A Draught of Ash and Wine, page 8
He’d torn them apart. Horrified, Johnathan searched for Vic, praying he’d escaped unharmed, and froze.
Vic stood in the same position he was when Johnathan fell. Blood painted his clothes in splattered patterns. An arc sprayed across his face, the heavy droplets slid down his cheek. Blood dripped from his outstretched hands, gathering in his open palms. Vic stared into the small pools, fixated. His mouth was open, a visible tremor in his jaw, while his shoulders hunched inward. His whole body vibrated with strain, pupils blown. Tentatively, his tongue flicked past his lips, slowly reaching toward the blood on his cheek.
Johnathan stifled a cry, caught in a vice of pain and fear. Vic paused. He closed his mouth with a quiet click of teeth. He didn’t drop his hands, flexing his bloodied fingers. Stillness reclaimed his form, the hesitation a warning. Finally, he tore his gaze off the blood to look at Johnathan. The two stared at one another in stunned silence. Blood bloomed down the front of Vic’s shirt and torn open jacket, a crimson ink stain spreading between them.
The silence stretched, bloated by the dead. Vic sucked in a shaking breath, and dropped his hands, bloody fingers clenched at his sides.
“Yell at me,” he breathed. “Scream at me.” A stricken look crossed his face. “I’ve failed you so badly.”
Johnathan’s throat bobbed. “Come here, please come here.” He clasped the air, willing Vic to come closer, but the other man hesitated, anguish and shame warring for dominance in his expression.
“Come to me,” said Johnathan, the words rough and raw. Vic finally acquiesced, stepping close enough for Johnathan to pull him the rest of the way. They crashed together, chest to chest. He wrapped his arms around Vic, heart pounding against his ribs. Dropping his face against the man’s neck, desperate to breathe him in, he grasped for a tether through the horror of the moment. Beneath the clinging filth of death, he found the clean scent of citrus and musk, bruised by Vic’s distress. His arms shook from the effort not to crush Vic against him.
Vic clutched at his naked back, his sob muffled by Johnathan’s shoulder. They held each other, mindless of time, the filth, and the blood until the first stirrings of the morning dock crew washed over them in a burst of icy reality.
I killed them all. A hollow ache burrowed in the center of Johnathan’s chest and swelled outward until the comfort of Vic’s scent curled away with the morning fog.
“We need to get out of here.” A numbness settled over Johnathan, and he sank into it An armor against the grisly necessities he had to commit. Snagging an empty burlap sack off from a skiff, he tied it around his waist, surveying their options. “I doubt we’ll be able to wait for our ride. There’s a barge preparing to push off for the day.”
Vic’s stared at him. “John?”
“Can’t exactly leave this here either,” said John, his tone neutral, void of emotion. He seized a pair of legs, dragging the dismembered body away from the center of the room through the stacks of pallets. There was no way to hide what he’d done, only delay discovery long enough for the first boats of the day to depart. Dead flesh was cold to the touch, almost waxen without the flush of vitality. He buried the shuddersome sensation deep, moving the bodies quickly. There was no sign of Sister Wilhem among the dead. Luthor might have swum ashore to rejoin the fight, but Johnathan believed he didn’t. The Agent was risk adverse, a man who coated his blades in poison to strengthen his odds. If he didn’t drown, he’d slink away for another day.
Vic watched him, his concern evident, but whatever he thought of Johnathan’s behavior, he tucked it away to deal with their current situation. The two of them made quick work of the scene, moving the bits of pieces of the dead until only the bloody sludge remained.
One of the hanging rakes took care of the mess, The fresh dirt diminished most of the stink, a temporary mask for the fetid muck. Such a simple thing, a trick of the eye, it only took them a few minutes at most, though the sky was significantly lighter. They were rapidly losing their window to depart, sight unseen. Vic used the waxed sheet off a waiting pallet of lumber to cover the gruesome pile, the cloth settling over the bodies, muting the jut of exposed bone and ragged pieces, an illusion that would be spoiled when the blood finally seeped through.
