by Hendee, Barb
Finally she said, “With the exception of occasional, and short, periods with Maggie or Julian, Philip spent over a hundred and eighty years alone . . . and he hates being alone more than anything. Have some pity, Rose.”
“Pity?” She sounded incredulous. She seemed about to say more and then changed her mind, walking forward again. “In here,” she said.
Eleisha followed, putting aside the Philip argument for now and feeling herself growing almost lost in wonder over whatever it was that Rose needed to show her.
“What is this about?” she asked, following Rose up a questionable-looking flight of stairs. “Where are we?”
“This used to be a warehouse for grain and rice, but it’s been long abandoned. I’m surprised any of these buildings are still here. I’m certain that soon some developer will tear them all down and put up a Starbucks, a Gap, and a Pottery Barn. Soulless bastards.”
Eleisha glanced up at the back of Rose’s head, wondering how she’d feel about Eleisha’s plan to sell her shares of Starbucks in order to purchase the church.
The warehouse was so dark inside, it was difficult to see at all. At the top of the stairs, they emerged into a cavernous room. Eleisha squinted, but she couldn’t see all the way across to the back wall. The effect was unsettling. She felt exposed and in the open, and yet half-blind.
What was she supposed to see here?
Rose took a few steps into the vast, black room. “I don’t think I felt any true hope until after you wrote back to me, and then suddenly . . . so many possibilities seemed real. That there might be others like us. That someone was willing to fight back. I know that I should have waited for you, I shouldn’t have started on my own, but I couldn’t help it.”
Eleisha shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
Rose turned to face her. The white streaks in her hair glowed softly. “I started looking. I studied news reports, looking for anything that might give me a clue. And then . . . then I found recent stories about people in Moscow, Russia, being admitted to hospitals with unexplained blood losses. I sent Seamus to Russia.”
Eleisha wavered, almost losing her balance, reaching back for the stair rail. Rose had been looking for other vampires on her own?
“You found . . . Wait,” Eleisha stammered, “the stories were about living people admitted with unexplained blood loss?”
“Yes. The old ones, the ones who existed before us, they didn’t kill to feed as we do. They didn’t have to.”
How could Rose possibly know that? Edward hadn’t known, and Eleisha had been able to put some of the pieces together only in the past month.
“Who?” she demanded. “Who told you that?”
“I did.” A clear masculine voice rang across the cavernous warehouse floor.
Philip climbed out of a taxi back on Jones Street, carrying a long wooden box. He had made one stop—one purchase—before coming back, but now he was feeling anxious to get up to the apartment to watch over Eleisha and Wade.
He didn’t trust Rose, not even after reading her memories. Especially not after reading her memories.
She was nothing like Eleisha or Wade. They both felt things. They liked to please others. Rose did not care to please anyone besides herself. She was cold inside . . . not at all like Eleisha or Wade.
He walked quickly into the apartment building and took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor. Finding the door locked, he knocked.
No one answered.
He knocked again, louder. “Eleisha? It’s me. Open the door.”
Nothing.
Fear began swelling inside him, and he knocked a third time. Then he kicked the door open and looked around wildly, seeing Wade lying on a couch with his eyes closed—but still breathing. Philip saw no one else. He rushed over, dropping his wooden box and shaking Wade.
“Wake up! Where’s Eleisha?”
Wade’s eyelids fluttered briefly, and he murmured something unintelligible, but then his head lolled to the side. Using two fingers, Philip opened one of his eyelids.
Wade was unconscious.
The fear swelling inside Philip exploded into panic, and he looked around. Eleisha was gone, and he had no idea what Rose had done with her.
“Seamus! Where are you?” He strode through the apartment. “You tell me where they are or I swear I’ll . . .”
What? What could he swear? Seamus was already dead.
Panic and indecision flowed through him. He didn’t want to leave Wade lying there helpless with the front door broken, but he had to find Eleisha.
This was his fault. He never should have left them in the first place.
Striding back to the couch, he leaned down, jerked open the wooden box, lifted out a machete, and pulled it from its leather sheath. He wouldn’t leave Wade for long, but he had to start looking for Eleisha.
He dropped the sheath on the rug. Not even bothering to hide the machete, he walked out the front door.
Eleisha stood frozen in the warehouse as a figure moved from the shadows of the back wall and out into view, and he kept coming closer. Her eyes had adjusted somewhat, and she just stood there, watching him. He was not quite six feet tall, with a solid bone structure and muscular chest. His head was almost shaved, with just a shadow of light brown hair, like a soldier. His face was lean, and his nose had a slight bump in the bridge as if it had once been broken. He wore jeans, boots, and a loose flannel shirt. His eyes struck Eleisha the most. They were almost clear, with a hint of blue.
He was dragging a sword with his right hand.
“This?” he spat, looking Eleisha up and down. “This is your champion, Rose?”
His accent was British, not Russian.
Rose looked at his sword. “Robert, you don’t need that.”
Eleisha felt sick. She’d walked right into a trap. The contempt in the man’s eyes was so thick she almost backed up.
From the moment Wade had fallen unconscious, the night had taken on a surreal quality, and she realized she was still dressed in his old sweatpants and her Hello Kitty tank top . . . with her hair a mess.
