The Taste Of A Warrior

Part 11

Posted: October 2003
Author: Dhvana

*****

I barely step two feet into the villa before George is there, his body pulsing with fury as he grabs hold of me.

"Where the fuck have you been? What happened to you? And Gale, and Eric? Angelina--she found them, she smelled your blood and the blood of the humans. We didn't know if you were alive or if you'd been kidnapped or if you were nothing more than ashes tossed into the canal! What the fuck is going on?"

I open my mouth to answer, but the words will not come. There is only pain, and sorrow, and both are choking the life out of me. I begin to weep and George's rage vanishes as he holds me in his arms. He slowly rocks me back and forth, stroking my back, kissing the top of my head.

"I'm sorry, Orlando, I'm so sorry. It's going to be okay, I promise. We'll work through this, and then we'll find the bastards responsible."

Still crying, I shake my head. I don't know how it will ever be okay again. I've lost Gale. I've lost Eric. Most importantly, I've lost Colin.

Lifting me up, George carries me down to the basement and places me in bed. He removes my dirty clothes and places me in fresh ones. Examining the wounds on my face and neck, he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and I know he is fighting back his anger.

Biting into his wrist, he holds it to my mouth. "Drink."

It has been at least three hundred years since I have been injured enough for George to offer me his blood, and he nearly didn't give it to me then. A jealous lover had pushed me out a window and practically broke me in two. George was so annoyed with my stupidity that he said I deserved to heal the slow way, but he never could stand to see me hurt, and eventually relented.

He doesn't even bother scolding my stupidity now because he doesn't blame me for this. Perhaps he should.

My creator's blood flows into me, filling me with a warmth that has only been matched by my warrior. His blood travels throughout my body, spreading quickly and seeming to seek out the areas where it will be needed the most. The broken bones in my face snap into place, the cracks in my ribs close, and the torn flesh on my neck quickly mends together.

When he finally pulls away, all I have physically left to show for the night's events are a couple of bruises around my face, neck, and stomach, and those will be gone when I wake. Mentally, I don't know what I'm going to do.

George is worried enough about my state of mind that he stays with me throughout the remainder of the night. I know he wants to go after those who hurt me and killed two of his friends, but he's afraid to leave me alone.

As time passes, we hear no word from Angelina. I can only hope my warrior and his companions were able to escape in one piece, but it is doubtful. One of Angelina's more dependable qualities is that she is extremely thorough in her revenge.

All we can do is wait.

Every once in a while, when I think back on the events of the night, I'll start to cry and George will hold me till I've calmed again. Every once in a while, I'm the one who has to hold him. This pattern continues until the sun rises and we both drift off to sleep, still with no word from Angelina. I fear the worst for my warrior and his friends.

When I wake the next evening, I find myself wrapped between two bodies. George is still sound asleep on my left, and Angelina is on my right.

They must have gotten lonely during the night, I think, kissing George softly on the cheek, then repeating the gesture with Angelina. Staring at her, I pause.

That's strange, I frown, studying the female vampire. She smells of death and smoke. Her clothes are covered with ashes and bloodstains, her flawless skin marked with dark smudges. I wonder what sort of mischief she's been up to.

Oh, well. I'm sure she'll tell us all about it later.

Sliding out of bed, quietly so as not to disturb them, I unlock the doors and wander upstairs. I feel an urge for tea, to have its warmth pooling in my stomach. I fix myself a cup, drink it quickly--it's nice not having to fear near-boiling water--then walk through the villa, enjoying the play of the moonlight through the windows on the patterns of the marble floor.

There are so many rooms in this place, I realize as I traipse down the hall. We really should invite some of the other vampires to come visit--it's far too big for just the three of us.

Quickly running through a list of vampires I haven't seen in a while, I light upon a name that brings a smile to my face--Raoul. Beautiful, charming--he's even Italian. I should give him a call. It would be rude not to, especially since we're in the same country.

I can already feel that delightfully toned body responding to the caresses of my fingers, and grin. Yes, Raoul will do nicely. It's definitely been far too long since we've had a chance to spend any time together. Plus, he'll give me something to do other than pester Angelina and George.

As I pass by the door to one of the bedrooms, it swings open on its hinges half an inch, then rattles shut.

Oh, fuck. I must have left a window open, though I can't remember the last time I was in this room. Still, it had to have been me. George always remembers to close the windows, and he's told me a thousand times that even if thieves or other unwanted guests can't get into the vaults below, I don't have to give them an open invitation to the rest of the house.

I walk over to the doors that lead out onto the balcony and pull them closed, making sure the latch catches. At least I found it before George did. I really do not want to sit through yet another of his safety lectures.

Turning back towards the hall, I glance at a table in the corner and pause. There are bags bursting with yarn and knitting needles piled on the table's surface. A smile curling my lips, I walk over to the bags and pull out a ball of yarn that is a deep, rich brown in color.

Now who in the world would have bought these? Angelina certainly doesn't knit, I think, chuckling at the image of her sitting on the floor, staring in consternation at the pile of tangled yarn in front of her. The picture of George sitting in a corner, needles clicking away, is just as amusing.

No, they're definitely not the culprits. I wonder who is?

As I move to place the ball back in the bag, an image of eyes almost the exact same color of brown as the yarn flashes in my mind.

The ball falls silently to the floor, bouncing softly before it rolls under the bed, leaving an unraveling trail of yarn in its wake.

"No," I whisper, backing away from the table. The memory is there, beating at my brain, pushing to escape. "No, I don't want to know. I don't want to remember! Please, don't make me. Go away, just go away!"

