by Anne Malcom
Rick’s eyes flickered again as he spat the bitterness of the sentence onto the floor.
“It is lore of our kind accepted, the reason behind it known only to the royal family. But this law exists so that the queen cannot birth another which the gods designed. Another, stronger Praseates than the world has seen, with the strength of the two vampires but the humanity of the two mortals they used to be.”
Another melancholy-filled pause, and I struggled to digest what Rick was saying while at the same time not being bowled over by Thorne’s unrestrained emotions.
Rick carried on.
“But my mother was loved by my father. And he was a man who took little stock in legends, or maybe it was his love that told him that. So he sent her away, without the heart to kill her, yet with the heart of a king who knew he needed to obey some of the most sacred laws that included killing the queen after an heir was born.
“So my mother was kept in hiding. And she hid the fact that she was growing my brother in her belly from my father. Who may have not had the heart to kill her but would not have lacked the heart to kill the baby that would grow to be one of the strongest slayers to live on this earth.” His eyes flickered to Thorne. Or in Thorne’s general direction. I didn’t follow them. I couldn’t.
They came back to me.
“So my mother birthed Thorne and then in secret sent him away to a family where he would grow up and be forgotten about.” He paused. “And he was. Until two hundred years ago, when my father found out and tortured and killed my mother when she didn’t give up Thorne’s location. The torture of her housemaid should have been his first decision, considering he didn’t have to kill her in order to get the information. He did anyway. Then he ordered the assassination of Thorne’s family. And Thorne himself, but he escaped unscathed. The first time, and the second, and the time after that. It has been an ongoing game for centuries, killing the line of those who gave Thorne shelter.”
Rick paused, giving Thorne a sideways look that wasn’t completely filled with hatred.
“I am of the knowledge that that’s how he has come to acquire the small human in his care. Her parents were descendants of Thorne’s adopted family.”
My mind worked over that statement, remembering the night Thorne told me about his ‘parents’’ assassination when his sister was three years old. I had believed him without question because of the sheer amount of pain in his eyes as he’d recounted it.
You couldn’t fake that.
Apparently you could fake the details.
It pissed me off that my sheer rage at this was somewhat undercut by the thought of Thorne having to reexperience the murder of his parents through the centuries as their ancestors continued to die.
There was a long silence.
“And how did you find out that you had a brother?” I asked, my voice more than a whisper.
Rick gave me an even look. “My father presented me with the corpses of Thorne’s parents as explanation. Along with my mother’s, of course.”
I restrained a flinch at the emptiness to his tone, knowing that one could only have that little feeling if their sorrow was too deep to show.
“And you don’t have the heart, like your father, to kill the one who has the power to kill you?” I asked.
He gave me an even look. “No, I also lack what my father did,” he answered. “But I also have love for the memory of my mother. And every time I get the chance to finish what my father started, I remember what my mother died for.”
The sheer magnitude of Thorne’s emotions rolled through me with enough force to take me off my feet.
If it weren’t for my sheer stubborn need to not let either of these men see the weight of all of this on me.
No way would I show these two men how hard the betrayal of the truth was hitting me.
To the core.
I kept my eyes carefully on Rick. Because that was safe. Safer for whom, I didn’t know.
Maybe Thorne so I didn’t do anything I might regret, like kill him for betraying me.
Most likely me, as looking in the face of the man I didn’t have the heart to kill, even in the face of the betrayal, might actually kill me.
And survival instinct, especially in the face of heartbreak, was pivotal.
So I kept myself together, on the outside at least, even gaze on Rick.
“Right,” I murmured. I was going for pensive. Maybe flippant. Or uncaring. My voice shook only a little, but a little was too much so I steeled myself to make it stronger. To make me stronger. I wouldn’t let a man, or a vampire, or a fucking age-old story that shook every known belief of our race weaken me. I wasn’t just that kind of vampire. Or kind of woman. “See, I didn’t know your mother. Or your father. But I’m thinking if I don’t leave this very moment, I’ll most likely piss off your mother’s spirit and please your father’s greatly by killing the both of you.”
Then I turned on my heel and sped from the room as fast as my feet could take me.
Because even though I didn’t run, it was against my nature as a vampire and a woman. I had to.
There were always two choices in situations like that—well three, if you counted killing them all as an option. Which I should have but couldn’t because of that limp and broken organ in my chest. In situations of heartbreak, there was either run or fall apart.
And no fucking way was I going to fall apart.
I was going to run.
Regroup.
And then I was going to attack.
But for now, I had to run because of survival.
And then I had to run because I was a fucking vampire.
Because I was fucking me.
Chapter 14
He found me.
He always did.
But then again, I wasn’t exactly hiding. I was drinking.
A lot.
And I was drunk.
Because Dante was making the drinks. He made good drinks. And because Dante must have seen the murder in my eyes, he didn’t ask, only poured.
Then he left me to my silence. Which was what a bar in the middle of the day offered.
Thankfully.
