Date: Thu, 16 Mar 1995 00:40:59 -0700 Reply-To: Greg Palmer Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Greg Palmer Subject: "Three of Hearts" Part 2 (un-screwed up) AAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!! It mangled my story! Turned it into meaningless globs of letters! Is that any way to treat good literature? No, no, no! Sigh.. well here it is again. Sorry for filling your mailboxes with junk. *** It helps to have read "Interview with the Vampire" by Anne Rice, to get the most out of this part of the story. It's not a necessity though. *** "Three of Hearts" Part 2 by Greg Palmer, Copyright (C) 1995 All Rights Reserved 27 May, 1774 The woman was unlike any human being Gabriel had ever seen, despite her superficial appearance of human beauty. She looked a statue, staring down at him. A marble statue, dressed in black velvet and white lace. She was dressed like a man, a rich *man*, Gabriel thought. But somehow, she seemed all the more beautiful for it. The surface her beautifully sculpted face was white and luminescent as the moon, but completely smooth and unlined, even around the eyes and mouth. And it was still, she did not blink, her mouth did not move; no expression in her face whatsoever. The only colors in her face were her full pink lips and the strange, shimmering quality of her eyes. Her eyes were gray, but a kind of gray Gabriel had never seen before. The eyes looked like sparkling orbs of glass in the marble face. Colors seemed to dance in the irises; blue, green, violet. Tiny twin flames flickered in each pupil, from the two candles on the floor. Impossibly lustrous black hair fell across her forehead and down past her shoulders. How beautiful, he thought, his fear fading away. How utterly cold yet so completely -- beautiful. She looked as if she was drinking in his gaze, but then, for some reason, she looked at him in annoyance. The lips moved slowly, arranging themselves into a small smile. Her teeth were as white as her face, and perfectly formed; but there was something terribly wrong with that smile, he realized. Gabriel saw long, wickedly pointed fang teeth pressing into her lower lip. The spell of the creature's beauty was suddenly broken. Gabriel sat up violently and shoved himself backwards on the mattress. "Dearg-dul!" he tried to shout, but the word came out in a long, hissing whisper. Dearg-dul was the old Irish Gaelic word for vampire: a legendary, ugly male creature who crept into the bedroom windows of wicked children to feast on their blood and spirit their bodies away into the night. It was an old, old legend. For centuries, Irish parents had warned their children to be good, or the Dearg-dul would come for them while they slept. He'd heard the story about the fanged monster from his father, but his father hadn't believed it, and Gabriel had just laughed. The smile and the teeth had been meant for him to see, obviously. Just as she'd drunk in his gaze, she now consumed his fear. "Beautiful killer," she whispered, taking a small step towards him. He cringed in terror at her approach, yet the power of her spellbinding eyes held him in place, as sure as if she had been holding him with her inhumanly powerful, bone white hands. "Delicious killer," she murmured, as she took another tiny step in his direction. She was wearing feminine-looking black leather boots, but they made no sound at all on the stone floor. In a move too fast for his eyes to follow, she was suddenly on the straw mattress with him, snuggling up against his side. He froze in terror as she threw her arm across his chest. The arm felt like the marble it appeared to be, pressing him into the mattress. His thoughts were a whirlwind, none of them rising to his consciousness. Her movements resumed the fluid, leisurely quality they had possessed before. She nuzzled his neck lovingly, tongue lapping at the bloody, raw flesh there. She gave a small moan of urgency when she began to lick up the blood seeping from the wound. He tried to scream, but his mouth only opened and closed, stupidly. His eyes were wide and unblinking in fear and disbelief. Her mouth opened wide and bit into Gabriel's throat, the twin sharp pains of her fangs driving through his skin, impossibly deep. He felt hot blood gush from the wounds, flowing into her mouth. She suckled at the punctures, drawing the salty blood directly out of the vein. Strangely, the numbing fear he felt transmuted itself into impossible rapture. His body stiffened and he arched his back as the vampire drew more and more life out of him. He could hear his own heart beating, faster and faster, and he could hear the greedy vampire heart, pounding in cadence with his own. "Aye, this," he whispered. "This, forever..." His view of the bare stone room became surreal; his mind fogged as the bliss intensified. He knew he was dying, but it didn't matter. He felt as if his whole life was but a pale reflection of this; his entire life's only