by Kallysten
When Blake climbed into the back of the truck, he couldn’t help but feel as though he was climbing back through time and returning to those long-gone nights when he and Marc had first joined the squad and started fighting demons in the City. The truck was identical to the ones in his memories: the metal painted a dull black and stained with dust and mud, a heavy canvas of tarp in a black, brown, and dark green camouflage pattern over the back. The benches that lined each side of the truck lengthwise were the same, too: simple wooden seats that were stained, here and there, by dark spots, blood that had seeped into the wood and couldn’t be washed away.
Blake sat near the back, holding his scabbard and sword in front of him. Kate took place at his side, Marc across from him, and that, too, was familiar. Daniel, Simon, and half a dozen men rounded out their group. Their mission today wasn’t to fight, but they were going to the breach, and it was likely that they would encounter demons.
If there was small talk, Blake didn’t take part in it, or even hear it. He was trying to find that place in his mind that had once been so familiar: the eagerness for the fight, for something to happen. All he could find, however, were memories. He had gone to that last fight, the one during which he had been taken, in a truck like this one, seated next to Kate and Marc, like he was now. The thought was disconcerting.
“You never told me what the engraving meant.”
Blake turned to Kate and watched her for a little while before the words made any sense in his mind. He blinked. “Didn’t I?”
Her smile seemed forced. He hated that she thought she had to wear a mask in front of him. It meant that his mask had slipped too much.
“Oh, you did. You gave me a dozen different meanings. But I don’t think any of them was the truth. So what does it really mean?”
Dropping his gaze to the sword in his hand, Blake brushed his thumb against the Latin words engraved in the metal.
Quemadmodum gladius neminem occidit, occidentis telum est.
He had had someone put them there for him, standing by the blacksmith’s side the entire time and checking the spelling against the book in which he had found the quote. He couldn’t remember the name of the book, and that wasn’t all he had forgotten. It had been so long…
Before he had been taken, he had thought of those words, of what they meant to him, every time he had picked up the sword. But he had been away for a long time, and as familiar as Seneca’s hilt still felt in his hand, it was all too easy to recall those endless years during which he had not been allowed to hold a weapon.
“I don’t remember,” he admitted quietly, and it was almost like he was confessing having lost a part of himself. He looked at Marc from the corner of his eyes, wondering if Marc knew what the quote meant but strangely reluctant to ask. “I remember thinking it was important, but—”
“I know what it means.”
Kate’s head whipped toward Simon where he sat on the long bench across from them. Blake was slower, but he looked up as well. Simon’s eagerness lay undisguised on his features and in the way he leaned forward, bent over the leather bag he was holding to his chest.
“Remember, when we first met?” Simon said, a hesitant smile flickering on his lips. “I saw the inscription then. I told you I spoke Latin and you said—”
“Simon,” Kate interrupted in a restrained voice. “Just tell us.”
Simon’s flash of irritation at having been cut off was directed entirely at Kate. His mouth settled on a pout, and Blake figured if they wanted an answer, he would have to ask himself.
“What does it mean?”
Focusing on Blake, Simon sat up straight and said gravely, “A sword never kills anybody; it is a tool in the killer's hand.”
The words echoed with a strange familiarity in Blake’s mind. He could almost hear himself saying the quote, with a different inflection, and just one different word. Anyone instead of anybody. The meaning was the same, though, and it resonated inside Blake, cast light on what he had been—what he wanted to be again.
He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t like Kate, or Daniel, or even Marc. They all fought for others, to protect weaker people who couldn’t protect themselves, because it was the right thing to do. Blake could understand that, he could even admire it, but that wasn’t who he was at the core.
He was a hunter. A killer. And he had been even before he had become a vampire. For as long as he could recall, killing demons had been what he wanted to do. He had found more reasons to fight after he had met Kate, but the thought had first come to him when he had been nothing but a child. A child who had lost everything and everyone to the demons’ hands, and had waited for hours in the trunk of a car for the killing to stop and for someone to find him. In the end, he had needed to get out and find his way back to society on his own.
The thought had been there still, as he became a teenager; he had learned to protect himself the best he could, always with the idea at the back of his mind that everything he learned might some day help him against demons. As a young man, he had wanted little more than revenge and had decided that the best way to get that was to get fangs first.
He had looked for a long time for the vampire he wouldn’t mind calling his Sire, and he had found more than he hoped for in Marc: he had found a family again. For a long time, he had thought it would be just the two of them, and he had been fine with that. But then Kate had entered their lives, and she had carved a place for herself in Blake’s heart, right next to Marc. She was family, too.
It was one reason why it had hurt so much to see her being tortured in his place: he had lost one family already when they had given their lives to protect him, but at least it had been their choice. Kate—the woman or women who had been made to look like Kate—had had no such choice. And even at the worst moments, when Blake had been ready to take his own life if only given the chance, he had still thought of Marc as his family.
He still did now; still loved them both more than he could express.
He always would.
