The second thing that happened was that her eyes, glowing with the delight of awareness, were seen. And she saw that they were seen. Only a human girl who had spent so much of her life exploring the darkness could have spotted those eyes. Though she didn't know what they really were, she sensed what they intended. Capture.
No. Oh, no. I have not come to this moment to be tethered like a slave to some brutish man. That is not the life I'm going to have.
So she turned and ran.
For some years afterward, her thoughts often wandered to that run. What she must have looked like, to eyes that could see so much better in the dark than her own. The strong back, the slim waist. Miserly bits of moonlight occasionally flicking over a flash of leg under the ragged cloak. The tangle of golden curls flying straight out behind her as she tore through the woods, as fast as a wild young mare. She was the ultimate temptation, a feral creature whom it would be a pleasure to domesticate. And the attractive look of her was nothing compared with that intoxicating scent. The herbs she grew, the determination and the laughter deep within her, all wafting out like a heady vapor. And, of course, the rage, the searing rage that tickled around her pores and spelled pure allurement for the sort of temperament that had been drawn to her even before she'd swung that log. The scent lingered ⦠was the flaxen rope through the labyrinth.
There was a shallow cave near the river, by the place she liked to
fish, and it was here she took shelter. Finding it in the dark was nothing, and she slipped inside and headed straight for the mossy corner that formed a pleasant nest. There was a puddle just beside it, and she bent over to splash her face. The drops were still in the air when her distorted reflection startled her. Not because of it, for she had seen her face in water many times, but because it was light enough that she could see. There was a torch. She had been followed.
Her instinct was swift and impressively sure, but his hand clamped around her wrist just as the sword grazed his stomach. The man grinned. He wasn't dressed like the other Vikings, and there was something in his face that made her think he was even more foreign than they were. It was unsettling. She didn't find him attractive, but she couldn't tear her eyes from him. What she could do was glare, and so she did. Whatever he planned to do, there was no chance she was going to let him enjoy it.
“What a funny, volcanic girl you are. Yes, this is the sort of heat one could enjoy for years.”
She didn't know what he meant, but the tone was making her want to vomit.
“I'm Aelric. Tell me your name.”
“You're going to take what you're going to take, but I will give you nothing.”
He seemed to find that funny. Which in turn made her more determined to kill him. He must have sensed it, because he wriggled the sword from her fist and slammed it into the cave's rocky wall.
Hilda had never known fear in her life, but now something prickled under her scalp. That wasn't human strength. There was something else happening here. The night was cold, but sweat pooled under her arms.
He smiled, and it was an unexpectedly sweet smile. Hopeful. He whispered and caressed her in a manner that would melt any artless, impressionable virgin, but though Hilda was certainly a virgin, her nascent fear morphed to amused condescension, combined with scornful resignation. As she had ever expected, this was what it came to. Such stupidity. Such a waste. Wasn't there more than thisâsomewhere, anywhere? And couldn't he hurry up? All this hot breath at her neck, hands
kneading her spine. A new impatient fury welled up inside her. He seemed to be growling, like an animal. She felt as if her organs were expanding and she was going to spew molten rage and she hoped he'd drown in it. She hadn't even felt the bite, and she'd ground her teeth into her inner cheeks so hard, it was her own blood she tasted, more than his, when he'd slashed his shoulder and pressed it into her mouth.
There was but one coherent thought running through her head, pulsing so hard as to overwhelm any other sense:
You won't own me, you won't own me. You'll do whatever you will, but you won't own me. You won't. You won't.
And one final “you won't” was the last human thought she ever had as she dropped into her death sleep.
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As with any sort of phenomena, there is a ritual involved in the making of a vampire. A powerful, long-lived vampire is always made under certain laws. Were Aelric even the sort of vampire who listened with any level of attentiveness, he would still not be given to following a prescription, particularly one laid out by Otonia. He stayed with the tribunal only because he innately knew he didn't have the ability to lead a small family of his own, and no reasonable family would adopt such a brash, vain, foolish vampire into their midst. It was only the protection of the tribunal that had allowed him to live some fifty years, and even that was astounding to Otonia.
But nothing was so astounding as the fortune that made the vampire who had been Hilda. There could not have been another lucky star in the universe the whole of those twenty-four hoursâit must have all been on her. There were so many chances for her to have gone wrong. Aelric hadn't realized that the heat in her when he'd bit was fury and scorn. And he was almost too late with his blood offeringâhis blood was still wet on her lips when her eyes closed.
He'd done a poor job of burying her, not paying attention to the rocks in the soil. Digging one's way out of the grave was supposed to be hardâfully half a vampire's virility was gained in that digâbut if it took too long, a vampire could become faint, could even starve to death. But she was strong, and the anger she'd died with was still bubbling inside
her, and she impatiently hacked her way through. A vampire should be born with passion, with desire, not anger, but it was the anger and the stubborn soil that combined to give her the strength of a centennial on her rising. The hunger for blood and life was not the delicate interest it should be, but a raging storm, so that when Aelric stupidly held out a hand to help her out of the dirt, she pushed past him, knocking him down.
He tagged after her as she strode with perfect instinct to where she knew food was waiting.
“How about I capture a nice morsel for your first meal?”
It wasn't that he didn't know you're supposed to let your hatchling find their first meal, there was just that in her that made him revoltingly eager to be solicitous. The age-old dance of foolish men and womenâthe less interested a woman is, the more a man tries to please her. Even a vampire wasn't immune. But she'd carried over her human disdain for help, especially of the male variety. The only answer he received was a snarl, one that couldn't have been more intimidating if her fangs were extended. He finally paused and waited, anxious and intrigued, watching as she descended the hill toward her former home.
