Blurred Nights (1st in the Blurred Trilogy)

by Kallysten

  Kate weighed nothing in his arms. She was unconscious, and her wound had started bleeding again. He tried to walk a little faster.

  "Put her down on the table,” Sasha said as she pushed open the infirmary's door.

  Patrick was already in, gloved and masked, shiny instruments at his side. As soon as Blake put Kate down, Patrick placed sensors over her heart and temple. A slightly irregular beeping filled the room.

  "Everyone out,” Sasha demanded. She had cleaned up and thrown scrubs and gloves on. “Patrick, can you clean the sides of the wound?"

  Blake took a step back, but he didn't leave. He had carried her this far; he wasn't going to abandon her now. He could hear shuffling feet behind him but he paid them no mind, his eyes following every movement of the two medics.

  "Blake. A word."

  He barely spared a glance toward Daniel behind him. Ignoring his stern expression and his words, he returned his whole attention to Kate and the two pairs of hands working over her.

  "Blake,” Daniel repeated, the word cutting as steel.

  Sasha muttered a curse and pulled bloodied fingers from inside the wound. She raised glaring eyes toward her audience.

  "I thought I asked you to get out. All of you!"

  A heavy hand settled on Blake's shoulder and tightened, stopping just short of pain. “Come on."

  Marc's voice, although quiet, left no place for disagreement. With a last glance at Kate, Blake allowed Marc to guide him out of the infirmary. They stopped outside the door, and Marc's hand fell away at once. Blake frowned, momentarily thrown off by the lack of contact. He didn't have time to wonder why the loss of that simple touch affected him so much. In front of him, standing of all his height, Daniel glowered at him.

  "I should stake you.” Anger splashed out of each clipped word, splattering over Blake like mud. “Right here, right now."

  Blake waited for a beat, but the defense he expected from Marc did not come. Rubbing his fingertips to his right temple, he observed Marc's blank expression while answering Daniel distractedly.

  "Do I get to know why before you try and I break your arm?"

  The words fell flat without his usual sarcasm to give them life and color. Daniel didn't even acknowledge them, and neither did Marc. He merely stood there, arms by his side, returning Blake's look without a sign that he even knew him. The last time he had looked at Blake like this, he had been packing up his things while Jen waited for him outside. Unable to bear his gaze and the memories it brought back, Blake turned his attention to Daniel. His light eyes had never seemed so dark and threatening.

  "Wally told me about you kissing her,” he said. “About you distracting her when the demons were just steps away."

  The mention of Kate had Blake's eyes fleeting to the shut door. He could still smell her blood. “It wasn't like—"

  "And then,” Daniel continued, “everyone who fought said the same thing. You were playing with the demons, taunting them rather than going for the kill while my men were trying to survive and could have used the help. You even stopped fighting completely rather than helping them."

  What was the man getting at? He had said it himself, hours earlier. Blake wasn't a team player. He had never pretended to be.

  "Of course I stopped.” Didn't Daniel understand? Wouldn't he have done the same thing? “Kate was hurt!"

  "She was. Because of you. Because you distracted her. Because you didn't work with the squad and instead you played your own game. You don't give a damn about humans. All you care about is killing, and that makes you no better than a demon. You're not fighting with my squad again. Now get out of here. And stay the hell away from Kate."

  The words made no sense. Blake gaped at Daniel, trying to figure out whether this was his idea of a joke, or whether Blake had misunderstood him. Daniel, however, did not explain himself, or add anything. He passed by Blake on his way back into the infirmary, bumping his shoulder and pushing him out of the way.

  Troubled, Blake turned his eyes back to Marc, a question already piercing to his lips. It died, frosted by the icy stare Marc directed at him. A shudder ran through his body. Unsure of what had just happened—what was still happening—he took his first step away from the door. He felt heavier now, even though he didn't carry Kate anymore. Daniel's words still echoing in his mind, he made his way back to the main building. He had never realized before how far it was.

