Blurred Bloodlines [2nd in Blurred Trilogy]

by Kallysten

  With a scream that came out no louder than a whisper and left his throat raw and aching, Blake lunged at him, the stake raised high and aiming for his heart. His Master started back, eyes satisfyingly wide in fear. His raised hands warded off the blow. Caught in his momentum, Blake crashed into him. They tumbled to the floor and struggled for possession of the stake. Once again, Blake was stunned at finding himself weak, too weak, but he didn't give up and kept trying to stake his Master after dreaming of it so many times.

  "Don't hurt him!” Kate cried out somewhere behind them, and Blake couldn't have said whom she was talking to.

  "Blake! Stop it!"

  It was his name on his Master's lips, more than anything else, that made him hesitate. Ever since this nightmare had begun, his Master had never called him anything other than ‘boy’ or ‘slave,’ depending on his mood and Blake's attitude.

  In two seconds, it was over. The stake was clattering on the other side of the room, Blake's hands and legs were pinned under his Master’ own, and all he could do was stare at the face inches from his and wait for the punishment that was bound to start any time now.

  Yet, his Master didn't move.

  "Blake, you've got to think hard and try to remember where you are and who I am,” his Master said at last. His voice didn't hold the contempt or gloating that usually followed Blake's failed attempts at rebellion. Rather, it was pleading. It sounded wrong to hear this voice plead. Unnatural. And Blake could only wonder what the trap was, this time.

  It didn't matter, though, because the last thing Blake wanted to do was remember. All that mattered as far as he was concerned was that one day he would be free; either he would escape or he would die. He wouldn't yield, not truly, not any more than he already had. Nothing that happened before that was worth remembering.

  He didn't want to remember how he had been pushed through the breach at the last battle near Lakeview.

  He didn't want to remember standing on the edge of that strange world where everything had seemed a little blurry, as though not quite corporeal, with nothing but his hands and wits to save his own skin.

  He didn't want to remember waking on the floor of a cell, naked, a glowering Marc standing over him.

  He didn't want to remember realizing that it wasn't Marc—or rather, not the Marc he knew.

  He didn't want to remember the many ways his Master had tried to break him.

  He didn't want to remember Kate, and what had been done to her so that he would finally bend just to see it stop.

  He didn't want to remember all these things, but he did, the memories bursting through his mind like pricked soap bubbles, each leaving marks behind, layers upon layers of residue that stained and made him want to scrub himself clean, inside and out.

  He struggled to push both his Master and the memories back, but his Master didn't move one inch, and the memories continued to crash through the barriers he had erected, filling his mind with image after image, shout after shout, blood and come and tears and pain and—

  And his Master, promising that everything would be all right. Kissing Blake as though both their lives depended on it. Touching him with no other purpose than to make Blake feel good, demanding nothing in return. Fixing Blake's hands. Giving him his sword back. Telling him to stand, not kneel.

  Kate. Alive and well. Telling him that Marc had never hurt her. Never hurt Blake either. That she trusted Marc. That Blake should trust him, too.

  Marc. Not their Master, but Marc.

  Gradually, Blake stopped struggling, stopped trying to fight the memories, and realized that his Master—Marc?—had moved off him and was now sitting cross-legged at his side, looking wary and tired but otherwise calm. Kate was kneeling beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and it still felt strange to see her touch Marc willingly. Just like it still hurt to see her kneel.

  Confused beyond words, Blake sat up and eyed both of them guardedly. He tried to speak again, and remembered when no sound came out what had happened. He touched his throat and could almost feel the burning again. It had been just before his Master had locked him in the box that Blake had been so sure would be his final coffin. His heart had been beating so hard, he was pretty sure he had passed out a couple of times, only to wake again and find himself still trapped. Hours later—it had seemed like centuries—Kate's face had emerged above him, and Blake had had nowhere to hide from the shame and agony of letting her be hurt and killed so many times in front of him because he was too stupid, too proud to follow simple orders. It had only been days later that this Marc had appeared and taken him away. Why had he been set free? Why...

  With a blink, Blake came back to the present. Marc was now standing in front of him, holding sweatpants out to him.

  "Get dressed."

  For the first time Blake realized he was half naked, wearing only a white t-shirt and blue boxers that had been rolled up to expose his right thigh. Frowning, he looked down at his leg, and poked at the red paste covering his skin with his fingertip. He could still make out the black lines of the symbols tattooed beneath it. He remembered the day the first one had been inked in. Two demons had held him down, and when he wouldn't stop struggling, they had knocked him out. When he had woken up, his Master had been there, and everything had been different.

  "Blake?"

  He started when Kate's hand brushed his arm. Looking up at her, he was taken aback by how much concern he could see in her eyes. He was the one who worried for her; the reverse felt... strange.

  His Master—no, Marc was still handing sweatpants out to him. With a shaky hand, Blake reached for the piece of clothing. He stood to slide the pants on. Marc waited until he was done to ask, “Are you hungry?"

  Without thinking, Blake started to nod. He wasn't just hungry. He was starving.

