Fire, Chapter 8 --PG-13

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librarian_7
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Fire, Chapter 8 --PG-13

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Standard disclaimers apply.

No spoilers here.

This story is rated PG-13 for relatively mild violence and sex.

This story follows the events of “Control.”



Fire

Chapter 8


Josef moved through the near deserted streets in a haze of speed, an unseen whisper of motion, his bare feet skimming over the rough cobbles and filth of the byways heedless of damage to himself. A few souls stirring may have thought they saw his passing, caught some blur in the corner of an eye, but most dismissed it as a trick of the early morning light. He took some care to be unseen, but not too much. He was being drawn to his home with an urgency that superseded everything else, even the crippling blow he had received from Maria’s rejection.

He had forgotten, it seemed, that even an undead heart could feel despair. Around him, in the gray of the dawn, he sensed a quickening in the pulse of the city. The wind was carrying more than smoke, now. It held the first hints of ash as well, and the distant sounds of church bells, ringing in alarm.

Josef felt a stinging in his eyes, and tried to attribute it to the smoke and the ever heavier ash whipping in on the east wind. He wondered briefly, as he ran, in this town so filled with wooden buildings, what steps might be being taken t o stop this deadly blaze from spreading. In the face of fire, he was as vulnerable as any human. Josef knew he was going to have to get out of the city. He was fast, but he couldn’t outrun the wind. Not for long.

And although the pain that had gripped him in Maria’s garret had largely abated, it had been replaced by an odd, yawning void within him that was equally troubling.

He dodged and jumped the detritus that littered the streets, skirting the rank pools that assaulted his nose with acrid fumes, and stung his lacerated feet. They would heal quickly, and heal without scars, but he needed to be able to maintain speed right now.

Coming around a corner, he nearly collided with a cart and horse. The driver of the wagon never saw him, never understood why his steady old horse had chosen that moment to spook, to rear up in the traces and wave his heavy iron-shod hooves blindly in the air.

The last hundred yards were straight as an arrow shot up to the gates of the courtyard of the stone house Josef had leased through the good offices of Lord Summersisle, but before he reached the gates, he had an idea of what had gone so wrong. At this hour, when the gate should be closed and barred, it stood, not wide open, but slightly ajar. Just enough to tell Josef that his gatekeeper was not on duty, and that the security of his residence had been breached. And the scent of blood he smelled in the air, strong enough to rise above the stench of smoke, told him the breach was catastrophic.

His first thought was to rush through the gate, hitting the heavy ancient wooden beams hard enough to rattle their iron bindings, to send the mass of it flying open. He had neared the portal and raised his hands to shove it wide open when the fog around his brain lifted just enough to stop him from such rash foolishness. He halted, noiselessly, and placed his fingertips against the gate, not to move it, but to assist him in reaching out with his senses.

There were no heartbeats within. Not even the large slow thumping of the horses that should have been standing in the stable, patiently awaiting their morning grain. The acrid scent of blood spiked with pain and fear was all that he could smell now. It filled his nostrils so completely that even the miasma of the growing fire was wiped away. And the visions Josef could see—chaotic, flashing images of violence and death and blood everywhere—nearly drove him to his knees again. He thought himself fearless—and he had proven his mettle on the gory battlegrounds that covered most of Europe like a curse for most of the decades of his life, charging sword in hand against the mortal armies who were never a match for the vampiric strength and speed of his comrades-in-arms. But now he feared to enter, feared to face the reality of the horror he knew with dead certainty lay within.

He could smell no vampires in the house, or the area enclosed by stone walls that he had thought sufficient to keep any enemies at bay, but he knew the overwhelming odor of the blood, the fragile human blood that spoiled so quickly, might mask the smell of decay that would signal the presence of another monster to him. Even an ancient vampire could hide under the scarlet cloak of the amount of blood that clogged his perceptions now.

He circled the grounds, first employing the dank, narrow alleys, and when the surrounding structures pressed too close, jumped to the rooftop to survey the scene below. Outside, there was no movement, although he could see the lifeless, huddled forms of three of his grooms. His carriage still stood in the courtyard, the driver on the box with a huge scarlet stain across his chest, his left hand yet gripping his driving whip in a macabre imitation of life. The horses lay tangled in their harness, awash in a sea of blood that lapped around the lifeless bodies of the grooms at their heads.

Seeing the carnage from this remove bothered him less than the implications of it. The attack had been so swift, so relentless, so needlessly brutal. He leapt down, inside the courtyard, landing gracefully in an alert crouch, ready to defend himself against attack. He held the position for several seconds, trying to reach past the bloodsmell, but there was nothing. The dead in this place were not of the variety that could strike against him.
He straightened slowly, unwilling to trust his senses fully, knowing a mistake, a failure to be ready, could be permanently fatal. The brightening sunlight was becoming problematic. He could feel it burning on the pale skin of his back, even through a light pall of smoke. Josef skirted around the edges of the courtyard, keeping in the shadows of the stable colonnade.

