Bloodlines (10 page)

“Are you all right?” Randall asked dryly, head down as he carefully went through one of his bags for another book. “How terrible, you’ve hurt your ankle. Perhaps you should stop talking and tend to it.”

“Yeah, must be one of those mysterious phantom ankle kickers.” Anthony smirked. “But seriously, Professor, I had this mental image of you being sixty years old. None of your books have a picture of you.”

Randall was bright red, and Victor felt like he might be headed in the same direction. He’d written a few books over the years, but because of the fact that he was significantly younger than most of his peers, he of course had never included photos. Mostly, he was just surprised that someone had actually
read
his books. They’d been accused of being rather dry.

“Well,” he said, temporarily at a loss for words. “I hope they didn’t put you to sleep, Randall.”

“Oh no, he loves them.” Now Edwin was in on the conversation, his grin huge underneath shaggy hair as he turned around in his seat. “Reads them over and over. Once he tried to explain to me why they were….” He trailed off, hiding a laugh behind an entirely innocent look. “How was it you put it, Randall?”

“I think I changed my mind,” was all Randall said, grimly, gaze very deliberately down, whole body flushing. Where his and Victor’s legs touched by accident, his body gave a little twitch, but he didn’t move away. “I no longer wish to attempt to save either of my brothers’ lives. In fact, if you want to drop them both off here, on the side of the highway, I would be most grateful.”

“The most brilliant pieces of literature to come out of academics in the last twenty years,” Edwin recited, ignoring Randall completely, smile absolutely wicked. “Was that it, Randall?”

“I hope your tail falls off,” Randall replied.

Laughing, Anthony turned away from them, ruffling Edwin’s hair. And despite the teasing that had gone on, Victor found himself smiling.

He’d never had siblings, and due to his parents’ deaths when he was young, he’d never particularly been part of a family group either. But now he watched the three Lewis brothers interact, the way they knew one another so well, the ease of their words and the gentle teasing. They were close; that much was obvious. Even when they were being embarrassing to one another, they loved one another.

“You’re very fortunate,” Victor found himself murmuring, looking at Randall.

Despite the glare he’d shot at Edwin, despite the huffed sigh he’d given Anthony, when Randall looked over to meet Victor’s gaze, his expression was soft. Randall gave him a very small smile, one corner of his lips curving upward. “I know.”

Victor fell silent, ducking his head to study the book Randall had given him. As he lost himself in it, he was dimly aware of Edwin and Anthony talking lowly, of Knievel shifting so she could appropriate Redford’s lap instead. At one point, Jed turned the music up to ear-ringing volumes, only to turn it back down at the number of glares sent at him.

He’d read books like this before, as part of his personal studies. It had a slightly different take on the origin of wolves, shaded by the perception and moral values of the author. This one seemed to think that werewolves only turned into their wolf forms when they smelled blood in the air, and Victor suppressed a laugh as he read a passage about using swan fat rubbed into skin to “soothe the wild mind.” The next time he looked up, they were a decent distance into the drive, having already reached one of the major towns along the path.

“If you’d like,” Randall’s quiet voice reached him, and he turned to find the man looking at him in concern, “I could move up to the empty seat. So you’re not crowded. Or you could, I suppose. I just….” Randall looked down, to where their legs were pressed together, fumbling a bit on his words. “I don’t want you to feel claustrophobic.”

Taken aback, Victor took a few seconds before replying. In his experience, when people termed things in the perspective of
you probably want to
, it actually meant that
they
wanted that thing to happen and they were too polite to say so. But Randall didn’t seem the type to be passive-aggressive. Idly, he rubbed his hand over his neck, fingers bumping over twin scars, and said, “Oh, no, I’m quite fine here, if you’re fine.”

“I’m very fine here,” Randall said, voice dropping a bit, eyes going to Victor’s fingers and then up to his face. “I…. Yes. It’s very nice here. With you.”

“Distanced from the rabble?” Victor smiled, turning his gaze back to the book. “I agree.”

Randall almost said something; Victor could see it in his face. But, in the end, he simply sighed and said quietly, “Yes. That’s what I meant.”

