Chapter Three
What was the point, Richard thought, of having an efficient highway system if it was always made inefficient by constant construction? It seemed to him that there were two seasons in Toronto: winter and rehabilitation. That was the new word for it, coined by other frustrated victims of progress, usually with a few choice descriptive epithets added in. Whatever the word the result was the same, lines of angry motorists sitting in slowly overheating cars, slowly getting angrier, glaring at apparently empty construction zones where no one appeared to be doing anything.
His E-Type Jaguar shuddered slightly as it ticked over in the late afternoon lineup of homeward-bound commuters; he shifted to neutral and fed it some petrol. The carburetor was out of balance again. He’d have to get that fixed. This was a thoroughbred machine that needed lots of patient attention and frequent feedings at the premium pump, but he thought the benefits were well worth the trouble.
Richard had fallen in love with this long, sleek monster as soon as he’d seen it back in the sixties. There’d been a breaking-in period of course, where the vehicle’s many mechanical and electrical faults turned up. He’d made a special project of finding the best repair shop in the area and set them loose on his beautiful wheeled pet to disprove the general opinion that it was merely a status symbol to be seen basking in one’s driveway, but not for actual use. His car was now impeccably behaved: smooth acceleration, amazing power, and a degree of luxury conspicuously absent in other sports models.
All the defects worked out, he then bought six more identical models. Money was no object, so why not? He shipped one to Los Angeles for his frequent visits there, another to Vancouver, and the other four were in Europe: London, Paris, Rome, and Geneva. He would have had one stored in Moscow were it not for the lack of good service facilities and the city’s yet uncertain situation of the present. Poor Russia. He’d spent many wonderful times there and was saddened by this century’s varied upheavals. Perhaps one day, it would return to its former pre-revolution glory, but without the attendant crime and tyranny—hopefully with a better economy to prevent additional rebellions. He thought it might. He’d seen enough changes in his long unlifetime to hope so. He smiled to himself at that word. “Unlifetime.” What an accurate description of the gift that Sabra and her Goddess had given him.
But has it betrayed me?
Damned traffic. It gave him too much time to think. He’d had a surfeit of that in the last few days. The aftermath of what he had come to privately refer to as the “Niagara Horror” had required he do a great deal of thinking about it. And lying. It had been easy enough to lie to Demarest and later Bourland about it, holding to his story of being knocked out and waking in time to escape the fire. So far, forensic evidence to contradict him had not yet surfaced, neither had any of the investigators raised so much as an eyebrow at his accounting, so they believed him. So far.
The forensics team had scraped under his nails and taken a blood sample. Bit of a risk, the latter, but it couldn’t be helped; it would have aroused suspicion if he’d refused to cooperate. So long as they didn’t subject it to a truly in-depth analysis it would pass as being within normal parameters. Only just, but tests down to the DNA level took time and cost money and most police departments had little of either to spare. He chose not to worry about it, having more important concerns.
His sodden clothes had also been taken away as evidence, but the department lent him some old sneakers, mismatched socks, and a fluorescent orange track suit. Richard didn’t mind the vile color; the stuff was dry and didn’t smell of Webb’s death.
Demarest was not amused by any of the sordid business. He’d come down to Niagara himself when the police there called Toronto to inform him of the incident and to confirm Richard’s special ID. Demarest heard the preliminary report from the senior officer on the scene, talked with a few other people, then eventually turned up at the local station house where Richard had been escorted after the paramedics were done with him.
Richard, seated in the dense quiet of an anonymous office, loathed having to speak with the tiresome man, but thought it best to get the ordeal out of the way as he had with all the others.
Demarest strode forcefully in and glowered at Richard. To no effect. “When I called you about your Niagara inquiry this morning you said it was a minor thing. I don’t appreciate being misled, Mr. Dun.”
“At that time it was only minor. I had no idea it would blow up in my face,” he replied truthfully.
“Then perhaps you should leave such investigations to professionals.”
Richard could have pointed out that he was certainly himself a professional—with several lifetimes of experience—but disdained rising to Demarest’s easy bait. “I’ll keep that in mind, Chief Inspector. Until then I shall exercise more caution.”
“All this is going into my report to the PM.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Now why don’t you tell me who S. Geary is?”
“Who?”
“The person who rented the Nissan. They traced the plate number.”
“That’s her name? What’s the ‘S’ stand for?”
“You tell me.”
Richard, tired beyond patience, wanting only peace, looked up to hypnotize him. He’d gotten far enough to lock gazes and about to go just a little deeper and tell him to leave, when the beast suddenly stirred.
No!
He shut things down and turned away. Fast.
Demarest shook instantly awake and seized upon a whole different meaning to Richard’s reaction. “You know her! Who is she?”
It took him a moment to find his voice. “I don’t know her, and I’ve no stomach to play your games. You have my report, and that’s all you need.”
“It’s not nearly enough. You haven’t told me everything.”
“Yes, I left out the part about having a splitter of a headache and a need for air that doesn’t stink of burned meat. If that’s what you want, I’ll be glad to add it in tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m getting out of here.” He picked up the envelope holding his wallet and keys and suited action to word, shutting the door against Demarest’s protests. A uniformed officer gave Richard a ride to the nearest large hotel and left him there. One of his platinum cards did the rest.
Locked in his room, he stripped and went straight in the shower. Hot water this time, but still soaping and scrubbing every inch of his skin.
For two hours.
He couldn’t sleep. Paced instead. Then stared out the window at the cold lights of the city. Whenever his eyes closed he saw the bungalow again, Webb’s pathetic remains, and the cheap, prosaic furniture coated with blood like a field after battle. No battle this, but savage butchery such as he’d never done before in all his time. What vivid pleasure the beast had taken in that feeding. He could not deny his enjoyment of it then, no more than his abhorrence of it now.
But that wasn’t the worst. The worst was the difficulty he’d experienced attempting to push the beast back, of trying to return to his human self. For a hideous time it felt like he would never return, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. And when, with a massive effort of will he did return, it was to squat cowering and shaking in a corner of the room for all the world like a rabid dog.
Very apt, that, for a descendent of a Hound of Annwyn.
And soon, much too soon, he would grow hungry again.
He could kill again and not be lucky enough to get away with it.
