Prologue
Jade's notes are a maze of shorthand and code, arcane diagrams deliberately sabotaged and false symbolism liberally mixed in.
But Dist can read it. Dist can read anything given enough time, can out-do anything Jade can as well. Hasn't he, too, managed to escape death's grip, despite Jade refusing to share that first sip of immortality? Hasn't he mastered the secrets of blood and flesh as well as Jade ever did?
Yes.
No.
Better! Clearly he's better. Hasn't he crafted the most elegant of szlachta, servants vigilant as spiders and loyal as dogs who even now scurry about on his bidding? Hasn't he woven the most intricate of vozhd, titanic mosaics of flesh and souls to crash through the enemy lines and devour the unbelievers? Hasn't he given himself the most beautiful of faces, a body of slender lines and refined carriage to overshadow the common prettiness that Jade has chosen?
Yes, and yes, and yes again. He's done all of this and more. Blossomed in his eternity and claimed his rightful place as a Bishop in Cain's army!
And now, this.
His subject stirs weakly on Table One, groggy and limp from the forced draining of blood. Dist grabs it by the throat and plies open one of its eyelids, humming in pleasure when iris the bright green of a thallium flame thin and black pupil dilates under the light. He levers open its mouth next and tugs on a canine, extending the fang to its full length. Lets go and watches it retract.
"Physical reflexes are normal. Good, good. Excellent! And let's see . . ." He adjusts his spectacles, those magical lenses that bring the world into focus, and pages through the layers of reality to peer into his subject's soul. " A little charred, but no more than to be expected from the cauterization process. Nothing that won't heal over with time! Wonderful~! Now for the results . . . "
He turns to the great tank in the corner. It is made of glass and bronze and glittering steel because that is what you make that sort of thing out of. Dist has carved all the right alchemical symbols into its frame and painted on warning signs, hung little informative plaques on the wall and attached all manner of tubes. It looks very scientific which can only have helped the process.
It should have had Tesla coils, whisper the voices of doubt. Everyone knows you've got to have Tesla coils.
Nonsense. Only tradition-bound fuddy-duddies like Jade want to stick to boring things like Tesla coils and alphabetical indexing and blue phosphorescence. Dist is an innovator, a cutter of brave new paths! Valves are much more modern, candles more atmospheric, and if his machine glows scarlet in the dark of the room, so much the better since it matches the rich vitea used for his creation.
Besides, he's already tried Tesla coils. Boring. And the results are. . . less than ideal.
He peers into the murky blood, past the snips and the snails and the puppy dog tails, to the little boy he's made. The body's a perfect copy of the subject on Table One right down to that ridiculous flow of scarlet hair, but the life inside the shell. . . that's all new.
Dist taps on the glass. "Time to wake up, my perfect creation! You've slept long enough."
Fingers twitch, then muscles flex. And slowly, slowly the eyes open to show irises of thallium green.
"And good evening to you . . . Luke," purrs Dist.
Chapter One
Only a few stars manage to stab their glitter past the sullen glow of city lights, and the moon is nothing more than the face of a ghost, veiled by cloud cover. The air is muggy, heavy with the promise of summer storms. It makes the guard dogs twitchy, quick to snarl and bite, makes the humans pluck at their clothing as humidity and sweat turns sharp suits and uniforms into sodden burdens. Everything feels too hot, too heavy, too thick.
But Luke is sparking. Eyes bright, body tense, eager smile sloppy with fangs that have slipped out despite his best efforts because tonight is a night of training with Master Van. And that, as far as Luke is concerned, makes everything else irrelevant.
Everybody thinks Luke is way too into this. Mother and Guy treat him like a little kid, like it's cute that he's so excited every time Master Van sets foot on the property. The Seneschal thinks it's an embarrassment to shed dignitas over the arrival of anyone of lower station, especially one who shows up so regularly. And the servants think he's a total moron. As loyal as they are to his mother, ghouled and blood bound and obedient in every beat of their hearts, they still look at him with contempt in their eyes when he smiles at Master Van's arrival.
After all, Master Van comes pretty much every night so it's not exactly special, right? They think Luke should get used to it. They think he should get bored.
None of them understand.
None of them had to put up with the pitying looks as they relearned how to walk, how to run. None of them had to figure out how to move each finger in time so they could put on their clothing and tie their own shoes and brush their own hair as their Sire cried in the other room, heartbroken over how stupid her Childe had become and trying so hard not to show it.
Sometimes, in a dark and quiet room, Luke can still hear the whispers from those times: 'what could have happened?' and 'he's nothing like he used to be' and 'nothing like he should be.'
'There's just something wrong about him now . . .'
Master Van changed all that for Luke.
Master Van taught him how to move without tripping or bumping into things, how to run fast enough to keep up with the dogs, how to make his arms and legs do exactly what he tells them to and no more. He taught Luke acrobatics and hand to hand, and weapons work with machete and knife out on the back lawn. Slow stretches and flexibility and . . . other things when alone together in the training room. He's even taught Luke dancing, holding him close against his broad chest as he patiently coaxes Luke to move in time to the sound of violins and piano.
