Now Comes the Night

by P. G. Forte

  “It’s not that.” Marc sighed, wishing he’d waited until after the long, holiday weekend was over to confront Conrad. He emptied his glass in one long gulp. How could he tell them now? Wouldn’t it be better to just pretend nothing was wrong, let them enjoy their party, wait for a better time to tell them? But wasn’t that exactly what Conrad and Damian had done to him, what they were all still doing to Julie? Didn’t they all deserve to know the truth? “I’m not upset about what you’ve done here. I went to see Conrad tonight.” He blurted the words out before he could change his mind.

  “Ah, crap.” Nighthawk looked away. “What happened? What’d he say? Nothing good, I’m guessing.”

  “He said Audrey lied to you. He said there’s no way that he, or anyone else, could ever claim you as their own. No one would believe him if he did, he said, and it wouldn’t change anything anyway. It wouldn’t make you part of his House. I’m sorry.”

  Heather scowled. “Why’re we talking about that bitch for anyway? Only an idiot would have taken her word for anything in the first place.”

  “I guess we all know who you’re calling an idiot, right?” Nighthawk glared at her.

  Heather ignored him. “And why would you think we need to be part of someone else’s House? We have our own House, don’t we? Right here?”

  Marc had no answer. Technically, he supposed Heather was part of Conrad’s family now, just as he was. In theory, that meant he should be able to take her home with him. It was all the others who were screwed, left out in the cold, doomed. And there was not a damn thing he could do to change that.

  Nighthawk met Marc’s gaze for a brief moment, then glanced away. His expression was grim. “All right, so, how bad is it? How long did he give us? When do we have to be out of here?”

  “You don’t have to go anywhere,” Marc told him. “You can stay here as long as you want. He gave me his word.”

  “Right. ‘Cause everyone always keeps their word where we’re concerned. ‘Scuse me for bein’ a li’l skeptical ‘bout that. I guess the question I should be asking then is how soon are you leaving?”

  Marc ducked his head. He hadn’t been expecting it to come to this—not yet, anyway. “I don’t know. I haven’t really…whenever, I guess.” He thought he’d have more time. He didn’t think they’d be this quick to turn their backs on him. He glanced at the ring of pinched and anxious faces, wanting to ask if Nighthawk spoke for all of them, if there was no one at all here who wanted him to stay, but what good would that do? Before Marc had come along, Nighthawk had been the closest thing they’d had to a leader. He’d brought them together, kept them together, tried his best to keep them safe. What good would it do to undermine his authority now?

  Disgust twisted Nighthawk’s features. “Yeah, that figures.” Turning away, he hopped over the back of one of the couches and sat with his back to Marc. A couple of the youngest of the ferals pressed close to Nighthawk. He threw his arms around their shoulders and hugged them tight. The rest of the troupe continued to shoot worried glances at each other or in Marc’s direction, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet their eyes.

  “You’re not leaving us are you?” Heather pressed close to Marc and gazed up at him piteously.

  “What choice do I have? I can’t very well stay where I’m not wanted, can I?” Not that he had any idea where he could go. Conrad hadn’t exactly thrown him out, but he’d been angry. A lot more angry than Marc had expected him to be. And, despite what he’d said about the mansion being Marc’s home he’d made it pretty damn clear he didn’t really want Marc there right now.

  Perhaps Damian could change his mind, but Marc had burned that bridge pretty good as well. Maybe he could try Drew and see if he could be persuaded to let Marc crash on the couch in his office at the bar. Or would his friend be too fearful, too reluctant to incur Conrad’s wrath?

  “Now you’re just being stoopid.” Heather frowned at him. “You know you’re wanted. What are you talking about?”

  Marc shook his head. “That’s not how it looks from where I’m standing.”

  Heather bared her teeth in an angry little snarl. “Nighthawk! Get your ugly butt back over here!”

  “No!” Nighthawk answered from the couch, still refusing to turn around. “Leave me alone, woman.”

