Utiseta

Chapter 6: Pact

The old, Victorian villa lay past the edge of the city. With its dark brick, multiple dormers and central tower with its own black steel balconette, the house stood like a silent, dominating sentinel, watching diligently over the bountiful landscape at its feet. The house was surrounded on three sides by thick woods; a long and narrow mile-long road stretched out before it, leading up to the tall, wrought iron fence that surrounded the property.

As one of the electronic gates swung open and Darragh drove his black Jaguar XK-E through, he finally let the increasing waves of fatigue he'd been experiencing wash over and through him. Feeding from that woman had only taken the edge off his hunger. If he'd drained her completely dry, that would have been another story. As it was, the pretty redhead was safe and sound in her own bed, completely unaware of the detour her little stroll in the park had taken.

After feeding and wiping the woman's memories, Darragh simply couldn't have been bothered finding another unwitting blood donor. So, he'd opted for coming home to stew in his own mental juices, as it were.

He parked the car and made his way toward the open front door, where his butler was waiting just across the threshold. Jeremy was a new hire. His previous butler, Ian, had been with Darragh for nearly fifteen years, had followed him to three different houses and three different countries during that time. Of the modest staff Darragh usually had under his employ, Ian had been the only one who knew what Darragh really was. He knew that discretion was of the utmost importance. And, more importantly still, Ian had known what his fate would be should he break his silence. Whether Jeremy was worthy of this same trust, however, remained to be seen.

"How was your evening, sir?" asked the stout, middle-aged man with thick eyebrows and salt-and-pepper hair.

"Fine," Darragh replied brusquely, not once pausing in his mad dash for the library. That was, after all, where he kept the liquor.

Jeremy knew him well enough not to follow.

The library was small, but its wall-to-wall shelves were filled to the brim with books from across the centuries. Half of the wall to his left was taken up by a large fireplace; two wingback leather chairs were placed directly in front. A wooden desk and chair were situated on the opposite side of the room. A portion of the shelf directly behind the desk was dedicated to his current drinks of choice.

Crossing the room in only a handful of strides, Darragh poured himself a healthy amount of whisky before quickly downing it. Luckily for some - and rather unluckily for others - vampires were unable to get drunk. However, if one were to drink enough alcohol, as Darragh had quickly come to learn, it was possible to achieve a desirable mental numbness.

His second drink poured, Darragh took a seat at the Victorian walnut desk and closed his eyes. His mind immediately began sifting through memories better left forgotten - to certain events (and certain people) he really didn't want to think about. That way lay madness, as the old saying went.

Instead, his mind taunted him with his own inadequacy. He was starting to enjoy these depraved acts he'd been forced to commit, if only on some small, albeit perverse, scale. It wasn't the killing itself that he enjoyed and certainly not the "thefts." No, those were necessary evils. Merely a collective means to an end. For those, he did not feel guilty either.

The chase, however - the thrill of taunting his victims before the inevitable end - was becoming much more fun than it ever should have. What had once merely been part of his ticket to freedom had in recent years also become the closest thing he had to a hobby. Which was really kind of sad, if you though about it.

He really didn't want to think about it.

Again, his mind wandered almost of its own accord to something - someone - he did feel guilty about. As if on cue, his eyes opened, his gaze immediately drawn to the small knife lying by the edge of the table. Picking it up, he began carving into the flesh of his forearm the letters of one name in particular that he would never be able to forget. This had been his routine for so many years, he barely felt the sting of the blade as it scrawled that one damning word across his skin. The word reminding him of the only event in his long, heinous life that he deeply regretted.

Thanks to his supernatural healing, the wound left by each letter had completely healed almost by the time he'd moved on to the next. As such, by the time he'd completed the final letter, he was left only with only a bloody outline of the letters he'd been carving.

Lily.

His eyes shied away from the name. Unwilling to follow the trail of his thoughts down that particular rabbit hole from hell, Darragh thought instead of a time before that. His mind tumbled backward in time, to July of 1700 - to his final hours as a human being.

As he walked through the darkened streets of London's east end, Darragh was reminded that the last time he'd been in a neighbourhood like this, he'd been one of the destitute children he now saw begging by the roadside. By contrast, his current wealth was all too apparent in the clothes he wore beneath the tattered cloak used to hide his identity.

He didn't want to be seen here; he might as well at least try to uphold the minimum level of presumed decency that his relatively newfound status preached as gospel. It would not look good at all were he to be seen heading toward his current destination.