It's thanks to Master Van that Luke can climb trees and peer out over the walls and into the wide world far away. It's thanks to Master Van that Luke can tumble and wrestle with the dogs. It's thanks to Master Van that Luke can dodge around Guy in games of keep-away. It's thanks to master Van that all those whispers stopped.
Master Van . . . Master Van gave him everything.
Every new lesson is a treasure to hoard forever which is why Luke always gives Master Van his full attention, stokes his concentration to a roaring flame inside him that burns away any distractions. So when Master Van's sleek white car rolls through the front gate Luke is already leaning out of the library window, tense and waiting, receptive.
The driver's side door opens, and out steps a broad shouldered vampire in a grey tracksuit, his sneakers crisply white and his wild brown hair pulled back and up in a messy tail.
Luke catches the scent of his Master wafting up from below and shivers. Van's rich tang of steel mixes with the sweet-sour spice of human sweat, with the hot meat smell of human blood: Master Van's fed already, and Luke squirms against the window ledge imagining the heat of the elder vampire's body, the stolen warmth he shares in secret sips with Luke when they're tucked into a corner of the practice room, Master Van's lips wet and crimson, bitten with his own fangs so Luke can feed with soft, pretty kisses.
Maybe they'll do that tonight.
"Master Van!" he crows. Waves frantically from his window perch and beams when Master Van looks up. "What am I learning this time?"
Master Van smiles up at him, a kind of warmth in his amazing teal eyes that Guy and Mother are the only other ones to show Luke. "Hopefully some better unarmed blocking. You're far too sloppy with your guard, and I've grown tired of having a student so careless with his personal safety. We'll be drilling on that for the foreseeable future until you stop being so useless at it."
Luke winces but doesn't protest - Master Van is the only one who talks to him like that, the only one who criticizes and teaches and takes for granted that Luke will learn if shown why and how. Everyone else. . .
He pushes those memories away. No point in looking back. He's past that now, and only getting better!
Right?
"Get changed," Master Van commands. "I'll meet you out on the lawn once I've properly greeted your Sire."
"Yes, Master!"
He'd have been changed already if the Seneschal had let him, but Luke is pushing it enough by greeting Master Van from the window instead of the parlour. Any more and the rigidly correct vampire would have gone to Mother, and that would mean lectures on the importance of dignitas and all that shit. Luke can put up with that, but the disappointed look on his Mother's face when he fails, yet again, to match up with what he had once been is something he can totally live without, so he greets his Master from the window and then bolts for his room where his tracksuit is laid out and waiting.
He rushes down the long halls of his Mother's manor, his hair a long red flag flying behind him, the maids bowing like trees in the wind and the guards' sunglassed stares flickering up and around like startled birds as he jogs past. They're so much a part of this unchanging landscape that Luke doesn't even notice anymore, and anyways the Seneschal will ride his ass if he thinks Luke's taking too much notice of 'the help' again.
It only gets takes a few minutes to get changed out of the button-ups and slacks that the Seneschal makes him wear and into his own white and red tracksuit, toe off the leather loafers and lace up his own white sneakers, and then rushing down the great wooden curl of stairs to the ground floor and out the back door.
Master Van always spends a few minutes with Luke's Sire before lessons, so Luke has the lawn to himself for a little while.
What this really means is that the guards are tucked into discreet pools of shadow, their compact SMGs painted mat black so as not to reflect in the night, the dogs kept close at their heels.
Well, whatever. It's been like this as long as Luke can remember.
Which really just means seven years.
Luke winces away from that truth. Mother and Guy call it 'amnesia', but Luke's heard the servants call it 'brain damage' when they think he's not around and he knows it's what most people think when they find out how little he's like what he should be.
But even brain damage doesn't explain away some of the things wrong about him now. He tongues his fangs and sighs, turns toward the manor. The door swings open right on time, and Guy, the family handyman, comes out with Luke's meal.
Whatever was done to Luke seven years ago when he was abducted, it did more than just rip away his memories. It damaged his very self as a vampire, took from him the Kiss that should have let him feed from humans without struggle. His bite doesn't bring pleasure now - only pain and fear and death, because his bites wont heal over, either.
He still remembers the one and only time his mother had coaxed him to feed from a live mortal. He's sunk his teeth into olive skin and felt the fire in his belly roar with sudden hunger, and the boy had stiffened in Luke's arm and screamed and screamed. . .
So instead Guy brings it to him every evening in a bright red coffee mug, wide and deep, the kind humans use for lattes. Like it's juice, maybe. Like Luke is one of the family ghouls, a human fed vitae to keep him pliant and young.
"Breakfast," Guy says with his usual bright smile. "Nice and fresh, so drink it before it gets cold, alright? Then you can do your stretches."
"Yeah, yeah." He takes the cup carefully in hand and sips. Shudders.
