Vlad folded the note and was about to tuck it into his pocket when he noticed a single word scribbled on the back of the list.
Pravus.
He read the word again, silently wondering what that word was doing on a list that had belonged to his father, let alone scribbled in his own handwriting. But then, maybe that was what Tomas had meant in his journal when he’d written that he had “suspicions” about his son. He must have known what an oddity it was for a human and a vampire to procreate, so of course he would have wondered if Vlad was the Pravus.
Tomas wasn’t the only one. Vlad couldn’t help but wonder if the story was true, if he were some subject of ancient prophecy.
But there was no way to know, as Vlad wasn’t too keen on the idea of testing out the checklist of traits that only the Pravus would have. Sunlight? No, thank you. Immortal? He wasn’t touching that with a ten-foot stake.
But one thing was for sure.
He had to learn as much about that prophecy as he could.
15
THE FEAST BEFORE THE KILL
IGNATIUS STARED UP AT THE SKY in blissful contentment. Not only was it a new moon, but the sky was overcast with thick black clouds, ensuring that his hypersensitive allergy to the sun’s rays would not emerge tonight. It would make for a luxuriously long ending to his hunt for the boy, and he would take his time with every stroke of his blade. The boy would bleed quickly, but the cuts would be oh so slow.
Nothing could stop the hunter tonight. No glinting of the sun’s light off the surface of the moon. No concerns about the boy’s human ward witnessing his actions. Ignatius had listened to her thoughts as she left the house an hour before—a double shift at the hospital would keep her away all night.
Now there would only be the boy, and the delicious slicing of his pretty skin.
But he had to be careful. He was famished, which always made for a better hunt, but it also increased the temptation to feed off the hunted during his cutting sessions. And he’d be damned if he was going to taint his palate with the bitter crimson of an arrogant half-breed. Better that he should complete his hunt on a full stomach than run the risk of draining his flawed captor.
As if in answer to his needs, a girl passed him on the sidewalk, her skin pale, purple streaks through her dark hair. Ignatius recognized her at once as one of the human children who frequented the front steps of the local high school each evening. Her name stuck on his tongue. It was a time, not a name, and had reminded him instantly of the smell of autumn and cool breezes. October.
He turned, following her quietly, daydreaming about the moments following his meal. He’d steal into the boy’s home stealthily and make his way up the stairs to his bedroom. Then, with a turn of the knob, enter the boy’s resting place.
October turned the corner, oblivious to the vampire following her.
Once he was in the boy’s room, Ignatius would unsheathe his favorite blade and, with its tip, draw the covers down, away from the sleeping boy’s form. And then . . .
“What are you doing?” A voice from the shadows. Ignatius hung back, lost in his fantasy, but not so lost that he would expose his presence and lose his meal.
October slowed her steps, but by her posture it was clear she’d been expecting the intruder. “I’m going home. What’s it look like?”
Another human, a boy with silver hair, stepped from the shadows, his lips pursed. “It looks like you’ve been inviting a dork like Vladimir Tod to hang with us without even asking my opinion.”
She shrugged coldly. “I don’t need your permission, Kristoff. If you don’t like him, you can find other people to hang out with. Besides, he’s not a dork. I think he’s interesting.”
Kristoff snarled. “Interesting? He’s boring. And about as far from being goth as you can get.”
“I don’t choose my friends because of labels. I choose them because they intrigue me.” She raised a stark eyebrow, her posture suddenly very defensive. “You used to be so open-minded, Kristoff. What happened to you?”
After a long, silent moment, the boy shrugged, sighing. “There’s just something about him. I don’t know what it is. But I don’t like it.”
“So don’t like it. But give him a chance. The way I gave you a chance, David.”
Kristoff winced at the mention of his non-goth name and walked away without another word.
In waiting, Ignatius’s thirst had become dire. He had to feed, quickly, and get to his task. The sun would be up in five hours. He would need at least a quarter of that for the journey back to Stokerton. It wasn’t as much time as he’d hoped for, but his recent fast had weakened him, making waking from rest a drawn-out chore. But that was about to end.
