Sanguis Noctis: Bloodlines Part 32

They see their own kind evolve, but at first they do not understand why the wolves that look like them cannot talk to them. They begin to understand. They are not even like those which resemble them. They are something else entirely.

Thousands of years pa.s.s. The humans evolve, as do the wolves. The humans have long since spread out of Africa, and the first real settlements begin.

Languages become complex. The humans begin to understand the world around them. Tool use improves so quickly the wolves have trouble keeping up.

They see the start of the animal wolves staying close to humans and becoming domesticated. It disgusts them.

They have their own children. After thousands of years of trying to find others like them they have had no luck, and come to the conclusion that it is their responsibility to foster more like them. Their children are happy and live for two hundred years before they die of old age. The first two wolves are devastated. They have lived for thousands; why do their children die at mere hundreds?

They take on different names, depending on where they live and travel.

Their species grows in number as humans do. They see the first manipulation of metal, the first rolling mechanism, the first machinery. The first written word, the first true city, the first large-scale war.

Victor, through half-closed eyes, was dimly aware of having fallen onto his side. Everything hurt. He usually only experienced pain afterward as a result of the seizing, not during. There were strong arms circling him, a slim body pressed tight to him, soft hair falling against his cheek. He heard his name dimly, concern and so much fear there, but he couldn't seem to form a response.

The visions pulled him back.

The present. Her worry about her pack, her children, her bloodline. The species would not die out if this pack were to be eradicated, but she loved them nonetheless.

She wanted to run. She did not want a fight. But if she needed to, she would make a stand.

Another blink. There seemed to be a small puddle of something red under his nose and chin, streaked messily across the floor from movement. Victor dimly saw his hand, stretched out in front of him. Bruises bloomed randomly under the skin.

Odd. His blood vessels must be breaking.

A flash of yellow eyes. Dark hair. Randall.

And then the future.

The only way to accurately describe it was an explosion.

Even in the middle of the visions, Victor felt pain. He wished it would stop.

Threads arcing off into the distance, many different colors. Some ended soon, some ended so far into the future that even Victor couldn't comprehend the flashes he saw there.

The pack stayed where they were, and O'Malley hired every gun he had. The entire pack died.

The pack ran and were gunned down nonetheless.

They stayed and Jed trained them, and most of them lived.

They ran and stayed hidden.

She outlives all of them, and in the end the survival of this pack doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. She dies and the wolves continue on without her. She dies and the wolf species dies with her.

In every possibility, there is a war. Wolves, vampires, half bloods, and humans. It starts slowly, murmurs in back alleys and whispers and half-spoken fears. But it always starts. It always happens. There is always death.

Except for one thing. A tiny glimmer in one thread of something that was thought would never happen. An old expectation fulfilled. A random happenstance that leads to hope in the war, a possible end instead of nothing but destruction.

A spark of light, a blaze of the sun against polished steel.

A hope... an end to....

Victor opened his eyes.

"There's a war," he choked out, blood smearing over his chin. "There's always a war. It doesn't matter if you run or fight. There's something so much bigger coming."

A cool washrag was smoothed across his forehead. He was cradled in someone's lap, arms curled around him, a body hunched over him protectively. A bottle of water touched his lips, encouraging Victor to take slow, shallow sips. He only managed three before he started coughing it up again, his head feeling like it was on the verge of splitting.

Was anybody listening to him? Could he just do what his body wanted and pa.s.s out?

"We will speak more later." The Gray Lady's voice coming from a short distance away. "Thank you, medusa."

"Take these." Randall's voice. It was Randall holding him carefully, a low, growling threat rumbling almost continuously in his throat. Randall gently held pills up to Victor's mouth, followed by more water. "It's okay, Victor. I have you. It's all right."

Victor managed to grab Randall's arm. In the vague realization that he hadn't gone insane, he tried to filter through what he'd seen for any clues on Anthony's well-being. But there was too much, and he'd been told it was okay to pa.s.s out.

He did so with a small sigh of relief.

Chapter 15.

Randall UNTIL EGYPT, Randall had never seen anyone die. Finding his parents' bodies when he'd been young still haunted him, but they'd already been gone by the time he and Anthony had come home. Actually watching the life drain from someone, seeing those final choking moments, it was something else entirely.

