***
A fortnight, and countless deaths later, Michael sat in a chair in his father’s room. He tapped his fingers on the arm and watched the flames dance in the hearth. Gerard had saved the bishop for last. And he’d sent Michael to see to him by himself. Though he’d never admit it, Michael suspected Gerard was afraid to see his tormentor again.
The door opened and closed. Michael didn’t turn as it could only be his father. He permitted no one else in his rooms. The high back of the chair hid Michael from view. He listened to the rustle of clothes as his father prepared himself for bed. After waiting another beat, he pushed himself out of the chair and moved across the room to seize the bishop by the throat. It took only a second, Michael was so fast now. And so strong.
The bishop’s face turned an unflattering shade of red almost immediately and his eyes bulged.
“Hello, Father.”
The bishop’s mouth moved as he tried to speak and Michael loosened his grip and allowed him to suck in a great mouthful of air. “Spare me.”
Michael looked at his father, feeling strangely empty. How many times had he muttered those very words when he was being beaten? Everyone else he’d killed, everyone else he’d tortured, he’d nearly drowned in his remorse. But for his father, he felt nothing. Well, perhaps nothing was the wrong word. Justified. That was better. The bishop deserved his fate and while a small part of Michael, a very small part, might regret that he was the one that brought about the death, he was satisfied that his father’s tyranny was coming to an end.
Not that his death would end the torture and execution of the innocents. There were always too many ready and eager to step into that role, but his father’s part in it would be done. And Michael would have no one left he must please. Except for Gerard. It seemed Michael had traded one monster for another.
“I could not release you even if I wanted to.” Not for the first time, he wished he had merely been ordered to kill, but Gerard had ordered him to make the bishop suffer. As well as anyone that attempted to stop him. If were up to Michael he’d snap the old fool’s neck with a flick of his wrist. So much simpler and the end result was the same. Instead, he struck him in the front of the throat with one swift movement just as Gerard had shown him. If his father couldn’t scream, perhaps no one would come to his rescue and Michael would be spared any more death this night.
Two long hours passed in which he spent most of his time waiting for the bishop to wake up after he’d passed out from pain. At the moment Michael was leaning against the post of the bed watching his father’s head toss from side to side as he struggled not to come to. Michael wiped the blade of his knife against his pants and stepped forward readying himself for the next round.
“Enjoying yourself?”
It wasn’t the disdain filled voice that startled Michael as much as where it came from. The only door to the room was in front of him to the left, directly in his line of sight. The voice had come from behind him. Michael spun, blade at the ready. A man leaned against the wall beside the fireplace with no indication of how he had come to be there. His long black hair was pulled back at his neck and his piercing light blue eyes were hard.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a Warden of the High Order.”
The man continued to stand there, arms crossed over his chest as if he expected his words to have some meaning to Michael. He glanced back at the bed to assure himself that the bishop was still out. “I don’t know what that means.”
The man narrowed his eyes and straightened. “How old are you?”
Confusion furrowed Michael’s brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“When were you turned?”
He frowned. The stranger kept using phrases that meant nothing to him.
“Shite. Did your sire teach you nothing? When were you made vampyr?”
Michael shook his head. It seemed ages ago. “A month past.” The other man said nothing, just continued to examine Michael from head to toe with those cold eyes. “Why are you here?”
The man gestured with his chin toward the bed. “The deaths. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice?”
“I still don’t know who you are. Who do you mean by ‘we’?”
“Where’s your sire? He’s as much responsible for this as you.”
Michael snorted. “I’d say he bears the brunt of the responsibility.”
The bishop groaned and whimpered in fear as he awoke. Michael closed his eyes and his jaw tightened as the compulsion to return to his task overwhelmed him. “Excuse me. I have work to do.”
As he turned back to the bed, a strong hand wrapped around his wrist, holding him in place. “You don’t think I’m just going to stand here while you torture him.”
He suddenly felt exhausted. He looked the man in the eyes. “Please do not try and stop me or I’ll have to kill you as well.”
One dark brow arched in disbelief. “I would very much like to see you try.”
As Michael assessed the grip that held him, he realized that he was no match for this man. And he knew he had found his way out. “Kill me.”
Now both brows flew up. “What?”
“Kill me. Please.” The plea in Michael’s voice shamed him, but he needed the stranger to appreciate his desperation. “It’s the only way I can stop.”
“Explain. Quickly.”
“I must do as Gerard commands. I try to fight it, to resist, but I cannot.”
“And what precisely were you told to do this evening?”
“To make the bishop suffer. To torture him until he died. And to do the same to any one that tried to stop me.”
The stranger looked from Michael to his father and back again. “And what happens when you attempt to disobey?”
“Pain beyond imagining. And then my body complies anyway. The only way out is for you to kill me. Please. I beg of you.”
“I think not.” He released Michael and took a step back.
He looked at the stranger in horror and resignation. He was leaving Michael to suffer in his fate. How cruel to show him a glimmer of hope and snatch it away. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and turned his attention back to his victim. Clenching his teeth, he worked a muscle in his jaw as he decided what part to remove next. It had to inflict pain but he couldn’t intentionally cause a wound that would make the bishop bleed too much. Gerard had been implicit in his instructions that Michael’s father suffer and the manner in which that suffering was to be inflicted.
Closing his eyes, Michael took a deep breath, then another. The cracking of bone had his eyes flying back open. The stranger stood over the bishop’s now lifeless body, his neck at an unnatural angle. “What did you do?”
“I have freed you from your compulsion.”
“But why him instead of me?”
“You’re worth more than he.”
Michael was stunned that this stranger would find him more important than the bishop. He didn’t know them, didn’t know the history, yet he decided it was Michael that would live. “Who are you?” Michael asked again, not expecting any more of an answer than he’d received previously.
“The name is Thomas Kendrick. And as I told you before I am a Warden of the High Order. The Wardens assure that the balance is maintained. We protect the sacred places and eliminate the threats that would expose us all.”
Michael blinked against the unexpected flood of information. “And are you a vampyr as well?”
“I am.” Thomas looked down at the bishop again. “Who is he?”
“Someone the world is better without.”
“That’s not all he is, but I’ll give you that for now.” He rubbed his hands against each other as if brushing away dirt. “Now, take me to your sire.”