Nightlord: Sunset (12 page)

That sword did not like being picked up.  Like a man having a bad dream when a robber comes into the room.  Or a woman stirring in her sleep at the smell of strange cologne.  It grumbled, somewhere below the level of consciousness.

Sasha held it gingerly for a moment, perhaps making peace with it; it did seem to quiet.  Like the woman who falls back into full slumber at the sound of her lover’s voice.

Sasha assumed a guard position with it—a very competent-looking stance.  I would have thought, long ago, she was too slight to wield that monster of a blade.  But with her unexpected mass and amazing strength, it was well within her capacity.

She swung it about, around, up and over, down, thrust; all of it so fast the fencing coach would have been drooling to have her on the team.  I nodded inwardly and admitted anyone within that circle of razored death would be dead, disemboweled, or suffering from an impromptu amputation.

“There’s more to fighting than just strength and speed,” I remarked.

“I have been well-taught, my lord.  By you.  And if you refer to fighting spirit, let me reassure you I have no qualms about killing.  There is nothing in this world or the next that will persuade me to stop when your safety is concerned.  If you succeed in this… invasion… you will be in danger as long as even one of them remains alive.”

“The objective, ideally, is to capture the one in charge.”

“Aye,” she said, her emotions mixing older speech with modern.  “And all those who wield guns against thee will weaken thee against him.  It would be well for others to slay them, leaving you free to find and deal with this leader or leaders.”

I wanted to argue.

I seriously wanted to forbid her to come.

And I thought about it.

“Besides,” she added, “if you go and you fall… then I may carry through for you, rather than joining you in death immediately.”  Tears started in her eyes and began to spill.  Her voice took on a strange intensity as she finished, “If thou die, then die I must, 
for I will not wait again!
”

That was a stopper.

“All right,” I replied, gruffly.  “Come.”

She put the sword back on the shelf and came into my arms again.

It’s not easy, being reviewed on swordsmanship and trying to study magic.  One or the other tends to suffer, and my sorcerous studies were the victim—swords require drill, drill, drill.

Sasha turned out to be
very
skilled.  I thought I was pretty good.  I was a member of the Society for Creative Anachronism for a few months before starting grad school, and I’d been in the fencing club for two years before that, but Sasha had learned to fight in a harder school.  Apparently, “I” had been very serious about her—a woman!—learning to use a sword effectively.

Now she was equally serious.  This was a good thing; I had a lot to learn.

We spent the rest of the day drilling.  Lots of repetitive motions.  She had gotten a couple of old swords from somewhere and we were using those.  It made me respectful of even the practice weapons.  I kept doing the same thing, over and over—a thrust, twist, and withdraw-and-parry.

“One new maneuver a day.  You must be drilled in all the ways the sword can move until your hand and eye learn them, not just your head.  One new maneuver a day—for the rest of your life.”

That was a scary thought.  If I lived as long as she had… that’s a lot of practice.  I was tempted to get wooden swords and spar, but decided against it.  This wasn’t a question of who could take whom; this was a matter of who was more skillful—and that was her, without question.

So I practiced.

One advantage I discovered about being a dayblood: once the sun went down, the exhaustion, the blisters, and the sore, sprained, pulled muscles all went away.  That was worth it right there.

We went out that evening and snacked around.  Nobody died; we were too cheerful at my progress and the idea of actually doing something about what had become a long shadow over the future.  Whether we succeeded or not was momentarily immaterial.  We were going to
do
something!

That’s always a good feeling.

TUESDAY, AUGUST 16
TH

“P
essimists cannot be disappointed.  Optimists cannot be pleasantly surprised.”

Sasha spent a lot of time hunting down old friends—
very
old friends.  She turned up less than a dozen worldwide.  They led her to almost a dozen more.

Nobody wanted to come along.

I hadn’t expected a rousing cheer and an army of irate undead lusting for the blood of their killers, but I’d hoped for more than, “Ha.  Good luck; you’ll need it.  ”

I could have been irate about it.  Sasha just shrugged.

“It is the way of our kind.  If it is not bothering you, leave it alone.  Don’t attract attention; it only causes trouble.  We are immortal.  Why make waves and make a very long life a very miserable one?”

It sounded logical.  But then, while I often try to be logical, I’m afraid my heart keeps getting in the way.  Usually I can ignore it.  Usually.