  Heather took hold of Marc’s hand and pulled him toward the couch. Marc followed along reluctantly, ditching his cup on an empty table along the way. Nothing about this scene was sparking his appetite in the slightest.

  Heather continued to drag him around the couch until they stood right in front of where Nighthawk was seated. “Tell Marc you don’t want him to go,” she ordered the feral.

  “No.” Nighthawk glared at her—and continued to ignore Marc. The two youngsters who had snuggled up next to Nighthawk also kept their eyes averted.

  Marc sighed. “See? What’d I tell you?”

  Heather rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t mean he wants you to go, Marc. He’s just being dumb. And you don’t want to go either, right? You want to stay here, don’t you? With us?”

  “I want to stay. But…how can I? I failed, sweetheart, and you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to realize that yet. I was trying to get a second chance for everyone. I wanted to make sure all the ferals were safe. But you—they—need a leader for that, someone who can protect you all. That’s why I went to Conrad. I thought, if he would agree to adopt everyone…”

  “But Marc, we don’t need someone else to do that for us,” Heather insisted. “We have you. Everything’s so much better since you’ve taken charge. I can’t believe you don’t see that.” From the corner of his eye, Marc saw several of the others nodding in agreement.

  “She’s right, you know.” Nighthawk glanced up briefly and then away again. “Not that I didn’t try but… I dunno. Seems like the harder I tried, the worse I fucked things up.”

  Heather snorted. “That’s ‘cause you’re a moron.”

  “Nice,” Nighthawk muttered beneath his breath. “Thanks.”

  “Cut him some slack,” Marc told Heather, still trying to readjust his thinking. Could he stay after all? Did they really want him to? “He did his best, right? I guess that’s all any of us can do.”

  “What I don’t get is… Why’re you even here?” Nighthawk asked, seemingly of his shoes, since he still refused to meet Marc’s gaze. “I get that you had your fun slumming with us, but why d’you want to waste any more time hanging around?”

  Marc glanced around, surprised to see the same expression on just about everyone’s face—anxious, hopeful. “Who said it’s a waste of time? And where else would I be?”

  Nighthawk frowned. “You have a home, don’t you? A family? And it’s Christmas-fucking-Eve. Even if you don’t do holidays—and I know, most vampires don’t—I still don’t understand why you aren’t there with them. That’s where you belong, right? I mean, if I had a home, I’d sure as hell wanna be there tonight.”

  The answer was so obvious Marc was surprised he hadn’t figured it out weeks earlier. “This is my family now, and right here is all the home I’m looking for. Trust me, I fit in a lot better here, with you all, than I do anywhere else.” It was strange, coming face to face with that realization, but it was true all the same. He felt stronger somehow, calmer and infinitely more comfortable here on misfit island than he had even earlier this evening with Conrad and Damian.

  “Yeah?” A suspicious warmth colored Nighthawk’s cheeks. But if he was pleased—and Marc was pretty sure he was—he did his best to hide it behind a snarky attitude. “Well, shit, if that’s the case, you’re even more fucked up than I thought you were.”

  “You still want him here though, don’t you?” Heather demanded.

  Nighthawk smirked. “What are you crazy? ‘Course I do. I’m not that big an idiot.”

  Heather shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “I never did think we needed anyone else you know,” Nighthawk said, finally addressing Marc directly. “It’s just…yo
u kept talking about passing us off to someone else, maybe getting Quintano to take us on—and no lie, that’d be awesome, no one’d dare mess with us then. But I figured what it really meant was you didn’t want to get stuck dealing with us on your own. I mean, I don’t know how these things are supposed to work out, how houses and sires and stuff are decided or founded or whatever—especially when it comes to our kind—but you’ve been more of a sire to us than most of us have had in years. Of course we want you to stay. And if you’d be willing to take us on, I for one would be proud to say I belonged to your House.”

  His own House? Could he really have that? For the life of him, Marc could not find the words to respond. He’d never even considered the possibility, although… He had to admit the idea held a lot of appeal. He couldn’t imagine what Conrad would have to say about it when he found out, and he was absolutely certain it was nothing like what Damian had in mind when he’d begged Marc to keep up appearances. For once, Marc didn’t care. This felt right. And if he was really as different as everyone said he was, maybe this kind of thing made sense for him.