Or maybe not so thankfully. I itched for something, anything to hurt.
“Have you got any friends to… you know?” I slurred, getting an idea on making something hurt. Or making someone hurt. Because wasn’t that what sociopaths did? They hurt people because the face of pain in someone else was at least something besides the emptiness of not feeling anything inside?
It was that kind of hollow feeling that drove people insane.
Dante gave me a look. “To fuck?”
I snorted, having a little trouble staying upright on my stool, but I managed. I was impressed with myself, and Dante. Increased metabolism meant only a determined immortal and a talented bartender could get them this side of fucked-up.
Too bad I was already that side of fucked-up. But that’s why humans drank, wasn’t it? To cure part of their fucked-up selves by distracting it with fucking up another?
If it was, they had the right fucking idea. Drinking for fun was one thing. For survival was another, and I hadn’t gotten it. Until now.
“To kill,” I corrected. “I’m thinking I need to kill something. And you’re the only being within a five-mile radius with enough evil to make it justifiable, but you’re making the drinks and if I killed you, then I’d have no one to make the drinks and I need the drinks. See my dilemma?” I asked the demon.
I could’ve killed the many humans scattering about the place, going about their day. I yearned to, in fact, to kill the innocent and get the rush that came with doing so. It was another form of alcoholism, my old crutch from another life, another version of heartbreak. It tempted me, that switch I knew I could turn to distance myself from whatever humanity and hurt I was fostering, but something stopped me enough to keep my seat and continue to stare at the demon.
“So, I repeat my question. You got any friends?”
The demon in ques
tion grinned. “I’ve got friends,” he said.
I perked up.
“But none I want you to kill,” he continued. “On account of them being friends.”
I pouted. “Boring.” I sang the word into my glass, looking down to see if there were any answers down there.
“Anyone I can kill?” Dante offered.
I glanced back up to the flames behind his eyes.
“Because I’ve been rather feeling like doing some killing of a certain slayer who seems to have rattled the woman who had half an arm dangling off and still found it in her to joke to me about someone’s bad choice of shoes instead of drowning herself in booze in a shithole in the middle of the day,” he continued, his voice thick. “And now you’re wounded again, it seems. And I know your first instinct is to kill, but perhaps not the right person. I know from experience that killing the right person in order to get survival from that wound you’re currently nursing is damn near impossible. So I’m offering to do it for you.”
I twirled my glass between my thumb and forefinger, thinking his offer over. He was serious. Every immortal who offered to kill someone for you was never speaking in the figurative sense like those wretched humans were. Death was something rather serious when you could mostly escape, so when offered as a favor, or for a fee, it was not to be taken lightly.
There was no fee that Dante requested, which was rare. But then again, he’d be getting a nice juicy soul out of the deal.
Something in me, something carnal and not entirely simply mine, convulsed in a hot burst of agony of the damnation of Thorne’s soul. Of the silence in his charred chest—if Dante was to make good on his offer—that would no doubt haunt me for the rest of my days.
“No,” I said finally. “It’s tempting, it really is. But if there’s killing to be done, I’ll do what I’ve always done and get the blood on my own hands. It’s much easier to live with. Or be undead with. Or die with. Whatever.”
Dante gave me a look, and beyond the flames I saw something almost rather human until it burned away.
“Yeah, blood still stains your hands, no matter who kills whom,” he agreed. “Just try to remember your own blood can stain your hands just as easily, even if you’re not the one to deal the killing blow. You just have to decide what you can live with. Or be undead with. Or die with.”
His words hung in the air in such a way that even a drunk immortal saw the truth to them.
Which sucked, considering this particular immortal was drinking to escape from the truth.
The door opened and closed, and both Dante and I went on alert at the same time. Dante because he likely had some sort of witchy warning system on every time a mortal strutted through the door, and because he could sense a human soul a mile away.
Was his soul even human?
I sensed it because of that heartbeat that signaled my demise.
The air heated up. “Either this is the slayer I’ve heard you’ve got yourself, which means he’s dead, or this is another slayer walking into my bar. In that case he’s dead too,” Dante seethed, forgetting the words he’d just uttered to the contrary. And the fact that he’d already met Thorne once.
Thorne’s heartbeat didn’t falter, and neither did his step.
I didn’t look up from my glass. “Kill away. Save me the job,” I muttered, waving my hand, forgetting the words I’d just muttered to the contrary.
For it was a selfish need to rid myself of the pain that came with Thorne’s presence, the raw kind of agony that was nigh unbearable, even with the healthiest dose of booze that had me wanting the pain of the silence of a heart that beat inside my chest somehow too.
The steps continued but Dante’s heat subsided. I glared up at him. “Aren’t demons supposed to follow through with killing humans?” I snapped.
He eyed me. “So are vampires,” he said. “But demons can sense souls. And his doesn’t belong to me. Or even to him.” He gave me a look, then melted into smoke as demons could do.
I’d cursed that ability more than a thousand times when cowardly demons used it to escape when they were losing a fight, and I cursed it once more.
