Vampire Book - To Dream Of Dreamers Lost Part 7

The two wound up the mountain a few hundred feet, and very suddenly the easy going fell off and the cliff rose straight up, a sheer face of stone. It was against this backdrop that the chase reached its very sudden finale. Their prey ran to the cliff, looking wildly to the right and left, turning finally back the way he'd come. It was too late.

The two hors.e.m.e.n had ridden into sight, one to the man's left, the other on the right, carefully approaching. The smile of the rider on the right flashed a brilliant white in the moonlight, competing with the silver of his cross for Abraham's attention and nearly distracting him from the sight of the eyes above. Deep eyes...dark, but with glimmers of something, not exactly light, more like flames, dancing deep inside. The light did nothing to ease the darkness of that countenance.

Moving closer to the stone that still obscured him from sight, Abraham watched as the first rider dismounted slowly. The man's gaze locked onto that of the terrified n.o.ble cowering against the stone, and once he had the other under the sway of his deep, smoldering eyes, his gaze never wavered.

The horse was left behind, and the dark man stalked his prey with eerie precision. His head s.h.i.+fted to one side, nose sniffing the air like an animal seeking a scent, though his eyes were trained steadily.

The distance between hunter and prey lessened steadily, and at last the dark man stopped, no more than a foot away from the other, having said no word, made no gesture other than that of a snake mesmerizing its dinner.

"I smell it," he said at last, gaze whipping around to meet that of his silent companion. "He has the scent on him, the taint of other worlds.

The sulfur and the brimstone mix with his blood."

Spinning quickly, face lowered now and back bent, the hunter approached within inches of the other man's face. "You have spoken with them, haven't you?" he hissed sibilantly. "You have followed them into their dens of darkness, watched as they fed on the blood of G.o.d's people. You have led their lambs to slaughter, and all under the pretext of being a G.o.dly man."

The trapped man found his voice finally, head shaking back and forth, eyes both searching and pleading at once. "No, no, I swear to you.

I have no idea, no idea what you want, who you are...please?"

"You may save your breath," the second rider said softly. "Noirceuil is not one to make mistakes, or to admit them if his first rule is broken.

We know of your affairs, of those who rest beneath the floors of your keep by night and hunt our people by day.We know everything about you, in fact, and we will find them before we are done, with or without your cooperation.

"I would think that after the enormity of your sin, you would be prepared to repent. Your soul is surely d.a.m.ned, but there must be a lesser h.e.l.l that awaits those who beg forgiveness."

"But I have done nothing," the man dropped his head into his hands, moaning softly. "I swear to you by all that is holy. For G.o.d's sake, my own daughter has been slain, taken to darkness. Surely you must see that I could not be a part of that?"

Noirceuil stood over him for a long moment, watching the man shake and sob, eyes darkening with each heavy, rasping breath his victim took.

"You make a mistake when you take me for a fool, my friend," he hissed. "I can smell them on you, can sense their foul touch on your skin. Do you truly believe that if you keep their secrets they will come for you? I a.s.sure you, they will not, and if they do...it will be the last mistake they make in this world."

Reaching down suddenly, Noirceuil grabbed him by his disheveled hair, slamming his head back into the stone and laying bare the man's neck. Even from where Abraham peered from the shadows, the fang marks were obvious.

"They have fed from you, and yet you walk alive on the Earth. Do not do me the disservice of believing I do not know what this means. I a.s.sure you, there is little of their foul, d.a.m.ned hearts that I do not know, and well. I make it my business to know, and my business to end their madness wherever it crosses my path, such as it does this night. You will not be returning to their darkness, Dorval. You will not be completing the journey you have begun." At this moment Noirceuil slapped the man's throat hard, hand flat over the twin wounds of sharp truth.

Dorval lurched up and forward then, his courage returning in that last moment, or his sanity departing, and he lunged with his hands curled into claws at the cleric's throat. Noirceuil waited an impossibly long moment, s.h.i.+fting to one side at just the right moment to avoid Dorval's lurching attack. As his attacker stumbled, missing his target by the width of a man's hand, Noirceuil struck, his own hand coming down with ma.s.sive force on the back of Dorval's skull, driving it harder and faster to the stony ground at their feet.

A sickening thump signaled Dorval's final meeting with the earth.

Noirceuil stood over the suddenly inert body, gazing down in silence. As he turned to walk away from Dorval's corpse, his boot shot out suddenly, grinding into the back of the man's skull and driving it more fully into the earth.

"Ashes to ashes," he said, the words breathed softly, "dust to dust."