  He stopped mid-movement and cast a wary glance at Marc. Admitting to any weakness usually equaled requesting to be tormented or punished. Marc didn't say anything, though. He didn't sneer, or comment on how weak Blake was, how disappointing a Childe he had always been. Instead, he pulled a container of blood from the fridge and filled two mugs that he placed in the insta-oven.

  Blake's mouth watered. He barely remembered what warm blood tasted like.

  "Here,” Kate said softly, and once again her hand brushed Blake's arm. Blake wished he could have let her touch him without immediately flinching back. “Let's sit down."

  She guided him to the table and even drew a chair for him. He sat down with a grateful nod and watched her as she sat next to him. She noticed and smiled at him, prompting Blake to look away. How could she smile at him after all that had happened?

  Or had it?

  His gaze fell on the man standing by the kitchen door and wringing his hands in front of him. He smiled, too, hesitantly, and let out a quiet little, “Hey."

  Blake nodded once. He knew this man. He had a feeling he'd remember his name if he just tried hard enough, if he sifted through his memories and only found the right one. It might have been easier to do if his mind hadn't been such a chaotic jumble of sensations and feelings.

  Still, better to focus on this man and try to figure out who he was rather than think of the other man in the room, and decide whether to think of him as his Sire or his Master.

  Kate couldn't stop staring at Blake. She had a dozen questions to ask him, and those were only the start, but she couldn't manage a word. All she could do was watch him as he sat next to her, gaze fleeting around the room. His eyes stayed on Simon for a little while, but every so often they'd flicker toward Marc. Kate had once been able to read his emotions on his face and in his eyes as easily as though they had been written, ink as dark as his eyes on paper as pale as his skin. Not anymore, though: she couldn't figure out what it was he felt or thought. She wanted to ask, but she was afraid to upset Blake again. She had been so frightened the past few minutes, in equal parts that Blake would hurt himself or Marc. She didn't want to risk breaking the tense calm that had finally fallen over him, and so she to
ok her cue from Marc and kept quiet.

  The insta-oven dinged. Without a word, Marc pulled out two mugs filled with blood and set them both on the table in front of Blake. Blake's nostrils flared and he reached out, fingers wiggling in their eagerness. He stilled before touching the closest mug and looked up at Marc.

  "You don't need my go ahead to feed,” Marc said softly. “If you're hungry, the blood's in the fridge. Take what you want, remember? That's the only rule."

  Kate wanted to ask what that meant; she pinched her lips tight not to say a word. Blake's hands curled around the first mug, drawing it closer to him so fast that some blood spilled over the rim. Once again, Blake's eyes rose to Marc, this time sparkling with fear. When Marc didn't react at all, Blake brought the mug to his lips and, eyes narrowed to slits in obvious pleasure, he drank in long, noisy gulps. The second mug took him no longer to empty. It made a soft, clanking sound when he set it back on the table next to the first one.

  "More?” Marc asked, and after a beat Blake pushed one of the empty mugs toward him. Seconds later, Marc was setting another warmed mug of blood in front of him. This time, Blake took it without seeking permission. He fed more slowly, and when Marc asked again if he wanted more, shook his head no.

  "Are you feeling better?” Kate asked after a few long moments had passed, unable to bear the silence any longer.

  Blake continued playing with the drops of blood he had spilled, his index finger drawing shapes and loops, and Kate wondered if he had heard the question.

  "Blake?” She said his name quietly, almost in a whisper. “Are you..."

  He blinked and looked toward her, giving a shallow nod.

  "Are you tired?” Marc asked. “Do you want to rest? You can go if you want. Do you remember where your bedroom is?"

  Another few seconds’ delay, and Blake nodded again. Kate couldn't have said which question he was answering until he slowly stood and retreated to the door without turning his back on them. She, Marc, and Simon watched him go. From where she sat, Kate could just see him disappear into the bedroom corridor. The air seemed to lighten with his departure, and when Simon let out a sigh, Kate realized she had been holding her breath like he had.

  "Is he... is he better?” Simon asked in a shaky voice. “I mean... did the spell work? He doesn't seem to act much like the Blake I remember."

  "Because he isn't the Blake you remember,” Marc said, a slight frown pulling at his brow. “Decades have passed for him. Centuries. Your spell made him a full vampire again, and I think it broke the illusions, but he still has memories of being abused for more time than you've been alive.” He snorted quietly and shook his head. “Did you just expect him to wake up like nothing had happened?"

  The words could have been mocking; instead, they were filled with pain, and Kate realized that Marc had believed everything would get better in just the blink of an eye. Just like her.

  Marc cleared his throat and picked up the empty mugs from the table. He brought them to the sink and filled them with water as he said, “One thing is back to normal.” He came back to the table with a wet washing cloth. “He's still a slob."

  He was clearly trying to lighten the mood with a joke, but neither Kate nor Simon reacted. He started reaching over to wipe the blood stains on the table, but Kate caught his wrist and stopped him.

  "Wait. Come here.” Holding on to him, she tugged gently until he had walked around the table to stand next to her. She pointed at the blood stains with a trembling finger. She hadn't noticed until now, more focused on Blake than on his finger painting, but the stains formed words.

  "He is better,” she whispered.

