by P. G. Forte
“I know what the boy needs.” Conrad eyes snapped and seethed with fury. Damian seemed to wilt a little under his glare. “I know what he needs far better than you do, it seems. Now, I’m warning you, Damian. You know how little I like repeating myself. Do not make me do so again. Go away!”
“Conrad…please.”
Conrad’s face grew darker. He grabbed Damian by the arm once again. “Listen to me, hidalgo, and heed what I say. I can promise you the boy will come to no harm in my care tonight, however I cannot say the same for you. I’m angry, Damian. I’m very angry. And I think we both know what that means. So if you’ve any wish to survive this night with your skin intact you will leave…my…sight.” As he finished speaking, Conrad thrust Damian away. “Go!”
Damian looked stunned. His face, already pale to start with, had turned an even more sickly shade during Conrad’s speech. Now, a shudder wracked his frame. He cast just one more quick, worried glance in Marc’s direction, then turned and hurried from the room without so much as another word to either of them. He didn’t see the momentary slump in Conrad’s shoulders, the agonized expression on his face as he stared helplessly after him—but Marc did. Knowing he was the cause of so much pain and unhappiness left him feeling even worse than before. Misery washed over him and he couldn’t stop the low moan that broke from his lips and brought the full force of Conrad’s attention back upon him.
“Take this.” Conrad shoved the bag at him again. “Drink it down. All of it. Now.”
Marc frowned mutinously. “Now” appeared to be Conrad’s new favorite word, if his present overuse of it was anything to go by. Marc opened his mouth to say as much, to protest the order he’d just been given—and to protest Conrad’s treatment of Damian, as well—but Conrad cut him off with a look.
“Do not argue with me,” he snapped in a voice so forceful and compelling, Marc found he had no choice but to obey. Reluctantly, he put the bag to his mouth and sank his fangs into the plastic. The bliss of that first taste was so extreme, so completely unexpected, so irresistible, all his muscles went lax and he very nearly slid off the chair from the shock of it. His whole body shook and though his mind continued to scream objections at him, he found he couldn’t drain the bag fast enough.
He’d no sooner finished the first bag when another was thrust into his hands. This time he didn’t even wait for the order to drink it. A growl left his lips as he tore into the bag, heedless of the mess he was making. His eyes shuttered closed as the bliss continued to flood his system. The taste of the blood spread across his mouth, thick and rich, he didn’t even care that it was straight from the refrigerator, that it was unpleasantly cold and tasted faintly of the vinyl in which it had been stored. He finished that bag too, and was reaching for a third, from the small pile Conrad had dumped in the middle of the table, when the noises he’d been filtering out, all the commotion around him finally registered. Marc’s eyes widened. He sucked in a quick breath and froze, the bag in his hand all-but-forgotten for an instant, as he took in the wreckage all around him. Conrad had not been idle.
The mixing bowl that had held Damian’s cookie dough was strewn in batter-caked pieces on the floor. Spatters of grease coated the walls and ceiling from the roast that had been pulled from the oven and hurled—pan and all—into the sink. Marc jumped as Conrad, who had moved on to the cupboards, cleared an entire pantry shelf with one swipe of his arm. Jars and boxes skittered across the linoleum. Glass shattered. A cloud of flour shot into the air and rained down upon everything.
It was unsettling to watch such destruction, but mesmerizing and oddly exhilarating and it didn’t stop Marc for more than half a minute. His hunger was in control now and nothing could have stopped him from ripping into one bag after another and sucking down blood as fast as he could. The contents of a second shelf hit the floor. Then a third. He stopped counting after that.
“Grandfather?” Julie’s voice arrested them both. She stood, wide-eyed, in the kitchen door. “Wh-what are you doing?” Her eyes cut to her brother. “Marc? Have you lost your mind or something? What’s going on down here? I thought the house was falling apart! Where’s Uncle Damian?”
Conrad turned from the pantry. For the first time in their lives, or at least as far back as Marc could remember, there was no tenderness in his eyes as he gazed at Julie. His gaze was hard, his tone almost vicious, as he snarled, “Have you been starving yourself as well?”