  “See?” Heather beamed at him, obviously pleased with herself. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now where’d you put your cup? We need to have a toast.”

  “What are we supposed to be toasting to?” Nighthawk asked, climbing warily to his feet. The look he shot in Marc’s direction was laced with trepidation, reminding Marc he’d yet to give him an answer.

  “To us,” he answered, finally finding his voice.

  “To all of us,” Heather added. “To our family.”

  “Exactly.” Marc met Nighthawk’s eyes and smiled. “Let’s do this.” A fresh cup of blood was pressed into his hand. Marc raised it high. “To us. Our family. Our House.” My House.

  “All right, then.” Nighthawk lifted his own cup in a return salute. “It’s about fucking time. Fischer House. Long may it stand.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Christmas Eve and Julie hadn’t ever seen the city so quiet. She wandered through the grounds that surrounded Conrad’s mansion, reluctant to go inside the house, unwilling to stray too far beyond the wall. She wasn’t sure what had gotten Marc so riled up, but her encounter with her brother had left her restless and unsettled and unable to relax. It wasn’t as though Marc hadn’t always been protective of her—because he definitely had been, for almost all their lives. But he didn’t generally warn her to be careful. It was far more usual for him to bully her into standing up for herself, reminding her of all the training she’d received, of all the strength she possessed, reminding her she was more than capable of defending herself…

  A footfall on the path behind her had her spinning around, prepared to do just that, but her alarm was short lived. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Armand clasped a hand to his chest and gazed at her with mock sorrow. “Ah, chérie, you wound me. Could you not at least pretend you’re happy to see me?”

  “Oh, please,” she said, not bothering to hide her smile. “You’re lucky I didn’t wound you for real. How many times do I have to tell you? Stop sneaking up on me.”

  Armand’s smile turned mischievous. “I fear I cannot oblige you in that.” He held up his hand, revealing a sprig of mistletoe. “For how else am I to get close enough to steal a kiss?”

  Julie’s cheeks flamed. Had he come out here tonight in search of her in particular, or would anyone have done? Not that she had the slightest right to complain even if that was the case. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure she had any right to even speculate. She was still sleeping with Brennan, after all, although not this weekend, as he’d taken Parker to visit his grandparents for the holiday, leaving her hungry, depressed, frustrated and more confused than ever about what she really wanted.

  Except for this kiss. That was one thing she had no doubts about and she thanked her lucky stars that Armand had thought to bring mistletoe. What a brilliant excuse that made for ignoring the many reasons why this was such a terrible idea.

  Armand glided closer. “Last chance to say no,” he teased as he dangled the mistletoe above her head.

  Julie shivered. Her lips parted in anticipation. Hunger and need had stilled her tongue, stolen her breath and left her mute. If she could have spoken, however, she was damn sure no would not have been anywhere at all on her list of possible responses.

  Armand’s eyes glittered as they locked with hers. She read traces of desire, surprise, even a little bit of triumph in their depths as she lifted her face in silent invitation. Their lips touched. Heat flared. The taste of him sparked memories of the last time they’d kissed—she’d wanted more of him then too. She clutched impatiently at his shirtfront and shifted closer, growling softly, part demand, part entreaty. His response was instantaneous. Powerful arms closed around her and held her tight, calling up a surge of some nameless emotion from deep inside her. Relief? Acquiescence? Completion? Need? All of the above?

  She twisted in his arms, turning until she was resting partially against his chest. When he broke the kiss with a shattered gasp, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to turn her face into the curve of his neck. To trail her tongue up and down along the strong column of his throat. To find that spot where his blood seemed to call to her the loudest. She bit down swiftly, filling her mouth with his essence and drawing a startled groan from his lips. Then she bit again. Marking him. Claiming him. And challenging him to do the same to her.

