Vampire Book - To Dream Of Dreamers Lost Part 17

Lacroix did, forcing his gaze to cut the dim light He chose the girl, the more pleasant to look at. At first she looked no different than any girl, if a bit more pale, but he looked more closely.

Noirceuil was not one to cry wolf if they did not face a wolf.

Then he noticed two things. First, the girl showed not the slightest trace of fear. By this time it was certain she knew who Noirceuil was, and why he had come after them, new as she was to her d.a.m.nation.

The other was that her skin was even more pale than he'd first believed, translucent and pale, her eyes glowing with a deep, inner light.

Lacroix had seen plenty of vampires, but there was something different, wholly unnerving, in her aspect.

He shifted his gaze to where Abraham had appeared, but there was no one there.

In that same instant, Noirceuil leapt from the stone, moving with uncanny speed toward where the girl still stood, staring at them. She did not move, and somehow that tipped Lacroix at the last second, and he lunged, trying to s.n.a.t.c.h his partner's cape and knowing he was far too slow, and too late.

Abraham slid from the shadows like a dark knife, slicing into Noirceuil from the side and driving the hunter swiftly to the ground.

The girl simply melted from sight, and as Lacroix heard a deep snarl of rage from his partner and an answering cry from the vampire, he shifted to his own right, diving and rolling along the wall of the cliff, eyes scanning the gathering darkness wildly.

Rising as quickly as he could into a crouch, he glanced back to where Noirceuil had met the shadows.

Nothing. The two had rolled out of sight, and now Lacroix was alone.

He drew the wooden blade he carried from its scabbard, worn close to his heart, and without thought his hand slipped up to grip the silver crucifix about his neck. He knew both were likely futile gestures if he could not at least catch sight of his prey, and the longer he went with no sound from his partner, the more certain he became that Noirceuil had finally met his match.

Then there was a sharp cry, and Lacroix knew the voice as Abraham's from the first outcry earlier. It was a yelp of pain, and Lacroix moved. He didn't know what was happening, but he did know that if he could keep Noirceuil alive, and by his side, he had a better chance of facing his judgment at St.

Peter's gate and less of meeting it in that dark clearing.

He moved close to the ground, watching warily for signs of the girl, and as he reached the line of trees, he plunged through with a soft curse, following the line the two antagonists had fallen along moments before. There was a sound ahead, scuffling feet, and another cry, this time Noirceuil.

Lacroix moved quickly, breaking free of the trees once more to see Noirceuil and Abraham locked, hands on one another's throats, eyes inches apart, rolling in the dirt.

Their exertion was plain to see, but what stopped Lacroix in his tracks was Noirceuil's face. The eyes were deeper, wider, and glowed with a deep red hatred. The man's hands, more like claws, latched on with equal ferocity to those of his foe. Lacroix stopped in his tracks, then took a step back.

"No," Lacroix breathed.

Noirceuil heard him, turning those feral eyes toward his partner.

"Get over here and help me, you fool," he gasped.

Lacroix shook his head, not advancing. His lips were moving, but no sound was coming forth. Facts and events were clicking, placing themselves in his mind and memory, stealing his concentration.

"No," he repeated. He backed another step, and it was then that he felt the soft brush of a hand on his shoulder.

Spinning, he saw the girl, hunger washing through her eyes, stepping closer, and he swung with his blade, meaning to drive it straight into her heart and to turn, running to his horse and then away down the mountain, to Rome, to wherever, anywhere but there.

She caught his wrist easily, twisting it and send- ing the sharp wooden knife flying off into the shadows with a contemptuous flick of her wrist. She seemed in no hurry to go to the aid of her partner, but was instead fixated on Lacroix, on his throat, the soft pulse of his blood growing stronger and wilder with each pa.s.sing second.

She grabbed his wrist, dragging him to her breast with a sudden yank, and he nearly lost his footing.

"Dive, you fool," Noirceuil hissed at his back.

