Fallen Embers (18 page)

She'd always known it would come to that, in the end, and for the longest time she'd foolishly believed she would welcome it. If one could ever, truly, welcome death. It had consoled her to think that it would be Christian who killed her, for he was the only one who could safely ingest her blood now that it was tainted. At least in this way she'd be able to live on, for a short while longer, within his cells. In return, she would, perhaps, bequeath him a little more strength and a fighting chance at a longer life.

To end in such a fashion would at least give meaning to her death—or so she'd told herself. Now, however, as that inevitability grew close, she found her courage failing her.

Her death, if it came by Christian's hand, would likely be harsh and violent, an ugly way to make one's end. He would give no quarter. She would go down fighting. And even in the event she did not succeed in fatally wounding him and dooming them both to immediate oblivion, their final battle would still befoul everything that had gone before. All his memories of her would be tarnished, all his love for her destroyed.

She should send him away now, while she still had the strength to do so, while he still might feel compelled to obey her. She should go to Conrad and confess everything, throw herself on his mercy and hope that, for the sake of their long friendship, he would grant her one last boon and kill her himself.

To choose that course would be to truly die. Her blood, useless and diseased, would be received by no new host. No one would benefit by whatever small strength she still possessed, and she would leave Christian with nothing, unprotected, alone, at risk…

Faced with such choices, how could she choose at all? She felt cornered, trapped, hemmed in by guilt and fear and all but overwhelmed by grief. If only there were someone she could talk to, someone to guide her through this morass of indecision. But there was no one.

Summoning her last remaining strength she squared her shoulders. Her death was inevitable—yes. “But not today,” she murmured stubbornly, as she got to her feet. She'd been in tough places before. She'd fought her way through and she'd endured. Someday soon her luck, her strength, her life would leave her. But not today.

Chapter Eleven

Britannia

Mid Fifteenth Century

Conrad fought his way against the tide of people who swarmed toward the waterfront. Goaded by his need to distance himself from the open water, he moved as quickly as he dared, not slowing his pace until he'd gotten far enough from the harbor so that he could take a deep breath without having his senses assaulted by the taste of acrid salt. His relief was short-lived. As the softer, all-but-forgotten summer-scents of Britannia washed over him they brought such bittersweet memories rushing to the forefront of his mind that he nearly turned in his tracks and headed back toward the seaport.

Better the brackish atmosphere he'd been so anxious to escape than the agony of having to recall with such crystal clarity the love he'd lost.

He'd seen his share of death over the centuries and dealt out a goodly portion of it himself. But, in this moment, in this place, it was Georgia's death that weighed the heaviest on his conscience. If only he'd taken the time to think, to listen, to pay attention to the weather—or to the warnings of those more knowledgeable about such things than he—she might still be alive today. And now, if he'd had his choice, if he were not constrained to return to this cursed island where he'd spent some of the happiest days of his life, he'd have gladly stayed away forever and been content to remember from a distance.

He had
not
had a choice, however—not entirely. While it was true he was his own master now, that did not mean he could always follow the dictates of his heart. His freedom had come at a price, and that price was the burden of responsibility. He had to consider the welfare of his entire House—including the small nest he'd encountered on his first trip to Britannia, the one he'd so unwittingly acquired for his late mistress. The one that now looked to
him
for leadership, for protection, for salvation.

Something would have to be done about them. Determining what that “something” should be was what had brought him here—wending his way through the narrow, cobbled streets of this tiny coastal town. Not that he'd exactly rushed to their defense the moment he'd learned they were in trouble. At first, he'd questioned whether there was any need for him to get involved at all. He'd had no real contact with them in centuries—why should things not continue in that vein? Even after learning that they were under siege, he'd been reluctant to intervene.

To be sure, such a state of affairs must always be distressing for those involved, but life was frequently distressing. And a few less vampires in the world hardly counted as a tragedy. It was only upon learning the name of the vampire responsible for their misfortune that he'd changed his mind.

Rupert—the same vampire who'd turned Georgia. Conrad might not have been able to save her life, but to honor her memory he would do what he could to thwart her former master and prevent him from torturing others. Unless, of course, he determined those in question were not worth rescuing.

His first encounter with this particular band of vampires did not bode well. Sent there as an envoy, he'd been attacked without provocation and barely escaped with his life. If that meeting was indicative of how they typically treated those with whom they came into contact, it was no wonder they now found themselves in difficult straits. And if it turned out they'd brought this doom upon themselves, if he determined their deaths were at all justified, he would
not
intervene on their behalf.