There were ways around the risk. With his money and contacts he could buy blood, as much as he needed. That would spare him the necessity of letting go, of letting the beast free, but it would not solve his central problem. No, he had to deal with it before his next feeding, and his heart told him who best to help him.
Sabra would know what was wrong. She always did. He wanted to call her, but a few years ago she’d moved to a very isolated part of Vancouver and hadn’t bothered putting in a phone line.
“When you want to talk, come see me,” she’d said, what she always told him when the necessities of living caused them to separate for any length of time. Whenever he’d been troubled during his centuries of existence he had invariably gone to her, and she, with sublime wisdom, had always calmed him and explained all. How he loved her still and needed her. How he wanted to be with her now.
Do you hear my troubled heart, lady?
Probably so. Her Gift had always been very finely focused on him no matter how many miles lay between them. Perhaps when he arrived in her private corner of the world she’d be right there to greet him and lift away his burden of fear with her smile alone. Just the thought of her was enough to give him hope and comfort. And finally, when the night was nearly over and the eastern sky paled from black to deep blue he drew the light-proof drapes and fell into restless sleep.
Two long days. Two, before the forces of law and order finally let him go.
He arranged to read the other official reports of the incident, overheard the gossip, the speculations; all that mattered was that they did believe his story. No one stopped him when he canceled his many business appointments and booked a first-class seat on the next flight to Vancouver. He’d narrowly escaped a horrible death, after all, who could blame him for wanting to take some time off?
Now, if he could just get through the damned traffic.
He eased the Jaguar into gear as the line began to move and marveled as whatever obstruction ahead suddenly vanished, and all vehicles immediately went into high gear in their breakneck race to see who would reach the next lineup first. He slipped into the passing lane and pushed gently through the gears until the car purred along at an effortless seventy-five miles an hour, leaving everything else in its wake. He had less than an hour to make the flight and no intention of missing it.
Fifteen minutes later, he slid the Jaguar into a parking space at Pearson, got out, took his carry-on from the trunk, locked everything, and made his way to the terminal. He had forty minutes before takeoff. His boarding pass was in order; now came the anticlimax of waiting to be called. He wandered to the passengers’ lounge and sat in an armchair facing the window. Thick clouds today, thank goodness. One less thing to worry about, though his gloves and hat were along if he wanted them, as was a bottle of maximum-strength sunblock lotion. His success with the stuff was limited, but it was better than nothing at all.
Richard watched the great jets lumbering down the runway before—magically, it seemed, defying all the laws of nature—they slowly took leave of the earth and soared into the sky. He understood the general scientific principles behind powered flight, but it still held more than a hint of the miraculous for him to see one of the heavy silver birds actually make it into the sky and stay there.
A voice cut into his reverie, announcing it was time for first-class passengers to board. He collected his bag and left for the gate.
A window seat. He could close the shade down if the light got too much for him. Once settled in, he concentrated his attention on something, anything, outside the window so he wouldn’t have to look at the passengers heading back to the economy section. He always felt a twinge of guilt about traveling first class, and actually catching the eye of anyone not also enjoying his level of luxury added to it, so he looked away. Then the hatch was sealed and suddenly they were moving from the terminal building on the first faltering steps of their journey. His sweating hands tightened on the padded chair arms.
He hated flying.
The plane taxied out, dipping rhythmically like a bus with bad springs, and was soon at the end of the main runway, turning, ready for takeoff. This was the worst moment of all for Richard, being poised and waiting, he was never sure what for. Perhaps it was all show for the tourists to give them a bit of suspense—that or the airlines had a hidden streak of sadism for pale-faced passengers like himself. Then he heard the rise in pitch of the engines and felt the growing pressure against his chest as the plane lumbered forward and began its terrifying struggle for freedom from the ground. It bounced and swung, centering, gathering speed.
God, how I hate flying.
He reminded himself that airplanes were after all, made to fly, not travel at high speed along the ground, so the bumping and swaying, unnerving as it was, meant nothing.
Really, really hate it.
He had from the very first time he’d tried it ninety years ago. Once up it was all right, but the effort of getting there and back again never failed to terrify, though he well knew nothing permanent could happen to him if anything went wrong.
That still did little to ease his fears, especially a few decades later when he’d gone down in an air crash. Sometimes in dreams he could still hear the screams and prayers of the doomed passengers as the stricken plane plunged toward the ground. What stayed with him, stark cold in his memory, were the faces, the panicked eyes of the stewardesses as they tried to calmly put the quite ineffective crash drill into effect. One, he remembered, had been silently crying the whole time.
Richard himself had sat frozen, gripping the arms of his seat, white-knuckled, waiting for the pain. He discovered long ago that his agelessness came with a price. Every injury he suffered hurt him as much as if he’d been a normal man. The first time a sword blade ran him through after his change had been surprising agony. He could not then imagine what the aftermath of a plane crash was going to be until seconds later it hit the ground and utterly obliterated the lives and hopes and dreams of every person on board save one. He’d lain, body smashed, for what seemed an eternity of agony, wishing that he could die, until his body finally mended itself enough to move, and he was able to stagger away into the darkness before the arriving search parries found him feeding, by necessity, off the dead. Not something he was proud of, but better them than some hapless rescuer.
He’d tried his best to avoid air travel ever since. However, as the century progressed and aircraft became more and more indispensable in this speeded up, impatient age, he was often forced to use them.
But the fear never left him. And never would.
Faster and faster the plane went, and just as Richard had decided this was it, they weren’t going to make it this time, the nose lifted and the ground swooped away. Trying to control his breathing, Richard went through his usual takeoff routine, counting slowly up to sixty. Someone had once told him during a stopover that if something happened within sixty seconds of leaving the ground, there was no chance of doing anything to avoid the catastrophe. So every takeoff he counted the requisite number and then felt marginally better.
Ritual complete. They hadn’t crashed.
He gradually allowed himself to become convinced that they were safe after all. For the moment. Until they landed.
He pulled down the window shade, accepted the attendant’s offer of pillow and blanket, and told her that he would not need the in-flight meal or any other refreshment. Then he turned to the window and closed his eyes, but not to sleep. He’d already had a bad dream about Webb; he didn’t want to tempt his inner mind to more. Instead, he did his best to think about Sabra, and that cache of sweet memory helped as it always did.
