Right to Silence

by Lily Luchesi

  Mark held up a hand. “As fascinating as this is, why are you telling me about Danny?”

  Brighton managed a smile. “To get you used to the idea of reincarnation.”

  Understanding brightened Mark’s expression. “You were reincarnated! You faced this Mabuz in your past life!”

  “Bingo,” Brighton said.

  “You have all those powers? I mean, I knew about the psychometry, of course, but I thought it was a fluke phenomenon that had to do with your brain’s Broca area,” Mark said. “There’s a lot of theories about the Broca and psychic abilities.”

  Brighton nodded. “I bet being reincarnated activated something in there. It seems the most logical answer. But that aside...let me tell you about Peter Mabuz and me. In my other life, I was known as Benjamin Quinn, younger brother of Mahon Quinn. He and I worked with then Constable Linwood to keep London safe from paranormal creatures. There was a period where we worked with both Leander Price and Vincent Cross, but that is not relevant at the moment.

  “What is relevant is when I met a physician named Michael Finnigan in eighteen-oh-two. It was a time when being gay got you a quick trip to the gallows, but Michael and I had a quiet, safe love for three decades before death parted us. We lived and hunted together during that time. Our first year as a couple, we encountered Peter Mabuz, a wild vampire who killed humans indiscriminately. Much worse even than Vincent Cross became. We lost our battle with him, the first time I ever let anyone get away.

  “Thirty years later, he showed back up, turning my office into a human slaughterhouse. He was back to fight again, still retaining enough of his human side to keep up an adrenaline addiction that rivals mine today.” Brighton smiled. “He tricked Michael and me to meet him at an abandoned church, where he proceeded to not just bite Michael, but to turn him. He bled into his wounds.

  “I slit his throat, but I did not slice it far enough, if he survived. I was too worried about Michael.”

  Mark was silent, his expression withdrawn. It was obvious he was jealous of this past self, but Brighton hoped he could stop that emotion.

  “Michael begged me to kill him before the vampire blood worked its way into his system. And I did. I killed him. I shot the man I loved to death, and I killed myself a week later.”

  Mark gasped. “What? Oh, my God, Bri—”

  Brighton held up a hand. “I’m almost done. I knew I was reborn even when I was a child. Mahon helped me with my powers. But I could not shake what I had done to Michael. It haunted me, even in this new life. Until…” Brighton gave a rueful smile, sniffling back unexpected tears. “Until I entered the London PID office and saw him again, alive and well.”

  He turned to watch Mark, wondering if he’d realise it on his own or if he’d have to spell it out for him.

  It took a moment before Mark said, “Wait...no. You don’t mean—”

  “You. You’re the man I’ve loved in every life. Honestly, you don’t think I walk into a room and make out with every possible employer, do you?” His attempt at humour was lost, but he had expected that.

  “I’m...you...oh fuck.” Mark leaned back into his seat, pale and stunned.

  “I’m sorry,” Brighton said. “I should have told you, but I was so ashamed. I killed you. I still, even now, don’t feel that I deserve you after what I did. I understand if you’re mad, if you want to end this. I do. I just needed to tell you everything and—”

  Brighton was cut off as Mark tugged him by the coat collar and pulled him into a deep, warm kiss. When they pulled apart, both men had tears in their eyes.

  Mark held Brighton’s face in his hands and said, “How could you ever think I’d stop loving you after what you’ve just told me? Oh, Brighton...there’s nothing for you to feel ashamed over. We were reborn for a reason, we were reborn to find each other again and we did.” His thumbs caressed Brighton’s sharp cheekbones tenderly. “This all needs time to sink in, but I promise you I love you still, if possible, even more than before, my brave hero.”

  Tears rolled down Brighton’s face. “I don’t deserve your love.”

  Mark fixed him with the stare that was so familiar and said, “It’s the world that doesn’t deserve you, love.”

  ***

  Two months later

  “Brighton?”

  They were in their flat, still trying to find Mabuz one cold December night.

  “Hm?” Brighton was closing the window from the carollers down below. If he heard one more rendition of “Jingle Bells” he was apt to lose his mind. Mark loved Christmas and always got in the spirit. Brighton was more of an Ebenezer type.

  “I want to get married.”

  Brighton smirked. “Didn’t I already propose over the summer? Or is that an imaginary ring I see on your finger?”

  Mark smiled ruefully. “No. I mean, I want to get married now. Well, not right now, but the PID here has a lot of priests who would be willing to do an impromptu wedding.”

  Brighton was floored. Why on Earth would he want an unplanned wedding now of all times? He asked him as much, adding, “I thought you wanted to have a big thing, groomsmen and horses and God knows what else?” Brighton was wealthy, and he would have paid for anything his beloved desired.

  Mark nodded. “I did. And one day we can do it, have a big reception and everything. But time is dragging, Bri. Each second we’re closer to facing a great evil. If I’m going to do that, I want to do it in a way that we weren’t legally able to in our other life. I want to do it as your husband.” Mark stepped closer to him, taking his cold hands in his warm ones.

  Brighton was surprised, certainly, but even more so, he was moved. He pulled Mark in close and kissed him. “I’ll call Mahon. He’ll get everything settled.”

