by P. G. Forte
“Whatever. It doesn’t really matter if you like it, I guess. Except…you really don’t bring people home much, do you?”
Damian shook his head. “I told you that already, did I not? You’re the first guest I’ve ever brought to this house.”
“Yeah?” Paul smiled. “I like that. So…what’s next? You gonna fuck me now or what?”
Was he? The thought left Damian dizzy. Here? Now? Under Conrad’s roof? While Conrad was in the next room or somewhere down the hall? Did he dare? Doubt stole through him. It was hard to judge how Conrad might react to something like that. If he became angry enough, it would be very bad.
“Uh-oh. What’s wrong? You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?”
Damian started guiltily. “Why would you say that?”
“You’re getting that look again.”
“It’s nothing you need worry about.” Damian slanted a quick kiss across Paul’s lips, then levered himself off the bed. “Wait here for me, por favor. I’ll be right back. I just have to check things out for a minute.”
He had to find out how bad things were. How much of a mess he’d made and whether there was any chance of salvaging things. His heart sank a little as he contemplated the prospect. What if Conrad demanded he give Paul up?
“All right,” Paul sighed as he rolled onto his back. “If you say so.” He reached down and cupped himself through his pants and eyed Damian meaningfully. “Just don’t take too long.”
Damian found Conrad in the dining room with the twins, hovering near the now decimated buffet table. He approached them warily, not sure what to expect. Conrad’s gaze was unexpectedly impassive. “Where’s your friend?” he asked. If possible, his voice gave away even less than his eyes.
“I left him in the other room.” Damian hesitated then added, “I wish to apologize for his behavior tonight, I—”
“Stop.” Conrad held up a hand. “No apology necessary. I quite understand.”
Did he? Ah, bueno. That was certainly more than Damian could claim at the moment. “If you’ll just let me explain. I had no idea when I invited him that he’d—”
“Damian.” Again Conrad silenced him—this time with a shake of his head. “Did I not just say I understood? Let it go. I mean it.”
Damian frowned. “Very well then.” He should be grateful for Conrad’s good humor, for the fact that the jealousy Paul had claimed to have spied on Conrad’s features was nowhere in evidence. This should be a good thing. A very good thing. And it was, to be sure. But, all the same, Damian was aware of a small twinge of disappointment. And what did that say about him? Other than that he must be an even greater fool than he’d imagined himself to be. “Gracias.”
“De nada.” Conrad smiled mildly. “So…what subjects were you suggesting he tutor the children in?”
“Computer Science,” Damian replied faintly, surprised even more by this new topic. “Since neither you nor I know very much about it, we can be of little help in teaching them. And I think it’s something they should learn at least a little about. I suspect the technology will become increasingly important in the years ahead.”
“Undoubtedly,” Conrad agreed. “Technology usually does, or so it seems. We should probably all become conversant with it. You’ll set things up, I presume?”
“Certainly, if-if that’s what you wish. Do you mean for all of us?”
Conrad smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t go that far. Perhaps it would be better if one of the three of you could acquaint me with the basics once you’ve mastered them yourselves. I presume that won’t be a problem?”
“No. No problem at all. But…do you really not want to discuss the matter any further?”
“What is there to discuss? I trust you implicitly.”
Nice to know, but hardly warranted in this case. It was all Damian could do to keep a guilty flush from spreading across his face. “Fine, then. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Splendid,” Conrad murmured, with more than a hint of amusement in his tone. “And, now, if you don’t mind, there is another matter, one of utmost importance, which I would like to discuss with you, if you don’t mind.”
Damian eyed him warily, on-guard once again. This hardly seemed either the time or the place for important discussions. “What is it you wish to discuss?”
Conrad gestured at the near-empty room. “Since most of our guests have, mercifully, seen fit to depart, I was hoping you’d be willing to relax your ban on our eating the few that are left?”