meaning was to live until this night, when he could die in the undead arms of this...vampire. Strange images he couldn't understand flowed into him, as if to replace the blood he lost. He *was* the female vampire; and he saw the visions through her eyes. An underground crypt, populated by this vampire and a dozen others of her kind, who would rise from their coffins at night to hunt for blood. Among the humans that populated the crowded, rainswept city he could not identify. Back to the stench of the crypt. The vampire, on her knees, being denounced by the leader for some crime. The leader appeared to be an auburn-haired boy, but was actually the eldest of them all. Gabriel saw the newly-made vampire being cast out of the crypt forever. Leaving in shame and fear. Wandering Europe for decades, immortal but damned, trying to assuage her mortal conscience by feasting on only the blood of thieves and murderers. She was alone, lonely, searching for other vampires to share her existence with; or maybe a mortal she was interested enough in to transform with her dark blood. She slept through the burning light of the sun, buried deep beneath the soil of wherever she wandered. Finally, he saw *himself*, through the vampire's eyes. Saw himself shoot Shannon's murderer in the back, and then being tied up and hanged by Mallory's men. The telepathic bond between them was not one-way. He realized that the drinking vampire was seeing disjointed fragments of his memory, as well... ************* Sylvie could not believe her luck when she stumbled upon the killer being hanged by the others of his kind. She was torn between her conscience and the powerful thirst that raged within her, but she had successfully resisted the temptation to take one of the innocent mortals in one of the small Irish villages, that she had recently taken to haunting. Animals abounded, but she could not overcome her disgust at drinking from a stinking beast. She'd been starved for blood by then, having traveled far and wide from the ruined old castle on the hill to scout the surrounding villages for a suitably evil mortal to drink from. Her resolve was weakening; she could not have gone another night without drinking blood. And then she happened upon the most beautiful killer she could have hoped for. She watched the man cold-bloodedly cut down another in the street, and then head for a large building, apparently to murder again. She could not read his thoughts with any accuracy, but she was still young, only fifty by her own reckoning. The abilities of the old ones would come to her with time. The thirst flared; this was too lovely. She'd wanted to scoop him up right then, and drink him dry right there in the street. But before she could, other mortals came out of the building and captured the killer, beating him senseless. She could *smell* the hot, tasty blood on the man's face, but she did not move. Some of the men retrieved building materials and began to construct a rude gallows. She'd laughed silently from the shadows. This was getting better and better! Instead of rushing out into the street faster than the mortals could see, and taking the killer away, Sylvie stood and watched the proceedings with new interest. The thirst tore at her, but she ignored it. Part of her relished the sight of such barbarism; the mortals were truly enjoying themselves. Another part cried out at the unnecessary suffering of the doomed one. But what did it matter? After all, the man was a cold-blooded killer! Ah well, she thought, let them have their fun. But in the end, he's *mine*. The mortals put the hooded murderer on a horse and slid the noose over his head. One of them slapped the horse and it ran away. Gravity pulled the killer down, and he now dangled on the end of the rope, twitching. Now. Sylvie flew out of hiding, battering two of the mortals to the ground. She took another unawares, gripping the back of his neck and flinging him aside. The rest started to realize what had come for them and began screaming like frightened children. The sound made her feel good. Ignoring the panicking mortals, she took the thick rope in both hands and snapped it like string. The hanged man dropped to the ground, flopping there like a fish out of water. Ripping the noose apart, she took the killer into her arms. The heat of him flowed through their garments and warmed her cold body. She ran for the ruins, the rather large man in her arms not slowing her down at all. To the mortals' eyes, she seemed to simply disappear. She raced through the forest, eager to get to the old castle. This would be perfect! She would replenish herself with his blood, in her lair, and the next night, move on. But to where? It didn't matter! She felt good, like she could drink up the whole world. She arrived at the ruins, and took the man up to the windowless, thick-walled room where she slept by day. He seemed to have fallen unconscious during the journey, but he was alive. A