The icy water dripped, sliding down cold metal like a stream of uneven tears. It settled in a murky pool and slowly dissipated into the damp earth. Around him, the air reeked of rot and neglect. The musty smell penetrated his bones and seeped into his heart.
He watched the
water dispassionately. His dark red hair fell in greasy clumps across his
forehead into passionless purple eyes. His cheekbones protruded sharply from
his pale white face and sank into his chiseled jaw. Dark, heavy lashes fell
like crescents on those cheeks, forming shadows where none should have been.
The shadows only emphasized his pallor. He looked as though he had not eaten a
decent meal in months, and in truth, he had not. It hurt to eat. It hurt not to
eat. And so, because he could not avoid the pain, he stayed crumbled in his
corner like a forgotten doll, tossed and thrown away.
He fought a
battle he could not win, scratching and clawing his way from his private black
hole. From his personal hell. He'd always taken what life had thrown at him,
laughing and throwing it back. He had laughed in Death's face, daring it to
crush him beneath its heel.
And he had lost.
He learned that
Death played no games and took no prisoners. One mistake and the game was
finished, with no chances to regroup and no chances to start over. Death won…
and that was it.
His mouth fell
open, that gorgeous, full mouth, and he sighed. God, he wished life were like a
Monopoly game. A roll of the dice and he could have been back at Go. One turn… and
everything could have changed. But somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten his
"Get out of jail free" card.
His time was
over. Death moved on to play its game with someone else.
He no longer
cared that he rotted in this filthy sewer. He was alone. The rats left him to
himself and no one else ventured this far underground, not even the vagrants
who had nowhere else to go.
He had played his
hand and now, he simply wanted to stay here, licking his wounds in peace. Too
many crimes and too many witnesses had brought him to this state. Too many
deaths… Many of those deaths had been human. Many others had been
insignificant. He could not dredge up
any regret for those deaths, only for hers.
Only for Her.
He could still
see the light fading from her eyes as she died. He could still taste her
coppery blood on his lips, warm and rich, sliding down his throat. His teeth
stretched and lengthened painfully, remembering. Her silky hair shifting
through his fingertips like raw silk. Her sky blue eyes filled with love and
hatred…
Yes, hatred.
He shuddered,
knowing it was the last emotion he would ever remember seeing. That hatred grew
and pulsed in his mind, brushing at the last lucid edges of his consciousness.
His mind railed at him, ignoring the old adage of forgive and forget. Seeing
only the pain etched across her features and the betrayal in her eyes.
He knew he had
been wrong. He was not afraid to admit this. Admitting was the least of the
punishment he'd inflicted on himself. Admitting was nothing. Living was where
the problems started.
She hated you…
He cringed.
Voices whispered through his mind. Her voice, voices he didn't recognize… They
were all there. They lived in his head, mocking him, sleek and cold against his
pain.
Wincing, his
rejoiced in his agony. Without it he would have nothing. Her memory would fade
and she would be gone, lost like so many others. And even if meant this,
surviving, but not living, he would die before he lost her.
He had played
with this idea forever. He had thought about joining her for as long as he
could remember. His luck, though, had made a biting turn for the worse. With
that in mind, he could only worry about ending up on the other end, burning in
scorching flames while she grieved for him somewhere else.
If she grieved.
He had his doubts.
His violet eyes
darkened, burning pure and clear against his chalk white face. He was putting
his faith in a mortal god, in a god that rewarded humans for atrocious deeds. If
they could be redeemed, who said that he could not? He idly played with the
thought of prayer before he discarded it.
Prayer would not
help him now. He could only help himself.
And that meant
one thing.
He would go to
Jez. She would help him. She would end this unceasing monotony, free him from
this useless existence.
She thought he
was evil and she was probably right. They would both be glad when he left this
world. All he had to do was show her what he had been, hiding what he had
become. Then he would be free.
He uncoiled his
lanky body, standing for the first time in days, weeks, maybe months. He wasn't
sure and it didn't matter.
Life… Life was
too long. He had finally stumbled on
the way to fix that problem. Hope coursed through his body, racing to his
fingertips. He would be free. His
eyes slid shut, bloody tears sliding from them for the first time in years. And
now, finally, instead of weeping in sorrow, as he should have done centuries
ago, he sobbed silently in joy.
He could taste her
on his lips. Not her blood this time, but the memories of Her he had lost in
his disillusion. He heard her whisper about the future in his ear, telling of
time and a family they would never have. Telling of her love and not her
hatred.
He only hoped he
would end up where she was.
