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  And so she stayed out as long as she could, walking through the sleepy town, tiring her body and dulling her mind, so that when she returned to them, she only slipped into bed, into their arms, and into sleep without worrying them.

  Chapter 3

  “So how did you convince Simon to come with us?” Blake asked a little after nightfall while Marc was out running a few last errands.

  Kate froze, the fork halfway to her mouth. Her flash of guilt was an answer of sorts, and Blake could already guess what argument she had used on Simon: Blake’s well-being required more magic. He was curious as to whether she would admit it, though.

  “I… uhm...” She ate a mouthful of pasta, and Blake could have sworn she was giving herself time to think. “Daniel needs him,” she said at last. “They’re having trouble with the breach.”

  She met his eyes for a second before returning her attention to her food. Blake considered her over the rim of his glass of blood. She wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t telling the entire truth either, was she? Besides, hadn’t she already told Simon that? Why would he change his mind now?

  When she looked up at him again, he realized that he had dropped a hand to his thigh and was scratching at the tattoo the demons had inked into his skin. He forced himself to stop at once. His skin didn’t itch, nor did it burn the way it used to; Simon’s spell had stopped that. Just the same, Blake kept catching himself scratching it the way he had for decades. He knew Marc and Kate had noticed, too, even if neither of them had said a word about it—at least until now.

  Kate set her fork down and rested her hand on the table next to her plate, pressing down so hard that her knuckles turned white. She cleared her throat softly before she asked, “Does it bother you? The tattoo, I mean. Maybe Simon could have a look at it again.”

  If nothing else, the suggestion confirmed Blake’s suspicions.

  “I’m fine,” he said, more harshly than he meant to, and winced when she flinched. “I’m—” Sorry was the word that tried to climb out of his throat, but she always looked sad when he apologized to her, as though she understood he was apologizing for a lot more than a flash of temper. “I need to finish packing,” he said instead.

  He quickly rinsed his glass in the sink, his shoulder blades itching from the certainty that Kate was watching him, then hurried out of the kitchen and to his room.

  He hadn’t slept in there in a while, not since the first night Kate had spent in the house—the night when Blake had gone to Marc and their relationship had changed radically. His clothes were still in that room, however, as well as his sword.

  He threw a few changes of clothes into a backpack along with some toiletries, and sat on the edge of the bed to wait for Marc’s return. He wasn’t hiding from Kate, he tried to tell himself, but the lie was hard to believe.

  His sword was propped up against the wall, sheathed in a scabbard Marc had had made to replace the one Blake had lost in the demon dimension. Blake had tried the scabbard on, and told Marc it fit him well, and that much was true. Somehow, though, it felt as though Blake himself didn’t fit that scabbard anymore. The weight of the sword felt strange on his shoulder, almost alien.

  He had tried a few times to get accustomed to it by running through balance exercises—the same exercises he had loathed when Marc had taught them to him after turning him. He had even sparred with Marc a couple of times. Kate had offered to train with him, too, but he had found an excuse to say no every time she suggested it. He couldn’t bear the thought of raising a weapon against her, even to spar. It had been all he could do to make himself strike at Marc, and the entire time a little voice deep inside him had shouted that he would be punished for this, punished so badly he would wish he would die.

  Every time he touched the sword, the little voice started to shout again. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen once they returned to the front line. He was the one who had suggested it, but he had done so because Marc and Kate missed the fight, being useful, and probably the physical outlet for their frustrations. Maybe he was fooling Marc and Kate, but he couldn’t fool himself. He wasn’t ready to fight demons again. He wanted to, but he wasn’t there yet. His body was healed, his strength back, but his mind was still a mess, however much he tried to hide that fact from everyone, himself included.

  When, a few minutes later, Marc returned and came to stand by the door to Blake’s room, it took Blake a few seconds to focus on him.

  “Ready?” Marc asked.

  Blake didn’t know how to answer, so he lied.

  “Ready,” he echoed, and picked up his sword.

  * * * *

  Three hours after they had left the safety of Riverton, Kate declared that she was too tired to keep driving and stopped the car. They all took the opportunity to get out and stretch their legs. Blake in particular was glad for the respite, even if he tried not to show it when Marc threw him a badly disguised look of concern. The car was small to begin with, and having four people in it made it feel absolutely tiny.

  Being out at night wasn’t such a good idea, but Kate had stopped at the top of a small hill from which they could see the countryside all around them; no demons would be able to creep up on them unnoticed.

  Simon was the first to go back to the car, muttering about feeling chilled. When he reached for the back door, Kate stopped him with a word.

  “Wait. Do you mind riding in the front? I’d like to lie down and get a bit of sleep.”

  Simon’s eyes flicked toward Blake; since they had left Riverton, Simon had tried to make small talk two or three times, and no doubt he had intended to try again. Blake felt bad for not replying to his attempts with more than one word at a time, but it was all he could do to distract himself from how stiflingly small the car was. Being polite or friendly was beyond him.

  “Sure,” Simon said. “But I’ll want a turn later.”

