Thief of Lives Read online

  A recent Noble Dead, or vampire specifically, Chane still understood the walls between classes. In mortal life, he had been a minor noble of an outlying barony, familiar with the politics and social strategies customary among the gentry. And now—as in most of his conscious moments—he assisted his creator, his master, in elevating himself. That contradiction, as well as the contrast between them, was so beyond comic it struck Chane as absurd rather than amusing.

  Chane was tall, with thick auburn hair cut just below his ears. Dark ginger breeches and a midnight-blue tunic were tailor-cut for him, framing broad shoulders over a long torso. Fluent in four languages, with a noble's education and self-schooled in less acknowledged arts, he handled a long sword as if born to it.

  Herein lay the contemptible irony of this new existence with his master.

  Toret was thin-armed, seeming a youth no more than seventeen years, and small for the age. Even scrubbed clean, his skin was tinted as though covered in a constant layer of filth. His dirt-brown hair stuck out in tufts and cowlicks. He bore scars on one wrist and his cheek. He conversed well enough in Belaskian, the common language throughout most of the region, and seemed to speak the vulgar tongue of the Suman Empire across the ocean and far to the south. But despite this, so far, he could barely read or write any language, regardless of tutelage. His expensive burgundy brocade tunic made him look like a houseboy playing dress-up while the manor lord was away.

  But Toret had trapped and turned Chane, pulled him from death into servitude. Now Chane could not refuse the smaller undead's most menial whim. Once created, a vampire could not refuse its master. Chane was a slave.

  "No, master," he said with forced politeness. "Your blade is not straight, and you throw your weight too far. Observe me."

  Chane stepped precisely through three connected advances but did not believe for a moment that Toret would catch the finer details.

  "Well, I think you're doing… splendidly!" came a high-pitched voice from across the cellar.

  Both Toret's and Chane's attention shifted toward the voice. Chane suppressed a sneer of disgust as their household's third member forced her presence into his awareness. Toret smiled, exposing straight but lightly stained teeth.

  "My sweet," Toret said with relish. "Have you been shopping?"

  Flouncing toward them was another painful reality of Chane's new existence: Sapphire.

  Some would find her alluring or desirable, in a vulgar way, but to Chane she was the most repulsive creature to invade his existence, before or after his death.

  Sapphire wore a low-cut satin gown so startlingly pink it might be called magenta, and dark blond curls sculpted into sausage ringlets framed her round and often pouting face. Red-stained lips stood out between her smooth, pale cheeks, while gaudy ruby earrings that could feed a large village dangled from her earlobes. No matter how much money Toret heaped upon her for clothing and jewelry, she retained the appearance of a well-paid but tasteless prostitute. Her only untainted feature was a set of bright sapphire eyes, and hence the name Toret had given her.

  To think of this creature as a Noble Dead was a constant source of disquieting irony. But when Toret looked at her, Chane saw in his master's hungry eyes that she might as well have been the queen of the Fay. It was nauseating, and reminded Chane of a childhood time when his family's cook served a salmon left unprepared too long in the summer heat. Chane had spent three days kneeling over a bucket.

  "Splendidly?" Chane said, masking the sarcasm in his voice. "Did you learn a new word today?"

  Both Toret and Sapphire blinked once, and she pretended he hadn't spoken. Chane knew his companions often had difficulty distinguishing whether he was being polite or insulting.

  "Not shopping," she said to Toret, smiling coyly with a tilt of her head as she fingered the front of his tunic. "To my dressmaker. Charlotte got in some lovely mustard-yellow silk, and I've had a new gown made. Of course, her ideas for the cut were dull, so I've insisted on alterations."

  No doubt, Chane thought, trying not to imagine what overtly provocative choices passed for style in such a creature's thoughts.

  Chane had managed to find bankers, merchants, and dressmakers who remained open for business far into the evening. Appropriately handled, such requests weren't suspicious in a city the size of Bela. Half the gentry he'd known slept all day and spent all night in social politics or discreet debauchery. Toret and his companions were simply "eccentric" for their late business hours. They paid well, and no one complained.