“It shouldn’t be that way,” I muttered.

“But it is that way, dear one.  Come.  Let us work on a new cut,” she said, beckoning me outside.

“We should enjoy living, or what’s the point?” I asked, following.

“We can live forever.  To be too obvious is to cut it short.”

“Maybe so, but who wants to live forever if you don’t
enjoy
it?”

She smiled, handed me a sword, and said, “I do enjoy it—as long as I am with you.”

Then she showed me a new cut and nearly took my head off.  I admit, it is a good way to change the subject—and effective at teaching you to pay attention.

I got tired of it that afternoon; I had worked up a fresh set of blisters and was feeling not just tired but aching and weary.  Considering my new endurance and strength, I was highly pleased at my progress.  Most students of a physical skill can’t hammer away at it for ten hours at a stretch.  I was wondering, however, when Sasha and I would spar; there is a lot more to fighting than waving the blade.  Footwork, strategy, use of terrain… I realized that, intellectually, I knew all these things, but nothing beats practice, more practice, and some extra practice on top of that.

I took a break.  Let the assassins come.  I was beat and needed to relax.

I headed over to the stables; all four horses came over immediately.  Even Arabesque.  He and I had sorted out our relationship in the past months.  He was stud of the stables; I was stud of the whole area.  He got the mares, I got Sasha.  He didn’t lower his head for me, I didn’t lay spurs into him—and he did his best, regardless.  Pride and dignity on both sides.

Well, except when looking for a sugar cube.

I handed out four of them, one to each, then stroked noses and patted necks.  The horses loved the attention.  Sasha did not ride often, and the care and management of the stables was devoted to a paid groom.  In point of fact, most of the house and grounds were maintained by hired help; there was no live-in staff.  Once a week the maids descended on the house and the mowers hit the place like a cleansing wind.  I almost never saw any of them unless I looked for them.

I didn’t like it.  It was a potential security situation.  But the staff had been in service for some time—several years, in some cases—well before the troubles started.  So I contented myself with being watchful while they were around.  Along with wearing a vest, having a concealed weapon on me, and sitting in the security room, watching.

I still don’t like it.  But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t even keep up with mowing the lawn—it’s big.

Back to what I was saying… I patted all the horses and loved on them for a bit.  They were only too happy to crowd me.  I eventually pushed Flower Child and Silly Girl away, then sent Ladybird after them.  Arabesque I rubbed down and brushed thoroughly, checked his shoes, and combed his mane.  He held his head up high, ears perked forward, with the equivalent of a horsey grin on his face.  He flicked me in the face with his tail as I was working on one of his rear legs and he looked at me to see how I reacted.

I chuckled and swatted his flank.  He nodded and didn’t flick me again.

Eventually I led him farther into the stable and saddled him, bridled him—with some persuasion—and led him outside before mounting.  I was wearing boots, knowing I was riding, but I’d left the spurs inside.

I kicked him with my heels and he reared—he always does—and rapidly powered up to a gallop.

If there’s anything I like more than the feeling of a fleet horse under me and the wind in my hair on a nice day, I don’t know what it is.  Sex is good.  Thunderstorms are good.  The taste of blood and a draught of spirits are both delightful.  But… well, if I could fly, that might be better.  Hang gliding was a lot of fun, after all.  Working with a good horse is a lot better than hanging from a bunch of aluminum, polymers, and fabric.

For the next half-hour, there was only the sound of hoofbeats and the wind.

I made sure that Arabesque had some extra corn and a few more carrots than usual in the bin after I rubbed him down.  He seemed
very
pleased with himself; maybe we need to exercise him more.

“You’d come with me, wouldn’t you?” I asked, stroking his neck.  He needed his mane brushed again, so I started on that.   “You’d love to ride into a fight, wouldn’t you?”

He twitched an ear at me, listening, possibly in agreement.  I could almost feel him wanting to go do more, to be more, to rear up on a hilltop while backlit by the setting sun.

A horse with dreams of glory.  How odd.  Maybe I was reading too much into my new sensitivity.

I finished brushing him down and took some time with each of the other three, making sure they also got some attention.  I’m very attached to them all; I love horses, and these are the first I’ve ever owned.

Back at the house I wandered around, looking for Sasha.  I made a mental note to get some small communicators, maybe cell phones.  Searching through the house was tedious.  I found her in the library.  I had thought she would have been online again.  She was sitting in front of the stacked folios and volumes my predecessor had written.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

She nodded, silent.  I moved a chair to sit beside her.

