XVIII
Ellis and Dreyon should've been executed. They'd have deserved it, not like Sam or Serena, who did not deserve the deaths they were forced to endure when everything was Ellis and Dreyon's fault.
Their first destination was home, where they showered down the grime and blood, dressed themselves in more presentable items, and, hand in hand with heavy hearts, left – for the last time.
It took them thirty minutes to arrive at the Shadowlock's base.
Unlike the flashy Nightwalkers, building their own empire, the Shadowlocks were much more discreet, although not by much. Two teenagers in jeans and hoodies looked out of place in a five-star restaurant, and they were stopped immediately by a tall pale man in a black tuxedo.
"We have a reservation," Ellis spoke, but could sense that the man was staring past her at a bristling dark-haired vampire. "Ellis Skye."
The man tore his eyes away and focused on the list in his hand. He flipped one page, then another, and then finally, he smiled, revealing pointed teeth. "Ah, Ms. Skye. Yes, of course; this way please, if you don't mind."
Ellis and Dreyon followed the man- no, the vampire – through the dimly lit restaurant, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet underfoot and covered by the soft violin-and-piano duet in the background. Dreyon received unabashed stares as he strolled behind Ellis, as the other… 'customers' knew that he wasn't exactly one of them. They were given a little round table in a corner, the wood covered by a white tablecloth and a tall glass vase holding a fresh rose placed daintily in the middle.
A minute later, a waitress approached them, painted lips fixed in a smile that made her stunning beauty seem a bit artificial. "Here are your menus," she spoke, and they caught the barest glint of fangs behind the curved lips.
"Thank you." Ellis received the leather-bound books, but placed them on the table and not sparing them another glance. "Is it possible for you to show us where the restrooms are?"
The waitress gave them an owlish blink. "The toilets?"
"No, the restrooms," Ellis insisted.
"There's no difference-," Dreyon tried to point out.
"Of course." The waitress tilted her head to the side, eyes still wide and ignoring Dreyon. "Business?"
Ellis nodded seriously, as if they weren't openly talking about doing their businesses in a fancy restaurant. "Urgent business."
"Very well." Suddenly, the waitress's demeanor became very brisk, and she straightened with a curt nod. "Please, come this way."
Ellis stood, Dreyon not far behind her, and they followed the waitress.
"Ellis." Dreyon took several large, quick steps to walk side by side with the blonde, blatantly ignoring the bright-eyed stares that tracked his every footstep. "I thought we were supposed to be meeting with the Shadowlock authorities? Why are we being shown the way to the bathroom?"
"The restroom," Ellis corrected.
"They're the same thing."
"No, they aren't."
"Yes, they are."
"No, Dreyon." His girlfriend gave him a look, eyebrows high and unimpressed, "They are not." There was something final about her tone that convinced Dreyon to stop arguing and fall back a step behind her.
They were led into a hallway with the glowing bathroom signs overhead pointing the ladies in one direction and the gentlemen in the other, but they went past that through a pair of solid wooden doors that swung silently and smoothly shut, trapping them in cool darkness. Fingers brushed against wallpaper, searching, and there was an audible click as the waitress flicked a switch, and one yellow light bulb glowed fervently, lighting up a short hall with a small metal door at the end.
They approached it, and the waitress pulled a chain of keys from a hidden pocket inside her jacket, selected one, and unlocked the door that was then locked again behind them.
Behind the metal door was a complete change of scenery. The walls were brushed with clean white paint, tiles clicked beneath their heels, and white lights overhead cast a sharp glow onto their porcelain complexions.
They passed one hall and twisted into another, also lined with doors. The seamless silence of the place was almost terrifying, their footsteps sounding loud and intruding. When they turned one more time and the waitress knocked briskly on the first door to their right, they felt like they were interrupting something peaceful and holy.
"Come in," a pleasant voice called. The waitress held open the door, and Dreyon and Ellis entered a small, simple office with a typical office desk and spinning chair, along with a small sofa before a large, furry rug.