Several hours later, in the gathering dusk, the majestic bird dipped its wings to begin a stately descent into Vancouver. Richard cautiously pulled up the shade and looked at the scene below. The seemingly infinite mountain ranges had finally ended and the plane had unerringly found its way to the Fraser River valley, following its sweep toward the Pacific. The lights of the city twinkled below him, and towering in the distance to the south was Mount Baker, flushed pink by the last rays of the setting sun. As the plane turned northward on its final descent the sun slipped below the horizon, picking out the Gulf Islands and the comfortable rectangularity of Point Roberts in a final act of defiance. Then the plane sank into the gathering night, and amid the screech of tires and the roar of reverse thrust, landed, managing to stop before the runway gave out, turning gracefully for the terminal.
Safe again. He’d cheated the odds again. He surreptitiously dried his damp hands on the blanket. God, how he hated flying.
###
His travel arrangements necessitated an overnight stay. It couldn’t be helped; the smaller airline he’d booked with had not been interested in changing its regular running schedule no matter how much extra he was willing to pay. There were no other flights to the area. Tomorrow evening he would be hungry again and with it was the potential of losing control once more. The worry chafed him all the way out of the terminal.
He collected his second Jaguar from the long-term parking garage and headed for downtown and his favorite hotel. A large and modern structure, Richard liked it not so much because of its facilities, of which there were many, but because no one ever asked any questions of the reclusive guest who preferred his curtains shut all day and never called for room service. Discretion was the staff’s watchword, and this endeared the hotel to him; in turn, he was endeared to the staff by the immense tips he left. All in all it was a very satisfactory situation.
He checked in, had someone take his carry-on up to the room, but remained in the lobby, knowing himself to be too restless to settle in for the night. Unlike the ephemeral people around him, he could not simply take a sleeping pill and wait for its chemicals to knock him out. If he could, he would, and save himself a few more hours of useless vexation.
Not to mention hunger.
It was there, the faint beginnings of it, anyway. The beast stirring in its cage.
He left the hotel for a walk around the block. He needed distraction and the exercise. The damp night air, even tainted with the day’s exhaust fumes, felt good on his skin and in his lungs. At least it was alive and free, not that recycled stuff aboard the plane.
Perhaps . . . if he fed the beast before it fully wakened.
He’d already taken the measure of the area in one glance and judged it safe enough for hunting. After all this time such assessments were automatic to him. There were people about, but not too many, and convenient unlighted alleys for the few minutes it would take to accomplish. But did he dare make the attempt?
He remembered the slamming spray of blood from the severed artery striking his face, again felt the last futile struggles of Webb’s body trying to hold onto life as Richard tore into him far worse than any animal. Worse, for animals know when to stop. The one dwelling within him had not, and its wanton brutality appalled him—now. He was sane—now. In control of himself. But for how long?
Richard watched several women going past, released from their downtown jobs, some hurrying to their car or bus ride home, others walking more slowly, catching his eye. It would be easy enough to find someone . . .
The old cautions and practicalities, the sensible warnings against undue danger flooded his mind. Yes, he might be able to retain control as before; he wasn’t in dire need just yet, perhaps not nearly to the point of putting the life of a stranger at hazard.
But you can’t afford another Niagara Horror here, my lad, he told himself.
He would wait. Had to wait.
Firmly turning away from the temptations passing him, all unaware of the presence of a predator, he went back to the hotel, this time going straight up to his room.
###
He awoke just before checkout at noon, left his customary gratuity on the night table and left, then it was a quick drive across the Burrard Street Bridge, onto Oak, and west to the airport. The day was one typical to the West Coast; good solid clouds and the threat of rain. Richard was glad, for it meant that he did not have to worry overmuch about cover. No wonder Sabra loved it here.
He’d dressed for the wilderness, jeans and sturdy walking boots, a flannel shirt, sheepskin coat, and a black western-style hat. Sabra had very much liked the hat the last time he’d seen her and teased him about being a cowboy. He’d promptly asked if she might enjoy having a ride and then they’d—
Someone honked when he started to stray into the next lane. Well, as pleasant as those particular thoughts were, he’d have to think about them later or risk crashing the car. He parked his Jag once more in its regular spot and went to claim his ticket for Port Hardy.
He’d already long ascertained it was impossible to drive to Kingcome. Typical of Sabra, he thought; when she decided that she wanted to get away from it all, she got. She’d written to him about it in full, giving him detailed instructions on how to get to her cabin. Kingcome was a small native community on the coast north of Vancouver, and only accessible by boat from Vancouver Island. Consequently, he had to fly yet again, this time in a petite prop job. He was sure it would prove even more harrowing than the flight from Toronto, but was wrong, however. This time there was no sweaty conviction that the plane would never take off; instead, he was amazed at how easily this light bird flew and how surprisingly pleasant it was to be so close to the ground for the whole trip. Things had changed much for small craft in the last nine decades. Compared to his very first flight, and especially compared to the larger plane of the previous day, this was more like a carnival ride than anything else. He almost found himself enjoying it. But only almost. They landed without mishap at Port Hardy, and Richard found himself at a tiny airstrip, suddenly quite alone.
Afternoon was beginning its slow descent into evening as Richard strode along the dirt road toward Black Point where the local mail-cum-ferry boat sat. As soon as he left all sign of habitation behind, he gradually increased his pace until he was little more than a blur. This was one of the advantages of his vampire state that he truly loved; the ability to move at incredible speed.
Like flying, he thought. The way people should fly.
This was not flight, but it came a close and much better second as far as Richard was concerned. The rush of wind in his face and the pure effortless speed always gave him a deep and genuine pleasure. Rarely these days did he have the chance to stretch himself like this. He was quite disappointed when the first houses of the tiny settlement came quickly into view. Their presence forced him to slow to a regular human pace, but slow he must until fully out of their sight. Sabra’s training and his own past experience had taught him well. Discovery was not an option.
He’d arrived only just in time. The large silver-gray aluminum boat that carried the mail and various other supplies to the island was ready to cast off from the dock. He hurried forward—not too fast—calling for them to wait. One of the men paused at his work with a rope and waved him to come aboard. Richard leaped on, steadied himself and found a place to sit and put down his bag. Someone came by to collect the fare, but after that he had nothing to do but wonder how deep the water was.
