Dangerous Devotion Page 12

  “That wall is from my time in Africa,” Solomon said, following my gaze, then his eyes slid to another wall, where more wood carvings, ceramic pottery, wooden necklaces, and dolls that looked alarmingly like voodoo dolls decorated the shelves. “Those are from my home country.”

  “Where are you from?” I asked, studying a carving of a duck or, perhaps, a pigeon. The crudeness made it hard to tell.

  “What was once known as Hispaniola. When I left, it was Ayiti. You know it as Haiti. I was part of the gens de couleur—free men of color who helped emancipate my brothers in the Revolution. I almost did not survive the battle. Some would say I did not survive at all. The Daemoni found me near death after a particularly bloody fight and made me a vampire. So here I am.”

  I looked up in surprise, not expecting to hear such personal information. Not that he shared his whole life story, but, at least in my books, being turned was usually not something vampires preferred to talk about.

  “Enough about that. You are here to learn about my kind, not me specifically.”

  “Everyone says the more knowledge I have about each of the creatures, the better I’ll understand the enemy.”

  “Everyone is correct.”

  “So you don’t mind this interview? Because I have all kinds of questions. Vampires have always fascinated me.” Heat rose in my cheeks with the admission. Would Solomon tease me like Tristan does?

  Both understanding and a bit of arrogance flicked in Solomon’s eyes. “Of course not.”

  He gestured toward the seating area, and I sat on the edge of a chair upholstered in red leather with bronze rivets outlining its contours. Solomon sat across from me, and admittedly, it made me feel more comfortable. Perhaps because I didn’t have to crane my neck up to see his intimidating face. Or perhaps because when he sat, he somehow seemed more human. Solomon flicked his hand, and the door slid closed.

  “How do you do that?” I blurted. “I mean, you’re not a mage or have Amadis blood . . . right?”

  “Before we start—I believe you have been instructed to practice your telepathy?”

  I nodded.

  “It will be easier and more effective if I simply share my thoughts.”

  I inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly, imagining my wall disintegrating into a screen again. I sensed Solomon’s signature immediately and latched onto his thoughts.

  Um . . . hello? I asked, hesitating with the strangeness of looking right at him, but not talking to him aloud. It didn’t feel natural as it did with Tristan. But I expected nothing would ever feel natural with Solomon.

  A small smile played on his lips. “Rina has said it is sometimes easier when she closes her eyes.”

  I nodded, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes. A small part of me kept behind my shield couldn’t help but wonder if this was a trick. After all, vamps could quite easily convince their prey to relax, to turn their backs or shut their eyes so they couldn’t see the attack coming. Not able to help myself, I barely slit an eyelid open to peak at Solomon. He, too, sat back in his chair, his eyes closed. This is Rina’s mate; he won’t hurt me. I closed my eyes again and opened my mind to him.

  Visions appeared in my head of vampires buying blood by the glass, bottle, or box, as if it were wine. Solomon explained how Amadis vampires didn’t drink directly from the source. Mages provided vamps their life-force by donating blood, and vampires absorbed many of their magical powers. The older they were and the longer they fed on mage blood, the more powers they gained and kept.

  So that’s how you can flash or close the door without touching it? I asked.

  “Yes. Almost all Amadis vamps receive such basic powers.”

  Are Daemoni vamps the same?

  “Not exactly. They prefer to drink from the source, not only because it is fresher, but more for the thrill of the bite and the drain.” Disgust filled Solomon’s silent voice. “They prefer the sweeter, unadulterated blood of Normans.”

  So they’re not as powerful?

  He explained that because their souls had not been saved, their demonic powers were naturally stronger than Amadis vampires. When they had seen the Amadis vamps’ new powers, however, they tried taking blood from the mages. Their lack of self-control killed many, and they could not afford to lose any others.