“What?” Julie looked taken aback. She frowned uncomprehendingly for a moment, then her face cleared. “Oh. No, of course I haven’t.” She shot another furious look at Marc. “See? I told you it was a stupid idea, didn’t I?”
Marc bared his teeth at his sister. “It was not stupid. It was working.”
“Enough!” Conrad glared at them both. “It was not working, Marc. And you are not to attempt it again. Ever. From now on, there’ll be no food in this house. Nothing passes your lips but blood. That goes for both of you—do you understand me?”
“You can’t do that,” Marc protested. Even Julie looked dismayed by Conrad’s pronouncement.
“I can do it,” Conrad insisted. “It’s done. And if either of you have any doubts as to that, or as to whose word is final in this household, you’d do well to rid yourselves of them. Immediately.”
“But…”
“Enough, I said.” Conrad glared at them both. “How many times tonight must I repeat myself? I will not discuss this any longer. Furthermore, neither of you will even think of doing anything like this again. Banish the idea from your minds right this minute.”
“That doesn’t actually work, you know,” Julie said, an obstinate gleam sparkling in her eyes. “You can’t go around ordering people not to think and then expect them to do it just ’cause you say so.”
“Silence!” Conrad growled—which, apparently, didn’t work very well either.
“No!” Julie bleated in plaintive tones. “I want Damian.” Marc cringed at the faint tremor in her voice. She sounded as though she were on the verge of tears. “Why isn’t he here? What have you done with him?”
“He sent him away,” Marc answered miserably, with a nod in Conrad’s direction. “He told him to go, to get out, and…and he did. He just…left. He walked out on us, Julie. He’s gone.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Conrad snapped. “You have no idea what I spared him. It was for his own good.”
“What about our good?” Julie asked. “What are we supposed to do now? This family doesn’t work without him.”
Conrad heaved a heavy sigh. “Don’t you think I know that, child? Now stop your fussing. He’ll be back.”
The twins exchanged a worried look. In answer to the question in his sister’s eyes, Marc shook his head. He did not share Conrad’s certainty. “I don’t think so. You didn’t see the look on his face. I don’t think he’s ever coming back.”
“He’ll be back,” Conrad repeated emphatically. Then, more softly he added, “I promise. I know how much he means to you. He means a lot to me as well. If he doesn’t come back soon on his own then I’ll go and…I’ll go and find him. I’ll bring him home for you. I swear.”
“You’d better.” Julie glanced doubtfully at the kitchen. “But, before that happens, someone had better clean up this mess, because if he sees this I won’t be a bit surprised if he decides to just turn around and leave us again.”
Both Conrad and Marc followed her gaze. Marc’s heart sank as he took in the full extent of the destruction. It would take all night—maybe several nights—to set things right. Even then, so many of the supplies and much of the equipment Damian took such pleasure in would have to be replaced. Julie was right. Conrad wasn’t the only one with a temper. Even if Damian did come back, there was no guarantee he’d stay.
“And don’t expect me to do it either,” Julie said, as she turned to leave the room. “There’s such a thing as Women’s Lib, you know, in case you haven’t heard. Just ’cause I’m the only girl ’round here doesn’t make me
some kind of slave. I’m going back to my room now.”
Conrad stared after her for a moment, his expression almost as pained as it had been when Damian left.
Marc sighed. It was going to be a very long night.
“You both think me a monster, I suppose.” Conrad’s voice was pitched low, rueful. Marc simply stared at him, too surprised to speak, as Conrad righted one of the chairs he’d knocked over and sat, staring balefully at Marc from across the table.
“No we don’t,” Marc muttered at last, finally finding his voice. But the truth was, there was no clear answer to that question. Marc didn’t think any of them were monsters. Not really. Other than for the way they chose to live. He could even admit there were some advantages to being Vampire, could understand perfectly why some would choose that course, but it was not for him. It was not what he wanted. He wanted a normal life, not one lived in the shadows. “I just want to choose for myself.”
