by Kallysten
He blinked, and for a brief moment, he could see the flaws in his own thinking, could see he wasn’t making much sense at all, not about Kate, and certainly not about Marc. Every time the tattoo tingled, his mind lost its clarity, and illusions and nightmares tried to take him over again. He opened his mouth, but already his awareness was fading in light of the overwhelming certitude that things were wrong, completely and utterly wrong, and there would be blood and tears and pain to pay for the wrongness of it all. There always was.
He rose to his feet and started moving away from her again, but a noise behind him drew his attention, and he turned at once, eyes open wide and lips ready to beg for his Master’s forgiveness, for Marc’s return. But the man he expected to see wasn’t there, and instead, it was another man standing by the door. Another vampire. Another of Marc’s Childer. If Blake breathed in deeply, he could smell just a hint of their Sire on him.
As he backed into the corner and away from Kate—safely away, where he wouldn’t risk touching her and earn both of them punishment in reply—Blake tried to remember the name of the other vampire. It took him a few moments before he did. Daniel. That was his name, yes. Blake had vague memories of him from when he had still had a heartbeat; memories of Daniel not liking him much, and Blake returning this dislike wholeheartedly. Memories, also, of talking with Marc about Daniel.
“I’ll always be your Sire,” Marc had said, so why was he gone? Would he come back? And what if he did? What would happen next? Would he be back for Blake or would he return to hurt him again? Would it be worse than before? Would the past seem like a walk in a park compared to what his Master was planning?
The answer to that was simple and illuminating. Blake needed help. He needed protection. He needed someone who would intervene for him before Marc. And who better for that than Marc’s Childe? A man who had soldiers and mages under his command?
Making an effort to concentrate on what Daniel and Kate were saying again, Blake caught the end of a sentence.
“—mind staying with him for a minute?” she was saying. “I want to get some blood and see if feeding will help him.”
Good. Very good. She was stepping out. That meant he would be alone with Daniel. Better if they were alone. Better if she didn’t see. She always cried when she saw Blake—
Pushing the memory away, Blake clutched at his shirt, and when his hands trembled too much to allow him to undo the buttons, he simply tore it off before getting rid of his t-shirt, too.
“What are you doing?” Daniel asked immediately. His voice held a thread of disapproval, and by pure instinct Blake dropped to his knees. He couldn’t have disapproval. He needed protection. He needed to be good. He needed to show Daniel just how good he was, so that Daniel would tell their Sire, and Marc wouldn’t hurt Blake too much when he returned.
If he returned.
Panic tried to sink in again, but Blake held it at bay as he advanced toward Daniel, head bowed, until his forehead was touching the floor in front of Daniel’s feet.
“I will be good,” he said as quietly as he could, knowing that by simply speaking he was breaking the rules but needing to say something. “Will you tell him I will be good? I will do everything he says. Be a good boy. I promise.”
Without daring to look up at his face, Blake reached toward the fastenings of Daniel’s pants. Family. They were both Marc’s Childer, surely it was alright to show him—
“Blake! Stop it! What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
Hands dropping instantly at the shout so that he could cover his head with his arms, Blake waited for the blows to start falling. There would be even more of them for his attempt at protecting himself, but he couldn’t help the defensive response.
“What’s going on here?”
If anything, Kate’s return made Blake want to hide even more. Daniel didn’t want him; would he punish her for Blake’s mistake? Would he take her away, and leave Blake all alone once more? As alone as he had been after they had shut him in that box, left in there for days, and only let out to confront his guilt and pain every time he laid eyes on Kate.
Until Marc had come for him. Until he had taken Blake away.
And Marc had come when Blake had called him. It was easy to call. The thread was always like a shining beacon in Blake’s mind, all he needed was to take hold of it and pull, tug, cry out for help, and his Sire would hear.
