by P. G. Forte
Heather shook her head. “Nope. He didn’t even know they were Latin.” She frowned suddenly. “Do you know Latin?”
Marc nodded. “Yes. Enough, anyway.”
“Will you teach me?”
“Possibly. But, for right now, why don’t you go back downstairs and keep an eye on things for me? Make sure nobody decides anything else as valuable as these are junk. Okay?”
Heather’s face fell. She gestured at the bag. “You don’t know they’re valuable yet. Don’t you even want to look at them?”
“Of course I do. But later, all right? We’ll look at them together—how’s that sound?”
“Just you and me?” Heather’s gaze turned crafty. “You promise?”
Marc’s smile widened. “I promise.”
“All right,” she said, looking pleased. “I’ll come back later. Meantime, I’ll try and make sure nobody does anything too stupid.”
Drew watched her leave. “I see now why you were so insistent she was just a child.”
Marc shot him an amused glance as he opened the brandy and poured out two glasses. “I told you, didn’t I?”
“She’s very lucky to be alive. Whoever turned her was surprisingly irresponsible. It’s little wonder if he or she is dead. If the girl had been just a little younger, she wouldn’t have made it.”
“Why is that, exactly?” Marc’s gaze was hooded as he handed one of the glasses to Drew and then settled back against the desk. “I mean, I get it, you know? People keep telling me it’s impossible, you can’t turn kids, yada, yada, but no one ever explains why they think that.”
Drew took a sip of brandy and shrugged. “That’s just the way things are. I don’t think anyone knows for certain why. If I had to guess, I’d say it probably has something to do with hormones. But it’s not just conjecture, you know. I assure you, it’s been tried many times in the past, and it always failed.”
“So what about the Infragilis? Or are you saying that’s just part of the same myth?”
“Exactly. Myths, legends, fairytales—call them what you will. Those creatures don’t exist, my friend.”
“But that’s what you’d call them, right? These children who somehow or other would have survived being turned?”
Drew hesitated. “No, not exactly. According to the legends the Lamia Infragilis were children who were born vampire. It’s really a different thing entirely.”
“Born that way? But, I thought…”
“That it was impossible? Yes, I know.” Drew smiled. “Which is what I’ve been telling you.”
“Okay, fine. They don’t exist either. But is that it then? That’s the whole legend? They’re only special because vampires are never born, but if they did exist they’d grow up to be just like every other vampire. Or is there more to the story than that?”
Drew’s eyebrows rose. “Why this sudden interest in the old stories? I thought ferals were your hobby? Surely you don’t imagine the girl is Infragilis?”
“Who, Heather?” Marc shook his head. “No. She was only turned a few months ago. I’m just curious. I’d never heard the term until the other day. Someone mentioned them, said something about their supposedly having special powers, and I wondered what’s the deal?”
“There is no deal. Like I said, they don’t exist.”
Marc rolled his eyes. “Right. I got that. Just…hypothetically speaking. If there were such things as Lamia Infragilis, what would they be like?”
“Well, according to the stories, they’d be unusually strong—mentally, for the most part, but physically too. From a very young age they’d be able to hold their own against much older vampires. They’d be able to withstand extraordinary hardships, much like the Invitus can. Also their senses would be more acute than average and it’s said their blood would possess extraordinary curative properties, above and beyond what’s normal for us. There’s also a wide range of other supposed abilities they could develop as well ‘in the fullness of time’, however long that would be.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I never made a study of it. Bend others to their will, perhaps? The legends are oddly vague on that point, in any event. I believe there was something about ‘siring the sireless’ and ‘ransoming the damned’ whatever either of those things might mean. Basically, it’s assumed there’s very little they couldn’t do better or faster or…”
“So they’d be like…bionic vampires?” Marc smirked. “Is that what you’re saying? Only without the rebuilding, obviously.”
Drew returned his smile. “Exactly. Super vampires, if you will.”
“So how’re they different from Invitus?”
