“I killed them,” he told Sascha. He could feel the life in his friend’s flesh through his thick leather jacket, the heat of his living blood, and he wanted it, wanted to feed from him as he had seen the others feed from his friends in the hall; he was desperate to taste the blood, to take possession of the pounding heart. But he would not; he would not be this monster, this vampire. He heaved the Russian’s arm over his shoulder, headed for the forest. “I killed Lucan Kivar.” And Lucan Kivar killed me, he thought as the pain in his belly writhed harder, burning like molten lead. A wolf let out a howl in the distance, an evil, mocking sound that cut through the roar of Sascha’s blood, the pounding of the still-beating heart. “These mountains,” Simon whispered, looking up, feeling the fangs grow sharp against his tongue. He wanted to resist it, wanted to be what he had always been, but the blood would not be silent, the hunger
would not let him go. Vampire… he was a vampire. “Sascha… you were right.”
He flung his friend against the gate with killing force—he heard bones breaking in his back and shoulders, the ripe thud of his skull against the stones. For one clear moment, he saw Sascha’s face, saw sadness in his eyes, and his heart cried out in horror. But the demon hunger would not be denied. Snarling like the beast he had become, he sank his teeth into the Russian’s throat, his vampire fangs tearing through the vein to reach the hot, sweet blood. His mind reeled, sick with shame, but suddenly his body was in ecstasy again, the same mad joy he’d felt before but better, somehow, warmer and more real. Only when the heartbeat stopped, when Sascha went limp as a rag in his arms, did he stop. Drawing back in horror, he saw Sascha’s head lolled on his shoulders, his eyes dead and staring like the rest.
“The first time is always the worst.” The dwarf was standing in the shadows, watching. “The need for blood will never be so strong again. Or so I have been told.”
Simon stared at him for a moment, the feeling that all of this must surely be a dream taking hold of him again. Then he looked down at Sascha, and the truth made him tremble so violently he thought he must surely collapse. “What am I?” he said, letting the body drop. “Who are you?”
“My lady told you, you are a vampire,” the dwarf said, coming closer. He covered Sascha’s face with his mantle, a kindly, graceful gesture. “And I am Orlando.”
“Orlando,” Simon repeated. “And who is that?”
“My lady’s servant.” He offered Simon a cloth, gesturing toward his own face, and Simon took it, wiping the blood from his mouth as if this were the natural thing to do. “Her father was the caliph here, but Lucan Kivar killed him long ago.”
“And the child?”
“Her younger brother.” He reached into his pocket and took out a bottle, its glass red as a ruby in the moonlight. “Kivar promised he would let him live to manhood if she did his will,” he explained, gazing at it. “But she betrayed him.”
Simon remembered the look on her face as Francis fell dead at her feet, the dagger that killed him still clutched in her fist. “She murdered my lord—”
“For a mercy,” Orlando said, cutting him off. “Would you rather your lord be like you are?” Simon looked away, unable to answer. “Come, warrior.” The dwarf reached up and touched his arm, his head barely reaching Simon’s elbow. “We have much to discuss be fore morning.” A crash rang out from the direction of the palace, and Orlando smiled, putting the bottle back into his pocket. “My lady awaits.”
The girl was hacking down the shutters in the hall with an axe that should have been much too heavy for her to pick up, much less wield with such vigor. “Orlando, seal the catacombs,” she said as they came in. “Most of the others will take shelter in the caves, but some will still be stupid enough to come back.”
“The others?” Simon said. She swung the axe again, shattering another window frame.
“The other vampires.” She dropped the axe to rip down the draperies. “The sunlight will destroy them— kill all of us.” She looked back at Simon. “Unless you kill me first.”
“No!” Once again, Orlando hurried to put himself between them. “You can be saved, my lady, you know it—both of you can be absolved of your crimes. The Chalice—”
“The Chalice is a foolish superstition,” Roxanna cut him off.
“How can you say so?” he retorted. “How can you speak of superstition, standing here, in this hall, a vampire yourself—”
“A monster,” she agreed.
“In body, yes, but not of your own will or your own making,” the dwarf insisted. “I swear to you, you can be saved. I have seen it. This warrior—”
“Simon,” Simon interrupted, barely listening. The duke still lay where he had fallen. A pair of bluish purple wounds had been torn in his throat, delicate by comparison to the gashes the other corpses wore. “My name is Simon.” He knelt beside the body. “Who bit him?”
“I did,” Roxanna answered. “We can feed from the dead if we choose.”
“And you?” Simon said to Orlando, turning from the girl, unable to so much as look at her. “You are a vampire, too?”
“No, Simon, not me,” Orlando said. “Kivar thought me a monster in my own right because of my stature, unworthy of his blood.”
“Would that all of us had been the same,” Roxanna said, turning away.
“You were not chosen by accident, Simon,” Orlando continued, coming to him. “Kivar wanted English knights—he needed English soldiers.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Roxanna said, picking up her axe.
“He knew the Chalice was in England,” Orlando continued. “He knew it could destroy him—”
“He is destroyed!” the girl insisted.
“You think so?” Orlando demanded, turning back to her. He snatched up Kivar’s empty robe, still dripping with noxious, black-green filth. “You think Lucan Kivar, a creature older than the mountains where we stand, has been reduced to this?” Roxanna didn’t an swer, but Simon could see from her face that she did not, as dearly as she longed to believe it. “No, my lady, my beloved,” the dwarf said, dropping the robe. “He is gone, but he is not destroyed. In my visions, I have dreamed of his return.”