***
"You're a
coward, Kian Redfern," Giacinta mocked. "Why not just end it
yourself? Why leave it to Jez?"
He glared at her
from beneath spiky black lashes. "You don't know what you're talking
about," he answered coolly. "I came back to get the rest of my
clothes. Now I'm leaving."
She shook her
head and strutted to a high-backed, forest green armchair, where she sat. She
never looked away from him, her black eyes fathomless. "Running away
again?" she wondered, her tone still mocking.
"No,"
he replied flatly. "But I'm not staying here."
She shrugged, one
elegant shoulder lifting negligently. "Then, go. Nothing is stopping
you."
He turned to go,
but curiosity made him face her once again.
"What made you think I was going to Jez?" he questioned.
"I can see
it in your eyes," she said, contemplating him. He felt like she was
judging him and finding him sorely lacking.
"You're ready to die."
"Two
thousand years isn't long enough to live?" he asked and his voice was
bitter.
"Is that
your reason?" she returned. "Or are you just tired of watching your
soulmate die?"
The last was said
with a small, triumphant smile. Giacinta always won—always. He stared at her,
his eyes narrowing. A spark of challenge flared inside him. Giacinta never
failed to inspire that feeling—the feeling that made him want to beat her, that
made him want to keep living just so he could see her fall. The feeling that
kept him thriving throughout the centuries.
He quickly reined
his anger in. Why give her what she wanted? "Sometimes," he snapped,
"I think that's the only reason you keep going."
"Oh, mon cher," she laughed throatily.
"You have no idea."
He spun to walk
away. She rose from her chair, moving toward him like a snake slithering toward
its next meal, stopping him. Her hand reached out to gently rest on his arm and
she smiled. "Kian," she started softly, persuasively.
He froze. It took
everything he had to remain still instead of jerking out of her grasp.
"Don't--"
"Don't
what?" she asked quickly. "Don't touch you? Don't try convincing you
to stay?" Again the throaty laugh came. "It's far too late for that
now."
He slowly slipped
away from her, slowly enough that she didn't realize what he was doing until it
was too late. Her hand fell to her side. Anger flooded through him, building up
inside so fast no words would come. All he saw was a thick red haze. Dimly,
while he tried to gather those thoughts into a biting retort, he heard a door
yanked open and then slammed shut. Hurried footsteps sounded across the
entranceway's tiled floor.
"'Cinta!
'Cinta!" a tiny voice chortled. "I brought you a present!"
His vision
cleared enough to bring the owner of the voice into focus. A tiny four-year-old
child scampered toward them. In her hands, she carried something, but she
clutched it too tightly for him to be able to discern what it was.
Giacinta frowned
down at the child. She took the object from her gently, then brought it higher,
peering at it. "You drank all of its blood."
The child's eyes
watered. "I was hungry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to drink
it all."
One of Giacinta's
eyebrows raised. "Haven't I told you about drinking from animals,
Morgan?"
Morgan looked on
the verge of tears. "I'm sorry,
'Cinta."
She smiled
brightly and patted her on the head as if Morgan was a faithful dog. "No
matter, ma petite," she said.
"Just don't do it again."
Morgan nodded.
"I won't. I promise." Then she turned to look at Kian, cocking her
head and staring at him much as Giacinta had. "Who is he?" she asked.
"Il n'est
personne d'importance. Tu dois nous laisser, d'accord? Je serai bientôt en
haut," she replied rapidly in French. She watched Kian while she said this.
Kian thought
perhaps she looked for a reaction, but he wouldn't give her one. Even though he
understood every damn word of what she'd said. He waited until the child darted
forward to kiss her on the cheek and left the room.
"No one of
importance?" he asked her mildly, when they were alone again.
She smiled
uneasily. "The child wouldn't understand, Kian. Our relationship is--
complex, to say the least."
"That's one
way to describe it," he admitted. "I could think of ways that are
better -- more graphic -- but why bother wasting the energy?"
She shrugged.
"Indeed. Why bother? I see no need to involve the child in something so
base."
"Where did
you find her?" he asked suddenly, curious.
"On a street
corner in San Francisco, where her human parents had left her to die. She was
so adorable," she remembered. "Just a little thing, malnourished and
frightened nearly to death."
Kian stared at
her. "She's an illegally made vampire, not lamia?"
"You know
how much I love to break the rules," she said, not truly answering his question.
Then a small smile played on her lips. "It didn't stop you, did it?"
"You weren't
four years old," he pointed out.
"True,"
she acknowledged. "But is there really a difference?"
