Sire (20 page)

Caitlin looked up at Michael, tears in her eyes. "He took Bethany. We have to get her back."

Michael lifted his eyes away from her. "
We
don't have to do anything," he said. "Wait in the dorms for me. I'll be back before sunrise."

There was blood in his eyes.

***

Michael stormed out of the dorm, still in vamp face, still furious. Liam was a menace, and he needed to be stopped. Not just for the humans, but for the vampires, as well. His sick games were going to bring everything in St. Troy crashing to the ground. Why couldn't Angelica see that?

He walked past a group of guys on the way to the parking lot. One of them called out, "Nice makeup, Twilight!"

Michael ignored him, but the kid followed him. "Where you going, Cullen?"

"What's a Cullen?" one of the others asked.

"The vampire from those movies."

"Oh. How the hell do you know that?"

"...Shut up."

The first guy yelled at Michael again. "Slow down, Dracula. We're talking to you." He got in front of Michael and started walking backwards. "There a Halloween party I didn't hear about? Or does that just make your boyfriend hot?"

Michael roared and rushed him. He grabbed the boy by the shirt and hoisted him into the air, then let him dangle there. The other guys swore and backed away.
 

"Jesus!" the guy in Michael's grasp said. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean anything! Please don't bite me!"

Michael dropped him and walked away. The boys ran in the other direction.

He pulled out of the parking lot at an unreasonable speed, but it still felt slow. Every second counted, and he needed to get to Liam's as fast as he could.

But he wasn't sure what he would do when he got there. Liam was still more powerful, and he'd probably increased his security since the last time Michael had dropped in unannounced.

He was furious with himself. He should have been there. Should have protected Caitlin. Should have protected them all. But he couldn't be everywhere. And even if he could, what difference would it make? He would slow Liam down, sure, but he couldn't stop him. He might even make Liam angrier, more likely to lash out.

God damn it.

Minutes later, Michael stopped the car. Liam's mansion loomed above him. He wasn't going to play games; he was just going to cut anybody that got in his way. He took two daggers out of the trunk and slipped them into his belt, then drew two swords. Blood was going to flow.

He walked toward the gate, ready to jump over it, but it swung open as he approached. Michael looked around, expecting a trap, but the area was clear. He moved toward the mansion.

A werewolf—still in human form—was waiting, with two lines of wolves behind him, forming a corridor that led to the main door. "Liam is expecting you," the werewolf said, and stepped aside.

None of the wolves touched him as Michael approached. He swung the door open and walked in.

Finding them wasn't hard. He just followed the scent of blood and fear into one of the sitting rooms.

The room was dark, lit only by the moon and a fire that danced in the hearth. Some kind of reedy folk music was playing, emerging from hidden speakers.

Bethany was sprawled out on a couch. Her glasses lay on the floor beside her, broken. Most of her clothes had been removed. Blood dribbled from her neck, her wrist, and the inside of her thigh, creating three separate pools. Her skin was chalk-white, and her eyes were open but unseeing.

Michael felt for a pulse, but knew he wouldn't find one.

"Sorry, Mikey, you missed the party," Liam said.

Michael whirled and raised his blades. Liam had appeared in a vast armchair, reclining, fingers steepled. His face was hidden in shadow. Not that that mattered to Michael.

"I would have saved you some, but she was so delicious. I just couldn't contain myself."

Michael started forward, but Liam flashed across the room, behind Michael, and wrapped his arm around Michael's neck. Liam drew a blade and drove it into Michael's back. The silver sent rivers of pain flooding through Michael's body, and his strength left him. Michael fell to the floor.

"Pathetic," Liam says, looking down on him.

He started pacing around Michael's body. "Things are going to change in this town, Michael. We've been coddling the humans for too long. It's time that they learn who's really on top of the food chain.

"And it's time for you to learn your place, too. I know you see yourself as some kind of hero, a knight in shining armor or an avenging angel or something. But you're not. You're not the hero of this story. You're the annoying kid brother. The only reason you're still alive is Angelica, and she's going to lose her girl boner for you sooner or later."