It didn’t matter.
She’d had enough of this, and she let her gift seep out, slowly for a few seconds, and then in stronger and stronger waves, sinking it into both their minds.
She would have preferred a straight psychic invasion, as she had used on Julian, but she didn’t know this man, and if he was telepathic, he could block her, and she’d lose any advantage. That was the drawback in fighting unknown members of her own kind. Anyone with telepathy could just block her entry—working with Wade had taught her that much. Instead, she called on reserves inside herself that she’d never sought before, twisting her gift with her newfound psychic ability, weaving subtle illusions inside their perceptions.
They saw her as helpless, frightened, in need of protection, only to a greater degree. She was someone to kill for. Someone to die for.
Rose turned around, her lips parted, her eyes wide.
But Eleisha ignored her and moved toward the man. What had Rose called him? Robert?
Pitching her voice to a near whisper, Eleisha murmured, “Swords frighten me. Please, put it down.”
It fell from his hand instantly, clanging to the floor. She didn’t know how to use it herself and wanted to kick it across the floor, but she feared breaking her connection to him. His eyes were locked on her face.
“I am so afraid,” she whispered. “I need to run. You stay here and protect my way.”
He shifted his weight to his right foot, wavered slightly, and repeated, “Protect your way.”
But then . . . she felt something inside her mind, something pushing back. Robert stumbled forward, and he made a sound like a mortal trying to suck in breath. She could feel him pushing her out.
“Turn it off,” he gasped.
She stepped closer, trying to hold on, wrapping her thoughts around his, making him see her as helpless, frightened, someone he must let run away.
I won’t
hurt you, he flashed into mind. Turn it off.
His verbal thoughts were so clear—even clearer than Wade’s—that she felt truth behind them. Who was he?
Still doubting herself, beginning to doubt her own instincts, she shut off her gift.
Rose staggered a few feet back, nearing the staircase.
Robert dropped to one knee as if released from some physical hold, and he placed his palm against the floor. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he said, looking up at Eleisha, the contempt on his face fading slightly. “Who taught you to do that?”
She just looked at him, studying his lean face and his nearly clear eyes.
“You’re of the wild generation,” he said, his tone growing more demanding. “Who taught you to do that?”
Wild generation? What did he mean?
Rose was gaining control of herself and hurried forward, holding her long green skirt in one hand. “Eleisha, this is Robert Brighton. Forgive me for not telling you anything before, but I swore I would not expose him. He has no reason to trust any of us . . . any more than we have to trust each other.” She paused, standing close to Eleisha, “He agreed to see only you.”
Eleisha looked at her, thoroughly confused now. Rose had not led her into a trap? Could it be that Rose was so determined, so desperate, to bring any vampires still in hiding together that she would do anything, go to any lengths just to manipulate meetings? Could Eleisha blame her? Isn’t this what they both wanted? What they had planned and dreamed of in their letters? If that was the case, then perhaps Rose could be trusted—as long as Eleisha never forgot how single-minded she could be in this pursuit.
Without asking, Eleisha slipped inside Rose’s mind.
You found him and drew him here? Through Seamus?
Rose’s eyes widened again. Yes, and a brief exchange of letters.
Why?
If we are to build a community, we have to find the others. But I never thought to find one like him still in existence—
“That is impolite,” Robert said. “And this is pointless. You have no knowledge and no manners. You plan for things of which you have no understanding.”
Eleisha pulled out of Rose’s mind and tilted her head to one side. In Philip’s memories, she had seen detailed images of him living with Julian, John McCrugger, and his maker, Angelo Travare. Only after the beginning of Julian’s killing spree did the vampires break up and travel alone. Had it been normal for them to exist together before? This Robert Brighton had been hiding—just like Rose—but he had come out of hiding and traveled all the way from Russia to San Francisco, so no matter how much he protested, he must be desperate to rejoin his own kind.
“Why did you come here?” Eleisha asked him. “Did Rose tell you about the church? Do you want to come home with us?”
He seemed taken back by her direct questions and paused. Then he shook his head. “Not if you keep company with Philip Branté. He’s feral. As blood brother to Julian, he was the only one with a chance to stop those horrors, and he did nothing, not that I should have expected more. Angelo had already ruined him, taught him nothing, let him run wild, let him kill whoever he pleased.”
Eleisha was getting sick of these vampires constantly bashing Philip, but she froze, taking in Robert’s words. If he knew Philip and Julian personally . . . then Julian must have known him, and he was clearly telepathic.
“How did you survive?” she asked.
Again, he seemed unsettled by her direct question, as if he thought her rude.
“I did not,” he answered. “Julian believes he hacked my head off.”
“What?”
“Eleisha,” Rose interrupted, “this can all wait.” She turned to Robert. “You can see the truth of my words.” She pointed to Eleisha. “She fought Julian and won—sent him packing. Everything has changed. You must agree to meet Philip and Wade. There is strength in numbers.”
His expression went still for a moment, as if he considered her offer, and then he took a step backward. “I’ll not be in the same room with Philip Branté. He’s feral. And a coward.”