That part of him hadn’t changed, and discovering that, Blake realized something else: his thirst for revenge was still there, deeper than ever. There was only one way to satisfy it: kill demons. He was scared, yes, like that child had been scared, slipping out of that trunk, like that young man had been scared, searching for the right vampire, but he had pushed past the fear then, and he would do the same now. He would reclaim his place in his family.
He shifted on the bench, sitting up straighter. Just moments earlier, he had been too scared to think. Now, he was almost eager to get to the breach—eager to start fighting again. He wouldn’t falter anymore. He promised himself that much.
When he stepped out of the truck and slipped the harness of his scabbard over his shoulders, he no longer felt like he was retracing steps that led to disaster. This was a new night, and it would be a good night.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Kate asked, bumping lightly against his arm.
Blake offered her a thin smile. He had expected Marc to ask the question first. Then again, Marc had taken a step back since the previous morning, as though waiting to see what Blake would do next. Even now, he stood close to them but remained silent. The way he observed Blake’s every movement kept Blake on edge more than he liked to admit, which was why he had volunteered for this, as he now reminded Kate.
“I’m fine,” he added when his wordless answer didn’t appear to convince her. He hated having to repeat those words over and over, but he didn’t have anything better to offer. “You know I like to see how magic is done.”
At the mention of magic, Simon appeared at Kate’s side, his leather bag in his arms, excitement all too clear on his expression.
“Let’s go,” Daniel called out as the last of the fighters jumped out of the truck. “Simon, cloak us.”
A sense of familiarity rolled over Blake once more. How many times had he walked toward demon territory with Marc and Kate at his side, under the cover of Simon’s magic?<
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As they made their way toward the breach, Blake found himself reaching for the sword’s hilt over his shoulder every few minutes. He wanted to call himself an idiot for it; why did he need to check that the sword was still there when he could feel the weight of it on his shoulders? It was even worse because every time he made that compulsive movement, Kate and Marc both looked at him with the same worry in their eyes.
Knowing he had a weapon or knowing his lovers were concerned did not change the fact that he had to be sure he could get to his sword. If he didn’t check, if the smallest doubt rose in his mind, he wouldn’t be able to keep moving. It became even more important once the breach appeared in the distance, a shimmering shape in the middle of a dilapidated parking lot.
As they neared the breach, Blake caught himself breathing fast, and started calling himself an idiot again. He didn’t need to breathe. What was wrong with him? And why had he taken his sword in hand?
Daniel motioned for the group to stop before turning a wary look toward Blake. “Did you see something?” he asked, and from his tone it was obvious that he already knew the answer. He hadn’t objected to Blake’s presence on the mission, at least not where Blake could have heard him, but he had seemed more than glad when Blake had decided to stand guard over Simon while he worked.
“I thought I saw something move,” Blake said, uncomfortable now as more eyes turned to him. “It was nothing.”
He met Marc’s gaze and could tell that Marc knew he was lying. He didn’t call Blake on it, though, and instead pointed to a building to the right of where they stood.
“Simon? Will you be close enough for your spell if you get on the roof there?”
Simon looked up, thought for a few seconds, his eyes darting back and forth between the roof and the breach, before he finally nodded. “That should work, yes. Will the rest of you stay down here?”
“Yes,” Daniel said. He pointed at two soldiers. “Go check it out.”
The two men saluted briefly before running to the building. It was too late for Blake to insist that he could check the building himself on his way up, too late to do anything but stand there—exposed—while Daniel directed everyone to stand in a semi-circle around the breach while staying as much under cover as possible. Soon, only Kate and Marc remained with Blake and Simon. The worry in their gazes was stronger than ever.
“We could go up there with you,” Kate suggested, and she sounded almost guilty for offering. “Do you—”
Before she could finish, the two soldiers returned and gave the all clear.
“Let’s go,” Blake told Simon. “Stay close.” He threw a wink at Kate. “See you in a bit. Keep an eye on Marc for me.”
Marc played the game and huffed, but when Blake raised an eyebrow at him, he gave a short nod—yes, he would keep her safe. Nodding back, Blake started for the door-less entrance of the building. Even knowing that no demon hid in the darkened space that had once been a store, Blake found himself wary of shadows and tensing at every little noise. He led the way up escalators that had long ago ceased to function and through a back door that opened onto a staircase. Simon followed so quietly that his heartbeat, slightly faster than usual, was the loudest noise Blake could hear.
When they reached the roof, Blake stopped Simon with a gesture and took a few moments to look around them. The surface of the roof seemed uneven, and in places it looked as though the support underneath might have caved in.
“This way,” Blake said, and led Simon along an indirect path that circumvented the spots that seemed less than secure. “How long is it going to take you?”
They reached the far end of the roof, as close to the breach as they could get. Simon knelt down immediately and started pulling supplies from his bag.
“A few minutes to mix everything together,” he said almost absently. “I’m not sure how long it’ll take after that since I don’t know what I’m looking for exactly.”
Blake slid his sword back into the scabbard and stood next to Simon, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked down at the magical preparations with a small measure of discomfort. Once, he had been fascinated by magic and had enjoyed watching Simon or other mages at work. After all the magic that had been inflicted on him in the demon dimension, however, the mere thought of it was sending shivers down his spine. It was one reason why he had volunteered to be Simon’s bodyguard tonight. He wanted to get used to being around magic again and break down one more barrier in his mind.