In the doorway of the house, Josef could see that two of his men, at least, had put up a gallant, if futile, attempt at defense against the invasion. Their bodies lay athwart the threshold, swords in hand, and they bore the marks of tooth and claw on the slashed flesh of their arms and chests, as well as their savaged throats. Josef saw blood on one of the weapons, and stooped to run a thumb and finger along the length of the blade. A sniff told him beyond any doubt that a single vampire had created this slaughter, had turned his home into an abattoir. There was no need for silence now, he knew the attacker had finished and departed.

Josef rose, knowing in the pit of his stomach what awaited him within, and forced himself to step across the bodies into the great hall of what had been his home. Three more men lay scattered around the hall, lifeless heaps of flesh. All his men, Josef thought, every one cut down, and for what? Some strike against him? He was perhaps a little surprised that without exception, even down to the cook who kept the women and the servants fed, his men had stood against the scything attack that cut them down. The last of them had fallen at the foot of the stairs that led to the solarium, to the swallow’s quarters.

Josef climbed the stairs slowly, knowing there was no reason to hurry.
Two of the girls were still in their beds, pale as the white linen where they lay. He barely knew their names—Jane, Janet? Molly? Polly? Simple, sturdy girls who had come at his summons and, speaking little, provided him willingly with the essence of their lives. They had none of the flash and sparkle of his Maria, but they had offered him their wrists, and their throats, and on more than one occasion, their bodies, without question or demand. He had taken from them without thought, as though by right. And now their pale bodies lay flaccid and bloodless before him, dead eyes staring into the mysteries beyond.

He closed their eyes and straightened their limbs, smoothing the disordered hair from their faces. They had not been savaged, merely bitten and drained, with only a few crimson drops gone to waste, spilled from wounds that seemed too small to let a whole life leak out and escape. It was one small mercy, Josef thought as he wrapped sheets around them, that they appeared to have died quickly, almost painlessly. A death under a vampire’s fangs, he knew, need not be cruel. He remembered his own turning. But these girls—they had not been meant for that, and it was too late, far too late even so.

After attending to the bodies in the two bedchambers, Josef had to steel himself to the hardest task. He’d seen the small lifeless form carelessly tossed to the floor at the hearth, near the settle where she often waited for him.

Betty lay with arm outflung, looking pale as a sleeping angel in her nightdress. Even her white shawl still draped around her shoulders, framing her face in softness. Her neck bore no fresh marks, no wounds that he could see.

Josef knelt beside her and gathered her body in his arms. He bowed his head over her, inhaling. He wasn’t sure how it worked, he was never sure how it worked, but there were times when he could sort out the tangled threads of past events more clearly than others. Now, what his senses were telling him, was that she had been awake, awaiting his return, had heard noise from below and thought him come home at last. Beset, she had tried to bargain with her killer, offered up her wrist freely. And sank into death without a struggle, without a cry to warn her sisters.

Josef’s shoulders sagged, the tears pricking his eyelids. There was such a thing as too much pain in one day. He threw back his head and roared out his loss and sorrow.

In the streets, over the rushing of the east wind, an old man stopped to listen. He thought he heard a noise he’d never thought to hear again in this world, the howl of a hunting wolf. A shiver ran down his spine, at that remembered keening, and then the wind carried it away. The old man shook his head and turned back to his morning tasks. It must’ve been a trick of the wind. There were no wolves in London.

At length, Josef felt the calm and peace of exhaustion flow over him, but knew he could not seek his hard bed. There were matters to be attended to, without fail. Starting with the mortal remains of the girl in his arms. He rose and carried her to her bedchamber, laying her out as he had the others, a sheet folded carefully around her for a shroud. As he crossed her rounded arms on her chest, the ruffle at one wrist—plain linen, he had never thought to give her anything so dear as lace, she was merely a swallow, after all—fell back, revealing the wounds that had been the connecting point for her between life and death. They were small, almost dainty in their position and spacing.

Josef drew in a breath, in surprise. The girl had spoken to him, more clearly in death than in life. His course of action was clear, but he had preparations to make. He gave her pretty face one last caress, the curly brown hair sliding under his fingers a final time, and covered her face with the sheet.

The next hour he spent moving the lifeless bodies of his servants into the stable, piling the men together carelessly, laying the girls in a neat row on a soft bed of new straw. He’d see them all buried later, if he could, feeling a hard sting of responsibility for their needless deaths.

Unbuckling the harness, he dragged the horses out of the sun with some difficulty, and moved the carriage into its accustomed shed. Looking down distastefully at his stained feet, he knew there was little he could do to ameliorate the blood—human and equine—on the cobbles, but he needed to tend to other business which would require him to be at nominally clean and respectably dressed.

