Philip

I can’t! Why can’t I do it?”

Julian’s anguished voice echoed off cold library walls. The winter of 1825 proved harsh, although Philip seldom worried about things like weather. He didn’t need fire or warmth, only blood. At first the idea of spending December in Harfleur with his master, Angelo, and his undead brothers pleased Philip. But Julian’s growing discontent dampened this visit, making him wish he’d remained in Gascony with Maggie.

“Why do you bother?” he asked, growing bored. “It’s only a candlestick.”

Julian often sat for hours at a time at their aged oak table, trying to move various items with his mind. “Because John developed his psychic powers within months of being turned,” he answered, “by receiving thoughts from Master Angelo. That is how our mental powers develop, through contact with our makers and with other vampires . . . but I have nothing. Angelo has tried with me, but even after all this time, I have no power.”

“Ridiculous,” Philip answered, shaking his head. “Your gift is strong.”

“Against mortals, not against other vampires.”

This made no sense to Philip. Why would any of them need a defense against each other? Julian’s gift for inducing fear was overwhelming. Philip thought it much more useful than telepathy.

“I never developed psychic powers either,” he said.

“You’re different. You cannot even remember your mortal life.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care, Philip? Not a bit of psychic power in you, and you truly don’t care?”

“Why should I? I’m pleased with my gift.”

“Only because you’re vain, shallow, and conceited. Get out and leave me alone.”

Philip knew they all thought him simple because he was the youngest and had no passion for their histories or studies or dusty old books. Blood mattered. And Julian entertained the greatest gift of them all. Why should he pine so pitifully over this psychic ability of John’s? Fear was a better weapon than telepathy or telekinesis—at least for hunting.

Master Angelo had chosen the three of them because they were so different from each other. “My sons,” he called them. “Feed and explore and live forever.”

Wasn’t that enough? Shouldn’t that be enough for anyone?

This library was on the main floor of Angelo’s stone fortress. An empty hearth stood in the back wall, but shelves of faded, leather- or clothbound books lined the other three. A large oak table stood near the hearth, surrounded by four chairs. Philip never sat in his chair, as he’d never liked this room and he hated sitting for more than a few moments.

Julian focused his brooding gaze on the candle again, so Philip turned and walked away.

He moved up the corridor, slipped through a narrow doorway, and went downstairs to find John reading a book in the wine cellar. Three fat candles illuminated the casks and bottles stretching back into darkness beyond their light’s reach.

“Isn’t anyone going hunting tonight?” Philip said. “It’s snowing. We should be outside chasing carolers.”

John looked up through a lock of uncombed, sandy-blond hair. He was a large man with dark blue eyes and ever-present stubble on his strong jaw. “Why don’t you take Julian? He’s not been out for a week.”

“He’s still staring at that candlestick. Can’t you talk to him?”

“Master Angelo tried last night. Don’t worry. It’s just a phase. If you had half a brain in that pretty head, you’d want more power, too.”

“Well, thank God I don’t,” Philip said. “Tell me what I’m thinking right now.”

John concentrated briefly and then threw the book at him. “You’re thinking I’m a stuffy old porcupine for sitting in this chair reading when I should be outside running in the snow with you.”

“Too right.”

Since he had no memories of mortal life, Philip didn’t understand concepts like social tension between the French, Welsh, and Scottish. John McCrugger had simply always been there, a permanent fixture, good-natured, oversized, and unwashed.

“You’re so simple, Philip,” he said. “Such a purist. No wonder Angelo loves you.”

“Love is for mortals and sheep, not Angelo. Get off that chair and come outside.”

 
Philip tried to duck right, but John caught the back of his neck and shoved his body against the ground, pushing his face into the cold, crisp snow. Philip was faster on his feet, but once John got a grip, the game was over.

“Give up. You’re done for,” the Scotsman said, laughing. “Or I’ll grind that pretty face blue.”

Philip arched his back and tried unsuccessfully to break away. “All right, I give.”

“You won’t kick me?”

“No.”

After one last shove, John took his hand away. Philip, of course, twisted around instantly and kicked up hard enough to snap his companion’s jaw. “Can’t you tell when I’m lying?”

John roared and lunged for him again, but he was off and running for the nearest tree. These were good times. It seemed strange that both his brothers and his master tended to change once they were alone with him, dropping all that intellectual nonsense and living like real hunters, wild and strong. John most of all . . . Julian least of all.

