Night's Acolyte: Aether Vitalis

By Mercy Loomis

All vampires start out as mortals. Gabriel Chapel was no different.

Gaul, 78 BC. When a chance misstep leaves him on the road after dark, Gabrielus Avidiacus wants nothing more than to get safely home to his wife and children. Instead, he is attacked by a blood-drinking demon and brutally transformed. Left to fend for himself, Gabrielus has no idea what he has become. Just one thing is clear: the only way to protect his family now is to get as far away from them as he can.

That, and kill the demon who did this to him.

As he struggles to discover more about his demonic nature and the bloodlust that now rules him, Gabrielus also seeks a higher purpose to his new life. What he finds will set him on the path to becoming one of the most successful vampires the world has ever known.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rookery Creek Media
• Release date: Nov 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393456131

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Night’s Acolyte

by Mercy Loomis

Copyright 2012 by Mercy Loomis

Cover design by Mercy Loomis. Cover images by Nicholas Monu, Guenter M. Kirchweger, Belovodchenko Anton, and Wojciech Wolak.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, or portion thereof, in any form, save for brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead (or undead), is entirely coincidental.

Night’s Acolyte

Gallia Transalpina, during the consulship of M. Aemilius Lepidus and Q. Lutatius Catulus

(Provence, France, 78 BC)

Gabrielus Avidiacus rubbed at his tired eyes for a moment, then went back to studying the road in front of him. Night had fallen, and every bit of shadow ahead seemed to threaten another rabbit hole.

His mare had found one the hard way when they were just over halfway back from Reii. Her limping had gradually worsened, and now Gabrielus walked next to her with one hand on the small two-wheeled cart, helping to pull it along. His arm and shoulder ached nearly as much as his eyes.

Almost home, girl, he panted. Another mile or two.

Dancer didn’t even flick her ears, just kept doggedly moving forward.

Dancer. Ha. That’s what I get for letting Avidiaca name you. Only his fanciful daughter would have given such a name to an old nag.

The dirt road wound through valleys and dips in the hilly terrain, meandering ever closer to the Via Domitia in the north. Behind them, vineyards gave way to orchards, orchards became pastures, pastures passed back to vineyards and olive groves, and over all hung the magnificent peaks of the Alps to the east.

Why couldn’t Father have moved them somewhere less hilly? Even injured, Gabrielus and Dancer could have made it home before dark if they didn’t have to drag the cart up all these damn hills. At least the cart was mostly empty now, with just the few amphorae of honey he hadn’t managed to sell or trade, some basic provisions, and the cleverly carved wooden legionary he’d bought for his elder son.

It was tempting to leave the cart behind, but they couldn’t afford to. And while Gabrielus would’ve liked to stop and let Dancer rest, Rutilius’s warnings kept nipping at his heels.

I saw one of the bodies, Avidiacus. Or what was left of it.

A chill ran down Gabrielus’s spine, and he touched the hilt of his belt knife for reassurance.

The whole market had been buzzing with the rumors, how the dead men had been found torn apart, rent limb from limb, but not eaten. He’d paid it no mind at first, assuming the tale had started as a wolf kill or something similar, now blown all out of proportion.

That is, he’d paid it no mind until he talked to Rutilius. The older man had seen a lot in his years as a merchant, including the war with the Cimbri and the Teutones twenty years before. Gabrielus had been a small child then, and had only heard the stories his father and the other Roman veterans told. Those were bad enough.

This, apparently, had been even worse.

Gabrielus turned his face up to the cool breeze as the wind shifted. Don’t think about it.

Dancer raised her weary head, snorting. Her ears pricked, then swiveled nervously. She snorted again, louder.

Now you’re just mocking me, Gabrielus grumbled at her, but he gripped the knife hard. Letting go of the cart, he stepped up to Dancer’s head to see what she was looking at.

A stand of trees overshadowed the road about a quarter mile ahead of them—the perfect place for an ambush.

The mare shivered her skin and sidled into