Blurred Memories (4 page)

If she went home now, they
would draw her into bed with them, certainly, but they would also
know something was wrong with her. That was the thing about living
with two vampires and their sharp noses; she couldn’t hide anything
she felt from them, not fear, not guilt, not need, nor
sadness.

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 she 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.