Living Lockdown in Louisiana
Chapter 9
London 1471
Orange squares of warm light lit the cold stone floors of the corridor. The hallway was long and lined with heavy wooden doors. Eric's leather-clad feet padded softly down the passage, but not silently. He took pains to appear human, and make some noise. The keys pinned at hip of his raven black waistcoat jangled, and the prisoners shuffled to the far corners of their cells at the sound. He sidestepped the squares of light without compunction and stopped at the very last cell. He could hear the heart that lay behind the door flutter with fear. He unlocked the door ostentatiously, jangling the iron keys. He pulled the door open.
A lad not yet in his prime sat in the middle of the cell, unperturbed. Shoulder length, inky black hair curled around his thin shoulders. The boy has been in the tower for just over a week, yet his hair was immaculate and glossy. A strong, somewhat feminine chin stuck out proudly, and a pair of blazing eyes met Eric's.
"I didn't kill Henry", he said defiantly. A lock of hair glittered in the darkness as if powered by sheer indignance.
"You are to be brought in for questioning." His low, powerful tone rang throughout the hallway. The boy's eyes flashed with defiance. Nevertheless, he rose to stand. The iron manacles that chained the prisoner to the floor had done their job uncommonly well by mortal standards. Eric released the irons, but knew better than to help the prisoner to stand. Thin bare feet seemed the widest part of the body that struggled to stand before him, all skin and bones and sharp angles. Everything about the boy screamed malnourishment and exhaustion, save his glorious hair. After a moment, the boy walked slowly forward across the cold stones, scowling at his jailer.
When they were a mere breath apart, Eric let his fangs slip down. It was easy to do, with a fairy's scent so near, but it was equally easy to snap them back up in an instant. The flash of pointy whiteness did not go unnoticed by the boy, and he flinched. He knew what the creature exposing himself could mean, for better or worse.
They walked down the corridor together, keys jangling, until they took a left turn instead of a right. Suddenly the noisy machinations of veiled humanity ceased, keys and footsteps silenced. Eric lifted the fairy easily and the pair flashed through the fortress like wraiths. When they were beyond the boundaries of the tower, the boy finally spoke.
"How do you know I am innocent, vampire?"
Eric's soft leather boot held the bow steady while he handed the child into the small vessel. The boat was weathered, but the oars were yet sturdy and the hull was sound. He had faith that young Mark had the strength and wit to row far enough away to regain his strength and pop to safety. With a smart kick he launched the boat into the Thames.
Dawn was threatening on the horizon and the water was calm. The bow cleaved the silent mirror of water smoothly and Eric had no need to raise his voice as the prisoner drifted away.
"Us creatures must stick together these dark days, young Fae", Eric said. A white almost elfin face was disappearing into the fog, but their eyes remained locked together. "Besides, I killed Henry." The young eyes rounded with surprise and the vampire raised a gloved hand in farewell before disappearing into the shadows.
Venice 1540
Marquie's mask was heavy, encrusted with jewels and feathers. The crush of the carnival was almost too much for the senses. Plied with wine and the gratifying attention of fellow revelers, she stumbled toward the mouth of an arched alleyway, yearning for a moments rest. The lights of the festival were still blazing here, but the shadows grew long. Marquie was just able to see the outline of a man who appeared to be relieving himself against the far wall of the tunnel and giggled. The angle of the distant bonfire light caught the scene just right, and she was impressed by what she saw.
An arm snaked around her waist from behind and drew her back to meet a costumed chest. "Signorina", a heavily intoxicated voice breathed in her ear, "if I knew you wanted to be alone I would have drawn you away more quickly."
Marquie recognized the voice. It belonged to a silly paunch of a man; a minor, indebted noble with ruddy puffed cheeks and a nasty sense of entitlement. Marquie scoffed and swatted the man's hand away from her waist. Her mocking retreat was stopped dead however when the man produced a shining dagger and held it to the delicate column of Marquie's throat.
"I am so tired of being laughed at, signorina. Do it again and you will die." The pudgy hand not holding the knife rummaged clumsily for the heavy hem of his victim's dress. It was a chore, but he was finally able to grasp Marquie's shapley thigh.
"No!" She snarled. Marquie turned in the man's grasp as though willing to meet death to save herself the indignity. He spun quickly for a man his size and pressed her into the cold stone archway.
"The lady said no, segnore."
Marquie craned a long thin neck to peer around the shoulders of her captor. The man thought to be drunkenly pissing on the wall was unusually tall, and she felt his power as he stepped silently out of the shadows. He was in the finest of costumes and wearing a menacing though handsome mask. A mantle of flowing blond hair draped around his shoulders and across the fur lining of his dark cape. . She felt an odd sense of safety, despite or perhaps because of the new man's authoritative voice. It sounded familiar somehow, like a lullaby long forgotten. A glint of light off the impressive sword the man held just out of view gave her an infusion of strength rather than fear. Taking advantage of his distraction, Marquie spun and pushed her attacker with both palms flat on his chest. He staggered backward toward the vampire.
Vampire? She asked herself. She sniffed the air and caught again the dry, dead scent that her brain had unconsciously registered without her explicit knowledge. With a silent slash, the vampire slit poor drunk Montmare's throat and caught the dying body carefully. He eased the man's descent to the ground, obscuring them both with his midnight black cape. Marquie waited a few moments watching in fascination, despite knowing that she should run. When the vampire emerged from the shield of the cloak, deep red stained the natural grooves in his lips like spreading ink. A small droplet rested on the very tips of the fur lining his cloak.
"Let me get that before it stains", Marquie whispered. She pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and used its crisply folded point to soak up the bead of blood, careful to not smear it into the fibers.
"Is there more?" The vampire looked at his clothes, upset with himself for being so sloppy an eater.
She eyed him raptly, from the top of his shining golden head to the tips of his finely shod feet. "Not a speck."
He bowed deeply. "Thank you, passerotto." Tongue tied, Marquie watched the vampire turn and walk away down the cobbled alley. He turned.
"This identity suits. You are stunning, young Fae."
Recognition dawned and the fairy took a quick step toward the vampire as if to give chase. She stopped herself. "That's twice now", she whispered instead. "Who are you?"
The faintest flash of a fang in the firelight shone in his smile. "Erik Northman."
"Aviking?" She breathed. "Mio dio, you must be very old."
The vampire gave the fairy a small bow before melting into the darkness.
Marquie straightened her skirts before returning to the festival. She spared a glance in the vampire's direction.
"Be well, dark friend."