Ellis had met the head of the Shadowlock clan only once – the day she was recruited – and in the two hundred years, the vampire had not changed. His hair was auburn, short enough but not cut close to his scalp, and his eyes were a mesmerizing shade of citrine. Elegantly dressed in an immaculate, dark blue suit, top hat discarded on the edge of the desk, he had the air of an English gentleman, but when he spoke, there was the lilting accent of one whose tongue flowed with a language that was both Latin and Slavic yet neither at the same time.
"Ah, Melina," Shadowlock's head greeted the waitress first, who curtsied daintily. "Ms. Skye, and Mr.…" his easygoing smile faltered but he continued in the same casual tone of voice, "and Mr.… I don't recall. Are you new?"
"I was a Nightwalker." And of course, Dreyon chose the worst possible thing to say to the Shadowlock leader.
"But I suppose you no longer are?"
"No, of course not." Ellis stepped in before Dreyon could say anything else stupid. "And there is a reason why he is with us now."
Citrine eyes stared at her long and hard, before the vampire leaned back on his chair and gave her a small smile. "Enlighten me, please."
So she did.
Ellis did most of the talking, Dreyon stepping in for short intervals to fill in some gaps, and they laid out the entire story: their meeting, the Nightwalkers, Serena and Sam, and the werewolves.
The Shadowlock remained silent and unmoved during the entire time, Melina standing stiffly by the door, completely stoic save for the occasional frowns at parts of their story.
When Ellis began to trail off and finally closed with a lame ending and a shrug, their main audience was sitting with both feet propped up on his desk, a familiar gold-topped cane laying horizontally across is lap as he fingered the wolf's head carved into the lustrous metal, and there was a stretch of silence that persisted until Melina shifted behind them and called out softly, "Mr. Petrescu-"
"Hush, Melina," Petrescu ordered, finally returning his full attention onto Ellis and barely acknowledging Dreyon. "So you're telling me that we're now at war with both the Nightwalkers and the werewolves because of… you."
Ellis flinched, but it really wasn't far from the truth. "I- yes…" So she gave in, and Dreyon just gave an unhappy little huff beside her.
Interestingly, however, Petrescu did not seem perturbed. In fact, a smile curled his pale lips and he said, "I am amused."
Ellis blinked. "Pardon me, sir?"
"I am very amused," her Head repeated, standing up with the wolf's head gripped in his hand and the protected end of the cane tapping against the ground. "You are an interesting specimen, Ellis Skye. You intrigue me very much."
"Stop speaking to her like she's some kind of animal," interrupted Dreyon.
"Oh, but isn't that what she is?" Petrescu spun around, heavy wooden cane pointing at the dark-haired vampire, the end bare inches from the tip of Dreyon's nose. "Isn't that what we all are? Animals and beasts." He paused, pondering. "I see. We are now stranded in a war we can't possibly win. What a stupid move; yes, what a stupid decision."
"Well, I'm sorry," Ellis apologized, vaguely insulted. They weren't trying to stir up an otherworldly war either.
"No, no, I wasn't talking about you." Now Petrescu was just being confusing. "You see, Miss Skye, you and you're… lover are not the only ones who make mistakes. Quite recently, just last month, in fact, I had invited Mr. Morgen – your father, I see now – to a meeting in hopes of forging better relations with the Nightwalkers." He winced. "Not my best memory, and now… yes, a ridiculously foolish move on my part."
"What…" Dreyon barely began his question before everything seemingly clicked in his mind. "You did not…"
Petrescu had the nerve to look sheepish, although Ellis still wasn't too sure what for. "I'm afraid I did."
"You are an idiot."
"I'm old!"
"That's barely an excuse-"
"What?" Ellis demanded. "What's happened?"
"Well, Miss Skye…" It seemed to pain Petrescu extremely to admit this but, "I'm afraid that due to the meeting last month, the Nightwalkers now know the location of the Shadowlock base."
And that was when the screaming began.
