Blood Tears: An m/m romance (Dark

Blood Book 2) Scarlet Blackwell

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 Blood Tears
Dark Blood Book 2

Scarlet Blackwell
 Copyright © 2023 Scarlet Blackwell

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons living, dead or undead, events, places or names is purely
coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transferred in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the publisher.
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Cover design by B4Jay
 Contents

Title Page
Copyright
Blood Tears
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
Out Now
Out Now
Also by Scarlet Blackwell
 Blood Tears

“What man will perpetrate on man. I’ve seen so much that I’m sick at heart. I could
cry.”
So says the mysterious man who appears one night in the British trench on the Western Front.
Private Stephen Sutherland is deep into the horror of the Somme when the vampire Istvan finds him.
The attraction is instant but Stephen, and his friend Sam, are about to go over the top and
Istvan knows they will not survive. He’s not allowed to make new vampires, on orders of the vampire
king, Emil, but Emil hasn’t been heard of in long years, since he fought Istvan in Prague and
disappeared without trace. His memory lingers long, tainting Istvan’s life.
Istvan has a choice. Allow the soldiers to become casualties of war or save their lives and
make them immortal.
A dark, steamy m/m tale of blood lust and vampire power games.
Themes: hurt/comfort, scenes of MMM+ with MM ending
Warnings: violence, sexual scenes, graphic scenes of war and death, double penetration,
bloodplay, spanking, multiple partners
 Prologue

Prague 1895

Istvan Blasko and Emil Meissner hit the calm waters of the river Vltava with a thunderous splash.
They sunk below the surface wrapped in a lover’s embrace, both clinging on as though for dear life.
Which was somewhat ironic considering they were both dead.
Istvan stared into Emil’s pasty face. His skin glowed beneath the surface, translucent and
pearlescent, strangely beautiful, his eyes as black as the water, boring deep into Istvan’s very soul.
Istvan didn’t understand his strange compulsion for Emil. He’d found the older vampire intent on
killing Severin, Istvan’s dearest friend, on Charles Bridge and had intervened. It had all been down to
that pet of his, of course. Nikolaus, the love of Severin’s life, and Emil’s current amour. Emil had
only taken him to fuck with Severin. That was how he operated.
The ensuing fight had been somewhat one-sided considering Emil could have crushed Istvan
instantly. He seemed reluctant to defend himself. Reluctant to hurt Istvan? That could hardly be the
case. He had done plenty of that over the years since he had first killed Istvan in 1701.
Istvan let go of Emil. He shoved the other vampire away hard by the shoulders, the water
impeding him. He watched Emil float away, white face fading into darkness, and Istvan kicked for the
surface, broke through the water. He coughed, treading water beneath the arches of the bridge, clothes
weighing him down. Slowly, exhausted, he started to swim for the bank.
The bridge was deserted under the moonlight as he climbed the steps and stood dripping on
the cobbles. A whiff of copper reached his sensitive nostrils and almost made his fangs snap out
before he stopped himself. The blood was from Severin or Nikolaus, and Istvan could not allow
bloodlust to stop him thinking clearly. He glanced around. Where were they and where was Emil?
Istvan didn’t understand anything about Emil. His motivations, his anger towards the world,
his treatment of others. But in private, Emil was a little different. When Istvan got into his bed and
under his skin. When there was just the two of them with no other vampires or humans playing with
them. Emil sometimes showed tenderness and thoughtfulness. He touched Istvan with gentle hands and
put his pleasure above all else. Once they were done, Emil reverted to type.
There had to be more for him in this world than just Emil. If there wasn’t, he should just give
up now.
He was afraid to go back to the hotel on Karlova and see if his friends were there. He was
more afraid that Emil might catch up with him. He needed time to lick his wounds.
 Chapter One
France, June 1916

Stephen

The night sky was black and patterned with stars like diamonds on velvet. The vast, empty expanse
of No Man’s Land stretched out in front of Private Stephen Sutherland as he stood on the fire step,
head below the parapet, binoculars trained on the German trench.
The only sounds from the dugout behind him were stifled snores and coughs as the sleeping
men did their best to forget where they were for another day. Stephen had been in France against his
will for six months of blood, pain and loss. In the baked solid earth around the Somme, home seemed
so very far away. Somewhere in the forest an owl hooted and Stephen marvelled that anything could
still be alive here. Why didn’t the owl fly away? But then, with the world at war, where would it go?
He snapped to attention as something moved in No Man’s Land. A dark shape coalesced,
walking upright towards him as though oblivious to the British guns. Stephen gaped. A German
soldier with a death wish? He lowered his binoculars and raised his rifle, bayonet already fixed,
safety back. He didn’t know how many men he’d killed since January but he didn’t relish this one. A
man clearly unarmed, walking slowly and steadily as though out for a midnight stroll. Stephen’s finger
shook on the trigger. The man wore no steel helmet, nor did it look like he wore the grey-green
uniform of the Germans. He had no belt containing ammunition, no gas mask resting on his hip. Ice-
cold sweat slid down Stephen’s spine. Could this man be a civilian? He seemed to be wearing a
black suit. His hair was dark, face frosty white in the moonlight. Stephen kept his finger on the trigger.
Shouldn’t he shoot and ask questions later? But what if the stranger in No Man’s Land was an
innocent man? Stephen had started to come to the conclusion that every man on the battlefield was an
innocent man, regardless of what country they came from.
As he hesitated, the man moved closer to the British trench. Stephen bit his lip. He raised his
binoculars and scoured the German trench for activity. He saw the look-out instantly, a soldier with
rifle raised, trained on the stranger in No Man’s Land. That kind of settled it.
Stephen hissed a warning. “You there! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
The white-faced man stopped walking. He stood still, looking in Stephen’s direction. Stephen
looked at him through the binoculars and got a close-up of the stranger’s pasty face. Handsome he
was too, dark-eyed and fine-boned. Stephen swept the field glasses down the man’s body. As he’d
thought, the interloper wore a black suit, perhaps made of velvet. Old-fashioned, last century, maybe
European. Stephen lowered the glasses.
He raised his voice just slightly to speaking level. “Answer me or I shoot.”
The man responded by starting to walk again, not upping his pace, still looking like he was out
for a peaceful stroll after a good dinner. A shot rang out, shattering the stillness of the night and the
man’s body jerked as a bullet slammed into his back, catapulting him face down into a shell-hole,
where he disappeared from sight.
 Stephen swore. He trained his rifle on the German trench and aimed at the sniper who had
shot the stranger, squeezing off one round. The bullet fell short, pinging against the barbed wire and
the soldier vanished.
Stephen lifted his binoculars in an unsteady hand and scanned the ground for the fallen man.
There was no sign of him. He located the hole he thought the stranger had plunged into and kept his
glasses trained on it for many minutes. Nothing more moved in No Man’s Land.
Stephen sighed. It was more than his life was worth to attempt to rescue someone who wasn’t
one of his own. He climbed down off the fire step and froze as he saw a man in black standing a few
feet away.
There was no mistaking who it was.
Stephen snapped his rifle to his shoulder instantly. “I just saw you shot,” he said.
A small smile curved the man’s sensual mouth. Closer to, his hair was chestnut, his eyes
amber. He was even more handsome, compellingly so. He was tall, his body lean, the suit moulded
perfectly to his every curve. “My powers of recovery are legendary.” His voice was soft and his
accent was foreign, perhaps Eastern European.
Stephen frowned. He curved his finger around the trigger. “Who are you?”
The man bowed. “Istvan Blasko. At your service. And yourself?”
Stephen’s finger cramped he held himself so tense. “Stephen,” he said reluctantly. “Where are
you from?”
“Budapest.”
The rush of adrenaline into his blood made Stephen’s legs shake. He depressed the trigger a
fraction. “You’re my enemy.” His words sounded unconvincing to his own ears.
Istvan shrugged. “If you say so. I’m not really sure what’s going on.”
Stephen stared at him. “What? Do you need a history lesson, man? Austria-Hungary started
this, remember? I’m here because of your countrymen.”
Istvan regarded him for a long moment. His expression was conciliatory. He seemed entirely
peaceable. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Stephen swallowed. “Are you armed?”
Istvan shook his head.
“What do you want?” How exactly had this man got through the barbed wire without a scratch
and descended into the trench without a sound? Stephen wasn’t exactly feeling the threat anymore. He
lowered his rifle.
Istvan looked around. His gaze followed a rat running the length of the trench until it
disappeared into the officers’ quarters. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wanted to see for myself.”
Still Stephen was perplexed and uneasy. “What did you want to see?”
“What man will perpetrate on man.” Istvan looked saddened. “I’ve seen bodies blown to bits.
Rotting corpses in No Man’s Land. Horses drowned in the mud. I’ve seen so much that I’m sick at
heart. I could cry.”
Stephen looked at him in bemusement. Istvan sounded like he’d been touring the battlefields of
Europe.
“I don’t know where to go to escape it.”
Stephen shook his head. “Nor do I.”
A broad smile cracked Istvan’s severe face. He laughed softly, his teeth pearly and straight
and it was infectious. Stephen laughed too. He propped his rifle against the fire step and loosened his
tight collar. He wondered for a moment if Istvan was a ghost or if he was delirious with shell shock
and seeing apparitions in the trench.
Istvan stepped forward. Stephen’s laughter died away. He lunged for his rifle but Istvan put
his body in the way. “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly as he curved a hand around the back of
Stephen’s head. “I won’t hurt you. Not in a million years.”
Stephen gasped as the lean length of Istvan’s body pressed against his and the stranger’s cool
lips brushed his throat. A shudder ran the length of his spine and his cock filled without warning,
stiffening in record time at human contact after so long. Never mind it was a man; that was one of
Stephen’s secrets, something he was ashamed of.
He grasped Istvan’s shoulder as the Hungarian mouthed his neck, kissing lightly, licking at the
skin with a hot, wet tongue. “Please...” Stephen tried to say, aware they could be caught at any
moment.
Istvan thrust a thigh between his, rocked against Stephen’s aching cock and Stephen bucked
uncontrollably, a small moan spilling from his mouth. This had to be a dream. Soon he would wake up
in his bunk with his belly wet with semen and the sound of shells raining down overhead. It would be
fun while it lasted though.
Istvan breathed heavily against his throat, lavishing it with kisses. He cupped Stephen’s head
in one strong hand before he parted his lips and the pointed tips of two sharp teeth pricked Stephen.
Stephen’s rifle clattered to the trench floor as he tried to jerk away. Istvan pressed him to the
fire step, held him close as he bit him. Stephen’s skin broke, his blood flowed, and he felt his energy
instantly vanish. His legs buckled and Istvan held him up. He clutched at the stranger’s back as the
trench swam in and out of focus and realised he was still aroused and the sensation was pleasant. Just
when he thought he might come, everything turned black.
 Chapter Two

Stephen

“Come on,” a voice said in his ear. “You’re a disgrace. It’s only an hour till stand-to.” A rough hand
shook Stephen’s shoulder before an arm went around him and half-dragged him to his feet. Stephen
tried to steady himself like a new-born colt, hand braced against the fire step, blinking in the near-
dawn.
His colleague, Private Samuel Bevan, had found him passed out on the trench floor. Stephen
straightened up, pulled away from Sam’s grasp, and tried to collect his muddled senses. “I’m sorry,”
he muttered with his mouth feeling full of cotton wool. “I had the most terrible dream.” He touched
his neck and winced as it stung.
Sam was the same age as Stephen—twenty-one—and from Haworth in Yorkshire with a
severe haircut that made his green eyes look huge. He had been the most attractive thing Stephen had
seen in years before the Hungarian stranger in the dream and he had wrestled with that attraction for
the past six months.
“Yes, well, you shouldn’t be sleeping, you should be watching Fritz,” Sam said, always good-
natured. He ruffled Stephen’s hair with a smile.
Stephen touched his neck again. “Is there something here? It’s sore.”
Sam leaned close. He smelled of soil and sweat and the peppermint sweets he got sent from
home. “Yeah, something’s bit you. Midges maybe. Or the lice.”
Stephen scowled.
“Go to bed. I’ll take over.”
Stephen managed a smile at Sam’s generosity. If the sergeant had found him asleep while
raising everyone for stand-to, there would have been hell to pay or more precisely, death by firing
squad. “See you later.”
Sam gave a mocking salute. “See you later, alligator.”
Stephen walked away, calling back softly. “In a while, crocodile.”
A dozen men snored fitfully in the dugout. Stephen picked his way amongst them, discarding
his belt and his helmet. He didn’t attempt to undress further, just curled up on a bunk and dropped into
dreamless sleep.

