Soulless, p.5
Soulless, page 5
Would securing Sebastian's greatest desire, the manor called Grantley, soothe his master's continual dissatisfaction? Ban told himself it would. So with that end in mind, he set off at twilight, riding for Maidenstone and the annual Grantley bonfire.
He adored this mare, Carmilla, a white Arabian from an unblemished bloodline older than he was. With Carmilla, Ban gave few physical directions—the merest squeeze with his knees, the softest nudge from his heel, was sufficient. He'd never cut her mouth on the bit, never wielded a crop to urge her faster. The mare seemed to understand what he wanted, trading obedience for a gentle touch, a kind word. According to Sebastian, beasts were too dumb to think. They knew nothing but food, warmth, and violence. Although Ban never contradicted his master, he was certain in this instance Sebastian was wrong.
"Let's fly," he told Carmilla in English. The language was Ban's native tongue, although it, like he, had evolved over the last three hundred years. Sebastian, who preferred Latin, had taught Ban the scholar's language. To impart the nuances of other essential tongues like Greek, French, Italian, and Dutch, Sebastian had hired tutors, and Ban had labored to become proficient in all. But given the choice, he still preferred to speak English, and often caught himself thinking in that language, no matter which tongue he spoke aloud.
Comprehending Ban perfectly, Carmilla burst into an eager canter, then a run. Fingers sinking into her mane, Ban folded himself against her neck as she pounded down the long dirt track to Maidenstone. In seconds, he was nearly one with the mare, communing with her brilliant, seemingly limitless qi, the life breath Sebastian claimed she didn't possess.
Carmilla, you are unstained, a high priestess of perfection in a corrupted world.
As if he'd praised her aloud instead of communicating via their merged qi, Carmilla hit her stride. Exultant, Ban straightened in the saddle. Above him, the sky transformed from deep blue to violet, then from violet to an inky blackness strewn with stars, as the trees parted to reveal a meadow. Grinning, Ban urged Carmilla toward a crumbling stone fence. As the mare leaped, he threw both hands up, laughing as she cleared the barrier. He nearly went head over ass in the bargain, though he didn't fear it. Indeed, he would have laughed all the harder as he fell to earth. As Carmilla thundered across the grassy sward, Ban's heart seemed to fill his chest, invading his throat, tightening it with an emotion he couldn't name. The whole world was spread out before him. Fields and farms, woods and valleys, rivers flowing to the sea....
Ban loved music. But no matter how many times he picked up the violin, he could never translate this sensation into notes, never bring forth anything but stilted melodies. He adored the power of the mare beneath him, the inhuman strength of his legs, the sharp, sweet air in his lungs, and the pulse thudding in his ears. A constellation of pleasure, it begged to be translated into a sonata, even a symphony. Because, in defiance of Sebastian's teachings, Ban sensed qi all around him, in the soil, in the blades of green grass, in the rustling tree leaves. And his rising communion with the earth's own life force was intoxicating, hotter and headier than an orgy of blood.
Once in a great while, often after a night like this, Ban dreamed of running away from Sebastian. Of abandoning his master and disappearing into one of the planet's wilder corners, where a predator was still assured good hunting. But no. To abandon Sebastian now would be to kill him, and that was impossible. Ban couldn't do it, couldn't conceive of it. Beyond the bonds of pain and blood and mutual pleasure, Sebastian was Ban's second father. In point of fact, Sebastian was more real to Ban now than his human sire, a crofter whose face Ban could no longer recall.
Thanks to Carmilla's speed, Grantley was already in sight. Had Ban been willing to cut through two fenced meadows, he could have saved time by entering Nicholas's farm from its southern aspect. But riding across another landowner's fields was a pointed insult. Sebastian had taught Ban never to break human rules, not unless the situation was dire, not unless he was willing to risk not only his life but Sebastian's, too. For this reason, Ban directed Carmilla back to the road, finishing their journey at a safe, respectable trot. Almost instantly, a stable boy ran out to meet him.
"I will lead her into a stall, sir," the child said, reaching for the reins.
