Blurred Bloodlines [2nd in Blurred Trilogy] Page 21

  "I've never seen this design before,” Simon continued, his gaze returning to the drawing. “I don't know for sure what it means. But if you look at it...” He traced the circle and the four lines that, without touching, had the vague shape of an X. “It kind of looks like a man that was cut in two. See, if you add a line here..."

  He pulled a pen from his bag and drew a thick line to connect the circle to the lines until the design looked like the crude stick-figure representation of a man.

  "So what do you think it means?” Marc asked, frowning at the design.

  Simon took in a deep breath. “I think it focuses the magic that makes Blake half human and half vampire. I think if I break through the magic he'll be himself again. A full vampire, I mean."

  Neither Daniel nor Kate said a word. They must have heard Simon's theory before, Marc realized. This was why Kate was so tense: not worry as Marc had thought, but anticipation. Hope that it would all get better. That Simon would snap his fingers and Blake would be healed, just like that, mind and body whole again. The same hope she had exuded back in Lakeview, the day after Blake's disappearance, when she had dragged Marc to Simon's room to ask him to reopen the breach. Marc remembered how crushed she had been when Simon had said he couldn't help. He remembered how much he had been hurt, too.

  "You think,” he said slowly, his eyes detailing the drawing once more. It was a nice story, but almost too good to believe. “You use that word a lot. What do you actually know?"

  Simon flinched when their eyes met again, but he didn't look away. “I know I will do anything in my power to help Blake get better."

  Marc's mouth twisted at the bitter memory—and the even more bitter taste of guilt. “Yeah, I think you proved that before."

  When Simon swallowed hard, it was clear he understood what Marc was referring to.

  "Marc, come on!” Kate's outburst drew his gaze to her. She pushed away from the counter and stepped forward so that she was now across the table from Marc. “Can't you see that if this works—"

  "What if it doesn't?” Marc cut in. He hated to crush her hopes, but she would be hurt even more if no one pointed this out. “It's all just speculation. Blake has been through enough already. I don't want him to be experimented on."

  Their eyes clashed for a few tense seconds. Marc wished they were alone. He would have told her that he wanted Blake back as much as she did—the real Blake, not the scarred shell they had been given back. That didn't mean, however, that he could forget his first duty, which was to make sure Blake didn't get hurt any more. Marc had enough trouble justifying to himself the way he touched Blake; experimental magic, especially from Simon, was beyond what Marc could tolerate.

  Kate's gaze broke away first, and she glanced at the kitchen door. Tilting her head toward it, she asked, “Does he have a say in it?"

  Marc turned to the door and was surprised to find Blake standing there, half hidden behind the wall. The glint of metal caught his attention, and he realized that Blake was still holding his sword, hands clenched over the scabbard and the hilt resting against his collarbone. Blake all but jumped and started drawing back when he saw he had been noticed.

  "Blake?” Marc tried to speak more calmly than he had a moment ago; he didn't want Blake to think he had done anything wrong by coming closer. “Do you want to come in? Are you hungry?"

  With a slow blink, Blake slinked past the entrance. He kept close to the wall and slid further in until he was tucked in the corner against the fridge, the sword still tight to his chest. His eyes flitted between Marc and the other three around the table, but they seemed to return to Kate more frequently. She half turned to him, and Marc was suddenly afraid she'd try to get closer, only to upset Blake enough that he would draw his sword. He moved from behind the table and ostensibly went to stand between Blake and Kate.

  "You guys should leave,” he said, resisting the urge to cross his arms so he wouldn't appear too defensive. “I don't want him to get agitated while he's holding the sword."

  Kate all but bristled. “But what about—"

  "Not now. We can talk about it another time."

  He knew she didn't like his answer, but that was the best she would get from him now, and she seemed to understand that. She inclined her head as she stepped forward, pausing in front of him just long enough to say, “I need to talk to you. It's been a long night, so I'll come back tomorrow."

