Blood Memories

CHAPTER 23
Alone.”
I pulled out to see him mouthing the word almost silently, amber eyes lost in a fog of memories.
“Philip, wake up.”
He blinked and looked down at me. Without thinking, I laid my face against his knee in a gesture of comfort, like a mortal, like a woman.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Long past now.”
Julian had hurt him, filled his world with lies.
“I think he went on killing . . . all of them, Leisha,” he whispered, “all but Edward, Maggie, and me.”
“Did you send Maggie away?”
“No, I just didn’t go home. Julian never had to chase her off. Then she left for America on her own in 1841, about two years after you.”
“So she waited sixteen years for you to come back to Gascony?”
“We saw each other . . . sometimes. Like that first night you saw me at Cliffbracken, we’d all been out hunting together. I was happy. But after a few nights together, Julian broke us up.”
How many had Julian murdered? Angelo said, “Nearly thirty in Europe alone.” But how? Julian had been turned less than a year before Philip. If we grow more powerful with age, then how could he destroy such ancient beings?
I flashed the question mentally at Philip. He didn’t seem to realize no words had been spoken and nodded at me.
“I wondered that, too. He told me later that they couldn’t feel him coming. Maybe because he doesn’t have psychic powers? But the same technique worked every time. He’d track his target down, hide behind a tree—like with Angelo—or a door or a building and just wait. Nobody ever felt him, and nobody ever saw him coming.”
I stood up, trying to get my head around all this. “But I lived with Edward for seventy years.”
“Yes, and Julian didn’t know what to do at first. He feared what might happen.”
“He never said anything.”
“How could he? To stop the situation by force meant traveling to New York. That meant seeing his father. And if he wrote to order you away and Edward refused, this would be . . . The shame was not worth risking for Julian.”
“We didn’t even know psychic ability was possible.”
Philip’s brows knitted. “That’s true. Perhaps he didn’t want you to know. He kept watch on you for years, waiting to see what would happen. But nothing ever did, and in the end, you left on your own, proving Julian’s point that we were all meant to live alone . . . He didn’t consider William a true vampire.”
“You’re missing the point. Edward and I developed no psychic powers from living together. It never even occurred to us.”
“I know. Angelo said such power must be taught . . . like Wade has done for you. Perhaps we all have the power buried, waiting to wake.”
“All except Julian.”
Yes, all except Julian. That was the crux. He feared what he did not possess, enough to murder his own kind.
Philip stood up, towering over me. “Leisha?”
“Mmmmm?” He pulled me out of concentration.
“Do you remember a few weeks ago, when Maggie called me and told me you were living with her?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“It hurt, and I hadn’t felt anything for a long time.”
“You missed her?”
“No, it wasn’t that. But she spoke of fireplaces and the three of you talking together. It didn’t seem fair when I had to stay by myself. It made me think of John and Angelo—things pushed to the back of my head for so many years.”
“And you like having company now?”
“Yes, but look at us! Julian was right. Only a few nights together, and it’s started.”
I turned to him angrily. “Listen to yourself! He’s been rationalizing his own fear, his own weakness, for so long you’ve started believing it. Telepathy isn’t a disease. It’s more like a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it grows. If not for Wade . . . Oh, he’s still in the bedroom.”
“Oh.”
Philip jumped up and crossed the room. “I am sorry, Wade. We’re finished.” He spoke like someone who’d known Wade for years.
When they came back to the couch together, I noticed similar lines of sadness below their eyes, on their foreheads. What a team the three of us made. Almost everyone we’d ever cared about was dead or gone, taken away in this unstoppable conflict, which started with the single action of Edward Claymore jumping off his own front porch.
Why couldn’t we mourn? Wade had tear ducts. Why didn’t he cry for Dominick? Philip rarely mentioned Maggie unless he had to. And me? I couldn’t think about William, couldn’t let the image of his face enter my consciousness or I might dry up and crumble. What a team.
A fruit basket sat cheerfully on an oak writing desk against the wall. I picked it up and peeled back the plastic cover. “Wade, you should eat some of this. Do you like apples? Maybe these grapes?”
He nodded tiredly, and I flashed inside his mind, I’m sorry about Dominick.
No answer came, but he took some grapes and a banana from me.
“We should go,” Philip said. “I called Julian hours ago, but he did not tell me his location.”