Stand-to was done and it was breakfast time, the only time of unofficial truce when both sides
were eating and no one was in danger of an attack. For a week they had been bombarding the German
lines in preparation for the big one. The barbed wire lines appeared untouched to Stephen. They
would go over the top the day after tomorrow into mass slaughter, he was sure of it. He drank a
surprisingly generous ration of rum and glanced at Sam, who smiled at him from a few feet down the
line of eating men. Perhaps today would be the last time he would see Sam. The last day both of them
would live. If not, they would be mowed down by machine gun fire on the day they went over the top.
He had such a headache. He rubbed the two sore, inflamed wounds on his neck and stared up
at the blue sky above.

By early evening after a hard day hustling supplies up and down the line, Stephen had
convinced himself that Istvan had been a dream and a blood-thirsty French insect had bitten him on
the neck. It didn’t help his self-delusion that at random times, his erection returned treacherously as he
thought of the stranger’s soft voice and exotic accent or his lean body and amber eyes.
He was on watch again, curse it, and he was determined not to fall prey to more of the same
nightmares. He discarded his boots and pulled his rough blanket over himself in the dugout. He had
until one in the morning to sleep when he would be woken for his two-hour stint. His eyes stung with
tiredness as he stared up at the stanchions supporting the ceiling. Imagine if the trench were to
collapse. Hundreds of men buried alive beneath the French soil. A better way to end up, Stephen
thought. He would welcome it now.
Sam lay down in the bunk beside him. Stephen didn’t know much about Sam beyond that he
had a sister and parents who had all been opposed to his conscription. He didn’t talk much about
himself but he was a good listener. His big eyes were expressive and sympathetic and seemed to
carry the weight of everyone else’s troubles in their delicate green hue. Stephen wanted him as much
as he’d wanted the apparition from last night’s dream. The vampire, if one wanted to call him that, for
surely, if he’d bitten Stephen on the neck, then that’s what he was?
“Your neck still looks sore,” Sam said.
Stephen nodded.
“Don’t be getting septicaemia on me now and missing the Big Push.” Sam gave a crooked
smile.
Stephen returned it. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He had no illusion that he and Sam
shared the same feelings about the war. Wholesale murder. A bloody battle of attrition.
Sam regarded him for a long moment. “Have a good sleep,” he said finally.
Stephen turned over and pulled the blanket higher. He closed his eyes but he was aware of
every small sound coming from Sam’s bunk, every movement he made, his steady, even breathing. He
wished he could crawl beneath Sam’s covers and hold him, just once.

He was determined not to fall asleep on his second night’s watch. It was bad enough that he
had done it once and had the terrible dream, but just imagine if it had been someone else other than
Sam who had caught him? He stood on the fire step with binoculars trained over No Man’s Land.
Rather than studying the opposing trench, he found himself looking at the area where he had first seen
Istvan walking towards him. Ludicrous.
He started at a movement below in the trench, jumping down off the step with rifle raised.
The vampire stood a few feet away with hand raised, wiping red liquid from his lips with a
white handkerchief. “Hello,” he said.
“You’re a dream,” Stephen said in a voice more unsteady than he would have liked. “A
nightmare I had last night.”
Istvan looked amused. “Many people have taken me for a dream in the past. It’s the way I
prefer it. I don’t often come back again, but something about you made me want to return.”
Stephen licked his lips. He glanced nervously behind him, making sure the trench was
deserted. “You bit me,” he said.
Istvan looked contrite. “Sorry. It was just a sip. You weren’t in any danger.”
Stephen frowned. “Any danger from what?”
 “Death.”
Stephen felt himself blanch. He put his finger on the trigger. “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot
you now, Mr. Vampire.”
“You saw for yourself last night that it doesn’t do much good,” Istvan said. “Although it ruined
my coat.” He turned around and Stephen saw a perfectly round hole in the back of his velvet
frockcoat. “The Germans are quite exasperated with me. I’ve been taking drinks from them all week.”
Stephen couldn’t believe his ears. “So you decided to move on to us?”
Istvan shrugged. “I don’t mean any of you any harm.”
Stephen laughed. “If I shot you now, you might not die, but a dozen soldiers would be on you
in an instant. One of them would know how to kill you.”
Istvan eyed him. When he spoke his voice was still soft. “As you will,” he said.
Stephen was a little confused at Istvan’s mild manner. Did the vampire have a death wish or
was he just trying to lull Stephen into a false sense of security?
Istvan stepped forward.
“Stay there,” Stephen warned.
“Don’t be cross with me.” The vampire’s tone was conciliatory and alluring. He moved
another couple of paces closer and closed a delicate white hand around the end of Stephen’s rifle. His
amber eyes were soft, beseeching. They made heat rise in the pit of Stephen’s stomach. He lowered
his rifle and stumbled forward, into Istvan’s embrace.
The vampire held him close, arms wrapped firmly around Stephen’s back, his touch so
soothing, so intimate, that Stephen ached. He closed his eyes, rifle dropping to the ground and turned
his face into Istvan’s shoulder. The vampire smelled of the French earth and sunshine and flowers. He
made Stephen long for home. Istvan stroked his head. “You’re brave,” he said in a whisper against
Stephen’s ear. “Prepared to die for your country.”
Something caught in Stephen’s throat. “I’m not brave.” His voice cracked. “I’m afraid. I don’t
want to die.”
Istvan lifted Stephen’s head in his two hands. He studied Stephen’s eyes for the longest while.
He trailed fingertips down his cheek. Never had Stephen been so close to another man before. “It’s
all right to be afraid,” Istvan said. “You’re human.”
Stephen swallowed. He felt perilously close to tears at Istvan’s compassion. The vampire
leaned closer. His sensual lips parted, his hands tilting Stephen’s face to him. Stephen gave a soft
moan as Istvan kissed him.
The vampire seemed in no rush to bite him this morning. He explored Stephen’s mouth
thoroughly like uncharted territory, slow and easy and tender. He melted Stephen to his very bones.
Their tongues touched and curled gently, and when they broke for breath, Istvan found Stephen’s throat
and Stephen made no move to stop him. With eyes closed and his blood hot with passion and arousal,
he let the vampire bite him.
 Chapter Three

Istvan

Istvan resheathed his fangs. He hoisted Stephen’s dead weight against his chest, holding him firmly.
He licked his lips, savouring every last drop of honey nectar. He couldn’t decide which men tasted
sweeter—the British or the Germans. Istvan had led a long life and had plenty of experience of
German lovers and their blood, but never had he had the chance to explore the British until now. The
soldier in his arms was slight, worn away with trench food. He had probably once been tall and well-
built but now seemed shrunken and wasted. He was still handsome though with his piercing blue eyes
that danced with silver sparks to Istvan’s heightened vision, and his closely-cut dark hair. He was the
first soldier from both trenches to make an impression on the vampire. Istvan couldn’t get him out of
his head.
He lifted Stephen under his knees and swung him into his arms. Slowly and carefully he
carried him down to the dugout. Men were snoring and shifting fitfully in sleep as he lay Stephen
down on a cot and covered him with a rough blanket. For a moment he glanced at the man beside
Stephen. This was the soldier Istvan had taken a drink from earlier in the evening. Still he slept, the
wounds on his throat inflamed. Istvan looked from one attractive man to the other and shivered. He
remembered one of the many times he had taken two men together, in 1895, in the back of a coach
going to Prague.
He left the dugout and climbed the fire step, carefully avoiding barbed wire as he stepped out
into No Man’s Land. Severin, his closest friend, had shared his human lover, Nikolaus, with Istvan
that night. The two vampires had penetrated the human simultaneously, the carriage rocking beneath
them as each man came to his own explosive climax. No blood had been shared that night; sex had
been enough. But while Severin had later turned Nikolaus and they had embarked on their own life
together, Istvan had been left out in the cold. He was used to being alone, it was just that sometimes it
stung more than others.
He hadn’t seen Severin and Nikolaus again after they pledged their future to each other. Nor
had he seen Emil, the powerful vampire who had almost killed the three of them. The black-eyed
vampire haunted Istvan’s dreams. He had always struggled to reconcile his feelings for Emil with the
reality of the vampire’s character. Brutal, murderous, and filled with rage. Emil would never change,
it was just that on occasion, Istvan had thought he’d seen something worth saving.
The world war baffled Istvan. He walked slowly across No Man’s Land in the dark stillness
preceding dawn and asked himself what all these men were doing. His thoughts drifted away from the
madness. God, it had been so hard to withdraw his teeth from Stephen’s neck. He had wanted every
drop. And then what? Istvan had never created a vampire before. Emil was in charge of the creating
and woe betide you if you went against him on that score. What if he did change the soldier though?
What if he took Stephen away from here, saved him from certain death? He spared a thought for
Stephen’s friend too, he of the sweet blood and youthful good looks. Istvan would have liked to take
both of them. He shook his head, trying to clear it from its thoughts. It was not his decision to make. It
was fate that both soldiers were here, and fate would decide the course of the rest of their lives.
A bullet whistled suddenly past Istvan’s ear. He saw the wisp of smoke coming from the
sniper’s rifle at the German trench and he growled low in his throat at the continuing antagonism
towards him from both sides. Weren’t the Germans technically his allies? He supposed they weren’t
to know that when he was wandering around aimlessly in No Man’s Land. Perhaps some of them
recognised him as the black-clad wraith invading their dreams night after night and stealing their
blood.
It was time to sleep. A bullet hit him in the shoulder as he walked along the length of the
British trench, and knocked him flat to the ground. Istvan lay there a moment feeling aggrieved. The
wound stung. It would require more blood than he was used to taking to heal it. He turned his head
towards the British trench. God help them.
◆◆◆

Stephen

Stephen awoke groggily to a hand shaking his shoulder roughly. “Wake up damn you!” He
blinked, looked into Sam’s angry green eyes. “What are you doing in bed? There’s no one on watch,”
his friend hissed.
Stephen sat up and a wave of dizziness consumed him. He put a hand to his throat to touch the
wounds that burned there. He opened his mouth and no words came out.
Sam shook his head in disgust and at that moment, Stephen saw the same wounds on the other
soldier’s neck. He scrambled from the bed, following Sam as he headed into the trench.
“Hey, Sam,” he called after him in a loud whisper.
Sam slung his rifle over his shoulder and climbed onto the fire step. “Go back to bed before
you have us all court martialled,” he said without turning around.
“You have something on your neck. Something bit you.”
“What?” Sam put a hand up and winced when his fingers made contact with the inflamed
wounds. He climbed down off the step slowly and tilted his head back, showing Stephen. “What is
it?”
Stephen swallowed. Istvan was no nightmare, he knew that now. “Fleas,” he said half-
heartedly. “Or lice.”
Sam regarded him for a long moment. He gave a sigh and rubbed at his dark, closely-cut hair.
“I had a bad dream. I dreamt about a man in black leaning over me and...” He stopped, shivered, and
rubbed his arms as though cold even though the June night was balmy.
Stephen held the eye contact nervously. “What did he do?”
Sam laughed. “Bit me.” His fingertips traced the wounds again.
Stephen didn’t join in. “What will you do if I tell you he’s real?”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“His name is Istvan. He’s a vampire from Budapest. Which technically makes him our enemy,
although to be fair, he’s been preying on the Germans too.”
Sam’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “All right, you can go back to bed now.”
“I’m serious, Sam.” Stephen took a step closer, touched Sam on the arm.
The soldier pulled back. “Go away,” he said and climbed once more onto the fire step.