The first time he'd watched a person perish, it had been while chained up and muzzled in a stinking factory somewhere in the bowels of Cairo. It would be nice to be able to say he'd struggled, that he'd tried to get to the man, tried to save him. But there had been ten vampires with gleaming teeth and bloodthirsty gazes, so Randall had simply hung there and watched, helpless. He hated himself, still, for that moment, that decision. Intellectually, he'd known he couldn't do anything different. A wolf might be able to take on a vampire, but not that many. Not when he was bound.

The second person had been thrown at his feet, the vampires laughing at him, calling him puppy. Biting him and spitting his own blood in his face. They'd offered him a bite of the corpse, of the body that, ten minutes before, had been a living, breathing person. Randall had choked down his bile, his fear, and stayed silent.

That hadn't lasted long. The vampires seemed to enjoy making their new pet scream.

Randall didn't like to think back to that part of Cairo. He didn't want to remember. There hadn't been any point, he'd thought, in explaining what had happened to his brothers, in telling them why he hid his bite marks, why he didn't much like the dark now. And he was better. He was. There was no point in letting himself dwell.

Holding Victor, though, while blood choked him, while he seized, Randall honestly thought he was back there. His Beatrice had saved him, had pulled him from h.e.l.l and led him back to the living. Surely only that nightmarish place could hold a moment when Victor was taken from him.

Victor was going to die. Randall was certain of it. Right there in his arms, he was going to die.

Hours pa.s.sed with Victor still unconscious. Randall had carefully carried him back to Victor's cabin, refusing any help. Jed had followed him, making sure he had what he needed, silently worrying like an overlarge German shepherd. Randall hadn't spoken, though, and eventually Jed had gone back to the Gray Lady. Anthony checked on him later still, sharing the news that the pack was leaving at first light. Randall barely acknowledged him.

He counted Victor's breaths. He checked his pulse every few minutes, rea.s.suring himself that Victor's heart was still beating. Eventually he changed Victor's clothes. He washed the dried blood from his nose and mouth. He had to find a new shirt for himself as well. Somewhere along the line he'd gotten covered in Victor's blood.

Staring at the red patches staining the white cotton, Randall realized his hand was shaking. In a few stumbled steps, he got to the bathroom and emptied his stomach into the toilet in a noxious, rolling clench of fear. Victor was alive, yes. Despite everything Randall's senses had told him during Victor's vision, he was still alive. Randall wasn't sure how much difference that made.

The pack was leaving. Anthony was growing weaker, though he was doing his best to hide it. A war was coming, a war Randall desperately wanted to avoid. But because of Anthony, they were going to be walking straight into the middle of it, following the Gray Lady despite the apparent target on her back. All Randall wanted to do was go home. To go back to school, to dust off those plans he'd had for his life.

He'd been dreaming of being a historian since he was ten years old. When he'd been twelve, he'd plotted out a map for how to achieve that goal. He'd had his walls covered in college brochures and cla.s.s schedules since he was thirteen. And every step of the way, he'd known exactly what he wanted.

Now none of that would ever happen. He'd left school to focus on Anthony, telling himself that as soon as Anthony was recovering, he'd be able to go back. Now they were going to some remote location states away from all his carefully made plans. There was no more college in Randall's future. Anthony wasn't ever going to get better. Even Cedric's approach with real medicine could only possibly be a stopgap, if it was even possible where they were going, with what would more than likely be a lack of actual medical supplies. One day, perhaps sooner than any of them wished to believe, he would be holding his brother exactly as he'd held Victor, watching the last bits of life flicker and die in his eyes.

And then what? Taking care of Edwin was the only thing Anthony would ever ask of him, and Randall couldn't drag his brother back into a life of schools and regular jobs and the dreaded requirement to wear clothing. Edwin would be miserable living Randall's chosen life.

Quietly, Randall packed up Victor's things. Jed had left the van keys. Of course Jed was going to go with the wolves. He might bl.u.s.ter and rant, but he was a good man. He was utterly devoted to Redford, and Redford wanted to help. Of course Jed would go. So Victor would take the van and drive back to his own life, and Randall would go on with the pack. It was the only thing that could happen.

Once upon a time, he'd thought Victor his Beatrice. His savior. Victor had chased down vampires, had helped to haul Randall out of their den. Randall had thought it the act of an extraordinarily brave man. He'd hero-worshiped Victor, he'd read his books, he'd idealized him.

And now Randall was forced to acknowledge he didn't actually know him at all.

There was a noise from the bed. Victor was waking up. Randall went and got a fresh washcloth, soaking it in cold water. He replaced the one that was currently over Victor's eyes with the new. "Stay still," he murmured very quietly. "You're in your cabin."