  She threw a sad, little smile at Blake before leaving the kitchen. As soon as she was out of sight, Marc could hear Blake's heart slowing down from its staccato rhythm.

  Holding his leather bag to his chest, Simon stood up and came to a stop just out of arm's reach in front of Marc. “I want you to know this,” he said, all but whispering. His scent held the peppery smell of nervousness, but for once he wasn't tripping over every other word. “I never intended to hurt him. All I wanted was to help. I didn't know what else to do. But now I do.” His voice wavered a little, but he pushed on. “And you should let me try."

  Marc didn't reply, and after a second Simon hurried away. Almost at once, Blake slipped out from behind Marc and approached the table. He didn't seem to notice Daniel, not even when Daniel pushed away from the table, the feet of his chair scrapping the floor. Like the other two, he came to stand by Marc.

  "Let me guess,” Marc said, rolling his eyes. “You're going to tell me that I should let Simon do it, too?"

  "No. I'm going to say let Blake decide. Because behind the blank looks and the fear, I think he understands more than he lets on."

  He turned back toward the table and Marc followed his gaze. Blake had taken the seat Simon had just vacated. With one hand, he continued to hold Seneca close; with the other, he was tracing the representation of his tattoo, very much like Simon had. All of a sudden, he picked up the pen and started scratching at the drawing, covering it in angry black lines, pushing so hard that the paper ripped in several places.

  "Ask him,” Daniel said and briefly squeezed Marc's shoulder before heading out.

  As abruptly as he had picked it up, Blake dropped the pen. He turned a frightened look to Marc.

  "It's all right,” Marc said soothingly. “Everything's all right."

  Slowly, the fear faded from Blake's eyes, replaced by a pleading light that was all too familiar. This time, though, rather than physical comfort, it seemed to beg for things to be made right again. Marc wished he hadn't been so scared to make them even worse.

  No one had been hurt.

  There had been anger and fear and raised voices, but no one had been hurt. Blake had gone to them, holding the sword like a charm since he couldn't make himself draw the blade quite yet, and it had been enough. They had calmed down. And no one had been hurt.

  He had heard every word they had shared, but it was only when he saw the drawings on table that he realized they had been talking about him. The drawing was the same that his Master had carved into his flesh, one design after the other, the tip of a knife followed by a paste that had burned his body and chanted words that had weakened his mind. For so long, it had been just two symbols on his skin, branding him as his Master's property. And then, just weeks before he had been put in the box, days before he had been sent away, his Master had added the last symbol. That one had hurt more than the surface of his skin. It had ripped him apart until he had been sure his chest would explode, his heart and the rest of him crumble to dust, like vampires did when they were killed. It had taken him a long time before he started getting used to his own heartbeat, and even now, at times, it sounded too loud, too fast, like beating drums urging him onward when he knew only pain waited ahead.

  He hated that mark engraved on his skin, a reminder of pain even now that his Master had changed all the rules. Often, he had tried to erase it with his nails, scratch the dark lines and wash them away with his own blood. It had never worked. Seeing the same lines on the paper awoke something dark inside him, an anger that he couldn't suppress. He tried to erase the marks on the paper the way he cou
ldn't do it on his own body, remembering only too late that anger wasn't allowed; anger only brought punishment and pain.

  Pushing back the feeling, he looked at his Master, waited for reprimand. Instead, he received soothing words.

  He stared at his Master and tried to understand. It was all so confusing. At times, he almost thought he could understand why everything had changed, why the rules were so different, but the answer always remained just out of his reach, beyond a wall of confusion he couldn't manage to breach. It had started with the first mark on his skin, he remembered. That was when his mind had grown misty, when simple thought had become a challenge. When his Master had become different.

  The mage had changed the drawing on the paper. He had said he could make things better.

  Would Blake's Master change again—would he become who he had once been—if the mage did as he wanted? Was that why his Master had been so angry?

  His Master sat at the table next to him and flipped the second piece of paper over, hiding the drawing. He pushed it closer to Blake has he asked, “Did you hear what Simon said? About the tattoo?"

