the untitled medieval beast - prologue

The only part of this novel that's been good from the very start. I wish the rest would cooperate like this!

Julian paused on the leaf-covered path, finally overcome by the nagging sense of dread that had plucked at him all evening. He glanced up at the hazy sky, wondering why the cool air of the night had not banished the autumn clouds. They hung about the moon in a gauzy mist, diffusing the already pale light into an almost sickly glow that barely illuminated the stone walkway.

The cemetery was quiet, the air still about him. The weather had not been any different over the last few days, nor the wind. Why, then, did the thought of entering the tomb, his usual place of contemplation and comfort, suddenly give him pause?

After all I've seen this past week, will I let simple worry conquer me now? Julian straightened, holding his torch high, and continued down the path with renewed determination. The wet leaves made soft sounds under his heavy boots, and though the path was slippery, Julian did not take his eyes from the large stone building before him as he walked. Only when he reached the steps did he pause, reaching out and pressing his palm against the wall to steady himself as he ascended to the shadowed doorway.

The key inside his shirt was almost hot against his hand as he drew it out with cold-stiffened fingers. He pressed it to the lock, twisting until he heard a click, then pulled on the handle. He murmured with surprise as his hand slid from the mist-slickened handle to fall back at his side. He tried again, confirming his suspicions; the door was locked.

Then it was open when I came here...

And how long had the door been unlocked? He had returned from patrol only hours before; could he have carelessly left the mausoleum open to the exploration of thieves for an entire week?

I'll never hear the end of it from Wilhelm if anything is missing.

Julian tried to banish the thought. The guards who stood watch near the manor gate had a clear view of the cemetery. Surely they would have kept watch over the area, knowing that any burial ground was a place of comfort to the undead. And if he had left it unlocked, where was the harm? Only a week had passed, and the guard was always more watchful than usual while Julian and his brothers were away.

After his father had died, Julian had been urged to pay his respects at the grave regularly and had done so, though only out of a sense of obligation and no real desire to spend time in the moldy old mausoleum. After a time, his brothers began to protest the weekly visits; they were too busy with lessons or archery or fencing practice. Julian had been tempted to abandon his duty as well, but a sense of guilt and shame had compelled him to go alone one misty evening. That single hour of solitary reflection, speaking to his father as if he could still hear, had lifted Julians spirits and calmed his worldly worries. The illusion of his father's presence had been powerful, comforting, and left him with a quiet peace.

He had visited often since that night. The guards had learned not to disturb him, no matter what time of day or night he chose for his pilgrimage to the tomb; to be caught indulging in such a childish fantasy would be embarrassing beyond compare.

Julian unlocked the door and tucked the old key back into his clothing. The heavy bronze door opened easily, the faint squeak of its well-oiled hinges loud in the quiet night. Julian stepped inside, carefully shutting the portal behind him.

The air inside was cooler than he had expected and heavy with damp. The mist curled about the flame of his torch, its tendrils reaching for the fire as if to smother it. The flame hissed and sputtered, the dim light casting long shadows over the moldy stone vaults and carved niches. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply to calm himself; he had always found the closeness of the crowded room to be a comfort, but now it seemed dank and oppressive.

Julian's head snapped up at a soft scraping sound, and he held the torch high. Nothing. He let out his breath in a long, low hiss, cursing himself for being so on edge lately. None of the other men had been so affected by the sudden spike in vampire attacks on the small villages, so haunted by the tales of the survivors or the twisted bodies of the dead. It comes in cycles, Johann had said, resting his hand lightly on his youngest brother's shoulder before moving on to give orders to the soldiers. And Wilhelm had just shrugged at his concerns, suggesting that the front line was not a place for children and perhaps he should have stayed at home with the ladies rather than hindering the baron's work. Only Christian had sympathized; the servant had been affected as strongly as he, the throat wounds on the dead no doubt summoning memories of his own parents' murder.

And what would Father have said? That this is how things are? That feeling for the dead is weakness? Or would he say that each person is important to someone, and that we cannot so easily discard the lives of others?

But of course his father would have defended the lives and importance of the peasants; Julian's grandmother had been a simple farm girl, and "poor breeding" had been blamed for everything from Sebastian's carefree nature to his loose morals. But he had been loved by the people and was still spoken of fondly by well-meaning visitors who did not understand that the memories, good or bad, were more still painful than pleasant for Julian.

He turned toward Sebastian's tomb, heart heavy. Father. It has been six years. Would you know me now? He stepped forward into a pale rectangle of dusty moonlight that had managed to penetrate one of the small, dirty windows.

"Bastian?" a voice gasped, only an instant before Julian caught sight of a dark figure in the shadows near the tomb. He echoed the gasp, torch slipping from his fingers and clattering against the stone. Its light faded to a dull glow, the flames nearly smothered by the damp chill of the floor.

"No, not Sebastian," the man amended, his deep voice thick with emotion, "you're too young. Julian, then."