Eleisha turned around and headed for the stairs. “I don’t care who you are. I won’t listen to this.”
Rose ran after her, catching her arm, leaning close to whisper, “Wait. He is old, with knowledge of our kind we could never find anywhere else. Please, Eleisha, convince him. He may be the only one from . . . before.”
Eleisha stopped. How old was he? She’d believed that any survivors would most likely be like herself or Edward or Rose—turned either right as the killing spree began or after, with no opportunity for telepathic training or somehow off Julian’s radar.
But she could not help being disgusted by this Robert Brighton’s arrogance and contempt. If he was going to join them, he would have to accept a few truths.
She turned to face him. “You call Philip a coward?” she asked. “When you’ve been hiding in Russia? Yes, Philip is terrified of Julian. We all are. But he kicked Julian out a twelve-story window. Do you know why? To protect me. Don’t you ever call him a coward.” She dropped her voice lower. “I don’t believe Julian will ever come near us again, but I can’t promise anything will or won’t happen. If you want your freedom, if you want to live with your own kind again, then you have to be willing to expose yourself and fight.”
He stared at her in surprise.
“If not,” she added, “you can go back to Russia and hide out by yourself. I’m sure the high summers are lovely there.”
“Will you at least meet with them?” Rose rushed to say. “Can I set up a meeting?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, and then nodded stiffly, once. “Not here. Somewhere public . . . but not too public.”
Rose closed her eyes. “Tomorrow night, just past dusk, at the Japanese Tea Garden. That should work.”
She opened her eyes again and took Eleisha’s hand as if anxious to be off now that they had completed her desired task. Eleisha allowed herself to be led down the stairs—beginning to understand the depth of Rose’s resolution. But she still felt shaken by her own outburst.
As they neared the last step, she asked, “How old is he?”
Rose hesitated before answering quietly. “I don’t know for certain, but I know he was a man-at-arms for Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey.”
“Earl of . . . ?”
Although she was of Welsh heritage, like all those from the Commonwealth, Eleisha knew basic English history—at least the major players. Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, had later become the third Duke of Norfolk. He was Anne Boleyn’s uncle and had served in the court of Henry VIII.
That would make Robert nearly five hundred years old.
Wade’s tongue felt thick inside his mouth.
He could hear voices on the edge of his awareness.
“The door is broken!” someone said in alarm. “Seamus, how did this happen?”
He felt soft fingers on his forearm. “Can you hear me?”
Forcing his eyelids to open, he saw the blurred image of Eleisha leaning over him. “Leisha?”
He was lying on a settee. How had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered was eating dinner in the kitchen. She helped him to sit up. He saw an open wooden box lying at his feet . . . with a leather sheath lying beside it.
“Who broke the door?” she asked.
“Philip did.” A hollow voice with a Scottish accent came from nowhere. Seamus appeared behind Eleisha, his expression angry. “He came back and found the door locked, so he kicked it in.”
Eleisha crouched down on the floor. “Oh . . . I’m sorry. Where is he now?”
“Out looking for you.”
She got up, went over, and opened a window, closing her eyes. “I’ll try to reach him. I don’t think he would go far with Wade still in the apartment and the door broken.”
Wade was still confused. How had he ended up on the couch, and when had Philip come back? He didn’t remember anything.
Less than five minutes later, he he
ard the sound of booted feet running down the hallway, and Philip nearly fell through the broken door, carrying a machete.
“Eleisha!”
His eyes looked half-crazy, and Rose drew away from him, closer to her bedroom door. Seamus hissed. Wade stood up, but he was dizzy. What was going on?
Eleisha ran from the window to intercept Philip. “It’s all right,” she was saying. “Everything’s all right. I’m sorry we missed each other. Where did you get that? Put it down.”
Wade was trying to follow too many things at once.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Philip ordered, and he pointed at Rose with his free hand. “She drugged Wade, didn’t she? Where have you been?”
Drugged Wade?
His head was beginning to clear a little, and he remembered bits and pieces: eating eggs, drinking tea, growing tired . . .
“I can’t explain it with words,” Eleisha rushed to say. “I need to show you.” She took Philip’s outstretched hand. “Come and sit. Just let me show you. Wade, can you make it over here?”
Philip still looked enraged and manic, but he let her pull him to a clear area of the room. “What?” he demanded. “Show me what?”
Wade stumbled over, still trying to gain his wits. Eleisha had dust smeared on her face and her tank top.
“Sit down,” she said. “Let me in.”
Sitting, Wade closed his eyes, and the shock of Eleisha’s rapid mental entry almost made him fall backward. To see her memories clearly, he had to reach back, make the connection.
Then he was in the kitchen drinking tea earlier that night, seeing himself through Eleisha’s eyes. He was Eleisha. She took him forward from there, and he forgot himself.
Wade did not know how much time has passed when Eleisha pulled out of his mind. His head felt clearer, but he gasped several times, reeling from everything she had just shown him. He’d felt it all, exactly as she had. Her doubts, her fear, the fierce use of her gift . . . her strength. Her realization of the depth of Rose’s single-minded determination.
And Robert Brighton, a soldier from the sixteenth century.