“In many ways, actually. Invitus are stronger and generally hardier than your average vampire. They’re able to withstand hardships that would likely break the rest of us. But other than that, and the more caustic venom, they’re not fundamentally all that different. Infragilis, on the other hand…well, they’re mysteries. No one knows the extent or the limit of their abilities—or if they even have limits—which is precisely why they’re considered dangerous.”
“What?” Marc straightened up at that, his expression startled. “Dangerous! Why’s that?”
“Because of the unpredictability of them, their potential for disrupting our entire way of life. Because they start out as children, innocents who might be molded, for good or evil, at the hands of whoever raises them. They’re much worse than Invitus in that way. Theoretically, whoever controls one of them would be virtually invincible. That’s largely why it was finally decided that no one should ever again attempt to turn children, if you must know. After so many died in foolish attempts at creating Infragilis using newborn infants as test subjects, or turning pregnant women against their will, the practice was virtually banned.”
“Wonderful,” Marc muttered in disgust. “That’s a great heritage. What a terrific legacy we’ve inherited.”
Drew smiled. “This world is a brutal place, my friend. That’s true for humans and vampires alike. There’s no telling how far some people will go for wealth or power. But, come, let’s talk of more cheerful things, like what have you been doing with yourself these past weeks?”
“Nothing much,” Marc answered with a shrug. “Just trying to get this place up and running. Trying to give the ferals a fighting chance at something approaching a normal life.”
“I see.” Drew shook his head. “Well, it’s certainly a worthy goal.” And about as impossible to achieve as anything else they’d discussed so far tonight. It was also clearly useless to argue that point. “But how can I entice you to come back to Akeldama?”
Marc sighed. “I don’t know man. I think it might be awhile. I’m still getting used to this.” He gestured at his eye patch. “And, in the meantime, I’d hate to put your customers off their feed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Drew scoffed. “If anything, your injury is an asset. With that patch over your eye, you look like Hollywood’s idea of a pirate. Women love a wounded hero. Haven’t you ever heard that? You’ll have to beat them off with a stick. Besides, what do you do here all night? It can’t be as entertaining as what you’re used to.”
“Now there’s where you’re wrong.” Marc drained his glass. His smile seemed just the slightest shade of bitter as he poured himself some more brandy. “It’s very entertaining here. Kind of like being on the island of misfit toys. You know, from the old Christmas special?”
“Misfits.” Drew grimaced. “Yes, I’ve no doubt. How do you put up with them? I admit that girl—Heather—seems vastly improved since you’ve taken her under your wing. I don’t know what you’ve done to her, but I’m convinced the results you’ve achieved are due at least in part to her being so young. You can hardly expect the same from the rest of them.”
“We’ll see about that,” Marc answered grimly. “I’ve given them my word I’d help them, and failure’s not an option.”
Drew frowned. Mindful of his orders he inquired, “Does Conrad know
what you have in mind?”
Marc blinked in surprise. “Do you know you’re the second person who’s asked me that this week? Hell yes he knows. At least… Well, he knows they’re here, and he knows I’m working with them. He hasn’t asked me anything else about it, so I figure that’s good enough for now. I’ll tell him more when the time is right.”
“Let’s hope Conrad agrees with your way of thinking. He’s no one to trifle with, you know.” The same could be said for Georgia. Drew could not help but grimace as he thought about that. He hoped the meager information he’d gathered would be enough to satisfy the lady.
Marc smiled grimly. “I think I can handle Conrad.”
Drew was in no way certain of that. “I hope you know what you’re doing, my friend. In the meantime, the offer still stands. I miss having a partner and I’m sure, in the long run, it would be a much healthier path for you to choose. Anytime you want to come back, your job will be waiting. If you just want to visit, that would be welcome as well. I will make every effort to ensure you don’t feel out of place.”
Marc nodded. “Thanks, Drew. I appreciate that. More than you know.”