He closed the gap between himself and the girl, and with a quick glance around them at the darkened windows of the houses that lined the street, he closed his hand around her arm. To his surprise, the girl threw her arm up, slamming her elbow into his Adam’s apple. Ignatius stumbled back for a moment, recoiling from the shock of pain. As he recovered, she spat out, “Don’t even think about it, pervert. I’ve been in self-defense classes since I was five.”
Ignatius considered engaging her in conversation, toying with her until the moment of her demise, but there was no time. He needed her blood far more than he needed her fear. With vampiric speed, he moved close to her, knocking her off her feet. He could smell her blood rushing through her veins in excited fear, and his hunger raged through him. He leaned closer, opening his mouth, exposing his fangs. The girl’s eyes were squeezed tightly closed. She kicked and thrashed uselessly, completely unaware that her life was about to be stolen away by a creature she’d only seen in her dreams. Ignatius brushed his lips against her throat, ready to bite down, savoring the moment for all its worth.
A bright light blinded Ignatius’s too-sensitive eyes. It was false light, but too bright for his vision to handle. He stumbled, then ran blindly into the darkness, hoping he was heading in the direction of the Tod boy’s home. Let it be finished then, hungry or not. Behind him he heard what sounded like a human police officer comforting the girl.
By the time he reached the boy’s home, his vision had cleared. He stood across the street, watching for a moment, hoping to savor his duties at least a little. He stepped forward, beginning to cross, but that same light that had assaulted him flickered in the corner of his eye. Down the street, a police car shined its searchlight between houses, seeking him out.
Begrudgingly, Ignatius turned from the boy’s home and fled. It would be safer to wait, and give the boy who would be Pravus one more night of peaceful rest. Or at least, a few more hours.
As he whipped through the town, it occurred to Ignatius that a more direct approach would be called for. And that the next time he encountered Vladimir Tod, his violent tactics wouldn’t just be fueled by a sense of duty and justice . . . but by revenge for having made him wait this long.
16
A RESTLESS NIGHT
THE DARK FIGURE STABBED THE BLADE into Vlad’s side and forced it as deeply as he was able, inciting an anguished scream from Vlad. But when the man twisted the dagger, forcing the wound to open further, Vlad began to think he would lose his mind. He could barely see now, practically blinded from the pain. Pain that was unending, unyielding, and could only be measured by peaks and valleys of torment.
The smell of his own blood—sweet, metallic—filled his nostrils. He would die on this table, of that there was no doubt. But death would be a tender release at the end of this boundless torture.
The man leaned closer, but Vlad could not make out his face. His words weren’t a voice so much as a sizzle, like bubbling liquid on hot steel. “I will never stop.”
At his final spoken word, he twisted the blade again, this time wrenching it until it pulled through Vlad’s flesh.
Vlad shrieked, and edged ever closer to the thin line between sanity and madness.
Vlad gasped and sat up in bed, bathed in sweat, his throat raw as if he’d been cryi
ng out in his sleep. The nightmares were getting worse.
He sat there for a few seconds, shuddering breaths shaking his already trembling body. It took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t tied to a table somewhere but in his soft, warm bed, safe and sound. He turned on the lamp beside his bed and glanced around the room, just to be sure. But somehow, knowing that his dreams were not his reality didn’t make him feel any better.
Before the details slipped from his memory, he grabbed his journal from the nightstand and scribbled down every last moment he could recall of the horrific nightmare, as he had almost every night since his birthday party. As he scribbled the last words down, a picture flashed in his mind—too similar to the weird, external camera view he’d experienced with Otis. A dark figure, standing outside in the snow, watching his house. Vlad tensed as the image left his mind.
Vlad moved to the edge of his bed and slipped on a pair of jeans. Shirtless, he moved out his bedroom door and down the stairs as quickly as he could. Pulling back the curtains, he searched the scene outside, but no one was there. Vlad frowned. Maybe his vampire abilities were on the fritz. Or maybe it had just been his imagination.
He walked into the kitchen and pulled open the freezer. For some reason, he was famished. He grabbed three blood bags, bit his lip, and reached for a fourth, then a fifth.