“Climb up and get me!” Philip called from a low branch, knowing John was no climber.

“You can’t stay up there forever. Might as well come down now and let me break that foot.”

“I think not.” Philip’s mind switched focus so quickly he often frustrated people. “Let’s go into town. I’m hungry.”

“How could you possibly be hungry? You fed last night.”

Philip dropped to the ground. “I’ll race you.”

“No, if you really want to go that far, we should saddle the horses.”

“All right, but my horse is faster than yours.”

Wrestling match forgotten, they were soon flying through the icy air down the road toward Harfleur proper. Angelo’s winter home stood four miles away from the city, giving him easy access without being too close. The muscles of Philip’s horse felt solid yet fluid beneath his knees. He liked his bay mare, Kayli. The trip from Gascony would have been lonely without her. He didn’t function well without company.

“Slow down,” John called.

Reining Kayli down to a walk, Philip swiveled his head back. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s still early and a crisp night. I thought we might talk awhile.”

“Talk?”

Their horses fell into step along the snow-packed road. “I was just watching you ride,” John said. “Strange how you remember things like riding and where to grow the best grapes, how to speak both French and English, yet you don’t recall anything of your mortal life.”

Philip shifted in his saddle, bored already. “That’s old hat.”

“You couldn’t even speak at first, not at all. Frightened Angelo pale. You were like a newborn babe. Did you know I met you once, before he turned you?”

“You did?” Philip was suddenly interested. “What was I like?”

“Different than you are now. Almost timid. The idea of filling your father’s shoes as marquis seemed a death sentence. When Angelo offered you a way out, you jumped on it.”

“Angelo asked me?”

“Of course he did. It was Julian’s idea. Angelo wanted three sons, you know.”

Philip did know. In fact, he knew more than his brothers suspected. Not that they would have minded; they simply viewed him as mentally deficient. John had been turned in 1801, Julian in 1818, both emerging into the undead world exactly as Angelo wanted them.

But Philip woke up in darkness, unable to communicate, yet terrified to be alone for fear that without someone else in the room to prove his existence, he might disappear. Then Angelo showed him how to hunt, and he found purpose. Language came back to him slowly, and the memory of a face, ivory with brown eyes and chocolate hair.

“Why did you turn Edward?” Philip asked suddenly.

“To see if I could,” John answered. “And because he’s the right type.”

“Did Angelo mind?”

“No.”

“Then why was he so angry when I turned Maggie?”

“Because you were too young and incapable of teaching her. And you might have damaged yourself. You aren’t like the rest of us, you know.” John’s broad face clouded slightly. “Promise not to laugh if I tell you something?”

“I’d never laugh, just kick you in the face.”

“No . . . listen. I’ve been having dreams lately.”

“Dreams? Have you told Angelo?”

“No, but they might not be dreams, more like premonitions. Something dark hides on the edge of my vision. I can almost see it, but not quite.”

The switch in topics disturbed Philip. John shouldn’t be discussing this with him. He knew nothing of dreams or visions. And anyway, this psychic nonsense bored him beyond words. They ought to race again.

“Something is coming,” John said with his eyes fixed on empty space. “I don’t know what, and I can’t stop it. But it is coming.”

Too much. Philip kneed Kayli into motion. She leapt forward, kicking up small clods of loose snow. A second later, he heard John coming up behind, and he smiled into the wind.

 
At the Wayside Inn, Philip reveled in the scent of pipe smoke along with the pleasant aroma of warmth and life. A human smorgasbord to choose from. After they had stabled their horses, John’s dark mood passed away, leaving his usual good-natured self in its wake.

Indoor hunting was best for winter nights. Inns like the Wayside teemed with customers who sought out company, wine, and hot food. Round barmaids with reddened cheeks maneuvered trays of cups and tin plates among sweat-scented bodies and laughing faces.

“This is a fine tavern,” John commented. “See the woodwork on that door?” He leaned back in contentment. “I like the scents and the wine and the way everyone tolerates each other because there’s nowhere else to go in this weather.”

Philip nodded. “Good hunting.”

“Oh, will you look around?” John said. “Listen with your mind. Most of these people haven’t two francs to their name, and everyone’s still excited about Christmas.”