There was nothing more to do. Johnathan nodded toward the docks. “You move faster. Can you get us onto a boat without attracting too much attention?”
Vic seized his shoulders, trying to catch his eye. “You’re too calm.” Worry threaded his voice. Johnathan gently dislodged his hands.
“We need to go,” Johnathan repeated. He tugged on the frayed edges of his temporary covering while he waited for Vic to act. He refused to meet Vic’s stare. He could not. There was a deceptive softness to the raked dirt under his feet. He hated the give of the ground, imaging the blood oozing up through the empty footprints he left behind.
Arms circled his waist, the familiar scent of Vic a cold comfort. Johnathan closed his eyes against the blur of motion. Varying shades of light and darkness played against the back of eyelids. They skidded to a stop on one of the barges, kneeling between rows of cargo. The pallets were stacked just high enough to conceal their presence if they remained in a crouch. It wasn’t ideal but it would be enough to get them away from the shore. Hopefully far enough from the small, sleepy port town before they uncovered his sin.
Johnathan slid out of Vic’s hold and slumped down on the rough wooden floor of the barge. Blood and dirt had dried in tacky patches on his skin. A thick layer of rust colored grit was stuck under his fingernails.
The taste of metal lingered in his mouth; the memory of his teeth sinking into flesh rushed to the surface of his thoughts.
Johnathan scrabbled to the edge of the barge and emptied his guts into the river.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A sour sick smell clung to Johnathan and mingled with the foul bouquet caked on his skin. He yearned for a dousing of that wretched perfume. A quiet settled over the barge, filled with the creak of the hull and whine of the winch and harness where the team of mules dragged the barge along via the riverbank. Occasionally, the spare crew called to one another or groused around the small cabin. The quiet permeated the air and allowed Johnathan to stew in his remorse.
Vic hadn’t engaged him in conversation since they left the docks, but the man didn’t leave his side. Even now, he brushed against Johnathan, a subtle, vital contact to ground him. The blood on Vic’s face flaked off as it dried. The stained shirt crinkled when he shifted, but he made no move to remove it or clean himself. He remained a stoic guardian, the immovable pillar the tide of Johnathan’s shame and guilt crashed and against. Patient and calm while Johnathan processed the trauma of their encounter.
The gradual glow of sunlight grew stronger as the day took hold. The barge maintained a placid pace on the river, broken by intermittent breaks for the mule team to rest in the infrequent patches of overhanging shade. There was little reprieve from the sun on the river. The depth of the stacks provided an indirect cover that waned through the morning, the warmth of the day added another layer of discomfort, sweat seeping through the dried caked on filth. Flies buzzed around Johnathan’s head, but none landed. The insects were wary of his presence.
It was close to midday when Johnathan’s choked sob broke the silence. Vic laid his head on his shoulders. “Forgive me, John.”
Johnathan leaned back into the wooden boxes stacked on the pallet. “I’m positive that’s my line,” he said.
A crooked smile curved Vic’s mouth. “I promised I would help you find another way to survive. We didn’t make it a week before you were forced into another terrible position.” He plucked the stiff rust-stained edge of his sleeve. “If I hadn’t been half out of my mind with hunger, I might have been able to prevent it,” he confessed.
Johnathan studied him. The shadows beneath Vic’s eyes were deeper, hollows in his skull. He remembered that weighted moment at the docks, ensnared by the blood on his hands. Guilt etched the beautiful lines of Vic’s face. Did he truly blame himself for Johnathan’s actions? “What about your other kit? You told me you had a back-up. Why haven’t you fed?”
“I lost my kit in the river,” Vic admitted. “I told myself I could hold off until I replaced it. That was the only reason I had to risk the city.” He licked his lips. “There was no other reason to go. My arrogance, my stubbornness, led to this.”
“No, Vic, no,” said Johnathan. He laid a hand against Vic’s back, wishing he could summon the right words. Alyse was better with words. “We couldn’t prepare for this.” How could they? His need for rest slowed them down, and their encounter with the succubus threw Vic off balance before they reached the docks. The Society Agents caught them off guard, tracked them faster and more accurately than he’d ever seen, an inhuman pace.