  He unbuckled the harness and removed the scabbard from his back as he entered the small bedroom. He dropped it to the floor by his bed before sitting down. After a long moment, he leaned down to untie his shoes, but stopped halfway through his gesture. The door closed at his back with a sharp clicking sound, and Marc turned off the light. Blake heard the rustling of clothing being removed. The bed creaked when Marc lay down.

  "He will still accept my help,” Marc said, startling Blake. “As a courtesy to me, he'll let you stay, but he won't let you come on recon missions anymore, or fight when we find the breach."

  Blake clenched his jaw and kept his eyes wide open, staring at the darkness as though shapes or colors might emerge from it if he looked hard enough. Marc was only feet away, close enough to touch, yet Blake felt lonelier than he ever had. Even when Marc had left before, abandoning him without much of an explanation, he had known, deep down, that it wasn't his fault, that it was all about Jen seducing Marc with her nonsensical talk about old Pacts and traditions.

  For the first time, he was wondering whether Marc had left for a different reason; whether he had left because, simply, Blake wasn't worth his time. Would he leave again, now that Blake had reminded him what a flawed Childe he was? Would he leave if Kate died, or would he kill Blake as punishment?

  Blake wasn't sure which would be worse.

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  Chapter 16

  Palpable tension thickened the atmosphere the day after the squad battled the demons. In addition to Kate being hurt, two other soldiers had been wounded, and a third one killed. Minutes after he had come out of their room, Marc realized that the entire squad shared Blake's grim mood. Sipping a cup of coffee, he watched the soldiers around him. Shoulders hunched and heads low, they kept their eyes on their breakfasts, rarely exchanging a few muttered words. Their mixed scents made him cringe: anger, fear, and despair swirling together until they became undistinguishable. Marc sat there for a little longer, wondering whom to ask about Kate's condition, when Daniel walked out of his office. He approached the tables, and silence fell over his soldiers as they all turned to him.

  He still wore the same wrinkled uniform from the previous night minus the Kevlar vest. Purplish circles beneath his eyes hinted that he hadn't slept much, if at all.

  "Change of plan,” he said without preamble. “We're cutting back on reconnaissance while we rebuild our forces. Team A, you're off to Claremont for a week of R and R. Finish eating and then pack up, you're leaving in an hour."

  He paused as though expecting an interruption, but no one cheered.

  "Team B, you're staying here, and we'll resume small-group recon missions tonight. You'll get your turn in Claremont next week. That's all."

  Without waiting to see how they'd react, he turned on his heel and started for the building's exit. Marc left his half-finished coffee on the table and hurried after him, calling his name. Daniel glanced back and slowed down, but he didn't stop.

  "You'll be with us tonight?” he asked when Marc caught up with him.

  "Yes, of course. But I wanted to ask about Kate. How is she?"

  Daniel stilled and turned a hard look to Marc. “Well enough to be transported to Claremont,” he said slowly, as though weighing each word. “They have Healers there much better at this kind of magic than Simon is."

  The block of ice in the pit of Marc's stomach started melting. “That's good."

  "I wouldn't go that far, but yes, it could have turned much worse."

  He started for the door again, and stopped again with a hand on the door handle. “No
visitors,” he said shortly, and left without another word.

  Other soldiers started trickling out. Marc returned to the table. The smell of egg-substitute and toast lingered even now that most soldiers had finished eating. He and Blake would need to go hunting that night, he thought distractedly. They should have gone after the previous night's mission, but it had slipped their minds. He picked up what remained of his coffee. He blew on it mechanically before noticing it had cooled down. The warmth was the only thing that made the beverage passable in his opinion, but, grimacing with each sip, he forced himself to finish it. Even insta-coffee was becoming rare, and he hated to waste his hosts’ supplies.

  The flavorless brew did nothing to help with the cold that had kept him frozen to the bones since they had returned to the camp in the early morning. Kate would be all right, or so Daniel had implied, but she wouldn't have gotten hurt in the first place if not for his and Blake's presence. He didn't doubt she had been distracted, and that had contributed to her getting wounded. He had noticed she was less focused than usual the past few nights. Foolishly, he had rejoiced at the idea that he could trouble her like this. He should have known better than to play Blake's game. He should have stopped everything rather than risk this happening. It was over now, and part of him was glad that Kate would leave the camp for a while. For her own sake, it was better this way. Still, he would miss her.