“What is that?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“It’s a celebration, a religious holiday. Perhaps your family didn’t practice such things. I wouldn’t be surprised. Your father is the coldest man I’ve ever met.”

“My father?”

“He’s a bastard. I saw your shoulder once. Those burns. You panicked a few nights after being turned. I tried to hold you down and your shirt ripped. Angelo thinks you’re such a mystery, but I told him to use his mind. You don’t remember anything because it’s too black.”

“Do you think I care? None of that matters. Let us hunt now. We have forever to talk.”

“Can you feel anything? Anything at all?”

The din around them grew louder. Philip leaned forward. “I feel like hunting.”

A bit of light left John’s eyes. He nodded with a sad smile. “Of course. Who have you picked out this time?”

“Those two whores by the bar. See them? I want the one in the green dress. She’s been staring at me.”

“How strange,” John whispered in a cynical tone, “that she should be staring at you. I’ve often wondered how someone with your face can think only of blood.”

“What would you do if you had my face?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Well, for one, I wouldn’t have joined with Angelo. I’d have lived on as a mortal searching the world for that one perfect love, who adored me for myself, yet thought herself lucky that my soul and mind were housed in such a form.”

“Sickening. You would not.”

“Oh, yes, I would.”

“I’m sorry I asked you.”

Philip used his beauty at every opportunity, and then despised those who succumbed to it. Fools. If women were taken in by long, red-brown hair, a tall form, and ivory skin, that was their weakness—part of the game.

“Here they come,” he said.

The woman in green looked about twenty-four, with dull brown hair and too much rouge. Her companion was a dark blonde in cheap blue velvet. Philip knew a lot about prostitutes. Many of them were alcoholics. Most of them had several children they couldn’t afford to feed, and nearly all of them hated men no matter how much they smiled. He liked them because they were easy to draw off alone.

“Buy us a drink?” the blonde asked.

“Depends,” John answered. “How much will it cost me?”

“No need to worry about that yet.” She flashed him an almost genuine smile and sat down. John wasn’t handsome, but Philip always marveled at the number of women who fell into comfortable conversation with the oversized Scotsman. This was John’s gift. In his presence, all worries faded and vanished. He put everyone’s mind at ease.

Philip, on the other hand, was no master with words, and used his foot to push a chair out for the woman in green.

“You asking me to sit down?” she said.

“If you like.”

She had eyes like glass and a false laugh, but not many wrinkles from wear and no visible scars. “What’s a fine gentleman like you doing here?”

“Getting out of the cold. Our horses were tired, so we decided to stop.”

“Travelers?”

“Yes, on our way to Nantes.”

“Staying the night?”

“Looks like we’ll have to.”

This was an old game, one she’d played a thousand times. “I have a warm place where you can sleep. Won’t cost you much.”

“Will you wait outside for a moment?” He pushed a small pouch into her hand. “I need to speak with my friend.”

Surprised at her own good fortune, landing a generous young man so easily, she nodded and stepped out the door. Philip waited a bit, then went out after her. Being seen leaving with her might cause him problems later. Her companion wasn’t a concern since she’d be dead within the hour as well. He had been ordered to play by Angelo’s rules when it came to hunting.

“My name is Camille,” the woman said when he came out.

“Where do you live?”

She led him down ice-covered streets, past dingy buildings to the oldest part of Harfleur. “I have only one room,” she said. “But there’s a stove and coal.”

Her home was small, on the ground floor, but Philip cared nothing for aesthetics. She lit a candle and the dark room came alive with flickering shadows across dirty walls. “Do you want a drink, sir?”

“No.”

“What’s in Nantes?”

“Business.”

He didn’t want to talk. Words were pointless. She took off her cloak and dropped it on a chair. Walking past the candle, he grasped her neck with one hand and jerked open the front of her dress with the other.

“Careful,” she whispered, not startled by his actions. “Don’t rip it.”

Her mouth moved up to his, and he kissed her. Although never admitting the fact to John or Julian, he liked affection from some of his victims. It felt good to put his lips against warm flesh and let the hunger build, feel the blood with his tongue just below their skin’s surface, knowing he had only to take it.

Her hands pulled off his cloak and tugged at his clothes, while she made small, gasping sounds. Candlelight danced across his cheek. He stopped long enough to take his shirt off and pin her down onto the bed, pushing the dress below her shoulders to expose large, white breasts that tasted good in his mouth.

