Old Sins, Long Shadow

by PG Forte

  Still, she could at least pretend not to care too much. “I’m not in the mood for anything so strenuous tonight,” she replied, faking what she hoped was a credible yawn. “I think I’ll just hang out here for a while, get some exercise. After that…”

  After that…what?

  She had nothing planned for after that. In fact, she could visualize the whole night stretched out before her: one empty hour after the next. “I have to think about what I’m going to wear to the party tomorrow, don’t I? That could take a while.”

  The party—the first Damian had been allowed to schedule since Conrad’s return—was supposed to be in honor of her and Marc’s birthday. An anniversary that seemed to lose more of its meaning each year. They’d stopped aging right around the time they’d turned twenty and Julie had the uneasy suspicion the cessation wasn’t just physical, but mental and emotional as well. Still, a party…that was something to look forward to, right? Julie bit back a sigh. She had been looking forward to it. Now…not so much.

  Marc shook his head. “All right,” he said as he headed for the door. “I tried. Have it your way. I’ll see you later.”

  Damian continued to stare at her worriedly. Julie busied herself with the weights and pretended not to notice.

  “Chica…”

  “I’m fine. We all are, right?” Isn’t that what they were all supposed to believe? Isn’t that what he’d just finished telling them?

  “Very well. But, Juliet—” he jerked his head to the side, giving a subtle nod in Armand’s direction. “Be careful.

  Julie nodded in reply. She was always careful, wasn’t she? Well, almost always.

  Damian crossed to the door, then turned and cast another anxious look her way. “Come find me when you’re done here,” he said. “I’ll make sure you get something tasty to eat.”

  “I will.” His concern warmed her and made her sorry she’d caused him worry. She even managed a small smile. “I promise, D. Thanks.”

  She had to pull herself together. If things were really over with Brennan, then she’d just have to move on. Conrad, Damian and Marc were her family. That’s what was important to her. That’s what really mattered. The three of them had always been there for her and they always would be. It was a promise written in blood. It was a guarantee no human could ever give her, not even Brennan. Maybe, if she could just keep remembering that, she really would be fine.

  Chapter Three

  “Ah, there you are!” Damian swept into the kitchen, startling Conrad, who was seated at the table. “Good. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Conrad fumbled the PVC blood bag he was holding, nearly dropping it. He bit back an oath and glanced up, scowling. Damian was dressed as though he’d just come from the gym, and all in black like a damn cliché. His dark hair was pulled away from his face and the scent of exertion still clung to his skin. Conrad’s fingers clenched more tightly around the bag in his hand. His heart pounded with a savage rhythm. Of all the people he could not bear to be this close to right now, with his hunger running rampant and his self-control at low ebb, Damian undoubtedly topped the list.

  “What do you want?” he growled, frustrated by his inability to tame the simmering need that even now was urging him to grab Damian by the throat, slam him against the nearest surface, bury his fangs in his neck and his cock in his ass and reclaim what was his. He buried his fangs in the bag instead and felt his gut heave at the faint chemical taste.

  It tasted wrong. It was always going to taste wrong. And it was never going to be enough to satisfy either his hunger or his thirst.

  “I need to talk to you about something.” Seemingly oblivious to Conrad’s foul mood, Damian pulled out a chair and seated himself. He was close enough to Conrad they could have clasped hands on the tabletop had either of them been so inclined. Close enough that they might speak softly to each other and not be overheard. Entirely. Too. Close.

  “Very well then. Talk.” Forcing himself not to recoil, Conrad swallowed another mouthful. Another tremor wracked his frame. He tried not to imagine the pitiful picture he must be presenting. He would survive it. His pride had taken worse hits than this over the centuries.

  Damian made no answer. Conrad glanced impatiently at him. “Well?”

  Damian waved a hand at the bags heaped on the table. “What are you doing here with all of this?”

  It was so stupid a question Conrad refused to even dignify it with an answer. “Is that really what you came down here to talk to me about? I would have thought you’d have better things to do with your time.” He drained the pouch in his hand, tossed it aside and was reaching for another when Damian put out a hand to stop him.