He recalled the coerced information Hesper dragged out of Vic. “That safe place you mentioned? What is it?”
Vic’s shoulders hunched inward. “That would be the Estate, and it might be selfish of me to bring you there,” he said. The admission was lost on Johnathan since he’d never heard of it. “It’s more than a sanctuary, but that’s if I can convince the proprietors to take us in.”
A beat of silence passed while Johnathan mulled his answer. “Why would it be selfish to bring me there?”
“The Estate is a supernatural haven. I have allies there, but it’s not safe for you,” said Vic. “Demons are rare enough to be an unquantifiable threat, and, usually, they are dangerous. They are not welcome on the grounds.” He tugged at his lower lip. “But, if I can convince them that you are safe, it’s our best chance for answers.”
“I’m not safe,” said Johnathan.
Vic inhaled through his nostrils. “Safe enough, John.”
He swallowed. “What about our persistent new friends?” The extent of Sister Wilhem’s resources was a worrisome mystery. If Luthor survived, and Johnathan was convinced he had, both would come after then soon as they recuperated from their loss.
Johnathan didn’t believe Vic’s motivations were selfish, but he worried what the other man would do if they were turned away. The Estate offered a respite and possible information. They had to try.
“They might have answers. Maybe we’ll get the chance to explore the rules and pitfalls to this bond we created,” said Vic.
“We have been fumbling around in the dark.” Johnathan refused to hope, aware of the obstacles to overcome before they reached any level of safety. Part of him believed it would have been better for Vic if he succumbed to the Nether, but he didn’t voice that out loud.
Vic reached down and grasped his hand, threading their fingers together. “I promised you I would help you walk this path and I meant it.” Johnathan met his gaze, the hollow ache in his chest momentarily forgotten.
There it was, the vulnerability he craved, a tenuous thread that connected them. He lifted his hand to brush a strand of hair out of Vic’s face, the sight of dried blood under his fingernails drawing him up short. His hand fell slack to his lap. Vic’s expression was stark at the failed gesture. Johnathan wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t worth the trouble. Throat tight, mouth dry, he said nothing at all. Screams echoed in his head. Nausea gripped him, though nothing remained in his stomach to expel.
“Come back, John.” Vic’s voice prodded at the edges of that gaping hollow inside him. He wanted to close his eyes but dared not, afraid what grisly memories would play inside the theater of his mind. Instead, he inhaled deeply, drawing in Vic’s scent for comfort, small as it was.
This was a time for truths, of inner wounds laid bare in this ephemeral moment between them.
“This wasn’t like the first time,” he said. “I didn’t cede into the background for the beast to takeover. The Hound was me, and I was the Hound.” His fingers curled into fists. “I remember everything. I felt everything.” The muscles of his jaw flexed. He remembered the give of flesh between his teeth, the coppery splash of hot blood on his tongue. Death lingered, rotten and sweet in his mouth, and a secret mortified piece of him relished the taste.
A pained expression crossed Vic’s face. He lifted his face to the clear sky, the brilliant blue a mockery after the violence of the night. “I am an old monster,” he said. “Older than most of us get.”
Johnathan frowned. This was true. Most vampires didn’t survive beyond their first century of life, too hungry and arrogant for caution. Too vicious to avoid a challenge, yet the remnants of their human lives made them crave the company of others. If hunters didn’t kill them, older vampires often did, unwilling to share their feeding grounds with some cocked up youngster. But Vic wasn’t an anomaly. Vampires who made it past their first century were good at surviving, and there were plenty. Many of them had a notorious reputation and a bloody history in the Society archives.
“Five centuries, I’ve sought to control the dark half of my nature,” said Vic. His expression shifted to something bleak, threaded with old guilt. “I spent a great deal of time with others of my kind. We bring out the cruelty in one another, giving in to our darkest cravings, glutting ourselves on blood. The longer we stay together, the worse we become.”
