Free Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles by Andy Remic Page A

muttering again about being rich, and honoured, and noble, and how manual labour was a disgrace to his ancestors and so far beneath Saark he should live on a mountaintop. He stopped and peered warily at the treacherous footing. Water gushed around the jetty with gusto, bubbling and churning. Reaching out, Saark touched the wood with a grimace, and it was slick with mould. The whole structure shifted under his touch, shuddering.
      "Great," he said, hefting the rusted knife and starting to saw at one piece of rope.
      Back at the shack, Kell pried free several planks using the tip of Ilanna's butterfly blade, whilst whispering an apology to the axe. She was a killing weapon. A weapon of death. To use her for simple carpentry was total sacrilege.
      Myriam built a small fire, and with Nienna's help cooked thin soup. They used a little of the grain, and watched in amusement as Saark fought with the rope, the rusted knife, and even the whole shaking jetty. Despite his usual visual elegance, his élan and poise and balance, the minute he touched any form of menial task it was as if Saark's thumbs had been severed. He growled and cursed, and finally cut free a length of rope, arms waving for a moment as he fought not to fall into the river. Myriam leapt forward, grabbing the back of his shirt and hauling him back.
      "Thanks," he said.
      "You dance a jig like a criminal in a noose."
      "The only crime here," he said, smoothing his neat moustache, "is having to perform basic peasant labour." He stopped. He was close to Myriam, and her hand had slipped from a handful of shirt to the base of his spine. It was as if she held him. Close. Like a lover. He turned, into her, and breathed in her natural perfume. She was sweet like summer trees. Ripe like strawberries. As dangerous and tempting as any honeyed poison.
      Myriam was as tall as him, and their eyes met only inches away, and their lips were close. Myriam licked hers, leaving a wetness that glistened. Saark stepped back, breathing out deeply, and saw that both Nienna and Kell were watching them.
      "What's the matter?" he growled. "Never seen an artist wrestle with a rope before?"
      "A piss-artist, maybe. Let Myriam do it," said Kell. "That way you won't bloody drown."
      "The cheek of it!" But Saark handed Myriam the dagger, and retired to the fire. He watched her move elegantly, and climb out onto the jetty to the far end. It trembled and he felt his heart in his mouth. Swiftly, she made a cut and began uncoiling the old, blackened rope. To the left, Kell was gathering a formidable supply of planks, at the expense of the shack's rear-end wall where the wood was more sound.
      Saark looked back to Nienna, and was surprised to find her glaring at him.
      "Something the matter, little monkey?"
      "I'm not your fucking little monkey," she snarled, and Saark lifted his hands, palms out, and shook his head a little, face confused. Nienna calmed, and gazed into the fire. Then she snapped back to Saark. "You enjoy touching her, did you?"
      "You have nothing to worry about," said Saark. "You forget, easily, how this was the woman who stabbed a knife between my ribs. I do not forgive, nor forget. Not as easy as you, it would seem."
      "Back then she was dying, she was a husk," snapped Nienna. "Now she is… pretty. Beautiful! Her skin glows. She is strong, and the picture of health. And you are both now…"
      "Vachine?" Saark laughed. "I've yet to discover if that is a curse I will soon regret. Yes, it has healed me. Yes, my eyesight is a thousand times better, and I do not tire like once I did. But there is a price, I can feel it; there is always a price."
      "Bite me," said Nienna.
      "What?"
      "Make me like you."
      "No." Saark frowned. "This is madness. If Kell heard you speak thus…"
      "What would he do? He's a grumpy old man. A fucking has-been . Bite me, Saark, then take me with you. When we get out of the mountains, we can flee