  “Occasionally they feed from the mages, but only in controlled situations and only when necessary, such as when they are preparing for battle,” Solomon continued. “They do not need any more powers than what they already have to serve their primary purpose: preying on Normans.”

  Do they always kill?

  “Not always. But often. The fresher the blood—and the more human it is—the more difficult it is to not drain the source completely. The Daemoni are not known for self-control, and vampires are worse than the rest. Sometimes, they are able to prevent a total draining so they may create a new child.”

  Before I could ask how new vampires were made, Solomon’s thoughts came to me visually. A vampire nearly—but not completely, he emphasized—drained a human and then replaced the human’s blood with his own. The vamp’s blood healed the body and infused it with Daemoni magic, bringing the victim back to near-life. Because the master could only replace a small part of the body’s blood without draining himself, the newborn came into its new life starving to the point of madness.

  “Once they taste their first victim, the bloodlust becomes deeply ingrained. After time passes—for some, a few months, for others, several years—they need blood less often and begin to behave more civilized. Until then, they are wild animals with no fear, no control, and only one thing on their minds. Their masters are supposed to parent them, but not all vampires, like humans, are very good parents.”

  Have you . . .? I couldn’t finish the thought, not wanting to imagine Solomon as Daemoni at all. He understood the question, though.

  “I have no children. I had no desire to bestow this terrible lifestyle on another being. I was turned against my will. It astounds me anyone would purposefully want this.”

  Are there many who do?

  “More than you would think. Many Normans believe vampirism provides the solutions to their problems, not realizing all it entails. If they choose to be turned, their soul is more easily lost to us—we usually cannot save them. However, if they are turned against their will . . . if they really do not want to exist as a monster . . .”

  They keep their souls, and we can help them.

  “Correct.”

  Are there many turnings these days?

  “At this very moment, no. But, the Daemoni plan to build their army. They will take dying soldiers, as usual, but with the recent infatuation with vampires, they will likely find many who are willing. More Normans will be reported missing, never to be heard from again, their bodies never found.”

  I gasped. My eyes flew open, and I jumped to my feet.

  “Solomon!” I nearly shouted, forgetting the telepathy.

  He was on his feet so fast, I never saw the movement. His body tensed, and his eyes surveyed the area with alarm. “What?”

  “My books! They helped create that infatuation. And now people will be turned because they want to be vampires. What have I done? What was everyone thinking?”

  Solomon was suddenly sitting again, lounging in the chair. He waved his hand dismissively. “Relax, Alexis. You know the reason for your books—to create more awareness of evil so Normans will better prepare themselves. And they will. Those who want to be turned would want to anyway. You have done more good than harm.”

  “But can’t we do something?” I demanded as I plopped into my chair.

  Solomon’s gaze swept over my face. “We try to prevent vampire turnings—and Were infections, too—whenever possible. We place our soldiers on the same battlefields the Daemoni target, and Martin’s intelligence group tracks those vamps who have a history of turnings. We also maintain a heavy presence where Daemoni vamps prefer to gather.”

  “Such as Key West?”
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  “Key West has not had a turning in more than a decade because of our presence,” he confirmed with a nod. “The vamps favor tourist havens, because their victims are often drunk, making them easy prey. The older ones, those with more control, can drink from the sources without draining them, and the Normans have no recollection the next morning. They remember—what is the modern saying?—a one-night stand.”

  I thought of the vampires in my books and how they could not only feed off fear, but also off lust. Biting and blood during sex provided the greatest satisfaction to both parties. The magic in the vampire’s saliva entered the victim’s bloodstream through the bite, creating a sense of euphoria. I had thought, at one time, I had taken that idea from when Tristan had helped me heal the deep gash on my leg, the night I learned who he really was. His mouth on my leg had nearly brought me to my first real orgasm. Now, I realized, Tristan’s ability to do that—both heal me and excite me in such a strange way—came from the vampire DNA embedded in his genes. I suddenly wondered if Solomon and Rina . . . I blushed. No way could I ask him that.

