Reborn (Power of the Blood World Book 3)

POWER OF THE BLOOD WORLD Revised and Updated! Reborn is book 3 of a 4 vampire-novel series that throbs with danger, treachery, betrayal, cruelty and dark, sultry romance. In a world where the undead are wary of and competitive and view humans as only prey, amazingly, three Blooddrinkers from different eras and cultures are able to form relationships. But change breeds more change as their individual stories unfold, blending and escalating, adding pieces until the horrifying picture becomes clear: both species are in danger of extinction! Book 3 – REBORN Karl is intellectual, scientific, not driven by his feelings. He managed to form an intimate relationship with Gerlinde, bringing her into his world of night. But catastrophe evokes in him dark, deadly emotions and Karl must struggle to save Gerlinde and his entire species, all while battling his suicidal urges!

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RebornPower of the Blood WorldBy Nancy KilpatrickMosaic PressCopyright © 2006 Nancy KilpatrickAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-0-88962-840-3CHAPTER 1Dimed amber streetlights created a turn-of-the-last-century feel, or at least that was how Michel imagined things had appeared one hundred years ago. He'd seen the look in period-piece movies. And sepia photographs. But he had existed on this earth less than two decades, not the century plus his Aunt Chloe had been walking the planet.Michel and Chloe climbed the winding streets of the mountainside in silence. Eventually, the street reached a fork, right or left; straight ahead were the wrought-iron gates of the small Jewish cemetery. This isolated graveyard stood protected from the other cemeteries on the mountain. As they passed the locked gates, Michel stared in at the modern, crisp stones, so white, so low to the ground; a graveyard almost free of monuments. And no crypts. He'd been here several times, inside the gates, and although some of the inscriptions touched him, this cemetery as a whole did not inspire him in any way.They turned right and slightly further up the hill they approached the dead end, the arched stone gates of the Mont Royal Cemetery. From here, he did not see the enormous lighted cross that could be viewed from just about everywhere else in the city of Montréal. Crosses didn't bother his kind, although mortal legends said they should. But so much of the literature on vampires was false. And funny. And most of it was junk. He guessed it made good reading for somebody. Somebody he probably wouldn't find too interesting.The large Gothic gates of stone and iron closed to vehicles at sunset, but conveniently, a small pedestrian gate beside them stayed open, and they entered. There was a guardhouse, but he could sense the guard was busy reading, not too interested in the two beings illegally entering the cemetery after hours.This, the 'English' cemetery--although French were buried here as well-appeared relatively ordered. Grass mowed. Tombstones spaced well apart. No hidden sections. Few unusual stones. Oh, there was the monument just past the lawns, when the tombstones started. He and Chloe stopped to read it:THOS. LETT HACKETT, L.O.A. who was barbarously murdered on Victoria Square when quietly returning from Divine Services 12th July 1877 This monument was erected by Orangemen and Protestants of the Dominion as a tribute to his memory and to mark their detestation of his murderers."Think it was a political murder?" Michel asked."It could have been," Chloe said. "From the date.""Could have been a bar brawl, too," Michel laughed. "But they sure are trying to convince everybody he was some kind of martyr.""Mortals need to give death meaning. We are not so unlike them."They walked up the wide path, up and up the hill. On the left in the distance against the trees he saw the enormous Molson crypt--the family that owned the brewery. It occupied a big area, and he'd come up through the woods around the other side a couple of times.Further on stood the McArthur monument, white, pink and beige stonework, a peaked roof with its high reliefs, and four pillars, one at each corner of the mini temple, holding up that roof. Three small human-size angels leaned against the pillars--one had been stolen or broken years before. A hundred years of pollution determined their color, black; the color was cool. Yes, there were definite attractions here. Once, when he was alone, he had stood at that fourth, empty pillar, pretending to be the missing angel. "The angel of death!" he cried in a macabre voice, raised his arms to the sky. Then he let himself fall forward, face-down, onto the soft grass.As they walked, he saw the odd monument that resembled the rectangular boxes in European cathedrals where Popes and Cardinals and other high-religious types were buried. These blocks of marble were usually elaborate. He'd seen a few made of iron, now rusted. Often these graves were cordoned off with linked iron chain.Michel and Chloe had chosen the eastern entrance, not because of its proximity to their home in Westmount, but because they had wandered all over the city that night and ended up circling the mountain. It didn't matter. There were hours yet till sunrise. Sunrise was sleep time for Chloe, but Michel could still bear the solar rays, although not as well as when he had been a kid.A new moon hung high in the clear fall sky, washing the grounds with white light, illuminating the stones enough to make them appear to be whitewashed.They continued in simpatico silence, intuitively moving along the main path, turning up one of the side paths and not another at a crossroad, at the same moment, synchronized, by instinct, as if they knew where they were headed."I read there are more people alive now than have ever died. I did the calculations. I think it's true," Michel said.Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. A red fox darted between the graves. The animal's sinuous muscles slid beneath it's furry skin. The eyes glinted red as it froze and stared at them, aware that it was in the vicinity of predators. Michel wouldn't harm it, and neither would Chloe, but they could, and the fox knew that. Good intentions only go so far with animals, Chloe once said, and he believed that was true.Michel sensed mortals, an odd energy that changed the air, visually and intangibly, making it feel more solid yet electrical. With his sharp night vision, he scanned the hill beyond the fox. There! On a tombstone, surrounded on three sides by trees, sat a couple. No, the female sat, or more, reclined on top of the tombstone. The male stood between her open legs. They were naked. He realized what was happening, something that filled him with endless curiosity. His sensitive ears picked up their rapid breathing, the slippery sound of their bodies connecting in wild passion. The man moved rhymically. The woman moaned softly. And then the scent hit Michel, startling him: blood. The woman's menstrual blood. Released with each stroke, gushing down the stone face of the grave marker, turning the stone a brilliant red!Suddenly, the fox bolted. It raced through the night. Michel heard a clack as its claws snapped a branch, desperate to create distance and therefore safety for itself, not from the fornicating mortals, but from Michel and Chloe.Chloe had turned her head slightly to watch the animal, and the couple. "Sex and death," she said softly. "Mortals love the combination. Again, I suspect we are not so different in this regard either."The mortals were oblivious to the fox, and to the beings walking on the path who might make them permanent residents of this place they had chosen for intimacy.A smile played on Chloe's full lips, so reminiscent of his own. Michel stared at his aunt's profile. Her white hair glinted silver in the moonglow. She was a striking woman. All of the females of his kind were attractive--it was their nature, he guessed, to look seductive, no matter at what age they had transformed--it was probably a survival thing. Not only were they seductive to mortals, they were mesmerizing to one another. It was both defensive and offensive he knew, for his kind were a threat to each other, although he didn't have a really clear idea of that yet.Chloe had the same Gallic features as his dad, features he had inherited-- a strong chin, long nose, expressive almond eyes. Gerlinde said they all looked like models in a Renaissance painting, and he'd seen enough artwork to know it was true."The poor earth supports more life than it ever has," Chloe finally said, startling him, because he'd forgotten he'd even said anything. "That always amazes me. It's a fine gesture of the Great Mother, the mother of us all, to nurture us, every one. But I wonder that her milk hasn't dried up by now."They moved up the low hill, past the children's graveyard on the left, the ground dotted with little stones for small occupants six feet below. Simple markers--names, dates, sometimes a biblical quote--often adorned with a stone images. Baby lambs and fat cherubs were favored. Someone had put a toy unicorn against one of the stones.Michel wondered what it would be like to die. He would never die. He knew that now. He had made his decision, or at least most of the time he felt he had, although he had yet to believe that a mental choice could change anything. It wasn't much of a decision anyway, for what were the options? Grow old and expire, and alienate himself from his parents, and all the others in his community? Or be part of their world forever and continue to embrace its riches. Forever, or for at least as long as their kind could survive. No one had yet figured out the scope of their longevity, but the oldest they knew about was over 700 years. He could barely imagine such a time frame. He'd only been breathing for sixteen.But things were changing. He was changing, and that felt disconcerting. He could still tolerate the world of daylight, although clearly not for much longer. His skin had become far more sensitive as he consumed less and less solid food and relied only on blood. He could not envision a life where he could never again look up at the blue sky and stare at the brilliant sun, and yet everyone he was close to had existed without sunlight for a long time. He wondered if he would miss it. The others did, because sometimes he heard them talk about the sun in the same reverent tones he'd heard priests and rabbis discuss God, or Buddhists mention the Buddha, or the way Moslems referred to Allah. The sun became to his kind a holiest of hollies, something always out of reach and yet eminently desirable. He had a hard time imagining feeling that way, and yet how else would he feel once he was deprived of sunlight permanently?But his days were still filled with mortals, all around him, sometimes suffocating him with their smells that became almost tangible, as if he could taste the air wafting scent from their bodies, or the breath emitted from their nostrils. Already he felt their heartbeats within him like the vibrations of eternal drums. He watched and heard air passing through their porous lungs, listened to the digestive juices squishing in their stomachs and intestines. At times, the stimulus was nearly unbearable. His mother told him he'd get used to such sensory overload and learn to block it out, except when he hunted, which he had yet to do. Maybe that was so. Maybe not. At the moment, it felt that he would be this way forever. Even now, though he and Chloe had moved away, he could still hear the panting, the wet sounds of the two on the hill as they approached mutual orgasm, and that both aroused and terrified him, for the feelings were so strong. And then he heard them laughing together, kissing ...He had to admit that he found mortals fascinating. They lived as though they would live forever, and yet that was not so. He wondered how their minds worked, how they could disregard death until they were boxed in, forced to open that door with trembling hands. They were so mysterious to him. And a few-around his age--he found incredibly appealing, although most youth he thought appalling. They acted stupidly, and had developed coarse, false mannerisms that offended him. Their concerns were banal, and only peripherally jelled with his own. His wider scope had