Shira Anthony's Blog - Posts Tagged "vampire"

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Adrien walked back onto the main street and over to the curb, where someone caught his eye. A man with short black hair walked toward him. Dressed in dark jeans, with a white shirt and dark wool jacket, he wore a single diamond stud in his left ear. A woman hurrying down the sidewalk dodged Adrien as he stopped, but the man behind him knocked him to his knees.

“Are you all right?” someone said with a hint of a French accent.

Adrien looked up into familiar brown eyes. Adrien inhaled slowly, hoping to head off the bloodlust that buzzed at the back of his brain. Heat tingled at the back of his neck, raising the hairs there. His palms felt suddenly sweaty. He felt sick. Not nausea—shock at seeing Nicolas here, realizing it really was Nicolas.

“Yes, I….” Adrien took the hand Nicolas offered and struggled back to his feet. The world spun and he grabbed Nicolas’s arm to steady himself.

“You’re not all right. You look ill. I should call an ambulance—”

“No ambulance.” Adrien righted himself. “I just need to eat something. It’s hotter than I realized.”

Nicolas glanced around, frowned, then said, “There’s a coffee shop at the corner.” He didn’t appear convinced by Adrien’s words. “Why don’t I help you over there?”

As if Adrien would object. “Thank you.”

Five minutes later they sat at a booth by the window, Adrien drinking coffee with a trembling hand. Adrien had watched Nicolas as they’d walked the short distance to the restaurant, his swordsman’s muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt. He looked only slightly older than he’d been when they met. “I’m sorry,” he said, coming back to himself and wondering why Nicolas was sitting with him when he could have left. “I must be keeping you from something.”

“No,” Nicolas answered. “In fact, I just came from a meeting. I’ve got the rest of the afternoon free.”

“I’m Adrien.” He forced a smile and set the empty mug down.

“Nicolas.”

“It’s good to meet you, Nicolas,” Adrien said in French. He drew another long breath and his heart slowed its gallop.

“Please call me Nico,” Nicolas said, also in French.

Running with the Wind

The sound of thundering hooves outside the door of their one room hut caused the wooden table to shake and the lamp light to flicker. Surprised, Taren met Borstan’s wide, fearful eyes over the top of the book he’d been reading.

Borstan jumped up from the bench. “Hide, boy! Quickly, now!” he hissed as he shooed Taren up and away from the table.

“Who—?”

“Go! Now! And not a word from you!” Borstan shoved Taren hard and he scrambled behind the stores of rope and flour.

The heavy thud of a battle-axe nearly shook their wooden door from its ancient hinges. “Rigger Borstan Laxley! By order of Lord Grell, we seek recompense for your gambling debts!”

Taren peered around a flour sack. Borstan stood next to the door, his back flat to the wall, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Who are they?” Taren whispered loudly.

Borstan put a finger to his lips to silence Taren just as the men broke through the door, only Borstan’s body kept it from banging against the wall. Borstan yelped as four ironclad giants stormed the room. “Borstan Laxley!” the leader shouted as he dragged a terrified Borstan from behind the door. Another man pulled the bench, their only bench, from the table and aligned it in front of the fireplace. “Tie him!” the leader commanded.

“No, please. No! I told his lordship I’d have the money to pay in a fortnight.” Borstan shouted as they lashed him, face up, to the bench with his own finely crafted cordage.

Taren started when the first blow landed. He huddled in the corner, trembling like a newborn leaf, and buried his head beneath his arms. He couldn’t bear to hear Borstan’s mewling cries with each successive blow. Hot tears quavered on his cheeks for the only master he’d ever known.

“Use the tar!” the leader shouted.

Taren’s head snapped up. No. The cauldron over the fire held the boiling tar they used to coat the rigging they made. Borstan began to scream in earnest and Taren, no longer able to contain himself, shot to his feet with a shriek, his voice cracking with emotion and youth. “No!”

The four soldiers turned to Taren in unison, one holding the dripping tar swab in his hand.

“Y-y-you... you cannot do that to him!” Taren forced out in terrified effort, fists balled at his sides.

The leader advanced on Taren, a wicked grin of rotted teeth filling his rat’s nest of a beard. “What have we here?”

Taren backed up quickly. His heels met a flour sack and he fell on his ass, the sack bursting and caking him in fine white powder.

The brutes roared in laughter as the leader’s beefy hand claimed the front of Taren’s cotton shirt and hauled him into the air with a single, powerful arm. The man’s odor was an acrid stench in Taren’s nostrils as his feet left the floor. “Who are ye?” Taren’s shirt pinched his throat as the man shook him violently.

Taren desperately batted at the man’s powerful forearm in an effort to loosen the grip on his shirt. “Taren.” The single word was a strangled breath on the air.

The leader leered at him. “Yer a right pretty one, boy.”

“Leave ‘im be! He’s mine!” Borstan mewled.

“Yer what?” he demanded with another suffocating shake to Taren. Spots of gray filled Taren’s vision. His tongue felt thick from the lack of oxygen. The soldier who had held him put Taren back on his feet. Taren struggled to stay standing.

“He’s my apprentice! Leave ‘im be. Leave ‘im be.” Borstan struggled against his bonds. Taren saw the red marks where the soldiers had beaten the old man begin to blossom into purple.

The soldier who’d held him now looked Taren over, head to toe. “He’s yer pretty little slave, ye mean to say!” All four soldiers roared in laughter.

“He’s mine.” Borstan’s voice was less forceful this time. His eyes darted between Taren and the men, as if he were considering something.

“He’s a bit spare, but he’d be an extra pair of hands for Lord Grell,” said one of the other men. “No doubt he’ll grow.” In two big strides, Taren found himself thrown over one of the men’s shoulders like the sack of flour he resembled. Blood rushed to his face as he gulped air into his lungs.

“Aye,” Borstan agreed. Taren looked at his master with a dawning sense of horror. Surely Borstan wouldn’t let them take him away?

The leader strode back over to Borstan. “Yer debt is ten silver coins, Laxley. Ye willing to trade ‘im?”

“He’s worth more than ten,” Borstan replied.

“Master?” Taren looked to Borstan, but the old man would not meet his eyes.

“Fair recompense, I’d say. Will ye sell the lad, or not?” The leader made a fist and covered it with his other hand. “Or perhaps we should talk some more.”

Borstan’s eyes widened and he nodded quickly. He did not look at Taren. “Aye. Fair recompense.”

Cold terror clawed at Taren’s gut and he fought the powerful arms that held him fast. “No! No! You can’t sell me! I’ve worked hard for you. I’ve done all you’ve asked of me. Please, Borstan, no!”

The leader nodded to one of the other men, who untied the bloodied and beaten Borstan. A moment later, the soldiers walked out the doorway with Taren, who continued to fight to free himself. “Borstan, no! No! No! Borstan, please! I beg you! Don’t do this! Please, I beg you!”