Sometimes he took them quickly, killing swiftly before they even knew death had arrived. Sometimes he took longer, letting them flail and beg in a useless attempt to invoke his pity. How they died changed the pictures that flowed into him along with their blood. It all depended on his mood.

Events from tonight had driven his mind into forced motion. Julian’s growing dissatisfaction and John’s visions filled his thoughts with unease. He wanted to forget.

Camille writhed beneath him, trying to raise her heavy skirts. He moved up, crushing her breasts with his chest, to kiss her mouth again. Slowly, inch by inch, his lips brushed down her cheek with feather breaths to her jawline, to her throat. He bit down gently on the top layers, not puncturing deeply, just enough to taste. She stiffened slightly.

“Sir, don’t do that. I know you paid me well, but—”

He struck hard, like lightning, not for the jugular, but slashing a wound big enough to drink through. She screamed, pushing at his chest. Oblivious, he ignored her voice. Women screamed in the night all the time. Nobody cared.

Images of lying beneath many men entered his head.

“Don’t.” She was sobbing now. “Please.”

He felt nothing beyond the need to forget, and so he bit deep enough to absorb her life force completely. Pictures of inns and wine and flushed faces passed by him. A kind man named Pierre who was already married. A pale girl named Katrina who came from the east, but who shared clothes and food and remembered how to laugh. The birth of a child who died. Being beaten with a riding crop. Smothering an old man who slept and taking his purse.

Camille’s arms ceased flailing. Her heart stopped beating. Philip raised his head to look at her, flesh torn and shredded, black-red liquid seeping down her collarbone, eyes locked on the filthy ceiling. She had helped him to forget, at least for a little while.

Getting up, he used her chipped washbasin to rinse himself clean, and then put his shirt back on. Would John be finished by now? Perhaps not. He always spent more time wining and dining his victims than Philip could even comprehend. Whatever did they talk about?

Leaving Camille’s body on the bed where it lay, he picked up his cloak and stepped outside into the sharp air. The temperature had dropped, but Philip knew it would keep going down until dawn, part of their inverted world. Mortals felt the temperature rise all day. Undeads felt it drop all night. Master Angelo taught him that as a defense mechanism. “Never forget the passing time, my son. Watch your sky and feel your air.” Good advice. Angelo knew many things.

Philip quickly moved down the empty streets, back to the Wayside Inn. Although the hour neared two o’clock, a mass of people still milled around inside, eating, drinking, talking—a few playing at cards. No sign of John. Philip moved around the back of the building, looking for too-large footprints in the snow. Then he changed his mind abruptly. No sense disturbing his brother’s kill. He was just about to turn and go back inside the inn to wait when a slight shuffling sound caught his attention. A small, faded toolshed sat directly behind the Wayside’s back door. Someone was in there.

Boredom and mild curiosity rather than any real interest drove him to walk over and peer inside. What he saw caught him by surprise.

Heat from the inn leaked inside, keeping the temperature above freezing. John’s enormous hands were gently resting the dark-blond prostitute on a tattered blanket. In a deep sleep, her chest rose and fell lightly. Her neck was undamaged, but two small red punctures glowed out against her white shoulder. John drew a dagger and connected the punctures, making the wound appear as a jagged cut. Then he covered her with the wool cloak she’d been wearing earlier.

“What are you doing?” Philip asked.

John’s head whipped up, all traces of joviality or good nature absent. “Get out.”

“But she’s still—”

“Get out!”

Philip stumbled back out in the snow, bewildered. This didn’t make sense. Why was John shouting at him? He stood in the snow for ten minutes, until the shed door opened and his brother ducked beneath the arch to step through.

“Is she dead?”

“Yes.” The anger had left John’s voice. “Let’s get the horses.”

“Can I see her?”

“No, it’s growing late. We have to get back.”

For an answer, Philip moved quickly around him and made a grab for the latch. His feet left the ground as John picked him up and threw him backward.

“Philip, I’m not playing with you! You get up and get your horse, now.”

“We can’t leave her alive. She saw both of us. We’ll never be able to come to this part of the city again.”

“Trust me now,” John said in what looked like despair. “Let us go home.”

Neither one spoke for the first half of their ride back through the trees. Doubts swirled in Philip’s mind. He hated them. What could he call these unwanted thoughts? Concern. Yes, that’s it. He was concerned.

