Bloodlines (61 page)

Except for one thing. A tiny glimmer in one thread of something that was thought would never happen. An old expectation fulfilled. A random happenstance that leads to hope in the war, a possible end instead of nothing but destruction.

A spark of light, a blaze of the sun against polished steel.

A hope… an end to….

Victor opened his eyes.

“There’s a war,” he choked out, blood smearing over his chin. “There’s always a war. It doesn’t matter if you run or fight. There’s something so much bigger coming.”

A cool washrag was smoothed across his forehead. He was cradled in someone’s lap, arms curled around him, a body hunched over him protectively. A bottle of water touched his lips, encouraging Victor to take slow, shallow sips. He only managed three before he started coughing it up again, his head feeling like it was on the verge of splitting.

Was anybody listening to him? Could he just do what his body wanted and pass out?

“We will speak more later.” The Gray Lady’s voice coming from a short distance away. “Thank you, medusa.”

“Take these.” Randall’s voice. It was Randall holding him carefully, a low, growling threat rumbling almost continuously in his throat. Randall gently held pills up to Victor’s mouth, followed by more water. “It’s okay, Victor. I have you. It’s all right.”

Victor managed to grab Randall’s arm. In the vague realization that he hadn’t gone insane, he tried to filter through what he’d seen for any clues on Anthony’s well-being. But there was too much, and he’d been told it was okay to pass out.

He did so with a small sigh of relief.

Randall

U
NTIL
E
GYPT
,
Randall had never seen anyone die. Finding his parents’ bodies when he’d been young still haunted him, but they’d already been gone by the time he and Anthony had come home. Actually watching the life drain from someone, seeing those final choking moments, it was something else entirely.

The first time he’d watched a person perish, it had been while chained up and muzzled in a stinking factory somewhere in the bowels of Cairo. It would be nice to be able to say he’d struggled, that he’d tried to get to the man, tried to save him. But there had been ten vampires with gleaming teeth and bloodthirsty gazes, so Randall had simply hung there and watched, helpless. He hated himself, still, for that moment, that decision. Intellectually, he’d known he couldn’t do anything different. A wolf might be able to take on a vampire, but not that many. Not when he was bound.

The second person had been thrown at his feet, the vampires laughing at him, calling him
puppy
. Biting him and spitting his own blood in his face. They’d offered him a bite of the corpse, of the body that, ten minutes before, had been a living, breathing person. Randall had choked down his bile, his fear, and stayed silent.

That hadn’t lasted long. The vampires seemed to enjoy making their new pet scream.

Randall didn’t like to think back to that part of Cairo. He didn’t want to remember. There hadn’t been any point, he’d thought, in explaining what had happened to his brothers, in telling them why he hid his bite marks, why he didn’t much like the dark now. And he was better. He was. There was no point in letting himself dwell.

Holding Victor, though, while blood choked him, while he seized, Randall honestly thought he was back there. His Beatrice had saved him, had pulled him from hell and led him back to the living. Surely only that nightmarish place could hold a moment when Victor was taken from him.

Victor was going to die. Randall was certain of it. Right there in his arms, he was going to die.

Hours passed with Victor still unconscious. Randall had carefully carried him back to Victor’s cabin, refusing any help. Jed had followed him, making sure he had what he needed, silently worrying like an overlarge German shepherd. Randall hadn’t spoken, though, and eventually Jed had gone back to the Gray Lady. Anthony checked on him later still, sharing the news that the pack was leaving at first light. Randall barely acknowledged him.

He counted Victor’s breaths. He checked his pulse every few minutes, reassuring himself that Victor’s heart was still beating. Eventually he changed Victor’s clothes. He washed the dried blood from his nose and mouth. He had to find a new shirt for himself as well. Somewhere along the line he’d gotten covered in Victor’s blood.

Staring at the red patches staining the white cotton, Randall realized his hand was shaking. In a few stumbled steps, he got to the bathroom and emptied his stomach into the toilet in a noxious, rolling clench of fear. Victor was alive, yes. Despite everything Randall’s senses had told him during Victor’s vision, he was still alive. Randall wasn’t sure how much difference that made.

The pack was leaving. Anthony was growing weaker, though he was doing his best to hide it. A war was coming, a war Randall desperately wanted to avoid. But because of Anthony, they were going to be walking straight into the middle of it, following the Gray Lady despite the apparent target on her back. All Randall wanted to do was go
home
. To go back to school, to dust off those plans he’d had for his life.

He’d been dreaming of being a historian since he was ten years old. When he’d been twelve, he’d plotted out a map for how to achieve that goal. He’d had his walls covered in college brochures and class schedules since he was thirteen. And every step of the way, he’d known exactly what he wanted.

Now none of that would ever happen. He’d left school to focus on Anthony, telling himself that as soon as Anthony was recovering, he’d be able to go back. Now they were going to some remote location states away from all his carefully made plans. There was no more college in Randall’s future. Anthony wasn’t ever going to get better. Even Cedric’s approach with real medicine could only possibly be a stopgap, if it was even possible where they were going, with what would more than likely be a lack of actual medical supplies. One day, perhaps sooner than any of them wished to believe, he would be holding his brother exactly as he’d held Victor, watching the last bits of life flicker and die in his eyes.

And then what? Taking care of Edwin was the only thing Anthony would ever ask of him, and Randall couldn’t drag his brother back into a life of schools and regular jobs and the dreaded requirement to wear clothing. Edwin would be miserable living Randall’s chosen life.

Quietly, Randall packed up Victor’s things. Jed had left the van keys. Of course Jed was going to go with the wolves. He might bluster and rant, but he was a good man. He was utterly devoted to Redford, and Redford wanted to help. Of course Jed would go. So Victor would take the van and drive back to his own life, and Randall would go on with the pack. It was the only thing that could happen.