The only movement Victor seemed capable of was a twitch of his fingers. "Randall?"

"I have your pills." Randall carefully shook out two more and put them into Victor's hand, making sure a bottle of water was next to him should he want it. "You should probably take them."

Victor's fingers curled around the pills, though he made no move to take them yet. "Is my pack safe?" he asked groggily. "Are my children safe?"

A frown flickered across Randall's forehead. "You don't have children," he pointed out. "You-" Yes, of course. He was still caught in the Gray Lady's memories. Nearly half the day had pa.s.sed, and Victor was still processing.

Randall wasn't sure if he wanted to shout at him or just leave. Neither one was truly an option, though, so he simply sighed and shook his head. "Those aren't your memories, Victor."

Victor just made a confused noise, but he didn't ask about "his" pack anymore. A few moments of silence pa.s.sed, with Victor painstakingly lifting his hand to pop the pills in his mouth, swallowing them dry. "Yes. Right, of course. My apologies."

Feeling as though he'd aged ten years in one day, Randall found all of this was easier if he simply didn't look at Victor-if he didn't remember what they'd done on that bed, how it'd felt to have Victor finally see him. Finally want him the way Randall had since the moment he'd seen Victor. It had been a foolish crush, a pipe dream based on a man who didn't exist. Victor wasn't a hero. He was someone who chased after reckless things, who put himself into harm's way for reasons Randall couldn't understand.

And maybe, if he'd been someone else, if this had been another time, another place, it wouldn't matter. Maybe Randall would figure out a way to be what Victor needed to feel whole. But none of Randall's life right now would allow for that. The time was coming, closer every day, when he would lose Anthony. There was a war approaching, already here, and they would be in the thick of it.

"Your things are packed." Randall finished zipping the last bag. "The pack is leaving at first light. Jed left you the keys to the van, so you are free to go whenever you wish."

"What?" Victor managed to raise a hand to drag the cloth from his eyes, squinting blearily at Randall. "Why am I not coming along?"

There were a thousand answers to that question. Perhaps if he'd been someone else, a better man, he could have voiced even one of them. All Randall could think, though, was how Victor had dismissed him until he'd seen Randall go wolf. How his interest peaked when Randall was closer to his instincts.

How there were scars on Victor's neck so very much like Randall's. Only Victor had sought his out. He'd wanted them.

How perhaps even the small glimmer of light Randall had been clinging to, the hope he'd so carefully kept warm to give him strength enough to give up everything else, was nothing more than another one of Victor's risks.

"You aren't a wolf," was all he said, though, his voice thick and painful. "This isn't your fight. It's time for you to go home to your own life."

If possible, Victor just looked even more confused. "But I thought we...?" He trailed off, his words obviously not coming very easily to him. Instead, he waved a hand between himself and Randall. "What happened?"

"I think we both know I'm not going to make you happy." Randall paused when his voice threatened to crack, the words weighing him down. "So thank you. For everything. Good-bye, Victor."

The one thing that had scared Victor, the one thing he'd been so d.a.m.n frightened of, was not Randall's wolf instincts. It wasn't the coming war, the vampires, looking into an immortal being's life. No, the thing Victor had shrunk from was the idea of a normal life. Of marriage and children, of a quiet existence. The one thing Randall longed for, and Victor simply couldn't bear the thought of it.

Gently, saying good-bye less to the man he didn't know and more to the possibilities that were never going to exist, Randall kissed Victor's forehead and silently turned to leave.

"Randall," Victor protested hoa.r.s.ely. "I don't understand. We were both completely ecstatic last night."

Last night, when Randall had been half drunk on the wolf pheromones, feeling his instincts surging with every beat of the drums. G.o.d, he had to stop thinking about this, he had to stop going over every word Victor had said, every glance and touch, or he'd go mad trying to figure out if any of it had ever been real. "You want something I can't give you" was his answer. It wasn't good enough, Randall knew that, but he couldn't figure out how to explain everything in his head. If it'd been a thesis paper, a dissertation, he could go into every nuance with perfect clarity. Here? He felt completely out of his depth, as if his vocabulary had been reduced to the ache in his throat and the angry longing he was trying desperately to repress.

"You can't mean to tell me that you don't want this, the day after I finally got my act together." Victor's voice had been reduced to a whisper. He sounded like he was trying to move but wasn't having much success with it. "What have I done to make you turn away?"

