“You cannot command me, Father,” Simon said, though in truth the priest’s words did affect him, make him feel a powerful compulsion to obey. This was a truly righteous man, a true priest of the Christ. “You cannot see what you have seen,” the vampire said sadly. “You cannot remember this night.”
“This night,” the priest repeated, his eyes going dim in the trance. Of all the gifts his cursed state had given him, Simon liked this one the least and used it the least often, the power to sway mortal minds. The more innocent his victim, the more easily and deeply he could entrance them, bending their thoughts to his will. “The Black Knight,” Father Colin said, understanding dawning in his eyes. “You are Isabel’s Black Knight.”
“Yes,” Simon answered, though in truth he didn’t have the slightest notion what the old man meant. Sometimes this happened; a victim’s mind would find its own solution, its own way of explaining away the evil it had witnessed. “I am her Black Knight.”
“Come,” Orlando ordered, bringing Simon his sword. “You must away. The Father and I will take care of this mess.” He looked the vampire up and down with a wry smile. “And find you something to wear.” Simon looked down at his tunic, slashed and soaked with blood. “Go, warrior,” the dwarf repeated, giving him a push.
Outside, it was full dark. Simon stood among the fallen stones of the old Roman temple and closed his eyes, breathing in the cool, misty air as if his body still required it. His flesh was tingling with life, but it was an illusion, vitality stolen from his victim’s blood. For a few precious hours after feeding, he would feel almost himself again, a man with a heart and a soul. He would remember Ireland and the dreams he had once held so dear, see the green fields, remember the warmth of the sun on his back. With a dead man’s blood still flowing in his veins, he would remember how it had felt to be alive, to yearn for love and home.
But come the morning, he would die again. The blood of the kill would be absorbed by his endless hunger, the only life that was real. He was a beast, a predator that killed for no greater purpose but to rise and kill again. All that was left was the blood and his quest, this endless search for a relic he still could not believe would save him. With every night his cursed body walked, he passed more deeply into the shadow, further from God’s grace. Why should this magical Chalice accept him, even if it should exist and somehow he could find it?
Sometimes he envied Roxanna, his sister in cursed blood, sleeping in another world for all these ten years past, a vapor in a bottle. Past all knowledge or control, she no longer felt this yearning he felt now, this illusion of life. If she hungered, Simon did not know and did not care.
The horses of the French knight and his men were tethered just outside the abbey wall. They each looked up at his silent approach, velvet ears laid back as they nickered and chortled in alarm. “You need not fear,” he murmured, holding out his hand. “This wolf means you no harm.” As a man, he had loved horses as only an Irishman could; there was no mount he could not ride, no stallion he could not tame. “Your master is dea
d.” The largest of the three, a dark brown destrier in armor, planted its hooves and tossed its head, whinnying a warning. “I cannot believe you will mourn him.” Almost close enough to touch the velvet nose, he reached for the horse’s bridle.
But just as his fingertips made contact, the horse reared up and screamed, flailing the air with its hooves, and its fellows did the same. The first two broke their tethers easily and fled, the destrier shattering the abbey’s wooden gates. But the third, a smaller gray mare, was trapped. Eyes rolling white with terror, she twisted and contorted, desperate to escape, but her tether would not break.
“I’m sorry,” Simon said, almost pleading, as he drew the knife from his belt. “I swear, love, it’s all right.” Dodging the flailing hooves, he cut the tether with a snap, and the mare reared away so violently she flung herself onto her back. “No!” he shouted, horrified, certain the horse would be crippled, but she struggled back to her feet. Shrieking once more at the vampire, she galloped away, soaring over the broken gate.
“I’m sorry,” Simon repeated, watching as she faded into the night.
“The horses fear you,” a voice spoke softly behind him. The girl the French knight had abused was coming toward him, picking her way between the stones of the ruin. “But I do not.” In the moonlight, he could barely see her bruises; he saw her for the pretty thing she was or once had been. She stopped before him, letting her mantle fall. “I am not afraid.”
“Why are you not?” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand, and she tilted her head, closing her eyes as she leaned into the caress. “You should be frightened, darling.” Even his voice sounded like the old Simon, the lilting poet’s brogue. “You saw clear enough what I am.”
“Yes.” She opened her eyes again. “I saw you.” She smiled. “But I am yours now.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
“I can do things,” she promised. “I can take care of you, and you can keep me safe.” She touched his cheek with her fingertips, tracing through the tears of blood. “Why do you weep?”
He smiled. “I weep for you.” He took her hand and kissed it before putting it away. “I don’t need a cook, little one.”
“Good,” she answered, moving closer. “I didn’t mean cooking.”
Her arms came up around his neck as he kissed her, eager for his embrace, and he groaned, despairing and amused. Such sport was but a comfort for the moment, but he ached for the girl even so, the warmth of her body, the parody of love. He pushed her down among the stones, opening her mouth to his to taste her hot little tongue. Her hands slipped up and down his arms, over his shoulders as he lifted her flimsy skirt. The cleft of her sex was as warm as her mouth, as eager to take him inside. He let sensation take him, closing his eyes as he lost himself in her embrace. The bloodlust he felt now was but a little thing after his feeding before, another nagging hunger like the throbbing in his sex, as easily satisfied. When his pretty comforter cried out, he kissed her throat, finding the vein. With both fists clenched tightly in his hair, she arched her hips to meet him, and he bit her, barely piercing her delicate skin, barely feeding as her climax shivered through her, tasting satisfaction in her blood.
He lifted his head and moved faster, looking down into her eyes. “You will forget me.” Her lips moved in denial, but she could not speak; she could not look away. “You will forget.” He drove into her deeper, holding her pinned to the ground.
“Yes.” She gasped as his climax exploded, trembling again. “I will forget.”
He kissed her cheek as he withdrew, let her go as her body went slack. He tugged her shift back down, and she sighed, rolling onto her side. “Sleep, sweet darling,” he whispered, and she obeyed, as peaceful as a child. Looking up, he saw Orlando coming toward him, smiling and shaking his head.
“Father Colin is sleeping as well now,” the dwarf said when he reached him. “Your spell was very powerful tonight.” He looked down at the girl on the ground. “He’s too old to be much help anyway.”
“I’ll do it,” Simon answered. In the past ten years, he must have dug hundreds of graves; three more shouldn’t take him long. “Give me the purse.” He took out a handful of coins and gave them back to Orlando, then tucked the purse under the sleeping girl’s arm. “Perhaps she can find her way home.”
“The good Father will help her.” Simon spread the girl’s mantle over her like a blanket, tucking in the corners, and his companion smiled. “Come, warrior. I think I have a plan.”
Isabel tied off the bindings on Brautus’s shoulder and sat back. “Better?”
“Aye, poppet.” The aged giant leaned back against the pillows, the lines of pain on his brow giving the lie away. “ ’Tis all but mended.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Let this Frenchman come.”
“Tomorrow.” She made herself smile. “He will come tomorrow.” This great hand had protected her all of her life; this knight was as dear to her as a father. “Maybe he won’t be so bad.” If Brautus tried to fight the Frenchman, he would die. “Maybe I should let him marry me without fighting.”
“No.” His bearded face turned serious, and tears rose in her eyes. “You will not.”