Tainted Blood: A Generation V Novel

by M. L. Brennan

  Apparently that had been some kind of signal, because Prudence slid the BlackBerry smoothly back into her coat pocket and said, almost concealing her boredom, “The mason did a lovely job, brother.”

  Chivalry nodded, an almost spastic jerk of agreement.

  My sister’s elbow dug hard into my side, and I jumped slightly. This was my cue. “Everything looks so clean,” I noted.

  Again, Chivalry nodded, but just slightly more smoothly. Prudence and I took our places bracketing Chivalry, and we began the slow walk back to the car, the two of us filling the air with banal comments. The sun had completely set, and any starlight was hidden behind the cloud cover. Before my transition began, just a half year ago, I would’ve been unable to navigate my way through the cemetery without tripping over at least one of the smaller headstones that sometimes hid under patches of longer grass, but my eyesight was much sharper now, and we all made our way smoothly back to the car. Had it not been for Prudence’s crutches, we might even have been described as stately—since I was usually the one who spoiled the family’s more photogenic moments, I couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of vindictive satisfaction in Prudence’s temporary lack of grace.

  Halfway to the car, Chivalry began responding to our comments, his voice hoarse and raspy. He and Prudence struck up a conversation about a headstone that we passed—apparently its owner had been known for particularly wild parties back during the Gilded Age, and I knew that Chivalry’s time mourning Bhumika had come to an end. From this point on, he would be searching for a new wife, and before a month was over, we’d be celebrating a wedding.

  In all prior instances, I’d had the luxury of distancing myself from the process, physically and emotionally, and in feeling appalled at Chivalry’s callousness. But I’d taken on my brother’s job of policing my mother’s territory during the last month, when everyone knew that Bhumika wouldn’t last much longer, and I’d agreed to continue with those duties for another few months while Chivalry was (to use my mother’s term) “occupied.” There was no way to separate myself from what was happening in my brother’s life, or for me to assure myself that I had no part in his selection of a new bridal victim.

  But as we walked (and Prudence hopped), I also noticed something different about Chivalry that had been concealed by his overt grief. Even as he sounded more and more like his old self, there was something about him that was making me edgy. His movements were too quick, his eyes in the darkness too bright, and something in his voice was making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I’d never forgotten what my brother was, but he’d always been the most gentle and approachable one in the family, and this was disturbing on a very deep level.

  As we neared the car, Chivalry stepped forward to take charge, and I caught Prudence’s sleeve under the pretext of helping her with her crutches. My brother was so thoroughly creeping me out that I was willing to talk to Prudence. It was one of those moments that left me alert for unidentified aerial porcine objects.

  “Something’s wrong with Chivalry,” I whispered to her.

  She made a low, interested noise in her throat, and suddenly my chin was snagged in her gloved fingers and wrenched low enough that the two of us were eye to eye. “Ah, the wonders of transition,” she murmured, her face filled with an avaricious excitement that made me regret my newly sharpened vision. Her voice dropped further, becoming more intense. “You are seeing more, Fortitude, sensing more.” Her fingers dug in tighter, her nails pricking me through the silk of her gloves. I was starting to regret my question. “Chivalry has not fed since Bhumika’s death, and will not feed until he selects his new bride.” She pulled us even closer, until her wide, disturbing eyes were all I saw, and I felt the heat of her breath on my face. “Watch his actions closely, little brother. Perhaps you will learn to avoid his foolish and sentimental example.” Then her eyes narrowed, and I found myself released so abruptly that I almost staggered. My hand shot up to touch my chin, and I was surprised not to find blood. My sister never broke our eye contact, and gave a low snort. “Or not. Knowing you, you will simply find a way to expand upon our brother’s ridiculousness.”

  Chivalry saved me from the awkwardness of lacking a sufficiently withering response by rolling down the window of the car and asking in annoyance why we were still standing out in the cold. The moment was broken, and Prudence returned to her usual state of grumpiness as I helped her maneuver her immobilized leg and crutches into the backseat.