Conrad nodded. “I understand. And, if it had been in my power to do so, I would have given you that choice.”
“Then why did you stop me tonight? Why didn’t you let me try? I was so close.”
“Close to what? Should I have allowed you to continue to starve yourself? All you were doing was making yourself sick.”
“No.” Marc refused to believe that was so. It had to work. It had to! “And I wasn’t starving myself. I was eating. Doesn’t the fact that we can eat the same food the humans do only prove that’s all we really need?”
Conrad sighed. “All it proves is that our bodies started out as human, which none of us have ever tried to deny. But that’s no longer what we are, Marc. We’ve been changed. And the food that once might have sustained these bodies will no longer suffice. Let me guess, you felt weak—yes? Dizzy? Disoriented? Unwell?”
Marc nodded reluctantly.
“And you took these for signs you were becoming human, I suppose? I assure you, that was not the case. Had you been allowed to continue, all that would have happened is that, eventually, the hunger, the need for food, for sustenance, for blood, would have become too strong for you to handle. You would have lost control. You might even have hurt someone.” He stopped for a moment then sighed once again. “No. I take that back. You are no longer a child, so I suppose I shouldn’t speak to you as though you were. You should hear the truth.
“And the truth, Marc, is that the pain and the hunger you were feeling was only the beginning. It would only have grown worse the longer you denied yourself, until nothing else would have existed for you but that gnawing emptiness. Until the hunger was all you could think about, until it had all but consumed your mind. When that happened, you would not merely have hurt someone. Nothing so simple. You would have killed someone, possibly several people. Not kindly. Not quickly. But viciously. Savagely. Without compassion or concern. Without even being aware of what you were doing. You would not have been able to control yourself. And you would not have stopped until you were sated.”
“No.” Marc shook his head. “You don’t know that. How could you know that’s what would happen?”
“Because,” Conrad replied, his voice as grim as Marc had ever heard it, “not only have I seen it happen to many others, I’ve experienced it myself. I, too, once found the consuming of blood a repulsive habit. I thought myself no better than a beast to be forced to feed off others in this fashion, and I believed I could change that. But I was wrong. We cannot change who we are, Marc. None of us can. No matter how much we might wish it could be otherwise, our fate is inalterable. Is that understood?”
Tears pricked Marc’s eyes and he blinked them back, refusing to let them fall, a battle he almost lost when Conrad reached out a hand and ruffled his hair.
“Come now, don’t look so glum. You’ve no cause to reproach yourself. There’s no shame in being what we are, my son. That is also the truth. And you at least have never yet caused harm to anyone through your actions, which is more than I, or even most humans, can claim. You should take pride in that—and seek to continue in that vein.”
Marc bowed his head in defeat. He did not feel proud. He felt stupid and weak. “I’m sorry.”
“Listen to me,” Conrad said crisply. “You have done nothing you need feel sorry for. Quite the contrary, in fact. Your actions do you credit. No matter how ill-advised your efforts, at least you made the attempt. I’d think less of you if you’d felt this way and done nothing about it. But much as I admire your spirit, I also cannot allow you to hurt yourself, and possibly hurt others as well. So you must promise me now that you will never try something like this again. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” Marc nodded again. He had tried. He’d done his best, but the memory of how agonizing it had been, how much it had hurt—that alone was enough to ensure he would never repeat the attempt. It was a relief to have an excuse, any excuse, other than cowardice in the face of remembered pain, not to try again. “I promise.”
“Good.” Conrad smiled and Marc thought he sounded pretty relieved as well. “Then the subject is closed.” But as he glanced around the room, Conrad’s expression clouded over once again. He sighed heavily. “Now then, what’s to be done about this mess?”