“Why did you leave that woman alive?” he asked finally, breaking the tense silence. “She will remember us.”

“No, she won’t.”

“Of course she will.”

“Angelo warned me about hunting with you,” John said quietly. “Try to remember that you aren’t like me. Master wants you to grow and develop at your own pace with no preconceptions of what you should be. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“I can do things you can’t. Believe me, that woman won’t know us if we go back to town. She won’t remember anything.”

Philip pulled up his horse. “Oh, it’s a trick? One of your little psychic tricks? You made her forget?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me?” Relief and annoyance replaced concern. “You’ve ruined the whole ride home for nothing. We could have raced or chased down some peasants.”

John laughed and kicked his horse into motion. “Still plenty of room for that,” he called. “I let you win last time.”

Unpleasant thoughts forgotten, Philip urged Kayli to bolt, leaping forward across the snow.

 
“Julian?”

A few nights later, Philip searched the upper west tower for companionship. Master Angelo had gone out on business, and John was cloistered with a book again. This tower hadn’t been cleaned in years, and he felt uncomfortable here in this dead, cheerless place filled with ancient ghosts. Not that ghosts bothered him, but the outdoors beckoned, fresh air and wind rushing through the trees.

Dust flew up into his mouth as he called out. Julian’s company didn’t appeal to him any more than this tower did, but talking to someone else, anyone else, was preferable to being alone. Loneliness hurt more than hunger, and he was no good at entertaining himself. Angelo tried to teach him a game of solitary cards once, but he couldn’t sit still or focus long enough to learn.

“Julian?”

“Who’s there?” a dull voice called from somewhere ahead.

“It’s me. Where are you?”

“Philip?”

“Yes, of course. Which room are you in?”

A tall form dressed in black stepped into view down the hallway. “Down here. Are you alone?”

“Quite alone. I’m so bored even you sound like good company right now.”

“Come ahead then.”

He followed Julian into a small, alcove-styled room with an open window that faced Harfleur. Lights and smoke from city fires glowed in the distance. Julian looked terrible—and he smelled stale. His skin was sallow with dark circles under his eyes. His hair was lank and uncombed, and he was wearing a cloak that had not been brushed out for weeks.

“Shouldn’t we light a candle?” Philip asked.

“No,” Julian said. “You’re a vampire. You can see in the dark.”

“I suppose.”

“Why did you come here?”

“Looking for you. Come out hunting?”

“Not tonight.”

Philip rolled his eyes and dropped into a dusty wooden chair.

“What’s a bastard?” he asked after a few moments.

“Someone without a legitimate father.” Julian was looking out the window, but his profile was clear, and his expression lost its melancholy cast. He sounded mildly interested. “Why would you ask me that?”

“John said my father is a bastard, but he must have meant something else then.”

“Oh.” The corner of Julian’s mouth curved up. “It can also be used to call someone heartless or cruel. Your father did treat you badly, but only because you disappointed him. He wanted you to be strong. Take his place.”

“Is your father a bastard?”

“Mine? No. Mine is . . . an unusual man. I wish your memory hadn’t erased him. He taught you to ride when you were six.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, you were afraid of horses, and my father understands fear. We probably should have switched places. You loved it at Cliffbracken, and I always felt stifled.”

“I can’t imagine being afraid of horses.”

“No, you’ve changed. Tragic, really. Your father would worship you now.” He paused and frowned. “You’re certainly full of words tonight. I haven’t seen you this coherent since before Angelo turned you.”

“I have things on my mind.”

“What mind?” Julian snorted coldly.

“John and I rode into town a few nights ago, and he . . .”

Julian turned away from the window. “He what?”

“He used one of his mind tricks to make a whore forget him, forget he had fed upon her, and he left her alive.”

Julian fell still, gazing at Philip through the darkness. “Has he or Angelo ever done that to you? Tried to enter your mind? Tried to make you obey ? Or tried to make you forget something?”

“What?” This turn in the conversation startled Philip. “No. Of course not.”

“How would you know,” Julian whispered, his dark eyes glittering, “if they’d already made you forget?” He stepped closer. “We have no defense at all. Do you understand what that means? They could make us think anything, do anything . . . and even make us forget . . . and as we have no such power, we could do nothing to stop them.”

Philip fidgeted in his chair. “What is wrong with you these past nights?”

“We have no defense against them . . . against any of them.”

