, but there. A mortal, and yet...
Curtains parted, and her face drifted into view. She wore a velvet cloak, the hood drawn over her hair, but her brows were fair, as was her skin. My first glimpse of her was an incomplete portrait: grey eyes and a long, but delicate, nose, but her mouth drew the brunt of my attention. Her lips were full and red, with a touch of a natural pout to them, the kind of mouth that brought simultaneous promises of sin and sweetness. I suddenly had a clear idea why my new vampire acquaintance was in a hurry to reach his destination and come to the rescue. I also had a clear idea that I intended to take advantage of the fact that I was here with his lady, while he wasted time bouncing on his fine horse's back.
As I approached her, the coachman cleared his throat and spoke again, determined to send me on my way. "This man's chased off two of your team, Milady. He's a vandal!" It seemed this guy knew trouble when he saw it. I did, too, only instead of chasing trouble off with a pistol, I planned to give it a gentlemanly welcome.
Maintaining eye contact, I lifted one of her gloved hands to my lips. I hadn't had any reason to indulge this kind of courtliness before, but what the hell? She smelled of incense and gold - a rich man's woman, an exotic woman, the kind of woman I'd yet to meet in this world.
Bullseye. Exactly what I was hungry for.
Her mouth tilted upward as she avidly observed me kissing her hand. It was as though she searched for reasons to smile. "Dare I hope that you are at my service?"
Her service? I didn't dwell on the various implications of that wording long. "Certainly." Releasing her fingers, I authoritatively moved to open the carriage door. "Your friend, Bourbon, recruited my assistance in town. He's on his way."
She clasped the window frame for a moment, offering a slight resistance to my opening the door as she scanned the area over my shoulder. "He's not with you?" A mystified speculation drifted into her silvery eyes. "You didn't ride?" She made it sound like an impossible feat.
I didn't answer her question directly. "He slowed me down."
She studied me for a moment with a deliberation that made me feel naked and plundered. Before I had a chance to feel resistant or intrigued, her suggestive lips split into a blinding, accepting smile, and she released her grip on the door.
"You should clear that carriage," I said, offering her a hand once more to assist. "You don't want to be inside if it collapses, do you?"
"Of course not. But ... " She brushed at her wide skirts shielded by her velvet cloak, glancing over her shoulder with mild embarrassment into the depths of the carriage. I followed her gaze over the silk cushions, finding an incongruous pair of slippered feet attached to another body cloaked in a velvet mantua identical to the lady's before me. " ... My companion has not fared the trip well," the lady confessed coyly.
I helped her out of the carriage, a part of me rapt at the fit of my hands about her waist, the continued decadent smell of her, the way she lifted her dainty fingers to lower her hood, revealing a crown of golden curls dressed down her back like ribbons of pure sunlight. The other part of me - the rarely-used, cautious, and less horny side of me - recalculated the situation. I'd only detected one faint mortal heartbeat from this gilded conveyance, but I was faced with two females. It rapidly grew apparent that the woman with the mortal heart was not the lady offering me conversation.
I found a twinkle in her eye as she noted I had discovered the way of things. I had stumbled upon Bourbon and Milady - two vampires journeying with their edible retinue. During her earlier study of me, she had come to her own conclusions about my undead state. I offered no comment, but abandoned my assistance of the delectable lady, reaching into the carriage to lift the drained mortal into my arms and judge the damage for myself. I also caught on to the reaction of the servants around us. They all appeared to know the score, each one staring straight ahead, assuming their own kind of masks reflecting stoic disinterest and accursed duty.
Milady wasn't disinterested in the woman's condition. She remained close, touching the back of her hand against the other woman's unnaturally pale cheek. "Marie should recover. I find a week in bed cures most ills." She offered me another smile, one that she wasn't necessarily referring only to mortal ailments or resting between the sheets. Her long chin rose alertly, and she stepped away. "Bourbon is here!"
He arrived in another storm of hooves and frenzy of dust, quickly drinking in the scene with a frown, gracing me with a grand scowl. Naturally, I grinned back at him.
"Ah, Bourbon!" The blonde vision cried, clapping her hands as she skipped to the side his stallion. "Our company has damned you as slow!"
His scowl intensified. My grin grew wider. I was rather surprised that she had perceived my double speak. Discovering her wit made my teeth itch for her all the more.
