CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Yorkshire, England

June 3, 1592

The unholy agony coursed through his body and wouldn't give him a moment's respite. It was like a thousand hot pincers stabbing him at once, making Simon finally plead with the God he'd turned his back on so long ago to please stop the pain…

Simon's eyes snapped open and he gazed at the darkness surrounding him. Never had he seen such pitch-blackness—where was he? Why were his hands folded over his chest? He moved his hands out of the posture that made him deeply anxious for a reason he couldn't name and immediately brushed a hard surface directly above him.

Wood, Simon decided after he grazed his knuckles over the strange barrier. The wood (fresh-cut pine, he realized after breathing deeply) penned him in on all sides. If he moved his feet, he kicked the enclosure, and his hands—no matter where he moved his hands, they made contact with the pine.

Perhaps he was in a cabinet? Yes, if he was thinking clearly again (Simon shuddered when he remembered the raving savage he'd been reduced to after drinking the monster's blood), then he'd obviously survived transformation. That would mean his flesh was no longer safe from the sun during the day so his friends must have hidden him away.

"John?" he called out. "Khalid?" Deep silence greeted him… neither the astrologist nor the Moor physician answered his repeated calls. He'd have to find his own way out of the hiding place. If he was awake, Simon must assume it was night—Nicholas had only stirred during the day when they assaulted him. Simon raised his hand again, frowning when he saw jewels glittering in the darkness. Who would put rings on an invalid? He had no need of adornment on his sick bed. For that matter, why did silk and lace brush his face while he attacked the wood above him? Through his bafflement came one encouraging thought—if he could make out such details in this oppressive darkness, transformation must have made his eyes as sharp as a cat's.

Simon drew his foot as far back as he could and delivered a savage kick to the barrier at his feet. It shattered but instead of the air he fully expected to feel, a strange, cool substance with an earthy scent poured into his hiding spot.

Simon bent his knee, scratching his leg along the pine surface, until his hand grasped his calf. He grasped a handful of the slick, crumbling substance and brought it to his face, inhaling deeply… soil! Soil lurked outside the pine box…

Pine box and dirt… earth and wood… a wood box surrounded by dirt . . .

"No!" A horrified scream escaped his lips as the enormity of his situation hit him. Dear God… he hadn't been hidden, he'd been buried alive! The pine enclosure was no cabinet but a coffin!

Frantically, Simon clawed at the wood, feeling it splinter and crack under his panicked attack. One slat came free and Simon viciously tore it away, screaming when an avalanche of dirt poured onto his face.

"Get away!" Simon shouted irrationally at the soil and felt bemused shock when the dirt slid from him.

Of course, he thought. In his fright, he'd forgotten Nicholas's power… his power now. Simon shut his eyes, and forced himself to think calmly. Perhaps he didn't have to claw his way out of the grave… maybe he could move the dirt that threatened to suffocate him with his mind. He'd heard of such things.

Simon opened his eyes and glared at the packed soil. He imagined it flying off him, and in the next moment the dirt exploded upward, allowing Simon a glimpse of the waning moon far above him.

Without the weight of the soil over the coffin, Simon was able to batter away the lid and stand up in the grave. Easily, he jumped and cleared the gaping hole, staring down in horror at the destroyed coffin. Why had his friends allowed this to happen? They'd seen Nicholas—they knew no matter how he looked, he wasn't dead.

John Dee and Dr. Ahmed hadn't done this, Simon decided swiftly. He cast his mind over the past few days and realized his ears had sharpened much as his eyesight was now keener. Even in his delirium, he'd heard the servants gathering in the hallway, whispering in awed, hushed voices about their master's strange condition. Might they have thrown him in that cheap box?

It made sense. Certainly it explained why he hadn't lain in state… though that could also be explained by the unusually hot summer. Earl or no, if Simon had been dead, it would have been necessary to dispose of his remains quickly. Obviously the servants (those ignorant wretches that were so damned loyal to the memory of his father and brother) overpowered Simon's two protectors and buried him hastily.