It was the evening before the Big Push and dinner had been a veritable feast with extra rum.
Stephen’s stomach was like lead as their sergeant discussed their forthcoming objectives. The mines
seven months in the making would be detonated at seven-thirty in the morning. After that, the whole
lot of them would advance over No Man’s Land to capture the German trenches. Stephen glanced at
Sam. His friend still had the huff with him and hadn’t spoken to him all day. Stephen was bone-tired.
He ached all over and his neck burned. He could still feel the soft touch of the vampire’s lips on his.
The way Istvan held him so close. He wanted it again. He couldn’t bear to walk to his death
tomorrow without feeling that warmth of contact once more.
He passed the night sleeplessly, relieved of watch for the first time in a week. He looked at
Sam who lay beside him staring at the ceiling with his pale face drawn and terrified. Finally, he got
up and pulled on his boots. He hadn’t bothered to undress because he wanted to be ready to go when
called in the morning. By the door of the dugout, a young boy from London was sobbing softly into his
pillow. Stephen emerged into the trench with the weight of the world on his shoulders just in time to
see a black-clad figure bending over their night watch soldier.
“Istvan,” Stephen hissed, starting forward.
Istvan turned. He let the soldier slide to the ground unconscious.
Stephen raised his fist. “How many more?” he demanded. “First me, then Sam, and now him?”
He glanced down. Istvan’s victim was John Webb from Blackpool, a married man with four
daughters.
Istvan turned slowly as though it pained him. He looked regretful. “I’m sorry. There was an
accident when I left this morning. I need to drink more for the next few days.”
Stephen bit his lip. He stepped forward. “What happened?”
“A German sniper shot me.”
Stephen laid a hand on Istvan’s shoulder. “Let me see.”
Istvan hesitated before he unbuttoned his frockcoat. He slid it down his arms and let it drop
onto the fire step. The shirt beneath was fine linen with lace ruffles. Stephen’s stomach tightened as
Istvan unfastened it and pulled it from his shoulders, revealing hard muscle and creamy skin. A
makeshift dressing covered the wound on his right shoulder. Stephen reached out with a trembling
hand to peel it slowly away.
The wound was bloody and inflamed and must have caused the vampire considerable pain.
Stephen covered it again. He was surprised to see this evidence of Istvan’s mortality. “Could it kill
you?” he asked.
Istvan’s shirt was still open and down his arms and he made no move to cover himself. “If I
didn’t drink,” he said, “I would become weak, make mistakes that might cost me my life. As it was I
only just managed to find shelter this morning after I was shot.”
Stephen’s overriding emotion was tenderness. But below this, his stomach burned with
mounting passion. He felt weak with desire. “Now you know what it’s like to be caught in the middle
of men’s war,” he said flippantly.
Istvan nodded sadly. His amber eyes were bright with emotion. He reached out and laid a
delicate hand on Stephen’s shoulder.
 Stephen swallowed. His gaze travelled over Istvan’s broad chest and ridged abdomen and
moved lower to take in the way the bulge strained his velvet breeches. “Tomorrow, we...” He
stopped, tried again. “There’s an offensive planned for tomorrow. We go over the top. Maybe it will
end the war on the Western Front.”
Istvan frowned. His hand tightened on Stephen’s shoulder and he drew him close. “Over the
top? Towards the German trenches?”
Stephen nodded. He looked up into Istvan’s face as the vampire inclined his head.
“Madness,” Istvan murmured.
“I know,” Stephen said with his heart beating hard. He curved an arm around Istvan’s back
under his shirt, feeling satiny skin and hard muscle. “This is probably the last night of my life.”
Istvan let out a groan at his words. He possessed Stephen’s mouth fiercely, pulling the soldier
into his arms, holding him tight.
Stephen drowned under the onslaught of the vampire’s passion. He clung to Istvan, returning
his kiss. Istvan thrust his tongue against his. Stephen sucked it, ran his hands greedily over Istvan’s
chest, lingering on his nipples, which he rubbed to bullet-hard peaks. Istvan growled. He gripped
Stephen’s right hand and thrust it into his groin.
Stephen drew in his breath as he traced the rigid lines of Istvan’s shaft through his trousers.
The vampire moaned softly, bucked against his hand. He wrenched his breeches apart and released
his cock from his linen underwear. He forced Stephen’s hand around it and shivering in excitement,
Stephen stroked Istvan’s manhood from root to tip.
The vampire was generously endowed. His prick was hot, satiny soft and leaking. Stephen
spread the fluid over the head of Istvan’s cock, rubbing his thumb against the slit so the vampire shook
and swore under his breath.
“Come here.” He tore at Stephen’s tunic and shirt, baring his chest, running his hands over
Stephen’s pectorals before bending his head to close his lips around one nipple.
Stephen gasped. He plunged a hand into Istvan’s thick chestnut hair. Istvan found the fastenings
on Stephen’s uniform trousers. He opened them and reached a hand inside, pulling Stephen’s
tumescent cock free. Stephen breathed heavily. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him.
Finally, up close and personal with another man after years of dreaming and fantasising about the
forbidden. This would be his send-off. Achieving his fantasy before he died.
Istvan wrapped his fingers around Stephen’s cock. He jerked it at a steadily increasing rate
until Stephen was so hard he could barely think. He groaned and their cocks and hands bumped as
they masturbated each other.
Istvan kissed him again, tongue duelling with his, then he pushed Stephen down onto the fire
step. He fell to his knees, shoved Stephen’s thighs apart and eased his mouth down on his cock,
swallowing every inch.
Stephen stifled his cry with his hand. He arched his spine, head thrown back, gasping as
Istvan sucked, his mouth burning hot and so wet that saliva dripped down onto Stephen’s balls. He
clutched at the vampire’s head, lifting his pelvis, thrusting his cock right to the back of Istvan’s throat.
Istvan murmured something around Stephen’s erection. He fondled his balls and then dropped
his head to suck at them. Stephen looked down and watched the vampire masturbating while he licked
at Stephen’s stones.
“Fuck,” Stephen said softly when Istvan lifted his head. There was a wicked smile on the
vampire’s face and his amber eyes seemed to glow red. Stephen wasn’t afraid that Istvan might get
carried away. He was going to die tomorrow after all. It didn’t matter. And what a way to go. Istvan
regarded him for a second. Then he climbed to his feet and pushed his breeches and underwear down
to his knees. His rampant cock stood straight up against his belly and Stephen ached between his legs
for something he had never had but had always wanted. The glint in Istvan’s eyes suggested he read
Stephen’s mind.
He pulled Stephen to his feet and spun him around, bent over the step, hands spread against
the trench wall. He kicked Stephen’s feet apart and spread his buttocks with one hand. Stephen
whimpered as his most intimate place was revealed. He looked over his shoulder in time to see
Istvan sucking on his thumb. A moment later he felt that thumb against his entrance rubbing saliva over
the puckered skin and pressing.
Stephen shivered. He bent lower, backside presented, making his need plain. Istvan drew in
his breath. He echoed Stephen’s groan as he slid his thumb inside, fucked Stephen lightly with it.
“Stephen,” Istvan breathed against his back, kissing his spine. “You’re so tight and hot. I want
you so much.”
Stephen whined. He pushed back against the pressure of Istvan’s thumb, rocking against the
foreign intrusion and wishing for more.
Istvan pulled free. He spread Stephen’s buttocks apart with both hands and bent his head. His
hot tongue circled Stephen’s entrance.
Stephen gave a little cry and scrabbled at the trench wall. “Oh, fuck.”
Istvan laughed, his breath tickling Stephen before he started to lap with long strokes of his
wicked tongue. Stephen’s legs shook. Istvan’s tongue relaxed and loosened him steadily. He worked
the tip into Stephen, speared him with jabbing darts, then he pressed his tongue against Stephen’s
perineum while he fingered him long and slow with two wet fingers.
Stephen grabbed his cock. It leaked onto his hand and he stroked it hard while Istvan rimmed
him. He had never imagined such pleasure was possible with a man. Now only one experience eluded
him and he wanted it enough to beg.
“Please,” he said.
Istvan lifted his head. He didn’t stop the relentless pressure of the fingers pressing into
Stephen. “What?”
Stephen bit his lip before he said. “Please fuck me.”
Istvan laughed softly. “It would be my absolute pleasure, my English rose.”
Stephen looked around. Istvan smiled at him, amber eyes glowing in the semi-darkness of the
trench, his mouth wet and swollen sensually, his fangs white and sharp. Stephen tightened his hand
around the base of his cock. He was going to come as soon as Istvan penetrated him, he was sure of it.
He panted for breath as he watched Istvan smear saliva over the head of his cock. Something
about watching the vampire touch himself was incredibly exciting. Istvan lined himself up. Stephen
felt Istvan’s velvety head rubbing against his entrance, lubricating his way and then he froze in terror
as a figure appeared in the trench.
 Chapter Four

Stephen

“Sam,” Stephen breathed.

Istvan turned around with a start. Unmoving, both vampire and human regarded the interloper.
Sam stood by the entrance to the dugout, equally rooted to the spot, taking in the two half-
naked men and their compromising position, Stephen bent over, with Istvan’s cock about to penetrate
his arse.
“Hello, Sam,” Istvan said, still charm personified despite what Sam had caught them doing.
“It’s nice to meet you finally.”
Sam licked his lips. He looked from Stephen to Istvan with fear and something else warring
on his face. By the way his gaze constantly went to Istvan’s cock and Stephen’s backside, Stephen
suspected it was something rather like arousal that Sam was feeling. Maybe it wasn’t a foregone
conclusion that he was going to give them away after all. “Hello,” his friend addressed Istvan.
“I’ve wanted to meet you awhile,” Istvan said. “Since—”
“Since you bit me?” Sam interrupted with a snarl.
Istvan inclined his head. “My apologies. You looked so pretty lying there asleep that I just had
to taste you.”
Sam flushed up to his ears. He looked wrong-footed.
Istvan smiled easily, sure of closing the trap. “Maybe you’d like to taste me in return?” he
suggested. He half-turned from Stephen, hand closing around his own cock, stroking it.
Sam’s eyes bulged from his head and Stephen held his breath at Istvan’s audacity.
“Well?” the vampire made it sound somewhat like a command.
Sam’s eyes seemed to grow glassy. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees, grasping
Istvan’s cock before fitting his mouth around it, taking it deep inside.
Stephen stared in disbelief. He turned around and sat on the fire step with his trousers around
his ankles, watching Sam sucking Istvan’s cock. He wasn’t jealous because the whole scenario was
something from his wildest dreams. Both Istvan and Sam? He couldn’t have asked for more. He
reached out tentatively and stroked Sam’s velvety smooth hair.
Sam’s trousers bulged. He slid a hand up Stephen’s inner thigh, reaching his balls and
squeezing gently while he sucked off Istvan.
Istvan groaned. He looked at Stephen with a smile and an audacious wink and Stephen’s
blood boiled for satisfaction. His arse ached for Istvan.
Istvan gripped Sam by the hair. “It’s your colleague’s turn,” he said.
Sam only looked up at Stephen a moment before he shuffled across on his knees and dropped
his head into Stephen’s lap, swallowing down his cock.
Stephen groaned low and deep. Istvan smiled at him. He masturbated as he watched the two
soldiers.
 “Fuck, Istvan, I need you,” Stephen said, bucking his hips to get his cock right to the back of
Sam’s throat.
Istvan spat on his hand and smeared it over his cock again. “Get up,” he said.
Sam sat back on his heels while Stephen assumed his previous position bent over the fire step
with mounting excitement.
Istvan addressed Sam. “You’re going to watch me fuck him and then you’re going to do it too.”
Stephen quivered, biting his lip. He was definitely sure he could take the pair of them one
after the other. Perhaps only two men could satisfy him tonight when all caution was thrown to the
wind and final fantasies were explored.
Sam stood up, the bulge in his pants huge, his gaze glued to Istvan’s cock as he eased his way
inside.
Stephen closed his eyes, tried to breathe deeply as he was stretched wide. He felt Sam’s
scratchy uniform against his legs and then as Istvan buried himself to the hilt, Sam enclosed Stephen’s
cock in his mouth to the root.
Stephen jammed a hand over his mouth. He clawed at the earthen wall as Istvan eased back
and lodged himself deep again. Sam sucked him fiercely, wet mouth swirling around his prick,
drawing him closer to the edge. It was a whirlwind of pain-pleasure. The pain seemed to merely
intensify the pleasure until Stephen thought he would scream aloud with it. While Istvan busily fucked
his arse, his strokes building hard and fast, Sam sucked Stephen’s cock like it was his dream come
true. And Stephen, pleasured by two men, could barely stand up straight for the ecstasy racking his
body.
He grabbed Sam’s head, holding it down on his cock and he pushed back, taking every
glorious inch Istvan had to offer. The vampire wrapped both arms around Stephen’s waist. He shoved
his shirt up, kissing his sweaty back and murmuring foreign endearments.
Sam had freed his own cock and was jerking off as he sucked Stephen. The gasps and moans
he made around Stephen’s dick made Stephen even hotter. Istvan ploughed him with his thrusts
becoming spasmodic and jerky, then he gave a low cry as he came and it was enough to tip Stephen
over the edge. He came in a torrent down Sam’s throat with a cry that Istvan smothered with the palm
of his hand.
Istvan came to a halt. Stephen’s cock carried on dribbling as Sam pulled away and climbed to
his feet. Stephen rested spent against the fire step, whimpering a little as Istvan eased free. But the fun
had only just started. Sam smeared saliva over his cock. Istvan nodded towards Stephen. “You won’t
need that,” he told Sam. “I left enough in there to lubricate your way.”
Stephen’s cheeks burned. He watched over his shoulder as Sam got into place. Istvan stood
near Stephen’s head. His cock was still hard and his cheeks were flushed with blood, probably stolen
soldier blood. “I want to watch your friend fucking you,” he said in a low, excited voice.
Stephen moaned. He gasped in renewed excitement as Sam rubbed against his tender entrance.
As promised, his passage was eased by Istvan’s seed. Sam slid inside, filling Stephen full once again
and he moaned aloud, clenching around Sam’s cock. He hadn’t expected to feel desire again quite so
suddenly but to his surprise, his cock filled, standing rigid.
Istvan watched with amusement. Sam sheathed himself deep, grasped Stephen’s hips, and
started to fuck him at a brisk pace, muted gasps spilling from his mouth. Stephen had imagined him to
be a virgin. He didn’t fuck like he was a virgin.
“He’s good,” Istvan said, stroking himself lazily. He crouched and sucked at Stephen’s
erection, flicking his tongue over the still-wet head and smacking his lips. “You taste good.”
 Stephen grunted, pushing himself back against Sam’s invading cock and beginning to think he
might be able to come again. It was good. It was so good. He didn’t want to ever stop.
“That’s right,” Istvan said. “Fuck him.” He licked the sides of Stephen’s shaft and played with
his balls.
Stephen suspected Istvan had done things like this many times before. The quiet, well-
mannered vampire was a beast in the bedroom department and Stephen loved it. He liked the way the
vampire controlled both him and Sam and how they both scrambled to obey his orders. He wondered
for a moment if Istvan was using a form of mind control, but wasn’t really sure he cared. He only
wanted to come again and slip down into whatever blissful sleep might happen before he was forced
over the top to his death.
Istvan slid up his body. His mouth touched Stephen’s belly, making him shiver, and he worked
his way up Stephen’s chest to his nipples, sucking and biting gently. Stephen shook. He touched his
own cock, moving in time to Sam’s thrusts and whining for more.
Istvan snaked sinuously up beneath him to his throat. His hand closed around Stephen’s and
the two of them jerked him together as Istvan licked and sucked at Stephen’s neck. He knew what was
coming and he didn’t care. Let Istvan take his life tonight. Stephen would go to his death happy. In
fact, he positively wanted it.
“Please,” he said and craned closer to Istvan’s deadly mouth. “Please.”
“You don’t know what you ask for,” Istvan said in a whisper as he parted his lips over
Stephen’s throat.
Stephen shuddered. He pushed back hard on Sam’s cock and his friend groaned loudly,
pistoning his hips, fucking Stephen hard and deep until everything took on a hazy glow and he felt the
second orgasm knocking at the edges of his consciousness. This was it. The final push and then a long,
slow slide into oblivion at Istvan’s hands. He wasn’t sure if he had spoken the words aloud as
Istvan’s fangs sank deep into his neck.
Please kill me, Istvan.
Stephen ejaculated against the combined pressure of his and Istvan’s hands and then he felt
Sam fill him full just as Istvan started to swallow, Stephen’s blood flowing into his mouth. Warmth
spread through him, his legs weakened, and he slid in a slow dance to the ground.
 Chapter Five