  They married on Boxing Day, at St. Bartholomew the Great near the Barbican. It was nearly impossible to get a wedding service there on a regular day, but with one week’s worth of planning and on Boxing Day? Only two people on Earth could pull that off, barring the Queen of England: Angelica Cross or Mahon Quinn. This time it was Mahon.

  Brighton was getting help with his tie from Mahon in the back lounge, and he gave a nervous bark of laughter. “I can’t believe I’m nervous. When have you ever known me to be fretting about anything?”

  Mahon gave his brother— they still thought of each other as brothers —a look. “When it comes to Michael/Mark, you have an exception. It is what love does, brother dear. Changes every emotion, every reaction, and drives you absolutely batty.”

  “Is that how it is with you and Linwood?” Brighton asked, earning him a pinch from his brother.

  “You know, you could call him George. You’ve only known him for two lifetimes,” Mahon chided.

  Brighton shrugged. “Am I presentable, Mahon?”

  “Adequate.”

  “Git.”

  Natural order restored between the two, Mahon followed Brighton out to stand before the church, which was filled with London PID employees and the few friends they had outside the company.

  George came next, managing to look dishevelled even in his best silk suit. Mark followed to a swell of music, not the wedding march, but something classical that Mahon had composed for this very occasion.

  Brighton was not a stereotypical individual in any sense of the word, but what he felt right then was akin to every silly romance novel ever written, or Hallmark movie ever filmed. He had no idea one human being could hold the love of two lifetimes in his breast and not combust.

  Once both men were before the priest, he began to recite from First Corinthians.

  “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge
, it will pass away.”

  “Brothers and sisters, please speak now if you know of any reason these two men shall not be wed.” There was a pause, and he continued, “In my years as a servant of God, I have only ever known one thing associated with Him, and that is His love. It is my joy to bring together these two souls who found each other in the darkness of a world filled with hate.

  “Brighton, please place the ring on Mark’s finger and say your vows.”

  With a shaking hand, Brighton placed the platinum band on Mark’s equally shaky finger and said, “I, Brighton Arthur Sands, take you, Mark Horace Evans, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life.”

  “Mark?” the priest gestured for him to do the same as Brighton had.

  “I, Mark Horace Evans, take you, Brighton Arthur Sands, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life.”

  Both men’s eyes were filled with tears, and neither of them seemed to mind as they kissed amidst cheers from their family and friends.

  “I love you,” Mark whispered to Brighton. “In every life we ever have, I will love you.”

  Chapter Ten

  They didn’t get much of a honeymoon. As Brighton, Mark, Mahon, and George were still celebrating with champagne and an elaborate cake at the PID office, a cousin of Linwood’s who worked in the labs came running, nearly tripping over her sensible shoes in her haste.

  “Mr. Evans...are you still Evans?”

  Mark shook his head no and said, “That is neither here nor there at the moment. What’s got your knickers in a twist, Mel?”

  “Those possessed people you had me test, one of the demons gave the host a message for us,” she said, taking out her cell phone. “I recorded it.”

  After a few fumbles with nervous fingers, and Brighton’s head aching from the strength of her emotions, she finally got it to play, and they heard the voice of a human who was slowly losing their mind from recent possession. High-pitched, giggly. Frightening.

  “The demon gave me a message to give to everybody at the PID. ...Leander Price has got them all looking. They’ll find her. Even if she runs, she can’t hide. Not from him.” The girl on tape giggled. “She’s a fox and he’s the hound!”

  “Who are you talking about?” Mel asked the girl.

  More giggles. “Angelica Cross. Who else? If she doesn’t hurry, he’ll have her before the night is over!” Nothing intelligible was said after that, just tearful cackles.

  Brighton felt his heart drop. Aside from Mark and Mahon, Angelica was the closest thing he had to family. She’d just defeated Fiona Guilfoyle, got her life settled with Danny. Brighton knew Danny was working up the nerve to propose to her. And now her life was going to be torn apart once again.

  “Hunter’s lot,” one woman had called it, back in the nineteenth century. “Few friends, and no interpersonal relationships, lest your loved ones become victims or you lose the good fight, leaving them alone.”

  Brighton got up and sent a text to Angelica, “Get on video chat as soon as Danny leaves. I know it’s almost dawn. Keep him at work later if possible, past sunset. CODE RED!”

  It was a worst case scenario for everyone: Angelica had to leave Danny, and Mark had to go back to Chicago to keep the main PID branch running in her absence. Which meant Brighton had to face Peter Mabuz alone.

  “I don’t feel right about this,” Mark said when they’d disconnected their video chat. “I know you’re better now than you used to be, but I’m sure Mabuz is much, much stronger now as well. I can’t leave you now.”

  “Mark, you are trusted to run a multi-billion dollar, worldwide company,” Brighton said impatiently. “You need to go. I can take him, and Mahon and Linwood will also be there.” He kissed the top of Mark’s head. “Go. I’ll call you twice a day, every day. Promise.”