"You might have left him a breath to tell us which way they went,"

the second man's voice rang out suddenly. "You might, for once, have controlled that urge of yours to play G.o.d. We are here to serve the Lord in all his glory," the voice, now sarcastic, droned on, "not to feed the fires below. It is quite warm enough on this mountain without our help."

Noirceuil's gaze lifted to meet his companion's, and his voice cracked suddenly across the s.p.a.ce between them like a whip. "You will be better served by prayer, and by vigilance, than by sarcasm, Lacroix. He was tainted, and he would not have told us anything that we could use, or that I cannot find without his help. I tracked him here to save his soul, and to rid the world of potential evil.

We will find those we seek, do not trouble yourself on that account. I am quite unaccustomed to failure."

Lacroix fell silent at Noirceuil's words, but his eyes did not waver.

They swam with the fire of the fanatic, and again Abraham pressed more tightly to the stone, stroking his horse's neck gently. He nearly prayed himself that moment, for the animal's silence, and his own safety, but it proved unnecessary.

Noirceuil glanced about the clearing once, shaking his head oddly, and sweeping his gaze over the stone with a curious glint in his eyes, but at last turned he to his mount and slipped easily back into the saddle.

"The trail grows cold," he said softly. "Let us ride, my friend."

The two wheeled, spinning toward the road below and away.

Abraham sat as he was. He watched, and he thought about what he'd just witnessed.

Noirceuil was d.a.m.ned. There was no doubt of it, no way it could be denied, and yet, there lay a dead body, filled with fresh, hot blood, and Noirceuil had turned from it, without so much as a backward glance, and ridden away.

One thing was confirmed. Lacroix might know or suspect a great deal of dark things about his partner, but it was becoming glaringly obvious that the one thing that should have set off the alarm bells in that man's brain was the one thing he was ignoring.

Noirceuil was hunting the Cainites for the Church. He was putting an end to his own kind without thought, and to those who served them.

After waiting what he felt was a safe amount of time, and then waiting a bit longer, Abraham rode from the shadows and dismounted slowly. He stepped closer, leaning to grab Dorval by his hair, lifting the ruined face from the stone and bringing the inert form limply into his arms.

Without hesitation he latched onto the dead throat, drinking the cooling blood, slaking the hunger that had gripped him the moment he felt the man's heartbeat, fleeing the two priests below the trail. His hunger, unquenched for two solid days, had pounded through him, backdrop to every thought, every image that flitted through his mind tainted by that insidious crimson haze.That left the question of Noirceuil more prominent in his mind. Who was the man, and what motivated him? How could he walk so calmly from the curse that seared through Abraham's veins?

Why did he hunt his own?

The worst of it was the connection to the Church. If there were vampire hunters in the hire of the Church in Rome, and they were on the road at the same time, in the same area, as he, Abraham wondered why it was that Bishop Santorini had failed to mention it. There were two possibilities, neither of which calmed Abraham's nerves.

The Church might not trust Santorini any longer. The bishop had been the liaison between Montrovant and Rome, and Montrovant was gone, as well as the Order he'd been supposed to be "guarding." None of this was likely to have won Santorini points in the Vatican.

The other possibility was that it was Santorini who lacked trust in his own agent, that he had turned Abraham over to another branch of the Church. The solution of a problem was more certain if it was approached by more than one avenue.

What if Santorini was also behind these others, and they were also on Montrovant's trail, or Abraham's own? Too many things left to question, and no answers to be had except through the road ahead.

If he found Montrovant, he knew, things would fall into place, one way or the other. If these others sought the dark one as well, they would find him a bit more of a challenge than Dorval, whose drained, worthless carca.s.s now slipped back to the earth that would eventually claim it. Abraham wiped his sleeve over his lips, cleaning away the last remnant of blood, mind lost in thought.

The night was not so old, despite all that had happened, and Abraham knew he should return to the road soon, but he held back a bit longer, moving back to the stone and seating himself with his back to that solid wall, thinking. Montrovant would waste no time reaching France, but that made the trail easier to follow. A straight line was what the dark one would take, and that is how Abraham would follow.

Abraham wondered at these others. He wondered if this Noirceuil knew as much of those he sought as he claimed, and what could possibly have turned him so against his own that he would hunt them like animals. Most pointedly he wondered why he'd never heard the names Noirceuil or Lacroix before, and what they would mean to his own future.

Mounting at last, he returned slowly to the road and continued on over the mountain, not hurrying his pace, wanting to catch up with neitherNoirceuil nor Montrovant until it was at a time and under circ.u.mstances of his own choosing.