The road slipped by under their wheels, Jed actually keeping within the speed limit. Victor was shocked, though he did hear Jed muttering something about a death box on wheels, so it was possible the van simply couldn’t go much faster. After a while, Anthony was lulled to sleep, his head resting lightly against the window, but his legs shoved against Randall’s in a way that made Anthony seem like he took up far much more space than he really should be able to. Randall had shifted a bit closer to Victor, shrugging off his jacket to tuck around his brother with a fond little sigh.

Edwin, a row in front of them, had instigated a car game with Jed and Redford. Redford had expressed confusion over what “I Spy” was, so now Jed was teaching him. From his position in the back, Victor could see a smile curved at the corner of Jed’s lips, fondness clear in his eyes as he looked at Redford.

“You try it, Red,” Jed was prompting, cutting quick glances over at Redford in between watching the road.

Victor caught the edge of a frown on Redford’s face. “I spy… something green,” Redford decided, making it sound like a question.

“No.” Edwin heaved a long-suffering sigh. “You do it with the first letter. Like, I spy something that starts with
T
.”

“Only in Loserville,” Jed shot back with a smirk. “Here in man’s country, we play with colors.”

“Yeah, cause you can’t spell.” Edwin was laughing, grin lighting up his face.

Jed stuck his tongue out at Edwin in the rearview mirror, because that was obviously the most mature way to win that argument. “Driver’s rules, Shaggy. You get your balls to drop, you can take over. Until then, we’re playing my way.”

“Shouldn’t I be Scooby?” Edwin teased, not at all minding Jed’s vulgarity. “I think you’ve got the Shaggy part all taken care of.”

“Seeing as how there’s
four
Scoobys in the car, I think we can share the title.” Redford laughed quietly. “Okay, how about we do both? I spy something that’s green and starts with a
G
.” He paused, uncertain. “Does that give it away too easily?”

“Nope,” Jed said, ignoring Edwin’s nod in favor of kissing Redford’s knuckles. The motion was so easy, so automatic, that Victor almost looked away, feeling like he was looking in on a private moment. “Is it gophers?”

Edwin and Redford started laughing again, Jed’s impish grin belying his innocent look. Gone was the usually guarded expression that sat on Jed’s face, discarded in favor of genuine affection. Victor hadn’t seen Jed get like that all that often, not when the man was too busy walling himself off. Something about Redford, Victor concluded, made it difficult for Jed to remain distant.

He envied them.

His gaze shifted to Anthony and Randall, watching them out of the corner of his eye. Anthony was still asleep, chin tucked to his chest, looking weary in a way he hadn’t looked while he was awake and too determined to not seem ill at all. He looked smaller right then, a contrast to the loudly cheerful, fiercely protective man that Victor had seen at dinner.

Randall had his head down to read another book, his shoulder idly wedged against Anthony’s to make sure Anthony stayed upright in his sleep. This time, Victor’s gaze didn’t immediately go to the book. Instead, he looked at the man, the way dark hair fell over his forehead, the absent motion to push his glasses farther up his nose when they slipped. His hands were gentle, deliberate as they turned the pages, treating them with care.

Victor, in his history of dating, had a type. He didn’t
say
that he had a type, but every boyfriend he’d had had been the same. Before David, they’d been safe. A little boring. People like him who had no real ambition beyond sitting in the parlor room at noon and drinking tea. David had been the outlier, a man who had come along at a time when Victor had needed something
different
. Something that wasn’t what Victor had grown up with and was surrounded by.

David had been dangerous, darkly handsome, confident, a predator’s sway to his movements that had utterly captivated Victor.

But in the end, it hadn’t worked. David had been too wrapped up in issues of blood and sex tangling together, and Victor had gotten too addicted to the same. And everything Victor had wanted with David—the danger, the darkness, the chaos—had seemed
too
dangerous. He still recalled perfectly that night in Cairo where David had nearly drained him. Victor remembered laughing, being so high on adrenaline that he wouldn’t have cared if he’d lived or died.