Istvan

Istvan was woken from deep sleep by a loud explosion that shook the very foundations of the
ramshackle barn in which he slept. He turned in his straw bed, squinting towards the window he had
blacked out using his coat. It wasn’t perfectly dark in here but no sunlight could get in. He lay
listening until another explosion sounded and then another and he counted seventeen in all. By which
time his long dead heart was lodged firmly in his throat. He couldn’t go out. Stephen and Sam were
engaged in the heat of battle little more than a mile away on the front lines and Istvan couldn’t do
anything about it or the battlefield around the Somme would become his tomb too along with
thousands of other men. He doubted he was immune to being blown to bits.
He had caught Stephen’s limp body as he fell and propped the soldier up on the fire step. Sam
had helped Istvan dress Stephen. Then the human had hoisted Stephen into his arms and carried him
down to the dugout. He had paused to look back over his shoulder at Istvan, his eyes filled with
wordless emotion.
“Good luck tomorrow,” Istvan had said softly. “I’ll be thinking about you.” It sounded stupid
to his own ears now. Good luck? Don’t get killed, more like. But Sam had nodded and then carried
the unconscious Stephen off to bed. He had returned to the trench to hoist John Webb down to the
dugout too.
Istvan had got back to the barn before dawn and lain awake for the longest time. The two
soldiers made his cock beyond hard, that was not in doubt, but they touched him deeply too. Every
man he had met on the Western Front had touched him. The fragility of humans had moved him beyond
endurance. What were they all doing? Fighting a war because each treaty binding each country had
spiralled out of control until the whole world was involved. He didn’t understand. Istvan wasn’t so
old for a vampire. Only two hundred and fifteen years. He had seen war and bloodshed before but he
had never seen men mowed down by machine gun fire before his eyes, reduced to their constituent
parts and leaking blood like so many colanders. The longer he spent in France, the more he hurt. He
had to leave but he couldn’t get his mind off the two British soldiers, especially Stephen.

◆◆◆

Sam
 Stephen couldn’t be roused at stand-to. Sam shook him, at first irritably, then angrily, and
finally, fearfully. Stephen lay unconscious in his bed while men all around him scrambled out of the
dugout with an edge of panic to their actions. The sergeant had come to round up any stragglers. He
had put his ear to Stephen’s mouth and felt for his pulse and then called for someone to run for
stretcher-bearers. Sam had sat on his bunk tight-lipped as Stephen was carried away to the medical
tent.
Now he was out in the trench and facing the reality of going over the top without the only
friend he had. Last night seemed unreal. If Stephen hadn’t been so ill this morning, Sam would have
dismissed it as a dream. But he had seen the vampire with the burning eyes for himself last night and
felt the weight of his cock in his mouth all right. The vampire was flesh and blood, but not like him or
Stephen. Immortal, surviving on stolen blood that no man could afford to give at the moment.
He was desperately worried about Stephen. What if Istvan had taken too much? What if
Stephen died? Would he come back as a vampire? He glanced around him at the ashen faces of the
men who would go over the top to their deaths. At the end of the line, a man vomited a weak trail of
bile onto his boots. No one said anything. Men turned their faces away from him.
Sam pressed his palms together and started to pray. Prayers he hadn’t uttered in years, since
school, but which still came readily to his tongue.

It was time. Sam felt so very alone, even with the crush of dozens of men around him. Rifles
were ready, bayonets fixed. Each soldier carried supplies on his back guaranteed to weigh him down
and reduce his speed. Sam looked up at the sky. It was clear and the day was going to be a warm one.
He thought of Stephen. Almost every man in the trench jumped as a mine exploded, terrifyingly close.
“Ready,” yelled their sergeant, standing by the fire step. “Go!”
The world suddenly turned upside down. Sam had a ringing in his ears. When he paused on
the fire step, someone shoved at his backside and then he was falling head first through a section of
cut wire, onto the baked earth. One explosion followed another until he was so deaf he felt like he
was underwater. He gripped his rifle, afraid to stand and make himself a target, and someone dragged
him to his feet. Sam stood up straight, shouldered his rifle and squinted through smoke across No
Man’s Land. Soldiers running past were a blur of khaki colour. He saw Germans standing up at their
trench before he heard the machine gun fire.
A line of men was mowed down in front of him. Something wet hit him on the cheek and when
he touched it, his fingers came back crimson. Sam gave a little moan. He watched his comrades fall
like marionettes. An explosion shook the ground under him and he pitched face first once again.
Tasting dirt, with every breath coming out on a sob, he started to crawl, difficult while holding
the rifle and with the pack on his back. He wanted to turn around and go back to the trench. Oh God,
he wanted that so much, but he knew he would be court martialled and shot if he did. But then wasn’t
that preferable to being slaughtered out here?
There was a body right in front of him. John Webb from Blackpool, his brown eyes open and
glassy and staring hard at the smoke-polluted sky. Sam dug his nails into his palms and held back a
cry. He had never been so scared in his life before.
He could barely see for clouds of dust and smoke. Everything was so loud. The machine gun
fire, the explosions, sniper bullets and the screams, the endless screams. Bodies littered No Man’s
Land. Blood stained the dry earth. The stink of copper and burning was unbearable.
Sam’s legs were like lead. He turned his head and looked into the eyes of one of his regiment
and read the same thoughts there. We’re all going to die and we’ve only just started living.
 A bullet hit the other soldier in the neck and he collapsed motionless with barely a cry. Sam
glanced around to see who was left. A handful of men running or crawling. He saw his sergeant fall,
impaled on the barbed wire of the German trench, so close to his objective. He lay still. If the enemy
thought he was dead, they wouldn’t shoot at him. But he couldn’t lie there forever. If anyone survived
to report him, he would be shot as a coward. He climbed to his feet on unsteady legs, swaying.
Strange, but he actually saw the muzzle fire of the rifle that shot him. A burst of flaming orange before
the bullet slammed into his thigh. A sudden weightless feeling in his legs and then he was down.
Spitting dirt, he was too shocked to feel pain. He panted, pulse hammering as his heart
pumped faster to compensate for the sudden blood loss. He felt the spreading wet patch across his
uniform, the numbness in his leg, and wondered if the limb was actually gone.
He turned his head, looking for a colleague with beseeching eyes. No one who was in a fit
condition to help him. Clawing the earth, he crawled, gasping with every yard of distance he covered.
A shell-hole greeted him a few feet away. He tumbled head first inside, sliding down to the bottom
and into a few inches of stagnant water.
Sam tried to prop himself up against the side of the hole. He reached down, felt the warm
wetness of the material covering his thigh, and actually felt the blood pumping out into his hand. It
was too late for anything. Too late for goodbyes and too late for thoughts. He tilted his head back for a
last look at the sky and found the blue erased by grey.

◆◆◆

Istvan

Istvan’s eyes opened as soon as the sun slid into a fiery grave. He didn’t stop to think, only
scrambled from his hay bed and dragged his coat from the window, sliding his arms inside. He
smoothed his hair down as he left the barn and stepped into the pleasant summer evening.
The air was rank with smoke and death. The stench of blood had his nostrils twitching. His
mouth filled with saliva and his fangs snapped out involuntarily. Never had he felt more disgusted at
being a vampire.

