Dreams for the Dead (23 page)

“I
know
,” Tristan snarled. The effort to speak took a lot from him. Loftus’s power pressed down on him, heavier than just seconds before. He sensed, rather than felt, tiny cracks appearing in his ribcage.

“I didn’t intend to sacrifice you from the start,” Loftus said gently. He sighed and stared off into the distance. “I gen
uinely thought I could create a family for myself. I believe I was successful. You all adapted so well to my child-rearing methods. Branek especially. Most of the time I was quite satisfied with the level of bloodthirstiness I’d instilled in you.”

“Right. Thanks for the fucking freak show”—Tristan took a deep breath, exhausted by the clo
ying weight of power—“childhood.” He released the last word on a long exhale. “I came here to kill you for that.”

“You can’t kill me, Tristan. I made you. You’ll cower before me, or
die
.”

Tristan took another deep breath, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs. He managed a wretched grin, his teeth blac
kened with dirt and blood. His voice was strained. “I’m not afraid to die. I’ve wished for death so many times already.”

“In that case, I’m honored to accommodate you. You’ll suffocate slowly if I leave you there.
Very
slowly. It can take a long time for a vampire to die.”

Loftus
smiled a terrible smile, his silver eyes gleaming with a cold, cold light. He laughed and laughed, uncontrollably, his mouth wide open to let the night slip in. He turned his back dismissively. Their delightful little spar was done.

The laughter angered Tristan more than an
ything else. Through clenched teeth he screamed into the dirt, wishing he knew how to wield the power of blood and earth like Fallon did. But maybe he did know how, in some dormant part of himself—a part that contained the ancient knowledge of vampires who had to return to the grave for strength.
There must be some truth to this particular bit of folklore.

Grasping the cool dirt and grass in his fists, he managed to heave himself off the ground, a diff
icult, wearying process. He sucked in a breath of sulfuric red air and crouched low as he approached Loftus from behind. The arrogant bastard never realized he was coming. He’d really expected Tristan to give in to death without a fight.

He caught Loftus up by the back of his shirt and the waist of his jeans and tossed him for all he was worth. Loftus flew into the trunk of a mulberry with a resounding crack like the splitting of the earth. The blow left Loftus stunned, but only for seconds. Coughing, he began to climb to his feet. His eyes flashed briefly with red, the color of rage.

In an instant Tristan was beside him, eyes cold. The crushing power had weakened him considerably, but the force of his wrath felt great enough to split his skin. He broke off one of the lower branches of the tree and whacked Loftus upside the head. Loftus fell back to the ground, stunned. Even so, he tried to get up immediately.

“Nope,” Tristan said, shoving his foot roughly against Loftus’s shoulder to keep him down.

Vampires were vulnerable to wood. A cut from wood would take a long time to heal, as Tristan knew from personal experience, and it would scar. Used correctly, wood was fatal. Tristan could have driven the branch through Loftus’s chest, pinning him to the ground. That would surely result in a long, painful death. But Tristan didn’t think he’d feel satisfied even were he to watch his father suffer as he died. Tristan wanted to be directly responsible for his demise. He wanted to do something
brutal
.

“Forgive me, Tristan,” Loftus said, false remorse in his leaden eyes. Blood bubbled from his lips.

Tristan knelt down beside him and gave a nasty, scornful smile through the tears streaking his dirt-stained cheeks. He laid a hand on Loftus’s chest. “Never.”

He pressed his hand down until chest bones splintered beneath his palm. He tore his fi
ngers through the slack skin and a layer of muscle. The thoracic cavity gaped to the abdomen, a mass of quivering organs and broken bones.

The sternum was crushed. He shoved his hands through the costal cartilages and pried back the true ribs, delighting in the sucking, cracking sound the action made. The metallic smells of blood and vi
scera wafted up to him.

His mouth watered as he grabbed a rib and snapped it, tearing it free from the intercostal muscles. He used the jagged end to stab the heart. With a savage, triumphant cry, he tore it free of the connec
ting arteries. Then he brought it to his lips, sank his teeth into the slick flesh, and ate it like a fucking marshmallow on a stick. His eyelids fluttered at the deluge of strength it gave him. He shivered with power.