He was in one of London's maritime districts, on what was called the Ratcliffe Highway, an extended street known first and foremost for its prostitution. But he wasn't here to partake in any pleasures of the flesh; he was here to strike a bargain and, in doing so, to get out of another.

Within the last few years, Darragh had become one of the richest men in London. And it had all happened within a fortnight. The path to riches, however, had been paved in blood.

Darragh had grown up on the streets, a victim of poverty and unfortunate circumstance. While his youth had been anything but easy, it had taught him one very valuable skill: how to 'acquire' just about any object he desired. On one fateful night, he'd broken into a house with the intent to acquire a particularly valuable object. Unfortunately, he'd realized too late that this particular abode was owned not by a man, but by a particularly wrathful creature.

Sensing Darragh's desperation, this creature had offered to make a deal with him. Riches for only the price of his soul. He'd made the bargain, only to realize that the creature had no intention of holding up his side. Darragh had run, hidden, and found his own fortune.

If everything went according to plan, by this time tomorrow he'd be free of his end of the bargain and would not have to spend eternity writhing in endless agony. Which, of course, would be nice.

As he looked out from beneath his cloak's hood, his eyes found those of a young, malnourished teenaged boy, as if of their own accord. He was reminded of his own pathetic state the night he'd made the deal. Since then, Darragh had filled out to become the broad-shouldered, well-muscled man he was currently. Despite the malnourishment he'd had to contend with for most of his life, he was a very tall man, practically towering over nearly every other soul he came across.

The only major limitation which remained was his omnipresent limp. His left knee refused to support his weight and would buckle with nearly every step. This effect had been bad enough when Darragh had weighed practically nothing; during the first few years after gaining his wealth, the leg had seemed at times practically useless. While he knew it would never function normally, Darragh had spent a great deal of time strengthening the muscles around the joint. As such, with the help of a cane, he could get around pretty well, albeit with a noticeable limp. Little did he know that, soon, his limp - among other things - would be cured forever.

Pulling away from his thoughts, he stopped mid-stride as he continued to watch the boy. Reaching into his pocket, Darragh pulled out a guinea and held it out to the boy as discretely as he could.

For a moment, the boy's eyes widened in surprise and obvious excitement. Then, just as quickly, his expression fell only to be replaced with skepticism, anger and, ultimately, despair.

"What do you wan' in return?"

Kneeling as much as his leg would allow, Darragh set the guinea onto the ground in front of the boy, who scuttled backward in obvious fright. "Take it before someone else does."

He walked away without so much as a backward glance. As he made his way through the streets toward his destination, he felt almost suffocated by the sheer volume of people - many poor or sailors who'd just docked at port - whom he passed on his way. Making doubly sure that no one had recognized him, Darragh turned into one of the many alleys along the continuous street and headed toward a little cottage at the end.

In a society where witchcraft was banned and supposed witches could be turned in for profit, secrecy in his current endeavour was of the utmost importance. Even someone of Anabel's condition might not survive a witch hunt, after all.

Once inside the cottage, he was escorted into a room at the very back. Anabel stood on the far side of the room, looking out the only window onto the filthy street below.

"Do you have it?"

She turned toward him as she spoke, the gentle light from the window flowing in to bathe half of her beautiful face. Her long blonde hair was left loose to hang past her shoulders and down her back, the gentle colour offsetting the rich green of her dress.

He spread the lapel of his jacket just far enough for her to glimpse the sword tucked under his cloak. She smiled in response, her full lips pulling back from sharp, elongated incisors.

"Have we a deal, then?" he asked quietly, not once flinching at the proof of her inhumanness.

She stalked toward him. With her long gown and her unnaturally graceful movements, she seemed to float more than walk. "I require one thing more. A sample, to ensure that you are suitable."

He tilted his head up and to one side, exposing the column of his throat. "As you wish."

She came to rest the palm of one hand against his chest, the other at the base of his skull. Gently urging his head down to her level, she leaned closer until he could feel her soft lips brush against his neck. She moved closer still until Darragh could feel her fangs first press against and then pierce his skin.

He could feel the gentle pulling that accompanied her feeding. Then, all too quickly, it was over and she was pulling away from him. "There is malice in your heart," she whispered, her voice half grave, half intrigued. When her eyes flashed up to his, a shiver raced down his spine.

"You will do terrible things."

When she bit him again, the mingled pain and pleasure were unlike anything he'd felt before or since. This was his way out of the deal. Vampires did not have souls. He could not give to the creature that which he did not possess.

At last, he would be free.