It all seemed innocuous enough at the moment: some fragrant herbs and powders, one jar with something viscous but sweet-smelling; Kate had likened it to cooking, and Blake could definitely see the similarity. Still, the goose bumps down his arms wouldn’t subside, and he had to turn away.
He looked over the low wall that surrounded the roof, consciously avoiding looking in the direction of the breach, and searched for Kate and Marc instead. He found them across the rubble-filled street. Kate waved at him. When Blake raised a hand to reply in kind, he realized that he had been scratching at his thigh. He glared at his fingers as though they were at fault, waved back, then pulled away from the edge to try to get a grip on himself. Why was every step so damn difficult?
“Blake? There’s…there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time.”
Blake threw an impatient glance at Simon. “Is this really the time?” he said, his annoyance with himself transpiring through his words. “Do your spell so we can get out of here.”
He tried not to look directly at the breach, but he knew it was there, right in the corner of his eye; he could practically feel it, its energy thrumming through him like blood once had. Was it only an effect of his imagination or had something changed in him, maybe, when he had gone through?
“I never get to talk to you alone,” Simon said almost mutinously. “They’re always hovering.”
It was true, and it frustrated Blake as much as it seemed to annoy Simon, but it really didn’t matter at that moment. Blake would have berated Simon, but when he glanced down at him, Simon was working on his spell, mixing his supplies in a small wooden bowl. Blake held his tongue and resumed his watch.
His fingers twitched when he looked toward the breach, and he struggled to stop himself from scratching his thigh again. He closed his hand into a fist and turned away to observe Simon’s preparations. Combined together, the herbs smelled different, the scent more acrid, almost bitter enough to taste at the back of his tongue. The smell conjured less than pleasant memories. His throat closed, and it was all he could do not to gag. He looked away again, up at the sky, open and filled with stars. Calm slowly returned, and Blake could only be glad that neither Kate nor Marc was there to see him shake. If he was lucky, Simon wouldn’t notice either.
He glanced back and immediately met Simon’s eyes. He had noticed, although he didn’t say anything.
Simon was silent for a little while, focused again on his work, but soon he paused and looked up at Blake again. “I just wanted you to know I tried.”
Blake could hear Simon’s throat work when he swallowed hard.
“Tried what?” Blake asked, more harshly than he meant to.
Simon practically squeaked. He hunched his shoulders, and when he continued, he addressed his bowl rather than Blake. “To…to get you back. To open…open the breach again. So we could get you back. But I couldn’t do it. I mean, I came close. I had it almost figured out. But almost wasn’t good enough, I guess. And you…you came back before I could open it. I’m sorry. Really sorry.”
Blake’s vision narrowed until all he could see anymore was the paste in Simon’s bowl. It almost looked like blood, thickened, hardening, but still red.
For a long time—years, even decades—Blake had hoped, when his mind had allowed him a few moments of near-clarity, that someone would come for him. He had hoped, and even would have prayed if he had still believed in God, that his cell door would open, and a liberator would walk in.
Not Marc, obviously;
Marc was already there, or at least that was what Blake had believed. Not Kate either. Kate needed help as much as he did; more so, maybe, because she had to be protected both from their Master’s caprices and Blake’s mistakes. But someone. Anyone. Even Simon. He had been the only other person Blake knew for sure cared about him.
When enough time had passed with no rescue, when thinking had become more and more difficult, Blake had stopped hoping altogether, stopped thinking about his life before the cell, and in time it had become as distant, as blurry in his memories as a half-remembered dream. He had even forgotten Simon’s name.
To hear now that, during all that time, Simon had in fact been trying to find a way to reach him felt strangely heartwarming. And at the same time, it left a bittersweet taste at the back of Blake’s throat. Simon had tried. He had failed, but he had tried. If Blake knew Kate at all, she had kept close to Simon to check on his progress and urge him on. But Marc—Blake’s Sire—the one person who should have helped…
Marc had left. Gone on to fight with other groups. He had given up.
It hurt. It hurt so much…
“Bl—Blake?” Simon whispered. “Are you…are you all right?”
Blake closed his eyes for a second and shook his head, trying to shake away thoughts that weren’t helping anything.
“You’re not?” Simon now sounded terrified. “Should I…should I call Marc? Or Kate? I—”
“No,” Blake grunted. He blinked several times then focused on Simon next to him. “I’m fine. And you’ve got some mojo to do, don’t you?”
Simon continued to look up at Blake, the wooden bowl forgotten in his hands.
“I’m fine, really,” Blake said again, and hoped he sounded more convincing. He was so damn tired of having to repeat those stupid words over and over when no one ever believed them anyway. “I… Thank you. For trying, I mean. Even if you didn’t succeed, I know you must have tried very hard to help me.”
Harder, in any case, than Marc. The thought lanced through Blake again like a knife, but he had had a lot of practice at ignoring pain, physical or mental.