He picked his way slowly across No Man’s Land in the low light of dusk. Nearly every man
on the field was a corpse. A few weak, pained cries came from mortally injured soldiers. Istvan
stopped and studied everyone still alive. He crouched down at those still breathing and put his hand
over their mouths and noses until they stopped and their pulses slowed to a halt, their leaking blood
reducing to a trickle without the force of the heart behind it. He couldn’t take the blood of anyone on
the field; killing a man as he slipped towards death would make him rise again as a vampire and
Istvan didn’t do that. It was Emil’s domain. He had no desire to introduce another poor victim to this
shady world of half-death he inhabited. Which begged the question, what was he doing here if not
looking for someone to save? There was a curious ache in his chest as he looked down at every fallen
soldier. It was pity maybe, or sorrow. Istvan had never been as much a vampire as he should have
been and it was a constant source of disappointment to Emil. He was still way too human to live this
life.
He crouched at the edge of a shell-hole and looked down. Sniper fire rang out across No
Man’s Land, picking off any stragglers who had made it this far. Istvan wondered what the British had
actually achieved that day apart from laying their lives down defending the French. He wondered
what great military minds had been at work and what the history books would write about the opening
day of the Battle of the Somme.
A man lay slumped in the bottom of the shell-hole, his head on his chest. Istvan smelled the
blood before he saw the crimson soaking the man’s uniform. The delicate shape of the man’s shorn
skull was familiar. His stomach fluttering with anxiety, Istvan climbed down, jumping into a few
inches of dirty water. He crouched before the man. The soldier was slender. He might have been tall
but he looked shrunken with his limbs all crammed up together. Istvan took Sam’s head in his hands
and lifted it, peering into his face.
“Sam,” he said, first in a whisper, then louder.
The soldier didn’t stir. Istvan put his ear to Sam’s mouth and felt soft, slow breaths. He felt for
the pulse at his throat and was surprised to find it weak and thready. He had presumed Sam was dead
because he couldn’t hear his heart beating. But when he lowered his ear to Sam’s chest, there it was,
tripping along arrhythmically, quite pathetically. How, he didn’t know. Sam must have been
superhuman because most of his body’s blood seemed to be soaked into the ground beneath him or on
his uniform, seeping through the material as far as his ankle.
Istvan stroked Sam’s cheek. It was as fine and downy as a peach. He swallowed and sat back
on his heels. He had bare minutes, maybe even seconds, to make a decision. What was so different
about this man that Istvan wasn’t putting his hand over his mouth and nose to send him into sweet
oblivion? Maybe it was the heated memory of last evening in the trench with Stephen. Where was he
anyway?
Istvan stood up and peered out through near darkness and a bullet skimmed the top of his head
for his troubles. He put a hand to the blood and growled, resuming his position at the bottom of the
hole. He knelt close to Sam.
“Sam,” he said one more time. “Wake up. Where’s Stephen?”
But Sam was past the point of communication. Past the point of everything but death. Istvan
knelt still for long seconds. The decision was an agonising one. He couldn’t bear to watch this man’s
life leak from him without doing something about it. But he couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting this
soulless existence on anyone else. He gave a little whimper and ground his teeth, digging his nails
into his palms. Then he gripped Sam by the face again, tilting his head back. “I don’t think you’ll
thank me for this, my friend,” he said softly before he plunged his fangs into soot-stained skin.
Sam gave no reaction to the insult. His barely warm blood spurted lethargically into Istvan’s
mouth before slowing to a trickle. Istvan pulled hard with his lips. He was only used to blood
remaining scorching hot as he drank every last drop down. He had never taken blood from a man who
had none left to give, who hovered at the edge of this world and the next with one foot in the afterlife.
Sam’s blood was sour with adrenaline and impending death. Istvan swallowed reluctantly and his
stomach ached. He already regretted his decision but he couldn’t stop once he had started. There was
no going back from the path he had chosen. The first vampire he had ever made. His thoughts drifted
back to Stephen and pain twisted his senses. If he had to choose one to save, it would have been
Stephen. He didn’t like to feel that way, but there it was. He welcomed the carnality of his desire for
Sam and the fun the two soldiers had shown him last night, but Stephen was the one who touched him
deep down. Made him remember what it was like to be human and that elusive, scary, delicious
feeling of starting to fall in love.
Sam’s blood was gone and Istvan felt sluggish and poisoned. He withdrew his fangs and the
soldier fell forward limply into his arms. Istvan held the body for a while as it cooled. There, it was
done. His new companion in death. A somewhat terrifying prospect for one as solitary as Istvan.
Emil would be just thrilled.
 Chapter Six

Istvan

The forest beyond the battlefield was cool and dark. Overhead, an owl hooted as Istvan carried Sam
back to the barn. Inside, he laid him down on his bed of hay and undressed him, peeling off the
saturated uniform, taking his time to gaze on Sam’s white, pleasing flesh. The bullet hole was ragged
and obscene. Istvan went out to the nearby pond, soaked a handkerchief, and cleaned up Sam’s wound
as best he could, tying it with a strip of cloth. He had a pile of clothes he’d stolen from a washing line
in the area and he dressed Sam in peasant farmer clothes, a white shirt and woollen trousers. Sam
didn’t look like a soldier anymore without the uniform but a young man on his holidays and in need of
a suntan. Istvan smiled tenderly down at him. He covered Sam with his coat and sat watching him. He
was torn about his next move. He needed to be here when Sam awoke, to reassure him and explain
what had happened, but he also needed to return to the battlefield to look for Stephen. He couldn’t yet
abandon his search even though Stephen could have been long gone, smashed to a million pieces no
one might ever find.
As long as he returned before dawn to stop Sam staggering out into the sun and frying himself
alive, he had time. He closed the barn door behind him and melted into the deepest shadows of the
trees.
◆◆◆

Stephen

Stephen awoke to a hellish nightmare of screams and blood. He was lying on a stretcher in the
corner of a tent. All around him were wounded soldiers, some screaming, some talking to themselves
deliriously, others quietly dying. A few beds away, a man had his leg amputated while nurses
restrained him. A tall man in black carrying a bible was incongruous, moving silently through the
carnage like a reaping angel.
A priest. Stephen turned his head away because maybe a holy man would recognise the victim
of a vampire. What was he doing here in this tent anyway? Had Istvan taken a sip too much? Was he
now one of the undead? He put a hand to his throat and felt the stinging wounds.
The priest approached his bed, a man in his thirties with dark hair brushed and parted neatly
and slicked with pomade. He was attractive and quietly intense, his slate-grey eyes appraising
Stephen.
“Hello, my son,” he said. “I’m Father Anthony Gregory.” He held his hand out.
 Reluctantly, Stephen shook it. “Stephen Sutherland.”
“Nice to meet you, Stephen. Are you Roman Catholic?”
“Yes,” Stephen said. “But I’m not—”
The priest held up a hand. “You don’t have to tell me you’re not practising or you no longer
believe, I don’t care about that. I’m only here to offer comfort to as many brave men as I can.”
Stephen’s throat felt tight. He glanced back to the soldier having the amputation who had now
mercifully passed out. “I’m not so brave. I missed the Big Push this morning.”
Father Anthony regarded him. “Being unwell doesn’t make you any less brave. What troubles
you?”
Stephen coloured as he remembered the activity in the trench last night. Had that actually
happened? Had he begged Istvan in the heat of passion to end his life and had the vampire obliged?
He didn’t feel any different and the priest didn’t recoil from him as though Stephen was now some
creature beyond the pale. The only things he felt were a headache as though he were dehydrated, and
the soreness of his neck.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I think I passed out. I don’t remember how I got here.”
The priest nodded sadly. “Too much poor food and not enough sleep. Too much heat and
exhaustion. There are many men suffering the same as you.”
Stephen’s gaze slipped back to the amputee soldier. He lowered his voice. “I’m one of the
lucky ones. How many men died today?”
The priest looked pained. He turned his face away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Too many,”
he said. He felt deeply, that much was clear. Maybe he was as frustrated as so many other men on the
Western Front about the futility of this all. He glanced back at Stephen and his gaze fell to the
soldier’s throat. He went pale as he eyed the wounds.
Stephen dipped his chin but the priest stepped closer, hand clutching the bible tightly as though
he could ward off whatever evil Stephen had been exposed to. “How did you come by the wounds,
my son?” he asked.
Stephen swallowed. “Fleas,” he said. “Perhaps biting gnats.”
The priest’s grey eyes bored into him. “I heard about something similar recently in Vienna,”
he said, his voice low and intense. “A young man with the same wounds who grew progressively
weaker over a period of a few days and exhibited bizarre behaviour. A priest was called with a view
to an exorcism, but he declared the man was the victim of a vampire.”
Stephen flinched, his cheeks heating.
“The priest and the young man’s father and brother waited that night in the victim’s room.
Soon a man with burning black eyes appeared at the window. He entered the room and bent over the
young man. The three men rushed from their hiding place with stakes. A scuffle ensued and the father
had his throat torn out. The brother was gravely injured and the priest was pinned to the wall by the
vampire and almost killed. The vampire escaped and the young man died the same night without
regaining consciousness.”
Stephen regarded the priest, deeply unsettled. “How did you come by this story?” he asked.
Father Anthony put his hands to his shirt collar and pulled it away from his neck, showing two
deep shadows mimicking those on Stephen’s neck. “I was the priest,” he said. “The vampire’s marks
have never left me. So you see, I know what I’m looking at.”
Stephen turned his head to the wall. He could think of no words.
“A vampire preying on soldiers needs to be eliminated,” Father Anthony said. “He is a
parasite of the worst kind and an abomination in the eyes of God.”
 Stephen squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t feel that way about Istvan. And besides, the
vampire with the burning black eyes wasn’t Istvan with his warm, glowing amber eyes, capable of
such tenderness. Hadn’t Istvan saved his life today by necessitating his removal to the medical tent?
He shouldn’t think of such things. Istvan was a vampire when all was said and done, a dangerous
predator, that parasite Father Anthony said he was. It was just that Stephen felt more with his heart
and his cock than his brain at the moment.
“I don’t have anything else to say,” he murmured.
The priest placed his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “I’ll come back when you’ve had some rest.
We need to talk further.”
Stephen didn’t acknowledge him. His thoughts had moved to Sam. Where was he? Had Istvan
taken his life or had the Germans done it instead?

When Stephen awoke he had been moved to a different tent. The rows of men in beds were
quieter, not as moribund as those earlier that day. A couple of nurses slipped up and down the aisles.
Dim light shone over a desk in one corner. Beyond the doorway, the night sky was black and speckled
with stars. Stephen had to get out of here. He couldn’t afford to lie here wondering what had
happened to Sam without finding out for himself.
He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He wore nothing but his underwear, but
he spied his uniform folded in a neat pile at the end of the bed, his boots pushed underneath. The man
in the next bed stared at him wide-eyed as Stephen dressed quickly and hurried towards the exit.
Outside, the warm night air hit him in a blast of bitter smoke. A bright moon filtered through
the man-made clouds. The road was a hive of activity, men constantly being ferried to the tents on
stretchers, harassed doctors and nurses carrying out first aid on the ground. Stephen slipped around
the side of the tent and into the shadows. As he approached the back of the next tent, a tall man
loomed up out of the dark, making him jump in fright.
“Hello, Stephen. You had me worried.”
Stephen let out his breath. “Istvan.”
The vampire stepped closer. He tilted Stephen’s chin gently with his fingertips. “Are you all
right?”
Stephen shrugged away. “No thanks to you.”
Istvan looked contrite. “I took a little too much. As you know, I needed it for the healing of my
bullet wound. What happened to you?”
Stephen folded his arms. “What happened was I was brought here when I should have been
with my regiment. With Sam.”
Istvan stood motionless. “Sam is safe,” he said.
Stephen’s gaze snapped to his, locking his eyes on those mesmerising amber ones of Istvan’s.
“Where is he?”
“In a barn beyond the forest. I took him gravely injured from the battlefield.” He hesitated as
though he would say something else but uttered nothing further.
Stephen stared at him. “You must bring him back here. He needs medical treatment, not a court
martial for desertion.”
Istvan shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Stephen demanded. Istvan held his gaze steadily. A creeping feeling stole up
Stephen’s spine. “What have you done?”
Istvan’s face was severe. “What I had to do to save his life.”
 Stephen searched the vampire’s eyes for the longest while, hoping the conclusion he had
jumped to was the wrong one. He shook his head. “No,” he said.
Istvan kept his voice low. “I had no choice.”
Stephen exploded. “No choice?” He shoved Istvan back. “Get the hell away from me, you
monster.”
Istvan stumbled back a few steps. He put his hands up as though in surrender, his gaze never
leaving Stephen’s. “Forgive me,” he said in barely a whisper.
“No,” Stephen spat. “Never.”
Istvan caught his arm hard, power in his grip. “You would have rather seen him dead?”
Stephen struggled to free himself. A voice rang out behind Istvan. “Is everything all right,
Stephen?”
Istvan let go of him instantly. He turned around with a frown to look at Father Anthony
Gregory.
The priest’s gaze moved from Stephen to Istvan and lingered, his eyes suspicious with deep
distrust.
“Yes,” Stephen said.
“Who’s your friend?”
Istvan seemed to draw himself up. A change came over him, his face turning cold and hard so
Stephen saw the real nature of the vampire. “My name is Istvan Blasko,” he said, looking at the
crucifix around the priest’s neck.
“Istvan? Are you Hungarian?” Father Anthony’s voice was calm and cool.
“Yes.”
“You’re far from home.”
Istvan inclined his head. “As are you, Father.”
The priest’s hand closed around his crucifix. He lifted it and angled it so it caught and
harnessed the moonlight, sending shimmering silver light spilling over Istvan’s left hand, leaving a
cross-shaped burn on the pale skin. The vampire hissed and drew back into the shadows, bumping
against Stephen’s shoulder.
Father Anthony advanced. Tense and afraid, Stephen stepped between the vampire and the
priest. “I’m all right,” he said.
The priest frowned. “Do you know this creature?”
Istvan growled low in his throat. Stephen ignored him. “Yes. Please leave us, Father.”
Father Anthony stared at him. “Help me understand what you are doing, my son.”
Stephen swallowed. “I can’t.”
Istvan placed a hand on his shoulder. “Step aside,” he said. “I don’t need you to fight my
battles for me.”
“But you do,” Stephen said. “Or you’ll hurt him and I don’t want you to.”
Istvan was silent as was the priest. His fingers curled, squeezing Stephen’s shoulder. “I won’t
hurt him if he goes away now,” he said.
“Do as you’re told, Father,” Stephen said, his voice harder than he intended. “Please.”
The priest stepped back slowly. Moonlight washed his grey eyes silver. He disappeared
around the side of the tent.
Istvan heaved a sigh. “You saved his life,” he said. “I’m not particularly endeared of men of
the cloth.”
Stephen turned around. “Don’t you think enough men have died here? You said you were sick
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
die an einer überlieferten Religionsausübung festhalten, der selbst
unser nüchterner Verstand nur schwer die Berechtigung absprechen
kann. Bevor es Mittag war, erreichten wir die Karawanserei, die
halbwegs nach Jericho und zwar an der Stelle liegt, wo der Legende
nach der barmherzige Samariter den unter die Mörder Gefallenen
fand. Ich ging hinein, um geschützt vor dem kalten Wind zu
frühstücken. Drei deutsche Handlungsreisende schrieben
Ansichtspostkarten im Gastzimmer und handelten mit dem Wirt um
imitierte Beduinenmesser. Ich saß und horchte auf ihr Geschwätz —
es waren die letzten Worte, die ich auf Wochen hinaus in einer
europäischen Sprache hören sollte, aber ich fand keine Ursache, der
Zivilisation nachzutrauern, die ich hinter mir ließ. Ostwärts von der
Karawanserei senkt sich der Weg und kreuzt ein trocknes Flußbett,
das mancher Greueltat zum Schauplatz gedient hat. An den Ufern
verborgen, pflegten die Beduinen den vorüberziehenden Pilgern
aufzulauern, sie auszuplündern und zu morden. Denn noch vor 15
Jahren war die Straße ebenso wenig vom Auge des Gesetzes
behütet, wie jetzt das Ostjordanland; im letzten Jahrzehnt hat sich
die öffentliche Sicherheit ein paar Meilen weiter ostwärts
ausgedehnt. Endlich erreichten wir den Gipfel des letzten Hügels
und blickten in das Tal des Jordans, auf das Tote Meer und die
verschleierten moabitischen Berge im Hintergrund — die Grenze der
Wüste. Zu unsern Füßen Jericho, ein unromantischer Haufen
baufälliger Gasthäuser und Hütten, in denen die einzigen Araber
hausen, die der Tourist zu Gesicht bekommt, ein Mischgesindel von
Beduinen und Negersklaven. Ich ließ mein Pferd bei den
Maultiertreibern oben am Hang, — »Der Herr schenke Ihnen
Gedeihen!« — »Gelobt sei Gott!« — »Wenn es Eurer Exzellenz gut
geht, sind wir zufrieden!« — und lief bergab in das Dorf. Aber
Jericho genügte mir nicht für diesen herrlichen ersten Reisetag; ich
sehnte mich danach, Touristen, Hotels und Ansichtspostkarten hinter
mir zu lassen. Zwei weitere Stunden würden uns an das Jordanufer
bringen, und dort, an der hölzernen Brücke, die West und Ost
verbindet, konnten wir an einem geschützten Platz zwischen den
Erdhügeln, im Dickicht von Rohr und Tamarisken unsre Zelte
aufschlagen. Ein kurzer Halt, um Futter für die Pferde und Maultiere
zu kaufen, und weiter ging es über den schmalen Streifen Ackerland,
der Jericho umgibt, dem Ghor, dem Tale des Jordan, zu.

