Lucius flew up to her, taking her hand to give it a kiss. “We are honored to have you join us.”
Morgana smiled at him with delight.
Davius felt as if his legs would buckle beneath him, suddenly drained of energy. Morgana noticed immediately, rushing to his side. “Lucius, we must feed. For my new body and for the sake of poor Daghda.”
Lucius’s mouth twitched in annoyance at the persisting favoritism, but nodded. “Let us take our leave of this place. We are no longer bound to Rome—we can feed now before sunrise and leave immediately at the next nightfall.”
Morgana laughed. “Nonsense. We fly tonight—dinner will be had at home.”
Before he could reply, she shifted into a raven, opening her beak to give them a shrill, beckoning caw. Within moments, the chamber was filled with birds, circling them until their bodies shrunk back into their corvidian guise. They ascended into the skies, leaving the tragedy of Rome behind them. Davius hadn’t the time to put his thoughts together, nor time to consider what had just transpired, but he knew, as he soared over cities and landscapes, that his life moving forward would never be the same.
OMEGA
CHAPTER 5
THE IMPOSTERS
LONDON, 1857
The last dying embers of the fire finally extinguished themselves, yet David did not stir to revive them. He watched thin entrails of smoke escape from the skeletal remains of the firewood, drifting listlessly up the chimney flue into oblivion. Still no sunlight peeked through the drapes, although the rain had ceased. He lazily retrieved his pocket watch, surprised to learn that the sun would be setting soon. His body ached as if it was early morning.
He finally rose from where he sat, pausing to drape another blanket over his slumbering companion. He wasn’t sure when she finally gave in to its inevitable lure, but he had no desire to wake her unnecessarily. He brushed back a lock of hair that interrupted the smooth plane of her cheek, noticing a cluster of bruises below her neckline. Her lungs wheezed with each grueling breath, and he wondered if she would be able to make it through another night.
He removed a cigarette from the almost empty box near where she lay, lighting it with the last match. He drew a sharp inhale before extinguishing the waning candles with a wave of his hand, putting the room to rest.
The ostentatious grandfather clock in the hallway chimed rudely as he walked past. It provoked a smile as he imagined Lucius would have highly approved of the design, had he lived to see the nineteenth century. He realized he hadn’t thought of him, nor Morgana, in a great many years, even though for centuries they had been an inseparable triumvirate.
He couldn’t recall exactly when he changed, when the fundamental characteristic of being an immortal ceased to stir him, and he drifted into an endless mire of melancholy and regret. When exactly the thrill of the hunt and the lust for blood were replaced by the harsh realities of empathy and guilt. He’d tried to keep their emergence a secret from his friends, pretending to enjoy feeding off humans as much as they did until he could no longer bear the burden of his facade. The particulars were lost to him, the endless centuries bleeding together, distinct memories artfully avoiding capture.
The house was still, Jacob long retired to his gatehouse in anticipation of nightfall. The hall clock kept time with his footsteps as he slipped past the staircase into the foyer, retrieving his coat and a pair of hunting boots that had been resting neatly against the wall. Although his own chambers beckoned him, reminding him of the many days since he’d last slept, he knew his mind was too restless for slumber.
The evening air rejuvenated him as he pushed open the heavy arched doors, the aroma of rain-soaked earth drifting pleasantly towards his nostrils. He was immediately grateful to be wearing boots as he carefully maneuvered his way through copious pits of mud towards the back of his estate. The graveyard materialized ahead of him, its headstones darkened by rainwater, rivulets still running down the flat stones of the boastful mausoleum. He retrieved his keyring from the inner pocket of his coat and selected the passkey most laden with rust, wiggling it into the opening of a padlocked chain wrapped around the entire structure. When it released, he exerted his supernatural strength to heave open two stubborn doors that groaned in protest.