Simon fell to his knees, feeling a resurgence of the pain he thought was gone for good. No, he thought, focusing on the sensation. This wasn't pain at all. It was more like a deep hunger… a… a…

Need, Simon realized. What was this strange yearning that made his body tremble and set his teeth on edge?

A soft whimper shattered his concentration and Simon spun around, seeing a young woman with filthy, gnarled hair, dressed in a coarse woolen gown.

"Dead," the girl cried and pointed a shaking finger at him. With one strangled cry, she spun on her heel and attempted to run away.

Easily, Simon caught up with her, taking a running tackle and pinning the peasant beneath him.

"Why do you come to such a lonely spot by yourself?" he demanded and then his eyes widened in shock when he heard an answer though the girl's lips never moved—a bit of the dirt from the warlock's grave would give me such power…

"Witch!" Simon accused, finding the need in him soothed by the girl's bulging eyes and heaving chest. Her fear was good; it restored him, as did the lovely thumping vein in her neck. What drew him to that bluish line on her pale skin? What was that delightful sound… something like a river flowing throughout her body? And the smell… a delicious aroma of copper and iron…

The girl screamed and Simon winced at the sudden sharp pain in his lower lip. Puzzled, he watched two bright droplets of blood fall on the girl's dress and realized he'd cut himself somehow.

Of course! Simon ran his tongue over his lower lip and felt the new teeth cutting into his flesh. He'd developed fangs like Nicholas… fangs that had emerged when he'd leaned closer to the girl. Now he knew what he'd heard… it was blood flowing through the girl's body. A voice deeper than instinct whispered that her blood would heal him, give him power he'd never before imagined.

Simon gave his victim a smile that made her eyes roll back until only the whites showed. He was grateful for her terror; it made it so much easier to hold her still as he sank his new teeth into the soft, pliant skin of her neck.

Simon discovered heaven when her rich, healthy blood poured into his mouth and down his throat. Nothing… not lovemaking, not gold, not even the power the spirits gave him could compare to the bliss he felt as he drank. Something that had tasted foul while he was human was now more delectable than the finest wine; not even the best whiskey could provide the warmth that filled his body.

Even better though, Simon felt his strength increasing with each mouthful of the coppery elixir. The blood gave him unbelievable vigor; he felt he had the stamina of seven bulls! He could rip the venerable oak tree behind him out by the roots with one hand, and his mind—merciful God, what the blood did for his mind! How could this peasant's blood increase his cleverness, make him feel more self-assured than he ever had before? It was absolutely wonderful what the blood did for him. Simon wanted to drink forever…

The hot stream became a mere trickle and Simon felt the body under him lose its rigidity. Reluctantly, he raised his mouth and stared down at the girl. Dead, he observed coolly when he stared at the dull, pasty skin and sightless, staring eyes.

Simon picked the corpse up and threw it into his grave, again using the mind trick to make the soil fold over her so the grave looked untouched before setting off to find his friends.

Hearing footsteps, Simon spun around, only to discover the sounds were not directly behind him but at the foot of the isolated hill he'd been buried on. Glaring down from his vantage point, he was able to see Dr. Dee and Dr. Ahmed.

"My lord!" John Dee cried in joy and then took a step back, seeming revolted by his friend's appearance.

"Why do you stare at me like that?" Simon demanded and then a series of thoughts assaulted him—his hair hangs to his shoulders, his nails are claws better suited to some daemon creature, he's covered in blood, soil clings to his clothing, he's paler than the moon above him…

Simon fell to his knees, hands cradling his head. Nicholas had been right—to hear every passing thought would drive you mad. But how did he keep the noise from entering his mind?

