The Lightwalker
an excerpt

Sybilla had no idea what to expect. But she could sense that she had reached the point of no return. From here, there was no turning back.
Henry was at her elbow, his posture at once obsequious and commanding. He was taller than her by at least half a foot, and broad to boot. Sybilla felt no need to attempt to defy him.
The interior of Lanatier house belied it’s plain exterior. The corridors were dark and labyrinthine, laced by an imposing collection of art and scultpure. Yet they were cold, so cold. Sybilla felt the chill in the air as Henry guided her unerringly toward the bowels of the building and Anton’s audience chamber.
It was a surprisingly small room. Against the far wall was a large bed, and to her right was a fireplace with two chairs. The rest of the walls were lined with shelves, and all of them were full of books. Old books too, judging by the heavy, musty smell of aged paper that permeated the room. There was something oddly comforting about it. She knew it well, and most of the memories associated with it were good.
Anton himself was by the fire, his back turned. He was tall, even taller than Henry, with similar colouring. But where Henry’s hair was closely cropped, Anton’s fell from his scalp in thick dark waves.
Silence reigned. Sybilla stood awkwardly, wondering if she was expected to make some sort of greeting.
Then Anton said, “Leave us, Henry.”
Henry nodded, and abruptly turned back towards the door. Sybilla jumped as it slammed behind him.
Finally Anton turned around. He was not quite handsome – his nose was a little too long and his face a little too thin. But eyes radiated intelligence, and the voice that emerged was that of a Shakespearean actor. “I’ll have you know,” he said finally. “That this is most irregular. The last Adenaur to occupy this room was your sire, and I saw him out of it, seventy years ago.”
Sybilla shook her head. “I am no Adenaur.”
“You are.” His words echoed with depressing finality. “It is Adenaur blood in your veins, my dear, whether you like it or not.”
“I had no choice! He gave me no choice!”
He held up one hand, silencing her. She obeyed immediately - there was a power about him that was difficult to deny. “I know,” he said. “It is not my intent to punish you for what you had no control over.”
“Then what is your intent?”
“To be truthful, I don’t know. This is unexpected. Henry tells me that your sire explained nothing to you of our kind, of how things are. This saddens me, but it does not surprise me.”
“Why does it matter?”
He sank into his chair by the fire, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Thomas Adenaur is many things,” he said finally. “What he is not, however, is a man who does something without a reason. Come. Sit down. Are you hungry? Have you fed?”
As if for the first time, Sybilla realised that she was ravenous. Then she remembered what had been offered to her at Thomas’ house, and her stomach turned. “No,” she said. “I’m alright.”
His eyes bore into her, and she sensed that they missed nothing. “There are ways and means of feeding with hurting, or killing. I can see by your face that you have not fed. There is nothing uglier than a starving vampire, believe me.” Once more he beckoned her to sit, and she obeyed. Out of nowhere a servant appeared, with a heavy mug on a tray.
“Please, drink,” Anton said. “It has come from a willing donor, and extracted just as though he was giving blood at a blood bank.” He paused, and tilted his head to one side. “Which he was. In a fashion.”
Sybilla reached hesitantly for the mug. As the smell of the blood within hit her nostrils, the urge to grab it and down every last drop was almost overwhelming.
But she checked herself. This, she thought, was the significant fight. She needed to deny this new side of herself. She was not a monster.
“Drink,” Anton said gently. “Please.”
She held the mug in her hands and raised it slowly to her lips. Part of her was curling in revulsion, sick at the notion of drinking human blood. But there was something else, and she could feel it getting stronger. The most base of impulses. The yearning for sustenance.
When she finally drank, it was sweeter than the finest wine.
Anton’s eyes were fixed on her as she finally lowered the mug and wiped an errant trickle of blood from her chin. “Better?”
“Yes.” She let out a heavy breath. “Much. Thankyou.”
“It’s the hardest thing when you’re so new. But it’s the only thing that will satisfy you, mark my words.” He chuckled ruefully. “When I was new, I tried living on raw meat. As bloody as I could find. But it’s only human blood that will satisfy the hunger. We don’t know why that is. Animal blood…just won’t do it, I’m afraid.”
“So what do I do?”
“Whatever you can to survive, like the rest of us.” He sipped at a drink of his own. “I do my best, but there have been instances when I’ve been left with no option but to take what I needed by force. Drink from the unwilling. Ultimately, our will to survive will always override whatever principles we hold. What I do pride myself on is that my principles are stronger, and more numerous, than those of your maker.”
Sybilla mulled on this. “You are enemies?” she said.
“Rivals would be a better word, I think,” he said. “The houses of Adenaur and Lanatier. For as long as any of us can remember. And for some of us?” He broke off, and grinned. “That’s an extremely long time.”
“How old are you?” she couldn’t resist asking.
“Me? I’m a baby. It’s been seventy years since my turning. To the likes of Thomas Adenaur, I’m nothing but an upstart child. Did he tell you his age?”
She shook her head.
“I’m surprised. It’s usually the first thing he tells people. Thomas was turned in the year 1437. He’s almost six hundred years old.”