Planes he hated, but boats he merely detested, and only because of their proximity to free-flowing water. He concentrated on that unpleasantness for a moment, instead of his empty belly, for the hunger was growing. He would have to deal with it tonight, but barring additional delays, he would soon be safe with Sabra. The power of her Goddess that had granted him this kind of life and had ever protected him would now help him again. It had to.
From his carry-on he drew out the letter Sabra had sent when she’d first moved to this place. She’d needed isolation, she said. She wanted time away from modem life so as to touch the land again, to be closer to her beloved Goddess. Apparently she’d found it here. He leafed through the fragile pages covered with the strong flow of her handwriting.
“The mountains hover around me in never-ending shades of gray in the morning light, and clouds mingle with river mist around them, like laurel wreaths about the crowns of champions. The river teems with fish, and the forest that presses in on all sides is full of game; black tail deer, moose, the mighty grizzly, and soaring above, watchful guardian over all, the bald eagle rides the air currents effortlessly, seemingly eternal.
“Kingcome Inlet itself is a tiny speck on the face of the world. It gained its strange name from a rash lie told by the government agent who first persuaded the local native band to give up their ancestral lands and move to the unfriendly strip along the river. He assured the chief that if they moved, the English king would surely come and visit them to thank them, such was their importance. The poor natives believed the lie and moved without complaint and wait still for the visit of the king.”
Not unlike Britain waiting for Arthur’s return in the time of her greatest need. There was a better chance of that happening than for the current monarch to drop in here. As the boat brought Richard closer into the river estuary, he could well believe that only a lie of such magnitude could persuade anyone to live in such a desperate hole.
“Though surrounded by beauty, the settlement itself is an awful spot. Ramshackle wooden cabins in a variety of odd colors line the river. There is no doctor, no store, nothing. Strings of raggedy laundry flutter in the damp breeze, children run along the bank, chasing homemade toy boats, and men putter with aged outboards, convinced that the right degree of persistency will solve any problem.”
That the actions of a supposedly benevolent government could reduce such a proud people to this squalor disgusted Richard. He huddled closer into his coat as he stepped off the boat onto the dock. He paused, unsure of his direction. Sabra told him to take the path into the woods from the settlement’s lodge house, but he didn’t know where it was. No one looked at him, or spoke, which he thought odd. In such isolation the presence of a stranger should have inspired some germ of curiosity. Same country, different culture, he thought. Finally, he approached a man hunched over some nondescript piece of rusty machinery.
“Excuse me.”
The man neither looked up nor stopped whatever task it was that involved him.
“Excuse me, my friend,” Richard reached down and touched him on the shoulder. “Can you help me?”
The man stopped dead still, then slowly looked up. Even as he saw Richard dark against the sky, his eyes widened with . . . what? Surprise, fear, expectation? All three perhaps? He began to tremble violently and mumbled something in his native tongue. He repeated it again, loud enough for others around them to hear.
His reaction startled Richard. Like certain animals, some people were sensitive to him, to what he was, but he’d not seen anything like this for a very long time. He decided to bluff it out and ignore it. “I am looking for a woman named Sabra.”
Immediately the man lurched to his feet, wrested free of Richard’s hand, and ran, disappearing between the houses. Alarmed, Richard looked around, but everyone else had also apparently vanished. Damnation, what was going on?
Having no better course to take, he followed where the man had gone, taking a well-worn path leading away from the village into the trees. He soon came to a clearing, in the center of which was the lodge. It was in good repair and decorated with native signs he did not recognize. More attention had been lavished on this building than the others, the result of community rather than individual effort. Boldly carved totem poles stood about like guardians, reminding him of the ancient standing stones of England with their hidden meanings and innate power. Sabra had described it all in her letter and had written also of the old shaman who resided over the spiritual needs of the people from this place. He and his daughter had quite impressed her, it seemed.
Richard started to cross the clearing—the path to Sabra’s cabin lay somewhere beyond it—and stopped midway. Out of the lodge stepped an old man, upright, resplendent in buckskin, carrying an ornately carved staff, and wearing a headdress of eagle feathers. Richard knew this must be Black Eagle, the shaman of the village. The man paused for a long moment, staring across the clearing at Richard, then purposefully marched forward until they were only a pace or two apart.
“We welcome you, dark spirit,” the old man finally said.
Nonplused by this greeting, Richard recovered and smiled at him. “I am no spirit, simply a man come to find a friend of mine.”
“We know who you are, dark spirit, and why you are here. Your coming has been known to us for many months.”
Richard was about to lie to cover himself, when it came to him that these people did indeed know about him—everything about him. “You know what I am?”
The shaman nodded. That explained the first fellow’s startled reaction. Good God, had Sabra brought them all into her circle?
“And the woman I seek?”
“The great mother of the night who lives alone. Yes, we know that you are the dark mother’s honored consort and the son of her blood. Come.” Black Eagle turned and headed back toward the lodge.
Richard had lived long enough and seen enough to know that to question the wishes of a shaman was an invitation to trouble. Besides, the dim interior of the lodge would provide him with a welcome respite from the light. Though the day had been cloudy it still pressed hard upon him, bright enough to be uncomfortable and exhausting.
Inside the lodge, all was cool semi-shadow and quiet. A fire, bounded by rocks, smoldered gently in the center of the dirt floor, its smoke drifting up to a hole in the roof. The pungent, wholesome smell of burning sage and sweetgrass hung heavy in the air. The shaman sat cross-legged on a blanket on the floor near the fire and Richard accepted the unspoken invitation to sit across from him. Black Eagle lit a pipe from a glowing taper and for the longest time nothing was said. All that could be heard was the gentle crackle of burning wood, and the dry sucking sound of the old man smoking.
Richard wanted to speak, to ask questions, but quelled the impulse. There was magic here, he sensed that much, and it would not be rushed.
Black Eagle’s mouth thinned slightly. Perhaps that was his version of an approving smile, for he offered the pipe to Richard. He accepted it with reverence and drew on it deeply, inhaling the heady, sweet-smelling smoke. It was not ordinary tobacco; Richard could not tell what else it was, only that it did him no harm and was offered in peace and friendship.
He inhaled again and understood at least one of the meanings behind the shaman’s actions. Richard had just come from an age of rushing speed and disquietude, of cruelty and indifference. Now he’d suddenly stepped into a pocket of serenity from another century and needed to get used to the change. The flow of life ran differently here where the shortest unit to measure time was the length of a day.