Dimly, Simon remembered some of the tricks Father Bain had taught him to keep daemons from entering his mind… surely they might work at expelling foreign thoughts. Simon conjured up an image of a steel shield and imagined it deflecting thoughts instead of blows. Soon, the chaos in his mind vanished and he was able to stand again.

"Why did I awaken inside a cheap box? Did you believe I was deceased… even after witnessing Master Aermville's strange daytime condition?" He frowned at his friends while keeping the shield image sharp and ready.

"My lord," Dr. Ahmed began, "there are things you are unaware of. At dawn this morning, your fever broke. You ceased raving and fell back upon your bed, utterly still. It is unfortunate that your wife was in the room—"

"Isabelle?" Simon frowned—after Michael died, Isabelle had attempted to take her own life by throwing herself from the roof of the estate. Unfortunately, the rosebushes surrounding the house cushioned her fall and instead of her dying, her back was merely broken. She was unable to walk and spent most of her time in bed, alternately weeping wildly or staring without speaking for hours on end.

"She was having a lucid period," Dr. Ahmed said to his unasked question, and Simon nodded, pleased that the physician's thoughts weren't penetrating his shield.

"I believe the thought of your imminent death restored her," John Dee put in, and Simon laughed grimly at the observation he agreed with wholeheartedly.

"When you fell back," Dr. Ahmed continued, "Lady Isabelle brought a small mirror she had around her waist to your nose. She screamed because your image was naught but a blur in the mirror. The priest at her side told her not to worry over whatever you'd become—since there was no sign of breath, it was obvious you were dead and the servants could remove your unholy remains from the bedchamber."

"Our most pressing concern," John told him, "was to keep you safe from daylight. The draperies in your bedchamber were drawn but you'd be exposed to full sunlight if the servants took you into the hallway. Quickly, I presumed on our association and asked your… wife… if Doctor Ahmed and I might have her permission to prepare your body for burial. We agreed to the shoddy coffin your wife wanted to put your remains in because we felt you'd be able to tear it apart when you awoke… if you awoke before Khalid and I arrived at your grave.

"We assumed you'd be interred in the family cemetery and it would be a simple matter to free you at sunset, but Lady Isabelle decreed you could not be set in hallowed ground. She had the guards chase myself and Doctor Ahmed as well as your personal guard from the estate while her men-at-arms buried you in a secret location. My lord, we would have arrived earlier but the men returned but an hour an ago from burying you. Then, your guards had to threaten the information from the fools and we spent the past hour walking to this distant place. You have my deepest apologies for the shock and terror you must have felt at regaining your senses to find yourself buried alive."

Simon held his hand up. "You need not apologize to me. Now, come along with me—don't you want to see my wife's face when she lays eyes on her resurrected husband?"

Simon turned from the mound of soil he never wanted to lay eyes on again and descended the sharp incline. At the foot of the hill, he gave a brief nod to his personal guard of black mutes. He was not surprised Isabelle had attempted to drive them away. He knew their dark skin and silent stares frightened her almost as much their stalwart devotion to their master did. Simon laughed when he saw the mutes regarding him with the same mixture of loyalty and gratitude as always. He reflected that even serving a monster returned from the dead was a far better fate than what Simon had rescued them from in Algiers—being galley slaves chained to an oar for the rest of their miserable lives.

"My lord," John said, interrupting his thoughts. The astrologist held out a hooded black velvet cloak. "Do you wish to hide your face until you are…"

"Presentable?" Simon laughed and waved away the cloak. "I far prefer to put the fear of the devil in my cowardly servants."

Simon flung open the heavy oak door to the house, ignoring the horrified gasps and stares of the servants as he stalked toward the great hall.

Some of the servants tried to rush him, but Simon shook his head when the mutes attempted to surround him so their master wouldn't be assaulted. Easily, he shoved those foolish enough to approach out of his path, the slight pressure making them fly through the air.

"What?" Simon snarled, deliberately making his voice harsh and raspy to further terrorize the shivering wretches before him. "No word of welcome for your master freshly returned from hell?"

