Bloodlines (43 page)

The urge to look into his eyes again was incredible. Victor had to close his own to make sure he didn’t, forcibly dragging his hand back and wrapping it around his mug of tea.

“What are you doing, Victor?” Randall asked, voice low, strangled, and hoarse.

“I’m telling myself that I am the very last person you want in your life,” Victor admitted. “Because if you are worried about Anthony now, it will only be worse when you have to worry about me going insane. That is why I don’t want marriage and children, Randall. Because I would inevitably check out and leave whomever I am sharing that with to shoulder the burden of my insanity alone.”

As soon as he said it, Victor went bright red. He hadn’t intended to be nearly so honest, especially not when he hadn’t even fully admitted those things to
himself
. Damn Randall for forcing the truth out of him.

“Victor….” Randall sounded utterly confused. “What are you talking about?” His hands immediately closed over Victor’s, and he moved closer, their knees bumping together under the table. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m talking about this.” Victor motioned between them. “You and me. The thing that I have been utterly unable to stop thinking about since I saw it in your eyes.”

Letting out a slow breath, Randall seemed frozen. But only for a moment. Randall’s hand hooked lightly around the back of Victor’s neck, pulling him into a kiss. It was soft at first, almost a question, Randall’s fingers sliding up into the short strands of Victor’s hair.

It was one of the best kisses Victor had ever had. There was no agenda in it, no forcing the issue about wanting anything more. It was simply Randall kissing Victor because he wanted to.

Victor forgot all about his hesitations for the duration of it. He forgot about the inevitability of losing his mind and the burden that would put on any long-term relationship, he forgot about the fear of jumping into a close-knit family, and all that mattered, for that moment, was Randall. The hidden sides of him that Victor had been slow to notice, the kindness in him, the strength, the wolfish nature of him that had no business being
that
alluring.

Unfortunately, once they broke apart, all those things he’d forgotten came rushing back.

“Kissing me isn’t going to make the issue go away,” Victor said, his voice unsteady. Where he normally focused on the eyebrow of the person he was talking to, or over their shoulder, he found he was staring at Randall’s lips—they were rather a pleasant thing to be paying attention to.

“I know.” Randall hadn’t pulled back. His thumb was making a slow arc against Victor’s cheek, his words thick, tone so much lower than normal. “But if this was going to be my last chance, I didn’t want to miss out. You’ve obviously decided that I don’t get a say in my own future. And, honestly, I’m tired. God, Victor, I’m so
tired
. So if you’re bound and determined to ignore me, I just…. I wanted to kiss you again, one more time.”

Victor drew back properly then, though he was reluctant to break contact. Any answer he might have wanted to say right then was drowned out by the swirling of
too many
potential answers, some apologetic, some defensive, some hopeful. The indecision was honestly starting to give him a headache.

He needed to clear his head. Mere fresh air wasn’t going to do it.

“Well, don’t write me off just yet,” he said, managing a faint smile. “It’s only been a week. After all, this isn’t 1268. I’m not the voting cardinals of the Vatican, and I won’t take three years to make a decision.”

That got a quick laugh from Randall. “Yes, well, I promise not to starve you out or rip off the roof.” After a moment, though, when it seemed as if Randall wanted to say so much more, he simply stood. “You’ve already made your decision, Victor. You told me before. You don’t want this. You don’t want what I would be. I…. I just need to respect that.” Very lightly, Randall’s fingers touched the back of Victor’s hand. “I’m going to go check on my brothers. Have a nice day, Beatrice.”

Once again, there was so much Victor could say to that. He said none of it, though. All of it was contradictory, and he needed to sort his own thoughts before he spoke them to Randall. He didn’t want to confuse the poor man, since Victor had done a bang-up job of that already.

Before Randall could leave him, Victor twisted his hand, catching Randall’s fingers between his own. He wasn’t going to give Randall a long speech about his feelings and how he needed time. Instead, he just squeezed his hand, hoping to convey that what he felt wasn’t all that platonic anymore.

If only Victor had been born in the early 1900s. His flirting methods would be much more apt for that time period.

“Say hello to your brothers for me,” Victor said. He released Randall’s hand.