He would hear, but would he come? He had gone to Jen before. He had abandoned Blake and only returned after years had passed, after he had figured out that she was a traitor. This time, Marc had known when he had gone to her. This time, he was a traitor, too. Would he ever return?
The first tentative touch of a hand on his bare back made him start shaking, and once again he expected the pain to start. But the warm hand remained gentle, and stroked him calmly, gently, in the same rhythm as the quiet words that fell on him like feathers and snowflakes.
They were words Marc had repeated to him too many times to count, and maybe because they were so familiar, they were easy to listen to, easy to accept, even if it was Kate voicing them. Even if she was in just as much danger as Blake.
“You’re safe,” she repeated, over and over. “I promise, Blake, nothing will happen to you. You’re safe.”
But he wasn’t safe. No one was. Not him, not Kate, and especially not Marc.
He finally tried tugging on the bloodline, tried calling Marc back to them. Doing so he realized the link only existed in his memory. His body shook even harder.
Chapter 18
Going through the portal was a curious and rather unpleasant sensation, like being doused in icy water without getting wet. It became even more unsettling when Marc’s vision adjusted and he found himself standing in full sunlight. He gasped and looked around him for shade, already bracing himself for burning pain, but Jen rested a hand on his shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.
“You’re not going to burn,” she said in a wary voice. “The sun is different here. It doesn’t bother the demons, either. See?”
Marc looked in the direction she pointed, squinting in the uncomfortably bright light. They stood in a rocky clearing, surrounded by tall mounds of rocks. There was a way out straight ahead, and a small group of demons guarded it.
“Is the glamour still in effect?” Marc asked Simon urgently.
At his side, Simon was pressing a hand to his stomach as though he were queasy. “It should be,” he said, his complexion taking a distinct green tinge.
“Should?” Jen repeated, nonplussed, but Simon didn’t seem to hear.
“Are we sure humans can live here?” His voice shook slightly. “I don’t feel so good.”
“The nausea’s normal,” Jen said. “It’ll pass in a few minutes. Now, are you certain your magic trick is still working?”
Sick or not, Simon glared at her. “Why don’t you try talking louder?” he asked. “If the glamour’s down, you’ll find out really fast.”
Marc’s gaze rushed to the group of demons. A couple of them were lying down, propped against rocks, clearly sleeping. Others were sitting in the dirt in a rough circle, in turns throwing what looked like small rocks; had they been humans, Marc would have said they were playing dice. None of them so much as glanced toward the breach, Marc, Jen, and Simon. Just the same, Marc kept his sword in hand.
“What about the spell to stop them from tracking me?” Jen insisted. “That didn’t break when we came through, did it?”
Simon now looked insulted. “No, it did not.” He turned his nose up at her. “I know what I’m doing and I did my job. Now do yours. Which way?”
Knowing Jen like he did, Marc knew she wouldn’t appreciate being talked to like this, and he intervened before she could flash her fangs at Simon.
“Do we have to go by them?” he asked, indicating the demons. “Glamour or not, I’d rather go another way if I can.”
She sniffed and gave a short nod. “There’s a trail. That’s how I escaped. Demons are to
o clumsy to make it through. This way.”
She led them to the right, where flat rocks formed a sort of staircase—albeit a treacherous one. She began climbing first, Simon following close behind her by observing where she positioned her feet. Marc was last, the sword now sheathed at his side but ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. He divided his attention between his companions and the demons, making sure that the demons still hadn’t noticed them. He couldn’t help but wonder, yet again, if he had made a mistake.
Coming through the breach to free the prisoners was the right thing to do; of that much, he was sure. But should he have brought more fighters? Simon couldn’t fight; his only weapons were his magic and the bag of supplies that bounced against his leg with each step. Jen was a good fighter, and that was why Marc had given her a sword. But he remembered all too well the last time she had drawn her sword against him.
Simon came close to falling on the slippery rocks about halfway up, but Marc steadied him from behind, and they eventually reached the top without any more incidents. From there, they could see the terrain on all sides. Far in the distance, the sun was setting toward a range of jagged mountain peaks.