Simon stalked past some whimpering servants and stood at the head of the table, glaring at the pale, moaning assembly before him. "I want every one of you, with the exception of Adelaide, my personal guards, and Yusef the cook gone from this estate immediately. Speak a word to anyone of what you have witnessed and I swear I shall pay you a visit in the blackest part of night. Now be gone!"

Simon turned around, a grim smile on his face as he heard the hasty press to the front door. The servants were running over each other in their haste to escape the house. Now, for Isabelle. He'd go to her bedroom…

No sooner had the thought formed in his mind than he found himself standing at Isabelle's bedside. He had a vague impression of flying through a cold, dark place in the seconds it took for him to travel from the great hall to Isabelle's suite.

Magus that he was, Simon quickly realized he'd been on the astral plane. Of course he'd gone there before but he'd never brought his body with him—just his soul. He remembered Nicholas telling him vampires could disappear and reappear at any spot they chose within a thirty-mile radius but apparently the young minstrel hadn't known the journey took place on the astral plane.

Simon had no time to wonder at yet another benefit of his new existence—Isabelle and the wretched old priest she'd brought over from France were screaming prayers at him.

"Good evening, wife," Simon said, giving the emaciated, sore-covered woman on the bed a cold grin. "Did you truly think you could rid yourself of me by throwing my body into a cheap box and chasing my friends from my home?"

He felt liquid land on his cheek and whirled around to glare at the wizened prelate, clutching a stone philter of holy water.

"Revenez, diable!" the priest thundered. "Au nom d'un Dieu, revenez a votre tombe!"

"Soya silendeux!" Simon retorted when the priest ordered him back to his grave. The priest's eyes widened when his exorcism was cut off as abruptly as though Simon had gagged him.

Was there no end to what he could do now? Simon wondered, circling around the old priest.

"Raise your hand," he ordered, still speaking French because the ignorant priest spoke not a word of English even after living nearly a decade on English soil. Obediently, the priest raised his right hand.

"Sit," Simon said and the priest sank to the ground.

"What have you done to him?" Isabelle screamed from her bed. "How have you bewitched a man of the cloth?"

Feeling as mischievous as a young lad, Simon gave the dying woman on the bed a smile filled with such villainy he was sure Master Shakespeare would have agreed to let him play Iago if he could just see it.

"I died a man this morning and return to earth tonight as the Prince of Darkness," Simon whispered, forcing himself not to smile at the ridiculous speech.

Isabelle went several shades paler and her hands flew to the onyx and ivory carved rosary at her neck.

"Those foolish relics cannot repulse me!" Simon yanked the rosary off her neck, and watched the small beads roll across the stone floor.

He grasped his wife's chin between his fingers, feeling utter delight course through him when he saw the terror in her large, purple eyes. Beautiful eyes, Simon thought with some regret as he remembered the lush, red-haired beauty Isabelle had been when he had first met her. Now, as disease ravaged her, there was more fiery hair on her pillow than her scalp, and her body was nothing but a pile of bones covered with ashy, rotting skin. If only the woman had not been such a pious, cold fool—perhaps if she'd borne his son, they could have had the same cordial peace he'd observed in the marriages of most of his friends at court.

But no, Isabelle not only miscarried his heir, she killed the nephew he'd grown to love like a son with her superstition and distrust of him. Her slow death from the pox wasn't enough, Simon thought viciously. He meant to break her, leave her with no hope or dignity—only then would he feel she'd paid adequately for all she'd done.

"That priest," Simon said slowly, pointing to the man still sitting docilely on the floor. "He's been with you since your childhood, has he not?"

"Yes," Isabelle whispered. "Harm one hair on his head and you'll spend eternity in hell, devil!"