Randall flexed his fingers, staring down at his palm for a moment as if it would suddenly give him answers. “Yes. Yes, absolutely,” he murmured, clearly unsure. But he nodded and took off, walking quickly, disappearing around the corner and leaving Victor alone.

Victor needed a drink, and he didn’t care that it was still morning.

To do so, he needed the van. Neither Jed nor Redford were in their cabin, and since Victor needed the keys to the van to go anywhere, he felt absolutely no guilt in sneaking in and taking them from the table. A mission to the bar was a very important thing. Victor knew Jed would understand.

The van rattled and protested when he started it up. It wasn’t looking its best right now, with the mud and the chips of wood still stuck everywhere they could find a purchase, but it was serviceable. All it needed to do was get him to the nearest town.

As he turned out of the camp and got onto the dirt path that led to the main road, Victor tried to find a radio station that wasn’t a bad talk show or farming reports. He wanted music, something that would distract him—all he got was a local station and a man with a voice more boring than drying paint. It didn’t help.

Victor was not a complicated man, he liked to think, and this situation with Randall was incredibly complicated. On one hand, he had visions that told him exactly where this relationship would end up if he went through with it.

And on the other hand, he’d never considered himself the marrying type. The fault in his blood was a large part of it, but it had also been something he’d never seen himself doing. Before David, his relationships had been extremely casual. He had dated David because he had been a wild, dangerous man who was thrilling to be around, a man who was the complete opposite of afternoon tea and dry academics and a living room full of dusty couches and no sound other than a ticking grandfather clock. If his sanity was on a timer, Victor wanted to live life to the full.

But then he’d seen Randall at the airport on the way home from Cairo, and domesticity and peace hadn’t sounded so bad.

Victor cursed his thoughts under his breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter and determinedly staring out the front window, pushing his anxiety and worry out of his mind. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

Fortunately, a bar wasn’t too hard to find when he reached the closest town. It looked to be one of the only two bars available, and the only thing that made Victor go with The Roundhouse was the bright-red wagon wheel outside it, marking it as slightly more visually interesting than the other choice.

It was completely empty at this time of day, which Victor counted as a minor blessing. The Roundhouse was more a pub than a bar, with old wood furnishings and creaky tables, exactly the kind of bar that Victor liked, and it was even better that he was the only one there. He ordered a beer, pulled a book out of his bag, and sat down in a corner booth to read.

After an hour, he wound up wandering the town a bit, the fresh air and new sights helping to clear his head. Victor poked around in small antique shops and hotly debated the specific origins of Chinese teapots with the shop owners. He sat in the park for only twenty minutes after discovering he’d sat too close to a particular genus of flowers that made his nose itch, and by the time it was starting to get dark he had wandered his way back to the bar.

To his irritation—although it wasn’t unexpected—there were a few other people in there now. The after-work crowd had clearly started arriving, populated with thick-armed tradesmen and loud-voiced shop workers. The noise level wasn’t too bad, though, so Victor reclaimed his former corner booth and resumed reading.

When he finally looked up from Jeeves and Wooster’s antics—P. G. Wodehouse was a favorite of his—there were people much more horrifying than tradesmen and shop workers in the bar.

There were
youths
.

Even worse, one of them was walking his way.

Victor cringed back in his seat, but that didn’t stop the red-haired young man from holding up a hand. “Dude, high five, ginger pride,” he announced. “I’m, like, the only one in this shit heap. Now there’s two!” Victor glanced with trepidation at the young man’s hand. “Aw, come on man, don’t leave me hanging.”

Victor did his best to contain his grimace as he delivered the most unenthusiastic high five that had ever been given. That didn’t seem to deter the young man, who beamed at him and slung himself into the opposite corner of the booth.

“Name’s Dylan.” A waitress approached the table and put a glass of milk in front of Dylan. A rather odd thing to be drinking in a bar, Victor thought. “Are you new around here?”

“No. Well, yes, I suppose, but I’m only a visitor.” Victor supposed that Dylan didn’t seem all that bad, as far as
youths
went. “Is there any particular reason you’re sitting at my table?”

