The Taste Of A Warrior

Part 5

Posted: October 2003
Author: Dhvana

*****

We are forced to part with Liv in London, much against her will, according to the flashing eyes and grim mutterings. As part of her punishment, she has to spend two months behind a desk doing paperwork--agony for anyone, particularly if they have a job like hers. Who wants to spend eight hours a day staring at a computer screen when they could be hunting vampires?

Though, as enthusiastic as I am to get started, I can't help wondering if perhaps I should have had a little more time to prepare. I've only been at this for about a week now, I'm still crap with a gun, and no one knows what caused my little hallucination the other day, so I'm not even sure if I can keep that under control. But I have to try. There've been reports of Orlando in Venice, and as far as I'm concerned, the plane can't touch down fast enough.

Even as I think of him, my hand drifts to the bandage on my neck. The puncture wounds haven't had time to heal and I keep waking up to find the bandage completely soaked with blood. This usually happens after I've dreamt of Orlando--dreamt of him kissing me, touching me, stroking me, surrounding me--I can't get him out of my head. What's worse is that in my dreams, I'm not even fighting him. I arch into his touch, pulling him closer, thrusting in deeper, until I wake with the shock of orgasm and the pain of his teeth in my neck.

I can't wait to kill him. I have to kill him, anything to stop these dreams.

"Ever been to Venice?" Elijah asks, handing me a beer as he sits down in the seat across from me.

"No," I say, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a drink. "Haven't ever been further than London."

"Really?" The blue eyes widen in an almost ridiculous fashion, and Paul chuckles fondly, raising Elijah's hand to his lips.

"Ignore him. He's been around the world more times than he can count. He forgets that normal people don't travel as often as we do."

"Hey!" Elijah protests. "We're just as normal as the next person."

"Normal people can't afford to travel like this," I say, glancing around the private jet. Marton is busy working on a laptop near the back, Sean snoozing in the seat next to him, blond head resting on his lover's shoulder. There's a fully stocked bar behind them for our convenience filled with all sorts of beverages, both alcoholic and non, plus enough food to last a week.

"Yeah, well, this job does have its perks," Elijah grins, taking another drink from the bottle. "Considering the health risks, they try to do a couple of things to make life a little more pleasant for us."

"Health risks," Paul snorts. "Why don't you just say due to the limited lifespan of the employees? Most of us don't live past thirty-five, forty at the most. In our world, Sean and Marton back there are positively ancient. Walking mummies. The living dead."

"I may be old, but I'm not deaf," Marton says, his growling voice rumbling throughout the airplane as he looks above the top of his screen to glare at us with his tawny eyes. "Don't you have anything productive to do?"

"Want to apply to the mile-high club?" Paul asks, wriggling his eyebrows at Elijah, whose face grows thoughtful.

"Didn't we join that two years ago?"

"Our membership is up for renewal."

"Well, now," he says, trying to be subtle as he rises from his seat, "wouldn't want our membership to expire."

"No, we wouldn't," Paul grins, following him into the aisle and the two practically run towards the lavatory.

Chuckling, I finish off the beer and settle into my seat, hoping I can get a little sleep before we land.

I feel as if I've been out for five seconds when a sharp blow to my cheek forces me awake. I jump back against the seat, staring at Marton and Sean, who are staring at me.

"What the fuck!"

"That's what we're wondering," Marton says, eyes narrowing. "You're bleeding."

"Shite!" My hand flies to cover the bandage, though I don't know why. I can't do anything to hide the fact that this has happened again. That all of it has happened again, I realize as I pull a magazine over my lap in order to hide the bulge in my jeans.

"Is there something you haven't been telling us?" Sean asks as he removes the bloodied bandage and begins cleaning the wounds.

"What do you mean?"

"Boy, do not press me."

There's that tone which makes my formerly excited dick shrink faster than a dip in cold water. Even I'm not stupid enough to go up against Marton when he's using that tone. "I have these dreams."

"About Orlando," Sean says, and I nod. "What happens in these dreams?"

"Honestly?"

"What do you think?" Marton growls.

Yeah, that's what I figured. "My dreams are pretty much a reenactment of what happened the night we met. We fuck, he bites me, only instead of nearly dying, I wake up bleeding, yet strangely satisfied."

"And that's it?"

"That's it, every time."

Sean gives me a strange look. "Just how often does this happen?"

"It started after the incident at the shooting range, so it hasn't been often, just once or twice a night."

"Once or twice a night?" Sean asks, looking startled, then gives me a quick grin. "No wonder you seem so relaxed."

"This is not a laughing matter, Sean," Marton snaps, as his penetrating eyes search my face. "You're having a regularly occurring dream about the vampire who attacked you. Any idea why?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "I consider it to be post-traumatic stress. I figure once he's dead, the dreams will stop."