The shade, the silence, and the smoke granted an unexpected ease to the burdens on his soul. He closed his eyes, content to feel the heat of the fire upon his face and gradually came to realize that for now, in this place, his hunger slept.
Some while later Black Eagle held a braid of sweetgrass over the fire. It caught briefly, then went out, being unable to burn. He held the smoking braid in one hand and chanted for a while in his own language. The words were meaningless to Richard, but their rhythm was as soothing as a lullaby.
“I have asked the clouds to shelter you for the last steps of your journey,” Black Eagle told him when he’d finished.
Richard wasn’t sure what reply to make to him and settled on a polite one. “Thank you. That is very kind.”
“The mother who lives alone came to us years ago. She needed rest from her good work and honored us with her presence. We have protected her and respected her wishes ever since.” The old man paused, looking deep into Richard’s eyes. “I had a vision of her that told me her consort-son would come soon to find her. The vision told me to help him, and I will obey the dark mother.”
“I thank you,” said Richard, “I have not spoken to her for many years, and now my need to see her is great.”
The old man looked into the fire. “Yes, she can help you. Maybe. But for her, help is too late. She is returning to the earth.”
A fist closed over Richard’s heart and squeezed. “What do you mean?”
But the old man stood abruptly and went to the door. “Someone waits outside now to guide you to the mother’s house. You will be safe. The sun is hiding his face.”
“What do you mean she’s returning to the earth?”
“It is her place to tell you, spirit, not mine. Come.”
Richard remained sitting, staring after him. Returning to the earth? Had Sabra been injured in some way? He knew well that vampires could not simply die. Could they?
He went to the door. Black Eagle stood in the clearing at the center of the totem poles, looking down the trail into the woods. Silhouetted gray against the black of the trees was a shapeless figure shrouded in a long blanket. His guide, Richard thought. He shouldered his bag, walked over to Black Eagle, and they waited for the guide to join them.
A woman, he discovered when she got close enough. Black hair and eyes, dusky skin, native features strong in the fine bones of her face. The shaman said something to her in their language. She briefly lowered her head and pulled the blanket more tightly about her body.
“This is She-Who-Walks, my daughter. She will guide you, help you in any way she can.”
“Very pleased to meet you,” said Richard.
She made no reply.
Black Eagle turned to leave, but paused, his lips drawn thin again. “Good-looking woman, huh?” He raised an arm and with his fist lightly thumped Richard’s shoulder twice in a friendly manner, then continued back to the lodge. He could not be sure because of the rustle of the wind, but the old man seemed to be softly chuckling to himself.
Then She-Who-Walks stepped forward and claimed Richard’s complete attention. She looked calmly up into his eyes. Her midnight gaze seemed to burn right through him, seeing deep into the darkest recesses of his soul. He could not turn from her scrutiny, did not want to; was this what it was like when he pressed his own power upon others? He finally could stand no more and looked away. He felt suddenly naked and ashamed of his nakedness.
Until she reached out and took his hand.
She radiated peace and power in a way that he hadn’t felt since his first meeting all those hundreds of years past with Sabra. He felt a sudden warm stirring in his blood and in his groin.
“Come.” She released his hand, walking quickly, and was at the edge of the clearing before he could think to react.
She moved through the forest effortlessly, threading between the trees like a cat’s shadow. He followed a respectful distance behind and wondered that a person not of the Goddess’s blood could be so at one with the earth. He was sure that she was close to Sabra, closer than any except himself.
“Yes, I am,” She-Who-Walks suddenly said, glancing at him. “I am her bridge with the world outside. She has told me many things of her life, of you.”
So she has the Gift of Sight as well. No wonder Sabra chose her. “Is it much farther?”
She paused, a smile playing around her mouth. “Why? Are you tired?” She didn’t wait for his answer, but slipped on through the woods.
No, he wasn’t remotely tired yet, but growing restive again. The shelter and solace he’d found in the lodge were beginning to fall away, to be replaced by impatience . . . and the hunger. He hoped he could last it out. In all likelihood, he would have to feed upon She-Who-Walks. The prospect both aroused and alarmed him.
The pale light was visibly fading, both from the pending sunset and the thickening sky. Wind gusted about them like stray spirits and the temperature dropped. Perhaps Black Eagle might have overdone things when he’d asked for cloud cover. They were in for a hell of a storm to tell by the signs.
Then he felt her. Sabra. His mother was near. His lover was near. Just ahead of them. His heart quickened, the breath catching in his throat. With a surge of unnatural strength he sped swiftly past She-Who-Walks and burst into a clearing. There stood a small cabin, still and dark. No smoke rose from the chimney, no welcoming face appeared at the window.
“Sabra! Sabra!” His voice echoed from the cathedral pines surrounding them and was thrown back a thousand times over. But there was no other reply. She was not there. And yet, she was. He knew it. And then the sense of her faded and was gone like a mist in the woods, and he felt suddenly, desperately alone.
“The dark mother is not here now, but she will be. We will wait until she is ready.” She-Who-Walks moved past him and into the cabin. As he followed under the symbols of the sun and the moon carved above the door and the cup sign of the Goddess, he heard Sabra’s voice as clearly as if she stood next to him.
Feed, my Richard, feed. See what I have given you.
He looked back to the pressing forest. Yes, she was there, somewhere, but why was she hiding?
“Richard!”
She-Who-Walks’s voice called to him from the dark interior. He hesitated for ten long seconds, then licked his lips and followed her inside.
It was so dark that it took a moment even for Richard’s eyes to adjust. There was little there to see; a bed close to the fireplace where She-Who-Walks was now preparing and lighting a blaze, a small table, and a rocking chair were all the furniture. There were bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling to dry, and books, many, many books lined in neat rows along the walls. They were old, wonderful books, the pick of the ones that Sabra had collected over her long, long time on earth, bound in leather and cloth, and some few tooled in gold, carefully preserved and loved.
The fire caught, and the flames threw wanton shadows everywhere. Richard picked up the text lying open on the table. It was an old reprint, a collection of Chrètien de Troyes’ wildly fanciful romances. He hadn’t thought of the fellow in decades. Not one of his favorite people, not after that ridiculous business de Troyes had put into his Lancelot. None of it was true nor even much his own work; the silly bugger had stolen from past writers or made it all up to flatter his current patron, and no amount of argument could persuade him to change things.