By the time he was finished, Tristan felt only somewhat saner. Loftus’s mutilated body lay b
efore him, so much thinner and more fragile in death. Older. Tristan felt no pity or remorse, only blistering satisfaction. Licking blood and bits of flesh off his lips, he sat back in the grass and let out a long groan. It had been so long since he’d outright killed. Since he’d felt bursting with blood and still wanting more, always more.

Idly, he reached out to snap off another rib and licked it clean. Dessert.

After a moment’s thought, Tristan got up on his knees and leaned over Loftus once more. He snaked his fingers between the two rows of teeth, one hand on the upper jaw and one on the lower, and yanked them in opposite directions. Bones fractured and skin tore. One at a time, and with some effort, he pulled Loftus’s fangs free. Bits of gum dangled from the roots. Though he thought about pocketing them as a sort of trophy, he knew he didn’t really want them.

With a sneer, Tristan came to his feet and tossed the pair of fangs to the grass. He ground them beneath his heel.

“Mother
fucker
,” he said softly to the corpse of his would-be father. He spat on it, saliva and blood.

As he turned away, he saw two figures approaching. One dark, one pale.

“What have you two been doing?” he asked, not even bothering to wipe the congealed blood from his face.

“Tristan,” Augusta said calmly. “The house is on fire.”

He smiled. “Let it burn.”

F
ifteen

A
soft
hot wind caressed Dawn’s neck and bare arms. She’d made it halfway home on foot, but now she stopped on the sidewalk outside an unoccupied strip mall, restless and upset. She watched the evening grow darker and as it did, a soft red dome of light began to appear in the air over the city. It looked ominously brilliant as a dying, misplaced sun.

She began to walk toward it.

Her feet knew where to go, which streets to take to lead her most efficiently to her destination—to Branek, her maker. It felt as if an invisible cord between their two bodies showed her the way. Dawn barely noticed the miles of sidewalk disappearing beneath her feet as she passed gas stations and grocery stores and crossed busy roads. She wasn’t afraid.

She
was
afraid, actually, but only a little, and she did her best to ignore it.

Mostly she was angry. But that was too colorless a word for what she felt for Branek. It was
fury
, white-hot. Compelled to do
something
with this rage howling inside her, she was hunting him down, manic with an uncontrollable desire for vengeance. She wouldn’t rest until she’d made him her prey. Until he was dead by her very own hand.

Gradually she became aware of a change in the air. Motes of red floated around her like hellish dust. Though more insubstantial than fog, they grew larger as Dawn moved forward, coalescing into something like smoke, only clearer. The redness was neither warm nor cold, neither thick nor thin. It was nothing. Just light that carried the faint scent of brimstone.

The city was eerily silent now. Maybe the light held the world in a frozen prison, or maybe it was just late. It was hard to tell.

She kept walking. To one side of her were houses, old and small. To the other were law offices, a tattoo parlor, and other businesses. All struck dark in the bilious crimson air. Gruesome excitement hummed in her blood. She felt moved by the night, the light, the unseen.

Her connection to Branek—and her obsessive hatred for him—led her to Loftus’s house. She recognized the long driveway and the white stucco wall surrounding the property. The gate hung wide open.

Crossing the yard, she saw no movements in the shadows. She heard no sounds, not even the call of a peacock.

The redness didn’t penetrate the house’s interior. It glowed outside the open door, like the world was awash in blood.

Dawn moved slowly toward one of the rooms off the foyer. She’d never been in it before. The door gaped open.

“Branek?” she called softly at the threshold.

There was an answering creak.

He was sitting on a plain wooden chair in one corner of the dark, cramped bedroom, his feet propped up on a bed piled with magazines. Her vampire eyes discerned the edges of objects, able to clearly distinguish one shadow from the next. A heap of clothes lay discarded on the floor beside him. Cluttering stacks of books and videotapes lined the walls in plastic crates.

“Is this your room?” Dawn asked.

“If I need it.” He blinked slowly at her. “Come on in here,” he said, his tone inviting but flat. His jaw had healed perfectly.

One step moved her out of the doorway, closer to him. She went no further.

“I was waiting for you,” he said.

