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I glanced between the two of them. Louis-Cesare looked vaguely sick, regarding the tableau with a terrible sadness. But he did not look shocked.
He did not look surprised.
“What the hell?” I demanded, standing up.
He glanced at me and hesitated. But then his spine stiffened and he answered, “When I made Christine, it was as I told you. She had been drained of most of her magic, and with it, her life. She was close to death—so close, in fact, that I did not know if the process would take.” He paused to lick his lips. “When she awoke, it became rapidly obvious that… there was something wrong. She was lucid enough. She knew me, but she was… troubled.”
“Troubled as in…”
“She was violent. Disturbed. I put her to sleep, hoping it was merely the trauma of what she had been through. But the next night, when I went to check on her, she was gone. I tracked her to the abbey where she had been a novice and where she had once been whipped. I found it burned to the ground, and the abbess…”
I suddenly remembered a vision of a burned-out building, piles of ash and a desiccated corpse, as delicate and fragile as an insect’s exoskeleton. “Christine?”
He nodded, swallowing. “Others had been fed upon. I tracked Christine for miles, and finally found her with a group of pilgrims. Or… what remained of them.”
“Oh, gods.” That was Anthony. I wasn’t sure if it was a cry of pain, or because he was slowly reaching the same conclusion I was.
“She hasn’t done anything like that since,” Louis-Cesare said quickly, seeing the dawning horror in my eyes. “I kept watch over her, and she is easily enough restrained. Her power is minimal; she is only a danger to humans and she is not allowed—”
“Minimal?” Anthony coughed, a harsh, wet sound. “She’s a goddamned first-level master. I should know!”
Christine casually put a delicate little patent leather shoe through his chest. I heard ribs crunch, and he cursed. “You do not wish to kill him, Christine. Remember?” Louis-Cesare said sharply.
“Oh. Oh, yes. I’m sorry.” She meekly withdrew the foot, leaving Anthony writhing on the floor.
I stood there, feeling dizzy. “She’s a revenant,” I said numbly. Louis-Cesare didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t deny it either. He just stared at me, his face blank and pale like that of a man about to face the gallows.
Or like a man who had sired a monster.
It didn’t happen often, but occasionally a young master would feed off the same person too many times in close succession, thereby passing on the metaphysical virus that was at the core of vampirism. But because the feedings weren’t intended to be a Change, the master’s blood wasn’t also shared with the child. And thereby the link that power created was missing.
Revenants also occurred when something went wrong with the Change, either because of a mistake on the master’s part or because of a problem with the subject selected—generally illness or age. If the subject was weak, the link formed was as well, and never provided the control needed to steer the new vampire’s development.
However they were created, the newborn revenant was a problem from the start. They craved that connection with their master and the power it should have brought them. Without it, they went mad with hunger, attacking everything in sight, blindly searching for something they would never find.
Occasionally, one would survive for a few months, maybe as long as a year if he was in a relatively isolated place, like a mountain range with plenty of hiding places. But I’d never heard of one lasting longer than that. Certainly not long enough to rise in power. It had never even occurred to me—or to anyone I suspected—that a revenant could rise in power.
I guess the assumption always was that they w
ere flawed mentally, so they must be flawed physically as well. And that was often true. The pale, hunchbacked, salivating vamp of legend, with fangs too large for his mouth and an unquenchable lust for blood, possibly came from sightings of revenants.
But what if one did live, because she had a powerful protector? A protector so ridden with guilt that he couldn’t bear to follow the law and have her destroyed? And what if that revenant was highly functioning, enough so that, with careful supervision, she would appear merely eccentric rather than mad? And what if this farce had continued for three hundred years?
What could a first- level master revenant do? Other than manage to camouflage her abilities, even from her own maker. Who, after all, hadn’t seen her for more than a century.
I glanced at Anthony. I guess I knew.
“She is not… She does not have to be a danger,” Louis-Cesare said desperately. “She can be—”
“She’s a fucking revenant,” Anthony coughed. “She’s a danger to everyone—you know this! Why the hell didn’t you have her put down when you realized it?”
“How could I? I had already killed her twice! First when I handed her over to that bastard of a mage, and then when I made her into a vampire. How many times am I supposed to kill this one poor woman? How much damage am I to do?”
I didn’t think that was the question. I thought it was: how much could he do? Like human children, baby vamps tended to take attributes from their sire. So much so that family lines often became known for having certain gifts. Mircea’s, for instance, was better than normal with healing, both themselves and others. Louis-Cesare had gained that advantage from Radu, but when he became a master, it was his own special gifts and interests that were passed to his children.
And, as everyone knew, his strongest ability was in combat.
CHAPTER 37