"Thank you, but no. I always see to Carmilla myself. And you look a desperate sort. Doubtless you would steal her." Swinging down, Ban tossed the boy a crab apple from his saddlebag. Carmilla, who considered all pieces of fruit her rightful property, gave a disgruntled snort.
Inside the stable, Ban unbridled his mount while the boy procured a halter and brush. Once Carmilla's saddle was off, Ban daubed the mare from face to rump, brushing her coat until she whickered contentedly. After giving the bottom of each hoof a quick inspection to see if she'd picked up any stones, he tossed the boy a second apple.
"Feed her that within the hour, once she's rested enough to enjoy it. Give her some oats, too—I shall know if you do not." Leaning close, too close for the stable master to see, Ban pressed a shilling into the boy's hand. "This is for your trouble."
"Thank you, sir," the boy whispered, coin disappearing somewhere inside his filthy shirt. His qi burned strong and bright, bright enough to tempt Ban. Under ordinary circumstances, a Grantley stable boy, protected by the dignity of a respectable house, was a person of some value. Therefore, according to Sebastian's rules, he must not be harmed. But the loose, slightly chaotic nature of the bonfire meant that anyone who wandered too far away was fair game. Festivals often resulted in disappearances; a disgraced maid last seen in a strange man's company, or a stable boy's corpse found floating in the Maiden the next day, would trouble no one. The possibility of young, attractive prey whetted Ban's appetite. Usually he was forced to choose a person worth little or nothing, making the act of feeding joyless, even repulsive.
He smelled the Grantley bonfire long before he saw it, orange and yellow flames swirling toward the night sky. More than a hundred yards behind the fire loomed Grantley, looking all the more ancient as the mansion presided over a ritual so old, its participants no longer understood its true purpose—an affirmation that even as winter approached, mortal man was not entirely powerless against the forces of darkness.
Grantley's mundane aspect fascinated Ban. Once upon a time, the house had belonged to Sebastian's forbearers. Squinting at the heap, Ban was unable to imagine it. Surely everything above ground, at least, had been built by human hands? He'd spied beaver dams with more grandeur.
Ban came closer, as close as he dared. The bonfire, laid in the gravel roundabout, had been devised with skill. Dried cords of seasoned hardwood alternated with green branches of willow and ash. Bundles of rotten wheat and dried vine filled in the spaces. Such a cunningly-constructed blaze would burn for hours to come, and its fumes would kill a human being long before his or her body blackened, as Ban had occasion to know. That fact wasn't without comfort. A smaller fire, especially one dependent on fallen branches and kerosene-drenched burlap, would roast the victim alive, as he also had occasion to know.
As a very young vampire, Ban had seen a fellow fledgling, Maud, burned alive—staked, as the humans had called it. Her captors, well aware of her superhuman strength, had chained her to the post. As Ban watched helplessly, the fire seared through her feet with remarkable speed, racing up her frock to consume it, leaving her naked. Soon her calves and thighs lit up like coals, torso and breasts shining with the same malicious inner light. When her throat glowed red from within, Maud stopped screaming. But Ban, who sometimes still heard her shrieks in his dreams, had kept watching, unable to tear his eyes away the frantic beating of her arms. Her fingers dropped off; her blackened hands fell away. And though he couldn't prove it, Ban was certain Maud had suffered to the very end, when her face melted and her long blonde hair turned to ash.
"And you shall perish the very same way, my foolish peasant boy, should you ever disobey my counsel," Sebastian had said, unmoved by Ban's account. Having survived his own attack by fire, Sebastian had no sympathy for those fledglings reckless enough to get staked. "Mortal man is savage and more cunning than he looks. He outnumbers your kind ten thousand to one, and my kind one hundred thousand to one, or more. We rule them by only the thinnest margin, and only through discretion. Hear that, Ban, if you hear nothing else."