He didn't know what else to do, so he obeyed. As she dragged on his arm, he dove forward, pa.s.sing her and leaving her grip as she spun after him, startled. He ignored his lost blade, spinning to the side and plunging into the shadows.

Behind him he heard her hiss once, heard several soft steps follow, then she stopped. The battle behind her must have been sliding in Noirceuil's favor. She did not follow, and Lacroix was back to the clearing and moving toward his mount in a matter of seconds, Noirceuil, their mission, everything forgotten but flight.

He leaped to his saddle and spun the horse, dragging the reins free of where he'd secured them the night before. The animal, frightened, whinnied loudly and bucked, but Lacroix held on tightly, and moments later was flying through the trees, branches whipping and slapping at his arms and face. He prayed not to lose a knee against one of the trees as the horse plummeted through the darkness.

He hadn't gone far when his mind registered another sound. He tried to focus, but the terror was gripping his thoughts, and he didn't hear the pounding hooves until he burst onto the trail and nearly ran over St. Fond and du Puy, who shouted at him hoa.r.s.ely. He noted them in pa.s.sing, realizing who it must be, and spurred his mount to breakneck speed as he turned down the mountain.

St. Fond turned as if to give chase, but du Puy shook his head, and the two turned instead to the side of the trail, retracing the path that Lacroix had taken out of the trees.

Down the trail, Montrovant and the others saw the man burst into sight, pounding down the trail straight at them, now screaming at the top of his lungs, and without a sound they moved aside.

Le Duc watched the mad horseman flash past them, and he glanced at Montrovant, a question in his eyes. The dark one shook his head.

"Let him go. It is whatever chases him we are concerned with."

Turning upward once more, Montrovant drove his heels into his horse's flanks and launched up the trail, shifting off to the side where his men had left the trail and plunged into the darkness. With a shrug, Jeanne and the others followed.

They burst into the clearing moments later to find a wild scene.

Fleurette had dragged Noirceuil from Abraham roughly, but Abraham was slow in rising, and the hunter had turned on her, readying himself to strike.

In that moment, St. Fond and du Puy had burst from the trees, charging straight at the two antagonists.

Abraham, though injured, had managed to roll to the side and slip into the shadows once more, and the two knights, filled with the energy and adrenaline of the charge, drew their blades and wheeled, ready to face down whoever got in their way.

Noirceuil cried out in frustration, turning to face this new danger with a snarl. He hesitated, wanting to leap on Fleurette and ignoring the knights, but at the same time wanting to charge them head on. The decision was made moot seconds later when Montrovant appeared behind the two, Le Duc at his side.

It took only seconds for the dark one to a.s.sess the situation, and he drove his mount forward quickly, letting the animal's shoulder strike Noirceuil a solid blow and send him stumbling into the shadows.

The hunter did not go down, and he managed a quick, deadly swipe of sharp claws over Fleurette's face as he pa.s.sed, but the blow was glancing, and she stepped away easily, turning toward the trees.

Le Duc intercepted her, pulling her up short, and though she tried to leap back the other way, St.

Fond appeared behind her, blade drawn.

Noirceuil slipped into the darkness surrounding them with a cry of rage.

"He isn't gone," Montrovant called out. The dark one shifted about the clearing, taking in the signs of struggle, then glanced for a moment at the girl.

"There is another. Stay close. Whatever you do, don't get out of sight of one another, and don't get too close to the shadows."

He moved then, very quickly, dismounting and making his way to Fleurette's side. He swept his gaze up and down her quickly, taking in her young form, the depth of her eyes, and the cool, unwavering strength of her gaze.

"How long?" he asked her softly.

She did not answer, only returned his gaze. He moved closer, reaching as if to touch her shoulder, then pulling up short.

"How long since your Embrace?"

She still didn't answer, and a cry from the surrounding trees brought a soft curse to Montrovant's lips. He leaped to the side, plunging into the darkness, and Le Duc took several steps to follow. In that instant, when their attention was diverted, she was gone. St. Fond and du Puy stared at one another in consternation, but they did not give chase.