“Couldn’t we just keep all this a secret?” I asked. “Why does he have to know?”
“He’ll know,” Philip answered softly.
I wasn’t so sure, but those stories of Julian stepping out from nowhere frightened me enough. I kept fantasizing his dark visage popping up behind the couch, a broadsword arcing in his grasp.
Wade’s hands were shaking, maybe delayed shock from everything he’d gone through tonight. Helping him peel the banana, I asked, “Do you still have the Prius?”
“Yes.”
“Good, we’ll let Philip drive. One ride with him and nothing will ever scare you again.”
We all laughed briefly, but the laughter was forced. Taking the fruit basket seemed a good idea. It would be easy for me to forget that mortals had to eat every day. Wade seldom spoke up about things like hunger or sleep.
He’d have to come with us, at least for now, at least until we figured something else out. He was just so vulnerable, so unprepared for what lay ahead. Even his growing tolerance, perhaps acceptance, of Philip might fade away after witnessing the first hunt. Running all night, sleeping all day. What kind of life was that for a man like Wade?
But nothing could be done about it now.
“Help me take those blankets off the windows,” Philip said. “We won’t need them anymore, and the maids might wonder why we put them up.”
“Okay,” I answered uncertainly.
How could he worry about things like blankets over hotel windows and then kill cops on busy streets? Sometimes he was too weird—even for me.
The next few seconds caught me completely off guard. Thinking about Philip’s inconsistencies took my mind from our immediate problems. I reached out for the hanging blanket nearest the west wall, and a pale hand snaked from behind it, grasping my wrist like a vice.
“Having a party?” a voice as cold as ocean depths echoed from behind the drape. “Without me?”
Julian.
I almost screamed, but didn’t. He stepped out, still holding me—dressed in black, looking identical to the image imprinted on my memory: broad, pale features set off by cold eyes. All I could feel was fear. Uncontrollable, sickening waves of fear washed down my throat, making my teeth click rapidly together.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Philip turn and stop. “Did you climb all the way up the side of this building just to impress me?” His voice was light and flippant. He had good control.
“Of course not,” my maker answered. “I took the stairs to the roof and climbed down one floor. Did I impress you?”
“As always. It’s good to see you.”
Even through my haze of fear, I could hear that their casual banter was wrong—it didn’t fit. And from the corner of my eye, I could see Philip’s face, guarded but terrified, no matter how calm he sounded.
His gift didn’t work against Julian. Strange how the one person Philip feared in this world had been the reason for my existence, always there, but distant, hiding in the shadows, the one person William truly remembered.
Had Julian ever felt my gift? Did he know what his pretty creation could do?
Reaching up with my free hand, I touched his fingers softly. “Master, your grip is too tight.”
I focused on emanating an image of myself—small, fragile, hardly worth the bother of a creature like Julian, far beneath him in every respect. A peasant, and yet somehow one of his own. How could he think of hurting me? Harmless and defenseless, I needed protection and the strength of someone like him.
His susceptibility to suggestion surprised me. Philip had played along when we first met, even allowed himself to be affected, but he always knew the game. He always knew exactly what I was.
But Julian let go instantly, actually steadying me to make sure I wouldn’t fall.
“My father is dead?” he asked, his words sounding more like a statement than a question.
Some of my terror began to fade, and I bowed my head for a moment, as if not worthy of looking him in the face. Then carefully, I raised my eyes.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And where is his murderer?”
“Dead. Philip killed him.”
A flicker of relief passed across his pale features. His work here was done. The senile abortion he called father no longer haunted him. Revenge had been exacted, and Philip and I were no threat because we had been beaten into states of eternal fear. Things must have looked quite rosy.
He didn’t seem to sense or suspect a thing about our growing telepathy. Maybe Philip gave him too much credit?
My hope began to rise.
Maybe if we just behaved correctly, fed his ego, and walked three steps behind him, we’d get out of this without a fight. I had no pride left, not when it came to Julian.
But then he turned to Wade, who’d been standing silently in the corner, just watching, breathing quickly. Even wearing his canvas jacket, he looked so slender, almost fragile, his white-blond hair hanging forward over his eyes. After that first intense scan of my memories a few nights ago, Wade knew my maker well.
My heart sank again.
“Who is this?” Julian asked. “Did Philip bring dinner?”
I wanted to scream, to claw his eyes out. What had I been thinking? Hoping we could flatter our way out of this? Julian would never let Wade out of the building.
