Read Online Ad Eternum by Elizabeth Bear - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Bear
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rising the rest of the way. “In the kitchen.” He glanced at Sarah. “We’ll get some more tea?”
“Of course,” Sarah said smoothly. “Use the blue pot.”
The wampyr allowed Damian to usher him down the hall with every evidence of meekness. He leaned against the wall while Damian, obviously familiar with the kitchen, filled the kettle and lit the gas. The flames were as blue as the ones that had consumed the house on Jardinstraat.
“If this is too much for you,” the wampyr said, while Damian warmed the teapot and measured tea, “I understand quite fully.”
Damian laughed. He raised his face to the heavens and shook it from side to side in incredulous wonder. “Jack…this is not the first time a friend’s house has been firebombed. I am not looking for an escape. I was concerned about you . Are you really going to let them drive you out of the city?”
“Back into the wilderness?” the wampyr said. “I had not thought of it in those terms, or how it would appear—”
“Then what,” asked Damian, “was your motivation?”
“An old friend.” The wampyr idly picked the dry, hard skin of a fingertip with his opposite hand. “She wishes me to come traveling with her.”
“Another wampyr?”
Damian hid the jealousy well as he poured the first warm water out of the teapot and flushed it down the drain, replacing it with rounded spoons of dried leaves as the kettle began to sing. Well, but not well enough to fool the wampyr.
“A wolf,” the wampyr said. “What would you have me do, then, Damian?”
“I’ve known you for two days. I’m not sure I get to have an opinion.”
“But you do.”
Damian clicked the flame off and poured the boiling water. Aromatic steam rose from the leaves as he wet them.
“Opinions are like kittens,” he commented. “People are always giving them away.”
“I’m asking.”
Damian turned, folding his arms, his back to the white enamel stove which clicked as it cooled. “I’d stand and fight, if it were me.”
“You do. In point of fact.”
That drew a smile. “What better way to make students see a wampyr as a…well, as not so much a monster, than to teach them?”
“Damian,” the wampyr said softly. “I am a monster, my dear.”
In the time it took for the tea to be made, the party had drifted from its mooring in the library. Now Estelle and Ruthanna were engaged in some erudite argument about the nuances of spellcasting while Sarah played referee. Meanwhile, Ragoczy had taken his teacup and saucer into the parlor and seated himself on the leathern bench of a powder-blue bentside spinet tucked into a corner there.
The wampyr touched Damian on the sleeve in the hall, relieved him of the teapot, and made his way past the glass partition into the parlor.
“Tea?” he asked, when Ragoczy looked up.
“Thank you.” Ragoczy removed his cup from the sideboard and held it well away from the harpsichord so the wampyr could pour without endangering the instrument’s finish. He sipped, and set the cup back in the saucer.
“If I were cruel,” the wampyr said, “I would grant your wish.”
“My wish?”
“To be immortal, Nykyfor Borysovich. Or the nearest approximation there is.”
It was a good thing Ragoczy had set the tea down, given the way the keys of the spinet rattled under his fingers. “Where on earth—”
“My kind have been shedding our old selves and reinventing new ones for millennia. And we know how to find each other. You…are only human, Gospodin Kiroff.” The wampyr said it softly, like a benediction. “So, how fortunate for you that I am not cruel. Merely selfish.”
Ragoczy lifted his chin, like a maiden in a romance. “You will not help me.”
“You would think it help, for a little while.” The wampyr shook his head. “No. You will have to find your Philosopher’s Stone without me…‘Prince Ragoczy.’”
Ragoczy drew himself up and in, so the wampyr could imagine the armor assembling. “Who
“Of course,” Sarah said smoothly. “Use the blue pot.”
The wampyr allowed Damian to usher him down the hall with every evidence of meekness. He leaned against the wall while Damian, obviously familiar with the kitchen, filled the kettle and lit the gas. The flames were as blue as the ones that had consumed the house on Jardinstraat.
“If this is too much for you,” the wampyr said, while Damian warmed the teapot and measured tea, “I understand quite fully.”
Damian laughed. He raised his face to the heavens and shook it from side to side in incredulous wonder. “Jack…this is not the first time a friend’s house has been firebombed. I am not looking for an escape. I was concerned about you . Are you really going to let them drive you out of the city?”
“Back into the wilderness?” the wampyr said. “I had not thought of it in those terms, or how it would appear—”
“Then what,” asked Damian, “was your motivation?”
“An old friend.” The wampyr idly picked the dry, hard skin of a fingertip with his opposite hand. “She wishes me to come traveling with her.”
“Another wampyr?”
Damian hid the jealousy well as he poured the first warm water out of the teapot and flushed it down the drain, replacing it with rounded spoons of dried leaves as the kettle began to sing. Well, but not well enough to fool the wampyr.
“A wolf,” the wampyr said. “What would you have me do, then, Damian?”
“I’ve known you for two days. I’m not sure I get to have an opinion.”
“But you do.”
Damian clicked the flame off and poured the boiling water. Aromatic steam rose from the leaves as he wet them.
“Opinions are like kittens,” he commented. “People are always giving them away.”
“I’m asking.”
Damian turned, folding his arms, his back to the white enamel stove which clicked as it cooled. “I’d stand and fight, if it were me.”
“You do. In point of fact.”
That drew a smile. “What better way to make students see a wampyr as a…well, as not so much a monster, than to teach them?”
“Damian,” the wampyr said softly. “I am a monster, my dear.”
In the time it took for the tea to be made, the party had drifted from its mooring in the library. Now Estelle and Ruthanna were engaged in some erudite argument about the nuances of spellcasting while Sarah played referee. Meanwhile, Ragoczy had taken his teacup and saucer into the parlor and seated himself on the leathern bench of a powder-blue bentside spinet tucked into a corner there.
The wampyr touched Damian on the sleeve in the hall, relieved him of the teapot, and made his way past the glass partition into the parlor.
“Tea?” he asked, when Ragoczy looked up.
“Thank you.” Ragoczy removed his cup from the sideboard and held it well away from the harpsichord so the wampyr could pour without endangering the instrument’s finish. He sipped, and set the cup back in the saucer.
“If I were cruel,” the wampyr said, “I would grant your wish.”
“My wish?”
“To be immortal, Nykyfor Borysovich. Or the nearest approximation there is.”
It was a good thing Ragoczy had set the tea down, given the way the keys of the spinet rattled under his fingers. “Where on earth—”
“My kind have been shedding our old selves and reinventing new ones for millennia. And we know how to find each other. You…are only human, Gospodin Kiroff.” The wampyr said it softly, like a benediction. “So, how fortunate for you that I am not cruel. Merely selfish.”
Ragoczy lifted his chin, like a maiden in a romance. “You will not help me.”
“You would think it help, for a little while.” The wampyr shook his head. “No. You will have to find your Philosopher’s Stone without me…‘Prince Ragoczy.’”
Ragoczy drew himself up and in, so the wampyr could imagine the armor assembling. “Who
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