by PG Forte
Relieved laughter burst from Armand’s lips. “Of course. My apologies. I should have guessed it was something like that.” He eyed Julie one more time, a little more intensely than before, then he gave her hand a final squeeze and let go. “Tres bon. I’ll leave you three to your reunion,” he said as he bowed once again. “Au revoir.”
Damian watched as Armand disappeared back into the dancing crowd, then he turned his attention back to the twins. “Watch yourself around that one,” he advised Julie sternly. “Don’t get too close.” He regarded them thoughtfully for a moment, then suggested, “In fact, I think it might be best if you two were to wait for me in the kitchen until I’m done here. It’s down at the end of the hallway, toward the back of the house. Go eat. We’ll talk later.”
Disappointed, Julie was turning to leave when Marc shook his head. “No. We’ll talk now. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on. Where’s Conrad?”
“Marcus,” Damian’s voice, though pitched low, held a note of warning. “You will do as I tell you. Conrad always said you two couldn’t handle this environment yet. This is no time for you to be proving him right.”
Julie held her breath as the two men stared at each other, each refusing to back down. Finally, Damian sighed. “I have no time for this,” he grumbled as he shook his head. He looked to be about equal parts aggravated, worried and quietly proud. He turned away abruptly, so suddenly that his robe flared out around him. Clapping his hands to be heard above the music he called, “Out! Out! Vayamos! Party’s over! Everyone go home!”
A chorus of disappointed groans and half-hearted protests rose from the crowd but Damian stood firm. Smiling serenely, he repeated the order. “Out! Everybody. Now.” The authority in his voice was such that even Julie found herself once again turning to leave. She saw Marc begin to do the same until Damian reached back and grabbed hold of their wrists. “Not you two.”
The disgruntled guests filed slowly out through the doorways. Armand was among the last to leave. The parting glance he shot in Damian’s direction was filled with seething animosity. Julie stiffened in alarm, but Damian appeared not to notice.
Finally they were alone. Damian sighed as he let go of their wrists. Reaching for the tiny strings that fastened his kimono he drew the garment around himself and secured it in place. “Now, then,” he said as he threw an arm around each of their shoulders and propelled them from the room. “Let’s go down to the kitchen and have something to eat while we talk, shall we?” Drawing them both even closer, he pressed a kiss against the side of each of their heads. “I baked cookies. Who wants chocolate chip?”
“This is so great.” Julie beamed at Damian as he slid a plate of freshly baked cookies onto the pristine surface of the antique kitchen table. She looked and sounded far more enthusiastic than Marc thought anything about the evening warranted. “I can’t believe you made us cookies. It’s been years!”
“More like decades,” Marc grumbled, resisting the force of habit that almost had him reaching for one. What was the use, after all? When they were children, Damian had made it a point to bake some kind of treat whenever the twins had a play date. It was for the sake of the other children, mostly, but also so that Marc and Julie would feel more comfortable, would know what to expect and how to behave on those rare occasions they were allowed to accept an invitation to play at someone else’s house.
But what was meant to be a comfort had backfired in his case. It had only made him feel more different from the other children, rather than less. The fact that they could eat “normal” food had finally convinced the then thirteen-year-old Marc to try and wean himself from his dependence on blood. After five days, he’d collapsed in the middle of a routine fencing lesson and a distraught Conrad had gone ballistic and had to be talked out of completely disassembling the kitchen. From that point on , there’d been a ban placed on any further attempts at cooking and any foodstuffs other than blood were strictly forbidden from even being brought into the house. It was a line drawn in the sand—very deep, very definite, very distinct. A line Damian had never once dared to cross. Until now. Which only made his actions tonight seem even more alarming.
“Does Conrad know about this?”
Damian’s mouth tightened. A faint frown creased his brow as he finished doling out snacks, taking clear PVC bags filled with blood from the refrigerator and tossing them down in the center of the table. “No, Marc,” he said at last, after seating himself across from the twins. “He doesn’t. Conrad is…well, he’s missing, actually.” His voice faltering, he paused, as though to regroup. “That’s why you’re here. That’s the reason I sent for you. I need you two to help me find him.”