“Well, then…” Drew drained his glass. “I guess there’s nothing else to say. It’s getting late. Are you coming back to the mansion? Perhaps we could take a run through the park on the way?”
Marc shook his head. “It’s tempting, but I’ll have to pass. I still have some work to do here.” His eyes strayed to the duffel bag Heather had left behind. “I’ll probably just crash on the couch.”
Drew eyed the bag as well. It would be nice to be able to give Georgia a complete report on Marc’s interests. “I’d be happy to stay for awhile and help you translate, if you’d like? You’re not the only one with an interest in history, you know.”
Marc smiled. “Thanks, but I kind of promised Heather we’d go over them together.”
Drew inclined his head, accepting the inevitable with as much grace as he could muster. “Ah. Of course. Can’t disappoint the lady, can we?” He could only hope the other lady—the one he’d have to answer to—wouldn’t be disappointed either.
After Drew left, Marc poured himself a little more brandy then went to sit behind his desk. Someone had patched the radio into the warehouse’s sound system. Christmas music echoed throughout the nearly deserted building. Marc smiled at the irony. If Georgia had thought it strange for vampires to celebrate Halloween, he could only imagine what she’d think of this. The familiar music put him in a nostalgic frame of mind, reminding him of his childhood, of all Damian’s attempts to ensure he and Julie felt normal. Not that they ever really did, still he’d always made the effort. As had Conrad in his own way.
Marc had never doubted Conrad’s devotion to him and to his sister. As a boy, he’d idolized his “grandfather” and wanted his approval more than almost anything else in the world, but nothing Conrad or Damian did could ever completely take away Marc’s sense of isolation. It had been bad enough growing up vampire in a world full of humans, feeling lonely and different so much of the time, feeling at odds with those around him. But now, faced suddenly with the possibility—no, the probability—that he would never find a place where he truly fit in, not even among other vampires, that he was an oddity even among the misfits, he felt more alone than ever.
Hoping for distraction, he pulled one of the map cases out of the duffel bag and studied it idly. Antique parchment. Latin scrolls. That had to be just about the last thing he’d ever expected his little scavenger hunt would turn up. It must be connected to Audrey though, because the odds of anything that old or obscure having been left behind, hidden in this not-that-old industrial space by anyone else, would be entirely too much of a coincidence. Even more of a coincidence than Drew showing up here so soon after Georgia’s visit. They were both too far-fetched to be believed.
Not that Marc held it against his friend. He didn’t doubt the sincerity of Drew’s offer, or his concern, and if they’d both given each other something to think about tonight, well, fair was fair, after all. Marc wasn’t altogether certain what use Drew would make of the information Marc had given him, but at least now Marc had a glimmer of understanding as to what lay behind Conrad and Damian’s continued insistence that the twins keep their past a secret.
Dangerous…
How ironic that Drew should use that term, or that the very claim Marc had made to Nighthawk only a short time earlier, should come back to bite him in the ass. Apparently, he was both more dangerous than he’d ever imagined and more endangered as well. Small wonder he felt such a kinship with the ferals—other outcasts like himself. It seemed, perhaps, he was more among his own kind with them than he’d ever been in his life.
Chapter Fifteen
March, 1983
The fencing foil felt as though it were made of lead. It weighed heavy in Marc’s hand as he fumbled yet another attempt to parry Conrad’s thrusts. Sweat prickled along his hairline. He shook his head and blinked several times to clear his vision. It didn’t help.
“Focus, Marc,” Conrad urged impatiently. “Watch what you’re doing.”
Too winded to speak, Marc could only nod in response. The nervous excitement welling inside him made it nearly impossible to concentrate. He felt weaker and slower than ever before. And never in all his thirteen years had he ever been this hungry. But those were all good things, wonderful things. They were signs his plan to turn himself human by eating only human food and eschewing blood was working.