Christ. He wasn't good at this. Randall wished horribly that Anthony was there, or Edwin. Either one of them could have articulated his feelings far better than Randall ever would. "You don't want me. You want someone who will make you feel the same way the vampire did. I can't do that." Grabbing his jacket, Randall moved toward the door, frantic for an exit. "Have a good life, Victor. I hope you find what you're looking for."

The fresh air was cool on his face. The pack was a whirl of activity, wolves hauling boxes and bags outside, a few large trucks backing up to the middle of the camp for easier loading. They would be working well into the night, with how much they had to do. Randall ignored all of it. He headed back to his cabin numbly, an almost deafening buzzing his ears.

Anthony was alone in the room when Randall came in. Wordless, Randall sank onto his bed, drawing his knees up to his chest, wishing that, for once, Anthony wouldn't be kind to him. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone asking how he was, being concerned, much less Anthony. He was holding himself together now. Any show of kindness would break him, he was sure.

That wish must have been written all over his face, because Anthony only observed, "You look like you're about to seriously hurt the next person that says anything stupid."

Nodding, throat too tight to speak, Randall just curled up further on himself and stared blankly at the floor. He heard Anthony's mattress creak, footsteps, then his own bed dipped as Anthony sat next to him. "Everything okay?"

And just like that, the dam burst.

He listed over into Anthony, head buried in his shoulder. He didn't cry, because Randall was quite certain if he started, he wouldn't stop. But he pushed himself into Anthony's arms as if he was a child again, clinging to his brother after a bad dream. "No," he whispered, voice shattering.

With a quietly sympathetic sigh, Anthony wrapped his arms around Randall's shoulders. "Let me guess. Victor?"

He nodded, clenching his jaw as tight as he could to hold back sobs. He couldn't break. Anthony had enough on his plate, enough real things to worry about. Randall couldn't let himself go in front of him. "It's okay," he managed. "It's not a big deal."

"Randall, come on," Anthony admonished. "It's you. You're one of the two biggest deals in my life. What did he do? Should I go kick the s.h.i.t out of him? Did he change his mind about being with you?"

Anthony, G.o.ds love him, had a tendency to be a complete mother hen when he saw that Randall or Edwin were hurt, physically or mentally. Randall dreaded the inevitable day that Anthony really felt he would need to go kick the s.h.i.t out of a problem, because he had no doubt Anthony would give it a good attempt.

"It's nothing, Anthony." And the very last thing Anthony needed to be doing was expending energy on Randall's problems. "I'm sorry. It really doesn't matter." He sat up, taking off his gla.s.ses to clean them, trying to carefully control his expression.

"You can say that all you like, but we both know that's going to end up with me just asking the same question all night." Anthony curled the arm he had around Randall's shoulders, tugging him in closer. "Do I need to keep asking?"

"It's nothing," Randall repeated. But one look over at Anthony confirmed he had that stubborn set to his jaw. There was literally no way to get Anthony off a topic once he'd sunk his teeth in like that. Randall might as well save himself several hours of nagging and give in. "He's going home. Like he should. I packed his things and told him to go home. That's it."

Anthony peered at him. "Something tells me that he wasn't the one to make that decision. You'd be reacting a lot differently if he had."

Randall shrugged, trying to appear disinterested. "He'll be happier this way."

Anthony looked just about as confused as Victor had been. "Do we need to talk about this? Or...." He frowned in even deeper bafflement. "I don't understand. He was perfect for you!"

Jaw tightening, Randall shrugged Anthony's arm away, then pushed himself off the bed. Desperate for something to do with his hands, he grabbed one of their bags and started to pack what few belongings they'd brought with them. He took a moment to mourn his books, back at their home. There was no time to go back and get them. Maybe someday. "He is an adrenaline junkie, looking for something dangerous. Which I am most definitely not."

"Victor? An adrenaline junkie?" Anthony stared at him. "That guy probably just drinks an extra cup of tea to get a thrill."

"Or dates a vampire," Randall said, words coming short and brittle as he jammed clothes into the duffel bag. "Or chases after a pack of wolves. Or looks into an immortal's eyes. Or sleeps with a G.o.dd.a.m.n wolf."

Anthony didn't look surprised at the mention of Randall and Victor sleeping together. He did, however, sigh very faintly. "I still think you're perfect for each other. But it's your decision. I just wish you had an opportunity to work things out." He paused, a gleam in his eye. "What if we didn't-"