Something like a scream welled up in Benedikte’s chest, but it couldn’t push its way out. The vampire couldn’t even move, couldn’t even function, because almost everything he had loved was gone now, scattered to ashes.
Images played before his burning eyes, as if his memories were being filtered from a projector onto a screen. As if he were reliving one of the grainy black-and-white silent movies he studied and adored. Scenes of exuberant decadence, revealing how Benedikte had come to enjoy the world anew with Sorin, how he had taken resurrected pleasure from sharing a vampire’s wondrous abilities with another. Sequences, centuries’ worth, showing the fortunes they had charmed out of unsuspecting victims, blood kisses they had enchanted out of ladies in ball gowns and peasant clothing alike, crazed orgies of feeding and satiation.
Then…ah. Then came London.
More flickering pictures: tunnels and spaces they had discovered belowground, shafts that had been deserted by humans during construction for the Tube. The vampires had improved this rough matter into a palatial home, intent on obeying the recent command Benedikte had received from his own maker.
Create a community, the ultimate master had beseeched from afar. Create and breed so I might rule a future kingdom.
Even though Benedikte had never been raised or trained to do anything but follow commands, he had taken up responsibility and leadership. He had given birth to children, sisters and brothers to Sorin, who still had not loaned his bite to any living creature himself. Unable to forget how his human family had abandoned him, the younger vampire feared being left behind by anyone but his constant companion. For him, the pain of desertion wouldn’t go away.
Benedikte, or the Master as he’d been called in his Underground, trembled. At this point, his analysis of the attack had gone beyond shock and was becoming physical, taking him over. His vampire gaze rested on the opposite wall, where a crucifix loomed, as if to chase away the evil from this house, which was said to be haunted.
At least, that’s what popular gossip maintained. And Benedikte had often used these sorts of rumors, newspapers, and patterns of human speech and interaction to educate himself about fashions and trends whenever he came Above. But his newly kindled interest hadn’t only become a personal pleasure—it had been vital to his home’s survival.
As if challenging the crucifix to punish him, Benedikte stared at it.
Nothing. Nothing at all anymore.
No guilt at what he’d become. No cries for redemption from deep within his soul. It used to be that spiritual mementos affected him profoundly, but that had been long ago, before he realized faith was only an invisible cloak that warded off the fears of reality. Or maybe he had just seen too much in his debauched life to care anymore.
But, oddly, he did care. Too much. Terribly.
Out of desperation, he folded his hands in front of his chest, raising his head to the crucifix.
Help me. Help me to get my paradise back?
But the object merely rested in silver silence, clouding in his vision.
In a fit of profane dejection, Benedikte pushed out with his mind, swiping the item from the wall. It clattered against the floor, the persecuted figure on the cross staring at the ceiling with resigned serenity.
Benedikte contained himself, holding back an unexpected yell that could have shaken the ground. Where to turn now? Where to go after losing…?
Clumsily, he reached inside his coat pocket, searching for the one item he always kept near—the only vial he’d managed to save while all the rest had perished in the attack.
He grasped the slim tube, fumbling to get it open, to hold it to his lips and drink.
Immediately, the rush of Sorin’s captive soul lit through Benedikte, coloring every vein, animating him. He felt the glorious wonder of appreciating a sunset on the wealthy estate where Sorin had grown up, felt the admiration from a small audience who had been wildly entertained by the talent of snatching fire from air….
Benedikte crashed to the floor, rolling to his back in shuddering ecstasy. Eyes open, he witnessed the play of rainbows as joy literally emanated from his body, flashing over the walls, reflecting off the windowpanes.
Then, when the soul allowed him to feel the sublime grief of the day Sorin had been tossed out of his home, Benedikte moaned, cried, became human again for one heavenly moment—
Furiously, the soul ripped out of him, crazed and wailing, as frightened as always. It flew back into the vial, which the vampire had enchanted with a spell that told the soul this was home, this was safety.
It clamored inside and, even while racked with agony, the Master plugged the vile, knowing he would be truly empty if he lost this one last possession, as well.
Feeling as if each corner of the room was pulling and quartering him into pieces, Benedikte shivered on the floor, clinging to the aftermath, destroyed by it.