  Both Simon and Kate climbed back into the car. Marc stood by the driver’s door, his gaze unreadable as he considered Blake.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, failing to conceal the worry in his voice.

  Blake nodded in lieu of answer. “Do you want me to take a turn at driving?”

  Marc’s shoulders twitched into what could have looked like a nonchalant shrug if Blake hadn’t known him so well. “Let me take this one,” he said. “You can get the next shift.”

  To Blake, it sounded like Marc didn’t quite trust him with the wheel. Blake wouldn’t put it past him not to surrender the driver’s seat until sunrise was close enough to stop them anyway. With a grunt, he climbed into the back seat. His annoyance receded when Kate flashed him a smile and asked, “Mind if I use you as a pillow?”

  Blake didn’t mind at all.

  Marc started the car again, and Kate lay down across the back seat, her knees close to her chest, her cheek resting on Blake’s thigh. She cupped Blake’s knee in her hand, and that small, innocent touch sent a pang of need through him. He reached behind him, pulling the old blanket they kept in the back over her. Usually, it served as protection against the sun, but for once it could offer warmth.

  With a quiet little hum of thanks, Kate rubbed her cheek against Blake’s thigh. Her eyes were already closed. Blake returned his arm to laying against the back seat. He wanted to rest his hand on her so much that his fingers felt like they were cramping as he struggled to keep them still, but he couldn’t make himself touch her. Not like this.

  It was fine if she touched him, or if she or Marc drew Blake’s hands to her, but for Blake to lay a hand on her, however much he craved that touch, was beyond him. It didn’t matter that he knew nothing would happen if he did—nothing bad. His mind believed it, but his body still recalled punishments, too many to count, some doled out on him and some on Kate. The memories were enough to keep his hand still.

  Unaware of Blake’s quandary, Kate had fallen asleep already. Looking down, Blake could see her face, relaxed and peaceful: beautiful. The blanket that covered her rose and fell with every breath sh
e took. Such a small thing, and yet so comforting, too.

  In that other place he had checked on her so often—checked that she was still breathing, still alive—that it had become second nature to him. Ever since she had moved in with him and Marc, he had lost count of how many times he had woken at night and listened to her heartbeat, or shifted a little closer to her so he could feel her breath against his cheek or her chest pressing rhythmically against his back.

  He closed his eyes after a while, let the rhythm of Kate’s heart and the rocking of the car lull him into sleep.

  The dream started soon after.

  * * * *

  “She’s very pretty. I see why you like her so much.”

  Blake didn’t respond to the taunting, nor did he move. His knees, his legs, his back, and his entire body ached from kneeling for so long, but he was past the point of pain. Past the point of grief, too. Part of him wanted to cry, scream, or try to avenge Kate. He wouldn’t succeed, of course; he was too weak for that, having been starved for what felt like an eternity. He could barely remember the last time he had been offered a few drops of blood from his Master’s wrist. His mind felt slow, blurry, as though a deep fog made it hard to look at memories or form new thoughts.

  “But maybe you don’t like her,” his Master continued in the same mocking tone. “Maybe it’s more than that. After all, you’re not a true vampire anymore, are you? True vampires don’t kneel like slaves, or beg to be fed. They don’t love mortal women, either.”

  His Master punctuated that claim with a kick to Kate’s lifeless body. Blake couldn’t stop himself from flinching. He wanted to close his eyes or look away, but his Master’s warning still echoed in his mind: keep watching, or lose your eyes.

  Maybe being blind would be better than seeing this, but if he were blind, Blake would never find a way to escape. He had tried to figure it out for so long, thought about it so hard… Part of him was convinced that, if he had been his normal self, if his head didn’t feel like it was filled with cotton, he would have found a way to escape long ago. He also would have understood how Kate could be dead on those cold stones now and yet how she would undoubtedly return within a few days; she had died many times, but she had always returned to pay for Blake’s mistakes again.

  His Master came to stand right in front of Blake, blocking his view of Kate’s body. Blake was grateful for the respite, even if his Master was already offering pain, grabbing Blake’s hair and forcing his head back with a sharp jerk.

  “Tell me something,” he said, and the word hissed past his fangs. His mouth was still stained with Kate’s blood. “Do you love her?”

  Blake tried to think—but oh, it was so hard to think—about which answer would be best. There never was a right answer to questions such as this one, but some answers were worse than others. If he said he didn’t, his Master would punish him for lying. If he admitted he did, he would be punished for displaying emotions that vampires weren’t supposed to feel.

  If he was to be punished anyway, he finally decided, he wouldn’t betray Kate, not even in words.

  “Yes, Master,” he murmured. “I do.”

  His Master’s grin was pure savagery. His fingers tightened in Blake’s hair, wrenching Blake’s head back further until his neck hurt. “Of course you do. I’ll leave her with you, then. So you can be with your rotting love for a few days. Or weeks.”

  Dawning comprehension widened Blake’s eyes, and he stared at his Master in horror. His Master was still laughing when he stepped out of the cell and locked the door on the two of them.

  * * * *

  Blake awoke with a gasp.

  Kate’s head still lay in his lap, and for one awful moment he was sure, absolutely sure, that she was dead. And it was his fault. And her body would be left to decay in front of him.