Paul. Damian barely stifled a gasp of dismay. Was this the reason for Conrad’s uncharacteristic forbearance? Had it all been an act? “What do you mean?” Since when did Conrad feel the need to ask Damian’s permission for anything?
Conrad smiled. “The children have grown quite hungry over the course of the evening. And, since they’ve been so very good tonight, I told them they could each pick out a snack and I’d help them procure it. If you’ve no objection, that is.”
“N-no objection at all.” Damian took a deep breath and tried to relax. Whatever was going on in Conrad’s head, Damian could not believe he’d stoop so low as to use the children as a means of getting back at him—or even to get back at Paul. If worse came to worst, and it turned out that was Conrad’s plan, Damian supposed he could always object on the grounds it was a bad idea to let the children start snacking on their would-be tutor. Repeated exposure to venom frequently resulted in a dependence of sorts. That had its benefits, when you wanted a food source you could rely on, or trust to keep your secrets. Given that the twins themselves were a secret, one he and Conrad were not looking to entrust to anyone else, this was the very thing they should be looking to avoid. “Who did you have in mind?”
Conrad turned to the twins. “Well, children, have you made your choices?”
“I like her,” Marc said indicating a pretty blonde in spandex pants on the far side of the room.
Conrad’s lips quirked. He glanced at Damian, inviting him to share his amusement. “Very well. I certainly can’t fault your taste. Julie? What about you?”
Julie wrinkled her nose. “No. Not her.” She hesitated for a moment then added, “How about Uncle Damian’s friend? He looked nice. If he hasn’t left, can I have him?”
“Now there’s an interesting suggestion.” Once again, Conrad’s gaze found Damian’s, his amusement even more apparent this time. Damian held his breath, wondering what mischief Conrad had in mind, but Conrad merely chuckled softly as he turned back to the girl. “I don’t think so, Julie. Let’s allow your uncle to keep his treats to himself for now. Why don’t you pick out another strapping young man, if that’s your preference.”
“Okay, I guess,” Julie sighed, pouting just a little.
“That’s my girl.” Conrad smiled encouragingly at her. “You just look around for a moment then. I’ll be right back after I’ve assisted your brother. Unless your uncle would care to help you?”
Damian nodded. “I’d be happy to.”
“Splendid.” Conrad shot him a last smile then turned to Marc. “Now then, why don’t we go and see if we can’t interest your lady friend in a tour of the house, all right?”
Damian watched them go, his emotions roiling around inside him, relief, confusion, satisfaction, regret, all mixed together with bitter longing. Knowing he still retained Conrad’s trust and friendship was a wonderful thing, but it would never be enough. For now, at least, he had Paul to help ease the loneliness, but that could never last very long and afterward, Damian was very much afraid he’d find himself even lonelier than before.
“What’s wrong?” Julie asked as she slipped her hand into his.
Damian looked at her in surprise. “Why, nothing, child. Why do you ask?”
Julie shrugged. “You look so sad all of a sudden.”
“Sad? Not a bit,” Damian lied smoothly. “It’s a brand new year, after all. Why should anyone be sad? Now, come along, chica. Let’s take a look around. I’m sure we can find you something
tasty.”
Chapter Fourteen
December 24, 2009
The door to the warehouse was standing open when Drew arrived in the early hours of Christmas Eve. The building seemed largely deserted now, but traces lingering in the air suggested that up until recently it had been crowded with humans and vampires alike. Ferals for the most part. The scent of them set Drew’s teeth on edge and he had to take a moment to calm his already fraying nerves. If there was any good news to be had about the situation in which he currently found himself, it was that if Marc sensed Drew’s unrest, it would be easy to blame it on the presence of so many ferals rather than guilt and the consciousness of betrayal.
No one paid Drew any mind as he slipped inside the building. He glanced around the interior, professional curiosity warring with his personal feelings. It was nothing like his club. Akeldama was clearly superior in every way. All the same, Drew could sort of understand the primitive appeal a place like this might hold. Especially for ferals. They were pretty damn primitive themselves, after all.