  Again, his response was everything she’d hoped for. He speared his fingers into her hair, bent his head to her exposed neck and sank his fangs into her throat. Venom tingled as it rushed through her veins, headed straight to her core. Then he bit again. And again. Until she could no longer control the shudders that shook her from head to toe. Until she had to retract her own fangs, just so she could continue breathing. Until she had to cling to him to keep from falling.

  An ecstatic whimper slipped from her lips. Yes. Just, yes. This. Armand stiffened at the sound. Raising his head, he peered at her in alarm. “Chérie? Are you all right?”

  “Mmm.” Julie nestled closer. “But I’m really glad Christmas only comes once a year.”

  “Oh?” Armand frowned, absently running his tongue over his lips, as though seeking out every last trace of her. “Why do you say that?”

  “The mistletoe,” she murmured in explanation. It wasn’t fair. It gave him far too much of an advantage. It was bad enough that he could reduce her to this state with a single kiss, bad enough that she forgot everything else when she was in his arms. Anything that gave him an excuse to kiss her at will, that gave her a reason not to object… “That’s just wrong.”

  Armand’s arms dropped away from her as he took a step back. “You think I took advantage of you?”

  Deprived of his support, Julie swayed on her feet. An embarrassed blush heated her cheeks. “Armand… No, that’s not… I don’t think I meant that the way it sounded.”

  “Oh, no?” He looked unconvinced. She sought for the words to convince him, but came up empty. It probably didn’t help that she could barely meet his gaze either. But…in a way, he was right. He had taken advantage of her, hadn’t he? In her heart, she was still committed to Brennan, and they both knew it. They shouldn’t be kissing each other at all right now.

  Giving up, Julie glanced around, searching for a suitable change of subject, anything that would give her an excuse not to go back inside, to stay out here with him for a little while longer… To maybe kiss him again?

  No. Not happening. Doing her best to ignore the evil little whisper of temptation, she glanced again at the house. It was restfully dark, peacefully quiet. Usually, she loved that about it, but not tonight. Tonight, it struck her as a little too depressing, empty and cold. “We should put up some Christmas lights,” she sighed, thinking of her childhood fascination with the season, thinking of the tiny, tabletop tree in Brennan’s apartment. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “What?” Armand stared a
t her in horror. “No. Absolutely not.”

  Julie eyed him with surprise. “How come? Don’t you think it would look pretty?” Not to mention help the place blend in with the surrounding houses. That was an idea she remembered very clearly from her childhood. Conrad and Damian had always seemed to put a lot of stock in before. Something else that had changed. “Maybe I should talk to Conrad about it.”

  “It would look ridiculous—I’ve said so before. And don’t say a word about this to Conrad. He’s not to be bothered with such things.”

  A grim certainty took hold. Julie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you by any chance speaking from experience?”

  Armand’s mouth tightened. “Oui.” The bitter set of his lips told her everything she needed to know.

  “Oh, good. Let me guess. This has to be about Wind-chime Girl again, right?” Truth be told, Julie was getting a little tired of that chick, even if she was her mother. If it weren’t for her, if it weren’t for Armand’s involvement with her then and his continuing infatuation with her now, Julie’s life and her choices would be so much simpler. Thanks, Mom.

  “Wind-chime Girl?” Armand repeated coldly. “Is that what you call her? You have no right to speak of her that way.”

  “Hey, if the shoe fits.” Julie shrugged then surprised herself by adding, “I have to call her something, don’t I? It’s not like I know her actual name.”

  “Well, you won’t hear it from me.”

  Of course she wouldn’t. Why had she ever thought otherwise? “Okay, you know what? This conversation is getting us nowhere. I’m going to go back in the house now.” Before they totally screwed things up between them. Maybe a workout would help improve her mood. Or, better yet, a snack. “For the record, though? You didn’t really need the mistletoe tonight. Or the stealth.” She would have kissed him anyway. Even now, even knowing that neither of them was free and uncommitted, if he gave her even the slightest encouragement, if he even hinted that he wanted her to stay…