She grasped one of Bourbon's suede-covered hands and pulled, friskily encouraging the Frenchman out of his saddle like a puppy tugging on a litter mate's ear. Though, once on the ground, he settled his hands around her waist from behind, I re-evaluated their relationship for a third time. Side-by-side, these two didn't strike me as rabid lovers, but something still bonded them.
"In any case ... " She angled her head, beaming at Bourbon. "I am very pleased. You did well in fetching ... " She shot a look at me, her mouth forming an 'O' of horror which she swiftly shielded with on hand. "How rude of me. We made no introductions! You have heard us refer to Monsieur Philippe de Bourbon," she said as she stepped forward again briskly, presenting me one hand in greeting. "I am Milady Lucrece de Valentinois, and you are ... ?"
"A man with his arms full." I nodded apologetically at her proffered hand. Obviously I was meant to play cavalier again and supply my own derivations, but I was still carrying the drained mortal's body. It didn't strike me as good manners to dump the companion on the ground if I was trying to charm her lady. Not trying to be rude, but remaining frank, I added, "Besides, I don't have a name."
"Everyone important has a name," Bourbon announced for my benefit.
As soon as Lucrece recognized my social dilemma, she aimed an impatient look at her servants. Two grooms immediately jumped forward and relieved me of my mortal burden, sweeping the body out of sight. Out of mind, too, I suppose.
She eyed Bourbon a reprimand for his comment then dropped her hand as she questioned me. "You have no name at all?" She sounded highly doubtful of the possibility.
"None that I want to use," I admitted.
A hint of a frown wrinkled her "No name ... " She shook her head slowly. "No. That's hardly suitable. It's completely..."
"Common," Bourbon supplied.
She waggled a finger at the Frenchman. "That is not the word I was hunting." Smiling at me again, plans machinating in her stormy eyes, she said, "You, M'sieur, strike me as someone far too dashing to be nameless. Come now, you're Spanish, aren't you? I can always tell," she boasted knowingly. "My family was Spanish, too, from the House of Játiva. No doubt you're holding back a fine Spanish name. You can tell me," she coaxed.
She had a way of asking, a way of hopeful wishing dancing in her eyes, that I was tempted to share. But I was only tempted. I didn't act. Instead, I said, "You're from Spain? Funny, your name sounded French to me."
She laughed, a clear, free-spirited sound. She took my hands and swung around me, almost as if she was dancing. "Exactly! No vampire uses his or her birth name! It would be so dull for eternity."
Bourbon made a sound of protest causing Lucrece to laugh again. "Oh, except for Bourbon. He still stubbornly uses his mortal name, but he can be forgiven. He's practically a vampire baby!" Another grunt of protest from the Frenchman at her teasing had her sending me a conspiratorial look. "And he's so proud, don't you think?"
I didn't comment, merely met Bourbon's glare. He knew my answer.
Lucrece paraded happily around the forest clearing, discovering a stump upon which she wished to sit. There was a scramble among the servants to throw an ermine rug and pillows over it as a makeshift throne before she came to rest. Toying with the index finger of her left glove, she continued, "Even as a mortal I went under different names, depending on my circumstance. There were many - some for lovers, some for enemies: Barbara, Regent, F.F., la Duchessa di Ferrara ... " Her voice trailed off in dreamy memory. All at once, her chin snapped up, her mood again attentive. "The point is, I call myself what I like at any given moment."
"Maybe I like being nameless," I countered.
Dismay washed over her features. "You cannot!" Her pout grew pronounced, her tone cajoling. "Oh, do say you cannot like it. Even a set of initials would be far more satisfactory, far less..."
"Common," Bourbon echoed.
"Hush!" Lucrece warned the Frenchman crossly, before she raised one arm in my direction, beckoning me to approach. "Please. Surely a gallant such as yourself could find it in your heart to grant me a few precious letters."
In retrospect, maybe it seems like heavy-handed flattery, flowery and insincere. I assure you, Lucrece was always sincere. She meant everything, even the untruths, with her entire heart. She was just, like me, inconsistent. Of course, I hadn't realized all of that at this point. No, then, hearing her words, seeing in her eyes that she wanted me - I was tempted by the luxury of her. Maybe I was a fool, and it was just another one of those masks we acquire, but when I looked at her, all I could see was desire.
I took her hand, dropped to one knee in front of her, and bowed as if she was the queen of the world. I was playing to the illusion that I was gallant, that I was the type of man used to her type of dancing rather than someone who'd spent the past century scrounging around with the everyday heroes and reprobates the world had to offer. It was so unlike me to enter this drama, this display of courtliness and poetry. The world I lived in - make that existed in - had a far more direct style. But, worshiping her hand, playing the part, whispering, "J. V." softly as if it was an invitation to my bed, meeting her expectations - there's always a first time.