There would be time to pick up Montrovant's trail once all of them were safely across the border in France. The time in between would allow him to make a few contacts of his own and communicate with Santorini. There were answers he needed now, and he needed them quickly. He was in as much danger from the Church which had sent him on this fool's errand, it seemed, as Montrovant himself. More so, in all likelihood, considering the dark one's age and power. He did not intend to leap in headlong until he at least knew the depth of the hole he was entering.

He moved slowly down the road, lost in thought, as those ahead pulled steadily away, moving to their own designs.

_.

Noirceuil and Lacroix made good time now that the hunt was over and behind them. Neither spoke, but they moved comfortably together.

They had shared long roads, and though neither qualified as normal by the standards of the world at large, they were well acquainted with one another's idiosyncrasies.

Lacroix tolerated his partner's odd hours and habits because, whatever dark hunger it was that drove him, the truth was that Noirceuil's methods were the most effective Lacroix had ever seen. To live as they lived, to hunt and sleep by the light of day, to leave behind all that meant the most in life, all for a dream of service to G.o.d. All for the good of Rome.

Noirceuil's mind was so attuned to the d.a.m.ned they hunted that his habits mimicked theirs at times. His violence grew with each hunt, his ability to ferret them intuitively from behind their clever disguises and the many masks they wore was unparalleled. Some of that ability had rubbed off onto Lacroix himself, but most of their success as a team was based on Noirceuil. If not Lacroix himself, there would be others to travel by the hunter's side.

Lacroix's ability was of a more mundane nature.

He was well connected in the Church. His own efforts were largely responsible for the recognition of the d.a.m.ned, and the dangers they presented to Rome. His quiet, whispered praise of Noirceuil, his own name cleverly inserted whenever possible, had led to the founding of their own small branch of the growing power of the Inquisition itself.

The Pope would not be coming to their rescue if they got into trouble. That much he'd not been able to accomplish, but at least they were supported, and cleared for safe pa.s.sage and a.s.sistance wherever possible. It was a start. The more of the evil, blood-sucking monsters they brought down, the further they could push their cause, and their own worth.

Lacroix expected one day to be a bishop.

Noirceuil, he knew, would be the hunter still. No amount of success would quell that one's hatred.

No amount of revenge would end his pain, whatever it might be.

Lacroix had attempted once to delve into Noirceuil's past. One lonely night, three d.a.m.ned souls rotting back to dust in the wake of their pa.s.sing, he'd broached the subject of the past. He'd gone so far as to ask the hunter why-why the pain, the fire...

the darkness?

It was a mistake he'd never repeated. One glance into those cold, deep, empty eyes, had been enough answer for a lifetime. For several lifetimes.

Noirceuil had not said a word. Nothing. He'd turned from the fire, moved into the darkness, and disappeared, not returning until early morning.

The fire had burned low, but Lacroix had not slept.

Something in his partner's actions had chilled him beyond the ability of simple flame to brush aside.

No words had been spoken. Noirceuil, true to his habit, his ritual, had moved to his horse, grabbed his pack, and secluded himself from the sunlight that morning, leaving Lacroix alone to face the day.

The subject had been dropped, and it remained a mystery that Lacroix had decided was better left unsolved.

Now, on the road once more, he was beginning to wonder about the stability of his hunter, and their future together. The hunt for Dorval had been a long one. Months of watching and spying, reports and intrigue, had ferreted this lone human from the ranks of hundreds of others, informant and servant to the one they sought, this Montrovant.

Then they had spent another week in getting the man away from his own people, out alone where he could be separated quietly, and hunted.

The hunt had always been a challenge, a glorious moment of hot blood and dark thrill. That had not changed.

What had changed was Noirceuil.

The man should not have been killed without questioning. The entire circle of intrigue they'd drawn had become so much wasted effort in that one short moment, and Noirceuil did not even see it. He was blinded now by his rage. The closer they came to this one, this Montrovant, the crazier Noirceuil became.

After this hunt, Lacroix decided, he would be forced to offer his partner a choice. Take a hiatus, regain control of his thoughts and regain the focus that had made him the force for G.o.d he'd become...or have his a.s.sociation with Lacroix, Rome, and the protection that came with it all severed.

Lacroix did not intend to have his own future plans destroyed in a fit of insane rage.

The only question, he knew, as he watchedNoirceuil's mount cut through the night, its grim pa.s.senger bent low against the whipping of the wind, was how to break that news and remain alive himself.

EIGHT.

The mountain did not hold Montrovant and his followers back for long, though they were getting a bit nervous over the cold and the lack of supplies before they reached the pa.s.s on the far side, winding down.