been expanding and developing since his birth. He couldn't help being the way he was. The world of his kind was one these blood-bearers hardly dared dream about, and yet he lived it. All the time. It was his reality. And none of the books and movies on what they called 'vampires' came anywhere near to capturing his experience, so how could these mortals relate to him?The worst part of being around mortals was his changing attitudes. Now he felt attracted for new reasons. More and more, he was aware of their sexual energy, and equally aware of the vitae pumping through their veins. He saw them as fresh, succulent food, which both excited and disturbed him. He had yet to get a handle on these conflicting appetites which rocked him to a greater and greater extent every second of his life. His father said to relax. He was an adolescent. He would have his passions under his control, in time, and when he began to take blood from human veins, that would help. Michel didn't feel all that convinced. After all, his parents, nobody in his community had gone through what he was going through. None of them had been born to this existence, they had all been created. His feelings vacillated in such an extreme way that a lot of the time he just wanted to run and hide. From everything. And everyone. Especially from himself.They reached the low fence separating the two main cemeteries--someone had left open the narrow gate again. Just on both sides of the fence were the military graves, standardized whiter-than-white thin curved stones with crosses etched into them, and little maple leaf flags stuck into the ground marking a tribute to each soldier.Farther up the hill, the chapel that held the urns with ashes came into view. The building contained drawers, with dying flowers tied to the handles, and colorful funereal lamps lining the floor. Sometimes there were photographs of the dead one. He didn't like this building much, but far preferred it to the underground vaults. Those, so modern, airless, so hideously medical that it was like being in a sterile laboratory beneath ground where the dead were not truly dead, just packed away until some unsuspecting being walked through ... Maybe he'd seen too many horror movies, but that place gave him the creeps. If he were to die, he certainly hoped his remains would never be stored in a such a gruesome location.They were now in La cimetière Notre-Dame-des-Neiges, the cemetery of Our Lady of the Snows, commonly called Côte-des-Neige Cemetery, the French cemetery. Stones dating back to the early 1800s congested the sloped land. Maybe it was cellular, but instantly he relaxed and felt 'home', part of a community. His cultural ancestors lay here, and he found that comforting and reassuring.Lights from candles and lanterns dotted the crowded hills and valleys, glowing spectral guideposts, beckoning night visitors this way, or that. A variety of designs and materials had been used over nearly two centuries and this view of graves surrounding the trees felt chaotically familiar to Michel, as if he belonged here. "Do you think I'm morbid?" he suddenly asked his aunt.Chloe gave him a quick hug. "No more morbid than I am. This cemetery is so lovely and peaceful. Why would you say that?""Well, they're all dead. But I like it here. Are you afraid of death?"Chloe looked a little wistful. "Michel, I did die. We all did.""I didn't.""No, but you are exceptional."He hated it when they said this. Just because he was the only one who had been born of mortal woman and one of their kind--well his mother had been mortal then, but his dad brought her over- "We all went through death, Michel. It's a miraculous process. To be born, to live, to die, and then to be reborn."He had been born, and was living a life. But he wouldn't die. Something about that seemed so strange. So wrong. Most of the time it was okay, but sometimes it made him feel a bit ... cheated. And lonely. Was he the only being in existence who would never die? How could that be? "But, when you died ... were you afraid?""Yes. I suppose everyone is. And in my case, it came so suddenly, the attack ..."She'd never really talked about it, although he had the overview. His aunt, David, Karl, and some of the others, had been taken by one of their kind they called Antoine. He was, they said, insane. Michel had seen him once, in action. He'd been ten years old, but it was like some nightmare in his memory, not real, but the impact had stayed with him. He didn't like thinking about those days he'd been kidnapped."Would you tell me about what happened? When ... Antoine took you? What it was like?"Chloe just stared straight ahead for a moment. "Let me think about it."They climbed another hill, and took a narrower path, toward the giant crypts buried in the earth. Only the doors and front walls lay exposed. Michel stopped before a particularly ornate door, of curved metal grillwork. Inside, dusty wooden coffins had been piled on top of coffins, resting on heavy iron bars, half a dozen in all. In one corner near the air vent at the roof three baby coffins had been haphazardly stacked, tiny things, black wood, chevron-shaped, each unique, with ornate metal handles ... They had all died. Every one of them. Yet he would not ...Michel liked looking into the crypts. The iron-earth odor appealed to him. It reminded him a bit of the taste of blood. There was also the scent of decomposition, since embalming hadn't been invented back when most of these people died. Time travel must be like this, he thought, catching the scent of another era, of time compressed into a small space. (Continues...)Excerpted from Reborn by Nancy Kilpatrick. Copyright © 2006 Nancy Kilpatrick. Excerpted by permission of Mosaic Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

Nancy Kilpatrick is an internationally renowned, award-winning author of thirty books, including seventeen novels, five collections of short stories, and has edited eight anthologies. Her works are acclaimed in the genres of dark fantasy, horror, fantasy, and mystery. She was born in the United States and now lives in Montreal, Canada.

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