The cook had been up already, preparing for the day, and buckets of water stood waiting in the kitchen. Josef used one for his ablutions, then visited the upstairs chamber he used for a dressing room. He shirt was snowy white, but for breeches, waistcoat and coat, he chose plain dark colors. Perhaps a little plain for an aristocrat, but suitable garb for a businessman. And it seemed to match the bleakness of his interior landscape.

There was nothing he could do in daylight to track the killer he sought. Vampires tended, with every justification, to be more than careful about their resting places. Josef had ideas for nightfall, but until then, his time was better spent securing what he could of his interests, if the city’s situation deteriorated further.

In the space of time it had taken him to set is house in what order he could, the streets had become crowded. The usual quiet of a Sunday morning, with orderly citizens making their way to the churches of London, was gone, replaced with shoving, sweating men and women carrying what valuables they could. Josef, trying to reach the dock areas, overheard snatches and snippets of information, but nothing made much sense. A bakery on Pudding Lane, hundreds of houses aflame, Lord Mayor Bludworth doing little to control the blaze, and that little, ineffectual. Many were blaming foreigners, and Josef thanked his instincts for dressing in local clothing, perfecting his accentless English. Others cried that it was the wrath of God come upon them. Josef had his doubts about that, but wasn’t stopping to debate the matter.

He had to know more. Where the fire was, what direction it was spreading. Although he knew the wind was helping the blaze along, he had little enough idea of city to be able to make any judgments. In his progress, he had come close to the Tower of London, and thought that a view from the battlements might tell him much, if he were allowed up. He cast his mind around, thinking if there were any business or social contacts that might be of help. He was near the house of that buffoon, Lord Milner…and despite his opinion of the clod, Josef knew the man had some power in the city.

A detour, a request. Milner waved away his concerns. “Fires every year in this city, Alexander,” he said with an airy wave. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Nonetheless,” Josef replied, masking his impatience, “it would be a great lark to view the commotion from the top of the Tower, would it not?”

Milner snorted, and allowed himself too old and serious for that sort of foolishness, but if Lord Alexander insisted…he would write a note to the Lieutenant of the Tower. “Sir John Robinson,” he said. “Good fellow—give him this and he’ll see you have the best view you could hope for. Now you’re sure you won’t stay for dinner?”

Josef bowed, declining the meal, and expressing his thanks with every courtesy, was gone.

Sir John read the note with a crooked smile. “Well,” he said leading the way to the ancient massive staircase, “you aren’t the first to think of the view. There’s already an acquaintance of mine up there taking in the sights. He can tell you what you’re seeing in the city.”

As they reached the top of the Tower, emerging into the smoky air, a gentleman with a round, intelligent face beneath the requisite curled wig turned to see who approached. Sir John made a quick introductions, but social niceties died in his mouth as he looked out over the city. The fire, which had started in one bakehouse, was now threatening to engulf a large portion of the city. The man—Josef gathered his name was Pepys—indicated by name the streets and churches that had been devoured. “There, you see,” he said, pointing, “just at the north end of London Bridge? That was St. Magnus the Martyr. That church had stood since before the Conquest, and now it’s gone. And it will get to Thames Street, and the wharves, next. There’s nothing there that won’t go up like tinder.”

Josef gripped the stone parapet. His dizziness was from more than the sunlight. This was beyond dangerous. It was quickly turning catastrophic. And somewhere in those twisted streets, filled with wooden buildings and showered with sparks in the wind, somewhere his Maria, if in any way she was still his Maria, might be in mortal danger. But where?
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Re: Fire, Chapter 8 --PG-13

Post by coco »

Poor Josef. So many emotions and now he has the added worry that Maria may be in danger. :sadface:
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Re: Fire, Chapter 8 --PG-13

Post by mitzie »

Poor Josef, grieving and helpless in the face of the fire!!!! :bmoon: Love this story, off to read more... :yahoo: :clapping: :clapping: :clapping: :sigh: :fingerscrossed: :thud: :yahoo: :clapping: :clapping: :clapping: :thud: :thud: :notworthy: :hearts:


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allegrita
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Re: Fire, Chapter 8 --PG-13

Post by allegrita »

What a tragic chapter! Everything Josef has built in London has been destroyed. And by a female vampire??! You can see Josef beginning to rethink the things his sire taught him about humans and how they should be considered by vampires. Maybe it was his relationship with Maria that caused him to change. It's hard to see humans as insignificant when one of them has stolen your heart. And now he's worried sick about her, and unable to find her. :bmoon:

I remember when I first read this chapter (on a long-dead board), I sent a PM to Lucky to tell her that Samuel Pepys is one of my favorite historical figures. I've read his diary, and his description of the Great Fire of London. And it was obvious to me that Lucky had, as well. We had the most enjoyable conversation about history, and how she had done extra research in order to fit Josef seamlessly into the world of 17th century London. She was such a brilliant storyteller, and I love the fact that she wrote her historical stories in a literary style that fit the time in which the stories occurred. That takes such talent! :notworthy:

I miss her. :Mickangel:
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