Sire (21 page)

Morgan had done a lot of the legwork for him. She had read the book cover to cover several times, and looked for the elements common to each of her ancestors' practice. And she'd apparently gone beyond this particular book, too. She had made comparisons to other systems of belief, noted where they overlapped and where they differed, speculated on what it all meant, and tried to figure out how, exactly, it all really worked.

Everything seemed to revolve around something Morgan referred to as
Aether,
though she noted it was also called
Chi
or
Manna
or
Prana
or
The Force
, depending on who you asked.

She wasn't sure if Aether was created by human thought, or if it just responded to it, but the important thing was that it was malleable, and could be manipulated to some pretty amazing results. Essentially everything in magic, from calling down fire to disappearing from your enemy's sight, was a manifestation or manipulation of Aether.

That much Evan was okay with. The hard part for him to accept was the idea that
belief
was the fuel that got everything moving. According to the book, a spell or incantation was nothing more than a very focused thought, a belief so powerful, so
real
that it had no choice but to become manifest. All of the hocus-pocus, the spells and symbols and artifacts, were just ways to direct those thoughts into reality.

That seemed, literally, like a lot of wishful thinking. The kind of crap you'd hear on Oprah, or from some wanna-be Guru from California. It didn't fit with the way Evan saw the world. Evan believed in hard work, not day-dreaming. All the wishing in the world wouldn't have gotten him a football scholarship; that had come as the result of hundreds of hours on the field and in the gym. And when he turned his computer on, he plugged it into a wall, he didn't chant at it.

But still, vampires. So who knew what else was possible?

The sections on sigils made more sense to him. The sigils were symbols, usually drawn inside of a circle, that had special meanings, and could be used to channel your will into magical effect. If you could buy that willpower made magic work—still a big
if
, but he was willing to accept it, for now—then sigils were basically circuit boards. And that was a language he knew how to speak.

The sigils gained power over time, because people kept channeling power through them. They became part of humanity's shared consciousness, like a Jungian archetype. The first guy that used a symbol would have had a hard time with it, but the second guy, having seen it work, would have had it easier. Over the years, hundreds of people had poured their willpower into the sigils, making everyone else even more confident in its effectiveness, making it more powerful. At least, that's what Evan got out of it.

Basically, they worked because they were
supposed
to work.

The more complicated the symbol, the more precise and powerful its effect, but that also meant you had to put more energy and more belief into it. Some of the sigils, like the ones used to perform what Morgan called "very simple elemental summonings: lighting a fire, or shaking the ground a little," were so simple a child could draw them. Others, though, had hundreds of little details.

The containment spell Morgan had tried to use on Liam fell into the latter category. It would take an hour just to copy it down onto a piece of paper, let alone inscribe it on a floor somewhere. And even if you were able to copy it correctly, a spell that intricate would take an incredible amount of willpower to keep going. Evan was amazed that Morgan had even been able to cast it, and he wasn't at all surprised that her strength had eventually failed.

But where did that leave him?

This book, and the little squiggles and lines inside of it, was their best hope. It was the best chance they had—maybe the
only
chance they had—to get justice for Bethany. And to protect themselves. And to make up for what he had done to Garret.

He had to make it work. So he might as well get started.

He took out a notepad and carefully drew one of the sigils, a stylized flame inside of a circle. One of the simplest sigils he'd come across, one of the basic elemental summonings Morgan had described. This symbol, if you channeled your will through it, should let you summon and control a flame.

He set a candle on the desk next to him, and placed his hand on the sigil. He focused on the candle's wick, and willed it to burst into flame. To smolder. To smoke. Anything.

Nothing happened.

Half an hour later, he threw the notepad across the room. This was stupid, he told himself. He might as well ask his faerie godmother for help.

Evan undressed and fell into bed, exhausted. He'd try again in the morning.

The notebook lay on the floor. Evan didn't notice the golden energy that shimmered through the ink.