Montrovant's word was law, and they were in no hurry to find out what it was that the dark one feared in the shadows. Better to have at least a bit of open ground on which to fight.

Montrovant and Le Duc moved from opposite sides and found Noirceuil locked with Abraham, one of whose arms hung limp at his side. The hunter had him pinned against a tree, but could not seem to gather the strength for a killing blow.

Montrovant reined in, watching for a moment, then spun quickly.

"Now," the dark one said softly. "Now is the time."

Without another word he plunged toward the cliff. Le Duc, used to such shifts, followed the dark one's lead, leaving the two vampires to end their struggle as they might. The cliff rose above them moments later, stark and impa.s.sable, but before Jeanne could comment on this, Montrovant was on his feet, then on his knees, moving toward the low opening in the stone wall.

It was a cave. There was an opening in the wall, and Jeanne smiled, dropping quickly from the saddle to follow. Montrovant was already disappearing into that black hole when Le Duc dropped to the ground and slid from the clearing, leaving his horse, his belongings, and probably his existence behind.

"Where does it lead?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"In and up," Montrovant replied tersely. "Did you see them, Jeanne?

That was Abraham, the one I left to die at the keep, and the girl was no more than a week to the blood, and yet they were strong. Their blood was powerful, different."

"The Order," Jeanne breathed. "Yes," Montrovant replied, "and this is the only way they could have come so quickly back from that Order. I sensed the horses of those other two, the hunters, here by the wall and guessed what I would find.

If they had come down the trail, it is we they would have met, not that strange one."

"Why did you come here and not remain to help the others?" Jeanne asked, a twinge of guilt tugging at his heart.

"Your words," Montrovant grunted, sliding quickly deeper into the mountain. "Kodesh would expect me to fight. That one was a hunter, and from the glance I had at the equipment on his mount, sent by Rome. He hunts his own, Jeanne.

Kli Kodesh knows this will anger me, and I'm hoping that he is counting on it keeping me busy for a while. I turned away from the battle because it is the last thing I wanted to do. We will soon see if I am right, or if, once again, he has played me for a fool."

Jeanne grinned into the shadows, and followed.

They soon came to the first, open portal and slid through it. Jeanne hesitated, thinking of closing it behind himself, then shrugged. Once they were inside, it did not matter who followed. If others came behind and caused more of a stir, they might make for a good distraction when one was needed.

They made their way to the inner portal, which was closed, and Montrovant fussed with it until, with a soft cry, he rolled it aside. They slid through and into the lower levels of the keep in silence, rolling the stone back into place. Then they slid out into the hall and to the stairs beyond.

_.

Fleurette watched the two knights from the shadows beneath a huge old oak tree, eyes dark. The hunger was only a distant pulse, and she did not feel the urge to feed, but neither did it seem right to just stay there. Melting into the shadows, she circled the clearing, and finally made out the sounds of struggle once more.

Hurrying her steps, she burst into the clearing and saw Noirceuil, seated on Abraham's inert form, raising his arm high above him, a blade glittering brightly in his grip. There was no fight left in Abraham, but Fleurette knew he had not been destroyed.

She wasn't certain how, exactly, but she knew that the moment he ceased to exist on the Earth, she would know, and it would hurt, very deeply.

With a soft snarl she leaped from the shadows and drew her small blade. It rode right where it had in life, strapped to her upper thigh, and the curved bone of the hilt felt good in her hand as she drew it for the first time since Abraham had come to her aid in that alley so far back in time, so many miles in the past.

Noirceuil started, half turning, but it was too late to avoid her charge. The blade caught him flush in the throat and drove him over to the ground. She followed, rolling with the momentum of the plunge and dragged the dagger free as she returned to her feet. Her movements were quicker than she could have believed in life, her agility that of a large cat, but Noirceuil was older, faster, and he'd been fighting to the death for much longer.

