by Ilana Waters
I glared at my father. “Perhaps I should just whimper, then.”
“That’s even worse.”
“Oh, I don’t think it can possibly get any worse,” I said. “Now we’ll never get the information we need. That was the last vampire who had any knowledge of Abigail’s whereabouts.” I ran my hands through my hair before realizing they were covered in blood. I decided to wipe them on the ends of my torn shirt, which was bloody already. Then I took out a handkerchief and wiped what I hoped was the majority of the blood off my face. Titus had a few drops of blood on his cuff from when he’d opened the vampire’s throat, but was otherwise spotless. That was my father—always impeccable.
Body aching, I slowly peeled myself out of my blazer. I was drenched with perspiration. I glanced back at the dead vampire, but tried not to focus on him. I find that no matter how many times one has killed—regardless of the reason—it never gets any easier. Though technically, it was mostly my father who’d killed him, but I doubt he felt anything close to remorse.
I looked around the rest of alley as if it would yield answers. There were still no curious mortals in the vicinity, but that wasn’t my main concern. At the moment, I was far more worried about something the dead vampire had said. “How many of these descendants could there be?” I asked Titus.
He shook his head and glanced around as well. “It’s impossible to tell. There could be thousands, or only a handful. Or it could simply be a group of vampires under the delusion they are descended from someone powerful.”
There was a brief silence before I spoke again.
“Do you think . . . do you think she’s still alive? I mean, if they didn’t get what they were after, did they . . . could they . . .” I choked on the last few words.
My father shook his head again, more sharply this time. “Not likely. If they killed her, they’d never find the crystal. I imagine they thought enough time in unpleasant circumstances would change her mind. But if it hasn’t, then . . . I don’t know. And we don’t know if they ever got the crystal or not.”
I took a few deep breaths. Perhaps there was still hope after all. “From what we could gather from the dead man,” I said, “it would seem they didn’t get the crystal. I may have been able to find out definitively if you hadn’t—”
“Hadn’t what?” My father turned to me. “Hadn’t saved your life? Again? Besides, it was clear to me he’d outlived his usefulness. He wasn’t going to tell us anything more.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to regain my composure. Sniping back and forth like this would get us nowhere.
“Do you really think an ancient vampire has begun to rise beneath Rome?” I finally said.
My father glanced to the left and the right, then lowered his voice. “It’s impossible to say. Rumors have come and gone for years that he’s risen, and new acolytes and followers appear at every mention. Frankly, I think he’s just dead. But that doesn’t stop the rumors from spreading. Look, we don’t have time to worry about every whisper of gossip on the wind. The important thing is that this idiot,” Titus motioned to the corpse, “and his cohorts wanted the crystal for their master, and thought your mother had it.”
At the mention of the crystal, I could almost see the wheels turning in my father’s mind. If he had known my mother possessed such a powerful magical tool, I couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t attempt to gain that power for himself. Maybe he still wanted to.
“But that can’t be it,” I protested. “It can’t be it, the crystal. Abigail . . .”
“What?”
“Ah, nothing.” I realized it was impossible for me to say what I wanted to next. “I . . . I don’t think she still had the crystal,” I said honestly.
My father waved his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter if she did or didn’t. If her enemies believe she did, it might help us find her. If we can find out what it is reputed to do, and why they wanted it, it might provide a clue to where they took her.”
“Well, in that case, wouldn’t Rome be the logical starting point?”
“Possibly. But just because that’s Ferox’s presumed location doesn’t mean she’s there. She could have told them she lost the crystal in the jungles of Paraguay—or anywhere—just to throw them off the scent. Your moth—Abigail was very clever that way. Or they might have taken her to a more secluded location—Rome is a bustling city, after all. No, the crystal itself is the key. That’s where we should maintain our focus.”
I wanted to say more, but stopped myself. Father was right. Perception was everything now, and according to the world, my mother either had the crystal or knew its location. Finding out who thought so, why, and what the crystal was for might be the very things that led us to her.
Chapter 3
We left the dead vampire in the alley and went to a more public place as quickly as possible. When you must commit crimes on a regular basis, it’s useful to get as far away from the scene as you can, and be sure people see you in less suspicious locations. And although there was little chance of anyone finding the vampire’s body until morning, it didn’t pay to take chances.
I surely must have looked a sight, walking down Seventh Avenue on the way to our hotel. Even late, the street was brightly lit and awash with people—almost as if it were day. But I hardly looked like I belonged—my hair was a mess, and parts of my clothing were shredded. I’d magically heal what I could tonight, but time would have to fix the rest. The healing powers of witches and mages are not as great as those of vampires, unless we employ additional spells. Also, the older and more powerful the magical creature, the faster the healing. So in my case, not being more than a few decades old delayed the process.
Sorry, what did you say? No, guns and knives and hangings generally won’t finish us, in case you were wondering why that vampire and I didn’t simply have a shoot-out. If you count yourself among our enemies, I’m afraid you’ll have to do a bit better than that. And even though they were ignorant and sadistic, those Salem judges got one thing right: witches can’t drown either.
