Right to Silence

by Lily Luchesi

  “You may ask once I’ve taken Michael home to ensure he will be well,” Benjamin replied, standing up. “Help me carry him.”

  “No…”

  All three men looked to Michael, who was wakening. “Ben, you must listen. Please. He did not simply bite me. He...his blood is in me. That is why he was so jubilant. He has turned me. It is only a matter of time.”

  Benjamin felt his veins fill with ice. He couldn’t possibly be turning. “No, no you’re not.”

  “Do not be ridiculous, love. Of course I am,” Michael said, tears glistening in his eyes. “I will turn soon, and I do not wish to live as a vampire. Not if it is his blood that is inside of my veins now. Please...you know what you must do.

  “You’re the only one I trust, Ben. Please...save me.”

  Those last two words were spoken in a breathless whisper so filled with pleading that Benjamin felt as though his heart might literally break. “I...I cannot,” he said.

  “You must, little brother,” Mahon said quietly. “It is his wish, and you have pledged yourself to him time and time again. It is what is right.”

  Ben whirled on his sibling. “And you? Would you kill Linwood were he to beg you?” It was the first time they had ever spoken aloud of the relationship between the Parliament hunter and the Inspector, and Mahon was taken aback.

  “Yes,” he said. “If it was his fervent wish, I would acquiesce.”

  Michael was looking at him with the utmost love in his gaze. “Please, Ben. I can’t turn. You must kill me before the blood circulates any further! If you truly love me, please do this for me.”

  Benjamin felt as if he could not breathe. He knew what he had to do in order to save his lover’s soul, but how could he? Despite many colleagues believing so, his heart was not cold, and he had a conscience. How could he live with himself if he did this, if he performed Michael’s last request? If he executed his own lover?

  “I can help you,” he said, bargaining. “You won’t turn out like Mabuz.”

  “And if you are incorrect in your assumptions?” Michael asked. “What then? What would be worse: ending my pain now or having me become a monster?”

  Put that way, Benjamin did not have much of a choice. He could never forgive himself if he allowed Michael— warm, bright, loving Michael —to become like Mabuz. He checked the rounds in his revolver, and then clicked the safety off.

  He did not take his eyes from Michael’s as he aimed the gun.

  “I love you. We’ll meet again,” Michael promised.

  “I love you as well.” And with that, he pulled the trigger.

  ***

  One week later

  Mahon Quinn was a psychic vampire, but the ‘psychic’ half did not work how you might think it would. It was only when he realised he had been so absorbed in his Parliament work that he had not heard from his younger brother in six days. Benjamin had requested to be left alone to grieve for his lover, and Mahon had given him the space he desired.

  Now there was a feeling in his mind that his brother was in some sort of trouble. Despite it being early, just mid-afternoon, he closed his reports and left Westminster, hailing a taxi to get to his brother’s flat. He suddenly felt a dark, dreadful urgency making him wish he had left just five minutes sooner as he alighted the cab.

  As soon as he went to knock on the door, there was a loud gunshot. Not bothering with waiting for the elderly landlady, he kicked the heavy wooden door in and began to take the stairs two at a time.

  Also kicking in the door to Benjamin’s flat, he stopped stock still when he saw the ghastly sight before him. Falling to his knees, showing emotions he had always kept hidden, he began to wail as his brother’s blood soaked through the floorboards from the gunshot wound to the head.

  There was a note that Mahon read once he was able to stand again.

  “I’m already damned; what is one more sin to add to the list? I cannot live with what I have done, with what I allowed to happen because of my failure. My only hope is that I will be able to see Michael again one more time.”

  Chapter Seven

  London, England

  September, 2010

  Brighton Sands was sitting in the lab one evening at university, mixing his pet project for his final postgraduate thesis in biochemistry. He was thirty, already in possession of two other degrees, handsome, and quiet. On the outside he looked like any other postgrad student, but he knew that he was anything but.