“Stop saying that!” Philip snapped.

Julian fell silent, turning back and staring out the window into space.

“Oh, please, Julian,” Philip begged. “Can’t we do something, anything—riding, hunting? We could even practice fencing if you like. One more moment in this house and I’ll die.”

“No,” his undead brother whispered. “You won’t die.”

 
A few nights later, Julian vanished, and Philip had no idea where he’d gone.

Several weeks passed, and then one night, Philip came home an hour before dawn to find his master and John in the library, deep in whispered conference.

“Telling secrets?” Philip asked, smiling. “About me?”

Angelo Travare, Earl of Scurloc, rested in a stone chair. He was a slender Norman creature who told stories of crusades and knights with swords, his flesh long since grown so preternaturally pale he scarcely passed as human. Dim candlelight exposed deep lines of strain now marring his milky forehead.

Two thick pieces of parchment lay on the oak table before him.

“Sit down, son,” Angelo said.

“What’s wrong?” Philip asked.

“Our time this winter is over. You must return to Gascony.”

“But it’s not even January yet. We have months to go.”

“How many vampires do you know?”

“How many? You, John, Julian, Maggie, and John’s servant, Edward. What does it matter?”

“Do you ever wonder if there are others like yourself, beyond your circle?”

“No.”

“There are, Philip. Nearly thirty others in Europe alone.”

“Like us?”

“Just like us,” Angelo said. “But tonight, we’ve learned that three of them are dead.” He pointed down to the parchment letters.

“Dead?” Philip repeated. “We can’t die. We’re immortal.”

“Of course we can. I’ve explained this. ‘Undead’ does not mean your body can’t be destroyed. Fire, sunlight, and decapitation will end your existence. Now, listen to me carefully. Do you know why Maggie has no psychic powers?”

Philip frowned without answering.

“Because you were not able to teach her,” Angelo said.

John leaned forward in his chair, nodding, dark blond hair falling across his eyes. “And neither does my Edward because I chose not to teach him yet, and he has no contact with others of our kind.”

Their manner annoyed Philip, speaking to him in short, slowly spoken words. “I’m not simple! I’m not a half-wit, but I don’t care about psychic powers.” He motioned to the parchments. “And what does any of that have to do with us? A few vampires we’ve never met have flown off to the great beyond. Why do you care?”

“Because they were murdered,” Angelo said flatly. “Decapitated by Julian.”

“By Jul- . . . some kind of fight?”

Angelo always had seemed ancient to him, but tonight was the first time his master looked old and fragile.

“No, Philip, not a fight. Julian has left us. He has become an enemy to his own kind and is destroying vampires who possess psychic power.”

“What? Who told you that?”

“It is the truth. His gift has turned back in upon itself, and he now fears what he does not possess . . . to a degree that has sickened his mind.” Angelo paused as if gauging his next words. “Psychic ability isn’t truly a gift like the one great power we each use against mortals. It is learned, developed. And as John did with his Edward, I have chosen to postpone your training until you have existed longer, learned more of yourself and our world. But I cannot explain Julian’s lack of ability. I have sometimes thought his gift to be so strong it has kept him from developing other powers.”

“Have you told him that?”

“Of course.” Angelo almost smiled. “Long ago.”

“And he still fears you?”

Angelo did not answer.

Rubbing his hands, John peered up at Philip through tired eyes. “It’s important that you don’t become involved in this. I don’t think you’re simple or a half-wit, but you could be hurt if you stay. Go home to Gascony and wait with Maggie until this thing is over.”

“What will you do?”

“I leave tonight. I’ll go to Amiens and get Edward first. He and I will go back to Edinburgh. Master Angelo has a few affairs to tie up here, and then he’ll leave in a week or so for his summer home in Venice.”

“Why are you splitting up? Wouldn’t we all be stronger as a group?”

“No,” Master Angelo said. “I am hopeful that Julian may come to his senses, and giving him so much ground to cover makes his current task more difficult, if he means us harm at all. Killing strangers is one thing. Killing those in our circle is another.”

“How many of the other vampires are psychic?”

John’s gaze dropped. “All of them besides you, Julian, Maggie, and my Edward.”

“All of them?” Philip’s eyes widened. “Then what does he possibly hope to gain?”

“Nothing. He is simply afraid . . . to the point of madness.”