Julian's heart was heavy in his chest as a wave of cold dread washed over him. Someone had managed to slip past the guards and into the tomb. He stood, paralyzed by fear for several tense seconds before the meaning of the stranger's words came to him.

He knew my father?

"Who are you?" he breathed, mouth dry. "How do you know me?"

The tall man stepped away from the shadows; Julian could not make out any of his features in the near darkness, only the shape of thick curls about his head. "Everyone knows you, young master." The man's voice was lighter this time, his words touched by the barest hint of an unfamiliar accent. "The brilliant Julian, youngest son of Baron Sebastian."

"You don't belong here," Julian countered quietly, pleased that his discomfort was not projected in his voice. "Flattery will not change that."

The man laughed, a strangely intimate sound, and Julian felt the hint of a warm blush coloring his cheeks. "So brave, young Julian. Your father would be proud." The man came forward into another patch of moonlight, and Julian could not suppress a murmur of surprise as the stranger's face was revealed at last.

Beautiful...

His eyes were drawn to the man's face, carefully studying the arch of powerful eyebrows, the length and curve of dark lashes, the pale shadow of the cheekbones and slope of the nose, and below that, the strong mouth, lips curled upward in the barest of smiles. His heart was loud in his ears as the man bowed elegantly, dark curls falling forward as he took Julian's hand and raised it to his lips.

Julian snatched his hand away, embarrassed and angry and unable to speak. Who was this stranger, and how did he dare to act in such a familiar, condescending manner?

"Forgive me," the stranger's voice was tense with barely contained emotion. "I forgot myself."

But the words of apology had barely faded before the man stepped forward, closing the space between himself and Julian. A dizzying sensation overcame him as the man's eyes met his, holding his gaze in a possessive, intimate manner. Julian opened his mouth to protest, but could not find the words, nor could he remember why he wanted to speak at all. He could see nothing, think of nothing but the tall stranger who leaned over him, watching him intently. Julian turned his face away, drew in a sharp breath as cold fingers touched his cheek, gently turning him back. A familiar scent rose from the stranger's hand, and Julian struggled to remember what it was, finally breathing its name.

"Yes," the man's voice was as soft as his touch, long fingers barely stroking Julian's cheek. "Rosemary. For remembrance. But it has been so long, and you are no longer the boy I remember."

Julian stared blankly, his memories elusive, obscured as moonlight by mist. His consciousness was filled with now, the moment, and even that seemed uncertain. There was cold, bitter cold against his cheek, but a sense of warmth as well, radiating from the center of his body and leaving the tips of his fingers tingling. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the familiar heat, but quickly opened them again, unwilling to lose sight of the beautiful stranger for long.

Who...?

"Of course you don't remember me, Julian. Don't fret, child, you won't be able to recall anything while you're in such a state." The man's hand slipped from Julian's cheek to his neck, his fingers pressed lightly to the heat of his racing pulse. "I want to see you, that's all."

Julian said nothing, barely murmuring as another strong hand touched his side, sliding from his waist to his hip. He leaned into the touch, heedless of his mind's dull warning, choosing instead the reward of the other man's nod and appreciative murmur. "As I thought..."

The stranger's intense stare was softened by a genuine smile that transformed his expression; the change left Julian breathless. He leaned forward, barely conscious of his movements, eyes half-closed and face tilted up in silent invitation.

"Not yet, Julian." The man's voice was suddenly strained, his calm control seeming to scatter as he bent to brush his lips against the offered mouth. The feathery touch left Julian's lips burning, and he leaned closer, seeking more. He was stopped by two cold fingers.

"Not yet." The words came more firmly.

Julian fell back with a sound that was somewhere between a grumble and a sigh, face and eyes lowered as he breathed slowly, deeply, awaiting the man's next move. Several seconds went by, perhaps half a minute, before he lifted his head.

The man was gone.

Julian drew in a sharp breath as the fog lifted from his mind, thrusting him back into the reality of the cool, damp tomb. He pressed one hand to his forehead, eyes sliding shut as he struggled to remember the details of the encounter.

There was a man here, I'm sure of it. He...

His thought faded into nothing, too embarrassed by the images to put words to the scenes that flashed through his memory. Can't be real, there's no evidence. I'm not... I wouldn't act so wanton. He shook his head in an attempt to banish the visions, but the sensations of cold and of touch clung to his consciousness, drawing a radiant blush from his entire body.

He frowned, resolving to put all memories of the strangely vivid daydream from his mind. Too many horrors witnessed in too few days, he consoled himself as he bent to retrieve the dying torch. He had slept little while on patrol, left on edge by thoughts of the victims and an oppressive sense of danger; it was a wonder his mind had not chosen to indulge in some fantasy sooner.

Julian straightened. A short talk with his father would be enough to calm his mind and banish any further visions. And then sleep, he promised himself, brushing the smooth stone of the baron's tomb reverently with one hand. His fingers touched something, stirring up a familiar scent, and he drew his hand back with a hiss of surprise.

He leaned closer, heart throbbing with an odd combination of dread and excitement as his suspicions were confirmed.

Rosemary...

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