Richard recognized other books about Arthur and the Grail Quest, as it was now called, on the table: the Vulgate Cycle, Robert de Baron’s Joseph d’ Arimathie, von Eschenbach’s version of de Troyes’ Perceval, and a scattering of others, including that latecomer, Malory. Despite its many inaccuracies it was Sabra’s favorite account of what had been living experience for them and mere legend to all others since.
“She loves that book,” said She-Who-Walks. “I’ve seen her reading it many times, though she says that it is all wrong. I don’t know why.” Richard knew.
The fire smelled sweetly of apple wood and quickly warmed the cabin. She-Who-Walks now took the blanket from around herself and put it on the bed. He fairly gaped at the exquisite buckskin dress she wore. Covered with beads and fringe, he grasped that something such as this was meant only for very special ceremonial occasions.
“The mother told me what you would need,” said She-Who-Walks, standing unnervingly close. He could smell the scent of crushed flowers in her shining hair. “I know what must be done, and I am here for you.”
Richard felt the hunger’s gnawing at his insides. It had been a full three days since he last fed, and its keen edge was painful; he’d not felt it so sharply since the very first time it had taken him. If he did not attend it, the cramps would take him, drive him mad again. “Most people would run from me now. Run for their lives and their souls.”
“My soul is safe,” she replied with disarming conviction. “I am loved by the mother and her Goddess. She will let no harm befall me.”
Well, that was some reassurance. ‘Then I will take only what I need from you.”
You must do more than that, my Richard.
He shivered at Sabra’s touch in his mind. So close, so far. “Did you hear?”
She nodded. “Do what she asks of you.”
“And what is it she asks?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I haven’t the Gift of Sight. Tell me.”
Her dark eyes glittered. “You are to make me like you. Take all that I have and make me as you are, as she is.”
Richard couldn’t speak for a moment. He’d bedded countless women, nearly always feeding from them while at the height of passion, but never in all his time had he made another like himself. The idea disturbed, even frightened him. “Why?” he whispered, hardly loud enough to be heard.
“Because it is her wish. Is that not reason enough?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. She will tell you.”
“She’s not asked this of me ever before. Why now?”
“Because it is the right time. Do you know what day this is?”
He thought a moment before the right answer came. “Good God. It’s Beltane, isn’t it?”
“The holiest of days. The day of creation. The time has at last come for you to create. This is what the dark mother has told me. Are you going to grant her wish, or should we walk back to the village?”
Richard . . . please.
He’d never once refused Sabra in the past. He wouldn’t begin now, but he had to at least warn this young woman. “There’s a danger from me you don’t know of—”
“Is it about the man you killed?” She-Who-Walks smiled at his discomfiture. “I saw it on your soul earlier. There is no danger for me. You will be all right with me if you really want to be. What happened to you then was brought on by your anger and pain. Such things are not in you tonight. Are they?”
Richard lifted his hand to touch her face then let his fingers comb through the thick black hair that fell over her shoulders. “No, they’re not,” he murmured. He bent and kissed her, lightly. Her mouth was soft, warm and giving. “You’re utterly certain of this? In your own heart, you’re sure?”
She smiled again. There was a familiar fire deep in her eyes, daring him, even mocking him. He’d seen it before in Sabra.
Answer enough.
This time he kissed She-Who-Walks hard and long and felt her firm strength melt into his, her body take the shape of his, almost become his. She pulled away after a moment, smiling, gently biting her lower lip. Standing by the bed, she undid the buckskin cord that served as a belt around her dress, and in a swift movement pulled it over her head. Naked in the firelight, she let it slip to the floor. The flames seemed to caress the velvet smooth contours of her brown body, deepening its shadows with their shifting light. She raised her arms high.
“See, see what the Goddess has prepared for you.” And she lay back atop the blanket, waiting for him.
For a moment, he stood motionless, as if to test how long he could resist his nature and his need. He could feel the uncontrollable building within, could feel himself changing from the inside out. The wind howled beyond the cabin’s thick walls, and rain pounded on the roof. His own heartbeat thundered in his ears as if to match the drumming in the sky.
He stood over her, finally reaching down to touch her, to rest his hand on the silken flesh of her inner thighs. His fingers moved upward in a slow caress as far as they could go. She was, indeed, ready for him. More than ready. As he was himself.
Unable to resist further, he surrendered fully to her. He was with her, on her, her hands and his tearing at his clothes, mouths open, kissing, biting, tasting, both in a fever of need. She reached down and grasped his hardness in her hands, then took it quickly within herself, gasping at his entry, moaning, hanging on to him with legs and hands and nails. And he was pushing, thrusting, beyond control, fully immersed in his true form. Fangs enlarged, eyes red, a great roar escaped him as he raised his head to strike. She turned her face to one side, crying out in her own ecstasy, and he took her, fangs buried deep in her neck, sucking hard, greedy in his want, spurting his seed into her as he drank. Her blood gushed into him, giving him life, nourishment, satiation in every sense. She held his head against her as he fed.
“I have done as you asked, dark mother,” she whispered.
And Richard was suddenly aware, through the passion and the bloodlust, that Sabra was there, watching as he fed. He lifted away, blood dripping from his mouth onto the naked woman’s belly, onto her breasts, and there through the window, outside in the shrieking wind and rain, he saw his mother’s eyes, his lover’s eyes, glowing bright from their own inner flame. That was all he recognized, though. The rest . . . her face . . . her body . . .
It’s a distortion made by water on the window. It must be.
Lightning flashed close by, blinding him, leaving behind a nightmare afterimage of a small figure, vaguely human in shape, but there the similarity stopped.
It has to be . . .
He stared hard, trying to see detail, but caught only a blur of movement against the trees. A great howling scream rent the air, overwhelming the ferocity of nature itself, and the gleam of her eyes disappeared into the darkness of the storm.
Richard pushed himself up from She-Who-Walks and stumbled to the door.
“You cannot leave yet, your task is not complete,” she cried weakly from the bed. “You must complete the making. The mother told me. I am to be the new mother. She has prepared me in all the ways. All that is left is to make me as you. You must, for her sake.”
