Dead Walkers: The Protectorate [Dead Walkers Series Book One] Read online

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  Copyright ©2005 by Josephine Piraneo

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  DEAD WALKERS: THE PROTECTORATE

  By

  Angelique Armae

  Prologue

  The Protectorate encampment outside East Angliae, Roman Britain

  "Save the girl..."

  The words echoed in Donovan Bramwell's head until he thought of nothing else. If only his father had revealed to him more detail. If only he knew who he was looking for.

  If only...

  The unending questions tortured him. Haunted his days and tormented his nights. But with nothing more than a broken relic hanging from a piece of knotted cloth, Donovan had little to go by in his search for the mysterious girl his people had headed out to protect.

  For the last fortnight he had roamed through strange lands trying to return to his grandfather's camp. The task hadn't been an easy one. First, he had spent several days trying to escape the priest charged with seeing to his protection, and then he had to make his way back to the Protectorate camp by hiding from Roman barbarians pillaging their way through Britain's provinces. None of his fellow Dead Walkers—humans and other immortals who walked on the dark side of life—could have managed to escape as he had. And now, by the devastatingly haunting sight lying before him, all he could think of were his father's last words to him.

  "Should we fail, it will be up to you to save the girl..."

  Donovan wandered through the encampment searching for his father and grandfather, the two men responsible for driving the task at hand into his brain. If only they had allowed him to remain with the camp and not sent him off to a church for safekeeping. He was ten and five—a man—for the gods’ sakes. He didn't need to be kept from war like a child, secured from the evils of the world.

  Staring at the devastation surrounding him, Donovan's heart ached. He could have helped his people.

  For more than a month now, he had heard the council, both mortals and vampires alike, speak of a pending invasion by the Romans. The Protectorate, from what Donovan had surmised, had set off on a mission to save a royal Celt, a girl born to both vampire and mortal worlds. But by the looks of things, his people hadn't been successful. And now it was up to him to carry out a task that an entire force of warriors had been stopped from doing.

  Everywhere he turned Donovan found nothing but charred tents and decapitated bodies. Long wooden stakes secured most of the corpses to the muddy earth. Others were brutally beaten and riddled with arrows. The smell of burning flesh churned his stomach. He easily deciphered vampire from human.

  So did the enemy.

  The thought struck fear into his soul. These Romans must have known whom they were dealing with when they invaded the camp. The oath of secrecy within the Protectorate had been broken, Donovan thought. If Caesar had known a unified society of vampires and mortals existed in the Isles, he also had to know subdivisions of the group existed throughout the Empire. A chill ran down his spine as the realization of the horrid notion settled in his mind. There were Dead Walkers everywhere. But until now, the Protectorate had managed to keep the vampyric wars to a minimum, keeping the evil Dead Walkers well within reach so that no major attacks outside their own realm could take place. Obviously, the Protectorate had misjudged its stronghold.

  A strong grasp locked around his ankle.

  Donovan stumbled, his hands flailing out in front of him. Mud smacked his lips. A Vampyric aura clawed at his soul, emitting from the fingers squeezing around his leg.

  He gathered his strength and pushed his arms against the slippery mud, rising to his knees and staring at the ground below.

  A bloodied body lay next to him, huddled in a muddy cocoon.

  Donovan examined the man's face. But it did him little good. The poor soul had been beaten to a bloody pulp, leaving his bones broken, his features unrecognizable.

  The man moved his raw lips in slow, tedious motions. From an opened mouth came no words. The man flexed his hand a second time.

  Donovan sensed the man wanted to say something to him, mayhap reveal his dying wish. He leaned in close, placing his ear near the injured man's mouth.

  "Vastos ... Iceni..."

  He had never heard such names. The man's words made little sense to him.

  "Go ... away. Return ... to ... Eire."

  The man loosened his grip, but he kept his fingers wrapped lightly around Donovan's ankle. He said nothing more.

  Donovan pulled away, and then turned back to face the man. Something didn't make sense to him. The man gave off the aura of vampire, not mortal. But he still had his head. He also hadn't been staked. Why would one vampire be left with his heart intact, when all the others had been removed?

  Donovan moved his leg, trying to free it from the dying man's grip, but the bloodied warrior refused to let go. The overwhelming sense of protection, followed by an immense feeling of possessiveness, washed over Donovan's soul. The man clung to him for dear life.

  Donovan searched the man's face one more time. Something had to be recognizable. Then he saw it, four small trickles of blood oozing from the man's neck.

  He recognized the mark on the instant. Double puncture wounds. The man had been bitten in the ancient Vampyric way, and apparently so after he'd been beaten. He had also been drained of most of his blood.

  In all his fifteen years, Donovan thought, he'd never seen such madness, such barbarianism. This war now engaged vampire against vampire. The thought sickened him. But why leave this particular Vampyric soul with his head and his heart intact?

  The man relaxed his fingers.