Other vampires have talked to him about the Beast caged within, about the Hunger that's forever gnawing at their control, but for Luke there is only fire. Great, roaring flames in his belly that dance and burn and try to sear away at him from the inside, a heat that can only be tamed with another's life. The warm blood goes down his throat and into his gut, and he feels the memories trapped in its flow -the feelings and wishes and dreams of a human- wrap themselves around his core. The flame inside him mellows into pleasant heat, and he licks the mug of the last traces of soothing red life.
Guy takes the mug back. Chuckles. "Hang on. You've got a blood moustache." He reaches out and catches Luke's chin, leans in.
His tongue is very wet as it laps the blood from Luke's upper lip, and Luke shudders again, this time in almost-memory. Guy might technically be the handyman, but over the years he's grown into something like Luke's valet. Guy's helped Luke do everything from brush his hair to bathe, his touch impersonal and gentle, and he's certainly never done anything like Master Van has. But there's something about his tongue on Luke's skin that brings up memories of being undressed, of the hot press of a leg between Luke's thighs.
Not that Guy seems to think these things. His smile is the same sunny grin as always when he pulls away, and he ruffles Luke's hair affectionately without the lingering touch Master Van would use. "You have a good practice. I've gotta check on Her Ladyship's car this evening so I won't be able to watch over you, but if you need anything-"
Luke bats Guy's hand away. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I just need to scream for you. Geeze, we do this every time, Guy. Stop treating me like a little kid."
"As Your Highness wishes," he says in that cheerful tone he uses to ignore Luke's demands.
He saunters back into the manor and Luke has far too much time to notice how tight Guy's jeans are, how the loose billow of his work shirt can't hide the lean strength of his body. The scent of him lingers in the night air, motor oil and harsh soap, and Luke's fangs lengthen, ache in time to his half-hard penis.
He pushes his fangs back into place with his thumbs, glances furtively toward the guards. He knows he's not supposed to feel this way toward Guy - the Seneschal will have a fit - but Master Van's teaching is hard to put aside. Getting reflexes drilled into you for seven years will do that.
Still, now's not the time for that. If he lets himself stay worked up he won't be able to concentrate on Master Van's lesson, and that's unforgivable. He trots out into the centre of the lawn, intent on burning the need out of himself with stretches and warm-ups.
"Stop favouring your left! You should be ambidextrous in your blocking!"
Luke's muscles ache, a burn in his arms and legs, a vicious smoulder in his shoulders, and bright blossoms of pain where Master Van's hits have gone through his guard. He grits his teeth against it and makes his concentration into a living thing, feeds it his determination, his pride, and it flares up inside him and devours everything else. There is nothing but the semi-trance of combat now, the lightning quick flicker of blows exchanged and blocked between himself and his Master.
So when the sound of singing drifts out across the lawn he ignores it, no matter how the words nag at him, try to fool him into thinking they're familiar even though he's never heard them before. He shakes his head to clear it, blinks twice and sees Master Van signal a halt.
"That singing . . . " murmurs Master Van. He sways, staggers, clutches his head.
Luke darts forward to steady him. "Master?"
Master Van isn't paying attention to Luke, though - he's looking back toward the manor. "Tear," Master Van gasps weakly, swooning in Luke's grip.
Luke staggers under his Master's weight, trying desperately to support him and turn to meet the threat. He's just in time to see a slender woman in brown dashing across the lawn with something raised in her hands.
He drops Master Van and counters purely through instinct. The heavy thwack of his hand slapping away her arm sends reverb through his body, and his eyes go round and horrified as he realizes this woman's got a stake in her hand.
Is she . . . here to kill master Van?
The woman, a long haired brunette in a brown sweater dress is plainly as surprised as Luke is, her pretty face twisted in frustration and confusion. She tries to dart around him to get to Master Van and she's fast, very fast, but not faster than the dogs Luke's tumbled with since his memories begin. He keeps pace with her and drives her back. He's not strong enough to actually hurt her, but he's enough to keep her back.
Her song hangs in the air around them making Luke's ears ring, making it hard to think past the next blow. Thwack, thwack! and still Luke won't let this weird chick get by because Master Van is collapsed on the grass and Luke's his only defence.
The woman is still singing but her words are starting to falter. Luke's head is starting to clear and he's beginning to notice that none of the dogs are coming, none of guards are coming, and where is Guy? He needs Guy! "Guy!" Luke screams. "Guy, where are you?"
"Dammit," the woman mutters. She makes a last, desperate lunge at Master Van and Luke snaps his hand at her wrist as she overextends: the stake goes flying. The woman staggers back and, with a last angry look at Van, starts sprinting for the manor.
Luke hesitates only a moment. The servants and guards and Guy will care for Master Van - only Luke can chase down this woman.
His legs stretch out into a ground-eating lope, arms pumping, fangs bared, red hair streaming behind him. They flit across the lawn and straight into the manor, scrambling for purchase on the polished wood floors of the long halls and careening around corners until they're out the foyer and pelting down the front walk where Luke's never been allowed to play to the front gate and past it.
It doesn't register to Luke, who's got eyes only for slender form of Master Van's would-be assassin disappearing down the road, but there it is: they've run right out the door of Luke's world and into the city beyond.