  "Have you fed yet, my dear?" Toret asked Sapphire. Clasping her hand, he pressed its palm firmly against his mouth, closing his eyes halfway.

  "No, I was waiting for you." She smiled at Chane and added, "For both of you."

  Chane nodded as coldly as possible without appearing rude. No matter how badly he treated her, she played the coquette with him, though never openly enough to annoy Toret. She believed all men found her charms irresistible and constantly played up to this self-image.

  "I want to go to the Rowanwood," she announced quite happily.

  Toret shook his head. "It's too soon."

  Sapphire had a penchant for elite prey, a dangerous indulgence, from Chane's perspective. She fed on the rich as often as Toret allowed. The Rowanwood hosted wealthy patrons, if not the most sophisticated. Chane did appreciate its lush atmosphere, suitable for upper classes looking for a less stuffy night's entertainment. But frequent hunting near a prestigious establishment gained unwanted attention.

  Sapphire's smile faded, replaced by a pout, and Chane steeled himself. It was time to repeat the ritual of manipulation.

  "Well, where do you want to go?" she asked Toret, her voice pitched so high it hurt Chane's ears. "Some dockside tavern to feed on stinky fishermen? Do you want to smell ale and sweat all night? I don't. I don't! I want to go someplace nice!"

  Toret sighed, walking to the cellar's far wall to place his sword back in the rack.

  "Did you hear me?" Sapphire called, astonished at being ignored. "Ratboy! Did you hear me?"

  Toret froze in midstep. When he turned, his face was a tight mask of rage, and his dust-colored skin appeared to turn hoarfrost white.

  Ratboy? Chane had no idea why she called him that. Perhaps some peasant's insult? Indeed, it had an unimaginative sound. During frequent fits of temper, Sapphire called Toret all sorts of names and threw herself into sorrowful pouts until he relented to her whims.

  Toret snatched a parrying dagger from the rack and closed the distance to Sapphire. Before she could dart away, he gripped her by the throat and pressed the blade's point under her chin.

  Chane felt something near to astonishment. It was quite pleasing. He'd never once seen Toret lay a hand on Sapphire in anything besides affection or desire.

  "We discussed this," Toret hissed. "I made you, and I can unmake you. You will never call me that again. Understand?"

  Sapphire's eyes widened as one tiny drop of dark fluid ran down the blade from under her chin.

  Chane felt a moment of pure pleasure at the open terror on Sapphire's face. The evening was not a complete waste after all. The little bitch had given up something new to consider.

  Ratboy.

  Whatever the meaning, it displeased Toret more than anything Chane could recall, and this was worth remembering.

  "I'm sorry… Toret," Sapphire stammered. "We can go anywhere… anyplace you like… I'm sorry… anywhere."

  Toret lowered the blade and slowly released his grip on her throat. He then looked troubled, of course, perhaps realizing he would later pay for his actions. And pay he would.

  Chane kept his sigh of boredom silent. So tediously predictable.

  "It's all right, my dear," Toret said, his abrupt calm a counterpoint to his rage from a moment ago. "We can't go to the Rowanwood again so soon… but we haven't been to the Damask Throne in a while."

  Daggers and threats forgotten, Sapphire's face lit up. "Oh, yes, the Damask Throne? That would be… splendid."

/>   Chane inwardly groaned. She had learned a new word. After changing into suitable attire, complete with evening cloak and gloves, he went to fetch a covered carriage for hire.

  In the far-past time of the first king, Bela had consisted of a castle stronghold. Over time, villages close by spread into towns and then into a surrounding city. The castle itself grew. As the city spread outward, new fortification walls were erected for its defense. The king's city of Bela now consisted of three walls that ringed the city at nearly equal distances from its center castle grounds. Most banks, municipal buildings, wealthy homes, and upscale establishments existed within the inner ring wall, where they were best protected. Though there were main avenues of commerce and city life running from the center of Bela to the waterfront docks, such as Harbor Street, as one moved outward from the city's center, one moved downward in society.

