“Don’t you know me?” it asked, and each word seemed scraped raw from its throat.
Hannibal blinked. Stepped back, completely off guard. For there was something all too familiar about the thing’s face. Its features were flat, more angular, and its mouth distended with ebony needle-fangs. But it resembled his greatest enemy. The thing looked like Octavian!
“What are you?” he asked, astounded.
“I am he whom you see in me,” the vampire-wraith replied. “That is, once upon a time I was. Now I am free of him. As to how I found you . . . ”
Hannibal could not tell if what he saw on the shadow-beast’s face was a smile and yet—though he feared nothing on this Earth—he knew he did not want to see it again.
“I called to you, brother to brother,” the thing whispered, its words like shattering glass. “Just as I was one with Octavian, so each of your kind is kindred to my race. Only the Spirit itself keeps you from becoming one of us completely.”
“But how did you come to leave Octavian?” Hannibal asked, fascinated. “Is the darkness in me capable of doing the same?”
Its laugh was the snapping of bones and the tearing of flesh.
“Not at all,” it said. “Don’t be foolish. You are not three beings, but one. Octavian has magick in him. Sorcerors are a different breed. The magick didn’t want me there. I was forced to leave, as was the Spirit. It wanted me . . . him, all to itself.
“Do not misunderstand,” the creature hissed. “I am Octavian, just as the fleshling himself is still himself. But we are no longer one.”
Hannibal struggled to understand how such a thing could be. Magick had always confused him. But an even greater question loomed in his mind.
“So you are Peter Octavian?” Hannibal asked, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You are my greatest enemy, then, and yet you’ve come here, to my home. Did you think to kill me, then?”
“Not at all,” the thing answered. “I’ve come to help you. For I won’t really be Octavian until the fleshling is dead. And he is flesh now, Hannibal. Human, but for his magick.”
A smile teased the corners of Hannibal’s mouth. He liked that idea. Octavian human. A ripe, bloody target.
“How can you help me?” Hannibal asked. “Your kind can withstand the sunlight, true. But I’ve seen what silver does to you. And you don’t heal the way we do. Any novice vampire could kill you, given half a chance.”
The ebony eyes narrowed, the dark face split into a sneer.
“You underestimate me,” the thing croaked. “But I don’t need to offer myself as a warrior. I came to aid you with knowledge. You see, I know everything that Octavian knows. I am him, after all.”
Hannibal raised his right eyebrow, and the smile threatening his lips opened into a wide, fang-bearing grin.
Then Hannibal, the lord of vampires, began to laugh.
“So . . . are you going to stay like this?” Nikki asked, her hair across her face so that Peter would not see the hope in her eyes.
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “I don’t know what to think. Obviously this happened for some reason. And it isn’t as if I can’t protect myself.”
Nikki nodded silently, watching green energy spring up from Peter’s right hand, light dancing on his palm. He was right. In fact, his command of magick had grown immeasurably, even by his own admission. It was as though he barely had to think about it now. The magick was more a part of him than it ever had been.
“It isn’t that I didn’t like you the way you were,” she began, then offered a self-deprecating chuckle.
“Listen to me,” she said. “I’m trying to influence a decision that may be the same as life or death to you, and we’ve known one another only days. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even have brought it up.”
Peter looked at her, trying to peer past the curtain of her hair. He reached out and gingerly brushed it aside, traced her face with his fingers.
“It’s okay,” he said, and she knew he meant it.
“I’m not so sure,” she replied. “Hell, you might be a total asshole once I really get to know you. In a week, you might think I’m the biggest bitch you’ve ever met. In a sane world, we’d put all this on hold until this . . . this war was over.”
Peter laughed, but his gaze never left her eyes.
“This isn’t a sane world, Nicole,” he said, and she didn’t even mind him using her birth name. “And you do know me. And I know you. There’s a lot more to learn, I’m sure, and I look forward to the pleasure, but we already know each other. Don’t we?”
She nodded, looked away, somewhat embarrassed by the strength of her feelings for him, after such a short time, and after the intense weirdness of their brief courtship. But then again, he wasn’t a monster anymore, was he?
“On top of that, if we put off talking about this—” he began.
She held up a hand. “Don’t,” she said, and he stopped. Nikki didn’t want to think about the night to come, and she knew that Peter had been about to speak of it. To warn her that one, or both, of them might not live until morning.
“Just don’t,” she repeated.
“All right,” he replied.
Then he leaned forward and kissed her, beard stubble rough on her chin. She returned his kiss, her heart racing. Nikki had secretly wished that Peter were not a shadow, a vampire, whatever they wanted to call themselves. Now she prayed fervently that he chose to stay human.
It was Peter who broke off the kiss.
“I should get cleaned up,” he said, and then laughed at his own words. “That’s odd. I’ve always showered because I enjoyed it. And when my hair was longer, because I could never get it to look quite the way I wanted it. Vain, aren’t I?”
She grinned, nodding in agreement.
“But now I actually need to take a shower,” he said and seemed absurdly pleased with the idea.
“And shave,” she added.