Bodies lay scattered about, and the Vikings were still there, drunk and carousing, as though a whole night and day had not passed. One young Viking sat by the fire, peeling burned flesh off a roasted pigâof which there was plenty, now that the community was mostly dead.
Swine for the swine.
The thought made her chuckle, and the chuckle made him look up. He smiled. The leader had said some of the hiding girls would return once they became hungry, and here one was. A slim blonde who might be beautiful under all that dirt and grime. A body of infinite possibilities. Glittering eyes. A bath and an hour or so with a comb, and she'd be quite the tasty tidbit.
“Well, pretty girl, you must be starving.”
A shifty smile played across her mouth. He was taken aback.
“You don't actually understand me, do you?”
She did, although not quite as he meant. Still, it was all she needed.
He held out the meat to her.
“Have some. It's fresh. Go on, take a taste.”
And she did.
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The dig. The meal. The name. These were the formula. Not all vampires chose new names on rising, but even that was a choice, to keep your human name. Your maker might give advice, but only if you asked. This was not like parenting. You were partner to your maker, and that was a different thing altogether. The name you chose marked you, helped you as you grew into yourself. Hatchlings who wanted their makers to name them rarely lasted long.
Some knew this by instinct, but most because their makers explained on the way back to the lair. She knew by instinct, which Aelric ought to have sensed. He suggested she be called Fleta, because of her speed.
She stopped, and looked him in the eye. Now that they were equals, and that she had fed, she could truly assess him. He was weak. Headstrong, sweet, and foolish. His occasional good instinctsâand she had certainly been a good instinctâwere as nothing to his poor ones, and they were dominant. He had made her in loneliness, for there was nothing in him that invited the trust and friendship, much less love, of the others. He was a member of the tribunal because he was a vampire, because no vampire would ever be forced to range alone, but that was as far as their protection went. She pitied him, but she could see how he would be a hindrance. Her knowledge and self-awareness were expanding by the minute, as though now that she was stripped of the need to take in oxygen, she was instead inhaling the wisdom of the world. It introduced her to a new feelingâgiddiness. She felt big, and all-encompassing. She felt like a shout.
“My name is Brigantia.”
“What?”
She answered automatically, because it wasn't his voice she heard.
“Brigantia. Our local goddess. You will call me by no other name.”
And he would never have dared to try.
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To be made was an intimate act, and it was expected that yours would be an intimate partnership. It was meant to be a symbiotic relationship. Perhaps,
in time, one would move on from the other, but this was rare. The dark kiss was meant to open the door to deeper, hotter kisses. Just because the blood no longer coursed through veins did not mean it couldn't boil. As surely as maker and made shared blood, they were meant to share bodies.
Brigantia knew her duty, felt her obligation, and wondered, too, if it might make a difference. She suspected not, but thought it would be unfair not to give it a chance. Being a virgin didn't have the same mystical weight for a vampire as it did for a human girl, so there was nothing to make her feel any particular regret for the lack of fervor in her as she rose from her warm bath and threaded her way through the caves to Aelric's nest. No one asks for the dark gift, but once bestowed, it is usually welcomed and received with gratitude. She knew she'd entered something special, and was grateful to Aelric for having chosen her. She just couldn't help wishing someone else had done the choosing.
One lonely candle burned on a table in the corner of the poky cave. Aelric, wearing only a short tunic, took her hand when she entered and pulled her into the candle's light. It took a few tries, but he managed to unfasten her cloak at last and ogled her, his mouth hanging open.
She looked into his eyes and tried to see herself through them. Her only interest in her body had ever been what it could doâits appearance seemed a pointless thing to notice. Now she traced the long sinewy muscles of her legs, the satiny skin, the droplets of water still clinging to the few delicate golden hairs that covered her body and made it seem as though she glittered in the pale light. A flat stomach. Full, high breasts. A long neck. Sturdy arms, powerful shoulders, nimble fingers. His hand reached around and cupped her bottom appreciatively. For his sake, she was pleased her body was enjoyable, but as he inexpertly explored it with first hands and then mouth, a chilling sting ran its way through her like a wasp.
The pain that seared her on his penetration was not a human virgin's pain, not the mixture of hurt and happiness that marked such an occasion when it was its best. What Brigantia felt went far beyond the physical, tugging her skin from behind. She knew what this ought to be, knew it was a sacred, special thing, that her heart should open as readily as her legs, and with the same warmth. But her legs opened only because
Aelric wanted them to, and her body forced warmth against her own inclination, as protection from further pain. Brigantia thought she would have welcomed more physical hurt so as to anesthetize her from the torturous places her mind was journeying. Once again, Aelric stirred fear in her, and this was greater, because she knew her fate was sealed. Every predawn would mean this, mean a giving over of her body that should be a delight and instead only remind her how alone she still was. Alone, and maybe deservedly so.
He nipped at her several times, gently, with his human teeth, a kind of atonement for the other bite, bites that were meant to inflame her passions rather than suck out her humanity, but she noticed none of it. She needed this to be over, before he saw her tears.
After fifteen minutes that felt interminable, he climaxed, groaning across her in ecstatic defeat. The weight of his body, both warm and cool, was not such an unpleasant thing, and she stroked his damp hair with unforced gentleness. Even still, she suspected he knew, or at least sensed, that this was not a coupling of hearts. He was a fool, but he could not be so wholly insensible.