  The night air was crisp with a rare seaward breeze that pushed back the odors of wood, rope, fish, salt mill, and other harbor smells. It was a short ride from their home until the carriage stopped near the Damask Throne. Toret assisted Sapphire from the carriage while Chane paid the driver.

  Even with large, burning street lamps positioned every thirty paces, the night felt comfortingly dark. Chane looked his part of protector in a long wool cloak with the point of his sheathed sword just visible at the bottom. Toret and Sapphire appeared a wealthy couple.

  The carriage moved off down the street, and Sapphire walked toward the luxurious inn while Toret and Chane waited outside—a typical game played many times over. Chane crossed his arms and stood in the shadows. He rarely spoke to Toret unless spoken to first. Toret sighed, watching Sapphire disappear inside the Damask Throne.

  "She is lovely, isn't she?" he asked.

  "Yes, master," Chane answered flatly.

  In a short time, Sapphire emerged from the inn with a young couple. A female victim in the mix surprised Chane, as Sapphire usually brought out only drunken men, all ne'er-do-wells and blueblood want-to-bes. But aside from the woman, the couple was no different from a typical set of well-off merchants.

  "Oh," Sapphire exclaimed to her new companions as they crossed the street. "Here are my friends now. I told you they'd be along soon."

  She introduced the couple as Simask and Luiza. Toret shook the man's hand and politely greeted the woman.

  "Simask is the son of a Stravinan winemaker, and he's in Bela on business," Sapphire continued. "They don't know anyone in town, so I offered to show them a few of our evening attractions. But now that you're here, you can help me entertain them."

  Chane focused upon the woman: in her early twenties, with pale skin and dark hair swept up under a little red velvet hat. He was suddenly struck by the growing tingle of hunger. His normal disdainful thoughts were replaced by images of Luiza's soft, warm throat drawn close to his mouth as paralyzing fear stained her face. Even now, he could feel the slight and slow shift of his teeth, canines elongating as saliva built up until he quietly swallowed it down.

  One of the few times Chane forgot his unfortunate state of servitude was while he hunted.

  Toret smiled at Simask. "Come, come. There's a much better inn down the street called the Rowanwood. The food is excellent, and they have the best wine cellar in this part of the country." He paused a moment, then feigned a surprised epiphany. "Perhaps you can do business with the proprietor."

  Toret's relaxed and friendly manner put the young couple at ease. They strolled down the street, occasionally passing another late evening citizen enjoying a walk, and once, a city guard who returned them a polite nod.

  Chane remained silent while Sapphire and Toret chatted away with Simask and Luiza. They turned onto a sloping road toward a merchant district outside the inner wall. The area had grown unfashionable over the years, and after hours was all but deserted. Chane was almost bored by the time Simask suddenly stopped and looked around, realizing the street lamps had grown scarce, the buildings were dark, and there were no other people about.

  "Did we miss the Rowanwood?" he asked. "Perhaps we went too far."

  Without warning, Toret grabbed him. He slammed Simask hard against the clay-plaster wall of a closed shop.

  Chane had long since ceased being surprised by his small master's speed and strength. Toret's lips curled back to reveal elongated canines. He exhaled into Simask's face once before releasing him.

  "Run," he whispered.

  Toret rarely toyed with his food. Chane preferred such pretense and foreplay himself, but understood Toret's concern for secrecy. Most Noble Dead could muddle or smother their victim's memories, so normally they left their prey alive but disoriented. Some developed more pronounced abilities, but neither Chane nor Sapphire could do more than simply blur a victim's recollection.

  There was a difference in Toret's attitude tonight. Chane silently rejoiced, anticipating a brief respite, and the release of all the frustration of his slavery spread through him like warmth.

  Simask tried to dodge around Toret and reach Luiza, but Sapphire stepped in his way, laughing.

  "Not that way," she said, and pointed down an alley. "That way." Another low-voiced laugh exposed her fangs.

  Simask ran. Luiza screamed in shock as her husband's form receded into the dark. She backed into the middle of the street.

  Sapphire started after the husband. Toret hesitated long enough to look to Chane.

