Prologue
Paris 1658
My wedding was approaching quickly, and I still had not fallen into the sweet embrace of sleep. It was but a few hours hence! Agh, the agony of waiting to be embraced by my love! How worried I was!
The door to my room cracked open, revealing my husband to be, Jordan Rozen, holding a flickering candle. His caramel red hair was relatively wet, as if he had just taken a bath. His chalcedony colored eyes were twinkling, but there was no mistaking the exhaustion that surrounded them.
“You cannot sleep either, mon cherie?” He said quietly.
“Do you expect me to be able to, you silly boy! And you know that I am from London, and cannot comprehend your French!”
“ What I said was, my darling,” Jordan smiled, and walked over to place the candle on my bedside table. He picked up a strand of my hair, and twirled it in his fingers. His gaze bore down into my eyes, and I felt my cheeks blush.
“Why is it,” Jordan said, “that your cheeks grow red when I look into your eyes?” He brushed the back of his hand against my cheek slowly.
“I do not know, love. All I know is that you and I are simply meant to be,” I murmured, and put my hand against his chest so as to prevent him from what we were both so longing to do.
“Aye, too true,” he chuckled, and removed my hand from his chest. I protested, but he hushed me with a look. “Do not fret,” he whispered, “I will preserve your honor.”
I nodded dumbly, and allowed his warm lips to crash down upon mine. He kissed me intensely but not deeply, because I would not allow it. Slowly though, he coaxed me to open my mouth. The moment my lips opened a fraction of an inch, his tongue invaded the cave of my mouth.
I pushed myself away. “You go to far, Jordan We may enjoy ourselves tomorrow night, but I wish to preserve my virtue.”
He sighed. “I understand, joli fille. But know this, when the time comes, I will not be gentle with you.”
I got frightened at his words.
He laughed a little, “Silly, you will enjoy it more than it being gentle. Do not fear.”
“Very well,” I sighed.
“We need to rest, Alice. There is no creature on this earth that does not sleep,” He laughed a little at this last line. As if it was untrue.
“If it will please you, than I shall.”
“Sleep, and we will be reunited sooner than you can comprehend.”
“Sleep well,” I whispered, and slowly my eyes closed to his smiling face.
* * *
The next morning was chaotic and frenzied. Guests were arguing about our marriage. We were of two different cultures, which made our marriage rather scandalous. I was English, and he was French. The French and the English never really got along well, to be honest, so my father stayed well away from Jordan’s guests.I was assisted in my dressing by my maid, Gertrude, whom I’d loved since birth. She’d been the mother I’d never had. When she’d finished tying all of the laces, and frilling my hair, I looked beautiful.
“Thank you, Gertrude. You may leave now,” I said.
Gertrude nodded, beaming, and left.
I went down the aisle with my father, excited beyond belief. Jordan was at the other end, by the altar and the priest, obviously excited, but maintaining a calm air for the sake of my father. I was just as delighted as he was, and could hardly restrain myself from rushing into his welcoming arms.
I paid nothing but the slightest sliver of attention to the priest. I was too busy trying to avoid Jordan’s eyes. I felt the ring that he had bought me slip onto my left ring finger. I slipped the one I had bought onto his, and afterward, he said his vows, and I said mine in a near whisper.
When we were supposed to kiss, I found nothing. Finally, I met his eyes, wondering what his hesitation was for.
He grinned and pulled my closer. “I wondered when you would meet my eyes,” he breathed in my ear, and then pulled my face toward his and into a breath-stealing kiss.
I practically melted against him when he pulled me into that kiss. But we were interrupted at just the beginning. A snarl…or shriek came from the back of the crowd.
I pushed myself away from Jordan and looked at the last few rows. The very last seat of the very last row held a woman with garnet red eyes and silken black hair. Her lips were raised in a snarling position, and looked like her control had just snapped. But her control of what?
“Hell and damnation,” I heard Jordan mutter, and then, “Merdé.”
“Elisabeth?” I whispered, recognizing my cousin.
