Chapter 8

Guillaume ducked into the narrow Parisian side street, hiding himself in the shadows as the tumbrel creaked past, heavy under the weight of its passengers—his friends who were going to their death. Most of them looked half-dead already. Maxime's jaw was held in place by a bandage, but the white material was sodden with blood from his wound and his eyes, staring wide and dull, showed his pain.

Weeks ago, days ago even, the crowds had cheered these men and praised their names and now those same people jeered at them and clamoured for their deaths. Had he been caught, he would be standing there with them now and on his way to face the guillotine's blade.

He noticed a face in the crowd looking searchingly in his direction, and he slunk back, retreating farther down the alleyway. He waited a moment, but no one followed, and he let out the breath he had been holding.

He made his way through the city, away from the Place de la Révolution, the noise of the crowd in dogged pursuit. A mighty cheer rose. One of his friends was now dead.

The stench at Les Halles—a pungent perfume of rotten food, vomit and urine—filled his nostrils and made him nauseous. A boy in tattered clothes approached and kicked him in the shins before running back to his friends, laughing all the way. Guillaume ignored the assault and soon the young urchins grew bored of him and took their game elsewhere.

Darkness fell across the city. The Parisian sky was illuminated by stars, pinpricks of light on which to make a wish. Somewhere a fire had been lit, and the smell of burning timber and smoke helped to mask the unpleasant odours of the quarter. Guillaume crept into a dark alleyway and settled down on the cold ground. Dampness seeped through his clothes, turning his bones to ice. He would try to get a few hours sleep and then he would attempt to get out of the city at first light. Maybe he'd head for England since France was no longer safe for him. With these thoughts, he slowly closed his eyes and began to drift.

The hand that grabbed him by the shoulder pulled him backwards as his eyes shot open again. They've found me! He stumbled, legs kicking, unable to gain a footing as he was dragged along the ground towards the darkest recesses of the alley.

Finally his captor ground to a halt and hoisted him to his feet as if he weighed nothing at all, pressing him against the wall. He had expected to see a grubby-faced sans-culotte, but the man appeared aristocratic. He was well-dressed in a burgundy frock coat and powdered wig, the latter showing no signs of disarray from his exertions. Guillaume panted and leant back against the wall. He was cold, hungry and exhausted and in no position to put up much of a fight.

He waited for the man to speak, to tell him what he wanted from him, but the only sound was a dog howling pitifully somewhere nearby until silenced by a sharp cry. The man continued to look at him keenly, peering into his eyes as if they held the answer to some vital question. Then the grip on his shoulders loosened, and he slumped down as the stranger pulled away and took a step back.

Guillaume turned, preparing to limp away. At that moment, the stranger attacked. The hand came down once again onto his shoulder, spinning him round and forcing his head to the side. Before he knew what was happening, pain exploded in his neck as the other man bit him, piercing the skin and drawing blood. He tried to fight, but his body quickly weakened, lethargy seeping through his limbs along with a feeling of weightlessness. He was only vaguely aware that he was sinking down towards the ground. He made a final effort to push against his attacker's torso, but his gesture was futile, and his arm flopped limply to his side. The last thing he remembered was a liquid being forced between his lips, a taste both unpleasantly metallic and yet like an elixir to his dying body. Then his eyes closed.

* * * *

The brightness hurt his eyes. He could feel the light against his eyelids, needles of pain, jabbing through the thin layer of skin. Still half asleep, he rolled over, trying to escape the discomfort. In moving, he found himself pressed up against something hard, and he blinked, trying to focus on it. He found himself looking at a patch of midnight blue velvet, woven with a golden thread that formed an intricate pattern of swirls.

"Ah, you are awake at last."

Guillaume pulled himself into a sitting position and looked over the top of the chaise lounge in the direction of the voice. As soon as he saw the man, memories of the previous night came flooding back to him, making him scramble to his feet. Despite his ordeal, there were no aches and pains when he moved, but the hunger remained, raging in the pit of his stomach.

"You are lucky," the stranger continued, stepping forward. "I have chosen you to join me in my quest and now you will live for all eternity. My name is Lucius Octavius Drusus. You are to address me as Master for now." He smiled at Guillaume, but the gesture only served to emphasise the cruelty in the lines of his mouth.

"What quest would that be?" Guillaume asked, keeping the chair between himself and his kidnapper.

"We must find a Day-Walker. I am a creature bound to the night—as are you now—but some of our people have acquired the gift of being able to walk in the sunlight. How this happens, I do not know, nor do I care. What I do know is that draining the blood from a Day-Walker will transfer those powers to me. Then I will be unstoppable. I am amongst the oldest of my kind. If I could rule the day as well as the night, everyone would bow before me." He paused, lost in some private thought. "You must feed now." He clapped his hands twice.

A door across the room squeaked open, and a young woman was pushed inside. She stumbled, trying not to let go of the tattered remains of her dress as she held it together across her chest. Drusus grabbed her arm, hurling her forward, and she was forced to release the material, exposing her pale breasts.

She fell at Guillaume's feet, and he found he could not take his eyes off her trembling form. Her body shook uncontrollably, and she muttered an incomprehensible muddle of prayers and entreaties as she tried to pull the material back into place over her nakedness. Crouching beside her, he reached out to gently brush her arm.

Her eyes, previously flitting back and forth, now focused on him, and her upper lip trembled as tears cascaded down her cheeks. "Please, help me!"

