Ashes of the Day (26 page)

“So what are our plans going forward?” Nighthawk asked. “It’s a new year, after all. Got any resolutions for us?”

Marc smiled. He had big plans for the coming year, most of which he wasn’t yet ready to share. “More of the same, for the most part. Find Elise. Find Audrey. Study the scrolls we have and keep an eye out for any others that might be hidden around here. Hit the rest of the clubs. Get the word out. Really consolidate our position.”

Nighthawk smirked. “So, not much then?”

“Exactly.” Marc couldn’t help but laugh. “Not much at all.” He was talking about nothing less than completely re-ordering the world. But, when he thought back on how far they’d already come in so short a time, he couldn’t help but feel optimistic about the future.

Nighthawk levered himself out of his chair. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go get a head start on some sleep. Sounds like we’ve got a busy year ahead of us.”

“I think that’s a good idea for all of us,” Marc agreed. He smiled at Heather. “You too.”

Heather kissed his cheek before getting to her feet. Marc watched as they walked to the door. “Good-night,” he called as they left the room. Once he was sure they were gone, he double-checked the lock on his door, then crossed to the mirror that hung over the faux fireplace. The face that stared back at him was weary, but anticipation glowed in his one remaining eye as he lifted the patch away from his face.

The room grew instantly brighter. In the socket from which his eye had been plucked, behind a bulging, translucent membrane, a milky orb could be seen taking shape. The evidence was indisputable. What he’d initially brushed aside as imagination and wishful thinking was no such thing. His eye was growing back. He smiled in grim satisfaction. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. This wasn’t supposed to be even remotely possible. But, then again, neither was he.

Chapter Nineteen

January 1, 2001

Julie pulled the string on another party popper. Confetti shot across the living room, accompanied by a faint smell of gunpowder. Marc sighed wearily. “C’mon, Jules. Don’t you think that’s enough now?”

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” Julie replied, stubbornly setting off another one. Tangled strings of paper floated lightly to earth, and ended up draping themselves over the ice bucket in the middle of the living-room coffee table. “What’s wrong with you? I’m trying to be festive.”

“It’s after midnight,” Marc pointed out. “So, technically, it’s New Year’s Day. Besides, it’s you, me, a bucket of blood and Dick Clark on TV, so festive might be a stretch.” Leaning forward, he brushed the confetti aside and retrieved one of the vinyl blood-bags. “And, just so you know, you’re on your own with cleaning up all this confetti.”

“Spoilsport.”

Marc bit through the vinyl and immediately felt as though he’d been transported back in time. The faintly chemical taste of the blood reminded him of his childhood—all part of Julie’s plan, he supposed. He couldn’t recall when the last time had been that he’d tasted anything like it, but it certainly wasn’t any time in the last year. Conrad’s instructions to him had been clear. They were to eat out as much as possible and in the time honored tradition of their kind, which was to say, under cover of darkness. They were not to bring food home with them unless circumstances required it, but Marc had understood that to mean live prey.

Under no circumstances were they to do what Julie had done—to buy, barter, or compel any human to provide them with an alternative form of nourishment. They were still too young, too untried, Conrad had said. He did not yet feel confident in their abilities to influence thought.

It had never occurred to Marc that Julie would not have received the same instructions he had. He didn’t have the heart to mention it to her now, not knowing she’d gone out of her way to surprise him.

“It’s our first New Year’s Eve alone, Marc. I just wanted to make things nice.”

Marc sighed. “I know. You always do.” It was the same thing she’d been doing all year. Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and now tonight.
And it still doesn’t matter. It still isn’t enough
.

“Just think, maybe next year we’ll be doing this in San Francisco,” she said in wistful tones. Just as she’d said on all those other holidays as well.

“Maybe not next year, but I’m sure it won’t be too long.” At least that’s what he wanted to believe.

“An actual city, a whole house full of vampires—can you imagine it?” Julie asked, her eyes aglow as she contemplated the future, but all Marc could think about was the expression on Conrad’s face, the note of concern in his voice, the night he and Damian had left for the west coast.

“You won’t be the only vampires around. There are others in the vicinity. You might run into them from time to time. You might even be able to go to them if you encounter trouble. But, in general, try to steer clear of them,” Conrad had cautioned him. “I’m not sure how soon I can send for you but, in the meantime, you will look after your sister for me, won’t you?”

Marc had nodded. “Of course. Have a good trip,” he’d added with barely conceived envy. Julie wasn’t the only one who dreamed of big cities and houses filled with others like them. Some day.

“Thank you,” Conrad had said as he turned to go. Then he turned back again. “And, Marc?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Look after yourself, as well. I don’t always say it, but I hope you both know how very dear you are to me.”

Of course they knew that. It was a big part of why it had been so hard to say good-bye. It was why it was so hard, even now, to contemplate a future where they’d be on their own.

However much he and Julie had wanted the chance to prove themselves, to stand on their own two feet, to make their own decisions—and that was mostly him, anyway—he knew they were both still daunted by the prospect. Maybe it was a vampire thing, or maybe it was the result of the way they’d been raised, but he was pretty sure neither he nor his sister was ever going to be truly happy until they were reunited with their family.

Maybe it would be a year. Maybe it would be a decade. Whenever or however it happened, it would be good to be home.

About the Author

When she’s not pestering her husband to help her research scenes for upcoming books, or being amused by her two vastly entertaining children, P.G. Forte can usually be found serving the needs and whims of her characters…or her pets. It’s a difficult job, but someone’s got to do it.

