Light. The chandeliers, the wall lamps, everything is on. Sin must have done it. He must have done it for us.
The grand central room, the heart of the house, was most protected from the elements and time. The roof hasn’t caved in; the stairs haven’t rotted away. It seems as though this place still beats fresh blood, while the rest of the house acts as limbs that have atrophied and died. It haunts us with its glow and its warmth, everything seeming so odd and out of place, as though we’ve stumbled into a dream in the midst of a nightmare.
The massive pillars that hold the ceiling in place, made of beautiful marble, show no signs of aging. Neither does the grand staircase, which is wide enough to drive a car up. A bright red carpet starts at our feet and winds through the room, up the stairs, and ends at the feet of the man who has killed hundreds and turned hundreds more into horrific creatures. He’s left scars everywhere he’s walked, and the shards of shattered lives surround him everywhere he goes.
Sin’s back is turned to us, but there’s no mistaking it’s him or that he is alert to our presence. From this distance, he seems to have finally achieved what he wanted: to become a god. He appears, under the glow of the lamps in this dark house, to be the very source of its light, of its warmth. And there’s no questioning his omniscience, his acute awareness of our steps and our breaths and our heartbeats. I can tell. Maybe it’s because my heart beats with the same Montgomery blood. But I can tell.
In front of him is a massive portrait of the late Murdoch Valentine. It reaches up from the floor to the very top of the ceiling, something only fit for an egomaniac. Maybe Sin is seeing his own face in his father’s. A man of power and action, an agent of great change. Through the weathered canvas and chipped paint, the rotting frame and running colors, his grandeur remains. Maybe it’s even enhanced, as though proving that even in death he is alive and immune to the ever-moving clock.
Sin speaks. “Look at him. Look at Father.”
His voice is calm, but it’s a struggle, as if he were speaking out of a mouth that was no longer his.
“Such arrogance he held. Such shortsightedness. All I asked for . . . was . . . was to feel the sun. That’s all. But you wouldn’t give it to me. No. You had to lock me away, didn’t you? Didn’t you! Talk! Speak to me!”
Whether Sin thinks he’s speaking to a painting or to his father, I don’t know. But I’m aware of Victor moving forward and the others spreading out, taking their places.
“Why? Why didn’t you love me? Why didn’t you . . . see me?”
I can hear . . . No. I can
“Sin!” Victor shouts, and the weeping stops. “Sin, it’s over.”
“Victor. You always were his favorite.”
“You’re right. I was. He loved me, and he despised you for what you are. He didn’t want a son like you.”
Victor wants Sin angry. He wants Sin to stop thinking and act on impulse.
“I killed them all,” Sin says. “Years of planning, and all for nothing.”
“You’ve been driven mad,” Victor shouts, at the stairs now, one foot on the first step.
“No, I’ve been given ultimate power. Years of drinking vampire blood, and finally the Thirst has chosen me. Finally, I’ve reached my full potential.”
“You’ve reached insanity.”
“I have become a god. And I will be a lonely god. For nothing will remain once I am finished.”
“Sin! Face me!”
He does so. What I see is nothing like the beautiful teenager who walked into my classroom unexpectedly such a short time ago. He’s a demented shadow of what was once Sin Valentine. His jaw has grown in size, the teeth inside his mouth fighting each other for space, expanding into a maw, a forest of sharpened fangs that would fit on no natural creature. His skin is stretched and bleeding, wounds that may never heal. Or perhaps he does it to himself with his hands, or, what were once hands. Now they are claws. His fingers are long and grotesque; the nails at the end have lengthened and sharpened, becoming lethal weapons.
But it’s his eyes that capture souls and hold them prisoner. It’s his eyes that will haunt me for as long as I live. Freakishly large, black as the purest oil, reflecting all they see like some dark crystal ball. He appears, in this moment, remorseful. Sad. Filled with regret.
But in the next moment, it all changes.
With a frightful scream through his engorged jaw, he causes the ceiling to shake and fine plaster to fall. I look to see where the others are, if everyone is as afraid of this monster as I am. And when I turn back, Victor is off his feet, Sin having hit him square in the chest, and the two fly backward onto the floor.
They slide together, nearly to the door. Sin is on top, one hand around Victor’s throat, the other in the air ready to bring down a terrible strike. Victor acts first, shoving his stake into Sin’s side.
The Thirst-infected Valentine doesn’t even flinch.
Victor scrambles for his other stake as a blur tackles Sin, throwing him off and onto the floor. It’s Richard, his own metal stake lodged into Sin. But the monster doesn’t care and tosses Richard off as though he’s little more than a pillow.
Michael and Ian charge in, one from the back, the other at the front. But Sin’s speed is too much, and even though Ian is able to land a solid blow with his stake, he misses with the other and is quickly flung across the room. Michael, for his efforts, receives a blow to the stomach, and I hear the air leaving his lungs. Sin merely shoves him to the floor, as though insulted that a human would have the audacity to face him.
Victor is up now, another stake already in his hand. Sin has three stakes in his body, but he doesn’t bother removing them, shows no signs of slowing down. Instead, his eyes narrow in anger, and the blackness within is a rage that has built over years, over decades. And it’s all focused on his half brother.
In a flash, Sin appears in front of Victor, his frightening claw raised upward. Victor was fast, but not fast enough, and a trail of blood spurts from his chest in a misty spray. The strike wasn’t fatal, and Victor moves in. But Sin grabs his hand and twists and squeezes until Victor falls to a knee and the stake rolls out.
That’s when I run in, and I pound my metal stake into Sin’s back with both hands and all my weight. But I can’t believe it. It barely pierces at all, the Thirst having thickened his gray skin until it stands like leather stacked on more leather.
He turns and looks at me and I think I’ll fall into the voids of his eyes never to escape. He raises his hand to strike at me, but he’s pushed aside by a thunderous clap as Richard drives into him.
They hit the wall so hard I see it crack, an imprint of Sin placed into it. The master of all the Chosen, the New World god, kicks Richard off before slashing his beautiful face, spraying the wall with deep crimson. Richard staggers back.
Ian and Michael rush in, but Sin delivers a well-placed strike against each and I hear the crunch of bones, the loss of breath. They stumble back. And Sin looks up, no longer enjoying the game, wanting to end this forever. He sets his eyes on Victor.
And Victor wants the same. To end this.
All things stand still, save the two brothers. They move as one, nothing but a blur; hints of their existence dance around the room. And in a brief moment that seems meant only for me, I see Victor, and he looks at me, at Dawn, and I know he draws strength from me, as he always has.
The movement stops, and I see Sin’s eyes over Victor’s shoulder. I expect them to be wide, pained from the death blow delivered. Instead, I see them carry a hint of joy, a sign of the smile on Sin’s face. I look down and see Sin’s claws sticking out of Victor’s back, having gone clean through his stomach. They drip Victor’s blood onto the floor.
But I don’t scream; instead, I draw another stake.
The others, Richard, Michael, and Ian, begin to move.
And Victor . . . he grabs Sin’s wrist but doesn’t remove the claws deep within him. Instead, he holds them tightly, not allowing them to leave, not ending the pain he feels. Only then do Sin’s eyes go wide, as he realizes what is to come.
Sin screams and pulls back, but Victor has both hands tightly wrapped around his half brother’s arm, and it goes nowhere. I see the blood running from Victor’s mouth, I see his body convulsing, but still he remains a statue, Sin’s hand stuck within him.
Sin has raised his other arm, ready to strike, when Victor pushes forward with all his strength. Sin trips over himself, stumbling backward, until Victor slams him into one of the marble columns that hold the mansion