At the sound of her name, she jumped up, and stared at me fiercely. Her mouthed open wider, and I saw the unmistakable gleam of fangs.
“Jordan,” I whispered, “What’s happening?”
“Move behind me,” he said in a grim whisper.
I did quickly, and fearfully.
The other guests were beginning to leave hurriedly, afraid for their lives. Jordan and I couldn’t leave because we were the center of her attention.
Elisabeth began running toward us. She was moving so fast, it was like a blur. Jordan seemed able to move away easily, but she was inhumanly fast.
“Alice, you have to get out of here!” Jordan said, as he managed to dodge another swipe.
“Not without you!” I cried.
“Alice, I don’t bloody care what happens to me, so long as you’re safe!”
“Jordan!” I said, “I love you, and I will not sit by while you’re being attacked. I will not play the part of damsel in distress!” I then jumped onto Elisabeth’s back, and wrapped my arms around her pale neck.
That was my first and only mistake.
Elisabeth grabbed my right arm, and bit down hard with her fangs, my arm went painfully, and instantly numb. I saw her neck muscles working as she…swallowed my blood?
Vampire.
I gasped, and then my vision went blurry. Elisabeth dropped me, and left me for dead.
My last sight, before I became unconscious, was Jordan reaching out for me, and then Elisabeth tearing his neck to shreds.
“Alice!” I heard him say, “Don’t give in to the change! Your emotions and your very soul are at stake!”
“Mm?” I murmured, and my vision died.
“ALICE!”
The Vampire Quirinius
I was born in Rome, in the year 449 BCE. Rome was only a little over half a century into the freedom it had won from the Etruscans. But I remember nothing of Rome. I was abandoned by my parents, left in the streets to die from the world around me. There was nothing completely wrong with me. I was an entirely healthy baby, but apparently, an unwanted one.
I was lucky, however. A wealthy man, by the name of Nikias, saw me in the streets, wrapped up in a blanket in a wicker basket, tossed in the street. I remember him as a kind man by nature, and he took me back home to Athens with him.
He named me after the founder of Rome, Romulus, but gave me not the name of Romulus himself, but the name that he came under during his ascent to heaven: Quirinius.
In Athens, he presented me to his wife, my foster mother, Kalliope. She had been unable to bear children, and took me swiftly from Nikias's arms. Kalliope took care of me up until I was the age of six, when she was taken ill and died suddenly. Nikias took care of me from then on, and at seven, sent me to school.
My teacher, Daidalos, was a wise man, and I remember as a boy I looked up to him almost as much as I looked up to Nikias. He was old and withered, his white hair coming to his shoulders in waves. The wrinkles on his face must have had wrinkles. I remember that his eyes were a distinct blue, always twinkling with amusement when I made a blunder that put us both into fits of unrestrained laughter. The other students paid us no mind, and none were really jealous of the relationship we shared. His nose, if I recollect correctly, was hooked, and must have been broken several times in his long life, and his cheeks were gaunt and somewhat hollow. But he always had a smile for us all.
He taught me mathematics, and I excelled in this area greatly. I read the works of Homer, poring over the Iliad and the Odyssey scrolls that Daidalos had collected with love and amazement. I wrote passionately, even when it was in the beginning of my education.
I had a separate teacher for my athletic education, and I don't even remember him as distinctly as Daidalos. I just remember an acerbic man, shouting at us as we rode our horses, swam our laps, shot with our arrows, or wrestled an opponent. He was something of an unmemorable character, and Daidalos surpassed him by far.
Daidalos showed me how to play the lyre, though I fervently hated it. I hastened through those lessons, anxious for more of the literature. Unlike other children, I stayed at Daidalos's school at fourteen, rather than moving on to a different school like most boys. Some others stayed with us, because Daidalos had left us that option.
There, we were taught more of philosophy, because the world of religion was slowly being left behind. We learned more mathematics, going deeper into the numerical world.
Then, at age seventeen, my world began to change. It was after school, in the evening, and I was going about the agora, looking at the wares for sale as I always did when I wandered about the city. There was still a few men out, though most had gone home to their wives. I liked to go out during the night, see the beautiful stars that people claimed were the gods looking down from the heavens.
