Finally, the sorcerer succumbed to Benedikte’s mind grasp. His heartbeat calmed, yet only slightly. He stood rigidly, gesturing for Benedikte to sit on a stone that rested on the opposite side of the fire. The cat watched the vampire, green eyes wide. Its tail whipped around, as if readying itself to strike if necessary.
“I am Benedikte of Wallachia.” Bowing, he awaited the male’s name, his body livened by the delightful rhythm of the human’s heartbeat.
“Sorin, the son of Ion. I regret there is no food for me to share in companionship.”
Smiling, Benedikte rested on the stone, then arranged his coat comfortably. He knew his skin was flush with his last meal, creating a mortal complexion. As well, he was expert at controlling his natural urges regarding a human. He could subsist on a meal for weeks, though, as of late, he longed for a treat other than blood, something he could not name….
As Benedikte’s need quickened, the cat reacted, standing on its two rear feet, claws swiping the air.
Sorin kept hold of the creature. “She is addled this night.”
Benedikte had witnessed the cat during one show. It had been docile enough, yet he recalled the animal balancing on two legs even then. The sight of a dancing feline had struck him as enchantingly human.
“This is a most astounding creature,” he said.
“Yes.” Sorin arose, tucking the cat into a lidded basket, latching it, then moving to yet another.
When he opened it, he searched among the contents, extracting a piece of cloth, a long pipelike musical instrument, then—
The flash of a crucifix blinded Benedikte. He reared back, hand uplifted to block the sight.
Forgive me, Father, please, forgive me for what I’ve become, he thought, unable to take his eyes away, struck with a horrific despair so profound that he could not move. I am nothing, nothing at all….
Sorin tucked the silver object back into the basket, saving Benedikte from further anguish. He breathed easier, though the air pierced his lungs in the aftermath.
Upon returning to the fire, the human offered what he had retrieved from the basket. A bottle of wine.
Calmed, Benedikte refused.
The youngster nodded and drank deeply. Though he kept his gaze fixed on Benedikte, Sorin seemed more relaxed now that witchery or burning at the stake had not been mentioned. Superstitious mortals who had seen his sorcery would not take the time to sit before Sorin and converse with him as Benedikte was doing.
“I believe,” the vampire said, attempting to keep his gaze from Sorin’s throat as it worked to swallow the wine, “I read a pamphlet detailing the exploits of a sorcerer with an amazing cat who was run out of several villages in this area. I must say that it amused me.”
“Mmmm.” Relieved even further by another of Benedikte’s smiles, this one testifying to a certain camaraderie and understanding, Sorin saluted with his bottle. “My fame spreads, does it not?”
“May I assume the rancor has not convinced you to refrain from entertaining more villages?”
“You may. I am afraid that it is the only way for me to eat my daily bread for now. Yet…” He lifted his hands and the wine sloshed against the bottle’s sides, singing high and sharp in Benedikte’s ears. “I do suppose it is time for me to cross borders again and take up in another place.”
“May I ask…how is it that you came to be a…sorcerer?” Benedikte leaned forward.
While Sorin licked a drop of wine from his full lower lip, the vampire’s mouth flooded with juices. He silently asked the young man to expose all.
As always, he succeeded.
“On the estate,” Sorin said, blinking slowly, “that is, my childhood home, we employed an old man who kept silent about knowing certain…tricks. Simple yet bewildering. I found him amusing his grandson one day and I wished to know his secrets. Much to my shame, I threatened to reveal him if he refused me, not that I would have actually….” Sorin shook his head, a strand of hair falling over his young cheek. “All the same, he taught me the illusion of conjuring fire, then encouraged me in other, shall we say, pursuits.”
Benedikte tilted his head in query.
Sorin took yet another draw from the bottle. As Benedikte calmed his instincts, he detected details: the temptation of a vein throbbing in the sorcerer’s neck, the broadness of his shoulders, the obvious outline of a pistol under his coat.
Possibly his only defense, Benedikte thought. And it would not be enough, though it seemed to give the boy confidence.
“Other pursuits?” Benedikte prodded.
Leaning his forearms on his thighs, Sorin canted forward, encouraged by wine and the mind grasp. “Do you believe in the possibility of miracles?”
The vampire smiled yet again, knowing he would not show fangs at this stage. Not until he was fully primed to feed. “I do.”
Sorin hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to demonstrate to this stranger how dangerous he could be. Then he, too, smiled.
“The cat,” he said. “She has been improved.”
Without meaning to, Benedikte laughed in surprise. In pure rapture at the memory of the standing, dancing cat.