  “Espere,” he said. “Querido, wait.” His fingers closed on Conrad’s wrist and time stalled.

  A low growl rose from Conrad’s throat as he stared, transfixed, at the hand on his arm. His control began to slip. Furious, he lifted his gaze to Damian’s face and the hand was hurriedly withdrawn, but Conrad’s skin still burned from the touch. With his eyes locked on Damian’s, daring him to try and interfere again, he picked up a new bag and deliberately sank his teeth into the plastic.

  Damian’s nostrils flared. “Honestly, if this is all you’ve been eating, it’s no wonder you’ve yet to regain your full strength. You need fresh food, Conrad. Living food. Shall I find you some?”

  Conrad sighed. He knew exactly what he needed and didn’t need, as well as what he could and could not have. He drained the second bag and reached for a third, forcing himself to speak calmly. “No, this is not all I’m eating. But, this early in the day… I fear I do not always find myself in the proper frame of mind to attempt anything else.”

  He toyed with the unappetizing bag while he considered his options, coming quickly to the same conclusion he’d already drawn. There were none. By later this evening the edge of his hunger would be blunted. The worst of his venom would have been reabsorbed. He would have more choices. Until then, no matter how much he wished to feed from the living, he would not do it. He couldn’t take the chance of damaging one of the staff. That would only cause trouble, start rumors and end badly. As for attempting to take nourishment from one of his own… Appealing though the thought of it was, as an option it was even less acceptable.

  His gaze following his thoughts, he cast a glance in Damian’s direction. His eyes cut to the scarf knotted at Damian’s throat. Anguish flared. Did Damian mean for it to serve as a constant reminder to him of the injuries it covered—injuries Conrad himself had inflicted—or was that just a happy accident?

  He forced his gaze back to Damian’s face and inquired coldly, “You weren’t by any chance thinking of offering yourself for the purpose of slaking my thirst, were you?” As he’d expected, Damian’s face blanched. One hand crept protectively toward his neck. Conrad sneered, cruelly amused by the sudden increase in the tempo of Damian’s pulse. “No. Not such a pleasant thought, is it?”

  Damian swallowed hard. He placed both hands on the table and deliberately folded them together. His face impassive, he met Conrad’s eyes with a steady gaze. “You still aren’t sleeping well, are you? Is it the nightmares again?”

  Above all else, Conrad hated that Damian should know him so well. That he could so unerringly pinpoint the exact location of every weakness, every fault line, every flaw. “Yes.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  Conrad sighed. “You can tell me whatever it is you came here to talk to me about and then you can leave me to finish my meal in peace.”

  Damian frowned crossly. “Very well, then. We need to do something about the twins. They’re having a little more trouble adjusting to life here than I’d expected. I thought, perhaps, if I could explain to them—”

  Conrad put up a hand to silence him. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Just enough so they can understand why—”

  “I said no!”

  “You did not even let me finish.” Damian’s dark eyes narrowed in annoyance. “How do yo
u know what I was about to say?”

  “It really doesn’t matter, does it?” Conrad asked in what he hoped was a reasonable tone. “I know you’re hoping I’ll change my mind about something, that I’ll agree to do things in a different way—your way. I have no intention of doing so.”

  “They deserve the truth, Conrad.”

  “Perhaps they do, Damian,” Conrad mocked gently. “But do we always get what we deserve? Or what we want? Has that ever been your experience, my friend? No,” he said, answering his own question. “No, somehow, I do not think it has. I think, rather, if we’re lucky, sometimes we get what’s best for us.”

  “And this is what you think is best for the twins? A lifetime of lies, of seclusion, cut off from everyone around them—how long can they endure such a thing?”