“What has happened to her?” He opened the door. Icy rain slapped him, as though to force him back. He could see nothing. “Tell me!”
“She is returning to the earth. It is the way, there is nothing to be done. Yet the work of the Goddess must go on.”
“That’s ridiculous. We cannot die. We’re immortal.”
“The mother knows, and she told me. It will happen. It is happening. There is no other way.”
He slammed the door against the wild night and fumbled for his clothes. “I’m going to her.”
“You won’t find her. She has willed it to be this way.” She-Who-Walks reached out, her featherlight touch enough to stay him. Her fingers were as chill and fragile as glass. “After the making, she will come to you. Only after the making.”
Looking at her, Richard knew in his soul that what she said was true. Something was very wrong here, wrong with Sabra, but there was nothing he could do about it, not until the time was right. The fist tightened around his heart again, as unyielding as iron.
“Do not fear for her, Richard.”
“I can’t help it.” He reluctantly went back to the bed, climbing in next to her. He started to look out the window, but she pulled his head down and kissed him, licking her own still wet blood from his lips.
“Take me. Make me. Give me your life.”
He held her close, feeling more sad than he could ever recall.
“You must finish the making.”
If this was what Sabra wanted, then this was what he would do even if he did not know why. He was sworn to her.
He tried to resume what they’d begun, but felt cold, dazed. She-Who-Walks rolled on top of him, taking the lead in things. Her movements were slower, less frenzied than before, but she continued to kiss and caress him until desire came to take the place of fear. She pulled him upright, pressing his face against her bloodstained breasts, coaxing him to kiss them clean.
It took a little time, but mutual need gradually overtook them. She sank onto him, sighing as he entered her, and wrapped her legs tight around his back.
Once more, Richard buried his fangs in her sweet neck, more softly this time, feeding steadily, intent now to take all her life into himself as he rocked her back and forth. She moaned and shuddered as each wave of pleasure he gave rolled through her body.
Her arms went slack, eventually falling away, and he had to completely support her.
Her breaths came short and shallow. She had to fight for them.
And still he fed. He had to.
Her heart fluttered, straining hard to pump what little remained.
He worked his teeth, cutting deep into her flesh. She made a last faint sighing moan as a final burst of crimson flooded his mouth, then the flow ceased.
When he eased her body gently down, it was not her blood that dripped onto her face, but his tears.
Richard spent the night squatted in a corner of the cabin, listening to every sound, watching. He watched She-Who-Walks in her deathly sleep, and he watched, too, for Sabra, but she did not come. The Beltane fire died to feathery gray ash, and the blackness, both without and within his soul, was complete.
###
Morning crept slowly into the cabin. Richard stretched and stood, rubbing his gritty eyes, and opened the door for one last look. If Sabra had not come by now, she would not for the duration of the day. Soon he would lie next to She-Who-Walks again and sleep himself until her awakening at dusk.
The sky seemed washed clean. The wind and rain had died with the dawn, and a great stillness held the forest. In the trees a deer stepped gently across the deadening carpet of pine needles, utterly silent on its meanderings. The sun shone this day, though it made little difference this deep in the trees.
Sabra was in trouble. His original reason for coming was unimportant next to that fact. He needed to see her, to help her, but how could he if she would not show herself? He studied the surrounding forest, no longer comfortable with its closeness and depth, seeing it now as a threat and obstacle.
What to do?
“Richard.”
The deer bolted suddenly, tail flicking upright in alarm, and Richard turned to the voice, the voice that he knew so well. Only she could have come this near without his hearing.
“Sabra.”
Though barefoot and wrapped in an old blanket she was as beautiful and elegant as on that first night in his tent at Orleans, smiling, radiant.
I knew you would come.
“How could I do otherwise?”
She all but flew to him and his waiting embrace. He held her hard and tight, wanting to hold her forever. Impossible, of course, but he did make it last until the knot in his throat softened and he could speak again.
“Tell me what is going on. I must know.”
“Yes, my love. But inside. The sun.”
He lifted her, sweeping her into the cabin and closing the door against the fight. She clung to him a moment, then he reluctantly set her down. The blanket had pulled away from her and he saw with no small shock that she was naked beneath its tattered cover.
“Sabra, what is this about? Why are you—”
But she held one hand up to hush him, for all her attention was on She-Who-Walks. “She is beautiful, is she not? Did you complete it?”
“When she awakens, she will be like us. You aren’t angry, are you?”
“It is as I wished.”
“Why do I feel shame, then, as if I have betrayed you in some way?”
“Do not feel so, sweet Richard. She was my gift to you, given out of love.”
“But I saw you at the window, looking at us.”
“I watched out of love, not anger or jealousy.” She looked at him, face glowing with a smile of pure childlike joy. “I had to see the birth of my granddaughter.” Sabra laughed, but the laughter suddenly turned to a gasp, and she doubled over.
Richard was beside her in an instant. “What is wrong? What’s happening to you?”
She pushed him roughly away, her face pinched with pain, and fell to her knees. The blanket dropped. Richard reached out, but the snarl that came from her stopped him in midmovement.
“Sabra?” he whispered. Understanding flooded him. Cold and hollow. Oh, dear God, not you!
Her voice came to him, thick and heavy. “Do not come near me.”
She stayed there on all fours, panting for breath, her back rising and falling, contracting in time to the spasms of pain spiking through her. Her hair had become dull and matted, and her nails thickened and curved long against the plank floor, scarring and splintering the wood. Another snarl came from her, followed by an anguished cry. Then she was upright, or at least as upright as she could be, and lunging for the door. But Richard was as quick and caught her before she made the threshold.
“What is happening, Sabra? What is wrong?”
He held her fast as she fought to leave, fought him with a strength near to his own, tearing, scratching, biting like a wild beast. Finally, exhausted, she went slack and that was when he saw her face for the first time. Gone was the beauty, gone the elegance. The thing he held so tenderly was neither human nor animal: face coated with hair, eyes wild and red, fangs extended. Then with a shudder that racked the whole of her small body she changed, and the Sabra that he knew, that he loved, was once more in his arms.
Fingers trembling, he brushed a dark strand from her face and kissed her brow. “I’m right here. I’ll always be here for you. Everything will be all right . . .”