Brown eyes, then blue, arms entwined, hands reaching for me, holding me, mouths dancing across my skin.

"No, please, make it stop!" I claw at my face, my eyes, falling to my knees, trying to keep the memories from coming.

Blue eyes, startled, afraid for us, pushing us away. Skin melting into flames.

Brown eyes, insane with sorrow, turning to ash in front of me.

"NO! Gale! Eric!"

Throwing my head back, I open my mouth and scream. I scream until the darkness takes me. I wake up forgetting, but then something makes me remember, and I scream myself into unconsciousness again. I scream until the memory of them is buried so deep inside of me, it will never escape. Only then do the screams stop.

Those of us who left immediately reach Berlin in safety. We receive word a few days later that all who remained were no more and that the house we'd been using as our headquarters has been burnt to the ground. Witnesses claim a single woman destroyed each and every one of our people, then set fire to the building, feeding the flames so that there would be nothing salvageable from the remains.

Marton storms around the Berlin headquarters tearing to shreds anyone who dares to cross him. His lover has a more productive means of dealing with his emotions. Sean concerns himself with the injured and in setting the place up, all to keep from giving in to the hurt inside of him. Marton, however, has no desire to hold it in. He wants answers. He wants revenge. He wants to know how to make sure this never happens again.

I avoid him as much as I can. I just know that all he has to do is look at me, and he'll see that I've betrayed them.

Paul is on his feet after a couple of days. His neck is healing nicely, but he doesn't talk much. He either holes himself up in his room, or sits in the garden, meditating with Sean. Marton questions him about that night, demanding to know why they attacked. The rules specifically state two men to a vampire and, numbering at four, they were two men short. They should have known better. They should have called for back-up. Why did they attack?

Paul does not have an answer. He doesn't have an answer for anyone.

Elijah is patient, waiting until his love is ready, knowing his should consider himself lucky that Paul is alive at all. He is always within calling distance, if Paul should need anything, but the golden-haired man never calls. They've all been hurt before--the organization is formed out of people who are victims of vampires, one way or another. Elijah knows it'll take time, and he is content to wait.

I spend most of my days at Stuart's side. He hasn't woken up yet or shown any signs of recovery. I hold his hand, talk to him about normal, everyday things--the weather, sneaking around smoking behind Sean's back, my slowly improving aim with a gun. You couldn't pay me to talk to him about Karl. His struggle to live must be difficult enough without having to hear about the loss of his beloved.

Two more Americans have joined us in Germany, Luke and Owen: brothers, Texans, outspoken yet terribly polite at the same time. They seem like a good sort with a warped sense of humor. Too bad no one is in the mood for laughing. They are the ones holding the place together, seeing to it that everyone eats, everyone sleeps, no one tries to do anything drastic. They check in on me from time to time, forcing me from Stuart's room for short periods, airing me out, as they call it. I will thank them for it, one day, when I have the ability to appreciate their efforts. Right now, though, I loathe them for interrupting my thoughts.

When I'm not comforting Stuart, trying to talk him into returning--though I haven't the foggiest fucking idea why he would want to return--I am curled up in the chair next to his bed, thinking of Orlando.

I don't mean to, but every time my thoughts wander, they wander to him. I wonder how he's dealing with his pain, his loss. Does he hurt as much as I do? Does he feel any pain over losing me, or just for losing his lovers?

I looked them up on the website. Eric and Gale, he called them. Eric and Gale had been his friends and lovers for over four hundred and fifty years. I knew Karl and Stuart for little over a week. He knew them for over six lifetimes. How does one deal with that kind of loss? I wish I could ask him, but I can't. I wouldn't even know where to begin, but that's not my biggest problem.

As much as I hate to admit it, I miss him.

I miss his smile. I miss his voice. I miss the feeling his presence creates in my body--the warmth, the desire, the sense of rightness. Somehow, I feel comforted around him. Even knowing what he is and what he's capable of cannot stop that. If he were here, we could comfort each other, but he is not. I am alone, and I cannot tell a soul of the thoughts in my head, or they would know me for the traitor I am.

There is the rustling of movement against the sheets, fingers brushing over the sterile cloth. I look up to see Stuart's eyes fluttering open. Slowly, the brown eyes focus on me.

"Colin. . ." he whispers.

I jump out of the chair, clasping his hand. "Stuart! You're awake! Are you all right? How do you feel? Do you need anything?"

"Colin, stop," he says softly, shaking his head. "I just need. . . Karl. . ."

My throat clenches shut and I bite my lip. Burning tears appear in my eyes and though I try to hold them back, I can feel their warmth as they slip down my face.

I can't do this. God, no, don't make me do this. Someone has to tell him. Don't make it be me. Please, I don't know if I can.

Stuart closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "That's what I thought," he says, opening them to look at me again. "I just needed. . . to be sure. . . before. . ."

His eyes suddenly focus on a point behind me, a glorious smile lighting up his face.

"Karl!" he says, his voice filled with love.

I turn to look behind me, thinking he's made a mistake, that Sean or someone else has entered the room to check on us, but there's no one there.

"Stuart," I begin, looking back at him, then stop. His eyes no longer see me. His body is completely still, but the smile remains.

They are together. Karl found him, just as I hoped he would. They are together.

Holding his hand to my lips, I start to cry in earnest, my tears wetting his cooling skin. Violent sobs wrack my body, my lungs screaming for breaths that I can never quite catch up with. When they find us, they have to pull me away from Stuart's body, sedating me into unconsciousness. Even then, Elijah tells me it is hours before I stop crying.

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