Ban watched the Grantley bonfire for a time, enjoying the scent of wood smoke as much as he feared it. In the harsher climes of the world, these autumn and winter festivals were centered around bringing light to darkness, around kindling heat amid horrific cold. Ban didn't begrudge the mortals their ceremonial show of strength, for all the paltry good it did them. Between now and the spring thaw, at least thirty residents of Maidenstone or Bellsend would lose their lives to Sebastian. And Ban, who gorged on qi to a far greater degree than his master, would hunt as much as he dared, bleeding five or ten victims dry as well.
Avoiding the fire by as wide a margin as possible, Ban entered the festival's main tent. Smiling at the ladies within, he nodded and bowed extravagantly, sizing up the males more discreetly. Trestle tables had been set up for Grantley's senior staff: the butler, the housekeeper, and a gaggle of old women who'd probably served the manor for fifty years or more. But the raised seat of honor was empty. Ban was disappointed, but not surprised. According to village gossip, Nicholas Robinson had not attended his bonfire since the accident that crippled him.
As Ban left the tent, he found himself ruminating on that meeting with Nicholas yet again. Indeed, since being driven out of Grantley, he'd thought of little else. The grandmother's involvement was inexplicable, possibly the result of some consultation with the Wise. Even putting that aside, that Nicholas had managed to resist enthrallment for so long was unusual enough. If the man hadn't been somewhat inebriated, Ban doubted he could have overtaken his will at all. And never in Ban's long life had any human looked him in the face and instinctively named him for what he was—undead, soulless, and damned.
His grandmother must be counted among the Wise. Perhaps Nicholas, too, was educated by them, only to renounce their teachings, or give them up. But if that is true, how could Sebastian be unaware Grantley had fallen into the hands of our Enemy?
The idea that Sebastian's friends around the world, Old Ones and their devoted servants, had failed to keep Sebastian informed was simply insupportable. Could Sebastian have received such a warning, but disregarded it? Was he growing feeble in mind as well as body?
No. My master's intellect is sharp as ever. His injuries will heal. I believe this. I believe this.
Sebastian had told Ban about the Wise. Learned humans, they had dedicated themselves to exposing or exterminating all vampires. Yet most of the mortal tribe ignored the Wise, taking their warnings as nothing but folklore. In fact, the vast majority of mortals had simply readjusted their faith to revere vampiric qualities like long life and eternal youth, as if worshipping their predators would bequeath health and safety. As a human being, Ban had participated in those ceremonies; even now he occasionally took part when circumstances demanded. In cool, dark places with little or no sunlight, the mortals drank symbolic blood, and then sought to raise their massed qi through group chanting and singing. But it was all mummery, human folly. Mortal men remained prey for such as Ban and Sebastian. And Nicholas could not be counted among the Wise. When would he have been initiated? How could he dwell in Grantley, built over the ruins of an Old One's stronghold, if he and his grandmother once partook of such instruction?
No. The Robinsons possessed no special knowledge of the undead. Yet they had recognized Ban all the same.
And since he knows I seek to entrance him, that trick will never work again. I could easily overpower him, of course, and question him at my leisure. Lie in wait and drag him off to some quiet place....
Cutting off that line of thought, Ban smiled at the pretty village girl who scampered up, giggling, to hang a garland of red chrysanthemums round his neck. He stole a kiss—it was expected—and bowed to the onlookers as the girl dashed back to her friends. The idea of overpowering Nicholas made Ban stiffen in sweet anticipation. There was an angel face behind that beard, that scowling brow. Oh, to see that face contort in agony as Ban entered him, stabbing mercilessly. To watch those cheeks whiten, blue eyes overtaken by blackness as Ban sucked the lifeblood from him....
Of course, to commit such a murder, as the mortals saw it, would seriously displease Sebastian. Killing the lord of any manor, much less a manor they sought to purchase, would earn Ban a fresh series of punishments. And he'd scarcely survived the last round.
Fingering the red garland, Ban looked around, trying to decide what to sample first. The roast pig and hens did not tempt him, nor the breads, pies, or steaming pots of vegetable soup. West of the bonfire, apprentices threw dice; on the east, farmhands played cards. Not far from the tent a band played, making up in volume what they lacked in skill. Dozens of villagers were dancing, enjoying a free-form reel popular even in Ban's mortal youth. Enchanted by the pulsing qi among them, by the scent of human meat, Ban entered the dance.