The large cage gave him a moment’s pause. It seemed ominous, even despite its surprisingly cheerful paint job, and more than a little out of place. Was it meant as a warning? Or had he gotten it all wrong? Perhaps it was meant to imbue otherwise reluctant humans with a feeling of safety? Or it could even be that it was part of some kind of entertainment. Before he’d had more than a minute to ponder the matter he was distracted by voices, one of them vaguely familiar.
Heather—he was reasonably sure that’s what Marc had called her—was arguing with a large feral Drew had never seen before.
“You’re crazy,” the strange feral said. “A Christmas present? What’s put such a stupid idea in your head anyway?”
“Because,” Heather answered in stubborn tones. “It’s Christmas Eve and I don’t have any money to buy Marc a real gift. Plus, I’m the one who found them, so why shouldn’t I be the one to give them to him?”
“I never said you shouldn’t give them to him. Knock yourself out. But do it now. No tucking them away so you can stuff them in his stocking tomorrow morning. And no talking any of the guys into dragging a tree in here, either, just so you can pile them up underneath it.”
Heather folded her arms. “If I want a tree, Nighthawk, I’ll get a tree. And if I want to wait until tomorrow to tell Marc about this stuff, I’ll do that too.”
“You wanna bet on that? Why would you even think he’d want some moldy old papers as a gift?”
“Because they’re old. He likes old stuff doesn’t he?”
“I dunno. Does he?”
Heather shrugged. “Sure. I mean, I think so, right? Look at all the history stuff he’s always checking out online.”
“Yeah well, just ’cause they’re old doesn’t mean they’re worth anything. Likely it’s just useless junk cluttering up the place.”
“Of course they’re worth something,” Heather insisted. “They were hidden in the wall! What does that tell you?”
“It tells me that someone was prolly trying to plug up a draft. Besides, you said you found them in the back of a closet, right? So what does that tell you—other than whoever put them there didn’t think they were important enough to take with them when they left.”
“They weren’t in the closet. They were shoved in the crawl space behind the closet and boarded up. You do know what ‘hidden’ means, don’t you?”
“Whatever. It’s not like they were locked in a safe or anything.”
“Oh, what do you know?”
“About this stuff? Nothing. And neither do you. This thing looks older’n both of us put together. I can’t even read what it says. What the hell language is that, anyway?”
“It’s Latin,” Drew answered, peering over their shoulders at the document they had spread out on one of the small tables with which the warehouse was furnished. The scroll was parchment, the ink so faded it was barely legible. Definitely old and very likely valuable as well—the girl had that part right.
Both ferals started in surprise. Heather uttered a little shriek and grabbed for the scroll.
Imprecor Obscurum, Drew read, just before Heather snatched up the document and hugged it to her chest. To Curse the Darkness. An ominous title.
The parchment crackled under the girl’s handling. Drew winced at the sound. He had to bite back the urge to snarl. “Careful! You’re going to destroy it.”
“Who the hell are you?” the other feral—the one she’d called Nighthawk—finally found his voice. He scowled fiercely. “How’d you get in here?”
Drew ignored the scowl—and the first question. He pointed back the way he’d come. “Your door’s open.”
“Yeah? Well, we’re not. Open, I mean. Come back some other time.”
“He’s not here to eat,” Heather said, still protectively cradling the scroll and eyeing him warily. “He’s from one of the other clubs. I remember seeing him before. He knows Marc.”
“I remember you, too.” Drew looked her over, surprised by the differences in her appearance. She looked infinitely calmer than the last time he’d seen her, infinitely more civilized. In fact, if he hadn’t already known her as feral, he would not have pegged her as one tonight. New? Yes. Wild? Not so much.
Strange. Very strange. He’d never seen such a thing before. He nodded at the parchment in her arms. “I meant what I said, by the way. You’re right about that scroll. It’s probably very valuable. But if you keep holding it that way you’re likely to crush it into dust.”