By this time it was 432 BCE, and I'd heard gossip of Sparta planning to take Athens out. I didn't believe it. Not many of the other Athenians did. I was excited though. In one year, I would begin my military training, and like any young man, I wanted to be in a real battle. Stories of the Battle of Marathon and the Battle of Salamis still circulated through the city, although they had been years before.
I remember I was examining something from one of the merchants, and I looked up to see a man maybe four years older than myself looking at me. He had brilliant blue eyes, like gems, his nose slightly crooked. His ashen blonde hair was rather long, a little out of fashion. My own was cut short. His lips were full and wide, and spread in an odd sort of grin, almost maniacal. He wore a chiton, coming to his knees, the pins decorous emeralds, and the belt a smooth brown leather with another emerald on the buckle. Only one shoulder was pinned, as was the style during that time.
"Hello, there," I said in Greek, and he cocked his blonde head to the side, his blue eyes seeming to flash red. I blinked several times, believing it to be a trick of the light.
He came towards me and to my surprise, he touched my cheek with his cold, pale hand, and seemed to examine me. His other hand came up and took a curl of my tawny hair. He grabbed my chin, and lifted my face up, so that I was looking up at him. I could see my own green eyes reflected in his blue ones.
He released me finally, and took a step back, still looking me over. "Hello," he replied.
I was still taken aback, but tried to shake it away, be a polite man like my foster father told me daily. "I'm Quirinius," I said, and extended my hand.
He regarded with a curious expression, reminding me of a small child. He grasped it firmly, and I felt how cold his hand was once more. "I am Dracon," he said, his voice rich and deep.
"Pleasure to meet you," I said, trying to keep my voice cultured and calm.
He remained silent, and then said, "Let's be friends, shall we?"
I blinked, surprised by his blunt way of putting things. "Of course," I answered.
"Good," he said, smiling, and then he turned in the other direction and walked away.
"Wait!" I cried, and ran to catch up with him, "Just who exactly are you? I don't think I've ever seen you around Athens before."
Dracon shook his ashen head, and said, "No, I'm from Thebes."
"Thebes!" I exclaimed, and quickly implored him to describe it to me. Thebes had always interested me, having been the origin of Heracles, and he briefly described it, though it did not satisfy my interest.
We quickly got talking about the activities of Sparta, and for the first time, I connected with a man close to my own age. I only ever saw him in the evening, when the sun had fully set, or only the barest hint of its rays shone.
On some nights, I would stay awake with him until the dawn in the aule of Nikias's house, talking quietly so we didn't wake the people of the household. I would bring in bread and goat's milk to eat and to drink during those nights and offered food to him, although he would refuse, but we would move toward the andron anyway so that I alone could eat.
I never saw him eat. But at times, I would catch a longing look in his brilliant blue eyes as he stared at my wine or bread.
Daidalos grew disappointed in me during those coming months. I would come to school tired from staying up half the night talking with Dracon. He would reprimand me, and I would promise to get better sleep the following night, but then Dracon would show up at sunset, and we would start talking, and I would find myself in bed at midnight.
The year I turned eighteen was the year that the Peloponnesian War began. Sparta began ransacking the land around us, and I remember the leaders of the government panicking and then becoming their over-confident selves once more. We'd defeated Persia, surely we could crush such a small force as Sparta.
I went into military training, learning the arts of the spears, arrows, swords, and fighting horseback. During this time, my trainer reminded all of his students of how tough Sparta would be when we fought them with the legend of the fox.
"Legend says ... A young Sparta boy once stole a live fox, planning to kill it and eat it. He noticed some Spartan soldiers approaching. In ancient Sparta, students were encouraged to steal, but the trick was that you could not get caught stealing. If you were caught, you were severely beaten.
As the soldiers approached, the boy hid the fox beneath his shirt.
While the soldiers quizzed him on why he was not in school, the boy let the fox chew into his stomach rather than confess he had stolen it. He did not allow his face or body to express his pain.