The sun was bigger than the sun Marc remembered from his human days, its color a light orange that felt odd. To the left of the mountain range, the terrain seemed flat all the way to the horizon, with little to break it up other than boulders and some isolated shrubs. The place looked as desolate as a desert on Earth.
Something inside Marc yearned to go back home, back to where his stomach didn’t feel like it was caught in his throat and he didn’t have to squint against the brightness of the sky and the air didn’t taste as stale as old water. After all this time, he would have thought he would enjoy standing in the sun without risk, but the rays barely felt warm on his skin. It was an altogether unpleasant feeling.
“Over there,” Jen pointed ahead to the right of the mountains. “That’s the prison.”
Marc raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. From where he stood, the prison looked like a child’s construction set, innocuous even though Marc knew it was anything but.
“Let’s go,” he said gruffly. “We don’t have any time to lose.”
Climbing down from the outcropping took them almost as much time as going up, but they soon reached the ground again. Jen continued to lead them through rocky terrain, and eventually they reached a path where the rocks underfoot had been trampled to a fine dust, like in the clearing around the breach. Glancing back, Marc could make out the forms of the demons on the road and the shimmering glow of the breach behind them. The demons didn’t seem to have moved at all; the glamour was still working, then. Marc observed Simon; he still appeared unsettled, but he didn’t look anymore like he’d soon be sick.
The prison had looked to be a few hours’ walk in the distance, but it was growing closer much faster than it should have, and soon Marc revised his estimation to twenty minutes at the maximum. Even Simon noticed something was off; he was frowning at the prison ahead of them, a look of concentration etched on his face.
“Is it an optical illusion?” Marc asked Jen, who had fallen silent ever since they had climbed down the outcropping. “The prison doesn’t look as far as it was just a minute ago.”
She glanced at him and shrugged. “Distances can be hard to judge here. At a good pace, it doesn’t take more than fifteen or twenty minutes to get there.” She was quiet for a second, then sighed. “So how do you want to do it? There are usually between fifteen and twenty demons at the main entrance, but once we’re past them, the cells are pretty much unguarded, unless someone is working on a prisoner. The back entrance only has a couple guards, but that’s close to where they do magic, and they’re much better than your little mage here. I bet they’d see through his trick in a second.”
Marc expected Simon to protest at the slight against his person or talent, but all he said was, “I can feel the magic. It’s shooting straight out of there toward the breach. I wonder…”
His voice was an awed, breathy whisper as it trailed off. He blinked, as though awakening from a trance, and looked at Marc.
“I need to see what they’re doing.”
“We’re here to free the prisoners,” Jen snapped. “Whatever magic they do is not your concern.”
“Can’t you see?” Simon sounded exasperated now. “They’re directing magic toward the breach. The same breach our magic can’t close. When will I have a better chance to figure out how they keep it open?”
“That’s not the plan,” Jen said. “Freeing a few prisoners is one thing. Messing with demon mages is not what I agreed to.”
“Funny,” Simon said, but he didn’t sound amused at all. “I thought you wanted to be freed from demons for good, and here you are, complaining when I try to understand their magic to better work against it.”
They had all stopped in the middle of the road, and while Simon and Jen glared at each other, Marc couldn’t help but notice her hand drop to her thigh to scratch absently at the tattoo hidden under her clothes. A pang rang through Marc at how familiar that gesture was; he had watched Blake do the same thing far too often. Simon had managed to counteract the magic of the tattoos, but some effect remained.
“We’ll go through the back,” Marc said in his most decisive tone, the one that made it clear he wouldn’t be swayed. “Our priority remains the prisoners, but closing the breach was always a secondary goal.”