Guilt pricked at his conscience. He did not enjoy playing the role of judge-and-executioner, but it was occasionally necessary. This, perhaps, was one of those occasions. Conrad picked up his pace once again. Whatever he decided to do, it would be best for all involved to decide it quickly, and get it over with.

As he left the small village behind and headed into the surrounding countryside, it became quickly apparent that he was not alone. Someone was following after him. He almost stumbled in his surprise. Most of the people he encountered—human and vampire alike—correctly identified him as a threat. The vast majority found it prudent to keep their distance.

He turned swiftly, his hand going at once to the hilt of his sword. “You. Halt where you are and come no closer. What is it you want?”

The young man jerked to a stop. He pulled off his cap and bobbed his head in a show of respect. “I-I beg your pardon, my lord. But are you…? Are you
he
?”

An eager light burned in the lad's eyes, brightening his otherwise anxious expression. Tall and sturdy, he possessed the kind of build that would have likely become quite powerful had he been allowed a few more years to develop. One glance was all Conrad had needed to know that aging was not an issue the lad need ever worry about. He was Vampire. Moreover, if Conrad's senses were not completely in error, the boy belonged to him.

“I am Quintano.” Conrad studied him more closely. The lad, whoever he was, was not
Invitus
—which was a point in his favor. It still struck Conrad strange that he could feel the difference where once he could not, that he could sense the power in another vampire or, in this particular case, the almost total lack thereof. In all likelihood he was a fledgling then.

“Yes, M-m-master. I thought you must be. I am called Tannar. I w-was sent to meet your ship.”

“Master?” Conrad snarled in sudden fury. No. Not that.
“
Never
address me as such.”

Tannar stared at Conrad in wide-eyed confusion. “S-sir?”

“You may call me Quintano. I require no special honorific—least of all that one.”

Following his mistress's death, at his hands, Conrad had been dismayed to realize that all that had been hers—power, riches, even people—now belonged to him. He hadn't wanted any of it. What he had wanted was to annihilate all trace of her existence, to walk away a free man and leave her House and his cursed memories behind. That had proved impossible.

Resigning himself to the inevitable, he'd ordered Lavinia's stronghold razed to the ground. He changed the name of her House, establishing new rules and a new code of conduct—and, yes, all of this required him to take command, to issue orders and demand compliance.

He'd accepted his fate, but only reluctantly. Allowing himself to be called “Master” was a bridge too far. He would
not
set himself in his late mistress's place, nor would he allow anyone else to do so.
Domus Hera Noctis
was dead, long live
Casa di Quintano
.

Tannar continued to watch him—silent and bug-eyed—until Conrad took pity on him. “Do you understand?” he asked, as calmly as he could manage.

“Ye-yes, Ma-ma-ma…Quintano…sir…my lord.”

Conrad sighed. He supposed that would have to do. “You said you were sent here. Why? By whom? How did you know what ship I'd be on?”

There was a reason Conrad had told no one of his plans—not the specifics, anyway. He'd sent word he would be arriving, but he hadn't said when. He'd planned to observe the little nest quietly, from a distance, not making his presence known to them until he'd determined that he was actually going to step in and save them. That way, if he chose not to intervene, if he chose to leave them to their fate, he would not also be robbing them of their hope.

To die hopeful—was that not a better fate than to die in despair?

“It was my lord Kendrick, sir—m-my sire. He's sent someone to meet every ship that's come in since we first received word that you were coming.” Tannar paused before adding fervently, “We are all so
very
glad you're here. And that you'll help us. You will, won't you?”

Conrad nodded in reluctant acknowledgement. “We shall see.”

Once again his conscience troubled him. They might be glad now, but only time would tell whether their faith in him was justified. They would not be the first members of his House that he'd condemned to death.

Indeed, he'd originally planned to rid the world of every vampire Lavinia had sired. A simple goal, and one that should have been easy to accomplish. After all, the entire tribe was bound in fealty to him, helpless to disobey his command. But that was precisely the problem.

Killing those who could neither run away, nor raise a hand in their own defense—the very idea turned his stomach. Forcing them to fight one another to the death, the second option he'd considered, was even worse. That was something the
Hera Noctis
herself might have done.

So he'd relented. He'd put to death only the worst, most unregenerate of the monsters, those who continued to take pleasure in the pain they caused, and spared the rest.

“Tell me about this Kendrick of whom you speak.”

“Sir?”

“Who is he that he should have sent you to me? Why did he not come himself?”