***

It had been a week since Liam had murdered three people right before Caitlin's eyes. A week since Bethany had been killed. A week since Garret had been put in the hospital. A week since she'd heard from Michael.

Everyone was dealing with it in their own way. Evan had basically disappeared, holed up with Morgan's spell book. In the brief moments she'd seen him, and the even briefer moments she'd been able to get him to talk, he had said that Liam was just another problem, and that he was looking for "the right tool to solve that problem." Hearing him talk like that gave her a chill.

Alexis had spent a lot of time in the Campus Center gym, beating up a punching bag. She was more than willing to talk, but most of what she said was a mix of profanity and threats. Not directed at Caitlin, of course, but at Liam, or vampires in general. Or anything that happened to be annoying her at the moment, which was just about everything.

Garret had been released two days ago. Physically he was fine, but his friendship with Evan was done. It wasn't Evan's fault—even Garret knew that, deep inside—but that didn't make it any easier for Garret to look at him. He said that he had put in a request to be transferred to a different dorm.

As for Caitlin, she was just kind of numb. It seemed like all of the color had been drained out of the world, leaving nothing but shades of gray.

Photography had always been a means of escape for her. Seeing the world through a lens made it more distant, more manageable. It helped her to see the beauty in things. Even in small things, like the way paint faded and chipped on the side of an old building.

But she couldn't see that beauty anymore, and it made her angry. Somewhere in the back of her brain, she knew that it was selfish. She wasn't angry about the three relative strangers that she had seen killed. She wasn't angry about the pain Liam had caused her friends. She wasn't even angry about Bethany. She was sad, yes. There was a pit in her stomach that she wasn't sure would ever go away. But she was
angry
that Liam had made the world less beautiful.

They were all angry, and they were all alone.

She wasn't entirely sure why she went to the mansion. She missed Michael, sure, but she wasn't in the mood for a friendly visit. Or for another session in Michael's studio. And she doubted he was, either.

Maybe she just wanted reassurance, to be told that everything was going to be okay. None of this was new to Michael. He didn't have to adjust, didn't have to cope with mountains of new information and fundamental changes to his worldview. Maybe she just wanted to be around someone that was strong and stable.

Caitlin paid the cab driver and walked toward the mansion's door. The place seemed more imposing than it had before. The door seemed heavier, the stones older, the trees more claw-like. She pulled her sweater a little tighter and rang the bell.

"Miss Manning?" William said when he stuck his head through the door. "Oh, thank goodness. Master McKenna has been out of sorts for some days' time now, and we have all been at a loss as to how to deal with him. Perhaps you can cheer him up."

"What's wrong with him?" Caitlin asked.

"He is ... well, perhaps it's better to see for yourself."

Caitlin wasn't sure what to expect. She'd seen glimpses of Michael's anger, and his potential for violence, but it had always been in the context of a battle. Usually, when she'd seen him angry, he had been saving her life, or the life of someone close to her. She'd never seen him rage just for the sake of it, and she wasn't sure she'd be able to help him. Or if it was even safe to be near him.

William led her toward the living room, and her mind filled with images of what she might find there. She pictured the room in shambles, furniture reduced to splinters, artwork torn from the walls. She imagined him stalking from corner to corner, maybe with a sword in his hand. She saw his blood-red eyes, and his sharp, pointed teeth.

She didn't picture him drunk.

The room was fine, except maybe a little untidy. The fireplace was burning. Michael was sitting in his arm chair, dressed all in black, with his shirt unbuttoned. He was clutching a glass of not-bourbon, and a half-empty decanter sat on an end table next to him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked without looking up.

"I, um ... just wanted to see if you were doing all right?"

"Fantastic. Never been better." He took a sip of the thick liquid. "Did you know vampires can get drunk? I had to give the pig a handle of whiskey before I ate him, but this solves so many problems. I wish I'd thought of it before." He took another drink.

Okay. So Michael was in the "self destruction" phase of his mourning. That was ... unexpected. "Do you want to talk?" Caitlin asked.

