again.
He landed lightly behind Luk, who must have felt the rush of displaced air, for he turned his head without interest to glance over his shoulder.
Saloman spoke softly, in the Ancient language of their people. “Greetings, Luk.”
Luk froze, his mouth open, his eyes wide. Ahead, the others didn’t appear to notice that Luk was dawdling again.
Luk turned slowly, as if he couldn’t help it, and stared at Saloman. Oh, yes, they were Luk’s eyes, hazel and luminous, the eyes of a seer and prophet. But curiously blank as Saloman had never seen them before—half-dead because only half-awakened. Without the memories that had formed him, he wasn’t yet Luk. His lips moved silently; some huge, internal struggle crossed his face and ended in his eyes with a flash like lightning.
“Saloman.”
It came out as a whisper, and yet the stupid joy of his recognition crashed around Saloman’s ears like an earthquake. Look out, world.
Luk took two steps forward. “Saloman,” he said again, loudly enough to catch the attention of the vampires in front. Saloman ignored them. Luk’s lips twisted with effort or pain or both. Blood gathered at the corners of his eyes and he smiled.
Saloman’s heart seemed to break. And then, with the sort of speed he’d almost forgotten, Luk launched himself at him.
Saloman fell back under the force. His arms, already lifted from instinct to defend and kill, lowered slowly around his cousin’s heaving body.
He wasn’t under attack; he was being embraced.
I can save him, Saloman thought, stunned. Luk was collapsing under the force of returning identity. Saloman sank to his knees with him, holding him in compassion and happiness and sheer relief from a horror he had never wanted to acknowledge. Luk the Guardian of his people, the prophet, was back.
Over his bowed head, Saloman watched the vampires’ wary approach. Since his mask was already dropped for Luk, there was no need of any warning. They all knew they beheld Saloman, the Ancient, the overlord of the undead. And then there was Dante, looking exactly the same, although unable to resist smiling to show off his new vampire incisors.
Saloman wasn’t fooled. It hadn’t been part of Dante’s plan to have Luk return to the arms of his cousin and killer. Dante was worried.
“Luk!” the senator said sharply, and with rising fury Saloman understood that this was how he always addressed the being whose boots he wasn’t fit to lick.
Luk ignored him. The heaving of his shoulders had become almost convulsive, like a human battered by emotion. He needed peace for this, which he’d never get here.
“Luk, come with me,” Saloman whispered into his cousin’s hair.
“Saloman,” Luk said in wonder. His fingers grasped at Saloman’s back and slowly relaxed. His head lifted. “Saloman!”
There was no love, no happiness, left in those hazel eyes, just boiling fury and profound, gut-rotting hatred. It gave Saloman an instant’s warning—not enough to get his blow in first, but enough to let him fall without breaking his neck when Luk hurled him into the side of the hill.
Luk flew after him, baring his teeth for the bite. But Saloman forced himself to his feet and simply leapt over his cousin’s head, drawing sword and stake as he went, to face the lesser vampires. None of them was armed, except Dante, whom Saloman singled out.
“No mercy,” he hissed. “No quarter.”
“Saloman!” yelled Luk. “Don’t hurt your ‘brother’!”
Saloman adjusted his position to defend from either side. Luk lunged, but before he got close enough, Dante called in panic, “Stop! You’re not strong enough yet! He’ll kill us all! Back off!”
Then Luk stood between him and Dante as they backed away from him. Saloman strode forward, and they rushed backward to get away from him, tripping over each other. Saloman lashed out, killing two of the lesser vampires on Dante’s left with as many lightning strokes of his stake. Their bursting
He landed lightly behind Luk, who must have felt the rush of displaced air, for he turned his head without interest to glance over his shoulder.
Saloman spoke softly, in the Ancient language of their people. “Greetings, Luk.”
Luk froze, his mouth open, his eyes wide. Ahead, the others didn’t appear to notice that Luk was dawdling again.
Luk turned slowly, as if he couldn’t help it, and stared at Saloman. Oh, yes, they were Luk’s eyes, hazel and luminous, the eyes of a seer and prophet. But curiously blank as Saloman had never seen them before—half-dead because only half-awakened. Without the memories that had formed him, he wasn’t yet Luk. His lips moved silently; some huge, internal struggle crossed his face and ended in his eyes with a flash like lightning.
“Saloman.”
It came out as a whisper, and yet the stupid joy of his recognition crashed around Saloman’s ears like an earthquake. Look out, world.
Luk took two steps forward. “Saloman,” he said again, loudly enough to catch the attention of the vampires in front. Saloman ignored them. Luk’s lips twisted with effort or pain or both. Blood gathered at the corners of his eyes and he smiled.
Saloman’s heart seemed to break. And then, with the sort of speed he’d almost forgotten, Luk launched himself at him.
Saloman fell back under the force. His arms, already lifted from instinct to defend and kill, lowered slowly around his cousin’s heaving body.
He wasn’t under attack; he was being embraced.
I can save him, Saloman thought, stunned. Luk was collapsing under the force of returning identity. Saloman sank to his knees with him, holding him in compassion and happiness and sheer relief from a horror he had never wanted to acknowledge. Luk the Guardian of his people, the prophet, was back.
Over his bowed head, Saloman watched the vampires’ wary approach. Since his mask was already dropped for Luk, there was no need of any warning. They all knew they beheld Saloman, the Ancient, the overlord of the undead. And then there was Dante, looking exactly the same, although unable to resist smiling to show off his new vampire incisors.
Saloman wasn’t fooled. It hadn’t been part of Dante’s plan to have Luk return to the arms of his cousin and killer. Dante was worried.
“Luk!” the senator said sharply, and with rising fury Saloman understood that this was how he always addressed the being whose boots he wasn’t fit to lick.
Luk ignored him. The heaving of his shoulders had become almost convulsive, like a human battered by emotion. He needed peace for this, which he’d never get here.
“Luk, come with me,” Saloman whispered into his cousin’s hair.
“Saloman,” Luk said in wonder. His fingers grasped at Saloman’s back and slowly relaxed. His head lifted. “Saloman!”
There was no love, no happiness, left in those hazel eyes, just boiling fury and profound, gut-rotting hatred. It gave Saloman an instant’s warning—not enough to get his blow in first, but enough to let him fall without breaking his neck when Luk hurled him into the side of the hill.
Luk flew after him, baring his teeth for the bite. But Saloman forced himself to his feet and simply leapt over his cousin’s head, drawing sword and stake as he went, to face the lesser vampires. None of them was armed, except Dante, whom Saloman singled out.
“No mercy,” he hissed. “No quarter.”
“Saloman!” yelled Luk. “Don’t hurt your ‘brother’!”
Saloman adjusted his position to defend from either side. Luk lunged, but before he got close enough, Dante called in panic, “Stop! You’re not strong enough yet! He’ll kill us all! Back off!”
Then Luk stood between him and Dante as they backed away from him. Saloman strode forward, and they rushed backward to get away from him, tripping over each other. Saloman lashed out, killing two of the lesser vampires on Dante’s left with as many lightning strokes of his stake. Their bursting
Similar Books
