The vamps moved in, closing slowly around the white coffin in a tight circle, obscuring my view, even from the height of the dead tree. The coffin hinges toned faintly, slowly. I heard a blade pulled from a sheath, saw a glint of steel in Sabina’s hand, and smelled vamp blood, pungent and tart upon the downstroke. She said, “As eldest and priestess, I offer first blood to our fallen sister,” and held her arm over the casket, blood flowing fast, dripping inside with a soft patter. The smell of vamp blood intensified. After a long moment, she held a cloth to her arm. A woman beside her tied a strip around the bandage to hold it in place. Taking up the blade again, she wiped it on a second cloth and looked at the gathering, waiting.
Leo rolled his sleeve to his elbow, his forearm out. “As blood-master to our fallen sister, I offer second blood.” He accepted the slice of Sabina’s blade. He stood over the coffin, letting his blood flow like an offering, but there was a challenge in his stance, and his eyes were on Rafael. Long minutes passed as he clenched and unclenched his fist, encouraging the blood flow. A human would have passed out cold. Only when the blood stopped flowing on its own did he accept a clean cloth from the priestess and step away.
“To show mercy, Clan Mearkanis offers blood to the fallen.” Rafael took the blade from Sabina and sliced his own flesh. From the vamps’ reactions, I gathered that the gesture was rude, but Sabina said nothing, letting him have his way. He returned the bloody blade and held his arm over the open coffin, his blood flowing. His blood ran nearly as long as Leo’s had, and when his wound finally clotted over, he was reeling.
It looked to me like a vamp version of a pissing contest. Men will be boys.
A female offered Rafael a shoulder to support him. Beside him, a woman stepped up. She was elegant, but thin, almost emaciated. “As acting head of Clan Arceneau, I offer blood.” She accepted the downstroke, drawing in a breath at the pain. She let her blood fall, only half the time Leo had bled, yet she was wavering on her feet. To my bird eyes, Dominique looked odd. Not quite certain how, but just . . . not quite normal, even for a vamp. She moved with less grace, perhaps. I watched as she was led to a bench on the grounds. And then I got it. She had already been bled tonight, probably by a vamp, one to whom she owed blood debt.
Blood-master of Clan St. Martin bled next, offering only a token splatter. His eyes swept the assembled as if daring them to comment on his paltry gift. Bad blood between St. Martin and Pellissier. Birds can’t grin, but I felt the urge. After that, the heads of the other clans offered blood, some playing the vamp version of “keep up with the Joneses” by nearly draining themselves, others offering a more modest amount. I worked to recall the clan names and the order of importance, though such memory wasn’t easy for my current brain.
Pellissier, Mearkanis, Arceneau, Rousseau, Desmarais, Laurent, St. Martin, Bouvier, some enemies, some not. The “saint” part of St. Martin was still a surprise, but then, what I knew about nonrogue vamps had just been trebled again. Maybe quadrupled.
After the clan heads declared themselves and bled, the lesser members approached the coffin, still according to clan as best I could tell, but the drama was over and the rest of the bloodletting was without theatrics. I figured Katie was likely swimming in blood. Ick. I looked at the moon and judged that the bloodletting took over two hours before Sabina called a halt by saying words I didn’t understand, in French, or Latin, or Mandarin for all I knew.
The vampires closed around the open casket, standing shoulder to shoulder. And they started to hum, a fluctuating harmony that sounded like a funeral dirge without words. After several bars, the priestess sang out and the congregation fell silent. “l?l? lama ?vaqtan?.”
Startled, I tilted forward, neck out, and nearly tottered from the limb. I fluttered my wings and danced back, my talons scraping on the loose bark. “El? el? lama ?vaqtan?,” she intoned again. The entire crowd sang back in minor-key harmony, “El? el? lama ?vaqtan?. El? el? lama ?vaqtan?.” I stared, feeling cold in my bones, placing the words in my memory. The phrase was among the last words I would have expected to hear from a bunch of vampires. And they didn’t go up in flames. Needing warmth, I fluffed and fluttered my feathers, twittering in fear.
I had heard the words at every Easter passion play from the time I was twelve to the time I left the children’s home. I was pretty sure the phrase was among the last words uttered by Jesus on the cross, Aramaic for “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
The vampires fell silent.
I stayed in my tree as the vamps interred Katie, shoving her coffin into an empty slot in a Clan Pellissier mausoleum. The harsh sound of metal on stone was grinding, and the thunk of the coffin settling in its niche echoed across the grounds. As the door to the crypt was closed, its iron grating sealed and locked, they seemed to take a collective breath, as if to free themselves from the vestiges of a trance. The formalities were clearly over.