"You fool, I shall never see heaven or hell! That,"—Simon gestured to the open window and star-studded sky outside—"is where I shall reside for all eternity—in the night. You, on the other hand, can only be a few months from death. But before you go, don't you think you should repay yon priest for all his kindness toward you?"

He gave a cruel smile at her puzzled but still hate-filled eyes and turned to the priest. "Arise, old man, and come to the bed."

The priest obeyed him instantly.

"Remove all your clothing."

"Pere Villiere," Isabelle cried when the priest pulled off his robe to reveal his wrinkled old form. "Stop, I implore you! Fight this devil's hold upon your soul!"

"No mere mortal can fight me, wife," Simon said and reached over to tear the ragged, colorless shift from her body.

"Stop!" Isabelle cried. "What are you doing?"

"Climb on top of her, good Father," Simon said and watched the old priest straddle his wife.

"That's right," Simon said when the priest's hand started to roam over Isabelle's form. His wife was too weak to struggle much, but she wept mightily as her childhood priest obeyed all of Simon's commands—stroking her breasts, planting kisses on her protesting lips, and finally entering her.

"Would you say evil has triumphed this night, Isabelle?" Simon whispered into her ear as the priest raped her. Watching the helpless old cleric obey his commands, Simon felt his own erection begin—not because the sight of his wife's gaunt form enticed him but because he was filled with the same sense of power he had when he drank the peasant girl's blood. Somehow he had not thought of this aspect of immortality—when Nicholas made his offer, all Simon could think of was that he'd escape an early death from the pox.

But now he realized he had abilities he'd never even guessed at. No longer did he need his grimoires and herbs, the incantations he'd devoted his youth to learning. Now he could make people obey his will… even fly the astral plane with no effort at all!

Simon frowned at the wheezing, gasping sound coming from the elderly priest. Apparently sex was too much for his heart, Simon observed as the priest collapsed on top of Isabelle.

"Pity there's no one to give him the last rites," Simon said mockingly as he tossed the dead priest to the floor and leaped on top of Isabelle. The thought of raping this weeping skeleton made his stomach turn but watching the priest obey him… the delightful feeling of control made Simon's blood craving return; he felt the blood teeth rip out of his gums again.

At the sight of his fangs, Isabelle simply fainted and Simon lunged greedily at her neck, eager for the blood until the substance filled his mouth and he found himself by the side of her bed, gagging and using all his will to keep from vomiting.

After a few moments, Simon felt a soft hand on his hair and glared up to see Adelaide. His old nurse simply smiled down at him, seeming not at all frightened by the fangs that hadn't receded yet or his fresh-from-the-grave appearance.

"Lovey," she said, "yer drinking blood now to survive… yer nice friend explained it all to me. Has it not occurred to ye that if ye drink from someone as ill as yer wife, her bad humors might enter ye and make ye as sick as she is?"

Simon frowned, realizing Adelaide was probably right, but if he was immortal, as Nicholas had promised, surely any illness he contracted was only a fleeting problem. Already his equilibrium had been restored to him and he rose off the floor without Adelaide's assistance.

"Shall I prepare yer bath or were ye planning to remain like that?" she inquired archly, taking in the blood on his face and soil from the grave clinging to his body.

Simon laughed and followed her to the Turkish bath he'd had installed in the house after Roger died, allowing his thoughts to wander while Adelaide used the silver scraper he'd brought back from Istanbul to scrape him free of sweat and dirt and pared his hair and fingernails back to an acceptable length.

"Don't get too puffed up with yer new power, laddie," Adelaide cautioned.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, alert to the note of warning in her voice.

"I'll leave it to yer friends to tell ye—ye'll need to form a plan. Just remember, yer not the first to have this power… didn't that boy-lover tell ye there were others?"

"As always, you're right, Adelaide. I'd hate to think I'd no longer have your counsel once death claims you."

"Why, laddie." Adelaide reached up to stroke his cheek, her normally hard green eyes misty and soft. "Are ye offering me yer new state?"