Kloster Kurutul oberhalb Jerichos.

Ist die Straße nach Jericho schon öde genug, so bietet das
Jordantal einen Anblick fast unheimlicher Unwirtlichkeit. Hätten die
Propheten des Alten Testamentes ihren Fluch über diese Gegend
geschleudert, ebenso wie sie es über Babylon oder Tyrus taten, es
könnte keinen besseren Beweis für die Wahrheit ihrer
Prophezeiungen geben; aber sie schwiegen, und unsre
Einbildungskraft muß auf die Flammen von Sodom und Gomorrha
zurückgreifen, auf jenes legendenhafte Strafgericht, das in unsrer
eignen Kindheit ebenso spukte, wie es in den Kindheitstagen der
semitischen Rasse gespukt hat. Eine schwere, schwüle Atmosphäre
lastete über diesem tiefstgelegenen Teile der Erdoberfläche; über
unsern Häuptern, oben auf den Gipfeln der Hügel, wo der Mensch
die freie Gottesluft atmet, raste der Wind dahin, im Tale aber war
alles leb- und bewegungslos wie in der Tiefe des Meeres. Wir
bahnten uns einen Weg durch das niedrige Buschwerk des dornigen
Sidrbaumes, des Christusdornes, aus dessen Zweigen angeblich
Christi Dornenkrone geflochten war. Man kennt zwei Arten des
Christusdorns, die Araber nennen sie Zakūm und Dōm. Aus dem
Zakūm ziehen sie ein medizinisches Öl, der Dōm aber trägt kleine,
dem Holzapfel ähnelnde Früchte, die zur Zeit der Reife eine
rötlichbraune, einladende Farbe aufweisen. Sie sind das wahre
Abbild des Toten Meeres, verlockend anzusehen, auf den Lippen
aber eine sandige Bitterkeit zurücklassend. Das Sidrgestrüpp lichtete
sich und blieb hinter uns; wir befanden uns auf einer trocknen
Schlammdecke, die nichts Grünes trägt. Sie ist von gelber Farbe und
hier und da mit grauweißem, giftigem Salze bestreut, dessen
Lebensfeindlichkeit sich dem Auge ganz unbewußt von selbst
aufdrängt. Während wir so dahinritten, überfiel uns plötzlich ein
schwerer Regenschauer. Die Maultiertreiber schauten besorgt drein,
selbst Michaïls Gesicht zog sich lang: lagen doch vor uns die
Schlammhänge von Genesis, die Pferd und Maultier nur bei
vollständiger Trockenheit überschreiten können. Der Regen währte
zwar nur sehr wenige Minuten, genügte aber, um den harten
Schlamm in der Ebene in eine butterähnliche Masse zu verwandeln.
Die Pferde versanken darin bis zu den Fesseln, und mein Hund Kurt
winselte, als er seine Pfoten aus dem gelben Leime zog. So kamen
wir an die Schlammhänge, die größte Seltsamkeit dieses
unwirtlichen Landes. Eine Viertelmeile westwärts vom Jordan — auf
dem Ostufer des Stromes ist dieser Streifen viel schmäler —
verwandelte sich die platte Ebene plötzlich in eine Kette steiler,
durch tiefe Einschnitte getrennter Schlammbänke. Sie sind nicht
hoch, höchstens 30 bis 40 Fuß, aber die Gipfel sind so spitz, die
Seiten so steil abfallend, daß der Reisende sich seinen Weg über
und um dieselben mit der größten Sorgfalt bahnen muß. Der Regen
hatte die Abhänge glatt wie Glas gemacht; selbst für den Fußgänger
war es fast unmöglich, sich aufrecht zu halten. Mein Pferd stürzte,
als ich es darüber führte, da wir uns aber glücklicherweise auf einem
kleinen Grat befanden, gelang es dem Tiere, sich durch die
erstaunlichsten gymnastischen Anstrengungen wieder
emporzuarbeiten. Ich schickte ein Stoßgebet zum Himmel, als meine
kleine Karawane aus dem Bereich der Schlammhänge war; bei
anhaltendem Regen wären wir möglicherweise zu stundenlangem
Warten verurteilt worden, denn wenn der Reiter in eine der
schlammigen Vertiefungen stürzt, muß er darin warten, bis der
Boden wieder trocken ist.
 Zug durch das Ghor.

Am Flußufer war Leben. Der Boden war mit jungem Gras und
gelben Gänseblümchen bedeckt, das rostfarbene Gezweig der
Tamarisken zeigte die ersten Spuren des Frühlings. Ich sprengte auf
die große Brücke mit dem Balkendach und den Seiten aus
Gitterwerk zu — auf dieses Tor zur Wüste, das dem Reisenden
einen tiefen Eindruck hinterläßt. Da lag der freie, mit kurzem Gras
bewachsene, von den Schlammbänken begrenzte große Platz, den
ich so gut in der Erinnerung hatte, und — dem Himmel sei Dank —
er war leer. Wir hatten Ursache zur Besorgnis in dieser Hinsicht
gehabt. Die türkische Regierung zog in dieser Zeit alle verfügbaren
Truppen zusammen, um den Aufstand in Jemen zu unterdrücken.
Die Regimenter des südlichen Syriens zogen über die Brücke nach
'Ammān, von wo sie mit der Bahn auf der Mekkalinie bis zu der
damaligen Endstation Ma'ān, in der Nahe von Petra, befördert
wurden. Von Ma'ān aus führte sie ein schrecklicher Marsch durch
eine Sandwüste an die Spitze des Golfes von 'Akaba. Viel hundert
Mann, viel tausend Kamele kamen um, ehe das Ziel erreicht war,
denn auf dem ganzen Wege gibt es (so sagen die Araber) nur drei
Brunnen, von denen der eine ungefähr zwei Meilen abseits der
Heerstraße liegt und allen denen unauffindbar ist, die nicht mit dem
Lande vertraut sind.
 Jordanbrücke.

Wir errichteten unsere Zelte, pflöckten die Pferde an und

entzündeten ein mächtiges Feuer aus Weiden- und Tamariskenholz.
Es war eine ruhige, trübe Nacht, auf den Bergen regnete es, — bei
uns nicht. Die jährliche Regenmenge beläuft sich auf nur wenige Zoll
im Jordantal. Wir waren nicht allein. Die türkische Regierung erhebt
nämlich von allen Brückenpassanten einen kleinen Zoll und hat zu
diesem Zweck einen Wächter dort stationiert. Er wohnt in einer
Lattenhütte neben dem Brückentor, und zwei oder drei zerlumpte
Araber aus el Ghor teilen seine Einsamkeit. Einer derselben, ein
grauhaariger Neger, sammelte Feuerholz für uns und durfte zur
Belohnung die Nacht bei uns verbringen. Er war eine vergnügte
Seele, dieser Mabūk. Unbekümmert darum, daß ihn die Natur mit
einer außergewöhnlich häßlichen Mißgestalt bedacht hatte, tanzte er
munter um das Lagerfeuer. Er erzählte gern von den Soldaten, den
armen Burschen, die schon auf ihrer ersten Tagereise zerlumpt, mit
zerfetzten Schuhen, dazu halb verhungert bei der Brücke ankamen.
Am selben Morgen war ein Tābūr (900 Mann) durchgezogen, andere
wurden morgen erwartet — wir hatten sie gerade verfehlt.
»Mascha'llah!« sagte Michaïl, »Euer Exzellenz haben Glück. Erst
entrinnen Sie den Schlammhängen und nun den Redīfs.« — »Gelobt
sei Gott!« murmelte Mabūk, und von dem Tage galt es für besiegelt,
daß ich unter einem glücklichen Stern reiste. Mabūk brachte uns
auch die erste Kunde aus der Wüste. Unaufhörlich sprach er von Ibn
er Raschīd, dem jungen Häuptling der Schammār, dem sein
mächtiger Onkel Mohammed einen so unsicheren Landbesitz in
Zentral-Arabien als Erbe hinterlassen. Zwei Jahre lang hatte ich
nichts von Nedjd gehört — und was machte Ibn Sa'oud, der
Beherrscher von Rīad und Ibn er Raschīds Nebenbuhler? Wie stand
der Krieg zwischen ihnen? Mabūk hatte allerlei gehört, es hieß, Ibn
er Raschīd sei in die Enge getrieben; vielleicht zogen die Redīfs gar
nach Nedjd und nicht nach Jemen, — wer weiß? Hatten wir auch
schon gehört, daß die 'Ajārmeh einen Scheich der Suchūr ermordet
hatten, gerade als der Stamm aus dem östlichen Weideland
zurückkehrte? So lief das übliche Gespräch; die Themen der Wüste
— blutige Fehde und Kameldiebstahl — alle wurden sie erörtert, ich
hätte vor Freude weinen mögen, als ich ihnen wieder lauschte. Ein
wahres Babel von arabischen Dialekten herrschte an diesem Abend
um mein Feuer: Michaïl sprach das gewöhnlich klingende, jeder
Vornehmheit entbehrende Jerusalemisch, Habīb drückte sich,
außerordentlich schnellsprechend, im Dialekt des Libanon aus, und
Mohammed hatte den langgezogenen, monoton beirutischen Akzent,
während die Lippen des Negers ein der schönen, kraftvollen
Beduinensprache ähnelndes Idiom formulierten. Selbst den Männern
fiel die Verschiedenartigkeit der Dialekte auf, und sie wandten sich
an mich mit der Frage, welches der richtige sei. Ich konnte nur
erwidern: »Das weiß Gott allein, denn er ist allwissend!« eine
Antwort, die mit Lachen aufgenommen wurde, obgleich ich gestehen
muß, daß ich sie nur zaghaft äußerte.
 Kloster Mar Saba in der Wüste von Judäa.