  How long can I, Conrad wondered. How long can any of us endure this? “So what are you suggesting? Would it be better to teach them to be afraid? Shall I explain to them the many reasons why their lives are constantly at risk so they might live every instant in fear? Will it help them to know how very alone they are, the only ones of their kind in all the world? Or maybe you’d like to share with them the information that we’d both thought it best, at one point, to end their lives? Tell me, is this how you hope to help them adjust to life here?”

  An angry wave of color flooded Damian’s face. “That’s a damned lie. My hand to God I never had such a despicable thought!”

  “Yes, my dear,” Conrad replied implacably. “You did. As did I. It was in your mind the very first time you saw them. I read your intention in your eyes. Don’t try to deny it.”

  How could either of them not have thought it? At the time, putting the doomed infants to rest had seemed the wisest, most compassionate course to take. If it were not for the promise he’d given their mother, the promise to give his life in their defense, a promise he had every expectation of having to someday fulfill, Conrad did not doubt it was the course he would have pursued. Not that he wanted to admit to it either, come to think of it.

  “Things were very different back then,” Damian finally conceded.

  Conrad nodded. “They were. So we are in agreement?”

  Damian inclined his head. “I would, of course, never breathe a word on the subject.”

  “Good.”

  “But, I thought, perhaps, if I might just tell them—”

  “Have you not been listening to a thing I’ve said?” Conrad glared at him. “You will tell them nothing. Please, tell me you understand, because I do not wish to ever have this discussion again.” Damian’s lips compressed. Conrad waited. “Well?” he prompted, when the silence continued unbroken. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “Very well.” Shrugging disinterestedly, Damian got to his feet. “I can see you have other things on your mind. I should leave you to your meal.”

  It was not a “yes”, definitely not an “I promise”, which likely meant he was already planning to reopen the conversation at a later date. Conrad sighed, exhausted by the prospect.

  “There is still one thing that puzzles me, Conrad. If you did not intend to deal with this problem yourself, why could you not have allowed things to stay as they were? Why not let everyone here continue to believe it was I who chose to sire the twins?”

  Conrad eyed him wearily. His head ached from the distance between them, his heart bled with his wish to erase it. “If you had not disobeyed my orders by bringing them here, there would not have been a problem for either of us to deal with. But, tell me, why should I wish to perpetrate yet another lie? What purpose do you imagine such a ruse would accomplish, other than to put your life in even greater jeopardy were the truth of their identity to be discovered?”

  Forty years ago, he’d appealed to Damian for help in raising the twins. Even knowing the odds were against them, knowing full well how much Conrad was asking of him and how very slim their chances were of ever succeeding, Damian had accepted the challenge. At the time, Conrad hadn’t expected any of them to survive for very long.

  With the passage of years, however, things had changed. Conrad no longer needed Damian’s help in the same way he once had. What he needed him to do now was to stand down, to take himself out of the picture and out of the direct line of fire. To stop risking himself unnecessarily. It was a message Damian was clearly not getting.

  “If everyone believed I was their sire, the silence surrounding their past could be much more easily explained,” Damian said. “We might have allowed people to suspect they’d been turned against their will, and that the subject was simply too painful for any of us to discuss.”

  Conrad stared at him in disbelief. “Who would dare to even think such a thing?”

  Damian smiled. “Calm yourself, querido. I doubt anyone would ever suspect you of behaving so badly.”

  “I should hope not.” The mere thought of it turned his stomach. He may have thought about it, upon occasion, but not even he was barbaric enough to actually commit such an act.

  “I, on the other hand, have cultivated a far different reputation over the years,” Damian continued with insufferable calmness. “People believe me capable of many things. Do they not?”

  “Perhaps. But, all the same, who would ever believe I’d let you get away with so serious a transgression? Surely, I’d be expected to punish you—and most harshly.”

  Damian’s smile turned mocking. “Sí. That goes without saying. But that could also have been used to our advantage—” he gestured meaningfully at the scarf at his neck, “—could it not?”