Sybilla felt her jaw drop. “Are you joking?”
“You’ll find I seldom joke. Especially not where Thomas is concerned. He ruled for five hundred years, five hundred bloody years. I won’t tell you what it took to topple him, but I will tell you that he resisted innumerable leadership challenges, and painted this very floor with God only knows how much Lanatier blood.”
Sybilla was having trouble following him. “Leadership challenges? I don’t understand.”
Anton shook his head, looking baffled. “You and me both, I'm afraid. Why did Thomas turn you if he did not intend you to challenge me?”
“Challenge you?” Sybilla felt herself turn cold, as though the fire had been put out. All she’d ever wanted was to keep Mr Fletcher’s shop, nothing more than that. Now she was supposed to challenge the ruler of all vampires for his leadership?
But Anton was oblivious to her angst. “He must have another plan, and I must know what it is.”
Sybilla sat forward. “And I must know what all this business about leadership challenges is!”
He waved his hand disparagingly. “Lanatier challenges Adenaur. Adenaur challenges Lanatier. When suitable succession is decided, leadership passes. Until Thomas took over it was a relatively peaceful process. All understood that it was necessary to maintain the balance between the two houses.”
“And when Thomas took over?”
“He studied every minute element of vampire lore. Traditions not employed in any living memory. He found grounds to deny every challenger put before him and, as was his right, killed them. He managed to hold the throne for five centuries.”
“His right?”
“One of the laws laid out. Successors deemed unworthy are put to death. It’s always been that way, Thomas’ criteria were simply more stringent than most.”
Sybilla shivered. “Have you put any successors to death?”
His gaze locked on hers. “Not yet.”
For the first time, Sybilla felt the cold, close embrace of mortal danger. Did he see her as a challenger? Was that the real reason she’d been brought here?
“I was an orphan,” he went on. “I was adopted by the Lanatiers, they were seeking a child they could educate. Educate to the standard necessary to pass Thomas’ test. So, ever since I could read, I have been studying vampire lore. Texts so ancient and faded it hurt my eyes to read them. I studied fro twenty years. On my twenty fifth birthday, I was turned. And when I faced Thomas, I was ready.”
His recitation was matter of fact, his voice emotionless. It was not clear what reaction he expected from her, if any at all. Sybilla sat back, absorbing his words, seeing in her mind’s eye a tiny child hunched over an ancient scroll, a collection of shadowly, vaguely menacing figures in the background.
“So,” she said finally. “No Adenaurs have attempted to succeed?”
“No. Ever since Thomas was banished from this house, I’ve kept him under constant watch. He hasn’t turned anybody. Killed plenty. But turned none. Hence my curiosity about you.”
Sybilla felt tired, her limbs heavy. Part of her was still clinging to some desperate hope that this was nothing but a bad dream, and soon she’d wake up. “I have no idea why he turned me,” she said, grinding her face into her palm. “You must believe that.”
He nodded. “I do.”
She felt her shoulders slump with relief.
“ Never the less,” he went on. “I would like an answer to that question.”
She snorted. “Actually? So would I.”
“In time, in time. However, I believe dawn is approaching. And you, my dear, look exhausted.”
She looked up uncertainly. “I can stay here?”
Once more, he nodded. “As my guest. I insist.”
“This is probably going to seem rude,” she said, clenching her hands in her lap. “But I’m not sure I’m inclined to take that at face value.”
“Just like I’m not inclined to have you roaming the streets with no idea of your whereabouts. If I said you were a prisoner, would you have less doubt about my motives?”
Traces of a smile tugged at her cheeks. “I suppose.”
He lifted his head and called over her shoulder. “Henry!”
Instantly, Henry was in the room. “Yes?”
“Show Miss Cross to one of the guest rooms. Towards the basement, I think.”
Furthest from the entrance, she surmised.
Henry bowed slightly, and turned back for the door with a glance at Sybilla that indicated she should follow.
Anton was staring into the fire, deep in thought. “Thankyou,” she said, in absence of anything else.
He looked back at her. “For what?”
She shrugged. “For not killing me. I suppose.”
He met her eye pointedly. "Hold your thanks.”
Her gaze fell to the floor. "Right."
“Good night, Sybilla.”
“Good night….” She paused. “So what is it? My lord? Your majesty?”
For the first time, he laughed. A short, sharp bark of surprised laughter. “Anton. Anton is fine.”
“Fine. Good night, Anton.”
Henry rolled his eyes heavily as she trailed him to the door. “What’s your problem?” she demanded when they were out in the corridor.
“Thank your lucky stars control is his, not mine. I’d leave you to burn to death in the morning sun.”
She stepped back, hardly seeing what she’d done to deserve such venom. “Oh, well that’s nice.”
He turned back, and grabbed her arm. “You’d best hope Anton knows what he’s doing. For your own sake.”
Just as abruptly, he released her, and stormed off into the blackness. Feeling once more subdued, Sybilla followed him, realising almost as an afterthought that she was no closer to knowing her own fate than she had been before.
She had the feeling that she would not be enjoying much sleep while under this roof.