Grau und windstill brach der Morgen herein. Vom Augenblick

meines Erwachens an bis zum Aufbruch waren 1½ Stunden für
Vorbereitungen festgesetzt; manchmal kamen wir zehn Minuten
früher fort, manchmal leider auch später. Die Wartezeit verplauderte
ich mit dem Brückenwärter, einem Jerusalemer Kind. Er vertraute
meinem mitleidigen Ohr all seine Kümmernisse, die Streiche, die ihm
die Ottomanische Regierung zu spielen pflegte, und die Schwere
des Daseins in den heißen Sommermonaten. Und dann das Gehalt!
ein reines Nichts! Sein Einkommen war jedoch größer, als er
einzugestehen beliebte, denn ich entdeckte in der Folge, daß er für
jedes meiner sieben Tiere drei statt zwei Piaster gefordert hatte. Es
ist sehr leicht, sich gut mit den Orientalen zu stellen, und wenn sie
ein Entgelt für ihre Freundschaft verlangen, so ist es gewöhnlich
sehr bescheiden. Wir überschritten den Rubikon für drei Piaster pro
Kopf und schlugen den nordwärts nach Salt führenden Weg ein. Der
südliche geht nach Mādeba in Moab, der mittlere aber nach
Heschbān, wo der schurkische Sultan ibn 'Ali id Diāb ul 'Adwān, der
große Scheich aller Belkaaraber, wohnt. Die Ostseite des
Jordantales ist viel fruchtbarer als das Westufer. Liefern doch die
schönen Höhen von Ajlun Wasser genug, um die ganze Ebene in
einen Garten zu verwandeln, aber das kostbare Naß wird nicht
aufgespeichert, und die Araber vom Stamme 'Adwān begnügen sich
damit, ein wenig Korn zu erbauen. Noch war die Zeit des Blühens
nicht gekommen. Ende März aber ist das Ghor ein einziger Teppich
aus den verschiedenartigsten lieblichen Blüten, die alle freilich nur
einen Monat lang die sengende Hitze des Tales ertragen können, ja,
dieser einzige Monat sieht die Pflanzen knospen, blühen und reifen
Samen tragen. Ein armseliger Araber zeigte uns den Weg. Er war
gekommen, um sich den Redīfs zuzugesellen, da ein wohlhabender
Einwohner von Salt ihn gegen ein Entgelt von 50 Lire als
Ersatzmann gedungen hatte. Aber er kam zu spät; als er die Brücke
erreichte, war sein Regiment schon vor zwei Tagen durchmarschiert.
Es tat ihm leid, denn gern wäre er dem Krieg entgegengezogen, —
überdies mußte er auch wahrscheinlich die 50 Lire zurückerstatten
— aber seine Tochter würde sich freuen, denn sie hatte beim
Abschied geweint. Er stand still, um seinen Lederpantoffel aus dem
Schlamm zu ziehen.
»Nächstes Jahr,« sprach er, nachdem er mich wieder eingeholt,
»werde ich, so Gott will, nach Amerika gehen.«
Verwundert betrachtete ich die halbnackte Gestalt, die bloßen
Füße in den zerrissenen Schuhen, den zerlumpten, von den
Schultern gleitenden Rock, den Wüstenturban aus einem Tuch und
Schnüren von Kamelshaar hergestellt.
»Kannst du Englisch?« fragte ich.
 »Nein,« erwiderte er gelassen, »aber ich werde dann das
Reisegeld erspart haben. Hier ist bei Gott kein Vorwärtskommen
möglich.«
Ich fragte, was er in den Vereinigten Staaten zu tun gedenke.
»Handeln,« lautete die Antwort, »und wenn ich 200 Lire
zusammen habe, komme ich wieder.«
Dieselbe Geschichte kann man durch ganz Syrien hören.
Hunderte wandern alljährlich aus und finden, wohin sie auch
kommen, mitleidige Landsleute, die ihnen eine helfende Hand
reichen. Sie bieten billige Waren auf den Straßen feil, schlafen unter
Brücken und leben von einer Kost, die kein freier Bürger auch nur
eines Blickes würdigen würde, und kehren, haben sie ihre 200 Lire
erworben, in die Heimat zurück, reiche Leute in den Augen ihres
Dorfes. Im Ostjordanland sind die Auswanderungsgelüste nicht so
groß, aber als ich einst im Gebirge von Haurān einen Drusen nach
dem Weg fragte, gab er mir im reinsten Yankeeenglisch Bescheid.
Ich hielt mein Pferd an, hörte seine Geschichte und fragte
schließlich, ob er wieder nach Amerika wolle. Er wandte sich um
nach den Steinhütten seines Dorfes, das knietief in Schlamm und
schmelzendem Schnee eingebettet lag, »Gibt's nicht!« erwiderte er,
und als ich schon weiterritt, klang noch ein fröhliches »Mein Lebtag
nicht!« hinter mir her.
 Die Klagemauer in Jerusalem.

Ein zweistündiger Ritt brachte uns an das Gebirge, das wir durch
ein gewundenes Tal betraten. Mein Freund nannte es Wād el
Hassanīyyeh, nach dem Stamme gleiches Namens. Es war voll
Anemonen, weißem Ginster (rattam nennen ihn die Araber),
Cyclamen, Hyazinthen und wilden Mandelbäumen. Für nutzlose
Pflanzen, mögen sie noch so schön sein, hat der Araber keine
Namen, sie heißen alle haschīsch, Gras, während das kleinste
Gewächs, das von irgend welchem Nutzen ist, in seiner Sprache
bekannt und bezeichnet ist. Der Weg, ein bloßer Saumpfad, stieg
allmählich bergan. Gerade, ehe wir in die Nebelschicht eintraten, die
den Gipfel des Berges einhüllte, sahen wir unter uns, nach Süden
hin, das Tote Meer wie eine riesige Milchglasscheibe unter dem
bleiernen Himmel daliegen. Bei richtigem Gebirgswetter, einem
feuchten, dahinjagenden Nebel, erreichten wir gegen 4 Uhr Salt.
Dank dem Regen, der in der vergangenen Nacht über uns
weggezogen und hier niedergefallen war, hatte sich die ganze
Umgebung des Dorfes in einen Sumpf verwandelt. In der Hoffnung
auf ein trockneres Unterkommen zögerte ich, die Zelte aufschlagen
zu lassen. Es war mein erstes Bemühen, die Wohnung Habīb
Effendi Fāris' ausfindig zu machen, um dessentwillen ich nach Salt
gekommen war, obgleich ich ihn nicht kannte. Auf seiner Hilfe allein
beruhte die Möglichkeit, meine Reise fortzusetzen. Ich hatte nur
insofern Anrecht auf seinen Beistand, als er mit der Tochter eines
eingebornen Priesters in Haifa, eines würdigen alten Mannes und
guten Freundes von mir, verheiratet war. Urfa am Euphrat war der
Stammplatz der Familie, aber Abu Namrūd hatte lange in Salt gelebt
und kannte die Wüste. Die Stunden, in denen er mich Grammatik
lehren sollte, verbrachten wir größtenteils damit, den Erzählungen
der Araber und seines Sohnes Namrūd zu lauschen, der mit Habīb
Fāris zusammen arbeitete, und dessen Name jedem Belkaaraber
bekannt war.

Juden aus Buchara.

»Wenn Sie je in die Wüste wollen, so müssen Sie zu Namrūd

gehen,« sagte Abu Namrūd. Und darum war ich jetzt hier.
Nach kurzem Fragen fand ich die Wohnung Habīb Fāris'. Ich
wurde freundlich aufgenommen; Habīb war ausgegangen, Namrūd
auswärts (verließ mich mein guter Stern?), aber wollte ich nicht
hereinkommen und ausruhen? Das Haus war klein und voller Kinder,
und noch erwog ich bei mir die Frage, ob nicht der feuchte Erdboden
draußen eine bessere Ruhestatt darbieten möchte, als plötzlich ein
schöner, alter, ganz arabisch gekleideter Mann erschien mit der
Erklärung, daß er und kein anderer mich beherbergen würde, mein
Pferd am Zügel nahm und mich mit sich führte. Das Tier wurde in der
Karawanserei eingestellt, ich stieg eine hohe, schlüpfrige Treppe
hinauf und betrat einen steingepflasterten Hof. Jūsef Effendi eilte
voraus und öffnete die Tür seines Gastzimmers. Fußboden und
Diwan waren mit dicken Teppichen belegt, die Fenster blitzten, wenn
sie auch viele zerbrochene Scheiben aufwiesen, eine europäische
Chiffonniere stand an der Wand: ich sah mich in meinen
Erwartungen weit übertroffen. Einen Augenblick später war ich ganz
heimisch, trank Jūsefs Kaffee und aß meinen eignen Kuchen dazu.

Abessinische Priester.