"Who else would I give it to?" Simon laughed and followed her to his bedchamber. How could he withhold transformation from Adelaide—the only mother he'd ever known? Who knew what might have happened to him without Adelaide encouraging him to believe he could have more from life than the pitiful existence fate and his father had tried to force on him?

He dressed quickly and joined Dr. Ahmed and Dr. Dee in the great hall. Ravenous, Simon attacked the buffet the cook had laid out while he had bathed.

When he'd eaten his fill (more than three times what he usually ate), he turned to his friends. "Adelaide hinted there might be some trouble I should know about."

John Dee nodded. "The last few days, you've had periods of respite—not rest, precisely, but you did become a bit calmer. I used that time to search through Master Aermville's belongings. Most of it was mere clothes and his instruments but I trust these will interest you." He placed an intricately carved jade box in Simon's hands.

Simon opened it and pulled out a sheaf of letters—some yellowed and crumbling with age, others new but written on waterproof parchment. He leaned back in his chair and glanced at the letters, starting with the oldest and working his way to the more recent ones.

Again, his new gifts surprised him as he found himself reading the letters, composed in a code that cunningly used Latin and Greek, in a matter of minutes. From what Simon gathered, the letters represented a period of time going back to the year 1494. Apparently that was when Nicholas Aermville made the acquaintance of a creature named Alcuin.

This Alcuin must have been the mentor Nicholas spoke of, Simon mused as he read, for the letters were mainly advice from Alcuin to Nicholas. A couple of times the letters referred to great gatherings, leading Simon to believe these creatures were a sizable population and they apparently congregated together. That gave him pause—needing blood as they did, how could more than a few be in the same place? They must live near large cities, Simon decided, a place where there was a surplus population so a few missing people wouldn't be remarked upon.

In the next letter (from 1505), Simon discovered he was wrong. These creatures apparently lived in rural seclusion but they didn't attract unwanted attention because they made a point of denying their blood lust, as Alcuin termed it. Letter after letter urged Nicholas to suppress his desire, go without feeding as long as he could. When he felt the craving, the young vampire was supposed to pray for guidance.

Simon's lips curled in disgust—who would want to spend eternity in a life of prayer and denial? Simon's answer to why the annoyingly pious creature chose to spend immortality in a state of abstinence came in the next letter when Alcuin made a fleeting reference to a mortal career as a bishop.

Idly Simon wondered how a priest came to be a vampire, for it was plain this mewling, sanctimonious man was no magus cleverly disguising himself with a church career as Father Bain had been… this Alcuin obviously believed all the self-righteous prattle in his letters.

Bored with page after page of lectures about helping mortals and praying for God's aid in overcoming the devil-tinge in their blood (if you dislike it so much, why not greet the sun? Simon thought in contempt), he started skipping through the letters—stopping cold when he saw his name mentioned in the last one.

16 April, 1592

Nicholas,

How glad I am now that you chose not to accompany us to the New World—I fear the utter misery of the people would shock your gentle spirit though I have no doubt your lute would bring them some cheer. Remember what I told you; God did not give you the gift of music just to entertain the nobility. You should also use your talents to raise the spirits of those with little happiness in their lives.

In your last post, you asked me to describe the New World. In many ways, I am reminded of Ireland—again there is the nightmare of being surrounded by the despondent spirits of a conquered people while living in a land of unsurpassed physical beauty. The Spanish colonists work the natives (women and children too, I'm afraid) to death while they rape the land of all its fertile resources.

As you know, I've set up a small mission here. We provide medicine for the ill, food, shelter, and Extreme Unction to any that request it but the only people we attempt to convert are the priests who offer no comfort to these poor souls but rather tell them they deserve to suffer because they are not baptized Christians. I remind these mortal priests of Our Dear Lord Jesus Christ who embraced the indigent, lived among the lepers and outcasts.