Beyond that mountain they could see smoke from scattered settlements and camps, and signs of activity on the road. This side did not seem quite as secluded.

Montrovant took to leaving the others behind as they began moving again each evening, and not returning until late in the night, or early morning, in time for making camp. He took Le Duc with him twice...

two other times he went alone. Not a word was spoken to his men of where he'd been, or why.

Since the events in the monastery, and his "feast" with Rachel, they were quiet and subdued in his presence. Their loyalty was not swayed, but the answers to questions they had been content to leave as mysteries had been thrust upon them by fate. Her story was quite a bit to swallow all at once, as well.

The dark one was content to watch them, waiting for them to sort it out. They all knew him, and his ways. They also knew that they would not live long if they chose to cross him. That left the two choices of accepting, or dying. There was little doubt in any mind which they would choose. All that was truly in question was the manner in which they would work it out in their hearts and minds.

Montrovant was lost in his own world. He left like a shadow and returned just as silently. He spoke only when spoken to, and his brief replies left little doubt that his silence was not to be disturbed.

So they rode, and they waited. The days slipped slowly away behind them, and they neared the border of France. They were pa.s.sing small villages now, stopping now and then at an inn, or to awaken the merchants in a small market in order to replace their supplies.

Montrovant spent those times in the streets, the alleys, asking questions and slipping gold from his fingers into the hands of those who possessed what he sought-knowledge.

Le Duc watched in silence as well. It was not the first time he'd been left to wait, and to watch, guarding his sire's back. He held the men together, listened to their stories, their jokes, and the mumbled questions, quickly suppressed whenever Montrovant appeared. Although they feared Jeanne as well, each knew that Le Duc himself feared Montrovant.

He was their link, their liaison to their leader, and he tried to do what he could to fill that role without betraying the trust of either side.One of the oldest and truest rules he'd learned since his Embrace was a deep-rooted distrust of mortals. They served their purpose, and they made excellent servants and slaves, but to trust them with your existence was little short of foolish. That was the position Montrovant had put them both in.

It was an indication of the dark one's sense that it was all coming to a close. They had sought the Grail for so long that Le Duc could scarcely remember a time when it had not been his focus, or at least a secondary focus.

Through that time Montrovant had run hot and cold. They had been close enough that their goal seemed just beyond their groping reach, and so far away that the entire thing seemed like a foolish dream. None of those times had been like this.

Montrovant was drawn inward, concentrated and focused, and they traveled at a pace that indicated Montrovant knew where he was going.

Each time Montrovant left and returned, they s.h.i.+fted their course slightly. He was on the hunt, and he'd caught the scent of his prey; the only thing left was the chase. They slept by day in any shelter they could find that was adequate protection, cemeteries, old abandoned keeps and churches. One night was spent in the root cellar of a farm house.

The family, a man, his wife and his daughter, had fallen to Montrovant and Le Duc, and the others had ransacked the place, taking anything of use and disposing of the bodies as Montrovant and Le Duc slipped into the cellar and pulled the strong oak doors closed over their heads.

They had left the place with their packs full, leaving no trace whatsoever of a struggle, or their pa.s.sing. Another mystery for the drunks to debate hotly in the inns by night. Another step closer to their goal.

Eventually their path wound into the city of Gren.o.ble. The lower reaches of the mountain were behind them at last, and the farmland stretched to either side of the road where they pa.s.sed. The dwellings of the farmers and a few larger homes appeared, near enough to the road to be made out in the hours of darkness, fires lit, smoke rising from chimneys. Montrovant ignored them. He was more careful as they neared the city.

It was necessary to minimize their presence whenever possible. He had little fear from the inhabitants of Gren.o.ble unless he was careless, but there was no reason to spread rumors of strange happenings before he even entered the city's boundary. Gren.o.ble was not a small city, and it was certain to boast Cainites of its own. Le Duc knew nothing of them, but Montrovant was wary. Le Duc had long been aware that anything that made his sire leery was worth looking out for, even if one did not know exactly what it was.

With inns and women and the promise of ale just around the corner, the spirits of the others were picking up as well. Nothing had changed in the way things were between them and their lord. He treated them just as he always had, if a bit more silently than was his norm, and that lack of change was heartening. He had trusted them with his very existence, and he did not seem to be regretting that decision. It made them proud to a man, drawing them slowly closer together than they had been before.

A rumor had even started among them, much to Jeanne's amus.e.m.e.nt, that Montrovant sought the Grail only so that he might drink blood from it and become human once more, to drink and carouse with them, dying a natural death.