  We were loaded into my mother’s Rolls-Royce, along with her driver, and there was no conversation as the car backed cautiously out of the Common Burying Ground, onto the aptly named Farewell Street, and turned toward my mother’s mansion on Ocean Drive. In my lifetime, she’d never come to any of these visits to Chivalry’s mausoleum. It wasn’t from (or, rather, not entirely from) lack of interest—while I walked under the sun at any time of day, Chivalry required a Panama hat, dark glasses, and preferably some kind of awning during the hours around high noon. Prudence was finding sunlight steadily more problematic, coming outside only when the sun was at its weakest or on cloudy days. But our mother dated back to medieval times, and she lived her days in a suite of rooms that had been built without windows. It had probably been a century or more since she had been capable of even a short stroll on an overcast winter day.

  In the summer, downtown Newport is stuffed with cars and meandering tourists. Just getting from the Claiborne Pell Bridge to my mother’s doorstep can take thirty minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic. But as the daylight shortens, the temperatures drop, and the winter storms that roll through the Atlantic brush up against Newport and allow its inhabitants to experience the delight of near-sideways rainstorms, the summer visitors flee and the population plummets. The boutiques either switch to their winter hours or close their doors completely until May, the parking meters are covered over, lines shorten, and service gets better. Best of all, the drive to my mother’s mansion becomes less than ten minutes.

  After shedding our coats in the main foyer, we filed into the dining room, where my mother was already seated, dressed in a neat black pants suit, its inherent frumpiness adding to her little-old-lady veneer—an illusion usually only broken when my mother smiled and revealed a pair of gleaming incisors that would not look out of place on a tiger. As we each took our seats, my mother extended one thin, deceptively fragile hand to Chivalry.

  “My poor boy,” she said. “I know how very fond you were of Bhumika.”

  Madeline’s tone would’ve been perfectly appropriate—if Bhumika had been a hamster.

  Chivalry thanked Madeline in a low voice, and with a satisfied nod, she reached down and rang the small silver bell that sat next to her wineglass. A moment later the room was filled with people as Madeline’s scrupulously trained staff descended on us with dinner. I glanced down at my plate and stifled a sigh. Maple-glazed ham, smelling delicious. I aimed my fork toward the potatoes and hoped that between that and my side of asparagus I would be able to fill up. My family’s approach to my vegetarianism had been to assume that if offered enough succulent temptations, I would eventually buckle under.

  Across from me, Prudence ate one careful spoonful of the delicate soup in front of her, then put her cutlery down decisively.

  “Mother,” she started, but her eyes were fixed on Chivalry, who was stirring his spoon through his own bowl of stew and eyeing my portion of gleaming ham steak with a very uncharacteristic interest that was making me feel uncomfortable. “I was thinking it might cheer us all up if I invited a few people from work down for dinner tomorrow.”

  I managed to tear my eyes away from my brother long enough to look over at Madeline, but she was also watching Chivalry closely, even as she answered Prudence. “Oh, what a lovely idea, darling. I do so enjoy meeting bright young things.”

  I choked on a sip of water, but not from my mother’s comment, though that was weird enough. My mother had very regular visitors and dinner parties, but her interests were entirely political
, while my sister’s guests, if they were indeed only her coworkers, would just be a group of stockbrokers and money managers. What shocked me was the sight of my brother’s fork snaking toward the ham on my plate. I glanced over—Chivalry’s eyes were fixed and gleaming. Awkwardly, I nudged my plate closer to him, but my movement seemed to bring him out of his reverie with a jolt. He cleared his throat loudly, took a large spoonful of his stew, and then said with complete aplomb, “If you want to, Prudence, go right ahead. Though I’m not sure how fifteen conversations about how the Brazilian real is stacking up against the dollar will particularly perk things up.”

  That at least sounded like my brother, and though I watched him closely, his behavior remained normal for the rest of the meal. I wondered if ham steak–coveting was a normal stage of his grieving process—when Linda, his spouse before Bhumika, had died, I was in college and had left immediately after the memorial service.

