David Wilson - Vampire Book 1 - Bitter Ashes(1).pdf - David Wilson - margozap

D AVID N I A L L W ILSON

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To Sift Through Bitter Ashes is a product of White Wolf

Publishing.

All contents herein are copyrighted by White Wolf

Publishing. This book may not be reproduced, in whole

or in part, without the written permission of the

publisher, except for the express purpose of reviews.

For information address: White Wolf Publishing, 780

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Disclaimer: The characters and events described in

this book are fictional. Any resemblance between the

characters and any persons, living or dead, is purely

coincidental.

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Because of the mature themes presented within,

reader discretion is advised.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’d like to thank those who’ve supported me through

the stories, books, and years. First and foremost, my wife

JoAnne and my two sons, Zach and Zane. Without

them, none of it would matter. I’d like to thank John

Rosenman, Richard Rowand, Jacqueline, and the others

for their wisdom and criticism. I’d like to thank Mark

Rainey, Rich Chizmar, and Karl Wagner (whom I miss)

for their editorial wisdom and continued support of my

work. I’d like to thank Kathe Koja, Poppy Z. Brite, Peter

Straub, and Stephen King for inspiration. (Not

necessarily in that order.)

Thanks to the crew, Beth, Wayne, Brian and Dollie,

Jeff, Von, Barb and Charlie. Thanks to my mother-inlaw,

Mary, who supports my history-book habit, and my

sister-in-law for her bad taste in sports teams. Thanks

to Kevin Fowler—his bookstore supported me and his

person proof-read and collaborated with me. Thanks to

Andrew Burt and the on-line Critters SF workshop for

the crunch-time critique sessions. Also thanks to

Stewart Wieck for believing in me, and Rob Hatch, Rich

Dansky, Justin Achilli, and Anna Branscome for putting

up with my panic attacks and helping me see this

through.

This book is dedicated to my brother, whom I

have wasted a lot of years not being close to.

And, of course—to the blood. The power is in

the blood.

T O S IFT T HROUGH B ITTER A SHES

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ONE

The villagers scattered as the huge black stallion

thundered into the square. The tall, broadshouldered

rider reined in outside the taverna

contemptuously, sliding from the saddle like liquid

darkness. He was standing beside the master of the

stable before the horse had fully calmed.

The old man took in his late visitor in quick,

nervous glances. This was no rough mercenary, or

country lord. He wore the finery of a noble, and his

sharp, aquiline features and the glittering arrogance

in his eyes were those of a warrior. A formidable

pairing, and not one to be taken lightly. He tossed

the long black tresses of his hair over his shoulder

and stepped closer.

T O S IFT T HROUGH B ITTER A SHES

“Yes, Lord?” The stable master said in hushed

tones, as though afraid anything he might say, or

any stray movement he might make would bring

this dark man’s wrath. He’d seen such as this one

before, more times than he could count, and their

temperaments were as unpredictable as the winds.

He’d seen friends and relatives who hadn’t the wits

to learn this lesson and live.

“I am Montrovant,” the dark one said softly. His

words carried forcefully despite the softness with

which they were spoken. “You will care for my

mount,” he ordered. “You will watch him

throughout the day, and I will call for him

tomorrow evening. I am not certain of the hour of

my return. Have him ready and keep him ready.

Your head rests on his condition, your future

depends on my pleasure.”

The old man bowed his head, accepting the reins

without question, and led the magnificent animal

off toward the stalls in back. He had not grown old

by being a fool, and there were some men it was

better to obey and be done with. He’d never seen

this noble before, and he hoped never to see him

again, beyond his return to retrieve his mount. The

less known, the less risked. They were dangerous

times, and danger not faced was the best sort

encountered, or so his Pa had told him.

There was a shuffle of feet beyond the door, and

the sound of hushed voices. The old man had

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known they’d come. He’d also known they would

cower in the shadows, uncertain of how to

approach, but too curious to stay away. He wished

that they had grown to more wisdom. One of them

was his own grandchild, and he’d hoped to see that

young one grow to adulthood.

Montrovant ignored the sound; at least he gave

no indication that he’d heard it. He strode toward

the door without once looking back. It was as

though he believed that his words, once spoken,

could never be denied. He didn’t turn toward the

taverna . Instead, he turned toward the cliffs

overlooking the village, where the bright, waxing

moon outlined the monastery against a backdrop of

cloudy darkness. The squat, severe lines of the

stone edifice sat like a short silk cap on the

mountain’s peak. The monastery brought its own

fears. Stories had circulated about the place for

years, dark stories, but there was no proof, and the

Church cared well for the people of the village.

None pressed the issue.

The whispered voices grew bolder. The stranger

seemed to pose no immediate threat, but

somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach the old

man knew it was a mask. He wanted to call out to

the young ones, to send them away, but he found

that his voice would not function. Not this time.

He saw a young boy creeping up along the side

of the wall, moving closer to the dark one. The lad

T O S IFT T HROUGH B ITTER A SHES

was holding his breath, measuring each step

carefully. He was nearly to the door of the stable at

the stranger’s back, and the stablemaster prayed for

one long second that he would make it. He could

see the boy’s eyes, wide as saucers. In the dead

silence of the night he believed he could hear the

youngster’s heart slamming waning courage

through his veins.

Suddenly the man was not watching the

mountains. He had spun, and the boy was held aloft

before him, screaming in terror. The dark one had

a hand gripping the lad beneath each shoulder. He

held him above his head as easily as a mother might

hold her infant. He drew the boy close, so close

that their faces nearly met. His captive was

struggling. The scent of his sweat fell away to the

acrid aroma of fresh urine, and the silence that had

echoed in answer to his scream gave way only to a

ragged, rasping sob.