Even the fiery sensation deep within his bones, as though his very marrow had been set ablaze, had to be an indication he was on the right track, didn’t it? As a vampire, he’d never suffered from such things before. Colds, fevers, flus, any of the myriad ailments that afflicted humans, were unknown to him. He’d read about them, though. Literature was filled with vivid descriptions of such things, and he had no doubts this is what he was experiencing now. If he’d already contracted a human disease, could the final transformation be far away?
Another thrust. Another miss. The button of Conrad’s foil jabbed into Marc’s arm and he winced at the unexpected pain. “Ow.”
Conrad scowled. “Stop playing games! What is it that has you so preoccupied tonight?”
“Sorry,” Marc mumbled fighting against the sudden compulsion to confess. He wasn’t sure how Conrad would react to the news, but he doubted he’d be pleased. More than likely, he’d see it as a rejection of himself, his way of life. Perhaps he’d even order Marc to stop. That was a chance Marc wasn’t willing to take. Better to keep quiet until it was too late for anyone to try and interfere.
“Very well,” Conrad sighed. “Let’s try it again, shall we?”
Marc nodded once more, already panting with the effort, trying his best to ignore the dizziness, the hunger—as well as a sudden pang of regret. How disappointed would Conrad be when he learned what Marc had done? Letting his grandfather down was the last thing Marc wanted. If only there was some other way to accomplish his goal. If only…
A sharp blow to his sternum startled Marc out of his daze. His breath lodged in his chest. “Damn it, boy,” Conrad growled. “This is ridiculous! Why do you waste my time in this fashion?” But Marc made no answer. The words died on his lips as his vision went black and he felt his feet slipping out from under him. The jolt as he hit the floor forced the air from his lungs. Consciousness lingered for just a moment longer. He could hear Conrad calling frantically for Damian, then nothing.
The scent of blood pulled Marc back to consciousness. His fangs descended as he reached, without thinking, for the sustenance he craved. Almost too late, he stopped himself.
“No,” he protested, pushing aside the plastic IV bag, and the hand that proffered it. “Get it away. I won’t eat it!”
“Come, chico.” Damian murmured in response. “You gave it a good try, but enough is enough.”
Marc shook his head. “No. No blood. I was doing okay without it. It was working.”
Damian sighed. �
�Even if that were so, Marc, it’s time to end this experiment. I cannot have you passing out. Surely you can understand that? Just drink a few sips for me, like a good boy. After that I’ll get you something else, if you wish.”
“No.” Marc clamped his lips together and shut his eyes once more, hoping to block out at least the sight of temptation.
“Marcus!” Conrad thundered from somewhere behind Damian. “Enough of this nonsense. Do as you’re told. At once!”
Marc’s eyes flew open. He glanced up, startled. He hadn’t even noticed Conrad looming over Damian’s shoulder, his face taut with worry and concern. Guilt struck at Marc’s heart. He transferred his gaze to Damian and glared at him reproachfully. “You said you wouldn’t tell him! You promised.”
Damian grimaced. “A promise? Sí. But what choice did I have after you passed out at your poor grandfather’s feet and scared him half to death? Or would you rather I let him continue to think he’d nearly killed you?”
“No.” Marc dropped his gaze. “Of course not.” It was bad enough that he’d embarrassed himself in front of his grandfather. The idea that Conrad had been frightened on his behalf, that he’d thought it was somehow his fault, was even worse.
“Now, come,” Damian murmured enticingly. “It’s just a little bag. Why not drink it up? It will make me feel better—if nothing else. And then you may have whatever else you like. I have a roast in the oven already and I’m making cookies and…” Before Damian could finish, Conrad interrupted him. Growling, he grabbed Damian by the arm and hauled him to his feet.
“Give me that,” he snarled as he snatched the bag from Damian’s hand. “And get out of here. Now. I want you out of my sight.”
“What?” Damian gazed at him in surprised dismay. His face ashen, he cast an uncertain look in Marc’s direction. “Wh-where is it you want me to go?”
“I don’t care where you go. Just leave. Now.”
“But… No, Conrad, what are you talking about? You can’t— The boy needs me.”