So that’s why, Marc thought, feeling oddly vindicated, even as the cold thrill of adrenaline iced his veins. He’d known something was wrong, right from the start. The moment he’d stepped foot inside this house tonight he’d sensed the tension. The fear running beneath Damian’s seemingly carefree demeanor had set all his nerves on edge.
“I don’t understand,” Julie said, sounding mystified. “You said earlier that he was just out of town. How could he be missing, Damian? Where would he go?”
Damian spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know, child. He wouldn’t say, exactly. All I know is that he had some…some minor business that he thought needed his personal attention. It shouldn’t have taken him more than a couple of hours to resolve things, at least that’s the impression he gave me. That was almost three weeks ago. I haven’t heard from him since.”
Three weeks? For almost a minute, both twins just stared, shocked into silence by his admission. “But—when you called—when I talked to you on the phone the other day, you told me he wanted to see us,” Marc protested. “You’re saying that was a lie?”
Damian shrugged. “I didn’t want to alarm you. I thought it was better if you didn’t know too much ahead of time. Just in case.”
“But, Damian, that—” Julie’s words stumbled over each other on their way out of her mouth. “I mean, what if he’s… He can’t be… He’s not…”
“Dead?” Damian smiled sadly. “No, chica. He’s not dead. Not yet.” Eyes burning with conviction, he leaned into the table, his closed fist pressed to the center of his chest. “I would know if that were the case. If he were dead, I’d feel it—here.” He shrugged and then added, “As would you, I’m sure. We’d all feel it, if that were to happen. The entire nest would erupt into chaos such as you cannot imagine. But, that’s not even the worst that could happen, might still happen, if my suspicions are correct.”
Marc started in surprise. What could be worse than losing Conrad? “What suspicions are those?”
Damian sighed. “From what little he would tell me, I have reason to suspect Conrad was lured away by someone who had knowledge of a very personal nature, someone who knew about a particular weakness that could be exploited. Since he hasn’t been killed, I believe it’s likely he’s being held somewhere, most probably without food, until he’s weak enough to be overcome by someone who wouldn’t be able to do so otherwise.”
No food? Just the memory of his own hunger—raw, unreasoning, screaming for sustenance—brought Marc rushing to his feet. “For three weeks? And what the hell have you been doing all that time? Besides throwing parties and baking cookies and lying to everyone and dressing up like a—”
“Marc!” Julie glared at him. “That’s enough. Stop it!”
“It’s a reasonable question,” Damian murmured, seemingly unaffected by Marc’s outburst. If anything, he appeared almost amused by it, his smile taking on a faintly ironic tilt. “Given how little either of you really understand about us—how we live, what we are.”
Vampire. The word whispered in Marc’s mind and, as usual, he fought to deny it. He knew they weren’t like other people. He’d always known that. But did that automatically make them monsters? Did it make them demons? Did it make them…something less than human? How often in the past had he tried to
argue that point, until Julie would groan in frustration, clap her hands over her ears and refuse to hear any more.
“I always said it was a mistake to keep you two so sheltered from the world you’d eventually have to re-enter.” Damian shook his head, his amusement deserting him. “And, now… Ah, it’s impossible.” Shoving back his chair, he got to his feet and began to pace. “There’s too much you two don’t know, so much you need to know, and now, even if I had the time to explain it to you—which I don’t—I still don’t know how much he would want me to say.”
Marc watched him, teeth aching to tear into…something, his stomach burning with an unaccustomed ferocity. The tug of Julie’s hand on his wrist, urging him to sit back down, finally registered. He gave in to it, but grudgingly.
“Damian, you said ‘that’s why we’re here’,” Julie reminded him. “What did you mean? What makes you think we can find him if you haven’t been able to? Especially if you can’t tell us anything helpful.”