  “Blake? What’s wrong?”

  His Master sounded worried. It was so strange to hear worry in his Master’s voice. Scorn, anger, taunts, amusement, yes. Not worry.

  But it wasn’t his Master, was it?

  Blake forced himself to make a demand even when everything he knew told him he had no right to ask for anything.

  “Stop the car.”

  Marc did so before turning in his seat to look at Blake. Kate had awakened and she sat up, yawning widely before she asked, “Are we there already?”

  Blake didn’t answer. His fingers scrambled over the door, trying desperately to work the handle. At last he managed to get the door open and stumbled out onto the asphalt. His stomach was heaving as though the blood he had drunk earlier was trying to come back up. Stumbling to the side of the road, he took big, gulping swallows of fresh air and tried to chase away the smell of rotting flesh that seemed so fresh in his mind.

  He fell to his knees in the grass, hands closing into fists over his thighs, and didn’t try to stop the tears. They were long overdue.

  Chapter 4

  Several minutes passed before the car doors opened behind Blake, and distantly he was grateful they had given him a moment to himself. The footsteps on the asphalt sounded far too loud, like the heartbeat he didn’t have but that he could swear was thumping in his ears.

  “Stay in the car,” Marc snapped.

  For a second Blake thought he meant Kate, but while a car door did slam shut, Kate soon stepped around him and kneeled in the grass in front of him.

  He hated seeing her on her knees.

  Her expression was grim and turned even more somber when she took a look at him. She started to raise her hand toward Blake’s face, but he jerked back. Belatedly realizing what he must look like with tears running down his cheeks, Blake scrubbed at his face with both hands. Shame still burned him, and he couldn’t look at her.

  “I don’t care,” Kate murmured. “I don’t think any less of you because you cry.”

  Blake shook his head jerkily, though he didn’t say a word. Of course she didn’t think any less of him; she couldn’t. What could possibly be lower than him, pathetic and useless and broken?

  At least, and it was a small mercy, Marc hadn’t seen him cry. He walked to Kate’s side with slow steps. He was always wary when Blake stumbled, no doubt remembering that Blake’s mind was sometimes so muddled that he attacked Marc as though he were the enemy. Blake could feel Marc’s gaze on him, heavy with all the questions Marc wasn’t asking—all the questions Kate asked instead.

  She said Blake’s name quietly to draw his eyes to her. He forced himself to look at her and even tried to give her a smile.

  “I’m fine,” he said before she could ask. “I fell asleep. I had a dream. Better now.”

  Dream, not nightmare. He never said that word anymore. It didn’t change the nature of the dreams, but it made him feel…not better, but not as bad, maybe. They knew what he meant anyway, however much he wished they didn’t.

  “What was it?” Kate wrapped both her hands over one of his and drew it to her mouth. Her lips were soft and warm. “What did you… What triggered it, this time?”

  Blake tried to pull his hand free, but she wouldn’t release it. If he pulled any harder, he would hurt her.

  “I don’t know,” he lied. “It just happened. Let it go. Please.”

  Blake could tell with a glance that Marc knew he was lying.

  “How can we help you,” Marc said, his voice as dark and grim as his eyes, “when you won’t tell us about it? If you would just talk—”

  “And tell you what?” Blake cut in, more tired than angry. “I already told you. You were there. Both of you. Or at least I thought it was you. The fake Marc hurt the fake Kate to get to me. What else is there to say? Do you want a blow by blow, too? Do you want those images in your head? Isn’t it bad enough that they’re in mine?”

  The look they exchanged reawakened Blake’s anger. He knew they talked about him behind his back and compared notes about his behavior, his ‘recovery’ as they called it. He hated that they did and that they knew he was still messed up. His only saving grace was that they had
no idea how messed up exactly. They’d never have let him leave Riverton if they had known. And he had needed to leave. He couldn’t spend the rest of his existence hiding from demons, metaphorical or literal. He couldn’t prevent his lovers from fighting, not when he knew how much it meant to both of them.

  He had felt the same way once, what seemed like an entire lifetime ago. He hoped he would feel that way again some day: that having a sword in his hand again, fighting the same creatures that had imprisoned and tortured him would help him reclaim bits of himself.

  He hoped, but he wasn’t sure he really believed.

  “I’m fine,” he said again, more strongly now, and pushed himself back up to his feet. Kate was still holding on to his hand, so he pulled her up with him. He struggled to talk when all he wanted was to be left alone to sort through the images cluttering his mind and heart, but if it helped them accept that he was all right, it was worth the effort. “We should go. We’re too exposed out here.”

  Kate squeezed his hand and offered him a smile that never reached her eyes. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  She glanced at Marc as though inviting him to come with them. Marc nodded, but his gaze remained somewhere behind them.

  “You two get back in the car. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  A flash of dread slid like ice down Blake’s spine. Marc was good at masking his feelings, but Blake knew this one too well not to recognize it. His Sire was angry.

  As Blake returned to the car, it was all he could do to keep in mind that it wasn’t his Master he had just disappointed and angered.