  Donovan welcomed the opportunity to move away. He rose to his feet and looked down upon the dying vampire. Whoever had committed this act did so on purpose. The enemy wanted this specific vampire to die from bleeding, a death most painful to a vampire. Once a double bite was complete, nothing could be done to aid the victim. Not even the gods could interfere. He'd die a slow, painful death, two times over. One would kill off his mortal body, the second death his Vampyric soul.

  The thought unsettled Donovan more now then when he had first discovered the puncture wounds. He bowed his head and prayed a silent prayer to the gods. No soul should have had to endure such agony. He couldn't even begin to imagine what the man must have witnessed on this battlefield. Donovan wondered what it would feel like to be left so alone, knowing death would soon claim your soul. If only he could understand the man's dying words. A pang of regret gnawed at his soul.

  Then, without warning, a fiery pain struck his shoulder, crashing down upon his flesh and cutting to the bone. On the instant, Donovan spun on his heel and drew his sword.

  A man dressed in a black cloak stood before him, the hood of his cape covering his eyes. “So fine an ending to so fine a day,” the stranger said.

  Donovan pushed the razor sharp edge of his sword closer to the man's neck.

  "A wound there would do me little harm."

  Shock washed over him like a tidal wave. The entity standing across from him gave off no Vampyric aura, no telltale signs of his soul's hellish curse. Donovan didn't waver. At present, it didn't matter to him who he w
as facing. It wasn't the first time he had battled a vampire, and if he had anything to do with it, he'd survive this fight and live to face more. “Who are you and what have you done to my people?"

  "Your people?” The vampire before him raised one of his gauntlet-covered hands, pushed the sword from his neck and pointed a glove-covered finger down at the dying soul lying upon the ground. “The last I checked,” he said. “This group of worthless souls belonged to his father."

  Donovan froze. Impossible. The dying man couldn't be his father. “You lie.” He didn't know what else to say. A son should have recognized his own father, even among such physical chaos. How could he have not known?

  The vampire took a step forward. “I admit to many sins, but in all my days, I have never once lied. I've no need to."

  Donovan doubted that. He took a deep breath, his lungs suddenly gasping for air. The girl ... Thoughts of the young Celt came flooding back to him. If the body upon the ground truly was that of his father, then the mission had even more meaning. He reached for the silver stake hidden under his tunic. During his vampyric training, he'd learned how easy one could make the body become a virtual weapons caddy. “Back away or I will kill you."

  The vampire smirked. “Not even the gods could kill me."

  "Where is Angus Bramwell?"

  "The Lord Protector escaped,” the cloaked vampire said. “He left like a coward, fleeing over that hill.” He pointed to the land behind where Donovan stood. “Not a loyal leader, in my opinion."

  His father had been abandoned. Pain hammered Donovan's heart. He should have been here for his father, fighting side by side, attacking the enemy. Donovan wanted to scream, to cry out, rant, rage.... But he refused to show such weakness in front of his enemy. He'd focus on the task at hand and mourn his loss later. He needed his every essence of will power to avenge his father's death. He would have his revenge and he would have it no matter what.

  Donovan leaped forward. He aimed the stake for the vampire's chest, hitting the heart dead center.

  He bounced back, the force of his thrust too great for his own weight.

  A loud hiss splintered the dead air. A flash of white blurred from beneath the vampire's hood.

  Fangs ... He refused to be bitten. Donovan lunged for the vampire's neck and flicked a small dagger from under the wrist of his tunic sleeve. He aimed for the jugular this time, hoping the man's neck would be more pliable than his chest.

  The vampire's hood fell back.

  Donovan gasped. His hands remained poised at the vampire's neck, an invisible force keeping him from moving the dagger any further. The man's eyes were all too familiar to him. They were identical to his father's ... to his grandfather's ... to his own. He backed away, stunned and confused, disbelief coursing through every last nerve in his body.

  "Yes,” the vampire hissed. “You and I are one and the same."

  He shook his head, trying to dispel the shocking notion. Not only had the vampire read his mind, but the creature also had revealed information he found difficult to fathom. “Impossible."

  The vampire shrugged, and then backed away. He clawed at the stake protruding from his heart and removed it with a single tug, tossing the blood-soaked metal to the ground in annoyance. He hissed a second time, and then lifted his head. He stared Donovan square in the eyes, his beady red orbs now flaming with anger.

  "Tell me, Donovan,” the vampire said. “Do you welcome the odd sensation of being a quasi as opposed to being a full-fledged vampire?"

  Donovan didn't answer. He also decided not to think too much. The vampire before him knew his name, read his thoughts. The sense of being in dangerous territory overwhelmed him.

  "I can take away the pain of slow growth, the pain that boils in the blood of one who teeters on the brink of both Vampyric and mortal worlds. I can take it all away and grace you with full Vampyric powers.” He reached out an open hand, welcoming Donovan to step closer.

  "How do you know of the quasi existence?"

  The enemy offered a sly laugh. “I, too, was bitten while within my mother's womb for the sole purpose of being born a quasi. But the gods interfered, robbing my soul of life before I was born. The powers of darkness then came to my mother's aid and gave me back that which had so wrongly been taken away. I am now a full-fledged vampire with more powers than any other in existence. No other Dead Walker can match my strength."