  Soldiers started coming back after a while: the ones who weren't leaving for Claremont, Marc supposed, judging by their grim expressions. They paired up and spread through the room to spar. To Marc's surprise, one of them asked if he would spar with him. Marc accepted; he didn't really feel like it, but it would give him something to do to pass time.

  Before he knew it, night fell. He accompanied Daniel and three more of his men back to the City. They walked for hours, more careful than ever, exploring foggy side-streets in their attempts to move deeper into the city. They didn't find anything. They returned two hours before sunrise. Blake had probably hunted and fed on his own, Marc thought, and so he didn't go in to ask if he wanted to come along. When he came back to their room, Blake was in bed, an arm thrown over his face. Marc didn't think he was asleep, but he didn't have anything to tell him. He didn't have anything to say that would damp the scent of misery permeating the room. Unless...

  "Kate will be OK. They took her to Claremont to rest."

  Blake didn't reply. If anything, the sourness of his scent was only accentuated.

  By the middle of the next afternoon, Blake still hadn't said a word. He had come out the room at last, and walked out of the building with his sword in hand. His behavior irritated Marc. It wasn't like him to wrap himself in self-pity. Marc had kept his distance so far, thinking that Blake needed to think about what had happened to process it, but it didn't seem to be working. It was time for an intervention. He thought about it for a little while; he would have to be careful about it. Bluntness would only strengthen Blake's defense walls.

  Once he had established a strategy, he joined Blake outside. He had to stop right past the door and let his eyes adjust to the brightness of the day. A murmur of steel on his right drew his attention to Blake. Sitting cross-legged in the shadows with his back to the building, he ran a polishing stone along the edge of his sword in long, even movements. Marc came to sit by him, but Blake didn't seem to notice.

  "Tell me something. Why do you fight?"

  Blake's eyes turned to him, lifeless. “Same reason you do. Demons are fun to kill."

  Marc shook his head once. “You know that's not why I fight. When I turned you, I told you about the Pacts, remember?"

  The Pacts. Saying the word brought back the memory to the surface of Marc's mind. His grand-Sire had told him about it, days after he had been turned, and for years before siring Blake he had planned the words he would use to transmit the tradition forward.

  "I remember,” Blake drawled. “Pretty story."

  Marc winced. He had rarely been as disappointed as when his newly-turned Childe had dismissed the idea of the Pacts as nothing more than a legend. Even now, after all these years, the wound remained fresh. He tried not to let it show into his voice.

  "But it's not a story, can't you see that?” He leaned forward, willing Blake to finally hear him, to finally understand. “Vampires don't exist separately from humans and demons. We were made to fight demons. That's our purpose. That's why we're stronger. That's why we see and hear better."

  With a roll of his eyes, Blake returned his attention to his sword, fluidly running the polishing stone along the edge again. The sound that came from the sharpened metal was almost melodious, but Marc stopped it just the same, closing his hand over Blake's and holding it tight and immobile. Blake's eyes, when they came back to him, screamed his annoyance, although he didn't say a word.

  "We were made to fight demons and protect humans,” Marc started again, talking slowly as though to a child. At times, it seemed like the only way to get through to Blake. “There was a time when we knew it, and humans did as well. They offered us blood, gave us the tools we needed to fight, and in exchange we kept them safe. Can't you see we're back to that?"

  Blake gave a tiny shake of his head, his guard finally dropping. “I don't understand."

  Holding on to his patience by his fingernails, Marc let go of Blake's hand. At least he was listening. Time for another attack. “I'm sure you do. Everywhere vampires go, humans give us food and shelter. And in exchange, we teach them, and fight alongside them. There's not enough of us, but we protect them as we can."

  "If you put it that way, I guess it's true."