The musty smell of decomposition wafted into his face as he entered, escaping into the night before he slammed the cumbersome doors shut behind him. Five sarcophagi fanned out like playing cards before him, yet he ignored the first dust-laden four, heading towards the fifth one, placed farthest to the right and conspicuously clean. He lifted its lid easily to uncover a staircase hidden beneath. He descended down the stairs without hesitation, following their winding path until he reached the vaults they led to.
The first door of the vault was left open, and as he walked through its doorway into the next set of vaults, he was met with the smell of cooking bacon. The chambers were illuminated by candlelight, casting a warm glow onto the sparse living arrangements that interrupted the sterility of the room. As many furnishings as David donated over the years, only the frayed Oriental rugs, broken bookshelves, torn sofa, and desk had survived.
He walked past them into the southern vault, which had been converted into a kitchenette, complete with a coal burning stove with an innovative pipe extending above ground for ventilation. Although eternal life could be monotonous, David had mused when he first saw the invention, it did offer plenty of time for random ingenuity.
“Ah, just in time for breakfast,” its chef remarked upon his entrance.
“Good morning, Libraean,” David greeted him, draping his cloak on one of the chairs that surrounded the modest kitchen roundtable.
The creature turned around to squint his way, revealing the addition of a thick pair of eyeglasses which obscured both his one clear blue and his one faulty eye. Like David, his face had not changed much over time. His broken horns were now covered by a weathered bowler hat and his clipped wings concealed by a heavy wool vest. To the unsuspecting onlooker, he looked like a common cripple, his hunchback and awkward hobble only adding to the charade. His hair had gone white, however, and his skin had begun to splotch and wrinkle as if time finally allowed him the gift of senescence, the last stop on the pathway to life’s inevitable release.
The creature looked down at the bacon crisping in the skillet. “This might be too well done for you.”
“It’s quite alright -”
“Nonsense, I have uncooked ham on ice.” He hobbled towards a cabinet where he retrieved a slab of raw pork and a bottle of sanguine liquid. “The butcher gave me fresh pigs’ blood as well.”
“Alright then,” David acquiesced, touched as always by his hospitality.
“I didn’t think you’d stop by today. It’s been quite a few days since I’ve last seen you,” Libraean commented as he poured the pigs’ blood into a tarnished teapot, warming it before carefully drizzling it over the pork as if it were gravy.
“Last night was the first I have been out in over a week,” David replied, softly.
“Ah. Falling into one of your melancholy spells?” He poured the rest of the contents of the teapot into two cracked tea cups, and placed them and two sets of silverware on the table before offering David his prepared plate.
David was silent in reply, retrieving the plate from his extended arm. He waited until Libraean grabbed his own plate and maneuvered to the table before he sliced a piece of the raw meat and lifted it to his lips. It wasn’t nearly as fresh as he preferred, but it was still pleasantly edible. He took a careful sip from his teacup, the pig’s blood and wine concoction wonderfully tepid. “I was actually hoping to ask your thoughts on a matter.”
Libraean met his eyes, the milkiness of his dead one swimming grotesquely as they both moved upwards to peer over the rim of his glasses. “Of course.”
David frowned, not quite sure where to begin. “I’ve been contemplating the events of my life again. I often find myself getting lost in the timeline.”
“I’ve long advocated record keeping,” Libraean lectured, taking a bite of his bacon and using the leftover portion to gesture at the volumes of books stacked around them. Not only were the walls of his living room completely lined from ceiling to floor with publications, but the kitchen area also boasted its fair share of overstocked shelves.
“Yes, but why pen my own memoirs when you are so efficient at chronicling?” David asked with a smile.
“Indeed,” the creature smiled as he resumed the consumption of his meal. “Ask your question.”
“I cannot seem to recall the moment when I changed. I remember clearly the zest for the predator’s game and the unquenchable craving for human blood. And then one day, I was different. I began to hear the minds of humans clearly, even before I fed on their blood, and became increasingly plagued by an evolving conscience.”
Libraean raised a substantial eyebrow. “As I warned you would happen?”