  Blake blinked and tried to remain very still. His heart was beating so fast, he could feel it fluttering inside his chest like a caged bird. He'd been caged for so long...

  "I want you to get better,” his Master continued. “But I'm not sure he can do it. He wants to help so much that he could be too optimistic. I'm afraid he'll just make everything worse."

  A whimper started rising from Blake's chest, but it never came out as actual sound. He couldn't bear it if things got worse, if his Master returned to the old rules and punishments. He thought he had finally begun to understand what his Master wanted from him. If he was taken back to his old cell now, if Seneca was taken from him, if all the privileges he had earned—

  But that was it, wasn't it? He hadn't earned anything. He had been given gifts. And what his Master gave him, his Master could take away. This rule was so evident it had never even needed to be stated.

  His eyes closed tight, as tight as his hands on the scabbard of his sword. Blood was thumping in his ears, drowning every other sound. The room felt so small, the walls so tight around him, that he could hardly breathe. It had happened so many times since he had fallen through the door of light. He had spent so many hours—so many days—in that small, dark place in his mind, pleading for his Master to help him, receiving only laughter in reply.

  At the first touch on his shoulder, he shuddered, tried to curl his body tighter around the sword. He had been so sure it would be taken from him, and now he must have failed whatever test had been placed upon him.

  The hand didn't retreat. It didn't strike, either. Instead, it pulled and coaxed Blake to his feet, and even through the drumming of his own blood, Blake could hear soothing noises, senseless words that pushed him on, one step after the other, until suddenly there was enough air again for Blake's chest not to feel so tight anymore. Through slitted eyes, Blake looked upward toward the sky. He couldn't see the stars; heavy clouds hid them. They were there, though. They had to be. And if he just waited long enough, they would return.

  When his Master let go, he sank down to the floor. Knees raised in front of himself as protection, he held the sword tight to his chest and kept his eyes up on the sky. He barely even felt his Master's hand sweeping through his hair, barely heard the quiet words murmured in his hair. But he knew his Master was there, and despite everything, he was grateful.

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  Chapter 22

  Marc spent what was left of the night sitting next to Blake on the patio. Long after Blake's heart had calmed down, long after he had finally fallen asleep, Marc continued to run a hand through his Childe's hair. He missed touching Blake without the guilt that always followed more intimate caresses, missed the easy companionship they had once shared. He wanted it back more than anything, but he was also scared that Simon didn't know what he was doing. Marc didn't doubt Simon's intentions, but Simon had failed to think things through before, and Marc couldn't let that happen again.

  Sunrise came too soon. Marc had to get back inside, but he was loath to awaken Blake when his sleep, for once, seemed free of nightmares. After hesitating for a while, he finally left Blake outside, curled on the hard cement, lips barely parted as he slept. He returned with a blanket and tucked it in around Blake's body before stepping inside again, and away from the rising sun

  Remembering Kate's words, he pulled a chair from the kitchen and set it by the front door to wait for her. He hoped to let her in before she knocked and woke Blake. After his panic attack, Blake needed all the rest he could get. He also needed not to be confronted by anything that would upset him, and Kate definitely qualified.

  His head resting against the wall, Marc kept his gaze on Blake. He could only see part of him, but it was enough to see the line drawn by the slowly rising sun illuminate his body. Blake shifted when the sunlight reached his face, hiding beneath his arm, but he didn't wake up. As good as it was that Blake was finally getting some rest, Marc couldn't help but feel uneasy as he watched sunlight caress him the way no vampire could endure. He had rarely felt like he had lost his Childe as much as he did at that moment. Even when he had abandoned him to follow Jen, he had always held the thought that they would find each other again some day. Now though, Blake was truly beyond his reach. He never imagined it would hurt so much.

  It was a little after midday when he heard the sound of steps just beyond the threshold. He quickly drew the door open, catching Kate by surprise, her hand raised to knock.