Of all the ways I thought to die, defending a mortal wasn’t one of them. Then again . . . I did possess one weapon, and I still might be able to use it here.
But it was difficult not to think of days long past. The sight of Julian brought back memories long forgotten, interfering with my gift. I remembered serving my first banquet at Cliffbracken, when he sat at the lavish dining table . . . back when the house was still alive. He had seemed so large, and I had felt so small.
Not anymore.
Not unless I wanted him to see me that way.
I pushed the memories away . . . pushed my fear away, and then moved between him and Wade, focusing hard on emanating my gift.
Concentrate. Get him on his knees.
“Master, please.” I reached out again and used the tips of my fingers to touch the back of his hand. “He is not worthy of you. Come. Let me find you a lovely woman.” I took a step toward the door, pitching my voice to an even softer tone. “I’ve dreamed of hunting with you, of learning from you. Let Philip have this one.” I took another step toward the door.
Julian’s mouth opened slightly as he stepped after me. His eyes seemed puzzled and pleased at the same time as I could see him mulling over the sweet portrait my words painted of him as the teacher, me as his grateful student, working to please him, to find him better prey.
Philip hadn’t moved in several moments, and he was watching silently, allowing me to take over.
“Come into the city with me,” I whispered to Julian.
He took another step.
Then, suddenly, he glanced over at Wade, and his eyes changed. He shook his head as if to clear it and looked back at me in shock . . . and then rage. His large hand flashed out and gripped my wrist, jerking me up against him.
“What are you doing?” he snarled. “You would try that on me?”
He whipped his free hand back to hit me, and I braced myself.
“Julian, don’t!” Philip shouted.
The blow never landed—but not because of Philip’s angry shout. Instead, the room exploded in a deafening sound, and I fell back against the floor, looking around wildly to see what happened.
Another explosion sounded, hurting my ears.
Julian’s chest was bleeding from two gaping holes as he stumbled backward. Wade was holding his Beretta out in both hands, beads of sweat trickling down his narrow face.
He fired again, catching Julian in the shoulder.
I’d forgotten about the Beretta.
“His throat!” Philip yelled. “Aim for his throat!”
I twisted over to sit in a crouch, uncertain what to do. Wade fired again, but Julian dropped low, and the bullet missed him completely.
But his pale face was so shocked I wondered how he had the presence of mind to even act.
Philip bolted across the room, his loose flannel shirt billowing behind him. He grabbed Julian by the shoulder and leg, lifting him into the air and throwing him at the window. Julian’s body crashed against the drapes.
Glass snapped and crackled.
Let him fall through. Please, let him fall through.
Dropping twelve floors to the pavement might not destroy his body, but he’d be out of working order for a while.
But in despair, I saw his hand catch the drape. He managed to steady himself, pain and confusion twisting his features as he stared back in shock—as if unable to believe Philip would attack him to defend me.
Philip actually snarled at him.
I realized this was a new situation for Julian. Fearing a psychic combat he could not win, he’d always hidden himself away, striking only unaware victims. Physical battles with an equal were almost unknown . . . and he was wounded, bleeding.
But Philip was strong. He charged forward again and swung hard with his right fist, catching Julian across the jaw. The crack echoed as Julian’s head snapped back.
Wade moved past me, looking for a clear shot.
“Don’t!” I called. “You might hit Philip.”
We needed Philip whole.
“Stay behind me,” Wade spat back, still holding the gun with both hands.
Philip reached down to try and get another grip, but this time, Julian swept out with his leg, knocking Philip off his feet. Julian lunged up to stand behind the couch, his face a mask of hatred, and then his eyes grew more focused, emanating his gift.
The fear hit me like a wall.
I started gagging.
Wade didn’t even get off one shot. He fell to his knees, dropping the gun. His mouth was open in terror but no sounds came.
Philip cried out from fear, and he tried struggling up to crawl. Julian kicked him in the chest so hard his body flew against a wooden chair, smashing it to pieces. When he hit the floor, his shoulder popped out of its socket and his arm lay at an odd angle.
Julian ignored him and strode directly to Wade. The waves of fear washed over and over me, but despair flooded in as well when Julian grabbed Wade’s hair with one hand and the Beretta with the other. He smashed the butt of the gun against Wade’s cheekbone.