“Because you have to,” Damian snapped, eyes blazing as he turned to glare at them. “Because there’s no one else who can do it, no one else I can trust with the truth. Don’t you think I would have kept this from you if I could have? Do you have any idea how furious Conrad is likely to be when he learns I’ve brought you here? But it can’t be helped. There are reasons why I cannot look for him myself. Reasons, which you two can’t possibly understand at this point, why I have had to stay here and yes, Marc, throw parties, and continue pretending that everything is just as it’s supposed to be. For as long as I can.”
Marc crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair and returned Damian’s angry look with one of his own. “Well, I don’t care about your reasons. You’re going to have to do a much better job of explaining things than that. Otherwise, you can kiss any hopes you might have of us helping you good-bye.”
“Marc!” Once again his sister turned to look at him, her expression scandalized. “What are you saying? Conrad’s missing! Of course we’re going to help find him.”
Damian’s gaze turned haughty. “This is not the time to be thinking with your blood, chavalo. I need your help with this and you will give it to me. Now, what is it you wish to know?”
“Just what I said,” Marc replied. “I want to know what’s going on. Who’d want to kill Conrad. And, and why?”
“Such ignorance.” Damian resumed pacing. “If I knew who was behind such a plot, Marcus, I would already have destroyed them myself, would I not? As to why…dios mio, there could be so many reasons for that! Let me see how I can make things clear to you. Do you recall anything you were taught about the social structure of lions and wolves and other such predators? They live in family groupings, do they not? Under the protection of a single dominant leader? It’s not so different for us except that, since we grow stronger with age and have fewer spawn, our nests are much more stable, our leadership far less likely to be challenged. But, if something were to happen to Conrad.” He waved a hand at the encompassing space. “Then this house and most of the people you saw here tonight, all the wealth and power Conrad has amassed over the centuries, the houses you grew up in, the money that supports you, everything you’ve ever known—all of that would be at risk.”
Sighing, he continued. “It’s bad enough when a leader, such as Conrad, meets with some sort of fatal accident. Imagine an anthill, if you will, after you’ve stirred it with a stick—that’s what we would be like. Everyone in the nest would be at each other’s throats, fighting for supremacy, struggling for power, for control, until a new, uncontested leader finally emerged to take charge.”
“Someone like you, for instance?”
Damian’s gaze iced over. “Yes, Marc, if you were to be very lucky, it might be me. But this nest is far larger than I think either of you realize and many of its members are exceptionally strong. It’s by no means certain that I would prevail if such a contest were to take place. However, fighting within the nest is only one of the possibilities we face. If Conrad were to be killed outright, intentionally dispatched, as it were, things would be very different. There would be no fighting then, for there would be no need. The vampire who killed him, who drained him of his blood, would instantly inherit a large portion of his power, automatically gaining control of the nest and all its resources without any need for further bloodshed. The transfer of power would be orderly, almost instantaneous—painless for most of the nest—making for a scenario that many people might view as preferable. Do you have any idea what it is I’m trying to tell you?”
“Yeah, I think so. You’re saying it would be better for all of us if we let you kill him—is that it?”
“Marc!” Gasping in dismay, Julie turned to stare at her brother. The next instant she was jumping from her seat and dodging quickly aside as Damian rushed the table and Marc rose to meet him. All three chairs crashed to the floor.
“Idiot!” Damian snarled, planting his hands on the wooden surface and leaning in until he was practically nose to nose with Marc. “I would die for Conrad. What will you die for?”
“Is- Is that what we’re here for, Damian?” Julie asked, her heart practically pounding its way out of her chest as she stared in terrified fascination at the two men. Razor-sharp fangs, dripping with venom, were clearly visible in both their mouths as they faced off across the table. “Is that what this is about? Did you bring us here just so we could all die together?”