  "No one knows them here. Do what you want, but leave no trace when you're finished."

  Then he was gone down the alley after Sapphire.

  Chane saw Luiza staring at him in a mix of terror and… pleading hope? He knew his appearance suggested a vassal lord or liegeman who protected women like Luiza, the fair and fragile.

  "Sir," she said. "Please…"

  He walked quietly toward her, backing her up until they reached the alley's other half across the street. He tilted his head toward the opening.

  "Go," Chane said.

  Luiza sobbed once and tripped over her skirt as she turned to flee. She managed to catch herself and keep moving.

  Chane let her run. He waited just a little longer and then followed.

  Her head turned once as he trotted steadily after her, not caring for silence any longer. She sobbed loudly again and screamed for help at the footfalls closing quickly behind her in the alley's darkness. No one would hear her. Or if they did, they wouldn't care.

  He caught Luiza effortlessly, and as he grasped the little red hat and a handful of her hair, he felt a slight disappointment.

  There were appropriate times for a quick and poignant kill. But not now. This was too easy.

  To his surprise, she twisted away and with both hands grabbed an empty vegetable crate on the ground. With all her strength, she struck him across the side of the head. The crate shattered around him.

  The impact almost hurt, and elation returned.

  Chane snatched her wrists and bound them in one grip. He grabbed the front of her clothes with his other hand. He slammed her body up against the alley wall, pinning her arms above her head.

  He forgot Toret. He forgot Sapphire. He forgot his lost mortal family and his mother and all the trappings of life that he still missed. This mattered. This moment.

  Luiza struggled, and for a short while Chane allowed her to. It was fascinating how easily he could push his dead form to accomplish anything he demanded of it, and what little the living could do to oppose him. He felt her useless squirming in his grip begin to weaken. Looking down, he took in the horror on her face and watched as her cheek brushed against him and her tears disappeared, soaking into his black cloak.

  Chane let himself feel the shiver and heat of her skin against his fingertips, and then he concentrated until his fingernails hardened under his will and ever so slightly elongated. He pulled his hand back, slashing away her coat, blouse, and all fabric from around her throat. His mouth closed down on flesh.

  He rarely tasted blood until a short while after feeding, and then there was only a salt-la
den, coppery residue. During the act, he only felt warmth and strength filling him, as if blood were only a medium carrying the power of life into his possession. Nothing in his memory compared to this. It was the only aspect of his undead existence that brought him joy. Chane knew it was time to stop only when he could no longer sense any life pouring into him, and the mix of oblivion and euphoria faded.

  He returned to his current existence—a slave.

  Toret expected him to drop the woman's empty husk down a sewer grate, where it would not be found immediately. Such a grate was only twenty paces away. He remained still in contemplation.

  After a moment he dragged Luiza's body with one hand down the alley closer to the main street and dropped her. He then ripped her dress further open, shredding it and the undergarments. She must look savaged and mutilated by something unnatural.

  The night Toret turned Chane, he'd ordered, "You will stay in Bela and serve me."

  Chane could not disobey, but there were loopholes to consider. If the bodies of lovely young women were found with throats ripped and clothing shredded, would the constabularies or city guards begin an active hunt? Chane could take care of himself, but if fate were kind, Toret could lose his head.

  He crouched down for one last look at Luiza's still open eyes. His body coursed with life's energies now, but he felt sad as he wiped the blood from his mouth. The hunt had been so short and staged. Straightening his cloak and pulling his gloves on, he walked back toward the Damask Throne.

  Chapter 2

  Leesil shifted cards about the faro table that evening, stealing brief glances at Magiere, who stood behind the bar pouring drinks and talking sparingly with patrons. Everything should have felt like it had before the events of months past. The Sea Lion was fully restored—better than restored. He should have been happy.

  After the fire, only the common room and kitchen hearths remained. A local carpenter who remembered the old bar quite well had created a nearly identical version. It glistened with dark, fresh stain. The building had been lengthened and slightly widened, and the common room hearth now stood near the room's center, its backside open like the front. Patrons circled around it or nestled close to either open side for a little extra warmth.