in umber robes moved around him. Someone brought him a human, a small creature that squawked and fought while Pierre fed. Luscious blood, washing away all pain. The body was removed before he even noticed whether it was male or female, adult or child. It didn’t matter.
When his head cleared, he was lying on a couch in a bare stone chamber lit by flaming torches. How familiar it was. There was the tall black chair on a dais where Kristian had sat to hold court. Cesare stood touching the chair, but didn’t occupy it. To do so would be sacrilege.
The other vampires, ten in all, stood grouped around Pierre. Bleached faces, drab robes, no spark of humour. Yet their attention pleased him. They could almost be courtiers, attending a sick monarch.
Pierre felt stronger. He was safe here, certain that Violette could not breach the thick walls. His fear hardened to anger – and now he had an expectant audience to play to.
“What happened to you?” said Cesare. “You were babbling until we fed you.”
“Babbling?” Pierre was affronted. He tried to sit up, but fell back onto the musty cracked leather. Then words started to tumble out. “There’s a new vampire, created only a few months ago, a madwoman called Violette. Long black hair, black like a raven. Loveliest creature you’ll ever see, but she’s crazy, she tried to murder me…”
“Our father Kristian said that a woman’s outer beauty was a sign of inner depravity,” said Cesare. “It seems she has addled your mind.”
“Yes, she has,” Pierre said savagely. He stretched out a hand. “Look how I’m shaking. She did this to me!”
Horror overcame him and his head rolled back. Through a yellow mist he heard the murmur of concerned voices. When his sight cleared, Cesare was standing over him.
“Her name is Violette?” Cesare’s pupils bored into Pierre’s. Beside him, another vampire leaned down. Pierre took a moment to recognise him as John. He had changed drastically since their last encounter. A medieval robe had replaced his modern clothes, and all his hair was gone – ripped out, it appeared, leaving his scalp a bald, livid mass of scars. Soul-sickness pulled his priest-like face into ugly lines.
“He’s talking about Lilith,” said John, before Pierre could ask what had happened to him.
At her name, dread transfigured Cesare’s face. Superstitious revulsion.
“Is it so?”
Pierre nodded mutely. “Has she been here?”
Cesare ignored the question and turned to the others. “Behold, the second one to come here complaining of Lilith!” he exclaimed.
“What does it mean?” said a slender male with yellow hair and black eyes.
“I don’t know yet. But now we have a purpose again. We must find out who she is.”
“John didn’t tell you?” said Pierre. “You’ve never heard of Violette Lenoir?”
They all looked blank. John shook his ravaged head. “The human persona she puts on is a mask. She is Lilith, the demon mother who must be destroyed before she consumes her own children.”
Pierre threw his hands up in exasperation. He liked the modern world. How he loathed all this medieval nonsense of gods and demons, how wretched that he needed the help of these fools!
“When did you last leave the castle, Cesare? If you live like hermits, it’s no wonder you know nothing. You haven’t a clue what goes on in the real world!”
“Of course we leave the castle,” Cesare said thinly. “We have to feed. But your so-called ‘real world’ is one of shadows. Kristian rightly taught us to shun it.”
“I remember. You only go out at night, like the ghosts of monks haunting graveyards. Very gothic. And do you sip only your victims’ life-auras, or have you lapsed from Kristian’s path? Do you steal a little taste of their blood?”
Cesare was thin-lipped. “Kristian was exceptional. Very few can match his high standards of austerity. Tell us of this female, Pierre.”
“She’s a famous dancer. If you ever went out, you
When his head cleared, he was lying on a couch in a bare stone chamber lit by flaming torches. How familiar it was. There was the tall black chair on a dais where Kristian had sat to hold court. Cesare stood touching the chair, but didn’t occupy it. To do so would be sacrilege.
The other vampires, ten in all, stood grouped around Pierre. Bleached faces, drab robes, no spark of humour. Yet their attention pleased him. They could almost be courtiers, attending a sick monarch.
Pierre felt stronger. He was safe here, certain that Violette could not breach the thick walls. His fear hardened to anger – and now he had an expectant audience to play to.
“What happened to you?” said Cesare. “You were babbling until we fed you.”
“Babbling?” Pierre was affronted. He tried to sit up, but fell back onto the musty cracked leather. Then words started to tumble out. “There’s a new vampire, created only a few months ago, a madwoman called Violette. Long black hair, black like a raven. Loveliest creature you’ll ever see, but she’s crazy, she tried to murder me…”
“Our father Kristian said that a woman’s outer beauty was a sign of inner depravity,” said Cesare. “It seems she has addled your mind.”
“Yes, she has,” Pierre said savagely. He stretched out a hand. “Look how I’m shaking. She did this to me!”
Horror overcame him and his head rolled back. Through a yellow mist he heard the murmur of concerned voices. When his sight cleared, Cesare was standing over him.
“Her name is Violette?” Cesare’s pupils bored into Pierre’s. Beside him, another vampire leaned down. Pierre took a moment to recognise him as John. He had changed drastically since their last encounter. A medieval robe had replaced his modern clothes, and all his hair was gone – ripped out, it appeared, leaving his scalp a bald, livid mass of scars. Soul-sickness pulled his priest-like face into ugly lines.
“He’s talking about Lilith,” said John, before Pierre could ask what had happened to him.
At her name, dread transfigured Cesare’s face. Superstitious revulsion.
“Is it so?”
Pierre nodded mutely. “Has she been here?”
Cesare ignored the question and turned to the others. “Behold, the second one to come here complaining of Lilith!” he exclaimed.
“What does it mean?” said a slender male with yellow hair and black eyes.
“I don’t know yet. But now we have a purpose again. We must find out who she is.”
“John didn’t tell you?” said Pierre. “You’ve never heard of Violette Lenoir?”
They all looked blank. John shook his ravaged head. “The human persona she puts on is a mask. She is Lilith, the demon mother who must be destroyed before she consumes her own children.”
Pierre threw his hands up in exasperation. He liked the modern world. How he loathed all this medieval nonsense of gods and demons, how wretched that he needed the help of these fools!
“When did you last leave the castle, Cesare? If you live like hermits, it’s no wonder you know nothing. You haven’t a clue what goes on in the real world!”
“Of course we leave the castle,” Cesare said thinly. “We have to feed. But your so-called ‘real world’ is one of shadows. Kristian rightly taught us to shun it.”
“I remember. You only go out at night, like the ghosts of monks haunting graveyards. Very gothic. And do you sip only your victims’ life-auras, or have you lapsed from Kristian’s path? Do you steal a little taste of their blood?”
Cesare was thin-lipped. “Kristian was exceptional. Very few can match his high standards of austerity. Tell us of this female, Pierre.”
“She’s a famous dancer. If you ever went out, you
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