In the Company of Vampires

“Fran!” she said in a shocked voice. “You can’t mean to imply that one of us took it?”

“No, not you, obviously.”

“But the only people who were here are our friends: Peter and Karl and Günter. And Ben! Surely you can’t think—”

“No, I know it wasn’t Ben. But . . . er . . . how well do you know Günter?”

She just stared at me for a minute. “You can’t think Günter took your Vikingahärta? Fran, I’ve known him for, oh, it must be six months. We haven’t dated that long, but we have been together for at least four months. Günter is a musician, so he is able to travel with me much of the time, although he does occasionally have to go off and record things.”

“What sort of things?” I looked around the trailer. There were no musical instruments of any sort.

“Oh, you know, music,” she said, her hand fluttering in a vague gesture.

“Ah.” My first roommate had dated a guy in a band, and he was forever leaving all sorts of musical paraphernalia around our apartment—broken guitar strings, bits of scribbled music, and hundreds of picks. Although Imogen’s trailer was spotless, and not at all the sort of place you’d fling your guitar strings, my experience with musicians was that they were never happy unless surrounded by the tricks of their trade. “I didn’t mean to cast a vile aspersion on him. I just thought that perhaps if you hadn’t known him for long . . .” I let the sentence trail off before starting again. “You don’t mind if I touch a few things here?”

“No.” A frown pulled her eyebrows together. “Although if the lich didn’t open the door, I’m not sure what you’ll find that could be useful.”

“You never know.” I stood up and glanced around, trying to figure out what someone might touch if he was creeping around the trailer looking for a valknut. That brought up a question. “Just how did whoever took the Vikingahärta know it was here?”

Her frown evened out. She looked thoughtful. “I don’t know.”

“If it was this lich guy who took it, then someone must have told him.” I left the rest unspoken.

A faint blush colored her cheeks as she looked away, a mulish set to her jaw. I proceeded to walk down the aisle, my fingertips grazing surfaces that looked likely. I kept contact just long enough to absorb the emotions and thoughts that had been imbued on the surface, but not long enough to let them swamp me. There was nothing out of the ordinary, although I did find it interesting that the doorframe of Imogen’s bedroom door held a distinct note of anger—from Imogen. At some point recently she had been downright furious, an emotion in which I’d seldom seen her indulge. It felt far too much like prying to keep my hand there long enough to see what it was that had made her so angry, so I moved on to the doorknob. That held only three impressions, all of which I expected: Imogen, Günter, and Finnvid.

The door jerked open as I stood there contemplating how someone could get into her bedroom without touching the doorknob. Finnvid glared at me until I moved aside. He strode past me, still stark naked, spreading his glare to Imogen before stepping into her tiny shower.

I pursed my lips as I admired his backside when it passed, then looked at Imogen.

She looked back at me. We kept that up for the count of three after the shower door closed, then both of us burst into laughter.

“Oh, boy, he’s really pissed,” I said, wiping at my eyes.

“He has no right to be. He definitely had a very good evening,” she said, smiling demurely, but the wicked twinkle in her eyes reminded me of Ben at his most roguish. “But isn’t his derriere delicious?”

“Very nice,” I agreed, turning back to the bedroom.

“Not as nice as Benedikt’s, naturally, but it’s very close to being as nice.”

I shot her a look over my shoulder. “Do I want to know how you know what Ben’s butt looks like?”

“Fran!” she said in mock shock. “I’m his sister! If I checked out his derriere, it was only on your behalf, to ensure you would not be disappointed by it.”

“Well, I’m not, so you can relax. Do you mind if I touch the nightstand?”

“No, go right ahead.” She followed me into the room. “Touch whatever you like, although the sheets . . .”

“Yeah, I think I’ll give those a pass.”

She gave a little gurgle of choked laughter. I touched the curtains and window, just in case someone had come in that way, but got no sense of anyone but Imogen. It wasn’t until my fingertips brushed against the top of the nightstand that the electric shock hit me.

“Oh,” I gasped, my legs collapsing from under me as shimmers of pain and anguish skimmed along the surface of my skin, my palm flat against the nightstand as if it was glued there. I crumpled onto the bed, my eyes wide, the breath caught in my throat. I felt strangled, bound somehow, as if I was a slave to a strong presence, unable to break away from the endless torment that wrapped around me like invisible chains.

“Fran? Are you all right?”

“Pain,” I gasped, trying to get air into my lungs. My entire chest felt compressed by my bondage, despair forcing me down to the floor on my knees. “Blessings of the goddess, the pain.”

“Finnvid!” From a distance, I heard Imogen’s voice, filled with panic.

Francesca? What’s wrong?

Pain.

Where are you?

Can’t breathe. Too much.

Ben’s presence in my mind was a calming influence. Do not panic, Beloved. I will help you. Is someone harming you?

Lich.

I understand. Think of me, Francesca. Remember last night. Think of what you felt.

My mind was so overwhelmed with the blackness of anguish and panic, it was difficult for me to focus. No air!

There is air. Think about how you lay on my chest last night. Our hearts were beating together, do you remember? I felt every breath you took. Breathe now.

Slowly, the images he was projecting into my mind pushed back the fear and pain and sense of utter despair. I opened my mouth, wanting desperately to get some air into my lungs, little wavering dots starting to form in front of my eyes, but I couldn’t do it.

“Goddess? What has happened to you?”

I felt someone kneel next to me and knew it must be Finnvid, knew that Imogen was fretting beyond him, but I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t see anything but a hazy redness that was slowly being eaten up by black.

Faintly, I heard Imogen cry in relief. Just as I thought I was going to fall into the inky redness, Ben was there, pulling me back from the edge. Fingers clamped painfully around my wrist, pulling my hand from the nightstand.

The second the contact was broken, the mist disappeared and my vision slowly cleared. I looked up to find myself cradled in Ben’s arms, his face and naked torso as red as a boiled lobster, with tiny white blisters along one side.

“You’re burned.”

“What happened?” he asked, ignoring my statement.

I leaned against him, drawing comfort from the strength of him. I wanted badly to touch his burned face, but when I tried to lift my hand, I found it just hung there, as heavy as a lead weight. “My hand.”

He frowned, lifting my hand, turning it slightly so the palm faced him.

Imogen gasped. “Oh, Fran!”

My palm was as black as if I had painted it. I stared in horror at it, then looked closer. It wasn’t a true black; it was a blackish purple. “That’s . . .”

“Blood,” Ben said. “Does it hurt?”

“No. It’s numb. I can’t feel it at all. Why is my hand filled with black blood?” My skin crawled at the thought of some heinous disease.

“It’s not a disease. It’s like a bruise, a profound bruise. I believe I can heal it.”

I watched with concern as he gently stroked my fingers and palm. It was true I didn’t feel any pain; the hand