"J. V.," she sighed pleasantly. "That will do for a start." Her expression carried promises that set my imagination off and running.
Our mutual admiration was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat. Bourbon dug at it again, playing his own designated role of disapproving shadow. "Fantastic. While you moon over initials, time is passing, dawn approaches, and we make no headway."
"Speak for yourself," I said under my breath as I rose from the ground.
"I allowed you to come here," he told me loftily, "to repair our conveyance, not to tickle my family's fancy."
I consulted Lucrece. "You're family, are you?" That answered one of my questions.
"In more ways than one," she replied enigmatically, elevating one hand to clasp the Frenchman's fingers again. "Bourbon is a descendant of one of my mortal brothers. Family is very important to me," she finished, her eyes acquiring a cast that gave the first hint of an iron will.
She was emphatic about the importance of family, but giving Bourbon another glance, I saw impatience in his expression rather than sentiment.
"You said you had the skills to fix the carriage," he challenged me. "Can you, or did you overestimate your talents?"
"Oh, I could fix it," I assured him lazily. "I could, but I'm not going to."
Bourbon growled, almost overshadowing Lucrece's gasp of surprise. "Why not?" she asked plaintively, her hands cupped against her heart as if I'd struck a death blow.
"I could replace the axle, but that would take time. If you then drove at the necessary speed to reach D'Asile by dawn, I guarantee that something else will break. That frame wasn't built sturdy enough for anything swifter than a parade. That carriage might work for rolling around Paris, but it's not a practical choice for cross-country."
"But it's pretty. It's the style," she said in shallow argument.
"That may be, but you're not traveling in style tonight. And, in the future," I nodded to remind her I'd set half her team free, "you should reduce your horse power."
"And, if we accept your gracious lack of assistance," Bourbon complained, "How do you expect Milady to travel? In a coach with the servants?"
He sounded so appalled, I laughed, allowing the horror to sink into his expression all the more because I could treat the subject so casually. Giving him a break, I suggested what was, in my opinion, a reasonable alternative. "Barring that, you could always fly."
Bourbon and Lucrece shared bemused smile, the latter patting my arm as though to console me in my ignorance. "Really, J. V.," Lucrece explained, drawing me a picture of her world. "One never flies when one can ride. Traveling under your own power is always the most desperate option." She stood, and two servants immediately swept up the pillows and brushed the ermine free of dirt in her wake. She marched to the horses and unfastened one of the remaining buckles. As soon as she completed that token effort, she stepped away, allowing another servant to take her place to finish the bulk of the job.
"We'll unpack two saddles and take the remaining pair." She paused, her authority fading, replacing it with an entreaty in my direction. "You are joining us, aren't you? Be my guest. I vow that I will need an ample amount of your company so that I can work on your ... name."
"I'd be honored to be your guest." Honored. Honored is just another word for 'tempted.' I was. Sorely tempted, because when she vowed to work in my company, I understood that she had more than one meaning in mind. I wanted her. I was tempted. I acted on that temptation, and to hell with the consequences.
She was a free spirit, so was I. She was Spanish, so was I. For those reasons, I already knew her. For the differences: her golden hair, her pale eyes, the way she could be wise and clever in one moment, then prattle like a complete idiot the next, the way she desired me ... for those reasons, I wanted to know her better.
Come to think of it, I've known a lot of blonde, blue-eyed women. Weird. It's never really worked out, either. Well, at least, not like I expected. Not like they expected.
You're frowning again. What is it?
"You're not including Tracy among that legion, are you?"
Uh ... I'll get back to you on that.
"Wrong answer."
What did you expect?
"This isn't my confessional. Tell me: this woman - Lucrece de Valentinois. She told you that wasn't her real name."
Right.
"Did you ever learn who she really was?"
When it no longer mattered. Not that it ever mattered. I take it you met her earlier than me.
"Lucrezia Borgia? Yes, but how do you know I met her before you?"
A good guess.
"She was a mortal at the time."
Sounds like a story I'd kill to hear.
"I'll try to remember the details sometime."
Try? You obviously didn't know Lucrece like I did. If you had, you wouldn't have to try to remember anything. She was the kind of woman you don't forget.
Read Chapters Three and Four Return to Story Index