Dark Country as night sank its teeth into the hard Transylvanian hide.
Villagers and gypsies, those that believed, would be retreating to their homes
and cowering behind doors and crucifixes, but some, believers or nonbelievers,
would be corpses in the morning.
Francois lost the sun as it
sank below Carpathia . Only then did he raise the
blackout curtains to watch the frozen tumult of twilight. The new dark sent his
hairs on end and a shiver up from the base of his spine.
His companion in the passenger compartment of
the helicopter, Victoria Lisaund, removed her sunglasses, then uncrossed and recrossed her legs.
Sitting opposite her, he regarded her in silence
for a moment. She had dark red hair and muddy brown eyes, was wearing a navy
blue suit-dress and long combat boots that emphasized the shapeliness of her
legs. They were nice, and Francois remembered they tasted quite good, too. Full
lips, turned up at the corners, grinned at him.
"First time in Transylvania?" he asked in well-etched English, as
he knew her to be a Brit.
"Of course not,"
she said. "But it is my first
visit to the Castle."
He nodded. He'd met her two
days ago in Paris on his way home from the front
lines in London.
She was the representative of a group in Whales that had been forced to flee
the island, and now she was making the journey to the Castle in order to request
aid on their behalf from Roche Sarnova, the Dark Lord, the most powerful
immortal in the East, if not the world.
She leaned forward and
placed a hand on Francois’s knee. He'd been her escort since they had met in France,
and they'd grown close.
"Will he help me out?" she said in an
excellent Romanian accent. "If anyone could know, it's you."
Francois ignored her hand. "I
can't answer for him."
She slowly sat back. "Something
wrong, lover?"
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“Call me lover.”
She sulked, or pretended
to.
That was the thing that
bothered him; she wasn't half as ingenuous as she pretended. Somehow she had
her own secret agenda, but what that was, or how she was going to go about it,
was something she kept guarded, even pretending at its nonexistence.
The helicopter blasted
between twin snow-capped alps, and a rough gust shook the craft rudely. Rocky
outcroppings challenged the skids as the machine cleared the crest of the next
mountain and snow swirled thicker as the ship flew on, ice and wind whipping
madly against the thin walls. Neither moon nor stars could be seen. The dark
heart of the Carpathians loomed ahead, hidden in the spinning night.
"How old are you?"
she asked suddenly.
He paused. Few were brave
enough to ask the question, though he was sure all wondered. He couldn’t tell
if she actually expected him to answer, but he thought courage should be
rewarded.
"I ... to give you
some idea ... was quite old when Caesar wept at the feet of the statue of
Alexander the Great.”
“You’re that old?”
“Older.”
“So Christ has nothing to
do with us? I heard rumors that shades were mixed up with the early Christians
and got damned somehow.”
“Every culture has its
creation myth. We’ve got reams of them.”
“So God had nothing to do
with us?”
“Which god?”
She nodded. "I'm
sorry, Ambassador. You understand, I had to ask. I'm not yet a hundred years
old and I still think about these things."
He softened. "We all
do.”
Silent again, she turned
her face to the bleak nightscape.
"We're approaching my
home," he said.
Using one of his mental
powers, he merged his mind with that of the pilot, making sure the mortal
didn’t crash the helicopter. Francois preferred a shade to pilot these things,
but most of the immortal fliers were in London
or thereabouts, engaged in the war, and the ones that were available couldn’t
fly in the daytime.
In the pilot’s mind,
Francois felt Victoria’s
psychic presence brush up against his own. She, too, kept tabs on the human. Frowning
slightly, he turned to her and saw her brown
Villagers and gypsies, those that believed, would be retreating to their homes
and cowering behind doors and crucifixes, but some, believers or nonbelievers,
would be corpses in the morning.
Francois lost the sun as it
sank below Carpathia . Only then did he raise the
blackout curtains to watch the frozen tumult of twilight. The new dark sent his
hairs on end and a shiver up from the base of his spine.
His companion in the passenger compartment of
the helicopter, Victoria Lisaund, removed her sunglasses, then uncrossed and recrossed her legs.
Sitting opposite her, he regarded her in silence
for a moment. She had dark red hair and muddy brown eyes, was wearing a navy
blue suit-dress and long combat boots that emphasized the shapeliness of her
legs. They were nice, and Francois remembered they tasted quite good, too. Full
lips, turned up at the corners, grinned at him.
"First time in Transylvania?" he asked in well-etched English, as
he knew her to be a Brit.
"Of course not,"
she said. "But it is my first
visit to the Castle."
He nodded. He'd met her two
days ago in Paris on his way home from the front
lines in London.
She was the representative of a group in Whales that had been forced to flee
the island, and now she was making the journey to the Castle in order to request
aid on their behalf from Roche Sarnova, the Dark Lord, the most powerful
immortal in the East, if not the world.
She leaned forward and
placed a hand on Francois’s knee. He'd been her escort since they had met in France,
and they'd grown close.
"Will he help me out?" she said in an
excellent Romanian accent. "If anyone could know, it's you."
Francois ignored her hand. "I
can't answer for him."
She slowly sat back. "Something
wrong, lover?"
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“Call me lover.”
She sulked, or pretended
to.
That was the thing that
bothered him; she wasn't half as ingenuous as she pretended. Somehow she had
her own secret agenda, but what that was, or how she was going to go about it,
was something she kept guarded, even pretending at its nonexistence.
The helicopter blasted
between twin snow-capped alps, and a rough gust shook the craft rudely. Rocky
outcroppings challenged the skids as the machine cleared the crest of the next
mountain and snow swirled thicker as the ship flew on, ice and wind whipping
madly against the thin walls. Neither moon nor stars could be seen. The dark
heart of the Carpathians loomed ahead, hidden in the spinning night.
"How old are you?"
she asked suddenly.
He paused. Few were brave
enough to ask the question, though he was sure all wondered. He couldn’t tell
if she actually expected him to answer, but he thought courage should be
rewarded.
"I ... to give you
some idea ... was quite old when Caesar wept at the feet of the statue of
Alexander the Great.”
“You’re that old?”
“Older.”
“So Christ has nothing to
do with us? I heard rumors that shades were mixed up with the early Christians
and got damned somehow.”
“Every culture has its
creation myth. We’ve got reams of them.”
“So God had nothing to do
with us?”
“Which god?”
She nodded. "I'm
sorry, Ambassador. You understand, I had to ask. I'm not yet a hundred years
old and I still think about these things."
He softened. "We all
do.”
Silent again, she turned
her face to the bleak nightscape.
"We're approaching my
home," he said.
Using one of his mental
powers, he merged his mind with that of the pilot, making sure the mortal
didn’t crash the helicopter. Francois preferred a shade to pilot these things,
but most of the immortal fliers were in London
or thereabouts, engaged in the war, and the ones that were available couldn’t
fly in the daytime.
In the pilot’s mind,
Francois felt Victoria’s
psychic presence brush up against his own. She, too, kept tabs on the human. Frowning
slightly, he turned to her and saw her brown
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