πρωίωςτοβράδυ
Miss Theresa Blair was born in the year 1797, and was turned 1824. She joined the Shadowlocks in 1835, and moved to America in 1971. Theresa considered herself a luxurious woman: where she lacked in life she made up with money. Years of experience made her skilled in business, and despite being a woman, she was highly regarded by all who knew her, even in the 19th century.
It turned out that joining the Shadowlocks was one of the best decisions she had made, because after spending the better part of two hundred years in the peaceful vampire community, it had never failed to please her with its freedom and respect for each and every one of its members, the only obligation for those who call themselves Shadowlock vampires being the protection of its bases and reputation.
Another thing that struck her pleasantly was its elegance of discreetness. From what she knew, the creator and head of the Shadowlock clan was a Romanian or Moldovan man named Costin Petrescu, and although she did not know the area, people, or culture of his origin very well, she was impressed with his style, for where the Shadowlocks lacked the viciousness of the Nightwalkers, they made it up by their sophistication.
The English base she used to visit often was a tailor's shop that has grown in popularity and expanded rapidly to accommodate up to sixty customers at once. Another in Germany that she had peeked into was a bar, but not the rowdy kind. It was the type of place for a quiet drink and dance, with soft music and a dreamy atmosphere. In France, she dropped by a spa, and in Italy, a simple yet elegant café. Then she had arrived in America, and was introduced to a splendid restaurant where it was impossible to reserve a table unless you were a Shadowlock.
All in all, Theresa was very satisfied with the Shadowlocks, and if possible, she planned on spending at least another two hundred years in the clan.
Currently, she was content on simply sipping on a glass of dark red blood, fresh and sweet, as her friend and fellow vampire Austin Drache relayed his story about a vampire he met in Germany who got so drunk in a bar that he had tried to eat himself. It was an amusing story, a bit morbid, but very entertaining either way, despite it being the fourth time she had heard it.
Theresa knew she fit into the image of the fancy restaurant perfectly, from her caramel hair, tightly wound up her head into an elaborate bun, to her pointed heels, the dark red leather polished and gleaming. She was wearing a wine coloured gown today, the fine cloth hugging her torso and hips before fanning out and draping around her legs, longer in the back so the skirt billowed behind her when she walked. It was one of her favourites, she had to admit, so she was careful with the blood. It'd be awful if she spilled a drop onto the garment and the smell lingered for a year afterwards. That was the only problem with blood: the smell was impossible to get rid of, never mind the stains.
"But Ms. Blair, you have visited Germany, haven't you?" Drache's German accent was thick but not unpleasant.
"As a matter of fact, I have." She lowered her cup but kept it perched on her palm, the stem between her middle and forefinger, resting her wrist on the edge of the table as she swirled the thick substance inside. "Several times, actually. The Cathedral of Cologne never failed to impress me, though it was a pity we can't enter it."
Although this was no longer true, vampires still refused to enter churches. It used to be that they couldn't, but through the passing millenniums, even a semi-immortal species such as vampires evolved as they shifted closer to humans and their norms of civilisations. But the talk of churches and Bibles and God still remained somewhat tabooed, so they shifted topic quickly towards-
"What's that smell?" Drache wrinkled his nose in the direction of the entrance. "It reminds me of that boy and girl just now…"
Theresa had smelled it too, a strange mixture of old blood and carrion, accompanied by a dank musky odour like the one of a wet dog, and she let a fraction of her disdain show. "Yes, but at the same time, it's somewhat different. This is… stronger."
"Revolting," her friend remarked, and she agreed.
"I wonder what it is."
Unhappy mutters were rising, and Theresa saw more than one vampire cover their sensitive noses with handkerchiefs in a feeble attempt to ward off the growing scent.
Conversations dwindled as two shadows approached the restaurant's translucent doors that were drawn open to let the guests in. But the moment they stepped in – two men with pride nearing arrogance straightening their spines – the smell became overwhelming and Theresa forgave herself for gagging.