Johnathan stared at him, unable to picture Vic anywhere close to cruel though he knew it was true. Sir Harry, the vampire who raised him, avoided other vampires. There were half a dozen living together only a few streets over from where he sheltered during the day. More than once, they found the broken remains of their victims within Sir Harry’s hunting grounds. His guardian’s cool hand would cover his eyes, but the sight was carved in his memory.
He had encountered a few groups as a Prospective. Once, his training unit had stumbled on a feeding frenzy. A trio of vampires feeding on a single victim. They drank and drank and drank, eager for every drop of blood. They tore the body apart, sucking at the marrow. So drunk on the feeding, they weren’t aware they were being attacked until their heads were separated from their bodies. A group of vampires could decimate a village if left unchecked. But groups didn’t last, falling to the same foils of unwanted attention and inner turmoil.
“What made you stop?”
Vic sighed. “I like humans. They are bright and vibrant. All the more because they cling so fiercely to life, fragile as it is.” He clutched his elbows. “I—I want to protect them from that dreadful appetite. From me. But the hunger is always there, waiting for me to slip. I fooled myself, convinced my will was ironclad.” His sad smile was full of ghosts. “Turns out I’m a monster and a liar.”
There were centuries of secret sins and haunted regrets in the shadows of Vic’s gaze. Johnathan wondered at his own naïveté, convinced of Vic’s kind nature. He fiercely believed in Vic’s control, when he knew that nobility came at a steep price. Johnathan had ignored the five hundred years of history Vic carried, weighed by the dark deeds of survival. The dogmatic human he’d been would have distanced himself from that truth, unable to handle the perceived deception. But the demon inside him understood.
He pulled Vic into his arms, kissing his temple. They were both scarred and scared of themselves, two monsters desperate to undermine their darker halves. Vic spent the last five hundred years of his life trying to find a different way to exist, to better himself for the sake of the humans he cared for, a far nobler pursuit than any man Johnathan knew. Guilt weighed on them, the guilt of a life taken, the guilt of a failure to act. It didn’t matter they were being attacked, not when they possessed the strength and the power to extract themselves from the conflict. Could they have fled without a massacre? The possibility would hang over Johnathan for a long time.
“You’re not a liar,” Johnathan murmured against his cheek. “We’re both trying to be better.” There was comfort in knowing Vic struggled so hard to hold onto his humanity. It didn’t erase his feelings, but it eased the vicious guilt and shame that ate at him inside, to know he wasn’t alone. “We’ll walk that path together.”
The tension seeped out of Vic in a stilted breath. Had he been afraid of Johnathan’s rejection? An absurd notion when their conversation gave him so much insight to the vampire. The proverbial needle threaded, the discomforts of their situation took precedence. Johnathan could no longer ignore the rough wood digging into his bare backside.
“My chances with this safe house would probably improve with pants.”
The chuckle was strained. “We really should find a way to look presentable,” said Vic, peering through the slats of stacked cargo. “Hopefully there’s another small giant among the crew so we can borrow some clothing for you.”
“You’ll need a new set as well,” Johnathan teased. “Think you can stand donning such humble garments?”
Their banter didn’t banish the hollow ache in his chest, nor had the wariness left Vic’s gaze. The specter of violence lurked inside, waiting for him to drop his guard. For a moment, on the quiet river, with Vic at his side, it was better.
They waited until the barge stopped for the night. The four-man crew switched out two teams of mules throughout the day, but both teams required a few hours rest before they could resume the heavy work. This time there was no port or town, the trees thinning into stretches of farmland. The fields ran for miles, the flat landscape broken by a humble house and barn. Desperate for a shower and sustenance, the open fields and water troughs were a strangely compelling argument for leaving the barge. The craft wasn’t built to accommodate passengers, made to transport cargo. A small cabin at the far end of the ship served as sleeping quarters for the crew. The barge was long but narrow. The stacks of cargo provided the only vertical break. It was an utter miracle they’d lasted the day without being spotted, but other than tending the haul mules on shore, there wasn’t much reason to crawl between the cargo to ferret out stowaways.
“A quick scrub, raid a clothesline, no one’s the wiser,” said Vic, surveying their scant options with a calculating expression.