What can kill or wound us? Hmmm . . . should I be worried you’re asking? If you must know, my kind can be harmed by many of the same things that harm vampires—fire, decapitation, certain kinds of spells. Other than that, witches are generally immortal, though being a mage, I have doubts about my own life span. Perhaps I’ll tell you more about that later.
After the fight, it was easy enough to believe in my mortality. I was sore and aching all over. I could almost feel the indentations of the vampire’s icy fingers on the back of my neck where he grabbed me. I could certainly feel where his sharp nails had pierced my skin; I hadn’t even realized rivulets of blood were running down my shoulder blades. And a black eye was forming, I just knew it.
I shivered, my body temperature rapidly dropping despite the fact that I was damp with sweat. The chilly night air—though seasonable for New York this time of year—wasn’t helping.
My father glanced at me. “Put on your jacket,” he said softly. I did so. This was a gesture of unexpected tenderness on his part.
“The blood on your shirt is beginning to attract attention,” he added.
Ah, that was more like it. Sure enough, even with all the strange characters one sees on city streets, people were starting to stare. How little they truly knew about the bruised and bloodied young man who passed.
“My apologies,” I said, trying to keep up with my father. Despite my injuries, he was making no attempt to slow down. “At my next death-defying encounter, I’ll wear all black so the bloodstains won’t show.”
Titus rolled his eyes. “Gods, but the gladiators never complained like this.”
“That’s because most of them ended up dead!” I snapped. Despite what one might see in films, gladiator matches rarely ended in triumph—even for the victors. “And for the record, I don’t know of any arenas where a mage ever battled a vampire.”
I shouldn’t
be surprised Titus wasn’t troubled; it wasn’t as if this was my first fight. And I’m sure my father feared any expression of concern would make me weak, or make him appear so.
By rights, Titus’s nonchalance should have been warranted; witches and mages are less sensitive to pain than mortals, though this may owe to our rapid healing abilities. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit an immortal’s pain tolerance. In fact, it seems I was unable to inherit an ordinary mortal’s pain tolerance. Pain affects me more than most people. A mere statistical anomaly; in any given population, there will be individuals who are more sensitive, and those who are less. But try explaining that to my father. The only reply you’re likely to get is one word: weakling.
And while you might think that witches and mages are godlike in their powers, the truth is, performing magic can be exhausting. Just as batteries don’t have limitless supplies of energy, we need time and rest to regain our strength. The younger and less powerful the individual, the more this is the case.
“Battling vampires,” my father mused as we walked on. “Now that would really be something.”
I raised my eyebrows. “What do you mean? Haven’t we had enough for one evening? At least I have. I was actually surprised by how well that vampire could fight, even though he was relatively young.”
Titus nodded. “Some mortals are specifically chosen to become vampires for their fighting abilities. Magnificent, wasn’t he? Can you imagine the possibilities?” He sighed. “Makes me want to get together an army again.”
“Faaa-ther,” I warned. Even worse than him praising the creature that nearly killed me was the thought of a vampire army. “Surely that could only end in an apocalypse,” I said, “after which vampires would rule the world.” Though I imagined it was temping to Titus, since it would allow for fighting and ruling similar to his glory days.
He shook his head. “You’re right. It won’t be Rome.”
I rubbed the front of my throbbing head. “Er—yes. That’s it exactly. Nothing will ever be Rome. Although it was on its way to becoming a great civilization.”
Titus stopped in his tracks, almost causing a couple with arms wrapped around each other’s waist to bump into him. “On its way?” he asked. The couple gave him dirty looks over their shoulders, then walked on.
“Well, you must admit there were a few kinks to work out,” I said. “Slavery. The subjugation of women. Brutal forms of public entertainment. Don’t get me wrong—there were good things about ancient Rome. It vastly improved infrastructure. It had aqueducts. It led the way for democracy. But I’m guessing whatever a world ruled by vampires would look like, it wouldn’t be like that.”
“Perhaps not for mortals,” Titus rebuffed, starting to walk even faster.
“Perhaps not for anyone.”
We continued on in steely silence. I wondered at my father’s desire to recreate the past, and not for the first time. Titus’s own father had been an important military leader, but could not claim Titus as his son, since he was illegitimate. His mother had been a slave from the north, which accounted for his light blond hair and blue eyes. But that same mother abandoned him at birth, and he was brought up to serve as a soldier. I imagine he would have been classed as a slave as well, but the story of how he escaped that fate and managed to become a freedman is unclear.
All I knew was that my father had to get tough fast, proving himself in sparring and on the battlefield. He didn’t like to be reminded of his humble origins, though he seemed proud that he survived by climbing the Roman army’s ranks. And so he became General Titus Aurelius. Titus . . . I always thought the name sounded liked “tight ass.” A perfect description of my father, at times.
And although he likes to think of himself as a patrician, make no mistake—he started out even lower than a plebeian. In fact, the Roman Empire had no idea it owed much of its expansion and success to this commoner’s magical workings. I imagine this is the part of the past he’d like to freeze and live in forever.