Chapter Sixteen
December 24, 2009
A razor-thin blade of fear slid teasingly across Damian’s nerves. He suppressed an anxious shiver as Conrad’s mouth moved over his throat, but failed in his attempts to slow his racing heart. Despite their having reconciled almost two months previously, the terror that accompanied the first bite of the evening had yet to recede. No matter how much faith Damian had in Conrad’s ability to know his own limits, to maintain control, to not hurt him, no matter how badly he needed to prove himself, to demonstrate his trust to Conrad, the painful memories still lingered. Fresh. Sharp. Unforgiving reminders of the cost of miscalculation.
“Is everything all right tonight, caro?” Conrad’s body seemed to press more firmly against Damian’s. His grip on him tightened, as though he half-expected him to bolt from the bed. He wound his fingers through Damian’s hair until Damian’s scalp tingled from the pressure. “You seem unusually nervous. Is something wrong? Anything I should know about?”
“Of course not,” Damian replied—not really a lie. His pulse had picked up even more now, as fear and anticipation warred within him but, sadly, there was nothing at all unusual about the current state of his nerves. He angled his head to the side and offered his throat in what he hoped would prove an irresistible temptation. “It’s just that you’re taking so dreadfully long. Not that I wish to complain, you understand, but I am eager for you to begin.”
Conrad’s soft chuckle warmed Damian’s skin. “Oh, is that all that’s troubling you? My dear, how is it possible that, in all the time I’ve known you, you have never yet learned patience?”
Never learned patience? Damian blinked in surprise, too startled by the question to invent a suitable answer. What else did Conrad think it was that had seen Damian through the century-and-a-half he’d had to wait for Conrad to reclaim him? If there could ever be any circumstance in his life that would require more patience from him than that, Damian didn’t want to know about it.
An instant later, Conrad’s fangs sliced smoothly and almost painlessly through Damian’s skin. The rush of venom that followed after saved him the trouble of responding. He relaxed, grunting wordlessly, as blessed relief washed over him. For tonight, at least, his faith had not been misplaced. Conrad’s venom was benign, heady and intoxicating, strong enough to make Damian’s head spin, but gentle just the same. It bore no relation to the acid-like substance with which Conrad had twice burned and scarred him—not that Damian held that against his lover.
The second time Conrad hurt him Damian had known exactly what would happen, he’d walked into the situation with his eyes wide open. Conrad had been on the verge of death, half-crazed with starvation, and still he’d tried to protect Damian, begging him to walk away, ordering him to keep his distance rather than try and help.
/>
It had been Damian’s own choice not to let Conrad die. Not that he’d ever have considered any other option. The first time…well, that had been Damian’s fault as well, hadn’t it? He had become too careless. He’d forgotten he was playing with fire. He’d forgotten what manner of creature he was dealing with. It was Damian’s own foolish actions that had caused Conrad to lose control, and that was a mistake he’d never cease regretting…
After a minute, Conrad retracted his fangs. He lapped tenderly at Damian’s neck, long licks with his tongue meant to heal, meant to close the small wounds he’d made. Damian’s heart swelled with love, joy, gratitude. He was still amazed by the turn his life had recently taken. How lucky he was to have gotten a second chance. How lucky not to have lost this forever.
“There now,” Conrad murmured as he pressed his lips to Damian’s throat once again. His voice was as gruff as his kiss was gentle. “Good as new.”
“Sí. Gracias,” Damian replied, even though he knew it was only partially true, for everything left a mark of some sort, did it not? Every choice. Every mistake. The scars he bore, both mental and physical, would never truly fade.
Conrad heaved a satisfied sigh as he settled on his side with his head propped on his fist. The look on his face as he gazed at Damian was so speculative that Damian began to worry. “What is it?” he asked fretfully. “You seem…unusually pensive tonight.”
Conrad shrugged. “It’s nothing very much. I’ve just been thinking.”
“What about?”
“A matter we discussed quite recently, as it happens. But I’ve given it some more thought and—”
“Wait, this isn’t the piercing issue again, is it?” Damian might have been willing to endure pain for Conrad’s sake when it was a matter of life or death, but enough was enough. “You couldn’t possibly have been serious about that.”
A delighted smile curved Conrad’s lips. “Ah-ha. You are nervous, aren’t you? I knew it.”