“How did you know I would come?”

“I made you, Dawn. The tie between us is strong.”

Strong enough for you to appear in my room at night?
The memory of him hovering over her bed made her shudder. Being in the presence of the man—the vampire—who’d killed her eroded her confidence into nothing.

She straightened herself up in an effort to appear brave. “Why did you do this to me?”

He rose to his feet. He wasn’t quite as tall as Tristan but he was broader, his muscles heavier. His shadowy features were blatant and aggressive. She retreated back into the doorway, unnerved at the power his body suggested, the harsh power she knew very well it contained.

“It was unintentional, actually. I wouldn’t have cared if you’d died, but now I think this mistake might not be such a bad one.” He smiled indulgently. “That hair is growing on me, you know.”

“Toying with people’s lives comes so naturally to you, doesn’t it?”

“I may have reasons for doing what I do. It’s all right if you don’t unde
rstand.”

“Y-you
raped
me,” she said, as if he needed reminding. Her eyes filled with angry tears that didn’t fall. “What’s there to understand, except that you’re sick and misogynistic?”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “Like I said. I may have reasons.”

“Well, I’m not interested in them.”

“Then why did you come to me?”

Her brave front slipped a little. Chewing worriedly on her lower lip, she looked out the open doorway. They were still alone.

“You’re here,” Branek murmured. “He won’t be far behind.”

She composed herself quickly and glared at him. “Why did you ask me to forgive you?”

“I’ve done many things that need forgiving,” he said simply. “It seemed easiest to start with my most recent sin. Not,” he added, “that I care about such things. It’s a poetic touch, nothing more.”

Silence followed. Maybe he was waiting for her to offer forgiveness. She didn’t.

“You came to me because we share blood,” he explained. “If I want, I can make you do anything. For me. To me. To yourself.”

“I came,” she told him, “to kill you. Our shared blood just showed me the way. You’re delusional if you think you can make me do anything.”

Suddenly, he closed the short distance between them in a stride and a half. He leaned down and lightly ran a finger along the edge of her ear and down her neck. She flinched away angrily. And then he kissed her, hard and quick. Dawn jumped back, startled, and he drew up, looking somber but e
ntirely too pleased with himself. She stared, horrified.

“You’re speechless, I see,” he said. “I do sometimes have that effect on women, though it’s us
ually because they can’t talk once I’ve killed them. But really, Dawn, you must know nothing else can ever happen between us. There’s so much potential for disaster.”

Her voice was shrilly angry. “Don’t you
ever
touch me again.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I haven’t fallen in love with you.” He moved to the small window at the back of the room, though he could see nothing through its painted surface. “I wanted to know what Tristan saw in you. However, I still don’t have any idea.”

“Nothing,” she said, her voice uncomfortably bitter. “That’s what he saw.”

Branek turned from the window to face her. “He pushed you away, didn’t he?”

“It’s none of your business what happened between us.”

“I don’t need you to answer. I already know.” He stepped toward her again, leaning too close, as if to tell a secret. His breath stirred the tiny hairs at her temple and she leaned away from him. “Are you going to run?”

“No,” she said calmly. “I’m done trying to run away from you freaks. I know you’ll find me, and I know I won’t ever be free while any of you live.”

“Maybe you’re smarter than I gave you credit for. But i
mmortality isn’t permanent, you know.”

“You’re going to try to kill me,” she said. Like that was any surprise.

He shook his head and spoke tenderly. “Oh, no. Nothing so banal as that. Dawn, I cannot fucking
wait
to eviscerate you.”

His words sent a spike of fear through her, but she did her best to match his dangerous tone. “I think you underestimate how much I hate you. So you can try whatever you want. But you won’t break me.”

“We’ll see.”

He grabbed her and tossed her up on one shoulder. Her weight was nothing to him. Her head knocked into the doorframe as he carried her from the room. She kicked and pounded at his back, but all he did was give her ass a squeeze. They moved into the crimson-drenched night. It felt almost hot after the cold air of the house, and all the plants made it slightly humid.

Branek slammed Dawn down on the grass. Her head hit the ground hard and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

“Do you know the feeling,” he said conversationally, “of being in the desert at night and touching a rock that holds the warmth of the sun, though the air is cold around you? That’s what you taste like.”