  "Hey,” he said very quietly as he stood, mindful of staying out of the sunlight pouring in through the door. “Blake's asleep."

  She nodded, a look of understanding crossing her features. She walked in and closed the door behind her. The latch barely made a sound.

  "Where is he?” she whispered, looking around the room.

  Marc couldn't manage to answer. Every time she had come to this house, she had worn her squad clothes: black pants, top and jacket, heavy boots on her feet. Not this time, though. She was wearing flat shoes and a blue dress, the fabric a heavy knit in deference to the cool fall air. The fabric crossed over her chest in a shallow V that showed the necklace resting close to her throat: the same necklace she had worn, what felt like centuries earlier, when Blake had arranged for her and Marc to go out to dinner together.

  Marc's throat tightened. He had forgotten what she looked like in a dress, forgotten how beautiful she was. How could he ever have forgotten this? How could he not have told her in almost two years?

  "You're beautiful."

  His quiet words drew her eyes to him and put a smile on her lips. She raised her hand toward him, and his own was there at once, their fingers easily entwining as though nothing had happened, as though it had all been a bad dream.

  "I'm tired of missing you,” she murmured as she stepped closer. “I want to live here. With you and Blake."

  Marc's eyes widened, and he started shaking his head. “Kate, that's not a good idea. Blake—"

  She raised her free hand and laid her fingers across his lips. “Blake is afraid of me. I know.” Her voice trembled, but she pushed on. “Whatever illusions they made him see, I must have been in there. I must have... hurt him. I know."

  Marc pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Not you,” he murmured. “Just an image of you."

  Nodding, she stepped a little closer still. Marc wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her nearer, and she rested her cheek against his shoulder.

  "And that's one reason why I think I should stay,” she continued, still very quiet. “If I'm here all the time, he'll realize I'm not going to hurt him. So he'll stop being upset when I'm around. And then maybe..."

  Her voice trailed off, and she didn't finish, but Marc knew what she meant. Maybe then the old Blake would resurface. The one she had loved. The one who had loved her right back.

  "Kate, I'm not sure—"

  They both jumped, st
artled, at the sound of metal hitting the wooden floor. Kate pulled away and turned toward the noise. Blake had walked inside. He held his sword by the hilt, point down, and the scabbard sliding off and tumbling down had made that metallic noise. Blake's eyes were wide, and he was breathing fast as he took slow steps toward them. Alarmed, Marc stepped in front of Kate before Blake could reach her.

  "Everything's fine,” he said, raising both hands palm out toward Blake. “No one is going to hurt you. You know Kate loves you. She would never..."

  Blake continued to advance, circling Marc, never taking his eyes off him. He held the sword with both hands now, raised in front of him defensively. It shook with each step he took. Marc looked at Kate and gestured for her to move back. When she did, Blake stepped between her and Marc. But rather than facing her, as Marc had expected and feared, Blake faced him. Feet planted solidly on the floor, he still looked and smelled scared, but the glint in his eyes was pure determination. Marc met Kate's eyes behind Blake and could see she was just as confused as he was. Why would Blake think he had to protect her from Marc?

  Understanding dawned on Marc with an abruptness that was akin to a punch to the stomach. He had assumed, when Blake had written her name, that Kate had been the tormenter in Blake's dreams and captivity, and that was why Blake couldn't be anywhere near her without fear taking hold of him again. But as he watched Blake stand there, afraid yet clearly ready to protect Kate, Marc realized he had been wrong. Kate hadn't hurt Blake. Rather, she was the one who had been hurt. And if it looked like Marc—Master, Blake had called him—had hurt her...

  What role did that leave for Blake?

  "I'm not going to hurt her, Blake,” Marc said with as much calm as he could summon, “no more than I'm going to hurt you."

  The declaration had no effect whatsoever on Blake.

  "It's OK,” Kate's voice rose from behind Blake, and Marc saw him flinch when she placed a careful hand on his shoulder. “It's all right, Blake. I trust Marc and so should you. He won't hurt us. Calm down, please."