raw, red abrasion decorated his throat from the noose; the smell of the blood maddened her, but she would not drink, yet. She flung his limp body to the straw mattress where she slept, and lit two of the candles she kept in the center of the room. Sylvie then retreated to a dark corner, waiting for the mortal to regain consciousness. She stood silently, staring at him for hours. She was beginning to enjoy the tugging pain in her veins that increased with this delicious, evil mortal so close. Well, she would let it build. Finally, the mortal opened his eyes and looked around in shock. He thought he was alone. Ah, she'd caught that thought from him! Maybe that power was not so far off, after all. "No, you are not alone," she whispered as she walked out into the circle of light from the candles. He stared at her in shock and fear; she enjoyed it. The fear in his face eventually faded, though, and began to be replaced by awe. His next thought was even easier to read; it was so strong. He thought she was beautiful! No! This wasn't how she wanted it to be! She was not beautiful; she was supposed to be a Child of Darkness, for Satan's sake! Time to put a little more fear of the Devil into this killer, she thought. She smiled, showing her wonderfully sharp teeth. She played with him, saying things like `beautiful killer', and `delicious killer'. She was really enjoying this. It had the desired effect on the mortal. He looked stricken with fear, pushing himself back on the bed. He hoarsely whispered some foreign word, of a language she did not speak; she knew only English and her native French. The thought came across, though: vampire. He knew, now! How delightful. Enough playing around, she decided. If she didn't drink soon, Sylvie felt like she would die from the pain of the long fast. She hopped into bed with the mortal, taking him by surprise; the movement was so fast. She licked at his neck, licked up the blood she had denied herself for hours, and the sheer taste of it was enough to make her moan. She sank her teeth into him, feeling the warm gush of blood on her tongue. Her body cried out for it, and she sucked at the wound eagerly. The mortal seemed to be enjoying it. They usually did, she thought with an impish smile. Then came the visions. She didn't like them, didn't like seeing the images of the brief lives she was perpetually snuffing out. But she had to experience it, if she wanted to live, and feel the wonderful swoon from the drinking of the blood. His heartbeat was wonderful; it was very strong. She saw his life: growing up, working on a fishing boat, digging potatoes for a living. He was a foundling; his surrogate parents died when he was still a boy. Interesting, but irrelevant. As the blood flowed and flowed into her greedy heart, more recent visions came to her. She saw the events that led up to their meeting. The murder of his wife. She saw it all from his perspective... *********** In an instant, she was up on her feet, a drop of blood escaping her mouth and wetting her chin. The blood swoon washed over her, but one clear thought cut through it: she had drunk from an innocent, something she'd sworn never to do again! The killing of the man in the street was righteous vengeance. He was innocent in her eyes. And how well she understood vengeance. It had consumed her thoughts after Armand sent her away from the Paris coven, forever. She'd made another vampire -- Philippe -- without Armand's permission. But that was not the worst offense, no; she'd also done it out of love for the mortal man. Armand had shut her lover out into the air well in the crypt, to meet the morning sun. And she'd been banished forever from her own kind. How she wanted to make him pay for what he'd done. But he was ancient, over three hundred years; he was the most powerful of all of them. She supposed he'd been merciful; he could have easily shut her out to die, as well. But someday she would be as strong as he, and then... The mortal stirred. The mortal -- Gabriel -- was going to die, she saw. She'd drunk too much for him to live. He murmured her name. "Sylvie..." He was calling to her. Don't let him die; don't violate your vow, the insidious voice of her nature whispered. Bring him to you; make him as you are. At first she was shocked, but then she toyed with the new idea. He *was* very handsome, so much the greater insult to God, if she decided to give him the Dark Gift. He was also very strong; he would make a powerful Child of Darkness. And there would be no Armand to take away her child, this time. It had been thirty years since she'd laid eyes on one of her own kind. The loneliness was slowly driving her mad. She cut into her wrist with her sharp teeth, the pain of it causing her to gasp. Blood rushed from the severed veins and arteries, dripping down her velvet-clad arm, staining the lace extending from her sleeve. Before the wound could heal, she held it high over Gabriel's mouth. The drops of blood -- his own, mixed with hers -- pattered down onto his lips and face. Eyes closed, he licked at them eagerly. He's ready, she thought. She put her torn wrist to his mouth and he instantly clamped his mouth to it, sucking the blood rapidly, from the fount of her being. He already had new strength; he clasped his hands to her forearm, as if to say `Don't stop'. It went on and on, the pain in Sylvie's veins growing greater and more huge every second. The pain of denying herself blood was nothing compared to this. She stared down at Gabriel, a grimace of agony stamped upon her features. Then it was over, she could not have given him another drop. She dropped to the stone floor in exhaustion, and wearily watched him from her resting place. Gabriel did not know what had happened to him. One moment, the vampire -- Sylvie -- was draining the blood from his body, and the fear he felt had turned into *pleasure*! The next, he was drinking *her* blood from her wrist, and taking even more pleasure from the act! The blood was like liquid light, passing into his mouth and down into every part of his body. He felt the rope burn on his neck fade away; the two puncture marks in his neck disappeared. The bruises and cuts on his body were gone. The warm glow from the healing blood he'd drunk quickly faded, and he began to cough and writhe in pain on the straw mattress. Sylvie watched his mortal death impassively, knowing it would not last long. She moved back in shock as Gabriel shot to his feet, eyes bulging, hands clasped to his throat, the vampire blood staining his face. Something was very wrong... Standing on the floor at the end of the bed, he doubled over and began coughing more insistently, and then retching. The pain was more than she'd ever seen a new vampire suffering. She looked at her child with shock and concern. Suddenly he vomited an incredible amount of blood onto the flagstones of the floor. It poured and poured from his mouth and nose; all the blood he'd drunk from her, gone. The blood kept coming, all the blood that was in his body, it seemed. Sylvie shrieked and climbed to her feet. What had she done wrong? Phillippe was not like this! And she remembered her own mortal death; she had not suffered long, and she certainly had not lost any blood during it! Gabriel groaned and collapsed on his side, landing in the huge pool of blood. Sylvie saw he was dead, this time, forever. She screamed and screamed, tearing at her hair and coat. Would she always be alone? Did Armand curse her, with some power he had, that she hadn't known of? She kept screaming in rage and frustration, the volume ten times that of what a mortal could produce. Eventually, she had to stop. Blood ran from her damaged ears; for a moment she could hear nothing, and then the tissues healed. Ruby tears streaked her white face as she stared upon his unmoving form. Silently, she gathered up his blood-soaked body and walked slowly out of the castle on the hill, into the nearby wood. She decided she was moving on, anyway. *********** FERMOY, COUNTY CORK, IRELAND -- 3 June, 1774 The sound of horseshoes clicking on cobbles was the first thing he heard as he regained consciousness. He felt his body being shaken, bounced up and down violently. Drops of liquid were dripping onto his lips and face, and the feeling made a memory float up to the surface of his mind. The vampire! Being taken, the nausea when she gave him her blood, his death. He opened his eyes and sat up with a start, banging his head on metal-- My death? He looked around, and the first thing he realized was that he was in a cage; he'd hit his head on the iron bars behind him. The second thing he realized was the cage was moving; that was what contributed to his being tossed around so roughly. Third, there was a smelly old man bent over him, squeezing water from a piece of cloth onto his face. The old man spoke, revealing quite a few missing teeth. "Whoa there, laddie. Gave yourself a bit of a scare, you did. Just settle back and old McGee'll take care of ya." He was kneeling in the cage; there was not room to stand. McGee looked down at Gabriel. "What's your name, lad?" He couldn't speak for a moment; his mouth was too dry. The old man seemed to recognize his problem and squeezed a cool stream of water out of the damp cloth, into Gabriel's mouth. "Gabriel," he croaked, spraying a bit of water. "Am I in Hell?" "Nay, laddie!" McGee laughed heartily. He obviously kept his spirits high, although he was imprisoned. "It's the next closest thing though, I'd imagine." He stopped laughing and his eyes looked downcast. "You're a volunteer for His Majesty's Army!" [End part 2] +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ The Vampire Chronicles Home Page -- fanfics, gifs+sounds, Anne Rice stuff ***http://www.xroads.com/pages/gpalmer/gpalmer.html*** +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ =========================================================================