As he sat at the table, biting into the bags with his razor-sharp fangs and gulping down mouthfuls of blood, Vlad’s thoughts turned to Henry. Could it have been him lurking outside in the blowing cold? Maybe he had changed his mind. After all, Vlad could slip into Henry’s thoughts. . . . Perhaps the bizarre camera trick wasn’t a vampires-only kind of thing. Maybe he could see anyone with it.
And on the chance that Henry hadn’t come to his senses, Vlad desperately needed to read through the Compendium of Conscientia and see just what lay in store for him and his drudge.
Tossing the empty bags into the biohazard container beneath the sink, and ignoring the still-hungry rumble of his stomach, Vlad hurried to the living room and slipped on his sneakers, tying them haphazardly. He was just slipping his coat on over his bare torso when he noticed a parchment envelope lying on the small table next to the front door. His heart jumped with hope . . . hope that he would spy Otis’s familiar scrawls when he flipped it over. It didn’t surprise him that Nelly would forget to give him his mail when she was working double shifts all week, but it did fill him with disbelief that she wouldn’t give him a call to say that Otis had written.
When he flipped the envelope over, his hopes swirled down the drain, but not for long. The postmark was Siberia, and the handwriting belonged to Vikas.
That was something, at least.
He pocketed the letter and opened the front door, stepping out into the bluster of a midwinter night.
17
PROTOCOL
VLAD SANK DOWN IN HIS CHAIR in the belfry, shivering. It had been a quick walk to his secret sanctuary, and one ended by the horrible task of learning just how to release his drudge. He stared, bleary-eyed at the tear-spotted page, rereading the words he’d hoped to never find.
To rid oneself of one’s drudge, one need only perform a blood cleansing. This can be accomplished by administering a second bite and feeding the vampire’s intent into the wound. However, it is crucial that the vampire restrain him or herself from imbibing any of the drudge’s blood, lest the ritual become tainted and ineffective. It is important to remember that once a human’s drudge status has been removed, it can never be successfully restored.
Beyond anything, he wished that he hadn’t been able to locate the passage, or that it had ever been written. But there it was, in black and white. Henry’s salvation.
The temptation to ignore the page, or even to rip it from the book and burn in it the flickering light of the candle, overwhelmed Vlad, but he remained vigilant and reread the passage so that he would know exactly what he was doing the next time he and Henry had a moment alone. After all, he had sworn last year never to treat Henry the way Vikas treated his drudge, Tristian. Henry was more than a servant. And Vlad had vowed that cold, crisp night in Siberia that if Henry ever asked for his freedom, Vlad would find a way to give it.
And here it was. On a piece of parchment. Ripping Vlad’s soul to shreds.
Candlelight flirted with every corner of the belfry, brightening his gloom against his will. Vlad pinched the wick, dousing the candle’s flame.
So this was it. With a bite, Henry would be free. And Vlad would face the world alone.
He couldn’t be angry at Henry anymore. After all, finding out that your will is lost to that of your vampire master would put a damper on anybody’s day. So anger was no longer a part of what he was feeling. Just sadness. Deep, immense sadness that he was losing his best friend, that Henry didn’t want to share that bond with him any longer.
It was agonizing. And Vlad’s heart felt like it had shattered into a million pieces, only to break away within him, jabbing at his insides with every splinter.
And because that pain couldn’t be made any worse by any other, Vlad withdrew Vikas’s letter from his pocket and read it over again.
Vladimir—
I must say that I am greatly confounded by your recent letter, as I have not shared the company of your uncle in many months. Nor have I received any sort of communication from him since August. It is deeply troubling to me that you cannot seem to reach Otis by telepathy, as I am experiencing the same troubles. Please stay in touch, Mahlyenki Dyavol. I will do all that I can to locate your uncle.
In Brotherhood,
Vikas
Vlad sat back in his chair, sinking deeper into the soft, worn leather. It was bad enough that his uncle had been missing in action for over five months now, but losing Henry as a friend and a trusted drudge was unbearable. What’s worse, Vlad had absolutely no one to turn to for advice. Nelly wasn’t aware of Henry’s drudge status, and Vikas didn’t share his view of drudges. Vlad was alone in this. Alone and confused, with no way out but through.