  He was born in January of nineteen-eighty to an engineer and a maths professor. An only child, he started making up imaginary friends and imaginary situations when he was a toddler. At least, that was before he realised that these people he dreamed of and the situations he saw himself in were not so imaginary.

  For the first ten years of his life, he played pretend he was a vampire hunter in Victorian times, in love with a doctor named Michael and had an older brother named Mahon. In these fantasies he called himself ‘Benjamin’.

  And then he was taking a tour of Westminster with his class when he spotted a tall, thin man with a receding hairline talking on a mobile phone. It was the man he had thought he’d made up, Mahon. On impulse, Brighton called his name, and the man jumped, nearly spilling the cup of tea he had been holding.

  Mahon and Brighton locked eyes, and it was as if a lock had been broken inside of his brain as every memory came to him in perfect clarity. If asked, he could not explain how he knew, but he knew that everything he thought he had imagined had really happened. Somehow he was Benjamin Quinn, reborn in this time, with this name. And somehow, Mahon Quinn was still alive, still working for the Parliament.

  He did not realise he had been staring until his teacher roughly scolded him. “You are bothering that poor man who has better things to do than entertain children, Mr. Sands.”

  The man who looked like— who was —Mahon put his phone away. “No, it’s quite all right. He wasn’t bothering me at all, were you, Ben? Stay safe now: you don’t want to get lost in here.”

  Brighton nodded, not correcting him on his name now. “Okay. ’Bye, Mahon!”

  Like a television voiceover, he heard Mahon think, He actually came back. I’ll be damned.

  Brighton’s mind was on hyper drive, even more so than usual. As a child, he did not question things as an adult would have. He simply accepted them as they were and wanted to know more. Seeing Mahon, he wondered how he was still alive, or if he came back, too. The word ‘reincarnation’ was not yet in his vocabulary, but it would be soon. He wanted to know why he heard Mahon’s thoughts, and could he hear other people’s as well?

  At the dinner table that night he tried it with his parents and did not hear a thing. When their maid, Elle, came in, however, he saw one of her thoughts as opposed to hearing it: she was stealing their silver!

  Immediately, he accused her, and it caused quite a row during dinner, which resulted in Elle being fired and Brighton being praised as a hero.

  After school, he was left to play on his own in their gardens while a nanny watched him, but she was never around, usually watching telly while folding laundry. So he was alone one day, not long after he started reading people’s thoughts, when Mahon Quinn approached the back gate.

  “Hello, brother mine,” he said with a wan smile. “However did you manage this feat?”

  “What feat?” Brighton asked.

  “Reincarnation. I long believed that to be a myth.” He leaned over the gate, his breath puffing in the summer heat.

  “I don’t know. All I know is I used to be alive, and now I’m alive again,” Brighton replied, as he continued to practice his fencing. “And I can see what people are thinking. Not everyone, but some people. How are you still alive, then?”

  “Always blunt, weren’t you?” Mahon smiled wanly. “It is wonderful to see you again, you know. And I am alive because, as I realised some time after you passed, I am a Psi. That stands for—”

  “Psychic vampire. I know,” Brighton said. “I never knew you were one.�
�

  “It was quite a shock, but it also explained so much. ...Do you remember Inspector Linwood?” Mahon asked.

  Brighton rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

  “He is one as well. He still runs Scotland Yard.”

  “Neat!” Brighton said, slashing at some rosebushes. Mummy would be upset, he knew. “So, what exactly do Psis do?”

  “Similar to empaths, but we do not just feel and be affected by others’ emotions: we can take and replace them as well. In order to survive, we must consume varying emotions daily, the same way a true vampire must consume blood,” Mahon explained. “Stealing the emotions— what George calls ‘excrement of the spirit’ —sustains our lives. We are, by far, the most benign paranormal creatures.”

  “I’m glad you’re still alive,” Brighton said in that plain way that children speak profound things. “We didn’t get along, but you’re still my big brother.”