  Marc leaned against her and pressed a kiss to her temple. His lips were trembling.

  On the table, the blood stains spelled ‘thank you.'

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 25

  If anything, Blake's confusion only grew as time passed and all his memories returned. After feeding, he left the kitchen, thinking that a few hours of sleep would help to return strength to his body and clarity to his mind. Sleep, however, remained elusive; instead, two very distinct pasts warred in his mind, both of them featuring the same people, yet completely different from each other.

  In one past, the recent past, Marc had knocked him out before breaking his fingers and resetting the bones; in a more distant one, his Master had broken them over the course of four days, laughing as he made sure they wouldn't heal properly, chiding Blake for having dared touch what wasn't his one time too many. He wasn't sure anymore what it was that had set off the madman that particular time. It might have been a punishment for Blake touching himself; that had always been the fastest way to get a beating. Then again, the penalty for not being hard whenever his Master entered the cell had been even worse, and it had been worth every blow to avoid seeing Kate dragged into the cell yet again. Or maybe it had been one of these times when he had reached for her after, when he had tried to soothe her sobs with quiet words and a brush of his fingers. He had learned the hard way that it wasn't allowed, but sometimes he couldn't help it, he had to tell her how sorry he was for causing her to suffer yet again, had to ask for her forgiveness, had to promise it would end some day. Really end.

  How many times had he seen her hurt because of him, sometimes screaming, sometimes biting through her bottom lip as she refused to let out a single sound? How many times had he seen her die in front of him, either drained or so beaten that her body had given up after hours of agony? He could now remember too many of these instances. He realized that no human—and she had always been human, had always died a human death—could have endured it all. But he remembered also, with too much clarity to ignore it, his Master explaining, after the first time it had happened, that it wasn't over, that they could bring her back easily, and that they would, each time Blake didn't follow a simple order, each time he so much as looked defiant. And that each time she was brought back to hurt and bleed, it would be no one's fault but Blake's.

  But she had been there, standing by Marc's side, hadn't she? She had been there that day, and a few days earlier, and every time she had talked to him, to Marc, as though nothing had ever happened. Was it because nothing had really happened?

  He vaguely remembered them talking about illusions and reality intertwining, but only now did he start wondering if it had been her, all those times, or an illusion, a body bewitched to look like her, or maybe even a simple suggestion to his weakened mind that it was Kate whimpering at his feet.

  His wounds though had been no illusion. His hands, of course, but also his slashed skin; he remembered his Master’ farewell gift, a whipping that had lasted longer than ever before, Blake's last shouts before they had made him drink, and his throat had burned so badly. He also remembered Marc's gentle hands, cleaning the cuts, cleaning him, for the first time in a very long time touching him without pain immediately coursing through his body. That man—it was hours before Blake finally remembered his name: Simon—had been the first to touch him with anything other than cruelty in mind, Blake remembered as much, but it hadn't mattered, had meant nothing, whereas Marc taking care of him...

  It had been so confusing to be touched so. It still was. Blake knew now, and thought he understood, that it hadn't been Marc, for all those years. That it couldn't have been, just like it couldn't have been Kate. But it was the same face, the same hands, the same voice he experienced every day, and even now it was hard to separate his Master from Marc.

  There had been nothing in common between them, he knew that on a very abstract level, but it remained impossible to crush that little voice at the back of his mind that would sometimes wake up and ask questions that never failed to fill Blake with as much fear as annoyance. It had been a long time since the last beating and the next one would be awful, it would say; and Blake would, without success, try to convince himself that there would not be a next beating. His Master hadn't come for his pleasure in too long, it would whimper; and Blake would grit his teeth
and conjure images of getting himself off on his own, with no other hand to help or hinder. Images that he couldn't manage to transform into reality, not even now.

  And Blake hated it. He hated that his mind was still muddy, his memories perfectly clear but so conflicting that they lost all meaning. He hated the hold that his captivity still had on every one of his actions, however hard he tried to be himself. He hated that he still felt so weak, barely stronger than a human. And he had been almost human, hadn't he? It had been hard to get used to the heartbeat. Harder still to suffer through pangs of hunger when he didn't feed and sickening nausea when he did. He had learned, in time, to keep the blood down, but it had never been pleasant, never been satisfying, not until the three mugs Marc had warmed for him hours earlier. Three full mugs of warm blood, drunk while sitting at a table, when for who knew how long feeding had meant kneeling on the ground and coaxing with nothing more than his lips and tongue what little blood he could from a cut in his Master’ wrist, a cut that always closed too fast.

  It wasn't long before Blake started hating more and more things. He hated that, simply by closing his eyes, he could be back without warning in the cell he had been caged in for so long. He hated not being able to talk. He hated his clothes, soft cotton sweatpants, boxers, white t-shirt, none of it suitable clothing for the warrior he was—wanted to be again.

  Above all, though, he hated being stuck inside. It was late that night when his discomfort reached the point when the familiar fist closed over his heart and squeezed tight. Remembering the patio, remembering Marc's admonition to take what he wanted, Blake stumbled out of his room and to the living room. He froze just out of the hallway, startled enough by what he found that he had to blink to make sure he wasn't imagining things.