“From Ireland originally, Father,” Simon said, turning back to him with his most winning smile. “But aye.” The sky outside the window was almost black now, a deep twilight. “I have seen Jerusalem.” He had not fed for fear of frightening the keeper of the church.’Twas an oddly comic feature of his curse that he should appear most demonic just after he was sated, his eyes aglow with devil’s fire. When he was starved and therefore dangerous, he could easily pass for a man. “So will you tell me, Father? Is there holy treasure here?”
“Not here, my lord.” Father Colin lit another torch. “But there is a castle.” He motioned to a bench beside the window, and Simon sat down. “Another scholar, Sir Gabriel of Charmot, built it on an ancient ruin many years ago. This castle may hold what you seek.”
“The castle Charmot?” Simon exchanged a glance with Orlando. They had read the name Charmot in many texts in their travels, but they had thought it was a person, not a place, one of the Chalice’s ancient protectors.
“Just so,” the priest agreed. “Sir Gabriel was a godly man; I knew him well. He told me there were catacombs beneath the castle, an endless labyrinth of tunnels.” He was smiling at Simon with such a look of speculation, the vampire wondered suddenly if the old man might be mad. “If your quest is righteous, perhaps God will lead you to the prize you seek.”
Before Simon could form an answer, the bell at the gate rang out. “Another visitor so late?” Father Colin frowned. “I am much blessed tonight.” He took up his torch. “Wait here, my lord, may it please you. I would speak with you further on this matter.”
“As you wish,” Simon answered, rising as the priest went out.
“We should leave this church,” Orlando said as soon as he was gone. “We will go to this Ca
stle Charmot, see what they can tell us there.”
“Aye, wizard, we will.” In their first nights together, Simon had been grateful for Orlando’s guidance. But now that he began to understand the demon that he was, he was far less willing to be scolded like a child. “But we still have business here.” He had sensed something as soon as the gate bell rang, a scent he had learned to pick out from a thousand others, be they in the multilayered stench of Venice or the clean, cold wind of this plain. He smelled evil. He smelled prey.
“You should give me tithe to stay here, old man.” A drunken voice was laughing in the corridor outside. “I am a righteous champion.” The door was flung open hard enough to crack against the wall, and a man in armor came in. The knight, if he could rightly hold such title, looked like many of the brigands they had seen in England, more robber than protector. Nearly as tall as Simon but twice as broad, he had the swollen, blotchy face of a longtime drunkard and the swaying gait to match, but his small, pale eyes glittered with wakeful malice. “Tomorrow I fight the Black Knight.” He was followed by two other men in leather armor, as dirty and drunk as himself, and a smaller creature swathed head to toe in a stained green mantle—a woman.
The leader saw Simon. “But who are you, sirrah?” His eyes narrowed as he took in his costume, the clothes of a true knight. “What is your business here?”
Simon smiled. “A traveler like yourself.”
“Master, I beseech you.” Orlando tugged at his sleeve. “We are looked for at another house this night.”
“God’s helmet, look at that!” the brigand knight exclaimed, his entire manner changing in an instant. “C’est un nain, mes amies—voilà!”
“You are all welcome, my lords,” Father Colin interrupted. “Come, sit down—I will go inside and make our supper.” He paused beside the woman as if to speak to her, then seemed to think better of it. Glancing once more between Simon and the brigand knight, he hurried away to his lodging.
“Where did you get it?” the brigand knight demanded, still gaping at Orlando like an idiot. “Has it always been so small?”
“Smaller, I would imagine, or hope for the sake of his mother,” Simon answered. “But when I met Orlando, he was already full grown.”
“Full grown,” the knight repeated with a chuckle. His eyes moved to Simon, sizing him up now. “What will you take for him?” Simon felt the dwarf grow tense beside him, and he put his hand on his shoulder. “I am near to acquiring a castle,” the Frenchman continued. “I will need a fool. Does it sing?”