He crouched next to him, inches from his face, and whispered fiercely. "This isn't the CW, Mikey. It's real life. And in real life, the good guys don't win. You don't get the girl. You don't get to
save
the girl. I'm going to kill her friends, and then I'm going to kill her. Slowly. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

"In fact, I might make you watch. You're no more of a threat to me than they are. I might take you, and chain you up, and make you watch me have my way with her. Watch me drain the life from her, one sip at a time. Watch her cry. Watch her beg. Watch her die."

Michael thrashed and tried to strike at Liam, but the silver nullified his efforts.

"This," he gestured at Bethany, "was just an object lesson. So go back to them, Michael. Tell them how you failed. Tell them you're impotent. Tell them that Bethany Lourdes is dead, and that she's just the first."

He stood up, and called out, "Damien!"

A few moments later, one of the wolves ran in. "Sir."

"Get him out of here," Liam said. "And get someone in here to clean the carpets. The room is starting to smell like pig's blood."

***

William heard a car tearing up the driveway. That, in and of itself, wasn't unusual. Master McKenna wasn't always the most prudent driver. But William's curiosity was piqued when the vehicle screeched to a halt in front of the mansion, instead of the car park. And when the car tore away again, William got up to investigate.

He undid the door's several locks and swung it open, and gasped.

"Master McKenna," he said. He managed to keep most of the horror out of his voice. Most of it. He would never get used to seeing his Master like this, but it wouldn't do to let his emotions get the better of him.

Michael lay on the ground, a silver blade jammed into his kidney, smoke rising from the wound. The silver poisoning was starting to spread; his skin was ashen, gray, and the veins on his hands and face were turning black.

Michael made a pained grunt, but was otherwise unable to speak or move. William yanked out the dagger, which made Michael cry out. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid that was necessary. Come now, let's get you inside."

The butler struggled to get Michael more or less vertical, supported his weight on one shoulder, and helped him inside, careful not to get
too
close to his fangs. William wasn't as young as he used to be, and Michael wasn't as light as he looked, so it was a struggle just to get the injured vampire to the couch.

"Oh, sir," he said. "What have they done to you? What have you gotten yourself into this time?" Michael looked terrible. William knew that vampires were of a very strong constitution, and that Michael would almost certainly be able to shake this off, but still ... to see him like this, injured, suffering, helpless ... William had grown fond of the young vampire, and his current condition was heartbreaking.

But lamentations wouldn't help him. Fortunately, William knew something that would. "You hold tight, sir. I'll be back in a moment." He ran to the kitchen and hurried back with a container of blood. Michael seemed helpless, so the butler held the container to his lips.

Soon Michael was drinking on his own. He stood in front of a mirror, to look at his injury. William was fascinated to see that traces of silver were running out of the wound. Michael's veins faded from view and his skin returned to its usual color. Seconds later, the injury closed.

"Thanks, William," Michael said.

"All in the line of duty, sir."

"Really? That's on the application? Tending stab wounds?"

"Right beneath the part about my blood type, sir."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "Okay then." He stood to his feet. "Thanks again, William. I have to get to the campus. I'll be back before dawn."

"Sir, if I may?"

Michael looked at him, indicating he should continue.

"Your recent course of action ... your liaison with this young girl, your antagonism toward Liam ... forgive me for speaking out of turn, sir, but I fear that this may not end well for you."

Michael looked at him for a long moment. "You might be right, William. But what else am I going to do? I can't leave her to him. I can't leave any of them. You know what he is."

"Indeed sir. That's why I'm so concerned."

Chapter Thirteen

Waiting was the hardest part.

What they had seen had been horrible. The images of Jess and Raj and that other guy—God, they still didn't even know his
name
, and it seemed like they really should know his name, since they had seen him die—would be fueling their nightmares for quite some time. Maybe forever. It was impossible to tell.

But as terrible as their deaths were, there was a certain separation, a distance. They weren't
real
people, they weren't friends. They were just unfortunate victims, like you saw on TV.

Bethany was real.