Peter rubbed a hand across his face. Nikki liked the goatee, that wasn’t her point. When Peter’s eyes widened, she knew he’d found the stubble on his cheeks.
“And shave,” he agreed, slightly astonished.
Then his face changed, the smile disappearing, and his hand went from his face to rasp across his close-cropped hair. His eyes searched in vain for some distraction.
“Peter?”
He sighed, and she knew what he was thinking about. Or, rather, who. It occupied his mind far more than even Hannibal’s presence in New Orleans.
“How is George?” she asked.
“Not well,” he replied. “Not well.”
Peter walked down the corridor toward George’s room, still cognizant of the different sensations in his body now that he was a man again. He’d showered and shaved, and it felt good. Even got rid of the goatee. His skin tingled all over. There was a new, overall weakness that would take some getting used to. But he had time.
Time. It meant more now. Where once it had seemed almost an abstract concept, it meant more than ever.
The idea that time could run out in any natural way, instead of violently, had always seemed so distant. But ironically, now that it mattered to him personally, he was seeing its effects horribly illustrated. Time was running out, indeed, for George Marcopoulos. The most steadfastly loyal friend Peter had ever had.
After Peter had emerged from his cocoon, after he’d . . . split, George had been found in the chapel. Apparently he’d had some pain in his chest and, rather than sound any kind of alarm, he’d gone to the chapel to pray. Peter wasn’t surprised. Nothing had been the same for George since his Valerie had passed away.
Down the hall, the door to George’s bedroom swung in, and Kevin came out. His face looked drawn, saddened, and heavy with responsibility.
“How is he, Kevin?” Peter asked, always hopeful.
Kevin looked up at him, and a mix of emotions played on the shadow’s face. Peter understood them all. For, despite his magick, and although Peter would orchestrate the strategy for that night’s conflict, it appe
ared that Kevin would have to lead the charge. There was that.
And then there was all the death. All the loss, in general. Cody had called from Atlanta, and it was clear that he and Allison would be coming home. But the unspoken message was that Rolf and Erika were dead. Joe, of course, had been dead only a couple of days, and his loss was an open wound on Kevin’s soul.
Peter was just a man now, but he could see the agony in Kevin’s eyes as well as an immortal might have.
“Kev?” he asked, because the other man was taking too long to respond. “Has something happened?”
Kevin blinked. “He’s asking for you,” the shadow said.
Then he was gone, down the hallway, and Peter was left to stand with his hand on the doorknob, dreading what he would find inside. He turned the knob, pushed the door in. Bethany sat on the edge of the bed, wearing a smile and holding a nearly whispered conversation with George. Peter felt indebted to her then, for her kindness to his old friend.
George looked up to see who had entered, and he offered a weak grin. He looked horrible. His face was gaunt and pale, his eyes sunken into black circles. His thinning white hair jutted in odd patterns around his head. In that moment, Peter recalled all the times they had spent together, the first time he had saved George’s life, and how the old doctor had offered to repay him with blood stolen from Boston City Hospital.
Late-night conversations. George’s fascination with the mysteries Peter became involved in when he fancied playing at detective for a while. His love for his wife, Valerie. His courage in the face of horrible adversity, when even the president of the United States wanted him dead.
He heard a dry chuckle from across the room.
“Well, what are you staring at?” the dying old man said cantankerously. “I’m old, Peter. You’d better get used to it.”
Peter offered what smile he could muster.
“Hello, George,” he said and entered the room.
Bethany passed him on her way out and, when he glanced at her, her eyes told him a story he did not want to hear. In his mind, he thanked her for watching over George.
“Do you want to know the worst kind of heart attack?” George asked. “It’s the one that doesn’t kill you.”
“I wish I knew some kind of spell that would heal your heart,” Peter said.
“I’m happy that you don’t,” George replied simply. “I’d be tempted to let you use it.”
Peter blinked. “I’m glad you waited for me to wake up,” he said.
They stared at one another for several seconds then. Peter could hear the clock ticking on George’s bedside table. Finally, the old man reached out and rested his hand over Peter’s on the bedspread.
“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” he said. “We have a lot to talk about. Particularly some things I said to the coven the other day.”
Peter nodded. “I heard about that. It isn’t important. You said what you felt. What is important is my question for you. Have you thought about it?”
“You know the answer,” George replied impatiently. “It’s always the same. I miss her, Peter. I miss Valerie.”
“I understand,” Peter said, though he wanted to scream that he didn’t.
“There’s more, though, and that’s what we need to talk about. I don’t want the ‘Gift’ that the shadows offer. Because it isn’t a gift.”
Peter stared at him.
“I’m sorry if these things hurt you, but they must be said,” George continued. “What I said in front of the others was the truth. Perhaps shadows are no more prone to evil or malice than humans. But I think they are. You are an exception. And by setting an example, you have created a lot of exceptions. But even some of your closest friends were bloodthirsty killers before you gave them an alternative.
“Power corrupts, it has always been said. Immortality, shapeshifting—combine these things with the need for blood to survive, and you are predisposing an entire race to violent and predatory behavior.”