Guillaume drew her into his arms, trying to hush her sobbing with gentle words. A shadow fell across them, and he looked up to see Drusus standing over them. "What do you want with this poor girl?"

"Why, nothing. She is for you. Follow your instincts. What do they tell you to do?"

Guillaume turned away. The girl's sobs were more intermittent now, although she continued to cling to him. He could feel the press of her full, young breasts against his chest, and he pulled her closer. Then he noticed something else. He could hear the girl's heart beating, fast and strong. The rhythm seemed to fill his head until he could hear nothing else and his own body beat in time with it. He closed his eyes, shutting out everything but her heartbeat, his hunger lurching like a beast inside him. He could smell her skin now: sweat, salt tears, and fear. Her flesh was warm and inviting against his own cold skin, and he nuzzled his head into her neck as his hand stroked her tangled hair. He brushed his lips against her throat, every part of him alive with sensation. He could feel her blood racing just below the surface of her skin, and he wanted it. He wanted to drain every last drop from her body.

What am I doing? Guillaume sat up suddenly, pushing the girl away from him. She dragged herself back behind the chair, her eyes wide. Her pulse was racing even faster now, and he fought to expel its hypnotic drumming from his mind.

"What are you waiting for?" Drusus asked impatiently, dragging him to his feet. "You must feed on her."

"No, I will not. I will not become a monster."

"You are already one of us now. You cannot go back. Your stubbornness irritates me. Feed!"

"No!"

With an angry growl, Drusus pushed Guillaume out of the way and strode towards the girl. She tried to back away, crying out and pleading. Guillaume realised he should do something, help her in some way, but it was too late. Drusus grasped her head between his hands and twisted. The heartbeat inside Guillaume's head stopped abruptly, and he watched as Drusus let her lifeless body fall to the ground. Her head came to rest at an impossible angle, but her eyes remained open, the look of fear captured forever in their gaze.

"I am going out," Drusus declared. "You will have to go hungry tonight. Perhaps tomorrow you will decide to obey me."

The door slammed shut and Guillaume found himself alone with the dead girl. Her eyes seemed to follow him around the room until he could bear it no longer and bent down to shut them. Her skin was clammy now, and her dress was in disarray once more. He pulled at the remains of the fabric, covering her as much as possible, and then turned away.

I cannot stay here. He could never learn to live as Drusus wanted—killing humans and seeing only the shadowy night skies. He could never let himself become a monster that would kill indiscriminately. The fiend had gone, and he might not get another chance. He had to end it now.

He walked across the room and drew back the heavy drapes that covered the window, looking out across the city. There in the gloom of the night, Paris still slumbered. He comforted himself with the thought that when they woke he would be no more. A few hours ago, he had been desperately trying to stay alive, clinging to life, but now he wished he had joined the other Jacobins, his friends, at the guillotine. Death at the hands of another would surely have been easier to face than bringing about his own demise. But it was too late for that now.

He wrenched open the window; a waft of icy air entered the room. He was aware of the cold, could feel it pressing insistently against his skin, but it no longer seemed to affect him as it once had. He was thankful for his slim body as he squeezed through the opening. It was tight, but a newfound strength helped him to manoeuvre himself out. Once his legs were free, he dropped to the street below.

He had entertained some hope the fall would kill him, yet somehow he managed to land on both feet, his knees bending automatically with a cat-like grace. He knew now of only one sure way to destroy himself and the monster he had become. He had to stand in the sunlight. A faint tinge of orange on the horizon told him dawn was drawing close, and he set off towards it. His body fought for a while, instincts telling him to seek shelter from the day, but he studiously ignored them, pressing ever onwards.

He ran and ran, tirelessly moving through the city, putting as much distance between himself and the house as he could. His greatest fear as he sped through the streets was that Drusus would find him and drag him back before he could accomplish what he had set out to do. He could only hope the monster would return home too late to pursue him.

Guillaume hurried along the increasingly sloping streets of Montmartre. He reached the ruins of Saint Pierre de Montmartre church and paused beside Chappe's new optical telegraph, its bizarre construction reaching skyward, swaying faintly as the breeze picked up. The horizon glowed amber, the heat uncomfortably warm and bruising against his skin.

He sat on the dew-laden grass and waited. His eyes remained fixed on the approaching sun, willing it to rise and consume him. He found himself remembering a prayer his mother had said at his bedside each night when he was a boy, and he whispered it now under his breath, eyes closed, hoping for forgiveness from a divinity he wasn't certain he actually believed existed.

He didn't know how long he'd been there before he realised his plan hadn't worked. He opened his eyes to see the sky fully visible on the horizon. Its rays fell on him, heating his skin, but doing no more. He was not reduced to flame and ash as he had expected.

He waited a moment longer, uncertain how to proceed. Then he recalled Drusus's words, his quest for a Day-Walker. Is that what I am? Guillaume threw back his head and laughed uncontrollably, feeling a sudden mad joy. All this time the monster had been searching for a Day-Walker and now he had unknowingly created one.

Once he managed to cease his laughter and focus his mind, Guillaume suddenly realised the implications of his situation. He was what Drusus wanted, and if he didn't get away before the truth was known, he would be hunted down.

Guillaume stood. He would not let Drusus win. He set off down the hill, determined to use the daylight hours to get out of the city and then out of the country.