“What is it?”

She shook her head and silently took my hand.

“No, there’s something,” I said.  “Please.  Tell me.”

She took a deep breath, held it.  “I… I am so sorry.”

I blinked.  “Sorry?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well… can you try to tell me what you’re feeling?  I’ll listen.”

She started to weep.  “I’m just… It’s so pointless, loving you!  But I can’t help it!”

I was seriously startled and not a little apprehensive—to put it mildly.

“Pointless?” I prompted.

“You’re… you have so much… I never understood, even before.  I was a poor woman, a prostitute, yet you came to me and healed me and made me
your
woman.  You gave me immortality, riches, and love—and I have
never
understood why!”  She half-leaned, half-toppled into me, clutching at my shirt.  “You can work magic and weave spells!  I can barely manage to focus enough power to light a candle, and that only with elaborate preparations.  You have talent, you have skills, you have knowledge and wisdom and
goodness
!  Under all the money and the practice and the lessons, I’m still that pitiful prostitute you rescued from the plague.  I don’t understand how you can
love
me!”

I lifted her hand and kissed it, stroked her hair.

“Do you understand love?”

“No!” she sobbed.

“Neither do I.  I’ll need help to even try.  Will you help me?”

She moved from weeping to crying.  We shifted a little and I started to rock her.

“Yes,” she whispered.  “But you can’t love me.”

“Oh?  Stop me.”

“I am not a good woman, dear Eric.”

“I’m not a good man.  I tend to eat people.”

“No, truly; I mean it.”

“Could be.  If it matters, I’ll let you know.”

She lifted her head with a nearly-convulsive shudder.

“I drove Terri away from you.”  She dropped her eyes, not willing to meet mine, and her hair fell forward around her face.

I paused and took stock.

Disbelief.  That was the start of it, followed by the realization it could be done—a bit of skillful devouring to take the thoughts and feelings of love… yes, it could be done.  There was relief at the explanation; it answered the
why
that had so confounded and confused me. 

There was also anger, hot and bright.  How dare—how
dare
—the bitch interfere!  Messing around in the head of the lady I love?  I wanted to take her neck in my hands and squeeze.  I wanted to
hit
her—hit a woman!  My hands were shaking.

Sasha did not move.  She just sat there, waiting, willing to take anything I dished out.  I could see it in her posture, in the lines of her body.  If I wanted to beat her half to death and then leave her bleeding on the floor, she’d have taken it and not uttered a word of protest—because she
deserved
it and she knew it.  Not only did she know it, but her guilt twisted inside her like a snake eating her heart until she had to confess.

Surely that counts for something.  Doesn’t it?

Then again, if she hadn’t done… what she did… then I wouldn’t be here now.  I wouldn’t be half-over Terri and bouncing nicely into Sasha’s bedroom.  I wouldn’t be a vampire, I wouldn’t be wealthy, and I wouldn’t be studying magic.

No, none of that could excuse what she’d done.  But…

I wouldn’t be in love with her.

As I realized that, I couldn’t stay angry.  I tried.  I thought Terri deserved that much.  But Sasha… Sasha needed me so much more than Terri.  Vulnerable women bring out the best in me.  I’m glad something does, even if the timing is sometimes inconvenient.

“So?” I asked, finally.

She looked up at me, tearful and shocked.

“What?”

“I said, ‘So?’  What of it?  Yes, I love her; maybe I always will.  Yes, that hurt a lot, at the time.  But I’m here now, with you.  Let the past be past; learn from it and move on.  We are where we are
now.
”

She stared at me with a mixture of expressions I couldn’t interpret.  Surprise, amazement, shock, disbelief…

“You… you mean that?”

I shrugged.  “Okay, my past is doubtless interesting; whoever I was is obviously a great man.  Since I don’t recall it, we have to deal with the
now
.  Maybe I can learn enough about my history to not repeat it.  You’ll have to help with that.  Likewise, I don’t care who or what you
were
.  You are Sasha; I love you.  I don’t make that statement lightly.

“So,” I continued, “when some guy from the depths of your past knocks at the door and wants to talk to his wife, I’m going to tell him she isn’t here—
mine
is.”

She squeezed me harder and wouldn’t let go—and I didn’t ask.