  Mahon smiled. “Yes. I am. And I am going to teach you everything I can about your new abilities, I promise.”

  Mahon had, making Brighton an expert on reincarnation, psychometry, and precognition. Despite many disputes between the siblings, they were closer than they had ever been in Brighton’s previous incarnation.

  Back to this profound day in Brighton’s life, he was sitting in the lab, fussing over his thesis. It was not close to being completed, but it was a very interesting new synthetic substance that could possibly earn him a Nobel Prize one day.

  There was a knock on the doorframe, and he turned to see who was there. No student or staff member ever knocked.

  Standing in the doorway was a beautiful woman. If Brighton was into girls, he would have made a pass at her in a heartbeat. Tall but still curvy, with ivory skin, black hair, and dark eyes, she was striking. Her wardrobe made her even more striking: black motorcycle boots with chains, black skin-tight jeans, a Donnington Festival shirt cut dangerously low, and a floor-length black duster, she stood out, to say the least.

  He searched, but he could not get more than a vague sense of her emotions. She was not human, but the question was, what was she?

  “Can I help you?” he asked, brushing his dark curls from his face.

  “Brighton Sands?” Her accent was American, but he sensed a British clip beneath the drawn out ‘a’ sound that indicated she had lived in Chicago for some time.

  “Yes,” he said, waiting for more.

  “Good.” She entered the room and sat down across from him. “My name is Angelica Cross. I run the Paranormal Investigative Division of America’s FBI, and here in England, MI-5. I was just in a meeting with Mahon Quinn. He suggested that you were working on something in which I and my company would be interested.”

  “Mahon sent you.” He kept his voice neutral. “What did he tell you?”

  She gave an elegant shrug. “That you had an idea for a synthetic haemoglobin replacement.” She looked at him under her lashes. “You’re acting suspicious. Trust me. I’ve been doing this for a long time, Mr. Sands. Is there something else you’re hiding? Because if there is, I can guarantee you that I will find out...one way or another.”

  “I...was worried you might want to study me. I’m a precognitive, and I can sort of read minds,” Brighton said, telling a half-truth.

  Angelica arched an eyebrow. “Interesting. Allow me to think that over. In the meantime, please tell me about your thesis, Mr. Sands.”

  Brighton began to speak animatedly, happy to be talking about his work. He knew what the PID was because of Mahon, though he did not expect the woman running it was a young, Goth girl. He was still wondering what she was, but his thoughts took a backseat as he began to tell her how, when the blood became viable to use inside the human body, it could also go towards making artificial organs.

  Angelica was making notes as he was speaking, a look of joy on her face that made him start to take a shine to her. When he was finished speaking, she looked up at him and said, “Mr. Sands, may I say that you are fucking brilliant?”

  He smiled. “You may...if you tell me what you are. I can barely read you, and I’ve never felt a mind like yours before.”

  “That is because you probably have never met anyone like me before. I’m a vamplet: my mother was a vampire and my father was a human,” Angelica explained. “Mahon told me a lot about you, and that you already knew many hunting techniques he taught you?”

  Brighton nodded.

  “Well, I am willing to make you an offer...if you do not finish your degree. Giving the university your project could very well mean that they could take and use it, meaning that we could lose out on it...and you could lose out on the full credit.

  “I am offering you unlimited funds for your research and experiments into the HG replacement elixir. In exchange, I would also have you assist London’s PID as an active hunter. Your skills sound very useful to us, and it helps that you need so little training. It is a very well-paying position, despite its high mortality rate. Or, rather, because of it.”

  Brighton did not have to think about it. He had loved hunting back in his other life, and the chance to get paid to do it again was so great, he stood up and said, “Where do I sign, Ms. Cross?”

  She laughed. “Ambitious. I like that. Sit down, Mr. Sands, and please call me Angelica. I will arrange a meeting for you tomorrow with our London director, Mark Evans. He should be free around three in the afternoon. If there is a variation in time, I will call you. Yes, I already have your mobile number.” She smiled. “I usually like to get to know prospective agents better, but Mahon has already vetted you, and I like to trust my gut. I think you’re going to be a wonderful asset to us. It helps that you are also already on good terms with the Yard and MI-5.”