This made no sense. Philip experienced a moment of intense unhappiness and hated the emotion. “All right, John. You go. I’ll stay here with Master until he’s ready to leave for Venice.”

Angelo leaned back in his chair. “I have no need of protection, my son. My hands can snap Julian like a matchstick.”

“No matter. I’m staying anyway, until you’re ready to leave.”

With no more words to say, John moved for the stairs, looking back at them once.

 
Eight nights later, Philip and Angelo packed a few scant belongings and prepared for their separate journeys. The short time they had spent alone together pleased them both. The old master forgot his books and cerebral conversation, preferring to spend spare time outside hunting with Philip. But the house had now been secured, carriage horses stabled inside Harfleur, and bank accounts transferred to Venice.

It was time to leave.

Philip jogged with snow-covered boots into the library. “Horses are saddled. You ready?”

Angelo gazed around. “Yes, but I will miss this place . . . and you.”

“Don’t be so maudlin. Julian will forget this by summer, and we’ll all meet in London, or maybe Paris.”

They walked outside into the night air. Dark trees lined the path to the barn, allowing bits of light from the moon to glimmer through. Philip seldom formed attachments to places, but this path had always held a certain charm with its hidden black spaces—but still so wide that he could drive Kayli into full gallop two steps out of the stable door. Wanting to lock this night in his memory, he stared at each tree they walked past. Because of this, he stopped short when movement caught his eye.

“Angelo, there’s something—”

Before he could finish speaking, a shadow stepped out from the base of a tree, and moonlight glinted in his eyes. He heard the sweeping arc rather than seeing anything. Then Angelo’s body toppled to the ground, his separated head landing with a soft thud in the snow. The whole picture took a few seconds to sink in.

Then the pain hit.

Searing, scorching, hysterical faces exploded inside his eyes. Turks, ragged peasants, pale children, sobbing women, all danced and clawed at his brain while he writhed helplessly, scratching at his own temples to get them out—men with long surcoats, crosses in one hand and swords in the other, crying fanatical words while rushing to battle, horses and fire and a lady called Elizabeth who always waited, a dark-skinned vampire with no name biting his shoulder, hating him, making him pay for all eternity by stealing his dream of heaven. The visions and agony went on and on, a parade of lost souls seeking retribution. Finally the waves began fading. The sounds hushed.

“You’re all right. It’s over.” Julian knelt beside him, a sword in one hand, blood smeared all over the other.

Twisting up to all fours, Philip stared at his master’s body as it began to turn gray and crack. This couldn’t be happening. “You killed him.”

“I had to,” Julian rasped. “Don’t you see? We are meant to be alone, not to live in twisted families like mortals. Our kind has become diseased, feeding upon each other’s powers until some of us began to throw off the balance . . . growing stronger than others, creating a threat. I’m putting the balance back. Soon we will be pure again, equal . . . safe.”

The words sounded far away, at the end of a long corridor. Philip climbed to his feet in shock, not understanding or absorbing Julian’s words. “What will John say? This will make him sad!”

“No, it won’t. He’s already dead.” Still kneeling, Julian pressed the sword into the snow and leaned on the hilt with his hands. “Angelo must have known. He must have felt it.”

“What?”

“Four nights ago, I took his head right in front of his servant.”

“Edward? Where is he now?”

“Long gone. He’s not one of them.”

This was a night of new emotions. Acute pain and sorrow faded as something infinitely worse crept up Philip’s spine. Julian’s black eyes bored into him, emanating fear, making him back away.

“You may not remember,” Julian whispered, “but we’ve been friends since childhood. That existence is over. You are an immortal hunter, forever alone. Do you understand? Alone.”

“No. Maggie’s mine.”

“You stay away from her, or I will send her after. I’m not being cruel, only strong. You will thank me later. And it’s not so harsh as it sounds. We can speak to each other, sometimes even hunt together. But never can we live together, never feed off each other’s gifts. If even one of us gets this disease, the whole nightmare might begin again. Purity is what matters now—your first priority, more than me, more than Maggie, more than hunting. Do you understand?”

Terror filled Philip until fear was all he could see. What would he do? Existing by himself was worse than death. Perhaps this was a vision, the dream on the edge of John’s sleep that he never quite saw, the bad thing he saw coming and couldn’t stop. Julian’s voice echoed through the darkness.

“Alone. Do you understand? Alone . . .”