“You like this gun?” Julian asked. His chest and shoulder were still bleeding, soaking his black shirt. He pressed the barrel to Wade’s temple. “Do you like it now?”
He wasn’t even going to feed. He was just going to shoot Wade in the head.
And Philip was down, his body broken, his mind lost in fear.
“Master, no,” I started begging. I hated begging.
I had to do something.
In desperation, more from instinct than intent, I pushed my own thoughts into his mind with all the force I had once used on Dominick. Only this time, I didn’t fire ugly images.
Stop!
He froze, his dark eyes wild.
Let go of him!
He dropped Wade first, then the gun, and his mouth formed a horrified O shape. He half turned and staggered toward me. I felt him trying to force me out of his mind. He focused his gift on me at the same time, trying to bury me in terror.
I gasped aloud, fighting for my hold, feeling him push me out, knowing if he did, we were all dead.
I closed my eyes, blocking out the sight of him, but this time, I sent images . . . memories I’d seen inside of Philip.
Angelo’s face. His smile. The sword arcing, slicing off his head.
All Julian’s resistance failed as he cried out. I could feel what he felt in this moment, and he had never felt anything like it. I kept my eyes closed and pushed harder inside of his mind.
Show me.
I was inside his memories, inside his existence, and he could not keep me out, nor could he stop the flow I had started by forcing him to see Angelo. He began to remember it all. I saw so many faces, so many of my kind as Julian butchered them . . . a red-haired vampire turning in surprise as the blade swept in . . . a dark-skinned girl, little more than a child. I wanted to weep, but could not.
Instead, I gripped his thoughts more tightly with my own. I altered them, warped them, creating images of the ghosts of his victims. I built a nightmare in his mind as they crept toward him with bloody lines across their throats. He could not escape as they clutched at him . . . grabbing him, nailing him to a cross, and raising it.
Angelo picked up a torch and set the cross on fire.
Julian screamed and fell to the carpet.
I crawled over to him, with my mouth to his ear.
“Is this what you fear, Master? One of us taking over your thoughts, your body?” I pressed my mouth closer, tasting the stale flesh of his temple. “Then fear me. I could make this much worse, and I could make you relive it over and over again.” I paused, watching his face twitch in horror, ashamed how much I enjoyed the sight.
“We want to be left alone,” I whispered. “That’s all. But if you ever come near me or Philip or Wade again, I will trap you in your own hell. Do you understand?”
I released some of my control, letting him have partial function of his body again. He did not respond, but turned his head to stare at me. I was a stranger to him—as if he could not believe his little servant girl could conjure images ugly enough to make him writhe and force them into his brain. He didn’t know me. His mouth was still locked in the O shape.
“I will let you up if you swear to leave, if you swear to never come near us again,” I said.
The fear and disbelief in his eyes grew.
“Do you swear?” I demanded.
“Yes,” he finally hissed, finding his voice.
“Remember what I can do!”
But then the sound of crashing glass broke the last of my connection, my hold on him. Wind swept through the room, and I looked up to see Philip standing over us with a chair leg in his right hand. His left shoulder was still dislocated. The hotel window behind him had been smashed.
He’d broken the window?
He dropped the chair leg. Then he grabbed Julian, pulled him up and threw him backward. Julian was still dazed from the horror show I had sent into his head and from the shock of having lost control of himself. He nearly fell through the broken window, but managed to grab one side, cutting his hand, as he fought wildly to pull himself back inside. Philip strode toward him with a savage expression I never wanted to see again.
“Philip, no!” I called. “You don’t need to—”
But Philip didn’t even hear me. He kicked Julian square in the chest, and I watched as my maker’s arms flailed and his eyes widened in his pale face before he fell from view . . . twelve stories down toward the pavement.
Then he was gone.
“Why did you do that?” I shouted at Philip. “I had him! You didn’t need to . . .” I trailed off as Philip turned, anger draining from his face.
He came back quickly and dropped to his knees, grabbing my hands, examining my fingers and arms. “Did he hurt you?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
Wade moaned and sirens blared outside. It had only been moments since the first shots exploded in the room, but hotel security must be on its way up—and someone had called the police.
“We have to go now,” Philip said, walking to Wade and leaning over to pick him up.
“I can walk,” Wade mumbled. His cheek was cut and turning purple.
They both started for the door, but I couldn’t help running to the window first and looking down.
The pavement below was empty.