  He didn't believe such nonsense. The gods didn't sin and they didn't make mistakes. Only mortals and others born to this world erred in judgment.

  A rustle in the nearby trees caught Donovan's attention. The essence of fear, emitting from a mortal soul, pricked his nerves.

  The vampire slowly turned his head toward the forested land adjacent to the camp, his eyes suddenly widening, focused on something unseen in the distance.

  The girl! Donovan knew in the deepest depths of his heart, the vampire recognized the same soul that he did. His father's words echoed in his head once more, sending a chill down Donovan's spine. He needed to do something, anything. He wracked his brain for an answer, trying desperately to think of a way to distract the vampire from the girl in the forest. He dropped his dagger. The clanging sound of its metal blade hitting against a broken shield on the ground caused the vampire to turn back to face him.

  "I know your thoughts, Donovan. Therefore I know your plans. You are a fool to risk your life for another."

  Donovan didn't answer. He took one step backward, then another, and yet another.

  "You can't escape me."

  Maybe not, but at least you won't get the girl. Donovan spun about and ran through the charred camp. His heart raced, and his breathing was heavy. He scanned the area with his preternatural abilities and found only one possible means of escape—an embankment at the edge of the hill.

  Donovan ran as fast as his body allowed. Sliding over mud and decay, his feet skidded and stomped. He refused to stop until the girl at least had a chance to escape the vampire now in his shadow.

  As he dove over an embankment, his heart pace slowed and his breathing calmed. He swallowed hard. He no longer had control of his body. The skin upon his neck tore with the puncture of two fangs sinking deep into his veins. He hadn't even realized the vampire had snagged him. His thoughts swirled into one blur. Father ... grandfather ... the girl ... He continued to fall into a deep abyss of confusion until he felt nothing but the encompassing mass of darkness.

  "We found a girl, my lord,” a deep voice echoed from somewhere in the distance.

  I have failed, Father, Donovan thought as his body went limp, his mind swirling in heavy fog.

  The vampire at his neck took one last drink of his blood and withdrew his fangs. Despite the confusion reeling through his mind, Donovan remained aware of the vampire lingering over him. He swore he heard the creature curse, then spit. But before he could decipher his enemy's words, the gaping holes torn into his flesh began to burn. As the night air blanketed his skin, a raging heat engulfed his blood. He tried to move, but his limbs were powerless. The vampire's unexpected act of pulling away confused Donovan even further. He wasn't going to die. His enemy wasn't going to kill him.

  A moment later, ice-cold flesh brushed against his lips. A metallic essence drenched his tongue as an uncontrollable desire to drink overcame him. Donovan fought the urge to feed. Yet, despite his best efforts, he swallowed hard, taking in all that the vampire offered him and then some. As he swallowed, he felt the outer edge of his soul slip away. Panic rose inside Donovan. Despite his confusion he struggled against the attacking vampire and pushed away. He fell back, drained of all energy.

  The burning sensation that seared his neck, flared up again.

  "Vastos has returned,” the vampire lapping at his neck, whispered. “Welcome to my dark world."

  Chapter One

  Dublin, Ireland—1815

  The earthy smell of the dank catacombs teased his nostrils and the cold air chilled him to the bone. But Donovan wouldn't have had it any ot
her way. Life was starting to bore him as of late, and the peaceful existence of the catacombs gave him a bit of solace, even if it was only temporary.

  He leaned back against the stone sarcophagus, his favorite brandy snifter resting in his hand. He twirled the glass between his fingers and watched in silent awe as the swirl of caramel colored liquor danced in a circulating motion. He raised the glass to his lips and downed a sufficient gulp of the drink. The potent liquor went down easy, helping to wash away his sins of the past. If only his conscience was as easy to absolve. He relished the fiery feel of brandy burning its way from his throat to his stomach. It wiped away all the tension, all the worries, and most importantly, all the pain. Donovan raised the glass to his lips a second time and finished off the drink.

  From out of the shadows, the form of a man appeared. “My lord,” he said. “Magnus McKei requests your presence in his office before sunrise."

  Donovan groaned. “Why do you never bring me good news, Simpson? Why is it always some dratted information that makes me shiver?” He hated having to confer with his grandfather's solicitor. The only time the man ever called on him was to either badger on endlessly about some ancient Vampyric rule, a stray Dead Walker, or to insist he improve his ties with the Protectorate organization. Three things he hated most. Three things he presently cared not to deal with.

  Donovan rose to his feet. “Well, I suppose it has been some time since Magnus last requested my presence in his office, so I should have expected this. But somehow, no matter how much I know I will never escape the man, I still haven't come to terms with the situation."

  The valet reached for Donovan's empty brandy snifter. “The Protectorate is in your blood, sir. I fear you will never be able to fully sever such ties."

  If only Simpson knew how true his words were, Donovan thought.

  "I have taken the liberty of having Higgins bring round the phaeton, my lord. Your ride awaits at the front."

  Simpson disappeared back into the shadows.