He wanted to hit
her, to wipe that smug smile off her face. Anything to hurt her. "You were old enough to protect and take care of
yourself," he said coldly. "She wouldn't survive a minute on her
own."
"You'd be
surprised. Morgan is resourceful, to say the least." She ignored his
censuring glare. Meeting his eyes, she said, "You really should be going.
I do have company, you know. It isn't polite of me to ignore my guest."
"I wouldn't
really refer to myself as company, Giacinta," a deep voice said from the
doorway.
Kian froze. The
voice invoked memories he'd forgotten he had. Memories of hot summer days and
of swimming in the still icy river. Memories of laughter and sharing, of joy
and pain, of heartbreak and separation.
He knew that
voice. He hadn't heard it in years… Not since the last time his soulmate had
died.
Steeling himself,
he turned to face the owner of that voice. Cold violet eyes met his, mirrors of
each other, and the owner of those eyes smiled. "Hello, brother," he
said.
"Kieran,"
he acknowledged with a short nod. He said nothing else, waiting, trying to
drag his tumultuous emotions into
check.
His brother
continued to smile that hungry smile, replying, "I go by the name
Christian now, brother. It's so much more modern, don't you think?"
Kian didn't know
what to make of this casual conversation. He didn't know how his brother could
act like nothing had happened. But then, his brother hadn't been the one who
had been hurt.
"What are
you doing here?" he asked abruptly.
The smile dropped
from his brother's identical face.
"I came to see Giacinta," he said, all pretense of unity lost.
"There were, of course, the other, less important reasons -- killing
people, torture, destroying any happiness you might have found -- the
usual."
Kian's shoulders
sagged. "It won't work this time," he replied. "There's nothing
to destroy."
Kieran didn't
reply. He watched his brother thoughtfully, cruel violet eyes running over
every haggard line of his face. Finally, his voice almost casual, he said,
"I've found her you know."
They both knew
who he meant. Aeshli. Soulmate, Old Soul, friend, lover, and enemy. She was all
these things and more.
"Don't
torture me for the hell of it," he warned.
"I'm
serious, brother dear," Kieran continued, as if Kian hadn't said anything.
"She was in the hospital. I was visiting the patients -- out of the
goodness of my heart, of course -- at Massachusetts General Hospital. The one
off Fruit Street. She was here," he finished.
Kian knew better
than to hope. His brother would only tell him this for one reason. Aeshli was
dead. He would wager his life that Kieran had killed her. Not that it was such
a large price to pay. He would rather be with her anyway. His younger brother
was ruthless, cruel, and destructive. Especially when it came to Aeshli's life.
Still, he
couldn't stop himself from asking for clarification. "Was here?"
Kieran smiled,
mock sadness playing across his face and in his eyes. "Yes, was," he sighed melodramatically.
"It's funny how humans can't live without blood, isn't it?"
He didn't even
think. He launched himself at his
brother's throat. All he knew was that his brother needed to pay for what he
had done. What he had done countless times. He slammed Kieran against the wall,
knocking an armchair over in his haste. Pictures flew off the wall and there
was a loud thud as Kieran's head
snapped back.
"Why?" he snarled. His eyes were a deep purple color, speckled with red flecks,
anger and pain etched deeply on his face.
Flushed cheeks flamed against his supple white skin. Giacinta stood up,
shocked and alarmed, but they ignored her.
"Why not?
She was human. Vermin. Do I really
need a reason?" Kieran never lost his calm expression.
Kian took a deep
breath and forced his fingers to loosen. He stepped back. He wanted to kill
him, but he knew better than to try.
His brother
brushed himself off almost fastidiously, then smiled. "She never even woke
up, brother," he mocked softly, "but she died thinking it was
you."
Kian saw red -- a
deep, dark red like the color of his brother's hair. Not quite the color of blood.
Too dark and deep and full of danger. It washed over him like a tidal wave and
he had to stop himself from attacking his brother again. He didn't trust
himself to speak until he was calm.
"Play your
games, Kieran," he advised bitterly, "but remember that one day I'll
return the favor."
His brother
nodded, acknowledging this. "Of course," he replied softly. "I
expect no less of you."
Kian nodded
briefly to both of them and walked to the door with his head held high. He stopped
there, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He never looked
back. He simply walked through the door and kept walking.
Down the steps.
Past the overgrown flowers lining the path. Around the bend in the sidewalk. He
knew better than to show them fear, than to show them how much they'd hurt him.
He was out of sight now, trees blocking any view they might have. He made it
all the way to the street.
Then he ran.
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