  Comprehension, when it came, chilled Conrad’s blood. He would think of something like that, wouldn’t he? How better to explain away Damian’s ravaged throat than to suggest they were the marks of his punishment? And who would not believe Conrad capable of such cruelty? Never mind that the very thought nauseated him. “I’m sickened by this charade we must continue to play,” he said quietly, so miserable he barely noticed the flash of surprise that momentarily unseated Damian’s complacency. “You should never have disregarded my wishes in this matter. If you had not brought the twins back into this house, this entire discussion need never even have taken place.”

  “Sí.” Damian eyes flashed dangerously. “No doubt you’re correct. I’d have no need to discuss anything with you, because, by now, you’d most likely be dead.”

  “Why, my dear,” Conrad replied, in feigned surprise. “You sound almost annoyed. Has my failure to die upset your plans? I can see why you might have preferred it. For then, there’d be no one at all to keep your reckless behavior in check!”

  Damian’s head snapped back. “Preferred it? You dare?”

  Conrad sighed. Why did every conversation between them seem to end this way, with Damian goading him a step too far, until his temper snapped and he said or did something unforgivable, something he hadn’t meant and couldn’t undo. He slumped forward against the table and rested his forehead against his upraised fist. “Leave me,” he ordered quietly. “I should think, by now, you’d know better than to try and talk to me when I’ve had too little sleep.” Lifting his head again he met Damian’s gaze. “Which is not an invitation to re-open the subject at a later date.”

  Damian, his genteel mask once more in place, nodded shortly. “As you wish.”

  “One more thing,” Conrad said, stopping Damian just as he was about to leave.

  Damian turned back around, his face all polite inquiry. “And what is that?”

  “Get in touch with Georgia for me. I wish to see her. Tell her to take a plane.”

  “What?” The mask slipped off again. Conrad hid a smile at Damian’s reaction. The animosity between Georgia and Damian had raged for centuries. It was one of the main reasons Georgia continued to make her home elsewhere.

  In truth, Conrad thought, there was very little to smile about. The request he was about to make would likely please no one. Which, come to think of it, was probably why he’d put it off as long as he had.

  Besides being his olde
st living friend, Georgia, like Conrad himself, was one of the very few Lamia Invitus left in the world. Violent, dangerous, difficult to control and barely able to control themselves, by their very nature they inspired fear. It was a quality Conrad had always found despicable—in himself as well as the others—and yet it undoubtedly proved useful upon occasion.

  “What do you want with her?” Damian demanded, suspicion all but dancing in his eyes. “And a plane? She’ll hate that!”

  Conrad nodded. “Yes, I’m sure she will.” The dehydrating effects of plane travel played havoc with vampire nerves. “It’s regrettable, but I want her here now. You might suggest she bring along a snack to improve the journey.”

  Damian sighed. “You do realize she’s going to believe the plane was my idea?”

  “In all likelihood. Which should please you. You always seem to enjoy it when people think badly of you.”

  “Not always.” Damian hesitated for a moment, then asked, “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you need her so urgently?”

  Conrad shook his head. “You’ll find out soon enough, as will she. There are some things I would prefer to explain once, to both of you, rather than having to repeat myself.”

  “Very well.”

  As Damian turned and left the room, Conrad experienced his usual mixture of relief and regret. As much as he couldn’t stand to see him leave, he could hardly bear for him to stay either. And the situation grew worse with every day that passed. If it weren’t for the twins… But, no, he couldn’t honestly say what he would do if they were not in the picture.

  In some ways, it might be easier on him if he sent Damian away—at least until he’d recovered. He’d had himself under control for most of the past forty years, hadn’t he? They’d been friends. They’d been partners. They’d been parents together. The fact that Conrad still desperately wished they could once again be more than that, was never discussed.

  Three months ago, however, things had changed. It had been Damian’s blood that had saved him from almost certain death. Now he could not forget its taste. Having him here, close but forbidden, merely increased Conrad’s suffering and delayed his recovery. But not having him around? Not being able to see his face or hear his voice, or even guess at what he was up to? That was a torture Conrad remembered all too well from the century they’d spent apart. That, he knew, would surely be a thousand times worse.