"Nope." Another drink. "I want to sit in the dark, and brood, and drink until I'm sober again. You know, the things I'm good at."

"I ... don't think that's exactly the healthiest way to deal with this."

"Why not?" Michael asked. "It's not like it can hurt me." He tossed back the last of the blood. "I'm going to be young forever. I can do anything I want. Drink as much as I want. Sleep with anyone. Live a life of debauchery. And I'll never change. I'm like Dorian Gray." His eyebrows knit together, and he thought for a moment. "Without all the homosexual undertones."

Caitlin was dumbfounded. She hated seeing him like this. She knew he was hurting, and knew that this was all bravado, an attempt to cover up what he was really feeling. But she was also angry that he wasn't doing ...
something
. Anything. He was the strongest ally she had, the only person she knew that even had a chance at fighting Liam and winning, and instead, he was getting drunk.

On pig's blood.

It was undignified.

"So that's your plan?" she asked. "A few days of hedonism? Or a few years?"

Michael gave her a half-smile. "Want to join me?"

"I had something else in mind."

Michael looked back at the fire. "Really? And what would that be? Because honestly, my muse has gone missing, and I'm really not feeling all that artistic right now."

Caitlin didn't take the bait. "You could try fighting back."

Michael poured more blood from the decanter. "Tried that. Didn't work. I'm moving on now."

"So that's it? You're just going to give up? Let him win?"

Michael smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. "I'm not
letting
him do anything. I've been trying to kill that son of a bitch for over a year."

"Want some help?"

Michael laughed. "You guys are planning to take on Liam? Good luck."

"He killed our friend, Michael."

"I know. I was there, remember?"

"I remember. We can't ... we can't just let him get away with it, Michael. He killed four people, three of them right in front of us. He murdered our friend. They don't even have a body for Bethany's funeral. Her parents ... we can't let that happen to anyone else."

"Okay," Michael said. "Entertain me. What's your big plan? How are you going to take out a two-hundred year old vampire?"

"Well, Evan's been studying the spell book ..."

Michael smirked.

"And Alexis ... well, she wants to fight, but I think it's just blowing off steam at this point."

"Okay," Michael said. "You've got a kid playing
Magic: The Gathering
, and a ninety-eight pound girl. What else?"

"We have you," Caitlin said.

Another mirthless laugh. "You haven't been paying attention, have you? Every time I've gone up against him, he's kicked my ass. I'm not strong enough to fight him." He looked down at his glass. "I'll never be strong enough, unless I drink human blood."

For a long moment, Caitlin just looked at him. Finally, she spoke. "Then drink mine."

He looked at her through narrow eyes. "You don't know what you're asking me to do," he said.

"Sure I do. I've been bitten before. Twice. I lived."

He stared at her, shaking his head. "I'm not worried about you, Caitlin. I'm worried about me. I'm worried that if I taste your blood, I won't be able to stop. I'm worried that I'll kill you. And someone else. And someone else. I'm worried that you'll do what Angelica couldn't ... turn me into a monster."

Caitlin walked over to the fireplace. "I have more faith in you than that."

"Then you're an idiot," Michael said.

"Maybe." She reached up—she had to stand on her toes—and took down one of the daggers from over the mantel.

"What are you ..." Michael began.

Caitlin put the tip of the blade on her collar bone and closed her eyes. She flinched when it bit into her skin, but the wound wasn't too deep, or too painful. Just enough to release a trickle of blood.

There was a rush of wind, and suddenly Michael was right in front of her. His face was human, but his expression was intense, and crimson circles were appearing around his sapphire eyes.

His mouth opened, and a hungry expression appeared on his face. He grabbed the collar of Caitlin's shirt and held her like he was going to shake her.

"It's okay," Caitlin said, looking him square in the eye.

Michael dove at her, but his fangs didn't find her throat. Instead, his mouth found her lips.

He kissed her furiously, then pulled away. All traces of red vanished from his eyes, but the hunger was still there. Caitlin held her breath, taking him in, then kissed him back.