Once upon a time, he’d thought Victor his Beatrice. His savior. Victor had chased down vampires, had helped to haul Randall out of their den. Randall had thought it the act of an extraordinarily brave man. He’d hero-worshiped Victor, he’d read his books, he’d idealized him.

And now Randall was forced to acknowledge he didn’t actually know him at all.

There was a noise from the bed. Victor was waking up. Randall went and got a fresh washcloth, soaking it in cold water. He replaced the one that was currently over Victor’s eyes with the new. “Stay still,” he murmured very quietly. “You’re in your cabin.”

The only movement Victor seemed capable of was a twitch of his fingers. “Randall?”

“I have your pills.” Randall carefully shook out two more and put them into Victor’s hand, making sure a bottle of water was next to him should he want it. “You should probably take them.”

Victor’s fingers curled around the pills, though he made no move to take them yet. “Is my pack safe?” he asked groggily. “Are my children safe?”

A frown flickered across Randall’s forehead. “You don’t have children,” he pointed out. “You—” Yes, of course. He was still caught in the Gray Lady’s memories. Nearly half the day had passed, and Victor was still processing.

Randall wasn’t sure if he wanted to shout at him or just leave. Neither one was truly an option, though, so he simply sighed and shook his head. “Those aren’t your memories, Victor.”

Victor just made a confused noise, but he didn’t ask about “his” pack anymore. A few moments of silence passed, with Victor painstakingly lifting his hand to pop the pills in his mouth, swallowing them dry. “Yes. Right, of course. My apologies.”

Feeling as though he’d aged ten years in one day, Randall found all of this was easier if he simply didn’t look at Victor—if he didn’t remember what they’d done on that bed, how it’d felt to have Victor finally
see
him. Finally want him the way Randall had since the moment he’d seen Victor. It had been a foolish crush, a pipe dream based on a man who didn’t exist. Victor wasn’t a hero. He was someone who chased after reckless things, who put himself into harm’s way for reasons Randall couldn’t understand.

And maybe, if he’d been someone else, if this had been another time, another place, it wouldn’t matter. Maybe Randall would figure out a way to be what Victor needed to feel whole. But none of Randall’s life right now would allow for that. The time was coming, closer every day, when he would lose Anthony. There was a war approaching, already here, and they would be in the thick of it.

“Your things are packed.” Randall finished zipping the last bag. “The pack is leaving at first light. Jed left you the keys to the van, so you are free to go whenever you wish.”

“What?” Victor managed to raise a hand to drag the cloth from his eyes, squinting blearily at Randall. “Why am I not coming along?”

There were a thousand answers to that question. Perhaps if he’d been someone else, a better man, he could have voiced even one of them. All Randall could think, though, was how Victor had dismissed him until he’d seen Randall go wolf. How his interest peaked when Randall was closer to his instincts.

How there were scars on Victor’s neck so very much like Randall’s. Only Victor had sought his out. He’d
wanted
them.

How perhaps even the small glimmer of light Randall had been clinging to, the hope he’d so carefully kept warm to give him strength enough to give up everything else, was nothing more than another one of Victor’s risks.

“You aren’t a wolf,” was all he said, though, his voice thick and painful. “This isn’t your fight. It’s time for you to go home to your own life.”

If possible, Victor just looked even more confused. “But I thought we…?” He trailed off, his words obviously not coming very easily to him. Instead, he waved a hand between himself and Randall. “What happened?”

“I think we both know I’m not going to make you happy.” Randall paused when his voice threatened to crack, the words weighing him down. “So thank you. For everything. Good-bye, Victor.”

The one thing that had scared Victor, the one thing he’d been so damn frightened of, was not Randall’s wolf instincts. It wasn’t the coming war, the vampires, looking into an immortal being’s life. No, the thing Victor had shrunk from was the idea of a
normal life
. Of marriage and children, of a quiet existence. The one thing Randall longed for, and Victor simply couldn’t bear the thought of it.

Gently, saying good-bye less to the man he didn’t know and more to the possibilities that were never going to exist, Randall kissed Victor’s forehead and silently turned to leave.

“Randall,” Victor protested hoarsely. “I don’t understand. We were both completely ecstatic last night.”

Last night, when Randall had been half drunk on the wolf pheromones, feeling his instincts surging with every beat of the drums. God, he had to stop thinking about this, he had to stop going over every word Victor had said, every glance and touch, or he’d go mad trying to figure out if any of it had ever been real. “You want something I can’t give you” was his answer. It wasn’t good enough, Randall knew that, but he couldn’t figure out how to explain everything in his head. If it’d been a thesis paper, a dissertation, he could go into every nuance with perfect clarity. Here? He felt completely out of his depth, as if his vocabulary had been reduced to the ache in his throat and the angry longing he was trying desperately to repress.

“You can’t mean to tell me that you don’t want this, the day after I finally got my act together.” Victor’s voice had been reduced to a whisper. He sounded like he was trying to move but wasn’t having much success with it. “What have I done to make you turn away?”

Christ. He wasn’t good at this. Randall wished horribly that Anthony was there, or Edwin. Either one of them could have articulated his feelings far better than Randall ever would. “You don’t want me. You want someone who will make you feel the same way the vampire did. I can’t do that.” Grabbing his jacket, Randall moved toward the door, frantic for an exit. “Have a good life, Victor. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The fresh air was cool on his face. The pack was a whirl of activity, wolves hauling boxes and bags outside, a few large trucks backing up to the middle of the camp for easier loading. They would be working well into the night, with how much they had to do. Randall ignored all of it. He headed back to his cabin numbly, an almost deafening buzzing his ears.