He had to release Henry as his drudge, and trust that their friendship would be strong enough to survive the change. And if it wasn’t . . . well, then he’d deal with it. He had no idea how, but he would. After all, he didn’t have much choice in the matter.
He trusted Henry . . . or rather, he had, before he’d mistakenly thought Kylie had insinuated that Henry had divulged his deepest darkest secret. He’d just have to trust him on that too, and maybe everything would turn out all right.
Or . . . it would all go horribly wrong, and Vlad’s world would fall into a dizzying array of pain and loss.
Either way, it had to be done. Vlad would have to release Henry, and soon.
At the thought of once more tasting Henry’s blood on his tongue, two things happened almost simultaneously. Vlad’s heart shrank with guilt and sorrow and his stomach growled. In a burst of self-directed fury, he threw the Compendium across the room with all the force he could muster. The tome slammed against the wall and dropped with a loud thud to the floor. Vlad glared into the darkness, wishing it away, wishing it all away.
He closed his eyes and pushed as hard as he could with his mind, calling out to his uncle, wherever he was. “Otis, if you can hear me, please talk to me. Everything is so screwed up right now, and I desperately need your help. Please, please answer me. I need you.”
To his immense disappointment, only silence followed his plea.
After several minutes, Vlad dried his tears on his sleeve and stood, making his way slowly to one of the open arches. He stepped onto the ledge and closed his eyes momentarily, letting the breeze brush his hair from his eyes and gently dry his still-moist cheeks. When he was certain he had pulled himself together, he stepped forward and floated nimbly to the ground.
Soft voices found their way around the corner of the building. Vlad paused and, after a moment, made his way around to the front of the school.
October was the first to notice him. She smiled, her pale skin almost
blue in the moonlight. “Out stalking the shadows tonight, Vlad?”
“You might say that.” He stepped closer, nodding in greeting to the skinny boy called Sprat. “What are you guys up to?”
October shrugged. “Just hanging out, as usual. Some creep attacked me on my way home earlier, so we were thinking of going after him.”
Vlad furrowed his brow. “Somebody attacked you?”
She nodded, adopting a casual tone, but her still-frightened eyes betrayed her. “Yeah, but lucky for me, Officer Thompson showed up in the nick of time.”
Vlad’s memory reached back a few years, to the officer who had questioned Nelly about Vlad’s nighttime activities. “I hate that guy.”
He blinked apologetically at October. “I mean, I’m glad he was there for you. I just don’t like him.”
October smiled. “Who does?”
Kristoff glared in their general direction. “Are we going after this psycho or not?”
Vlad wondered briefly what they would do once they caught up to her attacker. He mumbled, “Bad idea, following some crazy guy like that.”
October seemed to mull this over for a minute before looking at Kristoff. “No. Not tonight. I think we’ll let the cops handle this one.”
She met Vlad’s eyes, whispering, “He really cares, y’know? It might not seem like it, but Kristoff is a real sweetie. He just wants to watch out for his own kind.”
Vlad raised an eyebrow. “Is that why he’s always glaring at me?”
She chuckled. “You’re catching on.”
Sprat bounded up to Vlad with such a spring in his step that Vlad wondered if he had been downing sugar packets all night. His speech was equally overflowing with boundless energy. “Hey, do you think you might wanna check out The Crypt in a couple of weeks? They’re having a Blood Ball in honor of Valentine’s Day.”
Sprat’s eyes were eager, and try as she might to hide it, so were October’s. Vlad glanced at Andrew, who managed a halfhearted shrug. Kristoff didn’t react at all to Sprat’s invitation. Vlad chewed his bottom lip for a moment and thought it over. Thanks to Meredith’s dad, she was going to be busy that weekend, so it wasn’t as if his plans with his girlfriend were standing in his way. He wasn’t sure why he was hesitant to hang out with them. Maybe it was because, for as long as he could remember, only Henry wanted to be his friend. Maybe he’d been scarred forever—both literally and figuratively—by the one time he’d befriended someone who wasn’t his drudge. His experience with Joss last year had left him once staked, twice shy. Still . . . they seemed harmless. And how many nights had he spent watching them in curious fascination? Here was his chance, and he felt obligated to take it.