That was the Spartan way. Lie, cheat, steal, and get away with it, or else."
Dracon visited me during training, and we talked a little then, but only a small amount. I had to concentrate on being physically fit for the war ahead, and his was a distraction that would keep me away from the task at hand for hours.
Finally, at age twenty, I completed my education fully. My art, military, and physical education were totally complete. By this time, plague at struck Athens, and both my dear Daidalos and Nikias had been afflicted with this illness. Daidalos died within days of receiving it, and on my way home from the agora one afternoon, I saw his dead body lying in the filth of the streets and his own waste.
Nine months after I saw Daidalos in the streets, I beheld my own foster father in the gynaeceum, dead. His blankets were on him, now ruined from the aftermath of his death. Our slaves, whom we had treated kindly and equally, sat by his side, silently crying for him to not go to Hades just yet.
I remember it was almost a month after my twenty-first birthday, and I was preparing to go to a late Assembly, when Dracon appeared in my room. I had not seen him in a full year, and his face was just as shiny and white as ever.
"Oh," I said, "it's you."
"Hello, Quirinius," he said gaily, and walked around the gynaeceum, which was now my quarters, having inherited the room from Nikias.
"You decide to show up now, then, I suppose," I said a little resentfully, and pinned the shoulder of my chiton rather tersely.
"I thought now would be the best time," Dracon replied, shrugging indifferently.
"Where is it that you go when you disappear? It's as if you're not in Athens at all anymore! And that isn't physically possible with the Spartans and the threat of Persia coming."
"Oh," he said casually, his deep voice rumbling, "here and there. Depends on my mood."
"Oh," I said, "your mood."
He nodded, and began examining a vase that was by my bed.
"Get out, Dracon," I said angrily, "Get out and go wherever it is you go! Leave me here to rot with the rest of this city. Leave me here to die of the plague like my father and my teacher."
Dracon looked stricken at that moment, and his blue eyes widened and met mine. "Oh, no," he whispered, "You can't die. You just can't. No, not yet."
"Oh, but I will. There's hardly a chance that I won't! Just you watch, the plague will take me down like it's taken down so many others."
Dracon shook his head. "No, no, no. You see, I am the plague."
I blinked, and said, "Pardon?"
"I'm the plague that has swept through Athens. Myself and a few of my brothers."
"Oh, yes," I said, snorting, "because you and your brothers are straight out of Pandora's box. Tell me, where is Pestilence? And where is Greed if you are Plague?"
Dracon laughed, and replied, "This is why I love you! For your wit, your looks, and your charm! This is why I fell I love with you that first day!"
I regarded him momentarily, and said, "You've gone insane, Dracon."
He nodded vigorously, "I have. I did a long time ago."
Before I understood what was happening, he was behind me, his pale hands gripping my shoulders tightly; his hands of stone. I heard him take in a breath, and then twin shocks of pain went through my neck, and I let out a gasp of shock. I realized in horror what my friend was doing to me, and that those old tales that the old slave women told of monsters were true. And my dear friend, my Dracon, was the worst of them, what the Greeks called vrykólakas.
I felt my body numb, the pain in my heart for both Daidalos and Nikias fade softly away, and I was lying on the floor of the gynaeceum, looking up at Dracon's blue eyes. "You're not going to die," he said, shaking his head, "No, no, no. You're going to stay with me. No, never die."
He bit into his wrist, and I saw dark, dark blood trickle down, and spatter across my lips. My tongue shot out and licked the blood off. A shiver a delight ran through my body, and Dracon seemed to laugh at me. He pressed his wrist to my mouth, and I grasped it as firmly as I could with my hands, taking in as much as the life-giving draught as I could. I felt my body scream in both protest and demand, rejecting it, and wanting it all at the same time.
Dracon pulled away too soon, and I lay back, smiling blissfully as the taste of it lingered deliciously in my mouth.
"Won't die!" Dracon cried, his eyes wild and red. "Won't, won't, won't!"
And with that, he broke my neck.
Copyright Alison V. Blecman