“Would you both just screw the damn scroll?” Nighthawk waved away Drew’s concerns. “Who gives a shit, all right? What I want to know is what the fuck are you doing here?”
Drew held up the gift box he’d brought with him. “Like the lady said, ’tis the season for giving. Is Marc around?”
The two ferals exchanged a glance then Nighthawk leaned back against the table and crossed his arms. “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t,” he said, still eyeing Drew with suspicion. “And maybe you should just leave your present here and go. I’ll be sure and remind Marc to send you a thank-you note.”
Heather sighed and shook her head. “A thank-you note. That’s almost funny, coming from you.” Turning away, she quickly rolled the parchment up, amid more wince-inducing crackling, and slid it none-too-gently into a black leather map case. The case was old as well, Drew noted, but nowhere near as old as the scroll, maybe only a half-century or so. Heather stuffed the case into a small duffel bag, partially filled with several identical cases and hefted the bag into her arms. Then she nodded in Drew’s direction. “C’mon, I’ll take you up to him.”
“You’ll do what?” Nighthawk straightened up. “Hold up a minute. Where are you taking those? And who says he’s going anywhere with you? You don’t make the rules around here.”
“Neither do you,” Heather replied, turning to stick her tongue out at her friend. “And I told you, I’m giving them to Marc. If he can get one Christmas present tonight, I figure he can get two.”
“Oh, so now it’s okay to give them to him tonight? That’s great. Just so you remember though, that was my idea.”
“Keep dreaming,” Heather said as she headed toward a narrow stairway that led to the second floor. “It’s my idea. I do what I want to do. And I don’t take orders from you.”
“Women,” the feral grumbled beneath his breath. Drew threw him a commiserating glance as he hurried to follow Heather up the stairs. The only thing keeping him from agreeing outright was the suspicion that Heather was acting less like a woman than a child. She looked young, she acted younger. No wonder Marc had claimed she was little more than a kid. If Drew didn’t know it to be impossible, he’d think so too.
“Someone to see you,” Heather announced as she pushed open a door at the end of the upstairs corridor. Drew followed her inside and found himself in what appeared to be an office.
Marc, his back to the door, was inspecting a bookshelf that ran the whole length of one wall. He spun around qui
ckly. “Drew. It’s good to see you. What brings you here?”
The sight of Marc’s eye-patch, still so unexpected, almost distracted Drew from his mission. “Just distributing a little holiday cheer,” he said as he proffered the gift he’d brought, a bottle of his best brandy, packaged with two crystal glasses.
“Excellent.” Marc’s single eye lit up at the sight. “You’ll stay for a drink, won’t you?”
“I’d be delighted to,” Drew said as he took a seat in one of the chairs that were set in front of the large desk. So far, everything was going exactly as planned. He glanced around curiously. He was surprised at the size of the library. He would not have taken his friend to be that much of a reader.
“I got you something too,” Heather said, shyly holding out the duffel bag. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.” Marc took the bag from her and looked at it curiously. “What do we have here?”
“It’s scrolls. In Latin.” Heather nodded toward Drew. “He says they’re valuable.”
“Probably valuable,” Drew clarified. “Assuming they’re authentic, which I do think is likely. After all, I can’t imagine why anyone would go to the trouble of faking such things.” Seeing Marc’s surprise he added, “I only saw part of one, but the parchment looked quite old.”
Marc’s eyebrows rose further. “How old?”
Drew shrugged. “At a guess? Several hundred years.”
“I don’t understand.” Marc opened one of the cases and slid the roll of parchment partway out, handling the friable document as gently as possible. “This building isn’t even one hundred years old. Where did these come from?”
“I found them,” Heather answered. “You said to look for hidden stuff, so I did. You like them don’t you? Nighthawk said they were just junk.”
A faint smile curved Marc’s lips. “Well, Nighthawk doesn’t know everything now, does he?”