  Chivalry excused himself immediately after dinner, but he leaned down and gave my shoulder a fraternal squeeze on his way out—his way, I knew, of apologizing for whatever the attempted ham snatching had been about. When he left the room, I looked across the table at Madeline, hoping for an explanation, but she simply fussed with her wineglass. I slanted an inquiring look at Prudence, who was patting her mouth with a napkin.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  Prudence arched her eyebrows. “I can’t have people over?”

  “You know what I mean,” I said, irritated. “The ham.”

  She sniffed, radiating disapproval. “Yes, irritating, isn’t it? I told you that Chivalry won’t feed until he finds a new wife.” She waved her napkin at me, a weird white counterpoint to her black ensemble. “Now you’re starting to see why that behavior is so utterly ridiculous.”

  “Not feeding makes you want ham?”

  I was treated to a very evocative eye roll. “Sometimes there’s just no talking with you, Fort. But on that note, when was the last time you fed?”

  I glanced over at my mother, still swirling the last of her wine in its glass. Until my transition was completed, my blood needs were met by my mother. For years I’d fed every few months, as far apart as I could push it, but I’d given in to the requirements of my changing physiology, and now I usually fed every other week. And while I wasn’t a big fan of taking my sister’s advice, Chivalry’s weird dinner behavior had unsettled me. “Mother?” I asked. “I actually am a bit, you know . . . due.”

  Madeline looked up from her glass, and I was struck by how very tired she looked. She’d always looked ancient (even for a vampire, six hundred plus years don’t rest lightly), but tonight the skin of her face seemed to hang from her bones. The blue eyes that were the model for Prudence’s were bloodshot. For a moment she looked confused, and I could see her eyes narrow as she mentally counted back the days to when she had last fed me. The answer she found clearly surprised her, and her feathery white eyebrows shot up. “Oh, my darling, how careless of me,” she said. Then she paused, and asked, almost tentatively, “I’m a bit under the weather tonight, precious. Would it be very difficult for you to wait a day or two?”

  My jaw didn’t quite drop, but it definitely wanted to. In my life, my mother had nagged and enticed me to feed, and often despaired over my avoidance of it, but she had never once asked me to wait. “Uh, sure. Sure, it’s no problem.” My mouth moved through the social protocol, but I couldn’t help darting a look toward my sister, but Prudence wouldn’t look at me. She was staring at our mother, and despite the studied blankness of her expression, there was a look in her eyes that on anyone less sociopathic I would’ve called . . . worried.

  My mother blinked owlishly behind the oversize glasses that she didn’t need for her eyesight but liked to wear for effect. “Unless you’re very hungry, darling?”

  “No, no I’m fine,” I assured her, feeling slightly better. “I’m not even noticing it.” Which was the truth—I’d gotten into the habit of feeding every second week, but I didn’t feel that uncomfortable sense of hunger that I remembered from the times when I’d avoided feeding for months longer than I should’ve. Madeline looked relieved, but when I glanced back to Prudence, she was now fiddling with her bracelet and maintaining a look of polite social boredom.

  “I was just going to check in with the secretary and then head out,” I told my mother, pushing my chair back.

  Madeline smiled then, widely enough to display her long fangs, and her eyes brightened. “Ah, what a good little worker. Your brother is lucky indeed that he has you to carry the dull minutiae of business while he is indisposed.” She eyed my sister and added pointedly, “Someone who can be trusted to follow directions.”

  Ah, doublespeak, hidden messages, and awkward- ness—Mother was clearly a little tired, but otherwise in fine form. Before Prudence could respond, I babbled my good-byes and fled the dining room.

  Chapter 2

  Vampires were an Old World import to the Americas. My mother was the first to make the trip, crossing from England in 1662 and establishing a wide territory that included all of New England, most of New York state, a slice of New Jersey, and a healthy helping of eastern Canada. She’d been a vampire in her prime back then and had carved out her lands with almost traditional colonial zeal—anyone or anything that objected to her preeminent status had been very messily slaughtered. After almost a century of these activities, she had exterminated, driven out, or made treaties with all the occupants, and settled down to start a family.