And a small part of him still craved that. Though David was gone, and Victor tried to keep telling himself it was for the better, he still couldn’t stand the thought of going back to a boring life and boring boyfriends who asked how his day went and wanted nothing more than to come home from work and watch the television for a bit before going to bed. The thought of domesticity, of settling down, was horrifying.

So as he looked at Randall, Victor couldn’t help but try to place the man into one of those two categories, dangerous or safe. He found he couldn’t. On the surface, Randall was mild mannered and soft-spoken, tentative in the way he approached most things. But there was an undercurrent of strength that Victor found himself fascinated by. A firmness to Randall’s words, a dedication to his passions, the protectiveness of his brothers.

Randall was a wolf. There was no way he could fit in the
boring and safe
category. And yet he was sitting there reading a book entitled
Japanese Water Demon Myths
.

Shifting slightly beside him, Randall looked over just in time to catch Victor’s gaze.

Victor didn’t think anything of it at first, idly noting that Randall had quite nice eyes, a dark hazel that seemed lighter when the sun caught them. He didn’t notice the sound fading out around him. Only when his vision started blurring around the edges did he catch on, and fear spiked through him. There was no time to do anything other than shove himself away from Randall as far as he could, trying to brace himself on the opposite edge of the seat, and then—

Safety. Warmth. A small cabin in the woods near a lake. Small, but full of love, of hugs good night, of silly bedtime songs. Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle. Forks running away with spoons. He was happy. Randall was happy with Anthony, with a mother and a father. With Edwin, barely able to walk, unsteady legs, two and then four.

Running through the woods, following Anthony. Chasing the moon.

Coming home to find Edwin hiding under the bed. Randall didn’t know why, knew that something bad had happened. Anthony telling him to stay back. Blood on the kitchen floor when he caught a glimpse over his brother’s shoulder, Mom and Dad lying so still.

Living in the woods, knowing that his parents weren’t coming back but not understanding why. Anthony hunting to feed them, keeping them alive and warm and safe, the three of them living mostly as wolves in the forest for a few years since none of them were old enough to get jobs. Never quite sleeping, because the men with guns might come for them next. The hunters might take Anthony away if he closed his eyes. In a cave then, curled up together, three wolves huddled against the winter cold.

A larger cabin. Helping Anthony, sneaking books from the library on how to build houses. He walked in the first time, to a sanctuary filled with books and things he could learn about, and he never wanted to leave. Randall found, there, every friend he’d wanted, every life he’d dreamed of, every country and every culture and every possibility given ink and paper. He’d spent hours there, that first day, and went back as often as he could. But his first book had been a guide to building a cabin out of logs, and he’d spent the next month chopping trees. He was all of eight, and he helped his twelve-year-old brother build their home.

Randall going to school, getting there early in the hopes the teacher would impart more lessons before the bell rang. Edwin getting homeschooled because he couldn’t sit in a confined classroom for too long. Anthony working, lying about his age to get jobs. Growing up depending on each other for everything, sharing every chore.

Years passing, faster, school and books and college, finally. Acceptance to his chosen university after two years of saving, two years of local courses. Coming home with the letter to find his brother’s hands shaking so badly he couldn’t open the envelope. Doctors and tests and too many questions. Faking the paperwork so they could leave without giving too much away.

Cairo. He shouldn’t have gone, but it was his last chance, his final escape. It was his dream, and the program had taken him out of hundreds of applicants. Fear. Blood. Pain. Good doggy. Chains.

“Victor? He’s not responding. Anthony, hand me that water. Victor, can you hear me?”

The face of the man who had saved him. Pale and exhausted, a bandage wrapped around his neck. The bustle of the airport around them. His Beatrice, leading him through heaven.

Then—

Possibilities. Arcing off into the distance like threads vanishing into the mist, only Victor could push that mist back, could see exactly where those threads ended, if they were cut or frayed or burned at the edges. Colors twined around each other, memories and emotions.

Anthony growing sicker. Wasting away. Dying. Randall and Edwin alone at their brother’s grave. Randall going off to try to live, guilt eating at him, souring every attempt. Every start became an end, at the same grave. Bitter, alone, grieving.