Jūsef Effendi Sukkar (Friede sei mit ihm!) ist Christ und einer der
reichsten Bewohner von Salt. Er ist ein sehr lakonischer Mann, sucht
aber als Wirt seinesgleichen. Er tischte mir ein ausgezeichnetes
Abendessen auf, dessen Reste Michaïl vorgesetzt wurden, nachdem
ich mich gütlich getan hatte. So sorgte er zwar für meine leiblichen
Bedürfnisse, konnte oder wollte aber nichts tun, um meine
Besorgnisse bezüglich der Weiterreise zu zerstreuen.
Glücklicherweise erschienen in diesem Augenblick Habīb Fāris und
seine Schwägerin Pauline, eine alte Bekannte von mir, sowie
mehrere andere Personen, die sich alle die Ehre geben wollten, den
Abend mit mir zu verplaudern. (»Behüte, die Ehre ist ganz auf
meiner Seite!«) Wir ließen uns nieder zu Kaffee, dem bitteren,
schwarzen Kaffee der Araber, der jeden Nektar übertrifft. Die Tasse
wird dir gereicht mit einem »Geruhe anzunehmen!«, leer gibst du sie
zurück und murmelst dabei »Langes Leben dir!« Während du trinkst,
ruft dir eins zu »Gesundheit!«, und du erwiderst »Deinem Herzen!«
Als die Tassen ein- oder zweimal herumgegeben und alle
erforderlichen Höflichkeitsbezeigungen ausgetauscht waren, brachte
ich die Rede auf das Geschäftliche. Wie konnte ich das drusische
Gebirge erreichen? Die Regierung würde mir wahrscheinlich die
Erlaubnis verweigern, bei 'Ammān stand ein Militärposten am
Eingang zur Wüste, und in Bosra kannte man mich, denn dort war
ich ihnen vor fünf Jahren durch die Finger geschlüpft, ein
Kunststück, das mir zum zweitenmal schwerlich gelingen würde.
Habīb dachte nach, und schließlich schmiedeten wir einen Plan. Er
wollte mich am andern Morgen nach Tneib, am Rande der Wüste,
schicken, wo seine Kornfelder lagen, und wo ich Namrūd finden
würde. Der mochte einen der großen Stämme benachrichtigen, unter
dessen Schutz und Geleit konnte ich dann völlig sicher in die Berge
reisen. Jūsefs zwei Söhnchen hörten mit erstaunten Augen zu und
brachten mir am Schlusse der Unterhaltung ein Stück Zeitung mit
einer Karte von Amerika. Darauf zeigte ich ihnen meine Landkarten
und erzählte ihnen, wie groß und schön die Welt sei, bis die
Gesellschaft gegen zehn Uhr aufbrach, und mein Wirt Decken für
meine Lagerstatt auszubreiten begann. Erst jetzt bekam ich meine
Wirtin zu sehen. Sie war eine außerordentlich schöne Frau, groß
und bleich, mit einem ovalen Gesicht und großen, sternengleichen
Augen. Sie trug sich arabisch: ein enges, dunkelblaues Gewand
schlug beim Gehen um ihre bloßen Knöchel, ein dunkelblauer
Schleier war mit einem roten Tuch um die Stirn befestigt und fiel lang
über ihren Rücken hinunter, bis fast auf die Erde. Nach der Weise
der Beduinenfrauen waren ihr auf Kinn und Hals zierliche Muster in
Indigofarbe tätowiert. Sie brachte Wasser und goß es mir über die
Hände; ihre große, stattliche Gestalt bewegte sich schweigend im
Zimmer und verschwand, nachdem alle Obliegenheiten erfüllt waren,
ebenso ruhig wieder, wie sie gekommen. Ich sah sie nicht noch
einmal. »Sie trat herein und grüßte mich,« sprach jener Dichter, der
in Mekka gefangen lag, »dann erhob sie sich, um Abschied zu
nehmen, und als sie meinen Blicken entschwand, folgte ihr meine
Seele.« Niemand darf Jūsefs Weib sehen. Obgleich er ein Christ ist,
hält er sie doch in strengerer Abgeschlossenheit, als die
Muselmänner ihre Frauen, — und vielleicht tut er recht daran.
An meine Fenster schlug der Regen; während ich mich auf mein
Lager streckte, klang mir Michaïls Ausruf in den Ohren:
»Mascha'llah! Ew. Exzellenz haben Glück!«
 Zweites Kapitel.
Salt ist eine wohlhabende Gemeinde von über 10000
Einwohnern, die zur Hälfte Christen sind. Es liegt in einer reichen,
um ihrer Trauben und Pfirsiche willen bekannten Gegend; schon im
14. Jahrhundert tut der Geograph Abu'l Fīda seiner Gärten
Erwähnung. Auf dem Hügel liegt über den dichtgedrängten Dächern
ein zerfallenes Kastell, welcher Zeit entstammend, weiß ich nicht.
Die Bewohner glauben an ein sehr hohes Alter der Stadt, ja die
Christen behaupten, in Salt sei eine der ersten Gläubigengemeinden
gewesen; es geht sogar die Sage, daß Christus selbst hier das
Evangelium gepredigt habe. Obgleich die Aprikosenbäume noch
nichts weiter als ihre kahlen Zweige zeigten, trug doch das ganze Tal
den Stempel freundlicher Wohlhabenheit, als ich mit Habīb Fāris
durchritt, der sein Pferd bestiegen hatte, um mich auf den rechten
Weg zu bringen. Er hatte auch seinen Anteil an den Weinbergen und
Aprikosengärten und schmunzelte geschmeichelt, als ich mich
lobend über sie aussprach. Wer hätte auch an einem solchen
Morgen nicht schmunzeln sollen? Die Sonne schien, blitzender Frost
lag auf der Erde, und die Luft zeigte jene durchsichtige Klarheit, die
nur an hellen Wintertagen nach einem Regen zu beobachten ist.
Aber es war nicht nur ein allgemeines Gefühl des Wohlwollens, dem
meine anerkennenden Worte entsprangen: die Bewohner von Salt
und Mādeba sind ein kluges, fleißiges Völkchen, das jedes Lob
verdient. In den fünf Jahren, wo ich die Gegend nicht besucht, hatten
sie die Grenze des Ackerlandes um die Breite eines zweistündigen
Rittes nach Osten hin vorgeschoben und den Wert des Bodens so
unbestreitbar bewiesen, daß nach der Eröffnung der Haddjbahn der
Sultan einen großen, im Süden bis Ma'ān reichenden Landstrich für
sich reserviert hat, den er in eine Königliche Farm umzuwandeln
gedenkt. Er und seine Pächter werden Reichtümer ernten, denn
wenn auch nur ein mäßig guter Regent, so ist der Sultan doch ein
vorzüglicher Landwirt.
 Eine halbe Stunde hinter Salt verabschiedete sich Habīb und
überließ mich der Obhut seines Knechtes Jūsef, eines kräftigen
Menschen, der mit seiner Holzkeule (Gunwā nennen sie die Araber)
über der Schulter neben mir dahinschritt. Wir zogen durch die
weiten, baumlosen, unbewohnten, ja fast unbebauten Täler, die die
Belkaebene umgeben, und vorbei an der Öffnung des Wādi Sīr,
durch welches man, immer durch die schönsten Eichenwälder
reitend, bis in das Jordantal hinabgelangen kann. Auch die Berge
würden hier Bäume tragen, wenn die Kohlenbrenner sie nur
wachsen ließen — wir fanden manches Eichen- und
Schwarzdorndickicht auf unserm Wege —, aber ich möchte gar
nichts geändert haben an dem herrlichen Ostjordanland. Zwei
Menschenalter später wird es im Schmucke der Kornfelder stehen
und mit Dörfern übersät sein; die Wasser des Wādi Sīr werden
Mühlräder treiben, und man wird selbst Chausseen bauen, aber —
dem Himmel sei Dank — ich werde das alles nicht sehen müssen.
Solang ich lebe, wird das Hochland bleiben, als was es Omar
Khayyām besingt: »Verstreuten Grüns ein schmales Band, trennt es
die Wüste von dem Ackerland.« Öde und menschenleer wird es
auch ferner sein; nur hie und da wird ein einzelner Hirt, auf die
langläufige Flinte gelehnt, mitten in seiner Herde stehen, und wenn
ich den Reitersmann, der so selten nur sein Roß durch die Berge
lenkt, frage, woher er kommt, wird er noch immer antworten: »Möge
dir die Welt noch Raum genug bieten! Von den Arabern komme ich.«
 Ein Adwānaraber als
Feldhüter.

Und hin zu den Arabern führte uns unsere Reise. In der Wüste
gibt es weder Beduinen — alle Zeltbewohner heißen Araber (mit
einem kräftigen Rollen des Gutturallautes) — noch auch Zelte,
sondern nur Häuser, manchmal auch »Haarhäuser«, wenn eine
nähere Bestimmung nötig ist, sonst schlechthin »Häuser«, eine
Bezeichnung, die nur die äußerste Verachtung alles dessen erfinden
konnte, was zu einem Haus gehört; denn mit einem solchen haben
diese Zelte nichts gemeinsam als höchstens das Dach aus
schwarzen Ziegenhaaren. Man kann Araber sein, auch wenn man
zwischen Mauern wohnt. Die Leute von Salt zählen samt den
Abādeh, den Da'dja und den Hassaniyyeh und mehreren anderen
die große Schar der 'Adwān bildenden Arabern, zu den
Belkastämmen. Zwei mächtige Stämme streiten um die
Oberherrschaft in der Syrischen Wüste, die Beni Sachr und die
'Anazeh. Es besteht eine traditionelle, jetzt freilich durch
bedauerliche Vorkommnisse getrübte Freundschaft zwischen den
Suchūr und den Belkaarabern, und wahrscheinlich deshalb wurde
mir hier erzählt, daß die 'Anazeh zwar die an Zahl überlegenere, an
Mut aber die bei weitem untergeordnetere der beiden Parteien sei.
Mit einem Sohne Talāl ul Fāiz', des Beherrschers aller Beni Sachr,
verknüpft mich sozusagen eine Grußbekanntschaft. Vor fünf Jahren,
aber einen Monat später, also gerade zu der Zeit, wo der ganze
Stamm die heißen östlichen Weideländer verläßt und jordanwärts
zieht, stieß ich gerade in dieser Gegend auf ihn. In Begleitung eines
zirkassischen Polizeisoldaten ritt ich von Mādeba nach Mschitta —
es war, ehe die Deutschen die mit Steinbildwerk versehene Fassade
von dem prächtigen Gebäude ablösten. Als wir die mit den Herden
und schwarzen Zelten der Suchūr bedeckte Ebene kreuzten, kamen
drei bis an die Zähne bewaffnete Reiter mit finsteren Brauen und
drohenden Mienen auf uns zu, um uns den Weg abzuschneiden.
Aus der Ferne schon riefen sie uns ihren Gruß zu, wandten aber um
und ritten langsam zurück, sobald sie des Soldaten ansichtig
wurden. Der Zirkassier lachte: »Das war Scheich Fāiz,« sagte er,
»Talāls Sohn. Wie die Schafe, wāllah! Wie die Schafe laufen sie,
wenn sie einen von uns erblicken!« Ich kenne die 'Anazeh nicht, da
ihre Winterwohnplätze mehr nach dem Euphrat zu liegen, aber
unbeschadet meiner sonstigen Hochachtung für die Suchūr, glaube
ich, daß jene, ihre Nebenbuhler, die wahren Aristokraten der Wüste
sind. Ihr Herrscherhaus, die Beni Scha'alān, trägt den stolzesten
Namen, und ihre Pferde sind die besten in ganz Arabien; sogar die
Schammār, Ibn er Raschīds Leute, kaufen sie gern, um ihre eigne
Zucht damit aufzubessern.
 Lager in der Nähe des Toten Meeres.

Aus dem tief eingeschnittenen, das Jordantal überragenden

Gebirge kamen wir in ein flaches Hügelland, in dem zahlreiche
verfallene Plätze liegen. Eine Viertelstunde vor den an der Quelle
des Wādi Sīr befindlichen Ruinen stießen wir auf eine ansehnliche
Menge Mauerwerk und eine Zisterne, welche die Araber Birket Umm
el 'Amūd (Brunnen der Mutter der Säule) nennen. Jūsef berichtete,
daß dieser Name von einer Säule herrühre, die früher inmitten des
Wassers gestanden; ein Araber schoß nach ihr und zerstörte sie,
und nun liegen ihre Trümmer auf dem Grunde der Zisterne. Der
Hügel (oder Tell, um ihm dem heimischen Namen zu geben) von
Amēreh ist ganz mit Ruinen bedeckt, und weiterhin, in Jadūdeh,
findet man Felsengräber und Sarkophage am Rande der Brunnen.
Der ganze Saum der Wüste ist mit ähnlichen Zeugen einer
vergangenen Bevölkerung übersät; wir finden Dörfer aus dem 5. und
6. Jahrhundert, der Zeit, wo Mādeba eine reiche, blühende
Christenstadt war, ja einige entstammen zweifellos einer noch
früheren, vielleicht vorrömischen Periode.
In Jadūdeh hat ein Christ aus Salt, der größte Kornproduzent der
Gegend, seinen Wohnsitz aufgeschlagen; er bewohnt ein einfaches
Landhaus auf der Spitze des Hügels. Man rechnet ihn zu den
energischen Bahnbrechern, die bemüht sind, die Grenzen der Kultur
immer weiter hinauszuschieben. Bei Jadūdeh verließen wir das
Hügelland und betraten die endlose, mit spärlichem Grün
bewachsene Ebene. Hie und da ein kegeliger Hügel oder ein
niedriger Höhenzug, dann wieder weite, unbegrenzte Ebene.
Ruhevoll dem Auge und doch nie monoton liegt sie, in die magische
Glut des winterlichen Sonnenuntergangs getaucht; auf den sanft
gewölbten Erhöhungen rastet noch das Licht, die leichten
Bodensenkungen bergen schon die Schatten der Nacht, und über
dem allen breitet sich der weite Himmelsdom aus, der Wüste und
Meer gleichermaßen überwölbt. Die erste größere Erhebung ist der
Tneib. Wir erreichten ihn nach einem neunstündigen Marsch um ½6
Uhr, gerade als die Sonne sank, und schlugen unsere Zelte an der
südlichen Berglehne auf. Der ganze Abhang war voller Ruinen:
niedrige Mauern aus rohbehauenen Steinen ohne Mörtel, in Felsen
gehauene Zisternen, deren einige ursprünglich jedenfalls weniger zu
Wasser- als zu Kornbehältern benutzt worden, welchem Zweck sie
auch jetzt noch dienen. Namrūd war zum Besuch eines
benachbarten Landwirtes geritten, einer seiner Männer aber eilte
sofort, ihn von meiner Ankunft zu benachrichtigen, und gegen 10 Uhr
abends erschien er im Glanze der frostblitzenden Sterne mit vielen
Freudenbezeigungen und der Versicherung, daß meine Wünsche
leicht zu erfüllen seien. So legte ich mich zur Ruhe, eingehüllt in das
kalte Schweigen der Wüste, und erwachte am andern Morgen zu
einem Tage voll Sonnenschein und guter Aussichten.