One man, a tall, imposing figure in a dark suit cut near his broad shoulders that made his skin – impossibly pale, even for a vampire – stand out in stark contrast, approached the doorman, whose posture was stiff with restraint, but his disgust professionally hidden under a mask of cool. They exchanged a few quiet words, all conversations ending abruptly as everyone tried to gorge out who this man was.
They didn't need to wait. The doorman was shaking his head, saying – refusing something, and then-
Theresa wasn't even sure what happened, but one moment the doorman was there, and the next, he was not. The room was silent save for the barely audible dripping of- what?
Then, a smell, a different smell, hit her: blood, not human, but dead, undying, not touching the living, immortal blood.
There was a soft cry, Theresa looked up, and saw a horrific smear of blood against the ceiling, ragged strips of cloth and torn bits of meat stuck to the surface, and on the crystal chandelier…
The second man, not so tall but with just as much air of authority gained by his greying hair, snarled, an animalistic sound that could never be human but wasn't vampire either…
The windows shattered, but those nearby weren't given the chance to react as fangs cleaved into throats and claws ripped vessels into shreds
Theresa hadn't realised that she was standing but her chair had toppled over behind her, her gray eyes painfully wide as she barely had the chance to take everything in before her motionless heart realized what was happening before her brain and her body reacted all on its own. Her jaw unhinged wide, an unnecessary breath catching in her throat, then bursting out through her mouth when one of them looked up at her with glowing red eyes and grinned through fangs and teeth.
Her scream cut through the air, pierced past the walls and rattled the building, and then it lunged, and Death – the real thing it was there she could see it – swooped in.
πρωίωςτοβράδυ
Some small, guilty part of her had expected it, but at the same time, it came as a horrifying shock. The moment Petrescu said that the location of their base had been revealed, she might have known what was going to happen, and the moment that first scream pierced like an arrow through the white hallways and into the room, she had known. Perhaps she just didn't expect them to move so goddamn fast.
The Shadowlock clan was known to be peaceful, civilized. They were not cultivated into killers and beasts and they were proud of it; that was their pride.
How very useful pride was in the face of Death.
The first vampire she had met after being Turned was Costin Petrescu, and she had never known how terribly animalistic a vampire truly was until it was explained and shown to her because she herself had always, in the two hundred years of solitude and immortality, tried to be human when she was anything but.
Dreyon, she knew, was wild, and maybe that was because the Nightwalkers drank living, human blood and maybe- even though they were vampires, maybe- Maybe they weren't supposed to.
If animal blood was water, blood bags were cartons of juice or milk, then fresh blood would be alcohol or coffee or drugs because yes, it was wonderful, the best thing she had ever tasted, but it drives you mad and it ruins you.
Vampires are, technically speaking, walking corpses who couldn't get the notion of life out of their heads. That was where the blood comes in: liquid life that gave you the warmth and satisfaction of life, but you're not alive, nothing can ever change that, and that was what drove so many creatures like them utterly insane. They knew it too. They knew that something was wrong, they just didn't know what and when they realize that the only true way out of this was Death… It simply wasn't acceptable.
Rose reversed death and life, and that made her precious; werewolves were beasts, but they were alive, and that made them despicable. Shadowlocks were beasts, they were dead, but they pretended to be alive, and that was the greatest sin of all.
Outside, it was a massacre.
Her ears felt stuffed with screams, her nose congested with the scent of blood and dead meat, but her eyes – they were wiped clear and clean and she could see everything. And it terrified her because- Vampires were strong, they were fast, so why was that girl struggling under a massive figure covered in fur? Why was that boy begging to a cackling woman with bloodstained clothes and hands? Why could she see them feasting on rank blood and putrid flesh? Why-
"Ellis!" Why- Why was Dreyon looking at her like that, his eyes wide and for the first time she could see something in there that was human, alive, that was truly sad, that was regretful, but why-?
"Ellis!" he shouted again, and no, don't look at her like that, as if he was about to leave and- "Please." What? "Please, Ellis, promise me one thing."