I wish I could stay here for a longer period of time, but I must return to Europe. In my absence, a great many transformations are being performed despite my warnings that our strange existence is not suitable to most. Only the strongest will and purest heart can resist the temptations blood lust places before us.

Nicholas, I fear your Lord Baldevar is not of that special mien, that rather than resist temptation he might very well wallow in it. From what little you write, I fear this is a man with a dark spirit. You tell me the English court buzzes with rumor that he is a sorcerer and you yourself know he is perverting the science of alchemy to chase down immortality. When men wish to live forever, it is usually because they rightfully fear damnation in the afterlife. I know you believe he has a soft side, but I fear this may be an illusion. My young friend, has it never occurred to you that in your loneliness you are endowing Lord Baldevar with attributes he does not possess? I beg of you—do not offer him transformation. I know you've been bereft since Alec chose to greet the sun, but better no lover than one that might destroy you.

Please, Nicholas, do not speak to this man of immortality until I come home. Bring him to me that I might see what is truly in his heart.

May the blessings of Christ be upon you.

Alcuin

Stunned, Simon looked up at his friends. "This creature knows who I am! When he cannot find Nicholas, how long will it take him to search for me?"

"That letter was written close to three months ago," Dr. Ahmed said. "With favorable tides, he'll arrive in Europe by summer's end."

"That gives us but a few weeks to prepare for his arrival," Simon said, and his friends nodded their agreement.

This Alcuin patronized Nicholas Aermville, Simon thought. Surely the creature (who'd obviously lived a long, long life) would avenge his friend's death. Simon's first craven thought was that he should flee England and take up a new identity but he soon dismissed such a cowardly notion. Even if he got away successfully, Alcuin might be able to track him down… sense him in some unknown way. The only thing to do was face down the creature and whatever followers he had. Followers…

"I should really replace my servants," Simon said with a wicked grin. "I can turn this estate into a vampire colony. This house needs roughly fifty servants to maintain it properly… fifty soldiers to battle this Alcuin and whatever disciples he brings along."

"How will you feed all of them?" John demanded.

Simon shrugged. "There's the village and York's but a few miles away. With the ability to fly, they can also raid the lowlands for prey."

"I think it makes perfect sense," Khalid interjected. "We are badly outmatched because this Alcuin has lived longer than all of our ages combined. But we've all read the missives he wrote to Nicholas Aermville. When he mentions followers, he never mentions a high number—certainly not the kind of army Lord Baldevar will amass. Numerical superiority will be our only advantage."

"Not just numbers," Simon interrupted, the wolfish smile still on his face. "My followers will be harder than his. After all, what if all his flock is like Nicholas—soft-minded and defenseless? I'm not going to transform ordinary souls. I want highwaymen, murderers, renegades, sorcerers like myself if we can find them… mortals that already have larceny in their blood!"

"Mortals without conscience," John nodded. "I think your plan sound but for one thing, my lord. Do not transform another magus… he might attempt to wrest control from you."

"Agreed," Simon said. "Hard mortals but not overly intelligent or ambitious ones… mortals so thankful for what I give they'll never think to challenge me. But, John, how can you tell me not to transform another magus? Did I not promise you my new power in exchange for your aid?"

The astrologist sighed and gazed moodily into his silver chalice. "I would be most grateful but after watching your torment… my lord, I am in my old age. I do not believe my frail body could withstand the process. With your permission, I wish to stay with you and offer what services I can but I believe your blood would kill me."

Simon nodded—he'd had the same thought but he'd offered transformation anyway, feeling it was Dr. Dee's decision to make. He turned to his physician. "Khalid?"

For the first time in twelve years, Simon saw a smile on the Moor's round, solemn face. "I am but a few years your senior, Lord Baldevar. I shall gladly partake of your blood… who knows what medicine I'll be capable of in a few hundred years?"

"Wonderful," Simon said and lifted his chalice high. "To life eternal and vanquished foes!"