It was obvious that Jen didn’t like that, but her sullenness silenced her rather than drawing her into further argument. She showed them the way around the demons that guarded the prison to the back. Killing the two demons that stood by the smaller, door-less entrance was almost too easy; they never knew Marc and Jen were anywhere near them until, at the same moment, steel slashed their throats. They collapsed in a gurgle of bitter blood—and soon vanished into thin air. Marc glanced at Simon, who nodded absently and threw his powder at the corpses.
“Easier to do glamour on something that’s not moving.” He paused and grimaced like he had tasted something foul. “At least for a while. We should go, and fast.”
Jen took the lead again, entering first, but Simon soon passed her and strode through the stone corridor as though he knew exactly where he was going.
“Simon!” Marc hissed, hurrying after him. “We have to stay together!”
“But I can feel it,” Simon replied without even looking back at them. “It’s coming from—” He stopped abruptly in front of a closed door and stared at it with round eyes. “—here. It’s so…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “How can they manipulate so much magic at once?”
Marc didn’t even have to think about it twice. Demon magic was the key to everything: closing breaches, but also making Blake feel safe again, beyond the demons’ reach. Maybe it’d even help them understand how to help him heal.
“Only one way to find out,” he said, and before Jen could let out more than a startled, “Wait!” he threw open the door and strode in, sword in hand.
He entered a large, vaguely circular room, in the center of which two demons were seated on the floor, facing each other, a glowing sphere set in between them in a circle of symbols inscribed on the floor. A third demon stood beyond them, watching. All three were wearing long robes rather than the usual leather and metal armor of demon fighters—and all three looked at the open door as Marc stormed in. He didn’t stop to wonder whether they could see past the glamour and used their surprise to his advantage, slashing at the two seated demons’ necks before they could do more than grunt in the harsh sounds of their language.
Jen had rushed in after him, and with a muttered curse, she killed the last demon. It was all over in a matter of seconds. The orb continued to glow for a few seconds more before the light emanating from its core faded and it turned a dull grayish color.
“Oh, wow,” Simon said, sounding breathless.
Marc closed the door after quickly checking in the corridor that no one had heard the
commotion. “What is it?” he asked Simon.
Simon approached the demons that had been sitting on the floor, careful not to step in their blood, and bent over the gray sphere to examine it, although he didn’t touch it.
“The magic came from this,” he muttered to himself. “Or, no, they channeled it through this. And the symbols…”
He crouched closer and continued to mutter under his breath.
“If the magic stopped, then the breach can be closed, right?” Jen asked in a strained voice. “Let’s get on with the plan, then.”
But Simon didn’t appear to hear her as he pulled a small notebook and pen from his bag and started to scribble in it, referencing the symbols on the floor.
“We can give him a few minutes,” Marc said, throwing her an absent look.
She huffed and slammed her sword back in the sheath before crossing her arms, but didn’t say anything more. Even if she had, Marc might not have noticed. Something on the wall had just caught his attention, and he found himself approaching it without even realizing what he was doing.
A long, wooden shelf was attached to the wall at waist level. From one end to the other, it was covered in strange objects, all about the size of Marc’s closed fist, similar to the orb on the floor. At first, he thought they were made out of glass, like the paperweights of old his mother used to collect. But as he came closer, he realized they weren’t glass. It didn’t look like rock, either. They were translucent and yet not, mostly smooth but of irregular shapes, and in some of them colors swirled like a multicolor fire. One of them in particular seemed brighter than the others, its inner light pulsing and glowing faster when Marc grew closer to it, attracted as though by a beacon.
“Be careful.” Jen’s voice seemed far away and weak. “I’ve seen weird things happen to humans who were forced to touch those.”
I’m not human, he wanted to say, but words were beyond his reach. The orb, on the other hand, was not. He sheathed his sword as if in a dream and touched the strangely shaped, gleaming object that seemed to call to him. His finger merely brushed against it, but he could immediately feel warmth radiating from the orb. He could also feel pain: he snatched back his finger and realized he had cut himself on a sharp, hidden ridge. His blood stained the orb… or did it?