She had always thought the color of his eyes were somewhat strange and murky, greenish brown like dirty pond water, but she had never realized that when it cleared it was green life on fresh dirt.
"Promise me you won't die."
I'm immortal, but she was not really. You couldn't be undying when you were already dead and that was why "I don't want to die."
Dreyon smiled tightly, and it was a sad, broken, conflicted thing. "Me neither."
And then he was gone, and those cold hands no longer clutched hers (she never even realized it there oh God why-?), and Ellis knew she was weeping nothingness when Petrescu cried out somewhere behind her while a cruel and familiar voice laughed, Melina screamed, struggling against another vampire's iron grip, and everything was silent to her.
Ellis was weeping, Petrescu was dead, Melina was captured, and Dreyon-
Dreyon was nowhere to be found.
XIX
It wasn't even surprising or unexpected, just painful and regretful to know. And God knew he had enough regrets in his life, everything founded after he had met Ellis. So many regrets, because he should have known that day on October 18t, 1829 when his father, always eager for dinnertime, failed to make it home.
They had waited till eight and finally ate dinner with family missing missing, and he should have known, after another day missing, when his father returned early in the morning with pale skin and a feral grin, he should've known that his father was dead. Danger could be scented in the hallways, he should've told his mother to run, but it was his father, and he would never lay a hand on his mother…?
It was suspicious when his mother left to the country home without a word or sign, and even more so the way his father wouldn't let him go visit her, even after months and months of disquiet silence. He should've known the first time his father laid a hand on him, and it bruised his ribs and left him bedridden for a week.
And he should have known, that last and final time, when his father called him into his office (the family portrait had disappeared and he discovered that all the paintings of photographs of his mother and him were gone: a cold, lifeless room).
The first word to him was, "Come."
He stopped before the mahogany desk and his father stood, walking around and behind him to speak to the door and walls instead of him. "Do you know where your mother went?"
"The country home." It was a lie, and they all knew it.
"No." The man spun around, dark eyes gleaming with something he couldn't name. "She's not there. She's dead." And there it was: the truth. "I killed her." The terrible, horrific truth.
"Why did you do it?"
His question was ignored. "I can't let the same happen to you, my son. You cannot die like her. I've come so close-" bruises blooming on his torso, blood filling his mouth from a knocked off tooth, shoulder aching after being stuffed back into its socket by a rough hand "-it cannot happen again."
"Why did you do it?"
He only saw him take one step, but suddenly the man stood before him, too close, too cold. The back of his legs bumped against the desk when he tried to retreat, and then an icy hand wrapped around his neck. His head was forced to one side, exposing blue veins pulsing in his throat.
"I didn't want to."
Something pierced into him, through the skin, the muscle, the vein bursting, and he found himself screaming but didn't realize it at first because the world was melting and the only thing he could feel was pain-
Afterwards, pain did not come easily. When you are dead, pain did not affect you. It is merely a surprise, an echo of liveliness that made it almost addictive.
Except he feared it. It was supposed to bring you back to life but he was terrified. He'd rather be dead than in pain and that was how he felt now. The pain was killing him. It wouldn't cease, setting every single cell aflame, and he didn't understand why or what it was that they injected into him, that long, thin needle poking through the skin and into the vessel in his neck, and then it was pain, all over again. Life worked in cycles – it was funny that way; but no one told him that Death shared the same sick humor.
Except- except this wasn't Death. It dawned onto him like a bird spreading its wings and gliding onto the ground, touching down gracefully and expectedly. Death was not painful – Life was.
And he knew he was right when something inside his chest jumped, then lurched, then a resounding boom that left his ears ringing and his body feeling hot and uncomfortable. It sounded like a drum, but he knew it wasn't. The same feeling happened again, but it no longer echoed. His eyes opened to darkness, his nose and ears were clogged, and then when he felt something inside him give a shout, Dreyon Morgen opened his mouth and took a deep breath, grasping at a fading world as his heart gave one last sputtering cough, and began to beat.