He never stayed with any one woman for more than a single reel; as a gentleman, he was obligated to spread his attention around. Besides, it was the men he noticed, though overt admiration was impossible. The blacksmith was handsome in a grubby, provincial way. Another male dancer, lanky, with a wide smile and overlong blond hair, seemed to notice Ban, evaluating him sensually, one bent man to another. It was tempting. But after his long sea voyage and a week's good behavior, Ban was hungry in body as well as soul. Tonight he wanted more than stolen qi and a vicious fuck. He wanted to put his lips to an open wound and suck until he couldn't hold another drop.
While the band took a breather, dabbing at their foreheads and passing round cups of cider, Ban resisted the temptation to make the violinist hand over his instrument. Yes, the violin was warped by exposure to damp, but Ban knew he could coax the poorly-tuned instrument into producing fine music. He could force Maidenstone's revelers to abandon their dance, falling to their knees to listen. He could enthrall them, educate them, make them feel things no human was meant to experience. But no. As much as Ban enjoyed the fantasy, dazzling mortals with his skill was anything but discreet.
Not far away, girls bobbed for apples, thrusting their faces into cold water and coming up with red dripping mouthfuls. Watching the girls' mouths work, he recalled Nicholas Robinson's perfect lips, half-hidden in that unkempt beard. It meant nothing to Ban that the man was a eunuch. Nicholas was a simmering beauty, all the hotter because of his rage and bitterness. Neither illness nor blade nor mischance could erase masculinity. And as Ban knew from his time in Eastern pleasure houses, a eunuch's mouth could fasten around his cock as avidly as a whole man's. What else mattered?
On the other side of the main tent, the ritual carving of turnips and pumpkins was going on, observed by a handful of boys recently chased away from the dice game. A hare-lipped girl did most of the carving, wielding her knife with intimidating prowess. Four other girls sat gutting and cleaning the gourds, passing fresh ones when the carver extended her hand.
"Give me a turn at carving! I'm quite good with a knife!" a girl cried from the outskirts of the gathering.
No one paid her the slightest attention. Like the refugee boys—one fat, one sickly, and one with the face of an idiot—the girl was beneath the notice of the Jack-O-Lantern creators. Even those nearest her pretended not to hear.
Ban slid up to the outcast. In his most charming voice, he asked, "Are you truly accomplished with knives?"
"Yes. I wouldn't have said so if I wasn't." The girl lifted her gaze to study him. Her hair was coal black, face square and serious. "My. You're very handsome."
"And you're very direct. Has anyone told you that?"
"Yes. Everyone." Her eyes narrowed. "My name's Martha. Martha Bradley."
"Bancroft Ulwin." Taking the girl's hand, Ban lifted it to his lips. She snatched it away.
"Why did you do that? Men only kiss the hands of great ladies."
"Perhaps I mistook you for one."
"Why?" Martha peered at Ban. "Are you shortsighted?"
Ban chuckled. ""Have you any notion of flirtation, Martha? Charm? Little delicate compliments?"
"No. Though I would hardly call comparing me to a great lady a delicate little compliment. A big, unwieldy lie, more like." Sucking her breath in as if suddenly nervous, Martha caught hold of her skirts, swirling them from side to side. "You're too handsome. I can't look at you." Her gaze dropped.
"You can." Touching her chin, Ban lifted it gently. "Look at me."
Martha met his stare. And just like that, she was his. Now she could speak only the truth; no lie could cross her lips, not while they were connected. Sensing the pulse in Martha's upper body, watching the flutter in her sweet white throat, Ban stiffened again. Not because he wanted to fuck this girl, but because he wanted to suck the life from her. To consume her qi and drink every drop of her blood until she curled up, a lifeless husk, while he wept red tears of pleasure.
"You're too handsome," Martha repeated dully.
"Where are your parents?"
"Father is dead. Mother went off to Suffolk with my aunt."
"Have you any friends, Martha?"