"So you don't think it has any other meaning?"

"Like what?" I ask, my hands clenching into fists. I know what he's getting at, and it isn't a possibility I ever want to consider. "Because if you're suggesting that I might in any way, shape, or form have any sort of emotional attachment to him beyond pure unadulterated loathing, you can stop right there. I will kill him, and no dreams are going to change that."

Marton gives a sharp nod and rises to his feet. "I'm going to hold you to that, Colin, but I'm also going to keep an eye on you. If I ever suspect otherwise, you'll be on the first plane back to Ireland. I will not allow you to endanger yourself, or others because of him. Do you understand?"

"Trust me, Marton, you have nothing to worry about."

"I hope that's true," he says and returns to his seat. Sean stays behind, looking at me with an amused smile.

"Intimidating, isn't he?"

"Just a bit," I nod.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'll just be happy when I can get that bastard out of my head."

"I don't blame you. I wouldn't want him in my head, either, though from the looks of things, those fangs rather ruin what would otherwise be a pretty damn good dream, don't they?"

I stare out the window as a warmth crawls up my cheeks. "Those fangs ruined a lot of things."

Sean gives my knee a sympathetic pat and stands up. "It'll be all right, kid. If you want, after you kill him, you can keep the fangs as a souvenir."

"Isn't that a little. . . morbid?" I ask, trying to keep the horror from my voice. I want Orlando dead, not desecrated.

"Some like to," he shrugs. "Gives them confidence. I think it's kind of disgusting myself, but to each his own."

"I think I'll pass," I say with a little shudder and he chuckles.

"Probably a good idea. We'll be landing soon. Get some rest, if you can."

"Thanks, Sean," I smile, but don't bother trying to sleep. I don't want to embarrass myself in front of them, not again. That can wait till I'm in my own room, in my own bed, where I can suffer through these horrible dreams alone.

Gale, Eric, and I are lying on the floor of the dining room under the table, staring out between the legs of the chairs as George leads Angelina in a dance around the parlor. The two elder vampires are gazing into each other's eyes with looks of uninhibited awe, as if they're continually being surprised by the depths of their feelings for each other. Seeing George looking so happy brings a lightness to my heart, and I just have to smile.

"Have you ever seen anything more romantic?" I sigh.

"Not in my lifetime," Eric says, a hint of longing in his voice, and Gale gives him a dirty look.

"You don't think I'm romantic?"

"It's not that, it's just. . . um. . ." His dark eyes avoid Gale's face as he searches for an answer that will keep him from trouble.

"You might want to think a little faster than that," Gale growls, and I glare at them.

"Shh! Or they'll kick us out."

"Oh, look!" Eric says in an excited whisper. "He's dipping her!"

"They're so beautiful together," I say wistfully as George slowly raises Angelina. They stare at each other for a moment, then he lowers his head and gives her a tender kiss.

They love each other so much. It's obvious in everything they do, in every move they make, in every look, in every gesture, in every smile. I just wish they could find a way to be together, but maybe Angelina is right--too much time together, and they would drive each other mad. Still, too much time apart isn't good for them, either.

I glance over at Eric and Gale, only to find them exchanging adoring looks, and I know it's my cue to leave both pairs of lovebirds alone. I carefully back out from under the table and slip outside, feeling the need to enjoy a breath of fresh air.

Well, as fresh as the air gets in Venice.

But at least the air doesn't reek of exhaust. That's one of the things I love about this city--no cars, no buses, no horns, no squealing tires, no rattling bicycles, just the gentle lapping of the water and the soft padding of feet on the stones. I can almost pretend the modern world doesn't exist. All I have to do is close my eyes, and the streets are filled with women in lace and flowing dresses, men in velvet coats with feathers in their caps.

There are times when I find myself longing for the past. I can't always remember the details, but there's a feeling I have about it that lets me know there's something missing. Everything moved slower then and life seemed to have more meaning. Empires could be built or destroyed with a look or a gesture. Transactions were based on a person's word. Art was not just something you fit in on the weekends--it was a way of life. And science, science was about discovery, not about getting ahead or beating out the competition. Nothing was rushed back then, everything had its place.

Sure, there were a few glitches in the system, but for me, it fit, not because I was born to it, but because I never had to work at it. As long as I knew and followed society's rules, I blended in and never had to worry.

Now, however, life requires work. Everything is so messed up, so confused, the world is such a jumble--there are just too many possibilities, too many ways for everything to go wrong. Especially for my kind. If a single one of us is caught anywhere, it's only a matter of picking up the phone before the entire world knows we exist. We have to be careful about who we choose and what we do with our kill--we must leave no evidence behind. And with the constant advances of technology, we always have to be aware of who--not to mention, what--is watching.