There was a silence between them. And, Peter thought, a new distance. He hated it.
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Peter said.
“I’ve had nothing else to think about,” George replied. “And now that you are, for all intents and purposes, human again, I wonder where that example will come from. Not from Kevin, I assure you. He hates too much.
“You face a great dilemma, Peter. First you have to defeat Hannibal. I have faith that somehow you will manage to do just that. But then, you have to look hard at your own coven—and wonder how long it will be before another Hannibal arises.
“I say all of this because I’ve had more time to dwell, and you may not have come to really consider these things yet. Now that you have, I know what you’re thinking,” George said.
His voice had become a raspy whisper, the muscles in his face slackening even further. But the passion in his eyes never diminished. The love never faded.
“I don’t have a choice,” Peter said. “I’ve got to . . . to die again.”
“No!” George snapped, and then winced, as if raising his voice had hurt him very badly.
“No,” he repeated in a harsh whisper. “That’s just what I expected of you, and I understand why you would think that, but no. You can continue to be an example without becoming one of them again. And you must. But further, you’ve got to stay human so that you can remain objective. If they get out of control, it will be up to you to stop them.”
A small smile played weakly at George’s lips.
“And, of course, there’s Nikki,” he whispered. “Nice girl, that. If you can hold on to her.”
Peter thought about all George had said. Finally, he nodded.
“You’re right, my friend,” he admitted. “But I truly don’t think I need to be concerned about any of these things. Hannibal has us outnumbered so badly that even the most cunning plan will only delay the inevitable.”
George smiled thinly, eyes drooping drowsily.
“You’ll find a way,” the old man said. “I have faith.”
Then, holding Peter’s hand in his, George fell asleep. Peter smiled and held the old man’s hand tightly, whispering his love for his friend. He pulled a chair up next to George’s bed so that he might be more comfortable, and took up his hand once again. After a while, he found it hard to stay awake himself. The human body had its limits, and he’d forgotten them.
A while later, George began to snore loudly, raggedly. Peter let his eyes close, to rest them for just a moment. When he opened them just shy of an hour later, he found that George Marcopoulos had died in his sleep.
For the first time in a great many centuries, clear, salty tears rolled down the face of the man named Peter Octavian.
14
You’re taking the light. Letting the
shadows inside.
—MARIAH CAREY, “Vanishing”
THE AFTERNOON WORE ON. A FEW MORE hours, and it would be dark. Peter stood at the window and stared out at the courtyard, wondering what might be left of the garden after tonight. He gave a snort of morbid laughter, as he considered what might be left of his coven, his family, after the battle to come.
“Mr. Octavian? You all right?”
The speaker was a detective, Michaud, he thought the man’s name was. He and his partner, LeeAnne something, had shown up not long after the coroner had left with George’s body.
George’s body.
“No,” he replied without turning. “No, I’m not. Does that surprise you, detective? My best friend just died. I would think it pretty fucking monstrous if I were all right.”
“We’re not here to upset you, sir,” LeeAnne-something said. “We just have a few questions we have to ask, and then we’ll be on our way.”
“Fine,” Peter replied.
They waited a moment, maybe expecting him to face them, but he did not.
“Y’all are the new owner of the convent, then?” Michaud drawled.
“I own this place, yes,
but it isn’t a convent anymore. I would have thought that pretty clear,” Peter said.
“It’s a landmark, Mr. Octavian,” LeeAnne said. “It will always be the convent to the New Orleans tourism board. I’m sure that was part of your agreement when you bought it.”
“You’re right, Detective,” Peter replied. “But, then, I’m not even sure the place will be standing come morning.”
“Now what the hell do you mean by sayin’ somethin’ like that?” Michaud said angrily.
“Ease up, Jack,” LeeAnne said.
Peter realized that he couldn’t even really remember what the detectives looked like, beyond basic body shapes and hair shades. In a perverse way, he was glad. He wanted to erase them. Maybe if they’d go away, if he could just make them invisible, George wouldn’t be gone after all.
“Did you know I was a detective once?” he asked. “Private detective, of course, not a cop. Octavian Investigations, out of Boston. Had some pretty extraordinary cases, I’ll tell you.”
The cops whispered nastily to one another. Peter strained to hear their words, but couldn’t get more than every third one. It reminded him of his newfound humanity, the very thing George had so cherished, and he wrapped that memory, of their final conversation, around him as if it were a maternal embrace.
Not paternal, of course. He’d been born a bastard, his father an emperor who knew he existed, but who had never set eyes upon him. Oddly, though he was born nearly five hundred years later than Peter, George had become a kind of father figure for him. The closest to a father he’d ever had.
“Mr. Octavian?” Detective Michaud said, his tone more respectful than before. “I asked what y’all meant by that comment, and I’d like to hear your answer.”
“No, I really doubt that you would. But I promise you, I’m not going to do anything to my own property. That would be foolish,” Peter replied. He saw Kuromaku walking through the garden below, explaining something to Kevin.
“Are you trying to say—” LeeAnne began to ask.
But Peter was out of patience.
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