  Marc waited before allowing himself to hope. He knew Blake well enough to tell when he was giving in—and when he wasn't completely beaten yet.

  "For you,” Blake continued after a couple of seconds, frowning absently, “it's true. But you know I don't care about humans. I don't do any of it for them."

  Inside, Marc crowed triumphantly. He had brought Blake exactly where he wanted him. A few more attacks at the crumbling walls of his defense, and he would be standing alone, with no way to hide from himself.

  "Don't you?” he asked, his voice harsher now, almost mocking. “Is that why you were so scared that she'd die? Is that why you're so miserable now that she's gone? Because you don't care?"

  Blake sat up, his back tense as a high-strung bow. His expression turned indignant. “I wasn't scared! And I'm not miserable! She's just..."

  His anger deflated as quickly as it had come to life, and the same shadow of misery passed over his features.

  "She's just what?” Marc pressed him.

  He shrugged, looking away. “She's just another human. The planet is full of them."

  "Why do you still try to lie? You know you can't fool me. You never could."

  As though he couldn't stand to feel Marc's eyes on him anymore, Blake jumped to his feet. The polishing stone fell to the ground at Marc's feet, and he picked it up. Holding it in his right hand, he rubbed it against his left palm. It felt warm and it smelled like heated steel. A few steps away, Blake walked to the edge of the shadows, swinging his sword at the grass, catching only a couple of the sparse blades. The stone lost its warmth against Marc's skin, and Blade soon sat down again, legs crossed and shoulders slumped, his back to Marc. Resting in front of him, the tip of his sword gleamed in the sun.

  "It was a mistake,” he said quietly.

  "What was?"

  The words rose slowly, as though voicing them caused pain to Blake. “For me to ... get attached to her. I shouldn't have."

  Marc stood. Quickly passing the polishing stone from hand to hand, he came to stand behind Blake. “There's nothing wrong with that. Can't you see it makes you stronger to fight for a reason other than your selfishness?"

  "Stronger?” Blake snorted. “How does it make me stronger to be so scared she'll die that I can't even finish a fight?"

  Marc let his smile grow wide, happy that Blake couldn't see it. He dropped the stone onto his
lap and ruffled his hair with his hand. “You're even more clueless than I thought, Childe,” he said, his affection filtering through his voice despite his efforts to keep it neutral. “But at least you're not completely hopeless."

  Blake threw his head back and looked up just as Marc turned away. “What is that supposed to mean?"

  "Just think about what I said,” Marc threw over his shoulder as he returned to the building.

  "Marc!” Blake called after him. “Tell me what you mean!"

  Shaking his head, Marc kept walking and did not answer. He knew Blake would it figure out; as often as Marc called him an idiot, he was anything but, and soon enough the cloud of misery that obscured his thoughts would start breaking apart. Just the same, Marc wished he had fully understood it himself. What was it in Kate that had changed Blake's perspective on humans, tilting his world on its axis just enough to transform everything without his notice? Marc knew what he liked in her, but he would have liked to know what made her so different in Blake's eyes. In the end, it didn't matter, though, just as it didn't really matter if they never saw her again. Whether she knew it or not, whether she had tried to or not, she had changed Blake, made him a better vampire—a better person—and for that, Marc would always be grateful to her.

  * * * *

  Blake thought about Marc's words until night fell and the squad departed. He was still thinking about them when they returned in the small hours of morning. He spent a third sleepless night turning the words over and over in his mind. They weren't much of an improvement over Daniel's scathing remarks, but while he had been able to dismiss Daniel's words—what did the man know about him, anyway?—it was more difficult to do with his Sire's. It was rendered even more difficult by his fear of the past couple of days that Marc avoided talking to him because he was preparing to tell him goodbye—for good, this time. That he had told him something else instead, something cryptic he hadn't explained, was both a relief and a new source of fear. What if this was a test of some sort? What if passing it by understanding what in hell Marc had been rambling about was the way to keep Marc with him—and failing to understand would send him away? He had to think about it; he had no choice in the matter.