But even Titus’s magic and stratagems couldn’t keep Rome alive forever. Historians argue endlessly over what caused its fall, but eventually, a combination of political insurgence, foreign invasion, and decadent behavior likely took its toll. I’m sure you’d find it all terribly dull, so I won’t bore you with further details. Suffice it to say, it was the end of an era. With it came the end of my father’s life as purely a witch: he was turned into a vampire around the same time. Remind me to tell you more about that at a later date.
It would have been a lovely night to enjoy a stroll in New York City at any other time— perhaps when I wasn’t contemplating my mother’s kidnapping. We walked along steaming subway grates, hearing and feeling the rumbling trains underneath. We traveled under metal scaffolding and through wide crosswalks, passing people waving frantically at cabs. We slipped by panhandlers and lovers, musicians and businessmen. Finally, we came to Times Square, with its constant noise, flashing signs, and video screens.
I thought of how my mother’s ancestors arrived here—well, arrived on Ellis Island, to be precise—to escape the pogroms in Europe. Wouldn’t it be wondrous if they could see all this now? Then again, I’d settle for having my mother here to see it instead.
Abigail Silver disappeared when I was in my teens. I’m in my early thirties now, and Titus and I only recently learned she might still be alive. We assumed she’d been killed at the hands of my father’s enemies, but could never find out exactly who. My father has many enemies, as I’m sure you can imagine.
For months, threats and acted-on threats had gotten us nowhere, as every nemesis Titus ever had swore they had nothing to do with it. For the most part, we were inclined to believe them. After all, what evildoer wouldn’t jump at the chance to take credit for something so heinous? Though my father did have to pick off a few whose claims of responsibility turned out to be baseless.
But I’m getting ahead of myself—we haven’t even been introduced, at least not properly. My name is Joshua Alderman.
That’s right—it’s a different last name than either of my parents’. My mother assigned me my paternal grandmother’s surname. As I understand it, Titus wasn’t happy about this; I suppose he wanted any son of his to carry on his name. But Mom knew that both she and Titus had adversaries who wouldn’t hesitate to come after me. No need to give me a moniker that would make me easier to find. Abigail is Jewish, so she chose a first name that’s Hebrew for “he who saves.” So my father was a juggernaut general, and apparently, my mother expects me to redeem the world.
No pressure.
“Calling you ‘Joshua’ wasn’t my idea,” Titus often remarked. “If I’d been allowed to name my own son, you’d have been ‘Maximus.’ Living up to the name, well, that’s another matter.”
Maximus means “greatest,” and I’m sure I don’t come across as the greatest version of anything. I appear to be in my mid-twenties, nearly six feet tall. Titus himself is over six feet. In addition to my father’s height, I share his light eyes, except mine are green. With my eyebrows in a wide, half-moon shape, I bear a constantly worried look. Baby-fine black hair trails around my neck. “My little elfin boy, my changeling,” my mother crooned to me when I was little. I wasn’t really any type of fairy, but when I was small, I was enamored of my mother’s brand of magic. It was the kind that made anything seem possible.
Tonight, I wore my typical black suit, white button-down shirt, and loafers. Well, what was left of the outfit, at least; many parts were destroyed in the fight. Titus always said it made me look like a rumpled undertaker. I liked my attire—it was safe, no matter the occasion. Besides, my father’s uniform of black button-down shirt, black trousers, and black dress shoes (Italian, of course) wasn’t all that different.
But that doesn’t stop him from being the occasional object of interest. Tonight, for instance, as we waited in a small mob of people for a stoplight, a homeless man stared up at my father. The jaw sporting his dirty beard grew slack, and he put
a fingerless glove to his chapped lips. It was almost as if he recognized Titus, then suddenly wished he hadn’t.
This happened every so often with my father. The pale skin, the shining eyes, the slightly marbled look of his veins. Vampires aren’t like you see in the movies, or even in most novels—nothing as gauche as that. There is no chalk-white color, no bloodred lips. They certainly don’t have fangs that protrude out of their mouths. My father’s canines are only slightly elongated, but no more than you might see on certain humans. By the time you realize something is wrong, it’s too late. That’s the rather terrifying thing about real vampires. Nothing about them overtly points to danger. Their only differences are those that call for the occasional double take.
I fished around in my pocket and finally found what I was looking for. I quickly shoved a few crumpled bills into the homeless man’s hand before he could close his jaw. The light changed, and Titus and I walked on.
“So what’s our next move?” I asked.
My father sniffed. “We’ll head back to the Roman to regroup and decide on our strategy.”
The Roman was Titus’s casino and hotel in Las Vegas, where he spent the majority of his time. Still, his answer had completely taken me aback.
“What? But that will take too long,” I protested. “When you said we’d get to work learning about the crystal, I assumed you meant immediately.”
“It will only take a day or two at most,” Titus assured me. “You’re injured and need to recover. And I need to check on my casino. You wouldn’t believe the things that can go wrong when one isn’t there to supervise.”
I threw my arms up. “We don’t have time for this! Forget my injuries—they could be torturing Abigail as we speak, if she’s alive. And you choose this moment to make sure your business is running smoothly?”
My father pursed his lips and shouldered his way through the crushing swarm of people. “As I said, we need to strategize. A good general does not go charging into battle without a plan.”