“Not that I have heard,” Simon answered, trying not to smile. If Orlando had harbored any misgivings about the vampire’s intentions, no doubt they were fading away. “My servant is not for sale.”
The brigand’s smile faded. “Do not be so quick to say it, traveler,” he said. “You, come here.” He grabbed the woman by the arm and pushed her forward. “I will give you this in trade.” He yanked away the mantle, and she let out a shriek of indignation, fighting for it a moment before her arms fell back to her sides. She was barely more than a child with golden hair—a pretty thing when they’d taken her, no doubt. Now her mouth and eye were swollen and bruised, and the thin shift that was her only garment torn and stained with what Simon willfully decided must be mud. She looked at the vampire for barely a moment before looking back down at the floor, but Simon thought he saw the ghost of a smile on her lips, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.
“Your offer is tempting, my lord,” Simon said, giving the title an emphasis that was unmistakably ironic. But in truth, he could barely hear his own voice, so loud was the roar of his hunger and the pounding of the brigand’s heart in his ears. “But I must decline.”
“You must decline?” the man repeated, and his men laughed, coming closer. “I must insist you accept.” He put his hand on his sword hilt, and his henchmen followed suit.
“You would fight me in the church?” Orlando took a step away, and Simon gave him a wink. You see? he seemed to tell the dwarf. The idiot leaves me no choice. “Before the very cross?”
“Fight you? No, traveler.” The brigand smiled, showing rotten teeth. “We will kill you.” He unsheathed his sword.
Simon drew his sword as well, so quickly his opponents could barely have seen him do it. One moment he was easy prey, a single fighter standing at rest; the next he was the demon. The brigand’s henchmen lunged at him first, one armed with mace and dagger, the other with a sword. Simon killed the swordsman first, parrying his blow like lightning before slicing off his head. The second stabbed him in the back, plunging in the dagger to the hilt, but the vampire barely felt it. He whirled around as the villain raised his mace and caught him by the wrist, twisting the arm in its socket like a mortal man might break a winter twig. The henchman screamed, his eyes rolling wild, and Simon snarled, sinking his fangs into the henchman’s throat.
“Un diable,” their master was saying, his face shiny with sweat. “Tu es Satan.” He clutched his broadsword in both hands, but his body was stinking with fear.
Simon raised his mouth from his first prey’s fountain of blood. “You speak as if you know me.” He twisted the henchman’s head to one side with a snap, cutting off whatever life might still linger inside him. “Are we friends?” He let the corpse fall to the floor.
“Stay away!” The brigand knight dropped his sword and crossed himself. “In the name of Christ, stay back!”
“You dare?” A new rage coursed through Simon, feeding him more surely than the blood now coursing through his veins. “Villain that you are, you call on Christ to save you?” His tongue burned at the mention of the holy name. If he were to wear the cross that hung around this brigand’s neck, his cursed flesh would burn with holy fire. “You prey upon the innocent,” he said, moving closer. “You would defile His holy church, abuse His priest, and yet you have that right.” The injustice was more powerful than any hunger; the rage would no longer be contained. He sprang upon the brigand like a wolf, the two of them rolling together as one as his teeth tore into his heart. The brigand struck him again and again, begging for mercy even as he slashed him with his dagger, but Simon barely heard him, barely felt the pain. All that mattered was the blood, hot and sweet, still laced with the wine this man had drunk and thick with the evil in his heart. This was the food Simon had learned to crave above any other in his ten years as a vampire, the blood of men already damned.
“My holy God…” Father Colin had returned. He stood in the doorway, staring in horror at the vampire feeding at the altar of his God. “Merciful Christ…” He clutched his rosary for strength, holding his ground as Simon let the dead man fall and rose to his feet. The vampire knew from experience how he appeared, the way his black eyes shone with a devil’s flame, the scarlet stain of blood upon his mouth. But the priest did not cower in fear. “Be gone from His church, child of Satan,” he ordered. “In God’s holy name, I command it.”