“Oh, but, sir, he could not leave the nest! He's the strongest among us and, as such, is needed at the keep. It must be guarded night and day now. Indeed, my lord Kendrick has ordered all who are able-bodied and can wield a sword to stay close at hand.”

So it was an armed camp he was headed for? Splendid. Conrad eyed Tannar curiously. “And what of you? You seem able enough. Why do you not have a weapon?”

Color suffused Tannar's face. His gaze dropped to his feet. “I am still learning such skills, sir. I do try, but my lord tells me I'm not very good as yet.”

“I see.”

“If you please, sir. Might we not get started?”

“Very well. Lead on.” It had been a while since he had been there, but Conrad was confident he could have found his own way, guided by instincts he still did not fully understand. It was one thing for Tannar not to be aware of that fact, but should not Kendrick know? “You've still not told me very much about this lord of yours,” Conrad commented as he kept pace at Tannar's side. “I assume it was Kendrick who sired you?”

Tannar nodded. “Aye. He is father to almost all of us, or so I believe.”

“How many would that be?”

“We were nearly two dozen souls, sir,” Tannar answered. “We are less than half that now, thanks to Rupert. I do not know the exact number.”

“I see.” For the most part, Conrad had no quarrel with those who chose to create spawn for themselves, so long as such a decision was mutually agreed upon. It was a natural enough need—although two dozen seemed somewhat excessive. The life of the undead was long. It was also unbearably lonely if you had no one with whom you wished to share it.

It was the other side of the equation he could not understand. The desire that drove men to forsake their humanity and join the ranks of the undead—that was something that continued to puzzle him. “Tell me something, Tannar, for I sense you are young enough yet to remember such things clearly, what was your reason for becoming Vampire? Have you had no regrets? Do you miss nothing of your former life?”

Tannar's eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, no, sir. It was a great honor to be chosen.”

“What do you mean
chosen
?” Another snarl curled Conrad's lip. “Are you saying the decision was not yours to make?” There were, in the main part, only two rules Conrad insisted his family adhere to: not harming those they fed upon and not forcing this change upon anyone else. If Kendrick was guilty of ignoring either of those rules, he and his little clan might yet have cause to rue the day he'd appealed to Conrad for help.

Tannar shrugged. “I don't know that it's something I would have
asked
for, had things been otherwise. But my lord said it was better that he take me now than for Rupert to have me for one of his vile
Invitus
.”

“Oh, did he?”

“Yes, sir. He explained that Clan Edwin Mac Nuallan has been fighting against demons such as Rupert and his ilk since before my great-great-grandfather was born—and that we'll continue to do so for as long as there are any of us left to draw breath. I look forward to the day I'm strong enough to join in that fight.”

“I see.” Conrad cast another curious glance at the boy. “So, Clan Edwin, is it? Edwin is long gone. I would have thought you'd be calling yourselves something else by now.”

“My lord Kendrick says Sir Edwin was a great man, as well as the founder of our House. We keep his name so that his memory shall not be forgotten.”

“A laudable sentiment, I'm sure,” Conrad replied dryly. “Your lordship will forgive me, I hope, if I cannot share in his appreciation for your founder.” Privately, Conrad doubted “great” was a term he was ever likely to apply to the man who'd tried to have him killed. “It appears that neither you nor your sire have any great regard for my kind. You must count yourselves most unfortunate to be governed by one of those very same demons you so despise. Or did Kendrick neglect to inform you of my nature?”

Tannar stumbled to a stop, an appalled expression on his face. “No, sir. Forgive me. I wasn't thinking. I should not have said what I did.”

“It was most unwise. Had you spoken so to someone else, you might very well be lying lifeless in a pool of blood even now. In the future, assuming you have one, you should take care to guard your tongue, else I fear great harm shall come to you.”

Tannar hung his head. “Yes, sir. I-I will try.”

Conrad sighed. “Come, do not look so doom-ridden. Misguided though they were, your words were honest. And you may rest assured that I, for one, will always prefer to hear the truth from you—no matter how unflattering it may be.”

Tannar's face was ghostly as he raised his head to meet Conrad's gaze. “Please, sir. I beg of you. You must not be angry with my lord for this. I swear he was not talking about
you
when he spoke of demons.”

Conrad shrugged. “It matters little. I would not punish either of you for speaking frankly. As it happens, on this topic, Kendrick and I are in agreement. The
Invitus
are a vile species. If that was truly to have been your fate, I congratulate you on having escaped it. But explain me this, why was Kendrick so certain Rupert would even want you?”