He snarled in rage, shifting his own blade to the other hand and rolling away and up. His hand slid to his throat, pressing to the wound, which oozed for a moment, the blood glistening in the soft moonlight filtering through the cover of the trees.

Then he moved. He came at her directly, no sidestepping or feints.

He was stronger, and he intended to make full use of that, to drive her back and down and finish her quickly.

It angered her. She had faced down older brothers, warriors, drunks in the taverns. She did not back down as Noirceuil charged, but waited, letting herself go limp and feigning fright. His eyes glittered, and as he leaped, she shifted subtly, her boot kicking out quickly and her body shifting just enough to the side that he missed.

His blade sliced through the air, but that was all it sliced, and he tumbled past her, her backhand stab plunging her blade deep into his shoulder and dragging it in a jagged line toward her. She cried out as it was ripped from her hand, and she danced back to the clearing.

Noirceuil bellowed in frustration and pain.

Spinning, he was back at her quickly, moving straight for her again, but watching more carefully.

She knew the trick would not work a second time, and she had no more weapons. Her eyes shifted around, looking for something, anything she might use to defend herself, but the only thing she saw was Abraham's limp form, sprawled in the gra.s.s.

She stood her ground, and Noirceuil smiled then, moving in.

"You are an evil, agile little thing," he said sibilantly, "but it will do you no good with me, girl. I will send you to your dark master, you and your d.a.m.ned maker. No more innocent blood will flow at your hand. No more of G.o.d's chosen will fall to your hunger."

"You are a fool," she said softly. "You are no different, no better. You will feed on those I leave behind, using their blood to fuel your own warped existence as you play G.o.d and judge to the d.a.m.ned."

"d.a.m.ned I may be," Noirceuil replied, "But I do G.o.d's work. Make no mistake of that. You are an abomination in His eyes, and I will wipe you from His Earth."

Fleurette noticed a slight shift in Abraham's form, and she stood her ground. "You do no work but your own, or Satan's, if there is such a creature," she spat. "You know no more of G.o.d than I do, and I know no G.o.d who would allow his children to become such as we. Who are you to decide what is evil, and what is not?"

Noirceuil hesitated. It was not often he could tell one he intended to kill why. Pride was his fondest sin.

"I know G.o.d better than you would believe, girl.

I knew his love, and his salvation. It has been torn from me, but I remember that pain. I will not allow you to continue, and thus rip it from the hearts of others. You must be laid to rest."

Abraham's cry was loud, and chilling. He rose only to a crouch, and his one good arm shot back, grabbing the sword he'd dropped moments before and gripping the blade, ignoring the cuts in his hand as he raised it, whipping his arm forward with a ma.s.sive, all-encompa.s.sing burst of anger, frustration, and rage.

The blade whirled through the air like an oversized dagger. Fleurette watched it, hypnotized by the glittering steel. Noirceuil was too slow.

The blade spun, shifted, striking him sideways with impossible accuracy, and the steel slid easily into his neck, severing it and sending his head spinning off into the darkness with the snarl still in place and a dumfounded expression of outrage etched into his dark features.

His body moved a step forward, arms outstretched, still reaching for Fleurette, who stood and watched its approach. Then it fell away, and she turned, moving to Abraham's side quickly and wrapping him in her arms.

"Quickly," he gasped, trying to rise. She helped him to his feet, and they stumbled from the clearing together. "Where is Montrovant?"

"I don't know," she said quietly. "He and the other left the clearing as soon as Noirceuil slipped out after you."

Cursing, Abraham turned toward the mountain's face. "It may be too late to stop him, then," he gasped. His arm was healing slowly, but he still couldn't get any use of it, and the imbalance of it dragging at his side slowed his progress, but he forged ahead.

"What is it?" Fleurette asked softly.

"He didn't fight," Abraham cursed. "He went for the Grail. We have to be there to stop him."