The dark one stared at him for a moment longer,

then threw back his head. The laughter that poured

forth rang from the rafters of the stable, and to his

shame the old man took another step back into the

shadows.

Montrovant lowered the boy as swiftly as he’d

lifted him.

“You should not make a practice of slinking

through shadows, boy,” he growled. His voice was

still tainted by the unholy laughter that would not

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quit banging about in the old man’s mind. From

one side a woman appeared suddenly, kneeling to

take the boy in her arms, her wide eyes upturned

to Montrovant’s in awe.

“Take him and clean him, lady,” the dark one said

softly. “He showed more courage than most. He will

be quite a man one day.”

Without a word the woman bundled the boy into

her arms and fled into the shadows. Turning,

Montrovant leveled his gaze at the old stablemaster

contemptuously.

“I hope you will care for my mount better than

you do the children.”

Without warning, the man was gone. One

moment he’d filled the doorway, the next, as the

old man turned for a discreet glance over his

shoulder, that doorway was empty, but for the

darkness and the lingering taste of danger, soured

by the taint of death. Turning away from that

emptiness, this time with a shiver transiting the

arthritic, bent lines of his back, the stable master

led the horse to the largest, warmest stall available.

Waving away the young man he’d hired to help

with the animals, he left the stallion for a moment

and went for his personal gear. This was an animal

that required his best effort.

The shadow of the monastery was clearly framed

in the small circle of light from the stable door. For

some reason the long-familiar sight of the holy

T O S IFT T HROUGH B ITTER A SHES

place disturbed him at that moment more than it

had at any other in the long years of his existence.

The shadow seemed to be creeping down the side

of the mountain and reaching for him. He shivered

again.

Pulling the heavy doors shut, he closed his eyes

for a long moment, banishing the images from his

mind and shutting out the spirits of the night. He

heard the horse shuffling behind him, and he

returned to his work, for the first time in years

wishing he’d left for his home before dusk.

Silk vestments hissed across stone like passing

serpents as Bishop Claudius Euginio made his way

swiftly across the top of the stone wall. The moon

painted the scene in shades of silver and grey,

catching the white locks of his hair and reflecting

wetly off the scarlet and gold of his robes. He was

not a tall man, but there was an aura of authority

and power that surrounded him that was

unmistakable. His movements were sure and

graceful, and the set of his shoulders spoke of

confidence bordering on arrogance. These were

traits he fought to suppress. They were not seemly

in a man of God, well-placed as they might be.

He stopped suddenly and stared into the distance

in silence. Far below he could see the glittering

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lights of Rome. Nearer were the softly glowing fires

of the village, and it was there that he directed his

concentration. They feared him in the village, he

knew. It was an integral part of the security he’d set

up about himself. They feared the knowledge of

why he frightened them even more.

He let his senses broaden. Those sights, sounds,

and smells nearest to him grew fuzzy as he focused

on the homes and hearths below. He could hear

voices faintly, and he could sense the beating of the

communal heart of the villagers as they went about

their lives. It was all familiar, and he brushed it

aside in annoyance. He placed his hands on the

stone rail and breathed deeply. The control of the

moment was exquisite, his mind linked to theirs,

their fates lying in his hands. The village, even

Rome itself, were his kingdom, albeit that his

monarchy existed in the shadows and behind the

scenes. It was enough that he felt the control.

The monastery at his back was silent. Each of the

brothers he’d indoctrinated and trained was in the

cubicle assigned to him, communing with God in

his own way—some with their own God altogether.

Claudius was not as demanding on the theological

level as he was on matters of discipline. God was

not one of his major concerns, since their final

meeting had been indefinitely postponed. None of

his followers would disturb him at this hour, and he

spared them no thought.

T O S IFT T HROUGH B ITTER A SHES

He had waited days for Montrovant’s arrival.

Even for an immortal, patience is not infinite, and

with Montrovant involved it could be outright

difficult. Montrovant’s message had not been clear,

as they never were. Euginio was both angry and

curious at the same time. The dangers of the two

of them meeting publicly, complicated by the vows

of the brotherhood itself, grated on his nerves.

Montrovant had always been too arrogant. It was

a matter of age, and of maturity in the blood. He

was not young, nor was he weak, but he lacked the

discipline that would lead him into latter centuries.

There were protocols for every occasion,

deceptions that had to be scrupulously maintained.

Montrovant recognized all of this, but he rarely

acknowledged it. He lacked the plain common

sense. It was, of course, part of his appeal.

Claudius took another deep breath and stiffened.

He sensed Montrovant’s approach, a breath of

Kindred wind against the backdrop of the night.

His progeny was moving along the ground below,

faster than any mortal eye could have followed,

only a blur to even Euginio’s supernatural sight. He

didn’t need to see clearly—there was no mistaking

the tug of the blood tie.

Bishop Euginio saw few of the others, and then

only reluctantly. If the clan did not look to him for

leadership—for the wisdom of his years and

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position—he would not have seen them at all. He

had a perfect niche carved out for himself,

protected, but controlled. He was not fond of

putting his position at risk. On the other hand, he

had to act occasionally to maintain his control, and

to keep their respect. As dangerous as it would be

to be discovered by the brethren, or the Church,

to be stalked by his own would be the greatest

danger. It was important that they understand his

strength.

Although it was ill-conceived, Montrovant’s

message and subsequent visit were an opportunity

to make that necessary contact. If it were truly

foolish, it would give him a chance to show his

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