  In his heart of hearts, Brighton was glad Mark was leaving. He would be far away from Mabuz, unable to be harmed again. It was a weight off of Brighton’s chest, and he’d sleep easier at night until he finally got to see Mabuz die for real this time.

  ***

  Two weeks later

  Brighton had been warned against going out by himself at night, but he was restless, his psychic mind whirling, but unable to give him any concrete visions. He wondered if he might be better off going mad than dealing with his whispering brain.

  He wrapped his scarf around his neck, shrugged on his coat, and left in the crisp January air. It had been snowing, and then sleeting, but now it was a beautiful clear night. As he was walking, he got a text alert from Linwood.

  “Possible vampire attack near St. Bart’s. Check it out and let me know if you need backup.”

  Brighton grinned to himself. Even if it wasn’t Mabuz— and most likely it would not be —he would still get the chance to let off some steam. If he hated anything, it was being idle. He was most definitely not the Devil’s plaything.

  Blade hidden up his sleeve, he approached the church he had so recently had his wedding in. There was a woman with pale blonde hair splayed across the steps. Brighton reached his mind out and did not feel any life.

  He turned her over, revealing a torn throat and nearly bloodless corpse, wide, glassy eyes staring blankly at the night sky. This was not a random murder. It was Marie Wertz, Mark’s ex-fiancée. He had only met Marie once, and she had threatened to shoot him, so one could not say her death was one he’d mourn terribly. However, he did not believe in coincidences. If a vampire had killed someone he knew, even someone he knew so little, it was not random.

  Brighton was always an intuitive person, even in his previous incarnation. Had he had the self-discipline, he could have been running Scotland Yard single handedly since he was in his early twenties. His heart raced, his pulse drummed in his ears. So this was it, then. This was how it was going to end, once again in a church.

  This time there was no build-up, no fanfare. No threats or corpses littering his workspace. He checked his watch. A midnight duel. How dramatic...how human. He sprinkled his blade with fresh holy water, hiding it again before taking out his Beretta, and quietly entered the church by the unlocked front doors.

  It was quiet and still, the only thing marring its serene beauty was the thin trail of fresh blood leading down the middle aisle, up to the pulpit and altar. Brighton got a chill, déjà vu settling over him like an itchy blanket.

  The blood trail had been left was so obviously deliberate Brighton thought it might belong on America’s Lifetime channel. He followed it, though. When a madman was setting the stage, you didn’t divert from the script so early. Let them think they had you right where they wanted you, until you sprung your trap on them.

  Brighton’s trap was going to be a ten inch serrated silver blade through Mabuz’s jugular.

  The church didn’t have actual roof access, but they had an old pigeon coop that was open-air, so the birds could fly in and out. That was where the blood was leading him. He swallowed hard, alternately picturing scenes from The Birds and “The Reichenbach Fall” episode of Sherlock. Neither image was mentally pleasing at the moment.

  At the top, he spotted a man’s silhouette against the bright moonlight. Even just his form was recognisable to Brighton, after having so many decades of nightmares about him. He turned as Brighton stepped closer, the two enemies coming face-to-face again.

  The first thing Brighton noticed was that Mabuz was still dressed as though he was a Victorian gentleman, minus the hat and moustache. The second thing he noticed was that Mabuz now sported a deep, jagged scar across his throat. He felt a sense of satisfaction at seeing that Mabuz had lived all this time with a reminder of Benjamin Quinn.

  “So, it’s just you and I at last.” Mabuz’s grin was feral, but more refined than many rogue vampires’ Brighton had faced. “How many decades I have waited for this moment, to watch y
ou slowly die by my hand...or should I say ‘fang’.” He chuckled. “Sweet, evasive satisfaction. I have you at last!”

  “Oh, why don’t you quit it,” Brighton snapped. “And people call me a drama queen! This isn’t a production of Dracula, and even if it was, you’re forgetting one thing: the vampire dies in the end.”

  Mabuz just smiled wider. “Tell me, where is your new husband? Shouldn’t Jonathan Harker be here to protect his little Mina? After all, I spent so much time glamouring Marie to follow and fall in love with him. I wanted him to see what became of her.”

  I knew it, Brighton thought. There was something with that crazy chit!

  Brighton kept his gun aimed at the throat of the offensive creature before him and said, “He is far away from here, where your vile fangs can’t ever touch him again.”

  Mabuz pretended to be musing, remembering the suggested scene. “Ah, that’s too bad. His blood was quite sweet. I wonder if it would taste the same in this life? I had so hoped to find out. But you thwarted me yet again, hunter. Bravo.”

  Brighton bit his lip, hiding his annoyance and rage. He knew the vampire was only trying to draw him out, get him to make a mistake by playing mind games. He refused to play along and be the fiend’s puppet any longer. The first time he’d faced Mabuz he had lost his cool, and that resulted in the painful death of his lover and best friend. Never again would he let Mabuz manipulate his emotions.

  “You’re awfully quiet, Ben...uh, I mean Brighton. What’s the matter? Bat got your tongue?” Mabuz asked.

  Brighton maintained eye contact as he responded, “Just wondering how your blood will look splattered in the moonlight. Do you think Hannibal is right and blood looks black in it? Guess I’ll find out.”