Bluntness typically scared most people off, which worked in Victor’s favor, as he was not a great fan of socialization when he could avoid it. Dylan seemed to not notice it at all. He only grinned and tapped the side of his nose. “Thought I’d say hi to my own kind, man.”

“I’m not
that
ginger,” Victor muttered. “Only a little bit. It’s—” Dylan didn’t mean gingers, Victor suddenly realized. “Oh. Er. How could you tell?” He looked around the room and surreptitiously darted a glance at his own clothes, attempting to figure out if he was somehow looking particularly medusa-like.

“I see things most people don’t,” Dylan said. Victor couldn’t tell if he sounded wise or just constantly stoned. Perhaps a bit of both. “I’m an ùruisg.”

Thankfully, the music in the background would muffle their conversation enough, but Victor still kept his voice low as he said, “A brownie? Interesting.” That explained the milk, at least.

“Yeah, man, it’s awesome.” Dylan beamed. “So what’s your dysfunction?”

Victor found himself faltering as he tried to reply. As much as he knew about half bloods, he didn’t tend to speak with them all that often, other than maintaining important contacts in the community. Speaking to more of them would require the very thing he dreaded: conversation. “Medusa. A weak enough strain.”

“Damn,” Dylan drawled, giving him a wide-eyed look. “Sucks, man.”

“How kind of you to say.”

“So, like, what’s up? What’s got you looking so down, huh?”

Victor decided then that Dylan really was stoned. “The sorts of things that make people feel down.”

Dylan seemed completely unaware of Victor’s withering tone. “Like what? You can tell me! I’m an awesome listener, I promise.”

He just wasn’t going to give up, apparently. Victor sighed and finally closed his book in acknowledgement that he wasn’t going to escape this conversation any time soon. “I looked into someone’s eyes and saw their future,” he replied. “There were a great many futures, but one main theme was him and I getting married. He has told me that he has feelings for me. I had some mild interest in him before the visions, and I think that interest may be developing into something stronger.”

Dylan gave him an uncomprehending look. “So what’s the problem?”

“I’m a medusa, and he’s a wolf.” Victor felt that summed it up nicely.

“Ah.” Dylan nodded thoughtfully.

“If he properly falls in love with me, well, you know how wolves are,” Victor continued. “And it’s inevitable that my mind will fracture at some point in my life. He already has so much to deal with in his family right now, I couldn’t possibly burden him more.”

Dylan was just nodding as he sipped at his milk. “So does he love you? Or, like, what do wolves call it? Has he called you his mate?”

“I don’t know.” Victor buried his head in his hands. He’d never intended to speak so personally to a complete stranger, but now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. “I never wanted to get married or have a domestic life. And part of me is angry at him—some small part of me is angry about this choice that I have to make. Either I be with him, or I make him lonely forever, if he really does love me as a wolf does. How is that fair to me? I cannot be responsible for someone’s happiness, and yet I am. It almost leaves me no choice at all. If I choose to not be with him, I come off looking like an absolute asshole, even though it
should
be a decision I can make freely.”

“Heavy, man,” Dylan said.

Victor squinted at him. Where was he from, the seventies?

“Well,” Dylan continued. “Is he, like, weak or something? Or really bad at coping with shit?”

“No,” Victor said defensively. “He’s one of the strongest, most capable men I’ve ever met. His brother is suffering from a degenerative illness, and Randall handles it with grace.”

“So,” Dylan mused, “why do you think he couldn’t handle you?”

That gave Victor pause.

“He shouldn’t have to,” he eventually replied after a long few seconds of silence.

“Man, I shouldn’t have to put some pants on to go to the door to get the pizza I ordered, but I still do. You know why? Because pizza is so fucking worth it.”

Victor couldn’t help but laugh. “So in this metaphor, Randall is pizza?”

“Yeah, man,” Dylan said enthusiastically. “Good shit is always hard work. And sometimes there’s some danger of bad shit along with the good shit. Like, you could get bad pepperoni and get food poisoning. But you never know it’s a certainty, and there’s no point living in fear of bad salami, so you may as well get that fucking pizza, right?”