Caitlin, Alexis, and Evan were sitting in the girls' dorm. They were all staring at something far away, and they were all silent. Caitlin thought that she should say something, that they should be trying to help each other through this, but there were really no appropriate words. She wanted to tell them that everything would be all right—wanted to tell
herself
that everything would be all right—but that was a promise she just couldn't make.

But it would, wouldn't it? Michael was going to rescue Bethany, just like he had rescued Caitlin. And Liam liked to play with his food. As horrible as that was, it was actually in Bethany's favor; it would give Michael the time he needed to rescue her.

Yeah, Caitlin was sure of it. Bethany would be frightened, maybe a little banged up, but she would be fine. Just like Caitlin had been fine.

Caitlin tried to ignore the stab of fire she felt in her back, and tried not to think about what that probably meant.

There was a knock at the door. Everyone jumped like they had heard a gunshot. Caitlin ran over and pulled it open. Michael was standing there, and she looked up at him, a question on her face. "Is she ...?"

Her voice trailed off. Michael's face told her everything she needed to know. The grim set of his lips. The hard lines around his eyes. The furrowed brow. The slumped shoulders. He was angry. Defeated.

"She's ...?" Caitlin said.

Michael just shook his head.

"Oh. Oh God." Caitlin broke into uncontrollable sobs.

Somehow, she found herself on the floor, half in the dorm, half in the hallway. Michael looked down at her helplessly.

For a while, she just cried. Eventually, Caitlin composed herself, or at least got control of her tears, and climbed back onto her feet. Her chest hurt, like she had been punched, but she was at least able to look around. Evan stared at Michael, his mouth hanging open. Alexis had a dangerous look on her face, the kind of look someone gets before they do something stupid.

Caitlin looked at Michael, still standing in the doorway, still wearing his defeat. "Come in," she said to him. "Sit down with us."

Michael's eyes twitched. "I'm sorry," he said. He shook his head. "I'm sorry." He turned to leave.

"Michael, wait," Caitlin said, but there was a gust of wind, and Michael was gone.

***

Evan's head hurt. And his eyes were dry. And his back was stiff from sitting for so long. But he wasn't ready to call it a night, not yet. He wasn't even ready to take a break. The things he was reading were fascinating.

At least, they were when he could convince himself to believe them. He'd never been big on the supernatural. Sure, he went to church every Sunday, but there was a big difference between "there's a really old guy with a really long beard who lives in the sky, and when we die good people go to heaven and bad people to go hell," and "channeling the primordial forces of the universe through the power of symbol and faith."

Of course, a couple of weeks ago he hadn't believed in vampires, either. His world view had been seriously expanding lately.

The spell book was made of leather, and had an old, musty scent. A leather thong was affixed to the cover, and could be wrapped around the book to hold it closed. The book was battered and worn, and the engravings on the cover—knotwork that looked vaguely Celtic to Evan's untrained eye—were faded almost to illegibility. Someone, probably a lot of someones, had spent a lot of hours with this book.

The first hundred pages or so were inscribed with small, precise, flowing letters. Age had taken its toll here, too, but most of it was still perfectly readable. And it was all in English, thankfully. The letter 'f' was used in place of 's' throughout that part of the writing, which Evan thought dated the book to some time around the American Revolution.

That section—none of them were attributed to an author—was a hodgepodge of ceremonies and rites, potions and drawings of the flowers and roots that went into them, and arcane symbols. It also had long dissertations on the Old Ways and the Old Ones, and the need for secrecy, lest the Burning Times begin anew.

Every writer had left their own personality on the pages Evan read. For some, the Craft was a religious experience, a way of meeting with the creative forces of the universe. For others, it was a means of expression, almost an artistic endeavor. Still others treated it as a means to an end, a way of helping a mother through child birth or encouraging crops to grow.

But it was the latest entries, the ones that Morgan must have made, that intrigued him the most. They were written in messy shorthand, more like the kind of notes you'd take in class than the kind of entries you'd expect in a grimoire. And more importantly, they treated magic as a science—a weird science, sure, but still a science—with rules and theories and practical applications.