At least in Venice, I can pretend, and for a little while, life is simple again.

I pass by a prostitute who is lingering in the night, hoping to catch one last client for the evening. She looks me up and down with an invitation in her eyes and normally, I would accept, drag her off to a dark place, and then drain her dry.

But I'm not in the mood.

I allow my gaze to slide past hers as if she isn't even there, and continue on my way.

I don't know where my appetite has disappeared to. If it wasn't for the exchanges I make with Gale and Eric during out lovemaking, my veins would be starving, but they are considerate enough to let me use them as a food source, at least for a little while. Besides, for us, a bit of bloodplay goes a long way to heighten the pleasure of our sexual activities.

Crossing over one of the bridges that span the canals, I pause and look down into the water. I can see my reflection clearly in the barely rippling surface, outlined by the moon above. All I need now is for someone to appear by my side, like a scene from a movie. His hand will cover mine and I'll look up, surprised but pleased to see him there. He'll take me in his arms, declare his undying love, and kiss me till I can no longer feel my toes.

And when I pull away, part of his lips will still be attached to mine because the man I'm imagining kissing is little more than a rotting corpse right now.

Why the fuck can't I get him out of my head? Is it guilt? Do I actually feel guilty for taking his life?

I find this extremely difficult to believe. I've never felt guilt over any of my victims before--why start now?

Maybe I'm lonely. Maybe seeing Eric and Gale so happy, and then George and Angelina, is making me wish I had someone of my own. Not that I've ever wanted anyone before--I get all the love I could possibly want from my friends, my fellow vampires, my partners in eternity. But then, they don't just have me, they have each other. Perhaps I want someone of my own.

But I don't have anyone. It is just me, the moonlight, the water, and the warm scent of cinnamon and cloves.

Wait a minute.

My eyes widen, my head lifting as I breathe in deep that now familiar smell. Oh, how I wish it were my warrior, but I know that isn't possible. He is dead.

Still, it cannot hurt to find the source of this delightful smell.

I follow this invisible bread crumb trail through the streets of Venice, weaving in and out of the canals, searching for where it begins. I spot a shadow on the wall and for a moment, I almost fool myself into thinking it belongs to him, but when I turn the corner, there is no one there. The scent, however, is overwhelming and looking at the building across from me, I start to laugh.

I'm standing in front of a bakery. No wonder the air is rampant with cinnamon and cloves.

I feel like such a fool, and continue to laugh, the sound growing increasingly bitter.

"Why are you haunting me?" I cry out as I fall back against the wall. "Why won't you leave me alone?"

But of course, there is no answer. Like George said, there's no such thing as ghosts. Just the overactive imagination of a slightly mad vampire.

Sighing, I push myself up from the wall and slowly make my way back to the villa.

My body pressed tight against the door, I try to keep from breathing as he rounds the corner. I hadn't meant to find Orlando, not on my first night in the city, but I couldn't sleep. I'd only been trying to walk myself into exhaustion when I see him on the bridge, staring down into the water.

The fucking son of a bitch still took my breath away. I can hate him all I want, but I cannot deny that he is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.

Suddenly, he lifts his head, smelling the air.

Surely he doesn't know I'm here, does he?

But he looks in my direction, and I know I've been discovered.

I quickly begin to run through the streets, unable to keep track of where I'm going--I just know I need to get away. I'm not ready to face him alone, not yet.

I search the buildings I pass, hoping to find a decent hiding place, when the scent of freshly baked bread and spices fills my nose--just the thing I need to cover my presence. I dive into a doorway a couple of shops down from the bakery and press myself into the corner, holding my breath.

The sound of his footsteps stops and I peer around the edge of the building. He has stopped in front of the bakery and is laughing. It is not a happy laugh.

I watch as the hopelessness crosses his face, his body going limp with despair.

"Why are you haunting me?" he cries. "Why won't you leave me alone?"

He takes a deep breath and sighs, then turns and goes back down the street. I have to wonder who he was talking to. Certainly not to me. Even if he did know I was here, I'm a meal to him, nothing more.

Well, whoever it is, I hope they're making his life a living hell.

Once I've assured myself that he's no longer around, I leave my hiding place and then stop, looking from one end of the street to another.

"FUCK!"

I haven't a fucking clue where I am.

Oh, this is not good. My first night in a strange city, and I manage to get myself hopelessly lost.

Way to exhibit your competence to your new employers, moron, I think as I reach for my mobile. I just hope Elijah doesn't mind being woken up, because I'm sure as fuck not going to call Marton.

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