Because now I had to make the choice. I had to choose between my nature—the one that urged me to rid myself of the pain with blood—and the heart that didn’t beat but still somehow bled.
He stood there, inches away from me. I could tase his scent and his presence; my drunk self craved it, itched to forget about everything that wasn’t the two of us.
But for once, I didn’t listen to my drunk self. For once, I listened to the logical part of me. Or maybe it wasn’t the logical part of me. Maybe it was the truest part of me. The vampire in me that he’d begun to banish.
But you can’t escape nature.
So I welcomed her.
“Isla,” he began.
I didn’t let him finish, my hand around his neck and slamming him against the wall with a rough clatter.
I squeezed tight enough to constrict almost all of his airflow. He was getting just enough to breathe and prevent brain damage. Maybe. I wasn’t the best judge after Dante’s cocktails.
And Dante’s cocktails, coupled with the agony in my chest, meant I cared a little less too.
“No,” I whispered. “You don’t get to speak. It’s a little late for that. For whatever bullshit you’re going to spout. Because you’ve already done it. Lied, betrayed, and pretended to me.”
I paused, my focus coming in such stark color it carved Thorne out of the very air around him, making him somehow separate from it. I kept his eyes, despite the pain it took to do so.
“I can lie, cheat, and steal with the rest of them. But the lies? I’ll tell them to myself. The cheating? I’ll cheat death. And I’ll steal all the hearts of men who decide it’s a good idea to betray me. And I don’t mean that in that figurative romantic way. I mean it in the literal, ‘I will rip your beating heart out of your chest cavity and show it to you’ kind of way,” I promised.
Then I let him go, mostly because I was getting thirsty. Definitely not because he was turning blue and his heartbeat had slowed.
I let him stumble to the floor, then turned to retrieve my drink from the bar. I sucked it dry before looking back to see he had managed to pull himself up, his eyes glued to me. I used the pull of the numbness of booze and sheer force of will to watch him straighten himself on unsteady feet with a detached stare.
“You haven’t stolen my heart,” he rasped. “’Cause I gave you that shit for free. Just like I’ll give you my last fuckin’ breath if that’s what it takes to get you to listen.”
I leaned over to tag the bottle I knew was enchanted to get a fully grown werewolf drunk. I swigged it, savoring the burn that took off a layer of skin at my throat. Twirling on my seat and cradling the bottle, I scowled at Thorne.
“That last breath, is that a promise? Because you only get to explain why and how you fucking betrayed me as long as you stop breathing after.”
He eyed me. “I didn’t betray you, Isla.” His words were fierce, almost tangible, so sure that I almost believed him.
You know, if he wasn’t completely full of shit.
I tilted my head. “Betrayal,” I said slowly, enunciating, “is the breaking of a contract of trust or confidence which produces conflict in a relationship as a result of treachery or lies.” My voice was robotic. “In other words, fucking everything up by not telling the vampire you claim to fucking love that you not only know the king she’s been working for, but you’re his fucking brother through some fucked-up mythical history that not only makes you older than you claim to be, but also a technical prince and a fuckbucket of epic fucking proportions,” I screeched.
He stepped forward, looking like he was going to make a mistake and do something suicidal like try to touch me. I held up the bottle in a ‘stop’ gesture.
“I wouldn’t. I’m drunk and absolutely raging mad. I’ll likely forget I need you around for the purposes of your blood and kill you where you stand. Whic
h is what I would’ve done without hesitation before now if that hadn’t been the case,” I hissed.
The lie was convincing enough outwardly, thanks to the rage and booze. Inwardly, I wasn’t fooling anyone.
Thorne stopped. “You wouldn’t have,” he said surely, seeing beneath the words that any outsider would’ve likely believed.
But then he wasn’t an outsider.
That was how this all became such a clusterfuck.
Oh, how I wished I’d killed him in that alleyway before he’d stolen whatever you could call my heart.
“Really? Because when someone who doesn’t trust anyone, even herself, trusts a human—a slayer, in fact—who then turns out to be a bigger liar than Stephen Glass and Herodotus combined, she gets a little murdery. I don’t suffer liars well. In fact, the last person who lied to me about the way my butt looked in a pair of jeans got his arms ripped off.” I gave him a look. “Scott’s arm grew back. Should we test just how many of your brother’s healing qualities you possess?” I asked sweetly.
“I didn’t tell you at first, Isla, because telling you would likely have been a death sentence. Because I didn’t know if I could trust the beautiful vampire who spoke in nonsense and wisdom at the same time and took my fucking breath away at the same time as giving it back,” he growled, running his hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration I knew well, considering I frustrated him often.
His eyes never left mine, nor did the hurt that came with that stare. And the anger. “I could barely trust my heart around you, and anything that would give me the potential of losing you?” He shook his head once. “No. I wouldn’t do that. Then when I found out I had to trust you, considering you possessed whatever heart I have, there wasn’t time.”