“No.” Uttering an angry growl, Damian pushed away from the table, nostrils flaring as he struggled for control. “No, of course not.” Still breathing hard, he righted his chair and seated himself once again. Julie followed suit, as did Marc, after a moment’s hesitation.
“I would die for either one of you, as well,” Damian said quietly. “If it came to that.” A ghost of a smile flitted over his lips as he added, “However, we can still hope it won’t.” Picking up one of the blood bags, he threw it at Marc. “Here. Eat something, for God’s sake. Maybe it will help calm you down.”
Marc stared at the bag in his hand. “Three weeks.” His eyes were troubled when he raised them to meet Damian’s. “He can’t possibly have survived that long.”
“Eat,” Damian repeated, tossing a bag to Julie, as well. “Is that what has you so worried, hijo mio?” He gazed at Marc with an expression of grim satisfaction. “I suppose I should have guessed.” Reaching for another bag, he tore it open with his teeth, guzzling a mouthful before continuing. “I don’t doubt it was an unpleasant experience for you, Marc, but, I assure you, you were never in any imminent danger of dying from your little teenage experiment. I always thought that if we’d let you continue just a little while longer; if we’d let you come to your own decision about when to stop, it might have helped you resolve your doubts about your nature that much sooner. But Conrad thought otherwise.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered all that much,” Marc answered, both his voice and his face subdued. “I wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway. There’s no way I could have gone even two weeks like that.”
Damian clucked his tongue. “Ay dios mio. Well, of course you could not have. You were a growing boy, after all. You needed your nourishment. But, Conrad—I estimate it will take at least a month for him to be brought to the point of being in any kind of mortal danger. Up until then, I suspect sharpening his hunger will merely serve to shorten his temper. It would be a very bad idea, right now, for whoever might be holding him captive to get too close.” He swallowed another mouthful of blood and then smiled, seeming unexpectedly cheered by the thought. “So, let us hope our unknown opponent is too impatient to think of that, eh?”
“But, we can’t count on that happening, can we?” Julie asked, watching, relieved, as Marc finally sank his fangs into the bag he’d been holding. “There must be something else we can do?”
“Of course there is, chica,” Damian answered, calmly pushing another bag Marc’s way. “Now that you’re here, we’re going to find out who has him and get him back.”
C
hapter Two
Marc finished unpacking in the room Damian had assigned to him—one of many vacant rooms available. He’d found it odd that such a big house should be standing mostly empty, but in a night filled with oddities it had hardly seemed worth mentioning.
Apparently most of the vampires associated with the nest lived elsewhere, just as he and Julie had always done. So, maybe it wasn’t odd, after all. Maybe this sort of lifestyle choice was normal for vampires. Maybe they were solitary as well as predatory and maybe he was the strange one for thinking there was anything odd about it.
He lay back on the bed, folded his arms beneath his head and looked around. It was a nice enough room, he supposed. Large. Comfortable. A little dark for his tastes. A little heavy on the gold trim. Faultlessly decorated, but impersonal. There was nothing to indicate whether anyone had ever actually lived in it before. Maybe he would be the first. And maybe, if they stayed long enough, someday it might even begin to feel like home.
Maybe. But that could only happen if they found Conrad in time. And how in the hell are we supposed to do that? They had to though, didn’t they? Just as Damian had said. Because, if they didn’t, all bets were off, their lives would be forever changed and Conrad’s…well, for Conrad it would likely be over altogether. That thought—and the fear that went along with it—left him too anxious to rest.
He got back on his feet. A Jack-and-Jill bathroom connected his room with his sister’s. He pulled the door to it open and hurried through. “Hey, you wanna get outta here for awhile?” he asked as he emerged in Julie’s room. “Maybe go for a run or something?” Exercise was good and late at night—when no one was around to notice and maybe clock him going faster than he should have been able to go—was the only time he was really able to cut loose. If ever he’d needed to cut loose, it was now.
Julie was curled on the window seat, staring out at the night. She startled at his words and turned, almost snarling at him. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