Originally a Jersey girl, P.G. now resides with her family on the extreme left coast where she writes rule-bending, genre-blending romance and paranormal stories.

A lover of all things Internet-related, P.G. can also be found on Twitter:
www.twitter.com/pgforte
or Facebook:
www.facebook.com/pgforte
.
 

To learn more, please visit her website at
www.pgforte.com
. Send an e-mail to
[email protected]
or join her Yahoo! group to join in the fun with other readers as well as P.G. Forte at
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Look for these titles by P.G. Forte

Now Available:

Children of Night

In the Dark

Old Sins, Long Shadows

Now Comes the Night

Home is where the heart bleeds.

Now Comes the Night

© 2013 P.G. Forte

Children of the Night, Book 3

Growing up, vampire-born twins Julie and Marc Fischer were taught one simple fact of life: you can choose your food, but not your family. Six months after moving to San Francisco, though, the new challenges and choices each are facing are a Gordian knot of
complicated
.

Marc must decide whether to stay with Conrad and Damian, the only family he’s ever known, or embrace his destiny and the unexpected family—the ferals—that comes along with it. Meanwhile, Julie is forced to deal with the unpleasant realization that the man she loves isn’t necessarily the man who’s best for her.

For Conrad and Damian, the holiday season is stirring up bittersweet memories, and neither can keep from revisiting past passion and pain.

Faced with new mysteries to solve, new alliances to forge, new secrets to keep, and old relationships to rebuild, it’s no wonder the Fischer-Quintano vampires long for the goo
d old days—when food was food and family was all that mattered.

Warning: If you’ve previously suffered from Disco Fever, this book could precipitate a relapse. Extreme care is recommended for anyone with a pronounced weakness for mistletoe, fang play, pretty young men of either species or extremely dangerous alpha-male vampire single dads. May contain trace amounts of polyester.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Now Comes the Night:

New Year’s Eve, 1969

According to the clock on the living room mantel, it was almost midnight. Conrad Quintano glared at the offending timepiece. Its measured ticking grated on his nerves, mocking his attempts to ignore the relentless passage of time. He was tempted to pick up the clock and hurl it across the room. In fact, the only thing preventing him from doing so was the lack of a spare hand. As he paced the floors of the small suburban tract home he’d recently purchased, his arms were filled to overflowing with squirming infant vampire—two vampires, twins to be exact—both of whom appeared to be every bit as frustrated and wide-awake as he.

Conrad gazed at the babies with a grudging sense of wonderment. So small and yet still so strong. How was it they were still awake?

He should be able to subdue them, damn it. It was almost inconceivable that he could not. He was both their sire
and
their creator, albeit at one small remove, not to mention the undisputed head of a large and powerful household. He was also a
Lamia Invitus
, one of the last and strongest of his kind, with over a millennium of skill, experience and strength to draw upon. The idea that one such as he should be bested by two such tiny creatures was laughable. Yet the pair still resisted all his efforts to compel them back to sleep.

Oh, yes, they may have deigned to yawn a time or two, no doubt in deference to his pride. They might even have allowed their eyes to momentarily fall shut, but it was all just part of a cunning ruse, a transparent attempt to lull him into a false sense of complacency. Conrad wasn’t fool enough to fall for such obvious tricks—at least not after the first five or six times.

He could see right through their tactics. Were he to make the attempt to lay them down ever so gently in their crib, their eyes would pop open the instant their backs touched the mattress. Then their little limbs would start to flail and they’d begin once more to cry—those tearful, heart-rending, nerve-wracking sobs that always seemed disproportionately loud for the size of the bodies from which the sounds issued.

He supposed it was not really their fault they refused to be soothed. The baby books Damian had purchased, and insisted they both study, had had a lot to say about the terrifying maladies to which newborns were prone—things like growth spurts, teething pain, food allergies and colic. And even though the books had not been written with baby vampires in mind, Conrad was confident that what he was witnessing now was a reasonable approximation of what he’d read about within their pages. If only that wasn’t the only thing about which he felt confident!

The babies were hungry, that fact was indisputable. They needed blood—apparently more frequently now, and in much larger quantities than they’d been used to receiving. That too was a given. But how much did they need? And how soon did they need it? How long did he have before these newest of his children were irreparably damaged by malnutrition? Before starvation set in? Before they expired? Or before even worse things occurred? Only two months old and already their lives were in peril.

If vampire blood would have sufficed, Conrad would have happily opened every one of his veins in order to gain even a half hour’s respite. But, alas, only human blood could supply the twins with the nourishment their bodies craved. Unfortunately, their suddenly ravenous and increased appetites, while understandable, had caught him off guard. There was no blood left for them in the house.

Damian had gone out several hours earlier on what should have been a simple enough mission—a quick trip to the local hospital to purchase the needed sustenance from the connection he’d been cultivating, and then straight back home. He should have returned by now. He hadn’t.

If he doesn’t come back soon
…
No. He will. He has to.

What options did Conrad even have if Damian failed to return? He couldn’t just leave the twins unattended while he went out hunting. Nor could he take them with him. Exactly the reasons he’d appealed to Damian for his assistance in the first place!

Conrad should never have agreed with Damian when he’d argued that it made more sense for only one of them to risk getting caught trying to buy blood illegally. He should have made his own plans, cultivated his own hospital contacts. Why hadn’t he?

There was only one answer to that, an answer so screamingly obvious it should have shamed him to admit it—even to himself. He hadn’t wanted to accept the fact it might someday prove necessary. He hadn’t wanted to even entertain the possibility that Damian’s willingness to assist Conrad might, at some point, come to an end.