Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

The Monastery

France, 1729

There was so much blood on his hands.

It pooled on the cobbled streets, splattered across the walls of the buildings around him, soaked his shirt, his breeches.

Ludovic de Vauban stared at the groaning men around him, and wanted to be sick.

He'd done this.

He staggered back, almost tripping over someone's legs, and pain seared his ribs where the knife had sliced a deep gash. He pressed a hand to the wound.

The gang had come out of nowhere.

Ludovic had only just arrived in the rural village, hoping to find someone to drink from, and instead he'd managed to draw the attention of a pack of thieves. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone, but when one of them pulled a knife and tried to kill him, when Ludovic felt the pain of skin and flesh opening beneath the blade, felt his own blood soaking into his shirt, the predator that lurked inside him had taken over.

Six years he'd been a vampire, and he still didn't know his own strength.

Now the men who'd attacked him lay in the street with shattered limbs and hideous wounds.

He hadn't meant to hurt them that badly, but that didn't change that he had.

His wound pulsed with pain, and his fangs slid out, eager for the fresh blood that was everywhere. He wanted to lick his hands clean, and he balled them into fists to stop himself.

It was late enough that no one seemed to have heard the scuffle – at least no one had come out to investigate it, but sooner or later someone would find these men and Ludovic couldn't be here when they did.

So he ran.

He left the village behind and disappeared into the countryside, only stopping when everything around him was dark and still, and the only movement were nocturnal birds and animals, who didn't care about what he'd just done.

A great tree was nearby; at some point heavy winds had partially uprooted it, and now it leaned drunkenly, its knotted roots half-buried in the earth, half clutching the air like withered fingers.

Ludovic crawled under the shelter of those roots.

His hands shook as he scrubbed them on the ground, trying to get the blood off, and his chest hurt as he struggled to suck in air. He hadn't needed to breathe for six years, but sometimes it still made him feel better, like he was still human.

Like he wasn't a monster.

Ludovic closed his eyes, digging his fingers deep into the ground.

Jehanne's face floated in front of him, twisted with bloodlust, eyes flashing red, fangs soaked in the gore of his friends. He wasn't like Jehanne. But how far from her was he really?

He'd come into his vampire life in pain and fear, when Jehanne had ripped into his neck, and her husband had chosen to turn Ludovic rather than let him bleed to death. He'd come through the turn so fast, but then the man who'd turned him had abandoned him. Ludovic didn't even know his name.

There'd been no one to teach him how to be a vampire.

He'd had to work it all out on his own and, judging by what had just happened, he'd failed.

Another wave of pain rippled from his wounded side, and he gritted his teeth. He needed blood, but even the thought of hunting down an animal made his stomach twist with revulsion.