  Brighton nodded, and then proceeded to ask a few questions about the PID that he had never cared to ask Mahon before he considered joining them. He and Angelica spoke for hours, and he was shocked when he realized how much time had passed. And how much he had revealed about himself to Angelica. He got on with her unlike anyone he had ever met, even Michael. Their spirits were the same, and he found he did not need to sugar-coat his blunt personality with her, and she did not blunt her sharp tongue, either.

  He learned all about vamplets, and found that the Grand Coven might be willing to help him with his precognitive abilities if he wanted.

  When they said goodbye, he almost wished she’d stick around longer. It had been ages— literally —since he had a true friend.

  Chapter Eight

  Angelica met him the next day prior to his interview, in a rush and trying to text while talking and walking.

  “You’re two species and can do three things at once. Let the Cirque Du Freak get a hold of you,” Brighton joked.

  She gave him the finger.

  “I have to make a few runs, and then at least an hour long check-in with Director Dom in America. I’ve let Director Evans here in London know you’re coming up. And Brighton?” Angelica looked up from her phone long enough to give him a warning glance. “Mahon was very persistent about this, so be nice.”

  “I’m always nice,” Brighton replied, though deep down he knew that he had no verbal filter, a deep sense of condescension towards most people, and powers that made him even more annoying to most everyone who encountered him. No one liked a know-it-all.

  Angelica was the only person who seemed to like him...not that she was a “person”, exactly. “Yeah, whatever you say. I’ll meet up with you both tonight.” With that she was gone, her freaky vampire speed taking her back to the Park Plaza Hotel.

  Brighton straightened his coat, did his best to put a pleasant and neutral expression on his face, and entered the first floor of what was the old building that housed Scotland Yard. He remembered when this placed was founded. He had helped Constable— Detective Chief Inspector now, he was promoted when Scotland Yard formed, and has preferred remaining there than rising higher in order to be able to help the London PID more freely —Linwood christen his new office with a bottle of c
hampagne, alongside Michael and Mahon.

  Dealing with authority was right under “talking to stupid people” on his list of things he hated to do. He got into the lift alongside a werewolf who appeared to be just as discontented with his lift companion as he was. He smirked, getting thoughts from the shifter as vivid as a movie.

  Shifters were the best for reading thoughts. They gave off memories better and more lively than a film. He always enjoyed being around them. It was like having his own private show. Mahon had brought him around many paranormal creatures, to test his abilities. He could get nothing whatsoever from vampires, but every other creature seemed to project well. Shifters were even easier to read than humans.

  He got off the lift first, and took a right, towards the largest office. The door was closed and a nameplate read: “Mark Evans, Director”. Below it, handwritten on a piece of notepaper, was: “Please knock first.”

  Sighing, Brighton knocked on the door and waited till he heard a mild male voice say that he could enter. He opened the door and saw only the top of a blond head as the director was rummaging around in his desk, his thoughts as loud as if he were shouting them in Brighton’s ear.

  Bloody fucking excellent: I lost the file! Angelica is going to murder me, and that is not how I wanted to die. Damn it, where did I put that fucking thing?

  “My file is under the remains of your lunch, Director,” Brighton said, leaning against the door.

  He always maintained an outward appearance of calm, cool, and collected. It made him look less intelligent and much less threatening. He had perfected it so much that nothing short of a cataclysmic event could ever shake that look from him.

  Director Mark Evans, raising his head to look at him, was the equivalent of a cataclysmic event in Brighton’s opinion.

  Hazel eyes. A round nose like a button in the middle of a heart-shaped face. Small but sturdy stature. Sandy blond hair with just a bit of grey to give it a bit of discolouration. A welcoming smile even though he had just been angry and flustered.