According to him, he hadn’t even intended to make her a vampire. And yet she was here, an accidental vampire, at his mercy. She was aghast. But … she was heartless, too. Angry. She was
murderous
. Yes, this was her
life
. Branek wasn’t ending it, no matter what he thought. And no one was saving her. She would have to save herself.

“How fascinating,” she choked out. “
You
probably taste like shit.”

As she rolled herself up, Branek struck out a hand and caught her on the high part of her left cheekbone. She flew and landed a few feet away in the grass. One shoulder was skinned and her face throbbed, but otherwise she felt suspiciously fine. A blow like that could have shattered every bone in her face, and the landing might have taken care of a few more. But she was a vampire now, better able to withstand vampire strength. Better able to fight back.

She got up, feeling her vampirism fully for the first time. There were many reasons she should have run away screaming in fear. But somehow her fear wasn’t a concern. She was oddly focused and vigilant in a way that made everything else less important. She was cool and alert and quietly furious.

“You think it’s regular watering that keeps this lawn so green?” Branek gestured carelessly and grinned. “That’s not all of it. I’ve buried bodies here. I’ll bury you here too, when I’m done with you.”

Dawn knew her strategic fighting skills were still miserable, though. She could do nothing but react like a wild animal when Branek lunged for her. She jumped to meet his malicious embrace and the world shook as they clashed. She opened her mouth as wide as it would go and tore at his neck. He shouted angrily and pried her off, flinging her far across the ground once more.

She tumbled a few feet before she managed to dig her fingers into the soft ground, skidding to a stop. Her mouth was full of blood and bits of skin.

“You’re so young,” he laughed as she pushed herself to her feet. “So powerless.”

“I am
not
powerless.”

“Against me you are.”

The side of his neck gaped where she’d bitten him. It seemed a large gash, all dark and viscous, and yet she hadn’t swallowed much blood. Just enough to moisten her mouth.

Physically she was no match for him. The gash didn’t even seem to have fazed him.

“What are you gonna do?” Branek taunted.

She debated whether to attempt another attack on him or just run. She didn’t want him chasing her. Either way, though, he meant to kill her.

“Why do you hate me so much?” she asked, stalling.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, as if the very notion were absurd. “I hate what you’ve done to us. There’s no shame in taking a little joy from making you suffer, though.”

He took several long strides toward her, grabbing her arm to hold her still when she tried to run away. His fist slammed into her stomach hard enough that she immediately threw up whatever was in it. Blood, bile. She dropped to her knees, sick and breathless. There was a hard knot at the base of her sternum.

Branek’s hand slapped down on her shoulder and squeezed hard. She thought she felt a bone crack, but she was already in too much pain to be sure. He shook her viciously and grinned. “You can count it a favor that I’ll wait till you’re dead to fuck you again.”

He touched the skin beneath her shirt, probing gently, like a doctor doing an exam. But his fingers quickly turned cruel, pressing in, bruising, and then
penetrating
. Dawn was in too much shock and pain to do anything other than make a soft gurgling sound. The pain seared her. It made her facial muscles spasm and the rest of her body seize.

Dawn watched Branek withdraw his hand, gloved in her blood. And then she fell, not quite u
nconscious, not quite awake. She lay curled on one side, her guts spilling out. Only her slick, warm hands held them in place. The world went still and soundless but for the sound of her own labored breathing. The red night had the surreal quality of a nightmare come true.

Something lay low to the grass in the shadows to her right. Something pale. Her swimming eyes focused with effort and she saw the hem of a filmy white dress that was really nothing more than rags. Long ropes of black hair lashed fiercely in the wind. Twin spots of red gleamed from a pallid face. A dark mouth gaped in a haunting, silent scream.

Did you know a demon can steal your soul?

Staring into those piercing crimson orbs, Dawn saw how that could be true.

But this thing wasn’t a demon. Or it hadn’t always been. Dawn realized the cramped, trembling figure was Delphine, the woman she had read about in the diary. Loftus had killed her for resisting his advances, and then he’d changed her into a vampire. But it hadn’t worked.