All the sadness in the world was in her eyes as she looked at him.
“You must let me go, dear Richard, there is nothing you can do for me. This is my end, my natural end.”
“No, you said we were ageless, that nothing could ever—”
“I never told you, my love, for I dared to hope it would not be true. Yet true it is.”
“Then tell me!”
“You know it now for yourself already.”
“The man I—”
“I felt your delight when you killed him, the exultation, then heard the cry of your soul when it returned and you realized what you’d done. Felt your terror. My poor love.”
Of course she would. But what—?
“We’re old, Richard, and often have we called on the power within us. Each time we do, it becomes a little more difficult to take ourselves back to a human state. It’s subtle, and takes a very long, long time, centuries before we ever begin to notice. Then we reach a point where the strength needed to overcome the beast within becomes greater and greater until in the end, we cannot match it. We become a beast of Annwyn and finally return to the earth. I can only maintain human form for a very little time before the beast takes me again. It’s worse at the full of the moon, and this turning was the hardest yet. I’m getting weaker, soon I will not be able to fight it anymore.” She stopped, exhausted with the effort of speech.
Richard continued to hold her, frozen to the point of panic. This was Sabra, his lover, his eternal friend, the mother of all he was, of all his world, speaking to him of death. Her death. He could not dream of an existence without her. But if what she said was true, then he would himself have no better future.
“There must be something I can do for you. Some way to help.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t know if it—” She began to writhe once more in his arms, moaning in pain as the change began to seize her.
Tell me!”
“I—I must drink of the great Cauldron of Cerridwen. What the Christ-worshippers call the Grail. They searched for it to keep for themselves, to try to smother the power of the Goddess. But I hid it from them all.”
“Yes, but will it help you?”
“I don’t know, but I know not what else to do. I cannot travel to it. You must bring it to me and quickly. I don’t think I shall survive the next turn of the moon.”
“Where is it?”
“I hid it at the home of the nine sisters, the place around which the whole world revolves, the entrance to Annwyn, Ynis Witrin . . . Avalon.”
Her body shuddered from a vicious spasm, and she changed once more, crying pitifully like a trapped animal and struggling to get away. This time he let her go.
She clawed the door open and rushed naked out into the deadly sunlight. It seemed to have no effect on her, or she was beyond noticing. He had to stay inside, shielding his eyes against the glare with one hand.
She paused at the edge of the trees, turning once to look back at him.
Find it for me, my Richard. Find it and release me from this agony.
She disappeared into the covering darkness of the forest.
His normal daylight sleep would not come. He had far too much to think about, to worry over, to fear.
The stacks of books about the Grail made sense now. He flipped through each of them, hoping to add to his knowledge, hoping to refresh his memory of a long-vanished age. Often he stopped to look out the windows or open the door, but Sabra was quite gone.
Where does she sleep? How does she feed? Has she killed as well?
His desire was to immediately leave. Sun or no sun, he wanted to drop everything and get started, but he could do nothing until She-Who-Walks awakened. Had circumstances been different he might have otherwise enjoyed the wait, the anticipation, but now he fretted over the delay.
At long last you’ve produced an heir and yet feel only vexation. ’Tis unworthy of you, Richard d’Orleans.
He scowled to himself and spent a little more of the endless day putting the place in order and read from several of the books. When the evening shade crept across a rain barrel next to the house, he ventured out to fetch water. He found a towel, wet it, and gently cleansed the stains of his feeding from the young woman’s body, noting half in satisfaction and half in wonder that the savage wounds he’d made on her throat in their passion were completely healed.
She stirred as he bathed her face. Her lips parted and she took her first breath of the night, holding it, then slowly releasing it with a sigh. Her eyes opened.
He caressed her, smiling. “What do you remember?”
A pause as she thought, then her hand closed over his and she smiled in return. “Everything.” Now she ran her hand up his arm and to the back of his neck, pulling. He bent to kiss her. “Everything. You were good.”
And he thought his ability to blush had long deserted him. “Well, thank you. So were you.”
“Maybe we can do it again later.”
“I should like that very much. Do you hunger yet?”
“A little.”
“You should have a period of grace before it gets really bad. Half an hour, perhaps.”
“Then we’ll have time to get back to the lodge. Black Eagle said he would wait there for us.”
Richard sobered. “Is he to be the one to . . .”
She must have heard the rest of his thought in her mind. “Our way is different from the time of your change. Instead of one making a great sacrifice of blood, many will each make a little sacrifice to share in the honor.”
“Your hunger may be too strong to stop once you begin. It was so for me.”
“That’s why you need to be there. Black Eagle is my father in life and you are now my father in death. Between the two of you, you are to make sure I bring harm to no one until I’ve had my fill. The dark mother said I’d be all right after that.”
“And so you shall.”
She got up and slipped the buckskin dress over her head, retied the cord, and reached for the blanket, but it was liberally stained with red. She left it.
Richard put on his coat and donned his hat.
She-Who-Walks went to the mantel, opening an old metal candy box that served as a bookend. “This is for you. She said it might help.”
A slip of paper, folded once. He opened and read it.
“In case your recollection falters, remember that I wrote everything down in the Abbey Book. The last I’d heard it was still safe in that museum in Ireland. It’s all in the old tongue, of course—and in verse. I was never very good with verse, but was mad for it for a time, so please forgive my faltering efforts at poetry. Speed well, but take care, and try not to worry about me. I am in good hands.
May the Goddess protect and guide you, my love, my child, my best of all friends.”
She-Who-Walks read it when he passed it to her. “Soon she will not be able to come back. She will be one with the earth.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” he said, once more shouldering his bag.
She crossed ahead of him to the door, but hesitated on the threshold. “It feels . . . strange.”
“It will for a time. You’ll need to feed.”
“Yes, I know. Do as she asks and try not to worry. I will care for her until she is no longer in need of care. I needed to be like you to have the strength for it. The work of the Goddess will go on.”
She stepped through and walked briskly across the open space into the forest. Richard looked around at the inside of the cabin one last time, drinking in as best he could the lingering essence of the Sabra he’d known for so long. He picked up the copy of Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, tucking it in the bag, then closed the door, the simple latch catching and holding. There was no lock. None necessary out here.
She-Who-Walks waited for him just under the trees, her hand out to take his. “Come . . . Father.”
And he followed.