  The supernatural species hid among the human populations—humans outnumbered us by a thousand to one, and technology plus an unbeatable superiority of numbers was not a fight that any sane individual wanted to get into. There were plenty of the less sane among us, but even they were strong-armed to toe the party line on this one. There were species that had tried to withdraw completely beyond human communities; that was not only difficult, but it also meant withdrawing from some of the basic necessities of life—like high-speed Internet access. Most of us could pass for human, and plenty of species had developed symbiotic or outright parasitic relationships with humans.

  Despite the passage of centuries and the establishment of an American constitution, my mother’s method of rule remained entirely feudal. Nonhumans who wanted to either visit or live in my mother’s territory had to petition for entry and then negotiate the terms that they would live by. Madeline was a very big fan of tithing—almost all of the groups in our territory paid a percentage of their earnings to my mother. They also had to avoid conflicts with other nonhuman species in the area and cover any of their supernatural tracks that might otherwise bring unwelcome attention.

  As she’d gotten older, Madeline had passed the business of keeping her territory running smoothly to her children. My sister was a natural-born enforcer, striking terror into the hearts of generations of my mother’s subjects, but the tasks that involved more subtlety than “kill and terrorize” fell to Chivalry. And as with all thoughtful men of business, that meant that he delegated as much of the mountain of paperwork as possible to his staff.

  My brother’s office was on the first floor, but tucked toward the back of the house, far away from the glamorous public areas. It was large, and decorated in an almost stereotypically turn-of-the-century gentleman’s style. Cluttered bookshelves marched to the ceiling, paintings of yachts, dogs, and horses decorated all available open space on the wood-paneled walls, massive brocade curtains festooned the windows, and a massive oiled mahogany desk dominated the room. But for all the show, it was a functional office—those books were the old bound tithing records. The filing cabinets might have been wood-veneered, but any accounting actuary opening the drawer would see the rows of regimented files and feel right at home. My brother’s desk was old and big enough to merit its own zip code, but the computer on it was upgraded every other year. The next room (apparently the old music room) had been carved up several years ago to make a support office that had the desks, phones, and equipment for his se
cretary and two accountants—all human. The accountants spent their days balancing the books, sending the tithing bills, and making sure that not a single penny that the Scotts could claim slid through the cracks. It was slightly shady work, but nothing that any good mobster accountant wouldn’t be used to. The secretary, on the other hand, had a very different job.

  Loren Noka was working at my brother’s desk when I walked into the room. A statuesque woman in her late forties whose Native American heritage was clearly advertised in her high cheekbones and dark hair, she greeted me with a sober nod. Loren had taken the job of Chivalry’s secretary when her father, Irving, retired after almost fifty years of service. Now she spent her day answering calls and organizing e-mails that came in from the inhabitants of my mother’s territory, as well as scanning newspapers and local blogs for any hints of misbehavior or possible supernatural exposure.

  “Hello, Ms. Noka. You’re working very late tonight.” Chivalry referred to her as “Loren,” but since he’d known her since she was in diapers, I suppose he had the right. To me, Ms. Noka had always had a very kind of Alfred from Batman demeanor. She knew a lot of secrets, would never tell a single one, was capable of a look of single icy superiority that would make a transgressor feel like an ant, and I was fairly certain that if I asked her, she would be able to construct a fully functional Batmobile.

  “Just making one last check of the news sites before I call it an evening,” she said with a polite smile. With Chivalry in mourning, her workload had doubled overnight, but she somehow never indicated that she was stressed. The only thing about her that looked even slightly stressed was her royal purple pants suit as she stood up, but the fabric that was fighting to contain her curved and zaftig figure was probably held together by Loren Noka’s sheer strength of will—or she’d found some sort of experimental military superfabric with enhanced tensile strength.