  “Do you drink only mages’ blood?” I asked instead. “I mean . . . have you ever drank Rina’s?”

  Solomon’s brows arched, creating several horizontal lines across his forehead. “Blood from an Amadis daughter is very precious. Very powerful, but very precious. I’ve only had her blood once, when I was dying, and only because she forced me.”

  An idea occurred to me. “Did you absorb any of her Amadis powers, such as telepathy? I mean, the same way you absorb mages’ magic?”

  “I did not drink enough. I do not know if it is possible, and it is best not to find out.”

  “Well, how much magic can you gain from a mage? Can you become as powerful as them?”

  Solomon seemed to consider the question, rubbing his chin.

  “I have never heard of a vamp gaining that much magic,” he finally said. “Perhaps if they fed off a powerful warlock for an extended period of time or from a sorcerer . . . but we cannot risk our most powerful, and I doubt a sorcerer would allow a vamp within arm’s length of their blood.” He made a sound that almost sounded like a snort. “Thank goodness, too! We do not need a vampire loose with that much power.”

  Hmm. Could perhaps a vampire, such as Julia, block Rina’s powers if they’d had the right kind or amount of blood? A possibility, although Solomon didn’t seem to think so.

  “So, what would make you so weak for Rina to give her blood to you? How can you die? Tristan and Char say it’s nearly impossible to kill a vampire.”

  “Vampires and enchanted silver,” he said. “Another vampire can greatly weaken us without killing. Silver hurts all Daemoni, but if it has been enchanted, the metal can kill vamps. We need blood to regain our strength. Without blood, we continue to grow weaker until we eventually dry up into corpses . . . until blood regenerates us.”

  “Only vamps and enchanted silver blades can kill you? There’s no other way? A stake to the heart?”

  Solomon chuckled. “A stake can put us down temporarily, but not kill us. Vampires started that legend, as well as allergies to garlic and the need to be invited into a home. These stories give the Normans a false sense of security, and vampires embrace it. They pretend to be frightened away, only to return later for the unsuspected attack. Vampires enjoy playing with their food.”

  And it was such statements, along with the wide, white grin on Solomon’s face, that made him so frightening.

  I swallowed, pushing down the unnecessary fear. “And the myth of not being able to come out during the day?”

  “Started by the Amadis. The idea was to make Normans more fearful of being out at night, alone in the dark when vampires prefer to hunt.”

  “So the sun has no effect at all?”

  “I would not say that. It can weaken us. And most prefer the night because it is easier to hunt. Many come out only in darkness, and the longer they live nocturnally, the more the sun affects them. Some, the very young or very old, can be weakened to the strength of a mere man at the sun’s full height at noon.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “That’s how Bram Stoker’s Dracula is.”

  Solomon nodded. “Yes, he had some details right. Whether they were guesses or an actual vampire gave him the information, nobody knows.”

  “What about beheading?”

  “Only with an enchanted blade. With such a blade, you can slice a vampire into pieces, the only way you can kill one. You must burn all the pieces, however, or the vampire will put himself back together.”

  My stomach rolled at the thought. “And you said silver hurts?”

  “It weakens, but it does not necessarily kill. Silver affects all Daemoni to a certain degree.”

  “So are you affected by silver now? After becoming Amadis?”

  “No. That is the strange thing about the metal. Many believe the Angels enchanted silver in the Earth’s beginnings to protect people against evil. Some believe silver is an element brought to us from the Otherworld. But that may just be a story . . . fiction.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Fiction? There seems to be truth in much fiction.”

  Solomon chuckled again. “Yes, there does, doesn’t there? The best stories—and the best lies—are woven around the truth. It is up to us to discover which is which.”

  Chapter 9

  “Well, Alexis,” Charlotte said a week later, pressing her palm to her forehead as she studied her clipboard, “the discs are out, you’re not bad with knives, but your swordsmanship skills are quite lacking.”

  I grimaced, feeling as though I’d been given a big, fat F. The coronation ceremony was only a few days away and afterward, Char would be back out in the field. She’d pretty much come as far as she could with me, and I’d disappointed her. “Sorry. I can’t get comfortable with the sword. Tristan says to make it one with me, but I just don’t feel it. It apparently has no interest in me being one with it.”

  Char chuckled and waved her hand in dismissal. “No worries. It takes years to become an excellent swordsman. Besides, swords are impractical in the Norman world anyway. They can be cloaked, of course, but they’re cumbersome when you’re mainstreaming.” Her hand darted into her cleavage and, in a snap, she produced a long-bladed, double-edged knife. She grinned at my surprise. “Which is why I prefer daggers.” She handed it to me. “Let’s see what you can do with this. Tristan?”

  Tristan selected his favorite weapon—himself. With all the talk he’d given me about not completely relying on my powers, and about needing to be able to fight in all kinds of situations and with whatever tools I had, he used nothing but the gifts he’d been given. Of course, he’d had centuries of training and could paralyze someone in an instant, making weapons virtually pointless, although new ones were being made for him, “to be prepared for anything” as he put it.

  The only way to evade his power was to be behind him, but he was so alert and so fast, it was nearly impossible to be behind him long enough to make a difference. I was the only one who’d been able to take him on and match his power, although he’d still nearly won. In fact, it hadn’t really been me who beat him that day. It had been the Amadis power boosted by a miracle.

  In training, however, my Amadis power was useless, having only a positive effect on other Amadis, and I hadn’t been allowed to use my electrical power except a few times when Charlotte tested me. She needed to see what I could do and then see how it had strengthened over time, but that was it. So practicing with the dagger with Tristan meant using only my speed and agility.

  The dagger felt more natural in either of my hands than any other weapon we’d tried. I easily danced around Tristan with it, twisting and turning without tripping myself up as I had done with the sword. Right when Tristan lunged at me, I did a spin and a hop and landed on his back, the dagger at his throat.

  “Perfect!” Charlotte said with a laugh. “The dagger it is. And the beauty of the dagger, Alexis, is we can have yours made to take your powers, both the
electricity and the Amadis. Whatever you want to use, you can pass it through the dagger. You will have a most formidable weapon. I’ll put the order in today, but you’ll need to go in tomorrow so the blacksmith can be sure he has the right measurements.”

  I hadn’t expected an actual blacksmith, just the old-fashioned title given to whomever used more advanced technology in today’s age. But when Tristan and I went to the village the next day, he took me to a space that resembled a blacksmith shop straight from the Middle Ages—rustic and smoky, with the only light coming from several hearths with blazing fires. Except, unlike a traditional blacksmith, herbs and other reagents hung from this one’s ceiling or were kept in jars on shelves near the fires, I assumed to enchant the weapons and armory forged here.

  At the hearth in front of us, a stooped, white-haired man tossed some kind of powder into the unnaturally green fire. The flames shot up, turning from green to silver, and he thrust a long piece of metal into the heat. His hands flickered with pink sparks as he turned the metal in his palms and whispered a spell. Finally, he pulled the staff from the flames and dropped it in a vat of water. He squinted up at us and then ducked his head.

  “Ms. Alexis. Mr. Tristan. I’ve been expecting you,” he said, his voice gravelly as if he’d been inhaling the smoke in the shop for hundreds of years. With his dark, lined skin, perhaps he had been. He gave us a nearly toothless grin and held his hands out toward me. “May I?”

  I stared at him with uncertainty.

  “It’s okay,” Tristan said. “Ferrer needs to take your measurements. Just give him your hand.”

  I hesitantly placed my hand into the old man’s rough and calloused ones. After a few long moments, his knobby fingers released mine, and he asked for my other hand.

  “Very good. I will have your dagger and your knife ready to be presented at the coronation ceremony,” he said.